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adriftingsnowflake · 3 days ago

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Unexpected Delivery

Summary: When a simple lunch delivery to the royal palace goes hilariously wrong. You, a baker’s daughter find yourself accidentally hired as the Crown Prince’s personal assistant.

Fandom: ATEEZ

Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Reader

Genre: Royal AU, Fluff, Comedy, Romance

Word count: 4.2k~

Warnings: None. Fluff and romantic tension

A/N: I prefer General!Seonghwa over Prince!Seonghwa anyday but the thought of silver haired prince seonghwa is so yum 🤤 Also I noticed that I made a plot hole while re-checking today and nearly got aneurysm trying to correct it if there is a mistake blame it on that 😔✊

“No- Your Highness, there must have been a mistake. I’m just here to drop off the royal tailor’s lunch.”

Seonghwa blinks at you over a stack of letters that towers precariously on his mahogany desk. There’s something suspiciously relieved in his expression when he sees your face. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his usually pristine hair has a rebellious strand falling across his forehead. “Excellent. I urgently need someone who knows how to say ‘no’ to me.” he smirked.

You clutch the wrapped lunch tighter, taking a cautious step backward. The Crown Prince’s study is intimidatingly grand; floor to ceiling bookshelves, oil paintings of stern ancestors, and enough gold trim to fund a small village. You definitely don’t belong here.

“I… what?”

“My assistant quit yesterday,” Seonghwa continues, quite aware to your growing panic but acting oblivious. He gestures at the chaos surrounding him. Scrolls unfurled across every surface, inkwells precariously balanced on stacks of documents, and what appears to a half eaten scone that might be older than some of the treaties on his desk.

“Something about ‘excessive pressure’ and ‘inhuman expectations.’ Quite dramatic, really.”

“Your Highness, I think you have me mistaken with someone else-”

“No way. Mistake is something I don't need right now.” He stands abruptly, and you’re struck by how tall he is, how his shoulders seem to carry the weight of the entire kingdom. “The Council expects a response to the Trade Agreement by noon, I have a ceremonial sword blessing at two, and somewhere in this mess is a very important letter from the Northern Duchy that I absolutely cannot lose.”

You stare at him. He stares back with an expression of such hopeful desperation that your heart does a tiny, traitorous flutter.

“I’m- I don't think I am qualified for this,” you say weakly.

“Neither am I, most days.” Seonghwa’s smile is tired but genuine. “What’s your name?”

You tell him, and the way he repeats it, carefully, like he’s memorizing the syllables makes your cheeks warm.

“Well then,” he says, “shall we pretend we both know what we’re doing?”

Somehow, you find yourself seated at a smaller desk that’s been hastily cleared of its mountain of correspondence. The lunch sits forgotten on a side table, probably wondering why it’s been abandoned for royal bureaucracy.

“The trick,” Seonghwa explains, settling back into his chair with considerably more grace than anyone dealing with governmental chaos should possess, “is to look confident while having absolutely no idea what’s happening.”

“Is that how you’ve been managing this whole prince thing?”

The question slips out before you can stop it, and you immediately want to crawl under the desk. You just essentially insulted the Crown Prince. They probably have dungeons for this sort of thing.

But Seonghwa laughs. A sincere laugh, not the polite chuckle used in ceremonies. “You catch on quickly. No wonder they sent you.”

“They didn’t send me, I’m just-”

“Could you help me with something?” He interrupts, and there’s something almost shy in his expression. “I have this ceremony in an hour or so, but I can never tell if my crown is sitting properly. The royal mirror is positioned terribly, and my last assistant always said it looked fine even when it was practically sliding off my head.”

Your heart hammers as he retrieves an elegant gold crown from its velvet case. It’s beautiful, delicate engravings of stars and moons, small gems that catch the light like captured starfire.

“I feel ridiculous asking,” he admits, “but could you…?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. When he places the crown on his head and turns toward you, you forget how to breathe. The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows catches in his silver hair, and his eyes hold a vulnerability you never expected to see.

The crown is indeed crooked, tilted slightly to the left.

“May I?” you whisper.

He nods.

Your fingers are trembling as you reach up to adjust it. You have to step closer, close enough to catch the subtle scent of patchouli and something uniquely him. His breath hitches slightly when your knuckles brush against his hair.

“There,” you murmur, your hands lingering perhaps a moment too long. “Perfect.”

When you meet his eyes, the world seems to slow. He’s looking at you like you’ve just solved every problem in the kingdom, like you’re something precious and unexpected. His lips part slightly, and for a single moment, you think-

A knock at the door shatters the moment. You spring backward so quickly you nearly knock over an inkwell.

“Your Highness?” A voice calls. “The Council is ready for your response regarding the trade agreement.”

Seonghwa blinks, seemingly dazed. “Yes, of course. One moment.”

He turns to you, and there’s something different in his expression now, warmer and softer. “Would you… would you mind staying? Just until I sort through this mess. I know you weren’t planning on this, but-”

“Okay,” you say, surprising yourself. “I’ll stay.”

His smile could power the entire palace.

After a while, you’ve somehow helped organize half his correspondence, located the missing Northern Duchy letter -it was being used as a bookmark in a poetry collection book-, and discovered that the Crown Prince has an alarming tendency to forget to eat when stressed.

“When did you last have a proper meal, Your Highness?” you ask, watching him squint at a particularly dense diplomatic document.

“Tuesday?” he ventures.

“It’s Thursday.”

“Ah.” He has the grace to look sheepish. “Time becomes rather fluid when you’re reading seventeen different proposals for grain taxation reform.”

You retrieve the forgotten lunch from the side table. “Here. The tailor will understand.”

“I can’t take someone else’s meal-”

“Your Highness.” You use your sternest voice, the one usually reserved for stubborn customers at your family’s bakery. “Eat.”

He blinks at you in surprise, then obediently unwraps the lunch. You try not to stare at the way his face lights up at the simple meal of bread, cheese, and fruit.

“No one’s spoken to me like that in years,” he says between bites.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a person instead of a title.”

Your heart does that fluttering thing again. “Well, you are a person. A person who needs to eat regularly and sleep more than four hours a night.”

“How did you-”

“Your Highness, you have ink stains on three different fingers, your tie has been tied incorrectly all day, and you’ve been unconsciously rubbing your temples every few minutes. You’re exhausted.”

Seonghwa stares at you with something like wonder. “You notice things.”

“It’s hard not to when you’re-” You catch yourself before you can say something embarrassing like ‘when you’re incredibly, amazingly pretty and I've been admiring you from afar.’

“When I’m what?”

“When you’re… very obvious about it,” you finish lamely.

He grins, and it transforms his entire face. “I’ll have to work on my royal ambiguity.”

“Please don’t. It’s refreshing, actually. The honesty.”

Something shifts in his expression, becomes more intent. “Is it?”

Before you can analyze the weight in his voice, another knock interrupts. This time, it’s his valet.

“Your Highness, the ceremonial sword blessing-”

“Right.” Seonghwa sighs, straightening his shoulders as he transforms back into Crown Prince mode. But when he looks at you, the mask slips slightly. “Will you… that is, would you be willing to continue this arrangement? Temporarily, of course. Just until I can find a proper replacement.”

You should say no. You should explain the misunderstanding, return to your normal life, and pretend this strange, wonderful afternoon never happened.

Instead, you nod.

“Excellent.” His smile is radiant. “I’ll have a room prepared for you immediately.”

“Room? Oh no, I couldn’t possibly-”

“Nonsense. If you’re to be my assistant, you’ll need to be available for early morning briefings and late evening correspondence reviews. It’s only practical.”

Your mouth opens and closes soundlessly. You’ve somehow gone from a bakery worker to living in the palace in the span of a single afternoon by simply delivering lunch for a favor.

“Don’t look so terrified,” Seonghwa says gently. “I promise the dungeons are only for people who steal the good dinner rolls.”

Despite everything, you laugh. “How did you know I was thinking about dungeons?”

“Lucky guess..?” He pauses at the door, crown now perfectly straight and posture regally composed. But his eyes are warm when they meet yours. “Thank you. For today. For… staying.”

After he leaves, you sink into the chair and stare at the organized desk, the neat stacks of correspondence, the empty lunch wrapping.

What have you gotten yourself into?

After waiting for your background check to be finished, you're finally escorted to your room.

Your assigned quarters are roughly the size of your family’s entire bakery. The bed alone could fit four people comfortably, and there’s a sitting area with windows overlooking the palace gardens. It’s beautiful and terrifying and completely surreal.

A soft knock interrupts your attempts to process the day’s events.

“Come in?”

To your surprise, it’s Seonghwa. He’s changed from his formal attire into simpler clothes. Dark trousers and a white shirt that somehow makes him look younger, more approachable even though his looks come not from his clothing but his regal beauty.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “I rather steamrolled you into this arrangement. If you’re uncomfortable-”

“It’s not that.” You gesture for him to come in, and he perches carefully on the edge of a chair like he’s afraid of imposing. “I just… I’m not actually qualified to be anyone’s assistant, let alone yours. I work at my family’s bakery. I have no training in diplomacy or protocol or any of the things you probably need.”

“Can you read?”

“Yes, but-”

“Can you write legibly?”

“Well, yes-”

“Do you have opinions about things?”

You blink. “Opinions?”

“Everyone in the palace agrees with everything I say,” Seonghwa explains, running a hand through his hair. “It’s maddening. I could declare that purple should be the official color of vegetables and they’d all nod sagely and praise my innovative thinking.”

“You cannot assign vegetables a color. Even if you did it would be definitely green, not purple.” you say scrunching your face.

“Exactly!” His face lights up. “You see? Perfect assistant material.”

You can’t help but smile. “This is insane.”

“Most of the best things are.” He pauses, and something vulnerable flickers in his expression. “Will you... try it? Just for a few days. If you hate it, I’ll personally escort you back to your bakery with a formal apology and enough gold to make up for the inconvenience.”

The smart thing would be to decline politely and leave now, before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. Before you fall any harder for a prince who’s completely out of your reach.

But when you look at him -really look at him- you see past the crown and the title to the person underneath. Someone who’s lonely and overworked and genuinely grateful for the smallest kindness.

Someone who laughed at your terrible jokes and trusted you to fix his crown.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “I’ll try.”

You can bet on anything that his smile is brighter than any jewel in the royal treasury.

The next morning arrives with a gentle knock and a maid carrying what appears to be enough breakfast to feed a small army.

“Compliments of His Highness,” she explains, setting the elaborate spread on your sitting room table. “He thought you might prefer to eat privately while you settle in.”

Thoughtful. You’re beginning to understand that beneath all the royal protocol, Seonghwa is simply… considerate.

You’re attempting to decide between three different types of pastry when another knock sounds. This time, it’s the man himself, looking impeccable despite the early hour.

“Good morning,” he says, and there’s something almost shy about it. “I hope you slept well.”

“Like a rock. That bed is magic.”

“Wait until you try the library chairs. I’ve lost entire afternoons to their evil comfort.” He glances at the breakfast spread and frowns. “This is excessive. I specifically asked for something simple.”

“The kitchen staff might have a different definition of ‘simple’ than normal people.”

“Normal people,” he repeats thoughtfully. “I like that phrase. May I join you? My own breakfast is a formal affair in the dining hall, and I’d much rather have a normal person breakfast.”

You gesture to the abundance of food. “There’s certainly enough.”

He settles across from you with visible relief, immediately reaching for what appears to be a perfectly ordinary piece of toast. The domesticity of it, sharing breakfast and watching him relax, feels dangerously intimate.

“So,” you say, searching for safe conversation, “what disasters await us today?”

“Oh, the usual. Three diplomatic meetings, a review of the royal gardens’ budget, and a very tense discussion about whether the autumn festival should feature dancing or theatrical performances.”

“Both?”

“I suggested that yesterday. Apparently, it would ‘set a concerning precedent for future festivals.’” He shakes his head. “Sometimes I think they create problems just to have something to debate.”

“What do you want the festival to have?”

He pauses, piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “What do I want?”

“It’s your kingdom, isn’t it? What would make you happy?”

Seonghwa stares at you like you’ve asked him to solve an ancient riddle. “I… no one’s ever asked me that before. About what would make me happy.”

Your heart clenches. “Well, I’m asking now.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you can practically see him thinking through possibilities he’s never been allowed to consider.

“Music,” he says finally. “I’d want music. Not just the formal court musicians, but… street performers, local bands, anyone who wanted to play. And food stalls run by actual families from the kingdom, not the palace kitchens. And games for children, and dancing for anyone who felt like it, not just the nobility.”

His eyes are bright with enthusiasm, and you find yourself smiling. “That sounds wonderful.”

“It sounds chaos to the Council.”

“Sometimes chaos is exactly what people need.”

“Is that your professional assistant opinion?”

“That’s my normal person opinion.” You lean forward slightly. “Your Highness, what if we presented it differently? Not as chaos, but as… connecting with your people. Understanding their culture. Being a prince who cares about everyone in the kingdom, not just the nobles.”

Seonghwa sets down his toast entirely, giving you his full attention. “Go on.”

“Well, festivals are about celebration, right? Joy. What better way to show strong leadership than by creating something that brings genuine happiness to your people? The Council can debate protocol all they want, but it’s hard to argue against joy.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then he starts to laugh. That real, unguarded sound you heard yesterday.

“You’re brilliant,” he says, and the warm admiration in his voice makes your stomach flip. “Absolutely brilliant. Will you come with me to the Council meeting?”

“Oh no. No, no, no. I can offer opinions over breakfast, but I can’t face the royal Council-”

“Please.” He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “I need someone in that room who remembers that I’m supposed to serve the people, not just manage them. I'll handle the council.”

The touch of his hand sends electricity up your arm, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something there that makes your breath catch. Something warm and wondering and impossibly fond.

“Okay,” you whisper, because apparently you’re incapable of saying no to anything when he looks at you like that.

His smile could outshine the sun.

The Council meeting is every bit as intimidating as you expected. Twelve stern faced advisors seated around a massive oak table, all of whom seem personally offended by your presence.

“Your Highness,” the head councilor says with barely concealed disdain, “perhaps your… assistant… would be more comfortable waiting outside.”

“She stays,” Seonghwa says firmly, and the quiet authority in his voice makes something flutter in your chest. “Her insights have been invaluable.”

You try to make yourself invisible in your chair beside his, taking notes and pretending you can’t feel the councilors’ disapproving stares.

The festival debate unfolds exactly as Seonghwa predicted; lots of discussion about precedent and protocol, very little about what might actually benefit the kingdom. When he presents his vision using the framework you suggested, you can see several councilors wavering.

“It’s… unconventional,” admits the Minister of Cultural Affairs.

“Unconventional isn’t necessarily problematic,” Seonghwa replies smoothly. “Some of our most beloved traditions started as innovations.”

“But the security concerns-”

“Can be managed with proper planning.”

“And the budget-”

“Will likely be offset by increased merchant participation and tourism.”

You watch him navigate each objection with growing admiration. He’s brilliant at this, when he’s passionate about something. When he’s fighting for what he believes in rather than just managing what’s expected.

The head councilor drums his fingers on the table. The Council only agreed after a tense hours long debate.

"We’ll need a detailed proposal.”

“Of course.” Seonghwa glances at you, something almost playful in his expression. “My assistant and I will have it ready by tomorrow.”

After the meeting, you practically float back to his study.

“Did we just win that?” you ask.

“We did indeed.” Seonghwa grins, loosening his formal jacket with obvious relief. “Though now we actually have to create a detailed proposal by tomorrow.”

“We?”

“Well, it was your idea. Brilliant strategy, by the way, framing it as connection rather than chaos.”

You feel yourself blushing. “I just said what made sense.”

“Exactly. You cut through all the political posturing and found the heart of it.” He pauses, studying your face with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. “You’re remarkable, you know that?”

The compliment hits you like a physical thing, warm and overwhelming. “I’m really not-”

“You are.” He steps closer, and suddenly the study feels much smaller. “You see possibilities where others see problems. You remind me why I wanted to do this job in the first place.”

Your heart is hammering so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “Seonghwa-”

The use of his name without the title makes him go very still. For a moment, you think you’ve overstepped, broken some crucial protocol.

Then he smiles, soft and wondering. “Say it again.”

“Your Highness-”

“No. My name.”

“Seonghwa,” you whisper, and his eyes flutter closed like you’ve given him something precious.

When he opens them again, there’s something raw and hopeful in his expression. He takes another step closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

“I should tell you,” he says quietly, “that I’ve never enjoyed anyone’s company the way I enjoy yours.”

Your breath catches. “Seonghwa…”

“And I should probably also tell you that I’ve been thinking about yesterday afternoon. About when you fixed my crown.” His voice drops even lower. “About how you looked at me like I was just… me.”

The space between you feels charged, electric. You can see the exact moment he decides to be brave, can see him start to lean forward-

And then the door bursts open.

“Your Highness, there’s been a development with the Northern- Oh.” The secretary stops short, taking in the scene with wide eyes. “I… should I return later?”

Seonghwa steps back so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. “No, that’s… what’s the development?”

You use the interruption to retreat to your desk, heart still racing. But when you glance up, Seonghwa is looking at you with such soft longing that your breath catches all over again.

This is getting dangerous. Wonderfully, terrifyingly dangerous.

The festival proposal takes shape over the next several hours, with the two of you working in surprisingly seamless collaboration. Seonghwa handles the diplomatic language and budget considerations while you focus on logistics and community engagement.

“What about here?” you suggest, pointing to a section about local artisan participation. “We could create a special showcase area for traditional crafts.”

“Perfect.” He leans over to see what you’re indicating, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “You have lovely handwriting, by the way.”

Such a simple comment shouldn’t make you feel like you’re glowing, but somehow it does. “Thank you.”

“No, really. It’s… graceful. Like you.”

You look up sharply, and he’s right there, closer than you realized. Close enough to see the way his pupils dilate slightly, close enough to catch the subtle hitch in his breathing.

“Seonghwa,” you whisper, not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation.

He reaches up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is feather-light, reverent.

“Is this all right?” he asks softly.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

His thumb traces along your cheekbone, and you let your eyes flutter closed. This is madness. You’re a baker’s daughter and he’s the Crown Prince, but in this moment, with his gentle touch and the afternoon light streaming around you both, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“I should tell you something,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“I knew.”

Your eyes snap open. “Knew what?”

“When you came to deliver lunch.” His smile is soft, almost shy. “I knew you weren’t the new assistant. The real candidate wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week.”

Your mouth falls open. “You knew? Then why did you-?”

“Because you were the first person in months to look at me like I was human instead of a title. Because when I made that ridiculous comment about needing someone to say no to me, you looked like you might actually be brave enough to do it.” His thumb is still tracing gentle patterns on your cheek. “And because I’ve been watching you at events for the better part of a year, hoping for an excuse to talk to you.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“Trying to work up the courage to approach you, more like. Do you know how many times I’ve walked past your family’s booth at the market? How many excuses I’ve invented to attend events where you might be helping with the catering?”

Your heart is doing something complicated and wonderful in your chest. “Seonghwa…”

“I know this is complicated,” he says quickly. “I know there are protocols and expectations and a dozen reasons why this is probably a terrible idea. But I-”

You silence him by rising up on your toes and pressing your lips to his.

It’s soft and sweet and perfect, tasting like the tea you’ve been sharing and the promise of something extraordinary. When you pull back, he’s staring at you with such wonder that you feel like you could conquer kingdoms.

“For someone who is supposed to be good with words,” you murmur, “you certainly talk too much sometimes.”

He laughs, bright and joyful, and kisses you again.

The festival proposal is a complete success. The Council approves it unanimously, the people are thrilled, and somehow you’ve managed to revolutionize royal event planning while falling completely in love with a prince.

Three weeks later, you’re standing in the gardens at sunset, watching Seonghwa practice his opening speech for the festival. He’s nervous -adorably so- running his hands through his hair and muttering about crowd expectations.

“You know,” you say, stepping closer, “you could always just speak from the heart.”

“The heart doesn’t follow protocol.”

“Because it doesn’t need to.” You reach up to straighten his collar, smiling at the way he immediately relaxes under your touch. “Your people love you, Seonghwa. Not because you’re perfect, but because you care about them. Let them see that.”

He catches your hands, pressing them flat against his chest. “How do you always know exactly what I need to hear?”

“Lucky guess..?”

“I love you,” he says suddenly, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back any longer. “I know it’s complicated and probably terrifying and definitely against several royal protocols, but I love you. I love your terrible jokes and your practical solutions and the way you make me remember who I am underneath all the expectations.”

Your heart swells until you think it might burst. “I love you too. Even if you do have a concerning habit of making impulsive royal decisions.”

“Only the good kind of impulsive decisions.”

“Is that what I am? A good impulsive decision?”

He suddenly picks you up and spins you around, laughing as your feet leave the ground. “You’re the best decision I’ve ever made.”

When he sets you down, you’re both breathless and grinning.

“So,” you say, straightening his crown with familiar ease, “what happens now?”

“Now we revolutionize the kingdom one festival at a time,” Seonghwa says, leaning down to kiss you softly. “And maybe figure out how to explain to the Council that their prince has fallen in love with his wonderfully unqualified assistant.”

“Fake assistant,” you correct.

“Best fake assistant in the kingdom.”

You laugh, and he spins you around again, and in the golden light of the setting sun, with the promise of tomorrow’s festival and a lifetime of adventures ahead, everything feels perfect.

The End

#ateez fic #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #kpop fic #park seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x reader #fic rec

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adriftingsnowflake · 4 days ago

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Y/N, a soft-spoken third-year physical therapy major, is assigned to assist the university’s elite fencing club — a team full of campus heartthrobs, including the famously composed captain, Seonghwa. She’s used to being overlooked, but the more time she spends with the team, the more they come to appreciate her quiet strength — especially Seonghwa, who begins to notice things about her no one else ever has.

⭐️Pairing: Park Seonghwa (ATEEZ) × Plus-Size!Reader

🌅 Trope(s): Slow Burn Romance, Mutual Pining, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Sunshine × Stoic Dynamic

🍡Genre:Romance | Angst | Comfort | Emotional Growth

🦢Featuring: All ATEEZ members as Seonghwa’s teammates, Supportive single father character, Original side characters

Masterlist

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙

If someone had told Y/N at the start of her third year that she’d be spending her afternoons in a fencing gym surrounded by Seoul’s most intense athletes, she would’ve laughed quietly and gone back to her anatomy notes. But here she was. Assigned. Officially.

“Kim Y/N,” Professor Lee said, his tone clipped and efficient as always. “You’re being placed with the university fencing club for your fieldwork rotation.”

Y/N blinked. “The fencing club?” She had expected a quiet sports therapy clinic, or maybe track and field at most — something that let her blend into the background. Fencing, with ist expensive gear and meticulous elegance, felt a little… dramatic. Professor Lee didn’t look up from his tablet. “They’ve had too many minor injuries lately. Shin splints. Shoulder strain. One possible stress fracture. I want your focus to be on preventative treatment, form analysis, and basic recovery support. You’ll report to their coach, but consider yourself responsible for monitoring their health.”

Y/N nodded slowly, already anxious. “Yes, sir.” He glanced at her briefly. “You’re capable, Kim. That’s why I’m sending you. You’re one of my best students.”

That warmed her, even if it didn’t erase the nervous buzz in her chest.

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Survive them.”

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾

The fencing gym was colder than she expected. Concrete floors, pristine white gear racks, gleaming metallic weapons lined up like instruments. There was an air of precision to everything — measured, structured, clean. She felt like a splash of softness in a world of edges.

Her reflection passed over the wall-length mirror, and she couldn’t help but pause briefly. Her hoodie was oversized, her leggings stretched comfortably around her hips and thighs. She was plus-size, and she didn’t hide it. Not anymore. She knew her body. It wasn’t a problem to be solved — it was a tool, strong and capable. But walking into a room full of lean athletes? Yeah. It still made her stomach flutter.

“Hello?”

The voice startled her.

A tall guy with sandy brown hair popped out from behind the equipment closet, blinking at her like he wasn’t sure she was real.

“Hi,” Y/N said, voice soft but steady. “I’m Y/N. Physical therapy assistant? I was told to report here today.”

“OH!” the guy beamed. “You’re the new PT? Awesome!”

He jogged toward her, absolutely radiating sunshine and limbs. “I’m Wooyoung. One of the sabre guys. You’ll meet the rest soon. We’re just finishing warm-ups.”

Y/N smiled shyly. “Nice to meet you.”

As he turned to call over his shoulder, more bodies spilled into the room — tall, sweat-slick, dressed in warm-up gear or half-gear. They looked like they stepped out of a sports anime. All handsome. All chaotic.

“I found her!” Wooyoung announced. “She’s real and she’s cute.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t say it in a creepy way. More like a giddy welcome.

The group turned. Yunho, Mingi, Jongho, Yeosang, San, Hongjoong…

And finally, Seonghwa.

She didn’t know their names yet, but she’d remember him.

Seonghwa didn’t say anything at first. He just stood near the corner of the gym, towel over his neck, dark eyes scanning her quietly. Not judging. Not cold. But observant — like he was assessing her the same way he did an opponent before a match.

Y/N’s eyes dropped to her clipboard. She was used to stares. This one didn’t sting. It just made her straighten her spine a little more.

The coach — an older woman with sharp eyes and the posture of a general — entered from the back office.

“Ah, you’re the PT student?” she asked. “Kim Y/N?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s your new guardian angel,” the coach told the boys. “I want fewer sprained ankles this semester. That means listen to her. Stretch properly. And if you’re in pain, don’t lie about it.”

There were a few groans of protest.

“Y/N, I’ll leave you with them. They’ll show you around.”

With that, the coach disappeared.

Y/N turned back toward the group. Most of them looked relaxed, interested, maybe even a little curious.

Seonghwa, however, still hadn’t said a word.

Wooyoung clapped his hands together. “Okay! Let’s do intros.”

One by one, they introduced themselves — each with their own flair. Mingi gave her a shy wave. San offered a bright smile. Yeosang nodded politely. Jongho smirked and said, “Don’t worry, we’re not as scary as we look.”

She laughed softly.

Then Seonghwa stepped forward.

He didn’t smile, but he bowed slightly — formal, respectful.

“Seonghwa,” he said. “Captain.”

And then stepped back again.

Y/N nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

It wasn’t rude. Just… careful. Like he was pulling his emotions through a filter.

By the end of the first hour, Y/N was already scribbling notes on posture imbalances and muscle tension. They were fast, sharp, and coordinated — but she noticed subtle things. The way San favored his right leg when pivoting. The tension in Jongho’s wrist during a lunge. The way Mingi pushed through tight shoulders even though his face stayed calm.

She liked observing. It made her feel useful.

During water break, she quietly made her way toward a bench in the corner to go over her notes. Most of the team scattered for water or gear adjustments.

Except one.

“Hey.”

Yeosang sat down next to her.

She looked up, surprised but not uncomfortable. “Hi.”

“Just wanted to say I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply. “We usually get guys who treat us like lab rats. You’re different.”

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks. I just want to help.”

“You will.” He stood, gave her a two-finger salute, and headed back toward the mat.

That was when she heard it.

Whispers. Two voices. Male. From across the gym, maybe near the door.

“Is that really the new assistant?”

“She’s… not what I pictured.”

“Not sure she’ll keep up, honestly. Doesn’t exactly look like a PT major.”

Y/N froze.

It wasn’t new. These things never were. But still — it hurt. Always did.

She kept her head down, focused on her clipboard, pretending she hadn’t heard a thing.

But someone else had.

Seonghwa’s head turned subtly in their direction, his jaw tightening for a split second.

His gaze shifted toward Y/N. She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t said a word.

But her shoulders were a little more square. Her focus too focused.

He frowned to himself.

It had been just over two weeks since Y/N started with the fencing club.

The routine was settling in now — warm-ups, assisted stretching, post-practice cooldowns, and a few taped ankles here and there. She’d even started creating personalized rehab sheets for each member, color-coded and stored in a little clipboard folder she carried like armor.

The guys had warmed up to her quickly. San always greeted her with an over-the-top bow. Mingi brought her a banana milk from the vending machine every few days. Wooyoung tried (and failed) to make her laugh with cheesy fencing puns. Jongho sat near her between rounds, sometimes just in silence, which she appreciated.

Even Seonghwa was changing.

Slowly. Barely noticeably.

But she saw it.

At first, he barely spoke to her. Now, he thanked her softly when she handed him an ice pack. He listened carefully when she reminded him to switch out shoes with better arch support. And once, after a particularly brutal training session, he said, “You always know exactly what we’ll need before we ask.”

She had blinked at him then, surprised.

He hadn’t smiled. But his voice was warm.

That was the thing with Seonghwa. He didn’t speak carelessly. Every word held intention — like the way he moved on the mat. Clean. Controlled.

And yet, he had started glancing toward her more.

Lingering just a beat longer when their eyes met.

He probably didn’t realize it.

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One late Thursday practice, she crouched beside San, guiding his leg through a slow hamstring stretch.

“I keep telling you,” she said gently, “if you don’t hold it long enough, it won’t do anything.”

“But it burns,” he whined.

“That’s the point.”

“Can’t we just ice it and pretend we did this part?”

She smiled faintly. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

Behind her, she felt a quiet shift in the air — a pair of eyes watching.

She looked up.

Seonghwa was across the gym, towel slung around his neck, half-finished wrapping his hands. He wasn’t training. Just… observing.

Not in a critical way. Not like those whispering voices in the hallways or the ones that lived in the corners of her memory. His gaze wasn’t cruel.

It was… curious.

Then he caught her looking, and — to her surprise — gave her the smallest nod.

Her stomach fluttered.

Later that day, Y/N stopped by the campus convenience store to grab dinner before her night lecture.

Two girls from the physical therapy department were standing near the fridge, giggling over something on a phone.

She didn’t mean to overhear. She really didn’t.

But her name was mentioned. Twice.

“Is that the girl who got placed with the fencing team?”

“Yeah. Y/N. She’s smart, but…”

“She’s sweet, though. But like… I don’t get why they picked her. There were better options.”

“She’s not exactly athletic-looking.”

“I’d die if Seonghwa had to look at me like that every day.”

Y/N stayed frozen in place.

The hum of the fridge vibrated against her palm. Her mouth had gone dry.

She turned away before they noticed her, leaving without buying anything.

The next afternoon, at practice, she kept to herself. Quiet. Focused. Polite. But inwardly, the voices gnawed.

She wasn’t ashamed of her body. Not anymore. But she was tired of having to prove it deserved respect. Tired of strangers assuming kindness meant weakness. That softness meant incompetence.

The guys didn’t notice at first. They were too busy running footwork drills, sweat glistening under the harsh gym lights.

But one of them did.

Yeosang walked up to her during cooldowns.

“You okay today?” he asked.

She blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re quieter than usual.”

She shrugged. “Just tired.”

He nodded, not pushing. But he glanced toward the others and said something under his breath before jogging back to join Jongho.

What Y/N didn’t know was that Seonghwa arrived late that evening, having stayed behind to speak with the team’s advisor. He hadn’t seen the practice, but he came back in time to hear Jongho explaining something to the others — low and urgent.

Seonghwa didn’t interrupt. He just stood in the doorway and listened.

When Yeosang mentioned what he heard from the girls, something in Seonghwa’s expression shifted.

Not dramatically. Just a quiet narrowing of his eyes. A muscle ticking in his jaw.

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The following week, it happened.

Y/N was walking across campus, clipboard in hand, when she saw the same two girls sitting on a bench, giggling with their phones again.

And standing right in front of them was Seonghwa.

He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t raise his voice.

But his posture was sharp. Clear. Icy calm.

“I heard what you said about our assistant,” he said. “I’d recommend keeping opinions like that to yourselves. Especially when they have no basis in fact.”

The girls looked stunned. One of them opened her mouth to argue, but Seonghwa simply tilted his head slightly.

“Y/N is one of the most competent, dedicated people I’ve worked with. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be there. Understood?”

They Both nodded, flustered.

He walked away without another word.

Y/N hadn’t meant to watch. She hadn’t expected it.

But something in her chest warmed — tight, painful, grateful. Not because she needed saving.

But because he didn’t do it for her.

He did it because it was right.

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That night at practice, she didn’t mention it. Neither did he.

But when she handed him a towel after cooldowns, his fingers brushed hers — gentle, firm — and he held her gaze just a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” she asked, heartbeat too loud in her ears.

“For being here.”

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After everyone left, Y/N lingered in the gym. Coach had asked her to organize some old supplies.

She didn’t hear the door open.

“Need help?”

She turned.

Seonghwa stood there, in a loose tee and joggers, hair still damp from his shower.

She blinked. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

He crossed the room and knelt beside her, helping sort through the resistance bands and foam rollers.

They didn’t speak much.

But it was a comfortable silence.

She found herself glancing at his hands — long fingers, careful grip.

He noticed her looking and raised an eyebrow, teasing.

“What?”

“Just wondering if you always organize by size and color.”

He gave the smallest smile. “Doesn’t everyone?”

She laughed — actually laughed — and for a moment, it felt like the room softened around them.

When they finished, she stood to stretch.

“Thank you,” she said.

This time, she meant it. And not just for the boxes.

Seonghwa hesitated, then looked at her — really looked.

“You’re good at this, Y/N.”

She swallowed. “You didn’t think I would be at first.”

“No,” he admitted. “But not because of anything personal. I just… don’t like trusting new people.”

She nodded, understanding more than he realized.

“Well,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, she picked up her clipboard and left.

Behind her, Seonghwa stared at the door a long moment — longer than necessary — before slowly exhaling through his nose.

The gym rang with cheers.

Blades down, helmets off — the fencing team had pulled off a narrow but satisfying win in their final match of the regional tournament. Y/N watched from the sidelines, clapping hard as the referee raised Seonghwa’s arm in victory. His chest rose and fell with fast, even breaths. His jaw was set with focus even in the moment of celebration.

Only when he turned toward the team did he smile — not wide, not boastful, just a small upturn of lips. But it was real. And when he looked past the team and met her eyes across the court, she swore it grew just a bit more.

The team had planned a casual dinner afterward. Just the usual — a favorite BBQ spot not far from campus.

Y/N was about to follow them straight there when Coach Han — the team’s co-coach and the only female staff member — caught her by the arm.

“You should go home and get changed,” Coach said with a kind smile. “We’ll take a bit to settle in.”

“Oh… is that okay?”

“Of course.” Coach’s grin widened. “It’s a celebration. Let the boys see what you look like outside the gym.”

Y/N laughed, a little nervously. “I think they’ve already seen plenty of sweat and ponytails.”

Coach leaned closer, teasing. “Exactly why I’m telling you to surprise them.”

Y/N didn’t usually fuss about appearances. She liked what she liked — oversized hoodies, clean sneakers, natural looks. But today felt different. She didn’t want to impress anyone. She just wanted to feel like herself, outside of tape rolls and pressure charts. So she showered. She carefully dried her hair and let it hang loose, the waves falling heavy and long down her back. She put on a soft, flowy cream top and dark jeans that hugged comfortably. A touch of blush. Lip balm. Nothing dramatic. When she checked the mirror, she blinked.

She looked… soft. Open. Still herself, just brighter.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she picked up her phone and left.

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The restaurant was already buzzing when she arrived.

The team had taken over the back half of the patio — all laughter and chopsticks and clinking soda bottles. Someone had started grilling already. She stepped through the gate. And the laughter stopped.

For a moment, silence settled over the table like a flipped switch.

She scanned their faces — all of them staring, wide-eyed.

Mingi was the first to recover. “Holy—Y/N?”

“Whoa,” said San, mouth half open.

“You look…” Jongho trailed off, blinking like he forgot how to finish a sentence.

Yeosang smiled slowly. “Different.”

Even Wooyoung whistled, holding a chopstick like a mic. “Okay, transformation queen!”

Y/N flushed. “It’s just a shirt.”

“You own that shirt,” San said, waving her over. “Come sit. We saved you a spot.”

As she slid into the open seat — right across from Seonghwa — Mingi leaned closer to her with wide eyes.

“Your hair,” he said, genuine awe in his voice. “It looks really nice like that. Didn’t know it was so long.”

Y/N’s flush deepened. “Thank you.”

Seonghwa, who hadn’t taken his eyes off her, added quietly, “It suits you. A lot.”

She met his eyes briefly, heart thudding. “Thanks.”

Coach Han joined them then, sitting down with a beer and grinning. “I told her to clean up a bit. Doesn’t she look nice?”

Mingi nodded. “You’re gonna give us a heart attack, showing up like this.”

“You all are dramatic,” she muttered, sipping water and trying not to melt into her chair.

“Only because you never let us compliment you,” Yeosang added. “We’re just surprised. You usually try to blend in.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Is that a bad thing?”

Seonghwa’s voice came again, calm and even. “Not bad. But sometimes, it’s okay to take up space.”

She looked at him. He didn’t look away this time.

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Dinner passed in waves of laughter and food. San did impressions. Wooyoung reenacted their match like it was a martial arts film. Coach Han teased them all mercilessly, especially Seonghwa, who bore it with a faint smile. But Y/N noticed something else too.

Whenever someone else leaned a little too close to her, offered to fill her cup, or bumped shoulders with her in the tight seating arrangement — Seonghwa’s posture shifted. He never said a word. Never glared.

But he was aware. Always aware.

And she noticed that now.

The evening wound down with full bellies and sleepy eyes. As they exited the restaurant, Y/N pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders and turned toward the street.

“I’ll head back,” she said.

“Alone?” Mingi asked.

She nodded. “It’s not far.”

Wooyoung stood. “Nope.”

“Not happening,” Jongho added.

Seonghwa was already at her side. “We’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“We want to,” Yeosang said.

And that was that.

They walked slowly through the quiet streets, the cool breeze brushing her hair behind her. The sound of their sneakers on pavement was steady and calm. At one point, San offered her his jacket, even though she wasn’t cold. She wore it anyway, mostly to make him smile.

Y/N felt full — not just from dinner, but from something deeper. From being seen. Heard. Not for what she could do or what she looked like, but just… as herself. The guys were halfway teasing each other again when she looked toward her house — and froze.

A voice, muffled but desperate, rang out.

“Help! Someone—!”

Her father.

Y/N didn’t think.

She ran.

Seonghwa didn’t consider himself someone who was easily rattled. He prided himself on being calm, measured, the kind of leader who didn’t shout or overreact. His friends sometimes teased him about being the dad of the group, but he didn’t mind. It was easier to keep things together when you stayed composed. But the moment he heard that voice yelling for help — muffled through Y/N’s front door — something twisted hard in his chest. Y/N reacted first, bolting toward the sound without a word. The rest of them hesitated for only a beat before following.

By the time Seonghwa stepped inside the small, warm house, the others were already in motion. He froze at the sight in front of him.

A man — older, maybe in his fifties, wearing a soft flannel shirt — was on the floor beside an overturned wheelchair, trying to push himself upright. His face was flushed with the effort and the clear, stinging shame of the moment.

Y/N was kneeling beside him, her voice trembling. “Appa, are you okay? Did you hit your head?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” her father said, his voice strained with embarrassment. “Just fell. I was trying to reach the damn light switch and—”

“Don’t move, okay? Just—let me help.”

Seonghwa stepped forward quietly, joining the others as they gently lifted the man and righted the wheelchair. He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t want to overwhelm or embarrass Y/N’s father further. But when the man was seated again and seemed stable, Seonghwa crouched beside him.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt, sir?” he asked softly.

The man looked at him and blinked, startled — maybe by Seonghwa’s gentle tone, maybe by the fact that they were all still there. Then, he sighed and gave a small shake of the head. “Just my pride, son.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, standing upright and brushing hair from her face. Her hands were trembling, Seonghwa noticed.

Her father looked around at the boys who had crowded into the small living room and laughed lightly. “Didn’t know my daughter came with a full army. You boys always this well-behaved?”

“Yes, sir,” Mingi said immediately, then grinned. “Mostly.”

“I don’t know about Wooyoung,” San added, earning a shove.

Y/N’s father chuckled. “Thank you all. I mean it.”

They stayed for a while. Y/N brought her father water while the rest of them gathered around, asking gentle questions and making sure everything was okay. Her father warmed up quickly, joking with them and deflecting the embarrassment with charm.

Seonghwa watched Y/N the whole time.

She was trying to smile. Trying to stay composed.

But when she slipped out onto the small balcony fifteen minutes later, quiet and barely noticed, he followed.

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The air was cooler outside. The sky stretched deep and dark above, with soft light leaking from a distant window. Y/N stood by the railing, arms crossed over her chest. Her long hair moved slightly in the breeze. Seonghwa stepped out and closed the sliding door behind him.

“I’m okay,” she said without turning.

“I know,” he replied. “But… I thought you might want some company anyway.”

That made her glance at him. Her eyes looked tired.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” she said quietly. “I just… needed a second.”

“You’re not a burden.”

She didn’t respond.

They stood in silence for a moment before she spoke again. “I should’ve told you all about my dad before.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s not something you owe anyone.”

She shook her head slowly. “I wanted to. I just… didn’t know how.”

Seonghwa leaned against the railing beside her, close but not touching. His eyes stayed on the horizon, giving her space.

“I guess you’re wondering what happened,” she murmured, barely audible.

“Only if you want to tell me.”

She was quiet for a while. Then: “There was an accident. Three years ago. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit my dad’s car on his way home from picking up my mom from work. She… she didn’t make it.”

Seonghwa turned his head toward her, but didn’t speak. He could see her lower lip trembling.

“My dad was in a coma for three weeks. When he woke up, they told us he’d never walk again. That’s… why I chose PT. I wanted to understand. To help him. To help other people like him.”

“Y/N…” Seonghwa’s voice caught.

She shook her head again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump that on you.”

“You didn’t.”

She looked up at him, skeptical.

“You didn’t,” he repeated softly. “You trusted me. That’s different.”

Her expression cracked at that. She smiled, just barely, but it was real. “You’re not like I expected you to be.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a good thing?”

“I think so.”

She turned back to the railing, her voice more even now. “Sometimes I feel like people only see me a certain way. Like… like I’m not allowed to be soft or emotional because of how I look. Or like I have to be extra competent to make up for it.”

Seonghwa felt something clench in his chest.

“I noticed that,” he said. “How hard you work. How quiet you are when people say the wrong things.”

Her head turned toward him again, eyes wide. “You noticed?”

“I always notice.”

It was quiet again for a while. The wind shifted, brushing past them like a whisper.

Seonghwa looked at her, the curve of her cheek, the slight movement of her lips as she breathed in and out.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all of that,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

Y/N looked back at him, and there was something in her eyes now — not guardedness, but something else. Something like warmth.

“You’re not what I expected either,” she said.

Seonghwa gave a faint smile. “Is that a good thing?”

This time, she laughed. A real, quiet laugh. “I think so.”

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Seonghwa wasn’t sure when it started — the way his eyes kept searching for her.

It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t sit around writing poetry in the air or daydream through fencing drills like a lovesick fool. But she was there — somehow always in his periphery, like the quiet rhythm of his day. She’d be at the edge of the gym, crouched beside a fencer taping their knee or adjusting a brace, completely focused and serious. Or she’d walk into the campus café between classes, earphones in, eyes distant, and Seonghwa would catch himself wondering what she was listening to. She wore the same hoodie far too often. And she always carried too many books. And her hair, when she left it down, was a kind of quiet magic that made something in his chest tighten. He didn’t say anything about it, of course. He just noticed.

And, apparently, so did his friends.

“You’re staring again,” San said, his voice sing-song as he popped a grape into his mouth during lunch at the dorm.

“I’m not,” Seonghwa replied without looking up from his notes.

Mingi leaned over the table. “You are. And you’ve been nicer lately. Like, freakishly nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“No, hyung,” Wooyoung chimed in, “you’re respectful. Polite. But lately? You’ve been… soft.”

“I’m not—”

“Yesterday,” Yeosang interrupted, “you tied her shoelace without even blinking.”

“I was being helpful,” Seonghwa muttered.

“And when she thanked you, you smiled like she’d just solved world peace,” Hongjoong added with a teasing grin.

Seonghwa groaned. “Can’t I just be decent without it turning into an interrogation?”

“Sure,” Jongho said innocently. “Except you’re only ‘decent’ when she’s around.”

They all laughed as Seonghwa leaned back in his chair, covering his face with one hand. Still, he didn’t deny it.

That same evening, in the quiet of her living room, Y/N sat across from her father while folding laundry.

“You’ve been smiling more,” her dad noted casually, sipping his tea.

She glanced up. “Have I?”

He nodded. “Don’t think I don’t notice these things. I might be old, but I’m observant.”

Y/N laughed softly and rolled her eyes.

“So,” he said, resting the mug on the table, “is there a secret boyfriend I should know about?”

Her hand froze mid-fold.

“What? No. I—”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious! There’s no one.”

He tilted his head. “Really?”

And that’s when it happened.

She pictured someone.

Not her idealized version of a boyfriend, not some vague daydream… but an actual person.

Park Seonghwa.

His sharp eyes, the way he smoothed his hair back when he was focused, the warmth in his voice when he spoke softly — especially to her.

She blinked quickly and looked down, heart picking up pace.

Her dad noticed. “You hesitated.”

“I didn’t,” she lied.

He smirked. “You totally did. Is it that tall one who always calls me ‘sir’ like we’re in the military?”

“That’s all of them,” she said weakly, cheeks heating.

He chuckled. “Just be careful with your heart, sweetheart.”

She looked up. “I am.”

But as she returned to folding laundry, the image of Seonghwa — with his calm voice and unreadable eyes — wouldn’t leave her alone.

It was a slow Saturday morning when Y/N heard the knock.

Not the loud, insistent kind — just a light rhythm against the door, polite and familiar. She opened it with a curious smile and found herself face to face with Mingi, holding a paper bag and grinning like he’d won the lottery.

“Delivery for the prettiest physical therapy major on campus,” he said, stepping back dramatically to reveal the rest of the team behind him.

Yunho waved cheerfully. “We brought food!”

Wooyoung peeked out from behind Jongho. “And ourselves. Hope you don’t mind.”

She blinked, momentarily stunned. “You guys… came all the way here?”

“We figured it was time we visited properly,” San added. “You always walk us home.”

Y/N’s father peeked into the hallway from the living room, raising an eyebrow. “Your entire team’s here?”

“Yes, sir,” Hongjoong said, stepping forward and offering a respectful bow. “Thank you for letting us stop by.”

Her dad chuckled. “Guess I should’ve dressed nicer.”

The living room was cozy, the couch too small for all of them, but no one seemed to mind.

The boys settled in like they belonged there, bringing energy and laughter into the quiet apartment. Y/N made tea, her father told stories, and somehow the place felt lighter.

“You raised a good one,” Jongho said to her dad at one point, gesturing toward Y/N with a nod of admiration.

Her dad smiled. “She raised me too, in her own way.”

Seonghwa sat at the edge of the couch, quiet but attentive. He didn’t insert himself into the stories like Wooyoung or tease like Mingi. He just listened — to Y/N’s father, to the way she laughed, to the rhythm of the people in this home.

He noticed things. The framed photos on the wall. The careful layout of furniture that allowed easy access for the wheelchair. The pair of slippers by the door that didn’t belong to either of them, probably saved for guests.

After lunch, when some of the boys helped clean up and others played card games on the rug, Y/N slipped outside onto the small balcony.

Seonghwa followed a few minutes later, careful not to make the door creak too much behind him.

She leaned on the railing, long hair tied back loosely, the afternoon sun catching in her lashes.

“You’re quiet today,” she said without looking at him.

“I’m just taking it all in,” Seonghwa replied.

She glanced at him then, eyes soft. “Thank you for coming.”

He shook his head. “We wanted to. You matter to us.”

Something about the way he said you made her heart stutter.

“I’ve never really had friends like this,” she admitted. “Not the kind that show up without asking for anything. Not the kind that make everything feel… easier.”

He nodded. “I get that.”

They stood in comfortable silence. Then, Seonghwa shifted slightly toward her.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” he said softly. “So at home.”

Y/N blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Just… you’re usually focused. At the gym, you’re always watching, helping, managing things. But here, you seem lighter. You laugh more.”

She smiled faintly. “Maybe because I’m not on duty.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe this is just closer to who you are.”

Their eyes met — and stayed there for just a moment too long.

Later, as the others gathered to leave, Y/N’s father called out softly, “Seonghwa, could you stay back for a second?”

He looked startled, but nodded, offering a small bow to the others as they filed out the door.

Y/N paused near the hallway, unsure if she should leave them alone.

Her father gave her a look. “It’s alright, sweetheart.”

She disappeared into her room, but left the door cracked open.

Seonghwa moved toward the armchair, unsure of what to expect.

“I wanted to thank you,” her father said gently. “You were the first one to follow her outside that night. She doesn’t talk about that moment, but I know it meant something.”

Seonghwa blinked. “She… she needed someone. I didn’t do anything special.”

“Being there is special,” her father said. “Especially for someone like her.”

He sipped his tea. “I’ve seen how you look at her.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened. “I—sir, I—”

Her father chuckled. “Relax. I’m not mad. I just wanted to tell you… if you ever do decide to be honest about your feelings, just don’t hurt her. That’s all I care about.”

“I would never,” Seonghwa said quietly, but firmly.

“I believe you.”

Then her father leaned back in his chair. “She sees the world differently. And it’s taken a long time for her to feel safe again.”

Seonghwa nodded. “I’ll do right by her. Even if I’m just… someone on the sidelines.”

“She already notices you,” he said with a knowing smile. “She just doesn’t believe someone like you would notice back.”

Seonghwa swallowed hard.

He had no idea how to respond to that.

But later that night, as he walked back to the dorms with the guys, he kept hearing those words in his head.

She just doesn’t believe someone like you would notice back.

And he knew then, with quiet certainty, that he would do whatever it took to prove her wrong — not with grand gestures, but with presence, patience, and softness.

Y/N never thought of herself as someone who got noticed.

She was the type who blended in. Who walked to class with her earbuds in, who sat near the back but always took the best notes, who knew professors by name but was often forgotten in crowded hallways.

But lately… things had changed.

And it had everything to do with him.

It started small.

Seonghwa would wait for her after fencing practice — not obviously, just hovering near the entrance with his gym bag slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning the hallway until they landed on her. If her backpack looked too heavy, he’d offer to carry it without a word. If her hair was falling into her face while she checked her planner, he’d gently tuck a strand behind her ear before saying goodbye.

She wasn’t used to people like him noticing people like her.

And the campus? They noticed too.

It started with looks. Lingering glances. Quiet nudges.

And then, the whispers.

“Is that Park Seonghwa?”

“With her? No way.”

“They’ve been together a lot lately…”

“Maybe she’s helping him study?”

“Or maybe it’s a dare or something.”

“She’s not even— I mean… he’s so cold and she’s just—?”

Y/N turned the corner too quickly and walked right into a group of girls outside the café. They stopped talking the second they saw her. One of them flinched like she’d been caught red-handed. Another looked away awkwardly.

Y/N didn’t say anything.

She kept walking. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears. Her throat was tight. She didn’t need to hear the rest — she’d heard enough versions of it her whole life.

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That afternoon, Seonghwa found her sitting alone on a bench near the library, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance.

“You didn’t wait for me after class,” he said gently.

She blinked. “Sorry. I had something to do.”

He studied her carefully. “Did something happen?”

“No. I’m just tired.”

“You’ve never lied to me before,” he said quietly.

She looked down at her lap. “It’s nothing worth talking about.”

He didn’t push. Just sat down beside her, close enough to share space but not crowd it.

“I’ll carry your bag today,” he offered.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

She exhaled. “Why?”

He glanced at her. “Because you’re important.”

Her chest ached.

Later that evening, she sat with her dad during dinner. She didn’t tell him what she’d overheard. She didn’t want to worry him. But she asked softly, “Do people ever surprise you?”

He smiled. “All the time.”

“In good ways?”

“In every way.”

She nodded. “I think… I don’t know what to make of Seonghwa.”

Her dad looked up. “You don’t think he’s sincere?”

“I think he’s too good to be true.”

Her dad reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Sometimes, sweetheart, good people just… are. You don’t need to earn it. You just need to let them stay.”

Seonghwa had never cared much about what people said about him.

He wasn’t oblivious — he just didn’t find value in chasing approval. His role on the fencing team, his academics, his responsibilities… they came first. Always. And if that meant people called him distant, uptight, or cold — so be it.

He didn’t need to be understood.

At least, that’s what he used to believe.

Until Y/N.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. Cloudy sky, leaves just starting to scatter on the pavement. Seonghwa had stayed back at the gym to finish up, and now he walked across campus alone, earbuds tucked in, hoodie pulled over his head.

He was heading toward the café when he paused at the outdoor vending machines to grab a drink.

That’s when he heard it.

“I swear, he used to scare me.”

“He still kinda does. That stare? It’s deadly.”

“But he’s been different lately.”

“Yeah. I saw him walking with that PT assistant again. The plus-size one with the long hair.”

“Oh, her.”

“Why is she always with him now?”

“Right? I mean… the guy’s literally a Greek statue.”

“I thought he didn’t even talk to people outside the team.”

“He used to be like… totally frozen. That’s why they call him the ice prince.”

“Well, guess someone finally thawed him.”

Laughter.

Seonghwa didn’t move.

He stood there, hand clenched around a can of cold tea, staring at the buttons on the vending machine like they might rewrite what he’d just heard.

They weren’t malicious, not exactly. But they were careless. Shallow.

They talked like she was… a curiosity. An oddity.

Like he was supposed to stay untouchable.

Like Y/N wasn’t— wasn’t the kindest, strongest person he’d met in years.

He walked away without saying a word.

Later, during practice, he was quieter than usual. Even Yunho noticed.

“You good?” he asked, nudging him with a padded elbow between sparring rounds.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa lied. “Just tired.”

But he wasn’t tired.

He was angry. Not at them — at himself.

Because a part of him had been frozen. For so long. Out of habit, out of fear. He didn’t make room for softness. He didn’t think he was the kind of person who needed it.

But now?

Now he noticed everything.

He noticed the way Y/N kept her notes meticulously neat but always left her pens scattered. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. The way she tried to shrink herself in crowded spaces.

The way she flinched when she heard people laughing behind her.

The way she still smiled, even on the days she looked like she wanted to disappear.

And he hated that people reduced her to whispers.

He hated that they dared to make her feel small.

The next day, he caught up to her before class.

She was balancing a heavy tote bag full of books, her brows furrowed in concentration.

“Let me take that,” he said gently.

She blinked, startled. “Oh— it’s okay, I’ve got it.”

“I know,” he said, already sliding the strap off her shoulder and onto his. “But I want to.”

She hesitated, then gave him a quiet, grateful look.

They walked together down the hallway, a familiar rhythm forming between their footsteps.

“Thanks,” she said.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

She laughed once. “You say that a lot.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m helping because I feel sorry for you.”

“I know you’re not.”

They stopped near the lecture hall, and for a moment, he studied her profile.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said.

“Just busy.”

He nodded. “If anyone ever says something to you… anything that makes you uncomfortable—”

“They don’t have to,” she said quietly. “I hear them anyway.”

Seonghwa felt something in his chest twist.

“Then I’ll say it louder,” he murmured.

She looked up at him.

“What?”

“I see you,” he said softly. “Not what they say. Not what they think. Just you.”

Y/N looked like she wanted to say something — but their professor walked by, and the moment passed.

Still, as she entered the lecture hall, she turned back for just a second.

And Seonghwa… he was still watching her.

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It was the third time Seonghwa hovered by the gym door before she finally turned to him and asked, “Do you need something?”

He looked oddly hesitant — like his thoughts were moving faster than his mouth.

“We’re doing a training camp,” he said. “At the lake. Just a few days. Practice and rest.”

Y/N blinked. “Okay…”

“The team wants to know if you’ll come.”

“Me?”

“You’re part of the team, aren’t you?”

She flushed. “I mean… I guess. I just didn’t think—”

“You’ve been there for all our sessions,” he said. “And the others asked, too. Yunho said it wouldn’t be the same without you. So?”

She bit her lip. “I have to think about it.”

The walk home that evening felt heavier than usual.

The air was warm but not oppressive. Summer hung just on the edge of the breeze — a promise of late sunsets and the quiet stretch of weeks without lectures or stress. But Y/N couldn’t let herself enjoy it fully.

She found her father in the kitchen, a book propped on his lap, his chair angled toward the open window. His smile when he saw her never failed to lift something in her chest.

“Long day?” he asked.

She nodded and dropped her bag gently near the counter. “Kinda.”

“You okay?”

She hesitated. “The fencing team invited me to a training camp.”

His brows lifted. “That’s great.”

“It’s for a few days. At a lake. Kind of like a retreat-slash-practice-thing.”

“Even better.”

“I’m not sure if I should go.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t answer right away.

He put the book aside, the rustling of pages the only sound in the room. Then he met her eyes — calm, understanding, patient.

“Y/N,” he said softly. “You don’t have to stay behind for me.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupted gently. “You always do.”

Her throat tightened. “It’s not a sacrifice. I want to be here.”

“And I want you to live. Have friends. Experiences. You’re young. You’ve spent too many years worrying about me, hiding yourself.”

Tears prickled at the edges of her eyes. “You’re my dad.”

“And you’re my daughter,” he said. “The light of my life. And I don’t want to be the reason you miss out.”

“I just—what if something happens?”

“Then I’ll call you,” he smiled. “But nothing’s going to happen.”

She stepped forward and knelt beside his chair, resting her head on his arm.

“I miss Mom.”

“I know.”

“She’d want me to go, wouldn’t she?”

“She’d pack your bag herself.”

Y/N laughed, watery and soft.

“Go,” he said. “Swim in the lake. Sit under the stars. Let yourself have something good.”

She nodded, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

The next morning, she walked into the gym with her bag slung over her shoulder and handed Seonghwa a signed consent form.

“I’m in,” she said.

A flicker of a smile — rare and warm — appeared on his lips.

“I’m glad.”

Seonghwa liked quiet mornings.

He liked the way sunlight cut through the blinds, how everything felt softer — quieter — before the world fully woke up. But this morning wasn’t quiet.

It was noisy.

And it was Yunho’s fault.

“Bro,” Yunho grinned, tossing his overnight bag into the luggage compartment of the chartered bus, “we’re getting a lake, freedom from classes, and good food? This is heaven.”

Mingi groaned dramatically. “Only if we don’t die from Hongjoong’s playlist on the ride there.”

“I heard that,” Hongjoong replied from the front, already claiming the aux cord like a weapon.

Seonghwa offered a small smile, slinging his own bag inside the hold. Then he looked up.

And paused.

Y/N was walking up the sidewalk, slightly out of breath, cheeks flushed from the early sun. She wore simple jeans and a soft oversized sweatshirt, her long hair braided loosely over one shoulder. She dragged her rolling suitcase with one hand and clutched her coffee in the other.

She looked… bright.

Comfortable.

Radiant in the way people often missed because they didn’t bother looking.

“You made it,” he said when she got close.

“Barely,” she puffed, “I overslept. Again.”

He reached out, gently taking her suitcase to load it for her. “It’s fine. You’re here.”

Their eyes met. And something warm curled in his chest.

The seating on the bus wasn’t assigned, but the fencing team had their rituals.

Hongjoong and Mingi sprawled across the back row. Yunho, Jongho, and Wooyoung claimed the row behind the emergency exit — apparently the “best legroom.”

Which left Seonghwa with a window seat near the front.

And Y/N standing beside him, scanning the aisles.

“Anyone sitting here?” she asked, gesturing to the seat next to him.

“No,” he said, perhaps too quickly. “You can.”

She smiled and slid in, clutching her coffee cup in both hands like a shield.

The bus engine roared to life.

They rolled out of the campus parking lot to the sound of loud chatter, groggy laughter, and the opening chords of a 90s throwback playlist.

An hour passed.

The conversation around them dimmed as more students dozed off. Outside, the highway had softened into countryside — open fields, tree-lined roads, and the occasional flash of a lake through the trees.

Seonghwa had half a mind to close his eyes.

And then it happened.

He felt a gentle weight press against his shoulder.

Y/N.

Fast asleep.

Her head leaned lightly against him, the curve of her cheek nestled into his upper arm, her lips parted slightly with each soft breath. Her braid had loosened a bit during the ride, a few strands falling against her face.

He froze.

Utterly.

Completely.

Froze.

His brain went quiet. His heart didn’t.

He didn’t dare move. Not even to shift his weight. Not even to exhale too hard.

Because… this?

This was perfect.

Snap.

He blinked.

Snap.

Again?

“What are you—” Seonghwa turned his head sharply.

Yunho stood in the aisle with his phone raised like a proud dad.

“You looked too soft to resist,” Yunho whispered.

Behind him, Wooyoung grinned. “You’re practically glowing.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth to argue.

“Bro,” Jongho added from two rows back, “you look like you just saw heaven.”

“Shut up,” Seonghwa whispered.

“Are you blushing?” Wooyoung gasped.

Yunho looked delighted. “He is. He is!”

Seonghwa glared — or tried to. “If you wake her up—”

“We won’t,” Yunho said. “But the moment she wakes up, I’m showing her that photo.”

“I will break your phone.”

“No you won’t,” Yunho replied cheerfully, already backing away.

Despite the teasing, Seonghwa didn’t move.

Not when her head shifted slightly and settled more fully against him.

Not when her hand slipped across the empty space and lightly grazed his arm.

He didn’t dare disturb it — the moment, the feeling, the quiet permission to be close.

And when he finally did close his eyes, he did it smiling.

By the time their bus pulled into the lakeside training facility, the grounds were already buzzing with activity. Tents lined the perimeter of the open-air fencing arena, and teams in matching warm-up jackets moved like swarms — laughing, stretching, warming up, or already sparring casually beneath the canopy.

Y/N stepped off the bus first, her eyes wide at the sight of the glimmering lake in the background and the mid-morning sun bouncing off foils in midair.

“This is… way more intense than I imagined,” she murmured.

“It always is,” Seonghwa said beside her, his arms crossed loosely. “Everyone tries to outshine each other from day one.”

She looked up at him. “And what about your team?”

He smirked. “We don’t need to try.”

Behind them, Mingi called out, “He means we already outshine everyone.”

Yunho leaned close to Y/N. “We let him pretend he’s humble.”

She giggled, and Seonghwa caught himself smiling before he could stop.

They settled into their shared lodging — two cabins nestled under tall pines. One for the fencing team, one for support staff and assistants. Y/N shared her space with the female coach and two girls from another team who had arrived earlier that morning.

After unpacking, the team assembled at the training arena for their first round of warm-ups.

That’s when he noticed him.

Tall, fit, and overly confident — the guy from Kyungdae’s team. His name was Daehyun, apparently, and he had one of those smiles: smooth, easy, practiced.

And right now, that smile was directed at Y/N.

She stood at the sidelines, notebook in hand, watching Hongjoong’s footwork. She didn’t notice Daehyun approach — not until he leaned in a little and said something that made her blink.

“Oh, um… thank you?” she answered, clearly confused.

Seonghwa couldn’t hear what Daehyun had said, but he didn’t need to. The way the guy tilted his head, the slight lean in his posture — it wasn’t hard to guess.

And she had no idea.

Y/N just nodded, her expression polite but distracted as she returned her focus to the sparring match. Daehyun seemed amused and wandered off after a few seconds, clearly not discouraged.

From across the arena, Yunho elbowed Seonghwa.

“Your jaw’s a little tight there, Captain.”

Seonghwa didn’t look at him. “It’s nothing.”

“Ohhh,” Mingi drawled. “So we did see that?”

“I didn’t see anything,” Seonghwa said quickly.

Wooyoung joined in. “That guy had no shame. He walked up like she was the only person here.”

“Technically,” Jongho said, “she kinda is. You see any other assistants that pretty?”

Seonghwa glared at him. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not wrong though,” Jongho muttered under his breath.

The group exchanged knowing looks.

“She didn’t even register it,” Yunho chuckled. “She just blinked and went back to watching Hongjoong.”

“Classic,” Mingi said.

Seonghwa finally spoke, his voice quieter now. “She probably gets that kind of attention all the time. She just doesn’t see it.”

“You mean you didn’t see it until recently,” Wooyoung smirked.

He didn’t answer that.

Because it was true.

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The fire crackled gently in the middle of the open space, casting a flickering orange glow on the circle of folding chairs and tree stumps gathered around it. The sky had deepened into twilight, stars beginning to peek through the soft hues of violet and navy, and the smell of roasted marshmallows and pine lingered in the air.

Y/N sat with a warm drink between her palms, legs crossed beneath her, soaking in the rare peace of it all. Laughter echoed around the fire — teams mingled freely now, the initial tension of competition replaced by shared stories, harmless teasing, and light-hearted chaos.

Mingi was telling an overdramatic story about Yunho nearly falling into the lake earlier, complete with sound effects and wild hand gestures.

Even Seonghwa laughed at that one, the lines of his face softening, though he sat a little further back — quieter, as always.

Y/N caught herself glancing at him a few times.

She didn’t mean to.

He just… stood out.

Not just because of his looks (though he did look maddeningly good in the firelight), but because of how composed he was. Like a silent lighthouse among all the waves of noise.

She looked away before he could meet her gaze.

And that’s when Daehyun appeared again.

He dropped into the seat next to her, holding out a skewer with two toasted marshmallows. “One of them’s slightly burned,” he said. “I figured you might be the type to like that.”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “Oh. Thank you.”

He grinned, leaning slightly toward her. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

She glanced down at the marshmallows. “I guess so.”

He chuckled. “You know, I noticed you right away earlier. You’ve got this calm energy. It’s… kind of hard to ignore.”

“Oh,” she said, cheeks warming, but not entirely sure why. “That’s nice.”

He looked at her like he expected something more. When she didn’t respond, he nudged her playfully. “You always this hard to impress?”

“I’m not trying to be,” she said sincerely. “I’m just… not used to people saying things like that.”

“You should be,” he said, his voice dropping a little. “Because I have a feeling I’m not the only one who noticed.”

Y/N gave him a polite, puzzled smile, trying to understand what he meant — but before she could think too hard about it, Wooyoung called for a group photo and people started rearranging themselves.

She shifted over to give space, brushing her hands off on her jacket, still thinking about the conversation — or rather, trying to understand it.

She didn’t notice Seonghwa watching.

From across the fire, Seonghwa narrowed his eyes.

Daehyun had barely left Y/N’s side since they’d all sat down. And he was too close. Laughing too loudly. Leaning in too far.

She didn’t seem to mind — but she also didn’t seem to realize.

Which was, strangely, worse.

“He’s doing it again,” Wooyoung muttered beside him, biting into a marshmallow.

Seonghwa didn’t respond.

Yunho leaned back, his gaze following Daehyun. “He’s bold, huh?”

Mingi snorted. “Too bold.”

Seonghwa set down his cup and stood up.

“Where are you going?” Jongho asked.

“Nowhere,” Seonghwa muttered. “Stretching my legs.”

But really, he just needed a break. And maybe, a reason to not break Daehyun’s face.

Y/N found herself standing near the edge of the fire circle, watching a group trying (and failing) to toast marshmallows without burning them to a crisp.

She took a slow breath, then turned — and nearly bumped into Mingi.

“Oh — sorry!”

“No worries,” he said brightly. Then his voice lowered. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, though she furrowed her brows a little. “Just… tired, I think.”

He nodded, then gave her a lopsided smile. “You know that guy’s been flirting with you, right?”

She blinked. “Who?”

Mingi blinked back. “The guy who brought you marshmallows. Daehyun.”

“What? No.” She laughed. “He was just being friendly.”

Mingi chuckled and ruffled her hair with one big hand. “Y/N… it’s called flirting. And you’re allowed to accept it, you know?”

She flushed. “I just don’t… I don’t think about that stuff.”

“Well, maybe you should,” he said gently. “You’re pretty. Like, really pretty. Smart, funny, and kind, too. Of course people are going to flirt with you.”

She looked down. “That’s… hard to believe.”

“Believe it anyway,” Mingi said, then leaned in. “Some people might not say it out loud, but they notice. Trust me.”

“Thanks,” she said softly.

“Anytime,” he grinned. “Now go grab another marshmallow before Wooyoung eats the entire bag.”

Across the fire, Seonghwa saw her smile.

He saw Mingi ruffle her hair and whisper something to her — and the way she blushed, a real one this time, soft and unguarded.

And he realized something dangerous was growing in his chest.

Jealousy, yes.

But also something far more terrifying:

He liked her. Really liked her. And it wasn’t going away.

The campfire burned low now, glowing amber and gold in the center of the group. The heat had eased from earlier, leaving behind a comfortable chill that wrapped around everyone like a shared secret. Laughter still bubbled in waves, drinks passed in mugs and paper cups, and blankets were tugged a little tighter around shoulders as the night deepened.

Someone — maybe Yunho or one of the girls from the Jeonju team — suggested a classic campfire game: everyone would go around and say their “type.”

The reactions were immediate.

Groans. Cheers. Some dramatic sighs.

“Oh come on,�� Wooyoung grinned. “You all want to know anyway.”

“Yes!” one of the girls from the female fencing team beamed. “We definitely want to hear what he says.” She gestured playfully to Seonghwa, who blinked like a deer in headlights.

Y/N shrunk a little into her hoodie, hoping not to be called on. Games like this weren’t exactly her thing — not because she was shy, but because she’d never had a good answer to give.

They started from the left.

Yunho cracked a joke. “Tall, soft, laughs at all my dumb puns.”

Jongho rolled his eyes. “Someone who doesn’t need to laugh at them. Smart, confident, low drama.”

The girls added their thoughts one by one. Some described looks, others went for personality. Mingi got dramatic with hand gestures, listing half a dozen things in rapid-fire.

And then it came to Seonghwa.

Everything quieted.

Y/N glanced at him, curious — even the wind seemed to hush as he looked at the flames for a moment.

“I guess…” he began slowly, “I like someone who’s… thoughtful. Someone who notices the small things. Someone who’s steady, kind, without needing to be loud. She’s smart — probably doesn’t realize how smart. And beautiful, not in a flashy way, but… you just want to keep looking at her. Like she glows without trying to.”

His voice had softened by the end.

Across the fire, the others shared a collective glance.

The girls from the other team all exchanged wide-eyed looks.

Everyone knew.

Everyone — except Y/N.

She smiled faintly, thinking he was probably describing some elegant, soft-spoken type. The kind of girl who always had it together. Definitely not her.

It wasn’t until someone said, “Your turn,” that she blinked and realized they meant her.

“Me?”

“Of course!” one of the Jeonju girls grinned. “Everyone has a type!”

“I…” Y/N hesitated, heat rising in her cheeks. “I don’t know if I do.”

“Oh come on,” Wooyoung teased. “You’ve never thought about it?”

“No, I mean…” She took a breath, then spoke honestly, “I never really thought about that kind of thing, because… I never thought someone would be interested in me like that. So I guess I didn’t let myself think about it.”

The silence that followed was different from before. It was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… quiet.

Then one of the girls said gently, “Well, they should be. You’re beautiful.”

Another murmured agreement. “Really.”

Y/N smiled, surprised and touched. She didn’t know how to answer that, so she just said, “Thanks,” and looked back at the fire.

A few meters away, Seonghwa was watching her again — but this time, with something soft and unreadable in his gaze.

“She really didn’t know,” Yunho whispered.

“I told you,” Wooyoung muttered back. “She never catches it.”

“She thinks he sees her as a teammate,” Jongho added. “That’s it.”

A girl from the Jeonju team leaned closer to Mingi. “Are they… together?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not yet.”

“Seriously?” another said. “That guy just described her like a poem.”

“Yeah,” Yunho said with a small laugh. “He’s a poetic guy. Just also emotionally constipated.”

They all snickered.

“She’s good for him,” one of the girls added. “He looks… softer with her. Like, human.”

They looked back toward the fire.

And sure enough, Seonghwa had risen, following after Y/N as she walked away toward the lake’s edge, cup still in hand.

The stars above the lake were impossibly clear.

Y/N had wandered just far enough to stand away from the firelight, letting the breeze cool her face. The water was glassy, and she could still hear laughter from behind her.

She didn’t hear him approach.

“It’s cold,” Seonghwa said quietly, holding out a hoodie.

She turned, surprised, but took it. It smelled like him — laundry soap and something earthy, almost like cedar.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. Then:

“Do you really believe that?”

She looked up at him, confused. “Believe what?”

“That no one would be interested in you.”

“Oh,” she said softly.

He looked at her with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “Because that’s… not true. At all.”

She looked away, unsure what to say.

“I know it’s not easy to see yourself how others do,” he continued, voice still soft. “But I think… if you saw what I see, you’d never question it again.”

Y/N blinked slowly, heart beating too loud.

He didn’t step closer.

He didn’t reach for her.

He just stood there beside her, calm and warm and sincere.

They stayed like that — under the stars, above the lake, hearts too full of questions neither of them had the courage to voice.

Yet.

The sun was already high when the tournament began, casting sharp golden light across the lakeside gym. It wasn’t a major competition — more of a casual meet-up between teams to showcase their skill and spark a little healthy rivalry — but there was still an excited buzz in the air.

Y/N found a spot at the edge of the gym, clipboard in hand, helping the coach manage the warm-ups and match tracking. She was focused. Mostly.

Until Seonghwa stepped onto the floor.

He stood with a quiet confidence, body tall and poised in his fencing gear. When he adjusted his mask, pulling it over his head, Y/N caught herself holding her breath. The way he moved was fluid, almost like he was dancing — sharp, elegant, precise. Every motion he made seemed practiced but effortlessly graceful.

When he lunged, it felt like the room tilted with him.

“Hey.” A whisper from her side made her jump. Mingi.

He leaned down next to her ear, grinning. “You’ve been watching him like he’s in a drama.”

Y/N blinked. “I’m just—watching the match.”

“Mmhm,” Yeosang hummed from her other side. “Totally. Not watching Seonghwa, just the match.”

“You’re both annoying,” she muttered, cheeks warm.

Mingi snickered. “You’ve got a huge crush, huh?”

She stayed quiet.

They didn’t press her, just exchanged a knowing look and let her watch the rest of the match in peace.

The tournament wrapped up by late afternoon. Most of the students and coaches headed out to the lake to cool off. Y/N offered to stay behind with the coach to clean up the gym. After a while, she was left alone, sweeping up the edge of the mats, humming quietly to herself.

A pair of footsteps echoed behind her.

She turned — and of course, it was Seonghwa.

“You stayed behind?” she asked.

He shrugged, picking up a pile of used towels and dropping them into the laundry bin. “Figured you could use some help.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

They worked in a comfortable silence, the kind they’d grown used to over the weeks. He wasn’t uptight around her anymore — not exactly warm, but less guarded. She’d started to notice the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

Or maybe she’d just started to hope he looked at her.

After folding the last of the gear bags, he turned to her.

“Do you want to try it?”

She blinked. “Try what?”

“Fencing. Just… one basic move. I can show you.”

She hesitated. “I don’t have a mask or gear.”

“It’s just the form,” he said, stepping closer and picking up a practice foil. “No contact. Just footwork and stance.”

“Okay,” she said before she could overthink it.

He handed her the foil and moved behind her, adjusting her grip gently.

“You want to hold it like this,” he murmured, his breath brushing her ear.

Her skin tingled.

“Now your stance—here,” he said, placing a hand on her waist and nudging her gently to the side. “Turn just a little…”

His hand lingered, just briefly, but long enough for her heart to thud unevenly in her chest.

“Okay. Lunge forward.”

She tried, a little awkwardly, and stumbled.

He caught her with one hand on her elbow and the other on her back.

They were close now. Too close. His hands steadied her, but he didn’t pull away.

She looked up, lips parted, and realized he was staring.

At her mouth.

And then his eyes flicked up to hers, wide and uncertain.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them breathed.

His face tilted — just a little.

Their noses almost brushed.

“Hey!”

They sprang apart like startled cats.

Wooyoung’s voice echoed from the gym doors. “You two coming to the lake or what?! It’s getting dark!”

Y/N turned away quickly, pretending to fuss with the foil. Her face was burning.

“Y-yeah!” Seonghwa called back. His voice cracked slightly. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

They didn’t look at each other right away.

But as they packed the last of the gear in silence, something new buzzed between them. Something neither of them could name yet, but both of them felt.

A distance had shrunk — not erased completely, but pulled tighter. And now, every step forward would feel different.

The sun had already slipped behind the trees, leaving streaks of lilac and orange in the sky as the evening settled over the lake. A few portable lights strung up along the edge of the campfire area flickered on, casting a warm, golden glow over the faces gathered around.

Laughter rang through the group, the mix of fencing teams — ATEEZ, the girls’ team, and the others — sprawled out on logs and camp chairs. The sound of marshmallows roasting, soft guitar strumming, and rustling leaves made the entire scene feel like it belonged in a movie.

Seonghwa sat a little removed from the others, legs stretched out in front of him, arms loosely crossed. He looked effortlessly composed — as always — but Wooyoung, sitting just beside him, grinned knowingly.

“So…” Wooyoung leaned closer, elbow nudging him. “Are you going to tell us what that was?”

Seonghwa blinked. “What?”

“In the gym. With Y/N.” Wooyoung smirked. “Don’t play dumb, hyung. I saw that little fencing lesson. You two were this close to kissing.”

Seonghwa’s ears flushed a deep red. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh really? Because from where I stood, it looked very exactly like that.” Wooyoung leaned back dramatically. “Should’ve brought popcorn.”

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa hissed under his breath, shooting a quick glance toward Y/N.

She was sitting a few feet away, knees drawn up to her chest, gaze fixed out over the still lake water. Her expression was unreadable — calm, maybe a little sad. She wasn’t paying attention to them at all.

Seonghwa exhaled. “She didn’t even notice.”

“She definitely noticed,” Wooyoung whispered. “She just hasn’t figured out what it means yet.”

Seonghwa didn’t reply.

He wasn’t good at this. At feelings. At being so aware of someone that even her silence echoed in his chest. What scared him more than anything… was how badly he’d wanted to kiss her.

She stared at the lake and didn’t hear a single word being said around her.

The stars were starting to show in the indigo sky, and the moonlight glittered over the surface of the water like scattered pearls.

But her thoughts were still in the gym. In the moment Seonghwa’s hand had steadied her waist. The way he looked at her, so close, like he was about to—

But he hadn’t. Had he?

Her fingers twisted around the hem of her hoodie. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was just… a moment. Training. Proximity.

But he hadn’t moved right away. And the look in his eyes…

Her stomach fluttered in confusion.

He wasn’t like that with anyone else. But that didn’t mean anything either. Maybe he was just kind.

Or maybe she was hoping for something that would never be hers.

Eventually, the fire died down, and one by one, people drifted off to their shared rooms or tents. Y/N stayed behind until only a few faint embers remained. The quiet soothed her. Out here, the air was cool and smelled like pine and earth. She stood slowly, brushing off her hands, and made her way down the wooden dock that jutted out into the lake.

The water lapped gently at the sides. Fireflies flickered lazily through the reeds.

The moon hung low over the lake, casting long ribbons of silver across the surface. Crickets sang in the bushes nearby, and the distant laughter of teammates echoed faintly from the cabins. But here, at the edge of the water, everything felt quiet. Still.

She sat at the very edge of the dock, shoes off, legs dangling just above the surface. Her thoughts were still tangled and restless. Her feelings, too.

Y/N pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin there, watching the ripples roll gently in the moonlight. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting alone. She only knew she needed space — to think, to breathe, to try and understand the feeling fluttering behind her ribs.

Footsteps behind her made her stiffen slightly. But then she heard his voice, soft and unsure.

“Can I sit?”

She turned her head slowly, already recognizing him by the way his shadow moved. Seonghwa.

“Sure,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

He lowered himself to the sand beside her, close — but not too close. The scent of him, warm and faintly citrusy from the soap he used, lingered between them. They sat like that for a moment, listening to the night.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said suddenly.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“At the gym… earlier.” He kept his eyes on the water. “When I—when I got close. I should’ve been more careful. I didn’t mean to—”

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” she interrupted softly.

That made him glance at her.

She offered a small smile. “I felt… safe. With you.”

The words seemed to settle between them, soft and quiet like the waves.

Seonghwa looked at her, really looked at her, and something shifted in his expression. Not surprise, not confusion. Just something warmer, deeper.

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached out and touched her hand — not grabbing it, just brushing against her fingers, waiting.

When she didn’t pull away, he intertwined their fingers carefully.

“I really wanted to kiss you,” he said, voice barely audible over the lake.

Y/N’s breath caught.

She turned her head toward him, surprised, but what stunned her more than his words was the faint blush dusting his cheeks. Seonghwa — usually composed, reserved — looked like he was scrambling for control of his thoughts.

“I’m not… good with things like this,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Emotions. Words. I’ve always been better with focus and logic, not… feelings.”

His thumb brushed her knuckle gently. “I’ve never really had a relationship that… mattered. Not like this. Not where I couldn’t stop thinking about someone.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, but she stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I kept trying to brush it off,” he continued. “Telling myself I was just being protective, or respectful, or grateful. But it’s more than that.”

He paused, looking at their joined hands like he needed to be sure they were real.

“My thoughts… they keep circling around you. When I’m practicing. When I walk across campus. Even when I’m quiet, you’re still there. And I don’t think it’s just admiration. I think—no, I know that what I feel is love. Real, romantic love.”

Her heart thundered in her chest.

“I’m not saying this to pressure you,” he added quickly. “I just… couldn’t keep it in anymore. I don’t expect anything from you. If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay. But I needed you to know.”

He turned to face her fully now, his hand trembling just slightly in hers.

Y/N looked into his eyes — dark, honest, wide with nervous vulnerability — and for the first time, truly saw how much courage it had taken for him to say that.

“I—” she started, then stopped, unsure of what words could capture the storm inside her.

Seonghwa didn’t push.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, blinking quickly. “I’m just… surprised.”

He gave a small nod. “I figured you might be.”

“Not because I think it’s impossible,” she added quickly. “Just… I didn’t think you could ever feel that way. About someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” His brow furrowed.

Y/N laughed softly, the sound almost bitter. “You’re… you. And I’m just me.”

“That’s exactly why I like you.”

She looked at him again, startled.

“I see you,” Seonghwa said gently. “All of you. And I think you’re… remarkable.”

The silence returned, heavier now — not with uncertainty, but with something full and quiet and waiting.

Seonghwa didn’t press further. He only gave her hand a small, reassuring squeeze before letting it go and looking back out over the water.

And Y/N sat there beside him, heart trembling, trying to process that the person she’d fallen in love from a distance might have been watching her just as closely all along.

Y/N stared at the lake for a long moment, Seonghwa’s words echoing in her ears like ripples across the water. She could still feel the warmth of his fingers on her hand, still see the soft blush on his face, still hear the nervous sincerity in his voice.

He really said it.

He really meant it.

Her chest swelled with something that felt like relief and disbelief tangled together. Maybe it had always been there — the hope — but hearing it aloud made it real. Made him real in a new way.

And still, he sat beside her, respectful and still, looking out at the moonlit lake like he’d just exposed his entire heart and was ready for it to sink.

Y/N turned toward him slowly.

“Seonghwa,” she whispered.

He glanced at her, and in the dim light she saw the tension behind his eyes — the quiet fear that maybe he’d said too much.

But she reached out and touched his arm lightly. “You’re not the only one who’s been thinking too much.”

His breath caught.

“I didn’t realize it at first,” she said, voice shaky with nerves. “I didn’t let myself realize it. I kept telling myself you were just kind… just careful. That someone like you couldn’t see someone like me.”

“Y/N…”

“I thought I was imagining the way you looked at me sometimes. Or the way my chest felt full whenever I was around you. But I wasn’t.” She took a breath, heart pounding. “Because I feel it too. I feel everything you just said. All of it.”

Seonghwa blinked like he didn’t quite believe her. “You do?”

She laughed — soft and a little overwhelmed. “Yes. I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was filled with a quiet kind of joy, stunned and unspoken, like standing on the edge of a world neither of them expected to find.

Seonghwa turned to her fully now, his hand rising instinctively like he wanted to hold her but didn’t want to assume.

“Can I—?”

She nodded, heart thudding.

His hand found hers again, warm and strong, and he let out the tiniest laugh — quiet and stunned, like he was breathing for the first time in weeks.

“I thought I ruined everything,” he said softly. “That I’d scared you off.”

“You didn’t,” she whispered. “You just… surprised me.”

He smiled then — wide and full of something gentle and luminous.

And then the air changed.

The soft quiet between them thickened, warmer somehow, electric and still.

Seonghwa’s gaze dropped to her lips for a second — so brief she almost missed it.

She leaned in just slightly, just enough for him to know she wasn’t afraid.

And Seonghwa… Seonghwa closed the distance.

Their lips met in the faintest brush — tentative, soft, like a question. Then again, firmer, as if answering it. His hand slid to her cheek, cradling her with care, and Y/N felt her heart swell until it might burst.

There was nothing rushed about it.

No desperation.

Just the quiet wonder of two people finally seeing each other clearly.

When they pulled back, Seonghwa rested his forehead gently against hers.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he whispered, breath shaky.

Y/N smiled, eyes closing for a moment as she held onto the warmth of him. “Me too.”

They sat like that for a long time, hands still intertwined, hearts still racing — two people no longer wondering.

Just feeling. Just beginning.

The morning after the lakeside confession was calm, wrapped in the kind of golden haze only lazy summer mornings could bring. Birds chirped softly from the nearby trees, and the lake shimmered under the rising sun as if it too carried the secret of the night before.

Y/N woke up smiling. Not wide, not dramatic — just a quiet curve of her lips that lingered. The memory of Seonghwa’s soft kiss, his gentle words, the way his hand had found hers and stayed… it played like a song on repeat in the back of her mind.

Seonghwa, on the other hand, was uncharacteristically floaty.

He wasn’t being overly obvious. He still greeted the team with his usual polite nods and calm demeanor. But the change was there — subtle, sure, but undeniable. There was a softness in his eyes, a looseness in his shoulders, and he smiled a little easier when his gaze found hers across the morning buzz of breakfast.

The rest of the Team noticed first.

“Did Seonghwa just… smile at his toast?” Wooyoung whispered loudly to San.

“He hummed,” San confirmed, wide-eyed. “Like… actually hummed.”

Hongjoong squinted. “When was the last time Seonghwa looked this serene? Like he just got back from a meditation retreat and not a fencing bootcamp?”

Then they noticed Y/N.

She walked in a few minutes later in her oversized hoodie, hair slightly damp from her shower, cheeks still flushed from the summer warmth. She greeted the group shyly, but her eyes flickered toward Seonghwa, and that soft little smile bloomed again.

Seonghwa looked up — and that was it. The look he gave her was different. Fond. Familiar.

And then it happened.

As they sat together on one of the picnic benches, leaning in to look at something on Seonghwa’s phone, she laughed at one of his rare but endearingly bad jokes. And before he even realized it — Seonghwa leaned in and pressed a light, absentminded kiss to her cheek.

It was instinct.

Natural.

He didn’t even realize what he’d done until she froze slightly and turned to look at him, wide-eyed.

“Oh—” he started, face already coloring with alarm, “I—sorry, I didn’t mean—”

But it was too late.

“OH MY GOD.” Wooyoung was the first to shout.

“DID HE JUST—” San gasped, nearly choking on his juice.

“HE DID,” Yeosang cackled.

Even the other teams turned to look at the commotion.

Seonghwa groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I genuinely forgot where we were.”

Y/N, meanwhile, had gone from pink to deep scarlet. Her eyes darted around in disbelief, and she tried to shrink into her hoodie.

“You two are so obvious,” Mingi said, grinning like a proud older brother.

“Honestly,” Jongho chimed in, deadpan. “We were waiting for this.”

“Wait,” one of the girls from the visiting team asked, blinking. “So… are you two dating?”

Seonghwa looked at Y/N, who looked back at him, both still mid-panic.

“Yrs?” he said sheepishly.

More gasps.

More laughter.

Y/N pressed her hands to her cheeks, laughing despite herself. “Can we not do this in front of everyone?”

“Oh no,” Wooyoung smirked, leaning in. “Now that you’ve joined the ‘caught in the act’ club, there’s no escape.”

Seonghwa tried to glare, but his blush betrayed him. “You all are impossible.”

“It’s love, hyung,” San sing-songed. “Let it bloom.”

Y/N let out a helpless giggle and reached under the table to gently bump her knee against Seonghwa’s. It was the quietest thank you. For being brave. For showing her affection even when the world was watching.

He peeked at her through his fingers, smile blooming slowly again.

And just like that, the teasing softened into fondness. They weren’t just laughing at them — they were celebrating. Because for the first time in a while, Seonghwa looked happy.

And Y/N looked like someone who finally felt seen.

●●●°°•♡♡•°°••••♡♡°°○○••●●°°♡♡♡••○●●○♡

Author’s Note 🖤

That’s a wrap on Seonghwa’s story (for now 👀).

So… who should come next?

Yeosang, Jongho, or Hongjoong?

Let me know which member you'd love to see in the spotlight — and if you’ve got any favorite tropes, I’m all ears!

Also, I really enjoyed writing in the sports AU setting — and honestly, I’m this close to turning it into a whole series.

ATEEZ × Sports = chaos, sweat, and unexpected soft moments. Who’s in?

Thanks so much for reading and supporting all the stories so far — you’re the best 💫

Love,

mingiatz

#ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #fanfction ateez #ateez seonghwa #park seonghwa #seonghwa fanfiction #seonghwa fanfic #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa #seonghwa oneshot #ateez oneshot #ateez fic #fic rec

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adriftingsnowflake · 4 days ago

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literally just told my friend this

honestly, congratulations to jongseob’s parents for naming him because he is the most JONGSEOB looking person i’ve ever seen omg

#p1h jongseob #kim jongseob #jongseob #piwon #p1harmony #p1h #i love you jongseob

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adriftingsnowflake · 4 days ago

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had to go restore my place as @jellywonie's top reader rq‼️

on a similar note all her fics make me giggle and kick my feet, go read them if you have time😋

#kpop #fic rec #enhypen fic #ateez fic #enhypen scenarios #ateez scenarios #tomorrow x together

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adriftingsnowflake · 4 days ago

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OT8 V SET IS FINALLY COMPLETE. I WILL be having this made into actual photocards. 😅

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adriftingsnowflake · 4 days ago

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Threads of Gold ✧.* K.YS

pairing: pirate!Yeosang x tailor!reader

wc: 1.3k

content: fluff, pirate/maritime au, unspoken attraction, first kiss, mutual pining

taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon

The oil lamp flickers as another wave crashes against the hull. You squint at the torn seam running along the sleeve of what was once a fine officer's jacket, now reduced to another item in your endless pile of repairs. The fabric tells a story: blade cuts here, rope burn there, salt stains everywhere. You've become fluent in reading the violence etched into cloth.

Most of the crew treats you like furniture. Useful, occasionally necessary, but hardly worth acknowledging. They dump their damaged gear on your workbench and grunt something about needing it "soon as possible" before stomping back to their duties. After three years aboard this ship, you've accepted your role as the invisible keeper of their second skins.

But Yeosang has never treated you that way.

He appears in your doorway now, soundless as always, holding a pair of leather bracers. The binding along the edges has come undone, leaving dangerous gaps that could cost him his wrists in a fight. He sets them down with the same careful attention he gives everything, his fingertips resting on the worn leather for just a moment longer than necessary.

"Storm damage?" you ask, though you already know the answer. Last night's tempest had everyone scrambling to secure loose rigging.

He nods once, then reaches into his coat. This time it's a piece of polished amber with something dark suspended inside. A tiny leaf, perhaps, or an insect caught in ancient resin. He places it beside the bracers like an offering.

You've collected dozens of these gifts over the months. Not treasure in any conventional sense, but things that caught his eye during raids or shore leave. A button carved from mother-of-pearl. A fragment of blue pottery. A brass key that opens nothing you own but somehow feels important anyway.

"Thank you," you say, as you always do. He never responds with words, but his shoulders relax slightly, and you know he's pleased.

After he leaves, you examine the bracers more closely. The leather is high quality, probably taken from some merchant vessel, but it's been worked hard. Yeosang is careful with his equipment, methodical in a way that speaks of years surviving by small margins. For him to let these deteriorate to this point means he's been pushing himself harder than usual.

You've been watching him, though you'd never admit it. The way he moves through the ship like he's mapping every shadow, every possible escape route. How he positions himself during meal times to see all entrances. The careful distance he maintains from everyone except when duty demands otherwise.

And the way he gravitates toward your quarters when the nightmares get bad. He never comes inside on those nights, just stands in the corridor outside your door. You pretend to sleep and listen to his quiet breathing until it steadies and he moves away. You never mention these visits, and neither does he.

Tonight, as you work on reinforcing the bracer binding with fresh leather strips, you make a decision that feels both inevitable and terrifying.

His coat hangs on the peg where he left it two days ago, a tear in the shoulder seam that you've been putting off. Not because it's difficult, but because once you return it, you'll lose your excuse to keep something of his close by. The wool still smells like him: weapon oil and sea air and something else, something warm that makes your chest tight when you breathe it in.

You spread the coat across your workbench and examine the damaged area. A clean cut, probably from a blade that came too close during the last skirmish. Easy enough to mend, but as you thread your needle, you catch sight of the silk lining.

The golden thread sits in its small wooden box, salvaged from the remnants of a nobleman's waistcoat months ago. You'd kept it for something special, though you'd never defined what that might be. Now you know.

Your hands shake as you begin stitching along the inner seam, hidden where only he would find it. The words come slowly, each letter a small act of courage:

"I know you stand outside my door when sleep won't come. I know you leave me pieces of the world because you can't leave me pieces of yourself. I know you see me when others don't. I see you too."

You pause, needle suspended in mid-air. The confession feels too small, too careful. You add more:

"If you want to come inside next time, just knock. If you want to stop leaving gifts and start staying instead, I'll understand that language too."

The final knot takes forever to tie. Your fingers keep slipping, and you have to start over twice before it holds. When it's done, you sit back and stare at the coat as if it might sprout wings and fly away, carrying your secrets with it.

Morning comes with the sound of boots on deck and shouted orders. You haven't slept, too nervous about what daylight might bring. The coat hangs finished on its peg, innocent-looking except for the hammering of your heart every time you glance at it.

Yeosang appears just after the breakfast bell, moving through your doorway with his usual quiet grace. He's wearing the repaired bracers, you notice, and they look perfect against his forearms. Professional satisfaction wars with personal anxiety as he approaches the workbench.

You hand him the coat without meeting his eyes. "Shoulder seam's reinforced. Should hold better now."

He takes it, and you feel rather than see him examining your work. The silence stretches long enough that you risk looking up, and find him watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"Good work," he says finally. His voice is rough from disuse, but there's something else there too. Something that makes your pulse skip.

He puts the coat on with deliberate slowness, settling it across his shoulders and smoothing the front panels. His hand comes to rest over his heart, fingers spread across the exact spot where your words lie hidden. His eyes never leave your face.

"Battle stations!"

The call echoes down from the deck, followed by the thunder of running feet. Enemy ship spotted, probably. You've heard this song before.

Yeosang moves toward the door, then stops. He turns back, and in three quick strides he's standing closer than he's ever been, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

"Tonight," he says simply. "After."

It's not a question, but you nod anyway, your throat too tight for words.

He starts to turn away again, then pauses. Before you can react, his hand cups the back of your neck and he leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that tastes like promises and salt air. It's brief but thorough, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

"Something to mend me with, if I come back broken," he murmurs against your mouth.

Then he's gone, and you're left alone with the echo of cannons firing and the warmth of his lips still burning on yours.

You sit down heavily on your work stool and press your fingers to your mouth, grinning despite the battle raging overhead. Tonight, you think. Tonight he'll knock instead of standing in the corridor. Tonight you'll find out what it means to mend something that isn't torn, to stitch together two whole pieces into something stronger.

The ship shudders under enemy fire, but you're not afraid. You have work to do, preparations to make. After all, when Yeosang comes back, you'll want to be ready to help him out of that coat properly this time.

The golden thread gleams in the lamplight, and you smile as you begin sorting through your supplies. Some things, you've learned, are worth the careful patience required to get them right.

#fluff #kpop #ateez #yeosang #yeosang x reader #yeosang ateez #kang yeosang #ateez x reader #yeosang fluff #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez oneshot #ateez imagines

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adriftingsnowflake · 4 days ago

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What You Like *ೃ༄ J.YH

pairing: fwb!yunho x reader wc: 2.1k content: smut, friends with benefits, dom!yunho, rough sex, marking/biting, dirty talk, fingering, unprotected sex, slight degradation, praise kink, cursing

You're already awake when Yunho's key turns in your lock at 2 AM, staring at the ceiling and replaying the heated argument you'd had three days ago. Not a fight exactly—more like sexual frustration disguised as bickering about everything and nothing until you'd both stormed off in opposite directions.

The friends-with-benefits thing had been working perfectly for months until feelings started creeping in, making everything complicated. Now you're both too stubborn to admit you want more and too addicted to each other to walk away.

"I know you're awake," his voice carries from your living room, and you hear him tossing off his shoes.

You don't get up, don't call out—just wait as his footsteps approach your bedroom. When he appears in your doorway, hair mussed like he'd been running his fingers through it, that knowing smirk on his face, heat immediately pools in your belly.

"Miss me?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

"It's been three days," you point out, not moving from your position on the bed.

"That's not an answer." He pushes off the doorframe and approaches slowly, deliberately. "Did you miss me?"

The honest answer is yes, but you're not about to give him the satisfaction. "I missed what you do to me," you say instead, which makes him laugh.

"Fair enough." His mouth finds that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver. "I missed what you let me do to you."

And there it is—the thing that makes this arrangement work so perfectly. Yunho knows exactly what you need, what you crave but have never been brave enough to ask for from anyone else. He reads you like a book, understands that beneath your confident exterior, you want to give up control, want someone to take charge and make you forget everything else.

"What do you want tonight?" he murmurs against your neck, hands already working at the tie of your silk robe.

"You know what I want," you breathe, tilting your head to give him better access.

"I do," he agrees, letting the robe fall to the floor. "But I want to hear you say it."

You're wearing nothing underneath, having shed your clothes the moment you got his text, and the way his eyes darken as they rake over your body sends electricity straight to your core.

"I want you to fuck me," you say boldly. "Hard. The way you know I like it."

His smile is predatory. "There's my good girl. Using her words."

The praise sends a shiver through you, just like it always does. Yunho has this way of making you feel simultaneously degraded and worshipped, and it's exactly the mindfuck you crave.

His hands are rough as they explore your body, gripping and squeezing in ways that will definitely leave marks. But that's what you want—evidence of him on your skin, reminders that will last days after he leaves.

"On the bed," he orders, already pulling his shirt over his head. "Now."

You obey immediately, settling onto your mattress and watching as he strips efficiently. The sight of him never gets old—tall and lean but muscular, all sharp angles and smooth skin that you want to mark up with your teeth and nails.

"Look at you," he says, climbing onto the bed and settling between your legs. "Already so wet for me, and I've barely touched you."

His fingers trail up your inner thighs, deliberately avoiding where you need him most. "Please," you breathe.

"Please what?" His thumb brushes maddeningly close to your clit. "Be specific."

"Touch me. Make me come. Do whatever you want with me."

"Whatever I want?" His eyebrow arches. "Dangerous words, baby."

Before you can respond, two of his fingers are pressing into you without warning, making you arch off the bed with a gasp. There's no gentle buildup, no careful preparation—just the delicious stretch and fullness that makes your eyes roll back.

"This what you wanted?" he asks, curling his fingers in that way that makes you see stars. "You want me to be rough with you?"

"Yes," you manage to gasp out. "More. Please, more."

He adds a third finger, the stretch bordering on too much but perfect at the same time. His thumb finds your clit, circling with just the right pressure to make you writhe beneath him.

"So fucking perfect," he growls. "Taking my fingers so well. You love this, don't you? Love being at my mercy."

You can only moan in response, too overwhelmed by sensation to form words. But Yunho doesn't seem to mind—if anything, the helpless sounds you're making seem to spur him on.

"I can feel how close you are," he says, his pace increasing. "Your pussy's getting so tight around my fingers. You want to come for me?"

"Please," you whimper. "Please let me come."

"Not yet." He pulls his fingers away suddenly, leaving you empty and desperate. "I want you to beg for it properly."

The loss of stimulation makes you want to cry with frustration. "Yunho, please—"

"Please what?" His fingers trace your lips, still slick with your arousal. "Tell me exactly what you want."

"I want to come," you say desperately. "I want you to make me come all over your fingers, and then I want you to fuck me until I can't think straight."

"Better," he approves, his fingers returning to their previous position. "But I think you can do even better than that."

This time when he touches you, it's with purpose. His fingers pump into you relentlessly while his thumb works your clit, building you up to that edge faster than should be possible. But just when you're about to fall over, he stops again.

"No!" The protest rips from your throat before you can stop it.

"No?" His voice is dangerously quiet. "Did you just tell me no?"

The shift in his tone makes you shiver. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean to be a bratty little slut who thinks she can make demands?" His hand tangles in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp. "Is that what you were going to say?"

The degradation should probably offend you, but instead it sends heat racing through your veins. "Yes," you whisper. "I'm sorry."

"I think you need to be reminded who's in charge here," he says, positioning himself at your entrance. "Don't you?"

You nod frantically, beyond caring how desperate you look. "Please. I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me."

"Since you asked so nicely," he says, and then he's pushing into you in one smooth thrust that has you crying out at the perfect stretch.

This is what you've been craving—the feeling of being completely filled, completely owned. Yunho doesn't give you time to adjust, setting a punishing pace that has you clawing at his shoulders for something to hold onto.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he pants against your ear. "You want me to use you. Want me to fuck you like you're my personal toy."

"Yes," you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. "I'm yours. Use me however you want."

The words seem to snap something in him. His rhythm becomes even more brutal, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. You can feel another orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly like a spring about to snap.

"I can feel you getting close again," he says, one hand moving to wrap loosely around your throat. "You want to come on my cock?"

The pressure against your throat is light but unmistakable, just enough to make you feel owned, controlled. "Please," you whisper.

"Please what?" His pace doesn't slow, if anything it increases. "What do good girls say when they want something?"

"Please sir," you gasp out. "Please let me come on your cock. I need it so bad."

"That's better." His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing tight circles that have you teetering on the edge. "Come for me. Now."

The command combined with his touch sends you tumbling over the edge into the most intense orgasm of your life. Your back arches off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you, and you're dimly aware of yourself crying out his name like a prayer.

But Yunho doesn't stop. If anything, your climax seems to spur him on, his movements becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. The overstimulation is almost too much, but the way he's looking at you—like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen—makes you want to give him everything.

"So perfect," he groans. "Taking me so well, letting me fuck you exactly how you need it. My perfect little slut."

The praise mixed with degradation sends aftershocks through your system, and you feel another orgasm building impossibly quickly. "Again," you whisper. "Please, I want to come again."

"Greedy," he says, but his hand moves between your bodies to rub your clit again. "One more. Give me one more and then I'll fill you up."

The promise of him coming inside you is enough to send you over the edge again, your inner muscles clenching around him as pleasure whites out your vision. You hear him curse, feel his rhythm falter, and then he's following you over with a groan that sounds like your name.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, both breathing hard and covered in sweat. Your body feels boneless, satisfied in a way that only Yunho seems capable of achieving.

"Good?" he asks eventually, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"Incredible," you breathe, still trying to catch your breath.

"Good." He rolls off you but doesn't move away, his arm still wrapped around your waist. "I like when you tell me what you want instead of making me guess."

You turn to look at him, taking in his mussed hair and satisfied expression. "I like when you give me what I actually want instead of what you think I should want."

"What's the difference?"

"You know exactly what the difference is," you say, trailing your fingers over his chest. "You know I don't want gentle. You know I want you to take control and make me work for it."

His smile is slow and devastating. "I do know that. I also know you're not done yet."

The statement makes heat pool in your belly again, despite having just come twice. "How do you know?"

"Because I know you," he says simply. "And I know that look in your eyes. You want more."

He's right, of course. You always want more with him, could probably go all night if your body could handle it. The arrangement works so well because you're perfectly matched in terms of appetite and desire.

"What if I do want more?" you ask, already knowing the answer.

"Then you'll ask for it nicely," he says, his hand trailing down your body. "Using your words like a good girl."

The cycle begins again, and you couldn't be happier about it.

But this time, instead of immediately going for round three, Yunho's touch gentles. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, soothing rather than inciting.

"Stay still," he murmurs when you try to turn toward him. "Let me take care of you."

You're not used to this side of him—the soft aftercare that follows the intensity. Usually one of you leaves pretty quickly after, but tonight feels different. His hands smooth over the places he gripped too tightly, pressing gentle kisses to the marks he left on your throat.

"Water?" he asks, and you nod, watching as he pads naked to your kitchen like he belongs there.

When he returns with two glasses and a damp washcloth, you feel something shift in your chest. He cleans you up with careful touches, then pulls you against his side, sharing the water between soft kisses.

"We should probably talk," you say quietly, tracing circles on his chest.

"About?"

"The fact that you have a key to my apartment. The fact that you knew I'd be awake. The fact that neither of us has been with anyone else in months."

He's quiet for a long moment, his fingers combing through your hair. "And what conclusions are you drawing from those facts?"

"That maybe we're both too scared to admit this stopped being just physical a long time ago."

His hand stills in your hair. "And if we did admit it? What then?"

You tilt your head up to meet his eyes. "Then maybe we stop pretending we don't want more."

The smile that spreads across his face is soft and vulnerable, nothing like his usual cocky smirk. "I've wanted more since the second time we did this," he admits. "But I didn't want to ruin what we had."

"You couldn't ruin it," you say, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "You could only make it better."

"Is that what we're doing? Making it better?"

"We're making it real," you correct, and when he kisses you this time, it tastes like promises and new beginnings.

#ateez x reader #ateez #ateez yunho #kpop #yunho x reader #ateez smut #yunho smut #romance

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adriftingsnowflake · 4 days ago

Text

Tied To Your Mast ⋆˙⟡ K.HJ

pairing: pirate captain!Hongjoong x enemy captain!reader (feat. crew!ateez)

wc: 7.2k

content: enemies to lovers, slowburn, found family, reluctant partnership, swearing, minor violence, smut, skinship

a/n: i loveeeee this au and I'm thinking of making more with other members

taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon

The tavern reeked of rum, sweat, and poor decisions—exactly the kind of place where rival pirate captains might find themselves sharing a drink instead of crossing swords. Captain Hongjoong of the Treasure sat across from you, his dark eyes glittering with equal parts amusement and suspicion as you raised your glass in a mock toast.

"To temporary alliances," you said, your voice carrying that honeyed tone that had lured countless merchants to their doom. Your crimson coat gleamed in the lamplight, perfectly tailored to accentuate curves that most underestimated as mere decoration. They learned better—usually too late.

"To mutual benefit," Hongjoong replied, clinking his glass against yours. "Though I have to say, Captain, I'm surprised you agreed to this meeting at all. Last time we crossed paths, you tried to keelhaul my quartermaster."

You laughed, a sound like silver bells with an edge of steel. "He deserved it for that crack about women having no place on the high seas. Besides, you got him back when you stole my navigator in Port Royal."

"Stole is such a harsh word," Hongjoong said with mock offense, his lips quirking into that infuriating smirk you'd grown to know so well over the past two years of rivalry. "I prefer 'recruited with better offers and superior rum rations.'"

Two years of cat and mouse across the Caribbean had taught you both each other's patterns intimately. There was Nassau, where he'd outmaneuvered you for a prize merchant vessel by bribing the harbormaster while you were distracted by a card game. You'd retaliated in Barbados by convincing his crew that the local tavern girls were all married to very large, very violent fishermen—he'd sailed out with half his men sporting black eyes and his purse considerably lighter.

Then there was the incident in Saint-Domingue where you'd both arrived to find the other already in negotiations with the same fence for a stolen shipment of French silk. The resulting bidding war had driven the price so high that neither of you could afford it, leaving you both glaring at each other across a warehouse full of useless luxury goods. You'd ended up drinking together that night, commiserating over shared losses and plotting elaborate revenges against the smug French merchant who'd played you against each other.

The most memorable encounter had been six months ago off the coast of Jamaica, when a storm had driven both your ships into the same hidden cove. With nowhere to run and repair work to be done, you'd been forced into an uneasy truce that lasted three days. You'd spent the time trading stories, comparing charts, and engaging in increasingly creative verbal sparring matches that had your crews taking bets on whether you'd kiss or kill each other first.

He'd left you a bottle of his best rum when he sailed out ahead of you, along with a note that simply said "Until next time, Captain." You still had the bottle, unopened, in your cabin.

"Your rum is swill and we both know it."

"And yet here you are, drinking it."

You lifted the glass to your lips, maintaining eye contact as you took a deliberate sip. "I've had worse. Barely."

His crew sat scattered around nearby tables, trying to look casual while keeping their hands near their weapons. Your own crew mirrored their wariness from across the smoky room—except for your first mate Jin, who seemed to be enjoying the show entirely too much.

"You know," Hongjoong continued, leaning back in his chair with studied casualness, "when I heard the infamous Blood Rose wanted to meet, I half expected an ambush. Your reputation for... creative solutions to rival problems is quite well-known."

"The night is young," you replied sweetly. "Though I have to admit, your reputation for slippery escapes has grown tedious. Do you practice those dramatic exits, or do they come naturally?"

"Natural talent, I'm afraid. Much like your gift for looking completely harmless right before you gut someone with that pretty little dagger of yours."

His eyes flicked to the jeweled weapon at your hip, and you smiled at the recognition. You'd killed three men with that blade, and wounded twice as many. Most people saw the ornate handle and dismissed it as decoration. Hongjoong knew better.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Captain Kim. Though I suppose you'd know all about pretty things being more dangerous than they appear." You let your gaze rake over his deceptively lean frame, noting the way his jaw tightened slightly at the implied insult.

"Are we going to trade barbs all evening, or shall we discuss business?" His tone had cooled, but you caught the flash of irritation in his dark eyes. Good. You'd always enjoyed getting under his skin.

"Business, then." You leaned forward, letting your coat fall open just enough to be distracting. "The Spanish galleon. I assume you've heard the same rumors I have?"

"Aztec gold from the Vera Cruz run, three chests of pearls from the pearl beds, and enough silver to sink a frigate." Hongjoong's eyes remained fixed on your face with admirable discipline. "Also enough guns to blow both our ships out of the water if we approach alone."

"Which is why you need me."

"The other way around, I think. Your ship's fast, but she's not built for extended battles. You need my guns."

It was an old argument between you—speed versus firepower, finesse versus brute force. Your Siren's Call could outrun almost anything on the water, but the Treasure packed enough cannon to level a small fort.

"Your guns are useless if you can't catch your prey," you pointed out. "How many prizes have slipped away while you were lumbering along like a pregnant whale?"

"How many prizes have you had to abandon because you couldn't punch through their defenses?" he countered smoothly.

The job was simple enough: a Spanish galleon heavy with Aztec gold, too well-defended for one crew alone but perfect prey for two working in concert. You'd split the treasure and go back to being enemies by sunrise.

What could go wrong?

"Fine," you said finally. "But I want sixty percent."

Hongjoong nearly choked on his rum. "Sixty? You're mad. Fifty-fifty or nothing."

"My ship, my plan, my contacts who provided the intelligence. Sixty."

"Your contacts got the information from my spy in Cartagena. Fifty-five, final offer."

You pretended to consider it, though you'd been prepared to accept fifty-five from the start. "Deal. But if you try to double-cross me, Captain Hongjoong, I'll feed you to the sharks myself."

"Likewise, Captain. Though I have to say, working with you should prove... interesting."

The way he said it, low and speculative, sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. This was exactly why partnerships with Hongjoong were dangerous—the man had a gift for making everything sound like a proposition.

Three days later, you had your answer.

The plan had worked flawlessly—perhaps too flawlessly. The galleon had surrendered after a brief but spectacular battle, her holds proving even richer than anticipated. But as your ships sailed away from the smoking wreck, laden with gold and glory, the sea itself seemed to turn against Hongjoong's crew.

The storm came from nowhere, a wall of black clouds and screaming wind that separated your vessels in minutes. Through the chaos, you watched helplessly as lightning split the sky and waves the size of mountains crashed over the Treasure. When dawn finally broke, calm and deceptively innocent, Hongjoong's ship was nowhere to be seen.

You should have felt victorious. One less rival meant more opportunities, more territory, more everything. Instead, you felt hollow as you ordered your crew to search for survivors.

"Captain!" Your first mate Jin's voice carried across the water as your longboat approached a cluster of debris. "Found them!"

Them turned out to be eight waterlogged pirates clinging to what remained of their mainmast, looking like drowned cats with significantly more attitude. Hongjoong hung from the makeshift raft's edge, his usually perfect black hair plastered to his skull, but his eyes still burned with that familiar defiant fire.

"Well, well," you called out as your crew hauled them aboard. "Look what the tide washed up."

Hongjoong coughed up seawater and glared at you with as much dignity as a man could muster while dripping wet and shipwrecked. "Come to gloat?"

"Come to collect," you said, though even as the words left your mouth, you knew they rang false. "Can't have you drowning before you pay back that debt from Port Royal."

It was a lie, and from the way his eyes narrowed, Hongjoong knew it. But pride was a currency pirates understood, so he simply nodded curtly as your crew helped his men aboard.

The Siren's Call groaned under the weight of sixteen souls instead of eight, but she was a sturdy ship—built for long voyages and heavy cargo. You'd need to make port soon to properly provision for the extra crew, but for now, everyone would survive.

What you hadn't anticipated was how quickly Hongjoong's crew would begin to integrate with yours.

Yunho, tall and surprisingly gentle for a pirate, immediately bonded with your ship's cook over shared stories of their grandmothers' recipes. Yeosang, quiet and sharp-eyed, found common ground with your navigator discussing star charts and trade winds. San and Wooyoung, apparently incapable of staying still, somehow turned swabbing the deck into an elaborate dancing competition that had half your crew in stitches.

Even Seonghwa, Hongjoong's first mate and voice of reason, grudgingly admitted your ship was "adequately maintained" after inspecting your rigging—high praise from someone whose standards were legendary throughout the Caribbean.

But it was the others who truly surprised you. Jongho spent hours helping your crew repair storm damage with an cheerful efficiency that belied his youth. Mingi, lanky and soft-spoken, turned out to have an uncanny ability to spot trouble on the horizon—a skill that had saved Hongjoong's crew more times than they could count.

And then there was Hongjoong himself.

You'd expected him to sulk, to plot, to be the very picture of a defeated rival biding his time for revenge. Instead, he threw himself into ship life with an energy that was both admirable and irritating. He knew ships inside and out, could read weather patterns like prophecy, and had a tactical mind that complemented your own in ways that were dangerously appealing.

"The wind's shifting northwest," he said one evening, appearing at your elbow as you studied the horizon. "There's a storm brewing, but if we adjust our heading by ten degrees, we can ride the edge winds and make Port Tortuga a day early."

You glanced at him suspiciously. "Why help me? I'm not your captain."

Something flickered across his face—too quick to interpret. "Maybe I just don't fancy drowning twice in one week."

But it was more than that, and you both knew it. Over the following days, you found yourself relying on his counsel more and more. He had insights into shipping routes your contacts had missed, knew which ports were safest and which governors could be bought. When a rival crew tried to corner you in a narrow strait, it was Hongjoong's strategy that saw you through unscathed.

"You're wasted as a captain," you told him one night as you shared watch duty. The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you immediately regretted the implication.

Hongjoong's laugh was bitter. "High praise from the woman who destroyed my ship."

"I didn't destroy anything. The storm—"

"Would never have caught us if we hadn't been slowed down by all that treasure." His eyes met yours in the moonlight, and for a moment, the mask of casual indifference slipped. "My crew's been together for five years. That ship was our home."

The pain in his voice cut deeper than you expected. "I'm sorry," you said, and meant it. "For what it's worth, you're all welcome on the Siren's Call as long as you need."

"As crew?"

"As whatever you want to be."

The silence stretched between you, filled with possibility and danger in equal measure. Finally, Hongjoong smiled—a real smile this time, not his usual cocky smirk.

"Careful, Captain. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like having us around."

You turned back to the horizon, unwilling to let him see how close to the truth he'd come. "Don't let it go to your head, Kim Hongjoong. I just hate waste."

But even as you said it, you knew you were lying to yourself as much as to him.

Port Tortuga was a cesspit of vice and opportunity, exactly the kind of place where pirates went to spend their ill-gotten gains and recruit new crew members. You'd planned to restock supplies and find passage for Hongjoong's men to whatever destination they chose. What you hadn't planned was the way they all seemed perfectly content to stay.

"It's been three days," you pointed out to Hongjoong as you watched Yunho teach your cabin boy how to tie proper knots. "Plenty of ships in port looking for experienced crew."

"Aye," he agreed, not moving from where he leaned against the rail. "Funny thing, though—none of them seem particularly appealing."

"And my ship does?"

He turned to look at you, and something in his expression made your breath catch. "Your ship has excellent... management."

The way he said it, low and warm, sent heat curling through your body. This was dangerous territory, the kind that had seen more than one captain's career end in mutiny or worse. But when Hongjoong looked at you like that, like you were a treasure worth more than all the gold in the Caribbean, it was hard to remember why fraternizing with rival captains was a bad idea.

"Hongjoong—"

"Captain!" Wooyoung's voice interrupted whatever you'd been about to say. He came bounding up from below decks, practically vibrating with excitement. "There's talk in the taverns about a new Spanish fleet putting out from Havana. Three ships, heavy cargo, light escort."

You felt the familiar thrill of opportunity, but also a strange reluctance. Taking on a job this size would mean splitting the crew for boarding actions, putting everyone at risk. Your crew, you corrected yourself. Hongjoong's men weren't your responsibility.

Except they felt like they were.

"What do you think?" you asked Hongjoong, surprising yourself by seeking his opinion.

His eyes lit up with the same hunger for adventure that had probably gotten him into piracy in the first place. "I think we could take them. Not easily, but we could do it."

"We?"

"Your crew's good, but they're not used to coordinated attacks on this scale. My boys have experience with fleet actions." He paused, studying your face. "That is, if you want the help."

You should have said no. Should have thanked him politely and sent him on his way with enough gold to book passage back to whatever port he called home. Instead, you found yourself nodding.

"All right, Mr. Kim. Looks like you're my new first mate."

The smile that spread across his face was brilliant enough to rival the Caribbean sun.

The Spanish fleet was everything the tavern rumors had promised: three fat galleons wallowing through the trade routes like overloaded merchants, their escort of two frigates more concerned with maintaining formation than watching for threats. It should have been simple.

Of course, nothing involving Hongjoong ever turned out simple.

"They've changed course," Mingi reported from the crow's nest, his spyglass trained on the distant sails. "Heading for that island chain to the west."

You cursed under your breath. The islands meant shallow water, hidden reefs, and a dozen places for a running battle to go wrong. "They must have spotted us."

"Or they're planning to careen for repairs," Hongjoong suggested, studying your charts. "Look—that's Devil's Teeth island. Perfect for maintenance work, but only one way in or out of the lagoon."

"A trap?"

"Or an opportunity." His finger traced the coastline on the chart. "If we can get there first, take the high ground on that bluff, we could rain cannon fire down on them while they're anchored."

It was a risky plan, but risky plans were Hongjoong's specialty. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding.

"Do it."

The next few hours were a blur of activity. Your combined crew worked with an efficiency that would have been impossible a month ago, each person knowing their role without needing orders. Seonghwa and your quartermaster coordinated the gun crews while San and Yeosang prepared boarding equipment. Even young Jongho found himself pressed into service hauling shot up from the magazine.

But it was watching Hongjoong in action that truly took your breath away.

He moved through the ship like he'd been born to it, checking rigging, adjusting sail trim, offering quiet words of encouragement to nervous crew members. This was what he was meant for—not just captaining a ship, but leading people, inspiring the kind of loyalty that made men follow orders even when death seemed certain.

"You're staring," Jin observed, appearing at your elbow with a knowing smirk.

"I'm observing," you corrected, though you didn't look away from where Hongjoong was demonstrating proper cutlass technique to one of your younger crew members.

"Observing what, exactly? The way he fills out those leather pants?"

You shot your first mate a withering look, but he just laughed.

"Captain, I've served with you for three years. I know that look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're thinking about keeping him."

Before you could respond, Hongjoong himself appeared, saving you from whatever embarrassing admission Jin had been fishing for.

"We're in position," he reported. "Guns loaded, crew ready. They should round the point any minute now."

You nodded, pushing personal complications aside in favor of the familiar clarity that came before battle. "Signal the gun crews to wait for my command. We'll only get one chance at this."

The Spanish fleet rounded Devil's Teeth exactly as predicted, their formation loose and complacent. The lead galleon flew the flag of Castilian nobility—probably some duke's son playing at merchant adventurer with the king's gold. The sight made your blood sing with anticipation.

"Now!" you shouted.

The Siren's Call's guns roared in perfect sequence, twenty-four pounds of iron death screaming down at the trapped Spanish ships. The lead galleon's mainmast exploded in a shower of splinters and canvas, her deck suddenly swarming with tiny figures like disturbed ants.

But the Spanish weren't complete fools. Even as your gunners reloaded, the escort frigates were coming about, their own guns seeking targets. Chain shot whistled overhead, and you heard someone scream as flying metal found flesh.

"Return fire!" Hongjoong bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Aim for their waterline!"

It was a brutal, close-quarters battle that raged for the better part of an hour. Smoke filled the lagoon until you could barely see your own bow, the thunder of cannon fire echoing off the surrounding cliffs until it seemed like the very island was screaming.

When the smoke finally cleared, two of the galleons had struck their colors and the third was listing badly to starboard, her crew working frantically to plug holes in her hull. The frigates were in full retreat, their captains apparently deciding that discretion was the better part of valor.

"Boarding parties away!" you called, and watched with satisfaction as your combined crew swarmed over the captured vessels like professional pirates should.

The haul was everything you'd dreamed of and more: chests of silver, bags of pearls, and enough trade goods to keep both crews in luxury for months. But as you stood on the deck of the surrendered flagship, watching your people work together to secure the prizes, you realized that the treasure was no longer the most important thing you'd gained.

"Not bad for a day's work," Hongjoong said, appearing beside you with that easy confidence that never failed to make your pulse quicken.

"Not bad at all, Mr. Kim." You turned to face him properly, noting the way his eyes sparkled with satisfaction and something deeper. "I believe this makes us partners."

"Partners," he repeated, as if testing the word. "I like the sound of that."

There was something in his tone that suggested he wasn't just talking about piracy. This was dangerous—captain and first mate was a relationship fraught with complications even under the best circumstances.

But as Hongjoong stepped closer, close enough that you could smell gunpowder and sea salt on his skin, you found it hard to care about complications.

"Captain!" Wooyoung's voice shattered the moment like a musket ball through glass. "You need to see this!"

Duty called, but as you followed Wooyoung below decks to examine whatever discovery had excited him, you were acutely aware of Hongjoong's presence behind you. This conversation was far from over.

What Wooyoung had found changed everything.

"Maps," he said unnecessarily, gesturing at the Spanish captain's cabin where charts and documents covered every available surface. "But not just any maps. Look at this."

The chart he indicated was unlike anything you'd ever seen—detailed beyond belief, showing not just coastlines and currents but also the locations of Spanish treasure fleets, garrison strengths, even the sailing schedules of merchant convoys.

"It's their master plan," Hongjoong breathed, studying the documents over your shoulder. "Every Spanish operation in the Caribbean for the next six months."

You picked up another chart, this one showing proposed new settlements and mining operations. The scope was staggering—Spain was planning a massive expansion of their colonial presence, with enough military backing to crush any pirate resistance.

"This changes the game entirely," you murmured. "With intelligence like this..."

"We could unite the Brethren," Hongjoong finished. "Get all the pirate captains to work together instead of fighting each other for scraps."

It was an ambitious dream, the kind of grand vision that had gotten more than one pirate captain killed. But as you looked at the evidence spread before you, you realized it might be the only way to survive what was coming.

"It won't be easy," you warned. "Some of those captains have been feuding for decades."

"Then we'll have to be very persuasive."

The way he said it, with that combination of determination and mischief that made him so dangerous, sent a thrill through you that had nothing to do with treasure or adventure.

"All right, partner," you said, rolling up the most important charts. "Looks like we have work to do."

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of activity as you and Hongjoong traveled from port to port, calling in favors and making deals to arrange a gathering of the Caribbean's most notorious pirate captains. It was delicate work—these were people who'd kill each other over a perceived slight, let alone an attempt to organize them.

But somehow, it worked. Whether it was your reputation for keeping your word or Hongjoong's silver tongue, one by one the captains agreed to a temporary truce and a meeting at Shipwreck Cove.

"I can't believe we actually pulled this off," you admitted the night before the gathering, standing at the rail of the Siren's Call as she rode at anchor in the hidden lagoon. Around you, two dozen pirate ships sat peacefully in the moonlight—more firepower than had been assembled in one place since the days of Henry Morgan.

"We make a good team," Hongjoong said, joining you at the rail. "Better than I expected."

"High praise from a former enemy."

"Former?" He turned to look at you, and something in his expression made your breath catch. "Is that what I am to you now?"

The question hung between you like a loaded pistol, dangerous and impossible to ignore. Over the weeks of working together, the tension that had always existed between you had shifted, changed from antagonistic to something far more perilous.

"I don't know what you are to me," you admitted, the honesty surprising even yourself. "That's the problem."

Hongjoong moved closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body in the cool night air. "Maybe we should figure it out."

His hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a gentleness that made your knees weak. You should have pulled away, should have remembered that fraternizing with your first mate was a recipe for disaster. Instead, you found yourself leaning into his touch.

"This is a terrible idea," you whispered.

"The best ones usually are."

When he kissed you, it was like a dam bursting. All the tension and attraction that had been building between you for weeks crashed over you in a wave of heat and desperation. His lips were soft but demanding, his hands tangling in your hair as he pressed you back against the rail.

You kissed him back with equal fervor, months of denial and restraint crumbling under the assault of his mouth on yours. He tasted like rum and danger, like everything you'd ever wanted and been too afraid to take.

"Captain," he murmured against your lips, and the way he said it—reverent but hungry—made heat pool between your thighs.

"My cabin," you managed, surprised your voice still worked. "Now."

The walk to your quarters felt like miles instead of yards, every step heavy with anticipation. Your crew, wise in the ways of the sea and their captain's moods, seemed to melt away into the shadows, leaving you and Hongjoong alone with the weight of what was about to happen.

Your cabin was your sanctuary, the one place on the ship that was truly yours. Maps and charts covered the walls alongside exotic weapons and treasures from a dozen ports. It was here that you made the decisions that kept your crew alive and prosperous, here that you'd plotted the courses that made you one of the most feared pirates in the Caribbean.

But as Hongjoong closed the door behind you and turned the lock with deliberate care, all you could think about was how empty the room had felt before he entered it.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, and you could hear the restraint in his voice, the careful control of a man who wanted you desperately but would walk away if you asked.

Instead of answering with words, you reached up to unclasp the ruby necklace at your throat—a piece you'd taken from a Spanish noblewoman three months prior. The heavy stones caught the moonlight as you set it aside, followed by the emerald earrings that had once belonged to a governor's wife. Each piece of jewelry was a trophy, a symbol of your conquests, but tonight they felt like armor you no longer needed.

"I've never been more sure of anything," you said, your fingers finding the laces of your corset.

Hongjoong's breath caught as you slowly loosened the ties, his eyes darkening as rich burgundy leather fell away to reveal the thin chemise beneath. The delicate fabric did little to hide the swell of your breasts, the peaks already hardening under his hungry gaze.

"Beautiful," he breathed, stepping closer but not quite touching, as if you were something precious that might shatter under rough handling. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

"Tell me," you whispered, reaching for the golden bangles circling your wrists. They clinked softly as you removed them one by one, adding them to the growing pile of treasures on your desk.

"Every time I see you on deck, giving orders with that fierce look in your eyes..." His voice dropped to a husky rumble as he watched you slide the ornate rings from your fingers. "Every time you laugh at something your crew says, or argue with me over charts... I want to kiss that smirk right off your lips."

The admission sent heat pooling low in your belly. You pulled the chemise over your head in one fluid motion, baring yourself to his gaze completely except for the thin silk drawers that clung to your hips and the leather boots that reached your thighs.

Hongjoong made a sound somewhere between a groan and a prayer, his hands clenching at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for you. "Christ, you're going to be the death of me."

"Then come here and die like a pirate should," you said, your voice rough with want.

He was on you in an instant, hands tangling in your hair as his mouth crashed against yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. You could taste the desperation on his lips, feel the tremor in his hands as they mapped the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips.

You tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel skin against skin, and he broke away just long enough to pull it over his head. The moonlight streaming through the stern windows turned his chest into a masterpiece of silver and shadow—lean muscle marked here and there with scars that told stories of battles won and lost.

"Your turn to tell me," he murmured against your throat, his lips finding the pulse point that betrayed your racing heart. "What do you think about when you watch me work the rigging?"

"How those hands would feel on my skin," you admitted breathlessly, then gasped as he bit gently at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. "How you'd taste if I kissed you."

"And now you know," he said, lifting his head to look at you with eyes gone dark with desire.

"Not nearly enough," you replied, pushing him backward until his legs hit the edge of your bunk.

He sat heavily, and you moved to straddle his lap, feeling the hard length of him pressed against your core even through the layers of fabric still between you. The sensation made you both groan, and his hands came up to cup your breasts with reverent care.

"These have been driving me mad," he confessed, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you arched into his touch. "The way they move when you climb the rigging, the way that corset pushes them up just enough to make me forget what I was supposed to be doing..."

His words dissolved into incoherent murmurs as he bent to take one peaked nipple into his mouth, sucking gently while his fingers worked the other. The dual sensation sent lightning straight to your core, and you found yourself grinding against him, seeking friction that only made the ache worse.

"Boots," you managed to gasp, and he understood immediately, his hands moving to the laces with surprising dexterity for someone who spent most of his time tying nautical knots.

The leather fell away, followed by your silk stockings, until you were bare except for the thin drawers that were already damp with your arousal. Hongjoong's hands smoothed up your thighs with worshipful touches, pausing to trace the small scar on your left knee—a memento from your first boarding action—before continuing their upward journey.

"Perfect," he murmured, and something in his tone made you believe he truly meant it. Not the polished perfection of courtly ladies, but the functional beauty of a woman who could fight and sail and lead. "You're absolutely perfect."

You silenced any further praise by kissing him again, pouring months of tension and longing into the press of lips and tongue. His hands found the ties of your drawers, and you lifted up just enough to let him slide them down your legs and toss them aside.

Now it was his turn to be explored. Your fingers traced the waistband of his leather breeches, feeling the muscles of his abdomen jump under your touch. He was lean but strong, built for speed and agility rather than brute force—much like his ship, you thought with amusement.

"Something funny?" he asked, noticing your smile.

"Just thinking that you're built like your ship was," you said, working at the laces with fingers made clumsy by desire. "Sturdy and elegant."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Definitely a compliment," you assured him, finally freeing him from the confines of leather and fabric. "I've always preferred quality over quantity."

His response was lost in a sharp intake of breath as you wrapped your hand around his length, marveling at the way he pulsed in your palm. He was perfect—long and thick enough to fill you completely, the head already glistening with evidence of his arousal.

"If you keep doing that," he warned, his voice strained, "this will be over embarrassingly quickly."

"We have all night," you reminded him, but you released him anyway, settling back onto his lap with your core pressed against his length.

The feeling of him sliding between your slick folds made you both moan, and you began to rock against him slowly, coating him with your wetness while the head of his cock brushed against your clit with each movement.

"Please," he breathed, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "I need to be inside you."

You lifted yourself up, positioning him at your entrance before slowly sinking down. The stretch was exquisite, bordering on too much but perfect at the same time. You took him inch by inch, watching his face contort with pleasure and restraint as your body adjusted to accommodate him.

"Move," he pleaded once you were fully seated, and you obliged by lifting yourself up and sliding back down in a rhythm that had you both gasping.

The position gave you control, let you set the pace and angle that brought you the most pleasure. But it also let you watch Hongjoong's face as you rode him, see the way his eyes rolled back when you clenched around him, hear the broken sounds that fell from his lips like prayers.

"So tight," he groaned, his hands helping guide your movements. "So perfect. God, the things I want to do to you..."

"Tell me," you demanded, your pace increasing as the pleasure built like a storm inside you.

"Want to lay you out on my charts and map every inch of your skin with my tongue," he said, his voice rough with passion. "Want to taste you until you scream my name. Want to take you against the mizzenmast so the whole crew knows who you belong to."

The possessiveness in his tone sent you spiraling toward the edge, your inner muscles fluttering around him as your climax built. But just before you could fall over, he flipped your positions with surprising strength, pressing you down into the mattress as he drove into you with renewed intensity.

"Mine," he growled against your throat, and the word combined with the angle of his thrusts sent you tumbling into ecstasy. Your back arched as waves of pleasure crashed over you, his name falling from your lips like a litany as your body clenched around him.

He followed you over the edge moments later, burying himself deep as his release pulsed inside you, painting your inner walls with his seed. The feeling of being so completely claimed sent aftershocks through your system, and you clung to him as you both rode out the waves of pleasure.

Afterward, you lay tangled together in the narrow bunk, heart rates slowly returning to normal as the reality of what you'd just done began to sink in. Hongjoong's arm was wrapped around your waist, holding you against his chest like he was afraid you might disappear.

"That was..." he began, then trailed off as if words were insufficient.

"A terrible idea," you finished, though you made no move to pull away from his embrace.

"The best ones usually are," he reiterated, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.

"So," Hongjoong said eventually, his voice rough with satisfaction, "what happens now?"

You traced lazy patterns on his chest, marveling at how right this felt despite all the reasons it should be wrong. "Now we figure out how to unite a bunch of stubborn pirates without killing each other."

"And after that?"

The question hung in the air between you, loaded with possibility and danger in equal measure. Partnership was one thing, but this—whatever this was—changed the dynamic entirely.

"After that," you said, pressing a kiss to his throat, "we sail toward the horizon and see what we find."

His arms tightened around you, and you felt him smile against your hair. "I can live with that."

Outside, the Caribbean night wrapped around your ship like a promise, full of adventures yet to come and treasures yet to be claimed. But for now, in this moment, you had everything you needed right here in your arms.

The gathering at Shipwreck Cove was everything you'd hoped for and more chaotic than you'd feared. Two dozen pirate captains, each with egos the size of their ships and tempers to match, crammed into the ancient amphitheater that had been carved from the living rock by some long-dead civilization.

"Gentlemen! Ladies!" you called, raising your voice to be heard over the arguing. "If we could—"

"Why should we listen to you, girl?" Captain Barbossa interrupted, his weathered face twisted into a sneer. "Just because you've got yourself a pretty new first mate doesn't mean—"

The insult died in his throat as Hongjoong's hand moved to his cutlass hilt with fluid grace. The threat was subtle but unmistakable, and the sudden silence that fell over the assembly suggested that your reputation wasn't the only one that preceded you.

"The lady has something to say," Hongjoong said quietly, his voice carrying easily in the sudden hush. "I suggest you listen."

What followed was the most intense negotiation of your pirating career. The Spanish documents were compelling, but getting the assembled captains to look past their personal grudges and centuries of mistrust was like herding cats—drunk, heavily armed cats with authority issues.

But slowly, carefully, you and Hongjoong began to weave them together into something resembling a cohesive force. It helped that the evidence was overwhelming—Spain's plans would spell doom for every pirate in the Caribbean if left unchecked. It also helped that you and Hongjoong had become a formidable team, playing off each other's strengths to manipulate, cajole, and inspire the fractious assembly.

"United we stand, divided we hang," Hongjoong concluded, after laying out the proposed alliance structure. "It's really that simple."

"And who's to lead this grand alliance?" asked Captain Teague, his eyes glittering with cunning. "You, boy? Or your mistress there?"

The deliberate insult hung in the air like gunpowder, and you felt the assembled captains tense in anticipation of violence. This was the moment that would make or break everything—not just the alliance, but your partnership with Hongjoong.

"We lead together," you said firmly, standing to face the assembly. "Joint command, joint responsibility. Any captain who has a problem with that is welcome to face the Spanish alone."

It was a bold gambit, claiming equal authority with Hongjoong in front of the most dangerous pirates in the Caribbean. But as you spoke, you felt his hand settle on the small of your back—a gesture of support that was both intimate and utterly confident.

"Joint command," Captain Jack Sparrow mused from his seat near the back. "Interesting. And if you two have a falling out? What then?"

You and Hongjoong exchanged a look that held three weeks' worth of partnership, trust, and growing affection. Whatever else happened, you knew you could count on each other.

"Then the Brethren will choose new leaders," Hongjoong said simply. "But that won't be necessary."

The vote, when it came, was closer than you'd hoped but decisive enough to matter. The Caribbean Pirate Alliance was born in blood and desperation, but it was born nonetheless.

Six months later, you stood on the deck of the Siren's Call and watched the Spanish treasure fleet burn on the horizon. It had been the Alliance's greatest victory yet—a coordinated assault on Spain's annual silver convoy that had netted enough wealth to fund pirate operations for years to come.

But more than that, it had proven that the alliance could work. Captains who had been mortal enemies now coordinated their attacks, sharing intelligence and resources in ways that would have been unthinkable a year ago.

"Not bad for a day's work," Hongjoong said, echoing his words from that first battle all those months ago. But now he stood beside you not as a temporary ally but as your partner in every sense of the word.

The crew had adapted to the change with remarkable grace. Your original crew had welcomed their new shipmates, while Hongjoong's men had integrated so completely that it was sometimes hard to remember they hadn't always been part of your family. Seonghwa had become your second mate, his steady competence complementing Jin's irreverent wisdom perfectly. Yunho had taken over as cook, his grandmother's recipes becoming legendary throughout the fleet. Even young Jongho had found his place, his supernatural strength making him invaluable during boarding actions.

But it was the smaller moments that truly warmed your heart. Watching Wooyoung teach your cabin boy how to splice rope while regaling him with increasingly exaggerated tales of adventure. Seeing Yeosang and your navigator bent over star charts, arguing good-naturedly about the best route to Port Royal. Observing how San had appointed himself the ship's morale officer, his infectious laughter capable of lifting spirits even in the darkest storms.

They were your family now, every one of them, bound together by shared danger and mutual trust in the way that only pirates could achieve.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Hongjoong asked, slipping an arm around your waist with the casual intimacy of established lovers.

"Just thinking about how much has changed," you replied, leaning into his warmth. "Six months ago, you were my enemy. Now..."

"Now?"

You turned to face him properly, marveling again at how perfectly he fit into your life. "Now I can't imagine sailing without you."

The smile that spread across his face was radiant enough to rival the Caribbean sun. "Good thing you'll never have to find out."

He kissed you then, soft and sweet and full of promise, while around you your crew went about their duties with the easy efficiency of people who had found their place in the world. The future stretched before you like an uncharted ocean, full of adventures yet to come and treasures yet to be claimed.

But whatever storms lay ahead, you would face them together—captain and first mate, partners and lovers, surrounded by the finest crew ever to sail the Caribbean seas.

The Siren's Call turned her bow toward the horizon, her sails full of wind and her holds full of Spanish gold, while above her the pirate flag snapped proudly in the breeze. Behind her sailed the greatest fleet the Brotherhood of the Coast had ever assembled, united in purpose and terrible in their fury.

The Spanish Empire had awakened a sleeping giant, and now they would reap the whirlwind.

But that, as they say, is another story entirely.

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adriftingsnowflake · 4 days ago

Text

The Sun Is Mine ⋆˚࿔ K.SN

pairing: vampire!sunoo x human!reader

wc: 2.4k

content: Established relationship, vampire au, fluff, romance, mentions of vampiric nature, sunrise watching, poetic love

a/n: Sunoo has been bias wrecking me like crazy

taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon

The vintage photograph trembles slightly in Sunoo's pale fingers as he holds it up to the lamplight, studying it with the same reverence others might reserve for religious artifacts. It's a Polaroid from 1987—the seller had assured him of the date—showing a sunrise over what looks like the Grand Canyon, all golden light and painted sky.

"This one's beautiful," you murmur from your spot curled against his side on the velvet couch, watching him add it to the carefully organized album spread across the coffee table. "The way the light hits those rock formations..."

His eyes light up—ironic, really, for a creature who hasn't seen natural light in over a century. "Tell me what you think it felt like," he says, that familiar eager tone creeping into his voice. "The warmth on your skin, the way the colors shift..."

You've had this conversation dozens of times, but you never tire of it. Sunoo's fascination with sunlight is one of the most endearing things about him, this dangerous, immortal being who collects sunrise photographs and sunset paintings like other vampires collect vintage wines or rare books.

"It starts cool," you begin, settling more comfortably against him. "Just before sunrise, there's this crisp feeling in the air, like the world is holding its breath. Then the first rays appear, and it's gentle at first—like fingers trailing across your skin. As it rises higher, the warmth grows, sinking into your bones and making everything feel... possible."

Sunoo closes his eyes as you speak, as if he can somehow experience it through your words. His collection spans decades—daguerreotypes from the 1800s, faded film photographs from the mid-1900s, digital prints from the modern era. Each one represents his desperate desire to understand something he can never safely experience.

"You make it sound like magic," he whispers.

"It is magic," you reply softly. "Just not the kind you're used to."

When Sunoo first told you what he was six months ago, you'd expected many things. Bloodlust, maybe. Ancient wisdom. Supernatural powers. What you hadn't expected was this: a vampire who kept blackout curtains not just for protection, but because he'd wallpapered the room behind them with pictures of sunny days. A creature of the night who owned more books about solar physics than some college libraries.

"I have something for you," he says suddenly, reaching for a small wrapped package on the side table. "I know your birthday isn't for another week, but..."

Inside the tissue paper is a delicate gold necklace, the pendant shaped like a tiny sun with rays extending outward. But it's not just decorative—as you hold it up, you realize it's actually a compass, the needle pointing steadily toward what you assume is magnetic north.

"It's beautiful, Sunoo, but—"

"Look closer," he says, a small smile playing at his lips.

You examine the compass more carefully and gasp. The needle isn't pointing north at all—it's pointing east, toward where the sun rises each morning. Somehow, he's found or commissioned a compass that follows the sun's path across the sky.

"So you'll always know where to find it," he explains quietly. "Even when I can't be there to watch it with you."

The thoughtfulness of it makes your throat tight with emotion. "You know I don't need a compass to find the sun, right?"

"Maybe not," he agrees, fastening the chain around your neck with careful fingers. "But I need to know you have it. I need to know that part of what I love most about this world is always with you."

That's when it clicks—the real meaning behind his obsession. It's not just about the sun itself. It's about life, about warmth, about all the things his vampiric nature has taken from him. And somehow, in his mind, you've become connected to all of that light and life he craves.

"Is that why you started calling me sunshine?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

His smile is soft, almost shy. "You're the closest I'll ever get to understanding what warmth feels like. When you laugh, when you're excited about something, when you look at me like I'm not a monster—it's like watching a sunrise through someone else's eyes."

You've been together for eight months now, but moments like this still take your breath away. Sunoo has a way of saying things that sound like poetry, of finding beauty in the impossible space between what he is and what he yearns for.

"You're not a monster," you tell him firmly, a conversation you've had before but one that bears repeating. "You're just someone who loves something you can't have."

"Can't I?" he asks, and there's something different in his voice, something that makes you look at him more carefully.

"Sunoo..."

He's already standing, moving toward the heavy curtains that cover the wall of windows in his apartment. "I've been thinking," he says, not quite meeting your eyes. "About what you said last week, about how sunrises are different every day. About how you can never really capture them properly in photographs."

"What are you saying?"

He turns to face you fully, and you can see the conflict in his expression—excitement warring with fear, desire battling with self-preservation. "I'm saying that maybe it's time I stopped experiencing the sun secondhand."

Your blood runs cold. "No. Absolutely not. Sunoo, you can't—"

"I can," he interrupts gently. "For a few minutes, at least. Maybe longer, if I'm careful."

"And maybe you'll burn to death!" You're on your feet now, crossing to him in quick strides. "I won't let you risk your life just because you're curious about—"

"It's not curiosity." His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "It's love. I love you so much that I want to see the world the way you see it, just once. I want to understand why you smile differently when you talk about morning light versus afternoon sun. I want to know what it feels like to exist in the same moment you do, sharing the same warmth, seeing the same colors."

The passion in his voice makes your heart ache. This is so perfectly Sunoo—romantic and dramatic and willing to risk everything for a single moment of beauty.

"There has to be another way," you whisper.

"There isn't." His smile is sad but determined. "I've researched everything, tried every protection spell, every bit of folklore. The only way for me to experience sunrise is to experience it. And I can, for a little while, if I'm smart about it."

You want to argue, want to lock him in the apartment and never let him near a window during daylight hours. But you can see in his eyes that he's already made his decision. This isn't an impulsive whim—it's something he's been planning, probably for weeks.

"When?" you ask finally.

"Tomorrow. There's a place I've scouted, about an hour outside the city. A cliff overlooking the valley—the view is supposed to be incredible." He pauses, studying your face. "I want you there with me. I want you to see it too, so you can tell me if the photographs got it right."

The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur of preparation and anxiety. Sunoo moves through his nighttime routine like usual, but you can sense his excitement underneath the calm exterior. He's like a child on Christmas Eve, practically vibrating with anticipation.

You, on the other hand, spend the time researching vampire folklore, looking for any mention of sun exposure that might help keep him safe. Most of what you find is unhelpful—stories of vampires bursting into flames or crumbling to dust at the first ray of light. But there are a few accounts, rare ones, of vampires surviving brief exposure, usually at great cost.

"Stop worrying," Sunoo says as you drive through the pre-dawn darkness, his hand warm over yours on the gear shift. "I know my limits."

"Do you, though?" You can't keep the concern from your voice. "You've never actually tested them."

"I have," he admits quietly. "Small exposures, controlled situations. A finger in moonlight that turned to dawn, standing near a window as the sun came up with the curtains almost closed. I know how much I can take."

This is news to you, and it doesn't make you feel better. "Sunoo—"

"I'm not suicidal," he says firmly. "I don't have a death wish. I just... I need this. I need to give you something real, something that's not just stories and secondhand experiences."

The cliff he's chosen is perfect—a rocky outcrop that overlooks miles of rolling hills and distant mountains. You arrive with about twenty minutes to spare before sunrise, enough time to set up the thick blanket Sunoo brought and arrange the thermos of coffee you insisted on packing.

"It's beautiful," you murmur, looking out over the landscape. Even in the pre-dawn darkness, you can see the promise of the view to come.

Sunoo is standing near the edge, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, staring at the eastern horizon. "Are you scared?" you ask, moving to stand beside him.

"Terrified," he admits with a laugh that's not quite steady. "But also... I've never wanted anything more."

You slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers. His skin is always cool, but now it seems almost cold, whether from fear or anticipation you can't tell.

"Tell me what happens," he says as the sky begins to lighten almost imperceptibly. "Tell me everything you see."

So you do. You describe the way the darkness slowly gives way to deep purple, then violet, then the faintest hint of pink. You tell him about the way the world seems to wake up gradually, how you can start to make out individual trees and rocks as the light grows stronger.

"There," you whisper, pointing to the horizon. "Do you see it?"

The first sliver of sun appears, just a bright line between the earth and sky, and Sunoo gasps. Even that small amount of light makes him take a step back instinctively, but he doesn't retreat further.

"It's so bright," he breathes, wonder clear in his voice.

"And it's just starting," you tell him, squeezing his hand. "Sunoo, if it gets to be too much—"

"Not yet," he says firmly, though you can see him starting to tense as the sun climbs higher. "Keep going. Tell me what you see."

You describe the way the light spreads, painting the clouds in shades of gold and orange and pink that no photograph could ever truly capture. You tell him about the way the hills seem to come alive, how shadows shift and change, how the whole world transforms from a monochrome sketch into a masterpiece of color and light.

And through it all, Sunoo watches with an expression of pure awe, even as you can see the strain beginning to show around his eyes. His skin doesn't burst into flames like the movies suggest, but there's a tension in his posture that tells you he's fighting against every instinct screaming at him to seek shelter.

"The warmth," he says suddenly, holding up his free hand toward the sun. "I can feel it."

You watch in amazement as he closes his eyes and turns his face toward the light, a smile spreading across his features that's unlike anything you've ever seen from him. For just a moment, he looks almost human—not the pale, ethereal creature of the night you fell in love with, but someone who could walk in the world of daylight and belong there.

But then his smile wavers, and you see his jaw clench with effort.

"Sunoo," you say carefully, "maybe we should—"

"Just a little longer," he whispers, eyes still closed. "Please. It's so beautiful."

The sun is fully above the horizon now, flooding the valley with golden light, and you have to admit he's right—it's one of the most beautiful sunrises you've ever seen. But your attention is focused entirely on him, on the way his breathing has become more labored, the way his hand has tightened in yours almost painfully.

"Okay," he says finally, reluctantly stepping back into the shadow cast by a large boulder. "Okay, that's enough."

The relief in his voice is palpable, and you can see him physically relax as he moves out of the direct sunlight. But his face is radiant with joy, his eyes bright with tears he's probably not even aware of.

"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head, apparently at a loss for words.

"Worth it?" you ask, though you're still not sure you agree.

"Beyond worth it." He turns to you, cupping your face in both hands. "Do you know what the best part was?"

"What?"

"Watching you watch the sunrise. Seeing your face in real sunlight, the way it brought out colors in your eyes I've never noticed before. Understanding, finally, why I started calling you sunshine." He presses his forehead against yours. "You are my sun. You're the light I can actually live with, the warmth that won't destroy me."

The poetry of it, the sheer romance of this gesture, hits you all at once. He risked everything—his safety, his life—not just to see a sunrise, but to share one with you. To understand what it means when you talk about morning light, to see you the way the rest of the world gets to see you.

"I love you," you whisper, because it's the only response that feels adequate.

"I love you too, sunshine," he replies, and kisses you there in the shadow of the boulder, with the sun painting the world golden around you and the smell of warming earth in the air.

Later, as you drive back to the city with Sunoo dozing in the passenger seat (the sun exposure having exhausted him more than he'd admitted), you think about the photos in his collection. All those sunrises and sunsets, captured by other people, experienced secondhand through their eyes.

Now he has his own. Not a photograph, but a memory—the two of you sharing something impossible, something that exists in the space between his world and yours. It's better than any picture could ever be, because it's real, and it's yours, and it's proof that love can make even the impossible feel like coming home.

The sun compass at your throat catches the light streaming through the windshield, casting tiny rainbows across the dashboard. You smile, understanding now why he needed you to have it.

It's not just about always knowing where to find the sun.

It's about always knowing where to find each other.

#kpop #fluff #romance #enhypen x reader #sunoo x reader #enhypen scenarios #kim sunoo #vampire sunoo #enhypen

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adriftingsnowflake · 9 days ago

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The Last Drop ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ K.SN

Pairing: vampire!sunoo x dying!reader

wc: 3.1k

Content: angst, tragedy, romance, terminal illness, death, moral dilemma, gothic romance, tragic love

a/n: this was inspired by me listening to A Match Into Water by ptv, I've never written in a gothic style before but I've read a lot so I tried

The grandfather clock in the corner of your bedroom chimes midnight, its hollow toll echoing through the Victorian manor like a funeral bell. Thirteen chimes—an impossibility that makes Sunoo's jaw tighten as he adjusts the heavy curtains against the storm raging outside.

You've been bedridden for three weeks now, your body finally surrendering to the illness that's been devouring you from within like some gothic curse. The four-poster bed, with its dark mahogany frame and bloodred velvet canopy, has become your world—beautiful and suffocating in equal measure.

"The clock is broken again," you whisper, voice barely audible above the thunder that shakes the ancient windows.

"Time has no meaning in this house," Sunoo replies, settling into the wingback chair he's claimed as his vigil post. Shadows dance across his pale features in the candlelight—you'd banned the electric lights weeks ago, preferring the romantic gloom that suits your current Gothic novel existence.

He looks like a painting himself, you think—something tragic and beautiful that might hang in a museum with a placard reading "The Mourning Lover" or "Death's Companion." His dark hair frames a face carved from marble, perfect and cold and utterly inhuman in its beauty.

"You're staring," he murmurs without looking at you.

"I'm memorizing." Your fingers trace patterns on the silk coverlet, each movement requiring more effort than it should. "In case."

"Don't."

"In case this is the last time I see you looking at me like I'm still alive instead of already dead."

His head snaps toward you, eyes flashing with something dangerous. "You are not dead."

"Not yet." You manage a smile that feels like autumn leaves—brittle and ready to crumble. "But we both know I'm dying, Sunoo. The doctors confirmed it yesterday. Days, not weeks."

The storm outside seems to intensify at your words, lightning illuminating the room in stark, electric moments that make everything look like a daguerreotype—beautiful and haunted and somehow not quite real.

"I could—" he begins, then stops himself.

"You could turn me." The words hang in the air like incense, heavy and intoxicating. "We both know it. We've both been thinking about it. Why won't you say it?"

He rises from the chair with fluid grace, moving to the tall windows where rain lashes against the glass like tears against a casket lid. "Because saying it makes it real. Makes it a choice instead of a fantasy."

"Maybe it's time for it to be real."

"You don't understand what you're asking." His voice carries the weight of centuries, of watching too many people die, of living with choices that can never be undone. "You think vampire novels are romantic—the eternal love, the passionate darkness. But you don't know what forever actually means."

"Tell me."

He turns from the window, and in the candlelight his eyes look ancient, haunted. "It means watching everything you love turn to dust. It means feeling your humanity slip away piece by piece until you're not sure if you ever had a soul to begin with. It means hunger that never truly ends, no matter how much you feed."

"It means never having to say goodbye to you."

"It means becoming a monster."

"You're not a monster." You struggle to sit up against the mountain of pillows, your wedding dress from last month now hanging loose on your wasting frame. You'd insisted on marrying him when the diagnosis came back terminal, a gothic romance playing out in a candlelit chapel with more shadows than guests.

"I've killed people," he says simply. "Drained them dry because I was hungry and they were convenient. I've walked away from dying children because saving them would mean damning them. I've lived through plagues and wars and done nothing to help because preserving the secret of what I am mattered more than human life."

"That was before me."

"Was it?" His laugh is bitter as winter wind. "Three months ago, I fed from a young woman in the village. She reminded me of you—same hair, same laugh. I told myself it was just hunger, but I know the truth. I wanted to practice, wanted to know what it would feel like to sink my fangs into your throat."

The confession should horrify you, but instead it sends a thrill through your dying body. "And how did it feel?"

"Empty." He moves closer to the bed, and you can see the self-loathing in his expression. "Because she wasn't you. Because no matter how much I took from her, she couldn't give me what I actually wanted."

"Which is?"

"You. Forever. Unchanging and perfect and mine for eternity." His voice drops to a whisper. "And that's exactly why I can't do it. Because I want it too much. Because I'd be turning you for selfish reasons, not because it's what's best for you."

Outside, the storm rages with renewed fury. Lightning splits the sky and in its brief illumination, you see something in Sunoo's face that takes your breath away—raw, desperate longing barely held in check by iron will.

"What if I want it too?" you ask. "What if I want to be yours forever?"

"You're dying. You're not thinking clearly."

"I've never thought more clearly in my life." The effort of speaking leaves you breathless, but you push on. "I know what I'm choosing. I know what I'm giving up. And I know what I'm gaining."

"You're giving up your soul."

"My soul is already yours." The truth of it rings through the room like a bell. "It has been since the night we met. The only question is whether you'll take the rest of me too."

He sinks onto the edge of the bed, the mattress barely dipping under his slight weight. His hand finds yours—cold marble against fevered flesh—and for a moment you sit in silence, listening to the storm and the irregular rhythm of your failing heart.

"I had a sister once," he says finally. "When I was human. She died of consumption—wasted away just like you are now. I held her hand as she died, listened to her beg for more time, more life. And I swore that if I ever had the power to save someone I loved, I would use it."

"Then why won't you save me?"

"Because I also swore I'd never force this curse on anyone else." His thumb traces across your knuckles with reverent care. "Because I've spent two hundred years trying to atone for the monster I became, and turning you would undo all of it."

"Even if it's what I want?"

"Especially if it's what you want." He looks at you with eyes full of centuries of regret. "Because I love you too much to trust my own motives."

The clock chimes again—impossible fourteenth chime that echoes through the house like a death knell. Your vision blurs at the edges, and you can feel your strength ebbing like tide going out to sea.

"Sunoo," you whisper, and his name sounds like a prayer. "I need you to listen to me. Really listen."

He leans closer, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, can smell the faint scent of roses that always clings to his skin.

"I'm not afraid of becoming a monster," you tell him. "I'm afraid of leaving you alone. I'm afraid of you sitting in this room for the next hundred years, surrounded by my things, talking to my ghost."

"I would survive."

"Surviving isn't living." Your hand tightens on his with what little strength you have left. "And I won't condemn you to an eternity of mere survival because you're too noble to give us both what we want."

Thunder crashes overhead, and in the silence that follows, you can hear your heartbeat growing slower, more irregular. Time is running out, and you both know it.

"If you won't turn me," you say quietly, "then I need you to do something else."

"Anything."

"I need you to let me go."

His face goes ashen. "What?"

"The morphine. Dr. Whitmore left extra, said to use it if the pain became unbearable." You gesture weakly toward the medical supplies on the bedside table. "It would be peaceful. Quick. Better than wasting away for days while you torture yourself watching."

"No." The word comes out fierce, absolute. "I won't kill you."

"You wouldn't be killing me. You'd be loving me enough to spare us both a slow goodbye."

"I can't—"

"Then turn me." Your voice carries a strength that surprises you both. "Those are your choices, Sunoo. Save me or let me go peacefully. But I won't lie here dying by inches while you punish yourself for wanting to help me."

He stares at you for a long moment, something breaking behind his eyes. Then he's moving, standing and pacing to the window where lightning continues to fracture the sky.

"You make it sound so simple," he says to the storm.

"Love is simple. It's everything else that's complicated."

He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Simple. Yes, I suppose watching the person you love most in the world die could be considered simple."

"It could be beautiful," you whisper. "If you let it."

Another impossible chime from the broken clock—fifteen now, as if time itself is unraveling in this house where life and death dance together in the shadows.

When Sunoo turns from the window, his face is set with terrible resolution.

"If I do this," he says slowly, "if I turn you—there's no going back. No changing your mind in fifty years when you realize what you've lost."

"I know."

"You'll never see another sunrise. Never feel warm summer rain on your skin. Never have children, never grow old, never know peace."

"I'll have forever with you."

"You'll have forever with a monster."

"I'll have forever with the man I love." You struggle to sit up straighter, pouring everything you have left into your voice. "The man who reads me poetry in languages that died centuries ago. Who brings me flowers he's grown in moonlight. Who loves me enough to damn himself rather than damn me."

Something shifts in his expression—the last wall crumbling, the final defense falling away.

"And if I can't do it?" he asks. "If I lose my nerve?"

"Then you help me leave this world with dignity instead of pain."

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they're shining with unshed tears. "I love you," he says simply.

"I love you too."

The storm outside begins to quiet, rain softening from a torrent to a gentle patter against the windows. Sunoo moves back to the bed with the grace of a creature born to darkness, settling beside you on the bloodred coverlet.

"Tell me about the garden in Prague," you whisper, settling back against his chest.

It's a game you've played before—him describing the places he's been, the beauty he's witnessed across centuries of wandering. Tonight, he tells you about a monastery garden where he once spent a winter, watching snow fall on ancient stones while monks sang vespers in the distance.

His voice is soothing, painting pictures of beauty in the midst of everything dark about this moment. As he talks, your eyelids grow heavy, your breathing more shallow.

"Sleep," he murmurs against your hair. "I'll be here."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You drift toward unconsciousness, his voice following you into dreams of snow and stones and songs that echo through eternity. In your dreams, you're walking through his garden, snowflakes in your hair, his hand in yours. The sun has set forever, but you're not afraid.

When you wake, the room is silent except for the soft patter of rain. The candles have burned lower, casting longer shadows across the Gothic architecture of your bedroom. Sunoo sits exactly where he was before, but something has changed. There's a stillness to him that speaks of decisions made, of crossroads chosen.

"What time is it?" you ask, though the broken clock has stopped chiming entirely.

"Nearly dawn."

Your body feels different—lighter somehow, as if you're already beginning to fade from the world. The monitors Dr. Whitmore insisted on installing beep slowly, erratically, marking the irregular rhythm of a heart that's forgetting how to beat.

"It's time, isn't it?"

He nods, unable to speak.

You study his face in the dim candlelight, memorizing every line, every shadow. Even in anguish, he's beautiful—otherworldly in a way that once made you wonder how someone like him could love someone like you. Now you understand that love doesn't follow rules of logic or fairness.

"Have you decided?" you ask.

"Yes." His voice is barely a whisper.

"And?"

He leans down, taking your face in his hands with infinite tenderness. His skin is cold as marble, but his touch burns like starfire.

"I've decided to love you enough to give you what you truly want," he says. "Even if it damns us both."

"What do I truly want?"

"To never have to say goodbye."

He kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting of eternity. When he pulls back, his eyes have gone completely black, pupils blown wide with hunger and love and terrible purpose.

"It will hurt," he warns, voice rough with emotion. "But only for a moment."

"I'm not afraid."

"You should be. You should be terrified of what I'm about to make you."

"I'm only terrified of leaving you alone."

He nods, settling beside you fully now, pulling you against his chest. Your heart monitor beeps slower, more irregular—a countdown neither of you acknowledges.

"I love you," he whispers against your throat, lips finding the pulse that flutters there like a trapped bird.

"I love you too."

The pain, when it comes, is nothing like you expected. Instead of agony, there's a sharp sweetness, like the moment between sleeping and waking when anything seems possible. You feel your life flowing out of you and something else flowing in—cold and ancient and eternal.

Your last human thought is that you're not afraid. You can feel Sunoo's arms around you, holding you through the transformation, can hear him whispering promises against your skin.

The heart monitor flatlines with a long, steady tone that fills the Gothic bedroom like a funeral dirge. For a moment, there is only silence and the sound of rain against ancient windows.

Then—awakening. No breath needed, no heartbeat required, but a different kind of life flowing through veins that no longer carry warmth.

In the candlelit darkness, you open eyes that see too clearly, hear too much, feel everything with supernatural intensity. The world has become sharp-edged and overwhelming, every shadow deeper, every sound a symphony of noise you never noticed as a human.

But it's the hunger that hits you first—immediate, consuming, unlike anything you could have imagined. Not the gentle craving Sunoo had described, but a ravening beast that claws at your insides with desperate need.

"Sunoo," you gasp, sitting up too quickly, the movement unnaturally fluid. "Something's wrong. I can hear... everything. The mice in the walls, the servants' heartbeats three floors down, I can smell their blood and I want—" You stop, horrified by your own words.

His face is stricken as he reaches for you. "The hunger will settle. It always does. You just need to feed, and then—"

"No." You pull away from his touch, suddenly understanding what you've become with devastating clarity. "This isn't what I thought it would be. This isn't beautiful or romantic. I can hear Mrs. Chen crying in the kitchen because she thinks I've died. I can smell the fear on Dr. Whitmore as he climbs the stairs. I want to hunt them, Sunoo. I want to kill them."

"Those feelings will fade," he says desperately, but you can hear the lie in his voice. "With time, with practice—"

"Will they?" You look at your hands—pale as bone, fingers ending in subtle claws you hadn't noticed before. "Is this how you felt? When you were turned? Like a monster wearing the face of someone who used to be human?"

He can't answer, and his silence is answer enough.

"You saved my life," you whisper, and tears that will never fall again burn behind your eyes. "But you couldn't save me."

The realization settles between you like a death shroud. You have forever now, just as you wanted. Forever to love him, forever to never say goodbye. But the woman who loved him—the woman who read poetry and laughed at his stories and dreamed of growing old together—she died on this bed.

What sits here now wears her face and carries her memories, but the soul is something different. Something hungry and cold and beautifully damned.

"I'm sorry," Sunoo breathes, and for the first time in two centuries, fresh tears track down his marble cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I thought... I hoped you might be different, might retain more of yourself. But the hunger, the darkness—it takes everyone eventually."

"Not your fault," you say, though part of you—the monstrous part—whispers that it is. "I begged you for this. I chose this."

"You chose love. You got damnation."

You reach for him then, noting how your touch no longer brings him comfort but makes him flinch slightly. Even he can sense what you've become, what you've lost in the transformation.

"At least we have forever," you say, trying to find some comfort in the promise you'd clung to as you died.

But even as you say it, you both know the truth. You have forever, yes—but not the forever either of you had dreamed of. Not growing deeper in love, but growing deeper in darkness. Not finding joy in eternity, but finding new ways to hunger, to hurt, to become the very monsters he'd warned you about.

The broken clock chimes seventeen times, eighteen, nineteen—time fracturing around the weight of what's been lost and what's been gained. Outside, the storm breaks, leaving only the gentle sound of rain that you now hear with supernatural clarity, every drop a percussion that will never fade, never become background noise again.

"Forever," you whisper, and the word tastes like ashes and blood.

"Forever," he agrees, and pulls you close as dawn approaches hidden behind heavy curtains.

You are saved. You are damned. You are together.

And in the candlelit darkness of the Gothic manor, two monsters hold each other and mourn the humans they used to be, while eternity stretches before them like a beautiful, terrible dream from which there is no waking.

The rain washes the world clean, but some stains can never be removed.

#kpop #enhypen x reader #romance #sunoo x reader #enhypen scenarios #kim sunoo #vampire sunoo #enhypen #enhypen angst

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adriftingsnowflake · 9 days ago

Text

Stateside ⋆ 𐙚 ̊. S.JY

pairing: studying abroad!Jake x crushing!reader (feat, friend!sunghoon)

wc: 1.7k

content: fluff, pining, slight obsession, college au

a/n: inspired by Stateside by PinkPanthress

taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon

You refresh the flight tracker app for the seventh time in ten minutes, watching Jake's plane icon creep across the digital map. Seoul to Los Angeles, thirteen hours, currently somewhere over the Pacific. Landing at 3:47 PM.

It's pathetic, really. You've been tracking his flight since it took off this morning, calculating time zones and imagining him cramped in an airplane seat, probably watching movies and eating terrible airline food. You even know his gate number—B7—not that you plan to show up at the airport like some kind of stalker.

Except you're definitely considering it.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Sunghoon: "Still tracking your boyfriend's flight like a psycho?"

"He's not my boyfriend," you type back quickly. "And I'm not a psycho. I'm just... interested in aviation."

"Right. Aviation. That's why you've been planning your outfit for three days."

You glance down at the clothes scattered across your bed—the third outfit change of the day. Jake's been gone for six months studying abroad in South Korea, and somehow in that time you've built up this reunion to mythical proportions in your head.

The truth is, you weren't even that close before he left. You knew each other through mutual friends, hung out in groups, maybe had a few meaningful conversations at parties. But something about him being gone, seeing his Instagram stories from Seoul cafes and night markets, the occasional "miss you guys" in the group chat—it made you realize you'd been paying attention to Jake Sim a lot more than you'd admitted to yourself.

And then there were the DMs.

It started innocent enough—you responding to one of his story posts about missing American coffee. That turned into a conversation about cultural differences, which turned into daily messages, which turned into hour-long FaceTime calls despite the fourteen-hour time difference. Somewhere between his grainy video calls from his tiny Seoul apartment and your late-night messages about your day, something shifted.

You fell for him through a screen, across an ocean, in a way that felt both completely real and utterly insane.

Your phone buzzes again. This time it's Jake: "Just landed! Getting my bags now. Can't wait to see everyone."

Your heart does something stupid at "everyone." Obviously you're part of everyone. You're not special. You're just the girl who's been embarrassingly invested in his return.

But then another message: "Especially you. We have a lot to catch up on 😊"

You stare at the text until your eyes blur, reading meaning into every word, every emoji choice. Especially you. What does that mean? Is it friend especially or... something else especially?

"Get it together," you mutter to yourself, but you're already grabbing your keys.

The drive to LAX is a blur of overthinking and "Stateside" playing on repeat—that dreamy track that perfectly matches your current state of romantic delusion. You tell yourself you're just going to grab coffee near the airport, maybe swing by to see if he needs a ride. Totally casual. Totally normal behavior.

You're definitely losing your mind.

The winter air hits you like a slap when you get out of your car in the parking garage. You'd been so focused on your outfit that you forgot your coat, and now you're standing outside the terminal in just a sweater, arms wrapped around yourself as you shiver. The cold makes everything feel sharper, more real—the ache in your chest from missing him, the nervous energy thrumming under your skin.

Your fingers are going numb as you text him: "Here whenever you're ready" then immediately delete it because it sounds too eager. Then type: "No rush, just let me know" and delete that too because it sounds too casual.

The arrivals area is crowded with families holding balloons and drivers with name signs. You hover near the Starbucks, trying to look like you belong while fighting off shivers, checking the flight information board compulsively. His flight landed twenty minutes ago. He should be coming through those doors any moment.

And then there he is.

Six months in Seoul have changed him in subtle ways—his hair is longer, styled differently, and he's dressed with this new effortless aesthetic, all oversized sweaters and perfectly fitted jeans. He's gotten taller somehow, or maybe just carries himself differently. More confident. He looks foreign and familiar at the same time, like a puzzle piece that's been slightly reshuffled.

He's scanning the crowd, probably looking for his ride, and when his eyes land on you his face breaks into the most beautiful smile you've ever seen.

"What are you doing here?" he calls out, weaving through the crowd with his suitcase bumping behind him.

"I was just... in the area," you lie, which is ridiculous because nobody is ever just "in the area" of LAX.

He stops in front of you, eyebrows raised with an amused smile. "In the area? Of the airport?"

"Okay, fine. I wanted to see you." Your cheeks burn.

"That's..." He pauses right in front of you, close enough that you can smell his cologne, different from what he used to wear. "That's really sweet, actually."

"Sweet or stalkerish?"

"Definitely sweet." He drops his suitcase and before you can overthink it, he's pulling you into a hug that lasts several seconds longer than friendly. You breathe him in—new cologne, airplane air, something that might be Korean fabric softener. "I can't believe you're here."

"I can't believe you're back." Your voice comes out smaller than intended. "How was the flight?"

"Long. Terrible food. But worth it." He pulls back to look at you, hands still on your shoulders. "You look different."

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Just... different. Good different." His eyes crinkle when he smiles. "Maybe I just forgot how pretty you are."

Your brain short-circuits a little at that. Jake Sim, who's been living in Seoul for six months, who's probably met so many new people, who looks more confident than when he left, thinks you're pretty.

"Your ride isn't coming?" you manage to ask.

"I was going to take an Uber, but..." He gestures between you two. "This is better. Way better."

The drive back to campus is filled with him telling you about Seoul—the food, the nightlife, his host family, the other exchange students. You drink in every detail, the way his hands move when he talks, how he pronounces certain Korean words without thinking about it. He seems more animated than before, more sure of himself.

"I missed this," he says suddenly, during a lull in conversation.

"What, LA traffic?"

"No," he laughs. "This. Talking to you in person. FaceTime isn't the same."

Your grip tightens on the steering wheel. "I missed it too."

"Did you really?" There's something vulnerable in the question.

"Are you kidding? Do you know how many screenshots I have of you trying to navigate the Seoul subway system?"

"Oh god, you didn't."

"I absolutely did. Sunghoon thinks I'm obsessed with you."

The words slip out before you can stop them, and the car fills with loaded silence. You just admitted to being obsessed with him. To Jake. Who you're not even technically dating.

"Are you?" he asks quietly.

"Am I what?"

"Obsessed with me."

You could lie. Laugh it off, change the subject, pretend it was a joke. Instead, you find yourself being honest.

"Yeah," you admit, eyes fixed on the road. "Kind of embarrassingly so."

"Good," he says, and when you glance over, he's smiling. "Because I've been kind of embarrassingly obsessed with you too."

Your heart does that stupid thing again. "Really?"

"Really. Do you know how many times I almost bought a plane ticket just to see you? My roommate thought I was crazy, talking about this girl back home all the time."

"You talked about me?"

"Constantly. I'm pretty sure he was sick of hearing your name." He shifts in his seat to face you better. "I kept thinking about what you'd think of different places, what you'd want to try. Every time I saw something cool, my first thought was wanting to show you."

You pull into the campus parking lot, but neither of you moves to get out once you've parked.

"So what now?" you ask.

"Now..." He reaches over and takes your hand, threading your fingers together. "Now I ask if you want to get dinner with me. Like, a proper date. Not a group thing, not a casual hangout. A date."

"That sounds terrifying," you say honestly.

"Why?"

"Because I've built this up so much in my head. What if we're better as long-distance friends? What if the reality doesn't live up to the fantasy?"

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. "What if it's better?"

You look at him—really look at him. Six months ago, Jake Sim was just a cute guy in your friend group. Now he's sitting in your passenger seat, jet-lagged and beautiful, asking you on a date after months of falling for each other across time zones.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

"Okay, let's find out."

His smile could power the entire campus. "I know a Korean place that's actually decent. I can tell you which dishes to avoid."

"Look at you, all worldly and experienced."

"I've been weird about you for months. I think I can handle jet-lagged Jake."

"Good," he says, and leans over to kiss your cheek, soft and sweet and full of promise. "Because I plan on being around for a while."

As you walk across campus together, his suitcase wheels clicking on the pavement, you think about how surreal this feels. Six months of longing and wondering and tracking flights, and now he's here, real and solid and interested in you too.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Sunghoon: "Please tell me you didn't actually go to the airport."

You glance at Jake, who's looking around campus like he's seeing it with new eyes, and type back: "I regret nothing."

Some risks are worth taking, even if they involve acting like a slightly obsessed girl with a flight tracking app and too many feelings. Especially when they lead to dinner dates with boys who smell like foreign cologne and look at you like you're the best thing about coming home.

#fluff #kpop #romance #jake sim #jake x reader #sim jaeyun #enhypen jake #enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen #enha x reader #enha imagines #enha fluff

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adriftingsnowflake · 9 days ago

Note

how about something where you're in a relationship with jay and both of you know how to waltz and dance in a formal setting, but none of the other boys know how to. they think it's easy so they agree to a lesson before some fancy event they all have to attend, but you and jay end up having the last laugh as you two dance circles around them.

hope this somewhat makes sense and is okay with you to write! <3

Two Left Feet .ೃ࿐ P.JS

pairing: dance partners!jay x reader (feat. friends!ot6)

wc: 1.5k

content: fluff, established relationship, formal setting, competitive friends, ballroom dancing

a/n: this is my first request and it's sooo cute!! thank you for this idea and i hope you enjoyyy

perm tags: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon

It all starts with one overconfident comment.

"How hard can it be?" Heeseung shrugs from across the studio, arms crossed like he's solved ballroom dancing with a single thought. "You just… step and spin, right?"

Jay doesn't say anything right away. Neither do you. The two of you just glance at each other, a look that's equal parts amusement and mischief. You've heard this before — the classic beginner's delusion. And it never fails to entertain.

The upcoming charity gala is the type of event where everything sparkles. Velvet, champagne, diamonds — and yes, formal dancing. When it was announced that all seven of you would be attending—not just as attendees, but as proper guests who'd be expected to dance with donors and board members—panic had been the general reaction. Well, panic from six-sevenths of the group.

You and Jay already know how to waltz. Not just the basics, you excel at it.

So when someone suggests they need a demonstration, Jay silently steps forward and holds out his hand to you, like it's second nature. You take it without hesitation. His fingers thread easily between yours as he leads you to the center of the floor. No music yet — just quiet steps and a soft smile playing on his lips.

Then the song starts.

And you both move.

There's no awkward start. No misstep. Just that perfect balance of tension and trust as your bodies sway in time. Jay's hand rests firm at your waist, his posture clean, his eyes never leaving yours. You follow him instinctively, the rhythm already etched into your muscle memory. Everything about it feels timeless, like you've done this across lifetimes.

You hear someone exhale behind you — probably Sunghoon. Maybe even a whispered "What the hell," but you're too caught in the moment to care.

Jay spins you, and your dress flutters just enough to feel dramatic without trying. He pulls you back into place with such smooth precision that you almost laugh. You can feel it, the way he's eating this up, quietly basking in the power of being the only one who knows what he's doing.

By the time the song ends, the studio is dead silent. Until Sunoo says, "Okay, wait. Did you guys rehearse that?"

Jay just shrugs, clearly enjoying himself. "Nope."

You try to hold back a smile as chaos ensues. Heeseung walks up and immediately trips trying to replicate the opening stance. Jake volunteers next but keeps trying to lead without really understanding what he's leading. Every step becomes a performance move with unnecessary flourishes that make it look more like interpretive dance.

"Just because there's music doesn't mean you need to perform," you tell him gently after his third dramatic arm gesture.

Sunghoon is stiff as a board, which is shocking considering how graceful he is normally. Every movement is technically correct but completely without flow. Jungwon stands like he's ready to start a fight rather than a dance, trying to apply principles that don't work for partner dancing. And Ni-ki, bless him, starts enthusiastically, then repeatedly steps on Heeseung's foot until Heeseung calls a timeout and limps off to the side.

"You're supposed to telegraph your intentions," you explain patiently to Heeseung, who's crashed into Sunghoon twice now. "Small movements that let your partner know what's coming next."

"I am telegraphing!" Heeseung protests. "I'm thinking very loudly about spinning!"

"That's not how telegraphing works," Jay says from beside you, which earns him a glare.

From where you're standing with Jay, it's like watching baby deer try to walk for the first time. Adorable. Painful. Hilarious.

Eventually, Jay tries to restore some order. "Perhaps another demonstration?"

He doesn't wait for agreement. He just takes your hand again with that signature, practiced ease. You both return to the center of the room, and this time, it's not just a demonstration. It's a performance.

You move together like wind and water, all gliding and turning and subtle tension. Jay leads you with confidence, and you match him without missing a beat. Every spin, every dip, every touch feels like something out of an old black-and-white film. You don't need to look around to know everyone's watching. You can feel it.

"This is unfair," Jake mutters. "They're literally gliding."

Sunoo adds, "They're not even dancing together. They're like... one person."

Jay ends with one final spin, pulling you close just enough for it to feel cinematic. The music cuts out. Dead quiet again.

You glance up at him, slightly breathless. "We're showing off."

He grins. "Only for you."

As you return to the sidelines, Jungwon sighs. "Okay. Maybe it's not just step and spin."

Heeseung raises his hand like he's surrendering. "I vote Jay and Y/N as our full-time instructors."

The lesson continues with you and Jay attempting to teach the others. By the end, everyone can manage basic steps without causing injury, but it's clear who the real dancers are.

One week later, the charity gala is everything you expected. Crystal chandeliers, flowing gowns, the soft murmur of polite conversation over champagne. The ballroom is magnificent—all marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that catch the evening lights of the city.

You're wearing a deep navy gown that moves beautifully when you dance, and Jay looks devastating in his perfectly tailored tuxedo. The others are scattered around the room, nursing drinks and trying to look confident about the dancing portion of the evening.

"How are we feeling about this?" you murmur to Jay as you watch Heeseung practice his steps near the hors d'oeuvres table.

"Confident," Jay says, adjusting his cufflinks. "You?"

"Like we're about to show off again."

"I love it when we show off."

The dancing begins after dinner, and you watch with barely concealed amusement as your friends navigate the floor with varying degrees of success. Heeseung manages not to crash into anyone, which is honestly impressive. Jake tones down the performance energy and actually looks quite elegant. Sunghoon loosens up enough to stop looking like a robot. They're all doing fine—nothing spectacular, but perfectly respectable.

Then the orchestra begins a new song, something sweeping and romantic, and Jay appears at your elbow.

"Shall we?" he asks, offering his arm with that familiar smile.

The moment you step onto the dance floor together, everything changes. The conversations around you quiet. Other couples slow their movements, some stopping entirely to watch.

Because this time, you don't hold back at all.

Jay leads you into the waltz with absolute confidence, and you follow like you're reading his mind. Every step is precise, every turn effortless. You glide across the marble floor like you're floating, the fabric of your gown creating elegant lines as you move.

But it's more than just technical skill. It's the way you move together—completely in sync, completely trusting. When Jay lifts you, you rise like you're weightless. When he spins you out, you turn with perfect timing before being drawn back into his arms.

You're dimly aware of the murmurs around you, the way other dancers have stopped to watch, but mostly you're lost in the familiar joy of dancing with Jay. The way he looks at you like you're the only person in the room, even with a hundred people watching.

From across the room, you catch sight of your friends. Sunoo has his phone out, obviously recording. Ni-ki's mouth is hanging open. Heeseung just looks resigned, like he's finally accepted that he's been thoroughly outclassed.

Jay leads you through one final series of turns, each one building on the last, before drawing you into the closing pose as the music reaches its crescendo. You're both breathing hard, both smiling, both completely caught up in the moment.

The applause starts slowly, then builds. Someone near the orchestra calls out, "Magnificent!" An elderly board member approaches you both with genuine admiration.

"Where on earth did you learn to dance like that?" she asks.

Jay's grin is pure mischief. "YouTube."

Later, as you're getting some air on the terrace, the others find you.

"I can't believe you've been hiding skills like that this whole time," Sunghoon says, but he's smiling.

"We tried to warn you," you remind him.

"'How hard can it be?'" Jay quotes back at Heeseung, who groans.

"Okay, we get it. You're amazing dancers and we were idiots," Heeseung concedes. "But also, that was beautiful. Like, seriously beautiful."

"The way everyone stopped dancing just to watch you," Jake adds. "That was insane."

You lean into Jay's side, feeling the warmth of his arm around your waist. "Three and a half years of lessons."

"Three and a half years of secret lessons," Ni-ki corrects. "You guys are unbelievable."

Jay presses a kiss to your temple. "Worth it for moments like this."

And honestly, as you look around at your friends—at Sunoo still gushing about the video he took, at Jungwon admitting that maybe he should take actual lessons, at Heeseung planning to sign up for classes tomorrow—you have to agree with Jay.

Because while they're all still figuring out the steps, you and Jay have been dancing circles around everyone else. And you're having the time of your lives doing it.

#kpop #enhypen #fluff #enhypen scenarios #jay x reader #enhypen x reader #kim sunoo #lee heeseung #park sunghoon #yang jungwon #park jongseong #enha #nishimura riki #enha fluff #enha x reader

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adriftingsnowflake · 10 days ago

Text

The Art of Deception ༊*·˚ P.SH

pairing: con artist/thief!Seonghwa x reader

wc: 3.14k

content: fake marriage, impersonation, undercover mission, slowburn, near capture, partners (in crime) to lovers

taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon

"Absolutely not."

The words fly off your tongue, hot and sharp. Seonghwa doesn't even look up from the invitation he's studying, his long fingers tracing the embossed gold lettering. "The Ashford ball is our only chance to get close to Lord Pemberton. He'll have the shipping manifests we need."

"Then find another way." You cross your arms, glaring at his perfectly styled head bent over the stolen correspondence. "I'm not pretending to be your wife."

"The invitation is for Lord and Lady Blackwood. Married six months ago in the countryside, rarely seen in London society." He sets down another document—a death notice from a rural newspaper. "Convenient carriage accident last week. No one in London society will know they're dead yet, which makes them perfect to impersonate."

"For you, maybe. I don't know the first thing about being a lady."

Now he does look up, and you hate how those dark eyes seem to catalog every detail of your appearance with clinical precision. "You're intelligent, well-spoken, and you learn quickly. With the right clothing and a few etiquette lessons, you'll be convincing enough."

"Etiquette lessons?" You bark out a laugh. "Seonghwa, I grew up in Seven Dials. The closest I've been to aristocracy is picking their pockets."

"Which is exactly why this will work." He sets the invitation aside and finally gives you his full attention. "You understand how to read people, how to become what they expect to see. This is just another mark, another performance."

You want to argue, but he's not wrong. You've been running cons since you were twelve, slipping into different roles like changing clothes. But those were temporary deceptions, quick jobs that lasted hours at most. This feels different. More dangerous.

"How long?" you ask finally.

"One evening. We arrive fashionably late, mingle long enough to identify Pemberton's study, then you create a distraction while I retrieve the documents."

"And then?"

"Then we disappear into the night, and Lord and Lady Ashworth become a footnote in some gossip column."

Three days later, you barely recognize yourself in the full-length mirror of the rented townhouse. The emerald silk gown fits like it was made for you, which it probably was, given Seonghwa's attention to detail. Your hair has been swept up in an elaborate style that took the hired lady's maid two hours to perfect, and the jewelry adorning your throat and wrists probably costs more than most people earn in a lifetime.

"You look nervous," Seonghwa observes from the doorway.

You turn, and your breath catches. He's always been handsome in a sharp, dangerous way, but dressed in evening wear he looks like he was born to attend these functions. The black tailcoat emphasizes his broad shoulders, and his dark hair is styled back from his face in a way that makes his cheekbones look even more pronounced.

"I look terrified," you correct. "There's a difference."

He approaches slowly, like you might bolt if he moves too quickly. "May I?"

You nod, not trusting your voice as he reaches for your hands. His fingers are warm as they adjust the angle of your bracelet, straightening a fold in your gloves.

"Remember," he says quietly, his attention focused on the task, "Lord Ashworth is completely besotted with his new bride. He can't keep his hands off her, can't stop looking at her. Everyone finds it either charming or slightly scandalous, depending on their disposition."

"Right. Besotted." The word feels strange in your mouth.

"You've been married six months. Still in that honeymoon phase where everything your spouse does delights you." His hands move to your shoulders, ostensibly checking the drape of your dress, but the touch sends heat racing through your veins. "You're madly in love and not particularly good at hiding it."

"And you?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

His hands still for just a moment. "What about me?"

"How are you going to act like you're in love with me when you barely tolerate my existence most days?"

Something flickers across his expression, too quick to interpret. "I'm a better actor than you give me credit for."

The Ashford mansion blazes with light, carriages lined up around the circular drive like expensive beetles. Your palms are sweating inside your gloves as Seonghwa helps you down from your own hired carriage, his touch lingering at your waist.

"Remember," he murmurs against your ear as you climb the front steps, "you adore me."

The receiving line moves slowly, giving you time to observe the other guests. The women are draped in jewels and gossip in equal measure, their fans fluttering like butterfly wings. The men cluster around topics of politics and profit, their voices carrying the confidence of those born to power.

When you finally reach Lord and Lady Ashford, Seonghwa transforms.

"Lord Ashford, Lady Ashford." His bow is perfect, not too deep, not too shallow. "Thank you for including us in your gathering. May I present my wife, Lady Blackwood."

You curtsy as you've practiced, and Lady Ashford's face lights up with genuine pleasure. "Oh, how lovely! I was so hoping to meet you. We heard about your wedding, of course, but you've been quite mysterious since then."

"My fault entirely," Seonghwa says with a self-deprecating smile. "I've been rather selfish with my bride's time. I can barely stand to let her out of my sight."

His arm slides around your waist as he speaks, pulling you closer against his side. The touch is casual, possessive in the way of newlyweds, but it makes your pulse jump anyway.

"How romantic," Lady Ashford sighs. "Young love is such a beautiful thing."

"Indeed it is," Seonghwa agrees, and when you look up at him, his expression is so soft, so genuinely fond, that for a moment you forget you're acting. "I'm the luckiest man in England."

The ballroom is a glittering spectacle of crystal and candlelight. You've memorized the layout from the plans Seonghwa acquired, but seeing it filled with London's elite is still overwhelming. Conversations flow around you in a river of refined vowels and barely concealed malice.

"Lord Pemberton is by the far window," Seonghwa murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he pretends to nuzzle your neck. "The portly gentleman with the ridiculous mustache."

You giggle as if he's whispered something scandalous, letting your hand rest on his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your palm, reassuringly calm. "How do we approach him without seeming obvious?"

"We dance first. Let people see us, establish our presence." His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. "Then we'll work our way across the room gradually."

The orchestra strikes up a waltz, and Seonghwa leads you onto the dance floor with the confidence of someone who's done this a thousand times. His hand settles at your waist, warm through the silk of your gown, while his other hand engulfs yours completely.

You've never waltzed before, but somehow you follow his lead effortlessly. He guides you through the steps with subtle pressure, spinning you in perfect time with the music. Other couples swirl around you, but it feels like you're alone in a bubble of candlelight and silk.

"You're a natural," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes you look up sharply.

His eyes are fixed on your face with an intensity that steals your breath. For a moment, the careful mask he always wears slips, and you see something raw and unguarded in his expression.

"Seonghwa," you whisper, but the music swells and he spins you again, and whatever you were going to say is lost.

When the waltz ends, he doesn't immediately release you. His hands linger at your waist, your hand still clasped in his, and you're standing closer than propriety strictly allows. The ballroom seems to fade around the edges, leaving only his face inches from yours and the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

"Lord Blackwood!"

The moment shatters as Lord Pemberton himself approaches, his ridiculous mustache twitching with curiosity. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

Seonghwa's transformation back into character is seamless, but you catch the flash of irritation in his eyes before he smiles. "Lord Pemberton, what a pleasure. I'm Blackwood, and this is my wife."

"Charmed, absolutely charmed." Pemberton's gaze lingers on you in a way that makes your skin crawl. "You're even lovelier than the rumors suggested, my lady."

"Too kind," you murmur, moving slightly closer to Seonghwa's side. His arm tightens around you protectively, and you don't think that's entirely for show.

"I say, Blackwood, you're a lucky devil. How did you manage to snare such a beauty?"

"Persistent courtship," Seonghwa replies smoothly. "And considerable charm, though I suspect my wife took pity on me more than anything else."

You laugh, letting your hand come up to rest on his chest again. "Don't listen to him, Lord Pemberton. He swept me off my feet completely. I didn't stand a chance."

The conversation continues, Pemberton clearly enjoying the attention of a pretty young woman while Seonghwa plays the role of devoted husband to perfection. He touches you constantly but carefully: a hand at the small of your back, fingers brushing yours, lips pressed briefly to your temple. Each contact sends electricity through your system, and you begin to wonder if you're still acting or if something else is happening here.

When Pemberton finally excuses himself to greet other guests, Seonghwa leans down to whisper in your ear. "His study is on the second floor, third door from the stairs. I need ten minutes."

You nod, your cheek brushing against his as you turn. "What's my distraction?"

"Spill wine on Mrs. Worthington's dress. She'll cause enough of a scene to draw every eye in the room."

"And if something goes wrong?"

His hand cups your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone in a gesture that looks tender but feels desperate. "Nothing will go wrong. I'll be back before you know it."

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Worthington is still holding court in the ladies' retiring room, dabbing at her wine-stained gown while a chorus of sympathetic ladies offer advice and smelling salts. You've apologized profusely, blamed your clumsiness on being overwhelmed by your first London ball, and generally played the part of mortified young bride to perfection.

But Seonghwa should have been back by now.

You excuse yourself from the retiring room and slip back into the ballroom, scanning the crowd for his familiar figure. Nothing. Your chest tightens with the first stirrings of real panic.

"Lady Blackwood."

You turn to find Lord Pemberton at your elbow, his small eyes gleaming with something that makes your blood run cold.

"Looking for your husband?" he asks pleasantly. "I'm afraid he's been detained."

Your training kicks in, years of survival instincts flooding your system. You smile sweetly, tilting your head in confusion. "Detained? Whatever do you mean?"

"Found him in my study, I'm afraid. Quite uninvited." Pemberton's smile is all teeth. "Strange behavior for a guest, don't you think?"

Think. You need to think. Seonghwa caught means the job is blown, but it also means you need to get him out. And you can't do that as Lady Ashworth.

"I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding," you say carefully. "Perhaps he was looking for the gentleman's retiring room?"

"Perhaps." Pemberton doesn't look convinced. "Why don't you come with me, my dear? We can sort this all out together."

Every instinct screams at you to run, but running means abandoning Seonghwa. And despite everything, despite the complications and the confusion and the way he makes your heart race, you can't do that.

"Of course," you agree, taking Pemberton's offered arm. "I'm sure we can clear this up quickly."

Pemberton's study is a temple to masculine authority: dark wood, leather-bound books, and the lingering scent of cigars. Seonghwa stands near the desk, hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world like he belongs there. But you can see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he's positioned himself near the window.

"Darling," you say brightly, moving toward him. "Lord Pemberton says there's been some confusion."

Seonghwa's eyes meet yours, and you see the warning there. "A misunderstanding, nothing more. I was admiring Lord Pemberton's collection of maritime charts."

"Were you indeed?" Pemberton closes the study door behind him with a soft click. "And I suppose you were going to ask permission to examine them more closely?"

"Naturally."

The lie hangs in the air between them, fragile as spun glass. You can feel the moment balanced on a knife's edge, ready to tip toward disaster.

Then inspiration strikes.

"Oh, sweetheart," you say, moving to Seonghwa's side and sliding your arm through his. "You promised you wouldn't bore people with your shipping obsession tonight."

Both men turn to stare at you, and you let yourself look embarrassed, fondly exasperated in the way of wives everywhere.

"He's been absolutely mad about maritime trade routes since he inherited his father's interests," you explain to Pemberton. "I can't take him anywhere without him wanting to examine charts and manifests and goodness knows what else. I'm so sorry if he's been bothering you."

Seonghwa catches on immediately. "I'm afraid my wife is quite right. I get rather carried away when I see a fine collection." He looks sheepish, boyish in a way that makes your chest tight. "I should have asked permission first."

Pemberton's suspicious expression wavers. "Shipping interests, you say?"

"The most tedious subject imaginable," you sigh dramatically. "I've learned more about cargo tonnage in six months of marriage than I ever wanted to know in a lifetime."

"I can't help myself," Seonghwa adds, his arm coming around your waist. "My father always said the key to successful trade was understanding your routes better than your competitors."

It's a masterful performance, playing into Pemberton's own expertise and ego. You watch the older man's posture relax slightly, his merchant's mind already shifting into the familiar territory of business discussion.

"Your father was quite right," Pemberton muses. "Though I must say, examining another man's private charts without permission is rather..."

"Presumptuous," Seonghwa finishes, looking genuinely contrite. "I apologize, Lord Pemberton. My enthusiasm got the better of my manners."

You hold your breath as Pemberton considers this. Finally, he nods slowly. "Well, I suppose no real harm was done. Though in future, I'd appreciate being asked before guests wander into my private study."

"Of course. It won't happen again."

The tension in the room dissipates like smoke, and you allow yourself to breathe again. Crisis averted, though you still need to get Seonghwa out of here before Pemberton thinks too hard about the whole situation.

"Perhaps we should return to the ball," you suggest sweetly. "I believe they're serving supper soon, and I'm quite famished."

"Excellent idea," Pemberton agrees, moving toward the door. "Shall we?"

The carriage ride back to the townhouse passes in tense silence. You stare out the window at the lamplit streets, acutely aware of Seonghwa sitting across from you in the shadows. The job is blown, the documents still in Pemberton's possession, and you have no idea what happens next.

"Did you get anything?" you ask finally.

"Enough." His voice is carefully neutral. "Not everything we needed, but enough to work with."

"So it wasn't a complete disaster."

"Thanks to you." The words are quiet, but they carry weight. "That was quick thinking back there."

You shrug, still not looking at him. "You would have done the same."

"Would I?"

Something in his tone makes you turn, and you find him watching you with that same unguarded expression from the dance floor. The carefully constructed walls around Seonghwa seem to crumble in the darkness of the carriage, leaving behind something vulnerable and uncertain.

"You saved me tonight," he says simply. "You could have run. Should have run. But you stayed."

"We're partners," you reply, though the word feels inadequate now. "Partners don't abandon each other."

"Is that what we are? Partners?"

The question hangs between you like a challenge. Outside, London rolls past in a blur of gaslight and shadow, but inside the carriage, the world has narrowed to just the two of you and the weight of everything unsaid.

"I don't know," you admit finally. "What are we, Seonghwa?"

He's quiet for so long you think he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"I don't know either. But tonight, when I thought Pemberton might hurt you..." He runs a hand through his hair, destroying the careful styling. "I've never been so terrified in my life."

Your heart stops, then starts again double-time. "Seonghwa..."

"I know it's complicated. I know we have a job to finish and this changes everything." He leans forward, his face visible in the passing streetlight. "But I can't pretend anymore that this is just business. Not after tonight."

The carriage rocks gently as it turns a corner, and suddenly you're leaning forward too, drawn by some invisible force. The space between you shrinks to nothing, and then his hands are cupping your face and his lips are on yours.

The kiss is desperate, hungry, full of all the things you've both been too afraid to say. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat racing through your veins.

When you finally break apart, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against yours.

"This is insane," you whisper.

"Completely," he agrees, but he doesn't pull away.

"We'll probably end up killing each other."

"Probably."

"Or worse, we'll get caught and hanged side by side."

His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, so gentle it makes your chest ache. "I can think of worse ways to go."

You laugh despite yourself, and he smiles in response, real and unguarded in a way you've never seen before.

"So what happens now?" you ask.

"Now?" His smile turns wicked, and there's the Seonghwa you know, dangerous and sharp and absolutely magnetic. "Now we finish the job. Together."

"And after?"

He kisses you again, softer this time but no less devastating. "After, we figure out what comes next. One day at a time."

The carriage pulls up outside the townhouse, but neither of you move to get out. Tomorrow you'll return to being thieves and partners and whatever else this strange relationship requires. But tonight, in the darkness between one life and another, you're just two people who found something unexpected in the space between truth and lies.

"For what it's worth," you say as he helps you down from the carriage, "you were right about one thing."

"What's that?"

You smile up at him, still wearing Lady Ashworth's jewels but feeling more like yourself than you have all evening. "You're a much better actor than I gave you credit for."

His answering laugh follows you up the steps and into whatever comes next.

#kpop #ateez #seonghwa #ateez x reader #ateez fanfiction #slow burn #park seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa x reader

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adriftingsnowflake · 11 days ago

Text

Silent vows| K.Y.S

Pairing: Mafia!Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage, slight enemies to lovers, fluff

Word count: 22.4k

Warnings: forced marriage, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him

AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you

Masterlist

“I’m not doing it.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasn’t a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other people’s lives— calm, practiced, untouchable.

“This isn’t a request,” he answered, barely sparing you a glance. “It’s a responsibility.”

You could’ve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.

“You don’t get to sell me off like I’m a—”

“Enough.”

Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.

“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”

It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.

“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”

You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.

“Kang Yeosang.”

The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.

“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.

Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”

Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.

“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”

For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.

It didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.

His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”

You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.

You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.

“I can live with that.”

Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”

It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.

University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.

Your father barely reacted.

“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.

You stared at him. “After?”

“Yes. You’ll still attend.”

But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”

It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.

And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.

The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”

Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.

“It is now.”

Simple. Unforgiving. Final.

You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.

You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.

Come to the house.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”

It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.

By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.

His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.

“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.

“You said now.”

His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then—

“There’s going to be a wedding.”

Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”

His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”

Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”

His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”

“This isn’t a text conversation.”

“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.

“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”

“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”

“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”

“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”

Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.

He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”

“Y/L/N’s daughter.”

Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”

“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”

Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.

“You’ve met her?” he asked.

“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”

“Great.”

His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”

His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”

Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”

As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”

“I know.”

And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Marriage. Arranged.

He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?

Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.

No, that wasn’t happening.

Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.

Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.

And the name—YN.

It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.

The kind that smiled with their teeth.

He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.

Alright.

If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.

Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.

He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.

Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.

By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.

University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.

She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.

Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.

The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.

She was just… boring.

Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.

Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.

But that was fine.

Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.

The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.

She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.

She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.

What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.

Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.

He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.

Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.

He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.

Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.

She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.

Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.

That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.

Cute.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.

This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.

Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.

For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.

Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.

And when that time came—

He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.

The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.

Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.

Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.

“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”

Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”

Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”

Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.

Didn’t matter.

He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.

Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.

Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.

His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.

“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”

Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”

He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.

Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.

“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.

Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”

He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”

Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.

She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.

He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.

Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.

“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”

The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”

“On?”

She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.

And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.

Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.

After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.

“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”

The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.

“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.

He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.

Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.

“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”

Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.

“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.

She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.

And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?

Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.

It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.

Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—

She was no ordinary girl.

No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.

Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.

But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.

And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.

Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.

And she looked cute annoyed.

Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.

And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.

Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.

She really didn’t want to go.

Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.

But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.

Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’

Better. Whatever that meant.

So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.

And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.

That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.

And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.

She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.

She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.

There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—

—and there he was.

Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.

Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.

He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.

You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.

“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."

You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.

Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.

You froze.

What the hell?

You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."

You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.

Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.

The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.

But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?

You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.

The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.

Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.

And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.

Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.

But then—

The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?

You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?

You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.

It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.

You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.

Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.

Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.

He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.

He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.

And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.

He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.

He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.

And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.

What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.

With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.

You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”

You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.

“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”

Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”

“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.

You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.

Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.

You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:

1. This was going to be a long day.

2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.

But you had no intention of making this easy for him.

So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.

If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.

You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”

You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”

You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.

But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.

Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.

The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.

Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.

Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.

But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?

It felt natural.

You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.

Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.

He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’

Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.

You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.

You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.

You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.

He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.

All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.

So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.

His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”

You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”

The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.

Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…

That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know how to read menus.

Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.

Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.

“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.

For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”

And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.

“Do you want red sauce or white?”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Want dessert or not?”

Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.

And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.

Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.

It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.

He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.

While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.

Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.

It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.

And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.

It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.

But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.

“You make that?”

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”

“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”

You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”

A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”

That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.

Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.

He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.

But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.

But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.

And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.

And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.

He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.

God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.

You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.

The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”

Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.

“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”

Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”

“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”

Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one that set me up with her.”

His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”

“She didn’t even blink.”

That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.

“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”

Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”

“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”

“Why?”

Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”

“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”

“…Soft.”

His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”

Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”

“Shut up.”

You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?

What the actual hell was wrong with him?

It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.

And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.

You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.

“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.

“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”

And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.

Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.

The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”

“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.

“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”

“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.

The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.

You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”

“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.

Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.

And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.

Yeosang noticed.

Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.

He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.

But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.

An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”

You snapped your head to him. “What?”

“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”

“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Ring size.”

“I—I don’t know!”

His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.

Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.

And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.

You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.

But Yeosang saw it. All of it.

The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.

To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”

You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”

But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.

Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”

You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.

“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”

Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.

You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.

But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?

You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.

But of course he did.

Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.

You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.

You hated how warm your ears felt.

“I don’t—”

“I said pick.”

His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”

“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”

You swore your knees nearly gave out.

“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”

God help you—you almost said yes.

The wedding was hectic.

Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.

After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.

Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”

It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.

Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.

It was… knowing.

Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.

You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.

The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.

And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.

By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.

It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—

Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.

It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.

It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.

You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”

Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.

Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.

You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.

Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…

Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”

He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is now.”

God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me.”

“We were arranged.”

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.

If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.

You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.

Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”

You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”

You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”

He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.

You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.

Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”

You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.

“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”

You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.

So you did.

“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”

“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”

You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”

Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.

But nothing came.

Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?

He was having a crisis.

“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”

You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.

“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.

Fine. FINE.

You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.

Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.

You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.

Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know.

Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.

Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.

Perfect.

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.

You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.

Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.

What the actual—

You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.

Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.

“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.

Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.

What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?

He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.

He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.

Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.

He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.

And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.

He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.

You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.

And there he was. Still in bed.

Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.

With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.

Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”

No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.

Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”

You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”

“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.

You blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”

You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”

He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”

You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”

“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”

Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.

And beside it… her pink one.

Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.

He loved it.

Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.

He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?

Apparently, him.

He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.

It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.

He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.

And then—that smell hit him.

Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)

Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.

Until her.

Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.

How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.

Definitely her.

He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”

He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.

When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?

The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.

But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.

“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”

She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”

They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.

Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”

That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.

She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”

Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.

But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—

He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.

So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.

“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”

Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?

He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”

Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.

You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.

Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.

But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.

Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.

And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.

But here?

Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.

And you didn’t even know it yet.

Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.

The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.

But then there were nights like this.

Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.

Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’

He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.

You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—

Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.

Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.

The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.

He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.

You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.

But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.

“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.

Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.

“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.

His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.

It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.

With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.

You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.

And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.

“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.

He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.

But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”

And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—

He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.

You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.

But this? This was a whole new experience.

You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.

“No.”

That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.

You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.

He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.

You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.

Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”

“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”

That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.

So you didn��t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.

And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.

Just… sleep.

You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.

Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.

You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.

By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.

He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.

“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.

Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.

A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.

But then…

His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.

And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.

Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.

You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.

You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.

Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”

And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.

You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.

“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”

Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.

What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.

A name and a dot. That’s all it took.

Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.

He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..

"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?

He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.

The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.

But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.

And he was losing it.

Internally.

Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.

But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.

It was after.

Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.

You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.

So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.

“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”

His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.

And then—he laughed.

That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.

“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Liar. Absolute liar.

And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.

Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.

It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.

Not all at once. Just—a little more.

Dangerous. Warm. Annoying.

Yours.

Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty

Dividers from @/cafekitsune

2K notes · View notes

adriftingsnowflake · 12 days ago

Text

feel kinda ashamed to repost this, but it's tumblr so nobody gaf

Come Here and Get Some ☽｡⋆ OT7

pairing: vampire!enha x mortal!reader

wc: 4.77k

content: smut, cursing, biting, obsession, possessiveness, blood kink, reader-initiated biting, jealousy, overstimulation, oral (m & f receiving), neck/thigh biting, light bloodplay, unprotected sex

taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon

Lee Heeseung

The mansion was quiet, lit only by the flicker of candles and the distant hum of Heeseung’s playlist echoing from the living room — some sultry jazz track he always claimed helped him “hold back.”

You padded in barefoot, wearing nothing but one of his silk shirts and a wicked grin.

He looked up from the couch, spread out like sin itself — one arm over the backrest, legs apart, wine glass full of synthetic blood lazily swirling in his fingers.

“You look like you're up to something,” he said, eyes gleaming.

You leaned against the doorframe. “Maybe I am.”

His brow ticked up at the tease. “You know better than to play with fire.”

“And yet…” You crossed the room slowly. Deliberately. “You keep letting me.”

Heeseung chuckled, low and soft, more breath than sound. “What are you up to, little mortal?”

You climbed into his lap without asking. He didn't stop you. He never did.

“You always take from me,” you murmured, fingers curling around the base of his throat, feeling the subtle thrum of ancient hunger. “But you never let me take from you.”

He blinked, slowly. “You want to bite me?”

You pressed your lips to his neck. “I want to ruin you.”

And that’s when the glass slipped from his hand.

His hands gripped your waist as you straddled him, your thighs pressing down onto the bulge growing beneath his slacks. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Don’t I?” you whispered against his jaw.

Heeseung’s restraint snapped the moment you opened your mouth and sank your teeth into his throat.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t graceful. It was carnal. The skin broke beneath your bite, just enough, but blood bloomed instantly, metallic and warm against your tongue. He gasped like he’d been struck, whole body jerking against yours.

And then he moaned.

A deep, guttural sound that spilled from his chest like he’d been waiting centuries for this exact pain.

“Fuck,” he hissed, grinding his hips up into you. “You’re— You’re insane.” You licked the blood slowly, deliberately, your nails dragging across his chest through his shirt.

“I’ve had centuries of control,” he growled, voice strained. “You’re going to break it.”

“That’s the idea,” you whispered.

He had you on your back within seconds. One arm braced by your head, his other hand shoved the silk shirt off your shoulder. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Then he was kissing down your chest, tongue trailing the blood you hadn’t cleaned off his neck, his fangs grazing skin as he groaned against you like your taste lived in his veins now.

He pushed your legs apart, not bothering with teasing tonight.

“I need to taste you,” he said, reverent.

And then his mouth was on you—devouring—tongue working slow and deep, like he was drinking from your soul. Every moan you gave him, he swallowed. Every twist of your hips, he countered with a firm grip, holding you open for his mouth like you were his only salvation.

You tugged his hair hard, still reeling from the blood, the wet heat of his tongue.

“Heeseung-”

“Again.”

You obeyed. “Heeseung, fuck, please-”

He growled low against you and didn’t stop until your thighs were shaking, slick and blood and spit mixed between you, both of you drunk on each other.

When he finally sank into you, it was with a hiss of your name, your blood still drying on his throat.

“You marked me,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “No one’s ever done that.”

You dragged your fingers down his back, nails scratching just enough to leave lines. “You liked it.”

He rolled his hips. Slow, deep, punishing. “I loved it.”

Heeseung always made love like a man who’d waited decades for your body — but tonight, he fucked like he was going to die inside you. Every thrust was possessive, every breath a growl.

“You want to ruin me?” he whispered against your mouth. “Then take all of me. Fucking take it.”

And you did.

Again. And again.

Until your blood was on his lips, his cum was dripping from your thighs, and your bodies were tangled so tightly you forgot which of you had the heartbeat.

Afterward, he lay beside you, hair damp, lips swollen, skin still faintly glowing with the taste of you. He looked at your mouth like it was a weapon.

“You ever do that to anyone else,” he said darkly, “I’ll kill them. Slowly.”

You smiled, lips still red.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “I only want you.”

Heeseung leaned in, eyes locked on yours, and kissed you so deeply you tasted forever.

Park Jongseong

Jay didn’t like surprises.

He liked control. He liked to be the one at the helm of your pleasure, the one who took and teased and tasted until you were breathless and obedient. He was always composed, always careful. Always one step away from letting the monster out.

But tonight?

You didn’t give him that chance.

One moment he was kissing you, warm tongue sliding into your mouth with practiced ease, hands on your hips, your back pressed to the wall of the bedroom, and the next, you had your mouth on his shoulder.

And you bit him.

Not playful. Not teasing.

You bit down hard enough to break skin, just below the collarbone, and when the blood hit your tongue, you moaned.

Jay went still.

Your mouth lifted, smeared red.

He stepped back just slightly, wide-eyed, lips parted.

“Did you just—” He looked down at the bite mark. “You bit me?”

You didn’t answer. You just licked his blood from your lips like it was honey.

That was when the growl rumbled out of his chest. Not playful. Not for show. Predatory.

He had your back on the mattress in two seconds flat, your wrists pinned above your head, his pupils blown wide and glowing faintly red.

“You want to act like a monster, baby?” he said through gritted teeth. “You better handle the consequences.”

Jay didn’t kiss you again.

He devoured you.

Lips on your neck, your chest, his fangs scraping your pulse with every pass. Not piercing, not yet. Not until he decided you’d earned it.

“You don’t bite a vampire unless you’re ready to be owned,” he growled.

You just smiled at him. “Good.”

He stared at you, dead silent, and then gave a dark laugh.

“Oh, you’re done for.”

You heard the click before you saw it. His handcuffs, black leather with silver clasps. Usually kept locked in the drawer by the bed. This time, he snapped them onto your wrists with no warning, securing them to the headboard.

“You wanted to take control?” he asked, stripping off his shirt to reveal the bite mark, already bruising, blood still seeping. “Then lie there and watch what you’ve done to me.”

Jay was pure wrath in motion. He stripped you fast, fingers rough with urgency, his touch more like a punishment than a caress.

But his mouth—God.

He dropped to his knees on the bed and bit your inner thigh first. No blood, just the sting. Then he licked up the seam of your heat, slow and decadent, tongue sliding in deep until your legs shook.

“You thought you were clever, huh?” he muttered, voice muffled between your thighs. “Tasting me like I’m yours?”

He moaned against your skin.

“I am yours,” he whispered. “But now you’re mine too. All of you.”

He didn’t let you come.

Not at first.

Jay edged you for what felt like hours, stopping every time you got close, running his fingers down your slick folds, teasing your entrance, biting your collarbone just enough to make you gasp.

You were wrecked by the time he finally undid his pants and slid inside you. Thick, hot, and angry.

He didn’t take his time. He fucked.

Rough, possessive thrusts that pushed your body up the mattress, your wrists straining in the cuffs as he held your jaw with one blood-smeared hand.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Look at what you made me.”

His shoulder bled where you’d bitten him, and when you leaned up slightly and licked it again, moaning around the taste—

Jay lost it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He bit you.

Hard. Right below your ear.

Blood ran down your neck. He licked it off like he’d starve otherwise, hips snapping harder as he muttered curses into your skin.

You were both monsters now. Blood-stained, sweat-soaked, tangled in each other like some wicked ritual.

When you came, it was violent. White-hot, legs trembling, moans torn from your throat without mercy. Jay followed moments later, thrusting deep as he spilled inside you, chest heaving.

Neither of you moved for a while.

The room reeked of sex and blood and pride.

Jay finally unhooked the cuffs and gathered you into his lap, pressing soft kisses to your shoulders where he’d bruised them.

He looked down at his shoulder. The bite mark. Then back at you.

“You bit me,” he said again, voice dazed.

You grinned. “You liked it.”

“I fucking loved it,” he whispered.

Then he paused.

“But don’t ever do it when I’m not expecting it again. I nearly blacked out.”

Sim Jaeyun

Jake was in love with you.

Hopelessly, endlessly, madly in love. He touched you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Kissed you like you were the last warm thing left in his world.

So when you bit him—really bit him—for the first time, it wasn’t just a shock.

It was a revelation.

It started soft.

You were lying on top of him on the couch, legs tangled, kissing slow and sleepy. His shirt was open, his skin warm from how long you’d been pressed against him.

His fingers curled in your hair. His voice was barely audible between kisses.

"Don’t ever leave me."

And then you looked at him.

You smiled, and for some reason that smile made something primal in you stir. Something that whispered he was yours too, right?

So you leaned down and sank your teeth into the base of his neck.

Not too deep, just enough to pierce. Enough to taste him.

Blood hit your tongue and your hips rolled down into his out of instinct.

Jake choked on a breath.

"Wha—baby, oh my—"

He gasped, hands flying to your hips, and just held you there.

Then he went quiet. So quiet it scared you.

You lifted your head. There was blood on your lips.

Jake stared at you. His eyes glowed softly red, lashes wet.

"...You bit me."

You swallowed thickly, suddenly nervous. "Jake—"

He sat up without letting go of you, one hand on your back, the other gently cradling your cheek.

"Say it."

You licked your lips. "I bit you."

His voice came out ragged. "Why?"

You blinked. "Because you’re mine."

He smiled. Just once. A little broken. Then kissed you so hard it made your eyes burn.

The next hour blurred.

You were back in the bedroom. He was on top of you, fully bare now, eyes blown wide as he kissed you over and over. Mouth to yours, then your neck, then your chest, then lower.

Jake was gentler than most, but no less intense. His kind of dominance came wrapped in honey. He worshipped.

When he kissed your inner thigh, he moaned.

"I didn’t think you’d ever do that," he murmured, pressing his forehead there. "Didn’t think you’d want to taste me."

"I always wanted to," you said.

He looked up at you. "You don’t get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

"You can’t just bite a vampire like that. It means something. To me."

You blinked. "...What does it mean?"

Jake crawled back up your body and hovered over you. His blood was still faint on your mouth.

"It means we’re bound."

You stilled. He kissed your cheek, your lips, your jaw.

"Like... mates?"

He nodded.

You stared. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because I didn’t want to scare you. You’re still mortal. You still have time."

You reached up and cupped his face. "Jake. You’ve already had me. Long before tonight."

His expression crumpled a little. He kissed you again, slower this time.

Then he pulled back.

"Can I show you what that means to me?"

He was inside you soon after, pushing in slow but deep. Watching every twitch of your body like it was sacred.

You were wrapped around him so tight he couldn’t breathe right. And when you whispered that you were his again, he let his head fall into the crook of your neck and groaned.

"I want to live inside you," he murmured. "Don’t you get it? I want to stay here forever."

You moaned at that, your nails digging into his back. He moved in slow, aching thrusts, just enough friction to make your stomach coil.

"I could’ve bitten you a thousand times," he whispered against your ear. "But you beat me to it."

You smiled, turning your head to kiss his temple.

"Mark me again," he breathed.

You did.

You kissed his jaw, then licked the drying blood from his neck, then gently bit a fresh spot just under his ear.

Jake gasped so loud he nearly stopped moving. His hips snapped once, hard.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me—"

"Do it," you said. "Let go."

He held your face as he came, spilling into you with a quiet whimper, a tear sliding down his cheek without him realizing. You kissed it away.

You laid there like that for a while. Jake pressed flush against you, soft kisses on your shoulder every few seconds. Your fingers in his hair.

Eventually, he leaned back to look at your face.

"You really meant it?"

"Of course."

"I belong to you?"

You smiled. "And I belong to you."

Jake grinned, boyish and blood-stained.

"I’m never letting you go."

Park Sunghoon

You didn’t mean to bite him.

Not really. Not like that.

But he’d been so still. So focused on you. One hand curled around your wrist, the other between your legs, slow and steady and maddening. His mouth was latched to your inner thigh, and the sound of him sucking gently at your skin made your head feel heavy.

You were trembling by the time he kissed up to your hip.

"I’ve barely even touched you," he murmured, licking your skin. "You're already shaking."

"That’s your fault," you managed to breathe.

He smiled without looking up. "It always is."

His tongue dipped lower again and you gasped, one hand flying to his hair.

Sunghoon loved being in control. He always touched you like he was proving a point — that he knew your body better than you did, that every whimper you let out was his.

He was arrogant. But he earned it.

"Please," you whispered.

He groaned like he’d been waiting for that.

"You taste like sin," he muttered, then went down on you again, slow but thorough. You cried out this time. His grip tightened.

When he finally came up for air, lips shining, you looked at him and everything inside you burned.

He looked too good. Too perfect.

So you sat up, grabbed his face, and kissed him.

He didn’t hesitate. Moaned into your mouth like he’d been starved for it.

And then you tilted your head, leaned in, and bit the spot where his neck met his shoulder.

Harder than you meant to.

You felt his blood hit your tongue. He stilled beneath you.

When you pulled back, he looked stunned.

"You just bit me."

You stared. "Sunghoon—"

His hands flew to your face. "No. You… you really just bit me."

There was blood at the corner of your lips.

He groaned so deep in his throat it didn’t sound human. Then pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t get close enough.

"Fuck. Fuck."

"Are you… mad?"

His eyes were glowing faintly now, jaw tense. He kissed you again, deeper.

"Do you even know what you just did to me?"

"You bit me first," you argued.

"That’s different. I can handle that."

"But not this?"

He stared at you for a beat, then let his head fall to your shoulder.

"No. I think you just ruined me."

You giggled, breathless.

"Shut up," he muttered.

"Make me."

Sunghoon looked up. Something cracked in his expression.

"Get on the bed. Now."

You obeyed, sliding back until your spine hit the pillows. He followed fast, stripping down with a kind of frantic grace. His hands shook slightly when he pushed your thighs apart.

"You want to act like you own me?" he muttered, lining himself up. "Then take responsibility."

He thrust in deep.

You gasped, back arching. He groaned at the sight of it, leaning down to kiss your neck.

"You feel too good. Shit, you always do."

He moved slowly at first, but the desperation built quick. His hands gripped your thighs, your hips, your hair. He bit down once on your shoulder, not to drink, just to feel you flinch.

"You made me lose control," he whispered. "No one does that."

You moaned beneath him, nails scraping his back.

"Don’t stop. I want all of you."

He pulled back to look at you. You were flushed, messy, panting.

He smiled.

"You already have me."

He thrust faster then, harder, hips slamming into yours in a rhythm that had you sobbing.

Sunghoon’s forehead pressed to yours, and for a second he just breathed there, shaking.

"Say it again."

"What?"

"That I’m yours."

You cupped his face. "You’re mine. You’ve always been mine."

He moaned like it hurt. Buried himself to the hilt and came inside you with a sharp cry, his entire body shuddering from it.

After, he didn’t move. Just laid there on top of you, his face buried in your neck.

You ran your fingers through his hair.

"So... you liked it?"

He groaned again. "I’m never gonna recover."

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"Next time, warn me," he mumbled.

"Next time?"

He kissed your collarbone.

"There’s definitely gonna be a next time."

Yang Jungwon

You'd always known Jungwon was different.

Not just because he was a vampire. But because he was patient.

When he touched you, it was careful. Reverent. His hands trembled like you were something sacred. Like he was scared he might hurt you if he moved too fast.

Tonight, he was being especially slow.

His hand slid under your shirt like it was something fragile. His lips ghosted over your collarbone, then your jaw, your cheek. Never too rough. Never greedy.

He was all restraint.

"You okay?" he murmured.

You nodded, cupping his face. "I love when you touch me."

He smiled, that soft, boyish one that made your stomach flip.

"Good. I just want you to feel safe."

You kissed him. Slowly at first, then deeper. His body pressed into yours, a low sigh leaving him as your thighs spread around his waist.

"More," you whispered. "Please."

Jungwon flushed, nodding. You could feel how hard he was already, even through the layers of clothes. He pressed closer, grinding against you a little without meaning to.

You moaned, hand curling around the back of his neck.

That’s when it happened.

You leaned in, mouth brushing his skin, and bit down just above his collarbone.

Not hard. Just enough to draw blood.

He froze.

Then gasped.

"Y/N—what…?"

You licked the blood from your lips. It was warm, heady, sharp.

"Did that hurt?"

His pupils were blown wide. His mouth was parted, breath shaky.

"You… you bit me."

"You do it to me all the time."

"That's… different," he whispered.

You blinked. "Are you mad?"

He didn’t answer.

Then he grabbed your face with both hands and kissed you so hard it stole your breath.

"Do it again," he muttered, eyes glowing now.

You stared. "What?"

"Bite me again. I want to feel it."

You did.

This time, he groaned. Loud, guttural. His grip on you tightened. His entire body shivered.

"I didn’t know it would feel like that," he whispered.

You were both panting now, chests heaving. He tugged your shirt off like it offended him, then stripped himself fast, too flushed to stay calm.

When he pushed into you, he moaned like he’d been waiting his whole life for it.

"You feel like heaven," he gasped. "I don’t deserve this."

"You do," you whispered. "You’re so good to me."

He whimpered.

He started slow again, but it didn’t last. The moment you bit him once more—right at the base of his throat—something snapped.

Jungwon thrust harder, faster, deeper. His hands gripped your thighs, your waist, your jaw. He buried his face in your neck, whimpering between praises.

"So good. You’re so good. You’re mine. You’re the only one."

You nodded, breathless.

"I’m yours. You’re mine too."

He let out a strangled sound. Came hard, deep inside you, hips twitching through the aftershocks. His body collapsed over yours, trembling.

"I didn’t know I could feel like that," he murmured.

You stroked his hair.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he breathed. "Just… shocked."

"By what?"

"By you. By how much I want you. By how fucking good it felt."

You smiled.

"So… not mad I bit you?"

He laughed, dazed.

"No. Just don’t be surprised if I beg for it next time."

You leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"You’re adorable."

His eyes fluttered shut.

"Only for you."

Kim Sunoo

You'd never seen Sunoo so quiet.

He usually talked through every kiss, every teasing graze of his fangs against your neck. Loved hearing your gasp when he spread your legs, loved the way your hands clutched at him when he dragged his tongue over your skin. He was confident, talkative, almost cocky with how well he knew your body.

Tonight, though, he was too still.

Not nervous. Just watching.

"You're staring," you murmured, fingers brushing his cheek.

He smiled faintly. "You look pretty when you get like this."

"Like what?"

"Hungry."

You bit your lip, already warm beneath his gaze. He was lying back on the pillows, golden hair tousled, a faint blush rising high on his cheeks. You were sitting on his lap, straddling his hips, but he hadn't made a move since pulling you on top of him.

"Touch me," you said softly.

"I want you to touch me first."

You blinked. He'd never said that before.

Sunoo smiled again, a little shy now. "I trust you."

That made something tighten in your chest. But you didn’t hesitate.

You leaned in, kissing him slowly, letting your fingers trail down his chest. He let out a soft sigh when your lips moved to his throat.

You kissed him there, once, twice. Then let your teeth scrape against his neck.

He went still.

"Wait…"

But you were already biting. Just hard enough to break skin.

He gasped, high and sharp. His blood hit your tongue like heat, like static, and your whole body trembled from it.

Sunoo cried out. His hands clutched at your waist.

"Y/N—fuck… what are you doing to me…"

You pulled back, lips red. He was panting.

"Was that too much?"

His eyes fluttered open. They were glowing.

"No. No, it was…"

You grinned. "Good?"

He covered his face with one hand.

"I’m gonna lose my mind."

You rocked your hips against him and he gasped again, the sound punched out of him. He was already hard.

"You look pretty like this too," you whispered. "All needy."

He whined, eyes squeezing shut.

You kissed his jaw, then moved lower, trailing down his chest, your tongue flicking out to taste the spot where your bite had been. He shivered.

"Too much?" you asked again.

He shook his head. "Don't stop. Please."

So you didn’t. You moved back down between his legs, kissed your way along his inner thighs until he was twitching, breath coming in soft, desperate gasps.

"I can’t take it," he whispered. "You’re making me feel everything."

You glanced up. "Isn’t that what you do to me every time?"

He didn’t answer. Just whimpered when you finally took him in your mouth.

He tasted like heat and salt and something faintly metallic from the blood. His thighs were trembling under your hands.

"Y/N… I’m gonna…"

But you pulled off with a smile, moving back up his body.

"Not yet. You haven’t even touched me."

"I can’t think," he breathed. "You're too much."

You kissed him again, and this time, he kissed back hungrily, hands roaming like he’d just remembered he could touch you too.

He helped guide himself in, both of you gasping at the stretch. His hands flew to your hips, eyes wide.

"Please move. I need you so bad."

You started slow. Rolling your hips just enough to make him moan, to make him cry your name like he was unraveling beneath you.

"You like it when I take the lead?"

"Yes," he choked out. "God, yes."

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. "Then come for me."

He came with a sob, his whole body shuddering. You followed soon after, clenching around him so hard it made him cry out again, hypersensitive and wrecked.

You collapsed against him.

Sunoo wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

"You’re evil," he whispered, but he was smiling.

You laughed softly. "You liked it."

"I loved it. Just… maybe give me a warning next time?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

He groaned.

"You’re gonna be the death of me."

"You’re already dead."

"Exactly. That’s how good it was."

Nishimura Riki

"Don't do that again."

Ni-ki's voice was flat, unreadable. He was still half-dressed, fangs peeking out, your blood drying at the edge of his neck.

You sat on the edge of the bed, heart racing. "It wasn’t that bad."

"You bit me."

"And? You bite me all the time."

"That's different. I know how to control myself."

You blinked. "You think I don't?"

"I'm just saying—"

"You liked it."

"I didn’t."

You smiled. "You're lying."

Ni-ki crossed his arms. He wasn’t flustered easily, but his ears were pink.

"Drop it."

You leaned back on your hands, stretching your legs. "You moaned."

"I was surprised."

"You shivered."

"It was cold."

"You got hard."

His jaw tensed. "Shut up."

You giggled. "I knew it."

"You think you’re cute, huh?"

You tilted your head. "I think you liked it."

He lunged before you could tease him more, pinning you to the bed with a growl. His eyes glowed faintly red.

"You want to play games?"

"Always."

"You think biting me makes you the boss now?"

"No. But it makes you mine."

Something flickered in his expression.

You kissed him. He kissed back harder.

Clothes came off quickly after that. He was rougher than usual, dragging you to the center of the bed like he owned it—and you.

"You wanna bite me so bad?" he murmured, teeth grazing your neck. "Then take what you want."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Make it count."

So you did.

You waited until he was inside you, deep and perfect, until he was already cursing under his breath, moving like he couldn’t get enough.

Then you leaned in and bit his shoulder again. Just hard enough to break the skin.

He gasped.

You licked the blood off your lips, tasting him.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Don’t stop."

You blinked up at him. "What was that?"

"You heard me. Shit—do it again."

So you did. And he moaned. Long and low and filthy.

"You’re so full of it," you whispered.

He didn’t deny it this time. Just kissed you roughly, rolling his hips harder. The bed rocked with every thrust. He groaned again. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you back onto his cock every time he thrust in.

You were shaking, already close, and he could feel it.

"Look at you. Fuck. I knew you were trouble."

"You love it."

"Yeah. I do."

He kissed you again, messier this time. Then whispered against your lips:

"I want you to bite me every time. I don’t care. Just fucking take it."

You whimpered, overwhelmed. He picked up the pace.

"Come for me. Want you to come while my blood’s still on your tongue."

You did. Hard. Eyes squeezing shut as you cried out his name.

Ni-ki followed seconds later, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

For a long moment, he just stayed there, breathing hard, arms braced around you.

Then he pulled back, looking at your mouth.

"Still got some on your lips," he murmured.

You smirked. "You gonna scold me again?"

He leaned in and kissed you slow.

"No," he said. "I'm gonna make sure it happens again."

You grinned.

"Thought so."

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