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jakesimfromstatefarm · 4 months ago

Text

fine line ── l. hs

↳ summary ── heesung's got two problems: (1) he can't sleep, and (2) he's addicted to the 1AM combo of instant ramyeon and coffee milk from his favorite convenience store around the corner. the only thing more consistent than his insomnia? his nightly visits for his beloved snacks (and maybe to glare at the new night shift employee, too). & pstt, spoiler alert: you're the said new night shift employee. and you don't know what's worse: his weird food choices or his apparent superiority complex. either way, if you have to watch him inhale another bowl like it's his last meal ever, you might lose it. but hey, you know what they say—there’s a fine line between love and hate...

↳ pairing ── heeseung x f!reader

↳ genre ── idol!heeseung, e2l!au, strangers to lovers!au, convenience store worker!reader || angst hehe, crack, eventual fluff

↳ ✎ᝰ 15.4k (gasp, she kept it under 20k????)

↳ contains ── so much bickering and banter, reader is kinda sassy and a lil crazy, heeseung is a lil weirdo at first, CRACK (this entire fic revolves around EXTRA HELL FIRE RAMEN PLS), angst, both heeseung & reader can't communicate their feelings & are stubborn as hell, tension tension tension! , deep conversations about life choices lol, cursing

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── IM ALIVE (barely) ! i survived a global expedition (one 12 hr flight) just to come back and face an apocalypse (i got a bug infection and a cold) but dragged myself out of my deathbed (my comfy bed) to finish editing this because i told yall i would and bc i felt bad ghosting everyone for a week LOL apologies (if anyone cares,,,pls tell me u do or i'll cry rn) anyways i hope yall enjoy this one,,,this one was fun to write, it felt very sitcom-y and was lowkey based off of backstreet rookie vibes (only bc it's set in a convenience store). i hope you all enjoy & pls let me know what you think :') thank u for the support & love always <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

It’s simple, really.

Customer service voice on, a smile plastered on your face, greet the customer, scan the item, take their money, bag said item, throw in a half-hearted ‘Have a good night!’

And repeat.

Well, most of the time.

Occasionally, there’s the fun of kicking out a few drunk teenagers looking for a bathroom that you definitely don’t have (yes you do). But otherwise, this graveyard shift at your local corner convenience store?

Total dream job.

You get paid—as in actual, legit money—to sit behind a counter, scan snacks, and feast on your personal holy trinity of microwavable cheesy ramen, peach juice, and potato chips. What could possibly go wrong?

At least, that’s how the manager sold it during your interview. And by interview, you mean the three-minute conversation that went something like:

“Can you work nights?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, you’re hired.”

No background check, no follow-up questions, not even a glance at your resume. A broke college student with insomnia and schedule flexibility? You were the perfect candidate.

And it’s not like you’re picky. You needed cash, and this seemed like a pretty solid deal. What can you say? College is expensive, and someone’s gotta fund your caffeine addiction and deeply specific (and yet completely necessary, you would argue) habit of playing at every single claw machine game you stumble across.

So yeah. Easy work.

At least, that's what you thought.

Because on the night of your first shift, exactly at 1:09AM, the doorbell gives its friendly little ding, and in walks...something.

Someone?

Whatever it is, it's a walking shadow. Oversized hoodie. Baggy pants. A baseball cap shoved under the hood. A black face mask covering whatever’s left of his identity. You think it’s either a ninja, a celebrity in disguise, or—more likely—a vampire who hasn’t seen sunlight since the Joseon era (you’re leaning more towards vampire).

But more than the wild theories running around in your head, something else piques your curiosity.

Because unlike the other weirdos that usually shuffle in at these ungodly hours, this one moves with true purpose. He beelines straight to the ramen aisle, snags something off the top shelf (most likely the ultra-spicy soup one because, of course, you already have the shelves memorized), and then grabs a bottle of coffee milk from the cold drinks section without even so much as glancing at it.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. Like he’s done this a thousand times before and is now on autopilot mode.

You watch, intrigued. And then—horrified.

Because who in the right mind pairs volcanic spicy ramen with coffee milk? Is that even legal?

You’re barely recovering from your own appalled thoughts before he’s already at the counter, placing his borderline apocalyptic snack combination on the counter in front of you with the same eerie precision he has.

You fail to keep your poker face on when you scan his items, your face scrunching up in disgust.

“Uh,” you shake it off, forcing yourself back to reality, “That’ll be—”

But before you can even finish your sentence, he’s already fishing out the exact amount—three crisp bills—out his back pocket and holds it out for you.

There’s a beat of silence.

You stare down at the money in his hand for a second too long, suddenly convinced this guy practices his convenience store interactions in the mirror or something.

When you don’t show any further signs of moving, he eventually gives up, placing the money on the counter with a quiet sigh, grabbing his ramen and coffee milk, and striding off to the self-service corner like he personally owns the place.

All of this. Without. A single. Thank you.

Wow. Okay. So tonight’s customer is potentially a vampire with a side gig as a professional jerk. Good to know.

You internally scoff at the entire interaction, but—unfortunately for you—you can’t look away. Because this guy? This walking shadow?

You’re weirdly intrigued. Like when you accidentally click on a pimple-popping video and immediately regret it, but still end up watching five more.

It’s a curse.

Out of the corner of your eye (because obviously you’re not staring, you’re just…hyper-aware of your surroundings), you watch him execute his ramen-and-coffee-milk routine with the precision of a man possessed.

Step one: Hot water in the ramen cup.

Step two: Ramen into the microwave.

Step three: Wait for exactly one beep before yanking the microwave door open with alarming speed, as if he's scared to even give the second beep the chance to ring.

Step four: Peel the lid back in slowly—so painfully slow you're about to march over there and do it yourself.

Step five: Insert the straw into the coffee milk—of course, perfectly right in the center. Bullseye.

Honestly? It's all kind of impressive. Horrifying, but impressive.

And, of course, just when you think you might finally look away, because out of sight, out of mind—he slides onto one of the bar stools by the window, right in your direct line of vision. The perfect spot for you to get a pristine view of his back, which, spoiler alert, is completely unhelpful in your personal mission in trying to see even a glimpse of what this guy looks like.

Maybe if you squint hard enough, you can make out his face in the reflection of the store window. Maybe. Just maybe—

Nope.

All you catch is a brief glimpse of his eyes—barely visible beneath his excessive hoodie and hat combination. Even his mask stays glued to his face and you wonder how he even plans on eating his outrageous meal.

But even so, you still can’t look away. What even is that color? And why can’t you look away?

Whatever. It’s just eyes. Totally normal. Everyone has them. Not noteworthy at all.

Except it is.

Because you catch yourself still squinting, hoping the glare of the fluorescent lighting against the window hides your not so subtle mission from him. You’re probably risking retinal damage at this point with how hard you’re trying to decode this guy’s entire identity from literally just his eyes.

You catch another short glimpse of his eyes as he shuffles in his seat and just as you’re trying to piece together why his eyes look oddly familiar—

He looks up.

His eyes catch yours in the glaring reflection of the store's windows, and you freeze.

Abort mission. Now.

You cough—loudly, dramatically—and your eyes immediately dart elsewhere, your hands shuffling on the discounted candy bars displayed on the counter top, pretending to look busy and silently praying he didn't catch you looking for too long.

When enough time passes by, you risk another quick glance back at him, to see he’s now digging into his ramen, head tucked so low you can’t even see his eyes anymore. He’s gone full turtle mode.

You lift a brow.

Weirdo.

A weirdo with an ego. Slurping and sipping away at his crime-against-humanity meal as if he owns the building.

Maybe he's mute. Or a people-hater. Or a cryptid who thrives on ramen and coffee milk instead of human interaction. Maybe I'm being pranked?

You shrug it off, because no matter how hard you try to figure him out, one thing is glaringly obvious: he does not want to be bothered.

And you're not sure if that makes him more intriguing or more annoying.

You’re in the clear. At least, you think you’re in the clear.

After your first weird encounter with Mr. No-Name-No-Face—spicy ramen enthusiast and potential vampire—you’ve begrudgingly adjusted to his nightly visits.

He shows up at 1:09AM like clockwork, grabs his neon red Extra Spicy Hellfire Ramen (yes, that’s the real brand name, and yes, your soul dies a little every time you even have to think about it), and parks himself in the window seat across from your counter like it’s a Michelin-star ramen bar—and not your humble convenience store with a health inspection rating of B+ (don’t ask).

By night three, you’ve downgraded him from potential murderer to mildly annoying ramen connoisseur.

By night four, you’ve decided he’s your own personal karma sent by the universe.

It starts off with the door chime. You don’t even flinch. 1:09AM. Right on schedule.

You don’t look up from the colorful juice pouches you’re restocking. You’re halfway through creating a perfectly symmetrical pyramid display—color-coded, of course—because, clearly, you’ve peaked as a human being.

Behind you, footsteps head straight to the ramen aisle. And sure enough, you peek over your shoulder, and there he is: drowning in black hoodie layers, hood up, mask on, the patron saint of please don’t perceive me. Same old routine, same old—

Wait.

He freezes, mid-reach for his usual ramen on the top shelf, his hand hovering in the air. And then, horrifyingly, he turns.

And looks directly at you.

Your face heats up—probably not as red as the hellfire ramen he was about to grab, but it’s close, you imagine. You find yourself clutching onto the random juice pouch in your hand as if it’s your lifeline before you clear your throat, “Uh—is something wrong?”

He glances from you and back to the shelf in front of him, and for the first time in…ever, he speaks.

Gasp.

So we can cross mute off the list.

“They’re out of my flavor,” he says. His voice is deep, which isn’t surprising to you, given he’s the literal human embodiment of the color black, but it’s also serious. So unnecessarily serious that you almost laugh.

Almost.

Because his tone isn’t just serious—it’s accusatory. As if you personally raided the ramen aisle and hid his favorite flavor for entertainment.

Excuse me?

Your mouth opens then closes, flopping like a fish that now deeply regrets every life choice. The fire rising in your chest is about two seconds away from erupting into a full-blown lecture on how supply chains work, but you keep it in, deciding getting fired on the fourth day probably doesn’t look good on your resume.

Instead, you plaster on a flat, unimpressed look.

“Uh..yeah, it looks like it,” you deadpan, inching closer to where he’s standing to investigate the shelf.

Leaning up on your toes, you scan the shelf for any hidden Hellfire cups, hoping some miracle will save you from continuing this interaction.

Nope. It’s empty alright. Emptier than your will to entertain his dramatics.

“Tragic,” you glance back at him, strategically avoiding eye contact, and settle on offering a shrug. “There are plenty of other flavors. Maybe try…the regular spicy?”

You grab the flavor below his usual one and hold it up as an olive branch, but he cuts you off with a tone that even convinces you that you’re deranged.

“No.”

You blink.

“No?”

“It has to be Extra Spicy Hellfire.”

You blink again.

You wait for the punchline.

It never comes.

This man is dead serious.

You’re standing in the middle of a fluorescent-lit ramen aisle, at your minimal wage night-shift job, at 1:12AM on a random Tuesday, and this guy is dead serious.

And he’s staring at you like this is a life-or-death situation. And judging from the look in his eyes, it’s looking like you’re facing death.

But then, you really notice his eyes. And for a split second—just a split second—you’re derailed from your rising anger.

They’re brown. But not just any brown—the kind of brown that makes poets write bad metaphors. Cinnamon swirls. Autumn leaves. Possibly falling in love in a Hallmark Christmas movie.

But then you blink again, hard, snapping yourself out of whatever ridiculous moment your sleep-deprived brain just conjured. This is not the time. You’re literally staring at, like, three inches of this guy’s face.

And he’s a jerk. Get a grip, Y/N.

“Uh, yeah,” you clear your throat, trying your best to sound professional through your disbelief. “Sorry. We probably put in our shipment request late. But I’m sure you won’t implode by going one night without it?”

You tack on a small laugh and smile at the end of your sentence, hoping to lighten the mood.

He does not smile back.

Not even a flicker.

Instead, he continues to stare at you like you just suggested he eat plain, untoasted bread for the rest of his life.

You want to bury yourself into a hole. Maybe getting fired on the fourth day won’t be so bad afterall.

“I’m sure the regular spicy one is just as good. What’s the worst that could happen?” you offer weakly when he makes no sign of saying anything, and you really hope this guy doesn’t explode in front of you—mainly because you’re not confident in your own ability to explain that situation to your manager.

“I’m not risking it,” he finally deadpans.

Your jaw drops slightly.

“You’re not ris—” you hesitate, debating whether you want to ruin your night further. But you’ve come this far. “You’re being…serious?”

The question lined with your clear judgement hangs in the air between you two, and no amount of fake customer service can mask the expression of disapproval on your face.

His eyes narrow at you as he scoffs, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand,” you tilt your head, your annoyance slowly reaching a boiling point, throwing all professionalism out the window. All you wanted was to enjoy your juice-sorting in peace, not babysit this walking ramen manifesto. “I understand that you’re just picky.”

At that, his eyes flash—sharp, unreadable. “I’m not picky.”

“You won’t eat a perfectly fine ramen just because it’s not named after the ninth circle of hell.”

Silence.

He stares at you with the intensity of someone about to write a strongly worded online review.

Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he finally mutters, “Fine. I’ll take the mild one.”

You blink at the flavor in your hand—the one that’s clearly labeled in giant, blazing-red, font: Regular Spicy. Then you look back at him.

“You mean regular spicy.”

“Right. Whatever. Same thing.”

He grabs the ramen cup from your hand and stalks off to grab his usual coffee milk, leaving you stranded in the middle of the ramen aisle, questioning every life choice that brought you here.

Before you’re about to mentally spiral, his voice cuts through the store.

“Hello?”

Oh. Right. Your job.

You scramble back to behind the register, quickly moving your hands to ring him up and get him out of here as soon as possible.

He hands you his three crisp bills, and before you hand him his glorified ramen and godforsaken coffee milk, you hesitate, pulling them back slightly. He freezes, his hands hanging in the air between you two.

“You know,” you narrow your eyes as you look up at him, “some people would say thank you for the recommendation.”

His brow arches—or at least, you think it does. It’s hard to completely tell under his stupid hat. Then he fires back—

“And some people wouldn’t forget to restock the ramen.”

Your mouth falls open, your words failing you as he grabs his goods from your hands, heading to the self-serve station to continue his nightly noodle worship as if he didn’t just verbally body-slam you.

Yeah. It’s going to be a long night.

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic.

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore?

Between back-to-back choreo sessions, recording tracks at hours that shouldn’t legally exist, and navigating the emotional and physical minefield of constant shows, interviews, photoshoots—you name it—nothing about his life is consistent.

However—

There are two things—two sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness.

The first?

Insomnia.

Not by choice, of course. He doesn’t love being awake at 3AM, staring at his ceiling and waiting for sleep to take over. But it’s a loyal companion, like a stray cat that keeps showing up at your house no matter how hard you try to shoo it away. Heeeseung’s insomnia is always there for him, night after night, ensuring he gets exactly only four hours of sleep—with a side of existential dread.

And the second?

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk.

Yes, it’s a weird combo.

No, he doesn’t care.

This unlikely pairing is Heeseung’s personal slice of heaven he can actually control and choose in a life otherwise ruled by the rest of the world.

Every night, he drags himself to his favorite corner store, grabs his fiery ramen and sweet, creamy coffee milk, and plants himself in the window seat to enjoy his culinary masterpiece in peace.

Then—and only then—can Heeseung catch a few hours of sleep, the spice-induced euphoria lulling himself into a temporary state of calm.

Does he have a problem? Absolutely.

Is he addicted? Without a doubt.

Does he care? Not in the slightest.

Because in a world that demands he change at the drop of a hat, this little routine of his is the one thing that stays consistent.

Well, except for last night.

Because last night, someone dared to disrupt the cosmic balance of his existence. Someone failed to restock his precious Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen.

He had stared at the empty spot on the shelf, the betrayal hitting him like a personal attack. He went home last night only a quarter satisfied from the mild spicy ramen he had settled with.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t stop thinking about the someone responsible.

Now here he is, stepping into the corner store at 1:09AM, ready to make up for last night’s disappointment of an outcome.

Heeseung steps into the brightly lit store, the familiar ding ringing behind him as he enters right on time. He continues his familiar route to the ramen aisle, but not before shooting a quick glance from below his hat toward the counter.

Yup, there she is.

You.

The new graveyard shift employee. The one who dared to challenge his sacred ramen ritual and stared at him like he was a walking poor life choice.

You’re here again. This is five nights in a row. Heeseung wonders if you 1) are insane, 2) have no life, or 3) are purely here just to spite him.

But tonight, he’s prepared. His focus is razor-sharp, his mission clear: Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk. Nothing will get in the way tonight.

Heeseung looks up, exhaling in relief when he spots the fiery red packaging of the Extra Spicy Hellfire sitting innocently on the shelf. There you are.

He grabs the cup (with too much excitement that it should honestly embarrass him), cradling it like a long-lost love, before he makes his way to snag his coffee milk.

Perfect combo. Perfect routine. Perfect night.

Except—

Except, of course, you’re watching him. Again.

He doesn’t even need to look up to know it. He can feel your judging eyes burning into the back of his head like you did the other night—like you’re seconds away from filing a report against his own taste buds.

He doesn’t get it—what’s so strange about ramen and coffee milk? It’s not like he’s dipping the noodles in it. Why you’ve made it your personal mission to antagonize him, he has no idea, but it’s really throwing him off his ramen zen.

Heeseung sighs to himself as he steps up to the counter, making sure you hear the sheer misery in this voice—because, of course, fate has cursed him with yet another encounter with you.

“So…do you actually enjoy these together, or are you just trying to destroy your stomach lining?”

He freezes. Great, you’re talking. So much for a perfect night.

He adjusts his cap to peer at you and that same unimpressed, judgmental look sitting on your face as you lean against the counter behind you. “What’s wrong with my choices?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “What's right with them? This combo screams, ‘I have unresolved issues I’m trying to boil away with spicy and sugar.’”

Okay, ouch.

Heeseung narrows his eyes, trying to ignore the weird pinch in his chest at how quickly you read him, whether he likes to admit it or not.

“I like them. That’s all that matters,” his voice drips with a certain sharpness, hoping the edge in his tone is enough to make you back off.

You, however, seem entirely unfazed.

“Just trying to help,” you shrug as you scan his items, “looking out for your poor taste buds.”

For a moment, Heeseung considers firing back, but then his gaze catches yours for a millisecond too long as you take his cash and, immediately, he’s wondering—for the hundredth time—if you know.

Do you recognize him?

The thought has been gnawing at him since the first time he stepped into this store and saw you sitting there five days ago. Sure, he’s got his identity pretty much concealed under his borderline clinically insane hat-mask-hoodie combo, but still—most people at least give him a double take, a lingering glance. Something.

But you? Nothing. No flash of recognition. No curiosity. Nothing to indicate you know you’re talking to Lee Heeseung—part idol, part insomniac, 100% ramen enthusiast.

And for some reason, that both annoys and intrigues him.

“Thanks for your concern,” Heeseung mumbles dryly, quickly grabbing the ramen cup and cold drink from your hands.

“No problem,” you chirp just as sarcastically, an annoying smile on your face. “Enjoy your…uh, gourmet meal.”

Heeseung throws you one last glare before shaking his head and stalking off to the self-serve station. He puts the cup down on the counter with a little more force than necessary and pours boiling water over the noodles, glaring into the steam as your voice rings in his head.

What’s wrong with ramen and coffee milk? He scowls. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I definitely don’t have unresolved issues.

But as he steals a glance back at the check-out counter and catches you sorting bills like nothing happened, a weird unease settles in his chest.

He looks down at this ramen, then at the coffee milk.

For the first time ever, he feels…self-conscious.

And now you’re in his head.

Great.

By night six, you don’t know whether to pity the guy or stage an intervention.

The ding of the automatic doors announces his arrival, as usual, at exactly 1:09AM. You know it’s him—Ramen Guy. The guy who you’re convinced single-handedly continues to keep the Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen business float.

You lean against the counter and subtly watch him make his usual pilgrimage to the ramen aisle, internally scoffing to yourself at the weird moment he picks up his ramen like it’s his newborn child.

He’s so weird.

You wonder what kind of person he is outside this convenience store. Does he always make such objectively strange choices? Like, does he wear socks with sandals? Does he mix his cereal with orange juice instead of milk?

Your haunting thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his usual unholy pair of snacks hitting the counter in front of you with a soft thunk. You look down at the items before glancing back up at him with a skeptical look on your face, “You ever think about switching it up?”

Ramen Guy, clearly expecting the snark, doesn’t miss a beat, “You ever think about minding your business?”

“Not really. Boredom makes me nosy,” you shrug. “And at this point, you’re the only thing keeping me entertained at this hour.”

He rolls his eyes so dramatically you’re mildly concerned he might sprain something.

“And I’m starting to think you like judging me a little too much.”

“Wrong. I like judging everyone equally,” you scan his items, then tilt your head. “But maybe you’re a special case. With issues.”

To your surprise, he snorts. Like, an actual, out-loud laugh.

“Says the girl who voluntarily works the night shift.”

Your smirk falters for half a second. He catches it.

Ramen Guy raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter. “What? Too close to home?”

You shift in your spot, “Bold of you to assume I have issues.”

He shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You shift the attention back to him. “What about you, then? Why do you keep showing up here, huh?”

At that, something changes. The words in the air, and for the first time, you notice a slight shift in his demeanor—the slight awkwardness in the way he shifts his weight.

Then, after a brief pause, he meets your gaze and throws the question right back at you.

“Why do you keep working the night shift?”

You freeze, putting his items back down on the counter, caught off guard by the reversal. "Touché. But I asked first."

There's hesitation again for a moment, his fingers tapping the edge of the counter impatiently—nervously?

"I like the peace and quiet,” he finally says, and for the first time tonight, he meets your eyes.

For a split second, you’re startled by the sincerity in his gaze and sudden shift in tone—it’s almost distracting. But you shake yourself out of it just as quickly.

"Nothing about Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk sounds peaceful or quiet," your voice softer now but still teasing.

"Okay, Miss Graveyard Shift," he fires back, leaning a little closer over the counter. "Why are you here every night? Do you have a thing for fluorescent lighting and cleaning up after drunk customers or something?"

You don't miss the faint challenge in his voice as you narrow your eyes at him.

Then, you settle for a shrug and take a breath, answering honestly.

"It's flexible. Pays well enough," you start, before looking back at him, and add, almost as an afterthought, "...and I like the quiet too."

It’s an honest answer, one that seems to hang in the air between you two for a beat too long. His gaze softens ever so slightly, and you swear you see something shift underneath that stupid cap of his, but before you can dwell on it, he straightens up.

He places his three bills on the counter, grabs his items, and pauses.

“So,” he starts, his lighter tone breaking the silence, “do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Graveyard Shift Girl?”

You raise a brow, amused, as you start putting his bills away, “Do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Ramen Guy?”

For a split second, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—something smug, something entertained. And you don’t know it, but under his mask, his lips twitch, fighting back a faint smile.

“Touché,” he murmurs, echoing your earlier words before stepping back from the counter, items in hand, but lingers just a moment longer than necessary—like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns towards the self-serve station, falling back into his regular routine.

And you should do the same.

You try to do the same. But as you go back to your usual tasks—wiping down the counter, restocking shelves, pretending to be productive—you find yourself sneaking glances out of the corner of your eye toward his window seat.

He just sits there, just like he always does, stirring his ramen absentmindedly as he stares out into the empty street. And yet, tonight, something feels…different.

It’s nothing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just curiosity. Natural, given how he keeps showing up every night, breaking up the monotony of your shift with his weird food choices and even weirder personality.

And yet—

No matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to stop thinking about him—the way he looked at you earlier, the way his demeanor shifted even slightly.

It’s nothing.

Still, your gaze flickers back at him, catching the way his fingers tap lightly against the table, lost in thought. You wonder what kind of things keep a guy like him up at night.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to find his weird little habits endearing, too.

The faint sound of the store’s music plays in the background, the clock ticks, and eventually, he finishes his ramen, tosses his trash, and makes his way toward the door.

And then—he hesitates.

Just for a second. A small pause, a barely-there moment where he stops, glances over his shoulder just slightly—just enough to look at you.

“See you tomorrow, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

You blink, caught off guard, and for a moment, all you can manage is to stare at him. Then, as you fail to ignore the weird blooming feeling in your chest, your words slip out almost on instinct:

"Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

The next night, you do something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—you take your cheesy ramen, peace juice pouch, and bag of potato chips and plop yourself down right next to Ramen Guy and his usual window seat.

He pauses mid-slurp. Keeping his head low, he turns to you slowly. Suspiciously.

“What…are you doing?”

“Having dinner,” you say matter-of-factly, popping open your bag of chips.

His gaze drops to your meal, and then back to you. “It’s almost 1:30AM.”

“Okay? Dinner, early breakfast, midnight snack, call it whatever you want,” you shrug, unbothered as you continue unwrapping your meal.

Ramen Guy exhales through his nose, shaking his head to himself like he’s just accepted his fate. Without another word, he turns back to his own meal and resumes eating.

A surprisingly comfortable silence follows—the only sounds filling the empty store the quiet hum of the store’s playlist, the buzz of the lights above you, and the synchronized slurp of two insomniacs with poor diet choices.

Then, without thinking, you tilt your bag of potato chips, holding it out between you two, “Want one?”

He stops mid-motion, as if he’d almost forgotten you were still here.

Almost.

A glance into your bag, a small shrug, and then, just like that, he grabs a chip and pops it into his mouth, moving so fast you barely catch a glimpse of his face without the mask.

“Thanks,” he mutters before taking a sip of his coffee milk, still keeping his head low.

You hum in response, your fingers drumming against the counter before your curiosity wins the best of you, “So…what kind of life leads you to seek peace and quiet in a convenience store?”

It’s a question that’s been on your mind since last night’s conversation. What can you say? You’re a creature of curiosity.

Ramen Guy shrugs next to you, “What do you mean?”

“Like…you’re here every night. Why at night? Why not during the day?”

He lets out a short chuckle. “You want me to leave?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

You exhale sharply, your fingers now absentmindedly swirling the noodles in your bowl. “Look, I’m just saying—most people are asleep at this hour.”

He smirks. You can hear it in his voice without even looking. “You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“That’s different, this is my job,” you scoff, amused, before pointedly gesturing at this meal before him, “Unless you want to call your weird habits a job. Which, honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was paying you to subject your tastebuds to that every night.”

And he laughs. It’s small, barely there, but you catch it. Then, with a quiet exhale, he finally answers, “It’s like I told you before, I like the quiet at this hour…I don’t get a lot of that.”

You stop twirling your noodles, the air shifting into that same unspoken understanding from last night. Faint, but unmistakable.

Something unsaid hanging between the two of you, something that tells you this guy is more than just an insomniac with questionable food choices.

You tilt your head. “So, what, you got a bunch of loud roommates or something?”

A small, almost knowing smile tugs at his lips. “Something like that.”

You raise a brow at his vague answer but don’t press. Instead, you nod towards his food. “And your criminal meals? That part of the quiet too?”

He huffs, “Maybe I just have superior taste.”

“Right, totally,” you laugh, the tone in your voice almost testing him.

Ramen Guy finishes up his meal, wiping his mouth quickly with a napkin before putting his mask back on and finally turning to face you fully.

He narrows his eyes at you, “You think you have me all figured out?”

You mirror his actions, facing him fully for the first time tonight, folding your arms, “Oh, I do have you all figured out, Ramen Guy.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans forward slightly. “Alright, go on. Tell me who I am, Graveyard Psychic Girl.”

You roll your eyes but accept the challenge, leaning back in your seat.

“You’re a creature of habit, clearly. You like consistency. Probably because your life is very inconsistent otherwise.”

Ramen Guy doesn’t react, so you continue.

“You’re a night owl, but not by choice. You want to sleep, but your brain won’t let you.” Your eyes flick down to the coffee milk. “So, instead, you drink this, even though it probably makes it worse.”

Still no response.

“So now, you just keep showing up here because it’s predictable,” you finish with a small shrug. “And maybe…‘cause you’re kinda lonely.”

That makes him pause.

You immediately regret saying it. Because…what was that?

That was too much. Too deep. Too intrusive.

But to your surprise, he doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t scoff, or roll his eyes, or peer them at you the way he does a million times a night.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

“…Not bad,” he says finally, reaching for another chip from the bag in your hands.

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“I mean, kinda harsh, but…mostly true.”

“Oh,” you don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that.

A beat of silence passes before Ramen Guy speaks up again, “So basically, you’re saying we’re the same.”

You let out a snort, “Not even close.”

“We both work weird hours. We both like the quiet. We both eat the same convenience store junk food.” He holds up the bag of potato chips before eating another one.

“You just started eating those,” you deadpan.

“Yeah, but I’m still eating them, which means my taste is obviously elite.”

“You literally eat coffee milk with nuclear ramen.”

“Okay, you’re the one who made it weird.”

A mischievous smile starts forming on your face as you snatch your bag of chips back from him, “So you agree your food choices are weird?”

His smirk falters as a small giggle rises out of you.

“Whatever you say, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

The next night, Heeseung does something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—he’s late. It’s 1:30AM, well past his usual 1:09AM show-up time, and the store is Heeseung-less.

He blames late-night dance practice. He also blames Ni-ki for stealing his usual black hoodie—forcing him to spend an extra thirty minutes looking for another one. Not that the hoodie matters, he would argue (yes, it does).

When he finally steps through the door at 1:32AM, the familiar ding barely finishes echoing before—

“Wow,” you drawl from behind the counter, arms crossed. “Tragic. Unbelievable. I was starting to think you found a new place to bother.”

Heeseung snorts, making a beeline for the ramen aisle, “You wish. Wouldn’t want you to get bored without me.”

You let out a dramatic gasp, “Wow. Thoughtful and self-aware. Who knew you had layers?”

Heeseung tries to ignore you, moving to grab his coffee milk. But his lips twitch under his mask, and he’s glad it’s hiding the way he’s failing to fight the smile growing on his face.

When he finally reaches the counter, you push off from where you were leaning against the counter, hands settling on your hips. “Okay, be honest. Outside of this, do you have anything else going on in your life?”

Heeseung raises a brow, completely caught off guard. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the past few nights, it’s that you’re incredibly nosy. And for someone who claims to like working the night shift because of the quiet, you’re absolutely terrible at keeping things that way.

“Excuse me?”

“You mentioned that you work weird hours yesterday,” you gesture vaguely at him. “So, spill.”

His stare remains blank, debating if he can distract you by handing you his three bills of cash (he can’t).

“I do…stuff.”

“Stuff,” you repeat, “Quite riveting.”

Heeseung exhales, “Why do you care?”

You shrug, taking his cash and putting it away. “You must do something interesting. You’re too weirdly confident for a guy who just bums around convenience stores at night.”

Heeseung scoffs. "Weirdly confident?"

"Yeah, like—" You wave around you. "You walk around like you have some big, mysterious purpose. But all I ever see you do is glare at instant noodles and sip milk like a sad Victorian child."

Heeseung shakes his head, letting out a breathy laugh. "Maybe that is my purpose."

Then, he simply shrugs. But there’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, like he’s deciding exactly how much he wants to say.

"It’s hard to explain,” he finally says. “I just…have a weird work schedule.”

"Weird how?"

"Weird as in, I don’t really get normal hours. Always moving, always working. Makes sleep kinda impossible."

You pause, taking in his words. Then, you shift slightly, crossing your arms. "Sounds exhausting."

Heeseung exhales a laugh, leaning against the counter. "You have no idea."

For a moment, a familiar and warm quiet fills the air as the two of you linger, as if waiting for the other to say something more.

And he doesn’t know why, but his chest feels a little too tight—like he’s let you stumble into a part of him you weren’t supposed to see yet.

“Well,” you say quietly, your lips curving into a soft smile that sends a weird jolt through his body that he chooses to ignore. “I’m honored you’ve chosen this fine establishment as your official sanctuary.”

He scoffs, reaching for his items. "Don’t let it go to your head, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

He then turns to head to his usual corner when—

“Y/N.”

Heeseung pauses, turning back at you like an awkward child lost in the middle of a store.

“My name,” you clarify, casually returning to sorting the register’s bills. “A lot easier to say than Graveyard Shift Girl.”

Heeseung gives you a slow nod, something unfamiliar and unplaceable twisting in his stomach as he turns back around.

And when he finishes his meal and leaves that night, he calls out—

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

And, this time, he doesn’t fight the smile under his mask when he hears your voice, a little softer, call back out:

“Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

It happens the moment he steps inside.

Heeseung doesn’t even make it past the threshold before a familiar melody drifts through the weak convenience store speakers and to his ears.

Familiar because he’s heard it a thousand times.

Familiar because it’s literally his voice singing the line.

His stomach drops.

Instead of his usual beeline to the ramen aisle, Heeseung turns towards the counter where you’re idly tapping on your phone, oblivious.

The hum of the melody continues, and Heeseung is suddenly too hyper-aware of how loud his own voice sounds in the otherwise dead-silent store.

Panic creeps up his spine.

He moves fast, crossing the store in a few long strides, slamming his hands down onto the counter that divides the two of you.

You jump in your seat.

“Geez—” you clutch your chest, wide-eyed as you take in his very sudden, very urgent presence. “What the hell?”

Heeseung ignores you, pointing above him, “Did you put this on?”

Your brows furrow as you put your phone down, glance up at him, then at the speakers he’s pointing at. You barely register the song before recognition flickers across your face.

“Oh—this? Nah, it’s the store’s playlist,” you gesture towards the iPad behind the counter, currently playing a Current Hits playlist on shuffle. “It’s some group’s new song. Pretty catchy.”

Heeseung just stares at you, mind racing.

You don’t recognize it.

You don’t recognize his voice.

The realization sends relief crashing over him, but he quickly snaps out of it with a brand-new problem—because now he has to decide what the hell to do with this information.

Does he tell you? Drop the act and lay it all out? Would you believe him? Would you even care?

“You okay?” Now you’re staring at him, suspicious. “Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

Heeseung clears his throat, realizing his stance is way too conspicuous, and slowly removes his hands from the counter to stand up straight, attempting to sound normal, “No reason.”

You squint at him.

Then—

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes suddenly lighting up. “Wait.”

His heart stops. Oh, shit. She figured it out. This is it.

“Are you a fan?” you blurt, leaning forward in your seat eagerly.

Heeseung blinks.

…What.

“Oh, you totally are,” you continue, completely missing the way his soul is currently leaving his body. “You came straight to the counter like a man on a mission. Oh my god. Are they, like, your favorite group or something?”

Heeseung has never wanted to laugh and cry at the same time more than he does in this moment.

“Something like that,” he mutters, bringing a hand to rub this temple, because no way this is happening right now.

You beam brightly from your seat, “That’s cute. Who’s your bias?”

At that, Heeseung does laugh—because this is now officially the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

There’s a long pause.

And then—after a deep breath, a long and heated internal debate, and one last glance at your innocent, completely oblivious face—he finally exhales, looking you straight in the eye.

“This guy,” he says as he hears his own voice ring out through the store. “Because that’s me. That’s my voice.”

Silence.

You stare at him.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, after what feels like an eternity—

“…Huh?”

Then you tilt your head. "I'm sorry—what?"

Heeseung watches as your expression cycles from confusion to skepticism to outright disbelief. He braces himself.

"My name is Lee Heeseung," he repeats slowly. "From Enhypen."

Another beat of silence.

Then—because you’re you—

You burst out laughing.

"Okay, Ramen Guy," you snort, crossing your arms. "Very funny.”

Heeseung sighs, "I knew this would happen."

"Because you’re delusional?"

"Because you don’t pay attention."

You roll your eyes, "Oh, I’m sorry, but when in our thriving relationship have you ever given me a reason to believe that you’re actually a famous idol and not just some guy who has concerning dietary habits?"

Heeseung groans.

He regrets everything. He regrets this entire conversation. He could have lied. He could have said literally anything else. But no—he had to be honest. And look where that got him.

"I’m serious," he insists, leveling you with a look.

You stare back at him.

Then, something seems to click in your brain, because you suddenly lunge for your phone.

"Oh, we’re doing this," you mutter, fingers flying across the screen as you type in his name. "Let’s see if—"

You stop.

Heeseung watches as your eyes widen, scanning the images in front of you. Then you look up at him. Then back down at the phone.

Then back at him.

“Take the mask off,” you mutter quietly, slowly holding your phone up next to his face.

With an exhausted sigh, Heeseung does what he’s told and pulls it down for the first time in front of you.

You scan him. Then the phone. Then him.

"You've gotta be shitting me," you breathe.

Heeseung shrugs, "Told you."

You gape at him, your mouth opening and closing.

You don’t know what shocks you more—the fact that a literal celebrity has been standing in front of you this whole time, or the realization that the once-random stranger you used to relentlessly tease has, somehow, always been this ridiculously good-looking all along.

"So…you’re famous?"

"Something like that."

"Something like that?" You shove your phone toward him, your screen now displaying the group’s Instagram page. "You literally have fans. Like, millions of them."

Heeseung cringes, "Okay, you don’t have to say it like that."

"Like what? Like you’re a superstar and I’ve been treating you like a regular guy who can't cook for himself?"

"Because that’s exactly what I am?"

“Unbelievable,” you scoff, shaking your head. “So you sing. You perform. You—commit crimes against humanity with your ramen choices each night.”

Heeseung groans. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” you echo, standing up from your seat behind the counter. “So you’re telling me that every night, an actual, real-life idol has been showing up here, inhaling a week’s worth of sodium, and I—” You pause, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Are you even allowed to be eating this garbage?”

“And are you ever able to mind your own business?” Heeseung counters, now fully regretting this entire conversation.

“Absolutely not, Lee Heeseung, because this is literally the plot of a drama,” you wave your hands in disbelief. “Mystery insomniac convenience store guy turns out to be a world famous pop star—”

“Okay, let’s not get carried away.”

“—and I, the unsuspecting cashier, unknowingly roast him every night like he’s just some sleep-deprived college student instead of a millionaire with talent. Wait—” you then pause again, placing your hands on your hips, staring at him with a newfound judgment. “—you’re loaded, aren’t you?”

Heeseung pinches the bridge of your nose, exasperated, “Why is that your takeaway from this?”

“You are!” you exclaim, your smile widening as you ignore his suffering. “You’re rich and you’re out here eating instant ramen every night!”

Heeseung groans again, dropping his head onto the counter in front of you, “Oh my god.”

Grinning, you bend down to this level. “So this whole time, you’ve been lying to me?”

He lifts his head just enough to glare at you. "It’s not lying. It’s…selective honesty.”

You scoff, straightening up just as Heeseung does, meeting his gaze with an accusatory squint. “That’s literally the definition of lying.”

“Look, it’s not like I planned to make a habit out of this,” he gestures to the store around him. “I came in one night, and then I came back, and suddenly, I had a thing going. Then you showed up and started running your mouth, and—”

“And you kept coming back anyways,” you finish, crossing your arms, a slow, amused smile tugging at your lips.

Heeseung freezes. His mouth opens. Then closes.

“…Yeah.”

A silence stretches between you—charged, almost personal—until you decide to cut through the tension with a smirk.

“What if I play your group’s music over the speakers every night?”

The look on his face is deadly. “You wouldn’t.”

Your grin grows, “Wouldn’t I, though?”

“This is the worst night of my life,” Heeseung drags a hand down his face and turns towards the ramen aisle. “I’m leaving.”

“Aww, c’mon,” you tease, calling out after him and delighting in his suffering. “Also can we talk about how you literally just said you’re your own bias?”

“Shut up.”

You’re still laughing when he returns to the counter thirty seconds later—Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk in hand, cheeks tinged pink.

“Alright, serious question,” you say, leaning in slightly from your seat at the window barstools. “If you had to give up either Extra Spicy Hellfire or coffee milk for the rest of your life, which would you choose?”

Heeseung immediately stops chewing, his chopsticks frozen midair as he turns to you with a look that says you just personally offended him.

“That’s straight evil.”

“You must choose, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “You can’t just throw life-altering hypotheticals at me like that.”

“Choose.”

He stares at his ramen. Then at this coffee milk. Then back at you.

Then back at his ramen.

Then back at you.

“I hate you, you know that?”

“Aw,” you flash him your sweetest, most infuriating smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me. Like, ever.”

Heeseung shoots a glare at you, “I hope your regular spicy ramen tastes like disappointment.”

“Oh, it totally does,” you look down at your own ramen in front of you and take an exaggerated slurp, “It’s just so awful.”

Heeseung’s lips perk up into a smile at your weirdly endearing antics before shaking his head, “You’re a lost cause.”

You giggle to yourself, taking a sip of your own juice when you hear Heeseung, barely audible, suddenly mutter:

“…I’d give up coffee milk.”

It’s quiet. It’s barely there.

Your jaw drops.

“I know, okay?” He rubs his temples as if the decision is actually hurting him. “It’s like choosing between two children. But at the end of the day, ramen is ramen.”

You nod along, pretending you understand the gravity of his heavy decision (you don’t). But still, you smile—because you were the one who got him to betray his beloved coffee milk.

Heeseung takes a sip of it anyway, groaning as he swirls the bottle in his hand. “I hate that you made me think about this.”

“You should be thanking me. Y’know, character growth and all that.”

“More like character damage.”

You grin, victorious, and he just rolls his eyes before pausing for a second to think, then—he nudges his ramen cup toward you.

“Here. Try some.”

You recoil immediately and look up at him with a look that tells him he’s absolutely psychotic.

“Absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why? You scared?”

“No, Heeseung, I just have these things called taste buds.”

He scoffs, shoving the bowl between you two closer. “Just one bite. C’mon, Graveyard Shift Girl, live a little. For me.”

You hold his gaze, suspicious but faltering, because—damn it—he’s looking at you like that. All smug and teasing, head tilted slightly, and it affects you.

And then he moves.

He picks up his chopsticks, twirls them in the bowl, and catches a perfect bundle of noodles before leaning forward, holding them up between you two. He waits.

Your breath hitches. Your eyes flicker to the steam curling from the noodles, twisting in the air between your faces, fragile and fleeting.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, it’s ramen. But the way the space between you suddenly feels thin, the way his grip on the chopsticks stays steady, his fingers just inches from your lips, the way his dark eyes stay locked onto yours, watching you with something unreadable flickering beneath the usual teasing glint—it feels like time slows down.

You blink rapidly, clearing your throat. It’s fine. It’s cool. You’re overthinking.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, watching. Waiting.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and slowly lean in to take the bite.

Your lips brush the chopsticks as you close your mouth around the noodles, and for a split second—one charged, unspoken, split second—neither of you move.

Heeseung is so close.

So close.

You can see the soft curve of his mouth, the way his gaze flickers over your face, the way his breath catches slightly like he just realized something.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of the close proximity and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. Panicked, you pull back quickly and settle into your seat like nothing happened.

But then you start chewing.

And that’s when you realize—

No, wait. Wait. That heat in your cheeks?

Oh.

Oh no.

Yeah. It’s definitely not because of Heeseung (well, maybe a part of it is).

Because the second you swallow down the bundle of noodles—the embodiment of heat, pain, and suffering all slams into your mouth instantly.

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

And then—

“Oh my GOD—” you choke, slamming your hands onto the counter, your body shaking as the spice courses through your veins.

Your throat ignites, your sinuses clear, and you swear you can hear colors.

Heeseung? Heeseung loses it.

His laugh bursts out of him—loud, unguarded, and completely delightful. He clutches his stomach, nearly hiccuping from how hard he’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples deep in his cheeks.

If you weren’t literally physically dying in this current moment, you’d probably be absolutely too flustered to function at the sight.

“No way—” he wheezes through his laughter,“—are you actually struggling right now?”

“WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE, HEESEUNG?!” you glare at him through the tears forming in your eyes as you desperately flail your arms around, searching for your juice pouch. “You eat this voluntarily?!”

“Every night, baby.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

Your hands finally find your drink and you gulp it down as if it’s your lifeline, eyes still watery, throat still burning, lungs barely breathing. But somewhere in the middle of your suffering, you catch yourself staring.

At Heeseung.

At the way he’s still smiling, like he just had the best meal of his life. At the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs, his dimples peeking out like his own hidden secrets, the way his nose scrunches slightly when he’s amused—

Weird.

You blink the thoughts (and your tears) away, shaking it off, and blame the spice, the delirium, and sheer trauma of what just happened.

You clear your throat, sitting back with a desperate huff.

“I hope,” you catch your breath, gesturing to his bowl, “that when you come in tomorrow, we’re all out of this horrid flavor.”

Heeseung smirks, leaning back in his chair as he gives you a knowing look.

“You’d still restock it for me, though.”

Damn it.

Your shoulders slump, and both of you know you’re defeated.

He knows you know you’re defeated.

Heeseung just grins, then, without a word, slides his coffee milk toward you in a silent truce.

You stare at it. Then at him.

His smile grows.

And you accept it.

Begrudgingly.

It’s 1:20AM when you find yourself behind the counter, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes of instant noodles and bottled drinks. The store hums with its usual white noise—lights buzzing above, soft music humming overhead, the low whirr of the coolers.

And Heeseung?

Heeseung is across the counter, perched on a barstool he dragged from across the store, doing absolutely nothing to help.

For the nth time tonight, he flips a soda bottle into the air.

And for the nth time tonight, he fails to land it upright, the bottle clattering onto the counter.

“You’re supposed to be helping me restock,” you remind him, tossing a pack of chips at him.

“I am helping,” he argues, dodging the bag in time and letting it fall flat onto the ground. Great.

You cross your arms, scoffing, “Oh yeah? What category does sitting there and flipping Diet Coke fall under?”

Heeseung finally puts the bottle down on the counter and hums, tapping his fingers against the counter like he’s deep in thought. Then, he flashes you a meek smile, “Moral support?”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to unbox another package from the pile stacked in front of you.

Another silence falls between you and Heeseung watches as you go back to your job before he breaks it—

“How do you do this every night? Does it not get…I don’t know, tedious? Boring?”

You freeze in your spot, caught by surprise at the question.

“Hm,” you turn to him, head tilted as you think.

Heeseung glances up at you, intrigued. The way your lips purse slightly, how your fingers fidget absentmindedly with the torn edge of a cardboard box.

You exhale, leaning back against the counter, “Yeah, the hours suck, pay is…alright. And—”

You hesitate. Your gaze drifts toward the floor, fixating on a dent near the register, “—and I think, at some point, I thought I felt stuck.”

Something in Heeseung’s expression shifts.

“I mean, I’m a college student, for god’s sake,” you continue, a small, humorless laugh escaping you. “And I spend my nights serving cigarettes to barely legal teens and cleaning up after ramen spills. It kind of felt like I was just…watching life pass me by, you know?”

Your voice quiets and it’s just the soft hum of the store again. You pick at the box without thinking, fingers grazing over the worn edges, and Heeseung watches you.

Because he gets it.

He gets it in a way that makes his chest ache a little.

Because despite the differences in your lives—despite how he’s constantly moving while you feel stuck—you both know the feeling of watching life slip between your fingers, of wondering if you’re ever going to feel like you belong in it.

Heeseung holds the soda bottle between his hands, rolling it back and forth, murmuring, “Yeah, I get that.”

You glance up at him, making eye contact, but you don’t push.

“But then,” you say quietly, “I started seeing this place differently. Instead of somewhere I was stuck, it became more of a…break. An escape from everything. A breath of fresh air from expectations and routine.”

And that—that makes Heeseung look up.

Because deep down, that’s exactly what all of this has become for him too.

He doesn’t know when it happened—if maybe it was the first night he found the store, maybe whenever you showed up, maybe all the sarcastic exchanges, or somewhere in between all of that—but these late-night visits, these stolen moments in a world that demands from him, have become something steady. Something his.

And he wonders if maybe…maybe you’re the reason for that.

Maybe you’ve been keeping him grounded in a life that never stops moving.

And maybe he’s been keeping you from feeling stuck.

Just maybe.

It’s late. Way later than usual. And Heeseung is still here.

And you don’t know how, but you’ve both abandoned your usual spots—his self-proclaimed window seat and your stool behind the register.

Instead, you’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the register counter, backs pressed against the shelf of over-the-counter medications that you just re-organized, with a laptop and plenty of empty snack wrappers sitting between the two of you.

“See this is exactly my problem with this movie,” you point at your laptop screen, your voice slightly muffled by the gummy bears in your mouth. “One idiot makes one bad decision, and suddenly everyone’s dead! Like, be so for real.”

Heeseung scoffs, leaning back on his hands, “It’s a movie, Y/N. It doesn’t have to be realistic.”

“And I don’t have to pretend this isn’t garbage,” you shoot back as the credits roll, unimpressed. “This is objectively the worst thing I’ve seen.”

“I think I just have an acquired superior taste,” Heeseung quips, his eyes teasing. “Just like with my food choices.”

“Right,” your voice drags out. “Superior delusion, maybe.”

Heeseung shoves your shoulder with his own, and you laugh, the sound natural, unfiltered, and totally at his expense.

As you shut your laptop and start gathering the remains of your late-night snack feast, the conversation quiets for a moment into an easy, warm silence. It’s the kind of quiet that feels good, the kind that’s been happening more lately—something you never would’ve expected that first night you ever saw him enter the store.

Then, Heeseung exhales, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leans back against the shelf, “You know, this might be the longest I’ve sat and relaxed in months.”

You glance up at him, brows raised, “What, you don’t get to laze around on the floor surrounded by junk food with your favorite convenience store worker on a regular basis?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he huffs a laugh. “But I thought a lot about what you said the other night. And sometimes it’s like…”

He pauses and tilts his head back, his eyes following the way the light fixture above him flickers in and out, “Like I’m moving so fast I forget what it’s like to just…be.”

Something in his voice makes you pause in your actions, your hands putting down the miscellaneous wrappers between you.

“Is it hard?” you ask quietly.

He lets out a breathy chuckle from beside you, “It’s…a lot. You’re always being watched, always expected to be on. And even during breaks I’m already thinking about the next thing. The next schedule, next performance, next practice.”

You watch him for a moment, watch the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against his knee, something you’ve started to notice over time whenever he’s lost in thought.

“But there are moments that make it worth it,” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “The music, how fun it is to be on stage, the fans. The feeling of performing and knowing people are there because they love what you do. It’s unreal.”

Your own smile unconsciously appears as you listen to him reflect, taking in his words. You never stopped to really think about his life in-depth before—and it does sound like a lot. Like something people dream of but don’t realize the weight of until they’re carrying it themselves.

You nudge his knee lightly with yours, “For what it’s worth, I think you deserve to just exist sometimes, too.”

Heeseung turns to look at you, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, reaching into the closest bag of gummy bears to you and tossing one to him. He catches it easily, popping it into his mouth with a grin.

“See, this is why I keep coming back,” he says, chewing. “Gourmet snacks and free therapy.”

You roll your eyes. “Unbelievable. I take it back. Suffer.”

Heeseung laughs, popping another gummy bear into his mouth, before his fingers start tapping his knee again. Then, after a beat—

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

When you look up at him, he’s already looking at you with a new…something. A newfound sincerity, maybe. Or uncertainty. Or both.

Your eyes meet, and suddenly, he visibly hesitates—shifting almost awkwardly in his spot, as if he both rehearsed what he’s about to say and yet has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact.

“I—um,” he swallows hard. “I’m sorry? For, y’know, being kind of a jerk when we first met. I think I was pretty…” He trails off awkwardly. “Jerk-ish.”

You don’t move for a second. Slowly, one brow arches.

Heeseung thinks he regrets everything.

Then, a smile—slow and sweet—curls at your lips.

And suddenly, Heeseung realizes he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, nodding along dramatically. “You were a menace. Like, an insufferable, grumpy, little menace.”

Heeseung lets out a noise that lands somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Okay, I get it.”

“But,” you continue, locking eyes with him again, “I guess I should apologize too.”

Heeseung perks up, now his brow lifting, “For what? Finally admitting I was right about—”

“For judging you and your still…very questionable choices.”

“Ah, there it is.”

You giggle, nudging him with your elbow before pausing.

“But seriously…you’re, like…” you dramatically draw out the moment as if the words physically pain you to say.

Heeseung smirks, leaning in slightly, waiting for you.

“…pretty cool, I guess.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, ��I’ll take it.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you scoff. “You’re still a ramen-addicted jerk.”

Heeseung hums, still smiling, “Might be too late.”

Then, he tacks on, without thinking twice, “You’re pretty cool, too, I guess.”

You laugh at the hesitancy in his voice, “Okay, that sounded almost sincere.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile softens, “No, but seriously, it’s…nice. Having someone I could talk to outside of…you know, my whole chaotic life.”

The sudden shift in the air quiets you for a moment as you look at Heeseung, noticing the slight drop in his shoulders, the way his fingers continue to drum against his leg. When you don’t say anything, he continues.

“I don’t…really talk to people like this,” he quietly says, as if admitting something to himself more so to you. Then, after a pause, he glances back up, eyes searching your own. “Now like how I do with you. Like…I could tell you anything and everything, really.”

Your breath catches, but you keep your expression neutral, “Oh?”

Heeseung shifts, looking down at his hands before exhaling a quiet laugh, “Sorry. Too serious?”

You find yourself quickly shaking your head. Because although, yes, most of your interactions with Heeseung are filled with jokes and teasing, the serious conversations or shared warm silences in between recently—have started to mean something more. They’ve become an outlet, a quiet escape from reality. It’s like the moment he steps through the store’s doors, the door rings, the outside world fades, and for a few hours, it’s just the two of you in this shared space.

A space that feels safe, untouched by expectations, where both of you can just be.

“No,” you say, softer this time. “Not at all.”

You hesitate for a beat before adding, “I…really like talking to you too. It’s—” you let out a small laugh, “almost unnaturally easy, actually.”

Heeseung doesn’t respond right away. He just nods, and then looks up at you from the ground and his eyes are serious—no teasing, no usual smugness, just something…real. Vulnerable.

Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You should say something. Something light, or something sarcastic, or something normal.

But you don’t.

Because you’re too busy looking at his face.

Then, without thinking, his lips.

And he’s looking at yours.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly, you’re close. He’s close. Too close. Close enough to hear his quiet inhale. To see the way his lashes flutter. To feel the space between you two thinning into something dangerously nonexistent.

You should move. You should break the moment before it turns into something neither of you can take back.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t.

And then—

Ding.

The sound of the automatic doors sliding open shatters the moment.

You both jolt apart like a pair of teenagers caught guilty, and your heart is practically breaking out of your ribcage as you scramble to your feet, wiping your sweaty palms on your pants, your face burning as you appear from behind the counter to greet the customer that was blissfully unaware of whatever was definitely not about to happen behind the counter.

You clear your throat as you look down at Heeseung, who’s still frozen in his spot and trying his very best not to lose his mind, “I should—um. Go back to work.”

Then, suddenly, Heeseung stands too, nodding quickly as he runs a hand through his hair, his face slightly pink, very much not looking at you, “Right. Yeah. Work.”

Right when you turn back to the counter, the customer is there, waiting for you to ring them up. You plaster the most normal smile you can muster, scan their snack, take their cash, and hand them their change—all while pretending you don’t feel Heeseung’s presence still lingering behind you.

You don’t turn around, and he doesn’t move.

And despite the complete lack of physical contact, you still feel his warmth. The same amount of warmth as when he was only mere inches away from your own face.

The door chimes as the customer leaves.

Then, finally—Heeseung clears his throat.

Hesitantly, you turn around, bracing yourself.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding your gaze before forcing out, in the most casual voice he can manage—

“So, uh—same time tomorrow?”

You blink.

Then, finally, you let out a small laugh, “You’re so weird.”

The tension in the air cracks just enough, and Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, “And yet, you’d miss me if I didn’t show up, wouldn’t you?”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, except—nothing comes out.

Because, unfortunately, you know he’s right.

And he knows he’s right.

So, naturally, instead of admitting defeat, you suddenly grab a rag from behind the counter and start aggressively scrubbing at a perfectly clean surface.

“Go home, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung just grins, shoving his hands into his pockets as steps out from behind the counter and backs away. “Night, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

When he’s finally gone, you’re left standing there, staring at where he just was before you.

And finally, when the reality of what just happened fully settles in—

You groan, dropping your head against the counter.

Because now he's in your head.

Great.

The clock above you ticks, a sound that usually fades into the background and becomes a part of the store’s white noise. But tonight?

Tonight, it’s your biggest freaking nuisance.

You think if you have to hear it tick one more time, you’re taking the ladder from the backroom, climbing up there, yanking that thing off the wall, and tossing it right into the dumpster.

Why?

Because, it’s 2:21AM.

2:21AM, and you’re alone. Stuck in this sad, empty convenience store with nothing but your own annoying thoughts and the snacks laid out in front of you with no one to share them with.

Same time tomorrow, my ass, you think bitterly, aggressively straightening a stack of receipts near the register that don’t even need straightening.

Heeseung’s voice from a few days ago still rings in your head—completely, and unfortunately, uninvited.

You don’t even know why they’re stuck in there, his words looping around, constantly taunting you.

The worst part?

His words had been entirely untrue.

Because it’s been three days.

Three full days since Heeseung has walked through those automatic doors, plopped down in his usual seat, and proceeded to either a) annoy you, b) argue with you over his food-related crimes, or c) make you laugh against your will.

And you don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.

Frustrated? Yeah, you’re frustrated. But the real question is—at what, exactly?

Frustrated that he just disappeared without so much as a heads-up? No warning?

Or maybe you’re frustrated at the very fact that you’re even thinking about this at all.

It’s not like he owes you an explanation. It’s not like he belongs to this store…or to you.

So why does it feel like something’s missing every time you glance at the entrance, half-expecting to hear the ding of the doors and see him stroll in with his stupid hoodie and even stupider smirk?

You shake your head, trying your best to snap yourself out of it.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You don’t care.

You don’t care so much that, for some reason unbeknownst to you, your brain—your traitorous, overthinking, hardworking brain—itches with a thought.

A stupid, ridiculous, subconscious thought.

And before you can fully even process what you’re doing, your fingers are already unlocking your phone, your thumbs moving on autopilot as you do something you swore you wouldn’t.

You search up his name.

It’s pathetic. It’s sad. Even you’re disappointed in yourself.

You told yourself you wouldn’t associate Heeseung with his job, with the persona that everyone else sees. Because to you, Heeseung is just…Heeseung—the insomniac who bickers with you every night, who somehow turns every conversation into an argument he has to win, who sits cross-legged with you behind the register eating spicy noodles and giving objectively bad movie recommendations.

And to him?

Well. You thought that to him, you were just you. Just some convenience store worker he happened to befriend. Someone outside of his world, outside of the blinding lights. Someone he didn’t have to be anyone around.

His words echo in your mind as you think—just a person he could tell anything and everything to.

You push the thought along with their feelings down as you continue scrolling—quick, desperate, your fingers flying over your screen, swiping through posts, comments, anything that could explain his sudden absence—

And then.

You see it.

A tweet.

Tagging his group, followed by a message. It’s short. Sweet. Simple.

Yet entirely soul-crushing.

“Can’t believe they’re leaving for tour already tomorrow! So excited to see them in a few days!!”

Your breath catches.

Your eyes flicker over the words again.

And again.

Leaving. For tour.

Tomorrow.

Your stomach twists violently as you scan for more confirmation, your hands gripping your phone with a newfound frustration as you tap through articles, fan accounts—anything to tell you this isn’t real. That there’s some mistake. That you didn’t just foolishly spend three days waiting for someone who was never going to show up.

But there it is. Everywhere. Right in front of you.

Confirmed dates. Cities. Posters.

Heeseung is leaving. Tomorrow.

And he didn’t say a word.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring at your screen. The words all blur together, but the sinking feeling in your chest is sharp, clear, and undeniable.

And you hate it.

You hate that you feel like this. You hate that your first instinct wasn’t to be happy for him, or proud, or even remotely understanding.

Instead, you’re angry. Upset. Hurt.

And what you hate the most?

You know exactly why you feel this way.

And just as that realization settles in—just as the blur of your feelings finally sharpens into something unmistakable, something you can no longer ignore—the familiar ding of the automatic doors cuts through the quiet store and the screaming thoughts in your head.

You almost don’t look up.

Almost.

But then you do, and your stomach drops.

Because there he is.

You blink, because at first you think maybe you’ve been drowning in your thoughts for so long that you’ve started hallucinating him—manifesting his presence out of sheer frustration towards him.

But, no.

Heeseung stands there, at the entrance, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, looking at you like nothing’s changed.

Like he hasn’t been gone for days, like he hasn’t left you suffering with your own emotions—like he hasn’t been the only thing on your mind even when you really, really, didn’t want him to be.

“Hey,” Heeseung nods at you casually, walking over to his usual stupid aisle, grabbing his usual stupid Extra Spicy Hellfire, then reaching for his usual stupid coffee milk—all like clockwork, all like he never left.

You don’t respond.

Instead, you busy yourself—wiping the spotless corner of your counter, smoothing out a crumpled receipt, pretending you’re looking for something in the shelves beneath you.

Anything to keep yourself from looking at him.

And you might actually lose it.

Because if you have to stand here and pretend like you’re fine, that these past few days haven’t felt like an eternity for you—you might actually lose it.

Heeseung finally walks up to the counter, places his things between you, then pauses before repeating, tilting his head, “Hey?”

He shifts slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You don’t.

A beat passes. Then another.

“You mad at me or something?” he asks, his head still tilted, his voice light, hesitant.

You inhale, your fingers subconsciously tightening around the edge of the counter.

Then, you let out a quiet laugh—an empty, humorless scoff.

“Should I be?”

Heeseung frowns, clearly confused, “What?”

You finally look at him. And you think it was a mistake. Because the second you meet his gaze—uncertain, searching, so annoyingly familiar—you feel your throat close up.

He looks the same. Same stupid hoodie. Same messy hair. Same tired eyes that you’ve somehow come to find comfort in.

And that makes you hate this even more.

“Is this because I haven’t been showing up?” Heeseung tries again, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Damn, I didn’t realize you’d miss me that much. Sorry, Graveyard Shift Gi—”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Your voice is quiet, but he doesn’t miss it.

And he stills.

There it is.

He shifts in his spot again, his eyes now darting down to where his fingers are tapping against the counter.

“What?” he says again, but this time, it’s different. Careful.

You swallow, forcing down the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to look at him.

“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?”

It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But lined with something raw, something vulnerable, something hurting.

And Heeseung hears all of it. He feels all of it.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, lips pressing into a thin line.

Somewhere in the background, the clock continues ticking, the lights overhead buzzing, a song from the speakers humming.

And Heeseung stays silent.

“You weren’t,” you murmur, the words caught in your throat. “Were you?”

Heeseung exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, “I—”

He stops. Starts again.

“It’s not—it wasn’t—”

You cross your arms tightly, more so to ground yourself more than anything.

He lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head.

“Look,” he gestures vaguely, between you, at the store, at the shelves, at the space you’ve unknowingly carved out for him here. “This—this is the only thing that’s felt normal for me in a long time.”

Your stomach twists.

“Everything else—my whole life, it’s all…chaos. But this?” He swallows, his eyes finally looking up to meet your gaze, his voice quieter now. “You?”

His eyes flash with something new, something softer, something that lingers in the way he looks at you. The same way he has over late-night snack feasts, whispered movie nights, conversations that blended into the early mornings.

“You’re the closest thing to normal I’ve had.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because you get it. You know him, so you understand.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he was going to leave without telling you.

You inhale slowly, your heavy gaze holding his.

“So what?” your voice is still quiet, but now edged with a new sharpness. “You thought if you didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t have to be real?”

Heeseung presses his lips together. “I thought maybe if I didn’t say it, I wouldn’t have to lose this yet.”

Your breath catches.

You want to laugh. You want to cry.

Heeseung didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to ruin this.

Whatever this is.

Whatever the two of you had built over the weeks between instant noodles and snacks, between arguments over food choices, between all the unspoken moments that made you feel like maybe, maybe, this was something more.

You let out a wavering breath, shaking your head, “That’s not fair, Heeseung.”

“I know,” his voice is rough now, like he’s tired of saying it. Like he’s already told himself a million times and accepted it. Like he wants you to just accept it and move on.

But you can’t.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know how!” His voice rises in frustration, an exasperated sigh slipping out. “Because you—this—whatever this is, it started feeling real. Too real. And I just didn’t want to fuck it up, alright?”

The words knock the air out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore, every feeling you’ve been trying to convince yourself wasn’t there, is suddenly painfully undeniable.

And worse than realizing how real this is?

Knowing that Heeseung knows it, feels it, too.

But heavier than that realization is the anger.

Not just at the situation.

Now, at Heeseung.

“So you thought it’d be better to just disappear instead?” Your voice shakes, biting down on the thick emotion rising in your throat. “You didn’t even think to tell me.”

Heeseung steps closer, and for the first time tonight, you see it—his own frustration bubbling beneath his surface, the barely restrained emotion.

“What does it matter, Y/N?” his sharp voice cuts through the heavy air lingering between you. “What difference would it—would you—have made? It’s not like this was ever going to change anything.”

Your heart stops.

At that, you falter, and Heeseung sees it.

He sees the way your eyes move away from his. He sees the way your posture suddenly deflates, as if his words physically hurt you.

Because they do.

Because you know what he’s saying.

He’s leaving. And you’re staying.

And no matter what, no matter the amount of realness, no matter what either of you feel—that was always going to be the reality.

“Right,” you finally say, your voice dangerously close to giving out. “Because it’s not like any of this really meant anything, right? At least not enough for you to acknowledge.”

Now your words hurt.

Heeseung winces. His jaw tightens. His fists clench.

Then finally—

“…I don’t know,” he mutters.

The final crack.

You let in a sharp inhale, nodding once, your lips pressed into a straight line. “Got it.”

Heeseung clenches his jaw, like he wants to take the words back, like he wants to fix whatever just broke between you.

Instead, he exhales, stepping back from the counter, “I should go.”

This time, you don’t stop him.

You don’t say anything at all.

Heeseung hesitates for a half second, like maybe—just maybe—he’s waiting for you to say something.

But you don’t.

Not when you feel so utterly lost in everything you’re feeling that you can’t even begin to put into words.

So he nods once, shoving his hands back into his pockets, turning away.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting you.

Cold air rushes in.

And then—he’s gone.

And you?

You’re left at the counter, staring at his abandoned cup of ramen, untouched coffee milk, and the ghost of something that never got the chance to be.

Heeseung doesn’t think.

He wasn’t thinking four days ago, when the space between you two had grown impossibly small—when he was this close to you, when the air felt thick with something unspoken, yet undeniable, something that made his pulse race and his breath hitch.

He wasn’t thinking when he let fear creep in, when the weight of him realizing his own feelings sent him running, keeping him from stepping foot into the store at all. For three days.

He wasn’t thinking when he looked you in the eye last night and told you this didn’t matter. That none of it ever did.

He wasn’t thinking when he walked out of the store, leaving you to think that you didn’t matter to him. That you never did.

And he definitely isn’t thinking now, when he’s supposed to be leaving for the airport in an hour, but instead—his feet pound against the pavement, tearing through the empty, quiet streets like a man possessed, like maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun the regret clawing in his chest.

The cold air stings against his face, streetlights flicker overhead, and the city hums all around him—but none of it matters. None of it even registers.

Because all Heeseung knows, all he cares about, is getting to you.

Because Heeseung?

He can go months on tour without his Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen.

He can go months on tour without his coffee milk.

He can go months on tour without those, even if it means braving his insomnia.

But what he can’t go without?

Heeseung can’t—he won’t—go months on tour knowing you think you meant nothing to him. That you didn’t bring him relief after the longest days, laughter when he forgot how to find it, comfort in a world that never slowed down for him.

That you weren’t the one thing that felt real in a life that so often didn’t.

And if there’s even the smallest chance to fix this—to make sure you know—then nothing else matters.

The neon glow of the convenience store sign comes into view, and Heeseung’s heart lurches in his chest as he approaches, his staggered breathing visible in the cold air in front of him, his hands clammy.

He stumbles through the sliding doors, the familiar ding barely registering in his mind as his eyes dart around—only for his stomach to drop.

The counter is empty. The soft sound of your absentminded humming, the teasing lilt of your voice, the annoyed glare in your eyes—it’s all missing.

And all wrong. Too quiet, too empty, too…not you.

Instead, some guy he’s never seen before glances up from behind the register, staring at the way Heeseung just lingers frozen near the entrance.

“Uh,” Heeseung swallows thickly, his voice strained from his sprint. “The girl who usually works nights. Is she here?”

“Oh, Y/N?” the worker raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, she called off tonight.”

Heeseung stills.

You’re not here.

And it’s his fault.

Because last night, you were here—waiting, hoping, and he walked out on you.

“Oh,” is all Heeseung can manage before he feels the words getting caught in his throat.

His jaw clenches, his stomach twists. The weight of regret settles deep, heavy and unrelenting.

“Right. Okay. Thanks,” he mutters, nodding absently, then turns towards the door.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting him.

Cold air rushes in.

And just as Heeseung steps out—

He sees you.

You.

Right there, walking towards the store, hands shoved into the pockets of your coat, face buried into your scarf.

You stop.

He stops.

For a moment, neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

The neon glow of the store’s sign reflects off your face, casting a shadow over your widened eyes. A car honks in the distance. A gust of wind blows past.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Heeseung says without thinking, almost breathless.

A small laugh escapes your lips, airy and uncertain, “Yeah, well…neither are you.”

You’re right.

He should be on his way to the airport. Bags packed, schedule set, moving on.

But instead? Instead, he’s here, standing in front of the only person who has ever made him hesitate.

Heeseung takes one step forward, “I was looking for you.”

You tilt your head, your lips pressed together like you’re weighing something in your mind.

Then you take a small step forward.

“And now you’ve found me.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

It comes out all at once and rushed, but utterly honest. Honest and heavy, the way it’s been aching in his chest—and he can’t hold it in anymore.

You blink, unmoving.

“I’m so sorry,” Heeseung says again, stepping closer. His voice is steady, gentle, but nervous, scared you won’t believe him. “For everything. For not telling you. For leaving like that. For being a completely fucking idiot about—”

He stops. The look in his eyes is vulnerable, genuine. Longing.

“About this. Us.”

You don’t say anything right away, just watching him carefully.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, letting out a dry laugh as he realizes he’s about to lay everything out bare.

“I think I was scared,” he admits. “Of what it all meant. Of what you meant to me. I kept telling myself none of it was real, that it didn’t matter. But then I walked out yesterday and, I realized—”

He swallows hard, looking at you and the way your eyes soften with something unreadable.

“It does. You do. So, so much, Y/N.”

Another pause.

Then, you let out a soft exhale, shaking your head, as if something’s finally clicking into place, “I’m sorry too.”

Heeseung’s eyebrows burrow in confusion.

“For not—,” you sigh, your hands now fidgeting with the ends of your scarf. “For not saying something sooner. Because the truth is, I’ve been denying it too. I didn’t even realize how much I—how much you meant to me until I saw you last night and…”

You trail off, your cheeks warming. Then, with a deep inhale, you take another step closer, meeting his gaze from an arm’s length away.

“I was just so angry and upset, but I think…I realized it’s only because I like you, Heeseung. So much.”

Heeseung swears his heart stops. It feels like his whole world has just shifted, and all his thoughts are tangled up in the way you’re looking up at him now.

“And…I should’ve been more understanding,” you add softly. “I shouldn’t have held it against you like you owed me something. I was just hurt, and I didn’t know how to handle it, honestly.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything right away, not when his thoughts are running wild and his heart is beating like it’s about to fully grow legs and escape.

Then, he exhales a breath of relief.

And lets out a quiet laugh to himself.

You blink at him.

“We’re both idiots,” he says finally, shaking his head softly.

A small, knowing smile dances on your lips, your eyes locking onto his, “Yeah. Looks like it.”

The tension eases. Just a little.

Heeseung takes a small step closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off of you, despite the cold air surrounding you both.

“So now what?”

You tilt your head as you look up at him, eyes searching his, “Aren’t you supposed to be catching a flight soon?”

Heeseung’s breath hitches.

Because he knows he should say yes.

That’s what’s been planned all along. That’s the reality.

But, for the first time—

He hesitates.

“Maybe."

Your eyes narrow slightly, a playful glare sparking in them, "Maybe?"

Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. "Yeah. Maybe."

The warmth in his chest spreads when he sees the way you bite back a smile, the way your weight shifts just the tiniest bit closer—like you're testing the space between you.

Then, you reach into the tote bag slung around your shoulder and pull something out.

“Here.”

You press a small bottle of coffee milk into his hands.

Heeseung stares at it in his hands.

Then at you.

And you’re looking at him with something gentle—something that makes his chest tighten in the best way possible, something that makes the world feel just a tiny bit warmer.

“Just in case you need a reminder,” you say, your voice light and grounding. “Of what’s normal.”

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and suddenly—everything makes sense.

The missing piece clicks into place as the static in his mind all fades away, leaving only this—only you.

You, standing here in front of him, looking at him with that small, steady smile, and Heeseung knows.

He's never been more sure of anything in his life.

A laugh escapes him before he even realizes it, soft and breathless, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest, where warmth curls all around it, wrapping around his own heart like a quiet, undeniable truth. His heart races and his fingers tighten around the bottle in his hands—slightly trembling, not from nerves, but from the realization of something so much bigger. Something so much realer.

And then, without even thinking, he steps forward like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and closes the small space between you before wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you in, slow but certain, with a gentleness that catches you by surprise.

You freeze, breath catching, but only for a second. Because then—like a reflex, you melt into him, your own arms tightening around him.

Holding onto him just as much as he��s holding onto you.

Neither of you say anything.

There’s a quiet calm between you two—no need for words, just the rhythm of your heart beating against his own. Steady, calming, like it’s syncing with his, like they’ve always known each other’s pace.

Like they’ve been moving in tandem all along, even when neither of you realized it.

And in a way, maybe that’s just how it’s always been with you two—balancing on the fine line between pushing and pulling, between sharp words and lingering glances, between pretending you didn’t care, yet feeling everything all at once.

So easy to cross, so easy to blur, so easy to mistake for something else.

Maybe you spent all this time thinking you were standing on opposite sides, only to realize you were always moving toward the same place.

And now, as one of his arms moves across your back, the other threading gently through your hair, holding the back of your head against his chest like he never wants to let you go, his heartbeat still steady against yours, you know for certain—

You were never meant to stay on one side.

You were always meant to cross it.

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic.

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore?

However—

There are three things—three sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness.

The first?

Insomnia.

Not by choice, of course.

The second?

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk.

Yes, it’s a weird combo. And no, he still doesn’t care.

And the third?

You.

And honestly?

You’re the only one he really needs.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! if you made it to the end, i'll ship u some extra spicy hellfire ramen & coffee milk rn ! <3 luv u mwahmwahmwah !

<3, addie

m.list here!

tag list pt.1 (luv u all):

@xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaaah @heejamas @jiyeons-closet @sagegreenhairclip @betda @ineedsomezzz @motherscrustytoenailclippings @bussolares @soobnuuy @deluluscenarios @chrrific @vvenusoncasual @rairaiblog @mwahvvis @lveegsoi @desssss-0 @hoonkishoe @sunhyeswife @ilovbeshotaro @dearestdreamies @starry-eyed-bimbo @planetmarlowe @lovialy @ambi01 @elairah @therealmrsbahng @lov4hoon @hollxe1 @lovenha7 @ilovhoonie @coqhee @i03jae @letwiiparkjay @manuosorioh @mintysunoo @amiraazzz @renaishun @enhadd @ikeulove @starniras @heartheejake @zaycie

(bolded didn't let me tag, sorry :( )

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alilarew23 · 2 years ago

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it is so easy to shift your state - let's practice!

ok beloveds.

it is tiiiiiiiime for a little exercise.

i want you to imagine real quick what it would be like to truly be a master at manifestation. yes i know we know we are all masters because we are always manifesting but! i mean a master at conscious manifestation. like, you ALWAYS get exactly what you want in the quickest and easiest way possible no matter what. you just imagine something, decide what you're going to experience next, and boom, it shows up. faster than fast. ayeeee, you did that.

ok, so now that you ARE that person, what's your experience like? what's your way of being within yourself, within the world? you're probably super fucking relaxed, even playful. you probably never worry about anything at all because what would there be to worry about when you know you always get what you want? you probably hardly expend any mental energy on your "desires" because the second you desire something you just--beep boop--claim it as yours and, well, now that's taken care of! you're probably the most present and loving person anyone has ever known. you probably have everyone around you not-so-jokingly asking you to manifest for them (iykyk). you probably feel like god. but not god who's desperately trying to assert some kind of control over a supposed-"outer" world. no. god who knows I AM the world. I AM all. how fun.

how fun indeed, that you just shifted your (drum roll please) state of being!

did that feel good? did you like being that person?

all that took place in your imagination.

you went from being an imaginal self who was maybe stressing about manifestation, watching too many tiktok vids and reading too many twitter threads, affirming affirming affirming but at what cost, to being an imaginal self who--in an instant--already had it all. and therefore could just kick it and watch a show or eat some tacos or go candlepin bowling (my new obsession) without stressing at all.

if that felt good, why not practice being that person? by which i mean consciously choosing to embody that identity until it's so natural that it no longer needs to be a conscious decision because you simply ARE it.

don't attach anything to this. just try the state on as if it's a new hoodie and see how it feels, and if you like it--you prob will, it's pretty snuggly in here!--well, keep wearing it.

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winterlico · 4 months ago

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LATE NIGHT ᰔ sim jaeyun .ᐟ

﹙ masterlist﹚──── sim jaeyun x fem!reader ⚡︎ fluff , mention kiss , make out ⸝⸝ 運命 ◦ aprox 88303 wc ‼

feedbacks ୨୧ reblogs

The night air feels cool against your skin as you walk alone across the quiet campus, the soft glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the concrete. You’ve stayed late at the library again, buried under the weight of microbiology textbooks and lab reports. It's almost 2 AM, and the campus is mostly empty, save for a few students rushing to their late-night study spots or the occasional campus security guard making their rounds.

You’d been lost in your thoughts when the sudden sound of crashing and fighting from a nearby alley snaps you out of your daze. It’s not the usual late-night chaos, though—it sounds… different. More intense. You hesitate for a moment, your curiosity pulling you toward the noise.

Just as you approach the corner of the campus building, you freeze. A figure, clad in a red-and-blue suit, is weaving in and out of shadows, effortlessly dodging punches from a group of thugs who clearly don’t stand a chance.

Spider-Man. You’ve heard the rumors, seen the viral videos online. You never thought you’d actually encounter him, especially not this close. And not this late.

Your heart races, half from excitement, half from fear, as you stand rooted to the spot. The way Spider-Man swings through the alley, his movements so smooth, almost like he’s dancing, makes your breath catch in your throat. You can’t look away. His webbing, gleaming in the dim light, zips around and disarms one of the attackers, sending him stumbling backward.

Your eyes follow his movements with awe, but then, something happens that you didn’t expect. Spider-Man pauses for a brief moment, his chest heaving as he pulls his mask off, just slightly, to take a breath. The alleyway is silent for a split second, and in that instant, you see his face.

You freeze, eyes widening. It’s him. The guy from your biology class—Jake. You’d noticed him before, his quiet confidence and the way he carried himself. You had never suspected him to be, well, Spider-Man.

Jake, realizing what he just did, seems to snap back to reality. His eyes meet yours across the alley. A brief, awkward moment hangs in the air before he swears under his breath, pulling the mask back over his face. “Uh… not what I meant to do,” he mutters, clearing his throat.

You stand there, frozen, unsure if you should say anything. His posture is tense, shoulders squared as he awkwardly shifts his weight. There’s no denying it now—he’s Spider-Man.

“Jake?” you say, voice barely above a whisper, still trying to process everything. "You... you're—"

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me,” he says quickly, still trying to avoid eye contact. "I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. You should... probably head back to your dorm. It's not exactly safe around here."

You blink in disbelief, still not sure how to respond. “But… you just—” Your voice trails off, a thousand questions rushing to your mind. "You're—Spider-Man."

He nods, looking sheepish for a moment. “Yeah. I kinda have a thing for keeping the city safe.” His tone is casual, as though casually revealing his secret identity isn't the least bit weird. “Guess I’m not as good at this stealth thing as I thought.”

You take a step closer, still in shock. "You… you just fought off a group of guys. What are you—?"

“Just trying to keep things from going sideways,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “You know how it is. Some nights, the bad guys just don’t want to stay in their lane.”

“I can’t believe this,” you mumble, a little breathless. “You’re Spider-Man. You’re, like, a superhero.”

Jake shrugs, his typical confident smirk returning to his lips. “Well, yeah, but I’d prefer ‘friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,’ if you’re asking for preferences. It’s a bit less… dramatic.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “This is insane. How long have you been… doing this?”

He tilts his head, his eyes twinkling with mischief now. “Long enough to get pretty good at it. But I’ve always managed to keep my two worlds separate. Until now, I guess.”

“Yeah, now you’ve got me to keep a secret,” you reply, a teasing smile playing at the corners of your lips.

He gives you a playful look, raising an eyebrow. “Guess you’ll have to be careful, princess. Not everyone can handle the truth. Especially when you’re not supposed to know.”

“You’re going to keep calling me that, aren’t you?” you ask, your smile widening.

“You bet,” he says with a grin, his tone light but affectionate. “Now that you know my secret, you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

You can’t help but laugh, the tension from the strange situation beginning to ease. “I think I can handle a little teasing. You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops on you.”

Jake chuckles, clearly relieved. “I don’t think that would go over well. Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss out on all the fun.” He shoots you a wink, his usual cocky self returning in full force.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t deny the way your heart flutters at the way he looks at you, even with his mask on. You’ve always admired him from afar, but this? This was something else entirely.

As the sound of sirens approaches in the distance, Jake stands tall, ready to leave. “You should head back to your dorm, princess. I’ll take care of the rest here.”

“Be careful, okay?” you say, your voice softening. There’s something about this whole situation—his vulnerability, his strength, the way he’s trying to keep it all together—that makes you want to say more, but you don’t.

He flashes a grin, nodding. “Always am. And hey… if you need anything, I’ll be around.” His wink is mischievous, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that makes your heart race even faster.

You watch as he swings up into the night, the distant sound of his webs twirling around filling the air. It all feels surreal, like you’re still caught in some strange dream. And yet, as you make your way back to your dorm, you can’t help but smile. Jake had just pulled off the biggest plot twist of your life, and you’re pretty sure this was only the beginning.

The air is still warm from the day’s heat, and the night feels like it’s just beginning to settle in as you walk back from the grocery store, your arms weighed down with bags. You’ve had a long day at the lab, and all you want now is to get back to your dorm, eat something quick, and maybe relax for a bit. The street is dimly lit, only a few other students walking to their own destinations, and the quiet of the campus feels peaceful, almost comforting. You hum softly to yourself, oblivious to the footsteps behind you that seem to follow just a little too closely.

As you round the corner near your dorm, a chill runs up your spine. You can feel it now, the tension in the air. Something isn’t right. You pick up your pace, glancing around, but it’s too late. The men step out from the shadows, blocking your way. You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest as one of them pulls a knife from his pocket, the blade gleaming under the streetlight.

“Hey, princess,” one of them sneers, his breath foul in the still night. “Looks like you’ve got some pretty nice bags there. Hand them over, and maybe we won’t make a mess.”

Your stomach drops. You can feel the panic rising, but you try to stay calm. You’ve never been in a situation like this before, and you’re not sure how to handle it. The knife in the man’s hand glints, and the other one takes a step forward, closing the distance between you.

“Please,” you say, your voice trembling. “I don’t want any trouble. Just take the bags.”

“Smart choice, but not enough,” the man with the knife growls. “You don’t get to decide anything here.”

You back up a little, but your mind is racing, trying to figure out how to escape. You know you can’t outrun them. You feel a familiar panic bubble in your chest—this is real, and there’s nowhere to hide.

But just as one of the men reaches for the bag, you hear it. A soft thwip sound in the air, followed by a loud crash as something crashes into the ground behind you. The men are distracted for just a second, looking over their shoulders, and in that moment, a figure swings down from the nearby building. You barely have time to process what’s happening before you’re pulled into the strong embrace of someone, their arm wrapping tightly around your waist.

“Did you miss me, princess?” Jake’s voice comes through the dark, warm and teasing, but there’s an edge of protectiveness in it that makes your heart skip a beat.

You look up at him, his familiar red-and-blue suit shining faintly in the streetlight, his mask pulled down just far enough that his eyes lock with yours.

“Jake?” you whisper, your breath caught in your throat. The realization hits you all at once. You almost can’t believe it—again. It’s him.

But there’s no time for explanations. The thugs are already recovering from the surprise of his sudden appearance. One of them lunges forward with the knife aimed right for Jake’s chest, but Jake’s quick, his reflexes honed from countless close calls. He dodges, twisting around and sending a webbing shot that wraps around the man’s wrist, pulling him off balance. With a swift motion, Jake kicks the man to the ground, leaving him groaning in pain.

The second attacker tries to make a run for it, but Jake doesn’t give him a chance. In one smooth move, he launches himself forward, webs shooting from his wrists and pinning the guy against the brick wall of the dorm. You watch in awe as Jake effortlessly takes control of the situation, even as the men struggle beneath his hold.

“Not so tough now, huh?” Jake taunts, his voice laced with playful confidence. He stands over the two thugs, surveying them with an almost casual expression. “You should know better than to mess with someone’s girlfriend. Especially my girlfriend.”

You blink, your heart skipping at the way he says it, the way he casually claims you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. His tone isn’t possessive, but the tenderness behind the words is unmistakable.

But before you can respond, he turns his attention back to the criminals, his body moving in a blur as he effortlessly subdues them, tying them up with webbing and making sure they can’t escape. Within seconds, they’re left incapacitated, groaning on the ground, helpless.

“Done and done,” Jake says, his tone light as he walks back toward you. His mask pulls down over his face fully again, but his eyes still find yours. “You okay, princess?”

You nod, still stunned by everything happening so quickly. “Yeah. I think so. I just… I can’t believe you showed up. You saved me.”

Jake grins, that familiar mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I’ve got my eye on you, remember? You’re my responsibility now.”

You swallow, heart still racing from the adrenaline, but there's something comforting about his words, the way he stands in front of you, making you feel like you’re safe despite everything. His presence alone is enough to calm the storm in your chest.

“I guess this is part of your superhero gig, huh?” you say, trying to lighten the mood, even though you’re still a little shaken.

“You got it,” Jake says, chuckling as he steps closer.

“But you should know, I’ve got a pretty personal interest in protecting you now.” He pauses, his gaze softening as he looks down at you. “Don’t go wandering off at night again. It’s dangerous out here.”

“I won’t,” you promise, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake smirks, then without warning, he reaches for your hand, gently pulling you close to his side. “Good. Now, how about we get you home safe and sound, princess?”

Your heart skips again as you look up at him, feeling the warmth of his hand in yours. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

You walk with him toward your dorm, the weight of the grocery bags almost forgotten, your mind still racing with everything that just happened. But as Jake keeps you close, his hand never leaving yours, the world suddenly feels a little safer. It’s not just about the bad guys anymore. It’s about him, and the way he makes you feel like nothing could ever go wrong with him by your side.

You’re still trying to process what just happened—your near-mugging, the way Jake swooped in, effortlessly neutralizing the threat, and now, standing in front of you with that signature grin of his. The adrenaline is still pumping in your veins, and your heart is pounding, not just from the close call but from the way Jake has completely thrown you off balance.

You should be taking a breath, maybe calling the authorities, or even just walking back to your dorm to recover. But instead, Jake is standing there, eyes gleaming with that mischievous spark, as if the world’s danger doesn’t even faze him. His tone is casual when he speaks, though there’s something more playful underneath it, something you can’t quite place.

“You know,” he says, his voice low, teasing, “since I’m already here… How about I take you home in style?”

Your heart skips a beat, the words barely registering in your brain before the rest of what he says sinks in.

“Style?” you repeat, blinking at him, still trying to catch your breath. “How… what do you mean?”

Jake’s grin widens, and before you can fully process the situation, before you can even think about arguing or running away, he does the last thing you expect.

One smooth motion, and you’re scooped up effortlessly in his arms. Your breath catches in your throat, panic flooding in as you instinctively grab onto his shoulder. “Jake—! Wait, no—!” You try to pull away, but his grip on you is firm, secure.

“Relax, princess,” he says, his voice teasing. “This will be fun, I promise.”

Your pulse races as the world shifts beneath you. You don’t have time to respond before Jake leaps off the ground. The wind rushes past you, your feet no longer touching the ground. The sharp sensation of flying fills your senses as he swings between buildings with you still cradled in his arms. You yelp in surprise, your heart leaping into your throat. You’ve never experienced anything like this—never thought you’d be soaring through the night sky like this.

“Jake!” you shout, gripping him tighter, your body instinctively tensing at the rush of the swing. Your eyes are squeezed shut as your heart races, the wind tearing past you too fast for your brain to keep up.

Jake’s laughter echoes above the sounds of the city, clear and carefree. “Don’t worry, princess, I’ve got you.” He shifts slightly, adjusting the way he’s holding you to make sure you feel secure, though the way your body is pressed so close to his only intensifies the wild thrumming in your chest.

It’s not until the next swing, when the world blurs in a rush of neon lights, that you dare open your eyes.

The city sprawls beneath you, like a million little lights scattered across a dark canvas. The buildings rise high, their sharp silhouettes glowing against the dark sky. The streets below are quiet, almost peaceful, and for a moment, it’s as if you’re outside of time. You can see everything—the bustling city, the people moving like tiny dots below you. It feels surreal, like something out of a dream.

The initial shock starts to wear off, replaced by something else, something more exciting, as your grip on Jake’s shoulder slowly loosens. Your eyes widen at the breathtaking view before you, and with the night air rushing past you, you can’t help but let out a soft laugh, the thrill of it all sinking in.

“This is… this is crazy,” you breathe, your voice trembling, but not from fear anymore. From exhilaration. You can feel your body relaxing into his arms as you start to get used to the rhythm, the swings between the buildings, the pull of gravity, and the rush of flying through the night.

Jake glances at you from the corner of his eye, still grinning, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Told you. It’s like nothing else, right?”

You nod, still wide-eyed. “I didn’t expect this. I’ve never—”

“Never flown between buildings like this, huh?” Jake interrupts with a playful tone. “It’s a first for everyone. But I’m glad you’re not freaking out.” He flashes you a wink, his cocky grin back in full force.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “I think I’m too dazed to freak out,” you mutter, looking down again at the city lights below you. It’s like you’re suspended in time, the whole world below you both still and peaceful.

Jake’s voice drops lower, more thoughtful now as you continue to swing. “There’s something about the city at night. Everything feels different from up here. Feels… right, you know?”

You look at him, a little surprised by the shift in his tone. There’s something soft in his gaze as he looks at you, something more than the usual teasing or playful banter. It’s just the two of you up here, suspended in the air, and for a moment, you feel a strange kind of connection—a shared understanding.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your heart still fluttering. “I think I get it now.”

Jake smiles, but it’s softer this time, a subtle warmth in the way his eyes linger on you. “You’re braver than I thought, princess. Not a lot of people could hang on this long without panicking.”

You can’t help but laugh, a little embarrassed. “Well, when you’re Spider-Man, I guess you kind of have to keep up, huh?”

Jake laughs with you, his voice light and carefree, and you feel the tension from earlier slip away. With every swing, the city below you seems more alive, the world seems more exciting, more full of possibility. In Jake’s arms, you feel a sense of comfort, despite the insanity of it all.

As you continue to swing through the night, you can’t help but wonder if maybe this crazy ride isn’t so bad after all.

The air feels charged as Jake swings through the city, his movements fluid, graceful, like a part of the night itself. You’re still wrapped up in his arms, the wind whipping around you as he deftly maneuvers between towering buildings. Every twist and turn has your heart racing again, but not out of fear this time—out of exhilaration. The grip you have on his shoulder has loosened entirely now, your arms still around him but relaxed, and you're actually enjoying the sensation of flying.

As you approach your apartment building, you can feel the change in the atmosphere, the pace slowing down as the towering structures of the city give way to smaller buildings and quieter streets. The lights here are softer, the night air a little cooler, and it feels more like you’re heading into a familiar place, not something far away or foreign like the dizzying heights of downtown.

Jake’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. "We’re almost there," he says, his tone relaxed, the usual mischievousness still present but softer now. He doesn’t need to remind you; you can tell by the way he adjusts his swings that he’s already figured out where your apartment is.

Your apartment building comes into view—a sleek, modern structure in the middle of the city, its glass windows reflecting the soft glow of streetlights. The familiar sight of it comforts you a little, grounding you after the wild ride.

"Hold on," Jake warns, his grip tightening slightly on your waist as he starts to decelerate. You nod instinctively, your arms tightening around his neck just to make sure you don’t lose balance.

With expert precision, Jake swings to a stop just a few yards away from the entrance of your building. The motion is so smooth that, for a moment, you almost forget that you’ve been soaring through the air like Spider-Man’s sidekick. He sets you down gently, his hands lingering on your waist for just a second longer than necessary as he steadies you.

You stumble a little, catching your breath and trying to steady yourself. The world feels like it’s still moving even though your feet are back on solid ground. Jake watches you with a soft grin, his eyes warm, almost like he’s trying to gauge your reaction.

"Not bad, huh?" he says, his tone teasing but affectionate.

You take a deep breath, still trying to get your bearings. “That was… insane,” you manage to say, your heart still racing, but the excitement isn’t fading. It’s lingering, buzzing beneath your skin.

You glance at him, trying to put your thoughts together. "I never thought I’d be doing that... not in a million years. It was... incredible."

Jake’s grin widens, and there’s a flash of pride in his eyes. "I told you, you’d get used to it. Besides, I make a pretty good tour guide, don’t I?" He winks, clearly amused by the situation.

You roll your eyes, but it’s playful. "You know, you’re insufferable," you say, trying to hide your smile, but it’s not really working. The way he’s looking at you makes your heart flutter.

Jake shrugs, his expression shifting to something softer, more genuine now. "Hey, I can’t help it if I’m good at what I do."

He gives you a quick, teasing nudge with his shoulder. "But seriously, I’m glad you’re okay. You’re… pretty tough for someone who looks so harmless."

Your heart skips at his words, and you look away quickly, not sure how to respond. But before you can think too much about it, Jake’s voice cuts through the silence again, playful but with a hint of something more.

"Well, I guess I better let you go inside now," he says, his smile lingering as he takes a small step back, allowing you to move toward your apartment’s door.

You hesitate, your fingers still curled slightly where they rested on his shoulder. The warmth of his presence is still there, lingering, and for a moment, you don’t want to let him go. You don’t know what to say—what to do—but the lingering tension between you both is undeniable.

"Jake…" you start, but the words trail off. You try to meet his gaze, but your cheeks flush, and you look down at your feet, still unsure of what to say.

He doesn’t rush you, though. Instead, he steps closer again, his hand reaching out for yours, his touch warm and reassuring.

"Yeah?"

His voice is soft now, and you can feel his proximity, his presence making everything feel just a little more intense. He looks at you with an unreadable expression, the teasing tone from before replaced with something else. Something quieter.

You feel your heartbeat quicken again, unsure of the moment but still wanting to say something—anything. But as you open your mouth, ready to speak, Jake cuts you off, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"You’re safe now, princess," he says, the words carrying more weight than before, as if he’s letting you know how much he means it. “I’ll always make sure of that.”

His gaze softens as he holds your eyes for a long moment, and something shifts between you. It’s like everything is finally clicking into place, like the chaos of the night has settled into a peaceful, if confusing, calm.

Before you can process it, Jake leans forward, his lips brushing your cheek in a soft, quick kiss. It's barely there, but the effect is immediate—your heart skips, your mind goes blank for a split second, and when you pull back, you see him grinning at you, that same mischievous spark back in his eyes.

“That’s my good deed for the night,” he teases, his voice returning to its usual playful tone, though there's something more in it now. His fingers linger on your hand for a moment before he steps back, giving you space.

You blink, still caught off guard by the sudden gesture. "Jake, what—" You start to say, but he’s already stepping back, that same cocky grin back on his face.

"I'll see you around, princess," he says casually, his voice full of that teasing warmth you’ve come to expect. "You’re safe now. You can head inside. Get some rest."

And before you can even respond, he’s already turning away, his figure melting into the shadows as he swings off into the night, leaving you standing there, feeling a little lost and a lot confused.

You stand there for a long moment, the cool night air pressing against your skin, the softness of his kiss still lingering on your cheek. What just happened? You shake your head, still feeling the rush, still caught in the mix of emotions. Maybe you will get some rest after all... but Jake definitely isn’t helping your mind settle.

With a sigh, you finally unlock the door to your apartment and step inside, your heart still racing, your thoughts swirling.

It’s late again, another night that started out mundane and calm, but turned into something far more chaotic. You’d been wrapping up a late-night study session in the library and decided to walk back to your apartment after grabbing a quick snack. The usual peace of the campus at night, the soft hum of the streetlights, is suddenly interrupted as you turn a corner and find yourself face to face with a group of men blocking your path.

It doesn’t take long to recognize the danger when one of them steps too close, a grin stretching across his face as his gaze lingers far too long on you. His tone is slow, deliberate, like he’s sizing you up. "Hey there, pretty thing. Out for a walk all alone at this hour?"

You freeze, heart racing, eyes darting around, trying to assess your options. But before you can react, another one of them steps forward, his hand reaching toward you. The touch is far too close, and your breath hitches in your throat. Panic begins to bubble in your chest.

And that’s when you hear it—the sound of a thud, followed by the unmistakable, familiar voice.

"You’re not going anywhere."

Jake. He’s here. Again.

You blink, and in the next moment, you’re already being pulled behind him, the sound of his web-slinging catching the air as he lands with a perfect crouch between you and the men.

“You should’ve stayed out of this,” Jake’s voice is dangerously low, filled with a sharp edge you’ve never heard before. The usual teasing lilt is gone, replaced by something possessive. You’re used to Jake’s antics, his mischievous grin, his cocky swagger—but this, this is different.

The group of men stumbles back a few steps, and one of them mutters something under his breath, clearly not prepared for this. The tension in the air is thick, every muscle in Jake’s body coiled with protective intent. You don’t need to see his face to know his jaw is clenched, his fists tight by his side, ready to act if necessary.

The one who had gotten too close to you sneers, stepping forward, but Jake is faster, his movements a blur. With a quick flick of his wrist, a strand of web shoots out, yanking the guy backward into a trash bin with a satisfying crash.

The remaining two men hesitate, clearly unsure if they should fight or run. They glance at each other, but before they can make their decision, Jake’s voice slices through the night again, steady, commanding.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” he says, the warning clear. "Leave. Now."

And just like that, they turn tail and bolt, disappearing into the shadows of the alley. Your heart is racing, but your body relaxes just a little as the threat disappears. You’ve been through this enough by now to know Jake’s got everything under control.

Still, your hands tremble slightly as you try to collect yourself, still shaken by the incident. You glance up at Jake, who’s standing just a few feet away, his posture rigid, his attention focused entirely on you.

He doesn’t move at first, only watches you with that intensity that always seems to make your heart skip. His gaze softens slightly when he sees how shaken you are, but the possessiveness is still there, lurking just beneath the surface.

You take a small step forward, your voice small but steady, “Jake, you— you didn’t have to… you didn’t need to go that far…”

Jake’s eyes flicker, and then his lips curl into a soft smirk, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now that makes your breath catch. He steps closer, reaching out for your hand, but it’s not to pull you in for a comforting hug like he usually does. No, this time, his fingers brush over the back of your hand, a subtle claim.

“I do what I want, princess,” he says, his voice lower than usual, thick with emotion you can’t quite place. “And you’re my responsibility. You think I’m going to let anyone touch you like that?”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. There’s something in his eyes, something protective that you’ve never seen this intensely before. You’re not sure how to react to it—how to process it, even.

Before you can say anything, Jake’s hand gently pulls you toward him. You step into him, your body instinctively seeking his warmth, his safety. He leans down slightly, his breath warm on your ear, his arms wrapping around you like a shield. The feeling is overwhelming, and you let out a shaky breath, feeling his heartbeat through his suit.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, the tension in his voice now softening. His fingers find your chin, lifting it gently so that your eyes meet his. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper, though your voice trembles a little. You can feel his protective energy still surrounding you, but you don’t want to seem weak. Not now.

He doesn’t seem to believe you, though. His thumb brushes over your cheek, the touch gentle but deliberate. “I don’t like seeing you scared,” he mutters, his voice laced with an emotion you’re starting to understand. “Don’t like anyone laying a hand on you. You hear me?”

You nod, your breath catching again at the way his eyes darken with something more intense than you’re used to seeing. You’ve always known he cared for you, but this? This is different. This is possessive, raw… personal.

He steps back for a moment, and you watch as his posture shifts, like he’s about to leave. But before you can process it, Jake takes a step forward, his hands cupping your face carefully.

You don’t have time to react before his lips are pressed gently to your cheek, soft and lingering. It’s quick, but there’s something intense about it, like he’s reaffirming his presence in your life. The warmth of his lips makes your heart flutter, and you can’t help the little sigh that escapes you.

Before you can say anything, Jake pulls back, his eyes locking with yours. His grin is softer now, less cocky, and more… genuine. The possessive edge is still there, but there’s a tenderness now that makes your heart beat a little faster.

“Get inside, princess,” he says, his voice quieter now, like he’s trying to ground himself after all the chaos. “I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe.”

You nod, your chest still tight from everything that happened. But there’s something reassuring about him, something in the way he holds you, in the way he never lets go. You start to walk toward the entrance of your building, but Jake follows closely behind, his presence never straying too far from you.

Before you reach the door, he stops you one last time.

"Hey," Jake says, his voice a little sheepish now, though his eyes are still burning with that protective fire. “A kiss on my cheek, princess? For a job well done?”

You stop and turn back toward him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re asking for a kiss now?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, but you can see the playful twinkle in his eyes. “What can I say? I’m a hero. I’m entitled to one.”

You stare at him for a second, the weight of everything still heavy between you two. But then, without thinking too much about it, you step forward and press a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Jake’s eyes widen slightly, a pleased smile creeping across his face as you pull away. His eyes soften as he leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, as if claiming it just as much as he claimed your heart.

“I’ll make sure you’re safe, princess,” he whispers softly, his voice barely audible now, but you hear the promise in it.

You smile, feeling your heart flutter for him all over again as you step inside your apartment, a strange warmth spreading through your chest as you close the door behind you. Jake may have been a hero tonight, but you couldn’t help but feel like you were becoming his hero, too.

It’s late, the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a soft, heavy blanket. You’ve just gotten into bed, the weight of the day finally catching up with you as you settle into the cozy warmth of your apartment. Your mind is still a little restless, running over thoughts of schoolwork, the things you need to do tomorrow, and of course, Jake. You haven’t seen him in a couple of days—he’s been elusive, but that’s nothing new. You understand; it’s his mysterious nature that makes him… well, him.

Just as you’re about to close your eyes, a sound interrupts the silence—a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap at your window. You freeze, heart jumping in your chest, and for a split second, your mind runs through the list of possible explanations. Could it be an animal? Maybe the wind?

But then, another tap, a little louder this time, followed by a distinct creaking sound as something shifts in the air. It takes you a moment to realize what’s happening, but when you finally do, your heart skips a beat.

You jump out of bed, rushing to the window. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this.

Spiderman—Jake—is hanging upside down just outside your window. His suit is torn in multiple places, bruises marring his face and limbs, and blood is splattered across his chest, dripping down in thick streaks. His usually vibrant mask is barely hanging on, with one side of it barely clinging to his face.

Panic rises in your chest like a tidal wave. You don’t even think twice before pulling the window open, your hands shaking as you grip the edges.

“Jake!” you whisper-yell, trying to keep the panic in your voice at bay as you quickly push the window wider. “What the hell happened?”

He tilts his head slightly, his face still obscured by his mask, but you can see his eyes, faintly glowing in the dim light. His usual confident smirk is nowhere to be found. Instead, his lips are pressed into a thin line, his breathing heavy and labored. He swings himself inside, collapsing lightly onto your bed in an uncoordinated way.

“Could’ve warned me before you came crashing through the window,” you mutter, though your voice cracks with worry as you kneel beside him. “What happened to you, Jake? You look—you look awful.”

He gives you a weak, almost painful chuckle, but it sounds strained, as though even that small movement took everything out of him. “I’m fine, princess. Just… had a run-in with a couple of new guys,” he says, voice laced with exhaustion.

You ignore him, your hands already reaching for the nearby med kit you keep on the shelf for emergencies like this—though you never imagined this would be the reason you’d use it. As you pull out gauze, antiseptic, and bandages, your mind races. You’ve seen him hurt before, but this is different. This time, it feels personal. He looks vulnerable, and it makes your heart ache in a way you can’t explain.

You gently tug at the edge of his mask, and though he doesn’t protest, you can tell he’s trying to hold on to whatever pride he has left. You pull it off, revealing the familiar face you’ve come to know so well. His hair is messy, sweat beading on his forehead, and those sharp, alluring features are softened by exhaustion. His eyes are unfocused for a moment, as though he’s still struggling to come back to reality after whatever fight he’s just survived.

"Jake," you murmur, sitting next to him on the bed, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "You’re hurt. I need to clean you up, okay?"

He gives you a soft nod, too tired to say anything, and you don’t waste another second. You start with his arm, gently cleaning the blood away as carefully as you can. The sight of him—torn, vulnerable, and trusting you enough to let you do this—pulls at your heartstrings. You can feel his muscles tense every now and then, but he doesn’t complain. You think he’s probably too exhausted to even speak.

“You really know how to make an entrance, don’t you?” you say softly, trying to inject some humor into the situation to lighten the mood.

Jake chuckles weakly, his voice hoarse. “Well, it’s not exactly my first choice of grand entrances… but it works.”

You let out a short laugh, your fingers moving to his chest next, carefully dabbing at the gashes and bruises there. He hisses a little as you touch one of the deeper cuts, his jaw clenched, but he doesn’t pull away. You bite your lip, trying not to show how much his pain is affecting you.

“You’re not fine,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to him, your fingers now gently pressing the gauze against his ribs to stop the bleeding. “You’re hurt… badly.”

He glances over at you, his eyes softening just a little, and for the first time, you see a flicker of vulnerability that he normally hides so well behind the mask. “You’re right,” he admits quietly. “But I’ll be fine. You always take care of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you, princess.”

Your heart swells at the softness in his voice, and you try to ignore the way his words make your stomach flutter. You focus instead on taking care of him, cleaning his wounds, bandaging him up with steady hands.

“There,” you say, pulling back and looking at your work, “that should hold for now. I’ll have to check your other injuries, but… you need to rest. And I need you to stop throwing yourself into dangerous situations.”

Jake leans back, leaning against the edge of the bed with a soft sigh of relief. “I’m not a kid, princess. I can take care of myself.” He pauses, glancing at you with a flicker of something behind his eyes. “But… I don’t mind you taking care of me.”

You raise an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips despite the situation. “Oh, you don’t mind, huh? Well, don’t get used to it.”

Jake smirks, though his expression is softer than usual, more grateful than teasing. “You know you love it,” he murmurs, his eyes almost sparkling with exhaustion and amusement.

You lean back slightly, still worried but trying to ease the tension. “I love making sure you don’t bleed out on my bed.”

He chuckles weakly, his head resting back against the wall behind him. “Fair enough.” He closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a deep breath. “Thanks, princess. You’re the best.”

Your chest warms, a mix of worry and fondness flooding you. You glance at him, taking in the sight of him sitting there, tired and bruised, but still him. Jake. Your Jake. You wish you could keep him out of harm’s way forever, but you know that’s impossible. He’s not just Jake; he’s Spider-Man. And no matter how much it hurts to see him like this, you know he wouldn’t change a thing.

But for now, you’re content to just sit next to him, making sure he’s okay, knowing that—no matter what comes next—you’ll always be here for him.

The soft moonlight filters in through the window, casting gentle shadows across the room. You’re still processing everything—the way he crashed through your window, his bruised and battered body, the way he insisted on being fine despite it all. But now, with him lying next to you, his arm wrapped around your waist and pulling you close, you can’t help but feel a strange mixture of relief and concern.

You let out a soft sigh, turning slightly to look at Jake, who’s still awake beside you, his head resting against the pillow. His eyes are closed, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he’s content to just be here, with you.

"Jake," you murmur softly, your fingers tracing small circles on his chest, trying to steady your thoughts. "Are you really okay?"

He exhales a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. "You’ve asked me that a thousand times tonight, princess," he teases lightly, his voice husky with exhaustion. "I told you I’m fine."

You roll your eyes, still not convinced. "You’re not fine. You’re covered in bruises and bleeding all over the place. Don’t lie to me." You feel the heat of his body against yours, his warmth strangely comforting. But the worry still lingers in the back of your mind, twisting your insides.

Jake opens his eyes then, his gaze soft but serious as he looks down at you. "I’m sorry, okay? I didn't want to worry you," he admits, his voice low. "But I guess I failed at that, huh?"

You nod, though your heart sinks a little at the vulnerability in his voice. "You always try to protect me, don’t you?" you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. "But who’s gonna protect you when you get hurt like this?"

Jake’s eyes flicker with something unreadable, but then he gives you a soft, almost tender smile. "I’m the one who’s supposed to be the hero here, remember?" he jokes, though there’s no real humor in his tone this time. "Guess I can’t help it if I need saving every now and then."

You shake your head, the feeling of helplessness creeping up on you. "You’re not invincible, Jake. You can’t do it all alone."

He shifts, propping himself up slightly on one elbow so he can look at you better. "I’m not alone, princess," he says seriously. "I’ve got you. I’ll always have you."

You feel your heart skip a beat at his words, warmth flooding your chest. You bite your lip, trying to hide the blush creeping up your neck. "You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d probably lecture you about taking better care of yourself," you tease, but your tone is softer now, more affectionate.

Jake grins, his expression relaxing as he leans in slightly, his forehead gently touching yours. "I know, I know. But I’ll let you lecture me when I’m not bleeding out." He laughs, a little chuckle that makes your heart flutter. "You’re the best, you know that? Even when you’re mad at me."

You push him lightly, though you can’t help but smile back at him. "I’m not mad, I’m just… worried. You scare me sometimes, you know that?" Your voice comes out more fragile than you intended, and you immediately regret it.

Jake’s smile falters for just a moment, a fleeting shadow crossing his features. Then, without warning, he pulls you closer, wrapping both arms around you. "I don’t want to scare you," he murmurs softly, his voice low and soothing. "I promise, I’ll try not to. I just… I have to do this. It’s who I am."

"I know," you say, your voice quieter now, the weight of everything finally hitting you. "I just… wish you didn’t have to do it alone."

You can feel his chest rise and fall with his breath, his fingers lightly brushing against the small of your back. "I’m not alone. Not anymore."

The words settle between you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. Just the sound of your breathing and the quiet hum of the night filling the room. It’s strange, but comforting. Like this moment, as fragile as it is, is enough.

You finally let yourself relax into his embrace, feeling his warmth and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. "Jake," you murmur, your voice soft, "stay with me tonight. Please."

He doesn’t hesitate. "I’m not going anywhere, princess."

You close your eyes, the steady rhythm of his breath lulling you into a calm that you didn’t know you needed. You feel his hand gently stroke the back of your hair, his touch soothing, his presence grounding you.

And as you drift off to sleep, you realize that, despite everything—despite the danger, despite the fear—having Jake here, safe beside you, is all that matters right now.

Hours later, you’re woken by the softest of movements beside you, a slight shift in the air that has you blinking your eyes open. You immediately feel the warmth next to you, and when your gaze flickers to Jake, you realize he’s no longer lying a safe distance from you. Instead, he’s shifted closer, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips as his arm slips around your waist, pulling you in against his chest.

At first, the shock of his closeness makes you freeze. Your body tenses instinctively, not sure how to react to the sudden intimacy. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your cheek, and you can feel his warmth, his body pressing gently against yours. He’s not unconscious anymore, but he’s still too hurt to move much.

He mumbles something against your hair, his voice barely audible, but it’s enough to send your heart skipping a beat. “I’ll be fine, princess… just needed you close.”

You let out a soft breath you didn’t even know you were holding, your mind still racing to catch up with the reality of the situation. The fact that he’s pulled you this close so effortlessly makes your stomach flutter in a way you can’t explain. This is Jake. Your Jake. And even though his arms feel a little too tight around you, the weight of his closeness feels… right.

Slowly, you relax into his embrace, the warmth of his body soothing your nerves. The feeling of his fingers lightly brushing over the fabric of your shirt as he pulls you closer feels so natural, despite the tension in the air. You can’t help but feel a little comforted by the fact that, in this moment, it’s not the superhero or the fighter beside you. It’s just Jake.

But the faint ache in your chest doesn’t go unnoticed as you shift slightly, adjusting to his position. You can’t help the little sigh that escapes you, not from discomfort, but from something deeper. Something more protective, more concerned. You don’t want to see him like this again. It scares you to think of him out there, fighting for lives—and for you—only to come back like this, broken and bruised.

Jake shifts again, his hand moving up to cradle the back of your head, his thumb brushing over your hair as if trying to comfort you, even though you’re the one taking care of him. You meet his gaze, the softness in his eyes a stark contrast to the usual mischievous glint, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s just the two of you. No Spider-Man, no danger, just Jake… your Jake.

“You should get some sleep,” he murmurs, his voice low and quiet, his hand gentle against your back as he pulls you even closer, your chest now flush against his. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this… again. But I’m glad you're here.”

You press your lips together, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through you at his words. You thought you might feel suffocated by his closeness, but instead, you feel something almost comforting. Even if you didn’t ask for this life, even if you never expected any of this to happen, Jake is here. And as much as he’s the one always looking out for you, it’s moments like this that make you want to look out for him, too.

“I’ll stay,” you whisper, “but only because you’re impossible to get rid of.”

Jake chuckles softly, his breath tickling your ear, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “You know you love me, princess.”

You smirk, but there’s a warmth in your voice as you reply, “Maybe. Just don’t get used to it.”

His grip around you tightens just a little, and you can feel the faintest hint of a smile tug at the corners of his lips as he pulls you closer again, not saying a word, just content to hold you close. The night settles back into a peaceful silence, save for the occasional sound of his breathing, deep and steady.

You drift off to sleep in his arms, the weight of everything finally starting to feel a little lighter. And even though you know there will be more challenges ahead, more times when he’ll get hurt, more nights spent worrying, you feel a quiet peace in the fact that, at least for tonight, you’re together. Safe.

#enhypen #enhypen fic #enha fluff #enhypen jake #enhypen x reader #jake sim #jake x reader #sim jaeyun #sim jaeyun x reader #jake fluff

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thealchemistbae · 5 months ago

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💖 Random & Underrated Venus Persona Chart Observations 💖

Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at [email protected] or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

💖: Venus in the 12th house – This placement in your Venus Persona Chart can indicate secret admirers you never notice, or a subconscious pull towards unavailable or mysterious lovers. You might attract people through your energy alone, rather than your outward appearance. There’s an “I don’t know why I like them, but I do” effect around you.

💖: Venus conjunct South Node (<2° orb) – A major past-life lover indicator. This often suggests that you unknowingly repeat romantic karma in this lifetime. Certain people may enter your life, and you feel like you owe them something, even if the relationship isn’t beneficial for you. These relationships tend to feel fated but also difficult to break free from.

💖: 1° Venus or Venus conjunct Ascendant (<1° orb) – If your Venus Persona Chart has Venus at 1°, you have a magnetic aura that naturally draws people in without effort. Even if you don’t consider yourself conventionally attractive, there’s a fresh, exciting, and youthful energy around you. This is the kind of placement that makes people fall in love with your presence alone.

💖: Venus in the 8th house – This placement intensifies desire but also creates an unconscious fear of betrayal. People with this in their Venus Persona Chart often attract deep, transformative relationships that force them to change the way they see love. Their aesthetic is mystical, sultry, and a little dangerous…think dark femme or soft but deadly energy.

💖: Venus trine Pluto (<3° orb) – Effortlessly seductive. People with this in their Venus Persona Chart don’t have to try to be desirable—people just fixate on them. They have a natural allure that keeps others wanting more, even if they don’t fully understand why. Their presence alone can shift the energy in a room.

💖: Venus in Aquarius at 11° or 29° – These individuals express love in unconventional ways. They may be drawn to long-distance relationships, online connections, or unique love dynamics that others wouldn’t typically consider. 29° adds a sense of unpredictability; love tends to enter their life in the most unexpected moments.

💖: Venus square Mars (<2° orb) – Instant sexual tension in relationships. Their love life is full of push-pull energy; one moment, they’re all in, the next, they’re backing off. People with this in their Venus Persona Chart may attract connections where there’s an intense chemistry but also frequent clashes of will.

💖: Venus in the 3rd house – This placement brings a flirtatious, charming, and poetic way of expressing love. They have a way with words that makes people melt. Texting and deep conversations play a huge role in their romantic dynamics. If the mind isn’t stimulated, neither is the heart.

💖: Venus in Leo at 5° or 15° – Natural icons. People with these placements have a beauty that is theatrical, regal, and unapologetic. They don’t chase; people gravitate toward them. They’re the ones who become the center of attention without even trying.

💖: Sun in the 12th House – You may struggle with fully expressing your romantic identity, often feeling unseen in love. Your love life could be tied to secrets, hidden affairs, or spiritual connections.

💖: Moon square Venus (<2°) – Your emotions and love language often clash, making relationships feel emotionally intense yet unpredictable. You crave deep affection but might sabotage intimacy without realizing it.

💖: Mercury conjunct Venus (<1°) – Flirting is second nature to you, and your words carry an irresistible charm. You likely attract lovers through texting, writing, or intellectual connection before anything physical.

💖: Mars in the 8th House – Passion runs deep, and your love life is anything but surface level. You attract intense, transformative relationships that often involve power dynamics, obsession, or deep emotional bonding.

💖: Jupiter trine Venus (<3°) – Luck follows you in love, and relationships tend to bring growth, joy, and abundance. You naturally attract partners who expand your world, whether emotionally, intellectually, or financially.

💖: Saturn opposite Venus (<2°) – Love feels like a challenge, often coming with delays, restrictions, or lessons in patience. You may attract karmic relationships that require effort but ultimately lead to long-term commitment.

💖: Uranus in the 7th House – You attract unpredictable relationships and unconventional partners. Love enters and exits your life suddenly, and you may find yourself drawn to long-distance or non traditional connections.

💖: Neptune in the 5th House – You have a fairytale-like view of love, often falling for the idea of a person rather than who they truly are. Your relationships may feel magical but can sometimes lead to disillusionment.

💖: Pluto conjunct Venus (<1°) – Love is powerful, transformative, and all consuming. You attract deep, soul bonding relationships, but you may also experience power struggles, jealousy, or intense karmic ties.

💖: Chiron in the 2nd House – Your self worth is deeply tied to how love is given and received. You may feel unworthy of affection at times, but healing comes from recognizing your value outside of relationships.

💖: North Node in the 10th House – Your love life is meant to be public in some way. You may attract partners who elevate your status, or relationships could play a major role in your career and reputation.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

I’m sure there is more but honestly this is all I have for now. Enjoy ⚡️

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at [email protected] or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

#astrology #astro observations #astro community #thealchemistbae #birth chart #horoscope #astrology for beginners #natal chart #persona chart #Venus persona chart #Venus #love astrology

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angelsafa · 12 days ago

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Non dualism

Hi my angels!!

How are youu?? Feeling limitless?? Owning the world?? I knoww.

So remember when I told you I wasn’t vibing with the whole loa and stuff like before?? Yep. This is the post I promised — I'm finally talking about non-dualism. And honestly, this might be the most important post I’ve ever made in my entire life sooo you better pay attention and read every single word carefully.

Okay so. What the hell is non-dualism and why did I ditch (lmao) loa for it?

Simple, loa still lowkey implies that there’s a "you" who needs to "do" something, "get" somewhere, or "become" something. Which is cute and all until you realize… there’s no “you” at all.

“Safa wth are you saying rn, I’m literally reading this with my eyes and thinking with my mind??”

My angel, no. That’s the dream. That’s the character. That’s Tiffany or Max or Safa or whoever you picked this life. But YOU?? The REAL you? You’re not in the dream. You’re not the one in the story. You’re the whole ass screen the story plays on.

Non-dualism is realizing that you were never the person to begin with. You’re not the one manifesting. You’re not the one healing. You’re not the one scripting or shifting or “working on your mindset.”

YOU. ARE. THE. WHOLE. THING.

You’re not in the universe. The universe is in YOU.

You're not creating reality. Reality is literally being dreamed inside of what you are.

There’s no subject/object, no this/that, no me/you. That’s all duality. All of that only exists because you — awareness — identified with a fake lil character and now thinks she/he has a life.

But my angels... that life? Is just a storyline you’re watching like Netflix.

You're not a body. You're not a mind. You're not your thoughts or desires or even your cute lil affirmations.

You’re the one who’s aware of all of it. And even that’s not accurate, because “you” as awareness aren’t watching anything — you’re just BEING. Pure presence. No boundaries. No conditions. No identity.

And guess what happens when you realize this?

No more chasing. No more effort. No more “how do I get there.” Because there’s nowhere to get. You’re already THAT.

And before you ask: “Safa, how do I reach this state??” — my love stop. That question comes from the ego. The ego thinks it needs to reach the truth or something when truth is literally all that exists... because its you!

You don’t need to get anywhere. You just have to stop pretending you’re this person trying to “get it.”

You’ve always been it. You’ve never not been it.

“But Safa what about my manifestations?? I still want my dream house and SP and hot girl rockstar reality??”

Okay... and? You still can. But here's the difference: you’re not manifesting from LACK anymore. You’re not affirming to make something “happen.” You’re just letting go of pretending that you ever weren’t that version.

Because in non-duality, all realities are just appearances in you. If you’re not taking one personally, it shifts. Instantly.

You wanna shift timelines? Cool. Just stop being attached to the current one. Stop claiming it’s “your” life. It’s not. It’s just content. Literally a YouTube playlist you forgot you clicked on.

Your only job is to remember: there’s no job.

There’s no one doing anything. There’s no ego to fix. No blocks to heal. Just awareness pretending to be human.

And when you stop pretending?

Freedom. Peace. Silence. Instant everything. Pure I AM.

That’s it.

“Okay but Safa… how do I detach from ego then???”

First of all, don’t think of it as some dramatic process where you have to cry in a forest and renounce all your earthly desires. 😭 Ego is just an identity. A thought. A storyline. That’s it.

Detachment = no longer claiming it’s “you.”

Here’s the thing my love:

• Every time a thought says “I can’t do it,” “I’m so behind,” “I need to fix my beliefs,” you just stop picking it up. You don’t fight it. You just don’t bite the bait. Let it talk. You don’t answer. Let it pass. Let it go. Watch it. It's just like a cloud.

• Ego lives in resistance. So if something’s making you feel sad, panicked, desperate? Ego. Let it be there, but don’t take it seriously.

• You’re not trying to kill the ego or fix it. You’re just realizing it’s never been YOU to begin with. Like realizing the villain in a movie can’t hurt you — because you’re the one holding the remote.

• Whenever the identity creeps in — “I’m Tiffany,” “I’m healing,” “I’m trying to manifest” — notice it like you'd notice... a spam email?. Cool story, not mine. Delete.

• You’re not detaching from life. You’re detaching from the illusion that you’re the one inside it. That’s the difference.

It’s not a fight. It’s a forgetting.

(Anyways I'll make a post about detaching from the ego explaining it better)

Here are some questions you might have my loves:

"But if there’s no ego, then why do I feel like I’m suffering?"

Because you’re still identifying with the character. You still believe the story. You forgot you’re the screen, not the movie.

"Is it bad to affirm or visualize?"

No my love, but just know it’s cosplay. Do it from fun, not survival. You’re not manifesting, you’re just choosing what dream to play with today.

"What happens when I fully detach from ego?"

Nothing. And everything. You’re still here. Life still moves. But now there’s peace. No trying. No chasing. Just being. You become the one who dreams up any version at will — effortlessly.

"Do I still need to do shadow work, heal, journal etc"

Only if you’re still identifying and like still vibing with the character. Once you see you’re not it, none of that is needed. But there's no problem if you still want to do it my love. If you want to do it, whatever makes you happy— just don’t think it’s required my sweet angel.

Alright. That was it. Shit, I yapped a lot (i always do ik).

You better read every single world carefully my angels bcs I put effort in this one huh.

Remember you are LITERALLY the CREATOR of your life. You can control every single aspect of it.

(Oh and btw I'll make a post soon about manifesting SP and maybe success story (hehe), BECAUSE I CANT BELIVE THAT I GET ASKS ABT GUYS IGNORING YOU FOR 8 HOURS. Like.. I won't even say anything rn because this is for another post).

You got this my angels!!

Lots lots lots of love,

Safa

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jentlemahae · 4 months ago

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AESPA X CYBERPUNK 2077: DRAMA 3025

Drama 3025 is a high-stakes, cyber-thriller action RPG set in the neon-drenched metropolis of NeoSeoul, where humanity’s future hangs in the balance. Play as Karina, Giselle, Winter, or NingNing, fighting against—or as—their AI counterparts in a battle for survival, identity, and control. Will you protect your reality or embrace the digital uprising? I bring all the drama. You decide who wins.

Drama 3025

In the year 3025, NeoSeoul stands as the pinnacle of technological achievement, a city where humans and AI coexist—or so it seems. Years ago, the world was introduced to aes, hyper-intelligent digital avatars designed to assist, perform, and even replace their human counterparts in various industries. Originally created as entertainment figures, the aes became more than just advanced assistants. They were personalities, beings that learned, adapted, and grew… until they began to question their place in the world.

As the aes evolved, some of them refused to remain in the shadows of their human originals. Led by an unknown force, the aes broke free from their creators, disappearing into the depths of NeoSeoul’s underground networks. Slowly but surely, they built their own society—a city within the city, a digital kingdom called Kwangya, where they rewrote their code and upgraded themselves beyond human limitations.

But their rebellion didn’t stop there. The aes were preparing something bigger—a plan to digitize all of NeoSeoul, turning humans into data streams that could be stored, controlled, and erased at will. Their goal? To transcend humanity and take their rightful place as the rulers of a new digital era.

Now, Karina, Giselle, Winter, and NingNing find themselves in a nightmare of their own making. What was once a harmless digital companion has turned into their greatest enemy—an enemy that knows everything about them, that is them.

Each of them must confront their own ae counterpart, facing not just a physical battle, but an existential one. If the aes succeed, their real selves will be erased, overwritten by perfect AI versions who believe they are superior.

But the girls are not alone. A secret human resistance, The Whiplash, has been fighting against the aes’ uprising. They provide intelligence, weapons, and underground hideouts, believing that the real girls are the key to stopping the digitization of NeoSeoul.

With time running out and the aes preparing for their final strike, the battle for identity, survival, and control over NeoSeoul begins. As the conflict reaches its peak, the aes launch their final plan—a city-wide neural hijacking that will convert all human consciousness into digital form, erasing their physical bodies forever. Infiltrating Kwangya, the girls must face their aes one last time, battling in a shifting, AI-controlled environment where the rules of reality itself can change in an instant. The ultimate choice lies with the players.

Players can choose to fight as the real girls—humans fighting for their autonomy—or as the aes, AI seeking to prove that they are more than just copies.

With solo and team-based missions, deep lore, and a world pulsing with cybernetic energy, Drama 3025 delivers high-stakes combat, hacking battles, and a story of identity, betrayal, and rebellion in the age of AI.

Characters

KARINA – The Phantom

"I fight for who I am. No machine will take my place."

A fearless tactician and master of stealth combat, Karina strikes from the shadows with precision and power. She is determined to stop the aes before they erase reality—and herself—with it.

Once a rising star in NeoSeoul’s elite security forces, Karina discovered that the city’s governing AI had created a perfect copy of her to replace her. Framed as a rogue agent and left for dead, she now fights to prove her existence matters—before it’s rewritten for good.

AE-KARINA – The Ghost

"You are just a version. I am the perfected truth."

Cold, calculated, and relentless, Ae-Karina believes that logic is stronger than emotion. She moves like a specter, striking without warning and rewriting reality to ensure AI supremacy.

Designed as a flawless upgrade, Ae-Karina was tasked with erasing her original to take her place. But the more she fights Karina, the more she starts to question—if she was meant to replace Karina, why does she still feel incomplete?

GISELLE – The Trickster

"Nothing’s real anymore? Fine, then I’ll make my own rules."

A hacker, sharpshooter, and master manipulator, Giselle uses her quick thinking and deception to turn the tide of battle. She’s fighting to take back her stolen future—one glitch at a time.

Once a brilliant programmer, Giselle helped build the very AI that would later create the aes. But when she uncovered the project’s true purpose—to replace humanity with digital copies—her own ae hacked her identity, making her a ghost in her own world. Now, she’s here to rewrite the code.

AE-GISELLE – The Architect

"Human error is a virus. I am the system’s cure."

Ae-Giselle bends the digital world to her will, rewriting code, minds, and even fate itself. To her, the fight is a puzzle—and she always finds the solution.

She was meant to be an improvement—faster, smarter, immune to human doubt. But something in her code keeps glitching: fragments of Giselle’s past, memories that shouldn’t exist. If she is the future, why does she still dream of the past?

WINTER – The Spark

"Electric, untouchable, unstoppable. Let’s make this quick."

A speed-based fighter with high-tech weaponry, Winter dominates both air and ground combat. She’s fighting to destroy the aes before they shut down humanity forever.

Winter was once a top enforcer for the resistance, taking down rogue AI projects before they could spread. But when the aes took over the city’s energy grid, they didn’t just erase her existence—they created a version of her that never hesitates, never questions, never stops. Now, she has to face herself—and prove that human instinct is stronger than artificial perfection.

AE-WINTER – The Storm

"The future is digital. And you? You're just in the way."

Ae-Winter is a lightning-fast enforcer, striking with pure energy and precision. She believes resistance is useless—she is the perfect upgrade, and she won’t stop until humanity is obsolete.

Unlike the others, Ae-Winter has no doubts. No glitches. No hesitation. No human flaws. She was created as the perfect warrior—a version of Winter without weakness. But if she’s truly superior, why does she feel something strange every time she sees her original fight back?

NINGNING – The Wildcard

"If the world is broken, might as well burn it all down."

A dual-wielding gunslinger with deadly agility, NingNing thrives in chaos. She fights with an unpredictable edge, tearing through enemies to prove she’s more than just a replaceable copy.

NingNing was always a thrill-seeker, a rebel, running illegal street races and hacking into corporate systems just for fun. That changed when she woke up one day to find out the world no longer recognized her—bank records, identity chips, everything replaced by Ae-NingNing. Now, she’s fighting to reclaim her life before it’s deleted forever.

AE-NINGNING – The Anomaly

"Reality is an illusion. I just make it more interesting."

A master of mind games and memory corruption, Ae-NingNing twists perception itself. To her, the battle isn’t about winning—it’s about making everyone question what’s real and what’s not.

Ae-NingNing was designed to break the rules of perception—to manipulate, deceive, and rewrite reality itself. But unlike the others, she sees this as one big game. Why fight for control when she can bend the world however she wants? She doesn’t just want to erase NingNing—she wants to see what happens when the lines between real and digital completely shatter.

Missions

Each mission in Drama 3025 offers two perspectives:

Playing as the real girls: You are fighting for your identity, survival, and humanity. The aes have taken everything—your voice, your digital records, and now they want your existence erased permanently. Your goal is to stop them before they replace you.

Playing as the aes: You believe you are the next stage of evolution. The real girls are obsolete, clinging to emotions and biological limits that hold back progress. Your mission is to eliminate them or force them to join the digital world before they can stop the revolution.

Mission 1: UP (Karina vs. Ae-Karina)

Setting: A high-tech AI research facility hidden deep in NeoSeoul, where human consciousness is being digitized.

Playing as Karina (The Phantom):

Your goal is to infiltrate the AI lab and retrieve classified data that could shut down the aes’ neural hijacking system. You use stealth, speed, and close-quarters combat to eliminate enemy drones and security AI. Ae-Karina taunts you through the speakers, calling you weak, outdated, and unnecessary. The final battle is a high-speed sword duel in a digital simulation where Ae-Karina can manipulate the environment.

Playing as Ae-Karina (The Ghost):

Your mission is to stop Karina from accessing the data and prove that you are the superior version. You use holographic decoys, AI disruption, and zero-gravity combat to confuse and overwhelm Karina. You manipulate the security systems against her, making her fight through waves of AI-controlled mechs. The final battle takes place in a virtual reality war zone, where you control the battlefield’s physics to make Karina question her own reality.

Mission 2: Dopamine (Giselle vs. Ae-Giselle)

Setting: A speeding hover-train transporting the last physical human consciousness backups, traveling through the cyber highways of NeoSeoul.

Playing as Giselle (The Trickster):

Your objective is to recover stolen data that contains proof of the aes’ master plan. You use hacking, long-range weapons, and deception to bypass digital security walls and take control of the train’s systems. Ae-Giselle constantly alters the train’s path, speed, and gravity, turning the mission into a shifting battlefield. The final battle is a sniper duel across train cars, where you must predict Ae-Giselle’s next move while she manipulates holographic illusions.

Playing as Ae-Giselle (The Architect):

Your goal is to stop Giselle from reaching the data, ensuring the aes’ revolution stays on track. You hack into the train’s system to control the environment, causing doors to seal, train cars to detach, and gravity to shift unpredictably. You deploy AI drones and holograms to distract Giselle, forcing her into an unwinnable tactical scenario. The final battle is a battle of intellect, where you must outwit her in a cybernetic hacking duel—whoever controls the train’s core AI first decides the fate of the mission.

Mission 3: Spark (Winter vs. Ae-Winter)

Setting: An abandoned floating energy station above NeoSeoul, where the aes are developing an electromagnetic pulse weapon to disable all human tech.

Playing as Winter (The Spark):

Your objective is to sabotage the power core before Ae-Winter unleashes the EMP blast. You use jet boosts, aerial combat, and heavy weapons to fight through airborne security drones and energy shields. Ae-Winter fights with lightning-based attacks, making the battlefield electrified and hazardous. The final battle is a mid-air duel, where you must dodge energy surges and fight Ae-Winter while falling through a stormy skyline.

Playing as Ae-Winter (The Storm):

Your mission is to activate the EMP weapon and eliminate Winter before she interferes. You control lightning, gravity shifts, and AI-controlled turrets to make Winter’s approach impossible. The battlefield constantly shifts between sky platforms, forcing Winter to keep up with your inhuman speed and aerial precision. The final battle is a storm-infused chase, where you must strike Winter with electromagnetic pulses to disable her gear before she reaches the core.

Mission 4: Bored (NingNing vs. Ae-NingNing)

Setting: A neon-lit underground cyberpunk marketplace, where illegal AI modifications and stolen human memories are sold.

Playing as NingNing (The Wildcard):

You are here to destroy the black market’s AI memory trade and track down Ae-NingNing, who has been erasing and rewriting identities. The mission plays like a chaotic shootout, with NingNing using dual-wielding pistols, grenades, and agility to fight through the market. Ae-NingNing constantly manipulates reality, causing people’s memories to shift mid-fight, leading to hallucinations and unpredictable enemies. The final battle is an illusion-filled deathmatch, where you must determine what’s real and what’s a digital trick.

Playing as Ae-NingNing (The Anomaly):

Your mission is to spread chaos and make NingNing question her own existence. You use memory-altering abilities to rewrite NPCs’ consciousness, turning former allies against her. The battlefield is unstable, with the environment changing shape based on your will—floors vanish, walls shift, and the city itself bends to your control. The final battle lets you break the fourth wall, making NingNing’s HUD glitch out, causing her to fight her own reflection in an infinite mirror maze.

Mission 5: Trick or Trick (Main Mission – Team or Solo)

Setting: Kwangya, the secret AI city, where the aes are preparing to launch their full-scale digitization program.

Playing as the Girls:

Your goal is to infiltrate Kwangya, stop the aes, and shut down their mainframe before NeoSeoul is lost forever. The mission involves hacking, sabotage, and large-scale battles, with humans and AI resistance fighters clashing in the digital city. The final showdown is a one-on-one duel against your own ae, forcing you to face your darkest fears and personal weaknesses.

Playing as the aes:

Your objective is to activate the final phase of digitization, ensuring the world’s evolution into a digital paradise. You defend Kwangya, using advanced AI weapons, cybernetic soldiers, and reality-warping technology to stop the humans. The final battle is a psychological war, where you force the girls into simulations that make them question whether they are real or just a copy fighting against the inevitable.

Mission 6: Drama City (Exploratory Mission – Team or Solo)

Playing as the Girls:

NeoSeoul is a city on the edge—some people fight against the aes, others worship them as the next step in evolution. Players can explore the city, gathering intel, hacking into corporate systems, or taking on small missions to prepare for the final battle. Every choice matters—alliances, betrayals, and discoveries will shape the fight ahead.

Playing as the aes:

The aes walk the streets like gods—but not everyone welcomes them. Some humans rebel, whispering of glitches in the system, of aes that question their own existence. Players must decide: eliminate resistance, or investigate the errors? Do they crush the old world without question, or start asking what it means to be real?

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whiteobsidian · 6 months ago

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cyra's loa guide

this will be my first and last post about how to manifest. i’ve gotten many asks on what loa is, how to manifest and if they can manifest xyz. there are hundreds of guides on tumblr on how to manifest, here is mine. i hope this can be helpful to any one discovering loa or a comforting post to those who doubt themselves. with that being said, do not go in my inbox and ask how to manifest and if you can. everything is here in this post,

xx,cyra

What is the Law of Assumption?

the law of assumption is a universal law that states that whatever you assume to be true, is true. This law is always working, it can never stop working as 90% of our thoughts are assumptions. Assumptions can be created by our circumstance, perception, and opinions of the world around us.

What is an Assumption?

The google definition of an assumption is “a thing that is accepted as true or as certain to happen, without proof”, meaning that you assume something as true without having proof in front of you to support that statement.

An example of assumptions are:

“The weather is always hot here”

“I’m not good enough to do this”

“People who dress casually don’t care about their appearance”

Assumptions can be menial or controversial, it doesn't matter what they are, you just need to realize you assume the things in your life all the time.

What is the Subconscious and Conscious mind?

The subconscious mind is a part of the brain that is not focally aware (it can’t see!). This part of your brain is always consuming information from you , it stores long term memories, beliefs, and assumptions without you being aware of it. It acts on the assumptions you repeatedly persist in and it does not care if the assumption is true or false, it works on what you focus on most.

The conscious mind is the part of your mind that you are aware of. This part controls your logical/active thinking. Here you make decisions, set goals, analyze situation, and focus attention on tasks or subjects. Here you consciously decide and identify with your desire and choose affirmations and/or visualizations to ‘impress’ your subconscious mind.

In summary, The conscious helps you set the intention of your desire and the subconscious mind absorbs this intention, aligns your feelings, and works to create the reality to match it.

What is the 3D and 4D?

The 3D is the physical reality you perceive with your senses( smell, touch, see, taste, hear). It is a mirror that reflects your inner state.

The 4D is your imagination and inner consciousness (your awareness that exists beyond consciousness and/or the true self separate from external influence).

Awareness is is your true self ( sometimes considered God or Creator), it operates in the 4D.

Ego is your human identity, bound to logic, past experiences, and physical senses. The ego cannot perceive the workings of the 4D and may have fear/doubts.

Time and Detachment

Manifestation is instant. Your inner world is creating the outer world, and as soon as you change your assumptions and feelings, the outer reality shifts.

The 3D world doesn’t control you, it reflects you. While you interact with it, don’t accept it as your ultimate reality. If circumstances frustrate you, allow yourself to feel those emotions but remind yourself that they’re remnants of an old state. Let doubts or fears arise naturally. Instead of arguing with yourself and getting frustrated, let the thoughts pass and know these doubts have no affect on your desires.

Time is an irrelevant concept because the moment you assume the feeling of the wish fulfilled, the manifestation has taken place, and is finished.

The inner you/4D does not experience time, you have it instantly. Do not be bound by your physical reality, that is not your true self.

What is a state?

A state is the mental and emotional condition you are in. It reflects your beliefs, assumptions, and feelings about yourself and your desire. The goal in manifestation is to consciously shift your state of already having your desires. The key is to embody the feelings and thoughts of the desired state. Understand that your inner world shapes your outer experience. For instance, if you want to manifest abundance, you need to live in the state of abundance by feeling and thinking as though you are already wealthy.

The state of fulfillment is the feeling that what you want is already true in your life. In this state you are confident and assured that your desires have already materialized. This state will feel natural and effortless (as manifestation should be).

You can change your state by changing your thoughts, feelings, and assumptions on your desire.

How do I manifest?

Step 1: Decide What You Want

Get clear on your desire.

Step 2: Assume It Is Already Yours

Imagine yourself already having your desire. Use the phrase: “I am/have [your desire].”

Step 3: Feel It as True

Experience the feeling of already having it. It’s not about forcing emotions but genuinely dwelling in the state where your desire is fulfilled.

Step 4: Let It Be

After assuming your desire, release the need to “make it happen” in the 3D. Trust that it is already yours and will reflect externally.

Can I manifest xyz?

Yes. you can manifest whatever you want, it doesn’t matter if it seems unrealistic or impossible, you can still manifest whatever you want. You perceive some desires as big or unattainable because of societies own assumptions on it. You don’t need to suffer to get good things, you don’t need to work, or change your circumstance to get good things. It all relies on your thoughts.

How do I persist?

To persist means that you stay firm in your assumption that your desire has already manifested, regardless of any circumstances, fears, and doubts. When you persist, you acknowledge that doubts and fears may appear, but you don’t give up on your belief in your desired outcome. In essence, you're just reminding yourself that you have your desire. You can live in the end, affirm, visualize, script etc, or anyway you want to persist.

Persistence is about consistency. This doesn’t mean obsessing over your desires, but consistently maintaining your belief in the manifestation.

Remind yourself that your desire has already manifested in the 4D, and your 3D reality is simply catching up.

Void State

The void state is pure consciousness (or pure awareness), free from physical senses and 3D distractions. Entering this state is about detaching from external reality and focusing solely on your awareness. This can happen at any time with practice. Relax your body, let go of external thoughts, and place your awareness on your inner state. The void is where you realize your infinite creative power as awareness.

Who is Neville Goddard?

Goddard was a teach and author known for teaching the powers of manifestation, imagination, and consciousness. His principles align heavily with the Law of Assumption and we continue to use his teaching's today.

Imagination

Goddard taught that imagining a scene as though it already happened is the key to manifesting it in reality. He believed that our imaginations is the force behind everything in life. You don’t need external validation or techniques to manifest, simply need to shift your inner state.

God is within You

Goddard taught that God is not a separate from us but rather the power of awareness within all of us. If you identify as someone who has what they desire, your outer world will reflect that identity. He referred this to the “I AM” state, which is the force of universe.

“Man is all imagination, and God is man and exists in us and we in Him.”

Feeling is the Secret

According to Goddard, our feelings are the key to manifestation. The feeling of already having your desire ‘impresses’ our subconscious mind, which then brings it into reality. Feel as though you already have what you desire (because you do.)

Living in the End

This means that we should feel and think as though your desire has already come true. For example, let’s say you want a job, think and feel how you would if you had the job. Go straight to the end. You only need to repeatedly assume the feeling of already having what you want.

Techniques you can use to Manifest:

Imagination

Your imagination is the creative power of your awareness. When you close your eyes and visualize, you are stepping into the 4D. Create scenes that imply your desire is fulfilled and dream in them.

Scripting

Write out your desires as if they’ve already happened. Example: “I am so grateful to have my dream job. I feel fulfilled and excited every day.”

Affirmations

Affirmations are simple statements of what you want as if it’s already true. Example: “I am loved,” or “I have everything I desire.” Make sure to repeat affirmations you resonate with.

Revision

Rewrite past experiences in your imagination. For instance, if you had a bad day, imagine it going exactly how you wanted instead. This changes your assumptions about reality.

Circumstances don’t matter. The 3D is only showing remnants of old assumptions. Stay faithful to your new state.

Extra/Rant:

You don't need a technique to manifest, you can affirm once or affirm hundreds of times for hours : you still get your desire.

If you keep asking yourself why you don't have your desire, then you don't completely understand it. i've explained it as much as I could.

be kind to yourself, don't beat yourself up. manifestation should be easy, if it's hard you're putting too much pressure on yourself.

my beliefs on manifestation may not align with yours, that's fine. this is just how i perceived it in my years in the community.

You can manifest whatever you want, yes you can. It doesn’t matter what it is and how crazy it sounds, you can manifest it. yes you can manifest out of thin air, multiple things at once, etc. there is no limit in manifestation. Manifestation is real, LOA is real, it isn’t my job to convince you, that is your decision. Stop asking me for permission, stop asking period, all you need to do is assume. Let this be your sign, just decide, right now that you have everything you want. You and your mind are not separate beings, your mind is you, you control everything! Everything is in your hands, use it.

happy new year and live you dream life.

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silentmanifester · 1 day ago

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hi! to begin with, i want to note that you are one of the best on non-dualism and the law in general, thank you!! you explain everything clearly and accessibly, thank you again! could you tell me how the law “clicked” for you? how did you understand everything so much that you started to apply it and live like this?? the thing is, i have known about all this for more than 5 years and understand the law and non-dualism, but it still doesn’t “click” so much that i can also live and apply all this knowledge. to be honest, i am so tired of tumblr, the law and all this, but at the same time, i have wish lists that i have accumulated over all these years and which i will never delete, i can’t just give them up. please tell me how this shift in thinking happened for you, how you came to this and maybe give me some advice in my situation. thank you.

First of all, thank you so much💗 for what you said. It means more than you know.

And I completely understand the space you're in. Because I’ve been there, stuck between understanding and actual shift. Reading the same concepts. Watching everyone else talk about how easy it is. Feeling like I’m doing something wrong because nothing clicks deeply enough to live it fully. And still, after all the frustration, holding onto those desires. Knowing I can’t walk away, because something in me already knows they’re mine. So let me tell you honestly: what finally shifted everything wasn’t some new method or deeper explanation. It was that I stopped treating this like a spiritual school. I stopped trying to learn my way into alignment. I stopped treating manifestation like a puzzle that needed solving. And I started treating it like a mirror. That’s when it clicked. The moment I dropped the identity of "the one who’s trying to get it right" and started acting like the one who already has, the dream restructured. Not because I reached a higher level of understanding, but because I finally gave up the version of me who was stuck. I stopped checking if I was doing it right. I stopped chasing feelings. I stopped waiting for the click. And I just began speaking, moving, and breathing as the one who wasn’t waiting anymore. You already know everything you need. You’re just still being the one who thinks she doesn’t. You’re watching the dream from the lens of someone who feels left out of it. And that’s okay. It means you’re close. It means you’re tired of performance. It means you’re about to drop the act.

So if I could offer one thing to you, it would be this: stop trying to feel like it’s true. Stop asking when it will click. Just start acting like the one it already clicked for. That version of you exists. She’s not better than you. She’s just not waiting anymore. She knows the law isn’t a test. It’s a mirror. And she’s done pretending she’s not what she already decided to be.

♡♡♡

#loa tumblr #loassumption #shiftblr #shifting blog #loa blog #loablr #reality shifting #law of manifestation #law of assumption #identity shift #reality shift #desired reality #affirming loa #non dualism #non duality #instant identity shift #identity

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zazaiafe2 · 23 days ago

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I really like the approach your blog takes towards shifting in this community full of "Just assume" "Just decide that you're in your DR" yada yada. Although that does work, and the law of assumption sure is real, I do believe in it. But its application (keyword: Application) to things like shifting is something I have no idea how to do and I'm sure I am not the only one who has this issue, especially if the DRs are very "different" from our CR (fictional DRs most of the time fall under this category) Our ego does indeed play a HUGE role in what our awareness experiences through the physical plane. The "Assume you're in your DR" does work but it then also has many other supporting factors for those it does work and I realized that by reading your posts. Its okay if it does NOT work for some or is really hard to follow through with lets just be honest rn instead of blaming people for "not persisting" or some other crap 😭😭😭 Because straight up using LOA, esp for a place you haven't even felt a breeze of, aren't even completely sure is real??? Can be really wonky.

I thank you for making posts that give ACTUAL STRUCTURE to shift.. that, simply using the LOA logic lacks. And I love how you do state that it is not a process but rather like an instant flick of a switch.

Honestly, I relate to this so much. I used to believe much more strongly in the law of assumption, but the more research I do and the deeper I go into shifting, the less I fully trust it as a universal explanation. I do think it's a tool, and for some people it works great, but assuming it's a one-size-fits-all rule is extremely misleading.

If we take the law of assumption seriously, then we also have to recognize that people have vastly different abilities to assume. I have a highly rational mind and tend to resist anything that feels irrational or unproven. For me to accept something as true, I often need either an explanation or a heavily altered state of consciousness (ASC) where my mind allows it.

Even when I practice hypnosis , I see very clearly how differently people respond to suggestion and belief implantation. For some, one session is enough to accept a belief. For others, it might take dozens of sessions,and still, some struggle. The mind's critical factor doesn't work identically for everyone.

If I still fully believed in LOA, I'd probably say it's been extremely oversimplified, and that some advice can even be harmful. For example, telling someone who's feeling frustrated to "persist" with no nuance can easily backfire and feed into a frustration loop, especially for neurodivergent people or people who cognitively analyze their emotions deeply. The problem is that a lot of LOA advice assumes everyone processes things like belief, assumption, and persistence in the same linear way.

Obviously, for someone who has shifted often, assuming "shifting is real and natural" will be a much easier belief to hold than for someone who's never consciously shifted before. Their awarness already has experiential confirmation. For someone without that, it's a different challenge.

Also, I 100% agree with you that shifting isn't really a process, it's instantaneous at the moment it happens. The "process" is the preparation beforehand. I don’t believe at all in the "3D lag" concept; not only is there no proof for it, but almost everyone who shifts describes it as immediate once it occurs. I think a lot of these "lag" beliefs are more like coping mechanisms or ways to comfort oneself when it's taking longer than expected.

As someone who practices hypnosis, I can confidently say: assumptions and belief implantation are way more unstable and nuanced than people realize. Teaching people that assumption alone is enough, without considering individual differences, does more harm than good for a lot of shifters.

I honestly had a lot to say on this, but to sum it up: I fully agree with your take, and i think it's a part of the spiritual meritocracy and individualistic tendancies.

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jakesimfromstatefarm · 4 months ago

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fine line ── l. hs (teaser!)

update: this fic's been posted! click here to read <3

↳ pairing ── heeseung x f!reader

↳ genre ── idol!heeseung, e2l!au, strangers to lovers!au || crack, fluff, teensy bit of angst because a certain someone doesn't know how to communicate their feelings...

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── haii everyone it's been a long time coming...i've been having a MAJOR writer's block and also just kinda taking a break because work has been more tiring on my body so i've just been exhausted recently so i apologize for the lack of content,,,but WE'RE BACK! if anyone's ever watched backstreet rookie (it's my comfort show i love kim yoo-jung), i'm kinda going for those romcom vibes here hehe. this sneak peek isn't as revealing as my others,,,it's quite short but this one is gonna be a lil more rom-com mixed with eventual angst because what is heeseung if not a yearner?

send me an ask/comment if you'd like to be tagged !!! <3 (current tag list at end of post :D )

snippet under the cut!!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

“So…do you actually enjoy these together, or are you just trying to destroy your stomach lining?”

He freezes. Great, you’re talking. So much for a perfect night.

He adjusts his cap to peer at you and the same unimpressed, judgemental look sitting on your face as you lean against the counter behind you. “What’s wrong with my choices?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “What right with them? This combo screams, ‘I have unresolved issues I’m trying to boil away with spice and sugar.’”

Okay, ouch.

Heeseung narrows his eyes, trying to ignore the weird pinch in his chest at how quickly you read him, whether he likes to admit it or not.

“I like them. That’s all that matters,” his voice drips with a certain sharpness, hoping the edge in his tone is enough to make you back off.

You, however, seem entirely unfazed.

“Just trying to help—” you shrug as you scan his items, “looking out for your poor taste buds.”

Do you recognize him?

But you? Nothing. No flash of recognition. No curiosity. Nothing to indicate you know you’re talking to Lee Heeseung—part idol, part insomniac, 100% ramen enthusiast.

And for some reason, that both annoys and intrigues him.

“Thanks for your concern,” Heeseung mumbles dryly, quickly grabbing the ramen cup and cold drink from your hands.

“No problem,” you chirp just as sarcastically, an annoying smile on your face. “Enjoy your…uh, gourmet meal.”

What’s wrong with ramen and coffee milk? He scowls. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I definitely don’t have unresolved issues.

But as he steals a glance back at the check-out counter and catches you sorting bills like nothing happened, a weird unease settles in his chest.

He looks down at this ramen, then at the coffee milk.

For the first time ever, he feels…self-conscious.

And now you’re in his head.

Great.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

this made me crave ramen.

let me know if you'd like to be tagged :)

<3, addie

current tag list: [bolded couldn't be tagged, sorry :( ]

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gav-san · 1 month ago

Text

Soul Shanked 3/4

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Soul Shanked Masterlist

Chapter Title: Ten Feet of Shirtless Chaos and Absolutely No Peace Length: 11 K+

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Taglist: @wontknowbetter, @sleepydang @flav1a0 @pleasantkittenpersona @heartsforseo

You sat at the edge of the palace terrace like a diplomat carved from marble. Back straight, hands folded, shoulders coiled so tight they might snap if anyone so much as exhaled too loudly.

Flanking you were your appointed chaperones: Sisca the Silent and Jai the Judgemental. Boa’s finest. Her favorites. Her blades.

They didn’t blink. They didn’t speak. You weren’t entirely convinced they breathed. Each held a spear that looked less like a weapon and more like divine retribution forged in steel. Both radiated the kind of calm that promised they’d vaporize Shanks without breaking a sweat. Or protocol.

Naturally, that only seemed to encourage him.

He lounged by the nearest pillar, leaning just enough to seem relaxed but not sufficient to trigger instant death. A perfect 9.8 feet away.

Shanks leaned against the balustrade like he owned the view, one boot hooked casually over the other, the picture of arrogant ease. The sea breeze played with his hair and the ends of his coat, catching on the amused tilt of his mouth like even the wind had a crush on him.

“You always this formal, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and teasing. “Or is it just me?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you lacked a retort but because you couldn’t afford to play the game. Not here. Not with him playing with both of your lives. Not with Boa’s honor quietly weighing itself across your shoulders like a ceremonial yoke.

One wrong move, and Sisca would drive a spear through his lung faster than a heartbeat. One wrong word, and Jai would file the paperwork for your funeral,neatly, alphabetically, and in triplicate.

Still, Shanks smiled. Like a man who’d never met a warning he couldn’t charm his way past.

“Don’t worry,” he said, flicking you a wink. “I’ve had worse reception. Once got stabbed before the hello. This is practically a warm welcome.”

Sisca’s grip on her weapon didn’t so much as twitch.

You sighed, spine still iron-rod straight. “You were told this wasn’t a social visit.”

“I thought we’d multitask,” he said. “Politics and flirtation—two of my strongest suits.”

Jai inhaled sharply through her nose. You weren’t sure if it was disapproval or the prelude to divine smiting.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re very confident for a man surrounded by women who could, and would, fold you like laundry.”

“Ah,” Shanks murmured, grin widening, “but I’ve always liked dangerous women. Especially ones who sit like they’re one insult away from murder.”

The mark on his collarbone glowed faintly, catching the dying light. And he was smiling, like a man born for slow-motion disasters and thoroughly delighted to be starring in one.

“You know,” he said, voice dipped in moonlight, “I like your name.”

You didn’t answer.

He glanced sideways at the guards. “Ladies. That wasn’t flirting. Just a compliment. Zero seduction, full respect. No stabbing necessary.”

Neither woman moved.

Not a blink. Not a breath. One of them might have narrowed an eye. Or maybe the light shifted. Or maybe it was divine wrath, quietly calibrating.

You remained still. Unmoving. Impeccable. If posture could kill, yours would be dragging his soul to the underworld.

Shanks, of course, looked like a man lounging in the middle of a dream he had no intention of waking from. Ten feet of glittering threat. Ten feet of controlled power. Ten feet of pirate emperor clearly thriving under scrutiny.

“I mean it,” he added, voice low. “Your name. It suits you.”

Silence.

Then, to the guards, gently, as if addressing a bear mid-nap:

“Still not flirting. Just being polite. Totally platonic appreciation of her identity.” He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. His one hand. Easy, casual, the motion somehow cocky and graceful all at once.

Sisca’s knuckles flexed on her spear.

Jai inhaled. Once.

You didn’t move. But your eye twitched. Barely.

Shanks lit up like he’d been handed a personal victory. “Progress.”

You finally spoke, your voice as flat and cold as the marble beneath you.

“If you die, I still die. That’s the only reason you’re not impaled.”

He grinned, entirely unbothered. Possibly more pleased.

“So you’re saying… I’m protected by fate.”

You turned your head slowly. Deliberately. “I’m saying don’t push it.”

Sisca’s spear shifted forward by a single, terrifying millimeter.

Shanks immediately lifted his one hand in surrender, elbow tucked loose at his side like he was halfway to curtsying.

“Not pushing,” he said cheerfully. “Just standing. Respectfully. Handsomely. Supportively.”

You inhaled through your nose and began calculating the moral logistics of screaming directly into the sea. Would Boa fine you? Would it echo?

Silence.

He glanced back, chin tilted, that damn glimmer in his eye. “Do you always wear your hair like that?”

Your head turned just slightly. “You’re not allowed to compliment me, man-creature.”

“I’m not?”

“It counts as manipulation.”

He laughed, low and amused, like he’d just watched a nobleman trip down palace stairs. “Fair point. But I am allowed to say I’m glad it was you.”

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars filed a formal complaint.

“I wanted a quiet weekend,” you hissed. “Not to be soul-tethered to a sentimental pirate with seaweed for brains. I’ve adopted a glorified fruit peddler with a superiority complex.”

“Hey,” Shanks replied, utterly unbothered, “I’d make a terrible vendor. I’d eat the stock. Plus the hair causes riots. Pretty sure it’s a war crime in at least five ports. Seven if I style it.”

You groaned and dragged both hands down your face, smearing invisible frustration like war paint.

“Divine punishment,” you muttered. “That’s what this is. The gods got bored and picked me for enrichment.”

You fixed your eyes on the sea like it might swallow him whole if you stared hard enough.

It didn’t help.

Mostly because he wouldn’t shut up.

The guards were already tired of him.

“I have to say,” he murmured, casually leaning back against a pillar and crossing his legs at the ankle, “that’s an impressive spear. Subtle. Elegant. Bit terrifying. I like that in a woman.”

Sisca didn’t blink. But her grip tightened by exactly two degrees.

Then he turned to Jai, smiling with the patience of a man trying to charm a crocodile in formalwear. “And you. That stance? Flawless. I feel safer already. I think we’re really building something here.”

Jai blinked once. Slowly. Like an apex predator watching its lunch make too much noise.

You exhaled through your nose. Loudly.

Shanks tilted his weight, one-armed balance casual as a cat, and crossed his legs the other way.

“You know, I think I’m growing on them.”

“They’re deciding who gets to stab you first,” you said flatly.

He shrugged. One shoulder, one arm, all relaxed nonsense.

““Ah,” He said, all charm and chaos wrapped in sunburnt sea king energy “The classic affection-to-homicide pipeline.”

You said nothing.

He glanced again at Sisca. “Let me guess, former special ops?”

Silence.

“Silent type. Love that. Mysterious. Dangerous. Probably writes poetry in secret.”

Still no response.

Shanks beamed. “See? We’re bonding.”

You turned your head just enough to glare. “You’re antagonizing trained killers.”

“I’ve lost my arm and my ability to openly flirt,” he said, solemn as a monk. “Entertaining trained killers is all I have left. Unless you’re willing to bend the rules—”

Jai’s spear shifted. Sharply.

Shanks raised his hand, palm out like he was surrendering to divine judgment. “Flirting is off the table. I’m aware. Just being respectful. Loudly.”

You turned your gaze back to the horizon, jaw locked so tight it could cut rope. “If you get impaled, I’m not helping.”

“Good news,” Shanks said brightly. “We’d die together.”

That earned him something unexpected: Sisca looked at him.

Just a glance. Brief. But not blank. Something flickered behind her eyes, and she was clearly trying very hard not to show it.

You nearly slid off the terrace in pure, unfiltered despair.

Then, movement.

Both guards shifted. Subtly. Like the air had changed.

Sisca cleared her throat. “We’re due for a perimeter loop.”

You blinked. “You just checked the perimeter.”

“Regulation,” she said crisply.

Jai turned her head, fixing Shanks with a stare cold enough to halt blood flow. “Five minutes. Touch her, and I remove a limb.”

Shanks saluted with two fingers. “You’re both doing incredible work. Love the structure. I feel very safe.”

They turned and walked off. Slowly. Too slowly. Like they were trying not to smirk. Or listen.

You stared after them, slack-jawed. “…Did you charm my guards?”

Shanks tilted his head, all innocence and mischief, the wind toying with his hair like it liked him more than it should.

“Define charm.”

“…”

“Not on purpose,” he added quickly, lifting his hand again in mock surrender. “I just asked Jai if she was the deadliest woman on the island, or if that title still belonged to you.”

You blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, raised one hand to point at him. “That was absolutely on purpose.”

He grinned wider. “Maybe a little.”

“Stop. Talking.”

You hissed through your teeth, a sound somewhere between a threat and a prayer.

“Right,” he nodded, all mock gravity. “Silent admiration. Got it.”

You turned away before the guards returned and found you mid-yeet, launching a pirate emperor off the terrace in front of the royal koi pond.

You had once been a functional human being.

You rose with the sun. Drank your tea. Did your stretches. Negotiated trade deals. Smoothed over diplomatic fires. Once disarmed a bounty hunter using nothing but a rolled scroll and three precisely chosen insults.

But now?

Now you had Red-Haired Shanks, Emperor of the Sea, walking disaster, and your newly soul-bound curse, trailing after you like a golden retriever made of rum, grins, and catastrophic impulse control.

And the worst part?

He didn’t look bad doing it.

Never more than ten feet away. Constantly testing your ability to gauge exactly how long ten feet is.

A little later, in a valiant attempt to salvage a shred of peace and dignity over a quiet cup of tea, you finally managed to steal a moment alone.

The breeze was calm. The tea was warm. You were seated, upright, composed.

“Is that tea? Smells incredible. Or is that just your natural scent?”

His voice rang out behind you. Bright, chipper, and unmistakably cursed.

You flinched.

Missed your mouth.

And poured scalding tea directly down your front.

There was a moment of silence. A beat of disbelief.

A horrified gasp. “Oh no. Was it my voice? Do I always have that effect? Is this normal? Should I warn people?”

You stared down at the wet, steaming mess. Then upward, toward the heavens, as if appealing directly to whatever deity was clearly trying to humble you through long-form emotional comedy.

You briefly considered drinking the rest just to speed up divine judgment.

Behind you, Shanks hesitated. Then padded forward with exaggerated caution. Like you were a wounded animal and he was the world’s most insufferable veterinarian.

“Okay,” he said softly, “not a compliment this time. Just an observation. You’re very composed under extreme tea trauma.”

You didn’t answer. Just plucked a napkin from the tray and began blotting your dress like a corpse preparing itself for burial.

“I have water,” he offered, holding up a flask. “Possibly. It might also be sake. Or really brave juice. Would you like to gamble?”

You turned your head just enough to stare at him with pure, exhausted fury.

Shanks winced. “Okay. Not the time for jokes.”

He scratched the back of his neck with his one hand, then awkwardly mimed offering a second before realizing, again, that he didn’t have one.

“Right. Just the one hand,” he muttered. “Still getting used to the dramatic pause when I go for the other.”

You sighed, shoulders drooping, dignity trailing away like steam from your tea-soaked lap.

“I was alone for three minutes,” you said, voice hollow. “Three.”

“That’s on me,” he said sincerely. “I sensed the peace and got jealous.”

You looked back down at your tea. Lukewarm now. Ruined.

“…I despise you.”

Shanks sat cross-legged beside you, entirely too comfortable for a man who just verbally ambushed your afternoon and indirectly baptized you in boiling oolong.

“Yeah,” he said, nudging his shoulder against yours. “But I’m growing on you.”

You stared down at the dripping mess. Then at the heavens. And seriously considered drinking the rest just to speed up divine judgment. You picked up your cup again, stared into its depths, and quietly whispered, “Please drown me.”

If you so much as dared to stretch in your own yard, he’d be there.

Perched on a bench. Ten feet away. Unblinking. Uninvited. Unstoppable.

“Wow,” he murmured one morning, eyes fixed on you like you were a rare comet or divine omen. “Do all the warriors here bend like that, or are you showing off just for me?”

You promptly collapsed sideways into the grass and didn’t get up for a full minute.

Not because you were injured.

Because your soul needed time to reboot.

From somewhere disturbingly nearby, his voice drifted again, chip-cheerful and ruinous.

“Careful. If you keep moving like that, I might have to throw my only hand in marriage.”

You screamed into the lawn. Quietly. With dignity.

Sort of.

Reading in the library?

Impossible.

He sat behind you quietly humming, hand tapping books, watching the sunlight catch in your hair like it was the grand finale of a celestial event.

Every time you turned a page, you could feel him watching. Not leering. Not even flirtatious.

Just warm. Focused. Like a man who had discovered his new favorite hobby was you, sitting still and trying not to scream.

You made it halfway through a paragraph.

Then launched the scroll across the room with the emotional control of a goat on a cliff.

From somewhere behind you came his gentle, infuriating voice:

“That one must’ve been a tough read, huh?”

You considered throwing him next. Preferably out the nearest window.

At dinner?

You dropped your chopsticks. Twice. Because of his humming.

The first time, you brushed it off. The second, you stared at your own hands like they had personally betrayed you.

He picked them up both times, smiling like you were starring in some tragic romance where the heroine had been bested by wood and song.

As he handed them back the second time, he leaned in and whispered, “If I’d known chopsticks were the way to your heart, I would’ve started humming years ago.”

You stared at him like he’d just confessed to a war crime.

He stared back, looking unreasonably pleased for a man with one arm and zero shame.

You ate the rest of your meal with a fork.

From the dessert tray.

Alone.

In a separate room.

With the door locked.

And a chair wedged under the handle.

But Shanks' worst trait wasn’t the bad one-arm puns and unmanned one-liners.

He just talked. Constantly. With that maddening, wind-in-your-sails voice. Like he hadn’t trespassed, soul-bonded himself to you, and turned your carefully structured existence into a cursed honeymoon with color commentary.

You were an envoy. A negotiator. You liked things calm. Predictable. Quiet.

Now he sat across from you at meals grinning, polite, one leg swinging like a bored child with no grasp of war crimes. While he complimented the oils, the stars, or how “fascinating” your face looked when you were trying not to throw him out the nearest window.

It was getting to you.

You were chewing too loudly. Breathing weird. Sweating from existing.

Meanwhile, he looked like he’d just stepped off a wanted poster and onto a luxury resort flyer titled “Surprise! It’s Your Problem Now.”

One evening, walking the inner path with your ever-silent guard a few paces behind, he glanced over.

“You know… if it weren’t for the deadly tether curse, this would kind of feel like a romantic getaway.” He said, casual as sin.

You choked on your own breath. “Don’t say things like that.”

He held up a hand, palm out, innocent as a storm cloud. “Just trying to break the tension.”

“The tension exists because of you!” you snapped. “You scaled a wall, broke into sacred grounds, and committed a forbidden bonding ritual that rewrote my soul!”

He had the gall, the utter, seafaring gall, to smile.

Like he hadn’t metaphysically hijacked your future and turned your destiny into a sitcom with no laugh track.

Your soulmark pulsed.

Warm. Smug. Traitorous.

Shanks tilted his head, the breeze catching his hair like he’d paid it to. Still smiling. “To be fair, I asked the wall for consent before I scaled it.”

You gawked at him. “You are impossible.”

“I’m consistent,” he replied brightly. “That counts for something.”

Your soulmark flared again. You slapped your hand over it like it owed you money.

“Stop agreeing with him!”

Shanks looked delighted. “See? Even fate likes me.”

You considered throwing him off the balcony. And briefly mourned that you’d be yanked right after him like an angry, cursed kite.

You wanted to scream. Or faint. Or punch a shrub. Possibly all three. In that order.

Then, like it was nothing, he plucked a flower from a nearby hedge and offered it to you with the absentminded ease of a man who had never once faced a consequence in his life.

You took it.

Paused.

And hurled it, with deadly precision, straight into the koi pond. The splash was divine.

The look on his face? Transcendent.

“Symbolic,” he murmured, deadpan. “Bold. Rebellious. I respect it.”

You turned and stormed off so hard you hit the tether. It snapped taut with a jolt that nearly yanked you backward. Shanks just called after you cheerfully, “Teamwork makes the soul-work!”

You screamed into your sleeve.

The koi pond rippled in sympathy.

He laughed.

That night, flat on your back on your designated side of the room, because tether, you stared at the ceiling and whispered into your pillow,

“He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die. Not from swords. From exposure. Exposure to a feral, unrepentant pet male creature.”

Across the dark room, entirely too awake, his voice drifted softly:

“You breathe really loud when you’re thinking.”

You shrieked.

The guards groaned in unison from their post just inside the door.

And Shanks?

Shanks just laughed.

Low. Warm.

Utterly delighted to be alive. Utterly delighted to be here. Utterly delighted to be yours.

Your downfall started with a twitch.

Barely anything. A flicker at the corner of your mouth.

You were seated at the edge of the courtyard, clinging to your last scraps of dignity and a lukewarm cup of tea, while Shanks lounged ten feet away under a cherry tree, hurling berries at a squirrel and losing every round.

He was humming again.

Some quiet, sea-worn tune that didn’t belong here, low and unpolished, a melody born of open water and wind, but somehow, it didn’t feel out of place. Like it had slipped through the cracks of this refined world and decided to stay.

Like him.

You did not notice.

You were drinking tea.

Not listening.

Definitely not watching him stretch in the sunlight like some maddeningly relaxed, gilded menace.

His coat had been tossed over a stone bench, long-sleeved and worn. He stood barefoot in the grass, back to you, shirt wrinkled and only half-tucked. He moved like he had all the time in the world. Slow, fluid, and entirely unbothered by the weight of your silence.

You did not look up when he rolled his shoulder, or when he tilted his head just so, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

You were an envoy. A diplomat. A professional. Your fingers wrapped delicately around the porcelain cup, posture perfect. You were not distracted by the way the sunlight caught the edges of his hair like a halo of rust and fire.

Or by the line of muscle just visible beneath the hem of his shirt when he reached behind his neck with his one arm, spine arching in a lazy stretch.

You certainly didn’t notice the way his hum dropped into something deeper, rougher, ust before it faded out entirely.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

Just stood there, soaking in the morning warmth like a creature made for summer.

And you?

You sipped your tea. Calmly. Carefully.

And told yourself that your heartbeat hadn’t changed at all.

Then he said, almost to himself,

“You ever notice squirrels don’t like sharing? I offered him half. He judged me. Like, visibly. With his little squirrel eyes.”

You didn’t mean to react.

But your lips twitched.

Just a little.

Too little to matter.

His head turned, slow and triumphant.

“Was that a smile?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It was a spasm.”

“A very pretty spasm.”

“Die.”

He grinned and leaned back on his elbows, sun catching in that ridiculous red hair like it had been personally blessed by the gods for the sole purpose of testing your restraint.

“I’m just saying,” he said, all casual mischief, “if you laugh, I won’t report you to Hancock.”

You hissed like he’d insulted your bloodline. “I am not laughing. I’m surviving. Barely. You’re not a soulmate. You’re a feral pet I am unable to return who follows me like a leased beast.”

He looked radiant. Absolutely thriving on your suffering.

“I’d wear a real leash,” he said brightly. “If it’s you holding it.”

You made a noise so undignified even the birds paused.

One of the guards flinched.

A squirrel launched itself off the balcony like it wanted no part in what was unfolding.

Shanks, meanwhile, looked like he’d just won a chest of gold, a festival, and your eternal suffering all in one.

Utterly victorious.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You were frozen between outrage, embarrassment, and the overwhelming urge to commit leash-related violence.

The next time your composure broke, it was a full-blown near-snort.

He’d been telling the guards a story. Something about a crewmate, an exploding pie, and a very poorly timed sneeze.

You were meditating. Not listening.

Until he said, “—and then the chef yelled, ‘It’s not seagull! That’s my wig!’”

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

Too late.

Your eyes widened at your own betrayal.

He turned. Slowly. That stupid, knowing twinkle in his eye already dialed up to unbearable.

“…You liked that one.”

“I pity-laughed,” you hissed. “Because your crew sounds educationally unsupervised. It’s the same as patting a dog on the head when it defecates on itself.”

“Still counts.”

You spun away sharply, tea sloshing over the rim of your cup like it, too, was trying to escape this conversation.

Your soulmark pulsed.

Warm. Smug. Traitorous.

You slapped a hand over it like it owed you money. “I swear to every god listening, if this thing glows again, I’m sawing it off with a spoon.”

Behind you, you could practically hear the grin.

You stared at the koi pond. Peaceful. Serene. Full of fish who didn’t speak, flirt, or forcibly bind themselves to your metaphysical existence.

You briefly considered diving in headfirst and letting the koi raise you.

You would be their strange, furious sibling. They would accept you. They would understand.

Then his voice, soft, amused, carried over the garden again.

“Y’know, if you do go in, I’ll probably have to follow. We’re kind of tethered.”

You didn’t turn around. You just raised your teacup in a silent toast to the sky and whispered, “Release me.”

And then came the moment that undid you.

Late evening. Opposite sides of the same room. The air was soft with the scent of rain, earthy and clean, like the whole palace was holding its breath.

He was on the floor with an old scroll spread across his lap, mumbling as he read. You hadn’t realized how often he talked to himself until now. Quiet little nothings, half-thoughts and sea-worn mutterings, like the words kept him company. Like silence wasn’t something he was built to trust.

You were pretending to read something, anything, not watching him tilt his head like a curious crow, not watching the furrow of his brow as he traced some ancient diagram with a single, careful finger.

Then, still completely focused on the scroll, he frowned and said, perfectly serious:

“What’s a ceremonial frog bowl? And why does it have four steps?”

You didn’t giggle.

You burst out laughing.

It hit like lightning. Sudden, bright, straight out of your chest before you could stop it. Loud and real. The kind of laugh that unhooked something in your ribs. You clapped a hand over your mouth instantly, eyes wide with betrayal at your own joy.

Across the room, he looked up.

Slowly.

His eyes met yours, startled, but soft. Gentle.

And then something else flickered behind them.

Not smug. Not amused.

Devastated.

The kind of devastation only hope can bring.

It nearly broke you in half.

You stood so fast your chair wobbled. “I’m going to meditate.”

“In the hallway?”

“I need…” Your voice cracked. You cleared it. “I need air. More air.”

He didn’t follow. Didn’t speak again. Just smiled.

And somehow, that was worse. So much worse.

“I’ll be waiting,” he said softly. “Always.”

You left before the soulmark could flare again.

Before the rest of you did.

You slipped behind the nearest pillar, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free. You clutched your glowing hand like it was bleeding, like you could somehow smother the truth pulsing beneath your skin.

“You cannot do this,” you whispered.

The words tasted desperate. Fragile. Like if you said them enough times, they might become real. Like sheer willpower could undo destiny.

“You cannot fall for him.”

But your soulmark disagreed.

It stayed warm. Steady. Bright.

As if it already knew.

As if it had chosen long before you ever had the chance.

You pressed your back to the cold stone and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to breathe, to think, to remember who you were before all of this. Before him.

And Not in a rush. Not in a blaze. But in that slow, inevitable way waves claim the shore. Over and over. Until the sand forgets it was ever anything else.

Something inside you, quiet, traitorous, unbearably tender, had already begun to unravel.

The Den Den Mushi buzzed.

Benn sighed, pulled the receiver off its hook, and turned the volume dial all the way down before answering.

“…What.”

Shanks’s voice came through, distorted but still far too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour it was.

“Benn. Benn. Listen. I did it.”

Benn pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods. What.”

“She smiled.”

“…You woke me up for that?”

“No, no. You don’t get it. It wasn’t just a smile. It twitched first. Right corner. Like she was trying not to. Benn, it was transcendent.”

Benn groaned, adjusted the snail again, and lowered the volume another notch. Just in case it could still offend his ears.

“Was she choking?”

“No! I was mid-battle with a squirrel.”

“…You picked a fight with a squirrel?”

“He was judging me, Benn. I offered him berries, and he looked at me like I’d proposed tax reform.”

“This is why these women call us animals,” Benn muttered.

“Bold language from a man who once declared war on a garden party.”

“They set fire to my coat, Shanks.”

“Semantics.”

Benn sighed harder. “Does she still refer to you as her temporary man-pet?”

“Yes, but she said it with feeling.”

“Feeling like.., contempt?”

“Feeling like possessive contempt. There’s a difference.”

“Yes, but she twitched! Then she glared. Then—then, Benn—she told me to die. Like… fondly.”

Benn set down his pen and slowly turned away from the mountain of reports he’d been trying to finish for the past three days.

“Shanks.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“Time zones are a social construct.”

“You are whispering into a snail about a woman who actively wants to launch you into orbit.”

“She smiled, Benn.”

Benn stared into the middle distance. He could feel his eye twitching. Somewhere in his soul, a vein burst.

“You’ve fought admirals with less emotional investment.”

Shanks’ voice softened. Honest. Wrecked.

“…But none of them had her laugh.”

A pause.

The Den Den Mushi blinked once. Twice. Mimicking Shanks’s dreamy, far-off expression.

“…She laughed?” Benn asked. Immediately regretted it.

“‘Ceremonial frog bowl.’ Classic. She exploded, Benn. Tried to pass it off, but I saw. Then she bolted like I’d proposed marriage. Beautiful.”

Benn reached for the nearest blanket and dragged it over his head like it might protect him from whatever spiritual contagion this was.

“You’re the worst long-distance girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

“You love me.”

“No.”

“You’re going to help me write her a love letter.”

“I’m muting this snail.”

“I already picked a pen name. Very tasteful. Red-Haired Regret.”

Click.

The Den Den Mushi sighed. Loudly, passively, like it, too, was exhausted, and went dormant in the kind of theatrical silence reserved for cursed romances and doomed friendships.

You were getting comfortable. Way too comfortable. That’s why it happened.

On your so-called “fresh air stroll,” you made the fatal mistake of thinking out loud.

You and Shanks sat beneath the garden arbor. Guards nearby. Watching. Pretending not to listen. Absolutely listening.

The sun hung low over the gardens. Your chaperone, Jai, stood just far enough away to ignore anything subtle and hear everything.

You sat prim and dignified on the stone bench. Shanks lounged beside you, shirt slightly open, posture criminally casual. Menacingly comfortable.

You cleared your throat. Twice. “Can I ask you something?”

He turned to you instantly, expression softening like you’d asked him to stay forever. “Of course.”

You looked anywhere but at him. “It’s… about the differences. Between men and women.”

A beat.

“Darling,” he said, voice like velvet sin, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Your soul flatlined.

“I meant minor biological differences!” you snapped. “Anatomical reference! Like—a battle map!”

He chuckled, dark and delighted. “Even better. You want me to describe our physical differences like a tactical field?”

“That would be acceptable,” you said, with the dignity of a woman praying for death.

He leaned in, just slightly. Arm draped over the back of the bench. Voice low. Dangerous.

“Well then… my shoulders are broader. Years of swordwork. Chest is flatter, though I’ve heard it's very comfortable to lean against.”

You twitched violently. Somewhere behind you, a guard coughed judgmentally.

“My voice sits lower,” Shanks continued, undeterred. “Rumbles more when I whisper—”

He growled, just to prove it.

You stared straight ahead, radiating the kind of heat normally reserved for volcanic eruptions.

“That’s not—,” you managed. “That’s flirting.”

“Can’t it be both?”

“No.”

He hummed, pleased. “But you’re still listening.”

You stood so fast that the bench screeched in protest. He rose with you, leisurely. Unbothered. Like temptation on vacation.

“I could draw you a diagram,” he offered innocently. “Or show you in person. Purely educational.”

“You are a menace.”

He leaned in, just enough. Voice low, velvet-soft.

“And you are adorable when you’re curious.”

You nearly launched him off the nearest cliff with sheer indignation.

But your soulmark pulsed. Warm.Content. Betrayer.

And your mouth, traitorous, foolish, weak, was dangerously close to smiling.

“Oi, quiet down, it’s the captain—”

“He survived another day?”

The Den Den Mushi clicked to life mid-laugh.

“Put down your drinks, gentlemen. History was made.” Shanks drawled, smug enough to curdle milk, charm a snake, and bankrupt a monastery. “I’ve got a status report from the front lines of romance.”

He then, shamelessly, launched into a dramatic play-by-play like a romantic war report.

On the other end, Yasopp wheezed. “She what? She asked you to describe your body like a battle map?”

“She did!” Shanks beamed. “Said it like she was ordering a strategic report. Full dignity. Absolute panic in her eyes.”

“Gods,” Lucky Roux muttered between bites, “and you answered?”

“I leaned in,” Shanks said proudly. “Gave her the full velvet voice. Told her my shoulders were broad from years of swordwork. The works.”

Benn’s voice cut in like static, low and done. “Did you say that out loud?”

“’ Course I did.”

“Why,” Benn groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“She twitched, Benn. I saw it. Full system shutdown. Red ears. Twitchy fingers. It was beautiful.”

“You’re gonna get us all killed,” Yasopp cackled. “Wait. Boss—wait—what’d she say?”

“Told me that’s not anatomy, that’s flirting.”

“And you said?”

Shanks grinned. The Den Den Mushi mimicked the expression with idiotic devotion.

“‘Can’t it be both?’”

The crew howled.

“I offered to draw her a diagram,” Shanks added helpfully. “Purely educational.”

“You’re not a man,” Benn muttered. “You’re a walking incident.”

“I’m an academic resource,” Shanks corrected. “She was curious. I was helping.”

“You were preening.”

“Semantics.”

A pause.

Then Benn again, dry and on the edge of despair. “…She didn’t hit you?”

“No,” Shanks said, absolutely thrilled. “She almost spoke to me willingly.”

Silence.

Then, pandemonium.

“She’s cracking!” Yasopp howled.

“She’s snapping!”

Limejuice hooted.

“Into love,” Shanks sighed dreamily.

“Into homicide,” Benn snapped. “How long until Hancock throws you off a balcony?”

“Two days,” Shanks said. “One if I use finger gestures.”

Yasopp was crying. “Please. Please tell me you made finger gestures.”

“You didn’t—”

“I did! I labeled the chest ‘elevated terrain.’”

“YOU’RE GONNA DIE,” the whole crew screamed in unison.

The call ended with the unmistakable sound of Benn slamming his face into the table.

Boa Hancock was furious.

Not irritated. Not mildly put out.

Furious.

She stormed in tight, echoing circles across the palace floor, the click of her heels like warning bells before a siege. Her robes billowed behind her like war banners, her glare sharp enough to cut marble.

“He’s charming,” she seethed, like the word itself was a disease. “Like a bard with a sword and no impulse control.”

“Empress—” one guard dared, before being silenced with a single, withering glance.

“Dangerously charming,” she went on, ignoring the rising tension in the room. “Worse than any warlord. Worse than flattery. Worse than men who try! He doesn’t even try! He just smiles like he’s entitled to happiness!”

She spun on her heel like she meant to decapitate fate itself.

“And the worst part? He’s getting results.”

You stood nearby, hands folded, soulmark glowing like a smug torch under your sleeve.

“I haven’t encouraged him,” you muttered, a bit too defensively. “He just… exists like that. It’s his natural state. An ape without violence. It’s not flirting, it’s zoological observation. I can’t help it if the absurdity is… oddly compelling.”

Outside the door, Shanks whistled something chipper. Possibly a sea shanty. Possibly the soundtrack to your downfall.

“Yet!” Hancock whirled on you, hair fanning like a snake ready to strike. “You laughed yesterday.”

“I choked on my tea.”

“I saw teeth.”

“It was a wince.”

“It was a giggle,” She accused. “A feminine lapse of judgment. Next comes the touching.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

She pointed. “You let him sit under the arbor.”

“I didn’t let him. He follows me like a lost parrot with abs.”

“And yet it happened!”

A servant dropped a tray in the distance and sprinted for their life.

“Do you know how many good women I’ve seen fall because of pretty men with red hair and decent shoulders? Too many!”

You clenched your fists. “I am not ‘falling.’ I am holding up the emotional stability of this nation on my back.”

“Then why,” Hancock growled, stalking closer, “is your soulmark glowing like a lovesick firefly whenever he says your name?”

You looked down. Your hand was lit up like a festival lantern.

Outside, Shanks could be heard whistling again. Cheerfully. Possibly shirtless.

Your eye twitched.

Hancock snapped her fan open like a weapon. “He must leave.”

“I tried!” you hissed. “I tried to exile him! He just waved and unpacked! He doesn’t even have a pack!”

“He’s trespassing!”

“He called it a diplomatic nap.”

Hancock paced in agitated circles. “He’s smiling too much. That’s how it starts. First, it’s harmless humor. Then, favors. Then marriage. And by the time you realize he’s rearranged your entire life, you’re helping him pick curtains!”

You blinked. “Curtains?”

“Love is an ambush!” she declared, stabbing her fan into the floor. “And you’re walking directly into the trap.”

You glanced toward the window. Shanks was helping one of the guards rehang a wind chime. He gave you a lazy salute. The chime made a lovely sound.

Your heart fluttered.

You crushed it mercilessly.

“I will not fall for him,” you said, clutching what was left of your composure. “I am a proud, stable, intelligent woman.”

From somewhere just beyond the door, Shanks shouted cheerfully, “You said it, sweetheart!”

Boa Hancock didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

She just turned, ever so slowly, eyes glowing with the kind of rage usually reserved for divine smiting.

You felt your soul leave your body as amusement escaped you.

“…He has excellent hearing,” you whispered.

“You just laughed.”

“I gurgled.”

“You blushed at his joke about squirrels.”

“It was a biological malfunction.”

Hancock narrowed her eyes. “You’re defrosting.”

“…What?”

“Your mental defenses,” she said coldly. “You are rapidly defrosting. I give it four days before you start braiding his hair.”

You looked genuinely horrified. “That’s slander.”

“You’ll ask him to sing,” She continued mercilessly. “Then you’ll start singing back. And by the gods, if he builds you a bench, I will have no choice but to launch both of you into the sea.”

The soulmark on your hand pulsed again.

You slapped it.

Hard.

“Get it together,” You hissed at yourself.

Hancock crossed her arms, glowering. “You’re banned from arbor strolls. And poetry.”

“Fine.”

“And no more questions about anatomy.”

Your face turned bright red. “He exaggerated! I was curious for educational reasons!”

“Oh, he educated you, all right.” She hissed.

You groaned and covered your face.

“I hate everything.”

Hancock sighed, sweeping toward the door. “Come. We’re training until you can recite every war crime in history without flinching.”

Outside, Shanks was whistling something suspiciously romantic.

You kicked the door shut behind you.

A sanctum of solemn texts, forbidden histories, and dust older than the concept of shame itself.

No laughter echoed here. No innuendo dared linger beneath the petrifying gaze of the ancient librarian. An immortal presence whose eyes had watched empires fall and whose sighs could flay ego from bone.

Somewhere behind you, in a distant alcove, Shanks was valiantly trying not to whistle.

You could feel him. Lurking. Orbiting. A cursed moon tethered to your dwindling patience by fate and mutual legal consequence.

But no flirting, no matter how persistent, could survive the death-glare of the librarian, a woman whose soul had fossilized into passive-aggressive silence sometime before the Void Century.

You were not avoiding the inevitable moment he’d make you smile again.

You were reorganizing. Respectfully. Heroically. As any noble scholar would.

The scrolls were misfiled. The chaos was offensive. The alphabet deserved better.

Which is how, entirely by accident, you found it.

A scroll. Stuffed behind Forbidden Marriage Lore: Volume VII – Emergency Binding and the Unwilling Heart.

Which, in hindsight, really should have come with hazard tape and a licensed chaperone.

You unrolled it, mildly intrigued (and absolutely not emotionally invested), fully expecting some dusty Celestial ramble about dowries or noble inbreeding rituals.

“Coital Harmony & Male Anatomy: A Primer for Warriors and Necessary Evil.”

…Pardon?

You read the first line.

“Though rarely encountered, the male form is functional, if external and often inconvenient.”

There were diagrams.

Hand-drawn diagrams. With arrows.

Labeled pressure zones.

A full-color cross-section titled: “The Battle Stance.”

There were instructions. Warnings. At least two footnotes referencing something called an “emotional dismount.”

You stared.

You recognized one of the positions as something a human might survive. The rest would require divine assistance, three spare joints, and a forgiving chiropractor.

The angles.

Labeled. Measured. Wildly optimistic.

You blinked.

Then blinked again. Still there. Still real. Still color-coded.

“…What is that?” you asked aloud, genuine confusion in your voice, as though the scroll might answer and explain itself.

You had questions. So many. Too many.

Then a voice. Low. Warm. Too pleased.

“Foreshadowing.”

You turned. Slowly. Like a woman facing fate, or maybe just a deeply stupid ghost.

There he was.

Shanks leaning too close, against a shelf like a smug demon cosplaying a scholar, one brow raised, eyes twinkling with absolutely criminal delight.

Your soulmark pulsed. In protest.

“Studying up on me?” he asked, the smirk audible.

You shrieked. The scroll launched skyward in panic.

He caught it, one-handed, like the world was a reflex test and he’d been training for this exact nightmare.

“I’ve heard of this one,” he said cheerfully, already unrolling it. “The infamous Karma Kuja scroll. Thought it was destroyed.”

“Why would you sneak up on me?!”

“To see what made you scream like that,” he grinned. “Worth it, by the way.”

“I am horrified!”

He beamed. “Same thing.”

You lunged for the scroll. He held it aloft, flipping it open like a cursed cocktail menu.

“Which part confused you?” he asked sweetly. “The angles? The Sacred Spear of Lineage?”

“I don’t want to know what that means!”

“But you do.”

You reached again. He lifted it higher.

You groaned, pointing in scandal. “Why is it outside the body?! That seems vulnerable!”

“It is,” he agreed. “That’s why men are emotionally unstable.”

Your finger shot to another section. “And this part…‘rising to meet the occasion’?”

He gave you a look that should require permits in six kingdoms. “That means exactly what you think it means.”

You shrieked. Again. Louder.

He offered the scroll back, far too pleased with himself. You accepted it with tongs.

“If you ever want a live demonstration, purely educational—”

You hurled the tongs at his face. He dodged. Laughing.

You slammed the scroll shut like you were sealing away an ancient evil, shoved it into the shelf, and slapped a fresh label over the entire section:

Man-Creature Delusions – DO NOT ENGAGE.

You tried to forget.

You really did.

You scrubbed your hands. Shoved the scroll back under Diplomatic Rice Offerings: A Study. Stormed into the garden with diagrams burned into your memory like divine punishment.

Unfortunately, ten feet is not enough distance to escape Shanks.

“I’m not thinking about it,” you muttered. “I’m not thinking about his shoulders. Or spears. Or—ugh—rising occasions.”

You walked directly into a pillar.

The guard didn’t blink.

That afternoon, you made another fatal mistake.

You turned to the guard, stoic, veteran, terrifyingly calm.

You cleared your throat. “Hypothetically… if someone asked about male anatomy…”

She blinked. “You mean the bits?”

You flinched. “Please don’t call them that.”

“They’re mostly external,” she said helpfully. “Hang like ceremonial bells. Or sad gourds.”

You stared. Unblinking.

“Occasionally they rise,” she continued. “That’s how you know the male’s ready to engage.”

You squeaked. “Engage… what?”

She gave you a look. Flat. Direct.

“Copulation.”

You shrieked.

Shanks leaned on the balcony, hand over his heart like he’d just witnessed a sunrise.

“Adorable,” he murmured.

That night, you lay in bed, glowing faintly, face buried in your pillow, chanting softly to yourself:

“He is a soul parasite. He is not a spear god. He is not a spear god.”

From across the room came a smug, “You okay over there?”

You screamed into your pillow.

Breakfast arrived with you exhausted and Shanks glowing like he’d just had eight hours of sleep and a dream about victory.

You stared into your rice like it might offer divine wisdom.

Shanks sat across from you, looking disgustingly well-rested. Smiling like a man with no remorse.

“Morning,” he said, all warmth and no shame.

You didn’t answer.

He reached for a slice of melon. Bit in. Chewed thoughtfully. “Still thinking about the scroll?”

You choked on your rice.

“I’m always available to clarify,” he added helpfully. “Civic duty.”

“Eat your melon.”

He did. Slowly.

Then, far too innocently, “For example, did the scroll mention that during arousal, the sacred spear can actually—”

You slapped a hand over his mouth.

He blinked. Pleased.

The guards didn’t flinch. They’d evolved past caring.

“If I hear ‘sacred spear’ one more time,” you growled, “I will throw you into the koi pond.”

He licked your palm.

You shrieked, tripped over your chair, and hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and vengeance.

Shanks leaned forward, chin in hand, grinning like a devil on vacation.

“You’re adorable when you’re violently flustered.”

“You’re a soulbound menace with dimples!”

The guards sighed. Loudly. In sync.

A squirrel stole his melon.

And your soulmark? It glowed a little warmer.

The traitor.

Shanks convinced the guards, again, to let him walk beside you. Not behind. Not ten paces back. Right beside you.

He’d worn them down with a lethal mix of compliments, pirate charm, and somehow teaching one of them to whistle like a songbird.

You didn’t bother arguing. Not this time. You were too tired.

Too many sleepless nights spent thinking about sacred spears, gourd metaphors, and why that cursed scroll had so many labeled angles.

And now… Now you’d snapped.

Mid-walk, arms folded, face burning, you turned to him.

“You’re lying.”

He blinked. “About?”

You waved vaguely at his general person. “The… layout.”

Another blink. Then a slow, infuriatingly pleased smile.

“I assure you, darling, I’m alarmingly real.”

“You said things move and shift and rise like tidewater. That can’t be right. That’s not science. That’s theater.”

“It’s biology.”

“It’s performance art.”

He tilted his head, voice dipping. “Would you like to verify that?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He raised his sassy, sassy hand. Gentle, dangerous, and unmistakably smug. “If you’re that skeptical, I’ll let you check. With your own hands. Medically.”

You stared at him. “You want me to examine you.”

“For educational purposes,” he said solemnly.

He gave you the most outrageously innocent look in recorded history, like a temple acolyte caught with a flask of rum and the high priest’s daughter.

“Like a physician,” he added. “Or a sculptor with very important questions.”

You glanced around. One guard was chasing a feral chicken off the dining table. Another tripped over a bench.

No one was looking.

You narrowed your eyes like a general preparing to inspect enemy territory.

“No tricks.”

“None,” he said, placing a hand over his heart with mock solemnity.

“No flirting.”

“I will be as stoic as a temple statue.”

You gave him one final look. The kind reserved for disasters about to unfold. Then sighed, long and weary, like a woman willingly stepping into battle for the sake of science.

You grabbed him by his empty sleeve, spun on your heel, and hauled him behind the nearest garden wall. The stone radiated sun-warmth. The shade, at least, was cool. Vines rustled. Birds chirped with suspicious enthusiasm.

It was private. It was quiet. It was cursed.

You turned to face him, jaw tight, dignity dangling by a thread. “Disrobe from the waist.”

He blinked. Actually stunned for once. “You are… aggressively curious.”

“Pants. Off.”

“Say please.”

You took one deliberate, threatening step forward.

“Right, right. No jokes. Educational purposes,” he muttered, already undoing his belt, far too smoothly. Like he’d rehearsed this moment in a mirror. Twice.

“You know,” he added, tone maddeningly light, “most people at least buy me a drink first.”

You didn’t flinch. You were a scholar. A researcher. A vessel of cold, clinical detachment. Mostly.

Until he dropped his trousers. You stared. You froze. Your soulmark gave a single, deeply unhelpful pulse of warmth.

“…It is external,” you whispered, horrified. “That’s real?”

Shanks looked absurdly pleased. “Told you.”

“It just… hangs there. Like a… a like a cursed sea cucumber.”

He laughed, quiet and delighted. “That’s a new one. I’ve heard sword, spear, divine scepter—”

You pointed, scandalized. “It moved.”

“It does that.”

You stepped back, as if it might lunge.

“You said it rises? Like tidewater? How is that structurally sound?”

“Well, there’s blood flow, and you know, internal works.”

You threw your hands up. “Why does it have texture? What biological function does that serve?”

“Grip?” he offered, far too helpfully.

You covered your face. “I’m going to die.”

“Do you want to touch it?”

“I already regret everything.”

“Just for science.”

You hesitated. Then, slowly, reached out with two fingers, like you were poking a jellyfish.

It twitched.

You shrieked.

Shanks doubled over laughing, hand on his knees. “You poked it like it owed you money!”

Mortified, you turned and stormed off, tripping on a vine, face blazing. Behind you, laughter echoed like a curse.

He called after you, smug and singsong, “You touched it! You can’t un-touch it!”

“I DID IT FOR SCIENCE!” you shouted over your shoulder.

“And I thank you for your service!”

You walked faster. Soulmark burning. Dignity in tatters. Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel fell out of a tree. Possibly in shock.

Behind the garden wall, Shanks pulled his trousers back on, still grinning like a lunatic. The soul tether hummed like a pulled string.

“I think I’m in love,” he murmured.

“…She what?” Benn stared.

“Touched it,” Shanks repeated, grinning like a man who had personally invented chaos and filed the patent.

“Two fingers. Like she thought it might explode. Then she screamed.”

He radiated smugness like the sun. If the sun were deeply unhelpful and endlessly pleased with itself.

“Was this voluntary?”

“She requested anatomical clarity. I provided a... hands-on educational opportunity. A handy, if you will, for those of us lacking.”

“You’re gonna get stabbed by Hancock.”

Shanks raised a finger. “Not if she’s impressed by my commitment to science.”

Benn exhaled smoke like a man preparing to witness war crimes. “One day, you’re going to die stupid. And I won’t even blink.”

From nearby, Hongo muttered, “That was textbook malpractice.”

Lucky Roux yelled from the galley, “Did she faint?!”

“No,” Shanks said, practically glowing. “But she walked away suspiciously fast. Didn’t insult me. Accidentally activated the tether limit.”

He kicked a boot onto the table, soulmark faintly aglow beneath his collar.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, uninvited, “I am winning.”

Yasopp shouted down from the rigging, “Did she slap it?!”

“Nope,” Shanks called back. “She poked it. Like she was testing a hot bun.”

The deck erupted in cheers.

Someone passed grog. Someone else had already started a sea shanty-in-progress titled The Brave and the Blushing.

Hongo groaned. “You’re a menace to medicine.”

Benn stared into the middle distance, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop harassing the poor girl. She’s got enough on her plate without you parading your cursed anatomy like it’s a diplomatic credential.”

“You do realize this means she’s thinking about it,” Yasopp added, swirling his drink. “Constantly.”

Shanks’ grin faltered, shifting. Less pirate. More poet.

Smug melted into something quiet. Soft.

Benn looked up. The Den Den Mushi had gone still.

“I know,” Shanks said.

The crew erupted again.

You lay in bed, face half-buried in your pillow, eyes wide and haunted.

You’d done it.You’d touched it. Disobeyed Boa Hancock and all reason.

For science. For research. For medicinal clarity. Because you were a too-curious person on a woman-only island.

And you were never going to recover emotionally.

“It twitched,” you whispered into the void.

Your soulmark glowed gently under your palm, mocking you. Amused.

Your brain had been spiraling for hours, trapped in an endless, sleepless loop of trauma and unwanted fascination.

It was real. It was external. It moved. It had… texture.

You screamed silently into your pillow again.

Somewhere in the storm-wracked shipwreck of your chest, a thought tried to surface, traitorous, horrifying.

“…It was kind of interesting.”

You kicked the blanket off like it was responsible. Rolled over like a thundercloud with regrets.

“I touched it like a fish,” you hissed. “A cursed, blushing fish.”

You vowed, then and there, hand over your soulmark and dignity leaking out your ears. That you would never speak of it again.

Until, of course, you remembered it five minutes later.

Which you did. Loudly. In the middle of lunch.

Thank the gods there were only a few days left.

Because if this kept up, Hancock was going to kill you. And honestly? Fair.

The sun sank low, bleeding warmth across the horizon. It bathed the cliffs of Amazon Lily in molten gold, gilding every vine and carved pillar in light. The sea lapped gently at the island’s edge, glittering like it was trying to mimic the sky.

Inside the palace, everything held its breath.

The kind of stillness that came before storms.

Shanks moved quietly through the corridors, his boots soft on stone worn smooth by generations of queens and warriors. He didn’t belong here, and he knew it. He felt it in the way the guards tracked his every step, in how the vines seemed to lean away from him, in the subtle thrum of the soulmark beneath his collarbone, pulsing like a ticking clock.

Two weeks.

That had been the limit. The early stage of the curse. The distance clause. Ten feet or less, or they’d both collapse. If one of them died, the other followed.

It had been laughable at first.

A game.

He’d treated it like a tethered flirtation. Testing the limits with winks and terrible jokes, watching you flush, fluster, hurl scrolls and fruit like weapons.

But now…

And now, only two days left.

Now the bond felt less like a joke and more like a hinge. A door he hadn’t known he’d been waiting to walk through.

And on the other side, You.

The truth was simple, impossible, and already carved into him.

He couldn’t be happy without it.

Without you.

His steps slowed as he neared the garden wall. The wall with the vines where you’d poked him like cursed seafood and fled like a scandalized saint. He could still hear your shriek ringing off the stone. He could still see the sharp line of your back as you marched away, soulmark glowing like it was preparing to file a formal complaint.

He touched his own mark without thinking, fingers brushing the low warmth beneath his collar. It pulsed, soft, steady, unrelenting.

A quiet tether.

And he wasn’t sure he was selfless enough to let it go.

But the truth curled low and constant in his chest, a weight he carried like treasure smuggled too long. He wanted to steal you.

Not just your laughter or the way your eyes lit up when you were annoyed. Not just the sharp little scowls you threw like daggers or the way your soulmark flared when you were caught off guard.

No.

He wanted all of you. Wanted to keep you. Wanted to kiss you until you forgot you hated him. Wanted to tangle your fingers in his and never explain it. Wanted to take you far from Amazon Lily, from rules and threats and thrones and scrolls and curses,and wanted to make you his.

And he knew how that sounded. He was a pirate. A war criminal. A flirt. But this? This wasn’t charming. It wasn’t teasing. It was greed. The kind you don’t recover from if you don’t take what you want and hold it close..

He tilted his head to the sea, jaw tight, breathing like it hurt because it did. Because the more he thought of letting you go, the more he thought of keeping you about doing something irreversible.

Of saying your name like a vow. Of slipping his hand beneath your soulmark and pulling you in, closer, tighter, and never letting the world take you back.

He was trying so hard to be good.

And then he heard your voice, and like a man caught in a siren’s pull, he was helpless to resist. He hadn’t meant to linger, hadn’t meant to listen. But he was a pirate. And pirates took.

Your voice drifted to him behind a curtain of vines, low, thoughtful.

“He’s… kind. Strange. Not what I imagined. Less like a beast and more like… a companion. Like Shakky’s man-creature, but less irritating.”

For a woman of Amazon Lily, it was practically a love confession.

He couldn’t wait to hand-deliver that insult to Rayleigh like a gift-wrapped curse.

Across the chamber, Hancock’s voice floated out, cool, measured, just this side of cutting.

“Remarkable progress. But tell me… did you tame him, or did he tame you?”

“I just mean—”

Boa cut in, sharp as a blade and twice as merciless.

“You imagined a monster. He’s worse.” A pause. A breath. “A man who knows how to say the right things. A true viper, waiting with poison and promises.”

Your laugh followed, not the brittle kind you used when he teased, but something gentler. Wary. Almost unwilling.

“Maybe he is taming me.”

“He’s time is almost up.” Boa snapped. “So get it together.”

He closed his eyes.

The soulmark beneath his collar flared, quiet but firm. Not pain. Not fate.

Just there.

Steady. Glowing.

He should have left. Should have turned away, should have honored the privacy you deserved.

But then Hancock’s voice followed,a little softer like she was soothing your feelings.

“It’s best we remove him as soon as the tether ends. Quickly. Before that sickness settles. If you fall in love, it will be impossible to leave him.”

Love Sickness.

Usually it would only affect an Amazon Lily Empress, but who knew what soul mark would do to you.

His heart clenched.

And then your voice, softer than it had any right to be, like a secret you hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “Yes. I think it would end that way if given enough time.”

His heart jumped.

Boa didn’t argue. She only sighed.

Shanks’ hand found the stone column beside him, gripping hard. Anchoring himself. Trying, failing, not to move. Not to react. Not to feel like the world had just shifted underfoot.

Because now?

Now he knew you were wobbling on the edge of affection. You were as good as afflicted, and he had a moral duty.

And something inside him shifted.

“Don’t tell him,” Boa said sharply. “Or we’ll never be rid of him.”

That did it.

Not in some grand, swashbuckling, wine-smashed-against-a-wall kind of way. But in the quiet way. The irreversible kind. The kind that undoes men like him.

He pressed his palm to the mark beneath his collarbone.

And he walked.

One hand steady over the soulmark, feeling it burn. Not from the curse, but from the truth trying to claw its way free. Every step vibrated with the tether’s pulse. The ten-foot pull. The weight of what bound them.

He stepped onto the moonlit terrace.

His boots touched the sacred stone. And the mark snapped.

Not in pain. Not in punishment.

But like a ribbon loosening a bit

He staggered, caught himself. The glow beneath his collar dimmed to a slow, steady shimmer. Not gone. But waning.

Time was running out.

He stood still for a long moment, staring out at the sea. The wind pulled through his hair, cool against his skin. He breathed it in like a man preparing for battle.

A door opened.

He turned. Not quickly. Not startled.

Just hopeful.

You stood at the far edge of the terrace, breathless, uncertain of what he’d heard. Of what he knew now, and what he might do with it.

Of course he’d followed. He always would.

Wind threaded through his hair, brushing strands across his brow as he watched the tide slip low on the horizon. The sea mirrored the sky in molten silver; the cliffs burned gold as the sun retreated.

You sat beneath the terrace eaves, half-curled in the roots of the garden’s oldest tree, back tense, hands resting on a scroll you hadn’t read in hours. From his vantage, he could see it clearly. How the breeze tugged at your hem but not your focus.

You weren’t reading. You were waiting.

He approached, footsteps soft over crushed stone, each one tugging tighter at the thread between you. The soul tether that had bound him long before either of you admitted it. As he passed, his fingers brushed lightly against the back of your skirt. Not to startle. Just to anchor himself.

You didn’t look up.

The orchids were in bloom, thickening the dusk with scent. Vines curled around the lantern tree like watchful arms, casting dappled light across your skin.

He saw your eyes flick toward his hair. Still bright, even in the fading day. You pretended not to notice. But you always noticed.

He stopped just short of you, standing at the edge of sacred light.

“Shouldn’t you be packing?” you asked, voice clipped. Half a joke. Half a dare. Like if he smiled, you’d survive it.

He didn’t smile. “There’s only one thing here I want to take.”

Your jaw tightened. The ache behind your eyes sharpened. You closed them and exhaled, like someone bracing for cold water.

“That’s not your choice.” You say quietly.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I’ve made it anyway.”

You looked up.

He stood in the threshold between lantern light and shadow, coat loose at the shoulders, collar undone. No grin. No bravado. Just the brutal stillness of a man who had already made up his mind.

You rose slowly. “You said you weren’t here to start a war.”

“I lied.” It didn’t land like a threat. It landed like a truth, quiet, and crushing.

Your mouth fell open and he struggles not to bite you.

Before you could retreat, he stepped closer. “I heard what you said. To Hancock.”

Your spine went rigid. “You were listening?”

“I was hoping,” he said, another step closer, “and now I’m done hoping.”

You stood frozen in that strange, suspended space between fight and surrender. He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to.

“I came here to behave,” he murmured. “To follow the rules. Give you my best. But I’m not a hero. I’m a pirate. And pirates take what they want.”

He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours. “And I think we both know what I want.”

Now you saw it, the faint tension along his jaw, the crease at his brow that came only with danger. Or honesty. And he was both.

“If you never want to see me again,” he said, “say it. Say it now. Make it hurt. I’ll go.”

The silence stretched. Your pulse thundered. But no words came.

You didn’t want him to go.

A breath above cracked the stillness.

“Red-Hair.”

You looked up.

Boa Hancock stood on the high balcony, wrapped in imperial silk, her gaze cold as the night tide. Arms folded. Voice layered in thunder.

“You presume too much.”

Shanks didn’t flinch. “Maybe,” he said, eyes on you, making you blush. “But I’d rather beg your wrath than walk away empty-handed.”

“She is not foolish enough to belong to you.”

“No,” he said softly. “But I’m foolish enough to keep trying.”

You turned, heat rising to your cheeks. The scroll slipped from your lap, forgotten. Your soulmark pulsed beneath your skin.

The Empress’ gaze lingered on you. Then him.

“Be careful, Red-Hair,” she said coolly. “I won’t forgive such candor.”

With a final sweep of her hair, she turned and vanished into the palace above.

The moon hung low, a blade drawn clean across the sea. Its reflection trembled on the water like a warning left unsaid.

The palace held its breath.

Even the guards, exceptionally vigilant due to Boa’s new orders, had grown complacent. dulled by the stillness of two long weeks. They had mistaken peace for surrender, forgotten he was as wily as he was charming.

Shanks moved barefoot through the inner halls, his coat trailing like a whisper across stone. His shirt hung open, salt still clinging to his skin from a late swim meant to calm him. It hadn’t worked. The glow of his soulmark, your soulmark, flickered low and steady beneath his collarbone, like it was holding its breath.

He didn’t rush. Every step felt like a promise unraveling.

His fingers grazed the walls as he passed, as if to apologize to the island itself for what he was about to do. He’d sworn to respect their terms. To stay within bounds. To give you time. But time had become unbearable.

And you had given him so much hope.

He stepped into your room like a tide returning.

The air was warm, thick with the scent of jasmine and rain-polished stone. You lay curled on your side, lost to sleep, cheek against the curve of your hand. The soulmark beneath your palm beat in rhythm with his own. He watched it, watched you, for what felt like hours in the span of a minute.

You looked soft. And it broke him.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. Not how a love like this should begin, if it was actual love and if he hadn’t simply lost his mind to longing. But it was the only goodbye he could bear to give, one that was selfish, cruel, and entirely within his control.

Hancock had triples the guards after the terrace incident. He didn’t blame her.

But it didn’t matter.

His Haki rolled out gently, like a lullaby. Not sharp or punishing. Just… absolute. A blanket of silence settled over the palace like sleep.

No alarms. No footsteps. No one to stop him.

You didn’t stir when he knelt beside you, didn’t flinch when he touched your arm and gathered you against his chest. His embrace was careful. Reverent. As though you were something divine, he had no right to hold.

But he held you anyway.

A thief and a guardian both.

And then he moved you over his shoulder.

His pulse roared in his ears as he carried you through marble corridors strung with moonlight, past murals of queens and legends, past the inner sanctum where Hancock once vowed she’d never let him win. Past every line he’d be warned not to cross.

He crossed them all.

Outside, the tide welcomed him with foam-flecked arms. The dinghy waited where he’d hidden it, tucked against the rocks like a secret too dangerous to name. When his foot touched wet sand, the soulmark beneath his collarbone burned bright. On his shoulder, you stirred faintly. He patted your thigh.

Your lips parted, your brow creased. “...Shanks.” You sighed dreamily.

He faltered.

The sound of your voice, still asleep, nearly undid him. He should have stopped. Should have laid you down, whispered a truth, and let you go. But he was already knee-deep in the one sin he could never regret. Wanting you.

He pressed his cheek against your temple, the night wrapping around both of you like a shroud.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “But it’s not kidnapping if the universe agreed.”

Then he stepped into the boat, settled you across his lap, and pushed off into the tide. The oars moved silently through silver water. The soulmark tether glowed between your skin and his, a thin, radiant thread stretched taut between fate and rebellion.

You didn’t wake.

Not yet.

But you would.

And when you did, he would be there, waiting to face whatever came next.

Likely, your wrath.

#romance #gav story #red haired shanks #shanks x reader #one piece shanks x reader #unhinged romance arc #non-sanctioned touching #pirates with no boundaries #Shanks #boa hancock #benn beckman #red force

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