#gonna write ‘to jasmine from jasmine’

[gimmethatagustd]

new flame | kth

Flame is a dating app designed for omegas and alphas to find heat and rut partners. You’re skeptical of using the app, not anticipating that you might find someone who is more than just a new flame.

Pairing: Alpha Taehyung x Omega Reader

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Omegaverse, strangers to lovers, smut

Word Count: 1,359

Content Warning: Heat sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, marking, choking, knotting, biting, blood

A/N: Writing a/b/o as a reader-insert felt sooooo weird

Soundtrack: Monsta X - MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

From: Taehyung good morning 🥰 im at the gym but lmk if u want me to pick u up anything omw back

You stare at the text message with only one eye and half your face smushed against your bed. Holding up your phone takes too much effort, so you have it propped against your pillow next to your head. 

Exhaustion makes your limbs heavy as you get up, and you only move enough to kneel in your bed before you let your arms hang limply at your sides. Hot tears slip down your puffy cheeks, and you barely have the energy to wipe them away. You’re so tired, and your body hurts. Your pre-heat symptoms are nothing new, but they always suck. 

“Good morning,” Taehyung’s soothing voice fills your room when you call him and set your phone on speaker mode. “Gonna let me bring you breakfast, or are you gonna be stubborn still?”

Your tongue feels swollen, and your throat so dry that you can barely swallow, let alone talk. 

“Hey, you okay?” Taehyung’s concern is unbelievably sweet for a guy who barely knows you.  

“A-alpha,” you sob, immediately clapping your hand over your mouth.

The silence on Taehyung’s end is horrifying, almost as much as your slip-up. Embarrassment makes your already sweaty skin prickle with even more heat.

“I’m sorry,” you rush to apologize despite your body screaming at you to call for the alpha you’ll be spending your heat with. 

“Don’t,” Taehyung says softly. “Just give me, like, twenty minutes, okay?”

Before agreeing to spend your heat with Taehyung, you’d met for coffee. He’d called it a date; you’d called it a meeting. The first thing you’d noticed about Taehyung was that he smelled like chamomile and he was really fucking tall.

“Is that it? Not that I’m handsome or anything?” he had laughed when you told him, his mouth morphing into a boxy smile that made your stomach flutter.

“Of course you’re handsome. I responded to your lame pickup lines on Flame, didn’t I?” you’d responded, half hiding behind your drink while he watched you with sparkling eyes from across the table. 

Now, with Taehyung standing in the entryway of your apartment, he seems even larger and more intimidating than before.

You cling to him with your arms circling his neck and your legs clenching his waist when he picks you up and lets you wrap the two of you in the blanket you’re practically swaddled in. You haven’t met Taehyung’s eyes yet, too afraid of how intimidatingly gorgeous he is, like a fever dream designed by your heat. 

You nuzzle his neck as he carries you to your bedroom. It should be awkward, but it isn’t when Taehyung lays you on your bed. He’s quick to step out of his basketball shorts and tug off his hoodie, but you don’t have time to admire him before he’s kneeling between your legs. He drags his hands down your thighs to remove your slick-soaked underwear and is just as gentle when he takes off your t-shirt. 

“Can I mark you up, baby?” Taehyung murmurs with a flick of his tongue against your throat.

“Y-Yeah,” you moan and bare your neck. 

You shiver every time Taehyung nips your skin with his blunt front teeth, though your body still burns brighter than the sun’s pinks and oranges peeking around the window blinds. His teeth graze the sensitive spot on your neck where your jasmine scent is the strongest. It’s gross how Taehyung sucks and laps at your sweaty skin, swirling his tongue and sucking so hard that it hurts, but your basic instincts make you melt under the attention. 

“Please.” 

“Hmm?” Taehyung runs his nose along your jaw. 

You turn your head to kiss him, tugging his bottom lip between your teeth. He tastes as sweet as he smells, floral and prettier than most alphas. Most alphas’ scents are harsh, but Taehyung’s scent surprisingly calms you.  

“More, please,” you whisper against his lips, mellow and sweet like chamomile tea. 

Reaching down, Taehyung slides his fingers through your slippery folds, smearing slick over your pussy and the inside of your thighs. You’re leaking, soaking the sheets, and getting Taehyung’s thighs messy, too. 

“You’re so wet,” Taehyung groans, voice low in the back of his throat. 

Taehyung thrusts two fingers into your pussy and uses his other hand to press your leg against your chest, spreading you open. You can’t help but think his fingers would look just as pretty in your mouth as they do pumping in and out of your pussy. 

“Tell me what you want, omega.” 

You tangle your fingers in Taehyung’s soft hair and tug until he lifts his head so you can get lost in the amber sparkles in his eyes, his arousal permeating the room. The smell of it sets your body into overdrive until all you can think about is, 

“Want you to fuck me, alpha. Please, please. Want your knot.” 

“Fuck,” Taehyung grinds against your pussy, slicking up his cock when it slides through your folds, “Gonna present for me, omega? Show me how bad you want my knot.”

You don’t have to think about your actions; your body takes over for you as you get on your forearms and knees. It’s your heat talking, but all you want is to be fucked within an inch of your life and bred by the strong, pretty alpha touching your body like you’re something to worship. 

“Look at you…” Taehyung murmurs as he squeezes your ass, jiggling one cheek before letting it go to give it a hard slap that makes you jolt. When you whimper, he slaps your other cheek. “Think you’re ready for me?” 

You thrust back when Taehyung slides two fingers inside you again, massaging your walls until you’re shaking. 

“Yes, alpha, I’ve been ready since I, since I c-called you.”

You’re gasping, on the verge of tears, when Taehyung finally presses the head of his cock against your entrance. The stretch is minimal with how soaked you are, your pussy gushing when he bottoms out.

“Gonna, gonna fill you up,” Taehyung growls, pounding into you so hard that your arms give out. 

Turning your head to the side, you let your upper body drag against the bed sheets with each snap of Taehyung’s hips. To keep you in place, he squeezes the back of your neck, holding you against the mattress as he fucks you.  

You feel lightheaded from the pressure on your throat. Quick, shallow breaths make you more sensitive to the drag of Taehyung’s cock against your slippery walls. Slick gushes around his cock and drips down the inside of your thighs.

“Knot me, alpha, please, knot me,” you sob a little chant for Taehyung, “Make me full.” 

Unshed tears collect along your eyelashes when you feel Taehyung’s knot grow, stretching you even more. It’s your pheromones and warm slick making him spiral so quickly.  

“Fuck, gonna cum,” Taehyung gasps. 

He shoves you harder into the mattress, draping his body over yours as he deepens his thrusts. His knot fully expands when he cums, a broken moan on his lips. 

The sudden pressure on your sensitive walls makes the burning coil of arousal in you finally snap. You unravel on Taehyung’s cock with a cry of his name that’s muffled by the bed sheets. 

“You okay?” Taehyung asks repeatedly, panting heavily against your shoulder as his body cages yours against the bed.

His pupils are blown out and dark, giving him a wild look. There’s blood on his teeth from where he bit into his forearm when he came to stop himself from sinking his teeth into your neck. 

“Yeah,” you reply weakly, “Thank you." 

"I told you I’d take care of you,” Taehyung murmurs as he turns the two of you onto your sides. 

It’s more comfortable for Taehyung to spoon you, considering your bodies will be connected until his knot goes down. He leans forward to nuzzle his face in your neck and breathe deeply. Heats suck, but you could get used to having Taehyung to spend them with. Even if he is a dumb alpha. 

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap @likecrazy22 @iadelicacy

[theflowerofthecommonwealth]

Hi, hello. I stumbled upon one of your Fo4 fics on Ao3 a while ago. I think it's really cool that you're so unapologetically willing to write stuff about your OC.

I've gotten really used to people hating on OC or Self Insert fics that I can get really self-conscious about posting my works.

But you have a whole tumblr blog dedicated to your OC! And your writing is really good and I just think all the work you've done is so cool. I just wanted to let you know ☺️

You’re so sweet! 💕💕💕 Thank you, I’m always glad to hear when people happen to stumble on my blog and stick around!

And yeah, I did just kinda burst in here and shoved my feral kitten problem child with her Detective RoboDad for all to see, and I’m not ashamed of it. I never understood why people would get so mad about people posting about their own OCs even if they are self inserts, I don’t see anything wrong with that.

I did originally worry that the little flower child Jasmine/Rosalinda was too much like me despite the fact that our personalities are wildly different so I toned down some of her background and even thought about giving her a complete overhaul, but now I think SCREW IT- she’s a Mexicana now! Because I can write and portray an actual Latino character accurately so I might as well with her like I had planned from the start.

All that to say that I had my own insecurities, but thankfully I bloomed pass that with support from some beautiful Tumblr friends and I hope to continue making more content in the future. 💖💖💖💖

And Bestie, go ahead and go wild with writing about your own OC if it makes you happy. And yeet any haters out of the metaphorical window while you’re at it.

[snekdood]

so who do i go to if i dont have the money to just pay random ppl to review my work to make sure its not "problematic" in some capacity? bc it does seem like the alternative to people is just "don't create then if you can't pay someone to review it" in which case: go fuck yourself.

[idiosyncraticrednebula]

I basically scrapped at least 80% of my original story and I'm writing a good chunk of it from scratch now. I haven't even progressed past 5% ever since I re-started it. That's what you call procrastination lol

[pbaz7]

FINDING PEACE IN YOU: PART 9

paige x azzi

word count: 11.8k

A/N: This one was fun to write. I tried to include a couple of requests that a few people wanted to see but I couldn’t include everything in one chapter of course. Please let me know what you think and leave comments if you can!

—————————————————————————

Paige had never thought she'd see the day where Jasmine was sitting in her living room, legs crossed on her couch. The same couch her and Azzi had just—well, no. Paige shook the thought from her head, jaw tightening as she pulled her focus back.

Still, the fact remained. Jasmine. In her house. Sitting on that couch.

It had been two weeks since Paige returned from the road, and Jasmine had already tried twice before today to wedge herself back into Paige’s orbit.

The first time, Paige had been home alone. She hadn’t even been surprised when she opened the door and saw Jasmine standing there. It ended the way it did the first time: with raised voices, insensitive words, and Paige muttering “You’re pathetic,” before walking back inside and slamming the door shut behind her.

The second time, it was a Saturday morning. Lukas was at the counter scrolling on his iPad, Paige was on the couch stretching out her sore legs, and Azzi—barefoot in one of Paige’s oversized UConn shirts, curls in a bun—was flipping pancakes in the kitchen.

They were expecting Drew to stop by for breakfast, which was why Azzi didn’t even think to ask who was at the door when the knock came. She just opened it.

Azzi had blinked, confused at first, her free hand still holding the spatula. Paige had called out for Azzi asking who it was and when Azzi didn’t respond Paige grew confused.

Paige could still picture it when she rounded the corner—how tight Azzi’s posture was. She walked up, gave Azzi a soft kiss on the cheek and gently nudged her back to the kitchen. “I got it baby.”

Azzi hesitated but Paige gave her another soft nudge and Azzi nodded, retreating back into the kitchen without a word.

That time, the argument had been quieter. The tension still lingered between them but Paige had kept her voice low, mindful that Lukas was inside and could probably hear every word if she let herself yell.

Jasmine hadn’t gotten what she wanted. Again.

After that day Azzi sat Paige down. No tension, no arguing—just calmly. Just the two of them on the couch as Azzi told Paige she needed to talk to Jasmine. No arguing, no yelling, just talk.

And now here they were.

Jasmine in her living room. In her home. In the middle of the space Paige had rebuilt with care, with time—now with Azzi.

Paige stood in the archway for a second longer before walking in and sitting across from her, lowering herself slowly into the armchair.

Paige didn’t want Jasmine in her home.

Every part of her tensed at the idea, her space was sacred. Shared only with people she trusted, people she loved. Not the woman who had shown up unannounced—again and again—trying to dig through closed chapters like they were still being written.

But Paige also wasn’t about to be seen with her in public. She knew how the media worked. How one photo, one poorly timed encounter, could spark a dozen headlines and speculation.

So here they were.

Paige cut straight to the point. “Can you just be honest about why you’re here so we can get this over with?”

Jasmine gave that same look she always did—part soft, part rehearsed—as she leaned back, one arm stretched along the back cushion of the couch. “I miss you, Paige.”

Paige let out a sound, something between a scoff and a laugh. “This ain’t gonna be productive if you start off with lying Jasmine.”

Jasmine’s expression didn’t change. She just crossed her legs the other way and met Paige’s eyes. “You say that like it’s impossible for me to miss you. I was in love with you at one point, Paige. It’s not the craziest thing in the world for me to say.”

Paige shook her head slowly, a dry bitterness in her voice. “You weren’t in love with me.”

Jasmine straightened a little, her tone sharpening. “We were literally engaged, Paige. Before everything, before I—” Jasmine paused for a second not wanting to finish the sentence. “We had something good.”

Paige let the silence hang for a moment, her eyes settling on the corner of the room before returning to Jasmine. She spoke with the certainty of someone who had spent nights unraveling the truth from memory.

“We got engaged because you agreed to have my child and my mom said it made no sense for me to have a kid with someone I didn’t see myself marrying,” she said simply. “We were toxic from the jump, it was just fun because we were in college.”

Jasmine didn’t have an answer for this right away.

Paige let the silence settle again, but this time it wasn’t bitter—it was contemplative. Tired. Her arms folded across her chest, her gaze resting somewhere past Jasmine’s shoulder as she asked, quietly, “You remember how we met?”

Jasmine smiled nostalgically like the memory held something tender. “Yeah,” she said, almost like she was reliving it. “Of course I do.”

And that’s exactly how Paige knew Jasmine hadn’t grown. Still holding on to a story that never deserved to be romanticized.

Summer 2022

The night was hazy and hot, typical of Storrs in late July. Ted’s was packed—sweaty bodies moving between the tent and bar, drinks spilling, athletes from every sport clinging to the high of having nothing to do but party at this time of year. It was the kind of summer lull where routine blurred and everyone was just looking for a little excitement.

Paige was drunk, but coherent. The kind of buzz she could still control. She was slouched in a booth with Nika, Aubrey, and Ice—one of the incoming freshmen who already had a bit of a mouth on her.

Paige was half-listening to whatever nonsense was being said, her gaze drifting around the bar, distracted.

“Yo, twin,” Nika nudged her with an elbow, “you good?”

Paige blinked and looked up. “Yeah. Just bored as hell, man.”

Nika laughed. “Go get laid or something, damn.”

Paige rolled her eyes but still grinned. “That’s all I been doing since the season ended.”

“Aye,” Aubrey shrugged. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“Plus she been eyein’ you all night,” Ice chimed in, nodding her head toward the corner of the bar.

Paige followed the movement, her buzz slow and warm in her veins, every beat of the music vibrating in her chest. That’s when she saw who Ice was talking about.

A girl sitting across the bar, leaned back in her stool with a kind of lazy confidence that only came when someone knew they were attractive. 5’8", maybe 5’9", with small goddess braids that cascaded down her back, brushing against the curve of her ass. Her skin was a golden tan that glowed under the bar lights, and her lips were full, glossed, just slightly parted—wrapped around the small straw in her glass. Her nails tapped against the glass with a soft rhythm, and Paige could see the faint shimmer of a chrome finish.

She had on a cropped, long-sleeve shirt that showed off just enough: the subtle cut of her stomach muscles, a sliver of underboob every time she moved. Her high-waisted pants hugged her just right. And her eyes—hazel, but nearly hidden behind her long natural lashes were locked on Paige like they’d been waiting for her.

Paige’s diamond earrings caught the light as she tilted her head, lips curling into a smirk. The small cross hanging from her chain swayed as she downed the rest of her drink in one go, the burn grounding her in the moment.

“Imma see y’all later,” she mumbled to the table, already rising to her feet before they could get a word in.

She walked straight to the girl, cutting through the crowd easily. She didn’t stop until she was right in front of her—close enough to smell her perfume, something warm with a hint of amber.

“I heard you been looking at me all night,” Paige said, her voice low, leaning in just enough to make it intimate.

The girl looked up through her lashes, lips tugging into a smirk. “I have.”

Paige licked her lips, letting her eyes drag over her slowly. “You always stare at people like that? Or am I special?”

The girl tilted her head slightly, taking her time with the answer. “Only when they’re fine like you.”

Paige grinned. “Mm. So I’m fine now?”

The girl’s smile deepened as she played with the straw in her glass, taking a long sip before setting it back down. Her voice was smooth as she said, “Something gives me the impression you already know that.”

Paige let out a soft chuckle, tongue brushing across her bottom lip again. “Maybe. But it hit different when somebody like you point it out.”

The girl raised her eyebrow, her hazel eyes flickering with interest. “Someone like me?”

“Bad as hell,” Paige said, eyes dragging down and back up again with no shame. She mumbled something low under her breath before saying, “Yeah. I’d say you fit the bill.”

The girl smiled. “You flirt like you’ve been practicing. Like you got a lot of experience.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Paige quipped. “But you talking like you’ve got me figured out already.”

“Maybe I do.”

Paige leaned in a little closer, the scent of tequila and her cologne dancing between them. “That so? What’d you figure out?”

“That you’re not over here for small talk.”

Paige’s grin spread across her face, heat blooming behind her blue eyes. “You’re right.”

She let her hand settle on the edge of the girl’s stool, fingers brushing the denim of her ripped jeans. “I’mma be honest with you though—I’m just tryna see what you like tonight. If that’s cool with you.”

The girl didn’t flinch, her eyes lighting up with something hungry. “That’s all you’re tryna do?”

Paige cocked her head slightly, like she was thinking. “You tryna make it more than that?”

“I’m tryna make it loud,” the girl said as she reached for her drink again. She sipped slowly, letting the silence stretch just enough before adding, “That okay with you?”

Paige laughed at that, her fingers trailing just a little higher on the girl’s thigh. “Loud, huh?” she echoed, leaning in so close her breath danced across the girl’s cheek. “You tryna tell me you moan pretty or somethin’?”

The girl turned her head, lips brushing dangerously close to Paige’s. “I’m tryna say if we end up in my car we might wanna keep the windows up.”

Paige grinned as she leaned back just slightly, looking the girl over again—cropped tee riding up just enough, those lips still curved like they knew something she didn’t, hazel eyes laced with intention.

“Mmm,” Paige hummed, dragging her gaze slow. “So it’s like that?”

The girl nodded. “It’s exactly like that.”

Paige took a beat, then licked her lips and pushed off the stool. “Say less,” she said, already walking backwards with a smirk. “Lemme see how loud I can get you.”

The girl didn’t hesitate. She finished her drink and followed Paige out like she already knew she wouldn’t be sleeping much tonight.

They didn’t say a word until they reached her car. When they opened the tinted back door, Paige looked over her shoulder, eyes locked on the girl. “You sure?”

The girl stepped right up behind her, pressed close, and whispered near her ear, “You’re the one who said say less.”

Paige laughed, heart already racing. “Bet.”

And they disappeared into the car windows fogging before they’d even figured out who was in control, before they even figured out each other’s name. They’d learn that later on the drive back to Paige’s dorm to continue what they’d already started.

Present

Jasmine laughed softly, her eyes dancing with the memory. “I mean…sure, it wasn’t the best way to meet,” she said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “but it was us.”

Paige stared at her, unmoved. The contrast between them was keen. The smile on Jasmine’s face. The confusion Paige carried looking at her.

It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t romantic.

“We met because I was bored and you looked good enough,” Paige said, not meant to be cruel—just honest.

Jasmine’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Okay,” she said, tilting her head, “But it turned into something after that.”

Paige studied her. “You don’t think we were toxic?”

Jasmine shook her head. “No. Not like that. I’ve seen worse.”

Then Paige was reminding Jasmine about another time.

Spring 2023

Campus was alive again. April in Storrs meant warmer days, later nights, and students lingering outside every chance they got now that it wasn’t freezing. The season was over, and Paige hadn’t played a single game. Her body had been healing, but her mind was restless. She was tired of rehab, tired of being asked how she was doing, tired of not being seen the way she used to be.

So she was at Ted’s.

Drunk.

The music was loud, the bar barely lit and packed, and Paige was leaning against a wall when a random girl sauntered up.

“I feel like you've been watching me,” she whispered, a smile tugging at her glossed lips.

Paige blinked slowly, knowing full well she hadn’t been watching anyone but played into it for the hell of it. “Maybe. You complaining?”

“Not yet,” the girl said, stepping in close—close enough that Paige couldn’t process anything else around her. “But I’m just curious if you're going to keep looking or actually do something for me?”

Paige let out a quiet laugh, gaze dropping briefly to the girl's lips. “I got a bum knee, not a bum mouth.”

That earned her a soft laugh, and then the girl was lightly tugging the front of Paige’s hoodie, pulling her in. Their mouths met in a messy kiss. Paige’s hand slid to the girl's waist, fingers brushing the bare skin of her back as she deepened the kiss.

The girl pulled back just enough to whisper, against Paige’s jaw, “You kiss like you’re trying to prove something.”

Paige smirked. “Promise you I don’t got nothing to prove. Just ask around.”

Their mouths met again, more urgent this time, the girl’s hand sliding under the hem of Paige’s hoodie, fingertips tracing warm lines against her stomach. Paige groaned softly, tugging her even closer.

“You always this reckless with strangers?” the girl whispered against her lips.

Paige hummed, lips brushing hers.

And then—Acrylics twisted into her hoodie, jerking her back as the girl stumbled slightly, blinking in confusion. Paige’s body swayed, eyes still adjusting to the light as she turned around.

“The fuck?” she said, irritation flaring in her chest as she turned to see Jasmine standing there clearly pissed.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jasmine hissed, glaring at the random girl who was now backing away from the situation.

Paige scoffed, adjusting her hoodie. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“No—don’t flip this shit on me right now.”

“I’m not flipping shit. You’re not my girlfriend,” Paige snapped. “You be fucking around with other people too. So what’s the issue?”

Jasmine blinked, caught off guard. “Are you seriously sitting in my face comparing what I do to this?” she gestured toward the direction of the girl Paige had just been all over.

“I’m comparing exactly that,” Paige said back. “You don’t answer your phone, you ghost for days, then pop up pissy when I’m doing me.”

“It’s not the same,” Jasmine said, voice shaking just a little. “You text me every time you’re drunk. You call me when you’re lonely. You crawl back in my bed like I’m the only one you want—”

Paige cut her off. “And you let me.”

Jasmine flinched. Paige didn’t stop.

“You talk like I’m the problem, but you’ve always been down for it. Every time. You do the same shit half the time so why you acting like this now?”

“I did that because I love you,” Jasmine snapped, her voice slightly raised now. “Even if you don’t love me back the same.”

Paige stared at her for a long moment, the alcohol making her slower to filter her thoughts.

“You don’t love me,” she said, quieter. “You’re obsessed with not being alone and you like my money.”

Jasmine’s face fell. She staggered a step back, the words slicing through something soft inside her chest. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

And then she turned.

Started walking away.

Paige blinked, sobering just a little, like the weight of her own voice finally registered.

“Aye—” she reached out, grabbing Jasmine’s arm gently, pulling her back. “I’m sorry, ma. I ain’t mean that. I’m sorry I swear.”

Jasmine didn’t look at her. Her jaw was tight, eyes still fighting wetness. “You don’t get to say shit like that and then apologize like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Paige said quickly, her hand sliding down to Jasmine’s wrist. “You know it’s not. I was mad. I’m drunk. I just—”

“What?” Jasmine said, bitter now. “You want me to forget it? Act like you didn’t just call me pathetic?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t fucking have to.”

There was a long pause.

Paige exhaled, frustration melting into guilt as her eyes dropped to the ground. When she looked back up at Jasmine, her voice was soft.

"I'm sorry, Jas. What I gotta do to make it up to you, baby?”

Jasmine shook her head slowly, like her heart hadn’t caught up with the moment. “You think saying sorry fixes it?” she asked, not looking at Paige. “You think I’m just supposed to un-hear that shit?”

“I don’t,” Paige said quickly, her voice barely loud enough to hear. “I don’t think that. I just...I fucked up. I know I did.”

Jasmine turned her face toward her, eyes rimmed red. “You always say that after the damage is already done.”

“I know,” Paige whispered. “And I hate that I keep doing it. I hate that I hurt you. I’m not trying to I’m just—I’m so messed up all the time.”

There was a silence between them. Jasmine looked at her for a long second, studying her like she was trying to decide what Paige even was to her anymore. A regret? A habit? A maybe? Trying to figure out if she was ultimately worth the trouble. There were other athletes in the world, other people she could attach herself to.

Then she sighed and took a step forward.

Her hand lifted slowly, fingers threading through Paige’s hair, long nails grazing her scalp. “What’s going on with you?” she asked, quieter now.

Paige’s eyes closed, just for a moment, like the touch cracked something open in her.

“My team just lost in the Sweet 16 Jas. Because I have a bum knee and couldn’t step on the floor once this season,” she said.

Jasmine didn’t have any words of encouragement so she stayed silent. Running her hands through Paige’s long hair.

“I feel useless,” Paige added. “Like I’m not even the same person anymore. Basketball was the one thing I could count on, and now it’s like...slipping.”

Jasmine’s expression shifted—still guarded, but gentler. “You should’ve told me.”

“I don’t know how to talk about shit like this,” Paige admitted looking down.

Jasmine hesitated. She didn’t know how to deal with this kind of heavy—these kinds of emotions. Or maybe she just didn’t want to. So instead, she said, “I can help.”

Paige looked up at her, those blue eyes clear and fragile. Jasmine's gaze locked with hers.

“First,” Jasmine said, “you’re going to tell me you’ll stop fucking around with other girls. I want to know I’m the only one that can have you.”

A beat passed.

Then Paige smiled, it was soft and crooked, that kind of smile that always made Jasmine’s anger crumble. The kind that reminded her just how sweet this girl was in a world that wasn’t going to be sweet to her.

“I can do that,” Paige said.

Jasmine’s eyebrows rose, just slightly. “You promise?”

Paige nodded.

“Now,” Jasmine murmured, stepping in closer, “you’re going take me home. And you’re going to do whatever the hell you want with me. However you want. For however long you want and I’ll take all of it.”

And just like that — Jasmine leaned in, their mouths finding each other like nothing had happened.

The kiss was deep. Familiar-ish. Like something they both wanted to believe still fit.

But then Jasmine pulled back, her nose scrunching as she whispered, “You taste like another bitch.”

Paige barely flinched. She just whispered against Jasmine’s lips, “Lemme take you home then…so I can taste like you instead.”

And Jasmine let her.

But Paige would think about what she said later — not the sweet words, but the harsh ones. The truth she hadn’t meant to spit out loud. Because deep down, she knew she meant them. Even if neither of them would admit it.

Present

Paige sat back, her voice level as she looked across the living room at Jasmine—older now, but still wearing that same look she always did when she wanted to pretend something was more romantic than it was. Like if she smiled soft enough, maybe the ugly parts wouldn’t matter.

“What I said that night was true,” Paige said. “You didn’t love me.”

For a second, Jasmine didn’t say anything. Her eyes dropped, then lifted again. They were defiant, like she wanted to deny it, rewrite the memories. But instead she said, “You didn’t love me either, Paige.”

A moment passed.

Paige sighed, and this time, there was no fight left in her. Just a quiet acknowledgment. “I know.” She paused for a second before continuing, “We were just what the other needed at the time. I was young, had money, and suddenly had all this attention on me. I knew I couldn’t keep sleeping around without something getting out eventually—some story, some headline. So it made sense to have someone next to me who looked good, who would play the part.”

Her voice didn’t hold malice, just a quiet resignation.

“You made it easy, Jas. I knew you weren’t gonna do anything to mess it up. Honestly at one point you probably worked harder than I did to keep my image clean.”

Jasmine didn’t interrupt.

“But you didn’t do that for me. You did it because of what it meant for you. You never had to work. You got to enjoy what I had—just for being with me. The events, the people, the gifts…the money.”

She exhaled, her eyebrows creasing slightly as she tried to find the right words.

“I don’t know how else to explain it, but…we weren’t in love. We were just…a nice arrangement. It worked perfectly. Until it didn’t.”

Jasmine’s voice was quieter now too, but there was a small nod, like she was starting to see it too. “It was a nice arrangement.”

Paige let out a soft laugh, not bitter—just reflective. “Yeah…maybe for a little bit.”

Jasmine looked down for a moment, then back up at Paige. “You act like none of it was real. Like I didn’t care about you at all. Like we didn’t care about each other.”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She just stared at Jasmine for a long moment before finally speaking, her voice lower now—almost more to herself than to Jasmine.

“You remember that night it rained?” she whispered. “Like—poured. Lights all out in the dorms. Whole campus blacked out.”

Jasmine nodded slowly, eyes searching Paige’s face.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Paige said. “My knee was killing me, and I was pissed at everyone and everything because I could barely shower on my own let alone step on a court. I had been ignoring the world for days. You showed up with that candle…the one that smelled like peaches or something.”

Jasmine exhaled softly, smiling despite herself. “Peach Prosecco. You hated it.”

Paige’s lips twitched. “Still lit it though. You made me tea. Sat next to me all night. Didn’t say much. Just… sat there, brushing your fingers over my wrist ‘til I fell asleep.”

The memory made her chest ache slightly—warm, familiar, soft in the way very few moments between them ever were. Jasmine had actually looked at her that night like she was worth a damn. Like she mattered outside of a box score or rehab schedule. Like someone worth staying up with in the dark.

But even as the warmth curled in her chest, Paige remembered the next morning. She’d woken up groggy, disoriented, the scent of peaches still clinging to the air. Jasmine was gone—no big deal, Paige thought at first. Probably just ran to the dining hall or back to her own room for a charger or something. But when she shifted in bed, the ache in her knee flaring up as usual, in an attempt to grab her phone her hand brushed something on the nightstand.

It was Paige’s wallet. Open. One of the bills she knew for sure she’d had—gone. Not a huge amount, maybe a twenty, but enough that she noticed.

She hadn’t thought much of it then. Had told herself she was overthinking when little things like this happened. Jasmine was just casual with boundaries, not malicious. She knew the girl was struggling a little bit. Paige had wanted to be someone Jasmine could lean on. She’d even liked it, in a backwards way—being needed.

Paige blinked, her gaze hardening just slightly as she brought herself out of the memory. “But then you disappeared. Again. Like always.”

The softness in Jasmine’s eyes faltered, her jaw tensing.

“That’s why I act like none of it was real,” Paige said. “Because the realest parts never lasted.”

Jasmine opened her mouth to respond, but Paige cut her off gently.

“I’m not saying all this to make it sound like I was miserable the whole time, or that I didn’t care about you,” she said, her voice calm but direct. “I’m not tryna hurt you, Jas. I’m just trying to be real about what it was. And it wasn’t love. Not the unconditional kind that feels weightless, not the kind I want for myself. That I want for you.”

Jasmine scoffed lightly. “That doesn’t exist Paige.”

Paige smiled faintly, almost involuntarily. She didn’t even have to think long. “It does, Jas,” she said softly. Her eyes softened, mind flickering to Azzi…to Lukas. “I promise it really does.”

And almost as if the universe heard her—maybe even agreed—her phone buzzed on the table. Azzi’s contact photo lit up the screen. Paige reached for it and she answered, smiling. “Wassup, man?”

Lukas’ voice crackled through the speaker excitedly. “How’d you know it was me, ma?”

Paige laughed, sinking a little deeper into the chair. “’Cause I know Azzi’s on a call with a client right now, big head.”

“Hm,” Lukas hummed, like that hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“How’d you figure out how to call me with her phone anyway?”

There was a pause, then Lukas proudly said, “Well Uncle Drew showed me how to find emergency numbers on the phone, and then I saw your picture and clicked it. Boom.”

Paige let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Genius. So, what’s the big emergency?”

Lukas exhaled way too dramatically. “Azzi said you told her I need to get a haircut today.”

Paige simply said. “You are getting a haircut today.”

“Whyyyy?” Lukas groaned, dragging the word out like it physically pained him.

Paige grinned. “Because we got dinner tonight.”

“With who?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to Jasmine, who was watching her silently now, taking it all in. Paige hesitated, not wanting to hurt her more than she already had. So instead, she said, “I’ll tell you later.”

Lukas groaned again. Paige laughed before saying, “Look, I’m a little busy right now, but I’ll see you soon, alright? I’ll bring lunch—ask Azzi what she wants after she’s done.”

She heard the raucous of him getting up on the other end.

“After she’s done, Lukas,” Paige added quickly, laughing again.

“Oh…okay. Right.”

Paige shook her head with a smile, even though he couldn’t see her. “I’ll see you soon ight. I love you.”

“I love you, ma.”

Just before she hung up, she added, “And hey—leave Azzi’s phone alone. There's too much important stuff on there for you to play with it.”

Lukas laughed loudly. “Okayyy.”

Paige ended the call and set the phone back down, her smile slowly fading as her eyes met Jasmine’s again—two people in the same room, but now clearly living very different lives.

Jasmine looked at her, voice quiet, barely traveling across the room enough for Paige to hear it. “Do you really love her?”

“I do.”

Jasmine blinked fast, trying to stop the tears welling in her eyes. Her voice cracked as she asked, “So there’s no chance of us trying again? Being a family?”

Paige’s eyes softened at the question—at the flicker of that younger Jasmine peeking through, the one who was there in the soft moments. The one who used to bullshit around with her in the gym until all hours of the night, laughed with her like they had all the time in the world. “No, Jas. I’m sorry.”

She took a breath before adding, “And I’m sorry for putting expectations on you that were never part of our…silent arrangement. You didn’t sign up for a kid. But you still showed up when I said I needed one. You still did that, carried him, for me. Despite what you may or may not have wanted at the time. And I want you to know I’ll always thank you for it. I’ll always appreciate you for bringing him into this world for me.”

Jasmine’s eyes shimmered, her lip trembling slightly as she looked down. “I think about him. About you. All the time. And I don’t know…everything else just seems so shallow now. I hate that I was so caught up in the lifestyle—so materialistic—that I messed up something that could’ve been…at least good.”

Paige smiled sadly. “We were young. We didn’t know what we were doing.”

There was silence again, but this time, it wasn’t tense. It was full of understanding for once.

Jasmine asked, “How do you know you love her?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped to her lap, fingers lightly tracing the seam of her pants. “Because I’m completely selfless when it comes to her.”

She glanced up at Jasmine, who waited in silence, needing more than that. So Paige gave her everything without fully meaning to.

“When I’m with Azzi…everything slows down. Like the world feels easier to carry. Even on the days when my body’s shot, when I’m sore and just want to sleep for a week—I still get up. I’ll drive her to work and pick her up after, just because of how much she hates driving. Doesn’t matter how tired I am.”

She laughed a little. “And when I’m not with her, I’m still thinking about her. Like, what kind of coffee will make her smile that morning, because different moods call for different coffee orders, or if she remembered to eat. I know her weird ass Cava order by heart. I know when she’s had a long day ‘cause she gets quiet, but her eyes still track me like she’s trying to pull energy from me.”

Paige exhaled, her lips twitching into a smile without her permission. “She hums when she’s folding laundry. Always slightly off-key. I swear it drives me crazy.” Her eyes softened more. “Still I love hearing it.”

She paused for a second, then kept going.

“She’s patient with me, with my emotions. Doesn’t push, doesn’t guilt me. Just…holds space, even when I don't know what I need yet. And she’s real. She calls me out when I’m slipping, if I’m not being who she needs me to be, she holds me accountable, but never makes me feel small.”

Her voice cracked slightly as she let out all the thoughts she’s been holding in. “The way she looks at me—like she sees the whole version of who I am, not just the parts I let the world see…and somehow she still chooses me everyday. Still wants to come home to me after a long day.”

Her voice is more intimate, like she wasn’t even talking to anyone anymore. Just…remembering.

“When I’m on the court, the second that buzzer goes off, I’m scanning the crowd for her and Lukas. Every damn time. Doesn't feel like a win unless they’re there. Doesn’t feel worth it if I can’t share the moment with her.”

She smiled softly, still lost in it.

“She makes me want to be better in every aspect of life. Makes me want to give her the best version of me. I want her to feel safe with me. I want her to know she’ll never have to carry anything alone—not while I’m breathing.”

Paige’s thumb stilled against the fabric of her pants, her eyes glazing over—not out of detachment, but from sinking too deep into the memory of Azzi.

“She’s so beautiful it hurts sometimes,” Paige whispered, like it slipped out. “Not just surface-level pretty. Even though, God, she is—the kind of beautiful that makes you forget your name for a second when you look at her. Her smile? It kills me every time. She has these dimples, one of them only shows up when she’s really laughing, and when she’s sleepy? Her eyes get all soft and warm, like honey damn near I don’t know.”

She let out a breath, not a laugh really, more like an exhale of awe.

“Don’t even get me started on her voice. It kind of just wraps around me. Makes me feel safe. Even when she’s teasing me—and she always is—there’s never any seriousness to it. Just softness.”

Her fingers messed with the seam again.

“But it’s what’s inside her that messes me up really. The way she’s so loyal, so good to the people she loves. She doesn’t always say a lot when you first get to know her, but when she does? It’s never empty. It’s thoughtful. Like she wants every word to mean something when you’re just meeting her. And it always means something.”

She paused again, catching her breath a little.

“She has a quiet strength. The kind that doesn’t beg for attention. She shows up for people, over and over, even when she’s tired. Even if she’s hurting. And I get to be someone she shows up for.” Her voice dipped lower, almost in disbelief the more she talked. “She shows up for me.”

Paige blinked, her eyes wet but not crying.

“And when I look at her, I see the rest of my life,” she whispered. “Not just the highlight reel—the real stuff. The long nights and the early mornings, the mundane, the messy. The stuff most people get tired of—I want all of it with her, everyday. I want to sit next to her on the porch when we’re old, watching the sun go down. I want to fight over what groceries we forgot and yell at her for putting too much food on my plate. I want to take care of her when she’s sick, and hold her when she’s scared. I want to wake up to her, every day, until I can’t wake up anymore.”

She bit her lip, realization crashing over her again in quiet waves. “I want to marry her.”

The words felt heavier saying them out loud. Like they’d always been there—she just hadn’t dared say them out loud considering how soon it was.

“I really do,” she said again, softer. “God, I want to marry her so bad.”

Paige blinked like she was snapping out of a trance, and that’s when she noticed Jasmine. Eyes glassy, cheeks damp with tears…but actually smiling.

She had a deep wistful kind of smile. Like she’d finally seen the thing she never got to see when she had Paige: unburdened by the weight of the world, fully present, in love with someone—loved by someone.

“I’m so happy for you, P.”

Paige swallowed hard, guilt flickering across her features. “Shit I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But Jasmine cut her off gently, her voice calm for once. “Don’t apologize.”

And for the first time in a long time, the silence that followed between them didn’t feel heavy. It felt mutual. Like they’d finally stepped out of the fog they’d been trapped in for years. Two people sitting with a shared truth, neither better nor worse than the other—just human.

Paige leaned back slightly, her voice quiet. “What do you need?”

Jasmine hesitated for a moment, the tension in her jaw softening as another tear slipped out. “My mom is sick P.”

Paige’s expression folded with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Jas.”

Jasmine shook her head quickly, wiping at her cheek with the edge of her sleeve. “I swear I didn’t come here for money or for…whatever you think I came for.”

Her voice cracked, and she let out a shaky laugh through her tears. “It’s just—you know, you and my mom were all I really had. And with her being sick, I don’t know, I just started thinking about you a lot. About how it used to feel…having someone.”

She laughed again through the tears, feeling a little ridiculous now. “I missed you. And I wanted a family so bad I came back to fucking Dallas.” She took a long breath, gathering herself. “I don’t know what I thought would happen. I just feel like an idiot now.”

Paige didn’t say anything right away—because what was there to say? But she looked at Jasmine with gentleness as she said, “I can’t give you what you’re looking for, Jas.”

Jasmine’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, like she was bracing herself for the answer she already knew was coming. But then she opened them again, her voice raw. “Can I meet him?”

The question hung in the air. Paige didn’t answer right away. She turned her gaze toward the window, her jaw tight as she swallowed down the storm of thoughts brewing inside her. Jasmine leaned forward slightly, her tone more desperate now.

“Please. I just—I feel so fucking empty. And every time I see him—even in pictures—it’s like something’s missing. Like there’s this whole piece of me that never fully formed. I heard his laugh in the kitchen when I was here last time and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

She exhaled shakily. “I know I don’t have the right to ask. I know I have no rights to him. It’s completely your decision. But I have to ask.”

Paige didn’t turn her gaze from the window, but her voice came back. “I gotta talk to Azzi.”

Jasmine furrowed her eyebrows, confused. As far as she knew, Azzi hadn’t done anything legal with Lukas—wasn’t listed on anything official.

“Why? I mean…she’s not—” she started, but the words trailed off before they could turn harsh. She caught herself.

Paige finally looked back at her. “We make decisions together,” she said gently. “I can’t give you an answer without talking to her first.”

For a moment, Jasmine looked like she might protest—her lips parted, and heat welled in her chest—but she saw the emotions swirling in Paige’s eyes. Not cold, not harsh. Just protective.

So instead, she sat back, biting her tongue, nodding once. “Okay, that’s fair,” she whispered.

The two women stand. Paige reaches for her phone on the coffee table, sliding it unlocked with her thumb. Jasmine’s eyes drift downward and she has to stop herself from outwardly reacting when she sees Paige’s homescreen: Azzi and Lukas, both of them mid-laugh, seemingly at the ice cream on Lukas’ nose. Sun casting a glow across their faces. It punches something hollow in her chest, but she says nothing.

Paige opens her contacts and holds the phone out toward her. “Put your number in. Not tryna talk to you through Instagram about this.”

Jasmine takes the phone with a nod, tapping quietly before turning it back toward Paige. She doesn't add a name—just the number. Paige glances down, locks it, then slides the phone into her pocket.

They walk together toward the door, and Paige reaches to open it but Jasmine lingers, like she wants to say something else.

Before she can overthink it, Paige gently reaches out, her fingers brushing Jasmine’s wrist before pulling her in. Jasmine falls into the embrace easily, like her body still knows the way. Paige wraps her arms around her, resting her cheek on the crown of Jasmine’s head, eyes fluttering closed for just a second.

Neither of them says anything. But the silence speaks.

Paige’s hand slides slowly up Jasmine’s back, fingers tracing a small pattern over the material of her shirt. Jasmine exhales against her collarbone, soft and shaky, her hands clutching the back of Paige’s sweatshirt a little tighter than she means to.

It’s not rushed. It’s not stiff. It’s the kind of hug that lingers just long enough to say all the things neither of them had the language for when they were younger.

Eventually, Paige pulls back just slightly, her hands still resting on Jasmine’s waist. Her voice is quieter now, softer as she looks down at the hazel eyed girl.

“You’re gonna be okay, Jas.”

Jasmine nods, but her eyes are glossy and Paige can see it. The way she’s holding herself together by the thinnest thread. So she lifts one hand, fingers curling gently around Jasmine’s jaw, guiding her gaze upward.

Blue eyes meet hazel for the first time in years.

Paige holds her there and says it again—barely above a whisper this time.

“I promise. You’re gonna be okay.”

There’s a pause. A breath.

Jasmine’s eyes flick to Paige’s lips and for the briefest moment, something shifts in her gaze.

Paige sees it and she immediately steps back—not coldly, just enough to put an appropriate amount of space between them. She gives a tight smile before opening the door. “Bye, Jasmine.”

“Bye, P.”

Then she quietly closes the door behind her.

…

Later that day, Paige stepped into Azzi’s office, nodding a quick thanks to Kelly as she buzzed her into the back. The familiar softness of music echoed through the hallway, and it only took a few steps before Paige caught sight of them through the glass.

Azzi stood behind Lukas, both hands carefully on his hips as she guided him toward the pull-up bar. His legs lifting with determination, chin scrunched in focus as he tried to lift himself.

Paige couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “I feel like y’all are always up to something,” she teased from the doorway.

Azzi looked over her shoulder, flashing that grin Paige would recognize anywhere. Lukas immediately twisted in Azzi’s grip, spotting his mom. “Ma!” he squealed.

Before Paige could brace herself, Lukas launched out of Azzi’s hands and into her body, she barely caught him—a food bag in one hand, the other now wrapped tight around a squirming, excited Lukas. She laughed, adjusting him on her side as he wrapped his arms around her neck to hug her.

Azzi walked over, her eyes flicking over Paige—down to her hands. She laughed softly before saying, Let me help you,” her fingers brushing Paige’s as she took the bag.

Then she leaned in, close enough that her breath tickled Paige’s cheek. She gave her a quick kiss, barely more than a brush of lips, but enough to make Paige’s heart stutter a little as she grinned like an idiot.

“Hi, beautiful,” Azzi whispered after the kiss.

Paige adjusted Lukas on her hip as they followed Azzi down the hall and into her office. As soon as they were inside, Lukas jumped free, dropping to the floor sprawling across a large piece of paper already filled with drawings like he had a masterpiece to finish.

“So anyway ma,” he began rambling, “I needed to do pull ups cause I told Uncle Drew that if I get big muscles like you, then I can pick up the car and—”

Paige and Azzi both laughed as they began pulling containers from the bag and unwrapping Lukas’ food. “You’re gonna be a superhero, huh?” Paige grinned, handing Lukas a small apple juice.

“No,” he said seriously, not even glancing up from his drawing. “A trainer superhero.”

“Ah, my bad,” Paige chuckled. Once Azzi placed his food in front of him, Lukas shifted focus, as he weighed his options. Ultimately, coloring and chicken nuggets won out over conversation, and he faded into his own world.

Azzi leaned down and kissed the top of his head before giving Paige a glance. Without saying anything she nodded toward the door.

Paige followed Azzi out into one of the nearby training rooms shutting the door behind them. Azzi turned around and gently pulled Paige into her arms to connect their lips.

“I love you,” Azzi whispered against her lips, her thumb brushing Paige’s jaw.

Paige smiled into the kiss, her voice soft. “I love you, baby.”

They stayed like that for a moment—held in the quiet, in the peace of one another—before Azzi slowly pulled back, her eyes searching Paige’s face.

“You wanna tell me how it went?”

Paige let out a quiet hum as she settled onto the training table. Azzi tapped the edge lightly, a silent request that Paige had learned meant lay down for me. Paige listened, letting her head rest back as Azzi moved to the end of the table and slipped her shoes off.

Azzi started at her ankle, rolling it gently in slow circles, loosening the joints and coaxing the tension out of Paige’s muscles.

“It wasn’t bad,” Paige said.

“Hmm?” Azzi hummed, moving up to Paige’s calf, using her things to work through the tightness.

“Seeing her,” Paige clarified. “I had to explain to her how…what we had wasn’t healthy, wasn’t what we should’ve settled for. A silent arrangement, really.”

Azzi didn’t speak, just moved higher up, pressing into the muscle with just enough pressure to make Paige close her eyes and sigh.

“Talked about how I was young and had all this attention and money and pressure—and she helped me keep a clean image. She was never gonna risk messing it up, so it was easy to choose her. And she got to benefit from everything that came with me.” Paige let out a dry breath at a particular muscle.

Azzi’ made a silent note of that portion of Paiges leg before her hands found Paige’s knee, gently rotating it, still listening.

“We talked a lot about the past,” Paige continued. “Just tryna give her examples of why we didn’t work long term.”

Azzi moved up to Paige’s thigh.

“Told her I wasn’t tryna hurt her. That I wasn’t miserable the whole time. Just…that it wasn’t real. That we didn’t love each other.”

Azzi’s touch paused for a moment at that, like her body was reacting even if her mouth didn’t. Paige glanced up at her.

“She said unconditional love doesn’t exist,” Paige said. “But I told her it does.”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up to hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Paige smiled faintly. “Right after that, Lukas called from your phone. It was like the universe chiming in to prove my point. It was actually crazy.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, a proud smile tugging at her mouth as she kept working her way up Paige’s other leg.

“She asked if I loved you.”

“What’d you say?” Azzi teased, already knowing the answer.

“I said I did. And then I started rambling like an idiot and told her all the ways I knew it.”

Azzi smiled at this as she pushed Paige’s knee up gently, her hand behind it as she leaned in, body folding over hers until their faces were inches apart. Paige’s smirk was immediate, her free hand brushing against Azzi’s hip.

“Stop being horny and finish the story so we can eat,” Azzi mumbled, trying to keep her composure as her eyes flicked between Paige’s mouth and her eyes.

Paige grinned, leaning up just enough to steal a quick kiss before saying, “She wants to meet Lukas.”

Azzi blinked, pulling back, her hands still resting on Paige’s leg. “She does?”

“Yeah,” Paige nodded. “I didn’t give her an answer though. Told her I needed to talk to you first.”

There was a pause before Azzi said,“You did?”Her voice is quieter than usual.

“Mhm.” Paige hummed again, relaxed beneath her touch.

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek at that, clearly trying to hide the way her lips wanted to curl into a smile.

Paige squinted at her. “Don’t think I didn’t see that.”

Azzi tried to play innocent. “See what?”

“You biting your cheek to hide that cute lil grin.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t grinning.”

“You so were,” Paige teased, reaching up to push some of Azzi’s curls out of her face. “You love when I say shit like that. Admit it.”

Azzi leaned in close again, their foreheads nearly touching as she dropped her voice. “I love when you do a lot of things, but I’m still waiting for us to finish the conversation, superstar.”

Paige laughed, tugging her closer. “Alright, alright, just thought it was cute that you smiled when I said that.”

“Finish the story, then maybe I’ll give you something else to smile about.”

This only made Paige smirk more, now wiggling her eyebrows a few times.

Azzi rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself as she tried to shift away, but Paige’s grip on her waist tightened to hold her in place.

“So what you think?” Paige asked.

Azzi blinked. “About?”

Paige laughed quietly, shaking her head. “About what I just said, angel. Jasmine. Lukas.”

Azzi quieted for a second, her fingers playing with the fabric of Paige’s pants, anchoring herself. But her eyes didn’t leave Paige’s.

“I think…” she started slowly, clearly weighing each word. “I think it’s complicated. And it can be something that gets messy quickly.”

Paige nodded, her thumb tracing soft circles over Azzi’s wrist.

“But I do trust you,” Azzi continued. “If you feel like it’s the right thing to do for him, then I’ll support it. But I think you need to be sure he’s ready, if that’s something you’re considering.”

Paige looked at her for a long moment, taking her in—her patient perceptive eyes, her posture, the soft eyelash resting on her cheek. Paige reached up gently to remove it then, softer than before, “I wanna know how you’d feel about it though, Azzi. For real.”

Azzi took a slow breath, and this time her answer didn’t come easy. Her gaze dipped for half a second, before returning.

“I think Jasmine is…” She hesitated, her jaw tightening slightly. “From the small bursts I’ve seen—very immature. I don’t think she can be consistent with him, if that’s what you’re thinking about.”

Paige nodded as she listened.

“If we’re speaking personally?” Azzi said, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. “I wouldn’t enjoy being around someone you were involved with, wouldn’t enjoy you being around here either. I’d be lying if I said I would. But I’m not insecure, and I’m an adult. So I’d be fine.”

She paused for a second before adding, “You know me. I’ll deal. I always do. I just need to know you’re thinking about the whole picture whenever you decide..”

Paige’s hand slid up to Azzi’s waist, fingers slipping under her shirt just enough to feel skin. “I am that’s why I’m talkin to you,” she whispered. “You’re my whole picture.”

Azzi’s eyes softened and that quiet smile returned. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to Paige’s forehead, letting it linger. Then she pulled back just enough to whisper against her skin, “You better mean that Madison.”

Paige tilted her head up, nose brushing Azzi’s, a smirk playing at her lips. “I promise.”

Azzi’s eyes drifted to Paige’s lips before meeting her gaze again. The kiss was soft—barely more than a brush at first. Familiar. She sighed into it the moment Paige’s hand cupped her jaw, thumb grazing just under her ear.

Then Paige, never patient when it comes to being closer to Azzi, lets her tongue trace the curve of Azzi’s bottom lip, asking for entrance.

Azzi’s lips parted slightly as she moved closer, about to give in and deepen the kiss when—

“Azziiiiii!”

A small blur of energy came running through the door and directly into Azzi’s legs, nearly knocking her off balance if it wasn’t for Paige holding her up. She stumbled, arms wrapping around Lukas as he clung to her waist.

“Please tell Ma I don’t need a haircut,” Lukas whined, burying his face against her. “Please please please.”

Azzi blinked, then let out a breathless laugh, resting a hand on the back of his head, pushing some of his hair back. Paige groaned softly behind her, flopping back onto the table.

“Bro, your timing is actually horrendous,” Paige mumbled, one arm flung over her eyes.

Lukas, completely oblivious, looked up at Azzi with wide, pleading eyes. “You’ll tell her, right? That I don’t need one? You said I looked handsome!”

Azzi laughed again, crouching down to his level and smoothing a hand over his messy curls. “I did say that,” she admitted. “But your mom wants you to get a haircut.”

Lukas turned immediately, big blue eyes locking on Paige. “Why?” he asked, clearly hoping for a solid loophole.

Paige laughed at his attempt at pouting. “'Cause we’re having dinner with Azzi’s family tonight, remember?”

That perked him right up. “Jon?” he asked hopefully, eyes brightening.

Azzi couldn’t help the snort that slipped out. “Yes, Jon,” she confirmed, shaking her head as she stood back up. “Why is it always Jon with you?”

Paige grinned adding, “You know Jose gets mad that he’s not your favorite right?”

“I don’t care,” Lukas said with a shrug, already mentally committed. “Jon talks about dinosaurs with me on FaceTime.”

Azzi raised her eyebrow. “So that’s all it takes huh?”

Lukas nodded, as if this was just the way of the world.

“Alright then can we agree on a haircut now?” Paige chimed in.

Lukas gasped. “Can I get a design ma?”

Paige blinked. “A design?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Like stars or flames—ohhh or a dragon!”

Azzi looked like she was trying not to laugh as she nudged Paige. “C’mon, let the boy dream.”

Paige pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know about allat, but...we’ll see.”

“Yesss,” Lukas yelled, pumping a fist in the air before darting off toward Azzi’s office again to do who knows what.

Azzi leaned against the table with a smile. “You’re in trouble when he starts asking for tattoos.”

Paige groaned. “Don’t even put that energy in the air.”

As the room quieted again, Paige laid back on the training table, propped up on her elbows, eyes following Azzi’s every move like she was the only thing in focus.

“I tell you how good you look today mama?” she asked, a little slower now, eyes sweeping over Azzi as she bent to grab something from the floor. “Feel like you wore that knowing I’d be in here, huh?”

Azzi turned around arching her eyebrow, clearly unimpressed but amused. “You’d think you were sixteen and not twenty-nine the way you speak sometimes.”

Paige smirked, unfazed. She swung her legs off the side of the table, motioning for Azzi to come closer. “Whatever. You love it.”

Azzi didn’t move at first—just folded her arms and tilted her head like she was daring her to keep going.

Paige reached out, catching Azzi by the hand and tugging her in. She leaned forward just enough to nuzzle her face into the crook of Azzi’s neck, her voice muffled. “You know you love it,” she whispered, her lips brushing against her skin. “Don’t act brand new.”

Azzi shivered, her hand reflexively landing on Paige’s thigh. “God, you’re annoying,” she mumbled with a smile—then pushed Paige back playfully, breaking the moment.

“I’m going to eat my food, hornball,” she teased, turning toward her office with a shake of her head.

Paige fell back onto the table dramatically, still grinning. “You can’t say stuff like that after letting me whisper in your neck!”

Azzi looked back, smiling. “I’m calling HR.”

Paige sat up. “You are HR!”

Azzi disappeared into her office, laughter trailing behind her. Paige stayed where she was for a second longer, cheesing so hard it hurt her cheeks, before sliding off the table to follow her in.

…

Later that night, Paige’s house was filled with the kind of noise that made it feel like a home rather than a house—laughter echoing from the backyard and overlapping conversations from the living room.

Azzi’s entire family had made the trip. Her mom, dad, both brothers, and even her grandparents—who were currently on the couch, swapping old stories with Paige’s mom like they’d known each other for years.

Dinner had ended a while ago and Lukas was outside “playing,” which mostly meant running around in circles yelling nonsense while Azzi’s brothers let him think he was winning.

In the kitchen, Paige and Azzi stood shoulder to shoulder at the sink, hands submerged in sudsy water. Azzi handed her a rinsed glass, their fingers brushing.

“This your sneaky little plan all along?” Paige asked, glancing at her with a sideways smile. “Bringing your whole family out here to trap me into a commitment?”

Azzi snorted. “Oh, for sure. My grandma already asked if you were the one, so…”

Paige blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Azzi said, laughing softly. “She said if you weren’t, she’d have to pray for me extra tonight and knock some sense into me.”

Paige snorted. “That’s crazy,” she said, setting a plate on the drying rack. Then added, “...but also kind of sweet. M’glad she likes me.”

Azzi looked over at her, the light catching her features just right. “My entire family adores you even if my dad won’t admit it yet, so you can’t really get rid of me.”

Paige smirked at this. “You talk like you tryna marry me or somethin’. Don’t let me get the wrong idea.”

Azzi leaned in, “And what if I am? Might taste a little different with a ring on my finger.”

Paige’s jaw tightened as she shook her head. “I swear, you be sayin’ shit like that like I won’t take you upstairs right now.”

Azzi smiled innocently. “I do?”

“You do,” Paige mumbled, dipping her head to press a soft kiss to Azzi’s neck, her voice muffled against her skin. “You like when I act like this cause you get to show out.”

Azzi bit her lip but playfully elbowed her away. “We are not doing this while my grandma is twenty feet away.”

Paige leaned against the counter, still grinning. “She can pray for me too, if it helps.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, walking to put something away. “You’re an idiot.”

Paige laughed, her heart stupidly full as she turned back to the dishes, already thinking about how she’d get Azzi alone later.

Azzi was still teasing from the other side of the kitchen when they heard the sound of someone walking into the kitchen. Katie appeared in the doorway smiling.

“Sweetheart,” Katie said, addressing Paige as she folded her arms. “You’ve done more than enough in here. Go mingle a little. Talk to the family.”

Paige started to protest, hands still in the sink. “I’m good, really. It’s my place, I don’t mind cleaning up—”

But before she could finish, Tim stepped into the kitchen behind his wife, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Actually, I was hoping to grab a minute with you anyway, Paige. If you don’t mind.”

The plate in Paige’s hand slipped just a little before she caught it, and she swallowed—hard. Her expression didn’t shift much, but Azzi, standing a few feet away, noticed the slight flex in her jaw. Tim was one of the few people in Azzi’s family that was still slightly standoffish with Paige. Not that he didn’t like her, he just hadn’t had a one on one with her yet.

Azzi couldn’t help the chuckle she let out, clearly entertained by the rare sight of Paige Bueckers suddenly tense at the thought of a one-on-one with her teddy bear of a dad.

To smooth things over, Azzi dried her hands on a dishtowel, grabbing a drink from the fridge. She walked up to Paige, sliding it into her hand, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to her cheek.

“You’ll be fine, baby,” she whispered, her lips brushing Paige’s skin. “Just relax.”

Paige gave her a look, half-playful and half-betrayed. “You enjoying this aren’t you?”

Azzi smiled. “Absolutely.”

Tim got their attention again. “You coming, or do I gotta start my talk here in the kitchen?”

Paige smiled at Tim shaking her head. “No sir,” she said, giving Azzi a kiss on the cheek before she followed him outside.

The Dallas night air was comfortable—not too hot, not too cold. The sound of Lukas’s laughter filled the backyard, mixed with the occasional shout from Azzi’s brothers or Drew. They settled in two chairs near the edge of the backyard, far enough from the house to feel separate, private.

Tim leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed. “Azzi told me you like to get straight to the point. Like her.”

Paige nodded once, her fingers lightly tapping against the condensation on her glass. “Yes, sir. Always.”

“So let me ask you something, Paige. You’re young, one of the biggest athletes in the world, you’re rich, you travel…by all means you got it all kid.”

He turned his head slightly,talking to her directly now. “Why should I trust you with my daughter?”

The question hit harder than Paige expected for some reason. She took a breath and looked out toward the backyard before answering carefully but truthfully.

“Because I know what it feels like to be seen as an accomplishment before a person,” she said simply. “To be loved for what you do instead of who you are. And I know she feels like that sometimes. Sometimes she feels like without her clinic she doesn’t have much to offer but that couldn’t be further from the truth. And I wake up every day trying to make sure she doesn’t feel like I feel and I go to bed evernight telling her how much light she brings into the world.”

Tim stayed quiet, listening.

“She’s brilliant. She’s steady. She grounds me in ways no one else can,” Paige laughed for a second before saying, “And if you can believe it this is the second time today I’ve gone on about how amazing your daughter is.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts so she didn’t ramble, “So I guess what I’m trying to say is I just wanna be there for her every day. And if I can make her feel even a fraction of what she makes me feel I know I can make her the happiest woman in the world.”

Tim didn’t speak right away. He just watched her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“You love her?” he asked simply.

Paige met his eyes without hesitation. “Yes. I do.”

Tim looked away for a moment, toward the house, his eyes settling on the garage. “Two cars tucked in there. Big house. Little bit of a flashy life, Paige.”

Paige followed his gaze.

“I’m not judging,” he continued, still calm but direct. “But I gotta ask—are you managing it? All of this? Because I know Azzi’s got more than enough money to stop working today and live comfortably the rest of her life. She didn’t choose you for that. But if she’s building a life with someone, I want to make sure she’s joining something equal. Someone just as smart, not an athlete who's going to run out of money the moment they stop dribbling the ball.”

Paige nodded, no hint of offense in her face—only understanding. “That’s fair,” she said, taking another sip of her drink before setting it down. “The cars, the house—it might look like I spend crazy, but I don’t.”

She shifted in her seat slightly, spreading her legs a little to become more comfortable. “I have endorsement money I don’t even touch, equity in Unrivaled that I don’t even think about. After the CBA I make more than enough to just live off my salary and honestly I don’t even use my full salary. Lukas has a trust that’s already growing interest, and I keep that locked away too. I’ve got a financial advisor, investments and shares, savings plans…” She pauses for a second before saying, “I guess what I’m trying to say is I know how to handle my business. How to manage money.”

She tilted her head back toward the house. “The big ass house? That’s for stuff like this. Dinners. Holidays. My kid having room to run. His friends staying over. My people always having a place to land.”

Then she looked back at Tim. “I’m a family person at the end of the day. I want stability. I want roots in Dallas. I want all of that with Azzi and I’ll be able to give it to her without question if she wants it too.”

Tim’s expression didn’t shift too much, just a small smile—but there was something behind his eyes. Not just acceptance, but a trace of respect.

“You sound like someone who’s smart enough to mean what she says,” he murmured after a pause.

“I am,” Paige said simply.

Tim gave a slow nod, then leaned back in his chair again. “Alright then,” he said, a bigger smile breaking through. “I’m glad we had this talk. I can stop acting all tough now.”

Before Paige could respond to Tim’s last remark, the back patio slid open, laughter spilling out ahead of the people pouring through it. Azzi’s brothers came back out, talking trash about coinhole and calling dibs on teams. Their mothers followed, chatting with her grandparents, while Lukas trailed behind with a juice box in hand and a ball under his arm. Azzi stepped out last with a drink in one hand, a huge smile on her face as her eyes settled onto Paige.

Tim got up after hearing the talk of coinhole and walked to the other side of the backyard after patting Paige’s shoulder.

Azzi smiled at the interaction before saying, “I brought you a refill,” holding it out as she made her way over to Paige.

Paige smiled, thanking her softly, but Azzi didn’t stop there—she sat in Paige’s lap like she’d done a thousand times, tucking her head against Paige’s chest as she settled in sideways. It was natural. Like she belonged there.

The rest of their family migrated toward the court and the coin hole boards, their voices growing louder in the background, Lukas yelling in protest when his uncle Ryan walked into the backyard and “joined” Drew’s team after greeting everyone.

Azzi leaned down, lips brushing the corner of Paige’s mouth, but Paige dodged her—just slightly, but enough.

Azzi froze and pulled back, giving her an incredulous look considering Paige had never in her life dodged a kiss from her. “What?”

Paige chuckled, trying not to look at the ten sets of eyes within range. “Your family’s right there, baby.”

Azzi rolled her eyes so hard it made Paige laugh harder. “I’m a grown woman,” she said, her tone dry as she set her drink down, then reached up, fingers curling under Paige’s jaw so she couldn’t dodge her again.

Paige didn’t resist this time.

Azzi kissed her slowly, humming when she tasted the sweet mix of cocktail on her lips. When she pulled back, her eyes were a little dazed.

“I’m their favorite anyway,” she whispered.

Paige snorted. “I think Lukas is their favorite now.”

“Okay, second favorite,” Azzi conceded, brushing a loose strand of hair from Paige’s forehead. “But I’m definitely your favorite.”

Paige kissed her again, just once this time. “Not even a question.”

Across the yard, Lukas’s voice rang out loud and clear.

“Ma! Come be on my team, they’re cheating!”

Paige turned her head toward him, already grinning. “Alright!” she called back, laughing as she gave Azzi one more kiss, then patted her hip gently. “Gotta go be great real quick sexy.”

She was about to slide off the chair when Azzi caught her by the wrist.

“Wait. Take off those slides. I don’t want you to twist your ankle or mess up your metrics without your sole monitor.”

Paige paused, looked down at her feet, and let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “God, your brain never turns off when it comes to me. That shit so sexy.”

Azzi just shrugged, her eyes twinkling a little. “Someone’s gotta keep you together.”

That made Paige melt. She leaned back in, cupping Azzi’s cheek with one hand as she kissed her slowly, sliding her tongue in her mouth, right in the middle of the buzz of family around them.

“You’re so sweet, mama,” she whispered, forehead pressed against Azzi’s for a beat longer. “I love you.”

Azzi’s smile was soft. “I love you back.”

Then—

“MA!” Lukas yelled again, this time more impatient, and both women laughed.

Paige kicked off her slides, calling out, “I’m coming!” over her shoulder, and jogged in her socks across the backyard.

Azzi cupped her hands around her mouth and called out with a grin, “Don’t embarrass me in front of my family, Madison!”

Paige turned just before reaching the court, walking backward as she grinned back. “Embarrass you? Watch this.”

She clapped for the ball and once she had it she took one dribble before the ball arched through the air and smoothly through the net. Cheers erupted, Lukas throwing his hands up in celebration while Azzi just smiled and rolled her eyes at her.

Lukas launched into calling plays like he knew what he was talking about, tugging on Paige’s arm and telling her to guard Uncle Drew. Katie stood off to the side with Azzi’s grandmother and Paige’s mom, laughing at the chaos, while Tim, Azzi’s grandpa and her brothers hollered from the coin hole boards about made-up rules and cheating accusations.

The backyard was filled with a kind of quiet chaos—basketball bouncing, music faint from a speaker that Jose brought outside, laughter spilling from every direction. Warm string lights blinked to life overhead as the sun began to dip low, casting everything in gold. Azzi leaned back against the chair, watching her world play barefoot, a soft smile playing on her lips as she finished Paige’s drink.

It wasn’t perfect. Paige’s sister Lauren and her dad hadn’t been able to make it tonight.

But this was everything.

And Paige—glancing back at Azzi as she high-fived Lukas—felt it in her chest. This was the life she let herself dream about for so long.

And now she couldn’t imagine not having it.

[a-casxandra]

𝐒𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬?

Since i'm still in the process of writing the alternative ending of rafayel and caleb's story. i'm just gonna leave this here ahahaha

𝐒𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬 : in every lifetime they loved mc, ans everytime she would always die, and just like the cycle they will get reborn to another world where they would meet mc once again... however this, is definitelty the first world that caught them off guard. A world where women dominates, while the male was expected to be gentle, submissive, housemaker.

- and yes in this au. the lads men knew and interact with eachother.

𝗭𝗮𝘆𝗻𝗲

The scent of jasmine and old sandalwood was the first thing Zayne noticed. Then came the weight of fabric—smooth, luxurious, wrong. He sat up, instinctively brushing his long black hair back, only to pause. Long?

His fingers curled into the silk of his robe, trying to suppress the rising unease. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned the intricately painted room. Everything screamed wealth and control—but not his.

Then the attendant spoke, gently but firmly: "Honored consort candidate, please refrain from touching your hair. It must be styled according to palace standards. The Empress prefers elegance.”

Zayne blinked once. Slowly. “The Empress?”

A week to prepare. Virginal check. Etiquette training. Embroidery.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t scowl. He merely turned his gaze toward the window and muttered dryly, "So now we're the prize livestock. Excellent."

Zayne could already hear Rafayel teasing, and Sylus laughing his smug ass off.

𝗥𝗮𝗳𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗹

Rafayel groaned and rolled over in bed, only to realize the sheets smelled like rose petals, and his hair—his hair—was being braided by someone humming a court song.

He bolted upright.

A mirror across the room showed him: long, perfectly waved purple locks, glowing skin, and a complexion that looked like he’d spent a decade inside a beauty salon.

“Oh no... oh no, not this again—”

The servant bowed. “Consort-candidate Rafayel, your embroidery practice begins shortly. Her Majesty enjoys elegant, clean needlework. Please do not delay your skincare ritual.”

“—Also, your virginity exam is in two days.”

His eye twitched.

“—Do I at least get different outfits?”

𝗫𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗲𝗿

Xavier opened his eyes to silence. He studied the ceiling first, its hand-painted dragons coiling in the clouds. Then the bed. Then his hair—no longer cropped, but brushed out to his mid-back. Silver and soft.

“Hm.”

An attendant entered, bowed low, and placed down a tray. “Master Xavier, please review the etiquette scrolls before your sewing class. Her Majesty favors calm, composed candidates.”

He looked down at the tray—tea, mooncakes, a single white flower.

He said nothing. Only whispered as the attendant left:

“So this is how the world shifts.”

He calmly sipped the tea, unmoved by the idea of virginity tests or delicate embroidery. The chaos didn’t bother him.

What bothered him was the silence that followed. The feeling that she was already slipping away again.

𝗖𝗮𝗹𝗲𝗯

The polished wood of the floor beneath his feet felt alien. Cold. Still, Caleb rose to his full height, robes cascading around his frame like water. His hair brushed his shoulders now. A servant opened the screens before him, bowing so low they nearly kissed the floor.

“My lord Caleb, please allow us to measure your waistline for the Empress’s inspection. A slim figure is favored, and breakfast has already been tailored to your nutritional plan—”

He didn’t respond. Not at first. Not until the servant left.

Then he stared at his reflection—at the carefully softened lines of his face, the paleness of his skin, the violet eyes that no longer looked like a colonel's.

“I couldn’t protect her then... now I’m not even allowed to try.”

But if the Empress was her... then he’d play their game. He’d sew, sing, smile—whatever it took to stay by her side.

Even if it killed him again.

𝗦𝘆𝗹𝘂𝘀

The palace was too quiet, too soft. Sylus ripped the silken robe from his shoulders the moment he saw it, throwing it aside like it burned him. He marched toward the door before the attendant blocked his path.

“My lord Sylus, you mustn’t expose your chest! It would be improper!”

“I’ve been stabbed in the gut, and that was more proper than this.”

He shoved his hair back with a scoff—his long, silver hair. He stopped, catching his reflection. Even he had to admit—he looked stunning.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

When told the Empress was choosing her concubines in a week, Sylus just laughed—loud and sharp.

“So she gets a sword and I get a spoon? Nah. If she’s the Empress this time…”

His grin widened.

“She better be ready to chase me.”

Mc as the empress, with lads men as her concubines. Again this was one of my drafts.

[kingkat12]

hurt people hurt people (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: alcohol consumption, ANGST, throwing up, gore, jealousy schemes, Roman calling people uncouth mongoloids which is literally the same as in the book lol, and major risk of emotional damage (I warned you)

summary: this night would turn out to be the worst of your life-- of our lives. I hope you don't mind that I'm talking to you directly this time?

word count: 11,273

← previous chapter |

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･seven minutes in heaven masterlist

a/n: this is absolutely insane to me... I cannot believe I've FINISHED WRITING A BOOK?? thank you all SO so so much for being a part of this wild ride and for supporting my work, I couldn't have gotten here without all the love and all the comments, I couldn't have gotten this far without you all; therefore, I'm so so excited to give you the ultimate gift-- the last chapter of seven minutes in heaven!! ENJOY!!<333

... Alright.

We've gotten this far. It's Friday, and I need to give Roman an answer, so I'll be quick; after all the shit that has gone down these past months, after everything I've brought you along with me for, I only have one question for you...

Have you understood it yet?

Have you really?

I could sit on Jasmine's front porch for hours and tell you the story of Roman Godfrey over and over, but nothing would ever change. You'd still love him, you'd still ache for him, just as I've done since the moment I saw him. We're in the same boat, after all-- you and I.

Oh, and speaking of Jasmine; her party was the best I had attended in years. Catch the irony? The bass from the music inside thudded through the floor of the porch, vibrating up through my shoes, through my bones, syncing with the frantic rhythm of my heart, and I was therefore glad to be outside now; the ceilings had felt too low, the walls too close, and the crowd swelled like a living, breathing thing-- loud, erratic, suffocating. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe.

But out on the porch, right now, I could. Even when I thought about the fact that one week had passed, that I was supposed to have an answer for Roman regarding whether we could get together again or not, I could at least breathe. 

I let out a sharp laugh for no one but myself, clutching the bottle of rosé I had managed to steal from my parents' cupboard. It was almost empty now, which was a first for me; I wasn't the biggest drinker, initially. Or was I? I couldn't make up my mind. 

Being drunk, alone, and vulnerable at a party wasn't the smartest thing I could be doing, I know. As if she would magically appear, I swayed a little where I sat on the porch step glancing around for Letha-- I remember her smiling at me when we walked in together, but... wait, had she actually? Maybe she hadn't? Maybe that was someone else? Or maybe I just wanted her to smile, so I made it up? You'd believe me, wouldn't you? You'd have no choice but to. 

You have no choice but to see what's gonna unfold tonight through my eyes, actually. And maybe I'm finally talking directly to you because I can't deal with it all alone?

... Don't click away just yet, please. 

Stay, just a little longer.

Yes, you.

I made sure to drink the last few drops left of my rosé before saying bye to the quietness of Jasmine's front porch. My steps were heavy as I dragged my feet back into the house, yet the soundwave that hit me when I opened the door nearly knocked me to the ground nonetheless-- it didn't take long before my head started pounding to the beat of the music again.

All I knew, was that I needed to look busy. I needed to not stay too long in one place, just in case I'd run into people I didn't want to run into; I was still a bit scarred from my hellish prom-night, where I hadn't managed to get away from Daniel when he dragged me down the hall. However, he wasn't here tonight, so my biggest evasions were Letha and Roman. Sometimes, you just have to be drunk and miserable in peace, no?

Instinctively, I toyed with the vial of Roman's blood around my neck for comfort, letting the chain slip through my fingers; I had missed the weight of it. Missed the feeling of having him so close to my heart. I twisted it in the light-- red, gleaming, sharp. It had felt right to wear it tonight, and I thought it would serve as a comfort (and it did), but at the end of it all, I was still at a party I didn't want to be at.

The music was too loud. The lights were too bright. Everything moved too fast, or maybe too slow?-- I couldn't tell. I wasn't even sure of anything anymore, except that this place smelled like beer and sweat and smoke, and I put away my rosé on a nearby table and switched it with an unopened cider a bit further away. As long as no one caught me stealing, I could get away with it, right? Now that I was at it, I also grabbed the jacket closest to me hanging on the rack in the hallway, wrapping it around me despite it not being mine-- the weight of it nearly made it stumble, yet I persisted.

The cider was cold in my hand, and shockingly so. Nonetheless, I slipped it into the pocket of my jacket as I choked back a drunk hiccup-- it was only when a couple stumbled past me, bumping into me rather harshly, that I realized I had to get away from the main event of the party, which was downstairs.

I felt so dead. So, so dead. My body was simply dead weight-- dead, dead, dead. Broken. I couldn't handle this feeling, so I climbed the stairs, clutching the banister like it was the only thing anchoring me to this earth. My legs felt heavy, but my brain felt heavier, and every step echoed through my skull. Thud. Thud. Thud. I stopped halfway up because-- I don't know? I forgot why I was going up in the first place. There was an empty spot at the top of the stairs, a place where the purple lights didn't reach, where the music was muffled, where I could pretend for a second that I wasn't completely falling apart. So I slumped down, pulling the jacket tighter around me as if it could protect me from the cold that had nothing to do with the air.

And that's when I felt it-- the pack of cigarettes in the pocket. 

Not mine. 

Roman's.

It took me a good few seconds before I realized I had picked his jacket out of all the people that had put them away on the rack, and I could only groan. Suppressing another hiccup, my fingers brushed against the familiar cardboard, the worn edges, and the faint scent of cinnamon that clung to the paper. With some further rummaging in the pockets, I found his blood-red lighter, yet the back of it felt rougher than before; I had held it out for him several times, you see.

I flipped it, holding my breath--

Only to realize that Roman had carved our initials into the back of it.

After all the times he had made fun of me for doing that exact thing to a tree a while back, I could only huff at the irony as some people stepped over my body to get up the stairs. The thumping of my head only worsened, because honestly? In this state? It felt like an invitation. Roman could've literally carved I-know-you-stole-my-jacket-so-take-a-smoke-you-pretty-little-fucker, and it would've been the same thing. Or did the carvings make it more private? Should I maybe not be touching this at all?

... Fuck it.

I took one out, hands trembling like a damn idiot, and lit it. The flame flickered, tiny and fragile, and I stared at it like I was seeing fire for the first time.

Then, I inhaled--

And holy fucking shit, you wouldn't believe how awful it was. Sharp and spicy and bitter, and it clawed at my throat like it wanted to kill me. Maybe that's what Roman secretly wanted? To kill me with these fucking cigarettes? I coughed, choking on the smoke, but I didn't stop. I took another drag, then another, until my head was spinning and my chest felt tight, and I didn't care. I wanted to feel it-- the pain of it all. I wanted it to be physical, wanted it to kill me. I wanted it to set my lungs ablaze, and I wanted it to burn me up from the inside with slow and tortuous flames.

Pained, I sat there, legs pulled up against my chest, with the cigarette between my fingers like it belonged there, and I let the smoke sting my eyes, sting my lungs. Over and over, I told myself it was just the smoke that made me want to cry... nothing else. 

And then, of course, of fucking course, I saw him.

Appearing into the hallway with a careless laugh, I watched Roman through the banister of the stairs, standing there like some kind of vision, like the universe just wanted to punish me for giving in to a sinful cigarette. He hadn't seen me-- not yet. But I couldn't take my eyes off him, couldn't stop the way my heart leapt and sank all at once. He looked beautiful. Terrible. The kind of beauty that ruins you. Dark hair, unruly shirt, his eyes flickering with something I couldn't read from across the room; and then I saw who he was with. 

Jessica was there, breathlessly clinging to Roman. My Roman. It was clear that she revelled in the arm he had lazily draped over her shoulders, and she giggled as her hand clutched at his shirt like he was the best thing that had ever happened to her, like she was blessed to be getting even a sliver of his attention. 

But Roman wasn't looking at her, not really.

No-- he was scanning the room like he was waiting for something, someone.

And when his eyes found mine, everything stilled. The music, the voices, the haze of smoke and bodies; all of it faded when our eyes locked.

I froze on the stairs, the cigarette hanging between my fingers-- I inhaled, slow and deep, trying not to fall apart, and exhaled like it could push him out of my system as I refused to look away.

But Roman didn't move. Not yet.

It was subtle-- the way his mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. For a second, I thought he was proud to see me smoking, finally, until the glint in his eyes turned sharp, predatory. He glanced at Jessica like he had forgotten she was there, and in that split second, I knew.

And you know what's gonna happen now, too, don't you?

Roman shifted, turning toward her, and his hand came up-- fingertips tracing her jaw, slow, almost lazy, just like he used to touch me. Jessica leaned in, her eyes fluttering closed, hungry for him, oblivious to who, what, she was keening against. 

And then he kissed her, right there, right in front of me.

Deeply. Lovingly.

Roman's plush lips moved against hers, his hand tangled in her hair, and the sight of it was absolutely brutal-- it was the kind of kiss meant to calm someone, to soothe them, to show them you love them, and it was exactly how he used to kiss me. The sight of it nearly made me throw myself down the stairs, my body aching with the pain and betrayal of it all, but the kiss wasn't about her; it would never be about her.

Because the whole time, Roman's eyes stayed locked on me.

I couldn't look away, not when he commanded my attention in this way. He kissed her like he was punishing me, like this was the type of psychological warfare-discipline I needed to properly understand that I wanted him just as much as he wanted me. And all I could do was sit there like the pathetic fucking loser I was, the cigarette burning down to the filter, smoke stinging my eyes, my throat, my heart. I felt myself grab at the vial of his blood tucked away under my shirt; I couldn't look away, but I couldn't stand to watch it, because I wasn't just watching him destroy me-- I was letting him.

When Roman finally pulled back (after a millennia passed, surely), Jessica looked dazed, like she'd just realized she was the luckiest girl in the world, her lips swollen and red. But Roman didn't even glance at her-- his thumb brushed his own bottom lip, that wicked smirk carved into his face, and he stared at me like he knew exactly what he had done.

He wanted me broken-- broken enough to come running right back. 

But I wasn't going to break this quickly.

It took everything that I had in me to get up, yet I somehow managed. With a shaky breath, and with my heart actively falling apart, I slid up along the wall for support, hoping I wouldn't fall right down the stairs-- I wasn't exactly making it easier for myself, because I was simultaneously throwing away my used cigarette and lighting a new one. 

Wrapping myself further up in Roman's jacket, I let the cigarette hang loosely from my lip as I hoisted my arm up to raise my middle finger at him.

Roman chuckled, clearly having expected it, before responding with draping his arms around Jessica, cupping her face as she continued talking up at him, oblivious that he was having a stare-off with me. Roman dragged his fingers through her golden locks like he loved her above anyone else in the world, urging me to come down and fight for his attention, for him, for us--

But God, he was insufferable. I could see it all the way from here; he was mouthing come on.

Come here. 

I know you want to.

... And I really wanted to, believe me. 

But instead, I snorted, rolled my eyes, and shook my head-- and this turned out to be one of the worst ideas of the night. Shaking my head in this state, full of nicotine and rosé, was certainly not one of my brightest moments. With quick steps, I turned around on my heel and marched up the stairs, away from Roman and his fucked up antics as the back of my throat filled with acid. I couldn't throw up on the stairs, now, could I?

The first bathroom I found ended up being occupied, hence why I stormed into the kitchen on the second floor-- how massive was this house? I had never seen a kitchen on any floor but the first. In retaliation of what Jasmine had done to me earlier this year, I stumped my new cigarette on the wall and dragged it along the tapestry, wasting it. My thoughts were racing with how infuriating Jasmine's stupid house was, and how pissed she'd be when she saw how I had trashed her wall, but I pushed my way to the sink, hunching over it just in case I was about to barf up my whole left lung.

The kitchen was loud, hot, too hot, and filled with the thump of the party music bleeding in from the living room. It pounded through the walls, muffled the laughter around me, and people shouting over the music blended into a hum that made my temples ache-- I was two seconds away from bursting into tears.

Thankfully, my only source of comfort appeared behind me with a soothing hand on my back, reaching for my hair as I leaned over the sink; Letha. Her touch gave me a major deja vu from the night Roman and I first kissed, when she had held my hair back when I felt sick.

Roman and I-- kissing.

Roman... kissing.

Roman kissing Jessica.

I let myself gag at the memory as tears welled in my eyes. "There, there," Letha cooed, bending down to catch the look on my face. I wondered whether she smelled the cigarettes on me, or whether she had noticed the fact that I was wearing Roman's jacket. "What's got you like this, hm? You just disappeared, and now..." She leaned in, sniffing me. "Girl, you smell like a bombed whorehouse! Who have you been hanging around? Jack?"

The memory of Jack Edwards almost made me laugh-- I caught myself, fighting back the acid in my throat as I made sure the vial of Roman's blood was safely tucked beneath my shirt and out of Letha's sight. "I drank the whole bottle of rosé," I confessed.

"What? You had barely touched it the last time I saw you, how on earth did you manage?" Letha's laugh was teasing, her voice laced with that soft concern she always wore like perfume. Heavy. Suffocating. I wondered whether this was how it felt like to live in East Germany after the Second World War-- watched.

"I don't know," I muttered, placing my hand over the vial again. If I really focused, I could imagine that it was beating, like Roman's caged blood was still pumping to his heart. "I don't feel good."

Letha hummed, patting my back over and over. "You can take it just a little more, though, right...? I told Jack you felt bad about what happened on the bleachers the other day, and he still wants to have a chat with you!--"

"No!" I sucked in a sharp breath, gagging on the vomit threatening its way up my throat. Grabbing the counter to steady myself, I rocked back and forth to keep myself grounded.

Yet Letha pressed on as she pushed people away from the sink; this party was way too damn crowded. "But Jack could be the perfect distraction for you!" she insisted. "He's cute, he's kind, he's nothing like Roman, he's!--"

"I said no!" Jack hadn't told Letha that Roman and I had fucked; that was all that mattered to me. Nonetheless, I somehow managed to not throw up when I straightened up, taking deep breaths as I turned to her. "You're really fucking insistent, do you know that?"

Letha raised an eyebrow, setting her drink down with a soft clink. "Christ, what's wrong now?"

I didn't answer right away, hoping my offence would sift through my fingers. The question hung heavy and loaded in the air, too simple, too dismissive. The noise of the party pressed in from all sides, but here, with her, it felt like we were in a vacuum, the tension building by the second, and just for a moment, I had the oddest thought-- Letha would've been a good KGB agent. Her interrogation techniques could be polished, sure, but somewhere in that blonde girl was an intense, manipulative Russian. 

... God, I was way too drunk.

With a sigh, I leaned back over the sink, trying to keep myself steady. "Guess I'm just tired, Letha--"

"Tired from what, smoking?" Letha tilted her head, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I can smell it on you, y'know? You smell like a Godfrey. Is this about Roman again?"

Something about her tone set my teeth on edge. I didn't answer, but my silence said enough; I was afraid I'd start barking if I opened my mouth.

"Are we really going back to this?" Letha huffed, softly, like she was doing me a favour, like she hadn't been the one dragging knives across my heart for weeks. "How many times do I have to tell you that you need to start taking active steps to get over him? It's like you never listen! My words go in one ear and out the other!"

I felt the first sparks of anger flare in my chest, hot and sudden; "You've told me a lot of things,"

"What's that supposed to mean?!--"

"It means," I hissed, gripping the counter so hard my knuckles were going white. "That I don't think you've ever really been honest with me. Not about him, not about anything."

Letha let out an offended laugh before her smile vanished-- the look on my face was unmistakeable, and it set her off. "I've always been honest with you, unlike what you have been with me!"

"Bullshit. Do you really not get it, or are you just pretending as always?"

Her brows knit together; "Pretending?"

"Yeah, pretending. Like how you pretended to support me, to be my friend, to have my back? I've let you do this for weeks!" My chest tightened, each word tumbling out sharper than the last. "God, Letha, you reacted like I murdered someone when I told you about Roman and I! I was honest with you, I fessed up, and you basically spat in my face!"

Every inch of Letha seemed to tighten. "You're drunk," she said through gritted teeth. "Calm down, please, before you throw up all over yourself!--"

"Oh, fuck you,"

"... What?!"

I had to suppress a grin; I had waited too long to say that. 

Letha's mouth opened slightly, stunned. She glanced around the party, making sure no one was catching the verbal beating she was taking-- I knew she'd care if someone noticed. She'd care a lot. "You know why I reacted the way I did!" she hissed, lowering her voice as she got closer to my face. "He's been getting with my friends for ages, and you were getting yourself into something dangerous!--"

"No!" I cut her off, voice rising along with my nausea. "No, I told you about it because I trusted you! I didn't lie, I came clean to you, and fucking hell, Jesus treated Judas better than you treated me!--" 

My yelling, along with the mix of rosé and cigarettes, finally pushed my body over the edge. Gagging, I threw myself over the sink to finally throw up; "O-Oh, fuck!--" The concoction that left me was beyond anything I had ever secreted. All my pain, all my anger, balled up into whatever the fuck it was that left my mouth. 

Immediately, Letha's hands flew to my hair, holding it back as I threw up in Jasmine's sink. Despite our fight, despite the verbal abuse, she was still making sure I was alright-- it made my heart ache. Everything about this night was tearing at my heart, actually; images of Roman kissing Jessica flashed before my eyes as my body burned. Was I maybe about to have a heart attack? I was surely susceptible of one.

As I cried into the sink, sobbing with pain, Letha traced soothing patterns into my back, hushing me gently. "Shh... You'll be alright," she tried. "I know it feels like your world is ending, but you'll be alright. Someday, you won't even remember this."

My chest felt like it was caving in on itself. How could I ever forget any of this? How could I ever forget Roman?

"I'm sorry if I've been a bad friend," Letha continued, carefully stroking through my hair. "I hope you can forgive me... and I hope that we can someday forgive each other. Because at the end of all of this, through it all, all I ever wanted was for us to be friends again, and... for me to have someone in my court if everything goes down." Her words were small, fragile; "I just wanted my friend back."

I garnered the strength to look back at Letha, heart pounding, and before I could think it through, my drunken confession came tumbling out; "I slept with him,"

Letha's eyes rounded out as she slowly let go of my hair. "What?" she breathed.

"Yeah," My words were quiet as I pulled my shirt down to expose the hickey on the peak of my shoulder. "On the library floor, a week ago." I was sure she could spot the outline of the vial around my neck as I adjusted the jacket draped around me-- I could see in Letha's eyes that everything in her mind was actively falling apart.

And therefore, I delivered the final blow; "Can you forgive me now? Truly, Letha?"

The silence between us that followed was crushing, all-taking. It felt like I had been sucked into a plastic bag, with the air being drained with me stuck inside of it. Letha's lips parted, ready to speak, yet I saw that she couldn't find the right words to say.

But what followed would flip the narrative completely. 

"Yeah... I can," 

My face ticked, and I felt my eye twitch as my words left me with my next breath; "What?" The music pounded through the walls, bass-heavy and relentless. Voices swelled, laughter spiked, but here, in the dim glow of the kitchen, everything felt suffocatingly small. My stomach was still twisting, nausea rolling in waves as I clutched the counter-- what was happening?

Letha's breath was unsteady, but when she spoke again, her voice was calm and unshaken. "I can forgive you," she repeated, like she was offering me the grandest admission of mercy.

I blinked at her, the words catching somewhere in my throat.

With a sigh, Letha brushed nonexistent dust off her dress before smoothing down her hair. "Because that's what friends do. We forgive, even when it hurts... And you're my best friend, so this time, I forgive you," 

Somewhere behind us, someone let out a shriek of laughter, bottles clinking in celebration. My head was spinning, my stomach churning from more than just the alcohol-- this felt wrong. Was this really happening?

Letha tilted her head slightly, watching me struggle. "I'm not going to pretend this doesn't hurt," she admitted, voice barely audible over the chaos outside the kitchen. "But I mean it. I just want you to be okay, and it's okay to... slip up, I guess. You're human, unlike a big part of him." She took a step back, giving me space-- she was the gracious one here, as always. "Because that's what friends do, right?" Her lips curved, not quite a smile. "We forgive. We put each other first."

The weight of her words settled in my chest in the most unpleasant way possible. "I'm supposed to tell him whether I want to give us another chance," I confessed. "Like... tonight. Right now."

Letha's hand found my back again, fingers light. I was scared she'd get mad, that she'd start cussing me out, but alas... nothing. "Okay, I see," she said, softer now. "I know you love him, but love doesn't change what he is. It doesn't change what he could do to you. Keep that in mind when you make your decision."

I swallowed hard, nausea curling tight inside me. Did I know? Did I really? My grip tightened around the counter; was I getting swayed?

Letha shook her head, her brows knitting together, like she hated to be the one saying this; "You don't have to prove anything. Not to him, not to me. You just... have to do what's right," She sighed, giving me one last careful look. "And I hope you know that I'll be here for you, no matter what."

... Fuck.

Roman's pack of cigarettes felt heavy in my pocket again, and I hated it. Hated the blood-red lighter in the other, next to the cold cider. Hated the way he had carved our initials into it like some twisted promise. But fate had a tight, deadly grip around me that I couldn't get out of-- I somehow managed to wry myself away from Letha and the kitchen with a red solo cup filled with water, downing it as I made my way down the stairs. 

It was time to give Roman an answer-- the answer I didn't want to give him, the one I never thought I'd give him.

I shoved my way down through the crowd with my heart thumping in my chest. Was I gonna find Roman with Jessica? This was giving me an intense case of deja vu from all the times I had actually seen him with other girls, before we ever started dating. Was I gonna catch him making out with Jessica somewhere, even after he had sent me that excruciatingly long voice mail where he could only profess his love for me over and over?

But that wasn't love.

Him kissing Jessica in front of me like that-- that couldn't be love. 

Letha had been right all along, hadn't she?

I pushed through the people dancing in the living room downstairs, trying to ignore the laughter and the small talk that surrounded me. It felt like a different world, one that had nothing to do with me right now. I was desperate for a moment of clarity, and the only person who could give me that was Roman... yet I didn't dare to find him. I didn't want to see him with Jessica. I couldn't bare the sight of it.

I shoved open the back door to the yard, and cold night air hit me like a slap. I welcomed it. The darkness out there was different from the party lights. It was real. Still. Empty.

I wasn't alone for long; I heard footsteps behind me, and the soft, deliberate crunching against the floor of the porch quickly become unmistakeable. The door closed shut as I leaned against the wood structure leading to the garden-- I knew who this was. Letting out a sigh, I reached for the cider in my pocket, cracking it open with a hiss despite knowing I shouldn't have any more drinks tonight. 

The first sip was sharp, bitter, but it cut through the lump in my throat I got from knowing Roman was here with me, alone. I let my eyes follow him when he walked into sight, leaning against the wooden frame opposite me with that Godfrey nonchalance I was used to from him. His shirt had been tucked back in, his hair had been combed back into place-- something told me he had prepared to corner me since he watched me leave with his jacket. 

Roman's eyes were so mesmerizing, so green. It was the most beautiful shade of green. It was such a shame to see them glossed over by that searching look in them, the exact look that gave away his hidden anxiety. Finally, he spoke, nodding to my drink with his usual charm; "I don't think you should be having more of those," 

It only made me clutch the cider harder, steading my footing on the porch so that I wouldn't tumble into the grass to my side. "Fuck off,"

"Oh, yeah? You wanna go there?"

"Yeah," After seeing him kissing Jessica like that? Sure. 

Roman rolled his eyes, clenching his jaw to stop himself from arguing back right away. He looked so strict like this-- it was painfully arousing. He plucked the bottle from my grasp with ease, lifting it to his lips as if daring me to stop him; his smirk widened when I didn't.

Forfeiting my cider allowed me to dip my hand back into my pocket and fish out the lighter and the cigarettes. Roman's eyes widened as he watched me put two cigarettes in my mouth, about to light them both, before he snatched one of them from between my lips; "Careful, there," he said, throwing it away somewhere. "Don't get too excited. You'll go into nicotine shock."

"Don't care," I lit the one I had left, but not without glaring at him properly. "I already threw up tonight."

"You did?"

"Yeah,"

"Oh, you fragile thing," he cooed, amused. "You're going to ruin yourself like this."

I bet that some part of him would've loved to see that. I snorted; "Don't care," 

Roman's brows drew together when he realized I was completely serious, when he saw that my empty look wasn't wavering. "Yeah... I got that," He mumbled, shaking his head. "Jeez, you're dramatic tonight."

I let the silence stretch as I simply glared at him; if he thought this was me at my most dramatic, then he didn't know me at all.

Roman watched me, waiting for me to argue, to snap at him, to give him something to work with. When I didn't, his smirk faltered and his voice softened; "What is this, then, hm? You trying to prove a point?"

I inhaled deeply. "Nah, that's your way of doing this," The smoke burned, stung my throat, but I needed it, needed something to hold onto as my pulse pounded against my ribs; it made my pain about his kiss with Jessica physical. I needed it to be, so my brain wouldn't fry itself.

Roman sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Listen, I get it, alright? You're mad about Jessica. You wanna play hard to get, fine. But let's cut the bullshit, cause you're not going anywhere," He said it like it was a fact, like it was already decided-- "Not really."

He was so sure of it.

So sure of us.

I couldn't look at him anymore. I couldn't watch Roman fall apart all over again when he would realize what I had chosen, not when I was still so irrevocably angry with him. My gaze fell to the floor as I remained silent, waiting for it to dawn on him. 

Roman's smirk wavered in the cold night air. He searched my face, waiting for the usual pattern-- for me to scoff, roll my eyes, shove him and say something biting but not final.

... I did none of those things.

His fingers twitched with nervous anticipation. "You're mad," he said, slower this time. "Say something. Humour me, yeah? Pretend that you actually love me, just for a second."

"Fuck you,"

"Baby, come on—"

"Don't say I don't love you. If I didn't, I wouldn't be standing here after you pulled that crap with Jessica just now! If I didn't love you, I would be inside running around to find Jack,"

Roman's green eyes widened— was it the shock of the threat, or the fact that he had made that threat a reality he had to fear? The party seemed so far away, and our life together felt even further away than that. "I'm sorry about Jessica," he breathed. "You know it's nothing personal, you know I can't stand her guts. I just thought you'd... I thought it would be good to show you what life's gonna be like if we don't end up together."

I almost chuckled-- did he really think that was a good plan? Did he really think that'd work? My eyes darted to the cigarette between my fingers while I wondered whether or not to torture myself with another drag. "You wanted to show me that you'll go back to sleeping with the cheerleaders while I become a chain-smoker?" I snarked. "Sounds like a wet dream of yours."

"That's not what I meant!—"

"What did you mean, then?!"

"I don't!— I don't want to keep talking about this!" Roman flailed his arms, frustrated; "It's not relevant, because we're not going to be apart, and because we're going to my place later and!-- and you're going to fall asleep next to me again, and your hair will be all over my pillow in the morning, and we're going to be okay!"

Oh, how I wanted us to be.

But the way he described it made me realize he might've not fully developed his consequential thinking. Did he really think that was a realistic end of this night after what he had done?

I felt tongue-tied by my shock, frozen like an icicle to Jasmine's stupid porch. What he had just described, was all I wanted. I wanted to go to Roman's place later, wanted to feel his arm around me as he pulled me closer in his slumber, and I wanted to lie around in bed while fighting sleep to get a few more minutes with him. Swallowing hard, I did my best to waft away the memories flashing before me, yet I soon realized it was an impossible task. 

Roman's eyes rounded out with his next breath, his heart visibly breaking--

"Cause... you're choosing us, right?"

My mouth repeatedly opened and closed, stuck. How could I, after everything?

Meanwhile Roman's gaze flickered over my mine, searching for some confirmation, some reassurance that I was just being difficult, that I was still his-- it was a heartbreaking sight. It only made me grip the cigarette tighter, feeling the heat against my fingers. It was dying out, just as I was, just as we were.

Something cracked in Roman's expression. "You're serious," he breathed.

It broke me to realize that I was. 

This had to end.

It had to.

Roman's face hardened as he took a step closer. The air between us thickened, turning heavy with something more than just tension-- something sharp, something raw. "You're seriously doing this?" he muttered, the disbelief in his tone prevailing. "After everything? After all of this time, you just-- we're done? Like that?"

My throat was too tight, and all the words got trapped inside. In a way, it felt like I was choking on everything said and unsaid.

Roman's hands were clenched, and the tension in his shoulders made him seem even taller, more imposing. A part of me was scared he'd pounce, that he'd be overcome by whatever upir instincts he had beneath his pretty appearance-- I didn't want to think about it. I was afraid I'd scream and run away if I did. To distract myself, I put my cigarette out on the ledge nearby; I didn't care about the state of Jasmine's house.

I wasn't sure whether my quiet motions read as nonchalance, but it seemed to shove Roman closer to the edge. "You're pushing me away, even after all my fucking reassurance? Even after your voicemail? I gave you everything, I showed you that I'm nothing to be scared of, and you're just... walking away like I'm nothing, over some kiss? Did you ever even love me?"

That question knocked the air out of me. "Some kiss?!"

"Yes!"

"Roman you've— you've proven yourself to be exactly who I feared you'd be all along!" I yelled. "Someone who hurts me!"

Desperate, Roman grabbed my arm, his grip tight, but not enough to hurt. His eyes searched mine, pleading-- "Come on," he begged, his voice shaking now. "I love you. I really fucking love you."

"No! Because you if truly did love me, you wouldn't be hurting me as a means to get back together with me! You're a child!" I snapped, finally giving in to my frustrations. Drunkenly trying to wry myself out of his grip, I felt my tears burn in my eyes, blurring my vision. "This has to end! You and I, it has to end! Letha's right, you will always want to fuck the cheerleaders, and you will always be a upir, and that will never change!--"

My breath stopped in my chest-- fuck. 

Letha.

It was the first time I had verbally confirmed it, and I knew I had shot myself in the foot with it.

The name hung in the air like poison, and Roman looked like he'd been gutted by it.

He stared at me for a long, horrible moment, his eyes wide with disbelief. His grip loosened around my wrist; "You--" he started, his voice hoarse. "You're... serious? So that's it? You're throwing us away because of her? Because of the shit she's been feeding you to take revenge on me?!"

"It's not all because of her, Roman, but she's right! Letha is right that you'll always be dangerous, that you'll always have some underlying urges, and that you'll never be safe to be around!" My voice cracked as I said it; there it was, a cold, harsh truth I couldn't ignore anymore. "You said you'd never hurt me, but you're like a ticking fucking bomb in more aspects than I can count on my fingers!"

That was it; Roman snapped, his fist slamming into the wooden structure I was leaning against with a deafening crack, making it shake. "Bullshit!"  

The boom of it made me flinch and squeak in terror, and instinctively, my hands shot out to push him away, shoving him with all the strength I could muster in my panicked state. "You're scaring me again!" I yelled, heaving for air. "Stop it! I beg you, just stop it!"

Stunned by his own outburst and its consequence, Roman allowed me to push him. He could've planted himself to his spot, could've resisted with no problem, but he took a step back for my comfort.

My heart was pounded against my ribs as tears filled my eyes. I couldn't have him barging at me like that, not when I was this hurt, scared, and drunk. A man that truly loved me wouldn't be doing this, right? My legs shook with the remnants of the heaviness of the conversation, and I heaved for air with terrified gasps as I decided to turn on my heel.

Immediately, Roman went into action-- "Wait, please!" His voice instinctively softened as he rummaged through his brain for the best course of action. "I'm sorry, okay?! I just don't want to lose you, I'm freaking out here!" He reached out for me, but it was too late. 

I was already backing away, not looking back, not waiting for any more apologies— I knew I wouldn't believe them anymore. 

Even the heaviness of Roman's jacket couldn't slow me down, not when I was this desperate to get away from my terrifying breakup-- the sound of music and chatter met me when I opened the door back to the house, but the pounding of my heart nearly drowned it all out. 

Roman's voice followed me inside, each word an attempt to reel me back, but I wasn't turning around. I couldn't look at him; I couldn't do that to myself.

"Come on!" he yelled through the deafening noise. "Are we really doing this again?!"

I made my way through the living room, not looking for anything but an escape. The staircase loomed ahead, and without thinking, I shot up the stairs, taking them two at a time as my legs shook with adrenaline and fear. The air in the house felt suffocating now, the walls closing in as I reached the top of the stairs and darted down the hallway. This was not happening. This was not happening. I was too drunk for this-- were the walls actually moving? The more I looked at them, the more I had a feeling they were pulsing, inching closer to squeeze me to death.

Speaking of death-- Roman's footsteps grew closer, and his voice got louder; "Please, we can fix this! Just hear me out, please!—"

With my heart hammering in my chest, I glanced back to calculate how long I had until he caught up to me. Panicked, I grabbed at every room in the hallway, pushing past the people blocking my way as I desperately suppressed my tears from running down my cheeks.

This was not happening. 

This was not happening.

Roman dragged a hand through his hair, angry, desperate, as his long footsteps allowed him to chase me down with ease. "You're making a mistake!" he pleaded. "Let's talk it out, okay? Please, please, just listen, I love you, I'll calm down, I'm not going to hurt you, I promise!--"

With a scared squeak, I finally managed to force a door open; thank fuck. But before I could even step fully into the room, Roman's leg shot forward, forcing the door back, and in an instant, I realized there was no way I could keep him out-- I stumbled backward, eyes wide and frantic as I turned away from him to start planning my escape.

And then, my breath caught.

Because what I saw inside the room, was Letha half-naked on the bed-- 

With Peter beneath her.

My body froze for a split second before a scream ripped itself from my throat; I shrieked, mortified as I stumbled backwards.

What...

... The fuck?!

Letha and Peter scrambled to untangle themselves, their eyes widening with panic as they tried to hide the obvious. Peter's shirt was half undone, and Letha's hair was a mess, both of them completely caught off guard. The sight of them in that moment, exposed and guilty, made my chest tighten in a way I couldn't describe; I knew exactly what I had just walked in on. 

And Roman, in a blur of motion, rushed forward-- his arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling me to his chest with surprising force. One hand covered my eyes, blocking my view of the chaos I had just walked in on to shield me. "What the fuck?!" he barked, kicking the door shut behind us. "What's this?!"

My mind was actively melting against Roman's chest. It didn't help the situation that I could smell his usual cologne better than ever— God, I'd miss that smell in the coming years, wouldn't I?

But Peter and Letha were still scrambling, wide-eyed, and before they could say anything, Roman continued; "Are you out of your fucking minds?!"

Was this maybe just a drunk hallucination of sorts? Was this really happening? Letha and Peter? I should've listened to Jack earlier this week-- I should've listened to myself, because I had suspected something for a while, hadn't I? 

Peter was the first one to talk, visibly panicking; "Ro, calm down!--"

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down! What the fuck are you doing with my cousin, man?!"

"Letha and I were just!--"

"Yeah, I see what you were just doing, you filthy piece of shit!"

"Dude, I'm sorry, I tried to tell you! Over and over, I swear, I tried to!--" 

"Tell me what?! Is this not a one time thing? Is that what all your bullshit has been about?!" Roman yelled. "You calling me at prom and then not saying shit? All the times you've said you were busy when I knew you were just at home?" I could feel his chest raise with the air he forced inside his lungs-- a part of me was scared he'd faint from the anger. "You've been fucking my cousin?!"

"And you've fucked all the friends I've ever had!" Letha yelled back, protecting Peter while struggling to straighten her dress. Then she pointed to me, eyes drilling into Romans'; "I begged you not to touch her all those months ago too, but you didn't listen either!" 

A sick laugh ripped from Roman's throat, and when he finally pulled his hand away from my face, I saw it; the pure, unfiltered rage in his expression. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!" He stepped forward, eyes locking onto Letha. "You have been in her ear for weeks-- weeks!" He jabbed a finger toward me, his voice breaking slightly. "You've been telling her to stay away from me, telling her I'm dangerous, that I'll hurt her, while you've been making my life a living hell for the same thing that you have been doing too all along!"

"Roman, I!--"

"You sick fuck!" he barked, and the sheer volume of it made me flinch.

My head was spinning to the point where I thought I'd throw up again. It felt like a painful vibration in the front of my brain, and I squeezed my eyes shut as I pressed my palm to my forehead. Without thinking, I put my free hand on Roman's arm, silently telling him to give me a second. "How long has this been going on?" I tried.

Peter and Letha anxiously glanced at one another, looking like they were both ready for the world to swallow them whole. "I don't--" Letha started.

"-- Don't know," Peter mumbled, looking guilty as ever. "Three months? Maybe four?-- Ouch!"

Letha smacked his arm, visibly upset that he had admitted that. "Stop talking! You've already stressed me out with wanting to tell Roman about us, you've done enough!"

"He deserves to know!" Peter tried. His brown eyes were big with disgrace; "I told you I didn't want to hide this, I told you he might understand!"

This kicked Roman into the next gear. "Understand...? Understand?!" The boom of his voice made Peter turn white, and Letha grabbed the sheets of the bed as though they would somehow shield her. "Dude, you're fucking my cousin! I could rip your fucking head off right now if I wanted to, and you best believe that I do!--"

In timely manner, I suddenly gagged, clasping a hand over my mouth; that thankfully shut everyone up for second. This was too much for one night.

"She's gonna throw up," Letha mumbled. In true Godfrey fashion, she used this as an opportunity to start slowly scooting toward the edge of the bed, hoping for an easy escape. "We need to get her back to the kitchen sink, and then we can all talk about this when she feels better in a few days!--"

My hand shot up into the air, holding my pointer up as I recovered.

It was a very clear sign of shut up.

Shut.

Up.

I straightened my back, feeling my eye twitch with newfound anger. "Is that what you meant earlier, Letha?" I asked, my voice frail and quiet, yet steady. "When you said you wanted to have someone in your court if everything went down? Have you... been setting everything up for this?"

The silence in the room was deafening. 

Letha swallowed hard; "Look, I just--"

"Have you been breaking Roman and I up so that I'd be on your side?" I continued, cutting her off. "You knew that Peter was going to tell Roman about you two eventually. And when he'd find out, you... needed me to be your friend again so that you wouldn't be alone. Because this will... this will cost you everything, Letha." 

I gagged again at the realization-- Roman's arm shot forward to catch me from tumbling. I held onto him, feeling the tears press on in my eyes. "You didn't want to be friends with me," I breathed, my words coming out as clear whispers. "You just needed someone that was isolated. I was vulnerable, I was scared, and I was perfect for your plan, wasn't I?"

Letha's lips parted, but no words came out. She was staring at me, the usual sharpness in her eyes replaced with something I had never seen before-- guilt. Real guilt. Not the performative, self-righteous kind she always weaponized, but something raw, something vulnerable.

I could barely stand to look at her.

"Oh my God," I whispered, turning away from the scene. "You planned all of this."

Letha shook her head, frantic. "No!-- I mean, not like that, I!--"

"You what? What now?!" Roman snapped, stepping closer to the bed. His presence was suffocating, his fury burning through the room like wildfire. "You're always talking about morals, and you're always acting like you're so much better than me, but look at what you've done! So tell me, Letha, where's your moral high ground now?"

Letha's breathing was ragged, frozen in the most mortifying moment of her life. She looked back at Peter like he could somehow save her, but he just rubbed his face, looking more done than ever. "This is so fucked..." he muttered under his breath, almost like he was annoyed.

Roman's attention snapped back to him in an instant. "Oh, you think this is fucked?" He let out a humorless laugh; "You didn't even have the fucking balls to tell me yourself! You knew that Letha's been making my life hell while you've been doing God knows what with her behind my back!"

"It's not that simple!" Peter barked, scooting forward on the bed to shield Letha and give her space to breathe. "We've-- I've been into Letha for longer than I can remember!"

Letha immediately protested, and her face turned more and more red by the second; "Stop talking, stop talking, I swear to God! I'm going to die of a heart attack at this rate!" 

But her pleas didn't stop Peter. He was ready to fess up, just like he had been for a while, now. His shoulders slumped as his eyes locked with Roman's, getting ready to face his biggest secret. "Letha and I used to date, man. We used to be... together-together. She was my girlfriend for a while, but we broke up because we didn't want to hurt you, Ro, and because it was getting out of control. It was just too big of a secret to keep. But then you got together with her..." He nodded to me with a sigh. "And Letha said we were free to do whatever we pleased, and I gave in because..."

Peter turned to face Letha with a sweet shimmer in his eyes-- the type of look I recognized from all the times Roman had looked at me like that. 

"Because I love her," Peter whispered. 

I could only watch as Letha slowly dared to place her hand on top of his, and they exchanged a painfully sincere silent vow. 

The cherry on top for this moment, was when I started loudly gagging-- not because of the sight of them all loved up, but because all the drama, the stress, the alcohol, and the new sensation of nicotine. Acid crawled up my throat as I buckled over, crouching down as I tried to keep my breaths deep and steady; my brain felt like it was shutting down, and probably because it was.

Roman immediately bent down, trying to get on my level, but I wafted him away. He wouldn't be able to comfort me no matter what he did, not after how I had seen him kiss Jessica to get back at me.

I couldn't believe that I hadn't seen the signs. I couldn't believe that I hadn't noticed them being together when it had been right in front of me, all this time. Gathering strength, I spoke; "You're not really going to study philosophy, are you?"

Peter's head darted down to my crouched-over body. "What?"

"When I met you at the library," I breathed. "All that time ago, when you were reading tons of books about guilt...and you said it was because you were going to study philosophy. You've been lying to Roman and I, just like we've been lying to you. After all this fucking time... Fucking hell. We're, like, the shittiest group of people ever."

Roman, who had frozen to his spot in a mixture of disgust and shock, couldn't watch it any longer. His silence was worse than shouting. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, his nails dug into his palm, he had bit his teeth together so hard that I feared they might crack. The air in the room had changed; it was suffocating, thick with tension that pressed into my skin.

Peter dared to break it. "Roman--"

"Shut up," he hissed. "Enough."

Peter snapped his mouth shut, looking like he had just walked into traffic. Letha was frozen, her hand still resting on Peter's like she was drawing strength from him.

It didn't matter anymore— I wanted to get out. I needed to get out. Now.

"Rome," I mumbled, voice thin. "I need--"

His head darted to me immediately, and his eyes; God, his eyes. They weren't just angry anymore... they were desperate. He was coming undone too.

Letha seized the opportunity once more. "She needs air," she said quickly, standing up like she could actually be of help. "Let's just-- let's all go back down and talk about this later, okay?"

"Later?" Roman let out a sharp, breathless huff. "You don't get to decide that! Do you really think I'm ever talking to any of you uncouth mongoloids again?"

Letha huffed at the names. "But we should really figure out everything later, because you're about to lose your shit!"

Roman took a threatening step forward, and Peter immediately shifted off the bed to step in front of Letha. It was so instinctive that I nearly threw up all over again-- he truly loved her, didn't he? After all this time? 

"You're protecting her, dude?" Roman snarled, nodding to his cousin. "After everything?"

Peter's expression twisted with something I couldn't quite place. "I don't expect you to get it,"

"Oh, I get it, alright," With a smooth, final move, Roman bent down to help me stand up straight.

I swayed in my shoes, my breath catching in my throat to stop myself from immediately barfing all over the carpet. "I need air," I breathed. "This night has been too much. Too many lies, and one too many upirs-- because I assume he knows?"

Briefly, I glanced over at Peter after spilling the secret, but he only looked more guilty the longer my stare cut through into him. Of course he knew that Roman was a upir. Of course.

Everything blurred together, spinning too fast, and the weight of my decision pressed down on me so hard that I thought I'd collapse. The room was suffocating, the walls were closing in again, and the heat was unbearable-- I just needed to leave, I needed air, I needed space.

So I pushed away from Roman, staggering toward the door. "I can't-- I need to go,"

Enough was enough.

My whole life had fallen apart, and I couldn't do anything to save it. ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I wrapped myself further up in Roman's heavy jacket as the world around me kept on swaying. I couldn't go home like this. I didn't even know how to get home.

How was I supposed to carry on after everything that had happened tonight?

But life is a tricky thing-- it doesn't let you go until it's your time. So my legs kept carrying me forward, down the driveway, past the parked cars, because I needed to go on. The streetlights above flickered, casting long shadows across the pavement; I barely registered where I was going, only that I needed to move. Somehow, my feet worked faster than my brain did-- I crossed streets without looking, stumbling over cracks in the sidewalk, the distant hum of the party fading behind me as I passed the houses in the neighbourhood.

All of this distracted from the heaviness of my heart.

I had lost everything.

But behind me, just far enough away that I couldn't hear his footsteps, Roman followed. My everything.

He didn't call out to me.

He didn't rush.

He just walked. With his hands tucked into the pocket of his pants, he walked like he was tethered to me by destiny.

And maybe he was? A big part of my believe it, but tonight? Tonight, I couldn't take it. I turned around to face him, my breath unsteady as all my emotions ravaged through my chest; "Could you please stop following me? I can't-- I can't think when you're near,"

Roman came to a slow halt. He swayed slightly, his shoulders slumped, his hair a mess over his face. He looked at me like he wasn't really seeing me at all, like he felt nothing and everything at the same time. Then, in a voice so quiet it barely carried, he muttered, "I just... I don't know what else to do,"

The admission hung between us, hollow and tired. He sounded so wrecked-- something cracked inside me at the sight of him, at the way his lips barely moved when he spoke, at the way he looked like he could fall apart with the wind. He had nothing left to give. Not to me, not to himself, nothing at all.

Looking at him any longer than this would kill me; I knew it. My heart trembled in my chest as my eyes welled with tears at the sight of him. "Me neither," I breathed, turning back around to continue my stride, too drunk to think clearly, too pained by the events of the night.

It didn't take Roman more than a beat to keep following me. What else could he do?

I didn't know where I was going, but a park came into view and seemed like the most peaceful option. The playground, the swings, the hollow quiet of a place meant for children, was abandoned at this hour-- my feet dragged through the wood chips as I made my way toward the middle of it, taking in the quiet of the landscape. Maybe this place would give us peace?

But Roman's steps came to an abrupt stop a few feet away. "Did you know?" he called out. "Are you sure you didn't know about Peter and Letha?"

I turned to look at him then, to really look at him. The streetlights cast shadows across his face— he was in the dark, where he certainly belonged. "I had no idea," I confessed. "I would've told you if I knew."

Roman let out a weak, bitter breath as he ran his fingers through his hair. "This is too much," he choked out. "This night-- I can't take any more of this. I feel like I just died."

A long silence stretched between us, thick with something neither of us could escape. There was no anger in his eyes now, no fire, just hollow emptiness, and I couldn't tell if that was worse. "I'm sorry about Peter," I tried, softening my eyes. "I always knew Letha was a bit of a cunt, but I would've never thought Peter would do something like this to you... I'm sorry."

Roman couldn't look at me anymore-- he raised his chin to look at the pair of crows sitting at the top of a nearby tree. It was at this moment that I saw the tears in his eyes, and the single one that rolled down his cheek. "I don't care about Peter," he breathed. "I don't care about him, I don't care about Letha, I-- I don't care about anything anymore."

My heart hammered in my chest— what?

"I feel at fault, because I should've known," Roman mumbled, his voice full of resignation as he rubbed away his tears with the back of his hand. "I should've known this would all fall apart... because it always does. People always leave. You always leave."

Fuck. "Roman," I whispered. "That's not—"

"I've been running after you, hoping that if I tried enough, if I did more, that you'd choose me... but you won't," he choked out, lower lip quivering. "Not even my best friend chose me. No one ever does, so... I'm done. I can't change what I am. I'll always be a upir, and if you can't trust that I'd rather die than hurt you, then there's nothing more I can do."

Roman turned away, and his shoulders slumped with the realization; at the end of the night, I wasn't the one who made the final decision about us-- it was him. His next breath seemed to be one of pained relief; "I can't keep doing this. Congratulations... You're free. I can't love you anymore. I won't love you anymore," 

He took a final, slow step back. "You're right... this has to end. It's over,"

And then, Roman Godfrey turned around to leave me drunk and alone in a park long past midnight. 

... What?

Roman was done?

He couldn't love me anymore...?

I won't. I won't. I won't.

It echoed all over. It's over. I can't. I won't. But that's surely not how love works? Can someone just decide not to love someone?

My reaction to Roman leaving felt like a stolen breath-- painful, instant. It felt like my words clawed their way out of my mouth, forcing my jaw apart with one quick snap of bones, and exited with one quick, panicked yell; "Wait!"

It echoed through the park.

Over and over.

My hand laid over the vial of his blood which I kept around my neck, feeling it burn into my skin. "Roman, wait!"

... And it's around here that you'd assume this would end, right? 

You're probably holding your breath, waiting for the moment when Roman's gonna turn around hear me out, tell me he loves me after all, that he's gonna forgive me and we'll live happily ever after, blah blah blah--

But this is not that kind of a story. I'm sorry that I made you believe it was.

Do you finally get why I've needed you along with me this time? Why I've been talking directly to you for once?

... No?

Fine. I'll be more clear. I'll show you the rest; I'll show you why.

My breath was stuck in my throat as I anticipated the sound of Roman's voice, the sound of his forgiveness coming out to soothe me. This was probably proper karmic retribution for me, sure, but could this really be the end? 

Now that he was truly walking away, it hit me like a freight train; I didn't want it to end. 

I didn't want to let him go, especially now that he was letting go of me.

It could work, right?

Every nerve in my body screamed at me to move, so I did. When I realized Roman wasn't turning back around, I choked down a brewing sob and hurried to keep up after him. "Rome, please!"

The nickname had him twitching; it was clear that he was upset about his choice, his forced resignation, and the doubt in his body was a consolation to my momentary panic. But in that moment, his head also turned to the side, and I saw something flicker in his eyes. In no time, completely out of the blue, Roman picked up his pace and started walking in a completely different direction like a dog in a fox-chase. His nose flared, his posture shifted-- he wasn't just walking away from me, he was sensing something.

What was happening?

"Wait!" My voice cracked, rising with panic. He wasn't stopping. He really wasn't stopping. "Stop it! Where are you going?!" Would we ever stop chasing each other? "Do you really expect me to be okay so easily after you kissed Jessica like that?! This is-- This is too much pressure, this is insane! Give me a minute to think at least, stop running!"

Roman's movements were so fast, so precise, that it felt like I was trying to catch up to a ghost. The distance between us seemed to stretch, and I could feel my limbs growing heavier with each step, the weight of my emotions and alcohol pulling me down. But I kept going, desperate, with my heart drumming in my ears.

And when Roman finally came to a halt in the outskirts of the park, I lunged forward; I tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, stumbling as I clung to him, forcing him to see me, to hear me. I let out a choked sob against him, desperate to not let go of the man that I loved. "Hear me out, okay?" I cried. "Just give me a second, I'm too drunk to think!"

But Roman didn't react.

Didn't look.

Because his gaze was frozen on something completely different.

There, tucked into one of the small, plastic playhouses, was a shape. A person.

Confused and broken, my gaze followed his. At first, it barely registered-- it was just someone that had passed out, curled up in the cramped space like a drunk trying to sleep it off. It was the kind of thing you might see after a party, someone who never made it home. That was normal; I didn't think much of it, confused by Roman's entrancement, until I recognized the pink clips in the person's hair.

That was Brooke Bluebell, wasn't it?

Fuck-- it was.

Then, I saw the way Roman's face shifted, the way his nostrils flared, the way he inhaled. It immediately made me step away from him and toward Brooke. Something cold crawled down my spine; "Roman?" I whispered, instantly feeling beyond nauseous once again. "Maybe we should?--"

His arm shot out, barring me from moving any closer. "Wait," he snapped, his voice coated with warning and concern.

The smell hit me a second later.

Coppery. Thick.

I gagged when I finally got a proper look, and I stumbled back as the truth crashed over me.

Brooke Bluebell wasn't sleeping.

She was laying in her own blood, her eyes wide open as her drained body looked frozen in a scream-- her intestines had been dragged out of her stomach, scattered along her torso, and her legs were gone, as though mauled from beneath.

Slowly, Roman turned to me, pupils dilated beyond normal; I knew his upir senses were screaming inside his head. "I thought the smell of blood was thicker because you were on your period or something," he breathed. "I thought-- fuck."

My mind was spinning beyond control, and only the sound of our heavy breathing filled the playground until the distant wail of sirens cut through the silence. I flinched, feeling my heart-rate spike; "Shit!-- Roman, we can't be here!" I grabbed his arm, trying to pull him away. "Please! You can't be exposed to this, we've gotta go!"

But Roman didn't move.

He wouldn't.

It was clear that he was trying to drown out whatever his upir senses were telling him to do, and I had no idea how I was supposed to reel him away from the edge. 

The sirens howled closer,  and the wind picked up, scattering the scent of blood into the cold night air.

... Brooke Bluebell was dead.

And we were about to be caught at the scene of her murder.

(a/n: AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!! WELCOME TO THE PLOT OF BOOK 2! I WILL BE MAKING AN ANNOUNCEMENT THIS WEEKEND, BUT BEFORE THAT--- THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH MY SWEETHEARTS FOR READING THIS FAR!!🥹🌸 I have been building towards the Letha and Peter reveal since the STARTTTT AHHHH FINALLY IT'S YOURS!!! FINALLY I CAN SHARE IT!!! MY HEART IS YOURS, AND SO IS MY WORK, SO THANK YOU<3333 AND I'M SORRY FOR THIS OH GOD???)

← previous chapter |

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･seven minutes in heaven masterlist

loveliest taglist of all time:

@mentallyscreamingsincebirth @putherup @corawithfanfiction @vladsgirlxx

@iamaslytherin0 @sexualparkour @the-universe-is-complicated @heavenly-bratt

@lafemme-nk @namiusedbubble @useyourwandbro @strmborns @literally-lani

@virgosapphire79 @star-girl-04 @veyzus @ddipotassium @pecxiebu

@mil88691 @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @katifefe @sn0wybowie-blog

@lilithskywalker @likecherriesinthespring @sadheartjellyfish @vadersangel

@shehangsbrightly @burningmiraclekingdom @dollforaswan @austinswhitewolf

@nico-velvet @shiiiii-okayyyy @theantagonistalwaysdies @blackbluerose666

@obexes @rosecoloureddudez @amoure020 @itsaeasykill

@succubustacy @carmillavalentine @scarledy @chaneloberlin62727

@belovedmoony @lokitargaryen @vienneviennaxx @ellie1725

@taintandviolent @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @amidthechaos

[absinthe-over-tea]

either way it's gonna || the pitt

pt 5 - 3.7k <<start at the beginning • prev • next>>

pairing: jack abbott x f!resident!reader quick synopsis: When Langdon leaves The Pitt for rehab, Robby hires you as a new senior resident. Meeting Jack on your first day spirals into a year of almosts and miscommunication — all you know is either way this goes, it's going to hurt. Inspired by Hurt by Jasmine Jethwa. tags/warnings: angst, will-they-won't-they, unspecified age gap (older man/younger woman), canon-typical death, probably an insulting number of medical inaccuracies but Google only tells you so much, Jack is taking Robby's title for Sad Boy™ this week, Jack's POV a/n: We are earning that will-they-won't-they, y'all. Thank each and every one of you who have read, liked, reblogged or commented on this fic. It's been amazing jumping back into writing, and I'm blown away at the response to my first-ever x reader fic! Sorry this one's a little late — work was a hellscape this week. Pls let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list! Not beta read.

Jack was pretty sure the universe was taunting him. 

It had been hard enough to stay away from you when you were on day shifts and you only shared the hospital for a few minutes each day. Then, you got moved to night shift because Robby needed to keep an eye on fucking Frank Langdon. 

He’d tried to keep his distance as best he could, respect your boundaries. You’d made it clear on your first day on the night shift — you were interested in a professional relationship with one another, and that was it. 

But you were so fucking good. Impressive. Quick on your feet. Compassionate. Funny. You had the entire ED wrapped around your pretty little finger, and all he could do was watch from afar as you built connections with everyone in his department but him. 

Then the night of that fucking Marine came.

The cops said it had been a convenience store robbery attempt gone wrong. She’d tried to stop the guy, talk him down from hurting the old man behind the counter, and he’d panicked. Turned on her instead. 

Four lacerations, one puncturing a lung and another nicking the abdominal aorta. She’d already lost well over a liter of blood by the time she’d gotten to the hospital. Anyone else, and Jack would have called it immediately. But she was so young. Had survived god knows what overseas just to be killed for being at the wrong place at the wrong time? For trying to protect someone else? 

He always had a hard time reconciling a vet dying on his table. War made sense to him, even if the reasons we shipped people off to it didn’t. The death and destruction, it was every bit as devastating regardless of where it happened. But there was a logic to it happening in war at the hands of an IED or a sniper, at least in Jack’s mind. 

He had a principle to hold onto. They died for their country, they knew the risks they signed up for, every soldier would willingly sacrifice themselves for what they are fighting for. Maybe it was just a lie he told himself — he’d long passed the time in his life when he was an idealist about the motives and practices of the U.S. military industrial complex. But it was something. This? This was nonsensical. Meaningless. A reminder that he was alive when so many in his old unit weren’t. A reminder that just because he survived his tours didn’t mean he’d survive tomorrow. 

It always got him stuck in his head, stuck in 2007 in a desert field hospital. 

Of course, you’d witnessed every second. His failure to save her, and his failure to step away. And then you’d gone and intercepted him at the foot of the stairs, too. Jack honestly wasn’t sure if he was immensely grateful you’d refused to let him be alone or disappointed to be pulled away from the doorway to the roof. 

Either way, he was powerless to do anything but follow you out to his truck. 

“Keys,” you prompted, voice somehow both soft and unyielding. You held out your hand in expectation. He should have argued with you. He was perfectly capable of driving himself, and it would mean leaving your car here. But he found himself handing over his keys without a fight. 

The drive to your place was silent aside from the low drone of the radio. Later, Jack would kick himself for not taking the opportunity to watch you in his space — take in how you drove his GMC like you were born behind the wheel, posture relaxed and fingers tapping quietly in rhythm with the music. 

But his mind was elsewhere. Busy replaying every second the Marine — Taylor, he’d learned her name was — was in front of him. Should he have applied more pressure, why did it take him so long to figure out her aorta had been nicked, why couldn’t he have just cauterized the wounds to stop the bleeding first and ask questions later like he would have done had they been in a warzone, why even attempt to wait for surgery, maybe he should have said to hell with Walsh’s critiques and just plugged the holes with his damn fingers, why the fuck didn’t she just run? 

He knew the answers, deep down. Pressure wouldn’t have helped a collapsed lung, there was no way to know an artery was nicked without seeing or feeling it, cauterization came with risk of infection and you couldn’t cauterize a goddamn lung or an aorta, this wasn’t a warzone (and thank god for that), Walsh had the best hands in the building, she wouldn’t have been a Marine if she’d ran away from someone who needed her. 

But knowing and feeling weren’t synonymous. The weight on his chest wouldn’t let up, and when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the eyes of her husband when he told him the love of his life was dead. So he stared blankly ahead while he started the analysis all over again. 

Jack was pulled from his thoughts when the passenger door opened. You lived in a highrise, which somewhat shocked him. Didn’t seem like your type of place. You don’t actually know her outside of the hospital, he reminded himself. Part of him disagreed with that. He felt like he did know you, like he’d known you for far longer than he actually had. Then again, he’d already proven once that he wasn’t foolproof at reading you, so what did he know? 

“Living room is through there, bathroom is down the hall to the right,” you said, opening the door wide to let him in first. You slipped your shoes off before stepping fully inside, picking them up and placing them in a shoe cabinet in the entryway once the door was shut and locked. His eyes snagged down to his own feet, to the tactical boots he still wore most shifts.

Of course, you noticed his gaze. “Oh, don’t feel like you have to. I really only do it out of habit. Strict parents and all that.” You huffed out a laugh at that statement, but there was something off about it. Like it was a defense mechanism rather than genuine. 

“I don’t mind,” he assured, crouching down to untie his boots. He realized suddenly that he didn’t know if you knew, if you’d ever seen his prosthetic before. “It’s just-” But you cut him off before he could finish stammering out an admission about the metal that you’d see in place of the lower part of his right leg. 

“Jack, seriously. Most prosthetics are made to be worn with shoes. If it’s easier to keep them on, keep them on.” You said it so casually, attention already shifted away from him to the now open fridge door. So you did know. 

He made his way over to one of the barstools arranged at your kitchen island, setting his bag down on the stool next to him and watching as you pulled out a carton of eggs, bacon and strawberries from the fridge. 

“I didn’t realize you knew.” He didn’t specify, but he knew you’d understand. 

“Heather told me, back when I first started,” you admitted, and Jack could see a slight flush color the tops of your cheeks. You didn’t meet his eyes, almost seeming embarrassed — though Jack didn’t understand what there was for you to feel embarrassed about. He didn’t advertise the prosthetic at work most of the time, but it also wasn’t a secret. 

“You never mentioned.” 

“Neither did you. I didn’t think it was any of my business.” He was grateful for the sentiment, a rarity at The Pitt where gossip might as well be its own form of currency. But part of him wanted it to be your business, wanted you to make everything about him your business. 

“This will take a minute — I’m unfortunately faster with a suture kit than a skillet,” you deftly changed the subject with a wry smile. 

“Would you like some help?” Jack was far from a savant in the kitchen, but he didn’t want you to think you had to cook for him. 

“No, no. I promised you breakfast and a view, and I’m a woman of my word.” You gestured to the doorway that led to the living room. “Go make yourself at home out on the balcony. As much as I hate this apartment sometimes, the sunrise is admittedly pretty great.” 

You all but shooed him out of the kitchen, and he figured you must not want the audience.

Jack let himself linger in your living room, allowing himself to be distracted by taking in every single detail of your space. It was tastefully decorated, a cream sectional with perfectly placed throw pillows against one wall and a matching end table and coffee table set. A reading chair sat under a curved lampshade in the opposite corner next to bookshelves that were near bursting. 

He smiled to himself at the mental image of you curled up with a blanket and a book in that chair, hair pulled up in that same messy bun you always kept it in at work, eyes flying through the words on the page in front of you like they did a patient chart. 

He was a little disappointed that you didn’t have any photos framed, on the walls or otherwise. Nothing to tell him about the people you spent time with other than the Pitt crew or your family. In fact, looking around the room, it was almost as if the reading corner was the only part of the room that actually felt lived in. Maybe you’d recently moved or something. 

Jack eventually made his way out to the small balcony. You hadn’t been kidding about the view of the skyline. The sun was just peaking above the buildings in downtown Pittsburgh across the river. 

Alone with his own thoughts again, Jack’s mind went back to Taylor. How this was the first morning her husband would be waking up without her. It’d be the first time she didn’t go through her morning routine, whatever it had been. It’d be the first time the home she and her husband had shared would be quiet in the morning without her puttering around and getting ready. 

He leaned over with his forearms against the balcony railing, eyes aggressively held shut to hold back the wetness forming behind them. 

Jack knew intimately how loud that silence was. After his wife died, he used to have the TV or police scanner on constantly. Anything to drown out the quiet. A decade later, and he still felt the loss in those first few moments of silence in the mornings between him opening his door and his police scanner being turned on as background noise while he readied for sleep. 

Inhale, two, three, four. Hold, two three four. Exhale, two three four. Hold, two, three, four. It was a tip his therapist had taught him, a way to regulate his nervous system when emotions threatened to overwhelm him, to keep himself from falling apart. 

A hand smoothed over his shoulder, and he immediately straightened in alarm. 

“It’s just me,” you said softly, pulling your hand back. He missed the sensation, the warmth he could feel even through the layers of his scrub top and undershirt, as soon as it was gone. “I didn’t mean to startle you, I guess you didn’t hear me calling your name. Breakfast’s ready.” 

He nodded absently and followed you back inside. You’d put music on, lyrics playing low over the stereo. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who didn’t love the quiet. 

Two plates were waiting at the small breakfast nook off to the side of the kitchen, piled with sausage, eggs, fruit and toast. A matching mug sat steaming next to one of the plates, your sticker-clad water bottle you always had within reach during shifts next to the other.

You padded over to the bench, curling your legs underneath you as you sat. He sat in the chair opposite of you. Took a cautious sip of the mug you’d obviously prepared for him and tasted chamomile tea lightly sweetened with honey instead of coffee. How you knew that was his typical end-of-shift drink, he had no idea. 

He’d expected an interrogation once you started eating. You weren’t typically one to hold back when you had questions, and he knew there were a million ping-ponging around in that beautiful head of yours. But you didn’t say anything. Instead, you held a paperback book open on the table in front of you with one hand and ate with the other. He got the sense that you weren’t ignoring him, but rather giving him space. Allowing him peace without loneliness.  

The entire scene was oddly domestic, intimate in a way that twisted at something in Jack’s chest. A longing he hadn’t experienced in a very long time before you’d waltzed into his life. 

When you both finished eating, you dog-eared your page and set your book aside, got up and took both of your plates to the sink. Jack shifted to get up and help, but you just placed that hand on his shoulder again, silently telling him to stay put. 

He watched you as you rinsed the plates, placed them in the dishwasher and walked back to the table to grab his mug. There were so many things he wanted to say, felt he should say. Thank you for breakfast. I’m sorry for being such shit company. I didn’t know just how badly I didn’t want to be alone after last night. I tried my best not to, but I think I fell in love with you anyway. 

You broke the silence before he could force any words past the lump lodged in his throat, though, once again saving him from himself. “You don’t have to talk about it,” you said, your hand once again finding his shoulder as you made your way past him again. All he could do was look up at you, meeting those eyes that held more kindness toward him than he felt he deserved. “But I want you to know that I’m here. If you need me.” 

And god, he did need you. Desperately. Rules and propriety and all sense of self preservation be damned. 

When he didn’t say anything, you gave him a small smile and his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before starting to move away. His hand reached out, fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you there, closing his eyes and leaning his head against your arm. Needing more of your warmth, more of you. 

You let out an exhale, gingerly turning in his grasp until you were facing him. Your other hand came up to tenderly weave through his hair. The soothing sensation of your fingertips against his scalp forced a low hum to leave him as he leaned deeper into your embrace. 

He used the hand still clutching to your wrist to drag you in front of him. He just needed more of you, more of that unending warmth that was slowly chasing away that bone-deep cold that had taken over him throughout the night. 

You let him, not saying anything as his forehead rested against your abdomen and his hands landed on the backs of your lower thighs, keeping you there for him to lean against. Any second now, you’d pull away. You’d reassert the boundaries you’d drawn months ago. But he’d take whatever comfort you’d allow him in the meantime, holding onto you like you were his only mooring in a storm. 

“Survived a damn war and then murdered five minutes from home,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely loud enough to be heard. “She had her whole life ahead of her. And now she’s gone, another full life lost, and I’m still here left trying to figure out why.” 

He felt the way your arms tightened around him, how your body curved just slightly over him. Sheltering him. “Oh, Jack.” 

It was the way you said his name, like hearing him in pain hurt you, that broke the fucking dam. Hot tears he’d been holding back for the better part of five hours streamed down his face, and he let out an audible sob. 

You didn’t pull away, just held onto him as his shoulders shook and his fingers dug into the backs of your legs to keep him anchored. His ears were ringing too loud for him to hear you, but he could feel the vibrations of your voice speaking to him. 

For the first time in years, maybe in over a decade, he let himself be held while he lost it. He didn’t try to be strong and he didn’t try to hold back the tears and he didn’t try to rationalize away the anger and sadness and bone-breaking guilt. Instead, he allowed you to hold the broken pieces together for him. Let himself need you. 

With every pass of your fingers through his hair and every fresh wave of tears that he let your shirt absorb, he felt a little bit more of the pain slowly start to drain until all he felt was numbness and overwhelming exhaustion. 

Once his fingers unclenched themselves from your skin, you stood a little straighter. Your hands coaxed him to look up at you, and he noticed that your own eyes were a little glassy. He opened his mouth to apologize for upsetting you, but you shook your head. Used your thumbs to gently and painstakingly wipe any remaining tears from his cheeks. 

“I should go,” he said finally, and god, his voice was wrecked. 

“Absolutely not,” you protested, your own voice resolute. “You’re exhausted and in no state to drive. You’re staying; I have a guest room with black out curtains and a perfectly comfortable bed.” You left no room for argument, and he would have found the defiant glint in your eye daring him to challenge you adorable under different circumstances. 

Maybe it was a testament to just how tired Jack was that he didn’t fight you on it. Or, maybe it was a testament to the grip you had on his heart. He couldn’t recall ever putting up much of a fight when it came to you. 

You showed him to your guest bathroom, pointing out where he could find towels and a still-packaged spare toothbrush. You told him to leave his hospital clothes in the hamper and you’d put them in the wash with your own. 

He savored the feel of the hot water and the smell of your soap, and by the time he stepped across the hall and into your guest room wearing the spare tshirt and boxers he always kept in his go-bag, you’d already drawn the curtains, turned down the top sheet and duvet, and set out a glass of water with three ibuprofen on the bedside table. A small alarm clock radio was turned to some sports broadcast, as if she somehow knew he’d need the noise, and the only light in the room was coming from the warm light of a lamp on the opposite side of the bed. 

Once again, he was struck with the casual intimacy of it all. To be taken care of in this effortless sort of way, like there was nothing else you would be doing with your morning other than making sure he didn’t lose himself. 

For a split second, he saw a version of what his life could be like with you laid out in front of him. 

Working night shifts together before leaving the hospital arm in arm, quiet drives back to your shared space, breakfasts and morning bedtime routines before shuffling into bed together. Your fingers in his hair chasing away his worst nights, and his mouth chasing away yours. Falling asleep curled up next to you, the radio a quiet lull in the background. Waking up the same way. 

It was so close he felt like could reach out and grab it, this future he knew he didn’t deserve and thought he’d lost forever. So when you went to leave, telling him you’d give him some privacy and bidding him a soft goodnight, he let himself reach out and grab your hand. 

“Stay,” he begged. “You were right, I… I don’t want to be alone.” 

When he met your eyes, he expected to find hesitation. Maybe even pity. But instead, he was met with an inexplicable expression shining in those beautiful, striking eyes of yours. It almost seemed like something close to hope. 

“Let me take a shower and brush my teeth real quick. I’ll be right back,” you promised. You squeezed the hand that was still holding onto yours before letting go and stepping back through the door. 

Jack took the opportunity to go through the routine of taking off his prosthetic — he hadn’t put his liner back on after the shower for the short walk across the hall — and massaging the tissue around his scar. He also downed the full glass of water you’d left him and all three ibuprofen. By the time he was done 10 minutes later, you were cautiously padding back into the room, face bare, hair down and clad in an old, oversized tshirt and pajama shorts. 

“Are you sure?” you asked hesitantly, one knee propped on the bed. As if there was a universe where he’d rather be alone than next to you. 

He nodded and you crawled the rest of the way under the covers, leaning over to switch off the lamp. You were both turned toward each other, and he reached out, searching for you in the now dark room, wanting you as close as you’d allow him.

“Is this okay?” Suddenly, he was the one hesitant, not sure where the lines were anymore. 

You curled into him willingly, head fitting seamlessly into the crook of his shoulder and a hand coming up to curl against his chest. “Yeah. It’s okay.” 

He inhaled deeply, the scent of your vanilla bourbon lotion flooding his senses, and the remaining tension fully melted from his body with his exhale. Sleep overtook him before he even finished taking his next breath.

[leejenowrld]

back to you - eight

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 52k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers 

synopsis — since the state championships, everything that once burned bright has settled into smoke, memories warped, meanings changed, distance stretched thin across months of silence and separate lives. jeno’s not the same, and neither are you, not in the places that matter most. whatever you were to each other back then has blistered, scarred, grown teeth and now it bares them in silence. everyone’s scattered, tucked into cities like secrets you don’t say out loud: then comes the wedding…

chapter contents/warnings — post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), explicit language, first of the time jump chapters, if you haven’t read parts 1-7 please do, this chapter is a lot, a lot is happening, at the start it travels through different countries and plot arcs, i really can’t make this chapter contents and warnings long because everything i say is a spoiler, this chapter is filled with unexpected twists and turns, when i say it’s a lot, a lot happens, it’s filled with smut, angst, drama, i fear i’m gonna have a lot of jeno haters in my inbox before you send me anything please use your brain and do take into account context and the fact this is only the first chapter out of many time jump ones, a lot of sex in this, bye for now, i really can’t say anything else, let’s do a game every time something unexpected happens/is revealed then drop a comment and say woah! and then tell me what was revealed. lol. what i will say though is that there is a lot of scenes of both of them having sex with other people, not as in depth as i’d write y/n and jeno sex scenes but yeah i’m just warning you of that, remember everything will happen for a reason, plus miscommunication is huge this chapter but again remember it’s all for a reason !!! i know what im doing.

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 | 𝐒𝐈𝐗 | 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋

𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐋. 𝟑𝟕.𝟓𝟓𝟗𝟖° 𝐍, 𝟏𝟐𝟕.𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟖° 𝐄

The sound hits before anything else—sharp exhales, the rustle of fabric, a muffled gasp that tightens in your throat before dissolving into a low groan. “Faster,” you whisper, heat prickling at the back of your neck, one hand braced against the edge of the lacquered table as your back arches. “God—right there, yes.”

Yangyang grunts behind you. His breath is hot, chest flush to your spine, arms moving fast. “Don’t move,” he mutters, voice low and focused. “I’m almost done.”

You choke on a laugh, blinking sweat from your eyes as the stack of wedding favour bags collapses beside your elbow. “If you crease one more envelope, I swear—”

“Wasn’t me,” he says, biting down on a piece of twine, hands flying across the table to realign the seating cards you just spent two hours alphabetising. “That was the wind.”

“There’s no wind,” you snap, spinning on your heel to grab another tray. “We’re indoors.”

Yangyang groans behind you, swearing under his breath as he wrestles with the tangled satin ribbons, his knees skidding awkwardly on the tatami mat. “Stop moving,” he mutters, sweating as he chases the last of the place cards that slipped off the tray. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I said faster,” you repeat, breathless now—not from anything remotely sexual, but from the heat and sheer fury curling in your chest. You’re elbow-deep in wedding favours, fingers cramping from the hundredth bow, the twine burning grooves into your skin. The room smells like jasmine, incense, and wax—the holy trinity of headaches. Somewhere outside, a bell chimes. Somewhere inside, you’re losing your mind. “The guests will start arriving in twelve hours, Yangyang. We’re fucked.”

“Not in the way everyone thinks,” he says dryly, sliding a box of table numbers closer with his foot. “Do you know how bad this looks? You moaning my name in here like we’re bending each other over the bonsai.” He pauses. “Actually. That would’ve been more fun than this.”

You don’t even flinch. “If you’d just found the lavender pouches like I asked, I wouldn’t be moaning at all.”

“And yet, here we are. Fabric disaster.” He smirks. You glare. Your phone starts ringing—Irene lighting up the screen, her name sharp against the chaos. You pause. Wipe your hands on your shorts and answer like you haven’t been screaming about lavender bags for the past ten minutes.

“Please don’t kill me,” she says without preamble. “I forgot to confirm the shuttle times for the guests from Tokyo.”

You inhale. Deeply. You’ve done breathing exercises for moments like this. “It’s fine,” you say, already scrolling to the spreadsheet. “I’ll handle it.” And you do, you always do. Even as Yangyang knocks over the box of wedding fans. Even as the iced coffee you were saving for later leaks all over the seating chart. Even as the weight of it all—of who’s coming, of who you’ll have to see—sits heavy in your chest, like the thunderclouds rolling in over Kyoto’s hills. You were made for this. Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

It started over brunch, of course. The café was still quiet at that hour, sunlight pouring through the skylight in soft, gold streaks that danced against the tabletop and the steam rising off your untouched coffee. Irene had ordered two of everything from the new summer menu — matcha croissants, watermelon burrata, a delicate lavender gelato she’d been developing for weeks — and insisted you try each one. You barely touched any of it. Your MacBook sat open beside your plate, Slack notifications ticking in the corner of the screen, a branding deck half-finished in one tab and three client calendars stacked in another. Your phone buzzed with back-to-back meeting alerts, and you only flipped it screen-down when the vibration made the utensils rattle. You hadn’t gone a day without your laptop in weeks, not since you stopped sleeping properly, not since work became your anchor, your escape. Not since the quiet started swallowing everything else.

Irene stirred her lavender honey tea like she was plotting a murder, gaze glassy and wide as she sighed for the third time in under a minute. Her voice was feather-light, deliberately casual. “It’s not that I’m not excited,” she murmured. “It’s just the café is expanding, the new lifestyle brand is still in launch mode, and Doyoung can’t even pick a tux without texting me six different shades of ivory.”

You glanced up from the moodboard open on your screen, chewing the inside of your cheek. You knew that tone. It was the same one she used when she pretended she hadn’t noticed you crying in the bathroom two months ago, mascara running down your face after a work meeting triggered a memory you weren’t ready for. The same tone she used when she handed you a hot water bottle without asking questions, when she told you — quietly, firmly — that love shouldn’t make you feel disposable. She hadn’t brought him up once since. Not even when your phone buzzed with his name and you let it ring out.

Now, she just kept stirring. “I mean, if I had someone — anyone — who understood my aesthetic and could actually handle things… maybe I wouldn’t be losing my mind.”

You reached for your iced matcha, brushing a stray flower petal off your keyboard. “Do you want help with this?” you said it lightly, trying to keep your voice even, like it wasn’t already forming a spreadsheet in your head. “I could step in. Coordinate it all. Take some of the pressure off you.”

Irene sipped her tea and smiled sweetly, as if she hadn’t just puppeteered the entire conversation to this exact point. “Would you? That would be amazing.” Just like that, you had agreed to plan a wedding for a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

Your day-to-day was chaos dressed in pressed linen and soft neutrals, polished down to the last eyelash. You were Apex’s Seoul golden girl—part performance analyst, part storyteller, part strategist. Your mornings started before the sun, black coffee clutched in one hand, your phone lighting up with messages from the New York and London offices. Performance briefs. Revision notes. Urgent client calls. Then it was pitches, creative boards, data crunching sessions, and the never-ending dance of managing three different teams who couldn’t design a graphic to save their lives. You moved through it all like you were untouchable—heels clicking against marble floors, your laptop always open, always glowing. You didn’t stop. Not when they offered you the Seoul office lead. Not when the sleepless nights bled into weekends. Not even after the one person you thought would stay didn’t.

Due to your intensive workload, the wedding planning started soft, like a breeze you could just about manage. Just a few notes, a few colour swatches tucked beside your spreadsheets but then Irene sent the moodboards, the venue options, the catering inquiries, the guest list. It got harder to juggle—your work calendar filled with international strategy meetings, your personal calendar overtaken by calligraphy samples and seating charts. You told yourself you’d pull the whole group in once things ramped up. You’d divide it all later—make Hyuck handle the audio, make Karina vet the florals, make Mark do something, anything but right now, in the early stages, you needed someone beside you. Someone who’d know how to keep up. Someone who could read your mind before the words even left your mouth. Someone who knew when to shut up, when to hold your bag, when to press an iced drink into your palm without needing to be asked. Someone sharp. Steady. Loyal. Strong hands. Fast reflexes. A little reckless. A littleobsessed. The kind of presence that could anchor you when you were slipping sideways.

Yangyang found you on a Tuesday. He always picked you up on Tuesdays. No matter how busy, no matter how bruised from whatever the week had already thrown at him, he was at your curb by 8:27 a.m, iced americano in the cupholder, and the passenger seat reclined just the way you liked it. It had started months ago, quietly, a simple offer when your car was in the shop, and then it just… never stopped. You never asked him to. He never asked why. Tuesdays just became yours.

You’d spend the whole day together. After the morning rush of client briefings and update calls, he’d drive you across the river to the flower markets, winding through alleys of scent and color so dense it made your eyes blur. You’d take meetings from the passenger seat, heels kicked off, laptop on your thighs, his voice occasionally dipping in over Bluetooth to ask if you wanted lunch from your usual spot. Sometimes you’d stop at the quiet café with the lemon trees, the one no one else seemed to know about, all gold-rimmed plates and vintage jazz, sun pooling against the floor like honey. You liked the quiet there. You could breathe there.

It was during one of those afternoons—table covered in linen swatches, your phone buzzing nonstop, your pulse matching it beat for beat—that you cracked. “I need help,” you murmured, not even looking up from your screen. “You’re my assistant now. You need to be on-call, twenty four seven, no questions asked.” 

“So… your right-hand man?” he tried, smirking. 

You handed him a colour-coded spreadsheet, a clipboard, and a box of ring samples. “More like a glorified delivery boy-slash-courier-slash-emotional support pet.” 

He grinned. “Commander.” You threw a napkin at his head but your mouth twitched, just a little. “This is cool. Do I get a name badge, or…?” You handed him your to-do list instead. He grinned. You didn’t. Not yet.

You tell yourself you’re fine. You tell yourself this is just a favour, just a project for people you love but you treat it like work, like a performance. Like it’s saving your life. Irene and Doyoung are more than friends, more than mentors — they’re family in every sense that matters and this wedding is the only thing that’s keeping your mind busy enough to not think about how quiet your phone’s been, or how many nights your bed feels colder than usual.

The next few months have been intense but intense for all the best reasons. Your dining table has transformed into a command center, completely buried beneath colour swatches, vendor contracts, print samples, open laptops, and paper tabs fanned out like an archive. One laptop is for Apex work, pitch decks, performance briefs, analytics in real time. The other’s solely for the wedding, where your Google Drive is a tangle of shared folders, PDFs, and inspiration decks you revise every other hour. There are sticky notes on every edge of every surface, pastel reminders, sarcastic affirmations, delivery deadlines, and one recurring note that just says ‘don’t forget to breathe.’

You’ve built a digital planner synced perfectly to your phone, laptop, and wall calendar. The hallway whiteboard tracks your master timeline, scrawled over in your handwriting, crossed out with pink markers, wiped and re-written week by week. Yangyang sometimes sneaks in his own notes on post-its — “breathe,” or “you're hot and scary.” It helps more than you’ll admit.

Your shared Google Sheets doc is the gospel of this wedding. Every name, every vendor, every deadline is logged and double-checked. The tabs are meticulous: bridal party assignments, contact lists, delivery estimates, payment schedules, seating chart drafts, colour palettes, outfit changes, honeymoon surprise ideas. There’s even a hidden tab, locked behind a password only you and Ningning know, it’s for her to keep track of the small things she’s planning just for you. The spreadsheet status bars shift colour with every change: yellow means pending, green is confirmed, red means someone’s about to die.

Seoul becomes your HQ. It makes the most sense. The team here is solid — the easiest to pin down, the ones you can meet face to face. Mark and Chenle are already synced to your schedule. Shotaro’s still a regular in your life, his downtown studio circuit. Areum’s is all over the world but she’s flying in for a few weeks. Yangyang’s always nearby, a natural extension of your thoughts. You don’t give him a list. He doesn’t need one. He’s already ten steps ahead of every potential disaster, you trained him well. 

You decide to start with the foundation. Seoul High. You haven’t been back since your high school days and the walk through its corridors feels like threading through a version of yourself you don’t recognise anymore. You flash your guest badge and don’t pause by the staircase where you once broke down after college applications. You don’t check the trophy case, though you feel the weight of every plaque etched with your name. The building smells like polished wood, floor wax, and teenage adrenaline. You walk fast. You stay focused.

The court is still the same — a little shinier, maybe but still echoing with sneakers and shouts. You spot them before they see you. Mark’s in a zip-up hoodie, whistle slung around his neck, guiding a drill set like a conductor in a low-tension symphony. His voice is steady, his gestures sharp, and the way the players respond, all instinct and respect, says everything. You knew he’d be good at this. Everyone did. Coach Suh had recommended him for the job personally after the state championship win. It was clear from the start that Mark was never going to play again. Not with his condition but coaching gave him something else, the same fire, just redirected. He brings order, confidence and patience without condescension. You can see it in the way he corrects a stance, the way his eyes follow a struggling player without judgment.

Chenle is all bite and energy. He heckles from the sidelines, tosses towels at the ones slacking, swears louder than any high school coach should. He makes them laugh, then calls them out before they get too comfortable. The kids love him. Fear him a little, too. Coach Lee, they call him, and it lands somewhere between affection and reverence. He paces with a clipboard but barely uses it. Everything he needs, he keeps in his head. After Mark took the coaching job at Seoul High, it didn’t take long for him to realise he needed backup—someone who could balance his calm with chaos, someone who could read the rhythm of a game and match it beat for beat. Chenle had been hanging around ever since the championship anyway, sometimes helping out unofficially, sometimes just watching. When Coach Suh floated the idea of an assistant, Mark didn’t hesitate. “I already know who I want,” he’d said. Chenle grinned when he heard. “Took you long enough.”

You don’t mean to make a scene but walking across the court feels like slicing through attention. It’s mid-practice, shoes squeaking, the echo of drills, Mark’s voice bouncing off the gym walls and somehow, even with all the noise, heads start turning. Mark sees you first, nodding with that easy calm of his. Chenle follows with a low whistle, already mouthing, “the real boss is here.”

But it’s one of the younger boys who breaks the quiet. He elbows the kid next to him, eyes wide. “Yo,” he whispers, not nearly quiet enough. “That’s her, right? Lee Jeno’s girl?” The name lands heavy—Lee Jeno. The golden boy. The hometown legend. His name still rings through these halls like gospel. His photos are framed near the entrance, jersey locked in a case by the locker room, highlight reels played like sacred tape. Everyone here knows who he is. And now, they know who you are too.

You just keep walking, clipboard tucked to your side, heels clicking with purpose. You’re not here to talk about the past, you’re here to get things done. You hand Mark a stapled packet of documents, cleanly bound with highlighters and tabs. Chenle gets the same. You’ve airdropped them into the shared spreadsheet too, the one tracking every moving part of this operation. Everyone’s name is there. So are the expectations.

Mark skims the title page. Wedding Contribution — Phase Timeline. His tasks are clear. Coordinate the groomsmen who are either based in Seoul or passing through, help Doyoung with vendor confirmations and schedule alignment the week of the wedding, assist with speech prep and support the transport arrangements for the groom’s side. It’s logistical, sensitive work. You trust him with it. Chenle gets the high-touch jobs. He’ll handle the Seoul welcome gift organisation, overseeing final wine and alcohol selections with Irene’s approval, and acting as a secondary review for the food and cake tasting rounds. He grins at the list like it’s a mission brief. “I’m customising the wine list,” he says without even asking. “It’s going to be taste-forward with a disrespectful finish. Can I add handwritten notes?”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to wear sunglasses down the aisle?”

You don’t blink. “You’ll receive a dress code packet by next week. Stick to it.”

The humour fades quickly. They can see it now, the steel in your eyes, the tension around your mouth. You’re not just organising a wedding. You’re holding yourself together with ribbons and planning boards and three-hour calls with Tokyo florists. You remind them that every task needs to be marked complete on the sheet. Delays will be flagged red and forwarded to Yangyang and there will be consequences. Changes must be justified and surprises will not be tolerated. They know what this means to you. They know it’s more than a wedding. It’s purpose. It's a distraction. It’s how you survive.

— 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋

𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐈. 𝟐𝟓.𝟕𝟔𝟏𝟕° 𝐍, 𝟖𝟎.𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖° 𝐖

The sun bleeds down like punishment in Miami, thick with salt, sweat, and the sharp scent of ambition. Heat clings to the concrete, seeps into the walls, presses heavy against skin. Jeno’s on his third hour of drills, jersey soaked through, hands raw from the rim, shoulders twitching with tension beneath the glare. Inside, the gym hums like a machine — oxygen thin, music off, the air electric with grit and tempo. Metal clangs, rubber scrapes, bodies move like weapons. Reporters crowd outside the chain-link gates again. 

They aren’t supposed to be there, but they are—every day, pressed against the chain-link like breath on glass. Cameras raised, fingers twitching on shutters, mouths whispering his name like they’ve tasted it before. Jeno. Again. And again. The flash stings like sweat in his eyes. Some of them don’t even pretend to be press. Some of them just watch the way he moves, the way his shirt sticks to his spine. The way his hand wraps around the ball, low and possessive, like he knows they’re imagining it’s something else. It’s all part of the rhythm now—eyes on him, breath catching for him, wanting things from him they’ll never admit out loud. They call him the next LeBron, say he’s too clean, too good, too perfect to be real. 

He’s been moving since dawn, weights before sunrise, sprints until his lungs threaten collapse, then drills so brutal the assistant coach mutters ‘obsessive’ without looking up. Jeno doesn’t flinch, he just pushes harder, faster, like speed might outrun the noise building in his head. Every pivot of his body is clean, sharp, merciless. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt, slides down the defined cut of his spine, disappearing beneath the elastic of his shorts. His muscles twitch with leftover adrenaline, glint with heat. He’s bleeding again—palms raw, scraped open from a rim that doesn’t bend but he doesn’t tape it. He simply doesn’t ever stop. The scouts on the balcony haven’t looked away in hours. It’s not until the buzzer sounds—shrill, final, like a gavel—that he pauses. Just for a second. He drags the back of his hand over his jaw, exhales hard through his nose, and steps outside.

The air hits like breath held too long. Miami is thick with salt and asphalt, sun hanging low and mean in the sky. Heat rises in waves off the pavement, wraps around his frame like a dare. The kind of heat that slows the world but never touches him. His shirt clings to every line of him—broad chest, slick waist, thighs taut beneath thin fabric. His lungs expand slowly. The glare cuts across his vision, gulls shrieking somewhere in the distance, the city’s pulse bleeding through basslines and echoing horns. Behind him, the court’s tucked behind a private training facility, hidden by palm trees and a perimeter of security guards who pretend they don’t see the cameras anymore. The sky’s bruised blue, water glinting beyond the skyline, and for the first time all morning, Jeno lets himself stop moving.

His phone buzzes once. Then again. Notifications pile up—Nike’s activation team, HYBE’s sponsorship clause, a sportswear editor asking for exclusive rights to his first post season cover. Then the group chat: someone sent a villa photo, everyone’s arriving. The messages stack like bricks in his chest, he doesn’t open them. Then the air shifts behind him. Warm. Sweet. A sugary presence trickling slow, thick as syrup down his spine, filling the space with the kind of perfume that doesn’t just smell expensive—it insists on being noticed.

Sunlight glints off the gold buckle first—small, expensive, made to be noticed. Her step follows, sharp and practiced, each tap against the concrete like punctuation. The heel that follows is high, sculpted, unmistakable—Gianvito Rossi, limited drop, the kind made for soft power plays and slow exits. Her glossed legs gleam with sunscreen and something showier, a tan meant for camera flashes, for curated story posts and behind-the-scenes tags. She moves like the heat was made for her, all swishy florals and bare midriff, the hem of her skirt teasing the edge of decency. Hair half-up with strands curled just enough to look effortless, even though it took forty-five minutes and a Dyson Airwrap. Her bracelets jingle when she shifts her grip on the coconut water bottle, condensation sliding down her fingers like a curated drip campaign. She doesn’t walk—she performs. Like this sidewalk is a runway and the only thing missing is a filter. Daddy’s credit card might’ve built the aesthetic but the delusion is all her own. When she speaks, her voice lands slow and sweet, syrup-thick over his shoulder.

“You’re getting better,” she says, slow and purring, like the words are something to lick off her tongue. “Even the coaches are watching different now. Though, to be fair…” —her eyes drag down the slick stretch of his torso, pausing at the dip of his waist— “I’ve been watching like that since day one.”

He still doesn’t look at her, just lets the corner of his mouth twitch like he might smile, but doesn’t. “You watch a lot,” he says, voice rough with heat. “Can’t tell if you’re studying my form or just trying to fuck it.”

She laughs—high, bright, too sweet for the weight of the heat—and steps closer, coconut water swinging from her fingers like it’s part of the performance. “Who says I can’t do both?” Her nails trail lightly down his bicep, catching on the sweat-slicked curve of muscle. “Your form’s looking real good this week. Especially from behind.”

His grip tightens at her waist, not with hunger but habit—like the body remembers even when the mind’s already halfway gone. He drags his gaze up, finally meeting her eyes, and there’s something unreadable in the way he looks at her, like he’s searching for a face she doesn’t wear. “You’re always watching,” he says, voice husky, indifferent. “Guess I should give you a show.” His thumb grazes her side, slow, suggestive, but he’s already looking away again—like it didn’t matter, like none of it does.

Her lashes flick once, the silence stretched too tight between them. For a second, something falters—her voice, her smile, the sugary shine of her lip gloss. Like she heard what he didn’t say louder than what he did. It passes quick, smoothed over by instinct, replaced with a bright little hum and the soft click of her bracelets as she moves. She steps closer, one heel sliding between his sneakers like it belongs there. Her crop top shifts higher, the hem teasing rib, and her perfume clings thick to the humid air—vanilla, sunscreen, wealth. “You’re bleeding,” she murmurs, head tilting, gaze falling to the scrapes across his knuckles. Her voice is softer now, almost careful, like she’s performing concern. “You really should let someone take care of that.”

His gaze drops to his hand like he hadn’t noticed, then flicks back to her without much interest. “Doesn’t bother me.” His voice is dry, heat-worn, too slow to be gentle, too fast to be soft. He flexes his fingers once, knuckles red and torn. “Pain’s part of it.”

She blinks. He doesn’t give her more than that—just rolls his wrist, wipes the blood with the hem of his shirt, and keeps his eyes on her like he’s still deciding if she’s even real or just something that showed up with the heat. “You offering?” he adds, finally, but there’s no curiosity in it. Just something dark and slow curling beneath the words, like he already knows she will. Like he’s waiting to see what she’ll do with that knowing.

She nods once, a little too slow, like she’s choosing not to take offense. Her glossed lips curve into a smile anyway, all polished pink and nothing behind it. Then she turns. The sway in her step is exaggerated—calculated—the kind of walk that knows it’s being watched. Skirt too short, hips tilting with every bounce, the Gianvito Rossis clicking like punctuation against the concrete as she heads toward the gated side entrance to the court. Jeno’s eyes follow without moving, jaw tight, knuckles still red. She swipes in with her pass—official, laminated, hanging off a lanyard that matches her manicure. She shouldn’t have it, not technically, not for the kind of access she uses it for but she asked the right people the right way, smiled in the right meetings, and now no one questions it. It swings lightly against her skirt as she pushes through the door, the scanner beeping soft and obedient. She belongs just enough to be let through.

Inside, the court smells like sweat and pine polish, the echo of sneakers still ringing against the high ceilings. She moves fast, like she’s done it before—cuts down the hall past weight racks and towel carts, reaches for a metal cabinet tucked beneath the trainer’s table. Grabs gauze, rubbing alcohol and a cold pack that’s still fogged with freezer burn. Outside, the sun keeps beating down like it’s angry. Jeno stays where he is, the taste of heat in his mouth, sweat drying slow along the sharp lines of his collarbone. He doesn’t flinch when the camera shutters snap from the gates. They’re further away now—hired guards keeping the fence clear but not far enough. A long-lens clicks like a gun cocking. Someone whispers his name like it’s currency. He doesn’t blink. He’s used to being a headline but today—he feels seen. In the wrong way.

She comes back with a quiet kind of triumph in her step, the little white packet swinging from her fingers like it’s an accessory. “Found it,” she chirps, eyes scanning his frame like it’s a checklist. “Sit still.” Her tone tries for sweet, but lands somewhere closer to scripted. She crouches down in front of him and uncaps the bottle with a dramatic little twist of her wrist. The alcohol stings before it touches skin. Sharp and sterile, it clouds the air like antiseptic breath, drowning out the sweat and heat of Miami. She doesn’t warn him, just dabs—too hard, too fast, like she’s racing a clock he doesn’t feel ticking. “This’ll only hurt for a second,” she adds with a smile that’s too white, too practiced, like she’s mimicking a memory that never belonged to her.

The gauze is thin, too thin, catching on the jagged edge of Jeno's knuckle as she dabs too hard. Her nails skim the scrape with the wrong kind of pressure—a stumble masked as care. She crouches in front of him like it’s choreographed, knees together, back too straight, posture too pretty. The bottle of coconut water she left on the bench sweats against the concrete, forgotten.

Jeno watches her fingers move. Not because they soothe him, they don’t. The tape sticks unevenly, one side too loose, the other tugging skin. She doesn’t notice. She presses it down, blows softly over the gauze like a gesture from a script—slow, breathy, off. Her voice follows, sweet and saccharine, all pastel and gloss. “Hold still.” It lands like static. Like the wrong frequency.

His hand flexes out of instinct. Not pain. Just to feel it. Just to know he still can. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, lost in the damp curls at his nape. She touches his jaw next. Fingertips brushing under his chin like it means something. It doesn’t. Her thumb ghosts over his cheekbone. Too careful. Too slow. Like she’s playing at tenderness.

His eyes don’t meet hers. They drift. Past her shoulder. Past the open court gate, to the row of paparazzi huddled behind the fencing, lenses trained on his skin like they have a right to it. The click of a shutter cuts the air. She leans closer like she thinks this looks like love. Jeno exhales, shallow. His gaze drops to the condensation sliding down his Gatorade bottle. One finger taps against it. Once. Twice.

“You’re bleeding more than I thought,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t lean in or shift to help her, doesn’t even tilt his wrist to make the angle easier. Just lets her crouch between his legs, letting her fingers ghost over his skin. His shoulders stay back against the bench, spine straight, muscles slack. One knee bent, the other stretched long like he might stand at any second, like none of this requires his full attention. When her thigh brushes his, he doesn’t react. When her palm settles warm against the inside of his forearm, he stays still, eyes somewhere else entirely. 

Her perfume clings to the air, sweet and cloying, too thick for the heat, like sugar left to rot. He breathes through it like smoke, slow and quiet, like it might choke him if he lets it in too deep. Her voice comes next, soft and saccharine, barely more than a whisper. “Do you want me to stay?” she asks, and he doesn’t answer. He never does. She takes the silence as consent—she always does. When she kneels in front of him again, hands too gentle, too staged, he still doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch when she says, “Baby,” like it means something. Like it’s ever meant anything. His jaw ticks, sharp and sudden and still, he says nothing.

Eventually, they move without speaking. Not together, not quite apart—just a shift. She rises, dusts off her skirt with delicate, unnecessary flicks of her fingers, and turns toward the side patio where the sun hits harder and the benches are half-shaded beneath a string of fraying parasols. He follows, slower, towel draped over his shoulders, the back of his shirt clinging to skin still damp from drills. There’s a silence between them, familiar now. Performed comfort. Distance masked as ease.

She settles beside him like they do this all the time. Crosses one leg over the other, slides her phone out like she’s been waiting for the right moment. Her drink is sweating in her other hand, pink and sugary, glass clinking against her glossed nails. Then she scrolls. Eyes flicking fast. Brows lifting once before she makes a soft sound in her throat. The screen glows white between them. “Flight confirmation came through,” she says, casually, placing her phone face down between them like it doesn’t matter, like she hadn’t been waiting for the email all morning. “We leave in four days. Crazy, right?” Her voice lilts upward like it’s small talk, like she isn’t talking about the wedding. She rests a hand lightly on his knee, fingers grazing the fabric of his shorts like she’s done it a thousand times. Like it’s muscle memory, like it means anything.

A beat passes. Then, too breezily: “So everyone’s flying out next week, huh? I can’t believe they’re actually pulling it off. It’s giving… delusion, but make it expensive.”

She glances at him sideways but he says nothing. Just reaches for his towel and wipes his jaw. She leans in a little, letting her shoulder brush his and keeps going, voice dipped in sugar. “You know they put her in charge, right?” she asks, studying the condensation on her glass like it’s fascinating. “Like, full-on wedding planner. I mean, of course they did. She always loved… control.” Her smile flashes but doesn’t reach her eyes. “I just think it’s kind of cute. The way everyone’s pretending it’s normal.”

His laugh is quiet, barely there, more breath than sound. He finally turns, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder, eyes lazy and unreadable. “You rehearsed that?” he says, towel still hanging off one shoulder, tone all mock curiosity. “Sounded like you practiced in the mirror.” He doesn’t wait for her response—just smirks, slow and condescending, then looks away again like she’s already forgotten. Like the conversation was background noise. Like she is.

Her smile sharpens, but her posture tightens too—legs crossing, nails tapping against her glass. “You really think I care that much?” she adds, but it lands too quick, too defensive. He still doesn’t look at her. That’s what stings the most.

She shifts, letting her knee bump against his, as if to remind him she’s still there. Takes another sip, her lip gloss clinging to the straw in a soft, sticky sheen. Her voice drops into something quieter, trying too hard to sound casual. “I heard they’re doing an ivory theme,” she says, studying the condensation sliding down her cup. Then she laughs, light and edged. “Bold choice. It’s so… forgiving.”

Forgiving, like erasing the mess without cleaning it. Like pretending nothing ever broke to begin with. The word lingers, soft but surgical, and her voice makes it sound like the whole wedding is a facade—something fractured, dressed up in florals and fairy lights, hoping no one notices the cracks. Her hand stays on his knee, thumb beginning to move in slow, practiced circles, like she thinks softness can distract from the incision like sugar can smother something bitter.

She doesn’t let it go. Even when the conversation veers, even when Jeno doesn’t reply, she finds a way to circle back—back to you. Obsessive, like a compulsion she can’t dress up pretty. “I mean… credit where it’s due, right? She’s practically running the whole thing. You’d think she’s the one getting married.”

She laughs like it’s harmless, like it’s funny but the edge is deliberate. She wants him to laugh with her, to turn it into a joke. He doesn’t. “She’s good at what she does,” Jeno says in a measured tone. His grip on the towel adjusts—once, then again—like something crawled under his skin and he’s trying not to show it. His jaw ticks, just barely, and he breathes through his nose, slow and deliberate, like his body’s answering to a name no one said out loud. She doesn’t catch it, or pretends not to but something in him shifts, sharp and sensual, the way memory gets under the ribs when it wants to hurt. The heat settles into his bones as her voice fades out like background noise. The only thing that stays is the ghost of yours, still threaded somewhere in the silence.

She blinks once, lashes sweeping slow, then tilts her head like she’s just now thinking it through. “Right. No, totally. It’s just… isn’t it weird? Helping plan a wedding for your family? Like—there’s moving on, and then there’s this.” The words are wrapped in sugar, but the shape of them cuts. She’s fishing for something sharp, something bitter, something he won’t give her.

He doesn’t react the way she wants. His voice is steady, low. “She’s close with Irene.”

She lifts a brow, sips again like it’s casual. “Sure, but—”

“She’s always been,” Jeno says, cutting her off clean. There’s no edge to his tone, but something presses under it—something quiet and certain. “Since we were kids. I barely saw them growing up. If anything, Irene and Doyoung… they’re her family. Not mine.” It lands heavier than it sounds. He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t soften it. Just leaves the truth suspended between them, untouched. 

Still, she leans in closer, holding her hands up in mock offence. Her voice dips, lower, syrupy. “I’m just saying… if someone wanted attention, this would be the perfect way to get it. Front and center. Perfect lighting. Narrative control. “It’s cute though, the effort.” She says, tracing the rim of her drink with a manicured nail, voice coated in feigned warmth. “Everyone thinks she’s so selfless now but she always knew how to make herself unforgettable. Even when she wasn’t invited.” Her words land soft but bruising, silk-wrapped shrapnel. She’s talking about you like a ghost that refuses to stay dead. Like you haunt every room she walks into, like it drives her mad that you still do.

Jeno finally turns. Cool, quiet, controlled. “You don’t have to talk about her.” His voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t shift. Just a simple truth laid bare. 

Her shoulder jerks, a twitch more than a flinch, and then she’s tossing her hair like it didn’t happen, all glossy dismissal and glittering deflection. “Oh my god, Jeno,” she huffs, voice pitched high, laugh bursting out too fast, too bright, cracking on the edges. “You always do this. You act like I’m the bad guy just because I say what everyone else is thinking.” Her smile wobbles, tight and trembling, gloss catching in the sun like it’s trying to outshine the moment. Then her voice drops, lips barely moving, a whisper dipped in venom: “Maybe the truth’s just too much when it’s about her.”

His eyes meet hers, flat and unreadable, his expression deadpan in the way that makes silence feel louder than words. “That’s enough,” he says, low and final, not a flicker of hesitation in his tone. His grip on the towel tightens once, a slow flex like he’s anchoring himself, then loosens just as calmly. He doesn’t look at her again. The air around them shifts, colder now, as if she said one thing too many. Then, quieter—but not softer—“Also, you weren’t directly invited, not her.” A pause, loaded and brutal. “You’re just my plus one.”

Her smile doesn’t break, but it calcifies. All teeth, too wide, too still. “Right. Of course.” Her voice is airy, but the grip on her drink tightens, knuckles whitening. Her other hand curls tight around her phone, nails digging in like it’s the only thing tethering her. She looks away, fast, like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t hear it or feel it.

She lets out a breathy laugh, one that tries too hard to sound amused but lands sharp, brittle. “Whatever,” she mutters, gaze still fixed somewhere far from him. “She’s probably already rehearsing her little speech for the welcome dinner. You know how she gets—every sentence a performance, every smile rehearsed. Like if she’s perfect enough, people might forget what she’s really like.” Her tone tilts saccharine again, but it’s edged with something colder now, like she’s carving your name into glass just to watch it crack.

Jeno exhales slowly, spine straight, shoulders squared. Sweat still gleams down the slope of his neck. He looks devastating—abs drawn tight beneath the drop of his tank, jaw ticking once like he’s done being generous. Patience thinning to a thread. He turns, eyes locking on her with a cold, razor-sharp kind of calm. His voice lands like a low cut of thunder. Clipped. Controlled. Deadpan.

“Nahyun.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn't need to. The sound alone silences everything else. “Shut up.”

She tries to laugh, lashes fluttering like it’s all a joke, like he’s just being sensitive. Her glossed lips pout, practiced. She shifts her weight, shoulder brushing his, tone airy like it never meant anything but he isn’t looking at her anymore. He already said everything he had to and she doesn’t realise the irony in her words. 

She’s everywhere before you even realize she’s arrived — seeping into the space like mold under fresh paint. Nahyun doesn’t enter the picture. She spreads. Quiet, curated, deliberate, slipping into every frame he leaves behind and feeding on the warmth of what used to be yours. She showed up not long after he did — weeks, maybe less. No announcement. No reason anyone questioned. She doesn’t just appear in the scene—she’s embedded. She’s made herself visible in all the ways that count, carefully angled selfies at preseason stadiums, sunset-filtered lattes tagged with vague PR captions, her name attached to a West Coast branding firm that just so happens to handle the media for his team. Every curated post screams professionalism, hustle, that ‘influencer-turned-industry-girl aesthetic.’ Early call time, she writes, under photos with blurred locker room lighting in the background, grinding behind the scenes. The kind of hustle that makes it easy for people to believe she belongs there.

And technically—she does. It’s a real internship, a rising firm, the kind of placement that makes sense on paper. The kind of story you don’t question unless you know what you’re looking for, unless you know her because the truth isn’t in the headlines or her captions. It’s in the patterns. The timing. How her work hours keep aligning perfectly with his practice blocks. How she’s always there when she shouldn’t be — lingering courtside, laughing with staff, casually bumping into his teammates like she belongs. There are whispers. Jokes in the locker room. “PR girl’s got a type.” “The rookie and the rebrand.” Nothing confirmed, but enough smirks to sting. Because she’s not subtle — not in the way she watches him, or the way she always makes sure she’s seen leaving five minutes after him, never with him, but close enough to imply.

Jeno never denies it but he never takes ownership either. He doesn’t claim her, doesn’t offer an explanation, doesn’t correct the assumption when her name gets paired with his like it’s always been inevitable. He says nothing, and silence, in a world built on optics, is permission. That’s all she needed. He let her orbit, let her thread herself through the edges of his story until her presence stopped being questioned. Familiarity disguised itself as legitimacy. Frame by frame, she sank in. He never reached for her, never asked her to stay but he didn’t push her out either. It was convenient. Quiet. Predictable. Maybe that felt safer than the chaos he’d spent the last year trying to bury. The smile she wore for the cameras never demanded anything real. It asked nothing of his past, touched none of the wounds he hadn’t finished closing. Letting her linger felt manageable. Like proximity without consequence. Like staying untouched. But there she was—still in his city, still in his timeline, her voice just loud enough to press against the silences he never learned how to fill, her laugh brushing the edges of rooms she never earned, her gloss still catching light like it belonged beside him.

But the truth always burns through fabric like that because here she is. West coast. By his side. In every whispered update. In every new clip. In the photo someone sends you late at night — stadium lights blurring behind her, his jersey visible in the corner, and her hand on a railing that’s too close to his. There’s no caption, no tag, no official claim — just a pattern that settles too easily into place, and a silence that makes the implication undeniable. It’s her. She’s the one they see beside him now, the one in the background of photos and the blur of updates, the one whose presence is never explained because it doesn’t need to be. No one questions it. No one asks. He’s given them nothing to doubt and in the absence of truth, assumption takes root. She’s not just nearby anymore. She’s embedded, threaded into the narrative so seamlessly that people have already decided she belongs. Her presence is interpreted as fact, as permanence, as proof of something that was never real and in letting her linger, he’s allowed the world to forget what was. She’s become part of the story and in doing so, you’ve been erased from it.

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. 𝟒𝟎.𝟕𝟏𝟒𝟓° 𝐍, 𝟕𝟒.𝟎𝟎𝟔𝟎° 𝐖

‘The city that never sleeps’ doesn’t enter — it erupts. A sharp-boned rhythm cracked into pavement and glass, all reflex and teeth, more heartbeat than skyline. New York doesn’t wait for you, she dares you to keep up. The subway howls beneath her ribcage, a mechanical scream lost in warped speaker static. Steam coils through sidewalk grates like breath from the underworld. Someone’s yelling about rent. Someone’s running late. Someone’s ringtone ricochets off the mirrored walls of Madison Avenue, cutting through the screech of brakes and the splash of rainwater that stains a stranger’s trousers dark. Taxi doors slam. Heels slap. A paper coffee cup topples into the gutter, foam bleeding out like it didn’t survive the commute.

Behind glass, a boutique window glows pale gold. Your name sits inked in looping script on a clipboard, fogged by the breath of someone pausing too long outside. Somewhere, a playlist skips. Somewhere else, a florist spirals over a last-minute correction: Ivory roses — not white, not off-white, not blush — Ivory. The whole city buzzes — not welcoming, daring. Neon bleeds under fire escapes. Reflections layer over reflections. No one’s looking at each other, but everyone’s seen. New York doesn’t hold space. She throws elbows. And still, somehow, she asks: who’s showing up next? She swings the door wide and waits to see who has the nerve to walk through.

Across the river, the hospital’s lights don’t flicker, not once. Not even when the power grid coughs or the subway below snarls through its steel throat. The trauma wing breathes in static and antiseptic and Jaemin moves through it like it owes him something. He hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours. His badge is flipped backward, his pager’s been screeching since 4 a.m., and he’s been running on vending machine espresso shots and whatever adrenaline comes from watching yet another intern drop a chart. There’s a bloodstain drying at the hem of his left sleeve, not his, not fatal but close. The kind that makes your breath hold for just a second too long before you start moving again. His scrubs are light blue, wrinkled from hours curled in the corner of the on-call room, collar tugged slightly askew where his stethoscope’s rubbed a red line across his neck.

He doesn’t say anything about the earlier flight he booked. Doesn’t mention that he paid extra to bump his seat, just in case. Just in case you need someone to deal with logistics, to spot whatever last-minute breakdown Karina’s too tightly wound to acknowledge, to carry whatever needs carrying without asking for details. The wedding isn’t his problem but somehow he’s in it, already running damage control from the nurses’ station, his phone buzzing with the group chat every ten minutes.

When Karina FaceTimes him, he’s crouched in the corner of the staff lounge, coat draped over one knee, bowtie half-crushed in the pocket of his jacket like he forgot he shoved it there after last week’s wedding consult. “Still alive,” he mutters when the screen lights up. His voice is hoarse, eyes low. He’s handsome in that devastating, end-of-rope way, jaw tight, hair curled slightly at the edges from dried sweat, knuckles red where he’s pressed them into too many sharp corners tonight. “Barely. What’s on fire now?”

Bright light slices across a glass wall. Somewhere, a drip monitor beeps. Elsewhere, steam curls from the mouth of a kettle, lilac-infused — the kind of quiet detail that lands soft, like silk against bare skin, like the clink of ice in crystal, like the hush that falls when velvet curtains pull back and everything finally holds its breath. From the fluorescent hum of Jaemin’s trauma wing, it cuts to SoHo: pale morning light spilling across polished concrete, the hum of a steamer exhaling into air perfumed with jasmine, starch, and money. Karina doesn’t walk so much as glide, her heels like punctuation, each step crisp, precise, rehearsed. She’s draped in espresso-brown tailoring and attitude, one AirPod in, phone balanced between shoulder and jaw as she barks into a call, her other hand finessing the fall of a train stitched from seven layers of raw silk and attitude. A seamstress flinches as she mutters, “No, no, that’s not draped. That’s depression.”

She doesn’t have time to be active on the group chat, she sends PDFs, moodboards and reference videos with subject lines like ‘Fix the neckline or I’ll fix you.’ She’s not just handling the aisle, she’s commanding it. Florals, dresses, visual flow—Karina’s running point on the entire aesthetic, and she’s treating it like a full-scale campaign. Two florists are already gone, a third on thin ice. “Ivory garden roses,” she snaps into the phone, “not cream. not blush. not fucking pastel. If it looks like a Pinterest board, I’m setting the truck on fire.”

Karina moves like she owns the building, heels slicing clean across polished concrete, the scent of steamed silk and fresh florals thick in the air. Racks curve around her like soldiers, each one hung with gowns in various states of becoming—draped, pinned, ghostlike. A model in the corner lifts her arms to be fitted, ribs too sharp beneath the muslin, and Karina’s eyes cut straight through the stitch count. She stops, takes one look. “Absolutely not,” she says, voice sharp enough to snap the thread. “There’s no way she gets on the aisle unless she gains ten pounds minimum. She looks unhealthy.” Someone tries to argue—mentions the brand image, the silhouette—and Karina doesn’t blink. “Brainstorm better,” she snaps, walking again, tossing a tablet into her assistant’s hands without breaking stride. “Anorexia is a disease. It is not a fashion statement.” The words echo down the hall behind her, clean and brutal and right.

The buzz of Karina’s studio fades with the slam of a service elevator, silk replaced by static. Below street level, in the undercurrent hum of the West Village, the sound changes — tighter, colder, sharper. The studio is always cold. Air-conditioned even in winter. Red light blinking over the door, mic cables coiled like snakes across the floor, the air sharp with metal and neon and leftover espresso. Donghyuck has his sneakers kicked under the desk and a soundboard covered in stickers he refuses to peel off. The West Village radio station hums underground, a hybrid space for sports coverage, live broadcasts, and the kind of voice that makes people listen.

His voice is velvet on-air — smooth, smug, a little dangerous. He specializes in basketball but covers everything, his commentary clean and just a little too intimate. He reports on Jeno’s games often. Too often. His co-hosts tease him for it but he always shrugs, saying it’s just a story worth following. He’s got a deep-dive series in the works: State Champs: Where Are They Now. Everyone knows who the girl was. He never says your name. He doesn’t have to.

For the wedding, he’s soundtracking everything. Mics, transitions, audio cues, the whole sound design. It started as a joke in the group chat, someone asking who’d handle the playlist, and Donghyuck just replied with a Spotify link and “grow up, it’s already done.” But he meant it. He’s treating it like a live broadcast, timing the walk-ins, syncing the toast transitions, even building custom fades between the speeches and the music. The audio is his domain and no one questioned it. Not when his transitions sound better than most DJs’ entire sets. Not when he’s the only one who knows how to make silence feel like tension.

The city doesn’t slow but somehow their paths keep narrowing. Everything pulses back to you. It’s not something they name out loud—not on the hospital calls or the group chat threads, not when they run into each other outside studios or across subway platforms but it’s there. Woven between errands, sitting on speakerphones, scrawled on a dry-erase board. Your name. A note. A list. A label tucked into the lining of a dress bag. The wedding is the thread that pulls them together. The one constant between who they were and who they’re becoming. Even now, scattered across cities, exhausted and late and carrying more than they’ll admit, they orbit you. They always have and maybe they never stopped.

Jaemin’s already on his second espresso when the installation gets pushed again, a quiet “emergency” from the perfumier’s assistant that comes with a new address and an invite-only pass. The exhibit’s final run-through—his custom memory-triggered scent piece for Irene and Doyoung’s ceremony—had been delayed three times already and now it’s being shown at a gallery just blocks from SoHo, the same night Karina’s studio stays open late for fittings, the same fabric sculptor, the same scent dispersal system mapped through both the dress and the air. He doesn’t need directions. He knows where to find her, it can’t be coincidence. 

She’s above the gallery, same street, top floor, tucked behind a narrow iron staircase and a buzzer that never works on the first try. The atelier hums with quiet insistence, lit from within like a dream someone refused to wake from. Long bolts of fabric hang like smoke from ceiling hooks, ivory tulle layered over translucent mesh, stitched with thread so fine it catches light but not shadow. Mannequins line the far wall, each one mid-transformation, one torso draped in unfinished pleats, another half-skirted, pinned tight at the hip, the train cascading in slow ripples toward the polished floor. A single gown stands in the center, raised on a platform and cordoned off with chalk marks—Irene’s dress. It gleams like a secret: structured bodice, sweetheart neckline, sleeves sheer with microbead embroidery that catches the light like snowfall. The pressure-reactive silk is already mapped into the hem, designed to bloom in motion, the fabric shifting faintly as Karina moves past it, breathless and barefoot, her heels kicked into the corner hours ago.

This is where she’s been living. Not just working—living. The studio smells like steam, jasmine and stress. Notes scrawled in eyeliner pencil line the mirrors. Pins litter the floor. A folder labelled‘Final Edits: Bridesmaid Dresses’ lies open on the cutting table, a swatch of palest green pressed between its pages. She hasn’t slept properly in days, but her winged eyeliner is still pristine. Her hair’s up with a pencil through it. She’s muttering about waist-to-hip ratio to no one, tugging a seam taut with her teeth gritted, when she hears the door open behind her.

At first, she doesn’t notice. She’s mid-call with the florist again, threatening bloodshed over ivory roses, one hand holding a tablet, the other smoothing the bodice of Irene’s gown. It’s not until he says her name—“Rina.”—that she freezes, shoulders tightening, breath catching not with surprise but something sharper, something threaded with memory. She turns. Slowly. Like she already knows. And when she sees him she screams, a sharp, giddy sound that escapes before she can catch it. The tablet clatters onto the table as she launches across the room, bare feet sliding over satin scraps, arms thrown around his neck in a single, reckless motion. He catches her—of course he does—laughing under his breath as she wraps around him like she’s missed every version of him she didn’t get to see. The late nights, the New York air, the fucking glow.

“God, you look—” she starts, then stops, biting back the rest of the sentence as her eyes drag over the sharp collar of his shirt, the chain peeking just beneath the top button, the sleeves cuffed at his forearms like he knew exactly what he was doing. He smells like city air and aftershave, like he’s been walking too fast through Manhattan in the rain. Her gaze dips. “You’re ridiculous. You show up looking like that and expect me to work?”

He laughs under his breath, stepping in closer, tilting his head. “Didn’t realise there was a dress code for surprising you.”

“There is,” she says, fingers curling in his shirt. “It’s called uglier than me. You’re in violation.”

“Then arrest me.”

“I might,” she says, a slow grin curling. “After I’m done staring.”

He nods toward the gown behind her. “That for Irene?”

She nods, slow and a little smug, eyes flicking back toward the gown like it’s something sacred. “You like it?” she asks, voice lower now, softer—giddy without meaning to be.

He takes a step closer, gaze steady on the gown, then back to her. “I think it’s the most beautiful thing in this room,” he says, voice low, then adds without missing a beat, “and the dress isn’t bad either.”

She laughs, soft and stunned, the kind that slips out before she can stop it. Her fingers tug at the edge of her sleeve like she needs somewhere to place the blush rising to her cheeks. “Don’t do that,” she says, voice breathless, eyes flicking to his with something sharp and fond behind them. “You’re gonna make me ruin the hem.”

“Wow,” Donghyuck says flatly—voice slicing through the silk and candlelight like a shoe squeaking on polished floors. They both turn. He’s been there the whole time, half-obstructed by a clothing rack draped in veils, earbuds in, eyebrows raised like he’s just walked in on something sacred. One hand holding a mic pack. The other? A half-eaten macaron he clearly regrets biting into. “Should I leave?” he asks, expression unreadable. “Or do you want me to grab a ring light so the proposal hits with better lighting?”

“Were you—how long—”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he waves vaguely toward the back wall, where his mic bag and half-charged laptop are slumped on a couch. “I’ve just been sitting here for three hours, recording ambient audio. Got a full thirty minutes of you whispering ‘no, tighter, right there’ while pinning a hemline. You’re welcome.”

Karina groans, covering her face. Jaemin just laughs, strides over and pulls him into a firm, back-thumping hug. “You’re still annoying as shit.”

Donghyuck grins, one arm still holding the mic bag like it’s precious cargo. “And you still smell like hospital soap and heartbreak. God, I missed you.” He barely finishes the sentence before he pulls Jaemin in tight, knocking their heads together with the kind of affection that always arrives dressed as an insult. Then he turns to Karina, arms already open, smirking like he’s waited all day to be insufferable. “C’mere, you couture dictator.” She rolls her eyes but lets herself be hugged, softening for half a second as his hand swats dramatically at her lower back. “Damn, did he finally wear you down?” he says, glancing between them. “You two were eye-fucking so loud I thought I’d walked into an 18+ installation.”

They don’t answer him. Just groan in tandem like they’ve done this before—like Donghyuck always shows up exactly when tension starts to tilt toward undressing. Karina snorts, pinning the final silk rosette to a sleeve cuff with a motion that says she’s heard worse, stayed up later, and once threatened a groomsman for calling ivory “off-white.” They work late into the night, tension folding into routine. Karina crouches barefoot on the floor with pearl pins between her teeth, threading in the last of the scent-reactive filament across Irene’s veil. She’s meticulous, wrist aching, eye twitching but it’s almost done. The bridesmaid dresses are already steamed and sleeved, pressed against mannequins like ghosts in waiting. The gown stands in the middle like a monument. Jaemin moves between tables, checking the alignment of the scent diffusers he’s helped install at each step point of the aisle—a final calibration of triggers synced to memory-coded dispersion. When the bride walks, the scent will bloom in stages: gardenia first, then wild jasmine, and last, a faint trace of hinoki wood—Doyoung’s cologne, from the first night he met Irene. Jaemin calls it science. Karina calls it witchcraft. You call it magic. 

Donghyuck’s in the corner with headphones on, fine-tuning the sound transitions between the ceremony and reception. He loops in the intro track—soft strings giving way to a voiceover. Irene’s. Then Doyoung’s. Then a moment of silence, cued by a heartbeat. Then laughter—yours, threaded faintly under the first beat drop. It’s audio alchemy, and he’s splicing it like a love confession nobody knows they’re hearing. “I’m trying to make people cry before the fucking vows,” he mutters, dragging a slider forward, “because if they don’t cry then, it’s too late.” 

After a few more hours of finishing touches—Karina adjusting the final hemline on Irene’s dress with a threaded needle clenched between her teeth, Jaemin running calibration tests on the scent release timing for the memory installation, and Donghyuck wiring the ceremony mic transitions to sync perfectly with his playlist cues—the night starts to bleed at the edges. Their limbs are aching, clothes rumpled, eyes heavy with the kind of exhaustion that clings to your bones. Then, without speaking, they head upstairs.

The rooftop is always open. Karina calls it the best place in the studio—somewhere between an escape hatch and a sanctuary. No gowns, no fittings, no tech glitches or audio loops. Just open air and skyline. A place to exhale. To forget the lists and check-ins and tight deadlines for one breathless second. So they go up, one by one, paper cups in hand, stolen wine sloshing gently at their sides. The city waits for them at the edge of the railings, neon and beautiful and far too alive for how fucking tired they are.

The rooftop hums with late-night static — the kind that coats your skin after too long under fluorescents, after too many hours pretending to be fine. Cold wind slips between the vents, catching on loose fabric and flyaway hair, dragging the scent of asphalt and leftover wine through the air. Neon from the deli across the street flashes ‘OPEN’ in a low, erratic blink. It’s the first time all day they’ve stopped moving. The last train’s already passed. They’re up here like it’s instinct.

Jaemin’s sitting on a folding chair that wobbles every time he shifts his weight, jacket open, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, cigarette balanced between two fingers. His eyes are heavy, rimmed with exhaustion, smoke curling from his mouth like he’s holding something back. Beside him, Donghyuck’s stretched out across the bench, hoodie hood pulled halfway over his curls, mic bag tucked under one arm like a pillow, another cigarette pinched loosely between his lips. He’s scrolling aimlessly through something on his phone, not really reading, just needing the movement.

Karina paces a few steps away, heels dangling from one hand, phone clutched to her ear in the other. Her tone is clipped, sharp in that way that only happens when she’s trying not to scream. “No, I’m not asking her that,” she snaps. “If you want to know, you can grow a pair and do it yourself—oh wait. You can’t.” Her back is turned but they can still see her mouth twist. The call goes quiet for a second. A long enough pause that Hyuck raises a brow. Jaemin exhales through his nose.

Then his voice crackles over the line, low and tense. “It’s a yes or no question, Karina. You don’t need to turn it into a monologue.”

“Yeah, well maybe if you didn’t change the sizing notes three times, I wouldn’t have to call you at midnight.” She shifts her weight, pinches the bridge of her nose. “No, Jeno. You don’t know what she wants. You think you do but you don’t. That’s the whole problem.” Her voice drops lower, but it doesn’t soften. “You always think you’re right.”

And this time, he snaps back: “You think I don’t know her?” Her hand tightens around the phone. The muscles in her shoulder twitch. She doesn’t answer him, just stares out at the skyline with something sharp in her chest and the sound of his breathing still pressing against her ear. When she finally hangs up, she doesn’t say a word. She just walks back toward Jaemin and Hyuck and drops beside them, the phone landing screen-down between the wine cups like a cracked nerve.

She’s the one who offered to take it. You never asked her to be the go-between, not exactly but she knew you wouldn’t reach out. Not after everything, not for something like this. It started innocently, a quick text typed half-asleep: “Can you ask Jeno if he’s free to sketch a mock-up?” Just an idea for Irene’s last-minute addition. Something sweet, something sentimental. A custom ring design for each bridesmaid— you, Areum, her two nieces. A matching piece to bind you all together in a way that was quieter than the dresses, less obvious than the ceremony, but still hers. It was Irene’s idea, her attempt to make everyone feel tethered, chosen but designing them would take skill. Detail. Precision. And who better than Lee Jeno? Engineering major, mechanical genius and steady hands. He’d built drones in college, sculpted metals for senior projects, once fixed your kitchen tap in under twenty minutes with a hairpin and a keyring. You knew how good he was with his hands. Intimately. Repeatedly. Filthily. And Karina knew that too. He was the perfect candidate. Except for the part where he hadn’t spoken to you in months. No contact. No closure. Just cold space where something used to burn.

So Karina stepped in and took the role, taking the weight. She became the buffer between two people who used to share everything, now reduced to fragmented messages and voice notes delivered secondhand. What began as a one-time ask spiraled fast. Timezone delays. Sketch approvals. Metal sourcing. Size adjustments. Back and forths over band width and finish. Now it’s late-night calls, mid-meeting updates, and clipped conversations that always end with Karina rubbing her temples and tossing her phone face-down. She hates being in the middle. She hates him for putting her there. And most of all, she hates that a part of her still understands why you can’t do it yourself.

It’s not that she hates Jeno. That would be too easy. It’s messier than that. A slow erosion of trust built from silence. She defended him, once, she took his side, believing in the version of him you clung to with both hands but after the fall-out, after the late nights she held you shaking and the days you didn’t speak at all, something in her cracked. He didn’t fight for you, not properly. He let the silence eat everything. So now every phone call is laced with venom she tries not to taste. Every request feels like a betrayal. And tonight? Tonight, he’s being difficult. Pushing back on sizing changes. Asking things he knows he shouldn’t and she’s not in the mood to coddle him. Not anymore.

She leans her head against Donghyuck’s shoulder with a sigh that isn’t quite tired, not quite calm either. There’s still adrenaline pulsing under her skin, the kind that hasn’t worn off since she started the day with a pair of shears in one hand and a model sobbing over a split zipper. Her fingers are curled around the stem of a paper cup, half-drunk wine swirling lazy at the bottom, too warm now to be anything worth sipping but she doesn’t let go. They all stare out at the skyline, not saying much. The lights bleed into the clouds, smearing gold into black. Somewhere down below, a siren wails past. The hum of the city never stops — it just lowers its voice.

Jaemin’s the one who breaks it. “What did he say?” His voice is too casual. Purposefully offhand, like the question slipped out before he could catch it but his jaw’s a little too tight for it to be accidental. Karina doesn’t lift her head. Doesn’t shift. Just blinks, slow.

“Does it matter?” Her voice is quieter now. Not clipped. Not cruel. Just dulled at the edges like a blade that’s been used too many times.

He tries again. “I’m just asking.”

“No,” she says, straighter this time. “You’re not. You’re gonna try to defend him again.”

Donghyuck lets out a low whistle, not moving his shoulder. “Here we go.”

Karina finally shifts then, pulling back just enough to face Jaemin fully. “You really want to do this? Up here? Now?”

Jaemin shrugs but it’s sharp. “I think it’s unfair. The way you talk about him, the way you talk to him. Like he’s the only one who broke something. You act like he fucked it all up on his own but you weren’t there the night she stopped calling back. You didn’t see what that did to him.”

Karina’s eyes narrow, but there’s hesitation in it, like she’s already bracing for the rest. “And what—are you saying she shouldn’t have walked? That staying would’ve fixed it?”

“I think—” He stops and looks at the skyline like the words might be hiding out there. Then: “I think if we’re going to rewrite what happened, we better start with the parts nobody wants to say out loud.”

Her mouth opens. Shuts. Her grip tightens around the paper cup. “He didn’t walk away,” Jaemin says, softer now. “She did.”

“And what, you think she wanted to?” Her tone cracks — not volume, not pitch, just something in the centre of it, some old scar ripping. “You think any of this is what anyone wanted?” Donghyuck lifts a hand, palm out, but no one’s really listening anymore. “He stopped showing up,” Karina says, not loud but loud enough. “He let her carry it alone.”

Jaemin’s voice doesn’t rise. That’s what makes it worse. “You didn’t see how lost he was. You didn’t see the way he kept waiting—like every time the door opened, it might be her. Like he hadn’t already memorised the silence she left behind.” He leans back against the ledge, the weight of it all pressing into his spine. “You weren’t there when she said she couldn’t do this anymore, like it was a schedule conflict, not a relationship. Like it didn’t mean anything and then she disappeared. Blocked him out of a life he was still trying to fight for.” His jaw tightens. “But yeah. Keep acting like he’s the only one who walked away.”

Karina doesn’t flinch but her shoulders go rigid, eyes flashing under the rooftop haze. She laughs once, low and flat, the kind that tastes like something bitter left too long on the tongue. “Disappeared?” she echoes, voice clipped. “You make it sound so clean. Like she just vanished into thin air because she felt like it.” Her hand tightens around the paper cup, knuckles pale. “You think she didn’t try? You think she wasn’t clawing her way through that final month, begging for something to hold onto while he kept looking the other way?”

She looks at him then, sharp and level. “You weren’t there for all of it either, Jaemin. Don’t act like you were.” Her voice softens, not gentle, just quieter. “She didn’t leave because she stopped loving him. She left because staying was making her forget who she was.”

Jaemin laughs, low and joyless, the kind that scrapes at the edges of something he’s been holding in for too long. He leans back against the rooftop railing, exhales smoke through his nose like he’s burning off the weight of the conversation. “Karina,” he says, almost amused, “I was there. I lived in that apartment, remember? I saw it all—every slam of the door, every time she’d shut herself in the bedroom and he’d stare at the hallway like it might swallow him whole. Don’t tell me I didn’t see it.”

He gestures with the half-finished cigarette, then flicks the ash off the edge. “Listen, I love her. I love Jeno too but I’m so fucking tired of this narrative where he’s the only one who wrecked something. Like she didn’t push him away just as much. Like she didn’t look him in the eye and say shit that broke him open.”

His voice doesn’t rise, but it tightens, gains weight. “Yeah, he made bad calls. He shut down when she needed him. He let silence do the damage. But she—she left like it meant nothing. Like they didn’t build their whole college life around each other and maybe that was her way of surviving it, fine, maybe she had her reason but don’t stand here and act like one of them walked out unscathed.” He glances at Karina then, steady. “They both fucked it. Until they stop being so fucking stubborn and start owning that? This ends exactly where it is right now. Stuck.”

Jaemin scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair like the whole topic exhausts him. “They both fucked it,” he says again, voice flat. “So now he’s stuck playing house with Nahyun. Acting like he’s into her, like that whole influencer-preppy-sunshine-and-Sunday-brunch lifestyle actually makes sense for him. Like she doesn’t curate everything from the way she talks to the way she breathes. You think I don’t see through that? He looks like a guest in his own life.”

Jaemin flicks the cigarette out and glances back toward the stairwell, where the city hums below. “I can’t even have a conversation with her without wanting to claw my ears off. Everything’s ‘content’ and ‘collaboration’ and ‘let’s do a soft launch.’ God forbid she ever does anything real.”

Karina’s gaze drops to the gravel, lashes low, lips pressed into a line that looks too tired to argue, like she knows there’s truth in what he’s saying. Her thumb brushes over the rim of the paper cup. “I’m done talking about this.” Then she turns toward Hyuck, voice lightening just enough to pivot the energy. “Did you seriously eat all the macarons without offering me one, or are you just morally bankrupt?”

Jaemin doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives her is loaded—measured, a little sad, a little knowing. Karina sees it, feels it, and shakes her head before he can say what she knows he’s thinking. “I don’t hate him,” she says quietly, almost like it’s a confession. “I never have. I never will.” She breathes out a bitter laugh, one hand curling tighter around her cup. “God, I love that idiot. I do. That’s the problem. I love him and I was still there after, still saw what she looked like when she couldn’t even look at herself. You know how strong she is, Jaem. You know what it takes to break someone like her? And I watched it happen. Up close. It’s the most scared and worried I’ve ever been in my life.” Her phone’s already in her hand before she finishes speaking. She types something slowly—pauses, edits it once, twice—then finally hits send. 

karina — sorry for yelling earlier, i’m just stressed, you don’t deserve all of it. 

He likes the message in less than a minute. No reply. He never really replies to those kinds of texts. He’s used to it by now. She rolls her eyes, mutters ‘insufferable’ and immediately starts sending him twenty-seven photos of nearly identical ring designs with only the band thickness changed by millimetres. Every four minutes, a new message pings: this one? or this one? or maybe this?

By the time the fourth one goes through, he blocks her number. She shows Jaemin the screen with a deadpan expression. “Good. Coward.” Then she opens Instagram and messages him from her finsta.

Karina’s apartment sits five floors up in a building lined with limestone and ivy, where the brass intercom glints like old money and the elevator hums slowly, like it knows the kind of people who live here never rush. Just a few minutes from her studio, it’s tucked on a tree-lined street in SoHo, where the windows are taller than most people and the streetlamps glow honey at night. The entrance always smells faintly of bergamot and worn leather, and the keycode panel always needs to be pressed twice—once for frustration, once for luck.

Inside, it’s everything you’d imagine from her but softer. The ceilings rise high, moulded with delicate trim, and the walls are painted a muted ivory, not cold but clean, the kind of backdrop that lets everything else breathe. Her furniture’s all curved lines and velvet upholstery—blush and olive and slate, nothing loud but everything intentional. A glass coffee table reflects the light from the oversized arched window. Sketches are framed in soft gold along one wall, her early design drafts hung like memories she hasn’t let go of yet. The dining table is cluttered with fabric swatches, Pantone cards, a silver tray of espresso cups no one’s bothered to put away.

It smells like something warm—amber, neroli, the faintest trace of rose. There’s always music, usually instrumental, something Parisian or old-school R&B. The sound moves like it belongs here. The place is curated, no question but it doesn’t feel staged. Her heels are kicked off by the door. A robe hangs uneven on the bedroom handle. The lights are low and golden, spilling softly through the apartment like candlewax. It’s luxurious, yes. Glamorous but it’s lived-in, too—intimate in the way only true comfort can be.

There are only two bedrooms: Karina’s, and yours. Yes, yours. It’s never up for debate. Whenever you’re in New York for work, which is often now, this is where you stay. She keeps your favourite shampoo stocked in the en-suite, your preferred wine in the fridge. She bought new linen last time you extended your stay—“you deserve better than the old sheets,” she’d said, like it was nothing, like you were just coming home. There’s space in her wardrobe for your coats, your perfumes, your bad day sweaters. The doorman greets you by name. You don’t knock anymore. You don’t have to.

Donghyuck crashes in your room, the one that still smells like your perfume and has your old sweatshirt hanging off the bedpost like a relic. Jaemin takes the couch, half-heartedly, like he’s doing someone a favour by pretending. It’s always like this—until it isn’t because at 1:27 a.m., the hallway creaks and he’s there, bare-chested, knocking once on Karina’s door before letting himself in. She doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t explain. The moment it clicks shut, they’re already on each other, her back hitting the mattress as his hands find her thighs like he’s starved. The sheets twist beneath them, the room warming with every drag of breath and clench of muscle. It’s the kind of sex that makes guilt taste like sugar on the tongue. The kind that leaves her gasping his name into the crook of his neck, teeth scraping skin, trying to remember why she ever said this wouldn’t happen again.

Every time she finds herself like this—his cock thick inside her, hips snapping in that filthy, perfect way—she remembers that night. The night you walked in on them, hair wet from the shower, phone still in your hand, and looked at her like she was something you had to scrape off your shoe. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just told her, sharp and final. “You can’t be with him, Karina,” you’d said, voice low but firm, standing at the doorway with your towel-damp hair and disbelief written all over your face. “Jaemin is like Yangyang two years ago when he was with that girl from his psych class. Emotionally unstable. Sexually manipulative. You know what that means.” Your eyes didn’t flinch. “He’ll make you feel like he needs you. Then disappear the second you think it means something.”

And Karina had nodded—slow, guilty, like a kid being scolded, chin tilted down, shame flooding her chest. She never listened. Now, every time he’s inside her, she swears she can still hear it. Your voice. That warning. That truth. But she can’t stop. He’s too good. Too deep. Too much. His breath catches as she arches under him, nails clawing his back, lips parting in a whimper that turns into a plea. There’s nothing soft about this. Nothing gentle. It’s a high they chase with their eyes squeezed shut and mouths full of sin, the kind of sex that rips the air in half and stitches it back with sweat. The city’s pulsing outside her window, alive and filthy, but it’s the way he fucks her that makes her feel dirty. The way he groans when she clenches, the way he fucks her like she’s punishment for something neither of them can name.

They're late the next morning. So late. Karina’s dragging a garment bag down the sidewalk, Jaemin’s still tucking in his shirt, Donghyuck’s swearing at the Uber app. They end up sprinting through the subway, elbowing past early commuters, screaming at each other over missed stops and wrong exits. Karina throws her scarf at Jaemin when he makes a joke about how she moans louder than the train brakes. Donghyuck nearly leaves his suitcase on the platform. By some miracle—or sheer chaos—they make it to the airport just as final boarding is called.

The plane is too cold. Karina takes the window seat, Jaemin folds into the middle with a blanket already tucked around his legs, and Donghyuck throws himself into the aisle with a dramatic sigh. Karina leans her head on Jaemin’s shoulder, lets her eyes flutter shut. She’s just about to drift off when it happens. A scream. High-pitched. Girlish. Sharp enough to cut through the hum of the engine and make the flight attendant spin around. "No. No, no, no—"

Donghyuck is scrambling through his bag, tossing cables and socks and snacks. "Fuck. Fuck. It’s not here. It’s not fucking here."

Jaemin jolts upright. Karina lifts her head. Passengers are turning. "What’s not here?" she asks.

"The flash drive," Donghyuck breathes, already pale. "The wedding audio. The whole fucking tracklist. The cues. The fades. The custom vocal overlays. Gone. It’s gone."

He’s shaking. "You don’t get it. I can’t make it again. That took me weeks. I built motifs into that thing—motifs! You think that shit just happens? I layered audio frequencies with sound samples from the state championship video. I embedded her laugh between transitions. I engineered that playlist like it was a symphony and it’s fucking gone." The flight attendant approaches cautiously. Karina rubs her temple. Jaemin holds out the airline blanket like that might help and Donghyuck sits there, spiralling midair, whispering "motifs" like a prayer to the gods of lost data and wedding disasters.

At Charles de Gaulle, the departure gate to Tokyo feels like a pre-wedding reunion disguised as a boarding queue. The layover city is clinging to them—Paris perfume in their scarves, the buttery scent of croissants lingering in their hair, wine-happy smiles stretched soft by morning light. The layover wasn’t necessary, it could’ve been a direct flight but no one wanted that. The plan was always Paris—four hours on the ground, an excuse to breathe the same air again. An excuse for an early reunion because they missed each other more than they could admit over FaceTime. Jaemin, Karina, and Donghyuck step off the plane still shaking sleep and turbulence off their shoulders, hair messy, voices hoarse from the dry cabin air. Karina looks like she could fall asleep standing up. Jaemin’s hoodie is backwards. Donghyuck’s carrying three chargers and no phone.

They spot Chenle and Ningning in the lounge almost instantly—him with two cappuccinos in hand, her propped against a velvet armchair like she’s about to judge a red carpet. There are hugs—real ones, slow and grounding, the kind that press cheek to shoulder and stay there a second too long. The kind that smells like someone you used to nap next to in a dorm lounge, like familiar detergent and too much cologne dabbed on at duty-free. They hold on like they’ve needed this, like one year and a continent didn’t pass between the last time and now. It’s soft, easy, and a little breathless. No one says they missed each other. They don’t have to.

Donghyuck buries his face in Chenle’s shoulder like it’s the first inhale of oxygen after a dive. Because Chenle? Chenle is his last hope. He doesn’t even have to say it. Just pulls out his laptop, opens the scrambled mess of wedding audio scraps he’s been dreading, and tilts the screen toward him like a white flag. Chenle grins, cracks his knuckles, and mutters, “Let’s resurrect the dead.” Within seconds, they’re hunched over side-by-side in the corner of the lounge, headphones on, frowns matching. Rebuilding. Restitching. Remixing. Donghyuck’s wedding masterpiece might just survive after all.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒. 𝟒𝟖.𝟖𝟖𝟕𝟕° 𝐍, 𝟐.𝟑𝟑𝟐𝟎° 𝐄

Paris breathes in silk and exhales smoke. The city wakes slowly—cigarette ash on window ledges, espresso clinking in chipped porcelain, lace curtains stirring in the breeze off Rue Saint-Honoré. Somewhere a violin scrapes to life. Somewhere else, heels tap against cobblestone like punctuation. The sun doesn’t rise here, it slips—golden and suggestive, kissing rooftops before sliding down the Seine. In the 6th arrondissement, behind a wrought-iron balcony drenched in ivy, Chenle tosses his phone onto a velvet armchair and announces that the seating chart is “giving provincial peasant wedding” and must be redone immediately.

Ningning hums from the bed, one leg draped lazily over the edge of silk sheets, makeup half-finished, a half-full glass of Veuve balanced in hand like it’s been there for hours. The curtains are still drawn, streaks of morning light slipping through the gaps. They’ve spent the last four days drifting—hand in hand through cobbled alleys, tucked into café corners, skipping gallery showings on purpose just to stay in bed longer. This was their own pre-honeymoon: soft, indulgent, shamelessly tender. They took Paris slow. They kissed in bookstores. They danced in their hotel room with half-zipped dresses and shoes kicked off. No itinerary. No alarms. Just each other.

They still live in Seoul, nestled into a life they’ve built with quiet steadiness. Ningning teaches kindergarten now, and she carries the sweetness of it in everything—voice gentle, laughter full. Chenle juggles a few gigs, mostly in sports: part-time broadcast consulting, brand work, and lately, assistant coaching alongside Mark for the new generation of the Seoul Hill Ravens—high school level, though his feedback still sounds like post-game commentary. They’re always busy, always tired, but they’ve never let go of each other. Every time they link hands, it feels like starting again. Every night in Paris, it felt like proof. They’re going from strength to strength, still the loudest laugh at the dinner table, still finding new ways to love like it’s the first time.

Ningning boards first, sunglasses oversized, lips glossed, walking like the aisle is her runway. Chenle trails after her, a scarf thrown carelessly around his neck, already waving at the flight attendant like they’re old friends. Their fingers are laced. The getaway glow hasn’t worn off yet. Paris is still on them—in their hair, their perfume, the way they move. When the plane door seals shut, Chenle raises his glass to no one in particular and mutters, “To Seoul. Try to keep up.”

They still live in Seoul, but this trip wasn’t about home. It was indulgence, timing, desire—Paris for the hell of it, for the silk sheets and sunset rooftops, and now straight to Tokyo for the chaos. The moment Chenle spots Donghyuck near the cabin entrance, crouched and still rifling through his bag with the kind of desperation usually reserved for missing limbs, he sighs so loud the passengers behind him flinch.

“Oh God,” Chenle says, setting his luggage down with a thump. “He’s spiralling already.”

“I had it,” Donghyuck mutters, his voice muffled by fabric and failure. “I packed it. I swear I packed it.”

“The flash drive?” Chenle quirks a brow, stepping forward with theatrical calm. “The one with all the audio?”

Hyuck glances up, eyes wide. “Yes. My baby. My art. The whole fucking wedding depends on it.”

Chenle’s mouth twitches. “Then step aside, drama queen. I’m here now.”

Because of course he is. Chenle may have been sipping Châteauneuf-du-Pape in a Parisian hotel suite twelve hours ago, but he’s also the one who’s been quietly pulling strings the entire time. He’s the taste consultant, the palette snob, the one who called Irene personally to veto that “uncultured” lavender prosecco option. He FaceTimed daily from the 6th arrondissement to roast moodboards and rewrite seating charts. He’s personally curated the welcome gifts, chosen the wine list, and announced that the wedding cake must be “tasteful but with a ‘fuck-you’ twist.”

Now, as Hyuck looks like he’s about to combust, Chenle drops his bag onto the seat and rolls up his sleeves. “I’ll help you reconstruct it,” he says with the slow, terrifying calm of someone who’s better than you at everything. “We’ll work on it during the flight but if this ends up sounding like a K-drama intro, I will sue.”

Ningning, already seated with her legs tucked under her and a glass of orange juice in hand, turns her head and says, “He means it.” The plane fills with chatter and movement. Jaemin and Karina are laughing across the aisle. Hyuck is still panicking, but less now. Chenle is pulling out his laptop. The flight crew is shutting the overhead bins. They’re nearly all together now, scattered in rows and clusters, tucked into cabins with tangled history and crossed signals and long-running jokes. There’s a hum building in the cabin, a rising pressure, like something’s about to begin.

Tokyo is waiting.

𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐘𝐎. 𝟑𝟓.𝟔𝟔° 𝐍, 𝟏𝟑𝟗.𝟔𝟗° 𝐄

—𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

The villa sits like a whispered secret high in the quiet hills above Kyoto, wrapped in the kind of stillness that feels sacred—not religious but something deeper, something in the bones. Ancient cherry trees circle the stone perimeter like gentle guards, their spring petals drifting across cobbled paths and koi ponds in soft cascades, like ash or blessings, or both. The ponds themselves twist through the tiled courtyards in slow, serpentine ribbons—gold and orange flickers breaking the glassy surface every few seconds as if the water is alive. The rooftops are tiled in weathered slate, kissed each morning with fine threads of mist that curl through the air like incense in an old temple. It smells of cedar, sandalwood, and rain-polished stone, with something older threaded through it—like memory. 

This place was once the home of a reclusive artist couple, one known for never speaking in public and the other for sculpting from silence itself. Now, it stands reborn as the most exclusive wedding retreat in Japan, a restored ryokan infused with avant-garde luxury, modern only where it dares to be. The staff move like clockwork ghosts, barefoot in some corridors out of quiet reverence, tying silk ribbons around champagne flutes and steaming robes you didn’t request but already adore. Everything about this estate waits—for vows, for guests, for the exact moment it will become a memory. They say if you sit still long enough, you’ll hear the old floors exhale. You feel it already, before you’ve even walked in. The villa doesn’t hum—it holds its breath.

The estate is a labyrinth of polished wood, shadowed corners, and sunlit open spaces. The entrance opens to sweeping double doors draped in linen curtains that catch the wind like breath. Columns are wrapped in fairy lights, soft and golden, flickering even in daylight. A tray of chilled oshibori towels awaits each arrival, followed by champagne poured into tall flutes, condensation sliding down the glass like prayer. The central courtyard hums quietly with fountains and rustling petals, string lights criss-crossed above like constellations. Music plays from somewhere—an instrumental version of a love song you can’t place—and it never quite stops.

The main villa is the heart of it all, tucked between two koi-fed fountains and lined with ivy-draped pillars. It sprawls upward and sideways like something grown, not built—three split levels, all carved from warm cedar and framed with glass walls that bleed sunlight into every corridor. Rooms don’t line up cleanly here. They wind, loop, step up and duck low. There’s no elevator—just curved staircases, some wider than others, some so narrow they feel like secrets. It’s your job to organise them, to place each guest in their pocket of the villa like puzzle pieces. Your task list is longer than your limbs and yet somehow, you’ve taken on more. Some are easy. Irene and Doyoung in the master bridal suite, top floor, sea view. Mark and Areum, natural as breathing, tucked in the candlelit honeymoon suite they tried to protest until Irene shut them down with one look. Chenle and Ningning, of course, overlooking the pool in a suite that already smells like vanilla and mischief but others weren’t easy. You stared at the sheet for a long time when you saw Jeno’s RSVP marked “+1.” Nahyun. A soft, perfect tick. The name curled like ash on the screen. 

Yangyang made a joke then. Said after everything he’s done for you—everything he’s carried—he should get the honour of sleeping beside you. You laughed it off. Then said yes. Not because you meant to, not because you thought it would matter, but because the idea of sleeping alone while Jeno didn’t? You’ve had enough of cold beds and unanswered questions. The central courtyard room is yours now. Yangyang’s too. Practical, bright, and far from Jeno’s garden-view room across the other end of the villa. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

The layout is deliberate, even where it hurts. Irene and Doyoung in the suite at the top, a wraparound balcony staring directly into the sea. Seulgi and Taeyong tucked into a sleek guest room at the edge of the west wing. You and Yangyang in the central courtyard room—chosen for practicality, for light, for the fact that it was as far from Jeno’s garden-view room as the architecture would allow. Mark and Areum in the honeymoon suite, all candles and cotton-smooth linens. Chenle and Ningning’s room sits above the pool, twin sun loungers on a private terrace, string lights woven through the wooden rail. Shotaro and Ryujin share a tucked-away space above the old dance studio, barely big enough for their luggage but blessed with balcony access. Jaemin and Karina are posted right next to the bridal suite—though they’ve already swapped rooms three times for reasons no one dares ask. Hyuck? Basement level, just above the tech booth, a room no one else wanted. He loves it. Chenle did that on purpose.

The villa’s outdoor spaces are where everything breathes. The sakura-view pool bar is open all night, cocktails mixed by hand, each one named after something romantic and doomed. The onsen steams with cedar warmth, flanked by smooth rock and bamboo fencing, privacy folding in like a whisper. The rooftop terrace stretches long above it all—glass railings catching the sunset, low purple lighting giving everyone the kind of glow that turns memories cinematic. The staff refills glasses before they’re empty. The night hums. Always.

The ceremony spot wasn’t meant to be used. You found it yourself—an overgrown stone chapel ruin at the far edge of the estate, moss-drenched and half-forgotten, its altar cracked but still holy. There’s no roof, just sky, just rows of white chairs placed with reverence, each one facing the ocean where the horizon bleeds into the ceremony’s future. You stood there once, alone, and decided this was where the vows would happen. Irene never argued, she loved it immediately. No one visits the space now unless they’re led by you. The place they’ll end up, the place they’ll begin.

There’s a dance studio where Shotaro drills everyone in the group choreography. The mirrored walls sweat with effort. The floor creaks with determination, you’ve already stepped on someone’s toe, twice. There’s a reading room, too. Mark retreats there often, notebook open, pen in hand. He says it’s quiet, you think it’s his peace and then there’s the staff kitchen, where you and Yangyang meet at midnight over double shots of espresso, planning timelines, adjusting menus, arguing softly about ribbon lengths. There’s always something to fix.

The villa is alive with movement. People arriving, slipping into silk robes, changing shoes in the hallway, laughing from the garden path. The staff learn your name. They salute you when you pass. One of the waitresses already said you looked too stressed and offered you tea. You didn’t take it. You couldn’t because you had something to do. You always do because this place is perfect. This week will be perfect. You’ll make sure of it. Even if it breaks you. Especially if it breaks you.

The villa begins to bloom in phases—arrival by arrival, suitcase by suitcase, breath by breath. It begins with the lovestruck: Areum and Mark, sun-kissed and travel-worn, rolling up the gravel path like they own the place. Areum’s complaining about her sunburn, Mark’s pretending to listen but his hand won’t leave her waist. They move as one, effortless, that kind of intimacy built on years of rhythm and shared earphones. They move like a unit, comfortable in the way only people who’ve memorised each other’s body language can be. She chats with the waitstaff like old friends. He’s already halfway into checking the master vendor list Irene left on the welcome table. They came early under the guise of helping coordinate logistics, photography prep, and on-site walkthroughs—but really, they just wanted to be alone for a bit. To settle. To be here before everyone else.

A few days later, your team lands. The Seoul crew. The ones who feel like limbs of the same body, stretched across responsibility and history. You step out first—sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, earpiece chirping with updates. The humidity hits hard, bags thudding across gravel, Yangyang dropping his passport mid-check-in and blaming you for the chaos. “You made me carry your tote,” he hisses. 

“There were seventeen documents in there.” You don’t flinch. You’re already scanning the entrance, zeroing in on the cracked edge of the welcome fountain, the flower arch two inches too far to the left, the orientation signage slightly crooked. “Fix that,” you snap, pointing. “And get the linen swaps approved by tonight.” Shotaro jogs after a cart of guest name tags. Ryujin is already calling the head of security. Irene and Doyoung walk hand-in-hand like royalty. 

When Areum spots you, she pulls you into a hug like nothing’s changed but the moment your arms brush hers, the tension sinks in—old, sharp, unspoken. “We’ve barely slept,” she murmurs against your ear with a wink. “In a good way.” You pretend to laugh. Mark reaches for your bag before you can, always the helper, and you thank him with a quiet nod. 

Then, chaos. The New York trio and Paris duo touch down together in a flurry of gloss and exhaustion. The second they land, luggage wheels screech against marble and voices bounce off the glass like champagne flutes clinking too early. Hyuck is already yelling—something about never flying economy again, something about how Chenle slept through turbulence while he was clutching the armrest and writing his will. Jaemin’s trying to sort out their ride, holding Ningning’s duty-free bag in one hand and swatting Hyuck’s complaints away with the other. Chenle’s arguing with a very patient-looking shuttle driver, insisting that the temperature setting inside the van is “an insult to Parisian skincare standards.” Ningning strolls past them all, sunglasses massive, lip gloss perfect, dragging two wheelie bags like she’s on a runway. She doesn’t look tired. She looks expensive.

But none of that matters because then you see her. Karina. You don’t hear her at first—just the familiar click of heels across the polished floor, just the beat of silence before the chaos sharpens into something personal. And then she screams your name.“Y/N!”

Your bag drops before you even register your hands moving. She barrels into you at full speed, arms flung around your shoulders, perfume and exhaustion wrapping around you like a second skin. You stumble back from the force of it, laugh breaking out of your chest as she squeezes you tighter than anyone has in months.

“You bitch,” she’s saying, breathless and still hugging you. “You didn’t text me that you landed this early. You didn’t send outfit pics. You didn’t even warn me you were gonna look this hot—” She pulls back just enough to give you a once-over, eyes dragging from your glossed mouth to the slope of your waist, then whistles, low and sharp. “No, seriously. What the hell. You look like a Vogue cover and I look like a heatstroke victim in Balenciaga.”

“You look fine,” you say, cheeks flushed.

“I look exhausted,” she corrects, dramatic as ever. “You look like a heartbreaker dressed in linen. If this is your wedding week fit energy, I’m already terrified of what you’ll wear to the welcome dinner.”

“You should be,” you say, smirking.

She fake fans herself. “God. Don’t let any of the boys see you before I get a good pic first.” You’re still laughing when her arm links through yours, steps falling in sync like always. She tosses her bag toward Hyuck without even looking—he catches it with a dramatic groan—and leans into you like she’s been waiting to do this all year. “I’ve had three iced coffees and no real food since yesterday,” she whispers conspiratorially, her voice all grin and glitter. “Please tell me there’s wine at the villa.”

“There’s wine, there’s a stocked minibar, and there’s a team of butlers who keep bowing every time I sneeze.”

Karina clutches her chest like she’s about to cry. “Finally. A place that understands us.”

You both dissolve into another hug, swaying slightly like you’re dancing to a song only you can hear. It’s all giddy warmth, soft hands brushing at frizzy hair, whispered updates in half-sentences. She smells like rose oil and tiredness. You smell like sunscreen and wedding stress. It doesn’t matter. You fit. Like always.

“You didn’t tell me your hair was doing this.” She touches a curl, inspecting it like it’s a luxury garment. “Is this humidity or sorcery?”

“It’s both,” you say. “Mostly stress.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I haven’t eaten in sixteen hours.”

“Glowing,” she insists. “I stand by it.”

Behind her, Hyuck groans loud enough for the whole terminal to hear. “Jesus Christ, are you two gonna kiss or can we go?”

Jaemin rolls his eyes. “Let them have their reunion. God forbid women experience joy.”

Chenle waves a hand, still mid-argument. “Someone tell the driver to stop breathing hot air into the van. I’m serious.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just rolls his eyes, adjusts his sunglasses, and pivots like the whole conversation bored him. By the time you turn your head, he’s already halfway across the gravel, storming toward the villa kitchens with the speed of someone on a mission. “No,” he barks into his phone, then at the poor chef who steps out to greet him. “No, I said second-course, not final flourish. You can’t spring lavender ganache on people who think vanilla is spicy. Korean palates aren’t ready for that.” He gestures wildly at the dessert menus he printed in three fonts, stacked under one arm like war plans. “We’re trying to make memories, not start a riot.”

Karina doesn’t look away from you. “Have I told you how much I missed you?”

You grin. “Not enough.” She presses her cheek to your shoulder, and says, softly but seriously, “You’re not allowed to plan this wedding alone anymore.”

“Too late.”

“Well then,” she murmurs, eyes already scanning the exit. “Let’s cause problems on purpose.”

You glance up just as Jaemin steps away from the van, duffel slung low over one shoulder, his hair windswept from the descent and his sunglasses hooked lazily into the collar of his shirt. There’s a flicker in your expression that you don’t catch in time, a tremor beneath the practiced curve of your mouth. The smile you offer him isn’t cold, not quite but it’s distant—tempered by something brittle. A part of you still softens on instinct, still remembers the way he used to lean over your couch just to pass you your phone, still recalls the offhanded jokes he’d mumble when he could feel the tension building in the room between you and Jeno like a bruise.

Because he was there. For all of it. Not just the mess, but the aftermath. He saw the way you tried, that second time around—the way you stayed later, fought quieter, hoped harder. He saw you pacing the balcony with your voice breaking around words you didn’t mean. He saw Jeno, too. The way his hands shook sometimes, the way he stopped knowing how to reach for you and he never said it outright, never threw it in your face, but you know he carries the weight of those weeks like second skin. He remembers.

Still, what hurts more is that Jaemin never once stopped trying. Even when you flinched from him. Even when your replies came late and dry. He kept texting, he sent memes like nothing had changed. He forwarded you playlists you never opened. He made you promise: don’t punish me for it. Don’t leave me behind just because you don’t talk to him anymore. Please don’t see me as the damage. Please don’t let the way it ended mean we have to stop being friends. You’ve tried. You really have and he’s never pushed but being around him is like walking past a doorway to a room you locked yourself out of. You hug him anyway. His arms are familiar, warm, the squeeze a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to remind you that he’s still here. That he never picked a side even if Jeno is his best friend, that he still wants to mean something to you, even if he’s part of a chapter you refuse to reread.

Then he pulls away and takes Karina from your side with the ease of someone who’s already halfway gone, they’re already laughing, already moving toward their room, hands brushing, eyes low and hungry. That’s when Donghyuck sidles up to your side like he’s been waiting for your attention, water bottle clutched in one hand, his expression caught between disgust and secondhand trauma. “Next time,” he says flatly, “I’m booking separately. I’m serious.”

You arch a brow without turning. “Why?”

He gives you a look like you should know. “They keep fucking. Too much flirting. Too much moaning. I couldn’t sleep the night before because all I heard was ‘harder.’”

You groan. “I warned her.”

Donghyuck scoffs. “She warned me, said if I heard anything, I better shut the fuck up and pray.” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t pray hard enough.”

As the sky dims and the scent of the mountains thickens with evening dew, other guests start to arrive. Familiar faces. Doyoung’s childhood friends. Irene’s mother, dressed in periwinkle and pearls. Mark’s aunts with Tupperware full of dried fruit and unsolicited opinions. You even see a few college professors from the Neo Tech campus—Coach Suh among them. He greets you with a nod that says everything and nothing. You haven’t seen him since the night of the state championships. Since the night that cracked like a fault line, one truth split open, and the whole world fell through. The night that changed everything. 

Yangyang ticks off names beside you, chewing the end of your pen. “Only three left,” he murmurs, then hesitates. His eyes flick to yours. “Jeno, Nahyun, and Taeyong.” The names don’t echo. They sink. Behind you, Mark tenses, his jaw flexing once, twice. He doesn’t mask it. He’s furious. You can see it in the line of his shoulders, the way his hand curls slightly like he’s holding something back. Seulgi asked Irene to extend the invite, promising it would be the last time. You didn’t say anything, neither did he but you both know that Taeyong is coming. It felt like striking a match in a room you’d sealed shut, watching old demons blink awake in the smoke, stretching their limbs as if they’d only been napping, not buried.

There’s a reason. There’s always a reason. Seulgi’s divorce papers sit folded in the side pocket of her purse like a blade she’s been waiting to unsheath, months untouched but never forgotten. Her smile, practiced and polite, hasn’t reached her eyes since winter fell, the cold behind them permanent, a season she never left. She wants closure, yes, but more than that, she wants control; wants to stand at the edge of her old life and watch it crumble with grace. She wants him to see it—all of it—what it looks like when the world keeps turning without him, when the family he bruised learns to thrive in spite of the silence he left behind. Taeyong didn’t hesitate, he accepted the invitation like a man who’s never had anything to lose. He’s on the manifest, a ghost wrapped in skin, calm and composed, already haunting the villa before his shadow even reaches the gate.

Just like that, the villa is almost full—rooms humming with laughter and old stories, glasses clinking on terraces, luggage half-unzipped in hallways scented with cedar and champagne. Everyone arrived with sun on their skin and sleep in their eyes, ready to play their part, ready to pretend nothing’s fractured beneath the surface. The lists are printed, the vendors confirmed, the chapel waits. But some arrivals carry more weight than others. Some ghosts don’t need footsteps to be heard.

You feel it in the way conversation dips when the guest list nears its end, how even Yangyang’s voice falters for a second before he reads out the final three names. Nobody looks at you. Mark shifts his weight like something’s unsettled in his chest, Areum busies herself with the stem of her glass, twisting it slowly. The names aren’t said with surprise, but with caution. Like invoking them out loud might change the air. Taeyong. Jeno. Nahyun. The last shadows are still en route.

Their room is ready. The garden-view one at the far end of the west wing. The one farthest from yours. You made sure of it. You say it’s because of layout, because of logistics, because of light but deep down you know it’s because no matter how much you plan, no matter how many ribbons you tie or menus you finalise, there’s no spreadsheet for what it feels like when someone who used to know your skin better than you do walks back into the same air as you. It feels like pressing your palm to a mirror only to find it ice-cold—like the ghost of your own touch recoiling. Like standing in a house that used to be yours, only now the doors lock from the outside. Someone who once mapped your body like scripture, who kissed the bruises before they formed, is now just another stranger wearing your past like a tailored suit. They breathe your air like they earned it, like they didn’t leave claw marks on the walls when they went.

The villa is almost full, only ghosts remain. 

The rooftop is golden with the last light of day, the sky bleeding lavender and rose as the string lights above you sway with the wind. Karina’s crouched with her phone in hand, telling you both to stop laughing and stay still while Yangyang’s arm cinches tighter around your waist, chin nearly brushing your temple. You’re leaning into him, sun catching in your hair, the hem of your dress riding just a little too high on your thigh. You don’t care. You want this shot. You want this moment. Karina shouts something obscene about angles and lighting and how your collarbones look like they’re carved out of marble, and you throw your head back laughing, catching Yangyang’s grin when he looks down at you. You press closer. You know the villa’s full by now. You know he’ll arrive eventually. You just don’t expect that moment to be now. 

The shift isn’t visible—it’s felt. A change in the way the wind moves, in the way the lights overhead flicker once, twice, then settle. The laughter from below dulls, like someone pressed a mute button. The jazz near the koi pond stutters, almost like it loses tempo for a beat. You feel it like a current in your spine. Your laughter fades. Yangyang turns his head. You don’t have to look. You already know. The villa stills when the car pulls in. Sleek. Black. Engine humming like it knows it’s about to break something. The tires kiss the gravel like silk on skin, too smooth to be anything but a performance. Then the door opens. First: him.

Jeno steps out slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world—measured, unbothered, steady in that way only someone who knows they’ll be noticed can move. There's a quiet, assured rhythm of someone used to gravity bending a little when he walks. The NBA has treated him well—too well. His arms are thick with muscle, tan skin stretched tight over bone and tendon and effort. His loose slacks fall just right over his thighs, soft fabric brushing sculpted lines that have only sharpened since college. He wears a sleeveless knit, collar open, top button undone like an invitation he doesn’t plan to follow through on. His sunglasses sit low, eyes unreadable, jaw set, face quiet. His body doesn’t ask to be noticed. It just is.

Nahyun exits behind him, just as polished. A vision in pale silk, the back of her dress dipped low, spine bare, glimmering with perfume and purpose. Her heels tap the stones like punctuation, each step intentional. Her hair’s twisted up in a knot so perfect it doesn’t look real. She glances up from her phone only once, offering a gracious smile to the waiting staff, elegant and effortless. Their hands are joined, fingers laced. It’s too intimate, too neat. He doesn’t lean into it but doesn’t resist either. They walk like actors on cue—beautiful, bitter, and rehearsed.

You’re still on the rooftop when it happens. Karina’s mid-laugh, her finger pressed halfway to the shutter button, and then she stills like the wind’s been cut. The atmosphere tightens. You lower your glass without realising, the stem sweating in your grip, your breath caught halfway up your throat. Yangyang shifts beside you but doesn’t say anything, his hand brushing your hip like a tether and below, Jeno steps out into the courtyard—and tilts his head. Just slightly. Just enough. There’s no logical reason he should know where you are. No line of sight, no sound, no signal but his chin lifts like he’s tracking heat, like his body senses you the way it senses pressure, the way your name still lives in his spine. It’s not a glance, it’s a pull. It’s a force stronger than gravity, it’s instinct, like the muscle memory of being inside you and knowing exactly where your pulse thrums the loudest.

He doesn’t look around, not at the guests, not at the staff or even at the girl still clutching his hand but his eyes drag once—slow, deliberate—up the left side of the villa, over the eaves, and past the lanterns. To the roof. To you. It’s a fraction of a second, a flicker so fast you could pretend it didn’t happen but you feel it. In your chest. Between your thighs. In the sharp catch of your breath that tastes like wine and regret. He looks for you like it’s a habit he never unlearned. Like if he just scans the horizon long enough, he’ll find the one thing that ever made sense. He hasn’t seen you in months but he lifts his head like if he listens hard enough, he’ll hear the last time you begged for him in the dark and it does something to you. Something you don’t let show, but it drips down your spine like sweat. It fills your mouth with heat. Your thighs press tighter together, your breath unsteady because even now — especially now — his body still knows what it craves. 

That pull across space, it locks in your gut like your name just got whispered by something with teeth. You’ve felt his gaze a thousand times before—bare, holy, sinful—but this? This feels like exposure. Like violation. Like his eyes crawl under your dress and drag old versions of you to the surface. His stare is sharp and black and unearned, and still it finds you. You hate the way it feels, like a dare, like an invitation to burn. Like all the worst parts of you want to be seen by him and only him. His eyes don’t plead, they possess. They scrape down your spine like memory turned feral. You want to turn away, you want to hold it. You want to bite down on it and taste blood. Because fuck, even now—when you’re supposed to be over him, past him, better than him—his gaze still makes you feel like you’d ruin everything just to have him between your legs one last time.

He keeps walking. Yangyang sees it all in your jaw, the way you bite down on your tongue, the tremor in your wrist. He shifts a little closer, doesn’t touch you but grounds you. Karina doesn’t speak either. She just lowers her phone, mouth pressed tight, hand hovering near your elbow in case you fall because this is what falling looks like. This is what memory does when it walks back into your life holding someone else’s hand.

And Jeno? He keeps walking even when the sky darkens behind him. 

He doesn’t move like someone searching for attention, but he’s always noticed now. It starts quiet — staff bowing a little deeper when they realize who he is, their eyes catching on him for just a second longer than they should. A few younger guests murmur his name like a secret, glancing between him and each other as if confirming he’s real but outside the estate, it’s sharper. Taxi drivers double-take. Locals stop walking just to watch him pass. At a corner café the day before, a teenage girl asked for a photo with trembling hands, telling him through a stammer how much she loves the Typhoons. How that game — his game — changed everything because it did. His name still means something, his face even more. He doesn’t play like anyone else. He doesn’t move like anyone else. There’s more weight to him now. He’s not just the boy who wore the Raven jersey like a second skin, he’s Seoul’s breakthrough. The one rising through the NBA like he was built for it. Every analyst watches him now. Every article speculates what he’ll do next. He feels that pressure even here, even now — especially here, because here is where he remembers who he used to be. Who he was when you loved him.

They walk side by side, fingers laced, her smile leading and his silence trailing close behind. Mark sees him first and it only takes a second before he moves forward. His hug is firm, a back-pat, a chin-tuck, a breathless murmur that sounds almost like relief. “You look good,” Mark says. 

Jeno nods once. “You too.” It’s simple yet heavy. It’s enough. 

Jaemin appears next, all lazy grins and wide arms and pulls Jeno into a hug that ends with ruffled hair and Jeno batting him off with a half-smile. “You owe me a drink,” Jaemin teases. 

“I’ll buy the whole bar,” Jeno answers.

Chenle doesn’t even finish his sentence before calling out, “Look who finally showed up!” He bounds over, wraps Jeno into a dramatic spin, and ends with him in a headlock. “My favorite Lee.” 

Jeno tries to protest, laughing into the hold. “You say that to Mark too.” 

“And I mean it less every time,” Chenle deadpans.

Doyoung’s hug is quieter. Older. There’s a pause in it, a kind of forgiveness Jeno doesn’t know how to accept, but doesn’t want to refuse either. “We missed you, son,” he says, with that same gentleness he’s always reserved for the boys who grew up too fast. 

Irene kisses his cheek, her perfume floral and faintly familiar, and smiles like she’s been holding a worry too long. It’s polished, practiced, the way she touches his arm and tucks her silence into a kind word. “Don’t you dare disappear again,” she murmurs. 

Jeno nods. “I won’t.” But the words feel like they belong to someone else. Because her hand drops too quickly. Because she turns away before he’s ready because something in her warmth doesn’t quite reach where it always does with her. 

Later that evening, the night air wraps around the villa like silk pulled too tight, warm and taut and humming with the remains of the day. Lanterns flicker low over carved wood beams, casting soft orange light over the terrace walls, and the koi pond murmurs below like it’s trying to distract you. There’s music playing through the villa’s speakers, something jazzy and slow and indulgent. Karina’s slouched across a beanbag near the fire pit, bare legs stretched out, her champagne bottle resting between her knees, breath sticky with laughter from some story she half-finished telling. Yangyang leans on the terrace railing, one foot braced against the wood, scrolling through the schedule on his phone, wedding lanyard still looped loose around his neck. You sit on the cushioned bench by the edge, drink in hand, legs curled underneath you, the hem of your linen dress tucked around your ankles. It should feel like a pause. A break. A soft place to land before the next rehearsal begins. But your fingers keep curling around the stem of your glass too tightly. Your laughter doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

He doesn’t come with sound at first, he comes with silence, a kind that folds in on itself, sharper than any noise. The music doesn’t stop but it dulls in your ears. Karina falters mid sentence. Yangyang lowers his phone. Your pulse climbs to your throat and stays there, caught. The door behind you groans open, slow and deliberate, like wood dragged across memory and then he walks in.

There’s no one else with Jeno, not this time, no Nahyun on his arm. No excuse. No shield. Just him, freshly showered, the collar of his white shirt slightly damp where it clings to his chest, sleeves rolled high on his forearms, droplets still gleaming along the line of his neck. His hair is wet, pushed back with fingers, still drying in soft waves that catch the lantern light. He moves like he doesn’t need permission, like the air parts for him without asking. He doesn’t look around much, not at first but the second he sees you, his body shifts, like muscle memory clicking into place. He pauses. Hand in his pocket. Jaw tight. The lines of his arms drawn like tension wound into skin. 

You forget to breathe. Your chest pulls too tightly, like there’s not enough space between your ribs, and everything you’ve been holding down claws its way to the surface. There’s no logic to the way your body moves — only instinct. You’re standing now. You don’t remember getting up, you don’t say his name and he doesn’t say yours. The distance between you and him stretches like a rubber band seconds from snapping.

Karina moves first, always the buffer. She moves toward him with that loose, affectionate sway she always had, grinning as she wraps her arms around his shoulders. “Well, finally,” she says, soft and teasing, like the air hasn’t dropped ten degrees since he walked in. Jeno hugs her back. It’s quick, but there’s something real in it. His hand lingers on her back for a beat too long. 

Yangyang doesn’t move at first, he just studies Jeno from across the terrace with a gaze so flat it could pass for indifference but it isn’t. It’s distance measured in nights spent helping you pick yourself off the floor, in the silence he sat through when you couldn’t speak, in the things he saw and didn’t say. He was there when it all collapsed, when the foundation cracked and you fell through it. He held you through it, cleaned up the mess. He never needed an explanation. He just stayed. And now, as Jeno stands there like a shadow resurrected, Yangyang tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to decide if it’s even worth moving.

Eventually, he does step forward, slow and stiff, and the hug that follows is brief, one arm, one tap on the back, no weight behind it. When they pull apart, Yangyang’s mouth is set in a tight line, his voice clipped. “You’re here,” he says, without inflection. It lands heavy. Like a fact more than a greeting. 

Jeno’s reply is quiet, almost reluctant. “Yeah.” 

Then it’s you and the world stops beating.

You don’t move closer but your eyes find each other in the dark like magnets pulled by something old and buried. His mouth opens slightly, not to smile but to say something, anything. He hesitates. You see it in the way his shoulders roll back, like he’s trying to anchor himself. You hate that you can still read that. You hate that it still hurts. You hate that you’re still watching him like you never stopped. The light catches in his lashes. His eyes are darker than you remember and deeper. Like if you fall in now, you’ll drown properly this time.

Karina glances between you both, mouth twisted with second hand tension. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters under her breath, reaching for the nearest bottle. “I need another drink.”

Jeno leans forward slightly, jaw twitching. “Can we—”

“No,” you whisper.

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t let yourself sound angry. You’re just exhausted, hollowed out and he hears it.

He nods once. Sharp. Hurt flashes behind his eyes but he tucks it away quickly, turning without another word then he leaves.

Just like that. Like it’s too late to fix anything. Like he knows he ruined it. Like he knows he lost it.

Karina wraps her arm around your waist as your body stills, breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. Yangyang moves to the side, grabs the strongest bottle in reach, and wordlessly places it in your hand. No one says anything. The silence he leaves behind is louder than any apology.

The garden terrace is dressed like a dream you don’t trust. Lanterns hang low from strings woven through cherry trees, casting golden light across the stone floor and dappled tablecloths. It’s the lantern grove tonight—a secluded, overgrown alcove nestled behind the oldest part of the villa, where wild ivy crawls up obsidian stone and the koi pond flickers with reflections of flame. The space feels half-sacred, half-forgotten, like a secret inherited rather than built. Branches arch overhead in a delicate canopy, hung with paper lanterns that sway gently in the breeze, their golden light dancing across polished tableware and whispered glances. Cherry blossoms fall intermittently, catching in wine glasses and silk sleeves, drifting like confessions no one dares speak aloud. The long dining table stretches beneath it all, clothed in soft linen, place cards etched in gold ink, menus hand-folded beside engraved name tags. Everything looks perfect, feels rehearsed but there’s tension in the way people sit—who they face, who they don’t. The air is too quiet in places, the smiles are too bright. It’s a dinner made for toasts and celebration, but something in the atmosphere says otherwise. Something says watch carefully, someone here is lying.

The path to your seat feels longer than it should. Your heels click too loud against the tile. Someone’s laughing, Chenle, probably, but the sound doesn’t reach you right. Karina’s already seated when you arrive, draped across her chair like silk, drink in hand, flashing a grin that feels like armour. Yangyang slides a chair back for you, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary, and you let yourself exhale as you sit.

The atmosphere is warm. Toasted. A little too golden, like a picture waiting to be ruined. The laughter hums under the clink of porcelain, wine spills smoothly into glasses, and your place at the center-right of the table becomes your fortress. You take in the glow, the shadows, the lull of music over breath because somewhere in your ribs, you already know this night won’t stay soft for long. The tension hasn’t arrived yet, but it’s dressed and on its way. You feel it. Like weather. Like prophecy. Like breath caught in the throat of spring.

The dinner table stretches long and uninterrupted, ivory linen clinging to the edges, crystal glassware lined like expectation. There’s laughter, clinking, the smell of jasmine and grilled lemon and something sweet still cooling behind the folding screens. Someone says the menu was curated by a Michelin chef, you haven’t tasted anything yet. 

You feel him before you see him, the shift in the air like a storm choosing its target, heat coiling low in your stomach, too sudden to name. Your spine locks, your breath shortens, and your hand stills mid-air above your plate, the fork glinting untouched. Your pulse betrays you first, thrumming too fast against your collarbone, beneath the delicate chain you haven’t taken off since winter and then, before your brain can catch up, your fingers move, like instinct, muscle memory, panic disguised as poise, smoothing your already-perfect hair like you’re shielding yourself from something you don’t want to admit you’ve been waiting for. Yangyang catches it. His eyes flick toward the entrance, sharp, scanning, while yours lag behind in a hesitation that’s not hesitation at all—it’s dread, recognition, inevitability dressed up in pearls and silk.

Jeno walks in with Nahyun, her hand looped through his, delicate and purposeful. He wears a cream shirt, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled like someone who doesn’t have to try to look like that. His pants hang off his hips with the kind of effortless precision stylists spend hours crafting. His skin is golden, burnished under the lamplight, his collarbones catching shadows just right. Sunglasses tucked into his shirt, hair slightly damp, a glint of silver at his wrist. He doesn’t look at you but his presence rolls through the room like thunder on velvet. He’s not smiling, he doesn’t need to. The staff bow a little lower. A couple of younger guests glance at him, elbow each other, whisper his name like they’re not sure if it’s really him.

Nahyun’s in a pale, backless slip dress, the silk moving like water across her spine. Her heels click with every step, mouth curved into a pleasant smile as she thanks the waiter leading them toward their seats. She doesn’t cling but she doesn’t let go either. Jeno’s hand doesn’t just hold Nahyun’s—it moves. Slides down her spine as they walk, slow and deliberate, his palm skimming the edge of her exposed back like he’s tracing something only he can see. The silk shifts under his fingers, nearly slipping off her shoulder, but he catches it before it falls, thumb grazing skin. She leans in to murmur something, soft and playful, and he nods without answering, eyes still scanning the table, still searching but his hand doesn't leave her. It drops to her waist, fingers pressing lightly through the fabric like he’s staking a claim. There’s something possessive in the way he guides her to the seat beside him—low, practiced, not rough but not gentle either. Like a signal. Like he knows eyes are on them and he wants them to see. When she sits, he bends to whisper in her ear, something that makes her laugh too sweetly, tilting her head just enough to expose her throat. His lips don’t touch her skin but they hover. Close enough to sting. Close enough to burn.

You’re in black tonight—midnight silk that pools at your feet like smoke, sleeveless with a high neckline that kisses your collarbones and leaves your back bare in a whisper of defiance. The fabric is cut to precision, soft enough to move with you, structured enough to remind people you built this whole damn wedding. Under the golden flicker of lanterns, the dress catches a faint sapphire hue when you shift, like bruised light, like something sacred and dangerous. Your hair’s swept up, twisted and pinned with sharp elegance, a few soft strands left loose to frame your face the way you like. Your earrings glint when you tilt your head. Your lipstick is barely there—just the right stain to make someone wonder how it got smudged.

Yangyang sits beside you, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled just high enough to show the veins in his forearms when he reaches for his drink. His tan is deeper than usual, and there’s a calm to him tonight, the kind of calm that doesn’t beg for attention but commands it. He doesn’t hover, doesn’t speak unless he has to, but his eyes track every shift around the table like he’s reading a room full of wires, knowing exactly which one might spark next. When you tense—when your breath slows, eyes narrowing slightly across the table—his hand finds yours under the cloth without needing to ask. His fingers are warm, palm grounding, thumb brushing just once over your knuckle before going still. You don’t pull away. You let him. Your grip tightens once, the smallest tremor, a silent thank you or a plea. 

Neither of you says a word. You just sit together but alone, perfectly poised in your silence—while across the table, the man you bled for, defended, protected, almost destroyed yourself to save, sits beside another woman and watches you like he doesn’t remember any of it. Like he wasn’t the one whose knees you’ve buckled, whose moans you memorised, whose name once shook loose from your throat like a promise. Like he didn’t make you a sinner first, kissing you like confession, leaving like punishment, and now dares to track every motion of your body like he still has the right to know how it moves without him.

Dinner starts slow, tension simmering beneath the silverware. The menu is elegance embodied—grilled sea bass laid delicately over yuzu risotto, the edges seared just enough to flake, the scent tangy and soft. Blistered tomatoes burst on the side, sweet against cracked black pepper and greens crisped in sesame oil. There’s a drizzle of honeyed soy running through everything, catching on pear slices that gleam like glass under the lantern light. Every bite tastes like restraint. Like no one at the table is really eating for hunger. Plates clink gently. Glasses catch condensation. You raise your fork and keep your spine straight, eyes trained on your food, mouth full of silence. You don’t speak—but he watches. And it’s not the food that’s making you warm.

The wine makes its way down the table like a slow, deliberate secret—hands passing it with practiced ease, laughter bubbling on either side, but your focus narrows the moment it nears. You reach without hesitation, fingers brushing the dark green bottle just as he does. Skin meets skin. Not soft, not by accident. It’s friction laced with everything unsaid. Heat coils where his knuckles graze yours, the kind that shoots up your arm and locks behind your ribs, unmistakable and immediate. He doesn’t flinch, just holds your stare for the briefest, blistering second, and it’s like everything else fades—the conversation, the clink of cutlery, the hum of cicadas layered into the jazz. Jeno’s hand is warm. Familiar. Too familiar. Like your name still lives there. Yangyang notices, of course he does—his hand pauses mid-reach, his eyes flick between you and the point of contact before flicking away, jaw tightening as he pretends it means nothing. You break first. Your fingers slip back around your glass like a shield, the bottle passed on with a careful smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. Jeno doesn’t pour himself a drink, he just leaves his hand resting on the table, palm down, like he’s still feeling the imprint of yours.

Nahyun leans into him, shoulder brushing his as she murmurs something just low enough to make you strain to hear. You don’t catch the words, not clearly—just the low murmur of her voice, thick with something soft and intimate, the kind of tone that doesn’t belong at a public table. She leans in closer, smiling like she’s whispering a secret, and Jeno doesn’t move away. His head dips slightly, just enough to meet her gaze, and that’s when she reaches out. Fingers slow, deliberate, she brushes the edge of his lip with her thumb, swiping something away—her lipstick, probably, a faint smudge she left behind when she got too close. It’s the kind of gesture that shouldn’t mean anything, not really, but it slices anyway. Not because of what she does, but because of what you remember. Because you’ve done it before. In darker light, in private moments when it was only your hand against his skin, only your touch he let linger. You don’t look away, but you feel the weight of it settle behind your ribs. Your jaw sets, your fingers curl tighter around the stem of your wine glass, and Karina glances at you like she’s waiting for a reaction you refuse to give. Yangyang doesn’t speak, but his hand grazes yours under the table, grounding you—or trying to. You don’t respond. Jeno doesn’t even flinch. He lets Nahyun clean his mouth like it’s nothing, like it’s natural, like your mouth was never there first.

There’s a chair further down the table. Empty, but loud in its stillness. The name card beside the charger plate reads Taeyong Lee, handwritten in calligraphy so delicate it looks like it might bleed off the page. The wine glass beside it is full. Untouched. You noticed it the moment you sat down. So did Mark—he hasn’t looked at it again since. Seulgi keeps glancing toward it between bites she never takes. Her plate remains full, her knife and fork untouched, laid perfectly parallel. Conversation tapers slightly every time someone’s eyes drift toward that spot, the one seat no one’s willing to ask about. Finally, Seulgi offers it herself—softly, like she’s trying to smooth something over. “He’ll be joining us later,” she says, voice calm and carefully blank.

But no one really believes it because it’s not just a seat—it’s history. It’s everything that was broken and never fixed. The way her voice doesn’t lift at the end gives it away. The way Doyoung doesn’t echo the sentiment. The way Irene stares too long at her plate, and Mark swirls his wine instead of sipping it. Everyone knows Taeyong isn’t coming—not because he can’t, but because he shouldn’t. Not after the fallout, not after what he did. The wine doesn’t sweat. The candle doesn’t flicker. It’s as if even the air knew not to expect him.

The pause stretches too long. Conversation thins, laughter dims, and somewhere in the middle of the table, a fork settles too gently against a plate, the sound too careful to be natural. No one speaks, not even Chenle. You can feel it—something waiting to happen, something shifting behind the candlelight. Then Irene shifts in her seat. It’s the smallest motion, a turn of the wrist, a glance toward the valley view behind her but it feels choreographed. Like she’s been waiting for the perfect cue. Her glass rises slowly, deliberate, fingers poised like she’s holding a string between everyone at the table. Her smile is soft, glowing, a little too polished to be real. Like a mask worn so long it’s started to fit.

“Well,” Irene says, her voice smooth and lilting, glass raised just high enough to command attention, “we’ve enjoyed the view, the food, the company but before we all head off to bed, I think it’s only right we acknowledge the one person who’s made this entire week possible.” Her eyes find yours across the table, unwavering, affectionate, but with an edge of finality—like she’s already decided. “The girl who’s been working nonstop behind the scenes. Every schedule, every detail, every little moment we’ve enjoyed, she’s the one we owe it to.” A gentle hum of agreement ripples down the table. “She’s barely slept. She’s handled it all and this wedding wouldn’t be what it is without her.” Irene smiles, soft but certain, and tips her glass a little higher. “Come on, sweetheart. Say a few words.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. It’s practiced, too smooth, the kind of expression that stretches over nerves without hiding them. Your fingers curl slightly around your napkin, knuckles whitening just enough to betray the spike in your pulse. You hadn’t planned this. You’ve planned everything else—down to the second seating arrangements, the floral timings, the wine deliveries. But this? This moment, this sudden spotlight? You hadn’t accounted for it. Not with him sitting three chairs down, not with Nahyun’s hand still resting on his thigh like she belongs there. Your stomach twists. You nod once, slow, and stand with the grace that’s always saved you, even now, even when your heart’s stumbling over its next beat. There’s a buzz behind your ears. You can feel every pair of eyes on you. Especially his.

You raise your glass slowly, but your voice doesn’t follow right away. There’s a flicker behind your ribs, something sharp and unwelcome, like memory biting down. You smooth your expression before the pause becomes noticeable. “It’s not easy,” you start, voice clear, controlled, though your pulse is anything but, “to bring this many hearts from this many histories into one place. Into one week. Into one room but when it’s right—when it matters—love has a strange way of making the world smaller. It pulls us closer. Makes the impossible feel manageable.”

You glance toward Irene and Doyoung, your tone softening. “To our couple: may the life you build be louder than any doubt, kinder than any past, and longer than whatever tried to keep you apart. You remind us that something lasting doesn’t have to start easy—it just has to start real.” There’s warmth in the room. For a moment, it feels safe.

“And to the rest of us,” you continue, and here, your voice wavers—not audibly, but in its bones. In its breath. “To what we carry. To the kind of love that doesn’t get the ceremony, the rings, the timeline. The kind that shifts. That changes form but not meaning. To old friends, to unfinished conversations. To the people who show up—years later, or not at all—but who never quite leave.”

Your eyes sweep the table, you don’t look at him. Not deliberately but your gaze catches. On a glass gripped too tightly, a jaw too still, a face you used to love in the dark. Your voice finds its edge again. “To love,” you say, “in all its shapes. The kind that stays. The kind that burns. The kind that leaves without warning, but never without trace and to the parts of ourselves we gave away hoping they’d be safe in someone else’s hands.”

The silence after the toast isn’t kind. It doesn’t soften the edges or offer relief. It lingers, sharp and sour, like the moment before a glass hits the floor. You sit before the applause can start, before your body betrays you further. Your legs ache from how long you stood, your palms still damp with tension. You can’t hear anything but your own pulse. The stem of your wine glass trembles when you touch it.

Jeno hasn’t moved since you started speaking. His fingers curl loosely around the base of his glass, but it stays on the table. Untouched. No toast. No gesture. No performance. Just stillness. His eyes are low, shadowed, unreadable but his jaw is set, and his chest rises once, sharply, like something inside him cracked. The clinking around him doesn’t register. The voices blur. It’s as if he’s listening to something only he can hear, something you didn’t say out loud, something you both still remember. He doesn’t drink or blink, he just watches the rim of his glass like it might shatter.

You’re reaching for your glass again when Doyoung shifts at the head of the table, his grin light but his eyes glinting with intent. “Well,” he says, raising his own wine, “we’ve got an NBA star in the house. Come on, Jeno, give us a few words.”

Jeno doesn’t refuse or blink. He stands like it costs him nothing, like attention isn’t something he fears but something he’s already familiar with, something that’s been following him since he was twelve and first learned how to make a crowd hold its breath. The chair legs barely scrape the floor—low, smooth, like they know better than to disrupt him. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, a quiet kind of power that doesn’t need volume to be felt. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t adjust his collar, doesn’t clear his throat like the others have. He just lets the silence settle around him and then lifts his gaze. It travels slowly down the length of the table—not to search, not to measure, but to make sure everyone feels it. His confidence isn’t in the way he holds himself. It’s in the way he doesn’t need to. When he speaks, it’s soft. Not uncertain, not shy. Just precise. Measured like breath held underwater. Smooth enough to feel like a lie. Controlled enough to make your stomach twist.

“I wasn’t planning on saying anything,” he starts, voice low but steady. “Never been good with speeches. Or… words, in general.” A dry chuckle flickers from Donghyuck. “But I’ve been thinking a lot about loyalty lately, about what a team means, about growth. About what it means to lose, what it means to keep going anyway.”

“Sometimes you lose games,” Jeno says, barely more than a murmur now. “Sometimes… you lose people. Either way, you learn how to keep playing.” He glances once toward doyoung. “I don’t have the right words. Maybe I never did. But this—” he lifts a hand slightly, gesturing toward the table, the lights, the collective breath of the evening— “this feels like something worth remembering. So… thanks. For letting me be part of it.”

Soft. Too soft. Reflective in a way that feels rehearsed, like he’s walked this tightrope before—just enough heart to stir the table, just enough restraint to twist the knife where it counts. It’s designed to win them back, and it does. But not you. Not with the way his voice lingers in your chest like a bruise blooming backwards. You raise your glass with trembling grace, press it to your lips like it’ll steady you, and let the wine slice down your throat while your silence tastes too much like his name to swallow clean.

As soon as Jeno sits down, it’s evident that Nahyun is trying way too hard. You see it in the way her hand flutters like clockwork, napkin rising to blot the corner of mouth even when there’s nothing there. In how she keeps reaching to top up his glass before it’s even half-empty, wrist brushing his arm like she wants it to mean something. Her hand slips under the table once, slow and searching, but he doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t shift closer. Just nods politely at something she says and keeps his eyes moving—scanning the room, the table, until they land where they always do. On you. Not for long. Just enough to hollow you out.

When she leans in mid-toast, mouth tilted toward his cheek, he turns his head slightly and the kiss lands closer to his jaw. It doesn’t look accidental. Her smile thins. By dessert, she snaps beneath her breath—sharp, desperate. “At least pretend you want me here.” But he doesn’t answer. Not with words. Just presses his lips together and reaches for his fork, like silence will protect them both.

Further down the table, Seulgi still hasn’t touched her food but she watches. She doesn’t acknowledge Nahyun outright—never would. Still, when the girl laughs too loudly or touches Jeno’s shoulder with fingers a little too possessive, Seulgi’s wine glass rises slowly, her lips taut around its edge, her eyes cool as moonlight. Later, when Nahyun lifts the wine bottle again, offering it down the line, her voice a little too high, a little too chirped—Seulgi doesn’t blink. “Careful, sweetheart,” she murmurs, syrup-thick, watching the red tip into Nahyun’s glass. “Some things spill easily when they’re too full.” Nahyun’s hand stills mid-pour. The bottle hovers for a second. Then she sets it back down without meeting her eyes.

A beat passes. Seulgi folds her napkin over her lap. “You might want to pace yourself,” she adds, light as air, like it’s a suggestion but her smile shines too hard, teeth like a warning behind satin gloves. “It’s a long week.”

You try not to look at him, you really do but he’s everywhere, in the way his glass clicks softly against the table, in the low tenor of his laugh when someone else earns it, in the quiet burn of his stare every time you almost find peace. So you anchor yourself in what you can.

Karina and Jaemin are the first distraction. They sit to your left, too close to be casual, too much tension crackling between them to ignore. Her dress is slit high up her thigh, silk clinging with every movement; his shirt is unbuttoned low, collar askew, skin damp where the lantern light hits it. They pretend not to notice the way their knees press under the table, the way their shoulders brush when she leans in. He feeds her something off his plate, a piece of grilled peach glazed in balsamic and you see Jeno watch it happen. See his brow lift, unreadable. Karina reaches behind your back, grabs a napkin she doesn’t need, and murmurs in your ear, “I swear to God, if he stares at you one more time…” Later, when Jaemin stands to walk her back inside, your eyes trail after them without thinking and that’s when it happens again. Jeno’s gaze. Quiet. Sharpened. Watching you watch someone else. You could frame it however you like, possessiveness, pettiness, something shallow and selfish but the truth is, you’ve been stealing glances all night too. You’re no better. You’ve measured the slope of his shoulders beneath that shirt like it matters, like you don’t still know how they feel caged under your palms. You’ve traced the line of his throat when he swallows. Watched his lips curve, twitch, still. You’ve counted how many times he shifts in his seat, you could pretend it’s nothing. and that it's a memory, muscle and instinct but you keep looking. Not because you want him to see but because for some awful reason, part of you still needs to.

Then there’s Mark and Areum. Softer, sweeter. The kind of love that steadies you if you let it. Areum keeps leaning into Mark, tucking her hand over his as he drinks, smiling like she’s memorised him but you see what others don’t. The way Mark keeps glancing across the table. How his shoulders stiffen whenever you shift in your seat. He's always been protective. When you finally push your chair back because you can’t take the wine, the silk, the sweat down your spine for one more second, it’s his eyes that meet yours first. Concern, soft and unsaid. He moves like he might stand too but stops when you silently tell him that you’re fine. 

You’re already standing. Your skin is too hot. Your hands tremble when they reach for your napkin. Yangyang doesn’t ask. He follows a beat later, steps a little too quick. You don’t look back. You can’t. You already know — Jeno’s still watching. And this time, you don’t want to know what’s in his eyes.

“I need some air,” you murmur, reaching for your napkin and folding it with precision. “Good night everyone.”

Irene’s head tilts slightly, concern tucked behind her smile. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

You nod, too quickly. “Just warm. It’s the wine.”

Yangyang shifts beside you, already half-rising. “Do you want me to—?”

You cut him off with a small shake of your head. “No. Stay.”

You don’t say goodbye when you leave, you just scrape your chair back from the dinner table and stand, slow and sharp, like you’re daring someone to ask. You walk through the glass doors, across the marble-floored corridor, up the curved staircase that still smells like fresh varnish and roses from the welcome bouquet. You slip into your room like you’re ducking under water, shoulders stiff, pulse loud in your ears. The door clicks behind you, and the silence hits all at once.

Your room’s too white. The kind of white that hums like bleach in your teeth, that glares under the skin, that makes every thought you don’t want to think stand out sharper. It’s a curated kind of cleanliness—like the villa staff wanted to sterilise emotion out of the space, scrub the memories off the walls. The sheets are tight, pristine, unwrinkled. The curtains don’t move even when the wind pushes in through the cracked window. Everything smells like lemon and money.

You blink, slow. Your lashes feel heavy, the migraine is pressing harder behind your eyes now, a dull, pulsing throb that tugs your temples in time with your heartbeat. You should’ve taken something hours ago but you didn't. You’d been too busy trying not to snap at Karina, at Jaemin, at your own reflection. Too busy trying not to look at the far wing of the villa, where he is. You tug the necklace off your throat the moment the door clicks shut behind you. It snags once against your collarbone, then breaks free. You toss it onto the dresser with a metallic clatter and kick off your heels hard enough that one bounces off the leg of the vanity. You don’t care. You’re already unzipping the side of your dress when you hear it—the knock.

Three soft taps. A pause. Then one more. You don’t have to ask. “Yangyang,” you mutter, voice rough from holding back too much all night. “I told you I was fine.”

The door opens anyway and he’s already halfway inside, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “You always say that right before you do something like threaten the string quartet.”

“I didn’t threaten them.”

“You said you’d have them replaced with a Spotify playlist if they didn’t stop playing that acoustic shit during dinner.”

You sigh, turning away, shimmying the silk off your hips. He just walks further in and shuts the door behind him. The soft click sounds too loud in a room this quiet. You don’t look at him, not until you feel the zip of cool air down your spine and realise your dress is stuck halfway down. “Can you—?”

He’s already there. His fingers gentle against the zipper, dragging it the rest of the way down. The dress falls to the floor in a whisper, he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. “Sit,” he says quietly. You do. The vanity chair is low and soft. Your bones ache when they hit the cushion.

Yangyang moves behind you, gathering your hair. He brushes it out with his fingers first, careful not to tug, then finds the soft-bristled paddle brush from your travel kit like he’s done it a hundred times because he has. You stare at yourself in the mirror as he works. Your eyes are glassy. Liner smudged. Mouth too red. The ghost of Jeno’s name still lingers behind your teeth. You hate how visible it all is.

Yangyang doesn’t say anything. He takes a makeup wipe and gently begins to clean your face—starting with your cheek, then your temple, then your mouth. His touch is slow, tender. You lean into it because tonight broke you in ways you can’t say out loud, you want to be touched, not questioned. When he finishes, he crouches in front of you. “Do you want me to stay tonight?”

You blink. “Yangyang. We’ve stayed together every night.”

“Still thought I should ask.”

You push a weak breath through your nose and tip your head to the side. “Get in bed before I make you sleep on the floor.”

His smirk is small, but there. “Yes, ma’am.”

You climb over him without saying a word. You don’t ask nor hesitate. He’s already there—laid back against your pillows like he belongs there, flushed pink down his chest, cock hard and twitching, waiting for you. His shirt’s gone, his briefs tossed somewhere on the floor, and he’s bare under you now, skin warm and soft, thighs tense, breath caught high in his throat the second your knees slide up beside his hips.

You straddle him in nothing but your bra and panties, your hair messy and lips swollen from biting them too much. His eyes trail up your body like he’s never seen you before, like he’ll never get tired of it—even when you’re like this, sharp-edged and moody and using him to forget someone else. He still looks at you like you’re everything. 

You grind against him once, slow. The tip of his cock slides against the soaked fabric of your underwear and he gasps, hips jerking up before he catches himself, fingers curling into the sheets. “Fuck,” he whimpers, voice high, needy. “You feel so good—” You smirk, lean down to kiss him, hot and open-mouthed. His lips part immediately, tongue brushing yours like he’s trying to chase the taste of you. You roll your hips harder, make sure he feels it—how wet you are, how ready.

You pull back just enough to speak, nose brushing his. “You ready for me?”

He nods fast, messy. “Yeah. Of course. Please—”

“Good boy.” His hips twitch at that. You smile against his jaw, then reach down and pull your panties to the side. He’s already soaked from the mess of your grinding, and when you sink down onto him, slowly but with purpose, the sound it makes is obscene.

He moans—head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut, fingers flying up to your waist like he needs something to hold onto before he unravels completely. “Fuck, baby, please—” You start to move before he finishes. You bounce, slow at first, dragging your cunt up his cock and dropping back down with a rhythm that makes him tremble underneath you. His hands grip tighter, his moans get louder, and he watches you through hooded eyes like he’s drowning in it, desperate to be good, to be what you need—even if it’s just for tonight.

Your thighs flex as you rise, then slam back down, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the room as you ride him with a sharp, punishing rhythm. He moans into your ear, cock dragging against every inch inside you as you grind down, bounce rougher, sharper, until your thighs burn. He’s gasping under you, flushed deep to the tips of his ears, lips wet and parted as he stares up at you like he’ll die if you stop.

“Please—fuck, baby, please, please, I need it—”

You grip his jaw, tilt his face up so he has no choice but to look at you while you use him. “Need what?” you ask, voice steady even though your heart’s racing. “Say it.”

“I need to come,” he chokes, whining as you slam down on him again. “I wanna come, I wanna feel you—please, let me—”

You hum like you’re thinking about it but you keep fucking him, hard and deep, rolling your hips until he’s a mess beneath you, thighs trembling, cock throbbing inside you like he’s right on the edge. He’s begging now. Over and over. Every breath a whimper, every sound a desperate plea, his hands clinging to your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’ll be good, I’ll do anything, baby, please, please—”

And the worst part—the reason you keep moving, keep clenching around him, keep ignoring how your own orgasm’s building too—is because every time you close your eyes, you still see his face. Every thrust, every cry, every gasp you rip out of Yangyang is just a louder distraction, a sharper weapon. If you fuck him hard enough, long enough, maybe Jeno’s name won’t keep pulsing through your chest like a bruise you can’t press down. Maybe this will drown him out. Maybe you can come hard enough to forget.

“Beg louder,” you whisper. “I want to hear you fucking mean it.”

Yangyang nods, voice cracking, tears stinging his lashes. “Please, please let me come, I need it, I need you, I can’t—I can’t take it anymore—”

You fuck him harder. You don’t stop.

You fuck him like he’s yours, like he’s a stand-in for the boy who isn’t here. Like this is survival, not pleasure and the worst part? It works. You moan and come with your head tipped back, his name nowhere on your lips and he follows seconds later, spilling inside you with a broken groan—like he knows, like he feels it, like every thrust is soaked in someone else’s ghost but he still doesn’t stop you, he doesn’t ask you to say his name, he doesn’t care if your nails sink in too deep or your eyes never meet his because sex with you is enough. Being inside you, even if you’re only doing it to forget someone else, is better than never having you at all. There’s something dark in it, twisted—this desperate kind of devotion where he’d rather be used than unloved, where he lets you fuck the memory of Jeno out of your system and into him, again and again, just to feel like he matters.

The villa sleeps like a beast with one eye open. Soft wind teases the curtains through the open balcony doors, crickets hum like warning bells in the dark, and Jeno steps barefoot into the corridor as if the floor might bite. His palm is wet around the glass of water, condensation bleeding between his fingers. It’s too warm in his room. Nahyun’s perfume clings to the sheets, cloying, sweet enough to make his throat itch. Her body is curled around his like something soft and practiced, like a habit he didn’t choose. Her hand had rested low on his stomach, fingers twitching every now and then. He hadn’t been able to stay still.

He tells himself he needs air. That he’s only walking to ease the pressure in his skull. That he doesn’t know where he’s going but he doesn’t stop to admire the sea view, veer toward the garden, or the stairs, or any of the other twenty places this villa offers for relief. His steps carve a single, certain path. Each one is slower than the last. The hallway turns gold and quiet ahead of him. Sconces flicker low against the plaster, shadows bending and stretching along the polished stone, soft and curved like the shape of your throat when you swallow your anger.

He sees your door before he’s ready. It appears like a secret already spoken, the grain of the wood catching light, the sliver of warmth glowing beneath it like it might spill open if he reached for the handle. His grip tightens around the glass. His fingers twitch, he tells himself he’s only going to check. That he’ll walk past, that it’s fine. That this doesn’t mean anything but his hand lifts before the thought even forms.

He almost knocks.

He’s going to say something, really say something. No more distance, no more sharp-edged glances across crowded rooms, no more pretending he’s fine with the way things unravelled. He hadn’t practiced it—not because it didn’t matter, but because it mattered too much. The words feel too alive in his chest, too raw to rehearse without them burning through his ribs. His mouth is already parted, breath shallow, tongue caught behind his teeth. He’s not holding anything back anymore, he wants to say he’s sorry, that he’s been sorry for longer than he wants to admit. That he can’t take the quiet between you, can’t stomach the way the air changes when you leave a room, can’t keep acting like you don’t still live in him, in every look, in every fucking heartbeat. That out of every door in this goddamn villa, it’s yours he’s standing in front of. Like a man dying of thirst. Like someone who’s finally ready—not to chase you, not to drag you back, but to stay. Just stay. If you’ll let him.

He stands there with his knuckles hovering just shy of the wood, breath caught in the hollow of his throat, and it’s not hesitation—it’s everything else. All the nights he didn’t come, all the moments he’d told himself no, all the fucking pride that kept him from this exact doorstep, even when he knew it was the only one that ever felt like home. His jaw clenches. He can taste the stubbornness on his tongue, bitter and old. Yours more than his, if he’s honest. You were always the one who twisted the knife deeper, always the one who left the room first, always the one who—no, no, it’s not about that now. The balance sheet’s been burned. The things you said, the things you did—none of it can be taken back, and maybe you shattered something bigger than what he ever did, but he’s past the point of measuring damage. Past all of the what-ifs. The ache doesn’t care who lit the match first when you’re both standing in the ashes. All he knows is that he’s here now. That he came anyway, that after everything, he still wants to knock.

Then he hears it, like a bruise blooming under skin, slow and delayed and deep. It starts quiet, the soft knock of wood, too soft to count, too sharp to ignore. A moment passes, then a moan, it isn’t loud or obscene but it cuts through him like a blade slipping in under the ribs, slow at first, then twisting. The air in the hallway tilts, his lungs stop. It comes again, clearer now, a breathless sound that catches at the end, high and rough and broken open in all the places he knows. He’s memorised the rise of it, the edge, the slope into surrender. He’s tasted the way you sound. Felt it tremble against his jaw, into the crook of his neck, raw and open and his.

But now—it’s someone else pulling it from you. Another moan follows, longer this time, wrecked in a way that doesn’t belong in his memory. The rhythm begins to build. Mattress creaking under movement. Skin slapping against skin, sharp then slower, then again, until it sounds like breathing through fire. And you—he hears you again. A stuttering gasp, your voice cracking apart mid-plea, like it’s too much, like it’s not enough, like you’re unravelling around a cock that isn’t his.

He doesn’t move. Not when your whimper threads out into the corridor. Not when you pant someone else’s name in that voice, that voice, the one that used to fold only for him. Not when the bed shifts and groans and all of it starts again, faster now, desperate now, like this is the only way you know how to exist anymore. He knows what that sounds like. He knows what it means when you chase it like that. You’re not just fucking.

You’re letting go. You’re being touched like you asked for it, fucked like you need it, given something he never gave you and Jeno stays pressed to the doorframe, still as the stone under his feet, and he listens. He listens long enough to know the exact second your head tips back. Long enough to hear the wet slap when you fuck yourself down harder. Long enough to know that Yangyang knows how to hold you together while pulling you apart and he realises, in that frozen, sick, motionless moment, that it’s not just that he lost you.

It’s that you’re free.

The worst part carves itself into him with sound alone—wet, rhythmic, unmistakable. The kind of moan that leaves nothing behind, dragged from deep in your chest like you’ve forgotten how to hold back. It starts slow, uneven, like a rhythm trying to find its pace, and then it locks in—skin slapping, mattress creaking, the guttural drag of your breath breaking apart mid-thrust. You don’t whisper. You whimper. A high, cracked gasp torn loose, shattered around someone else’s name. It hits like a collision, unannounced and merciless, filling the hallway, thick in the air, soaked in need you used to choke down for him. And still—he stays. Stands frozen, hand slick around the glass, fingers slipping just enough to feel the weight shift like the floor beneath him might give. His face doesn’t move. His jaw stays clenched. His eyes burn wide as the door glows gold with every movement from inside. Every thrust lands like a knife in the dark. Every moan punches deeper. There’s no reclaiming this. No version of you on the other side of that door who hesitates, who falters, who still thinks of him. Just the sharp, brutal reality of your body taking someone else in, holding him close, falling apart like no one’s watching. And Jeno, jaw locked, chest split open, turns before his knees betray him, each step down the hall a quiet sentence, a confession he’ll never say aloud.

He slips back into bed like it means nothing. Like your moans aren’t still echoing in his skull, like he hadn’t just stood outside your door and listened to someone else fuck the soul out of you. The sheets are still warm. Nahyun is still curled up, face soft with sleep, one thigh already thrown over his like her body had been waiting. His chest is tight, blood loud in his ears. 

He turns to her and kisses her. She stirs with a faint sound, lips parting under his, surprised but not startled, her fingers instinctively catching at his waist. He kisses her harder, hands sliding up her ribs, over the swell of her breast. She breathes in like she’s trying to match his rhythm, like she’s trying to follow a script she doesn’t know he’s rewriting in real time. Her skin’s soft and her mouth is sweet but none of it fucking matters.

“Jeno?” she whispers, voice hushed and unsure.

He doesn’t answer. Just nudges her onto her back, pushes her nightdress up, and slides between her legs like he has a point to prove. Her breath stutters when he enters her, slow and deep, his cock stretching her open with a sharp gasp. She clutches at his shoulders, legs falling apart for him like she always does, and still—his eyes stay open. Fixed on nothing. Seeing everything.

He fucks her slow at first, measured, like maybe it’ll ground him, like maybe this will be the moment that fades the taste of your name and the sound of your voice breaking on another man’s cock. He grips Nahyun’s hips tighter, thrusts deeper, rougher, like punishment, like erasure. She moans, soft and pretty, head tipping back, eyes fluttering. Her hands rake up his spine. She tells him it feels good, she says his name, she says please.

And still—your name burns in his throat. So he kisses her harder. Drives into her faster. Hears the slap of skin and the wet drag of her pussy and lets his head fall to her shoulder like it might block it out. Like maybe if he comes inside her hard enough, he can undo what he heard outside your door. He fucks her like you fucked him. Not for closeness or love. Just to forget.

Even when Nahyun’s moaning beneath him, legs shaking, voice cracking around his name like it means something, he sees you. Not her face, not the arch of her back or the way her nails dig into his skin—just you. Head tipped back, lips parted, that shattered sound you made when you gave yourself to someone else. It floods his vision, claws into his chest, poisons the pace of his thrusts until every movement feels like a lie. He pushes deeper, harder, hoping the force will drive it out, that maybe if he fucks her like he means it, he’ll stop feeling you, stop hearing you, stop seeing the way you came for another man behind a locked door he couldn’t open. He finishes with a groan caught low in his throat, a sound that doesn’t taste like release, just failure dressed in sweat. Breathless, spent, hollowed out, he pulls away from her body without a word, doesn’t kiss her again, doesn’t bother with tenderness. He lies back against the sheets, chest still heaving, eyes wide and locked on the ceiling as Nahyun curls quietly beside him, her breathing steady, unaware and he thinks—fucking her should’ve been enough to gut the memory, to tear your voice from his head, to burn the echo out of his skin, to scrape the last pieces of you from the parts of him that still flinch at your name. Instead, it spreads—like the warmth left behind after sex, low in the gut and impossible to shake, threading through his nerves with every breath, every blink, settling into him quiet and slow, like the echo of a touch that never really leaves.

The second night is supposed to be lighter. Shotaro had promised as much when the itinerary went out last week — casual choreography, he’d said, low pressure, just a chance to move together again before the wedding. Most of the guests had assumed it’d be fun. A warm-u and a nod to the past, a few even showed up early, stretching and chatting with rolled sleeves and nostalgia in their voices because it wasn’t just dance practice, it was a memory. A time machine that took everyone back to college, it had been ‘Studio Eclipse’ then, the mirrored basement room tucked behind the Neo Tech gym. You all used to pile in after hours, sweaty and loud, Shotaro dragging speakers in like it was a concert venue, teaching his best choreo with a laser focus and a twisted grin. It was where Chenle first tried to moonwalk, where Mark twisted his ankle trying to land a windmill, where Jeno—quiet, intense—had started watching you more than the mirrors. Even then, the music had a way of pulling truths out of people. Movement always did.

And now? Shotaro’s made it official: a wedding-themed session, something to “prep the crowd” for the dance floor and teach the couples a few slow moves. “Trust me,” he’d said, eyes gleaming, “you’ll thank me when you’re tipsy and trying not to step on a veil.” It’s meant to be a sweet and soft bonding activity.

Karina’s hair is up, earrings off, already barefoot with a water bottle tucked into her armpit. Jaemin’s cracking jokes in the corner, flashing grins like currency. Mark’s stretching on the floor near Areum, murmuring something low enough to make her blush. Even Irene’s here, heels abandoned, blouse rolled at the sleeves, watching from a velvet chair with a flute of champagne in her hand like this is theatre. And maybe it is. Shotaro’s pacing at the front, trying to wrangle the chaos into something cleaner, tighter, more elegant but it’s warm. The music is too loud. Everyone’s bodies are tired and heavy from the travel and sun and you’re already standing off to the side, clipboard ditched, bare arms crossed loosely as you count beats in your head like it’ll keep you steady.

The mirrors line every wall. The heat of the lights pools at the base of your neck and you’re doing your best not to glance toward the far side of the room where you know he is — black shirt loose against his chest, sweat already gathering at the collar, hair pushed back in damp, uneven strands. Jeno hasn’t looked at you all evening. Not really but he’s moved like he always does, efficient, composed and controlled but the sharpness of his focus has weight. Every shift of his posture feels rehearsed. Every laugh, selective. He’s paired with someone else at first. Nahyun. Of course. Her hands are too graceful, her skirt too short, her smiles too practiced. She brushes his shoulder every time they turn. She tries to feed him water between songs. He takes the bottle but doesn’t drink. You watch it all through your lashes, your spine iron-straight. You haven’t spoken. Haven’t been near each other. Not since dinner. Not since you left without a word and he didn’t follow and you were determined to keep it that way, to keep your place, to stay above it, hold the thread of control between your teeth and not let it snap.

But Shotaro’s voice cuts through the music like a needle against vinyl. “Partners, switch!”

Bodies shift. Pairs split. Karina’s swept up by Jaemin again, fingers laced with a teasing grin. Mark steps into rhythm with Ningning. The room rearranges. You step back instinctively, shaking your head when someone reaches for you but it’s too late. Shotaro scans the room, hand still clapping. “Y/N and Jeno. You two. Go.”

You don’t move—can’t. Something inside you folds in on itself, fragile and trembling, as if your bones remember what your brain hasn’t yet caught up to. And still, he walks toward you, slow and certain, like this isn’t the moment everything tilts. Like the air between you doesn’t hum with old collisions. His steps don’t falter. Yours never start. It’s as if time looped without your permission, dragging the past into the room by its throat and stitching it to now, and you—caught in the middle—can only stand there, breath locked tight in your lungs, heart thudding out a rhythm you haven’t heard since you loved him. He stops in front of you, eyes unreadable, and for one cruel second, you think he might offer you an out. A glance to Shotaro. A shake of his head. Something but he doesn’t. He just extends his hands, palm open, waiting, and when you place yours in it, your skin burns.

The music starts again.

Your hands fall into place like a spell you forgot you knew—his palm pressing into your waist with a familiarity that makes your skin tense, yours resting against the slope of his shoulder where it fits too well, too easily. It’s obscene, how instinctive the hold still feels, how your bodies align like a secret that was never really buried. He moves you with precision, each step a reminder, each subtle drag of his fingers across your spine a ghost slipping beneath your skin. The pressure at your waist sharpens—not harsh, but claiming. Measured. Like he’s daring you to flinch, to acknowledge how wrong this should be. You shift, barely a breath of space between you—and he closes it again, a quiet insistence threaded into the grip of his hand. It’s not violence. It’s worse. It's a memory that devoures you whole.

“You’re off,” he says under his breath, voice low and even, eyes not on your face but somewhere just past it.

“You’re holding too tight,” you bite back, your voice just as soft, just as steady.

The spin catches you before you’re ready, and he’s already there—hand curling around your elbow, guiding, anchoring, commanding in a way that makes your breath hitch. You don’t stumble, but you don’t lead either. His other hand lands against your ribs, fingers splaying wide, pressing in as if to remind you who’s holding you up. The mirror doesn’t lie. It shows the twitch in your jaw, the tremble in your frame, the way your body betrays you. You flinch—not violently, not enough to draw attention, but just enough for him to feel it, to register it in the subtle jerk of his grip. You catch your reflection at the worst moment: mouth parted, eyes blown, every inch of you stretched too tight with restraint. You don’t look composed, you don’t look untouched, you look like something that remembers how to fall apart and he sees it. His gaze shifts to the mirror too, slow and deliberate, like he’s studying evidence. Like your reflection is proof that you still burn. That he still knows the map of you. That no matter how far you’ve run, your body remembers the rhythm it once answered to.

And maybe you do. Maybe you never forgot.

Behind you, Karina’s laugh falters mid-note, catching somewhere between surprise and discomfort. Jaemin says something low that you don’t catch, but the sharp edge of it cuts through the air like the crack of a match. The music thumps again, harder this time, bassline crawling up your spine like sweat. Shotaro’s voice slices clean through it: “Closer. Sell it.” There’s heat behind it now, insistence. Like even he can feel what’s leaking between you.

Jeno doesn’t wait, he never does. One smooth motion — his arm loops around your back, palm splaying over your spine like he owns the axis of you, and then he twists you in, tight, too tight. Your bodies crash with precision and pressure, chests brushing, legs aligning like they remember what it was to ache. Your breath stumbles but his stays steady. For one suspended beat — not even a full second, but longer than any count Shotaro’s shouting — your noses are inches apart. Your eyes find each other like magnets, and neither of you looks away because there’s too much buried in the inches that separate your lips. Too many nights spent learning the curve of each other’s bodies, too many silences, too many fucks that didn’t fix it and still — still — his mouth parts like a secret begging to be let out, like the apology you never got, like the question he never had the nerve to ask. You know what it is. You know what he wants to say. You turn your head before he does but you feel the air shift, the clench of his jaw, the tension that snaps like a cable pulled taut. You don’t have to hear it to know it was never going to be enough.

After a few rotations, Shotaro switches partners again. You don’t protest when Yangyang steps in, his hands are steady, his lead gentle, and there’s nothing to prove between you. He knows your rhythms by now, when you tense, when your breath hitches, how to slow the pace until you find your footing again. With him, it’s not complicated. It’s quiet safety, the kind that lets you loosen the corners of your mouth just enough to look like you’re having fun. Enough to laugh, once, really laugh, at something ridiculous he says under his breath, right as he twirls you in too wide a circle and nearly knocks you both over. You laugh so hard you have to lean into him, shoulder against his chest, one hand pressed to your ribs. You don’t see Jeno watching but he does.

He sees all of it. The laugh that used to be his. The way your body curves into someone else’s arms, how Yangyang steadies you with one hand at your waist like it’s effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Jeno doesn’t blink, but the line of his jaw tenses like something’s cracking under the surface. Later that night, when the villa is too quiet and the moon’s dragged too low across the sky, Nahyun moans into the pillow with his name muffled on her tongue. Jeno’s behind her, hands hard on her hips, the bed creaking in short bursts and she keeps glancing over her shoulder, waiting for something soft. Some proof but he doesn’t give her anything. No kisses or eye contact, just motion and muscle. Just the ache he’s trying to fuck out of himself and into her.

She tries to reach for him, twist to kiss him, but he ducks the moment her lips get close. “Baby,” he mutters once, low and almost cruel in how distant it sounds. She smiles like it’s a win, holds onto the word like it means more than it does, like she doesn’t feel how far away he is. He closes his eyes, thrusts harder. Faster. Bites down on her shoulder like she’s someone else. He doesn’t call her anything again.

The third night settles over the villa like steam, familiar now—the rhythm of bodies moving around each other, the same laughter echoing off stone, the same wine passed between hands that still haven’t said everything they should. Under the low sprawl of fairy lights and the scent of rosemary trailing from the open-air kitchen, the rehearsal dinner blooms warm and slow. Chenle oversees every plate like a hawk, arms folded, linen sleeves rolled to the elbow as he directs waitstaff with surgical precision. Hyuck is off in the corner with a ladder, cursing under his breath as he adjusts the dimmers on the fairy bulbs hanging from the olive trees, muttering something about ambience, golden hour and how constantly Jaemina and Karina are fucking. The courtyard hums with gentle laughter, small clinks of cutlery against wine-stained porcelain, the faint hum of a soft jazz playlist curated by Ningning playing through vintage brass speakers. It’s intimate and curated. Too fucking perfect.

You’re everywhere.

You’ve been on your feet all day, like always, clipboard still in one hand, drink in the other, the back of your phone tucked into your thigh-high slit. You move like you own the air. The silk of your backless dress spills behind you like melted light, gold-toned and sun-warmed from the late afternoon. Your skin glows, collarbones dusted, cheeks high-lit, lips just glossy enough to catch a breath. You’re radiant, and worse, you don’t seem to notice it. Your laugh is unbothered, easy, when you pass by Karina and Jaemin’s on the table. Your fingers tap Yangyang’s shoulder lightly when you whisper something into his ear that makes him grin. You collect empty glasses as you pass and gesture to a server about the spacing between the chairs, your hands graceful even in command. You’re too competent, too stunning and too in control. Jeno can’t stop watching you fall apart perfectly.

He’s seated at the furthest corner of the garden, pretending to listen to something Nahyun’s saying about the napkin rings — silver or sage? — but the words blur before they reach him. He sees only the curve of your spine when you lean forward to adjust a plate. The way your dress slips along your shoulder blades like it’s breathing with you. The shadow between your thighs when you cross your legs. The sound of your voice calling someone’s name. The arch of your neck when you throw your head back in laughter. 

It’s agony wrapped in allure, a private punishment carved out in candlelight. Every time you move, the fabric of your dress slips like water against your skin, catching on the curves he used to kiss like scripture. Bare back on full display, spine like a line he once traced with his tongue. The gold chain draped across your shoulders glints like a dare. You aren’t looking at him. You haven’t since he walked in but everything about you is intentional — the effortless arch of your neck as you laugh, the press of your thigh against the edge of the table, the way you lean into Yangyang’s whisper with a soft, slow smile.

He’s hard already.

Jeno is unraveling by the minute. Every breath feels too shallow, too full of you. His cock’s been hard since you reached for a champagne bottle ten minutes ago and didn’t even glance his way. He shifts in his chair, jaw tight, wrist flexing around his wine glass like it’s the only thing tethering him. There’s a tension in his hips he can’t fix. He’s not touching you, not hearing you, not near you — but somehow, he feels you. He sees the ghost of your body in every move you make. You’re not doing anything but he wants you so badly it hurts. Not just to touch. To be seen. To be remembered. To be the reason you lose control first. But you won’t look at him. Not even once. And that’s what kills him most.

He tries not to show it, he shifts in his seat, clears his throat, downs his wine like it might numb the pain. Nahyun is next to him, all effort — hand on his thigh, nails grazing his wrist, her laugh turned up just a bit too loud when she leans in to murmur something about dessert. He nods, says something soft back, lips brushing her ear, and her smile doubles but it’s all scripted. Performed. Hollow. She’s the decoy. You’re the storm.

You call out something across the courtyard, a gentle reminder about the cake tasting schedule, and your voice carries like a spell. His cock twitches. His jaw clenches. You glance his way — only once, and only by accident, as you’re turning back toward the entrance. But it’s enough. You catch him mid-stare, wine glass hovering just short of his mouth, lips parted, legs spread too wide for someone so composed. Your expression doesn’t change, but your eyes hold steady. Just long enough for his spine to go rigid. Just long enough to make him feel it.

He isn’t going to survive the night—not like this, not with you laughing a few seats down the table like the sound isn’t stitched into every fucked-up place inside him. Not with your spine arched so casually as you lean forward to speak to a waiter, the silk of your dress dipping along your back like it remembers his hands, his mouth, the way he used to press kisses there just to feel you shiver. The fabric clings to your hips like memory, drapes between your legs with the kind of weight that makes him ache, and when you move—God, when you move—it isn’t just grace, it’s punishment. You don’t look at him, haven’t spared him a second glance all night, but the curve of your lips around your wine glass, the way you cross your legs slow under the candlelight, the tilt of your chin when Yangyang leans close to whisper something into your ear—it all feels too sharp, too precise to be coincidence. You glow like you’re born to ruin him. Like forgetting him is the most natural thing your body knows how to do.

He forces dessert down like it might anchor him, chewing past the tension burning behind his teeth, his fork scraping porcelain while Nahyun runs her fingers along his wrist and says something soft and sweet that he barely registers. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t blink. His eyes stay fixed on the way your fingers brush the edge of the cake table, on the slight slip of your strap when you reach for a second flute of champagne. You don’t look up. You don’t need to. You’ve already taken the air with you.

The moment doesn’t announce itself. It slips in quiet, unnoticed by the room, disguised as nothing. A soft rustle, a flicker of paper against porcelain—the edge of a handwritten card fluttering off the dessert table, caught by the wind or maybe fate. It lands by his chair, near his ankle. No one sees. No one moves. Except you. You step back into the courtyard without warning, eyes scanning the tables, hands still full—clipboard in one, champagne in the other—and you spot it. You don’t pause, don’t break pace. Just approach in that same sharp glide that makes the air bend around you, dress catching light like honey poured over glass. And then you’re there, beside him, lowering to retrieve the card in a single, fluid motion that steals the breath right out of his chest.

You bend at the waist—not crouching, not kneeling—just low enough that your body folds over his line of sight, silk gaping at the neckline, your breasts pushed together in a soft swell that spills just slightly forward. He stares at the slope of skin revealed, the gold chain between your collarbones swaying like a pendulum, catching candlelight as your chest rises with each slow, steady breath. You reach for the card, and your hand brushes his. Not just a graze. Contact. Intentional in its timing, even if you’ll pretend it wasn’t. The back of your fingers trace the top of his hand, slow, feather-light, dragging heat up the veins in his wrist and straight to the base of his cock. Your arm presses into his as you lean closer, your side brushing his shoulder, and the soft curve of your breast grazes his upper arm, warm and real and familiar in a way that unravels everything he’s been trying to forget.

The table softens into a lull—wine half-drunk, plates pushed back, cutlery idle as people begin to lean in closer, voices dipping into that late-evening intimacy that always follows candlelight and full stomachs. Nahyun presses her leg against his under the table, her fingers grazing the fabric just above his knee like she’s reminding him she’s there, reminding him to play his part. Her laugh is gentle, polished, practiced. It spills low against his ear when she makes some offhand comment about the flowers or the way Jaemin had folded the napkins wrong again, and he hums, nods, says something vague in return. He’s not listening at all.

His jaw tightens when her hand slides higher. The muscles in his thigh flex involuntarily. He shifts slightly in his seat, not to move away but to ground himself, to stop the way his cock stirs again, not from her touch, not from her voice, but from the memory still imprinted across the skin of his arm. The memory of you. The heat of your breast grazing his shoulder. The scent of your perfume still clinging to his collar, the weight of it heavy and humid in the space behind his ears. You hadn’t looked at him once when you walked away, hadn’t acknowledged what you did, but his body is still thrumming with it, tense, hard, aching like you reached into his chest and left something there, glowing and raw.

He doesn’t realise how long he’s been staring at the water jug across the table until Nahyun moves to pour it, graceful, easy, performing softness like it’s second nature. Her hand brushes over the edge of the tablecloth. “Want me to pass you a glass?”

His mouth is dry. His voice comes out before his brain catches up, low, automatic, drawn straight from the centre of his need. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Can you pass me the glass, Y/N?”

The air doesn’t shift right away but something in her hand pauses. Her smile doesn’t falter, not fully—just tightens around the edges, lips drawn a little thinner, the corners not lifting quite as high. The jug stays suspended between them. “What did you call me?” she asks, light, playful, but the note in her voice doesn’t match the question.

He blinks slowly. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t meet her eyes. The moment sticks, glues itself in place like wax cooling mid-drip. His pulse ticks once at the base of his throat. Then again. He swallows it down. “Sorry,” he says finally, barely louder than the clink of a spoon. “Meant you.”

She sets the jug down a little too carefully. Passes the glass. Her hand lingers a second too long on the stem when he takes it, like she’s deciding whether or not to pull away. Eventually, she does. She shifts beside him, just enough that her thigh still touches his, but the pressure changes. Softer now. Less sure. Her gaze drifts forward, outward, anywhere but back at him. And Jeno? He drinks. Slow. Measured. Staring through the rim of the glass at the place where your body moves between tables again, sunlit silk dragging along your hips, the glow of your skin catching every flicker of light like it was built to hold it. You lean into Yangyang’s side and laugh like you haven’t heard a single thing, like your name doesn’t still hang in the space between him and the woman beside him like a bruise that refuses to fade.

Later that night, Jeno follows Nahyun upstairs with tension coiled deep in his stomach, cock already stiff in his pants, the mistake still burning in his mouth. She doesn’t speak when he reaches for her wrist in the hallway, just lets him pull her toward the bedroom, heels clicking too loud on the marble, her breath quickening when the door shuts behind them. Her back hits it hard. His hands are already on her hips. He kisses her like he owes her something—like this is damage control, like maybe if he kisses her deep enough she’ll forget the way he looked when he said your name but he’s not soft with it. His mouth is hungry, open, wet against hers, tongue slipping past her lips before she can breathe, before she can ask him what the fuck that was at dinner. She doesn’t. She doesn’t need to. He’s already reaching under her dress, palming between her thighs, dragging her panties down in one hard yank. She gasps. He exhales against her neck. His cock is aching, straining against the zipper of his pants, and he’s already undone, already pushing her dress up around her hips as he turns her around and presses her chest flat to the wall.

“Let me fix it,” he mutters against her shoulder, voice low, ragged, one hand on her waist, the other already jerking his cock free from his briefs. He strokes it once, twice, rough, desperate, smearing precome across the tip before lining himself up behind her. “Let me fucking fix it.”

She nods, whimpers, arches back for him—and he drives in without warning, hips snapping forward in one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from both of them. She cries out, nails clawing at the door, and he bites down on her shoulder hard enough to mark. His thrusts are deep, fast, unforgiving, the sound of skin against skin loud and slick, her pussy already soaked, already gripping him tight as he uses her body like it’s something to drown in.

But he’s not really fucking her. He’s fucking the moment he said your name. The sound of your heels on the tile. The way your back looked when you turned away. He grabs her hips harder, pulls her back onto him rougher, and mutters through his teeth, “Take it, Y/N.”

She freezes. Only for a second. Then she moans—louder this time—like she doesn’t care, like she knows exactly what this is and chooses to stay anyway. His hand slides up her back, catches in her hair, pulls her head back so her neck arches, and he fucks her harder, deeper, jaw clenched, eyes shut like he can reshape her into someone else if he just slams into her enough times. His name falls from her lips but it sounds wrong. His orgasm hits sudden, violent, cock twitching as he spills inside her with a guttural sound that isn’t relief—it’s need. It’s failure. It’s your name dragging across his tongue like a wound. He finishes panting, forehead pressed to the nape of her neck, cum leaking down her thighs, and still he doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, buried in a body that isn’t yours, whispering your name again, quieter this time—like it might sound different if he says it with his eyes closed.

“Let me ride,” she breathes, eyes glittering, something darker behind them. “I want you to feel how good it is when I do it.” He lets her flip him, hands falling to her hips as she swings her leg over, lowering herself down onto his cock with a hiss. She sinks inch by inch, slow and tight, her eyes never leaving his. His mouth parts. His fingers dig into her thighs.

“You like this?” she murmurs, starting to move, hips rolling as she rides him with slow, dragging circles that make his head fall back. “You didn’t fuck her like this, did you?” He freezes. She leans in close, one hand on his chest, the other braced on his thigh, her rhythm building now, faster, harder, breath catching as her pussy tightens around him. Her voice is lower now, whispering against his cheek, warm and cruel. “She never bounced on your cock like this, right?” she pants, slamming down on him again, wet and messy and loud, the sound obscene in the silence of the room. “Never fucked you this good. Never let you watch like this.”

She rides him like it’s a challenge, like every bounce is supposed to replace something he never asked her to erase. Her hands press to his chest for leverage, tits swaying with each thrust, mouth parted like she’s waiting for him to say it again—your name. She moves fast, then slower, then fast again, hips grinding down, pussy squeezing around him in wet, deliberate pulses, like she thinks she’s learning him. Like she thinks she’s winning. And Jeno—he lets her. He grips her hips hard, hard enough to bruise, guiding her pace, helping her fuck herself on his cock because it’s easier than pulling her off because this is what she wants. To be seen. To be better. To be you but she’s trying too hard.

Every gasp is just a little too sharp. Every moan a little too polished, shaped into the kind of sound meant to impress, not unravel. Her rhythm falters every time she tries to draw a reaction from him, her breath catching like she’s waiting for praise. He stares up at her—at the curve of her breasts, the way they bounce, the shine of sweat on her collarbones—and all he can think is wrong. The way her thighs flex, the angle of her hips, the pitch of her voice—it’s all close, close enough to be cruel, but never close enough to be you.

He lets his eyes fall shut. Hears her panting. Feels the squeeze of her cunt around him but none of it reaches where it’s supposed to. He thrusts up once, hard, forcing her to cry out, and she takes it like it means something. Like it’s for her. “You like that?” she moans, grinding down harder, chasing friction. “She never fucked you like this, did she?”

His jaw tightens. His hands fall to her waist, locking her in place. Her pussy clenches around him as she moans again, louder now, like she wants the walls to hear it. Like she wants you to but even when she starts to tremble, even when her voice breaks and her body jerks forward, whimpering, coming hard on top of him, her thighs shaking around his hips—he feels nothing. Just sweat and noise. Just a body that doesn’t know how to fall apart the way you did.

She collapses against his chest, breaths shallow, smile curling where he can’t see it. She thinks she’s undone him, thinks she proved that she’s better than you.  He flips her without a word. Hands to her hips. Face in her shoulder. His cock still hard, buried deep, leaking. He fucks her slow at first—then rougher, brutal, a pace that says nothing soft, nothing sweet. His jaw locks and breath catches. He closes his eyes tighter, pictures your face instead. The way you used to whimper when he bottomed out. The way your hands used to grip him like prayer. He groans low, curses under his breath, and comes with your name in his mouth, bitten between his teeth so hard it tastes like blood.

Across the villa, beyond candlelight and polished glass and the careful illusion of peace, you’re moaning into Yangyang’s neck with your nails dug deep into his shoulders, bouncing on his cock with a kind of raw, frantic hunger that makes the headboard creak behind you, thighs burning, sweat slick between your breasts as you grind down harder, rougher, desperate to come again before the heat fades. Your dress is half-off, straps slipping down your arms, tits out and jiggling with every thrust, mouth open as you pant through clenched teeth, chasing friction like you’re trying to fuck the ghost of someone else out of your skin. Yangyang holds you steady with his hands bruising your waist, breath ragged in your ear, voice a low stream of curse words and praise as he watches the way your cunt drags over him—tight, soaked, filthy. You ride him like you don’t care if it hurts, like you don’t care if he breaks, your hips slamming down with purpose, head thrown back, lips swollen and slick with spit, every bounce harder than the last. His cock twitches deep inside you, and you fuck through it—relentless, mean, gorgeous—moaning louder when he whimpers your name, when he begs to come, when he tells you no one’s ever fucked him like this. 

Under the hush of a midnight so thick it feels conjured, you step into water like you’re stepping out of time. The farthest pool on the estate—half-forgotten, stone-wrapped, tucked beyond the hedgerows and creeping jasmine—is yours tonight. It always has been. Too far from the courtyard to catch stray voices. Too hidden to be found without wanting to be. The villa is asleep. Rooms dark, doors shut. Laughter long since faded. Nothing stirs but the soft flutter of palm fronds overhead and the slow lap of water against tile. It’s quiet in the way that feels enchanted, like the night itself has folded in to give you space to come undone without witness. 

The water feels like sin disguised as serenity. Silken and slow, curling around your waist like a secret you forgot to keep. Every inch of it kisses higher, warmer than it should be, as though it remembers what your skin used to beg for. As though it was poured here just for you. There’s a softness to it, a hush that moves like prayer, but underneath, something coils darker. It lulls you. Makes you feel safe. Makes you forget how easily you fall back into habits you swore you’d outgrown. The night clings to your shoulders like hands you almost remember. The moon slips against your breasts like it wants to watch and as you drift, hips swaying with the current, thighs brushing beneath the surface, it doesn’t feel like swimming—it feels like surrender. Like the water has teeth, and it’s smiling.

You peel your dress off alone in the dark, silk pooling at your feet, and wade in naked. Not to be seen. Not to provoke. Just to escape. To feel water instead of air, to dull your body into silence. You glide the length of the pool in slow strokes, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as your body floats, bare and weightless, your breasts barely brushing the surface. Your skin glows beneath the pale blue water, knees brushing tile, hair slicked back, mouth parted softly like you might speak if anyone was listening. But no one is. Or so you think.

When he appears, it doesn’t feel sudden. It feels inevitable. The shift in temperature, the air pulled taut, that feeling you get when someone walks into a room you haven’t turned to yet but your blood starts running faster anyway. You sense him, you always do. You tilt your head just slightly, not enough to break the illusion of calm. “Enjoying the view?” you murmur, voice soft, almost teasing but there’s an edge tucked into it. Like a blade beneath silk. He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands at the edge, half in shadow, shirt unbuttoned and clinging to the cut of his chest, swim shorts slung low on his hips. 

His gaze is heavy. Not polite or tentative. Just hot, and familiar, and painfully still. When he finally speaks, it’s hoarse. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

You smile without turning. “Doing what?” you murmur, voice all silk and edge. Your hand trails slowly through the water, rippling the surface with purpose. As you shift, your chest rises just enough for one breast to crest the surface—bare, gleaming, kissed by moonlight. You let it. Tilt your shoulders back ever so slightly, offering the peak to the night air, to him, to his silence. The cool air stiffens your nipple instantly, a bead of water slipping down your skin like punctuation. The moon catches it all, the arch of your collarbones, the slope of your chest, the soft swell he used to hold in his mouth like something holy. You don’t cover yourself. You just let him look. Let him burn.

“Tempting me.” His voice cracks at the edge, low and hoarse, like the words scrape his throat on the way out. When you finally glance back over your shoulder, the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your chest. He’s already unbuttoned, shirt hanging open like it’s been clawed apart, clinging wet to the muscle of his shoulders, the line of his chest cut hard and gleaming in the low light. His swim shorts hang low, too low, water already licking at his thighs. He’s not hiding how hard he is. Not anymore. “You know what you’re doing,” he says, voice darker now, eyes fixed on the curve of your breast like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing control. 

“You walked here. I didn’t make you.” The words leave your mouth slow, smooth, not loud enough to echo, but they land like a dare all the same. You let him stand there in the dark like a man unravelled by a single choice he keeps pretending wasn’t his to make. Behind you, the air doesn’t move but you feel the tension stretch—pulled tight like a thread wrapped around both your throats. The water hugs your waist, your breasts rising just enough with each breath to shimmer beneath the moonlight. 

A few months ago, you would’ve told him to fuck off. Would’ve thrown water in his face without blinking, maybe even tried to drown him just for the satisfaction of watching him struggle—dragged him under, held him there, let the bubbles rise like a countdown to every apology he never gave. You were angrier then. Sharper. Still burning from the fallout, still righteous enough to believe he deserved your fury more than your silence but now you don’t say a word. Maybe you don’t care anymore. Maybe you care too much and you’re too drunk to sort through it. You just float, bare and unbothered, letting the water carry you into the heat of him, into the hardness pressed flush against your ass, because it’s easier to let him touch you than ask him why he’s here. Easier to let this become what it always does, heavy and hungry, than peel back the layers of what’s still broken. Somewhere inside you, beneath the ache, beneath the weight of everything he turned into memory, something still whispers, let him remember. let him ruin himself on you.

“I’m a man of honour,” he says, but it barely sounds like belief. More like something he’s repeating to himself—again, and again, and again—like if he says it enough, it’ll stick but it doesn’t, not with you naked in front of him, the water painting your body in blue light, the curve of your spine arched just enough to break him. He breathes harder, chest rising behind you, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything else. Just stays there, trembling on the edge of his own restraint, cock pressed thick against your ass like it’s got its own pulse.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters finally, voice low, ruined. “Since the moment you walked into that villa, I haven’t had a single fucking second of peace. You move like you’re not even aware of it. Like you don’t know what you do to me. Every look, every word, every time you brush past me and don’t stop.” He exhales sharp through his nose, the sound catching in his throat. “And you’re everywhere—laughing too loud, smiling at Yangyang like that, flipping your hair, sitting on his lap like it’s nothing.” His voice thins, clenched around the edges. “I see you. I see you in every room, every shadow. I fuck her, and I still taste you. I go to bed and I wake up harder than I’ve ever been in my life, and it’s always, always you.” His hips shift forward, slow, dangerous, the press of him dragging against the curve of you like punishment. “You didn’t have to tempt me. You just had to exist.”

“You want me to feel sorry for you?” you murmur, voice smooth but laced with steel. “Because you can’t fuck the guilt out of your sheets?” You arch into him—not much, just a shift of your hips, a slight push of your ass against the thick strain of his cock, enough to make him suck in a breath through his teeth. The tension tightens like a noose. “I didn’t ask to be remembered,” you whisper. “You’re the one who can’t let go. You’re the one who watches me like every other body you’ve touched since is a poor fucking imitation.”

He shifts behind you, slow and deep, the water parting around him like it knows to make space for something dangerous. His cock drags thick beneath the surface, the weight of it brushing your ass again, then firmer—intentional—grinding in lazy circles that make your breath falter and your thighs twitch beneath the ripples. His voice comes hot at your neck, teeth gritted, barely able to speak through the restraint. “I used to have control,” he mutters, grinding forward again, the head of his cock pressing right where it makes you clench without meaning to. “I used to choose who I wanted. Now I can’t even jerk off without tasting your name in my mouth. Every time I come, it’s you. Your mouth. Your moan. That fucking face you make when I hit the spot and your whole body breaks open for me.”

His hips rock in again, harder this time, cock pulsing through wet fabric as he drags against your bare skin like he’s marking you with pressure alone. His hands still haven’t touched you, but his breath is all over you, fucked and furious. “You’ve infected me. I want to bend you over the edge of this pool and fuck you until you forget what kindness feels like. I want to own every noise you make. Every goddamn breath. I want you gasping my name with that bratty mouth of yours too full to speak.”

Then softer—ruined—his voice collapses, low and trembling, close enough that his lips ghost the edge of your jaw. “I don’t want you,” he lies, breathless. “I need you. And I fucking hate it. I hate that I’d fuck you in this pool with her perfume still on my collar, your name still dripping down the inside of my ribs. I hate that I’d split you open slow, deep, raw—and still need more. Still come inside you and feel empty after.”

His cock pulses against you again, hard and aching. His breath stutters once, his whole body trembling behind you like he’s at the edge of something. “Tell me to leave,” he whispers. “Tell me you hate me. Or let me fuck you like a man who lost every part of himself the moment you stopped saying please.”

He inches forward, cock thick and swollen, dragging across your skin with no apology. “Look at me. Following you out here like a fucking animal. Hard in the water, grinding against you with nothing between us but a pair of wet shorts and the memory of how tight you were the last time I was inside you.” His voice cracks around the edges, but he doesn’t stop. “You undid all of it. Every rule. Every version of myself I used to have control of.”

He leans closer, breath hot against your neck. “So no,” he says, rough now, dirty with want. “I’m not a man of honour. Not anymore. I’m the man who showed up to this villa swearing I wouldn’t touch you and now I’m one breath away from begging you to let me fuck you in the same pool we used to fuck in silence.”

His voice breaks through the steam like a breath he’s held too long. “They always said I had discipline,” he says, low, wrecked. “That I knew how to keep my head. Be steady. Responsible. The kind of man who doesn’t make messes.” He laughs once under his breath, bitter and breathless. “I believed it too.”

You pause. Just for a beat. Then a short, sharp laugh escapes you—wet and mean and too amused to be gentle. You turn just enough to catch his eye, mouth twisted in something that isn’t quite a smirk. “Who the fuck said that?” you ask, incredulous, mock-serious, like you’re questioning the entire premise of a story you never agreed to be part of. “Because they clearly don’t know you. You? Disciplined?” You scoff, swimming backward just a little, flashing teeth. “God, that’s rich. You’ve been two seconds from self-combusting since the welcome dinner.”

“Disciplined,” you echo mockingly, scoffing, your eyes glinting. “Did Nahyun tell you that?” His jaw ticks, but you’re not done. You pitch your voice higher, soft and syrupy, fluttering your lashes in a mimic so cruel it’s almost art. “‘Jeno, you’re so good, baby. So steady. You always think with your head—’” you pause, tilting your head like you’re considering it, then let the grin curl sharper. “Just not the one that matters, huh?” Then you lunge forward, hand slicing through the water, fast and deliberate, and splash him right in the face.

He sputters, blinks through it, jaw dropping, and for a second you think he might actually be stunned. But then his eyes narrow, gleam catching in the dark, and without a word, he lifts his arm and sends a wave crashing right back at you. You shriek, laughing harder now, water slapping against your chest as you paddle backward, pretending to dodge. “Oh, you wanna play?” you gasp, brushing wet hair off your face. “You’re really gonna assault a naked woman in her own damn pool?”

He grins, finally, slow and dangerous. “You started it.”

“Because you lied!” You shoot him another splash—harder this time, straight to his smug face. “Get out of my pool.”

He freezes mid-step, blinking water from his eyes. “Your pool?” he repeats, mock-offended.

You arch a brow. “Yes. Mine.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “This isn’t your pool. You don’t even own a pool, you don’t even live in this country. You just found the one no one uses and got naked in it.”

Your smile vanishes. You turn slow, eyes sharp now, voice cold and razor-clean when it cuts through the water. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’m sure Nahyun’s lying there waiting,” you murmur, biting every word like it offends you to say her name. “Sweet little thing. Probably still smells like rosewater and caution.” You tilt your head, mouth grazing the line of his jaw now, your lips a hair from his ear. Your ass rolls deliberately against the length of him beneath the water, slow and unrelenting. “Can’t imagine she’d be thrilled,” you whisper, “to know how hard you are for someone who doesn’t say please.”

“Oh, right,” he mutters, voice low and rough now, bitter curling beneath every word, “because Yangyang would be thrilled seeing you like this.” His cock grinds up against your ass again, slow and thick, dragging through the water like he wants to mark you with the shape of it. His breath catches—sharp, filthy—then spills hot across your neck as he leans in closer, chest pressed to your back now, voice rasping just behind your ear. “Bent into me, bare, tits floating, nipples hard, ass grinding on my cock like you need it,” he breathes. “You think he’d be proud of how wet you are for someone who isn’t him?”

You turn in his arms with a tenderness that feels dangerous, too soft for what’s come before, too slow for how fast your pulse is hammering beneath your skin. His chest is pressed to yours, bare and burning, and your thighs hook around his waist with ease, like muscle memory, like you were made to fit there. The water laps gently around you both, warm and quiet, muffling the world. His hands stay loose at your hips, not gripping, not steadying—just there, like he’s afraid to hold you too tightly, like touching you wrong might shatter the illusion of whatever this is.

Your hand comes up to his face. You don’t rush it. Your fingers glide along his jaw, then his cheekbone, brushing a damp curl away from his temple. His lashes are stuck together, dark and wet. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something—like he wants to tell you this moment is undoing him. You trace his bottom lip with your thumb and feel the tremble in his breath, the stammer in his chest. The beat of his heart hits hard against your sternum. He’s never looked more open than he does right now.

You lean in closer, forehead to his, your lips hovering just above his, and the stillness wraps around you both like a hush meant for cathedrals. The water doesn’t move. The air doesn’t shift. His eyes are on yours, wide and waiting, and your breath warms the space between his mouth and yours until even silence feels like temptation. The moment swells, suspended, haloed in soft heat and shimmer, like time has slowed out of reverence. Like the world is holding its breath for the fall.

You whisper his name. No ache, no venom—just breath and memory, as if it’s been resting on your tongue all this time. A name said like a blessing. Like something holy you once believed in. He shudders, lashes lowering, lips parting—not for words, but to receive something he doesn’t realise you’re already stealing back. The moonlight clings to your skin like it’s trying to worship you, slicking your shoulders, catching in the strands of wet hair that cling to your neck like a halo fractured by salt. He looks at you like he’s looking at salvation. Like he’s spent months convincing himself you were a curse, only to find grace pressed against his mouth again.

His body jerks once beneath you, his cock twitching where it presses against your thigh. It’s instinct. It’s hope. He thinks you’re going to kiss him. He thinks you’re choosing him again. He doesn’t know it yet—but this is the moment right before the fall. That’s when you shove him. Your palms hit his shoulders with a force he doesn’t expect. The water splits with a violent splash as he goes under, legs flailing, breath knocked from his chest. You don’t flinch. You watch him disappear like you planned it, like you’ve been waiting to do it since the moment he touched you. He surfaces seconds later, sputtering, coughing, blinking water out of his lashes, staring at you with disbelief etched across every line of his face.

You’re already grinning, wild and cold and vicious, the water dripping from your lashes like war paint, your chest heaving not from effort but exhilaration. It spills out of you in waves—laughter edged with something sharp, something cruel, something that’s been festering since the first moment you saw him in someone else’s orbit. You wipe your hand across your cheek with the same casual ease you used to cup his jaw, tilt your head like you’re teasing, like this is nothing more than a game, but your eyes burn with something deeper. He’s still gasping, still stunned, hair plastered to his forehead, and you smile like it’s funny—like it’s easy. Then your voice slices through the steam between you, soft and venom-laced. “And that’s for pretending you didn’t want me.” You let it sit for a second, let the weight of it drag through the silence. “For looking me dead in the face and choosing everyone else like it cost you nothing.” Your tone doesn’t rise, but it doesn’t have to. It’s lethal exactly where it is—low, intimate, final. “For looking me dead in the eye and saying I was the biggest mistake you ever made.” 

His laugh cracks out of him like it hurts. Not bitter. Not defensive. Just broken—like he’s choking on the memory. “I only said that,” he growls, stepping closer, “because you told me admitting you loved me would be like admitting you’d failed.” The words splinter between you, sharper than the splash you threw, sharper than your smile.

His voice shudders but doesn’t soften. “You compared me to every mistake your mother warned you not to make. Said I was only good for fucking, not for keeping. So yeah—yeah, I told you that you were the biggest mistake I ever made.”

You don’t answer him. You don’t even look at him. Whatever flickered in your expression a moment ago—whatever softness lingered—is gone now, pulled under with the tide. You blink once, slowly, then duck beneath the water without a word, slipping past him like he isn’t worth the oxygen. He lunges, hand out, fingers brushing your wrist but you’re already gone. A flick of your ankle, a twist of your body, and you’re swimming away from him, fast and fluid, like muscle memory. Like escape. The sound of his breath chasing yours ripples behind you until you feel it—his hand closing around your ankle, rough but not cruel, yanking you backward with a sudden, unapologetic pull that breaks the surface tension in one violent stroke.

You squeal, kick, scream through your teeth, but he’s dragging you back into his arms like you belong there. Like you never left. His chest crashes against your back, arms banded around your middle, breath hot against the shell of your ear. You twist, and he lets you. You shove your palms flat into his shoulders—just hard enough to break the moment, not bruise it. He’s stronger. He could stop you, could hold you still but he doesn’t. Maybe that’s what ruins him most, that he lets you push, that he lets it all happen. He must secretly believe he deserves this. 

It’s not forceful. It’s precise. A sharp edge carved from control, not chaos. A reminder, not a punishment. Your hands cut through water like blades, and still, he goes under like you’ve struck something deeper than skin. Like your hands reached somewhere he didn’t think you could still touch.

He could’ve caught your wrists, held you steady, ducked or dodged but he doesn’t, he lets the fall happen. He watches your face flicker into something cold and distant and cruel before the surface closes over him again. He resurfaces with a gasp, water streaking down his cheeks like confession. He’s halfway to breathless when your next words hit him.

“And that’s for lying to your friends about how it ended!” you shout, voice cracking slightly as the water splashes between you, the sting of it catching in your throat. “For pretending it was mutual. For standing there smiling while they called me the storm.” Your eyes gleam, feral and wild and wet. “You stood in that room and let them think I broke everything. That I just left. Like I wasn’t drowning. Like you didn’t help me dig the fucking grave.”

He tries to get a word in—something stupid, probably—but you throw water in his face, both palms slapping the surface with all the anger you’ve kept locked in your chest. “And that’s for kissing her in public three days after I left. You couldn’t wait, right?” you say, softer now, more bitter than angry. “Not even a week. Not even a fucking week before you needed a new audience to watch you move on.”

His expression flickers—barely—but you see it. It makes something shake loose in you. Your throat closes. The water clings to your skin, but your hands don’t stop. You splash him again. Again. The laugh bubbling out of you is cracked now, bitter, warped by something sour. “And that’s for calling me difficult when I begged you to listen.”

The words cut the air like glass. You see him flinch. You’re shaking. The water fights back now, splashing into your face as your arms move harder, more desperate, the laughter gone, breath coming in wet stutters. “And that’s for never calling me back. For saying you loved me and then vanishing again like I was nothing.” Your voice breaks, and the echo of it sounds like a lie you’re still trying to believe. “You chased me halfway across the world. Stood outside my building in the snow like you meant it. Said it was different this time.” Your hands hit the surface again, more splash than aim. “You should’ve left me alone the first time, Jeno. You shouldn’t have come back unless you were going to fucking stay.”

“You always tell the story like I left,” he says, voice flat. “Like I just disappeared. Like I got scared. But do you remember what you said to me that night?” A pause, short, sharp. “No. Of course you don’t. You never remember the things you say when you want me gone.”

His mouth curves—not into a smile, but something bitter, something brittle. “You locked the door behind me before I’d even made it to the elevator. Like it was rehearsed. Like you were waiting for an excuse to throw me out, just so you wouldn’t have to ask me to go.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but his voice gets tighter, lower. “So yeah. I didn’t call. I didn’t come back. Because you slammed the door and told me to leave and then made it everyone else’s job to wonder why I did.”

Then quieter, colder, just above the surface: “You didn’t want me to stay. You just wanted to say you tried.”

Your laugh comes out cracked, almost silent, like it escaped before it could turn into a sob. You shake your head once, water flinging from your hair, your hands hovering like you don’t know whether to hold him. “God,” you breathe, voice trembling, “you really think that was easy for me? You think I wanted to be that person? That girl who locks doors and bites her tongue and walks away from someone she still—” You stop. Blink hard. Swallow it back like you’ve swallowed everything else since New York.

“I wasn’t trying to make you the villain,” you whisper, eyes burning. “I was trying to survive you.” And then softer, breaking: “You left me bleeding and called it mercy.”

Your breath shudders. You wipe your face, not from the water, but from everything else—the heat behind your eyes, the sting of everything he’s just said. You laugh once, low and hoarse, but there’s no humor in it. Just exhaustion. “Right,” you murmur, voice barely holding together. “That’s why we’re here again, isn’t it? Because no matter how far I run, how many people I fuck, how many times I try to forget—you always find a way to remind me I’m the problem. I’m the reason it fell apart. I’m the one who locked the door. I’m the one who said too much.” You shake your head, throat closing. “So congratulations.” You say it like it tastes bad. “You win. I’m the problem. I always was.” It’s not even an accusation anymore. It’s not even about blame. It’s a confession. It’s the only thing left to say when you’re tired of begging to be understood by someone who only sees your wreckage.

His face shifts immediately, the fight bleeding out of his eyes, replaced by something softer—something closer to grief. He doesn’t flinch this time, doesn’t deflect or retreat. He moves toward you, slow, careful, like you’re an open wound he doesn’t want to press too hard. “I’m not saying that,” he says, gently. “I never said that,” he continues, eyes locked on yours, voice trembling at the edges but unwavering. “And if I ever made you feel like that, if I made you believe that carrying all of this alone was what you deserved—I’m sorry. I swear to God, I never wanted to make you think you were the reason we didn’t work. That was never what this was. Not for me. Not even when it ended. Especially not then.” His throat moves. He swallows. “You were the one thing I never stopped wanting to fight for. Even when I didn’t know how.”

His voice is quiet, thick, but steady. He looks at you like he’s trying to see past the words you’ve thrown, past the version of himself you’ve painted in your head, to the place where the hurt actually lives. His hand rises again, this time just barely grazing your forearm under the water, a soft, grounding touch that asks for nothing but presence. “We weren’t on the same page,” he says, not as an excuse but as a truth. “That’s why we didn’t work. Not because we didn’t care. Not because we didn’t try. Just—because we were loving each other in different languages and calling it the same thing.”

He lets it hang there, heavy and real, then steps in closer, like his presence might speak clearer than his mouth ever could. The air between you charges thick and he doesn’t break your gaze once. “You needed things I didn’t know how to give,” he says, slow, deliberate. “Not because I didn’t want to. I wanted to. God, I wanted to.” His voice lowers, tightens. “But I was already drowning in the fear that I was failing you every time I tried and I couldn’t admit it. Not to you. Not to myself.”

He shifts, just slightly—like something inside him caves under its own weight. “So I told myself leaving would make it cleaner. That walking away would spare you the resentment of watching me fall short over and over.” A pause. His jaw tenses. “But it didn’t spare either of us, did it?” His eyes burn into yours now, voice rough. “I didn’t leave because you weren’t enough. I left because deep down I was terrified you’d figure out I never was.”

Your breath hitches so violently it feels like something inside you snaps. Your lips part, but nothing comes out at first—just a sharp inhale, shaky, wet, like your lungs forgot how to hold anything but grief. Your hands tremble, curling into fists against your thighs beneath the water, nails pressing so hard into your skin it hurts, but not enough to stop the storm building in your chest.

“Don’t—” you choke, shaking your head, water slipping from your lashes like rain. “Don’t stand there and say that like it makes it better. Like it means anything now.”

Your voice cracks mid-sentence, like the weight of it all finally lands. “Do you know what it felt like?” you breathe, louder now, words tumbling faster, breath shorter. “To wake up and not know if I was crazy or just forgettable? To convince myself over and over that it had to be me because the alternative was too—” you cut off, swallow hard, your whole body curling forward like it might collapse into itself. “You left, Jeno. You left. You let me sit in that silence for months and every single day I hated myself a little more for not being someone worth staying for.” Your voice is hoarse, broken, the edges of your words fraying into sobs.

Water surges violently as your knees give, your body folding forward like the current itself has taken hold of your spine, like the grief was always a tide waiting to pull you under. Your limbs tremble, motion slowing to a crawl, fingers dragging uselessly through the surface as if they might find something to hold but there’s nothing, just the cold press of silence and the heavy cradle of water wrapping around your ribs like a closing fist. It feels like the end of something unnamed, like the gasp before a final breath, like the world narrowing to the shape of your own collapse. Your mouth opens, but there’s no sound—only the shudder of a sob caught too deep to escape, your lungs tightening like the water wants in. Then you’re caught. Jeno’s arms wrap around you like instinct, like ritual, one pressing firm between your shoulder blades, the other buried in your hair as if he can keep you tethered by sheer will alone. Your chest crushes against his, your tears lost in the wet heat between you, but he doesn’t flinch. He holds you like he’s afraid the water will claim you if he loosens his grip even once. His hands map the curve of your back like a vow, slow and certain, grounding you in the shape of now. He exhales into your hair as if lending you breath, as if your lungs forgot how on their own.

“Hey—hey. Shhh.” His voice strains, still gentle but fraying, laced with panic he can’t hide anymore. “I’ve got you. I promise, I’ve got you.” His hands don’t stop moving—stroking your back, curling at your waist, cradling the base of your skull like he’s terrified you might unravel in his arms. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “Baby, please. You have to breathe.”

You don’t mean to fall apart in his arms. It just happens—like a thread pulled loose all at once, your body collapsing into his without warning. Your shoulders cave in before you can stop them, your forehead tucking into the warm hollow of his neck like it’s the only thing keeping you from shattering completely. The sobs come hard, shaking, ripped from a place deeper than breath, your whole frame trembling with the weight of everything you never let yourself feel until now. You’re wet with more than water, your chest hitching, fists curled weakly in the fabric at his sides. And he just holds you—tighter, closer. His palm moves slow and steady along your spine, up and down, again and again, like he’s memorising the rhythm of your breaking and trying to soothe it with his own. The other hand fists into the back of your dress, knuckles pressing in like an anchor. His breath is warm against your temple, and when he kisses your hairline, it’s soft, reverent, a promise without words. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, again and again, voice thick with emotion he won’t name. “I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay, baby, you’re not alone. You don’t have to carry it anymore.”

You shake your head once, hard, like that’ll make it untrue. Like he doesn’t get to say those words anymore. But still, you stay. Still, your knees give, and still he’s the one keeping you upright. You want to speak—to explain the guilt, the ache, the way you can’t look in mirrors anymore without seeing every version of yourself you failed to save—but it all knots in your throat. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing just under your eye. “I’d stay like this all night if it’s what you need. If this is how you breathe, I’ll keep you breathing.”

But you’re sobbing too hard to answer. You cling to his shoulders like you’re falling. You dig your nails in like he’s the only solid thing left in the world. He kisses your temple, again and again, voice cracking at the edges. “It wasn’t just you. It wasn’t just you. I swear to you, you didn’t do this alone.” His forehead presses to yours, his breath shaking against your lips. “You’re not broken. You’re not wrong. I should’ve said it back then. I should’ve fought harder. I’m here now. I’ve got you.” You’re already gone in the grief, in the panic, in the months of silence that all collapse into this one night. If he can just keep your body above water then maybe your heart will float too.

It’s him—him—holding you now, the same hands that once let go of you without looking back, the same mouth that kissed silence into your ribs when all you wanted was to be heard. His arms are the ones wrapped around you while you shake like a fever breaking, while the water folds over your body like a shroud made of every goodbye you never got to survive. It’s a cruel kind of symmetry, the poetry of drowning in the presence of the person who taught you what air could feel like, and yet he’s the only one who can hold you steady through the storm he helped carve into your chest. There’s salt on your lips—grief or chlorine or maybe the aftertaste of every night you bit back the urge to call him—and when he pulls you closer, chest to chest, skin to skin, it doesn’t feel like rescue. It feels like confession. Like all the parts of you that splintered when he left are pressing into him now, waiting to see if he still remembers how to fit them back together. Your pulse stutters like it’s forgotten its rhythm, like it’s scared he’ll vanish again if you breathe too loud, but his hands stay where they are, grounded and unflinching, whispering promises into your spine without needing to speak them—I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—and for the first time in months, you let your weight fall fully into him, and it doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like proof that even when he was the one who broke you, he still knows exactly where you come undone.

The sun glares too bright through the villa’s wide-open shutters, glinting off crystal pitchers of juice, sweat-slicked champagne bottles half-empty on the buffet table, glancing over silver lids of warmers lined like soldiers. Most of the boys are already up, still dripping from the morning swim, some lazily spearing fruit with plastic forks, others crouched in flip-flops by the omelette bar. The chef behind it cracks egg after egg like clockwork, barely glancing up. The air smells of citrus, butter, fresh heat.

You come in late, sunglasses on despite being indoors, linen button-up cinched high on your thighs, lips glossed, smile mechanical.

“Excuse me?” you snap, already waving down a sous chef in white. “I said the tag says dairy-free, but this—” you jab a spoon into a bowl of pale sauce— “smells like goddamn butter.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“You think sorry helps an allergic reaction? Who made this?” you demand. “Because if someone ends up in the hospital, that’s your name they’ll ask for, right? That’s how that works?”

Your voice cuts above the soft jazz playing. The sous chef’s face turns red. You don’t care. You’re already halfway down the buffet line, adjusting tongs, setting things straight. Karina mouths bitch mode activated to Jaemin across the mimosa station. No one stops you. No one dares.

Jeno’s at the waffle station. He’s been standing there, watching, one hand wrapped around a plate he hasn’t filled. He’d carried you to your room last night, arms strong but unsure, your body limp from how long you'd cried. You wouldn’t let him stay. Said you were fine. Said it too fast, too rough, like a shield. Yangyang showed up just after, worried, stammering, confused. You didn’t want him either, barely looked at him, but Jeno couldn’t leave you alone. So he left you with the only person who could stand in his place, even if it made his stomach churn. Even if he knew Yangyang would end up inside you. That discomfort hadn’t left his body. It’s still lodged somewhere in his chest now, standing there with his hands cold around porcelain, watching you pretend like none of it happened.

When you step beside him to reach for the berries, your hands brush. He doesn’t flinch. “Are you okay?” he asks, quietly, like it might break something if said too loud.

You don’t meet his eyes. “Fine,” you say, monotone, popping a blueberry into your mouth like last night didn’t end with your mascara streaked across his chest.

He nods once, lets the silence sit. The waffle iron beeps. He doesn’t move. “You know I’ve seen you cry before,” he says eventually, turning slightly toward you. “I don’t know why you’re acting like I haven’t.”

You stiffen, hand tightening around the tong. “Not like this,” you mutter.

His voice softens, low but sharp. “You’ve cried to me like that before. I know you, okay? Even the parts you try to hide from me.”

Your grip slips. One of the tongs clatters. You still don’t look at him. He lets out a dry, short laugh, bitter on the edges. “You can’t look into my eyes because you broke down to me? You know I’ve literally been inside of you. I’ve seen everything. You don’t have to be so nervous.”

Your jaw clenches. You don’t give him the satisfaction of a flinch, just shove your plate forward, stabbing a waffle on top. Then you turn, sharp enough to slice the air. “Shut up, Jeno,” you snap. “God.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Doesn’t chase the fight you’re baiting him into, doesn’t roll his eyes or smirk like he used to when things got tense just to disarm you. He just stands there, quiet, steady, hands loose at his sides. Then he shifts—barely a step—but it’s enough. He’s in your space now, close enough that you feel the heat of him, the way his voice sinks low without needing to whisper. “Are you okay,” he says, “after what happened yesterday?” It’s not a question dressed in pity or sarcasm or self-interest. It’s not defensive. It’s not sharp. It’s softer than you can handle, said with the kind of warmth that makes your chest twist, the kind that lives behind someone’s ribs when they’ve seen you unravel and still want to hold the pieces. His eyes stay on you, soft brown and unreadable and there, really there, and it makes you feel so seen it almost hurts.

He doesn’t reach for you—he never does when you’re like this—but his voice does. “We don’t have to do it now. I’m not trying to push you.” A beat. “But when you’re ready… we need to talk. Really talk.” His breath catches, just slightly. “You broke down in my arms last night,” he adds, gentler still, “and I meant it when I said I wasn’t leaving you alone.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking to the floor, the plate, anywhere but his face. “I know you don’t want me to see you like that,” he murmurs, “but I already have and I’m still here.” His voice warms again, barely a whisper. “I’ll always be here. Just… when you’re ready, come find me. Okay?”

It’s terrifying—fucking terrifying—when someone knows you that well, when they can reach past the version you spend every day perfecting and still pull the real you into the light, when they speak to the part of you you’ve buried so deep under command and control that even you forget it’s still in there, raw and aching and waiting for someone to touch it gently enough that it doesn’t flinch, and he says it so softly, so simply, like it’s easy, like staying was always the obvious choice, like watching you crumble into him, mascara on your chin, fingers twisted in the collar of his shirt as if drowning—that didn’t scare him, when it should have, when it did scare you, when you couldn’t look him in the eye because you were certain that moment had wrecked something sacred and irreparable, but now he’s just standing there, open, calm, hands loose at his sides like he’s ready to catch you again if you so much as sway, and it makes you ache in a place so old it doesn’t have language, because it’s not the way he looks at you like he’s in love, it’s the way he sees you with all your shit and still decides to stay.

And there’s more—so much more, things you didn’t even realize had happened until hours later when your body wasn’t vibrating anymore and your brain slowed down just enough to notice them in fragments, like how the fan was on low even though you don’t remember touching it, how the bathroom door had been nudged shut and the tequila bottle—that bottle—was nowhere in sight, how the hoodie you never gave back to him was folded perfectly at the end of your bed like a quiet offering, how your water bottle was full again when you’d left it empty, and Yangyang had his phone out at one point and you caught a glimpse of the texts—two of them—from Jeno asking if you were okay, if you were sleeping, if you’d eaten, he didn’t send more after that, like he didn’t want to overstep, like he already felt guilty for leaving in the first place and needed to know you were safe even if he wasn’t the one holding you anymore, and it makes your chest clench because he was holding you, in every single way that mattered, in the quiet and invisible spaces you didn’t see or feel until now, and he never mentioned any of it this morning, never pointed to himself and asked for credit or validation or gratitude, because that’s not why he did it—he did it because he knows you, and knowing you has always meant protecting you, even from yourself.

You’re already moving before he can talk more and shatter your heart, back in motion, back in command. You bark at the staff to rotate the trays, tell them the egg white frittata’s been sitting too long. You rearrange the fruit station because someone thought it made sense to put the watermelon before the kiwis. You ask three separate servers if they’ve double-checked the seating chart for brunch, if the twins got the vegan option, if the itinerary’s been printed and left in the guest rooms like you fucking asked. You tell Mark to go put a shirt on if he’s going to lounge near the canapés. Scold Shotaro for tracking water across the marble again. Snatch someone’s phone off the charger and say, “whoever’s this is, I’m confiscating it till you stop acting like an unpaid intern.”

You’re a storm in sunglasses, a drill sergeant in heels, and no one can keep up. Eventually, you disappear—no fanfare, no warning. Just gone. Slipped out through the side path that curls behind the gardens, beneath bougainvillea vines and between stone arches where the koi pond lives in dappled light and silence. You crouch there, beneath the soft swaying leaves, pretending to read the ripples on the water like they can give you answers. Your hands tremble. You wrap them around your knees and squeeze tight.

Seulgi finds you there. You hear her before you see her—the gentle shuffle of flats against gravel, the clink of porcelain. She crouches too, settling beside you with a thermos and a look that doesn’t ask anything. “Deep breaths,” she says, holding out the cup. “Don’t let him make this harder.”

You take the tea, hold it between your palms like it might anchor you. “I just want it perfect,” you whisper.

Seulgi brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, fingers soft and cool. “I know,” she says. “But perfect doesn’t mean killing yourself over it.”

Your laugh is thin, glassy. “You say that like you didn’t raise him.”

Seulgi sighs, long and knowing. “I did raise him. That’s how I know how stubborn he is. How he holds onto pain like it’s proof of something. How he shuts down when he’s scared.” Her tone shifts—warmer, but edged with that steel she reserves only for you. “But you didn’t see how he looked at you last night.”

You still can’t bring yourself to meet her eyes. “He left me with Yangyang.”

“Because you told him to go,” she says gently. “And he knew you didn’t want to be alone, no matter what came out of your mouth. You think that didn’t kill him? Watching someone else stay because he wasn’t allowed to?”

“But he didn’t fight to stay.” You stare into the sea like it holds something heavier than water, knuckles tight around the ceramic as the steam curls up and vanishes. “I told him to leave,” you say finally, voice hollow, too even to trust. “I told him to go, that I was fine, that I didn’t need him. And I know—I know how fucked that sounds, because how can I question it now, how can I sit here wondering where the fuck he was when I was the one who made him leave? But Seulgi—” your voice cracks before you steady it again, “—he didn’t fight. He didn’t push back. He didn’t look at me and say, ‘no, I’m not going, not like this.’ He just nodded, like he was relieved to be let off the hook, like walking away from me when I was choking on everything I couldn’t say was easier and maybe that’s what kills me the most. Not that he left but that he didn’t try. That I was breaking right in front of him, and he let the door close anyway.”

Seulgi doesn’t react right away. She just watches you, like she’s weighing every word you said against everything she’s ever known about her son. Then her brows pull together—subtle, deliberate—and she exhales through her nose, slow and careful, like she’s holding herself back from something sharper. “He learned that from Taeyong,” she says quietly, almost like she hates having to say it out loud. “That silence counts as safety. That walking away is how you protect yourself. You think I haven’t seen that before? I lived with it. Every time things got too loud, too raw, too close—your eyes too wet, your voice too soft—he shuts down. Not because he doesn’t car but because he cares so much he thinks the only way to survive it is to retreat. To not make it worse. To not say the wrong thing. And I know that doesn’t make it better, honey. I know it doesn’t fix what he did but he wasn’t relieved to leave. He was scared. Scared that staying would break you worse. Scared he wouldn’t know how to hold you right. That you wouldn’t let him.”

Her fingers wrap around your wrist, gentle but firm. “You wanted him to fight for you, and he wanted to not hurt you. And somewhere in the middle of all that miscommunication, you both lost the fucking plot.” She tilts her head, thumb brushing lightly across your pulse point. “You’re right to be angry. He should’ve stayed. He should’ve known you didn’t mean it but if you think that boy walked out of your room and didn’t look back—you don’t know him like I do.” Then her voice lowers, achingly soft. “He looked back. I promise you, sweetheart—he looked back the whole way down that hall.”

She tucks your hair behind your ear again. “I’ve seen a lot of girls love him. From far away. For the spotlight. For the wins. You’re the only one who loved him close. Loved the him that breaks things. And I think that terrifies both of you.”

You shake your head, lip wobbling. “I didn’t mean to hurt us.”

“You didn’t,” she says firmly. “He was cracked long before you touched him. You just made him feel it. That’s different.”

You stare into the pond. The koi drift lazily, unaffected by any of this. You speak quietly. “I hate when he acts like I’m a stranger. Like everything we had was nothing.”

Seulgi sighs again, hands folding in her lap. “He doesn’t think it was nothing. He thinks it was everything. And when you lose everything, sometimes all you can do is pretend you never had it.”

Your throat burns. “You’re hard on yourself,” she adds. “You always have been. Like if you just plan enough, control enough, maybe the pain won’t catch up. But love doesn’t care about plans. It’s messy. It’s inconvenient. Sometimes it leaves scars. Sometimes it comes back.”

You finally look at her. Your eyes sting. “I don’t know what to do.”

Seulgi cups your cheek. “Start by forgiving yourself. Then, maybe—when you’re ready—let him see you. Really see you. Not the version that runs this villa like a general. The one that’s still hurting. The one that stayed up all night trying not to text him.”

You nod slowly, eyes wet. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

She smiles. “Sweetheart,” she whispers, brushing away a tear with her thumb. “I’ve seen you worse. You think I don’t remember the rush hour shift at the caffe when you had a panic attack trying to book a group dinner for six people?”

From the second-floor veranda, above the carved wood railing and thick drapes fluttering in the wind, Jeno sees. He was walking past, maybe looking for you, maybe not. But he sees. Sees how small you sit next to her. How carefully she touches you. How you lean in, let her hold you like that and the guilt splits through him sharp.

You and his mother have stayed close—closer than he ever realized and he didn’t even know.

The terrace hums with heat that hasn’t faded even with nightfall, thick and unmoving like breath held too long. It spills through the cracked stone beneath them, sticks to skin, and seeps into every cushion and every glass of sweating scotch. The wine cellar terrace, half-dug into the cliff behind the villa, glows low with lanterns strung along rusted iron hooks, their flickering shadows cast against velvet throws and bare, sun-warmed walls. Somewhere deeper in the house, Doyoung is still pacing the dining room, rehearsing his speech for tomorrow, muttering under his breath and rejecting every draft Mark offers with an eye roll and a tighter frown but none of that reaches the cellar. Out here, it feels like the world has narrowed to this, liquor, cards, bare torsos, the salt-slick hush of waves beneath them. 

This is Doyoung’s night, his wedding’s tomorrow, his nerves are spiking, and the speech he’s been rewriting all afternoon has been crumpled and restarted more times than anyone can count. He’s been pacing the villa kitchen in socks and silence for hours, glass of wine refilled and untouched, mumbling lines to himself and snapping at anyone who offers help. Mark eventually gets sick of it. He doesn’t ask, he just pulls Doyoung out by the arm, murmurs something about air, about relaxing, about needing to reset before tomorrow. Doyoung protests until they reach the terrace, and then it hits him all at once — the heat, the low jazz, the lanterns swinging above bare chests and scuffed poker chips, Hyuck yelling about rules he made up on the spot, Chenle’s cackling from a corner pillow. He’s still tense when he sinks into the cushions beside Mark, eyes scanning the mess like he doesn’t quite know how to belong to it, but Mark just nudges a glass into his hand and leans in with a low, warm, “You’ll thank me later.”

The bachelor party hasn’t been revealed yet. It’s still building in the wings, waiting for the right moment. Mark knows what’s coming, but right now he just wants to anchor Doyoung back to earth, keep the guys together, let the mood settle into something good before it spikes into celebration. The night hasn’t erupted yet but the burn has started. Every breath tastes like salt, like tension, like something about to snap.

Mark sits closest to the record player, a gift from Doyoung, placed in the corner even though nobody can properly work it. The needle stutters through an old jazz LP, worn edges and haunting saxophone curling into the warmth like a memory too persistent to shake. Hyuck keeps pretending he’s in charge, slapping the deck against his palm with the flair of a magician who’s just discovered vice. “Ante up, gentlemen,” he grins, tossing chips across the table without waiting for agreement. “Tonight, the stakes are pride, dignity, and whatever shreds of masculinity you’ve got left.” 

Chenle is already barefoot, knees pulled up against a velvet cushion, waving a makeshift tally card where he’s scrawled their names and drawn little knives beside anyone who folds early. “I’m keeping score,” he says solemnly, lips curved into a grin. “Most likely to cheat, most likely to cry, most likely to choke in bed.”

“Put a crown next to Hyuck for that last one,” Jaemin mutters, his voice barely audible, head tipped back where he’s sprawled along the built-in stone bench, the cuff of his pants rolled and legs stretched long into the night. “He’s had two hands and three lies already.”

“You’re just mad I pulled a straight with pure sexual energy,” Hyuck retorts, flicking his lighter open and shut.

Doyoung adjusts his grip on the too-full glass of wine in his hand and finally looks around — really looks. The haze of cigar smoke, the sting of salt still clinging to the stone, the gleam of bare chests and sweat-wet skin stretched out across velvet cushions like a painting that got drunk halfway through. Hyuck is barking out nonsense rules between sips of mezcal, Chenle is halfway through a performance review of everyone’s poker face, Jaemin hasn’t moved in fifteen minutes except to ash his cigarette over the edge of the terrace. Mark meets Doyoung’s glance briefly before looking away again. Everything smells like heat and burnt sugar and arrogance.

His mouth curves into a tight frown. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice dry as the wine in his hand. “It smells like cigar and shame out here. Is this a wedding or a frat house from hell? 

Mark barely glances up, already bracing for the commentary, but Jeno shifts first, to tip his head slightly, the silver chain around his throat catching a slant of light like it wants to be looked at. His fingers toy with the edge of his poker chip, lazy and slow. “Cigars are Hyuck’s fault,” he says, not quite smiling. “The shame’s optional.” He doesn’t bother looking up. His cards rest steady in his hand, but his focus keeps slipping. He’s seated with one leg hooked loosely over the other, bare chest slick with a sheen of sweat and ocean salt, all sharp collarbones and careless posture, like he’s bored of winning but too restless to stop. The pile of chips in front of him is obscene. He hasn’t lost a single hand all night. His jaw is tight but his mouth is soft, and his lashes shadow his cheekbones every time he blinks down at the table, the expression unreadable, somewhere between distraction and detachment, like he’s playing a different game altogether, one only he understands.

The table is a humid, chaotic sprawl of half-drunk glasses, uneven stacks of poker chips, ash from Hyuck’s cigar dusting the velvet like confetti. Chenle’s barefoot again, Shotaro’s collapsed somewhere behind a cushion with his hair stuck to his cheek, and Hyuck deals the cards like a man possessed. His wrist flicks like he’s auditioning for a Vegas cabaret, dramatic to the point of unnecessary, each card cutting through the air like he’s trying to wound the night itself. The Queen of Spades smacks the edge of Chenle’s wineglass and almost sends it toppling, but he rescues it one-handed like a magician, holding it aloft and grinning like he deserves a trophy. “This one’s high stakes,” Hyuck announces, sweeping his arm out as he deals the last card like it’s a dramatic reveal. “Winner gets bragging rights. Loser has to skinny dip alone and send the group chat a tasteful nude.” 

“Hyuck, that’s your kink,” Jaemin mutters without looking up, tapping ash off his cigarette with one hand while adjusting his chips with the other. “Not a punishment.”

“It’s called motivation,” Hyuck fires back. “Learn about it.”

Chenle snorts, throws his cards down without looking. “If we’re skinny dipping based on who loses, I wish Ningning was in this game. She’d act all innocent and then start peeling layers off like it’s nothing. Probably fold early just so she could mess with me. I’d forget how to play the second she took off her top. Honestly? I’d lose on purpose.”

There’s a chorus of snorts. Jaemin laughs behind his wrist. Mark clicks his tongue and jabs Chenle in the ribs with the corner of a chip. “Don’t be gross.”

“I’m being honest,” Chenle shrugs, shrugging deeper into his cushion like he’s been wronged. “If the girls were playing? We’d all be fucked.”

Mark glances at him over his glass. “Who specifically?”

“Oh, all of them,” Chenle says, grinning. “Ryujin would act like she doesn’t know the rules and then clean us out while texting her manager.”

“Seulgi would say exactly three words the whole game,” Hyuck adds, cutting the deck again with unnecessary flair. “And somehow end the night with everyone’s watch and dignity.”

“Areum would forget what game we’re playing,” Mark says, lips curving as he takes a slow sip. “Like genuinely. She’d just be there for the snacks and probably fall asleep halfway through.” 

“She’d throw in chips without looking,” Doyoung adds. “Win once, get bored, and leave.”

“Ningning,” Chenle starts, smiling a little too hard, “would play like she’s never seen cards before, then get mad halfway through and start betting aggressively out of spite. She wouldn’t win, but she’d make sure I lost.”

“Karina would overthink every round,” Jaemin says. “She’d play safe, try to be strategic. First hand would go great, and then she’d spiral.” 

“She’d also flirt through it,” Hyuck adds. “Giggle every time she gets dealt a bad hand, keep the table distracted. She’d last long enough to be dangerous, but then double down on the worst hand just to prove a point.”

“Irene would cheat,” Jaemin says confidently.

“She would,” Doyoung agrees, like it’s an accepted fact of the universe.

“She’d bring her own deck,” Hyuck nods. They laugh, loud and real, the kind of laughter that only happens when everyone’s a little too hot, a little too drunk, and too far gone in the night to care how loud they are.

Chenle clicks his tongue. “Nahyun would talk a big game. Do the whole smoky eye thing, sit real close to Jeno, whisper like she’s bluffing—but she’d fold every round.”

“She’d get mad if you didn’t fold for her,” Mark mutters, distaste on his tongue.

“She’d cry if you did,” Jaemin says.

“Alright,” Chenle says, settling back into the cushions, eyes flicking around the circle like he’s saving the best for last. “Y/N would fold first round,” he adds quickly, reaching for his drink with a smirk already pulling at his mouth. “Act all sweet and play it shy. Make us feel bad for even raising.”

“Then start giggling like she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Hyuck adds, already picturing it. “Say something like, ‘what’s a flush again?’ while collecting half the pot.”

“She’s lethal,” Mark says, shaking his head. “Not even in a cocky way — she just knows exactly when to hit.”

“She’d study all our tells by round two,” Jaemin mutters. “Every eye twitch, every chip tap. She’d let you think you were winning and then gut you clean.”

“Nah, she wouldn’t just win,” Doyoung says, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “She’d make it hurt. Humble you with a smile on her face.”

“She’d do that fake apologetic thing, too,” Chenle groans. “Like, ‘wait, that’s good right?’ while throwing down the only royal flush of the night.”

Yangyang exhales a quiet laugh, low and knowing. “She’d fold early just to watch everyone else unravel. Then when it matters? She’d raise without blinking, lean forward like it’s casual — and you’d give her everything without even realising.” He says it softly, but there’s weight behind it. Like he’s not guessing. Like he’s seen it happen.

Jeno hadn’t said a word in ten minutes, he didn’t flinch when they joked about Nahyun folding under pressure, and didn't react when Mark mutters that she plays with expectation instead of instinct. Jeno keeps his head low, fingers tracing the rim of his glass with a rhythm that doesn’t match the pace of the room. His jaw is slack, mouth unreadable, chest rising slow as he leans further into the shadows. The firelight skims across his skin, catching the sweat sheen and the gold chain clinging to the hollow of his throat. He nods along here and there, but it’s empty movement, mechanical and detached. He’s not here to add. He’s watching, he’s waiting. His attention only sharpens when your name slips out, caught at the tail end of Chenle’s laugh like it wasn’t meant to land. That’s when everything shifts. Jeno’s gaze lifts. The motion is slight, deliberate, not dramatic enough for most of them to notice but Yangyang does. Yangyang is already looking at him.

Their eyes meet across the cushions. Jeno’s gaze is slow and deliberate, locked in with a stillness that feels sculpted, not accidental. There’s no smirk, no twitch of amusement, just something dark and quiet, razor-sharp in its focus. His stare doesn’t waver, it’s held too long to be casual but too calm to be confrontational. It’s the kind of look that says everything without speaking, like he’s not warning Yangyang. 

His thumb presses against the glass rim once, slow and soundless. His chest rises, barely. The fire flickers in the reflection of his eyes. When he speaks, it’s not sudden. It’s inevitable. “No,” Jeno says, voice smooth and low, almost too calm. “She’d pretend to fold, she’d let you think she’s soft. Then come back with a straight flush and make you look stupid for ever believing she wasn’t playing.”

He doesn’t elaborate or blink. He just lets it hang in the smoke-thick air, the sentence curling slow and tight in everyone’s chest. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. It doesn’t sound like he’s guessing. It sounds like he remembers. It sounds like something that’s happened, like something he’s studied, the way your fingers graze the chips, the curve of your smile when you know you’ve already won, the flick of your wrist as you set down a hand that no one saw coming.

He remembers the way you play games, not just poker, but the little ones that start with a challenge and end with someone breathless. The way you’d push him, always a little too hard during play-fights, fists curled into his chest like you wanted to hurt and kiss him all at once. He always let you land the first hit, always let you laugh too loud when you thought you won, just so he could pull you in tighter after, arms locking around your waist, his breath hot against your ear as he flipped you under him and asked, low, if you really thought he’d lose to you. 

He remembers the way you play games, not just poker, but the little ones that start with a challenge and end with someone breathless. The way you’d shove at him during play-fights, always a little too hard, fists curled into his chest like you couldn’t decide whether you wanted to hurt him or fuck him. You’d scrunch your nose, giggling through your threats, calling him names with a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, soft, mean, irresistible. He’d always let you land the first hit. Let you think you had the upper hand. Let you gloat, loud and dramatic, collapsing into laughter with your body draped over his, so confident he’d let you win again but it was never a question of if he’d flip it, only when. He’d catch your wrists, slow and steady, thumbs stroking over your pulse, breath hot against your cheek as he rolled you beneath him like it cost nothing. Arms locking around your waist, chest flush to yours, lips dragging down the slope of your jaw. “You really think I’d lose to you?” he’d whisper, voice lazy and low, like he wasn’t already so hard it hurt.

You’d try to wriggle out of it, laughing again, breath catching as his hands slid lower, pinning your hips down while you arched into him anyway. There was always tension, always teasing, you’d squirm and whine when he tickled your ribs, suck in a sharp breath when his mouth ghosted over your neck, tug at his hair when he pushed your thighs apart just to press them back together again. He liked when you got bratty about losing. Liked it when your pout melted into a moan the second his hand slipped under your shirt. You’d say “rematch” with your panties already pushed to the side. He’d say “prove it” with his fingers between your legs. 

He remembers how serious you got over board games, that crease in your brow when you counted points, the way your lip would catch between your teeth when you were trying not to gloat. He always watched you more than the pieces. You didn’t play to pass time, you played to destroy and when he beat you, because he did more than you’d like to admit, it wasn’t about the win. It was about how you’d go quiet, pouty and twitchy in his lap, arms crossed until he kissed you through your own rules. Hands on your thighs, mouth slow and dragging, murmuring “baby, it’s just a game” while you rolled your hips to shut him up. There was nothing innocent about it. Not the tension, not the teasing, not the way you’d play just to get claimed after and he never minded losing. Not really. Not when it meant fucking you on the floor while the board scattered under your knees.

Doyoung lets out a shaky laugh, the sound too high and too quick, like it slips out before he can stop it. He adjusts the cuff of his shirt, clears his throat, eyes darting between faces like he’s trying to read the temperature in the room. “Jesus,” he mutters, voice tight with something between amusement and genuine concern. “You boys don’t even need to be playing poker to get some action. Aren’t all of you already sleeping with each other anyway?” The question lands light, half a joke, but it cuts just sharp enough to pull Jeno’s gaze back to the table. His fingers pause on his glass. 

Chenle claps once, delighted. “This whole friend group is an orgy and I stand by that.”

“Not everyone is fucking right now,” Mark cuts in, like he’s clarifying something serious. “Yangyang’s not sleeping with anyone in the group. Neither is Hyuck.”

Chenle doesn’t miss a beat. “Bro. He’s literally been fucking Y/N every night since we got here.”

Mark blinks. “Wait—what?” It comes out too fast, too sharp, like it caught somewhere between shock and something heavier. He stares at Yangyang, then at the half-empty bottle in front of him like it might explain something. “Seriously?” He leans forward, blinking again, voice dropping without meaning to. “I just didn’t think she’d—” He stops. Runs a hand down his face. “I thought you two were just… hanging out.”

Yangyang leans back into the cushions, fingers curling slowly around his glass like he’s got time to kill and no reason to rush. He lifts it to his mouth, sips like it’s nothing, then lowers it again but his eyes never leave Jeno’s. He tilts his head just slightly, enough for the firelight to catch along his jaw, and lets the words drop soft, almost bored.

“We’re not hanging,” he says smoothly. “I’m just keeping her busy, every night, don’t think we’ve missed a single one.” The silence that follows isn’t the kind that begs for a response. It’s the kind that waits for blood. Jeno's eyes stay on Yangyang, locked and unflinching, heavy with something darker than jealousy. He doesn’t look furious. He looks focused, like someone weighing outcomes. Like someone deciding whether to speak or snap. His jaw tightens once, his thumb brushes slowly along the side of his glass. 

Yangyang holds the stare, legs stretched out in front of him, entirely at ease but the smirk fades. The air between them pulls taut, invisible string wound between their chests, tension straining against silence. There’s no raised voices or fists yet. There’s just an undeniable sense that if either one of them moved, the whole room would tilt.

The laughter from before drains out of the circle like someone pulled the plug. Chenle’s grin fades. Hyuck shifts, glances at Jaemin, then looks back down at his cards like they might save him. Even Jaemin taps his cigarette out without a joke. Doyoung’s cough breaks the charged silence, it’s loud enough to break whatever thread had pulled tight around them, rough enough to sound just a bit too forced. His smile pulls a little too wide, too neat, his attempt at changing the topic. “This better not turn into strip poker,” he says finally, voice light but eyes flicking sideways like he’s already plotting his escape. 

Mark chuckles at a memory “Last time Shotaro cried because Jaemin took off his watch,” he adds. 

“That watch was sentimental,” Shotaro mutters from his cushion without opening his eyes. His voice is soft but stubborn, like he’s been waiting for someone to bring it up. “It had the moon phases on it. It was one that Y/N gifted me.” 

Chenle fans his cards dramatically, pulling everyone back to the game. “Okay, I’ve got nothing. I fold before I start but just know that if I did have good cards, all of you would be absolutely ruined.”

Mark flicks his hand across the table, discarding his cards with ease. “You bluff like a toddler.”

“You look like a toddler,” Chenle says too fast, instantly grimacing. “No wait, wait. That was weak. Forget it. Reverse it.”

“Too late,” Jaemin hums, taking a drag from his cigarette. “You’re getting flamed in the toast tomorrow.”

“Like you weren’t the one crying during the rehearsal,” Mark shoots back, one brow lifting, voice sharp but even.

“Your vows were manipulative!” Jaemin fires, pink in the cheeks now. “You weaponised sincerity!”

“Back to the game,” Hyuck cuts in with a groan, flipping the flop, three cards face up in the centre of the table. Two hearts and a club. The laughter dies down in slow increments, everyone leans forward like something primal just woke up in their stomachs.

Jeno hasn’t spoken in what feels like ten minutes. He’s the only one not leaning in, still draped across the corner of the couch like his body’s given up on pretending this is even competition. One arm hooked back over the cushion, silver chain catching the light across his collarbone every time he shifts, his other hand lazily moving a poker chip between his knuckles. His skin is sun-warmed and salt-slick, hair slightly messy like he forgot to dry it after the ocean, and the sweat pooling beneath his jaw only makes him look more alive but there’s something unhinged beneath the surface, something tight around the mouth, something too still in his eyes. He hasn’t lost a hand all night, but he doesn’t seem to care if that changes. His thumb taps the edge of his chips with slow rhythm, precise and meaningless.

The turn card lands, Queen of Hearts and Jeno’s thumb stops moving. Mark notices. Says nothing. But his gaze flickers. “Alright, bets,” Hyuck says, leaning back into the cushions, too cocky for someone who keeps folding. “If you’re broke, borrow. If you’re scared, fold. If you’re drunk — the same rules apply.”

“I raise,” Jaemin says immediately, tossing in three chips like he wants to burn his stack just to watch it go up in smoke. “Because chaos is a strategy.”

“I’ll match,” Doyoung says, fingers a little too steady, posture too upright. “But only because I think watching you lose is good for my soul.” He smiles like he means it, but the line of sweat on his brow suggests otherwise.

“I fold,” Shotaro mumbles, face buried in his cushion. “I have stage fright.”

“It’s not a performance,” Chenle scoffs.

“I have performance anxiety anyway.”

“Your hand isn’t even in this round,” Hyuck hisses, slamming a card down with flair. “Plus you’re literally a performance arts major.”

Jeno doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move like the others do, doesn’t tap or twitch or shift his weight. His wrist turns slow, smooth, the chip balanced neatly between his fingers like it belongs there. His eyes stay low, steady, almost heavy-lidded with how little effort he’s putting in. Then he flicks. One flick. Clean, precise, the chip arcing through the air and landing dead center in the pile with the kind of silence that makes people notice. “Call,” he says, voice deep, low, no tension in it at all, like he’s not gambling, like he’s narrating something inevitable.

Jaemin breathes out a laugh, soft and amused. “You say that like it’s a love language.”

The river card lands, Five of Diamonds, and the game turns real. No one says a word. The only movement is Jeno’s thumb dragging across his bottom lip, slow and unfocused, his eyes locked on the centre of the table like the cards might shift if he waits long enough. He looks dangerous, like a man holding fire and pretending it doesn’t burn. “Final bets,” Hyuck says, softer now.

Mark adds two chips, fingers tapping once against the wood. “I want to see you fall apart, Jaemin.”

Jaemin raises him by one without flinching. “You’ll have to buy me dinner first.”

Jeno doesn’t raise or fold. He just holds his cards like they’re facts. One slow breath. One glance toward the pile. He waits. Jaemin throws down his hand like he’s presenting a miracle. “Two pair. Queens and Fives. Say it. I’m beautiful and terrifying.”

“You’re halfway there,” Mark says, showing a straight, smug. “But not enough.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Jaemin groans, flopping back.

Doyoung lifts a quiet three of a kind and sips his wine like it was all beneath him from the start.

The room settles into a charged stillness, soft murmurs fading as the weight of the moment pulls every gaze toward him. Jeno lifts his hand with ease, each movement deliberate, fingers gliding over the velvet until they find the edge of his cards. He flips them with practiced grace, spreading them into a clean, measured fan across the table. Five hearts. Deep red, gleaming under firelight. A flush laid out like it was never in question. Tension shifts across the circle, breath hitching in the throat of the room, heat pressing in against bare skin. The game keeps going, but everyone knows who it belongs to now.

Hyuck lets out a wheeze and drops his drink. “You son of a bitch.”

Mark doesn’t blink. “You had that from the start.”

“I had it before the first round,” Jeno murmurs, the corner of his mouth curling like he’s not sure if he’s pleased or ruined. “I just wanted to see who’d fall apart trying to beat me.”

“You’re disgusting,” Chenle mutters, sounding impressed.

“Take off your pants, Jaemin,” Hyuck says gleefully. “Time to earn your badge.”

“No one is going skinny dipping,” Mark sighs, rubbing his eyes.

“Speak for yourself,” Jaemin says, already undoing his belt.

Outside, the night has unraveled into something looser, hotter, full of half-drunk limbs and half-open shirts. Some of the boys are in the pool now, stripped down and shouting across the water, their laughter echoing off the cliff edge and bouncing back in time with the old jazz still buzzing faintly through the speaker no one remembers pairing. A couple of them have sprawled out along the stone floor with half-finished drinks, chests rising slow, lulled by heat and exhaustion. The poker table is a mess of empty glasses and forgotten chips, the velvet marked with sweat and spilled liquor. There’s a cigarette still burning in the ashtray beside a half-played hand. No one’s keeping score anymore. The air’s grown heavier with salt and smoke, and the buzz of the night has melted into something low and pulsing, like the aftermath of a storm that hasn’t quite passed.

Jeno hasn’t moved from his spot. He’s still in the corner, half-shadowed by the glow of low-hung lanterns, bare chest slick with sweat that hasn’t cooled since the game ended. The heat clings to him, settles into the line of his collarbone where his chain sticks like it’s been welded there. His fingers are loose around a glass long gone warm, the condensation dried, untouched for too long. He hasn’t spoken since the final hand. Not a word. His eyes are open but far, tracking nothing, fixed on the stretch of terrace that leads to the water — the pool where your back arched against his, where your moans tangled in his breath, where you moved against him like it was the first time and the last. You left him there, still dripping, still reeling, like none of it mattered. Then the whispers came. You disappeared upstairs. Ended the night in someone else’s bed. He hasn’t been right since. He hasn’t thought straight. There’s a silence in his body that doesn’t belong here, doesn’t match the laughter or the heat or the way Hyuck’s still shouting in the distance. It’s not calm. It’s the chokehold left behind when need doesn’t get met. It’s a storm caught between his ribs, pacing without exit.

Jaemin’s next to him, shirtless too, smoke curling from between his fingers, the scent of it bleeding into the salt air. He leans back, lazy and long-limbed, then turns just enough to offer the cigarette across the booth without speaking. The motion is smooth, muscle memory, like he knows Jeno used to always take it. Jeno shifts his hand slightly, a slow, silent refusal that barely even qualifies as a shake of the head. He’s clean now, more focused and strict, wired into something bigger. Ever since the NBA contract, he’s cut it all: the pills, the highs, the smoke that used to keep him level. Now it’s just discipline. Just control. He drinks enough to stay loose, never enough to lose edge. Trains like it’s scripture. Plays like it’s war. It’s in the way his body holds stillness, how his fingers never twitch, how he stays rooted even when everything else spins. Jaemin doesn’t question it, he just takes another drag, exhales into the heat, and watches the edge behind Jeno’s silence sharpen by the second.

She arrives like perfume in a room that didn’t ask for it, sudden, strong, and already lingering before anyone can respond. The terrace doors part without warning, her silhouette sharp against the backdrop of stone and smoke. She walks in like she owns the scene, heels striking the floor with a rhythm too clean to be drunk. Her dress clings like heat, black and cut high, one strap slipping from her shoulder as if it’s part of the performance. Hoop earrings flash each time her head tilts, makeup sharp enough to slice. Nahyun doesn’t wait for permission. She moves toward Jeno like she’s following a script she wrote herself, gaze locked on to him, mouth pulled into something between a pout and a sneer. She’s glowing, or trying to. Not from joy but from friction, from spite, from the fire she’s been stoking in her chest since the day she arrived in this villa.

Jaemin taps the ash from his cigarette one last time, then stands without looking at either of them. Nahyun rather be doing what she’s done every other night since she arrived, stretched out poolside with a stronger drink, Jeno’s hands on her thighs, away from the pastel bullshit and fake laughter echoing off villa walls. The girls had their matching glasses, their safe little circle, their group photos with her cropped just out of frame but tonight she was stuck with them due to the bachelorette night. “The girls are bitches,” Nahyun mutters, tossing her bag onto the low table like she’s been waiting for an excuse to be angry. “They act like you’re still hers.”

Jeno blinks once, slow and dry, like her voice has started to blur into the heat. There’s no shift in his shoulders, no tilt of his head, no change in the angle of his mouth. He just blinks with the flat weight of someone who’s already tuned out. His stare doesn’t follow her pacing. His breath doesn’t catch on her bitterness. He looks at her the way you look at a drink that’s gone flat. It’s boredom, plain and solid, the kind that seeps under the skin and makes silence feel louder. He hears her but he’s already done listening.

“Maybe they know something I don’t?” she says next, a little too fast, too rehearsed, like she’s tried it in her head ten times before now.

“Maybe they’re just loyal,” Jeno replies, voice even, cold, unbothered in a way that lands like ice.

Nahyun laughs, and it’s fake — brittle and bitter, her lipstick catching at the corner of her mouth when her smile turns sharp. “You always get like this when she’s near.” The words hang. They don’t need air. They already burn. “I tried,” she says, pacing now, the slit of her dress flashing with each step. “I smiled at Karina when she pulled that fake-ass ‘love your dress’ routine — even though we both know she thinks I look like a knockoff. I asked about her stupid hair serum. I laughed at Ningning’s little punchlines like I gave a fuck. Areum sat across from me and didn’t say a word except to ask for the butter. And Winter—fuck—Winter asked me if I was working the event or just tagging along.” Her voice is rising now, eyes glinting with something more raw than irritation. “I tried. I really did.”

“They act like you’re still hers. Like this—” she gestures between their bodies, close enough to burn, “—is temporary. Like I’m temporary.” Her tone is quiet but mean. “They hate me.” 

His voice comes low, flat, stripped of heat or hesitation. “Yeah,” he says. “They probably do.”

She whips her head toward him, scoffing so loud it cuts across the room, all teeth and disbelief. “Wow. Cool,” she snaps, voice climbing with every word. “God, you’re such an asshole.” Her laugh is sharp and fake, the kind girls use when they’re about to cry but refuse to let it show. She tosses her hair back with too much force, bracelets clinking, rings flashing. “You sit here brooding, looking like the hottest person on this fucking rock, acting like you’re some poor misunderstood victim while I get treated like the extra no one asked for.” She leans forward now, voice dripping with that high-pitched, bratty whine that always covers something deeper. “You think I don’t notice the looks? The way they talk to me like I’m temporary? Like I’m background?”

She sucks in a breath, shaky, lashes fluttering with fury. “You wanna know why they act like I’m nothing? Because she exists.” She doesn’t say your name at first, like even giving it air would ruin the point but then her face cracks open. “Because Y/N walks into a room and everyone forgets who they came with. She doesn’t have to say a word, she just looks at people and it’s over. You know what it’s like standing next to her? Trying to speak and knowing no one’s listening? Because they’re too busy hoping she’ll glance their way, or say something nice, or smile like she gives a fuck?” Her voice breaks, but she powers through it, digging nails into the cushion. “She’s not just pretty. She’s fucking terrifying. She knows it. You know it. They orbit her like she’s got gravity stitched into her spine. One compliment out of her mouth and suddenly I don’t exist. I’m a glitch in the background. A typo.”

She laughs again, breathless, shaking her head. “And fine. Fine. Maybe she is drop-dead gorgeous. Maybe everyone wants her but she’s a bitch. A smug, selfish, manipulative bitch who knows exactly what she’s doing when she tilts her head and pretends to be sweet. She doesn’t even have to try. She doesn’t work for it like the rest of us. And you—” her voice snaps, gutted and cracked, “—you look at her like you’d burn down every version of your fucking life if she even hinted she wanted you back. Like you’d drop me mid-sentence if she so much as blinked in your direction. Like she still has you on a leash and she’s not even holding it.” She pauses, breathing heavy, mascara smudging at the corners as she stares at him like she’s searching for some kind of denial but he still hasn’t looked at her. Not once.

Jeno finally turns his head. Slowly, like the effort costs him. His eyes meet hers for the first time since she walked in, there’s a hollow weight of someone who’s hit the bottom of whatever restraint he had left. His voice cuts through her like a crack in stone, low and final and carved out of exhaustion. “Stop fucking talking about Y/N.” It sounds like a thread snapping. His jaw locks so tight you can see the muscle flicker, his throat working around the words he doesn’t want to say, the ones he’s already choking on. His eyes flutter closed, his head tips back against the cushion like he’s trying to disappear into it, trying to find a second of quiet in a night that’s dragged him bare. 

The bachelor party is already deep in its descent. Everything smells like sweat and sex and celebration. The boys had “kidnapped” Doyoung from the safety of his own suite two hours ago, dragging him half-dressed into a black SUV while he protested through laughter and low-level threats. They stuffed a blindfold over his eyes, poured a shot down his throat, and promised this would be the last mistake he ever got to make unmarried. Now he’s here, somewhere between amused and horrified,  slouched dead-center on one of the velvet couches, half-laughing, half-praying, a glass of wine held like a crucifix between his fingers. The others are sprawled in every direction: Jaemin with his ankle hooked over his knee, calculating the vibe like a strategist; Hyuck shirtless and yelling across the room, a bottle in one hand and nothing in the other; Shotaro nervously bouncing his knee, trying to act like this isn’t the wildest night of his life; Chenle midway through filling a shot he’ll probably regret tomorrow; and Jeno, sunk low into the far corner, chain against his chest, fingers wrapped around a half-finished drink, unreadable. 

The private penthouse lounge is bathed in low red and amber light, the kind that turns skin to velvet and sweat to gold. Thick blackout curtains seal the outside world shut. Bass hums slow and low from speakers embedded in the walls, each pulse more like a heartbeat than a song. The air is dense with whiskey, cigar smoke, the faint sweetness of weed and something floral that clings to the corners like perfume worn in another room. The couches are plush and sunken deep, all arranged in a semicircle facing the raised marble platform in the center of the room, lit from beneath like a stage that shouldn’t exist. It’s past two in the morning. Everyone’s already drunk. The energy is loud, feral, scattered — until the curtain parts.

She steps in like sin made flesh. The curtains peel back, velvet parting slow, and then she’s there — hips cocked, one leg forward, every inch of her soaked in red light. Her stilettos strike the marble like punctuation. Her crystal thong flashes as she walks, obscene and deliberate, the shimmer bouncing against her thighs with every sway of her hips. The lace bodysuit she wears isn’t made to conceal — just tease. It slices high at the hip and lower at the chest, framing her tits with the kind of confidence that makes silence collapse. Black lace clings to her arms and ribs, sheer enough to leave nothing to imagination. A mask veils the top half of her face. Her lips are painted wet and glossy, gum working between her teeth as she surveys the room like she owns it. In one hand, a riding crop. In the other, a remote and before she speaks, her perfume hits — sweet vanilla, smoke, familiar.

Jeno’s back tenses like it’s instinct. The bass shifts. She tilts her head, lets her legs spread slightly as she plants herself center-stage. She presses the crop between her thighs, dragging it slow up the inside of her leg, biting her bottom lip like she’s trying not to moan just from the friction. “You boys ready to behave,” she purrs, voice like syrup sliding over a bruise, “or do I need to teach you what obedience really tastes like?”

Hyuck’s already yelling, throwing his arm over Shotaro’s shoulder, bottle clinking in his grip. “Baby, I’m failing every test you give me. Punish me.”

“Oh my god,” Chenle wheezes, half-drunk and already recording. “She hasn’t even started yet.”

“She has started,” Doyoung mutters, legs crossed tightly, glass clutched with both hands like it’s his last defence.

“Jesus Christ,” Jaemin breathes under his breath, leaning forward slightly, tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “She’s unreal.”

Shotaro’s voice comes out a little too honest. “She… she kinda looks like Y/N.”

That snaps through the room like a whip crack. Mark turns his head so fast his chain shifts across his collarbone. “Don’t put that image in my head” he says, sharp, eyes slicing toward Shotaro like it’s personal. “Don’t say that.”

Shotaro blinks, flush creeping up his neck. “I didn’t— I mean—just, like—vibes—”

“She doesn’t,” Mark says again, voice tight, jaw clenched.

But Jeno hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t blinked. His fingers curl slow around the edge of his glass. The stripper smiles like she heard everything. She walks forward, hips rolling in slow motion, each movement carved from control. She taps the crop against her palm. “Oh? Got a type?” Her voice dips low as she locks eyes with Shotaro, then Mark. “Bet you all do.”

Then she lifts her leg onto the edge of the couch in front of them, arches her back, and runs the crop between her tits. Her gum pops. “Here’s how this works,” she says, purring now. “You don’t touch me unless I say. You don’t speak unless I ask. You keep your hands on your thighs and your mouths shut, unless I’m sitting on one of them.”

Hyuck fucking howls. “Oh my god, marry me right now.”

“She said mouths shut,” Doyoung says weakly, clutching his drink tighter.

“Say please,” she demands.

Her walk isn’t rushed, but it slices through the room like something made to ruin men—heels cutting across marble in a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes the couches feel too small and the space too hot. She trails one fingertip along the cushions as she moves, hips swaying like a threat, and when she rounds behind him, the perfume hits. Jeno still hasn’t looked up. Hasn’t said a word. But the second that scent curls into his air—thick, sweet, just the wrong side of right—something in him stirs. It doesn’t flicker, it coils. His fingers shift slightly on the glass like he forgot he was holding it, and the grip around his drink tightens just enough to show he’s not as detached as he looks. Not when it smells like that. Not when it smells like you. The sweetness isn’t generic. It’s exact. The heat of it is too familiar, the softness too specific, the undertone too cruel. It sinks past memory and straight into his spine, presses into his jaw, slides down his chest like your tongue used to. His body doesn’t move, but his pulse gives him away—right there, at his throat, just once, like his heart kicked up before he could stop it. She isn’t even touching him. She doesn’t have to. You already are.

The room doesn’t just react. It combusts. Laughter cracks like thunder against the walls, whistles cut sharp through the bass, and the applause starts as mocking but turns feverish the longer she holds their attention. She doesn’t smile at first—she smirks, tongue pressing into the inside of her cheek as she lets her body speak before her mouth does. Shoulders back, tits high, stomach tight in lace, she drags the crop across her hip and begins to move. Every step lands with purpose. Every sway of her hips is a dare.

Hyuck doesn’t stand a chance. She climbs into his lap without asking, without pause, grinding slow and deep into his crotch while he cackles like a man being exorcised. The tequila bottle is yanked from his hand, tilted down her chest, the curve of her breasts gleaming with liquor as she leans forward and lets it spill across his mouth. He chokes on it, coughing through laughter, and she slaps him—not hard, but loud, right across the cheek with a flick of her wrist and a hissed laugh. “You like that, don’t you?” she purrs, dragging her nails along his jaw. “Thirsty fucking brat.” Hyuck moans something incoherent. She blows him a kiss as she stands.

Chenle gets her next. She spins and rolls her hips back into his lap, ass grinding with slow, exaggerated rhythm that makes him freeze, arms lifted like he doesn’t know where to put them. She wiggles once—tight and purposeful—and leans over his shoulder. “Bet you come in thirty seconds,” she whispers, hips never stopping.

Chenle laughs, too loud. “I—okay, fuck—maybe twenty—”

She slaps his hand before it even touches her. “Did I say you could touch?”

He stammers, red-faced, reaching for his drink like it might save him from further humiliation. Then she turns and drops to her knees in front of Doyoung like it’s sacred. Her hands trail slow along his thighs before her tongue drags over the buckle of his belt, teeth grazing the leather. “You look like the kind of guy who needs rules,” she says, voice low. “Someone to tell him when to breathe.” Doyoung exhales through gritted teeth, one hand braced on the couch, eyes locked on a spot above her head like he’s praying.

Then she’s up again, moving. Shotaro blinks when she grabs his tie, startled before she even pulls. She yanks him to standing with one sharp tug, drags his face between her tits, and rocks him forward. “God, you’re innocent,” she coos against his ear. “Ever been face-fucked, baby?” Shotaro stumbles back, blushing so red it glows, and the boys explode again, hollering like it’s a show.

Jaemin leans further into the cushion when she approaches. His thigh stays spread, open, waiting, and she takes the invitation like it’s owed. Her hand trails up from his knee, nails grazing denim, fingers mapping the line of his zipper before flattening against the slope of his chest. She moves closer until her breath touches his jaw, and for the first time all night, she eases into something quieter—less performative, more precise. “You look like trouble,” she murmurs, voice tipped in flirt, but her eyes search his like she’s trying to remember something real. 

Jaemin’s smile tilts, amused and lazy. “So do you.” The corner of her mouth curves, but it’s slower now, slower than it should be. Her head tilts to the left, a pause opening between them, one beat too long. 

“Wait…” she says, softer this time, the edge of something unsettled catching beneath the silk of her voice, “have we met before?” Her fingers are still against his chest. The room doesn’t hear it but Jaemin does. 

His smirk doesn’t slip—it just shifts, mouth curving as his eyes narrow. “Not that I remember.” She lingers another second, chewing gum slowly, like memory’s right there at the back of her throat, and then she pulls away, laughing under her breath like the question never mattered. But Jaemin watches her turn, his gaze following the sway of her hips as she moves across the room and then he chuckles—quiet, knowing—because he does remember. He remembers the way she stripped down under the violet lights of that New York club, hips slow, eyes locked on him like she already knew which man she’d ruin by morning. The way Jeno looked when he followed her out and now, watching her make her way toward him again, hips sharp and sure and aimed like a weapon, Jaemin leans back with a grin because he knows exactly what’s about to burn.

She doesn’t waste a second. As soon as she turns from Jaemin, it’s like something inside her locks onto its target — hips swaying sharper, steps slower, every line of her body suddenly more deliberate. The lights catch on the crystals stitched across her thong, sparkle flashing across her thighs as she crosses the space toward the couch Jeno hasn’t moved from all night. He hasn’t looked at her once — not properly — but his spine straightens before she even reaches him. His fingers clench around the glass, breath caught somewhere in his throat, and when she stops in front of him, the room tilts.

Because he knows and so does she. It’s instant — thick and electric, a recognition that drops like a hook in the gut. He hadn’t known her name back then. He never asked, not in that cracked-glass hotel room in Manhattan, where the bass from the strip club downstairs never stopped shaking the walls. Not after he followed her out into the night the way he should’ve chased you instead. That was the night you walked out, the night you left him wordless and wrecked, a ghost of you still clinging to his skin. You didn’t just leave — you ended him. Said it was over with a shrug, called it toxic, said you couldn’t do this anymore and didn’t even flinch when he asked why now. You tossed his key on the counter like it meant nothing, walked out of his apartment like you hadn’t spent the night before moaning his name into his neck. Then, you fucked someone new with the necklace he gave you still on so he ended up in a basement strip club, drowned in neon and sweat and women who didn’t ask questions.

She wasn’t you but she looked close enough in the dark. Now she’s back in front of him, and it’s worse than memory because this time, she smells like you. She doesn’t climb into his lap, she slides, one leg straddling, her thighs part over his hips, cunt barely concealed by lace, chest flush against his as she sinks down with a moan so soft it doesn’t sound performed. Her hands cup the back of his neck, nails grazing the edges of his hair, and she doesn’t speak. She grinds — slow, circular, dragging her pussy along the bulge in his pants until his breath hitches in his throat. Then she leans in and kisses him.

She doesn’t ask permission when she climbs into his lap—just takes it, thighs spreading wide over his, cunt dragging slow against the bulge in his pants as her body settles into his like it remembers him. Like it wants him to remember her too. Her lips find his mouth fast, no pause, no tease, and the kiss is messy from the start, open-mouthed and breathless, tongues sliding together with heat that tastes like need. He kisses her back harder than he should, hands gripping tight at the swell of her ass, fingers digging in until she’s gasping into his mouth, her chest pressed flat against his, sweat and lace and skin crushed together as she rocks her hips into him again. He lets her grind slow, like he’s not even controlling it, like he’s just reacting, lips dragging down to her jaw, then back up, sucking her bottom lip between his teeth before biting down just enough to make her moan. She bites back, nails scraping up the back of his neck, hips rolling deeper with every breath she steals from his mouth. One of his hands slides under the hem of her bodysuit, dragging lace with it as he palms the inside of her thigh, pulling her closer, pressing her harder against his lap until she’s panting for more friction. His other hand fists in her hair, tilts her head back so he can kiss her rougher, sloppier, like he’s trying to drown every sound of the past in the heat between her lips. She moans again, louder this time, grinding down like she’s trying to fuck him through the fabric, and he lets her, hands everywhere, memory crashing over him with every sway of her hips because this is what it felt like last time—months ago, blackout drunk, a stranger in a room that wasn’t you but smelled enough like you to keep his eyes closed and now here she is again, body pressed to his like a punishment he asked for, like a ghost that kisses back.

No one in the room speaks. No one moves because none of them got touched like this.

It’s the night before the wedding, Irene’s night, and you’ve planned it to feel like something sacred. A soft send-off. A love letter in champagne and candlelight. It’s everything she asked for and everything you know how to give: a private rooftop bar overlooking the sea, tables dressed in white linen and rose gold, charcuterie boards laid out like altars, strawberries sliced into hearts, chocolate-dipped figs, sugared lavender shortbread. There’s a silk robe for every girl with her name stitched on the collar, slippers lined in velvet, a playlist of nostalgic slow jams looping in the background. You even brought handwritten notes for each of them, tucked into pearl envelopes and slid beneath their plates. It’s soft. Delicate. Romantic. Curated down to the last thread of fairy lights but the serenity doesn’t last. It never does. Ningning spikes the punch with absinthe and a wink. Karina drops a cap of molly into her prosecco like it’s part of the itinerary. Someone — probably Ningning again — changes the playlist to ‘Bad Girls Club’ reruns and turns the flatscreen up loud. The room hums with pink light and a kind of chaos that tastes like glitter and regret. Karaoke starts as a joke, slow ballads, breakup songs, girls swaying and scream-singing into a gold mic that keeps glitching. Irene laughs until she’s wheezing. Areum sips her drink like it’s poison. Then you grab the mic. Glossy-eyed, mouth already tight with everything you haven’t said out loud since the day you agreed to show up and not ruin this. It’s a classic ‘fuck you’ song. The beat kicks in and it’s venom. Every lyric hits too hard, too pointed, too close to the way Nahyun’s has been looking at you all night. You sing it loud, like a girl bleeding out through her voice and when you hit the bridge, you’re not looking at anyone but her. Nahyun’s face doesn’t change. She just crosses her legs tighter. 

Areum mutters, “This is not the vibe.” 

Ningning drains her glass, shrugs. “This is exactly the vibe.”

Later, in the gift box circle, the tradition twists — each girl brings a wrapped box for the bride, but inside each one is a secret, a dare, or a lie. Your gift gets handed to you last. The note inside reads: tell the truth about the last person you kissed. Your mouth still tastes like Jeno. Still burns from Yangyang. You don’t answer. You just throw back the champagne, and Karina catches it immediately. “You don’t drink on truths unless you’ve got something to hide.” She’s not smiling. 

Nahyun’s gift is simple, unassuming, soft lotion and perfume but her dare? “Show us your favorite picture on your phone.” She scrolls. She knows what she’s doing. She lands on a photo of Jeno’s side profile in golden hour, sunlight painting the cut of his jaw like a confession. You look away and scoff. Then the games move downstairs, into the backyard, barefoot in grass still damp from the sprinklers, drinks sloshing over red solo cups as the fire pit flickers wild and hot. “Never have I ever fucked someone who wasn’t mine,” Karina says, and half the circle drinks. Areum snorts. You sip slow and no one asks why. Nahyun doesn’t drink, she just watches you — calm, accusatory, glass tipped toward her lips but never touching. 

Nahyun follows up with, “Never have I ever had feelings for someone who’s taken,” and the table hollers, yelps, groans. 

Your turn: “Never have I ever been the second choice and still stayed.” No laughter. Just silence, weighted and sharp, broken only by the distant hum of a plane overhead. Glasses clink again and then it’s time for the legacy moment. Each girl brings something from high school, a cheer pin, a photo strip, a championship ribbon. You pull on a hoodie. which coincidentally has his number, ‘23,’ peeling at the back from too many washes. Areum rolls her eyes like clockwork. “Couldn’t let that one go, huh?” 

You smile like it’s stitched to pain. “Just matches my damage.” 

You notice it when she reaches for her glass, the way her fingers curl around the stem, the ring catching against the candlelight, delicate and glittering, perched perfectly on her index like it was made to live there. It’s beautiful. A soft gold band, thin and understated, curved gently into a loop with a single tiny diamond pressed into the center like a kiss. It’s not flashy, but it glows. The kind of ring that means something, that was picked with thought, maybe even love. Your eyes catch on it before your mind can stop them, and your voice comes quiet, curious, almost fond. “Where’d you get that? Is that new?”

She looks down at her hand like she’d forgotten it was there, then smiles softly. “Oh—this? It’s the ring that Jeno made. The ones for the bridesmaids. Didn’t he— Oh….” She stops. You see the pause before it happens, her lips parting around the next word and then sealing shut just as fast. Her lashes flutter once. Then she clears her throat, smile flickering. “I’m sure he’ll get Karina to give you it.” The way she says it is light but you hear the tease tucked beneath the sweetness, the way she doesn’t quite meet your eye when she says it, like she knows exactly what string she’s tugging. You just hum, eyes on the ring again, heart ticking a little too loud in your chest.

The girls are all scattered around the west courtyard, the aftertaste of merlot and secrets still hanging thick in the air. You’re still side by side with Areum, eyes fixed on the ring glinting on her finger, just watching it catch the light. The boys return loud, laughter echoing down the villa halls, footsteps too heavy for the hour, clothes still rumpled with smoke, sweat, and something darker. The energy shifts the second they arrive, but it sharpens when their eyes find Jeno. He’s the last to enter, shirt open, jaw locked, something unreadable carved into the tension of his face. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t break stride but his silence drags behind him like a shadow, and whatever high they brought back from the strip club doesn’t follow them through the door.

Shotaro’s the one who moves first, already at the front before anyone really notices, a mic in his hand like it ended up there without question, like it was always meant for him, posture a little sheepish but glowing with that warm, golden pride he wears so easily when it’s someone else’s moment, not his own, and he taps the mic once, clears his throat softly, the room quieting more out of curiosity than command. “Alright, alright, I know it’s late,” he says, voice bouncing gently off the marble and into the night, “but I wanted to keep you all here just a few minutes before the big day, before we all go to bed and pretend we’re not waking up at seven for hair and vows and panic”

The guys snicker, Jaemin groans from the back with his head in his hands, Mark mutters something under his breath about emotional manipulation and how he didn’t sign up for feelings tonight, but he doesn’t move either, none of them do Shotaro grins wider, rocking on his heels like he’s holding back a secret “I made something, just a little… montage, of everything good, a way to appreciate our beautiful life and beautiful company. This is for Doyoung, for Irene”

No one stops him, not a word, not a breath out of place, the room slips into a hush that feels both accidental and sacred, soft as the dimming lights that bleed gold across marble and velvet, pulling shadows into the corners as the projector stirs to life with a mechanical flick and a bloom of silver-blue against the wall. The first images are warm, safe, saturated in nostalgia, footage from away games stitched together in sleepy succession, Jeno’s jump shot caught mid-air in slow motion, muscles coiled, jersey clinging to sweat, the net snapping sharp as the ball slices through, Mark spinning past the camera with Yangyang hanging off his shoulder, both of them drenched in laughter, the kind that doesn’t need words to explain. Then it’s winter — your exhibition, the gallery soft-lit and echoing with footfalls, your work framed in gold and pride, names scrawled in elegant ink like they belonged to constellations, and there’s Karina beside you, eyes glossy, pointing something out with a hand tucked into yours. The bar comes next — Ningning asleep on Chenle’s shoulder in the far booth, Hyuck on the table, shirt half-off, dancing with a straw in his mouth like it’s a microphone, neon pulsing in time with the bass, and the whole screen alive with memory, with things that felt small when they happened but now glow like they were the most important seconds of your lives. The river court flickers up, flooded in late-June light, all of them barefoot and shouting, basketball bouncing wild across concrete while Chenle chases Mark into the frame and tackles him into a pile of towels, the screen drenched in brightness, in rivalry, in youth that hasn’t yet frayed at the edges.

Then the cut changes — quick, sharper, like the tape skipped or something inside it snapped. It’s the state championship night. It’s grainy footage, phone camera propped somewhere careless, but it doesn’t matter, not when the moment is this loud — you’re side by side with Jeno, standing at the edge of the celebration like you don’t notice the chaos around you, a champagne bottle dangling from your hand, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders, and you’re laughing, head thrown back, mouth open, like something just broke free in your chest. He’s not looking at the camera. He’s looking at you, grinning into your skin like it’s the only place he wants to be, and then he leans in, kisses your temple, your cheek, your mouth, in that exact order, like muscle memory, like he’s been waiting all night to taste you and now that he has, he doesn’t want to stop. The room doesn’t breathe. The volume lowers fast, like someone realized too late what this was, and now there’s only flickering light and the shape of a memory neither of you escaped from, because by the time you look across the room, Jeno’s already watching you, unmoving, unreadable, and the screen goes black, but the silence stays.

Later, you can’t sleep. The image replays on loop behind your eyelids, every frame clearer than it should be. Your body feels too hot under the sheets, too tight in your own skin, and eventually you give up trying to lie still. You pull on whatever’s nearest, Yangyang’s hoodie, maybe yours, maybe his, and you slip barefoot out of the villa, walking like you’re not choosing the path so much as being pulled by it.

You end up at the altar, the one built for tomorrow, draped in white florals and clean intention, but under the moonlight it looks different, almost holy in the wrong way, like a monument to every sin that led you here, every touch that shouldn’t have happened, every love that didn’t end when it should’ve.

He’s already there. Not facing you, not yet — just seated on the edge of the stone step like it means nothing, like this place wasn’t built for devotion. His back rises and falls slow, head tilted to the stars, moonlight poured along the slope of his throat and collarbone like it was drawn there by hand. His shirt’s undone, caught by the wind, and his legs stretch long into the dark like he’s trying to touch the horizon. You don’t call his name. You don’t have to. He’s here by chance — just like you are. Neither of you knew the other would come, neither planned it, said it, wanted to admit it, but somehow you both end up here anyway, as if the night itself conspired to bring you back to where everything always begins.

Your footsteps barely touch the ground. You’re not thinking. You’re not even moving, not really, you’re just being pulled, drawn, unspooled toward him like you were always meant to end up in his arms, like the air between you has been aching to close for months. His head lifts the second you’re close enough to feel. Neither of you speak. Neither needs to. Your hands find his shirt. His fingers thread into your waist. It’s not a kiss at first. It’s breath — shared, staggered, stolen — your foreheads tipping forward until there’s no space left for the past. Then his mouth is on yours, slow and deep, and your body breaks open. You’re clutching him like you’ll fall through the earth if you let go, your palms sliding up the heat of his chest, his grip firm under your thighs when he lifts you without thinking, without effort, as if holding you is the only thing he remembers how to do. There’s salt on your lips from where he bites them. There’s wet in your lashes and you don’t know if it’s yours or his. His chain brushes your collarbone. Your nails leave crescents in his shoulder. The wind moves around you but nothing else does. Not the altar. Not the sky. Not time.

Later, you’re still there — wrapped around him like you were threaded into the fabric of him, like if you let go the night might unravel completely. The altar is behind you, forgotten, or maybe fulfilled. His hands stay firm at your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin like he’s memorising you again, like touch is a language only the two of you can speak. The sky has started to pale, bleeding soft blue into the edges of the stars, and your bodies are warm where they meet, bare skin against bare skin, your breath catching as it mixes with his, one exhale echoing the next. You’re shaking a little, not from cold but from the kind of fullness that breaks you open — laughter folded into tears, your lips at his ear, whispering things neither of you will ever say aloud again. His chain is tangled in your fingers now. Your mouth is swollen. His shoulder bears the bite of your teeth. He holds you like you’re both apology and salvation, like the ache of missing you never stopped and having you again might kill him if it doesn’t heal him first.

You’re wrapped around him like nothing else could make sense. Your mouth tastes like salt and yes and his name in too many tenses, your arms looped around his shoulders, shaking with the kind of laughter that only comes when something hurts less than it used to. His hands are everywhere, waist, hips, spine but not to hold you still, just to remind himself you’re here. The sky behind you is beginning to shift, stars softening, the first thread of dawn pulled loose across the dark, but neither of you move. You just breathe, pressed into the hollow between his neck and collarbone, the place where your heartbeat always found rhythm. Then there’s your hand. Curled quiet at the back of his head, fingers threaded through his hair, and on it, something new. Not announced. Not spoken. Just slipped into place in the hush between what was and what comes next. A silver band, barely catching the pale light, warm from your skin, seated on the fourth finger of your left hand like it’s always been waiting. It gleams like a secret shared under your breath, a story folded into touch, a vow made not with noise, but with nerve endings. A ring — new, real, and shaped like a beginning.

The sound comes first, soft and deliberate, a leather sole brushing stone in the way a knife might whisper before it cuts, and then his voice slides in after it like smoke through a locked room — “Didn’t know this place came with a reunion package” — too casual to be clean, too smooth to be kind, and by the time you turn, he’s already there, Lee Taeyong, half-shadowed beneath the stone arch, suit immaculate, expression unreadable, like he’s seen this scene in a dream before and came to watch it rot in real time, and he’s not alone, because behind him, something waits, figures unmoving in the dark, faces turned just enough to be almost human, almost known, and suddenly the altar feels less like a promise and more like a trap, the steps beneath your feet more echo than ground, the wind more absent than still, and the moment more like a final act than an arrival, like he came not to witness the vow, but to break it. This isn’t a guest arriving late, this is a reckoning dressed in a name you used to trust.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note — 

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

[purplereina11]

You're a highly successful basketball player who has just been transferred to Barcelona's women's team. The number 11 holds deep personal significance for you. Among the spectators is none other than football superstar Alexia Putellas, synonymous with the number 11 in Barça history, watching from the sidelines.

What starts as mutual admiration quickly turns into something more, fuelled by weeks of playful yet intense online flirting. The chemistry between you and Alexia becomes undeniable.

I've really enjoyed writing and sharing this, thank you for all the love on this! ❤️

Hope you enjoy the chaotic last chapter!

The next morning, sunlight filters through your blinds, casting golden stripes across rumpled sheets. Your body aches pleasantly—a physical reminder of last night that makes heat rise to your face even in solitude. You reach for your phone, half-expecting a message from her, but there's nothing.

Just hundreds of notifications from social media.

"Shit," you mutter, sitting up too quickly.

You scroll through them with mounting dread. Photos of you and Alexia at Red are everywhere—nothing explicit, thank god, but the way you're looking at each other leaves little to the imagination. One shot captures you following her back from the Private VIP balcony, her hand brushing yours, both of you wearing expressions that scream post-hookup satisfaction.

Your team group chat has exploded:

Claudia: OMG HAVE YOU SEEN THESE

Claudia: You went out with Alexia?

Maya: I KNEW IT 

Liv: Coach is gonna have an aneurysm

Marta: You better have details ready at practice or I'm throwing a ball at your face

You groan, burying your face in your pillow. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Whatever this was.

The training facility looms ahead, and you take a deep breath before pushing through the doors. You're early—deliberately so, hoping to slip into the locker room before the full squad arrives. But as you round the corner, you realize your plan has failed spectacularly.

They're all there. Every single one of your teammates, arranged in a semicircle like they've been waiting for you. Which, judging by their expressions, they absolutely have been.

"Well, well, well," Taylor drawls, leaning against her locker with exaggerated casualness. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

"I'm early," you point out, dropping your bag on the bench. "Practice doesn't start for twenty minutes."

"Oh, we're not talking about practice," Mia says, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "We're talking about your night with Barcelona's golden girl."

Heat creeps up your neck despite your best efforts to appear unfazed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

This is met with a chorus of disbelieving snorts and eye rolls.

"Save it," Jasmine says, tossing her phone your way. "You two are literally everywhere online. That club wasn't as discreet as you thought. Neither is that love bite on your neck”

You catch the phone, stomach dropping as you see the photo on screen. It's you and Alexia on the dance floor, your back pressed against her front, her lips dangerously close to your neck. The lighting is dim, but there's no mistaking either of you.

"Fuck," you mutter, handing the phone back.

The locker room erupts in laughter, a mix of cheers and mock scandalised gasps echoing off the walls. You groan, running a hand down your face. There’s no getting out of this.

"Oh, come on," Claudia says, flopping down beside you with an eager grin. "You have to give us details. Was she as intense as she is on the pitch?"

Maya leans forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "Or worse?"

You shake your head, grabbing your boots and focusing very intently on tying the laces. "You lot are unbelievable."

"Oh, we know," Marta says smugly. "But you love us. Now, tell us—who made the first move? We saw the photos of her all over you, but was that before or after you two snuck off to that private room?"

You freeze for half a second—just enough time for them to notice. The room erupts again. “YOU DID!" Liv practically yells, pointing an accusatory finger. 

Maya claps her hands together, cackling. "Oh my god, please tell me you at least checked for cameras."

"There were no cameras," you mutter, shaking your head. "Thank god."

"So you did do something up there," Marta says, triumphant.

Your silence is damning.

"You are so done for," Claudia grins, nudging your shoulder. "You have to tell us—was it just a heated make-out, or should we be buying wedding gifts already?"

You groan again, tipping your head back in exasperation. "You lot are the worst."

Liv wiggles her eyebrows. "Not an answer."

You exhale, dragging a hand through your hair. They’re relentless, and you’re never getting out of this unless you give them something. "It was… intense," you admit, voice low. "Really fucking intense."

The room falls into stunned silence for all of three seconds before they collectively lose their minds again.

"Oh shit," Maya whispers dramatically. "She got you hooked."

"That bad, huh?" Marta teases, smirking.

You roll your eyes. "Shut up."

"Absolutely not," Liv laughs. "So what now? Are you two, like, a thing? Or are you just basking in the afterglow of the best night of your life?"

Your stomach twists at the question because, honestly? You don’t know. "Don’t look at me like that," you mutter. "I haven’t figured it out yet."

That earns you a chorus of oooohs, because of course it does.

"Sounds like someone’s smitten," Claudia teases, sing-song.

"Sounds like someone’s in trouble," Maya counters. And for the first time all morning, you don’t have a snappy comeback.

The laughter dies down for barely a second before Liv narrows her eyes, a devilish smirk creeping across her face. "Hold on. Let's back up. You say it was intense—but, like, how intense are we talking?"

Marta leans forward, intrigued. "Yeah, was it just, like, the heat of the moment kind of intense? Or the holy shit, I can't breathe, what the hell are we doing kind?"

Claudia wiggles her eyebrows. "Or was it the I need five to ten business days to recover kind?"

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "Why are you like this?"

"Because this is the best gossip we’ve had in ages," Maya says gleefully. 

"Now spill—who started it?"

"I—" you start, but Liv cuts you off.

"Actually, dumb question. Of course it was her. No way you were bold enough to start that."

"Excuse me?" you scoff. "I can be bold."

"Uh-huh." Marta grins. "And yet, based on all the photos, she was all over you."

You try to fight the flush rising to your face, but it's useless. "It wasn’t exactly one-sided."

"Ohhhh," Claudia hums, exchanging looks with the others. "So you were all over her too?"

You run a hand over your face. "Maybe."

Liv gasps, clapping her hands. "Oh my god, you were!"

Maya fans herself dramatically. "Did you pin her against the wall? Tell me you pinned her against the wall."

"No," you say quickly, but they see right through you.

"That was too fast," Marta says smugly.

"You totally did," Claudia grins.

"Or she pinned you," Liv suggests, eyes lighting up.

You freeze again. And once again, they notice. The locker room explodes into chaos.

"NO WAY!" Maya shrieks.

"SHE PINNED YOU?" Liv nearly drops her phone.

"Jesus Christ," you mutter, hiding your face as they erupt into cheers and laughter.

"That explains why you look wrecked today," Marta smirks.

"Okay, that’s enough," you say, trying to maintain some dignity. "We’re done with this conversation."

"Oh, we are so not done," Claudia says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "We haven’t even gotten to the best part."

"And what would that be?" you ask warily.

Liv grins. "Did you stay the night?"

You hesitate.

Big mistake.

The locker room erupts all over again.

"We didn't need to go back to either of our places" you hinted that it was more than just a heated kiss and they lost it, the questioning coming at you like a machine gun now

Liv screeches, slapping Marta’s arm so hard it echoes through the locker room. "OH MY GOD!"

Claudia nearly falls off the bench. "WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. Where then? If you didn’t go back to her place or yours, where the hell did this happen?"

Maya's jaw drops, eyes going wide. "Oh my god. It was in the club, wasn’t it?”

Your silence is damning.

Marta gasps, pointing at you. "No. No way. Tell me you didn’t make out in the bathroom."

"No," you groan, rubbing your temples.

Claudia's eyes narrow as the pieces start falling into place. "Not at home, not the bathroom... but somewhere in the club…" She suddenly claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh my fucking god. The VIP balcony? Thats the door you were going through with her”

The locker room erupts.

"NO. NO WAY."

“IN VIEW?!”

"You mean to tell me," Liv pants between laughter, "you and Alexia were out there in plain sight?"

"Not plain sight—" you start, but Maya cuts you off.

"Oh my god, that’s why there are so many pictures of you two disappearing up there together!" She grabs her phone, scrolling frantically. "Everyone saw you following her. They just didn’t know what happened after."

Your face is burning. "I hate all of you." The locker room descends into absolute chaos. Marta is cackling, Maya has fully collapsed onto the bench, and Claudia is staring at you like you’ve just revealed you’re actually royalty.

"You animal," Liv wheezes.

Marta is in shambles, clutching her stomach. "Did people walk past?"

"I don’t know!" you groan. "It wasn’t like we were— I mean—it was just—"

"You can’t even finish a sentence!" Claudia howls. "Putellas actually broke you."

"Okay, but was it like… hands-on-the-wall kind of thing?" Liv teases. "Or was there a couch?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Why are you like this?"

"Because this is the best thing that has ever happened to us," Maya grins.

Marta fans herself. "The balcony, though. That is a power move."

Liv smirks, tossing her phone onto the bench. "I mean, damn. I knew Alexia had game, but I didn’t think she had public-balcony-at-an-exclusive-club game."

Maya howls. "Holy shit, no wonder you look like you barely survived a hurricane!"

Claudia snickers. "And here I thought you were all responsible and professional."

You shoot her a look. "I am responsible!"

"You made out with Spain’s captain on a private balcony where anyone could have seen if they got the right angle,” Liv reminds you. "Babe, that ship has sailed."

Your face betrays you before you can even think about stopping it. A flicker of something—guilt, panic, something—must cross your expression, because suddenly, the whole room goes silent.

"Wait."

Maya's eyes go wide. "Wait, wait, wait."

Claudia actually gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth like she just uncovered the world's greatest scandal.

Marta points at you, her jaw dropping. "No way."

Liv is the first to recover, leaning in with a wicked grin. "You didn't just make out, did you?"

You open your mouth to argue—deny, deflect, anything—but you hesitate for half a second too long.

Chaos.

"OH. MY. GOD!"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WASN’T JUST A MAKE-OUT?"

"You absolute menace!"

Claudia clutches her chest like she’s having a heart attack. "ON THE BALCONY?!"

Marta is howling, actually having to sit down. 

Claudia nearly slides off the bench. "Do you have any shame?!"

Marta is howling, banging her fist against the locker. "No, no, no. This is legendary behaviour."

Liv, barely able to contain herself, grips your arm. "You’re telling me— you two went up there, where anyone could have walked past, and got handsy?”

You groan, rubbing your hands down your face. "I am never telling you guys anything again."

Maya gasps dramatically. "Oh my god, did she—"

"STOP!" you interrupt, grabbing your training top and shoving it over your head. "I’m leaving. I don’t need this."

"You absolutely do," Liv calls after you. "Because the second this session is over, we’re gonna want to talk about it all over again."

Marta smirks. "And, we’re getting details.

Training is supposed to be your escape. A place where you can drown out the noise, focus on the game, and forget the absolute circus your teammates turned the morning into.

But apparently, the universe has other plans.

You’re midway through warm-ups when you hear it— "What the hell is that on your neck?"

You freeze. The ball you were absentmindedly passing back and forth with Maya clatters away as your head snaps toward the voice. Coach is standing there, hands on their hips, staring directly at you with narrowed eyes.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath.

There’s a moment of silence. Then, from somewhere behind you, Liv wheezes. Claudia physically turns away so her laugh is muffled in her sleeve. Marta isn’t even trying to hide it, hands on her knees as she cackles.

Your jaw clenches. "It’s nothing," you say quickly. "Just—uh, caught an elbow in a challenge yesterday."

Coach squints, stepping closer. "Really?"

You resist the urge to back away. "Yup. Happened so fast, didn’t even see who did it."

"Huh." They fold their arms, eyes flicking from your face to the mark on your neck. "Because it kinda looks like a—"

"IT WAS AN ELBOW," you blurt out, voice slightly too high.

Maya snorts.

Coach stares at you for a moment longer. Then, with a long sigh, she pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don’t even wanna know. Just don’t let it be a distraction."

You nod so fast your neck almost cracks. "Absolutely. 100%. No distractions here."

Coach walks away, muttering something under her breath. The second she’s out of earshot, your teammates lose it.

Liv practically collapses against you. "An elbow?" she howls. "That’s the best you could come up with?"

Marta wipes tears from her eyes. "Who knew Alexia Putellas had such sharp elbows, huh?"

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I hate all of you."

Maya grins. "No you don’t. But what we do hate is you keeping secrets. So, after training—"

"No."

"—you’re giving us details."

"Absolutely not."

Liv slings an arm around your shoulders. "Oh, babe," she says sweetly, "I wasn’t asking."

Training is brutal—not because the drills are particularly hard, but because your teammates won’t let up. Every time you so much as breathe near one of them, there’s a smirk, a whispered comment, or an exaggerated glance at your neck.

Marta jogs past you during a passing drill and mutters, "Hope Alexia stretched properly before last night. Wouldn’t want Spain’s captain pulling something."

Claudia bumps your shoulder in a small-sided game. "You sure you’re not sore? Sounds like a lot of touching on that balcony."

Even Maya, usually the least chaotic, raises an eyebrow as you line up for sprints. "Didn’t know you had a thing for exhibitionism," she muses. "Good to know."

By the time the session ends, you’re exhausted—and not just from the running. You make a beeline for the showers, hoping to escape before anyone can ambush you with more questions. You fail. Spectacularly. The second you step into the locker room, the door shuts behind you with a click, and suddenly, you’re cornered.

Marta flops onto the bench, stretching out like she owns the place. "Alright, princesa," she grins, "spill."

You groan. "I already told you—"

"You told us nothing," Liv interrupts. "Except that it wasn’t a back room. And your face said it was more than making out."

A chorus of ooohs follows. Your face burns. "I meant—"

"No, no," Claudia cuts in, wagging a finger. "You can’t backtrack now. You dropped that little bombshell, and we will be getting details."

Maya leans forward. "So, the VIP balcony, huh?" Her eyes gleam. "You know people could see you, right?"

You rub your hands over your face. "We were near the back of it, you couldn’t see.”

"No?" Marta smirks. "Because from what we’ve seen, you two weren’t exactly keeping things low-key any other time.”

You glare at her. "We weren’t thinking about that.”

"Mmm," Liv hums, "so what were you thinking about?"

You open your mouth—then shut it immediately when you realise there’s no safe way to answer that.

Marta howls. "Look at her! She’s thinking about it right now!"

You groan, head dropping back against the lockers. "I hate you all so much."

"No you don’t," Liv grins. "Now, be a good teammate and tell us everything.

"Was it against the wall?" Claudia demands.

"Or was there, like, a couch or—"

"Jesus Christ," you groan, throwing your head back. “We’re circling, Can you all chill?!”

"Absolutely not," Liv grins. "You know we have no other drama or gossip around here!”

Marta leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So…?"

The room goes silent, everyone hanging on your answer.

You exhale, dragging a hand down your face, but eventually… you can’t help the small smirk tugging at your lips. "It was…" You hesitate, then shake your head, biting back a very incriminating smile.

Another explosion of noise.

"OH MY GOD, IT WAS THAT GOOD?!"

"YOU’RE ACTUALLY BLUSHING."

"PUTELLAS BROKE HER, GUYS."

Maya pretends to wipe a tear. "They grow up so fast."

You exhale sharply, dragging your hands down your face before finally looking at them. "Fine. You want details? You got them."

They practically vibrate with anticipation, leaning in like a pack of gossip-starved wolves.

"The kissing," you start, your voice steady even as your stomach flips at the memory. "God, the kissing. She—" You shake your head, biting your lip. "She kisses like she plays. Intense. In control. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly what she wants."

Liv groans, clutching her chest dramatically. "I knew she’d be like that. Knew it."

Marta fans herself. "Continue."

You huff a laugh, running a hand through your hair. "It started slow. Teasing. She likes to make you wait for it, make you want it. But when she gives in? Fuck. She doesn’t hold back. One second, it was just this slow, heated build-up, and the next, it was—" You cut yourself off, shaking your head. "Messy. Breathless. The kind that makes your knees weak."

"And the touching?" Claudia presses, eyes wide. "You said there was touching."

You swallow hard, heat creeping up your neck, but there's no backing out now. "It was—" You search for the right words, but they all feel inadequate. "She’s got strong hands. You feel it when she touches you. When she grabs your waist, pulls you against her—"

Maya exhales sharply. "Shit."

"—And then her hands are everywhere, right?" Liv urges. "Like, everywhere?"

Your silence says enough.

Marta slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with delight. "No."

"Yes, her hands just moved that way and I didn’t stop her” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "She—fuck, she knows what she’s doing. She knows how to pull you apart with just her hands. And we weren’t thinking about where we were, or who could see, or anything except—" You stop yourself, shaking your head, chest tight. "It was just—intense."

For a moment, there’s nothing but stunned silence.

"You got fingered on a VIP balcony," Liv finally breathes. "I am never letting you live this down."

You groan, burying your face in your hands. "We didn’t—"

"No, no," Marta waves you off. "That was implied."

Claudia shakes her head, grinning. "Jesus. I thought you were just sneaking around. I did not expect you to be feral."

"It wasn’t like—" You stop, realising you have absolutely no defence. "Okay, maybe a little."

Liv snickers. "You are so down bad, babe."

You don’t even argue. Because, honestly?

Yeah. You might be.

Your phone buzzes with a text. Not the group chat. Not social media.

Liv lifts her chin, “Who dat?”

You smiled raising your eyes, “Alexia”

“What does she want?” Liv asked, “She found another public place to finger you in”

“Ok” You groan, “Too much”

Alexia: Morning. We should talk. Coffee?

Your heart does a complicated somersault. Three simple sentences that somehow manage to sound both casual and ominous.

You: When and where?

Her response comes immediately.

Alexia: The place on Carrer de València. 30 minutes?

You glance at the clock. That doesn't give you much time.

You: I'll be there.

You're dressed and out the door in record time, grateful for the sunglasses hiding your eyes as you navigate streets already buzzing with speculation. Two teenagers recognise you, whispering and giggling as you pass. A street vendor selling newspapers gives you a knowing wink.

The café is tucked away on a quiet corner, the kind of place locals frequent and tourists rarely find. When you step inside, you spot her immediately—corner table, back to the wall, baseball cap pulled low over her face. Classic celebrity incognito. It wouldn't work for long, but it might buy you a few minutes of privacy.

She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable behind large sunglasses. When you sit across from her, she pushes a coffee toward you.

"I remembered how you take it," she says quietly.

You take a sip—perfect. The small gesture shouldn't make your chest tighten, but it does.

"So," you begin, because someone has to, "we're trending."

A faint smile touches her lips. "Not the first time. Won't be the last."

"Is that all you have to say about it?"

She removes her sunglasses, folding them carefully beside her cup. The morning light catches in her eyes, turning them the colour of whiskey. Without the barrier of tinted glass between you, her gaze is direct, unflinching.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks quietly. "That I regret it? Because I don't."

The directness of her response makes your stomach flip. You take another sip of coffee to buy yourself time, to steady your nerves. "I don't regret it either," you admit, watching her shoulders relax slightly at your words. “I can’t stop thinking about it actually… that’s not like me at all, I don’t do that”

"Neither do I," Alexia says, her voice low enough that only you can hear. She traces the rim of her coffee cup with one finger, a gesture so casually intimate it makes your throat go dry. "But here we are."

The cafe bustles around you—baristas calling out orders, the hiss of steam wands, the murmur of morning conversations—but in your corner, time seems suspended. You study her face, noting the shadows beneath her eyes that suggest she slept as poorly as you did.

"Our teams are going to have a field day with this," you say, trying to inject some lightness into the conversation.

She laughs softly, shaking her head. "Mine already is. Aitana sent me seventeen texts before I even got out of bed."

"Only seventeen? My group chat has over two hundred messages." You pull out your phone to show her, and your fingers brush as she takes it, sending that same electric current through you that you felt last night. Remembering where they'd been.

Her eyes scan the messages, a small smile playing at her lips. "Your teammates seem... supportive."

"They're nosey is what they are," you counter, but there's no heat in it. "What about yours?"

Alexia hands your phone back, her expression turning thoughtful. "They're protective. They've seen how the media can be when it comes to my personal life."

The reminder of who she is—of who you both are—settles between you like a physical presence. This isn't just about two people attracted to each other. It's about two public figures, two competitors, two women navigating a world that will dissect every interaction.

"So what now?" you ask, echoing her words from last night, but this time in the harsh light of day, with real consequences looming.

Alexia leans forward, her elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours. "That depends. Was last night just... letting off steam? Getting it out of our systems?" Her voice remains steady, but you catch the slight tension in her jaw, the way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her cup.

The question hangs between you, loaded with implications. The smart answer would be yes—a one-time thing, exciting and memorable but ultimately contained. No complications, no distractions from the season ahead. But looking at her now, remembering the way she'd whispered your name, the vulnerability in her eyes afterward... you know it would be a lie. “You like the chase remember? You tell me, you got what you wanted”

Alexia exhales sharply, a quiet laugh escaping as she shakes her head. "That’s not fair," she murmurs, her fingers still curled around her coffee cup. "You make it sound like this was just a game to me."

"Wasn't it?" you challenge, arching a brow. You don't mean it as an accusation, not really, but you’re still trying to figure out where the line between competition and something more actually is with her. "You spent weeks taunting me, pushing my buttons, daring me to push back. You got what you wanted, didn't you?" 

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you for a long moment, as if deciding how honest she wants to be. "Maybe I did," she admits finally, voice quieter now, more measured. "But that doesn’t mean I’m done."

The words send a slow ripple of heat through you, and you don’t even bother pretending they don’t. "Yeah?" you murmur, tilting your head slightly. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"It means…" She trails off, exhaling as she leans back in her chair. "It means I haven’t figured that part out yet." She gives you a rueful look. "Not used to this, either."

That admission surprises you, but it also sends a pulse of satisfaction through you. You’re not the only one thrown off balance. "Alright," you say after a beat. "Then let’s figure it out."

Alexia watches you carefully. "And how do we do that?"

You consider for a second before responding. "For starters, we stop pretending we don’t actually want each other. We agree we’re not wanting more than a bit of …fun." 

She nods slowly, as if turning the idea over in her head. "And what about everything else? The press, our teams, the season?"

"One orgasm at a time," you say, offering her the faintest smirk. "Unless you’re afraid of a little fun, capitana."

That makes her huff a quiet laugh, shaking her head at you. "You really never back down, do you?"

"Not when something’s worth it."

Alexia’s expression flickers, something shifting behind her eyes, but before you can dissect it, she reaches for her sunglasses again. The moment passes, but the weight of it lingers.

"Okay," she says, voice steady. "One orgasm at a time. Eleven.”

Possible Sequel

[octoberautumnbox]

The Sultry and Pervy Soda in Apartment 307

tripleS Seo Dahyun & Male Reader (ft. Kep1er Seo Youngeun)

Categories/warnings: smut, voyeur, masturbation, buncha others maybe idk I forgor

Word count: 6.1k

a/n: thanks to @thewritingrowlet for beta, to @sinswithpleasure for making me get off my ass to write this, and to @midnightdancingsol for the more-than-welcome poking me with a stick y'all r awesome :DDDD

Street lamps flickered to life as the sun shone a golden hue across the sky. The festivities were just about ending and people were exchanging goodbyes and good nights, clearing out slowly – one by one, then pairs, then swathes of people vacating the increasingly empty street. It was a grand stroke of luck for you to move into the neighborhood right before the street fair, and the moving guys didn't mind too much about the tricky navigation and maneuvering once their plates piled high with biryani chicken and jasmine rice. 

After helping stack up the chairs and fold up the tarps, and of course waving at the other volunteers, you spot a girl struggling with a particularly tall tower of dirty paper plates. You rush over to her to lend a hand, but unfortunately for the both of you, the tower topples over and a splattering of soy sauce covers her shirt. 

“Ah, Dahyun-unnie’s gonna kill me…” she whines, and you rush for as many clean tissues still on the tables that haven’t been cleared up. 

“You okay? Anything hurt?” you hand the tissues to her and start picking up the plates, in two piles this time. A cursory glance to her and you find a volunteer’s nametag on her upper left.

“Fine, thanks,” she says as she wipes as much of the liquid off of her clothes as she can, “but if you don’t mind, I need to get changed or else I’ll never get this stain out.”

“No worries, Youngeun. Just get your stuff sorted and I’ll finish up here.”

She smiles and bows just as you get up from the ground, and she rushes off without much more fuss. You drop off the trash in the proper bin, dust off your hands, and after the organizer’s reassurance that they can handle everything else, you head on off to your own apartment. 

~~~

Your door clicks shut behind you, and you not-so-gracefully crash into your bed. After the week you've had and the stress from the move, it just feels right to bury your face in your hands and groan in exhaustion. Once you let out a particularly satisfying sigh of fatigue, you let your arms fall to your sides, spread-eagle on the mattress, and drum your fingers into the soft cushioning.

You stare at the ceiling, making vain attempts to distract yourself by thinking random thoughts: “Should I get ice cream tonight?” “How long has the window been open?” “Is the ceiling cream or beige?” “Why does jacking off feel good?” “What's Wooyeon been up to lately?”

The last one does give you an idea, and you reach for your phone to check. Their comeback is just recently out, and you have to say, in one particular fancam she looks a bit too good to not stare. The way her outfit hugs her body, accentuates her curves, shows off just the right amount of skin…

The video plays on, and you casually strip yourself of your pants and underwear. Sitting up properly, you intently watch Wooyeon's performance, paying close attention to her creamy-looking thighs, her cute, glazeable tummy, and her pretty, ruinable smile. In no time at all, you're rubbing your cock to her performance, as if she's dancing just for you. Every wink she does sends another spark of lust through your system, each jiggle of her thighs another wish that you were in between them and eating her out. You keep a steady pace as you jack off to the woman on screen, lazily moving yet dead set on blowing your load to her.

The song draws to a close, the confetti flies, and Wooyeon strikes her ending pose. You admire her body one last time, paying special attention to her cute chest. She bends forward ever so slightly, the perfect tease, before she flashes a show-stopping smile as the camera zooms in on her face. 

You reach your limit, and in no time at all you're shooting your cum into your hand. You had the sense to prepare a roll of tissue paper in your room just for moments like this, and it's not like you'd be admonished even if you weren't living alone. Catching your breath, you reach for the tissues on the desk and clean yourself up. 

A breeze wanders into the room, and you look up to find its source: the open window. Mentally curse yourself, not to let this sort of thing happen again and embarrass yourself. As you make to close it, you find, just across from your own window, another open one that frames someone else. The girl standing in her own room in the building next door has her eyes fixed determinedly on you, her head tilted, her lower lip caught between her teeth just a little bit, and a mysterious smile on the corners of her mouth. 

Immediately you feel heat rise up to your cheeks, and you're sure you've just turned a bright red. The girl's eyes wander up to meet yours, and the smile on her face vanishes. Her expression quickly turns into shock, then she shuts her eyes hard before pulling her curtains closed. Remembering you're in the same situation, you pull yours closed as well. 

If anyone was going to admonish you for anything, it would be yourself, for letting this happen to yourself – What a fucking idiot.

~~~

You rise groggily, rolling off of your mattress like a dolt, but you’re at least able to catch yourself before you hit the cold ground. The heat got to you, and the floor seems a much better alternative than your bed at this point. 

Righting your posture and laying your head on the tiles though, you decide this is no way to spend the night no matter how cold they are. Stumble around in the dark for a bit, deciding that it isn't worth the effort to turn on the light, and just resolve to navigate around your new bedroom in an unfamiliar apartment before dawn. Good start to a new life, you joke to yourself.

“Ah, fucking shit,” you grunt in defeat, before getting up and making for your window again. You slowly pull apart the curtains, the rings clacking against the bar much too noisily for whatever time it is now, and open the window to finally let in a cool night breeze. 

The air fills your lungs and nips against the skin of your back, forcing momentary goosebumps before it all settles down and your body relaxes. You head back to bed, considering maybe the blanket you brought down on the floor with you can stay there, when your attention is snatched by a strange noise.

Your eyes drift around the room lazily, but you can't find anything out of the ordinary. Just then, you hear a faint yet distinct set of words in a singsong voice from somewhere just out of sight: “Mmm, fuck yes, daddy…”

It jolts you awake, and the thought hits you. It's dangerous and embarrassing and not at all okay, but you have to know. Just a peek.

You freeze at the window, with nowhere else to look but right at her. “Yeah, it's good, shit…” she moans, seated precariously on her gaming chair, her legs apart and on the armrests on either side of her. She covers her eyes with her hand as her tongue goes crazy, dragging around her lips whenever she's not breathing heavily or saying whatever.

Her other hand works diligently at pumping a dildo into her glistening pussy, intermittently chanting “Just like that…” it seems whenever she hits a particularly good spot and her back arches forward off of the chair. 

Her breath hitches and her back arches just a tiny smidge as she comes to her high. “Mmm… mmmmfuucckkkk– fuck, fuck, yes, hngg~!” Just then her body seizes, her hips jerk slightly, and she pushes her dildo as far in as she can take. She pulls it out recklessly and it's followed by a quick stream of her squirt, then a cream flowing from the freshly fucked hole collecting on the seat of her chair. 

She lays for a moment just like that, out of breath and seemingly satisfied. She licks her lips a couple more times, savoring the feeling of having just came, vying to get her breath under her control once more. Once she's satisfied, she works up the strength in her yet-weak legs to start cleaning herself up: first the tissues for her cunt, then her seat, then she wobbles over to what you assume is a bathroom to wash up.

“... Fuck. Fuck.” You realize you just watched your neighbor pleasure herself, and she has no idea. However, your guilt never surfaces, never forms, having quite enjoyed the show. You can't think of anything else; her cunt is beautiful, slick, creamy, probably sweet to the taste, and if she sounds like that with a dildo, your mind couldn't race fast enough to think of how she'd sound with your cock.

A sharp gasp rips your attention back to the window opposite, and in it you find her wide-eyed and staring right back. Her mouth hangs open and her cheeks shine a bright red, and you feel the responsibility of breaking the stalemate falls on you and you alone. But what the fuck do you say in a situation like this?

You rush for something – anything – to try and salvage the situation, just one thing to say and hopefully be able to face her tomorrow morning like nothing happened. However, your words fail you, and blank after countless blanks are drawn from your head. Panic rises in your chest, your cheeks just as red as hers, and your eye contact with her becomes almost unbearably painful. 

So you break it, albeit accidentally. Your gaze floats down to her flat tummy, admiring how her waist curves like the perfect handles to grab onto while you pull her onto your cock. Even lower still, and you find her exposed pussy, clean shaven and silky smooth to the eye, and for just a moment lewd thoughts intrude your mind once again: the images of her taking her dildo flash before your eyes, leading you to think that however good she felt would be nothing she’s ever had before if you had a shot with her. Inadvertently you lick your lips at the sight of her sex, and you swallow your spit to try and get yourself under control. 

You finally snap out of it, and you notice her staring back at you with a common intention. She’s biting her lip again, her head tilted ever so slightly to the right, and she grips her lap to give you a better view of her pussy lips. Or, it could just be your imagination that she’s showing herself off to you. You’re pitching a tent in your boxers, “Shit, I’m only in my boxers,” and she watches you like her beautiful round eyes are all yours. You stay there for a moment, basking in the lustfulness of the woman before you, and you can only be sure she’s doing the same. 

Her eyes widen again, a different emotion this time, and she takes a panicked look behind her. A bright light enters her bedroom from somewhere you can't see from her window frame, and she hurriedly pulls the curtains shut. Your show is over now, and you’re left with nothing else to do but shut your own window and relieve yourself with the memory of the pretty girl in the next building, half-naked and checking you out. 

~~~

“This is stupid,” you scold yourself, “what would I even say to her?” The question lingers in front of you as your feet bring you to the building next door. “Hi, I'm sorry I watched you cum last night.” A poorly constructed string of words for sure, but it is what it is. You toss the thought around some more, but before you know it, you're face to face with the door to the apartment of the girl who you, for lack of a better term, watched cum last night. 

Two quick raps on the wood, right next to the plate inscribed with “Seo Residence,” and you close your eyes. “I'm sorry I watched you cum last night, I'm sorry I watched you cum last night,” you repeat silently. Even with your hopeful attempts to make it sound less absurd, you know it's so irredeemably bad that not even the most heart-wrenching apology would make up for it.

“Can I help you?” The sudden voice shocks your eyes open. The moment you're dreading is delayed for a few more minutes, as the girl that greets you at the door is not the girl from last night. 

“Hi, Youngeun, I'm from, um, the next building,” you stutter out, “I need to talk to, uhh…” and it occurs to you that you don't even know her name. You stare at each other for a good few seconds, when it finally ends with her connecting the dots. 

“Ah, you're here for Unnie,” she concludes. “Dahyun-unnie, the guy from the street fair is here to talk to you.”

“Who?” 

~~~

“There’s no point in pretending. I know you saw me, and I’m okay with it– I liked it, even. Now, you either come clean and tell me what you saw, or I go around and tell people how you perved on the poor girl who accidentally left her window open on a hot night.”

You gripped at her bedsheets, your fingers just as tense as the breath caught in your throat. It was a good threat, you had to admit, and if only you weren’t on the receiving end, you’d even applaud her. Instead, she stood over you with debilitating authority and a venomous tone. Her smirk did you no favors, highlighting her alluring features, including her gaze as sharp as the edges of a ripped up tin can. She had you.

“Alright,” you surrender, holding up your palms in defeat, “I admit. All I saw was you on the chair, legs apart, dildo in your pussy. That’s all.” It only comes as an afterthought that you did technically watch her cum, but rocking the boat and adding new information unprompted seems like a dangerous move. Instead, you sit still, breath held, and wait for what she might say next.

“... Okay, I believe you. Your secret is safe today.” Hearing that, you release your breath and replace it with new air. Dahyun backs off and relaxes her arms to her sides, and fails to stifle a giggle at watching you fail to decompress. She saunters back over to her chair, the same one you watched her get off in, and crosses her legs. 

Her thighs peek out from under her skirt, forcefully drawing your attention, and the pit in your stomach opens again: keep this up and she’ll have another card to play against you. 

You make a feeble attempt to look her in the eye, and it works for a moment. Once you meet her gaze, you find the same mischievous smirk on her lips, still taunting or teasing you or just showcasing her amusement of the situation. The corners of her mouth curl upwards dangerously, and her eyes thin to scrutinize you as you shrink in the face of her earlier threat. 

“Easy now, I said you’re safe today,” Dahyun giggles. She rests her chin on her hand, still decoding your thoughts with much more ease than you’re comfortable with; all she’s doing is looking at you and somehow you’re unraveling in front of her, getting pushed to stranger and stranger thoughts. You try in vain to find something to protect yourself against her latent mind-reading powers, but once again, nothing comes up. Your stuttering fills the silence of the room for no good reason; your handle on the situation shrinking weaker and weaker. 

The only thing that takes up space in your mind is the memory of her smirking at you after her fat pussy lips were pushed apart, taking her sex toy like it was nobody's business, pleasuring herself while being vaguely aware that you were watching. It was a dangerous skill she was using against you, and for all the wrong reasons, it turns you on even more. 

She suddenly rises from her chair, a hand on her hip once more, and you’re forced to give her all your attention again. She flashes an evil smile at you, one that you could never in your current clouded state ever read, and she places a light yet daunting hand on your shoulder. She inches her face closer and closer to yours, and in no time at all, you're out of space for backing away.

“I already told you I wouldn’t snitch. Why are you so nervous? What do I need to say to calm you down?” She finally takes a seat on the bed right next to you, and she less-than-gently shoves you so that you face away from her. Her fingers dance around your shoulders, finding tense spots you didn't even know were tense. 

“Listen,” she whispers nearly right into your ear, “I won't tell anyone, but you have to do better than that. What exactly did you see? And what did it, erm, make you… feel?” Dahyun plants a kiss right on your nape, and then starts massaging your shoulders and back delicately. She lets out another giggle, but different this time: it's less one of manipulation and more of pure amusement. 

The way she squeezes and rubs your muscles weakens your defenses even more. She expertly maneuvers her fingers, picking the flimsy locks of your psyche, toying with you like you're nothing. You're completely in the palm of her hand, and there's no way out but farther into her grasp. 

“I… You're hot, Dahyun, and I wish I could've seen more,” you finally admit, just as your eyes grow weary. The calm colors of her wallpaper and the faint fragrances of her bedroom lull you into a dangerous sense of serenity. “I just thought… how good it would be,” her massage intensifies ever so slightly, coaxing out more of your confession, “to have you bouncing on my cock.”

Seemingly satisfied, the girl kisses you again on the nape, her lips lingering on the skin of your neck, and it sends shivers outwards, down your spine and across your body. Her arms come under yours and wrap around your chest, and her hands fall gently, non-threateningly, to your belt. She finds her way under your shirt, and she feels up your stomach in soft touches, as if luring you into a trap.

“I was thinking the same thing, Oppa,” she sighs, and before you notice, your belt clacks onto the floor and you hear your jeans zip open. “I thought about how a guy like you should never need to jerk himself off, especially when a volunteer is just next door.” Just like that, she's already stripped you of your pants, and you couldn't be more vulnerable. Dahyun makes her way to your ever-hardening cock, and she takes it in her hand. “Perfect… we're gonna have fun, aren't we, Oppa?”

She kneels on the floor in front of you, and she makes a show of licking and kissing all over your cock. Her plump lips meet your shaft again and again with each kiss, and every so often she takes short drags of her tongue on you to get some much-welcome spit on your cock.

“Fuck, Dahyun,” is all you could put together. Dahyun looks nothing like the type of girl that'd do this to some guy she didn't know, and yet here she is, sucking you off like it’s her sole purpose on this Earth. She shoots you a lustful look, and amongst the closing her eyes to savor your dick on her lips and tongue, she shoots you a sexy wink that nearly makes you fall in love. 

In an effort to not blow your load too early, you grab her by the hair, strands tangling around your fingers and trapping you just as well as you’re trapping her. You pull her off your cock with a yank, and the sudden jerk of her head makes her choke on her own spit. She tries admonishing you, but between teary eyes and a momentarily scratchy throat, she can’t say much. 

Use this to your advantage, jump at the opportunity to gain the upper hand. Stand as quick as you can, throw her onto the bed. Amidst everything, she’s unable to react, only fully grasping the situation after her last cough, when she’s laid flat on her mattress with a pillow beneath her head. Huh, who knew you had such good aim.

“Tough guy, huh? Never would’ve guessed; Youngeun sang you praises for being so sweet when she stained her shirt. Or was that your plan all along?” Despite the situation, she doesn’t try to get up or take back control. Instead, she blinks prettily at you, licks her lips, smiles a sultry smile. 

“Accusing me of being a pervert, even though you started it when you watched me jack off first.” Hide the shakiness of your voice, reclaim the breath she so easily stole away. Your hands slide up her legs, from her calves to her things and finally to under her skirt. Find the garter of her underwear, tease her by slipping your fingers under. “Projecting, aren’t we?”

She lifts her hips off the bed to help you strip her, the slow rise of her ass and the clumsy reveal of her pussy lips leading you to believe maybe she’s still the one pulling the strings. Despite all this, your appetite grows as her glistening cunt comes into view, and all you can think to yourself is how much more delicious it looks up close. Ridding her of her underwear, there’s nothing else to do but to dive right in. 

It doesn’t take long, not at all, before Dahyun is squirming against your tongue on her clit. She runs her fingers through your hair, settling on the back of your head. Not long at all, and it’s just a few swipes of your tongue against her sex before she holds you in place with her legs, her thighs you couldn’t get enough of earlier now like clamps preventing your escape. Your hands are firm on her hips, making sure she doesn’t get away either, and your onslaught finally begins.

“Fuck, I knew you’d be good at that–” she sighs, savoring the feeling of finally having another person get her off. She moans her love without shame; an audience through her open window is nothing compared to you right between her legs. A horrid sense of shame comes over her as she watches you watch her squirm and thrash from being eaten out: her face reddens, her lip quivers, her pussy leaks more and more to entice and keep you from leaving her forever. Never mind that she forgets that you need air to breathe; you almost agree that right now Dahyun is the only thing keeping you alive at all.

She’s starting to buck her hips, her thighs nearly crushing your head between them, her back arching to signal her impending release. Any moment now, she'll lose control and her floodgates will open; she'll threaten to drown you with her love, she'll tug at your hair and grind against your face as her orgasm overtakes her. Fight to keep her down, struggle against her thrashing to hold her hips steady. Your determination to receive the reward for all your hard work drives you: relish in the smoothness of her skin under your fingertips, savor the slick that she releases just for you. 

“Mmf, fuck yes, please, oh my god, oh mmm–”

“Hnnggg– Aaahh!” Another voice interrupts Dahyun's, and her attention whips to where it came from. The door swings open behind you, or at least you hear it, as Dahyun squeezes you ever harder right as her climax arrives. 

“Youngeun, what are you– Aaaaahhh!” She explodes right onto your tongue, and for a moment the world fades around you. Her nectar floods your senses with perfection you could never find anywhere else, the hauntingly succulent mix of sweetness and sin drawing out your own moans as she thrashes against her mattress. You force out more of her juices with relentless laps at her sex, while the frenzied pulling at your hair and pushing against your forehead tells you she doesn’t know what she wants past letting out everything she can. 

It takes just a little while longer before she settles, and as she releases you from her legs you get a grasp of what just happened. Youngeun is unsteady at the door, a hand on the frame and the other still in her shorts. The look in her eyes is one of shock and embarrassment like you’ve never seen, and by the way Dahyun stares back, frozen and equally wide-eyed, you gather the situation at the very least isn't what they were expecting either. 

Tension hangs heavy in the air, and neither of them move an inch. You're only still in the middle of recovering from having your breath taken away, but it grows more uncomfortable for you most of all. As far as you're concerned, they're stepsisters, and the younger one who thought you were sweet for helping her in the street fair just watched you eat out her elder sister and got off like some porn video. 

Youngeun is the one to break the ice: “Shit, unnie, I'm sorry, I'll go! Just forget I was here–” before getting cut off herself. “Hey,” Dahyun reigns, “sit.” She motions her sister towards the gaming chair, and Youngeun, judgment clouded with fear, takes sheepish steps to approach it. 

Dahyun pulls you up to her eye level, keeping hands on your cheeks, and meets your lips with hers delicately. “Mmm, bet that was just as good for you, huh?” She runs her tongue over your mouth to lap up her spent essence, and you meet her halfway, deepening the kiss.

Still, the presence recently known is now a presence impossible to ignore. Despite Dahyun’s love spreading from her lips to yours, her heat bringing your temperature up all the same, you can’t help but be wary of the girl on her gaming chair taking after her sister, legs on the armrests and fingers in her dripping cunt. Dahyun tries in vain to pull your attention back to her, only her, and how could you resist either one? 

“Mm, Youngeunie,” she sings, breaking away momentarily, “behind you, on the right, top drawer, it’ll help.” She returns to the kiss as easily as drawing the curtains to show you, while off to the side you hear the shuffling friction of wood against wood as her sister pulls out the drawer.

“Unnie, this is…” she says, but the thought is lost and replaced with a prolonged moan. Dahyun slips her tongue into your mouth, grunting as she feels your cock throb against the lips of her puffy cunt, coating your shaft with her liquid heat and coaxing you into a worsening state of mind. Her pussy quivers against the underside of your cock, chipping away at your common sense, until…

Meet your forehead to hers, make sure she stays how she is. Your left hand wraps around her neck, controlling her air and keeping her still, while your right dips into her sex to draw out her slick for you. Stroke your cock at the evil you’re planning, line up your tip to her entrance, and with absolutely no warning, no mercy, no reprieve, push your head past her welcoming glistening lips and into her tight, loving pussy. 

“Mmmm, fuck, shit, oh– Oh my god, oh my god!!” Dahyun’s pleasure comes in the form of unsteady grunt and weak scratches against the hand on her neck. Her face takes on a light shade of red, her forehead creases, and her tongue is only nearly starting to stick out. Her pussy squeezes around your cock like it never wants to let go, her tightness driving you crazy with how good she feels, that you maybe wouldn’t mind putting a fucking baby in her. 

Your hand leaves her neck and immediately she pulls you down to kiss the bruises you almost left there. Keep pounding into her, feeling her slick all over your cock, throbbing hard and hitting her good spots while sliding in and out of her pussy like it was all yours. 

The moment her fingers relax then tense in your hair, you’re given just enough freedom back to see what’s gotten her so distracted, only to find–

Youngeun slumps further back onto the chair as far as she can without falling off. Her toes curl in the air as she diligently and roughly pumps the dildo in and out of her own cunt. Her top is pulled over above her chest, and she pinches and tweaks her nipples nonstop while cupping and squeezing her tits. “Unnie, unnie, fuck, he’s so hot…” she moans, dead-set on fucking herself with her sister’s dildo to the sight of you railing her beloved unnie. 

“Fuck, Youngeunie, you’re such a pervert for getting off to this…” Dahyun again lifts her back off the mattress, and you know by now what this means. Her grunts turn erratic just as quickly, her pussy clenching tighter around you, practically begging you to stay inside her.

“Hngg, unnie, h-how good is he? I bet he f-feels so big…” “He really fucking is,” she sighs, waiting for the inevitable, slowly letting her sensibilities go. Her lips crash onto yours once more, slipping you her tongue like retaking its rightful place in your mouth. The sight of it causes you to throb inside her again, and amidst the thrusts in and out of her cunt along with Youngeun's own jerking off to your side, you feel your time's drawing to a close. 

Make the most of it, who knows if you'll ever get this chance again. Pull Dahyun up to sit on your lap, force her to bounce on your cock. She follows like a good girl; savoring how you feel inside her, making sure that your cock is snug and comfy between her tight, slick walls. Your hands slide under her top to grope her chest, and she lets out a sultry moan of approval at how you're handling her so well. Her nipples are taut and hard against your fingertips, and the circling around her sensitive mounds only does you favors as she gets wetter and wetter, taking your cock like a champ.

“I can't fucking take it anymore,” she grunts out loud, and in one swift motion her top leaves her body, exposing all of herself to you. Before you could even dive in yourself, she pulls you onto her chest, and as soon as you're able to, you get her nipple in between your teeth. Her boobs bounce against your face as she rides you even harder, desperately chasing her own release, seeming to forget everything and everyone else. 

“Fuck, fuck!” Youngeun switches hands; poor thing must be getting tired. A quick look back over to her and you find the dildo covered with slick and cream, her pussy red and puffy, her nipples sore and just as hard as her unnie's, and her eyes near tears. A quick bout of desire to get off to the sight of her overcomes you, but Dahyun tears your attention back to her, switching to her other nipple, just as she starts grinding against your dick like she found a better spot to hit inside her.

“Unnie, I-I'm close, please, you’re so hhhhot,” the younger begs in reckless need. Her toes curl and uncurl in weary need, tears starting to streak down the sides of her faces, just as her hair sticks to her forehead at the drops of sweat only starting to form enmasse. 

Dahyun pulls you away, back to her, and rests her head on your shoulder, “Oppa, I’m close too,” she says with incessant sighs and gasps, curiously in sync with her bounces on your cock, “i-indulge me, would you?” She looks at you with the same weary love, the same tired, impatient persuasion. 

Steel your resolve in the face of her begging. You’re finally in a winning position, with the pretty neighbor girls in the palm of your hand. A different emotion seeps into your head, one of responsibility: to finish what you started, to make good on your promises, to show both of them a good time. Dahyun’s half-lidded eyes flutter open and shut with every suckle and bite at her breasts, while Youngeun’s thighs jiggle with every forceful jerk of her hips against her toy. They’ve had enough, and you’re reaching your limit too.

“Keep your window open, got it?” A surge of confidence laces your voice at the most unexpected time, and brings out a lustful groan from the girl on your lap. “Yes, oppa, watch me all you l-like…” 

“Good girl. And you,” your attention shoots to Youngeun, who you find has her lower lip between her teeth and nearly drawing blood, “you’re fucked in the head for getting off to this, but I kind of like that.” Upon hearing it, her eyes shut as she pistons her dildo as hard and fast as she can into her pussy, screaming “Fuck, oppa, please! Watch me too!!!”

The perfect opportunity reveals itself, the strings pulled taut against both of your puppets in a cruel dance for your pleasure. A bite on Dahyun’s neck and a mind-numbingly deep thrust into her sex is the last straw to finally send her over the edge as well. 

“Oh shit, oh shit, I’m cumming!!!” A beautiful cry rips across her throat, and her pussy squeezes tight around your throbbing cock. Her juices flow out of her cunt generously, spraying all over your lap and the bedsheets underneath you. She buries her face into your shoulder, her teeth finding and marking flesh where her lips surround. Dahyun constricts around you, her body seizing and gripping onto you tight as her hips jerk with every stream of her girlcum that sprays out her sore cunt. Her fingers dig into your back, in no way hard enough to draw blood but only as hard as to leave marks, while her legs wrap around your waist in dire need to keep you in place and draw as much of her pleasure as she humanly can from you. 

“Hngg, hahh, haaaAAAHHH!” Off to the side, Youngeun’s climax crashes over her as well, causing her toes to curl and her eyes to shut as hard as she can. She twists and turns the toy inside her pussy, hitting her good spot again and again as her cum gushes out of her in messy streams down onto the seat of her chair and floor in front of her. Her eyes roll to the back of her head and her tongue hangs free from her mouth, her ass jiggles with every jerk of her hips forward, and a prolonged and mindless moan snakes its way through her throat like music to you and your partner’s ears. 

After all this, Dahyun’s whimpering finally brings you over the edge too. Her weak cries are the signal of her surrender to you, and what better way to claim her than to give her what she wants? Your grip on her waist tightens, and surely your handprints will stay on her sides for her to admire and recall when she misses you, but for now you keep her still just as she does to you. One last thrust into her is all that’s left, hit her good spot one last time, and it all comes crashing down. You erupt into her pussy, filling her with a burning heat that spreads through her entire fertile body. Each spurt of cum forces another groan of love from her, and she savors the feeling of being filled with your seed like it’s what she was made for. Your forehead meets hers and you capture her lips, and more of her tiny grunts and sighs slip through as your tongues dance around each other.

Once it ends, and you feel your cum stream out of her from the sheer amount alone, you crash sideways onto her pillow with her. She stays wrapped around you, breathing heavy and looking satisfied, just like her stepsister on her chair just a few feet away. Youngeun catches you waving her over, and she takes the spot on the bed opposite her unnie to cuddle up next to you as well. Dahyun snores quietly on your left, while Youngeun snuggles your chest to your right, and with two of your pretty neighbors bare and spent thanks to you, you drift off to sleep with them knowing you’d always enjoy a show the moment you ask. 

[kaira-diaries]

Nocturne: Part 2

warning: || SMUT - mildly descriptive || Violence || non-con touching || mentions of death || non-cannon violence & lore)

pairing: Frontman x fem!reader

wc: 15k+

Summary: none, cause I didn’t feel like writing one out

a/n: Okay so here's part 2 of nocturne and I'm gonna be so honest this turned into a WHOLE ass thing with lore and heavy heavy plot. To avoid an extremely long read, a third part will be written. idek what happened that led up to this point of needing a third part but here we are (sorrows, prayers). happy reading !

->Masterlist <-

->Part One <-

________________

2 Years Later:

Staring into the gilded mirror, you couldn’t help but admire the way the gown sculpted your frame. The rich maroon fabric clung to every curve, the shimmer of its silk catching the soft light and giving you an air of effortless elegance. It reminded you of the dress you’d worn the night you first met In-ho—a memory that sent a ripple of warmth through your chest. The neckline plunged just enough to command attention without screaming for it, while the delicate slit along the side offered a glimpse of your leg, teasing but tasteful.

Your hair had been styled to perfection, pinned loosely back with a cascade of soft curls framing your face. Each strand looked as if it had been meticulously placed, yet still carried an air of natural allure. You applied a few swipes of deep crimson lipstick, the bold color tying your look together and accentuating the soft glow of your complexion. The faint scent of your perfume—a seductive blend of jasmine and amber—lingered in the air, leaving a trace of you wherever you passed.

This wasn’t your first time at a lavish party, but tonight felt different. The room buzzed with energy, a blend of laughter and whispered conversations mixing with the clink of crystal glasses. The event marked the 20th anniversary of the Squid Games—a macabre milestone commemorated by only the most elite and influential. The space was grand, with towering ceilings adorned in gold leaf and intricate chandeliers spilling warm light across the opulent ballroom. Legends of the games—former creators, VIPs, and those who had helped shape its legacy—moved through the crowd like phantoms of the past, their age barely dimming their commanding presence.

You’d been glued to In-ho’s side most of the night, your arm lightly draped through his as you navigated the throngs of the powerful and the wealthy. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you at times, the quiet pride he seemed to take in having you at his side. But the endless small talk, the veiled barbs of rival VIPs, and the oppressive grandeur of it all began to wear on you. The need for air—or at least a moment alone—became too much to ignore.

Slipping through the sea of extravagantly dressed guests, you had made your way to the bathroom to where you stood now, finally breaking away from the suffocating intensity of the crowd. The heavy oak door was closed behind you, muffling the noise and leaving you in a blissful pocket of silence. The cool, polished marble of the sink greeted your fingertips as you had set your clutch down, exhaling softly.

You glanced at your reflection again, this time allowing a small, private smile to cross your lips. The faint hum of the music beyond the door barely reached you as you pulled your lipstick from the clutch. Holding the tube, you applied one last swipe of the rich shade with careful precision, ensuring every line was flawless.

And then your thoughts drifted—inevitably—to him. In-ho. You couldn’t help it. Even in the quiet sanctuary of the bathroom, his presence lingered in your mind. The way he moved through the crowd with calm authority, his sharp suit a perfect complement to his commanding demeanor. The way guests bowed and crumbled under his authority. He was magnetic, and you found yourself drawn to him like gravity itself. He wasn’t just the Front Man tonight; he was yours.

You capped the lipstick and tucked it back into your clutch, your fingers brushing the smooth leather as you let out a breathy laugh at yourself. Admiration? Maybe that was putting it lightly. He consumed your thoughts, even when he wasn’t near. Even your dreams hadn’t been safe from him lately, his face haunting the edges of your mind like a phantom you welcomed with open arms.

You took one last glance at your reflection, the faint glint of determination in your eyes, and smoothed the fabric of your gown. For all the chaos outside this room, you would meet it head-on, poised and unshaken. After all, tonight wasn’t just any party.

It was your world now, and you intended to own it.

Clicking the bathroom door shut behind you, you let out a soft sigh, the hum of the party no longer muffled by the thick walls. But before you could fully collect yourself, a deep, velvet voice cut through the racket, rich and teasing.

"If it isn’t the queen herself."

You turned sharply, your gaze falling on a tall, striking man leaning casually against the wall just a few feet away. His presence was impossible to ignore. The soft glow of the chandelier overhead caught his fawn-colored hair, perfectly styled to look effortless, and his piercing blue eyes sparkled with mischief as they locked onto yours. He was dressed in a crisp white suit that seemed tailored to perfection, the snowy fabric contrasting beautifully with the warm undertones of his skin.

Your brows knitted together in confusion, your expression guarded as he pushed off the wall with an easy, confident stride. His lips curled into a dashing smile, the kind that hinted he was used to getting his way, and his voice carried the faintest hint of amusement as he spoke again.

“Apologies,” he said, his tone low and smooth, like a slow pour of fine whiskey. “I’m just a fan of your work.”

You straightened your posture instinctively, your shoulders rolling back as you appraised him. “Is that so?”

He nodded, his smile widening just enough to reveal a flash of perfect teeth. There was something about him—his demeanor, the way he carried himself—that made you feel both intrigued and wary.

“Very much so,” he replied, holding out a hand with the kind of charm that felt practiced but still disarmingly genuine. “Hiram.”

You hesitated, your eyes scanning his outstretched palm before finally offering your hand to him. His touch was warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and when he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your knuckles, it sent a faint shiver up your spine. His lips lingered just a second too long, and when he straightened, his eyes held yours as if daring you to look away.

“Y/N,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. You withdrew your hand slowly, letting your fingers slip from his grasp, and tilted your head slightly. “Don’t think me rude, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

He shrugged, the movement graceful, almost feline, as he tucked one hand into his pocket. “That’s not surprising,” he said with a soft chuckle, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m new blood, as they say. My family never jumped at the opportunity to let me out of my room.”

A surprised laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, the unexpected humor catching you off guard. “Where’s the fun in that?” you asked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Exactly,” he said, his own laugh following yours, low and rich. There was something magnetic about him, the way his presence seemed to fill the space, drawing you in like gravity itself.

His gaze flickered over you briefly, taking in the deep maroon gown and the confident way you carried yourself. “I must admit,” he said, his tone dropping slightly, softer now, as if the words were meant just for you. “Seeing you in person is... quite the experience. Pictures don’t do you justice.”

The compliment hung in the air between you, and though it was bold, there was no arrogance in his delivery—just pure, unfiltered charm. You couldn’t help but feel the faint heat of a blush creeping up your neck, though you masked it quickly with a small, polite smile.

“Well,” you said, lifting your chin slightly, “it’s good to know I can make such an impression.”

His grin widened, and he leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Oh, you do more than that, Y/N.”

For a moment, the air between you felt thick, the weight of his words lingering as he straightened again, his expression still lighthearted but with an edge of something deeper. “I won’t keep you,” he said smoothly, taking a step back, though his eyes lingered on yours a beat longer than necessary. “But I do hope we’ll cross paths again before the night is through.”

He gave you a small nod, the corners of his mouth quirking upward in that same dashing smile, before turning to leave. As he disappeared into the crowd, you found yourself momentarily frozen, the faint scent of his cologne—woodsy and warm—still lingering in the air around you.

You slipped back into the crowd, weaving through clusters of opulent guests whose laughter and conversation rose like smoke, thick and suffocating. The golden chandeliers cast warm, glittering light over the ballroom, illuminating every polished surface and shimmering gown. But your attention wasn’t on the decadence surrounding you—it was locked on the figure at the far end of the room, near the bar.

There he was, standing tall and composed, his presence commanding despite the sea of wealth and power surrounding him. In-ho’s hair was slicked back with precision, each strand gleaming under the light. His face was unreadable, that familiar stoic expression giving away nothing, though you could sense the weight he carried in his posture.

Breathtakingly handsome and untouchable, he seemed carved from stone—a monument to control and authority.

Your gaze flicked to the man standing across from him, and your chest tightened. Even in a room filled with the most powerful and dangerous individuals alive, this man stood out. The original Game Maker. His presence was understated, yet it radiated an aura that set him apart—a blend of quiet confidence and palpable danger.

His hair was streaked with silver, but his sharp features and piercing eyes betrayed a mind still razor-sharp. He looked remarkably young for someone whose legacy was steeped in brutality, and that realization unsettled you. It meant that when he had first orchestrated the games, he must have been terrifyingly young—just a man, barely more than a boy, with the intelligence and ruthlessness to reshape human desperation into a blood-soaked spectacle.

The sight of him brought back the stories In-ho had told you late at night, his voice low and careful, as though uttering the words aloud might summon ghosts. But one story had always stuck with you—the two-day games.

You swallowed hard at the memory, your footsteps faltering for just a moment as the weight of it crept over you. In those games, 456 players had been wiped out in just two rounds. No victor. No home for the prize money. You could hardly fathom it: the sheer scale of the slaughter, the precision required to make it happen, the lack of regard for even the illusion of fairness.

The remaining four games had been rendered pointless—there weren't any survivors to justify continuing. That level of efficiency, of calculated cruelty, had never been replicated. It was as if the man standing before In-ho had reached the zenith of brutality and left an unshakable legacy in his wake.

A chill crawled up your spine as you moved closer, your eyes darting between In-ho’s impassive face and the Game Maker’s calm, almost casual demeanor. In-ho once told you that those games had left an indelible mark on the system's history. They’d been both a triumph and a warning, a standard so high in its carnage that no one dared attempt to replicate it. The Game Maker had been both feared and revered, his name spoken in hushed tones even now, decades later. In simpler terms, he' done his job a little too well.

You couldn’t help but wonder what the man was saying to In-ho. From the subtle tension in In-ho’s shoulders and the way his jaw tightened, it was clear this wasn’t a casual conversation. The Game Maker’s lips moved with measured precision, and though you couldn’t hear his words over the din of the ballroom, you could feel the weight of them in the air.

What would a man like that say to In-ho? Was it praise, criticism, or something darker? Did he see In-ho as a worthy successor or a pale imitation of the ruthlessness that had made him legendary?

Your heartbeat quickened as you approached the bar, the stories swirling in your mind like smoke. The memory of those games—the brilliance, the carnage, the terror—felt alive in this moment, standing there between them like an unspoken shadow.

The Game Maker turned slightly, his sharp eyes flicking toward you for a brief moment, and a faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The kind of smile made your blood run cold, like he’d already sized you up, dissected you, and found your weaknesses.

You inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze for that fleeting moment before he turned his attention back to In-ho. The stories had given you chills before, but now, standing in the presence of the man who had written them, the weight of history—and the danger it carried—felt all too real.

And as In-ho glanced your way, his stoic mask momentarily cracking to reveal a flicker of something—was it reassurance? Warning?—you realized just how high the stakes were tonight. Whatever this conversation was, it wasn’t just small talk. And if you weren’t careful, you might find yourself caught in the crossfire of two men who had shaped the games with blood, brilliance, and cruelty.

"This must be your partner, if I'm not mistaken," the man said, his voice smooth and measured, each word laced with subtle curiosity. His piercing green eyes studied you with unnerving precision, as though he was already peeling back your layers, exposing every secret.

You nodded politely, but before you could speak, In-ho's hand slid firmly to the small of your back. The weight of his touch was both grounding and possessive, and his voice, calm and authoritative, carried over the din of the ballroom. "Yes," he replied, his answer as much a confirmation as it was a claim.

In-ho nudged you forward slightly, his gentle but insistent push urging you to engage. You bowed your head respectfully, your voice soft but steady as you spoke. "It’s an honor, sir."

The Game Maker’s lips curled into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those sharp green eyes gleamed like polished glass, reflecting the flickering lights of the chandelier above. The man radiated power—not the loud, boisterous kind, but the quiet, suffocating weight of someone who didn’t need to prove himself.

As the frenetic pace of the music slowed, the brassy tones melting into a smooth, languid melody, he placed his drink down with deliberate precision, his attention turning fully to In-ho.

“May I?” he asked, his meaning clear as his eyes flicked toward you, a sly glint in their depths.

For a moment, silence hung between the three of you. In-ho’s hand on your back stiffened, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your gown. You could feel the tension radiating off him, subtle but unmistakable, as though the request had struck a nerve.

Then, with a faint nod, In-ho’s hand fell away. “Please,” he said evenly, his tone betraying none of the hesitation you knew he must feel. The word was polite, but the weight behind it made it feel more like permission than encouragement.

The Game Maker extended his hand toward you, his smile widening just enough to reveal a flash of teeth. His presence was magnetic, his movements fluid as though every step he took was choreographed. You hesitated, glancing back at In-ho, whose expression remained stoic, his dark eyes meeting yours with an unreadable intensity.

Taking a steadying breath, you placed your hand in the Game Maker’s. His grip was firm, his skin cool against yours as he led you onto the dance floor. The soft melody filled the air, and the crowd seemed to blur around you as he guided you into a slow, measured waltz.

“I must admit,” he began, his voice low and velvety as he steered you effortlessly, his steps smooth and deliberate, “I’ve been curious about the woman who caught In-ho’s eye.”

You arched a brow, keeping your tone neutral. “Curious, sir?”

He chuckled, a rich, quiet sound that sent a shiver up your spine. “It’s not every day my Front Man shows such… attachment.” His eyes bore into yours, sharp and probing. “It’s intriguing.”

You resisted the urge to stiffen under his scrutiny, forcing a polite smile. “I would hope to be more than just intriguing.”

His smile widened, and the grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly. “Oh, you are,” he said, his words carrying a weight that felt almost dangerous. “You’re a fascinating piece on this chessboard. But tell me…” His voice dropped, barely audible over the music. “How much do you truly know about the man you’re dancing around this world with?”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, your carefully constructed composure faltered. His words weren’t idle curiosity—they were a calculated strike, designed to unsettle you.

“I know enough,” you replied evenly, regaining your footing, though the slight edge in your voice betrayed you.

“Hmm,” he mused, his expression unreadable as he twirled you effortlessly, the lights of the chandelier spinning above. “Enough to trust him?”

You hesitated, just long enough for his smile to sharpen. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Trust is a fragile thing, my dear. I would tread carefully if I were you.”

The music swelled, the melody stretching out like a thread about to snap, and as he pulled you closer, "you seem... unfazed by this world," he moved on, his voice soft but layered with meaning. There was a gleam of something more in his eyes. "Many would be rattled by the games, by what they demand from people. But you... you seem like you understand."

You tilted your head slightly, sensing the direction of his conversation. His words weren’t just casual chatter—there was something deeper, something he was about to reveal. Something he wanted you to hear.

"I’ve seen things that would break most," he continued, his tone lowering, the dance now a distant memory between you both as you only swayed. "I’ve lived through things that have reshaped me in ways that can’t be undone."

Your pulse quickened, curiosity gnawing at you. The night had already been full of tension, but now the Game Maker was pulling you into his past—a place few, if any, had access to.

He took a step back abandoning the dance, glancing over his shoulder at the shadows of the ballroom as if weighing whether to speak. Finally, he sighed, a sound that seemed to carry decades of experience with it.

"The two-day games..." he started, and the words seemed to hang in the air between you like a curse. "There’s nothing quite like them in the history of the games. Nothing that compares to what happened during those two days."

You felt a chill run down your spine as he spoke. The stories you had heard—whispers of what had occurred during that brutal event—were always fragmented, vague. But now, you had the chance to hear it from the mouth of the man who had made it happen. The man who had orchestrated it all.

His gaze locked with yours, intense and unyielding. "I was younger then, perhaps too young, but the potential for control… the power to shape chaos—it called to me." His voice lowered, growing colder with each word. "The games were never meant to be easy. They were meant to expose the worst of people. Push them to the edge and watch them either rise or fall."

You shifted slightly, instinctively pulling away, but he seemed to read the motion as curiosity, not discomfort. He continued, almost as though speaking to himself.

"I gave them two days. Just two. 456 players entered the arena. 456 lives—each one filled with desperation, greed, fear. By the end of the second day, 456 of them were dead." His voice was smooth, but beneath the calm was a trace of something darker.

"The thing is," he added, almost as an afterthought, his expression hardening, "it didn’t take much to break them. It wasn’t about weapons or traps. It was about fear. The fear of what they were becoming. And when the first 50 fell, the rest of them—every last one—knew their time was numbered. That fear, that panic—it spread like wildfire."

You couldn’t tear your gaze away, your heart pounding in your chest as you listened to his words. The Game Maker’s voice was chilling, detached, as if recounting a story of someone else’s nightmare. But the deeper you listened, the more you realized how deeply he was tied to that moment. How much it had shaped him into the man he was today.

"In the end," he said, his eyes darkening, "the other four games were pointless. The players had already given up. There were barely enough survivors left to keep going. The horror of it, the inevitability of their deaths—it was already in the air. The remaining games were just a formality."

You shuddered, the horror of his words sinking in like a weight in your chest. The sheer scale of the violence—the cruelty of the decision to make it last three days—left you speechless for a moment. You hadn’t imagined the extent of what had transpired.

"But..." You started, voice barely above a whisper, "Why did it stop after that? Why didn’t you keep going? Why not make it a standard?"

"Because there’s only so much humanity can take," he said softly, the words carrying a weight you could almost taste. "After that, I realized something. You can break people, destroy them—but if you push them too far, you lose control. And then the game becomes something else. A rebellion perhaps."

His eyes flicked to In-ho, who had watched the conversation from the sidelines, his gaze unreadable.

"You lose the control. And control, my dear," the Game Maker whispered, his voice a thread of a warning, "is most precious in our line of work."

For a long moment, the air between you both was thick with tension. The soft music continued to play in the background, but in your mind, it was drowned out by the image of what the Game Maker had described—the bloodshed, the terror, the total breakdown of human decency in a span of just two days.

Finally, the silence was broken by the soft clink of glass. The Game Maker picked up a drink from a server, as if snapping back to reality, the weight of his story fading from his expression. "But that’s all behind me now," he added with a thin smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "The games have evolved. And I, too, have evolved with them."

You swallowed, unsure of how to respond, the sheer gravity of what he had just shared leaving you momentarily speechless.

And as he turned to leave, his hand brushing against yours once more, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of his past pressing down on you, like a shadow that would never truly lift.

"You’ll understand," he said softly, looking back over his shoulder with that same glint in his eyes, "one day, when you’re forced to see the games from the inside. It’s the only way to truly know."

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing amidst the glittering crowd, the echo of his words lingering in the air like a dark omen.

________

The ride back to the island stretched on, the distant hum of the yacht's engines muffled by the heavy silence between you and In-ho. The sea stretched endlessly outside the cabin windows, dark and vast, mirroring the weight pressing down on the both of you. In-ho sat beside you, his posture relaxed but his mind clearly elsewhere, swirling with thoughts he would never voice. His third glass of whiskey sat half-empty in his hand, the liquid catching the dim light.

Your eyes softened as you turned to him, noting the faint lines of tension at the corners of his mouth and the way his shoulders carried the invisible burden of leadership. Reaching out, you placed a hand on his thigh, your touch gentle but grounding.

“You don’t have to do this alone, In-ho,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the oppressive quiet like a breeze.

He looked at you then, his dark eyes meeting yours. For a fleeting moment, his guarded expression melted, replaced by something warmer, softer. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it didn’t erase the shadows in his gaze.

“I know,” he murmured, though the way he said it felt more like an attempt to reassure you than himself.

The thought of tomorrow hung between you both. The games would begin at dawn, and everything was ready, every gruesome detail in place. The guards had their orders, the players were already in their quarters, and all that remained were the final preparations for the VIPs.

You leaned back against the leather seat, your mind wandering as you stared out at the endless black horizon. News had reached you earlier in the evening—there would be a new VIP attending this round of games. The announcement hadn’t surprised you, but it had stirred something in you.

For a brief moment, your mind slipped back to when that title belonged to you. The memory of your first arrival as a VIP, dressed in extravagant finery and wrapped in the naivety of someone who thought they understood the games, drifted through your thoughts. How wrong you had been then.

But those thoughts were quickly overtaken by a new unease, one that gnawed at you from the edges of your mind.

"How much do you truly know about the man you’re dancing around this world with?"

The Game Maker’s words echoed in your head, their weight heavier now than when he’d first spoken them. The way his sharp green eyes had lingered on you, the knowing smile that had curled at his lips—it was as though he had planted a seed of doubt that was only now beginning to take root.

You glanced at In-ho again, studying the sharp line of his jaw, the faint glint of his mask resting on the table beside him, and the way his fingers idly swirled the whiskey in his glass. He seemed calm, composed, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was keeping something from you.

The silence stretched between you, thick with the unspoken, until In-ho’s voice broke through it.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked, his tone gentle but firm, his gaze sharp as it flicked to your face.

You hesitated, your brows knitting together as you forced a small smile and shook your head. “Nothing,” you lied, though your voice lacked conviction.

He didn’t press further, but his eyes searched yours, as if trying to read the thoughts you were so carefully keeping hidden. The weight of his scrutiny made your chest tighten, and you acted on instinct, leaning in and pressing your lips to his.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, and it carried with it the unspoken words you couldn’t bring yourself to say. His fingers, warm and strong, wrapped around yours, holding you steady as the world seemed to fall away for just a moment.

When you finally pulled back, his expression softened further, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

Your heart sank at the question, guilt prickling at the edges of your mind. “Of course,” you said, forcing another smile, though the Game Maker’s words lingered like a shadow in the back of your thoughts.

In-ho smiled faintly and raised his glass to his lips, taking a slow sip, but his hand never left yours. The silence returned, though this time it felt heavier, as though the weight of your thoughts was tangible in the air between you.

You turned your gaze back to the window, the dark sea stretching endlessly ahead. Somewhere out there, on the island you were quickly approaching, the games waited to begin. But it wasn’t just the games that loomed—it was the feeling of a growing divide between you and the man sitting beside you.

And as the Game Maker’s haunting words replayed in your mind, you couldn’t help but wonder: how much did you really know about In-ho? And when the truth finally surfaced, would you still be able to call him yours?

_______

The quarters you shared with In-ho were cold when you returned, the chill of the air pressing against your skin as the soft hum of the elevator faded behind you. Your heels clicked sharply against the polished floors of the hallway, each step echoing faintly in the silence. In-ho followed close behind, his presence a steady weight at your back. Yet, while your body moved forward, your mind still remained trapped in the lingering echoes of the Game Maker’s words.

His question gnawed at you, digging deeper than you cared to admit. It looped in your thoughts like a broken record, each repetition leaving you more unsettled than the last. You didn’t want to believe there was truth to it, but the doubt had rooted itself, and no amount of rationalizing could make it go away.

Your steps faltered, the weight of your thoughts pulling you down like lead. It must have shown, because before you could recover, In-ho’s hand shot out, gripping your arm firmly and pulling you to him.

“Tell me. Now,” he demanded, his tone low but sharp as his dark eyes bore into yours. His face was mere inches from yours, the weight of his presence nearly suffocating as his chest brushed against yours.

For a moment, you stared up at him, startled by the intensity in his voice, the way his grip anchored you. Then, despite the knot tightening in your chest, a faint smile tugged at your lips.

“Well, this is familiar,” you said lightly, your voice carrying a teasing edge as you referred back to the night you met—when his grip on your wrist had been accompanied by a gun to your head instead of concern.

His expression didn’t soften. If anything, the lines of tension in his jaw deepened, and his hand fell away from your arm, letting it drop back to your side. There was no hint of amusement in his face, no trace of the man who often found quiet joy in your quips.

You sighed, the playfulness draining from your tone as you tilted your head back slightly, meeting his unrelenting gaze. “It’s the Game Maker,” you admitted finally. “He said something...”

“What did he say?” In-ho cut in, his voice sharper now, the words almost snapping out of him.

You hesitated, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as you debated how much to reveal. But there was no use in hiding it; In-ho would press until you gave him the truth.

“He asked how much I truly knew about you,” you said carefully, the words coming slower now, each one measured. “He questioned my trust in you.”

The air between you shifted instantly. In-ho straightened, his posture rigid, and his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the flicker of movement beneath his skin. His dark eyes darkened further, and for a moment, he was utterly still—too still.

You threw your arms up in frustration, breaking the silence before it could grow heavier. “It’s stupid, I know,” you said quickly, your voice tinged with exasperation. “I shouldn’t let it get to me, but... it did.”

In-ho’s gaze never left yours, his silence unnerving as the seconds stretched on. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” you admitted, your voice softening. “I thought... I don’t know, I thought it was just a game.”

“And now?” he pressed, his tone still firm but laced with something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

You hesitated, unsure how to put your swirling thoughts into words. “And now, I don’t know,” you admitted, your shoulders slumping slightly. “He got into my head.”

In-ho took a step back, his hand raking through his slicked-back hair as he exhaled sharply. The tension radiating off him was palpable, the weight of it filling the space between you.

“He’s trying to divide us,” In-ho said finally, his voice steady but cold.

“That’s what he does. He finds cracks and widens them. He knows exactly where to push. Its entertainment for him.”

You nodded slowly, understanding the truth in his words but unable to completely shake the lingering doubt. “I know,” you said softly. “But that question...”

“Forget it,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through your thoughts. “You know everything you need to know about me.”

“Do I?” you asked before you could stop yourself, the words slipping out like a whisper.

He froze, his eyes narrowing slightly as they locked onto yours. The silence stretched between you again, and you immediately regretted asking.

“You do,” he said finally, his voice quieter now but no less firm.

You searched his face, looking for cracks in the mask he always wore, but there were none. Whatever secrets In-ho carried, he had buried them deep, and he wasn’t about to let you dig them up.

With a sigh, you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a kiss. His lips were warm against yours, his hands finding your waist instinctively as he kissed you back. The tension between you eased, if only slightly, and for a moment, the world outside the quarters faded away.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you, In-ho. Don’t let him make me doubt that.”

His grip on your waist tightened slightly, his gaze steady as he nodded. “I won’t,” he promised.

____

The VIP room you knew all too well was cloaked in dim, golden light, the shadows pooling in the corners like secrets waiting to be uncovered. The faint scent of polished wood and aged leather hung in the air, mingling with the warmth of the velvet couches arranged strategically around the room. It was quiet, the stillness almost oppressive, but it wouldn’t be for long. In less than ten minutes, the masked men—the VIPs—would arrive, and the space would come alive with laughter, conversation, and veiled threats disguised as casual remarks.

You and In-ho had worked yourselves to the bone ensuring every detail was flawless. The perfection demanded by the VIPs wasn’t just expected—it was required. Smoothing a gloved hand over the rich burgundy velvet of one of the couches, you allowed yourself a small, private smile. A memory flickered to life, unbidden—the image of your father reclining comfortably in that very spot, a drink in hand, his mask gleaming under the chandelier light. The memory warmed you, though only for a moment. You made a mental note to check on him later, to ensure he was still enjoying himself in his travels.

The sound of the door opening snapped you back to the present, and you turned to see the masked servants filing in. Their uniforms were pristine, their movements perfectly coordinated, and their masks—a blend of gold and black—reflected the room’s soft light. They waited silently for your direction, and you moved into action, gesturing toward the tables and stations.

“Ensure every glass is filled to the brim, not a drop less,” you instructed, your voice calm but firm. “And check your uniforms again—there’s no room for error tonight.”

The servants moved with precision, adjusting glasses, smoothing tablecloths, and arranging decanters of fine liquor in neat, symmetrical rows. You moved among them, inspecting every detail, every corner, ensuring nothing was out of place. Each glass glinted like crystal fire under the soft glow of the chandelier, and every surface gleamed as though it had been polished a thousand times over.

You were so engrossed in the process, so focused on achieving perfection, that you didn’t hear the faint creak of footsteps descending the grand staircase just outside the room. Nor did you register the growing presence behind you until a voice—a voice you recognized all too well—cut through the quiet like a blade.

“If it isn’t the queen herself,” the voice drawled, smooth and laced with a dangerous edge.

Your heart jolted, the sound sending a shiver down your spine and freezing you in place for half a beat. The blood in your veins turned cold, yet heat rushed to your face at the same time. Slowly, you turned, your gaze landing on the source of the voice.

Hiram.

He stood at the base of the staircase, dressed in an immaculate suit that seemed to glow under the dim light. The white fabric hugged his tall, built frame perfectly, and his familiar, disarming smile stretched across his face. His fawn-colored hair gleamed, every strand meticulously styled, but it was his piercing blue eyes that held your attention from beneath the mask. They sparkled with a dangerous kind of amusement, as though he already knew every thought running through your mind.

Behind him, the remaining VIPs entered the room, their masks gleaming in the light as they took in the space with quiet approval. Each of them exuded an aura of power and wealth, their silence more imposing than any words they might speak. And there, at the edge of the group, stood In-ho, his familiar mask hiding any hint of emotion. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture rigid, but you knew him well enough to sense the tension in the way he held himself.

“Ah, there you are,” Hiram said, stepping closer, his polished shoes barely making a sound against the floor. “You’ve outdone yourself, truly. This room is a masterpiece.” His voice was honeyed, charming, but there was a sharpness beneath it that made you uneasy.

“Thank you,” you replied evenly, forcing your voice to remain steady. You kept your expression composed, your hands clasped in front of you as he approached. “We aim to please.”

Hiram’s smile widened, his gaze flicking briefly to In-ho before returning to you. “And please, you certainly do.”

You resisted the urge to bristle under his stare, the weight of it lingering on you longer than it should have. Behind Hiram, one of the other VIPs chuckled quietly, their masked face tilted slightly toward you as though sharing in some unspoken joke.

In-ho stepped forward then, his imposing presence cutting through the tension like a knife. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. The evening will begin shortly.”

The VIPs nodded, moving toward the velvet couches, their conversation low and indistinct as they settled into their seats. Hiram, however, lingered, his sharp blue eyes studying you as if he were trying to unravel a mystery.

“Relax,” he said softly, his voice dropping just enough so only you could hear. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on those lovely shoulders.”

You met his gaze, your own eyes narrowing slightly as you replied, “Someone has to ensure things run smoothly.”

Hiram chuckled, the sound rich and deep, as he took a deliberate step back. “Of course. But don’t forget to enjoy the fruits of your labor."

The words dripped with something you couldn’t quite place—mockery, admiration, or perhaps a mix of both. Before you could respond, he turned on his heel, joining the others on the couches.

In-ho was beside you in an instant, his hand brushing yours briefly before falling to his side. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly, his voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

You nodded, though the tightness in your chest hadn’t eased. “I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a small smile.

In-ho’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he straightened, his attention shifting back to the VIPs. The room was filling with quiet chatter and the faint clink of glasses, but your mind was elsewhere, stuck on the unnerving familiarity of Hiram’s words.

"You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world."

Perhaps, in some ways, he wasn’t wrong.

_________________

The first two games had gone off without a hitch, leaving the VIPs exceptionally entertained. Their laughter, applause, and murmurs of satisfaction still echoed faintly in your mind as you lay in bed. It had been a long, grueling day of keeping up appearances—avoiding Hiram’s pointed stares, catering to the demands of the VIPs, and maintaining your composure as the deadly spectacle unfolded before their masked faces.

Now, in the quiet sanctuary of your quarters, the exhaustion weighed heavily on you. Your freshly showered skin was cool against the soft sheets, and the faint scent of In-ho’s cologne lingered in the oversized shirt of his you’d slipped into. The fabric draped loosely over your body, the hem brushing against your thighs as you lay on your side, your back to the door.

The faint click of the door opening startled you, making your heart leap. You sat up quickly, the sheets pooling at your waist, only to relax when your eyes met In-ho’s. His dark eyes held a tired warmth, his posture slightly slouched as he closed the door behind him.

“How’d today go?” you asked softly, watching as he moved toward the bed. His black mask was gone now, leaving his sharp, handsome features fully exposed. He didn’t answer right away, instead sitting at the edge of the bed beside you.

His fingers reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear before his palm rested gently against your cheek. The touch was grounding, comforting, and his thumb brushed your skin in a slow, deliberate motion.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” he said, his voice low, tinged with concern.

You angled your head, your brows knitting slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he murmured, his tone dropping further as his gaze fixed on you, “is Hiram going to be a problem?”

The question caught you off guard, though it shouldn’t have. You knew In-ho had noticed Hiram’s lingering glances and overly familiar tone earlier in the day. His attention to detail rarely missed anything.

You shook your head quickly, offering a small, reassuring smile. “He’s just a flirt, nothing more,” you said lightly, though the faint tension in your voice didn’t go unnoticed.

In-ho didn’t look convinced. He sighed deeply, leaning into your shoulder and pressing his forehead against it. The weight of him was grounding, though you could feel the tension radiating from his body.

“Flirt or not,” he said, his voice muffled against your shoulder, “If he says anything to you, anything at all, you tell me," he said, his voice low but filled with unmistakable authority. “I don’t care if it seems harmless. I need to know.”

You snorted softly, your lips curving into a small smile as you reached up to run your fingers through his hair. “You worry too much,” you teased, though your heart fluttered at the protective edge in his voice.

He lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours as a faint grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Take a shower with me,” he said suddenly, his tone lighter now but still carrying that low, intimate warmth that always seemed to pull you in.

You laughed softly, leaning back slightly and giving him a playful look. “You’re about 15 minutes too late, baby,” you said, that name rarely used by either of you, gesturing to your damp hair as proof.

His grin widened, the weariness in his expression giving way to something more mischievous. “Take another one,” he countered, his tone smooth, laced with that teasing charm he rarely let others see.

You rolled your eyes, a soft laugh escaping your lips as he leaned closer, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. His fingers curled gently against your skin as his forehead brushed yours, the warmth of him filling the small space between you.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmured, your voice soft but tinged with affection as your lips hovered just shy of his.

“For you?” he replied, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his breath warm against your skin. “Always.”

Before you could respond, he pressed his lips to yours in a slow kiss. It deepened quickly, his hand tightening against the nape of your neck as he pulled you closer. The stress of the day melted away in his touch, replaced by the warmth and safety you always felt in his presence.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So? Another shower?”

You let out a breathy laugh, playfully nudging him. “Fine, but only if you carry me there,” you teased, though the sparkle in your eyes betrayed how much you loved the idea of spending just a little more time wrapped up in him.

He grinned fully now, the rare sight lighting up his face as he stood, scooping you effortlessly into his arms. You gasped, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carried you toward the bathroom, the sound of your laughter filling the once-quiet room.

“Anything for you,” he murmured, his tone softer now, as though the words were meant only for you.

Making it through the door, In-ho carries you in the shower, slamming you against the marble wall of the shower. You moan from the pain radiating in your back and fumble for the nozzle, turning on the water. As it pours down, In-ho holds you to him.

Pulling his soaked black shirt off, you blindly throw it. "God I've missed these," In-ho says with need, cupping your breasts and squeezing. You arch into the sensation as he kisses every square inch of you.

Your breaths are cut short, "this..is this our stress relief?" You moan the question. It was pathetic, but you didn't care as the warm water dripped down your bare body. His tongue slips into your mouth, dominating with control. You break from him, "God, fuck me," you pleaded, as you removed his belt, pushing his jeans to the wet floor.

Lost in the embrace, in the all-consuming passion that bound you together, the world outside ceased to exist. Every kiss was a firebrand against your skin, every touch igniting nerves you didn’t know could spark. Time seemed to slow, the rhythm of your movements the only measure of its passing, as if the universe itself had paused to witness your union.

The warmth of his breath fanned against your neck, mingling with the heat between your bodies. His hands gripped you with a reverence that bordered on desperation, fingers pressing into your skin as though he were afraid to let go, afraid you might slip away. The steady, powerful rhythm of each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, your senses heightening until every sound, every sensation, became sharper, more vivid.

The soft gasps and murmurs escaping your lips seemed to echo in the room, blending with the faint trickle of water from the showerhead above. Droplets clung to your skin, sliding slowly over the curve of your back, over the ridges of his muscles, before pooling in the space between your entwined bodies. Each droplet caught the faint golden light of the room, glistening like tiny stars before being lost in the heat of your connection.

Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer, and he obliged, his lips trailing along your jaw before capturing yours again in a kiss that was both fierce and tender. The taste of him, the heat of his body against yours, was intoxicating. You couldn’t get enough.

But beyond the veil of your bliss, the door to your quarters eased open, silent and deliberate, the faintest shift of air the only sign of intrusion. Footsteps, so soft they barely disturbed the stillness, crept closer, slow and calculated, each one measured to avoid detection.

In the shadows, just beyond the faint pool of golden light spilling from the bedside lamp, he stood.

Hiram’s figure was a ghost against the darkness, his white suit blending almost unnaturally into the muted glow. His sharp blue eyes gleamed, watching you with a cold, predatory focus that made the air seem heavier. His expression wasn’t one of embarrassment or even intrigue—it was something far more sinister. His lips curled into a faint smirk, his head tilting slightly as he took in the scene before him with unnerving calm, as if committing every detail to memory.

Your laughter, your whispered name on In-ho’s lips, the vulnerable intimacy you thought was private—it all played out before Hiram like a stage performance crafted solely for his amusement.

But this wasn’t idle curiosity.

As his piercing gaze flicked between you and In-ho, something darker flickered in his eyes—disorder, malice, and the unmistakable spark of opportunity. He stood motionless, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, as though savoring the power of his invisible presence, feeding off the unknowing vulnerability of the two of you.

He leaned slightly against the doorframe, his smirk widening as his thoughts grew darker. Plans began to unfurl in his mind—delicate threads of manipulation, sabotage, and ruin. He could already see the cracks he could exploit, the fault lines he could widen until everything you’d built together came crashing down.

This wasn’t just about jealousy or lust. It was about power. Hiram wasn’t simply watching—he was plotting. He would take this moment, this private, unguarded act, and twist it into a weapon. A scandal. A weakness. A game.

The soft rustle of fabric, the faint creak of a floorboard—it all went unnoticed by you as you clung to In-ho, lost in the safety and warmth of each other.

Hiram’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, his smirk hardening into something far more chilling. His blue eyes burned with quiet intent as he silently turned and slipped back into the darkness of the hallway, the door closing behind him with the faintest click.

You didn’t notice.

And that was the most unsettling part. You didn’t feel the weight of his presence, the cold void left in his wake. You didn’t hear the quiet whisper of a plan already forming.

But you would. Soon enough.

__________

The third game was well underway, the tension in the air palpable as you stood near the edge of the VIP room, surveying the space with sharp eyes. Each masked guest lounged on the velvet couches, their low murmurs punctuated by bursts of laughter or clinks of crystal glasses. On the wide screen across the room, the game unfolded with brutal precision, but your focus wasn’t on the chaos playing out there—it was on the subtle undercurrents within this room.

In-ho had left an hour ago, his presence a void you felt acutely. Before he went, he’d reminded you, in no uncertain terms, to tell him if Hiram stepped out of line. You’d nodded, trying to ignore the growing knot in your chest. Now, as you scanned the room, your eyes occasionally drifted to where he had been, wishing you could reach out and touch his mask for reassurance, to feel connected to him, even from afar.

But Hiram’s gaze was a far more suffocating presence. You could feel it, sharp and invasive, like a cold knife against your skin. It followed you relentlessly, even when you weren’t looking. His attention wasn’t subtle or casual—it was deliberate, calculated, and infuriating.

You swallowed the anger threatening to bubble over. By now, the thought of him made your blood boil, and if you were being honest with yourself, the idea of sinking a blade into his throat was becoming alarmingly tempting.

The need to escape the room became overwhelming. Grabbing an empty decanter from a nearby table, you excused yourself, slipping through the side door toward the supply closet.

The closet was dimly lit, shelves lined with bottles of every expensive liquor imaginable. The faint scent of aged whiskey and cleaning supplies hung in the air, and for a fleeting moment, you wished you weren’t working. A shot—or two—might have eased the tension twisting in your chest.

You reached for a bottle of vodka, the smooth glass cool against your gloved fingers, when a voice broke the silence.

“Thinking of taking a break?”

The words came from behind you, startling you so badly you slammed into the shelf behind you, bottles rattling ominously at the impact.

You spun around to find Hiram standing in the doorway, his white suit glowing faintly under the dim light. He let out a deep, belly laugh, his voice rich with amusement at your discomfort.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, though the gleam in his sharp blue eyes suggested otherwise.

Your pulse quickened, and you fought to keep your composure as you smoothed out your uniform. “You should get back to the game,” you said curtly, your voice steady despite the tension curling in your stomach.

Hiram shrugged nonchalantly, stepping further into the cramped space. “I’ve grown bored,” he said, his tone casual but laced with something darker. “I’d much rather spend my time with you.”

He moved closer, and instinctively, you straightened your spine, forcing yourself to stand tall. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

“I have a proposition for you,” he said, his voice lowering as he loomed over you.

You stiffened as your back pressed against the cold metal of the shelf. The tight quarters made it impossible to step away. “Whatever it is, I can’t accept,” you said quickly, turning to grab the bottle of vodka and making to leave.

Before you could take a step, his hand clamped down on your shoulder, his grip rough and unyielding as he spun you back around to face him.

Pain shot through your shoulder, and your heart jumped to your throat as you fought to keep the yelp threatening to escape locked behind your lips. “Please let go of me,” you said, your voice measured but trembling slightly at the edges.

Instead of releasing you, his other hand shot out, gripping your jaw tightly. His fingers dug into your skin, and in one swift motion, he ripped your mask off, letting it fall to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Your breath hitched, your wide, eyes now fully exposed to him. The faint sheen of fear in them must have pleased him because he scoffed, his lips curling into a twisted smirk.

“Don’t be so afraid,” he said mockingly, his voice dripping with condescension. His thumb brushed along your cheek, a touch that was slow and deliberate, as if savoring your discomfort.

You flinched, your body stiffening under his touch, but he didn’t pull back. If anything, he leaned closer, his warm breath ghosting over your face as his sharp blue eyes bore into yours.

“You’re even more beautiful up close,” he murmured, his tone soft but laced with something predatory. His finger traced the line of your jaw, trailing down to your chin as though he were studying a prize. “A shame someone like you is wasted on someone like him.”

The implication in his words made your stomach churn, and you clenched your fists at your sides, fighting the urge to lash out.

“Hiram,” you said sharply, your voice stronger now despite the fear gripping your chest. “Let. Me. Go.”

You clenched your jaw, your hand curling into a fist at your side, trying to retain any shred of composure. “This isn’t professional,” you barked, the words coming out sharper than you intended, the slight tremor in your voice betraying your rising unease.

Hiram’s grin widened, his expression darkening as he leaned in closer. His breath was warm against your face, almost too close. “You know what isn’t professional, Y/N?” His voice dropped lower, laced with venom.

“Fucking your boss in front of a VIP. You don’t think I saw that little show? How wet you were, how you couldn’t keep your hands off each other.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your blood running cold as the reality of what he was saying sank in. The realization hit you like a slap across the face, and you swallowed, the bile in your throat rising. “What are you implying?” you asked, though you already knew.

His grin flashed wider, sharper now, like a predator toying with its prey. “Oh, I think you already know, sweetheart.” He leaned back, taking in your reaction with the kind of satisfaction that made your stomach turn. “So, here’s my proposition.”

You blinked, frozen in place as he reached for a bottle of whiskey on the shelf beside him, his movements slow and deliberate as he took a long swig. The harsh liquid seemed to ignite something in his eyes, the edges of his grin curling with malice.

“The Original Game Maker isn’t happy,” Hiram continued, his voice dripping with sweet, poisonous calm. “He thinks the games have gotten too soft. Too... predictable. He thinks loyalties are getting a little too murky. And we can’t have that, can we?” He stepped closer again, his eyes locked onto yours with a predatory intensity. “No, no, no. We need to shake things up.”

Your breath caught in your chest, the weight of his words settling heavily between you. You could feel the air thickening, suffocating you as his words began to sink deeper into your mind, wrapping around your thoughts like a vice.

He took another swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth casually with the back of his hand before setting it down on the shelf with a soft clink. “In my opinion, In-ho’s loyalties have drifted,” he said, his voice carrying an unsettling edge. “To you, Y/N. And while that’s... charming, I think it’s time he’s reminded of the consequences of that kind of weakness.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, the realization of what he was suggesting sending a chill through your entire body. “What are you talking about?” you whispered, but even as the words left your mouth, you already knew the answer.

Hiram’s eyes gleamed as he straightened, the playful malice in his expression growing more serious, more calculating. “So here’s whats going to happen. On behalf of the original game maker's wish,” he said, the weight of his words pressing against you like a physical force. “You will enter the games as a player. And In-ho will finally show his true colors. If he interferes with the game for you? His life will come to a tragic end. But if you allow fate to decide…” His voice trailed off, but the dark promise hung in the air, suffocating, undeniable.

The words were poison, each syllable crawling under your skin like an infection, burning through your chest. Your mind raced, trying to piece together what he was saying, what he was offering—and you hated yourself for feeling a flicker of hesitation, as if the very idea of it wasn’t completely out of reach.

Hiram’s grin deepened, his eyes glinting with amusement as he read the shock and fear in your face. “You both come out alive, or... you know the rest. Think of it as a test for In-ho. Will he be loyal to the games, or loyal to you?” His voice was thick with implication, like a contract being signed in blood.

The room felt smaller now. The air, once thick with the hum of tension, now felt suffocating, as if the walls were closing in around you. You could feel the weight of Hiram’s gaze on you, each word landing like a hammer to your chest, each suggestion a chain tightening around your throat.

Hiram took a final sip from the bottle, his eyes never leaving yours as he tilted his head. “Think hard in your remaining time with him” he said softly, his voice almost a purr. “Let’s see how far you’re willing to go for him and him...for you.”

Your mind reeled. The idea of willingly stepping into the game—becoming a part of it, in it—was a nightmare, but the alternative... The alternative was more terrifying than you could bear. The question was no longer just about survival, it was about loyalty, power, betrayal. And worst of all, the deadly twist of fate that Hiram was dangling in front of you.

______

The conference room was cloaked in an overbearing darkness, the only sound the relentless ticking of the clock mounted on the wall behind you. The air was thick, weighted by a silence that felt intentional, like a predator stalking its prey. You sat at the head of the long, polished table, your gloved fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against the arm of the chair. The day was crawling toward its end, but every second felt like an eternity. All you could think about was her—y/n—waiting for you. The ache to return to her side burned like a brand, her presence the only thing that kept you grounded amidst the chaos.

But you couldn’t leave. Not yet. The Original Game Maker had summoned you here without warning, his message sparse and cryptic. No explanation. No agenda. Just an order—a command you couldn’t refuse. Not from him. The mere fact that he had decided to step out of his self-imposed obscurity and into the shadows of the games again was unsettling enough. He’d spent years distancing himself from this bloodstained spectacle, content to let others pull the strings. But now, his sudden interest in this season felt like a storm gathering on the horizon—quiet but ominous.

You shifted in your chair, stifling the urge to scoff aloud. The memory of his past actions clawed at the edges of your mind: the slaughter of 456 lives. Brutal. Senseless. A massacre that spat in the face of the games’ twisted purpose. You could still sense the blood-soaked floors, feel the echoes of screams that lingered long after the last body fell. No one had dared to replicate his methods since—how could they? It was chaos for the sake of chaos, devoid of strategy or control.

You’d told y/n that story once, not to frighten her but to warn her. To keep her as far from him as possible. The man was a powder keg, volatile and devoid of humanity. He lacked empathy. He lacked reason. And yet, here he was, demanding your presence like some dark god who had finally grown bored of his own indifference.

Your jaw tightened beneath the mask as you glanced at the door. He was late—of course, he was late—but the weight of his impending arrival pressed down on you like an iron shroud. You couldn’t ignore the unease simmering beneath your skin, a faint prickle of suspicion that refused to be silenced. Still, you reminded yourself: I am in control. I am in charge.

But it wasn’t just about you. It never was. Y/n was your equal, your partner in your blood-drenched kingdom. You trusted her implicitly, would bow to her without hesitation if she asked. She gave you purpose, kept you tethered. The thought of her—her strength, her clarity—gave you the resolve to face whatever bombardment was about to walk through that door.

And yet, as the ticking clock marked each passing second, the unease lingered.

The Original Game Maker had returned, and whatever he wanted, you knew it wasn’t good.

The door clicked shut behind his towering figure, the sound reverberating through the room like a judge’s gavel. He stood there for a moment, letting the oppressive silence weigh heavier, his presence filling the darkened space. A slow, chilling grin crept across his face, a predatory curve that set your nerves on edge. In his hands, he clutched a thick binder, pressed against his chest like a weapon he was ready to unsheathe. Without a word, he flung it onto the table with a loud thud, the pages splaying slightly from the force.

He moved toward the chair beside you, the leather groaning as he sank into it, every motion deliberate and oozing authority. “Lose the mask, In-ho,” he said, his voice a low, rasping command that carried an edge of disdain. “We’re far beyond formalities.”

You hesitated for only a moment before obeying, reaching up to remove the mask that had become a part of you, placing it carefully on the table’s cold surface. The air felt sharper against your face, the weight of his gaze cutting deeper now that your shield was gone.

“I’m not happy, In-ho.” His words were clipped, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. He jabbed a finger toward the binder, his meaning clear.

You flipped open the cover, the faint warmth of freshly printed pages brushing against your fingertips. One by one, you turned the sheets, each page a detailed report of the previous games you had overseen. Numbers, outcomes, summaries of lives lost in your carefully constructed arenas. The data stared back at you like an accusation, but you refused to flinch.

Finally, you looked up at him, unshaken but curious. “Sir?”

He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as if you had already failed some unspoken test. “Your games are too feeble,” he spat, his lips curling into a sneer. “Too slow. The players… they aren’t drowning in fear. They aren’t desperate enough, In-ho. They aren’t pushed to the brink, clawing at each other like animals, fighting for their very existence.”

You folded your gloved hands atop the table, your voice calm but laced with steel. “I oversee and operate games with order, games that have purpose. Every death is calculated. Every sacrifice has meaning.”

He scoffed, the sound cutting through the room like a blade. “And that, In-ho, is precisely the problem.” He leaned forward now, his elbows resting on the table as his dark, piercing eyes bore into yours. “I created these games to strip humanity down to its raw, ugly core. To show the world what we truly are when the veneer of civility is ripped away. People will kill, not because they need to, but because they want to. For the thrill. For dominance. For the sake of blood itself.”

His words hung in the air, a festering poison that seeped into the room. You felt the tension coil tighter in your chest, but your expression remained unreadable.

“These aren’t just games to you,” you said slowly, the weight of realization settling like a stone in your stomach. “They’re a mirror. A reflection of your own madness.”

His grin widened, a twisted caricature of delight. “Perhaps, In-ho. But madness, after all, is the truest form of humanity.”

The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in as his words lingered, daring you to challenge him further. But this was a game of its own, and you couldn’t afford to lose.

"Anyway," he said, his voice dripping with mock casualness, "that’s not my only problem. Flip to page 457."

Your fingers moved instinctively, even as dread clawed at the edges of your mind. The crisp sound of pages turning echoed in the silent room, the numbers blurring until you stopped at the specified page. Your breath caught, the blood in your veins turning cold as you stared at the glossy photographs staring back at you.

It was you. With her. Y/n. Captured in the most vulnerable, intimate moments of your life, taken just nights ago. Her smile, your hand tangled in her hair, the undeniable tenderness etched into both your faces—it was all there, exposed. Your pulse thundered in your ears, but outwardly, you forced your body to remain still, to not give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The Game Maker leaned back, a predator savoring his prey. “Your loyalties are slipping,” he said, his tone eerily calm. “Although, deep down, in different circumstances, I wouldn’t blame you. She truly is lovely.” His gaze flicked to the photographs as if admiring a piece of art. “I had no issue with her presence here. Not at first. But then I saw it—this... softness. That flickering humanity in your eyes. The same brutality I once admired in you, the kind that reminded me of myself when I was younger—it’s fading.”

You leaned back in your chair, fingers curling into fists beneath the table. “Get to the point,” you said, your voice even but cold.

The Game Maker chuckled, a low, sinister sound that filled the room like smoke. “Ah, yes, the point.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his grin widening. “She’s your purpose, isn’t she? The reason you’re clawing your way back to humanity. The key to unlocking the man you used to be before your wife passed.”

Your jaw clenched at the mention of her, a sharp, invisible blade twisting deep in your chest. But you didn’t speak. You wouldn’t give him the joy of seeing how deeply his words cut.

“And you can see how that is... problematic for me, can’t you?” he continued, his voice softening, almost feigning sympathy. “Because while y/n may be important to you, these games are important to me. More so, I’d argue.” He tilted his head, studying you like a specimen under glass. “I need you to prove where your loyalty truly lies. With her? Or with the games I built you to lead.”

Your voice was steady, though each word felt like pushing against a rising tide. “How?”

The grin that spread across his face was sharp and wicked, a hunter reveling in its kill. “You’ll craft your own two day games,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Similar to mine. You will design them yourself, and you will not interfere. No leniency. No hesitation. No mercy. Only barbarity. If you succeed—if you prove to me that the In-ho I molded hasn’t been lost—I’ll bite my tongue. I’ll let you and her continue this... whatever this is.”

He paused, his grin darkening. “But if you fail?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Then you can kiss everything you know and love goodbye. Including her.”

Your silence was the only response, though your teeth clenched so hard you thought they might crack.

The Game Maker stood, his movements languid, confident. He adjusted his coat as he moved toward the door, his boots thudding against the floor with an almost mocking rhythm. With one hand on the door, he turned back, his shadow stretching across the room.

“And, In-ho?” His voice carried a sharp edge of finality. “If you think this doesn’t hurt me, you’re wrong. I made you what you are, molded you into something extraordinary. Watching you falter now is like watching a masterpiece crack and crumble.” His eyes narrowed. “So I suggest you take my words with caution and do exactly what you’re told.”

The door closed behind him with a deafening noise, leaving you alone with the photos, the order hanging over your head like a guillotine, and the faint echo of his parting words sinking into your chest like a weight you could hardly bear.

_____________

You’d intended to march straight to In-ho’s office, fury blazing in your chest like an inferno. Hiram had crossed the line, and you were done letting his smarmy arrogance slide. You were going to tell In-ho everything, let him deal with the fool, and watch Hiram’s smirk turn to panic when he realized he wouldn’t see sunrise.

But the third game had ended, leaving the viewing room steeped in gloaming and silence, the air thick with the weight of death. The tension followed you as you ascended the winding staircase, each step bringing you closer to your quarters—and to In-ho.

Then, hands gripped your waist from behind, yanking you backward into a broad chest. The move was quick, practiced. Adrenaline surged, and before you could even think, your hand shot to your blade. With a fluid motion, you drove the weapon into your attacker’s hip, twisting it for good measure.

A sharp grunt of pain followed as the hands released you, and you spun on your heel, ready to strike again. The dim hallway lights revealed Hiram staggering back, clutching his side where blood was already staining his suit. Behind him, three of his VIP cronies loomed, their expensive outfits hiding bulky frames and concealed weapons.

You gripped the blade tighter, your other hand slipping behind your back to retrieve your second knife. “Really, Hiram?” you spat, your voice low and venomous. “You need your little gang to take down one woman? That’s just pathetic.”

Hiram straightened, his breath coming in short, pained bursts as he yanked the knife from his hip with a hiss. He tossed it to the floor with a metallic clang, his lip curling into a humorless smile. “Does In-ho not trust you enough to give you a gun? Or does he like to keep his little pet on a leash?”

The insult barely registered. You were already stepping into a defensive stance, rolling your shoulders to loosen the tension building in your muscles. The blade in your hand glinted as you twirled it with ease, keeping your focus sharp. “Whatever it is you think you’re trying to do,” you said, your tone laced with poison, “why don’t you stop wasting my time and get on with it?”

Hiram’s grin twisted into something darker as he took a step forward. The other VIPs followed his lead, spreading out to form a circle around you, their movements slow and deliberate. They were armed, you could see the outlines of holsters under their tailored suits, but none of them drew yet. No, they wanted to play with their prey first.

You pivoted slowly, keeping your head on a swivel, your eyes darting between each man as they tightened the circle. Your heart hammered in your chest, but your grip remained steady. If they thought cornering you would make you crumble, they were in for a rude awakening.

“You’re feisty,” Hiram said, his tone dripping with condescension as he gestured to his men. “But that’s going to be a problem, y/n. You see, In-ho might tolerate your little antics, but I don’t. And after tonight, you’ll wish you had kept that knife to yourself.”

“You talk too much,” you shot back, your lips curling into a defiant smirk. Your pulse roared in your ears, but outwardly, you stayed calm, shifting your weight subtly to prepare for the first strike. “All this bluster, and yet here you are, bleeding like a stuck pig. So, which one of you is going to make the first move? Or do you need to huddle and decide?”

The taunt worked. One of the VIPs lunged, his hand reaching for your arm. You ducked low, sidestepping with practiced ease and slicing at his side as you went. Blood splattered on your face, in your hair and on your suit. He let out a guttural cry, stumbling to the floor, dead, and the circle tightened as the others moved in.

The fight had begun, and you knew this wasn’t going to be clean. But you weren’t about to go down without a fight.

One down, you thought as another stepped forward to grab you. A small doubt in your mind clanged through you. It made you wonder why they hadn't used their guns to subdue you at this point, until you remembered Hiram's proposition. They weren't trying to kill you. They were trying to capture you and you'd be damned if they were to succeed.

A rough hand shot out, tangling in your hair and yanking you backward with brutal force. Pain radiated from your scalp as your body arched against the pull, and another set of hands clamped down on your arms like iron shackles, trying to restrain you.

You weren’t about to fail.

Not here.

Not now.

With a feral growl, you twisted against the grip, sinking your teeth into the thick forearm of the larger man restraining you. His flesh tore under the pressure, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood flooded your mouth. He roared in pain, his grip faltering as he stumbled back, clutching his arm. You spit the torn skin and blood back in his face, your eyes blazing as you drove a powerful kick to the side of his head. The blow landed with a sickening crack, sending him sprawling to the floor in a heap.

But there was no time to celebrate. The second man still had your arms, his grip relentless. You twisted violently, your muscles screaming with the effort, but he held firm. Desperation flared, and you did the only thing you could—threw your head back with everything you had.

Your skull connected with his nose in a sickening crunch, and his grip loosened just enough. A guttural curse escaped him as he staggered, blood pouring from his shattered nose. You turned sharply, your fist already swinging toward him, but you didn’t get the chance to finish.

A sudden, blinding pain exploded across your cheek, cutting through your focus like a blade. The force of the impact sent you crumpling to your knees, the world tilting as you gasped for breath. A searing, numbing ache spread from your face to your jaw, and you tasted blood pooling in your mouth. Spitting it onto the cold floor, you tried to steady yourself, blinking to clear the haze of pain.

When your vision sharpened, your gaze locked onto Hiram standing over you, his chest heaving with exertion, a pair of brass knuckles glinting in the dim light. Blood from his earlier wound had soaked through his suit, but it didn’t seem to slow him. He tilted his head, a breathless, wicked laugh spilling from his lips as he took in your state.

"Look at you," he sneered, flexing his fingers in the brass knuckles. "All that fire... and yet here you are. On your knees. Just where you belong."

Your jaw clenched, the copper tang of your own blood still thick in your mouth. Pain radiated from your cheek, but you refused to look defeated. Instead, you raised your head, locking eyes with him, your fury burning brighter than ever.

With that, you took a hit to the head from the bottom of his shoe, no doubt filled with steel and slipped into darkness. The final thing you heard...

Shes under.  

Bringing her to you now.

______

The pain hit like a lightning strike the moment you tried to rub your eyes, a sharp, blinding agony that tore a raw scream from your throat. Your eyelids snapped open, and the world around you blurred in streaks of dim light and shadow.

"Try not to move," a worn, weathered voice suggested, calm but firm.

Your gaze darted to the side, your breath hitching as you took in the figure beside you. An elderly woman sat hunched over, her face lined with the etchings of time and hardship. In her gnarled hands, she held a water bottle and strips of frayed fabric, soaked in blood and grime. Her touch was careful but insistent as she dabbed at the stinging wound above your brow, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the sour tang of sweat.

You pushed her hand away abruptly, the surge of adrenaline drowning out the pain. Ignoring the dull, throbbing ache in your muscles, you forced yourself upright, the threadbare blanket sliding from your shoulders to the cold, unforgiving floor.

Fragments of memory surged forward, crashing over you like a tidal wave.

Hiram.

The proposition.

In-ho.

Your chest tightened as reality snapped into focus. The events blurred, but one thing was certain—you were in danger, and so was he.

Your eyes darted around, taking in the unfamiliar room. The space was cavernous, yet suffocating, the air damp and heavy with despair. Rows of narrow, metal bunk beds stretched into the shadows, their frames rusted and creaking. The dim lighting overhead cast flickering pools of orange light that barely pierced the darkness. This wasn't the player's quarters you knew—this was something else. Something worse.

The uniforms confirmed it. You looked down at yourself, the tight black fabric clinging to your legs, a stark contrast to the garish jumpsuits the players usually wore. A sleek, fitted black jacket covered your upper body, the material sturdy yet restrictive. It felt like a shroud, as if someone had stripped you of your identity and replaced it with this ominous second skin.

The cold metal of the platform under your feet sent a shiver up your spine, but rage burned hotter. Without hesitation, you leapt from the upper level, landing with a thud on the grated floor below. Your knees buckled slightly at the impact, but you straightened, the fury in your veins propelling you forward.

Your target was clear: the iron door at the far end of the dormitory. It loomed like a fortress wall, a cold, unyielding barrier between you and freedom. You surged toward it, your fists slamming against the surface with all the force you could muster.

"Hiram!" you bellowed, your voice raw and echoing through the empty dormitory. "You motherfucker, let me out!"

Your knuckles burned as you pounded the door, the metal refusing to give even the faintest hint of weakness. Desperation clawed at your throat as you turned your gaze upward, scanning the shadows until your eyes locked onto the cold, unfeeling lens of a surveillance camera.

"You hear me, Hiram? Let me out!" you roared, your voice cracking under the weight of your panic. The silence that followed was deafening, a void that only heightened your racing thoughts.

Where was In-ho? Was he all right? Did he even know what had happened? Or was he—

No. You couldn't finish the thought. Your fists fell to your sides, trembling as rage and fear churned in your chest.

The camera blinked once, its small red light a cruel reminder that someone, somewhere, was watching—and enjoying—your descent into chaos.

If Hiram and the Game Maker wanted you to play, then fine. Game on.

Your fists dropped from the iron door, bloodied and raw, but you didn't care. The sting in your knuckles, the ache in your muscles—none of it mattered now. The fear that had momentarily threatened to consume you hardened into something sharper, deadlier. It wasn't panic anymore. It was resolve.

Your chest rose and fell with measured breaths as you locked eyes with the blinking red light of the surveillance camera. You knew they were watching. You wanted them to watch. Let them see what they'd done.

The corners of your lips curled into a dangerous smirk, blood staining your teeth. "You want a player?" you growled, your voice low and venomous, dripping with challenge. "You've got one."

__________

You cursed her name under your breath, the syllables bitter as they scraped against your tongue. On the screen, she pounded on the iron door, relentless, her voice cutting through the static with raw determination. She wouldn't back down. You knew her better than that. The sound of his name spilling from her lips was a dagger in your chest. It was enough.

With a flick of your wrist, the glass of liquor left your hand, shattering against the sink with a piercing crash. You barely registered the shards as they scattered across the counter, your focus already shifting. Your movements were sharp, deliberate, as you descended the staircase, each step a promise of retribution.

He didn't hear you coming. Hiram was sprawled across his lavish couch, a smug picture of decadence. You didn't bother with pleasantries. Your gloved hand clenched his fawn-colored hair, yanking him off the cushions with a violent pull. The startled yelp he let out was satisfying, but it wasn't enough. You flung him to the floor like garbage, the thud of his body echoing through the room.

Hiram laughed—low, guttural, unhinged. The sound coiled around your nerves, igniting your fury. You drew your pistol, the weight of it steady in your grasp, and aimed it directly at his smirking face.

"Ah, ah," he rasped, blood already pooling at his split lip. "You pull that trigger, and the game maker will have her head on a silver platter." His smile widened, grotesque and mocking, and it churned your stomach.

Your boot connected with his nose before he could say another word. The sickening crunch was music to your ears. Hiram's howl was guttural, primal, as he clutched his face, blood streaming between his fingers. You crouched down beside him, your shadow engulfing his trembling frame.

The pistol pressed hard beneath his chin, the cold metal biting into his skin. His ragged breaths came in sharp, shallow bursts as his gaze darted between your eyes and the barrel.

"You fucking touch her?" Your voice was low, venomous, a deadly promise wrapped in steel.

Hiram gasped, his chest heaving. Despite the blood and pain contorting his features, he managed to smirk. "Oh, come on, In-ho. You think so little of me?"

The pistol dug deeper, forcing his head back against the floor.

"Maybe," Hiram hissed, his teeth bared. "Maybe I had my way with her before I put her under."

White-hot rage exploded in your veins. Your fist crashed into his face again, another brutal blow to his already mangled nose. His scream ripped through the room as his head snapped back, blood splattering the floor like a grotesque painting.

"Enough."

The voice thundered from above, cutting through the room like a blade. Your head snapped up, the adrenaline in your veins freezing for a moment as you caught sight of the Game Maker. He stood at the top of the staircase, his silhouette sharp against the dim light behind him, one hand lazily resting on the railing. His expression was unreadable, but his commanding presence demanded obedience.

"Get off him, In-ho," he ordered, his tone icy, yet calm. "He only obeyed orders."

Your jaw clenched, teeth grinding as you glanced down at Hiram's bloodied, quivering form. His chest rose and fell in erratic gasps, his face a grotesque mess of swelling and crimson streaks. You tightened your grip on the pistol for a fraction of a second before exhaling sharply through your nose. Slowly, you pulled the barrel away from his clammy forehead, the imprint of the muzzle leaving a faint, circular mark on his skin.

Straightening, you forced the anger to settle, though your voice betrayed the simmering fury within. "This wasn't part of the deal."

The Game Maker shrugged nonchalantly, his expression impassive as he began descending the staircase. Each step was deliberate, the sound of his polished shoes echoing through the room. "No," he admitted, tilting his head slightly. "But doesn't it make for a far more... interesting show?"

Your stomach twisted at his words, the casual sadism in his tone igniting a spark of panic deep within you. You shoved it down, burying it beneath a veneer of cold resolve. Now wasn't the time to crack.

Behind you, Hiram struggled to his knees, his blood-slick hands slipping against the floor. He barely managed to stagger upright before his legs gave out, sending him stumbling back down. A low, wicked chuckle escaped your lips as you watched him flounder, your satisfaction bubbling just beneath the surface. Serves him right.

The Game Maker reached the bottom of the staircase, his gaze sharp and assessing as he approached. His eyes flicked to Hiram briefly before landing on you, calculating and piercing.

"The question now," he said, his voice low and cutting, "is whether you did what you were told."

A heavy sigh escaped your lips as the weight of the moment pressed down on you. Without a word, you reached into your jacket, fingers brushing against the edges of the file you had kept close since last night. Pulling it free, you held it out.

The Game Maker didn't hesitate. He snatched it from your hand with a brisk motion, his eyes already scanning the contents as he flipped through the pages. The sharp rustle of paper filled the silence.

A nasty grin curled at the edges of his mouth, predatory and pleased. "Ah," he murmured, the amusement thick in his voice. "You've certainly outdone yourself, haven't you?"

His voice was fuzzy as you only thought about one thing.

You wondered how she'd survive, praying your training was enough to protect her from the gruesome scenes to come. You looked at the large men that stood in the room with her, watched her size them up as she stalked back to her bunk.

She's smart, quick, agile.

She will fight her way out.

You repeated it like an omen, unable to even consider the other probability. You couldn't interfere, couldn't help her or reach out to comfort her. She was on her own and your hands squeezed into fists as the group of you watched the guards lead parties of players into the game hall, into the first match you had created.

His voice was a distant murmur, muffled and indistinct, drowned out by the storm raging in your mind. You couldn’t focus on his words, not when your thoughts were consumed by a singular, agonizing concern.

Her.

Your hands curled into fists, the leather of your gloves creaking under the strain. Frustration and helplessness coiled tightly in your chest, threatening to choke you.

Around you, the others watched in grim silence as the guards began herding players into lines. The sound of heavy boots echoed through the game hall as they were marched toward their fates, toward the first deadly match. Your match.

Your gaze darted back to the screen, locking on her once more. She stood at the edge of the group now, her jaw tight, her body taut like a coiled spring. You could see it in her posture—the readiness, the determination.

Still, doubt whispered in the back of your mind, cruel and persistent. The first match was murderous, designed to break spirits and shatter bodies. It had been crafted with precision, every gruesome detail meant to test their limits. You had crafted it.

And now, as you stood there watching, you prayed—silently, desperately—that your training would be enough to see her through.

to be continued...

[nanamiskentos]

🌿 I LOVE YOU SO MATCHA! — gojo satoru sfw!

prologue. → green was the color of life, and gojo satoru, in all his contradictions, carried life in the way he loved recklessly, laughed shamelessly, and held you like the universe began and ended with you. 🌿 🤍 part of the cookbook (@antizenin)

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

but green is the colour of earth. of living things, of life. and of rot. — unknown.

warnings+. sweetness and established relationship, there's angst in this i genuinely couldn't help it, reader wears a dress in a scene, mentions of injury!

word count. 4k! song inspiration. luther — kendrick lamar, sza

a/n. i'm doing the sukuna shibuya bow from making another predictable twist and ending. but i actually rlly loved writing this, this fic is gonna stay with me i fear <3 gif made by me!

mp3. if it was up to me, i wouldn't give these nobodies no sympathy. i'd take away the pain, i'd give you everything

most people think of gojo satoru in shades of blue.

not the soft and wistful kind that paints summer skies, or the quiet ripple of a lake at dawn. no, they think of an unearthly blue. sharp and electrifying, the kind that stings your eyes and lingers even after you look away.

the shocking azure of his cursed technique, like lightning bottled and ready to shatter the earth. or maybe it's the endless stretch of his eyes, the kind of blue that is so bright, you may burn yourself if you look too long.

to everyone else, gojo is blue. bold, and unrelenting and impossible to ignore.

but to you, gojo satoru is green.

it took time for you to notice it. green doesn't always shout or demand attention. it waits quietly in the background, sometimes content to let others take the stage.

but once you saw it, it was everywhere. it bloomed and took over your life.

the café smells like freshly brewed coffee, warm bread, and the faint sweetness of jasmine blooms sitting in a vase by the window. it's a quiet day, the kind that only seems to exist when gojo has finally managed to wrangle some rare time off.

your boyfriend sits across from you, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, grinning like he's thought of something utterly brilliant.

"okay, hear me out," he says, holding up a hand like he's about to make a groundbreaking declaration that will shatter the earth and bring world peace, "you're the oolong one for me."

you pause and scrunch your face, mid-sip in your tea, "please don't."

gojo leans forward, his grin growing wider ever still, "no? how about this? you're simply tea-rrific."

you bury your face in your hands, as an elderly couple looks at the two of you oddly, "you're unbearable."

"tea-rrific. like terrific," gojo laughs, wagging a finger like a professor lecturing his class, "get it? because -"

"oh, i get it," you cut in, shaking your head but still smiling at your entire world of a boyfriend, "i just refuse to reward bad behaviour."

but you should know better than to think you've tampered down on the relentless force that is gojo satoru. he is relentless in all things, especially when he decides to make you laugh. he's launched into an entire string of tea-related puns, each one worse than the last.

chai think you're amazing! we're a matcha made in heaven! leaf me alone, i'm on a roll!

and somehow, somewhere between the chai and matcha, you start to notice the green.

the delicate stems and leaves of the jasmine says slightly as the café door opens and closes, catching your eye. their soft green isn't loud nor is it attention-seeking. just quietly present, a backdrop to the white blooms that adorn their head.

it is the kind of colour you don't realise you've been missing until it's suddenly there.

you glance at the window, and the trees lining the street are the same, their leaves dappling the sunlight as they sway in the breeze. even the café walls, painted in a muted, sage-like shade, seem to glow just a little in the sunlight. a backdrop to gojo's charming antics.

he's still in front of you, his hair gleaming the same dewy shade as the jasmine blossoms. so animated as he explains why leaf me alone was an under appreciated pun.

there's green in him too, you think.

not in the obvious sense for gojo satoru is far too outwardly vivid to be defined by something as soft as the green akin to your matcha. but it's still there, beneath the flash of his grin and the sharpness of his humour. in the way that he leans closer to make sure you're still smiling.

in the way he somehow turns the whole world into a quiet garden on days like this.

"okay," gojo says, leaning back to cross his arms over his crisp white tee, "i'll stop. but admit it, i brewed up some great ones."

you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you, "fine. one of them was acceptable."

gojo gasps, clutching his chest like you've delivered a fatal, cleaving wound, "one? one? i give you comedy gold, and the love of my life repays me like this!"

the jasmine leaves quiver again as your knee knocks up, shaking the table, "you're impossible."

gojo smiles softer this time, tipping his head as though you've delivered the greatest compliment in the world, "yeah. but love me so matcha!"

the strongest sorcerer in modern history is cracking himself up again, and you can feel the warmth of the colour green around you. in the leaves, in the dappled light, and the man across from you who somehow makes the world softer, and sweeter. and full of life.

there's a matcha-green hoodie in gojo's closest. it's oversized, cozy and worn just enough at the cuffs to feel like a bit of a secret. something loved so well that it holds pieces of him in the quilted fabric.

it's nothing like the sharp navy and indigo of his uniform that he wears on duty, where every line is a untouchable warning. no, these clothes are the opposite for you. it's familar. it's gojo's off-duty self, the one that the rest of the world doesn't get to see.

gojo only really wears it at home, when he's padding around barefoot with tousled, snowy hair brushing over his forehead as he pretends to tiptoe (and fails spectacularly) to let you sleep in. it's the kind of green that somehow makes the mornings softer, as if the day dances quietly around you too.

it's also the green of the evenings when he drapes himself over the couch in your apartment, long legs dangling over the armrest while he beckons you with a lazy smile.

the fabric is impossibly soft against your cheek as you settle into his broad chest, and his arms loop around you like they were always meant to belong there. it smells like him too, a little like cedar and a little like pine. and you think it might be your favourite place in the world.

one time, you stole it.

you hadn't planned it. you had been cold, and it had been right there. before you knew it, you had been walking around the house in its oversized embrace.

when gojo had caught you for the first, his grin stretched wide, playful and wicked.

"hey, well," gojo had drawled, leaning against a doorframe like a cartoon cat that had finally cornered the mouse, "look who's going through other people's closets."

you tugged the sleeves further over your hands, "it's comfortable. you take my shit all the time."

"it's cute on you," gojo says, sauntering closer and placing his large hands on either side of your face, "but you know...no one looks cuter than me."

you snort and turn your back on him, which only encourages for the six-foot-three man to chase after you. and even though he claimed he needed it back, he didn't get it for a week.

maybe because you refused to give it up, or maybe because every time he saw you in it, he just shook his head, grinning as if he’d been caught in the middle of something he didn’t mind losing.

when gojo invited you back to the family estate, you had braced yourself for grandeur. looming gates, and endless halls. the suffocating weight of tradition.

and yes, the grandeur had been there. but what lingered most in your memory wasn't the vastness or the architecture. it was how beautiful it was.

there were several shrines that lay nestled among the estate, hidden away on plots of land. this one had been worn soft by time, covered in moss and nestled among the larger stones.

spring had woven itself into every corner of the estate, from the blossoms swaying overhead to the long grass brushing against your ankles as you walked.

gojo stood a few steps ahead of you, glancing back as if to make sure that you hadn't disappeared, hadn't been swallowed up by the earth. he was dressed in far more traditional robes for once, navy linen lowing and rippling as he moved.

but there was something endearingly out of place about him here, like a bird perched on the wrong branch.

"spring makes it look nicer than it is," he said, running his fingers over the soft, white edges of his undercut. you can hear the underlying vulnerable note in his seemingly casual voice.

you didn’t reply right away, too caught up in the way the sunlight filtered through the cherry blossoms, scattering dappled green shadows across the worn stone steps. when you reached the base of the shrine, you paused, taking it all in: the moss, the blossoms, the breeze, and him.

"it's beautiful," you said finally, and he gave you a lopsided smile that felt more honest than any grandeur could ever be.

he waited for you at the top of the steps, his gaze steady and warm as the spring air. for a moment, he looked like he belonged here, a part of the ancient garden itself. like a carven statue created by loving hands, forever memorialised as something not quite human. but you knew better.

he didn't like this place — this house that felt more like a museum than a home, this estate heavy with the weight of a family name he wore like armour. since arriving, he’d been quieter than usual, his usual spark dimmed by old memories and expectations, and constantly bowing servants who called him lord and master gojo.

but now, as gojo watched you walk through the long grass, something shifted. his shoulders have relaxed, his hands hung loose at his sides. and then, so softly you almost missed it, he says, "i want to marry you."

you froze, the words catching in the breeze between you.

he wasn’t looking at the shrine anymore, or the blossoms, or the sky. gojo satoru was looking at you, his blue eyes calm and unwavering, like he’d found his answer in the very place he’d been avoiding.

"i know it's not much right now," he added, his voice low and rough around the edges, as though he wasn’t used to baring this part of himself, "and i don't care what the elders say. but you're the only person i want."

at the edge of the jujutsu high campus, there's a vending machine of incredible drinks. its green paint had faded, and chipped from the years of stubborn sun and countless coins clinking into its slot.

it hums faintly, blending into the scenery like a reliable friend that carried you through your own years of high school.

somehow, it's become your spot. not officially, no. there was no grand declaration, no conscious agreement and treaty. but after his classes, he always ends up here.

and so do you.

it starts the same way each time. gojo satoru saunters up to his fiancé with that unmistakable grin, white hair catching the light as if he was trying outshine the sun itself.

you watch as he slides a coin into the slot with theatrical position, with his finger hovering dramatically over the buttons. like he's choosing between life and death, instead of commercial canned drinks.

"one iced matcha," gojo announces in a tone meant for a training arena, and not a quiet campus corner. his hand arcs in an exaggerated flourish as he offers you the drink, "for the love of my life."

you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you, "flattery won’t get you anywhere," you reply, accepting the can and cracking it open with practiced ease.

it's a dance you've done a hundred times, but somehow it never gets old. he leans against the vending machine, towering and smug, watching you take a sip like he’s waiting for something.

"don't even think about it, satoru" you warn, holding the can just out of his reach.

but it’s gojo, so of course he thinks about it. he grins wider — how is that possible? and in one fluid motion, he leans in and steals a sip before you can react.

"i will get revenge, always so difficult," you weakly huff, but your fond smile gives you away.

"difficult to resist," he counters, winking like it’s a challenge, "besides," gojo adds, holding the can up to the light as if inspecting its soul, "it tastes better when it’s yours."

you snatch it back, pretending to glare at him, but he’s already leaning closer, his hand brushing yours as he reaches to press another button.

"second round?" he asks, as if this isn’t already part of his plan.

the vending machine hums again, green and steady and familiar, as it delivers another drink with a satisfying clunk.

green had grown to be more than just a colour. it had been a thread that stitched its way through your love story. quiet and constant.

so when the day came, when your heart thudded heavier than ever before and your hands shook just slightly as you smoothed down the expensive fabric, it only made sense that the colour of vitality and new beginnings was everywhere.

the first ceremony itself had been steeped in tradition, from the elegant folds of your formal robes to the rhythmic chants that seemed to echo on in your head. you were grateful for its beauty, but it was the dinner afterwards that felt like yours truly.

the reception was tucked away in a corner of the sprawling grounds, where the tables were adorned with white lilies so luminous they seemed to carry their own light. they sat in vases of muted jade, the colour rich and soft, like the grass after a spring rain. the candles flickered in delicate green holders, casting shadows that waltzed across the tablecloths.

gojo was, of course, the first thing you noticed when you stepped into the space. he wasn’t wearing robes anymore; he’d swapped them for a sleek black suit that fit him perfectly, save for the ever-so-slightly loosened tie (because he couldn't help himself). his hair, as untameable as always, gleamed in the low light.

and then there was you, in a flowing green dress that felt like you’d stepped out of a dream and into his orbit. the soft fabric caught the candlelight, shifting from deep emerald to pale sage as you moved, shimmering. you thought about how this colour, the one that reminded you of leaves and tea and moss-covered shrines — had always meant life to you.

gojo's grin when he saw you was wide enough to rival the moon, and he made a show of adjusting his tie like a movie star spotting their co-star for the first time, with an awfully cliché wink.

"you clean up nice," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief, and then something more love-struck, "my beautiful wife. i must be the luckiest man on earth."

"and you’re just realising this now?" you teased, the soft fabric of your dress whispering as you stepped closer.

dinner wasn’t a grand banquet, but it was perfect — just your closest friends, a table overflowing with warmth, and gojo stealing glances at you as if you’d disappear if he looked away for too long. between bites of food and sips of something sweet, he leaned over to whisper ridiculous commentary in your ear about your guests: how much wine nanami had thrown back, or how shoko had situated herself perfectly near the food.

but then, in quieter moments, he’d reach for your hand beneath the table, his thumb tracing soft, lazy circles on your skin.

the night blurred into laughter and soft music, of digital cameras and drunk speeches. the green hues around you shifting like memories folding into themselves. you caught sight of the lilies swaying gently in the breeze and thought about how gojo had insisted on them when you’d been indecisive.

"white lilies mean devotion," he'd said, smirking like he knew something you didn’t.

"and green?" you'd asked.

"green's for us," he replied, "or for you. i know you like it so much. an' it's cute when you're sentimental."

by the end of the night, gojo's tie was completely undone, and his jacket hung over the back of a chair. he pulled you onto the dance floor despite your protests that your feet hurt, practically yelling in their strapped heels.

"then i'll carry you," he said dramatically, dipping you halfway before breaking into laughter when you yelped.

the two of you swayed there, in the gentle green glow of the reception, his arms wrapped around you and the world falling into place. your husband smelled faintly of the lilies and something warm you couldn’t name. you're sure if you put pen to paper, like a poet of old, you might be able to name that feeling.

"you know," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple, "i've been to a lot of ceremonies, but this one’s definitely my favourite."

"oh? why's that?" you asked, resting your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"because this time, i got to marry you."

you used to love the colour white. it had been the colour everything pure. everything soft that made you feel safe. the brightness of it had brought a clarity to the world.

it was the colour gojo's unruly hair, glistening in the sun like a crown. you had been so enamoured, watching him run slender fingers through soft strands. to you, white had always been perfect and radiant in all of gojo's unbridled glory.

but the winds of the snow storm must have shifted.

you still remember that day so vividly, as if your mind could never forget it no matter how much you wished it could. the white falling on the streets of shinjuku, covered with layers of freshly fallen snow. pristine and untouched.

but there had been a sickening crack of flesh against pavement, the wet thud that only those who've known death too closely can identify.

you had seen it before you'd even registered the horror of it all. the red, the bright crimson that bled into the snow. staining it, warping it. turning it into something so vile. the ministrations of ryomen sukuna.

gojo's body, cleaven and unmoving. the garnet staining his snow-white hair as it pulled from under his spine. the quiet calm that had settled over his face, as if he had seen something so wondrous in his last moments.

that snow, once so untouched and pure, was suffocated by the iron scent of blood. and at that moment, when you had lost him forever, was the moment you knew that white would never mean purity again.

the colour of white, the colour of christmas eve — no longer held any softness for you. it wasn’t the gentle lightness of his hair; it was the cold, hard truth of loss. it was the memory of blood seeping into that pure snow, the last thing he saw before his life was ripped away.

now, you avoid it. you avoid white whenever you can, as if by doing so, you can erase that moment from your mind. you keep your house warm and cozy, perhaps almost unhealthily so, with shades of warm and soft earth tones, and you dress your daughter in colours that remind you of life, of what was still worth living for. but white? it's a shadow, a reminder. so, you avoid it.

but then, one afternoon, a few months later, your daughter tugs at your hand, small and warm, a soft giggle escaping her as she skips ahead of you. you can’t help but smile at her, at how much of gojo satoru is in her — the way she laughs without hesitation, the way her energy fills up every room, every corner.

you're walking down the street, the air still crisp from the tail-end of winter. it's one of those moments when the world feels ordinary, but in the best way possible. sunlight filtering down between reconstructed buildings, the bustle of the city in the background, your daughter's little chirp bubbling in the space between. you're lost in her, in the joy she brings.

but then, you stop.

you don't mean to. you didn't even notice where your feet were taking you until it happens. your gaze drops to the ground, and there it is.

that spot. the place where it all happened. the very spot where the white had been stained with merlot, the place where gojo's life was stolen from you. the pavement looks the same, the cracks just as they were before, but there's something different now.

a tiny green plant, barely noticeable, growing through the crack in the concrete. the leaves are soft, a rich shade of green that seems to pulse with life. it's small, fragile, but determined, its roots pushing through the cold, unforgiving pavement.

you swallow, the lump in your throat almost choking you.

"satoru..." you whisper to yourself, but your daughter’s voice pulls you from your morbid, breaking thoughts.

"look!"

you glance down, seeing her kneeling beside the plant, her tiny hands reaching out to touch it with wonder in her eyes.

"it's pretty, isn’t it? can i pick it?" she asks, her voice light and innocent.

you nod, tears welling up in your eyes that you refuse to let fall. you hold your breath, trying to steady your heart. it's absurd, you think, how something so small, so simple, could make you feel so much. how something as insignificant as a sprout could make the weight of the world feel just a little bit lighter.

nitrogen, iron and phosphorus are all found in human blood. and hey! they're also needed for plants to grow!

you hear the voice of teenage shoko, kicking her legs back as you tried to finish your homework, right before yaga assigned you another detention. but now the memory comes back to you, sickens you. tears at your heart.

you crouch down beside her, your fingers gently brushing against the plant’s leaves.

"yeah, it's pretty," you whisper, voice barely audible. “best let it rest where it is, yeah?"

you've taken a deep breath and stand up, your daughter tugging you along as she continues on her path, unknowing, innocent. entirely unaware of the memory of her father, lauded as a hero and as a sharp weapon by all those who knew him.

most of those who knew him.

but you glance back at the little plant, the green leaves waving in the soft breeze, and for the first time in months, you don’t feel the crushing weight of grief.

you just feel… a little less lost. and for the first time, the colour green feels like something more than a memory of gojo satoru.

more of a promise for the future, for those who lived on.

[ysrjune]

hey there !! I was wondering if i could request a teen!dad scott barringer x teen!mom, like when they find out and probably comfort eachother cuz SCARY and then just the pregnancy overall like them cuddling and being cute, finding out the baby’s gender, shopping for baby, just overall the fluff and then picking names bc i feel like that could be such a funny conversation please no pressure i just think your scott barringer stuff is already good and so cute i love your fluff

[ I love this request. it's soo cute ☺️ ALSO TY FOR THE COMPLIMENTS BB I APPRECIATE IT SM 🩵🩵 I love writing for scott!! hes a bit of a bitch about it in the beginning cause I think thats how he would react to it at first #eventhoughitwashisfault #dumbbitch😣 ]

ENJOY ! ♡

"You're joking with me, right? Like, you're not really having.." he pauses, really taking it in. "A baby." Scott stares down at the cheap test and back to you. "This isn't funny. Don't mess around with me," He says your name with rising anger.

"No. I'm not lying. Why would I lie about something like this?" You cross your arms, starting to become annoyed. "Because you like to pull pranks on me, that's why." Scott responds fast. His eyebrows raise in annoyance as he begins to speak again. "This isn't funny, but it better be a damn joke." He sets the test to the side. "This isn't real. I know it's not."

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. "It's real, Scott! It's real. I don't know what else to tell you!" His heart drops to the pit of his stomach. No way. This is just a nightmare that he'll wake up from soon. He stares you deep in the eyes and then stands up from the bed and paces around. "Oh my fucking God." His voice cracks. "Why?! Why me?! I mean.. are you even sure it's mine?!" He points to himself with his hands. Is he joking? seriously? IS IT EVEN HIS??

"Of course it yours. Why would you say that?!" You yell. "Are you trying to call me a whore or something?!" Tears finally spilled on your hot cheeks. "And why you? Why you?! YOU because you can't fucking use a condom and your pull out game is weak!"

Scott side eyed you. He was embarrassed. It IS his fault, but he wasn't going to admit it. What he would do is shut up. A few moments of silence pass, and he hugs you. "Are you gonna have an abortion.." He asks softly. You look up at him and shake your head. "No," you sniffle. "I've thought long and hard about it. I wanna keep it." You say. Scott sighs. "Alright. How long have you known about this?" His arms tightened around you. "Two days."

His hand goes to your back and starts rubbing it. "Do your parents know?"

"No. They can never know."

"Dont be stupid. They have to know. I don't think they'll believe you're just getting fat." He says, relieved that you couldn't see how hard he was trying not to crack a smile and hold in his laugh. You roll your eyes. "I guess." You sigh. "I'll tell them when they get home. You shouldn't be there, though.. my dad has a gun under his bed." You allow yourself to let out a giggle.

Scott smirks and looks down at you. "I can run out-run your old man." He wipes your tears with his thumb. "Stop crying, okay? Im sorry I was being.." He tries to find a word, but you beat him to it. "Mean?"

"Sure, if that's what you wanna say. But you gotta understand why I was.. am.. freaked out. Babe, we're 16. I turn 17 in like a month, but still." He rubs your shoulders. "Teen dad.." he bites his lip. "What's everyone gonna think of me? Think of you? There's like one other girl thats pregnant and she's a druggie."

"They wont know. I'll just wear hoodies all the time." You sniffle. "I've only told Jasmin and Nelly." You didn't have many friends. People you talked to in class? Yes, but not many friends. "I'm not gonna tell the guys. They're all nosy and'll tell everyone." Scott says.

That night at dinner, you brought it up to your parents and Oh they were pissed. Your fathers face went pale and he just stared at you. It was so spooking. He says your full name and then bangs his fist on the table. "DANG NABBIT GIRL, YOU JUST TURNED SIXTEEN AND YOU THINK YOU CAN GO AND HAVE A BABY WITH THAT DUMBASS?! WHYYYY III OUGHTAAA!!" He said a lot of other stuff but you tuned him out, trying not to laugh and cry at the same time.

Your mom calms him down and takes him to the room. After, she came back and sat next to you. "Sweetheart, In no way am I happy about this.. but im glad you said something instead of trying to keep it a secret." She holds your hand. "We'll support you through this, baby girl." She kisses it. "Just let your daddy calm down, okay? He won't let you go through this alone." She says.

4 months, and your belly was already showing a little bit. Scott always loved to kiss it, rub it with his palm, and gently lay his cheek or the side of his face against it. He liked how warm it was all the time.

Scott lays the side of his face on your belly as you two are laid on the couch. He was on top of your legs, a blanket pulled over you as your fingers were running through his hair. The TV was on, playing your favorite show that you've watched so many times already. Scott was watching it with you, but he had fallen asleep. When you notice, you smile and quickly snap a photo and then set it as your lockscreen. How cute!

"you look really good for being pregnant." He says hours later when he's awake and back in your room. "So, other pregnant women dont look good?" you questioned. "Uh, I didn't exactly say that, but.. yeah." He huffs and kisses your belly. "I dunno why, but I like you pregnant." He had a weird thing for the line on your abdomen. He was always staring at it and tracing it with his thumb. #Weirdo

How Scott would react to having a boy:

He would be so thrilled. Happy out of his mind. He could teach his little man how to play sports just like him. He would dress him up in jerseys and beanies. His son would have the nicest shoes even as a toddler. Cool jewlery, nice haircuts, good hygiene—he'd be the best boy dad. Well, let's be honest. Scott wouldn't be an out of this world dad, but he would be a good one. Never missing his sons practices, not yelling at him 24/7.

When his son is old enough, he'd tell him how to catch a ladys eyes. He wouldn't go too far since his son would be 13. But he'd at least say the obvious: Always smell nice, act nice, never pressure a girl into anything, and NEVER get one pregnant. He told his son how exhausting, expensive, and hard it is to be a teen parent.

Teen years are the worst but also the best. Your son has his attention, and that is just so damn annoying. He's also stubborn. You're always fighting with your son, and Scotts is always fighting with him, too. The boys fight more, though. About dishes, laundry, respect for you and him, curfew, grades—the whole shebang. He doesn't abuse his son. He would never. But if your son were to EVER disrespect you (like trying to hit you or call you something like 'bitch' or 'stupid') He'd smack the shit out of the boy. Sometimes, when he's being a smart-ass, he'll backhand him on the back of the neck.

Scott and 16 year old Junior were playing basketball at the park on a Friday afternoon. Junior was doing really well until a few cute girls from his school were passing by. Junior, being a perv just like his dad used to be, was staring at their asses. He was guarding really bad and hardly made any baskets. Scott looked over to what was distracting his son so much, and he literally rolled his eyes and sighed. He understood what it was like to be a teenager with hormones, but really? When they're playing basketball? "Hey," Scott nudges Junior. "Focus here, boy." He hands the ball to him. "You can look at them when you start playing like you actually know how."

How Scott would react to having a girl:

He wouldn't be as excited as he'd be if you were having a boy. Would he be happy?... um. Next question. But either way, he still loves your little girl. Dressing her in cute outfits, letting you teach him how to do her hair, playing dress up and with dolls (in secret), tea parties, and watching princess movies. He loves spoiling his baby girl.

When your girl was 13, Scott didn't give her the privilege to date boys. "Not until you're older than.." he looks over to you. "Her!" Scott cracks a smile but is still serious. You raise an eyebrow at Scott, but let him finish his whole: you're too young to be thinking of boys, you just finished using training bras. Making your daughter cringe.

Scott wouldn't really mind having a tom-boy, but he would prefer his baby to stay girly. He doesn't care about her wearing makeup. She just can't do too much, or else she'll "look like a skank." Crop tops? Whatever, to be honest. He would rather his girl actually dress like one instead of wanting to wear pjs all the time. Here and there, it's fine, but all the damn time? Ew.

He's always buying her things and taking her out for daddy-daughter dates. He holds her hand no matter how old she is. That's still his little girl! And no one could say otherwise.

"Stay still, im almost done." He's trying to do her hair. "Can mommy do it instead!! You're hurting me, Daddy!" The little girl whines, trying to soothe her scalp with her finger. "Fine.." He gives up and sighs, picking her up and taking her to the room where you were doing your makeup. Todays plans were to go watch a movie, shop, and then eat. "Babe, can you do it? I keep hurting her. I feel bad." Scott says and puts her down. "Please, momma! Daddy doesn't know how." She pouts her lips at you. You add lip gloss and then look at your daughter and then Scott. "Of course I can, cutie." You smile.

Scott was offended by how easy you did the girls hair. "Are you kidding me? That took you like 10 seconds!" He complains. "Scott.. it was just a ponytail."

He stands there until your daughter runs back to him and tugs on his pants to pick her up. "Well exCUSE me." He rolls his eyes and picks the toddler off of the ground and returns to the living room.

Shopping for baby clothes gives him a rush, making him nervous. He's really taking in whats happening.

"These are so cute!" You squeal at the small mittens on display. "Gloves? Why do babies need gloves?" He raises his eyebrow. "So that they dont scratch themselves and stuff. It helps them stay warm, too." You smile at him. "Atleast make sure we dont buy any ugly ones, then. Hot pink is a no." He hugs you from behind, caressing your belly.

"Oh my God. I remember watching this." He takes a winnie the pooh onesie in his hand. "We're taking it. Its cute." He adds it to the cart.

This guys likes spending his money on you and baby. He feels responsible and like a good dad already. Speaking of good dad.. hes afraid he'll be a bad one. But hes not. Thats #cool

Hes so embarrassed when he sees people from his school in the stores you're at. Some people just sode eye him cause they dont really know who you are. You didn't go to the same school as him. So of course they're gonna stare when they see a guy from school with some random ass pregnant girl.

Not many knew he even had a girlfriend, but thanks to the group of girls that saw you that day at the store, everyones knows your business. Or they assumed, actually. Scott kept to himself anyway, so its not like he was talking to everyone about his and your situation. When people stare at him in school, he ignores it. And by the time your belly was starting to really show, you switched to online classes.

Almost a year after your kid was born, he switched to a school that offered an early graduation if you have enough credits.

"How about Priscilla?" He suggests a girl name. Priscilla was cute, but it wasnt the one. "No, something else." "Gina." "No." "Rolanda?" "What the hell? No!" "Sherley." "No, Scott." "Wait, I got it.. Everly spelled as E-V-E-R-L-E-I-G-H." "This conversation is over, Scott."

"SCOTT!" he blurts out, trying to figure out a name for your son. "No." "Henry." "Ew." "Spencer." "Like the store?" "Michael." "Eh." "Nathaniel? Vern? Van? Patrick? Arthur? William? Spongebob?! I cant think!" He complains. "I think you should just leave the names to me, sweetie.." you stared at him awkwardly.

—

you ended up with Priscilla

it's Benny.

@bxbyysstuff @anakinstwinklebunny @lovethestarrs @valloos @anisangeldust @xo-yaaaaaas-xo @anakinca @dollfilmz @alexlovesysrjune @sockiess @sythethecarrot @speaknow-sw

[daxisyzz]

Hey!...I read your series and a few of your other imagines. I honestly, love the way you write and the plots too. I also read the desi one and it was so good. Good job on that, really. I'm an Indian too! My request is an imagine. A desi one ofc. So, the reader and Bucky have been dating for a while now and the Indian reader introduces Bucky to her family back home in India. It can also be like Bucky and the reader are together in India to attend a cousin or any relatives marriage Sounds really cool! It can be anywhere in India tbh. Although I'm from the south and I'm guessing ur from the north. Would be nice if u do this! Thank you!🥰

Hey! thank you for checking out my stuff. Idk if my writing made it seem if I was from the north but I'm actually South Indian too hehe. I actually had this same idea in my notes app and I included stuff from my language if it's ok. So here it is. Hope you like it<3

Inthandham

Pairings: bucky barnes x desi!reader (established relationship)

Summary: Bucky experiences his first South Indian wedding—and falls even deeper for you in a blur of jasmine, rituals, laughter, and love.

Word count: 1.6k+

Warnings and tags: South Indian wedding, culture and traditions, chaotic family dynamics, Bucky learning the traditions, him being mesmerised by the reader.

Three Days Before the Wedding

The moment you stepped out of the airport into the thick, sun-warmed air of home, a wave of scents and sounds hit you all at once—earth damp from a recent rain, the unmistakable sizzle of something fried at a roadside stall, and the background hum of auto-rickshaws and people bustling around with a purpose that never seemed to pause. Bucky’s fingers found yours instinctively, like they were reaching for an anchor in the rush of sensory overload.

“Home,” you murmured, eyes softening as you breathed it all in, a small smile playing on your lips.

Bucky tugged lightly at his sleeves, already starting to roll them up as he squinted into the brightness. “Definitely hotter than New York,” he said under his breath. “And louder too.”

You turned toward him with a grin, nudging his arm playfully. “You’ve barely scratched the surface. Brace yourself, soldier.”

Just then, a familiar car screeched to a halt in front of you, its horn blaring three sharp notes that were unmistakably your uncle’s version of a greeting. The car door flung open and he bounded out, arms already outstretched, and swept you into a crushing hug, rocking you back and forth as if you hadn’t just spoken last week on a video call.

Your aunt followed right behind, already mid-sentence, throwing a dozen rapid-fire questions your way in your language as she pinched your cheek with affectionate aggression. Then her eyes landed on Bucky, and her eyebrows arched in amused approval. “My, such a tall boy!” she exclaimed in your language, tilting her head up to assess him properly.

Bucky glanced at you with a look of wide-eyed panic.

“She said you’re tall,” you translated smoothly, smirking. “And probably wondering which gym you’re training at.”

He leaned in and whispered, “I can already tell I’m gonna need subtitles for this entire trip.”

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll manage just fine.”

The back seat was a cramped haven of chaos—bright silk sarees in garment bags, a carton of ripe mangoes that perfumed the whole car, a small snoring child who promptly drooled on Bucky’s shoulder, and you, pressed close to him, heart quietly full.

By the time you reached the small town where your grandparents lived, nestled between lush green hills and clusters of red-tiled houses, Bucky was blinking through a haze of jet lag, trying valiantly to remember every cousin, uncle, and aunt who had introduced themselves in the span of ten minutes.

You handed him his bag and gave him a mock-serious look. “A few important things to remember—never say no to snacks, if you’re offered seconds, it’s not a question, and under no circumstance should you try to help Ajji in the kitchen. She will bite.”

He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Your grandmother?”

“She’s ninety-two, sharp as a blade, and absolutely terrifying when someone touches her ladle.”

“Duly noted,” he said, clearly both impressed and mildly alarmed.

Wedding Eve

It didn’t even take twenty-four hours before Bucky was unofficially, irrevocably absorbed into the fabric of your family.

One of your uncles had already claimed him as a future kabaddi teammate, a younger cousin was clinging to his arm teaching him how to say “Thumba chennagide” ( very nice) and “Oota aayta?” (had your food?) with dramatic emphasis, and your Ajji had somehow managed to rope him into trying all the food before he could realise what was happening.

You were sitting cross-legged on the shaded veranda later that afternoon, fingers expertly threading different assortment of flowers into long garlands for the wedding decor. The scent lingered in the air, floral and sweet. Bucky dropped down beside you, face flushed, hair tousled, and expression somewhere between overwhelmed and completely content.

“How’s the initiation going?” you asked, peeking at him from the corner of your eye.He exhaled slowly. “I think I just agreed to be someone’s cricket captain. Possibly two teams. I’m not entirely sure.”

You laughed, your bangles clinking softly as you reached for more flowers. “You’ve been officially adopted, then. You’re one of us now.”

Bucky’s eyes wandered across the front yard, where cousins were running barefoot on the stone path, dodging each other and laughing wildly. In the kitchen, the rhythmic clang of vessels echoed, while your aunties argued good-naturedly over which side dish was better. It was a beautiful kind of chaos—one he had never known, but already loved.

“This place…” he said, voice soft, “it feels like a hundred different versions of love all happening at once.”

Your fingers paused. “Yeah,” you whispered, heart caught in your throat. “Exactly.”

Wedding Morning

You woke before the sun, tugged into wakefulness by the soft chaos of wedding preparations that had already begun echoing through the house—the low hum of voices, the dull ring of temple bells, and the faint, rhythmic sounds of the nadaswaram in the distance. The muhurtham (the main marriage ceremony) had been scheduled for a sacred hour in the morning, long before the sky could fully brighten.

Bucky was still asleep, curled beneath the light blanket, one arm tossed over his eyes in protest against the dawn.

“Wake up,” you whispered, nudging him gently in the side. “You gotta get ready for the wedding rituals.”

He groaned and turned slightly. “It’s still dark. That should be illegal.”

“Not in this place,” you teased, already stepping into the soft golden glow that was beginning to filter in.

When he finally opened one eye, his entire body froze mid-movement.

You stood before him in a deep purple silk saree, the gold zari glinting in the early light like threads of sunlight. Jasmine flowers were woven intricately into your braid, your lips dusted in rose pink, your wrists wrapped in glass bangles that clinked like windchimes, you were covered head to toe in jewels looking like a goddess, and a small, perfect red bindi centered your forehead.

He sat up slowly, blinking at you like you were something he hadn’t quite expected but somehow already loved.

“You okay?” you asked, arching a brow.He shook his head slowly, still caught in the moment.

“No,” he said quietly. “I think I’m in love with you all over again.”

You blushed, laughing softly. “You haven’t even seen the wedding food yet.”

The mandapam was already alive with sacred sounds and color—the gentle tune of the nadaswaram, smoke curling from the homa (pyre), the aroma of ghee and sandalwood rising toward the heavens. Marigold garlands hung like sunlight from every rafter, and the priest chanted in a deep, melodic rhythm that reverberated through the air.

Bucky sat beside you on the floor, trying to appear composed in his cream-colored kurta and the slightly lopsided veshti that your uncle had helped him tie twice before giving up and doing it himself.

You leaned toward him, voice low and reverent. “That’s the kanyadaanam happening now—the giving away of the bride. And next comes mangalya dharana—the moment the groom ties the sacred thread around her neck.”

“All based on astrology, right?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Down to the minute. That thread he ties isn’t just any jewellery. It’s a symbol of the marriage itself—protection, connection, seven lives tied together.”

Bucky didn’t take his eyes off the ceremony for a long time, but eventually turned toward you, gaze softer than you’d ever seen.

“Would you ever wear one?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Someday. If the right guy comes along. Preferably one who learns how to eat rasam-rice without spilling it.”

“I’m working on it,” he said with a smirk.

Later, during saptapadi, as the bride and groom circled the fire hand in hand, Bucky leaned in again, eyes playful.

“So, seven steps makes it official?”

“Technically symbolic,” you said, tilting your head. “But yes.”

“What if I walked around you seven times right now?”

You smirked, eyes gleaming. “Then I hope you brought a mangalsutra, James.”

Lunch was served on banana leaves, and Bucky shocked everyone by sitting cross-legged like a pro and scooping up bisibele bath with his hands like he’d been doing it his whole life. Your uncles clapped him on the back, your ajji looked like she might cry with joy, and your little cousin climbed into his lap and refused to move.

“She says she likes you better than me,” you muttered, feigning betrayal.

“She’s a smart kid,” he said, shrugging proudly.

Ajji leaned over and squeezed your hand gently. “He looks good beside you,” she said. “It feels like he belongs to our home.”

You turned to look at him—his eyes crinkling at the corners, his smile soft and sure—and your heart clenched in quiet agreement.

“He does, Ajji,” you whispered. “He really does.”

Later that evening, as the noise settled into golden silence and the sun dipped into the hills, Bucky found you leaning against a pillar, barefoot, your saree edges trailing gently around your feet.

He reached for your hand, warm and steady.

“This day,” he said quietly, “it was incredible. I didn’t understand every word. But I didn’t need to. It all made perfect sense.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting the peace of the moment wrap around you both.

“I told you it’d be a lot.”

He laughed softly. “It was. And I want more of it. All of it. The smells, the colors, the madness, your voice when you speak in your language… You.”

You tilted your face up, teasing, “You do realize you’re older than my grandmother, right?”

He grinned. “Still got better knees.”

You laughed, lacing your fingers through his. “Come on, mister. We've got packing to do.”

And the air, as always, made it clear—this was home, in every sense of the word.

[ajortga]

opposites attract

pairing: jenna ortega x fem reader

summary: people would call you and jenna the old married couple from across the street, you'd always argue. you hate each other so much, but you love each other even more.

word count: 2.1k+

warnings: alcohol, goofiness, hilarious imo

based off request! (love you 🦦)

-

ME AGAIN. I JUST LOVE TO SEND OUT REQUESTS FOR SPECIFIC WRITERS 🙏🏻

Jenna Ortega! x Reader!

"In every friend group, there are always two people arguing"

holy shit this dynamic is so cute, it's like wherein obvi J and R likes to argue a lot, whether it be going out w friends, in set, sleepovers, literally just everywhere all the time.. In the end obviously they get together 🙈 YOU CAN DO ABSOLUTELY WHATEVER W THE PLOT IF YOU'D LIKE.

Completely understand if the request isn't taken!! I LOVE YOUR WRITING SM, I LOVE YOU

-🦦

-

It’s silent on set where Scream is being filmed. Silence would’ve filled your break room, that would be if you and Jenna weren’t damn yelling at each other over the littlest of things.

“You fucking cheated!” You accuse, pointing your finger at her as you go crazy and throw your Uno cards everywhere.

The tinier girl puts her hands up, putting one to her chest to pretend to be offended, “The Y/N is accusing me of cheating? When will I clearly won fair and square?”

That throws you off the edge, screaming into a pillow and kicking your feet, then throwing the pillow straight to her head. “I saw you looking at my cards dumbass!”

The atmosphere is chaotic as you two throw pillows at each other, one of them hits Melissa in the nose, “Hey!” She goes, throwing a pillow to Mason, which throws it to Jasmine.

Everyone is throwing their pillows at each other, screaming and laughing. Actually, not everyone is screaming, the only ones are you and Jenna.

“I WAS GLANCING AT THE SCENERY.”

“SINCE WHEN WAS THE SCENERY MY CARDS?” You yell, throwing the stuffed animal at her.

Jasmine nudges Melissa, who lets her pillow down and lets her friend whisper in her ear, “Who’s going to tell them that they’re flirting?” 

A cackle escapes the other actress, “She’s definitely always thinking Y/N is the beautiful scenery. In which she is, she’s like the days that have the best sunsets. She’s a sweetheart.”

That was true. Although Jenna won’t admit it. You were breathtaking. You were like the movie that everyone wants to watch again for the first time. Whose voice was a gentle lullaby that lulled those into a peaceful rest. A work of art, Jenna would say. A work of art she’d fucking hate, yet still buy it’s worth for billions of dollars more than they should be.

“Okay FINE! I peeked! I just saw that you had a yellow seven! That’s it!”

“Exactly!” You say, throwing the stuffed animal up and victory, “Nuh uh, you also said half-way through the game as a joke “I bet you have a blue four,” and I had a blue four!”

“FINE, but that was all!”

“Whatever.”

Mason rolls his eyes as he leans back into his chair, throwing a huge stuffed animal and making you collapse and go, “Hey!”

“They’re gonna get married one day, they’re like an old married couple,” He states, and everyone that hears agrees, except you two. You two are too caught up with arguing with each other, smacking pillows at each other.

“Asshole.”

Grunt!

“Bitch.”

Smack!

“Weirdo!”

“Goofball!”

Plomp!

“Silly!”

“Pretty!”

“Sweet girl.”

“Lovely!”

“Gosh, well aren’t they oblivious?” Jasmine scoffs, “Their flirting and don't even know it, they’ll use that as an excuse for another argument again. Melissa watches, amused, and laughing in the background with a cackle. You two are hitting each other with any pillows you can find.

-

liked by melissabarreram and 1,890,072 others

y/n_l/n this is very not an appreciation post for jenna, the first two i'm posting cause she told me not to but she cheated in uno and she's getting what she deserves! (someone save me from this mad woman)

#justicefory/n i hate you @jennaortega

-

melissabarreram: My babies #justicefory/n

liked by y/n_l/n

natalieortega1: Love you

↳ y/n_l/n: love u too!

crunchybaguette55: y/n is seriously blessing us with these photos

aliyah.ortega: nah why is jenna more flexible than me

liked by y/n_l/n

user839: watch jenna is gonna post something about her

jasminsavoy: lovebirds

liked by y/n_l/n

y/n'spersonalbag: SHE POSTED I'M EARLY

jennaortega: I hate you

↳ y/n_l/n: Ilyt

-

Melissa screams while the members of the cast begin to elevate up the roller coaster. 

“Oh god!” Mason shouts, while you two begin to lift off the floor from the free fall device.

“If the machine were to break and fall, would we bounce out of our seats or bang our head?” Jenna questions, looking down at her feet that are currently 100 to 150 feet off the ground.

You’re right next to her, yet you have to shout because of how loud the machine is, “Nuh uh! None of that stuff, if the machine were to break, then the starting point wouldn’t be as lifted and our feet would probably dislocate.” 

“Pfft, nonsense,” Jenna rolls her eyes, and you try kicking her but as you reach the top, it slowly begins to stop lifting up. 

“Guys!” Jasmine yells, looking down at the floor, she’s still holding her pretzel in her hand. The people below you now look like at least the size of a caterpillar. 

“It’s kind of tall!” Melissa says, but she’s giggling.

“No damn shit!” You say, looking at the floor and preparing for your heart to fly out of your chest, “Hold my hand!” Jenna jokes while you roll her eyes at her.

When you stop at the top, the machine makes a loud “TCCHhhHH” noise, and you are all still. 

“I DON’T WANNA DIE,” Mikey and Devyn cry, screaming.

“We haven’t even gone down- YET!” Everyone starts screaming as the seats you’re in descends at fast speeds. You all scream, high pitched, wails, singing to get your mind off of whatever. Devyn and Jasmine flutter their eyes and do a peace sign when the camera flashes. 

You close your eyes, the machine goes back up, then down, you’re screaming, laughing as Mason’s sandal falls out, “No! My shoe!”

It hits the person operating the roller coaster.

Somehow, your hand finds Jenna’s as you cling onto it, she doesn’t let go, giggling with you as you two fall. It was a nice moment, the breeze in your hair with the sunset saying hello. Except you don’t know if the moment got better or was ruined because before you can appreciate it, Jasmine screams, louder than she had when everyone dropped.

“My pretzels!” She screams, falling out of her hand and flying into the air, the cinnamon pretzels falling and smacking you and Jenna in the face as you feel a flash in your face again, you pose just as it clicks.

“I WANNA GO HOME!” Mason wails, “Where the fuck is my shoe? MY SHOE!”

By the time you reach ground level, everyone’s hair is ruffled, eyes dazed as your legs shake when you leave the machine.

You’re still holding hands with Jenna as you almost collapse on each other, you feel dizzy, probably because the machine was damn spinning and a pretzel got smacked into your face.

"You okay?" she asks, looking at your dizzied form.

"Mmhm, are you okay?" you ask, the feeling of throwing up going away.

She nods, letting you cling onto her as she hugs you tight.

"You're so weak," she teases.

"Says the one who screamed more from a pretzel being thrown in her face than the actual ride."

She smacks you, but nonetheless, still holds you tight to her chest.

Mason looks at the floor, and claps, turning happy, “My sandal!”

Everyone is groaning, Melissa is snorting and looking sick while Devyn and Jasmine shove their hands through the little amount of pretzels left in their bag.

You’re not surprised when everyone busts out laughing, pointing at the pictures of you on the rollercoaster. The first one, Devyn and Jasmine were making peace signs while somehow being able to do the slightest pose, Mason’s shoe is flying and you can see his mouth wide open with one foot barefoot, Melissa is smiling with cotton candy in her mouth, and you and Jenna are screaming and clinging onto each other.

The next one gets more chaotic, with Jasmine and Devyn looking horrified, the whole picture has pretzels flying and hits Jenna and you square in the head. Yet, the frame only catches Jenna’s face being smacked while you’re posing with your hands and blowing a kiss.

You’re laughing so hard, everyone is buying the photos, you can’t stop laughing as Jenna screams from the horror.

“How did they only take a picture when the pretzel gets to me?" She groans.

-

liked by jackchampion and 4,971,391 others

jennaortega i don't know how that little girl managed to hide all her bad photos on my phone but melissa took a photo of her falling asleep on my shoulder, i did not cheat! cancel!! @y/n_l/n

jasminsavoy: little? girl, you're the size of a strawberry.

↳ jennaortega: fuck you respectfully

y/n_l/n: NO i was sleeping because filming was so long

↳ jennaortega: yeah and you decided to sleep on my shoulder, do you know how heavy your head is?

↳ y/n_l/n: meanie

jennasorange: I love you Jenna please notice me

melissabarreram: Love!

natalieortega1: My girls

fruitrollupsa: omg someone confirm are they official

jackchampion: I saw you looking at y/n's cards

↳ jennaortega: no you didn't

↳ jackchampion: actually i did 🤓☝️

-

It was a little after sunset, where outside is painted a blue and purple sky.

“To a long day of maintaining our sanity for today’s long duration of filming!” Devyn says, raising her drink.

“To a long day of maintaining our sanity!” Everyone else cheers, you bring your drinks up and clank them with one another before downing it.

You liked it like this. Having parties every Friday with your scream cast. They were your family, most times you’d have sleepovers, play card games, video games, gossip. Silly photos were taken, and these polaroids were always hung on your wall of memories, Melissa holding her puppy while doing a bridge gymnastic pose, risking her skull from literally cracking.

You take the sip of beer in your hands, with a wide smile on your face. It’s nice knowing you have a group that you can easily fit in, you don’t have to think to speak, you can just do it freely.

A few minutes turn into an hour.

Melissa turns to you, pointing at you and smiling, "You're going to be the first one to get wasted, your cheeks are all pink."

"No their not!" You retaliate, a small slur to your words as you lean on the couch for balance.

"Right," Jasmine says, sarcastically as Jack and Mason are screaming at each other.

"Jack no! If you take that one off then the whole tower will fall! We can't lose!" Mason screams, the Jenga tower tilting.

You giggle.

You catch sight of Jenna and you throw your arms up, stumbling to her while slurring her name slightly, "Jennaaaa, where were youu?"

The brunette looks at you, confusion shown in her futures as she looks at your tiny self, looking up at her and tugging at the collar of her shirt. Your eyes sparkle.

"You're seriously already a little drunk?" She questions, amused as you groan and shake your head, "Noo, shut 'p. You're drunk tooo Jennifer. I literally am not drunk, I know waaht m doing."

"Right, right."

"Jennifer, kiss my forehead,"

"If you call me Jennifer one more time I swear to-"

"Jellybean?"

Jenna rolls her eyes, hugging you and kissing your forehead, "Love you," she murmurs.

"I love you tooo."

She sits you down to the couch where you get the sight of Mason, Jack, Melissa, and Liana are battling each other in Jenga.

"I'm not drunk, I just drank a little, I'm perfectly fine," she states. You don't say anything, instead distract yourself with the large jacket draped over her, you tug it, "I'm cold, give me that."

Jenna looks down at you, trying to take off her jacket, "Hey! What if I'm cold too?"

"Can we share?"

Jenna sighs, rolling her eyes, "Come here," you nestle into her as the jacket plays as a blanket.

It's not enough to cover the two of you, so she throws it into her bag and grabs a large blanket and lays it on the floor. The hollers of the Jenga crew grow loud as the tower tumbles over because of Jack.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO DO THAT ONE IT WAS GOING TO FALL"

"OH YEAH, oops. I forgot." Jack says, putting his hands up in surrender.

The blanket is huge, it can fit at least 4 people.

"Hey Melissa, over here, let's turn into a burrito or something." The taller Latina that's non-occupied looks at you two, seeing the way you're already laying on the blanket, ready to be wrapped up.

You're squished in the middle as Melissa giggles and Jenna begins to roll over and wrap you 3 in the blanket.

"Oh my god," you three roll till the blanket space runs out, now you guys are cuddled, nestling into each other.

Cozy for sure, all of their arms are wrapped around you and each other as you close your eyes, getting comfortable.

"I hate you two," Jenna murmurs, both you and Melissa go "me too" before you two are silent.

"No you don't," you slur, "You love us."

"I don't, I love you guys," she giggles, and you and Melissa smile, hugging each other and letting the sound of music from the party echoing in your ears.

-

a/n: didn't know how to make them confess, so the ending is kind of suggested that they did? hopefully that's okay<3