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marvelwitchergilmore · 3 months ago

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Trouble

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When Bucky first meets you, he thinks you're nothing but trouble. Eventually, it becomes a nickname you answer to.

Disclaimer: fluff with steamy moments at the end, enemies-ish to lovers, hint of fake dating as Bucky is Reader's wedding date, Bucky gets a little jealous, sharing a hotel room, reader works for Shield, Sam and Maria are mentioned to be engaged, swearing. Not fully proof read.

��Hey, Trouble.”

You gave a short sigh, but kept the smile on your face. “Morning, Buck.”

Bucky had been calling you ‘Trouble’ since the first day he met you. Granted, having first met you, he thought you were trouble. You’d been inside a building they were surveying and he mistook you for one of the gang members he and Sam had been watching for the last three months. You’d given them the slip that evening, only to turn up in their Monday morning meeting.

Hill had hired you.

“Hill, she’s nothing but trouble. We caught her-”

“I know you did.”

Sam looked at his fiance. “And you’re still gonna hire her?”

Maria nodded with her arms folded across her chest. In honesty, it was more like a shrug before she turned to you. You’d been far too relaxed in your seat since Bucky had walked inside. Just another indicator that you were trouble. And you were smiling. Smirking?

Maybe a bit of both.

“I was a Fed.”

“You’re a Fed?”

You shook your head. “Was. Was a Fed.”

Maria continued for you. “She graduated first in her class in everything. Field work and academics, alike. Y/n has been on our radar for a while.”

Because you were trouble.

Bucky felt Sam nudge him. “Subtitles, Buck. You might not be saying anything but we can see it on your face. I can see it on your face.”

Bucky just scowled more. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Credentials like hers don’t come across my desk too often these days. I wanted to see if she was the real deal so I sent her to tail you two.”

Both men did a double take of Maria and yourself. “Us?!”

You laughed a little at their surprise. “Yes, you. You know, for two of the world's best Avengers you are both terrible at being secretive. In the space of three days I’ve managed to find out your routines.”

“Three-” Sam’s words spat from his mouth. “Three days?! You’ve had her following us for three days?”

Maria shrugged, again. “Told you training was coming soon. Gotta find a way to keep you both of your toes.”

It was then Sam’s turn to scowl. He understood why, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating. Three days? He and Buck had been followed for three days by-by-by a, a what, a teeneger?

It was only when you replied, “I’m in my 20s.”, did Sam realise he’d said his question out loud.

“You’re a fetus.” Bucky said before looking at you. Biologically, he might be in his 30s. But his birthday was over a hundred years ago.

You just smiled at him.

“Y/n’s gonna be joining your team.”

“What?” Bucky asked, almost giving himself whiplash as he turned back to Maria.

“Relax, Sergeant Barnes.” He looked back at you. “I’ll mostly be working alongside Captain Torres. As fun as field work can be, I’m a lot more useful to both of you behind a monitor. So, if you ever need anything hacking. Government secrets? Secret chambers? That dating profile Sam set up in your honour?”

Nearly giving himself whiplash again, Bucky looked at Sam. And, as guiltless as he tried to look, he failed. He’d set him a dating profile up? When?!

“You just let me know,” you smiled. “Am I free to go, Director?”

Maria nodded. “Bishop agreed to meet you outside your apartment to help you get settled in.”

You nodded with a smile. “Thank you.” Then you turned back to your new teammates. “See you boys on Wednesday.”

That had been almost three years ago. It had taken all of twenty minutes for Bucky to adopt your new nickname. Trouble. In the beginning, it had been because he thought that’s what you were; trouble. Bad news. But, after a while, you started to wear him down.

It had taken a week for Sam to get used to you, and less than five minutes for Torres. He liked the way you kept “the grump” as you called him, on his toes.

Eventually the nickname of Trouble moved away from hatred to a little more affectionate. It did take you entering field duty again without letting anyone know, saving both Bucky and Sam’s lives when they got cornered in a run down mansion out in the middle of nowhere.

But never once had you forced a smile at the nickname. So, when you said “Morning, Buck.”, Bucky stopped in his tracks. He looked up from his clipboard, silently watching you for a moment.

Even if your entire body wasn’t dripping with sweat as you continued to pummel the swinging punching bag in front of you, and even if your hair hadn’t been frizzing out from your rough ponytail as the back of your head; Bucky still would have known you were stressed.

You never forced a smile around him. You’d been exasperated, tired, exhausted, angry, kind, loveable, happy, joyful, excited and every other emotion around him. But never once had you faked a smile around him.

Around others? Sure. That was how he knew this one was fake.

“Hold your horses.” Bucky said as he walked closer to you.

You sighed, pulling your punches from the bag before finally standing still.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing-” You started, shaking your head. But he wasn’t biting.

“No, not nothing. What’s going on? You’re glaring at the bag like it owes you six months rent. What’s going on?”

You sighed, completely exhausted. “Nothing, Buck. It’s fine. I swear.”

“Trouble?”

You looked at Bucky.

For as long as you’d been alive, you’d been able to read people. Their inner thoughts, their deepest feelings. But nobody had ever been able to read you.

Until Bucky.

Sam tried his best, as did Torres. And, credit where credit is due, they did well. But that was only when you weren’t trying to hide it. A long day at work? A show ending the way you didn’t want it to?

But days like this?

You’d gone all week without letting people see. And you knew they couldn’t see. But Bucky? It was like he could see right into your soul.

And it scared the crap outta you.

“Bucky…” Your voice was soft, pleading for him not to dig.

It took all of thirty seconds for him to look away from you, looking at the ceiling with a short sigh. “Alright, come on.”

Taking you by the shoulder, he stepped you away from the punching bag and hooked the clipboard under his arm before taking your wrapped hands into his. Then he started to unravel the bandages. He could already see the small bruises on your knuckles.

“You’re gonna need to ice them.”

He said nothing else as he unravelled your hands. Then, he took hold of one. He dropped the clipboard on the bench as he walked you both over to your gym bag before dropping your wraps into it.

“Bucky-”

“Come with me.”

“Buck- Bucky.” You looked around you, confused as to why he was dragging you out of the gym. “James!”

He pulled you beside him before pressing a gentle hand on your lower back.

“This feels like ‘The Quiet Man’. Where the hell are we going?”

“I’m getting you out of the compound.”

You almost started jogging beside him. “Okay, I get you’ve been trying to fire me since day one but you don’t actually have that authority.”

Well, at least you were still joking with him. Even if he had tried in the early stages, he hadn’t tried to get you fired in over two years.

Eventually you stopped arguing, simply sighing and saying, “Fuck it.”

Whether he was gonna try and fire you, kidnap you or drag you to a church in Ireland to get married; it was better than staying in the compound, throwing punches hard enough to break the bag for a second time.

Two hours later, Bucky’s motorbike was parked up in the dirt road behind you both as you sat beside each other, your legs hanging over the edge of the grassy hill.

“Feeling better?” Bucky asked as you were half way through your food.

You nodded, a lot calmer than you were back at the compound.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Then after a beat, he spoke up again.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged. “Not much to say.”

“I think the punching bag might disagree.”

Bucky watched as a smile flexed subtly on your face. But after a split second, it disappeared. Your shoulders, somehow, dropped lower and you shook your head.

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Then start at the beginning.”

“I’m starting to regret showing you the movies you missed.”

Bucky chuckled to himself quietly. Since you had become friends…kinda…you’d taken it upon yourself. Or rather, you and Joaquin, had taken it upon yourselves, with Sam’s help, to bring Bucky up to speed on everything he’d missed since being in the ice.

It was on the nights when it was just you and him; maybe Sam was called away by his sister or his fiance, or Joaquin went to see his family. It was on those nights where you’d show Bucky the true classics. The ones he would have secretly loved if he’d gotten a chance to see them when they first got released.

They were some of his favourite memories with you.

Taking in a breath, you tried to work out in your head where the beginning was.

“Work’s kinda taking its toll on me.” Finally admitting that outloud felt a lot easier than you’d thought it would. Bucky seemed to always have that effect on you. He made things easier. “I, uh, I’ve been asked to guest lecture at my old Training Academy and they keep trying to make me agree to a full time contract. The students apparently have learnt a lot and it makes their attendance records look better than they have done in years. Though, I’m pretty sure they only attended the lecture in the hopes that Joaquin would turn up again.”

Bucky just sat and listened to you as you looked out to the rest of the city.

“I enjoy doing them, and I know the students like asking questions some of the teachers won’t answer directly. But between the missions, and the intel gathering. That’s taking me a lot longer than it used to, by the way and I hate it. I used to be able to crack open almost anything. But since tech development or whatever…criminals are a lot smarter than they used to be when it comes to their encryption.”

You took a few more breaths before continuing.

“My family has been calling more and more recently, too. Don’t get me wrong. I-I love em’. But…” You let out a long breath. “It’s everyday. They’re asking for new information and I don’t have it. I’ve had a good day – that’s all I can say. I’m not dead. I spend my day going over lines and lines of data. What the fuck am I meant to say? And then I got an invite through my door last week inviting me to my cousin’s wedding and the phone calls from home have basically tripled. I’ve had to switch my answering machine off. They were filling it; have you got the invite yet? When are you gonna reply? You’re gonna be sitting next to your aunt from your dad’s side, you know I can’t stand that woman. Have you got your dress yet? Your dress is important, you need to look your best for the photos, Grandma will want ten copies, have you got a date yet? Do you need a date? Do you want me to ask your cousin if she has any single friends? Or maybe her fiance knows somebody? You can’t come to a wedding alone. Or maybe it’s best, that way we can help you find someone-”

Bucky laid a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Hey, hey, okay. Okay, breathe. Deep breaths.”

You took some more deep breaths.

“It’s a never ending cycle, Buck. I-I go from one extreme to the other and…and I don’t know what I’m meant to do. I love my family, but right now I can’t think of anything worse than flying home and seeing them right now. And, as much as I love my work, I’d rather wait before I see another line of data.”

Bucky didn’t say anything for a while. He just studied you. The way your shoulders fell, the way your true feelings and pure exhaustion took over your expression, the way your voice dropped from the hurried pace from earlier.

“You’re burning yourself out.”

Now, you finally looked at him.

“You need to take a break. Call Hill in the morning and tell her you’re taking two weeks. If you don’t, I’ll do it for you.”

“But we’ve got-”

“The next mission won’t happen until next month. But you need a break. Y/n. And as for your family, what if I went with you?”

“What?”

“Take me as your date.”

A small laugh escaped you. “Bucky, you don’t-”

“What?” He leaned back, his expression teasing. “Too handsome?”

“It’s not that-”

“Too old?” Bucky gave a short gasp. “I gotta tell ya, that’s ageist.”

You laughed. “No, it’s not that. It’s just…you don’t have to do that for me.”

“Why not? You’re my friend.”

“Oh, we’re friends now?”

Bucky shrugged. “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

You smiled, softly.

“Come on, what could go wrong?”

You nodded, slowly. “My family will meet you and never want to let you go, that’s what.”

Bucky just shrugged again. “Can’t help it. Mom’s love me.”

“Bucky, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. And I’m telling you to take the offer.”

You remained silent as you kept your eyes on him. Bucky watched as you bit your bottom lip pensively, like you were running through every worse case scenario before getting to the good ones.

“Come on,” he whispered. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Finally, you agreed. “Okay.”

For the next two weeks, you spent most of your time relaxing, completing the jobs in your apartment you’d ignored over time and dress shopping for the wedding that would be taking place in two months time.

By the time you got back to work, things felt less like a tsunami being thrown over you and after the mission, a wedding with your family didn’t seem too terrible.

“Do I have to wear a bow-tie?” Bucky called out from the hotel room as you remained in the bathroom, fixing your make-up.

You’d left him twenty minutes ago to get dressed.

“According to the invite, it’s compulsory.”

You heard Bucky groan a little before swearing at what you gathered was either himself, the invite or the bow-tie.

“Why couldn’t it be a normal tie?”

“Because my cousin loves the idea of Old Hollywood.”

“Technically, when I went into the ice it was just known as Hollywood. And we wore ties.”

You chuckled, putting your lipstick brush down before quickly blotting your lips twice. Throwing the tissue into the bin by the door, you walked out of the bathroom, around and around the corner and back into your shared hotel room.

“Parts of culture have been lost to time sadly, so bow-ties it is,” you said as you came into view. “Come here. I’ll do it.”

Bucky had caught a glimpse of you in the mirror, but seeing the real you. Not the reflected version…that was something else entirely. The colour complimented you in a way he’d never seen before, and the way it hugged and draped on your body was making his mind think things that he shouldn’t be thinking about his friend and co-worker.

You were stunningly gorgeous.

As you stood in front of him, so close that if he leaned forward just a touch, he could press his lips to yours, his senses becoming filled with you and his hands itched to touch you. To hold you by your waist or your hips, just to keep you standing so close to him.

“There.” You leaned back a little before looking at him with that smile that, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, had made him weak at the knees since the first day he’d met you.

With your hands braced on his shoulders, you turned him around to face the mirror. “You look handsome.”

It wasn’t a genuine compliment covered up by a joke. You weren’t teasing him.

You were being genuinely honest.

And you tried to ignore the way he looked at you and the feelings it gave you in your chest, but meeting his eyes in the mirror only seemed to make that feeling grow.

You hadn’t missed the way Bucky had stopped as you entered the room and how it took him a moment before his body kicked back into gear in order to stand in front of you. But you tried to ignore what you were feeling at seeing him dressed the way he was.

Often he was in henley t-shirts and jeans when he wasn’t in his field uniform. So, seeing him all clean cut and in a tux was making you feel things. Since the henley’s were almost every day, you’d been able to, over the years, make yourself slightly immune to the feelings they gave you.

But you’d never seen him in a tux.

Even if you didn’t know he’d been in his 20s in the forties, seeing him dressed like this would have given you the feeling that he definitely had been in a past life.

“We better go before we’re late.”

Bucky tried to find comprehensible words to say. The best he could come up with was, “Yeah.”

It wasn’t until the reception that he would finally be able to tell you how beautiful he found you.

The wedding had been beautiful, every corner of the wedding venue being draped in silk. The dinner had gone off without a hitch. You and Bucky were seated together and despite the judgy comments from your aunt, Bucky held your hand throughout the entire thing, answering each question your aunt threw at him.

And by the time people were invited onto the dance floor after the bride and groom, your aunt, happy with your choice of a date, nudged him to ask you to do as much.

All he did was hold out his hand and looking from him, to the dance floor and back again, you took his hand.

“I, uh, I don’t-”

Bucky said nothing. With a light smirk on his face, he did what he’d wanted to do all night. Well, one of the things.

Stepping into you, his hand firmly on your waist, he gently threw one of your hands to his shoulder before holding your other one firmly in his.

“Okay.” Bucky heard you say quietly.

His light smirk formed a small smile. “I might not know how to tie a bow-tie, but I do know how to dance.”

You nodded. “That. Is. Clear.”

You felt a little awkward, trying to keep your head away from the thoughts it was spilling into.

Bucky chuckled and you felt his gravelly breath by the shell of your ear. “Just trust me, doll. I promise I won’t let you fall.”

You did, eventually, manage to relax a little as the song bled on. And, just as it started to feel easy and natural to be held by him in this way, his words sent both your head and your heart into a spin.

“You’re gorgeous, by the way.” You leaned your head back a little to look at him. Was he fucking with you? “Stunning.”

You were thankful the lights were dimmer than they had been at dinner. It gave you at least a little cover for the heat that overtook your cheeks.

“Thank you.”

Nothing else was said after that. You couldn’t keep looking at him, in fear that if you looked at him for too long, he’d be able to see right through you.

So, with your temple resting against his, you let him lead you in a slow dance along with the rest of the couples.

A little ways through the dance, you felt Bucky’s hand on your waist dip a little lower and onto your hip before moving to your back where you could feel his fingers softly trailing up and down your back against your dress.

You felt yourself shiver at his touch.

Bucky smirked a little by the shell of your ear. “Cold?”

When you spoke, your voice felt a little strangled to your ears. “No.”

You heard a small hum from his chest before he pulled you closer, or maybe you stepped closer to him, and his fingers softly continued to trail up and down.

A few songs later, both you and Bucky sitting at a new table that your mother had dragged you to, you were asked to dance with someone your uncle had dragged over to meet you. And throughout your entire dance with the new guy, you just wished you were back in Bucky’s arms.

However, as you danced, you failed to notice the way he was looking at you. But your cousin hadn’t. When Bucky’s eyes fell on you, he had a mixed look in them. Complete adoration and love, and that he could eat you alive. But when his eyes fell on the guy you were slightly awkwardly dancing with, a darker look took over.

Jealousy.

You’d told her that you’d be bringing a date, and from what your family had told her, your date was just a friend. But having watched both of you dance, and the way Bucky was looking at you…you certainly were not ‘just’ friends.

And even if you were, it wouldn’t be for long.

Then Bucky stood, carefully making his way over to you. And the look in your eyes when you spotted him making his way over…

Your cousin was certain the next wedding she would be attending would be yours.

“Mind me cutting in?”

The guy shook his head and stepped back, saying quiet words of kindness to you. But once you found yourself in Bucky’s arms, you felt yourself melt.

“Thank you.”

“You looked like you had a stone in your shoes, trying to dance with him.”

“That’s kinda what it felt like. Glad to know I’ve got acting skills to fall back on if I ever want to quit. Or if you get me fired.”

“I’ll only get you fired if you start causing trouble, Trouble.”

A light smile appeared on your lips for a few seconds before you disappeared into his shoulder to hide your face from him.

Two more dances and a conversation split between three different groups later, you were ready to go home. You said goodbye to your cousin, both you and Bucky complimenting her and the wedding before taking your leave.

By the time you got back to the hotel, taking your heels off in the lobby, thankful to feel the cold marble floor beneath your feet, the clock was starting to reach midnight.

Bucky took your hand in his, leading you to the elevator. And where you both could have stood opposite each other, without thinking, he pulled you into his side. Both of you stood in the centre of the elevator, Bucky leaned over and pressed the button to your floor.

In the silence, Bucky watching the numbers climb higher and higher, you took time to look at him. The shape of him, his jawline. He’d taken his jacket off and given it to you on the walk inside to the hotel. The bow-tie was now loose and around his neck.

“You’re staring.”

For the first time that night, you didn’t look away from him.

“Can’t help it.”

Bucky looked back at you just before the doors to the elevator rang open. There was a soft smirk resting on his lips.

“Come on, Trouble.”

Leading you out of the elevator, you pulled the hotel room key from your purse before sliding it into the door. With a beep, the latch unlocked itself and you pushed the handle down and Bucky helped you push the door open.

The entire room was quiet. The moonlight floated behind the soft curtains, lighting up a few spaces on the carpet. The room remained quiet as you and Bucky walked around before he opened up the two dividing doors that led to his bedroom.

Looking over your shoulder, you watched the muscles in his back tense as he opened the two doors and walked inside. And, despite wishing to stay and watch the show of Bucky getting undressed, you moved towards your bathroom. Zipping down the side panel zip, you let the gown fall to the floor before you pulled the clean pajamas you’d left on the counter over your head and up your legs.

Despite the hour, you and Bucky stayed up a little longer to talk. He was back in a henley shirt and some long plaid pajama bottoms.

The same ones you’d bought him when you’d been his Secret Santa two years ago.

Your make-up had long been washed away and you and Bucky spent at least forty minutes gossiping about what the third cousin on your mom’s side had been wearing in replace of a hat.

Then you had to say your goodnights.

Only, as he closed the dividing door behind him, you felt like something was missing. You wanted him to stay. You wanted to keep talking to him. You wanted him…you wanted him to touch you the same way he had done on the dance floor, his voice gravelly by your ear, sending goosebumps across your body in a way nobody had ever done before.

Little did you know, Bucky wanted the same.

He could hear your footsteps on the carpet behind the door. The soft light from the lamp in your room shone under the door and he could see your shadow walking back and forth. Each time you walked back to the door, so did he. Only to then see it walk away, so he did the same.

For the fifth time, you walked back towards Bucky’s door. Except, before you could walk back across the rest of your room, the door opened.

And there he was. In the glow of moonlight from his own room, barely six feet from you. Neither of you said anything for a few moments, just letting the silent conversation pass between you.

“I don’t want tonight to end.”

The words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them, or reword them. But you didn’t need to. If anyone understood you, it was Bucky.

You didn’t know who moved first, but barely a second later, Bucky’s hands were pushing through your hair, pulling you closer as his lips crashed against yours. Throwing your arms over his shoulders, you pulled him closer before fisting his t-shirt.

A moan vibrated from his chest as you pulled him closer, letting his kiss deepen. His finger ran through the lengths of your hair, gently pulling.

As his steps carried him forward, yours carried you back until eventually he spun you, lifting you into his arms. Feeling your back secure against the wall, his hands supporting you, your body rocked against his hips as he leaned forward, driving your own further into the wall.

You moaned a little as his tongue slipped past your lips and his fingers squeezed at your flesh.

By the time you both woke up in the morning, breakfast had long been over, the sheets would be a completely tangled mess. And yourself and Bucky would be in a similar position; limbs tangled with one another's, heartbeats steady enough it could be mistaken for one, and the feeling of his fingers trailing up and down your spine.

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kortac-sweetheart · 4 months ago

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thinkin abt: classic “traitor” sergeant you and tf 141, except you have a different trauma response

cw: angst no comfort (yet), mentions of torture and physical harm, derealization, reader believes they deserve their torture (honestly selfship coded sorry) shout out to hedgehog’s dilemma one of my favorite dilemmas, very VERY canon divergent, no use of (y/n)

pt 2 with kortac maybe? as they slowly rehabilitate you and you learn to open up again

for as long as you can remember you’ve been an outsider. never quite fitting in with your classmates or even your “friends”. your two acquaintances (more like) in elementary school would drag you along, like a glorified pet, wherever they went. only to turn around and ignore you, chatting happily with each other as if you weren’t there.

and when you were older, you didn’t have any friends in class. always electing to sit by yourself and disturbing nothing and no one. fading into the background, like a shadow.

eventually you wind up joining the military, efficiently climbing the ranks until you land sergeant in task force 141. for the first few years of you joining, it’s much the same. that feeling of being other always lingering in the back of your mind, only amplified when observing the others in the team.

how soap easily makes gaz and price laugh, and even coaxing a chuckle out of ghost. how effortlessly they talk to each other, to the way tackling one another in a bear hug in the base halls was no big deal. almost envious at how openly they interacted with each other.

witnessing it makes you feel like you’re in school again. forcibly reverts you to the younger you that endured your so-called friends ignoring you.

but you don’t bring it up. ever. being here and fighting alongside them is already treading thin ice in your mind. already impeding upon their well established relationships. an intruder. an outsider. a stranger. a nuisance.

you linger behind them in hallways, erring from their side and sight around base. sitting far from the others during briefings, eating alone during mealtime. absent from post mission celebrations.

you keep them at arms length despite them being your teammates. it’s not their fault, it’s yours.

if i let them in, it’ll only hurt again.

but they break down your walls slowly, oh so painfully slowly. johnny now jokes besides you in the break room and during meal times, conversation is always pleasant with kyle, whilst simon looks out for you, very, very quietly. and john isn’t afraid to tell you of the good work you do on field, ruffling your hair like a proud dad.

things seem to be looking bright for you.

until they aren’t.

you fall asleep peacefully in your bed only to wake up strapped to an uncomfortable metal chair in the base’s interrogation room. a mole, unbeknownst to the rest of the team had planted evidence framing you and accusing you of betraying them. taking advantage of the thin fault line in your relationships, vulnerable and unsteady, compared to the stalwart trust they already had in each other. then, subsequently tearing that fault wide open, in order to break the team from the inside out.

your tenuous and fragile relationships finally blooming, only to be crushed under heel in a single night.

the light strains your eyes and the tight ropes dig painfully into your flesh, back aching and head throbbing as you await your fate.

three sets of eyes that only started to gaze warmly at you are now long gone. replaced with a plethora of emotions, betrayal, ire, resentment, bitterness, distrust.

you try to plead your case, that you have no idea what’s going on or what they’re talking about. you’ve never heard of any of these people in your life, nor have you ever heard of that operation at all.

but all of it is futile. you can see it clear as day in their eyes. they glare at you with such distain, it’s akin to what they gave their enemies on the field; except much much worse. this time it’s personal, someone they thought they knew.

they don’t believe you.

you realize that quickly. and after that you become borderline unresponsive. shutting down, physically, mentally, retreating into your mind, a desperate attempt to keep yourself safe from your allies-turned-tormentors.

you no longer scream your protests, all cries of agony quieted down until there wasn’t a single peep from you. although your tears never cease.

it angers them. they yell in your face, demanding answers to questions you haven’t the ability to answer. why were you being so difficult? if you’d just answer it’d be easier on you and them.

they subject you to a whole torrent of horrors. the restraints tightening and digging into your flesh, blood seeping into the rope. ghost slashes a knife up the side of your face, from your jaw to above your eyebrow bone. your eye just barely making it out unscathed because you shut it in time. then they start to rip your nails out, painfully, one by one. each time you don’t answer them, another one is torn out.

(they remember what you said offhandedly. that you didn’t like others being pushy, that you valued your autonomy highly. and what better way to break you than to rid you of it? stripping you of your nails, slashing at your muscles, tightening the ropes until you bled. anything, everything to ruin what little sovereignty you had left.)

despite being swathed deep in the recesses of your mind, you can still hear them. their voices muddied and muffled, as if underwater and you’re left unable to discern who’s words are who’s. not that it mattered anyway. the venom in their tone remained the same no matter who spoke.

“disgusting fucking traitor.”

“you’re such a pathetic piece of shit.”

“aww, cry some more.”

“should’ve never trusted you.”

“what an utterly worthless burden. only served to drag down the team.”

their words seep into your mind like poison through blood. it leaves you doubting, frantically questioning all moments you’ve shared with them. leaves you spiraling deeper and deeper into the dark abyss of your mind. your safe haven, and your cold prison.

did they always think this?

did they always hate me?

what did i do wrong?

i must’ve done something wrong to deserve this.

i deserve this.

i’m sorry.

you still remain motionless, and they scoff, looking down at you as they ash their cigarettes on your bruised skin. you don’t react. soap, frenzied, aggravated and wound up, lands a hard punch straight in your jaw. your head flying back with a sickening crunch before hanging low over your lap, face obscured.

gaz violently yanks your hair back, revealing your battered face. the lighting of the room casting long, tired shadows across it as he forces you to look at them. and you do, but not quite at them.

you don’t stare at them. you stare through them. like they aren’t there, like YOU aren’t there. they see nothing behind your eyes. it was like you were already dead. and maybe, at this point, it would’ve been better if you were.

hours blend into days and days possibly into weeks. your life has been nothing but torment and agony for who knows how long. never allowed a moment of rest or respite, being violently slapped awake if you’ve ever got lucky enough to grasp at increasingly ephemeral shut eye. time slips away into nothingness when your whole life has turned to pain.

they’re starting to grow more desperate for answers; despite everything they’ve thrown at you, you still haven’t “cracked”. and so they turn to more.. permanent methods of harm.

by the time price barges through the door, alarming everyone that you were innocent and you were falsely framed by a mole, your pinky is already severed and falling to the floor.

as if it were only a cruel nightmare, everything ceases immediately. and you pass out as you’re rushed to the base medics.

you’re awake once again, but you’re not quite all there. still safely tucked away in the depths of your mind. everyday is still a blur as your battered and beaten body tries to heal, ignoring the pity in passersby eyes’ and forced to rely on the kindness of base medics for hygiene. as if it wasn’t humiliating enough to end up in such a state.

even in your semi lucid state you still recognize them, the weight of their gait and their footfalls against the floor. always bracing for further injury whenever they draw nearer, clenched eyes, hunched posture, and a deep grimace. turned away out of fear for an impact you can’t ever guarantee is truly gone.

you silently reject their help, withdraw in on yourself to a state they’ve never seen before. you stop talking to them entirely, stop talking to everyone for that matter. whenever they try to sit next to you, you always flinch before scooting away from them, or most times you hobble away from them entirely. they never stop you. and you never look back.

(they wish you would yell at them. slap them, lash out at them, anything would be better than your numb indifference towards them now. with your anger they know for sure that you’re still in there, but, now. now it’s like a wraith is haunting the halls, more of a ghost than the man fool himself could ever hope to be.)

you return to the field as soon as you can. and everyone is surprised that your performance hasn’t suffered as much as they thought it would, considering… everything.

you’re already burdening everyone enough. if your performance were to decline then they would surely toss you aside, and everything would be for naught.

but the higher ups can see the mental toll it takes on you. to be besides them, as if this never happened. everyone can see the way they inadvertently hurt you more, can see the writing on the wall if you continue to work with them.

and so, they set up a transfer. to kortac.

you certainly have no complaints, but your ex-tormentors undoubtedly do. up in arms about the whole thing until they’re told to stand down. to follow orders.

just like they did before.

things were the same in the days leading up to the transfer. you avoid them, taking different hallways around base. never interacting more than the bare minimum, efficiently finishing missions without small talk or celebration. and always rejecting their offers of help with a faraway look and shake of your head.

and on the day of the transfer, they still try to plead for you to stay. to apologize for what cannot, and can never be undone.

you’re fed up with all of it.

clearing your throat and murmuring just loud enough for them to hear,

“forgive me if i’m speaking out of line, but who was the one to call me quote, “an utterly worthless burden?” was it lieutenant riley or sergeant mactavish? perhaps it was sergeant garrick? well… it doesn’t matter anyway. you’ll be better off without a detriment dragging down your team.”

they look heartbroken, stammering out apologies after apologies, but it all sounds so empty to you. until johnny whimpers out “god, we’re so sorry. you didn’t deserve what we did to you, not at all. we’d— we’d do anything to take it back!” he’d go on and on until you cut him off.

“didn’t deserve it? of course i deserved it, i must have done something worth punishing. otherwise… otherwise…” you were trembling, your hands painfully clutching your arms. your head bent over and face obscured from your hair, eerily similar to when you were being tortured. the sight of you so battered and broken burned into their mind.

foolishly, someone reaches out a hand towards you and you jerk back violently, as if burned. hyperventilating and quivering as you dig your painfully throbbing fingers into your arms, eyes wide like a frightened animal. the sight of them, looking at you so concerned, the sight of your missing pinky and your bloodied fingertips, it’s all too much. the room in spinning, the floor is collapsing underneath you and your head feels like it’s underwater, “don’t— don’t touch me!”

your voice feels like it doesn’t belong to you, and you can’t take it anymore. blindly rushing out the door as fast as your feet can carry you. running away from the room— away from them, they don’t move to stop you, rooted firmly in place.

they knew they fucked up immensely, but it was only then that they understood the magnitude in which they ruined you. unintentionally led you to believe that you deserved the hell they put you through, only confirming and fortifying your feelings of being an outsider.

unworthy, burdening, all of those hurtful notions you held about yourself that they had once tried to erase, back a thousand fold.

and they had no one but themselves to blame for it.

(they nearly buckled under the weight of their actions. realizing that they’d never get the chance to even attempt to atone for what they’ve done. that you’d leave forever believing that they had hated you the whole time. and that you hate them now, too.)

pt2

#tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #john price x reader #price x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #johnny soap mctavish x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #god i hate tagging all of them #reason why i dont really write for tf141 lol #anyway #is this angsty enough? ive reread it too much and now i cant feel sad reading it #ending is kinda ass but adhd is kicking my ass so #and i dont want to hold onto this any longer #i need like 3 business days to recover from writing this #leon writes ˖◛⁺⑅♡#cod x reader

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fluentmoviequoter · 21 days ago

Text

Different Nervousness

Tim Bradford x fem!rookie!reader

✰ In your previous job as a waitress, your trust was betrayed by a boss who sexually harassed you. Now, your TO Tim Bradford makes you nervous. When Tim finds out why you distance yourself from him, he has a few thoughts he's willing to share.

✰ angst to fluff, mentions of past sexual harassment/assault, protective!Tim, protective!Lucy makes an appearance, fluff and comfort at the end, platonic/pre-romantic pairing, 3.8k+ words

✰ ⦇Pictures from Pinterest ⦈

✰ A/N: @nevereclipse , your Tim ideas never fail to impress me and make me run for the nearest keyboard🤍 (you mentioned CEO!Bucky and if I thought I could do his character justice, I would write a novella with him and this dynamic)

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Entering the roll call room of Los Angeles’s Mid-Wilshire police station, you take a deep breath, glance down to check your uniform is neat and tidy, then keep your head down and walk to the front row. You’re the only rookie from your academy class at this station, and the overwhelming sense of being alone and vulnerable hits harder than you expected.

What if this is worse than before? Am I a quitter for moving on the second something bad happened?

You attempt to push the negative thoughts out of your mind, but your first-day jitters stem from something more. As the room fills with officers ready to receive their assignments and start the day, you review a few procedural rules in your mind and then recite your name and badge number. Being prepared is essential for this job, but for you, it’s also a way to stay alive, remain safe and alert, and ensure that what brought you here can never happen again.

Then why do you look over every time someone new comes in? Think it’s him? Someone worse?

“Good morning,” Sergeant Grey calls as he enters. “Hollywood and Studio City got first picks of the academy graduates, but they went for quantity, not quality.” He smiles at you, his look welcoming and comforting before he asks you to stand and introduce yourself.

You stand, straighten your uniform, then smile as you say your name and badge number. “I’m incredibly thankful for the opportunity and am eager to apply what I’ve learned and keep growing.”

Grey nods as you sit, and you take a few shaky breaths as he goes over announcements. The room is mostly comprised of male officers, with a few females scattered throughout. You met Officer Lopez in the locker room this morning, and while she seems great, she already confided in you that she’s not working as a TO while you’re here. After you received your station assignment, you looked up some of the officers. Your options for who will train you seem limited, especially with a small academy class.

Tim Bradford is sitting beside Lopez. His arms are crossed over his chest, he glared at you during your introduction like he was trying to draw a murder confession from you, and beneath that intimidating exterior, you saw something like disinterest in his eyes. There are horror stories about him at the academy - plain clothes day washouts, people who gave up on law enforcement careers after the first week, and even a rookie who was arrested for using his badge to lure women home with him. He’s apparently a good teacher if you make it far enough to learn anything. You cross your fingers under the table, hoping you get assigned anyone else as a TO.

But it’s never that easy. Is it? What will I do if I have to spend the first months of my career with someone who makes me nervous? Someone with power over me? What if it’s just like before?

“Last but not least,” Wade continues, “our new rookie will be riding with Officer Bradford.”

“Good luck!” someone jibes from the back of the room.

You bite your lower lip and smile at Grey. Maybe Tim will see your character is good and understand you’re a hard worker, and decide to take it easier on you. As you stand, he’s already shaking his head and looking at his watch.

It’s going to be a long day.

“I don’t get it,” Tim says, breaking the tense silence in the shop.

“Get what, sir?” you reply softly, watching your surroundings.

“You were a waitress, right?”

“I was.” You press your lips together nervously, wondering where this is going.

“What made you decide to make the change from that to police work? I mean, we’ve had people working in blue collar jobs decide they needed to do something with more purpose, military guys desperate for the structure… but a part-time job as a waitress doesn’t typically lead to law enforcement.”

“I didn’t want to be a waitress,” you point out. “It made ends meet, but it wasn’t a career.”

Tim tips his head to the side, but you can tell there’s more he wants to know, to say.

Instead, he asks, “So, why do you want to be a cop?”

“To help the people who need it most,” you reply. “To be there, to fight for those who can’t.”

Tim raises one brow as he glances over at you, and you fight the urge not to sink into your seat. He’s not a huge guy, but he’s not small, either. His attitude makes him seem unapproachable, but if he decided to do something to you, you couldn’t stop him. Sitting in the shop together, you’re less than a foot apart, and even as you try to lean inconspicuously toward the door, you watch his hands warily, internally hoping that they stay on the steering wheel.

“Is that it?” Tim asks. “I expected you to trauma dump or add ‘I want to be the person I needed.’”

Swallowing, you nod. It’s not untrue; given the chance, you will be the person you needed, but you were on this path when you needed someone, so it didn’t change anything. Yet it simultaneously changed everything.

“I worked at the diner to pay rent and buy groceries while I was in the academy,” you confide.

“You were self-supported?” Tim clarifies. “I thought LAPD sponsored the whole class this year.”

“Not me,” you murmur. “The second I got my assignment I called and quit.”

Tim nods, then slams on the brakes in the middle of the street. He turns toward you, and you dig your fingers into the seat, your hands tucked beneath your legs.

“Boot, we’re being ambushed!” he exclaims.

He doesn’t notice how hard you flinch at his raised voice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.

“Where are we?” Tim demands. “Less than a minute ‘til we’re both dead unless you radio.”

“Cochran Avenue between West 8th and 9th streets, southwest of La Brea and Wilshire,” you answer, focusing on keeping your voice level more than the panic threatening to send you into fight or flight.

“Good enough,” Tim mumbles as he turns back toward the road.

He props his elbow on the console between you, and you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth to keep yourself from crying. He’s close, and Tim Bradford is starting to scare you, making you more nervous than the threat of failing at what you’ve always dreamed of. Nervous of him not as a TO, but as a man.

“Hey,” Lucy Chen greets you in the locker room at the end of your first day.

She was one of Tim’s rookies, you remember. Somehow, she turned out fine.

“A few friends and I are going out for dinner,” she says. “Do you want to come? Celebrate your first day?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t,” you say. There’s no reason to turn the invitation down, but you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold on. You need a hot shower and maybe a good cry, and then you can think about what the best thing to do is.

“Okay,” Lucy replies, smiling kindly. “Let me know when you’re free, and we’ll try again. Maybe the end of the week?”

“That might work. I’ll let you know. Thank you.”

“Of course. We’re a family, okay? Don’t forget that, even when Tim tests you.”

She pats your back as she passes you, and you stiffen. The last time someone told you a workforce was a family and laid their hand on you, it didn’t end well. As those memories resurface, you close your locker and hurry through the station, desperate to be alone.

In the safety and solitude of your apartment, you turn the shower on as hot as you can tolerate, then stand motionless under the spray. You can’t tell which drops on your cheeks are water and which are tears, but it doesn’t matter. With one hand braced against the shower wall, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. Part of you wants to scrub this experience away and move on, but being a police officer is what you’ve dreamed of and worked toward for years. It’s what gave you the motivation and the strength to push through the hardest times. Now, as you think about riding with Tim again tomorrow, you wonder if it was a sign all along - a sign you’re not strong enough, not good enough, not worthy enough. You shake your head and begin humming your favorite song to distract yourself. Your eyes remain closed as you wash your body because you don’t want to face the fear that Tim might see what he saw.

Somehow - a miracle, perseverance, plain luck - you make it to the end of your first week as a rookie. Every second spent with Tim feels like an hour, but he’s a good teacher. You’re still wary of being alone with him, always vigilant of where you are and what he could do. He doesn’t speak to you much; when he does, he asks questions, poses hypotheticals, and encourages you to say what you’re thinking. The last offer is turned down every time because what you’re thinking is dangerous enough for yourself without telling your training officer that he makes you nervous. You spent the week on edge, waiting to be ‘tested’ like Lucy said. Yet, as you close your locker on Friday night, you feel like a student who’s been sitting quietly and taking thorough notes, unaware that the test will come when she least expects it and be different just because the teacher calls the shots.

“Hey, you’re still coming, right?” Lucy checks as she heads for the shower.

You nod, smiling as she cheers. It took three days before you were comfortable enough to shower at the station before heading home. Yet, as you lean over the sink to reapply your lipgloss, you smile at the progress you’ve made. Even if you can’t look Tim in the eye.

You step out of the station behind Angela and Lucy. Stopping when you see Tim leaning against his truck, you curl your hand into a fist at your side to channel your energy into something other than the urge to run.

“You invited a rookie?” Tim asks flatly.

“Yes,” Angela replies. “Because she’s a human. Which means-“

“It was a question, not a ticket to your TED talk,” Tim deadpans. He pushes off the tailgate of his truck and looks at you to ask, “Need a ride?”

“Way ahead of you,” Lucy interrupts, tossing her arm over your shoulder. “We’re going to talk about you all the way to the restaurant.”

“Your personal lives must be horrifying if I’m the best topic of conversation you have.”

“You’re really annoying.”

Tim smiles at her, and you release your hand. If every other woman here can trust Tim, why can’t you?

Because your friends trusted him too.

You and Lucy are the last to arrive at the restaurant, but you’re smiling when you walk in with her. She complains about the parking as you tell the hostess who you’re meeting. When the table comes into view, your breath catches. There are two open seats: one beside Angela and one by Tim. Lucy goes straight to Angela’s side, already talking to Nolan by the time you step toward Tim.

Lost in your thoughts about where you would be comfortable sitting, you don’t notice Angela Lopez watching you. She notices how your eyes skip over Tim, completely ignorant of how he stares at you with poorly concealed concern in his eyes. You can’t see it; most people can’t, but she’s been around Tim long enough to know that he’s not as annoyed with you as he constantly leads you to believe. She’s also seen enough to realize that there is more going on in your head than pondering the ethical implications of having dinner seated beside your TO.

“Take this seat,” Angela offers as she stands. “I can’t hear anything over Nolan anyway.”

“You asked for the story!” he argues, raising his hand from the table.

Angela winks at you, and you sigh in relief as you whisper to thank her. Tim’s jaw tightens as she sinks into the seat beside him. He doesn’t say a word to you for the rest of the night. For some reason, that makes you nervous, too.

You freeze when Tim yells your last name. With your hand on the door handle of your Uber, you take a measured breath before you turn back toward him. He walks toward you with his steps heavy and purposeful. Every muscle in your body tenses as your mind races.

“What was that, boot?” he demands, stopping at least three steps away from you.

“Hey, do you want to get another ride?” the driver asks through the rolled-down window.

“Yes, she does,” Tim answers for you, leaning forward to see the woman. “Thanks.”

The woman nods quickly, then pulls away from the curb.

“That wasn’t your choice,” you argue weakly.

“I’ll give you a ride,” Tim replies tiredly.

Absolutely not.

“So, what was that about?” he repeats.

“What was what about?”

Tim lifts his brows slightly, and you sigh as you look down at your feet.

“I wanted to talk to Lucy and Nolan about their experience as rookies,” you lie.

“You didn’t. I’m not sure you said anything other than your order.”

Was he watching me? You take a step back as you swallow, looking around to see if any of your other friends (or almost friends) are still around. You’re alone. Again.

“If you have a problem with me, I need to know,” Tim snaps.

“I… I don’t have a problem with you, Officer Bradford,” you assure him.

“Then what is going on?” he exclaims, moving his right hand up in question. “We place our lives in each other’s hands daily, and I’m not going to be able to trust you with other officers if you can’t be honest with me about one simple question.”

“I don’t have a problem with you,” you repeat, moving back another inch. “It’s just…” You make me nervous? Saying that would almost surely get you fired. “I have a bad habit of overthinking things in my personal life, and I didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing.”

Tim shakes his head, clearly not believing you. Still, he says, “I’ll accept that for now. Eventually, you’ll have to trust someone enough to tell them. If not me, Grey or Lopez. But letting that fear control you is not going to end well.”

You have no idea.

“Come on,” Tim sighs. “I’m parked over here.”

“I’ll just get another Uber,” you reply. “I don’t want to put you out. I live kind of out of the way.”

Tim opens his mouth to argue, then seems to rethink it. “Okay. Be careful,” he says before he turns and leaves.

“7-Adam-19,” dispatch radios, “Officer Chen has requested backup – diner at La Brea and Melrose.”

Tim flips the switch for the lights and sirens, and you press your hands against your thighs. The diner where you used to work is at La Brea and Melrose. It’s a popular area, so there’s no shortage of restaurants in that quarter-mile strip of asphalt. Yet, your breaths grow shallow. Tim speaks, but his voice is distorted and distant.

“Boot!” he snaps, drawing your attention.

“Sorry,” you murmur, blinking as your mind returns to the present.

“If Chen gives you a command that contradicts any of mine, listen to her, okay? She was first on scene, which means she has a better understanding of what’s going on.”

“Right. Yes, sir.”

Tim turns into a small parking lot and parks beside Lucy’s shop. You focus on the job, on each second, on each step, anything except how familiar it is to step onto the old tile as the bell chimes above you. In the weeks since you left, the diner hasn’t changed any. The brawl taking place between the booths doesn’t even surprise you.

“Bradford, you wanna try?” Lucy asks. “I’ve tried verbal commands but they’re not listening to me, and I’m not getting in the middle of that.”

Tim nods. He takes a step toward the group of men screaming and throwing punches; some are upright, others spread on the floor. Turning, he unplugs the jukebox and plunges the diner into relative quiet.

“You’re all going to jail if you don’t start complying!” Tim yells, punctuated by bringing his baton down on a nearby laminate table.

The men slow down and stop yelling, but don’t stop.

“That’s our window,” Tim says. “Chen, get the guy off the floor. Boot, the apron.”

It’s a job. You’re not alone. Cuff him and don’t listen to a word he says.

You pull the diner employee out of the group, pushing him onto a booth seat to cuff his hands behind his back. It goes smoothly as Tim and Lucy apprehend their respective suspects, but then the man before you realizes who you are.

He pushes back against you, but you’ve already cuffed him. When he realizes he can’t do what he wants, he turns and hooks his ankle around yours.

“You’re all under arrest,” Tim says, watching the other men. “The rest of you grab a table and keep your heads up.”

The men amble to the other side of the diner, lean against the shaky tables, and glare at one another as Lucy secures zip-tie restraints around their wrists.

“Remember what I told you about uniforms?” the man beside you murmurs, trailing his eyes up and down your body.

You push him back against the booth, turning him so his face is down toward the worn red pleather upholstery.

Tim turns quickly, his eyes narrowing as he looks at the cuffed man. “You two know each other?” he asks.

“Oh, you have no idea. Unless you do; I wouldn’t put it past her.”

Tim glances at you, but you’re now watching the other men to ensure Lucy is safe. You shake your head slightly, trying to ignore him.

“I see,” Tim murmurs. “Which makes you?”

“She didn’t tell you she worked here? I was her boss… in and out of work,” he brags.

“I think I’ve heard enough,” Tim decides, his voice even and low. “What do you think, Chen?”

“More than enough,” she replies, turning with disgust evident on her face.

You didn’t even know she was listening. Six patrol cars arrive outside as your former boss smirks at Lucy.

“One more word,” Tim dares. “To either of them.”

“Honestly, I’d love to see you do it,” Lucy adds.

“I think I’d like a lawyer,” he mumbles, shrinking into the booth.

“Officer Janssen,” Tim says when the door opens. “Take this one into custody right away, and maybe let the nice folks looking into fraud and workplace safety know that the boss of this establishment has some interesting business tactics.”

Janssen nods, then leads him out of the diner. You release a breath, then straighten your spine and wait for your next instructions. Tim and Lucy don’t move, watching you as the other men are led to the waiting shops.

“Are you alright?” Lucy asks when the door closes behind the last officer.

“I’m fine,” you answer, sending her a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Do you need anything?”

You shake your head, glancing at Tim. His hands are curled into tight fists, but his eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen.

“Come on,” he says, tipping his head toward the door. “Chen, we’re going Code 7 for a bit.”

“I’ll let dispatch know,” she replies. “Call me later for anything, okay?”

You nod, wringing your fingers together as she moves toward the door. Ready to get out of the diner and away from all the reminders of your past, you follow her. Tim hesitates briefly, then trails you back to the shop. In your seats, he turns off his body camera and instructs you to do the same. Wordlessly, he drives to a restaurant and orders your favorite drink, then parks in an empty area behind a strip mall.

It's a good time to be honest. And Tim stood up for you, so maybe – just maybe – he’ll understand that he was never the problem.

“You made me nervous,” you admit softly, looking at the lid of your drink.

Tim turns his head toward you but doesn’t reply.

“I don’t know why. Maybe it was just that you seemed annoyed with me from the beginning. Or it’s been a long time since I could trust someone so close to me.” You shrug and move your straw. “I-“

“I get it,” Tim interrupts. “He abused your trust.”

“Not all he abused,” you mumble.

Tim’s voice changes. Harder and laced with anger, he asks, “What?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Yes, it does. Listen to me, whatever he did didn’t change you and no one is going to blame you for the scars it left.”

“It started when we were working a graveyard shift alone,” you confess. Finally looking up at Tim, you add, “It got worse until I quit.”

“Did he…” Tim trails off, watching you with an unfamiliar look in his eyes.

“He didn’t do anything I could prove,” you answer. “Grabbed me over my clothes, lewd comments, threatened to go farther. He said he’d cut my uniform to get me more tips, and he- he said if I was lucky and he was right about what was underneath, he’d give me more than that.”

“I’m sorry.”

You furrow your brows at Tim’s apology.

“No one should have to deal with that,” he continues. “And I should have realized that you weren’t comfortable when I got close to you.”

“I don’t mind,” you murmur. “Not anymore.”

“And I appreciate the trust, but it’s not enough.”

“Sir?”

“I will work for your trust; make you see that I’m not just taking it. I respect you, but even if you were still working as a waitress, taking back your life and getting what you deserve is your right.”

You nod as Tim shifts into drive. The moment seems to have passed, but you don’t mind when your hand bumps against Tim's when you reach for the cupholders at the same time.

“You didn’t have to threaten him,” you say, smiling at Tim as you replace your body cams.

“I’m going to do more than that,” Tim murmurs.

“Sir?”

“I also think we should get a redo on dinner, but that’s up to you.”

You lean back against the seat and smile. Tim might have made you nervous before, but now that you can realize he saw past your fear and the marks your past left, you’re glad he’s on your team. And the idea of dinner with him sparks something similar yet completely different than the nervousness you felt before.

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford fic #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #hanna writes✯#when I saw the diner pic I wanted to make this longer and tension FILLED... maybe someday

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shelbgrey · 1 month ago

Text

Hungry Eyes (Carlisle Cullen)

Paring: Carlisle cullen x wolf!Reader

Summary: (takes place during Eclips) in the most Alice Cullen way possible, the Cullen home was turned into a pad for the biggest graduation party Forks has ever seen. Y/n Black - now y/n Cullen and Carlisle are newlyweds fresh from their honeymoon. Y/n is a touched starved girl with a man that's constantly touching. Y/n is also a girl who hates crowds, but she also has a man that has no problem taking her mind off things

Warnings: SMUT! unprotected sex(they're married, so it's cool), supernatural qualities make quick appearances (might not exactly fit the ones from the stories), rough sex, riding, multiple orgasms, oral(F receiving), slight fingering, breast worship, not edited, my first twilight smut I think.

MasterList ML2

In Alice Cullen fashion, she threw a big graduation party at their home. The whole graduation class and then some showed up. The large house the Cullens called home suddenly felt crowded and was filled with buzzed graduates and God awful music. Y/n Black - excuse me, Y/n Cullen did have to give credit where it was deserved. Alice could throw a party and everything did look beautiful, even if she was overly punctual and practically played drill Sergeant while trying to get Emmett and Jasper to help with decorating hours prior.

Y/n couldn't use any excuses, the whole night was getting old. Loud music can do a number on someone with heightened sense. Alice had gotten onto Carlisle's beautiful new wife for this evening's fashion choices. Of course y/n's childish side wanted to counteract with getting onto Alice for her music choices, but decided to just grin and bear it. Actually she just stayed up on the second floor of the house, leaning against the stair railing and watched the first floor of the house flood with people. Y/n wished she and Carlisle were back at their little beach house outside of Rio and extended the honeymoon.

It didn't take Carlisle long to find her, not just because her intoxicating scent flooded his senses the closer he got, but because he knew her all too well. It wasn't a surprise to see her away from the crowd. Carlise approached her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist gently. “There you are, Darling” he whispers in her ear, his voice smooth like satin and never failed to make all her senses weak. The only cacophony that could calm her and distract her from what was going on downstairs.

“My love” Y/n smirked, turning in his arms and grabbing the lapels of his suit jacket as his eyes flashed with amusement. She didn't hesitate to pull him closer so they're chests nearly touched. Since the honeymoon - hell, even before, she couldn't keep her hands to herself. Plus(in her mind) it seemed so much more exciting or pure now since they got married. Every touch, whisper, and kiss reserved just for each other.

Carlisle's golden eyes locked with hers - desire clouded them. He loved that marriage seems to have made her even bolder. His hands slid down to her backside possessively, his could touch sending a shiver down her spine. Y/n cupped his jaw as Carlisle leaned down, hovering his lips against hers. Although his teasing usually excited and both annoyed her sexually, she wasn't having it tonight. She pressed her lips against his roughly. Her other hand slipped into the opening where the top two buttons of his white shirt were undone, resting her hand against the ice cold skin where his collarbone and neck met. The newlyweds weren't much into major pda, but no one was paying attention to them that night - merely two shadows in the background of the dim room.

Carlisle's hand tangles in her hair as the kiss becomes more passionate as he gently pressed her against the wall that hid them from the party down below. She moaned softly against his lips, a sound only caught because of his heightened hearing. He knew what she wanted and didn't have to be told twice. Carlisle pulls back just enough to whisper against her lips, his cool breath tickling them. “Should I take you to our room?”

“I think you should, Dr. Cullen” y/n whispered seductively.

A small grin tugs at his lips at her use of his title, knowing it's meant to tease him. “Well, Mrs. Cullen,” His hands slid upward, gripping her hips as she stared up at him, biting the corner of her lip. His golden eyes bore into hers intensely, his voice low and husky as they snuck away to their room. “I think I'd be a very irresponsible husband if I didn't take my wife upstairs for a bit”

“It would be, it's been too long since you've touched me” y/n smirked, pulling him into their bedroom by the scarf he had draped over his neck. He always had a thing for them for some reason, but y/n definitely wasn't complaining - definitely didn't complain when he had her tied up with one.

He chuckles softly as he kicks the bedroom door shut behind him, his arms still wrapped around her. “Too long? Didn't I make love to you this morning?” But even as he teases her, his hands start to roam possessively over her body as he walks them towards the bed.

“I need more” y/n said softly, standing up on her toes and at the same time pulling him down to her height by the collar of his white dress shirt and pressed her lips back against his passionately.

Carlisle groaned softly, kissing y/n back with equal fervor. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him. She let out a moan at the feeling, carding her fingers through his hair. He could feel her heated body pressing against his ice cold one, making him even more eager to get rid of the clothes that separated them.

Carlisle deepened the kiss, his tongue gently probing her mouth as he walked y/n backward towards the bed. His hands moved from her waist to her back, unzipping her dress with practiced ease - he couldn't bring himself to rip it off, knowing it was her favorite. He broke the kiss only to watch the dress fall to the floor, pooling at her feet.

Y/n shivered as she pressed her lips back against his, kissing him in a rushed pace as she pushed his gray suit jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor with her dress. His breath caught in his throat as Her fingers worked quickly at the buttons of his white dress shirt, desperately needing to feel his hard, ice cold skin against hers. His vampire temperature never bothered her, his ice cold skin always felt amazing against her high temperature skin. He groaned at the feeling of her warm skin as it brushed over every inch of skin that was exposed. He couldn't take it anymore and reach for the last few buttons to speed up the process. He quickly shrugged off the material completely, his cold skin already becoming flushed at her touch. His hands moved to her thighs, lifting her easily onto the bed while he kissed along her jawline and neck.

Y/n pulled away, leaning back in the bed. Her fingers trailing down his hard, pale chest sensually. It was like he was sculpted to perfection. “God, you're handsome” she whispered as her hands went lower to his hips and to his belt.

Carlisle smiled softly at her words, his golden eyes locked onto hers. He loved when she praised him, even if he didn't think much of it. He watched as her hands moved to his buckle, his own hands gripping onto her thighs to spread her legs wider. “And you're absolutely gorgeous” he whispered.

Y/n blushed, almost losing focus on his belt, his voice, his words, everything had this huge affect on her and Carlisle knew it. She got the buckle loose and he sucked in a sharp breath as she yanked through the loops of his dress pants. He loved when she was eager like this. He unbuttoned his dress pants, pushing them down along with his black boxers. Y/n's eyes unapologetically roamed his now fully naked body. Carlisle smirked, watching her bite her lip as she spread her perfect body out on the bed.

Y/n didn't waste any time discarding her lace panties. She stared into his gold eyes as she quickly discarded the expensive material and threw them his way. Carlisle caught it with quick reflex as y/n layed back down. He smirked before dropping them to the floor. He crawled onto the bed slowly, his eyes trailing over every inch of her exposed skin. He wanted to worship every inch of her. “Damn” he breathed out, positioning himself between her thighs.

He growled softly, his golden eyes flickering with hunger as his head dipped south. His cold lips trailing along her inner thigh before he buried his face between her thighs, his cold tongue parting her warm folds. “Delicious”

Y/n’s head fell back as she let out a whiny moan. She gripped his blond hair, arching her hips up against his mouth. Carlisle wrapped his arms around her legs, holding them spread wide as he licked and sucked at her sensitive clit. His cold mouth contrasting with her warm pussy felt incredible. He pushed his tongue inside of her, fucking her slowly with it as he watched hee face contort with pleasure.

Y/n gasped, looking down. Her (e/c) eyes met his gold ones. “oh, God. Carlisle!” she gasped, her head tilting back.

His golden eyes were filled with desire and love. He added a finger inside of her, pumping it in and out slowly as he continued to lick and suck at her clit. He loved watching her like this, so lost in pleasure and calling out his name.

“Car” Y/n mumbled, her hips arched as he grabbed one of her thighs, throwing it over his shoulder. Carlise growled against her, loving the way she was losing control. He added a finger, curling them inside of her as he sucked hard on her clit. She whined and moaned in pleasure as she tugged and messed up his perfect hair. His free hand moved up to squeeze one of her lace covered breasts, his thumb brushing over her hard nipple. “Come for me, Darling”

Y/n grasped his hand, pulling it off her boob and lacing her fingers with his. Her head fell back in pleasure as the tight knot in her stomach snapped. Her free hand tugged at his hair and her hips rutted up as she rode out her release.

Carlisle groaned, his fingers and tongue working her through her orgasm. He loved the way she squeezed around his fingers and the way she pulled his hair. He slowly removed his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to clean them off. “Mmm, so sweet” he purred.

He crawled up her body slowly, kissing and licking along her stomach and sides. He pushed the lace of her bralette off to the side to reveal one of her perfect pink nipples. “You're so damn gorgeous” he murmured before sucking one of her hard peaks into his mouth, making her moaned softly. She cupped one side of his jaw with one hand and the other went to his hair as her chest arched at the welcoming assault.

Carlisle hummed against her breast, sucking harder and swirling his tongue around her nipple. He loved every one of her reactions, her body arching off the bed and her fingers tugging at his hair. He released one breast only to move to the other one, nipping softly at it. “y/n”

“C-Carlisle,” she moaned softly and breathlessly. “N-need you inside me”

He groans deeply, his cock throbbing against her thigh at her words. He quickly positioned himself at her entrance. He looks into her eyes, seeing the raw desire and need reflected back at him. “As my lady wishes” he says softly before slowly pushing inside her.

Y/n's head feel back as she moaned louder, digging hee nails into his back as he slowly and teasingly pressed into her, his thick, cold length filling her up completely. He bottomed out, his hips pressed flush against hers. He groaned softly, his head nuzzling into the crook of her neck. He kissed and nipped at her neck, his hips starting to move in a slow, steady rhythm. He pulled out slowly before slamming back into her, now setting a fast and hard pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room along with her moans and his groans.

“Carlisle” y/n groaned and moaned, tugging at his hair. She felt her skin getting hotter and her emotions slipping. Y/n stared into his gold eyes, her lips permanently parted and supplying sounds of pure pleasure as her (e/c) irises faded into black.

Carlisle watched her eyes darken with lust and pleasure. Her nails were sharp and digging into his back like little claws. Her skin was hot and flushed. He knew she was losing control, his woman getting wilder and needier.

Y/n gasped softly. Feeling bold she used her strength she got after phasing and flipped them, catching Carlisle off gard as she tested their power dynamic. She pushed him into the sheet and straddled him. Carlisle strong arms wrapping around her waist as he looked up at her with suduction in his golden eyes, his fangs slightly elongating as he panted. He loved when she got feisty and tested his strength.

Y/n held on to his shoulders and started rocking her hips. He groaned deeply, his long fingers gripping her hips tightly as she move. He lifted his hips up to meet her, thrusting into her hard and fast. “Carlisle!” she cried out, her head falling back in pleasure. He watched as her breasts bounced with each movement, his other hand reaching up to grope and squeeze one.

“damn, y/n” His mouth fell open watching her ride him. She was so beautiful like this, wild and needy. Her hair was all over the place, her back arched, breasts bouncing. He snapped his hips up sharply, hitting that deep spot inside of her that made her screech. Carlisle did it again, hitting that spot deliberately. Y/n's inner walls clenched around him tightly, her movements becoming erratic. He knew she was close. He suddenly sat up, wrapping his arms around her and flipping her back over so he was on top again.

The impact they're bodies made had the bed creaking and y/n moaning as she gripped his biceps. His golden eyes darkened with lust watching y/n’s body writhe underneath him. He spread her legs wide again, pounding into her hard and fast. He watched her breasts bounce and her mouth fall open in moans and cries. He loved that he could manhandle her like this without hurting her. “Love”

“I'm gonna cum!” she cried out.

Carlisle growled, his fingers digging into her thighs spread wide. He hit that spot inside of her again and again, his pace punishing. He watched her mouth open in a silent scream as her release built up. Her black eyes rolled back slightly, her back arched off the bed sharply. He swallowed loudly.

Y/n finally reached the edge, letting all her nerves relax as her vision became stary and blurred, her legs tightend around his hips and her nails bit into his biceps, carlisle watched her eyes roll back for the immense pleasure while her head fell back against the pillows. Her orgasm washed over her, loud moans and pants were coming out from her mouth.

With a final deep thrust, carlisle released inside of her, groaning her name. He collapsed partially on top of her, his weight supported on his elbows. One hand gripped her hair tenderly as he stared down at her blissed-out expression. His thumb traced her bottom lip gently.

“Carlisle…” Y/n heaved softly, catching her breath.

He nuzzled his face into her neck, breathing in her scent deeply. “Look at me” He murmured softly, his thumb still tracing her bottom lip. He wanted to see her eyes roll back again, see that blissed-out expression on her beautiful face.

Y/n looked up, his golden eyes searched her black ones intently. He saw the satiated expression, the way her eyes were slightly dilated and glazed over. He smiled softly, his thumb pressing her bottom lip open slightly. “More” y/n whispered as Carlisle leaned down, pressing soft kisses on her jaw and throat.

“more” Carlisle agreed, his eyes darkened dangerously. He pulled out slowly only to slam back into her hard. He spread her legs wider, his pace quick and brutal. He watched her breasts bounce again, her back arching sharply. He growled softly.

“Carlisle!” y/n cried out, raking her nails down his back.

His golden eyes rolled back slightly. He snapped his hips harshly, one hand sliding down to grope her breast roughly. He watched her mouth fall open again, her head throw back. He spread her legs wider apart and pounded into her like an animal.

“Oh, God. Don't stop!” y/n cried out, arching her hips up “Carlisle!”

He growled deeply, his hips moving faster and harder. Y/n’s cries spurred him on more than anything else could. He gripped her thighs tightly, his golden eyes were locked onto her bouncing breasts and her flushed face.

Y/n moaned and whined. She grabed both sides of his jaw in her hands, tilting his head up. She gasped and moaned as she held his face in her hands and kepted eyes contact with his gold ones. Fuck, she loved his eyes and the way his usually perfect blond hair was all over the place - lose and draped over his forehead. Y/n iris and pupils had gone full black in pleasure as she Ignored any disire that was linked to her need to phase.

Carlisle maintained eye contact with her. The sight of her black eyes and flushed cheeks drove him wild. He leaned down slightly, his lips brushing against hers as he continued to pound into her relentlessly. His hands gripped her thighs tighter as she gave him deeper access.

“I... I need to cum again” y/n moaned desperately.

He growled softly, his golden eyes locked onto her black ones. He could feel her getting close again, her inner walls tightening around him like a vice. He wrapped his arms around her thighs and hooked her legs over his elbow, opening her up wider to him.

“Carlisle!” she cried out and He slammed into her so deep that she felt him in her stomach. He held that position, grinding his hips against hers as he reached down with his free hand to rub her clit aggressively. His golden eyes watched her black ones roll back as he finally pushed her over the edge.

Y/n’s mouth fell open in a small, almost animal like purr sound came from her throat as she came hard around him. He growled deeply at the sounds she made, his fangs fully elongating as he watched her intense orgasm take over. Y/n’s black eyes rolled completely back, her mouth open in a perfect O. He felt her inner muscles clench around him so tightly that he lost control and came with you.

Carlisle collapsed on top of her, his large body pinning her to the bed as he tried to control himself. His golden eyes searched her face, taking in her black eyes that were slowly rolling back to their normal color. He nuzzled his face into her neck and inhaled her scent deeply.

“Damn” y/n said softly, catching her breath and carding her fingers through his hair lazily as her eyes slowly faded back to their normal (e/c) shade.

“Mhmm,” He hummed softly, lifting his head to look at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair spread messily over the pillows. He saw her full lips slightly parted. “Darling?” He called softly, pulling out slowly.

“I love you” he said, a soft smile playing on his lips as he gently stroked her cheek.

“I love you more” she smiled back, nuzzling her nose against his.

“not possible” he said, without missing a beat.

#Carlisle cullen #Carlisle cullen smut #Carlisle cullen x reader #Carlisle cullen imagines #Twilight smut #Twilight x reader #twilight imagines #peter facinelli

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sigh-tofm · 10 months ago

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if you’re their sugar baby… (18+)

… price

- absolutely spoils you. adores giving you anything you want. if your gaze lingers in a shop window, he’ll buy you whatever’s in it. you suspect he’s infiltrated your phone somehow, because anything you look at online will show up on your doorstep a few days later. he takes you to private jewellery fittings and sits back with a glass of whisky while the jewellers puts glimmering necklaces and earrings on you.

in return, he likes showing you off. regularly takes you out to restaurants so expensive they don’t even list their prices on the menu. spoon feeds you black caviar and picks out the correct wine, the bottles so old they still have wax seals on them. loves seeing you wearing the dresses he buys for you, revealing the fleshier parts of your body that the rest of society tells you to hide. always wants you to wear diamonds in your ears when you’re his date. nothing is ever too expensive if it’s for you.

takes you to a luxurious hotel after and fucks you good and well in the satin sheets. goes back to base before you wake up the morning after, and leaves a generous cash tip on the nightstand in addition to the monthly four digit payments transferred directly to your bank account.

… kyle

- takes care of you. a sergeant’s pay is low compared to a captain’s, but it’s still a substantial amount and much, much more than you make. enjoys having a pretty lady to spoil. any visit to the hairdresser or nail salon is on him. will occasionally request a specific colour for your nails, and you know it’s to match a dress he’s bought you, waiting for you at home.

takes you dancing, spends the whole night downtown and treats you to high-end street food at three in the morning. you get fancy cocktails and colourful shots and anything else you want to try. if another woman gets close to him on the dance floor, he makes a point out of feeling you up, splaying his hands over you wide hips and soft tummy.

takes you home to his and you both fall right to sleep, waking up past noon the day after. arranges a massage for you to help with your hangover. sits in on the appointment and flips your towel up to eat you out when the massage therapist leaves. reminds you to use the credit card he’s given you in between your orgasms.

… johnny

- whisks you away to scotland when he’s off duty. borrows the family cabin in the highlands and accommodates you both in the master bedroom, spending the cold nights in a grand bed with a heavy pelt covering the duvet. loves the fantasy of having a big, soft secret stowed away in the mountains.

spends the days hiking with you or takes you down to the coast, where you watch the wild waves and enjoy cottage pie in a local pub. asks for the finest whiskey, refusing anything but the best for you. tells you all about the history of the old stone kirk of the town over steaming mugs of spiked cider.

lays the pelt out on the floor before the great fireplace in the living room and grins when you mention the cliché of it all. remarks that clichés exist for a reason and pulls you close. your skin grows goosebumps in the cold air of the cabin, but the fireplace (and the rigorous activity on the pelt rug) warms you both up. lays with you after, smoothing his hand over your side and enjoying how your soft body gives way to the pressure of his fingers. pays for first class on your flight back home and gives you cash enough to cover both rent and supplies for the month. makes out with you messily at the airport before you part ways.

… simon

- takes you along to all his going ons outside of active duty. enjoys having a partner in crime, so to speak. in the military he’s a lone wolf, so when he’s off he just wants to have you for company. price thinks it’s a good idea for him too, to at least pretend he has some normalcy in his life. you oblige. he takes you to all his mundane errands; groceries, changing the tires of his car, walking the old bridle paths in his area.

has you tucked in under his arm when the footie’s on in the evening, trays of hot takeaway on the sofa table. if you can’t decide what you want to order, he has you list everything you’re interested in and orders it all. entertains your questions about football terminology and plays with your hair. pulls a blanket over you when you’re close to falling asleep and turns the volume down.

herds you to bed after a little while and so enjoys having a warm, soft body to put his arm around at night. to you, it’s all so casual and natural that you almost forget it’s an arrangement, but he never forgets to pay for your company according to your agreement and always tips generously.

doesn’t say it out loud, but likes it when you straddle him on the sofa and lets him feel you up and make out with you until he comes in his pants like a schoolboy.

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pedroam-bang · 2 years ago

Text

Black Hawk Down (2001)

“Leave no man behind”

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thatfeelinwhenyou · 2 months ago

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SAFE & SOUND — extras: jungwon's POV

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 18.1k (LMFAOOOO)

a/n: erm... i know i said i wouldn't be writing anything extra for safe & sound but I saw some of your comments saying how it would be interesting to read from Jungwon's perspective. i realised then, how much detail I was missing out on because I was writing in first perspective. the thought irked me. so I opened my laptop and wrote this... LOL it's not full chapters, just some scenes and extra cuts that I thought would be fun to read in won's POV! enjoy reliving some of the most traumatic moments I guess? as usual, heavy trigger warning for blood, killing, death, ANGST, and morally grey ideologies.

MASTERLIST

Pre-Safe & Sound

The courtroom reeks of cigarette smoke and musty paper, the air so thick it feels like it’s clogging his lungs. Jungwon’s shoulders ache from sitting too stiff for too long, his back pressed against the cold metal of the chair. His fingers tap against his thigh in an impatient rhythm, a habit he’s never quite managed to shake.

Jungwon is just one of many faces scattered throughout the makeshift courtroom—one of many playing pretend in a crumbling civilisation that wants to believe it’s still standing. Pretending the world hasn’t rotted outside these concrete walls, pretending the rules still matter. The others around him—higher-ups, officers, men and women who hold titles that lost their meaning the day the world went to shit—are watching the spectacle with all the enthusiasm of a pack of vultures waiting for something to die.

It’s always been like this—marble floors and steel walls, designed to intimidate, to remind everyone sitting here of the authority they’ve willingly, or unwillingly, surrendered themselves to. The Future prides itself on order and control. On weeding out the weak. On pruning the unruly.

The General sits at the head of the room, his posture rigid, shoulders squared, the insignia on his chest gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Beside him, Sergeant Major Kim of Weapons Control has his mouth twisted into a sneer, his eyes like polished stone.

Jungwon knows this isn’t just a formality. It’s an execution, dressed up in procedure.

“I’m tired of tolerating his shit. So what if he’s a good shot? All the more he’ll turn the muzzle on one of us if he feels like it.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice grates on Jungwon’s nerves, his words nothing more than polished venom, a slow, creeping poison meant to dismantle anyone who steps out of line.

It’s been a solid forty-five minutes since Sergeant Major Kim started making his case against Jay. Not just any case, either. A full-blown, meticulously constructed argument, layered with every possible sin Jay might have committed. Insurbodination. Recklessness. Endangering his comrades during an infiltration of a new community not far from HQ.

Jungwon’s jaw tightens as he listens, only half paying attention to the string of accusations that drip from the Sergeant Major’s mouth. It’s all politics. It’s all bullshit. They’re clinging to some sense of order, some desperate attempt to pretend they have control when the world has already slipped from their grasp.

“Private First Class Park is a liability. Reckless, undisciplined, and worst of all, disobedient. We give orders and he questions them. We set boundaries and he oversteps them. That’s not someone we can rely on.”

The words are familiar. They echo the same rhetoric Jungwon has heard in every damn meeting about Jay. The same tired complaints, the same frustrations disguised as grievances.

But something is different this time. There’s a finality to Sergeant Major Kim’s tone. A hunger for punishment.

Jungwon’s fingers drum against his thigh, the motion so slight it’s almost imperceptible. Outwardly, he remains calm, collected, his expression one of neutrality. But his mind is anything but.

The General leans forward, his hands clasped together on the table before him. “Expulsion has been discussed in the past.” His voice is measured, dispassionate. “But now, the situation has escalated.”

Jungwon’s jaw clenches. Escalated. That’s one way to put it.

Jay’s a good shot. Too good. His skill with a rifle has saved lives more times than anyone can count, his quick thinking turning the tide of more battles than the council has the nerve to acknowledge. And his mouth—well, his mouth is the part they can’t seem to stomach. The bluntness. The refusal to bow to authority when that authority is nothing more than a fragile facade.

Jay had defied orders, yes. Had disregarded direct commands during the last infiltration mission. But Jay’s reasons were sound. Ethical, even. The community they were raiding had families—innocent people trying to survive, same as them. Jay had pushed back, refused to partake in what he deemed an unnecessary massacre. And in doing so, he’d broken the one unspoken rule The Future held above all else—obedience.

“His actions jeopardise the integrity of our system. His insubordination is not only dangerous, but infectious.” Sergeant Major Kim’s eyes narrow, his gaze sweeping over the room like he’s daring anyone to disagree.

Jungwon doesn’t. Not outwardly. Not yet.

“Expulsion is the only logical course of action.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice is calm, collected. “Unless someone can offer a viable alternative.”

The silence is thick, stifling. No one speaks. No one dares to.

But Jungwon can feel it—something coiling in his gut, hot and sharp and undeniable. A warning. A decision.

Expulsion.

He can’t get the word out of his head. They’re going to throw Jay out. Cut him off from their little makeshift organisation like he’s nothing more than a diseased limb that needs to be amputated. And Jungwon knows what happens to those who are expelled. It’s a death sentence. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Because the world out there doesn’t care if you were once part of a structured society. It doesn’t care if you were skilled or strong or brave. It only cares about whether you can survive. And survival is a lot harder when you’re alone.

Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his mind racing. The General is speaking now, his voice calm and detached, as if he’s discussing nothing more than a routine supply run. But Jungwon catches the hesitation. The way his fingers drum against the table. The way his gaze shifts from the Sergeant Major to the others gathered around, gauging their reactions.

Politics. It’s always politics.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to think. His fingers tap harder against his thigh, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. If they really expel Jay, if they really push him out into the world without resources, without allies—

Jungwon doesn’t know why the thought bothers him so much. Doesn’t know why his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have turned white.

He’s been trained to follow orders. Conditioned to obey, to survive, to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

But for the first time, he’s not sure he can.

He takes a measured breath, his eyes fixed on the General’s. “Expulsion is a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” he says, his voice steady, deliberate. “Jay is reckless, yes. But he’s also resourceful. Skilled. Loyal.”

“Loyal to who, exactly?” Sergeant Major Kim cuts in, his smirk barbed. “Because from where I’m standing, his loyalties lie wherever his own moral compass points. And we can’t afford to keep someone around who values his own judgement above the chain of command.”

“Loyal to us,” Jungwon counters, his voice sharp enough to cut. “To me. And to the rest of our team.”

The words hang in the air, their weight undeniable. Jungwon can see the way the General’s gaze narrows, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as he considers.

“And what would you propose, Staff Sergeant Yang?” The General’s tone is cold, indifferent. “A slap on the wrist? A stern talking-to?”

Jungwon’s mind is already racing, the pieces clicking into place. He has to be careful. One wrong move and he’s signing Jay’s death warrant himself.

“No,” Jungwon says, his voice tight, controlled. “I suggest we redirect his skills. Use his rebellious nature to our advantage. Put him on tasks that require ingenuity and creativity. Give him the freedom to operate without compromising our security.”

“You aren’t just defending him because you know him personally, are you? Bias isn’t a good look in the military, Sergeant Yang.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and cutting. Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his posture stiffening as he meets Sergeant Major Kim’s gaze head-on. The sneer twisting the man’s mouth makes Jungwon’s stomach churn. The accusation is there, laid bare for everyone in the room to see.

A murmur ripples through the room, low and treacherous. Judgemental eyes flicker his way—other officers, other officials. Faces he’s seen time and time again, most of them just waiting for him to slip. Because no matter how many times he proves his competence, his loyalty, his efficiency, there are always those who resent his place here. A twenty one-year-old commanding respect, making decisions that affect the lives of hundreds. It’s not natural, they say. It’s not fair.

“I’m defending him because he’s worth defending,” Jungwon says, his voice flat and calm, though his pulse thrums with irritation. “Jay’s unconventional, yes. But so are the challenges we’re facing. If we want to survive—if The Future wants to survive—we can’t afford to be rigid. We need people who think differently. People who aren’t afraid to act when the situation demands it.”

Sergeant Major Kim’s mouth twitches, his gaze turning flinty. “Acting on instinct isn’t the same as insubordination. The man is a liability. And if you can’t see that, perhaps your judgement isn’t as sound as we all thought.”

“Then give him a task that suits his skills,” Jungwon counters, refusing to let the Sergeant’s condescension sink beneath his skin. “Put him somewhere his resourcefulness can be an asset rather than a threat.”

“You’re missing the point, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim drawls, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. “This isn’t about skill. It’s about loyalty. It’s about control. And if Park can’t follow orders, then he doesn’t belong here.”

Jungwon’s teeth grind together. The committee’s eyes are on him, assessing, judging. He needs to tread carefully. One wrong word, and he’s not just condemning Jay—he’s signing away their entire group’s place in The Future.

“Sergeant Major Kim,” Jungwon says, voice tight, steady. “If you think that questioning orders is grounds for expulsion, then maybe you need to re-evaluate what you value more—obedience or survival. Because if you can’t adapt, if you can’t make use of the skills people bring to the table, then we’re not building a future at all. We’re just holding on to the past.”

The room goes silent. Eyes shift from Jungwon to Sergeant Major Kim, awaiting his response.

“You’re speaking out of line, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim says, voice cold and clipped. “This is the military and you’re soldiers. Your sole purpose and duty is to follow orders. Your arrogance will be your downfall.”

“My pragmatism is what’s kept us alive,” Jungwon snaps back before he can stop himself. The words hang heavy in the air, his defiance stark against the sterile, calculated atmosphere of the room.

A beat of silence stretches, and Jungwon can feel his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

The General clears his throat, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough. This discussion has gone on long enough.” His eyes flicker towards Jungwon, unreadable. “Sergeant Yang has made his case. We will deliberate and make our decision by the end of the week.”

A dismissal.

The others begin to file out of the room, some casting Jungwon wary glances, others looking almost impressed. But he pays them no mind. His focus is on Sergeant Major Kim, who lingers by the doorway, gaze still locked on Jungwon with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.

“Bias or not, Yang,” Kim says, voice low and venomous. “You’ve just tied yourself to a sinking ship. And when it drags you down, I won’t be there to pull you out.”

The words are a threat. And for the first time since Jungwon walked into this room, he feels the ice creeping into his veins.

But his expression remains impassive, his shoulders squared, his eyes unwavering. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t let the Sergeant Major see even a flicker of fear. Because he knows now what he has to do.

Jay’s expulsion isn’t a question of if. It’s a question of when.

And Jungwon will be damned if he lets them take his friend without a fight.

As he leaves the room, his mind is already churning, thoughts clicking into place with ruthless precision. If The Future wants to cast Jay out, then fine. They’ll be leaving together.

And there’s nothing—no threat, no authority, no crumbling society—that will stop him.

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes faintly overhead, muffled by the thick concrete walls of the auxiliary storage bay. The place is empty—technically off-limits after curfew, which makes it perfect for the conversation Jungwon doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

Jay’s leaning against a stack of ration crates, arms crossed, posture defiant in that quietly confrontational way of his. His expression, though unreadable, holds a kind of lazy edge—like he already knows why Jungwon’s here and doesn’t care.

“I take it this isn’t a supply check,” Jay says, tilting his head.

Jungwon steps in, letting the heavy door shut behind him with a dull thud. His voice is low, steady. Controlled, but fraying at the edges. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Jay doesn’t move. “You’ll have to be more specific. I think a lot of things.”

“You disobeyed a direct order, Jay. You blew the infiltration on the west community. Sergeant Major Kim is calling for expulsion.”

At that, Jay’s eyes narrow. “They were unarmed civilians, Jungwon. Not raiders. Families. Kids. We weren’t just ‘infiltrating,’ we were planning to strip them dry and leave them vulnerable.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Jay scoffs. “Says the guy who helped design half the tactics we use to screw those people over.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, the silence is razor-sharp between them. Then he steps forward, closing the distance until there’s nowhere left to hide behind words or sarcasm.

“I told them you weren’t a threat. I vouched for you, Jay. Sat in that goddamn courtroom and played the perfect little soldier so they wouldn’t put you on the list.”

Jay flinches—barely—but Jungwon catches it.

“You think you're some kind of saviour because you questioned one order? You’re not. You’re reckless. You’re lucky they’re only talking expulsion and not something worse.”

“They’re wrong,” Jay bites out. “And you know it.”

“I do,” Jungwon says quietly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you fucked up. You made yourself a target. And now… now I can’t protect you anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of them says anything.

And then Jungwon’s voice lowers further, like the weight of what he’s about to say is too heavy to carry out loud.

“I’m thinking of leaving.”

Jay’s head jerks up, brows drawing together. “What?”

“If they expel you, they’ll monitor the rest of us. And if they find even a trace of sympathy or dissent, we’re next. Me, Jake, Sunghoon, Ni-ki, Sunoo, Heeseung... all of us.”

Jay stares at him, eyes unreadable. “So that’s it? You’re just going to run?”

“No,” Jungwon breathes. “I’m going to take us out before they bury us.”

Another silence. This one charged. Heavier.

Jay’s voice softens, almost uncertain. “Does the rest of the group know?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell them when I figure out how to get us out without getting us all killed.”

That night, the air inside The Future’s inner walls felt unusually still—eerily subdued in a place that never truly slept. The soft hum of generators buzzed overhead, casting stark white light down the sterile hallways of the supply depot. It should have been louder—more movement, more noise, more bodies. But something was off.

Jungwon noticed it the moment he stepped inside.

There were fewer people on duty than protocol demanded. Only two stationed at the check-in desk, one watching the entrance, and none making rounds through the aisles. It wasn’t just a shift change lull—it was a skeleton crew, and they all looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

He didn’t ask why. Not at first. Asking questions in The Future was how you got assigned to more shifts, more silence, more suspicion.

But then he heard it.

Whispers. In the hallways. Low voices crackling over radios. Reports that the outbound retrieval unit—Team D4—never made it back on time. They’d been dispatched earlier that week to collect a shipment from a nearby survivor community.

But something had gone wrong.

According to murmurs passed between command and medbay, the team was ambushed. Overrun. The dead poured out of the treeline, faster and hungrier than anticipated. Out of twelve, only three returned. All injured. One of them shot in the leg. Another missing an arm. The third didn’t speak—just stared at the floor with blood still drying in his beard.

That explained the silence in the depot. The tension. The missing bodies. Everyone was stretched thin trying to fill the void the dead left behind.

It also explained why tonight—if they were ever going to do it—was the night.

Jungwon turned on his heel and made his way back to the lower barracks, where Jay was already waiting, sharpening the edge of a blade that technically wasn’t authorised for lower division use.

"Team D4?" Jay asked, not looking up.

“Most of them didn’t make it back,” Jungwon replied, voice low. “They’re short-staffed across all zones. Nobody’s looking at us tonight.”

Jay simply nodded.

Because they both knew. This was the window. The only one they might ever get.

And by morning, they wouldn’t be soldiers of The Future anymore. They’d be deserters.

Alive—for now.

But fugitives all the same.

The first night outside The Future feels like stepping onto another planet.

They move fast under the cover of darkness, adrenaline coursing through their veins, every footstep deliberate but uneven with nerves. The plan had been hastily drawn, but executed with terrifying precision—at least on Jungwon’s part. He hadn’t factored in the emotional weight that would follow the moment they drove past the barricade.

They’re not alone. A handful of others—faces half-familiar, half-forgotten—had taken the chance when Jungwon gave the signal. Deserters, they’re called now. Traitors, even. People clinging to the fragments of their humanity in a world that no longer rewards it.

They make camp in the remnants of an abandoned roadside diner. Dusty booths. Shattered windows. A place that probably once smelled of burnt grease and coffee. Tonight, it smells like mildew and ash.

Ni-ki tries to help set up makeshift beds from ripped upholstery while still casting anxious glances at the shadows outside. He’s the youngest, but he doesn’t complain. Just listens when Jungwon gives instructions. Follows every word like it’s law.

Jay sits by the boarded-up window, rifle across his lap. Silent. Watching.

And Jungwon—he doesn't sleep. Instead, he stands alone outside the back exit, staring into the trees, trying not to hear the voices in his head. The ones asking if he did the right thing. The ones whispering the names of the people he didn’t save. The ones asking if it’s worth it.

He doesn't have an answer.

But when he finally looks back at the diner, at the silhouettes of his friends—of his family—huddled together in the quiet, in the cold, something settles in his chest.

Back at The Future, they weren’t just surviving—they were thriving in the roles handed to them, performing with the kind of polished discipline The Future demanded.

Jake had earned his place in the treatment facility. Respected. Quietly feared, even. He had a mind for detail, a steady hand, and an ability to detach just enough to survive the sight of infected test subjects without flinching. He had a bed. A routine. The luxury of clean scrubs and indoor lighting. And yet, he walked away from it all.

Sunoo manned communications and supplies, his sharp tongue and sharper wit oddly perfect for keeping morale in check. He had access to inventory, conversations, coded maps—he knew where people were and what they needed. And he traded all of that in the second Jungwon came to him with the plan.

Ni-ki, though young, had embedded himself in logistics. Quiet. Observant. Efficient. He knew the flow of shipments and troop placements better than most commanding officers. He could take apart a busted engine and rebuild it before most had even figured out what was wrong. He was becoming indispensable. But Ni-ki didn’t hesitate either.

Even Heeseung, who’d just been promoted to Head of Security two weeks before their escape—an elevation that came with more food, a locked quarters, and actual authority—chose to follow. He’d worked so hard for that title. And in the end, it meant nothing compared to the people he refused to leave behind.

Sunghoon was rising fast, too. A newly appointed drill instructor, his job was to sharpen recruits, to crush fear out of them and replace it with precision. His methods were harsh, but the soldiers he trained survived. He was well on his way to a permanent place in the system. Yet, he too joined the escape.

Because even with their ranks and privileges, they could all feel it: The Future was rotting from the inside out. The higher you climbed, the more of your soul you had to trade in for the view. They could see what was happening to them. To others. And in the end, they decided they'd rather run into the teeth of the dead than sit comfortably while everything human in them slipped away.

So when Jungwon offered them a way out, even those who had the most to lose didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t about leaving safety behind. It was about reclaiming something they’d forgotten they were allowed to have.

Freedom.

Now, that freedom tastes like blood and ash and sleepless nights, but it’s real.

For the first time in a long time, they get to choose who they are.

And that, they’ve decided, is worth everything.

Part 1

You shift against him in your sleep, and before he even realises it, your head has tilted until it’s resting lightly on his lap.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, barely breathes. Not because it’s uncomfortable. But because he doesn’t know what to do with this—this trust.

He glances down at your face—peaceful and still, completely unguarded. Your breathing is slow and even, lashes fluttering with whatever dream you’ve slipped into—it gnaws at something inside him, something dormant he thought he’d buried alongside the worst of who he used to be.

His fingers hover awkwardly over his knee before curling into a fist. It takes a second for his body to catch up—then another before his heart finally settles. The weight of you isn’t heavy. It’s… grounding, in a way. Familiar. Even though he doesn’t really know you.

Not yet, anyway.

It’s been a long time since he had a conversation like that with anyone. A real one. Not about supplies or patrols or plans. Not about death or survival. But about feelings. About fear. About loss.

It’s weird—talking to you. It shouldn’t be this easy. He barely knows you. You’re a stranger. But maybe that’s exactly why it’s easy. There’s no expectations, no history weighing things down. Just two people who’ve seen too much, said too little, and survived more than they should’ve.

Still, something about you makes him feel like he could be honest for once without having to pay for it later.

He thinks back to what he said earlier. About The Future. How he called them monsters. And you’d nodded, like you understood.

But you didn’t. Not really.

Because what you don’t know—what he didn’t say—is that when he talked about the coldness, the control, the cruelty, he wasn’t just talking about the system. He was talking about himself.

You’d looked at him like he was someone good. Like he was someone worth listening to. And he let you. He let you believe it. That’s the part that makes his stomach turn.

He watches your face now, how peaceful it looks, how easily you slipped into rest next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hasn’t done things that would make your blood run cold.

The problem isn’t that he’s afraid you’ll figure him out. It’s that part of him doesn’t want you to. And that part—small and stubborn and stupid—is what terrifies him the most.

The moment he laid eyes on you in that auto shop, he could tell you weren’t from The Future. The sole fact that you were out here, exposed to the dangers of the world beyond those walls meant you weren’t from any of their civilian divisions. And if you were part of the military, He, Jay, Sunghoon, or Heeseung would have recognised you.

But it’s not just your unfamiliarity that confirms it. It’s the way you act. The way you talk. The way you still believe survival doesn’t have to come at the cost of decency.

You risked yourself to save him back at the motel, didn’t even hesitate. You’d offered him safety before yourself, with that determined look in your eye, like death was just another inconvenience you’d deal with later. You asked nothing in return. You didn’t walk away. And Jungwon doesn’t know what to do with that kind of goodness. That kind of blind, foolish courage.

You were the kind of person who still gave a shit. Who still held on to morality even when the world tried to beat it out of you. Who reached back for others when there was every reason to run. That kind of soul didn’t survive long in this world. People like you aren’t supposed to exist anymore. And yet… here you were—making everything he’s done harder to justify.

He knew then, for sure, that you weren’t one of them.

The Future didn’t make people like that.

No one who spent time under that regime would’ve wasted energy on strangers like that.

The camp is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder, more unbearable. Somewhere below, Jungwon can hear Heeseung snoring faintly. The occasional shift of movement in the camp. But up here, it's just you, him, and a silence so thick it presses against his ribs.

Your head shifts slightly on his lap, your brows twitching faintly as if sensing his thoughts. He smooths a hand gently over your hair, careful not to wake you.

He swallows hard, eyes scanning the treeline beyond camp, trying to focus on anything other than the way his body feels too still, too aware. Like he’s being watched. Like he’s watching himself.

He should wake you. He should shift you off and remind you that trust is dangerous, that closeness is a liability. But he doesn’t. He stays still. He lets you sleep.

Not because he wants to. But because he can’t bring himself to interrupt the first quiet moment he’s had in months.

Still, something gnaws at him.

Not pity. He’s long since buried that. No, it’s something more restless. A low, crawling discomfort that settles beneath the surface of his skin.

He looks down at your sleeping form again, the faint rise and fall of your chest syncing with the rhythm of the wind brushing through the trees. His jaw tightens. He can’t describe it, but there’s a softness about you that reminds him of who he used to be. Who he still wants to be—

Someone who he had forgotten shortly after the world fell apart.

He finds comfort in that thought.

Part 2

The rations are lower than he’d hoped.

Jungwon crouches near the supply crates, fingers counting through the bags of dried grains and tins with fading labels. Heeseung’s estimate from earlier was right—they had enough to last a week if they were careful. Less, now, with one more mouth to feed. He doesn’t blame you, not really. It was his choice to let you stay. His burden to carry, his responsibility to manage. He just didn’t expect how fast everything would dwindle.

His eyes flicked toward you, sitting just a few feet away, chewing quietly on the last of the dried jerky. You didn’t know he’d seen the exchange between you and Heeseung. You didn’t need to. The guilt already lingered in your eyes like smoke.

He wasn’t angry. He understood. You weren’t deadweight. You pulled more than your share. But it didn’t change the math. Nothing ever changed the math.

He holds one of the dented cans in his palm, thumb brushing over the label, nearly worn down to nothing. He calculates quickly, quietly. Eight mouths, one meal a day, factoring in exhaustion and hunger—

They’d have to start scavenging. Soon.

Still, Jungwon keeps his face calm when he approaches Heeseung. His words are clipped, deliberate: “We’ll have to send a team out to hunt. Latest before noon.”

The others gather instinctively. No one questions it—it’s the way they’ve always operated. Without him barking orders, without a raised voice. He isn’t their leader by title, but by necessity. By trust earned through blood and bone and all the things he’s never said aloud. He stands where others hesitate, and they follow because he always brings them back. He always calculates the outcome.

Except now, the variable is you.

He watches the way Jay glares at you, a quiet resentment simmering under the surface. It’s not even subtle anymore. The jab lands—“We do have one more mouth to feed”—and Jungwon feels a flicker of something hot rise in his chest. Not quite anger. Not yet. But something protective. Something unfamiliar.

He didn’t even need to look at you to know that you took that hit without flinching. You’d gotten good at that—pretending you’re fine. It annoys him. Because he could see through it.

“Jay,” he said simply.

It was enough. Jay looked away, but not before Jungwon saw the frustration still simmering behind his eyes.

“I’ll go,” you say, your voice slicing through the tension. Jungwon’s gaze snaps to you immediately, eyes narrowing. The suggestion is unexpected, and he doesn’t like surprises—not when it comes to survival. But you’re already explaining yourself, calm and rational, just like the first time he heard you speak in that busted-up auto shop. That same fire, the same grit. You weren’t lying then, and he doesn’t think you are now.

Still, he challenges you. “You?”

You don’t back down. “You need every fighter you can spare here, and I can handle myself.”

There’s no hesitation in your eyes. No flinch. It’s not a bluff—it’s a debt. You’re trying to repay them, even if you don’t realise that’s what it is. Jungwon recognises the expression. He’s worn it himself before, back when guilt used to be sharp and fresh instead of dull and persistent.

When the volunteers step forward—Heeseung, then Jay—Jungwon watches closely. Jay’s distrust is expected. Heeseung’s trust is reassuring. But it still doesn’t sit right with him.

So he steps forward too. “I’ll go.”

But the moment the words leave his mouth, you’re already challenging him again.

“No, you can’t go.”

And that stuns him more than it should.

He watches you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. You step in closer, your voice low and measured, as if you know that contradicting him in front of the others is dangerous—but you do it anyway. Because you’re not afraid of him. Because you believe what you’re saying.

“They need you here,” you whisper. “They’re rattled. They need their leader.”

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the way your eyes meet his like you’ve known him longer than you have, but Jungwon hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough to admit to himself that you’re right.

He couldn’t let them fall apart again. Not like before.

His silence is his answer.

“All right,” he concedes at last, softer than the others expect. “But don’t take unnecessary risks. If it looks bad, you come back. Understood?”

He doesn’t know why he says it that way. Not “be careful.” Not “watch each other’s backs.” No, his concern is aimed at you specifically, and that confuses him.

Jungwon watches the group disperse to prepare. The fire’s gone out, and the morning chill begins to creep through the trees. You’re already tying your boots, already too far from him to see the way his jaw clenches as he watches the way you glance around at the others like you were memorising them. It unsettles him. Like you were saying goodbye.

That’s when Jungwon pulls Jay aside, his steps quiet but deliberate as he angles them just out of earshot from the others. The moment feels heavy, calculated. Not a command—but close.

“Make sure she comes back,” Jungwon says, voice low but firm.

Jay’s head snaps toward him, blinking like he’s not sure he heard right. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Jay’s head tilts slightly, disbelief flickering across his features. “You can’t be serious. I’m not her babysitter.”

“I’m not asking you to babysit,” Jungwon replies, his voice steady, eyes scanning the trees ahead. “I’m asking you to make sure she doesn't run off.”

Jay scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Why? What’s so special about her?”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “You’ve seen the way she moves. She’s adaptable. Resourceful. Smart. Doesn’t hurt to have someone like that around.”

Jay lets out a dry, humourless laugh. “So what? That doesn’t mean she’s not a threat. You really think you can trust someone who showed up out of nowhere? Remember what happened the last time we trusted somebody? I lost Ji–” Jay cuts himself off, suddenly conscious of his voice raising.

There’s a beat of silence. Jay knows there’s no point arguing with Jungwon, not when he’s already convinced you are some kind of saviour sent down from the heavens. So, he exercises the only form of discontent he can manage by shaking his head and muttering something under his breath before stalking off to grab his pack.

Jungwon doesn’t call after him. Instead, his eyes drift back to you—your silhouette against the trees, knife sheathed, shoulders squared. You don’t look back. You never do. And that unsettles him more than it should.

Because for all his planning, for all the careful equations he ran in his head—the tactical choices, the contingencies—he never planned for you. Never anticipated the weight of your presence. Never accounted for the way you made the lines between logic and instinct blur. And no matter how he frames it in his mind—no matter how much he tries to reduce you to a number, a risk factor, a variable in a larger equation—he can’t.

You don’t fit. You’re not the plan.

And yet, you’re already part of it.

Part 3

Jungwon can feel the tension rising before anyone speaks—like a storm pressing down on the air, suffocating and inevitable.

He watches you carefully, your fingers curling slightly against your palm, your shoulders square despite the weariness clinging to your frame. You’re pushing. Offering. Volunteering to go in someone’s place. Again. It’s not the first time you’ve done something like this, but it still hits differently now.

He knows what you’re doing. You’re trying to prove something—not just to them, but to yourself.

And then there’s Jay.

“This is insane,” Jay scoffs from where he leans against a tree, arms crossed, eyes hard. “We barely know her, and you want to let her go off into the village?”

The words hit exactly how Jungwon expects them to. He doesn’t move, just watches the way your jaw tightens—just a fraction, but he sees it.

He waits for Jake’s voice. Right on cue.

“Jay,” Jake says without even looking up, his tone sharp and steady. “Again. Not your place to speak.”

It’s almost funny, the way Jake can silence a room. Almost. If the air weren’t already thick with leftover tension. And in his defense, Jake’s anger is not completely misplaced. Jungwon lets the silence linger, lets it press down on the group, watches the way Jay shifts his stance and glances off to the side, jaw clenching.

You take a breath, and Jungwon instinctively shifts his focus to you again.

“Trust me,” you say, and it’s the way you say it—steady but hollow—that pulls something taut in his chest. “Or better yet, don’t trust me. If anything goes wrong, it’s easier to leave me behind anyway.”

The words land like a stone in his gut. For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Guilt. It coils in Jungwon’s chest like smoke, slow and suffocating. It’s not an emotion he’s allowed himself to feel in a long time—not when he needed to stay sharp, decisive, calculated. And yet, there it is, curling through his ribs the moment your words slip out.

Because he’s thought about it.

He’s thought it, and he hates that he has. It’s how he’s survived this long. Know the numbers. Know the odds. Know when to cut your losses. He’s always been that kind of person. Tactical. Strategic. Even now, even when he tells himself he’s changed, his mind still drifts to the math of survival. He’s still capable of thinking in loss ratios and calculated sacrifices. Still carrying remnants of the machine he once served.

But when you say it—not coldly, but as if you’ve accepted it already—it doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like cruelty.

It’s not just about your willingness to risk yourself. It’s the fact that, deep down, he’d allowed himself to believe it too. And that makes him feel like a monster all over again.

His gaze flicks around the group. Heeseung looks away. Sunoo’s lips are pressed into a thin line. Even Jay shifts uncomfortably.

They’ve all thought it too, haven’t they?

Still, your words echo in his mind, louder than anything else.

It’s easier to leave me behind anyway.

So when he speaks, when he says “Don’t joke about that,” it’s not just to you. It’s to himself. A warning. A plea. Because he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. Doesn’t want to weigh your life like a number on a chart.

And for the first time, he realises: you’re not just another survivor to be measured and managed. You’re something he doesn’t know how to carry—but he wants to try.

So he makes the decision now, quietly, without anyone knowing.

He wants you to come back.

No matter the cost.

The siphon’s slow. Too slow. Jungwon watches the steady trickle of fuel through the tube like it might suddenly stop working, like if he looks away, everything could go to shit again. The sky’s still wrapped in the pale grey of morning, but the air smells like heat’s coming. Another scorcher, probably.

He doesn't look at you or Jay—he keeps his gaze trained on the canister. Keeps his hands steady. Keeps everything steady.

Then your voice cuts through the quiet. "It might not mean anything, but I would’ve done it too.”

Jungwon’s head turns before he can help it. You’re not looking at him—you’re looking at Jay. And Jay, who’s standing on the other side of the tractor, squints at you, clearly caught off guard.

He didn’t understand it at first, but then you say it: “Going after him—I mean.”

And everything freezes for a second.

Jay’s expression shifts. Hardens. “You don’t have to lie to comfort me. I know what I did was wrong.”

Jungwon watches you quietly, his fingers curled into fists beside him. His pulse is steady, but something in his chest tightens. There’s a fire in your voice—not rage, not grief, but something deeper. Something rooted. You speak like someone who’s already lived with loss. Too much of it.

Jungwon doesn't move, but his mind has already left the field. It's spiralling, fast. You’ve done something to him again—upended the quiet order he relies on to stay sane. The structure. The roles. The carefully drawn lines he’s used to separating emotion from survival. You, with your raw words and unwavering eyes, walk right through them.

“But even if you think it’s wrong, you don’t regret it.”

The way you say it... Jungwon flinches inwardly. Because it’s not just a statement. It’s a mirror. And for a moment, he sees his own reflection staring back through the cracks—every line of guilt etched beneath your voice. He’s not even sure who you’re talking to anymore. Jay? Yourself? Him?

Jay tenses, trying to keep that wall up, but it’s already thinning. “What are you trying to say?”

You don’t even blink. “What I’m trying to say is, what you’re feeling is valid. If it were up to me, I would’ve shot him in both ankles. Make sure he couldn’t run to begin with.”

Jungwon’s chest tightens. The field goes quiet.

Jay shoots him a look. “You’re not scared to say that? In front of him?”

You turn slightly. Just enough to meet Jungwon’s gaze. He doesn’t react, not outwardly. But inwardly, there’s a small ripple beneath the surface. Because that’s the second time this morning you’ve challenged something—first his orders, now his image.

“Why would I be?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence is answer enough. Because no matter how steady he looks, he feels everything ripple underneath—this fracture between who he was and who he wants to be. Between the person who signed off on raids and the person standing here now, listening to you speak like someone who’s survived both sides of the war.

Jay exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to let something else slip. “You probably already figured it out, but the whole point of this group—the way Jungwon leads us—is to make sure we don’t become the monsters we ran away from. Whatever Jake or the others feel about what I did… that’s valid.”

Jungwon wants to correct him. Wants to tell him that he’s not leading anyone. That he’s just trying to keep the wheels turning long enough for someone else—anyone else—to take over. But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the canister, his fists tight enough that his knuckles start to blanch.

Because Jay’s not entirely wrong. Jungwon is supposed to be the anchor. The one who holds them together, who balances risk and morality like it’s simple math. But even now, hearing it out loud—that he’s the one meant to stop them from falling too far—feels like a lie. A fragile one at best. He’s barely holding himself together as it is. And it’s only about to get harder now that you’re here, making him question things he thought he’d buried.

You speak again, quieter this time. “If I saw someone I love die in front of me, I’d do much more than just shoot someone in the ankle.”

And that sentence? That one stays with him.

Because it reminds him that he doesn’t know who you’ve lost. Doesn’t know how close your grief is to the surface. But whatever it is, it’s carved into your spine. There’s a weight behind your words that’s too heavy to fake.

Jay goes still. “Yeah… it doesn’t bring her back, though.”

“No,” you reply gently. “It doesn’t.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time—just worn. Weathered.

The wind picks up, brushing the overgrown stalks around them. Jungwon’s eyes flick to you. You’re still calm, composed. But there’s a sadness in you too. One he hadn’t noticed before.

“But,” you add, “you seem to forget that it’s also human to want justice. Or revenge. Whatever you want to call it.”

Jungwon watches the way Jay’s expression softens. Just barely. The way your voice threads through the space like balm and blade all at once. And all he can think is that this is what scares him the most. Not that you’re reckless. Not that you challenge him. But that you feel so deeply, and still haven’t hardened yourself into something else. That you’re still fighting like it means something.

Jay mutters, “Justice or revenge… depends on who’s telling the story.”

You nod once. “Or who’s left to tell it.”

It’s a brutal thing to say, but it isn’t cruelty he hears in your voice—it’s clarity. Cold, sharp clarity born of a world where justice and revenge are no longer separate concepts. And what scares him isn’t your willingness to say it. It’s how much he agrees.

Jungwon doesn’t look away. Not now. Because there’s something in you, in the way you speak—raw, candid, without hesitation—that gnaws at his chest. The others follow orders, look to him for structure. But you?

You keep challenging the narrative.

Jay’s shoulders loosen. His eyes drop. “I don’t know what that makes me, though. A monster or just… someone who’s trying to survive.”

And that’s when Jungwon finally speaks.

“It makes you someone who’s still here. Someone who’s still fighting. That’s all that matters.”

His voice is level. Measured. But it rings hollow in his own ears. Because the truth is, it’s a reminder meant for himself just as much as for Jay. Because when you joked earlier about being easy to leave behind, it wasn’t funny—not to him. It was a reminder. That he’s calculating again. Risk versus reward. Just like before. Just like The Future trained him to be. You could’ve died, and he weighed it like an equation.

And even now, he’s still calculating.

But for the first time, he doesn’t want the answer. Because the numbers don’t reflect what’s clawing at him now—the feeling that if something happened to you, the loss wouldn’t be strategic.

It would be personal.

You pick up the tube, pull it free from the tank, and screw the cap back on. Jay lifts the canister, nods once, and starts heading back toward the road without another word.

You and Jungwon walk side by side now. He keeps a few paces from you, but every now and then, his eyes flicker to your profile. You don’t speak. Neither does he. But the silence between you is louder than it used to be.

It unsettles him.

Because just days ago, you were a stranger in the shadows. Another mouth. Another risk. A variable Jungwon wasn’t prepared for. Someone he would’ve discarded in the past, or worse—filed under liability and moved on. Back then, in The Future, everything was numbers. Resources. Probability. Sacrifices. Names didn’t matter. Faces didn’t matter. And you?

You were never supposed to matter.

But now you’re this—this raw, unpredictable thing that keeps catching him off guard. Every time you speak, every time you meet his gaze without flinching, something in him shifts. Rearranges. Like you’re tugging at wires he didn’t know were still connected.

You challenge him—his leadership, his orders, his silence. You don’t do it with arrogance or anger. You do it with honesty. With conviction. With a quiet kind of strength that doesn’t come from training or hierarchy, but from survival. And somewhere along the way, without permission or warning, you've slipped between the cracks of his guarded exterior.

He hates that.

Not because you’re dangerous.

But because you’re not.

Because you remind him of the part of himself he’s spent years burying—the part that wants to believe there’s still something worth protecting that doesn’t serve a strategic advantage. That maybe, just maybe, not everything needs to be calculated. That there are people who still make choices because it feels right, not because the odds are in their favour.

And worse, it mirrors your own thoughts—how just hours earlier, you convinced yourself that walking away would be the safest thing. That leaving them, leaving him, was the right call. Not because you didn’t care, but because you cared too much. Because you’ve seen what happens when you let people in. What it costs.

You told yourself you’d repay them, that you’d disappear before they grew to trust you. Before you grew to trust them. Before the roots took hold.

But they already have. He sees it in the way you offer to hunt, to siphon gas, to carry your weight and more. He sees it in the way you speak to Jay—not with contempt, but with understanding. He sees it, and it frightens him.

Because you’re not just surviving—you’re still human.

And in a world where humanity is often a liability, you are living proof that some parts of it are worth saving. You are proof that maybe he’s not too far gone. That maybe he doesn’t have to bury every soft part of himself to lead.

It’s maddening.

Because this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything other than the instinct to keep the group alive. He wasn’t supposed to look at you and think—

Not her. Not if I can help it.

But the thought is there. It has been for a while. And now, no matter how he tries to push it down, it keeps resurfacing.

Because for all his structure and restraint, you’ve introduced something volatile.

Hope.

Part 4

The van bumps down the cracked road, the scent of Jay’s blood thick in the air, the silence louder than the groans fading behind them. Jungwon sits rigid in the passenger seat, fists clenched on his thighs, jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken since they pulled away. Not even when the two men started running after them. Not even when one of them screamed, “Please! We didn’t want it to go this far!”

He hears you, though. The urgency in your voice when you say, “They’re unarmed. They’re not a threat.” You say it like you believe it. Like you need it to be true.

But Jungwon doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because if he opens his mouth, he’s afraid of what might come out.

Because the truth is, he doesn't know anymore.

He used to. Back in The Future, everything was black and white. You either secured the mission or you didn’t. You either survived or you didn’t. There were no in-betweens. No compromises. No emotional attachments to blur the lines.

But that world didn’t have you in it.

You, who looked the man who shot Jay in the eyes and still hesitated to pull the trigger. You, who dared to say out loud what he’s been burying since day one—that if any of them died, he wouldn’t be rational about it. That if you had collapsed into that field with a bullet in your chest, if Jay had died protecting you, Jungwon doesn’t know what he would’ve done. What line he might’ve crossed.

And that terrifies him.

Because now he knows. You were right.

If any of you had died, he would’ve hunted them all down without a second thought. No calculation. No strategy. Just blood. Just rage.

He knows in the marrow of his bones that he wouldn’t have left survivors. Wouldn’t have spared the two men running after the van, wouldn’t have let anyone surrender. A bullet through the head wouldn’t have been justice. It would’ve been the highest form of mercy he was capable of offering in that moment. Because there wouldn’t be room for compassion. Or mercy. Or even thought.

Only vengeance.

The van rumbles on, Ni-ki’s knuckles white around the wheel. Sunghoon is silent, his eyes fixed on the floor. Sunoo looks sick. Heeseung hasn’t moved from Jay’s side. Jake is still pressing down on the wound, hands trembling. They’re all unravelling.

And it’s his fault.

Because the thing he never accounted for—the variable he couldn’t predict—was what would happen if he started to care.

Now he knows.

Caring makes one reckless.

Caring makes one hesitate.

Caring makes one pull the trigger for someone else and never quite recover from it.

He watches the woods blur past the window. Thinks about the woman who died. The men who tried to kill you. The man who shot Jay. The two who begged for their lives. The part of himself that wanted to give them a chance. And the part that didn’t.

He hears you shift beside him, hears the way your breath shakes as you whisper, “We’ve crossed a line.”

He doesn’t respond.

Because he’s still trying to figure out when exactly he lost sight of it. All he knows is that this—this sickness in his chest, this silent weight pressing against his lungs—is the cost. The toll you pay when you start thinking with your heart instead of your head.

He should’ve never let that happen.

But he did.

Because of you.

Because somewhere between your barbed honesty and quiet defiance, between the way you look at this world like it hasn’t fully beaten you down yet—he let his guard slip.

He doesn’t want to feel this way. Doesn’t want to feel anything. Emotions get people killed. Emotions make you weak. He knew that once. Lived by it.

But now?

Now he’s watching the person beside him become someone they don’t recognise. Just like he did. Just like they all did.

When Jungwon said “I did it for me,” he wasn’t trying to sound cold. He wasn’t trying to push you away.

What he meant—what he couldn’t say in that moment—is that he pulled the trigger so you wouldn't have to.

Because if you had taken that shot—if you had crossed that line—you wouldn’t have come back from it. Not really. Not the way you are now. Not the version of you that still believes in something more than just survival. The version that still pauses before pulling the trigger, that still sees people instead of threats. That still tries.

And that version of you? That fragile, lone, dandelion still clinging to the cracks in this rotted world?

He couldn’t let that die.

Not when you were the first person in a long, long time to make him question who he was outside of tactics and duty. Not when you were the first person to look at him and not just see the soldier, the strategist, the boy bred by The Future to be a weapon—but someone worth saving too.

So yes. He did it for you.

But more selfishly?

He did it so he wouldn’t have to watch you become someone you’re not. He did it so you could stay as somebody who is kind and innocent. Somebody who inspires him to be a better person. You’re not a monster. And he’ll do everything he can to keep it that way.

Because watching that kind of light go out in someone like you?

That would’ve destroyed him.

And he’s already too far gone to survive another kind of loss like that.

Jungwon doesn't know how they got here so fast. One moment he hears them—low groans bleeding through the trees like a warning—and the next he’s pulling you through a sea of rusted cars, adrenaline screaming through his veins. His grip on your wrist is tight, desperate. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. The dead are close. Too close.

He finds the lorry purely on instinct, tossing you up before you even have time to catch your breath. The edge of it scrapes his palms as he climbs up after you, then yanks the tattered tarp over both of you in one swift motion, plunging the space into shadow.

Your voice rises, a startled whisper, but he cuts it off with his hand pressed lightly over your mouth—not harsh, just firm. His other arm braces over you, holding himself there as the first chorus of groans rolls past the truck.

It’s suffocating, the way the air thickens with decay and tension. The sound of their dragging feet fills his ears, an endless wave of hunger just inches away. The metal beneath him vibrates with the weight of it—the horde moving past like a tide of death. If even one of them hears you breathe too loudly, it’s over.

So he holds his breath. And he holds you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, the quickened rhythm of fear making your whole body tremble. You’re shaking, but you’re trying to be brave—trying to stay still despite the instinct to run. He feels your shoulder tucked under his arm, the way your hand clutches at the fabric of his jacket, whether you mean to or not.

He doesn’t look. Not at first.

He’s too busy listening—calculating the distance, counting the footsteps. But when the sound starts to fade, when the worst of them pass and only the stragglers remain, something in him shifts. He glances down.

And he sees you.

Really sees you.

The dim light filtering through the moth-eaten holes in the tarp spills soft patterns across your face—highlighting the curve of your cheek, the flutter of your lashes as you fight to keep your eyes closed. There’s dirt on your skin, a smear of something across your jaw, but you still look... beautiful. Fragile, in a way he doesn’t know how to stomach. It makes his chest ache.

Because he remembers the drugstore. Remembers the exact second he almost lost you.

He remembers the scream—the sound of you calling his name, the thud of your body slamming into the hatch frame, the sickening moment when a rotted hand grabbed your ankle and yanked you back toward death. He’d never moved so fast in his life. Never fired a shot with such fury. He pulled you out of that hatch with every ounce of strength he had left, your blood smearing across his palms, your gasps digging into his ribs like knives.

You could’ve died back there. And the truth is—he wouldn’t have survived it.

And now, lying here in the silence after the storm, your breath brushing his collarbone, your body curled so unconsciously against his—it hits him all over again. The closeness. The danger. The way your hand just curled a little tighter into his jacket.

You shift slightly, and he instinctively pulls you closer, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head. “Stop moving,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice barely more than breath.

He expects you to flinch. To pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you press your cheek closer to his chest, your breath steadying, syncing with his. And it feels like something clicks into place—something that shouldn’t. Something dangerous.

Because in a world like this, closeness is a luxury. Tenderness is a risk. And you… you are a risk he never meant to take.

But lying here now, with the world rotting just inches away, he can’t find it in himself to regret it. Not when your heartbeat thuds against his ribs. Not when you’ve buried your fear in the safety of his arms.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens to the dying groans fade into the distance, holding you like you’re the last good thing in this godforsaken world.

Part 5

Jungwon sits on the rooftaop long after the sun has risen, legs bent, arms draped loosely over his knees, the rifle resting at his side, untouched. The morning air is crisp, and the sky above is a pale, uncertain blue—washed-out and faded like a painting left out in the rain. Even the clouds seem hesitant, lingering low and unmoving, as though the weather itself is unsure whether to weep or stay dry.

From his perch, he has a clear view of the road—the same one you walked away on just an hour ago. It winds past the edge of the camp, disappearing into the hoizon like a thread unraveled too far to follow. And even though he knows better, even though he tells himself not to expect anything, he watches that path like it owes him something. Like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll come walking back. That some part of you might still choose to return.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t look away.

The breeze brushes against him, tugging gently at his hair, but he makes no move to push it aside. His body is still, but his mind is anything but.

He's been up here since you turned your back on him and walked away, since he realised you were gone for good. He didn’t go back down, didn’t speak to the others when they woke up, didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t have the words. He still doesn’t. Because if he says it out loud—if he lets the sound of your absence cross his lips—he’s afraid something inside him will crack so deep it’ll never be put back together.

So he sits.

And he watches.

And he thinks.

About the things you said to each other. Words thrown like knives in the dark, sharp and bitter and honest in the ugliest ways. He thinks about how your voice broke when you told him you couldn’t stay, how your shoulders trembled with the weight of the choice you were making. He thinks about how you looked when you said you couldn’t lose them—couldn’t lose him.

There was a look in your eyes then—a look he’d never seen before. Not even when Jay nearly died. That time, you were reckless. This time, there’s a look of desperation, grief, something close to love and even closer to fear. Not the kind of fear that comes from facing the dead. The kind that comes from having something to lose.

It’s strange—the silence that follows. It’s not rage. Not yet. Not grief, either. It's a kind of stillness. The kind that presses against the inside of your ribs, caught in the base of your throat like a sob that never quite makes it out.

He feels it settle into him like a sickness. A slow, crawling thing that starts in his gut and moves outward, hollowing him out.

You lied.

That’s the first thought that really stings. You stood there, looked him in the eye and said you’d stay. That you’d help carry the burden. That he wasn’t alone.

And now you’re gone.

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the sun casting a faint glow across his face. It should feel warm. It doesn’t. Nothing feels warm anymore.

He remembers how your voice shook and how you avoided looking into his eyes when you said you never meant to care. Thinks about the way you flinched when he accused you of being no different from those who left you. The way you looked like you wanted to scream and collapse all at once.

You think he’s good. You told him he was the one holding everything together. That they follow him not because they have to, but because they trust him. Because he’s him.

But you don’t see it the way he does.

They follow him because there’s no one else. Because someone has to make the hard calls. Someone has to carry the weight. And he does. Not because he’s good. But because he’s still standing. That’s all it is.

The good ones are the ones who don’t make it. The ones who hesitate. The ones who don’t pull the trigger.

But Jungwon? He pulled the trigger the moment the world went to shit. And he’s been pulling it ever since.

You're not like him. You're better. Or maybe you were. Maybe he just didn’t want to watch that final part of you die.

But the truth is—you’re not good either. Not really. You’ve lied. You’ve stolen. You’ve done things you’re not proud of. You’ve chosen survival over strangers more times than you’ve admitted. You hold the blade just as well as he does.

He knows that now.

You think he’s good, and he thinks you are.

But the truth? You’re both just survivors, trying to hold onto what little scraps of humanity you still have left. You're not good. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. But that doesn’t mean you’re monsters either.

Not yet.

Because what neither of you realised—what he’s only beginning to understand as he sits on this rooftop, staring out at the road you vanished down with an ache in his chest—is that the parts of yourselves you’re trying so hard to protect aren’t found in your own strength.

They’re found in each other.

You were his balance. The reminder that the weight could be shared. That maybe he didn’t have to carry it all alone. That maybe not every decision had to be cold and calculated. And he was your anchor. The reason you stayed longer than you should have. The one thing that made you second-guess running. He was the tether pulling you back to something human.

He grounded you. You softened him.

Neither of you were good. But together, you were better.

And that was enough.

Or it could have been.

He exhales slowly, the sound quiet against the breeze. His eyes don’t leave the road, even though it remains empty. His fingers curl against the rooftop's edge, digging into the concrete until his knuckles pale. The pain’s dulled now, no longer sharp—just a constant, aching throb, like a bruise you forget is there until you move the wrong way.

He should be used to this by now. People always leave. Always look out for themselves. That’s what the world has become. And he’s always known that. It’s why he never lets himself get too close.

But you were different.

You were the exception.

You were the moment he started to hope.

And now, standing there in the pale morning light, your name like a ghost on the back of his tongue, he feels something crack. Not loudly. Not visibly. But deeply.

You’re the greatest loss, Jungwon.

When you said that, he swore his heart was about to jump out of his chest. It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a confession. One wrapped in cowardice and fear. But a confession nonetheless.

And god, he wanted to believe that was enough.

But belief doesn’t change the fact that you still walked away. And Jungwon is left with the thought that he alone wasn't enough to convince you to stay.

He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the wind run through his hair, letting the world fall quiet again.

You’re gone and he’s still here. Still watching. Still waiting.

But the road stays empty and the rooftop stays quiet.

He just sits there, alone. Holding onto the last part of himself you hadn’t taken with you.

And hoping, quietly, that maybe—just maybe—wherever you are, you’re holding onto a piece of him too.

Part 6

The moment you say the word—bit—Jungwon feels the world tilt. It doesn’t make sense. Not immediately. He hears the word. Understands it. But the meaning doesn’t sink in. Not really. Not until he sees your arm.

The torn sleeve. The torn flesh.Teeth marks.

He goes still.

No air enters his lungs. No words form in his mouth. He just stares.

This isn’t happening.

He steps forward, slow and mechanical, like he’s walking through a dream—no, a nightmare—where his body no longer obeys him. Every instinct screams denial, but the evidence is right there, painted in your blood, mocking him.

“You’re lying,” he says.

Because you have to be. Because the alternative—the truth—splits something down the middle of his chest. He can feel it cracking, deep and irreversible.

But you’re not. And he sees it.

In the tremble of your fingers.

In the pale stretch of skin around the wound.

In Jay’s silence.

No. No. No.

The images of your death floods his vision and Jungwon swears he’s slowing losing his mind. He steps closer without thinking, fury and panic colliding in his chest. “Why?” His voice is a snarl now, strangled and broken.

You start to speak, but he cuts you off. He’s spiraling, his voice raw, hoarse, unraveling. “I told you to stay put inside. I told you. You never listen. Fuck–” His voice catches, his fists clench, and the words fall apart before they reach the end.

His hands fly to his head, fingers digging into his hair, tugging, trembling. He can’t hold it in—this storm rising inside him. It’s too much. Too loud. Too fast.

She’s bit. She’s bit. She’s fucking bit.

He sees the blood again—so much blood.

And all he can think is: I should’ve been faster. I should’ve been there. You’re dying and it’s my fault.

You apologise.

He wants to scream.

Because you’re apologising like it’s over. Like you’ve already accepted it. Like he’s just meant to stand here and watch you die.

He doesn't think.

There’s no calculation. No weighing the risks. No strategy. No logic. Because logic doesn’t exist in this moment—not when you’re standing there, blood soaking through your sleeve, skin pale and eyes resigned.

The world goes silent, deafeningly so.

And then, without thinking—without permission, without hesitation, without fear—he lets go of the rifle in his hands. It crashes to the rooftop, forgotten. Worthless.

His feet close the distance in a single breath.

He grabs you, pulls you into him like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. One arm locks tightly around the back of your neck, the other cradles your head, his fingers threading into your hair, holding you against him like a lifeline.

It’s not careful. It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

Crushing.

He doesn’t realise how hard he’s holding you until his arms begin to ache, until his breath shudders with the effort of keeping you close enough—close enough to feel you breathing. Close enough to feel your heartbeat. Close enough to convince himself you’re still here. Still his. Still alive.

His whole body is trembling. He presses his face into your shoulder, barely breathing, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. Your scent, your warmth—it’s all still here. Still real. Still you.

And it’s killing him.

Because this moment isn’t supposed to be happening.

You’re not supposed to be leaving. You’re not supposed to be dying.

His grip tightens, the pads of his fingers digging into your scalp like he can force your soul to stay through sheer contact alone.

He knows—god, he knows—he should let go. Should be the strong one. The leader.

But he can’t. Because he knows that if he lets go, you’ll start slipping away. And if you slip away—he might not survive it.

And the terrifying part?

He doesn’t think he wants to. Not if it means going back to a world that doesn’t have you in it.

It’s selfish.

But he doesn't care.

He’s breathing you in like this is the last time he’ll ever be able to. Like this is the last trace of warmth he’ll ever know. And maybe it is. Because this moment—this second in time where you’re still you—is slipping through his fingers, no matter how tightly he holds on.

And when he feels your arms slowly wrap around his waist, it shatters him. Because you’re comforting him. You’re steadying him when you’re the one who’s dying.

It’s too much.

Your fingers twist into his shirt, creasing the fabric. He holds you tighter in response, burying his face in your hair, letting the scent of ash and blood and you consume him. He doesn’t know how to say goodbye. He doesn't know how to live with this.

He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready.

Then—he feels it.

A hand. Not yours. On his back.

Then another. A body presses in from behind. Then one at his side. Then another. Until the world around him disappears. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s the others closing in, forming a wall around them. A shield. A goodbye.

And something about that breaks him even further. Because he was supposed to protect them. He was supposed to keep you safe.

But he couldn’t even stop this.

So he holds you like a dying man holds a lifeline. Arms locked around you, one hand gripping the nape of your neck, the other wrapped so tightly around your shoulders it must hurt. But you don’t complain. You don’t flinch.

You sink into him.

And that’s what undoes him.

He feels it when you press your cheek to his collarbone, the wet heat of your tears seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He feels the way your body finally gives in to the grief. Not quietly. Not gently. But all at once. Like a dam breaking. Like everything you’ve been holding in—every fear, every sorrow, every buried hope—has chosen now to bleed out.

The first sob wrecks him.

It shatters through his chest like a shockwave, a sound so raw, so guttural, it forces the air from his lungs. And then another. And another. Until you’re sobbing in his arms, uncontrollably, violently, like grief is trying to tear its way out of you.

And still—he doesn’t let go.

Because if this is the last time he gets to hold you, to have you, then he’s going to memorise it. Every trembling breath. Every broken cry. Every heartbeat that still syncs with his. He’s going to carve it into his skin so he’ll never forget what it felt like to love someone so much it made him stupid. So much it made him human.

When you finally start to pull away, when your body begins to shift, the movement feels like a knife. Like losing you in slow motion.

His hand—without thinking—clutches yours, refusing to let it go, even as your breath steadies, even as your sobs die down into a choked stillness. His fingers are shaking. His eyes are burning. But he doesn’t loosen his grip.

And then—then you say the worst thing you possibly could.

“I need to go.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something in him fractures.

It’s not the first time you’ve challenged him, not the first time you’ve spoken with that stubborn fire in your voice—but this? This feels different. The way your tone doesn’t shake. The way your eyes hold his like they’ve already said goodbye.

Jungwon reacts before he can think. “No.”

It’s sharp. A command. A wall. One final barricade against the inevitable.

But you’re already scaling it. With every word, every breath, every look—you’re slipping from his grasp.

“I’m no help up here,” you say, and his gut twists. Your voice is too steady. Too rational. Like you’ve already buried the part of yourself that’s scared. Like this is already decided. “In fact, I’d be a threat. A is still out there. If I don’t find him, he’ll come back. He’ll keep coming back.”

“No.” His hand tightens around your wrist. It’s reflexive. Desperate. His fingers dig in like they can stop time, like pressure alone will keep you tethered. But it’s not enough. You’re still slipping. Slipping like water through cracked palms.

“We can still win, we can—”

“I’ve already lost, Y/N.”

The words escape before he realises he’s said them. And the second they’re out there, hanging in the silence between you, he wants to take them back. Because the look in your eyes—god—it hurts.

You freeze. Just for a second.

But your conviction doesn’t falter. He sees it in your gaze. You’ve already accepted what he can’t even begin to fathom.

“Please, Jungwon.” You step closer, and the distance that’s been widening all night folds in for one fragile moment. “I need to know that you’re safe. Only then can I die in peace.”

He sways.

He physically sways like the ground’s shifted beneath him. Because that word—die—cuts through him cleaner than any bullet. Any blade. It’s the word that makes it real.

His head shakes before he can stop it, violently, like he can shake the thought loose from reality. His grip tightens around your wrist, trembling now, trembling so hard it’s like his body already knows what his mind refuses to accept.

His gaze drops. He can’t look at you. Not when he knows this is the last time you’ll be standing here, this whole. This you.

So when your hands rise to cup his face, when your fingers brush his skin—warm, gentle, grounding—his hands instinctively come up to hold your wrists, to keep you there, to anchor you.

And that’s when the panic really sets in.

Because your expression… it’s not defiance. Not anger. Not even sorrow.

It’s peace.

That kind of terrifying, heartbreaking calm only people ready to die wear like a second skin.

Your thumb grazes his cheek, and it’s so tender it nearly kills him. He wants to scream. Wants to tell you to stop, to fight. Wants to kiss you

You beat him to it.

Your lips press against his, gentle and slow, and it feels like everything in him collapses all at once. It’s a kiss of desperation. It’s grief. It’s love. It’s a goodbye carved into the shape of your lips. Because you’re kissing him like this is the last thing you’ll give him before you walk away. He kisses you back like he’s trying to memorise it. Like he can pull you back from the brink with nothing but the way he feels about you.

You lean your forehead against his, and the moment is still. Timeless.

Then, you step away.

He’s still chasing your warmth when he realises what’s happening. The second your gaze shifts to Jay, Jungwon’s body moves on instinct. His hands reach out, wild with panic.

Too late.

Jay and Heeseung seize his arms just as he lunges, and the world erupts into chaos. He’s thrashing. Screaming. Cursing at both of them, calling out your name over and over like maybe you’ll turn around. Like maybe if he says it enough, you’ll change your mind.

But you don’t.

You walk away.

And he breaks.

He breaks.

Not like before. Not like the quiet grief he’s used to carrying.

This is raw. Ugly. Loud.

He screams until his throat burns, fights against the hands holding him down, eyes locked on the back of your figure as you move further and further away. And the terror—god, the terror—it’s not just about losing you.

It’s the helplessness.

It’s knowing that he’s still alive, still breathing, while you march straight toward death with his name still warm on your lips.

It’s knowing he can’t stop you.

When you're gone—masked and determined—Jungwon falls to his knees. Not because he’s weak. But because you took the best part of him with you.

And now he’s just a boy again.

Not a leader. Not a survivor. Just someone watching the person he loves choose to die so that he can live.

And god help him—

He would’ve switched places with you in a heartbeat.

A few minutes after you disappear into the horde, Jungwon collapses.

His legs give out beneath him like they were only held up by the ghost of your presence, and now that you're gone, there’s nothing left to keep him upright. He drops hard, first to his knees, then to the cold, unforgiving concrete of the rooftop. And he stays there. Hands pressed flat against the ground like he’s trying to anchor himself to something—anything—that won’t slip through his fingers the way you did.

But it is slipping.

You are.

And no matter how hard he digs his nails into the rooftop, how tightly he curls his fists into the grit and grime beneath him, it won’t stop the splintering sensation inside his chest—like his ribs are cracking open from the inside out.

His whole body is trembling now—violent, uncontrollable tremors racking through him. The adrenaline that had pushed him this far is gone, drained in an instant, leaving only the bone-deep exhaustion, the helplessness, the guilt. His breaths come in short, uneven gasps, like he’s forgotten how to inhale properly, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a rasp—barely audible, a ghost of sound that drifts between them like ash.

“Somebody should’ve stopped her.”

No one answers.

Because they all know they couldn’t have.

Sunoo is crouched against the wall, knees hugged tightly to his chest, face buried so deeply that his shoulders are the only thing giving him away—trembling, silent sobs rattling through him. Even Jay, who almost never breaks, has to turn his face to the side, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a tooth. His hand covers his mouth like he’s trying to swallow down every raw emotion threatening to spill out. His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy. And he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s okay.

Jungwon doesn’t lift his head. He doesn’t need to.

He feels it in the silence—the grief sitting on all of them like an anvil, the unspeakable weight of watching you walk off with death marked into your skin and no one able to stop you.

“Fuck,” Sunghoon mutters from the edge, staring out at the horde below. His voice is hollow. “What do we do now?”

For a moment, no one speaks. But instinctively, they all turn to Jungwon.

Even though they know.

Even though they see the way he’s curled in on himself, eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete, like if he stares hard enough, it’ll crack all the way open and swallow him whole. He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Not until he finally forces out three words—empty and trembling.

“I don’t know.”

The silence that follows is brutal.

It eats at the edges of them like rot, and Jungwon wonders—quietly, bitterly—if this was all worth it. If he had just gone with you when you asked. If he’d just agreed to leave. If he hadn’t pulled you back into this place—into this war, this hope, this delusion—would you still be whole right now? Would you still be his?

And he sees it—etched into the others’ faces. That same regret. That same guilt. Especially Ni-ki.

Ni-ki, who had fought you the hardest. Who yelled at you, argued, doubted your intentions. And now you’re the one out there, bleeding, hunted, dying—for a place you never wanted to stay in to begin with.

And just when the silence feels like it’s going to smother them all—

A sound cuts through it.

A muffled giggle.

They all turn at once.

Lieutenant Kim.

She’s still tied to the base of the convenience store sign, her arms bound behind her, the gag damp in her mouth. But her eyes are bright with amusement, glinting in the moonlight like a blade. She’s smiling.

Ni-ki is the first to move, fury snapping through his limbs as he storms over to her and rips the gag from her mouth.

Lieutenant Kim exhales with exaggerated relief, then sighs dramatically, like this is all beneath her.

“Oh, you’re all so fucking pathetic,” she sneers. “Really. I almost feel bad watching this.”

Her words ripple through the rooftop like a slap. Sunoo doesn’t even look up from where he’s curled in on himself, but his voice trembles with exhausted frustration.

“Ni-ki, shut her up before I throw her off this roof.”

“Oh?” Her smile is twisted. “Even if I can tell you how to save your precious Y/N?”

Everything stops.

“What?” Jungwon’s head jerks up so fast his neck nearly snaps. The crack of his voice sounds like disbelief, but his heart’s already lurching.

Lieutenant Kim doesn’t look at him right away. She’s toying with them—slowly rotating her shoulders, rolling her neck, tasting the sudden shift in power. It’s a game to her.

“I said,” she drawls, as if repeating herself for children, “I know how you can save her.”

“You’re lying,” Jay snaps immediately, his arms folded tight across his chest, his expression cold and controlled—but his eyes flicker.

“I don’t know,” She says, that smug tone curling at the edge of her words. “Am I?” She turns her gaze sharply to Jake. “What do you think, Doctor Sim?”

Jake narrows his eyes, brows furrowed. “How can we save her?”

Lieutenant Kim shrugs like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I’ll tell you. But only if you let me go.”

Sunghoon scoffs, stepping forward. “We’re not risking that. You could be lying. Stalling. Feeding us bullshit to get free.”

“I’m telling you,” she says sharply, her smile gone now. “You still can save her. But the longer you hesitate, the less time you have. Tick-tock, soldiers.”

“You expect us to believe you?” Sunoo bites out. “She could be dying while you play us like this.”

“And what if I’m not lying?” she continues, locking eyes with Jungwon now. “What if I’m the only one who knows how to stop this?”

Before Sunoo can argue again, Jungwon’s voice slices through the chaos.

“Okay. Deal.”

The word lands like a grenade.

Everyone turns to him.

Sunoo’s mouth opens in protest, but the look on Jungwon’s face silences him before a single syllable can form. Jungwon’s voice is steady. Flat. Unrelenting.

“I give you my word,” he says, his eyes locked on Lieutenant Kim. “You tell us how to save Y/N… and I’ll let you go.”

The wind rustles across the rooftop. Somewhere in the distance, a low groan rises from the ground. The world holds its breath.

Lieutenant Kim tilts her head slowly. She stares at him like she’s trying to read something behind his eyes, something buried deep beneath the mask he wears so well.

“Shame,” she says at last, her smirk returning. “You would’ve made an excellent leader in The Future, Sergeant Yang.”

Jungwon doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. His fists are clenched tight at his sides.

Lieutenant Kim nods once. “Alright then. I’ll take your word for it.”

She turns to Jake. “You remember the day I came into the treatment facility?” Her tone is casual now, like they’re catching up after a long absence.

Jake nods slowly. “You’d lost your arm. Said you were ambushed.”

She smiles. “I was. By a biter. So I cut it off.” She lifts what remains of her limb as if presenting a trophy.

“You’re saying…,” Jake murmurs, the horror dawning across his features, “You amputated. And it stopped the infection?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s insane,” Heeseung mutters, but even he doesn’t sound convinced anymore. Just shaken.

“How do we know you’re not lying out of your ass right now?” Sunoo snaps. “If we cut it off and she dies—”

“She’s dying anyway,” Jay says quietly. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “She’s already been bitten. What else do we have to lose?”

No one breathes. The rooftop is still.

And Jungwon?

Jungwon’s heart is thundering in his chest. Because this is it. This is the thread. This is the one, impossibly thin thread he didn’t know he was praying for.

And he’s going to grab it with both hands.

Even if it means destroying what’s left of you to keep you alive.

Part 7

Day Zero

The first few hours after you pass out are chaos.

Jungwon doesn’t remember who screamed first. It might’ve been him. He doesn’t remember how they amputated your arm, how Jake’s hands moved with frantic precision, or how Heeseung kept barking orders that no one listened to. He doesn’t even remember when you fell asleep on his shoulders as he sang that lullaby to you.

What he does remember is the first sound you make. It didn’t even register as human. He remembers it tearing through the air, through Jungwon, like something primal and raw and wrong. The way your body arches, every muscle seizing, and your scream rips through him like glass dragged across his ribs.

He also remembers the pained look on your face as Heeseung holds you down, whispering, repeating something over and over—but Jungwon can’t hear it. Even when he wants to look away. Even when his instincts scream at him to close his eyes, to shut it out, to protect himself from the sight of you in so much pain—he doesn’t.

Because this is the cost. Your cost. And if you’re going to bear it, then so is he.

He remembers murmuring your name, again and again, not even sure if you can hear it. His voice is hoarse, breaking under the weight of every syllable. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me.”

But you’re not okay.

And he’s not sure you’re going to stay.

He also remembers the blood. How warm it was, even as it soaked through your shirt. The way it clung to his fingers long after Jake had said, “It’s done.” Long after Sunghoon pressed the iron down and your body stopped seizing. Long after your eyes rolled back and the world went quiet.

He sits beside you through the night, not moving. Not speaking. Not breathing, it feels like.

When the others finally drift into uneasy sleep—some out of exhaustion, some out of fear—he stays.

Your hand is limp in his. Cold.

You should’ve come back different. That’s what he keeps telling himself. You were bit. It was over. That’s what the world said. That’s what they all said. But you didn’t turn. You didn’t die either.

You just... slipped into silence.

He also remembers overhearing the moment you appointed Jay as your executioner. He hadn’t mean to eavesdrop but its hard not to tune you out when all he wants to hear is your voice. He had to take a moment to recollect himself but the thought only twists the knife deeper.

You’re the one dying, and you’re still trying to protect him from the fallout. From having to be the one to end it all.

He feels nauseous.

By the time he makes it back into the room, his throat is raw from holding in everything that wants to shatter him that it hurts to even swallow. And when you look at him, softened eyes unaware of what he’s heard, he says nothing.

He just walks to your side, careful not to let the shaking in his arms show as he drapes the blanket over you. He tucks the edges beneath your body, fingers lingering near your shoulder, pretending nothing has changed.

But it has.

Jay lingers around a few feet away, fingers curled around the handle of a pistol. Jungwon knows why. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He's simply upholding the promise he made to you.

Day One

He still hasn’t slept.

Your fever is rising now, sweat slicking your skin, your body shaking beneath the blankets. Jake does what he can—sponging your forehead, checking your pulse, redressing the stump—but Jungwon doesn’t leave your side. He stares. Watches your chest rise and fall, rise and fall, like if he looks away even once, you’ll stop.

When Jake tries to get him to eat something, Jungwon doesn’t respond. Not really. Just a blank stare. A nod that never leads to a bite.

Heeseung tells him gently, “She’s going to need you when she wakes up. You need your strength.”

But in his head, Jungwon hears: And if she doesn’t wake up, what’s the point?

Day Two

Heeseung sighs as he speak, “We can’t hide out in here forever. I’m sure the horde has thinned out a little, I’ll go see if I can lure them away.”

“No, I’ll go. Watch after Y/N for me, please.” Jungwon adjusts your blanket as he says.

“What? But you haven’t had proper sleep in days.”

Jungwon doesn’t argue. He just nods, gets up, grabs his rifle, put on the mask and leaves.

The first scream he lets out doesn't sound like his own. It tears out of his throat like grief incarnate, drawing the horde’s attention instantly. All of them. Their heads snap in his direction like puppets on strings, drawn by the sound of something alive—something grieving.

Jungwon bangs his rifle against the edge of the barricade, the metallic clang echoing into the night. Then again. Then again. He can barely hear it over the pounding in his chest.

“Come on,” he shouts. “Come on. You want something to eat?”

Another scream, more hoarse this time.

The first ones break away from the rest stop like waves caught in a new current. Their groans rise, louder now, a chorus of hunger, and as they move toward him, the others follow. Mindless. Predictable.

He keeps shouting until his throat burns. Until the only thing left is breath and bitterness.

Then he runs.

And they follow.

The sun is just starting to rise by the time he reaches the bus terminal, and his legs are already threatening to give out. He keeps going. He doesn’t look back.

He can hear them behind him. Always. Just far enough to not be on top of him, close enough that he can’t afford to slow down.

There’s blood on his tongue from how hard he’s been biting the inside of his cheek, and he swallows it down like medicine. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. He sees you every time he blinks—your arm, your face, the sound of your voice when you said “do it before I change my mind.”

He doesn’t know what kind of strength it takes to say that. But whatever it is, he clings to it now.

He screams again. Bangs his fist on a rusted signpost. Shoots a round into the air just to make sure they’re still coming.

They are.

The rain begins somewhere near midnight.

It’s cold, sharp, soaking through his clothes, turning the mud beneath his boots into sludge. His muscles scream. His head is pounding. He hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t drank anything. He left without telling anyone where he was going, didn’t even give them time to argue.

He had to go. If he stayed, he would’ve lost his mind.

The horde is quieter now, more sluggish with the rain. They still follow. Not because they understand. Just because it’s what they do. And maybe that’s what scares him more than anything—the simplicity of it.

No purpose. No will. Just motion.

He wonders if that’s what he’s becoming.

Day Three

He passes the village again around noon.

It’s quiet, but not empty.

He spots them first by smell, the rotting air thick with the coppery stench of death. Then he sees them—the two men he left behind. Or what’s left of them.

One has no face. Just torn muscle and glistening bone. The other’s stomach is splayed open like a dissected frog, intestines dragging behind him as he staggers forward without aim, without destination. Their eyes are grey now. Vacant.

Jungwon stops walking. Just for a second. Just long enough for a thought to cut him open: They were people. And we left them behind.

Then he shoots them both. One shot each.

He doesn’t flinch when their bodies hit the ground. Just reloads, turns his back, and keeps walking.

He wonders if that makes him human—or something else entirely.

That night, he finally sees the city.

Just beyond the rise of the hill, it sprawls in fractured silhouettes—buildings collapsed on their sides, smoke rising from craters in the road, the wind rattling broken windows like teeth chattering in a dying skull.

He slumps against the shell of a vending machine, hands shaking.

His feet are blistered. His ribs ache. His jacket is soaked through. His fingers are numb and raw, his voice long since gone.

But he made it.

They’re following him still—thinned out, some lost to the terrain, others distracted by noises that only exists in the city—but enough of them came. Enough of them are far, far away from the rest stop now.

From you.

Jungwon drags himself into the first store he sees, the door already broken in. He barricades what he can. Collapses behind a counter. Pulls the hood of his jacket low.

And for the first time in two days—he cries.

Not loud. Not even with tears.

Just silent shaking, his fingers curled in his hair, his chest folding in like he’s trying to disappear into himself.

He doesn’t sleep.

He just lies there, listening to the moans outside, wondering if you’re still alive.

Day Four

The next morning arrives cloaked in a brittle stillness. The rain that had dogged him for hours has finally stopped, but it’s left behind a colder, meaner kind of silence.

The wind has sharpened with the chill of dawn, slicing through the fabric of Jungwon’s soaked jacket, biting at his skin as if trying to remind him that he’s still alive. Every step he takes feels heavier now—sluggish and deliberate, like his body is finally starting to reckon with what he’s just done. With what it cost.

He glances out at the street, eyes scanning the remnants of the chaos he’d lured away. The horde is dispersing now, their ranks thinned and wandering, scattered like leaves caught in the aftermath of a storm.

His job is done.

But he doesn’t feel victorious. Not even close.

There’s no sense of relief settling into his chest, no triumph pounding in his veins. Just an ache. A dull, echoing emptiness that stretches from his ribs to the soles of his blistered feet.

He should feel proud—he pulled them away, bought them time, gave you a chance—but all he feels is this gaping hollow where something inside him used to live.

So he turns.

And begins the slow, punishing walk back to the rest stop. Back to you.

Not because he knows you’re awake. Not because there’s been any sign, any whisper of hope that you’ve stirred. But because he has to. Because something in his chest—something feral and aching and stubborn—needs to be near you again, even if it’s only to sit beside your motionless body and count your breaths.

Even if you’re no longer breathing at all.

Halfway back, while dragging himself along the road with boots caked in mud and legs that barely hold him upright, he stumbles across a curb overgrown with weeds and cracked cement. And there—sprouting defiantly between the rubble and ruin—is a small patch of wildflowers.

Delicate. Bright. Alive.

They sway in the breeze like they’ve never known the end of the world. As if they exist in a time untouched by rot and ash. And Jungwon doesn’t know what kind they are—hasn’t the faintest clue. He doesn’t even care.

He sees them and thinks of you.

You, curled beneath a threadbare blanket, your forehead damp with fever. You, whispering your final requests with the last of your strength. You, promising you'd be okay—just to spare him.

His breath catches in his throat, and then—

He runs.

Doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. He sprints like a man chasing salvation, like a single second might make all the difference between reaching you in time and arriving too late.

His feet pound against the pavement, raw and ragged. He slips once—knees colliding with the ground, palms tearing open on shattered glass. Blood seeps from his hands, but he doesn't stop. He can’t. He presses on, stumbling to his feet with a ragged gasp and pushes forward again, faster, harder, propelled by something that isn’t logic or certainty but need.

Because he doesn’t know if you’re still breathing.

Doesn’t know if the others were able to hold the infection at bay, if the amputation worked, if the fever broke.

He doesn’t know anything.

But he needs to.

Because if you are awake—if you’re still there—if your eyes are open and searching for something to hold onto in this world—then he wants to be the one you see. Wants you to remind him that it’s not too late to hold on to what’s left.

Not hope.

Not some dream of a better world.

Just you.

Because in a world where everything is dying, where everything good slips away too fast—you are the only thing he can still believe in.

Day Five

You still haven’t woken.

The others take turns watching you now. Heeseung insists on it, says Jungwon needs to get some air. He does but only so he could hunt down the remainder of A’s people.

He doesn’t tell them that he’s not hunting them for safety. That he’s hunting them because it’s the only thing that makes the noise in his head stop.

He stalks the woods in silence, teeth clenched, gun steady. Every bullet he fires feels like penance. Every body that hits the ground is a fraction of the rage and helplessness he can’t bleed out any other way.

By the time he returns, you haven’t moved. And he hates that the sight of your motionless figure still makes him hope.

Day Eight

He starts blaming himself.

Not just for this. For everything. For dragging you back to the camp when you wanted to leave. For believing he could protect anyone. For every command that got someone hurt. For letting you go that night, when you said you were bit.

You had looked him in the eye and told him. And what had he done?

Screamed. Panicked. Held you like you were already slipping through his fingers. You had to be the one to make the plan. To tell them what to do. To walk away. And he let you.

He let you.

Day Eleven

He wakes up from a dream where you died.

Your body had gone cold. Your eyes clouded. But worse—your voice, the one he’d memorised in every tone, every laugh, every biting remark—it was gone. Forever.

He screams himself awake.

Jake and Sunghoon find him on the edge of the rooftop, heaving, fists clenched in his hair, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at the world and tries to remember how to breathe.

Day Twelve

He’s still out there, combing the surrounding woods for any trace of A’s remaining people.

Deep down, he knows there probably aren’t any left—not this close to the rest stop. But that doesn’t stop him. He keeps going, driven not by strategy or necessity, but by something far more relentless: the need to do something.

To bleed out the guilt he can’t seem to quiet.

Day Fourteen

You move.

Just your fingers. A twitch. Barely there.

He’s the only one who sees it.

He grabs your hand and nearly crushes it in his grip, whispering your name like a prayer, like a drowning man breaking the surface. But you don’t stir again. And when he tells the others, they think he’s imagining it.

He doesn’t care.

He knows what he saw.

Day Fifteen

The second Jungwon steps past the barricade, he knows something’s changed.

He can’t explain it—there’s no sound, no shout, no rushing footsteps to greet him. Just the stillness of the evening air, the muted creak of the gate behind him, and the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end like some part of him already knows.

He moves automatically, his legs dragging with exhaustion, muscles screaming from days without rest. The rifle slung over his shoulder feels heavier than ever, the dried blood on his sleeves long since stiffened into the fabric. Every step toward the convenience store feels like wading through wet cement, but he keeps going. Because you’re here. Or you were. And that’s all that matters.

Heeseung meets him at the threshold, eyes wide, mouth opening like he’s about to say something—but Jungwon doesn’t stop.

Not until he sees you.

You're standing up. Just barely. But it’s enough to make his heart lurch so violently in his chest that it knocks the breath clean out of him.

You're awake.

You're alive.

His legs buckle.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room. Doesn’t remember letting the rifle slide from his shoulder or the way the others instinctively moved aside for him like they knew—they knew—he wouldn’t be able to wait a second longer.

And then you look at him.

Eyes tired, swollen, half-lidded from pain and medication, but unmistakably you.

“Y/N.”

Your name breaks in his mouth—raw and jagged, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and the second his skin touches yours, he shatters.

His entire body trembles, the sobs clawing their way up his throat with a force that leaves him breathless. He feels your warmth, your breath, the faint thump of your pulse against his temple—and it’s too much. Too much relief. Too much grief. Too much of everything he’s been holding back.

And when he feels your hand on his back, pressing into him, returning the embrace, it splits him wide open.

“You’re okay,” he breathes, over and over, like if he says it enough, he can make it true. “You’re awake. God, I thought—” His voice breaks, catching on the words he’s too afraid to finish. “I thought I lost you.”

Your voice is quiet, trembling. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He pulls back, just enough to see your face—drawn, pale, bruised, but alive. Alive. His thumb brushes along your jaw, reverent and aching, and it feels like holding something sacred. He can barely believe it.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice thick with guilt. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You kept them safe. You kept me safe.”

The words don’t make it easier. They just hurt differently. He leans in again, forehead pressed to yours, his breath stuttering as his hands find your waist, gripping like you might fade if he loosens his hold.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he whispers, and this time, the weight of it nearly brings him down again.

And then—then you say it.

“I’m alive.”

Your voice cracks on the words, but they echo like a miracle.

His chest seizes. His breath stalls. “You’re alive.” It slips from his lips like a confession, like an answer to a prayer he didn’t know he was allowed to make. “God, Y/N… you’re alive.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to a sob. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel the heat of his tears before they even fall.

He’s crying.

Openly. Unashamedly. His body trembling against yours, breath hitching with every inhale, fingers clutching at your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment. He’s held it in for days—for weeks—and now, with you finally awake, it all comes spilling out.

His arms tighten around you, as if trying to pull you further into him, trying to convince himself that this is real—that this isn’t a dream or some hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and guilt.

And then you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you. He doesn’t know who moves first. All he knows is the way your lips find his like they’ve done it a thousand times before. It's desperate, clumsy, shaking with emotion, but he pours everything into it—every sleepless night, every scream he swallowed, every prayer he never voiced.

When you whisper his name, it doesn’t sound like pain anymore. It sounds like salvation.

“I’m here,” he whispers back, lips brushing yours, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand promises. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

He feels you collapse against him, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, and the sound of your breathing against his skin grounds him in a way nothing else can. He holds you tighter. Closer.

You’re real.

Somehow. Against every odd, through every horror. You came back.

And now, finally, so does he.

He doesn’t let go of you that night.

Not when the others start filtering in, trying not to stare. Not when Jake quietly checks your vitals and nods in quiet relief. Not even when Sunoo tries to pass him a damp cloth and tells him to “breathe or something.”

He stays curled beside you on that mattress, head tucked near your shoulder, his arms wrapped protectively around you like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Because for two weeks, he lived in the space between grief and hope.

And tonight—for the first time in what feels like forever—he gets to choose hope.

Because you're here.

You're alive.

And he never wants to know a world without you again.

part 7 - hope | masterlist

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: okay NOW i conclude safe & sound... see this is what happens when a writer has major attachment issues. it gives you 18k words on a word document after a series supposedly ended. anyway happy jay day! and I'll come back with many exciting things soon! xoxo

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