#the mystery is in the How and When and Why; and also how everything else ties together | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

florestalio · 5 months ago

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FATAL OBSESSION — l.hs

even if your best friend seemed to have found the love of her life, the one that keeps her the happiest, while also treating you, and everyone else with respect—you can't help but feel something was... off about him. you didn't dwell on it much—something which proved to be a fatal mistake on your part.

GENRE — pwp, kidnapping au, psychopath au, best friend's boyfriend trope

WARNINGS — DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, noncon, noncon-ish dumbcon, psychopath!hee, kidnapping, character death, oral (both m! and f! rec), throat fucking, throat bulge, bondage, exhibitionism, voyeurism, gun play, gun in v (DON'T!!!), sucking the barrel of a gun (seriously, don't), squirting, unprotected sex (don't), doggy, cumming inside, groping, tit squeezing, nipple pinching, clit pinching, bondage, let me know if i missed any!

WORDCOUNT — 11.8k

NOTE — READER'S DISCRETION ADVISED!!! went a little too insane while writing this. thank you to my bestie sena who always encourages me to write my deranged wip ideas that I get during the most random times—this one in particular came to my mind while I was... studying. no I'm not lying. this was, as always, not proofread. so if you see any mistakes? just pretend you didn't, okay?

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

there was something severely off about heeseung.

your best friend, chaeyoung, had met heeseung—who is currently her boyfriend—at a bar. from what she had told you, apparently she was simply drinking there, celebrating her first ever paycheck—alone, since you were stuck at a family event. when it was time for her to pay, the bartender informed her that someone had already paid for her. surprised, she asked about this mystery person, getting directed towards a guy sitting a few seats away from her.

apparently for her, it was love at first sight.

he looked like everything she ever wanted in a guy—tall, dignified and confident posture, rich attire, a good taste in fashion—not to mention how attractive he looked while sipping his drink, a light smirk on the corner of his mouth, eyes locked with hers. he never broke eye contact—not even once, as she walked over to him—albeit quite bashfully.

from what she told you, they talked all night—about their reasons for being in the bar, their hobbies, their backgrounds, their families, and other things that you couldn't really bother to keep track of.

they exchanged numbers, texting each other every single day. eventually, he asked her out, taking her to the most exquisite restaurant in the city, treating her like royalty. according to her, he was the biggest gentleman—a complete green forest, if you will. he always took care of her interests, noticed every single detail about her, and never failed to bring a smile to her face. truly, she was the happiest version of herself while they were dating.

eventually, she introduced him to you, him being an absolute sweetheart with you as well. he made sure not to make you feel like a third wheel, including you in their conversations. it didn't feel awkward for you at all—almost as if you three were a trio of best friends who hadn't met in a while, catching up.

everything was perfect with him. until it wasn't.

you didn't understand why, but for some weird reason, you started to get a certain... vibe from him—even though his behaviour never really changed. he was still an absolute sweetheart, treating chaeyoung like his own personal goddess… yet there was something so—unsettling about him.

heeseung didn't really do anything, but you still found a chill running down your spine whenever chaeyoung mentioned his name. if you saw him in front of you? you bet either your leg or hand would shake uncontrollably, betraying your anxiety.

anxiety for exactly what reason, you didn't know.

you thought it was ridiculous. why would your best friend's more than perfect boyfriend’s mere presence have you shaking like a goddamn leaf? it made no sense at all.

until it did… sort of.

well… heeseung, despite being such an amazing boyfriend, ends up becoming an ex. how? the story behind that is… messy. extremely so.

you see, they had been dating for almost a year. everyone expects a good and memorable gift from their partner for their anniversary, right? so did chaeyoung. she was really looking forward to it too, given how much of a great boyfriend heeseung was.

and he didn't disappoint. he gave her a present, one that was definitely memorable. it wasn’t memorable just for her, either. it was memorable for you as well. was it good? not so much.

it was around eight in the morning when your alarm rang, effectively waking you up.but it was a sunday, so you turned the alarm off, trying to go back to sleep. but you were already awake, so it didn't really work.

you picked up your phone, the date catching your eyes—it was chaeyoung and heeseung’s anniversary!

your eyes widened. how could you have forgotten such an important date? it was a date your best friend had been extremely excited about, with her always talking about it to you for quite a few days now, yet you forgot. did that make you a terrible friend? probably. eager to redeem yourself, you quickly shot her a text.

you: happy anniversary to my favourite couple!!! enjoy yourselves you both <33 give me all the details tomorrow!!

you let out a small breath, one which you didn't realise you were holding, hoping your best friend hadn't realised that you hadn't remembered her anniversary. however, you didn't get to ponder too long on that, since your phone rang with a ding. chaeyoung had texted you back!

chae: thank youuu!! also girl i need help chae: can you make it to xxx restaurant by twelve?? a friend of heeseung got broken up with, so he wanted him to accompany us for the morning to help him cheer up. chae: he also mentioned something about ‘not wishing him to be a third wheel’ so please do me this favour?? chae: pleaseee??? i promise i’ll make it up to you

you were a bit hesitant about the request. you honestly wanted to stay in today, since it was a sunday—a rest day—but you also didn't want to disappoint your best friend on her first anniversary with her boyfriend, so you agreed.

you: fineee i can do that you: but you're gonna owe me one

chae: THANK YOU SO MUCHHHH chae: you have no idea how stressed i was about this chae: honestly i didn't wanna agree to it at first chae: but you know i can't say no to him

you: girl it's okayyy i can understand you: i’ll distract the other dude so that you guys can enjoy your day, alright?? <33

chae: ugh have i ever told you how much i love you???

you: love you too now GO!!!

as soon as you keep your phone down, you instantly regret your decision. so now you have to go and attend the anniversary lunch of your best friend and her boyfriend… along with some mopey guy that recently got broken up with. great. just great.

you were in front of the restaurant that chaeyoung had sent you the address of—right on time too. you had been trying to call her for the past thirty minutes, but she wasn't picking up. you knew it took a while to get ready, and look absolutely out of the world, but seriously, it doesn't take that long.

you tried to call her for the—what, seventh time now? once again, the call went to voicemail. jesus christ, was she getting plastic surgery or something?

you heard your name being called, causing you to turn around. it was heeseung, waving at you, dressed in an absolutely dashing suit, his ever-so-polite smile adorning his face. the only odd thing was that he was alone—no sign of chaeyoung near him.

you frowned, voicing your thoughts out. “did you not come here with chae? she hasn't been picking up my calls—i have been trying since the past half an hour already.”

he looked surprised at that. “she picked up my call around… forty? minutes ago? she told me her make up wasn't setting right? something else about her foundation being almost out? i told her i was gonna wait, and we could schedule the reservation for later, but she told me it wasn't possible—made me come here on my own. but—i figured she must have called you for help, since, you know, you're the person she usually goes to during these kinds of emergencies–”

you shook your head, your forehead creasing in frustration. obviously chaeyoung thought the ‘emergency’ wasn't urgent enough to call you—now she won't pick up your calls, or arrive on time.

you looked at him again. “when is your friend supposed to arrive?”

he looked at his watch. “we told him to come at fifteen minutes past twelve, so that me and chae could have a little time alone before it's all about him, so… he should have been here ten minutes ago.”

right then a ‘ding!’ sounded on his phone, causing you to raise a brow. you gestured at him to check, which he did… his face falling almost immediately. he looked up at you, sighing heavily. “he just texted me. apparently his sister was busy, which meant she couldn't pick up his niece from school—which left him to do it.”

you rubbed your temples in frustration. for fuck’s sake, this wasn't your anniversary lunch, why the hell were you here on time? to help a friend out, who didn't even need the help anymore, and who was yet to arrive at her own anniversary lunch?

noticing your distressed state, heeseung quickly tried to make the situation better. “h-how about we go inside, yea? chae said she reserved the table under her name, so we can sit down—maybe even order something to eat till she arrives? how does that sound?”

you nodded, sighing mentally. you loved your best friend, but seriously, she needed to be more responsible. being late to your own anniversary lunch? causing your boyfriend and best friend to sit down and possibly even eat lunch until you decided the time was finally ideal enough for you to show up? real mature.

heeseung could sense your building frustration and anger, causing him to do his best to keep you calm. you waited by the front of the restaurant, as he practically sprinted towards the help desk to get the reserved table. he quickly ran back to you, ushering you towards the table. as soon as the two of you sat down, he quickly looked through the menu, asking for your favourite drink among the ones listed. once you gave him the name, he quickly called upon a waiter, ordering your drink choice. while they took their time to give you your drink, he engaged you in a friendly conversation, trying to diffuse the tension, and any possible awkwardness. safe to say, it worked, as you even cracked a laugh or two at his terrible jokes.

another half an hour went by. chaeyoung was yet to show up. the two of you decided to order lunch, the wait having made you both hungry.

while you both were digging in, heeseung made sure to keep you engaged in conversation, the atmosphere not turning awkward even once—despite the circumstances. the food was top tier too, so you had to give chaeyoung that one. credit was needed where it was due, after all.

by the time it was the turn for dessert, your anger had started fading into worry. where the fuck was chaeyoung at?

you knew your best friend well enough to know that she wouldn't miss her anniversary lunch, no matter how much her make-up sucked. so why wasn't she here yet?

heeseung, being ever the gentleman, politely kept you engaged in conversation. oh, for chaeyoung to have ended up with such an amazing guy, and to miss their first anniversary? yea, your best friend is definitely the problem here.

once dessert was finished, you excused yourself, going to the washroom. you needed to wash your hands anyways, and redo your lipstick. you also wanted to try and call chaeyoung again.

while you were washing your hands, one of the servers came in, giving you a polite smile and a small bow. she washed your hands alongside you. “ma'am, may i ask you something? it might sound a little intrusive, but i promise i mean it in a nice way.”

caught slightly off-guard, you nodded your head. “absolutely! don't worry about being intrusive, just ask whatever you want to.”

she gave you a wide smile, giggling slightly. “you and your boyfriend look so cute together! how long have you been together? if you don't mind me asking, of course–”

you quickly cut her off. “oh no no no—he isn't my boyfriend, he is my best friend’s. they have been together for a year, so this was supposed to be their anniversary lunch.”

the waitress gave you a skeptical look. realising exactly how weird your answer just sounded, you rushed to explain yourself. “w-wait wait wait—i know it sounds weird, but i promise i’m telling the truth. i sent her a ‘happy anniversary’ text this morning, to which she told me to accompany her to her anniversary lunch, since her boyfriend’s recently dumped friend was coming along, and her boyfriend didn't want him to be a third wheel…” you trailed off, noticing the look of disbelief on her face.

you didn't know why you felt the need to explain the situation to a complete stranger, but you weren't going to question your anxiety induced instincts. you took out your phone, showing her your texts with chaeyoung from the morning, while continuing to rant to her. “–but for some reason, she hasn't been picking up my calls, despite her being the one to invite me to this. she even reserved the table in the first place, but… oh well.”

at that, the server furrowed her brows. she seemed to believe you, although only to a certain extent now. “uhm… ma'am, are you sure? the table you were sat at was reserved by who we thought was your boyfriend. no girl came in to reserve that table for today. but he did so, yesterday. said he wanted to have lunch with his girlfriend in peace, without anyone interrupting, and that today was the only opportunity for doing so.”

you were stunned at the revelation. you were sure heeseung told you that the table was reserved by chaeyoung, not him. why would the server lie? hell, why would heeseung lie? this revelation, paired with your best friend not picking up her calls… something wasn't adding up.

the server waved her hand in front of you to get your attention. “uh, ma'am…?”

you quickly snapped back to reality, the unsettling feeling you usually got around heeseung creeping back. “o-oh yea, uhm—can you help me out really quick?”

sensing the undertone of panic in your voice, her face quickly became serious. “of course, whatever you need.”

you gulped. “so, uhm—i- i think my best friend’s boyfriend—the guy i was sitting with right now—lied to me, and my friend isn't picking my calls either. d-does your restaurant perhaps have a… a backdoor, or something similar to that?”

she didn’t question it anymore, nodding quickly. she gave you the directions to the backdoor, which luckily happened to be nearby, just behind the kitchen. she promised to keep your escapade a secret, and also promised to make heeseung pay the entire bill.

“–oh, and please be careful. the backdoor is connected to a network of alleys, which are filled with homeless people. they are always looking for an opportunity to steal, especially from unsuspecting women. there's also a lot of—well, men, so you need to be extra careful.” you quickly thanked her, heeding to her directions.

you got out of the washroom, finding the backdoor quickly enough. you went outside through it, the door leading into a back alley. you quickly navigated through it, wary of any potential homeless people that might think you're an easy target for them to steal from.

you kept turning corners, staying at least five meters away from any suspicious people. however, you soon felt as if you were being followed. since you were in an area infested with men that were starving—in more ways than one, you didn't pay as much attention to it—although you should have, since that was extremely stupid of you. it turned out to be a big mistake on your part, since you soon felt someone hit your head—hard—with something that was probably made of metal.

your head exploded in pain, causing you to clutch it tightly with both hands. you felt someone catch you as you fell backwards, holding onto you tightly, your vision unsteady. as you swam in and out of consciousness, you could swear you heard a laugh. it was the most unsettling sound you had ever heard. the last thing you heard before you blacked out sent a chill down your spine.

“that eager to escape me? not fucking happening princess.”

when you woke up, you couldn't open your eyes, nor could you open your mouth to scream. you tried to move your hands and legs, but they seemed to have been tied up as well. you could tell that you were tied to a chair, but you had no idea why, or how—or who did it. what would anyone gain from kidnapping you?

you let out a muffled scream through your gag, trying to catch the attention of literally anyone. to add to your anxiety, you heard another muffled scream in response. you tried to struggle against your binds—which you just realised were fucking metallic chains—but it was a futile attempt.

in the midst of your struggling, you didn't hear the footsteps nearby, or the door opening. so naturally you were surprised when the blindfold was yanked off of you. you squint your eyes, to adjust to the sudden brightness, while your captor ripped off your gag as well. you promptly let out an ear piercing scream.

your captor let out a groan, putting his hand on your mouth, effectively shutting you up. “for fuck’s sake, shut up. no one can hear you—at least no one that can save you can hear you, so shut up and spare me the trouble of going deaf. or i can leave the gag on, whichever works best for you.”

you immediately stopped trying to scream, your eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness—or excessive darkness, whatever it was. to your utter horror, your captor was lee fucking heeseung of all people. you did have a bad feeling about him, but for it to be true? that was something you weren't prepared for.

you gulped, your throat feeling slightly parched. you looked around, your eyes landing on another girl that was tied up. her blindfold and gag was still on, but she didn't seem to be straining against her binds. from the almost dried tear patches on the blindfold, and the dried tear tracks on her cheeks, you assumed that she had given up trying to struggle.

as you analyzed her carefully, the pit in your stomach grew. that was chaeyoung. “w-what did you do to h-her? why—why are we here? why are you doing this? l-let us go!”

he let out a chuckle, which only caused the pit in your stomach to grow bigger. he put both of his hands on the arms of the chair you were tied to, leaning closer to you. his face had the most bone-chilling smirk ever. “‘why?’ that's a great question. cute, even. it's cuter how you think i’ll let either of you go.”

noticing your breath hitch, he leaned even closer, his voice more of a sultry whisper. “your friend… she was just a puppet. a pawn, in my game.”

your eyes were brimming with unshed tears, your voice shaky. “g-game?”

he chuckled. “why yes, a game. my game. the game to get closer to you.”

you froze, causing him to hold in a laugh at how your eyes widened comically. “m-me? closer t-to me? w-why? why would you want to—how would that even benefit you–?”

he tilted his head to the side. “why? because i like you, silly. i’m in love with you. always have been.”

your mouth hung open in disbelief. “...what?”

he caressed your cheek, his touch tender—a great contrast to how he kidnapped you, and tied you up to a chair, in some random, abandoned, basement. “we went to the same school. we were never in the same section throughout all of our school years, but i still noticed you. i always did. how could i not? you were the most beautiful among them all, a rose in between thorns. a lone firefly, shining in a field of darkness. naturally, i was drawn to you, like a moth to a flame.”

he cupped your jaw with the same hand that was caressing your face just seconds ago, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. “anything and everything you did, always had me thinking, wondering, hoping—that you were doing it for me. just for me. to catch my attention. you don't need anyone else anyways, i’m more than enough for you. you just… don't see it yet.”

his grip on your jaw grew slightly tighter, your wince of pain going unnoticed by him. a crazy glimmer appeared in his eyes. “that's why i needed to wait. wait for the perfect opportunity, the right moment—until it finally presented itself. in the form of your best friend, chaeyoung. she wasn't difficult to sway. her trusting nature made it even easier. she talks a lot, a bit too much sometimes—but of course, you would know—you’re her best friend after all. she made it easy to know everything about you, things i couldn't find from stalking you. suddenly, you were so, so much closer. but not close enough. you still didn't care enough, you still weren't mine.”

you were freaking out. this whole situation was insane. he was insane. you were a hundred percent sure that you had never even seen him at school! yet he claimed to have been in the same one as you? either you were as invincibly ignorant as a town-fop judging of a new play, or he was bluffing. based on the current situation, he was definitely not bluffing.

but how? how could you have missed the fact that you were getting stalked? stalked! this was so, so bizarre. you were terrified, both for your life, and chaeyoung’s. you felt guilty that she had gotten involved, when clearly this was all about you.

heeseung continued talking. “so i had to do something. something, literally anything, to finally have you all to myself. the one thing i was glad for, was the fact that you remained single, your disinterest in relationships being both a blessing and a curse. it was the reason i lured chaeyoung into this, instead of getting to you directly. although, she could have gotten away from all of this, unharmed, if you weren't so… nosey.”

he started caressing your cheek again. “don't know why, but for some reason you started to become… uncomfortable around me. i didn't know why, since i was more than sure that i didn't do anything to make you feel that way. but you still did. so of course, i had to do something fast. i scraped together this elaborate plan, one that involved me and chaeyoung breaking up, after i found her ‘cheating’ on me on our one year anniversary, and you consoling me, but—you just had to run away. naturally, i had to bring both of you here.”

you gulped, trying to steal your nerves. “please—you said it yourself, it's me who you want, not her—so please, let her go. she did nothing, she doesn't need to be involved in this–”

he tutted, cutting you off. “ah ah ah—where’s the fun in that? she is going to remain right here, as long as i see fit.”

he took his hand off your face, stepping away from you. he walked towards chaeyoung, a few meters away from you. your heart broke, seeing the fresh tear tracks on her face, the wet patches on her blindfold being clearly visible. your own tears broke free, once he ripped her blindfold off. she squinted in the light, her eyes landing on you. a fresh batch of tears cascaded down her face.

before you could call out to her, your eyes widened, your body freezing. heeseung was pointing a gun to her head. chaeyoung realised it, muffled sobs breaking free from behind her gag—which, for some reason, he didn’t take off, unlike what he did to yours. he rolled his eyes, nudging her head with the gun. “shut up. or i won't hesitate to blow your brains out.”

she immediately tried to stop, a small muffled hiccup escaping her in the process. heeseung rolled his eyes again, walking away from her, towards you. he kept the gun pointed towards her. he stopped in front of you, clicking the safety off. he smirked down at you. “you want her to live?”

you nodded frantically, your eyes shaking from how much you were crying. he snickered at your state. he put the gun under your chin, using it to tilt your head up, towards him. “in that case, you better do whatever i tell you to. and no trying to act smart, or else…”

he pointed the gun at chaeyoung again, flipping the gun in his hand, making it point at her again. he made a small ‘bang!’ sound with his mouth, imitating the gun going off. with your body raking with silent sobs, you nodded again, eyes red from your tears.

he smirked again. “that’s a good girl. just keep being obedient like this, yea?”

he didn’t wait for you to nod your head, or say yes again, going straight to business instead. to your—and chaeyoung's—utter horror, he began using his unoccupied hand to unbutton his jeans, under which he was somehow already hard. he pulled down the zipper—your widened, teary eyes and shocked, tear-stricken face making him stifle a groan, sending more blood straight down south, towards his cock. oh, he was going to have so much fun playing with you.

you looked in horror as he shrugged off his pants, glancing over at chaeyoung’s equally horrified face, before looking up at his face. in a panicked state, you spoke. “w-what are you doing–?”

he snickered at you, the gun not once moving from the direction of your best friend. his pants had come off, his hard bulge straining against his boxers, a large spot of precum having already formed on it. “what do you think?”

your expression was one of disgust, mixed with panic. there was no way you were going to suck your best friend's cock right in front of her, while you were both tied up to chairs, your lives in great danger. “you can't make me–”

“i can’t?” he interrupted you with a scoff, his hand pulling down his boxers. he shrugged them off, his leaking cock slapping on his stomach, leaving a trail of his sticky precum behind. his tip was an angry red, demanding immediate attention. “i can’t?” he repeated, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “what makes you think you have a choice? unless you want your oh-so-beloved friend here to die?”

he made a move as to pull the trigger, as you quickly yelled out, your eyes widening in panic. “no no no wait—please, i-i’ll do it, don’t shoot her, please–”

he smirked. you were so, so easy to scare. but apparently chaeyoung was too, since he heard a scared whimper—or a muffled sob—whatever, from her direction. he rolled his eyes subtly at the sound. he stepped closer to you, holding the base of his dick. his musky smell immediately invaded your nose, causing you to subtly scrunch it. although the smell wasn’t disgusting, his act sure was. he nudged it against your unwilling lips, coating it in a layer of his precum. he decided that it was by far the prettiest gloss he had seen you wear. “well? go on and suck it. or do you need more motivation?”

by motivation, he meant putting chaeyoung to sleep forever, of course. obviously you didn’t want that, so you quickly opened your mouth, your tongue darting out to give his tip a tentative lick. the salty taste immediately invaded your taste buds, causing you to gag slightly.

the action, however, elicited a completely different reaction from heeseung. he almost fell forward with a groan, balancing himself just in time, by holding onto the top of your chair. it set a chain reaction of his cock getting pushed further in your direction. despite your unwillingness, you were fuelled with the thought of you and your best friend getting out of the hell hole—unharmed—if you obeyed him. so you tilted your head, licking a long stripe along a vein on the underside of his cock. it stretched from his base, till his tip. your tongue’s movement caused him to twitch above you, more precum dribbling out of his tip.

above you, heeseung was a mess. god-fucking-damnit, this was what he had been missing out on?! chaeyoung’s head game was nothing compared to yours, and you had barely done anything.

it was getting harder to keep the gun pointed at her, so he decided to taunt her instead. he turned to the side, towards her, to mock her—only to be met with her eyes shut tightly, tears streaming down her face. displeased by the sight, he called out to her, trying to not sound breathless. “stop acting like a fucking prude, and open your goddamn eyes. i could shoot you right now, the only reason i’m not is because of your friend right here–” he gestured down to you, seeing as she opened her eyes again, which were red and swollen from crying. “–so you better be grateful to her, and keep your eyes on her. or else… you know what kind fate is waiting for you.”

hearing him threaten her directly, made your actions falter. you glanced at chaeyoung again—the sight of her teary eyes causing a fresh batch to roll down your eyes. you mouthed a ‘i promise i’ll get us out of here—unharmed’ to which she simply shook her head. your promise was empty words, as long as you both were here—under the threat of heeseung’s insanity. she didn’t hold it against you, she knew you didn’t want this either. but as long as heeseung was here, you both weren’t safe.

not liking how you stopped, heeseung fisted your hair tightly in his unoccupied hand, pushing your face forcefully towards his cock once again. you had done the mistake of gasping at his tight grip, causing his cock to push itself inside your deliciously warm mouth.

heeseung had to once again let go of your hair, to hold onto the top of the chair, trying to steady himself. fuck, your mouth felt so much better than chaeyoung’s ever did. he let out an unbashed moan, as you slowly bobbed your head up and down his length. “fuck,” your tongue swirled around his tip, collecting his precum, the action only causing more to ooze out. your tongue pressed down on his slit, causing him to throw his head back. “just like that baby,” he gripped the top of the chair tightly, in order to avoid thrusting into your mouth. “hah—doing s’fucking great f’me–”

he got cut off by his own groan, as you hollow your cheeks, sucking him off harshly. your tongue rubbed deliciously on the underside of his cock, the combined mixture of your saliva and his precum making it easier for you to take him in and out of your mouth. you tried your best to tune out the muffled sobs from chaeyoung in the corner—you were doing this so that she wouldn't be killed, not for your selfish reasons. as long as heeseung was satisfied, you both would be safe.

heeseung thought the same, as he seemed to want to take full advantage of that fact. unable to resist temptation anymore, he thrust his hips forward, relishing in how you gagged around him. he stood still for a moment, just to bask in the warmth of your throat.

but you only had one goal. satisfy him—impress him—till he deemed your performance good enough to let you and chaeyoung leave. which is why he was soon pleasantly surprised, as you took him further in, deep throating him. he almost moaned at the sight of his bulge in your throat. chaeyoung could never do that.

he took a glance at her, his hand holding the gun starting to ache. she was looking straight at you, small sobs raking through her body, tears running down her eyes in a steady stream. with his gun still cocked straight in her direction, he used his unoccupied hand to grab your throat, pressing down on your bulge. he let out a moan as you choked, the pressure on his cock being more than perfect.

seeing you struggling to breathe, he rolled his eyes slightly. “breathe through your nose.” it was all he said, before he pulled almost completely out of your mouth. without giving you barely enough time to take a breath, he slammed back in, your nose pushing against his abdomen. his balls slapped against your chin, as you choked, trying hard to breathe through your nose. his hand gripped your hair tightly, as he started fucking your mouth—throat—roughly.

your wrists and shins were hurting from how the chains were digging into them, bruises having definitely formed on them by now. from his merciless pace and brutal thrusts, your throat palate, as well as your chin, was sure to be bruised later as well. tears were streaming down your eyes, mirroring chaeyoung's—not just from the brutality of his pace, but from the entire situation. you never thought that one day you would have to let heeseung fuck your throat, just to ensure that you and chaeyoug could live for another day.

but unexpected situations happen everyday, as heeseung’s pace turned sloppy. “fuck fuck fuck–” he changed his fast pace and short strokes to slow and deep thrusts, his cock going impossibly deep inside your throat everytime—as if he was trying to leave an imprint in it.

finally, he let out a broken moan. “o-oh fuck—mmm–” he pulled out of your mouth quickly, his hand clutching the base of his cock to avoid cumming immediately. he started jerking off at a fast pace in front of your face. “f-fuck—open your m-mouth f’me baby—n’ stick out your tongue–”

you did as he said, screwing your eyes shut. you didn't want to accidentally make eye contact with your best friend. your face and neck was already burning hot from embarrassment, you didn't need to feel guilty as well—not that any of this was your fault in the first place.

with a loud curse, and a broken moan of your name, his orgasm finally crashed over him. spurts of warm cum erupted from his angry red tip, landing all over your face. most of it landed on your tongue, but quite a bit landed on your eyelids, nose, and cheeks as well. admiring his masterpiece with a darkened look in his eyes, heeseung spoke. “don't swallow… yet.”

he swiped the excess cum off your face with his finger, to the best of his abilities. “swallow.” he ordered, leaving no room for disobedience. he watched as you gulped, your subtle look of disgust going unnoticed. “open your mouth again,” he said, watching with a dark satisfaction, as you obeyed. he pushed his cum covered finger inside your mouth. “suck it, and swallow everything.”

you did just that, although you really wished you could spit it out instead. without him asking, you opened your mouth wide open, showing how you swallowed every drop. it was only then, that you dared to speak, your voice hoarse from his ministrations. “c-can we go now? i p-promise neither of us will tell anyone.”

at your question, he laughed. full on laughed. “‘leave’?” he echoed; as if it were some foreign language. he brought his hand that was holding the gun towards your face, before using it to tilt your chin up. “why do you want to leave so soon, baby? you need a reward first, don't you think so?”

you blinked confusedly. “a reward…?”

a smirk creeped up on his face. “why yes, a reward. you have been such a good girl for me, of course you need a reward! besides, it's only logical that i return the favour, isn't it?”

your eyes widened, as the realisation settled in. “oh, i-i don't think that's necessary–”

he subtly rolled his eyes, already sinking down on his knees in front of you. “of course it is necessary! can't just leave a girl hanging, you know?”

your eyes were wide with panic, looking at chaeyoung, as if expecting her to help—her own eyes were wide open, as she gulped inaudibly. at this point, she was simply grateful that the two of you were alive.

you squirmed, as heeseung placed the gun down beside him, giving chaeyoung a break. his hands moved up and down your legs, lifting your dress up, bunching it around your hips, leaving you squirming uncomfortably. “h-heeseung please, i r-really don't think this is necessary.”

his jaw clenched at your words, as he tightened grip on your legs. he forced his voice to be sickly sweet, as he spoke. “but that's the problem, isn't it? you women always think you know everything; whatever you decide is correct, is always correct. news flash darling—not everything is sunshine and rainbows. there are loads of things out of your control, things that you should simply relax and let others do for you. so shut up, and let me do what i want to, got it? or do you want me to blow chaeyoung’s brains out, since threatening you seems to be the only way you learn to listen?”

you gulped, tears stinging your eyes, as you met his hardened gaze. how long were you both going to be trapped here? how long before he finally got bored of these games and killed you both off? how long?

heeseung produced a knife from his pocket, your panic settling in again. you only calmed down—slightly—when you saw him use it to slowly tear through your panties, careful not to hurt you. although, the knife being so close to your skin scared you shitless anyways.

he sliced through them, the cold air coming in contact with your bare core, a shiver running through you. as he smirked at you, leaning closer to lick a stripe up your cunt, you suppressed a flinch. fuck, this was really happening.

you watched as he gathered a wad of saliva with his tongue, before spitting directly on your clit. you flinched slightly, which he took great delight in. heeseung watched his spit slowly drip down your pussy, causing him to be unable to resist temptation. he pushed his face towards your core, kissing it, before diving in. his tongue pushed deep inside you, something which unintentionally caused tingles of pleasure to run through you. you gasped loudly. “oh—god—wait, d-don't–”

your broken sounds only spurred him on more, as he dragged his tongue across your inner walls, his moan reverberating through your cunt. he licked at your walls, slurping up your juices, like a starving man. you tasted so fucking good, so much better than chaeyoung. but your squirming was pissing him off, his bruisingly tight grip on your thighs not being enough to keep you still.

even after digging his blunt nails into your thighs, you didn't stop the squirming—even though he knew you were loving it. especially given the way you kept letting out broken gasps and the way you pushed your absolutely delicious cunt further onto his face. it was really starting to piss him off.

he quite reluctantly pulled off to glare at you. “why is it so hard for you to sit still, hm? it's getting really fucking annoying, you know?”

you gulped, panting slightly. “i-i just—really want you to stop…”

he raised a brow, his expression otherwise blank. “oh really? because ‘it doesn't feel good’?”

you nodded quickly—a little too quickly. “y-yea! it f-feels weird—not good in the slightest.”

his jaw clenched—again. “well,” he gritted out. “in that case, i’ll have to try something else, don't you think so?”

you blinked, before furrowing your brows. “what–?”

he proceeded to pick up the gun from beside him, relishing in the way your eyes widened in horror. “if my mouth makes you feel so—uncomfortable, we will just need something else, hm? an object perhaps?”

your breathing grew shallow, as you realised where this was going. “n-no, please–”

he sneered at you. “too fucking late for that, princess.”

he pushed the barrel of the gun inside you slowly, watching as it slid in with ease, due to his previous ministrations. he ignored your sobs and cries to stop, relishing in the way your pussy sucked it right in. “sure you don't want this princess? your pussy disagrees with your mouth, you know?”

your head faced the ceiling, your teeth biting down on your bottom lip painfully, to conceal your whimpers. your eyes were screwed shut, praying that this was just a terrifying nightmare, one you hoped you would wake up quickly from. you swore you heard a whimper near you, which was probably one of utter horror, elicited by chaeyoung, since she was witnessing everything—but you didn't have time to worry about her anymore, since your own life was in a much graver situation.

you let out a whimper as heeseung pushed the barrel of the gun even deeper inside you, the disgusting squelching sound from your slick almost making you gag. why, just why did this situation have to happen with you of all people?

heeseung on the other hand, was enjoying himself. he pulled the barrel out slightly, before pushing it right back in. the sounds that your cunt produced were music to his ears, your whimpers of horror and choked sobs only fuelling his sick delight. he knew you liked it, even if it was only to a certain extent. why else would your cunt clench down on the gun enough to make it hard for him to pull it out?

he made sure to voice out his exact thoughts to you. “such a slutty hole you have… don’t you, pretty girl? it will get wet for anything that is hard enough to stick inside it, won’t it?” he revelled in the particularly loud squelch that your pussy made, when he pushed the barrel in deeper. “ah… point proven.”

tears were streaming down your face at a fast, never ending pace, your face and neck burning up from a mix of emotions—fear, anger, humiliation—everything. even if you gave him his—his satisfaction, would it be enough to keep him satisfied for long enough? were you really going to die here? here? under these circumstances?

heeseung used his other hand to rub your clit, tired of your resistance. he rubbed dizzying circles around your hardened bundle with nerves, with deliberate slowness, the gesture teasing, with a hint of impatience. your breath hitched, giving him the incentive to continue his actions. he pinched your clit, drawing out a shocked gasp, before rubbing it harshly.

your head was spinning. with the gun still dangerously sliding in and out of you, and the added stimulation of your clit, it was hard to focus on anything. your head tipped back, and before you could control yourself, a moan slipped past. “h-heeseu—ah–”

you immediately bit your lip, your eyes widening, surprised by yourself. did you really just…?

heeseung on the other hand, was on cloud nine. he was both elated, yet shocked at the same time. with a nasty grin, and a crazed gleam in his eyes, he fastened the pace of the gun, pinching and flicking your bundle of nerves. “fuuuuck baby—do it again, c’mon—i knew you were a nasty little slut, just needed a little bit of… encouragement, isn’t that it? c’mon pretty, again–”

your eyes screwed shut, as you refused to let any sounds escape again, despite the very loud moan bubbling up in your throat. you tried to squeeze your legs shut, as his actions started to make you feel alarmingly good. for fuck’s sake, there was a goddamn gun inside you—how on earth were you liking this?!

heeseung caught on immediately, pushing your legs further apart, sliding the gun in and out of you at a ruthless pace, forcing another moan out of you. with how fast he was rubbing your clit, it was extremely hard to not moan—in fact, it was hard for you to even breathe, given how he was drawing out choked out moans from you at an almost inhuman pace.

he leaned down, replacing the thumb on your clit with his tongue, sucking on it harshly. you almost doubled over from the intense feeling, letting out a sharp cry. he bit down on your clit, the gun drawing out disgusting noises, as it dragged across your slimy walls, coated in your arousal. he flicked your clit with his tongue, enjoying the choked sob you let out.

your stomach started to tighten, the alarming realisation of your rapidly approaching orgasm alarming you. you tried to squeeze your legs shut, drawing out a groan of… pleasure, from heeseung. he sucked on your clit harder, rolling it around with his tongue. he paid no attention to what you were babbling about. “h-heeseung—hng!—stop—i- i can’t—ah–”

he flicked your clit again, before increasing the pace of his hand, the gun pounding into you with alarmingly deep strokes. he bit your bundle of nerves again—not too harshly, but enough to finally make the band in your stomach snap.

your vision went white, your ears ringing loudly, as your orgasm crashed over you like a tsunami. clear liquid sprayed out of your cunt, coating the lower half of heeseung’s face and his hand with your squirt. he was quick to try his best and lick up every drop, before looking up at you; his eyes dark, a predatory smirk on his face.

as you came down from your high, you locked eyes with him, immediately understanding what had just happened. red hot shame washed over you, covering you like a blanket of fire. it creeped up your neck and face, making you want to crawl into a hole and never see the light of the day again.

“well…” heeseung said, sliding the gun out of your sensitive pussy, your face scrunching from the sound of your wetness. “there is absolutely no way you can deny not liking this now—any of this. you’re enjoying this a lot more than you’re letting on darling, and this proved just that.”

you pant, trying to catch your breath. you suddenly remembered about chaeyoung—fuck. she watched all of it. well—there was nothing you could do. heeseung is… insane, that bit was for sure. this was all technically her fault. if only she didn’t approach him that night, all of this wouldn’t have happened. you wouldn’t have been the one to suffer.

were you feeling bitter? yes, extremely so. after all, why wouldn’t you? chaeyoung was a pawn in heeseung’s sick and twisted game to attain you for some weird reason, which could have all been avoided if it wasn’t for her thirsty ass that fell for a random guy that smirked at her in some bar one day. her lack of self control caused this, so yes, excuse you for feeling bitter and resenting your oh-so-beloved best friend.

suddenly, as if heeseung hadn't yet reached the height of insanity, he brought the barrel of the gun towards his mouth. he locked eyes with you, relishing in the way your eyes widened in a mixture of shock and fear, before engulfing the barrel with his lips. still maintaining eye contact with you, he sucked the barrel of the gun, licking off your juices.

your breath hitched, as you gulped. what the actual fuck was wrong with him?

you watched as he took the gun out of his mouth with a pop, setting it aside. he got up, his dick on full display, already rock hard, with precum dribbling out of it. he untied your hands, but gave you no chance to move them, before producing a pair of handcuffs from his discarded pants. he used them to bind your hands together, before untying your legs.

once you were free to move from the chair, he dragged you off it, before shoving you down on the ground, face first. you landed with an uncomfortable thud, almost falling on your face because of your dress. you managed to balance yourself on your hands, trying your best to steady yourself.

before you could do much, heeseung was grabbing you again, manhandling you, so that you now faced in chaeyoung's direction. he went over to her—ignoring her sobs—turning her chair to make her face you directly. you gulped, tears streaming down you face again as you both locked eyes. silent apologies were exchanged between you both, the fear of heeseung’s newfound crazy side terrifying you both to death.

your heart raced against your chest, as you watched heeseung pick up the gun again. he got behind you, as you heard his knees hit the ground—presumably from kneeling down. all the colour vanished from your face, your blood running cold. was he seriously going to–

you didn't have to wonder for too long, your fears getting confirmed, as he lifted up your dress unceremoniously, bunching it up on your lower back. you squeezed your eyes shut, a whimper of utter humiliation leaving you, as he squeezed your ass cheeks. he slapped them, watching them jiggle, before continuing to rub and squeeze them. it was then that you made a promise to yourself: if you made it out of there—alive—you were going to make sure he rotted in jail for the rest of his life.

you felt his hand graze against your wet and still sensitive cunt, a shiver running down your spine. he noticed it immediately, giving your pussy a slap. your eyes widened in shock, a loud gasp leaving you. his grip on your ass cheeks tightened. “you know…” he leaned down, his torso pressing against your back, his lips close to your ear. “you looked so, so cute squirting over that gun—even after pretending that you hated every second of it. think you can do it again? on my cock this time?”

your eyes widened, as you stared down at the ground in a mixture of shock and disgust. “heeseung,” you spoke, your voice shaky. “i-i think this has gone too far already–”

he pinched your clit harshly, making you cry out in pain. “shut the fuck up. i don't remember asking you whether it has gone ‘too far’ or not. was the question really that hard for your pea sized brain to comprehend?”

he grabbed the knife from the pocket of his discarded jeans, barely giving you any time to react, as he cut open your dress—leaving you bare to his eyes. he groped your tits with one hand, keeping the knife away again. he twisted your nipple, smirking when you let out a whimper of pain. “perhaps you can't answer such simple questions. must be too hard for you to understand, aren't they?”

his mocking tone made your face and neck burn with humiliation—along with the fact that chaeyoung was witnessing all of it. her boyfriend of one year forcing himself upon her best friend. you didn't know who to feel more sorry for—yourself, or for her.

with another pinch on your nipple, this time harder than before, heeseung drew your attention back to him. “maybe i should stop asking questions and just get on with it. you would like that, wouldn't you? oh, my bad, forgot sluts can't comprehend basic questions.”

without another word, he plunged two fingers right into your—to your utter horror—dripping hole, dragging them across your inner walls. you suppressed a whimper, as he began scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching out your already stretched and very sensitive cunt.

you screwed your eyes shut, your forehead touching the ground—floor, your teeth painfully biting down on your bottom lip. you hated how he dragged you both here, hated what he was doing to you, hated that he made chaeyoung watch—you despise his very existence. unfortunately, seething in your mind did nothing to improve the situation. in fact, it only continued to lower your morale.

heeeseung rubbed slow circles around your hardened bundle of nerves, trying to evoke any kind of sound from you—nothing. you were being stubborn, refusing to give in. well—fine by him. he could always catch you by surprise. which, given the current situation, was something he had been doing this whole day.

he pulled you closer by your hips, your knees scraping the ground slightly in process, a pained noise of protest eliciting from you. but that wasn’t even the actual surprise. your breath hitched, your heartbeat running wild, as you felt his tip sliding through your wetness, collecting your slick. this was really happening.

knowing it was bound to happen—dreading it—didn’t really make it easier. if you had known that chaeyoung going to the bar a year ago would have landed you in this position, you would have never let her go. this—this was worse than anything else that could have possibly happened.

you felt him start to slowly push in—a slightly difficult feat, since you were doing your best to resist—but your cunt was doing the opposite. his grip on your hips tightened. “c’mon pretty,” he pushed in another inch. “just let me in, yeah? don’t—fuck—don’t be such an uncooperative little bitch.”

he pushed all the way in with a grunt, your pained whimper accompanying it. “fuuuuckkk,” he groaned in satisfaction, enjoying the way your core pulsed around him. “see? that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

heeseung didn’t really wait for an answer—he knew he wasn’t going to get one from you anyways. he slid almost completely out, before slamming back in, letting out a loud groan of satisfaction at the wet squelching noise. noticing that you were struggling to hold yourself up, he let out a snicker, before yanking your body upwards slightly. he balanced himself on his knees, setting a slow, yet satisfactory enough pace for himself. he squeezed your tit with one hand, before yanking on your chin, making you face chaeyoung again. he leaned down to whisper in your ear. “look at her,” the small sob you let out had him thrust into you at a particularly harsh pace. “doesn’t she look lonely there? such a shame, this was all your fault after all. if only you noticed me back in school.”

he slammed himself into you, tip kissing your cervix, his pelvis hitting your ass. he reveled in the way it bounced with every thrust, his hands never stopping their wandering, groping and squeezing every bit of flesh he could reach. the look in chaeyoung’s eyes made you wonder if cooperating with him in the first place was the right decision. wasn’t dying better than this torture that he was putting you both through currently?

fisting your hair, he yanked your head back, slamming his mouth onto yours. he practically devoured your lips, barely giving you a chance to breathe. it was as if he was quite literally trying to steal your breath. biting down on your lip, he fastened his pace, each thrust forcefully eliciting loud gasps and whimpers from you, sounds that he gladly swallowed. “keep making those pretty sounds for me baby, it’s only making me want to continue to ruin you.”

a fresh batch of tears rolled down your eyes, as his hand snaked down to rub your clit. more moans of his name spilled out of your mouth—telling him to stop—but they only served to encourage him further.

detaching his mouth from yours, he put his hand on your back, pushing it into an arch, as he continued to pound into you. you could see stars at the back of your eyes, unwanted pleasure starting to cloud your senses. holy fuck—this wasn't supposed to feel good. but it did. it felt so fucking good.

you could feel every single vein of his dragging across your inner walls, cock curving into you and hitting all the right spots. it felt good—he felt good. dizzyingly good.

you didn't even realise when you let out a broken moan of his name, pure unadulterated pleasure laced in your voice. “hee—ahh—seung–”

the effect, however, was immediate. his hips slowed down, before he completely stilled inside you. when he spoke, his voice was soft, sounding like a dangerous whisper. “what was that?”

you didn't really hear his question, too focused on the way the pleasure was suddenly gone. you wiggled your hips, trying to get it back. it was as if you were drunk; completely delirious of your surroundings. he gripped your hips to still you, repeating his question. “i said, what was that?”

you barely registered his words, opting to just say his name. “h-heeseung?”

“fuck.”

with a loud groan, he pulled almost completely out, before slamming back in, his pace brutally fast now. the grip he had on your hips was sure to bruise later on. the fast pace had his balls slapping against your clit continuously, the motion only serving to pull more sounds of unadulterated pleasure from you. it was sickening, the way your body was starting to like this, the rational part of your brain completely ignoring chaeyoung’s existence.

it wasn't that any of it mattered to him. all that did matter to heeseung was you, and right now you were doing more than okay. chaeyoung was a… casualty in his quest to obtain you. a quest that obviously was—to his utter delight—very much successful.

you didn’t know how long he had been going at it, you just knew it had been long enough. the tingling in your clit was driving you insane; your release so close—yet so far.

heeseung was seemingly holding out. it was as if he was afraid of this to end, in a way. afraid that maybe all of it is just a dream—you’re not really here. none of this is actually real.

fortunately for him, everything was very much real. it was all happening. you were really in his grasp, he was really fucking you, while chaeyoung was being forced to watch. along with the fact that you were liking it. enjoying it. that was real too.

perhaps he had enough of playing around. or maybe he just remembered his previous wish—was it even a wish?—of wanting to see you squirt on his cock. but either way, he suddenly did a three sixty. or one eighty. whichever would be more accurate in describing his current mood, as he harshly pinched your clit.

you let out a sharp gasp, an incredulous “heeseung—!” leaving you. but he ignored it, opting to flick your hardened nub, rubbing torturous circles around it. he has to see you squirt on his cock, he knows you can do it—he can make you do it.

your gasps soon turn into moans, which encourage him to continue. his actions were driving you to your breaking point, that much was clear from your reactions. the way you were clenching around his cock, making it harder for him to continue to thrust into you? so fucking delicious.

perhaps he should have done this sooner. you know, this whole kidnapping thing. you could have been his a lot earlier then. but then again, patience is the key. this was the best chance he has ever gotten, it was only logical for him to pull such a stunt today. besides, good things take time to acquire. and you, are the best fucking thing to ever exist.

the band in your stomach continued to grow tighter and tighter and tighter, to a point that it physically hurt. so you did the logical thing, and told him—all the while tears slipped past uncontrollably from the pain. “h-heeseung—please, it hurts, i can’t–”

but he shut you up immediately, rubbing your clit at a harsher pace. “yes, yes you can, you’re so fucking close, c’mon–”

the pressure in your stomach was insane, so was the pressure on your clit. the pace of heeseung’s thrusts was bordering maniac, that’s how fast he was going. it was a mix of pain and pleasure, your brain fogging up, vision going foggy.

heeseung’s hand was starting to tire, but he doubled his pace, desperate to see you squirt again. “please please please–” he chanted, like a mantra. you were so fucking close, damn it–

then it happened. your vision went white, shapes visible in the back of your eyes. white noise ringing in your ears. your back arched almost uncomfortably, as you let out a loud cry. your orgasm washed over you like a tsunami, your squirt spraying all over his lower abdomen, wetting his shirt. it kept spraying, coating his cock, as he plunged in and out of you at an insane pace, making you ride out your orgasm.

as your vision slowly swam back, you felt him pull your hips back one last time, burying himself to the hilt, before ropes of warm cum spurted out of his tip. it coated your inner walls in white, as he let out a satisfied groan. he slowly pulled out his softening length, reveling in the way his cum dripped out of you.

you collapsed to the floor, close to passing out. you were sore, so fucking sore. heeseung felt the tiniest bit of pity for you, but he could take care of you later. right now, he has something else to take care of.

he slowly pulled you up, making you sit in his lap, facing the front. he forced you to open your eyes, and face chaeyoung. your eyes widened slightly, regret and guilt starting to hit you. you had almost forgotten that she was still there. you could barely meet her eyes from shame, not wanting to look at her expression of hurt, or her dried tears.

but heeseung wasn’t having any of it. he made you face her, properly. your breath hitched, feeling the gun touching your chin. “look at her properly darling,” his voice was husky, and creepy. something about his tone didn’t make you feel very good about whatever was about to come out of his mouth next. turns out, you were right to be scared.

“because this will be the last time you ever do.”

before you even had time to process his words, a loud ‘bang!’ rang out through the basement, making you flinch. as you opened your eyes, disbelief and horror was etched upon your features.

surely—surely that wasn’t chaeyoung slumped over in that chair? blood dripping from her head. surely? she was—she was just alive! it can’t be—it simply couldn’t be–

but you didn’t even have time to process that, as you felt a sharp pain on your neck, before everything started to go black. you hadn’t noticed when heeseung had produced a syringe from his jeans’ pocket, just like you didn’t notice him picking up that gun. the same gun that ended chaeyoung’s life.

when you woke up, you were dressed in clothes that you didn’t recognise. but they were larger than you, so you guessed they belonged to heeseung. your left hand was tied to the bedpost with handcuffs, the rest of your body free to move—even if it wasn’t exactly freedom. the room you were in was… dingy, and quite small, with just one window and a singular cabinet on the other side of the room. there was a nightstand with an untouched glass of water on it—but you wouldn’t dare drink from it.

as you slowly sat up, you folded your legs up to your chest, resting your head on your knees. you stared at the wall—and everything started rushing into your mind at once in a huddled mess. chaeyoung and heeseung’s anniversary lunch, chaeyoung’s absence from her own anniversary lunch, the kidnapping, chaeyoung’s death–

oh.

chaeyoung was dead.

when the tears came, it was as if a dam broke. the tears flowed and flowed, with no signs of stopping. you didn’t want to cry. what was the use of crying? would these tears bring her back? it wouldn’t. nothing would. she was gone. your best friend of almost two decades—gone. poof. just like that.

all because of some maniac, who didn’t care for anyone. a jerk, a disgusting psychopath, who doesn’t realise that human’s lives aren’t dispensable to his will.

in the middle of your wallowing, you heard the door open. you picked up your head, your vision blurry from crying. you squint your eyes, seeing heeseung enter the room with a tray, filled with a bowl of cut fruit. he placed the fruit near the end of the bed, sitting down, maintaining some distance between you both. he knew you didn’t want him near you right now, given his previous actions, but you would warm up to him soon enough. you had to. this was your new life.

he tilted his head, noticing the glass of water still untouched on the nightstand. he raised a brow at you. “you’re not thirsty?”

you glared at him, shaking your head, despite being absolutely parched. he sighed at your defiance, saying nothing. he got up, went around the bed, towards the nightstand. picking up the glass, he sat close to you, grabbing your jaw in his other hand. “drink up, c’mon. don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

as he brought the glass near your mouth, you pressed your lips into a thin line, before smacking the glass out of his hands with your free one. he watched as the glass shattered into a million pieces on the floor, an unreadable expression on his face.

his silence suffocated you. you were already regretting your decision. why did you always have to act in such a brash manner?

he turned his face towards you again. as he brought his hand up, you flinched, screwing your eyes shut. you felt his hand caress your cheek, leading you to open your eyes. his face was expressionless, even when he spoke. “don’t be mad at me because of chaeyoung. it was bound to happen anyways. she was a hindrance in our story, don’t you see? she would have taken you away from me if i didn’t kill her. don’t hate me because of her.”

your hand twitches, and so does your eye. you wanted to strangle him. calling chaeyoung a hindrance?! oh, he was so dead. as soon as you escape this hell hole, you were going to make sure you personally hunted his sorry ass down and gave him a death far more slow and torturous than the one he gave to chaeyoung. he was going to pay. you were going to make sure of that.

you stayed silent, simply glaring at him. you were currently at a disadvantage, so you couldn’t really do anything, except for waiting. so that’s what you were gonna do. wait.

sensing that you weren’t going to say anything, he kisses your forehead—to which you have to stop yourself from slapping him—before getting off the bed and making his way to the door. right before going out, he turned around. “don’t forget to eat the fruit, or you will grow weaker than you already are.”

he shut the door, finally leaving. you breathed a sigh of relief. finally. you were alone again. you could continue to wallow in self pity now. you didn’t plan on eating anything, since you didn’t trust him.

you laid down, looking at the ceiling. how long were you going to be trapped here? would you ever be able to get out? right now, there didn’t seem to be any hope of escaping, but perhaps in the near future…

a wave of sleepiness washed over you. you were tired, so, so tired. maybe sleeping would be good for now. yes, you should get some rest.

when you woke up, it was dark. confused, you blearily sat up, blinking at your surroundings. why were you suddenly up?

then you heard it. the gun shots. they rang loud and clear, yellings of ‘get down!’ and ‘surrender now!’ rang through the place. a flash of hope rose in you. was it the police…?

suddenly, the door to your room banged open. two female police officers entered the room, pointing the gun around the room. upon realising that there was no one else other than you, one of them quickly broke the handcuffs as best as she could, as the other frantically checked upon you. “ma’am are you okay? did he hurt you?” she kept throwing questions at you, as you assured her that you were fine—as fine as a person could be, after the kind of hell heeseung put you through.

they wrapped a coat around you, before bringing you downstairs. it was a dingy two storey house in some shady part of the town, apparently, according to what they told you. they told you that they got a tip about a kidnapping from an anonymous source, which, from your deduction, was probably that waitress from the restaurant. although you could be wrong, of course.

downstairs, you saw heeseung with a busted lip, hands restrained with handcuffs behind his back, two police officers assisting him to the car. when his gaze landed on you, he spoke with a bone chilling smirk. “don’t worry darling. they won’t be able to keep us away from each other for too long. i’ll come back for you, i promise.”

the policemen scoffed at him, rudely pushing him forward. although his words scared you, you trusted the police to do their job. as you were guided out of the dingy house, you suddenly remember chaeyoung. you informed the police of her, causing them to share a look. they led you to the car, four of them staying back, to look for her—her body.

two months had passed since that incident. a trial was held for heeseung, which almost immediately declared him to be ‘guilty’, due to the presence of overwhelming evidence. he was charged with a lot of things, things which you both knew, and didn’t know of. either way, he got what he deserved. a lifetime in jail.

it was finally time for chaeyoung’s funeral. her family and you wanted to wait until heeseung got what he deserved, and now that he was finally behind bars, it was time to say goodbye to chaeyoung. for the last time.

as the coffin was lowered down, you said your final goodbyes. you never imagined this day would come, at least not this soon. but it was here. life was unexpected and cruel, that’s what you had learnt in the past two months. but it has to go on. you couldn’t let events—no matter how unfortunate they are—hold you back. so you wiped your tears, leaving the grounds quietly.

as you sat inside your car, your phone rang with a ‘ding!’. it was a notification. a message, from an unknown number. you frowned, clicking on it. the contents had the blood from your face draining. your hands shook, as the phone fell out of your grasp.

“black suits you. but red looks the best on you, don’t you think so?”

#heeseung smut #enhypen smut #enha smut #lee heeseung smut

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rex-rambles · 4 months ago

Text

➤ YOU ARE HERE | OSCAR PIASTRI

pairing: oscar piastri x soulmate!reader

summary: you and oscar discover that you're soulmates when randomly, once a year, you trade places for five minutes. it goes about as well as you expect for an f1 driver.

wc: 6.1 k

warnings: angst with a happy ending! mentions of minor injuries and hospitalization

➤ MASTERLIST - MAX'S SOULMATE STORY

2019

Waiting to figure out how you're going to meet your soulmate can be exhausting.

For some people, it's simple: a red string around their pinky, a timer on their wrist, not seeing colour until you finally lock eyes, but for you? Since you've turned eighteen, there have been no signs at all. No magically appearing footprints, no mystery injuries to match your soulmate.

Nothing.

You had tried to figure out what strange, hidden thing it could possibly be, but nothing made sense. Perhaps your soulmate would be someone else with no symptoms; perhaps you didn't have one at all.

That's why, when you wake up in a strangers bed, your first thought isn't about soulmates. It's the middle of the night, or at least it should be, yet the sun faintly shines through the curtains, an unfamiliar alarm clock blaring on a nightstand, which, rolling over to look at, is not your night stand, and is not your alarm clock, and this most certainly isn't your childhood bedroom.

It takes a moment to realize that you haven't been kidnapped, whipping off the covers and standing in the middle of the rather messy room, and rather, you've been transported...somewhere. The notepad on the bedside table explains that it's a Hilton hotel, and slowly, picking up the few pieces of dirty laundry scattered about, you realize you must have traded places with your soulmate.

Swapping locations wasn’t exactly uncommon, but it was a strange thing to wake up to in the night. You quickly move through the drawers of the tables and desks, trying to find something to write down your personal information with before you return to normal. You're not sure if it was a permanent thing, or a matter of minutes, but you're also a bit too tired to care right now. Instead, you write down your name, begin to write the first digits of your phone number, and in a blink, you're standing before your own bathroom mirror.

Well, at least your soulmate would know your name. Considering the whole swapping thing, your soulmate must have woken up in your room too, luckily much tidier than his hotel room was, but it's still an embarrassing thought, the stuffed animals nearby, the old posters on your walls. Finally recognizing why you're standing in front of your mirror, you realize whoever your soulmate is has tried their best to get a message across, lipstick smeared on your mirror in what you realize are words:

Oscar Pi

Seems he got cut off by the timing the swap, the lipstick now laying open in your sink, but with a growing smile, you find that you don't really care, because your soulmate does exist.

Oscar.

It's a good name, you think.

2020

The second time it happens, Oscar is on vacation, and he's not really prepared for it. He'd biked up a cliffside trail, overlooking the small, coastal Australian town where he and his family were staying. He'd stopped to take a break when suddenly, he was standing in the middle of a grocery store in nothing but his bike gear.

At least, he thinks, you hadn't been standing in the freezer section.

Ever since your first swap, Oscar had tried everything in his power to recreate it, the way he had fallen asleep, everything he had done that same day, but he was starting to think your swapping was a once-a-year type of ordeal, or maybe you were in charge of it. If he could ask, maybe he could know, but it had been difficult trying to figure out how to contact you, considering all he got was a name, and he was travelling so often. At least you'd have a nice view, when you teleport to where he was. If his parents are quick enough up the trail, you might even meet them.

Oscar stares down at the basket in hand, a rather strange mix of mostly junk food, and without thinking, he turns to the nearby fruit stand and places a few oranges and apples in for good measure. Then, as he moves towards a banana, he realizes he should be trying to get his number to you in some way. There's even less nearby for him to possibly write with than your room, and considering the few people staring at him, he can't exactly walk up to someone to relay the message.

Everyone had told him he had time to meet you, to get your number, but knowing you existed after questioning it for so long meant that Oscar wanted forever to start now. Finally, an old woman takes pity and offers him a smile, and with a deep breath, he approaches her. "Excuse me?"

"Riding? In this weather?" The woman says, eyeing him up and down. "You're a brave one, dear."

"I've just swapped places with my soulmate," He manages to get out, "Could you take a message?"

"Oh, how sweet! You know, it took me four years to find my soulmate after I turned eighteen. We shared reflections in mirrors, made it pretty tricky to get ready for the day!" Oscar nods along as happily as he can, trying not to rush the poor woman, but also desperately needing to get his message out. "Sorry, what did you want to say?"

"Tell them I'm from Australia, and my phone number is-" He blinks, and finds himself back on the trail, and he curses so loudly that when his sister rides up to him, she looks rather shocked.

Hattie pauses, lowering her bike as Oscar forces himself to sit on the ground, bringing his knees to his chest. "What, you crash your bike?"

"I traded places with my soulmate, and couldn't tell them my phone number, again." Then, he finds his phone in the grass beside him, and for a joyful moment, he thinks you might have left a message, and finds something only marginally better: a photo. You're pretty in a way that shocks him to his core, that you're his, that you're supposed to be together. You're turned to show the distance in the background, a thumbs up as if to show you approve of his vacation location. Then, in the sand beside the path, he finds your number scrawled, only for it to be blown away in the wind.

When you return to the grocery store, you find yourself in front of an old woman, and far more fruit in your basket than a human should need.

2023

For the next two years, it goes on about the same. You end up outside some racing track in Barcelona, and the workers don't understand what you're drunkenly asking, and Oscar ends up at a bar where everyone's too gone to relay the message. You end up walking dogs in Australia in a snowsuit while Oscar ends up in the middle of a ski hill, wiping out before he can even think of giving out his number.

You've sort of given up hope, at least for now, that you and Oscar could finally coordinate it. You carry sharpies wherever you go, just in case you end up somewhere you can actually write it down. All that preparation doesn't help, however, when it happens again in the middle of the night.

You end up in some orange room with nothing but a massage table, and when you step out into the hall, you find yourself among people dressed in orange who look just as surprised to see you as you are surprised to see them.

"What are you doing back here?" It doesn't help, you realize, that you're just in an oversized t-shirt. "Get out!"

"I'm Oscar's soulmate!" You quickly try to explain, though the few people around don't seem to believe it.

"Sure, you're Oscar Piastri's soulmate, and you're here like that?"

Piastri. You should probably be more worried about what's about to happen, but you can't really focus on that.

You have a last name. "We trade places. That's our thing. You have to give him my number-"

"Can we get security to escort them out? I don't buy it." Someone says, snapping their fingers at a guard. "I've never heard Oscar mention trading places with a soulmate before." A security guard, larger than any human you've ever seen before, tries to corral you backwards as you helplessly explain, over and over, but it's not use.

You're shoved out an emergency door, and with a blink, you're standing in your bedroom.

Oscar Piastri.

Never mentioned trading places with a soulmate. You slowly sink onto the edge of your bed, trying to figure out why he'd never say anything, and all the answers don't seem right. Maybe he was just a private person, but still, trading places with your soulmate, potentially at any time, is the kind of thing you mention to people.

Oscar Piastri. You grab your phone, before realizing that Oscar must have been in your room, must have left something behind, but despite the way you tear your room apart, you find no note, see no number, not even a selfie on your phone.

Never mentioned you, never tried to give you his number.

Maybe all this time, he was avoiding you on purpose, and sinking back into your bed, you finally google his name.

Oscar Piastri, F1 driver.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need a soulmate.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need you.

2025

Oscar's pretty sure, after his security team threw you out in 2023, that you had to hate him. He hadn't been able to leave behind a number yet, hadn't been able to find you on any social media, but you must've been able to search for him by now. That night, when he blinked back to stare at a very confused security guard through tears, he realized he'd sobbed his way through your last swap, unable to do anything but stand there.

It was pretty pathetic, all things considered. 2024 wasn't any better, another hotel room swap as Oscar ended up in the bathroom of some university, surrounded by women who screamed and chased him out and ruined his chance of leaving his number, again. You hadn't left a number or anything on your end, but you had finished folding his laundry, which is the only sign that you might still want to find him.

This year, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be any better. In fact, ever since extending his contract with McLaren, he's had this deep-seated fear that refused to go away. If it was possible to trade places in beds, on bikes, and when skiing, then it would be possible in cars. Not just any cars, either.

In his racing car.

And you might die in a fiery wreck before Oscar even gets the chance to meet you, to give you his number, anything. You'll die hating him, and he'll have to go throughout life soulmate-less.

"You alright, mate?" Lando says quietly beside him from the driver's parade. "You're just...tense."

"I have a bad feeling today," He says, and maybe because he said it, maybe because he always knew, maybe because the universe hates him, it happens. He's just pushing out into a straight when he blinks and finds himself in all his gear at the front of a lecture hall, and the world goes silent for a moment.

You're in his car. For what Oscar can gather about you, you're most certainly not trained, you're not wearing any protective gear, and you are in one of the fastest cars on the planet, hurling toward your death at any second. "Well, I can't say I've seen this before." Someone he assumes to be your professor says, "An adventurous soulmate swap."

Four minutes. He rips off his helmet and the sleeve under it, and trying to calm his breathing, all he can think to say is, "You need to call an ambulance."

"What?" The professor looks at him in shock, and Oscar gestures to himself.

"I'm an F1 driver, a racecar driver." What could he possibly say? That a potentially mangled corpse is about to teleport into this room? "My soulmate...oh god, they've been swapped with me, in my car, without protection. If they can't control the car, they're going to crash and end up back here." Finally, what he's waited for his whole life is before him: a pen and paper. He scribbles his information down quickly, phone number, name, address, social media handles, anything and everything. "I need you to be prepared for it to be bad."

“I need everyone out of the room, now.” Immediately, the students are up and out of their seats, and Oscar pulls his helmet back on and waits.

You’re a student. He has no way of knowing if you can even drive, and he’s just chucked you into an F1 race, broadcast for everyone to see, and he has no idea what to do with himself. How does he possibly apologize for this? For maybe ruining your life? Who wants a soulmate who kills them before their first date? Tears spring to his eyes before he can stop it, and vaguely, he recognizes a phone being shown before his face.

“They seem to be okay?” A student says, extending a phone to him as he watches his own car choppily slow down, but it's not enough. You could hit a barrier, you could hit another car, and you'd be dead.

Instantly.

"What...what university is this?" He says, muffled by the helmet.

"University of Oxford, England. This is a conference, to showcase student work." Oxford.

You must be smart, then.

And he's the reason your brain is going to break.

You knew Oscar was an F1 driver, but it had never occurred to you that you might swap during a race. For a moment, when you open your eyes, you don't really believe it. The steering wheel in hand, feet on the gas, it's like a dream, and then every sense hits you at once that this is not what you're supposed to be doing.

You try to slow down, but the car isn't like a normal car, the force of it pressing you back into the seat as you force your eyes shut, the sound of it deafening, the weight, the car, the movement, it all spirals into a sensation that you can't control. The gas pedal itself is the hardest thing it feels to push, but you grunt your way through it as the car slows, the feeling of the ground underneath it changing, but you still can't bear to open your eyes, can't stand the thought that you're about to die without even meeting the stupid owner of this car, who probably doesn't even want to meet you.

You're not sure how long it takes, but finally, the car stops. The world stops. Your chest heaves, your head rolls, but the car is not moving, and you are alive, albeit unable to move, or hear, or function at all, really. Your eyes blink up to stare at a helmet peering over you, your own reflection staring back from its visor. If the driver is saying something, you can't hear. They take off their helmet, revealing a head of curly hair and a very, very concerned expression.

It's Oscar's teammate.

Lando, you think. He's quick to try and get you up out of the car, arms coming to undo the clasps keeping you in, and your arms very loosely manage to work their way around his neck.

As he tries to get you up, however, the world spins and you think you might be sick. He's saying something, you can tell he must be saying something, but it doesn't register. All you see is the dread on his face as you slip back down, hitting the lecture hall floor before you pass out.

Oscar comes to hugging Lando.

"No no no-" Lando's voice is shrill, obviously scared, and Oscar doesn't want to think of how hurt you must've been for Lando to stop racing and try to pull you out of the car. "Oscar? Your soulmate! Why the fuck wouldn't you tell us you swap places-"

"Are they alive?" Oscar shouts, ripping off his helmet as he manages to get out of the car, and Lando nods. "They didn't...they didn't crash?"

"Mate, they fucking steered the thing eyes closed." Lando and him stand on the grass for a minute, just taking in the moment before Oscar realizes you're back in Oxford, probably collapsed, injured, heaven forbid dying, and it doesn't take him long to get moving.

No one really knows what to do, and Oscar doesn't blame them. He never told anyone, until that fateful day, that he and his soulmate swapped places. It would be a hazard, something that would hold him back from F1. He refused to allow anything to stop him from what he'd dreamt of his whole life, but today, all that advice makes perfect sense. Because of him, because he wanted to go farther, to do more, he put his one true love in harm's way, and if you die, he's not sure how he's going to live with himself.

Passing flashing cameras, he finds that he doesn't care what the headlines say, doesn't care that he just threw the race for McLaren, he needs to be on the first plane to England as soon as possible, because he truly has no way of knowing if you're alive.

He's not waiting another year to find out.

For the past two hours, you'd folded the paper Oscar left you perhaps a hundred times, carefully into a perfect square before unwrapping it again. It was on the back of your script for your presentation, the contents of it now long forgotten for the frantic writing.

It begins with I'm so sorry.

It lists his full name, his phone number, his mother's phone number, a man named 'Mark Webber's phone number, his instagram, his twitter, both of which you'd already found. His address in Melbourne, his address in Monaco. Everything to identify himself with, finally in the palm of your hands, but you had yet to contact him. He was probably still racing, you found yourself arguing. Probably busy. It's all excuses that hold you back, but you wouldn't know what to say if you tried in the first place.

Hi, it's your soulmate you almost killed?

"How's the dizziness, darling?" A nurse asks over you, and you're broken from your intense folding of the paper to look up at her, and the room only spins a tiny bit.

"Better than before, still a little...woozy." She hums, writes something down.

"I think you might take the cake for patients today. Teleported into an F1 car by your soulmate," She muses, "What a world we live in. And your leg?"

"Sore, but survivable." Apparently, F1 cars' braking systems take a ridiculous amount of force to push, and while the adrenaline had let you brake, the aftereffect was that your whole left leg hurt, from hip to the tips of your toes. "Are you sure I'm fine to just leave? I'm not going to collapse on the street?"

The nurse flips through your papers. "You have no concussions, no ear damage from the car, no sprains or tears, I think it was just a mix of exhaustion, adrenaline crashing, and shock that made you pass out. Does anything still feel wrong? Anything out of the ordinary?"

The paper in your hands folds itself into a neat little square as you think. The world just sort of feels slow, or maybe suddenly too fast for things to make sense, that you were in that car, that Oscar had told them to call an ambulance for you, that you survived it all. That you were barely even hurt.

"There's a madman running through the parking lot." The room of patients turns to look at the elderly man in the bed closest to the window. His pain medication had made him quite the entertainment for the two hours you've been in and out of scans and tests, but this time, he seemed adamant. "Someone stop him. Looks like he's set himself on fire."

"What?" The nurse is gone from your side in an instant, before quickly sighing and placing a hand over her heart. "He's just wearing orange, Paul. He's not on fire."

Just wearing orange.

For the first time unaided in two hours, you rise from your bed and join them at the window, dragging your left leg as you walk, and watch Oscar slide between cars like some sort of action star, standing out amongst the grey weather in a neon orange hoodie before he manages to sprint inside, and the paper in hand suddenly feels so overwhelming that you're not really sure what to do.

He's here.

For you.

You don't know where he was racing, but considering he was here in two hours, it couldn't have been that far, or maybe he had a private jet, or maybe the the world was both too slow and too fast for you to keep up. Without thinking, you move out the hall and into the central area with the nurses desk as the elevator dings open, and for the first time, you see Oscar.

He's surprisingly dishevelled, considering you're the one who just got transported into one of the world's fastest cars. His hoodie seems a bit too big on him, and taking him in as he quickly approaches the nurses' desk, so are his pants. If you didn't know better, you wouldn't think they were his, and you're not really sure what to do with that information.

He just grabbed the closest thing to get changed to get to you? "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying." One of the nurses says to him, "You need to slow down."

"Soulmate," He says between gasping breaths, "Not a car accident, but teleported into my car, hurt-"

"Oscar." You say before you can really stop yourself, approaching his side, and he just sort of waves a hand in your direction.

"I don't know if they're alive, or dead, or-"

"Oscar?" You realize he doesn't know the sound of your voice, like you do his. As gently as you can, you reach out and place a hand on the back of his neck, the closest exposed skin to you. The final step of a soulmate connection was touch, and you had heard so much about it: how sparks fly, how you've never felt more in love, how it changes the world, but it was just Oscar.

It was just you. Gently placing a hand on the back of his neck, to comfort him despite all that you had been through today, was just where you were meant to be. It was right, and it was normal, and you gently spread your fingers into the back of his hair as he slowly turned to you, your hand drifting now to hold his cheek. "I'm right here."

"You're here." Oscar breathes out slowly, quickly scanning you for any sign of injury, and without even knowing, his eyes settle on your sore leg, staring at it intently. "You are actually here."

"You're a hard person to track down, you know." Then, without much ceremony, Oscar slumps into you. It's as if all the weight he'd been carrying his entire life had been let go from his shoulders, practically folding over you. He buries his face into the side of your neck as his arms latch around you, pulling you tight to his chest. It's a desperate sort of thing that has you realizing how terrifying it must have been from his end of the swap, of hearing that you were in his car, knowing you would be hurt. You hold him back just as tight, hands gently smoothing against his broad shoulders as if to show that you're here, and you're safe.

"You have no idea." He grumbles softly, and you can feel the heat rise to your cheeks at the feeling of his lips so close to your skin, now pressed into a smile. "Worst soulmate trait ever." He pulls away slowly, and this close, you take in all the details you never could before. He's almost growing stubble, in need of a shave, a soft spattering of freckles across his face and neck. You find yourself stuck on the fact that he's yours, that he's staring at you, that he's real. "I'm so sorry," He tries to say, and you rush to cut him off.

"You didn't have any control over this." That's the sort of thing, with soulmates. It's meant to be, but you have no control over who it is, how far they are, what you have to do to find each other. The most important thing is that you did find each other, and if you get a ridiculous story to tell out of it, then you don't mind the hardships it took to get him here. Despite it all, however, there is one question that remains in your mind. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Doubt comes creeping back in, so ingrained in your mind that even when holding your soulmate, you couldn't quite let go of it. "Seems important for an F1 Driver to mention someone else might swap into his car."

Oscar's eyes don't quite meet yours, returning to stare at your leg. Maybe it's a special soulmate ability to tell when the other is hurt. Maybe he just needs someone else to look at besides your eyes. "I didn't want them to think it was a liability. Not that you are a liability, it's just...you can see why they might not let me race if they knew this would happen." Then, without so much as taking a breath, he begins again. "I'm so sorry-"

"Oscar." His name feels right, on your tongue, and based on the way his eyes light up, it sounds right to him, too. "It's okay." You can understand why he'd do it. Not the smartest thing in the world, but then again, you didn't need some genius for a soulmate, you just needed Oscar. A small, perfect, ridiculous smile finally grows on his face, and you find yourself grinning up at him. You suppose it's your turn to apologize now for whatever damage you did to his car. "I'm sorry for making you lose the race."

"Lose?" Oscar echoes with a soft laugh, the kind of sound that makes you hate all the near misses before ten times over. "You didn't crash, you even got onto the grass safely. Ever considered a future in F1?"

"Well, I’ve considered a future with an f1 driver, does that count?"

Curled up in your hotel bed, Oscar begins trying to sort through the information he'd learned today. You were pursuing your masters, in a subject he can't really put his finger on currently, but he has the rest of his life to figure it out. Whatever it was, it was important enough that you were at Oxford presenting about it when you swapped into his car.

When you swapped back, you passed out, and woke up being brought into the ambulance. It was confusing, they ran a million tests, but you're okay, if just exhausted.

You were okay.

You were alive.

And you were currently taking a shower while Oscar sat on your hotel room bed and tried not to die himself. You had watched his races, kept tabs on him. Now that you weren't just passing by in the night, he had your number, every social media account. He had even introduced you to his mom, who tore a strip off of him over Facetime for not telling McLaren sooner about the soulmate-swapping thing, but that was all over now.

You were alive.

You were here. The shower turns off and Oscar stares intently down at Lando's pants, the closest thing he could find before rushing out, where the McLaren team let him use their private jet to get over to the closest airport in record time. He makes a mental note to thank Lando for his clothes, but that all goes down the drain when the door opens and you're standing in just an oversized t-shirt, haloed by the light of the bathroom, and Oscar rediscovers how attractive you are all over again.

You were staying the night together, seeing as Oscar had time, and the jet had already left back to the race. He wouldn't have tried to leave anyway. You needed someone to be here after everything that happened, and Oscar needed to meet you.

You limp slightly as you approach the bed, the only sign of the day you'd had, and the way the left side of your shirt rides up unevenly with your step makes Oscar blush in a way he didn't know was possible. This must have been what you looked like when you swapped into his hotel room for the first time, his. brain supplements as he forces himself to look back down at his lap. He remembers waking up to your childhood bedroom, the soft twinkling lights, the stuffed animals. It was so sweet, knowing you existed, and then he frantically tried to find a way to contact you, and ended up smearing make-up over your mirror.

Then, it was the grocery store, a bar, a ski hill. Always missing each other to lead to this moment now, and seeing how you're looking at him when you kneel on the bed, Oscar can't even be mad it took so long.

Because you're here.

You're alive. "How do you think they pick?"

"What?"

"How do you think the universe picks soulmates?" You ask, curling up next to him. Despite the fact he basically refused to let go of you when you first met, he's now hesitant to touch. After all, you were still just getting to meet each other. You hadn't even had a date yet. "Like what makes you my soulmate? How does the universe even pull off the swap?"

"No one knows." One of life's great mysteries, unfortunately. Oscar's pretty sure there's a science that goes into it, but right now, it doesn't feel like science: it feels like fate. "I suppose the universe just has a way of tying people together who are meant to be."

You yawn in response, leaning back against the headboard and kicking your legs out, and Oscar's hands rest on the edge of Lando's hoodie. You just sort of nod at him and he pulls it off, not quite able to meet your eye, and you can't seem to do the same, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. "I have another sleep shirt, if you want. But you have to promise not to be weird about it."

"Weird about it?" You slip from the bed to root through your suitcase, and Oscar quickly takes off his pants before he can think too much about sitting in front of you in his underwear. You toss something at him, and Oscar catches it midair, unravelling it to reveal one of his own shirt designs for the Austin Grand Prix, and his brain sort of breaks.

You bought one of his shirts.

You sleep in it.

And he hadn't even heard your voice until earlier. "Couldn't afford to go to a race to see you," You say softly, standing awkwardly in the dim light of the hotel room. "Got the next best thing."

"I think," He answers dryly, letting the shirt fall to his lap, "The next best thing is actually right here."

"Wow," You say, a laugh bubbling out of you that makes Oscar thinks that maybe, just maybe the universe really knows what they're doing. "Really?"

"All I'm saying," He says as he pulls the oversized shirt over his head, "Is that who needs an Oscar Piastri shirt when you have Oscar Piastri?"

"That's the last time I spend money on your merch," You answer resolutely. "I get free stuff for the rest of time."

Then, with a soft glint to your eye, you launch yourself onto the bed, falling backward with another laugh, and Oscar looms over you, giddier than he thinks he's ever felt before. You were all his, and you were right here. You weren't going to teleport away, weren't going to disappear. He had your phone number, and he was debating getting it tattooed on his forearm for good measure. "You can have whatever you want after what I've put you through."

"That's a dangerous declaration, Oscar." Your voice saying his name still seems so strange, but it's right. He's just going to have to get you to say it a few more times to get used to it. Your hand gently smooths up his chest, waiting right over his pounding heart, and your eyes flicker up to his at the feeling of how fast it's racing.

It should be weird, really, for two strangers to be suddenly soulmates. There's an adjustment period everyone has to go through, the first dates, the first hundred questions needing to be asked about favourite colours, about life goals, but all of that stress, that awkwardness, slips away with your hand on his chest, your eyes on his, because the chase is finally over. Oscar might be good at racing, but going slow, with you, with the rest of his life, doesn't seem so bad.

"I think," He finally says, "The universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way."

"And what do you need?" Then, as cheesy as it is, as much as he knows the others will groan about it when he tells them every vivid detail, he very gently says,

"You. Here." Then, to be more serious, "Someone to keep me calm. What do you need?"

You don't answer him, but rather lean up to gently press your lips to his, and Oscar tries to thank every individual star, every planet, every galaxy that makes up the universe for putting you here, for him, forever. It's soft and sweet and hesitant, the kind of thing Oscar needed this to be. It's you, here, with him, and it's every mile over the speed limit Oscar's ever driven, and it's slow and it's steady like everything Oscar didn't realize he needed in his life.

2025, Again

It was a very different experience, being on this side of the race.

You had only seen it from screens, and then the grass, but being in the paddock was like its own little world. If you were alone, you're sure you could exist here on your own without anyone noticing, but considering you were walking in beside Oscar, hand in hand, people were starting to pick up on who you were very quickly.

"You know, that's a first in F1 History," Someone with a camera says, pointing at you and Oscar. "A soulmate swap into an F1 car! We're quite happy you turned out okay, but have you considered ever getting into a car again? Maybe following in Oscar's footsteps?"

Oscar looks at you, checking to see if you want to answer, and you smile up at him. "I am happy to never set foot in a race car again, actually. I don't know how you do it, or how anyone does it."

"You didn't do that bad," Oscar says, shaking his head. "You just need the right protection and the right training."

"The closest I am ever going to get to a race car is here," You joke softly, offering a small wave to the camera operator. "I'm happy to enjoy the comforts of the paddock."

"Your loss," Oscar says before pressing a kiss to your temple, and it hasn't gotten any less thrilling since your first kiss. It had been four months since you'd finally met, and it had been a lot of strange negotiations to get you here, date nights spent with Oscar flying out to you to get to know you, and in return, Oscar flying you out to get to know him, and see Monaco, and finally, now, his races.

You were worried it would bring back some sort of traumatic memory, but if anything, it was exciting. You were here with no threat of being shoved in a car or crashing, but rather to watch Oscar in his element. He guides you through the day, stopping into hospitality, meeting people, meeting Lando again. You'd already sort of met, considering he was trying to haul you out of the car, but now you could actually talk and thank him without a racecar in the way.

Oscar suits up eventually, about to start the race, and he corners you just before he goes out. "If it gets too overwhelming, just let someone know, okay?"

"Oscar, I'll be fine. I want to see you race." He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, and you choose to grab the front of his fireproofs, pulling him down to kiss him properly. "Now go win so I can finally hold a trophy."

"That's what you want? A trophy?" He asks with a laugh, putting his helmet on. "Not me getting the points?"

"After my race? I want my participation trophy." Then, because you can't ever truly ignore him, "And obviously I want you to win to do well too. Trophy just comes first." He shakes his head, moving away from you, and thought muffled, you can make out him saying three words neither of you had said yet, something you hadn't known how to. You freeze in the hallway of the paddock, watching him go, and it's a blur as people try to find you a headset and a monitor to look at, but it doesn't last very long.

You were soulmates. You knew that, obviously, but it still felt strange to think about what it really meant, how you really felt, what the future held.

Your mind drifts to those thoughts as easily as Oscar makes his rounds. He's got a second-place start, which is good, but watching the cars goes around and around on the screen isn't what you came here for. You could do that anytime, any place.

So, against all better judgment, you don't stay put with the thoughts of what might be, what to do, what to say. Instead, you make for the stands, and sit and listen to the cars whip by, feel the force and the wind, and it's everything you thought a race would be before you had accidentally partaken in one. It's fast, it's loud, and it's distracting, but it's good, intoxicating as the fans cheer, the cars almost too quick to make out their movements.

At some point, Oscar gets the lead, and you think you and the McLaren fans around you lose your voices as you scream for him, and despite how hard you try, you find yourself wondering why the universe picks soulmates like it does. Why it would in the first place? Love can be so many things, loving sports, loving family, but with Oscar, it's something so wholly new that makes you think the universe was onto something.

Because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way. That's what Oscar had said.

When the race ends, and you're ambling down the stands and back to the paddock, it's the universe guiding you. When you get to where they park the cars, and Oscar is standing on top of his, he keeps looking around, helmet already off as he's squinting at the crowd forming nearby of McLaren workers, because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way.

And Oscar needs to find you, in the crowd, to know you're there, to know it's real.

And you need Oscar, who's rushing to you like a man on a mission, like how he was that day at the hospital, and without thinking, your hand finds the back of his neck, pulling him in for an indentical hug as his face presses into your neck, and the universe congratulates itself for putting two pieces back together again.

"I was watching in the stands," Is what you mean to say to Oscar, and you do, but maybe it's the universe, maybe it's him, maybe it's the adrenaline still pumping, but you find yourself adding something to the end before you can stop yourself. "I love you."

And though you can't hear it, over the sound of the crowd screaming around him, the sound of your own heart, the sound of the fireworks, you feel the way he says the words back to you, and what it really means.

I love you.

You are here.

a/n: returning to my fanfic roots with a soulmate au + my first time writing for oscar!!

#➤ rex works #➤ op81 #➤ soulmate series #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri fluff #f1 x reader #f1 fluff #f1 angst #formula one x reader #f1 imagines #reader insert #soulmates

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distuff · 1 month ago

Note

How about ‘would they be jealous if you were talking to/hanging out with someone for a long time’? Just how would they act with jealousy for all the saja boys, or baby and mystery if u don’t want to do all of the saja boys

Answer: Hello my dear readershi! Thank you for the prompt. As it gives me a tOn of creative freedom lol I hope you'll enjoy what I've created for ya ( ´ ꒳ ` ) Also! arigatou for givin mhe a choice, bUt I'll happily do all of 'em for ya. Note. The person who asked for another jealousy troupe, as well, please note that yours will be posted tomorrow if nothing major comes in between🙌

📍Requests: Please check HERE

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

Demon Boys' And Others With You

Featuring: Jinu Saja, Abs Saja, Mystery Saja, Romance Saja, Baby Saja Reader: Gender neutral

<><><>

Jinu Saja

🐦‍⬛ So. Let’s get one thing straight. Jinu was not the jealous type. Why bother? I mean really! He’s a demon for crying out loud! He can shift into the most handsome being, conjure up anything he wants with a snap of his fingers if he so much as wished to. He had no reason to be jealous of others - if anything, others should be jealous of him.

🐦‍⬛ So why is it that when you tell him you’ll have to cancel your date because of this “other person”, he feels like… he doesn’t have everything? His silence must have been confirmation for you. Or maybe it was the call from that other person in the background that made you hang up with a quick, “Love you!”

🐦‍⬛ Jinu doesn’t know - nor does he care as much as he cares about the setup in front of him. It took effort to kick the other guys out and get the living room to look the way it did now: pillows spread on the floor, fluffy blankets tossed around, and a perfect mix of warm and cold snacks for your lazy night together. Some random movie was already playing quietly in the background.

🐦‍⬛ It took considerable self-restraint not to set the calling device - “phone,” as humans called it - on fire, or smash it to bits. Instead, he threw it onto the couch with a dramatic groan, scowling at the feeling curling tight in his chest. It felt far too familiar for his liking - a reminder of his pathetic past.

🐦‍⬛ Jinu brushed it off the first time. Whatever. Fine. You had a life outside of him. Who cares! Not him! ...

The Tiger and the Magpie gave him unimpressed stares. Or at least, the bird did. Tiger - Jinu hoped - was trying to console him, especially when he slowly walked over… only to pass him without pause and disappear into Jinu’s room. “Ungrateful cat…” Jinu muttered.

🐦‍⬛ The second time? It wasn’t even supposed to be just the two of you. The guys were also there to hang out with you. Jinu refused to acknowledge the tick in his brow when you told him over the “phone” that you’d unexpectedly had to meet up with someone else.

🐦‍⬛ Jinu also pointedly ignored the sidelong glances the others were giving him. Baby looked utterly disinterested in this matter, while the rest tried to hype him up in their own... unique and completely unnecessary ways- Jinu takes it back. Baby wasn’t the asshole this time. Safe to say, when it kept happening, Jinu was starting to seriously consider binding you to him with a demonic contract.

Jinu would’ve congratulated you - for managing to make him think about anything other than his mission or his desire to reclaim his soul. But you weren’t here. Again. It wasn’t like you two didn’t hang out at all anymore... but it was less than what Jinu was used to. With a heavy sigh, Jinu closed his eyes, pressing his forearm against them as he lay sprawled in bed. Who knew what hour it was? Judging from the low hum of the honmoon barrier mingling with the underlying energy of the others, it wasn’t late enough for them to rest. Not that they needed to - but it helped pass the time when there was nothing else to do. Like right now. Right now, when Jinu could - should - be focusing on the reason he was even in the human world to begin with. But he couldn’t. Because every time he tried, his mind circled back to you. To the thought that maybe you’d figured out who - what - he was. That maybe he didn’t have whatever it was you were looking for... and you were seeking it in someone else. “Ridiculous...” he muttered. Unsure if it was aimed at himself or the situation. His thoughts betrayed him, replaying moment after moment with you. His hand reached automatically for Tiger, who had curled up on his stomach and was now purring softly. Comforting. He thought of your first meeting. The first time you went out to dinner and actually made him laugh - really laugh, not the practised kind he’d perfected over centuries. The way you smiled when you were just being you, and how that let him ease into showing bits of himself - shifting between disguise and truth. He remembered introducing you to the others. The way you slowly, but surely easier into his life more. You even hung out with th—

Jinu's eyes snapped open. He shot upright so suddenly that Tiger had to duck off the bed to avoid being smacked in the face. Jinu sat there, eyes blown wide, as a memory slammed into him like a newly turned demon. He hadn’t corrected either of them. You hadn’t been with them at the time - but knowing those idiots? There was no telling when they might’ve run into you without mentioning it and just blurring the same words in front of you. Teasingly or not, Jinu could easily imagine you not taking it well. Could it be…? His eyes narrowed, glowing gold for a brief second before flicking back to black as his ears strained, hearing the phone on his nightstand vibrate seconds before ringing. He glanced at the screen - then instantly answered it, pressing the phone to his ear. Your voice, as beautiful and soothing as always, spilled into the quiet and Jinu felt tension he didn’t even know he was holding unravel inside him. “Jinu~ Why aren’t you sleeping?” He pulled one knee up to rest his elbow on it, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he answered just as gently, “Who says you didn’t wake me up, hmm?” It seemed it was late for a human then. Hearing you laugh and shifting around in the background, Jinu zeroed his attention on you. “Because when you sleep, you sleep, hahaha!” Not true, Jinu thought - but didn’t say. He was wide awake plenty of times. But if pretending to be asleep meant you’d play with his hair longer, he’d do it every time. There was a pause. He could only hear your breathing. And usually, that was enough. It brought him peace. But even across the distance, he could feel your hesitance. A subtle uncertainty within your honmoon signature that made something twist in his chest.

Why are you hesitating… with me?

He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for your wavelength through the barrier as the hollowness in his chest thrummed with quiet ache. Before he met you, the void was easier to ignore - insatiable, familiar. But now… even if it wasn’t full, you brought warmth. A soft light that flickered in the emptiness where a soul should have been.

He didn’t want to go back to that empty place. He didn’t want to go back to before you. “Jinu?” you finally said his name, and the hesitation in it made him tense again. He wanted to ask, What is it? He wanted to ask, Are you going to end this? But his thoughts spiralled too fast to settle on just one question. Which was ridiculous. He had nothing to lose and nothing to give you. This whole... arrangement wasn't even there to last... That should’ve made it easier. Should’ve. But did not. Jinu let out a deep breath, realising you wouldn’t continue unless he showed he was listening. Shifting, he lay back on the pillow, gripping the phone tightly. “Yeah?” he finally breathed, ignoring Tiger’s piercing gaze and Magpie’s scrutinising stare from across the room. He expected a lot. Maybe an awkward apology - not that you needed to apologise. He’d never outright said anything was wrong. Maybe you’d tell him you weren’t comfortable anymore. Maybe— That’s why, when your next words came, his eyes widened, and he blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Is something wrong?” you asked, unsure and worried. “No—No. Pffft. Nooo—why would you think that?” he said, way too quickly. Even a blind human would’ve known something was off. Another pause. Then a sigh. “Jinu…” you said his name with a tired, warning tone. He grinned shakily, even though you couldn’t see it. “Yeeees?” he drawled, teasing - but you huffed. He could almost see your expression: the smile tugging at your lips, the brow you always raised when he was clearly bullshitting. Then there was silence again. This time, Jinu broke it. With a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagged. Under Tiger’s drilling gaze, Magpie’s quiet judgement, and your pressing silence he finally admitted what had been weighing him down. “You never—” No, that wasn’t right. He inhaled and tried again. “We don’t spend as much time as we used to and I - I can’t help but wonder if… the person you always seem to prefer has something I… don’t.” He couldn’t hide the flush in his cheeks. Embarrassed. But it was either say it or let it rot the short-lived connection that brought him comfort. Thankfully, you didn’t let him stew for long. “Baboya~” you said fondly, and Jinu could hear your smile. “These people are just part of the project I was assigned to.” Jinu blinked. Speechless. “…Project?” he echoed. Barely registering this "person" were "people". You laughed gently. “Yes! Hahaha! I really do apologise. Looks like I forgot to tell you… It’s just hard to focus on all my responsibilities when I’m with you, Jinu. I promise! This time, I won’t bail on you, ’kay?” He felt his face soften into a grin. Something in his chest buzzed - there may be no heart in his core, but he could still feel the growing warmth. He bent forward, clutching his shirt with his free hand, grinning like an idiot. “You better… You don’t want me to steal you right in front of them, do you?” You laughed, probably thinking he was joking. But Jinu wasn’t. Not even a little. Your words reassured him that he was enough - but after everything he’d experienced, he wasn’t going to let anyone take your time meant for him. He wasn’t that reasonable of a “man.”

<><><>

Abs Saja

💪 Abby had no issue with you hanging out with others. He trusted that you had eyes and knew he was a catch - and that you’d tell him if something wasn’t right, just like he bluntly did to you.

💪 Family hangouts? Easy. Abby had no problem showing up and showing off to your relatives even when he was not invited. Friends? Peers? All of that was just background noise - opportunities, really - for him to flex as your partner while the cute little rats around the two of you squealed his praises. It was a win-win.

💪 His eagerness and chill attitude about you being around others, however, was not a green light for you to pull a: “Me and the others are having a slumber party!” - followed by a kiss on the cheek and a swift sprint out of the apartment he shared with the guys.

💪 Abby respected your clever escape, because he knew if you didn’t plan it like a prison break, he would’ve already had you trapped in his arms, hoisted over his shoulder, and dragged off to his room for his required daily dose of nightly cuddles - unbothered by your flailing attempts to escape.

💪 Abby was a demon who couldn't hide his reactions. So when the door shut behind you, his brain was still buffering - trying to piece together what the hell just happened - before his lips pulled into a dramatic pout. He turned to his brothers lounging in the living room and pointed at the door with his thumb in a wordless: Can you believe that?!

💪 Jinu and Romance exchanged a glance while Mystery just shook his head - less in understanding and more in quiet pity. Baby released his lollipop with a loud pop as he looked him over with drooped eyes. “Pathetic.” Then he put his lollipop back and went right back to scribbling in a notebook, no doubt perfecting Jinu’s lyrics again.

It was safe to say Abby didn’t require rest. He didn’t have a heart like humans, meaning he didn’t need rest to produce whatever the blood was formed from for it to function. For demons, sleep was more of a pastime - something to do when there was nothing else going on. But for Abby? There was always something going on. He wasn’t the structured type - he always went with whatever caught his attention or he thought was a great idea to do. However, ever since you entered his life, Abby had developed one routine. You, in his bed, sleeping next to him every night. No exceptions. Until today. Because today, you decided a bunch of squealing meat sticks were more important than him and your shared cuddles. And for what, exactly? A slumber party? What the fuck even was that? Well, he knew now - thanks to Mystery, who had flipped through one of his human books and casually explained that slumber parties were events where humans “bonded” by staying up late, talking… and summoning demons. Which - hello? You already had a demon. Him. Or were you trying to tell him he was supposed to go to that party and fight off some pathetic, low-ranking worm of a demon to prove himself to you? That theory was quickly shut down by Jinu, who waved his arms frantically and made a big “X” with his hands. “No, no,” Jinu said, exasperated. “It’s not that kind of slumber party.” Yes, it was about bonding and talking, he explained - but mostly it was eating snacks, playing games, and then cuddling together before falling asleep. Abby did not like that. Were you saying he wasn’t good enough to cuddle? Not warm enough? Not sturdy enough? He could change forms if you needed him to! All you had to do was say the word - he could be anything for you. All he needed to do was tell you that he was a demon who could- Abby let out a frustrated growl into his pillow, which was currently trapped in a suffocating death grip. The others - excluding Romance, who had flashed him an enthusiastic thumbs-up - had shot him sharp, warning glares the moment he suggested it. Their not-so-subtle way of saying: fucking try it.

He huffed, burying his chin into the pillow that still smelled like both of you. His bored eyes drifted toward the glittering honmoon barrier, pulsing in slow, even waves on the bed. He hated how badly he wanted to devour you - to keep you with him at all times. The craving swelled in his chest as he hugged the pillow tighter. A glimmer of your energy flickered inside the honmoon. Abby’s eyes sharpened. Without realising it, he reached out - his clawed finger sinking into the mattress just inches from the glowing thread of your wavelength. That glimmering crimson pulsed over the faint blue. He grinned. Leaning forward, he easily cast your line into his shadow, the dying blue and vibrant red of your link illuminating his face. His sharper teeth gleamed. Abby growled in approval, "My small, precious human..." he murmured, nuzzling his nose into the line, pressing his cheek against it as your wavelength trembled. Seconds later, the device Jinu called a “phone” began ringing on his nightstand. Lazily rising, Abby leaned over, using one hand to balance himself while the other reached for the phone. The moment he saw your name on the screen, his grin deepened. Satisfaction pulsed through him as he accepted the call. He purposely lowered his voice, making it gravelly - like he’d just woken up. “What’s up...” “Abby?” Your voice was soft, startled, like you were rudely awakened by something. He hummed deeply in response, shifting on the bed so his feet touched the floor. He could hear you moving around in the background too, still disoriented. “Ah—sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you…” “No, no,” he replied gently. “You called. Did something happen?” He added a slight rasp, pretending to wake himself up for you. You yawned, which made him chuckle as he stood and stretched his shoulders, muscles flexing. “No, nothing really. Just… do you think I—” He cut you off smoothly, already halfway to his closet. “Want me to come get you, sweet thing?” There was a pause on your end as he pulled on a random shirt. As soon as he put the phone back to his ear, your answer poured out, soft and almost drowsy. “…Please.” That one word was all he needed. Abby's grin stretched wider. Your voice sounded fuzzy, affected by the pull of the honmoon - probably a side effect of him tampering with it earlier. Nothing dangerous. Just made it a little easier for him. Especially if your wavelength was already weakened by their influence on you.

<><><>

Mystery Saja

🐶 Mystery was the only one among the others who was genuinely curious about the human world - in the way a scientist might be fascinated by their test subjects. A curiosity that wasn’t driven by affection or sentimentality, but by the cold, sharp edge of analysis.

🐶 That same curiosity had granted him rare insight into human behaviour. And comparing it to the era he hailed from? Mystery often wondered if he’d been born on an entirely different planet.

🐶 One of the more puzzling subjects he studied was the human desire to bond. Or more accurately - the innate need to form multiple, meaningful connections with others.

🐶 Okay… but so what? You already had Romance, with whom you could talk endlessly about new trends. Abby, who behaved like an oversized golden retriever, constantly dragging you around the city and showing you places even you - a human who lived around here - didn’t know existed. You had Jinu, who could pass as the most "normal" out of all of them and offered you the kind of grounded interaction humans seemed to crave. And Baby, who teased you endlessly until you smacked him with a pillow and he cackled like it was his reward.

🐶 You even had a good rapport with Tiger and Magpie, who you adored taking on nightly walks on which Mystery tended to tag along.

🐶 And he had given you everything a human partner could possibly want. Warm meals, stimulating conversation, the kind of scorching pleasure that left you trembling - your pleas for more eventually turning into breathless gasps begging him to slow down before you could faint.

🐶 So please. Enlighten him again how meeting these random strays was more important than spending time with him, while he read, and you used him like your personal massage therapist for your feet.

“There are not strays, 'Tery,” you sighed, arms crossed, standing your ground before him. He stood perfectly still, blocking the front door of the apartment he shared with the others. “They’re my cousins.” Mystery blinked once - not that you could see it with his fringe in the way - so he tilted his head slightly instead, the silver earrings on his left ear swaying. “What’s the difference?” You let out a short snort, stepping forward to playfully shove his chest. But Mystery remained unmoved. He couldn’t comprehend how being blood-related made a difference. Related or not, they were still doing the same thing. Taking you away from him. Having to realise that was not a joke, you straightened your posture, running a hand through your hair and said, “Mystery—” Oh no. You said his full name. It wasn't even the real one. It was the name Jinu had given him. And yet, somewhere along the way, it had rooted itself into his core so deeply that hearing it from your lips had a startling effect.

Your closeness was even worse. The way you stood there, just a breath away. The possibility of closing that distance— It made shivers spread under his skin. The corners of his mouth twitched, ears straining to catch each syllable that left your lips. “I’ll be back by 5:20,” you said, voice calm, trying to sound reasonable. “Maybe earlier. I don’t know how long they’ll keep me.” You really were sounding logical. But not to him. Mystery didn’t move. A thick silence settled between you as you stared him down, and he stared back through the veil of hair over his eyes. He relished the way your gaze roamed over him, your brows furrowed with concern. Without saying a word, Mystery reached up and gently smoothed the crease between them with his thumb. Your shoulders dropped. You exhaled. “Fiiine,” you groaned, giving him a look. “You can come with.” Good human, he thought, stepping aside and offering his arm. You looped yours through it without protest, and together you left for the café where your strays - your cousins - were waiting. At the café, Mystery immediately picked up on the subtle awkwardness between the strangers and himself. The two you’d introduced as your cousins kept glancing between him and the curious patrons nearby, who were clearly trying to place his face. Hmm. Maybe this wasn’t about you wanting to get away from him. Maybe you were trying to avoid drawing attention? Not that he cared. He adjusted the cap you'd jammed onto his head before leaving the apartment and relaxed into the chair. Now he could casually tell the others that he’d simply taken the opportunity to do “fan outreach.” Humans adored that kind of thing, didn’t they? Idols doing normal things. Going out for disgusting oil-water - what was it called again? Coffee. Romance had explained it to him once with a flair. Something about chic trend and university aesthetic... Whatever.

Mystery barely stifled a sigh when your male cousin awkwardly introduced himself, followed by your female cousin. After that, the conversation mostly flowed between you and them. Meanwhile, Mystery was simply trying not to spit out the moldy tar water in front of him and onto your cousin’s face. You said it wouldn’t take long - and thankfully, it didn’t. The two cousins had places to be. Finally outside in the fresh air, Mystery nodded at the male who returned it, a polite bow exchange with the female - and then they hugged you one by one, flashing bright smiles as they said goodbye and left behind their stench on your clothes. Mystery watched with idle disinterest… until you turned toward him with a bright smile and started walking. Without missing a beat, he fell into step beside you, his movements effortless. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he slid his arm around your waist, drawing you closer with practiced ease. “'Tery,” you hissed, startled, your head twisting as if to check whether your cousins were still nearby. “What if they—?” Before you could finish, his hand slid up from your waist to your back and finally settled on the back of your neck. He gently tilted your head forward, voice soft and steady, “No worries. They’re already gone.” You checked him for reassurance, and upon seeing his relaxed smile, you finally eased up, trusting him entirely. As you leaned into his side, Mystery kept his hand on the back of your neck - his fingers slowly kneading the base. Casually, he lifted his other hand to fix his hair, as he hooked few fingers under the strands of his fringe, letting them part as he subtly turned his head to the side, revealing one of his eyes. Sky blue, rimmed with glowing gold - until, in a blink, the gold swallowed the colour whole. His pupil narrowed into a sharp horizontal slit as his gaze locked onto your cousins. They were now frozen in place, lingering by the café entrance. He let them see it. The flash of inhuman sharpness in his smile. The knowing glint. He let it linger just long enough for their wavelengths in the honmoon to spike in alarm before he blinked, his eyes returning to their human form as he turned, letting his fringe fall back into place, Without another glance back, he walked leisurely beside you, pleased with the phantom of their fear still dancing at the edge of his senses like static. Mystery drank it all. And oh, how sweet it was.

<><><>

Romance Saja

🌹 Romance would proudly say it aloud: he didn’t understand the word jealousy.

🌹 He’d only first heard of it when he’d tagged along to the human world with the others. Baby had been grumbling about how absurdly jealous their fans could get, muttering it with a dramatic eye-roll. When Romance asked what the word meant, the younger demon had stared at him flatly, gave a shrug, and went back to chewing his gum. He waved him off lazily with, “Ask Fringy, I heard it from those shitty movies he watches. ” That word had piqued Romance’s interest. So, naturally, he went to Mystery as Baby had advised him.

🌹 Mystery didn’t bother answering directly. He simply set aside the book he’d been obsessing over, rising from the couch in one slow, fluid motion. Without a word, he drifted over to his beloved bookshelf - the one Romance secretly admired for its intricate, hand-carved detailing - and retrieved a hefty, leather-bound volume. Returning to him, Mystery opened it on some page, tapped a single word with one painted finger, and said coolly, “Read.”

🌹 Romance blinked at him, raised a brow at the demon's tone, then shrugged and did as told. A moment passed - and then he wheezed out a sudden burst of laughter, clutching his stomach as he tried not to choke on how own spit. Mystery, unfazed, simply straightened. With his usual calmness, he closed the book, returned it to its shelf, and without a single glance back, strolled wordlessly to his room, shutting the door with a soft but final click - leaving Romance in the midst of his hysterical laughter.

🌹 What a ridiculous term! Only self-pitying, bone-dry beings with not an ounce of self-respect could feel "angwy" over something they didn’t have and wished to possess. For what? To feel better?

🌹 Oh, honey~ If you feel miserable without it, you’ll still feel miserable even with it. To Romance, jealousy became just another made-up human excuse - an elegant little lie to mask their fear of revealing their true beauty. Easier to envy others than to honour one’s own shine he guessed.

🌹 He shook his head, the corners of his lips lifting into a pitying smile. Truly pitiful. And that’s exactly what made humans so very entertaining.

It was late into the night, and with nothing better to do - everything already set and ready - Abs had declared a Monopoly match. Now, they were all gathered around the coffee table in the living room. Jinu was subtly stealing from the "bank," deep in debt to Abby, who was somehow winning - though even the big guy himself didn’t seem to realise it. Mystery’s section was the most organised; he had to keep pushing up his fringe, revealing glimpses of his sculpted face and paralysing eyes - eyes Romance often claimed were more brilliant than diamonds - as he squinted at the fine print on the cards, just in case. He didn’t seem to notice Baby quietly stealing from him… again. The youngest demon among them always somehow landing in jail. Romance hoped it wasn't some future sign. He, on the other hand, was also losing, apparently. But he didn’t care. He was far more invested in choosing the more aesthetically pleasing structures on the board that he could buy. They were waiting for Mystery to roll the dice when Romance’s ears twitched at the soft sound of his door opening. He looked up just as you stepped out, dressed in an eye-catching outfit - comfortably casual, yet still striking enough to turn heads and leave people wondering if you were even real. Pride swelled in Romance’s chest. The entire ensemble was one he’d picked out for you. With an approving nod, he turned back to the board. Mystery seemed to be deciding whether to use the card in his hand now or later, causing everyone except Romance to glare at him impatiently. Naturally, the demon was unbothered. Romance heard your footsteps approach and, knowing exactly why, he straightened. Tipping his head back, he smiled just as your gentle fingers lifted his chin and your lips brushed the corner of his mouth. Neither of you paid any mind to the eyes now locked on you - nor to Jinu's dramatic gagging, which earned him a shove from Abby - or the loud pop of gum before Baby scoffed, “Disgusting,” and turned back to the board. Romance wasn’t even sure Mystery could see - his fringe was so rich it was practically a curtain. Not that Romance cared; all his attention was on the angel standing above him.

You smiled softly down at him. “I’ll be out with some of my friends and their acquaintances. Should be back around eleven.” Romance hummed, flashing a dazzling smile. “Enjoy the night, darling. Don’t be cheap on yourself,” he said with a lilting, playful tone, then turned back to the game, perfectly content - though he noted your gaze lingered. When it didn’t shift, and neither did you, he eventually looked up. The other guys had stared at him too - besides Mystery who finally rolled the dice. Romance tilted his head at you, curious. “Yes, love? Something the matter? Do you want to borrow one of my pieces of jewellery, is that it?” he asked earnestly, clearly confused by your startled expression. There was a pause - just the two of you in your own pocket of silence - before you shook your head quickly and gave a hesitant smile. “N-No! No need. Thank you for the offer though,” you said, bowing gratefully before flashing him a radiant grin. “Enjoy your night!” Romance returned it with one of his own, lifting his hand to wave as he watched you leave. “You shall too, my lovely darling!”

<><><>

Baby Saja

🍼 Baby never understood the whole concept of jealousy. He always squinted suspiciously whenever he saw one of those people inside the magic box Jinu told them humans called the “TV.” A box Mystery had grown as attached to as he was to his stupid books.

🍼 With nothing else to do today, Baby had two equally terrible options: Be dragged to some human food chain by Romance and Abby like Jinu had - relegated to “human translator” duty for demons - or sit in his room while Mystery sat through one of him movie marathons on that box, volume turned low... which, for Baby’s hearing, may as well have been blaring at full blast.

🍼 He had zero intention of venturing out alone. No need to provoke the huntresses any more than they already had. They knew what he and the others were, and Baby didn’t feel like fighting - not with his brain still aching from today’s string of stupid shows designed to entertain the masses like they were circus animals. Baby swore Gwi-Ma was punishing him twice for his human sins.

🍼 So, he ended up sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, arms loosely draped over his knees, while Mystery’s attention remained glued to the humans on-screen. The female protagonist had just spotted the male lead talking - laughing, even - with another woman after getting a message from the male that morning that he would be busy. The girl’s face twisted. She marched into the café, called him a player, and dumped his own drink over his head.

🍼 Baby narrowed his eyes, unimpressed, and bit into the lollipop in his mouth. “What the shit...” he muttered, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “Why not just talk to the guy instead of pulling a tantrum like a brat?”

🍼 He leaned back with a grimace. Even as a demon, he was rooting for the male lead to ditch her. “Man... just give up and take the other chick,” he muttered, rotating the lollipop stick slowly between his fingers. “Humans are fascinating...” Mystery said, voice flat and unreadable. Baby snorted, smirking. “Sure they are. Can’t even think rationally.”

🍼 The hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood up - his instincts prickling. He could feel Mystery’s gaze drilling into him. Unable to ignore it, Baby snapped his head around and glared up at his senior. “What?”. Mystery tilted his head slightly. “We were once humans, too.” Baby scoffed, turning back to the screen. “Yeah, and? Look where our rationality got us,” he muttered, biting down sarcastically on the word.

🍼 With nothing else to add, the two demons lapsed into companionable silence, watching as the male protagonist ran after the girl with the temper tantrum. Baby’s canines lengthened unconsciously, piercing through the candy in his mouth. Pathetic, he thought.

Baby didn’t even know how the fuck he got here. It started with Abby hyping up some “amazing BBQ chain” on the outskirts of the city - and ended with all five of them sitting in one of the private cars, courtesy of the industry that scouted them after that godawful “Soda Pop” song. Baby still shuddered at the memory. That song was a fucking curse. If any lesser demon so much as whispered it near him- He huffed and slouched deeper into his seat, pulling out the "phone". Your chat log stared back at him: a single cat sticker, a cheery “Good morning!” and a short I’ll be busy today. That same moment, Baby had immediately messaged back asking, Busy with what?, reacting to the sticker with a sun emoji. You hadn’t read it yet. “Tch.” Whatever. Baby brushed it off like he brushed off the growing void in his chest - and the saliva pooling in his mouth. The urge to devour your soul was stronger than usual. He figured even his demon body was getting impatient to blend with you already. Soon, he thought, lips quirking into a smile. That was enough to earn a suspicious glance from Abby, who immediately commented that he looked “creepy.” So Baby chucked his phone at his face. It nearly escalated into a full-blown brawl, if not for Mystery and Jinu unleashing just enough demonic aura to force the two of them to sit back down. Baby hated that he couldn’t fight back properly without risking his head getting sliced off. His body would regenerate - eventually -but sitting around bodyless for hours was a major buzzkill. Now, they were trailing behind Mystery, who’d been told to “smell out” the BBQ spot since none of them knew how to use phones beyond the bare minimum. And even that had taken months of trial and error. Romance was banned from dialling the emergency number after he’d used it for every minor inconvenience, so they wouldn't get locked up even before the mission could start. So as they followed the demon bloodhound through the streets, Baby came to a sudden stop. His droopy eyes, widened. He felt it - a faint tremble in the air. Your wavelength. His skin buzzed. Instinctively, his hand reached out to grasp it, only to recoil with a snarl as the huntresses' protection burned his palm.

Fucking nuisance. The fact that you were still untouched by demonic influence - still holding strong even after getting closer to him - set Baby’s teeth on edge. It made him boil. He wanted nothing more than to go head-to-head with those three bitches and rip apart whatever invisible leash was tied around you. All so he could feel your line clinging to him without restraint. While the others continued walking, Baby peeled away from the group, scanning his surroundings. The honmoon wave meant you were either nearby or you lived on this specific street. And no - he was pretty sure you didn’t live out here. He followed the trace across the road, dodging pedestrians, until he came to a halt. There you were. Sitting inside a café. Laughing. With some rando. You were perched on a bar stool beside them, hands cradling a cup as you spoke, giggled, playfully nudged the other - and received a shove back followed by more laughter. Baby’s lip curled, a low growl escaping him. His eyes narrowed. Is this what that female protagonist felt? Fuck no. He didn’t have pathetic self-pitying thoughts. He was untouchable. He didn’t need validation. He knew he was great. No, what Baby felt wasn’t that flimsy human brand of jealousy. This was something far more primal. An urge. To walk straight through the café doors, wedge himself between you and that leech, threaten them without saying a word, and drag you out of there. Just because your time - your presence - belonged to him. Relaxing into the sensation, Baby smirked to himself. Adjusting the bucket hat shielding some of his features from rabid fans, he casually strolled toward the café. The cashier greeted him. He ignored it. Each step he took was precise. Measured. Confident in a predatory grace wrapped in an attractive human shell. His boots clacked sharply against the wood flooring, but you didn’t hear him. The ambient café noise covered his approach, and your back was turned - attention fully on the leech across from you. The leech, however, did see him. And instead of meeting ordinary human eyes like they had to expect, they met glowing gold, shadowed under the brim of his hat. Pupils slitted in sharp attention. Baby tilted his head, lips peeling into a smile far too wide, sharp canines flashing. The leech flinched hard, nearly falling off the stool. That finally got your attention. You whipped around with an adorable little glare, ready to scold whoever scared your friend- Only to find yourself face to face with Baby. Silver-blue eyes blinked innocently. Calm expression. Head tilted owlishly as if he were the one surprised to see you.

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yunalinwrites · 1 month ago

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one of my fav kdramas (called youre beautiful) is abt a girl joining a boy band and pretending to be a boy ohshc style except her fellow members dont know and she has to somehow live with them while hiding it 😭 it's so wattpad i love

so imagine being fem!reader sharing a dorm with the saja boys while trying not to get found out

of course u cant hide forever tho so this is how i think you'd get found out and how they'd react:

❓ mystery knew from the start. you didnt realize he was scrutinizing you so closely bc of them fuck ass bangs but from the day you met he could tell just by looking at you. but, much like he does about everything, he kept quiet because he didnt want to freak you out. he found it cute though, every time you'd slip up and get all flustered trying to cover up why you were staring at the dresses at the mall or why you were caught buying pads. so, he'd just smile, pat your head, and calmly help you make excuses. if you walk into the wrong room at the wrong time he'll quietly direct you to a gender neutral bathroom or drape a towel over your eyes whenever the guys got too... carefree in the locker room. lowk helps you hide it from the other members bc he likes it being his little secret

🍼 baby also found out pretty early but also like not really? he walked in on you in the bathroom once and was like "mb" and then he thought about it and was like "wait a sec..." but then he just shrugged it off. and since then for a while in the back of his head he would catch the way you walk or the way you sit or the way your eyelashes look against your cheek and for a split second would think like "is he a chick?" but he never really came to a conclusion bc he just dont gaf. dude or not he treats you pretty much the same. once everyone else starts figuring it out tho thats when he starts acknowledging it. now that everyone else seems to treat you differently as a girl, he starts questioning how to feel or act around you...

💪 abby started rough housing with the other boys and tried to pull you in. lifted you up and not only were you lighter than he expected, your bodies were right up against each other. you did your best to bind your tits down but when you were chest to chest like this it was still noticeable. he awkwardly puts you down and scratches the back of his neck, mumbling an apology. for the next few days his brain is fried thinking about it. he never verbally acknowledges it but he starts being super gentle around you and treating you like you're fragile. feels the need to protect you physically, even if its against the other boys. always keeping watch to make sure they're gentle with you as well.

✨ jinu overhears you out yourself on the phone somehow and is so mad and so flustered at the same time. he's afraid you're going to be a liability if the fans find out and its gonna be a pain to hide but behind all that anger he's just scared of women fr. blushes every time he remembers you're a girl. every time you end up together alone in the living room or catch each other in the hallway, brushing each others shoulders in the slightest, he turns bright red and freaks tf out. somehow though he finds it easier to connect with you emotionally as a girl. with other guys it sometimes feels weird to be vulnerable, but you don't seem to have that shame at all. he admires it. gwi ma probably forced you into this situation so he empathizes with you.

🫶 romance liked to ask you all the time about your love life. asking what your type is, ideal date, dream wedding, do you want kids, etc. you figured it would be safest to just pretend you were a straight dude who liked girls. he wouldnt have cared though. he was starting to feel a little something for you even before you revealed yourself as a girl but refrained from going down that route to stay professional. but when you do reveal yourself as a girl it starts to get even harder to keep that boundary.

🥤 overall once they figure it out none of them tell each other or really say it aloud bc of the implications it has. but they all show it through actions like making sure you're fed and hydrated, letting you use the shower first, asking you if you need a break during rehearsal, etc. but trust, once they all start offering to help you at the same time--like all of them reaching to lend you their marker during fan signings when yours goes dry or surrounding you with 5 different choices of hoodie when you mention you're cold--they start getting real jealous and possessive real soon; they all want to be the one and only you rely on.

eventually though when they all reveal that they all know and everyone's on the same page, they start working together to protect you. all 5 of them wrapped around ur finger 😋 but still fighting for your attention

a/n: ugh i wish i had time/energy to do this properly along w all my other fics for kpdh (this movie has taken over my life) but idk i prob wont LOLL if anyone else wants to build off of this plz go ahead and tag me

UPDATE !!! PROLOGUE OUT NOW 🤑

also masterlist

#jinu x reader #kpdh #jinu kpdh #jinu #kpop demon hunters #kpdh x reader #saja boys #saja boys x reader #fanfic #kpdh fanfic #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpdh romance #kpdh abby #kpdh mystery #kpdh baby #kpdh bobby #fanfiction

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heesmiles · 2 months ago

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MAMA, I'M IN LOVE WITH A CRIMINAL P.JS

೨౿ ⠀ ׅ ⠀ ̇ 24k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚criminal ! jay ៹ rival family ! kang ! reader ᧁ;smut ˒ angst ˒ violence ˒romeo and juliet au

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ smut body worship fingering (in a church) angst graphic depictions of violence dark themes (i’m being serious) kidnapping held captive death injuries forbidden romance romeo and juliet au some toxic religious beliefs small town vibes ft taehyun (txt) ft yunah (illit) ft felix (stray kids) made up names for jay's parents fictional death of real life idols

in which ୨୧He was a mystery. One you didn't know if you could solve. Hidden behind the shadows of his past and his duty to his family. He was no man for you, no. You needed a good man, a man that could provide and you knew that. So why did you want him so bad? No matter how dangerous, no matter how wrong.

★ ! rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . lord. I seen a tiktok edit to Britney Spears 'criminal' with jay and I literally couldn't stop thinking about it. I'm a sucker for Romeo and Juliet type of stories and jay is so perf for this. Also; I hope you guys will understand the ending to this — i tried to make it clear that i was not romanticizing the things that happened in here but also make it known that not everything is black and white in the world; sometimes decisions are more complex than just simply right or wrong. If you have any questions on my intentions with the ending; feel free to respectfully ask and i’m more than happy to explain. There will be no part two. THIS IS A REPOST.

The chapel smells like old pinewood and older secrets. You sit between your brother and your mother, stiff in your Sunday best, your spine straight as the hymnals stacked behind the pew. The stained-glass windows cast slivers of color across the congregation, blood reds, bruised purples, the blue of a cold winter sky. Light falls like confession, quietly and without permission. You are not paying attention to the sermon. You never do.

The pastor drones on at the pulpit, words like smoke dissolving into the high beams of the chapel ceiling, but your mind drifts toward the murmuring of silk dresses and the creak of wooden pews, toward the undercurrent of small-town theater playing out in god’s house. Your father sits to your left, a statue carved of stone and pride. You feel the tension in his body like a heat source; silent, simmering, the kind of rage that has long since been iced over by responsibility. Your mother holds Minji in her lap, fingers curling gently around your little sister’s arm, but her eyes are watching everyone else in the church.

The pews smell of lemon oil and something more human, powder and old perfume, the sweat of people trying to look holy. Minji starts kicking the pew in front of you, gently at first, like she’s testing the patience of the wood. Tap, tap, tap. Then harder. Thud. Your brother, Taehyun, flicks her a warning glance, but says nothing. You lean over, whispering sharp and low, like the way your mother does when guests are over “Minji. Stop.”. She glares at you with the full offense of a seven-year-old wronged. Her lip trembles. You already know what’s coming before she opens her mouth.

She starts to cry; loud, wet, dramatic sobs that echo off the vaulted ceiling like thunder in a quiet storm. Heads turn. A few old women in floral skirts give sympathetic glances; others look annoyed. The pastor doesn’t pause, but you feel the church shift, the way it always does when something unscripted happens. Your mother turns to you, lips tight, voice sweetly cutting. “Take her to the bathroom,” she hisses, her nails brushing your wrist like a warning. “Now.” You nod, standing and tugging Minji’s hand. She follows, sniffling, dragging her feet like she’s on the way to execution. You step out into the aisle, heat rising in your cheeks from the attention; most eyes pretend not to watch, but you feel them. You always feel them. Small towns are built on watching. You rush to the bathroom in the very back of the church, closed off and muggy. Surrounded by a long hallway of doors upon doors with who knows what in them.

The bathroom smells like baby powder and old tile, the kind of sterile clean that never truly feels clean. Minji is humming a made-up song to herself behind the heavy door, the sound broken now and then by the rush of the faucet and the scrape of her shoes against the floor. You lean against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking across the narrow hallway that leads deeper into the back corridors of the church; the kind of place children are told not to wander and adults forget to remember. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. You can still hear the low cadence of the sermon through the walls, like a heartbeat underwater. But underneath that; there. A sound. A sharp rustle, then a low thump. Muffled. Human.

You stiffen. For a moment, it’s nothing. Could be a broom falling over, could be the wind sneaking through the stained glass seams. But then it comes again: a grunt, quick and strangled. Another thud. You glance toward the end of the hall, where a door hangs slightly ajar. Beyond it, darkness pools like ink in the corners of the church’s storage room. A place for old hymnals, broken nativity statues, forgotten folding chairs. You shouldn’t move. You know this. Every instinct in you, trained by caution, by family, by a lifetime of walking straight lines, tells you to stay planted, to wait for Minji and return to your seat and never speak of what you thought you heard. But curiosity, you’ve learned, is a quiet rebellion. A whisper that grows teeth.

So you walk. Slowly. Barefoot-quiet in your heeled shoes. You reach the door, place your palm on the wood, breath hitched in your throat like a prayer waiting to break. You lean in, ear to the crack. Another grunt. And a voice; feminine, breathy, choked with a sound you’ve only ever heard behind closed doors in dramas you weren’t allowed to watch. You flinch, but your hand betrays you, fingers curling around the handle like it belongs to you. And then you open it.

The light from the hallway slashes across the room, carving shadows into skin. You freeze. Park Jongseong. His back is bare, muscles flexing like a marble sculpture brought violently to life. His shirt is bunched around his waist, and his hands are on a girl. A girl you recognize, barely. Yumi. Her mouth is open in a gasp that doesn’t get the chance to leave. Her dress hiked up like it never belonged to her in the first place. Their limbs are tangled, their sins so vivid it feels like you're watching a sacred text being burned. Jay looks up. His eyes catch yours like a knife catches light. They widen, not with guilt, but with recognition — you, of all people. The breath leaves your lungs like glass shattering on cold tile. You slam the door so hard it rattles the frame.

You’re trembling, though you don’t know if it’s from shame or shock or some strange cocktail of both. You spin around, heart thudding a war drum in your chest. Minji is just stepping out of the bathroom, drying her small hands on her dress. She doesn’t notice the way your hands shake as you reach for hers. Doesn’t see the way your eyes are wide, unfocused, filled with something that shouldn’t be there. “We’re going back,” you say, voice too high, too sharp. She doesn’t argue. Just nods and follows you, humming again, a tune too sweet for the ruin in your chest.

You walk back into the sanctuary like a ghost in a girl’s body. You sit beside your mother, folding your hands in your lap like nothing happened, like you didn’t just see sin spill in a place meant for salvation. Your father doesn't glance at you. Taehyun doesn’t notice. But your mother turns slightly, just enough to give you a once-over; the kind that sees everything and says nothing. She thinks the crying was too much for you. She thinks you’ve been startled by your sister’s fit. And maybe she’s right, in a way. You’ve been startled. You’ve been unmade.

And across the church, hidden in the shadows of holy silence, you feel him. Jay. And it’s not just what he did. It’s not just the shame of seeing it. It’s the way he looked at you. Like you were the one caught. Like he had nothing to hide. You stare straight ahead at the altar, but your mind stays in that room, with the taste of heat and velvet breath and the raw burn of a boundary shattered. You were innocent. Now, you’re aware. And awareness, you’re beginning to realize, is the beginning of every great tragedy.

The service ends with the gentle hush of murmured amens and the rustle of Sunday clothes brushing past one another like leaves in a breeze. The congregation begins its slow migration out of the pews, a tide of polite smiles, handshakes, and the same conversations they’ve had for years, wearing different dresses. Your mother and father slip easily into their places; your father all firm nods and clipped words, your mother like a practiced socialite, her smile painted just perfectly at the edges. You, Taehyun, and Minji remain behind, lingering in your spot like the forgotten echo of a hymn, three children carved from the same silence.

Minji swings her legs, her little shoes knocking against the pew in soft rhythm. She’s already forgotten the earlier outburst, too busy playing with the lace trim of her dress and watching Soojin across the room with an expression that flickers between curiosity and envy. Taehyun leans back, arms crossed, eyes roving lazily over the crowd. You try not to look for him. Not for Jay. But your eyes betray you like they always do, wandering before your mind gives them permission. And there he is. Standing by his mother, tall and lean like a shadow at sunset, too sharp around the edges to be beautiful, but too striking to ignore. Jay. His hands are in his pockets, posture relaxed, but there's a glint in his eye, dangerous, knowing. His mouth tilts into a crooked, unbearable smirk when his gaze meets yours.

Like a match lit in the back of your throat. He knows. He knows you saw. You look down instantly, cheeks burning, staring at your shoes as though they can explain how to erase memory. But there’s no forgetting the picture burned into your eyelids. No way to smother the sound of that half-stifled breath, the friction of skin, the fall of a name not yours. You hear your name drift through the air like a ripple over still water. “Come here, sweetheart,” your mother calls, her voice sweet enough to sting. You rise on instinct, smoothing your skirt with trembling hands, and walk the long aisle toward her like you’re walking a tightrope, each step balanced between ruin and restraint.

She stands with Jay’s mother, who is dressed in pastel pink, too pristine for the venom coiled beneath her voice. Their conversation is coated in sugar, but you can hear the brittle underneath; like porcelain tea cups about to crack. “Oh, she’s grown so much,” Jay’s mother says, her smile wide and empty. “Just lovely.” Your mother laughs, high and bright like wind chimes in a storm. “Time goes fast. I can barely keep up.”

You can feel their words curling around you like ivy, decorative and choking. You nod, bow your head politely, try not to flinch as Soojin skips up to Minji and pulls her by the hand to the patch of grass outside the chapel. They giggle, bright as birdsong, unaware of the blood history buried beneath their fathers’ names. And beside them, like a wolf in Sunday clothes, stands Jay. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. He looks at you like he’s still in that room. Like he can still see you there, wide-eyed, breathless, trembling at the threshold of something you shouldn’t have witnessed. His smirk deepens, lazy and cruel, and you feel it all the way in your stomach.

Your skin prickles. “What the hell was that look?” Taehyun mutters behind you, his tone low, edged with suspicion. He nudges you sharply with his knee, and you nearly stumble. You keep your eyes on your feet. “Nothing,” you say, too quickly. “I’ll tell you later.”

Taehyun narrows his eyes but doesn’t push. He knows you. He knows when to wait. You stand there, between your mother and your enemy’s mother, with your hands clasped and your mouth sewn shut, while your past, your present, and your sins walk the churchyard outside; laughing like children, smirking like boys who don’t believe in consequences. You think maybe you don’t either. Not anymore.

The conversation begins to wilt, as all forced things do; smiles sagging at the corners, eyes flicking elsewhere in search of escape. Your mother and Jay’s mother trade the kind of compliments that glitter like broken glass: delicate, dazzling, and meant to cut. Behind them, laughter ripples from the church lawn, where Minji and Soojin chase each other in slow, dizzying circles, their dresses fanning out like blooming petals, too young to know the soil they’re rooted in. You glance once toward Jay, who leans against the edge of the wooden steps with his hands still buried in his pockets, his dark hair curling slightly at his temple, his expression unreadable now, less amused, more distant, as if even he feels the weight pressing down from generations above him. And then your father arrives.

He moves through the crowd like a tide against stone, unyielding and deliberate. The chatter quiets a little wherever he steps, the way air thins before a storm. You feel him before he speaks; a presence that coils around your ribcage and makes your breath shallow. His eyes are sharp beneath the brim of his hat, and when he stops beside your mother, you see the brief flicker of something harden in Jay’s mother’s posture. “Mrs. Park,” he says, voice even, smooth, but cold in the way marble is cold. “Where’s your husband this fine morning? Too busy for the Lord?”

She blinks once. Her smile holds, but only just. “Business,” she replies. “He’s out of town, dealing with a shipment issue in the city.” Your father’s silence stretches just long enough to make everyone feel it. “I’m sure he is,” he says finally, the words slow and heavy, like stones dropped into a still pond. The implication hangs there; thick, clinging, undeniable.

You feel your stomach twist. Even the sun seems to dim for a moment, slipping behind a lazy cloud as if to shield its eyes. Your mother steps in like a practiced violinist interrupting a wrong note mid-performance. Her hand grazes your father’s elbow with the familiarity of a thousand such interventions. “Well,” she says lightly, too brightly, “we should be going. The roast will overcook if we linger much longer.” She turns to Jay’s mother with that polished grace only women in battle can master. “It was so lovely catching up. Truly.”

Jay’s mother nods. Her smile has slipped further now, the edges brittle. “Of course. Always.” You’re ushered away quickly, your mother’s hand at your back firm and urging, her pace brisk as she gathers Minji from the grass, calls for Taehyun, and pulls your family together like a shepherd herding sheep out of a lion’s den. No one speaks until the church doors are behind you, the air suddenly cooler, less suffocating.

You’re nearly free. The gravel of the church path crunches beneath your shoes as your family moves forward, a cluster of matching postures and purposeful steps, like soldiers retreating from a battlefield dressed in Sunday best. The weight begins to lift from your chest, bit by bit, with every step away from those lingering glances and brittle conversations. You tell yourself you’ll forget what you saw, that it was an accident, a fleeting mistake swallowed by stained glass and holy silence. But just as you pass the old oak tree near the chapel gate, a hand snakes out and closes around your wrist. You freeze. The world seems to narrow into a pinprick.

Jay. His fingers are calloused, his grip strong; not enough to hurt, but enough to root you to the spot like a nail through your spine. He’s close. Too close. His face is calm, cold, carved from the same shadows that seem to cling to him even in the daylight. There is no trace of that smirk now. No mischief. No boyish charm. Just steel. “Don’t tell anyone what you saw,” he says, low and sharp, each word slicing into the quiet like the snap of a branch underfoot. “Or you’ll regret it.”

There’s no drama in his voice, no raised tone, no overt threat. Just certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Your breath lodges somewhere beneath your ribs. You can’t even muster a word, only a nod, small and trembling, as your heart begins to stutter inside your chest like it’s trying to run ahead of you. He lets go as suddenly as he appeared, melting back into the periphery like a sin you can’t prove you committed. The imprint of his touch remains, hot and phantomlike, as you hurry back to your family with your head down and your thoughts unraveling at the seams. You slip into step beside them just in time to hear your father’s voice break the fragile calm.

“If I ever catch you talking to the likes of Park Jongseong,” he says, without turning his head, “I will ship you off to a convent so fast you’ll be reciting rosaries before supper.” The words hang in the air, stark and heavy as thunderclouds. “Yes, Daddy,” you say softly, your voice a breath against the wind, your eyes fixed on the ground. And that’s it. No argument. No protest. Because even if you wanted to fight, what would you say? That you didn’t talk to him? That his hand found yours, not the other way around? That he threatened you? That you saw something you can’t unsee?

No. You say nothing. You bow your head like the good girl you’re supposed to be. Like a daughter dressed in obedience and stitched with silence. But beneath your skin, something writhes. Something that feels a lot like shame and a little like fear, but more than anything, like curiosity warped by danger. And as the chapel disappears behind you, you realize this is how it begins. Not with a kiss. But with a warning.

That night the dining room is warm with the scent of roast chicken and buttered root vegetables, the table laid with modest care, linen napkins folded neatly, wine glasses filled just a touch too high, as though the evening itself demanded the illusion of celebration. Outside, the crickets begin their song beneath the veil of twilight, and the house hums gently with the quiet rituals of family: chairs scraping wood, silverware clinking like distant bells, Minji humming to herself between bites of mashed potatoes.

You sit across from Taehyun, who nudges your foot under the table once, curious, wordless, but you give him nothing. Not yet. Your mother, dressed in her favorite pale blue blouse, cuts her meat with careful precision, while your father, ever the figure carved from unyielding stone, sips from his wine like it's an act of judgment rather than indulgence. The conversation flits from the mundane to the mechanical, your father talking about a shipment delay, your mother noting the fundraiser next month, Taehyun making a dry comment about work. You listen halfheartedly, moving food around your plate, your thoughts wandering back to the church, to the oak tree, to the ghost of a hand still wrapped around your wrist. But then your mother says it.

“So,” she begins lightly, as though she’s offering a dessert menu instead of kindling a fire, “Jiyo invited us to dinner next Saturday.” The clink of your father’s knife against his plate is immediate. A small, sharp sound that lands like a gavel.

“She what?” he says, his voice too calm, the kind of calm that thins the air. Your mother waves her hand, trying to dismiss the storm before it forms. “Just a friendly gesture. She said she’s wanted to reconnect. It’s been years since we’ve sat down like civilized people.” Your father laughs, but it’s humorless, a short, cutting sound like a blade being tested. “And you said yes?”

“I said I’d think about it.”

He sets down his fork, dabs his mouth with a napkin, and leans back in his chair like a man preparing to deliver a verdict. “You know how I feel about Chul. That woman chose to build her life beside a snake. What makes you think we owe them the performance of kindness?”

“She’s not her husband,” your mother says, her tone still soft but no longer passive. “She’s always been sweet to me. To the kids. Especially when you were… gone.” The word lingers — gone — and you feel it hit the table like a dropped stone. Your father’s jaw tightens. “There’s nothing sweet about a woman who lays down with scum and lets him poison the earth around him.”

“Well,” your mother says, straightening her back, her voice sharpening to a whisper-thin edge, “then I suppose I must be just as rotten. I married a man who once made deals with him too, didn’t I?” The silence that follows is deafening. Your father turns slowly to her, his expression unreadable but his eyes like winter; the kind of cold that doesn’t melt come spring. “Say that again?”

Your mother holds his gaze for half a second longer, a war trembling behind her lashes. But she looks away. She says nothing. Only returns to her plate and cuts her chicken in silence. And that’s it. The conversation dies. No one breathes too loudly. Minji doesn’t notice, she hums and chews and swings her feet. Taehyun reaches for the salt, eyes flicking to yours with quiet warning. Your appetite vanishes like mist in morning sun.

Outside, the wind brushes the windows like fingers trying to get in. Inside, you realize that your family is not made of glass, but of iron, bent into shape by betrayal, rusted over with resentment. And some metals, you think, cannot be reforged. Only buried.

The night unfurls like silk, cool and gentle, stitched with stars. The backyard hums with crickets and the distant rustle of trees whispering secrets to one another in the dark. You’re curled on a poolside lounge chair, the spine of your book bent beneath your thumb, but your eyes have glossed over the same sentence three times. The page is just a veil now; something to hide behind while your mind wades through the wreckage of the day. The pool glows a soft, pale blue beneath the surface lights, and Taehyun slices through it like a blade through water. His strokes are steady, strong, the kind of motion that speaks of routine, of something he’s learned to rely on. You envy that; his ability to push everything down, to lose himself in rhythm and breath and the sound of water folding in on itself.

You sigh and adjust your legs, the night air cool against your skin. Sometimes, in rare hours like this, you let yourself believe Taehyun might be the only one who truly sees you. The only one who knows how to read the pauses between your words, the weight behind your silences. Besides Yunah, who is far away tonight, it's always been him; your confidant, your reluctant protector, your brother. He swims one final lap, then glides to the edge and pulls himself out in a single fluid motion, water streaming off his skin in rivulets that catch the dim light. He grabs a towel from the back of a chair and rubs it through his hair, gaze flicking toward you, unreadable but searching. You wait. You know it’s coming.

He sits at the pool’s edge, legs dangling in the water, shoulders still rising and falling from exertion. The silence thickens, until finally he breaks it. “What was that today?” he asks. “At church. Jay looked at you like…” He pauses, frowns. “And then he grabbed you. What the hell was that about?” You close your book slowly. The words don’t come easily. They never do when shame tangles them first. But this is Taehyun. If there’s anyone you can give them to, raw and imperfect, it’s him.

“I saw something,” you begin softly. Your voice is barely a whisper, as if the night might shatter if you speak too loudly. “In the church. When I took Minji to the bathroom.” His eyes don’t leave your face. “There were… noises. From one of the storage rooms. I thought someone was hurt,” you say. “But when I opened the door, it was—” You hesitate. “It was Jay. With some girl. Yumi, I think. They were…”

Taehyun groans, dragging a hand down his face before you can even finish. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, hugging your knees to your chest. “I slammed the door shut. I didn’t even mean to see it.”

“And that’s why he grabbed you?” Taehyun says, his voice laced with disbelief and anger, a storm gathering behind his words. “That’s why he gave you that look; like he was daring you to open your mouth.” You nod. “He told me not to tell anyone. Said I’d regret it.”

Taehyun curses again, sharper this time. “What a goddamn asshole.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, shaking his head like he’s trying to physically rid himself of the thought. “He treats people like shit. Always has. He walks around like the world owes him something for the family name he was born into. I don’t care how tragic his little story is; his dad screwing over ours, his mom pretending to be sweet, he’s just as rotten.”

The silence stretches again, heavy with unspoken fears and the slow bloom of something darker. “He’s sick for doing that in a church,” Taehyun mutters, his voice low and hard. “And then threatening you about it? He’s lucky it was you who saw him and not me.” You glance at him then, at the way his jaw clenches, his hands balled into fists against his thighs. It should comfort you, the fierceness in him, the way he leaps to your defense without question. But instead, it only deepens the ache inside you. Because no matter how wrong it is, no matter how much your brother’s fury burns bright and righteous, there’s a whisper in the back of your mind that still wonders what it is about Jay Park that makes your heart stutter like that.

“I won’t talk to him,” you say quietly, more to convince yourself than him. “Good,” Taehyun says, looking over at you. “Because that boy doesn’t just bring trouble. He is trouble.” And yet even as the stars blink overhead and the pool water laps gently against tile, you feel the echo of Jay’s voice coil around your spine like smoke. You know what you saw. And worse; you know what you felt. You tuck your head against your knees and close your eyes, wishing the night could swallow the memory whole. But some things, once seen, never go quiet again.

The house is still, cloaked in the velvety hush of after-hours, when dreams drip slow like honey and silence wraps around the walls like an old lover. The moon hangs low outside your window, its pale light slanting across your bedroom floor like an invitation, or a warning. You wake to something — not a dream, no — but the low hum of voices bleeding through the stillness, muffled and sharp, like the scrape of metal under cloth. Your breath catches. You sit up slowly, ears straining. The clock beside your bed reads just past three. The voices murmur again.

You slip out of bed on bare feet, the cold floor biting against your skin as you tiptoe to the door. The hallway yawns long and dark before you, stretched like a corridor in some haunted chapel, the air thicker here, like it's been keeping secrets of its own. You hold your breath and follow the murmurs, each step soft, careful, barely there. The kitchen glows faintly ahead. dim yellow light spilling out like spilled whiskey beneath the doorframe. You press yourself to the wall and lean forward just enough to see. Your father stands near the table, sleeves rolled up, a glass untouched by his hand. Taehyun leans against the counter, arms crossed, face grim, eyes flickering toward two men you’ve never seen before, older, stern, the kind of men who carry weight without needing to raise their voices. They speak in hushed tones, but the tension rides every syllable, thick and bitter.

“…can’t let them find out we’re disturbing their shipments,” one of the men says, low and urgent. “If Chul gets wind of it, he’ll burn this town down to find the leak.” Your heart jolts. Shipments? Leak? “They already suspect something,” the second man adds, fingers drumming against the table like a metronome counting down to disaster. “That little punk, Jay, he robbed one of our guys. Sent a message. You know what that means.”

Your father’s face is carved from stone. “Of course I do.” Your stomach twists. Jay. “He’s getting reckless,” the man continues. “Acting like he’s untouchable. We don’t deal with people like that.”

Taehyun’s voice is calm, but edged like a blade honed too long. “He can try,” he mutters. “If he comes near our side again, I’ll handle it.” Your blood runs cold. There’s no hesitation in his tone, only the promise of violence. Your hand flies to your mouth, breath trembling through your fingers. The room spins slightly, your body suddenly too small, too quiet for the weight of what you've just heard. The world feels different now, fractured. You’d known there were histories buried beneath this town, old grudges and whispered deals that had sunk roots deeper than the oak trees. But this — this was something else.

They weren’t just rivals. They were at war. And Jay, whatever he was to you, whatever strange heat curled around your being when you thought of him, was in the center of it.

You back away from the doorway, heart racing, afraid they’ll hear the thunder of it. You scurry down the hallway like a ghost retracing its steps, back into the sanctuary of your room where shadows feel safer than light. You close the door with trembling hands and slide down the back of it, sinking to the floor. Your mind echoes with voices; dangerous, sharp-edged voices and Jay’s name spinning like a coin tossed too high. Sleep does not find you again that night. Only questions. And fear.

The morning slips in on golden threads, soft and unassuming, the kind of light that warms the wooden floorboards and dapples the countertops in sleepy patches. You haven’t said a word about what you heard the night before those heavy truths folded into the silence between heartbeats but they thrum beneath your skin like a second pulse. Still, when your mother calls you down the hallway, brisk and bright, you answer as if nothing inside you has changed. “Put on something nice,” she says, her voice already trailing off into the kitchen. “We’re heading to the bake sale. Church is raising funds for that wedding coming up. Sohiya and Heeseung, bless them.”

You pause with your hand on the stair rail, her words wrapping around your throat like ivy. Sohiya. She was your age, sweet and soft-spoken, with delicate wrists and laughter like wind chimes. And Heeseung, kind-eyed and quiet, the type who always held the door open and bowed his head when he prayed. The idea of them marrying, so young, so sudden, presses strangely on your chest. You dress in silence, the pastel linen of your skirt swishing against your legs like a lullaby as you smooth your hair, your reflection half-faded in the antique mirror on your wall. Outside, the town is already stirring, the sleepy streets of your village slowly waking, touched by the scent of sugar and cinnamon wafting through the breeze.

At the town square, white tents have been strung with bunting, and tables bow beneath the weight of confections, pies with latticed crusts, sugar cookies shaped like doves, and cupcakes topped with icing roses that seem too delicate to eat. The air hums with the soft murmur of neighbors, laughter bubbling here and there like springwater. It is all so pleasant, so falsely perfect, like a painting trying to forget the shadows in its corners. You spot Yunah by the jam stall, her dark braid swinging as she waves you over with a grin, her mother deep in conversation with someone about flour prices and wedding favors. As soon as you reach her, she grabs your arm and leans in, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Have you heard?” she whispers, the kind of tone that makes your stomach drop before you even know why. “Sohiya’s pregnant. That’s why the wedding’s so rushed.” Your brows lift in quiet shock. Yunah nods, savoring your reaction like a bite of forbidden cake. “I heard it from my cousin who heard it from Eunju, who heard it from her older sister. Her parents found out last week and demanded the wedding happen before anyone else starts talking.”

You glance across the bake sale and find Sohiya near the lemonade stand, her hands wringing the hem of her blouse, Heeseung standing beside her like a ghost, present, but hollow. She looks tired, like someone who’s been carrying a secret too long, her smile wilting at the edges every time someone congratulates her. Your heart aches in the quiet way only girlhood understands. You’re the same age. You’ve braided your hair the same, sat in the same church pews, hummed the same hymns. But now she’s stepping into a life that feels ten years too soon. A house. A husband. A child.

“I couldn’t imagine,” you murmur, voice soft and low, “being married right now.” Yunah shrugs, biting into a shortbread cookie. “You and me both. But you know how this town is. A scandal like that?” She shakes her head. “It’s either a wedding or exile.” You nod slowly, eyes lingering on Sohiya, on the way she keeps glancing over her shoulder like the whispers might catch up to her. The same way you feel the breath of last night’s secrets still clinging to yours. Beneath the sugar and sunlight, the square feels brittle. Like one wrong word could make it all shatter.

It happens suddenly, like thunder splitting the hush of an approaching storm. One moment you’re nibbling on a vanilla cupcake and nodding along as Yunah whispers about scandalous bridal fittings and strict seamstresses, and the next, the air warps; sharp, brittle, buzzing like a struck wire. The shift is instant, the kind of moment that bends the bones of a quiet afternoon and sets hearts galloping. You hear it first; a voice, sharp and raw with fury. Then the low, sickening thud of someone being shoved against a wall.

Your head snaps toward the commotion, and the whole bake sale ripples with the echo of gasps and stilled conversations. Tables tremble, frosting smears, and parents clutch their children a little closer. Near the corner of the community center, just beneath the old iron sconce where flyers for choir practice flutter weakly, Jay is pinned; pressed against sun-warmed brick by another boy, taller, angrier, eyes gleaming with betrayal. It’s Felix. You know him. Sweet-talking, easy-laughing Felix who works at the town’s little mechanic shop and always smells like motor oil and mint gum. His voice is raised now, ragged and venomous.

“You fucked my girlfriend, you sick bastard!” he roars, his arm slamming across Jay’s chest, voice loud enough to slice through every inch of sugar-sweet air. Yumi is there too, her mascara running like rivers down her cheeks, her hands fluttering uselessly in front of her as she pleads with Felix, voice breaking like porcelain in her throat. “It wasn’t like that, please,” she cries, grabbing at his arm. “Please, stop. It was a mistake — he didn’t mean—”

But Jay only stands there, infuriatingly calm. There’s a half-lidded smirk painted across his lips, smug and gleaming like polished obsidian. “Relax, Felix,” he drawls, voice thick with venom-laced honey. “I didn’t know she was yours. She didn’t exactly say no.” The words are a match. Felix snaps. His fist connects with Jay’s jaw in a brutal arc, a punch that sounds like thunder cracking bone. Gasps scatter like doves taking flight. Yumi shrieks, and a cupcake tray crashes to the ground somewhere nearby, frosting splattering like a pink and white wound.

Jay stumbles back from the blow, hand flying to his cheek but then he laughs. Actually laughs, a low, taunting sound, wild and cruel and so full of gall it steals the breath from your lungs. “You hit like a fucking choir boy,” he spits, blood blooming on his lower lip like a rose in ruin. People rush in, pastors, parents, volunteers with gloved hands and worried brows pulling Felix back, dragging Jay away, trying to stitch dignity back into the seams of a moment too far undone.

The crowd swells, then parts. Jay is being hauled out by a man in a navy windbreaker and a church elder with trembling hands. But even bruised, even bleeding, Jay looks untouchable; smirking like he owns the goddamn town. And then he sees you. Eyes dark as ink, wild with something you can’t name. He meets your gaze across the chaos, across the bodies and ruined cakes and shattered calm. He winks. It’s slow. Intentional. And it sets your spine on fire. You forget how to breathe. He disappears into the crowd, the echo of that wink burning behind your eyes like the sun.

Your heart is still galloping when the crowd begins to settle, when the ripples of scandal soften into murmurs and murmurs dissolve into sugared distractions. Parents usher children away with tight smiles and tighter hands, as if sweetness could scrub away the memory of fists and curses. Jay is gone, at least from sight. But not from your mind. “You know,” Yunah says beside you, folding her arms, her voice sharpened with knowing, “he’s no good. Just trouble in designer clothes.”

You nod, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. What you’re expected to believe. What every decent girl in this village is raised to fear. But inside you, curiosity blooms like a slow-burning match, small and dangerous. You mumble something about needing the bathroom and excuse yourself before she can press further, her eyes already narrowing in suspicion. The church looms behind you as you slip away, its whitewashed walls glowing warm in the early afternoon light, the air thick with the scent of sun-baked frosting and wilted roses. But beneath it — just barely, you catch another scent. Smoke. Acrid, earthy, wrong.

You follow it. Each step feels reckless, like dancing barefoot on a chapel floor. Like carving your name into a hymnbook. The scent grows stronger as you round the corner of the church, your breath catching in your throat like a moth in a jar. And there he is. Jay.

He leans against the wall like he was born to break rules and balance on the edge of forgiveness. One foot propped behind him, head tilted back, the collar of his shirt loosened and stained with a drop of blood near the seam. His cigarette glows like an ember in the low light, the curl of smoke rising from it like a ghost ascending. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. In fact, he barely even glances your way. Just takes a drag, exhales slow, like the chaos he caused hasn’t even nicked his soul. Like the fight, the punch, the girl, the whispers, none of it mattered.

“Didn’t think you’d come looking,” he says finally, voice low, almost bored. But there’s a thread of something else underneath; taunt or tease, you can’t tell. “You don’t seem the type.” You should leave. You should turn around, march back to the bake sale, and pretend you never followed smoke down a church wall. But your feet stay planted, heart hammering as loud as the chapel bells. You don’t say a word. You just watch him, silently, like he’s a puzzle carved from shadow and sin and the ache of wanting something you know you shouldn’t.

Jay flicks ash onto the gravel path, his eyes cutting toward you through the smoke, one brow raised lazily. His lip is split, a bloom of red painting the edge of his smirk. “You see something you like?” he asks. And for one terrible, breathless moment you don’t know the answer. The question drips from his mouth like smoke, slow, curling, coaxing. Not crude, not exactly. But not innocent, either. It lands somewhere in the charged space between your ribs and your throat, where breath gets tangled with hesitation.

You should scoff. Roll your eyes. Offer him the same disdain he so casually invites from the world. But you don’t. Because there’s something about the way he looks at you; like you’re not just another girl in a white dress and soft shoes, but someone he sees through, into. Like he knows your name and the weight it carries. Knows the walls you live behind, and the cracks that run silent and deep beneath your polished smile. You step closer without meaning to, arms crossed loosely, trying to look like the kind of girl who doesn’t care what boys like him say. But your voice comes softer than you mean for it to. “I didn’t come looking for you.”

Jay chuckles, low and dark, like gravel skimming the bottom of a stream. He doesn’t believe you. That much is clear. He drops the cigarette to the dirt and grinds it out with the heel of his boot, the smoke hissing away like a secret being silenced. “No?” he says, stepping just slightly forward, head tilted. “Then why are you here, church girl?” You flinch a little at the nickname. It’s not mean. But there’s weight in it. A reminder of everything you’re supposed to be. Everything he isn’t.

“I heard… noise,” you mumble, eyes darting away, to the cracked siding of the church wall. “From earlier. I just… I wanted to see if you were okay.” Jay scoffs this time, straightens, stretches the muscles in his shoulders like a wolf rising from slumber. “You mean after I got punched for screwing some girl who cried over it?”

He says it like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t matter. Like none of it, the punch, the drama, the girl, was anything more than a flicker in the dark. And still, the wound at the edge of his lip glistens like it wants to be noticed. You hesitate, then speak quietly. “That was cruel. What you did.”

He watches you now, like your words are more interesting than they have any right to be. “Probably,” he agrees, not flinching. “But she knew what it was. I’m not the one playing pretend.” The words settle over you like dust, heavy and old and aching. You want to hate him. You really, truly do. You want to believe he’s everything your father says, that he’s rotten at the root, grown from betrayal and greed and the same sharp-edged steel his father used to cut yours down.

But he looks at you then, and there’s something in his expression, not smugness, not bravado; but something rawer. Wearier. Like he’s been fighting a war so long he’s forgotten what peace feels like. You find your voice again, softer now. “Why do you act like this?” Jay blinks slowly, like you’ve asked him a question no one’s ever dared to. Then, in a voice barely louder than a confession, he says, “Because people already made up their minds about me a long time ago. Figured I might as well give them what they want.” It slices through the silence like a nail through silk.

You swallow, the wind tugging at your skirt, the chapel bells tolling in the distance; calling the faithful back inside, as if to protect them from boys like him and girls like you who linger too long in the gray. Jay takes a step back, pulling another cigarette from the pocket of his jacket, but he doesn’t light it. Just rolls it between his fingers like a habit he hasn’t learned how to quit. “Run along now,” he mutters, eyes dark. “Before your daddy comes lookin’. Wouldn’t want you shipped off to a convent, would we?”

And this time, when he smirks, there’s no cruelty in it. Just something almost sad. You hesitate one more breath, just one, before turning, your footsteps light on the gravel, your heart anything but. But as you leave, you can feel his gaze still on your back. Burning. Etching your outline into his memory like a prayer he’ll never speak.

You scurry back around the side of the church, fingers fumbling with the hem of your dress, your breath still tinged with the ghost of smoke. The sun presses down hard now, warm and high in the sky, yet you feel cold beneath your skin, as though the truth of that boy has left a frostbite behind, unseen but pulsing. The bake sale has resumed its sugary rhythm, laughter bubbling from ladies with sunhats and teenagers handing out lemonade like the world isn’t slowly unraveling around you. As if it’s all sweet and simple, and boys like Jay Park don’t burn holes in the script you were meant to follow.

Yunah finds you with a look that speaks volumes, one brow raised, lips pursed slightly like she already knows you’ve done something that would make your parents spit their tea. She doesn’t say anything, though. Just hands you a paper plate with a melting brownie on it and raises her eyes toward the sky like she’s giving you a silent prayer. You offer a small, guilty smile and fall in step beside her. But your thoughts are no longer here. They wander, wild and unbidden, to the shadows of last night.

To your bare feet on the cold wood floor, the whisper of your nightgown brushing your ankles. The hush of the house heavy around you as you crept down the hallway, drawn like a moth to the faint hum of voices in the kitchen. You hadn’t meant to listen. But once you’d heard, you couldn’t unhear it. The names, the threats, the implication that beneath all this civility was something far darker. Something like war. “We can’t let them find out we’re disturbing their shipments.” — “That little punk Jay needs to be dealt with.” — “He can try,” Taehyun had said, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it, like a blade honed under moonlight.

Your father, standing there like a general. Cold. Unmoving. He hadn’t even flinched at the suggestion of retaliation. Of vengeance. You hadn’t wanted to believe it, but there it was, your family wasn’t just at odds with the Parks over pride and betrayal. There were stakes hidden deeper than Sunday sermons and fake smiles at bake sales. Stakes that bled and burned. Stakes that made boys disappear and fathers never come home. Jay. A name spoken like venom in your house, a boy your father swore was born from rot and ruin. A boy who had dared to look at you today with something that felt like a challenge. Or a warning.

Your fingers tighten around the paper plate in your hands, the brownie trembling on the wax paper like it knows it doesn’t belong in your grip. You don’t belong here, either. Not really. Not with your head full of cigarette smoke and secrets. Yunah is saying something beside you, but the words slip past like water on stone. You nod when you’re supposed to. Smile when expected. But inside? Inside, you’re still standing at the edge of that hallway, hearing the words that changed everything. Inside, you’re still by that church wall, staring into the eyes of the boy your father would rather see buried than anywhere near you. And worse than all of it is the ache that curls low in your belly because you don’t know if you’re scared of Jay… or of how much you want to understand him.

That night, the air in the house is thick with something unsaid. Like storm clouds gathering just out of sight, grumbling low and slow in the distance. The walls creak with old secrets and the whispers of generations past, all of them watching, waiting. You lie in bed, the covers tangled around your legs, staring up at the ceiling where the shadows stretch like spiderwebs. But sleep doesn’t come. Not when your mind is still caught in that kitchen, when you still hear your father’s voice like thunder and Taehyun’s like flint striking stone.

The question gnaws at you, small and sharp and relentless: what did they mean? What are they doing, what is Jay tangled in that your family feels the need to speak of him like a threat, like a ghost they can’t quite kill? So you get up. The floorboards are cold under your feet, the hallway dim save for the light spilling beneath Taehyun’s door, a golden sliver cutting the dark. You hover there for a second, unsure, your hand paused mid-air. Then you knock gently, once, twice.

“It’s open,” his voice calls out, slightly muffled. You step in and find him hunched over his desk, textbooks spread like wings, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks up at you, blinking like he’s surfacing from underwater. “What’s up?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting just barely. “Don’t tell me you need help with trig again.”

You close the door softly behind you and step further into the room, suddenly unsure how to phrase what’s been burning in your chest for the past twenty-four hours. So you just say it, straight and small:

“I heard you. Last night. You and Dad.” His entire body stiffens like wire pulled taut. He leans back in his chair, pen dropping from his fingers as his face darkens with something between disappointment and dread. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he says, his voice low, more exhale than sound. “Conversations like that aren’t meant for young girls.”

You bristle. “I’m only a year younger than you.” He gives you a look, half warning, half weary affection. “And that year makes a difference.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you insist, crossing your arms. “I’m not a child, Taehyun.” He sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair, frustration flashing across his face like lightning. “You think being an adult is about age? It’s about what you’re ready to carry. And you’re not ready for this.”

“Then help me understand.” Your voice is soft but steady. “Help me understand why everyone talks about Jay like he’s poison. Like he’s something to be eliminated.” The name slips out before you can stop it. Jay. A matchstick against stone.

Taehyun’s eyes narrow. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t —” you start, but the lie tastes bitter. He stands abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the hardwood. “You do care. Don’t lie to me.”

You look away, your heart pounding like it wants out of your chest. “I saw him today,” you admit. “At the bake sale. We didn’t talk long. I just —”

“You talked to him?” Taehyun’s voice cracks like a whip. “Are you out of your mind?”

“He didn’t hurt me—” You started.

“That’s not the point,” he snaps. “You don’t know what kind of shit he’s involved in. What his family is capable of. This isn’t some schoolyard rivalry, alright? This is blood and business. He’s dangerous.”

“You don’t get to tell me who to talk to,” you hiss, your hands trembling. “You’re not the boss of me.” His jaw clenches so tight you swear you hear it grind. “Actually,” he says slowly, icily, “I am. Until you know better, I am.”

That does it. The fury rises in you like a storm tide. You don’t shout. You don’t cry. You just spin on your heel and stalk out of his room, your footsteps like gunshots down the hallway. Behind you, Taehyun doesn’t follow. He just lets the door click shut between you. And you, you retreat to your room with your chest heaving and your thoughts in shambles, torn between the brother who wants to protect you and the boy who might just ruin you.

But wasn’t that what drew you in the first place? Not the danger.The possibility. The proof that something — someone could make you feel something real, even if it burned.

The bell above the shop door tinkles faintly as you step out into the embrace of night. Mrs. Chen waves at you from behind the counter, her fingers still dancing with a needle and thread as the lamplight paints golden halos around her silver hair. You smile, small and tired, the weight of the day settling in your bones, and close the door behind you. The sky outside is bruised with twilight, bleeding violet and blue as the sun disappears behind the hills that cradle your little town. The street lamps blink on one by one, flickering like hesitant stars, and the cobbled road that winds through the town glows amber in the gathering dark.

You wrap your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders, feeling the press of the cool evening air against your skin. The walk home isn’t far, just fifteen minutes down roads you’ve known since childhood, roads that smell of lilac and woodsmoke and safety. Roads that always, always felt like home. But tonight, something feels different. It begins as a whisper at the base of your neck. That sense; not quite sound, not quite sight but the ancient, instinctual knowledge that you are no longer alone. Your footsteps echo a beat behind yours, too steady to be wind, too light to be mere imagination.

You glance back. A man. Far enough that he could still be a coincidence, close enough that your pulse begins to drum faster. You turn onto a narrower lane, hoping to lose him in the winding streets, past Mrs. Lee’s bakery now shuttered for the night, past the small chapel with its bowed iron gates and flickering candles in the windows. Your footsteps quicken. So do his. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing; just a late walker, a neighbor maybe, but your hands are starting to shake. Then you hear it.

The scrape of shoe leather quickening. The sound of breath, heavy, sharp, close. Panic surges like a tide inside you. You break into a run, your feet pounding the pavement, your breath catching in your throat, heart clawing at your ribs like a wild animal. But you don’t get far. A hand slams over your mouth. Another arm snakes around your waist, yanking you back so fast your heels lift off the ground. You try to scream, but your voice is strangled by a palm that tastes of sweat and cigarettes, of something sickly and metallic. The world tilts. You’re dragged, stumbling, into the shadows of an alley.

The narrow passage smells of rust and rot, wet stone and old things. Your feet scrape against gravel, your knees buckle, and still he drags you like you’re nothing more than a sack of flour. “Shhh,” he hisses into your ear, breath hot and rank, “make a sound and I swear to God—” But you’re fighting now, kicking, flailing, desperate not to disappear into the black corners of this town like a ghost no one will remember. Your mind reels. You think of Taehyun. Of your mother’s soft hands. Of Jay’s cigarette smoke curling like a warning. You think: not like this. Not like this.

You are a wild thing now, thrashing and clawing like some animal pulled too soon from the womb of safety, a fledgling bird tossed mid-air and told to fly. His arm is like iron around your chest, squeezing until breath is no longer breath but gasps made of salt and fear. You kick. You scream. The sound doesn’t even sound like you, it's raw, primal, jagged like broken glass tearing up your throat. Then instinct, burning desperate inside your veins, you sink your teeth into his hand. Hard. Hard enough to feel flesh give, to taste copper and skin and filth. He howls, a sound not quite human, and in the next heartbeat, his hand rears back and strikes your cheek with such force that the world spins. White-hot pain blossoms beneath your eye like a cruel flower, petals blooming in shades of red and violet.

You fall. Hard. The gravel bites into your palms, your knees scream, but nothing compares to the kick to your stomach that follows. A boot, sharp and merciless, lands right where your breath lives. It punches the air from your lungs and leaves you folded on the earth like a broken prayer, stars exploding behind your eyes, nausea clawing up your throat. He’s above you now, shadowed and snarling, and there’s a moment, a single, stretched-out beat of time, where you wonder if this is how the story ends. A foot raised. The night around you holding its breath. Your body too stunned to move.

Then it happens. A blur. A sound like thunder colliding with flesh. The man is ripped away from you in an instant, tackled to the ground with such force that the cobblestones rattle. You hear the grunt of fists meeting ribs, the dull wet thud of a punch, another, another, bone against bone, like a drumbeat played by fury. Jay. He’s on top of him now, all sinew and violence, his face carved in rage, lips peeled back like a wolf in the final act of warning. His fists fly like they’ve waited their whole life for this moment, no technique, just raw, vicious instinct. The man beneath him sputters, tries to buck him off, but Jay is unrelenting. There’s blood, somewhere, someone’s and it paints Jay’s knuckles like war paint.

“Touch her again,” he growls low, venom slithering through each syllable, “and I’ll make sure you never touch anything again.” He says it not like a threat, but like a promise carved in stone. You can’t move. You can barely breathe. You're crumpled on the cold ground, blinking through pain and fear and disbelief. But through the haze, you watch Jay stand, chest heaving, jaw clenched, the man groaning at his feet like something discarded. But Jay doesn’t stop.

His knuckles keep rising and falling like thunder crashing on a cursed shoreline, relentless, wild, each blow drawn from something deeper than fury, a darkness that lives in his marrow, in the cracks behind his eyes. The man beneath him is coughing now, spitting blood between laughter, a cruel, rasping sound that haunts the alley like a specter. And Jay, jaw set like a guillotine, grabs the man by the collar, shoving him harder against the wall, until the bricks groan and dust spills like ash. “Who sent you?” Jay spits, voice sharp enough to cut air. “Who do you work for?” The man just chuckles, a hideous, broken sound leaking out of a bruised throat. His lip splits wider with every word, but still he smirks like a man with nothing left to lose.

“You think I’d ever tell you?” he sneers, coughing through blood. “You’re just a kid playing gangster.” Jay growls low in his throat, an animal sound, and the next punch lands with such weight it echoes. The man gasps. You flinch. The wind shifts and carries the scent of blood and cigarette smoke into your lungs like smoke from a funeral pyre.

You push yourself up, your limbs trembling, bones whispering protest. Pain blooms in your side where his boot struck, your face throbs, but still you crawl forward, palms scraping against gravel and broken glass. You reach them. Jay’s crouched like a storm about to strike, the man limp but still smirking like he knows some secret that Jay doesn’t. “Stop,” you say, voice hoarse, barely a whisper, like something stitched together with threadbare breath. “Jay, stop. You’re going to kill him.”

He doesn’t even look at you at first. His eyes are locked on the man, flame-red and feral, his chest rising and falling like the sea before it devours a ship. Then slowly, he turns, and there's something broken in his face, something wild and bitter and unspoken. “Good,” he says, teeth gritted like steel on steel. “He deserves to die.” The words fall heavy in the dark, sharp as glass in a chalice. You reach out, your fingers barely grazing his shoulder and shake your head, a tremble chasing the motion. “Please,” you whisper, not sure if you’re begging for the man’s life or for Jay’s humanity to return. “Please… just stop.”

He breathes in hard. For a moment, the silence stretches too long, pregnant with violence and decision. But then something flickers behind his eyes, a light sputtering back to life, weak and shaking, but there. Jay lets go. The man crumples to the ground, groaning, blood trailing from his mouth like ink from a broken pen. He stares at Jay, equal parts terrified and awed, and then stumbles to his feet, sways like a drunk ghost, and bolts into the dark alley without another word, just the sound of his heels slapping pavement like a heartbeat fleeing death. The world is quiet again. But not peaceful.

Jay turns to you, breath ragged, hands stained red. His jaw twitches as if he’s trying to say something, but the words dissolve before they can take form. He just steps forward, closing the space between you and reaches down, hand outstretched. “Come on,” he says, voice quieter now, softer, not sharp enough to cut but still trembling from what it almost became. You stare at his hand for a moment, at the boy who just fought like a monster to save you. And then, with shaking fingers, you let him pull you up from the wreckage.

He looks at your face, and something flickers in those storm-dark eyes of his; something close to concern, but too buried beneath bravado to fully surface. His fingers ghost the edge of your jawline, not quite touching but close enough to feel like lightning waiting for the right tree. He tilts your chin ever so slightly, examining the swelling beneath your cheekbone with an expression that makes your stomach twist. “That’s going to bruise,” he mutters, voice low and sandpaper-rough. You nod, slowly, wincing as the movement stirs pain. “Why did you help me?”

The question hangs in the cool night air like incense in a chapel, sweet, uncertain, sacred. He shrugs, a movement so nonchalant it’s maddening. Like he hadn’t just saved your life. Like the blood on his knuckles wasn’t still drying into his skin. “I don’t know,” he says, eyes flickering away like they don’t owe you the truth.

You stand there, aching and trembling and furious at the way your heart stutters beneath your ribs. You should be scared. You should be disgusted, shaken to the bone from the violence, from the pain still blooming like a bruise across your ribs. But all you can feel is warmth curling in the pit of your stomach, uninvited and undeniable. “Thank you,” you whisper, unsure if it’s gratitude or confession.

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting his gaze back to yours. “Don’t thank me.” His tone is firm, but not cruel. It’s the sound of someone who doesn’t want to be a hero, who’s been told too many times that he doesn’t deserve kindness. And maybe he believes it. Maybe that’s why he can’t take your thanks, because it tastes too much like absolution. He glances down the road, toward the dim golden lights of town, and then back at you. “I’ll walk you home.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m not asking,” he cuts in, already moving. So you fall into step beside him, the silence between you stretching long and strange. Your body aches with every step, and yet you feel like you’re floating, disconnected, dazed, and tethered only by the steady rhythm of Jay beside you. Like gravity shifted the moment he touched you, and now you orbit around him whether you want to or not. When your house comes into view, a knot tightens in your chest. The porch light is still on, like an accusation. You can already imagine your father’s face, already hear the questions wrapped in thunder and expectation. Jay stops at the edge of the walkway, still cloaked in night.

“When your father asks,” he says, voice low, “don’t tell him I helped you.”

You blink. “What?” He looks at you, unreadable. “Make up a lie. Say you fell or something. Just don’t bring me into it.”

There’s no warmth in his voice, no smile, not even the smirk you’ve come to expect from him. Just a quiet, raw kind of resolve, like he’s asking you to keep a secret that might burn you both if it ever saw daylight. You nod. “Okay.” Jay lingers for a moment, as if he wants to say something more, like maybe this night changed something in him, too. But whatever it is, he swallows it down and turns away without another word.

You watch him go, his silhouette swallowed by the dark, and then you push open the door and step into the light of your home, where lies are stitched as easily as hems and truth is just another thing buried beneath silence. The bruise blooms like a purple flower across your cheekbone. The door clicks shut behind you with the hush of finality, as if the night itself is sealing the pages of its most brutal chapter. But there is no rest in this kind of silence, only the jagged inhale of your mother’s gasp as she turns from the hallway and sees your face under the dim foyer light.

Her slippers skid against the wood as she rushes to you, hands fluttering like frantic birds, afraid to touch, afraid not to. “Oh my god — what happened? What happened to your face?” Her voice is thin, stretched like silk pulled too tight. You flinch as she brushes your cheek with trembling fingers, and just like that, the whole house stirs. Taehyun barrels in from the kitchen, his voice already rising. “What the hell happened?”

Your father follows in his shadow, his presence larger than the room, chest puffed with immediate anger and the bitter scent of panic barely masked beneath the cologne he always wears. “Who did this to you?” The world tilts slightly as all eyes converge on you, their questions digging at your skin like teeth. You open your mouth and close it again, suddenly aware of how fragile the truth is, how it quivers in your throat, aching to be spoken but dangerous to free.

So you breathe in, steady and slow, and choose the half-lie with the cleanest edges. “I was walking home from Mrs. Chen’s,” you begin, voice carefully pitched between tremble and calm. “There was a man… I didn’t recognize him. He followed me, grabbed me. I fought back. I bit his hand. He hit me, but then —” You hesitate, careful not to look in the direction of the window, of the dark where Jay had disappeared only moments before. “He must’ve gotten spooked. He ran off. I don’t know why.” You lower your gaze as the lie coils around your tongue, heavy and sour, but necessary.

Your father’s fists curl at his sides, his jaw set so tight you wonder if he’ll ever speak again. “A man did this to you?” he growls, like the words themselves are fire in his throat. “He laid hands on you?” Taehyun mutters a curse and kicks the wall, hard. The sound cracks through the air like lightning, loud enough to make Minji stir upstairs. Your mother’s hand moves from your cheek to your arm, guiding you to the couch with the reverence of someone handling broken porcelain. She’s whispering something now, prayers, you think. Or maybe just the names of every saint she knows.

“I’ll find him,” your father says, voice flat and cold. “I don’t care if I have to turn over every damn rock in this town.”

“Dad —” you start, but he’s already storming toward the back office, barking orders to no one and everyone at once, a storm given form and fury. Taehyun sits beside you, anger still rolling off of him like heat. He watches you with eyes too sharp, too knowing. “Did you really not see who it was?”

You shake your head, slowly. “It was dark. It happened fast.” He exhales through his nose, not convinced but not ready to argue. “I’ll walk you from now on,” he says. “No more being out late by yourself.” You nod, grateful and guilty all at once, because what you’ve said isn’t the truth, but neither is it a lie that came easily. And somewhere, in the places they cannot see, your body still carries the memory of Jay’s arms, of his rage not directed at you, of the unspoken promise that lived briefly between the blood and bruises. You fold your hands in your lap and lower your eyes, letting your family whirl around you with worry and vengeance and vow. And inside, you tuck your secret into the hollow behind your ribs, where all your dangerous truths now live.

The church bells toll in the morning like an old warning, iron-voiced and hollow, their echoes slipping through the mist that clings to the town’s narrow streets. You walk beside your family in silence, each step heavier than the last, as though shame itself has taken root in your heels. The church rises before you in its usual whitewashed sanctimony, but today it feels more like a stage and you, unwilling, have become the play. You step inside, and instantly, the weight of a hundred unspoken things crashes over you. The air is perfumed with lilies and incense, but beneath it, there's the acrid tang of gossip, hushed tones curled behind cupped hands, eyes flickering like candle flames in your direction. You feel them long before you see them: judgmental, narrow gazes that prick against your skin like nettles. Their stares are veiled in piety, but you know better. You've been raised in a house of wolves pretending to pray.

“They say her daddy’s sins are catching up with him.”

“She was always going to be a target with a name like his.”

“Poor thing — pretty won’t protect you from retribution.”

You don’t hear the words exactly, but they ripple through the wooden pews like ghosts, rising and falling with the organ's song, threading themselves between hymns and halfhearted smiles. It’s in the way they glance at the bruise blooming on your cheek like a crushed violet, in the silence that stretches too long when you pass, in the pity dressed up like politeness. You lower your head, eyes fixed on your polished shoes, hands clasped demurely in front of you, but your pulse hammers in your ears. You don’t dare look around. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of it all pressing down on you like a stone in your chest. The truth you swallowed last night has soured in your gut, bitter as wormwood.

And then, you feel it. A gaze unlike the others. Heavy, direct. You look up instinctively and your eyes lock with Park Chul; Jay’s father. He is sitting two rows ahead with his family gathered close, looking too much like a king among snakes, his tailored suit flawless, his posture regal, and his smile; oh, that smile, it slithers across his face like oil on water. It doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s nothing warm there. Just calculation. Recognition. He sees the bruise. He knows what you’ve left out. The smile he offers you is slow, like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

You blink once and look away, your heart suddenly loud in your ribs. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the pew as you sit down beside your mother, who is already lost in prayer. Your father doesn’t notice, he’s too busy glaring across the aisle at Chul, his disdain worn proudly like a second suit. Jay is there, too, seated beside his sister and looking maddeningly unaffected. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first. But as the choir begins to sing and the congregation rises, you catch it, just the flick of his eyes toward yours, the shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips before he turns his head away like nothing ever happened.

You stand, too, murmuring the first verse of the hymn without really hearing it, the sound a dull hum in your ears. And even though your lips are moving, your mind is far from holy things. Because something is shifting. And though you can’t name it yet, can’t shape it into something solid, you know, deep in the marrow of your bones, that the bruise on your face isn’t the last mark this war will leave. The sermon drones on, words thick with dust and self-righteousness, echoing off vaulted ceilings like old warnings written in blood and parchment. You sit in the pew like a ghost in borrowed skin, present in body but floating elsewhere. The preacher’s voice is meant to be comforting, commanding, divine, but today it’s just noise, a hum beneath the cold stares and whispered rumors still clinging to you like static.

Another glance. Another hushed voice behind a lace-gloved hand. You feel it before you see it, someone’s eyes skating down the bruise along your cheek like it’s a badge you chose to wear, like you’re not already burning beneath their judgment. Your heartbeat climbs, fluttering in your chest like a caged moth. The walls feel too close, the pews too narrow. You can’t breathe. You rise, a breath of movement in a still room, and excuse yourself softly. Your mother doesn’t look up. Your father is lost in thought, your brother staring ahead like he might kill a man with his eyes. You slip out the heavy doors like a shadow, letting the sun kiss your skin again, warmth meeting chill. Outside, the world is quieter. Calmer. Honest.

The church steps are cool beneath you, stone soaked in centuries of rain and repentance. You hug your knees to your chest, resting your chin atop them, and try to slow your breathing. The air carries the faint scent of roses from the cemetery down the hill, and further still, the faintest trace of last night’s terror still lingers behind your ribs. Footsteps behind you, Soft but certain. Crunching gravel. You whip around, heart climbing into your throat. But it’s only Jay. Only.

He stands a moment, watching you with that unreadable expression of his; half smirk, half storm and then lowers himself beside you without a word. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t lean in close. Just sits, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the steps, the church, the whole damn town. You open your mouth to thank him again, to tell him you haven’t stopped thinking about the way he pulled you up from the darkness like a ghost from the grave, but before you can speak, his voice cuts across the silence. “Don’t,” he says. Not cruel, not cold, just… tired. Like he doesn’t need your gratitude weighing down what he did. Like it was inevitable.

Then, quieter, more tentative: “Are you okay?” Your heart stutters at the question. You nod, slow. “Yeah. I think so.” He scoffs, not at you, but at everything. The town. The church. The bruises on your face and the venom on their tongues. “Fuck what those hypocrites in there think,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the stained glass windows above. “They’d rather pray for sinners than help them. Would’ve left you bleeding on the street if it meant saving face.”

A breath of laughter slips from your lips. Not out of humor; more like release. Like someone finally said what your heart couldn’t. And something shifts. The air between you thickens. No longer easy, no longer innocent. It crackles now, like a wire pulled too tight or a sky just before thunder. You turn to him, and he’s already looking at you, really looking, like he sees through the bruises and the silk dress and the good-girl smile you’ve worn like armor for years. Like he sees the fire buried beneath the ashes. And before you can think, before you can flinch, he leans in.

His mouth is warm and certain on yours, and everything slows. The birdsong quiets. The breeze stills. Your breath catches, trembling in your lungs, and for a moment you forget where you are, who you are, just lips and heat and the wild drumbeat in your ears. It’s your first kiss, and it doesn’t feel gentle or hesitant. It feels like a match struck against stone, sudden and bright and dangerous. He pulls back, just slightly, and his eyes hold yours with something fierce and searching. As though he's not sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all.

And then, with aching softness, he leans in again and places a second kiss on your lips, quieter this time, reverent almost. A kiss like a secret. A kiss like a promise or a threat. You don’t know which. Then he stands.

Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t look back. Just runs a hand through his hair and strides back into the church as if nothing just happened. As if he didn’t just turn your world on its side. And you sit there alone, the stone still cool beneath you, the taste of him still on your mouth, your heart trying to decide if it should beat faster in fear or in longing. And for once, you don’t feel like a girl waiting to be told what to do. You feel like a match still burning.

You don’t know how long you sit there, still as breath in a cathedral, the stone steps beneath you holding the echo of his kiss like holy ground. The air around you feels different now, touched by something raw and shimmering, like the hush after lightning splits the sky. Your fingers brush your lips, still warm, still tingling, as though they remember him better than your mind dares to. You’re not sure if it’s madness or magic, but whatever it is, it’s lodged in your chest like a second heartbeat, louder than the church bells, steadier than the sermon inside. Eventually, you rise, legs stiff from sitting too long, and drift back into the chapel’s shadow. Inside, the congregation is standing, voices rising in a hymn that scrapes the heavens, all sharp harmony and practiced devotion. You slip into a seat beside Yunah, whose gaze flickers toward you. There’s something unreadable in her eyes, not judgment, not surprise, just knowing. She doesn’t ask, and you don’t tell. Some moments are too fragile for words, too wild to be captured without breaking.

The service ends, and the tide of townsfolk washes out of the church, trailing perfume and rumors behind them like smoke. Your family is gathered near the front steps, your mother speaking softly to the pastor’s wife, your father speaking not at all, his eyes like twin flints scanning the crowd for any spark of danger. Taehyun stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching Jay with the wary contempt of a guard dog who’s seen the wolf smile. You don’t say anything as you fall into step beside them. Your father reaches for your shoulder like a shield, and you let him, though you feel the ghost of Jay’s touch burning on your skin. The day unfolds like it always does in towns like this, slow and sun-soaked, filled with the scent of pies cooling on windowsills and the soft echo of children’s laughter skipping down cracked sidewalks. But inside you, something is stirring. Something restless and wild and hungry for the unknown.

At home, lunch is quiet. The clink of cutlery against porcelain plates sounds louder than usual. Your father doesn’t ask again about last night, he simply studies you, the way a man might study a cipher he doesn’t like not knowing how to read. Your mother fusses over your bruises with gentle hands and worried eyes, placing a cold compress against your cheek as though she can will the world to be kind with the sheer force of her care. Taehyun is brooding beside you, silent but heavy, like a storm that hasn’t decided whether to stay or roll in angry over the hills. But even with their eyes on you, even with their questions unasked but still hanging in the air like incense, your thoughts are elsewhere.

You think of the alley. The press of fear. The sharp, unforgiving sting of a slap and the curling pain of a foot against your ribs. You think of the man’s laugh, hollow and fearless, and how Jay’s fists had answered it like judgment. You think of Jay’s eyes, dark as spilled ink, and how they’d searched your face like he didn’t want to miss a single flinch. How he kissed you like he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. You think, absurdly, foolishly of what it would be like to kiss him again. And that thought terrifies you.

Because you shouldn’t want him. You shouldn’t even know him. He is every warning your father ever gave you made flesh. He’s trouble written in bold letters across your stars, a promise of ruin in every glance. But still… you want to read him. You want to open that book and trace every redacted page with trembling fingers. That night, you sit on your bedroom floor, your journal cracked open in your lap like a confession booth. You don’t write his name. You don’t dare. But you write how it felt to be seen. To be saved. To be kissed like the world had stopped spinning for a heartbeat. You write it down not to remember, but to prove to yourself it happened. That it was real.

Outside, the moon hangs low, a silver eye watching you from behind thin clouds. And in the silence, your body aches, not from the bruises or the fear, but from wanting. From wondering. From knowing that something has shifted inside you, and nothing will ever be the same again. You lie back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling as though it might whisper answers to your questions. You close your eyes, but sleep does not come. Only his face. Only that kiss. Only the fire you didn’t know could live in someone like you.

The night presses against the glass like a velvet shroud, moonlight sifting through your curtains in soft, trembling strands. The tapping begins like a whisper too shy to speak, delicate and insistent, a beckoning on the other side of the veil. Your heart jolts, caught between sleep and something more primal; something curious, something afraid. Barefoot and cautious, you cross the cool wooden floor, each step light as breath, each movement threaded with unease. When you pull the curtain aside and see him; Jay, standing beneath your window like some starless phantom, your pulse skitters. He’s bathed in silver, his jaw sharp in the moonlight, a shadow of rebellion scrawled across the lines of his face. His hand lifts, two fingers beckoning you closer, not like a thief in the night but a boy who’s lost and desperate and burning with something too big for words.

You lift the latch. He climbs in without ceremony, without sound, landing like wind on the floorboards. The air shifts the moment he enters, and suddenly your small, worn bedroom feels like a world away from everything else; everything loud, everything righteous. You barely whisper his name before his hands find your face, cradling it with a hunger that feels like grief and something more dangerous. He kisses you like he’s been drowning since birth and your mouth is the first breath of air he’s ever tasted.

It’s urgent, almost clumsy in its passion; his fingers lost in your hair, your hands curled into the cotton of his shirt, anchoring yourself to something that shouldn’t feel safe but somehow does. He walks you backwards with care disguised as chaos until your knees hit the edge of your bed, and you sit, breathless, dizzy. He follows, mouth never straying too far from yours, until the world disappears around you. But you pull away, gentle but firm, your palms pressed against his chest like a barricade made of hope and confusion. “What are you doing?” you whisper, your voice trembling not from fear, but from the storm gathering beneath your ribs.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes search your face like he’s looking for absolution in your gaze, something holy to balance the weight of whatever he carries. Finally, he breathes out, low and rough. “I needed to see you.” You sit in that truth for a beat, the quiet humming between your heartbeats. “Is everything okay?”

Jay looks away for the first time. His jaw clenches, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “No,” he says, simply, honestly. “But it doesn’t matter.” A bitter smile plays on his lips. “My father wants something I don’t want to give him.” You nod, not asking, not pushing. There is so much you don’t understand yet, but you understand him. The way he sits next to you with shoulders heavy and breath uneven. The way his fingers find yours again like it’s instinct.

Your hand finds his cheek. It’s a quiet gesture, a lullaby without words. “You can stay,” you whisper. He exhales, and there’s something sacred in the way his forehead falls against yours. The kiss he places on your lips this time is different; softer, deeper, unhurried. It tastes like gratitude and confession, like the first pages of a book too dangerous to read aloud. His hands settle at your waist as if anchoring himself in you, and yours curl around his shoulders. You don’t speak again. Not for a while. You let the silence fill the cracks, the breaths between kisses soft and slow, the kind that linger and promise without saying anything at all.

And when he finally falls asleep beside you, his head resting against your shoulder, you stay awake a little longer, watching the way the moonlight rests on his lashes. You think of what it means to keep a secret this delicate. What it means to fall for someone forged in the fire your family fears. You don’t have the answers. But for tonight, you have him. And that is enough.

Dawn unfolds like a sigh across the sky, the pale blush of morning slipping between your curtains and brushing the walls in hues of gold and rose. The world is still hushed in its waking breath, and for a moment, it feels as though time itself is holding its inhale, reverent of the quiet magic nestled between tangled sheets and slow, secret heartbeats. You stir, not with the abruptness of alarm, but the gentle unraveling of sleep's cocoon. There’s warmth beside you, not the abstract kind, but the tangible, breathing presence of someone tethered to this moment with you. Jay lies on his side, propped slightly on an elbow, his gaze fixed not on the window, nor the ceiling, but on you.

There’s something unguarded in the way he looks at you; no smirk, no mask, no carefully constructed armor. Just eyes like storm clouds caught at sunrise, soft and searching. It startles something in your chest. You blink sleep from your eyes, voice still laced with dreams as you ask, “What time is it?” His lips quirk, that familiar crooked grin ghosting over his features as he leans closer and murmurs, “Almost six.”

Then, without waiting, without asking, he presses a kiss to your lips, slow and deep and reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he’s tracing every fragile thread that tethered last night’s chaos to this quiet intimacy. You kiss him back, languidly, until the haze lifts just enough for reality to set its feet back down. You pull away, breath brushing his cheek, and whisper, “What are we doing, Jay?”

There’s a pause, a brief flicker of hesitation across his brow. His hand, warm against your hip, stills. “We’re having fun,” he says at last, like it’s simple, like it’s something that doesn’t ache to hear. You sit up, the sheets slipping from your shoulders like petals falling in protest. There’s a steel note in your voice now, a tremor wrapped in resolve. “I’m not just some girl you kiss in the dark,” you say, eyes catching his. “I don’t do this. I don’t just… fool around. I believe in love.”

He’s quiet for a heartbeat too long. Then he sits up, too, crossing the small distance between you with one hand gently cupping your jaw. The air stills. His thumb traces the edge of your cheekbone as his eyes search yours. “You’re my girl,” he says, voice low, like a promise soaked in shadow and light. “If you want to be.” The simplicity of the words catches you off guard. No grand declarations, no silver-tongued poetry. Just that raw and real and something you can hold.

A blush colors your cheeks like the blooming of first spring after a cruel winter. You nod, your voice a thread of warmth, “I want to be.” And then you’re kissing again, with a new kind of urgency, not born from fear or secrecy or rebellion, but from the aching sweetness of something finally named. His hands cradle you with more care this time, reverent, as if he knows what you’re giving him. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring him, anchoring yourself to the weightless gravity of this moment.

It grows heated; breath against necks, hands skimming skin, whispered sighs and unspoken want. But there is no rush, no need to chase the edge of desire. You pause, your forehead pressed to his, and he doesn’t push. He stays. He breathes with you. And in that moment, it feels like the world, with all its judgment and fury, has fallen away. There is only this morning. Only this softness. Only the boy who held you under a bruised sky and the girl who believed, still, in love.

His kisses continue softly, his hands still like steel on your hip — grazing the skin where your pajama top rose slightly. “Jay..” You trailed, breathless.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He looked at you with heavy eyes, a dopey smile on his face. You were playing with fire here — suiting up to get burned. This was dangerous, who knew what your father and Taehyun would do if they knew Jay was in here with you, kissing you. It could very well be the end of him as you knew it. Your hands found Jay’s chest, pushing slightly to give yourself room.

“I’m worried.” You say, your voice small. “My family hates you —”

“Who cares?”

“I do.” Your voice was stern. You wanted him to know you were serious. That even though you sometimes hated how protective they were, you still loved them, respected them. And what you were doing right now in your room was forbidden, it was wrong. A part of you didn’t care. You felt free from the shalkes tied to your life for the first time and you’d do anything to keep that feeling. But an equal part of you felt ashamed at the lying. You were not one to lie. Especially to your family.

“They can’t tell you what to do.” Jay’s tone is soft like he knows this is a delicate topic. He’s using his kid gloves on you and you hated it.

“They don’t.” You huffed. Jay’s eyebrow lifts slightly, like he doesn’t believe you in the slightest. “Fine.” You sigh. “They do.”

“Don’t let them.”

“It’s not that easy Jay.”

“It can be.” He argues. “Just do whatever you want.”

“You try doing that with a father like mine.” The words slip from your lips before you could stop them, before you could think. Because Jay did have a father like yours; they were one in the same no matter how much they hated each other. Jay looked at you like he understood your slip up. He said nothing further, he didn't need to. It was an unspoken agreement between you too.

“Jay?” You asked warily. Jay hums, returning his lips to your collarbone as he leaves feather-like kisses over the skin. “What did your father want you to do that you didn’t want to?”

You don’t miss the way his entire body stiffens like a statue made of clay. You don’t miss the second he takes to answer and the shift in his tone. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, okay?.” He says, a smile on his face. You stay silent and he doesn’t elaborate, instead reattaching his lips to your neck once again. Maybe in distraction, or maybe because he really didn’t care — either way, it worked.

You allowed him his freedom to roam your body as he pleased. and you enjoyed it, god help you — you actually enjoyed it. You craved more and like the devil himself took over you, your lips parted only a sigh leaving “Please.”

What were you asking for? Were you ready to have sex? To lose your virginity? and to Jay of all people? You weren’t sure. It was like Jay could sense your hesitance, his head shaking no as soon as the words left your lips. “You’re not ready, baby.” He whispered into your temple. and he was right. You weren’t. So instead he stayed in your bed. Not much longer but long enough for you to really miss him when he left.

It was barely seven am when he decided it was time to climb out the window he came from the night before leaving only a whisper of himself and the memory of his lips on your own. It was a hollow feeling, one you couldn’t show when the rest of your family awoke and crawled out of their beds. You had to act normal. Like the enemy wasn’t right under their noses only a door down for the entirety of the night.

The morning light was pale and indifferent, stretched thin across the sky like a faded lace curtain, and you watched your father and Taehyun disappear down the long gravel drive, their figures swallowed by the dust trail of the pickup truck and the unspoken weight of their business. You didn’t need to be told anymore, it was stitched into the sharp glances exchanged over dinner, into the coded conversations that dropped into silence when you entered the room. “Shipments,” they called them. But you were no longer a child swayed by misdirection and empty euphemisms. You had lived enough in shadows now to know when men spoke in half-truths and loaded words. Still, you said nothing. Because silence, you were beginning to learn, was its own kind of survival.

Your mother bustled through the house like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower, gathering Minji’s shoes and packing a tin of the sweet bean buns Mrs. Lee down the road had brought over. You watched her from the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, half-lost in your thoughts until she mentioned she’d be taking Minji over to the Parks’. “To play with Soojin,” she said, not looking up from her careful wrapping. Her voice was light, casual, like it was nothing more than an errand, like the name Park didn’t hold tension in your bones and a sudden, blooming heat in your chest. “I’ll come,” you said suddenly. Your mother looked up, startled, brows slightly lifted. “You want to come?” Her voice held a delicate edge of suspicion, like she couldn’t decide if she’d misheard you or if you were up to something you hadn’t yet put into words.

You nodded, steady. “Yeah,” you said, reaching for your coat. “I’d like to see Soojin.” That was the lie you chose. And to your surprise, your mother offered no protest, just a quiet, searching look and then a simple, “Alright then.” The drive to the Park house was quiet, save for Minji’s soft humming in the backseat and the rhythmic turning of tires on dirt. The landscape rolled past in sepia tones, fields dotted with brittle grass, fences leaning like tired old men, the occasional burst of gold where the last stubborn wildflowers refused to bow to autumn’s chill. And then, the house appeared, grand in its own weathered way, with its wide porch and flaking paint and the lingering ghost of old money, old power, clinging to its bones. Soojin ran out to greet Minji, her laugh a bright trill in the cold morning air, and your mother excused herself inside with Mrs. Park, Jiyo, with a container of red bean buns tucked beneath her arm like a peace offering.

You lingered on the porch, pretending to straighten Minji’s jacket, pretending not to scan the windows, not to listen for footsteps. The air was thick with anticipation, though nothing had yet happened. That was the trouble with secrets, you carried them even when no one asked you to, let them soak into your skin until they colored everything. And then there he was, Jay, stepping out from around the side of the house with that same easy, careless gait, a cigarette between his fingers and mischief in his gaze. He was the storm you had let into your room, into your lungs, and now he lingered like the scent of smoke in your pillowcase. You didn’t speak, not yet. Just held his eyes as he approached, the ground between you crackling with everything unsaid, everything that was coming. And in the quiet beat before words, before explanation, you realized you hadn’t come here for Soojin at all. You’d come for this, to stand in the belly of the lion’s den and feel the pulse of something forbidden, dangerous, and real.

The sun was yawning low over the tree line, casting molten ribbons of gold across the Park’s backyard where Minji and Soojin chased each other in dizzying circles, their laughter rising like wind chimes caught in a summer gust. You watched them through the gauzy screen door, a ghost on the threshold, your arms folded across your chest like you could contain the gnawing question that kept pressing against your ribs: Why had you come? Inside, your mother and Jiyo sat in the sitting room with glasses of white wine that caught the light like glassy honey. Their voices rose and fell in polite crescendos, dulcet tones masking whatever quiet rivalries or histories they once shared. You could see the familiar curve of your mother’s mouth as she smiled too much, nodded too often. The room felt warm and distant, like a dream you weren’t quite invited into.

You didn’t feel like staying downstairs, didn’t feel like sitting with women who spoke in codes and closed-lip smiles. “Excuse me,” you said softly, stepping into the living room. “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?” Jiyo looked up and gave you a generous nod, her hand gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “Upstairs, last door on the right,” she said, then turned back to your mother with the easy grace of someone who had already forgotten you were there.

You climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking beneath your weight like a warning whispered through wood. The house above was hushed, muffled by carpet and secrets. You passed doors half-ajar, the sterile scent of lemon cleaner and aging wood perfuming the air. But when you reached the top of the stairs, something stirred in you, an itch, a pull, the unmistakable gravity of curiosity. You didn’t go to the bathroom. Not at first. You wandered.

It started as a glance into rooms left ajar. A study with a too-clean desk, a guest room with a bed so stiffly made it looked untouched by any soul. And then, Jay’s room. You knew it without needing to be told. The door was slightly cracked, and the air that filtered through was familiar, cologne and cigarette smoke, sweat and something wild, something him. You pushed it open. The room was dim, cluttered but lived-in. A guitar leaned against the far wall, strings dusty but taut. Sketches littered the desk, some crude, some startling in their intensity. A record played softly in the corner, a crackling blues tune that seemed to slow time. You stepped further in, eyes skating across his world, your fingers itching toward the mess.

You told yourself you weren’t snooping. But then you saw them. A pair of sneakers shoved halfway beneath the bed, saturated with dried blood, crusted around the soles. Beside them, a shirt, rumbled and wrinkled, with a maroon stain blooming like a dying flower across the chest. The sight of it stilled the air in your lungs. Your mind raced. You knew that shirt. Or thought you did. It haunted the edges of memory, like a face seen once in a dream or a name heard in a half-slept conversation. Your fingers hovered above the fabric, not quite brave enough to touch it, not quite smart enough to turn away.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice broke across the room like thunder ripping through a still sky. You spun around. Jay stood in the doorway, a silhouette carved in shadow, his face unreadable and hard. The kind of hard that wasn’t born overnight, it was forged, sculpted in fire and violence and too many buried truths. “I — I was just —” you stammered, your throat drying like sand beneath sun.

“You were just what?” he growled, stepping forward. “Looking through my shit?” His eyes blazed with something you didn’t recognize. Not anger exactly, something deeper, more wounded. Betrayed, maybe. Or scared. You opened your mouth, tried to explain, tried to make it sound innocent, but the room felt like it was tilting, spinning around the bloodied cloth and your thundering heart. He was inches from you now, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, his voice low, like gravel and regret.

You swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.” But even as you said it, you knew sorry wouldn’t fix this. You stiffened, the air around you charged like the moment before a summer storm breaks, still, electric, heavy with the promise of thunder. Your fingers twitched away from the shirt just as his voice split the silence again. “I was looking for the bathroom?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Jay said, his voice cutting through the space between you like a cold blade. “You weren’t looking for the bathroom.” You turned to him, spine straightening like iron pulled through a fire, and lifted your chin. You took a breath, steadying your pulse, willing your voice not to tremble. “Don’t talk to me like that,” you said quietly, firmly, like a line drawn in the sand. “I asked you not to.”

He blinked, thrown off by your calm. His chest rose sharply with a breath he hadn’t meant to take. For a heartbeat, the fire between you crackled without direction. Then you reached down, hand hovering once more above the bloodied shirt, and asked the question that had begun clawing at your ribs since the moment you saw it. “What is this, Jay?” Your voice wasn’t accusatory, just soft, curious, laced with something more dangerous than suspicion. Concern. “Why is there blood on this? Are you hurt?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the shirt, then back to your face, something stormy building behind his lashes. Without a word, he stepped forward and yanked it from your hand with a violence that wasn’t meant for you but sliced through the moment all the same. “Mind your own damn business,” he growled, gripping the fabric so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Don’t touch my things.”

The room seemed to grow smaller, the walls pressing in. Your stomach twisted, not in fear, but in hurt. The air between you, once filled with charged possibility, now choked with something unspoken and ugly. “I care about you, Jay,” you said, voice softer than it had any right to be. “If that blood’s yours, if you’re hurt, I deserve to know. I want to know.” He looked at you, really looked, his features warping with conflict. And then, so quietly it was almost a breath, he admitted, “It’s not mine.”

You waited, searching his face for more; anything. But his jaw locked, and his eyes shuttered, and you knew he was already pulling away from you. “Then whose is it?” you asked.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Jay —”

“I said I’m not telling you.” There was finality in his voice, a wall thrown up in a single breath. The boy who kissed you on the church steps, who tapped at your window like a lover from a poem, he was gone now, replaced by something harder, colder, cloaked in silence. Something broke in you. Not loudly, not with fireworks; but quietly, like frost spreading across glass. “Fine,” you said, each syllable clipped and cool. “Keep your secrets.”

You turned and walked past him, your shoulder brushing his as you stormed through the door. His scent lingered; cologne and smoke and something wild, and you hated how your body still ached for him even as your heart folded in on itself. You didn’t look back. Not even when you heard him sigh behind you.

The hour was brittle with sleep, the kind of silence that makes the world feel like it’s holding its breath. Your room was bathed in pale moonlight, the only sound the hum of the summer night outside; until the tapping began again. First gentle, like fingertips brushing a memory. Then louder. More insistent. A quiet desperation dressed in knuckles against glass. You curled tighter beneath the covers, clutching the edge of your pillow like it might anchor you to the dreamless dark. You didn’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not after that. Your heart was still bruised from the words he’d thrown like stones, from the blood he refused to explain, from the locked vault of his silence that you could not pick no matter how softly you knocked.

But the tapping wouldn’t stop. You hissed under your breath, casting a panicked glance toward your door; no footsteps yet, no flickering hallway light. If your mother woke, if Minji stirred... you’d never hear the end of it. Gritting your teeth, you kicked off the covers and padded to the window, throwing back the curtain with a fury that masked the fluttering inside your chest. There he was.

Jay. Like some bruised ghost conjured from a fever dream, standing half-shadowed in the night. But the moment your eyes landed on him, all that anger, the sharp, glittering shards of it, melted away like ice against fire. His face was a tapestry of pain: lip split, eye swelling, blood at the corner of his mouth. There were scratches across his neck, and he was holding his side like something inside him was broken. You pushed the window open without a word and stepped back. He climbed in slowly, like every movement cost him something. And when his feet hit your floor, his strength gave out, he sank onto your bed with a groan, his head tipping forward, hair falling over his eyes.

“Jay,” you whispered, kneeling beside him. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers ghosting along his arm. “What happened?” He winced, jaw tightening. “Don’t ask.”

“Jay —”

“I can’t tell you,” he said, voice raw and quiet, like something torn. “Just — don’t ask.” And for once, you didn’t. You swallowed your questions, letting them die inside your throat. Because the way he looked, beaten, broken, and showing up at your window anyway, was answer enough for now. You fetched the first aid kit you kept hidden in your drawer, remnants of scraped knees and childhood falls, and returned to him. The bed dipped under your knees as you leaned in close, the soft sound of tearing wrappers and unscrewing ointments the only conversation. He hissed as you dabbed antiseptic across a gash on his temple, his hands gripping the bedsheets so tightly his knuckles went pale. But he didn’t pull away.

You worked in silence, your touch gentle despite the chaos churning inside you. There was a sacredness to the moment, a kind of intimacy that didn’t need words, just breath, and closeness, and the quiet permission to fall apart in front of someone. You brushed the blood from beneath his nose, cleaned the dried smear along his jaw. Your fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the unbearable tenderness that unfurled inside you. He looked at you then, through one bruised eye and one clear, his lips parted like he might say something. But nothing came out.

You could’ve leaned in. You could’ve kissed him right then, let him forget the pain with the press of your mouth. But you didn’t. Instead, you cupped his face, thumb stroking gently beneath the bruise that bloomed like a violet shadow under his eye. “You didn’t have to come here,” you whispered. “I didn’t know where else to go.” And your heart cracked wide open.

Jay turned his face toward you, and for a moment, he looked unbearably young. Not the smirking boy with chaos on his tongue, not the ghost who haunted alleyways with fists and fury, but just a boy, lost in something far bigger than himself. The confession was quiet, barely more than breath, but it landed heavy in the hollow of your chest. You looked at him for a long moment, searching the shadows in his face for something, fear, regret, guilt. You didn’t find it. Just sorrow. And a strange, bitter tenderness.

There was a silence, then. The kind that doesn’t ask to be filled. The kind that stretches its limbs across a room and curls up beside you like an old friend. Your fingers found his beneath the covers, roughened knuckles grazing your softer skin, and for a time, you just breathed together, matching rhythm for rhythm, heartbeat for heartbeat. But then it spilled out of you, like water through a cracked dam. “I hate the secrets,” you said, voice catching. “I hate not knowing. I hate feeling like I’m being kept away from something real.”

He turned to face you fully, his brow furrowed. “They’re not to hurt you,” he said. “They’re to protect you.” You scoffed lightly, the sound bitter on your tongue. “That’s just another way of keeping me in the dark.” Jay reached up, brushing your hair back from your face. His fingers were still trembling slightly from whatever hell he’d crawled out of, but his touch was impossibly gentle.

“There are men out there,” he said slowly, “much worse than the one who grabbed you in that alley. Men with no soul behind their eyes. Men who would burn down your world just because it’s beautiful. If they ever came for you…” His jaw tightened, that fire lighting behind his gaze again. “I’d burn the whole fucking earth down first.” Your breath caught. There was no poetry in his words. No soft metaphor. Just pure, raw promise. And it hit you harder than any poem ever could.

Your chest ached with a tenderness so sharp it almost felt like grief; for the boy in your bed, for the pain in his silence, for the thousand versions of himself he had to bury just to survive in the daylight. And in that quiet ache, you leaned in. Your lips met his like a secret, like a prayer. Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just two souls pressing together in the quiet lull of honesty. His hands cupped your face with reverence, as if you were something sacred he wasn’t sure he deserved. You kissed him again, and again, letting the silence slip away with every touch. This wasn’t heat. It wasn’t the chaos that had sparked between you before. This was slower, deeper, an unraveling.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he whispered something you couldn’t quite make out; maybe your name, maybe a plea. You didn’t ask. Because for now, this moment was enough.

The night seemed to stretch on forever, suspended in the quiet hush that followed whispered promises and half-spoken truths. The air in your room was still, yet it hummed with something electric and unspoken; like the pause before a storm or the moment just before a symphony begins. Jay lay beside you, his fingers threading gently through yours, his gaze roaming your face as if memorizing it, committing it to something deeper than memory, carving it into bone, etching it into breath. You turned to him, eyes wide and open like the night sky, and he met your gaze with the same soft wonder. No more walls. No more masks. Just two young hearts aching for something real in a world built on silence and shadows. “I want this,” you said, voice no louder than a falling feather. You were ready to give yourself to him; completely.

Despite the lord's word of marriage before intimacy this felt right. At this moment you couldn't think of anything more perfect than this. He didn’t ask if you were sure. He saw the truth written in the way your hands trembled as they found his face, in the way your breath hitched not from fear but from anticipation, from a kind of reverent awe. The kind that settles between two people who have never done this before; who, even if one of them had, had never done it like this.

There was no rush. No fumbling urgency. Just slow hands and soft sighs, as if the whole world had narrowed to this moment; the curve of your cheek beneath his touch, the shape of your name in his mouth, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Outside, the night pressed close to the glass, the moon a silver sentinel watching over the hush of your room, the silence of surrender. When you gave yourself to him, it wasn’t with hesitation; it was with trust, wrapped in candlelight and starlight and the unspoken understanding that nothing would ever be quite the same. Not after this. And in that moment, you weren’t the daughter of a man wrapped in danger.

“Oh my god.” You sighed out as he thrust into you with a decadent ease. His touch light, his hands roaming your body like he owned it. And tonight, he did. Your moans were quiet — not to disturb your mother and sister. The soft thump of the headboard against the wall only slightly worrisome to your otherwise clouded judgement. Tonight, He wasn’t the boy with blood on his hands and secrets behind his teeth. You were just two people, breaking open beneath the weight of something delicate and real.

He held you like something precious, like a wish whispered into the dark, and you clung to him like a prayer. And when it was over, when your bodies stilled and the world exhaled around you, you lay in his arms with your heart thudding softly against his chest. Not afraid. Not uncertain. Just full. And maybe that was the real miracle. Not the act itself, but the way you both emerged from it; still whole, but changed. Softened. Strengthened. As if love, in its quietest form, had found you in the dark and called you home.

Morning came like a whisper you didn’t want to hear; pale light creeping through your curtains, unwelcome, stirring you from the warmth left behind on your sheets. You reached instinctively for him, for the imprint of his body beside yours, but your fingers met nothing but the cool quiet of an empty bed. Jay was gone. You sat up slowly, sleep still crusted in the corners of your eyes, the remnants of last night clinging to your skin like faded stars. It wasn’t disappointment that he’d left, he was never the type to stay but a hollow ache bloomed in your chest all the same, tender and unnamed. You didn’t know if you expected a note, a goodbye, or even a lie wrapped in sweetness, but the absence spoke louder than anything. And still, you weren’t sorry.

Your house felt changed when you walked through it; heavier, like the walls had swallowed some of the night’s truth and were trying to keep it secret. Your father and Taehyun had returned, the sound of the front door slamming earlier than sunrise pulling you halfway from sleep. Now they were back and the air was different, taut like a fraying wire. You didn’t know what had happened during their absence, but Taehyun carried the shadows like a second skin. He moved through the house like a ghost with a fuse in his chest, snapping at your mother over nothing, brushing past you with glass in his eyes, his hands shaking when he thought no one could see. You stayed out of his way. The silence between you two felt sharp and uncertain, like the edge of something waiting to be named.

Dinner that night was a ritual gone wrong, a prayer said with a mouth full of venom. You sat at the table, poking at your food, the warmth from your mother’s cooking doing little to ease the unease curling in your stomach. Your father, red-cheeked from whatever he’d been drinking, leaned back in his chair like a king on a crumbling throne, waving his glass with a crooked smirk. “That bastard Chul still thinks he can outplay me,” he muttered, voice thick with contempt. “His whore of a wife putting on fakeness like she’s better than the rest of us. And that boy of theirs... that Jay. Arrogant little shit. You can see the rot in him from a mile away.”

You stiffened. The words felt like claws scraping against your skin, peeling away the quiet you’d wrapped around yourself. You looked up, your fork frozen in your hand. “He’s not like that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but it rang clear through the room like a church bell cracking. “You don’t know him.” The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating, like the house had stopped breathing.

Your father’s face twisted, his eyes going dark in an instant. The chair groaned as he shoved it back and stood, fists curling like thunderclouds. “Don’t you ever defend him again,” he snarled, the words spit like poison. “Do you hear me? If I ever hear you say that bastard’s name in this house again, I’ll lock you away so tight you’ll forget what sunlight feels like. There is nothing about that boy worth defending.” Your breath caught in your throat, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. Your mother said nothing, eyes fixed on her plate like it could save her. And across the table, Taehyun stared at you; not with anger, not with disgust, but with something else. Something unreadable. Suspicion, maybe. Or worry. Like he was trying to put together a puzzle that suddenly had one too many pieces.

You looked away first, throat burning, fingers shaking under the table. The warmth of last night felt galaxies away now, replaced by the cold realization that you were dancing with danger on a threadbare stage. And everyone around you was starting to notice.

Sunday returned like clockwork, draped in solemn hymns and ironed dresses, as though the week’s secrets hadn’t been dragging behind you like chains. You found yourself sitting in the same pew as always, hands folded politely, head bowed beneath the weight of a hundred stares that whispered like ghosts behind you. The church was beautiful in that way all cages are, ornate, holy, and full of silences no one dared name. Incense curled like serpent smoke in the air, clinging to your lungs, your clothes, your bones. Jay was there. He always was.

But today, he looked like the devil in disguise, ink-black suit pressed sharp enough to wound, and that crooked halo of hair that caught the light like it knew exactly how to tempt. He didn’t sit near you, didn’t look your way. Not really. But you felt him, his presence a gravity that tugged at your pulse. You couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think right, not when the ghost of his mouth still lingered on your skin like last night had never ended. When the time for confessionals arrived, you rose slowly, walking the familiar path toward the booths. The red velvet curtain felt like blood between your fingers, and the small wooden seat creaked beneath your weight. You bowed your head, ready to whisper into the lattice the half-truths you’d rehearsed in your mind. But then you heard it.

The rustle of fabric. The soft push of the curtain behind you. The scent of cigarette smoke and something darker, familiar. Before you could turn, Jay slid into the booth beside you, his body too close, his knee brushing yours in the dark. “What are you doing?” you hissed in a breathless whisper, heart already rioting in your chest like a church bell rung wrong.

He didn’t answer at first. The space was small, too small, like a secret made physical. You could feel his breath at your temple, the heat of him seeping into your skin. “Forgive me, Father,” he murmured, voice low and sacrilegious, “for I am about to sin.” You turned sharply toward him, eyes wide. But in the dark, you could barely make out his expression, just the glint of something wild in his gaze. His hand found yours in the stillness, fingers threading through with the quiet urgency of someone drowning.

Jay—” you tried to protest, but he leaned in, forehead resting against yours, and the world tilted. “I want you so bad.” he said, softer now, like a confession. “I couldn’t help myself.” Your breath caught, and suddenly you weren’t in a church anymore. You were in a storm. You were in a dream. You were in that fragile place where you didn’t know where faith ended and he began.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though you didn’t really want him to go.

“I know.” His hand slipped to your jaw, tilting your face toward his. “But I had to see you. Had to let you know that you’re still mine.” His lips brushed yours like a prayer, slow and reverent, and you kissed him back, like you were trying to absolve every wicked thought in your head, every rule you’d ever followed, every chain you were ready to break. The booth was a confessional, ye; but what you whispered into each other’s mouths were not sins. They were truths. Unholy. Beautiful.

You hear a rustle next to you — the priest had entered the booth beside you, ready to hear your sins. Your eyes widened with a mix of panic and excitement. You were not the type of girl who hopped into confessionals with their boyfriend. You weren’t the type of girl to rebel in anyway, it seems like lately that's all you've been doing.

“Good morning.” Father Lee sighed from the otherside of the confessional. “I will begin with a prayer.” Jay’s fingers danced delicately along the lines of your dress, pulling the hem up slightly. Your eyes are wild as they shoot to his face. Jay only sends you a smirk in response, his thumb ghosting over your panties.

“Dear heavenly Father..” Father Lee starts the prayer but his words fall on deaf ears, the only thing you can concentrate on is the way Jay’s fingers feel over your clothed clit. Circling his thumb like a bird on prey. “We’ve come here today to atone for our sins..to seek forgiveness… —”

Jay’s moves your panty to the side; now ready and bare for him. Your breath shutters in your throat as a moan threatens to spill past your lips. You let out a squeak as Jay’s fingers found your sensitive nub rubbing slowly up and down. Jay looks at you with a devious smile, lifting his unoccupied hand to shush you with a finger against his lips. Your eyes narrow in his direction. This was so wrong. So so very wrong. How could you let him do this? How could you like?

“We ask you, our lord, to bring peace unto us. To help us prosper —” Your hand grips Jay’s shirt, a sigh leaving your lips as he dips one single finger into your entrance.

“Oh god —” You let slip out. A wave of panic washes over you.

“Yes.” Father Lee hummed. “Call onto our lord and our savior..” Jay adds another finger his pace quickening along with your breathing, your chest heaving and moans knocking at lips begging to be set free.

“Yes, god.” You whimpered, moving your hips to better aid Jay’s fingers. “Yes, yes, god.”

“That’s it.” Father Lee nods. “Call unto him, as he is the only one who can judge you.” You feel your orgasm building in your belly, clutching onto Jay’s shirt and the arm chair you sat in; the small booth becoming hot and humid. Luckily your chants had been mistaken for prayer — something you knew you’d be ashamed of once the haze of Jay’s magnificent fingers faded.

“I’m–” You whispered low, so close you’re not even sure Jay had heard you. He continued his movement inside you catapulting you closer and closer to your end.

“Do you accept this prayer and are you ready to confess all your sins?” Father Lee says as a closing statement. Your orgasm washes over you like a wave, pleasure coursing through your veins straight to your belly. You convulsed around Jay’s fingers withering under his touch.

“Yes! Yes!” You chanted “Oh my god.” Your breathing was uneven. Father Lee shuffled beside you. “We can begin..” He trailed off.

“Tell me, what would you like to confess?” Your eyes find Jay’s once again as your breathing slows. What did you just do? Jay flashes you a smile, a shit eating grin that you can’t help but send back. You were in trouble with him, you were falling in love with him. And nothing good could come from that.

The morning opened soft and unsuspecting, wrapped in the perfume of maple syrup and brewed coffee, the clink of cutlery on porcelain playing a quiet lullaby in the kitchen. You sat across from your mother at the table, a gentle spring of sun dripping through the curtains, casting golden bars across her cheekbones. She looked peaceful, almost angelic, eyes trained on the television in the other room, the morning news murmuring low and steady in the background. Minji giggled somewhere down the hall, her laughter like bird song, but your focus remained tethered to the screen, distant, detached, until you heard the name. “Breaking this morning,” the anchor announced, her voice dipped in solemnity, “the body of Lee Felix, was found submerged in Blackwater Lake just after midnight…”

You froze. The fork slipped from your fingers and clattered against the ceramic plate, a jarring sound in the otherwise delicate quiet of brunch. Your breath caught like fishbone in your throat, your entire body leaning unconsciously toward the screen, as if proximity could rewrite the story you were hearing. The screen flickered. A photo filled the frame. Felix.

Smiling in that too-cocky way he had at the bake sale, his cheek bruised, his eyes alight with some reckless thing. But it wasn’t his face that rooted you to the ground like a gravestone. It was the shirt. The unmistakable burgundy fabric. The fraying collar. The splash of print along the bottom edge. The shirt you’d held in your hand just days before, trembling with unspoken questions, stained with blood and too many terrible possibilities. Felix was dead. The shirt was his. You couldn’t breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, a tremor leaking into the quiet air. Your mother looked up in surprise, her brows creasing with maternal concern. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You were already moving, scraping your chair back so violently it nearly tipped, heart pounding so loud you could barely hear her through the static in your head. You mumbled something, a headache, a book you left at the shop, you weren’t sure. Lies came too easily these days.

You didn’t wait for her permission. You ran. Out the door, down the walk, across the street. The wind caught at your hair like fingers trying to pull you back, but you didn’t stop. The streets blurred around you, faces passing in a smear of color, sunlight too bright and air too thick. Every step closer to Jay’s house was like descending deeper into a question you weren’t ready to ask, but couldn’t leave alone. You didn’t hesitate to slam your knuckles against the front door, the sound thunderous in the quiet morning, like something wild had come knocking. The door opened too slowly for your frayed nerves, and Jay’s mother stood on the other side in a lavender cardigan and confusion painted across her face.

“Oh… hello, sweetheart,” she said, blinking at your expression. “Is everything all right?”

“I need to see Jay,” you said, your voice sharp and breathless, like it had been carved from ice. She flinched slightly at the urgency, but stepped aside, her brows drawing together. “He’s upstairs…” You didn’t wait for further instructions. You moved past her like a wave breaching the shore, like fury given legs and purpose, charging up the stairs that once felt so intimate, so safe. Each step was a scream. Each breath a question with no answer.

His door was closed. You didn’t knock. You pushed it open with trembling hands and a pounding heart, ready to wield truth like a blade. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, thumbing through a worn paperback, the early light painting soft shadows along the cut of his jaw. He looked up, startled, and then he smiled. “Hi, beautiful. What a surprise.” You could have wept. For a moment, you could have let the lie of his voice fold around you and lull you into peace again. But the pain sharpened you, drew you back into the wound he left open.

“Cut the bullshit, Jay,” you snapped.

He blinked, the smile faltering. “What’s going on?”

You stepped further into the room, the space between you tightening like a noose. “Felix,” you said, your voice trembling at first, but hardening with every syllable. “They found his body. He’s dead, Jay. And he was wearing that shirt, the one I saw in here. Don’t lie to me again.” Confusion flickered across his face for the briefest second. A hesitation. Then a breath. Then something darker took root behind his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking abou — ”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked like thunder. “Please don’t lie to me again.” A long silence stretched between you, thick with guilt, with ghosts, with things unspoken and too dangerous to name. Finally, Jay stood. His hands trembled. “I didn’t want to,” he whispered. “But it wasn’t supposed to go that far.”

“So it’s true,” you breathed, your heart crumpling like paper inside your chest. Jay looked at you then, really looked at you. Not with the charm he wore like a second skin, not with that crooked smile, but with a hollow kind of desperation. A boy unraveling in front of the girl he swore to protect. “My dad…” he began, his voice thick. “He wanted to send a message. He made me follow Felix after the bake sale. Said we had to scare him. But things got out of hand. I — he — ”

But his confession never found its end. Because in the next moment, there was a hand. It covered your mouth. Strong. Cold. Reeking of cologne and iron. You tried to scream, but it caught like thorns in your throat. You thrashed, but the grip was vice-like. Jay’s face drained of color. His eyes widened, not in confusion, but in shame. In knowing. He didn’t move. From behind you, a voice like oil and gravel poured into your ear.

“Good job, son,” it said, calm and cruel. “Right where we wanted her.” You couldn’t see him, Jay’s father, but you could feel the venom in his smile. The triumph.

Your blood ran cold. You looked at Jay. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t fight.

And that was the worst part of all. The boy who once held you like he could protect you from the world now stood silent as it swallowed you whole. Everything went black. The last thing you remembered was his eyes. And how he didn’t even blink.

The world came back to you slowly, like a fog lifting, like a dream turning to ash in the light of dawn. The first thing you noticed was the ache. Not just in your limbs, which were bound tight and cold against the wooden arms of a chair, but deep in the soft animal center of you, where all tenderness used to live. There was a throb behind your eyes, a ringing in your ears that ebbed and pulsed like the ocean, but no comfort came with the sound. Just dread. Just the realization that this wasn’t a nightmare. You were really here. The room was dimly lit, bare walls stained with time and secrets. The air smelled like mildew and something sharper, gasoline, maybe, or the acrid ghost of sweat and fear. Your heart pounded in its cage as your vision cleared and faces came into focus.

Chul was there. So were two men you’d never seen before, both cloaked in the quiet violence of people who had done unspeakable things too many times to remember. One was smoking, the other cracking his knuckles absently, like he was waiting for permission to break something. You realized with a start that the "something" was you. And then there was Jay.

He stood a little apart from the others, like the guilt itself had pushed him away. His eyes were on the floor, fixed on a crack in the tile like it was the only thing holding him to this earth. Not once did he look at you. Not when you stirred. Not when you cried out his name. Not when you whispered, “Jay?” as if saying it softly enough would undo everything. You struggled against the ropes that held you, panic rising in your throat like a scream half-formed. “What is this?” you demanded, voice raw and hoarse. “What the hell am I doing here?”

Chul stepped forward, all easy menace and slick suits, the kind of man who wore his power like a second skin. His mouth curled into something that was almost a smile, but not quite. “Payback,” he said simply, like that single word explained the rot in the walls, the bile in your throat, the betrayal eating you alive from the inside out. He crouched beside you, eyes level with yours, and you hated how calm he looked, like this was just business, like you were nothing more than a bargaining chip on a bloody chessboard.

“Your father,” he said, voice smooth as oil, “has been a real thorn in my side. Took down nearly every operation I had on the east side. Raided our shipments, turned men against me. You know how much money I’ve lost because of that self-righteous bastard?” You stared at him, your mouth dry, your stomach turning over with nausea and fury.

“You’re lying,” you whispered, but the words held no weight. “Am I?” Chul chuckled. “You’re just a pawn, sweetheart. Your old man declared war, and war always has casualties. You just happened to be the most… convenient.” Your gaze darted to Jay again, desperate, pleading. But still, he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He stood there, carved of stone, spine rigid, jaw clenched.

“How could you?” you asked him, voice shaking, eyes burning. “Jay, please… how could you?” But something in your question broke him. Or maybe it simply exposed what was already broken. His shoulders heaved once, and he turned abruptly, storming from the room without a single word. The door slammed behind him like a sentence passed. Your heart shattered in real time. The betrayal settled into your bones like frost. You were alone now with wolves.

Chul clicked his tongue, rising back to full height, then nodded toward the men beside him. “Don’t worry, princess,” he said. “We’re not gonna kill you… yet. But if your daddy wants to see you again, he’s gonna have to cough up something big. Otherwise?” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. They left you then, all of them, the door groaning shut with finality and locking behind their footsteps. The silence that followed was unbearable. You sat there, in that cold, empty room, and the sob that broke from you was ragged and deep, a sound pulled from the belly of something ancient and wounded. Tears fell hot and relentless down your cheeks, carving rivers through the dust on your skin, baptizing you in despair.

You had loved him. With the kind of reckless tenderness that only a heart untouched by betrayal could offer. And he had handed you over like a gift-wrapped threat. You didn’t know what was worse, the fear of what was to come, or the ache of what had already been lost.

Four days passed like smoke curling in a dark room, slow, choking, shapeless. Time didn’t pass so much as it bled, drop by drop, down the walls of your confinement. There were no windows in that room, no clocks, no way to mark the hours except by the grumble of your stomach or the ache in your spine. You lived in the rhythm of silence broken only by the door creaking open, just once a day, when she would come. Jay’s mother. She entered like a ghost, quiet and grieving, her eyes rimmed with something too deep for sleep to ever touch. She carried with her a tray of food, a bowl of water, a cloth to wipe the bruises blooming across your face like cursed flowers. She said little, only the softest of whispers falling from her lips, prayers to a God that seemed to have turned His back on this house long ago. She would kneel before you, brush the hair from your face with fingers trembling as if your pain were a flame she longed to touch but could not bear to hold. “I’m sorry,” she’d murmur, like a litany. “I’m so sorry.” Then she would rise and vanish once more into the dark.

Jay never came. Not once. And that betrayal festered like a splinter lodged too deep to remove, its pain dull and constant, until it owned you. But the fifth night was different. You felt it before it began, an electricity in the air, a crackle in your bones. The door opened like a breath being drawn, sharp and final, and in stepped Chul with the air of a man who enjoyed drawing blood from stones. His suit was immaculate. His smile, not.

“Well,” he said, striding toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “Looks like Daddy dearest doesn’t want you back after all.” The words crashed over you like waves too high to rise above. You gasped, shook your head, tears leaping unbidden to your eyes. “No,” you whispered. “No, you’re lying — he wouldn’t — he —” Chul crouched, one hand on the arm of your chair, the other cupping your chin with mock gentleness. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said, tone slick with venom. “This is what happens when you pick the wrong side.” And then the slap.

It came like thunder, a sudden crack of bone against bone that left your ears ringing and your vision swimming. Your head snapped to the side. The copper taste of blood bloomed on your tongue. You barely registered the movement beside him until a voice, hoarse, breaking, cut through the din. “Stop!” Jay shouted, lunging forward, only to be yanked back by one of the other men. “Don’t touch her!” Chul’s laughter was a bark, cruel and sharp. He turned to Jay and struck him hard in the stomach. Jay doubled over, coughing, and Chul’s voice hissed through the room like smoke curling from a fire.

“You idiot. You love her?” he spat. “You really think that means anything here?” Jay didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But his eyes oh, his eyes, finally found yours. And in them you saw ruin. You saw remorse painted in broad, bleeding strokes. You saw a boy unraveling beneath the weight of his choices. A boy who had built his house upon the sand and now watched the tide take it all away. Chul pulled out his phone, leaned down, and took a photo of your face. “Let’s send this to her dear old dad,” he sneered. “Maybe this’ll make him reconsider.”

You tried to turn your head away. You tried to disappear into the corners of the room, to become so small the violence couldn’t find you. But the blow came anyway. Sharp, final, slicing through your mind like lightning through a tree. The force of it sent your chair tilting, your cry echoing like a bell rung in mourning. “Stop it!” Jay shouted again, voice ragged with desperation. Chul raised his hand for another strike, and then the world changed.

The gunshot split the room in two. It was not the loudness that startled you but the silence that followed. A breathless, unnatural stillness, as if even the air had forgotten how to move. Chul’s eyes widened in shock before his body pitched forward, collapsing like a house gutted from the inside. Blood pooled around him, red as prophecy, thick as grief. Behind him stood Jay. Still. Gun in hand.

Smoke rising from the barrel like a spirit torn from its shell. He didn’t move. Not at first. Just stood there, breathing hard, his expression hollow and carved from something beyond pain. He looked older in that moment. Not like a boy. Not even like a man. Like something ancient. A myth unraveling in real time. Then he dropped the gun, and it clattered to the floor like a broken promise. He rushed to you, hands trembling as they touched your face, your shoulders, your bindings. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, again and again, as if the words could erase the hurt, the betrayal, the pieces of yourself that now lived in a place too dark to name. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know — I didn’t know how to stop him. I should’ve — God, I should’ve…”

And for the first time, you saw him for what he truly was. Not your savior. Not your villain. But a boy who had been used like a blade and turned back to find himself stained in the blood of everyone he loved. Jay’s fingers worked at the ropes in frantic desperation, his breath uneven, ragged with panic and something else, grief, maybe, or guilt so deep it had built a home inside his lungs. The ropes gave with a rough snap, and your hands were free, your legs unbound but the weight that clung to your chest, to your soul, was not so easily unknotted.

And then the world broke open. The thunder of boots against tile. Shouts reverberating down the hall like echoes from a war long lost. The door burst open in a flurry of violence and authority, police in black and navy, weapons drawn, voices commanding surrender. Behind them, a storm of familiar faces: your father, his jaw set in stone, and Taehyun, eyes wide with something between horror and relief. And in the center of it all, your body still trembling, Jay standing before you with blood on his hands, his father’s, and maybe his own. They pointed the guns at him. They shouted at him to step back, hands up.

He did. Quietly. No resistance. Just a soft exhale from lungs that had been holding the moment too long. His eyes flickered toward you once more, and something like peace passed through him, fleeting and fragile. The cuffs clicked around his wrists like fate locking its teeth. “No!” you cried, stumbling forward before your knees could give way. “Wait — wait!”

The officers halted just long enough for you to cross the room, pushing past your father’s grasp, past Taehyun’s startled call. You stood in front of Jay, close enough to feel the heat of him, the sorrow radiating from his skin like the fading warmth of a star long burned out. He blinked at you, the shimmer of unshed tears catching on his lashes like morning dew. You reached up, took his face between your hands as if to memorize it, every angle, every flaw, every beautiful, broken piece. And then you kissed him. Fiercely, tenderly. Like the world was ending, because maybe, in some way, it was.

Your forehead rested against his when you finally pulled away, breath mingling with breath, time halting between heartbeats. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words shattering against your skin. You didn’t say it was okay. Because it wasn’t. Not really. Not ever. But you let him hold your gaze, let him see that despite the betrayal, despite the blood and the lies, despite everything, you still saw him. Beneath the wreckage. Beneath the boy who had chosen wrong and tried, far too late, to make it right.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice breaking. “I love you.” And then they took him. Through the door and out into the blinding blue morning. The house echoed with the quiet that follows storms, shattered glass and distant sirens, your own pulse pounding in your ears like a drum. You stood there long after he was gone, your wrists red and raw, your heart half in your chest and half walking away in a squad car under the watchful eye of justice and tragedy alike. Your heart is split open like a wound that hasn’t quite healed. Like a prayer said to a god who may or may not be listening. You carry him with you, in the silence between breaths, in the spaces love once occupied. Some nights, when the wind howls just right through the trees, you swear you can hear the echo of his voice.

Not calling for forgiveness. Not even for understanding. Just saying your name like it was the only true thing he ever had. And somewhere out there, the world goes on.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

#enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #enhypen #jay enhypen #enhypen x reader #enha imagines #park jongseong #jay imagines #jay smut

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cressidagrey · 4 months ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 6: August 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1TeaSpiller: Uhhh… when did Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc start following each other on Instagram??

↳@/F1Fanatic44: Wait what??? Since when do they even know each other??

↳@/GridGossip: That’s actually wild because I don’t remember them ever interacting before???

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Victoria always comments on her posts too?? Like hype girl mode. Like full-on “omg stunning!!” type comments.

↳@/PaddockSpy: And Isabelle replies!! She called Victoria’s baby “the cutest little thing.”

↳@/TifosiTears: The Leclerc brothers don’t even do that lmao

↳@/PaddockWhispers: How did we miss this??

@/F1TeaSpiller: No because I went deep and Victoria and Isabelle have been commenting on each other’s posts for MONTHS.

↳@/DR3Simp: So either they’ve been secret besties this whole time… or something else is going on.

↳@/LandoLover4: Define “something else.”

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Y’all. Y’ALL.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: What if she’s dating Max.

↳@/RedFlagF1: BE SERIOUS.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: THINK ABOUT IT.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: 1. Isabelle keeps her private life locked down.2. She suddenly has a very close relationship with Victoria Verstappen. 3. MAX ALSO KEEPS HIS PRIVATE LIFE LOCKED DOWN. 4. HES LEARNING TO RIDE FOR HIS GIRLFRIEND AND THE LECLERC’S SOLD ISABELLE’S CHILDHOOD HORSE TO PAY FOR CHARLES’ KARTING.

↳@/TifosiTears: No. No way.

↳@/GridGossip: … But imagine if it’s true. SHE DESIGNED HIS APARTMENT AFTER ALL.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: How do you get from “Max’s girlfriend likes horses and so does Isabelle Leclerc” and Victoria Verstappen following Isabelle Leclerc on Instagram to: “Max and Isabelle will raise the next racing dynasty?!”

@/PaddockWhispers: When did they even meet?? Isabelle isn’t really in the paddock scene like that.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SHE DESIGNED HIS SIM ROOM. THEY MUST HAVE MET THROUGH THAT.

↳@/LandoFangirl: Be so serious right now.

@/F1TeaSpiller: Okay, I’m officially obsessed with this mystery. Isabelle and Victoria are way too friendly for two people who have zero public connection. Something is UP.

↳@/TifosiFan44: What if they just vibe?? Not everything has to be a conspiracy.

↳@/F1Detective: Okay, let’s be logical for a second. Isabelle and Victoria both grew up around karting. Their families must’ve crossed paths back in the day. Maybe they’ve always known each other and just reconnected??

↳@/TifosiFan44: Yeah, but why reconnect now? Why not years ago?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Maybe they ran into each other recently? Like, at a race or something?

↳@/GridGossip: Or maybe… through someone else. 👀

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SAY HIS NAME.

↳@/RedBullUpdates: DUH DUH DUH MAX VERSTAPPEN

↳@/PaddockWhispers: This is getting out of hand.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Is it? OR AM I ONTO SOMETHING???

@/F1Conspiracies: If you’re telling me Isabelle and Victoria were secretly friends this whole time, I’m gonna need proof because this is a new development.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Nah, I just scrolled through their follows. Victoria followed Isabelle first and Isabelle followed back. It happened within the last few months.

↳@/PaddockWhispers: And suddenly, Victoria is in Isabelle’s comments like they’re besties??

@/TifosiFan99: Do you guys think Charles knows his little sister and Victoria are suddenly besties???

↳@/F1Detective: Absolutely not.

↳@/GridGossip: He’s about to find out through Twitter like the rest of us.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Imagine Charles scrolling IG and seeing Victoria hyping up his sister like “That’s my girl! 🥰” and he’s just sitting there like ???

↳@/PaddockSpy: Someone check on Arthur too, because he’s definitely confused.

@/F1Chaos: Isabelle Leclerc and Victoria Verstappen being all over each other’s Instagram is the funniest plot twist of the season. ↳@/PaddockWhispers: If it turns out that Max and Isabelle have been secretly dating and Victoria knew before Charles, I will actually SCREAM.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: Are we going on a family trip this summer?

Charles: Yeah, Maman was saying she wants to go somewhere all together.

Arthur: Cool. Who’s planning it?

Lorenzo: Isabelle?

Isabelle: …Planning what?

Arthur: The holiday. You know, flights, hotels, stuff to do.

Charles: Yeah, you’re good at that.

Lorenzo: You always find the best places.

Isabelle: Where do we even want to go?

Charles: Somewhere sunny.

Arthur: Beach?

Lorenzo: Good food.

Charles: Okay, Isabelle will sort it.

Isabelle: Right. Sure.

***

Max walked into the living room to find Isabelle surrounded.

Not by clutter—because she didn’t do clutter—but by controlled chaos: her iPad, her laptop, a notebook with neat handwriting, three different browser tabs open on the TV via screen mirroring, and a Google Doc titled Leclerc Family Vacation 2023 (Please Read This One, Arthur).

She didn’t even look up when he walked in. Just tapped something into a spreadsheet with the quiet precision of someone five minutes away from snapping.

“Let me guess,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her. “Charles still hasn’t confirmed the villa dates?”

“No,” Isabelle said calmly, “but he did text me a TikTok of a guy falling off a paddleboard. So. Priorities.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Arthur?”

“Suggested a campsite,” Isabelle muttered. “In Corsica. In August. With no air conditioning.”

Max winced. “Criminal.”

“Then Maman said she was ‘fine with anything,’ which we all know is a trap. And now someone needs to book rooms, coordinate flights, and arrange for something that resembles a plan so we don’t end up yelling at each other on a dock somewhere again.”

Max blinked. “So you’re doing it.”

“I always do it.”

That last part came out too soft, almost like she didn’t mean to say it.

Max leaned back, watching her. Hair up in a clip, sleeves pushed to her elbows, brow furrowed in concentration. This was her armor. Her autopilot. The invisible job of being the quiet one. The dependable one. The one who held everything together while everyone else lived like the world would bend for them.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So… Leclerc family vacation, next week?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll go a week later.”

She paused mid-keystroke. “What?”

“Your family’s doing their thing the 6th,” Max said, reaching for her notebook and gently closing it. “So we’ll do ours the 13th. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

Her lips parted. “You mean… another trip?”

“Yeah.” He stretched his arm over the back of the couch, brushing his fingers through a loose strand of her hair. “One where no one forgets your suitcase. Or sticks you with the worst room. Or makes you plan dinner for eight.”

A beat passed.

Then she asked, automatically, “Want me to look up flights?”

Max laughed softly, leaning in. “One: I have a private jet.”

Isabelle blushed. “Right. I forget that sometimes.”

“Two,” he said, voice dropping just a little, “I’m going to plan this one. You don’t have to do anything.”

She stared at him like he’d offered her an alien concept.

Max tucked a finger under her chin, smiling gently. “You don’t always have to carry it all, Belle. Not with me.”

Her throat bobbed. “But I’m—”

“Let me take care of you for once,” he said simply.

And it hit her—the realization that he meant it. That he liked doing this. That she didn’t have to earn it, or apologize for it, or trade it for usefulness.

Just be loved.

Just rest.

Isabelle nodded slowly. “Okay.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Alright, what’s the latest Max Verstappen Is a Perfect Boyfriend update?

Isabelle: …I don’t know if it’s a big deal.

Emilie: Isabelle. It is. Just tell me.

Isabelle: He cuddles me after.

Emilie: …After?

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: Like, after after?

Isabelle: Yes, Emilie.

Emilie: ARE YOU TELLING ME NONE OF YOUR EXES EVER CUDDLED YOU AFTER SEX?!

Isabelle: …I thought that wasn’t really a thing?

Emilie: I—WHAT.

Isabelle: I mean, maybe for some people? But I always got the impression guys weren’t really into that.

Emilie: No. No, no, no. They just weren’t into you.

Isabelle: Gee, thanks.

Emilie: NOT WHAT I MEANT. I MEAN THEY DIDN’T CARE ABOUT YOU.

Isabelle: Oh. Yeah. That sounds more accurate.

Emilie: No one ever held you? Like, at all?

Isabelle: Not really. Sometimes they’d roll over and go on their phones. Or just… leave.

Emilie: …And you were okay with that??

Isabelle: No? But I thought that was just how it was.

Emilie: Isabelle. Oh my god.

Isabelle: But Max just stays. Like, without me asking. He pulls me close, kisses my forehead, plays with my hair, runs his hands up and down my back. Even if we don’t say anything, he just stays.

Emilie: Because he cares about you. Because he actually likes you.

Isabelle: I know.

***

The villa was beautiful.

Of course, it was. Isabelle had picked it.

Neutral-toned interiors, quiet luxury, three terraces, private beach access, and just enough separation between the bedrooms to avoid World War III.

She’d arranged the grocery delivery.

The airport transfers.

The private boat rental.

Carefully adjusted seating to avoid drama (Arthur’s girlfriend apparently did not want to sit next to Alexandra ever again)

It was her spreadsheet, her itinerary, her effort.

And yet, as she stood in the kitchen restocking the drinks fridge with sparkling water and wine, she may as well have been part of the cabinetry.

No one noticed.

Or, worse—they noticed and assumed.

Assumed that of course she’d print the vineyard directions, that she’d know which car everyone was in, that she’d restock the sunscreen, make the lunch reservations, mediate the “how many towels is too many towels” fight between Arthur and his girlfriend (spoiler: it was not about the towels).

Her mother hadn’t said thank you. Not once.

No one had.

Not for the itinerary.

Not for the car rentals.

Not for the fact that she’d packed extra chargers and medicine and picked up Pascale’s favorite jam from that little shop in Nice.

“Isabelle,” Pascale called from outside. “Can you bring out the extra glasses?”

Isabelle bit back a sigh, picked up the tray she had already prepared, and stepped outside with a smile.

The group was gathered around the outdoor table, wine in hand, sun-drenched and happy. Lorenzo was holding court about a minor work drama, Charlotte and Alexandra nodding sympathetically, while Arthur’s girlfriend laughed at something Charles said and Arthur scrolled on his phone.

No one looked up.

No one asked how Isabelle was doing.

No one offered to help.

She set the glasses down, smiled politely, and sat at the empty spot at the end of the table.

“I think we should do the coastal hike tomorrow,” Pascale said, sipping her wine. “Before it gets too hot.”

“I thought we were doing the boat day,” Charles said.

“No, that’s Wednesday,” Isabelle said, gently. “The captain wasn’t available tomorrow.”

Pascale frowned. “Didn’t you book it for Tuesday?”

“I did. Then they called to reschedule. I put it in the itinerary I emailed last week.”

No one responded.

Lorenzo changed the subject. “Charlotte, didn’t you want to go to that vineyard?”

“Oh yes!” Charlotte said. “The one with the stone tasting room.”

“I have it bookmarked,” Isabelle said, scrolling on her phone. “We can go Thursday after lunch.”

Again, silence. Then Arthur said, “Did anyone bring cards?”

Isabelle looked down at her glass, playing with the stem.

This was how it always was.

She planned.

She coordinated.

She smoothed everything over.

And they still looked right through her.

No one noticed her skip lunch. Or how she was always the last to sit down. Or how she cleared everyone’s plates without being asked.

When the private chef asked who to talk to about allergies, they directed him to Isabelle. When the AC broke in Charlotte’s and Lorenzo’s room, Isabelle called the concierge. When the car for the beach trip got delayed, Charles tossed her his phone and said, “Can you handle this?”

She did.

She always did.

And yet, when someone poured rosé for the table at dinner that night, no one poured for her.

Not out of malice. Just… absence.

Isabelle sat back, watching her brothers laugh and bicker, their girlfriends leaning into the glow of effortless charm. Her mother, serene and smiling, gently correcting Arthur’s posture and calling Charlotte chérie.

Not once had anyone asked Isabelle how her work was going. How she was doing.

As if she didn’t exist outside the role she played.

The problem was—she was too good at it.

Too good at making things smooth. Too good at stepping out of the way. Too good at fixing things before anyone noticed they were broken.

And now? No one even saw her hands holding the whole thing together.

Not even the people who were supposed to love her most.

She was just so tired.

***

Isabelle had texted him last night.

The usual emojis were missing. Her messages were shorter. And when he’d called her just after dinner, she’d whispered, “I’m fine, it’s just a headache,” in the voice of someone trying not to cry in a bathroom.

Now, standing at the top of the stairs, he watched as a black car rolled to a stop at the edge of the airstrip. The driver stepped out and opened the door—and there she was.

Isabelle.

Shoulders slumped, hair pulled into a hasty bun, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She moved like someone trying not to be perceived. Or maybe like someone who just wanted to stop moving altogether.

She climbed the stairs slowly, and when she reached him, she managed a soft smile.

“Hi.”

Max cupped her face gently. “Hey.”

Her voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry I look like hell.”

He blinked. “You look like my favorite person.”

She laughed, sort of, but it turned into a wince.

Max frowned. “Headache?”

She nodded. “It’s been going since yesterday. Loud house. Strong perfume. Arthur’s playlist.”

Max stepped aside so she could settle into the plush leather seat, already signaling to the crew to dim the lights and lower the cabin temperature. She sank into the chair, curling slightly toward the window.

He knelt beside her, undoing the buckle on her sandals like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, like it was some kind of failing.

Max looked up sharply.

“Stop apologizing.”

She blinked behind her sunglasses. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re in pain,” he said, his voice low, tight with something sharp and protective. “And exhausted. And still trying to be polite about it.”

She didn’t reply.

“You are not a burden,” Max continued, brushing a thumb over her knee. “You’re not too much. And you don’t have to smile through it just to make me comfortable.”

The silence stretched.

Then, quietly: “I am so tired, Max. I planned everything. Every hour, every restaurant, every day. And I don’t think anyone even noticed.”

“I noticed,” he said immediately. “Even from home, I noticed.”

He stood and grabbed a blanket, gently draping it over her before sitting beside her and tugging her legs into his lap.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “We’ll be here a while.”

She blinked quickly, looking down at her hands. “It was just a lot.”

“I know,” he said. “I read your texts. I could read between the lines.”

She gave a soft, tired laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me? Always.” He leaned back.“You shouldn’t have to be the glue for everyone else, Belle. Especially not at the cost of your own peace.”

“I’m trying,” she said, her voice barely there. “It’s just hard to stop when no one else steps up.”

“Then let me step up.”

She closed her eyes again. Finally relaxed.

He tucked her closer.

And whispered, “Rest. I’ve got you now.”

She fell asleep between one breath and the next. And didn’t wake. Not during the flight… not during the landing.

Max moved slowly, careful not to wake her, easing one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders. She let out the faintest breath but didn’t stir, her head tipping lightly against his chest.

She weighed next to nothing like this.

The tarmac was still warm beneath his feet as he descended the steps.

Surprisingly, Lando could be trusted with vacation recommendation. The North Island in the Seychelles greeted them with turquoise, crystalline water and beautiful weather.

The villa Max had rented just for them stood nestled between palm trees and the beach, pale stone glowing in the late afternoon light. Secluded. Safe.

It had taken him exactly twenty minutes to book it after he’d read the description. Just: privacy, space, quiet.

A place she could breathe.

He carried her inside, murmured a quiet thank-you to the staff who had pre-stocked the fridge, and walked straight to the bedroom with the softest sheets.

He laid her down gently, brushed a few strands of hair away from her forehead.

Isabelle frowned in her sleep—like even now, she didn’t know how to fully let go.

Max knelt beside the bed and whispered, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be anything right now.”

Then he pulled the blackout curtains closed, set water out on the nightstand for later, and moved through the house like a man on a mission.

No phones. No noise. No expectations.

Just him. Just her.

Just the silence she had earned.

***

Isabelle woke up to the sound of waves.

That was it.

Not alarms.

Not messages.

Not someone yelling across a hallway or calling her name from the bottom of a staircase.

Just waves. Slow and rhythmic, like a lullaby that had been playing long before she arrived and would keep going long after she left.

The room was warm with sunlight. Pale curtains fluttered lazily in the breeze, and the air smelled like salt and sun-warmed wood. She lay still for a long time, blinking up at the thatched ceiling, half-draped in linen sheets and Max’s hoodie from the night before.

For a few seconds, she didn’t remember where she was.

Then it hit her all at once: the flight, Max, peace.

And the fact that, for the first time in months, there was nothing to do.

No family group chat spiraling into chaos.

Nothing.

Just this.

Isabelle sat up slowly, stretching, and looked out through the open doors to the private beach just steps away. White sand. Blue water. Palm trees swaying like they were dancing to music only they could hear.

And Max.

Already outside, barefoot in board shorts, sunglasses perched on his head, sprawled in a lounge chair like he owned the concept of leisure. He looked up the second she moved, and smiled.

Like she was the only thing worth seeing.

She stepped outside, bare feet hitting sun-warmed wood, and he lifted his arm without a word. She curled into his side, her cheek against his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head.

“Morning,” he murmured.

“It’s late.”

“Who cares?”

She shifted closer.

One hand moved slowly up and down her back. Not to fix her. Just to say I’m here.

She felt him breathe. Felt her own breathing start to match his.

Felt… safe.

Like she could finally put all of it down. The smiling. The pretending. The quiet, invisible labor of being the one who always held it together.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Max murmured, kissing her hair. “Not today.”

She didn’t.

Didn’t need to.

Because this—his arms around her, the hush of the ocean, the stillness he made just for her—this was enough.

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, Isabelle Leclerc let herself fully rest.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Uh oh. What did Max do?

Isabelle: Nothing?? That’s the thing???

Emilie: …I need more context.

Isabelle: We’re on vacation.

Emilie: Yes, I am painfully aware that you’re somewhere warm and beautiful with your perfect boyfriend while I’m stuck here. Continue.

Isabelle: I haven’t had to plan anything. Not a single thing.

Emilie: …And?

Isabelle: No scheduling. No coordinating. No last-minute scrambling.

Isabelle: Do you understand how weird that is for me???

Emilie: Isabelle. That is literally how vacations are supposed to work.

Isabelle: I know??? But I’m just so used to handling everything.

Isabelle: And Max just… took care of it. Flights, hotel, reservations. Everything.

Emilie: And you’re struggling because…?

Isabelle: Because I keep waiting for something to go wrong and for someone to expect me to fix it. But nothing has gone wrong.

Emilie: That’s because Max is a fully functional adult. Unlike, you know. Your brothers.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: What.

Isabelle: Nothing. Just. Huh.

Emilie: That’s the sound of your brain rebooting because someone is actually taking care of you for once.

Isabelle: Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now go enjoy your stress-free vacation. You deserve it.

Isabelle: …This is so weird.

Emilie: You’ll get used to it.

***

The difference was almost laughable.

The second morning, she woke up slowly, stretching under the soft sheets, and realized something was missing. She wasn’t exhausted. She wasn’t checking her phone to make sure everything was running on schedule.

She just was.

Max, lying beside her, traced lazy circles on her arm and murmured, “You okay?”

She turned her head to look at him, her face half-buried in the pillow. “This is weird.”

His lips twitched. “What is?”

“Not having to do anything.”

Max let out a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point, Schatje.”

She didn’t quite know how to put it into words—that she wasn’t used to this, to someone making sure she was taken care of. That she had spent her whole life organizing and managing and making sure everyone else was comfortable, and now, for the first time, she was the one being looked after.

And Max wasn’t making a big deal out of it. He wasn’t acting like it was some grand gesture. He just did it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like she was worth the effort.

By the third day, Isabelle wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or completely unnerved by how easily Max took over.

They had spent the morning by the beach, and when she’d started to gather their towels and check if they needed to book dinner somewhere, Max had just taken the towels from her hands and said, “I already made a reservation.”

At her look of disbelief, he had only smirked. “You think I don’t know how to plan things?”

“It’s not that,” she said, stretching out on the lounge chair. “I just… I’m usually the one who does this kind of thing.”

Max hummed, pushing his sunglasses up. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You always do everything.” His tone was light, but his gaze was sharp behind the tinted lenses. “For your family. For work. You take care of everyone. But who takes care of you?”

The question caught her off guard.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She wanted to say nobody needs to, but the truth was, no one ever really had.

And then Max, like he could hear the wheels turning in her head, just reached over and brushed his fingers against hers.

“You’re allowed to let someone else handle things,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

She swallowed, staring at their hands. His fingers were warm, steady.

“It’s just how it’s always been,” she admitted softly.

“I know,” Max said, lacing their fingers together. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

She didn’t answer, but when they went back to the villa, she didn’t ask where they were having dinner. She didn’t double-check the reservation or worry about what time they needed to leave.

Instead, she let Max take her hand and lead her out the door, into the night, into something she wasn’t quite used to but thought—just maybe—she could get used to.

Dinner was at a small, candlelit restaurant overlooking the ocean. Isabelle didn’t recognize the name, but the staff greeted Max like an old friend when they arrived.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked as they were led to their table.

Max pulled out her chair before sitting down himself. “I got a recommendation from a friend.” He shrugged. “I like places that are quiet.”

She understood what he meant the moment they sat down. The restaurant was intimate, with soft music playing in the background, the ocean breeze drifting through open windows. It was nothing like the places her family always picked—grand, extravagant, and often exhausting.

“You know,” she said after the waiter poured their wine. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a vacation like this before.”

Max raised a brow. “Like what?”

She gestured vaguely. “Where I didn’t have to plan everything. Where I didn’t feel like I had to keep everything together.”

Max studied her for a long moment, then set his glass down. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that at all.”

She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s just how it is.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” he countered. “That’s my point.”

Isabelle exhaled, shaking her head. “Max—”

“No, listen.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You spent weeks making sure your mother’s birthday was perfect. You handle everything for your family, and they don’t even realize it. When was the last time someone did something like that for you?”

She stayed quiet.

“That’s what I mean,” Max said. “You do so much for everyone, but no one ever makes sure you’re okay.”

She wanted to argue, to say that wasn’t true, but the words wouldn’t come. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Max sighed, sitting back. “I just don’t want you to think you always have to be the responsible one. That you always have to be the one making sacrifices.”

“I don’t mind,” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said simply.

She twisted her wine glass between her fingers. It was strange, this feeling of being cared for so deliberately. Like Max had been quietly watching, noticing the cracks no one else had.

And then he smiled, easy and warm. “But for now, you don’t have to think about any of that.” He lifted his glass toward her. “This week, I handle everything.”

She hesitated, then clinked her glass against his.

It was just a week.

But for once, maybe that was enough.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: Réponds.

Arthur: Maybe she’s busy?

Charles: Isabelle is never busy.

( One hour later… )

Isabelle: What do you want?

Charles: Wow. No hello? No how are you?

Isabelle: Charles.

Charles: Okay, fine.

Charles: What’s Alexandra’s shoe size?

Isabelle: Why are you asking me?

Charles: You’re a girl. You know these things.

Isabelle: …Charles. You live with Alexandra. Just pick up a pair of shoes from your girlfriend and CHECK FOR YOURSELF.

Charles: …oh.

Charles: That’s actually smart.

Arthur: Wait.

Arthur: Why did it take you so long to answer?

Isabelle: I was busy.

Arthur: With what?

Isabelle: Living my life.

Arthur: That’s vague.

Charles: Yeah, where even are you?

Isabelle: On vacation.

Arthur: ???

Charles: Since when?

Isabelle: A few days ago.

Charles: Where are you?

Isabelle: The Seychelles.

Arthur: THE SEYCHELLES???

Arthur: WITH WHO???

Isabelle: A friend.

Arthur: You have some of those?!

Isabelle: Yes, Arthur, I do have friends.

***

Instagram Post -@/maxverstappen1

Comments:

@/victoriaverstappen: Finally taking a break that doesn't involve a garage 🙌

@/danielricciardo: Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by a lifestyle influencer.

@/landonorris: Are you… relaxed?? Is this what peace looks like on you?

@/gridgirlie: I’m sorry, but this man does NOT look that content alone.

@/charlesleclercsneck: no but WHO took these??? Max didn’t set up a tripod I KNOW THAT FOR A FACT

↳ @/sunsetandsebastian: It’s the secret horse riding girlfriend!

Instagram Post -@/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/f1updates: HOLD ON. WHERE DID YOU GO AND WHO ARE YOU WITH??

@/f1detectives: Wait… these pictures aren’t from the Leclerc family vacation last week, right?!?.

↳@/wagwatch: Omg you’re RIGHT. The Leclercs were in Corsica, and this is… definitely not Corsica.

↳@/f1updates: Wait, was she even on that trip?! (I don’t think I have seen her in any pictures her brothers posted?)

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Yes!! I was on the family trip!! These are just from a different vacation.

@/leclercnation: Isabelle, where are you NOW???

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Just a little trip with a friend for a week 😊

↳@/leclercfanclub: “A little trip with a friend” GIRL THIS IS PARADISE

@/victoriaverstappel: Enjoy the vacation! And take lots of pictures, I want to sigh dreamily when you show them to me!

@/f1sleuths: Sooo, if this isn’t the Leclerc family vacation… where exactly is she?

↳@/paddockwatch: And who is this friend taking her on a luxury getaway? 👀

@/emilie_abadie: jealous 🤩

@/gridgirls: If this is what a “quiet getaway with a friend” looks like, I need to start choosing better friends.

@/paddocktea: What do we think? Single era glow-up? Secret relationship? The people need answers.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. It happened again.

Emilie: What, relaxation? Peace? Being taken care of??

Isabelle: Yes??

Emilie: Isabelle, I swear to God—

Isabelle: We went on a hike today. I just… followed Max. That’s it. No figuring out where to go, no checking maps, no making sure there was water or sunscreen or food.

Emilie: And??

Isabelle: It felt wrong. Like I should be doing something.

Emilie: ISABELLE.

Isabelle: I know. I know.

Emilie: This is years of being the responsible one catching up to you.

Isabelle: He even packed snacks??

Emilie: That sounds horrible.

Isabelle: Shut up.

Emilie: Seriously, why are you texting me? Shouldn’t you be enjoying this?

Isabelle: I think my body is rejecting the concept of not having to plan or worry about anyone else.

Emilie: That is a you problem.

Isabelle: He just told me we have a boat day tomorrow. I didn’t even know we had a boat day tomorrow.

Emilie: And what are you expected to do?

Isabelle: Nothing. Just be there.

Emilie: …Okay, I sort of get why you’re spiraling.

Isabelle: Right???

Emilie: But also. Isabelle. Sweetheart. This is what happens when you date someone who pays attention and puts in effort.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: STOP SAYING ‘HUH’ LIKE YOU JUST DISCOVERED FIRE.

Isabelle: I think I have discovered fire.

Emilie: You’re dating Max Verstappen. Not one of your brothers.

Isabelle: I just… I didn’t think I was this bad at being taken care of.

Emilie: You are. But the good news? You’re learning.

Isabelle: …Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now relax and let your very rich, very organized boyfriend spoil you.

Isabelle: Huh.

Emilie: I’m blocking you.

***

The light was warm and low, spilling through the palm trees and painting the terrace in soft amber.

Isabelle sat with her knees pulled up on the oversized lounger, still in her swimsuit and one of Max’s linen shirts, damp curls tucked behind her ears. Her sketchbook was open on her lap, untouched, pencil resting against the paper. She hadn’t drawn a single thing in an hour.

She was too content to move.

Max sat beside her, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, sipping from a glass of something cold and citrusy. The sea whispered in the background. He hadn’t looked at his phone in hours.

They were quiet.

It wasn’t silence that needed to be filled. It was just safe.

She turned her head and found him watching her.

“What?” she asked softly.

Max tilted his head. “You know what would be nice?”

“Tell me.”

“If you met my family before Zandvoort.”

The question landed so gently she almost didn’t realize it was a question. It was just Max—calm, steady, offering something important like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t just opened a door and waited for her to walk through it.

Isabelle blinked. “Before Zandvoort?”

He nodded. “Just a quiet dinner. In Belgium maybe, or Monaco, whatever’s easier. My dad. Mum. Victoria. Tom. Their kids. No pressure.”

Isabelle looked down at her sketchbook. Her heart fluttered.

Meeting Max’s family wasn’t something she’d let herself think about—not seriously. Because what they had felt big sometimes, and big things had a habit of slipping away if she looked at them too hard.

But Max?

Max never made her feel like she had to earn her place.

She looked back up, searching his face. “Are you sure?”

Max smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world. “They’ll love you.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “And… if they don’t?”

“They will,” he said, without hesitation. “But if they didn’t—which they will—I still would. That’s what matters.”

Her throat went tight.

“You don’t have to say yes now,” he added, quieter now, reaching for her hand. “But I want you there. I want them to know you like I do.”

She leaned in and kissed his shoulder, then tucked herself under his arm.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “Okay. Before Zandvoort.”

He squeezed her hand.

And for a while, they just sat there as the sun dipped into the ocean, a promise tucked between them like something sacred.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Zandvoort’s coming up. Arthur, you good with logistics?

Arthur: Yep. I’m flying in Tuesday morning.

Isabelle: Hey— I’m actually in the Netherlands that week for a work event. Rotterdam. I was thinking… if you two are okay with it, I could come to Zandvoort for the weekend? I’d love to watch you both race.

Arthur: Yeah, totally. That’d be nice.

Charles: Definitely, yeah. It would be nice to have you there.

Arthur: We’ll have Ferrari add you to the room block, right, Charles?

Charles: Yeah, yeah. Easy. I’ll let the team know you’re joining.

Isabelle: Okay! I’ll come down Friday morning after my meetings wrap up. Can’t wait to see you both.

Arthur: Bring those granola bars you had at Silverstone.

Charles: Bring some for me too.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: He wants me to meet his family before Zandvoort.

Isabelle: His entire family.

Isabelle: Dinner. At his mother's house. No pressure apparently.

Emilie: Max Verstappen just casually inviting you into the lion’s den. Classic.

Emilie: Are you freaking out?

Isabelle: I am in a controlled state of panic.

Emilie: You do realize you’re literally the perfect daughter-in-law, right?

Emilie: You’re quiet, polite, absurdly thoughtful, and stunning in a soft-lighting European cinema kind of way.

Isabelle: I am really not.

Emilie: You listen. You make people feel calm just by existing.

Emilie: His family will LOVE you.

Emilie: And if they don’t, that’s not a reflection of you.

Emilie: It’s a red flag, and I’ll show up swinging.

Isabelle: He was so casual about it. “They’ll love you,” he said. Just like that. No hesitation.

Emilie: Because he knows they will. Max isn’t casual about anything he doesn’t absolutely mean.

Isabelle: What if I forget how to talk? Or what if Victoria is terrifying?

Emilie: You talk when you have something worth saying. And Victoria? She’ll adore you. You’re going to be her sons' new favorite person within five minutes. Probably less.

Emilie: You don’t have to prove anything, Belle. You just have to show up. The rest takes care of itself. You’re already his family. The rest is just the intro.

Isabelle: I love you.

Emilie: I know. Be polite and devastatingly charming at dinner.

***

Isabelle had been in high-pressure situations before.

Final exams, high-stakes client presentations, being the only woman in a room full of men twice her age who thought she was just there to take notes—none of those compared to standing in the Verstappen family home, about to meet Max’s family for the first time.

Max had assured her it would be fine. He’d been so casual about it, telling her “They’ll love you,” like it was a certainty. But then again, he already loved her, and he’d made that seem inevitable, too.

The door opened before she could finish that thought, and suddenly, she was being yanked inside by an overenthusiastic blonde.

"Finally!" Victoria Verstappen declared, looping an arm around Isabelle’s before she even had a chance to say hello. "I was beginning to think you were a myth."

Max rolled his eyes, following them inside. "I literally told you about her months ago. You have talked to her."

"And yet, this is the first time I’m meeting her," Victoria shot back before turning to Isabelle with a knowing grin. "Ignore him. I already love you, by the way."

"That’s… good," Isabelle said, slightly breathless from the whirlwind welcome. "I’d hate to be off to a bad start."

"Not possible," Victoria declared before releasing her and giving Max a pointed look. "You never bring anyone home. I don’t care who she is. She could be an alien, and I’d still be thrilled."

Max sighed. "She’s not an alien."

"Shame," Victoria said with a dramatic sigh before linking their arms again. "Come on. Mum is dying to meet you."

They were halfway through the house before Isabelle even had a chance to look around properly. It was warm and inviting—the kind of place where people laughed loudly at the dinner table and where childhood photos still hung on the walls.

She barely had time to take in the framed pictures before she was pulled into a hug by a woman who could only be Sophie Kumpen.

"Isabelle," she said warmly, squeezing her hands when she pulled back. "It’s so lovely to finally meet you."

"You too," Isabelle said sincerely.

"Max has told me so much about you," Sophie continued, giving her son a pointed look. "I was beginning to think he’d made you up."

Victoria cackled. "That’s what I said!"

Max groaned. "Why does everyone think I’m lying?"

Before anyone could answer, another voice cut through the conversation.

"You’re Charles’ sister."

The room shifted slightly as all attention turned to Jos Verstappen.

Max tensed beside her, and Victoria, who had been all smiles just moments ago, pressed her lips together in something that looked suspiciously like exasperation.

But Isabelle didn’t waver. She turned to look at him and nodded. "Yes."

Jos hummed, gaze sharp. Then silence.

It stretched long enough that Max was clearly about to intervene, but before he could, Sophie clapped her hands together, cutting through the tension like it was nothing.

"Let’s sit," she said, smiling as if Jos hadn’t just been scrutinizing Isabelle like she was an opponent on track. "I made tea."

The conversation moved on, shifting to lighter topics—Victoria’s kids, Sophie’s recent travels, Max’s upcoming races. But Isabelle could still feel Jos’ gaze on her, quietly assessing.

Max never let go of her hand.

It wasn’t until much later, after dinner, after Victoria’s sons had climbed all over Isabelle and decided that she was their new favourite person, when the conversation had lulled and Isabelle was helping Sophie clear the table, that Jos spoke to her again.

"You’re an architect?"

She turned, nodding. "Yes."

"That takes discipline."

"It does."

He studied her for a long moment. Then— "Max needs someone like that."

It wasn’t outright approval. It wasn’t exactly warm.

But it was something.

And when Max returned, slinging an arm around her shoulders like he had no intention of letting her go, Isabelle decided it was enough.

***

The lobby was nice in that neutral, five-star motorsport weekend kind of way. Polished stone floors, a curated floral arrangement on the front desk, one of those confusing water features that seemed to exist purely for aesthetic drama.

Isabelle smiled at the receptionist with practiced ease, suitcase in hand, lanyard tucked into her coat pocket.

She was exhausted, having run herself ragged over the last few days with a client install in Rotterdam. She had managed to wrap that up, just in time to catch the train towards Zandvoort with only a small amount of cursing.

“Hi, I should have a room with the Ferrari team block? Leclerc?”

The receptionist tapped quickly on the keyboard. Pause. Frown. Tap again.

Isabelle kept smiling. She knew this look.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said kindly. “I don’t see a reservation under your name.”

“Oh,” Isabelle replied, blinking once. “Could you check again? Maybe under Charles or Arthur?”

More typing. The woman’s brows drew together. “They both have rooms, but… there’s nothing additional listed. I don’t see a third Leclerc on the team list. And all our rooms are booked for tonight.”

Isabelle nodded, her face still polite. “Right. No worries.”

Because what else could she say?

Because of course, they’d forgotten.

It wasn’t even anger that hit her. Just a quiet, familiar ache, the kind that wrapped itself around her ribs and pressed in slowly.

She stepped away from the counter, wheeling her suitcase off to the side. The hotel lobby was buzzing—PR people, Ferrari junior drivers, Red Bull interns in matching polos. People who had rooms. People who had plans.

She pulled out her phone and opened a message thread she knew she could trust.

To: Max

Apparently I do not exist to the Ferrari logistics team. I promise I’m not trying to be dramatic. I just… don’t really know what to do right now.

The three dots popped up immediately.

Max: Room 706.

Isabelle: Max, I don’t want to cause a scene.

Max: You’re not. You’re coming upstairs. You’re not spending the night in the lobby because your brothers forgot you.

Isabelle: You’re busy. I don’t want to be in the way.

Max: You’re not in the way. You’re mine. Room 706. Come up. The door is open. You’ve got a place with me. Always.

She stared at the message for a moment, biting her lip.

No one had ever said it like that. Not her family. Not even past relationships. Like she wasn’t something to accommodate but someone who belonged.

Then, gathering her bag, she stood and waited by the elevators, wondering how something as painful as being forgotten could still land her exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had seen Max Verstappen through just about everything.

From raw, sharp-edged teenager to relentless world champion. From radio meltdowns to perfect laps in impossible conditions. From reckless frustration to the rare, still moments where he let his guard down—just enough to be human.

But over the past five months, GP had noticed him changing once again.

It wasn’t dramatic. Max hadn’t started writing poetry or singing love songs. There were no fireworks, no sweeping declarations.

It was quieter than that.

He smiled more.

Texted back.

Stopped snapping at the comms team over small things.

Started asking if someone else needed anything before the garage debrief ended.

And then there were the little tells. Subtle changes GP clocked because he always clocked them.

The way Max would glance at his phone with a barely-there smile. The occasional “oh, she’d like this” muttered at a merch stand or a snack table.

She.

GP hadn’t needed to ask who.

Because he had known since Max started asking him for relationship advice. Because clearly, GP was a fountain of romantic wisdom because GP had somehow managed to persuade his wife to take pity of him and marry him.

GP had observed.

Had allowed his eyes to track Isabelle Leclerc whenever she happened to show up at a race. He’d seen her in the background. Quiet. Observing. Never trying to claim space that wasn’t offered.

Isabelle Leclerc.

The girl with the soft voice and sharper eyes.

She wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t chasing the spotlight.

Which was probably why Max was so hopelessly gone for her.

So when Max looked at his phone mid-dinner and smiled—really smiled—GP didn’t need to ask who it was.

He just sighed.

And then he watched how Max’s whole body language changed in an instance, swallowing the bite of food he had just taken, his jaw clenching, tapping on his phone with barely contained rage.

GP raised an eyebrow. “Emergency?”

Max stood and muttered, “Kind of,” before grabbing his room key and disappearing into the hallway without another word.

GP blinked. “...What?”

He took a bite of luke warm pasta, leaned back, and waited. Max was many things—brilliant, intense, chronically infuriating—but he wasn’t cryptic without reason.

And GP hated when Max was cryptic.

The door opened again.

And Max walked in with Isabelle Leclerc.

GP blinked.

For a split second, he thought he was hallucinating. Maybe something in the hotel pasta had finally triggered a stress-induced fever dream.

But no. There she was. Real, flushed with embarrassment, wearing a coat and carrying a travel bag, clearly trying to disappear into the carpet.

Max, looking infuriatingly casual: “GP, this is Isabelle.”

As if GP didn’t know exactly who she was.

Leclerc.

As in Charles Leclerc’s sister.

As in "Ferrari’s Golden Boy Is Going To Break The FIA When He Finds Out You’re Sleeping With His Sister" Leclerc.

GP set down his fork. Slowly. Carefully.

“Hi,” she said softly. “Sorry. This isn’t how I pictured meeting you.”

GP blinked.

“She didn’t have a hotel room,” Max added, like that explained everything.

“So you invited her to your room,” GP said flatly.

Isabelle turned even pinker. “I didn’t know he wasn’t alone.”

GP stared at Max, then at her, then back at Max, who had the gall to sip his water like they weren’t seconds away from becoming a tabloid headline.

“In the Netherlands,” GP clarified.

“Yes,” Max said.

“During your home Grand Prix.”

“Yes.”

GP took a long, slow breath. “Perfectly reasonable.”

Max didn’t even blink.

Isabelle, bless her, looked like she wanted to apologize for existing. “I can go…”

GP waved her off. “No, no, please. You’re already more pleasant than he is.”

Max threw a piece of bread at him.

GP caught it midair without looking.

Then he sighed.

“What do you mean she didn’t have a room?” he asked Max with a raised eyebrow.

“She thought her brothers had booked her one,” Max said, like he wasn’t holding back fury with every word. “They didn’t.”

GP’s fork hit the table. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

GP turned to Isabelle, who was doing her best to shrink into her jacket. “They left you without a room?”

“I think they forgot I was coming,” she said, voice light, like it didn’t sting. Like it didn’t matter. “It’s okay. I just didn’t want to make a fuss tonight.”

Max’s jaw clenched.

And GP—who had been mad at Max for a million things over the years—suddenly wanted to march down the hall and yell at two grown men for treating their sister like a misplaced backpack.

“You’re staying here tonight,” Max said firmly. “End of discussion.”

GP crossed his arms. “I mean—yes. Obviously. But still. You’re telling me neither of them noticed?”

Isabelle looked away. “I guess not.”

Max let out a low, sharp breath through his nose.

It wasn’t just annoyance. It was rage. But the quiet kind. The kind Max only reserved for people who hurt the very small handful of people he actually loved.

Max rubbed a hand over his face and stood. Walked across the room. Paced, like he had no idea what to do with the fury crawling under his skin.

“She’s staying here,” he said again, turning to GP.

“Obviously.”

GP looked at Isabelle more gently now. “For what it’s worth, they’re idiots.”

Isabelle smiled faintly. “I’m kind of used to it.”

Max stopped pacing and came to stand beside her. He didn’t touch her—not yet—but the tension in his jaw said everything.

He was furious. Not just on her behalf, but because deep down, he’d known this would happen. And he hadn’t been there in time to stop it.

“You deserve better,” Max said quietly, only for her.

GP cleared his throat. “Okay. Well. I’m going to leave you two alone before I throw something.”

Isabelle blinked. “Wait—you’re mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” GP muttered. “Just not at you.”

He grabbed his notes, paused in the doorway, and said to Max: “I want you in bed in the next thirty minutes.”

Max smirked.

GP pointed at him. “Don’t.”

Then he looked at Isabelle again. Really looked.

And in that second, watching the way Max’s entire body shifted around her—the protectiveness, the softness, the calm—GP felt the sharp edge of his frustration melt into something else.

Respect.

“You’re good for him,” he said simply.

Isabelle’s eyes widened a little. “Thank you.”

“And Max?” GP said one last time. “If they forget her again—I will. Personally. Book. Her. A. Room.”

Max nodded solemnly. “Noted.”

GP closed the door behind him.

And in the hallway, alone, he muttered:

“Goddamn Leclerc brothers. Idiots, the lot of them.”

Then: “...But at least Max got something right.”

***

The door clicked shut behind GP, and the room fell into a thick, heavy silence.

Isabelle was still standing near the foot of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. She looked small. Not fragile—but like someone who’d been holding herself upright for hours longer than she should’ve.

Max crossed the room and gently took the travel bag from her shoulder.

“You can relax now,” he said quietly.

She gave him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to crash dinner.”

“You didn’t,” he replied. “We were already nearly done.”

He set her bag down carefully by the armchair and turned back to her, studying her face. She looked pale beneath the overhead lights, cheeks still flushed from the hallway chill. Her eyes had the telltale glassiness of someone who was trying very hard not to cry out of sheer exhaustion.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

She blinked. “I—what?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

She blinked. “Um… this morning?”

“This morning,” he repeated, and it came out sharper than he meant it to.

She winced. “I didn’t have time, Max. It’s not a big deal.”

He turned and stalked toward the room service menu like he needed somewhere to put the anger. Not at her. Never at her.

But her brothers?

They had let her show up to Zandvoort and forgotten to book her a room.

And now here she was—exhausted, underfed, and still trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like being forgotten was normal.

He pulled the phone off the receiver and ordered something warm. Soup. Bread. Tea.

She hovered by the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself.

“Don’t make a whole thing out of this,” she said, voice small.

He looked at her. “Making sure you had a place to sleep? A meal? That’s not a whole thing, that’s the bare minimum.”

“I know, I know.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I just—I didn’t want to make a fuss. Charles was already stressed about media stuff and Arthur was busy with something…”

“And they forgot about you,” Max said flatly. “Again.”

“Max.”

“I’m not going to yell at them,” he said, trying to tamp down the fire crawling up his throat. “But don’t ask me to pretend it’s okay. It’s not.”

She sank onto the edge of the bed, hands curled in her lap. “If I get upset, they make me feel like I’m overreacting. If I don’t say anything, I get forgotten. It’s like—I’m either too much or invisible.”

Max crossed the room, crouched in front of her. Rested his hands on her knees, grounding.

“You are not too much,” he said. “And you are never invisible. Not to me.”

She blinked hard, closing her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands against them. He just looked at her, at the shaky way she exhaled.

There was a knock at the door. Room service.

She tried to stand up, but he squeezed her hand.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “You just… sit. Please.”

He brought the tray over himself—soup, warm rolls, tea already steeping in the pot—and set it on the table in front of the window. Isabelle sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him like he might vanish if she blinked too hard.

“Eat first,” he said softly.

She hesitated for a moment—then nodded and reached for the spoon.

Halfway through the meal, she finally looked a little more like herself. Less pale. Less folded in on herself. Her shoulders relaxed. She leaned into his side, one hand resting on his knee, like she needed to stay grounded.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He kissed the top of her head.

“You’re mine,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

She didn’t say anything back. But she reached for his hand under the table, tangled their fingers, and held on tight.

And that was enough.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: My brothers left for the track without me.

Isabelle: They literally forgot I was even staying in the same hotel.

Isabelle: I came downstairs and the receptionist said, “Your family already left.” Like I was late for a school trip.

Isabelle: I know you’re busy, I just… needed to tell someone before I screamed into a decorative pillow.

Max: Are you serious?

Max: Stay right there. I’m sending someone now. You’re not taking a taxi like some fan on a giveaway pass.

Isabelle: Max, it’s fine—

Max: No, it’s not.

Isabelle: You don’t have to fix everything.

Max: I want to fix this.

Max: Stay where you are.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

Max: Are you still at the hotel?

Daniel: Yeah, just finishing my coffee. Why?

Max: Can you give someone a ride to the track?

Daniel: Yeah, no worries. Who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc. Her brothers left without her.

Daniel: Wait. Charles’ Isabelle?

Max: Yeah.

Daniel: Why is she not with them?

Max: They forgot her.

Daniel: …Brutal. Alright, I’ll head down and grab her.

Max: Thanks. Be nice.

Daniel: When am I not nice?

Max: Don’t answer that.

Daniel: So… why are you arranging this?

Daniel: Since when are you a Leclerc family concierge?

Max: Since right now. Go get her.

Daniel: Alright alright, I’m going.

Daniel: You’re weirdly invested in this.

***

Daniel Ricciardo had done a lot of weird favors in his life—once helped a teammate move house using a go-kart trailer, once lied to a customs officer about being allergic to oranges just to dodge a fruit declaration—but picking up Isabelle Leclerc from the hotel lobby because her own brothers had forgotten her? This one was top tier.

He didn’t know Isabelle well—he’d met her a handful of times, mostly quiet paddock hellos and awkward “Charles’ little sister” nods—but he was 100% sure she didn’t deserve to be ditched like a stray sock in a hotel lobby.

Who does that to their sister?

He had a sister. If someone had left Michelle behind at a race weekend? He’d have thrown hands. The thought of Isabelle, standing in some quiet hotel lobby while her brothers sped off to the circuit like she was an afterthought—it made his blood simmer.

He spotted her right away: sunglasses on, hair in a braid, sitting quietly in one of those fancy lobby chairs that always looked too stiff to be comfortable. She stood when she saw him, smoothing her skirt and lifting a tote bag onto her shoulder with calm, effortless grace.

“Hey,” he said, waving. “Max sent me.”

“I figured,” she said with a small smile. “Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He gestured toward the car. “Although I’ve gotta say, you being stranded wasn’t on my bingo card for today.”

She let out a soft laugh as they walked. “It wasn’t on mine either.”

“I mean—how do they forget you?” he asked, a little incredulous now. “You’re their sister. This isn’t like forgetting your phone charger.”

“They’re… busy,” Isabelle said diplomatically, as if that explained everything. Her voice was soft, her expression sincere, and it made something tug in his chest. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t throwing a fit. She wasn’t calling her brothers to scream at them.

She was just… taking it.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

“Seriously,” he said as they headed to the car, “they just left without you?”

“They’re not very detail-oriented,” she said with a light shrug, like she was used to making excuses for them.

Daniel frowned. “They’re your brothers, not a logistics team.”

She just smiled a little. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t.

He opened the door for her and tried not to seethe the entire way to the circuit.

The silence in the car was comfortable, oddly enough. Isabelle looked out the window, the sunlight catching in her hair. She smelled like something soft and green and expensive—not perfume-y, just... nice. Warm.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you and Max talk much?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Sometimes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t explain anything when he asked me to pick you up.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He just said you needed a ride, and that I was supposed to be nice.”

She smiled to herself. “That sounds like him.”

Daniel watched her for a beat longer. There was something easy in how she spoke about Max. Something familiar. Something… personal.

Suspicious.

He knew that tone. It was the same one Michelle used when she pretended she wasn’t dating her coworker. The same one his friends used when they were trying not to spill the beans too early.

Then, the kicker: her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, read the screen, and her entire expression softened—smile tugging at the corner of her mouth in a way that made her glow.

Daniel caught a glimpse of the contact name.

Max. With a little heart emoji.

And that was it.

The lightbulb went on.

“You’re with Max,” he blurted out.

Isabelle blinked. “Sorry?”

“You’re dating him.”

She blinked again, clearly debating denial… then gave up with a sigh and a smile. “Please don’t tell Charles.”

He gasped. “Charles doesn’t know.”

“Daniel…”

“I can’t unknow this now, Isabelle! This is, like, Top Secret Gossip of the Year! You can’t just hand me this emotional grenade and expect me not to panic!”

She laughed then—soft and real—and Daniel blinked. She looked… happy. Actually, genuinely happy.

He slowed down a little. “So… you’re good? With him?”

She nodded. “Better than I ever thought I could be.”

Daniel let out a long breath and shook his head. “Okay. Fine. I’ll take it to the grave. But when Charles finds out, I’m not in the room. I’m not even in the country.”

***

The paddock was buzzing, media wrapping up, and Max had just emerged from debrief when Daniel cornered him like a man on a mission.

“Hey,” Daniel said, arms crossed. “We need to talk.”

Max raised an eyebrow, completely unsurprised. “About?”

“You know what about,” Daniel said. “Don’t play dumb.”

Max took a sip of his Red Bull, deadpan. “You found out.”

“I picked her up from the hotel,” Daniel snapped. “I drove her. I talked to her for fifteen minutes. She’s warm, she’s kind, she listens—Max, she’s human sunshine.”

Max smirked, because yeah. Isabelle kind of was.

“Also? Her brothers left her behind this morning. They forgot her. Like she was a damn charger cable.”

Max exhaled through his nose. “They also forgot to book her a room,” Max said, voice going tight.

“…What?”

“Last night,” Max said. “She got to the hotel and found out Charles and Arthur hadn’t added her to the Ferrari room block. She had nowhere to sleep.”

Daniel stared at him. “So what did she do?”

“She texted me.”

“You’re telling me she didn’t even call them? She just quietly… what, curled up in a hallway with a travel bag and a dream?”

Max ran a hand through his hair. “I told her to come upstairs. She’s staying with me.”

Daniel muttered something that vaguely sounded like a threat.

“I mean—look, Max, I’ve seen people be casually inconsiderate before. But this? This is Olympic-level. This is gold medal negligence.”

“She wasn’t even mad,” Max said, and the quiet in his voice was far more telling than any shout. “She just said she didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Daniel’s shoulders dropped.

“Jesus.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of it hanging between them. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw set.

“I hate that she’s used to it,” he said finally. “The way she just… accepts it. Like being overlooked is normal.”

Daniel looked at him, something softer settling into his expression. “And you’re not gonna let that happen anymore.”

Max shook his head. “Not from me.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “Good. But I am still wondering, how the hell did you end up with Isabelle Leclerc? I watched you ghost half of Europe. I watched you emotionally flatline your way through every relationship like you were waiting for a fire drill. And now you’re with her?”

Max looked up, expression shifting from amused to something quieter. Something real. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel paused. “You’re serious about her.” It wasn’t a question.

Max’s expression shifted—still calm, but quieter now. More grounded. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel sighed, shaking his head with a grin. “You really are in deep, huh?”

Max nodded. “Very.”

There was a beat of silence.

Daniel exhaled, some of the theatrics melting away. “Okay. Okay. That’s good. Because she’s too good for you.”

Max chuckled. “I know.”

“No, like, really too good. You forget her birthday? I’ll kill you. You mess up and she cries? I will haunt you.”

Max sobered slightly. “I’m not going to hurt her.”

“I know,” Daniel said. “But I had to say it. It’s the law. Shovel talk protocol.” Daniel pointed at him again, this time less dramatic, more protective. “She’s quiet. She’s kind. She doesn’t push. That kind of girl? People forget to treat her like she matters. You don’t get to be one of them.”

“I know,” Max said instantly.

“I’m serious. You hurt her? You even accidentally make her feel like she’s less than everything? I will become your personal nightmare.”

Max nodded slowly. “Fair.”

Daniel exhaled. “Okay. Good.”

Another pause.

Then: “Also, bro. You’re screwed when Charles finds out.”

Max cracked a faint smile. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m just saying,” Daniel said, standing up, “I’d start investing in body armor. And maybe bribe Fred Vasseur.”

“I already told Victoria and Sophie,” Max said. “Jos knows too.”

Daniel turned mid-step. “So everyone in your family knows, and no one in hers?”

Max just raised his hands helplessly.

Daniel whistled. “Wow. Balls of steel, man.” Then, after a beat: “I still can’t believe you’re the one who pulled this off.”

Max grinned. “Me either.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “If you propose before Charles finds out, I’m not helping you escape.”

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Are you already at the circuit?

Victoria: Just pulling in. Got Luka. Snacks. One million toddler wipes. Why?

Max: I need a favor.

Victoria: This sounds serious.

Max: It is. Isabelle’s here. Her brothers left without her this morning. Yesterday, they forgot to book her a room. She was alone at the hotel with nowhere to go.

Victoria: You’re kidding.

Max: I wish I was. I found out when she texted me.

Victoria: She texted you instead of calling them?

Max: Said she didn’t want to make a fuss.

Victoria: That’s not a fuss. That’s basic human decency.

Victoria: What the hell is wrong with her brothers? Did they think she just… didn’t exist this weekend?

Max: I don’t think they thought at all.

Max: I’ve got her staying with me, obviously. But I’m at the car most of the day. Can you… I don’t know. Just keep an eye on her?

Victoria: I’m already on it. I’ll find her. Luka adores her anyway.

Max: Thank you.

Victoria: Also—Max?

Max: Yeah?

Victoria: You’re doing good. For her. I can tell.

Max: I just want her to feel safe.

Victoria: She does. That’s why she called you.

***

The Ferrari garage buzzed with the usual race day chaos—engineers shouting data, mechanics darting between screens and tires, media cameras hovering just out of reach.

Isabelle stood off to the side, tucked just behind a stack of spare tires. She had her accreditation lanyard looped around one wrist, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable.

No one had said anything to her.

Not Charles. Not Arthur.

Not a single “where were you?”

No one had noticed she hadn’t arrived with them.

Not even when she slipped through the paddock gate forty minutes late with Daniel Ricciardo, who’d given her a cheerful wave and then glanced back at her with a concerned little frown, like he could feel her shrinking into herself.

She hadn’t told them. Hadn’t reminded them. It felt pathetic, like trying to make a dent in something carved from stone.

So she watched them from the background. Charles adjusting his earpiece. Arthur laughing with his race engineer. Everyone moving like she was part of the set dressing—quiet, reliable, conveniently invisible.

Her phone buzzed.

Victoria Verstappen:

Come to Red Bull hospitality. We have fruit, juice boxes, and a child who keeps asking where you are.

A second later:

Victoria Verstappen:

He refuses to eat his banana unless you’re here. Help me.

Isabelle smiled before she could stop herself.

She glanced back at the garage—no one looking, no one asking, no one even noticing she was there—then quietly turned and slipped out through the paddock gate.

The moment she stepped into Red Bull’s space, it was like the air changed. Quieter. Calmer. The edges softened.

And then—

“Belle!”

Luka barreled into her legs like a small, over-caffeinated torpedo, throwing his arms around her knees and looking up with wide, expectant eyes. His curls were slightly flattened from his bucket hat, and his juice box was clutched precariously in one hand.

“I saved you a banana,” he said solemnly.

Isabelle crouched down, her heart tightening. “You did?”

He nodded. “Mum said I had to eat fruit, but I said ‘no’ until you came.”

Behind him, Victoria appeared, holding a mostly squished banana and a tired smile.

“You’re now officially the only person Luka will eat produce for. Congratulations,” she said, handing Isabelle the banana.

Isabelle stood and hugged her. “You okay?” Victoria asked gently.

Isabelle hesitated. “I’m fine.”

Victoria just arched a brow.

“I mean—I’m okay,” Isabelle corrected. “A little tired. It’s been a weird weekend.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Victoria said. “Max already told me everything.”

Isabelle winced. “Of course he did.”

“Don’t worry. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Very seriously. Like I was being recruited for a mission.”

Isabelle blinked. “He what?”

Victoria shrugged. “You’re important to him. Of course he’s worried.”

Luka tugged on Isabelle’s sleeve. “Wanna draw race cars?”

“I would love to draw race cars,” she said, letting him take her hand.

Victoria reached for a juice pouch and smiled softly at her over Luka’s curls. “Come sit with us. Eat something. You don’t have to go back to that garage today. No one there deserves your company.”

And Isabelle—still tired, still aching in that quiet, unseen way—followed.

Because it wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t flashy.

But it felt like home.

***

Victoria had known Isabelle Leclerc for years without really knowing her.

A couple of polite nods in paddocks. One or two mutual “Happy Birthday” comments under photos. That sort of F1-adjacent proximity that meant you were vaguely aware of someone’s life through a filtered lens of curated smiles and race weekend lighting.

And then her brother had fallen in love with her.

And that had changed everything.

Somewhere between a soft photo of Lio holding a wooden toy horse and Isabelle quietly liking every story Victoria posted about motherhood, something shifted.

Their friendship had started in Instagram DMs and lessons of dutch.

And now, sitting on the plush couch in the Red Bull family lounge, Victoria watched Isabelle cradle Luka like she’d been made for it.

He was wrapped around her torso like a baby monkey, eyes already drifting shut, his small hand clinging to the neckline of her cardigan. Isabelle’s hand was in his hair, gently combing through the curls with practiced ease.

Victoria’s heart clenched.

Max had chosen well.

Not because Isabelle was sweet (though she was), or thoughtful (painfully so), or talented (clearly), but because Max had never once let anyone in like this.

He had flings. Flirtations. A relationship or two that never made it past the media glare.

But this?

Isabelle, sitting cross-legged at a coloring table, nodding patiently as Luka explained crayon colours with the enthusiasm of a sugar-high professor?

This was different.

This was real.

And when Max had texted her that morning —Can you keep an eye on her?—Victoria hadn’t even blinked.

Because she knew.

He wasn’t asking out of obligation.

He was asking because Isabelle mattered. Because she was his person. Because her quiet pain had become his problem to carry, and Max Verstappen had never once backed down from something he gave a damn about.

Victoria watched Isabelle gently brush Luka’s hair out of his eyes as he leaned too close to the table, crayon smearing on his elbow, and something in her chest ached.

Because she’d also seen the way Isabelle’s brothers looked past her. The way they forgot her. The way she was a fixture—not a presence. Easy to love from a distance, easier still to forget when something shinier demanded attention.

It made her furious.

It made her want to storm the Ferrari garage and shake Charles and Arthur like snow globes until they remembered who the hell their sister was.

Because if a three-year-old could recognize her worth after one afternoon, what excuse did they have?

Victoria was still fuming quietly when the door to hospitality opened—and Max stepped out onto the terrace.

He spotted them instantly. His shoulders dropped just a little. Not with weariness, but relief.

He crossed the room toward them, his steps sure and unhurried.

And when Isabelle looked up and lit up—not with surprise, not with hesitation, but that soft, unmistakable joy that came from knowing someone was hers—Victoria exhaled.

Max reached them, crouched beside Luka first.

“Hey, little man,” he said, ruffling his hair.

“Max!” Luka beamed. “We made cars!”

“Very impressive,” Max said, scanning the drawings. “Yours definitely wins in the flame department.”

Then he looked at Isabelle.

Their eyes met.

No one said anything for a beat. They didn’t need to.

Max touched her wrist gently. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Better now.”

And Victoria—who’d seen every version of her brother: stormy, closed-off, sharp-edged and impossible—watched as his whole expression softened into something rare.

Something like peace.

She smiled to herself, sipping her drink again.

About time.

Max hadn’t just fallen in love with her.

He’d gotten it right.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1Sleuth: GUYS. I was at Zandvoort today and I just saw Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc talking in the paddock like they’re actual best friends??? Since when???

↳@/GridGossip: You’re lying.

↳@/TifosiNation: They follow each other on Instagram now, so maybe it’s not that surprising???

↳@/RedBullRumors: But like… why do they know each other that well?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Do you have PICTURES?

@/F1Sleuth: I couldn’t get a clear photo, but I swear to god Victoria’s little boy was obsessed with Isabelle. Like, full-on clinging to her, as they were sitting in Red Bull hospitality. This was NOT a casual “oh we kind of know each other” interaction.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Excuse me?????

↳@/TifosiForever: I guess it makes sense? Isabelle was around during karting when Max and Charles were kids, so maybe she and Victoria knew each other back then?

↳@/RBfan44: Imagine if Charles and Max are rivals but their sisters became best friends instead lmao

↳@/PaddockGossip: Omg that’s adorable 🥹

@/F1GossipQueen: Maybe they just reconnected? Like old karting friends finding each other again.

↳@/RBUpdates: This is actually really cute, imagine the Verstappens and Leclercs becoming one big happy F1 family.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles and Max being forced into friendship because their sisters are besties is something I NEED to happen.

@/F1Sleuth: OKAY UPDATE. Max Verstappen just showed up and walked straight to Isabelle and Victoria. No hesitation. Like, he was SUPPOSED to be there.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Oh??? Oh. OH.

↳@/GridGossip: Why does this feel like a soft launch but also not at the same time???

↳@/RBfan44: I swear if Max and Isabelle are secretly besties, I’m going to lose my mind.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Besties or… 👀

↳@/PaddockRumors: Max looked so comfortable. Like this isn’t a one-time thing. Isabelle smiled at him like she was expecting him to show up.

@/F1Sleuth: MAX TOOK VICTORIA’S BABY FROM ISABELLE LIKE IT WAS THE MOST NORMAL THING IN THE WORLD. They’re just sitting there, talking, while he’s holding his nephew??? I don’t know what’s happening but I need ANSWERS.

↳ @/PaddockGossip: I’m sorry but Max holding a toddler while casually talking to Isabelle Leclerc?? That’s suspicious. That’s weird.

↳@/RBUpdates: Someone check on Charles because wtf is going on

↳@/F1Conspiracies: I feel like we’re witnessing something we’re not supposed to know about yet.

↳@/RedBullNation: Okay but imagine if they’re just actual close friends and we’re all being insane for no reason.

↳@/GridGossip: But what if we’re not? 😏

@/PaddockInsider: Charles has no idea what’s happening because he’s STILL doing media. Meanwhile, his sister is chilling with Victoria and Max like this is a normal Sunday.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles is going to come back and be so confused lmao

↳@/F1DramaLover: Imagine him seeing Max holding a baby next to Isabelle. He’d actually short-circuit.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Someone record his reaction PLEASE.

@/F1Sleuth: Max just leaned over and said something to Isabelle, and she laughed. Victoria said something too, and they all looked so comfortable?? This is actually driving me insane.

↳@/PaddockGossip: What is going on.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Isabelle, blink twice if you’re secretly a Red Bull spy.

↳@/RBUpdates: The way Max just sat down and started talking like this was totally normal… yeah, something’s up.

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