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eunseoksimp · 6 months ago

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west coast — p.wb [vol 3]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 lead singer park wonbin, bass guitarist reader, angst, songfic

synopsis: getting over park wonbin was supposed to be the final verse, the closing note to a song that never belonged to you. you’ve buried every unspoken feeling in music, poured every lingering ache into the strings beneath your fingertips. and then beomgyu arrives—effortless, magnetic, a new harmony in a melody that was never meant to be yours alone. but the closer you move toward something new, the more wonbin begins to unravel, caught between the distance he created and the realization that it was never you who needed to let go. it was him. and now, he might be too late.

WARNINGS: more alcohol consumption (i promise i'm not an alcoholic), brief mention of substance abuse, swearing, more hopeless pining, wc is somehow now 32k which is crazy, wonbin is a little bit of an idiot

part 1 | part 2 a/n: thank you so much for enjoying the last two parts, i've enjoyed reading your comments. i originally intended for this to be the final part but i got far too carried away (as you can tell by the 32k word count), so think of this as the prelude for the finale :)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the kiss is still there.

not just on your lips, but in the hollow of your chest, in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet spaces where breath should be, but isn't.

it lingers, wrapping itself around your ribs like a vice, threading through your veins like something poisonous—slow, steady, inescapable. it doesn’t fade with time. if anything, it deepens, carving itself into you like an echo of something you were never meant to hold onto.

you think about how he tasted—like warmth and something intoxicating, like all the things you told yourself you didn’t need but still reached for anyway. you think about the way his fingers curled against you, just enough to make you believe that maybe, for once, you weren’t the only one feeling this.

and for the briefest, most devastating moment, you had believed it, but hope is cruel.

it is insidious, creeping in through the cracks no matter how hard you try to keep it out. it takes root in the deepest parts of you, whispering its sweet lies, convincing you that maybe, just maybe, you were wrong. that maybe this was something more than a moment, more than a fleeting indulgence. but it wasn’t. it never was.

and now, in the quiet aftermath, all that’s left is the weight of it pressing against your skin, sinking into your lungs, making it hard to breathe. it sits heavy in your throat, an ache you cannot swallow down, a grief so sharp it cuts through you like glass. you close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. the memory of him is burned there, seared into the backs of your eyelids, an imprint you cannot shake.

you tell yourself this is the end. that whatever thread of longing still tethers you to him must be cut, no matter how deeply it severs your soul. because if you don’t let go—if you cling to this last trembling shred of hope—you know it will destroy you piece by piece.

and you cannot survive loving him one heartbeat longer.

the studio is the same as it’s always been—four walls soaked in the echoes of late-night recordings, the scent of old wood and metal, the faint vibration of a bassline bleeding through the floor. but today, it feels different. today, it feels like a cage.

your guitar rests heavy in your lap, the strap biting into your shoulder, the callouses on your fingers pressing into the strings. it should be comforting, grounding. but nothing is. not today. the weight in your chest is heavier than the instrument in your hands, a hollow, aching thing that no amount of music can smooth over.

you sense the others in the periphery, their voices rising in half-laughed jokes and half-formed plans. their words reach your ears as though submerged in water: distorted, distant, unreal.

you know you should join them, at least offer a nod or smile, but the simple act of speaking feels insurmountable. instead, you stare at your own hands, flexing your fingers to chase away the tremor that won’t quite fade. when it grows too strong, you close them into fists, as if to trap your own unraveling inside.

you tell yourself to focus. on the music. on the work. on anything but the way his presence stretches across the expanse of your mind, a gravitational pull you refuse to acknowledge.

when the door swings open, the air in the studio shifts so subtly that no one else seems to notice, but you do—like a single drop of ink bleeding into water, it spreads through your senses with dizzying inevitability.

your breath snags, and a tremor ripples through your bloodstream as the walls seem to inch closer. everything around you tightens, and for an unnerving heartbeat, it feels as though you’re drawing in less and less oxygen, like the atmosphere itself is conspiring to steal your composure.

wonbin steps inside with that calm assurance that has always set him apart. nothing about him betrays any hint of turmoil, and it’s infuriating how his every movement looks effortless. his dark hair, styled in a way that accentuates the sharp angles of his face, catches the overhead light, and there’s a sculpted symmetry to his features that feels almost inhuman in its perfection.

even his eyes—dark, fathomless, and framed by lashes that seem almost too long—carry a magnetism that draws attention whether you want it to or not.

he is all devastating beauty and disarming grace, the sort of presence that makes you want to stare even as you force yourself to look away.

you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. one glimpse of that face—one flicker of those eyes—and you know you’ll come undone. instead, you grip your guitar until your knuckles whiten, your fingers pressing so tightly into the frets that the steel strings cut into your skin.

normally, the instrument feels like an extension of yourself, a lifeline to something steadier than your own heartbeat. but right now, it’s as though the resonance is muffled beneath the roar of the emotions you’re trying so desperately to suppress. each note you test feels like it’s being played underwater, distorted and dull, incapable of drowning out the pang in your chest.

your throat constricts, a rush of bile climbing upwards, hot and acidic, until you force it back down with a harsh swallow. you stare fixedly at the curve of your guitar’s body, trying to remember what it felt like to be calm, to be confident, to be unaffected by his presence.

you inhale, exhale, and inhale again, mentally chanting that this is exactly what you asked for—to move on, to be indifferent, to unchain yourself from all those treacherous hopes.

yet it’s so much harder than you imagined. with every slow step wonbin takes into the room, the tension inside you twists tighter, threatening to snap. you keep your head down, straining to maintain even a veneer of composure, and pray that no one else can sense the frantic thunder of your pulse.

you tell yourself this is how it has to be, that you wanted this distance, that you chose this detachment. but as you force your fingers into position on the fretboard and pretend to tune the strings, you can’t ignore the gnawing sense that each second you spend in his orbit only deepens the ache that’s tearing you apart.

“morning.”

the single word drifts into the room, warm and easy, yet somehow jarringly out of place. you hear wonbin’s greeting directed toward everyone at once, spoken in that gentle, laid-back tone he’s always had—like the world hasn’t been flipped on its axis, like the ground didn’t fracture beneath your feet the last time the two of you were alone.

from the corner of your eye, you catch a hint of him moving closer: the casual stride, the subtle brush of fabric, the rhythmic tap of soles on the floor. he stops right in front of you, and the air turns thick as syrup. your pulse thrums in your ears, drowning out the rest of the band’s chatter.

then you hear it—your own name, quietly shaped by his lips. he says it like he’s testing the fragile calm you’re clinging to, like any misstep might shatter what little resolve you have left. the guitar in your lap feels like a dead weight; your hand is locked around the neck, strings biting into your fingers.

you want—need—to look up, to meet his gaze with something resembling composure, but your eyes remain fixed on the scuffed floor. suddenly, the room seems too small, the walls pressing inward, leaving barely enough space to breathe.

you force a sharp inhale through your nose, summoning what remains of your courage to speak, to pretend that everything is perfectly fine, but your throat constricts, and the words refuse to form.

not when wonbin stands so close, not when the space between you feels like a gaping wound still raw and exposed, like a chord left unresolved—hanging in the air, vibrating on a note you can’t bear to let go.

he says your name again, his voice quieter this time, so tentative it feels like he’s reaching out with trembling hands, uncertain of what he’s grasping for. instinctively, you tighten your hold on the guitar’s neck, as though the firm press of steel strings against your fingertips could somehow tether you to reality. you focus on that bite of metal and the ridges beneath your calluses, desperate to drown out the way his voice caresses each syllable—a sound at once familiar and utterly wrecking.

you don’t need to look at him to know what expression he’s wearing. you’ve seen it countless times before, an intensity in his gaze that demands a response you can’t muster. it’s suffocating, the weight of it pressing against your chest, threatening to crack the fragile shell of composure you’ve managed to piece together. with your ribs barely containing the storm of turmoil inside you, you can’t afford to let him see even a fraction of what you’re feeling.

but for some reason—maybe habit, maybe masochism—you glance up. it lasts all of a breath, but it’s long enough to register the dark, searching depths of his eyes, just as they were that night. something raw flickers there, hidden behind unreadable shadows, and it knots your stomach in a violent twist of memory and regret.

not long ago, you would have let yourself sink into that look until it consumed you completely. never again, you tell yourself.

you choke down the tightness in your throat and manage a smile so thin it barely qualifies—just a hushed “hi” that sounds hollow, like it belongs to someone else.

before he can respond, you tear your gaze away, pretending that the guitar’s tuning pegs suddenly require your undivided attention. it’s a flimsy defense, but it’s all you have.

even without looking, you can sense the small furrow that forms between his brows, the slight tension drawing his features together. you feel the pause that settles around him, heavy and complicated, tinged with an almost unbearable fragility.

and for the first time since you met him, you allow that silence to stand. you make no move to bridge the gap, to smooth over the discomfort. you simply let it exist, a quiet testament to the wound between you—still raw, still bleeding, and impossible to ignore.

hongjoong clears his throat, the sound slicing cleanly through the suffocating silence like a blade meeting taut string.

“alright,” he says, keeping his voice deceptively light yet carrying that familiar edge of authority—the same tone he uses whenever he senses the delicate balance in the room is about to tip.

“let’s get into positions. we’ve got a lot to run through.”

the energy shifts in an instant.

gunil responds with a dramatic groan, scuffing his feet against the floor as he trudges toward his drum kit. minjeong mutters something inaudible, likely another complaint about how early it is for “all this emotional tension,” and yunjin silences her with a sharp look, before she glances back and forth between you and wonbin. her quick, discerning eyes flick over the two of you, sensing the undercurrent that crackles in the air, thick as humidity before a storm.

but wonbin doesn’t budge. he lingers where he is, gaze fixed on you with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse stumble. it’s as if he’s waiting for a sign—for your eyes to lift, for some unspoken acknowledgement that might mend the rift between you or at least let him know where you stand.

you keep your attention riveted on your guitar, every muscle in your body locked, determined not to surrender an inch of composure.

eventually, you hear him exhale. the sound is caught somewhere between disappointment and acceptance, a delicate mixture of frustration and resignation that pricks at your heart even as you force yourself to remain still.

“yeah,” he murmurs under his breath, raking a hand through his hair before taking a measured step back.

without another word, he turns toward the mic stand at the front of the room, moving into position with a forced nonchalance that does nothing to mask the tension simmering between you.

and just like that, the rehearsal moves forward—everyone falling into their roles, the crushing weight of unresolved feelings hovering in the space you refuse to share.

the instant he steps away, the grip around your lungs loosens, and you finally manage a tremulous inhale. that’s when you feel it—a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. you glance up, and there’s hongjoong, gaze calm but threaded with concern.

“you sure you’re okay?” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear, asking the question again.

you nod—too fast, too reflexive.

“yeah. fine.”

his fingers linger a beat longer, a gentle pressure that speaks of quiet understanding. he doesn’t push for more, doesn’t pry into the whirlwind of emotions you’re struggling to keep hidden. he simply offers another gentle squeeze before releasing you, moving back to adjust his guitar strap as though the moment never happened.

he wasn’t there that night; he never witnessed the wrenching intimacy that now weighs on every breath you take. but somehow, he knows. he sees the fracture lines you’re trying to spackle over with silence. and for now, his simple acknowledgement—that unspoken kindness—is enough to steady you just a little longer.

the first notes ripple through the room, filling every inch of space, but they feel distant—like something playing from another lifetime, slipping through your fingers before you can grasp it. your hands move on autopilot, fingers pressing against the familiar grooves of the strings, but the music doesn’t reach you, doesn’t settle into your bones the way it should.

it feels like playing inside a dream, a step removed from reality, floating somewhere just outside of your grasp. and you know exactly why.

he’s there. he’s always there. just a few feet away, standing at the mic with his head dipped low, dark strands of hair falling across his forehead, his fingers curling loosely around the stand in a way that should seem effortless but doesn’t. there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, a weight in the air between you that makes your breath come just a little too fast, your heart beat just a little too loud.

you try not to look at him, try to drown yourself in the melody, in the steady pressure of steel strings against your fingertips, but your body betrays you. your eyes flicker toward him without permission, and he’s already watching.

the second your gaze meets his, the world tilts.

it’s barely a glance, a flicker of a moment that shouldn’t hold so much weight, but it does. his brows knit together slightly, a crease forming between them, and there’s something there—something searching, something unreadable.

but you can’t do this. not now.

you force your gaze away from him, willing your attention back to the guitar in your lap and the rhythmic rise and fall of your own breath—anything to ignore the way his stare seems to linger, as though he’s perched at the edge of a confession he can’t quite put into words.

but then the chorus arrives, your cue to join in, to braid your voice with the melody the way you’ve done a thousand times before. except this time, the words lodge in your throat. they stick, trapped under the ache in your chest, and your fingers slip just enough to produce a sharp, dissonant chord. the sound cleaves through the music like a fracture through glass, and everything stutters to a halt.

hongjoong’s head snaps up first, his expression pointed with a sudden awareness. minjeong’s posture shifts, and though she doesn’t speak, her scrutiny is palpable, reading the tension in every rigid line of your body. the amps still hum in the silence, but nobody rushes to fill it.

not until wonbin’s voice—lower than usual, quiet enough to feel private—trembles through the room:

“hey, are you alright?”

his words catch you off-guard, pressing into the rawness you’re desperately trying to hide. for a moment, you can’t breathe. he’s not too close in a physical sense, but the concern in his gaze closes the distance regardless, wrapping around you with a weight that leaves no space for air.

it’s as though he sees more than you’re ready to show, and your heart buckles under the intensity of it. you curl your fingers around the guitar’s neck until they sting, forcing a semblance of a smile. it feels flimsy and hollow, but you hope it’s enough to satisfy him.

“sorry,” you whisper, voice tight, forcing yourself to exhale the static that’s clawing at your mind.

“just lost focus for a second.”

hongjoong looks to yunjin, something subtle and unspoken passing between them, but neither calls you out. and wonbin—he doesn’t so much as budge, his gaze still pinned on you with that unsettling blend of uncertainty and resolve. you can almost sense him gathering questions he doesn’t know how to ask.

refusing to meet his eyes for any longer than necessary, you adjust your grip on the guitar and find your breath.

“let’s go again,” you say, your words firmer now, as though you can brute-force the tremor from your voice. “i’ve got it.”

there’s a pause—the faintest hesitation—before hongjoong nods and resets his hands on the keyboard, yunjin aligning herself at the mic with one last worried glance in your direction. wonbin doesn’t argue, but you feel the weight of his stare as he lifts his own mic, the barest flicker of doubt in his eyes.

then the music swells once more, and you cling to the sound like a lifeline, hoping it drowns out the jagged reminder of how precariously everything hangs between you.

practice finally grinds to a halt in a discordant blur of unfinished chords and awkward silence. all eyes land on you—the one who never falters, the perfectionist who can coax flawless sound from six strings without so much as a glance.

and yet, you faltered. you, the one who normally spots everyone else’s slip-ups, are suddenly the center of concerned stares. a heated flush creeps up your neck as you blink rapidly, pretending to fuss over the tuning pegs of your guitar. it’s easier to focus on the tiny adjustments, to count the turns and pretend each one steadies your heart rate.

still, you can feel their gazes piercing your peripheral vision, scrutinizing you with a mix of confusion and worry. you swallow hard, pressing your lips into a tight line, hoping the rush of blood in your ears drowns out the unspoken questions hanging thick in the air.

gunil taps a drumstick against the edge of his snare, lifting his eyebrows with a mischievous smirk.

“well, well,” he drawls, “guess little miss perfect finally joined the club, huh?” he waggles the drumstick in your direction.

“nice to know you’re human after all.”

he barely finishes the sentence before minjeong’s hand darts out, delivering a sharp slap to the back of his neck—her silent command for him to stop talking. a startled laugh dies in his throat, and the studio settles into another strained hush.

gunil rubs at the sting, muttering, “alright, alright,” under his breath while trying to salvage a shred of dignity.

amid the tension, you become acutely aware of wonbin.

his grip on the mic wavers, knuckles white with urgency as he tries to mount it onto the stand. it only half latches in place, nearly tipping over before he catches it, eyes never leaving you. the concern in his features is raw, unguarded—completely at odds with the polished frontman you know.

your pulse rattles in your ears as he starts toward you, closing the distance with deliberate strides. it’s as though the rest of the band ceases to exist; every inch of him focuses on you and the inexplicable break in your usual composure.

your heart thrums a frantic warning—too close, too soon, too much.

“uh… i need some air,” you blurt, pulling your guitar strap over your shoulder.

the words tumble out so fast they almost sound like one, not waiting for a response as you slip past yujin’s concerned gaze, past gunil’s half-formed protests and the weight of everyone else’s eyes.

you don’t stop until the studio door clicks shut behind you, sealing in the static hum of amplifiers and half-swallowed tension. out here, the hallway is nearly silent—just a muted throb of lingering music bleeding through the walls. you lean against the cool cement, letting the chill press hard into your back, a sharp contrast to the heat in your cheeks.

your palms drift to your face, fingertips skimming over the contours of your skin as if you could somehow rub away the ache that’s lodged itself beneath your ribs. the chill is biting, but it does nothing to ease the heaviness clinging to your lungs.

beyond the door, you can still hear the faint buzz of bandmates reorganizing themselves for another run-through, their muted chatter rising and falling like distant thunder. that gentle hum of routine only makes the ache sharper; it’s a reminder that they’ll go on, that the music will continue, even while you’re out here trying to hold yourself together with breath after shaking breath.

you close your eyes and pray this moment of solitude will be enough to keep you from fracturing completely—just a heartbeat of silence in which to remember how to breathe.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you used to believe that music could mend any wound, that every chord change and carefully chosen lyric was a kind of alchemy—turning your deepest aches into art. and now, it’s the only thing holding you together.

late into the night, long after your bandmates have left the studio, you stay behind, coaxing heartache into melodies that shimmer with vulnerability. you press your fingertips against the strings until they’re raw, shaping chords that vibrate with longing, pouring every unspoken thought and jagged emotion into the mic.

the result is a collection of songs so nakedly honest, they leave you trembling in the aftermath of each recording—yet they are undeniably beautiful in their pain, a tangible testament to the heartbreak you can’t seem to escape.

and so the lyrics take on a life of their own, sprawling across the pages of your notebooks in fevered handwriting—scribbled lines that map out every pang of sorrow, every ounce of desperation you’ve wrestled with in the still hours of the night. you catch yourself pouring over them at odd moments, fingertips grazing the ink as if touching the words might somehow ease the heaviness clamped around your heart.

it doesn’t, of course—but writing them down becomes the only breath of relief you can find. these fragile sheets of paper become your confessional, a safe space where grief can take shape without censure, where heartbreak is allowed to be as overwhelming and unrelenting as it truly is.

it’s not about seeking closure, not yet; it’s about survival. because in the wake of love that slipped through your fingers, every chord progression, every line of verse, feels like a tether keeping you from drifting into a darkness that threatens to swallow you whole. the pain might be soul-crushing, but channeled through pen and strings, it transforms into something almost beautiful—if only because it’s the raw, undeniable truth of how deeply you once dared to feel.

at night, when the city is hushed and every streetlight seems to glow with its own private sorrow, you find yourself wide awake, thoughts circling like moths around a single flame. sleep becomes an elusive dream, trailing just beyond your grasp.

but instead of lying there, suffocated by what-ifs and never-weres, you reach for your notebook. in the thin glow of a bedside lamp, you let each lingering thought of him trickle down your arm, gathering ink at your fingertips until it spills onto the page.

there’s a catharsis in it—in scribbling down memories that ache like fresh bruises, in shaping them into words and phrases that pulse with hidden yearning. whenever the pain gets too close to unbearable, you scrawl another line, another verse, until the torment feels contained, anchored by the weight of ink on paper.

and in that fragile, solitary ritual, you discover that maybe, just maybe, these sleepless nights hold the key to something transcendent: turning heartbreak into art, grief into something that can be sung instead of silently endured.

yunjin and minjeong notice the way your gaze drifts off during rehearsals, how your fingers itch for the pen tucked behind your ear instead of the instrument in your lap. they exchange glances full of quiet concern, and sometimes, one of them will call your name softly, as if hoping to coax you back from wherever your thoughts have taken you.

“everything alright?” minjeong tries one afternoon, leaning in close and tapping a gentle rhythm on your notebook.

you force a small smile, nodding in what you hope is a reassuring way. “i’m good,” you murmur, your voice catching on the lie. “just… working out some ideas.”

it isn’t that you don’t appreciate their worry. in fact, a part of you aches with gratitude for friends who care enough to ask. but you’ve come to prefer this realm of ink and paper—a sanctuary where you can shape the pain, control its borders, and hush the roiling anguish inside you.

here, in the hush of your own scribbled words, you can be honest about how lost you feel. out there, in the real world, that honesty threatens to splinter you wide open in front of people who might never understand. so you keep your eyes down, scrawl out another line, and let the comfort of creation shield you from the weight of a reality you’d rather not face.

another day, another unsteady round of practice filled with frayed nerves and half-formed ideas. drums stutter to a stop, and the hiss of an amplifier crackles into silence. hongjoong scrubs a hand over his face, frustration evident in the downward curl of his lips.

“we’re stuck,” he mutters, glancing around at everyone.

“i don’t know if we’re burnt out or just missing something, but…” he trails off, his gaze landing on you in silent question.

you feel your pulse quicken—your notebook is clutched protectively in your arms, pages overflowing with songs you’ve written in the lonely hours, words you’ve never shown anyone.

minjeong notices the hesitation in your eyes and nudges your elbow.

“come on,” she says softly. “it can’t hurt to share.”

your heart hammers against your ribcage, and for a moment, you almost refuse. these lyrics aren’t just scribbles on paper—they’re pieces of you, soaked in raw, unfiltered heartbreak.

but the band’s desperation presses in on you, thick and urgent, and you catch the flicker of hope in hongjoong’s gaze. with a shaky breath, you loosen your grip on the worn cover.

“it’s… it’s not exactly polished,” you whisper, voice trembling. “but maybe there’s something you can use.”

hongjoong nods, expression solemn. “we’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

carefully, you hold out the notebook, fingers reluctant to let go even as you extend it his way. when he finally takes it, you swear you feel a piece of your heart leaving your hands. he offers a small, grateful smile—a delicate gesture of trust that makes your chest tighten painfully.

you step back, arms folding around your middle as if to protect the hollow ache still pulsing inside you. someone flips the pages, scanning lines of ink etched by your sleepless nights, and the room goes quiet—respectful, expectant, and heavy with the vulnerability you’ve just laid at their feet.

a hush falls over the room, the quiet so deep it nearly rattles you. your pulse thunders in your ears, and a tremor curls around your spine—the urge to snatch the notebook back from hongjoong’s hands is almost more than you can bear. you can’t decide if it’s dread or hope swelling inside your chest, a tension so taut you wonder if everyone else can feel it, too.

hongjoong turns another page, eyes flicking across your scribbled verses with a kind of reverent intensity. finally, he looks up at you, and what you see in his expression leaves you breathless: a glimmer of recognition that feels both comforting and terrifying, as though he’s glimpsed the raw nerve pulsing behind your words.

he exhales slowly, lips parting in something close to wonder.

“it’s beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hushed but brimming with emotion. “really. you’re a genius.”

the words collide with your heart, sending a quiver through your stomach that’s equal parts pride and panic. you press your lips together, overwhelmed by a swirling tangle of relief, fear, and the faintest spark of validation.

you’ve spent so long scribbling confessions into these pages—never imagining they’d be read with such understanding. yet here hongjoong stands, holding your deepest ache in his hands like it’s something precious.

a collective urgency ripples through the room as minjeong and gunil close in, desperate to see what has their usually composed leader looking so struck by emotion. they crowd around, leaning in over hongjoong’s shoulder, scanning your words with hushed exclamations. the air thickens with excitement, almost electric.

in any other context, the band’s awe would send warmth flooding through your veins. but now it feels like a spotlight, burning through every carefully built defense. their voices rise, echoing with praise, and you force a small, shaky smile.

part of you craves their acceptance, their validation that you can create something worth hearing. yet another part reels at the thought of them glimpsing the bruised core of your heartbreak, spelled out in verse and chord progressions.

your gaze drops to your feet, and a flush heats your cheeks. for a fractured moment, all you want is to run—to yank the notebook free and hide your confessions away forever. but you don’t.

you stand there, arms folded across your chest, absorbing their words as best you can, torn between the desperate need to keep your secrets safe and the faintest spark of hope that, maybe, they finally get it.

it’s not until the others step away that wonbin finally moves in, slow and measured, like he’s bracing himself for whatever he might find between those pages. you can’t look at him. your heart is already pounding at the base of your throat, each beat warning you of the closeness—the possibility that he might realize the truth behind your words.

yet as he takes the notebook, something gentle lights in his expression, a quiet awe that forces your breath to stutter. he flips through the lines one by one, dark eyes scanning with a calm intensity that makes your nerves tingle.

for a moment, no one else seems to exist. the hush feels louder than any applause you’ve ever heard, your pulse hammering an unsteady rhythm against your ribcage. then he looks up and, slowly, hands the notebook back to you.

“he’s a lucky guy, whoever he is,” wonbin says, voice low and laced with a hint of warmth.

the words stagger through your chest, colliding with the painful realization that he doesn’t understand. he doesn’t see that he is the one you’ve been tearing your heart out for.

there’s a flicker in his gaze—something almost vulnerable, almost questioning—before it smooths over into his usual calm. your stomach drops, your fingers curling around the worn edges of your notebook like a lifeline.

if he felt anything at all, it’s swallowed by his assumption that these are just words spun from a distant heartbreak, a story that couldn’t possibly be about someone standing right in front of you. and the pain of it—of knowing he thinks your confessions belong to someone else—chisels deeper into the crack in your chest.

you feel your shoulders sag the instant he turns away, a wave of hollow disappointment robbing you of breath.

of course he wouldn’t guess the truth. why would he?

you’re barely keeping your own emotions stitched together, let alone brave enough to let them spill beyond the safe confines of your notebook. part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity—to mock yourself for the audacity to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d see through the ink and realize you wrote each line for him.

instead, your heart throbs with the realization that this one-sided longing has become your own private prison. you clutch the notebook to your chest, foolish for ever believing its words could speak louder than the walls you’ve built around your longing. even your own pulse feels like a betrayal, still hammering for someone who might never feel the same.

for a fleeting moment, it had seemed possible—he might see the truth beneath the metaphors, might hear his name in every chord you’d strummed until your fingertips bled. but his departure, casual and unknowing, leaves behind a cavernous emptiness. reality crashes over you, brutal and unrelenting: he doesn’t realize you wrote those words for him, and maybe he never will.

a ragged exhale rattles through you, and in the quiet that follows, you feel something inside you break. because if he can’t see it now—if he can’t sense that the music you’ve spun from sleepless nights and unquenchable longing belongs to him—then there’s no point in clinging to the tiny, wavering flames of hope.

you press your lips together as tears threaten to spill, willing them back because crying here, now, might tear you apart completely.

you tell yourself it’s time to stop, to tear yourself away from the gravitational pull of his smile, his voice, his unknowing presence in every note you play. it’s time to let go of a future that was never meant to be.

and in that moment, the resolve sinks in—heavy, devastating, final. pain coils around your heart, searing and sharp, and you can almost taste the loss in the back of your throat. yet you cling to it with white-knuckled determination, because moving on is the only way to survive a love that leaves you hollow.

so you choose to let him go—even if it means leaving a piece of your soul behind with every chord you’ll never again write for him. you close your eyes against the ache, telling yourself that it’s for the best, that the agony of walking away is easier to bear than the agony of hoping in vain.

and in that moment, a single silent promise reverberates through your mind: you will learn to breathe again, even if it feels like dying first.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you do everything in your power to sever the connection between you and park wonbin—a polite nod in passing, a half-muttered reply when he asks a question, your gaze skittering away the instant his dark eyes threaten to snare you.

it’s exhausting, pretending you don’t still feel the ghost of him in every chord you play. some part of you wants to give in, to let your guard slip just enough to catch that crooked smile, but the memory of how devastating it felt to realize he would never truly be yours keeps you resolute.

so you steel yourself with shallow breaths and quick goodbyes, forcing your heart to accept a distance that chafes with every moment spent in the same room. it’s not easy—your pulse kicks every time he crosses your line of vision, and you find your hands trembling on the fretboard when he stands too close.

yet you cling to this self-imposed barrier, convinced that holding him at arm’s length is the only way to reclaim the parts of yourself you’ve been bleeding into unrequited love. slowly, you pray, the ache will fade into something more bearable, and you’ll finally be free from the weight of loving someone who can’t—won’t—hold you in return.

he steps toward you at the end of today’s rehearsal, hair damp and clinging to his brow in a way that feels almost too intimate for the moment, shirt hanging from his shoulders as though it might slip free if the tension snapped any tighter.

the pungent mix of stale coffee and sweat-soaked air hovers like a suffocating blanket, amplifiers still humming with the echo of that half-finished bridge you never quite nailed. he draws in a breath, and his voice resonates with the adrenaline of performance, tinged by a confusion he can’t quite hide.

“we sounded off during that last part,” he murmurs, eyes darting between you and the rest of the band, “should we run it again?”

the question sets your pulse tapping wildly against your ribs, but you keep your gaze pinned on the guitar cable you’re meticulously looping between your fingers. each coil feels like a lifeline—a distraction from the heat radiating off him, from the quiet scrutiny you can sense in his stare.

“ask hongjoong,” you snap, a hardness in your tone that almost surprises you.

“he’s the leader.”

it’s a single strike, like a pick snapping against a string, and the look on his face wavers, uncertainty mixing with an unspoken plea you refuse to acknowledge. around you, the others fall silent, the air so thick with tension it feels like a physical pressure against your chest.

you sling the coiled cable over your shoulder, letting it pull you back a step, aware that the distance between you and him is more than just a few feet of studio floor. the unspoken tension in the room presses in, like the unresolved chord progression still ringing in your ears, waiting for a resolution that, in this moment, you can’t—or won’t—provide.

he stays exactly where he is, rooted to the spot as though your clipped response has momentarily robbed him of speech. his brows pull together in a way that makes your heart lurch, like he’s sifting through every subtle shift in your demeanor for answers you can’t afford to give.

the final chords of rehearsal still hang in the air—a phantom echo blending with the metallic taste of adrenaline on your tongue—and you force yourself not to inhale too deeply, not to catch the faint trace of cologne and sweat that clings to him. you can feel the electricity of his presence, almost see it crackling in the space between you, and it takes every fiber of your being not to let that pull unravel your carefully maintained composure.

“was there anything else?” you say, sharp and hollow, injecting as much distance into those two words as you can.

there’s no denying how your pulse stutters when you glance at him—damp hair tousled in a way that borders on heartbreakingly angelic, the overhead lights turning the faint sheen of sweat on his skin into something luminous.

for a second, you hate how effortlessly beautiful he is, how he can appear so ethereal even in the gritty aftermath of practice. you hate, too, how your own heart thrums in response, as if it’s trying to remind you of all the reasons you once let your guard down around him.

he opens his mouth as if to speak, then hesitates. the furrow between his brows deepens, a crease of confusion and maybe a trace of hurt. you half expect him to question you—to demand to know why you’re shutting him out, why your tone bristles with a chill that could freeze the sweat on your skin.

but he says nothing.

his silence seems to hum in your ears, louder even than the faint static from the amplifier behind you. your grip on the coiled guitar cable tightens, a too-familiar tension building at the base of your spine, and you silently beg your trembling knees not to give way beneath the weight of this moment.

somewhere behind you, a door hinges open, letting in a rush of cooler air, but neither of you move. it’s as though the rest of the world has receded, leaving just the two of you in this charged standoff. you feel the erratic beat of your heart like a distant drum solo, rattling inside your chest, threatening to betray the calm façade you’re fighting to maintain.

you consider walking away—taking two steps back into the hallway, anywhere he isn’t, so you can pretend it doesn’t feel like you’re being torn in two. but a stubborn part of you refuses to budge first, refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he can still unsettle you.

at last, he exhales, dropping his gaze to the floor in resignation. the thick tension between you doesn’t vanish so much as shift, contorting into something painfully unresolved, like a chord progression forever missing its final note. he runs a hand through his hair, damp strands raking back from his forehead, and it’s almost too much to bear—seeing him look so human, so caught in the fallout of whatever invisible line you’ve drawn.

your chest feels too tight; even breathing is a conscious effort. for a heartbeat, you consider reaching out, bridging that gap just to smooth the worried crease in his brow. but the memories of what was—and wasn’t—come rushing back, and your resolve snaps into place like a shutter slamming down over your features.

“i’ve got to get back to playing,” you mutter, voice tense enough to cut the thick air.

wonbin’s lips part, breath hitching like he’s about to say something—maybe an apology, maybe the question you’re dreading—when the door bangs open and your manager barrels in, derailing the moment with brisk efficiency.

“alright, perfect, you’re all here,” he exclaims, voice echoing across the room.

in his wake follows a figure whose presence seems to steal the remaining oxygen: he strides into the room with a quiet, self-assured grace that seems to pull every pair of eyes his way. at first glance, you notice he’s tall—easily six-foot-two, towering over most of you without even trying.

he exudes an aura of restless artistry and enigmatic charm, like a storm frozen in time.

his auburn hair cascades in unruly waves, catching the light like wildfire trapped in his tresses, each strand whispering tales of rebellion and untamed freedom. the messy layers frame his sharp jawline, a sculpted edge that speaks of quiet intensity, while his pale skin glows with an ethereal softness, as if he’s just stepped out of a dream.

a nose piercing flashes against his sun-kissed skin, a tiny spark of silver that gleams even in the shadowy corners.

his eyes, deep pools of unsaid emotion, are a contradiction of vulnerability and defiance—twin galaxies reflecting both the burden and beauty of chasing greatness. they seem to catch every glint of light, pulling you into their orbit, while the shadows in their depths whisper secrets he may never share. the tilt of his lips, soft and melancholic, carries a haunting allure, like a love song left unfinished, hanging on the edge of bittersweetness.

he wears a crisp white shirt that skims his lean frame, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal muscled tattoed forearms and a hint of band-aids wrapped around two or three of his fingers—little badges of hard work that suggest he’s no stranger to late-night guitar sessions.

there’s an electricity about him, a raw, magnetic energy that feels like the moment before a guitar string snaps—a tension that holds you captive, waiting for the inevitable crescendo.

as he steps closer, you catch sight of a delicate trail of moles that sweeps along the column of his neck like tiny constellations scattered across a sky at dusk. for a heartbeat, the room seems to hold its breath; even the usual hum of amplifiers and squeak of cables recedes into the background, enthralled by his unexpected arrival.

minjeong and yunjin exchange quick looks—part curiosity, part fascination—while hongjoong straightens up, offering a polite greeting.

but you barely register their reactions, too aware of how his gaze drifts your way, a soft smile curving his lips. it’s a smile that promises sincerity rather than arrogance, a subtle invitation to be at ease around him despite his striking looks.

unbeknownst to you, wonbin’s attention sharpens at your side, his expression unreadable as he notes the slight widening of your eyes, the faint hitch in your breath. you can practically feel that tension coil in the air like a drawn bowstring—ready to snap at the slightest push.

but you’re drawn to this guy’s easy confidence, the way he shifts his guitar case, the utter lack of pretension in his movements. even the quiet hush that settles over the space seems charged with possibility, making your pulse skip in a way you thought you’d forgotten.

“the company finally heard our prayers, he’s our new rhythm guitarist.”

“hey,” he finally says, directing his voice squarely at you, his tone warm and genuine. “i’m beomgyu. been following this band for a while—especially you.”

his gaze locks onto yours, open, genuine, the weight of the words settling in the space between you before he adds, almost like an afterthought, “huge fan.”

he offers his hand, slender fingers marred by those band-aids, and the gesture feels strangely personal, deliberate.

there’s a beat of hesitation before you take it, fingers brushing against the rough patches of his skin, against the heat that lingers beneath the bandages. for a second, the world narrows to the contrast of textures—the callouses against your smoother fingertips, the faintest tremor that isn’t quite nerves, but something else entirely.

“glad to have you in the band,” you say softly, forcing your voice to stay even, to mask the swirl of emotions in your gut.

the rest of the room stills, the shift almost imperceptible, yet undeniable.

from the corner of your eye, you see the way minjeong watches with quiet curiosity, yunjin with barely veiled amusement. gunil has his arms crossed, a knowing smirk already playing at his lips. it’s not lost on anyone, this moment stretching between you and beomgyu, the way his hand lingers just a fraction too long before he finally pulls back, tucking a stray strand of golden-brown hair behind his ear, revealing the constellation of moles scattered across the line of his throat.

“hope we can make something great together,” he murmurs, as if it’s the simplest truth in the world.

behind him, your manager beams, launching into a monologue about tours, albums, and new beginnings. but your attention wavers between the newcomer’s confident stance and the barely contained tension rippling through wonbin, who remains rooted in place, shoulders tight, gaze flicking between you and beomgyu as if the new guitarist’s arrival has thrown open a door he wasn’t ready to face.

there’s a momentary lull in conversation—just long enough for gunil to pipe up with a mischievous grin, drumming his fingers on the nearest amp.

“careful, wonbin,” he teases in a sing-song tone, “looks like pretty boy is about to take your spot.”

the quip lands in the still-charged air like a spark in dry tinder, the unintentional double meaning not lost on either of you.

you watch it happen—the flicker of something sharp passing through wonbin’s expression, the way his fingers flex at his sides, the near-imperceptible clench of his jaw. it’s brief, a flash of heat before the mask settles back into place, but you see it, and so does beomgyu.

he doesn’t say a word, but the shift in his posture is unmistakable, a simmering kind of frustration that betrays more than he likely intends. even beomgyu catches it, eyes flicking between wonbin’s stony expression and gunil’s attempt at levity.

as the laughter from gunil's joke fades, the manager swiftly intervenes, redirecting the focus back to business. he launches into the practicalities of band life—rehearsal schedules, upcoming gigs, studio expectations—guiding beomgyu through the nuances with the ease of a seasoned conductor.

the session winds down, the sharp clang of cymbals and the soft rustle of cables being coiled into loops filling the space with a familiar, rhythmic dissonance. cases click shut, tuning pegs are given last-minute adjustments, and the hum of idle chatter wraps around the room like the lingering reverberation of a final note that refuses to fade.

in the midst of it all, yunjin sidles up to you, her movement fluid, seamless—like she’s been waiting for the right moment to slip in unnoticed. she leans in close, her perfume a soft contrast to the stale scent of sweat and metal that clings to the air, her gaze flicking from beomgyu, who is effortlessly charming his way through conversation with gunil, then back to you, the glint in her eyes unmistakable.

with a discreet wiggle of her eyebrows, she murmurs just low enough for only you to hear, "he's definitely hot, right?"

there’s a teasing lilt to her voice, lighthearted on the surface, but you know yunjin—know the way she watches, the way she picks up on the smallest shifts in dynamics before anyone else even registers them. this isn’t just idle commentary. this is her testing the waters, waiting to see if something in you cracks open, if there’s something worth prying into.

you pause, fingers still curled around the neck of your guitar, debating your response. beomgyu is attractive—undeniably so—but acknowledging that feels like stepping onto shaky ground, like introducing something you’re not sure you’re ready to entertain. so instead, you settle for a small, noncommittal smile, tilting your head in vague concession.

yunjin, never satisfied with half-hearted reactions, nudges you lightly with her elbow, her grin widening. “oh, come on,” she presses, voice barely above a whisper but still somehow managing to sound incredulous. “don’t act like he isn’t.”

you exhale a soft laugh, lifting your hands in mock defense. “i didn’t say anything.” the gesture is both a concession and a deflection, an admission that, yes, the new guy has a noticeable allure without giving away anything more personal about your thoughts.

“exactly.” she narrows her eyes at you, a knowing gleam sparking in them, as if she’s already forming her own conclusions regardless of what you do or don’t say.

the exchange lasts only a few fleeting seconds, but as your gaze flickers instinctively across the room, it snags—inevitably—on him.

wonbin stands a few feet away, his back straight, arms loosely crossed, posture seemingly at ease. but you know wonbin. you know the sharpness in his jaw when he’s tense, the way his fingers twitch against his biceps when he’s holding something back. he’s listening, even if his eyes remain on the manager, even if he looks entirely unaffected.

hongjoong, ever the diplomat and peacemaker of the group, seizes a moment of calm to usher in a new tradition.

“team lunch,” he announces with an authoritative nod, his voice carrying over the residual noise of packing. “it’ll be good to get to know beomgyu.”

the idea is met with a chorus of enthusiastic approvals, the underlying unspoken truth being that hongjoong is famously generous when the bill arrives—his treat often being the sweetener that draws unanimous agreement.

as the band members start to chatter about where they might go, you focus on securing your guitar in its case, fingers working deftly at the latches. yunjin is still hovering, her presence a reminder of the conversation you’d rather let fade, when beomgyu approaches again.

his timing is impeccable or perhaps intentionally calculated to catch you alone, just as you linger by your guitar case, about to close it, beomgyu circles back to your side, his approach quiet but intentional.

he pauses, nodding towards your instrument with an appreciative tilt of his head.

“mine’s black too,” he comments, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “best color there is, right?”

his tone is light, yet there's a nuanced undertone of camaraderie, as if this small shared preference might bridge the gap between newcomer and established band member.

you look up, caught slightly off-guard by his proximity and the unexpected warmth in his voice.

“yeah, it’s classic, probably my favourite colour” you respond, your words measured, but not unfriendly.

beomgyu doesn’t step away, doesn’t shift back into the polite distance most new members might maintain. instead, his fingers brush against the case’s handle, grazing your own in a fleeting touch that lingers longer than it should..

“let me help with that,” he offers, and before you can protest, he lifts the guitar with effortless grace, his other hand gesturing towards the instrument room. the ease with which he hoists the weight makes it seem as light as air, a display of strength that doesn't go unnoticed by yunjin who watches, her eyes wide and a bit dreamy, from a few steps away.

you follow him, your steps matching the rhythm of his, aware of every glance thrown your way by the other band members. the corridor to the instrument room stretches out, lined with the muted colors of the studio walls, a backdrop that suddenly seems to highlight beomgyu’s presence—a vibrant contrast, like a vivid stroke of paint on a dull canvas.

inside the instrument room, the air is cooler, filled with the scent of wood and metal, the sacred quiet of a space dedicated to the tools of your craft. beomgyu sets the guitar down gently, handling it with the care of a true musician respecting the soul of another’s instrument.

“you have a great setup here,” he observes, turning to scan the array of gear and instruments, each piece a testament to countless hours of practice and performance.

his comment draws a nod from you, the simplest acknowledgment, yet there's a depth to the exchange, a sense of shared understanding about the life of musicians bound to their art

“thanks,” you say, feeling the space between you charged with an unspoken recognition of your mutual dedication. “we’ve built it up over the years.”

beomgyu's eyes meet yours again, and in that moment, the room seems to shrink, the walls inching closer as if to eavesdrop on this quiet moment of connection.

“i’m really looking forward to adding to it,” he says, his voice a soft murmur, almost lost in the hush surrounding you.

his gaze is steady, inviting a level of sincerity that you hadn’t anticipated, pulling you into a narrative that suddenly includes him in ways you’re still trying to understand. you manage a smile, small but genuine, touched by the earnestness in his tone.

as you and beomgyu emerge from the instrument room and reenter the main studio, there's a palpable shift in the atmosphere. the others are clustered near the door, seemingly caught between preparing to leave and the palpable buzz of curiosity about the new dynamic you and beomgyu might bring.

you catch the tail end of a shared chuckle, their heads turning toward you with an array of mischievous grins. it's as if they've been waiting for this very moment to tease you about the apparent ease with which you and the new member have started to bond, their eyes sparkling with the kind of playful complicity that usually prefaces a round of good-natured ribbing.

however, amidst the laughter and whispered side conversations, wonbin stands slightly apart, his attention tethered to his phone. his fingers swipe absently across the screen, a frown knitting his brow as if he's engrossed in something far removed from the light-hearted banter filling the room.

every so often, his eyes flick up, scanning the room with a detachment that borders on disinterest.

why would he care? the thought stabs at you with an unexpected pang of regret.

despite everything—the tension, the past connection, the unresolved words hanging between you—it stings to see him so deliberately disconnected from the moment, so unaffected by the camaraderie that has always been a cornerstone of the band's spirit.

you pause, the weight of his indifference settling over you like a cold shadow. in contrast, the others seem almost eager to draw you further into the fold, their laughter a warm invitation back into the light.

minjeong nudges you gently, leaning in to whisper with a conspiratorial wink, "looks like someone made quite the impression."

her gaze flicks meaningfully toward beomgyu, who is now chatting with hongjoong about potential song ideas, his enthusiasm palpable even from a distance.

"give it a rest," you mutter, though your words lack real heat. despite yourself, a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of your lips, softened by the familiar comfort of your bandmates' teasing.

meanwhile, wonbin's isolation grows more pronounced, his presence like a note held too long in a song, creating a dissonance that even the laughter around you can't quite drown out. it's clear he's made his choice to remain aloof, perhaps as a shield against the complexities of change or as a defense against a pain he won't acknowledge.

as the group begins to move toward the exit, chatting about where to go for lunch, you cast one last glance at wonbin. his eyes meet yours briefly, a flash of something indecipherable crossing his features before he looks away, turning back to the inscrutable safety of his phone screen. in that fleeting moment, the distance between you feels wider than ever, filled with unspoken truths and missed connections.

the evening air is thick with the remnants of summer, warm and heavy, curling around your skin like a second layer. the sky is a dusky violet, the city stretching long and endless in front of you, neon signs flickering like distant constellations against the deepening horizon. the band walks together, clustered in pairs, their voices filling the streets with easy laughter and lingering conversation. there’s something familiar about it, the way the five of you fit together like notes in a song, but tonight, there’s a new rhythm beneath it all—one that wasn’t there before.

beomgyu walks beside you, his long strides effortlessly matching yours, the warm streetlights casting golden reflections in his brown hair. his hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his figure relaxed but somehow still commanding, the sharp angles of his jawline softened by the glow of the city. he nudges you lightly with his shoulder, an action so casual you almost don’t register it until he speaks.

“tell me, how did you get into playing guitar?,” he asks, voice smooth, tinged with genuine curiosity. his eyes flick toward you, searching, like he actually cares to hear the answer.

you hesitate, caught between the comfort of the conversation and the weight of an audience you don’t quite trust yourself to forget.

“it's a long story,” you deflect, but there’s no real reluctance behind your words.

beomgyu hums, tilting his head. “i’ve got time.”

you exhale, glancing ahead at the others. yunjin is caught up in an animated conversation with hongjoong, hands gesturing wildly as she argues about something that makes gunil bark out a laugh. but Wonbin—he’s quieter, walking slightly ahead, shoulders taut, his gaze flicking back every so often, lingering in a way that’s almost imperceptible. almost.

still, you return your focus to beomgyu, offering him a small smirk.

“my uncle used to play. when i was little, i’d sit in the corner of the living room just watching him. he’d never let me touch his guitar, said i had to earn it first.”

you glance down at your fingers, trailing them absently along the strap of your bag. “so I taught myself on a cheap secondhand one. it was awful—buzzing strings, action so high i thought my fingers were gonna bleed.”

beomgyu grins, clearly entertained. “let me guess—bar chords were your mortal enemy?”

“they still are,” you admit with a laugh, the sound light, almost foreign coming from you lately. it feels easy, talking like this, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your chest isn’t weighed down by something you can’t quite name.

“you got there, though,” beomgyu points out, nudging your elbow. “and now you’re playing in one of the best bands i’ve ever heard.”

“are you two planning on getting lost back there?”

wonbin.

his voice isn’t harsh, but there’s an edge to it, something controlled, clipped. you glance up, catching the way his eyes dart from you to beomgyu and back again, his features unreadable. his phone—his ever-present distraction—is nowhere in sight now, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders drawn just a little too tight.

you blink, thrown off by the sudden intrusion. “relax, we’re right behind you.”

he doesn’t respond, just lets out a breath, turning away as if the conversation already isn’t worth his time. but the tension lingers, curling like smoke in the air, and when you step forward to match pace with the rest of the group, you swear you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

beomgyu doesn’t seem fazed. if anything, his lips twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes like he’s just found something interesting—something he intends to figure out.

wonbin stays near the front, his posture composed, his expression unreadable, just as he’s been since beomgyu arrived. he doesn’t joke with the others as much as usual, but no one seems to notice except you. you tell yourself you’re imagining things, that the momentary glance he cast your way was nothing, that the way he cut into your conversation with beomgyu was merely coincidence.

beomgyu, however, is as relaxed as ever, unfazed by anything, his presence effortless as he continues walking beside you. as you near the restaurant, he leans in slightly, voice pitched just for you.

“that neon sign’s about to give up on life,” he muses, nodding toward the flickering glow above the entrance, a smirk tugging at his lips.

you snort, shaking your head. “looks like it’s been dying for a while.”

his laugh is easy, rich, and as the two of you step forward, you don’t notice Wonbin’s fingers twitch subtly at the hem of his sleeve, his gaze flicking—just for a second—toward where Beomgyu stands at your side.

the restaurant glows with a warm, golden ambiance, the soft hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the space as you all approach the entrance. just before any of you can reach for the handle, beomgyu jogs ahead, his long legs covering the distance effortlessly. he pulls the door open with a small flourish, grinning as he gestures for everyone to step inside first.

“after you,” he says smoothly, his voice rich with easy charm.

gunil claps him on the back as he passes. “oh, he’s one of those guys. i see how it is, trying to win over our girls”

beomgyu only smirks, but when you step up, his expression softens just a fraction, the warmth in his eyes lingering just a second longer.

“for you, especially,” he murmurs, and there’s something playful, almost teasing in the way he says it, but it still manages to send a ripple of awareness through you.

you barely notice the figure at the back of the group, the one who’s watching in silence. wonbin, arms still tucked into his hoodie, remains near the entrance, his lips pressing into a faint frown before he steps inside last, the shadows of the doorway trailing behind him.

once inside, the group weaves through the crowded restaurant, past candle-lit tables and the scent of sizzling food drifting from the kitchen. hongjoong leads you toward a long table near the window, and before anyone can claim a seat, gunil claps his hands together, loud enough to make a few nearby patrons glance over.

“alright, new guy,” he declares, rubbing his hands together like he’s about to orchestrate something truly chaotic.

“since it’s your first official meal with us, you get the honor of choosing who you want to sit next to.”

beomgyu barely hesitates. with an easy grin, he pulls out the chair right beside him—your chair. he tilts his head toward you in invitation, fingers curled lightly around the back of the seat.

“do me the honours,” he says easily.

the reaction is immediate.

minjeong lets out a dramatic gasp, yunjin waggles her eyebrows with zero subtlety, and gunil downright howls, throwing his head back as he clutches his chest. “ohhh, smooth,” he groans, while hongjoong shakes his head in amused disbelief.

“jesus,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you slide into the chair, ignoring the exaggerated reactions happening around you. “you guys act like i’ve never sat next to a guy before.”

beomgyu only laughs, dropping into the seat beside you with a smug ease. “i don’t know,” he muses, resting his chin in his palm. “you do seem pretty flustered.”

you whip your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. “i—what? i am not—”

but it’s already too late. the table erupts in laughter, gunil banging a fist against the wood while yunjin throws a knowing glance toward minjeong, who looks downright delighted by your reaction.

and somewhere, in the middle of it all, you fail to notice the way wonbin sits stiffly across from you, gaze dark and unwavering as he observes the entire exchange without a single word.

the restaurant hums with a comfortable buzz, a blend of distant chatter and soft instrumental music filtering through the warm air. the scent of grilled meat and spices lingers, curling around you as menus are passed around and drinks are ordered. but despite the distractions, it doesn’t take long for the teasing to start again, because gunil—predictably—has no self-control.

“so,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes flickering between you and beomgyu with unmistakable amusement.

“do we think the new guy’s a natural flirt, or is he just awfully smitten with—”

you shoot him a warning look, already bracing for impact. “gunil.”

he grins, unfazed. “what? it’s a valid question! beomgyu, be honest—was this a strategic choice? or are you just naturally drawn to our very own resident rockstar?”

minjeong chokes on her drink. yunjin smacks a hand against the table dramatically. “oh, he definitely planned this,” she declares, and gunil nods enthusiastically in agreement.

beomgyu—who thus far has taken everything in stride—simply exhales, shaking his head as if in deep contemplation. then he turns to you, expression far too pleased.

“you know,” he muses, tilting his head, “i could say it was coincidence, but i don’t think you’d believe me. not with the way she’s looking at me.”

you narrow your eyes at him, fighting the heat threatening to creep up your neck. “wherever he came from,” you mutter, flipping through the menu with unnecessary force, “we need to send him back. i can’t deal with a gunil 2.0.”

gunil gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as if you’ve physically wounded him. “i am deeply offended,” he proclaims, but then immediately beams at beomgyu, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“but also, what an honor! welcome to the club brother.”

beomgyu leans into it, smirking. “happy to be here.”

“oh my god,” you groan, slumping back in your chair while the rest of the table bursts into laughter. even hongjoong—who usually tries to be the responsible one—shakes his head with an exasperated chuckle, muttering something under his breath about how he already regrets bringing everyone out.

meanwhile, across from you, wonbin remains quiet, idly stirring the ice in his drink. his posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flicker toward you and beomgyu every so often—quick, barely perceptible glances.

if anyone else notices, they don’t comment on it.

the night continues, the teasing persists, and beomgyu continues basking in every bit of attention thrown his way, playing along like he was always meant to be here. you exhale, setting down your menu with a finality that makes yunjin smirk at you.

this is going to be a long night.

the arrival of the food brings a brief but welcome pause to the relentless teasing, the scent of sizzling beef and rich spices stealing everyone’s focus. plates are set down with soft clinks, and for a while, the only sounds that fill the table are the clatter of utensils and the occasional satisfied hum from someone enjoying their meal. the conversation quiets, replaced by the rhythmic lull of eating, the warm air thick with the comforting aroma of grilled meat and simmering broth.

you shift in your seat, concentrating on your plate, but the beef in front of you proves to be more of a challenge than expected. the cut is thick, the texture a little tougher than you’d anticipated, and you find yourself struggling against the resistance of the meat as your knife barely makes a dent.

you huff, gripping the handle a little tighter, trying not to draw attention to your struggle, but before you can wrestle with it any further, a hand reaches into your space.

beomgyu, wordless and unbothered, plucks the knife and fork from your grasp with effortless ease. he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t even glance at you—just presses the edge of the blade into the meat and slices through it with a few smooth, practiced movements. the precision is almost irritating, as if the food is bending to his will out of sheer respect. you blink, stunned into silence as he casually transfers the perfectly cut pieces back onto your plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

gunil sees—because of course, he does—but, mercifully, the food in his mouth saves you from whatever wild remark was undoubtedly forming behind it. you watch as he raises an eyebrow, as if making a mental note to circle back to this later, but he’s too occupied stuffing another bite past his grin to comment right away.

however, what you don’t anticipate is yunjin, who swallows a sip of her drink, tilts her head toward beomgyu, and asks, far too casually, “do you have a girlfriend?”

the question lands like a drumbeat in the middle of the table, and suddenly, all attention shifts back to him. minjeong pauses mid-chew, hongjoong’s chopsticks hover in the air for half a second longer than necessary, and gunil, despite still chewing, makes a muffled noise of interest.

beomgyu, unfazed as ever, finally looks up from his plate, lips curling in amusement.

“that’s kind of a loaded question,” he muses, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

yunjin doesn’t blink. “it’s really not.”

he laughs at that, shaking his head. “no, i don’t,” he admits, resting his elbow against the table as he leans in slightly. “but if i did, would that change the way you’re all looking at me right now?”

gunil swallows dramatically. “i’d be devastated, personally.”

the table bursts into laughter, even hongjoong chuckling as he shakes his head.

the table is still buzzing with laughter from beomgyu’s response when gunil, in his never-ending quest for chaos, suddenly shifts his attention across the table. his eyes narrow slightly, as if just now noticing something off in the atmosphere.

he leans forward, elbow propped on the edge of the table, and calls out, “hold on a second. why is wonbin so quiet tonight?”

at that, the laughter trickles off slightly. a few pairs of eyes flick toward wonbin, who has barely spoken since you all sat down. he had been eating at an even pace, head down, shoulders relaxed—but now that the attention is on him, he moves with deliberate ease, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it back down, as if completely unfazed.

hongjoong shoots gunil a sharp look across the table, the warning subtle but clear: drop it. but gunil, ever the instigator, is oblivious as usual.

“seriously, man,” gunil continues, grinning. “you usually have something to say. what’s up?”

wonbin exhales through his nose, casual as ever, and shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “didn’t get much sleep,” he mutters, the words smooth, effortless.

his face gives away nothing, his expression a mask of nonchalance as he stirs the ice in his glass with his straw.

gunil’s eyes immediately light up with mischief, his mind already running wild with the implications of that statement. “ahh,” he hums knowingly, leaning in like he’s just uncovered some great secret.

“not enough sleep, huh?”

you groan, already knowing where this is going.

“bet i know why,” gunil continues, undeterred. “some girl kept you up last night, didn’t she?” he wiggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly before turning to beomgyu, throwing an arm around his shoulder like they’ve been best friends for years.

“since you’re new here, let me introduce you properly. this—” he gestures dramatically toward wonbin, who merely watches him with an unreadable expression, “—is the real casanova of the group. he’s the original heartbreaker, the pretty boy, the one the girls are always lining up for.”

beomgyu, playing along effortlessly, raises an intrigued brow. “oh? the original?” he flicks a glance toward wonbin, his smirk teasing but unreadable. “so, you’re my competition?”

wonbin scoffs, shaking his head as he finally lifts his gaze from his drink, but there’s something else in his expression now—something too subtle for anyone to name, but just sharp enough for the energy at the table to shift.

he meets beomgyu’s eyes, dark and unreadable, and for a split second, something flickers beneath his usual apathy.

then, with a lazy shrug, he mutters, “i’m not competing with anyone.”

gunil howls at that, clapping his hands together like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all night.

“classic wonbin,” he cackles. “always pretending he doesn’t care.”

the others chuckle along, and just like that, the tension dissolves into playful laughter again. as the teasing finally dies down, the conversation shifts naturally toward the one thing that binds you all together—music.

hongjoong, ever the responsible leader, leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “alright,” he says, voice steady, cutting through the last remnants of laughter. “before we all get too full and lazy, let’s go over practice schedules again. we’ve got a lot to fine-tune before the showcase next month, and we can’t afford to slack.”

there’s a collective groan from gunil and yunjin, but it’s half-hearted at best—they all know hongjoong is right. minjeong nods in agreement, already mentally calculating her schedule.

“we’re still aiming to finalize the album recordings by the end of next month too, right?” she asks.

“yeah,” hongjoong confirms. “and i want everyone at the studio early on friday. we’ll do a full run-through of the setlist with beomgyu this time and some recording too.”

at the mention of his name, beomgyu straightens, and for the first time since he walked through the doors of the studio earlier today, that playful glint in his eyes fades into something else—something sharper, more focused. his posture shifts ever so slightly, no longer that of the carefree flirt basking in the attention of his new bandmates, but of a musician, a professional. the change is subtle but striking, and when he speaks, his voice is filled with something undeniably passionate.

“i’ll be ready,” he says, his fingers tapping absently against the table. “i’ve already gone through most of the recent setlists. i’ll put in extra hours to catch up on anything new, just send me whatever tracks you want polished by friday, and i’ll make sure i’m up to speed.”

the sheer determination in his voice catches you off guard. you weren’t expecting him to take things lightly, of course—no one makes it to this level without hard work—but seeing the shift happen in real time, watching the flicker of ambition light up behind his eyes, is something else entirely. admirable. maybe even a little intoxicating.

you don’t realize you’re staring.

it’s a bad habit, one that hongjoong recently pointed out with an exasperated sigh and an amused, “you really need to work on not getting lost in thought while making direct eye contact. it gives people the wrong idea.”

and yet, you do it again, caught in the quiet force of beomgyu’s intensity, the way his expression softens just slightly when he notices your gaze lingering.

but he doesn’t tease. he doesn’t smirk or make a snarky comment. he just smiles, warm and knowing, and then—without hesitation—reaches over and gives you a light pat on the head.

the gesture is brief but firm, enough to jolt you out of your daze. it’s also enough to send the entire table into another round of chaos.

“i love this guy,” gunil cackles, wiping at his eyes as if the moment was too much for him to handle.

yunjin leans into hongjoong, gripping his arm as if she’s about to faint. “hongjoong, do something, i can’t—”

you, meanwhile, are left gaping at beomgyu, blinking in disbelief. “what—what was that?”

beomgyu shrugs, entirely unbothered. “you were staring.”

your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “i—”

“anyway,” hongjoong interjects loudly, fighting a losing battle against the chaos unfolding at the table. He lifts his glass, signaling for everyone to settle down.

“before we all spiral into madness, let’s wrap this up properly.” he turns to beomgyu, giving him a nod of approval. “welcome to the band.”

everyone follows suit, raising their glasses, the clinking sound ringing warm and bright between you all.

“welcome to the band,” they echo, voices overlapping, some dramatic, some genuine, but all filled with the same shared sentiment as beomgyu grins and lifts his own glass.

you watch as the drinks are tipped back, laughter spilling into the dim-lit restaurant, the camaraderie between you all settling into something real, something permanent. as beomgyu meets your gaze one last time over the rim of his glass, you feel it—the shift.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the studio hums with quiet energy, the soft buzz of amplifiers and the faint clicking of drumsticks against the rim of gunil’s snare drum filling the space as everyone settles into another late-night session.

three weeks have passed since beomgyu joined the band, and in that time, he’s more than proven himself. what started as a cautious integration has transformed into something seamless—effortless, even. he’s blended in like he’s always belonged, picking up the intricacies of your sound with a sharp ear and an undeniable talent that keeps surprising even hongjoong.

even minjeong, typically reserved and hard to impress, has warmed to him. there’s a lightness to her now, a softer curve to her lips whenever beomgyu cracks a joke or nudges her playfully during rehearsals. he has that effect on people—making them feel like they’ve known him forever, like it’s impossible to imagine the band without him now.

and you? you’ve grown closer to him in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

music, as it turns out, is more than just a shared passion between you—it’s a language you both speak fluently, an unspoken connection that keeps pulling you into late-night jam sessions long after everyone else has gone home. he challenges you in ways no one else has, pushing you to refine your riffs, encouraging you to experiment, to play outside the lines you’ve drawn for yourself. his presence is magnetic, not just because of his charm, but because he understands—really understands—what it means to live and breathe music.

“alright, let’s run it again from the top,” hongjoong calls out, adjusting the levels on the mixing board.

beomgyu, leaning against his guitar, glances at you with an easy smirk. “ready to show me up again?”

you roll your eyes, adjusting the strap over your shoulder. “oh, please. you’ve been trying to outplay me since day one.”

he grins, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the body of his guitar. “maybe i just like the challenge.”

the words are lighthearted, teasing, but there’s something about the way he says them that makes your fingers tighten around the fretboard, a heat creeping up the back of your neck. before you can respond, gunil counts off, and the studio is filled with sound, drowning out everything else—except for the sharp awareness of the man sitting across the room.

wonbin is leaning back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his other hand idly toying with the condensation on his water bottle. he hasn’t said much all night, but now, as beomgyu leans in just a little closer to show you something on the fretboard, his voice cuts through the space between songs.

“you two lovebirds done flirting?” he quips, his tone smooth, offhanded—meant to be just another easy joke, like the ones he used to make with you before everything started feeling like this.

but the reaction isn’t what he expects.

you don’t laugh, don’t even roll your eyes the way you once might have. instead, you barely acknowledge the comment at all, offering only a fleeting glance in his direction before refocusing on your guitar.

“let’s just run it again,” you murmur, adjusting the strap on your shoulder, your voice steady but distant.

something sharp tugs at the edges of wonbin’s composure.

he tells himself it’s nothing. that you’re just focused. that you didn’t mean to brush him off like that. that whatever this weird distance is—it’s temporary, just a passing thing. he leans back further, plastering on an easy grin, masking the nagging weight in his chest with the same lightness he always does.

“damn,” he muses, swirling his water bottle absently between his fingers. “didn’t realize i’d be a third wheel in my own band.”

gunil snorts, beomgyu just smirks, and you don’t react at all.

wonbin exhales through his nose, forcing himself to keep his posture relaxed, to wear his usual air of indifference. but something feels off—has felt off for weeks now, but he’s only just starting to acknowledge it.

it’s the distance. the subtle, creeping realization that things aren’t the same between you.

you don’t linger near him in the studio anymore. you don’t joke around with him between takes like you used to. the moments you once stole in passing—trading lazy comments, nudging each other in between sets, sharing quick smirks over inside jokes no one else caught—those moments are gone.

and, if they still exist at all, they don’t belong to him anymore. they belong to beomgyu.

wonbin isn’t stupid—he’s watched it unfold with his own eyes. beomgyu is the one you walk into practice with now, your conversations bleeding into the room long before the rest of them arrive. he’s the one you stay late with, bent over notebooks, strumming through ideas until the rest of the world disappears. the one standing next to you when hongjoong gives new instructions, the one laughing beside you when gunil cracks some dumb joke, the one moving into the space where wonbin used to be.

it’s a shift he didn’t notice at first. or maybe, if he’s honest with himself, it’s one he refused to notice. but it’s impossible to ignore now, the proof laid out in front of him in every lingering glance, every shared smirk, every small touch that passes between you and beomgyu like second nature.

the closeness unsettles him. it shouldn’t—he knows that. he has no reason to care, no claim to stake, no right to question it. but it does bother him, even if he doesn’t understand why.

so he does what he’s always done—masks it in ease, drowns it in something weightless, pushing his emotions down.

the moment rehearsal starts, the studio transforms. the lingering weight of conversation, the undercurrents of tension—all of it is swallowed by the sheer force of sound.

beomgyu settles into the music effortlessly, his rhythm weaving seamlessly alongside the steady thrum of minjeong’s bass and the deep, pounding heartbeat of gunil’s drums. it’s uncanny, the way he fits into the structure of the songs like he’s been here all along, like his presence was always meant to fill the spaces between each note. every chord he plays is precise but never mechanical, carrying the weight of a musician who doesn’t just play music—he feels it, breathes it, lets it seep into his bones.

wonbin watches from the corner of his eye, keeping his voice steady as he sings, but the tightness in his chest remains. he can’t deny it—beomgyu is good. frustratingly good.

his timing is impeccable, his execution flawless, but it’s more than that. it’s the way he connects—how he doesn’t just play the right notes but moves with the song, like he understands every nuance without needing to be told.

then comes the second song, your song.

the one where your guitar takes center stage, where your fingers move effortlessly over the fretboard, pulling sharp, electric notes from the amp with practiced ease. the kind of solo that demands attention, commands the room with its precision and fire. you lean into it naturally, your body moving with the pulse of the song, feeling the music instead of just playing it.

but this time, you’re not alone.

beomgyu catches your movement, a flicker of something playful crossing his face. he shifts slightly toward you, fingers skimming his own fretboard with the same effortless confidence, matching your energy beat for beat. he mirrors you—not just technically, but in spirit, taking up the unspoken challenge like it’s second nature.

the air crackles between you, charged with something unspoken, something electric. the sound of your guitars twists together, harmonizing and clashing all at once, the melodies dancing between your fingers like lightning against a dark sky. your bodies move in tandem, drawn into the same rhythm, the same pulse of sound that vibrates beneath your skin.

gunil, catching onto the moment, grins behind his drum kit and drives the beat even harder, pushing the tempo just slightly, challenging the two of you to keep up. minjeong watches with an amused smirk, barely needing to adjust as she follows your lead, letting the bassline ground the wild energy sparking between you and beomgyu.

when the song finally crashes to a close, leaving the studio buzzing in the aftermath of reverberating notes, there’s a pause—a beat of silence where everything settles, leaving only the faint hum of amplifiers in its wake. The air is thick with something electric, something raw, the kind of energy that lingers even after the music has stopped.

beomgyu exhales, flashing you a grin.

“not bad.”

you scoff, shaking your head as you adjust the strap on your shoulder. “you’re getting cocky.”

he tilts his head, considering. “or maybe i just think we bring out the best in each other..”

before you can respond, a loud, exaggerated sigh fills the room.

gunil, still seated behind his drum kit, leans back with his sticks resting against his thighs, shaking his head dramatically.

“man,” he drawls, “i don’t know what kind of soulmate-level connection you two just tapped into, but i think i actually felt something. i was moved.”

minjeong chuckles, rolling her eyes. “gunil, shut up. you’re so dramatic.”

“no, seriously,” he insists, grinning. “it was like—bam, musical telepathy. the chemistry? undeniable. i think i might start believing in fate or some shit.”

beomgyu lets out a breathy laugh beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours in playful agreement. “guess we make a pretty good team, huh?”

you laugh softly, shaking your head at their antics—but it’s only when you hear them, really hear them, that something shifts in your chest.

it was the first time you had played that song—the one you wrote for wonbin—and your chest hadn’t tightened. no lump had risen in your throat, no invisible weight had pressed down on your ribs. it had been just another song, just music, or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

but then, without thinking, your eyes flicker across the room—to him. wonbin..

the world doesn’t stop spinning, but it feels like it does. for just a moment. for just the stretch of a single breath.

his gaze isn’t piercing, isn’t burning with anything sharp or scathing. no, it’s something else entirely—something unreadable, something that tightens in your chest like a slow-building crescendo, pressing against ribs that have already known too much ache.

this is the moment where he should say something. where he’d usually saunter over, voice low and teasing, an easy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he murmured, “damn, you really are my favorite little rockstar.”

where he’d nudge you just enough to make you roll your eyes, to make you swat him away only for him to stay close anyway. where he’d remind you—without ever really saying it—that he sees you.

but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. just stares. and it hurts.

it’s a quiet, gnawing pain, the kind that doesn’t strike all at once but settles deep, threading itself into old wounds that never fully healed. you’ve spent weeks trying to break free of the weight he left behind, trying to scrape the remnants of him out of your skin, out of your lungs, out of the spaces in your mind that still whisper his name when you’re alone.

and yet, with a single look, it all comes rushing back. you shouldn’t care, but you do.

you do, because for all the ways you’ve tried to let go, there’s still something in you that aches for him to notice. to say something. to remind you that he was once the one who knew you best, who stood by your side, who made you feel like you belonged before everything cracked and left you trying to piece yourself back together.

instead, silence stretches between you like an unplayed note—dangling in the air, unresolved. then, a hand on your shoulder.

beomgyu.

his touch is light, grounding, but it doesn’t break the tension—it only makes you more aware of it. “come on,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, as if he senses the shift, even if he doesn’t understand it.

“water break.”

you don’t respond, just let him steer you toward the bottles laid out on the other side of the room. and still, wonbin doesn’t look away. he doesn’t stop watching. he doesn’t say a single word.

the laughter from the others continues behind you, filling the space you leave behind, but as you reach for the cold plastic of the water bottle, the chill sinking into your fingertips, you feel it—that quiet, aching twinge deep in your chest.

the cool water slips down your throat, but it does little to soothe the fire simmering beneath your ribs. It’s not the kind that burns bright and all-consuming—it’s slower, deeper, the kind of heat that lingers long after the flame has been snuffed out. the kind of ache that settles into your bones, into the spaces between your lungs, making it harder to breathe without feeling it pressing there, unshakable.

beomgyu settles beside you easily, his presence a stark contrast to the storm still curling in your chest. he exists in a way that doesn’t demand anything of you, that doesn’t make your wounds feel like open targets. you should be grateful for that. maybe you are.

but when hongjoong speaks, your pulse stumbles over itself, because his words are about to crack open something you aren’t sure you’re ready to face.

“alright,” he starts, voice dipping into something serious, steady. “the showcase is in a week, and i’ve been thinking—we should introduce one of the new songs, my personal pick is flatline.”

“it would be good to get people excited about the album.”

the moment fractures.

a week. that’s all the time you have left before you’ll be standing on a stage again, before the weight of every chord, every lyric, every heartbeat you’ve ever poured into your music is laid bare under blinding lights. it wouldn’t be the first time. performing is second nature to you.

but this—this—feels different, because the song hongjoong is talking about isn’t just another track in your repertoire. it’s not something you wrote in passing, not a melody plucked from thin air.

it’s a song for him.

for the love you lost before you ever truly had it. for the nights you spent drowning in the silence he left behind. for every almost, every nearly, every whisper of something real that never quite reached the surface. it’s ink and blood, strings and scars, stitched together into something that still feels too raw to touch.

the air shifts and the hesitation is almost tangible. hongjoong notices it too, catching the flickers of unease from the others before his gaze finds you. he hesitates, as if suddenly realizing the weight of what he’s suggesting.

“i mean—we don’t have to,” he amends quickly. “i just thought—”

“no, it’s fine.”

the word leaves your lips before you can second-guess it. it rings louder than you expect, unwavering, slicing through the hesitation thickening the air like a blade.

for a second, you wonder if it’s a mistake. if you’ve said it too quickly, too forcefully. if it’s a lie. but it isn’t, because the truth is—if you don’t do this now, you never will.

if you keep avoiding the song, if you let the ghost of wonbin’s presence dictate the things you create, you’ll never really be free of him. you’ll always be running, letting his absence linger in the spaces meant for music, meant for you.

and you’re so, so tired of running.

“it’s a good idea,” you say, this time softer, but still sure. “we should play it.”

there’s a beat of silence, but before the silence can stretch too far, hongjoong nods. “alright. we’ll lock it in, if everyone else agrees”

a murmur of agreement ripples through the group, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat hammering against your ribs. because now, for the first time, it’s real.

the song is no longer just a relic of your grief, buried within the pages of your notebook. it’s going to be sung and wonbin is going to hear it.

the studio is winding down, the charged energy of rehearsal unraveling into something looser, more relaxed. the clatter of cases being latched shut, the zip of backpacks slung over shoulders, the murmur of voices blending into the low hum of amplifiers still cooling from the heat of performance. it’s familiar, routine. but even in the comfort of familiarity, there’s something else simmering beneath the surface—something unspoken.

you’re winding your guitar cable with slow, practiced movements when you feel them before you see them—yunjin and minjeong, hovering just close enough to make their presence known. they’re watching you like they know something you don’t, eyes sharp, lips poised on the edge of mischief.

"what's the plan for tonight?" yunjin asks, arms crossed as she leans in slightly, the movement casual, but her expression anything but.

"we were thinking of grabbing food—maybe that rooftop bar after. you in?"

minjeong tilts her head, studying you with that quiet, knowing gaze of hers, the kind that makes it impossible to lie. there’s something expectant in her stare, like she already knows the answer before you give it.

you shift your guitar case higher on your shoulder, wincing slightly. "i promised beomgyu i’d stay behind," you admit, not missing the way their eyes immediately flicker toward each other, like two sharks scenting blood in the water.

"we wanted to go over a few things for the showcase."

"even better," minjeong hums, her smirk unfurling slowly, curling at the edges of her lips like smoke.

yunjin grins in agreement, rocking back on her heels as if she’s just won something. "if anything, this is a step in the right direction."

your stomach twists at the implication, but before you can argue, a burst of laughter echoes from across the room.

beomgyu.

his voice is warm, rich with amusement as he throws a casual arm around gunil’s shoulder, grinning at whatever conversation they’re tangled in. he fits into the space like he was meant to be here all along, moving between everyone with effortless ease. his presence is a stark contrast to the space left behind—the empty seat, the missing words, the silence that used to be filled with someone else.

yunjin follows your gaze, then nudges you with an exaggerated wiggle of her brows. "he's cute," she whispers, just loud enough for you to hear. "and not him."

you know exactly who him is and you don’t respond, but the absence of protest is answer enough.

minjeong steps closer, voice lower now, softer, like she’s trying to ease you into something you haven’t fully accepted yet. "look, we're just saying—he’s good for you. you guys seem to get along so well and he definitely isn’t bad on the eyes. and if he’s not, at least he’s something new. something that won’t keep you depressed and in your room for weeks on end"

there’s a weight to her words, something that makes your breath hitch for just a second too long. because new means moving forward. it means carving out a path that doesn’t end with the same heartbreak, the same regret.

it means leaving the past behind.

you exhale, shaking your head, feigning exasperation as you shove your coiled cable into your bag. "you guys are ridiculous."

"and right," yunjin corrects, her smirk widening.

but the teasing fades as she studies you, as if she’s peeling back the layers of your hesitation, reading the reluctance in your body language, the way your fingers still tense when wonbin’s name is even implied.

and the truth is—you don’t know what this is.

you don’t know if beomgyu is anything more than a distraction, if the comfort of his presence is anything more than a temporary bandage over something that still bleeds.

the moment is barely yours before yunjin seizes it, ever the dramatist, ever the instigator.

“oh, leave the lovebirds alone,” she declares, voice cutting through the air like a cymbal crash, exaggerated enough that it echoes off the studio walls.

your shoulders stiffen, but beomgyu only snickers beside you, unbothered, used to their antics by now. the rest of them follow her lead, one by one filing toward the exit, slinging backpacks over their shoulders, chatting amongst themselves about late-night plans, about food, about anything but the weight lingering in this room, in the space that stretches between you and the man who hasn’t left yet.

wonbin stands near the doorway, slower to leave than the others, gaze flickering between you and beomgyu with something unreadable in the dim lighting. there’s nothing playful in his stance, nothing lighthearted in the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides.

then, casually—too casually—he speaks.

“do you guys need a singer?” his voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it, something careful, like a hand hovering over a flame, unsure whether to pull back or press forward.

“i wouldn’t mind staying back if so.”

beomgyu barely hesitates, his answer coming as easily as his smirks, effortless but firm. “wouldn’t want to keep you from your friday night plans,” he muses, adjusting the strap of his guitar, his tone playful but not entirely weightless.

then, with a glance toward gunil, who had been the loudest voice at practice earlier, he adds, “he told me about the girl you’re supposed to be meeting.”

the words drop into the space between you like a stray note—just sharp enough to cut and you freeze.

everything in you locks up—your breath, your pulse, the way your fingers suddenly feel too heavy where they rest against your guitar.

friday night plans. a girl.

of course. of course, he’s meeting someone. of course, there’s another name, another voice waiting on the other side of his time. because that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? wonbin is charming, wonbin is untouchable, wonbin is everyone’s favorite—the guy who belongs to no one but still manages to leave his mark on everyone.

but the worst part isn’t that he has plans, it’s that it hurts.

because even after all the nights spent convincing yourself you’re done grieving him, done chasing something that was never yours to keep—your body betrays you. your stomach knots, your lungs squeeze too tight, your gaze drops to the floor because you can’t—can’t—risk looking at him right now, not when the ache is raw and too exposed.

there’s a beat of silence and then, movement.

wonbin steps forward, but not toward beomgyu. toward you.

your breath stutters, but you don’t lift your head, don’t meet his gaze, don’t acknowledge the fact that he’s close enough for you to smell the faint traces of whatever cologne he wears—the same scent you still associate with late-night drives and half-finished conversations, with laughter pressed against your temple, with the fleeting ghost of something that once felt like home.

he doesn’t speak right away, just reaches into his bag, the sound of the zipper barely registering past the static in your head. and then—gently, carefully—he presses something into your hands.

a bread snack, something from the vending machine down the hall.

“don’t forget to eat a proper meal after,” he murmurs, quiet, almost like a secret. his voice doesn’t hold its usual teasing lilt, doesn’t carry the arrogance of someone who knows he’s impossible to ignore. it’s just soft, like the wonbin you know behind all of the rockstar fame and string of girls. the one who stayed behind that night of tour to make sure you were eating well. the one who always seems to notice when you slip out of a room.

your fingers tighten around the wrapper, but you say nothing. you can’t say anything.

because your heart is pounding wildly, chaotically, like a song with no tempo, no rhythm, no way to steady itself. and then—just as quickly as he came—he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving only his words, his scent, his absence pressing heavy against your ribs.

the door clicks shut, and the weight of wonbin’s absence presses into the room like an echo, something unseen but impossible to ignore. the silence stretches, stretching over your skin, curling in the spaces between your ribs. your heart refuses to still, still beating in a frantic, uneven rhythm, as if trying to process what just happened, as if trying to make sense of the way his voice still lingers in the air, soft and careful, like a melody that refuses to fade.

you stare at the bread in your hands, the crinkled plastic now warm from your grasp. your fingers curl around it too tightly, knuckles stiff, as if the pressure might somehow ground you, might steady the way your stomach churns, the way your mind spins in too many directions at once.

across from you, beomgyu watches.

he doesn’t speak right away, doesn’t press, doesn’t even shift where he’s standing. he just observes.

then—carefully, lightly, like he’s testing the weight of his words before letting them fall—he asks, “hey. is everything alright?”

his voice is gentle, void of teasing, void of the easy smugness he usually carries. it’s a simple question, but it feels heavier than it should, like it’s laced with something more, something close to understanding.

your grip tightens, fingers stiff against the plastic and you don’t want to answer. because no, you’re not alright. you haven’t been alright for a long time. not when it comes to him.

but that’s not something you can say, not now. not when beomgyu is looking at you like he’s waiting for something you’re not ready to give.

so you force a small, stiff shrug, lowering your gaze as you tear open the packaging, letting the sound of crinkling plastic fill the air instead of the things you should say.

“i’m fine,” you murmur, the words flat, hollow. “probably just the lack of food.”

the silence returns, thick and unmoving, stretching between you like an unresolved chord, something waiting to be resolved but never quite landing. beomgyu doesn’t fill it with another joke, doesn’t move to distract or shift the subject. he just stands there, quiet, watching.

the weight of his gaze isn’t suffocating—not like wonbin’s. it doesn’t wrap around you like a vice, doesn’t make your throat close up or your heart trip over itself in confusion. it’s patient. steady. like he’s waiting for the right moment, for the right words to come to him.

and when he speaks, his voice is softer than before, careful in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"is there something going on between you and wonbin?"

your fingers freeze mid-motion, bread half-raised to your mouth. the question hangs there, heavy and unrelenting, pressing into the walls, into the air between you, into the rapid pulse thrumming just beneath your skin.

for a moment, you don’t breathe.

he says it like he already knows the answer. like he’s just confirming something he’s already pieced together in the quiet moments, in the glances he’s caught when he thought you weren’t looking, in the way your name sounds different when it falls from wonbin’s lips.

you should deny it, should laugh, should scoff, should say no, of course not, don’t be ridiculous.

but you don’t because the words don’t come. because you don’t know what to say.

the silence stretches, long enough that it should be uncomfortable, but again he doesn’t fill it. he just watches, the question still hanging in the air between you, waiting, waiting, waiting—like he already knows you won’t answer.

and when you don’t—when the words sit frozen on your tongue, too tangled to unravel—he exhales softly, tilting his head slightly, his gaze never once leaving yours.

“and those songs,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less sure. “the ones you showed me?”

his fingers drum absentmindedly against the body of his guitar, slow, deliberate. he doesn’t sound accusatory, doesn’t sound like he’s trying to pry something out of you that isn’t already there. if anything, his voice holds something closer to realization, like he’s only now putting the last pieces of the puzzle together.

“they’re about him, aren’t they?”

your breath catches because it’s not a question. not really. it’s a statement.

a truth, laid out plainly in the dim light of the studio, in the spaces between your hesitation and the way you keep gripping that damn bread like it’s an anchor keeping you tethered.

and still, you say nothing, because what would be the point in denying it?

he’s seen the way your hands shake when you play certain chords, heard the way your voice wavers when you sing the words you wrote with him in mind. he’s watched you shift, hesitate, look away when wonbin enters a room, has caught the way you try too hard to seem indifferent when his presence pulls at you like gravity.

beomgyu isn’t stupid, he’s known, even before this moment.

but now, he’s asking you to say it, to admit it

the room feels smaller now, the air heavier, pressing against your lungs like a weight you can’t shake. the bread sits in your mouth, tasteless and dry, lodged in your throat like the emotions you’ve spent weeks—months—trying to swallow down.

you don’t speak you can’t. instead, you nod. slowly. it’s a small movement, barely there, but it’s enough, enough for beomgyu to see what you can’t bring yourself to say aloud. enough for him to understand that every lyric, every melody, every carefully placed chord in those songs wasn’t just music—it was him. it was all him.

wonbin is the grief in your harmonies, the ache in every verse, the echo of something unfinished ringing between the notes, the weight of him still stuck in your chest, clinging to your ribs like an old melody you can’t unlearn.

you swallow thickly, forcing the bread down, but it doesn’t go down easy.

beomgyu doesn’t react right away. he just watches you, his eyes tracing the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers curl tightly around the plastic wrapper, the way your breath comes a little too shallow, like you’re fighting to keep something buried.

when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, as if he’s choosing each word carefully before letting it slip into the space between you.

“i won’t press,” he murmurs, his tone gentle but steady. “i won’t ask for details. i can already tell how hard it is for you to talk about this.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, forcing your breath to even out, forcing yourself to swallow past the lump forming in your throat.

beomgyu exhales, a slow, thoughtful breath, and then, almost as if speaking to himself, he murmurs, “unrequited love sure is a killer.”

there’s something in the way he says it, something weighty and familiar, that makes your fingers tighten reflexively around the bread in your lap.

it’s not just an observation, it’s an admission. a confession without a name, without a past attached, but you hear it for what it is.

you finally lift your head, just a fraction, just enough to meet his gaze, and for a moment, there is nothing but shared understanding—a quiet recognition of two people who have suffered the same ache, carried the same weight, swallowed down the same grief in silence.

he doesn’t pity you and you don’t pity him.

because you both know that nothing about this kind of pain warrants pity, only endurance.

“he’s a lucky guy,” beomgyu says after a long pause, voice barely above a whisper.

“to have songs written about him like that. to have someone feel so much for him that they carved it into melody, into words, into something permanent.”

you look away again, because the lump in your throat is threatening to choke you.

but then he exhales softly and adds, “but from what i’ve read… he’s a fool too. the kind that only realizes what he had once it’s already gone.”

a breath leaves you, sharp and unsteady, something between a laugh and a sob, something too raw to be controlled.

beomgyu doesn’t push any further. he doesn’t try to make you talk, doesn’t try to unravel what’s left of you tonight.

instead, he just reaches out, gives your shoulder a small, firm pat—not comfort, not reassurance, just a silent promise that he understands.

and then, as if sensing that the air between you is far too heavy, far too fragile, he leans back, shifting the conversation towards something lighter, something safer.

you don’t thank him, but when you finally lift the bread to your lips, taking a small, hesitant bite, you think maybe he already knows.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the air hums, thick with the promise of something electric, something on the verge of breaking open. the crowd is restless, shifting in waves, anticipation crackling through them like static before a storm. the scent of sweat, liquor, and faint traces of cigarette smoke curls through the space, mixing with the neon glow that flickers against the walls, casting everyone in ephemeral reds and blues—colors of heat and longing, of something fleeting yet unforgettable.

this is the moment before the plunge.

the moment where everything still belongs to you, before the first note rings out, before the music swallows you whole. it’s a delicate thing, this stillness before the sound—like standing at the edge of a cliff, toes curling over the drop, the wind whispering at your back, coaxing you forward.

your fingers tighten around the neck of your guitar, the weight of it an anchor, grounding you when the chaos threatens to pull you under. it should feel the same as it always does—should soothe the nerves that tangle in your stomach, should remind you that once you start playing, once the music floods your veins, there will be nothing else.

but tonight is different, because tonight, beomgyu is beside you.

he steps into place, his presence settling next to yours like it’s always been there, like the space he’s filling was never empty to begin with. where there used to be a breath of distance, now there is only proximity—his shoulder brushing against yours, a warmth that seeps in despite the cool bite of adrenaline in your veins. he leans in, just slightly, voice dipping low beneath the crowd’s rising roar.

"you ready?”

the words should be reassuring, should be nothing more than habit—because this is what he used to do. this is where he used to stand, where he used to murmur a lazy, knowing "don't mess up, little rockstar," just to see you roll your eyes, just to hear you scoff before the first note.

but now, it’s beomgyu.

before you can answer, before you can swallow down the tangled feeling rising in your throat—his hand finds yours. it’s brief, fleeting, barely a squeeze, but it roots you. a silent promise. a reassurance that you’re not stepping into the unknown alone.

and from across the stage, wonbin sees it.

he’s standing just a few feet away, yet it feels like a world apart. the mic stand is loose in his grip, his posture relaxed, unreadable—but his eyes linger, fixed on the space where beomgyu’s fingers curled over yours.

where he used to be, where he used to stand.

the moment stretches, tension weaving itself into the dim-lit space between you, thick and suffocating. but then, the house lights drop, and the crowd erupts, and there’s no more room for hesitation.

a sharp pulse of bass rolls through the speakers, reverberating against the walls, sinking into the marrow of your bones. the stage floods with light, neon blues and deep purples casting long shadows, slicing through the dark like lightning fracturing the sky. the crowd erupts, a wild, breathless wave of noise—screams, cheers, the unmistakable pulse of a hundred bodies moving as one.

hongjoong steps forward, claiming the moment with the ease of a frontman who knows exactly how to wield the weight of anticipation. he lifts the mic to his lips, and even before he speaks, the response is deafening.

"we missed you, you crazy motherfuckers!"

the crowd roars, fists pumping in the air, voices crashing against each other in a feverish symphony. the venue is alive, pulsing, breathing—fueled by adrenaline, by the promise of the music about to tear through the room.

then, hongjoong grins, his voice dipping lower, laced with something playful, something teasing.

"now, before we blow your minds, we’ve got a new face on stage tonight."

the screams rise in pitch, high and electric.

beomgyu, beside you, shifts slightly, rolling out his shoulders, the dim stage lights catching the glint of his silver piercing, the streak of sweat-darkened strands falling into his eyes. if he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it. there’s an ease to the way he stands, the way his hand rests on the curve of his guitar, the way his lips quirk into a smirk just before hongjoong makes it official—

"give it up for our new rhythm guitarist—choi beomgyu!"

and the response is instantaneous, the moment beomgyu’s name leaves hongjoong’s lips, the venue erupts.

the sound is deafening—high-pitched screams rolling through the space like a wave, wild and relentless. his presence is magnetic, his confidence effortless, the energy around him swelling with every second that passes. he stands beneath the stage lights like he was built for this, basking in the feverish adoration pouring from the crowd, a smirk tugging at his lips as if he already knew this was coming.

and for the first time, someone else is rivaling the presence that once belonged to wonbin alone.

because wonbin—on stage, wonbin commands the space like a golden god, every movement deliberate, every note he plays dripping with an effortless cool that sends shivers down your spine. he has always been larger than life under the lights, a force that burns and soothes all at once, the weight of him undeniable. the lights catch the sheen of sweat on his brow, illuminating him in a way that makes him look untouchable, like he’s been kissed by the gods themselves, his existence a thing of myth and legend.

but now—now, the stage has another presence.

beomgyu doesn’t just hold himself well—he owns the moment. he stands tall beneath the golden wash of the overhead lights, his long hair catching the soft glow, his silver piercing glinting with every tilt of his head. he moves with ease, with certainty, like he already knows the crowd will adore him.

and they do. they devour him, the way they used to devour wonbin.

the shift is undeniable, like the stage itself is recalibrating, realigning the way it breathes, the way it pulses beneath your feet. and for the first time, wonbin isn’t the one standing in the brightest light.

you don’t have to look to know he’s aware of it.

before the weight of it can settle, before the tension can coil any tighter, hongjoong throws his fist in the air, signaling the start of the set.

the moment the first chord rips through the air, the venue explodes.

the drumline is relentless, a pounding heartbeat that syncs with the wild energy of the crowd, fueling their movements, their screams, their desperate need to be consumed by the music. the bass thrums low and deep, shaking the floor beneath your feet, while the wail of guitars cuts through the chaos, sharp and electric.

and at the center of it all—you and beomgyu move like a force of nature.

the shift is subtle at first, effortless in the way that only comes with instinct. it’s in the way you lean toward him during the opening riff, in the way he mirrors the movement without hesitation, playing off your energy as if the two of you have been doing this forever. the chemistry is instantaneous—a back-and-forth exchange of sound and motion, a conversation spoken through fingers against strings, through the way your bodies pull toward each other in perfect rhythm.

the crowd notices. they feel it.

the pitch of their screams rises, sharp and frenzied, a reaction to the unspoken electricity crackling between you and beomgyu on stage. when you step forward, he meets you halfway. when you tilt your guitar upward, he angles his in the same way, the two of you lost in the moment, lost in the music. it’s intoxicating, the way it flows so naturally, the way it just works.

a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, just barely visible in the shifting lights, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he takes it further, crowding into your space just enough to drive the audience into a frenzy. he’s teasing them, teasing you, pushing the dynamic to its edge. he plays with a kind of confidence that borders on reckless, grinning as the crowd screams louder, as they feed off the connection you’re giving them.

your eyes meet beomgyu’s, and it’s like striking a match—instantaneous, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

his gaze is wild, untamed, burning with something reckless as his fingers dance effortlessly up and down the strings of his guitar. the glint of the stage lights catches on the silver of his noise piercing, on the damp strands of his hair sticking to his forehead, on the raw, exhilarated grin tugging at his lips. he’s thriving in this moment, in the way the music swallows everything whole, in the way the energy between you pulls tighter, tighter, a thread stretched to its limit.

then, the silent challenge begins.

you push yourself further, fingers sliding over the fretboard, pressing harder, moving faster, your guitar wailing in response. beomgyu doesn’t hesitate—he matches you, keeping pace with ease, teasing the melody just enough to goad you, just enough to dare you into pushing beyond the edge.

the music drives you together, bodies drawn into the rhythm like magnets, until there’s barely any space left between you. the heat of the lights, the fevered pulse of the crowd, the sheer intensity of the moment—it’s intoxicating, drowning out everything else, everything that isn’t this.

the rest of the band? they feel it too.

gunil pounds the drums harder, the beat slamming through the venue like thunder rolling across an open sky. minjeong’s bass vibrates low and heavy, a pulse that thrums deep in your chest, anchoring the chaos, keeping the storm contained. hongjoong and yunjin’s voices rise above it all, their harmonies growing rougher, more unruly, feeding into the wild, raw energy tearing through the set.

it’s a performance unlike any before—untamed, unhinged, an awakening of something new, something raw, something the crowd can’t get enough of.

but just beyond the heat of the lights, just past the charged space between you and beomgyu—wonbin is still watching,

wonbin has never been just another piece of the stage.

he’s always been the moment, the gravitational force pulling every gaze, the golden focal point of the band’s energy, the one who commands attention without even trying. his presence alone has always been enough—his voice, his movement, the way he bends the music to his will. he has never had to chase the spotlight, it’s always belonged to him.

but tonight, he is not the one they are watching. for the first time, wonbin fades into the background and he hates it.

his grip tightens around the mic stand, knuckles whitening, his jaw locked so tight it aches. he tells himself it’s just the music, just the adrenaline—that’s why his pulse is hammering in his throat, why his body feels wired, off-kilter, out of sync. but the more he watches, the more he realizes it’s not the music that’s throwing him off.

it’s you. it’s beomgyu.

it’s the way you two move—effortless, in sync, pulling toward each other like magnets caught in the same orbit. it’s the way your bodies lean into the rhythm, the way your eyes meet with something charged, something unspoken, something new.

it’s the way he matches your energy, challenges you, dares you to push harder, play faster, lean in closer. the way the crowd sees it, feels it, screams louder because of it.

it’s the way he—wonbin—isn’t part of it. the realization unsettles him more than it should.

he shifts his weight, trying to shake it off, trying to slip back into the moment, back into the role he’s always played with such ease. but it’s not the same. the energy of the stage is shifting, the music bending in a way that doesn’t center around him anymore. and it’s not because of the crowd.

it’s not even because of the music. it’s you.

you, who used to seek him out during performances without even thinking. you, who used to turn to him during the high points of a song, locking eyes in the way that made it feel like the stage belonged to just the two of you.

but tonight, you’re not looking at him, you haven’t looked at him once.

wonbin swallows, throat dry, frustration curling hot and tight in his chest. he doesn’t even realize how stiff he’s become, how his grip on the mic stand has turned iron-clad, how his body is thrumming with something he doesn’t want to name.

for the first time, he’s losing something on stage and the fact that he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much—why this is different—only makes it worse.

the music swells, rising toward the inevitable climax, and the stage becomes something untamed—alive, unhinged, drenched in heat and motion.

your fingers blaze over the fretboard, coaxing a wail from your guitar that rips through the heavy, pulsating air like a jagged streak of lightning cracking open the night. the solo is yours—no, the stage is yours—and beomgyu knows it. he steps back, hands lifting from his own instrument, offering the spotlight like a silent tribute to a god. but

he doesn’t leave, he doesn’t retreat.

instead, he leans in.

close. too close.

the breath between you is shallow, trembling, and the space that separates you shrinks until it feels like the entire universe has narrowed down to just this moment, just him. his presence is a force, a magnetic pull that wraps around you, suffocating and electrifying all at once. you can feel the heat radiating from him, the weight of his gaze locked onto you—onto your fingers dancing across the strings, onto your lips parted in focus, onto the way your body twists and moves, reckless and raw, with the music that’s tearing through you.

his eyes burn, and he’s drinking you in like he’s starved for something only you can give.

and when you think he’ll relent—when you think he’ll step back, give you the air you so desperately need—he does the opposite.

he dips his head, his breath grazing your ear, his voice cutting through the chaos like velvet sharpened into a blade. “let it out.”

it’s not a suggestion. it’s not a plea. it’s a command wrapped in a dare, spoken like he knows you’re capable of unraveling the world if you just tried.

something ignites deep inside you—something volatile, something electric, something that feels like it could burn you alive if you let it. his eyes are still on you, dark and devouring, watching you like you’re the only thing in existence, and it’s too much. it’s suffocating. it’s intoxicating.

and then you snap.

your fingers fly over the fretboard with a fury you didn’t know you had, each note searing through the air, leaving fire in its wake. the sound is untamed, filthy, and the tension between you and beomgyu swells, thick and almost unbearable, like a storm gathering strength. he doesn’t back away; instead, his body moves with yours, mirroring your rhythm, matching your energy, as if you’re tethered by something invisible but unbreakable.

the crowd loses themselves, their screams fusing with the music, but they’re background noise now. nothing exists except for the heat spiraling between you and the boy standing so close it hurts, so close it feels like he’s burning into you, watching you like you’re the only thing that exists.

the solo crescendos, wild and relentless, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world might come undone under the weight of it—the sound, the crowd, the suffocating gravity of his presence..

the energy of the concert shifts as the final notes of the previous song fade into the air, the crowd still riding the high of the relentless tempo, their cheers echoing through the venue like a roaring tide. the stage lights dim, washing everything in a softer glow, cooling the fever pitch just enough for something more intimate, more vulnerable to slip in.

this is the moment you knew was coming.

and then the first notes ring out, soft, aching, unmistakable.

"flatline"

your song.

the one you wrote in the dead of night, with fingers trembling over the strings, with your heart cracking open beneath the weight of every lyric. the one that poured from your chest like a confession, like an unraveling, like something too raw to touch but too important to keep buried.

the opening chords of the song hum softly, a melancholic thread weaving through the noise, pulling everything into focus. the crowd’s energy doesn’t drop—it changes. they sway now, their voices quieter but still present, singing along to the melody that holds the weight of something fragile, something broken.

your fingers tremble slightly as you play, but you hide it well, forcing yourself into the rhythm, letting the music guide you. this song—it’s yours in every sense of the word. the lyrics, the melody, the ache woven into every note—it’s the confession you could never say out loud.

the confession that still lingers between you and him.

and though you try to focus on the crowd, on the stage, on the way the music feels beneath your fingertips, you can’t ignore the weight of wonbin’s presence just a few feet away.

it’s in the way his voice curls around the first verse, warm and honeyed, just rough enough to carry the ache. the words sound different when he sings them—like they mean something else, something entirely his own. but you know the truth.

he doesn’t know.

to him, this song is just another piece of the setlist, another melody to pull the crowd deeper into the performance. he doesn’t hear the confessions stitched into the lyrics, doesn’t see the raw edges of your heart still bleeding beneath the surface.

“you call my name like a bad habit, like a cigarette at dawn light me up, breathe me in, then forget that i was ever gone…”

the words slip from your lips, barely above a whisper, but they are heavy—drenched in something raw, something unspoken. the weight of them pulls you back to that night, the one you’ve tried to erase from memory, the one that still clings to you like an old bruise refusing to fade.

curled up in your bed, sheets tangled around your limbs, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttered breaths. the ceiling above you had blurred, your vision swimming, hot tears slipping into your hair as you begged—to what? to god? to the universe? to something unseen that could wrench the ache from your chest and leave you hollow enough to move on?

"morning will come and i'll do what's right just give me till then to give up this fight..."

wonbin’s voice threads into the song, seamlessly slipping into harmony with yours. it should be beautiful. it should be effortless, like all the other times before.

but it’s different now, because he’s still singing a song he doesn’t know is about him.

"there's a million things there's a million things i could say..."

your hands tighten around the neck of your guitar, the callouses pressing deep against the steel strings, grounding you in something tangible, something that doesn’t slip through your fingers like he did.

there were so many words left unsaid. so many almosts, so many if onlys.

you should have told him. you should have let the words escape when they burned at the back of your throat, should have let them tumble out when his fingers brushed yours, when his gaze lingered too long, when he stood close enough for his breath to warm your skin. but you never did.

"but you never really knew that but you never really knew i felt this way..."

wonbin’s voice is steady, unaware, untouched by the meaning woven into every lyric. he doesn’t flinch as the words leave his mouth. he doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate the way you do.

because to him, this is just a song.

"wanna take it back wanna take it back to when we had it just like that, had it right on track..."

you blink, forcing yourself back into the present. beomgyu is beside you, fingers moving fluidly over his guitar, his presence a steady rhythm against the turmoil brewing beneath your skin.

the crowd is swaying, lost in the moment, unaware of the battlefield unfolding within you.

"and i keep falling in this darkness..."

the final note lingers in the air, fading into the roar of the crowd, a crashing wave of voices screaming their devotion, their exhilaration, their need for more. the stage is bathed in golden light, the remnants of something electric still crackling in the space between your fingers, between the breaths you haven't quite steadied yet.

hongjoong steps forward, lifting his mic one last time, his voice cutting through the haze of sound. "you guys were fucking insane tonight!" his words are met with another deafening wave of screams, bodies surging, hands reaching, voices raw with the aftermath of something unforgettable. "we’ll see you soon, west coast—until then, keep the music loud and the nights even louder!"

the lights dim, the energy of the stage shifting, pulling back, retreating into the shadows as you all step away from the edge, away from the blinding heat of the crowd.

and just like that, it’s over, your first showcase since the tour.

the second you’re backstage, the weight of it all comes crashing down—the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the sweat clinging to your skin in damp rivulets. your body hums from the performance, from the music that still thrums deep in your bones, but more than anything, you feel the ache of that song, the ghost of it still pressing against your ribs like it doesn’t want to let go.

your fingers move automatically, yanking out your earpiece, the sensation of it still ringing in your head even as you toss it onto the nearest surface. beomgyu is beside you, pulling at the collar of his shirt, letting out a breathless laugh as he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

"holy shit," he mutters, still buzzing, still alive with it. "that was insane."

before you can respond, gunil claps a hand on your shoulder, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment. "oh, and don’t think we didn’t see that—"

you blink, still half-lost in the haze of the performance. "see what?"

gunil’s smirk deepens, eyes flicking between you and beomgyu with something obnoxiously knowing. "that sexual tension. you two were all over each other."

heat rushes to your face faster than you can process, your pulse skipping in a way that has nothing to do with the performance.

beomgyu, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat—just leans in slightly, tilting his head toward you with a teasing lilt in his voice. "yeah?" he muses, a grin playing at his lips. "didn’t hear any complaints from her side."

you narrow your eyes, shoving at his shoulder, but the laughter from the others—the way gunil howls, the way yunjin snorts into her water bottle—tells you the damage has already been done.

wonbin is standing a few feet away, half-turned toward minjeong’s open guitar case, his movements slow, deliberate. he’s not joining in on the teasing, not cracking a joke or rolling his eyes. he’s just watching.

and when your eyes finally meet—just for a second, just long enough for something unreadable to flicker across his features—he looks away.

but not before you see the way his fingers tighten against the edge of the case, the way his jaw tenses, the way his entire body reacts to something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

and suddenly, the heat from the stage isn’t the only thing making your head spin.

the room erupts into celebration, laughter spilling into the air as bottles are passed around, the sharp pop of champagne punctuating the moment like the final note of a song still lingering in the air. the energy is still electric, still thrumming with the aftershocks of the performance, the adrenaline not yet burned out from your veins.

but something is off.

it happens so fast you almost miss it—wonbin, who should be here, at the center of it all, basking in the aftermath of the stage, is slipping away.

no words, no offhand remark, no teasing jab at gunil’s terrible attempt at pouring champagne without spilling it. just quiet. a subtle shift, a retreat into the shadows when no one is looking.

but you see it.

the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides. the way his shoulders are drawn tight, like he’s bracing against something unseen. the way he doesn’t belong in this moment anymore, like it’s slipping through his fingers, like you’re slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

and against your better judgment, against the logic that tells you to stay, to let him walk away, to not follow him down whatever road this is leading to—you go after him.

it feels too familiar, too much like déjà vu, like history folding over itself and replaying the same scene with different colors, different wounds.

the last time, it had been you slipping away first, heart aching, lungs squeezing too tight as you had left the waiting room, the celebration ringing hollow in your ears. the weight of your feelings had been too much, had pressed too heavily against the raw edges of your heart, and you had run before it could suffocate you.

and now—now, wonbin is the one leaving. and you don’t know why, but you need to.

the hallway is dim, the only light spilling in from the gaps beneath the dressing room doors, casting long, stretched-out shadows against the walls. the air is cooler here, untouched by the feverish heat of the performance, but it does nothing to ease the fire simmering beneath your skin, the one still burning from the way he had looked at you on stage, from the weight of his absence in that room.

wonbin stands at the far end of the corridor, half-leaning, half-bracing against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. his knuckles press against his ribs, white from the force of it, as if holding himself together through sheer will alone. but his breathing is shallow, uneven, like it’s taking effort to keep standing, to not collapse under the weight of whatever storm is raging inside him.

you’ve never seen him like this before.

wonbin, who walks through life with the kind of effortless ease that makes the world bend to his rhythm, who commands attention without ever demanding it, who never lets anyone see past the façade—now looks like he’s barely keeping it together.

and it terrifies you.

the cold wall against his back should be grounding, should anchor him, but the tremble has already started—deep, uncontrollable, unraveling him thread by thread. he swallows hard, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in tight, shallow movements, like he can’t quite get enough air.

and when he finally lifts his gaze, when his eyes meet yours—it’s not the wonbin you know. it’s not the golden boy of the stage, not the effortless flirt, not the boy who grins like the world belongs to him.

it’s someone else, someone breaking.

"what are you doing out here?" his voice is quieter than you expect, rough at the edges, like the words are scraped from the back of his throat.

you take a step closer, pulse pounding. "i could ask you the same thing."

his laugh is hollow, humorless. "go back inside. you should be celebrating. you and beomgyu killed it today."

“wonbin-”

your mouth opens, ready to argue, but then—you see it.

it started as a faint hum in wonbin’s chest, a restless vibration he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. it slithered up his spine, creeping beneath his skin, an insidious thing that whispered something is wrong before he even knew what was happening. the feeling spread like wildfire, setting every nerve alight, an unbearable tightness blooming in his ribcage until his heart began to race—erratic, frantic, thunderous—beating so fast it felt like it might tear itself apart.

his breath hitched, coming in shallow, sharp bursts—too fast, too little, not enough. it was like trying to inhale through a pinhole, like no matter how hard he sucked in air, his lungs refused to expand.

then the room tilted. the walls warped and stretched, blurring into meaningless shapes, and his pulse spiked, his body betraying him in real time. his palms pressed against the cold surface of the wall, desperate for something solid, something real, but even that felt distant—his own fingers tingling, numb with static. the oxygen in his brain depleted too fast, turning everything hazy, unreal.

he clutched his chest, sure his heart was breaking apart.

he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears, his knees trembling beneath him, his muscles locking up. sweat slicked his temples, dripping cold down the back of his neck despite the heat burning inside his body. the panic was swallowing him whole, dragging him under with clawed fingers, whispering the kind of terror he couldn’t fight off—you’re dying. you’re dying. this is it.

"make it stop," he whispered hoarsely to no one, his voice breaking, barely audible. but the panic didn’t listen.

it never did. and then—hands. soft, warm, real.

they landed on his arms, firm but careful, grounding. a voice, steady and low, cut through the storm, slicing through the chaos like a lifeline tossed into the dark.

"wonbin—look at me."

he tries, but his vision swims, colors bleeding into one another.

“i-i think i- i’m d-dying.”

"you need to slow down. just focus on me, okay? you’re not dying. it’s a panic attack."

he let out a strangled breath, shaking his head, because it felt like dying, because his chest hurt like something was caving in, but then, fingers curled around his wrists, gentle yet insistent. anchoring.

"breathe with me. follow my rhythm."

he felt it before he could see it—the steady rise and fall of your chest, the deliberate slowness of your breathing, the warmth radiating from your hands, grounding him in something outside of his own unraveling mind.

slowly, painfully slowly, he tried to match it.

in—one, two, three.

out—one, two, three.

"that’s it," you whispered, your voice softer now, steady as a heartbeat. "just keep going. i’ve got you. i’m right here."

the words nearly undo him.

his back slid further down the wall, his muscles giving up under the sheer exhaustion, his trembling hands gripping at the edge of the floor like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. the storm was ebbing, the jagged edges smoothing just enough for him to take in a breath that didn’t feel like a knife to the lungs.

but the aftermath was just as heavy. his limbs felt useless, his body aching like he had run miles just to end up in the same place.

and through it all, you never let go.

you stayed, your presence unmoving, unwavering, your hands still curled around his wrists, your breaths still slow, even, guiding him back to something solid.

"you’re okay," you murmured again, quieter now, a reassurance just for him.

wonbin exhales, slow and uneven, his body slumping forward as if the last bit of fight has drained out of him. the tension that had held him together, that had kept him upright despite the weight of his own unraveling, finally snaps.

and he leans into you.

at first, it’s hesitant—like he’s not sure he’s allowed to, not sure if you’ll pull away, not sure if it’s okay to need someone like this. but when you don’t move, don’t stiffen or break the moment, he gives in completely.

his head presses against your chest, his breath warm and damp against the fabric of your shirt. his arms, shaky but firm, slide around your waist, pulling you closer—like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, like if he lets go, he’ll disappear into the vast, terrifying nothingness that had swallowed him moments ago.

your arms wrap around him, one hand slipping into his hair, fingers threading gently through the damp strands, the other resting lightly against the curve of his back, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of his breaths. his heartbeat is still too fast, thudding erratically against your ribcage, but it’s slowing. steadying.

the silence between you is thick, weighted with all the things neither of you are ready to say, all the things that are being said without words. it’s intimate in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

not in the way you once imagined it would be—not in the way your heart once ached for. this is something different, something raw, something fragile.

it’s in the way his body softens against yours, like he’s giving himself permission to let go. it’s in the way he buries himself deeper, his nose brushing against your collarbone, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. it’s in the way neither of you move, just existing in the moment, letting the quiet hold you together.

his voice is quiet when it comes, so soft you almost think you imagined it, muffled by the rise and fall of your chest against his cheek.

"you don’t speak to me anymore."

the words settle between you, fragile yet heavy, like glass balanced on the edge of a table, waiting to shatter. your fingers still in his hair, your breath catching for just a second too long.

because of course he noticed.

you don’t know why that surprises you. maybe you thought he never would, that he’d be too wrapped up in his own world to feel the growing space between you, the widening gap that you’ve so carefully constructed.

you hesitate, lips parting, but you don’t know what to say because he’s right. you have been pulling away, you have been distancing yourself. and now, here he is, raw and vulnerable in your arms, forcing you to acknowledge it in a way you weren’t ready for.

"it’s like you want there to be distance, like you don’t like being around me anymore" he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, his arms still wrapped around you, his body still pressed against yours like he doesn’t want that space to exist at all.

there’s something almost broken in his voice, something hesitant, like he doesn’t quite understand it himself. like he’s trying to piece it together, to make sense of the space he swears wasn’t always there.

your throat tightens because you could tell him the truth.

that you do want distance, that you have been pulling away, because what other choice did you have? because your heart couldn’t take the way it felt to be close to him, to want him and never have him, to always be caught in his gravity but never in his arms. because the alternative was unbearable, because staying meant hurting and leaving meant surviving.

but instead, you say nothing.

"talk to me, please angel. help me make things right." his voice cracks, just slightly, but it’s enough.

enough to make your chest tighten, enough to make your fingers twitch where they rest against his back, enough to make something deep inside you waver, just for a moment.

he whines it, breathy and desperate, like he’s starving for something—like your silence is the thing unraveling him now, not the panic attack, not the weight of the night, but you.

you want to speak, you do.

but how are you supposed to, when your thoughts are a tangled mess, when every word that tries to rise to the surface gets caught somewhere in your throat, refusing to take shape?

wonbin doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just holds on, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens even a little. he’s never been like this before—never been anything other than confident, than effortless, than so sure of himself.

but right now, with his head against your chest, his body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of his panic, his words spilling out with no filter—

he’s just wonbin. not the golden boy, not the untouchable performer, not the center of every room. just him. and he’s begging for something from you but you don’t know what to give him.

your lips part, but nothing comes out, the words still tangled somewhere between your mind and your mouth, unspoken, unformed.

you don’t know how to speak to him.

wonbin sighs, the sound barely more than a breath, but you feel it—the weight of it, the way it presses against your skin, the way it settles between you like something unfinished, something breaking.

he knows you won’t reply.

he lifts his head slowly, his arms loosening around you just enough to put space between your bodies, but not enough to let go. and when his gaze finally meets yours, the sight knocks the air from your lungs.

his eyes glimmer, the soft promise of tears lining his lashes, though none have fallen. there’s something unbearably fragile about him in this moment—his breath uneven, his chest still rising and falling just a bit too fast, his lips slightly parted like he wants to say something, like the words are right there, just waiting to spill.

then, the pout forms—small and barely noticeable, but there, pressing against his lips in frustration, in hesitation, in the quiet kind of sadness that lingers long after the moment has passed.

he opens his mouth—stops. shakes his head.

then, in the way only wonbin can, he forces a smile. it doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t hold the usual cocky lilt, doesn’t brim with mischief or charm. it’s small, weak at the edges, faltering even as he tries to hold it in place.

"go back in, before gunil wastes all of the champagne" he murmurs, voice softer now, the weight behind it making your stomach drop. "i’ll be fine."

"but wonbin—"

you don’t even know what you’re protesting, not really. maybe it’s the way his voice sounds when he says it, too light, too hollow, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. maybe it’s the way he’s already slipping away, like this moment never happened, like the way he held onto you for dear life was just a fleeting mistake.

but before you can say anything else, he’s already moving, already peeling himself away, already putting that distance back between you.

the warmth of his body disappears as he pushes off of you, straightening his posture, rolling his shoulders back like he’s shaking the vulnerability off. His hands drag down his face once, quick and sharp, as if trying to erase the evidence of whatever just unraveled between you.

just like that—he’s fine again. or at least, that’s what he wants you to believe.

"i’’m fine now," he says, flashing you a small, easy grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his voice is steadier now, smoother, slipping back into the effortless cool that he wears like armor.

"seriously. just needed a second to breathe."

you don’t buy it. not when his hands are still stuffed into his pockets a little too tightly. not when the faintest trace of unsteadiness still lingers in his breath. not when his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back.

"i’ll join you in a minute, i promise" he says, voice so casual it almost sounds convincing.

before you can argue, before you can make him talk to you, make him admit that he’s not okay, he turns his head slightly, avoiding your gaze, as if that alone will make you drop it.

and maybe that’s the worst part of all—that even after everything, after the way he had clung to you just moments ago, after the way his breath had stuttered against your skin, after the way he had begged you to talk to him—

he’s still choosing to lock you out.

every instinct in you screams to stay, to push, to demand more—more honesty, more answers, more anything that isn’t this half-hearted deflection, this quiet retreat back into the version of himself that he wants you to see.

but you don’t. because you know wonbin. and you know that once he’s decided to put his walls back up, there’s no breaking through them.

so, against every aching part of you that wants to reach for him again, you force yourself to step back, to respect the distance he’s asking for—even if it feels like a knife between your ribs.

the hallway feels colder now, emptier, like whatever fragile thing had bloomed between you just moments ago has already been erased, buried beneath the weight of his carefully composed indifference.

you swallow hard, turning toward the door, toward the muffled laughter and clinking of champagne glasses waiting for you inside. your hand lingers on the handle for just a second too long, fingers pressing into the metal like you can ground yourself with it, like you can hold onto something solid when everything inside you feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

wonbin is still standing there, still leaning against the wall, his head tilted slightly downward. he’s staring at the floor, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders drawn tight, like he’s holding something in—like he’s holding everything in.

for all the distance he’s putting between you, for all the words left unsaid—

he looks so incredibly alone.

your chest tightens, but you say nothing. you just watch him for one last moment, letting the silence between you settle, heavy and final.

then, with a deep breath, you turn away, stepping back into the waiting room, back into the noise, back into a world that hasn’t shattered the way yours just has.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

a week has passed, but the shift in him lingers like an open wound, raw and impossible to ignore.

the unraveling starts slow, so slow that even wonbin himself doesn’t notice at first. it’s just a shift, a minor dissonance in the otherwise effortless rhythm of his life, an unspoken imbalance he convinces himself is temporary. but temporary things are supposed to fade, and this—this only festers.

at first, it’s just the sleepless nights. the ones where he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, mind running in loops he can’t escape. he tells himself it’s fine, that exhaustion is nothing new, that it’s just a phase, a passing restlessness. but then the days start to blur, a slow erosion of time slipping through his fingers. the world moves around him, conversations flow, laughter spills from the mouths of his bandmates, but it all feels distant, like watching through glass.

and then there’s the drinking.

it starts with one, just something to take the edge off, something to quiet the relentless thoughts, something to dull the sharp ache that settles too deep in his chest to shake off. but one turns into two, then three, and suddenly the bottom of a glass becomes familiar, the burn of whiskey a comfort he never thought he’d need. he drinks to forget, but it only makes everything more vivid—the way you used to look at him, the way you don’t anymore, the way beomgyu is always there, always close, always in the space that once belonged to him.

the more he drinks, the less control he has, and control has always been wonbin’s lifeline. he’s spent his whole life making sure no one gets too close, keeping the world at arm’s length, making sure that nothing touches him deep enough to matter. but it does matter. you matter. and the realization is suffocating.

it spills over into rehearsals, where his focus wavers, where his voice catches at the wrong moments, where his fingers press too hard against the mic stand like he’s trying to ground himself in something tangible. the others notice, their glances stretching longer, their murmurs more frequent. hongjoong watches him like he’s waiting for him to break. gunil isn’t subtle with his frustration. yunjin, despite her usual teasing, has started to hold back, as if sensing that whatever this is, it’s beyond a joke now.

beomgyu doesn’t say much, but wonbin catches the looks, the way his gaze lingers in quiet assessment, the way his mouth twitches like he wants to say something but doesn’t. and maybe that pisses him off the most—how composed he is, how unshaken, how he doesn’t seem to feel the same weight crushing him from the inside out. it makes wonbin reckless, makes his fingers tighten into fists when no one is looking, makes him crave the rush of something that will make him forget, even if only for a moment.

the parties get longer. the nights stretch into early mornings, bodies pressed too close, lips that aren’t yours brushing against his skin, hands that don’t mean anything pulling him in, and yet none of it sticks. none of it fills the empty space inside him. he surrounds himself with people, with music loud enough to drown out his thoughts, with drinks strong enough to blur the sharp edges of reality, but nothing—nothing—feels right.

and then there’s the substances.

wonbin has always known where his limits are, has always been the one with a handle on things, but now? now he’s not sure he cares. there’s something about the haze, about the way his mind drifts just far enough away that he doesn’t have to feel anything at all.

it’s reckless, dangerous, and somewhere deep down, a part of him knows this isn’t sustainable, that he’s unraveling faster than he can hold himself together. but he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t want to stop. because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering, and remembering means facing the one thing he can’t afford to admit.

he’s losing you.

not in the way he lost the others, not in the way he’s used to, not in the way that’s easy to brush off with a laugh and a careless shrug. this loss is different. this loss is slow and painful, a knife twisting in real time, an ache that doesn’t dull no matter how much he tries to drown it. because it’s not just your warmth that’s gone—it’s the way you used to wait for him, the way you used to look at him with something close to devotion, the way your presence had always felt like something certain, something his.

and now, beomgyu is in the space he didn’t even realize he had taken for granted.

now, when you walk into a room, you aren't looking for wonbin first. now, when you laugh, it’s beomgyu who leans in closer. now, when you smile, it’s not for him.

he’s a mess.

the tabloids have started whispering, the grainy photos of him spilling out of clubs at ungodly hours surfacing too frequently now. the stories are always the same—drunk beyond recognition, slurring words against the lips of another girl, another distraction, another body to fill the space that’s eating him alive.

wonbin, who never drank beyond control, is drinking himself to death.

wonbin, who was always the last to leave the studio, is stumbling in late, sunglasses perched on his nose, wincing at the sharp clang of drumsticks hitting metal, flinching at the sound of his own name.

today is no different.

he enters practice almost an hour late, sunglasses shielding whatever wreckage lies beneath, the collar of his hoodie pulled high enough to hide the bruising exhaustion carved into his skin. there’s a heaviness in the way he moves, like even his limbs are weighed down by something unbearable, like gravity has its claws in him and won’t let go. he doesn’t greet anyone, doesn’t acknowledge the way every conversation halts the second he steps in, doesn’t even pretend to care that the air is suffocating with tension.

gunil is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat, but his voice lacks its usual playfulness. "rough night?"

wonbin barely reacts, just drops into his seat like he’s been holding himself up for too long, like he doesn’t trust his own legs to keep him standing. "you could say that."

the words are lazy, slow, like they barely belong to him. his voice is rough, scratchy at the edges, like he’s swallowed a pack of cigarettes and washed it down with something stronger. there’s something eerie about it—how detached he sounds, how far away he feels even though he’s sitting right in front of them.

no one laughs. no one even smiles. because it’s not funny.

and then—his sunglasses slip slightly down his nose, revealing eyes so bloodshot they look like they hurt. not just from the lack of sleep, not just from whatever he drowned himself in the night before, but from something deeper, something hollow, something broken.

he doesn’t push them back up, just exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair, fingers trembling just slightly, a ghost of the damage trailing behind him like a shadow. the moment gunil’s drumsticks tap against the rim of the snare, he visibly winces, his entire body flinching like the sound physically hurts.

"can we not?" wonbin mutters, squeezing his temples between his fingers, his voice quieter now, frayed at the edges.

the silence stretches too long, thick with unspoken words, with the weight of everything wonbin refuses to acknowledge, with the worry and anger that has been festering in the room for weeks. everyone is waiting for him to snap out of it, waiting for him to explain himself, waiting for the version of wonbin they all know to reappear, to shake this off like he always does, like nothing ever touches him too deeply.

but this time, he doesn’t. this time, it lingers.

"jesus christ, wonbin."

minjeong, always the first to say what everyone else is thinking, leans against her bass with arms crossed, her expression twisted somewhere between disbelief and irritation, but there’s worry there too, buried beneath the sharpness. "you look like hell."

wonbin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even lift his head. just smirks lazily, a half-hearted, empty thing, the kind of smirk that’s more armor than amusement. "good to know. minjeong, forever the oracle of truth."

hongjoong exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his frustration barely restrained beneath the forced composure of someone who’s been holding himself back for too long. "this isn’t sustainable, wonbin. we can’t keep pretending like you’re fine when you show up like this."

wonbin finally lifts his head, but the movement is sluggish, like every second is costing him more than it should. "you worried about me, hongjoong?" his voice drips with sarcasm, but it falls flat, cracks at the edges like brittle glass.

the response is immediate, sharp, like a blade cutting through air. "yeah, actually. we all are. but i don’t think you care enough to do anything about it."

that, at least, earns a reaction. wonbin’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second before he scoffs, shaking his head, tapping his fingers against the table beside him as if the conversation bores him. but his hands are still shaking.

"you don’t get it," he mutters, almost to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are slipping out before he can stop them. "none of you do."

but yunjin has had enough.

"then help us understand, wonbin." her voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady, firm, laced with something raw, something real, something that cuts through the haze clinging to him. "because all we see is you destroying yourself. and we’re supposed to just sit back and watch?"

wonbin doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t have one.

yunjin exhales sharply through her nose, not as blunt as minjeong, but her frustration simmers just beneath the surface, restrained only by the sheer weight of her concern. "you’ve been doing this every night, huh?" she mutters, shaking her head, like she already knows the answer. "how long are you gonna keep this up?"

wonbin shrugs, slow and indifferent, like it’s not even a question worth considering. "until it stops working, i guess."

"working?" hongjoong’s voice is quieter now, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something like disappointment, like exhaustion. "you call this working?"

wonbin finally reacts to that, tilting his head just slightly, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose to reveal the tired, bloodshot eyes beneath. for a second, he just looks at hongjoong, gaze unfocused, pupils blown too wide, as if he’s trying to process the weight of the words but can’t quite grasp them.

"what’s your point?" his voice is almost teasing, almost playful, but it rings hollow, stretched too thin to hold any real weight.

"my point is that you’re barely here, wonbin," hongjoong says, exasperation bleeding into his tone, his fingers drumming against the edge of the piano. "you show up late, you don’t focus, you can’t even keep your head up half the time. we have a showcase coming up. our album is basically done. this isn’t just about you."

the words should cut, should get through to him, should force him to care.

but wonbin just scoffs, leaning back against the couch, arms spreading out like he’s weightless, like he’s untouchable, feigning a nonchalance so flimsy it barely holds together. "relax. i’ll be fine when it matters."

gunil, who had been mostly quiet, finally exhales and tosses his drumsticks onto his snare with a sharp clack. "do you even hear yourself?" his voice is laced with frustration, but underneath it, there’s something softer—something dangerously close to fear. "you’re not fine, wonbin. and you know it."

wonbin stills for half a second.

it’s barely noticeable, but they all see it.

the way his fingers twitch against his thigh, the way his jaw locks just a little tighter, the way his breath comes in just a fraction too shallow before he forces a slow exhale through his nose.

but then, just like that, he shakes it off, slipping back into the role of someone who doesn’t care, who can laugh this off, who can pretend he isn’t unraveling thread by thread.

"look, can we just get through practice?" his voice is lighter now, like the conversation is nothing more than an inconvenience. he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking straight at hongjoong. "i know i’ve been off, but i’ll clean it up in time. just drop it, yeah?"

nobody looks convinced. and neither does he.

but hongjoong doesn’t press further. he just sighs, rubbing at his temples, nodding once before adjusting the height of his piano bench.

"fine. let’s get to work."

but the conversation doesn’t die there—not really. the tension lingers, stretching into every note played, into every pause between songs.

the final note after practice lingers in the air, fading into the steady hum of amplifiers, the only sound breaking the silence that stretches too long, thick with unspoken words and the heavy weight of exhaustion that isn't just physical.

normally, rehearsals end with laughter, with the band still buzzing from the energy of the music, with gunil flipping his drumsticks between his fingers and minjeong muttering about how he’s bound to break another one, with yunjin slinging an arm around you and making some offhanded comment about how you went too hard on that last riff, with wonbin—wonbin—somewhere in the middle of it all, that lazy smirk on his face, his presence as natural as breathing.

but tonight, the moment the last note fades, he moves like he can’t get out fast enough, his hands working quickly to unplug his mic, winding the cable in tight, controlled circles, shoving it into his bag with a sharp efficiency that makes something curl uneasily in your stomach. he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a single sarcastic remark, doesn’t offer even the barest acknowledgment of the tension that has taken residence in every corner of the room.

he simply pulls his hoodie over his head, sunglasses still perched on his nose despite the fact that there’s nothing but dim studio lights casting a soft glow over the space, and slings his bag over his shoulder before walking out.

the door clicks shut behind him, quieter than you expected, and the silence he leaves in his wake is suffocating.

minjeong exhales first, the sharp sound cutting through the air like a blade. “okay, that was fucking depressing.”

yunjin mutters, running a hand through her hair before shaking her head, arms crossed over her chest in frustration.

“no shit. he barely made it through practice. it’s like he doesn’t even want to be here.”

gunil runs a hand through his hair, stretching his arms out in an attempt to ease the tension in his shoulders, though it does nothing to dull the lingering frustration in his voice. “this is bad. he’s never been like this before.”

hongjoong doesn’t say anything right away, his fingers resting idly against the cord of his microphone, the look in his eyes far away, lost in thought. when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, but there’s a weight to it that makes the words settle heavily between all of you.

“he’s spiraling.”.

beomgyu, who has been unusually quiet, finally shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping against the wood of his guitar before he finally speaks. “has something happened to him recently?”

gunil sighs, shaking his head. “not that we know of. but it’s not like wonbin to act like this.”

not this self-destructive, not this reckless, not this distant. wonbin has always been larger than life, the kind of person who could light up a room without even trying, but now, it’s like he’s actively trying to dim himself, trying to disappear into the chaos he creates, trying to outrun something none of you can see.

yunjin leans forward, her brows furrowed in frustration, but her voice is lined with concern. “he’s out every night. have you seen the pictures? he’s drinking like he’s trying to drown himself.”

you’ve seen every blurry paparazzi photo, every tabloid headline detailing his reckless nights, every video that captures the way he stumbles out of clubs in the early hours of the morning, draped over another stranger, another distraction, another temporary fix that will never actually heal anything.

you’ve seen the hollow look in his eyes, the way he smiles without meaning it, the way he carries himself like he’s untouchable, like nothing matters, but it’s obvious to anyone who’s paying attention that it’s all just an illusion, that beneath the surface, he’s barely holding himself together.

whatever wonbin is trying to drown, whatever weight is sitting on his chest, whatever demons are clawing at his ribs—none of it is going away. it’s festering, sinking deeper, poisoning him from the inside out.

hongjoong sighs, standing up, stretching his arms over his head, but it does nothing to shake the exhaustion weighing on him. when he speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, heavy with something resigned. “he’ll be at the party tomorrow night. looking just as wrecked, if not worse. at least if we’re there, we can stop him from doing something too stupid.”

gunil drums his fingers against his knee, the rhythm sharp, restless. “at least it’ll be contained,” he mutters, but the words don’t hold any conviction.

the room is still. no one speaks. but the weight of it all lingers—thick, suffocating, inescapable.

wonbin has always been the center of this band. the gravitational pull that keeps everything steady, the force that holds it all together, the one who lights up every room without even trying.

but now, that pull is weakening, slipping away, unraveling thread by thread.

and you can feel the distance widening between you, feel him slipping through your fingers like something intangible, something fleeting, something you don’t know how to hold onto anymore—no matter how much you want to.

later, the air in the venue is thick with celebration, laughter spilling from every corner, the scent of champagne clinging to the walls, and the low pulse of bass-heavy music reverberating through the floor, but none of it reaches you—not really, not in the way it should, not in the way it does for everyone else who is lost in the high of the night, in the thrill of the album finally being finished.

the weight in your chest presses heavier the moment your gaze lands on him. he’s slouched against the bar, a glass dangling loosely from his fingers, the remnants of something dark clinging to the ice at the bottom.

but it’s not just the alcohol that makes your breath catch—it’s the mess of him, the disheveled, undone way he exists in this space, like he doesn’t belong here, like he’s something misplaced, a fallen idol with a cracked crown, still beautiful, still magnetic, but in a way that feels almost tragic.

his hair, always so carefully styled, is an unruly mess, strands falling into his eyes as if he’s run his fingers through it a thousand times out of frustration or exhaustion or something you don’t want to name, and his shirt, unbuttoned just a little too much, clings to his frame in a way that suggests he couldn’t be bothered to dress with the usual effortless precision he’s known for.

but it’s his eyes that undo you the most.

wonbin has always carried himself with an ease that made him untouchable, with a gaze that always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. every glance carefully measured, every smirk deliberate, every movement drenched in an effortless confidence that made the world bend to him, but this—this is different.

this isn’t control. this isn’t the golden boy who commands attention without trying, who holds the stage like it belongs to him, who lives like he is incapable of faltering.

this is someone lost.

his eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused, drifting from the rim of his glass to the woman pressed against his side, her fingers ghosting along his forearm, her laughter loud and empty, ringing false in the way that makes your stomach churn.

because he isn’t listening, he isn’t present, he isn’t there. he’s detached, watching everything unfold around him as if he’s separate from it all, like he’s floating somewhere above his own body, too far gone to care, too far gone to stop whatever self-destruction he’s spiraling into.

and yet, despite the dull glaze in his gaze, despite the way his body sways slightly as he lifts the glass to his lips, there is a sharpness that returns the moment he sees you, a slow shift in his posture, an almost imperceptible tightening in his grip as his gaze latches onto yours.

he doesn’t look away. for the first time in a week, he doesn’t run.

he just stares, long and unblinking, his expression unreadable, something tangled and raw sitting just beneath the surface, something that makes your chest tighten, something that makes it impossible to move, impossible to breathe, impossible to pretend that you don’t feel it too.

the room is still loud, the celebration still pulsing all around you, but in that moment, in the space that exists between you and him, there is only silence, thick and suffocating, the unspoken words of an entire lifetime pressing into the air like a storm waiting to break.

beside you, beomgyu shifts, passing you a drink you barely register, his voice low and careful, laced with something knowing.

"well, that’s a disaster waiting to happen."

you don’t answer, can’t answer, fingers tightening around the glass, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink in your hand, because you know he’s right, know that this is something fragile and dangerous. something sharp-edged and ruinous, something that has been teetering on the edge for too long, waiting for the moment it finally crashes down.

as wonbin lifts his glass to his lips, his gaze still locked onto yours, dark and heavy and utterly unreadable, you know—you know—that tonight, it’s going to happen.

the party moves around you in waves, a blur of champagne flutes clinking, voices rising in laughter, the steady thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the air, but none of it registers—not fully. not when every nerve in your body is tuned to the presence of the man across the room, the one you should be ignoring, the one who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you walked in.

wonbin is drinking. hard.

it starts as a slow build, the kind of indulgence that could be mistaken for celebration, for letting loose after months of work. but you see the way hongjoong watches him warily, the way yunjin subtly switches his drinks for water when he isn’t looking, the way gunil mutters something under his breath when wonbin stumbles slightly while leaning in to say something to a passing label executive.

they all see it, the way his fingers tighten around the bottle he’s holding, the way his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, the way he tips his head back too easily, swallowing down the burn of alcohol like he’s chasing something, like he’s running.

maybe he is. maybe he’s been running for weeks now, drowning himself in anything that makes him forget, in anything that makes him numb.

but it’s not working.

not when he keeps looking at you like that, not when every sip of liquor only seems to make the tension in his shoulders grow heavier, the weight behind his gaze more volatile.

and you—god, you—you can feel it sinking into your skin, into your lungs, into every breath you try to take, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too constricting, pressing down on you like an invisible force. you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists, attempt to focus on anything other than the way wonbin’s attention burns into the side of your face, but beomgyu, ever perceptive, ever attuned to your unease, notices.

you feel him shift beside you, the warmth of his presence suddenly closer, the scent of cologne and something inherently him enveloping you as he dips his head just enough for his breath to fan against your temple.

“you seem off. what’s going on?” he murmurs, his voice smooth, laced with something gentle but firm. his lips barely move, his tone low enough that no one else hears, a quiet offering just for you.

“come outside with me. let’s get some fresh air,” he says, before you can even give him a half hearted response that he knows will be a lie.

the suggestion is simple, harmless, but the proximity—the sheer closeness of him—makes something in your chest stutter. his gaze flickers down to yours, warm and steady, his face only inches away, his posture relaxed yet entirely present, entirely aware of the tension coiling in your muscles.

maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up to you, maybe it’s the weeks of unraveling, of pretending, of biting your tongue until it bled, but you find yourself nodding before you can think twice, letting out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

"yeah," you murmur, already turning towards the doors that lead to the balcony. "that sounds—"

you don’t get to finish as a hand wraps around your wrist. firm. unrelenting.

it’s not forceful, not bruising, but the grip is strong enough to halt your movement entirely, strong enough to send a sharp jolt of something electric straight to your spine. the contact stills you, freezes you mid-step, and when you turn—when you look up—your breath snags in your throat.

wonbin.

he’s closer than you expected, closer than he’s been in a week, and though the scent of alcohol lingers on his breath, on his skin, it’s his eyes that hold you captive—the way they burn with something untamed, something raw, something dangerously close to breaking. for the first time in so long, he looks fully present, fully here, though you almost wish he wasn’t.

because his expression—god, his expression—it’s unreadable, but charged. dark and burning, something untamed flickering behind them, something raw, something fraying at the edges, barely contained. his lips are parted slightly, his jaw tight, the muscle feathering beneath his skin as if he’s grinding his teeth, as if he’s forcing himself to stay still.

"where are you two going?" his voice is low, rough at the edges, words slurring just slightly, but the grip on your wrist doesn’t waver, doesn’t loosen, doesn’t let you go.

you hesitate, pulse kicking against your ribs, the weight of his fingers searing into your skin, and for a moment, you can’t find the words, can’t force them past the sudden tightness in your throat.

but then beomgyu steps forward, voice steady but cautious. “she just needs some air, man.”

wonbin’s jaw tics, his fingers flexing around your wrist before his grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to make a statement, enough to say not with him.

"you don’t need air," he murmurs, and it’s not just the words that shake you, but the way he says them—quiet and strained, like he’s pleading, like he’s not talking about fresh air at all.

like he’s talking about you leaving. like he’s talking about you leaving him.

suddenly, the party around you fades, the music, the laughter, the chatter—it all melts away, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat pounding against your ribs, only the weight of his touch, only the look in his eyes that says don’t go.

the air around you feels thinner, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. not from the crowd, not from the thick perfume and alcohol in the air, but from him—from the way his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist, from the way his grip tightens the more you hesitate, from the way his gaze burns into yours, dark and unreadable, something tangled and frantic flickering behind the whiskey-stained haze in his eyes.

you swallow, chest rising and falling too quickly, something heavy pressing against your ribs, an unbearable pressure you can’t escape, and suddenly, the words slip past your lips before you can stop them, barely more than a whisper, but they cut through the space between you like a blade.

"wonbin, i can’t do this. i can’t breathe."

his expression doesn’t shift right away, his fingers still clutching onto you like he needs to, like letting go isn’t an option, like he’s holding onto something more than just your wrist, like if he loosens his grip even a fraction, you’ll disappear into the night, into him, into someone else, and he won’t be able to stop it.

"no." his voice is hoarse, barely above a murmur, but there’s a desperation threaded through the single syllable, a quiet plea disguised as refusal.

then, as if something inside him snaps, his jaw clenches, his chest rising and falling unevenly as his grip hardens, not painful, but possessive, his knuckles white where his fingers press against your skin.

his gaze flickers past you, to the figure still standing at your side, and suddenly, his expression twists—the rawness, the vulnerability, the broken look in his eyes morphing into something sharper, something furious.

"you’re leaving me again." his voice drops, rough and bitter, the words tasting like poison on his tongue.

then, his glare locks onto beomgyu, and his lips curl, resentment dripping from every syllable, from every jagged edge of his words as they fall from his mouth like something venomous.

"for him."

the way he spits it out, like it’s an accusation, like it’s a crime, like beomgyu is his mortal enemy and not his bandmate, not your friend, not someone who has simply been there in all the ways wonbin refuses to be—it makes something in your stomach churn, makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs, makes your pulse thunder in your ears.

because it’s not true, it’s not fair, and yet, with the way he looks at you, with the way his body vibrates with something close to anger, close to desperation, close to grief, you know that he believes it.

he believes that you’re the one slipping away from him.

and worst of all, he thinks you’re doing it for someone else. as if you didn’t spend months, years, breaking yourself apart trying to stay close to him, trying to matter to him. as if you weren’t the one left behind, always the one left behind.

and suddenly, your chest tightens again, but this time, it’s not from the weight of his touch.

beomgyu shifts beside you, the tension rolling off of wonbin thick enough to suffocate, crackling like static in the air, sharp and unpredictable. he moves cautiously, hands lifting in a gesture of calm, his voice measured but firm, his tone laced with the same quiet patience he always carries, but this time, there's something beneath it, something warning, something protective.

"wonbin, let her go. you’re drunk," he says, careful but unwavering, his eyes flicking to where wonbin’s fingers are still wrapped around your wrist.

wonbin doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. doesn’t acknowledge anything but the storm raging inside him, the one that has taken over completely. the one that makes his grip tighten even as his breathing grows more erratic, his shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to contain something uncontainable, like he’s one wrong word away from shattering completely.

he laughs.

but it’s not real, not amused, not even close.

it’s hollow, sharp at the edges, bitter enough to leave an aftertaste, his lips curling into something resembling a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his head tilts slightly, gaze flickering up and down beomgyu with something cold, something calculating, something that makes your stomach twist with unease.

"look at you," wonbin murmurs, voice low, almost mocking. "so fucking noble."

beomgyu stiffens, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t react the way wonbin wants him to. instead, he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, his movements careful, his expression unreadable.

"you’re drunk, man." beomgyu’s voice is steady, too steady, the kind of forced composure that only someone fully aware of how bad this could get would use. "let go of her."

that’s what sets wonbin off.

maybe it’s the implication that he isn’t himself, that he’s lost control, that someone else—someone like beomgyu—has the audacity to stand in front of him like he knows better, like he understands something about you that wonbin doesn’t.

or maybe it’s the simple fact that beomgyu is right.

either way, it happens too fast.

the moment wonbin’s fist collides with beomgyu’s jaw, the world around you fractures, the once-muted pulse of the party fading into nothing but the sickening sound of impact, of flesh meeting flesh, of a mistake that can never be undone.

everything feels slower, heavier, the weight of the moment settling in your bones even as the force of the hit sends beomgyu stumbling back, his head snapping to the side, his balance shifting for just a fraction of a second before he rights himself, rolling his jaw as if to test for damage.

before anything else can happen, before wonbin can even take another breath, before he can react to what he’s just done, before his own mind can catch up to the reckless destruction his body has already enacted, strong hands are already gripping him from both sides, pulling him back with force, holding him steady before he can spiral any further.

"what the fuck, wonbin?" hongjoong’s voice cuts through the thick silence like a blade, his hands digging into wonbin’s shoulders as he shoves him backward, the sheer force enough to send him reeling, barely staying upright as gunil moves in, gripping his other arm, his hold just as firm, just as unrelenting.

gunil’s expression is unreadable, but his grip tells you everything—this is enough, this is over, this cannot go any further. his fingers dig into wonbin’s bicep, the tension in his jaw visible even beneath the dim lighting of the venue, his brows furrowed deep, his frustration palpable, but there’s something else beneath it, something like shock, something like disbelief.

wonbin doesn’t fight them, doesn’t struggle, but his breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic movements, his fingers twitching at his sides as if they don’t know what to do, as if they’re still trying to hold onto something—onto you.

his eyes are wild, unfocused, flickering between beomgyu and you, his lips parting like he wants to say something, like he wants to justify the unjustifiable, like he wants to pull himself out of the wreckage he’s just created, but no words come, nothing but the sound of his unsteady breath and the quiet tremor in his shoulders that not even the alcohol can mask.

but you don’t have time to think about him.

because beomgyu is still standing there, his hand pressed against his jaw, fingers tracing the bruising skin, his expression unreadable as he exhales slowly, deliberately, as if trying to contain something sharp, something dangerous, something that, if let loose, would burn through this entire moment like wildfire.

you don’t hesitate, don’t think twice before stepping closer, your hands moving on instinct, reaching for him with careful, urgent movements, the touch gentle but intentional, checking for injury, for anything deeper than the surface-level damage that already begins to bloom in shades of red and purple beneath his skin.

"shit beomgyu. let me see—does it hurt?" the words slip out before you can stop them, before you can even register them, but they are real, they are raw, laced with concern that you don’t have the energy to hide, because right now, none of the tension, none of the complicated emotions you’ve spent weeks suppressing, none of the chaos swirling around you matters more than the fact that beomgyu is standing here, having taken a hit he never should have had to take.

he exhales through his nose, his hand dropping from his jaw as he meets your gaze, and for a second, just a second, something softens—his eyes still dark, still laced with something unreadable, but no longer sharp, no longer challenging, just tired.

"it’s cool," he murmurs, though his voice is lower than usual, quieter, like he doesn’t fully believe it himself, like maybe he’s saying it more for your sake than his own.

you don’t believe him.

not when you can see the way he’s rolling his shoulders, the way his fingers are still flexing at his sides, the way his jaw tightens again when he swallows. but you don’t push, don’t press, don’t say anything else, because the moment between you is already too fragile, too delicate, and the weight of wonbin’s gaze, despite everything, despite everyone, is still burning into the side of your face.

the air is still charged, thick with tension that clings to your skin like humidity, making it harder to breathe, harder to think, harder to stay. the weight of everything—the punch, the way wonbin had looked at you with something closer to devastation than anger, the fact that you had to choose in a moment that should have never happened—settles heavy in your chest, but right now, all you can focus on is getting beomgyu away from it, away from the mess that was left in the wake of wonbin’s unraveling.

you don’t say anything as you grab beomgyu’s wrist, your grip firm but not forceful, guiding him through the crowd that is already whispering, already buzzing with speculation, their eyes darting between the scene that had just unfolded and the three of you—like they are watching a tragedy play out in real time, desperate for the next act.

he doesn’t resist, doesn’t protest, just follows, his steps easy but measured, his other hand still pressing lightly to his jaw, his expression unreadable beneath the dim lights of the hallway as you pull him into one of the private backrooms, the door clicking shut behind you, sealing you away from the noise, from the weight of all the eyes still watching.

you exhale slowly, pressing your palms against the cool marble counter for a brief second before turning back to him, taking in the way he leans back against the counter, his legs slightly spread for balance, his hands gripping the edge like he’s bracing himself.

the luxurious space around you is a stark contrast to the scene outside—low lighting, sleek fixtures, the kind of expensive décor that belongs to people who don’t flinch at the sight of chaos, but none of it matters, none of it registers, because all you can see is him, the way the bruise is already beginning to bloom along his cheekbone, darkening against his sun-kissed skin.

"sit up here," you murmur, motioning toward the counter beside you, and beomgyu lifts a brow but obeys, gripping the edge as he hoists himself up, the movement easy despite the soreness that must be settling into his jaw.

you step closer, pressing an ice pack—found in the minibar—to his cheek with careful fingers, watching the way his lips part slightly at the initial shock of cold before his expression evens out, his lashes fluttering briefly as he adjusts to the sensation.

"you didn’t have to do that, you know," you say after a beat, your voice softer now, lower, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins but dulling into something more manageable, something tired.

he lets out a quiet chuckle, though it comes out a little rough, a little worn, a little strained from the tension still lingering between you. "what, take a punch for you?" his lips twitch slightly, his usual playful glint returning just enough to remind you that he’s okay, that despite everything, he’s still him.

you shake your head, pressing the ice pack a little more firmly against his cheek, watching the way his brows furrow slightly at the sensation before continuing. "step in. try to talk him down."

beomgyu exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly into the ice, his voice dropping into something more contemplative.

"he was hurting you."

the words settle between you, weighted, laced with something unspoken, something that neither of you are willing to unpack right now.

outside the room, standing in the dim, sterile glow of the hallway, wonbin watches you leave.

his chest still heaves from exertion, from the anger that has nowhere left to go, from the alcohol burning through his veins, making everything feel too sharp, too blurred, too much. his hands curl into fists at his sides, not out of rage, but out of something else entirely—something hollow, something aching, something that claws up his throat and sits heavy on his tongue, suffocating him with the weight of everything he hadn’t said, hadn’t done, hadn’t been fast enough to fix.

wonbin barely registers the hands gripping his arms, barely hears hongjoong’s voice telling him to breathe, barely notices the way gunil steps in front of him like a barricade, trying to ground him, to stop him, to keep him from unraveling further. but it’s already too late—his head is spinning, his breath is shallow, the walls of the room shrinking around him, and every desperate inhale burns like he’s choking on the weight of something he doesn’t know how to hold.

because this is what drowning feels like.

not the kind where water fills your lungs, but the kind where something inside you is collapsing, pulling you under, dragging you deeper into something dark, something inescapable, something you can’t fucking fight because you don’t even understand when it started.

don’t even understand when it started.

but now—now he understands.

now, as he stands there with the ghost of your wrist still burning against his palm, with the dull ache of his own reckless violence pulsing in his knuckles, with the image of you tending to beomgyu playing like a cruel loop behind his eyes, he knows.

it was you. it had always been you.

you were the reason for the unease, the sleepless nights, the sudden hollow ache where something unnamed used to be. you were the reason why every breath felt heavier, why his chest tightened when he saw you laughing with someone else, why his stomach twisted when you stopped looking at him the way you used to. you were the reason why nothing felt right anymore, why he felt like he was chasing something he’d already lost, why the space beside him—where you should be, where you had always been—felt empty.

and now, with the taste of whiskey thick on his tongue and the weight of realization slamming into him like a freight train, wonbin finally, finally understands the one thing he had been too blind—too stupid—to see.

park wonbin, golden boy, untouchable, adored, reckless with hearts that were never his to keep—had finally fallen in love, after years of convincing himself that love—real love—was something fleeting, something temporary, something meant for other people, but never for him. he had made a habit of keeping people at arm’s length, of moving from one touch to the next, never lingering, never holding on, because holding on meant attachment, and attachment meant vulnerability, and vulnerability—god, vulnerability meant giving someone the power to leave.

the thought makes his pulse stutter, makes his knees threaten to buckle, makes his vision blur at the edges, and suddenly, the room isn’t big enough, the air isn’t enough, the walls are closing in too fast, too violently, suffocating him, crushing him, forcing him to face the one truth he cannot outrun.

he stumbles back, hongjoong calling his name, gunil reaching for him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn, doesn’t breathe—because if he stays here, if he sees you touch him again, if he sees you smile at him, if he has to watch beomgyu be the one standing beside you, with you, while he stands here alone—

he might break apart completely.

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eternallyhyucks · 1 year ago

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toothbrush | park wonbin

— fluff, kissing, wc: 517

— tysm for 700🥹 (also i randomly rediscovered toothbrush by dnce so i had to write this LMAO)

𖤐 ྀ

wonbin and y/n had officially been dating for just over a month now, and it felt like they were falling into a comfortable rhythm together. wonbin’s apartment had become a familiar second home to y/n, and they loved spending nights wrapped in his arms, feeling safe and cherished.

one particular morning, after a night of talking until 2am even though they knew y/n had work early in the morning, y/n stirred awake from the warmth of the sun streaming through the curtains. they glanced at the clock and realized that they were running a bit late for work. carefully sliding themself out from wonbin’s embrace, they tiptoed around his room to gather their things quietly.

wonbin, who was usually a light sleeper, shifted and mumbled something in his sleep, his arm moving around feeling y/n’s empty side of the bed. y/n was slipping socks onto their feet as he blinked sleepily, a soft smile spreading across his face when he saw them. "morning," he murmured, his voice still raspy from sleep.

y/n turned around, feeling a slight blush tint their cheeks at being caught. "hey," they replied softly, trying not to wake him fully.

wonbin sat up slowly, leaning against the headboard and rubbing his eyes. "you know," he began, his tone casual yet meaningful, "you can leave a toothbrush here if you want."

y/n’s heart skipped a beat at his words. It was such a small gesture, but it meant the world to them. to them, it meant that he wanted her to feel at home in his space, to feel like they belonged there as much as he did.

they smiled warmly at him, their eyes sparkling with affection. "i’d like that," they said softly, their voice filled with unspoken happiness.

wonbin returned their smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "good," he replied simply, his voice holding a hint of playfulness now. "i'll make sure there's enough space for it in the bathroom."

y/n chuckled softly, “yeah like your 5 different cleansers can’t be moved” reciprocating his playfulness. they finished gathering their things and walked over to where wonbin was sitting on the edge of the bed. leaning down, they pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "thank you," they whispered, their breath warm against his skin.

he turned his head to capture their lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. when they finally pulled apart, wonbin brushed a stray strand of hair away from y/n's face. "anytime," he murmured, his gaze locked with theirs.

as y/n headed out the door, they couldn't stop the smile that spread across their face. they knew that leaving a toothbrush at wonbin’s place wasn't just about convenience; it was a symbol of their growing bond, a sign that they were building something special together.

and as they walked down the street towards their work, they couldn't help but feel incredibly lucky. lucky to have found someone like wonbin, who made them feel cherished and loved in ways they had never experienced before. with each step, they looked forward to the future they were creating—one toothbrush at a time.

©eternallyhyucks

taglist

@izchone , @baekswoons , @jiwon-44 , @junityy , @pr0dbeomgyu , @neos127 , @wccycc , @koishua , @changminurheart , @rainbowglitteramythyst , @baekhyunstruly , @soobin-chois , @yjwfav , @fairybinie , @sleepingisweak

!! unable to tag bolded

—send an ask if you would like to be a part of my taglist!!

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luvbinnies · 1 year ago

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what do you know about me? wonbin smau

𐙚 What yn doesn't know is that they're academic rival since high school is behind their biggest fan account and how he saw them in disguise in a manga shop. What wonbin doesn't know is that his academic rival since high school is secretly his favorite vigilante. Yn decides that all is well and no one will figure it out.Wonbin decides that in order to finally beat yn, he's going to have to distract them from their studies. How? By flirting.

What can go wrong??

𐙚 pairing: vigilante!reader x civilian!wonbin

𐙚 genre: superhero au, college au, secret identities, academic rivals, someone accidentally falls for two people but its actually the same person (my fav), fluff, humor, potential angst, slow burn (another fav)

𐙚 warnings: swearing, my bad sense of humor, kys jokes most def, some fighting stuff, wounds !!, weapons, will add warnings for every chapter

𐙚 note: reader is gender neutral (all my work is). this is my apology for completely forgetting how the other wonbin smau was going to end lol.

𐙚 permanent riize taglist: @in-somnias-world @ilovejungwonandhaechan @jungw0nlvr @molensworld @Pinklemonade34 @shyshy-sana @lecheugo @chuutaroo @chxrry-cvnt @thinkabt-vivi @kimmingyuslover @sseastar-main @haechansbbg @3l3-eve @imthisclosetokms @serafilms @thesunoosshining @hibernatinghamster @icywhatim @dutifullyannoyingfox @koeuh @eunbiland @haechology @imsiriuslyreal @ffixtionista @eunwoophobic @boopdidoosbloog @vatterie @sungchansfiance @bebskyy @nakam00t @wonychu @@ahnneyong @zenohtwo @thea-herondale @wccycc @binrios @katsukilord @lakoya @thenotoriousegg @blooqz @papichulomacy @snowyseungs @ohmykwonsoonyoung @fae-renjun @saranghoeforanton

𐙚 wdykam taglist: @binoyu @hisrkive

Be added to taglist !! This form

𐙚 volume zero - profiles/profiles..

volume one - organic chem quiz

volume two - skidding rizzing gone wrong

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wishpid · 1 year ago

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More than just a dream

Pairing: Wonbin x reader

Length: 355 words Genre: fluff

Warnings: not edited, wonbin being really cute and flirty, people talking about wonbin being good-looking

Synopsis: When it came to your boyfriend, Wonbin, it felt hard to believe that you weren't dreaming. But if this was a dream then you were happily content to continue doing so.

Note: because wonnie just feels so 'Out of my league' by fitz and the tantrums coded to me. and he'd be such a crazy-inducing boyfriend to have 😵‍💫 *the - is for you to fill in with your preferred gender term; i thought about it and this is the second best option* More: Check out my orchard to find more of my work!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You walked outside of the building, furrowing your eyebrows at the frantic whisperings of the other people around.

"He's so handsome."

"Do you think he's single?"

"Where can I find someone who looks like that?"

"Oh my god, hot guy alert"

"How can someone still look that good in a mask and hoodie?"

You heard multiple comments along those lines, increasing your confusion at the situation. Who were they talking about? Stretching your neck, you looked through the crowd, trying to find who the mystery person. Your heartbeat raced as you caught the sight of the masked man standing a few feet away from the door. You pinched yourself as you recognized him to be Wonbin, your boyfriend of a little over a month. He seemed to find you in the crowd of people as well as his eyes light up in a smile. Wonbin waited, taking your hand as you stopped in front of him.

"How was your day?" he asked as he took your bag and began walking with you.

"It was good, surprisingly" you said, your eyes never leaving your boyfriend's face. Wonbin hummed, your joined hands swinging a little as he did so. "What brought you here?"

"Wanted to pick my - up" he said simply. You looked away, clearing your throat as you did, feeling flustered at his words and confident behavior. Unbeknownst to you, Wonbin smirked as he watched your reaction. "What? Did my words bother you?" he teased, leaning in as he did so. His hot breath hitting your ear causing you to shiver. Wonbin laughed which in turn made you huff (that only lead to more laughter on his part).

"You're weirdly flirty today.." you trailed off, looking at your boyfriend from the corner of your eye. "What's gotten into you, huh?" you questioned him.

"Nothing". Now it was his turn to get flustered and you snickered at his reddening ears and cheeks. The male whined as he threw his arms around you, leaning some of his weight onto you. But that did nothing to deter the laughter coming from you, your smile growing wider at his actions.

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lunicho · 1 year ago

Note

Hiya, can I be 🩶 anon?

My request is not a NSFW, I’m curious what you’re thoughts are on who likes to be pursued vs pursue for &team, zb1, Riize, and enhypen?

(send riize asks to @angeltsan)

yess u can be 🩶 anon!! also i don't write for enhypen and im going to do this request for riize since it's a lot to write for all of them!!

taro - pursue: definitely starts off as friends and gets to know you over a longer period of time. he's very sweet and thoughtful. he'd want to really find out what kind of person you are before pursuing anything with you but once he feels like you guys have a common understanding of each other he'll go in for it. he's very very kind and i feel like his confession would be so cute. the type to wanna kiss u straight away so he'll be like, "can we kiss to make it official :> only if u want to ofc!"

eunseok - pursue: he's gonna be so straight up with u. he'll kinda get a feel for the situation and if he senses that ur not going for it he might just completely keep it to himself and not say anything at all. but sometimes he may just let you know how he feels just incase and also because he does Not wanna carry that feeling,, like he'd kinda wanna get it off his chest so he'd let u know, especially if u guys are friends.

sungchan - pursue: this is big dawg right here, it'll make him feel like big daddy for sure if u pursues u (im sorry lemme be serious) but i feel like he'd want to pursue u so he can make it very special. the type to spend time figuring out things u like and things to add to the surprise to make it more special. he's probably playfully flirted with u by now though so you'd be kinda aware that he at least finds u attractive. i feel like his confession would be sloppy (cuz he's just kinda a mess) but so thoughtful and cute anyways <3

wonbin - be pursued: i feel like for him it really depends on the person. i could see him being very obvious that he likes you but i don't think he'd outright go and pursue u. sometimes he's very stone cold about how he feels so i feel like he may give mixed signals at times but he likes u to kinda go for it and when u do?? oh he's so hype

seunghan - pursue: whipped vibes 😝 you'll just know he likes u cuz he probably would casually tell u im ngl. he just thinks ur so!!! i just feel like he wears his heart on his sleeve and he's so so sweet about it. he respects u if u don't like him back (literally go to hell if u don't) but that doesn't mean he won't still have feelings for you anyways :( but he'd let you know and he'd be like, "let me take u out, i can treat u right, promise 🫦"

sohee - be pursued: oh he's so sweet. i feel like he'd be quite shy when it comes to his crush and things like that so he'd rather keep it to himself. if anything he's sometimes very obvious through his actions. like the type to do little things that could be disguised as friendly but for him he's trying to let u know that he likes u but he doesn't wanna be Super straight up yk? he just wants u to come and kiss him like is it too much for a boy to ask!!

anton - be pursued (let's all act shocked): he'd get so choked up trying to tell u that he likes u. he wouldn't even wanna do it, like he probably wouldn't even attempt it to save himself the embarrassment. he'd just wanna sit back and look pretty while u tell him how u feel about him and then he'll go crazy and start telling you how much he likes u back, it would be all good after you make the first move but he is Not doing it himself fr

#⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ bunny chats <3 #౨ৎ riize #🩶 anon #riize imagines #riize x reader #kpop imagines #riize fluff #riize shotaro imagines #riize anton imagines #riize eunseok imagines #riize seunghan imagines #riize sungchan imagines #riize wonbin imagines #riize sohee imagines

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chweverni · 2 years ago

Text

let the light in

pairing; bf! wonbin x fem! reader synopsis; filming a song cover with your boyfriend.. but are you falling in love once again? word count; 492 author's note; wonbin soft hours are back!! and im back!! i can hear the crickets on my blog but i felt like writing ehe! i hope this is likeable .. im a bit rusty

your boyfriend set the camera carefully on the table facing you, as he picked up his guitar. he fixed his dark, long, hair, nervousness taking over him. he's a good guitarist but sometimes needs a whole lot of reassuring because of which you pump his hand every once in a while, to comfort him, to tell him it's okay to make mistakes, as he's a human after all.

you picked up the mic in your hand, as you stared at him, asking him if he's ready.

"ready when you are, love.", he said, voice slightly louder than a whisper, filled with warmth. all you could do was gulp, your throat suddenly dry. he looked comforting under the dim lights, cheeks illuminated by them, as his loving eyes awaited for your sound to fill the room.

your cheeks burned as you quickly drank some water. you sighed to yourself as the camera started rolling.

wonbin's slender fingers carefully placed the chords on the fretboard, his hands sliding ever so skillfully, anxious to not mess up anything - the chords, timing or even just the strumming in general. your voice felt like a warm fire place to him, as his heart calmed down the second you started singing.

you both met at the music club at school, the both of you being so introverted that neither of you confessed till you got paired together for a musical performance, which.. you kind of liked (a lot!).

as the song went on, your staring contest with wonbin got stronger, his lips curving at its ends, forming a knowing smile. he could clearly hear the smile in your face, as you sang the last verse of the song, his strumming getting softer to indicate it's ending. you got up to turn off the camera, placing the mic on the table, as you faced wonbin with intent.

"i think i'm falling for you again, binnie.", you said, your eyes meeting him again, hands connecting with his, bodies inches apart, as your knees rested on the bed, pushing him further.

"oh yeah? i can say the same for you, sweetheart.", he replied, not waiting any longer to kiss you, as he pulled your body closer. you smiled into the kiss as you ran your hands through his hair. it was filled with love, with passion, with longing, which became more intense as he deepened the kiss, flipping positions. now his body hovering yours, as he hid his face in your neck.

"missed this so bad.. missed you." "mhm.. i love you." "i love you too. can we stay like this for longer, babe? don't want you to leave.", he suggested, lifting his head from your neck.

you grabbed his shirt to pull him into a kiss again as he mumbled, "i'll take that as a yes."

you chuckled, if that was what you'll receive for singing with your boyfriend, let's say you were ready to start investing in a studio.

all creds to chweverni <3 !

come back for more !!

#riize imagines #riize fluff #riize x reader #riize wonbin #wonbin x reader #wonbin fluff #wonbin imagines #riize wonbin imagines

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sknyuz · 3 months ago

Text

heavy lifting | k.m.g.

synopsis: you're struggling to get out of a bad academic slump, feeling overwhelmed by the constant pressure of grades and the inability to focus. after a few failed attempts to get motivated, you decide to do something different—start going to the gym. at first, it’s just about getting out of the house, but that all changes when mingyu, the gym’s resident greek god, notices you. no amount of reps or cardio can compare to how fast your heart races every time you cross paths, and it becomes impossible to ignore a six-foot tall kim mingyu.

pairing: mingyu x reader (ft. dino and riize wonbin + roommate!jeonghan)

genre: college au, romance, smut (18+ markers for start and end if you wanna skip), fluff, slice-of-life, slow-burn, gym buddy!mingyu

warnings: slightly awkward moments, gym-related humor, slow-burn, soft smut, heavy flirting, unprotected sex (do not do this lol), aftercare <333, making out with random ppl at a party, alcohol consumption, y/n is an absolute LOSERRRRR, profanity of course, mentions of body image (positive)

wc: ~8.5k

a/n: oh my godddd it’s finally here !! my first full fic <333 tysm for 500+ notes on the preview alone like ??? taglist is massive as well so that will be placed under the cut ^^~ shoutout to @meltinghershey, @mochisdayone, and @tigerhoshii for beta reading and dealing with my chaos lmaooo. hope u enjoy <33

masterlist

˚₊‧꒰ა taglist under the cut ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

@tigerhoshii @meltinghershey @amingo046 @drewstarkeygf @producedbyjeon @seokminfilm @mmessier31 @janeluvwonuuuu @boxsmil3 @inthetangerine @ateez-atiny380 @bunnymjr @producedbyjeon @bookandarrow @bemysolaces @ahloveisu @ninigyuuu @mochisdayone @cara-tiny @parkersroses @jeonghnie @dmstoyangyang @luxynjun @miraclekay97 @anniewings @acherry04 @adribobadri @kidultdays @kari-nne @shayminssi @tangerin3gurl @gyucheols-girl @whoisbaek15 @intrnetbbysworld @tymbarki @alien0n3arth

you’ve always been the kind of person who keeps yourself busy. your friends say you get “flustered” a lot, but you know it’s less about nerves and more about not seeing the point in stretching out conversations when you could be doing something useful. you’re good with people — you can hold small talk, swap stories, even keep up in a group chat when you need to — but it never feels as rewarding as finishing a project or getting ahead on an assignment. practical, that’s what you are. efficient with your time. so when the stress of midterms and the constant pressure to stay ahead starts to pile up, you fall into a familiar cycle of overworking without actually getting anywhere.

jeonghan, your roommate, always tells you to “take a break” when he finds you buried under a pile of textbooks, but you ignore him. while your dorm neighbor, seungkwan, who’s become your unofficial therapist, insists that maybe a change of scenery might help, but you brush it off. you don’t know what’s worse—failing or the thought of being the one who’s not keeping up with the others.

that’s when you decide to take a leap. you’re not sure if it’s just the idea of doing something different, or the fact that every other option has failed, but you sign up for the gym. you’re not sure what you’re expecting—just that you need to shake things up.

the first day is terrible. you’re awkwardly trying to figure out how machines work, watching everyone around you who seems like they know what they’re doing, while you’re stuck on a treadmill wondering if you’re supposed to be running or walking faster.

that’s when he notices you.

kim mingyu.

he’s not hard to spot—tall, broad-shouldered, a greek god in a compression shirt, with muscles you can’t even begin to fathom. you try not to stare, but your eyes can’t help it. he’s on the other side of the room, lifting weights with ease, his form flawless. you can’t even imagine having a fraction of that confidence. you turn back to your treadmill, your face flushed as you try to focus on not tripping over yourself.

but then, out of nowhere, he’s right there in front of you.

“hey, are you new here?” his voice is so casual, but your heart skips a beat at the sound of it. “first time at the gym?”

you freeze, where the fuck did he come from?

pretty hard not to spot a giant like kim mingyu walking towards you, y/n.

without thinking, you mumble, “oh shit—” and immediately stumble forward. you try to catch yourself but end up tripping over your own feet, your hands flailing to find balance.

“whoa!” mingyu’s quick reflexes kick in, and before you know it, he’s right there, steadying you with one hand on your shoulder. “you okay?” he asks, voice tinged with concern, but there’s a hint of amusement in his smile.

you gulp, heart racing. “i—yeah. i just—uh, didn’t see you coming.” you let out a pathetic laugh, heat flooding your cheeks.

mingyu chuckles, his laugh deep and warm. “i kind of figured. you look like you’re on the verge of a wipeout.”

you can’t help but give a lopsided smile, despite your embarrassment. “thanks… i guess,” you mutter, still trying to regain your composure.

“don’t worry about it,” he says with a friendly smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “you’re still alive, so that’s a win in my book.”

and just like that, mingyu’s gone, back to his workout as if he hadn’t just saved you from making a fool of yourself in front of everyone.

for the next few days, mingyu’s presence haunts the gym. you see him everywhere—lifting weights, chatting with people, giving advice, being… well, perfect. and all you can do is watch from the sidelines, still too embarrassed to approach him, but also unable to tear your eyes away.

there’s something so confident about him, so effortlessly kind, and you begin to notice the way he always looks out for people. he’s just a regular guy, right? except he’s mingyu, and somehow, he makes everything look effortless.

oooh, and those. arms.

and you? well, you’re still stumbling through the basics. and you learned pretty early on that no amount of cardio can beat your heartrate every time your gaze catches a sight of kim mingyu.

“y/n, you’re going again?” jeonghan asks, raising an eyebrow as you tie your sneakers, preparing for yet another trip to the gym.

“yeah, i—um, just need to clear my head,” you mumble, looking down at your shoes to avoid his teasing gaze.

jeonghan grins. “mhm, sure you do. so, what? you’ve got your eyes on some hunk down there?” he teases, making air quotes with his fingers, clearly referring to some “eye candy” at the gym. “someone’s been going to the gym a lot recently…”

you freeze, trying to play it cool. “what?” you ask, slightly panicking. “no, i-i’m just, you know, trying to get out of a rut with my studies. nothing else.”

jeonghan watches you carefully, then his eyes widen. “wait… there is someone, isn’t there?” he grins widely, and it suddenly hits you. “wait, y/n, don’t tell me that it’s kim mingyu? the gym’s golden boy?” he laughs, clearly amused by your flustered face.

you freeze in shock. “what? no—he’s just a guy who works out a lot! i mean, yeah, he’s nice, but it’s not like—”

jeonghan bursts out laughing. “so you do know him! oh, honey, don’t even try to act like you’re not into him. everyone knows who mingyu is. have you seen him? dude’s got the perfect physique, perfect grades, perfect car, and perfect everything. i’ve heard he’s loaded too. his dad’s some big-time olympic weightlifting official. he’s literally the walking definition of the ‘golden boy’ on campus.”

you blink, your mind struggling to keep up with the avalanche of information. “wait… the olympics? his dad?”

jeonghan nods. “yeah, exactly. i’ve heard he comes from a pretty well-off family too. so yeah, mingyu’s literally perfect. it’s no surprise that he’s in everyone’s top ten crush list.”

you feel your face heating up as the realization settles in. “oh my god…”

jeonghan chuckles, clearly enjoying how flustered you are. “don’t worry, y/n. if you want to stare at a perfect person in peace, you just gotta deal with the fact that you’re not the only one who has their eyes on him.”

you groan, burying your face in your hands. “stop teasing me,” you mumble, but there’s no denying the fact that you’re definitely starting to feel a little more… interested than you’d like to admit. but it’s just a silly gym crush. definitely.

as if he wasn't already a regular in your daydreams, you bump into him again, outside of the gym this time.

the first time is when you’re standing outside the lecture hall, waiting for class to start, fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie. your mind’s still racing from last night’s study session, and you’re so absorbed in your thoughts that you barely notice when the doors to the hall open. as you look up, though, you catch a glimpse of a familiar face.

mingyu.

he’s wearing his usual easy-going smile, his gym bag slung casually over one shoulder, walking right into the building like he owns the place. you stare at him, frozen, as your heart rate picks up. he’s in your class?

“y/n?” a voice snaps you out of your trance.

you look over to see jeonghan, who raises an eyebrow at your flushed face. “you okay?” he asks, his lips quirking into a teasing smile as he follows your line of sight.

“uh, yeah… just didn’t expect to see… him.” you try to sound casual, pointing toward mingyu, but your voice cracks slightly.

jeonghan looks over, nonchalant, as if he didn’t just see your face turn fifty shades of red. “oh. him. so, you’re saying you haven’t noticed our campus' very own golden boy in your minor classes? phys ed major, i heard.”

“he’s a…?” you blink, confused.

“yeah,” jeonghan smirks, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “mingyu. doesn’t surprise me, though. he’s always around. always looks like he’s got his life together, the body of a perfect poster boy for fitness promos in those gyms across town.”

you watch mingyu walk into the lecture hall, now knowing the one thing that had never occurred to you: he’s actually here, at the same school as you. sharing a class with you, at that.

it’s like a punch to the gut. of course he is.

and you? you’re here, stumbling through calculus with a mountain of textbooks you can never seem to get through.

but you can’t stop thinking about how easy mingyu makes everything look.

turns out… going to the gym wasn’t the worst decision you’ve ever made.

you weren’t exactly sculpting a six-pack yet, but you didn’t feel like complete shit all the time now. your brain fog was thinning, your mood was lighter, and you kinda liked walking past your reflection and noticing how your arms didn’t look so soft anymore. jeonghan had clocked it too.

“look at you,” he teased one night while you were getting ready for another house party he dragged you to. “all swole and glowy. is this a gym glow? did mingyu spot you or something?”

you rolled your eyes, fumbling with a random lock of your hair. “well… he’s definitely a looker, i do think it wouldn’t hurt to gawk at him wearing a compression shirt a few times a week.” you admitted, trying to keep your voice casual but you could already feel the heat crawling up your neck.

jeonghan gasped, immediately abandoning his lip balm to lean closer. “no way. tell me more.”

you huffed, giving in. “he’s just—okay, he’s really tall. and stupidly buff. and he always looks like he walked out of some greek mythology fanfic. and he’s nice?? like unfairly nice.”

“oh, babe. poor you. no one comes out of a gym crush on him alive.”

you both laughed it off, but the truth was… you were actually starting to enjoy the gym. not just for the obvious eye candy, but because it made you feel good. and you were slowly clawing your way out of that academic slump one sweat-soaked session at a time.

and parties helped too.

jeonghan had been on a social streak lately, dragging you to every decent gathering he caught wind of. and for once, you weren’t staying glued to the walls. you mingled, you danced, you maybe flirted a little.

like that one night with the guy named chan.

cute boy. bright smile. quick to pour you a drink and compliment your hair. he was a little too eager, but harmless. you didn’t mind giving him a peck on the cheek, his cheeks blushing a dusty pink in response.

“what year are you in?” you asked casually over the music.

“i’m a sophomore!” he beamed.

“oh,” you blinked. “you’re...”

his smile faltered a little at your sudden reluctance. jeonghan appeared at your elbow at the perfect moment, smirking. “poor kid. you just got downgraded to ‘little brother’ status.”

chan pouted but took it like a champ, even offering to get you another drink before you politely excused yourself. harmless. kinda endearing, honestly.

but the real kicker came a week later.

you were halfway through a very sad attempt at curling a dumbbell too heavy for your current strength level when someone suddenly appeared in your peripheral vision.

“oh, hey,” a boy with bright eyes and soft features said, slightly breathless like he’d jogged over. “you’re… y/n, right?”

you blinked. “um— yeah?”

“i—i’m chan.”

“nice to meet you, chan.” wait.

you stopped your reps abruptly.

he rubbed the back of his neck, looking nervous. “i, uh, think we met at that party last week?”

oh no.

the pieces clicked a little too late in your brain, but they did click. he was the cute guy who’d offered you a drink and talked you up, and you, in a half-drunk, affectionate spiral, gave him a kiss on the cheek before finding out he was way too young to be your type, jeonghan saving you as you both run away, making a break for the kitchen.

he looked so hopeful now it physically hurt.

before you could fumble out an apology or awkwardly escape, a very familiar voice called over from the other side of the room.

“yo, chan! quit slacking, get your ass over here.”

mingyu.

he was leaning against the leg press, towel draped over his shoulder again like a damn fitness magazine model. chan gave you an apologetic little smile and jogged over.

you took a moment to quietly die inside.

and then—as if fate wasn’t already laughing at you—mingyu clapped a hand on chan’s shoulder and grinned, talking loud enough for you to catch while pretending not to.

“this kid’s soft as hell, y’know that? started hitting the gym ‘cause some girl at a party broke his heart.”

you nearly choked on your water.

oh my god.

it was you. you were the girl.

mingyu didn’t know, of course. he was teasing chan like a big brother would, completely unaware that the object of the kid’s little tragedy was currently staring wide-eyed at her reflection in the nearest mirror.

you quickly turned away, pretending to be very interested in adjusting your earbuds (it wasn’t even connected to your phone).

fuck. fuckfuckfuck.

it had been a week or so since your… unfortunate run-in with chan at the gym. you’d done your best to laugh it off, though the way mingyu casually mentioned some poor kid started training because of a heartbreak at a frat party had you spiraling internally for a solid three business days. because what were the odds? your chan? apparently heartbreak over a 15 minute encounter was a hell of a pre-workout.

either way, you were ready to get back out there. another weekend, another party—fingers crossed you wouldn’t unknowingly crush some poor guy’s spirit this time and discover their glow-up arc at the campus gym. you sent up a silent prayer as you got dressed, hoping the universe would cut you some slack for once.

you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been a little more… experimental with your outfits lately. nothing wild, just a few tops cropped a little higher, jeans sitting a little lower. maybe if you showed a bit of skin, you’d start to feel as hot as you hoped you looked. besides—you’d been busting your ass at the gym. you deserved to show it off a little.

“okay, i see you!” jeonghan wolf-whistled from the other side of the room when you stepped out of your closet. “damn, baby, if i didn’t know you were one tragic gym crush away from full insanity, i’d think you were tryna pull tonight.”

“maybe i am,” you teased, smoothing your hands down your sides, a little proud of how good you felt lately. maybe it was the gym, maybe it was the new skincare routine seungkwan bullied you into, maybe it was pure spite toward every man who’d ghosted you, but you were glowing a bit, and you weren’t about to waste it.

jeonghan grabbed his keys and slung an arm over your shoulders. “alright, let’s go break hearts—consensually.”

the party was already in full swing when you got there, neon lights bleeding into every room, the bass so deep it made the walls thrum. you lost jeonghan somewhere between the kitchen and the makeshift dancefloor, though not before downing two shots together like some chaotic ritual.

an hour later you were a little tipsy, flushed from dancing, with the beginnings of a hangover clawing at the edges of your brain when you found yourself leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping on lukewarm water. you’d just successfully escaped making out with some ridiculously pretty boy named wonbin you barely knew. his hands had been nice, sure, but his cologne was giving you a headache and you had a 10 a.m. gym session you weren’t about to flake on.

“look at you,” a familiar voice teased, low and warm and way too close to your ear.

you turned your head—and there was mingyu, grinning down at you, tight black polo stretched over his chest and looking like he’d walked out of a men’s fitness ad. or maybe a sin. who could say.

“don’t tell me you’re partying too,” you half-giggled, setting your cup down. “and here i thought you were some gym purist.”

“could say the same for you,” mingyu shot back, leaning against the counter beside you. “what kind of maniac hits the gym after a night at a rager?”

you let out a laugh, the alcohol making you bolder than usual. “an insane one, apparently.”

your gaze dropped—you couldn’t help it—to the way his biceps flexed as he lifted his drink. god, you were barely sober and apparently even less subtle. before your brain could stop you, your hand reached out and squeezed his arm.

a full, proper squeeze.

and then you registered what you’d just done.

“oh my god,” you blurted, snapping your hand back like it burned. “i can’t believe i just did that. i’m so sorry—”

mingyu just barked out a laugh, reaching out to catch your wrist before you could flee the kitchen entirely. “nah, it’s cool. you like it that much, huh?”

his grin was sharp, teasing, and you were definitely too sober for this now. your pulse jumped as his fingers slid from your wrist to your hand, giving it a little squeeze back before letting go.

“i—” you started, but your brain short-circuited.

mingyu tilted his head, still smiling. “come on, i’ll walk you back. wouldn’t wanna lose our future gym freak to some frat house debauchery.”

the walk back was… quieter than you expected. not awkward, just easy. mingyu had one hand shoved into his pocket, the other loosely holding the bottle of water he’d swiped for you on the way out. the cool night air sobered you up faster than any coffee could’ve, but it didn’t stop the way your heart kept doing this stupid little jump every time your arms brushed.

you should’ve felt bad about ditching jeonghan—traitor behavior, honestly. but in your defense, he’d disappeared into a dark corner with someone you swore was a philosophy major who looked like trouble, so technically you were both abandoning each other tonight. friendship cancelled out.

“you good?” mingyu asked, glancing down at you.

you hummed. “better now. needed that fresh air.”

mingyu’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “told you. you’re almost as insane as me.”

you snorted. almost. the man had a literal six-pack under that shirt and probably ran marathons for fun. meanwhile, you nearly keeled over after fifteen minutes on the treadmill your first week.

by the time you reached your dorm building, the campus had quieted down. only the hum of street lamps and the occasional tipsy laughter echoing from other party stragglers.

you fished your keys out of your bag, hands clumsy from a mix of nerves and residual buzz. mingyu leaned against the wall by your door, watching you with that same soft amusement you hated how much you liked.

and you weren’t drunk anymore. you couldn’t blame it on that. not the flutter in your stomach. not the way your fingers twitched at your side.

you liked to believe it was the alcohol, but you knew better. because even sober, even under these shitty yellow hallway lights, mingyu looked unfairly good. and you were still a little bit of a loser inside.

you swallowed, gripping your keys too tight before blurting out, way too fast, “do you—wanna come in? or, i mean, just for a bit. like—i have snacks. and, uh. water. and… i guess my air conditioning’s nice.”

jesus christ.

your voice cracked a little at the end and you wanted to throw yourself out a window.

mingyu’s brow arched in surprise for half a second before a slow grin spread across his face. not cocky. not smug. just… warm. maybe a little endeared.

“snacks and air conditioning, huh?” he teased, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. “hard to say no to that.”

your ears burned. “it’s fine if you’re tired or whatever—”

but he was already stepping forward, hand reaching to nudge the door open when you finally got the key to work.

“lead the way, gym buddy.”

and god help you, you did.

you don’t know what possessed you. maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the way mingyu looked under those shitty streetlights, hair a little messy, grin too easy. either way, you were now standing in your tiny dorm, watching him take a seat on your bed like he’s been here a hundred times before.

and you? you were having a mental breakdown.

“oh my god, what am i doing,” you muttered under your breath, moving to your tiny fridge to grab two bottled waters like your life depended on it. your hands shook a little, and you cursed yourself for acting like you’d never had a boy in your room before — let alone this boy. this unfairly gorgeous, golden boy, smile-that-can-take-down-roman-empires , literal greek god of a man—kim mingyu.

“you good?” mingyu chuckled, and when you turned, he was grinning at you, legs spread lazily, leaning back on his hands like he owned the place. “you’re acting like you just smuggled me in past your strict parents or something.”

you huffed out a laugh, plopping down a water bottle next to him on the bed and keeping a very respectful distance on the opposite side. “sorry. i just—this wasn’t planned. like at all.”

mingyu shrugged, cracking open the bottle. “spur of the moment’s fun sometimes.”

you eyed him, unsure what to do with yourself, fidgeting with the label on your own bottle. “if you wanna head back to the party, you totally can. i mean, i’m tucking in for the night anyway. i promise i’m completely sober now, so no babysitting required.”

he looked at you, one brow raised, a teasing glint in his eye. “and miss out on the snacks and air conditioning you promised? no way.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled, heart doing its usual ridiculous flip when his knee brushed yours. casual. accidental. but you felt it all the same.

“plus,” mingyu added, leaning a little closer, voice dropping in that way that made your stomach twist up in knots. “what about our gym sesh tomorrow? together?”

you blinked. “our… what now?”

he laughed, reaching over to pluck the bottle from your hands and set it aside like you were both settling in for a long talk. “you’ve been avoiding me at the gym, you know.”

“i have not—”

“have too.”

your face warmed again. “okay, maybe a little. it’s intimidating, okay? you’re like… you.”

mingyu’s grin softened, eyes crinkling into those damn crescent moons. “i’m just a dude, y/n. and apparently, i’m now a dude who ditches parties for you.”

your head spun.

“you’re insane.” you try to brush it off.

“almost as insane as you.” he pushes further.

you laughed, the sound filling the room like something easy, and when mingyu’s hand found yours for half a second—a fleeting touch, a gentle squeeze before letting go — you didn’t even think about pulling away.

and you know what? maybe jeonghan was right. maybe you did have a type.

snack wrappers littered your coffee table, the air conditioning blasting at a level jeonghan would dramatically declare a war crime if he were here. you glanced over at mingyu, who looked far too at home on your couch, long legs stretched out, hair a little messy, that annoyingly perfect face lit by the glow of the tv screen playing some random old action movie neither of you were really watching.

“you don’t mind me staying over, do you?” mingyu asked, suddenly, tone so casual it made your brain short-circuit.

you choked on your water. “w-what? no! i mean—no, not at all! you can stay. totally. of course. i mean, obviously you’re gonna be on the couch, hahah, it’s totally fine, not weird at all.”

he raised a brow at you, clearly amused. “didn’t even ask to share the bed, y/n.”

“right! of course. couch it is.” you fumbled, standing up a little too quickly. “i’m—gonna wash up.”

you darted toward the balcony, trying not to faceplant on the way, heart hammering so stupidly hard in your chest it felt like a crime. outside, the night air was cool against your skin, and you grabbed a hanger off the clothesline — one of jeonghan’s oversized shirts and a pair of old sweatpants, thankfully dry and still carrying a faint scent of clean detergent and your roommate’s obnoxiously expensive cologne.

when you stepped back inside, mingyu was still sprawled on the couch, only now looking over his shoulder at you with a soft little grin. you cleared your throat, holding up the clothes. “these should fit. jeonghan’s taller than me, but probably not as tall as you, but he loves baggy clothes, so… y’know. good enough.”

“they’ll be perfect.” mingyu smiled, and you couldn’t believe how easy it looked on him.

you escaped to the bathroom, scrubbing your makeup off and washing up as fast as humanly possible, trying not to analyze your reflection too hard, might risk an existential crisis if you did. when you came out, hair wet and towel draped over your head, you froze.

because mingyu was already changed.

and holy shit—jeonghan’s oversized clothes looked offensively good on him. the shirt stretched just enough over his broad shoulders, the sweatpants hung low on his hips, and he gave you that soft, grateful grin like he wasn’t lowkey ruining your life.

“thanks for this, by the way.” he said, plucking a stray thread off the hem of his sleeve.

you nodded wordlessly, eyes shamelessly fixed on him now, not even bothering to pretend otherwise. your feet carried you over to grab your own water bottle, and then—because your brain was fried and you didn’t know what else to do with yourself—you dropped down cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, towel still draped over your head, grabbing the remote with one hand and surfing aimlessly through streaming services, while the other dried your hair with the towel.

mingyu leaned forward. “give me that.”

you blinked, snapping out of your momentary daze. “huh?”

“your towel,” he said, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world. “your hair’s dripping. let me dry it.”

“you don’t have to—”

“i want to.” he smiles. that damn smile again.

and because you were a fool, you let him.

he sat on the couch, legs on either side of you, the towel over your head as his hands worked gently, drying your hair with easy, practiced motions. his fingers brushed the nape of your neck, and your heart straight-up stopped functioning properly. the domesticity of it all, the weird, too-close familiarity, it was driving you absolutely insane.

you swallowed hard, your cheeks heating up so bad you were thankful your wet hair could still pass for cold skin. and maybe it was the way his thumb lingered on your jaw, just a little too long, or the fact that his legs bracketed yours like some kind of ridiculously domestic setup—either way, you felt that invisible line between you both shift. and for the first time since this night started, you weren’t sure if you wanted to stay on the safe side of it.

“there,” mingyu murmured after a while, pulling the towel off your head with a final little tousle, his voice low and weirdly fond. “all good.”

you fiddled with the hem of your shorts, feeling way too aware of how close he was. the room felt quieter now, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the faint sound of the tv playing some car chase scene neither of you were watching.

“okay, so… um.” you cleared your throat, standing up abruptly. “you can take the bed. i’ll sleep on the couch.”

mingyu’s brows shot up. “what? no way.”

“what do you mean ‘no way’? you’re a guest.” you protested, already grabbing a pillow and a spare blanket from the closet.

“y/n, look at me.” he gestured down at himself, at the way his knees practically hit his chest sitting on your too-small couch. “i can’t even sit on that thing properly, let alone sleep. you’d be sentencing me to a night of back pain and leg cramps. i’m not making you sleep out here just for my sake.”

you scowled, stubborn. “but it’s my bed.”

“exactly. and it’s your apartment, so you deserve the comfy bed.”

“jeonghan’s room’s locked.” you grumbled, trying not to sound as flustered as you felt. “he never leaves it unlocked when he’s not here. no other choice.”

mingyu leaned back against the couch, flashing you a crooked grin. “then we share.”

your brain practically bluescreened.

“w-wait, what?”

“the bed. we share. it’s big enough, isn’t it?” his grin widened. “i promise not to hog the blanket.”

you opened and closed your mouth a few times, grasping for some kind of coherent argument but coming up short because damn it, he was right. the couch barely fit him sitting down—there was no way he’d be able to sleep on it comfortably. and you weren’t about to let him throw his back out for a stupid reason like this.

“fine,” you muttered, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “but stay on your side.”

“scout’s honor.” he held up two fingers in mock solemnity.

“and don’t snore.”

“i don’t snore.”

“i’ll be the judge of that.”

you grabbed your phone charger and shuffled into your room, leaving the door open behind you. mingyu followed a beat later, still grinning like the smug menace he was. and even though every rational part of your brain screamed that this was such a bad idea, a tiny, reckless voice at the back of your head whispered that maybe, just maybe, you kind of wanted to find out what it felt like to fall asleep next to someone like him.

for the record: it was totally the alcohol talking.

probably.

maybe?

…fuck.

you told yourself it was fine.

just two pals. gym buddies. campus friends. besties.

two completely platonic people sharing a bed because of spatial logistics and the cruel, unrelenting limits of furniture design.

haha.

ha.

you were malfunctioning.

you sat on your side of the bed, clutching your phone like a lifeline as mingyu tugged the blanket over himself with an ease that should not have made your stomach flip. he lay there, eyes fluttering shut almost immediately like the world’s most peaceful golden retriever, while you stared at the ceiling, brain absolutely going to hell.

‘totally normal. nothing weird. just two amigos. chingus! bros!’

you squeezed your eyes shut and forced yourself to sleep, repeating the words like a desperate mantra. and for a while, it worked. you drifted off into something hazy and warm, the hum of the air conditioning and mingyu’s even breathing lulling you under.

until a shift in weight on the mattress made your eyes snap open.

and you felt it—a puff of warm breath against the curve of your neck, so close you shivered.

‘oh my god.’

you yelped, a tiny, startled squeak that made mingyu jolt awake, eyes bleary and confused.

“shit— sorry! sorry, did i—” he started, voice rough from sleep.

“no, it’s— it’s okay, i just—” you flailed for words, completely undone.

he rubbed at his eyes, blinking at you with a sheepish smile. “i tend to roll over a lot when i sleep. didn’t mean to get all up in your space.”

“it’s fine,” you mumbled, cheeks burning.

he studied you for a beat, then tilted his head, grinning softly. “you sure? i mean… you didn’t seem that mad.”

you wanted to crawl under the covers and never come out.

“it was…” you swallowed. “weirdly nice.”

his grin turned smug. “yeah?”

before you could lie or backtrack, he shifted again—leaning in until his lips brushed the same spot on your neck, the featherlight contact making your skin prickle.

“like this?” he murmured, half-asleep and reckless.

you could barely breathe. “mingyu…”

your voice cracked, hoarse and small in the dark.

he hummed against your skin, one strong arm draping lazily around your waist, pulling you back against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. you could feel the steady beat of his heart, the solid warmth of his body.

“i like this,” he whispered, barely audible.

and just like that, every single one of your loser brain cells went into cardiac arrest.

his arm around your waist felt heavy. solid. grounding in a way that made your breath hitch.

and then there was his hand—splayed across your stomach, fingertips brushing the hem of your sleep shirt, barely touching skin but leaving a trail of heat in their wake. his face was still buried against your neck, his lips pressing featherlight there, like he wasn’t fully awake, like his body was moving on instinct alone.

and god, it shouldn’t have felt this good.

you swallowed, pulse stuttering in your throat, trying not to focus on the way your thighs instinctively pressed together under the covers.

‘what the fuck is wrong with me?’

this was mingyu. your gym buddy. the guy who spotted you when you were too scared to touch the free weights. the man who chugged protein shakes like water and complained about his laundry bill.

but now he was pressed up against you in your tiny dorm bed, all warm muscle and lazy affection, and you felt… something.

something low and traitorous in your stomach, fluttering sharp and hot between your legs in a way you hadn’t expected. a dull ache, a clench of nothingness that made you shift in place without meaning to.

and of course, of course, mingyu noticed.

“hm? you okay?” he mumbled, voice still husky with sleep, his hand tightening a fraction around your waist.

you let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a whimper and hoped to god it passed for sleepy noise.

“yeah,” you whispered. “just… warm.”

“you want me to move?”

the words made your stomach drop. panic spiked sharp and bright in your chest.

“no!” too quick, too loud. you winced, immediately mortified. “i mea—it’s fine. i like it.”

his smile was lazy, smug even in half-sleep. “yeah?”

you bit your lip. “yeah.”

and then his hand slid a little lower.

not on purpose—you told yourself it wasn’t on purpose—but the way his palm brushed the dip of your hip, fingers grazing bare skin, made you feel that something again.

your breath hitched.

‘oh my god.’

your brain was a storm of sirens and red flags but your body didn’t care. it was already reacting, warmth pooling in places you didn’t dare name, and you squeezed your eyes shut, praying he couldn’t tell.

but mingyu, perceptive even in sleep, let out a low chuckle against your skin.

“you’re kinda squirmy, y/n,” he teased softly.

“shut up,” you croaked, absolutely humiliated, heat rushing to your face.

he laughed, that same warm, boyish sound that always made your chest hurt, and settled in closer.

“don’t worry,” he whispered, his lips ghosting your ear. “i don’t mind.”

you didn’t know who moved first.

maybe it was the way his fingers curled against your skin, rough pads stroking just a little too slow, a little too deliberate.

maybe it was you—traitorous, loser brain short-circuiting—turning your face toward his, catching the curve of his smile in the dark.

maybe it was the sheer tension that had been crackling between you for weeks, building in glances, brushes of hands, the weight of his gaze on you across a crowded gym floor. it had to break sometime.

and it did.

because then his lips were on yours.

soft, warm, tasting faintly of the cheap beer from earlier and the mint of your toothpaste. it was clumsy at first, a messy slide of mouths and teeth, a surprised noise catching in your throat as his hand tilted your jaw, deepening the kiss.

“fuck,” you breathed when you broke apart, and mingyu just grinned against your skin.

“you sure?” he murmured, thumb stroking under your chin, eyes searching yours in the dim light.

and you—flustered, awkward, a little tipsy but painfully sober now—nodded. “yeah. yeah, i’m sure.”

he kissed you again, slower this time, one hand at the small of your back pulling you flush against him. you felt everything—the press of his chest, the solid heat of his thigh between yours, and the unmistakable, undeniable hardness against your hip.

your head spun.

‘oh my god.’

mingyu pulled back just enough to laugh, breath warm on your cheek. “now who’s feeling something?”

“shut up,” you gasped, but you were smiling, you couldn’t stop smiling, even as your face burned and your hands trembled where they clutched his t-shirt.

his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “can i—?”

“please.”

he was so gentle, like he thought you might break if he touched you wrong, murmuring your name like it was a prayer, all those muscles for show but his touch impossibly careful.

the room spun, your heartbeat louder than the air conditioner, mingyu’s breath ragged in your ear as he settled between your thighs, his hand slipping under the waistband of your shorts and—

“mingyu,” you whimpered, your voice cracking, half-laughing at yourself because holy shit this was really happening.

“i got you,” he promised, lips ghosting your jaw. “i’ll take care of you, y/n.”

and he did.

slow, achingly careful, like you were something precious—and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe you were.

then it was a tangle of hands, mouths, clothes splayed somewhere in the dark, it was messy and desperate and you should’ve known better than to underestimate him. you’d seen those muscles at the gym, felt them under your hands—but it wasn’t until now, when he hooked your thigh over his hip and pressed you down into the mattress, that you realized just how strong he really was.

and when he flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, his palm sliding down your back in a slow, reverent stroke, your brain short-circuited.

“jesus christ,” you gasped, cheek pressed to the pillow.

“like this?” he murmured against your ear, voice low and warm.

you barely managed to nod.

he started slow, careful—his hips rolling into yours, lazy and deep, one hand laced with yours against the pillow. you felt the strain in his forearm where it bracketed your head, the soft curse in your ear at how tight you clenched around him.

then, when your hips pushed back into him, a helpless little sound catching in your throat, something in him snapped.

the next thrust was harder—not rough, but deeper, firmer, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that made your toes curl and your eyes squeeze shut.

“fuck—mingyu,” you choked out, hands clawing at the sheets.

he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. “feel so good, baby,” he rasped. “been wanting this—wanted you—”

you couldn’t answer, too busy trying not to drool into your pillow as he kept going, the thick drag of him inside you dizzying. it was too much and not enough at the same time, your body trembling and brain turning to static.

every roll of his hips made your breath hitch, the room filled with the slick, filthy sound of skin against skin, the low broken noises leaving both your mouths.

and even as his pace picked up, as your body went pliant under his and your legs shook, mingyu was still achingly gentle in how he touched you—hand smoothing your hair from your face, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

“good girl,” he groaned, voice cracking as his rhythm faltered. “fuck—‘m close—gonna—”

his hips stuttered, a deep, desperate moan spilling from his throat as he pulled out last second, rutting his cock against the curve of your ass as he came hard, hot ropes of it painting your lower back and thighs.

your body trembled, face buried in the pillow, breath ragged and uneven as you felt the warmth of it on your skin, the heavy, shaky way he exhaled against your shoulder.

and for a moment, neither of you moved—just the soft hum of the air conditioner, the buzz of blood in your ears, and the lingering ache between your thighs.

he collapsed on top of you, catching himself just in time, his strong arms holding you close as he tugged you into his chest. you were too tired to protest, too exhausted to do anything but let him hold you, feeling the heat of his body against yours.

his arms were so strong, tanned and muscular, yet the way he held you was impossibly soft. despite everything—the hours you’d spent at the gym, the newfound strength you were building—you felt so small in his hold, a feeling you couldn’t deny you loved. it wasn’t in the sense of weakness, but in how careful he was with you, how you felt like he was holding you like you were the most fragile thing in the world. his warmth, his scent—it was all consuming in the best way.

“fuck,” he whispered, his voice raw. “you’re amazing.”

you smiled, your heart fluttering, but you didn’t have the energy to respond. all you wanted to do was lie there, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek as he held you close. it was almost as if the world had stopped. just the two of you, tangled in the sheets, in each other’s arms. his hand ran over your back, a soft, soothing motion that made you want to curl further into him, to let yourself fall into the safe space he’d created.

after a few quiet minutes, you felt the bed shift as mingyu reluctantly untangled himself. you made a small sound of protest, but he just chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “hang on,” he murmured. the mattress dipped again when he returned, and then—

a wet, warm cloth brushed over your skin.

your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping before you could stop it. the gentle, careful way he wiped you down made your whole body ache in a different way, a deep, fluttery warmth blooming in your chest.

“just cleaning you up,” he said quietly, his voice so tender it made your stomach flip. “can’t have my girl falling asleep like this.”

and you would’ve made some flirty comment if you weren’t so bone-tired. though, in your haze, your eyes flickered down and caught the cloth in his hand—wait. was that… jeonghan’s shirt? you squinted, brain foggy, but you could recognize that obnoxious band tee anywhere. a breathy, disbelieving laugh slipped from your lips.

“is that—?”

mingyu grinned, clearly unbothered, continuing to wipe you down with maddening gentleness. “it’ll go missing after tonight, hope he won’t miss it.” he lets out an airy chuckle.

you wanted to laugh with him but the tenderness with every touch and wipe over your skin made your throat feel tight, your eyes blinking back slumber, overwhelmed in the best, most ridiculous way.

when he finished, he tossed the poor shirt aside and pulled you back into his arms like he’d never let go. “don’t wanna move,” he mumbled against your hair, pressing another kiss to your forehead. his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “sleep. we’ve gotta be up for the gym later.”

you almost giggled, but let out a dreamy sigh instead—you were too tired, too content with the way he was holding you. the night had been a whirlwind of emotions and sensations, but here, in his arms, everything felt right. you nodded, not trusting your voice, but somehow, that was enough for him.

the room was silent now, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and your steady breaths. he shifted just slightly, ensuring you were tucked securely against him, and before long, you felt the weight of sleep tugging at your eyelids.

you drifted off, wrapped in his warmth, still feeling the echoes of everything that had happened. for once, you didn’t feel like that burned out student who can barely lift anything at the gym anymore. not when you had someone like mingyu holding you this tightly. you could lift the whole world with this euphoric feeling.

the next morning came too fast.

mingyu kissed you before he left, still smelling like your bodywash and the lingering trace of sweat and skin. you were half-asleep, face buried in your pillow as you felt the press of his lips against your temple, his voice a low murmur. “i’ll see you at the gym, cutie.”

then the door clicked shut, and you groaned into your sheets.

by the time you dragged yourself to the gym, your legs were jelly, your thighs aching in ways you hadn’t expected. you caught mingyu leaning against the front desk, grinning like he hadn’t just rearranged your guts a few hours ago.

“leg day?” he asked innocently, one brow arched.

you scowled. “i am so not doing leg day.”

he laughed—the kind of laugh that made you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. “c’mon, i’ll go easy on you.”

“you said that last time, you liar.”

still, you let him lead you through the warm-up, pretending you weren’t staring when his shirt lifted a little, exposing tan skin and the cut of his abs. your banter bounced back and forth, teasing, smug little grins exchanged between reps. you managed to trip over your own foot during lunges, and mingyu caught you by the waist like it was nothing, steadying you with those massive hands—the same ones that held you close last night, skin to skin. before you had the chance to get over the thought, he had already tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“careful, lightweight,” he teased.

you rolled your eyes, heart pounding way too hard for a simple gym mishap.

it was gonna be a long morning.

after the gym session, you and mingyu were a mess of sweat and sore muscles, but there was still an undeniable energy buzzing between you. you didn’t want to go home yet, not when he was looking at you like that—eyes soft, smile easy, and that unmistakable pull between the two of you that hadn’t quite worn off yet.

“smoothie?” mingyu asked, his voice almost too casual, but you could tell he was trying to keep his cool.

you blinked, still trying to catch your breath after a killer session. “uh, sure, i’m down for a smoothie.”

the smoothie place was just a block away, and soon enough you were sitting at a little outdoor table with your huge cups, the kind of smoothies that were so large you could probably share with a small army. but instead, mingyu leaned toward you, grabbing one of the oversized straws and slipping it into his mouth.

“i’m serious about the flavor,” he said with a grin, “this is the one. trust me. the secret add-on’s spinach, by the way.”

you rolled your eyes and gave him a playful look, but didn’t argue. you took a sip from the same straw, the cold tang of mango, strawberry, and pineapple flooding your senses, no weird spinach flavor in sight. it tasted like summer. and something else, too—something sweet and comfortable that made you want to stay here in this moment forever.

mingyu was looking at you again, that soft, almost shy smile on his face, and for once, you didn’t feel like you wanted to leave, even if conversations stretched for hours. you didn’t feel like the try-hard academic you push yourself to be.

no, with mingyu, you were just you—the girl he had kissed and laughed with and shared a smoothie with. there were no pretenses between you two anymore, no more awkward glances or confusing feelings. it was simple. it was easy. and that made everything feel right.

“it’s good, right?” mingyu asked, taking another sip.

you smiled at him, your lips still tingling from the kiss the night before. “yeah. you were right.”

he leaned back, looking like he was about to say something, but instead, he just chuckled softly. “this smoothie tastes like something my future partner would like.”

you raised an eyebrow, a playful grin tugging at your lips. “bold of you to assume they’d date a guy who puts spinach in his smoothies.”

mingyu laughed, eyes crinkling. “what, you don’t think so?”

you leaned back, crossing your arms with a smirk. “guess that’s something my future boyfriend will find out.”

and with that, everything seemed to click. it wasn’t just the gym, or the smoothies, or the fact that you were already falling asleep on him every night. it was this—being with him, sharing these little moments that felt so much bigger than anything you could’ve imagined.

mingyu looked at you then, his expression soft and sincere, and you realized that this—whatever this was—was real. you weren’t just friends anymore. you weren’t just gym buddies. you were something more, and that was enough for you.

as you sat there, sipping your smoothie and enjoying the warm morning sun, you couldn’t help but smile. things with mingyu were simple, but they felt so right. and right now, that was all you needed.

a/n: phew this has been such fun to write <33 and i hope it gets as much love as its preview !! tysm to carats and other multistans ^^~ if u liked reading this, drop me a follow, lets be moots !! and feel free to send in prompts of ur favorite idols to my inbox ~ i prioritize requests and they r always open !! have a nice day every1 !!!!!!!!!!

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eliasoir · 2 months ago

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֗ ꫂ FILTHY THINGS ⠀── RIIZE !

✸ ︎⠀⠀ .bf!riize x f!reader ! ⏜💬 𝓅ervy things your bf does . . . smut ( MDNI 18+ ) 𓂃 established relationships , perverted acts , masturbation , voyerism , somno , perv!riize , mentions of porn , strong language , explicit descriptions . wc 1.4k

୭౿ REBLOG FOR A HUG !

shotaro.

secretly takes pics of you

it started with something innocent, truly. you were laughing at something on your phone, early morning sunlight catching on your cheekbones, hair a little messy from sleep. and he thought, ‘god, she looks so pretty like this.’ so he took a picture. but then he couldn’t stop, and now he does it without thinking. (without you looking.) the way your skirt rides up when you lean over something. the curve of your back when you stretch. your thighs pressed together while you sit comfortably. his favorite, though? the one he snapped from the hallway last night. you in the shower, steam clinging to your body, head tilted back as you rinsed your hair. he hadn’t meant to stare. but his cock was already hardening in his sweats, the shape of your body seared into his brain. and later, when you were asleep, he laid there on the couch stroking himself to the sight of you behind the glass, lips parted, body curved and arched so beautifully. “shit, baby…” he whispered in the dark, voice breathless. “so pretty…always so perfect…” he finishes with your photo still open, cum spilling onto his stomach as he imagines taking the next one—this time, one that you would know about. one with his cock between your thighs and your eyes looking right up into the lens.

eunseok.

films your pussy as you cum

you were still shaking, chest heaving, body limp and spread out on the sheets. alternately, eunseok had his phone already in his hand, and was busy angling it low between your thighs. his voice is deep when he speaks, eyes glued to the phone screen. “just for me, baby…” because he knows you’re too fucked-out to move or oppose. he knows you’ll let him. “just so i can watch it again later, yeah?” he whispers. he watches the slow throb of your pussy as his own cum mixes with yours and slips out of you. your aching cunt catching the light perfectly and glistening on camera. he closely watches the way you clench around nothing, so messy and fluttering and just ruined from how good he fucked you. he zooms in. he wants to replay it when he’s alone. wanting to see your slick mixed with his up close. the twitch of your cunt. the way your body immediately misses him after he’s pulled out. it was something only for him to see. and under his breath, almost reverent, he praises, “so fucking pretty like this…”

sungchan.

searches for porn videos that have girls who resemble you

sungchan doesn’t even pretend anymore. doesn’t pretend everything he does isn’t revolving around you. doesn’t click random videos or scroll for variety. he searches you. your hair, your beautiful skin, the exact shade of your lips when they’re swollen from kissing. he types in everything he can that the website would take. everything he remembers from earlier—the color of your lingerie, the gloss you were wearing, everything. and when he finds her — someone close enough to help just once, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day. “yeah…” he murmurs, cock already in hand. “fuck, you look just like her…” he starts stroking slowly, hips twitching as the girl on screen moans. it’s not your voice, but it’s close. close enough for him to imagine your face twisted up in pleasure, body arching for him. “wish it was you,” he groans through gritted teeth, jerking harder. “wish you’d let me do that to you…” he cums with your name on his lips, face in his mind — not hers. spilling all over his stomach as the video plays on, completely ignored. because it was never about the porn, or the girl in the video. it was always about you.

wonbin.

sniffs your dirty panties

he yanked them off of you barely twenty minutes ago. red lace, damp with arousal, your little moans still echoing in his head. you’re in the shower now, not knowing he’s pacing the bedroom with your panties clutched in his fist. he sits on the edge of the bed, bringing them to his face, and moans the second your scent hits him. sweet, sharp, soaked. he buries his nose in the center, tongue darting out to taste the mess you left behind. “fuck, baby…” he groans, cock already leaking in his palm. strokes himself slow while his mouth stays on the lace, cock twitching at the memory of how wet you were for him. “still so fuckin’ sweet…” he whispers, licking once more before pulling them down, slipping the panties over the head of his cock. the fabric, still damp, stretched tight around his tip. it’s warm, wet, so close to the real thing. he whines through gritted teeth, fucking into the lace like it’s your pussy. like you’re still wrapped around him, moaning his name. he cums with a sharp gasp, spilling into the red lace, soaking it all the way through. lets it stay there, sticky and wrapped around him while he breathes heavy. he tucks the panties back into the dirty laundry, under a shirt, like nothing happened.

seunghan.

calls you just to hear your voice while he cums

“fuck…pick up, pick up—please…” you answer with a sleepy little “hello?” his head falls back against the pillow, breath catching deep in his throat. “baby…” he groans, voice thick with desperation, “i’m so close—just keep talking, yeah? just let me hear you…your voice makes me so hard.” you ask him what he’s doing, but he’s already falling apart. “’m jerking off to you,” he pants, “have been all night. needed to hear you. just your voice, that’s all i need—fuck, fuck—baby, need to cum…” you hum softly, innocent but now knowing. “mm, you sound so pretty like this, baby…” seunghan breaks on the last word, breath hitching as he spills over his stomach he cums hard, hot and messy across his fist, hips twitching while he moans into the phone. he can barely breathe, chest heaving, your name falling from his lips like a chant. then silence. just him panting ragged and the wet sound of his fist finally slowing down. “…fuck,” he murmurs, breathlessly and utterly wrecked. “you make me so fuckin’ needy, baby.”

sohee.

jerks off while you sleep beside him

you’re on your side, facing him. lips parted, tits spilling from your tank top with every breath, the curve of your ass peaking out from underneath the covers. so close he can smell your shampoo, see the way your thighs press together under the blanket. sohee tries to look away. he really does.but his cock’s already hard under the blanket, aching as he watches your chest rise and fall. he moves slowly, careful not to wake you. stroking his dick under the covers, eyes fixed on your chest, imagining sliding between them, fucking them while you moan his name. his brain blank with the mental image of watching you moan and squeeze them tighter around him. you shift slightly, a little whimper, and he nearly loses it. “shit…so perfect…” he whispers. he finishes fast. silently. hand over his mouth and cum spilling over his hand. he lays there ruined and sweaty beside you. you shift in your sleep, murmuring and completely unaware. he just swallows hard and stares at the ceiling, whispering, “i’m so fucked up…”

anton.

buries his face in your bra when he finds it in the laundry

he finds it in the laundry pile hours after you leave. soft pink, lacey, tiny bow in the middle, a little worn from being your favorite, or rather, his favorite. anton stares at it for a second too long, swallowing hard. then he’s sinking to his knees, holding it with both hands like it might vanish if he touches it wrong. taking it back to his bed, he presses the cup to his nose first. breathes the smell of you in like he’s starving. then his tongue glides over the lace like he’s tasting your skin through it, mouth working slow and filthy, hips already grinding into the mattress below him. he moans into it, imagining your tits in his face, how you’d whimper if he sucked marks into them. “fuck…you don’t even know,” he mumbles into the bra, thrusting slow, precum leaking into his boxers. “don’t even know what you do to me…” he humps the bed harder, whimpering now. face flushed and desperate, still shoved into the cup. “wish you were still here…” he finishes with the bra still clutched in one hand, cum staining his stomach, breathless and red-cheeked. he completely wrecked by something you haven’t even realized you left behind. afterwards, he lays there, panting, sticky and dazed, holding the lace to his lips with a secret he’ll never confess.

1K notes · View notes

guliexe · 1 month ago

Text

━━━IN HIS NAME 18+

♱ Pastor's Son!Lee Anton x Female!Reader

.ᐟwarnings/tags: slow burn, religious/sacrilegious themes, blasphemy, small town, pastor's son!anton, slight hard dom!anton, sub!reader, virgin!reader, childhood friends to lovers, soulmates, anton has god complex, reader is a softie, reader worships anton, dirty talk, fluff, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, love, possessive anton, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, p in v, choking, marking, crying, creampie, aftercare

♡ you came back home expecting a quiet summer—then saw anton again. the sweet, golden boy, and all yours behind closed doors…the only boy you’d ever worship.

.ᐟwc: 17.4k

disclaimer! this content might offend or disturb some people, so if you don’t like this type of content please ignore.

You left the town when you were fourteen. Back then, you swore you wouldn’t miss it—this little town that moved too slow and talked too loud. The heat stuck to your skin like syrup, the neighbors always had opinions they shouldn’t, and everyone showed up to church twice a week like it was salvation itself. You were a kid, and the world outside seemed so much bigger. Better. But now, years later, you’re back. Not for a visit. Not for a funeral or a holiday. For good. Your parents wanted to return, said it was time to come “home.” Whatever that means anymore. You didn’t fight it. You didn’t exactly agree either. You just packed your things, followed the motion of their decision, and watched your life in the city shrink behind you. Now you’re here. Sitting on the porch of the same old house you ran through barefoot every summer, the one with the creaky floorboards and the paint peeling off the shutters. The door still groans the same way when it opens. The porch swing still drifts lazily. Some things don’t change, apparently. You pull one leg up under you, sip your ice tea, and squint into the sun. It’s the kind of sticky late afternoon that smells like grass clippings and pavement, almost too hot to breathe. Everything’s still and quiet. Until you hear it. A low voice carries from next door—gentle, warm, vaguely amused. It’s faint, but enough to stir something in you. A ripple of familiarity you weren’t expecting.

You turn your head, and suddenly, everything inside you stops. He’s standing in the yard next door. Anton Lee. At first, you don’t believe it. Your eyes try to make sense of him, this version of him, the one time has molded into something…different. He’s talking to a pair of old women in wide sun hats and floral dresses, probably fresh out of a church committee meeting. He’s got one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans, the other gesturing politely as he nods along to whatever they’re saying. You can’t hear the words. You’re not really trying to. You’re too busy staring. He looks…grown. Not in a “he got taller” kind of way—but in the way his shoulders fill out his faded t-shirt. In the sharp angle of his jawline, the curve of his neck, the slope of his nose, the way his hair curls slightly at the ends from the heat. Even from this far, you can tell—he’s beautiful. And he’s still Anton. Your neighbor. Your best friend. The boy who used to chase frogs with you until your mom called you in. Who used to pass you folded notes during service. Who once cried when your parents told you you were moving away.

You’d promised to stay in touch. You meant it. But you were fourteen, and life got loud, and somewhere along the way, the calls and texts stopped. Now here he is. Right there. You sit up straighter without meaning to. Your ice tea glass sweats in your hand. He hasn’t noticed you yet, still caught in conversation. You wonder if you look different—older, prettier, unfamiliar. Would he recognize you right away if he turned? You don’t wait to find out. Your nerves get the best of you. You stand, grabbing your empty glass, and head toward the door. You tell yourself you’re not avoiding him. You’re just hot. Tired. Not ready even. But just as your hand pushes the door open, something makes you glance back over your shoulder. And there he is—Staring right at you. The old women are gone now, vanished as quietly as they arrived. Anton’s standing alone in the yard, one hand shielding the sun from his eyes, the other still loosely in his pocket. His gaze is fixed on you. He looks confused. Not startled, but searching. Like he’s not sure what he’s looking at. Or like he is, and just can’t believe it. You don’t move. For a second, the world narrows down to that look, his eyes locked on yours, brows drawn just slightly, lips parted like he’s about to say your name. And then the door creaks open, and you step inside, heart pounding. You don’t look back again.

♱

The church hasn’t changed. Same tall stained-glass windows. Same dusty hymnals and creaky pews. The same low hum of whispers as the congregation filters in, dressed in their Sunday best. It smells like old wood and candle wax and someone’s too-strong perfume. You smooth down the dress your mom made you wear—soft blue, modest, snug around your waist—and slide into the pew beside her. She’s already smiling and waving at everyone like she never left. You, on the other hand, feel like an imposter. Like a ghost drifting back into a life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

And then you see him. Anton. Standing at the front of the sanctuary, just off to the side of the pulpit, next to his father—Pastor Lee. His posture is perfect. His hands folded in front of him. His white button-down shirt is tucked in tight, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his forearms. The warm light from the stained glass glows faintly against his skin, catching the edges of his cheekbones and the slope of his nose. He looks calm. Holy, even. But when his eyes find yours from across the room, he grins. Just slightly. It’s subtle. Private. Like a secret being passed from the altar to the back pew. You feel your lips pull into a shy smile before you even realize it. Your fingers twitch in your lap, and then, almost without thinking, you lift your hand and give a small wave.

He returns it. Barely a flick of his fingers. Then he glances away, face schooled back into quiet reverence. Your mom leans over and whispers, “Is that Anton? My goodness, he grew up so well.” You try not to show how warm your face suddenly feels. The final “Amen” echoes through the chapel, and the congregation begins to stir—hymnals closing, shoes scuffing, greetings starting before people even leave the pews. You trail behind your mom as she makes her way through the crowd, stopping to hug familiar faces and catch up with people she hasn’t seen in years. Everyone’s talking at once. You spot Anton near the front doors, his father deep in conversation with one of the deacons. Anton’s standing just off to the side again, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. This time, you go to him. “Hey,” you say, voice soft, nerves bubbling in your chest like soda.

He turns fully, and when he sees you up close, his whole expression shifts—like he wasn’t prepared for it. Like he’s still piecing together the girl he used to know with the version of you standing in front of him now. “Wow,” he breathes, and then, quieter, “You came back.” You nod, feeling suddenly very aware of how close he’s standing. “We moved back. For good.” His eyes drag over your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize every difference, every change. “You look…” He doesn’t finish. Just offers a crooked smile. “It’s good to see you.” You smile, heart pounding. “You too. You—uh. You look good.”

That makes him laugh under his breath, low and warm. “Yeah? Thanks.” But before either of you can say anything else—“Oh, Anton!” Your mom’s voice slices through the air like a knife, and both of you turn to her. She slips beside you with a bright smile and gently pats Anton’s arm. “It’s been so long! Look at you—such a handsome young man now. You’re the spitting image of your father.” Anton chuckles politely, hands still tucked in his pockets. “It’s really good to see you, Mrs. ___.” Your mom beams. “You’ll have to come over for dinner sometime! You and your family. How about tonight?” Your breath catches. Tonight? Anton’s brows lift slightly. “Uh—I mean, I’d love to. If my parents are free.” “I’ll ask your mother myself,” your mom chirps. “I’m sure she’d love the chance to catch up. You’ll come too, won’t you?” she adds, turning back to you with a wink, as if the two of you didn’t just meet like strangers five minutes ago. Anton looks at you. His voice is calm, but his eyes burn just a little too long on yours. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

♱

The evening sunlight filtered warm through the windows as your mother moved around the kitchen, humming a song under her breath. The table was already set, too neatly and too nervously. Everything felt like a performance. You sat on the edge of the couch, smoothing your dress for the fifth time, your heart fluttering even though you told yourself to stop. They were just neighbors. Old friends. Familiar faces. So why were your hands shaking? You heard the knock on the door, and your mom rushed to answer it, voice lifting in a cheery greeting. You stood slowly, swallowing the tight feeling in your throat as you peeked around the corner. And there he was. He looked like a dream. Soft, navy pullover, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled like he hadn’t even tried, and still, somehow, he looked perfect. He smiled, all warmth and politeness, as your mother pulled him into a hug, then turned his eyes toward you. Something in his expression shifted for just a second when he saw you—something unreadable. His eyes dragged over you slow, then stopped at your face like he had to remind himself to keep it respectful. And then, that gentle smile again. “Hey,” he said softly, walking toward you. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” Your lips parted, the sound caught in your throat. “Hi. Yeah, me neither.” He looked taller up close. Broader. And his voice had dropped since you were kids—low, smooth, just a little husky when he said your name.

The rest of his family trailed in behind him, greetings flying around the room. But all you could hear was the way his fingers brushed yours when he handed over the pie he brought. All you could feel was his gaze, lingering just a second too long when you sat beside him at the table. Dinner passed with polite conversation, church talk, your mom laughing too loudly at Pastor Lee’s stories. But beneath the table, your knees brushed every now and then. Barely. But you felt them. You felt him. And every time you got a little flustered—fumbling your fork, fixing your skirt—he noticed. Of course he noticed. At one point, when your mother stepped away to grab more wine and the conversation quieted, Anton leaned a little closer to you. His voice was low, just for you. “You look good tonight,” he murmured, eyes still trained politely ahead. Your breath caught, cheeks flushed immediately. “Oh…thanks. So do you.” He tilted his head just slightly, that same soft smile still on his face. “Yeah?” You nodded, biting your lip. He blinked slowly, eyes flicking over your face. Then you felt it—his hand brushing yours again under the table, fingers grazing your palm like a secret. And when dessert was served and your mom asked Anton if he could help you bring the dishes to the table, he stood right away, still perfectly polite and perfect.

The house was full of soft voices and clinking glasses. From the living room came the low hum of conversation, your mom and the Lees laughing about something from years ago, the kind of stories adults always went back to after dinner. But you weren’t in there. You were in the kitchen. Feet swinging gently from where you sat on the counter, hands resting at your sides, cool glass of water in your lap. Anton stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in soapy water as he quietly washed the dishes. The warm overhead light hit his profile just right—sharp jaw, lashes lowered, mouth set in focus. His back was broad beneath his shirt, shoulders flexing slightly with every quiet movement. He looked unfair like that. Domestic. Godly. You didn’t know how long you’d been watching him. He hadn’t said anything since he started washing, just passed you a small smile when you hopped up on the counter, like it was normal for you to sit there, legs bare and tucked beneath you, eyes trained shamelessly on him.

He rinsed the last plate, turning off the faucet. Flicked water off his hands before reaching for a towel. “You always watch people do chores,” he asked, drying his fingers, “or just me?” You smiled, letting your head tilt just a little. “Just you.” That made him laugh softly. It rumbled low, barely audible. He turned slightly to face you, still rubbing his hands with the towel. “You’ve changed,” he said, voice calm. “You’re…different.” Your heart thudded. You looked down at your glass. “Is that…bad?” “No,” he said. Then, quieter, “Not at all.” Another pause stretched between you. You didn’t move. Neither did he. Then, without thinking, you asked, “Do you wanna go on a walk?” His brow lifted slightly. “A walk?” You nodded, eyes meeting his. “Yeah. Just…around the neighbourhood. It’s still warm out.” He hesitated for a second. Not because he didn’t want to—but because it was too easy to say yes. And then he did. “Sure,” he said, smile slow. “Let me grab my shoes.”

The streets were quiet when the two of you slipped out the front door, the summer air thick with warmth and crickets. Porch lights flickered behind doors, and far-off wind chimes swayed lazily in the breeze. The town was asleep. You walked side by side in the dim orange glow of the streetlamps, arms brushing occasionally. Anton’s hands were in his pockets, his sleeves still rolled up to his elbows, his eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead as if he didn’t want to look at you too much. But he did. Every now and then, you caught him. “It’s so weird being back,” you murmured after a stretch of silence. “Everything’s the same. But not really.” He nodded, glancing over. “I know what you mean. I still expect to see you riding your bike down the road with that ridiculous blue helmet.” You laughed. “Hey, I loved that helmet.” I know,” he grinned. You walked like that for a while, laughter trailing into comfortable quiet. Eventually, you reached the edge of a small park—the same one you used to play in together when you were kids. The swingset was still there, creaking gently in the breeze. The old sandbox. The crooked bench. You tugged his arm gently. “Let’s sit for a while.” He didn’t hesitate. You both dropped into the cool grass near the trees, far from the streetlight. The ground was still warm from the day, but the night air had cooled enough to make the moment feel peaceful. You leaned back on your hands, head tilted to the sky. “The stars here are brighter,” you said quietly. “They always were,” he replied, watching you instead.

You talked. About church. About how weird it was being adults now. About the people who’d stayed, and the ones who left. And somehow the conversation slowed—turned softer and deeper. The kind of conversation that only happens when it’s late and quiet and you feel like the rest of the world isn’t real anymore. Anton sat cross-legged now, one arm draped over his knee. He looked relaxed, content. And you…felt brave. Your heart pounded as you turned toward him. His profile looked so serene in the moonlight, his lashes casting shadows, lips parted slightly, breath calm. And before you could stop yourself—You leaned in. A soft kiss. Just a quick, warm press of your lips to his cheek. Barely a breath. When you pulled back, his head turned to you instantly. You looked down at the hem of your dress, fingers nervously twisting the fabric in your lap. “What was that for?” he asked, a quiet laugh under his breath. “I-I don’t know, sorry—,” you mumbled, shoulders curling in a little. He didn’t say anything for a second. Then, he reached out. One hand cupped your jaw, soft and slow, his thumb brushing the edge of your cheek. He leaned in, tilting your face toward his. “Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.” You did. Big, nervous eyes meeting his calm, unreadable ones. And then—He kissed you. Not rushed. Not messy. Just firm and real, lips warm and sure, like he’d wanted to do it for hours but waited until you asked first, without saying a word. When he pulled back, his voice was quieter than ever. “I missed you,” he murmured. Your heart felt like it could explode.

The kiss lingered on your lips long after it ended. You didn’t speak as he helped you up from the grass, his hand brushing yours gently—barely holding it, but not letting go either. The walk back was quiet, the kind of silence that says everything. The air between you was different now. Warmer. Buzzing. When you reached your front porch, the light was still on. The sound of laughter drifted faintly from the Lees’ house next door, your mom probably inside chatting with Anton’s parents. Anton stopped at the base of your steps. Hands in his pockets again. Looking up at you like he was still memorizing your face. “My parents went home already,” he said softly. “I should head back too.” You nodded, unsure what to say. Still dazed from the kiss. From him “Thanks for walking with me,” you said, trying not to sound too breathless. He stepped up onto the porch now, closer. Just enough to make your heart skip. “Thanks for the walk,” he said, voice even softer. “And the kiss.” Your cheeks burned. You looked down again, fidgeting with the hem of your dress like you had earlier. He didn’t tease you for it. Instead, he leaned in, one hand brushing lightly against your elbow as he tilted his head and kissed the top of yours. “Goodnight.” he murmured into your hair. Your chest ached. “Goodnight, Toni.” you whispered. He lingered for a beat, then gave you one last glance, turned, and stepped off the porch, disappearing into the quiet dark. And you just stood there, frozen in place, barely breathing, fingers clutching your dress. Still tasting the kiss from earlier and trying to make sense of the boy next door—the pastor’s golden son, all grown up and kissing you like that.

♱

Days passed, warm and slow. You kept seeing Anton. Not on purpose, but always like clockwork. He showed up one afternoon with a Tupperware of still-warm cookies, claiming his mom made too many again. The day after that, you bumped into him outside while taking out the trash, and he offered to help like it was nothing—shirt sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing, that same easy smile on his face. There were walks again, too. Small ones. Night air between you, your arms occasionally brushing. The conversation was light—never touching that night. The kiss. The way your heart pounded every time you looked at him too long. But Anton never pushed. Just walked beside you like he had all the time in the world. The church bells rang slow and sweet, echoing through the summer air.

You sat next to your mom like always, her hands clutching her small bag. The usual crowd filled the pews, faces you’d known since childhood, some changed by time, some exactly the same. The windows let in golden light, and the air smelled faintly of old wood and floral perfume. Anton sat beside his father at the front—eyes forward, posture perfect. Button-up crisp, sleeves rolled just once at the wrists. His hands were folded, resting neatly in his lap like some model of quiet discipline. But then he looked over. Just a flick of his eyes at first. But then he saw you, and the shift was subtle but real. The corner of his mouth lifted. You smiled too—small, hesitant. He raised two fingers in the tiniest of waves, the gesture hidden just beneath the edge of the pew. You returned it, heartbeat thrumming. When everyone bowed their heads to pray, you did too. Eyes closed. Hands together. But you could feel him watching you.

The usual bustle followed—hymns fading, churchgoers chatting, children running in the yard. Your mom was pulled into a conversation with some older women near the back, and you stepped out into the hallway for a breath of air. That’s when you heard footsteps behind you. “Hey.” You turned, and there he was, smiling softly. Holding a paper cup of lemonade. Hair slightly messier now that the formalities were over. “Hi,” you said, a little breathless. You hated that he could still do that to you.He looked at you quietly for a moment, then reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear—so gently it made your chest ache. “You look good today,” he said, voice low. “Really good.” Your breath caught. You tried to hide your smile by looking at the floor, mumbling, “You too.” He chuckled, head tilted. “You think?” “Mhm.”“Then maybe you should come over tonight.” Your eyes lifted slowly. “Tonight?”“Just for dinner. Hang out a bit. My parents will be out…for a while.” He gave you a look. One you felt deep in your stomach. You swallowed. Nodded. “Okay.” “Okay,” he echoed, and his smile softened. “I’ll text you.” Then he leaned a little closer—just enough to brush his fingers against your wrist as he passed.

You knocked once—lightly. The door opened almost immediately. Anton stood there in a soft gray t-shirt and jeans, white socks, hair a little messy like he’d been running his hand through it before you arrived. His eyes dropped to your dress, the short, soft one you hadn’t worn in forever. White with a little blue. You saw the flicker in his gaze before he blinked it away. “Hey,” he said, smiling. “Come in.” You stepped past him, blushing. His house smelled like warm food and clean linen. Familiar and still somehow brand new. You slipped off your shoes by the door, glancing around as he led you to the living room. “My parents are out. Church committee stuff.” He looked over his shoulder, voice easy. “You want to eat on the couch?” You nodded. “Sure.” The two of you sat with plates on your laps—chicken and mashed potatoes and something buttery his mom must’ve made. The TV was on low in the background, but neither of you were watching it. You talked about dumb things. Summer. Church gossip. What your moms were probably up to. “I still can’t believe you’re back,” he said suddenly, glancing at you as you licked a bit of sauce from your thumb. “It’s like…I blinked and you turned into a whole woman.” You almost choked on your drink, cheeks heating. “Anton—” “Sorry.” He smiled softly. “Just being honest.” You tucked your hair behind your ear, glancing down at your lap. The hem of your dress barely reached mid-thigh. His eyes kept flicking down, and then back up, every time. He cleared his throat, then stood. “Wanna see something?” “What?”“Old photos. Us.” You laughed, instantly standing. “You still have those?”

“Unfortunately.” He led you up the stairs, your heart thudding harder with every step. His room was at the end of the hall, same as you remembered, but different now. Cleaner. Calmer and more grown-up. He let you sit on his bed while he rummaged through a drawer. You crossed your legs and the dress shifted, rising slightly. Anton paused, back still toward you, but you saw the way his shoulders rose with a breath before he kept going. “Here,” he said, finally holding up a crinkled photo album. You leaned close as he sat beside you, the two of you shoulder to shoulder as you flipped through the pages. “Oh my god,” you whispered, pointing. “You look so cute!” “I was 10.” “And this one! The matching outfits?” “Our moms were insane,” he groaned, grinning. But every time you laughed, every time your thigh brushed his or your shoulder pressed into his arm, you could feel the shift in the air. It was slow, creeping in like heat. His smile softened. His gaze lingered longer. And when you turned your head toward him to say something, your breath caught. Because he was already looking at you. Not laughing. Not teasing. Just…looking. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. Like he was holding something back so tightly it hurt. “What?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head a little, but didn’t look away.“You’re just…” He exhaled slowly. “You’re so fucking pretty.” Your breath hitched. “Anton…” He reached up, so slowly, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. Your cheeks flushed instantly. You could feel the warmth spreading down your neck, across your chest, like your skin knew something was coming before your mind did. Anton’s thumb was still brushing your cheek, and your heart was hammering like it wanted to climb into his hand. “I—um…” Your voice came out breathless. Quiet. Embarrassed. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your dress, twisting the hem like you didn’t know what to do with your hands.cAnton didn’t say anything at first. He just let the silence stretch—thick, humming, full of everything you weren’t saying. Then, softly, almost amused, “You always this quiet when someone tells you you’re beautiful?” You froze. Your breath hitched, lashes fluttering as you finally looked up again. His smile had softened, but his eyes hadn’t—they were still dark, focused, soaking in every little flinch, every blush. “It’s cute,” he murmured, voice dropping just slightly. “Makes me wanna see what else gets you like this.”You blinked. “Anton—” He moved before you could stop yourself. One hand slid to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Not rough, but not hesitant either. His thumb brushed along the side of your jaw, tilting your face up just slightly, just enough for your eyes to lock again. “Can I?” he asked. You swallowed, lips parted, the air between you tight as a thread. And then you nodded, looking up at him with big sparkly eyes. That’s all he needed.

His lips were on yours before you could blink, stealing the air right out of your lungs. His hand stayed firm behind your head, holding you in place like he was finally letting himself taste what he’d been craving since the second he saw you on that porch again. It wasn’t rushed. But it wasn’t soft either. It was deep, and hot, and meant. Like he’d already decided you were his, and this was the first time he let himself show it. You whimpered into his mouth, hands clinging to his shirt, and that was when he groaned—quiet, low, right against your lips. “I swear, you look at me like that and I can’t think straight.” Then he kissed you again, harder.

And for a second, just a second, you felt everything else—church, family, rules—slip away like it had never existed. Just you. Just him. His lips moved against yours with growing heat, still controlled, but barely. You could feel it in the way his fingers curled tighter at the back of your head, the way his breath hitched when your body pressed closer to his. Then you felt his hand slip down, slowly, gliding from your jaw to your waist, and lower. You gasped softly when his fingertips ghosted under the hem of your dress, meeting the bare skin of your thigh. He stilled for half a second, almost like he was asking permission without saying it out loud, but when you didn’t stop him, his touch grew firmer. His palm slid higher, his hand large and warm on the soft skin of your inner thigh.

The kiss deepened. His tongue slipped into your mouth, slow and steady, tasting you like he’d been imagining this forever. You melted into him completely, fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, thighs parting just a little more as he leaned into you. He groaned quietly when you did that. “Lie back,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and rough, like he was trying not to break. “Please.” You let him guide you down gently, back hitting the mattress, your dress shifting with the movement. He came with you, hovering, his knee slotting between your legs, hand still gripping your thigh as he kissed you again. You sighed into his mouth when his hand traveled up farther, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear, but stopping just short. “Fuck,” he whispered, lips moving against your jaw now. “You don’t get it…” his voice cracked. “I’m trying so hard to be good.” His hand squeezed your thigh, possessive, like he was grounding himself. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.” His mouth found yours again, open and hot, and all you could do was whimper into it, body arching into his like your whole skin was burning for more.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, soft and slow, and he let out the faintest breath, like even your touch could undo him. He was still kissing you like he didn’t want to take too much. Like he was holding himself back even though you could feel the tension in every part of him. And then you looked up at him. Sweetly. Eyes wide, lips parted, your gaze soft and honest like you didn’t even know what that look was doing to him.“Anton…” He pulled back slightly, breath shaky, brows drawn tight like he was trying to read you, trying to figure out if he could survive any more of this. Your thumbs brushed over his cheekbones. You leaned in, barely a whisper between your lips. “You don’t have to be good with me.” The second it left your mouth, you felt it happen. His breath stilled. His eyes darkened. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, voice thick and low, more like a warning to himself than to you. “You don’t know what you’re giving me.” But his hands were already moving, gripping your thighs, pushing your dress up slowly until it was bunched at your waist. You gasped as the night air met your bare skin, and he hovered there for a second, eyes dropping.The sight of you underneath him—flushed, breathing hard, in your pretty little panties and dress—did something to him.

His mouth found your neck first. But this time, he didn’t hold back. He sucked hard, right on the soft skin beneath your collarbone. Then again, higher this time, where he knew it would show tomorrow. A visible claim. You whimpered, fingers tightening in his hair. “Mine,” he whispered against your skin, almost too low to hear. “You’re mine.” His lips trailed down, wet, open-mouthed kisses across your chest, lower, down your stomach. Slow. Worshipful. Possessive. Then he knelt between your legs, hands caressing your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. And then he saw them. Your panties—soft, soaked through, clinging to your folds just enough for him to make out the outline. He groaned, dragged his palm up your thigh and pressed it right over your center, fingers cupping you through the wet fabric. “Fuck…” His voice was ruined. “You’re already dripping, baby?” You couldn’t answer. Your hips lifted into his touch instinctively, a soft whimper breaking in your throat. He looked up at you, eyes wild now, barely able to stay soft anymore. “Want me to keep being good now?” he asked, thumb dragging along the dampest part of your panties. You shook your head no, and he smiled softly. You could barely breathe.

His thumb pressed gently over your soaked panties, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your thighs twitch. His touch was slow, like he wasn’t in a hurry. Like he wanted to feel every little reaction you gave him. He kissed your inner thigh again, soft and wet, then moved his lips even closer, brushing just shy of where you needed him. “God, angel…” he murmured against your skin. “You’re soaked.” You whimpered, hands gripping the sheets beneath you. He kissed you again, higher this time, just at the edge of your underwear, and your hips lifted instinctively.He smiled softly. He liked that. You could tell. “You trust me?” You nodded, breathless. “Yes.” “Good.” His fingers hooked into the sides of your panties, slowly, teasingly, and began to pull them down. You lifted your hips for him without thinking, cheeks burning as the cool air kissed your skin. He dragged the fabric down your thighs, your knees, your ankles, then tossed them aside like he’d been waiting years to see you like this. And then he just stared for a moment. Silent. “So fuckin’ pretty…” he said, almost to himself. His hands slid back up your thighs, warm, slow and possessive, and when he reached your hips, he pressed a kiss right above your mound. Then lower. And lower. Until his mouth was right where you needed him most.

You barely had time to gasp before his tongue was on you. Hot. Slow. Unbelievably soft. Your hips jerked. Your back arched. And he groaned like he loved the way you tasted. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging on instinct, and the sound it pulled from him, that low, needy groan, shot straight through your spine. He looked up at you, cheeks flushed, lips slick and red, hair a mess from your grip. And you almost came just from the sight. Golden boy Anton. Saintly, sweet, so polite Anton. On his knees, tongue deep between your thighs, looking up at you like you were heaven. “Anton—” you gasped, nearly overwhelmed. “You—fuck—” He didn’t stop. He didn’t even blink.

His tongue moved faster, more focused now, licking slow deliberate circles over your clit, and when you tugged his hair harder, his grip on your thighs tightened. His eyes never left yours. “You taste insane” he whispered, voice thick and ruined against you. He went right back in, and your thighs threatened to close around his head—your saint of a boy, face buried in your heat, moaning like he was being blessed by every sound you made. His tongue kept working you, steady and deep, your thighs trembling against his big hands. You were falling apart underneath him, whimpering, gasping, one hand clutching the sheets while the other tightened in his hair, holding on like you were about to float away. “Toni—nghh—please~” you cried out, voice broken, eyes fluttering. That name from your lips, so sweet, so needy, made him groan so deep it vibrated against your clit. Then, without warning, he slid two fingers into you. Slow. Deep. Filling. You gasped—head falling back, mouth parted in a breathless moan—as he began pumping them in and out, curling just right, dragging wet, lewd sounds from between your thighs. “That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough, breath warm. “You sound so pretty like this.”

You couldn’t even think, you could only feel.The stretch of his fingers. The way his palm pressed perfectly against your heat. How his mouth returned to your clit, licking and sucking hard while his fingers fucked into you. You were so close. So close. “Toni—Toni, please, I—” His mouth pulled back, breath warm on your soaked skin. But his fingers didn’t stop. They kept moving inside you, deep and curling upward with every pump, the slick sounds making your whole body burn. You reached for him, desperate, your hand grabbing the back of his head and pulling him up fast. And then you kissed him. Hard, messy and needy. Your lips crashed into his, tasting yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as his fingers kept moving inside you relentlessly. Anton hummed into the kiss, hips pressing forward into the mattress like he couldn’t help it, like he was falling apart just from the way you kissed him back. His free hand grabbed your waist, pulling your body closer to his chest as the kiss deepened—his fingers still fucking you, perfectly in rhythm with the way your body rocked against his hand. Your whole body tensed—hips lifting, hands tangled tight in Anton’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer. And when his fingers hit just right, deep and curling, his mouth finding your clit again, you shattered. “T-Toni—! F-fuck—” You moaned into his mouth as he kissed you through it, swallowing every gasp, every broken cry, as your orgasm ripped through you like a wave. Your thighs clenched around his waist. Your fingers gripped his hair in both hands. Your body shook beneath him. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes.

Even as your hips bucked and trembled, his fingers kept moving. Slowly drawing it out. Helping you ride it until your whole body gave out in his arms. And when you finally collapsed against the bed, gasping, boneless, lips parted, he pulled away slowly, breathless, mouth red and glistening, cheeks flushed like he’d just sinned and loved it. He looked at you like you were holy. He reached up and brushed his knuckles across your cheek, warm and gentle. “You okay?” he asked softly, his voice rough around the edges. You nodded, barely. Still breathless. He leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your cheek, then one just below your jaw. Then lower to your neck, where your pulse fluttered wildly beneath your skin. His lips stayed there a moment, like he wanted to memorize the feeling of you. His hands moved down, big and warm on your bare thighs. He caressed the soft skin gently, thumbs stroking where he’d held you open, his touch full of something that felt like quiet praise. Then, without saying a word, he reached for your panties on the floor and helped you slip them back on, careful and slow. Once they were in place, he leaned forward again, resting his forehead against yours for just a second, both of you breathing the same quiet air. Then he murmured, “I think my parents’ll be back soon.” Your heart jumped, reality creeping back in, but Anton’s hand was already smoothing over your thigh again, grounding you. He looked at you like he didn’t want you to leave. But he would let you. For now.

♱

The night air was cooler now, soft against your skin as you stepped out into the quiet, still pulling your cardigan around you. Anton walked beside you in silence, his hands in his pockets, close enough for your fingers to brush every few steps. Neither of you spoke much. You didn’t need to. You could still feel him—on your skin, in your breath, between your legs. And he could still feel you too. You saw it in the way he glanced at you when he thought you weren’t looking. That small curve of a smile he couldn’t quite hide. When you reached your front porch, you turned to face him, heart fluttering in your chest. He looked so soft in the dim porch light—hair a little messy, lips still a little pink, his eyes warm and unreadable. He stepped closer. “Thanks for coming over,” he murmured. “Thanks for…everything,” you whispered back, cheeks warming again, your hands behind your back. He chuckled quietly. Then he leaned in, hand gently cupping your waist, and kissed you. Soft and sweet. A stark contrast to the way he’d touched you earlier…but just as overwhelming. When he pulled back, he stayed close. His forehead nearly touching yours, his voice low, “See you tomorrow?”

You nodded. “Yeah…tomorrow.” He smiled, eyes flicking briefly down to your lips again, and then turned to walk back toward his house, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders just a little looser than before. And you stood there a moment longer, fingers brushing your lips, your heart pounding so loud it felt like it echoed through the quiet street. You tried to blink it away, tried to smooth your face as you stepped inside your house, quietly closing the door behind you. The light from the kitchen was still on. “There you are,” your mom called from the table. “I was starting to think you fell asleep next door.” You let out a soft laugh, cheeks still warm as you stepped out of your shoes. “No… Just stayed a bit to talk.” “Mhm,” she hummed, sipping her tea. “Well, don’t forget—we’re helping set up for the charity event tomorrow after church. Anton will be there too.” Your heart skipped. “Right. I remember.” You turned toward the hallway, trying to keep your voice even. “G’night, Mom.” “Night, sweetheart.” You made it to your room, closed the door softly, and leaned back against it, chest rising and falling like you’d run a mile. Tomorrow. You’d see him again tomorrow. And the worst part? You were already aching for it.

♱

The church was warm with soft chatter and the scuff of shoes on tile. Long folding tables lined the walls, each draped with pale tablecloths and surrounded by open boxes of clothes and canned goods. It smelled like lemon cleaner and faint perfume and sunlight clinging to old wood. You stood at one end of a table, fingers smoothing out the cloth. Your eyes were focused, but your mind wasn’t. Not when he was this close. Anton stood just beside you, setting out trays and centerpieces like it was second nature. His sleeves were rolled up, veins in his forearms catching the light when he moved. He didn’t say much. Just worked quietly, side by side, like he was trying not to draw attention to the way his shoulder kept brushing yours. And then he leaned in. Not much. Just enough that his mouth was near your ear, his voice low, almost lazy. “You look beautiful.” It didn’t sound like a compliment. It sounded like a confession. Your breath caught. You froze for half a second, hands paused on the table, before you slowly looked at him. But he was already turning, lifting another box, acting like nothing happened. Like your heart wasn’t now hammering inside your chest. You swallowed. Lips parted. Eyes burning into the back of his neck.

The church was mostly quiet except for the gentle shuffling of boxes and folding chairs. It was just the two of you now. The sun had dipped hours ago, casting golden light through the stained glass before fading completely into night. Only the warm glow of the overhead lights remained, soft and holy. Anton was stacking donation boxes near the front pew while you tried to make sense of the tangled folding chairs at the back. You were humming softly to yourself—half from nerves, half from the way his presence always made you feel too warm lately. You reached for one of the metal chairs, too quick, and your foot caught on another folded leg. Your balance slipped. “Oh—!”But before you could hit the ground, Anton was there. His hands gripped your waist firmly, holding you upright, pulling you flush against his chest. Your breath hitched. His eyes scanned your face quickly, his hands still steady on your body. “You okay?” You nodded, your hands splayed against his chest now. His pullover was soft. Warm. And under it, he was solid. “Sorry,” you whispered, the tiniest laugh in your throat. Your smile was shy, your cheeks flushed.He didn’t laugh. Didn’t let go. Just looked at you. Like he was thinking something he shouldn’t. And then, his arms tightened slightly around your waist.

His mouth parted just a bit, and his voice came low, “You’re really not making it easy for me.” You blinked up at him. “What?” But he didn’t explain. Instead, he kissed you. Right there, in the middle of the church, surrounded by donation stuff and folding chairs. It was sudden, and deep, and so full of everything he’d been holding back. His lips moved over yours with a kind of hunger that felt like it had been waiting for an excuse. And you—pressed to his chest, hands still curled in his sweater—kissed him back like you’d been waiting too. His lips moved over yours with more urgency now, rougher and deeper. Your fingers curled in his hair as his hand slid around to your lower back, pressing you closer, closer, like he couldn’t get enough. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the quiet growl in the back of his throat every time your breath caught.

You gasped into his mouth, pulling away just enough to whisper, “Anton… we’re at church—” His mouth chased yours, voice low and hard, “I don’t fucking care.” He kissed you again, hungrier, and in one swift, effortless motion, his hands gripped your thighs and lifted you up. Your breath hitched as he placed you on the edge of the long wooden table behind you, the one you’d just been sorting donation envelopes on. Now, forgotten. You looked at him, heart racing.“What if someone sees us?” you breathed. His hands slid up your thighs, firm and possessive, as he stepped between them.“Let them.” His voice was rough, wrecked. A low growl right against your skin. And then his lips dropped to your neck.

He kissed over the faint marks he’d left days ago, soft at first, then deeper. His teeth grazed the skin just below your jaw, and you whined, hands gripping his shoulders. He kissed lower, leaving new marks with every pass of his mouth, like he was reclaiming territory only he could touch. “Toni…” you whispered, breath trembling. He groaned at the sound of his name on your lips—like that. Soft, whiny, his. His fingers pressed into your thighs, thumbs brushing under the hem of your skirt as his mouth dragged down your throat, slow and hot. His hands were everywhere—firm on your thighs, sliding under your skirt, curling around your waist like he couldn’t get you close enough.

You gasped when his hands gripped lower, squeezing your ass, pulling you forward on the table until you could feel the pressure of his hard-on between your legs. “Toni,” you whimpered, dizzy, your fingers tangled in the fabric of his sweater. “We can’t—God’s watching—” He froze for half a second. Just long enough to lift his head, eyes burning into yours. Then he said it—quiet, calm, but full of something dark and unshakable, “I am God.” Your lips parted, breath caught in your throat. You didn’t know if you were shocked or turned on. Maybe both. He watched your face as the words settled in, his eyes hooded, the corner of his mouth twitching up when he saw the heat rising in your cheeks. His voice dropped lower, curling into your chest like smoke. “Right now…I’m the only one you pray to.” And then his mouth was back on you—kissing your collarbones, biting softly where your strap had slipped just low enough.

One hand slipped up your back while the other gripped the underside of your thigh, holding you wide open for him. You whimpered, arching into him without meaning to. “Anton—“ “Say it again.” His voice was ragged now, mouth warm on your skin, dragging against the edge of your bra strap. You barely managed a breath, “Toni…” He groaned, low and deep, fingers digging into your skin. “Mm. Keep saying my name like that.” His breath hitched as he pulled back just slightly, eyes locked on yours. His jaw was clenched, brows tight, voice lower than you’d ever heard it.“Get on your knees.” You blinked. “What?” His hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle but firm, as he leaned in close, lips brushing your cheek. “On your knees, baby.” Your heart practically jumped out of your chest. Heat flooded your face, your stomach, your thighs. You hesitated only for a second, just long enough for your breath to stutter. But then, you slid off the table slowly. Down to your knees. The cold floor pressed against your skin as you settled in front of him. You tilted your head up, shy, lips parted, eyes doe like and innocent, and his entire body visibly tensed. His gaze was fixed on you, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he was trying not to fall apart. “Fuck…” He reached down, threading his fingers into your hair. Not pulling, just petting. Slow, reverent strokes, like he was trying to memorize the feeling of you like this. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, soft and possessive all at once. “Look at you,” he whispered. “So sweet for me.” You sighed, eyes never leaving his. He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip. “My pretty little angel…”

You stayed perfectly still on your knees, heart thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it. Anton’s thumb grazed your bottom lip slowly, and you parted your lips without even thinking. That’s when his smile shifted, something darker curling at the corners. He dragged his thumb down, then slid his index finger along your lip, tapping it once against your mouth. You let him push his finger past your lips—slow, deep—and your lashes fluttered as the pad of it pressed against your tongue. You wrapped your lips around it instinctively, and his breath stuttered. “Good girl…” His voice was a whisper, low and wrecked. Like just seeing you like this, on your knees, sucking his finger, eyes big and wet—was too much for him to handle. He watched you. Let you lick and suck gently, the corner of his lip twitching when you whimpered quietly around him. His other hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking along your skin like he was soothing you, even while you were on your knees, mouth full, obeying his every move. “So fucking perfect,” he murmured. And still, you held his gaze. Still, you sucked softly, cheeks warm and flushed, knees pressed to the cold church floor like you were praying to him. And maybe you were.

He pulled his finger slowly from your mouth, glistening and warm, a soft little pop echoing in the still air. Your lips were parted, your breath shaky, chest rising with every pulse of heat settling low in your core. And then, he took your hand. His fingers slid between yours, gentle but sure, and he guided it slowly downward. You followed instinctively until your palm landed against the front of his jeans—hot, hard, unmistakable beneath the fabric. Your eyes widened. “Toni—” He didn’t speak. He just pressed your hand more firmly to it, his breath hitching at the contact. And you could feel him. All of him. Thick. Heavy. Straining. A soft whimper escaped you before you could stop it. Your fingers twitched, and then you palmed him. Tentative at first. Just the softest pressure. He groaned. His head tipped forward, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.” Your cheeks burned, but you obeyed, letting your hand move slow and shy over the thick line of his cock through his jeans. You squeezed gently, experimentally. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck, baby…” One of his hands braced on the table behind you, the other still cradling your cheek, brushing over your temple like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched, even while you had your hand wrapped around the very thing he’d been trying to hide from you for days.

And then he looked down at you again. “Do you feel what you do to me?” he said softly. You swallowed, thighs clenching where you knelt, and nodded, dazed, completely lost in him. Your palm kept moving, slow, nervous strokes over the thick bulge, until his hips gave the tiniest roll into your hand. That low groan from his throat made your knees feel weak all over again. Then, still holding your gaze, he moved your hand to his waistband.“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take it out, angel.” Your breath caught. You hesitated, cheeks already flushed deep pink. But your fingers moved anyway, slow and unsure, as they found the button of his jeans and undid it with a quiet pop. Then the zipper. Each slow tug of it felt impossibly loud in the silence of the church. Your hand shook just a little as you dragged the denim down his hips, revealing gray boxers. Tight, and so full. And then, finally, you let your fingers slide past the band. And when you lowered his boxers, his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking already, and standing proud against his stomach. Your lips parted instantly. Your cheeks went bright red. You blinked like you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was just…so big. So pretty. Long, veiny, flushed at the tip and glistening already with need. And it was all because of you. Anton chuckled softly above you, low and rough. “You gonna keep staring, pretty girl?” Your breath hitched. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted and completely overwhelmed. He smiled. One hand slid into your hair, petting softly again. Thumb brushing your cheek.

Your breath shook as you gently wrapped both hands around the base of his dick, like you were afraid to grip too tight. He was so warm in your palms, heavy and twitching. You looked up at him. He was already staring down at you, jaw tight, breathing uneven, one hand resting on the back of your head. You leaned in slowly, lips parting as you brought your mouth to him. Your tongue flicked out, just the softest lick over the flushed head. He hissed through his teeth. “Fuck…” You licked again. Slow and careful, like you were testing something sacred. His precum hit your tongue, and your lashes fluttered, still looking at him. Big, wide, innocent eyes. Your hands shifted, stroking softly as you leaned forward to kiss the tip, lips plush and pink, leaving a warm breath against his skin. Then your tongue circled it once, barely touching, and he groaned, deep and wrecked, head tipping back for a second before his eyes found yours again. “Jesus, baby…” He looked completely undone. Red-cheeked, hair messy, chest heaving. His fingers threaded deeper into your hair now. “So fucking pretty on your knees.” he muttered, voice hoarse. You whimpered softly and kissed him again, lower. Letting your tongue trail down the underside of his cock, slow and reverent. Worshipping him like he was your god. And he was.

Your lips parted further as you took him deeper, just a little. Just enough to feel the stretch, the pressure, the way he twitched against your tongue. Your hands gripped his base tighter, keeping steady, and your breath fanned hot against his skin as you hollowed your cheeks around him. His fingers threaded deep, gripping at the roots, but still gentle. Still shaking a little. Like he was trying so hard to keep it together. “F-fuck, baby…” His hips rolled the tiniest bit, pushing just a touch deeper, and you moaned around him. Then, a soft whimper escaped him. Your thighs pressed together instinctively. That sound? From him? It was everything. His other hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked down at you, breathless, eyes dark. “You take me so well,” he murmured, voice rougher now. “So fucking good for me.” You sucked a little harder in response, tongue teasing the underside of him as you took him just a bit deeper, and that’s when the shift happened. His voice dropped. No more shaky breath. No more awe. Just that low, possessive rasp, “Yeah… that’s it, angel. Keep going.” He started to guide your head now—slow, steady movements. You blinked up at him, breathless, cheeks flushed, spit clinging to the corners of your mouth—and pulled back just enough to speak. Your voice came out soft and whiny. Worshipful.“I’ll take anything from you, Toni…” His entire body tensed. His hand gripped your hair so tight it hurt. Possessive. His jaw clenched, barely holding himself together. “Fuck…”

His voice cracked, like you saying that, looking like that, was too much. “You mean that?” You nodded, lips still brushing against the tip of him, warm breath spilling down his length. You weren’t teasing anymore. You were giving yourself to him. And he felt it. “Yeah?” he said again, voice lower. “You’d let me do anything to you?” Your hands tightened around him, and you nodded once more, eager and desperate. His thumb brushed across your wet cheek, eyes scanning every inch of your face like he couldn’t believe it. “Jesus Christ…” he whispered. “Mine,” he muttered, half to himself. “Fucking mine. Made for me.” And then he pushed. Guiding your head lower, deeper. His hips rolled forward as his other hand braced the edge of the table behind you, his breath breaking in soft, strained groans. “Just like that, angel…fuck.”

You felt his control slipping. His soft-spoken calm replaced with something rougher, needier. He started moving his hips more deliberately, his cock slipping deeper into your mouth each time, and your hands gripped his thighs for balance. And through it all, he whimpered. Soft, broken sounds, raw from his throat. Frustrated moans. Curses. Praise. “Your mouth is perfect—mine—just for me—” He was unraveling. Desperate to cum. And when he did—his whole body shuddered. A high-pitched moan broke from his throat, his hand tightening just a second longer in your hair. When he finally stilled, breath ragged, he looked down. You blinked up at him, cheeks red, lips swollen, tongue out—clean. His eyes darkened. “Holy fuck.” Then, his hand slid from your hair to your throat. Firm. Possessive. He pulled you up in one swift movement, crashing his mouth against yours in a kiss that was nothing like before—messy, breathless, filthy.

His hand stayed on your throat, thumb under your jaw, holding you still as he kissed you like he didn’t care about anything else—not the church, not God, not anyone. Just you. You whimpered into his mouth, body flushed and weak, still kneeling slightly between his legs when—“Anton?” A voice echoed down the hallway. You both froze. It was his mom. Anton moved first—fast. He gently but quickly helped you to your feet, hands smoothing down your dress, brushing your hair from your face as your heart raced in your chest. He tugged up his jeans, zipped them shut in one motion, fingers trembling just slightly. You turned around, fixing your hair in the reflection of the dark window, smoothing the skirt of your dress down like it could erase the heat still buzzing across your thighs. “We’re here!” he called, voice clear, like he hadn’t just finished kissing you breathless with his hand wrapped around your throat. His mom stepped in a second later, holding a tray of cookies. “Sorry for interrupting,” she smiled. “Sweetheart, you can head home now, it’s getting late. I’ll stay and help Anton finish up.” You nodded quickly, heart still pounding. “O-okay. Goodnight, Mrs. Lee.” You started walking toward the exit, but as you passed Anton, he stepped closer. His hand slipped gently to your waist, and he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” His voice was softer than ever. Barely a breath. Still warm with what just happened. But sweet. You nodded slowly, biting your lip to hide the smile. “Mhm.” And then you walked out, heart pounding, legs shaky, feeling like nothing in the world could compare to the way Anton Lee touched you like he’d been waiting his whole life for it.

The charity event had gone very well. Laughter floated through the air like music, kids running across the grass with lemonade cups in hand, neighbors huddled near folding tables stacked with donation boxes and home-baked cookies. The sun was high and golden, casting soft shadows through the trees that lined the old church yard. You stood near the donation tent, helping a few older ladies gather envelopes and sort through sign-up sheets. You were smiling, polite, answering questions when asked—but your eyes kept flicking toward the side lot where Anton was helping carry chairs, sleeves pushed to his elbows, arms flexing, the edge of his shirt sticking slightly to his back from the heat. He looked like he belonged here. Everyone loved him. You were surprised they didn’t hand him a halo.

It wasn’t long before he drifted your way again. You didn’t hear his footsteps, you just felt it when he was near. “Hey,” he said, gently. “Everything’s pretty much wrapped up. I think we’re just waiting on my dad to lock up.” You looked up from the papers in your hand and gave a soft smile. “You did good,” you murmured, “It all turned out really nice.” He smiled back, but he wasn’t looking at the tables or the decorations. He was looking at you. “Yeah,” he said. “It did.”His voice was a little quiet when he added, “My mom said your family’s coming to ours for dinner tonight.” You blinked. “Oh…really?” He nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “She and your mom planned it earlier. You’ll come, right?” A hopeful tone in his voice. You nodded, a bit shy, heart fluttering in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll come.” You glanced around—most of the others were busy chatting or packing up, distracted. Without thinking too hard, you stepped a little closer, rose onto your tiptoes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He froze. And then, just as his eyes found yours again, you smiled. “Only for you.” Anton’s gaze lingered on your face for a second too long, and you could see it—he was gone for you.

♱

You couldn’t stop checking the mirror. Your room was filled with golden evening light—curtains swaying gently in the summer breeze, the soft hum of cicadas outside blending with the faint creak of your floorboards as you moved back and forth, barefoot on the rug. Your heart hadn’t stopped fluttering. You curled your hair carefully, setting the pieces with care as the warm scent of your favorite lotion floated around you. You wanted to look nice. Not too much. But still nice. The dress you chose was soft violet—just barely off the shoulder, with a gentle sway to the hem that brushed mid-thigh. You smoothed the fabric down your hips and whispered to your reflection, “Just dinner.” But your heart didn’t believe that. Not really. Your mom called for you from downstairs, and soon enough, the three of you—your mom, dad, and you—were walking the short path next door to the Lee house. You felt like your whole body was humming, warm and restless, as the familiar porch came into view. Your mom knocked cheerfully on the door, calling out, “We brought dessert!” A moment passed before the door opened, and there he was. He looked up, lips parting slightly as he caught sight of you behind your parents. His eyes did a slow sweep—hair curled, cheeks flushed, the soft violet fabric of your dress catching the light. And for a second, he didn’t say anything at all. Then he smiled. “Hey. Come in.” You stepped inside behind your parents, heart hammering. His house smelled like warm food. You slipped out of your shoes and followed the others toward the dining room. Anton walked beside you, close enough that your fingers nearly brushed.

“You look…” he started, voice soft so only you could hear. Then he smiled like he didn’t trust himself to finish it. “Really good.” You looked down, smiling nervously. “You too.” And even as the voices of your parents floated down the hallway, and dishes clinked gently in the kitchen, you could feel it building The air changed when it was just the two of you. The night hadn’t even started yet. And you already knew it wouldn’t end the way it was supposed to. Dinner was loud in the way family dinners always were—dishes passed hand to hand, voices overlapping, stories being told and retold like it was tradition. The Lees had made roasted chicken, herbed potatoes, and something creamy with mushrooms that melted in your mouth. Warm bread sat in the middle of the table, along with a pitcher of juice that never seemed to stay full. You sat beside Anton, of course—because your mom had said, “Oh, let the kids sit together. They probably have so much to catch up on.” And now your knees kept brushing under the table, soft and warm every time, making your heartbeat flutter in your throat. You could barely focus on your plate. He looked good. Too good. His shirt sleeves were rolled again, clinging to his muscles, and the way he kept glancing at you made it almost impossible to eat. “It’s so sweet,” Mrs. Lee said suddenly, gesturing between you and Anton. “Seeing you two back together again.” Your fork paused mid-air. “I know,” your mom chimed in. “You used to be inseparable. I have pictures, remember? Anton, you were always following her around with your little toy guitar—” “Mom,” he groaned, laughing but clearly flustered.

You hid your smile behind your glass. “Well,” Mrs. Lee went on, cheerful and far too pleased with herself, “if this keeps up, maybe we’ll be planning a wedding soon.” Your heart stopped. Your cheeks flushed so fast it almost hurt, and beside you, Anton choked on his drink. “M-Mom—” “What?” she teased. “I’m just saying. You’d be a beautiful couple.” The table laughed. You looked down at your plate, smiling helplessly into your mashed potatoes. And then you felt it—his hand, sliding gently under the table, brushing against yours. You let your fingers shift, brushing back. He curled his around yours slowly, deliberately, lacing them together like it was the easiest thing in the world. When you looked up at him, he was already watching you, eyes soft, cheeks faintly pink, thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. You smiled. And he smiled back.

The night passed slowly. The dining table behind you was still full of empty glasses and half-finished desserts. Your mom and Mrs. Lee had moved to the couch near the window, feet curled up and voices louder than usual, giggling over stories you couldn’t quite make out. Mr. Lee was laughing too, and the scent of red wine lingered faintly in the air, swirling with candle wax and roasted herbs. You and Anton sat on the smaller couch in the living room, just the two of you. A little apart from the rest. Not hidden, but not seen either. The lights were dim, just the soft glow from the lamp in the corner and the flicker of something playing quietly on the TV, long forgotten. Anton’s arm rested behind you on the cushion, fingertips brushing your shoulder every now and then, and your bare knees were pulled up gently beside you. You were supposed to be listening to his dad’s story, something about his youth group days, but all you could focus on was him. The warmth of his body beside yours. The way his lashes curled when he blinked. The tiny scrape of his thumb brushing the side of your arm. He looked at you then, like he felt your gaze. The corners of his mouth twitched, soft and knowing. You leaned in slowly. Your lips pressed to his cheek, quiet and careful. He froze for half a second. You felt him exhale through his nose, like he wasn’t expecting it, but loved that it happened. And then you whispered, sweet and barely above the hush of the room, “Do you wanna go to my house?” “It’ll be more quiet.” He looked at you for a moment, eyes flicking from yours to your lips, then back again. Then he nodded once. Slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Let’s go.”

You both stood at almost the same time. Anton glanced at you like he was checking, making sure you hadn’t changed your mind, and you gave him the smallest nod. Your joined hands slipped apart gently, and he turned toward the adults still laughing behind you. “We’re gonna go for a walk,” he said casually, voice calm, steady. Your mom barely looked up, too caught in a story about a church retreat years ago. “Mhm—be back soon!” “Don’t stay out too late,” Mrs. Lee chimed in, waving a hand in your general direction, her words slightly slurred from too much wine. You and Anton both smiled politely before slipping toward the front door. His hand touched the small of your back as he opened it for you, barely there, but firm. Familiar. Protective. The summer night air wrapped around you the moment you stepped out, warm and soft, with the faint smell of pine and cut grass. The porch creaked beneath your feet as you walked down the steps together in silence, the sound of the door clicking shut behind you. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your house was just steps away, glowing faintly under the porch light. You glanced at him once before opening the door, and he followed you inside.

The house was quiet. The TV hummed softly in the corner, volume low enough that it barely registered. Dim lamplight washed the living room in warm gold, flickering gently across the couch where the two of you lay, curled up like you’d been there forever. You were draped over him, head resting on his chest, the soft swell of his heartbeat echoing in your ear. His fingers traced lazy, featherlight lines up and down your spine beneath your dress. You could feel his breath rising and falling under your cheek, steady and warm. The laughter from next door didn’t fade. Your parents probably still telling stories they’d told a hundred times.

But in here, it was just him. Just you. Just this silence that held everything neither of you had said. Your fingers curled gently into his shirt, holding onto the slow rhythm of his breathing. And then, finally, you tilted your face up to look at him. He was already looking down at you. And that’s when you kissed him. Soft. Warm. Just your lips pressed gently to his—like you were testing the way it felt to be that close. Like you already knew it would change everything.

He didn’t hesitate. His arms tightened around your waist the second your mouth touched his, pulling you closer until there wasn’t a single breath between your bodies. He kissed you back with heat and softness all at once, like it had been building in him for years. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand pressing against the small of your back to keep you close. But then you pulled back slowly, cheeks burning, breath caught in your chest. Your lips brushed his jaw as you whispered, barely a sound, “Toni…I love you.” The words hung there. Heavy. Fragile. Sacred. You hadn’t meant to say them tonight. Not out loud. Not like that. But now that they were out, you felt the way your chest opened up with them, like it was relief to finally say what your body had already been telling him. His eyes locked onto yours. And something shifted in them. Not shock. Not hesitation. Just pure, undeniable devotion. He cupped your cheek, eyes warm and focused, and leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours. “Say it again,” he breathed. “Please.” You swallowed, voice trembling as you looked up at him. “I love you.” He kissed you again. Slow and deep. His hand curled at the nape of your neck, anchoring you there like he didn’t want to let you go—not now, not ever. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he whispered against your lips. “I love you too.”

His mouth moved over yours, deeper more sure. Like he wasn’t holding back anymore. His hands slid down your sides, pulling you tighter against him as the kiss grew hot, feverish. You moaned softly into his mouth, lips parting for his tongue, and the sound only seemed to make him hungrier. You shifted in his lap, straddling one of his thighs, and your hands gripped his shoulders, then slid up into his hair. “Let me…” you whispered between kisses, breathless. He leaned back just a little, eyes burning into yours, lips swollen. And you bent down, lips grazing along the line of his jaw, trailing lower. You kissed the soft skin just beneath his ear, your tongue flicking out gently, earning a low groan from his chest. You sucked a mark into the base of his neck. Visible. Yours. His hands gripped your hips tighter instantly. And then, his hand wrapped around your throat. His fingers splayed across your neck, tilting your face up toward him, his eyes locked on yours as his thumb brushed your jaw. “My sweet angel.” he whispered, before kissing you hard, tongue sliding into your mouth, claiming you all over again.

You gasped into him, fingers tugging at his shirt, your thighs clenching around his. In a swift, fluid motion, he shifted, flipping you beneath him on the couch, his body hovering over yours. His knee nudged between your legs, spreading them just enough. You let out a breathy whimper, arching into him, and he kissed down your jaw, down your throat, leaving hot, wet hickies in his path. Marking you his. “So pretty like this,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and wrecked. “So soft…all mine.” His hand slipped beneath your dress, slowly caressing your thighs—fingertips light and teasing, moving higher and higher, his mouth never leaving your skin.

You could barely breathe. And then, you felt his fingers slide under the waistband of your panties. His touch brushed your folds, gentle but sure. He exhaled slowly when he felt how wet you already were. His lips returned to your ear, voice rasped and low. “All this for me?” You nodded, biting your lip, eyes glazed. His fingers moved slowly between your folds, the heat of his hand making your back arch off the couch. His mouth stayed on yours, kissing you through every tiny gasp he pulled from your lips. You whimpered softly, hips shifting, and he groaned quietly against your mouth like he could feel everything you were feeling. Then, he pulled back slightly. He turned his head, eyes flicking toward the window behind the couch. The soft golden glow of the porch light still shone from next door, and through the sheer curtains, he could make out the faint shadows of your parents and his still hanging out. He looked back at you then, breath unsteady, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a thumb that trembled just slightly. “Can we…” he swallowed, voice quieter now, like the question was heavy. Sacred. “Can we go to your room?” Your heart thudded loud in your chest. You nodded. Softly. Shyly. Eyes wide and warm as they met his.

And that was all he needed. He kissed you again softly, like a promise. Then you took his hand in yours, fingers weaving together, and gently led him off the couch, past the soft glow of the TV and toward the stairs, his hand held yours tight the whole way up. The door clicked shut behind you, the soft sound swallowed by the quiet of the house. The hallway light spilled in for just a second before Anton reached back and flicked it off, leaving the room bathed in the dim, golden glow of your bedside lamp. Your fingers were still laced with his. You turned to him, heart racing in your chest, and rose onto your tiptoes, giggling softly as you pushed him back against the door. “What are you doing?” he murmured, laughing breathlessly as his back hit the wood.

Your hands slid up his chest, tugging gently at the hem of his shirt, and you leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “Just wanted to kiss you first,” you smiled, lips brushing his. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen, like he was overwhelmed that you were here, his, wanting this. “You’re dangerous when you smile like that,” he whispered, voice low. Then, suddenly, his hands gripped your waist tight, and he took over. He kissed you deeper now, stealing the breath right out of your lungs as he spun the two of you around and walked you back slowly, lips never leaving yours. Each step was careful. Controlled. Your knees bumped the edge of the bed, and his hands smoothed up your sides as he leaned down, guiding you onto the mattress. The soft fabric of your dress fluttered as you lay back against the pillows, looking up at him—eyes wide, chest rising and falling like you could barely contain the warmth inside you. Anton stood over you, breathing hard. His gaze roamed your body, drinking in the way your hair fanned across your pillow, the way your dress clung to you in the soft light. “You’re…breathtaking,” he murmured. Then he leaned down again, kissing you slow—taking his time now, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding up your thigh beneath your dress. His fingers trembled slightly at first. But then you whispered his name, soft and trusting, and that’s when everything inside him shifted.

Your hands slid up beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, fingertips grazing the warm skin of his stomach. You felt the slight tremble in his muscles, the way he inhaled sharply as your palms flattened against his chest. Then you tugged. He pulled back just enough to let you lift his shirt, and without a word, he raised his arms and let you peel it off. The moment it hit the floor, you paused. Your breath caught. His body was lean, toned, broad shoulders and sculpted arms—but what held your gaze was the small gold cross resting against his chest, just above his heart. The chain glinted faintly in the dim light, almost glowing against his skin. You reached up with a shy hand, brushing your fingers gently over the planes of his abs, trailing up toward the delicate charm. Anton’s breath hitched. “You’re staring,angel” he said softly, eyes watching yours. “I can’t help it…” you murmured. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, soft, reverent. His hands came to the hem of your dress, fingers curling into the fabric, voice low against your skin. “Can I take this off?” The question settled between you like a vow. Your heart thudded as you looked up at him, cheeks burning, chest fluttering. And you nodded. “Please.”

Anton’s fingers slipped under the hem of your dress, eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulled the fabric upward, inch by inch, until it lifted over your head and joined his shirt on the floor. His breath caught. You lay there beneath him, bare from the waist up, soft skin glowing in the golden light, your chest rising and falling with each nervous breath. The dainty lace of your panties and your frilly white socks were all you wore now, and his gaze swept down the length of you slowly, devouring. “Fuck…” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re fucking divine.” He leaned in without waiting, he couldn’t hold back another second. His mouth found your collarbone first, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat along your skin. Then he kissed lower, just beneath your throat, then lower, lips and tongue marking you up until you were covered in soft, red blooms. You whimpered, hands threading through his hair, stroking gently, helpless to the way his mouth worshipped your chest. Then his lips closed around one of your nipples, sucking slowly. You gasped. His other hand moved to your other breast, massaging gently, thumb brushing your sensitive skin in slow circles as his tongue laved your peak. Every motion was slow. Meant. He wanted to make you feel it, all of it. “T-Toni…” you whispered, hips shifting beneath him, thighs brushing together.

He groaned softly against your chest, the sound vibrating through you. He kissed your breast once more, then moved to the other, treating it with just as much attention, hand still caressing and holding like you were something he’d been waiting his whole life to touch. Your fingers curled tighter in his hair, your soft breaths turning to quiet, broken whimpers. zhe kissed lower, lips trailing a hot, wet path down the center of your stomach. His hands smoothed over your sides as he went, fingers gentle but possessive, like he couldn’t believe you were letting him see you like this—bare, soft, trembling beneath him. When he reached your navel, he paused, pressing a soft kiss, then another, slower one just below. Your thighs shifted restlessly. He smiled against your skin. Then he leaned down and kissed over the delicate lace of your panties, a featherlight brush of his lips, more like worship than lust. “So fucking pretty…” he whispered. His hands hooked gently under the waistband, and he glanced up at you, eyes searching, voice tender. “Is this okay?”You nodded, lips parted, heart thudding so loud you swore he could hear it. “Yes…please.” He slowly tugged the fabric down your thighs, so slowly, like he was unwrapping a blessing, and dropped them to the floor, his hands smoothing along your skin as he did. And then he just looked. Like you were the most godly thing he’d ever seen. His hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling them apart just a little more. He bent down, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of one thigh, then the other.

You whimpered, body arching slightly. Then he started to mark you, again and again. Soft hickies bloomed across your inner thighs, his teeth grazing gently, tongue soothing after each one, until your skin was dotted with faint red love bites, claiming you. “Can’t help it,” he murmured against your thigh. “Want everyone to know who you belong to…” His breath was warm against your skin as he kissed even lower, lips brushing just beside where you needed him most. He groaned softly at the sight of you, already glistening, already so wet for him.“So perfect.” he whispered, voice almost reverent. Then he slid his fingers between your folds—gentle, exploring, just enough pressure to drag your slick along your seam. You gasped, hips twitching as he moved slowly, fingers gliding up and down, barely grazing your clit with every pass. “T-Toni…” you whimpered, voice trembling. He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he lowered his head, mouth parting as he finally licked a slow, deliberate stripe through your heat. Your entire body arched. A cry slipped from your throat as your hands flew to his hair, tugging, desperate, overwhelmed. His tongue circled your clit, then closed around it with a soft suck, and you could feel him moan into you. One of his arms slipped up your body, reaching for your hand, and you instinctively laced your fingers with his, holding tight, grounding yourself.

The other hand curled firm around your thigh, gripping hard, holding you open. His fingers dug into your skin with quiet desperation, a bruise surely blooming beneath his touch. You looked down at him through heavy lashes—his face between your thighs, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and slick, hair messy from your hands. His eyes fluttered open just long enough to meet yours. And you swore—he looked at you like he just saw God. Anton’s mouth didn’t let up, slow licks, deeper pressure, his tongue working you with a rhythm that had your body trembling. You whimpered his name again, fingers buried in his hair, hips beginning to move without meaning to. Then he slid his hand from yours and brought it down between your thighs. You felt his fingers press to your entrance. And then he pushed them in—slow, steady, the stretch making your eyes flutter closed. You gasped as he began to pump them inside you, curling just right, dragging that tight, sweet spot with every thrust. All the while, his mouth never left your clit, sucking gently, tongue flicking and swirling, working in sync with his hand. Your legs trembled around him. “A-Anton—Toni—” you gasped, back arching. His fingers went deeper. His tongue moved faster. “Please—Toni, I’m—nghh—!”You couldn’t even finish your sentence. Your voice broke into high, breathy whimpers, thighs clenching tight around his head as your release hit you. Your whole body shook, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you cried out, hips jerking, his name slipping from your lips over and over like a prayer. And still, he didn’t stop. He worked you through it, licking up every drop, soft and tender now, worshipful.

Anton kissed his way slowly back up your body—your inner thighs, the curve of your hip, the soft skin just under your ribs—until he reached your lips. His mouth met yours hungrily, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, still warm from where he ate you like he was starving. You cupped his jaw as he kissed you, soft whimpers still slipping from your throat, body trembling under his weight. He pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling back slightly, his breath shaky. Then, slowly, he sat back on his knees between your legs. You watched through heavy lashes, still dazed from your high, as he reached for the button on his jeans. His hands moved with quiet purpose, slow and deliberate. You could see the way his fingers trembled a little as he undid them, and then he slid the denim down his hips. His boxers strained with how hard he was—his arousal obvious, heavy, and thick beneath the fabric. You swallowed softly as he hooked his fingers under the waistband, his eyes on yours the whole time. When he pulled them down, you gasped. So beautiful, just like last time. Your cheeks went hot instantly, your thighs instinctively pressing together, but Anton just reached forward again, gently parting them with his hands as his eyes dragged down your body like he couldn’t believe you were real. His hand wrapped around himself, pumping slowly, a soft hiss of breath leaving his lips as he did. You could see the flush rising on his cheeks, the flex of his forearms, the tension in his body like he was holding himself back—barely. Then he leaned forward again, his forehead pressing to yours, voice low and almost shaking, “Are you sure? Tell me to stop, and I will. I swear.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and wet, lips parted, skin still tingling from the way he’d touched you and kissed you. One of your hands rose to brush along his jaw, fingertips gentle. And then, with a voice barely above a whisper, breathless, soft, completely surrendered, you whispered, “I’m at your mercy, Toni…” He froze. You saw it—the flicker in his eyes, the sharp inhale that hitched in his throat. Something in him cracked wide open. His lips parted, and for a moment he just stared at you, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said. Then, without warning, he exhaled a low, broken groan and kissed you—hard. Rougher now. Deeper. His hands gripped your waist tight, possessive, pulling you flush against him as his hips rolled forward, his hard length brushing against your core.“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, voice lower now—gravelly, filled with something dark and desperate. “You say things like that…I can’t stop myself.” He kissed down your throat again, sucking harshly at your skin, teeth grazing, leaving deeper marks. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs, sliding up and gripping firmly. One hand curled around your throat while the other moved between your legs again, fingers stroking along your slick seam. “Mine,” he muttered, like a prayer.

Anton’s body was tense above yours, muscles flexed as he hovered over you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips were soft on your skin—gentle kisses, a contrast to the grip of his hands on your thighs as he guided himself between them. He rocked his hips forward slowly, the weight of him settling against your heat. His length slid along your folds, hot, heavy, teasing, and your breath hitched as your hips twitched under his. “Shh, baby,” he murmured, kissing just below your ear. “Just breathe for me.” You whimpered, your fingers gripping his biceps, legs trembling around him. The warmth, the stretch, the pressure of him right there—it was too much and not enough all at once. Then, slowly, he pushed in, just the tip. You gasped, a soft cry slipping from your lips as your back arched and your nails dug into his skin. “Toni—” you whimpered. He stilled immediately, breathing ragged as he pressed kisses along your throat. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I promise. I’ve got you.” Slowly and carefully he began to move, easing in deeper, inch by inch. Your breath hitched, legs tightening around his hips as you clung to him, your heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears. He kissed your cheek, then your temple, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other squeezing your waist gently. “You’re doing so good,” he whispered, his voice tight with restraint. “Just a little more, okay?” You whimpered, a soft tear slipping down your cheek as the fullness settled in. He wiped it away instantly, thumb brushing under your eye. And then—he was fully inside you. All of him. He stayed still. Both of you breathing hard, wrapped in silence and heat, your bodies pressed together so close it was like you were one.

Your arms came up to circle his shoulders, holding him close. He rested his forehead against yours. “Are you okay?” he murmured, lips brushing yours. You nodded weakly, your voice nothing but a breath. “I just…need a second…” “Take all the time you need,” he whispered, kissing your cheek again. “I’m not going anywhere.”After a moment, when your breathing slowed and your hips shifted ever so slightly against him, he began to move. Slowly. Deeply. Carefully. Each stroke was patient, deliberate, letting you feel everything without rushing anything. Your cries were soft, your fingers tangled in his hair, your thighs tightening around him as you adjusted to the stretch and pressure of him inside you. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, voice shaking as he moved. “You were made for me.” His movements started slow, every thrust deep and measured, his lips brushing your cheek, jaw, neck. But then, you shifted, hips tilting just slightly, and he slid in deeper. Your breath hitched. A soft, shaky moan left your lips. “T-Toni—”He froze. “Too much?” You shook your head, fingers digging into his shoulders as your eyes fluttered open to meet his. “N-no… it feels—” your voice cracked, breathless and trembling, “feels so good, Toni…” That was all he needed.

His jaw tightened as he exhaled shakily, one hand gripping your thigh tighter, the other braced by your head. He began to move again, faster now, the rhythm gaining confidence, deep, rolling thrusts that made your body shake. The pain was fading—replaced by a spreading heat, a pressure that built with every movement, making your back arch and your legs wrap tighter around him. “You take me so well,” he breathed against your skin, his voice now lower, rougher. “So perfect for me.” Your moans grew louder, your breathing faster, every stroke pulling another soft cry from your lips. His hips snapped harder now, a possessive edge creeping in. His control was slipping, and you could feel it, in the way he kissed you, the way he moved, the grip of his hands on your thighs like he was claiming every inch of you. His thrusts grew deeper, rougher now, his hand hooking under one of your legs—lifting it up, draping it over his shoulder. The angle changed everything.

Your back arched with a gasp, nails scratching down his back as he filled you even deeper. The rhythm was relentless, his breath ragged, your moans uncontrolled, bodies crashing together like waves. “T-Toni—ahh—” He kissed your calf where it rested on his shoulder, eyes locked on you, wild and reverent all at once. His hand gripped your waist, holding you right where he wanted you. “So fucking perfect for me.” You were crying out, fingers clinging to the sheets, your body trembling from the overwhelming pleasure. And then, eyes wide, lips trembling, you looked up at him with all the love you had burning in your chest and whispered, I’m yours, Toni,” you moaned again, breathless but his rhythm faltered. “All yours…you’re all I believe in.” He groaned, a deep, broken sound, like he couldn’t take it anymore, and leaned down to kiss you hard, your leg still high on his shoulder, his hands gripping your thighs so tight it left marks.

His hips snapped forward, thrusts rougher and deeper, angled just right, and when he hit that spot again, your whole body jolted.“T-Toni—! There—right there—” He grunted, burying himself to the hilt over and over, sweat-slicked skin pressed to yours, his lips dragging along your jaw, your cheek, your lips. “So tight—so fucking good for me.” he groaned, almost in disbelief. Your hands trembled on his back, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and tears pricked the corners of your eyes. “Use me as you please, Toni,” you whimpered, voice broken and full of feeling. “I was made for you.” He stilled for half a second, breath catching in his throat. Then he completely lost it. “Fuck,” he moaned, burying his face in your neck. “Don’t say that—don’t fucking say that if you don’t mean it—” “I do,” you whispered through your tears, stroking his hair, your voice barely a breath. “I do, I do—I’m yours.” His hips drove into you harder, deeper, his rhythm desperate, like he was trying to fuse your bodies together—claim you, fill you, mark you forever. “You are.” he growled against your skin. “My sweet angel. My religion.”

Anton’s hand slid between your bodies,, finding the swollen bud at your core. He circled it with pressure, never stopping his deep, perfect rhythm. Your legs trembled around him, nails digging into his back as your body began to unravel beneath him.“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Cum for me, angel.” Your breath hitched, high-pitched and broken, and then it hit you. A rush of heat, your whole body tightening, then shaking around him as you cried out his name, your release crashing through you. Anton groaned deep in his chest, kissing your temple and rubbing your clit gently as you rode it out, tears falling from the corners of your eyes. But he didn’t stop. He was still hard, still deep, and when you finally caught your breath, he leaned back to look at you. His gaze dark, reverent, full of hunger. “You can take one more for me, yeah baby?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face. “Hm, angel? Just one more?” You nodded—quick, eager, breathless. “Yes…yes, Toni.” You clung to him for a second, chest heaving—and then you pulled back, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Can I…try something?” His brows lifted slightly, lips parted. “Anything.” You bit your lip, then gently pushed him to lie back. He let you, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you swung a leg over his hips and straddled him, your body still trembling. You guided him to your entrance, your hand shaking slightly as you positioned him, and then, with a deep breath and a soft whimper, you sank down slowly. Anton’s head fell back with a groan, his hands gripping your thighs hard.

“Fuck—baby…” You whimpered, your hands braced on his chest, taking your time as you adjusted to him again, so deep, so full, until he was seated completely inside you. “You’re unreal” he murmured, hands caressing up your sides. “So perfect like this…” You began to move, slowly at first, lifting your hips just enough before easing back down onto him. The stretch still made your breath catch, but the pleasure had bloomed so deeply now that it only made you want more. Anton’s hands gripped your thighs, sliding up to your waist, then down again to squeeze the soft curves of your ass, guiding you without saying a word. You leaned forward as your rhythm quickened, forehead pressed to his, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Your chest brushed his with every motion, soft moans leaving your lips as your body moved in sync with his. “That’s it, baby…” he whispered, voice strained. “You feel so good—so fucking good.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently, your other hand on his gold cross, and he groaned into your mouth when you kissed him again—hungry, deep, messy. You rocked against him harder, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting growing louder, more desperate. His hands slid up your back, holding you close like he couldn’t get enough. And then, your lips brushed his ear, voice barely above a breath, thick with emotion and need, “You’re my god, Toni…I worship you.”

The words barely left your lips before everything snapped. Anton let out a low, broken growl, his hands suddenly gripping your hips tight—so tight it might bruise, and before you could brace yourself, he started lifting you up and slamming you back down onto him, hard, over and over. Your gasp broke into a high, helpless whimper, the air knocked clean out of your lungs with each deep, punishing thrust.“Yes,” he rasped, voice low and desperate, lips right against your throat. “Yes, angel. I’m your god. Say it again—say it.” You could barely breathe, clinging to him, your body trembling in his hands as he used your body like you were made for him, because you were. “Y-you’re my god,” you sobbed, mouth against his ear, “I only pray to you.”His hips stuttered at that, a broken whimper leaving his lips as his hand snuck between your bodies again, rubbing fast, tight circles on your clit. “That’s right,” he whispered. “No one else. Just me.” Your body was shaking, your legs quivering as the tension built so fast it stole your voice. You clung to his back, burying your face in his neck, whimpering through your sobs of pleasure.“Toni—S-so close—!” “Me too, baby,” he groaned, holding you tighter, thrusts getting messier, rougher, deeper. “Give it to me…come on.” “In me, Toni—please—I want all of you…” You came with a cry, voice high and raw, as your body locked around him, pulsing so tightly he choked on his own moan. He only lasted a few more thrusts before he followed with a deep, guttural curse, spilling deep inside you, hot and thick, warmth dripping from where your bodies met, streaking down your thighs, pooling on his lower belly as he pressed into you one last time.

You lay there together for a moment, bodies still tangled, skin warm and damp, his heartbeat echoing against your chest as he held you. The only sound in the room was the low hum of your breathing slowly syncing back into rhythm. His hand stroked gently along your thigh, then up your side, then back down again, reverent, calming. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. “You okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. You nodded slowly, still dazed, a soft smile on your lips. “Mhm…never been better.” His eyes softened, his hand cupping your face fully now. “I love you,” he murmured, barely audible. “I’ve loved you since we were kids, I think.” Your eyes widened a little, heart skipping, but your answer was instant—quiet, but sure. “I love you too, Toni. So much…” The way he looked at you nearly made you cry again. He kissed your lips gently, slow and soft, then moved down your body, lifting your legs up to his lap. He reached for your panties from the floor, and you blushed, but let him guide them back up your legs, sliding them into place himself with a kiss on your inner thigh. Then he whispered, just for you, “Don’t let it spill, angel.” Your cheeks flushed, eyes wide and dazed, and he grinned softly at the look on your face—still his sweet girl, even after all that.

He helped you sit up slowly, then slipped your dress back over your head, straightening the straps for you and smoothing it down your thighs. He kissed your shoulder, then moved to dress himself, slipping his shirt back on, buttoning his jeans. When he turned back to you, you were sitting on the edge of the bed, hands tucked shyly in your lap, watching him with glassy eyes. “I should let you shower and rest,” he said softly, coming to kneel in front of you. “I’ll go check on our parents. Make sure they’re still alive.” You let out a breathy laugh, and he kissed your cheek once more before pulling you into a tight, grounding hug. His arms around you made everything feel safe again. Like he’d hold you through anything. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured against your ear. “Okay.” One last kiss, and then he slipped out quietly, leaving your room.

♱

The sun was warm on your shoulders, the church bells quiet now after service had ended. The yard buzzed with familiar voices, congregants laughing, chatting, hugging goodbye. You stood off to the side, just near the corner of the building where the ivy grew thick along the old stone. Not hidden, but not exactly out in the open either. Anton was already waiting there, leaning casually against the wall, hands tucked into his slacks. His white button-down sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his black tie a little loosened from the heat. But when he saw you approaching, he stood straighter, the corners of his mouth lifting into that soft, private smile he only gave you. You looked around once, then slipped into the little pocket of space next to him.“Hi,” you said, quiet and breathless. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes on you like you were the only thing that mattered. “I missed you,” he murmured, voice low. You giggled, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I missed you too.” And then his hands gently found your waist, pulling you closer until your front pressed to his. His touch was light, his eyes flicking between yours. You barely had a second to catch your breath before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips, sweet, tender, warm with everything you’d become to each other. You kissed him back, hands resting on his chest, heart thudding softly. But then—

“OH MY GOD!” You jumped and instantly pulled back, cheeks flushing. “You guys are TOGETHER?!” Anton’s arm dropped from your waist just as two very familiar voices came racing toward you from across the church yard. “I knew it!” your mom practically squealed. “I told your dad last week, didn’t I?” “I can’t believe it,” his mom gasped, all smiles and excitement. “I’m so happy!” “M-Mom!” you squeaked, face burning. Anton’s hand flew to the back of his neck, visibly flustered as he cleared his throat and tried to keep a straight face. “It’s, uh…new.” he said. “Not that new,” your mom grinned knowingly. “The way you two have been sneaking glances all month? Please.”Anton glanced at you, eyes twinkling, and despite your embarrassment, you couldn’t help but smile back. Your pinkies brushed, and he hooked his gently around yours.“Well,” his mom beamed. “I guess it’s time we start planning the wedding.” “MOM!” The four of you burst into laughter, joy bubbling like sunlight. And in that moment, in that ridiculous, love-filled chaos, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

a/n: yall i had to do research for this story bcs i don’t know anything abt catholic church terms in english LOL and also i hoped you liked this, personally this is my fav thing ive ever written but i know that it can come across as controversial

my other works ➵ masterlist

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ddolbyeol · 6 months ago

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the sounds anton makes when you're overstimulating him [sfw link]

this can be overstimulation via the old gluck gluck 9000, your pussy, or your hand he's just so so sensitive and receptive to your touch that anything you do becomes too much too quickly for him :(( im 100% a vocal anton truther and my favorite part is how i think his sounds really vary depending on what he physical sensations or emotions he's feeling in the moment and how close he is to cumming hnngg,,,, like when you first put him in your mouth he lets out a harsh puff of air like its almost paining him and then from there its all low breathy moans and soft yes, yes muttered under his breath (so cutiepie)

when you focus your attention on his mushroom head and suckle on the plush flesh, hes gritting his teeth and letting out high pitched whines in the back of his throat. the sight of him arching his back with his eyes shut tight makes you almost want to take pity on him, but when you really push him that extra inch ohhh the beautiful sounds he makes... anton gets to a point where he's too overcome with the pleasure that his previously taut and rigid body is completely lax as if you sucked all the strength out of him (you did) and he's letting out these pornographic boyish grunts and gaspy moans [check link] doesn't even know what to do just completely submitting himself to you.

i think no matter how comfortable anton gets with his partner, he's still semi-conscious of himself and the sounds he makes and or the way his body looks from certain angles. not in an insecure way, but just that he's the type of person who prefers to be in control of themselves at all times if he can help it, but when you're sucking him dry after already edging him a few times poor baby :'( i can picture him exactly sitting on his gaming chair, his arms not even on his thighs or the armrest or anything, but slack hanging by his sides and his head resting on the back of the chair as he catches his breath.... imagine climbing onto his lap before he can even register the fact that you've already tucked him away back in his shorts and leaning up to give him what he thinks is an innocent good job baby smooch but you stick your tongue full of his cum in his mouth and the taste of your spit and the sticky bitter saltness of himself has his eyes rolling back into his head again </3

i think these grunty gaspy moans also tend to come out when you clench around him a few too many times and most of the time he knows that you're doing it on purpose to get a reaction out of him but he can't help it when your warmth and wetness on just the first stroke already has him frantically pulling out to squeeze the base of his cock in efforts to delay his release >:[!! how can he not give you what you want !!

#riize hard hours #riize hard thoughts #riize imagines #riize scenarios #riize x reader #riize smut #riize anton #riize eunseok #riize sohee #riize shotaro #riize sungchan #riize wonbin #anton x reader #anton smut #anton imagines #anton hard hours #anton hard thoughts #anton scenarios

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eunseoksimp · 5 months ago

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west coast — p.wb [vol 4]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 lead singer park wonbin, bass guitarist reader, angst, songfiic

synopsis: the fight left more than bruised knuckles—it left a tension humming between every word, every breath you try to take without thinking of him. you tell yourself it’s just a passing storm, that the ache inside you will ease once the music starts again, but the stage doesn’t lie. his gaze haunts each chord, a reminder that some songs demand to be finished, no matter how many times you try to silence them. now, as the band races toward the biggest show of your lives, you’re forced to face the heat that crackles between you—a current that won’t fade, a heartbeat that won’t slow. and all the while, you’re left asking the question you’ve avoided for too long: how do you outrun something you’ve never been willing to let go.

WARNINGS: extreme levels of alcohol consumption and substance abuse, swearing, wonbin being an asshole again for the first half (are we surprised)

vol 1 | vol 2 | vol 3

a/n: we've finally reached the end of this story. i wanted to thank you guys again for all the likes and comments, i'm glad you're all enjoying it. i had to cram all of the ideas i had for an ending into one part so it might feel rushed at some parts, but i can't imagine having to write yet another part :)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

morning arrives in fragments of too-bright sunlight, spilling through the gaps in his curtains and slicing through the thick fog of his consciousness, dragging reality in with it whether he’s ready or not. the weight of it presses against his chest before he’s even fully awake, a dull, suffocating heaviness that stretches from his ribs to his skull, where the remnants of last night claw their way to the surface, raw and unrelenting.

wonbin doesn’t move at first, doesn’t even open his eyes, because he already knows what’s waiting for him the second he does. his head pounds in slow, merciless waves, his mouth dry with the acrid taste of whiskey still lingering at the back of his throat, but it’s not the hangover that has his stomach twisting itself into knots—it’s the memories, vivid and unyielding, flooding in before he can push them back down.

the music, the heat, the way his blood burned hotter than the alcohol in his veins when he saw you standing too close to beomgyu, your body angled toward him in a way that made wonbin’s pulse stutter and his breath come short. the way his fingers had wrapped around your wrist, desperate, unthinking, gripping tighter even as he felt you tense beneath his touch. the look in your eyes- something unreadable, something sharp, something that should have made him let go but only made him hold on.

and then your voice, quiet, barely audible over the noise of the party but cutting through him like a blade nonetheless.

"wonbin, i can’t do this. i can’t breathe."

the memory hits him like a physical blow, and suddenly, the air in his apartment feels too thick, the walls pressing in closer, suffocating, relentless. with a sharp exhale, he forces himself upright, wincing as the movement sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his stomach. his limbs feel heavy, his body sluggish, like he’s spent the entire night running from something only to wake up and find it still waiting for him, settling into his bones like an ache that won’t fade.

his apartment is silent—too silent, the kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful but empty, hollow in a way that makes his chest constrict even tighter. there’s no distant hum of conversation from the kitchen, no second presence shifting beneath the covers beside him, no warmth lingering anywhere but in the echo of what’s missing.

not that there ever was.

he lets out a slow, measured breath, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers tightening briefly at the roots as if the pressure might somehow clear the fog from his mind.

this is fine.

this is how it’s always been—just him, alone, untouched by anything that could sink its claws into him and stay. he built it this way, crafted his life to be something untethered, something impermanent, something that no one could leave because no one was ever allowed to stay in the first place.

so why does it feel like something is missing?

his gaze flickers toward the mirror across the room, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t recognize the man staring back at him. the golden boy, the effortless charmer, the untouchable park wonbin—he isn’t there. instead, he sees someone with dark circles smeared beneath his eyes, his jaw set tight enough to crack, his shoulders hunched like he’s bracing himself for a blow.

his knuckles are still raw, swollen from where they collided with beomgyu’s face, the skin split in places, a reminder of how far he’s let himself spiral, how recklessly he’s let his emotions slip from his control. he flexes his fingers, watching the way the tendons strain beneath his bruised skin, the pain sharp but distant, almost deserved, like a consequence he hadn’t even tried to avoid.

he exhales, slow and deliberate, the sound laced with something bitter, something exhausted, something dangerously close to breaking.

this isn’t who he’s supposed to be.

wonbin drags his hands down his face, the weight of his own touch grounding him for a moment, before he shifts, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to shake off whatever this is, whatever mess he’s made of himself. he’s been here before—on the edge of something he doesn’t want to name, standing at the precipice of emotions he’s never let himself hold for too long, because holding them means acknowledging them, and acknowledging them means opening himself up to something he can’t control.

the knock at the door comes twice, sharp and insistent, cutting through the heavy silence that has settled over the apartment like a suffocating weight. at first, wonbin doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge the sound, his body sinking deeper into the mattress as he stares up at the ceiling, mind sluggish, thoughts circling in restless loops that refuse to quiet.

he isn’t expecting anyone—no one ever comes unannounced, not anymore—but a part of him already knows who it is before he even forces himself upright, his limbs heavy, his head pounding with the remnants of last night’s self-destruction.

when the knock comes again, more deliberate this time, he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before pushing himself off the bed, moving through the dimly lit space with the slow, detached motions of someone going through the motions rather than actually existing in the moment. the floor is cold beneath his bare feet, grounding him in the most unpleasant way, a reminder that despite the haze in his mind, despite the exhaustion that weighs down every part of him, he is still here, still trapped in the aftermath of everything he’s done, everything he’s avoided.

when he finally unlocks the door and pulls it open, he’s met with gunil’s gaze—steady, assessing, unreadable in a way that immediately sets his teeth on edge. he’s not smiling, not wearing the usual easy expression that so often softens the edges of his face, not offering some half-assed joke to break the tension before it can settle.

instead, he stands there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders set, his stance casual but purposeful, as if he already expected wonbin to hesitate, already braced himself for whatever version of wonbin was about to answer the door.

they don’t speak at first. the air between them is thick with something unspoken, something heavy that neither of them have been willing to confront until now, but wonbin sees it—feels it—in the way gunil’s eyes flicker over him, taking in the dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, the bruising exhaustion carved into his features, the hoodie pulled up like a flimsy barrier against the rest of the world.

he doesn’t comment on the mess just past wonbin’s shoulder, doesn’t acknowledge the half-empty whiskey bottle sitting on the nightstand, doesn’t say a word about the fact that the apartment feels stale, like the air hasn’t been disturbed in hours, like wonbin has barely moved from the same spot since the moment he got home.

finally, gunil exhales, a slow, measured breath that seems to carry the weight of whatever he’s about to say before he even opens his mouth.

“you look like shit.”

there’s no humor in his voice, no trace of the usual teasing lilt that would normally accompany a comment like that, and that alone is enough to make wonbin’s stomach twist, though he masks it with a lazy, detached smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“thanks man,” he mutters, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, his fingers tightening in the fabric of his hoodie. “that’s exactly what i needed to hear.”

gunil doesn’t smile, doesn’t react to the deflection, doesn’t do anything but tilt his head slightly, studying him with that same unrelenting focus that makes wonbin want to shrink away, to shut the door before the weight of it becomes too much.

“are you gonna let me in?”

it’s not really a question, not when they both know gunil isn’t going anywhere until he does, so wonbin sighs, stepping aside just enough for him to slip past, watching as he moves further into the apartment without another word.

gunil doesn’t comment on the mess, doesn’t mention the way the air is thick with the stale scent of alcohol and exhaustion, doesn’t look at him with pity or disappointment or anything wonbin might have expected. instead, he moves toward the window, pushing it open just enough to let some fresh air in before turning, his gaze meeting wonbin’s with something unreadable, something steady, something that feels far too much like concern.

“have you been home all day?”

the question is casual, but wonbin hears the real meaning beneath it, hears the silent have you even stepped outside? have you eaten? have you done anything besides rot in here?

he shrugs, lifting a hand to rub at his temple where a dull ache has been pulsing since the moment he woke up. “and what if i have?”

gunil doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t react to the sharp edge in his tone, doesn’t let the conversation derail before it’s even begun. instead, he watches him for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally speaking again, his voice quieter now, more measured.

“you’ve been off for weeks, wonbin.”

it’s not an accusation, not an attack, just a statement of fact, but something inside wonbin still bristles at the words, still coils tight in his chest like he’s being cornered, like there’s nowhere left to run.

he forces a scoff, shaking his head. “you guys are really blowing this out of proportion.”

gunil’s jaw tightens just slightly, the only indication that the response irritates him, but he still doesn’t rise to the bait, still keeps his voice level.

“last night you nearly started a fight in the middle of a party. you punched beomgyu. you stormed out like you were about to fucking lose it. and now you’re here, looking like you haven’t slept in days, acting like none of it matters.”

wonbin’s fingers twitch at his sides, his nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie.

“it doesn’t.”

gunil’s eyes narrow, something sharp flashing through his gaze before his lips part, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them.

“bullshit.”

it’s not angry, not sharp, not even confrontational—just tired, just resigned, just the raw honesty of someone who has watched this slow decline for far too long, someone who has held their tongue, who has given wonbin space, who has let him make mistake after mistake without pushing, without prying, without forcing him to talk until now.

the silence between them stretches, the weight of it pressing down on wonbin’s shoulders, suffocating him in a way that has nothing to do with the hangover still clawing at his skull.

gunil sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping at the strands like he’s trying to ground himself, like he’s trying to keep his own frustration in check.

“look, i’m not here to make you talk about whatever’s going on with you. but you need to do something, wonbin. you can’t keep spiraling like this. it’s not just fucking up practice, it’s fucking you up.”

wonbin swallows hard, his throat dry, his pulse hammering beneath his skin.

he doesn’t respond.

gunil exhales again, shaking his head before stepping back, his expression still unreadable but softer now, less edged, more exhausted than anything else.

“just—figure it out,” he mutters, voice low, words clipped, like he’s already resigned to the fact that wonbin won’t listen, won’t change, won’t pull himself out of this hole until it’s too late.

he moves toward the door, hesitating just briefly before glancing back over his shoulder.

“and get some sleep, man. you look like hell.”

then he’s gone, leaving wonbin standing there, staring at the empty space where he had been, at the door that feels like it’s closed a little heavier than before, at the room that suddenly feels too quiet, too hollow, too much like a place he doesn’t want to be.

as the door clicks shut behind gunil, the silence that follows is deafening, stretching over the room like a thick, suffocating fog. wonbin exhales slowly, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples as if he could physically force out the weight pressing down on him, the kind of exhaustion that has nothing to do with lack of sleep and everything to do with the slow, gnawing realization that he has been standing at the edge of something irreversible for far too long.

gunil’s words linger, echoing in the space he left behind, each one settling deep into the cracks that wonbin has spent years carefully patching over, the ones he refuses to acknowledge exist.

figure it out.

like it’s that simple, like he can just decide to be fine, to piece himself back together with sheer will alone, like the mess inside his head is something he can clean up as easily as the bottles littering his apartment. but it isn’t. it never has been.

he sinks down onto the couch, head falling back against the worn fabric, his limbs heavy, weighed down by something more than just the alcohol still thick in his system. his fingers twitch where they rest against his knee, the remnants of last night’s recklessness still etched into his skin, bruised knuckles a quiet testament to his own inability to control the storm raging inside him.

he can still feel it, that pulse of anger, of frustration, of something raw and ugly that he barely recognizes, something that clawed its way out of him the second he saw your hand in beomgyu’s, the way you let him pull you away like it was the easiest thing in the world, like there had never been a time when it was him you would have looked to first.

it shouldn’t matter—it shouldn’t ache the way it does, shouldn’t sit in his chest like an anchor dragging him down, shouldn’t make his stomach twist with something far too close to jealousy, something dangerously close to regret.

but it does.

he knows what gunil saw when he looked at him. you’re not fine, and you know it. and maybe that’s the worst part—because gunil is right, because they all are, because he’s unraveling and he knows it, and yet still, still, he refuses to reach for the lifeline being offered to him.

because what’s the point?

what’s the point in trying to fix himself when he already knows how this ends, when he already knows that the moment he lets himself need someone, the moment he lets himself want something real, it’s only a matter of time before it’s ripped away? his mother taught him that lesson before he was even old enough to understand it.

and now, with the image of your retreating back burned into his mind, with the sound of your voice telling him you can’t breathe still ringing in his ears, with the undeniable truth settling into the marrow of his bones, he finally understands what he’s been running from all along.

this was never about beomgyu. this was never about anyone else but you. you, who had always been just within reach, who had always been steady, who had always been there—until you weren’t.

until he pushed too hard, until he let his fear dictate his actions, until he ruined the only thing that had ever felt like his without even realizing he was losing it.

he breathes in, slow and shaky, his fingers tightening into fists, his chest aching with the weight of something he doesn’t know how to name.

figure it out.

gunil said it like it was simple, like all wonbin had to do was make a choice, take a step forward, stop running. but the truth is, he isn’t sure if he knows how.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

morning arrives for you with a hushed relentlessness, creeping in under the door and through the curtains, illuminating the remnants of last night’s fiasco with the cruel clarity of day—discarded jackets, empty glasses from rushed pre-game drinks, yunjin’s shoes kicked haphazardly near the door. everything is still, quiet save for the occasional hum of a car passing by outside, a world moving forward while you remain stuck in the aftermath of the party.

your head is heavy, not just from the dull hangover pulsing at the base of your skull, but from the weight of last night’s events, the echoes of too many words left unspoken, of a grip that lingered too long, of a gaze that burned too fiercely.

yunjin shifts on the couch beside you, her phone cradled in one hand as she scrolls aimlessly, while minjeong sits cross-legged on the floor, nursing a steaming cup of coffee, the rising tendrils of steam curling into the air between you. the scent of caffeine is thick, grounding, yet it does little to steady the unease coiling in your stomach.

you can feel it before it happens, the inevitable interrogation—because they saw it, they felt it, the crackle of tension in the air between you and wonbin, the silent war waged in the way he refused to let you go, in the way his fingers curled around your wrist like he was holding on to something slipping right through his grasp.

"so," yunjin drawls, breaking the silence first, her gaze still fixed on her phone screen, “are we actually gonna talk about what happened last night, or just pretend it’ll vanish on its own?”

you lift your gaze from the chipped mug in your hand, forcing your shoulders to stay relaxed. “that’s… a bit melodramatic,” you manage, though your voice betrays the tension winding in your gut.

her eyebrows lift as she looks up, thumb pausing over her phone screen. “maybe so,” she says, “but i’m not wrong, am i?”

minjeong hums, blowing gently over her coffee before taking a sip. “she isn’t exaggerating,” she points out, her voice gentle but firm. “the way things went down—i’d call it more of a wreck than anything else.”

you rub your eyes with a free hand, frustration pricking at the edges of your weariness. you can still picture it all too clearly: wonbin, eyes dark and stormy, the grip of his hand around your wrist; beomgyu, a solid presence offering calm in the midst of a raging sea.

“fine,” you relent, exhaling through your nose as you set your cup down on the table, the word leaving you with more force than you intend. “where do we start? with wonbin? or beomgyu? or that entire disaster of a party?”

“all of it,” yunjin says, finally setting her phone down. she swings her legs around to face you properly,legs criscrossed beneath her, her gaze more piercing than usual. “because last night was… intense. i mean, beomgyu steps in like a knight in shining armor, practically whisks you off while wonbin—” she hesitates, picking her words carefully, “loses it.”

minjeong snorts softly into her coffee. “that’s one way to put it.”

you lean back against the couch, fingers pressing into your temples as if you can physically hold your thoughts together. because yes, last night had been a mess—wonbin’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, his voice sharp and slurred, the way he looked at you like you were leaving him, like you were betraying something neither of you had ever put into words. and beomgyu—steady, reassuring, but never oblivious, not to the weight of what was happening.

"he was drunk," you murmur, not sure if you’re making an excuse or stating a fact.

"drunk doesn’t make someone look at you like that," yunjin counters, voice softer this time, like she’s picking her words carefully now. "that wasn’t just alcohol, and you know it."

your stomach twists. because she’s right. wonbin has been drunk before—reckless, flirtatious, sometimes careless, but never like that. never desperate. never unhinged in a way that made the air between you feel suffocating.

"you think he was jealous?" minjeong asks, her voice level, as if she’s simply presenting the possibility.

your heart stutters, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. "why would he be jealous? he doesn’t—" you hesitate, the words catching like thorns in your throat. he doesn’t care like that. not about me.

but even as you say it, doubt creeps in, winding through your ribs like something insidious, something undeniable.

yunjin clicks her tongue. "right, because he totally looked at beomgyu like he wanted to hug him."

minjeong, ever observant, studies you for a long moment before shifting the conversation slightly. “and beomgyu? he’s been right there, stepping in whenever you need someone.” she cocks her head, studying you intently. “how do you feel about that?”

“i… i don’t know,” you mutter, hating how indecisive you sound. because beomgyu is steady, consistent—everything wonbin isn’t. and it should be a relief, should be easy to choose the warmth beomgyu offers without questions. but the memory of wonbin, even in his worst moments, tugs at your heart with a fierce, painful hold.

“i just know he’s… always been kind.”

yunjin arches a brow. “kind, sure. but i’m pretty sure he’s into you. have you really never picked up on that?”

“he looks at you like he knows,” minjeong continues, her voice softer now, more careful. “like he knows you’re still tangled up in whatever the hell it is you have with wonbin, but he’s willing to wait.”

the words hit you like a slow-moving wreck, something inevitable yet still jarring all the same. beomgyu is safe. he doesn’t run hot and cold, doesn’t keep you at arm’s length only to yank you back the moment you get too far. he is steady where wonbin is volatile, open where wonbin is guarded, giving where wonbin only knows how to withhold.

he is everything wonbin isn’t. and maybe that’s exactly why you should want him.

but does he make your heart race? does he make your skin feel too tight, your pulse erratic, your entire world tilt on its axis with just a glance?

“he treats you better,” yunjin presses, watching you carefully, waiting for a reaction. “he’s not a question mark, not something you have to decode. he likes you, and he actually shows it.”

the problem isn’t beomgyu. the problem is you.

because no matter how much you tell yourself you should be over it, should be over him, there is still a part of you that clings onto wonbin with reckless, self-destructive devotion.

“you know you can’t keep running from this, right?” minjeong says finally, quieter this time, her words slipping between the cracks of your walls before you can reinforce them.

you exhale, running a hand over your face. “running from what?”

her gaze is steady. “from him.”

from wonbin.

as if summoned by the weight of his name lingering unspoken between the three of you, the vibration of your phone against the wooden table breaks the silence, the sudden movement jarring enough to make you blink, to snap you out of the haze of your own thoughts. yunjin, ever curious, peeks over at the screen before you can react, her sharp gaze immediately catching the bold letters of the group chat notification.

practice tomorrow, usual time. don’t be late.

hongjoong, always dependable, always the one keeping things running even when the foundation beneath you all feels dangerously close to cracking. but the words—simple, direct—carry more weight than they should, more weight than you’re prepared to handle right now. because tomorrow means facing him. it means stepping back into the same space where the tension is so thick it threatens to suffocate, where every glance holds too much, where every word unsaid presses against your ribs like something sharp, something waiting to pierce through the fragile barrier you’ve built around yourself.

yunjin lets out a low whistle, plopping back against the cushions with a dramatic sigh. “well, that’s going to be a shitshow.”

minjeong hums, her fingers tapping idly against the rim of her coffee cup, her expression contemplative. “it’s been bad before, but after last night?” she shakes her head. “i don’t even want to imagine what the energy in that room is gonna be like.”

and she’s right. because the room has always carried tension, ever since beomgyu joined, ever since you started pulling away from wonbin, ever since you stopped being his in the ways you didn’t even realize you were until it was too late.

but now? now it feels like everything has been set ablaze, like there’s no coming back from whatever has fractured between you.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the studio feels different today, though you can’t say precisely why.

it isn’t anything tangible you can touch or point to, nothing the others explicitly comment on, yet the moment you step inside, you sense that something has shifted. the air seems heavier, laden with an unspoken weight that presses against your ribs, reminiscent of the thick humidity before a storm breaks. the usual scents—wood polished by countless hours of rehearsals, the lingering trace of metal from the stands and cables, the stale hints of coffee grown cold—remain unchanged, but there’s an undercurrent threading through the room, a tension so palpable it sets your every nerve on edge.

and then you see him—wonbin, already here, seated on the tattered couch near the back. his posture appears deceptively at ease, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, leg crossed over the other as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

to an outsider, he might look relaxed, completely in control, but you notice the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against his knee, the too-tight set of his jaw, the sunglasses perched on his face with no practical reason in this dim, indoor light. he hides the wreckage he carries like a well-rehearsed illusion, but you know better. you’ve seen that flicker beneath his skin, that fire swallowing him from within.

your stomach knots into something painful, reminiscent of the helplessness you felt witnessing him unravel that night. if you hadn’t borne witness to his furious desperation—to the raw, trembling anger in his voice when he grabbed your wrist and begged you not to leave—you might be fooled by this performance of nonchalance. but you remember the way his entire body shook with a violence born not of malice, but of agony, as though he was grappling with a force he didn’t know how to contain. you recall the terror in his eyes, haunting you even now, a reflection of all your own insecurities refracted back at you with punishing clarity.

“morning,” beomgyu murmurs, suddenly at your side. his tone is lighter than you feel you deserve, like he’s trying to offer a gentler melody against the discord saturating the space. his shoulder brushes yours, a quiet act of reassurance, and the calm scent of his cologne—woodsy, tinted with sandalwood—wraps around you, momentarily easing the tension that’s begun to coil around your heart. you inhale slowly, grateful for the distraction, your body instinctively gravitating toward his warmth even as your mind lingers on the form slouched across the room.

slowly, the others trickle in, bringing with them the usual rustle of instrument cases and hushed conversation. but something is off in the ensemble: gunil, typically the first to crack an inane joke and break the silence, arrives subdued. his usual, easy grin is nowhere in sight, and although he takes his seat without complaint, his gaze keeps darting to where wonbin sits, searching for a sign, any sign, of normalcy. minjeong and hongjoong enter next, their voices pitched so low you can’t pick up the exact words, while yunjin clutches her cup of coffee with an unsettling tightness, as if she’s biting back every pointed remark she wants to hurl into this weighted hush.

nobody mentions wonbin’s name or acknowledges the stiffness in his posture. nobody calls him out for the sunglasses or the bruises—a small cluster of purplish-yellow on his knuckles, a silent testament to that night. it’s as though they’re all dancing on eggshells, unwilling to ignite the storm that’s quietly thrumming beneath the surface. you can practically taste the tension in the air: thick, acrid, suffocating.

hongjoong, clipboard in hand, clears his throat with an authority that demands the group’s focus, the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the pages drawing every gaze in the room. “alright,” he begins, carefully, almost tentative, “we’ve got an acoustic set coming up soon, and today’s rehearsal needs to focus on stripped-down arrangements. we’ll be working in pairs before we piece everything together in the next session.” you sense the slight hesitation in his voice, that infinitesimal hitch as he glances at the list in front of him, as though anticipating the reaction to the inevitable pairings.

“yunjin, you’re with me,”she grins, flipping her pick between her fingers, already moving toward him before he even finishes saying her name.

minjeong, gunil and beomgyu are called next, the rhythm section grouped together like always. the logical order of it should put you at ease, should make the inevitable feel like less of a slow descent into something suffocating.

and the moment he calls your name—“wonbin and y/n”—your heartbeat stutters. you sense beomgyu’s posture stiffen beside you; it’s minimal, invisible to most, but you’ve learned to read him. there’s a muted exhale from gunil, half-resentful, half-resigned, while yunjin and minjeong share a fleeting glance charged with concern. you can almost feel the ache behind minjeong’s unreadable expression, an empathy that can’t quite break through the tension she’s holding in check.

wonbin, however, doesn’t so much as flinch. his fingers keep up their restless beat against his knee, and you watch the subtle flex of his jaw, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. no reaction, no retort—just a silence that feels more loaded than any barrage of words could ever convey. your throat tightens as you force yourself to nod at hongjoong’s question: “that cool with you guys?” you muster a curt “yeah, that’s fine,” but the syllables taste bitter, an echo of the deeper conflict neither of you seems willing to voice.

the energy in the room fragments from that moment on, dividing into smaller conversations as everyone prepares for the new practice routine. but your awareness zeroes in on the presence of two men: beomgyu, whose warmth seems to fade in the face of this new arrangement, and wonbin, who remains locked in an unnatural stillness, refusing to meet your gaze. every chord you strum, every note that emerges in the air, feels dull and forced, weighed down by the memory of that night and the break in your once-easy synergy.

the weight of the moment settles into your bones, thick and unrelenting, the kind of pressure that makes every breath feel heavier, makes every second stretch unbearably long. you had spent weeks convincing yourself that you were over this—that the knots in your stomach had loosened, that the memories had dulled, that wonbin was nothing more than a past you were slowly untangling yourself from. but now, sitting here, with the air taut between you, with his name beside yours in a pairing that feels cruel in its inevitability, you realize just how little progress you’ve actually made.

because it’s rushing back in all at once—the weight of him, the shape of his absence, the way his presence still lingers in places he no longer deserves to occupy. it’s in the way your fingers tighten imperceptibly around the edge of your notebook, in the way your pulse betrays you with its unsteady rhythm, in the way your gaze flickers toward him despite your better judgment.

wonbin hasn’t moved much, hasn’t reacted in any way that would betray whether this pairing affects him the way it’s affecting you. but you see it anyway—the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers press into his knee just a little too hard, the way he keeps his gaze fixed on some distant point past hongjoong, like acknowledging you would make something crack open inside of him. he’s playing his role well—calm, composed, indifferent. but you’ve known him too long, watched him too closely, loved him too deeply to be fooled.

and then there’s beomgyu.

he doesn’t speak, doesn’t outwardly react, but you can feel it—the way his silence carries weight, how the easy warmth that usually lingers between you has cooled, replaced by something more measured, something unreadable. his body is still, but his fingers tap restlessly against his knee, a subconscious movement, the only sign that something stirs beneath the surface. his eyes, dark and watchful, flicker briefly to wonbin, then to you, before settling somewhere in the space between, like he’s weighing his words carefully, like he’s deciding whether to say something or let the silence speak for itself.

because that night still lingers, whether wonbin acknowledges it or not.

it lingers in the quiet distance between them, in the way beomgyu holds himself, slightly guarded, slightly removed, his posture carrying the echoes of a tension that has yet to fully dissolve. it lingers in the unspoken thing between you and beomgyu, the careful line you have both been toeing, the understanding that exists in fragments and half-formed moments. it lingers in the way wonbin still refuses to look at you, still keeps his jaw tight, his hands flexing like he’s remembering the weight of his own reckless violence.

the moment wonbin rises from his seat, the energy in the room shifts, subtle but palpable, like the drop in pressure before a storm. your body tenses before your mind can catch up, every muscle bracing instinctively as his movements pull him closer, his presence drawing heat into the space between you like a slow, unrelenting flame.

his footsteps are unhurried, measured, yet each one presses into the silence like a weight, like the echo of something inevitable. you keep your gaze stubbornly on your notebook, pretending to be engrossed in some nonexistent detail on the page, but it doesn’t matter—you can feel him. the scent of him, familiar despite the weeks of distance, a mix of clean linen, faded cologne, and

he exhales slowly, the sound barely audible, but you hear it, feel the weight of it settling in the air between you. when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than usual, rough around the edges, like he’s still fighting off the remnants of whatever has been keeping him up at night.

"come with me."

the words are barely above a murmur, but they wrap around you like a vice, a quiet command laced with something uncertain, something unraveling. for the briefest second, you hesitate, torn between the instinct to stay rooted in place and the part of you that has always been drawn to him, always followed.

his gaze flickers, shifting slightly—not toward the floor, not to the side, but past you.

to beomgyu.

it’s quick, fleeting, but enough to make something tighten in your chest, enough to confirm what you already know—this isn’t just about rehearsal, about music, about the setlist or the arrangements. this is about him. about you. about everything he’s been running from and everything you have been trying to forget.

his attention returns to you just as quickly, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers flex at his sides before curling into loose fists. his throat bobs slightly as he swallows, as if there’s something stuck there, something unsaid, something he can’t bring himself to admit.

"please."

it’s quiet, softer this time, but it cuts through you, through every carefully placed wall, through every ounce of distance you’ve tried to build. it’s not desperate, not pleading, but there’s something in it that makes you falter, something real in the way it wavers just slightly at the end.

and for all the ways wonbin has perfected the art of indifference, for all the ways he has held himself at a distance, for all the ways he has pretended that nothing ever mattered—this, this feels like it does.

the silence between you isn’t just silence—it’s something weighted, something oppressive, something that lingers in the space between every step, pressing down on you with a force neither of you seem capable of acknowledging. the hallway feels longer than usual, stretching endlessly ahead, every fluorescent light flickering overhead casting cold, artificial brightness over the tension thickening with each second that passes.

wonbin walks beside you, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders curled inward, posture loose but rigid all at once. his head is dipped slightly forward, the dark strands of his hair shielding his face, but it does nothing to hide the way his movements feel calculated, measured, as if every step requires effort, as if he’s bracing himself for something he isn’t ready to face.

and you—you’re gripping the strap of your guitar so tightly your knuckles ache, your fingers pressing into the leather like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground, the only thing keeping you from unraveling under the weight of the silence. you don’t look at him, because the truth is, you’re afraid of what you might see.

he has never been easy to read, never been the kind of person to lay his emotions bare for the world to see, but he has also never been this closed off. not to you. even in the thick of your resentment, even in the height of your longing, there was always something unspoken there, something lingering beneath the surface—an unfinished melody, an unresolved chord, something waiting to be played.

but now, with each step that brings you closer to the practice room, the silence between you is deafening, more suffocating than the fights, more unbearable than the distance.

the door to the practice room comes into view, a threshold neither of you seem eager to cross. wonbin reaches it first, his fingers hovering over the handle, hesitating for just a fraction too long, his breath pulling tight in his chest. for a moment, it looks like he might say something, like the tension curling in his shoulders might snap into words, but then, with a shallow exhale, he pushes the door open.

the room is small, dimly lit, filled with the familiar scent of wood polish and worn leather, and as you step inside, the silence only grows heavier. it settles around you like a fog, clinging to your skin, filling the gaps between every unspoken thought. wonbin doesn’t move far from the door, doesn’t look at you, but you feel him—his presence, his hesitance, the way his fingers twitch slightly at his sides before curling into fists, knuckles taut and bruised.

and still, neither of you speak.

you tell yourself you don’t know what to say, but that isn’t true. the words are there, stuck somewhere deep in your throat, strangled by the weight of everything that has gone unspoken for too long. because this—this—isn’t just about the way things have changed, about the distance or the resentment or the way beomgyu has settled into the space where wonbin used to be.

this is about the fact that for the first time in a long time, you don’t know who he is anymore. and maybe worse than that—maybe worse than all of it—is the quiet, gnawing fear that neither does he.

the air in the practice room is stale, thick with something neither of you dare to name yet suffocating. it clings to the walls, settles in the spaces between every hesitant breath, between every glance that never quite meets. the silence isn’t passive—it’s a living thing, coiling itself around your lungs, threading through the air like smoke from a fire long since extinguished but still smoldering beneath the surface.

the only sound is the faint hum of the air conditioning, a distant whir that does nothing to ease the warmth curling around your body.

wonbin stands across from you, his presence an unspoken force that commands every ounce of your attention. he exhales slowly, the sound barely audible, and then—without warning—he reaches for the hem of his hoodie.

you shouldn’t be watching him. you know this. you tell yourself to look away, to focus on the scuffed floor beneath your feet, to stare at the mirrored wall reflecting the unmistakable tension in your posture. but your resolve crumbles the moment the fabric lifts, exposing the sharp lines of his collarbones, the smooth expanse of skin stretched taut over lean muscle.

he shrugs the hoodie off, the movement slow, deliberate, almost agonizing in its ease. the sleeves slide down his arms, revealing every sculpted curve, every flex of muscle beneath his skin. his veins are prominent, tracing down his forearms like rivers cutting through stone, and you swear you can feel your pulse sync to their rhythm, erratic and unsteady.

the air between you crackles. not with words—because neither of you dare to speak—but with something deeper, something primal. the silence is deafening, pressing against your eardrums, amplifying the shallow inhale you take, as if even breathing too deeply might shatter whatever fragile restraint is holding you back.

wonbin rolls his shoulders with a deliberate slowness, every muscle shifting beneath his skin in a way that shouldn’t affect you anymore—but it does. your throat feels suddenly parched, and you hate the way your body betrays you, how it responds with a flare of heat in your chest, as though you’ve been starving for this sight and can’t admit it to yourself. you watch him, unable to tear your gaze away, devouring every inch of him like he’s the only thing in the world that could sate a thirst you refuse to name.

he lifts his head then, just barely, eyes half-shielded in the low, artificial light, yet you catch a flicker of something raw crossing his features—something that tightens your chest with anticipation. for a heartbeat, you think he might speak, might let slip even a fraction of the tension coiling around you both, but he doesn’t. he just holds his stance, arms loose at his sides, posture deceptively at ease despite the storm raging behind his eyes.

you can’t stand it anymore. your blood throbs with unspoken questions, with the suffocating memory of that night he nearly broke apart in your arms, and you realize you’ve been pressing your lips together so tightly they’re going numb. the air grows heavy, electric, and you can feel it crackle along your skin like static.

so you do it. you break.

“are we going to talk about it?”

your words crash into the silence between you like a live wire striking wet pavement—sudden, dangerous, impossible to ignore. they rattle the fragile hush, setting sparks in the already volatile atmosphere. you sense regret clawing at you the instant the question leaves your mouth, but it’s too late to drag it back. the tension has been bared, glaring and raw, for both of you to see.

wonbin freezes.

his fingers, which moments before had been tinkering idly with the mic stand, coil around the cold metal like a vise, the knuckles whitening under the strain. even his shoulders—the broad, confident ones you once leaned on—grow rigid, every muscle thrumming like an overtightened string ready to snap under the weight of the unspoken.

for the first time since you stepped into this cramped practice room, you truly see him: not merely exhausted, but hollowed out, drained from the battles waged behind closed doors and under neon lights. his eyes bear bruises not from physical blows, but from sleepless nights steeped in demons that refuse to let him rest. and then there are his hands—bruised in a more literal sense, trembling with memories he can’t wash away, each faint shiver of his knuckles recalling a fist colliding with beomgyu’s jaw, or maybe the wall when he thought nobody was looking.

you exhale slowly, adjusting your stance, letting the familiar weight of your guitar strap be the one thing that grounds you. you watch him from within a haze of uncertainty and half-acknowledged yearning, too afraid to name what either of you really wants.

“talk about what?” his voice emerges in a careful, measured tone, but you hear the faint quiver beneath the surface—like a thread unraveling with each breath. he’s smothering something before it can break free, and that subtle quake makes your own heart tighten. you refuse to let him slip away this time, to avert his gaze and pretend you don’t exist.

“what happened that night,” you say, voice resolute even though it sounds far too soft to your ears, “and about… you. in general.”

you see his throat bob, a sharp, involuntary movement in the armor he’s built around himself. for an instant, a flicker of regret or anguish passes through him, so vivid you almost step forward to catch it, to cradle it. but he locks it away again, shutting you out with practiced ease.

wonbin exhales through his nose, a harsh, almost derisive sound, shaking his head as though hoping your words might drop away like a bad dream. there’s a fragile vulnerability etched into the tightness of his jaw that he’s desperate to conceal.

“there’s nothing to talk about.” his response slices through the air, each syllable a cold, unyielding blade. the finality of it chills you, even as your anger flares.

you scoff, bitterness curdling on your tongue. “nothing?”

his jaw flexes, a muscle ticking in the hush.

“i was just drunk,” he mutters, forcing the words out flat and devoid of nuance, as if reciting a script he’s memorized. you sense him trying to stuff the entire complicated mess into a tiny box, lock it, and throw away the key.

“drunk enough to punch beomgyu? drunk enough to act like—” you start, but halt mid-sentence, a wave of shame and confusion swamping you. you can’t finish, because finishing means admitting you felt it too, that your heart still thrums with an extra beat whenever he draws too close, that the moment his voice trembled asking you not to leave, you nearly dropped every barrier you’d ever constructed.

he rakes a hand through his hair, the frustration rolling off him in stormy waves. “i don’t know what you want me to say.”

“i want the truth.”

“the truth won’t change anything.”

“maybe not for you,” you retort, your chest aching under the weight of heartbreak you can’t fully bury.

his next exhale is ragged, the hush of the room amplifying every sound he makes until it feels deafening. at last, he lifts his gaze, pinning you in place, and the force behind it—dark, questioning, desperate—sends a tremor through your limbs. his hands remain tense at his sides, as though there’s an invisible tether holding him back from reaching for you.

“you think talking about it will fix things?” his voice dips, raw at the edges. “that if i just say something, it’ll all make sense?”

“maybe,” you whisper, hating the tremor in your own voice. the idea of him dismissing you again tears at what remains of your composure, but you can’t hold back. if you don’t ask, you’ll never know if the illusions you cling to are illusions at all.

he releases a breath that crackles with sorrow and exhaustion, teeth pressing into his bottom lip as though trying to stifle his emotions before they erupt.

“it won’t,” he murmurs, shaking his head slowly, each word heavy with defeat. “because i don’t know what you want from me. i don’t know what you expect me to say.”

your heart twists, a coil of pain unwinding in your chest. you drag in a breath, hoping it might steady you. “maybe i just want to hear it from you,” you admit, your voice fracturing under the weight of the confession, “maybe i just want to hear you say that you felt something that night.”

the pang in his chest registers in the way his eyes widen momentarily, as though you’ve struck deeper than he anticipated. his lips part, and there’s a moment—an excruciating, endless heartbeat—when you think he might finally utter the truth. but then terror shadows his gaze, and he clamps down on it with ruthless efficiency, burying himself behind the silent fortress you’re so tired of hammering at.

“we have a set to rehearse,” he says instead, his tone turning glacial, slicing through hope like a guillotine’s blade.

and in that moment, your chest constricts, your lungs protesting the simple act of breathing. the final shards of the illusions you once entertained crumble. you give a curt nod, because what else is there to do? you can’t force him to bare his heart, can’t make him face what you both know roils beneath your outward masks. if he chooses to remain locked in this self-imposed prison, you refuse to let it drag you under.

“fine,” you reply flatly, your voice shaking with heartbreak you can’t fully hide. “let’s get on with it, then.”

the tension hangs in the room like a dense, unmoving fog—each unsaid word a weight pressing against your chest until it feels as though your very breath might shatter under its strain. you force down the lump in your throat, compelling yourself to breathe, to move, even though every fiber of your being remains pinned in place.

wonbin doesn’t meet your gaze as he readjusts the strap of his mic, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room. you watch the way your trembling fingers hesitate above your guitar, and though he says nothing, you sense the storm raging beneath his calm exterior—the slight clench of his jaw, the subtle bob of his throat with each swallowed emotion, the way his fingers twitch as if battling an inner urge to morph into fists. you know him too well; you recognize the chasm between the wonbin who feigns indifference and the one who secretly shudders with feeling.

both of you slip into position, but the familiar ritual of rehearsal feels grotesquely off-kilter today. normally, your movements blend seamlessly into a shared cadence, your voices interlocking like old friends. now, every motion is burdened with hesitation and restraint, as if each note carries the residue of all that can’t be said.

a brittle chord escapes your guitar, a tentative line meant to anchor you to the music, to salvage some sense of purpose in this forced collaboration. you wait for him to sing, to respond with the melody that once bound you two in a harmony no one else could replicate. but he hesitates—just a second too long—before letting his voice slip into the space, measured, controlled, and utterly detached.

the arrangement you’re supposed to be rehearsing is sparse, every note naked and exposed. it should create a sense of intimacy, a moment where the emotion in your voices transcends the rest of the band, forging a connection that almost feels private. ironically, the only thing it reveals is a staggering emptiness: your voice is too rigid, too precise, and his is too guarded, too refined, as if he’s reading from a script rather than actually feeling it.

time stretches, each measure a reminder of what you used to have—the synergy that allowed you to read each other through sound, through breath. now, there’s nothing but the echo of your straining vocals in a room too small to hide in, and the gap between you that seems insurmountable.

you let the final note fade abruptly, pulling your hands from the strings, tension coiling inside your chest until it feels like you might snap. “this isn’t working,” you mutter, placing the guitar aside with more force than necessary. you can’t keep feigning normalcy. the act feels suffocating, the weight of all your unsaid words pressing down on your throat.

wonbin exhales, the sound half a sigh, half a scoff. “so what now?” he asks, words clipped, his shoulders taut as steel cables.

you drag your gaze over his bruised knuckles, then up to the subtle line of his jaw, noticing a faint bruise near his temple that you hadn’t seen before. your voice trembles despite your best effort. “our voices—our chemistry—it’s gone, and you know it,” you say, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. “i can’t keep playing like nothing’s wrong.”

he holds your stare for a moment, something dark and anguished flickering in the depths of his eyes. you sense he might break, might admit even a fraction of what’s roiling under his skin—but instead, his words emerge quiet and laced with venom. “maybe your new buddy’s got that covered,” he murmurs, bitterness sharpening each syllable like glass shards.

your heart stutters, confusion tangling with a spark of anger. “what does that mean?” you demand, shifting your weight, trying to keep your voice from cracking.

he doesn’t answer, jaw clenching, gaze sliding off you like water over stone. for a second, you think you see the faint tremor of regret in the set of his mouth, the guilt over letting such a remark slip out. but he swallows it down, forcing composure over the storm swirling behind his eyes.

“doesn’t matter,” he mutters, turning away as if he might physically escape the confrontation. “forget it.”

his dismissal, the way he so casually disregards the tension he just unleashed, enrages you in a way that begs for release. after all the nights you spent awake, worrying, all the heartbreak inflicted when he wouldn’t give you answers—this is his tactic? to withdraw, to bury the truth under dismissive shrugs and barbed comments?

“no,” you snap, voice cutting through the stale air, refusing to accept his retreat. “you brought it up. so tell me—what the hell does that mean?”

he finally turns, meeting your eyes, and for the first time, you see how red-rimmed they are, the faint bruises of exhaustion shadowing the edges. “i said drop it,” he grinds out, voice shakier than before, beneath the stubborn bravado.

the exchange hangs for a moment, pulses pounding in the silence. you recall that night, how he pinned you in place with a look that blended fury and desperation, how his voice wavered on a plea you still can’t erase from your memory: don’t go. and you wonder if the same tempest stirs in him now, if he’s lost at sea, unable to form a lifeline from the words you both pretend you don’t want.

“fine,” you say stiffly, feeling tears burn at the backs of your eyes, though you won’t let them fall, not here, not in front of him. “whatever you say.”

despite your bravado, your chest knots with hurt and something deeper—resignation, perhaps. you catch him grimace, the faint quiver in his lower lip quickly masked by a stubborn set of the jaw. he doesn’t meet your gaze again, the momentary spark of his eyes extinguishing into self-loathing.

you want to scream at him, or shake him, demand that he either own his feelings or sever the tie for good. instead, you settle on letting the tension fizzle in the hush, the guitar resting heavy against your thigh. he won’t speak, won’t do anything but sink deeper into the stone fortress he’s built around his heart. and you realize you can’t force him out if he refuses to see the light.

with a defeated exhale, you begin packing up. your chest aches, a dull roar in your ears as you gather your things with stiff, deliberate movements. you refuse to acknowledge the sting in your eyes, the fact that every breath tastes of heartbreak. you’re done, you tell yourself, done with hitting an unyielding wall of silence, done with waiting for him to meet you halfway. maybe in another life, you’d find a version of him who’d fight for you, but it won’t be here, not now.

he watches you pack, but says nothing. it’s not an active stare—more an involuntary flicker, like he can’t help tracking your every motion. there’s a whisper of emotion behind his half-lidded eyes, gone too quickly for you to interpret. guilt? regret? sorrow? but it dissolves beneath that old mask of indifference, leaving you to wonder if you only imagined it.

when you finally lift your guitar case, you pause, the door at your back. you look over your shoulder, hoping for a fraction of a second that he might utter your name, that something might crack open and let him say it: i’m sorry, i need you, i don’t know how to do this without you. but his lips remain pressed together in a firm line, shoulders coiled in tension, fists at his sides.

when you slip out the door, the fluorescent lights in the hallway feel harsh, disorienting. you pause to collect your breathing, the practice room door closing behind you with a soft click that vibrates through your chest. part of you wants to spin around, fling it open, and scream the words that claw at your throat: why do you do this? why do you keep hurting both of us? but you don’t. you let the hush of the corridor swallow you, striding away before the tears can blind you. another part of your heart cracks, but you refuse to let him see how much it bleeds.

he stays behind, you assume, probably resting against the battered walls, battling the demons you can’t save him from, burying the regret he refuses to name. the ache in your chest throbs as you walk, each echo of your footsteps amplifying the emptiness in your spirit. you decide you’re done, done with chasing him, done with letting the love you once felt twist into a blade used against you. or so you tell yourself, ignoring the subtle tug in your heart that suggests the story between you is far from over.

the corridor leads you toward the main studio, the hush of your footsteps dissolving into the faint hum of conversation beyond. you notice beomgyu near the entrance, leaning against the wall, arms folded, worry etched on his face. he stands upright when he sees you approach, eyes flicking over your expression with a concern that makes your throat tighten.

“hey,” he says gently, the single word laden with sympathy. he doesn’t ask if you’re okay—maybe because he already knows the answer.

you swallow, dredging up a shaky smile you can’t quite maintain. “i’m… fine,” you lie, the taste of the fib bitter on your tongue. even if a part of you wants to let him in, you can’t bring yourself to dump the tangled mess of your heart into his ready hands. not again.

he nods, understanding and sorrow interwoven in his expression, but he doesn’t press. your chest aches anew, recalling how easy it was to laugh with him, to find solace in the steady warmth of his gaze. wonbin’s jealousy lingers in your mind, gnawing at the corners of your thoughts, and you wonder—what does it matter if he’s jealous, if he can’t bring himself to do anything about it but push you away?

you exhale softly, letting your gaze drop to the scuffed floor. “let’s finish up,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “no point dragging it out.”

with a hesitant nod, beomgyu pushes away from the wall, accompanying you into the main studio area where the others wait. from the corner of your eye, you catch minjeong’s curious glance, yunjin’s pensive scowl, and gunil’s half-hearted attempt to liven the mood with a quip about how “the day just keeps getting more cheerful.” but the air remains heavy, weighed by the unsaid, by the suffocating hush that no one can break.

your gaze drifts back to the corridor, half expecting wonbin to appear, his posture braced with false indifference, a ready smirk or some shallow remark. but he doesn’t come, and the hollow pang in your chest intensifies. the older version of him would have strolled in, cracked a dismissive joke, and pretended everything was fine. now, he’s either drowned by a deeper darkness or gone entirely, neither possibility easing the knot of heartache lodged beneath your ribs.

you force yourself to breathe, to focus on the routine you know so well, ignoring the echo of your earlier confrontation. focusing on the group, the set, the chord changes you can recite in your sleep. focusing on anything but him. but no matter how you try, the memory of his tension, his bruised knuckles, and that haunted look in his eyes under the fluorescent glare lingers, like a dark note resonating long after the song has ended.

outside, the day continues without mercy—sun traveling across the sky, time pushing everyone forward whether they’re ready or not. inside, in the hush of the studio, you clench your jaw against the creeping realization that maybe, just maybe, this is how it’s meant to be: you, him, and an insurmountable silence bridging the rift that might never be mended, no matter how much your heart still aches for the boy you once saw beneath the bravado.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the night stretches out like an endless, ravenous beast, swallowing wonbin whole in its neon-soaked maw. the club’s chaos—pulsing lights, screaming basslines, bodies colliding—should once have been his escape, a refuge where he could lose himself.

but now every pounding beat crawls up his spine like a relentless, maddening insect, its rhythmic hammering only deepening the ache lodged beneath his ribs. the air is thick and humid, heavy with the cloying mix of sweat and expensive perfume, clinging to his skin like a suffocating shroud that tightens with every desperate breath.

he’s been drowning himself in liquor for hours now—whiskey, vodka, a cocktail of burning substances that slide down his throat with an agonizing sting. each gulp is a futile bid to smother the persistent, gnawing emptiness inside him; the burn does nothing to quiet the sound of your voice echoing in his mind. it’s a voice that used to be a balm, but now it slices through the haze of alcohol and neon like a shard of shattered glass.

wonbin tilts his head back, letting the liquid fire course through him, its burn as sharp and unforgiving as the truth he’s been running from. he feels weightless, disconnected—a ghost drifting through a realm where nothing ever feels real.

then, a memory flares: a whispered accusation, a yearning plea from you, “maybe i just want to hear you admit that you felt something that night.”

those words had clung to him, a curse that burrowed deep into his flesh, reminding him of what he’s been trying so desperately to forget. his grip on the glass tightens, condensation dripping like cold regrets down his knuckles.

“it feels wrong,” he hears you say—your voice laced with the bitter truth of lost chemistry, of a spark extinguished long ago.

those words sink their claws into him, each syllable a reminder that nothing about this cycle of self-destruction feels as it once did. what used to be an escape has become a prison, and he is the desperate inmate, spiraling ever deeper into his own ruin.

frustration coalesces in his mind as he runs a shaky hand through his hair, his movements sluggish with a fatigue that goes beyond the physical. beside him, a girl presses in—a fleeting distraction with hands that glide over his shoulders, warm whispers in his ear meant to ignite a spark. she should be his solace, the heat of the moment to numb his inner chill. but her touch is too light, too transient; it feels alien against the raw, familiar ache of what he’s trying so hard to forget.

she is not you.

in that instant, his chest constricts as if gripped by an invisible vice. panic surges like a tidal wave within him, the club’s strobing lights and crushing music morphing into a cacophonous assault on his senses. his pulse thunders erratically beneath his skin, a frantic rhythm that mirrors his internal collapse. he needs to escape; he needs to run from the person he sees reflected in every darkened window and every whispered memory—the person who, despite every frantic effort, still carries your presence in the marrow of his bones.

without a word, he shoves away from the bar, dismissing the lingering warmth of the girl’s hands as if they were poison. his steps become unsteady as he navigates the sea of strangers, the flashing lights blurring into a dizzying spiral. the exit looms like a beacon of hope, and he stumbles toward it, each step a battle against the relentless pull of his own thoughts.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” he wants to scream at the night, at the cruel irony of his own descent. he’s never allowed himself to fall so far, never let someone—or something—get under his skin like this before. but you… you are everywhere, haunting him in every shadow and every beat of his broken heart.

he finally bursts out onto the pavement, the cold air slapping his face with the brutal honesty of winter. the city around him is a living, breathing organism—horns blaring, laughter echoing—but he stands on the edge of it all, barely holding himself together.

then his phone vibrates in his pocket—a harsh, mechanical reminder that reality is calling him back. he hesitates, his fingers sluggishly retrieving the device as letters blur on the screen before coming into focus: hongjoong.

he exhales a ragged breath and, before he can resist, his thumb begins to swipe.

"where the hell are you?" hongjoong’s voice slices through the static, sharp and seething with a dangerous blend of anger and raw concern.

leaning against a cold brick wall, wonbin drags a trembling hand down his face. "why do you care?" he manages, his words brittle with defeat.

"because it’s two in the fucking morning, and you’re not answering your damn texts. because i just saw a photo of you looking like hell outside some club. because this is getting worse, and you know it."

a humorless laugh escapes him as he tilts his head back, gazing into the indifferent night sky as if it might offer salvation. "it’s fine. i’m fine," he says, but the tremor in his voice belies the truth.

"you sound like shit."

"thanks, hongjoong. real helpful."

there’s a weighted pause—a silence so dense it feels tangible—before hongjoong speaks again, his tone softer yet laden with inevitability.

"look, i’m not gonna lecture you. you already know what you’re doing to yourself." another pause, then, "but if you keep this up, you’re gonna lose more than just yourself, wonbin."

the words hit him like a sucker punch, and his grip on the phone tightens until his knuckles blanch.

"just go home," hongjoong adds quietly, "before you do something you can’t take back."

the line goes dead, and wonbin exhales slowly, the bitter taste of regret and alcohol mingling on his tongue. he’s been down this road before—lost in the haze of cheap drinks, fleeting embraces, and nights that blur into endless cycles of self-destruction. it should be familiar; it should be safe, but it isn’t.

the music pounds on, too loud and unyielding; the air presses in, thick with expectation; and the girl at his side continues to laugh, her presence a constant reminder of all that he’s trying so desperately to escape.

and in that crushing moment, the truth sinks in like a cold dagger: nothing works anymore.

the escapism that once offered relief now suffocates him, every destructive habit a futile attempt to drown the memories, to rid his mind of you. but you are an inescapable phantom—a scar etched deep from past wounds of abandonment and loss.

he is drowning in his emotions, spiraling in a relentless descent where even the music, the fleeting touch of a stranger, fails to offer solace. tonight, the neon glow only illuminates his despair, and for the first time, wonbin realizes that no amount of running will ever free him from the burden of his own truth.

the club is suffocating, too loud, too crowded, too full of things that don’t mean anything. the weight in his chest refuses to lift, settling heavier with every passing second, and suddenly, the thought of staying here, of sinking further into this cycle, of pretending for one more night that he can keep running—it makes him sick.

he pulls away abruptly, the movement sharp and final, ignoring the questioning look cast his way. his head is spinning, not from the alcohol but from the truth clawing its way to the surface, the truth he’s spent years trying to bury beneath meaningless nights and empty touches. he doesn’t stop to think, doesn’t pause to question, just moves—pushing past the bodies, weaving through the heat and noise, shoving the club door open with more force than necessary.

the cold air hits him like a shock to the system, biting against his sweat-damp skin, but it doesn’t clear his head, doesn’t make breathing any easier. his pulse is erratic, his hands unsteady, his stomach twisting with something close to dread, because he knows—he knows—that he’s reached the breaking point.

and for the first time in a long time, wonbin doesn’t know if he can put himself back together.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

morning settles in softly—muffled sounds from the street outside, the gentle rustle of someone’s footsteps in the hallway beyond your door, the faint but tempting aroma of coffee drifting around you like an invitation to rise. ordinarily, you would relish these moments, using the subdued light and still air to gather yourself before facing the day, but today feels different—like the world has already intruded into your space, nudging you awake with an urgency you neither expected nor wanted.

you notice it first in the soft glow of your phone, perched on the nightstand as though it’s been waiting for you to check it, brimming with notifications that set your pulse racing before your mind fully clears the fog of sleep.

the group chat for the band, usually peppered with memes and half-serious schedule updates, is swirling with frantic messages in the early morning hours. your heart flutters, worry coiling tighter in your chest with each breath, because it’s not normal for them to be this active before the day has even begun, and you can’t shake the sense that something must have happened.

the first message you see is from yunjin:

“holy shit. you guys seeing this?”

the second is from gunil:

“tell me this is real and not a year-old picture. wonbin’s at it again?”

a twist of dread sinks in your belly, because although gunil’s words imply doubt, you suspect, deep down, that he already knows the answer—that these photos aren’t old, that another night has slipped through wonbin’s grasp. you scroll upward, blinking away the last shreds of sleep, until you come across a series of attached files—grainy images that make your chest tighten the moment they come into focus.

the angles are harsh, bathed in the neon glow of a streetlamp: wonbin, sunglasses pulled tight on his nose bridge, leaning unsteadily against a wall outside a club you vaguely recognize. a woman you’ve never seen before is pressed to his side, her hand gripping the fabric of his leather jacket as though she’s anchoring him—or he’s anchoring her. it’s hard to tell who’s supporting whom, but the expression on his face is unmistakable, even with the poor quality of the photo: vacant eyes, a slump in his posture that speaks of surrender or maybe just fatigue.

you tap to the next image, your stomach lurching. another angle, slightly closer, capturing wonbin’s profile—the planes of his cheekbones thrown into harsh relief, his lips parted in something that might be a plea or just a breath he hasn’t exhaled. the woman is whispering something at his ear, and even though the photo is blurred, you can discern his emptiness, that hollow look you’ve seen before but never this stark, never so devoid of the careless confidence he usually wields.

a surge of something hot and unsettling pulses behind your eyes—anger, worry, heartbreak. you remind yourself that you aren’t responsible for his choices, that the two of you share no obligations, but reason doesn’t quiet the ache blooming inside you.

the group chat continues in a flurry of messages, the next from minjeong:

“i’m calling him now, no response. this is getting old and it’s hurting us all. anyone heard from him?”

you drag yourself upright, tangled sheets falling around your legs, the entire situation enveloping your senses like a heavy fog. you recall the last few weeks—how wonbin seemed distant, shrouded in his own storm of unspoken emotions, how each interaction with him left you more confused than the last.

you think of the tension in his gaze when you and beomgyu were simply chatting, how he locked himself behind silence and half-lidded stares. and now these photos—evidence that he spent another night drowning in oblivion, despite whatever flicker of hope you’d clung to that he might find a healthier way to cope.

another message pings—a direct one from hongjoong:

“i just got off the phone with him last night before he went off the grid. confirmed it’s recent. keep me posted if you find out anything else.”

your stomach clenches. hongjoong, ever the level-headed leader, always seems to be the one holding the band’s fraying ends together, but even he sounds worn out now, his clipped phrasing laced with exasperation. there’s no confusion on his part, no waffling on whether the photos are old or new—he knows exactly when wonbin was out, knows that this isn’t a simple misunderstanding. the reality of it settles like a weight on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

your phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with yet another series of pictures—this time not from the tabloid shots but from someone who claims they saw him stumbling out of the club around two in the morning. it’s uncanny how each new angle only highlights the same misery etched across wonbin’s features, the same slackness in his expression, a weariness so pronounced it echoes through you even from behind a screen. a chill sweeps up your spine, cold and unrelenting, because you’ve never seen him look so lost.

you type out a response with trembling fingers:

“this is the third time in two months. does anyone know where he is now? i haven’t heard anything. i’m worried.”

the words feel inadequate, but it’s all you can manage.

you set your phone aside and bury your face in your hands, elbows digging into your knees as a wave of conflicting emotions crashes through you. part of you wants to be furious with him—furious that he’s letting himself spiral, that he’s pushing everyone away, that he’s giving the tabloids more fodder to tear him apart, that he’s forcing you to confront how much you still care when you have no right to. another part of you aches with a kind of helpless sadness, recalling the fleeting times you thought you saw through his walls, glimpsing a wonbin who might have chosen a different path if not for whatever past wounds he carries.

your phone vibrates again, a direct message from beomgyu:

“are you alright? i know these pictures are… a lot.”

the tightness in your chest softens marginally at his concern, the easy sincerity woven into every syllable. you think of his steady presence, how he’s become something of a refuge from the tumult of wonbin’s unpredictability, how he never prods you to confess more than you’re ready to share. your eyes flicker to the half-drawn curtains, the muted glow of a sky that seems too calm for the kind of chaos unfolding in your circle, and you try to form a response.

“i’m not sure,” you type back, thumb hovering over the send button. “i wish we could do something.”

you press send, heart pounding a little harder at the admission. not just that you’re worried about wonbin, but that you feel stuck, powerless to change a situation that grows more complicated by the day.

almost immediately, beomgyu’s reply appears:

“i know. i’m here if you want to talk or… not talk. if you need a breather, let me know.”

the quiet warmth of his words tugs at your resolve, a stark contrast to the numb dread you’ve been grappling with. yet the relief doesn’t last long, because your phone buzzes again, an onslaught of messages flooding from yunjin and minjeong.

“we’re going to his place,” yunjin says, her tone clipped, purposeful. “he’s not answering calls. we’ll break the door down if we have to.”

another message a moment later, minjeong echoing:

“we’ll keep you posted. don’t panic, okay?”

you force an exhale that quivers more than you’d like.

how are you supposed to remain calm when the same pattern is replaying itself, a cyclical tragedy in which wonbin shatters the uneasy peace you’ve managed to gather, exposing the raw edges of his turmoil for everyone to see? you shake your head, clinging to the last vestiges of morning’s calm, hoping that the day won’t be consumed by yet another frantic search for a man who refuses to be found in any sense of the word.

pushing yourself off the bed, you shuffle into the bathroom, the cold tiles beneath your feet a jarring contrast to the warmth of your blankets. you stare at your reflection in the mirror: heavy-lidded eyes, mouth pressed into a tense line, the hint of dark circles betraying how badly you slept. you want to wash the images of wonbin away, those grainy snapshots of emptiness and recklessness, but you know it’s futile. they’re etched into your mind now, a testament to the fact that no matter how often you tell yourself you can’t save him, you still worry, still care, still feel an ache that refuses to be dulled by logic.

by the time you’re dressed— a cropped, slightly oversized band tee with its fabric washed to a comfortable thinness over a pair of worn jeans—you find beomgyu waiting in your living room, coffee in hand. you must have let him in after a brief exchange, or perhaps you never really locked the door, your memory blurring under the strain of it all. he hands you a paper cup, the steam curling upward in gentle spirals, and his gaze searches your face as if reading the silent questions there.

“i came as soon as i could,” he murmurs, a quiet apology resting in his tone, as if he feels guilty for not being able to do more.

you thank him softly, taking the coffee. the aroma soothes you on some level, but the tension coiling around your chest remains. beomgyu settles beside you on the couch, leaving just enough distance to be respectful, yet close enough that you feel the warmth of his presence. the day outside brightens gradually, cruelly unaware of the turmoil that saturates your band’s group chat with worry and dread.

your phone dings once more—a photo from yunjin. a picture of wonbin’s apartment in complete disarray: empty liquor bottles strewn across the coffee table and floor, ashtrays overflowing, a jacket tossed over the back of a chair as though ripped off in frustration. you can’t help the spike of panic that flashes through you, a raw sense of alarm that digs into your very bones. another message from minjeong follows:

“he’s not here. we’ll ask around.”

it’s happening again, you think, each breath catching like a stray hook in your lungs. another search, another round of phone calls, another day lost to frantic uncertainty. you can practically see yunjin and minjeong standing in the middle of that wrecked apartment, exchanging grim looks as they try to piece together where he might have gone. a bar? another club? or somewhere darker, more aimless, sinking into the cracks of a city that doesn’t care?

your vision blurs as you reread the messages, willing them to make sense, to offer some lead that will tell you this is just another brief relapse in his attempt to outrun himself. but there’s nothing—just the echo of an absence, the tangible sign of self-destruction in the form of empty bottles and half-finished cigarettes.

“hey,” beomgyu’s voice pulls you back, soft and steady, an anchor against the undertow of your spiraling thoughts. he’s watching you with that gentle, discerning gaze, the kind that suggests he sees more of your fear than you want to admit.

“he’ll turn up,” he says, though the conviction in his words wavers slightly. “he always does, right?”

you manage a nod, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. “it’s just… tiring,” you say, the statement feeling weak against the magnitude of what’s happening, but it’s the best you can muster.

beomgyu shifts, setting his coffee aside, his fingers brushing lightly over your shoulder in a gesture of comfort that doesn’t demand a response. “i know,” he murmurs, and his tone is so understanding it almost breaks you. “we’ll just… wait to hear from them.”

time passes in a haze of sips of coffee that grows tepid, half-hearted attempts at conversation that trail off into silence, and anxious glances at your phone that never yields the update you’re craving. each minute feels drawn out, colored by the knowledge that wonbin is somewhere in the city, lost and unreachable, and all you can do is sit there, praying he doesn’t drag himself so far under that you can’t pull him back at all.

there is a moment—late morning now, the sun angled higher—when you realize that beomgyu has stayed with you without question, that he isn’t glancing at the time, isn’t making an excuse to leave. he’s just here, a quiet fortress of patience, letting you wrestle with your jumbled emotions in his presence. you wonder if he realizes how much it means, that he offers warmth in stark contrast to wonbin’s cold withdrawal. you wonder if part of your heart clings to that warmth too fiercely, wanting to forget the searing ache that arises whenever you think of wonbin’s haunted eyes.

and still the messages come: trivial updates, confirmative statements that wonbin hasn’t shown up at any of the usual places, that no one else has seen or heard from him. it’s like chasing a ghost, a fruitless endeavor made all the more agonizing by the memory of who he was before he fell deeper into this pattern. or maybe he was always like this, and you simply never saw the cracks.

eventually, the day matures, shifting from a lingering morning into the sharper angles of early afternoon. neither you nor beomgyu has moved much, both nursing your second cups of coffee, unable to do more than wait, tethered by a shared apprehension that weighs on your every thought.

“i could go out and look,” beomgyu suggests at one point, glancing at you like he half-expects you to object. there’s a determination in his gaze that clashes with the helplessness draped over the moment, a readiness to do something, anything.

you consider it, consider the thought of the two of you combing through the city streets, but the prospect feels overwhelming, and there’s no guarantee you’d find him. for all you know, he could be in a cab headed to an entirely different part of town, or holed up in another stranger’s apartment, or something far worse you can’t bring yourself to name.

so you simply shrug, eyes haunted by an exhaustion that transcends sleep. “maybe if we don’t hear anything by tonight,” you murmur, unsure, the words scraping against your throat.

he nods, not pressing further, understanding that there’s a line between hope and futility that neither of you wants to cross.

as afternoon wears on, you notice how the angle of sunlight in your living room shifts, gilding the walls in a gentle glow that feels completely out of place, like a sweet promise in the midst of a tragedy you’re still waiting to unfold. it makes everything feel surreal—the hush between you and beomgyu, the quiet beeps from your phone, the background noise of traffic and birds that don’t know or care that the man who haunts your thoughts is out there unraveling.

and in that hush, you feel the full breadth of your emotions pressing in: anger at wonbin for doing this to himself and, by extension, to all of you; sorrow that he can’t see the hands extended toward him, can’t accept the love and friendship that might save him; resentment that he’s forced you to acknowledge how much you still care when you wanted to move on; fear that this time he won’t come back from wherever he’s gone. it tangles in your chest, a knot of conflicting feelings that leaves you speechless, leaves you leaning closer to beomgyu’s warmth, hating that you find some measure of comfort there, hating that you still ache for a man who refuses to be helped.

“hey,” beomgyu says softly, breaking the silence. you look up at him, noticing the slight furrow in his brow. “whatever happens… we’ll figure it out. we always do, right?”

the sentiment should be reassuring, but it feels like a placeholder, a platitude that neither of you can fully believe given the severity of the situation. still, you force a nod, whisper a quiet “yeah,” because in the face of this much uncertainty, sometimes it’s better to cling to any hope you can find, no matter how fragile.

your phone remains maddeningly still after that, no new messages, no sudden influx of information. and so you and beomgyu remain in that quiet space, suspended between dread and the faintest glimmer of reassurance that, for now, there is nothing else you can do. hours trickle by like slow drops of water, each one echoing with the absence of news on wonbin. you busy yourself by picking at the corner of your coffee cup, by scrolling mindlessly through your phone for distractions you don’t absorb, by replaying every interaction you’ve had with wonbin in your mind, searching for a clue you might have missed.

the day fades into late afternoon, the sunlight dimming, casting elongated shadows across your floor. your heart feels heavy, raw from a day spent in emotional limbo. beomgyu’s presence keeps you from sinking entirely, though you sense his own tension, the worry he keeps behind carefully managed expressions.

somewhere, in a part of your mind you wish you could ignore, a faint voice wonders if wonbin has hit the point of no return—if something in him has given up. you push that thought away, reminding yourself that he’s been on the precipice before and always found a way back, but each time, it seems to cut a little deeper into him, leaves him more frayed, more terrified of attachment, more convinced that running is safer than confronting whatever lurks inside his past.

you suppose only time will tell if this is the spiral he can’t pull himself out of, or if his survival instincts—whatever sliver of self-preservation he has left—will kick in before the cliff’s edge. and with that realization, a resigned sort of exhaustion claims you, like an emptiness that sets in after worrying for too many hours without relief.

as the last rays of daylight gild your windows, you think of wonbin in that club, of the vacant look in his eyes in those pictures, of the hush in your group chat that offers nothing but the echo of your collective concern. your day has been a study in waiting—waiting for the next piece of news, for the next call, for the next message that might drag you out of this purgatory of not knowing. but nothing comes, and so you remain, suspended and powerless, chasing a man who has fled from himself more thoroughly than he ever fled from the people trying to help him.

in that quiet, in that uneasy twilight, you let yourself admit something painfully true: no one can save wonbin except himself. and as much as it breaks you to see him unravel, to watch him reject any hint of solace, you know you cannot anchor him to a shore he refuses to reach for. you can only stand here with beomgyu beside you, phone in hand, heart in your throat, and wait for the moment he decides—or fails—to come back.

“you need fresh air,” beomgyu says gently, the soft cadence of his voice weaving through the haze of your thoughts. you look up, meeting his eyes, and there’s no push, no pressure—just concern, layered with that quiet determination he carries like a secret reserve of strength.

“you’ve been cooped up in this apartment all day, watching your phone. it can’t be good for you.”

it’s not a command, but you sense the earnestness beneath his words, the quiet plea for you to let yourself breathe. you’ve spent hours drowning in the tension of not knowing, your thoughts orbiting wonbin’s face in those photos, the slump of his shoulders, the vacancy in his eyes, and the possibility that every unreturned call might mean something irreparable has happened. maybe beomgyu is right—maybe stepping outside, even for a little while, will stop the walls from closing in.

“okay,” you manage, forcing a nod, your voice coming out huskier than you expect from lack of speaking. “that sounds… good.”

he offers a small smile, and the sight of it sparks a flicker of gratitude deep in your chest—a reminder that not everything in your life is tangled and painful, that there are moments of gentleness hidden in the cracks of chaos. without another word, you slip on your shoes and grab a sweater, letting beomgyu lead you out of the apartment, into a world that seems unshaken by the turmoil you’ve been battling all day.

the ride in his car is quiet, the air conditioner humming against the backdrop of distant traffic. the city moves around you, teeming with people who have their own problems, their own joys, their own heartbreaks. you watch the scenery pass through the window: skyscrapers looming overhead, small shops tucked between bustling streets, flickers of greenery in a park that flash by too quickly to take in. you try not to think about how, somewhere in this same city, wonbin might be drifting in a haze, unreachable and unwilling to let anyone find him.

beomgyu doesn’t turn on the radio, and you’re grateful for the silence—it feels respectful, a space in which you can still your racing thoughts without the distraction of lyrics that might cut too close. he occasionally glances your way, his gaze carrying questions he doesn’t voice. at one point, you catch him about to speak, his lips parted slightly, before he decides otherwise, leaving the unspoken words suspended in the hush between you.

he parks near a small cafe you’ve been to once before—an unassuming place nestled amid a row of shops, with a faded blue awning and a couple of potted plants outside the entrance. the afternoon light angles over the sidewalk, illuminating drifting dust motes like tiny stars, giving the ordinary street corner a gentle sort of glow. you step out of the car, inhaling deeply, noticing how the air here carries a hint of roasted coffee and the faint sweetness of pastries, as if the world wants to soothe you for a moment.

“do you want to go inside?” beomgyu asks, lingering by the passenger door. his eyes are soft, cautious, like he’s gauging how you’re holding up.

you hesitate, scanning the cafe’s window, where a smattering of people sit at mismatched wooden tables, sipping drinks and conversing in low, contented tones. the idea of being surrounded by strangers, even cheerful ones, threatens to unbalance the fragile calm you’ve managed to rebuild. you shake your head slowly, offering a slight shrug.

“maybe let’s just walk,” you suggest, your voice almost a whisper, as though you’re afraid anything louder might shatter the moment. “i need… i don’t know. space.”

beomgyu nods, slipping his keys into his pocket. “sure.”

the sidewalk greets you with a subtle warmth, the late afternoon sun stretching your shadows across the pavement. buildings loom above, their windows reflecting the sky and the shapes of passing cars. the cafe’s scents follow you, eventually replaced by the aroma of a nearby bakery, then the crisp tang of city air as you and beomgyu drift further down the street. it’s a slow, unhurried walk—like neither of you wants to reach any particular destination, content to wander until you can breathe a little easier.

you don’t talk about wonbin right away, don’t talk about anything pressing, in fact. beomgyu makes a half-hearted joke about the pigeons scattering along the curb, and you respond with a small, reluctant smile that feels almost foreign on your face after all the worry you’ve carried. eventually, you fall into a rhythm of companionable silence, your footsteps matching in an unspoken cadence, your minds undoubtedly spinning through the same anxious possibilities but finding solace in each other’s quiet company.

the city’s noise ebbs and flows around you—cars honking in the distance, a bus roaring by, laughter spilling from a group of teenagers crossing the street. life continues, unburdened, while your own world has cracked under the weight of someone else’s self-destruction. you wonder if you’ll ever reach a point where you can’t let wonbin’s choices hurt you anymore, where his presence—or absence—doesn’t define your day. that thought brings a pang of guilt, because part of you doesn’t want to stop caring, doesn’t want to let go of the fragile hope that he might find his way back, not just to the band but to himself.

you pass a small park, shaded by tall oaks that rustle in a breeze that feels almost cool against your cheeks, and beomgyu gently nudges your elbow, tipping his head in the direction of a bench nestled under one of the trees. you follow him there, sinking down onto the worn wooden slats, the faint sound of children playing at the far end of the green space drifting your way. it’s peaceful, an oasis of calm you almost resent for its tranquility when everything inside you remains so tightly wound.

“how are you really holding up?” beomgyu asks quietly, breaking the hush that’s settled over you both. he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes flicking from your face to the expanse of grass, as though worried he might push you too far.

you open your mouth, searching for words that won’t taste bitter. “i’m… i don’t know,” you say eventually, clinging to honesty in its rawest form. “i hate this. i hate not knowing where he is, or if he’s…” you swallow, letting your gaze drift to the children playing, their carefree laughter a stark contrast to the lump of anxiety in your chest. “it’s like i can’t think about anything else.”

beomgyu nods, shoulders tense with empathy or a frustration he keeps subdued for your sake. “i know,” he murmurs. “it’s like you’re stuck waiting for a resolution that might never come, or if it does, it might not be what you want.”

a tight, humorless laugh escapes your lips. “exactly.”

for a few minutes, the world is just the soft hush of leaves rustling overhead, the muted background noise of distant traffic, and the silent heartache of two people who can’t quite fix what’s broken in another’s life. beomgyu shifts closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth of his arm near yours, a gentle reassurance without words.

you wonder if he can see how conflicted you are, how part of you longs to let go of this burden of worrying about wonbin, to fully embrace the ease that beomgyu offers. you wonder if beomgyu knows that another part of you can’t stop caring, that you can’t just flip a switch and snuff out the lingering threads of connection that bind you to a man who has never allowed himself to be bound to anyone.

the moment threatens to settle into a fragile peace, and maybe you would allow yourself to let that peace wash over you, if only for a short while. but fate has other plans. your phone vibrates with a soft buzz, shattering the fragile quiet. you tense, exchanging a swift glance with beomgyu, both of you suspecting it could be an update—good or bad.

with careful movements, you lift the device from your pocket, your heart stuttering when you see yunjin’s name on the screen. the dread you felt this morning rushes back, threatening to choke you, but you force yourself to tap the message open, ignoring how your hand trembles ever so slightly.

“someone thinks they saw him. near the old music shop by the station. it might be good for you to talk to him. alone.

a shaky exhale escapes you, relief and anxiety battling in your chest, relief that there’s a clue, anxiety because it means you might have to confront whatever state he’s in. you read the message again to be sure, then glance at beomgyu, who’s watching you carefully, his posture braced as though preparing for a sudden storm.

“she said someone saw him,” you mutter, your voice taut. “at that old music shop near the station.”

beomgyu’s brows knit together, his gaze sharpening with concern. “do you want to go?” he asks, softly. “or… do you want me to?”

that question, so full of unspoken understanding, lodges in your throat. you realize that your reluctance isn’t just about fear of what you might find, but also about the emotional toll of confronting him, of seeing him worn down or belligerent or both, of laying your feelings bare when he’s not in any state to hear them. yet you also know you can’t remain a passive bystander in your own heartbreak.

you rise from the bench with a sudden burst of determination that makes your pulse skip. “i can’t stay still anymore,” you say, a shiver of adrenaline tingling through your limbs. “if he’s really there, i… i have to try.” even as you speak the words, doubt flickers in your mind—what if he rejects you again? what if it’s just another dead end? but some quiet resolve within you insists that you can’t keep waiting for someone else to save him, or to confirm that he won’t be saved at all.

beomgyu stands beside you, the reflection of your resolve mirrored in his eyes, though you notice a flicker of hesitation. “are you sure?” he asks gently. “you don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

that warmth in your chest returns, a grateful ache that he’s offering to be your support once more. but something compels you to go by yourself—maybe it’s a sense that this confrontation is personal, that your entanglement with wonbin is twisted enough that beomgyu’s presence might only make the tension escalate. or maybe it’s fear, the primal instinct to protect beomgyu from the crash-and-burn that might occur if you step into the eye of wonbin’s storm.

“i think…” you pause, biting your lip, forcing your gaze to hold beomgyu’s, not wanting him to misconstrue your hesitation as rejection. “i need to do this. at least, i need to try, you know?”

his expression softens, a mixture of understanding and unspoken concern. “i get it,” he says, voice quieter now, a tender note threading through each syllable. “but text me the moment you need anything, okay? i’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

you offer a half-smile, a fragile curve of your lips that doesn’t quite dispel the knot of anxiety in your gut. “thank you,” you whisper, leaning forward—almost out of instinct—and pressing your forehead against his shoulder for a fleeting moment, an embrace that smells of coffee and something comforting, the closeness washing over you like a reminder that you’re not entirely alone in this. then you straighten, clearing your throat against the rush of adrenaline. “i’ll let you know how it goes.”

the walk back to his car feels too short, each step bringing you closer to a confrontation you can’t predict. the late afternoon sun, angled and honey-colored, slants across the pavement, illuminating dust motes that swirl around your ankles. you stare at the shifting light, trying to center yourself, trying to ignore the wild pounding of your heart and the sense that you’re about to take a step off a metaphorical cliff.

beomgyu drives you back to your apartment so you can get your own car, a silence lingering that is not awkward but thick with the weight of impending action. at your door, he reaches out to squeeze your hand once, a silent infusion of courage, before you part ways, him heading off to do who-knows-what, maybe just to wait by his phone in case you call. your footsteps echo in the stairwell, every breath tasting of anticipation and dread, your phone clutched in your hand in case yunjin or minjeong has more intel.

the road blurs beneath your tires as you head toward the station, the old music shop yunjin mentioned your beacon of possibility. it feels strange, to be chasing after him again, to be following breadcrumbs of rumored sightings, as though he’s some elusive figure you’re desperate to catch before he disappears all over again. yet you can’t deny the pull that tugs at your chest, compelling you forward even though logic warns you that this might end in heartbreak or another dead end.

still, you drive, not because you’re certain of a happy ending, but because a part of you refuses to let him slip away without at least trying. the city passes in a swirl of color and motion—towering buildings, cramped side streets, the whir of traffic lights switching from green to red, as if the entire metropolis breathes in tandem with your anxiety. you catch your reflection in the rearview mirror at one point: wide eyes, parted lips, a faint tension etched into every plane of your face, and you realize you look exactly how you feel—unsteady, yet determined.

and as the station’s outline comes into view, flanked by the low, unassuming storefronts, you inhale a shaky breath, your fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ache. this is it, another juncture, another fork in the road where wonbin might be waiting—or might not be waiting at all. the thought makes your stomach lurch, but you push through it, letting the car roll into a parking spot across from the music shop. you linger a moment, engine still running, summoning the courage to step out, to cross the street, to possibly stare into wonbin’s eyes again and see something that might hurt more than you’re prepared for.

as you approach the old music shop, heart pounding with every step. the sign above the door is faded, chipped at the edges, recalling a time when this place was alive with eager customers and the hum of discovery—long before mp3s and streaming rendered its business more nostalgic than lucrative. this is where yunjin’s message directed you: somewhere near this corner, someone saw wonbin. and you, propelled by a day’s worth of worry and a single frayed thread of hope, find yourself here, bracing for whatever confrontation might come.

the city around you feels oddly still, as though it’s holding its breath, waiting to see how this moment will unfold. each footfall echoes in your ears, underscored by the faint hiss of passing cars, the occasional murmur of distant conversation. you scan the dimly lit alcoves by the shop’s entrance, the windows where instruments—dusty guitars and yellowing piano sheet music—sit in quiet disuse. your pulse thrums in your ears, louder than the city’s gentle buzz.

and then you see him.

he’s tucked away to the side, standing with one shoulder pressed against the aged brick wall that flanks the music shop’s glass door. at first glance, you notice the slump in his posture, the hoodie drawn up to shadow his face, the flicker of tension in the way his arms fold tightly across his chest as though he’s barricading himself from the world. there’s a cigarette between his lips—unlit, but fidgeted with as if the mere ritual of holding it steady might calm the internal storm you’ve witnessed behind his eyes more times than you can count.

your heart twists at the sight, a mix of relief and apprehension. you step closer, inhaling a deep breath that does nothing to still your trembling nerves. he spots you, his gaze flicking up beneath the hoodie’s edge, eyes narrowing in recognition and, perhaps, in something else—a flicker of fear, a flash of annoyance, or both. you can’t tell. all you know is that the tension in his body ratchets tighter, a silent warning, telling you he isn’t in the mood for questions.

“you found me,” he says, voice low and controlled, a disinterested veneer that doesn’t quite mask the fragility you sense. he pushes off the wall, arms remaining crossed, cigarette dangling from his fingers. “thought yunjin would come, or maybe gunil. guess they sent you instead.”

there’s no hostility in his tone—more of a flat resignation, like he can’t muster the energy to be truly angry, but can’t bring himself to open up either. you hesitate, uncertain how to approach him without triggering the reflex that’s always driven him to flee: that deep-seated fear that anyone who gets too close will only end up leaving.

“no one sent me,” you say softly, trying to steady your voice. “i came on my own.”

he huffs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the small action betraying agitation. the dying sun gilds the edges of his hair and reveals the traces of exhaustion etched into his features—dark circles shadowing his eyes, a drawn tightness around his mouth.

“so you’re just… here, what, worried about me? is that it?” the words are dismissive, but the question lingers, an unspoken challenge: why do you still care?

you swallow hard, forcing your gaze not to waver. “yes,” you answer simply, because anything else feels like a lie. you notice the slight quiver in your own voice, but you stand firm. “i am worried. you’re—” you bite down on the rest of the sentence, not wanting to load him with statements like you’re hurting yourself or you’re scaring us all, not when you see how tightly he’s gripping his own arms, how close he is to unraveling or shutting you out completely.

he exhales, the tip of the unlit cigarette trembling between his fingertips. “well, i’m alive,” he says flatly, “and i’m not exactly in the mood for a lecture. so you can go back and tell the others to stop searching.”

anger flares in your chest, brief but hot, because you’ve spent the entire day in emotional limbo, and the insouciance in his voice grates on something raw within you. “i’m not here to lecture you,” you counter, though your voice tightens with withheld frustration. “but i can’t just pretend i don’t see you falling apart.”

his lips twist, caught between a bitter smirk and a sneer, but he doesn’t let the expression fully form. instead, he averts his gaze to the darkening sky, as if the clouds overhead are more deserving of his attention than you. “i’ve been fine doing this on my own,” he murmurs, defensive. “didn’t need anyone’s pity before, don’t need it now.”

the word pity pierces you, and you realize again how deeply rooted his fears must be—how he reads concern as condescension, care as pity, empathy as an intrusion. your pulse thrums louder, a silent drumbeat of frustration and heartbreak. “it’s not pity,” you say, gentler this time, letting your hand hover near his arm without touching him. “it’s worry. it’s fear. i don’t know why you think none of us care, but that’s not true.”

he tenses, turning his face away, one hand lifting to push back the hoodie, finally revealing the sharp angles of his features in the evening glow. you notice the slight bruise on the side of his jaw, maybe from the night before, maybe older than that; you can’t tell. “i never said you don’t care,” he grinds out, “just that i don’t want it.”

the sting of those words lances through your chest, and for a second, you consider leaving—letting him brood in his self-imposed isolation, letting him drown in the pain he won’t let anyone help relieve. but a fiercer voice inside you refuses. it’s not that you believe you can save him; it’s that you can’t stand by and watch him drift further into this darkness without at least trying to reach him.

so you swallow the hurt, steel yourself, and speak anyway, voice quiet but unwavering. “i’m not leaving,” you say. “not unless you physically make me.”

a mirthless chuckle escapes him, the sound abrasive, cutting against the softness of your tone. “you’re stubborn,” he mutters, exhaling and lifting the cigarette to his lips in a half-hearted attempt to light it before seeming to remember that his hands are trembling too much to manage. with a frustrated sigh, he shoves the cigarette back into his pocket. “just… don’t expect me to spill my guts to you here in the middle of the street.”

the tension between you crackles, his eyes meeting yours for a beat too long, a swirl of yearning and pain that he tries to bury behind a brusque exterior. you consider the risk of pushing him too far—fearful that if you say the wrong thing, he’ll slip away again, disappearing into the night. but you can’t let the moment pass. you take a slow breath.

“come home with me,” you start, words leaving your mouth before you fully think them through. a flicker of uncertainty crosses your mind—inviting him to your place might be too forward, too personal for a man who’s made avoidance an art form. but then you recall the messy truth: you’ve never been to his place, not once, never seen where he lays his head to rest when the world becomes too loud. and that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? the chasms he builds between himself and anyone who could matter.

“or… actually, let me come to yours,” you amend, swallowing. “i’ve never seen it. if you want to talk in private, if you’re tired of everyone else butting in—let me in, wonbin.”

he hesitates, an almost pained flicker crossing his features, and for a heartbeat you think he’s going to reject you flat out, spit some dismissive remark that ensures you know how unwelcome your concern is. but he doesn’t. instead, a sort of resignation slumps his shoulders further, and he says nothing for several seconds—an extended pause in which the night air seems to chill around you.

“fine,” he finally manages, the word barely more than a whisper. “but don’t say i didn’t warn you.” it’s a flimsy attempt at bravado, a veiled threat that what you’ll see will only disappoint you further, but you cling to the subtle shift, the fact that he hasn’t told you to go to hell, that you’re a step closer to crossing that barrier he’s held so firmly.

tension and relief swirl into a heady concoction, making your heart pound. you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, nodding. “okay,” you reply softly, aware that your voice trembles with more emotion than you want to reveal.

“lead the way.”

the silence in wonbin’s car is stifling—different from the comfortable hush you’ve shared with beomgyu before, different from the worried hush of your own four walls. this is a tense, charged sort of quiet, thick with everything neither of you is saying.

it’s dark now, the city lights shimmering against the windows, casting fleeting reflections across wonbin’s profile. you steal a glance at him, noticing the set line of his jaw, the way his hands grip the wheel like it’s the only stable thing in his life.

you half-expect him to break the quiet with a sarcastic remark or a sardonic query of whether you’re satisfied now, but he says nothing, so you let the hush linger, focusing on the hum of the engine and the blur of headlights passing by. part of you wonders if this was a terrible idea—if pushing him to let you in only sets you up for heartbreak. but another part insists you couldn’t keep dancing around the matter. not anymore.

when the car finally pulls up to an older apartment complex, overshadowed by newer, sleeker buildings nearby, your anxiety spikes. it’s not what you pictured, but then again, you never allowed yourself to imagine where wonbin went at night when he vanished from your line of sight. the exterior is worn, the lobby dimly lit with a single fluorescent bulb buzzing overhead, creating a flicker that sets your nerves further on edge.

wonbin says nothing as he leads you through a narrow hallway, passing door after identical door until he stops at one near the end. the corridor smells faintly of old carpet and something vaguely medicinal, and you notice the tension in his shoulders as he fumbles for his keys. he can’t quite keep his hands steady, and a pang of concern tugs at your chest.

the door swings open to reveal a small living space, cluttered with evidence of a life he’s not proud to show: empty takeout containers on a table pushed against the wall, an ashtray overflowing on the windowsill, a guitar leaning against a corner covered in a thin layer of dust. the lights are off, leaving only the glow from a streetlamp outside to illuminate the edges of the room. wonbin flips a switch, casting a washed-out yellow light across mismatched furniture and scattered clothes.

“happy now?” he mutters, stepping aside so you can enter. the sarcasm in his tone falls flat; it lacks its usual bite, as though even that well of emotion has run dry.

your chest constricts at the sight. the place isn’t filthy, but it’s suffused with a sense of neglect—a place that houses a person who lost interest in maintaining appearances long ago. you glance back at wonbin, noticing how he can’t quite meet your gaze, how he seems poised to bolt if you express anything resembling judgement.

“thank you,” you say quietly, stepping into the space, letting your gaze roam over the details. the worn couch near the window, the scuffed coffee table, the single bookshelf that holds more empty space than books, a few half-burnt candles melted onto the windowsill. “for letting me in.”

he exhales, dropping his keys onto the coffee table with a dull thunk. “don’t make a big deal out of it,” he mutters, his posture stiff, but it’s almost defensiveness rather than coldness now. a fragile line drawn to keep himself safe. then, with a resigned gesture, he sinks onto the couch, elbows braced on his knees, head tilted downward like he can’t muster the energy to keep up the bravado.

you linger a moment, uncertainty gripping you. you want to approach him, but you know better than to crowd him. eventually, you cross the room, settling onto the far end of the couch, leaving space between you that might feel safe. your heart thuds, a steady drum of concern, confusion, and that faint glimmer of hope you can’t extinguish.

the hush that follows is thick, filled with the unspoken weight of everything you’ve needed to say. you can sense his heartbeat in the quiet, even if you can’t literally hear it—some resonance in the air that marks the tension coiling around him. minutes pass, or maybe seconds, and you feel the ground shifting beneath you, like you’re on the brink of a precipice.

“why did you come?” he finally asks, lifting his head just enough that his eyes meet yours. there’s a spark in them—some mix of pain, frustration, and a yearning so deep it sends a shiver down your spine. “why do you even care what happens to me, after everything?”

you swallow hard, the honesty he’s demanding wedged like a lump in your throat. “i can’t stand by and watch you keep hurting yourself,” you manage, voice trembling slightly. “i know you don’t believe it, but—i do care. we all do.”

he laughs, a short, hollow sound. “caring. yeah.” his gaze drifts to the guitar propped in the corner. a memory flickers across his features, something that pinches his brows together, a lament too deep to name. “people always say they care—until they don’t. until they find a reason to leave.”

the bitterness in his tone is a raw, jagged edge, and you realize with sudden clarity that it’s not arrogance driving him to push people away—it’s terror, a conviction that if he doesn’t abandon them first, they’ll do it to him. you shift closer, your hand resting lightly on the couch’s threadbare cushion near his arm. “that’s not how it has to be,” you whisper, heart aching with how clearly you see it now: the battered ideal he clings to, that no one truly stays unless forced, that love is fleeting and abandonment is inevitable.

he exhales a shuddering breath, dragging a hand over his face as if trying to scrape away the memories that haunt him. “you don’t get it,” he mutters, but there’s no venom left. “i’ve… i’ve lost too many people, okay? i learned early on that it’s easier not to want them around in the first place than to watch them walk away.”

the words linger, thick with unsaid stories, and a pang of empathy surges through you, so strong it almost takes your breath away. you think about the glimpses you’ve caught—the emptiness in his eyes on stage sometimes, the nights he disappeared into clubs or random hotel rooms, the tension in his jaw whenever you or the band inched too close emotionally. it was never about malice; it was about defense.

“that must have been lonely,” you say softly, letting your voice carry a gentleness that invites him to speak, to trust that you’re not here to condemn or mock.

he closes his eyes for a moment, jaw working as though he’s grinding the words between his teeth. “my mother left when i was a kid,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper. “i was old enough to understand, to notice her not coming home, to realize she’d decided i wasn’t enough reason to stay.” a muscle in his throat twitches, and you see him clench his fists on his knees, the emotion reverberating through every line of his posture. “ever since then, i’ve been convinced people will always leave. so i leave them first, or i make sure there’s nothing for them to stick around for.”

a hush envelops the room as he allows that confession to settle in the stale air. your heart clenches at the raw vulnerability he’s laid bare, the grief that’s shaped him into a man who thinks sabotage is safer than the risk of real attachment. you inch closer, your voice trembling with sorrow for the boy he once was. “i’m so sorry,” you murmur, uncertain if the words are enough but knowing you have to say them. “that must have been unimaginably painful.”

he barks a laugh, but it’s hollow and choked. “painful, yeah. but you learn. you learn that it’s easier to pretend you don’t want anyone around. you drink, you party, you do whatever it takes to forget for a while, because forgetting is better than caring and watching them walk away.”

his voice cracks at the end of the sentence, a barely there tremor that makes your eyes sting with unshed tears. you can’t imagine the depth of that fear, the armor he’s built so meticulously. “and that’s why you pushed me away?” you dare to ask, your question breaching the final boundary between you.

he lifts his gaze to yours, and you see it, the flicker of heartbreak that has nothing to do with you personally and everything to do with the ghost of a past that taught him the cruelest lesson. “i didn’t think anyone could feel something real for me,” he murmurs, the confession slipping out like a torn whisper, “not beyond the surface.”

in the quiet that follows, you realize your own breath has caught in your throat, tears pressing at the corners of your eyes. you understand now: every moment he half-reached for you, every time he let something warm flash in his smile only to shut it down, every night he disappeared and pretended he didn’t need you—these were manifestations of a man who believes love is ephemeral, that letting someone in is inviting a fresh wound.

“wonbin,” you say softly, your voice shaking with the weight of what you feel. “i’m not going to say i understand all your pain, but i see you. and i’ve… i’ve cared more than i wanted to admit. it hurt when you pushed me away, when you acted like it meant nothing, when you vanished into nights i had no part of.” you pause, exhaling a trembling breath. “i won’t lie and say it’s easy to forgive all that pain. but i’m here, and i’m not leaving just because it’s hard.”

he exhales, sagging back against the couch, head tilting until it rests on the worn fabric. the expression on his face is indescribable—part disbelief, part yearning, part guilt for every wound he’s inflicted on himself and those who tried to care. you watch him, heart pounding, conscious that the next words or silences could shape the fragile path you’re on.

“i’m tired,” he admits, voice raspy with exhaustion. “tired of running, tired of feeling like i have to ruin everything before it ruins me.” his lashes flutter, as though the day’s weight drags him deeper into a quiet confession. “and i’m sorry,” he adds, so softly you almost miss it. “for all the ways i hurt you, for every time i made you doubt yourself or made you think you weren’t—”

his words trail off, lost to a shiver of breath. you can’t help the tears that slip down your cheeks, silent testimonies to the heartbreak of watching someone you care for unravel and push you away time after time. “thank you,” you whisper, forcing yourself to stay steady, “for saying that.”

the hush that follows is laced with the soft hum of city traffic outside the window, the distant clang of metal on metal. you feel the tension in him recede by degrees, as though the act of finally articulating his fear has siphoned off some of the poison he’s carried. slowly, almost imperceptibly, his eyes flutter shut, and you notice how his posture slackens, the edges of his fatigue pulling him toward sleep in the only place he’s ever allowed you to see with your own eyes. the day’s anxieties, the built-up torment of his past, seem to drag him under like an irresistible tide.

you let him slip into slumber without another word, repositioning yourself carefully on the couch, the faint lamplight casting long shadows across the disarray of his living space. a part of you wants to gather him in your arms, to show him physically what you can’t fully express with words, but you hold back, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the relief that for once he’s not out there, lost and spiraling.

the ache in your own heart hasn’t lessened—not really. you still remember the many nights you waited for a message that never came, the humiliation of not knowing if you mattered enough for him to stay. but as you watch the subtle flutter of his closed lashes, the tension in his brow easing for the first time in what feels like ages, you realize that something in you refuses to give up on him. you can’t pretend everything is suddenly okay, that you forgive every wound inflicted by his fear, but you sense that this is worth holding onto—the bare truths he laid bare, the battered sincerity behind his words.

tonight, he sleeps with you nearby, not alone in some stranger’s bed or a hotel where no one knows his name. you remain there, gazing at the quiet vulnerability he likely never intended to show. this doesn’t mean you give in completely, you remind yourself, your heartbeat slowing to match the gentle cadence of his breathing. it doesn’t erase the pain or the questions. but it feels like a beginning, a single honest moment in the midst of chaos, a fragile promise that there’s something deeper than the casual heartbreak you once thought defined him.

with the soft lamplight painting shapes on the walls and the faint hum of the city outside, you let your own eyes close for a moment, exhaustion nudging at the edges of your awareness. you remain mindful, though, wanting to be awake if he stirs, if he needs you, if he panics in the aftermath of opening up. but for now, in the hush of his apartment that bears so many scars of a lonely life, you settle into the knowledge that he allowed you inside—and for all the lingering hurt and unresolved tension, you cling to that sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, he won’t have to be alone anymore if he chooses not to be.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the morning after wonbin’s quiet confession passes in a subdued hush, the two of you skirting around the aftermath of his revelation without quite naming it again.

he wakes on his couch, disoriented at first, scanning the unfamiliar angle of the room, the gray wash of dawn seeping through the curtains, and you notice the fleeting confusion that flickers over his features when he realizes he’s not alone.

there’s a tension to him, a guarded hesitance in his gaze, as though he’s afraid you might regret staying. you don’t. but neither of you presses for more words; last night’s confessions linger like a fragile thread between you, something that needs space to settle.

and so you part ways in the morning, with a nod, a soft exchange of glances, and a promise that neither of you will run from the moment you shared. you don’t know precisely what that means for your relationship, but it feels like a step—something less than a resolution yet more than a stalemate. wonbin doesn’t ask for forgiveness outright, and you don’t offer it. but both of you sense that something has shifted, that the fortress he built to keep people out is starting to show cracks.

later that day, you find yourself in the rehearsal room, the band gathered for a practice that none of you quite expected to happen so soon. the label had mentioned the possibility of taking a break due to the recent turmoil—wonbin’s face splashed across tabloids, the hush around his disappearance—but then a message from hongjoong went out: practice is on—everyone, be on time.

no one questioned it. you all just showed up, tension thrumming beneath your collective determination. it was a chance, perhaps, to see where things stood.

when you walk in, gunil and minjeong are loading up cables and setting out fresh picks, yunjin flipping through her phone while hongjoong organizes sheet music on a stand. you almost don’t notice wonbin at first because you expect him to be late—like always, or at least like he has been in recent months.

but he’s there, standing quietly near the corner with one hand resting on the edge of the table, eyes flicking over the room as though taking stock of everything. his posture is composed, not slouched or guarded, just... present in a way you haven’t seen in a long while.

you feel your heart stutter, recalling how he looked last night, exhausted but sincere, the shadows in his eyes as he admitted more than you ever thought he would. it’s surreal to see him now in the stark overhead lighting of the studio, wearing that same hoodie but without the hood drawn low, his hair ruffled as if he’s run his hands through it one too many times in the past hour. there’s a quietness to him that isn’t detached, a sense that he’s here for a reason rather than out of obligation.

“hey,” he says softly when your gaze meets.

it’s just one word, but the tone carries a subtle warmth that wasn’t there before. you manage a small nod in return, noticing how the tension in your chest loosens just a fraction at the sight of him being here, in the truest sense of the word.

the practice starts in a low hum of conversation—hongjoong gently corralling everyone’s attention, minjeong fiddling with her bass amp levels, yunjin wrapping a hair tie around her wrist before checking mic stands. normally, this scene would feel routine, but today, there’s an undercurrent of curiosity rippling among you all: what version of wonbin has shown up? is he going to withdraw, snap, or vanish halfway through?

he does none of those things.

instead, as you begin running through a track that’s been giving you trouble in the studio—a piece with intricate harmonies and a tricky transition—wonbin quietly positions himself at his mic stand. there’s no grand announcement, no pointed look to confirm he’s ready.

he’s just there, focusing on the sheet music with a calm determination you haven’t seen in months. and when the first chords ring out, you can feel the difference almost instantly: he’s in it, fully, letting his voice weave with yours in a way that flows naturally, unforced, reminiscent of the synergy that once defined your band.

the subtle shift in the air is palpable—gunil glances over his shoulder mid-beat, eyebrows raised in mild surprise, while yunjin and minjeong exchange a quick flicker of eye contact that seems to say, do you hear that? even hongjoong stills for a fraction of a second, fingers pausing on the keys as though startled by the hint of the old wonbin slipping through. you catch beomgyu’s gaze at one point, a ghost of a smile on his face, a shared recognition that this is how it used to feel—like each of you was part of something alive, something cohesive and electric.

wonbin doesn’t speak much through the session, but it’s in his actions that you see the changes—the small steps he’s taking. he helps minjeong carry an extra speaker, rolling it into place without prompting. he mutes his own mic mid-song to give yunjin feedback on a tricky section rather than just ignoring the off-kilter note. he’s there when you struggle with a chord progression, quietly offering a pointer about finger placement, his eyes meeting yours with a tentative kind of acceptance. a silent i’m trying.

the band picks up on it: the old wonbin shining through in glimpses. he’s not flamboyant or loud, not strutting around as if nothing happened. but the negativity, the defeatist air he’s worn like a shield, seems to recede. he’s rejoining the current rather than standing on the banks, watching you all drift by.

when you reach a break in the schedule—an hour into practice—hongjoong calls for a quick pause to adjust sound levels. you slip away to grab water from the cooler in the corner, and you sense wonbin’s presence before you see him, stepping up behind you with measured caution.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice low but steady. “need help?”

the question might seem insignificant to anyone else, but you understand it’s so much more—a signal that he’s willing to extend himself. he never used to offer help unless it was forced out of him, or unless he could mask it as a flirtatious aside. this direct, understated gesture feels… genuine. you nod, letting him take one of the water bottles from the stack on the nearby table, your heart giving a small, grateful lurch.

“thanks,” you reply softly, meeting his eyes for a second longer than you normally would.

in that space, you see the weariness he still carries, the weight of the day that hasn’t vanished just because he’s making an effort. but there’s also a faint, flickering warmth, the suggestion that he hasn’t forgotten the conversation you shared. a spark that tells you he remembers what he confessed, and he’s not running from it—not at this moment, at least.

the rest of the practice continues with a surprising ease. whenever the band hits a tough spot in a track, wonbin actually suggests a pause to dissect the harmony rather than letting frustration simmer. he focuses on perfecting vocal runs with you, his tone supportive rather than critical, reminding you of earlier days when music bonded you all rather than highlighted the rifts. an unfamiliar sense of calm steals through your muscles, and you find yourself smiling more than once—small, quiet smiles that reflect how relieved you feel to see this side of him again.

you notice beomgyu watching the two of you from time to time, an unreadable flicker in his eyes. maybe a subdued caution, or a resigned acceptance that wonbin’s attempts to improve himself might complicate the dynamic between you and beomgyu. but you also sense a subtle release of tension: beomgyu’s gaze softening every time he hears wonbin’s voice blend smoothly, every time he notices the slight cracks in the barriers wonbin erected. perhaps beomgyu, too, sees that this small step forward doesn’t erase the damage done, but it hints that maybe, just maybe, the future isn’t as bleak as it once seemed.

by the end of rehearsal, the sun has dipped low beyond the studio windows, the sky stained with streaks of pink and gold as evening creeps in. you’re packing up cables, coiling them carefully so they don’t tangle, when wonbin appears at your side again, silent in his approach. your pulse stutters—once, in fear he might revert to the old, closed-off habits. but there’s something almost hesitant in the way he reaches out, lightly brushing your hand to get your attention rather than using words. you look up, meeting those dark eyes that hold fewer secrets than they did yesterday.

“good job today,” he says, voice still quiet, but there’s an undercurrent of sincerity that sends warmth into your cheeks. “we sounded… better.”

you nod, heart skipping as you recall the synergy you felt during the run-through of that particularly difficult track. “yeah. it felt… right,” you agree, the corners of your lips curving into a faint smile.

you realize you’re still holding one end of a coiled cable, and he’s holding the other, a tangible metaphor for the fragile connection you’re attempting to rebuild: two people holding onto something that needs both of you to keep from tangling.

he breaks eye contact first, dropping his gaze to the cable with a self-consciousness that is almost endearing. “listen,” he starts, and you hold your breath, sensing a hesitation, “i know it doesn’t fix everything. but i’m trying.”

those three words—i’m trying—land with a surprising weight. you feel a knot of emotion tighten in your chest. you might not be ready to forgive everything, might still be wrestling with the bruises he left on your heart, but it resonates that he’s acknowledging this process, that he won’t just say sorry and expect the rest to vanish.

“i can see that,” you say softly, letting the sincerity show. “and… it means a lot.”

a breath escapes him, slow and shaky, as though he’s absorbing the magnitude of this moment. you notice the slight tremor in his fingers, but instead of withdrawing, he finishes securing the cable, placing it carefully among the spares, an action that epitomizes the small steps he’s taking: conscientious, thoughtful, a departure from the distant man who used to breeze in late and disappear early.

the rest of the band begins to filter out, yunjin and minjeong sharing a relieved smile, gunil shooting a friendly jab in wonbin’s direction, calling him “mr. punctual” and earning a faint grin in return. hongjoong lingers by the door, watching with that watchful leadership you’ve come to trust, a nod of subtle approval crossing his face when he sees wonbin helping you finish the last of the clean-up.

as you gather the final coils, you catch wonbin looking around the room—taking stock, perhaps, of what he almost lost in his downward spiral. his gaze touches the mics, the amps, the instruments, then settles on you. and in that shared glance, you understand that this moment isn’t about grand gestures or eloquent apologies. it’s about being here, showing up, laying down small bricks of effort that might one day form a bridge to something stable.

the two of you step outside together, the evening air nipping at your skin, the city lights flickering awake as dusk claims the sky. he stands close enough that you can feel the quiet tension in his posture, as if he’s still bracing himself for rejection. you turn to him, heart thudding, words unspoken but pressing against your throat.

“thank you,” you say eventually, hoisting your bag over your shoulder. “for today. it… it helped.”

he doesn’t flinch or retreat. instead, he nods slowly, the ghost of a smile braving its way onto his lips. “i guess… i’ll see you tomorrow?” it comes out more like a question, as though verifying he’s still allowed in this space, still granted the chance to earn back trust.

“yeah,” you murmur, relieved by the simplicity of it, by the promise that there will be a tomorrow. “see you tomorrow.”

you part ways, steps echoing on opposite sides of the pavement, but there’s no suffocating sense of finality. instead, it feels like a cautious opening, an unspoken agreement that neither of you will abandon this delicate path you’ve started walking. you’re not pretending his fears or your hurts have disappeared; they still occupy the edges of your consciousness. but for once, the notion of him running into oblivion feels less immediate, less certain.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the late afternoon sun has slipped beneath the skyline, painting the world in a gentle wash of dusky lavender and gold, as you make your way through the winding back streets to the small, out-of-the-way place where wonbin asked to meet you.

you weren’t sure what to expect—some hidden practice studio, a forgotten corner of the city, a park bench under the waning sky—but the address he sent leads you to a discreet entrance tucked between two older buildings, away from the usual bustle. it looks like a private lounge or a space that isn’t open to the general public tonight, the kind of secluded haven where one might find the courage to speak truths they’d otherwise bury.

your pulse quickens at the thought of being alone with him again, especially after the fragile peace you both reached during practice. the tension that once defined your every interaction has shifted into something laden with potential, with the promise of a conversation so long overdue it feels almost surreal.

you step inside, each slow breath carrying a quiver of anticipation, noticing the soft lamplight illuminating a single table near the back. the air smells faintly of tea leaves and distant incense, and the lighting is low enough to wrap the space in an intimate hush.

he’s there, waiting. the sight of him tugs at your heart in a way you’re still getting used to—standing near a small table, the warm glow playing off the sharp lines of his features, his eyes flicking to the doorway the moment he senses movement.

something in his posture, in the taut set of his shoulders and the subtle flex of his fingers, conveys an urgency you’ve seldom witnessed: he wants this, he wants to be here. he has changed out of the usual hoodie, instead wearing a casual sweater with sleeves loose enough that you catch glimpses of the rings adorning his fingers whenever he moves. you notice how, every so often, he fiddles with them, twisting the metal, a restless action that betrays his nerves.

as you cross the room, time seems to slow, the air itself holding its breath. the overhead lights form a sort of halo above him, revealing the flicker of tension in his jaw, the way his bottom lip draws between his teeth for a moment before he exhales and stands straighter, preparing himself. you reach him, and for a beat, neither of you speaks, locked in the awareness that whatever happens next might change everything.

“thank you for coming,” he says at last, his voice low and quiet, as if raising it any louder might shatter the delicate atmosphere.

you nod, a smile ghosting across your lips, and he gestures toward the table set up for two—no grand fanfare, just two chairs facing each other, a small pitcher of water, the subtle hint of privacy. it feels intimate in a way you once thought impossible for him to initiate.

you settle into the chair, your heart thudding in your chest, a thrumming that intensifies when he sits opposite you, folding his hands on the table. the lamplight catches the rings on his fingers, glinting in soft reflections, and you see him flexing them again, a nervous habit. his eyes flick downward before returning to yours, and you sense the battle warring within him, the old reflex to hide, measured against this new desire to reach for something beyond fear.

“i’m sorry it’s so… quiet,” he murmurs, a faint quirk of his lips betraying a glimmer of self-consciousness. “i didn’t know where else we could talk without being overheard or interrupted.” he exhales, brushing his palm across the tabletop as though he’s trying to ground himself in the tangible.

“i just… i needed somewhere private.”

the sincerity in his tone unravels a bit of the tension coiled in your chest. you shake your head, letting your smile grow slightly. “this is perfect,” you say, the words coming out softer than you intend. “it’s nice.”

his gaze holds yours for a moment that feels suspended in a fragile bubble, until he draws in a breath that seems to fortify him.

“i… i’ve been thinking,” he starts, pausing to drag his teeth over his lower lip in that nervous way. “ever since… well, since that night, and then seeing you during practice, and realizing that i—” he breaks off, glancing down at his own hands, the rings shifting again under the press of his fingers, as though he’s mustering the will to voice emotions that he’s kept chained for far too long.

your pulse quickens at the vulnerability in his posture, the way he curls his shoulders in slightly, as if he needs to contain the surge of feeling that threatens to spill out. “you can say it,” you encourage gently, leaning forward, resting your arms on the table, your voice barely above a whisper. “i won’t run.”

his throat works around a swallow, and he lifts his eyes to meet yours again. they glisten with an unshed emotion that he hasn’t quite learned to name, but you can sense it—the tumult, the longing, the fear.

“i know,” he murmurs, voice rasped, his next breath trembling. “i know you won’t run. that’s why i… that’s why i need to do this.”

for a heartbeat, neither of you moves, the hush expanding between you, thick with anticipation. then he inhales again, a slow draw that firms his resolve.

“i’ve liked you,” he admits, voice straining at the edges of control, “for a while. probably longer than i’d ever admit to myself. but i kept… burying it, pretending it was just… interest or curiosity or something fleeting. because it felt safer, you know? if i didn’t name it, it couldn’t hurt me.”

a tender ache flares in your chest, because you see how much this confession costs him, how he’s stepping into territory he never wanted to navigate. “wonbin—” you begin, but he halts you with a slight shake of his head, as though he needs to spill these words in one continuous outpour before he loses the nerve.

“let me say it,” he pleads, eyes glimmering with unshed tears he’s not yet sure he can allow to fall. “i can’t keep dancing around it and hoping you’ll somehow understand. i need you to know that… it’s not just some fleeting thing. it’s… it’s everything. the way you laugh, the way you challenge me when i’m being an ass, the way you care so deeply even when i give you every reason to stop.” his voice cracks on the last words, a raw edge that underscores his anguish over the times he pushed you away or shut you out.

“i tried to run from it. i told myself it wouldn’t last, that you’d leave, and i didn’t want to be there when it happened. but i realized how... miserable i was making myself, how i was sabotaging a chance to… to let someone in.”

the confession hangs in the air, more potent than anything else he could have done—no grand gesture, no sweeping proclamation in front of the entire band, just the naked truth of his fear, his avoidance, his realization that he cannot continue living in isolation when his heart yearns for your companionship. you feel warmth kindle behind your ribs, a gentle glow that starts to chip away at the bitterness of months spent unsure of where you stood with him.

he breathes unsteadily, and you notice the tears brightening his eyes, an unspoken apology for the times he let his demons eclipse the simple possibility of together.

“i know i have so much to make up for,” he continues, lifting one hand to wipe hastily at the moisture threatening to spill onto his cheeks. “i know i’ve hurt you with my stupid push-and-pull routine, with the way i would ignore you or make you question if you ever mattered. i’m not asking you to forget that or pretend it didn’t happen.” he pauses, swallowing thickly, flicking his gaze to the ring on his thumb he keeps rolling in tense little circles. “i just… i want you to understand i’m trying. i’m trying to be better, to… let this be something real, if you still want it to be. i can’t promise i won’t fail sometimes, but i promise i’ll show up.”

the sincerity in his tone unravels the knot of tension inside you, and you exhale, realizing your own eyes sting with tears.

“wonbin,” you murmur, reaching across the table, offering your hand in a trembling gesture of acceptance. “i’m not going to lie and say i’m not scared too. you hurt me a lot. and i… i was ready to walk away so many times, to say that if you couldn’t open up, i shouldn’t keep waiting. but i couldn’t stop caring, no matter how much i told myself i should.”

he glances at your outstretched hand, tears finally slipping down his cheeks, and for a second, you think he might pull away out of habit. but then he threads his fingers gently through yours, leaning into the contact as though it anchors him. “i won’t blame you if you’re still angry,” he says, voice trembling in the hush of the room. “or if part of you needs time to trust me.”

the warmth of his skin against yours feels like an electric current, humming with the potential of something wondrous, something worth fighting for. “we’ll figure it out,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush softly over his knuckles, marveling at the softness beneath the rings that only moments ago rattled with his nervous energy. “together.”

the relief that flashes across his face is heartbreaking and beautiful all at once—he closes his eyes for a moment, tears spilling over, breathing in the promise that he doesn’t have to stand on the precipice alone. “i—I’m sorry,” he murmurs, opening his eyes again, tears making them shimmer in the golden lamp glow. “i don’t usually… i never cry, but… i—” he huffs a short laugh at himself, voice quivering, “this is terrifying. i keep waiting for that voice in my head to say you’ll leave me, but i’m fighting it.”

you squeeze his hand, heart ablaze with empathy and a tentative, blossoming joy. “i’m right here,” you assure him, voice thick with your own unshed tears. “i’m not leaving, not unless you decide to push me out. i need you to meet me halfway, though, to keep meeting me halfway.”

he nods, biting his bottom lip again, as if to stifle another flood of emotion. “i will,” he promises, and the gravity in his tone tells you he means it, even if he’s terrified of how to keep that promise. “i know it’s not just words, either. i have to prove it—through everything i do, no more games or excuses.” he exhales, the tears still glistening in the dimness, but there’s a calm beneath the heartbreak, a resolution that steadies him. “and i want to,” he adds softly. “for you, for me, for all the things i’ve spent so long running from.”

the closeness between you grows tangible, enveloping the space in a tender hush that feels almost sacred. slowly, you release his hand, sliding out of your chair, and he follows suit, rising with a cautious grace as though not to startle the fledgling moment. you circle the table until you’re standing before him, the music of your overlapping heartbeats filling the silence more potently than any background noise could. he’s a bit taller, forcing you to tilt your chin up, and you see the swirl of tears lingering at the edges of his lashes, the trembling set of his mouth.

without words, you open your arms just slightly, an invitation he accepts with a trembling inhale. he leans forward, letting his forehead rest against your shoulder, and your arms slide around his waist, clasping him gently. the vulnerability in his posture is staggering—he isn’t rigid or half-turned away. he’s letting you hold him, letting himself be held, as though he’s finally realized that human touch doesn’t have to herald an inevitable departure.

“it’s worth it,” he murmurs against the slope of your shoulder, voice muffled but fervent, “god, it’s all worth it. even if i’m scared every step of the way.”

tears prick at the corners of your own eyes again, your fingers splaying across his back, feeling the warmth of him through the soft weave of his sweater. “me too,” you whisper, your throat aching with emotion. “it scares me, but… i don’t want to run either.”

he lifts his head slightly, eyes meeting yours with an intimacy that makes your breath catch. in that single, suspended heartbeat, you sense how months, maybe years of tension and withheld confessions melt away, replaced by a mutual understanding that you can’t fix everything overnight, but you can both try, step by careful step, forging a path that doesn’t depend on sabotage or fear.

you watch his lips part, the subtle tremor in them, and for a moment you think he might lean in and bridge the space fully, but he hesitates, as though checking if the moment is right, if you want this too. your chest feels impossibly tight, a sweet ache coursing through your veins, so you nod—just a small tilt of your head, a silent yes—and in response, he closes that final gap, pressing a tentative, trembling kiss to the corner of your mouth.

it’s not a grand, sweeping kiss of cinematic proportions—rather, it’s gentle, almost shy, barely more than a brush of warmth that says i see you, i cherish you, i’m willing to risk this. it leaves you breathless, though, your heart pounding so loudly you’re certain he can feel it through your sweater. he tastes of unshed tears and the faint residue of fear, but there’s a hint of hope in it too, something bright and awakening.

when he pulls back, you notice that the tears have slipped down his cheeks, leaving faint trails across the curve of his face, but he’s smiling, a fragile yet genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. you mirror the expression without hesitation, letting your own tears spill over, each droplet a testament to the relief, the vulnerability, the love that threads between you. he lifts a hand to brush the back of his fingers against your cheek, then swallows hard.

“we’ll figure it out,” he repeats, voice raspy and thick with emotion, “together.”

and you believe him—because for the first time, neither of you is turning away, neither of you is burying the truth under bravado or silence. you may not have all the answers, and the wounds you both carry may need more time to heal, but in this small, secluded space, with the hush of the late evening pressing in around you, you hold on to each other, hearts hammering, tears drying on your faces, and the unspoken promise that maybe, just maybe, the future holds more than fear and regret: it holds the possibility of something real.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

time has a curious way of smoothing out rough edges without erasing them completely. in the weeks that follow wonbin’s confession—his trembling voice, the tears in his eyes, the tentative warmth that passed between you—life doesn’t magically transform overnight. there’s no abrupt, cinematic shift from chaos to harmony, no sudden disappearance of all the old wounds that had festered for so long. but there is progress, small and steady, the kind that signals hope rather than guaranteeing it, a quiet growth that takes root in the moments of everyday living.

it begins with phone calls: brief, uncertain ones, where you hear wonbin’s hesitant breath on the other end, and he asks in a low voice how you’re doing, or whether you’ve eaten, or if you need a ride to practice. each conversation feels like a delicate negotiation, both of you testing the waters to see if it’s safe to trust that he isn’t going to vanish again.

sometimes, his voice trembles with the weight of an apology left unspoken, but more often, it’s threaded with the subtle relief of being able to reach out without fear that you’ll push him away in return. it’s a tiny step, but each day you let him in, each day he manages to pick up the phone rather than drown himself in a bar, is a reminder that this path of healing, though fraught, is worth walking.

the band notices the changes in equally small increments. gunil stops calling him “mr. tardy,” because suddenly, wonbin arrives for practice five minutes early, rummaging through cables or adjusting mic stands before anyone else shows up.

minjeong, after one long session, catches his eye in a moment of private acknowledgment—like she never expected to see him quietly helping load the van instead of ducking out at the first opportunity, but here he is. yunjin, with her usual outspokenness, tries to rib him about it, but there’s no bite in her tease, just a gentle acceptance that maybe, at long last, he’s letting himself be part of the group again.

you see it too—feel it, in the subtle shift of his demeanor during rehearsals, the way he focuses on perfecting vocal harmonies or clarifying chord progressions rather than letting frustration slip into sarcasm or indifference. there’s a softness in his voice when he asks if you need a break, a sense of readiness in the way he offers feedback, no longer so guarded that he’d rather hold his tongue than risk vulnerability. it isn’t perfect: sometimes he stumbles, retreats into silence, or his eyes darken with old anxieties. but the difference is there, an undercurrent of determination pushing him forward, a desire to stay.

no single action transforms him, but each day, each carefully navigated conversation, each moment he chooses to open up rather than shut down, knits together to form the foundation of a new normal. you don’t let yourself get swept away by it; after all, you’ve been burned by his hot-and-cold routine before. yet you allow the cautious hope to bloom, one petal at a time, as he proves with consistent steps that the version of him who poured out his deepest fears in that quiet lounge is real, that he’s here to stay.

somewhere along the line, therapy enters the equation. you learn about it indirectly, when you notice a date circled on his phone’s calendar—a repeat appointment. one afternoon, he mentions it in passing, voice subdued, eyes flicking away as if expecting ridicule.

“i… i’ve been seeing someone.” your heart flutters with a complicated mix of relief and admiration, and you watch how his fingers curl against the edge of the practice-room table, as though bracing for scorn. you only nod, letting your hand brush lightly over his knuckles, telling him you think it’s good. his breath escapes in a tremulous exhale, relief shining in his eyes. it’s not a detail he trumpets in front of everyone, but neither does he hide it with his old ferocity. he’s taking ownership of his journey, confronting the scars left by abandonment head-on, guided by a professional who can help unravel the tangles he’s never dared to face.

you learn, over time, that these therapy sessions aren’t easy. sometimes he emerges looking wrung out, shoulders tight with suppressed emotion, but there’s also a brightness in his gaze afterward, as though naming his demons with someone who won’t run away has lessened their grip.

he never gives you a full rundown of what happens in the sessions, but occasionally, in the small, hushed intervals between songs at rehearsal or during an unplanned late-night phone call, he’ll drop a tidbit: “it’s weird,” he admits once, voice quiet, “talking to a stranger about… my mom, about how i keep expecting people to leave, about how i sabotage things before they can hurt me. but it helps.” he glances at you as he says it, eyes glimmering with an unspoken apology for all the ways he once turned that self-sabotage on you.

you, in turn, try to stay patient. your own hurt hasn’t magically vanished, and there are moments when the memory of him ignoring your calls or stumbling out of clubs with strangers still pricks at your heart. you tell him honestly when those memories resurface, refusing to bury them for the sake of false harmony.

meanwhile, the band’s momentum surges forward. the album is released, and discussions of a tour fill the group chat with excited banter. as you prepare for the big shows, practice sessions grow more intense. ironically, this is where you see the best of wonbin shining through: his stage presence merges with a dedication you haven’t witnessed since the earliest days, back when you first joined the group and everything felt bright with potential. there’s synergy in the music again, a sense that each note is a testament to the bond you share, the hardships endured, and the second chance unfolding.

and in the midst of this blossoming sense of unity, there’s beomgyu.

the closeness you developed with him remains, a comforting thread that weaves through your day-to-day life. he’s still the one who checks in with a casual text, “yo, how’s your day?” or lifts a corner of his mouth in a conspiratorial grin during a dull meeting. he shoulders the gear with you after rehearsal, engages in playful banter to lighten the mood when things grow tense, and occasionally invites you out for coffee. yet you sense an undercurrent that’s shifted, a tension that used to hum with possibility but has settled into something quieter—an unspoken acceptance.

you never meant to lead beomgyu on, never intended to exploit his kindness or allow your heartbreak over wonbin to color how you leaned on him. but it happened anyway, over late-night chats when the rest of the band was asleep, over jokes that made you laugh in a time when you feared you’d forgotten how. you know he likes you; maybe you knew it before you were ready to face it. perhaps you even tried for a second to love him the way he deserves, thinking it might be simpler, might be less fraught with risk. but your heart, wounded as it was, never quite let go of wonbin. and beomgyu, with a selflessness that breaks your heart more than once, saw it all along.

the moment between you and beomgyu comes later—after a particularly draining rehearsal where you’ve run the setlist for the upcoming showcase six times in a row, picking apart every detail until your voice feels raw, your fingers stiff. the others filter out, craving rest or food, but you remain behind to wrap cables, the space quiet except for the hum of an amplifier that’s still cooling off. beomgyu lingers too, rummaging through his guitar case, a strange tension in his movements.

when you finally straighten, cables neatly coiled at your feet, you notice he’s standing there with his arms crossed loosely, an almost tentative air around him.

“hey,” he says, voice casual, but his eyes betray a deeper consideration. “you want to stick around a bit? there’s something i wanted to talk about.”

your stomach flips, because you suspect what it might be. you notice how he’s no longer offering that easy grin, how there’s a pensive glimmer in his gaze. you nod, feeling the echo of your pulse in your throat. “sure,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

the two of you slip outside, finding seats on a short flight of concrete steps behind the studio. the night is warm, a thick summer haze lingering in the air, but there’s a gentle breeze that brushes your skin. overhead, the stars begin their slow appearance, faint glimmers in the city’s haze, and the streetlamp near the alleyway casts long shadows across the pavement. you find yourself fiddling with your phone, your earlier confidence wavering under the weight of what you need to face. beomgyu sits beside you, his posture relaxed yet charged with unspoken words, one sneakered foot bouncing in a restless rhythm.

“we should be celebrating,” he starts, eyes trained on a distant point in the dark. “the show’s in two weeks, the album’s done, everything’s finally falling into place.” a wry smile crosses his lips. “but i guess i’m not feeling it tonight.”

you inhale, a slow, measured breath, summoning the courage to ask. “why not?”

he glances at you, a half-laugh escaping. “because i’m… a little stuck. i guess i’ve been stuck for a while.” the laugh fades, replaced by a quiet intensity in his gaze. “we never really talked about… you and me, what almost was, or what might have been.”

your mouth feels dry, your heart aching at the nuance of his statement. you owe him an acknowledgment of everything he’s done for you, everything he’s been in the moments you felt most lost.

“beomgyu,” you begin softly, “i’m sorry.”

he shakes his head, leaning back on his palms, eyes flickering to the cluster of stars overhead. “don’t apologize, please,” he murmurs, a gentle resignation coloring his words. “i know we never made promises or anything. it wasn’t fair to you, or to me, to pretend that we were just friends when i was…” he exhales, letting the admission hover in the warm night air.

“i was falling for you in small, quiet moments, you know? not in the big, dramatic rush that i see between you and wonbin, but in these lingering glances, late-night confessions about life that no one else got to hear, the way i felt protective of you when he’d act like a jerk.”

your stomach twists, guilt and tenderness colliding in your chest. “i know,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the distant hum of passing cars. “i felt it too. i tried to see if i could love you the way you deserved, but my heart was never fully mine to give.”

he nods, letting your words settle. “it’s okay,” he eventually says, gaze lowering to his sneakers. “i think i always knew that. i was never going to win a heart that was already tangled up in someone else, especially not someone who could make you ache in the way you do for him.”

the truth in his statement hurts, even though it’s laced with acceptance rather than bitterness. you remember the times you shared with beomgyu—easy laughter, late-night drives, the quiet comfort of his presence. there was affection there, no doubt, but not the furious, all-consuming pull that dragged you back to wonbin despite the heartbreak.

“you deserved better,” you murmur, tears threatening to sting your eyes again, “than to be caught in the crossfire of my confusion.”

he offers you a small, lopsided smile that carries more warmth than you deserve. “maybe. but that’s how life goes sometimes. people meet at the wrong moments, hearts align or misalign, and we do our best not to wreck each other too much.” he glances at you fully, a softness in his eyes that almost makes your breath catch.

“i just want you to be happy. and i guess i finally see that your happiness is… there, with him, as messy as it might be.”

a knot loosens in your chest. you can’t help but place a hand gently against his arm in a gesture of gratitude. “thank you,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “thank you for caring enough to let me go.”

he exhales, a quiet chuckle escaping. “well, the alternative is being a total asshole, which isn’t really my style,” he jokes, but there’s truth in the humorless laugh that follows. “seriously, though… you think he’s changed? for good?” there’s no hostility in his question, just genuine concern for your well-being.

you consider it carefully, your mind flashing through images of wonbin’s therapy sessions, his gentle presence at rehearsals, the phone calls at night where he confesses small victories—like resisting the urge to drown his sorrows alone, or times he caught himself wanting to lash out but instead reached for coping tools he’s learning. “i think he’s… in the process,” you answer, your lips curving into a gentle smile. “but it’s real. i see it every day.”

beomgyu nods, his breath releasing in a sigh that’s part relief, part wistfulness. “then i’m rooting for you both,” he murmurs, letting the final barrier between you settle into something quieter, more solid. “i guess i just wanted to say that out loud, so neither of us keeps wondering what if.”

the hush that ensues is strangely comforting, no bitterness, no raised voices, just a shared recognition that your paths diverge here on calmer terms. the tension dissipates, replaced by a warm camaraderie that can carry you forward as bandmates, as friends who once flirted with more but found themselves anchored to different destinies.

he nudges your shoulder, a faint grin flickering. “now let’s go celebrate before wonbin gets himself in trouble again,” he quips, echoing the words you recall from so many moments ago, reinforcing that your final chapter with him ends without regret, without illusions.

you nudge him back, the gesture affectionate. “deal,” you say, voice lighter, though you both know that the biggest celebration is yet to come. a final show, the album release, a chance to see wonbin stand on stage without the ghost of abandonment overshadowing him, and for you to stand by his side without the heartbreak of his absence looming.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

time flows, as it always does, and you find yourself in the thick of it: preparing for the biggest concert your band has done in ages, an event that draws in fans from across the country, a swirling storm of sound checks, promotional interviews, and the electric thrill of stepping under the spotlight. it’s the night everything culminates—the months of wonbin’s slow, painstaking steps toward healing, the nights you lay awake wondering if he’d truly changed, the tension that once threatened to tear the band apart. it all converges in this final performance, an exhalation of music, heart, and unity.

the stadium is massive, seats filled to the rafters with a crowd buzzing in anticipation, the lights flashing across the stage in an array of brilliant colors. you glance around backstage, spotting yunjin and minjeong in a flurry of excitement, adjusting outfits and exchanging last-minute jokes. gunil is busy triple-checking the drum kit, and hongjoong stands near a row of guitars, quietly giving a final rundown of the setlist. beomgyu catches your eye from across the room, offering a small smile and a salute with his pick. there’s no sadness there, just genuine camaraderie.

and then there’s wonbin—near the edge of the stage, doing a last warm-up for his vocals, swirling water around in a paper cup before taking a small sip. your eyes meet, and a flicker of understanding passes between you. he walks over, shoulders relaxed in a way you never thought you’d see, glancing around to ensure no one is paying too much attention.

“you ready?” he asks quietly, his voice hushed by the thunderous roar of the crowd waiting just beyond the curtains.

your heart surges with affection, with pride, because he isn’t running; he’s here, in the thick of it, ready to share this triumph. “yeah,” you say, letting your hand brush over his for a split second, “you?”

he exhales, lips curving in a near-smile that lights up his features in a gentle glow. “i’m still terrified,” he admits, “but i’m not letting that stop me.”

the stage manager signals that it’s nearly time to go on, and your bandmates begin filing out, one by one, the adrenaline skyrocketing in your veins. the noise of the crowd amplifies, crashing against your ears in a tidal wave of cheers, chanting, raw energy. your pulse beats in tandem, and as you step into the light, the rush of thousands of voices hits you full force, chasing away any last tremors of self-doubt.

the set begins with a thunderous opening, yunjin’s vocals soaring over the first verse, beomgyu’s guitar weaving a tapestry of melodic hooks, minjeong’s basslines pulsing beneath the surface like the heartbeat of the show, gunil hammering the drums with a grin of intense focus, and hongjoong’s keys adding rich layers. wonbin stands front and center with you, mic in hand, voice strong and unwavering as he leads the chorus, the synergy between you resonating through the stadium in a wave of sound that feels unstoppable.

song after song, you feel the crowd surging with you, the band locked in a mesmerizing synergy. you glance at wonbin occasionally, seeing that look of pure immersion in the music, the old golden-boy aura revived but grounded by the lessons he’s learned. every now and then, your gazes lock, and a private smile passes between you, a silent conversation that says yes, we made it here together, and it’s real.

somewhere around the midpoint of the show, a hush blankets the arena. the lights dim, focusing on a smaller circle at the center of the stage. you step forward, your heart pounding with recognition: this is the stripped-down number you wrote back when longing and heartbreak consumed you, the piece that bared your soul in ways words alone never could. you glance at beomgyu, who stands off to the side with a second guitar, and he gives you a small nod, as though silently communicating you’ve got this. you offer him a grateful smile.

the first notes echo, soft and resonant. your voice emerges into the hush, carrying the lyrics that once felt like a private confession. the crowd watches, breaths held, and then wonbin steps in, adding a harmony that melds seamlessly with yours, a promise of unity forged from pain. as the music swells, you sense the tears stinging at the corners of your eyes because this moment signifies everything that has changed: the scar you once wrote into a melody, now shared with the man who inspired it, and whose presence—strong and unwavering by your side—feels like the resolution of a dissonant chord you feared would never resolve.

near the end of the song, you catch a glimpse of beomgyu, strumming gently, eyes closed as though he’s allowing the music to cleanse old regrets. he opens them just for a second, catches your glance, and in that fraction of time, a gentle acceptance is exchanged. he knows this is the piece you wrote for wonbin, the one that spoke of heartbreak and yearning, and it no longer stings. it is simply part of your shared tapestry, a piece of history that shaped who you are today. you mouth thank you, and he responds with a small grin, then focuses back on the strings beneath his fingers.

the crowd roars its approval as the final chord dissolves into applause, the floodlights coming up to reveal tearful fans, swaying arms, the unifying force of music you never take for granted. adrenaline races through your veins, every nerve alive with the magnitude of what’s happening: you are not alone on this stage, nor alone in your heart. it is a moment of triumph, a testament to the slow, deliberate healing that brought you all to this point.

the show continues, culminating in a final, high-energy number that sets the entire arena ablaze with movement, lights, and roaring cheers. confetti rains down, swirling in brilliant colors across the stage, reflecting the spotlights in a dazzling storm. you catch your breath at the sheer spectacle of it, feeling the intangible bond linking you to your bandmates. beomgyu winks at you mid-chorus, gunil throws his drumsticks in the air in a flourish, hongjoong’s fingers dance over the keys, minjeong thrums the bass with unstoppable fervor, yunjin’s voice spiraling high in perfect synergy with yours.

and then, when it seems the night can’t reach a higher pinnacle, wonbin steps forward with a confidence that draws every gaze. the rest of the band falls into a subtle hush, letting the final chord ring out, a resonant hum filling the stadium. you sense something shifting in the air, and your heart pounds, uncertain yet hopeful. perhaps the show is over, or maybe there’s one last note to strike.

his eyes find yours, a brief flicker of reassurance crossing his features, and then he speaks, voice echoing in the hush. “hey,” he begins, the single syllable quiet yet laden with a calm intensity that commands attention. thousands of fans still their cheers, a wave of anticipation sweeping the stands. “i—” he pauses, licking his lips, the microphone trembling slightly in his grip. “i wanted to say something i never had the guts to say in public.”

your breath snags in your throat, and you sense the rest of the band bracing, curiosity piquing. he glances around the stadium, from the front row to the far rafters, and you see a tremor of nerves, but also a decided spark of resolve in his gaze.

“you guys have stuck with us,” he says, addressing the fans, “through ups and downs. and i want to thank you for that—truly. but there’s one person i owe everything to. someone who showed me that it’s okay to let people in, to not run even when things get messy. someone who… has changed my life.”

the hush intensifies, a wave of electricity coursing through the crowd, a sense that something monumental is unfolding. your heart is hammering, sweat beading at your temples, because you know—this is not a staged stunt. this is wonbin, raw and vulnerable, taking a leap before thousands of witnesses. you catch minjeong’s wide-eyed smile out of the corner of your vision, yunjin looking equally stunned.

“i’ve spent so long… living in fear that if i cared too much, i’d lose it anyway,” he continues, voice trembling slightly but growing steadier with each word. “i kept pushing, sabotaging, making a wreck of myself before someone else could. but this person stayed. she never stopped trying to reach me, even when i gave her every reason to let go.”

he turns then, eyes locking on you with a directness that makes your skin tingle and your chest tighten. the hush in the stadium feels infinite, as if every soul present is holding its breath for what he’ll say next. “i’m done hiding,” he says, loud enough for the mic to carry across the arena. “i love her. and if she’ll let me, i want to stand by her side, not just on this stage, but… from here on out.”

your heart nearly bursts, tears slipping down your cheeks. you can’t recall how you end up walking to his side, whether you stumble or glide, but you find yourself there, trembling in the swirl of confetti and the gaze of thousands of fans. the roar that erupts from the crowd is deafening, cheering, chanting, an uproar of approval. and in that thunderous acceptance, you see the final piece of the puzzle sliding into place: he’s chosen not just to be better for himself, but to show the world that he’s not ashamed of what he feels for you.

caught in the maelstrom of euphoria, you manage a nod, tears shining under the stage lights. you fling your arms around him, and he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours in front of thousands, lips curving into a grateful smile. the noise level skyrockets, cameras flash in brilliant arcs, and you swear you feel the vibrations of the fans’ excitement in the very floor beneath your feet.

the show ends in a blaze of adrenaline, the band coming together for a final bow, your hand clasped in wonbin’s, your heart so full it feels on the brink of overflowing. yunjin and gunil flank you both, wearing expressions of unbridled glee, while beomgyu stands just behind, a broad grin on his face that confirms he’s proud of you—proud of the band, proud that everything found its place without bitterness. minjeong, eyes shining, throws an arm around yunjin as the applause roars in an endless wave.

later, in the aftermath, the dressing rooms and corridors hum with post-show excitement. your face aches from smiling, from the repeated congratulations and the unstoppable flush in your cheeks. you spot beomgyu across the hallway, and he lifts his hand in a small salute, a reflection of the quiet conversation you had. you return the gesture, both of you acknowledging that you’ve chosen your paths without regret.

meanwhile, wonbin hovers near the exit, waiting for you. you can see it in his eyes—the relief, the slight tremble of adrenaline still coursing through him. “hey,” he murmurs when you join him, voice still rough from singing and from the emotional weight of his declaration. “want to get out of here?”

you glance around at the throng of well-wishers, bandmates, and staff, the buzz of post-show commentary washing through the corridors. something about sneaking away, just the two of you, feels right—the perfect coda to a performance that marked a turning point in your lives. you nod, allowing him to take your hand, the two of you slipping unnoticed through a side door into the warm night air beyond the stadium’s glow.

it’s raining outside—soft at first, then gradually intensifying, droplets spattering the concrete in a growing symphony. you laugh softly at the timing, and he chuckles, raising his eyes to the sky. “of course,” he mutters with a gentle grin, “couldn’t be a perfect night without the universe deciding we needed a cliché cinematic moment.”

your heart throbs at the playful spark in his gaze, so you roll your eyes affectionately. “maybe we should find a car,” you suggest, but he shakes his head, something mischievous lighting up his expression.

“or,” he counters, “we could run.”

and before you can protest, he tugs at your hand, pulling you into a near-sprint through the puddles that reflect neon signs and the shimmering stadium lights behind you. the rain sluices over your hair, your clothes, soaking you both within seconds, but laughter tumbles from your lips as you match his pace, hearts thudding with a giddy energy that surpasses the drizzle around you.

somewhere along the way, he slows, turning to you with rain-soaked lashes, water droplets trailing down his cheeks like new tears. you inhale sharply at the sight: the man you once feared would break you and break himself, now standing in the falling rain, eyes bright with hope.

“i meant it,” he says, breath hitching, the downpour pattering all around you, “all of it.”

you recall the echoes of his declaration on stage: i love her. you recall the gentle vow in private, that he’s seeing a therapist, that he’s no longer content to lose himself in destructive nights and fleeting fixes. your chest tightens with an overwhelming wave of tenderness, and you step closer, letting your rain-drenched fingers rest on his collar, feeling the warmth of his skin through wet fabric.

“i know,” you whisper, voice trembling with affection, “i love you too.”

the words settle like a gentle quake in your chest, a release of every hesitation you once harbored. you see how he gulps in response, tears mingling with the rain, gratitude etched into the curve of his lips. “thank you,” he breathes, voice raw, as though those two syllables contain all the apologies and devotion he can’t compress into speech. “i promise i won’t let you regret this.”

you nod, pressing your forehead to his, letting the rain envelop you both in a quiet hush that seems designed just for this moment. “i know,” you echo, tears mixing with the raindrops on your cheeks, “we’ll figure it out together.”

and so you stand there, the stadium lights a distant glow behind you, your bandmates likely celebrating inside, the city humming with infinite stories you’ll never know. in your own story, you hold him, your heart pounding with the awe of a future you never thought possible, a future that carries the scars of the past but no longer lets them define you.

as the rain pools at your feet, you think of the first time you saw him commanding a stage with an effortless magnetism, how you’d never have believed that behind that golden exterior lay a man terrified of love. you think of the heartbreak that followed, the nights you spent uncertain whether he’d ever choose you—choose himself.

but now, in the hush of this downpour, with his arms circling your waist and your face pressed against the hollow of his neck, you realize that not every story of pain ends in tragedy. sometimes, it ends in a quiet acceptance, a choice to remain, a promise that love—messy and complicated—can be the strongest anchor when fear tries to drag you under.

you stay like that, lost in the taste of rain on your lips and the warmth of his breath against your damp hair, until the swirl of the storm around you fades into background noise, until all that remains is the steady truth you share. the music, the heartbreak, the therapy sessions, the confessions—they swirl into a narrative that leads here, to a place you both choose to stay. far from perfect, but no longer helpless in the face of old wounds. healing, still, and determined to keep walking forward, hand in hand, no matter the storms that come.

in the distance, you hear an echo of cheers from the stadium, a lingering chorus that merges with the patter of rain. you smile against wonbin’s neck, and he turns his head to press a soft kiss to your temple. the future might be unknown, the path winding, but the melody of hope thrums in your blood, binding you not just as bandmates, not just as people who overcame personal demons, but as two souls who found each other’s hearts worth the fight.

and in that final moment, as you run through the rain together—no grand audience, no flashing lights, just the hush of the city night, him at your side—you realize that you’ve never felt more alive, more certain that you’re where you belong. you have each other’s words, and more importantly, each other’s actions, forging a new harmony that resonates beyond the stage lights and tabloids, a testament to the power of love chosen freely, scars and all.

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