aliendes

[aliendes]

Obsessed with this series yall

𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔢 ☾ 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔯

PAIRING: Werewolf! f. Reader x Werewolf!Seungcheol x Werewolf!Jeonghan x Werewolf!Soonyoung x Werewolf!Seokmin x Werewolf!Vernon x Werewolf!Chan

SUMMARY: When the Divine’s cult conquers your home, they don’t expect you to survive, let alone fight back. Captured but not broken, you and the unlikeliest of allies are ready to burn it all down.

WC: 12,643

AU: Romantic Fantasy, Werewolves, Omegaverse Dynamics, Polyamourous

GENRE: Smut, Heavy Angst, Fluff, Romance

WARNINGS: Depictions of violence including intense physical training and sparring, on-screen depictions of whipping (Jeonghan is one of them) as punishment, a ton of angst and tension with Soonyoung who reader is suddenly unsure where his alliances are - Soonyoung assists in dolling out punishment for the Divine, references to past massacres, executions, and destruction of kingdoms, references to captives being brainwashed and collared as children, power manipulation through a supernatural vocal ability, depictions of grief and loss, themes of war and conquest, religious/cult themes, flashbacks to lost loved ones, guilt, and paranoia, heavy emotional angst including internal conflict, rage, and strained pack dynamics, explicit language, reader gets super possessive over Jeonghan when he's injured, she also lashes out at Seungcheol a little (she likes Jeonghan a lot ok)

MEMBERS IN THIS CHAPTER: Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Seokmin, Chan, Vernon

A/N: Nervous posting this because Soonyoung is a complicated character in this, and he's been a fan favorite so far. As I'm sure most people have noticed, there is something more going on here that allows the Divine to rule over people and force them to do her bidding :/ Also this chapter has one of my favorite scenes ever with DK and reader. I really enjoyed writing that piece and it's the push she needs to sort of start adapting to their world. I hope you enjoy this one.

A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading this and always being willing to edit my messy, very disorganized docs.

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No gate can bar Her voice. No crown can silence Her will.

- Graffiti scrawled by hidden zealots in conquered cities

COLD SEEPS INTO YOUR BONES. The mornings in the Bloodkeep are cold, and though you’re unable to leave the pack’s living quarters, it seeps into the stone walls, slips between cracks, turning your blood to ice. 

Every morning, you’re forced to leave the warmth of your bed. You quickly learned that Seungcheol was serious when he said he wanted you to train with Chan and Soonyoung in the mornings. You still don’t know why, but when Soonyoung had taunted you from your sleep the next morning after Seungcheol’s order, you’d learned that what Seungcheol says goes.

The days begin to blur together in a haze of bruised knuckles and the raw taste of cold dirt. At the crack of dawn before the rest of the pack stirs, you wake and drag yourself to the training room. 

Soonyoung runs you through the same punishing stretching ritual each morning. The stretches make your shoulders ache and the held poses make your thighs tremble. He doesn’t command you through each stretch like an alpha brute, but he instructs and corrects you with a playful softness you’re starting to adjust to. 

He doesn’t let you fight yet. Conditioning, he says every time you ask. You will exercise, condition, and build your strength until he feels like you can spar with them. It makes you feel like a child, but you listen once you realize that the poses and the stretching he leads you through are much harder than you anticipated.

It’s different from what you learned back in Valen’s courtyards. Back then, you sparred with instructors who were rigid and pedantic. They focused on form and hammering drills into your head, applying as much theory to your lessons as there was rote memorization of fighting forms. 

This is not that. This is strength conditioning and pushing yourself to the limit. Soonyoung makes you squat until your legs give out, then makes you do it again. He works your arms and shoulders until your muscles burn like fire under your skin. 

Your sweat soaks the dirt most mornings, knees raw from scraping the ground. Your palms split and form calluses just from conditioning and exercising, sometimes leaving blood in your hands.

It’s a far cry from the training a princess receives. 

Chan trains alongside you. The first few days were tense with steely silence, his irritation from your sparring match looming behind him like a thundercloud. It fades with time when he sees how far behind you are in strength conditioning, watching you fall out of poses that he exceeds at. 

Every day you trail back to your room sweaty, aching, and exhausted.

And every day you get up and do it again. You drag yourself from the cold stone floor when you lose your balance, you ignore the smirk on Soonyoung’s face when you stagger, and you fight the ache that settles deep in your ribs like something half-feral, half-alive. 

The training room is empty when you pad in. You usually beat Chan and Soonyoung now, knowing that if you’re not first to train that they’ll come harass you and tell you that you’re late. 

The scrap of feet makes you turn your head mid-stretch. Chan and Soonyoung come into the room, speaking in low murmurs. You’re already covered in a light sheen of sweat, ignoring them as you slip into a new stretch, feeling the strain in your arms as you support all of your weight. 

��You know,” Soonyoung says as he approaches, “you used to fall on your ass when you did that one.”

You grunt. He laughs, sharp and foxline. 

Chan drops to the ground near you, rolling his shoulders as he watches you with a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “And you used to whine about it,” he adds, his voice still scratchy with sleep.

You hold the stretch a few seconds longer just to prove a point, then drop your hips and twist to sit back on your heels. You glare up at Chan, feeling the sweat drip down from your brow. 

“I don’t whine,” you insist. “I simply told you both that I look forward to carving you inside out.”

Soonyoung’s grin is wicked. “Same thing.”

You growl but don’t argue. As much as you loathe to admit it, Soonyoung is right - and you don’t mind the teasing. It’s become a routine, something that grounds you. In a way, you look forward to them peppering you with quips and insults all day, knowing they don’t mean it. It’s part of the rhythm that keeps you from losing yourself to your grief. 

And the grief is there. 

It lurks like a half-starved animal in the corners of your mind. Some days, you swear you feel its breath on your neck when you stand still for too long, when your body has stopped moving and your thoughts have nowhere to go but backwards. 

So you don’t stand still - you can’t.

You let Soonyoung break you apart and piece you back together in the training room. You let Chan push you harder than he needs to, let him tease you and make you compete until your muscles give out. 

Again and again. 

Some nights, when you lie awake staring at the cracks in the ceiling, you feel it pressing in. You feel the quiet settle. Feel like you’re forgetting them, that you’re betraying your family, your kingdom, hiding from your reality with this newfound routine. 

But survival isn’t surrender, and you have no intentions of surrendering. 

Soonyoung plants himself in front of you and Chan, hands on his hips. He’s shirtless like always, the cold air pebbling his skin. His scent curls around you, bright and sharp. You smell Chan too, his scent warm. Both hit you deeper now that your omega has grown more aware of them, not by choice but proximity. 

“We’re doing something different today,” Soonyoung announces. He looks at you, grin wolfish. “We’re sparring today.”

Cutting a glance at Chan, you see him pause as he rolls his neck side to side to crack the tension out of his shoulders. A glint enters his eyes, something itching to even the score from that first day you bloodied his lip. 

“You’re sure about that?” You ask Soonyoung. “I might kill him.”

Chan snorts. “I won’t make the same mistakes as last time, little omega.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You mean it to be demeaning,” you snarl. “Do you call Jeonghan that? No, I suspect not. I wonder why that is, hmm?”

“He’s trying to get under your skin,” Soonyoung sighs. He levels a look at Chan. “Nonetheless, she has a point. No one here is old school hierarchy, so cut it out.” 

“You mean you aren’t,” you mutter, pushing up onto your feet. 

“No,” Soonyoung disagrees. “We aren’t. Our pack hierarchy is logical and not based on how you’re born, which is why Jeonghan is second-in-command. We do not lord it over someone, so stop trying to bait her like you’re a pup trying to play big dog, Chan. It doesn’t suit you.” 

Chan’s mouth twitches but he doesn’t look away. “I apologize. It wasn’t so much about being an omega as it was about you being new. I hadn’t considered the implication.”

Before Soonyoung can instruct you to take your stances, you lunge, catching them both off guard. You swing, catching Chan completely unaware as you land an open-palm slap across his face. You feel the strike vibrate up your arm, hand stinging. 

Chan reels back with a low, surprised laugh that melts into a growl as he steadies himself, eyes bright. 

“How about that for an implication,” you mutter. 

“Good!” Soonyoung calls, stepping back and clapping his hands. “Keep your stance this time, don’t square up. You need to angle your hips - yes. Keep an eye on Chan’s shoulders, he telegraphs-”

Chan strikes before Soonyoung can finish his sentence. He comes at you hard, shoulder low, aiming to take your legs out from under you. You twist just in time, your heel clipping his shin. He’s faster than the last time you fought, hooking your ankle to send you stumbling backward. 

You don’t fall, regaining your balance easily. You pivot the way Soonyoung drilled into you, dropping your weight low to swing your elbow back into Chan’s ribs. He lets out a hiss and the breath that leaves him is warm against your neck as you separate. 

“You’re fast,” Chan pants. “Good.”

You don’t reply. Chan lunges again. Just like Soonyoung said, you see the attack hinted at in the set of his shoulders. You dodge sideways, catching him by the wrist. You twist, using his momentum to shove him forward. He staggers several feet forward, nearly going down. 

“Good!” Soonyoung snaps, circling the two of you with his arms crossed, eyes sharp. “Chan, she’s faster than you. You’re going to have to strong-arm her.”

Chan takes Soonyoung’s instruction in stride, coming at you. You close the gap, aiming for his ribs. He blocks you at the last second, catching your wrist. His grip is like steel, and before you can yank free, he hooks a leg around yours and sweeps you off your feet.

The floor slams into your back, knocking the breath from your lungs in a sharp gasp. Chan drops with you, branching a hand against your collarbone to pin you flat. 

“Pinned,” he pants, breath fanning your face.

“Get off!”

“Make me.”

His grin is feral, sweat dripping down the sharp line of his jaw. His scent floods your nose, heady and intoxicating. It makes your omega bristle but you shove it down, refusing to yield to instinct. 

With a snarl, you swing your knee, aiming for his ribs. Chan sees it coming. He shifts his hips just enough that you miss. You try to swing again but he’s stronger than you. Your claws come out again but he’s not making the same mistake twice, one of his hands shooting out to grab your wrists and pin them just above your head. His other hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, but a warning. 

His thumb presses dangerously close to your scent gland. Stars dance in your eyes and you’re grateful when he moves his grip lower, just as firm but farther from where you’re vulnerable. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears and you try to buck again, but he doesn’t move. 

“Say it,” he urges. “Yield.”

The word tastes like ash on your tongue, but you know when you’re beat. You bare your teeth at him and hiss, “I yield.”

His grip eases. He watches you for a heartbeat too long, the tension going taut between you. Then he pushes off of you and stands, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, chest heaving. 

Soonyoung claps once, loud and bright in the still room. “Good. Let’s break down how to get you out of a hold when someone is stronger than you.”

You spar with Chan again and again. You win as many times as you lose, which vexes the both of you. It’s clear that they hadn’t expected you to be so adept in fighting. Hand to hand isn’t where you excel, but you can hold your own, fending off Chan as he gets tired, reflexes slower. 

No one else is around when you shuffle into the common area behind Soonyoung and Chan. They shove at one another in the kitchen, the familiarity and fondness both familiar and foreign to you. You’d never had siblings or family your age you were close to, but you’d had friends. Had pushed them around playfully. Gotten in trouble. 

You remember Ysabel, the merchant’s daughter who’d snuck sugar pastries under the tables during state dinners. Ori, the youngest son of the Master of Coin, who’d always stood a little too close at parties to whisper gossip in your ear. Thara, whose father sat on your father’s council, who once helped you slip out of a banquet to run barefoot through the rain in the lower gardens. 

They’re all dead, you imagine. 

You watch from the outside at first, clinging to the edge of their playfulness like an unwelcome ghost. Soonyoung shoos Chan away from pestering him in the kitchen and the younger alpha slumps into a chair at the table. Sweat is still drying along his collarbones and down the line of his jaw. 

Suddenly there’s a longing to be in on whatever this is, this familiarity that feels close, but you don’t know how to grasp it.

Soonyoung rummages in the larder, pulling out leftover smoked meat, half a loaf of black bread, and a wedge of soft, white cheese. You hesitate before sitting in the chair across from Chan. You’ve been here for weeks, but you’re still unsure where you fall in the hierarchies of their tentative friendships.

If that’s even what they are. You’re not entirely sure.  

Thighs sore, you press your hands into the muscle, trying to loosen them up. Soonyoung sets a cup of water down in front of you and you pick it up wordlessly, gulping cool, fresh water. He follows up with dropping a plate in front of you. You go for the bread first, breaking off a piece, chewing slowly. 

The silence between you drags, filled only by the sounds of your chewing and the occasional grunt from Soonyoung as he tears into his meat. Your mind cycles back to your training earlier that morning, thinking about how different it had been from your own. 

“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” you ask Soonyoung finally. You pick at the crust on your bread. Soonyoung’s bright, fox-like stare fixes on you. “It’s very different from what I learned in Valen.”

“Good question.” He leans back in his chair, gnawing on a piece of fat. “Lysium wolves.”

A sharp chill bites up your spine. “I thought they were-”

“Destroyed. Purged. Erased.” He scoffs. “Yeah, that has happened a lot since the Divine came into power. They are in the way that it counts.”

A ghost flickers through your mind: stories your father used to tell you by firelight, of the mountain pack that guarded their stone keeps with blades older than most kingdoms. How their warriors were so feared, entire border clans paid tribute just for passage through the high passes. And then they were gone, overnight. Fire and salt and a kingdom turned to graves.

“Most of them are gone,” Soonyoung says, sensing your train of thoughts. “The elders, the high families - she made sure they were slaughtered outright. She doesn’t let royals live.” Soonyoung pauses meaningfully here and you go rigid under his gaze. “The younger ones though, she kept. Easy to brainwash kids.” 

Your stomach twists. You taste bile behind the bread on your tongue and push your plate away, leaving the rest of your meal untouched. It’s smart, though cruel and vile. Having the young wolves of a pack that have all that training and knowledge but are more susceptible to a bending of will would be far easier than trying to win over the wolves of Lysium. 

“So there are wolves from Lysium here?”

“Mhm.” Soonyoung cocks his head to the side. “One brought you here.”

It hits you hard. Dread and something like wild, reckless hope knots together in your stomach. Of course Seungcheol is the blood of a fallen kingdom, just like you. He’s a ghost of a legacy once spoken of in whispers in your kingdom. 

It shouldn’t matter, but it does. If Seungcheol carries the last heartbeat of that fallen strength, if you can learn to harness what he knows, then maybe you’ll be strong enough to fight back. To take your people and leave this hell behind. 

“I want to learn,” you tell Soonyoung, looking up at him with a fire in your eyes. “Everything you can teach me.” 

“Good,” Soonyoung hums, leaning forward until his scent curls sharp in your nose, all bright citrus and sweat. “Tomorrow we don’t go easy on you. Twice a day from now on, morning and night. You’ll wish you never asked.”

“I won’t,” you assure him, firm. 

He smirks. “I thought so. I like that about you.”

Tentatively, you offer the first smile you’ve had in weeks. 

-

“You’re too stiff,” Soonyoung calls out from behind, tone light but sharp. “Loosen up. You move too rigidly and practiced.” 

You surge forward, ignoring him, aiming a jab at Chan’s ribs. He blocks it easily, smirking as he hooks his arm around yours and uses your momentum to flip you off balance. You twist your hip to counter, but it’s too late. Chan’s elbow comes up, unintentional but fast, clipping you right in the eyebrow. Hard. 

Pain flares white behind your eyes. Your vision blurs and you stagger back, a hiss tearing from your throat as warmth drips down your temple and onto your chest. 

“Hey,” Soonyoung murmurs, suddenly close. “Let me see.”

He reaches for your wrist and pulls your hand away. His fingers are warm where they brush your skin, tilting your chin so he can see better in the low light. 

Chan hovers beside him, wincing. “Shit,” he says. “I didn’t mean to split your brow like that.”

Soonyoung clicks his tongue and brushes his thumb just below the split. It stings but he’s careful, wiping away a trickle of blood. “You’re going to need stitches. You really had to hit her in the face, huh?”

Chan growls. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I’ve had worse,” you supply, trying to relieve the panic in Chan’s face. 

“Go get stitches from Seokmin. He’ll fix you right up.” Soonyoung drops his hands from your face and points to Chan. “And you - pay more attention to where her feet are at. You would’ve seen she was off balance.”

“Yeah, look at my feet.”

Chan glares as Soonyoung laughs and points to the door. “Go get that pretty face looked at. Now.”

Jeonghan is walking into the common area as you enter, hand pressed to your eyebrow to staunch the bleeding. He snickers but approaches, tilting his head and gesturing to you to move your hand to show him. He smells like honeysuckle and jasmine, a relief to the heavy scents of Chan and Soonyoung. 

“Not terrible,” he says, eyes evaluating. “Will need some stitches, though. Make sure you get him back for it.”

Jeonghan’s eyes gleam as he shoots you a wink before vanishing down the hall toward the training room. You hear him immediately start yelling at Chan for your injury and you have to hide your grin. You haven’t spent much time with the omega, but something about him puts you at ease. 

You find Seokmin exactly where you expect. He’s hunched over a table of herbs and bandages in the small medical alcove tucked behind the packs living quarters near the bathing room. He startles when you appear, the blood running down your neck.

“You look worse than usual,” he says dryly, reaching for a cloth. He points for you to sit on the cot in the corner and you do. “Try not to bleed on the good linens.”

“Chan’s fault.”

He chuckles as he wets the rag in his hand before coming over to crouch in front of  you. He gently starts to dab at the wound. You hit him but let him work, choosing to instead study the beta. He smells like his usual lavender, no longer putting you on edge as you’ve grown used to it. 

Seokmin has pretty eyes, burnished gold melting into brown. He’s focused as he cleans the blood from your skin, tilting his head to the side in concern as his finger traces the edge of  your split brow. 

“You’ll need stitches,” he murmurs. “Hold still and don’t growl at me, hmm?”

You flash your teeth playfully and he grins, shaking his head as he preps the needle. When he comes back over, he gently begins to work, warning you before you feel the sting of the incision and pull of the thread. 

“You’re getting better, you know?” His question makes you glance up. His eyes are focused on your brow, but he’s smiling softly. “Soonyoung talks about how fast of a learner you are.”

“I used to hate training,” you admit. “Back home. In Valen. My father insisted on it. He believed a ruler should never expect others to protect what they can’t defend themselves. I used to want to be anywhere but the courtyard.”

“Where did you like to go?”

“The libraries. Valen had so many of them. The one near the north keep was my favorite because it had tons of stairs my tutors were too lazy to climb. I used to hide up there and read instead of practicing swordplay.”

Seokmin hums, low and encouraging. He ties off another stitch, wipes away a bead of blood that drips down your brow.

“We were old blood,” you murmur, losing yourself in a haze of memories. The words flow out of you, unanchored, like you need to let them out. “But we were free. We had betas who sat on our councils, omegas who owned land and taught at our schools and fought in our armies. It wasn’t like here.”

You remember your mother’s voice, telling you bedtime stories that weren’t fairytales but histories of the first walls raised by stone-masons who were omega, of healers who were beta and ruled the city’s guilds. Of how Valen’s archives held centuries of knowledge other kingdoms tried to burn and forget.

“I was supposed to inherit that,” you say, softer now. “Not just the stone walls. All of it. The idea that we could be better than this... thing the Divine is building. I don’t understand what the goal is here. An omega rules but…”

He nods. “She reinforces old power dynamics and hierarchies. I don’t understand her politics either.” 

You swallow, throat tight. The stone room feels too small for a moment, the memories pressing in. The sunlit gardens behind the archives. The sound of your mother’s voice arguing philosophy with your father over tea. The courtyard where you first learned to hold a dagger steady.

Seokmin tapes a strip of clean linen over the stitches. You keep your eyes on the ceiling, fighting the ache that pools behind your ribs. 

“You’ll get it back,” he says, so soft you almost miss it. You look at him sharply and he grins, warm. “I - we - want you to get it back. Someday.” 

Seokmin’s grin lingers only a heartbeat before it softens into something sadder. It makes your heart flutter and you return it, your smile tentative. 

He sets the needle aside, wipes the last of the blood from your temple, and sits back on his heels, studying your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“I admire that fire in you,” he says finally. His voice drops so low it nearly vanishes under the faint crackle of the hearth behind him. “Always have, from the moment I saw you in chains, glaring at Seungcheol like you’d bite his throat out if you could.”

You huff, a humorless noise that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so raw. Seokmin smiles at that too, faint but sincere. “Don’t lose it. Whatever happens in these walls, try to hold onto that flame. It’s yours. They’ll try to smother it, twist it, claim it for their own. Don’t let them.”

You want to tell him you won’t. That it’s impossible. But the words stick, half-formed, caught on the echo of that old fear that maybe the Divine’s voice could slip into your mind too, like oil in water, poisoning everything good until you forget what you were fighting for.

Seokmin must see that shadow pass behind your eyes, because his mouth presses into a grim line. He leans closer, careful fingers brushing the hair from your brow so it doesn’t catch the fresh bandage.

“But be smart,” he murmurs. “Fire alone won’t save you. I’ve seen plenty break on the stone of this place. Strong wolves. Good people. They thought their rage alone made them unkillable. Just… know when to play meek and when to show your teeth, yeah?”

He taps a fingertip lightly to your temple, not scolding, but reminding you where the real battle lies. Your breath hitches before you can stop it. His eyes flick to yours, and for a moment, there’s nothing clinical or practical in that gaze. Just something searching. Curious. Maybe even protective in a way that makes your chest tighten, confusingly warm and sharp all at once.

For the first time in weeks, you feel something close to gratitude. Not the polite kind you were raised to offer your council, your father’s generals, the courtiers who bowed because they had to, but the kind that stirs somewhere deeper. The kind that feels dangerous because you can’t help but wonder what it would be like if you leaned into that warmth instead of pushing everyone away.

“Go easy on Chan tomorrow,” Seokmin says, breaking the tension. “If you headbutt him again, I’ll run out of thread before I run out of patience.”

You manage a breathless laugh, rough around the edges, but real. And when he steps back to clean up his supplies, you can still feel the heat of his touch on your skin. 

Later, after Seokmin’s careful hands are a memory and the sting of the stitches has dulled to a steady throb, you find yourself soaking in the bath until your skin puckers. The hot water eases the ache in your shoulders, the bruises blooming across your ribs from Chan’s jabs.

You scrub yourself raw, but no matter how hard you drag the rag over your skin, you can’t scrape away the phantom feel of Seokmin’s fingers stitching your brow, the gentle tap to your temple. Or the warmth that had bloomed low in your chest when he’d leaned in close, close enough you could smell the faint trace of lavender and salt on his collar.

-

You’re somewhere deep in half-dream when the door to your room bangs open. The chill hits you first, a draft of cold stone air sweeping under your pelts, stirring the sweat at the back of your neck. You start to snarl when you smell honeysuckle and jasmine. 

Jeonghan. 

“Up,” he murmurs, voice rushed. “Quickly.”

Light pours in from the hall behind him. He’s not smirking tonight. His mouth is pressed in a firm line, his eyes cutting and bright. He tosses something onto your bed. You turn to see it’s black robes, eerily similar to that of the Red Priestesses. Your hackles rise.

“I know,” he says, with sympathy in his voice. “You have to, though.��� He pulls a red silk scrap of fabric from behind his back. “This too, but robes first, and quickly. I’ll try to explain on the way.”

He slips back into the hall and closes the door behind him, leaving you in utter darkness. You curse, getting up and fumbling as you try to find and light the candle. It flickers to life, your shadows thrown on the stone walls as you quickly stumble into the black robes. 

A sharp knock sounds at the door. You grunt and Jeonghan enters again, eyes drinking you in. He makes a sound of frustration and comes over to you, immediately fussing with your hair. His fingers are deft, practiced. You wonder, distantly, how many times he’s done this for himself, made himself look soft when he’s anything but.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs, voice low and urgent as he begins to tie the silk scarf around your wrists. You start to pull away. “Please. You have to. You’re coming with me, Soonyoung, and Seungcheol for an audience with the Divine in the Sanctum.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” 

“I don’t-”

“What you want right now is a moot point,” he murmurs. Firm. You remember what Soonyoung said about Jeonghan being second-in-command of this pack.  “She doesn’t like defiance unless she puts it there herself. It’s most likely a test, but I do not know the answers to help you.”

“Where’s Seokmin?” you ask, voice thin.

Jeonghan laughs, but there’s no real humor in it. “Praying you don’t get yourself killed, probably. He’d come if he could. But he wasn’t summoned, which means whatever she wants is going to be especially cruel.”

He leans down to look you in the eye, close enough that you smell the honeysuckle and jasmine with a hint of the tea he must have been enjoying.  “Remember,” he warns. “Eyes down. Hands still. Mouth shut unless you’re asked. You play obedient. Just this once.” 

Jeonghan gives your shoulders a sharp push, and you follow him out of your small room, your heartbeat a muffled drum behind your ribs. The hall outside is dim, only a single oil lamp flickering at the end where the stone opens into the common room.

Soonyoung is standing near the door, his arms folded over his chest. He’s dressed in black, a single splash of crimson at his waist like that first night you saw him. He’s not pacing like he usually does. He’s a statue carved from old bone, cold and still and coiled tight enough that for a moment you don’t recognize him.

Beside him, Seungcheol waits, draped in a dark cloak that pools shadows around his boots. He’s bigger than Soonyoung, broader in the shoulders, but the real weight comes from the way his presence fills the room. He’s silent, but the air hums around him like static. His eyes cut to you the moment your boots scrape the stone.

“Ready?” Soonyoung’s voice snaps like a blade unsheathed. No smile. No softness. 

Jeonghan answers for you with a curt nod. “She’s ready.”

Seungcheol’s eyes flick over the scarf binding your wrists, then to your face. He says nothing. You think, for one foolish heartbeat, that he might offer you some reassurance like he had before parading you through the city. 

Have courage. The memory of his voice, velvet soft and wavering with conviction rings out through you.

The words don’t come. He only turns on his heel and stalks for the tunnel that leads out of the pack’s quarters. Soonyoung gestures for you to move, and Jeonghan nudges you forward when you hesitate. The hush of your footsteps is the only sound until the cavern walls swallow you.

Panic licks at the edges of your chest, sharp and rising. You keep your eyes on Soonyoung’s back, the broad line of his shoulders under the drape of his cloak, the faint scent of him still warm and wild, but the warmth doesn’t reach you now. All that easy camaraderie from the last three weeks is stripped away and replaced by the cold rigidity of a soldier on duty.

Jeonghan senses your panic. “You’re safe,” he murmurs as you go. “Have courage.”

Have courage. The words slice through you and you take a deep, shuddering breath. You can do what you’re asked, just this once. Whatever she’s prepared for you, you can seem docile. Bow. 

The Sanctum is colder than you remember. The stone walls swallow torchlight in hungry gulps, leaving shadows to stretch long and sharp across the polished black floor. It smells of dried herbs, iron, and something cloyingly sweet beneath, like incense masking rot. 

Jeonghan positions you next to him and behind Soonyoung and Seungcheol. All of you kneel, Jeonghan tugging you down with him. You grit your teeth but bow your head, feeling adrenaline make your hands shake. 

Your eyes drift past the Divine where she sits draped in blood-red silk. The halo behind her chair glows with muted power, an echo of the old godhood she claims to channel. At her feet, three figures kneel on the cold stone, shoulders hunched, wrists bound just like yours.

You know them the instant you see their faces in the low torchlight, the blood draining from your face.

Dara, the herbalist's daughter that used to sneak you sweet peaches from the orchard behind the greenhouse; Yul, one of your tutor’s apprentices with inky-stained fingers who let you eat snacks when he pretended not to look; Maelis, barely older than you, born to one of the noble families. 

They look small now. Shrunken. Their beautiful Valen silks are replaced by rough homespun shifts, collarbones jutting sharp under skin, eyes downcast.

“These three,” the Divine announces, her voice cutting through the silence, “have broken the laws that bind this sacred Bloodkeep. They have acted without permission. They have strayed from their place.”

You clench your jaw, fighting the tremor that wants to crawl up your spine.

“Velkar,” the Divine calls sweetly. The shadows shift behind her throne. You flinch as the towering alpha steps into the light. He drops to a knee reverently, his worship of the Divine written in every line of his broad shoulders and bent head. “Discipline them.”

Velkar rises with a grin, turning to face the three trembling omegas. He removes a whip from his belt, the lash coiling in his gloved hand as it snakes to the floor with a soft hiss. 

“Soonyoung.” Your eyes dart to the Divine as she peers at Soonyoung with her carmine eyes, smile growing. “Be a dear and help him.” 

He rises, silent, eyes cast down. Soonyoung hesitates for a split second, his eyes casting your direction. You see a mournful twitch of his mouth before his face hardens and he turns, striding toward where Dara is trembling, crouching down beside her. 

Soonyoung presses Dara’s shoulders down, gentle and almost tender. Her forehead kisses the cold ground. His lips move and you can’t hear what he says but you don’t care. A violent thrum of rage goes through you as you watch Velkar draw the whip back. When he flicks his wrist, the air cracks. 

Dara’s scream tears through the chamber and something inside of you cracks open. You leap forward, almost getting past Seungcheol. Your feet slip on the stone, your wrists straining at the silk binding. A raw snarl claws its way out of your throat. 

“No!” You shriek, feral. “Stop! Stop!”

Seungcheol has you by the back of the neck, his fingers like iron. Your vision tunnels red. You thrash, bucking against Seungcheol’s iron grip as his arm snaps around your waist. He pulls you back, one knee pinning your thighs down, a hand clamped tight over your mouth. You kick out, teeth snapping at his palm when it slips, but he doesn’t flinch. He only shifts his weight, pinning you harder.

Dara’s cry cuts off into a wet sob as the whip cracks again. Yul begins to keen, soft and high. Soonyoung’s hand cups the back of Dara’s head, pressing her down as she receives her third and final lash. You scream into Seungcheol’s palm until your throat is raw, until the world swings behind your eyes.

They leave Dara soundless and bleeding as they move to Yul. He is trembling in Soonyoung’s hands as he lowers the omega to the ground. The whip sings again. And again. And again. Each time it strokes, it feels like it’s your skin that’s splitting. 

Seungcheol is forced to put you belly down to the ground. His knee presses into your back - not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you pinned. His hand still clamps over your mouth and he bends low, hissing at you to stop. You don’t listen, screeching like a feral dog through his fingers. 

Velkar moves to Maelis. She trembles so violently she almost slips Soonyoung’s grip, but he clamps her down, a hunter pinning a doe. The whip finds her soft shoulders. The sound of flesh splitting fills the Sanctum like prayer. You sob and thrash. Seungcheol’s grip doesn’t waver.

Maelis lifts her head as Velkar steps back, whip coiled. Her eyes, wide, gray like the sea cliffs beyond Valen, find yours. Her lips crack open. Her voice is gone, but she shapes the words with what’s left of her: my queen. 

The words gut you more than the lashes could. Seungcheol’s arm softens for just a breath. You feel it in the tremor where his grip falters, but he does not let you go. 

When they’re done, Soonyoung stands. The Divine rises from her throne and drifts down the dais toward Soonyoung. He doesn’t move, his face impassive. She hums, petting his hair like a favored hound. He kneels before her, blood on his palms, eyes empty as the cold stone. 

Your wrists burn under the silk. Your chest heaves. And somewhere deep inside, beneath the terror, beneath the rage, you swear you feel something ancient stir, coiling around your ribs.

“Your prize isn’t broken, Seungcheol.” The Divine’s voice slices through the air and you look up at her, pouring all your hate into your gaze. “I asked you to handle this, Commander.”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. His palm flexes against your ribs, you feel the faint shudder in him, too slight for anyone but you to notice. His face is a mask of granite when he looks up at her. Silent.

“Jeonghan,” the Divine sighs, beckoning him over with a flick of her fingers. 

Your heart lurches. “No.”

He doesn’t beg. Doesn’t glance at Soonyoung for help. “No,” you pant again. Seungcheol hushes you, not harsh but desperate. “I can take the lashes.”

No one listens to you.

With a soft, steady exhale, Jeonghan lifts his hands to the collar of his loose linen shirt. His fingers are calm and careful. The silk knot at his throat slips undone. One sleeve falls from his shoulder, then the other. He folds the garment neatly, methodically, setting it aside on the marble floor as though it were an ordinary day and not an execution of pain.

His bare back gleams under the Sanctum’s flickering braziers. He’s pale, littered with faded scars, old ghosts of other punishments. He lowers himself to his knees, then forward onto his palms. Alone. He braces himself on the black stone floor, spine bared to Velkar’s shadow.

Soonyoung doesn’t move. He stands rooted near the edge of the punishment, his expression blank, yellow eyes hollow. 

You thrash again. Seungcheol���s grip on your face turns bruising. “You have to stop,” he murmurs in your hair. “Please. If you react, she’ll keep going. Please.” 

With a nod, you go boneless in Seungcheol’s grip. You catch Jeonghan’s eyes when he glances at you, lashes lowered, mouth curved in the ghost of that same irreverent smile, like he’s telling you it’s okay. This won’t hurt.

You know it will.

The whip whistles through the silence, a single, savage arc that cracks across Jeonghan’s shoulders. You flinch so violently Seungcheol’s arms loop around you and lift you from the floor. On your knees, he presses your back to his chest. You can feel his heart slamming, smell the sour anger of his scent. 

Jeonghan barely grunts but you whimper anyway. He shifts, adjusting his knees, palms flat. 

The second lash lands like lightning. Jeonghan’s breath hisses between his teeth, but he doesn’t fold. The wound splits crimson down his spine. Blood drips bright and warm onto the polished black stone.

Velkar waits a heartbeat too long before the third. He wants you to feel it, wants your lungs to rattle with the terror of it. You choke on a cry as the whip sings a final time, splitting Jeonghan across the shoulders. 

When it’s done, Jeonghan slowly pushes himself up on trembling arms. He doesn’t look at Velkar, or the Divine, or the blood spattering the marble like a shrine. He meets your eyes instead and gives you a weak, reassuring smile.

You taste salt and realize you’re crying. Soonyoung steps forward to help Jeonghan to his feet. The omega leans into the alpha, seeking comfort and strength. 

The Divine’s silk voice cuts through the hush. “See that it does not happen again.”

Velkar gives a curt signal and the other alphas step forward without a word, shadows splitting from the marble walls like hunting dogs let off the leash. Heavy boots scrape the blood-slick floor as they seize the three battered omegas by their arms.

Soonyoung shifts Jeonghan’s weight under his shoulder, careful not to brush the torn skin too hard. Jeonghan leans into him. He murmurs something in Soonyoung’s ear, and the alpha huffs - almost a laugh - but doesn’t look at you.

The Divine doesn’t spare any of you another glance. She’s already turned to her inner court, her silks whispering across the blood like nothing at all.

Seungcheol doesn’t wait for permission. His hand clamps around your wrist and he drags you out of the Sanctum’s cold mouth, boots thudding down the long marble hall. You stumble to keep up, your feet slipping. 

Soonyoung follows, Jeonghan’s quiet groans muffled against his side. The great iron doors groan shut behind you, sealing in the smell of incense and iron and fresh agony.

The walk back to the pack’s quarters is a blur of torches and echoing stone. You can’t catch your breath. Salt burns your tongue. Your heart rattles like a caged thing, each memory of the whip a fresh lash against your ribs.

The door to the den slams open when Seungcheol kicks it in with his boot. Inside, Vernon and Seokmin stand waiting, eyes wide at the sight of blood and tears. Chan hovers behind them, hands flexing at his sides, mouth parted in a question that never makes it past his teeth.

Seungcheol doesn’t speak. He releases you at the center of the room and you crumple immediately, knees striking the cold floor. Your hands slap down to catch yourself but the sob rips through you anyway, a sound raw enough to make Vernon flinch.

You curl in on yourself, arms pressed tight to your stomach like you can hold all the horror inside. But it leaks out, wet and shuddering and endless. Soonyoung lowers Jeonghan into a chair by the hearth, fussing with gentle hands as Seokmin moves in with fresh bandages. The room is deathly quiet but for your soft crying. 

Jeonghan’s voice, soft and rough, cuts through. “Did you know them?” 

Your head jerks up. Tears blind you, but you realize Jeonghan is watching you, face bloodless. 

“The omegas.”

You nod once. It’s all you can manage. Jeonghan lowers his lashes, his expression unreadable but his hand drifts up, brushing Soonyoung’s wrist for a heartbeat of silent comfort. Soonyoung crowds Jeonghan’s space, nosing Jeonghan’s temple, letting Jeonghan rub his wrist, scenting him. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Jeonghan says eventually. “If I had known what she was doing-”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Seokmin cuts in, gentle. “It was a test. To see if we’d delivered on our promise.” He glances at you then, the warmth in his eyes warring with something bleak. “That isn’t blame. You did nothing wrong.”

“She did everything wrong,” Seungcheol sighs, running a hand down his face. For a moment he looks so tired it makes something cruel and wild twist in your gut.

“Sorry I’m not like you,” you spit. The words leap out raw, torn from some place deeper than your lungs. “Sorry I cannot watch people I care for be whipped bloody and pretend it’s nothing. I can bow and do what I’m told but I don’t know how to watch.”

“I didn’t say I felt nothing-”

“Shut up!” Your voice cracks the room like a command. Seungcheol goes rigid, his entire frame rippling with tension. He pales, looking stricken.

Your ribs hurt. Your throat feels raw, like you’ve been screaming for hours instead of seconds. No one moves.  Vernon shifts by the far wall, his eyes boring into the side of Seungcheol’s head, unreadable as ever.

You force your eyes to Jeonghan instead. His lashes flutter, the faint line of blood visible above his shoulder where Seokmin’s bandages can’t hide the ruin Velkar left behind. Somehow he manages to smile, just a little. It feels like forgiveness you don’t deserve.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of it all. You feel like your teeth will break from the way you’re holding them together. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…couldn’t just watch.”

Jeonghan dips his chin in a nod that says I know. I don’t blame you. But it doesn’t help. It doesn’t soothe the horror burning under your skin. The memory of Maelis’s wide eyes, her blood on the marble. The terror in Yul’s face. Dara’s screams. 

Your throat tightens. You cross the room in three sharp steps, ignoring the tremor in your knees as you crouch beside where he’s perched. You lift your hands to his shoulder, fingers careful and gentle as you turn him a little, looking at the damage. 

It’s horrific. Your stomach turns and you stifle your rage, fingers hesitating. “I’m sorry.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose, eyes half-lidded as he watches you fuss over him. “You like me that much, huh?” 

You shoot him a glare and he grins, exhausted. “Cute.”

You help Jeonghan lay across the couch, his skin clammy, shaking with the pain. His usual scent of honeysuckle and jasmine is soured by iron and salt. You press in close to him, your scent flaring as you comfort him. 

Behind you, the alphas hover. You box them out, growling when Soonyoung tries to move closer. Jeonghan raises his brows but seems to enjoy the attention, curling his fingers in yours as you hover close, watchful. 

And when it’s done, you keep your eyes locked on Jeonghan’s tired smile, refusing to look at the wolves behind you. Refusing to see the ones you still can’t forgive.

Not tonight. 

-

No one comes for you the next morning.

You wake to the cold darkness of the room. The blankets do little to keep the cold out or soothe the raw ache that has buried itself under your ribs. You feel coiled and restless and yet too heavy to move. 

You wait, listening for the familiar scuffle of Soonyoung’s boots in the corridor, the mocking slap of Chan’s palm on your door. But the hall is silent. No sharp rap of knuckles. No call of get up. 

You pull the blankets over your head, curling tight against the stale warmth of your own breath. For a while, you pretend you’re somewhere else. Perhaps a garden courtyard, the breeze through Valen’s high windows, your mother’s voice echoing through the archive corridors, knowledge is our blade, darling girl, and our shield.

When your stomach growls, you ignore it. When your bladder aches, you force yourself up only long enough to stumble to the washroom and back, your knees stiff and shoulders tender from yesterday.

You crawl back under the furs and stare at the ceiling. Hours drip by. Once or twice, you think you hear footsteps pass by your door, but no one knocks. 

Your mind replays every scream, every shuddering crack of the whip. The way Velkar looked bored by it. The way Soonyoung didn’t hesitate to hold them down. The way Jeonghan’s blood ran like wine down perfect marble.

You press your fists to your mouth to keep the horror from leaking out in cries.

No one comes to hear them anyway.

-

A soft knock draws you from sleep. Before you can muster a word, the door creaks open and Seokmin slips inside, careful not to let the hall’s chill follow him too much.

He doesn’t ask you to get up or move. He just kneels by your bed and sets down a small tray with leftover broth, a heel of bread, and an apple cut into careful slices. You sit up, dragging your blanket with you, and shift to press your back against the wall. 

You hesitate for a moment, then gesture for him to sit. Carefully, Seokmin sits on the bed next to you, pushing the tray toward you. He draws his legs up, watching you as you pick up a slice of apple and nibble on it. It’s sour and sweet, refreshing. Your stomach growls and you realize you don’t know what day it is. 

The silence settles warm between you, broken only by your soft chewing.

After a while, Seokmin speaks. “I grew up far from here. Tiny village, tucked in a bend of the Dorsal River. Maybe two dozen families. Old blood, but no titles. Just farmers, healers, tanners.”

You look at him, but he’s staring at some distant memory instead. His hand drifts to rest beside yours on the blanket. Not touching, but close enough that if you wanted to, you could.

“Her armies came when I was about twenty,” Seokmin goes on, voice gentle but flat. “They needed the land, they said. Needed the river. My people didn’t bend quick enough, so they made an example of them.”

You pause mid-bite, the bread turning to paste in your mouth.

“I watched them put my father’s head on a stake. Watched my mother burn with the archives we’d kept for centuries.” His voice is deadpan, eyes far away. “Turns out healers are harder to replace. So they dragged me along, patched me up when I tried to starve myself. Promised me purpose.”

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t. You just listen, staring at him, watching the way the memories flit across his face in minute expressions. 

“I met Seungcheol years later,” Seokmin says, voice softening. “He was already tethered to her court then. Mean bastard. Angry in that way only wolves from the Lysium peaks know how to be. But I saw it pretty quickly - he hated her. Still does. Does just enough to keep us breathing, but never more than she needs.”

You swallow, throat rough. “Why tell me this?” you rasp, your voice raw from disuse.

Seokmin shifts closer, his knee brushing yours. “Because I want you to understand something.” His eyes find yours, warm brown and steady. “He is not your enemy, no matter how cruel he seems. He’s just... tired. And trying not to lose more than he already has.”

“Then what does that make me? Another loss waiting to happen?”

“You’re the opposite. You’re the first thing in a long time that makes him wonder if winning is still possible.”

You huff, shaky. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

He nudges the tray closer again. “Eat. Even if you’re angry. Angry queens still need to eat.”

A question bubbles up through the haze of your exhaustion and grief. You don’t look at Seokmin when you ask it. “Does anyone else know? Outside of you. Of them.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I’m the heir to Valen.”

“No. Seungcheol’s made sure of that. He was adamant. The Divine can’t know, none of the other packs can know. She thinks you’re just another prize. That’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”

Your stomach twists at that. You swallow it down with another bite, but it sticks in your throat anyway. “Why didn’t he just tell her? It would gain him favor. And rid him of the whole break the omega thing.”

“He would never do that. It isn’t in his character. He wanted you to be free. He tried to let you go that day, didn’t he?”

Guilt eats its way through you. “Yeah.”

“He wanted you gone before the Divine ever sniffed you out. He thought you’d take the chance. So did I, honestly.”

“You want to know why I didn’t?” you murmur. He nods his head. “Because I’m my father’s daughter. Because my pride’s always been my biggest fault. And because I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. Pride is a knife. It’ll cut you open if you’re not careful. Trust me, we’ve got some pride in this pack.”

You sit in silence for a while, the broth gone cold between you. Seokmin breaks off another piece of bread and offers it to you, but you wave him off. The heaviness in your chest has settled like wet ash.

“How’s Jeonghan?” you ask, voice soft.

“He’s alright,” he says slowly. “Sore. Sleeping mostly. Soonyoung won’t leave his side. Not that Jeonghan wants him to.”

You nod, but the motion is stiff, more habit than anything. You try to hold his gaze but can’t, dropping your eyes instead to your hands where your fingers twist the edge of your sleeve.

“You’re afraid of what he thinks.” 

You flinch at that, breath catching. “I am.”

You’ve spent only a little time with him, but there is a kinship there among omegas that you feel drawn to. Something about the way he doesn’t treat you like you’re something delicate. 

And you’d brought the whip down on him as surely as Velkar did. You’d failed to break when you were told to, and Jeonghan had paid in blood for it.

“He doesn’t hate you,” he says. “If that’s what you’re afraid of.”

You look at him then, the ache in your chest cracking just enough to let the warmth in. Seokmin gives you that same patient smile, a flicker of light in the suffocating dark.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For… a lot of things. Thank you.”

He hums, resting his head on the back of the wall. For now, just not being alone is enough.

-

It’s late when Jeonghan comes to you. You hear the soft creak of your door, the hush of feet against stone. You’re propped up against your pillows, the bowl Seokmin brought long since cleaned and abandoned at the foot of the bed.

He’s dressed down, just simple linen, sleeves rolled, the healing lashes at his back hidden but not forgotten. There’s still a faint shadow of fatigue in the hollow of his eyes, but the smile he gives you is warm enough to ease the knot in your chest.

“Come on,” he says, not bothering with pleasantries. He flicks his fingers at you like he’s shooing a cat off a windowsill. “Up. You’re coming with me.”

You blink at him. “Where?”

“Up.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He tilts his head, grin sharp. “It’s the only one you’re getting. Move it, your majesty.”

You want to argue, but something in his eyes makes you swing your legs over the side of the bed anyway. You follow him through the quiet halls, pulse quickening when you realize where he’s leading you: the washroom. The memory of steam and lavender clings to the stones as you step inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

You freeze when he moves to the corner - that corner. The low bench is gone, pushed aside like an afterthought. You try to school your face into something neutral when his hand presses against the hidden seam in the stone.

“Don’t bother,” he snorts with a low laugh. “Vernon told me about your little adventure. He seemed quite impressed, actually.” 

You bristle, but before you can defend yourself, he’s pushing the door open with a soft groan of old stone. He gestures grandly. “After you, my brave little ghost.”

Jeonghan follows after you as you step through. He pulls the door shut and douses you in darkness until you hear the striking of flint and see sparks. A torch roars to light, the flame flickering shadows across the jagged walls. 

You keep your hand near the wall out of habit, but you don’t need it. Jeonghan walks ahead of you, torch held high. You wind through the narrow passage for what feels like hours. You’re deeper than before, the air growing older and heavier.

Eventually, the stone opens up, the narrow crawl space blooming into something vast and cavernous. The torchlight dancings over carved archways, ancient stone slabs line in neat rows. 

Sucking in a breath, you look around you. There are rows upon rows of old bones sealed behind heavy stones, some so old they’re nearly part of the walls themselves. Faded runes dance in the flicker of the torch. This place is older than the Divine. Older than your kingdom. 

Jeonghan stands beside you, torch high. “Do you know what this place is?”

“Catacombs?”

“Of an ancient kingdom. Do you know why the Divine built her kingdom on this mountain specifically?” You shake your head. “Because the mountain remembers. And she needs it.”

“What do you mean?”

“This mountain belonged to an ancient sect of omegas. Wives to kings, yes, but also judges, singers, warriors in their own right. They perfected something - a power in the voice. A way to command wolves and bend them with nothing but a word. A frequency only omegas can pitch to.”

You stare at him. “The Call.”

“I had a feeling you knew what it was.”

“I thought Valen’s ancestors developed it.” 

He lifts a shoulder. “That’s not inaccurate, in a way,” he says. “Sirya made the discovery on her own and named it the Call. What the ancient sect called it was the Bloodsong. They believed they spoke to the blood of wolves, that they had been led to the power by the Goddess of the Bloodmoon, Selyne.”

“They hid here when the old kingdoms turned on them. When the first alphas rose to oppose them, that’s what they called the age of the Iron Reign, the reign when wolf-kings carved up the wilds and named themselves gods. They feared the Bloodsong. So they buried it.”

Your mouth goes dry. The age of the Iron Reign was something you learned about with your tutors. A world when power shifted like tectonic stone, wolves testing who could rule whom. But no one ever said the omegas once held that kind of power.

“They buried it,” you echo, and your voice feels too small in the hush of ancient bones.

“Until Siyra, your ancestor.” Jeonghan smiles, but it’s grim. “She learned it herself, though. Without the fanatic worship of Selyne. Led people to rebel against the alphas and break up the long era of their solitary rule. Your great-great-whatever she was is the reason this continent had diverse kingdoms.”

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s reading a map in your bones. “The Divine does not acknowledge Siyra. I think that’s why it took her so many years to come after Valen. She was afraid of your bloodline. But…”

“We didn’t do anything.” The words are poison in your mouth. “We let other kingdoms burn and we waited. Because we didn’t think the threat was real and because we just…”

Your words die off. It feels like a failure, when you phrase it that way. 

“Most make that mistake. It’s no fault of the kingdoms - she has plants in almost every city, town and kingdom on the continent that make her seem harmless until she’s knocking at the door.”

“Still.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Jeonghan murmurs, touching your wrist briefly. “She was coming for you either way. She wanted access to your knowledge and libraries to understand why she’s losing her control over the Call. Why it doesn’t always work.”

“Why?” you rasp. “Why is she losing it?”

“Because her knowledge of it is incomplete. She has scoured this mountain and found nothing, but she continues to dig and search. She thinks perhaps she’ll find her answers in your library. And she’s running out of time - her power is already weakening on particularly stubborn wolves.”

“Seungcheol.”

“Mhmm.”

A chill scrapes down your spine. “She was a child of nothing, you said. How did she find out about the Call? Or Bloodsong, I guess as she calls it.”

“She was born in the gutter of the North Warren. Property of the old warlords who ruled those backwater wastes. They collared her because she was an omega with too much bite. Shackled her young.”

It feels eerie, hearing her story is so similar to your reality now. It unsettles you, making you shift from foot to foot. 

“When she found scraps of the Bloodsong in old songs and half-mad scribbles, she started testing it on those who held her collar.” Jeonghan stares into the vast darkness of the catacombs. “She taught the other omegas around her. Told them that Selyne was working through them once more, like she found hinted at in old texts.”

“She believes that?”

“Down to the marrow. She thinks she’s Selyne’s chosen voice. Her high priestess. Her living blade. And the worst part?” He lowers the torch just enough to look you square in the eyes. “She’s half-right. A lie repeated long enough becomes truth. Power worshiped long enough becomes divine.”

The hush presses in, the bones around you feeling closer, heavier, like they’re listening too.

“And you,” Jeonghan says, his tone threading soft through the dark, “you're the old blood. The line Sirya left behind.”

“I can’t use the Call,” you tell him, seeing where this conversation is going. “I know of it and… I have a working theoretical knowledge. I’ve never had to learn to use it because it’s not meant to shackle, it’s meant to free.”

Jeonghan hums at that, a low, knowing sound that vibrates through the hush of the catacombs. He tips the torch higher, so the shadows leap up the bones sealed in the stone, like the dead might lean closer to listen.

“That’s what you believe,” he says, voice gentle.

“Sirya taught-”

“Sirya taught your line to wield it wisely or not at all.” Jeonghan’s smile is sad and sharp all at once. “But power is not inherently good or bad. Power is power, it has a cause and effect.”

“I don’t know how to use it, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan’s eyes gleam in the flickering torchlight. “Don’t you? The other night when you and Seungcheol were fighting after the Sanctum, what did you tell him?” You frown, unsure. It’s a blurry mess of anger and emotion. “You told him to shut up. And you did it with the Call.”

Your mouth goes dry. You remember the heat of it, the sharp taste of your rage. The way Seungcheol’s mouth had snapped shut. How he’d gone rigid, cold fury giving way to something stiff and unreadable.

Jeonghan steps closer, the torch flickering between you like a third heart. “You told him to shut up, and your voice made him do it. He couldn’t move for a heartbeat. Couldn’t even breathe.”

“I thought he was just… frustrated.”

“You do frustrate him. Gods above knows you’re going to give him grey fur. He’s a commander, a Lysium wolf trained to break his enemies in half. But you made him go rigid in a way the Divine was never able to.”

It lands cold and heavy in your chest. The memory of that moment replays now under Jeonghan’s torchlight. Seungcheol going taut, his frame rippling with tension and anger. 

“It’s there,” Jeonghan says again, softer now. “You’ve only brushed the edge of it, but it’s there. Sirya’s voice. You could break the collar she’s built around our necks. If you choose to.”

Your pulse thunders in your throat. You feel every bone in the catacomb around you, every echo of old queens who refused to kneel. “I want to, but I don’t know how.”

Jeonghan’s grin is feral. “Then learn, Wildheart.”

The nickname makes you look up at him. It’s new. Different. You think you like it. Jeonghan’s eyes are fathomless, flickering pools of fire. Your heart skips a beat as he looks at you - really looks at you - and sees something powerful.

-

The morning after Jeonghan shows you the catacombs, you decide to return to training. You feel anxiety coil low in your gut at the thought of seeing Soonyoung. The memory of him that night in the Sanctum haunts you. The way he held them down, eyes cold, the way he looked right through you while the whip cracked and blood splattered. You hate him for it. 

But you still listen for his laugh echoing down the hall. You expect to see him in the training area, shooting some smug comment in your direction when you join late. He doesn’t come.

Instead, Vernon appears in the doorway like a shadow. His hair is damp, sleeves rolled back, eyes blank as riverstone when they catch yours. No greeting. No smirk. Just that cold, unreadable stare that makes you straighten despite the ache dragging at your bones.

Chan shuffles in behind him, yawning, rubbing at his jaw. He looks at you once, then at Vernon, something passes between them that you can’t catch. 

“Decided to come back?” Chan asks. There’s no jest in his question. He means it, like he was worried you weren’t going to train with him anymore. 

Instead of answering, you ask, “Where’s Soonyoung?”

“Not here.”

Your chest tightens with something you can’t place. Instead of asking more questions, you step into the ring and roll your shoulders. Chan and Vernon join you - Chan shirtless as usual, Vernon in all black. 

Silence stretches between the three of you as you go through your stretches and poses. It feels good, the burn in your muscles distracting you from the whirlwind of thoughts in your brain. You try not to think of the night in the Sanctum. The Bloodsong. The Call. Everything Jeonghan had told you the night before.

Your arms tremble as you push up into a handstand, feet teetering, almost losing balance. You hold the pose, pointing your toes toward the ceiling and squeezing your thighs together to keep in position before you slowly kick back down. 

Finished with your pre-spar ritual, you shake any remaining tension from your shoulders and turn to Chan, expecting to go through a series of sparring matches with him like usual. Vernon cuts that expectation clean out of you. He points at Chan and makes a sound before flicking his fingers to the weapons rack and dummies. 

The young alpha sighs, nodding under the beta’s sharp instruction. You raise your brows, watching as Chan dismisses himself to practice swordcraft on the straw dummies. 

Vernon steps into the sparring ring. He tosses you a dagger about the length of your forearm. It’s not heavy and the edges are dulled, the point blunt. It’s not enough to stab or cut, but it would break bones, used correctly.

 “You’ll fight with me,” Vernon says curtly. 

Vernon takes his stance. He doesn’t warn you. Doesn’t speak at all. He only lunges, and the lesson begins.

Knife training is nothing like the wrestling and sparring with Chan’s brute force or with Soonyoung’s careful instruction. Vernon is all precision. All edges. He moves like the blade itself, cutting you down to nothing, leaving no space for mistakes.

Though you’re better at this than hand to hand, Vernon drives you back step by step, iron flashing in the dim light. When you stumble, he doesn’t pause. When you flinch at the near kiss of the dulled point at your ribs, he shoves you harder. When you sneak past his guard and catch him a single time, he doesn’t seem bothered. 

He says nothing. Not a single word. His eyes follow your feet, your grip, your breathing. Every mistake you make is answered with a bruising correction. If you drop the knife, he kicks it back in your direction. If you stumble, he waits for you to stand again.

Sweat runs down your spine. Your lungs burn. Your palms sting where iron bites when your grip slips. You know he’s holding back, and it only makes it worse. 

When you manage to slip past his guard again, you feel a surge of pride. He gives you nothing. Not a nod of encouragement, not a cheer of satisfaction like Soonyoung would. He just pivots and grabs you by the shoulder, sending you crashing to the dirt so hard your breath rattles out of you.

You lie there for a moment, gasping at the cracked ceiling, the knife heavy in your palm where it rests against your stomach. You can feel Vernon waiting for you to get up, his shadow looming and cold. 

When you finally roll to your side, pushing yourself upright, you see Jeonghan perched on the bench along the wall. He’s been there for a while, you realize, he and Chan both quiet and watchful. He catches you watching and gives you a tiny nod of encouragement, eyes flicking to where Vernon waits. 

You push yourself to your feet, knife gripped tight. Vernon steps forward, silent and unforgiving. He circles you like a wolf, not like Chan when he’s restless or buzzing with energy, but something colder. An unyield gravity that pulls every scrap of your focus toward the blade in his hand. 

Tightening your grip on your knife, you try to focus. You don’t want to think about the differences between Vernon and Chan or worse - Vernon and Soonyoung. Because thinking of Soonyoung only makes you wonder where he is, and thinking where he is makes you remember the intimate way the Divine had run her fingers through his hair. 

Vernon lunges but you’re ready. You duck his shoulder and pivot your hips, sliding under the arc of his arm. The dull iron skims your shoulder, but you twist, driving your own knife up and catching him under the rips. With a blunt tip, it’s just a hard tap. With a real knife, it would be a damaging blow.

For a heartbeat, you think maybe he’ll react, a grin, a smirk - anything. His eyes just flick down to where your blade would have bitten him if it were real, then he moves faster than before. 

With a blink, you feel your blade knocked from your hand. It clatters loudly on the stone, skidding into the shades. Vernon’s knife is at your throat, his eyes unreadable as you pant, pulse drumming in your neck. 

You brace for a cutting remark. Instead, he steps back just enough to study you. He drinks in your stance, your breathing, your raw palms. 

“Your weight is too far forward on your lead foot,” Vernon finally says, his voice soft. “It makes it easy to topple you. Your elbow also flares when you come up to stab under my ribs. That’s why it’s easy to slip inside your guard.”

He gestures, elbow lifting to high when he executes a cutting move. He drops his hand and bends to pick up your abandoned knife, holding it out to you. “Fix it. I’ll see you tonight.”

He steps back, blade vanishing into his palm like a shadow. Then he’s gone, striding out of the ring and out of the training room. You stand there, confused and staring, knife heavy and warm in your raw hand. 

“Welcome to knife training with Vernon,” Jeonghan calls from the bench. “You’ll get used to it. He might not have said it, but you’re better than most of us with a knife.” 

Chan slides off the bench where he’d been half-lounging during the spar, coming closer with that curious tilt to his head. He nods at the knife in your hand, brows lifted. “What kind of training did you have?”

“We trained with blades early. Always.” You flip the knife in your hand. “Single-hand fighting isn’t my best skill. We fight two handed. We prefer a sword and a blade to follow instead of the sword and shield like the south.”

You don’t know why you say it so plainly. Maybe because Jeonghan’s sharp eyes and Chan’s wolfish grin scrape at the loneliness in your ribs. The way they listen is sharp and whole, like they actually want to know the shape of you before all this.

“Not that it mattered much when the Divine came,” you add, softer, your thumb brushing the dull blade’s edge. “A whole courtyard of our best didn’t stand a chance when the Divine sent her hounds.”

“It wasn’t easy.” You glance at Chan. He’s hesitant, like he doesn’t want to say this. “Valen was small, but the Divine lost more than she anticipated. Your people were fierce - are fierce. You are a better fighter than most people in this mountain. It might not feel that way with us, but consider we are also some of the best fighters in this mountain.” 

“Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I think it does.”

“Is he always like that?” you ask, trying to push the conversation off you, off Valen and its blood-slicked stones. “Vernon?”

Jeonghan’s smile is sharp and soft at once. “He values practical and direct training.” He rises, coming to stand by you, brushing his knuckles against your shoulder. You fight a shiver. “But you’ll thank him for it, trust me. He’s funnier when you get to know him and he opens up.”

Chan laughs. “He’s an ass when you get to know him. Maybe stay strangers to protect yourself.”

You spend the rest of the afternoon in the far corner of the training ring, away from the warmth of the hearth where Jeonghan and Chan have drifted back to their own bickering and lounging. The iron knife Vernon left you feels heavier the longer you hold it. 

Each one of the corrections he gave you repeats over and over in your head: your elbow lifts too high. You lean too much on your lead foot. 

So you practice. Again and again. You shift your stance and try to pivot your weight, paying extra attention to your foot as you slash at the air. The dirt floor scuffs under your boots. Sweat beads along your hairline and drips down your neck. 

You’re so locked into the rhythm of your training that you don’t hear Seokmin until he’s there, settling down cross-legged a few feet away. You pause mid-strike when you smell the lavender, turning to look at him. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you with gentle fascination. 

Finally, you lower the knife. “You’re making me nervous.”

He laughs, soft and warm. “Just checking you still have all your fingers.” He lifts his own and wiggles them for emphasis. “Thankfully he seems to have given you a practice blade.”

“I have a suspicion no one wants me around real ones.”

“Mmm I think we feel a little safe, now. Has anyone barred you from the weapons rack?”

“... no.”

“Plus, I hear Soonyoung gave you a knife.”

That makes you hesitate. Finally, you ask, “Where is Soonyoung?” 

The question hangs in the cold air like a blade unsheathed. Seokmin’s easy smile falters, flickering like a candle in the draft. “He’s away. He’ll be back.”

“That’s not what I asked. You know what I mean - you always know what I mean.”

“I know, but sometimes you don’t get to have all of the answers just because you want them, Wildheart.”

The nickname gives you pause. It’s only the second time you’ve heard it, but it ignites something warm in you. “When did you all start calling me that? Jeonghan used it earlier.”

Seokmin’s grin returns. “It was Seungcheol, actually. The first time we heard it was from him. He called you that when he told us about the way you fought back in Valen.”

That surprises you. Of all of the wolves in this pack to give you a nickname, you’d have picked him dead last. You were sure he saw you as a burden or as a threat to his pack, but there’s a warmth in that word you don't know what to do with.

“I see.”

“Focus on your knife work,” he says, quiet but firm. “Don’t let me distract you. Otherwise Vernon is going to terrorize you tonight. He will expect whatever corrections he gave you to be perfected.” 

And that’s all he gives you. He stays for a little while longer, a silent shape beside you on the dirt floor. When he finally rises, he leaves you with a soft smile that you can’t help but return. 

[aliendes]

#id do anything for a pinch of good luck right now

[aliendes]

ghost ride | part six. (m)

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 27k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: OKAY i know i have said this abt every gee dee chapter BUT THIS IS ACTUALLY ONE OF MY FAVES bc the lore gets even deeper! can't freakin believe this fic ends next week 😭

LET'S NOT THINK ABT THAT!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

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additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

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leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

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VERNON. 16.

It was after school. Vernon had wandered off the property by crossing the athletic yard, paying a brisk notice toward the group of boys dressed in royal blue jerseys, the material glimmering water-like under the sun. Some were sat amongst the grass, tying on cleats, while others bounced a ball up into the air using the edge of their foot, cawing at how many bumps they achieved until losing control.

A boy noticed him from across the field. His arm moved, like he wanted to wave at Vernon, but then he was pulled away toward the goal post and shoved to stand in its centre.

Vernon had made team tryouts in the fall. But he was removed less than two months later for 'poor academic standing' and defiant behaviour. He had also shoved another boy’s cheek into the dirt for looking through his knapsack, an arm pinned behind the boy's back as he squirmed underneath Vernon’s knee like a pinched worm.

“Now that you’ve lost this opportunity, maybe it’ll get you to think a little more about your actions, Mr. Chwe.” His principal was sat across from him, separated by a massive desk that smelled strongly of stained mahogany. A smell Vernon knew more than any other boy.

A thin, graceful hand landed on Vernon’s shoulder. “He will, sir.”

But it was all down the drain. He cared very little about losing his place on the team, and even less about the rehearsed sigh that his mother would perform on her umpteenth invite to the school, trying her hardest to convince everyone that she was still very upset and disappointed in her misfit son, when she was probably beyond a point of caring, too. She only cared about her paints, and going home to feed toddler Sofia cheese sandwiches cookie-cut into star shapes.

After crossing the athletic field, Vernon travelled down the trodden path between a picket fence and the trampled woods, the ground indented and worn from the numerous steps of high school students.

He adjusted his backpack—nearly empty, apart from one binder and a thin pencil case that carried wax gum wrappers and loose change more than school supplies—such that it pressed against his belly. Unfocused on the path, he zipped open his bag, reaching down to grab a thin box stuck underneath his Civics binder. Once he had the box, he maneuvered the bag back to thumping loosely at his tailbone.

But then someone bumped him.

A girl, wide-eyed, pulling off the cheap-looking headset she was wearing to pause her iPod. “Sorry!” She mollified, her cheeks red.

Vernon didn’t say anything, just pushed past the girl despite his unfair caprice to tell her she should watch where she was going. His brows thickly downcast, inexorable in anger, his twitchy lips finding themselves curled back like a teased mutt. Hurriedly, he unsheathed a cigarette from the box, let it hang from the corner of his mouth while he patted out the lighter in his pants pocket. With a few annoyed, vigourous flicks, the cigarette was lit, and he took a long drag, blowing out the fumes into a poisonous, dead cloud.

He had stopped going straight home over a year ago.

Instead, he would waste his time by wandering around town, finding new alleyways and avenues to peruse. Some shops had enticing displays, such as the one with the wicked bicycle, sparkling red, durable wheels, and a fancy, professional break on the handlebar. Not like his old bike, which had grown its own biome of rust after his father kept forgetting to help him fix it up. A summer project continuously postponed until Vernon wondered if he should just toss the bicycle away to test if his father even noticed its absence.

Other shop displays had fine-crafted jewelry. Vernon quite liked watches. The braided, heavy kinds that were for monetary show as opposed to practicality. He frequently imagined himself with a golden watch, not too flashy such that it became cheap, but had just enough spark to make people notice. For quite a while, Vernon pondered stealing. A watch was too ambitious, however, especially from an opulent jewelry store who were used to thieves and scruffy sixteen-year-old boys with oddly empty backpacks.

Then there was the bakery.

The older high schoolers who had privilege to leave school grounds during lunch or spare periods spoke of coming there, gave high praise to their sandwiches of thick, cloudy bread and their signature chocolate chip cookies that were almost too large to finish.

Vernon was old enough to have such a privilege, although it was another opportunity taken away in consequence to his behaviour.

Upon tossing the cigarette onto the street, Vernon shouldered into the bakery, which cued the pealing of a pleasant bell. An older man stood behind the counter wearing a white apron and a hairnet, the surface before him powdered with flour. He was pressing a circular-shaped cutter into a sheet of raw dough—perhaps biscuits—sliding each one onto a parchment-lined baking sheet. He acknowledged Vernon with a slight nod, and Vernon nodded back.

The aisles were few and short. Bagged bread, tortillas, muffins, croissants, puffed buns, and other packaged, baked goods lined him on either side. Something stirred in his stomach. He had nothing but nickels and pennies picked up off the school floors. The air inside was warm, but not sticky, and he felt the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan tickle the dark hairs on his head, meanwhile fluffing through the air the faint scent of yeast frothing in warm water.

Vernon lurked near the aisle’s end, away from the baker. He focused on a tiny plastic container of four biscuits with piped cream and jam in between. When he wasn’t removed from hospitality for eating the food, they made a similar dessert, but with chocolate instead.

He glanced around quick. No one.

The box was tiny and could easily slide into his bag. But it might make noise. It was the kind of thin, sharp plastic that hated being touched.

Maybe he could just hide it against his leg, away from the baker, so he couldn’t see what he was holding. Vernon knew he was overthinking and drawing suspicion. So he grabbed the box and walked perhaps a little too briskly toward the entrance, waving at the baker, somewhat afraid the doors might lock and some alarm would start shrieking and he would be captured inside, forced to confess and then work off the cost of the biscuits. But he felt the door give way, opening into relief and late-afternoon sunlight.

Vernon almost yelped in ebullience. His first theft. Low-hanging fruit, he knew, but it proved he was capable, slippery like liquid. He hustled down a short alley beside the bakery, no longer hiding the biscuits.

“You pay for that?”

He stopped. The ashy, suffusing scent of a smoked cigarette reached his nose, and Vernon suspected he might just get his ass handed to him for stealing strawberry cream biscuits. He looked. A heavy, faded green door with a doodle of indiscernible graffiti. Leaned beside it, a boy dressed in a dark blue apron scattered with powders. He was older than Vernon—he could tell—from the myriad of tattoos along his arms, which had more muscle and thickness and corded veins than Vernon’s did. The alley was silent as Vernon's mind floundered.

But the boy didn’t repeat his question.

His eyes were deep and dark, like wood rubbed with oil, and something about the stillness kept Vernon speared in place.

Vernon realized he was feeling a hotness—shame and embarrassment for his failure. But he would not let the stranger understand this—this taller, harder, relaxed stranger with his mature tattoos and his pierced dimple.

Vernon shrugged. “No, I didn’t. Gonna call the cops?”

“Those are five bucks. You don’t have five bucks?”

“Well—I just stole. Why the fuck would I have five bucks?” He almost wanted to ask if the stranger was stupid, but clamped his tongue.

“You look about sixteen. No job.” It wasn’t a question. He stated it with an evidentiary tone, like it was more obvious than the earth. Cigarette smoke had then curled out from his mouth, very slowly, almost chicly, like he was bending it. Like he knew how cool he was.

Vernon bristled. “And who the fuck are you? Social services?”

“I can give you five dollars. Go back in and pay for it.”

He scoffed, totally aghast by this bothersome stranger and his holier-than-thou audacity. Vernon bared his teeth. Couldn’t find the words.

The stranger stuck the cigarette behind his ear. Then, he proceeded to reach into his back pocket, pulling out a simple leather wallet with some weathered cracks and a sticker of a jewelled red cross. “You’re not a usual,” he said, sifting through a slim pocket filled with paper bills. “They come around at lunch. Loud and laughing. Buy sandwiches and juice. They don’t let you out, huh? What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” Vernon nearly growled when he spoke, making sure to sound out the word slower than usual because if he didn’t then that twang—that conglomerated singularity of a travelled boy who never found his home—would soak his voice and that might give the stranger more ammunition to fire. “You don’t know me.”

“Here,” he stuck out a five-dollar bill.

“Shove it up your ass, Jesus. I don’t need your charity.”

“You’re very funny,” he pointed out with warmth.

Vernon froze, his grip tightening around the plastic box of biscuits such that it crackled. The stranger was smiling at him politely. Now closer, too, standing in the fluid of sunlight, Vernon saw that the bronze skin of his face—especially around his nose and underneath his eyes—was scattered with freckles. The fibres of his hair were long, thick and lustrous, appearing dark brown but flashing with more reddish shimmers under the sun. Girls must love him. That must be why so many rushed there during lunch.

He didn’t thank him. “I don’t want the money.”

“Not really for you. For my boss.”

“Then you give it to him.”

“Why would I cover for your shame and dishonesty?” He laughed.

Vernon shrank, packing into himself. For some reason, it hurt to hear this young man, almost his age, suave and collected, poke his feelings, more than his own parents, his school principal. He wanted to snap and sneer at him like a wounded dog backed into a corner.

“Y’know what?” Vernon grumbled. “Take this shit.” He shoved the desserts at the stranger. “You’re weird and this isn’t worth it.”

Looking down at the biscuits, the stranger nodded satisfactorily, and then made his way toward a few stacked crates beside the door. He put his wallet away and sat down. Popped open the box. Picked up a strawberry cream biscuit and ate it. “Good. Made this morning.”

And Vernon almost screamed, fists crumpled, on fire.

The stranger licked some jam off his thumb.

Vernon charged up to him. “You’re a fuckin’ twat.”

He was unbothered at the teenager with splotchy skin and wires along his teeth seething in his face. “You have a very colourful language. I’m sure your great at English. Essays and that.”

Whatever guise of decorum Vernon had left—it was bare particles in his hands now—dust and imagination. Even if this stranger could physically best him in the most humiliating way, Vernon was too emboldened by insecurity and its underbelly of rage. His fingers lurched through the boy’s white shirt collar. He could smell the vanilla flavouring, the sugar and egg whites of a whipped meringue, cloves and nutmeg, all over his skin and clothes. But the cigarette, still burning above his ear, tainted all that sweetness. That was the stranger. A mask. Something Vernon knew.

“I’ll beat the fuck outta you,” Vernon huffed.

But it became an empty, pale husk of a threat.

“Hey!” Someone shouted, grabbing Vernon’s shoulder and lugging him away from the composed stranger. “What the fuck’s all this?”

Vernon stumbled. There was something being pointed at him, but his eyesight had gone momentarily blurry. All Vernon knew was that the object was a dull colour, with a skinny-kinked shape. His heart nearly flatlined when everything reoriented itself and he saw the object was a gun, clasped in one straight-shooting hand of a teenage boy with frumpy, loose brown hair and hollowed out, sunken eyes that made him look like a porcelain doll left out in the rain. He wore a blue apron, too. But it seemed fresh. No stains of any kind.

Without thought, Vernon’s hands flew up.

The stranger shook his head, setting his desserts aside, and spoke in a plain, undisturbed tone that suggested this was nothing new. “Not necessary. I’ll have it back, Danny. Before someone sees, alright?” And then the weapon was forfeited from the newcomer's hand. The freckled stranger tucked the gun somewhere behind his back, in a place unknown and sightless to Vernon. “Go inside and clock-in so he knows you’re here. You’ve been late too many times.”

He lingered. “Who the fuck is that?”

“A kid.”

Even though he was terrified of what the situation had morphed into, his battered ego urged him to correct the stranger. Vernon was certainly not a kid, and it was insulting to be called such when he was likely no less than two or three years younger than these teenagers.

Despite the drained nature of the friend’s hooded eyes, there was a metallic sharpness about them, scraping across Vernon like a wild cat's claw as he began leaving the alleyway, even keeping his head turned to maintain the intense contact until disappearing around the corner.

“Sorry,” the stranger sighed, “bad timing, bad luck. I needed the gun back, for obvious reasons. He’s just loyal, is all. A good friend.”

“I don’t care,” Vernon laughed churlishly, throwing up his hands. “I’m goin’. Whatever. You're fucked up. Keep your cookies.”

His march down the alley was notably hasty. When Vernon finally emerged onto the street, the sky was dense with clouds and the haloing light from before had been snuffed into a greyness. Just as he felt inside. Vernon was not a kid. But he was certainly not whatever those teenagers were, either. The one with the brown dots all over his face—Vernon would not forget him. Maybe there was no mask. Maybe it was just too chilling to realize that people with his unshaken sense walked the same roads as he did.

Just a little bit, Vernon suddenly wanted to be him.

VERNON. 18.

He spent most of his time in a house that wasn’t his. Consistently, the spaces filled with strangers. There were voices he could not recognize, vibrating through the walls, and colognes and perfumes that were foreign to his nose, lingering behind like energy. Very rarely was there ever a moment of quiet. Action popped loose at any time. He wasn’t allowed to sit by the windows. The curtains were never allowed open. Only recently was he allowed to enter the basement without having someone else escort him. If he saw that the doors to the kitchen were closed, then he was better off not entering. He could always smell the acridness. Like degrading plastic caught underneath a burner. Vernon had tried a lot. But never that.

Dots wouldn’t condone it.

Vernon came by the house in the afternoon. It was early September, and so the mornings were rife with freshness. He had taken the Light Rail. It was crammed with university students. Pressed against the wall, Vernon hadn’t had much space to move, and the girl who got on the train at the same time as him had only gotten more and more squished into his body. He could smell her fruity shampoo, peered at the textbook she was holding from over her shoulder.

The Art of Music in Film-Making. 8th Edition.

He had stared at her head, and inside, Vernon couldn’t understand if he was envious or angry. Students exploded out from the train once it hit the university, like a plastic bag filled with water, now punctured and bursting. The girl glanced sideways at Vernon as she was getting off. He wanted to scowl at her, say, “what? It’s not my fuckin’ fault we were trapped against each other for fifteen minutes.” But he didn’t. Maybe she had been wondering if he might get off, too, only for the Light Rail to whisk him away in a smooth bullet.

For once, the house wasn’t crawling with people. A few. But not an onslaught. Vernon had entered through the back door—one of the two leading into the kitchen—as it was already propped open by a dented tin bucket with a brick sitting inside. Two older men sat at the dining table, flicking cards onto the crinkly plastic sheet thrown overtop its surface. With the back door open, the air inside lacked its usual heaviness and potency.

“Hey,” Vernon sighed. “I’m makin’ a deposit.”

One of them removed his cigarette, tapped off its ashes into a tray, and proceeded to point his finger in the direction of the living room.

“He’s asleep,” the other man said.

“No, he’s not. He was walking around. I saw him.”

Vernon shrugged. “It’s fine. I just need the key.”

Wandering into the living room, Vernon stopped short of trekking his sneakers onto the carpeting. Nobody else seemed to care about it but him. The two armchairs were sunken yet empty, and the couch wasn’t laboured with a slumped-over bod slurried in drunkenness or euphoria. Fierce sunlight pushed against the closed emerald curtains, and the space was flooded with the sheerness of glowing green.

“Vernon?”

He looked to the staircase. Snozz was hobbling down.

“Uh, hey. Is Dotsy here?”

“No. Business.” That was what everybody said when they were tending to something serious but not serious enough that it needed to be said. Snozz sighed aloud harshly while he stepped onto the floor, and Vernon thought his expression was coiled like wire, as though he were in pain. “What’s the sitch? Are you depositing?”

“Yeah.”

“M’kay.”

He followed Snozz around the staircase.

The boy’s movements were stiffened and listless. Vernon could hear his breathing. Snozz was always having some sort of health problem. Vernon wanted to ask—maybe his asthma was acting up again—but Snozz didn’t talk much. For the most part, he was plain and distant, not speaking unless spoken to, and had the most removed eyes, though they were usually covered by his tufted, chestnut fringe, like he knew and didn’t want anybody pitying him.

After Snozz unlocked the basement door, he handed Vernon a different key that was much smaller. A shiny silver. Vernon then stepped down into the cool basement of the house, to which he could smell the moistness and soil that the forest breathed. No one was allowed to dawdle in the basement. Everything was done quickly. Vernon pushed aside the wooden shelf against the wall, uncovering a square cut into the cement, filled by compact, box-shaped lockers. He opened his, marked by a three-digit number, proceeding to leave inside the money he had just removed from his backpack. Vernon closed up the locker, moved the shelf back, and returned the miniature key to Snozz who was waiting upstairs.

“When is Dots comin’ by?” Vernon asked.

“Sometime tonight. You can wait here if you want.”

“Alright. Thanks. City’s crawlin’ with uni kids. Train was fuckin’ ridiculous. I need a better way of comin’ here, man. A damn car.”

Snozz smiled very loosely at Vernon. “Ask Dots.”

The longer Vernon waited at the house, the more people gradually came and left, flipping past like book pages in a breeze. Some stayed. Sharla, for instance. She was older than Vernon. Twenty-one. An advanced university student who would begin writing her thesis that year, as Vernon had learned through their numerous conversations. She had two younger siblings that often came to the house with her: a nineteen-year-old brother with vitiligo, and a quiet sister who was Vernon’s age. He had spoken to Sharla’s brother before. He was louder, with an energy that could easily engulf a room, talking about almost anything like he was some sort of expert when in reality he only read a few sentences from an article and then a commenter’s critique. “You had to pay for the full thing! Imagine fucking cock-blocking words! How do people get away with that shit?”

It always made Vernon laugh. He enjoyed being around him.

“Call me Moo!” But his real name was August.

Their sister on the other hand, Jade, was small and reticent. She didn’t like coming inside, would rather sit at the glass table on the back patio and do her homework in the shade.

Consequently, Vernon never really talked to her.

He knew Sharla the best out of the siblings. He liked her intelligence; the way she spoke was lentamente and smooth with confidence, and there was an expressional grace in her gentle hand motions. Every now and again she would stop Moo in his blathering, make a thoughtful correction that seemed so obvious even though it was deeply rooted into readings Vernon wouldn’t even know where to find. He would always watch her heart-shaped lips when she spoke, shining with gloss. And when she was distracted, he might have spent a few seconds staring at her chest and how nicely those rounded, low-cut tops framed her body. The black wig she wore was gleaming with expense, reaching down to her waist, scented with hibiscus and something else lush, perfumy, just like her dark skin.

Vernon did know her well.

They had sex for the first time last month.

“I went to the mechanic without Daddy yesterday. You should have heard the way they spoke to me. It was terrible. They would never speak to me like that if Daddy were there, obviously. There was another woman working on an engine or something across the room. She had a very sympathetic look. She wouldn’t let them try to sell me a new air-filter. The oil valve was the problem!”

Vernon nodded along; his face looped in a soft, lost smile. Sharla paused, looking to him expectantly, searching for a response that proved he was listening and not caught in a reverie.

He immediately straightened up, pulling his elbow off the back of the couch. “I’d be a mechanic.”

“Would you?” She laughed in the most heavenly way a person could laugh. “I suppose I could see you doing that…”

“You know I don’t mind gettin’ my hands dirty.”

Sharla shoved his chest and smiled. “Be polite,” she lilted in warning, though a sparkle had jumped through her eyes like a shooting star.

“What’re you up to this Saturday?”

“I don’t know… what are you up to?” With her head rested against a thoughtfully poised fist, and her lips flitting up at the edges, she was already beginning to draw Vernon in.

He could devour her right there on the couch.

But he merely smirked. “Up on you, potentially.”

She had a small black purse sitting on her lap, textured with glazed, faux alligator print. From inside, something started to ring. Sharla rummaged for her phone. “We’ll see,” she acknowledged with an effortless wink, taking the phone to answer privately somewhere upstairs.

Vernon threw himself into a starfish on the couch once she had left, groaning aloud, smelling the juicy, floral tinges of her perfume drift through the air, leaving him frustrated. He wondered if Dots was back yet, even though he hadn’t heard any noise from the driveway.

Sometimes he would be too absorbed talking to Sharla to notice anything. Vernon wandered into the empty kitchen. He approached the back door to the patio, pulled aside the square lace covering the window. Jade was there, at the glass table, a notebook open in front of her scrawled with text Vernon couldn’t read alongside an awfully thick book. Sat beside her was Dots. Leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, seemingly listening intently to something Jade was explaining. Vernon cracked the door open slightly.

“—I don’t mind her as a professor. She explains things well. But she’s kinda old fashioned and uses a chalkboard. And then she’ll erase something as I’m trying to write it down!” Jade laughed into a hand covering her mouth. “It’s mostly review of pre-calculus right now.”

“Are you nervous?” Dots asked her.

Jade paused, taking a moment to glance down at her lap, and then at her notebook, and finally she looked at him. “Yeah. Calc is so hard.”

“It is. But I know you’re smart. And resourceful,” he told her with a tone full of warmth, the kind that was nourishing and sincere.

Vernon wondered when he had come back. And for how long he had been sitting outside, talking to Jade. Nobody in the house really conversed with her apart from a few words, sensing that she probably shouldn’t be there, but was courted along by her sister as she was her usual ride. Dots talked to her. Typically about her school. Her future. Her plans. Her friends. Her life. Sometimes Vernon listened in secret. Her issues were so ordinary that he wondered how they could even be considered issues.

“It’s just hard ‘cause… you know… Sharla is the intelligent, pretty one who makes Daddy proud. Auggie has his humour. And he knows how to hustle,” Jade explained her musings, letting her pencil weakly tap the table. “But I kind of float this space… where I’m not sure what I contribute. Or what people think of me. Probably nothing. Maybe that I’m nice?” She winced.

“What’s wrong with nice?” Dots encouraged. “Nice people are hard to come by in my opinion. I guess it’s a ubiquitous word, so maybe it feels lesser in value. But why have the word if it didn’t have its place? Right?”

She brushed under the glasses resting on her nose. “Yeah.”

“It’s getting late,” Dots said, checking his wrist watch—a braided silver watch that he often wore. “Is Sharla driving you home?”

“I have no clue,” Jade huffed. “She probably wants to stay.”

Vernon’s lips buzzed at the edges with a grin. He hoped so.

Dots scooted his chair backward. “I can give you a ride.”

Jade grabbed her pencil with both hands, eyes flaring open. “You don’t have to do that. It’s only seven. I mean, our house is kinda far and I’m sure if I annoy Sharla with enough texts, she’ll get a clue.”

“Are you sure?” He questioned softly, standing up from the chair and pushing it back under the table. “I don’t mind. Why don’t you think about it? Finish your homework and then come find me inside.”

She sat, staring at her notes, before nodding. “Okay.”

Vernon moved away from the door. He opened one of the aged wooden cupboards and pulled out a glass, which he proceeded to fill with unattractively spluttering water from the kitchen tap. As Dots came inside off the porch, Vernon sipped at the water and had his phone in hand, feigning a little display of furtiveness. Dots threw his car keys onto the dining table and tugged off his dark green sweatshirt with the yellow stitching, letting it bundle into a chair.

Vernon kept drinking the water nonchalantly.

“You’re here,” Dots finally acknowledged. “Deposit?”

Vernon set the water aside. It always tasted horrible. Like a mouthful of grit and coins. “Yeah. Got all the dudes on Gemini.”

“No trouble?”

“Some restlessness.”

“Well, tell them to stop using it so damn fast.”

They both chuckled. Vernon found himself examining the silver watch that his friend was wearing. It wasn’t too gaudy. Just the right amount of shine at the distance he was away, paired nicely with the small diamond studs that Dots often wore in his ears. His style was never overbearing, even if he had the money to be. Vernon appreciated his subtleness.

“You need a ride, too?” Dots asked.

Vernon tensed his shoulders. “Huh?”

“I can give you a ride with Jade.” His eyes darted with a flash of knowingness, and Vernon wanted to become invisible.

“Uh, no. That’s alright…” Vernon laughed to pulverise the suddenly awkward warmth that flooded his face. It was already humiliating enough to realize he had been caught. And sitting in a car with Jade, who he had no interest in speaking with, wasn’t going to make it better. “Actually, though. I was wonderin’ if it’s cool and all… if I stay the night here?”

Dots folded his arms. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His friend paused, letting his bottom lip slip through his teeth, and he gave Vernon one of those earnest, heartfelt stares. “That’s would be your third time this week. If you need to crash somewhere for a while—”

“I won’t anymore,” Vernon interrupted. “I’ll be more… diligent.”

“No—look—I get it,” Dots sighed empathetically, almost like a parent. “You know you can stay here, right? My room is always open. I like sleeping on the couch better, anyway. Snozz wouldn’t care. How do you think he ended up here?” The lambent, gently flickering lights of the buzzing kitchen created a solacing glow that Vernon sensed in his chest. He saw the glow reflected in his friend’s expression, that of wholesomeness. Such openness. Such compassion.

“I dunno…” Vernon murmured, sniffing. An odd bought of shyness had made him stiff. He never felt his age that frequently, and it was difficult to understand that being subject to another’s welcome was not pitiful. He wasn’t built to brave every little thing and do so unbreakably, which his teenage self—used to fighting alone—was finding difficult to accept. “It’s generous stuff, Dotsy. It already sucks enough comin’ here.”

His friend shrugged. “So stay.”

Suddenly, the back door squeaked open wide. Jade was stood at the threshold, pencil twitching between her fingers. She glanced at Vernon for no less than a second. “Hey—sorry to interrupt—I, um, I’ve been doing some thinking and I would really like a ride home… thanks.”

Dots nodded. “Sure thing.”

“I’ll just pack my bag,” Jade said, looking coy. As she let the door swing shut, Vernon found that her gaze seared across him as though he were beaming with radiation. Like she was grappling with the image that someone her age had such a different life than hers, without her ordinary problems. It reminded him of the girl who gave him that expectant glimmer on the train, waiting for him to follow her into campus. And he found that such looks were always spotted with sadness. His life must be so dampened, cold, without parents to guide him and love him, without a hopeful future backed by education or some pertinent trade. Wandering and lacking purpose.

Vernon felt angry the more he thought into it.

“Sleep on it,” Dots said as he readied to leave.

He returned to drinking the glass of horrible tasting water, finding the metallic flavour easier to palate than his creeping temper, looming up from his skin like vines. Vernon’s eyes then flitted over the lip of the glass, watching his friend leave with Jade.

His existence could not be a waste.

But he wasn’t sure how to tell.

Vernon had no idea who she was. A friend of Sharla’s that ended up coming to the house a few hours later, name forgotten mere minutes after being introduced to each other because all Vernon cared about was getting his hands on was the particular strain of weed she had brought. They bunched into an empty room upstairs. There was only a mattress on the floor, and Vernon found himself squished between Sharla and her frisky friend, still dressed in her work attire, steamed black slacks and a white button-down shirt. She smelled lightly of vanilla and subway dust, the gold bracelets on her wrist clacking whenever she moved. In passing, he would have never pegged her to be lighting a spliff at a drug dealer’s house.

The strain was Loud. Vernon immediately understood why. Its potency and sting were punchier than other types of weed, and from the very first hit, he could already sense the euphoria power through him like a careen of howling wind. The flavour lingered in his throat. Burning. Dense. It felt like he was breathing in earthy fumes. He fell backward onto the mattress while Sharla and her friend continued exchanging the spliff. Their giggles formed visible notes that he could identify in the air, a floating sheet music.

“Another hit, Prince Charming?” Sharla enticed as she leaned over him, her pupils full and swirling like two freshly poured shots of whiskey. “Pass me the spliff,” she said, motioning at her friend who was exhaling smoke.

The night only continued to divulge.

Vernon was elsewhere. Weightless as a feather.

At some point, he found Sharla’s pampered lips on his. And then he was kissing her ambiguous friend who felt more like a shadow, fluttering in and out, disappearing and then reappearing, passing through his grip with such hummingbird fleetingness. The room was cloudy and the air was sparse. There were extreme crests of warmth, around him and inside his body. Hairs were stuck to his forehead by sweat. Glimmers of bare skin twinkled past his eyes and pressed up against him, sticky, unforgivably hot.

But then morning came.

The mattress was surrounded by lumps of clothes, discarded jewelry, and two wealthy handbags. Vernon noticed that his cheek was lying against a pale shoulder blade tattooed with an ornate angel wing, whorls of ashen blonde, curly hair tickling his forehead. When he groggily squinted behind him, he saw the effluent flow of a dark wig down a lean, smooth back.

He stared up at the ceiling and grinned.

VERNON. 20.

He sat beside Moo, shoulder pressed to shoulder, on the end of a bed whose sheets were stiff and cold. There was minimal light. Most came from the bubbling fish tank set up on a long, wide dresser, an aquamarine of splashing blue. A small shrimp with translucent edges scurried along the glass. Vernon watched, expression blank, until Moo pulled out his lighter and started sparking it.

Both Vernon and Snozz looked at him. The silence was mutually accepted without communicating, but now broken, by a hissing flame.

Moo glanced between each boy. “What? I’m bored.”

Vernon was bored, too. They had been waiting in the bedroom for almost half an hour, hurried in by Snozz on account of an important discussion that must happen immediately, as soon as Dots arrived back at the house. Snozz wouldn’t reveal much, just leaned against the shut closet doors, arms crossed, staring at some random stain on the carpet. Typically his quietness wasn’t anything alarming; however, Vernon sensed a portent pressure in the room’s atmosphere that made him solemn and pensive.

“Is he buying groceries or something?” Moo grumbled, proceeding to lean forward on his knees, spark the lighter again out of boredom. “He needs to stock the fridge for summer. It sucked major ass when we were out of Freezies. I bet the forty-pack is on sale right now. I saw it last week.”

Snozz stared at him, his glance muddled by shadows, and Vernon couldn’t decipher if he was annoyed or impartial to the conversation. The boy’s feelings were always cloudy—Vernon spent the first two years of their friendship believing that Snozz loathed him—until he realized that he was just naturally distant and circumstantially numb. Vernon’s first few tattoos along his bicep were done by Snozz, either half-price or totally free.

Vernon decided to nudge Moo’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you get em’ then, huh? If you were standin’ right fuckin’ there. Hypocrite.”

“Erm, I was on duty,” Moo answered in a sarcastic, nasally tone.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Shut up, tool. I move more than you,” his friend scoffed. It was another one of their soft-hearted spats. “You were kicked off Country Club.”

Vernon rolled his eyes, half-smirked, and picked at a hang nail on his thumb. “Yeah—you’re better at suckin’ up to rich assholes. Congrats.”

“Mad ‘cause you don’t get free margs?”

“After you wipe down their clubs, Ball Boy.”

They started to giggle. Then, their laughter, completely pulling apart the threads of silence sewn into the air. Vernon slapped his knee while Moo leaned over, snickering to himself, shoulder blades contracting and rippling under his shirt.

Across the room, the closet heaved loudly as Snozz had stopped leaning against the shuttered, aged wood. Keeping his arms folded, the boy took firm steps toward the bedroom door, the countenance thinly moulded to his face stern and unimpressed. “Country Club isn’t yours anymore,” he muttered into the dusk, almost too smooth to hear, the smoothest his voice had been, before he left the room.

Moo’s wiry brows furrowed, staring back at Vernon in confusion and slight amazement, as such hostility from Snozz was rare. Vernon had not a clue, either, demonstrating a limp shrug that hardly moved his shoulders. The room slipped back into silence, the fish tank occasionally bubbling or whirring or making some paucity of gentle noise. Whatever the issue was, he was starting to swallow its occluded weight, and in the very back of his mouth, he tasted the same sourness that Snozz had perhaps tasted.

“What the fuck do you mean Country Club isn’t mine?!” Moo bellowed from the corner of the bedroom, spread out in a cheap swivel chair, hands pressing through his teased afro. “I was just fucking there! Last week!”

Dots was finally back. He had returned to the upstairs bedroom with Snozz, who resumed his post of leaning against the closet doors, observing the befuddlement hit the ground with the force of a meteor. Vernon stayed silent. Dots was sitting behind him on the bed, and he could feel his friend’s weight dip into the mattress, like a bending gravity, as he spoke factually to Moo.

“Nothing’s secure,” Dots said. “You know that.”

“Well, yeah, but—I was just laughing it up with the freaking owner!”

Vernon bit his lip. Moo often confused cordiality with business, which wasn’t particularly a concept in their world, especially when it came to the privatized rich. It was almost worse when someone who was supposed to be your esteemed buyer laughed with you, cut the fresh lime to your cold beer, grabbed onto your shoulder and shook it amicably when the conversation got good. It wasn’t bond at all. It was disposability. A definitive lack of seriousness. And Moo was painfully bad at being serious.

Dots sighed, “that’s the problem.”

“Why’d you even put me on then? Why not keep Vern?”

He tensed, almost wanted to glance over his shoulder and scowl.

“They won’t go near him with a ten-foot pole. His roughness is better on the streets, and with the arrogant college kids. You’ve got prestige because of your father. But you danced around too much. They stopped taking you serious even if you moved good product. How do they know you won’t get flighty when something screws up? That you can sack up. Take charge. They don’t.”

Vernon heard the chair creak. Moo was up on his feet, wandering around the room, pacing through the tank’s blue mirage that was stretching across the carpet like a northern aurora. He knew the feeling. He had lost streets, too. It was disorientating, uprising anger clashing in waves with the ignominy of incompetence. But Vernon always showed his grit, pushing back, taking a stance—something Moo had yet to demonstrate.

After exhaling a deep, long breath, Moo paused, removing the hands that were cushioning behind his head. “So, what’s the sitch? You want me to get Country Club back, right? Which assholes swindled me?”

Dots remained quiet. Vernon glanced back at him, watched him friend stare at the blankness of the beige wall until he huffed, coming to his feet. He walked over to his bubbling fish tank, grabbed a package of flaked food, and shook some inside. Vernon heard tiny nibbles and ripples.

Moo sighed, cheeks blowing out air, “I’m fucked, is that it?”

“No,” Dots said impassively, with stillness. “Moo, Snozz, go downstairs and review the deposits from this week. It’s late.” He proceeded to turn around from his fish tank. “We’ll regroup soon.”

Snozz was already opening the door. But Moo stood in place, frozen for a moment too long, likely understanding that the dismissal wasn’t hiding anything propitious. When Snozz called out to him, Moo begrudgingly left, scratching a white patch on his arm with twitchy, irritated fingers. Once his friends were gone, Vernon felt somewhat awkward about staying behind, especially since Dots seemed more detached and aloof than usual, letting silence thicken the air.

Sometimes things scattered, rolling chaotically, like slippery marbles shooting across a smooth floor, bouncing down stairs, swivelling under beds. And much of the pressure to make things whole again swelled up in Dots’ hands. Vernon shifted, staring down at the carpet.

“You’ll do it,” Dots said.

He stiffened. “Huh?”

Dots sat beside Vernon on the bed, where Moo once sat. His friend opened up his hands, and his palms were coordinates of ghostly, etched scars and welted callouses. When Vernon peeked at his own palms, they looked like the prelude. He saw openness in the spaces where skin was unmarred, like an unplowed field.

“I want you to get back Hylands.”

Vernon closed his hand into a fist. “You took me off.”

“This isn’t about dealing. You know who took Hylands?”

He shook his head. “No idea. Someone from the big leagues?”

“No. He’s around your age. He’s new here, but he’s been creeping his way in little by little. He’s Chinese. You know Mr. Zhang is, too.”

Vernon scoffed, rubbing his knuckles. “Then where’s he gettin’ product? Especially in quantity, if he’s just a one-man show. Sure they can communicate well, but it can’t be talk only. They don’t want promises.”

“He obviously has suppliers. Foreign, likely.”

“Hm… so… what am I supposed to do?”

Dots smiled. “If we get him, we get Country Club.”

“You think he’s free range?”

“Here, he is. For now. Hylands is big money. Moo fucked up. But so did I in believing he wouldn’t fool around. I’m sure there are others thinking the same thing. If he is free range, he won’t be for long.”

Vernon sighed, emptying out the pressure in his chest. “I just don’t understand… like… why are you pickin’ me? What am I supposed to say to the dude? Does he even speak English? How are we gonna communicate?”

“I’ve set up a meeting,” Dots said. Vernon thought he could relax until his friend continued, “’it’s tomorrow. You’ll meet your translator at the coffeehouse—Jitters—she’ll be sitting at the far-left window in a dark purple dress. She’s clever. I’ve contacted her before when we needed to deal with the Yuáns poaching around Bronson. You need to be at Hylands by five o’clock. There’s an old storage house behind the cart corral. That’s where the three of you will rendezvous. I don’t suspect there’ll be much trouble. If he’s new, he’s looking for allies. Just to be safe, though, Snozz will give you one of his Glocks. It’s smaller, fits easily in between your waistband, so a good jacket will cover it. Don’t pull it out unless you absolutely have to. Even then, don’t shoot it. Like I said, I wouldn’t expect much trouble.”

Letting the advice simmer, Vernon stared at the floor, wondering how he was supposed to react, what he should say. This wasn’t the kind of responsibility he was expecting. He was just a dealer with a witty tongue, no different than the slick, contortionist salespeople attempting to sell miraculous weight loss pills over the phone, except with a lot more gutturalness, and the pills weren’t dressed-up lies. The responsibility meant trust, Vernon knew that, but it didn’t make his acceptance any easier.

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. “Do you want to do this?”

Now he was being given a choice. That almost seemed worse.

Vernon shrugged. “I just don’t know why you picked me. I mean, I do the street deals for a reason. I’m not exactly fuckin’ Shakespeare with my words. I’m workin’ with people who don’t need much convincin’.”

“Exactly,” Dots said. “You’re just you.”

Vernon winced. “And how is that gonna help?”

“Your authenticity. It’s not about the purple prose, right? You don’t pull walls over people’s eyes. You take it or leave it. There’s no ambiguity.”

Vernon didn’t respond. He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, hands pulling down his face. This was a job he was good at. He didn’t need to augment himself into different versions to fit some tacky mold. The money was good. He could talk and dress however he wanted. Most of his work was done alone, which he appreciated, still with a tightknit crew waiting for him to come back. It was the closest to freedom he would ever taste. Vernon was happy where he was. But complacency often made him wary. Adventure sparked at his feet like popping pieces of scorched wood.

Sometimes he did want more.

Even if the ‘more’ wasn’t what most people dreamed of.

He sat back, exhaled loudly. “Okay, Dotsy. I’ll do it.” Vernon looked to his friend and stuck out a pointing finger. “But you can’t throw me out to the fuckin’ wolves if I lose this little twerp. Give them Moo,” he laughed.

Dots had a warm, gleaming smile, a picture of dappled sunlight. He grabbed onto Vernon’s hand and pulled him in close. They both slapped each other’s backs in camaraderie and trust. Dots’ fingers suddenly ruffled through Vernon’s tamed hair with liveliness and the boy wriggled away, pushing his friend’s sturdy arm. “Fuck off. I showered today.”

“I knew I smelled passionfruit.” He smiled again. “You’ll do fine.”

“What’s this dude’s name, anyway?”

“Minghao.”

“And he’s my age?”

“Something close.”

“I bet you that translator chick is gonna turn my words around,” he said tartly.” I’ll sound like freakin’ cotton candy and Skittles.”

Dots shook his head. “You won’t be the easiest person to translate for, but she’ll do her best. Besides, your gruffness doesn’t need translation.”

Vernon traced a path of smooth skin on his palm, marvelling at the softness, before closing his hand concludingly into a fist. “Damn right.”

You stepped out from the hot shower, your body wrapped into a white towel that held floral remnants of sweet oils. Your wet feet left imprints upon the absorbent, spongey mat. While patting yourself down, you couldn’t help but occasionally pick through the expensive items lining the enormous marble of the washroom sink. It was like a beauty store—jellied lip masks and ceramide-protective skin creams and tall, thin spray bottles labelled with exotic scents that you would walk past in those overpriced sections of a mall. 

You opened a tiny lip-sized tin to see a pale pink balm inside and sniffed its cherry blossom aroma. You uncapped the lid to an unused perfume bottle shaped like a ballerina’s slipper and immediately recoiled at the overbearing, sugary notes. You squirted out some peach-toned lotion into your hands and rubbed its whipped, heavy texture down your arm, dazzled by the healthy, moisturized glow it left behind. It was like you were a little girl sifting through your mother’s secretive drawers, when everything felt unusually extraordinary. But the feeling had pleasantly unearthed itself and you were helpless to deny something you had believed was long gone.

By the next morning, you and Vernon said goodbye to Kitty’s coastline manor. You were worried that the cleaners might realize her bedroom had been perturbed, but Vernon said they wouldn’t—and even if they did—they would probably be glad to have something they could fix.

He asked if you wanted breakfast. After unnecessarily contemplating for a moment (because you didn’t want to seem childishly eager), you agreed, and proceeded to sink backward into his passenger seat as he drove further into the sunny estate of villas and reserved, coastal splendors. Vernon took you to a restaurant called Sea Sides. It was circular in shape, with boastful glass windows that ensured you an unnegotiable view of the water. Walking into its chic brightness, you felt like an imposter, with your lazy button-down shirt and wrinkled lounge shorts. A woman sailed past you in a flowing, pale dress, her skin sun-kissed and cheeks tinged like ripe berries. You two perhaps stood out in a rough, jarring way. But Vernon wasn’t concerned.

“Watch this,” he whispered to you as a hostess stopped by.

“Hello! How can I help you two?” Her voice had a polished quality to it, just like her slicked-back hair and clean, shining clothes—so luminous it was difficult to look at without falling into a squint.

Vernon smiled. “We’re here under Pollezna.”

She was behind a tiny podium. Her large eyes reflected the screen of the sleek monitor she was examining. A click later and scroll later. “Oh! Yes, of course!” She grabbed two menus, small and neat, on cream cardstock. “Follow me,” the hostess said. She walked in swift, long steps that you hurried after, weaving between tables laid with white tablecloths and the royalty of orchid centrepieces. “I haven’t seen Miss Catarina in quite a while. Is she doing well?”

“She’s dandy,” Vernon replied. “Off in Europe.”

“Quite the traveller, isn’t she? You must miss her!”

He nodded solemnly; his lips downturned. “Terribly.”

You were in the midst of sitting down when Vernon bumped your elbow, tipping his head toward the opposite seat. Thinking it was associated with the window view, you shrugged, and let him sit where he wanted.

The hostess’s face was a mirror of Vernon’s, softened and empathetic to the imaginary lonesome he was crafting. “You’ll need to come back here for breakfast once she returns. What can I start you both with?”

Vernon glanced at you.

“Uh, water is fine,” you mumbled, forgetting you could speak.

“Same,” Vernon said.

“I’ll get that for you right away!”

Once she was gone, your eyebrows piqued. “What stunt is this?”

He cleared his throat in mocking sophistication, settling the tiny cardstock of dishes before his face. “Friends and family discount.”

You snickered, sliding your menu toward you. “It seems so.”

“I came here enough times that they added me to the Pollezna tab.”

“And she hasn’t noticed?”

Vernon lowered the menu and smirked. “AKA her Daddy’s tab. And he doesn’t give a fuck, anyway. We’re spendin’ pennies, here. Get whatever you want. The Belgian waffles are always a slam dunk. Super fluffy. Gelato’s in-house.”

Your eyes gleaned over the embossed, golden script, and you straightened up in your chair as though you were supposed to be sitting there, stolid and elegant, even though you ate burnt toast most mornings. A moment later, and your hostess returned with a glass carafe. Slices of orange and lemon bobbed around inside. She poured the icy water into both your cups before settling the jug down onto the table coaster. You never understood the trope of citrus in water. It felt meretricious. And sometimes the seeds would slip out and catch in your throat. But you smiled at her and sipped up a tiny bit so she would see you were still appeased.

After placing your orders, the hostess left. You immediately unwrapped your fork from a cloth napkin and used it to spear out the oranges and lemons, which you layered onto a small bread plate.

Vernon snorted, chuckling into his hand. “Gosh, you have less fuckin’ table etiquette than I do, PJ’s. Never thought that would happen.”

“Shush,” you whispered. “You know how I feel about oranges!”

He kept giggling, and you were tempted to fling a wet slice of citrus at him, but you weren’t about to prove his point. No one in the surrounding dining area seemed to notice, anyway, likely too engrossed by their own riveting tales of luxuriant lifestyles. Vernon reached onto your plate to grab an orange slice. You assumed it was tasteless and watery, but Vernon ate pretty much anything you gave him, and he never stopped feeling hungry.

“Much better,” you hummed having removed all the fruit, and took a big gulp without wondering if you were going to start choking.

“Such a weirdo,” Vernon tsked.

Behind him, you spotted a very large painting hung up on the restaurant’s distant wall. It was so large that you feared it may squish flat the diners who were eating their breakfast underneath it. You supposed it fit the theme—a clashing of delicate blue waves spraying mist into the air—and you could see that the hues came alive with the incorporation of dazzling glass bits cut into petite tiles. Beside the painting was a plaque, looking comedically small.

You tipped your finger at the painting. “That’s gorgeous.”

Vernon finishing chewing at another orange slice from your plate and discarded his rind. He didn’t bother turning around. You figured he had already seen the painting before.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, licking his thumb.

“I wish I could create stuff like that.”

He shrugged. “You can.”

“Well, you have to be inspired. And have some skill.”

As he sipped from his water, he scoffed. “Right. It's just practice.”

You suddenly remembered that his mother was an artist. From what he had told you, their relationship was virtually non-existent, and you shrunk slightly into your cushioned chair for the unintended negligence.

Since you ran into Diana outside Mr. York’s that one evening, and saw how much healthier she looked, how much freer she acted, you wondered if she had reconsidered applying for Catherine Love’s assistant position. Tara was still practicing her interview skills, but you told her to be wary that she didn’t sound too rehearsed. You remembered Diana saying that you could apply for the position despite your gaping inexperience. Back then, there was nothing you could do but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it, knowing you were being undermining to your own skill, but, now, you couldn’t deny that were was something about the job that enticed you.

Maybe it was the idea that you could live a life similar to this.

Or maybe it was to prove your past-self wrong.

Breakfast was served to you off a rolling silver tray that the hostess aligned beside the table. You decided to pick Vernon’s recommendation, two stacked Belgian waffles with creamy coffee gelato and fresh berries scooped on top, while he chose a toasted sandwich that oozed with saucy egg yolks, yellow like mangoes.

Everything that touched your tongue was perfection.

“Are you even chewin’ it? Damn.” Vernon laughed.

There was a mangled piece of waffle stuck in your mouth. It took you quite long to swallow. After gulping down some water and cleaning a smear of gelato off your cheek, you finally had the breath to speak.

“Yes.”

He smiled. “I like a girl who eats ravenously.”

“I can’t tell if I should feel offended by that or not.”

“It’s a compliment.”

And you smiled, too. The fact he could sit across from you ripping apart your waffles like a junkyard animal and forking out slices of citrus from your fancy water and having melted gelato sticky on your chin while finding the room to compliment you was a miraculous, freeing feeling. You didn’t need to cosplay anyone but yourself. And you had been morbidly hungry.

But you did slow down, enough to converse. “So,” you cleared your throat, running a strawberry through some syrup, “are you done with your… you know… stuff? Do you still need to get more… stuff?”

He licked his teeth. “Money?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Trust me, that’s not a taboo word here, PJ’s.”

“I just mean what it’s associated with.”

Vernon folded his arms and leaned back. “One more thing.”

“Really?” There was a spike of vigour in your tone.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Is it a lot of money?”

“In a way,” he sighed rather desultorily, tongue swirling against his cheek, eyes adrift and chasing seagulls that flocked through the open air in white tufts. His energy seemed different.

When it came to Diana and Minghao, he was pouring with resilience. He was his own gasoline and match. But sitting across from him, you could feel a cleft, like soaring along on a bicycle and suddenly the wheel got trapped. Helping Vernon in the past was a mixed bag for you. It was always fun treading where you shouldn’t, but having the consequence flash a knife from its pocket wasn’t as endearing.

Nonetheless, you wanted things to go well on his behalf.

“Should I be worrying?” You queried, making sure to adorn your lips with a soft smile so he knew not to take the question too literally.

He stared back. “Guess not.”

“That wasn’t convincing at all.”

“You don’t need to worry more than you already do.”

Slipping the strawberry off the fork with your teeth, you began to nod and bite into its sweet juiciness. “Okay. I can work with that.” But you wanted to know more. However, this wasn’t the place to discuss it.

What kind of cleft had Vernon stumbled into?

Before ending breakfast, you and Vernon shared a dessert, which was a plate containing small, puffed buns with delicious cream and fresh jam spread in between. Vernon stuffed an entire one in his mouth, and nearly coughed it back out into his napkin, which made you snort and giggle. Then you tried doing the same, and ended up spitting some jam onto his face.

“Fuckin’ dweeb,” he cursed as you reached over the table to wipe it away with a polite thumb, your mouth still full, as you choked out inaudible apologies. But his smile was lazy with ease and fondness.

The hostess returned, again wearing her polished, tight expression, not a single thread to her uniform or brushed hair out of place.

Vernon picked up your hand as he helped you out from the chair, and then grinned at the hostess.

“You can put that on Miss Catarina’s tab.”

4 MONTHS AGO.

When Soonyoung told you he was planning on leaving Common Cents, you nearly lost your hearing, and the disorientation had you stumbling around until you gripped the supplement shelf for balance. You wanted it to be a joke. Soonyoung made many jokes, and none of had ever been funny, and that would take the cake as his unfunniest by far. But his expression was betrayingly flat, like a paper sheet glued and hardened over his face, and you deflated. You forgot Soonyoung had a degree. It was seldom mentioned because he enjoyed talking about his social life too much.

“I’m going to work with several cat species at a rehabilitation clinic. I start at the end of July. I’m gonna get some friends to help me pack. And I’ll probably throw a shindig at my place for one last hoorah. Feel free to come. Just don’t get too cramped.”

And you smiled at him like your lips were made of thin strings. He couldn’t leave. What were you supposed to do five mornings out of your week without him there to boss you around and engage you in shiny gossip and overexplain his bizarre sexual encounters with older men? You always made him deal with the nitpicky regulars. You often subjected him to your personal qualms because there was a time when he felt like the only person who couldn’t possibly judge you. Who would have the audacity to replace his coarse bleached hair and oversized shorts and splashy backward caps and his terrible, terrible hearing? Such thoughts hung over you in a palling manner—they chased you around the store like cackling witches—and suddenly you realized that Soonyoung had become important to you.

On your break, you wanted to text Vernon.

You sat out back on an upturned bucket and used a TV-dinner table that Soonyoung dragged over from across the street to place your food on. Tikka Masala—still steaming—so you let it rest. The thing was, Vernon hadn’t been very present lately. He sometimes went hours without responding to your messages, and his appearances at the apartment began dwindling. When you were together, he didn’t act all that different. Maybe there was a soft wind of distraction in his eyes that carried him away every now and then, but once he looked at you, he refocused. You pondered asking. You wanted there to be no more secrets. But part of you was very anxious to peel him back too many times and confront something that was better off staying unbeknownst. It drove you to restlessness.

After your break was over, you replaced Soonyoung at the cash register so he could take his lunch—an energy drink in an eclectically designed can and a packet of salted peanuts—where you continued contemplating whether or not to text Vernon. Your previous messages were about glow-in-the-dark mini-putting, though he ended up cancelling the night before, citing some trouble a spoiled college student was giving him.

The worry nettled you all over.

Was he lying? Was it worse to know or not know?

“Hey! PJ!”

You shoved your phone away. For half a second, you wanted to believe the person chiming out your nickname so smoothly was him.

But it was Moo.

“Oh, hey,” you answered, smiling awkwardly, not sure what he was doing at a convenience store so far from where he lived. “How are you?”

He sauntered up to the counter in his usual swagger, a frame of loose shoulders and casual glances to every corner, like he was trying to spot someone he knew without making it obvious. No more was his fluffed afro. Instead, his hair was tucked into tight, neat cornrows that flowed down to the back of his neck. He wore a blue and white windbreaker with some flashy red patches. He picked up ginger-flavoured mints in a compact tin, sniffed. “Just hanging.”

And you nodded back. “Cool.”

Moo put the mints down. “Didn’t know you worked here.”

You almost laughed.

There was basically nothing he knew about you—not even your real name—just that you were close to Vernon. But he said it so effortlessly, in a way that made it seem like you were more than acquaintances and that was just a simple grey area. “Over a year.”

“That’s awesome,” he sniffled, sounding genuine. “Yeah, thought I’d come in and get a drink or something. Never been in here before.”

“Well, drinks are in the back.”

His nails started tapping a rhythm against the plastic cover for the lottery tickets, a beat that existed for only a transient moment, before he glanced at you with his wandering eyes and asked, “Ruby—how’s she doing?”

You wondered if that was his intention from the start. “She’s been doing well. She got back from a corporate trip, twoish weeks ago?”

Moo nodded. “I still feel bad about you guys leaving early. At the party-thing I threw. Uh, sorry, and shit.” Your head tilted in astonishment. “I feel like I didn’t get the chance to really know you guys. Maybe you can come over another time. I’ll get the barbeque out this summer. Sound fun?”

“Uh,” you swallowed, contemplating. “Sure.”

“It won’t be a huge thing. Vernon said you don’t like crowds.”

At his name being mentioned, your chest tensed.

“You guys are dating? Is that it?” He continued, scratching his scalp. “I haven’t seen him much lately. It’s crazy. I never thought I’d see the day that Vernon gets a girlfriend… before me! Actually, I did have a girlfriend last fall, but it was rough. She stole from me, and—”

“How’s he doing?”

“Vern?”

Your fingers furled up, and you nodded. “Yeah.”

Moo sighed, long and large, let his elbows tumble down onto the counter as though he were at his favourite bar after a hard day’s work. “Busy with some shit, I guess. Snozz talked to him a few days ago.” His brown eyes perused over the lottery tickets. “Is something wrong between you guys?”

“No,” you were quick to clarify. “But he’s been a little distant.”

“Yeah, he gets like that,” Moo huffed, tapping his fingers again, this time a different rhythm reminiscent of a song you heard before.  “Just kinda goes off the grid for a bit. Usually when he has to catch a big fish.”

“What’s that mean? A big fish?”

“Like, if he has to close a big deal, or handle some bullshit.”

“Oh…” you murmured, letting your curiosity dampen and drift, and then a cloudy weight sinking into your chest, like soaked cotton. And you wondered how much Moo knew of Vernon’s business. He seemed rather guileless, talking to you without restraint, as though you were now part of their shadowy world and therefore had access to whatever files you wanted. But was it wrong to meddle simply because you cared? Would it benefit you to know? Sucking your teeth, you sighed, “a big fish indeed.”

“Shit’s not all sugarplums and fucking fairies, right?”

“Uh… yeah. True.”

“Well, I’m gonna grab my drink.”

You watched him continue his lazy, practiced saunter, arms swaying jauntily. He stopped by some candy, picked up a yellow chocolate bar, and flashed it to you. “Charleston Chews! These are old school!”

There were glimmers of Vernon in him.

It was unalloyed torment.

Moo returned to the counter with a soda bottle. As you rang up his drink, he pulled out a bill from his wallet, and you returned the change. He cracked the bottle open right there at the counter, took a sip that sounded like bubbles popping in his throat, and swallowed densely. “I love me some orange cream.”

“Hey, is it okay if I ask you something?”

He shrugged. “Just treat me like your search engine.”

“Uh—” you laughed nervously, “—do you know what Vernon’s been up to? I’m just a little anxious. He’s been slow texting back.”

“Well, I don’t know all the deets. He’s been trying to set up a meeting or something. With this guy. We don’t like saying his name,” Moo laughed, taking another swig from his bottle. “Like Voldemort!” When your face remained stiff and hollowed in with unnerved tension, Moo coughed against his fist and continued. “Uh, but his name’s Jeonghan. Sometimes we call him El Timador for code. Our friend coined it. Means trickster or tricky or some shit. Anyway, he’s this huge kingpin that’s been fucking over some of our territories for a while now. Vernon has issues with it.”

You forced a cheap, bent smile. “Oh, cool. Thanks.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t worry,” Moo soothed. “Vern’s clever. And he’ll get back to his normal self once it’s off his plate. Does that help?”

“Yeah.” No. It didn’t help at all. It was like pushing salt deep into cuts you didn’t know existed, and now each one was tingling hot in pain.

Moo nodded, satisfied. Then, he proceeded to lean forward, squinting at something on your bright red uniform shirt. “Hmm… so, that’s your name,” he said in an assured tone, taking another bubbly sip from his soda. You realized he had discovered your nameplate.

“Okay, I should go.”

Moo left.

And he took every thread of your composure with him.

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. When he first arrived, you tended to him almost suffocatingly, a hand ruffling through his black locks to feel for bumps on his scalp, then your fingers squeezing his chin, turning his head from side to side to look for scratches, and having him splay open his palms for your fastidious inspection. He swerved away from you, seeming tightened like a jar, as he joined Ruby in the kitchen.

Later on, you all watched a comedy film in the living room.

You weren’t the biggest fan of comedies. But you were wary to begin the action-thriller that Ruby suggested in case it impeded too heavily on Vernon, though you hadn’t said anything because he was acting touchier than usual. He sat next to you on the sofa. Your arms curled around his elbow. Even though his skin felt warm, there was a coldness emanating from the boy’s bones, his movements few and far between, creaking metal.

When your head laid against his shoulder, he sighed a cumbersome sort of sigh that summoned a hard lump upon your throat, and rather than smelling his characteristic amber, you smelled the bitterness of stress, cigarettes and stale coffee. He excused himself halfway into the film to smoke. Ruby stayed inside with you.

Despite your implacable burn to ask her if she was sensing his distance, you remained silent, because you already knew you wouldn’t like her answer. When he returned from outdoors, he didn’t even ask what he had missed—just collapsed back down in his seat, arms stretched out behind the couch, but never reaching around your shoulders to pull you closer like usual. At that point, your eyes began to sting, and a sharp, demanding fire crackled in your mouth. But you swallowed it down until the movie ended.

Ruby wished you goodnight. She slipped into her bedroom.

Vernon said he needed to make a call and disappeared again, the wind of his iciness drawing chills. You waddled into your bedroom moodily, sat back against your headboard, and hugged a stuffed toy into your chest, hating how timid and afraid you felt to question him.

He came into your room about twenty minutes later, the door clicking shut softly, as you laid on your side away from him so you could stare out the window, at the glitters of small bugs around a street lamp. 

The mattress dipped, and his hand was on your hip. “I’m sorry.”

You couldn’t say anything since your throat was too tight. Even if you wanted to speak, each word would splinter like an axe coming down on a dry log of wood. You would start to cry.

He sighed. This time, it lacked encumbrance. His hand drifted to your shoulder, so heightened and pointy, a mountain. And then he kissed your temple with such tenderness, the sour of his smoking now stitched into his clothes, but you breathed it in deeply anyway. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, massaging your shoulder. “I missed you.”

“Clearly, you haven’t,” you managed to pronounce waspily, the rumble of emotional thunder toiling in your chest. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he murmured. His forehead pressed into your hair.

For a moment, you bit your lip, and while you felt fearful, you pushed its burring aside. “I don’t appreciate being treated that way.”

“It was my mistake.”

“Yes,” you said, peering over your shoulder to glare at him, ensuring he felt the scorch that was solar in your narrow eyes, “it was.”

He was grinning at you. Laid comfortably on his side. Hand supporting his head. A malleable depth created liquidness in his golden eyes, and so they glimmered, and the twisted vestiges of bitterness digging inside your throat unwound. He leaned forward, proceeded to cup your cheek, and a kiss was sweetly moulded to your lips with expert care. “I missed you, baby.”

You sniffled, gulped. “I hate how many times I’ve cried over you.”

“Wanna cry in a different way?” He purred, squeezing your hip, letting his teeth graze along the cusp of your tingling ear.

Quickly, before you could feel lust surround you with its tendrils, you shoved his hand away. “No. Never.” And turned back on your side.

He chuckled. “Never?!”

You nodded. “Never.”

“I’m gonna kill myself.”

“Bye.”

He chuckled again, taking pleasure in your dryness, how you refused to fold, keep him on the outside like a pacing dog. Vernon then slipped further down the pillow, adjusting himself tightly behind you, one arm sneaking underneath your waist while the other caged overtop in a sling. He squeezed you, nuzzled at your hair. “And for how long will you be mad?”

Sighing, you slotted your fingers through his. “Are you stressed because of the money thing? How do you normally deal with stress?”

He shrugged. “Drugs and sex.”

“You know that’s not healthy.”

“Thank you, Harvard medical graduate.”

Your elbow jutted back, finding the sinewy flesh of his ribs. “Shut up. I’m asking because… well… I think it would be better if we talked things out more, you know? Even just a little bit…” Glancing down at a thick, silver band on his finger, you began playing with it, twisting the ring around while you mumbled, “it hurts when I feel like your stress is targeting me. And right now, I can’t give you sex, and I definitely can’t give you drugs.”

Vernon breathed in the scent of your hair. “I know, PJ’s.”

“So… is everything alright?”

“Not entirely. M’tired. It’s just hard to get a hold of this guy. He’s slippery, and all his people are slippery. It feels like chasin’ an eel.”

“The guy you need money from?”

He paused. “Yeah.”

“Need any help?”

His entire body jerked with laughter. “Uh, no. This really isn’t somethin’ you should be gettin’ involved with, PJ’s. I’ll figure it out, alright? I want you away from this stuff. I don't want you thinkin' it's a playground and shit. You've done enough.”

You stroked along his arm, running over years of intricate ink, and took in a deep breath that rolled through you from top to bottom while recalling your conversation with Moo. Vernon didn’t know that you spoke to him. He didn’t know that you knew the mystery’s name.

Jeonghan. The kingpin. El Timador.

Angling around, you slipped an arm behind Vernon’s head and moved your fingers fluidly through his velvet hair. You pushed into his forehead and softly moved your lips against his, feeling him immediately perk in response, the pressure around your waist tightening. The tartness of a smoked blunt had never smelled so desirable on somehow, and his slick tongue was impressively gentle, always eager to taste you. His hand squeezed up your flaming body, his fingers coming to curl at the beating base of your throat, and if you weren’t still clamped onto that angry red kite, you might have let him submerge into you, drink you from the inside out.

But you didn’t.

“Why don’t you rest a bit?” You murmured, licking off his sheening spit that smeared your lip like a constellation. “Would that hurt?”

He stared at you with a wild, cosmic infatuation. “No.”

This isn’t really somethin’ that you should be gettin’ involved with.

You wanted to listen.

But you could not. Would not.

It seemed that all you had done your entire life was listening. The words of others had continuously filled you like droplets from a bamboo spout, and you had lugged around the sloshing weight sensing it was there but not wanting to believe it. Consequently, you were pruned on the inside, wrinkled and sodden, from never letting the water drain, and now you needed to dry yourself out under a lovely, dappled heat. Unfortunately, that meant you must meddle.

Even if Vernon did not want it.

He didn’t need to know. At least not for now.

Tara was brushing out her long, pearlescent strands of syrupy hair at her locker when you asked if she was willing to help you with a strange favour. She kept brushing her hair, eyebrows raised, as she waited for you to elaborate. When you told her you wanted to a drive to the Kichesippi scarp yard, the baby pink hairbrush that she had likely preserved since girlhood days in Farringdon nearly flew out of her hand. You understood it was an odd request, and you couldn’t be too generous detail-wise, and for a long moment, she gathered her things quietly, face contorted with the heft of an internal dialogue.

But then she agreed.

“You’ve helped me a lot with my interviewing… I guess I can.”

To which you almost leapt on her in relief.

She drove you to the scrap yard that weekend.

You shot past the abandoned hanger that you and Vernon had waited at, when you were twisted up inside with emotions, a canon ready to sizzle and pop. The fields were greener, with a refreshed shimmer, and the forest was much denser, almost overflowing in regrowth, compared to your last visit.

“There’s the gate,” Tara said. “What should I do?”

“Stay here,” you told her. “I’ll be back soon. I think.”

Her fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and she peered at the tall fence with her slim brows worried. “How are you going to get in?”

Upon thrusting open the car door, you shrugged. “I’ll climb it.”

You could only imagine Tara’s expression as she watched you approach the fence, your fingers curling at the metal, the tips of your shoes wedging into every little space, until you reached the top. It wasn’t easy. You were still breathless coming down the other side. But you wanted this to be quick, and so you did it the only way you knew how. Marching past the distributed piles of abandoned rubbish, you approached one trailer in particular, caught in the shadows cast by monstrously sized conifers. Without letting yourself think too much, you knocked on the door, which rattled loosely as though it could be pushed open with a limp shove.

About a minute passed. Maybe no one was there.

You noticed a curtain fall back in place. The door suddenly opened.

It was not surprise that controlled Minghao’s face. Rather, an absence of anything. His countenance was flat, dull. Uninterested. And you would have felt offended if not for the fear fumigating your other emotions.

“What do you want?” He said, his tone a deft line.

Your lips were dry, and you could not stop pulling at the skin with your teeth. Licking them off, you smiled, very weak. “Can I come in?”

“No,” Minghao answered immediately, like a slap. “Leave.”

He attempted to close his flimsy door, but you stepped forward, stopping him. “Please, just for a few minutes. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

Finally, a split in his paper expression. A brittleness. “You are only trouble,” Minghao said. “You and your boyfriend.” He tried the door again.

You stopped him. Again. “Vernon—I-I know he stole from you, or he was stealing back what you stole—I know there’s some bad blood. The bottom line is I need to speak to someone. And I think you might be able to help me. Please. I’ll never bother you again. Cross my heart.”

“Girl, you need to leave,” he hissed, pushing back on the door.

“I need to speak to Jeonghan.”

And Minghao slightened. His colour became that of bleached bones. You felt the door give away, and it swung open silently until it banged the wall. An aroma of fragrant herbs touched your nose. Earthy sage, burned. A fresh and lemony tinge. Minghao muttered something under his breath in an unfamiliar language while pressing his fingertips against his nose. There were red prints left behind as he made a soft rumbling noise in his throat. “Okay.”

“I can come in?” You squeaked.

“Come in. Quick.”

And so you fluttered inside Minghao’s trailer like a curious, timid butterfly, still on edge, still skittish, but enjoying the relief. All his curtains were dark orange, drawn tightly shut, turning the dust in the air to a desert sand. His walls were covered with canvas’s, each smeared in unique patterns of paint where colours messily clashed and faces were hidden between thick strokes, though they might stop looking like faces if you stared too hard. He had a metal bowl sitting on his small dining table, a charred powder at its bottom, with twirling smoke ablaze. You breathed in the herbs and lemon.

He pulled out a chair from underneath the table, used his foot to kick out the chair oblique to his, the one you settled into, uncomfortably.

You flashed him another nervous, teethless smile. “It’s nice in here,” despite knowing he had very little interest for your prevaricating.

Minghao folded his long, lithe arms. There was a hooded narrowness weighing down his eyelids as he observed you like some sort of bad curse staining his abode with your energy.

“Why speak to Jeonghan?”

“Um…” you exhaled, swallowing. “I just need to, I guess.”

“Are you turning on Hansol? You need him dead?”

Your foot kicked the table leg especially hard in hysterics and the metal bowl quivered, the cinder smoke wobbling in the dusk. “No!” You spluttered. “No, no, no. Gosh no. Nothing like that. It’s hard to explain. But it… it has nothing to do with you.” Unfurling your tense fingers, you inhaled the flavourful odours. “I’m not turning on anybody. I just need to talk to him.”

Minghao leaned closer, the orange glow of the cloth curtains shining like ribboned fire in his cherry hair, while the moons beneath his eyes darkened. “You do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die.”

Paste dried on your tongue. A horrible, chalky paste that you wanted to scrape off because it felt so thick. Minghao allowed the intensity of the moment to hover, to seep, before he leaned back, his chair creaking.

You rolled out your shoulders. “Then… I guess it’s a deal.” Looking to him and his stone-face, you continued. “Where can I find him?”

His brow raised and his round bottom lip pursed, perhaps a flash of impressiveness that you were not shaken off like a flea from a dog’s coat. “Do you know what you’re doing?” He said. “El Timador plays no-fun games.”

No-fun games.

Something about that stuck to you, webbed under your skin. “I don’t know,” you admitted, clammy hands rubbing together beneath the table, smooth and warm. “But I have to. I don’t know how else to explain.”

Minghao was quiet, his attention moved to the curdles of smoke rising from the metal bowl and its charred ingredients. You were urged to keep speaking and pleading your case, but you knew better than to bulldoze the moment. The silence kept lasting. It was astonishing that Minghao could sit so still, like he had taken out his heart, his insides, and was nothing but a husk of flesh stuffed with grain. A doll. But then he shifted, reaching behind him to a kitchen countertop, where he placed a metal lid over the bowl.

He sighed. “You know Paulo?”

That name again. You nodded. “No, but yes. Not personally.”

“Everything scattered when he died. Everything. I was scared. I sold off product that was not mine. I thought moving back to China will fix the mess. I always argue with Hansol back then. The way he talks and does things. I don’t like it.” Minghao bit his lip, and it lost some colour. “But he is good. He brings me into a safe place, back then. He helps me adjust. He warns me to stay away from El Timador when they approach me and ask me to work for them. Hansol said that to me: you do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die. But in his stupid way I cannot understand very well. Now, I am under El Timador’s thumb because I try to harm you. I just wanted the money. But now I cannot care.” His eyes flickered up, unexpectedly glossy. “You see why you are trouble?”

In that moment, you became frozen, just like he was. To hear the slight rasp develop in Minghao’s tone, notice the shine splotchy in his eyes. His mistakes unravelling at his feet like dropped, unorganized film, because he was scared, and confused.

You softened up. You weren’t fearful anymore.

And you smiled. “I’m glad I came to speak with you. I promise, I won’t be the reason Jeonghan plays games. You shouldn’t worry.”

Minghao shook his head. “Naïve,” he mispronounced.

Perhaps true. You accepted it. “Where can I find him?”

Another beat of silence passed by. Minghao’s final moment to ponder, and you saw his chest rise and fall deeply. He reached behind him again, grabbing a pen and a magazine. With the pen in his teeth, he tore off a strip from the magazine's corner and proceeded to write something. “Here—I cannot say this word to save my life.”

You accepted the torn corner. “Prerogative. What's that?”

“A club. Once a month, he has business meeting in the basement.”

“Do you know when?”

“Try end of the month.”

“Okay. Thanks.” You nodded satisfactorily.

Tara had sent you a text, asking if you were alright. You messaged her you would be back shortly and took the torn paper in your pocket.

As Minghao walked you to the door, you stopped, turning around to examine him. “I really like your octopus graffiti.”

His face creased, marginally; the edges of a shy smile. “Me too.”

It was amusing to behold Vernon out of his element, and adorable that he was trying so hard. You sat across the table from him. Rather than letting his canvas sit on the easel like most refined people in the studio, he was gripping it at an odd, stabbing angle to his chest, clasping the paintbrush like it hurt, while he focused hard enough on his work to make heat come from his eyes. You were so enraptured in watching him that your small canvas was noticeably bare, mottled with few dabs of vibrant colour.

Ruby introduced you to the studio not long ago. They hosted weekly paint nights for adults. There were various wines, complicated Hors d’Oeuvres organized on lazy Susans, mellow music threaded with daintily-pressed piano keys, and an entire wall dedicated to acrylic paint swatches in the form of dried, ceramic tiles.

You didn’t care for wine, and neither did Vernon.

But he got up from his seat only ten minutes in to slosh himself a glass that had a woman with curled hair, a purple beret, and flashy spectacles pompously side-eyeing him. You urged him that this wasn’t supposed to be stressful. That it didn’t matter if his art looked messy.

He grumbled, “it’s for you, PJ’s. It has to look perfect.”

And that had made you swell up with joy like a helium balloon.

Since he was putting in the effort to paint you something, you wanted to return the favour, and so you settled on a photo of his Camry that he sent you a while back upon buffing out some of its rusted age. Your phone was rested against a container filled with different sized brushes.

“How’s it coming along?” You asked.

Vernon was quiet—quieter than he ever had been—while the tip to his very thin brush stroked so timidly on the surface of the canvas. You had given him a tiny elastic from your bag when he kept complaining about the hair sloping down over his eyes. Now he had a black, sooty tree sprouting from the crown of his head. All the modest aprons were taken. He was wearing an apron that was bubblegum pink, stitched with daisies and honeybees. You took a picture with your phone when he was busy choosing his canvas size, giggling at how paradoxical it looked.

“Can’t… talk…” he mumbled. “Focusin’… hard…”

“If only you could see yourself.”

As you began shaking a bottle to mix the paint inside, Vernon suddenly slammed his detailing brush onto the table. “Fuck!” He shouted, collapsing back into his seat. “I fucked up the fuckin’—ah—fuck it.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to disappear behind your canvas while squirting out the sky-blue paint onto your palette. The thing with Vernon was that his gutturalness never really turned off. Sometimes you loved it. Sometimes it was complicated. He could be in the most high-class restaurant, eating with kings, and he would still not forfeit his untrimmed spirit.

The lady sitting at the table beside yours—the same lady who watched him pour his wine like it was a beer keg—reached over to tap him on the shoulder, and you could only suck in your teeth.

“Excuse me? Could you please refrain from that sort of language? This is a public space. It's shared. It’s important to be polite.”

“Lady, I’m in the middle of some serious shit, alright? Fuck.” He dismissed her slim fingers and long, coffin nails off his shoulder, sighing aloud while squinting at his canvas. “Guess it’s not that fucked up.”

She proceeded to throw you a very specific look, almost sympathetic, mournful, as if to express her condolences that you were perhaps trapped with this profanity-mouthed man and his concerningly full wine glass. But you didn’t return the look in any capacity.

You were happy.

“If you get kicked out of Wine and Paint, I’m never taking you anywhere, ever,” you warned him, smiling, from over your canvas.

Vernon grabbed onto his glass and sipped at the red wine, to which his face instantly puckered and he shook out his head. “Tastes like batteries.”

“You shouldn’t have poured so much.”

“Help me finish it.”

Swirling your brush around in the blue paint, you cackled. “Nope!”

He groaned, setting his canvas back on the wood easel. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t make me tell the art teacher.”

Vernon got up, stretched out his arms and their silky gilded tattoos, the tight, youthful pink apron squeezing around his waist. “Can we get ice cream after this? Otherwise I’m gonna need a line off your tits.”

“Okay! Shut your mouth, first of all,” you gritted. “Second of all, behave. Or else.”

He narrowed his gaze at you. “N’ that means what?”

You eyed the lady at the table beside you and smirked.

Vernon swatted his hand at you dismissively, then pressed into his lower back. “Whatever. I’m goin’ to the washroom.” He started walking away, but turned around. “N’ don’t peek at my canvas while I’m gone!”

Without him being so distractingly cute, you managed to make some actual progress on your painting, filling the white space with an eggshell blue sky, stippling in fluffy grass, attempting to create the street even though it looked very amateurish. But you did like to paint when you were younger. Without the strict regulations of a teacher. As your brush swirled a liquidy yellow sun into the cloth, you thought of Diana and how much she would enjoy doing something like this.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed someone approaching the table, and you assumed it was Vernon returning from the washroom.

Upon picking up some creamy paint on your detailing brush, you glanced up and smiled, expecting to see the tree of hair on his head and his pink apron.

But it was not your Vernon.

It was Lee.

And a thousand feelings collapsed, bones snapping like tightwires, as your emotionally intact infrastructure suddenly smashed to the ground. Your chest and lungs became spongey. They absorbed and absorbed but they did not give back. You were gripping the paintbrush as though it were a weapon.

“Hey!” He chirped, a friendly sound. “I thought that was you.”

Now he knew it was you.

What the hell was Vernon doing in the washroom? You hoped to god he hadn’t smuggled in a blunt. The woman’s washroom had a window in the last stall, although you would need to stand on the toilet to reach and open it. Maybe it was the same for the men’s. Maybe Vernon would sense your distress, how it glimmered on your skin like an oil, smothered the air.

Lee cleared his throat. “I know this is probably a little weird…”

A little? You wanted to shriek. You had your filthy hands dipping and diving all over my body! You treated me as though I were some lifeless shell! But you did not say anything of the sort. “It is,” you sighed, and it was shaky. “Very weird.”

He didn’t look much different physically. Nonetheless, you sensed something. Your gut was suddenly inside your mind, and it granted you a sort of power to see through him, at his tangled intentions and the unattractive miasma festering within. Though his words were soft, slipping off his lips like fallen petals, his eyes were gritty and unclear.

Lee laughed. “Yeah! Trust me, I get it.”

You deadpanned, “is there something you want?”

And Lee’s smile hung a little crooked. “Well… we really haven’t seen each other in a while. I guess you blocked me. Ruby doesn’t answer my texts. So I wanted to know if we could… well… talk about it?”

“Here?”

“No,” he laughed again, swallowed tightly. “Not here.”

The paintbrush twitched in your fingers; the acrylic pressed into its bristles beginning to dry. “No thank you. I’m not interested.”

He scoffed. You wanted to slap him, hard enough to leave a sizzling, stinging imprint of your hand chaffing his cheek. “Not interested? Can you explain that to me, or something… because I feel like it would help us—”

“Help you. Not us. I know what happened. You should figure it out on your own.” Turning back to the canvas, you nearly touched the cloth.

Nearly.

“Well, no offense, but that’s kind of fucked up.”

Your mouth was about to drop open. But then you noticed Vernon, how he sidled up to Lee with his tongue prodding at his cheek, his eyes cool, settled, but with a craftiness underneath the copper. He proceeded to slip his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. It hung there loosely, but could fasten in an instant.

“Hey, look at you Suits. Been a while, yeah?”

Lee glanced at him. You weren’t sure how else to explain his expression apart from the kind of paleness you see of dead, stiff limbs. “Uh, Vernon. Hey…” he attempted to laugh, though it turned to fleeing breaths.

Vernon’s hand gripped his shoulder, shook it. “Thought I might go outside.” His eyes were bullet holes into Lee’s head, a smirk forming. “You wanna come? No wind in the back alley. Easier to light.”

Lee shook his head. You shouldn’t let Vernon subtly tease and threaten him. But you didn’t want to move or speak. “No—uh—that’s fine. I was just catching up. We haven’t seen each other in a while—”

“But you haven’t seen me in even longer. C’mon. Let’s step out.”

“I’m here with a friend. I should get back to our table.”

“Your friend, huh? They a lawyer, too?”

“Well,” Lee gulped. “He’s not. We’re still in school.”

“Shit. This will be good fuckin’ practice then. Let’s bring him outside with us.” Vernon jutted his finger into Lee’s chest, his eyes changing tone, flashing with streams of electricity. “And I’ll have him mock up my defense trial after I beat the fuck out of you, you spineless cunt.”

“Vernon, enough.” You stood up. “I’ll talk to Lee outside.”

Surprisingly, he listened, and sat back down. His index finger was tapping harshly on the table. There was no hiding what he was thinking as you pulled Lee outside the studio, into the evening’s gentle warmth.

Immediately, the boy shivered, and the colour gradually seeped back into his once blanched and hollow face. “Did I almost just die?”

You exhaled, enjoying the sensation of the calmer sun rays tingeing your skin, instilling you with a deep, pulsing strength. “Lee, I was being serious back there. I don’t want to talk to you about what happened. I have no interest in digging it back up. I have no interest in being the one to make you feel better about a shitty thing you did. The truth is, you need to sack up, alright? Because I know you’ll feel a lot lighter afterward.” He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave you was strange, a clouded look; a look you give to a stranger who said something you struggled to catch because it sounded like syllables chopped up in a blender. But you knew that he heard you.

He just wasn’t aligning such striking boldness to his memories of you. In a way, you were a stranger.

Lee kicked a stone at his feet. “Vernon is your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

Again, he said nothing. Only hung his head, rubbed off his nose, and walked back into the mellowness of the painting studio, making sure to avoid Vernon by taking a sharp turn. You let the sun energize you for another minute, and then said goodbye to its sweet tangerine rays.

When you approached Vernon, who had been diligently waiting for you, tense in his seat, you bent down and kissed his cheek. “Not your best, but still very good behaviour,” you whispered into his ear, plucking out the elastic tying up his hair in order to adoringly ruffle the strands between your fingers. “I think we can go get some ice cream.”

You sat on the hood of the car, running the plastic spoon through vanilla and chocolatey, rich syrup. It was your favourite flavour, a childhood comfort, and its taste had never changed. Vernon preferred his mint chocolate chip—a polarizing choice—one that suited him. Since neither of you got to complete your paintings, the studio offered to hold them until you could book another session. You were ineffably curious to know what had been giving Vernon so much trouble. Or perhaps it was merely his ineptness with a paintbrush and having to execute fine detail.

He was standing in front of you. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” you mumbled around the spoon in your mouth. “I’m sure.”

His eyes studied you, carefully flitting. “He should die.”

A lump of ice cream was sucked into your windpipe and you started to cough into your elbow. “Vernon!” You spluttered. “Uncalled for!”

“I’m just sayin’, you know.” He shrugged, dragging his spoon around the flurry of pale green mint and small chocolate chunks. “I don’t like the idea of someone so slimy, who caused you so much pain, walkin’ around on the same Earth as you. He’s so fuckin’ privileged and he doesn’t even realize it.”

Sighing, you scraped some hot fudge onto your spoon, tried not to smile and condone his morbid perspective but smiled anyway. Vernon didn’t fit into the unspoken conformations of life the way others did, or forced themselves to, and as much as his roughness perplexed you, you would never ask him to change.

You couldn’t imagine him any other way.

“That was pretty funny,” you hummed, planting your shoes onto the car’s newly furbished chrome bumper. “Getting all scary with him when you had your hair in a palm tree and a little girl’s apron on.”

Vernon shrugged. “It’s my Power Puff fit.”

And you giggled, staring up at him through your lashes, turning him into a portrait against the pulpy clouds and daffodil sky. You let your ice cream sit on the car’s vanilla hood and hooked your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, admiring the faint crests of pink dusting his cheeks, the robust amber smell on his clothes.

“I’m so thankful for you,” you told him.

Vernon took a scoop of chilly mint chocolate chip and shoved it in your mouth. You laughed, half-swallowing, half-choking, until he kissed you and everything splendidly melted into the late spring heat.

Ruby couldn’t believe that you wanted to go to a club. You mentioned it about a week in advance while you two were cooking in the kitchen—Ruby was browning up ground beef while you chopped ingredients for a fresh pico de gallo—and she immediately started laughing and snorting like a pig, bending over the stove top. For a moment, you let her enjoy the joke that was only a joke to her, and then blinked at her flatly. “I’m serious, I want to go to Prerogative,” you said. Ruby straightened up, her luminous hazel eyes widening as she pursed her lips. “How do you know about Prerogative?”

She went on to explain that it wasn’t a typical club. The atmosphere was stuffy, its patrons being the rich and shady, that it was rather difficult to get inside unless you knew someone who was a needle mover with moneybags. Those who weren’t accustomed to their snide, supercilious culture usually stuck out like sore thumbs, becoming raw roadkill circled by eerie vultures dressed in designer brands. Ruby had gone twice, though she said it was a long time ago, when she was still friends with a wealthy businesswoman’s daughter. But she no longer had the connection.

You had pushed your diced red bell pepper into a mound. “I think I know someone who might be able to get us inside,” and Ruby glanced from side to side, uncertain, desultory, like your roles had suddenly flipped.

“I mean, I’ll go with you. Just… why?”

“I can tell you afterward.”

“This reeks of Vernon.”

But you didn’t say anything, instead tossing the chopped vegetables into a bowl and squirting in some tangy juice from a lime wedge. In between slower periods at work, you asked Tara and Lara if they were interested in coming along, too. Tara squealed, “I haven’t been out in so long!” while Lara played with the tips of her soft hair, her nose wrinkling. “Isn’t that the place where all the fancy, pretentious rich people go? Purse Dog Lady will be there, I bet.”

She still agreed to come.

However, you desperately needed an outfit that wasn’t a loose, flappy t-shirt and weather-bleached jean shorts. That weekend, you and Ruby went to the one of the larger malls, slipping in between stores, your head aching from the obsessive use of fluorescent lights, your nose overwhelmed by the gaudy perfumes the sales staff wore, and your patience falling out from under you like suspended tiles. You would waddle out the changerooms, disgust ample in your face, as some tight-fitting fabric clung to your body akin to a moth silkily wrapped into an inescapable, sticky spiderweb. Ruby would excitedly clap whenever she adored an outfit, squinch up her nose when she wasn’t a fan, and give you a mild half-smile when the outfit was passable. You bought a few, to have options.

Except you didn’t really like any of them.

It was merely to play a part.

When the night finally came, you spent such a long time thinking in the shower about what an awful, terrible idea this was, that the water began running ice cold and you had to hop out with half your conditioner unwashed. Ruby helped with your makeup. She didn’t play any music like usual—when you were that anxious, you needed silence—anything else was irritating and grating and salt-to-wound on your nerves. Once she was finished, she took a tiny bottle and started misting your skin with a product that had a synthetic yet fragrant smell, enough to make you cough.

Then she let you see yourself in the washroom mirror.

“Holy shit,” were the first words from your rouge mouth, made slippery by a gloss. “I hardly recognize myself…” fingers drifted lightly at your skin, hidden underneath foundation, concealer, cream contour, blush, as though you were touching a costume mask that could be unwound and removed. “Are you sure these lashes won’t fall off? They feel a little heavy.”

Ruby shook her head. “Trust me—you could get dunked upside down into a pool and they wouldn’t fall off. This is, like, illegal lash glue.”

“How will I take them off?”

“Just peel! And then some makeup remover on a Q-tip.” She gave you a push out the door. “Put your dress on!”

Back in your room, you opened up your closet, removing the hanger that the spandex dress hung from—the colour of a dark, succulent cherry—and sighed. It wasn’t that you hated dresses. You loved them, just on other people. Like Ruby. Like Tara and Lara. Their bodies were the reasons people made dresses in the first place. You always thought your body was built for aged, wrinkly t-shirts and non-accentuating pants that made you look somewhat like a little boy. So putting on the dress was hard. You constantly plucked, pinched, and readjusted the material to make sure you could be reminiscent of them, Ruby and Tara and Lara, even though you never would be, not even in a faraway dream where reality blurred.

Ruby clapped ecstatically when you left your room. “I love it! I knew that was the one! How do you feel? Because you look so sexy.”

You shrugged, fingers rubbing together. “I feel fine.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t wear a lot of dresses, so it’ll feel strange.”

“I guess so.”

“Where are your kitten heels?”

You pointed to the closet space by the front door. While sinking down on the couch, unhelpful, you watched Ruby search for them.

“They aren’t even out of the box!” She exclaimed, scurrying over to you and sitting on the coffee table.

“I forgot.”

Ruby tossed aside the frilly layers of cream tissue paper. “So adorable, right?” the girl fawned, handing you one to examine.

Your fingers ran along its smooth, sleek texture, black and slim. It was unbeknownst to you how you were going to survive with these strapped to your feet all night. Your soles were made for dirty sneakers and tennis shoes. A flash of your reflection appeared in the kitten heel, distorted by ebbing, pale light, and when you could not find comfort in the lost expression that was supposed to be familiar to you, tears pushed, stung, burned your eyes. Ruby was setting the matte box aside when you squeaked out a high-pitched whine of frustration, and it felt like your throat cracked.

“What’s wrong?” She cooed.

Sniffling, your head wrung back and forth. “I’m so ugly, Ruby.”

And she gasped with such immediate sharpness that it nearly cut you. “No!” Ruby said, exasperated, tucking back her hair. “No, you’re not!”

“Even this makeup can’t hide it. I think it’s making it worse.”

For a moment, your roommate quieted. The living room rippled with the pained, insecure hymns of your crying. But then Ruby sighed, and she sat down on the rug, and laid her head on your lap. One arm wrapped around your legs and squeezed them.

You suckled in, confused, laughing, wiping carefully at your runny nose. “What are you doing?”

“You’re not ugly. You’re gorgeous. And I will keep you here all night by your legs until you agree. And give yourself some damn grace.”

She always smelled of jasmines. A subtle sweetness, and then a deep, powerful richness, like a garden leading down into a moonlit cave. There was something in the scent that grounded you, similar to Vernon’s amber musk, and your wet eyes closed to enjoy the weighted warmth of Ruby’s crimson hair spilling on your lap. After a minute, you stroked her head, smiled, noticed that you weren’t itching from the inside out as though you had swallowed a poisonous plant. “Thank you, Ruby,” you sighed.

Her eyes glinted; two green summer ponds drifting with yellowed gingko leaves. “Do you feel better?” She asked, patting your knee.

“I think so…” your fingers pinched at the spandex to massage the stretchy fabric. “Don’t take offense to this—you did such an amazing job and I think you might have sprayed twenty dollars on my face—but this makeup is kinda suffocating me. Would it matter if I took it off?”

“I think you feeling comfortable is top priority.”

“Okay,” you said with a relieved exhale. “I’ll remove it.”

About an hour later—after rubbing soaked cotton pads of witch hazel to your face—you and Ruby rendezvoused with Tara and Lara, who were already downtown, each dressed in a sultry black dress. Tara’s dress was very short compared to Lara’s, hers adorned with a halter design that hugged over her hips but flared gently at the legs. They had been waiting outside a pub. Lara was smoking a cigarette, which turned the air acrid and sharp.

“I’m so excited!” Tara rallied. “I’ve never been to this club.”

Lara’s arms were folded unenthusiastically, her shoulders slumped forward. “You are going to have rich nepotism children fighting the urge to spit on you because you don’t work a six-figure job,” she explained while taking a puff from her cigarette. “Proceed with caution, Tars.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Tara quipped back. She was practically wearing her sparkly optimism like a cloak. “We’ll stick together! It’ll be fun!”

You smiled, not letting the honesty of your bumpy seams show.

“Should we start heading over?” Ruby asked.

“I think so! Who knows how long the line is,” Tara pointed out.

Lara looked to you, her eyes low, tracing. She made sure to get one lasting, long inhalation of bitter smoke before chucking her cigarette onto the street, where it fizzled into orange, peeling paper like a fading firefly. “Fine,” Lara sighed.

Ruby and Tara took the lead, striding and chatting. You walked beside Lara. “I’m sorry if Tara forced you into this,” you murmured.

She hummed. “No need to be sorry. I know you’re scheming.”

And you choked a bit. “Scheming?”

“Nobody willingly goes to Prerogative.”

That made you snort. “Rich people.”

“When I say nobody, I mean us regulars. The Averages of the world.”

“Lara, you’re far from average.”

She glanced at you, quirking her groomed eyebrow, and the way her lips calmly reached into a smile was charming. “So are you, it seems.”

“Then I suppose we’ll fit right in.”

While waiting in Prerogative’s long line, you understood very quickly the specific archetype of people that belonged here. They almost didn’t seem human. Most were tall, thin, as though beneath the dapper suits and eccentric dresses, there were only ivory bones for the wind to whistle through. Their movements lacked fluidity. It reminded you of a flip-cartoon with frames removed, such that you would suddenly blink and find them contorted into another stiff, waxy facial expression, eyes like marbles; polished, shiny, but lifeless. Standing amongst them, you felt as though you were not alive in the same way they were. And they could smell it. The sticky city plumes on your skin, the cheap perfume tangled into your hair, how smoothly your face could move. Stares lingered. Empty yet deep.

Upon reaching the front of the line, you were met by a single bouncer whose chest was wide enough, sturdy enough, to land a jet. Tinted glasses were shifted down to the tip of his big nose. He didn’t speak. A machine. Waiting to hear a human’s call before it could activate.

“My ID,” you showed him.

He glanced at it, uninterested, saying nothing.

Stay calm, you reminded yourself. “We’re with the Polleznas.”

Thick, bulging arms folded overtop his chest. “Who?”

“Georgio and Catarina Pollezna, to be exact.”

The bouncer’s eyes skipped between you. He stood up straighter, and the entrance behind him swallowed. “Don’t look like it.”

“I was just there, at their beach house,” you explained. “We all went, actually. Have you ever been up Windermere Boulevard? There’s the blue house—big, like a colosseum—the seafoam green one, and the one with all those pretty grey bricks belongs to the Polleznas. Backyard pool. Gigantic yellow curly slide. Has the turrets and baskets of bright pink Hibiscus. Anyway, Catarina’s visiting Georgio in Italy right now. He’s been working on a new shoe design with his leather suppliers.” Pulling out your phone, you showed him a photograph, the same photograph of Kitty and her friends partying in Italy, which you downloaded from her social media. “This was us at Blanco Beach.” You don’t let him glean for too long. “And she has to board a flight tomorrow, to Florence. She tests the shoes!” You grabbed Ruby by the arm, lugged her forward. Her parents were from Italy, and she even knew how to speak the language, though it wasn’t perfect and tended to degrade the less she was around them.

Ruby smiled. “Sì signore. Come stai? Piacere di conoscerti?”

The bouncer was unmoving, until he pushed the tinted glasses further up his nose. In a husky voice, he gestured at Ruby. “ID?”

A few moments later, you were all let inside the black, glassy building, and you nearly stumbled over each other—hips bumping, arms smacking, heels wobbling—in a buzzing, livewire excitement. You rounded a long, curved hallway with matte silver walls and elegant streams of violet lights that flowed along the ceiling like galactic water. “I can’t fucking believe that actually worked!” Tara squealed. “I almost forgot how to speak,” Ruby giggled, nerves still breathy in her voice. “The lady behind me kept stepping on my heel and I almost tore her breast implants out,” Lara spat.

You were so relieved to be let inside the club that you nearly forgot the reason you were there. But it emerged, bobbing at the surface of your consciousness, and you felt the edges crafting your exhilarated smile dampen slightly. Different sized globs of people consumed the room, all stuck to each other like gum, refusing to mingle, as though brushing shoulders with someone outside their circle was essentially reinstituting the plague. The bar was quite large and easy to identify. Its counter was glowing white, something of a spaceship, and numerous bartenders swarmed behind it, handling bottles and glasses and shakers. The music was simply a deep, thrumming beat without lyrics, high energy, full of magnetic pulses.

“Who wants a drink?!” Tara offered.

Ruby agreed. “Let’s check it out.”

She held your hand as you grooved in between bodies. Though the atmosphere was dim and people’s faces were powdered in smoky shadows, that didn’t seem to stop the occasional preened onlooker, glancing you over from top to bottom, their eyes metallic in the seedy, sensual light.

You all squeezed against the bar’s glowing countertop, lined up like awkward ducklings while your elbows dug into each other.

Almost immediately, a pale man swooped in from what you assumed was a rift in the staunch air, his lips thin and pink, his eyebrows dark and thick, and his voice a low, errorless purr. “Who’s going first?”

“What’s your special?” Tara asked.

“Can I have three shots of tequila?” Lara muttered.

“I’d love a vodka cran!” Ruby chirped.

You said nothing. Instead, your head swivelled around the room, refusing to let any detail go unmissed. Two walls were bracketed by staircases that led to the balcony, and you couldn’t help but wonder if that’s where he was lurking. Above ground, tracing the murkiness, alert to everything and everyone. But it didn’t feel right. Too obvious.

Ruby nudged your side. “You want a VC?”

“What’s that?”

She laughed, “vodka cran!”

“Oh, uh, sure.” It was hard to care about which shitty alcoholic beverage you were going to be forced to sip for the rest of the night when you had much, much bigger concerns. The bartender slid you a glass filled with dark pink liquid, a black straw, and balls of ice. You took a shallow sip from the straw while tilting your phone against the fancy card reader, and bristled slightly upon tasting the expensive vodka’s lingering sterileness. “Let’s wander around,” you suggested, shrugging. “Maybe we can sit somewhere.”

“These people look like aliens,” Lara grunted.

“It’s called face fillers,” Ruby said. “And botox.”

“The bartender’s teeth were literal piano keys!” Tara exclaimed.

“Don’t you play piano, Tars?” Lara asked. “Why not practice a tune on his blinding teeth. Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy? Fur Elise?”

Tara’s face wrinkled. “I haven’t played in a year!”

“For how long did you practice?” Ruby questioned.

“I’ve been playing since I was eight. Started ballet at nine.”

“I knew the ballet part,” Ruby laughed. “That was one of the first stories I remember you explaining. You started doing pliés and relevés beside the hot plate! I thought you were going to get fired right then!” 

“She likes to relive her glory days,” Lara muttered.

“Like you don’t!” Tara shot back, playfully slapping her friend’s arm. “When I came to your flat for the first time, the first thing I saw was a gigantic poster of yourself when you headlined The Nutcracker! And you keep your original ballet slippers in a glass display case!”

Their squabbling began to disintegrate, fall through your ears like sprinkling sand, and no longer were you listening to Lara and Tara argue whose pirouette was better while Ruby refereed their biased quipping. You saw another staircase, except it led downward, was secured by red rope, and had a bulky guard with an earpiece standing right in front of it.

You shrivelled.

How on earth were you supposed to slip past him?

Lacing your arm around Ruby’s elbow, you tugged her off to the side while Tara and Lara continued to hopelessly blather at each other. She pressed the straw of her drink between her lips, sipped, eyebrows lifted.

“I need to get down there,” you said, nodding toward the stairs.

Ruby swallowed, glanced at the guard. “Uh… there?”

“Yes.”

She sipped from her drink again, then stirred around the spherical ice cubes. “I think that might be for VIP’s, babe.” The ice clinked against the glass. Ruby suddenly furrowed her brow. “Do you know a VIP?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging. “No… but I need to meet one.”

“Who?”

“It’s… well… I can’t really tell you. Not yet. It all depends on if I can get downstairs or not. But how am I supposed to get past the guard?”

Ruby’s expression folded with skepticism. “This doesn’t feel like a good idea… this does have something to do with Vern, doesn’t it?”

In that moment, you wanted to snap at her. Ruby spent the entirety of her career getting wasted, making stupid choices, and wreaking havoc on the city with her substance-snorting friends. She had cooled down the rambunctious behaviour over a few months, put more focus into her job, and while you were immensely proud, now was not the time for her to tell you that something wasn’t a good idea. So you breathed, and breathed some more, and tried to wrestle down your feisty tongue that was ready to exhale your vodka into a blue flame. “It does,” you admitted. “Because I love him.”

She looked like someone had just popped a balloon in her face. Both her hands white-knuckled around the glass. “Wait… are you being serious?”

You smiled at her. “The seriousest.”

And Ruby squealed. She hugged you. “Have you told him?!”

“Uh, no…” you responded awkwardly, noticing a few dark blotches on your dress from the slightly spilled drink in your hand. “Not yet.”

“You gotta tell him!” She urged, passion alighting her like sparks.

“I will, I will.”

“I know he feels the same way,” Ruby remarked. “He’s never been like this about anyone. And… actually… I’m so freakin’ proud of both you guys. I see how you’ve impacted each other. This is, like, destiny.” She proceeded to sigh dreamily, nursing another savoury sip from her drink.

You started to smile at your roommate, but then you noticed something unraveling over her shoulder, and a weight smacked the pit of your stomach in one gigantic earthquake.

Ruby seemed to notice, too.

Lara, her lips peeled back in contempt, engaged with another woman who stood concerningly close. She looked older than Lara, with flat black hair trimmed to unnegotiable precision around her chin, short bangs, and a face that seemed as though it were carved from white wood. There was a taunting, antagonizing flicker in her eyes. You gathered Ruby and rushed toward Tara, who was standing off to the side, nibbling at her nails.

“What’s happening?” You queried.

Tara sighed; gaze pinned to her best friend, her vitriolic flare. “It’s that woman who was stepping on Lara’s heel when we were outside, waiting in line. She bumped into Lara and, of course, Lara wouldn’t let it go.”

Ruby frowned. “She’s not… a fighter… is she?”

The look on Tara’s face was deadpanned. “Gosh. I wish.”

Suddenly, there was an audible soundwave of gasps that emanated from the crowd the two women were garnering. Each stranger looked like an oilifed painting as they stood in shock. Strobing light cascaded around the room, occasionally glittering off bejewelled watches or rhinestone necklaces.

“What the hell happened?” Ruby dared to question; her jaw taunt.

“I think Lara just threw a drink on her!” Tara cried.

The next thing you saw was the glimmer of a pale, bony fist swinging toward Lara, and within seconds, the entire room swayed—a  rocky platform riding a dastardly wave—and you had nothing to hold.

Everything moved in flashes. Tara started unhooking her earrings.

“Uh—what are you doing?” Ruby stuttered as Tara poured them into her hand. “Are you—shouldn’t we—what the fuck is going on?”

She tightened her ponytail. “Lara would do the same for me,” was all Tara said, gulping in a breath, the anxiousness in her eyes suffusing into something so stern it almost made you shiver. Both you and Ruby watched, mouths agape, as Tara started elbowing her way through the crocheted crowd, swinging, before she seemingly got sucked down into a whirlwind of fists and screams. You froze, feeling the warm strobe light pass over you.

But then Ruby bumped your side. “Go!” She whispered harshly.

“What? Go where?”

“The stairs!” She grabbed your chin and turned it toward the red rope, waiting for you to slip underneath, without the looming bouncer and his craggy scowl.  “He’s trying to stop the fight! Go right now! I’ll hold your drink since I’m already holding fucking everything at this point.”

And so you didn’t think. You ran toward the stairs, budging in between a few strangers and their stick-like bodies. Lithely, you slid underneath the rope, and with your kitten heels quivering on every step you took, your sweaty hands lurched for the banister.

There was a long, disorientating corridor waiting for you. Tiny bulbs of blue light bordered the floor, leading down, down, down, without an end in sight. A sharp kink twisted inside your stomach, as though someone was turning a corkscrew, and you needed a moment to breathe like a mother on the verge of giving birth. But you couldn’t wait forever. The opportunity, while unplanned and terribly concerning, had fallen right at your feet and you could not afford to squander it. So you gulped in the thick vapour of your own fear and started progressing down the corridor, moving through the foggy orbs of blue light.

The further you walked, the less you heard the pulsing club beat, until nothing remained but a faint echo tickling your ear’s outer shell. You noticed the air became moister. Cooler. You walked until you reached a dark metal door perimetered by bolts, and you felt something like an explorer outside an ancient tomb filled with oracular secrets.

Behind that door… you almost wouldn’t allow yourself to imagine it.

You do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die. At that point, you wanted to die from anxiousness.

“How sneaky of you.”

 You whipped around, gasping up your entire soul.

A man was standing behind you. Not uncomfortably close, but closer than you’d like him to be. A beautiful man, with the dewy, pearlescent skin of a siren, and deep, rich brown eyes, almond-shaped, that seemed to swim with darkness you would not find above ground. His hair was lengthy, swooping elegantly above his shoulders in black rivulets. Interestingly, he smelled of sterile, pure nothingness—a complete lack of existence—like he was a void. In that moment, terror grabbed you with its cold, icy hand.

“Jeonghan,” you said.

And he said your name back to you.

Not a nickname. Not a mispronunciation. Not a mix-up.

You.

“I was—I thought—”

“Yes, I was on the balcony,” he said, and his smile was wicked.

El Timador plays no-fun games.

Your throat was paper-dry. All you could mumble was, “oh…”

“That fight. What a commotion. And—how very clever of you—to slip away so delicately. Like a loose fish. I almost didn’t catch you going underneath the rope.” He tilted his head. “Good thing I did.” And then he took a step forward, his movements eerily silent. Your head cocked at him, the sheer intensity of his closeness, how consuming he was. “Do you know what would have happened if you knocked on that door?” He asked you in a low, slithering whisper. He didn’t blink. His dark eyes bulged as though they were being pressed on.

“N-No…” you choked out, lips trembling.

Jeonghan pulled a hand down his face, though it paused to cover his mouth, and it stayed there for a slow, ticking, nauseating moment. But then he quickly removed his hand, sharply turned his sculpted face away, and stepped around you.

“Nothing,” he said. “There’s no one in there.”

You felt lightheaded.

He now had a key that he slid into the door’s lock.

Another shiver tingled down your spine.

The room he revealed was bare; not one person inside. Jeonghan waltzed straight in, but you hovered at the threshold, your eyes probing the space with snowballing apprehension. There were two white, glowing platforms elevated from the ground, each with a shiny pole, but no dancer to work the room. And then the booth against the wall, black leather, tight like snakeskin. Jeonghan slid himself into the booth until he was sat in the very middle, his hands clasped together, laid on the golden wood of the broad tabletop, as he smiled at you, waiting to see if you would enter.

He tilted his head. “I promise, there are no tripwires that trigger swinging axes or pits full of spikes. But you are welcome to stand there, if that makes you feel…” his wispy voice drifted off, “comfortable.”

And so you stepped inside. Paused. “Should I… close the door?”

“Well, are doors made to be open or closed?”

You stared at him, your heart pattering heavily. “It depends.”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yes, it does. Do you want us to have an easy, smooth conversation with the door closed? Or a conversation that is stilted and terribly lost because the only thing you can think about is how fast you will bolt to that open door if something goes South between us?”

So you closed the door, watched the blue, hazy lights fade outside in the hallway, knowing it was all a game of trust, or perhaps a gullible cage you had just locked yourself inside because this man had all the control. You approached Jeonghan, hands flattening over the thighs of your spandex dress, and proceeded to slide your way across the leather.

But he stopped you. “Stay right there.” You were not beside him, but at an angle. “If we sit beside each other, I cannot see your face. You know, I always make my men sit right where you’re sitting, instead of those who come to make deals. I can read my men’s face faster.”

The inside of your mouth was sticky. “Keep your friends close...” you sighed, only half-finishing the saying because your breath was falling fast.

“Yes,” Jeonghan agreed. “And your enemies closer. Literally!” He started chuckling, and it was such a sweet sound, childlike, nasally, the tinkling of windchimes. It reminded you of when Vernon laughed especially hard—all his prickled edges became bright clouds on a sunny day—and there was some warmth that found its way inside you, a beam of courage to hold your ground.

“I was told something,” you said.

Jeonghan nodded. “I’m sure you were.”

“That one only goes to you to make a deal, or for someone to die.”

He tossed an arm around the booth. “Ah—is that what the kids are saying these days?” His other hand dug into his pocket. Out came a slim, tiny cardboard box, which you assumed to be cigarettes. Instead, he pulled out a hard candy, popped it into his mouth. “Would you like one?”

“Uh… what are they?”

“Hong Yuan candies. Guava.” He let the green candy move from cheek to cheek. “My daughter quite likes these. I’ve grown fond, too.”

You could not help your face flickering in astonishment. “A daughter?” And then immediately regretted that you had let the absentminded question slip. There was no ring on his finger. Given the fact the room had two poles for dancing, you weren’t sure if he was in any sort of committed relationship, either.

Jeonghan grooved fingers through his hair, the colour of a raven’s feathers, and you watched how the strands fell calmly back into place. “Yes, she turns eight this year.” He stared at you, held out the very small box assorted with different flavours of candy. “Would you like one?”

“No, that’s alright.”

He shrugged, placing the box into a pocket on his suit jacket. “And what are you here for then?” Jeonghan murmured. “A deal?” He settled his clasped hands back onto the table. “Or for someone to die?”

“Um… a deal.”

“You should say it with conviction.”

“I’m here for a deal,” you repeated, forcing the sternness into your voice while you held the gravity-like power of his gaze. He let a palm fall open, and it was impressively soft-looking, akin to the surface of an untouched pillow. It was a simple gesture for you to continue. “I would like you to speak with Vernon. He wants to see you.”

“Okay. And?”

Your shoulders felt heavy. “And… that’s it.”

“Ah, see, that is not a deal,” Jeonghan was swift to correct, and he pocketed the fruity candy into his cheek. “When I make a deal, there is an exchange. Contraband for money, most likely. But you have not come to me with a deal. What you have, is a request. And I don’t do requests. Even to make someone disappear, I must receive something in return.”

“I just—I don’t know what I can give you.”

“Interesting.” His hands clapped his thighs. “Well, you should have thought of that before you dragged yourself to an insufferable, staunchly club where everyone believes you are the equivalent of a dirty plastic bag floating down an exhaust-soaked street.” He made a dilated pause. “Do you agree?”

Your throat was sewn shut. It ached and stung.

Jeonghan wouldn’t let his gaze falter for even a second. He stared you down, his dark, dark eyes a suckling abyss, and you were circling the swallow, helpless, spluttering, crying out for a hand to save you, pull you to dry land. His fingertip began tapping the tabletop, and you imaged a gothic piano before him, where he continued to press that one shrill, eerie key. The imagined sound crawled through your bones in a cold, spidery sensation, and when you glanced down at your lap, you realized just how tightly you had the succulent cherry spandex wrapped into your grip.

“Silence tells me everything you are not,” Jeonghan murmured.

“Did you kill Dots?”

He sat back. His eyebrows twitched. “Pardon?”

“Paulo. Vernon’s friend. He was all their friends.”

“Whose friends?”

You swallowed. “Moo, Snozz. Others, I assume.”

Something spilt into Jeonghan’s eyes, like a bumped-over inkwell, and when he spoke, his voice was grittier, the texture of rubbing sand between your fingertips. “You mean August and Daniel.”

“Their real names?”

“Yes. And what do you know of them?”

“Well… nothing, really.”

“I can tell you a little about them. They are fascinating people.”

The conversation's direction seemed to be whirling, a compass confused. But you were in no position to act mighty. You didn't want to become a shadow. Before you could think to answer, Jeonghan rolled back his shoulders, cleared his throat.

“August. I always think about him. His father was once CEO of an extremely powerful bank in Kenya, you know? Silver spoon. Extravagance. The things we tend to envy. But he was not allowed any handouts, and this turned him to a series of transient jobs. He is boisterous, loud, but has an odd charm that still persists even when he is terribly wrong about anything and everything, but believes he is right because obliviousness is mighty. Why does someone like him need to deal in the first place? Because he wants to. Simply that.

Daniel, my poor Daniel, was damned from the start. Sometimes I awake at night and feel myself still ache for him. His mother was in an abusive relationship. His father almost cut his mother’s throat with a shard from a beer bottle, and poor Daniel had to strangle his father using a utility cord from behind their television. He has stumbled a lot. I'm sure he'll stumble many more times. You will know him best for his silence, but he is always watching, and his loyalty to those who show him grace is commendably strong.

Now, Mr. Hansol Chwe. Mr. No-Manners. We have always had a tumultuous sort of relationship, to say the least. We never mixed that well, but when we did it was always trouble of the most fun kind. He was pulled all around the world by his struggling parents who desperately needed a break. Nothing ever lasted. The ground constantly shook under his feet. He was a snowball that never stopped snowballing until he was essentially wandering the streets at sixteen with enough anger to collapse a town, while his little sister was paraded as a blossom. Sofia. I hear she goes to school in Korea, now. He is rough and jagged. He is not meant for society. But he will always find a way because his world never stops moving.

Paulo... he is most difficult to speak of... he moved between halfway houses and clinical facilities like a coin toss. His parents disappeared, and so he was his own parent. I caught him stealing half-eaten sandwiches from a coffeehouse dumpster when he was fifteen. I was eighteen at the time, in university, working at the coffeehouse, Grit. He was scruffy and dirty. But he was sharper than I would ever be. And no matter how unliveable his life became you could not remove his humanity and kindness. Together, we were pure energy.

I found Paulo behind a dumpster. Paulo found Daniel cooking cough syrup on a car engine. Daniel found August hustling gullibles in street games. And then Paulo found Hansol stealing from a bakery. Before you knew any of those boys existed—Dots, Moo, Snozz, Vernon—selling weed, and dope, and pills, I was there. I protected them. They were like my little brothers. Before I knew your street-rat boyfriend, and the depressed narcoleptic, and the vitiligo lunatic, I knew Paulo. And now, my friend, my beautifully polka-dotted friend with the dappled eyes, he is gone forever.”

You shifted, and the booth made a horrible squeaking noise, and you suddenly wanted to rip the entire thing to shreds. “I’m sorry.”

“Paulo and I did not agree on things as we got older. He was tender inside. Everyone was his friend. But in a business like this, your dealers are your dealers, not your friends. And so we split apart, a bifurcated road.”

“And you started taking over his territories.”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yes.”

“I think Vernon wants them back.”

Finally, Jeonghan crunched the hard candy, and it splintered in his mouth to sugary shards. “I know he does. But he will not have them.”

You sighed, palms humid and damp, pressing an outline of your fingers into the flexible dress. “I don’t know… but it feels like you two are fighting for pieces of the same person. A person you shared.”

Jeonghan’s eyebrow quirked. “Do you think that’s it?”

“Well, I-I’m just, you know, don’t take that too literally—”

“No,” Jeonghan interrupted with gentleness. “I am genuinely asking. The way you put it—I had never thought of that before.”

You weren’t sure what to say. In the low-lit, misty-aired room, far away from the club’s stifling arrogance, you both maintained a mutual silence. Jeonghan opened up his palm, moved his thumb across a mapped line, and you watched him, wondering what he was lost thinking about.

Finally, he sat back. “I did not kill Paulo. But I have often thought I contributed indirectly. By creating this empire with him. And it was a formidable empire. He could have gone to school. I bet he had the ability to become an astrophysicist, or a renowned professor. Though I see him choosing a quieter path. Like a librarian.” He smiled, his ivory face becoming warm in the dimness. “I do miss him. It never stops hurting.”

For a moment, a sharp thought cut into your brain. You found that you were leaning forward, arms squishing against the table. “Did you…” he looked your way curiously. “Did you submit a leaf for Paulo at Sherwood?”

“Sherwood Hospital?”

“Yes, by their recreation room.”

“How would you know?”

“Well… I guess I don’t. Vernon goes there.”

“To Sherwood?”

“Yeah. He sits and looks at the big tree. I never asked if he did it because it seemed so personal. But my friend saw him there, during one of her narcotics meetings—said he stared for a really long time.”

For a moment, Jeonghan slipped into a different skin. His solid, stern shoulders seemed to melt, and the little smirk that never really left his mouth was finally at ease. You saw in his eyes a brightness as the abyss shrunk, revealing a marvelous sun underneath. He glanced at you. “I submitted the leaf a week after his death. But I told no one. I wonder how he discovered it… he does tend to travel about. Never still.”

You swallowed in nettles. “I don’t think he stops hurting either.”

Jeonghan nodded. “It seems so.” Again, silence was threaded delicately through the air. “Okay,” he then huffed. “I will see him.”

A spark jumped to life in your stomach. “You’ll see Vernon?”

“I will.”

You damn near threw your body over the table to hug him. Relief and glee and fondness was soaring in circles, from your head to your toes, to the point you were surprised you weren’t floating. Instead, your hands clenched together, and you spewed out a thank you that made him squint.

“So,” Jeonghan hummed. “You are dating Chwe, hm?”

Nodding, you said, “yes,” with a little too much excitement.

“He is gritty, isn’t he? Like a handful of gravel. We got along better than I let on, actually, back then. Always egging each other on. We reconnected when he asked me that special favour. I realize he’s still got that cocky attitude.”

“I know,” you answered, smiling lopsidedly.

Jeonghan seemed to inspect you, his fingers again tapping the golden tabletop, head falling to the side along with full, thick ribbons of his velvety hair. “You are not what I was expecting Chwe to like.” That faint smirk returned to his hydrated lips. “I remember you, from many months ago. You ran in front of my car to chase the bus and we almost flattened you into an animal hide. Such a helpless nature about you, I thought. You will get chewed up and spat out many times. But you don’t seem so helpless now.”

“Holy fucking shit…” the words tumbled out in dense blocks, bereft of any grace. “That was you? That’s batshit crazy. I can’t believe it.”

“Funny how the world works.”

“No kidding.”

“Well,” Jeonghan huffed while pushing up from the table, making a shooing motion with his hand, so you slid out the booth hurriedly, “I hope the best for you two. Chwe has hardened you up a bit, it seems. Maybe you have softened him somewhat in return. Maybe he will finally be still.”

You nodded, following Jeonghan to the door. “Maybe.”

Ruby, Tara, and Lara had all been kicked out the club.

Following the address from Ruby’s text message, you found them inside a packed bar, all slumped together at a table, surrounded by glasses of alcohol and a huge basket of chicken tenders with checkered paper, each girl gobbling away, grease shiny on their mouths. The music was bursting and the lighting was terrible. A stranger touched your shoulder in the corridor to tell you she loved your dress. When you greeted them, they all exploded into an overlapping quarrel of questions, and you didn’t understand even one.

Lara’s eyebrow was already beginning to swell. Tara had scratches on her arms. Ruby said the black-haired woman with the bob was also thrown out, and that Lara had stolen some money from her handbag.

“To pay for the tenders,” Lara mumbled while eagerly devouring the accompanying potatoes wedges that came on the side. And you apologized for the awful chaos. “Not your fault,” Tara mollified, her eyes cheery. Ruby let you have a sip of her iced tea. “This was actually a pretty great night,” she said.

An hour later, you and Ruby waved goodbye to the British twins huddling together in the backseat of a yellow taxi. She asked if you had met your VIP, and you told her yes, and that if she saw him, she would be swooning for a month straight.

“Please don’t tempt me,” she grumbled back.

When you returned to the apartment, Ruby didn’t waste any time half-heartedly showering and promptly throwing herself into bed. There were times she came home at dawn, heels deserted across the kitchen floor, outfit still adorned, face-planted into a makeup-stained pillow. You always worried about her back then. But now she could hardly make it to midnight.

However, you weren’t tired. Jitters of anxiety and relief still quivered in your muscles, plucked like guitar strings. The inherent dulcetness of Jeonghan’s tone lingered in your ears. His playful grin. How he manoeuvred between power and empathy with such easy flicks. How well he knew the boys, each with their own story and scars, as if they were his, too. Chwe has hardened you up a bit, it seems. Maybe you have softened him somewhat in return. Maybe he will finally be still. You chewed on those words. They settled in your teeth.

Maybe he will finally be still.

But as you sat on the edge of your bed, still pinching the stretchy spandex in your restive fingers, you wondered how Vernon would feel. Would Jeonghan tell him that you were there, at Prerogative?

He didn’t want you involved, and you understood why, and yet, you did not listen. That, he would not like. Not at all.

Suddenly, there were knocks banging at your window. You lurched, gasping, feeling over your heart—a hurdling stampede of horses.

He knew. Oh, gosh. Oh, fucking hell. He knew.

And you prepared to get weathered.

Shucking aside your curtains and lifting open the window, Vernon was hopping inside and over your desk with polished habit. He was mad, you could sense it in the air, how it crackled around his body, as he began pacing back and forth, smelling like cool smoke.

You didn’t move or speak.

He dragged a hand through his hair, already disheveled. He pulled his adored gold chain between his teeth and grinded it. He rolled up the sleeves to his black windbreaker. Finally stopped pacing. Then he looked at you, and his eyes were a soaked mixture of cinders.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He seethed.

You didn’t say a word, hands behind you, gripping the desk.

Vernon raked his bottom lip into his mouth with wolfish teeth. “You had no fuckin’ right.” He proceeded to spit. And suddenly you understood Jeonghan with striking clarity when he had said Vernon was a handful of gravel—roughened edges, uneven yet sharp, cutting as clean as knives—his street grit. “You put yourself in that fuckin’ conceited shithole of a club, to talk to him, that slippery fuckin’ snake, on some bullshit I could have done myself.” His breath was harsh, flaring out his nostrils, as though his belly was boiling rocks.

Behind you, your hands squeezed together. “I got you what you wanted,” came the soft tremble of your voice, and for some reason, your own words sounded so distant and echoing, like there were seashells covering your ears. “He’s going to see you.”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Vernon bellowed, and you feared that Ruby might hear everything. “I don’t give a fuck, do you understand?! That wasn’t your authority to handle! That's not a choice you get to fuckin' make for me! It's my goddamn business at the end of the day! How the fuck do you not understand that?!”

Your lips separated, dry, afraid. “I do understand, but—”

He stepped closer to you. “Fuckin’ bullshit you do.”

“I told you that—that I won’t be able to stay out—”

“So smarten the fuck up!” Vernon chastised. “Don’t be so fuckin’ stupid thinkin’ every little thing’s always gonna go your way, especially shit you have no fuckin’ knowledge about.” He tongued his cheek, grasped at his frayed, stressed locks of sooty hair. “But that’s you, huh? Everything fuckin’ goes your way.” He sniffled and rubbed his nose, smirking, but it lacked his supplemental warmth. “You’re so fuckin’ lucky. All your damn issues are so mundane and simple. You’re just some outsider lookin’ in, thinkin’ you can play around, move things like dolls. But you’ll never understand.”

There was a deep, throbbing pain in your throat, as though something was there, digging. A small part of it was from his anger at you, but the majority was from the cataclysmic hurt, rumbling down around him like surges of breaking earth. So many wounds you couldn’t see, wounds that had barbed his interior since childhood and had been wearing him down from the inside progressively. And you, a perceived safety, a relief, now swiftly taking it all away.

You swallowed bitterly. “I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to make everything easier. I-I thought I was helping.”

Vernon glared at you. “Then learn when it's time to fuck off.”

A sharp sensation in your gut. Something was pulling, moving its way up your stomach, into your esophagus. You wanted to cut it free, but you didn’t know how. Your eyes narrowed. “Meaning what?”

“Leave me the fuck alone, is what it means!”

“You’re the one in my bedroom.”

He pinched his nose, irritation singeing off him like a flame eating up a waxy candle wick. “Don’t get fuckin’ smart with that mouth of yours. You know exactly why I’m here.” Moonlight shone through the window, bathed him in silver, made his chain glint and sparkle.

You paused, about to rescind the jeering urge back into yourself. But your body wanted the urge gone. Refused to let it settle.

“Did you not just tell me to smarten up? Which is it?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No, what the fuck is wrong with you?” There was a spear down your throat, splitting you open, unearthing a sap full of unspoken, smothering weight. “I fucking told you that I wouldn’t be able to stay out of your business! I fucking told you! How come you get to break rules when it comes to us? Why don’t I get that?!”

Vernon's teeth flashed. “You could fuckin’ die you idiot! You could get caught in the middle of some stupid bullshit! I know when it’s okay to let you, and when it’s not okay! But you don’t fuckin’ listen!”

“If I’m ruining your life, then just tell me.”

“God—even now—you’re not fuckin’ listenin’, you stupid girl.” He tossed up a helpless hand, chuckled in frustration. “You fuckin’ stupid spoiled people. Playin' house with people's issues. Playin' fuckin' doctor. Thinkin' you can come in and open us up like a broken toy and fix everything you think is wrong and we'll just accept it.”

“I never asked for you to change!”

“So stay the fuck out of my business!”

The feeling was a wilted rose head, finally snipped, and the weight of holding back disappeared with a windy whoosh of wrinkled petals.

Without control, you shoved his contoured chest.

He hardly moved.

You shoved him again, again, again, started pounding your fists against the boy while he just stood there like a stable mountain and absorbed your every furious shock. “Fucking hate you!” you cried aloud into the silver-stained room, your eyes pinched shut to avoid seeing his expression. “You fuck off! I fucking live here!” His smell consumed you—that heady amber, the tangy smoke, the sweetness tangled in his thick strands of dark hair—and with one final shove, you bumped past him, cheeks glazed in a sheen of tears.

But he refused.

“Let go!” You hollered, swinging your elbow about haphazardly while his fingers lodged into your skin. “I freaking hate you! I’m never doing anything for you ever again! You, you—"

Vernon lurched you closer. “Shut your mouth,” he hissed.

“No! No! You shut your mouth!”

He wrestled with your arms. “God, you annoyin’ fuckin’ girl.”

“And you’re a drug dealer! I should report you!”

But then he had your warm, fleshy arms pierced to your sides, his fingers pressing deep into the skin and rubbing bone. He was everywhere in your senses. His nose an inch from your nose. His eyes seething into your eyes. And suddenly, you wanted him to grind you up into a crystally, scintillating powder, like the ones he snorted so casually, have you inside his blood, kicking his synaptic receptors.

“Yeah?” He gritted his teeth, stared into your soul. “Is that what you’re gonna do, you fuckin’ psychotic girl? Gonna go run your fuckin’ dumb mouth, huh? That’s all you're good for, isn’t it?”

“You’re the—” you grunted, twisting, “—psychotic one.” His skin was melting into your skin. “M’never gonna speak t-to you again.”

And then, he let go.

You stood there, clueless, confused, splotchy in tears.

Vernon flicked his head. “Go. Tell. Get me fuckin’ arrested.”

For a moment, you froze. His heat was gone. His smell. His rough voice so close to your skin. Everything was gone.

You felt empty and dull.

So you dared push him again.

And he had your lower back hitting the curve of your desk. You squealed aloud at the sudden pain, but Vernon’s mouth dampened it.

He had never kissed you so hungrily. Your arms wrapped around his neck, tugged him closer, eager to float in his addictive scent and submit to his touches. The boy’s weight pushed you harder into the desk. It only opened your lips wider, left more room for his hot tongue to fill your mouth and stroke you sloppily from the inside. You started to scratch and claw. You were desperate. So, so desperate. So blitzed in passionate, surging feelings that you could think nothing.

“You stupid girl,” he groaned. “You stupid, stupid girl.” His slippery lips suckled you, then his daggered teeth bit you. “My stupid girl,” he breathed across your mouth in a fluttering huskiness, which was already swelling, tender. “Why don’t you fuckin’ listen to me? Hm?”

“I do,” you whined. “I promise I do. I fucking promise.”

His calloused, tattooed hand was pressing at the base of your aching throat, soft pressure, and his eyes were hooded in a lascivious way that you had never seen. He hovered close to your glossy face. “Then prove it to me,” Vernon’s warm, whispered words tickled you, though, for not a moment longer. He gripped behind your neck, shoved you down onto your knees in a smothered thud. You gulped, peering up at his intention evident in the moonlight. Your lashes danced with nerves, anticipation. He gripped your chin. “Suck me off. Now.”

You paused. Never had you done anything like this.

He knew that.

Even if the desire had crossed your mind.

The hardened tent in his pants was making you dizzy, and you were right at eye-level with it, the moisture between your cheeks desiccated. Choking down a lump in your throat, you glanced up at him again to notice some softness in his steely gaze.

He reached out, fingers brushing over your raw lips with a sort of tenderness you wanted to greedily swallow. Vernon hummed, “do you want this, baby?” as his thumb feathered across a stinging split in your bottom lip. “You can say no. Hm?”

But you didn’t want no.

You wanted him in deep, dark, twisted ways that made no sense.

Afraid but willing, you licked at his thumb, grabbed his wrist, pushed the digit further into your warm, slippery mouth. “I want this,” you mumbled, and tested circling his thumb.

He smirked. Removed his thumb from your wet mouth, drawing along a shiny thread of your spit that you tried not to grimace at. You breathed in the room's defining warmth, watching him take hold of his belt, the rings flashing on his fingers, as he started the process of unbuckling it. And then he popped his button, grabbed his zipper, started pulling it down. The air was so ineffably dense in your nose that you struggled to breathe, and your lungs were dried fruit.

There was another sweet, lentamente brush along your cheek, drawing you into groundedness. “Relax, PJ’s,” he whispered, and the sound of your coined nickname rolling so naturally off his tongue alleviated some tension. “Just relax. I’ll help you, baby. Yeah?”

So you nodded obediently. “Yes.”

He smirked. “My good girl.”

Nothing else in the universe mattered as Vernon dug an inked hand underneath his black pants, grunted a bit, pulled himself out. You wanted to scream. Human nature was… biased. It stuck a fork into your brain and scrambled it into a fluffy pile of mush. Vernon was big. He was big and thick and certain engorged veins were curving along his daunting length to his flushed tip. You couldn’t do anything but stare, stare, stare, breathe, breathe, breathe, gulp, gulp, gulp. And then his hand, starting at his shaft and gripping upward, pushing out something milky-looking from his tip.

You finally glanced up at him.

And he shrugged. “Can’t make it any smaller. Your fault.”

“Vernon,” you said nervously, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

His brows mellowed. “I know. Give me your hand, okay?”

You were shaking. He took your clammy hand, had it wrap delicately around him, and you immediately squeaked, “you’re so hard.”

His chuckle was deliciously raspy. “I know.” His toughened hand laid over yours, and slowly, he began to guide your motions, having you stroke him, feel him, his heat and texture and the odd pulses. “Like this, yeah?” He hummed. But then his grip tightened, made your hand twist in more skillful demonstration. “That’s good, too. But you can explore a bit, see what you do best.” His hand fell away and your stomach lined with fear—now left to your own novice.

“What if what I do doesn’t feel good?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“But what if you don’t like anything I do?”

“Don't scare me like that, PJ's. Not a whole lot you really gotta do to suck a dick well. What kind of fucked up porn are you watchin'?”

“I'm not watching—I just mean, l-like—what if I'm bad at it?”

“I'll guide you.”

“But what if that's not—”

He tossed his head back, snorted with dry laughter, ruffled his loose hair. “God, shut up! Do you not see what the fuck’s in front a’ you? Do you not see how good I’m clearly fuckin’ feelin’? I trust you, alright?”

You nodded. “Okay, sorry.” Flexed your fingers around him, remembered to breathe. “I’m just a little scared that you won’t like it.”

“Only a little, huh?” He abruptly tickled your cheek and you couldn't help giggling. “I know. I hear you, beautiful. But I’m gonna cum from just lookin’ at you on your damn knees, so please start.”

Really? That seemed to motivate you. Fill you with warm, liquid, oozing heat. So you began stroking him, up and down, up and down, at times attempting to incorporate that snappy wrist trick but finding it unusually awkward for you to accomplish. When you glanced up for a moment, saw how he was staring at you with such wild dilation in his gorgeous eyes, you prickled with something adventurous. You moved forward, refused to breathe, and let your tongue lick over his tip. His hips suddenly twitched. Vernon’s bottom lip pulled through his teeth and he groaned, tilting his head back, revealing the hard column of his neck. You loved the reaction, so you tried it again, ignoring the saltish taste and gluey texture of his leaking semen.

“Fuckkk,” he moaned, crackly and deep, stirring up your insides. “Give me more of your perfect mouth, sweetheart,” he cooed.

You listened, slacking your jaw, tampering with his size pressing in past your lips, getting in a little ways before it felt too big, too much, too strange, and you had to slip him back out. “Sorry.”

“Try again. Take a big breath. Close your eyes.”

Determined, you heeded his advice, getting him further into your trembling mouth, feeling his grooves and veins glide along your tongue. An urge lurched in your throat to spit him out from the intruding thickness and length, but you willfully ignored it, eyes squeezed shut, kept pushing your head down.

“Yes, yes,” he breathed so raggedly, “fuck yes, baby. Just like that.”

But then his tip hit the back of your throat and you gagged, coughing up slimy spit that forced him back out. You wiped your mouth, hacked into your elbow. “Can’t fit—wasn’t even close,” you panted.

“M’not expectin’ that on your first go,” Vernon chuckled. “That was so fuckin’ good. Don’t wanna cum yet but you make it so hard.”

You smiled. Prepared yourself to try again.

Letting your sore jaw fall loose, you closed your eyes and held onto him, directing his girth back into your mouth. The spit from your previous attempt had lubricated him, made him easier to slide. Hot tears were pushing against your eyes and your throat irritably hitched, but at that moment you managed to swallow rather than messily choke. Vernon shuddered. The silkiness and warm pressure must feel indescribable. Lightly, your teeth grazed him, and then you felt his hand cradle the back of your scalp. “Let me push your head, baby girl,” he mumbled, “just a bit.” You let him.

Tears drifted down your cheeks and lined your chin like morning dew droplets. Why was it so delicious? Allowing him such control over you? Your jaw was aching terribly, his leaking cum dripping down your throat, but you didn’t want any of what he was doing to stop.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Vernon praised you for his pleasure, his thumb delicately stroking your head. “Let me inside your mouth, pretty fuckin’ girl.” He was suffocating you. Saliva flooded your hollowed cheeks, trickled from your stretched lips, and you felt a vulnerable ugliness. “God—you look so fuckin’ dirty like this, hm? On your fuckin’ knees, gettin’ that loud mouth of yours stuffed with dick.”

He chuckled with a possessive darkness, pressed your head deeper, let you whimper and drool. “Dressed in that tight, tight dress. Shows off your tits and your ass for those inflated, braindead fuckin’ rich pricks.” Your hands braced against his hard, muscular thighs. Tears were overwhelming your slimmed cheeks, tiny silver streams. “You slutty girl, hm? I bet you’re a fuckin’ freak. I should fuck you over this desk n’ make your pussy cry until you’re just a sloppy mess of my cum. Make you mine.” He suddenly tensed. Then his hips bucked forward, and you couldn’t handle it anymore, but his grip on your head was too focused, strong. You cried and shrivelled around him, scratched his thighs with your nails. He started to wickedly pulse.

Gone.

He was outside your mouth. Coldness replaced him. You breathed in like your lungs were tasting air for the first time, gasped and whimpered while feeling a metaphorical winter freeze you over.

But then something was being squirted onto your ruined, glistering face—white ropes, slippery—in your hair, along your lips, down your dress. And you just kneeled there, stupefied, accepting it.

“Fuck, fff-fuck,” Vernon swore, pumping himself intensely.

A moment later, and you collapsed back against the desk.

It was over.

Leaving you an absolute soiled, seamy mess.

Your bed was a cloud. A cushioned cloud. No hard floors. No sharp edges. Just cotton blankets that breathed around you and plump pillows. He was there, too. His arms opened for you, and you crawled into them, immediately softening into his embrace and his rich, luxurious amber scent. Your skin was pampered due to a hot shower.

No more sweat or drool or your boyfriend’s sticky ejaculate. Only the moisture from a jojoba oil lotion. Clean hair.

But still an aching jaw and a very sore throat.

He held you, pressed kiss after kiss into your temples, your dampened locks that smelled like lush hibiscus, and you held him back, fingers skimming his tattoos, a thumb running reassuring circles over the scars engrained into his palm. You wanted to tell him—I love you, I fucking love you Hansol Vernon Chwe—but you stayed silent because the moment was meant to be only tender kisses and warm brushes of bare skin and eased smiles as you relinquished the infatuation from each other.

Vernon murmured against your forehead, “you know I need you.”

You listened to his heartbeat through his chest. “Yes. I know.”

He paused, breathing in your shampoo. “But I’m no good at relationships. I’m no good at anger. I dunno. I just care about you. If you get hurt, I’ll never forgive myself, you know that, right? You’re an angel. You’re such an angel.”

“We can’t fight like that,” you sighed, letting your fingertips drift along the sliver of warm, downy skin above his waistline. Was it terrible that you would let him take control of your mouth again, at that very moment, even though your jaw was pounding and your throat was too taunt? “Do you really think that I’m…spoiled? That I’m trying to change you, or fix you?”

His fingers squeezed the top of your shoulder. “Our lives are just different,” he mumbled, the words vibrating through his hard chest. “I know, it was shitty of me to say that. You’re not spoiled. Sometimes I just get frustrated by the lucky cards other people have, y’know? Most times, it never bothers me. I’ve always managed to get by. I make my own luck.”

Your lips flattened into a small smile. “You do.”

“But you really don’t listen,” he laughed quietly.

You stared up at him, scrunched your nose. “I told you!”

He muffled you with a kiss. “I know, yeah? Brat.”

“Shush,” you mumbled back, proceeding to rub your hand down his chest, following the path of his lean, well-tended muscle. He had been with so many women. But it was only you he adored. Maybe that thought shouldn't cushion you. Nonetheless, it did. “I wonder if Ruby heard any of that,” you sighed. “If she’s tired enough, she would sleep through a freaking house fire.”

Vernon snickered. “Guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

“I really did it because I care so much. Are you still mad?”

“Does it look like I’m mad, PJ’s?”

“No. But you were so hurt before.”

“When you go so long without lettin’ people hurt you, you kinda forget how to deal with it when it comes back.” He grabbed the top of your head, shook it playfully. “It was a stupid idea. Dolt.”

You smiled, giggling as he toyed with your hair, scattering his hand away. “Whatever.” You then looked up at him. “How the hell did you even figure out I was there? I didn't think you would know so fast!”

“Dumbass. You don't think I know Jeonghan has little meet-ups at Prerogative? You don't think I can get eyes there to scope things?”

“I was faster.”

“Stupider, too.”

Rolling your eyes, you curled back up against his chest. It was almost three in the morning. His hand brushed caresses along your back, so smooth, comforting, and you took in a long, slow, blissful breath. You wanted to be with him forever. Time should not have the right to ever separate you; take him away. Your rough, clever, unpolished boy.

He bent down, his lips pressing drifting, soft kisses to your jaw, the metal through his mouth warm, ticklish. “You’re so beautiful on your knees.”

Your lower abdomen fluttered. “We are never having sex,” you grinned, nuzzling his t-shirt. “You are too big. My mouth almost fell off.”

“That’s your mind sayin’ that. Not your body.” But he still kissed your jaw again with a sort of apologetic grace, wrapped his arms around you and squeezed, as though to press out the sensitive pain. “Sorry, baby.”

I love you, you wanted to say. But you didn’t.

“That’s okay.”

—END OF PART SIX.

[aliendes]

[aliendes]

ghost ride | part five. (m)

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 24k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: another early-ish upload as i will be getting up bright and early tmo morning 😀 i'm sure some of u frisky fiends will find this chapter satiating. but aside from the spice, this chapter has some of my favourite scenes <3 maybe u can spot them :D

ENJOY!! ❤️‍🔥

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

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if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

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6 MONTHS AGO.

The trash bag weighed more than you would care to admit, causing you to stumble and grunt and puff as you lugged it over your shoulder. It kept clunking against your back, all the hard edges hitting bone, until you managed to reach the tastefully graffitied dumpster.

Lara was typically on trash duty, but she was gone for the week, visiting a sick family member back in London. Tara had booked three days off to attend a wedding. You missed your usual cohorts. The two substitutes were used to working the opening shift. They didn’t respond well to your jokes or seem to take direction from you cooperatively, and the night’s fluidity rested mostly on your aching, pained back. Picking up the trash bag, you start hoisting it over your shoulder, letting it rest on the lip of the dumpster before you nudged it in with a jumpy, overdramatic squeal.

“What the—ew!”

Something cold and wet had leaked onto your arm, resembling coffee grounds. You shook it off, groaning, irritably knowing that it wasn’t even your duty to take out the trash. But if you didn’t, it wouldn’t happen.

Walking toward the restaurant’s back entrance, you noticed that one of the evening cooks, Costello, was outside, enjoying his nightly cigarette, wrapped in the comfortable burgundy of his wool coat. He smiled at you, his coarse, wiry moustache following the curvature of his lips, though he didn’t end up saying a word. Honestly, it was more humiliating that way.

Back in the dining room, you weren’t surprised to find your two subordinates right where you had left them—polishing tables—except they were at the exact same table, chattering, hardly moving their rags with any sort of vigour. You hated being authoritative, the one to dampen the younger employee’s fun, but you refused to be held accountable for whatever complaints about the poor cleaning might surface come tomorrow morning.

“Hey guys,” you sighed, awkwardly greeting the two young girls with an exhausted, forced smile. “I know the store’s closed, but everyone is still expected to leave at a certain time. How many tables are left?”

One girl blinked, staring from table to table, as though she couldn’t even remember what was done and what wasn’t, meanwhile the other girl picked up her rag, tucking it through her waist-apron. “I guess Shelby can finish up the tables,” she said. “Well, since the restaurant’s closed, can I be the one to tell that super hot guy outside he doesn’t need to wait up?”

“Pardon?” You questioned her, itching inside your ear.

She then pointed across the restaurant, toward the windows. “A guy has been waiting outside for like, fifteen minutes. Right there—” she took a step closer, straightening out her arm, “—leaning against the white car.”

You didn’t look long.

In fact, you didn’t need to look at all.

“I’m sure he’ll figure it out,” you decided to answer, ignoring the instant pounding from within your chest. “Help Shelby out with the tables, okay? I’ll get the mop for behind the counter. Let’s be quick.”

Vernon had done pretty well to give you space. He hadn’t texted you once, nor had he shown by the apartment. It was the respectful, considerate thing to do on his part, and you could appreciate that—however—it had also sharply offended you. To not even text you once was baffling—not that you would have responded out of stubbornness—and to not even text Ruby to ask about you discreetly was even more baffling! This entire week had been nothing but agony. Breakdowns in the shower, dramatic upheavals of emotion while spinning your favourite angst tracks, Ruby constantly being on the alert for your next heartbreak craving. You had gone from marble brownies to mozzarella sticks to caesar salad in just a week!

You thought he had some nerve to wait outside Mr. York’s unannounced. But Vernon always had nerve. He seemed born with it.

Thankfully, everyone was able to clock out on time. The two younger girls left through the back via a friend’s carpool. You said goodnight to Costello as he changed his shoes in the locker area, and popped in on your supervisor to let him know you were leaving. He asked you how it was working with Shelby and Julianne.

You said they were equally great.

You lied. You didn’t care.

Besides, there were bigger dragons to slay, and one in particular was lying in wait for you outside, seated on the hood of his vanilla Camry, twirling a sucker around in his mouth.

He spotted you relatively quickly.

“Hello, Miss,” Vernon purred as you approached the vehicle.

It wouldn’t have made any sense to stride past him, acting as though he were simply a mirage in the bitter, quiet night. He wouldn’t have let you get far, nor would you be able to resist him, anyway.

Guilty as charged.

“Hello,” you sighed, adjusting the strap of your bag.

That sorrowful clanging in your chest was thickly gravid, sluicing like sharp tides of flat water. All it took was a single moment of your gaze locking with the likes of his softening, dark golden eyes, and you were completely ensnared. Who ever thought it would be a good idea to make boys like him? How did you become a victim?

“Somewhat on time for you,” Vernon commented, checking the braided silver watch trapped around his wrist. “A bit later than usual.”

Shrugging, you answered with a weak smile. “New hires.”

He didn’t prevaricate. Vernon slipped off the car, straightened out the t-shirt underneath his thick zip-up sweater, and closed the distance between you. There were just mere inches of space, hardly enough to breathe and not smell the sweet, sticky strawberry of his sucker.

Please Universe, you begged inside your head, don’t let me fold.

“How ‘bout I drive you home?” Vernon murmured, pulling out the sucker from his glossy mouth, upholding your tentative gaze with the daring, confident nature of his own, as though you had never fought, the memories ebbed away.

Your fingers twitched. “My bus comes in about five minutes.”

He looked across the street, turned back to you. “And?”

“And…” you filled in the gap, “I plan on taking it.”

“That feels oddly familiar,” Vernon said. “Wonder why.”

“Yeah,” you breathed out, nervously licking the top corner of your lip, eyes fluttering the ground. “I wonder.” Choking down a hard swallow, you stepped away from Vernon, about to cross the street. “Night.”

“Woah, park your ass for a sec,” the boy laughed, stepping off the curb and into your way. He backed you up a bit. “I wanna chat.”

“Vernon,” you huffed sternly. “I have to catch the bus.”

“No, you fuckin’ don’t, ‘cause I’m gonna drive you home, anyway.”

“Uh, and who decided that—”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Vernon interrupted, sounding uncharacteristically exhausted. “I went and did all the space bullshit. But I can’t keep it up or else I’m gonna go mad. I need to see you.”

“Well…” you gulped, your blood bubbling like lava. “You are.”

“No,” he pushed back in response, tsking his teeth. “I don’t mean it like that, I-I mean it, like, I need to be around you. I need to hear your annoyin’ voice, have you close to me.” A slight wind ruffled his displaced locks, causing the strands to dance as though they were fronds of blackened wheat, tickling his honey eyes. It took every part of you to not reach out and smooth the hair back. “And I know you feel the same way, Pyjamas. Even if you don’t fuckin’ admit it.”

He was right—you did feel the same way—but you were much more fragile in comparison to rugged, forthcoming Vernon, and letting even a drop of your emotion fall would be a prelude for a waterfall.

Clearing your throat, you attempted to look firm, certain. Vernon examined you with intrigue, popping the sucker back in his mouth.

“Okay, I understand you might not have the best memory of last week, since you were evidently buzzing off coke,” you began, clasping your hands together pointedly, “but I made it very, very clear that we can’t keep doing this. We’re too different. Nothing about our lives mesh. And it’s unfair, to both of us, if we keep this going when we know how it will end.” From the corner of your eye, you noticed the bus—41 Alta Heights—shining in orange neon. “And since my bus is quite literally thirty seconds away, I really have to go.”

“No you don’t.” Vernon secured his hand around your upper arm, pulling you, until you were nudged against his car’s bumper.

Upon watching the bus stroll away, you thumped on his hard chest like you were smacking a drum of tight animal hide. “You idiot! How are you so frustrating!” He remained impressively still, waiting until the smoke cleared, giving you a moment to grumble and recklessly pull at the skin of your bottom lip just to feel the sting. “Well,” you chimed, rubbing off your numb nose, “you must be so damn proud, cornering me here, just so we can talk in freaking circles about something I’ve already made up my mind on!”

“You haven’t made up your mind on shit,” Vernon taunted.

“Shut up!” You seethed at him. “Don’t talk to me like that!”

“Y'know why it’s not gonna work?” He asked, although he didn’t allow you the breadth to answer. “It’s ‘cause you freakin’ think too much, overcomplicate things, give yourself a million reasons not to do somethin’ even when you want it, deep down, more than anything.”

Arms crossed, lip jutted out, you leaned against Vernon’s car, refusing to meet the intensity of his eyeline that was drilling into your face because you knew the intimacy would otherwise crack you into vulnerable gobbets. He took a step closer, and suddenly, his fingers were squeezing the sides of your cold cheeks, turning your raw, emotional countenance in his direction. It felt like there was no other choice but to be swallowed whole by his beautiful eyes.

“I like you,” Vernon whispered, his nose brushing yours as you stood there helplessly, ready to buckle to your knees. “And until you can look me dead in the face and say that you want me to completely fuck off out of your life, I’ll keep botherin’ you. Like I am right now.” The pressure from his calloused fingertips hardened against your cheeks, squeezing deeper into the pliant skin. “So…” the boy enticed in a throaty, crisp voice, staring down at your trembling lips as though they were candied. “Be a big girl and tell me to fuck off, then.” Something in your lower abdomen melted, gushed. “Hm?”

“J-Just…” you spluttered, your warm, choppy breath fanning against his pierced mouth. “Take me home, okay? Please?”

He let go of you, poking the strawberry sucker between his lips, fluffing a hand through his windswept, messy hair. “I’m happy to.”

Damn. You had officially folded.

At a certain point, you stopped engaging Soonyoung in your personal drama. He had always seemed like a safe, someone you could chatter to endlessly because you knew the gossip wasn’t going anywhere, even if it wanted to. There just wasn’t enough mutual overlap between your lives. But that had changed once you surmised Soonyoung told Minghao about your relationship with Vernon. You never confronted him on it, nor did the boy seem to notice that you were far less complain-y than you usually were, and you were totally fine with that. Though, some part of you did admit to missing the work spill sessions. It would make the time fly.

Your entire week was threaded by the memory of Vernon’s ambush, how you were served the perfect opportunity to swear him off for good, but ultimately chose to reject the cake. It’s not like you had never missed a bus before. Your fallback was typically an Uber, and when you had been dating Lee he offered to drive you home most nights. A few instances involved a taxi ride paid for by your manager who likely felt pitiful that you were still outside the restaurant at the time he’d wrapped up his office work.

But your mind had seemed to think there was no choice. Something about Vernon’s brash persistence had charmed you deep down. No one had ever fought for you. No one had ever told you that you were all they could think about. It was foreign to hear the gutted desperation behind his words as he stared past your stubbornness and into your desire. The car ride itself wasn’t exactly pleasant as the two of you sat in your own bubbles of silence, steeping in selfish thoughts driven by emotion. You were infuriated at yourself for folding like a deck of cards. Vernon knew how to play you.

It had never been the other way around.

Suddenly, a large bag of chips and a chocolate bar was being plopped onto the counter. You flinched, immediately pulling your elbows off the lottery ticket display and straightening up, trying not to look distracted and aloof, though you were probably failing at it.

“Are you gonna ring up my goodies?” The man asked in a congested, strained voice, gesturing at the items with his old wallet.

“Oh, yeah,” you hummed, shaking your head. “Of course.”

He snickered, pushing up his dark sunglasses. “Working hard or hardly working?” That was the typical comment you got from men like him, dressed in a tattered cap, a faded jacket, and a button-up busting at his belly.

Smiling crookedly, you answered, “a mix of both.”

As he fished through his thick, stubby wallet for cash, your eyes wandered to the outside. It wouldn’t be Spring for another month, not that you would catch much of the fresh greenery from within a concession store along a busy city block. However, you noticed an uncharacteristic flash of bright red across the intersection, which you nearly mistook for a damn flower pot, until you realized that the unusually tall and moving flower pot was Minghao. Next to him, his friend, both dressed similarly to when you first encountered them unknowingly. The second the customer held out his cash, you punched the number into the computer, the till smacking your hip as it popped open, and counted out the change into his hand.

“Now you’re on a roll!” He chuckled in a rasp.

You laughed meekly, shortly, in response, letting the customer fade into the background as you focused on Minghao stalking toward Common Cents, looking like he had come straight from a Paris runway.

Soonyoung wasn’t far.

He was stocking energy supplements down the hall.

Testing out a shout, you called for him twice.

Of course, with his headset on, he was never going to hear you, even if you hopped onto the counter and started screaming. Instead, you picked up one of the candy bars from the counter’s colourful display, taking a brief moment to aim before you whipped it down the hall. The bar smacked his head and bounced onto the floor.

Minghao was getting closer with every stride, his friend hurrying to keep pace with his long legs, carrying him like a spider.

Soonyoung peeled off his headset. He glanced at the ground in question. “Did you just fucking hit me in the head with a Nutter Butter?”

“Get over here!” You demanded, gesturing at him wildly. “Now!”

“That hurt, y'know?” He lamented, rubbing the back of his head.

The second he was close enough, you grabbed him, yanking him behind the counter despite his flourishing surprise. “What the hell?”

“Please,” you urged in a huff, “handle cash for me. And if anyone asks you if I’m here today, just tell them no. Please? Can you do that?”

“Well, I’d be more inclined if I knew the reason—”

Minghao started trotting up the steps. Instantly, you ducked down, squishing yourself into the counter as much as possible while Soonyoung furrowed his bleached eyebrows at you in complete confusion. Whacking his leg, you whisper-shouted, “don’t stare at me! Act like I’m not here!”

Gosh, you prayed he would just go along with it!

No way could you let the brooding, evidently-determined Minghao get you in his sights after bothering his neighbour. Hearing the small chime ding above the doorway, you proceeded to wrap your arms around your knees, as though it would make you more compact and susceptible to becoming part of the counter. Unable to see anything but Soonyoung’s legs and dusty bottles of cleaning supplies, you could only listen, your ears practically on a swivel.

“Hey, Minghao, Qian!” Soonyoung chirped. “Wasn’t expecting to see you guys today. Looking for more of that plum drink, is that it?”

You heard shoes click in timely steps toward the counter.

“Yes. We’ll look around.”

“M’kay. Come grab me if need be.” As the footsteps echoed away,  you were met with a downward glance from Soonyoung, unable to quell his smile as he noticed how buckled you were.

“What’s the ish?” He mumbled.

But you placed a finger to your lips, shaking your head.

Obviously Minghao was going to meander around the store on his own instead of posing a direct, off-putting question. You noted his slyness, would not be fooled by it, and continued to keep huddled. In your head, you were already sculpting a patronizing text message to Vernon that rivaled the length of your high school essay for Catcher in the Rye. He said it wouldn’t come back to you! Well, if that were true, you wouldn’t be pressed into a box on the floor. Soonyoung lazily leaned against the counter, keeping one muff to his headset over his ear, stretching an elastic band in his fingers, cool as a cucumber. You weren’t keeping track of time, although it felt like an entire day had whisked by once Minghao returned to the register.

“How’s it been?” Soonyoung asked while scanning something.

“Fine.”

“Good to know. That’s twelve dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

“Only you?”

“Hm?”

“Only you in the store?”

Every fibre inside your heart squeezed. If Soonyoung owed you anything after subjecting you to months and months of his unprompted, un-asked-for anecdotes of debauchery, it was this stupid little white lie.

You glanced up, watching Soonyoung nod. “Yeah.”

“What happened to the girl?” Minghao asked in his airy, floating voice.

“Which girl is that?”

“She was here last time. The cashier.”

“Oh, uh, she’s been sick or something—thanks.”

The unexpected noise of the till shooting open made you flinch, causing your elbow to bump against the counter. You immediately held onto your mouth in shock, hoping the till was loud enough to cover your blunder.

“If I need to speak to her,” Minghao asked, leaving a long, stressful pause between his question, “how can I get in touch with her?”

“Oh,” Soonyoung replied innocently, dropping his shoulders. “I mean, I can always relay a message to her, if you want.”

There was another pause. A deep breath. “I’d rather not.”

“Well, I would try Ruby—”

Your fingers lurched around Soonyoung’s leg, nails sinking into the boy’s skin until he winced, ripping himself free. “A-Aw! Sorry… uh… I just got one of those nerve pinches,” he stuttered. “You ever get those in your side? And it makes it feel like you’re dying? Um… what was the question?”

“I’ll come back another time.”

“Uh, m’kay. Later, fellas.”

Once the door chimed, indicating their departure, Soonyoung was crossing his arms and aiming a scornful look in your direction. Maybe you didn’t need to claw into his leg that teethingly, but you couldn’t risk it!

“They’re gone, right?” You whispered, squinting up at him.

Soonyoung gestured blankly. “Like the wind.”

Groaning, you began to unfurl yourself from the crumpled, uncomfortable position, a dull pop sounding from somewhere in your knee.

The boy stuck a hand on his hip. “What was that shit all about?”

“Long story,” you huffed in response. “Thanks for the cover.”

“Did it go South between him and Ruby?”

“Uh, yeah... best not to bring it up.”

Thankfully, Soonyoung didn’t seem to care enough to ask another question. Either that or he figured you were being a little too weird and vague for his liking. At least he could listen to his gut. He wove around you with a sigh, returning to his post down the hallway, headphones snapped back over his ears.

Of course, the problem was only half-solved.

At least until the end of your shift.

Both Tara and Lara were willing to make an excuse for you being late to Mr. York’s—you didn’t really care what they told your manager, as long as it provided you enough time to pin down Vernon for a good half-hour. He answered your inquiring text surprisingly fast, stating that he was fixing a problem with his Camry’s engine at a friend’s house. It wasn’t until you asked for the address that his responsivity unfavourably tapered. You were stood outside Common Cents, irritably and impatiently tapping your foot, until his reluctant reply vibrated your phone.

Upon swinging out your arm at the first taxi making its way by, you were being dropped off about ten minutes later within a small, dead-end street, bordered by unassuming, uniform houses.

Vernon was easy to spot. It was the only house with its garage open—the only house with a vanilla Camry that had a dark-haired, tattooed boy hung over an engine.

You trod up the driveway, past the kicked-over recycling bins and the basketball hoop with the torn, fluttering net. Vernon was humming to himself as he seemingly tinkered with something you couldn’t see.

Stood right behind him, you simply said, “hey.”

The boy flinched, smacking his head on the car’s hood.

You didn’t want to giggle, but it escaped you effortlessly.

He groaned, fingers pressing into his scalp as he turned around, his expression contorted. “What the fuck is your problem?” Vernon whined.

“That’s a spectacular question.”

Pulling the small, dirtied towel off his shoulder, Vernon proceeded to wipe the smudges of engine grease from his hands. Notably, his grey t-shirt was far from clean, and there was a soft brushstroke of oil along his gleaming forehead. Your gaze was heavily enticed to wander. Your heartbeat jumped. But you were here for a reason. Besides, if he caught you ogling, even for a second, you would never live it down.

“Well, enlighten me, please,” Vernon scoffed, slapping the towel back over his shoulder, his head tilted. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work or some shit? Why the fuck are you over here botherin’ me?”

You paused, taking a moment to look around the garage. All the walls were plastered with organized tools, hung-up bicycles, wheels, metal parts. Vernon had a connection for just about anything, it seemed.

Swallowing down the stench of grease, you stared at him. “Minghao came through Common Cents,” you said. “And he asked about me.”

The boy pursed his lip, glanced from side to side. “Okay?”

His nonchalance pulled out a deep-chested laugh, though it was fueled by outrage. “Okay?! What do you mean, okay?! He obviously knows it was you and I that went to the scrap yard! He obviously knows it was us messing with his neighbour! And now he’s tracing back for answers!”

Vernon settled his hands against the rim of the car. “Look at the logic, here. What the hell is he supposed to do to you at Common Cents? Threaten you for information or else he steals a Twix bar? A magazine? Some gum? Who gives a fuck? He’s just tryin’ to intimidate.”

“I give a fuck!” You countered, pacing in an anxious circle, nearly tripping over your own feet. “I don’t want this coming back to me!”

“It won’t.”

“It did, already.”

“Alright, don’t get sassy with me,” Vernon proceeded to warn while adjusting the cuff to his fitting, dirtied shirt. “If I recall correctly, it was you who was insistent on helpin’ me, even when I was against it. Now you’re up in my fuckin’ business ‘cause the water’s gettin’ a little murky.”

“I wanted to help you when I thought we could still be friends. But our situation has changed. So whatever I said before doesn’t apply now.”

“And what’s our situation?”

“Oh, no,” you scoffed, teething at your lip. “I’m not falling for that.”

Vernon smirked. “For what?”

“I’m not going to be the one who spells it out. You do it.”

“Well, I can’t spell.”

“Not true.”

“It’s partially true.”

“I don’t have time for this!” You grimaced, beginning to pace again, tucking your arms against your sides in an attempt to comfort. “I need to know that all my terrible decisions won’t ambush me in the dead of night! I mean, I’m an accomplice! I’ll have to look over my shoulder for the rest—”

“Okay, okay,” Vernon chided. “You want the Oscar?” He picked up a large, silver wrench that was resting on the car’s engine, extending it in your direction. “Here, take it. But you don’t get an acceptance speech.”

Sighing gruffly, you ignored his comical offering, instead choosing to lean beside him along the rim of the car. Were you overthinking it? Were you making a mountain out of a molehill?

You stared down at your dry hands, pressing at the cuticle of your thumb, trying to catch your breath. And then you gulped, glancing at Vernon as he was already eyeing you intently. “Are you really not worried?” You asked, shoulders slugging.

“I look worried to you?”

“No…”

He simply shrugged in response, smiling.

You looked down the driveway, at the house across the road, noticing all the grey, matted grass and barren, skeletal trees. This street would probably look much prettier in the Spring. The trees in the neighbour’s yard were tall and thick-trunked, with the branches stretching out in all directions. It must be nice to watch how the leaves might sway in a dewy breeze, how green and lush the grass might twinkle under the sun.

Still fidgeting your fingers, you sighed, “I can’t help being worried.”

“I know,” Vernon said with warmth. You felt his hand settle at the top of your jacket, where he applied a tough yet relaxing pressure. “But I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you, PJ’s. You know that.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled, feet kicking.

In the moment, you let your head tilt onto his strong, supporting shoulder, uncaring that he smelled like metal and grease. When you stopped letting your mind run itself in exhausted circles, the things you truly wanted and ached for came to the surface much easier. Like Vernon’s touch. His closeness. He rubbed down your back, seemingly removing the distress with every stroke from his hand. You grabbed onto his knee and squeezed it.

“Not friends, right?” He murmured against your hair. The smirk was evident in his voice, enough for you to paint a detailed picture.

“Don’t freaking ruin it,” you whined at him.

“Seriously, though,” Vernon began, “don’t you have work?”

“I do,” you exhaled disappointedly, nudging yourself further into the warmth of his neck. “But I don’t wanna go… I was prepared to come over here and yell at you for half an hour.” However, you realized it was probably best to move along, before you got too caught up in him and became utterly senseless. Reluctantly, your head was pulled from the boy’s shoulder. “I guess I should go.”

“Well, let me check my engine one more time,” Vernon offered, placing his hand over top yours. “Maybe it’ll start.”

“That would be helpful.”

He smiled at you, staring deep into your eyes, and you smiled back, everything surrounding you turning into a fuzzy, fading haze.

And then he sprung a quick kiss onto your forehead.

“Vernon!” You squealed.

He pushed himself off the car, shrugging. “What? Move your ass.”

You stood up, letting the boy remove some tools off the car before propping the hood back down with a slam. Fingers clenched, heart thundering, face melting, you merely gawked at him as he threw open the driver’s side door and sunk inside. He tried the key, letting the engine gurgle and wheeze a few times before it rumbled to life. Through the windshield, you saw him gesture at you to get in the car. At last, you wiped the gobsmacked expression from your face. It wasn’t even worth it to scold him.

You would be grinning too much for it to feel convincing.

5 MONTHS AGO.

Sat awkwardly on the edge of a leather sofa, you watched a small boy across the room. His knees were digging into the floor, using the armchair before him as a surface for the random Etch-A-Sketch that had been laid on the coffee table. This was your first time in a tattoo parlour. Coming in, you had little expectations. Now, you had none.

The little boy then stumbled to his feet, completely unbothered by the fact his sky-blue t-shirt was bunched up around his round tummy, and wandered off down some random corridor, taking the Etch-A-Sketch that you may have wanted to play with.

Vernon was beside you, flipping his way through a laminated bound-booklet. He stopped on one page in particular, suddenly turning the book in your direction with his studded eyebrow raised. “Thoughts?”

It was a gigantic back tattoo of a hyper-realistic lion stretching its jaws open in what you assumed to be a primal roar. “Yes,” you sighed, pinching a wrinkle in your jeans. “Because that just screams me, doesn’t it?”

“Ballsy fuckin’ choice for your first tattoo.”

“I’m not putting that on my body.”

“M’kay,” Vernon hummed, his lips pressed together in concentration and challenge as he flicked a few pages forward. “What about this?” The booklet was opened once more in your direction, and you couldn’t help but physically gasp, eyes bulging, while you attempted to discern the vulgar tattoo of a woman’s mouth filled by a…. well… you weren’t going to paint the picture in any more detail than necessary… but a man’s—“that’s actually foul!” You laughed in disgust, heart racing. “Get it away from me.”

“Dude got this shit on his upper thigh…” Vernon remarked casually, like he was reading a bland newspaper column. “YOLO, right?”

“Who in their right mind actually thinks it’s okay to have that on their body? Who would even agree to do it?” Still exasperated, you glanced around the empty lobby of the tattoo parlour shiftily. “Why was there—like—why was the… thing… so detailed?”

Vernon cackled. “The dick? Yeah, facts, PJ’s. Veins and everything.”

“Please stop talking,” you half-groaned, half-pleaded.

He continued examining the photographed tattoo underneath its glossy covering. “Doesn’t compare to mine, though. Mine’s got—”

“Vernon! Shut up! Please! Shut up!” Immediately, you were off the sticky leather sofa, unable to sit there any longer, stomach flopping with nerves, while Vernon rambled about intimate things you had absolutely no desire to hear at that moment. “And give me this!” You snatched the bound-booklet from his roughed hands, throwing it back onto the coffee table.

“My, my,” the boy snickered, slouching down the sofa and sticking his foot onto the edge of the table. “Not in the mood, huh?” He proceeded to taunt you, an arm propped behind his head. “Take a chill pill, Miss.”

“I’m sure you’ve got one handy,” you muttered back in spite.

“In the car. Blue or green?”

“You’re such an idiot.”

Suddenly, a girl popped out from the corridor. She had originally been behind the service desk in the lobby, but ended up disappearing shortly after you arrived. You couldn’t remember her name, but she was exactly the type of woman you pictured running a tattoo parlour—the classic nose ring, heavy gauges through her ear lobes, vape in hand, and not an inch of her arms left uncovered by aged ink starting to migrate—and yet, she seemed quite sweet.

“He’s ready for you,” she said, offering a polite, encouraging smile while gesturing. “Down this hallway. First open door on the right!”

“Thanks,” you sighed, shuffling past her.

However, you noticed Vernon still sat on the sofa, looking dazed.

“Hello?” You chirped, fingers snapping. “Coming?”

“Oh,” he grunted, ruffling his hair. “Really?”

“I am not getting my skin needled alone. Besides, I’m counting on your stupid comments to distract me.” Lowering your voice, you whispered to him sharply while the lady returned to the desk, “unless you want to keep sitting out here, critiquing a tattooed weewee in some girl’s mouth.”

Persuaded, Vernon threw up his arms in defense, following after you into the small studio room where the tattoo artist was waiting. A fresh sheet of parchment paper was laid overtop a thin, flat leather bed, though you didn’t sit down until the artist nodded at you, readying his tray of ink and tools. The paper crinkled under your thighs, and you exhaled nervously while glancing around the studio, noting the various picture frames showcasing his artwork, swinging your feet to his music. Actually, you were somewhat familiar with him—Snozz, as he was nicknamed—Vernon’s friend and Moo’s roommate.

“That’s new. Looks sick.” Vernon nodded at neon signage placarded above a mirror, a bright, toxic green, spelling out his friend’s contact handle.

“Yeah,” Snozz sniffed, tugging on black, sterile gloves, “thanks.” He already had his stencil printed out, which he proceeded to show you. “Uh, so, this is about the size. I can make it a little bigger if you like… don’t wanna go too small. This is a delicate design, so…” he sniffed again, taking a moment to swallow, clear his throat. It sounded like he had a cold, his voice scratchy and raw. “So, y’know, don’t wanna compromise anything,” he finished with a hefty sigh.

“No, it’s perfect,” you reassured him. “No reprinting required.”

“Okay. Uh, wanna lay back?”

Your nervous gaze skipped to Vernon. He was relaxing in a chair across the studio, gave you a confident nod and a faint smile. If only you weren’t too timid, you would have liked him closer, at least so you could squeeze his hand the first time the needle pricked you. Biting the bullet, you reclined, feeling the tissue paper continue to crinkle and tear underneath your warm body. Snozz took a bottle from his tray, spraying some sort of solution onto a tufted white cloth that he then applied to your ankle.

“It preps the skin,” was all he said as you bristled at the cold sensation. Then he was sticking the stencil paper to your lower shin, letting a moment pass before he slowly peeled it off.

“Go easy on her, Snozz,” Vernon called. “She’s a can ���a nerves.”

“Alright. We can start. Ready?”

You gave him a blank stare, void of acknowledgement, that you were even sitting in his studio with the design fresh on your disinfected skin.

“Tattoos are permanent,” your father had routinely advised you as a child. “Get one when you’re young and foolish, then spend the rest of your life regretting it.” He himself had only a single tattoo, buried under the dense hairs on his arm—the initials belonging to his first ex-girlfriend—in faded, sloppy blue ink that seemed reminiscent of a high-school stick-and-poke. “You’ll struggle to get a job the more it goes. It’ll take all your money.” He would keep going on and on as you stood there silently, clasping a clunky flashlight aimed down at an engine. After a while, you stopped listening to the drawl, opting to watch the sea of swaying, golden rye that stretched out for acres across the road.

His speech was discreetly code for: don’t ever think about bringing home anyone who has tattoos, because who you associate with is who you are.

Snozz revved his gun. “You good?”

Snapped from the surge of memory, you came back to the studio, finding yourself staring at Vernon, hypnotized, the same way you once stared at the swimming rye.

“Yeah, I am, sorry,” you apologized to Snozz.

He merely blinked. “Most people say it feels like a cat scratch. Let me know if you need a break.” And without further ado, the buzzing needle started pulsing just above your ankle. The fingers placed quaintly overtop your stomach interlaced, squeezing each other, as your brain registered the sensation for the very first time. There was sharpness, but not weighted. It wasn’t unbearable.

“Well,” Vernon cawed from across the studio, “what-chya’ think?”

You swallowed, focusing on the ceiling. “It’s not bad.” Snozz moved the pricking needle further along your skin, reaching new landscape, and suddenly, there was an unbridled twitch.

Immediately, you tensed. “Sorry!”

He removed the gun, stopped slouching over your leg. “Probably a good nerve there,” Snozz mumbled, wiping the needle’s tip onto a tiny mound of blue, waxy substance. “Take deep breaths. It’ll help.”

Heeding his advice, you filled your lungs with air. “I really am sorry,” you apologized again. “I don’t mean to make you screw up.”

For the first time, you saw his lips pull a little, into a soft, barely-there smile. “I don’t screw up,” was all he said, quiet but firm, his tired, dreary eyes glinting with a grain of confidence. Was a tattoo artist even allowed to say that? You didn’t know, or care, really. All you knew was that you now trusted him, probably just as much as Vernon, in the span of a few seconds. The gun whirred to life again. Snozz proceeded to lean over your shin, his chestnut hair pushed backward by a crimped metal band.

Since the tattoo was small, it didn’t take longer than twenty minutes, much to your relief. You had skipped breakfast out of anxiousness. Once the session ended, Snozz gave you a rundown of some rules while he protected the fresh ink with a stretchy, translucent covering, called second skin.

“There might be some blood—plasma and shit—when you take it off. Easiest to do it in the shower. Give the area a gentle wash with some safe soap. No rubbing to dry it, just pat the skin down with a towel,” he instructed while you and Vernon followed him out from the studio, back to the counter where the girl was filing her nails. “Keep it moisturized, but don’t overdo it. Make sure you’re letting the skin breathe. We’ve got some butters here, meant specifically for tattoos, but Cetaphil is good, too. A little goes a long way.”

“Oh, really?” You piped up, smiling with interest.

Vernon nudged your hip while you readied a credit card. “Dude, I’ve got three butters layin’ around my pad. You can have one.”

“That’s if you can find them.”

“I will.”

The girl set her nail file aside. “Cost?” She asked Snozz.

He shrugged, sighed, pulling out a delicate gold chain hiding underneath his shirt collar. “It was small. No hassle. Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?!” She exclaimed, turning around in her swivel chair. “Go outside and have your cigarette. You’re crazy talk today.” Proceeding to look between you and her co-worker, she snorted, “you two a thing? That why?”

Vernon threw his ruggedly questionable wallet onto the counter, rolling his eyes at the shrewd woman. “God—pipe down, Lily. I’ll pay him.”

“No!” You quipped, pushing Vernon aside. “I’m gonna do it! And I’ll give you more, Snozz. You did such a good job. I really mean it.”

Vernon pushed you back, elbow jabbing into your side, making you stumble a foot. “He’s not gonna change it, alright? He’s just doin’ it to be sweet. I’ll give you fifty—” out from his wallet came a wrinkled bill that curled around his fingers, which he extended toward his friend, “—take it now before she starts a big fit and I have to carry her out over my shoulder.”

Reluctantly, poor Snozz plucked the money from Vernon.

“I could have done that if I had cash!” You lamented, groaning.

Vernon smirked at you. “Yeah, well, you didn’t.” Fiercely, you glared into his arrogance, watching him bite his lip and taunt, “tough.”

“Ah, I’m sorely mistaken,” Lily laughed, leaning back in her chair while she smiled between the two of you, “it’s you two that are a thing.”

“We’re not,” you corrected, frustrated at Vernon for his antics, but attempted to shed the indignance from your tone before you thanked Snozz again. He nodded in acknowledgment, nibbling his rosy lip.

“M’kay, catch you guys later,” Vernon huffed.

Just before exiting the parlour, you noticed the red Etch-A-Sketch returned to the coffee table. Dang it. Right when you were leaving, too. You trailed after Vernon into the parking lot behind the building, walking a bit funnily, until you noticed your ankle felt fine. It wasn’t sore, or stinging, like you thought it might. Some of the instructions that Snozz told you were already fading from your memory. Vernon probably knew them just as well.

“Gosh, I’m hungry,” you sighed, strapping on your seatbelt.

“I told you to eat.”

“And I told you I was too nervous to eat.”

“So let’s go somewhere,” he offered, turning his key.

Your head clunked against the seat rest. “No… I can’t.”

Vernon scoffed, “why?”

“Because I can’t.”

“You don’t wanna do anything that insinuates a date.”

“No!” Yes! Obviously, that was the answer.

It was all mind games; casual breakfasts turned into late lunches, late lunches into dinners—cooking together, tidying up the kitchen together, elbows brushing as you washed dishes together, settling down for an evening film together, cozying up in bed together—you were not going to fall for it! Even if you wanted it so badly that words might fail to bring justice to the extent of your desire.

“This is gonna turn into a bullshit argument, isn’t it?” Vernon said knowingly, meanwhile stretching his hand behind your headrest in order to back his Camry out from the cramped parking space.

You nodded. “Probably.”

“Well, in other words, I have news,” he announced, changing the topic of breakfast. “Good news. Productive news. All the above.”

“Okay…” you answered with a hint of dragging apprehension. His news was vastly different from the average person’s news, and was likely to make you associated without choice to a crime. “What news would that be?”

Vernon glanced at you smarmily for a second before pulling onto the street, almost as though he knew the reaction he was going to elicit. You jostled slightly in the seat when the car shifted over the curb, wanting to clasp the silence in your fingertips and rip it to bits like a failed watercolour.

“What?!” You barged.

“This week, I’m gonna do it. Minghao’s money. It’s mine.”

A broken record. “What?!”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you telling me this?!”

He lazily shrugged a shoulder. “Thought you might want to know.”

Alight with tension and fire, you bristled. “I don’t! I don’t want to know anything about it! Not being involved also means not knowing! Isn’t that just common sense?!” Gulping heavily, you continued to squirm, your echoing words consuming the silence. “I forgot you don’t have any.”

“Well—I guess I should rephrase that—” Vernon said, clearing his throat. “I wanted you to know even if you didn’t want to know.”

“Seek help. Please.”

“I want you to be awake in your bed, worried about me.”

“I’m seriously going to hit you.”

“And I won’t text you any updates about what happened. So you’ll get even more worried. You’ll debate back n' forth in your head, tripped up about what to do, but you'll be too stubborn to actually call me. And right when you're startin' to fall asleep, your eyes gettin' all heavy as your consciousness fades, you'll hear a big tap on your window, and I'll be out there. And you'll fall right into my arms.”

That was that. You didn’t say one word for the rest of the drive, and neither did Vernon, reclined comfortably, triumphantly, mouth pulled in an edgy smirk that had dried to his face. Once he was stopped outside the curb to your apartment, and you had unbuckled your seatbelt, you noticed a half-empty water bottle sitting in the cupholder. It was your only chance. Vernon caught on a second too late. You quickly undid its cap, tossing the remaining water out from the bottle, letting it splash against the boy’s face, drip down his angular collarbone, dribble along his shirt.

“Thanks for the drive, asshole,” you chastised, monotone but cutting, like a flattened stone, before removing yourself from the car.

He shook out his sooty hair, a few water droplets hitting the window. “Where the hell did that come from?” Vernon had the audacity to laugh, grin. “Who even are you these days? Can you pass that towel before you head out?” He suddenly pointed into the backseat, at a white cloth draping the upholstery.

“No,” you replied, tossing the bottle at him, caught into his slippery hands. “Good luck with getting arrested.”

“Expecting a phone call?”

“Uh—what? No.”

“I did the Wordle already. It was dummy. Took me four tries.”

“Spoiler alert, much?”

Tara slanted her faint, thin eyebrows at you, smirking, but not in an overly-presumptuous way. It was only an implication that she knew something was off-kilter with you, but wasn’t going to be the one who shook it out like the last few coins rattling inside a piggy bank. Feeling her continue to watch you, the phone flush against your palm was now being slid into a pocket on your waist-apron, as though you hadn’t been fondling it all night.

Someone jousted the service bell. It was your order of sandwiches, slid onto the pass in a tray, underneath the caged heat lamps.

“I’ll hold onto it, if you want,” Tara teased, making sure she got one little humourous comment in before you walked off with the food, her snicker still as posh as ever. “A contact I need to be closely monitoring? Do you need me to block someone?”

“Worry about monitoring your tables before I take your tips,” you responded in the same frivolity, back pressing against the two-way swinging doors.

The last you saw of the English girl was her tongue poking out at you before the doors winged shut. Navigating the dining room, you approached the table you had been serving off in the corner, two younger-looking girls that quieted quickly whenever you got close, probably undergraduates in their first year, new to the city, attempting to find the best restaurants that didn’t overly skin their pockets. They were most likely to order the grilled-chicken sandwiches. It was the least expensive, least fancy dinner item, the easiest to both understand and palate.

“Anything else you guys need? A refill on your Long Islands?” You offered thoughtfully, sensing that they needed to be asked because they were likely too reserved and unthawed to inquire themselves.

For a split second, they looked between each other with widened eyes and stiffness, as if to wordlessly question, ‘are you asking, or am I?’ until one plucked up the courage to say: “is it too late for us to order an appetizer?”

“Not at all. What do you have—”

You felt a vibration in your waist-apron. It cut the words right off your tongue like a hot knife splitting butter. Neither girl decided to speak, instead watching, reflecting concern, as you stood there, suddenly beginning to perspire under the soft lighting. But you shouldered it off. “Sorry, what are you—” the phone vibrated again, and you couldn’t maintain your professionalism. They were young college girls—they would understand, not be too judgemental. “Just—I’m so sorry—one second,” you said, flustered, turning your back to them, walking a few steps away to check your texts.

Oh, gosh.

It was just Soonyoung saying he was sick. He wouldn’t be able to make his opening shift tomorrow morning. Blah, blah. Who cared. In fact, it almost made you angry, even though you knew it was unreasonable, as if his innocent texts were stuffing up a hotline of people who needed to reach you.

Well, not people.

Vernon.

“Uh, okay, I’m really sorry,” you apologized again, hiding the phone away. “Just—you know—personal shenanigans.” Pulling out your messy notepad and a pen, you asked about which appetizer they wanted.

It was something along the lines of house-made tzatziki and fresh pitas—you didn’t write it down—only smiled at them like life was perfect, and all its perfectness could somehow be captured in your smile. You stalked away from the table not thinking about whether they requested the olives be removed, whether they asked for their pita wedges on the side, whether one of them mentioned a refill on their Long Island. You couldn’t possibly think about those things because they had become severely trivialized in light of someone very stupid, about to do something stupid, and not tell you about it until the moment of utmost inconvenience. How… stupid.

Back at the pass, you sloppily wrote down what you thought the two college girls had asked for, likening it to your own tastes at their age.

You felt fingers jab into the fleshiness of your waist. “Lara!”

“Greetings, Spicy.”

“Don’t—” you bumped her away with your hip, “—I’m writing.”

She had started calling you Spicy after you confused wasabi for guacamole last week, during a tasting session for several new restaurant dishes. It was actually Costello who branded the nickname, but it had spread to a few others. How many nicknames were you going to conjure?

Lara peered over your shoulder, enveloping you with the juiciness of her scent, something aromatically tropical. “Hmm… the tzatziki dip… pita slices on the side… no olives… a Long Island. Let me guess: you’ve got girls aged nineteen to twenty-two who kept it simple with chicken sandwiches?”

“Fork found in the kitchen” you said, clipping the ticket to the line.

“Tara says you’re expecting a text.”

You scoffed, moving away from the pass. “Of course she did.”

“From who?” Lara dug, folding her arms. “Vernon?”

Tara definitely had her moments of nosiness, though she was more tender and compassionate in her approach. Lara was a straight-shooter. She didn’t care about the pragmatics of conversation, sidling from point A to point B like a practiced dance. She sunk her teeth into most things.

And during the dinner service rush, there was no time to dance.

You shrugged. “He’s being an idiot.”

“No surprise there.”

“He told me about something he was going to do, even though I made it clear I had no desire to know. He only told me to take advantage of my feelings—make me feel worried, on edge, disoriented—like the total push-over I am for him.” You breathed out, trying to replace the heat with coolness, both literally and metaphorically. “I am worried. I’ve been obsessing over my phone all week. I almost want to lock it in a box, drive out to the coast, and chuck it into the water off a cliffside.” There was a pause as your gaze dusted the floor, avoidant of Lara, afraid she would be able to tell how quickly and easily you would scramble to recover the locked box at the slightest whim that Vernon was hurt, or in trouble.

That he needed you.

The bell dinged. “Lemon-crusted salmon!”

“I don’t think you’re a push-over for him,” Lara stated with unusual softness as she took hold of the tray with her pink, steaming salmons, the lemon especially fragrant. “I think you’re in love with him, actually.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

In love? With Vernon? No manners, no off-switch, no social awareness. A drug dealer, a rule-breaker, a silver-tongued smooth talker who had never been in one stable relationship that wasn’t sex-central. She couldn’t have been more… right.

And you couldn’t have been more screwed.

By the time the restaurant closed, you emerged with a reasonable turnout of tips. The two students, whose appetizer you managed to get exactly right, were unexpectedly generous with their tips, though you somewhat suspected it might be due to the fact they didn’t understand the tipping system on the card machine. You certainly hadn’t.

Oppositely, you were a victim of tipping five cents as opposed to dollars. Diana said you could never go back to that restaurant again.

While you started getting rides from Tara most nights, you decided to take the bus for the first time in a few weeks. Sometimes you needed the quiet, to stand alone, leaned against the pole, staring aloof into the street like you were a deep, philosophical thinker others couldn’t possibility understand. But if they spoke to you, they would realize how disorganized you really were. Flighty, awkward—meticulously picking your words like they needed to be a perfectly aligned poker hand—only to fumble it all at the last moment because no one would even remember talking to you, so why did it matter, anyway? At least there was no one blocking Mr. York’s entrance.

“Woah—hey!”

You stopped, taking out a wired earbud, staring around the dark street in puzzlement until someone’s hand brushed your shoulder.

“Jesus!” You then exclaimed, ripping the other earbud out without bothering to pause the music. “Diana?! What are you doing here?” It had been months since you last saw her—back then—inside Liuna Station, the esteemed winter art gallery, side by side on a bench, emotionally whispering to each other akin to two church-goers wedged along an uncomfortable pew.

“Oh, gosh,” the girl snuffled, “I’m waiting for someone. We decided to meet up here.” She waved around, gesturing at nothing particular.

“What a coincidence!”

“Yeah, totally.”

She looked better, so much better. Not as full as she used to be, but steadily getting there. Gone was her dullness of torpor. Instead, an earthly glow, natural like verdant spring flowers. Her hair was shiny enough to think someone had cracked apart pearls and powdered the thick strands with their lustre. You were beginning to see her as you once did, and time felt warped.

“I can’t get over how amazing you look.” Maybe the compliment seemed too sugary, like you were purposefully outlining her beauty in a stale, expected way. But you truly meant it. “I’m a sweaty, sore mess right now.”

“Thank you,” Diana replied, shy and earnest. “You don’t look too bad,” she teased. “Nothing like you did after exams. You were losing hair.”

“Who’s to say this isn’t a wig?” You answered, tugging at your scalp.

“It’s a gorgeous wig.”

“No shake-and-go here.”

You both laughed, and you could tell the laugh was warm. Not the cheap, half-spirited laughter used to make conversations swell by quicker.

“What are you up to tonight?” You asked.

“A play,” Diana stated, smiling, “with someone from my narcotics group. We’ve become really close. It’s an Oscar Wilde script.”

“Sounds extremely you.” It made your chest full to know that Diana was slowly reintegrating into the things that brought her joy. She had always wanted to show you numerous plays during your university days, although you were heavily insistent you were not a play person by nature until she convinced you to watch a Legally Blonde production set up by a local theatre. Baby steps.

Diana nodded. For a moment, she looked coy, stuck between two sides of a thought and sliding down the middle. “Are you catching a bus?”

“Yeah. I got out earlier than usual. I give it ten minutes.”

“Well, I actually have a small story.”

“Really? About what?”

She paused, nearly whispering, “Vernon.”

That was unpredictable. You weren’t sure what to say—you only knew that your stomach wobbled, swaying skyscrapers inside you.

“I mean, I guess it's not that important—”

“No,” you encouraged, suddenly steadfast, “I want to hear.”

Both of you stood closer against the building as to not block the sidewalk, and something about it felt achingly familiar.

“Well,” Diana began, her breathing sounding faster, “I’ve been going to my narcotics group for quite a while. It’s in the recreation room that branches off from the Sherwood Hospital. I usually leave through the exit attached directly to the room, but a few nights ago, I decided to leave through the lobby instead. Anyway, I saw Vernon…” she stopped, almost testing your facial expression and its signature tells. You felt busting with anticipation and worry, a super-filled balloon. “He didn’t see me. He was sitting on this leather footstool thing, looking at the wall art. It’s this huge, engraved maple tree. Every leaf is made from copper. Each has a name. People make submissions to have maple leaves of loved ones who passed from drug use added to the wall. I guess… he came to remember someone? To think? It seemed like he’d been sitting there a while. He didn’t move a muscle.”

It took a few seconds of silence before you realized that Diana had finished speaking. Her doe eyes fell to you, not expectantly, but with delicateness. She didn’t know anything of your relationship to Vernon apart from accompanying him to ask about her payment all those months ago. Diana likely thought she knew him better than you, and was only sharing the anecdote to bring her confusion to words.

“Well,” you swallowed, and your throat stung, “maybe it’s not that weird for a dealer to be there. Who knows how it’s affected him?”

That was something you were still fighting to place.

Vernon never talked about his youth much. Exempt for Dots.

Dots.

Did Vernon request for him to have his own maple leaf? Or was it someone else—friend, family, or perhaps even a rival? How often did he go there? What did he think, sat, alone, staring at the copper? What did it mean to him? Was there more emotional depth to him than you could have estimated? Were you childish and small-minded for even making the assumption?

“Yeah,” Diana hummed, as lost as you. “I guess I thought… I dunno… it felt so odd. I didn’t want to interrupt him in case he was mourning, or praying, or… yeah—who knows. I keep thinking about it.”

And now you would keep thinking about it, too.

“Ah, okay,” the girl huffed. “My friend says she got turned around. She put in the wrong street number. I’m gonna go find her.” Diana looked up, her cheeks round and golden as burnished ingots. She smiled. “And you should make the bus.”

“Good point. Stay safe, alright?”

She waved, hurrying off down the street. “You too!”

“Here it comes, here it comes!”

“Are you sure she really does that?”

“Yes! See—look! There goes the bitch-slap slipper!”

“Woah… that’s nearly on par with the bubblegum headshot from Mortal Kombat.” Your hand plunged into the oily bag of chips, rummaging around until you brushed one with a satisfying number of ruffles. “They should be added as characters to the game. I’d play it.”

“I’ve seen her use both slippers—I mean, not simultaneously—but she goes one after the other,” Ruby chided, refusing to let her attention falter from the argument taking place in your complex parking lot.

It was late. Ruby had the curtains on her window unabashedly pulled wide open. The parking lot motion lights turned an ugly, barren backyard into a theatrical stage, where two main characters sneered at each other with passion, a love’s eternal rage, and the intuition that they would be sewn back together in spite of their emotional burnout. It had been a while since you last heard from them. There were murmurs throughout the building that they had finally cut ties. Sometimes you wondered if they even lived here; perhaps they made their way through the township like artists on tour, and you were just a single stop on a long, twisting roadmap.

“Now, watch this,” Ruby said, her tone bubbling over with unkempt excitement. “I know exactly what’s going to happen next.”

You grinned, holding yourself back from grappling out more chips.

It sounded perfectly rehearsed. Your voices blended with the hollering from outside. Everyone knew the lines. It was seared into your memory without you even realizing it, like a line of precious dialogue from a movie you had seen and treasured more than the film’s entirety—the line you watched the entire movie for—waiting to hear the pin drop.

“Go shove it, asshole! I’m calling the cops next time!”

“I bet you will! Raging bitch!”

Immediately, you and Ruby shrivelled into laughter.

She let herself slide off the bed, onto the floor, kicking out her feet as though she had reverted to a toddler. You bent over, wheezing, the breath flattened out from your body, everything turning blurry.

Ruby slapped her knee. “The way she always says, I’m calling the cops next time! Does she even know the number? Have the cops ever been called?”

Smearing away the tears that soaked your lashes, you nodded. “The budget isn’t big enough for that yet. Are we supposed to be the cops?”

“Ew, no!” Ruby huffed, crawling onto the bed. “I don’t wanna get bitch-slapped by her slipper. She has that softball arm. It’ll sting for days.” She plucked the chips back into her lap, shoving a handful into her mouth.

“Now, the parking lot tear-out,” you emphasized, watching the iconic moment of defeat—in which the man accepted his fate sealed by a flying, scathing slipper, dealt by a woman in a bathrobe and curlers—jump back into his crummy car and alight the air with the scent of hot rubber as he whipped into the night. “I bet he changes his tires between shows.”

“Damn, it’s over,” Ruby pouted. “Until next month!” She started picking at her teeth, running over bits of masticated salt-and-vinegar.

Usually, the duo was a nuisance.

Tonight, however, they had made for a lovely distraction, alongside Ruby’s tasteful, knowledgeable commentary on the art of slipper-slapping. It was the one moment where you hadn’t ruminated over Vernon, the one moment where your stomach hadn’t been fizzling due to anxiousness. The inner cushions of your cheeks stung from tartly flavoured chips as opposed to your biting teeth.

“Aw, that was funny,” your roommate sighed, yawning. “But I’m absolutely exhausted. That’s one special I can’t risk missing.”

“Me too,” you agreed. “Can I have the clip for the bag?”

After closing the chips, putting them away inside the kitchen pantry cupboard, and brushing your teeth sloppily in the washroom, you were back in your own bedroom. This time, a loud, uneasy silence. Tossing, turning, mangling your sheets from their tightly-tucked neatness. You refused to check your phone, almost contemplated throwing it into your nightstand as though it were the locked box, but knew the temptation of merely having the device in your hand would be too much. So you turned your back to it.

Instead, your forehead creased unconsciously in thought as you attempted to imagine a distant place. A lake. Wide and flat. Its surface still enough to mistake for glass, reflecting the trees, the sky, the clouds, with magical crystal clarity. And you, a tiny stone, plunging through the water, twirling down in rhythmic circles to the soft, sandy bed beneath. Bubbles surrounded you, the shape of the sun distorting into amorphously scattered sparkles. The silence inside your bedroom was the same silence thick in the water, and you pressed into the mattress as though it was the smooth sand.

And suddenly, you felt the first twitch of sleep.

“Yo! Pyjamas!”

Whining frustratedly, you dismissed the throaty, permeating voice.

“I know it’s late, but I need you awake!”

Promptly, you snuggled deeper into the covers. Unsure what the time was, concerns foggy, sluggishly refusing to connect with reality.

I’m a stone, you thought, go away.

“My head’s a rock, right? Don’t make me use it!”

What?

You shot up in bed, fast enough that you nearly gave yourself whiplash. Without thinking, your body parts started to move. It was a horrifying case of complete autopilot. Before you even understood what you were doing, the drapes to your window were shucked aside, and you were squinting at someone from perhaps a dream.

He smiled at you, bursting cracks of relief, and it all came whirling back, like falling through a vortex.

“Vernon?!” You choked out. “What in the hell is going on?!”

He gestured at you. “Dude! Come with me!” His voice sounded distant through the glass, but still recognizable. “I’m serious!”

Wincing, you shoved open the window. “I was sleeping!”

“Come with me!” The boy gestured again, with more impatience, unable to stop smiling. He didn’t care that you were sleeping. That you had been a stone embraced by the soft, unmarred sands at the bottom of a secluded lake. In fact, he was almost like a child. Wanting desperately to show you something, knowing only their own thrill and how intense it was.

You stiffened. “Wait… did you… did you do it?” Now you were the centre of drama. The timeslot changed. There was a new play, new artists.

Vernon didn’t answer. “Come with me,” he said again, calmer, taming his fire as to not burn you, even though you could practically see his heart beating, his aura crackling with lasting surges of adventure.

“I’m… I’m not really dressed—”

“You’re dressed enough.”

“I have no shoes on, or socks—”

He grabbed onto your bicep. With a muscley tug, you were being dragged onto the desk, forced toward the window. Were you supposed to fight this? Were you supposed to care? Your heart was racing, too. Suddenly, you became putty in his arms, clutched onto his neck as he carried you to his car, left running and smoking.

He practically threw you into the passenger seat.

It was final. You shimmied up against the leather, barefoot, improperly dressed, misty, watching Vernon circle the car until he came to the driver’s side. The car started to move, and observing your brick apartment building become nothing but a non-existent outline wasn’t as startling as you thought. You didn’t dare trifle with the bulky knapsack in the backseat, ask about it, or look at it for longer than necessary. What do you say, anyway? What’s worth it?

Upon reaching Vernon’s weathered apartment, the vehicle lunged to a stop right beside the curb, thrusting you forward with inertia. He gave you his carabiner of keys, told you to go inside, up to his room, and wait for him. Walking pointedly on your tiptoes, dancing around discarded cigarette butts, you unlocked the front entrance, for once not a mess of shattered glass. Quickly, you skipped up the winding stairway as though a malicious shadow were chasing you, not stopping to look back, not stopping until you came to his door, sliding in the key like you lived there.

Like you had committed the crime yourself.

Then you pressed the door shut softly and flicked the light switch on the wall, a sheer fuzziness enveloping the bachelor, your eyesight needing a moment to settle.

Upon leaving the keys on his dresser, you felt different.

Where was your annoyance? Your ridiculing bite? Your uncontrolled quips? Instead, anticipation fluttered up from the depths of your stomach, a sizzling energy that didn’t afford you the underrated luxury of stillness. When the door budged, you flung around, practically twirling on your toes as Vernon bolstered into the room with the black knapsack hung over his shoulder. He approached his bed, letting it slide off onto the navy-blue covers. You scurried up next to him, jittering, hands rubbing.

Vernon grabbed onto the bag’s zipper, but didn’t open it. The boy glanced at you, smirked. “Have you ever seen ten-thousand in cash?”

“Yeah, all the time,” you returned drolly, not bothering to mask your impatience or put on a charade. “No! Are you nuts? Just open it!”

“I’m poisoning you,” he said, sounding indifferent to his own words, knowing you would be indifferent, too. The zipper tugged, moving fluidly, until the bag was open. Vernon used his hands to spread the compartment apart, and you felt something like a damn leprechaun with a pot about to be filled by clinking pieces of gold.

But you didn’t speak, only stared.

The bag was filled to the top in green stacks of cash, some pink, fastened together by rubber bands. You wanted to delve straight in, a diver on a board, meeting plastic currency and not water. So much for being the stone. Stones didn’t need money.

“This… this is…” you swallowed incompletely; the words fading.

“What I’m owed,” Vernon said, reaching into the bag, plucking out a stack that his thumb whisked through. “Plus some extra.”

“Extra?!”

“For you.”

“No, I-I can’t—what? Are you crazy?” Suddenly, the gravity of the situation broke through the ceiling. The money was like an elixir, one you had thirsted for since getting flipped inside out by university. “That’s drug money! Blood money, for all I know!” Whipping away, you walked aimlessly in a circle, arms folded together, a few minuscule pebbles coming loose from your tough heels. “Why am I even here?! What am I doing?! How did you—” No! Do not ask, you berated yourself. Do not give him the satisfaction of your curiosity or temptation. It’s more of an elixir to him than the money to you.

“Fine—don’t take it,” Vernon chuckled. “But I’ll put it away for you if you ever change your mind.” He turned the backpack over, started shaking the money out into lumps on his bed. “I’m gonna sleep like a baby.”

“Aren’t you worried in the slightest?”

“Nope.”

“Did you—did you get hurt?”

“No,” he said casually, throwing his bag onto the floor, making a divot for himself to sit down on the bed without crushing the money. Vernon picked up a stack of twenties, sliding off its rubber band. He thumbed through the money like it was second-nature, bill after bill after bill, his eyes glistening, until he gave up and made a flared, showy spread of it. “You ever seen this kinda action, PJ’s? This isn’t even my favourite. Twenties are too basic, with the green. What I like—” he suddenly closed the stack, let it flop all mismatched onto the bed, “—is the fifties. Pretty in pink, yeah?” Again, he removed the rubber band, started spreading out the money into a fan.

“This is freaking preposterous.”

“You ever did a money spread?”

“With what? Grocery receipts and bank statements?”

“C’mere.” He motioned for you.

“I’m not touching that! I don’t want a single fingerprint on it!”

“You’ll feel like a king.”

“More like a criminal.”

“Same thing.”

You didn’t comprehend how he could talk so perfunctorily. This hadn’t been some merry stroll into town for an ice cream cone, or, maybe it was, knowing Vernon, how he treated things. His bed became a pool of money, one you didn’t want to swim in, although, you felt the allure, the attraction, that same crackle of energy strike in your chest like a hot lightning bolt. You imagined your parents—the expressions shaping over their faces as they beheld you, letting stolen money cascade down your arm—and while you desperately wanted the imagery to persuade you anywhere else but his bed, you still ended up walking toward him. Steps uncertain, but growing firmer. Vernon had hooked onto you like an astute fisherman.

“If you tell anyone I touched this money…” you breathed out, your vocal cords trembling and aching from tightness, “I’ll throat punch you.”

“My pleasure,” he teased.

It was always his pleasure.

He handed you the stack of pale pink fifties. Money with heft. Since when did money have heft? It had always felt lighter than air to you, as though it didn’t exist. Something to hold and look at but never actually use because getting it back was too difficult and losing it was too easy. The bills weren’t wrinkled like the few stuffed into the creases of your wallet, but smooth, glossy, as fresh as a new magazine. Then you started to sift between them, finding it never-ending, feeling your heart pump faster and faster when you weren’t even halfway through the stack.

“Fuckin’ magical, isn’t it?” Vernon sang.

“I feel evil,” you laughed, still nervous. “I mean… if everyone knew what this felt like… it’s delirium. I burned through so much of this shit during university. Just pieces of papery-plastic. But it means everything.”

“It makes the world go ‘round.”

“No wonder people don’t carry cash. I feel so pretentious.”

“I love pretentious.”

You glanced up at him, smiled. “No you don’t.” Then back down at the money, shimmery in your hands like mature summer leaves slicked with wax. “Nobody likes pretentious people. I don’t even think pretentious people like other pretentious people.”

Vernon got to his feet. He took the money back from you and proceeded to reorganize it gently. “True. But if you stroke their ego just right, they pay the prettiest pennies.” You watched him stick out his arm, let the stack sit just underneath his shoulder, and then he shifted his fingertips slightly, letting the individual bills slide down his inked skin like a loose sleeve, catching the overflow in his palm.

“Now, that’s a spread. You try.”

“Uh—I can’t do that!”

“Sure you can. What else is a degree good for?”

Like clockwork, your eyes rolled. “It’ll spill all over the floor.”

“Some’s already on the floor.”

Stiltedly, you took the money back. Rather than attempt the clever arm trick, the best you could do was pinch the stack at its base and flare out the champagne bills into a frilly circle, a pink peony, of sorts.

Vernon clapped. “Woo! She’s loaded!”

“Borrowing, more like.”

He jumped onto his bed, started hopping up and down as though he hit a sugar rush, engendering the floorboards to creak and the frame to dramatically heave. You laughed, wondering how often his downstairs neighbour might hear such a sound, only to realize a moment later that a poster from his wall was missing. Bikini girl—the supposed gift—in all her sun-kissed, toned, teeth-bleached glory.

Maybe his first real breakup.

The money bounced at his feet. “Make it rain on me, PJ’s!”

“No!” You giggled. “Jumping isn’t very impressive!”

“I don’t have a pole!” He laughed.

Playing along jokingly, because it was late, and you were whiffing monetary fumes, and you had a pretty boy asking you to throw illegal money on him, you fanned yourself with the bills. “I need to see more!”

“Like what? A back flip?”

“Yes,” you stated matter-of-factly, with some sass, “a back flip.”

In all honesty, you didn’t think he was going to do it. Not once had you ever seen him back flip, nor did you ever suspect he was the special kind of person who just randomly knew how to do one. But he started jumping higher—even practiced tucking in his knees a few times—while the money continued to jounce all across the comforter. He caught just the right amount of air, to which you immediately smacked the fifties against your mouth, feeling your warm breath reflect off the paper. Vernon flipped, and something struck the ceiling fan that proceeded to concerningly wobble. He managed to land on his feet, though he stumbled over his pillows, colliding with the wall. You both froze in silence. The fan’s blades started whirring.

“Did I…” he murmured, quirking an eyebrow, “turn the fan on?”

“I think you did.”

Vernon threw his arms up. “Now, that’s a trick! Where’s my rain!”

“Fine,” you huffed. “For not breaking the ceiling.” Getting close to the edge of the bed, you smirked, right before tossing the money up, straight into the air, and like a flurry of cherry blossoms coming loose in a vivacious whirlwind, the bills caught the breeze and danced in a chaotic swirl. Vernon grabbed your wrist. You were tugged onto the bed with him. He bent down, settling a thick stack between his teeth while he snapped the rubber band off another. Inspired by your frivolity, he proceeded to toss the money. You shrieked as the propellers made a loud thwipping noise, colliding and hitting the bills, spraying them everywhere, pink rain, until you could hardly see.

Pressing into Vernon, you giggled, “why would you do that?!”

“Fuck—you did it first!”

“I did it reasonably!”

He tripped you, and whether or not that was intentional was outside your concern. Together, you toppled onto the boy’s sheets, melting into a springy landslide of fluttering money—surrounded by the most tangible resplendence—but focused on what was warm, alive, underneath you. His eyes, richer in colour than the most expensive coffee that the money could buy, finding yours, and only yours. His hands, calloused in stories that would only make you squirm, now reaching into the back pockets of your cotton pyjama shorts. His hips, bucking you forward, putting you nose-to-nose. Closer than you had ever been. Still not as close as you wanted to be.

You swallowed. It was crisp and audible. “I don’t remember this part of your story,” you whispered, feeling the heat suffuse underneath your fragile skin as the boy’s hands squeezed your ass with domineering pressure.

“I like keepin’ a play or two t'myself,” he murmured, and there was a smokiness in his voice that made your back arch even deeper.

His hands slid up from your shorts. The second his scuffed knuckles drifted along your bare, soft waist, you were liquid inside. And then his grip, his thumbs pushing into your flesh, as though you were made from moist clay and he was moulding you with his concupiscence. Too overwhelmed, strength bleeding out, your forehead pressed against his, succumbed by just a touch.

“Vernon,” you breathed across his lips. “I… I don’t know if…” you wanted to say that you couldn’t, repeat the exact same speech from a past qualm. But how could you? It wouldn’t mean anything.

And he knew that.

“Shut up,” he chuckled, brushing some bills off your body. “Let another part of you speak instead of that goddamn mouth.”

Your head nipped back slightly. “You are so rude—"

He gripped your face in both hands. His lips pressed to yours.

Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Not an inch of fight in you. He was so capable. He knew how to kiss you, as though he had imagined it to exact preciseness. It started out deep, to really suck you in and melt your mind, but then it eased into something softer, with room to breathe, to understand his lips, how it felt to have a metal ring brush your mouth. But just like he pushed your buttons with his immovable attitude, he pushed your body chemistry into mayhem. What once was delicate became sloppy. It was the kind of kissing you never tried with Lee, because you were too distant, too unyielding, too unattracted. Your hips pushed down against his waist, feeling the boy’s tongue move with yours, confused at the sensation while simultaneously relishing at how deliciously erotic it was. You didn’t want to breathe. You wanted to keep your mouths clashing; lips slippery with each other’s spit.

His hands slid into your back pockets again, kneading at your ass, almost urging you to move, to test your hips and what they could do.

“I’m not good at this,” you flustered into his cheek, letting him kiss his way to your ear. “It won’t feel—ah!” His tongue swirled slowly, right into a pliant, sensitive patch of skin behind your ear.

“You are,” he told you.

He found your mouth again, filling it with his tongue, and your hips seemed to move on their own accord. You felt him, hard, beneath his pants, and your mind went hedonistically blank.

Because of you? How is that possible?

“Fuck, just like that,” Vernon groaned against your wet lips, his tone layered with so many viscous notes—satisfaction, relief, lust—grainy and full of husk. He helped guide your movement when his affirming words weakened you, turned you mushy, incoherent. “Can you feel me?” He whispered into your ear, his smirk on your skin, letting his hands sink underneath your thin shorts to properly grip your bare hips. “You can feel that, yeah? How fuckin’ hard I am ‘cause you of? I don’t even need you here with me to get this hard. Just thinkin’ of you in my head, PJ's. That’s all it takes.”

You couldn’t possibly tell him how wet you were.

It was embarrassing, and also unknown. Lee had never made you feel this way; you alone, blankets pulled over top your head, working yourself with your fingers, had never made you feel this way. But your underwear was sticky and soaked, and Vernon’s dirty language certainly didn’t reverse anything.

Nonetheless, you just weren’t… ready.

Despite your body peeling itself open, making itself unfettered, pushing and pulling throes of desire such that you were nothing but sea waves, you had to find the buoy. And so you gripped onto his chin with one hand, pressed your lips firmly onto his as to absorb the warmth and intimacy into your own fibres.

He chased your mouth when you reclined.

“Vernon,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

How should he know how to flutter his eyes?

“Mm?” He murmured.

“You know I’m not… that I’m not…” you paused, sensing your body almost turn against you, roar at you. There was such a strong ache.

But then he was touching along your cheek. “I know.”

“I’ve never made it this far with anyone.”

He smiled. It wasn’t teasing, or the kind of smile you give to someone that can’t help but seem naturally patronizing. “I know,” he repeated. It was just a simple, accepting smile. One that said he knew you.

And you huffed, smiling, too, so grateful that he understood.

Without thinking, you sat back on your haunches.

Vernon immediately sprang onto his elbows, grabbing your hips cautiously. “Maybe don’t do that,” he laughed, biting his lip. “You’re kinda, right on my—”

“Oh! Oh—sorry!” You flustered, immediately shuffling off him.

He rubbed along his hair, smoothing the fronds back down. “Nah, it’s okay. Don’t mind if I take a quick shower, do you?” When you didn’t say anything, the boy took note of your quiet pensiveness. “Unless?”

“Well—it is your place—but could I use the washroom really quickly before you? It will only take me a few minutes.” That was your most diplomatic and polite way of communicating that your underwear were uncomfortably wet and sticky without humiliating yourself.

Vernon fell back on the mattress. “Go for it. Need anything?”

“Uh, no,” you stammered while awkwardly climbing over him.

In the washroom, you hurried to clean yourself up. The loose pyjama shorts and underwear fell down around your ankles. You spent no time ogling the extensive damp patch against the fabric. Where the hell were you supposed to put your underwear, anyway? Your pyjama shorts had pockets… you supposed you could get away with stuffing them there. It didn’t feel pragmatic, but then again, you were pulled from your bedroom window without even wearing socks, so you supposed the odds were against you. After emerging from Vernon’s washroom, you saw him sprawled all relaxed against the bed, an arm tucked behind his head while he scrolled through his phone. You wondered if this was a normal practice for him.

“All yours,” you said.

“Cool.”

“What about the money?”

“I’ll tidy it up tomorrow,” he remarked on his way past you, as though tomorrow was an entire year away and not in several hours, when the first brushstrokes of daylight would colour the sky. The washroom door shut and within a few minutes you heard running water.

Not wanting to muddle your mind with impure thoughts of what Vernon was taking care of in the shower, you made yourself comfortable in his bed, trying your hardest to accept the money scattered around you.

The older photograph you noticed during a previous visit was still displayed on his nightstand. Months later, you had yet to know who the baby girl was, bundled up in starry-pink cloth and cradled in his adolescent arms. There was much to think about, things you would have to know if you wanted your relationship with Vernon to keep progressing. But you didn’t bother fretting over that, tonight. Instead, you rolled onto your side, facing the wall, and waited for him to finish showering, holding a shiny fifty-dollar bill in your hand. Sleeping on money. It didn’t feel real.

Vernon joined you in bed after his shower, making sure to flick the light off, and no longer could you differentiate the bills surrounding you, the craggy faces of those who occupied them in thin lines.

His shaggy, damp hair was adorable, brushed down and fluffy over his forehead, and smelled strongly of something beachy, breezy. His pyjama pants were pale blue plaid, his t-shirt plain white.

You let him embrace you from behind, felt his frontside press gently against your backside, his tattooed arms curled around your waist, squeezing you. And it suddenly all made sense why so many people were obsessed with chasing love. His nose was buried deep in your hair, though it probably didn’t smell as fragrant as his, but maybe you had your own scent.

You smiled, nibbling your lip. “What happened to her?”

He hummed, his voice heavier than usual, “who?”

“Bikini girl.”

“Gave it to the dude downstairs…” he muttered sleepily.

“Why?”

The pressure around your waist tightened. “I have you.”

Vernon had you.

From the moment he ungraciously ate your molotes, he had you, and every other moment leading up to the one you were making now. But did you have him? Without question? Without hesitation? You were not the relaxed, mellow Ruby who floated through life holding onto a hacked-open coconut, all breeze and sunshine, nor were you the lissome, headstrong Lara with a youth’s experience of beautiful ballet and the type of mystique that men find deeply sensual. You weren’t Kitty, well-seasoned in travel to underground clubs, edgy and just toeing the line of arrogance such that you bent to her whim before you even realized. You didn’t see yourself as remarkable, or interesting, adventuristic, or brave. You were unnoticeably replaced by any one of those girls. Easily swallowed, sinking.

Gone.

You wanted to ask Vernon about everything, flesh open your insecurities like a surgeon. The urge hit you hard. But he was tired—for once in his life—and you already depicted from the rhythm of his hard chest swelling against your back that he was drifting off.

There was no use.

So you shut your eyes and slept beside him, letting it all go.

By morning, your senses started to defrost. You could hear the distant burring of construction, feel hot sunlight caress your cheek, and smell the distinct soapiness of laundry detergent from Vernon’s shirt collar. When you tugged at the navy covers to pull them further up, money started rustling across the bed in hisses. But it didn’t prick you awake in the way you had thought.

You didn’t want to wake up. You wanted to stay against him. Your chest pressed to his chest. Legs tangled together. All your weight pushing him into the mattress, but Vernon’s mouth remained slightly agape as he continued to sleep soundly, the ferns of his eyelashes twitching, black hair a tufted, messy nest. Well, you didn’t particularly mind being awake, using your dainty fingertip to graze across his warm temple, comb adoringly at his hair—it was more so that you didn’t want to move—wanted to lay in bed forever, admiring him, wondering how he got so lucky with his features.

But then you remembered.

Fuck!

What about Ruby? What was she to think when it was unusually late in the day and you had yet to bumble out of your room? What was she to think when she realized your bed was cold and empty, your window left wide open, without any of your clothes or shoes or coats missing? God—she would think you were kidnapped—plucked straight out of your room like a ripened grape off its stem. You sat up, straddling Vernon’s waist. The covers fell from your shoulders in a soft puff and you felt the whirring fan tickle some hairs on the crown of your head. But you had no phone. Nothing.

“Vernon,” you whispered, clutching the boy’s loose shoulders.

He shifted, hardly awake, not saying anything.

Again, you wrestled his shoulders. “Vernon? Where’s your phone?”

“My wha...?” He mumbled blearily; pronunciation tapering.

“Your phone, where is it?”

“Dunno…” he turned his pink cheek into the pillow, nuzzled his nose against the fabric. “Coffee table or some shit… washroom, maybe.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling, bending down to kiss his jaw. “Thanks.”

As you moved off his waist and found your bare feet meeting the wooden floor warmed by the sun, his arm reached out for you, grasping with haze, wanting to feel your skin but falling short. “Come back t’bed,” he groaned scratchily, his sharp brow knotting, eyes still closed.

“I have to text Ruby,” you told him.

His arm fell flat. “Whatever…”

Money was blown all across the floor—much more than you realized—and it had never looked so useless. You picked around the coffee table. There wasn’t much on it, anyway. Some remote controls, a dusty book, a maroon-coloured hoodie, a glass bong, a card deck, and a lighter. So you padded into the washroom instead, the tiles cool underneath your feet.

Upon flicking on the irritable, sterile light, your stomach plummeted. You saw his cracked phone sitting on the edge of the sink. Right next to it, a charcoal Glock with a ribbed handle. You couldn’t believe the sight—how it was seemingly left there with such insouciance—akin to a toy, or house keys, or a water bottle you nearly forget while scrambling out the door. It was sobering. Had he used it? Was it just a precaution, for scare? Did he always carry it on him, in a place you couldn’t see? The boy’s phone proceeded to buzz against the porcelain lip of the sink and you flinched at the rumbling, grating sound. Carefully, you picked his phone up, choosing to ignore the gun even though it was something that couldn’t really be ignored.

You sat on the sofa. It had been a text from Kitty.

Vernon was rolled onto his side, now. Facing the wall. You could see the streams of his hard back through the white shirt clinging to his muscle. Even though your chest and stomach were burning with the urge to look, you chose to ignore it.

Another thing that couldn’t really be ignored.

Ruby’s name was no longer gilded by 'fat ass' in his contacts, which was almost a shame to admit, because it made it difficult to discern which of the two Ruby’s was your Ruby without being nosy and reading his texts. But you figured it out relatively quickly. You sat there, still, for a moment, trying to understand the best way to explain everything without giving away more detail than necessary. The best you could conjure was a simple “not at home, be back later in the day, love you,” with your name signed at the end.

His phone pulsed again in your hand.

It was another text from Kitty—this time a photograph that disappeared way too quickly for you to gauge what it showed—followed by a message that read, “U sure u not coming? Can I change ur mind?”

You wanted to start leaping on the sofa, hollering and screaming.

He’s not yours! Don’t ever text him again! He’s with me! Before realizing how utterly insane you sounded. Immature and dipped upside down by your feet into insecurity. Shyly, you flicked another glance at Vernon, then at the barren wall with a noticeably bright rectangle and putty marks. Things were different in subtle ways. Changing, slowly, in a manner that meant something, as opposed to being tawdry and rushed with emptiness. You exhaled deeply, leaving the boy’s phone behind on the coffee table, his texts untouched.

Criss-crossed, you sat on the bed, began running a hand through his thick fray of freshly-clean hair, black and smooth, a few tangles here and there, nothing your gentle fingers couldn’t work through.

He was awake, just resting his eyes, letting his body unspool.

Neither of you spoke. The silence held its own comfort.

“My mom used to do this…” Vernon mumbled after a few minutes.

Swallowing a lump in your narrow, stinging throat, you nodded.

“Yeah… mine, too.”

You never took the money from Vernon. He offered it again, right before he drove you home, but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept it. Two-thousand dollars. In cash. Where were you supposed to keep it? How were you supposed to spend it? It was still drug money. It was still stolen. And you were not a criminal, even if you had certainly blurred the line at times.

Vernon gave you a bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast. Together, you shared cloves from an orange, and he amply judged you for tearing off the stringy white bits and inspecting each piece fastidiously. “Little Miss Princess, over here,” he’d jousted, “can’t eat a fuckin’ orange. You want a knife and fork while you’re at it?” To which you told him about the time you ate an orange in primary school, on the rug, during snack time, and began choking on a stringy white bit, leading you to throw up all over your Velcro shoes.

“Funny how you let one little thing control your life.”

“It doesn’t control my life. It controls how I eat oranges!”

But you thought about what he said in brooding silence afterward.

“Oh—by the way—your gun is in the washroom.”

“Shit. Forgot about that. Thanks.”

He didn’t move to grab it, instead continued eating his half of the orange while you sipped at the milk left in your cereal bowl. You didn’t understand Vernon sometimes. The differences between you stretched in ways that felt too vast to accept, like a gorge that couldn’t be crossed. You thought to be in love was to accept someone, which in turn showed that you understood them fully. But you didn’t accept all the aspects of Vernon’s life, nor did you understand his choices. And yet, you still loved him.

You still wanted your life in his.

It was unlike you to work the closing shift at Common Cents. But the concession store had a very finite rolodex of employees, and you were certain the responsibility had fallen to you since there was no chance in heaven or hell that Soonyoung would ever forfeit a Sunday night. That left you with your manager, Patsy. You never saw much of her. She was a whole foot shorter than you, wobbling around the store with vigour, insisting on everything a certain way as though you were a new hire who couldn’t be trusted to tell a quarter apart from a dime. You weren’t allowed to simply stand. You needed to look busy.

Even when the store was dead empty.

“Have you cleaned the countertops?”

“I did.”

“What about this cupboard space, underneath?”

“Yes. Done.”

“The drawer needs to be organized. We got new receipt rolls.”

“I did it before my break.”

There was almost nothing she could ask of you that wasn’t already done. You watched her rotund face grow increasingly pink and clotted that you were perhaps not as inadequate as she thought, until she grabbed a microfibre rag and dropped it closer to you, which felt unnecessary.

“The packages of gum. They should be dusted.”

Now she was just making things up. But you didn’t argue. Dragging the rag off the counter, you walked around to the display, mostly candies and different types of chewing gum. Patsy hovered by the door to the office, eyes slimmed through her dense glasses as she observed you like a preschool teacher, making sure you were committed to the profligate task. It made you miss Soonyoung. He might be blustering, but at least he had faith in you, and didn’t pestilently hover, and didn’t care that you spent an hour of your time filling out a crossword puzzle because he did it, too.

Your mind drifted as you dusted each package of gum, tethered to no thought in particular. Until you thought about Vernon. An emotional blade scythed through your chest. You missed him badly. You missed the way he spoke, gutturally, ungracefully, but entirely him. You missed his scent, always rich with amber, but sometimes carrying notes of things much more ambiguous: metal, smoke, city air, gasoline, takeout, mulch, fog. You missed his face. His perfectly arched brows, the lusciousness of his lashes, the depth and hardened gold that gave structure to his eyes. You missed tracing the thick lines of his tattoos, wondering about the story behind each one.

And you missed when you hated him.

It felt so much easier.

Ruby wasn’t nearly as drilling as you anticipated when Vernon dropped you off after the night at his bachelor. She listened to your evasively-detailed story while eating macaroni straight from the pot, sat on the countertop, eyes flickering between you and the stretchy cheese on her wooden spoon. Lots of mhm’s and yeah’s and right’s suffused throughout.

But you didn’t mention anything about the money.

After the store closed, Patsy removed the till from the cash register and carried it into the office, which left you to mop down the floors. At one point, Patsy came outside the office to inform you that you weren’t mopping correctly. “You’re just pushing the water around,” she said, to which you almost spat back at her, “that’s essentially what mopping is!” Instead, you apologized, told her you would wring out the water better, and that seemed to satisfy her superciliousness enough that she disappeared into the office again.

You couldn’t help but shoot the security camera a scowl, wondering if Patsy would be able to differentiate it between the pixels rather than actually do her job.

The moment you collected all your belongings and left the store for the night, you genuinely considered quitting—living off the two-thousand dollars Vernon stole for you while searching for a new job—until you realized how dramatic you were being. Patsy wasn’t going to control your life. Perhaps she could hardly control her own, and that’s why she was so adamant and particular about how a subordinate mopped the tiled floor, or dusted gum, or organized a drawer full of receipt paper rolls.

Upon reaching the park, you contemplated whether or not to walk along the path you usually took during the daytime. Very rarely were you here at such an hour. The moon was full and bright, its sheeted rays touching the sprigs of juvenile grass. Few lanterns dotted the walkway, like orbs of undulating fireflies. You plucked out your wired earbuds, wrapping them up in your hand as you thought.

“I found you.”

At the sensation of fingers brushing along your shoulder, you curdled akin to aged milk, knees jellying, chest tightening. When you spun around on your heel, you saw him—Minghao—smiling, but not in a hospitable way. It was like he found something he had been searching for relentlessly, and his eyes glimmered with the slaked relief of discovery. You weren’t sure what to say. Words failed you.

Minghao’s coat was long and black. He would blend right into an inky street. He would go unseen if not for his hair. The juicy red colour was being pushed out by his dark roots near the crowd of his head.

“PJ,” he said, like it was your birthname. “I found you.”

“I’m sorry,” you answered, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You took it from me,” Minghao insisted.

“Took what? I don’t know you. I think you’ve got me mixed up.”

“You and your boyfriend took it.”

“Took what?”

His hand flexed in his coat pocket, the tendons of his wrist shifting. You watched, trepidation and fear drumming through you, driving in panic and pushing out rational thought. Where was everybody? What if you screamed? Would someone distant hear you and take your cry seriously? Or would you be tossed aside, disregarded as an inebriated university student causing a fuss.

Minghao’s hand stopped moving. “You know.”

You swallowed. It came out in a croak. “Know what?” And then he flashed his knife. It wasn’t particularly big, but the blade looked fresh and it curved in unsettling ways that made your stomach fill up with sickness. You took a step back, refusing to look away from the knife.

“What are you doing?”

“We will go get it back,” Minghao hummed softly, “together.”

“I-I don’t know you,” you warbled. “This is a mistake.”

“You come to the woods,” he said, pressing you forward for every step you took back. “And you enter my trailer. You and him. Hansol.”

“I didn’t take anything,” your tone turned pleading.

After all, it was true. You may have sniffed around, but you never stole. However, you knew that nothing would convince him. Not your pooling eyes, or your strained, hoarse voice, or the manner in which your hands trembled. “Please. You’re wrong.”

Minghao moved the knife into his other hand. It was like he was orchestrating a game, forcing your mind to stretch, anticipate, calculate a pop or a slash that might never happen.

“Together. We grab it.”

You said nothing.

He reached for your arm. “Together. Then it’s over.”

At the outskirt of the park, by the street and its picket of shapely elms, you heard a shout. You froze, meanwhile Minghao’s head snapped around. A black SUV was sat along the curb. You weren’t sure black was the right word—it seemed much glossier, much darker, almost like a void of space cut out from the world. A window was rolled down and whoever shouted shouted again. “Guò lái!”

Minghao’s tall, lithe body seemed to stiffen. He closed the knife into his hand, concealing it, and suddenly, he was stalking across the grass, toward the enigmatic SUV. You pulsed with the urgency to sprint away, but your feet were sinking deep into the dirt as though it were a pot of quicksand. Curiosity prickled up your neck and you could not stop yourself from watching as the red-haired boy approached the window, speaking to a black space without a face or body. After a minute or so, Minghao turned around to stare at you, and your skin felt chilly under the moonlight.

He then opened the vehicle’s back door and climbed inside.

The door slammed shut, the sound echoing throughout the park.

You saw the window slowly roll up, but not before an arm appeared, tapping what appeared to be flakey ashes from a cigarette onto the curb. The SUV then pulled away, tearing through the night like shears, and silence returned like a falling duvet.

You called nobody, completing the walk home in silence.

Vernon came by the apartment.

His breath smelled strongly of cinnamon gum. He bought it from your corner store, and mentioned that the girl who sold it to him had been using a broom to dust at a ceiling corner while your manager watched. He sunk into your sofa, lacking his usual lustre, his eyes staring foggily at the flickering images on the television screen in a way that told you he was seldom listening. You were quieter, too. Sitting beside him, breathing in the outdoors on his clothes.

You glanced down at the chipped shade of seafoam green on your fingernails. Lara had used your hand to test the consistency during a lunch break that past Friday. “I’m way better at painting other people’s nails.”

Ruby’s job had swept her away for the week, into another city much fancier than yours, for a Humanitarian conference where she was needed on the technological side. She had packed a bag Sunday night and went to bed early. This was the first time she accepted the invitation. She would always decline, and the responsibility would be shouldered onto someone else. You even saw her ironing the pantsuit she bought in preparation the day before.

After the confrontation by Minghao at the park, you texted Patsy and your manager at Mr. York’s, saying you needed to take some time off due to a strange sickness that came out of nowhere and had you profusely sweating while your stomach pinched into knots. It wasn’t exactly a lie. You thought the thorns in your abdomen would disappear by morning, but once you started moving around—checking inside Ruby’s bedroom to see she was already gone—you felt them emerge from their sheaths, take away your breath, as you collapsed onto the sofa, a warm hand on your aching tummy.

All day you had writhed and wriggled like a butterfly attempting to break free from its chrysalis, moving from show to show, movie to movie, trying to distract yourself from the sharp, muddled discomfort burrowing inside you. It didn’t feel like any emotion you had ever experienced before, if you could remember, that is. When you were angry, you were sticky and buzzing, almost daring things to go wrong, but finding that the anger never made its way out until months or years later. When you were disappointed, you were a lead weight, dragging your own ineptitude around like ball and chain and wondering why it suddenly seemed so hard to sprint.

When you were anxious, your body folded in on itself, a deck of timbering cards. Nothing could penetrate the whirlwind flinging out all your unspooled thoughts until the source of the anxiety came and went and you were stood, exhausted, without the spark to tidy everything up, so you just lay amongst the debris and slept.

But this feeling was somehow different.

It was an unknown. Not of yourself—of someone else.

“Chef Anne said his knife cuts need work. Why are his carrots rangin’ from Baby Bear to fuckin’ Papa Bear. And his roux is burnt.”

Your cheek nuzzled against Vernon’s shoulder. “What?”

“This dude—he just fucked up his carrots.”

He was watching a cooking show about amateur chefs learning to improve their skills in the kitchen. You laughed, because what did Vernon know about cooking, anyway? You had learned about cooking in high school, from a hospitality class, where you were quizzed on a variety of artful knife cuts and your ability to make cheddar biscuits that weren’t full of hard flour. You had to make crepes, practice getting them thinned and golden-brown without breaking apart their fragile skin, and clean russet potatoes to make hash browns eaten with fresh eggs—sunny side, scrambled, over-easy, hardboiled—you had learned to make each one or else you wouldn’t pass.

You almost wanted to say, “what do you know about cooking? Have you ever cooked for anyone? A parent, a friend, a sibling? Did you ever take a hospitality class? What about the class where you had to bake cupcakes and then sell them to the school for a grade? Did your mom ever help you decorate the cupcakes or fasten tips to the piping bags? Did your dad tell you to buckle the container into the backseat? Did he watch you walk up the stairway into the front entrance, smiling awkwardly while you held it?”

You wanted him to fill the hole that he pulled apart inside you.

“Vernon.”

He yawned, stretching out his arms. “Yeah?” One fell around your shoulders. His warmth. His weight. His smell. But without his soul.

“Last night, in Cedar Park, Minghao pulled a knife on me,” you said plainly, blanched of emotion. “But he was called into an SUV, and left.”

The arm settled around your shoulders lifted, cold air stippling your neck. “He did what?” Vernon queried, staring back at you. It was the kind of question that didn’t need an answer as the question itself was nothing but space to process the gritty information. “He pulled a knife?” He repeated.

“Yeah.”

“But nothin’ happened? You’re okay?”

Nothing? That’s not what you had said. But you realized to Vernon, the word inside your situation suddenly bore a different meaning. Getting a knife pulled on you was nothing.

Getting stabbed was perhaps something.

 “No,” you answered, accepting his version of nothing. “I was fine.”

Vernon sat on the sofa’s edge. His eyes drifted around the room in glimmering relief, and he began rubbing along the bridge of his nose. The reaction wasn’t what you had expected. You thought Vernon would burst to his feet, colour the air red as he peppered rage from his scathing, uncouth mouth. But then you remembered the moment you had told him about the incident with Lee, and the softness he laid over you, like a knitted blanket, ushering you into his garish compassion such that the guilt couldn’t touch you. It would burn up in his light. You wanted to believe this was the same.

He cleared his throat. “It worked.”

You blinked, fingers tucking together. “What?”

“Nothin’—just—it worked out.”

Again, the word nothing kept changing shape. Now it was evasive, throwing a tarp over a pile of secrets. You sensed the hole widen and it felt as though pieces of your stomach were being shaved off to make more room.

“What worked out?”

He chuckled, swinging his head, preparing himself to sink back into the sofa so he could learn more about julienne carrots and white roux sauce through another person’s mistakes. “Look, the less you know, the better.”

“I want to know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Dude, I don’t have the gas to argue.”

“Well, then why would you say something like that? Something so damn ambiguous and shady? Vernon, I had a knife pulled on me!” You grabbed the remote control off the coffee table, clicking at the television to silence the noise. “I deserve to know whatever twisted business you shoved me into without my consent!”

He groaned, letting his head roll against the back of the sofa.

“I’m serious!” You shouted, feeling the complex conglomeration of emotions wrestled away the night before start flourishing, gestating. “Tell me! Or I’ll never speak to you ever again!” Snatching your phone off the couch pillow, you waved it around. “I’ll tell the cops!”

Vernon sat up. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Tell me! I’m not kidding!”

“You said you wanted to stay the fuck out of my business. So, I keep you the fuck out of my business, and now you want back in?” He tossed his arms up in pure defeat, collapsing against the sofa and massaging his temples. “Why the fuck do I even bother with you?”

“Tell. Me.”

He scoffed, biting his inner cheek. “Fuck off. You won’t.”

“I will.”

You watched him shrug. “Do it then. Call the cops. Get me arrested. Fuckin’ tattletale. Go run your fuckin’ mouth, PJ’s.”

His words were like sawdust in your eyes. Upon staring down at the phone screen, the shapes and colours and words began to blur, as though your mind was wiring your tenacity while your heart wired your will to always protect him. Frustration bubbled up. It melted the tangled wires together, and in a clash of indecision, you whipped your phone across the room, hearing it smack into the wall with a hollow thud.

“God! You’re such a prick!” You cried. Crumpling back onto the sofa, you began to sniffle and puff, tears silvering in your eyes like ice beginning to melt. “I can’t get anything out of you. Nothing. You won’t ever tell me. It is so you can leave me that much easier? If I know nothing? So you can wash me out of your memory like a stain when you decide I have nothing you want?” Your mouth flooded with an acrid, metallic taste, almost burning, like the melted wires were coming back up. “I don’t understand your games, Vernon.”

He sighed, letting you wet your hands in tears.

Then, after a moment, he tugged at your arm. “C'mere.”

“No,” you choked out, shrugging him off.

Another moment went by, and then you heard him swallow. “It’s my first time doin’ this too, y’know? I guess I suck at it.”

Through salted, damp eyelashes, you glanced up at him. “Huh?”

He smiled at you, and there was an ease in his face, the same kind that appears in the sky after a humid, pelting rain. “A relationship.”

You became firm. “A relationship?”

Vernon nodded.

“What do you mean?” Your voice crackled, desperate for him to elaborate, to make a picture with no doubt. “We’re in a relationship?”

“Aren’t we?”

“I thought you didn’t want that…” you murmured, suddenly regretting shaking off his touch. “I thought we were just breezing. Going wherever the wind takes us. I didn’t think you wanted… commitment. Not that we ever explicitly stated what we were doing. We were kind of just… doing it. I mean, I want a relationship. You know that…” 

Vernon leaned toward you. His hand cupped your warm, sheening cheek. Then, his lips were slowly pressing against yours, and you felt the wings sprout from your back. You pushed reciprocally into his tenderness, reaching behind his neck, as your noses rubbed, and the kiss became a heady fusion of brackish tears and cinnamon. His slippery tongue touched yours, not lasting, but just enough that you went fuzzy, running your hand down his chest.

Vernon grasped it, folding your fingers into his. “I want to take you somewhere,” he whispered, kissing you again, a short peck.

“I won’t go,” you whispered back. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you meant. Am I your girlfriend? I’ve never been a girlfriend to anyone. Well, not romantically. Not with a boy. Not with a drug-dealing boy who carries around guns and knows strange people.”

He strummed your knuckles. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

You nodded, speaking beneath a whisper, unable to stop yourself from staring intensely into his burnished, bronzed eyes. “Yes.”

Vernon knocked into your forehead playfully. “You can keep me a secret. I don’t mind. Put me in your closet and get me when you need me.”

You laughed, feeling down the contours of his chest with both hands, appreciating his muscle and beating heart, pounding with fervour, just like yours. “No!” After a hum of silence, you shook your head. “Never,” you sighed softly. “No more secrets. I want to know as much as you'll let me. I can’t separate you from it. I’ve given up trying.”

“Then let me take you somewhere,” he said. “And we can talk.”

Vernon didn’t say where. You didn’t ask.

Instead, you slumped into the Camry’s worn passenger seat, the window cranked down, watching the various infrastructures of the city glow beneath the sunset as you breezed by. Perhaps you flew past a hundred different lives, a hundred different stories, the wind picking each up and swirling them away. Half an hour later, and you were outside the skyscrapers, mega-malls, and apartment buildings. The air coming in through your window actually felt like air, and not the heavy plumes of dirt and smoke you grew accustomed to.

He drove along a winding road, the landscape hilly and dry-looking, blended patches of grass and orangish rock. But to your right, it all fell away, like a knife had serrated through the terrain. The coastline. You had maybe seen it once or twice with your dad, who preferred the longer, scenic routes with less traffic, as opposed to your mom, who didn’t care much for anything scenic and opted to follow the same GPS route even if it was more congested than a mall food court. The water wasn’t particularly rough, instead moving in languorous, smooth waves with disappearing and reappearing lines of white silk. Above it, the soft, yellow sky, reminding you of the sweet custard your mom used to make her angel cake dessert.

“Do you drive along here often?” You asked Vernon.

“All the time,” he answered. “Good to clear your head.”

The coastline was pulled away from you when Vernon took a turn that began leading you up a tall, chunky elevation. It was a disorientating zigzag until you came upon the flattened top, and suddenly, there were several large, beautifully expensive-looking houses placed like tumbled blocks, each facing the water, ignited embers under the watery, burning sun.

“What the hell is this place?” You cooed in awe and envy. A gigantic house of pale blue brick and colosseum white pillar skipped past your window, and you peered back at it. “Do Greek gods live here?”

Vernon laughed. “Feels like it. Just a bunch a’ rich people and their overpriced villas that they visit twice a year. What a waste.”

“No kidding,” you sighed, and underneath the wistfulness, you couldn’t help but wonder why Vernon brought you here. If it was to make your life seem pebbles in comparison, then he was well accomplished. Or perhaps you were going to meet a drug lord.

You almost snickered.

“Feast your eyes on this bullshit, PJ’s,” Vernon said.

Again, you proceeded along a road slanted upwards, and then turned into a wide, grey driveway that looped around to the face of the house—if house was even a suitable word—it was more like an esteemed manor, something from a reality television show that celebrities schlepped around in as though it was average. Your elbows laid across the door and your head poked out the window. Nothing escaped your mouth but a warm, impressed breath. This was definitely owned by a drug lord. Or some business tycoon who probably did illegal things, anyway. Vernon stopped the car right by a series of shallow staircases leading up to the entrance.

You pulled your head back inside, stared at the boy incredulously. “Is this yours?” Came the exclamation, charged with disbelief.

Vernon cackled. “No! Although I’m flattered you think I rake in this much dough from dealin’ to a few pompous-ass college kids, street rats, and the occasional rich twat. Not mine at all. Couldn’t be fucked to clean it.”

“Well, whoever owns this definitely employs housekeeping,” you commented, admiring the rows of garden space beside the stairway, the occasional flower, fulgurant and bright pink, beginning to sprout. “Are you the housekeeping?” You joked, staring back at the boy.

“Somethin’ like that,” Vernon lilted mischievously, smirking. He pulled out his keys from the ignition. “Let’s go explore it.”

“What?!” You gasped. “No—you said it wasn’t yours.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know who owns it.” He winked.

“Who?”

“Miss Catarina Pollezna.”

Your face puckered. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

He sighed, “Kitty.”

“Wait—really? This is hers? She paid for all this? She’s like, twenty-something. Late twenties. But she also buys drugs from Europe.”

“To be more specific, it’s her father’s. He has a killer shoe business set up in Italy. So that’s where he spends most of his time. To him, this is just some playhouse that Kitty can parade around in, throwin’ parties and hirin’ strippers and snortin’ blow, with all that money that he sends her,” he explained with a simmer of vitriol. “And also go to Europe every month.”

You swallowed, feeling a breeze curl through your hair, which made you shiver as though Kitty were somewhere inside, lurking. “Woah.”

Vernon nodded. “But guess where she is?”

Glancing at him, your heart thrust urgently, and energy tingled underneath your skin in hot surges. Your brows raised. “In Europe?”

He leaned forward, kissing the tip of your nose. “Exactly, my girl.”

Amongst the keys cluttered together on his carabiner, Vernon had one key for the house. When you barked at him about where he got the key, he told you simply that Kitty had gotten an extra made for him a few years ago, when he had been helping her set up for a massive party. He went on to express that the party lasted days. It had its swells and troughs. Whenever it seemed like the flame was about to die out, it would take one little kick of a mysterious powder going around to get everything thrumming again.

You commented that it sounded miserable. He agreed that it was.

“People don’t go to sixty-four-hour parties ‘cause their lives are buckets of sunshine,” Vernon laughed wickedly.

“Then why did you go?”

“I was kinda like a bouncer. Kitty paid me. And whenever I wanted a break, I could go smoke a blunt and have some girl’s titties in my face. Win-win, huh?”

“I don’t want to hear about you having a girl’s breasts in your face.”

“Right. Sorry,” he had apologized like a child caught taking a biscuit.

You spent ample time exploring the house. Vernon had apparently been there enough to know every possible nook and cranny, taking on the role of an unprofessional tour guide. The halls were grand and long, armoured with spotless carpets, jeweled chandeliers, and overwhelmingly large pictures with lustre-painted frames. Every window you passed by was tall, gaping, and the light from outside would pour straight in, like the sky was a bottle of sparkling champagne and the house a beautiful flute. The orange sunset would tinge the cream walls, your shadows floating along behind you, travelling through the colours in a way you could not.

Each room you walked into was so perfectly displayed. Not a single item out of place. Still, no dust. Housekeeping must be annoyed, knowing they would only come here to feather everything, move a candlestick a centimeter—adjust a vase only to make it more off-centre than it was before touching it—knowing it would give them something to do the next time they came by to clean. You thought you would feel more distress. But you didn’t feel even a flicker of it as you chased Vernon around the manor. He would sail down the infinite corridors, and you would barrel after him, running past the glowing windows like two children playing an aimless game.

At one point, he shoved against a door, and it popped open to reveal a theatre. “We watched a slasher flick in here once,” Vernon said. When you asked with who, he rambled off a long list of names, where only a few in between sounded familiar. “You could scream as loud as you wanted.”

“You're all a bunch of pansies,” you joked. “Stuff like that doesn't scare me because it's so obviously fake.”

Vernon grabbed your waist from behind and tugged you against his body, meanwhile your fingers brushed along the back of a cold leather chair, probably never even sat in.

“Yeah, right,” he whispered into your ear, and the scattering of his warm breath across your skin turned you mushy.

When he began pulling you toward Kitty’s bedroom on the top floor, you wriggled weakly in protest—not because you were concerned about intruding her personal space—but because it felt like something your old self would care about, and you had not lost her completely. But you yielded, following behind Vernon into the still, silent room. It was bereft of personality for a bedroom. You figured it made sense, as Kitty was probably hardly ever there apart from when she wanted to throw a party. The bedsheets were puffy, white, sewn from clouds, and had little frilly tassels hanging along the bottom, while the headboard was a very sophisticated arrangement of satin pillows, from teal blues to mossy greens and glimmering golds.

There were a few things left behind.

A dark purple robe hung on a hook jutting from behind the door. You didn’t dare touch it, imagining the fabric to be a thick, squishy velvet that would reveal your trespassing fingerprints. Some lipsticks were lined by the vanity, a few pairs of earrings resting on black-boxed cushions. A photograph was stuck between the mirror and the wooden frame, filled with people, all crowded together, sweaty, smiling. You tried tracing the faces to see if you could find Vernon.

“I’m not on there,” he said. “That’s a photo from Italy.”

“Oh,” you answered, noting the airy relief in your chest.

He pulled aside cloth curtains on rungs to reveal a sliding-glass door. Walking over, you were in a silent stupor. She had the entire coastline and all its vast, epic glory just outside her bedroom, and she was never there.

Your mouth tightened in jealousy. “Of course she has a terrace.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Vernon sneered. “She has everything.”

The door made a suction-popping noise when he forced it open, rolling it aside. Immediately, a cool breeze—almost a mist—flushed in through the threshold, finding its way to your face with an inspecting caress, and for a moment, you felt like you were being lifted up, taken away by mother Earth. It was the closest connection you had ever experienced with something that wasn’t another person.

Openness rushed into your chest.

You glanced at Vernon, the breeze tickling his hair. The key to this palace was in his pocket. What freedom. He always found a way.

“Let’s step outside,” he invited with a gesture. “Ladies first.”

Entering onto the terrace, you were nervous. Someone might see you, piece together that you were a stranger, that you didn’t have the svelte to live in such a gorgeous house. You were a mistake accidentally smeared onto the portrait that ruined its entirety. But when Vernon stepped out beside you, shoulders back, chin up, eyes meeting the bleeding, scarlet line of the horizon like he was not only the owner but the damn architect, your nerves retreated. Beside him, you fell into a deep calm. He knew how to take care of things that others didn’t in ways unthought of. Like you.

“Pretty, huh?” He asked. His hands pressed into the balcony railing.

You joined him, touching the white, coarse stone. “It’s seraphic.”

“What?”

“Like, heavenly.”

“Oh,” he muttered. “Spellin’-bee ass word.”

You laughed, and the joyful notes were carried away in the wind like a song. Without haste, you both admired the view. You thought about taking a picture, but what good would it do? A screen tapered at the beauty, syringing out its vibrancy and hues. There would be no fresh air, or distant static of lapping water. The best you could do was appreciate it now. Then, you looked to Vernon, leaned forward on his elbows, tangled up in the colours of a marigold sunset. He glanced over at you, smirked a little.

“Why did you bring me here?” You asked. “I mean, not to say this isn’t wonderful. It is. But why here? What about you?”

“It’s away from the city,” he said. “Makes me feel like I can breathe a little easier. I’m not surrounded, towered in. I have all this.” He turned in a circle while sticking out his arms. “No losers around. No noise.”

“You’ve definitely called me a loser,” you chuckled.

“I mean actual fuckin' losers,” he rumbled in response. “You really care about people. You work hard. You try to be honest. You can be stiff but it’s for good reason. I see you dream and wonder. You’re not a loser.”

A smile burned on your face. “Thank you. That’s lovely.”

“I tried to be somethin’ like that,” he said, sounding adrift. “But I just never got my footin’ right. My mom was an artist, you see. She moved us all over the place ‘cause she was so hungry for inspiration. But it would always be the same. Another busted city. Another lousy school. She said it was the people who inspired her. I didn’t fuckin’ get it. I was around fuckin’ dweebs all day. Not that I wasn’t a dweeb. I was the troublemaker dweeb, though. Write-ups, detentions, extra homework. You name it, I got it.

Didn’t exactly help my mom’s career out much, when she spent most of my childhood in a principal’s office. She looked at me like I emptied her out, y’know? Then my baby sister was born. You should’ve seen how much my mom perked up. She got that big surge of inspiration she was lookin’ for, and her art career just took off.” Momentarily, his face soured, and his eyes darkened with dusky clouds of memory. His grip around the banister hardened, and his knuckles seemed paler. “Little baby Sofia. She was a gift. Always with my mom. Always on her hip. Always sittin’ in the centre of a big paper sheet coverin’ the floor, surrounded by tubes of paint. My mom would always say, ‘I have Sofia now. It's too much. I just can’t deal with your behaviour anymore.’ I don’t wanna say I hated them. I guess I hated that it took my baby sister bein’ born before my mom thought she was worth somethin’.”

You nodded, listening along carefully, coddling every word, as your heart ached inside your chest. Vernon had never sounded so bare before, stripped down of his ego and clever quirk. You knew then that the picture on his nightstand was him and his baby sister. Swathed over with dust. But not hidden away. Maybe that meant something.

“Shit started hittin’ the fan real bad,” he continued. “The less attention I got, the more shit I did. I made older friends buy me cigarettes and smoked after school with ‘em. We played around in empty construction sites, sat in the big loaders. I tried ecstasy for the first time at fifteen in this girl’s sad little excuse for a bedroom. Stayed there all night. Came back home in the mornin’ and it felt like no one even noticed. Or they did, and they just didn’t give a fuck. As long as they had Sofia. But I got too lax. I brought home some darts and pills. My mom found ‘em inside a sock that I kept in my drawer. It was a big conversation, my dad just noddin’ along, probably fuckin’ high himself. A whole lot of nothin’, you hear?”

“Right…” you said solemnly, so he knew you were listening.

“But I stopped carin’ about what they thought of me long before we ever had that talk. They collaborated to pull me out of school after I cracked this kid in the jaw over a few grams a’ weed. The tension finally got to my parents. They split up—the whole sob story—and it was joint custody. The same year, I met Dots. He was the first person in my life that seemed to actually care about me. You might think, if he really cared, why did he help me get more involved into all the drug shit. But it wasn’t like that. It taught me order, discipline, how to be sharp, think on my feet, handle the tough situations. Not that I’m tryin’ to make what I do sound like a damn cheat code. It’s not. It’s dangerous and fleetin’ and as smart as you are, or as successful as you are at it, there’s always a place to trip. But when I got to really know him, I actually understood somethin’ about my mom, what she meant when she said people inspired her. That was him. Solid dude.”

“That’s amazing,” you commemorated with a weightless sigh, only to catch a hitch in your throat a second later. “I mean, not that—not all that other stuff—but that you made such a reliable friend in Dots.”

He huffed dryly. “I know what you meant.”

“Sorry.”

You could tell a rawness had been poked open inside him. His tone was heavy, somewhat stinging. How awful it must feel to think you didn’t matter to the people who you were supposed to matter to the most. To see it in their treatment of you, and their ignorance. You thought Vernon must feel so wounded inside. Despite that, he covered it well. When you first met him, his audacity and coolness irritated you to no end. You thought he walked through life on a silver-platter where everyone bended to him. You thought he had no depth, no empathy, and no moral compass. He sold drugs and frequented meaningless sex and disrupted everyone else’s life so he could live the one he wanted. But it all came from somewhere ugly.

He tugged on his jacket and watched the sun press down into the fiery gloss of the water. “I’m nothin’ like you,” Vernon mumbled.

“I don’t want you to be,” you reassured him. Standing close, you leaned your head on his shoulder, placed your much softer hand over his that grasped the terrace balcony, moved your fingers into the spaces between his. “If you were anything like me, we would be an anxious, spiralling, dead-end mess. Like limp noodles,” you giggled.

Vernon breathed in. “I like noodles.” He paused. “Spicy noodles.”

“I’m cold, salty noodles.”

“Shut up,” he rasped, turning his head to press his lips against your forehead, and you were soaring through the wind with arms outstretched. “You’re kinda like my miracle.”

“How romantic,” you laughed, though you pushed up to kiss his waiting lips, appreciating the compliment in every bone of your body, making it become part of you, part of the hole he was filling. “Did you ever imagine yourself saying something so cloying to someone else?” Before he could speak, you clarified. “I mean, sickly sweet.”

“I could never say what I never felt,” he answered.

“I’m very special, then.”

Again, he kissed you, delicate but savoury. “You are.”

“So,” you swallowed, tracing a blacked-out star on his hand with your fingernail. “What was the whole thingamajig with Minghao?” Abruptly, with attitude, you leaned away from him, though it was harmless, and you were smiling. “I almost got cut up, and you weren’t caring enough for me!”

“Of course I care.”

“What happened, then? Why did you say that weird thing about it working out? What worked out? Who was in the SUV?” You pestered him with questions, attempting to catch the copper flame in his eyes.

“Someone owned me a favour,” he began to explain. “I used that favour to make sure Minghao wouldn’t be able to fuck with you.”

Unsatisfactorily, you sniffled. “That wasn’t anything.”

“It was.”

“Why were you owed a favour?”

He sighed, scratching his eyebrow.

You grabbed onto his arm and shook it, unafraid to whine and beseech. “Please! Can’t I know a little bit more? I’m not asking to know every single detail. But don’t you think as the person who was almost freakin' stabbed, I deserve more discretion?”

Vernon stared at you, sighing, and it seemed that you had administered the final tap of your insistent chisel. “He’s a drug lord that was close to Dots, like I was. When Dots died, he said I could ask him one favour as an act of sympathy or condolence or whatever the fuck. But only one, and he had to deem it reasonable.” He picked up your clammy hand in his and squeezed it. “I chose to protect you.”

“O-Oh…” you stuttered. “Uh… wow. Okay. C-Cool, I guess?”

How was one supposed to feel about their boyfriend hailing the promise of a surreptitious drug lord to protect you in his favour?

Your mind went a chaffing, stark blank. With the sun continuing to lower, the terrace’s brightness began to fade, and a deep gradient of dark blue had started diffusing toward the horizon. There was a colder tinge in the air pushed forward by the stirring ocean.

“That make you happy, princess?” He quipped arrogantly.

“Sure.” You couldn’t argue, even if you wanted to.

Back inside, you two sat on the edge of Kitty’s bed. Vernon had plopped down without thought, though you were more hesitant, not wanting to soil the luxurious sheets by leaving behind even a thread or a wrinkle or a speck of stray dirt. Through the opened curtains, you watched the sun wink a final goodbye, sinking down into the windy night and taking its last easel of orange with it. Tall trees flourished by expansive palms bobbed outside, merely silhouettes, and you could hear the breeze slap and whither against the glass, as though it were begging you to come back outside, to have someone appreciate the views that a rich man paid so much to acquire and then leave.

Vernon was leaned back on his elbows now, jacket tossed off.

“Have you ever slept here?” You asked, and it immediately hit you how stupid the question was. Of course he had slept here.

Where hadn’t he slept?

“In this bedroom?” He wondered.

“Never mind.” Your head shook back and forth. “Dumb question.”

A moment later, his fingers touched down your elbow, and then his hand was curling into your fleshy arm, and you felt him pull at you.

You stared back, half-smiling. “What?”

His little grin was all moonlight. “Come closer to me.”

“Why?” The pit of your stomach pulsed.

He shrugged casually, but his eyes were alive and spry, studying your face. “Why not? No fun starin’ at the back of your dense head.”

“There you go with your rudeness.”

Vernon propped his head up at you. “Wanna punish me, Miss?”

“Go die.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere.”

“Between your legs, Miss?”

“Vernon!” You screamed. Pulling loose a neatly placed pillow, you smacked him across his face. “Gosh! You’re so dirty. I can’t stand it.”

You didn’t want him to know that you were fizzling in the shadows of the bedroom. On fire. His games were dangerous, magnetic. And shamefully, they defrosted you like ice in the midst of a spring thaw every time. Your legs crossed together, as if to convince yourself your body didn’t want him and his leeriness, but that only pressed the panging deeper into your abdomen.

He threw the pillow off his face. “What’s with you and pillows?”

“Idiot protection,” you mumbled.

“I was just joshin’ around.”

“About which part?” Your voice sharpened as your arms folded and you glared back at him. “It’s not appropriate to say things like that.”

“Shut me up, then.”

Upon leaning over to collect another pillow, Vernon grabbed your waist in his hands, and with an impressive show of strength you were hauled overtop him like a limply filled doll. The heat broke loose. It was radiating off you, hot wind blowing across a sand dune.

“Vernon!” You grumbled, wriggling. His knee was bent in between your thighs, not pushing into you, but hovering, while his hands flattened against your lower back. “I can’t believe you’re so tricky!”

He tilted toward your elbow braced next to his head. And then his lips, cushioning softly against your bare skin. “You won’t win,” he chuckled, moving his lips further along your arm, drifting, warm. “I know you wanna give in to me. Can feel it,” he emphasized with a rough, commanding squeeze at your waist, your body responding in a tremble. “You make it so hard for me to relax when you run your clumsy mouth. Makes me just wanna fill it with my tongue.” His voice was gritty, but words slippery as an emollient. He got you.

And you buckled.

Pathetically, your mouth sunk deep against his, and all you wanted was for him to follow through on his filth. His tongue was there, not prodding, but devouring, tangling inside your wet mouth, and you tasted the faded hints of cinnamon gum he had been chewing earlier.

“I—h-hate—mmf—I hh-hate you.” The emotions struggled to find the space to escape, struggled to find the breath they needed. There were only your tongues swirling around messily, finding groove. His spit glimmery on your chin. Your spit on his. You grasped at his hair, so healthy and strong between your fingers, letting him suckle on you like a hard candy. At that moment, your hips canted backward and your sensitiveness found the texture of his knee. It was an unexpected, almost pained cry into his mouth.

Immediately, he grinned. “Hit somethin’ sweet, did I?”

“That was embarrassing…” you choked out. How could you make such a sound? It wasn’t from you. It was too primal. You buried into the boy’s shoulder to shield yourself from its ring echoing in the air.

“No.” Vernon kissed your temple. “No it wasn’t, baby.”

“I sounded so weird and awful.”

“Then you don’t hear what I hear,” he laughed. You felt his body begin to shift—he was sitting up—and you sat up with him, arms looped around his neck and your thighs straddling his firm lap. The boy’s hands were warm and steady on your back like two heated sunstones. “You don’t understand,” Vernon continued, his eyes inflated and round with sparks. “How you sound when you feel good is what makes me lose my mind. I can’t think straight.”

You sighed, and your chests pressed together. His heart was racing, just like yours. “I’m not good at this, especially with you. I know that… I know that—I can’t—like…” it was incredibly frustrating, trying to grasp the words but then feeling them slip away akin to a watery handful of fish. “I know that I won’t ever make you feel as good as other girls do, or whatever… like…” you sighed grumpily, not wanting to say her name, though it came out anyway. “Like Kitty. She said that you told her she was the best at… you know… being with you, or taking you.”

Vernon looked confused. “Kitty said that?”

“At the party… Moo’s thing.”

He stared deeper into your eyes, and there was a bright strike. “Is that why you left so upset?” His hand moved to caress along your cheek, pausing to cup your face. “She runs her fuckin’ trash mouth, you know that?” Vernon said waspily.

“I was upset for a lot of reasons. But, it’s probably true.”

“What’s true?” He demanded, his voice thick and stern.

You glanced away from him, afraid. “I can’t please you.”

Vernon grabbed your hand. You were surprised at the sudden roughness of the touch. But it fell apart into a head-spinning delirium. He placed your palm at the tent in his heavy pants. Every inch of your mouth went arid. It was his erection, twitching through his clothes, feeling that it was growing under your touch, and you couldn’t think one damn word.

“Don’t you feel this, PJ’s?” Vernon rasped, squeezing around your hand so that you squeezed him, his eyes fully drawn to yours. “Don’t you fuckin’ feel how insanely hard I am? This is how badly I want you. Every day. You know you left your panties at my apartment, right? The ones in your pocket? You know that I used ‘em to touch myself? Tryin’ to get some sort of fuckin’ semblance that you were there with me. I’ve never done such pathetic, needy shit for anybody, yeah? But I couldn’t fuckin’ help it ‘cause of how you make me feel. I always ache for you. I can’t stop.”

Your mouth opened, quivering. “Vernon, I—”

“Don’t ever say bullshit like that,” he warned you, and his shoulders seemed hardened and crusted with anger—not at you—but that you had been made to feel so inadequate. “I don’t give a fuck about Kitty. She’s never made me feel the way you do. Never.” His expression began to soften in the darkness, and the anger diffused. “Do you understand, baby? How can I make it clearer?”

“I understand,” you squeaked out, smiling a faint, hot smile.

“Good.” Vernon ran his hands down your face, along the edges of your breasts, until they settled at your hips. “And if anyone ever taunts you like that again, tell me, so I can put Ex-lax in their coke.”

You giggled. “That’s quite evil.”

“Don’t give a fuck,” he said, nuzzling his nose to yours.

Glancing down, you realized your hand was still sitting over his erection, but you didn’t move it away. To feel him physically respond to you was a sort of ecstasy that made you frayed, jellied, and hungry in places other than your stomach. You kissed him, gently, and pressed down on the stiff tent in his pants with a light pressure. His body quivered underneath you, his shallow groan vibrating your tongue. And so you tested out more pressure, more movement, heady on the pleasure you were gifting to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed across your lips, “such a good girl for me, aren’t you, baby?” Your shirt was loose and buttoned, with nothing but a sheer bralette on underneath. His hands started creeping up your stomach.

“Yes,” you hummed back complicitly, combusting at his words and how layered there were with lust—how they caressed you without caressing you, how they lapped at you, squeezed you. “Are you going to touch me?”

Vernon chuckled. “Uh, what?”

Your hand drifted off his erection. “My chest?”

He paused. “Do you want me to?”

For a moment, you thought. “Yes… but I don’t want you to see.” A nervous breath hit the roof of your mouth. “Can we keep my shirt on?”

Vernon smiled. “You can keep whatever you want on, baby.” He kissed you once, twice, a third time. “And you can say no. Always.”

You nodded, too buzzing, too anxious, too excited, to speak. But you were practically glistening with relief and contentment from what he said—making sure you knew you had a choice and there was no shame in taking advantage of it—he wouldn’t be upset at you. His eyes had been still and sincere when he said it, pouring into your soul, and you felt the stir.

“I know,” you whispered. “Thanks.”

To your gratefulness, he left your mouth alone so you could breathe, gasp, and claw for air whenever needed. Instead, his kisses tasted down the slope of your neck, moving slow, leaving a damp chill, the occasional graze from his teeth. He would suck at your pulse through every constricting vein as though he were trying to absorb your heartbeat. There were rings on his fingers, cold against your ribs. He thumbs rubbed along the uncomfortable underwire of the bralette, teetering, to give you room to decide if you wanted more, and you did. His large palms were over top the bralette’s sheer material. Fuck—he was touching you—actually touching you, and you grabbed his shoulders tight so you wouldn’t fall backward.

“This feels sexy,” he purred into your neck.

You shook your head, giggling, “it’s a cheap bralette.”

“What’s not sexy about that?” He chuckled.

He started to squeeze, and you moaned. It was difficult not to revolt at how you sounded, shaky and sharp-pitched in a way that would make your parents collapse, but Vernon smiled, slaked, into your cheek. “Does that feel good?” His voice pressed inside your ear as he continued massaging your breasts through the fabric, gripping a bit tighter, groping a little harder, only to make everything feel soft again.

“Yes—I can’t explain it.”

Vernon kissed your jaw, then licked, and you smelled the beachy fragrance in his hair. “Can I go underneath, baby?” He asked, and there was almost a fragility to his voice, like he was entreating more than asking.

“Um—o-okay. Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

His fingers danced up to the thin straps of the bralette, slowly sliding them off each shoulder, and you stopped breathing. He kissed each side of your warm, tender neck as he did so, and your heart throbbed uncontrollably. And then he reached the clasp at your back, knew how to unfasten the hooks in a way that should have disturbed or disgruntled you, but you didn’t care. The bralette fell. He pulled it out from underneath your buttoned shirt and tossed it aside impatiently.

Vernon’s forehead rested against yours, and his eyes still managed to shimmer with threads of spun gold in the dimness. You looked back expectantly, biting onto your lip. And then his hands were engulfing your bare breasts—careful—not aggressive or rash. He pushed them together, kneaded them apart, squeezed each individually, taking pure pleasure in the small divots and fractures that twitched across your stunned face.

“I’m going to faint,” you breathed onto his lips.

He laughed. “No, you won’t.”

“Why does it feel so good?” You mumbled, adrift and floating, letting your eyes flutter shut in the marvelous intimacy while you still remained present enough to keep grasping his shoulders.

“I’ve imagined it hundreds a’ times,” Vernon hummed. His hands stilled, and you felt insanely frustrated, only for his thumbs to come down on your stiff, sensitive nipples, and you cried out long and hard like life was being simultaneously gifted and grabbed from you. Underneath, you sensed his erection strain, poke at your inner thigh. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he cursed with utmost snarl. “You’re gonna make me cum in my fuckin’ pants.”

Leaning your head onto his shoulder, your grappled with the hairs on the back of his head and breathed heavily. He continued to circle around your pert nipples, causing your shoulder blades and back to erratically twitch and frolic. You couldn’t control it.

“Please, Vernon…” but for what, you didn’t know. Maybe to explode. To turn into a flurry of bursting stars.

“You really like that, huh?” He teased.

“Yes.”

“What about this? Hm?” One of his hands disappeared. You hadn’t seen what he did, but his touch quickly returned and it was wet, cold, with his slick spit, now being pinched and smeared into your nipple.

You leaned forward, pressing into him, moaning so unbelievably loud over his shoulder. Again, his erection pulsed under your thigh.

“I haven’t even touched your cunt or fucked you open, and you’re this fuckin’ loud?” He managed to laugh, though it was full of strain. “You’re gonna end me, princess. Just from touchin’ these soft, lovely tits of yours. Feel so warm in my hands.” To emphasize, he gripped each one and kneaded them, more pressure, more greed, rings crushing into your skin. “How’d I live this long without you? Fuckin’ miracle, huh, baby?”

“Y-Yes…” you wheezed, sniffling and shaking. “I need you.”

“I know,” he cooed, an attempt to soothe, “but I won’t fuck you here. I know you don’t want that. I know you’re still not ready.”

Every word was a deep laceration. How were you not ready to take him? You were gushing through your underwear. Every fibre and molecule of your body was strumming with arousal so potent that it was thick, hovering everywhere, in the dark room. And you could feel him straining against your thigh. Gosh—you didn’t know anything about dicks—but his was… big. It would have you disintegrating around him until you were piles of overheated ash, blown away in one mere puff. Still, he was right. If you weren’t ready for him to see your breasts, you couldn’t let him inside you.

Especially not here, on Kitty’s bed.

Nonetheless, you didn’t want it to end. It felt like madness.

What had he done to you?

—END OF PART FIVE.

[aliendes]

ghost ride | part three.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 24k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: hope u enjoy this chapter!! thx for the support of the series so far! ❤️‍🔥 we are making headway :]

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

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leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

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9 MONTHS AGO.

“Thanks for lunch. I’ll text you tonight, okay?”

“Hey—my pleasure.” He stuck a light kiss to your cheek. “And sure thing. Not gonna be doing much but studying.” As he was pushing against the door, he stopped to smile. “And thinking about you, of course.”

You shook your head. “Nope, no—too cheesy.”

“I thought I’d try it out, anyway.”

“Go to class! You’ll be late!”

Once he was gone, you disappeared into the employee lounge, which was really just a small office space with a computer area and cubbies for storing personal belongings. You stuck the labeled sandwich into the miniature fridge, beside Soonyoung’s half-finished coffee. Inspecting your cubby, you decided to check your phone, noticing a text from Ruby. She asked if Lee had dropped off your sandwich that you forgot this morning in your rush out the door, to which you replied with a simple thumbs-up.

It was safe to say that things were… different… than they were a month ago. A month ago, you were shredded, like a thin fabric strip to the wicked edge of a gnawing saw blade, and it had taken some very patient and compassionate patchwork from Ruby to help tighten you back together. She was not happy to say the least, when you came home that cold, dark December night, dry-heaving in her bedroom as you messily, snot-nosedly tried to define all your regrets about everything.

She was on the phone with Vernon an hour later, barking at him, “I knew this would happen!” and, “you need to be more careful!” and, “how come you never learn?! Where’s your freakin’ sense?!” even though you supposed it wasn’t really Vernon’s fault at all.

But in the moment, having Ruby yell at him in your honour was quite the remedy for a bruised heart. You felt a little better afterward.

Since then, Vernon hadn’t come by the apartment.

Rather, his presence was replaced by someone else. He was a year younger than you, working hard to study law, and he had been nothing but supportive. Ruby introduced you to Lee—they had connected once at a house party—and she thought he might make a positive addition to the eternal bleakness that seemed to follow you everywhere like a drizzling storm cloud.

There was a lot you appreciated about Lee from the get-go. His discipline, for one. He was quite structured in everything. Solid. He had polished out a routine and he stuck to it piously. Even down to the clothes he wore, socks and all. Lee was also determined in everything, determined to meet with you after your first date together, determined to make space for you amongst his ironclad schedules, determined to communicate every little thing and leave no room for spaces where the unspoken might lurk.

He was not at all what you expected your first boyfriend to be.

It was scary. You took it slow.

But he was understanding.

Wandering back out to the floor, you approached Soonyoung at the counter while he flipped through pages of a fashion magazine. He glanced up at you, started to smile. “That was the boyfie, I’m guessing?”

“Something like that.”

The boy paused. “What’s like a boyfriend?” He let another laminated page slip past his bandaged thumb. “Are you guys not exclusive?”

“We are,” you stated, hands delving into your back pockets. “I just… I don’t know… it feels too quick to put a label on things. I think of him as my boyfriend but it still feels weird when other people say it.”

“Hm,” Soonyoung answered, letting another page to the magazine flip by as he lost his interest on the matter almost immediately. “Well, let’s switch. I’ve gotta do some expiries for Patsy. Cash is all yours.” He grabbed his clipboard, then disappeared somewhere near the back of the store where he could blast music freely through his headphones.

The day was boring. You had organized the aspartame-free gum three separate times, washed down all the shelves underneath the counter of dust, and tinkered with the lottery ticket display until you were officially, undeniably over it. Reaching for a lighter, you flicked the spark wheel a few times with your thumb until a squiggling flame was summoned before your eyes. You watched it flicker, hearing the dulcet hiss of burning butane, cheek slumped against your fist, until the doors shuddered. Cold whisked in from the outdoors. After putting the lighter down, you saw two young men come into the store. In an instant, you stopped slumping and straightened up.

Common Cents had a plethora of regulars—high school students stopping by after class, old men cashing in on their lottery tickets, clerks from the bank and laundromat across the street getting their usual snacks—but these two were strangers.

One was more inconspicuous, with a hood pulled up and a large, baggy jacket to conceal his figure. His walk was a bit clunky, and he kept his head down for the most part. In contrast, his friend was an aurora. His hair was the first thing you noticed—bright red—like a juicy cherry, styled messily yet chic. He wore a long, draping trench coat that flowed around him in majestic fashion, as though he were a king with a luxurious robe, and his fingers were encased in a variety of rings. The red head was taller. Wider shoulders. Thin but seeming nimble. You were staring, a little scared, having never seen them before, but unable to resist your curiosity.

When they spoke to each other, it was hushed.

To your ear, the language wasn’t English. It sounded like Mandarin. They suddenly laughed and the melange of their softer voices picking up volume made you tense. The red head approached the cash register while the other hung back near the tabloid display. You subconsciously placed more distance between yourself and the counter than normal, wanting to come across as unbothered and collected at your relaxed job despite the trepidation.

Gosh—could he not smile? His expression was deadpanned.

He then said something to you in Mandarin.

“I’m sorry…” you flustered, digging into your arm. “I just—I don’t understand. Uh, is there anything I can help you with… sir?”

No response. His eyes scanned the cash register, stopping on the lighter you had been toying with when the duo first walked inside. His fingers skipped toward it, picking the lighter up.

He proceeded to hold it in front of your face, and you gulped. “How much?” The red head asked, his English coated in a thick but still comprehensible accent.

“The Zippos are forty-dollars.”

He turned around and called something at his friend. Once they finished conversing back and forth for a few seconds in their native tongue, streams of fluidness, you were again met with the stony, chilled expression of the red head who set the lighter down. “Wait,” was all he said, disappearing into an aisle.

“Waiting…” you whispered to yourself, clogged with nerves.

A moment later, he returned, placing a package of Arctic Ocean brand sodas onto the counter, in sour plum flavour. They were from the foreign beverage section. Soonyoung loved them.

You gave him a weird, trembly smile. “Is that all?”

“How much?”

Hastily, you rang the items up. “Fifty-four dollars.”

He pulled out his wallet. Right there—right in front of your gawking, appalled face—the man started thumbing through crisp one-hundred-dollar bills until a pink fifty popped out. In combination with a ten-dollar bill, he slid the money toward you. “No change,” he said.

“Uh, okay… enjoy your day.”

Upon pocketing the lighter and grabbing the packaged drinks by the cardboard tab, he beckoned toward his friend, exchanging more conversation that involved some covert but noticeable glances in your direction. You tried to fake like you weren’t paying attention.

“Hey, you.”

“Hm?”

The red head stared you down. “You know Paulo?”

“Who?”

They looked at each other, then back at you.

“Hansol?” He asked again.

“Is that the same person? Or someone different?”

His gaze narrowed, pricking you like a thistle. “Never mind,” he ended up muttering, proceeding to push out the door with his friend in tow.

You shivered.

They must have you confused with someone else.

“It’s only a casual thing. It’ll be relaxed. Don’t stress over it.”

Most, if not always, Ruby failed to convince you to attend anything club or party related. She had been on a pretty hot losing streak for an approximate six months—yes, you were keeping track—and you were confident nothing was going to break your willingness to avoid.

But things were supposed to be different now. Along with a boyfriend came the daunting realization that you couldn’t always put your reclusive desires first. This was a two-way street. An openness to experimentation was critical. In consequence, you let Ruby string you along to a house party that two friends of hers were hosting. You were Ruby’s plus-one and Lee was yours. He seemed eager to attend something that wasn’t a movie in your living room for the umpteenth time, which you could understand, even if you would rather be at home than a stranger’s place amidst the incredibly vengeful cold that was mid-January.

Ruby had been right to some regard—it was pretty casual—there were people drinking beers and playing Monopoly in the living room, while the kitchen was reserved for dangling slabs of hot, cheesy pizza into one’s mouth between personal conversations that you were a notable outsider to.

You and Lee were sitting on the couch. A movie was in the middle of playing when you first arrived—Spy Kids—and you had no idea who initially decided that was tonight’s vibe, but you weren’t complaining.

“I don’t remember the CGI being this awful,” you laughed, watching Juni and Carmen attempt to navigate their submarine.

Lee picked at the bowl of popcorn sitting in his lap, moving around the buttery pieces but not actually eating anything. Eventually, he sighed, and set the large bowl back onto the coffee table. You felt him staring at you in that particular way, when he wanted to say something, although you feigned not to notice, continuing to concentrate on the movie.

“Okay,” he began, “this is a classic and all. But—I don’t know—we can watch this any time. I feel like I’d rather socialize. I mean, there has to be a reason we’re the only two sitting on the couch right now.”

“Yes,” you agreed,, “because no one else appreciates the genius and questionable graphics of the first Spy Kids movie. This is art.”

Lee placed his hand on your knee. You hoped he failed to notice how you tensed. It felt automatic, like you had no authority over your bones.

He stared at you softly. “Alright, you can stay here if you want. Enjoy the movie. But I’m gonna grab some pizza in the kitchen. See if I know anyone. Make my rounds.” Then, he was rising from the couch, dusting off his jeans. “Later, pumpkin.”

“M’kay. Later.”

Sometimes he called you pumpkin. It was a term of endearment that was supposed to sound all cutesy—Ruby had loved it when Lee first came up with the idea—but you still weren’t sure if you liked it or not.

Sitting on the couch in an unfamiliar home surrounded by unfamiliar people who already knew each other hadn’t been that unbearable when you had Lee as a life preserver, but now he was gone, and now you were left to float alone, and suddenly you were drowned with the sentiment that you looked like a gigantic, antisocial, friendless loser. Every laugh that came from the Monopoly game in the corner felt like it was about you. Each person that drifted through the living room seemed to let their eyes linger for longer than normal toward the couch and its only guest. The worst part was knowing that your mind was overthinking, spiralling, turning all your thoughts against you, and being completely powerless to control it.

“Fuck you and fuck your ugly ass real estate!”

You heard a fist slam down hard on the table. Everyone surrounding the board game started cackling and clapping.

Immediately, you shot up from your seat, beelining for a random corridor that led past the staircase, away from the chaos that Monopoly was divulging into and away from your comfort of the Spy Kids franchise. There was a teal door at the end of the hallway, flecking with aged paint, that opened onto the back porch. You shifted aside the fragile lace curtain obscuring the window, sensing the chill from outdoors emanate through the thin glass. There was a bonfire going on. Maybe that’s where Ruby had disappeared to earlier in the evening, although you didn’t quite recognize any faces standing within the fire’s orange, creeping glow.

Instead, you decided to sleuth around the quiet, dark upstairs. It was mostly closed doors that you didn’t quite feel like trying in the event that one of the roommates might get angry with you. But there was one door left slightly ajar, allowing a slim margin of purplish light to splash on the floor.

People were definitely inside—you could hear their distant voices and the muffled, thudding music—which seemed like the perfect place to find your socialite roommate. With a cautious edge, you approached the door, peeking into the room and its violet, galactic-like haze, only to uncover that the quote “casual house party” wasn’t as casual as promised. You saw the organized white lines spread out on the coffee table, the rolled-up bills serving as straws to suck the powder straight to the brain, the heads dipping down in unison.

“Fuck—that’s tingly,” someone chuckled hoarsely.

You gasped. Vernon? Are you fu—freaking serious?

Ruby did not mention anything about him being here! Did she even know he was going? If she did know, wouldn’t she feel obliged to tell you?

“Can I try?” A girl was sliding off the couch and onto the floor beside the tattooed boy, grabbing his thick bicep and squeezing it.

You watched Vernon rub his nose and grin. “This shit will kick you on your fuckin’ ass if you’ve never had it before. I’ll give you a bump.”

“Just a bump?” She started to pout, massaging into his arm.

He bit his lip. “Don’t get greedy with me, alright?”

“Uh, are you going inside?”

You nearly jumped onto the ceiling. A girl was staring at you in question, holding onto a drink. It was one of the roommates hosting the party—Ruby introduced you to her briefly back in the kitchen—though you couldn’t remember her name and she clearly couldn’t remember yours.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I was looking for—uh—”

“Ruby? She’s playing pool in the basement.”

“Cool… thanks…”

She smiled at you, then pressed inside with her drink, making sure to close the door fully this time, until it clicked. Dang. You got caught.

Normally, you would be downright embarrassed. Enough to fizzle into a sad little melted mess on the floor. But whatever embarrassment you might be feeling was totally and unequivocally shadowed over by the emotional blitz wreaking havoc to your interior. You hadn’t seen Vernon since the night you attempted a poorly planned confession of your likeness, and after Ruby had succeeded in cleansing him from your mind with her special friendship powers, you had seldom thought about him.

But maybe that was your issue.

Maybe refusing to think about him was just backlogging all your shame, regret, embarrassment, and ardour, right to the outstretches of your mind where the feelings had been chained away ever since. Except, now the chains had rusted without your cognizance, and everything was swinging free.

There was a washroom on the bottom floor, close to the staircase, which you took refuge in before anyone else could steal it from you. First, you turned on the sink, letting the faucet gush just in case anyone walked by. Sometimes you did this strange heaving thing when you cried, like your breath was desperately trying to crawl out of you and heap all its life with it.

You sat on the edge of the tub, hands steady on your knees, trying to talk yourself away from a meltdown. It didn’t seem to be effective. Damp spots coloured the thighs of your faded jeans and you used the collar on your t-shirt for wiping off your cheeks. Reaching for a mobile shelf of beauty supplies, you grabbed the toilet roll from the top, winding up a thick strip in your hand such that you could blow your stuffy nose. That made you feel better. A little bit. As you stood up to turn off the gushing faucet, there was a few unanticipated knocks against the door. In a panic, you attempted to sort yourself out in the mirror, rubbing away the tear tracks and adjusting your hair in anxious gestures that didn’t really do anything but make it worse.

“Almost done!” You shouted.

Swinging open the door, you inhaled a self-soothing breath.

“Oh, fuck. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Your heart dropped. Again. Honestly, you wondered how many times it was physically possible for someone’s heart to drop before it just stayed there, defeated, on the floor of your chest like a broken vase.

“Uh, well…” you swallowed, rubbed off your chin. “I could say the same for you. I thought maybe Ruby would have mentioned it.”

Lara blew a pink bubble with her gum, then proceeded to pop it, slowly chewing the residue back into her mouth. “I don’t think she knew.”

You nodded. “Oh…”

The girl gave you a very suspecting once-over, her arms folded, hip jutted out to the side. Then, she cocked her head. “You were crying?”

“What? No.”

“About what?”

“I wasn’t crying.”

Lara looked off to the distance. “Tara!” She yelled.

“No—I wasn’t—you don’t need to—”

“Hey, what’s going on?”

From around the corner, Lara’s more likeable twin appeared. The two were even dressed similarly, in form-fitting, long-sleeved black tops and low-rise jeans scooping underneath their toned stomachs. The only difference was their hair. Tara always preferred slick ballerina updos while Lara tended to let her silky locks stream down around her shoulders in earthy rivers.

Lara pointed at you, stated factually, “she was crying.”

“Oh, hello. I didn’t know you were here. I would have—” Tara suddenly stopped, then squinted at her twin. “Wait, what did you say?”

“It’s nothing,” you insisted, betrayed by a crackle in your voice.

Tara fell into a gobsmacked expression. “You were crying?”

Gosh—was it even worth it to keep up the lie? If the word crying became a drinking game, you wouldn’t leave here standing straight.

“It’s not a big deal,” you ended up sighing.

“Oh, no!” Tara lamented. “That’s awful. I’m sorry. Although, crying in the washroom at a party is an iconic milestone in every girl’s life, so in a way, congratulations.” She started smiling at you, seeming pleased.

Lara pulled at her hair, looking at the shimmery strands. She sighed, “I don’t think that’s particularly what she wants to hear, Tars.”

“Oh! Right.”

You shook your head. “Guys, I swear, it’s fine.”

“And that’s the second part of the milestone,” Tara babbled. “But don’t worry—we’re here to fulfill the next part to the prophecy. It’s just—” she stopped to glance around, “—every spill session needs a drink.”

At that very moment, someone walked around the corner holding onto a beer can. Lara plucked it straight out of the man’s hands.

“Hey—what the—that’s mine,” he tutted.

Lara shrugged. “Not anymore.”

“Sorry,” Tara apologized, “we’re fulfilling a prophecy.” She then proceeded to grab Lara’s elbow and your wrist, pulling you both into the washroom. “Thank you for understanding!” The girl shouted before promptly closing the door right into the stranger’s perplexed face.

Feeling even more defeated than before, you opted to sit back down on the tub’s hard, cold edge, elbows digging into your sore knees as you held up your chin and dramatically huffed.  

Tara sipped from the drink, smacking her lips, unsure if she liked the beer’s flavour or not. “Eh.” She shrugged. “It’ll do.” After placing the can onto the sink counter behind her, she folded her arms and smiled at you in the same way Ruby did when you came to her with your grievances. It was unexpected but surprisingly comforting. “What happened?” She entreated.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk details,” Lara grumbled, blowing another bubble that smelled strongly of synthetic strawberry.

“Well… whatever you’re willing to share, then,” Tara corrected.

For a moment, you were silent, staring down at the floor’s black and white diamond tiles. Lara and Tara were not exactly the first two people that leapt to mind when thinking of an emotional spill session. That was typically Ruby’s job, though, you had to admit, you felt somewhat guilty about involving her in yet another life quarrel after bawling about Diana's situation and then Vernon’s rejection. She deserved to enjoy some uninterrupted fun.

Lee was surely around somewhere. If he wasn’t still in the kitchen eating the pizza, that is. However, he didn’t know much about Vernon, and for the time being you preferred keeping it that way. Tara and Lara were actually your best bet right now, as peculiar as it felt to confront the fact.

You sat up straight, wriggling out your shoulders.

The two girls stared at you intensely, hanging onto the silence.

“Back in December, I told Vernon I liked him…” you began to hug yourself, gazing adrift at the metal-looped belt hanging low around Lara’s hips. “I got rejected, of course. And things got messy. I saw him for the first time since then, upstairs, snorting coke or something with this girl.” You groaned, shaking your head to cast away the newly established memory, and it fell into fuzziness. “I can’t believe I ever liked him, even a little bit. It was so, so stupid.”

Tara grabbed onto the beer can. She sat down beside you, placing a gentle hand on the top of your spine as you leaned over, sniffling. “Hey, don’t say that. You’re being too dismissive and cruel,” the girl sympathized, continuing to rub along your back. She smelled like a sweet tulip garden.

“But I was being stupid,” you persisted, sucking up your snot. “I knew he didn’t care about relationships or anything… I knew he was like that. I knew he wouldn’t like me but I still—I had to go and ignore everything saying otherwise just ‘cause I wanted to be brave. How insanely dumb.”

“Well, it is what it is,” Lara puffed, leaning back against the sink and pushing the hair off her shoulders. “Someone has to take that first step.”

“Yeah,” Tara agreed. “There’s no shame in that. It’s so hard to do.”

Blinking up at Lara, you removed the tears blurry in your eyes. “I don’t mean to be intrusive or anything… but… did you like him, too?”

She pressed her lips together in a beat of uneasy silence, digging the toe to her white converse sneaker against the fuzzy mat flopped in front of the sink. Lara’s dark, smoky gaze traveled across the differing tiles on the silver moonlit floor until she found her way to you, and suddenly, she didn’t seem so unlikeable.

Lara sighed, “yeah… for a bit.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry. That you have to hear all this. I’m making it seem so dramatic. This is turning into a rejection club.”

The girl chuckled. She then came to sit beside you on the tub. “I don’t feel that way anymore. You can talk about him however you want.”

For once, you smiled at Lara, and it was fully sincere.

Tara passed you the beer can. You weren’t too keen on alcohol, especially beer, and holding your liquor well had never particularly been a strong suit of yours. But there was a certain tartness about it that rejuvenated your senses as you took a timid sip, slowly beginning to tilt more and more of the foamy alcohol into your mouth until you couldn’t swallow anymore.

Wiping off your damp lips, you exhaled a long, deep sigh. “I don’t think I want to be here anymore. I mean, knowing he’s here.”

“Maybe Ruby can take you home,” Tara suggested.

Lara shook her head. “She pounded three shots of Triple Sec. I don't even know if she would make it down the street.”

Your eyes rolled. “Ah, of course.”

“Well, isn’t your boyfriend here, too?” Tara asked.

“Yeah, shoot…” you mumbled, taking out your phone from your back pocket. He had texted you three times, and then attempted to call you twice, but your notifications were still on silent from work the other day. His last text mentioned going out to watch the bonfire and see the stars. Putting your phone down, you shrugged. “He’s enjoying himself without me.”

Lara and Tara exchanged a wordless glance.

“I’ll call you an Uber,” Lara swiftly announced, rising to her feet.

Your expression widened. “Really?”

“Mmhm.”

“Are you sure? I’ll pay you back.”

She remained dismissive. “Don’t bother. It’s fine. I promise.”

“I’ll tell Ruby you’re leaving,” Tara offered.

Lara walked you to the front door, helping you to find your coat buried somewhere in the hectic closet space, while Tara presumably went to locate Ruby in the basement and relay the news. She popped back upstairs rather quickly, dipping into the kitchen for a moment, only to reappear with a cheesy slice of warm pizza on a paper plate and a water bottle. “Food to cure the heartache,” she said, smiling.

You grinned. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“No worries. You can now officially scratch the ‘I cried in the washroom at a party’ from your list of girlhood milestones. Or womanhood. Whichever.”

Taking a bite from the pizza, you laughed.

Lara inflated another bubble with her gum. “Uber’s almost here.”

“M’kay,” Tara sighed. “We came with our friend. I’m gonna go find him so he doesn’t think we disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

You glanced at Lara. “Are you going, too?”

She shook her head. “I’ll wait until your ride is here.”

 “Thanks,” you acknowledged, feeling relieved.

Continuing to fill your stomach with leftover pizza while occupying the front foyer alongside Lara, you watched the back door that was down the corridor—the one that led to the bonfire—wondering if Lee might come inside. You sent him a text that you were leaving, but your boyfriend had yet to respond. While slurping some stringy mozzarella into your mouth, you noticed two people walk about halfway down the dully lit staircase, seeming like they were saying goodbye to each other for the night.

Oh no. You immediately felt dizzy.

Why did one of those people have to be him?

Even worse—why did he have to notice you? He hadn’t at first. But then his eyes naturally lingered and for the first time in a month the boy who rejected you in the front seat of his Camry had you back in his sights. Your entire chest pulled tight like the strings of a bow.

He kept looking at you, those deep golden eyes enraptured as though you were beaming with neon light. You started to tremble.

Lara suddenly shifted from leaning her weight against the door, clearing her throat. “Your Uber’s here.” She looked through the window, tapping her long, polished nail to the stained glass. “He’s in the white.”

“Oh, cool. Thanks.”

“Want me to walk you out—”

“That’s okay!” You called, already whipping open the door, taking your half-finished pizza and cold water with you. “See you at work!”

Lee wasn’t exactly pleased that you left him at the house party without saying goodbye. You agreed. It was an impolite, hasty decision that should have been made using more consideration. Even if you wanted to blame Vernon for completely scrambling your feelings, you had to take accountability. As an apology, you took Lee out for lunch at one of his favourite eateries—No Forks Given—hence the fact they only sold soups.

Your favourite was the broccoli cheddar. He liked the tomato soup for the simple fact it came with a grilled cheese. It was tasty, warm, and rustic comfort food. You couldn’t think of anything better.

Resting his spoon against the half-emptied bowl, Lee took a pause from eating. He glanced at you, smiling, and the dark arches of his eyebrows softened. “How’s the broccoli cheddar?”

You nodded in satisfaction. “Delicious.”

Lee proceeded to sit his elbows on the tablecloth, hands interlocked and thumbs twiddling. There was something he wanted to bring up—you could read it from the distant, absentminded flickering of his gaze—though you weren’t going to coax it out. You preferred to finish enjoying your soup before he dropped any degree of bombshell.

Finally, he sat back, tapping the tabletop with his index finger. “I want this to really work between us,” Lee said. “And I think our communication could be better. It’s something we can work on together. I don’t want you to feel like I’m singling you out or anything, you know?”

Stirring around your soup, you stared down at the bowl. “I know.”

“You’re a great girl. Hardworking, sincere, funny…” the boy began to smile as he looked at you, fondness lightening the harsher contours to his expression, his eyes less like wet slate. “We both could have done more at the party… I shouldn’t have left you alone and you shouldn’t have walked out off a text message. I’d just really like it if we could meet in the middle. You know I love staying in and watching movies with you, but I’d also appreciate doing other things.”

Biting your lip, you nodded. “Agreed.”

“So, let’s keep pushing. We’re gonna be better. Deal?” He extended his hand across the tablecloth, waiting for you to reciprocate.

You eyed the gesture, staring along the boy’s fingers and his wrist. It was haunting—you had gotten so accustomed to examining Vernon’s tattoos over the past couple months that it felt unorthodox to see skin that looked so bare, exposed—and before your mind could choose to wander somewhere hurtful, you quickly lurched a hand over top his, smiling all fidgety.

Meeting your boyfriend’s tender eyes, you murmured, “deal.”

He leaned forward in his seat to stick a kiss on your forehead. Once he was settled back down, Lee returned to his soup, dragging the spoon through the creamy whorls of orange. “When is that art exhibition thing you were talking about? The Winter Wonderland?”

Your shoulders felt tense, so you rolled them out. “Uh, well, it starts this Friday and ends on a Sunday. I have an admission ticket for Sunday.”

“Is it outdoors?”

“No, it’s inside Liuna Station.”

“Oh, m’kay. That place usually does weddings.”

You nodded. “The architecture inside is pretty.”

“I’m glad you’re going,” Lee mumbled around the spoon he fed to his mouth. “I’m sure you’ll have a good time. I’ll be studying.”

“I’m aware,” you huffed, smiling. “I won’t be envying you.”

9:00 pm.

You weren’t really sure what you were doing, standing outside the entrance to Liuna Station, pacing back and forth through the pillowy snow as everyone else moved inside. They all did it so easily. Smiling between each other. Brushing snowflakes off the brim of their friends' hats. Happy and accompanied and jaunty. The world came to them so easily but you had to struggle and agonize through everything because that was the only way you knew how to do it, and it wouldn’t feel like you, otherwise.

For a second, you contemplated giving your ticket away to a stranger who might find it worthwhile to walk an art exhibition on a late, cold, night. But then you thought about the money you spent, and the fact you needed to start being more adventurous, and the remarkably thin possibility that you might just run into Diana if she hadn’t already gone. Kicking your foot through the soft snow, you glanced across the building, from its long, wide steps and simplistically designed pillars to the beautiful pots of fresh red and white Poinsettias framing the stairway.

It was strange to do something on your own—something that was away from the regimented timeline you burned into yourself—and quite hard to believe that no one might judge you for it. Watching another group of people trot their way up the smooth concrete steps, you bit your lip and pulled at the skin, almost wishing there was someone there to shake out your shoulders and snap you from your funk. Your nose was getting runny from standing outside in the full exposure of the teething January weather.

You sighed, your breath fogging.

Whack!

Out of nowhere, something particularly cold and hard collided against your cheek, exploding into cascading shards of frozen snow that fell down your winter jacket. You stood there, truly gobsmacked, touching the very hot, stinging skin that was just abused by a rogue snowball.

“Uh—I’m so sorry…”

You met the embarrassed, apologetic expression of a young boy, no older than ten, with a wool scarf wrapped around his chin. He wrung out his hands. “That was supposed to hit my friend.”

Swallowing, you rubbed off your aching cheek. “Um… that’s fine.”

“I’m really sorry. He ducked at the last second and you were—”

“No, really,” you ensured, grinning at the young boy despite the tears prickling against your eyes, of the same frostiness as the snow. “It’s fine. I kind of… needed that, actually.”

He seemed confused, though he clearly didn’t want to stick around and continue staring into the face of the woman he just accidentally ransacked with a snowball. Instead, the boy nodded, adjusted his scarf, and ran off toward the distant bench that his friend was crouching behind.

Pulling out the crumpled ticket from your pocket, you decided it was finally time to pull the plug on your swirl of persistent ruminations. It was time to fake the guise of being cultured and sophisticated at an art show.

Fun.

10:00 pm.

“Thank you for touring! I hope you enjoyed!”

You smiled at the poshly dressed guide standing at the main foyer’s entrance, nodding your head in satisfaction. Noticing a bench rested against the far wall, you spent a moment idling before finally asking her, “is it okay if I sit back there?”

She turned around, following your gaze. “Oh, yeah. That’s totally okay. The show doesn’t officially close until eleven. It’s no problem.”

Again, you smiled at the guide before proceeding your way across the grand, softly lit room and toward the bench, listening to the pattering echo of your shoes against the shiny tiles, how the sounds reached up to the high ceiling and subsequently faded. Upon sitting down, you took a moment to appreciate how quiet it was outside the exhibit. There was hardly any murmur of conversation—just the occasional clicking shoes and distant voices belonging to those leaving the art show—and your mind eagerly absorbed the whispering silence. The exhibit was something spectacular.

By going alone, you were free to spend more time looking at the pieces you really liked as opposed to feeling rushed. You didn’t have any concerns about someone else not enjoying the show, or finding the displays lacklustre, because there was only you, and you had loved everything.

You had taken a brochure from a pop-up stand. It advertised more of Catherine Love’s upcoming shows after providing a detailed description about all the participating artists. Some were older, having over decades of work, while others were just abloom. You came across a familiar picture of a ginger coily-haired girl with rosy cheeks and a crooked tooth—Izzy White—which you remembered briefly from your first-year university days, having run into her at a few parties. Now, she was a featured artist in a Catherine Love show with everyone adoring her sculpting.

You felt a confusing mixture of pride for her accomplishment, but also envy that you hadn’t come across such a calling. Patience was important—you knew that—though it also felt akin to a well running dry.

“So, how did you find the show?”

Nose twitching with an itch, your glance flickered up. At the same time you spoke, you sneezed, and your voice boomed throughout the silent station like dropped crystal: “Di—achoo—ana?!”

She giggled at you, and then reached inside her sable black coat, digging around for something. Then, there was a tissue. “Here.”

You stared at it, blinking once, twice. “What are you doing here?”

“To look at art. Same as you.”

“But—”

“Okay, not to be gross, but can you not feel the snot that’s on your nose right now?” She quirked her head and shook the tissue. “Take this.”

You plucked it, then blew your congested nose, swearing that your ears popped, before you crumpled the tissue up and stared at the girl from top to bottom. Of course, you had hoped to see her, but you always felt that hope was one thing and reality was another. To hope to see Diana was not the same as actually seeing her, because one was more intangible figment and the other was your best friend for all of university standing right before you. She eyed the spot next to you on the bench, her fingertips twitching.

 Sighing, she licked her lips and smiled shyly. “Can I sit there?”

“Oh, sure…” you murmured, shuffling aside.

Diana took a seat, tucking her long, fluffy coat underneath her. She was wearing small pearly earrings—her absolute favourite—the kind she chose before doing something extremely important since her mother had told her the pearls were so lustrous because they were filled with luck.

You always thought you would know exactly what to say to her after spending such a long time mourning your friendship. But now, that script had vanished, dissolved to dust, leaving behind the uncomfortable predicament of being present with someone you treated like a memory.

She picked at her fingernail. “Are you… mad… at me?”

Continuing to stare at the floor, you swallowed dryly.

Diana tucked some wispy, loose hairs behind her ear. “It’s okay if you are… you don’t need to pretend to protect my feelings… I know that when you saw me, you probably thought I looked so fragile, enough to pity me.” She started shaking her leg. “I hope you don’t. I hope you’re mad.”

You stared hard enough into the gleaming tile to begin visualizing the softness of your sombre reflection. “I’m not mad… I can’t be…”

She laughed, stomping her foot. “Of course you’re not.”

“It’s true.”

 “Well… you should be.” Diana’s hands clutched together in her lap, squeezing tight. “I wish that you were. You’ve always been… you’ve always given up so much of yourself for other people.” She seemed to be staring at her reflection in the tiles, just as you were. “You deserve to be mad.”

At that, your eyes intensely burned.

Something eclipsed past your train of thought: “That’s the problem with you quiet chicks—never say anything your entire damn life—then one day it’s a big cluster fuck of anger and you suddenly can’t tell what’s even supposed to deserve it.”

You straightened up, let your eyes sting, let your throat constrict, let your heart race in your chest like a jackrabbit.

“I was mad. I was furious.”

“Really?”

“Yeah… I wanted to punch and kick and scream. I spent four years experiencing my highest highs and lowest lows with you. And then you were gone no matter what I did.”

Diana nodded. She finally caught your gaze and no longer were you both just passengers cruising down a long, dark highway in the middle of nowhere while your minds spun. You felt connected to the girl beside you.

Her leg stopped jumping. “I just couldn’t tell you,” Diana admitted, biting along her chapped bottom lip. “I couldn’t ruin things for you.”

“I would have done everything to help you,” you firmly reassured.

“I didn’t want that. I didn’t want you to keep giving yourself up.”

You shook your head. “I never felt that way with you.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was about everything else around you. I would have just been another weight. At the time, it felt like the best way for me to handle us—I know it was hurtful and there were a million different ways I could have gone about it and I’ve only continued to make so many stupid mistakes since then—but I felt like I was setting you free and that’s what mattered the most…” her eyes glistened like fresh snow against the black, damp earth.

“Well…” you breathed out, sensitive with emotion, “I was mad.”

Diana smiled. “Good.”

“If there’s anything at all—”

“No, no, no. Stop. There you go again.”

“But, Diana, I just want to know that you’re getting help and—”

“I’m here tonight,” she interrupted, splaying out her hands, a white bandage fixed across her right palm. “I came here tonight to see art, but also to find you, because I had this suspicion you’d go, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about everything since you showed up on my porch. If that doesn’t tell you something—”

“So, you are getting help?”

She paused to sigh. “Yes.”

You breathed the biggest exhale of relief, feeling your entire body ease from utter rigidity to complete jelly. Unfurling your hand, you stared at the used tissue you had practically moulded into a compact ball. “I came for the same reason… I thought you might be here. Not that I expected anything to really happen. I guess I just wanted to see you out in the world, so I could have some sort of proof that you were okay.” Glancing toward Diana, you searched her black eyes like they were night skies full of shooting stars. “I’m so happy you came. I just wanted to see you.”

She smiled at you, delicate, as though it wasn’t something she ever did and she needed to remember how. “Anything interesting going on?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, in your life. What’s gone on since uni?”

Shifting your feet, you sighed, “not much… working two jobs… living with a roommate along Roxbury. Trying not to run off the grid and go die in the woods so my body can be recycled by the earth. Nothing fun.”

“Are you sure?” Diana questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh…” you trailed off, swallowing thickly, “… yes?”

Diana slid her fingers underneath the bench, leaning forward, eyes fluttering. “What are you doing hanging out with Vernon?”

Immediately, your expression soured, like someone had just squirted pure lemon juice down your throat. You started to cough, avoiding Diana’s curious gaze, and squeezed the tissue hard in your hand. How were you supposed to explain everything to her without sounding somewhat psychotic and stalkerish—not to mention the confusing plunge of falling for him.

You laughed nervously, “that’s a long, long story.”

“Is it?”

“Well… depends on how I tell it.”

“Fair.” Diana nodded.

“I have a boyfriend,” you decided to mention.

 “Vernon?”

“No!” You spat out a little too defensively, your face sweltering with embarrassment. “Not Vernon!” You paused to readjust the cadence of your squeaky, high-pitched voice upon hearing it echo back to you off the stone walls. “He’s a friend of my roommate’s. He studies law. His name is Lee.”

“Hmm…” Diana hummed. “Well, he seems smart, then.” She stared at the ground, twisting her ankle back and forth. “Things are going well with my boyfriend, too. He’s been helping me readjust.” You couldn’t help but notice the lack of smile and ease on her face, though you chose not to be nosy about the sensitive topic, even if you were dying to know more.

At that moment, an idea popped into your head.

You switched the crumpled tissue in your hand for the brochure in your pocket. “Well… I’m not sure if you have a job or anything… but I heard that Catherine Love is interviewing for a new assistant. I know it probably seems like too much on your plate, but I would feel bad if I didn’t let you know. You’d fit in so perfectly with all the artsy visionaries.”

Diana glanced at the brochure. It seemed that her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and her eyes filled with a distant sorrow. “I’ve heard.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t see myself doing it.”

“You’d be a shoo-in. But I understand.”

“I think you’d be good at it.”

You laughed, immediately clasping a hand over top your mouth to stop the sound from barreling through the frangible atmosphere. After looking at the brochure again, you met Diana’s sincere expression and giggled at her suggestion. “As if I’d be any good! I wouldn’t even score an interview!”

“That’s not true. You were an organization freak in uni. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone make so many spreadsheets. You had one for just about everything—even breakfast! And you’re good at keeping other people on top of things. All those essays you helped me hand in?”

“Those skills aren’t going to translate! Who hasn’t used a spreadsheet? And sure—I helped you with your essays—that was only so I could procrastinate doing my own! Besides, I know nothing about art.”

Diana shrugged. “You don’t need to.”

“She’s an artist herself. She curates exhibits,” you attempted to reason with Diana like she didn’t already know. “It has to be a necessity.”

“You’re thinking too much about what you aren’t instead of what you are,” she insisted, her fingers brushing yours as they clutched the bench.

“Okay,” you huffed half-heartedly, “and what am I?”

Diana’s smile bloomed like the healthy petals of a luscious flower, and you felt your chest begin to warm. “To me,” she said, “you’ve always been a work of art. Anyone who can’t see it doesn’t deserve to know.”

8 MONTHS AGO.

Ruby was needed at work, leaving you alone in the apartment for the day. Lee was coming over later in the afternoon. The three of you were supposed to make pizzas, drink wine (you would probably opt for the leftover pineapple juice in the fridge instead), and watch the newest season to Ruby’s favourite reality television show. Now, however, it would just be you and your boyfriend. You texted him the update this morning, and he sent back a winky face that you stared at for a good few minutes while eating your breakfast, feeling increasingly… less hungry.

While slumped on the couch, you considered reaching out to Diana to potentially fill Ruby’s place. But you never picked up your phone. After that night at Liuna Station, Diana went back to her separate life of attempting to regain her control. It had hurt to say goodbye, and it was even harder to release her from your bracketing arms once you two hugged at the base of the concrete steps, cocooning one another from the blustery cold.

She made a promise to contact you once things were more stable.

You believed her.

Lee sent you another text, his bright notification popping onto your phone screen, though you merely turned away from it and stared out the living room window instead. There was a fresh coating of snow from the night before. You liked watching the different birds chase each other. The male cardinals were big and lurid red, like flashes of a hot summer sunset skirting across the satin white. But you preferred the smaller, black-capped chickadees that hopped around. Sometimes they left their tiny footprints along the snowy sill. Ruby occasionally fed them breadcrumbs if she woke up early enough.

Caught in your daydreaming, you flinched when you heard a few knocks at the apartment door. Immediately lurching to grab your phone, you read Lee’s text message. He was coming over early?

There was another knock. You weren’t even close to ready! Still dressed in your pyjamas (the embarrassing pony t-shirt might you add), teeth unbrushed, hair a mess, and hands all scaly and dry from the terrible, chafing cold, you wanted to explode. Stumbling to the entrance, you had no choice but to suck it up.

“Why are you over so early?” You admonished upon opening the door, sensing your annoyance flare. “We aren’t starting until—”

“Oh—hey, PJ’s.”

Moonfaced, you gawked at him, eyebrows leaping up your forehead like they were being pulled by strings. All the air in your body powdered.

He scratched his neck. “I thought Ruby was—”

Nope. Nope. Nope. You shut the door right in his face.

Then, you were pacing all over the living room, one arm strapped around your chest while you regressed to chewing at your fingernails. What was he doing here, what was he doing here, what was he doing here?! You couldn’t stop berating yourself with the thought, the words cascading out from your mind and inflating like oversized balloons, every letter slowly filling the room with stifling anxiousness until you were back at the door.

You opened it, again. “What are you doing here?”

He dropped his jaw, furrowed his eyebrows. “Well, I—”

No! You slammed the door, again. There was no way you could let him see you like this, in such an unkempt, devolved state. You raced into your room to find a sweater you could at least pull overtop the pony t-shirt, which you now realized had a brown stain on it from spilling Ruby’s leftover coffee this morning. But as you whipped open your third dresser drawer, shifting hectically through the clothes, you groaned. Screw it!

He’d already seen you in the shirt, anyway.

Why did it even matter.

Back to the door. You took a deep breath, opening it.

Vernon had his arms crossed and his shoulder leaned against the wall, seeming wildly unimpressed with your door-slamming routine. Tilting his head, he sighed aloud. “Before I say anything even relatively important, you wanna slam it one more time? Just to see how you really feel?”

“Uh… I’m okay,” you mumbled, full of breathy nerves.

“You sure?” He asked, biting his lip. “Third time’s the charm.”

“No, I’m fine, or… I don’t know. Yeah.”

Vernon nudged himself off the wall, rolling out his shoulders before proceeding to rub all frustratedly along his browbone. “Okay… look… I’m not here to be a bother or nothin’. I was supposed to grab a payment from Ruby today, but she hasn’t been answerin’ my texts. She’s not here?”

“No,” you swallowed. “She was called in.”

“No biggie. I’ll check back in with her tomorrow,” he said, pulling out his phone and sending a text message to someone. “Later.”

Then, he started walking back down the corridor. You panicked. As much as you weren’t prepared for this moment, as much as you swore to never give Vernon the time of day ever again, as much as you crossed him out from your obsessive mind using a thick red marker as though he were a photo in a yearbook, you still…

“Hm. You’re not gonna break in and steal it like last time?” You called to the boy before he could disappear outside, your heart racing.

He paused, turning back to narrow his eyes at you. “Considerin’ you almost broke down in tears bein’ the morality police, think I’m good.”

No, he was going to leave, he wasn’t biting—you saw his hand pushing at the door—and you had no other choice.

“Wanna come inside?”

Vernon cackled, throwing his head back. “Are you serious?!”

Scratching your fingers against the wall, you nodded.

The boy continued chuckling, wiping off his face from what you assumed to be a tear. “Damn, PJ’s. That’s funny as fuck. You smoke now?”

“What?” Your expression crinkled. “No.”

“Well, you’re definitely high if you think I’m goin’ inside.”

“Why?” You challenged him, feeling hurt.

Vernon rolled his honey-brown eyes. “Ruby already made it clear that I should never fuckin’ bother you again. Don’t really feel like gettin’ yelled at after she put me through the ringer the first time. Besides, what’s done is done. We had a compromise. You hate my guts now, I assume.”

Frowning, you stepped further into the hallway. “If I hated your guts, why would I ask for you to come inside? Ruby doesn’t…” you trailed off, staring at the mysterious, long, black skid mark left against the wall that had been there since you moved in. “Ruby doesn’t have to… know.”

“Lookie here,” Vernon cooed in droll fashion, “what a rule-breaker.”

“I’m being serious!”

“So am I. I don’t wanna get fuckin’ yelled at, alright?”

“You know what?! Fine! Whatever!” Feeling your politeness and hospitality slip, all those complicated emotions that overwhelmed you upon first meeting Vernon started remerging. “I was trying to be nice! To show you that I’m not holding any grudges! I thought we could bury the hatchet, or whatever you want to call it! But since you’re being so unbelievably insufferable, and uncooperative, and stubborn about it, you can go… you can go… you can eff off! I officially don’t care.” You marched back into the apartment, seething. But then you couldn’t help from popping your head into the corridor to glare at the boy one last time. “Gosh! You bug me!”

Third time really was the charm. You slammed the door.

Steaming into your bedroom, you collapsed onto the messy pile of comforter and tangled sheets, letting your fingers curl into the fabric and grip it tighter than your frustration could tolerate. Your eyes skimmed all over the bland ceiling, unable to focus, because if you did, the canvas above became filled with flickers of Vernon’s face and the texture of his voice that strummed your emotions like lyre strings.

You grabbed a pillow and smothered yourself with it.

“Hey! PJ’s!”

There was tapping against your window. Gripping onto the pillow, you rolled off the bed and whipped open your curtains in a big gust.

He smiled at you from the other side. “You’re right. Open up.”

“I don’t think I want to,” you taunted, arms stoutly folded.

Vernon shook his head, unamused, his voice sounding slightly muffled through the window. “Yeah, yeah. You wanna make me stand out here in the cold and shiver like a fuckin’ dog. I get it. But I know you’re not really mad.” He smirked. “Open it or I’m gonna find a real big rock.”

“I’m sure there’s a great one inside your head,” you tutted.

“Funny.”

Sighing, you dropped the pillow, undid the lock, and began to slide the window open until it hit the frame, bristling at the chilled breeze now ghosting inside the bedroom. You hated that you had relented so easily, that your explosive rage could be doused by just a single, sparkling, earnest smile from him. The boy crawled onto your desk, then settled back on his feet.

You had picked the pillow up.

He dusted off his hands. “Nice n’ warm in here. Thank—uff!”

Then you smacked him with it.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, shaking out his head. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” you answered, portraying equanimity through a straight face despite your insides shrinking with laughter. “My arm twitched.”

Vernon scoffed, “that’s quite a fuckin’ twitch.”

“Thank you.”

Before you headed into the living room, you shut the window, noticing the vanilla Camry occupying one of the parking spaces.

Vernon was already relaxed on the couch when you wandered out to join him, and his lax, leg-spread position reminded you of exactly how you found the boy the morning he ate your molotes (which you were still admittedly upset about months later). Knees buckled close to the chest and arms tucked around them, you smiled meekly at Vernon from the opposite end of the sofa, trying your hardest not to ogle him after all this time, pick out little differences and study them.

He had taken off his coat, now stuffed behind his back. You swore there was a new tattoo on the side of his bicep but you didn’t want to fixate.

“So… are we just gonna sit pretty in silence, or?” Vernon laughed.

Grabbing tighter to your knees, you flustered. “Well… I was—”

“What’s this buryin’ the hatchet thing you brought up?”

“That was about…” you cringed, “the incident.”

Vernon smoothed a hand along his thigh, chuckling. “The incident?”

Your eyes rolled, impatient. “When I basically said I liked you and you said you didn’t feel the same way! That incident! What do you think?”

“Easier to let you say it.” He smiled. You almost slapped him.

Relaxing your knees into a criss-crossed position, you wriggled your toes and held your breath for a moment, urging yourself to unclench. That moment had carved a scar across your memories, and no matter how much time healed the wound, there still lingered the uncertainty it would split wide open again. You wanted to ask Vernon if you were the first girl to confess their feelings in the front seat of his car, but even you knew that was an aimless, obvious, self-sabotaging question that would only pick at the stitches.

Swallowing thickly, you sighed. “I just want to say that I’m sorry for how I reacted. I suppose it was kind of… immature… I don’t know. And I definitely could have chosen a better time to do it, I guess. It’s just, I—”

“Hey, you don’t gotta explain yourself to me, PJ’s,” Vernon interrupted, pursing his bottom lip. “It’s fine. It already happened. Thinkin’ about how it could have gone different won’t do all that much.”

“I know…” you mumbled, rubbing at your wrist while your eyes trailed off, staring into the blur, feeling all your turmoil coalesce. “It was just so embarrassing. Like, why do I do stuff like that? I don’t get it.”

“Whatever.” Vernon shrugged, sticking a hand behind his head. “Embarrassment’s a social construct or some fancy shit like that. I never feel embarrassed.”

That, you actually believed.

Playing with the collar of your sock, your lips pressed together in concentration as you struggled to find the best way to word what you wanted to say next. It seemed futile, so you opted to just say it: “I have a boyfriend.”

Vernon folded his arms low across the chest, nodded his head at you in acknowledgment. “So I’ve heard,” he responded, smirking while you recoiled into yourself, every inch of skin burning. “Friend of Ruby’s, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Some uptight little lawyer dweeb?”

Smacking your mouth in disapproval, you shook your head. “He’s a law student, studying to be a lawyer. He’s really smart, and educated.”

Vernon shrugged all matter-of-factly. “I’m sure he is.”

He seemed like he was waiting for you to go on, to soak him in a bucket of infatuated, giggly, smitten gushing that one particularly can’t help themselves from doing when they undeniably like someone—the obvious glimmer in their eyes, the helpless, tongue-tied rambling—except, you were dead quiet, too nervous to elaborate. You supposed Ruby told him.

The boy stared you up and down in question, continuing to wait, until, “lawyer dweeb have a name?” Vernon offered if you weren’t going to.

“Ruby didn’t say?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Lee.”

He nodded, smiling. “So, that’s your type? If it’s not me—”

“It’s not,” you quickly clarified.

“—then it’s the scholarly gentleman who matches his tie to his socks and brings a briefcase to class. I really appreciate your diverse taste.”

You scowled at him.

Vernon laughed, flippant. “Relax, PJ’s. Just joshin’ with you.”

Tucking your knees back against your chest, you were overwhelmed with a particular feeling—an awful surge of general despair in your stomach that immediately turned paralyzing and rendered your brain to shut down—and the only thing you could do to get rid of it was suck in a big, shaky, long breath.

Sighing, Vernon dug his hands into the couch and shifted a cushion closer to you. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers playing with the chained silver watch on his wrist.

“Well, do you feel happy?” He asked.

You wiped off your nose and sniffled. “Y-Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You smiled at him, hands locked around your knees.

He cracked his knuckles, laughing. “All you girls say the same shit.”

Your breath trembled and you lashed out at him, knowing your voice was sounding increasingly stuffy with emotion. “I’m glad you’re so educated on what it means to console a girl. Am I number fifty-five?”

Vernon didn’t say anything, only continued to stare back at you, smiling faintly, the warmth of his honeyed eyes more natural than sunlight.

Focusing on some balled lint stuck to your pyjama pants, you picked them off your knee, sniffling again. “I am happy. I am. I’m just… I’m tired.” You kept ripping the lint from your pants, sensing your eyes turn glassy and stinging hot. “I’m so tired of feeling, you know, tired. And like my life is going absolutely nowhere. I’m not trying to sound all unique, and like no one else has ever felt that way, or that I have no one. I’m just frustrated.” Pausing, you looked up at Vernon, rubbing away the tears before they could fall, surprised to discover he was still listening and watching you. Hugging yourself tight, you shook your head. “I feel like I’m going to cry.”

“I can see that.”

You slid a short ways down the couch, studying the ceiling, realizing how messy and confused you must seem, pulled apart like a tapestry undone by just a mere thread. “I’m so…” you gulped, “… pathetic.”

“M’kay,” Vernon chuckled in his raspy tone. “Relax, PJ’s.” He scooted backward, the tips of your toes digging into his thigh. “You need to go outside and catch a snowflake on your tongue or some shit.”

“How will that help?”

“Because,” the boy reasoned, suddenly placing his hand underneath the sensitive bend in your leg, stretching out the limb such that it laid across his lap, “you’re too much inside your head.” His palm then flattened out just above your knee, and you could feel the heat of his rough, calloused skin through your thin pyjama pants.

It struck a charge in you.

The pit of your stomach convulsed and it shot right between your—

“Have you found those other people who owed you money?” You asked, abruptly sitting up, pulling your leg back slightly.

Vernon brushed some dark hairs off his forehead. “Uh, well, I left the city for a bit to see some friends. I’ve done a little digging here and there since I got back. New Year’s gets a little crazy. Demand goes way up. So I was occupied with other things. But I’ll get back to it real soon. Can’t beat around the bush too much.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Do you… need any help?”

His eyes widened, and he snorted. “From you?”

“I guess.”

But then he started to squint. “Are you serious?”

You stared at him, unable to push the word past your lips. The truth was, you missed sleuthing around with Vernon. It was something invigorating and new to your mundane life and as much as you fretted over it in the beginning, once the thrill was gone, you felt uncomfortably empty, listless, without a spark to hold.

Vernon’s hand was still on your leg.

Suddenly, it was all you could think about. He shifted the warm touch further toward the inside of your thigh as he focused on the nervous teeth worried into your bottom lip and you felt like melting, dripping ice cream, all over the sofa.

But then someone knocked.

You squealed, jolting in place. Unfortunately, you already knew who it was. Excusing yourself from the sofa, you wobbled up to the door and decided to just open it rather than internally dwelling because your mind was too mushy for anything else.

“Pumpkin!” Lee greeted, planting a kiss on your cheek before beginning to unwind his black scarf. “Sorry I’m late—ran into a buddy at the gas station and I legit couldn’t get away from the guy—but I managed.”

Lee took a few steps into the apartment, his scarf finally undone, which he hung on the hooks alongside his winter jacket. It took him a moment to process that it was not just you, and once his attention settled on the sofa, he immediately stiffened, casting a few slow, trudging blinks. “I had no idea you were having someone over,” Lee laughed, lightly guiding fingers over his combed hair. “Uh, hello.”

Vernon had his arms folded again. “What’s up, lawyer dweeb?”

Your boyfriend furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

But you had already cleared your throat. “Yeah, sorry about that. It wasn’t planned. This is Vernon,” you gestured toward the couch.

“Oh,” Lee lilted, “Ruby’s friend.”

Nodding, you held onto his shoulder. “Vernon, this is Lee.”

“Lee, huh?” Vernon hummed. “You look like much less of a dweeb than I was expectin’, actually. Guess I need a new name for you.”

“Well, Lee is fine,” your boyfriend nervously chuckled.

Your eyes rolled. “He likes picking stupid nicknames.”

Vernon grabbed his jacket, stretching his arms through the holes as he got back to his feet. “Alright. I won’t linger. Lucky you guys.”

You weren’t expecting Vernon to stay.

Dually, you didn’t want him to leave.

Being the polite, well-mannered young man your boyfriend was, he formally stuck out his hand for Vernon to shake, standing tall and broad. But the exchange didn’t seem to unfold the way Lee intended it to, and you could tell from his expression of befuddlement as Vernon clasped onto his hand and dapped him up instead. You remembered him doing that to you.

“Nice to meet you, Suits,” Vernon said with a slippery little smirk and a bit more sharpness than usual in his copper eyes. Before he left, he grabbed onto the collar of Lee’s shirt and pulled it down flat for him, to which your boyfriend immediately tensed, smiling all crookedly.

Lee nodded. “Yeah… you too.”

“M’kay, later, PJ’s,” Vernon mumbled.

He was out the door before you could respond.

Silence hovered in the air for a few seconds, though it felt more like something else ridiculously long, and when you met Lee’s eyes, you noticed that tweak of confusion hadn’t quite eroded from his features.

The boy rumbled his throat. “So… that was Vernon.”

You sighed, staring off into the corner. “Yeah.”

“Wow… I had no idea… I had no idea he looked like… that.”

“Like what?”

Lee laughed to ease the situation, shaking his head. “No—just, like—I’ve never seen him before, that’s all. I didn’t know he had all those tattoos and piercings.” He was pacing in meandering circles, but came to a stop. “And… he called me Suits… like, the show?” His nose scrunched.

“As I said, he loves a good nickname.”

“What’s your nickname?”

 You gestured at the shirt currently dressing your body. “PJ’s.”

“Oh… well, that’s—I’ve never seen you wear that—it’s cute—wait—so does that mean you know Vernon, too?” Lee asked.

“A little,” you lied, and you hated yourself for it, but you just wanted the conversation to be over. “Only because of Ruby.”

“I assumed that,” Lee responded.

You grabbed his arm and began tugging him toward the kitchen, willing to put the weird confrontation behind you, praying that Lee wouldn’t dissect any further.

“C’mon. Who cares. Let’s make our pizzas.”

Ruby was in bed much earlier than usual. You figured she wouldn’t be all that energetic considering how late she stayed up the night before, entertaining the city’s newest karaoke bar with her friends. She ate dinner (the thin crust, extra cheesy margarita pizza you made in her honour) then disappeared straight into her bedroom, to which you heard snoring sounds as you cleaned up the kitchen for the night. Ruby only snored when she was incredibly tired. You probably wouldn’t see her until noon tomorrow.

After Vernon left, it was difficult to throw yourself into being ebullient and present for Lee when all you could think about in the back of your head was the tattooed boy. Lee had admittedly tried coaxing you into a kissing session while the pizzas were cooking in the oven, but you managed to escape it with a fragile excuse that you would get too distracted and burn them. Your boyfriend didn’t seem convinced, but he relented, and you two stuck to watching a movie instead, hands kept square in your lap.

Even now, as you stared into the shadows of your dark, unmoving bedroom, Vernon was still finding his way to you like a lost ship following the foggy beam of a lighthouse.

Every time the wind blew drafting snow against the window, your chest spiked with the hope that maybe he was outside, tapping to get in. Whenever your phone buzzed with a pointless notification, his text message was the only thing you wanted. It was borderline tormenting. Even if you could fall asleep, he would probably wander into your dreams and infect your heart with his ache.

So you chose to go for a walk.

Opening up your closet, you pulled out the biggest, puffiest coat you could find, alongside the thickest, woolliest hat and its large fluffed pompom. You wrapped up your chin and mouth with one of Ruby’s long scarlet-coloured scarves. Taking a look in the mirror before you left, you wanted to laugh at how rounded and unrecognizable you were, bundled up behind all that clothing.

But it was too cold to take any chances.

The furthest you were willing to walk was Cedar Point Park. It took about ten minutes to get there, a bit longer if you were slow and hobbling akin to a penguin, much like yourself.

Nobody was outside with you given the time. You loved the emptiness. The air was frosty and sticking to your eyelashes, keeping you wide awake with every step, while the sky was glass clear apart from some thin, fleecy clouds blowing across the moon. Broken ice crunched underneath your boots, some of the shards getting kicked along the sidewalk until they slid too far away for you to care. You felt like you existed inside a water globe, where the only company was you and the ambient, pearled glow of the moon that brushed all over the frozen ground.

Snow was thinly coated across the large sign to the park.

You traced a smiley face into it with your fingertip.

Finding one of the park benches, you wiped it off as best you could and pulled down your coat before taking a seat. You didn’t plan to sit there long, especially since the park was right beside one of the city’s bigger lakes and it turned the wind that whispered across its surface even icier. But the sight was beautiful to admire, and watching the haloing lights dance in the white surfs of dark water made you feel the same as coming across an exceptional art piece. Like there was something unspoken inside you that was finally coming to life, taking shape, and keeping you connected.

Once you decided it was time to leave the park, you took a shortcut by walking through the parking lot that food trucks usually swarmed during the summer and early autumn. Tonight, there was only a single car. You stopped dead in your tracks.

It was the vanilla Camry.

With the light on inside, you were able to identify him behind the wheel, though you had no idea who the blonde woman was that was leaned over the console, mouthing against his lips. You should have left, ran away—slipped on a chunk of ice and glided all the way home if that’s what it took to pretend this never happened—but you found yourself staying for a horrible reason that you could not pinpoint. They didn’t at all seem cognizant that you were there, standing at the edge of his floodlights, unabashedly watching them pleasurably slip tongue into each other’s mouths. The blonde started pulling off her blouse to reveal the black bra underneath, and then you stared, horrified, as she maneuvered over the console to sit herself right in Vernon’s comfortable lap, lips drifting back to his like a dance.

You refused to breath upon hearing the distant squeak of a window rolling down, and then you heard his voice, rough and agitated.

“Hey, asshole! Gonna stand there all night?!”

The girl was uncaring and only continued to mark his neck.

“Fuck off!” Vernon yelled again.

You were so wrapped and bundled that you knew it was impossible for him to tell it was you—not to mention the fact he was clearly focused on other, more pertinent matters—but that didn’t stop your heart from expanding with adrenaline, nerves, fear. The surging hormones twitched into your limbs and suddenly you were scrambling out the parking lot, breathing heavy into the scarf that you ended up pulling off your nose once you were a good ways from the park. Chilly air felt damp against your warm, flustered skin, though you heaved in as much of it as your lungs would take.

Upon getting back home and nearly tripping to get your boots off, you beelined for your bedroom, ripping the thick clothes from your radiating body until you felt less constricted. Flopping back on the mattress, you stared at the ceiling, forehead creased in abundant thought as you attempted to decide what it was you even felt, watching Vernon yet again swap spit with another girl. You couldn’t understand why you were so surprised. In reality, there wasn’t all that much you truly knew about him, and what you did see likely just scratched the surface of his delinquent, lecherous behaviour.

Your phone buzzed.

The light stained against your face as you squinted at the text.

It was from Vernon.

were u serious about helping me?

Your mind went blank. It took a moment to respond.

yeah

Vernon shot you a few texts back.

k we’ll talk more about it later didn’t think u would be awake

Your toes curled.

just can’t sleep

He answered again.

same

You always thought you would make a foolproof liar, despite significant childhood evidence proving otherwise. Unfortunately, years of burying your feelings wasn’t exactly the same as lying. One seemed like a necessary sacrifice to avoiding conflict while the other was just blatant deception because you couldn’t be bothered to explain yourself.

Maybe, in a way, there was some hand-in-hand.

Whatever it may be, you just knew it felt horrible to text your roommate that you were meeting up to grab lunch with an old friend, when in reality, you were slipping into Vernon’s car like an ashamed fiancé cheating on their partner. Ruby wasn’t home, anyway. She was helping to set up for an event at her work. Not having to lie to her face definitely made the deception easier, as long as you didn’t spend too long staring into your wormhole of a phone screen that wanted to crush you with pure guilt.

“Damn. It’s not like you were sworn to the truth and you lied under oath or some shit,” Vernon chuckled, finding amusement in your peril. “If it fuckin’ bugs you that much, tell Ruby what you’re up to.”

“But what about you? I thought you didn’t want to get yelled at.”

“I’ll get yelled at if it means you don’t implode from guilt. You’re like the Titanic if the Titanic sunk from sendin’ a stupid text message.”

You sighed at his offer, shaking your head and sliding deeper into your winter coat, phone now stuffed inside a pocket. “No… it’s fine.”

Vernon shrugged. “Whatever, PJ’s. Don’t say I didn’t try.”

For the first time ever, you were finally going to see Vernon’s apartment. You were really starting to believe that he didn’t live anywhere, instead taking to the couches or spare bedrooms belonging to his plethora of connections. The drive was longer than expected—about forty-five minutes spent on a congested, rainy highway—before he took an exit you had never heard of, and you were suddenly surrounded by rugged, dull, fenced buildings and bridges coated in competing graffiti. You didn’t say much during the car ride, though your fingers twiddled around anxiously in your lap the further he progressed into the colourless stiffness.

He turned into a parking lot belonging to a small building, only four simple levels, where you could see broken, tattered screens and curtains just barely holding up behind the dusted windows.

“Home sweet home,” Vernon chided as he shut off the car.

You joined him outside in the light rain shower that slicked the sleet ground. While walking toward the building’s entrance, a small dog started barking erratically from behind a window on the bottom floor, its paws scraping against the ruined shutters, lips pulled back and tiny teeth bared.

“That scared me,” you laughed, pressing closer into Vernon’s side.

He touched your back, helping you up the slippery steps. “Yeah, she can’t see shit since she got cataracts. Barks at just about fuckin’ everything.”

“Oh, no! That’s sad. Do you know her name?”

“Uh… Petunia? I think. Don’t worry. Her owner spoils her.”

When you looked at the front entrance, you paused. There were double-doors, but one had a piece of bright plywood fixed against it, held by tape, while the other had a hole smashed through the glass window.

You shot Vernon an apprehensive glance. “What happened there?”

“Someone lost their key,” the boy said, completely insouciant, like this was the umpteenth time it had happened. “And then lost it again.” He reached carefully through the shatter in the glass, flicked something, and then pulled his arm back out, opening up the door. “After you, PJ’s.”

“Uh, thanks…” you murmured in uncertainty, noticing a broom kept in the corner with a neat pile of glossy shards swept underneath it.

Vernon quickly tapped at your elbow, already beginning to jog up the stairs. “I’m top floor,” he said, about to disappear around the corner.

Refusing to get left behind, you hurried after him, continuing to lose your breath per every staircase that you climbed, stepping around enigmatic stains in the carpet and concerning dark spots of possible wood rot.

When Vernon came to his door, he wasn’t the least bit laboured, unlike you, who was eagerly unzipping your coat, heart pounding.

“Ready to see the crib?” he teased, biting his lip.

“I’m ready to see a glass of water,” you panted thickly.

Vernon pulled his keys out from the lock, knocking the door open with his elbow. “A glass of water awaits you inside the crib.”

In any capacity, you weren’t sure what to expect of a drug dealer’s bedroom, but stepping into Vernon’s bachelor suddenly made sense. It was mostly confined to a single room: his bed was in the far corner, pressed up against the left wall, while the futon and flat-screen television took up the central space. The right side of the room was the kitchen area, with an oven, microwave, sink, fridge, and limited countertop—not that you anticipated him to be doing much cooking—whereas the washroom was likely behind one of the room’s two shallow corridors. You stepped inside quite timidly.

Vernon kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket across the futon, striding his way toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfy.”

Easier said than done. You removed your boots next to his, placed your coat one of the hooks jutting from the wall, shifted your feet a little ways further into the space while you marvelled his myriad of personal knickknacks and decorations. There was an empty fish tank sitting on an antique-looking bookshelf before the windowsill. The walls cornering his bed were obscured with wrinkled, sun-washed posters, some from what you assumed to be video games or movies, while others had model images of scantily dressed women.

A random skateboard was left by the futon, while there were various dumbbells scattered around another shelf with its drawers half-pulled open, lumps of clothes peaking out. There were some bongs on the coffee table.

Expected.

“Here’s your water, your majesty.” Vernon handed you a glass.

You nodded, smiled, sounding flustered. “Thanks...”

“Well,” he encouraged, sticking out his arms. “Thoughts?”

“It’s…” you couldn’t stop tracing your eyes over every inch of floor, wall, and space that you could find. “It’s nice. I didn’t expect much.” Taking a sip of water, you pointed to the fish tank. “Where are all the fish?”

“That’s not mine.”

“Oh.”

As Vernon walked toward the futon, he stepped on the skateboard and gave it a good shove, sending it underneath his bed. “There’s some shit in here that doesn’t technically belong to me, but it’s basically mine now.”

You smiled, holding the glass close to your chest. “Stolen?”

Vernon shook his head, taking a seat on the coffee table. “Nope.”

He didn’t say anything else about the matter, so you assumed that was all you needed to know. You smirked at the books. “Those definitely aren’t yours…” then, you glanced toward his bed. “Bikini girl probably is.”

“Probably?” Vernon raised his eyebrows.

“I meant definitely,” you corrected yourself, smiling.

“That was a gift. It would be a shame not to hang it.” When he spotted you still hovering by the entrance, a socked foot tapping against the floor as you absorbed all the detail, Vernon gestured you over.

“I’m just looking,” you retaliated, sitting down on the black futon, though stopped yourself as you began to lean. “Woah. Why does this go back so far? I feel like it's gonna swallow me.”

Vernon grinned. “It’s for optimum relaxation.”

You sat on the very edge. Taking another sip from the glass of water, you felt Vernon’s eyes sticking to you in a way that was quite distracting. Upon swallowing, you blinked at him. “What?”

Elbows rested on his knees, he smirked, and every ounce of composure you had collected was dust. “Why are you so awkward?”

“Awkward?!” You balked at him. “Why would you say that?!”

Vernon laughed, casting his hands backward through his soft, shiny hair, the strands loosely falling right into place like airy silk. “Like—I dunno—why are you so closed-up? Your arms are practically bolted into your fuckin’ sides. The way you’re sittin’ right on the fuckin’ edge of the sofa.” He cracked his knuckles. “You look everywhere but my eyes.”

You clung to the glass like it was a life preserver holding you above thunderous water. “I’m not allowed to check things out? It’s my first time here! What the heck am I supposed to—”

Vernon removed the water from your firm, knotted grasp, setting it beside him on the coffee table. Then, your anxious shoulders were being squeezed in his warm hands as he pushed you to slide back on the suede futon. Your mouth opened with a harsh, reactionary criticism, but it fell apart on your tongue the second Vernon grabbed your stiff legs and pulled them out straight, your ankles now crossed and sitting comfortably atop his lap.

He leaned back on the coffee table, raised an eyebrow. “Better?”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “That was the most—”

“Relax your hands. You'll get fuckin' arthritis.”

Uncontrollably, you groaned, but listened to him. “Why can’t I just sit here awkwardly? What was the issue with it?” You quipped, instinctually moving your legs such that they could curl back underneath you.

But Vernon grabbed your bare ankles in his calloused hands, beginning to tsk his teeth at you. “No issue. Just thought it’d be beneficial to know it’s unnecessary to have a stick shoved up your ass twenty-four-seven.”

Your arms crossed and your eyes rolled. “Don’t talk about—"

“Don’t talk about your ass?” Vernon interrupted, chuckling.

It was much easier to look at the water stains browning the ceiling rather than him, pretending to seem furious and disgruntled as you usually did in response to his antics. But you weren’t furious. You were panicking that he could see through your nerves so easily, that he could read the awkwardness from your body language like a book, and how entertaining it must be to him, observing you fluster and fidget whenever he so much as brushed his skin to yours since it gave you the same sensation as a static shock. Was it wrong to admit that you wanted him to touch you more? Until you couldn’t breathe because he was all that your senses could distinguish?

You thought about Lee.

Why couldn’t you ever think about your own boyfriend like that?

“Okay—fine—be awkward all you want, PJ’s,” Vernon relented, moving your ankles off his lap. “Wanted to see if I could help, is all.”

Your stomach sank.

Vernon dipped into the spot beside you. “Let’s talk business.”

“Okay…” you sighed, curling your legs underneath you, attempting to put on a focused front despite your mind whirring like a motor.

He looked at you. “Honestly, why do you wanna help me?”

Your muscles seized. “Uh… what do you mean?”

“Well, what the fuck do you think I mean? You couldn’t stand me bein’ around. You’re always so worried about everything. You couldn’t stress enough that I was ruinin’ your life.” He laughed, shrugging. “So, obviously I’m curious. Why the help?”

Pushing at the cuticle to your thumb, your reasoning performed the most sickening belly-flop, and you had to struggle for an answer that you yourself didn’t know how to explain.

You smiled meekly. “Why not?”

Vernon scoffed.

You began to raise your voice. “Why does it matter?”

“Why can’t you just tell me?” He countered.

“Because… I… I changed my mind…”

“Yeah? About what?”

“It’s not important.”

“Ah,” Vernon groaned, pushing himself off the futon and wandering in a circle around the coffee table. “Were you born with a gene that just makes you naturally frustratin' and vague?” he taunted, hands settled on his waist “Like, you're startin' to piss me off, Pyjamas.”

“Dido,” you nipped back. “Can we move on? Please?”

He continued to stand for a few more seconds, seeming baffled at your stubbornness and polarizing secrecy (which might have really just been the depths of your insecurity refusing you to confront your true feelings to someone so uncouth). Eventually, however, Vernon capitulated, and he was back to sitting on the coffee table after shifting his bongs aside. You were all wrapped up again, arms bracketed tightly around your knees.

“Okay,” he sighed. “But so you know, the reason I’m bein’ this nosey is 'cause things are a little different this time. You’re actually gettin’ dragged into some real beef—not just pansy shit—so there’s that.”

You glowered at him. “Like… I could get… hurt?”

Vernon shook his head, crossing his inked arms. “I would never let anything happen to you, PJ’s. Alright?” You hated how much your chest soared upon hearing that, even if it was something he would have said to anyone else. “But, y’know, there’s definitely a need to be cautious.”

“Sure.”

“Okay—without gettin’ into all the bits and bobs—this fuckin’ sneaky asshole basically wiped a bunch of product that I was supposed to move. It was never his. He was never supposed to get it. But as I said, he’s a sneaky asshole and he sold it all. That puts me out about ten-thousand dollars,” Vernon spat with annoyance, shaking his head.

“Ten-thousand dollars?” you gawked at him. “For real?”

“Yes, for real,” he insisted, his voice thick with grit. “That’s why I need t’know if you’re actually serious. Honestly, I could use the help.”

The circumstances were definitely different as compared to getting back four-hundred dollars from harmless Diana. The lower parts of your stomach ferociously twisted, and you started massaging your abdomen. This wasn’t something you should be doing.

This was dangerous.

“Well… what do you know? What’s his name?” You asked.

Vernon took out his phone, scrolling down. “Minghao—I have his number in my contacts but it’s dead now—he’s some lanky Chinese hipster runnin’ around with his spray paint. Damn Nosferatu.” The boy laughed, licking along his glittering teeth. “He hates me ‘cause I may have smashed his girlfriend. But, y’know, tough. She told me the combo for his safe after they got in a big fight one night. I don't know if they're together anymore. Doesn't really matter. She doesn't concern me.” He shrugged. “The combo’s the most useful, anyway.”

“Hmm…” you hummed, fingers tapping against the futon. “You say he spray paints? What does he… spray paint… exactly?”

“Uh,” Vernon rubbed his chin. “Squids or some shit.”

“Wait—you mean octopus? Octopi?”

“Sure. It’s somethin’ like that. It used to be this thing, like, people could know where to meet him for a deal if they saw his graffiti. Kinda like when people throw shoes over an electric line. But I don’t think he does that anymore. It’s just to tag shit… yeah… it’s probably an octopus. They're freaky lookin' too.”

Your expression popped to life with a connection. “Comment Cents used to get tagged with an octopus. It was dark greenish, kinda blue, with huge yellow eyes. Soonyoung and I had to clean them a few times. Get the paint off.” Never would you have thought something as innocuous as a spray-painted octopus might have such an intense backstory. “Also… does, uh, Minghao, have bright red hair?”

“Dunno… it’s been a minute since I’ve seen him… but—the spray paint—you’ve seen his creepy little octopus drawings? Seriously?”

You nodded, pressing your fingers hard into your knees. “We haven’t gotten graffitied in a while, though. I think it’s because we got so good at taking them down. I think it gave me accidental biceps.”

Vernon grinned, becoming increasingly excited. “If he was tagging your building that means he’s still in the city. His girlfriend’s flying back to China… she’s out of the question for any more information…” he hummed, slimming his golden eyes in thought. “But if we could find someone he dealt to recently… maybe that would work.”

“I think I talked to him,” you said. “These two guys came into the store back in January. They spoke in Mandarin to each other. One had bright red hair. He was tall, a bit thin. He bought a lighter and some drinks. His style was kinda gothic, I guess.”

“Actually?” Vernon deadpanned. “He say anything to you?”

You leaned back against the deep-set futon. “He asked me if I knew somebody… or, two people, maybe… I think one of the names was…” you sat up, wracking your memory’s fine lines. “Paulo? I said no. Then he brought up the name Hansol, and I also said no.” Cocking your head at the boy, you examined the faint furrow of his eyebrow, his forehead wrinkling ever so slightly before he wiped a hand down his face, removing the expression.

“That was definitely Minghao.”

“Who are those people?” You asked him after a dilated pause.

Vernon sighed. “You’re lookin’ at one of ‘em.”

“Paulo?”

“No!” He exclaimed, beginning to laugh hysterically at your immediate assumption. “Do I look like a fuckin’ Paulo to you?

“I don’t know!” You cried. “Maybe?”

“Hansol, alright? He corrected you, frivolously rolling his eyes. “It’s my first name. Vernon’s just a middle name. Hansol Vernon Chwe.”

“Wow. I would have never guessed.”

He huffed as though you were being sarcastic. “Yeah. Does it completely change your perception of me now? I’m a stranger?”

You nodded, smiling at him. “Definitely.”

“How would Minghao know you…” he murmured to himself.

You shrugged, perhaps not as concerned as you should be. “If you’re… Hansol… then who’s the other guy? Is he your friend?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Vernon dismissed. “How do you think he knows you? Enough to understand that we've been hangin' out. I can’t imagine he stalks me… although I would be flattered.”

“He must have a connection with someone we’ve seen.”

“Y’know what? It has to be Darian… that dude’s a druggie if I’ve ever seen one. He probably let something slip to Minghao when we showed up at his doorstep. Now Van Gogh’s scopin’ out the sitch.”

You pushed against the futon to sit up properly, folding your legs at an awkward angle. “Darian told us to never bother him again.”

“Who gives a freaky fuck?”

Biting your lip, you nodded. That was an obvious answer.

Vernon got up. He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a can of something carbonated, indicated by the fresh fizzling sound it made when he broke open the tab. You watched him sit on the edge of his unmade bed, sipping at the drink, before he cast you a smooth grin.

“You’re the key.”

Your shoulders hunched. “The key to what?”

He swirled around his hand in the air. “All this bullshit. You were friends with Diana, you’ve ran into Minghao. You’re the key, PJ’s.”

“I’m the key to your web of criminality? How enriching.”

“Whatever—we know what we need to do—revisit our movie theatre friend,” Vernon implied upon taking another drink. However, his phone started buzzing on the coffee table before you could discuss the task any further, and he was quick to pick it up and excuse himself into what you assumed to be the washroom. “It’ll only take me a few minutes,” he said.

Left alone in Vernon’s apartment, you edged off the futon and approached his messy bed. It seemed like he hadn’t actually slept there in quite a while, thus you wondered if it was more efficient for him to crash at his friends’ places in the city, where he could be closer to his clients. You straightened out his patterned bedsheets a little, though you immediately despised yourself for doing so—like he needed you to take care of him.

His night stand was small. There was a green analog alarm clock set to the wrong time, alongside some thin, square sheets of rolling papers. You noticed a picture frame propped up behind the clock, and after quickly checking over your shoulder to ensure Vernon was still occupied in the washroom, you grabbed the photo. Using the hem of your t-shirt to remove the dust from the glass, you realized it was Vernon in the picture, though a much younger version, with long, rummaged black curls and uneven teeth clamped by metal braces. His smile was big and gummy, his arm curled around a baby girl nestled into pink cloth dappled by glitter-thread stars.

You thought it could be a sister.

The assumption stung, and you didn’t know why.

Hearing the washroom door click, you hurried to place the picture frame back in its original spot, praying that Vernon wouldn’t notice you had cleaned off the dust. It seemed doubtful. Nonetheless, you hopped onto the sheets, folded your legs, and pretended to be staring at his posters.

“Sneakin’ through my shit?” he queried.

You ignored his question. “When’s the last time you were here?”

“About a week ago,” the boy answered, flopping onto the mattress and taking up space beside you, prompting you to move closer to the wall.

“Do you… like… keep your merchandise here?”

Tucking an arm behind his head and sipping at his drink, Vernon nodded in overdramatic fashion. “Oh, of course I do. There are bricks of coke under the washroom sink, and downers in the ceilings.”

You glared down at him. “I was just asking.”

“I think you don’t use your head when you ask questions.”

“Like I know anything about your seedy little drug life,” you mumbled, absentmindedly picking at some threads along your jeans while glancing at the posters taped to the beige wall. Bikini girl was staring straight over your head, her hands propped to her hips, smiling like she knew exactly how attractive and blemish-free she was. “Can I ask you something?”

Vernon’s voice sounded from behind you. “Ask me what?”

“Am I actually awkward?”

You heard him guffaw. “Well, yeah. A little. But who cares?”

Twisting your torso around, you stared at the boy as he relaxed against his pillows, captured in a sea of pale, winter sunlight shining through the apartment windows.

You sighed. “And do you really think I’m frustrating?”

“Does the fuckin' sun rise in the sky?”

“Oh.”

“Okay, look, more than half the time I’m just teasin’ you, you know that, right?” He affirmed, proceeding to sit up against his pillows, his hand landing on your shoulder. “Don’t take it so fuckin’ serious.”

You smiled to yourself as he shook you.

“We’re all a little awkward. Not everyone makes it obvious.”

In an instant, you had whipped around, mouth agape. But then Vernon was firmly gripping your arms, slamming you back onto his bedsheets, where he dropped one of his pillows onto your face.

“It wasn’t about you!” He laughed as you held the pillow down over your flustered expression. “It was a general thing. Project much?”

You sensed the mattress dip as Vernon adjusted himself next to you, feeling the heat from his body radiate. But you kept his malleable pillow cushioned against your face, since it was much easier to stare into complete darkness than risk just one single look at him, packed so closely beside you.

Of course, it didn’t help that his pillow smelled exactly like his skin.

Or maybe it did. You weren’t sure.

Soonyoung tossed his head back, groaning, and closed the gigantic book of crossword puzzles that he was working on. It randomly appeared in the office one afternoon, and since then, you and Soonyoung had taken turns solving the puzzles when operations were particularly slow.

He rubbed along the bridge of his nose. “Okay, we’ve just been going in circles for the past thirty minutes. You obviously feel shitty about lying to your roommate and to Lee. There. That’s it. That’s the answer.”

“Yes, but—”

“No, no!” Soonyoung whined, rubbing down his face. “I can’t hear another but! It’s starting to not even sound like a word anymore!” He reached for his coffee that he’d been clinging to all morning, easing his frustration with a brief sip. “Just tell them you’re hanging with Vernon.”

It wasn’t the answer you wanted to hear.

And it hadn’t been the answer you wanted to hear for the past half-hour, hence your insistent monologuing gilded by the hope you might find a miraculous alternative to: the truth. Soonyoung was frequently bogged in your complaining, but that was only because he felt like a neutral party. None of his friends were your friends, you only crossed paths at work, and your lifestyles were completely different in every sense. Sometimes his perspective was appreciated. Other times… you weren’t sure. Maybe you just wanted to blabber about your issues without hearing a solution.

You crossed your arms. “But it’s not just hanging—”

“It’s not just hanging out; you’re helping him get back the money he’s owed. Trust me, I have the story down pat,” he exasperated.

Remaining silent, you stared at the lottery tickets.

Soonyoung tapped his pencil against the puzzle book. “You know what you’re doing? Making mountains out of molehills. You’re looking at one problem and giving it the weight of one-hundred problems. That’s not good for your mojo. Or your skin. Do you need a facemask?”

“No,” you nipped, “I don’t need a facemask!”

“Well, if you ever want one, just let me know. I get about three every time I order off this skincare website. I only use one a week.”

You touched at your cheek in thought. It felt drier and less bouncy than usual. The pores of your nose were rough under your fingertip. Either it was the weather, or the stress was physically sucking the life out from your collagen—likely a combination of both. Soonyoung excused himself to the washroom. Alone with the puzzle book, you opened it back up and decided to resume the crossword that Soonyoung abandoned, ticking the pencil through the prompts he’d already completed, letting your mind wander.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“You do, huh? Does it have anything to do with those middle schoolers you were talkin’ to earlier?”

“It could. It could also not.”

“Well… feel like sharin’ with the class?”

Shaking your head, you smiled at Vernon. “Nope.”

“Oh, c’mon! That’s dumb!”

“No, it isn’t. You’re gonna sit pretty in the car. Darian will likely tolerate me much more than he would tolerate you—no offense—so, just keep the heat running.” Tossing the end of your woolly scarf over your shoulder, you grabbed onto the door handle. “If I’m not back in half-hour, then text me before you come barging in and trudging things up. I actually prepared for this.”

Vernon scowled at you. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

With a pursed lip, you glanced upward. “Uh—that you lack delicacy, I guess? You don’t always think things through?” You shoved the car door open, the wind unapologetically whipping snow currents through the parking lot like billowing boat sails. “Anyway, just stay here! And pay attention to your phone!”

“Yes, Captain,” Vernon muttered, slouching back in his seat.

After bumping the car door shut with your hip, your hands nestled straight into the pockets of your long puffer coat. Nose buried into the thick scarlet scarf wrapped around your chin, you stalked toward the movie theatre and its fluorescent, blinking signage that pierced through the wispy grey shades of a bitter and frigid evening. Once you were inside, you took a moment to adjust the scarf such that it partly masked your lips as well as pulling at your knitted hat to help obscure your features.

You nervously eyed the clerk scanning ticket codes off people’s phones, though attempted to relax your quickened breathing by rehearsing the practiced script in your head, lips moving subtly, softly. Obviously, you were a very poor liar.

Vernon told you it was a skill, something you could learn, much like artistry with coloured pencils, or cooking increasingly complex dishes. He told you that lying wasn’t always bad—sometimes lies were necessary—as long as they didn’t hurt people. He told you that moderation was important.

Don’t get too obsessed.

Don’t weave something you couldn’t keep up with.

You were simply a novice in a masterclass.

“Hi! How’s your evening going?” The clerk asked in his uppity voice, smiling at you widely as you approached him.

“Going well,” you answered. “I’m actually new. Supposed to start tonight at four. Uh, is Darian here? He said I could get a uniform.”

“Oh, okay.” The clerk seemed surprised, beginning to glance around the theatre, down the long hallways. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

You gulped; breath muffled against the scarf. “Taryn.”

“And you’re supposed to start at four?”

“That’s right.”

He nodded, adjusting his embroidered cap. “Okay. I think Darian is helping clean up one of the messes in theatre eight. A bunch of kids spilt, like, soda and crap. Are you okay with waiting ‘til he gets back?”

Your mouth quivered with unbridled nerves.

When you gave those middle school boys five dollars each and a half-eaten package of bubble gum, you hadn’t actually expected them to follow through on the bribe. But they were middle school boys after all—they probably would have made the mess regardless of your influence.

The truth behind the truth was that you had actually tried reasoning with Darian alone, after you bumped into him at the pharmacy—you were picking up one of Ruby’s prescriptions—and Darian was right in front of you. Perhaps it was fairly poor judgement to strike up a conversation with the guy whose porch you were standing on nearly two months ago, interrogating him about drug money, after stalking him back to his house, although you were so impressed with the universe’s odds at that moment, you didn’t waste a second pondering the logistics. Predictably, he wasn’t very tolerant or willing to engross you, giving you his back after a few minutes.

You also contemplated reaching out to Diana for information, but it didn’t seem… appropriate… to pester her about her boyfriend when she had made it clear she was working through some deeply personal issues. Now, things had to be done the quote, ‘hard way.’

Vernon had no inkling of your previous misstep and he didn’t need to for dignity’s sake. Consequently, you considered it a necessary lie.

The theatre was uncomfortably warm, especially if you were dressed in a heavyset coat, a winter hat, and a long, draping scarf smothering your face. You were beginning to overheat the longer you stood under the spotlight, though you continued engaging the clerk. “It is okay if I wait in the office? Or is there anyone who could get me set up with a uniform?”

“Well…” the clerk looked backward at the concession counters, where everyone was purchasing popcorn and snacks. “I’ll grab my supervisor, how’s that? She can get you a uniform in the office.”

“Sure.”

You idled for a minute or two, observing some film posters.

The clerk returned with a young, rounder woman, wearing a keyring through the loop on her black cargo pants. She smiled at you, even shaking your hand in a firm grasp. “You say you’re a new hire?”

“Yes. Taryn.”

“And you’re sure you’re at the right location?”

“I’m sure. I interviewed with Darian. I don’t think I’m on the schedule yet because it’s just training stuff. Darian said he’ll sort it out.”

She glanced at the clerk, shrugging, and your stomach writhed with cramps of anxiousness. Thankfully, however, she bit the line. “I didn’t get the memo. But, uh, okay. Come with me to the office.” She gestured you to follow her. “I’m Priscilla, by the way. You said your name is Taryn?”

 “Correct.”

She took you to a metallic green door behind the concession counter, sticking one of her numerous keys into the lock and grunting as she pushed with her shoulder. “It’s heavy,” Priscilla warned, holding the door open for you to enter the office. “I’ll grab a uniform.”

While she busied herself with opening some drawers across the room, you immediately began scoping the space for anything notable.

“Here you go. These look about your size?”

“Oh, perfect,” you complied, smiling. “Thank you!”

“I’ll grab Darian. I don’t think he knows you’re here.”

“Sure. No rush.”

Priscilla heaved against the door and disappeared.

The instant she was gone, you left the crisp uniform clothes atop a random cabinet and rushed toward the desk, lifting up files, sifting between papers pinned to the bulletin board, checking various sticky notes spread out along the walls. But none of it was what you actually needed—until you grasped onto the rolling desk chair and felt waterproof fabric under your touch.

Darian’s jacket.

Your hand stuffed quickly into one pocket, and you pulled out some boxed cigarettes. Then, you tried the other, and to your success, you had retrieved what you desperately hoped was his personal phone. The lock screen was a blurry photo of Diana that seemed candid, taken when she wasn’t paying attention. There was no passcode, which seemed quite odd for someone who was supposedly contacting a drug dealer, but you didn’t allow yourself to panic even more than you already were. With your thumbs trembling, you began pressing Minghao’s name into Darian’s list of contacts, but there was a rolling sound just outside the door that petrified you into dropping the phone between the desk and filing cabinet.

“Shit!” You whisper-shouted, only to slap a hand against the scarf’s soft material a second later, freezing in place. “Sorry!” The apology wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, though you couldn’t help but imagine your mother gouging at you for the incongruous slip of language.

That’s what you got for hanging out with Mr. Potty Mouth.

After brushing the phone out from the slim space, you were shaking like a frail leaf remaining on a naked tree branch in post-autumn. Minghao’s name was again typed into the search system, only for the list of results to shorten each time until there was nothing but gaping white space. You heard muffled conversation outside the door. Though the entirety of your chest felt electric with anxiety and your mind was paralyzed, you managed to open his text messages and research the name. Still, there was nothing.

Minghao didn’t seem to exist at all in Darian’s phone.

Before you could get sucked into even more disaster, you left the phone back in his coat pocket, then pressed your ear to the metallic door and listened for anyone conversing close by. It was silent. Refusing to squander the perfect opportunity to escape, you shoved all your weight against the door until it breathed. Darting across the theatre like a passing shadow, you were back outside in the cold. The lashing wind had never felt so refreshing.

The second you were inside Vernon’s car, you tore off the scarlet scarf, yanked the winter hat onto the floor, and unzipped the puffer jacket, shrugging out from its humid confines until your skin felt free.

He turned down his radio.

There was a plethora of organized playing cards spread out across his dashboard. At least he could keep himself company.

“What the fuck were you up to?” Vernon engaged, letting his eyes peruse your flustered appearance. “Why are you all sweaty?”

“I don’t think Darian knows Minghao,” you exhaled while uncapping your water bottle, wetting your throat with a massive sip.

“Uh, okay? And you came to this conclusion through…?”

You wiped off your mouth and stared at Vernon. “Pretending I was new employee, getting let into their office, and checking Darian’s phone.”

“No… you’re not serious…” he responded, beginning to squint at you, his dark brow furrowing intently. “There’s no way your goody two-shoes ass did all that. What did you actually do?” Vernon laughed, collecting his playing cards back into a pile. “Get locked in the popcorn machine?”

“I swear—that’s what I did—and it’s why I’m so sweaty! I had to layer up so I wouldn’t be easily distinguishable on the cameras. I didn’t even use my real name. Darian left his jacket in the office and his phone was in the pocket. Diana’s picture was the lock screen!” You reached for the seatbelt, pulling it across your chest and buckling it. “By the way, we can never go back there, for real. They’ll put my picture up on the wall! And I strongly recommend that we leave now before it gets any worse!”

“My, my, PJ’s,” Vernon chuckled, rolling his tongue against his cheek, grinning and seeming impressed. “Fuckin’ colour me surprised or whatever the fuck the sayin’ is. That’s some real daredevil shit.”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Y’know, I can’t even be mad you didn’t find anything.”

Rolling down the window, you shoved your head outside, eyes fluttering shut as the chilly wind whispered along the sparse parking lot and feathered against your fiery, glistening skin. After taking in a deep breath, your phone pulsed, and you pulled yourself back inside the car.

You sighed, “Ruby says they finally restocked her favourite flavour of ice cream—the Red Velvet Brownie—she’s asking me to grab it.”

“Where does she think you are again?”

“Helping Tara practice her interview. I said I’d be home around five o’clock… any chance we could swing by the grocery store?”

Vernon shrugged. “Your wish is my command, fellow felon.”

“Don’t start.”

On your quest to the frozen dairy section of the grocery store, Vernon managed to get distracted every five steps. You were never one to get swayed by purposefully placed marketing displays, though Vernon was the exact opposite: “I had no idea there were cinnamon bun flavoured Oreos now!” and “these ice cube moulds are in the shape of stars—that’s kinda cute—and these ones are paw prints!” followed by “this mop has a compartment for… oh… okay… so you put the cleanin’ fluid in that part and it sprays it when you squeeze the handle… that’s kinda fancy and shit.”

You thought you might have to attach a leash to him and physically drag him to the dairy like an owner walking an overly-curious puppy.

It seemed more efficient to let him wander. While Vernon felt very motivated to smell the plethora of wax cubes in the sanitation aisle, you had finally made your way to the dairy section. Ruby sent you a photo of the ice cream for reference. Red Velvet Brownie had been her absolute favourite flavour ever since you’d known her. She told you that the tubs had coupon games. Once you ate to the bottom, you might be able to win free ice cream.

As you wandered past the refrigeration units, you eventually came to a pause outside one in particular, where a young boy was standing on his tiptoes, stretching out his short arms to a shelf just shy of his reach.

“What are you trying to grab?” You asked him.

He stared at you for a moment, probably attempting to compute if you looked normal enough to trust in the absence of his parents. However, after a frustrated sniffle, he pointed to the shelf: “I want the ice cream.”

You opened the clear door and grabbed the frosty container from inside. It was the only one left on the entire shelf. “This?”

He nodded immediately. “Yes!”

While turning the container to read the label, your stomach dropped. It was Ruby’s most cherished Red Velvet Brownie that she had been struggling to find for months, and here you were, handing it off to a little boy because you just didn’t have the heart to take it away. You knew it was obviously the correct thing to do. Besides, who in their right, morally-conscience mind would take ice cream away from an innocent child?

“Woah, woah, woah—what the fuck is this?” Vernon was suddenly behind you, to which you assumed he was finally satisfied with smelling every single wax cube there was to offer. “PJ’s—what are the fuck?”

You glared at him. “What do you mean? I’m giving him the—”

“No, no, no.” Vernon shook his head insistently. He then kneeled down in front of the little boy, whose big eyes hadn’t swayed from Vernon since he rudely introduced himself. “Okay, listen. You don’t want this flavour, alright? Red Velvet Brownie—it tastes like pavement—you’d be better off with—” Vernon opened the freezer and pulled out a different flavour at random, the container decorated with an animated monkey swinging on a vine. “Monkey Go Bananas. It’s chocolate peanut butter.”

The little boy blinked helplessly, staring over his shoulder before looking back at Vernon. “My mom eats Red Velvet Brownie all the time…”

“Did she smoke her tastebuds off?”

“Vernon,” you growled, digging at his shoulder. “Just give the kid the ice cream. We can look somewhere else. It’s not a big deal.”

He suddenly popped back to his feet. “How dare you, you foul woman!” Vernon ripped the Red Velvet Brownie from your hands. “How dare you try to poison the youth with this toxic garbage!” He then turned back to the little boy, crouching down again, sticking out the container of chocolate peanut butter. “Don’t let them lie to you, alright? Monkey Go Bananas. That’s the good stuff. It’s like… when you’re lyin’ down in a pasture at night, and there’s nothin’ around you but soft, long grass and moonlight. And you’re off acid. And it feels like you’re floatin’ up into the clouds, like the wind is carryin’ you, movin’ you with its gentle, breezy hands. It’s—actually—let me put this in terms you’ll understand. Red Velvet Brownie is the Spaghetti Monster and Monkey Go Bananas is your iPad. Does that make any sense?”

You thought you were going to fizzle up and melt into the floor.

The little boy gulped, taking the container of Monkey Go Bananas wordlessly and scurrying away down the aisle. Seeming pointedly satisfied with his eccentric performance, Vernon stood up, handing you back the ice cream. You made sure to give his shoulder a tough, scolding shove.

“No need to thank me,” he sighed aloud. “But you should.”

“Red Velvet Brownie is the Spaghetti Monster and Monkey Go Bananas is your iPad? Are you serious?” Your words burst into laughter that you failed to swallow. “And then you start talking about an acid trip?!”

“Whatever,” Vernon dismissed, hands stuffed in his coat pockets as he shook his head. “Ruby gets her ice cream.”

“You need to be locked up.”

“And you need to let loose,” Vernon proclaimed, walking backward until he reached a pole with a phone system attached to it. He took the phone off the receiver, beginning to poke his finger against the buttons, and you heard a static hitch in the speakers above. “Attention shoppers, we would like to notify you that a lifeless wet blanket has been located in the frozen dairy section. Please proceed with caution or else you might find that the blanket will attempt to slowly drain your zest for life until—”

Shoving the ice cream back into the refrigerator, you barged up to him and attempted to wrestle the phone out of his hands, though he twisted away from you, giving you his hard back.

“Shoppers! The wet blanket is on the attack!” Vernon grunted into the phone, his raspy, strained voice echoing throughout the entirety of the store while you curled your arms over his shoulders from behind, practically pressing all your weight against his spine. “I-I repeat, the wet blanket is—”

You managed to tear the phone away. Sliding off his body, you slammed the device back onto the receiver and seethed at him, every fibre of your being thrumming with hot, heavy adrenaline. “What the heck is your problem?! Why can’t you just be a regular person for five minutes?!”

He tweaked his eyebrow. “And is that rhetorical, or?”

“How do you even know the freakin’ code?”

“Friend a’ mine used to work here.” Vernon proceeded to the phone, picking it back up. “It’s easy. Star sign, seven-one-tw—”

You jerked the phone away from him. “Enough.”

“Ouuu,” Vernon sang in mockery, pursing his lips. “I’m truly afraid right now.” He started snickering, taking step after step closer into your space as you clutched the phone. “Why don’t you make an announcement yourself. Say whatever you want. Say I’m a security threat, that I sell drugs, I swindled some kid out of his ice cream. The world’s all moisture.”

“What?” Rolling your eyes, you huffed, “you mean—the world’s your oyster.”

“Oh—how does that make any sense?”

“How does moisture make any sense?”

Vernon readied his finger on the last button he needed to press, his eyes alive with a thousand complex shades of shimmering copper, like a stunning mosaic, his smirk pretty and pink. “Well?” He taunted.

You gulped, feeling the immense weight in your throat. Heartbeats reverberated throughout your chest. It was a dare that fit the ranks of high schoolers messing around with their validation-seeking friends, but to you, it seemed so much worse. Tightening the phone in your hand, you were about to nod and succumb, do something silly and stupid because that hadn’t ever been you and you had never wanted it to be until this very moment.

“Hey! You two! Are you messing around with the phones?”

Dropping the device from your hand, it started bobbing up and down, suspended on its coil, as a man stood at the end of the aisle squinting harshly at you. Judging from his uniform, you suspected he was a manager of some sort. You were ready to fall to your knees and start apologizing for every poor choice you had ever made, although Vernon wasn’t nearly as willing. He grabbed the ice cream from the fridge, clutched onto your wrist, and began tugging you away from the manager who was swiftly making his way in your direction. Vernon dragged you up the store toward the doors, pulling you around shopping carts and in between startled strangers.

“We didn’t pay!” You cried out to him.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a ten-dollar bill that he slammed against the sensor of the automatic door with an impressive leap.

 You laughed, “how did that stick?”

“Dunno—I think it had gum on it,” he answered with a shrug, only to slide his fingers through yours, continuing to haul you outside the store and into the zapping cold of dark winter.

Attributed to Vernon’s questionable challenging of the speed limit, you managed to return home at the time you promised Ruby. He didn’t park in the lot like usual, rather he dropped you off along the curb, waving you goodbye before he sped into the foggy, onyx evening like a comet passing through the Earth’s atmosphere. You smiled, and the smile remained faceted to your expression as you entered the apartment with a cautious twist of your key. Suspecting Ruby was in her bedroom, you spent a moment taking off your winter dressings before you knocked on her door, ice cream in hand.

She called out to you, and you slipped inside.

“Here’s your precious treat,” you enticed, waving the tub around alongside a spoon you grabbed from the kitchen because you already knew she was going to waste no time. “The very last one in stock.”

“Get out!” Ruby gasped, beginning to pop the lid off delicately with her long, freshly done nails. “This flavour is crazy popular. Thank you.”

You sat on her bed, watching as she carved the spoon through the surface to scoop up a perfect dollop of ice cream. “No worries.”

“How did it go?” Ruby mumbled.

Pulling your legs into a criss-cross, your head tilted. “How did what go?” Until you remembered that you were supposed to be helping Tara with her mock interview for the assistant position under Catherine Love. “Oh—it went well. Tara’s really well-spoken. And she thinks quick on her feet.” You detested lying straight to your roommate’s face. The words felt so clunky and awkward coming out from your mouth, like you were attempting to speak with a swollen, engorged tongue. “Enjoying your time at home?”

Ruby nodded. “I watched a lot of TV.” She scooped out more ice cream very meticulously. “These bites are the best! Look at the red velvet!”

“I love the chunks.”

“So—” she swallowed around the spoon, “—you were helping Tara practice for her interview… but Vernon’s car dropped you off?”

“Uh…” you didn’t know what to say. This was exactly why you hated lying! The lie itself was terrible in principle, but getting caught directly in the lie was borderline torturous. Your body flushed with heat. Clothes stuck to the slick of your skin. Ruby licked off her spoon, eyes unwavering. “Okay, okay, okay. Yes. I got a ride home with Vernon. You little stalker.”

She shrugged. “I mean, I already knew you were lying. You’re pretty bad at it,” Ruby giggled. “But why not tell me you’re hanging out with Vernon again? Like, what’s going on with you two?” She lowered the ice cream to her lap, head tilted quizzically. “I thought you were—”

“It’s… complicated,” you winced, staring down at your crossed ankles, fingers beginning to pull lint from your socks because it was much easier to converse without Ruby’s bright hazel eyes staring through you like a human window. Your chest clenched tight, your heart feeling squeezed.

Ruby tucked some dark brown hairs behind her ear. “It’s complicated?” She echoed. “Wait… oh my god—does that mean you fucking fucked him!” The girl slapped her ice cream onto her night table, beside a salt rock lamp. “Oh my god, please don’t tell me you fucked him!” She shouted while grabbing onto your arm and fiercely shaking it as though you were a candy-filled piñata.

“No!” You yelped. “I did not—I didn’t—no! We didn’t have sex!”

She collapsed back on her haunches. “Then why is it complicated?”

You whined, biting your lip. “It just is.”

“Because you’re still into him?”

“Ruby!”

“It’s okay if you are!” She reassured you, pulling the blankets back over her legs. “Listen, I’m not trying to make you feel any sort of guilt! And I certainly don’t want you feeling like you need to lie. You two are hanging out again… that’s fine… I just don’t want you to get hurt!”

That, you believed.

Ruby had given Vernon quite the verbal browbeating the last time. She knew you were more delicate and sensitive than most, your feelings fragile like a glass flower, easily shattered and incomprehensibly difficult to repair. You knew she wanted to ensure you weren’t walking blindly into another pretense for disaster.

The thing was, Vernon himself was a disaster. He was a gigantic storm sucking up everything into his chaotic winds and there was no possible way for you to be around him and somehow come out unscathed.

Your head buried into your hands. “What if I do still like him?” You lamented, your throat getting congested. “What does that say about me?”

Ruby scooted closer to you. Her arm laid across your shoulders and you smelt the jasmine of her hair. “If you like him, then you like him. It’s not like we can control where our heart goes and what it does, y’know? Making yourself feel bad about it is only going to confuse things…” she leaned her cheek against your head, taking in a deep breath, absorbing your agony.

“Why do I like someone who doesn’t like me back?” You croaked, rubbing underneath your nose. “I just have no experience in what it actually means to like someone. How do I even know that it’s real? That I’m not just latching onto something tangible for the sake of wanting to feel the same things as everybody else? Am I just being… y’know… stupid?”

Ruby laughed. “That’s what a crush is! It makes you do stupid things! Befriending someone like Vernon for instance. He goes against all your principles but you still want to be close to him.”

“Then…” you hiccupped, “having a crush is totally screwed up.”

“It is,” Ruby agreed. She squeezed your far shoulder. “But if you do really like Vernon, then you need to have a conversation with Lee.”

Upon hearing his name, you couldn’t help but sigh. Ruby was unfortunately, poignantly right. It wasn’t just for you to continue being with him when you were completely charmed by another boy. The reason you had even dragged the relationship out this long was because you felt that you weren’t trying enough, that you weren’t working through the rough patches to see the greener grass. You continued hoping that your feelings would one day catch up to step in tune with his, but instead, they lagged farther and farther behind. Lee didn’t deserve to be strung along.

You were going to make it right.

Screw making it right!

You had never felt so incapable in your life. It was one thing to vouch for righteousness, but it was totally different, sitting on Lee’s bed while he dutifully finished reading the chapter to his gigantic law textbook, agonizing over how one even goes about breaking up with someone. You didn’t think it would be a walk in the park, although you imagined it going much better than… this. The second he pulled you into his apartment, made you a hot chocolate, and exclaimed how eager he had been to see you, the words, “this isn’t working out,” morphed into, “I’ve missed you, too.”

The hot chocolate was wrapped in your hands, the mug maintaining its warmth. You had taken two shaky sips from it since you arrived around twenty minutes ago, after assuring Lee that you were completely okay with waiting for him to finish his homework. You had been in his bedroom a few times in the past. It was much different than Vernon’s space. Everything was extremely minimal: grey walls lacking any pictures or posters apart from some small shelving units containing a few academic trophies; an Ikea night stand with nothing but a lamp and a book he liked to read before bed; a barren windowsill; an organized desk with a professional monitor that seemed to attract most of his attention.

Walking into Vernon’s bachelor, you understood almost immediately who he was. But Lee wasn’t as forthcoming. You felt like you were sitting in a vapid model bedroom rather than a space someone actually lived in, the only sense of warmth coming from the mug in your hands.

At last, Lee pushed out his desk chair, rubbed fingers through his black tresses, and sighed, “all done!” He stuck a pencil in the textbook before closing it. “I’m gonna run to the kitchen for a second—need anything?”

You shook your head, smiled. “Nope.”

The moment he slipped out the door, you left the cocoa on the night stand and collapsed back against the bed, silently screaming into your hands, hot, frustrated breath running between the lines of your palms. What was so difficult about this?

Why did it feel so horrifically impossible?

You pulled the phone out from your back pocket, contemplating the idea of sending a “SAVE ME” text to Ruby. She had three official boyfriends. The first was during high school, which she dumped via text message because it was high school, while the second boyfriend appeared amidst university. They mutually split before he moved back to Egypt with his younger sister. The last boyfriend didn’t last particularly long—Ruby pulled the plug during a dinner date—the claim being that he had the personality of  “tap water” and was only interested in pleasing himself during sex.

As you stared at the screen, biting your lip, the door swung open and closed again. Lee crawled his way onto the bed so he could lay beside you, prompting you to quickly hide your phone back in its pocket.

He tilted his head against the pillow, softly smiled at you while his eyes drifted along the edges of your face. “I really appreciate you stopping by to see me,” Lee murmured. “I’ve never read so fast in my life.”

You stared straight ahead, down at your feet. “No problem…”

Silence clung between you. It was the most nauseating, anxiety-inducing silence you had ever braced through, and the intensity of your boyfriend’s wandering eyes plucking you over from top to bottom only shrunk the room in size. He proceeded to prop his head up, an elbow digging into the pillow. You needed to stop prevaricating. Every second that you refused to speak just smeared layer after layer of thickening pressure into the atmosphere, like buttering bread.

Lee’s fingers pressed against your arm. “Everything okay?”

“Uh… yeah… I just feel nervous, y’know?”

He chuckled. “I can hear it in your voice. Nervous about what?”

“I guess, about us.”

“Hm… go on…”

You found refuge in his ceiling, plain like milk.

There was hardly anything else for you to look at apart from him, and that might make you explode. The breath returned to your lungs slowly. As your chest sharply rose up, you felt the boy’s fingers drift from your arm to your waist, and suddenly, your chest refused to fall back down. Your lips fell open, quivering, “I was thinking… that…”

The boy’s head dipped to your neck. You sensed his mouth graze against the skin, the heat of his breath—the kind of sensations that submit your body into a deep haze when it’s a special person you desire, but turn to something gut-dropping otherwise. Lee began to kiss your neck. His fingers traced the hem of your t-shirt. There was nothing but weighted, immovable fear keeping you flush to the mattress as his lips danced to your jaw.

“Thinking what?” He whispered by your ear, the proximity to his voice staunching your blood. “Thinking about…” Lee began plunging his hand from your waist toward the apex of your thighs. “This?”

Your paralysis snapped.

Shooting up in his bed, you shook your head, fingers fleshing through the grey comforter. “No—Lee—I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He pushed himself up. “Can’t what?”

You scooted closer toward the end of the bed, refusing to spare him any glance, afraid that he might seem annoyed, upset, disappointed. “I can’t do this—I have to tell you something.” Burning a panicked gaze into your wriggling toes that you clamped in between your hands, you inhaled, fighting to see it through. “Lee, I really wanted this to work, but I think—”

“Woah, woah. Relax for a sec.” His touch adorned your pinched shoulders. “Lie back down, alright? Let’s talk this out more.” When you didn’t budge, the boy sighed. There was a fleeting skim of his palm traversing down your spine, and then, he was abruptly pressing himself into you, as though he were going to cage you there, hold you down. “No!” You screamed, flinging yourself off the bed.

“What the hell?” Lee gawked. “Okay—I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t going to—I just wanted you to relax so we can talk this out!”

Heart pounding in your chest, you snatched your knapsack off his floor, tears racing to your eyes alongside a grizzly heat. “No! That’s not how you relax someone! You don’t—you don’t grab them and try to—” your words were failing, globing up, like wet paper, and you couldn’t be bothered to waste one more minute inside his apartment. “Don’t follow me!” You shouted while rushing toward the door. Hastily and with little coordination, you dressed back into your coat, feet jamming into your shoes that you didn’t bother bending down to relace. “Just let me be! I want to leave!”

“I’m sorry, okay?” He whined, trailing out from his room.

You shook your head. “I don’t care!”

Everything felt appalling. You wanted to unzip your skin like it was a costume and climb outside of it. Even when you had marched far down the street from Lee’s apartment, leaving the building a tiny spot against the bleak horizon, the distance still felt wholly inadequate. What gave him the impression you were seeking intimacy in that moment? Could he not sense how brittle you had felt? It must have been like caressing straw!

You knew Lee had been getting increasingly frustrated with how often you tended to rescind from physical contact. The most you could ever get comfortable with was a simple few kisses or a cuddle. Nonetheless, you didn’t exactly think that gave him the authority to… push things. He never came across as someone who would corner you. Were there signs that you had missed? Was it because you felt confused in the relationship, rendering you incapable of asserting what you wanted? Were you… blaming yourself?

Upon reaching for your phone, you ignored Lee’s numerous text messages that popped up second after second. Ruby was in the middle of work. You had taken a very ugly bus ride to visit him. There was only one person you could think to call, though the likelihood of him actually being available to answer—if he even cared enough—seemed infinitesimal.

But you were desperate, alone on an unfamiliar street, and struggling to withhold all your tears because the wind just might freeze them against your skin. Pressing down on his contact, you waited.

It took a moment, but the line crackled.

“Uh… PJ’s? What the ff-fuck you callin’ me for?”

You swallowed. “Are you busy? I need to ask a favour.”

He didn’t respond. You removed the phone from your ear, paced a few steps, and then returned it, listening intently. There was a rush of breath through the speaker, a grunt, and a sound you almost didn’t care to describe apart from the fact it was very wet… and suctiony.

Pausing, you grimaced at the phone. “Vernon?”

“Yeah—sorry—what the fuck did you say? You need what?”

Then, your entire face twitched with rage. “Are you getting sucked off?!” You shouted, ignorant to the people brushing around you on the sidewalk, looking back in question, curiosity, disgust. “What the hell?!”

“You’re fuckin’ pissed when I don’t pick up—pissed when I do—what the fuck’s goin’ on?” He sighed. “You get arrested for jay-walkin'?”

As if it could get any worse. The seal broke. Tears flooded your eyes. You were going to rot here, weren’t you? And nobody would care!

Rubbing off your dampened chin, you spat into the phone, “you know what?! Never mind! Go finish getting your dick sucked!” Plopping yourself down onto a cold bench, you continued sobbing. “I’ll find my own way home! Sorry to inconvenience you, asshole!” The line went dead. You didn’t care that you had cursed.

If your mother wanted to descend down from a cloud and reprimand you in that stern, unforgiving manner, tease into your childhood guilt, then that was the least horrible thing that could have happened.

Fortunately, you could have the bench to yourself. No one seemed particularly interested in sharing a seat with the snotty-nosed girl whose face was glistening over with remarkably persistent tears. Arms crossed, legs folded, hugging your stomach, you leaned over, sniffling. Your phone proceeded to vibrate.

Pulling it out, you read Lee’s name.

It felt like a sucker punch. But then his call was replaced by another, and between the two options pulsing in your hand, you chose the latter.

“What?” You snapped at him.

“Okay, PJ’s, I’m sorry. I’m really fuckin’ sorry.” There was rustling in the back, as though he were putting on a coat. “Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

 “I already told you, go finish—”

“I’m leavin’, okay?”

You didn’t answer, chewing your lip instead. He had certainly moved quickly to reconnect with you. As frustrated as you were, your priority was getting off the street corner. Your pulverized feelings couldn’t be contained and they were squeezing out from around your bones.

Vernon inquired again. “Where are you?”

Silence followed from your end. Suddenly, you couldn’t speak.

“PJ’s? C’mon. Please, just fuckin’ tell me. I’ll come get you. I don’t care if you’re halfway across the country, alright?” There was the sound of a door closing, his footsteps heavy along a wood floor. “Don’t do this to me.” You swore there was a slight, emotional crack in his voice. “Where the fuck are you?”

You glanced at the tilted street sign. “Clarence Street… um… r-right outside the…” turning around, you looked at the shop. “It’s a coffee place, Jitter’s. There’s a dental office right across from it, Kirk’s.”

“Okay.” His sigh was strung with relief at your cooperation. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Why don’t you go inside the coffee place? Get something to eat?”

“I don’t wanna be in there. I’m a freakin’ mess right now.”

“Please? Can you try?” Vernon attempted to gently urge you. “See if there’s a nice corner you can sit at by yourself? I just—” he paused, and you heard the sound of a door slamming. “I don’t want you to sit out there on the street when you’re alone. It’ll give me a heart attack. Does that sound necessary??”

You laughed a little. “Are you making this about yourself?”

“Oh, yeah,” he answered, and you could hear from his tone that he was smiling. “Definitely. You know my obsession with the spotlight.”

“Okay…” you looked back at the coffee shop, sniffling. It seemed full, but you knew it was better than the street. “I’ll go sit inside.”

“Thank fuck,” Vernon breathed. “I’ll be there soon, yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Before heading inside, you did the best you could to wipe off your face using a coat sleeve—not that anybody would really care for your wellbeing without feeling forced—and headed into the coffee shop. Despite the lack of attention you were attracting, there was a lingering fear that everyone had heard and witnessed your tantrum outside, and now they were pretending to feign ignorance out of pity. You knew that wasn’t true. But your body treated the delusion like fact. You could hardly stare at the barista behind the counter without suspecting her smile was hiding her disgust.

“What can I get for you?”

Skimming the array of pastries behind the glass, you stopped on one at random. It was powdered in icing sugar and decorated with bright strawberries. Tapping on the display, you mumbled, “can I have that one?”

“Of course,” the barista answered, using tongs to pick out the pastry and neatly slide it within a white paper bag. “Anything else?”

You shook your head. It wasn’t for you, anyway. Ruby could eat it later. But you figured it was best to purchase something before sitting down.

Finding a more secluded table, you waited there for Vernon.

Anytime the front door swung open, your head snapped to see who was coming inside. There was a young man who entered, slightly resembling Lee in his face and stature, and you felt fainter than vapour. Still, you continued waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

It must have been twenty minutes!

You checked your phone—only five.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

You slammed your head on the tabletop and soaked in your pain.

Sometime later, there were vibrations from your phone. You picked up the call instantly, rubbing the centre of your throbbing forehead.

“Yo, PJ’s, I’m out front. Still inside?”

Shooting up from your seat, snatching the bagged pastry off the tabletop, you nodded. “Yes. I’m coming.”

“Alright. Peace.”

There he was—that dingy vanilla Camry—you had never been so thankful in your entire life to throw yourself inside a drug dealer’s car. He turned his reverberating music down, watched you buckle up.

A pause. And then, “uh… you good?”

��No.”

“Figured. Where to, Miss?”

“Back to the apartment.”

You wondered if he was going to ask questions—they would go unanswered; you weren’t exactly in the mood to replay the specifics—but he didn’t say a word until you were stopped at a large intersection. “Uh, you care if I turn up the music a little?”

Huffing out through your nose, you shook your head.

Vernon reached for his stereo, resuming the volume until you could clearly distinguish the unique cadence of an early two-thousand’s beat. It was louder than what you preferred, though it did help silence your mind. The boy began tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, in tune with the rhythm.

“Ever heard this song before?” He asked.

Temple pressed against the window, your chest sunken, you croaked out a resounding, “no.” Traffic started rolling again and you had to remove your head from the glass, instead pooling back into the seat like a big blob.

Vernon continued drumming his finger to the wheel. “I Luv Your Girl,” he said confidently, like that would somehow trigger you to remember a song you had never heard before.

“That’s nice,” you sighed, uncaring.

“It’s kinda a T-Pain vibe, right?”

Another red light to stall at. Vernon removed his hands from the wheel. He began grooving his head, quirking his arms in a silly way. You half-glanced at him, raising an eyebrow as he became more immersed in the beat and his motions turned smoother, almost liquid-like.

“Call it envy, I want her on me,” he sang, a surprising softness layered in his usually throaty voice. “Up all in my head, now she in my bed.”

You smiled, biting at your sore bottom lip.

“Got her on patron, she actin’ real bad, girl chose me, don’t be mad.”

Then you were giggling, the tears in your eyes gradually drying.

“I dunno,” Vernon shrugged, suddenly dropping the R&B popstar performance that you were enjoying. “It’s good. Makes you loose.”

You nodded. “It’s not bad.” After the afternoon had taken a turn for the worse, it felt like such a relief to laugh. There was a lightness breaking in through all the emotional haze in your chest. It made you realize that you didn’t want to be alone, sitting still at the apartment until Ruby returned from work. You wanted company. Shifting awkwardly in the front seat, you stared down at your unlaced shoes, lips parted in nervousness. “Uh… it’s fine if you don’t want to… but you think I could stay with… you?”

When Vernon didn’t answer, you forfeited a brief glance in his direction, your eyes careful not to linger.

Vernon swallowed. “Uh, you wanna stay… at my place?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

“Like—what—for what? For a few hours? For the night?”

You hadn’t actually thought about it. It seemed inconvenient to stay for just a few hours, only to have him escort you back home. If you looked deeper at what you needed, then… you would have to admit that you wanted to stay the night. You wanted his company. You wanted his goofiness and warmth and attendance. You wanted to be in the presence of someone who promised you safety, even if he was mildly (varying to ridiculously) annoying at times. Ruby wouldn’t like the choice. But she wasn’t an obstacle right now. Would Vernon agree? That’s what worried you most. It filled your stomach with the waves of a ferocious, dancing ocean.

“Well… I guess… could I stay the night?”

Vernon bit his lip, letting it slip through his teeth. “Sure.”

You froze. “Really?”

“If that’s what you need.”

“No, no, no, yes. I mean, yeah! No, yeah! I just don’t want to be alone, so… I’m not trying to impose anything, or—”

“Hey, you don’t gotta explain yourself,” Vernon said. “All good.”

—END OF PART THREE.

[aliendes]

I loved the first part, loved the second even more!

on my mind (pt. 2) || l.c (m)

You had come to terms that you'd never see Chan again after your pool interaction; however, life works in funny ways. The next time you see him is at the grocery store, and the next time after that, at your apartment.

💦 Pairing: idol!Chan (Dino) x nonIdol!Reader (f) 💦 Rating/Genres/AUs: M(18+); Smut, fluff; Idol au, strangers to lovers au 💦 Warnings: Pet names (baby, pretty girl), bigDick!Chan, oral (m rec.), gagging, mirror sex, piv, unprotective sex (don't do this plz), fingering, hair pulling, cum eating, semi-rough sex, dirty talk, reader wears chan's clothes 💦 Word Count: 6.4k 💦 Author’s Note: FINALLLLY Y'ALL! I've been working on this on and off since part one, but it's finally here! I didn't plan to make this a three-parter, but it will be. I can't guarantee the next part will come sooner than this one did, but I'll try! TYSM for those who patiently waited for this and those who helped me decide some of the plot 🥰

PART ONE

seventeen masterlist | main masterlist

this blog is 18+. minors do not interact. plz & ty! (ageless/minors/blanks blogs will be blocked)

Having just moved to Seoul means an empty fridge and a desperate need for a grocery run. However, you underestimated just how starved you were.

Your small handheld basket weighs like an elephant, and you’re juggling to keep all your products inside. You really shouldn’t have gone shopping while you were hungry.

As you lean down to grab a bottle of soda, you hear something tumble to the floor.

“Shit,” you mutter, reaching to grab your runaway Spam when a hand grabs it before you can.

You shoot your eyes up to see who the arm belongs to. A handsome man with long, black hair stares at you with a toothy grin.

“Need some help?” he asks, eyes glancing down at your full basket.

You take the Spam from his outstretched hand and shake your head. You notice a small camera on a stick in his other hand and silently wonder what it’s for. Perhaps he’s one of those vloggers you’ve seen online.

“No thanks, I’ve got—" you begin to reply, however, as if calling your bluff, another item jumps overboard.

The man chuckles and grabs it.

“I don’t mind. I’ll get you a cart,” he says while standing up. He carefully places the item back in your basket, then turns to retrieve a cart.

You follow, embarrassed by being caught overloaded. You want to protest but feel it won’t do anything, so you quietly accept the help.

You see the carts a few feet away, but are stopped by a familiar voice before you reach them.

“Oh, hyung! There you are.”

Your brain connects the voice to the face too late.

The air leaves your lungs.

The man whom you met at the pool three months ago stands on the other side of your helper. He doesn’t seem to see you.

Chan wears a hoodie, jeans, and a cap. Though despite his basic attire, he looks just as handsome as you remember.

“Did you get the soju?” Chan questions his friend.

It’s then you notice he’s also holding a selfie stick with a small camera. Does that have anything to do with his job, or is it a hobby among friends?

“Not yet. Let me just get a cart, and then I’ll go get it,” your helper says.

“We already have one, hyung,” Chan replies, brows knitting and lips dipping in confusion.

“Not for us,” the stranger says. He nods in your direction before jogging the rest of the way toward the carts.

Chan turns to understand and instantly freezes when his eyes meet yours. His mouth drops, his eyes widen, and the selfie stick droops in his hand.

With Chan’s attention on you, the world around you loses focus. All you can think about is Chan. Flashbacks of you two in the pool float around your mind. It makes your body warm to remember the intimate moment you shared. You never did see him after that.

The sound of a cart rattling draws your attention back.

“Here you go,” your helper trails off upon seeing the silent exchange between you and Chan. There's a subtle crease between his brows.

“T-Thanks,” you stutter, slowly placing your handheld basket in the cart.

The man nods and nudges Chan.

“No problem,” the man says with a kind smile, then gently pulls Chan away and down one of the aisles. Chan still has a slack expression, following his friend with slow feet.

Once they’re both out of sight, you feel your body lax.

The last person you expected to run into was Chan, your one-pool-stand. At the grocery store, for that matter! It makes you feel better to know he was as shocked as you were. You wonder if he lives nearby to be shopping here. Does that mean you’ll see him again? Although you had an amazing time with him, the idea of having a second chance makes you nervous. What does he expect from you now? Are you supposed to forget about him again or try to reconnect? But reconnect as in another one-time bump-and-grind or try as something more?

He didn’t seem eager to exchange numbers back then, so maybe he isn’t looking for a romantic relationship. While the thought disappoints, you’ve had months to come to terms you’d probably never see him again, so it doesn’t bother you as much now. You still don’t even really know him. He could be the wrong fit for you.

Paranoid you’ll run into him again today, you decide to check out. You have enough to get you started in your new apartment.

As you’re loading your car with your groceries, rapid footsteps sound behind you. Curious, you peer up.

A man with a cap and face mask is jogging in your direction. You can’t see their face clearly, but as they get closer, you recognize their eyes.

“Hey, do you need some help?” Chan asks, stopping a little away to give you space. He doesn’t have the camera anymore.

A part of you wants to act like you don’t know him, but your reaction earlier says otherwise.

“I’m okay, thanks,” you reply while continuing to move things.

Chan stands awkwardly, hands stuffing and unstuffing his pockets.

“It’s, uh, good to see you again,” he says shyly.

You pause to look at him. What is he trying to accomplish here?

Sensing your question, Chan speaks again. “I just wanted to say hi since I wasn’t able to see you one last time at the hotel.”

You recall waking up early and sitting at the hotel’s breakfast area in hopes of seeing him. However, he must have already left by then because you never spotted him again.

“Hi,” you reply.

Chan’s eyes crinkle, letting you know he’s smiling beneath the mask.

“What are you doing in town?” he wonders.

The weary side of your brain says to give a vague answer, but there’s something about Chan that makes you still feel safe.

“I just moved. It’s only my second day,” you explain. “Do you live nearby?”

Chan seems reluctant to answer at first.

“Not really,” he trails off. “Mostly here for work.”

“As in here in the country or here in the town?” you question, trying to gauge the likelihood of running into him again.

“The town.”

“Ah,” you say. You’d joke and say he could show you around, but you fear he may take you seriously and decline. Even if the offer would've been said jokingly, you don’t want him to reject you again.

After finishing transporting your groceries, you close your trunk and grab the cart, prepared to return it. Chan still stands a bit away; he shifts his weight back and forth, and you wonder if he’s doing the same with his thoughts. You know you are.

Awkward silence continues to loom over you, so you decide to take a risk.

“Would you like to get coffee sometime?” you ask.

Chan looks away. You wonder why he’s always so hesitant.

“Or you can help me put together some furniture,” you jest.

Chan looks at you with wide eyes, a burst of eager hope flooding his expression. “Sure!”

You chuckle and tilt your head. Cute.

“O-Oh,” he mumbles, turning his head away. “You were just…”

“I was, but I guess if you really want to, you're welcome,” you say.

You know asking someone who’s basically a stranger over is dangerous, but your gut says you don’t have to worry about Chan. And maybe the curiosity to learn more about him makes the opportunity too good to pass up.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Chan replies with crinkled eyes.

You return the smile. “Okay.”

You pause to see if he’ll offer his number, but he doesn’t. Not wanting to be denied, you grab your purse and retrieve a pen. You quickly scribble your address on the back of your receipt before holding it out.

Chan takes it, glances at your writing, then stuffs the paper in his pocket.

“So,” he says with a little more confidence. “When are you free?”

It’s been nearly two weeks since you saw Chan outside the grocery store. You wish you didn’t have to wait for so long, but you had to get your furniture and work around Chan’s schedule. Although you don’t know his job, it seems to be demanding.

Most of your furniture remains in its boxes, but you ended up putting together your bed and nightstand so you could have a place to sleep. Luckily, your small couch was delivered already assembled.

Besides those, you don’t have much furniture to put together, so hopefully you and Chan can finish assembling everything. Despite you agreeing to this out of hopes to be around him more, you’re also grateful to have some help.

You spend the day sweeping and vacuuming. Your home isn’t very dirty, but the nerves make you incapable of staying still for long. Your jitters are bouncing relentlessly.

You’re excited to see Chan again, but nervous it won’t go well. Will it be awkward again? Does he see your invite to build furniture as another way of asking him over for ramen? Not that you would entirely be upset if things went that direction, but wouldn’t that just make you two fuck buddies? Did you want to be fuck buddies?

Your face warms at the memory of how he felt pushing into you, his lips on yours, and his hands gripping you. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst situation in the world.

Hearing your doorbell causes your heart to skip a beat.

You hastily set the broom aside and rush to the door.

You open the door in a hurry, wisps of hair lifting in the air from how fast you are. Though seeing your hair reminds you of your messy updo. You hastily untangle your hair.

“S-Sorry, hi,” you say sheepishly while running your fingers through your locks in a poor excuse of a comb.

Chan watches with a smile beneath his mask. Like before, he has a cap on, and it’s a little difficult to see his full expression.

“No worries,” he replies.

You nod, step aside, and gesture for him to come in.

Chan moves past you, and you wonder if he’s feeling nervous too.

He slips off his shoes, cap, and mask as you shut and lock the door. Now with his back to you, you quickly take in his appearance—a simple oversized hoodie and jeans. His hair looks slightly damp like he just showered. You hate that your mind wanders back to him in the pool. You remember how sexy he had looked with water dripping from his hair and down his sculpted chest.

“I liked your hair up,” he comments.

“W-What?” you stutter, gaze rushing up to meet his as you reel yourself back to reality.

He chuckles and shakes his head to dismiss his comment.

“What should we put together first?” he asks instead.

Your heart pounds in your chest at hearing his compliment echo in your ears. You didn’t imagine that, right?

“I, uh, whatever you want,” you reply, leading him into the living room so he can view his options.

Chan follows and peers around at the boxes.

“Let’s start with your entertainment center, then your desk?” he suggests.

“Sounds good,” you answer, walking to grab your tool bag.

Chan takes the scissors you hand him and starts opening the box.

“Sorry, I don’t have power tools,” you say as he begins laying out the pieces.

He chuckles and flips open the manual. “No worries. I wouldn’t know how to use them anyway.”

You watch as his eyes scan the papers, brows scrunched and lips pursed as he tries to understand it. You lean closer to read as well, but try to keep a respectful distance.

Your focus on the manual quickly shifts when you get a whiff of Chan’s cologne. The need to bury yourself in his arms becomes too strong. He’s too close and the temptation's too strong.

You take a few steps back.

“Do you, uh, want something to drink?” you ask.

Chan glances at you with a smile. “Sure. Whatever’s fine.”

You nod, turning around to look through your fridge. Unfortunately, all you have are bottled waters. You hope he wasn’t expecting something more flavorful.

Chan has two pieces of furniture resting against each other, propped with one hand while the other holds a screwdriver.

You set two water bottles on the floor and peer at the instructions again. Just as Chan’s about to screw the pieces together, you stop him.

“Wait, I think A and C are supposed to go together. Not A and B,” you say.

Chan cocks his head as his eyebrows furrow. Your chest warms at the cute sight, and you shift your gaze back to the papers. You point at what you’re looking at.

“Oh.” Chan laughs awkwardly. “Guess that makes sense.”

He trades Part B with Part C.

“Maybe you should be in charge of the instructions,” he says with a smile.

You laugh. “Okay.”

As Chan begins screwing the nail in, you turn on some random music so it’s not silent. Chan doesn’t seem to mind as he works.

“Done. What’s next?” Chan asks eagerly.

For the next few hours, you and Chan get into a routine. You read the instructions and watch as Chan follows. You lend an occasional hand, but you mostly guide him and hand him the necessary items to finish the task. Occasionally, he bobs his head or taps his fingers to the beat of the song.

An entertainment center, desk, and a few decorations later, you're both finished. Your apartment looks more like a home thanks to Chan.

Chan moves to stand behind you, eyes darting at the big mirror he helped remove from the package earlier. During his time assembling the furniture, he discarded his hoodie, leaving him in a white tank top and jeans.

“It looks good, yeah?” you ask as you analyze the angle the mirror is slanted at. It's too big to hang, but you like it this way—leaned against the wall.

Chan slowly comes closer until you can feel the faint heat from his body. You know one step backward would put you against him. Unable to stay away, you lean your body back slightly. Chan takes the subtle invitation to rest his hands on your waist.

“Yeah. Looks good,” he answers lowly and shifts his gaze to your reflection.

You nod, not sure what to say next. His hands on your waist are light, like he’s still unsure. You wish he weren’t. To help lessen his hesitance, you place your hands on his wrists and rub your thumbs against his skin.

Chan’s lips twitch in a small smile, and he closes the space until his chest presses against your back. His eyes in the mirror move to where your hands are on him, then it slowly rises over your body. It’s not a sensual gaze; it’s tender like he’s imagining what it’d be like if he were yours.

Or maybe that’s just you projecting your desires.

Chan’s hold tightens briefly when he speaks.

“I know this may sound crazy, but I’ve missed you,” he says lowly, eyes watching your face.

Your hands squeeze his arms. Your heart warms at his confession, but then you remember what you both did last time. There wasn’t any time to get to know each other so…

“Did you miss me or what I offered you?” you can’t help but ask. You know you shouldn’t be upset if he said the latter, but something in you wishes otherwise.

“All of you,” he whispers and nuzzles his cheek against your head without breaking eye contact. “I missed all of you.”

“You barely know me,” you murmur.

He smiles, though it’s a little sad.

“I’d like to change that,” he replies.

You turn slightly in his arms to stare at him directly.

Chan’s focus moves from the mirror to your face. Seeing him so close has your heart beating faster. How can someone be so attractive?

“Really?” you question, a mix of hope and doubt laced in your word.

“I-I probably shouldn’t, but yes. If you’ll allow me to.”

Your face scrunches in confusion. “You shouldn’t?”

He releases a deep breath and rubs your sides as if to rid any worries he may have caused.

“My job makes it hard to… date,” he says. There seems to be more he wants to say, but he refrains.

“Date? You want to date me?” you ask, eyes growing wide.

He glances away, flustered. “I mean, we don’t have to go that far. Maybe not now or not ever if you don’t want to… I just really want to get to know you more, because you seem like a nice person and someone I’d like to have in my life.”

Your mouth slowly drops as you take in his words.

“Sorry. That was probably too forward,” Chan says as he begins to retract himself.

You quickly reach out and hook a finger into his necklace, keeping him close. His eyes widen at the act. His hands are hovering in the air like someone just hit the PAUSE button on his life.

“Kiss me?” you ask softly.

Chan’s mouth breaks out into a big smile, and he circles your waist once more.

“Until you tell me to stop,” he answers before connecting your lips in a tender kiss.

Something in your chest bursts at the seams the moment your mouths touch. It’s as if your body becomes alive again. While kissing Chan the first time felt hasty and steamy, this one feels seductive and hot.

You hum happily and move your hand to hold the nape of his neck. You pull him closer like you can’t be apart, which you fear may come true after tonight. However, Chan doesn’t protest. He twists your body so you’re flushed against him. His hard chest feels so nice against yours, and for some reason, it feels better the second time.

By the time you both pull away, you’re panting with a silly smile. Chan doesn’t give you much time to rest before he’s tilting your face and slotting his mouth with yours. His tongue finds yours quickly, hands rubbing your sides a little rougher.

He nips at your bottom lip, causing you to giggle into his mouth. Chan’s lips spread in a grin, and he does it again.

“Chan.” You laugh against his lips.

He continues to smile and brings you close again to kiss you. Any time you think it’s over, he just connects your mouths again.

“Chan,” you mutter against his lips, hands tightening on his shoulders.

“You haven’t told me to stop.” He smirks, quickly leaning in to steal another kiss. Your laugh breaks the kiss once more and makes Chan look at you fondly.

“Want me to stop?” he questions teasingly.

You shake your head and tuck your face in the nook of his neck. Whispering against his neck, "I want more."

Chan squeezes your body and rests his head against yours.

“I want more, too, but I don’t want it to seem like I only came for that,” he murmurs.

You carefully lift your head and cup his face, offering a reassuring look.

“If that were the case, I think we would’ve already been naked,” you tease.

Chan chuckles sheepishly.

“Hm… That or you’re really patient and know when to initiate—"

“No! That’s not it at all,” Chan interrupts hastily. “I’m fine without having sex.”

You pull his face towards yours to plant a soft kiss since you teased him.

“What if I’m not?” you question.

Chan’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. “Then we’ll have sex.”

You can’t help but laugh at his response. His eyes shine bright, ready to give you whatever you want and more.

“I’d like that,” you say and lean in, brushing your lips over his. “A lot.”

Chan’s mouth splits in a big grin before he captures yours.

Your hands slide from his face to the bottom of his shirt, taking your time to feel his toned chest along the way. There's a split second of your mouths separating as you tug his shirt off before you find his lips again. When you do, he instantly dives his tongue past your lips. The way he strokes and swirls his tongue makes your body melt against his. Just his kiss keeps you captive. However, there's something you've been wanting to do since you first saw him.

You carefully move him against the back of the couch, then shift your kisses to his cheek, making Chan smile, then to his jawline. You pause at the junction of his shoulder and his neck to lap and nip at his skin. Chan hums out a moan, hands gripping your waist tightly.

As you start to descend his body with peppered kisses, he grabs the bottom of your shirt and lets you slip out of it as you lower yourself to your knees. You watch as he drops your shirt on the floor while you unbutton his pants. Then, to your surprise, he grabs one of the pillows on the couch and drops it near you.

"For your knees," he says softly.

"Thanks," you reply with a smile, heart-warming as you slide it under you.

"You're welcome," he responds. He places both hands behind him on the couch's edge and steps out of his pants and underwear once you get them to his ankles.

A curse is said mentally as you see his hard cock again. It's as big and thick as you remember. Its veins and leaking pre-cum make you clench around nothing.

You lean forward and place open-mouth kisses up his length while one of your hands caresses the other side, keeping him in place.

Chan sucks in a breath above you. Your eyes glance up briefly to see him staring down with parted lips.

"Fuck," he mutters when you wrap your lips around his tip. When you pull back, you let a glob of spit trickle down your mouth and over his head. You reach up and smear the substance along his cock before you begin stroking his length. He's getting harder and heavier in your hands, making your mouth salivate.

"Put your mouth on me, Yn," Chan says. "Please."

The way he pleads your name causes heat to race downwards.

You oblige and sink your mouth slowly down his cock. Chan curses and leans his head back. Seeing his exposed neck has you wishing you had marked him.

You hum against him and lower yourself until his tip hits the back of your throat. When you do, a small gag fills the room.

"Shit, again, Yn. I need to hear you gag on my cock again," Chan groans.

Your legs squeeze together at his request. You brace one hand on his thigh while the other holds the part of his dick you can't fit. Then, you bob your head again, and again, letting the tip hit the same spot and gagging.

You notice Chan's hands gripping the couch as if he's trying to keep control. However, that doesn't last long. One of his hands tangles in your hair before he pushes your head lower, his cock sliding down your throat.

"Oh, fuck," he gasps, head snapping forward to see you. His eyes find yours briefly before they shift down to your lips stretched around his thick cock.

When you start sputtering, he releases you. You slide off with a gasp; strings of saliva connect you to his cock. The look of utter bliss on Chan's face makes you sink back on his length fast. Fuck, he looks so damn good getting his dick sucked. You can tell he's quickly losing himself in the feeling.

Chan's grasp in your hair tightens as you bob with a speed that rolls his eyes toward the back of his head. It's not long before he starts thrusting in your mouth, tip sliding down your throat repeatedly. The sound of your gags and wet mouth makes the arousal between your legs pool.

With a strained grunt, Chan shoves his cock all the way down until your nose touches his skin. Your hands squeeze his muscular thighs, and your eyes shut tightly. Then, before you start worrying about breathing, he lets you go.

You barely get two breaths in before his mouth is on yours. His hand wraps around the back of your neck to keep you close.

He pulls back shortly after. "Your pretty mouth is perfect." Another kiss. "Could fuck it all day."

He chuckles when you nod in agreement.

"You'd like that, yeah?" he hums.

"Yeah." You smile.

Chan takes a second to stare into your eyes, then he gives you a rough, short kiss.

"Need your pussy, now, though," he says after he pulls away. He's so close that his lips still graze yours. You nod eagerly, ready to give it to him.

"Take off your clothes for me, baby," he whispers.

You retreat and hurriedly remove the rest of your clothing. Chan watches you with dark eyes, and there's a small part of you that feels bashful under his fierce gaze.

"So beautiful," he murmurs. Your body warms at his compliment.

"Come here, pretty girl," he instructs as he moves closer to the mirror. "On your stomach. Yeah, just like that."

Chan lifts your hips and slides the pillow from earlier under them. He parts your legs, then lowers a hand to graze his fingers over your wet pussy.

"All this just because you sucked my cock?" He smirks.

"Yes," you say, slightly ashamed.

He swirls his fingers through your arousal, coating them with it as he leans over to your ear.

"Will you let me prep you this time?" he asks with a teasing grin. His hand moves lower to circle your clit, causing your hips to jerk.

Your cheeks warm, remembering how eager you were then. While you are still eager, you feel less hurried than before. Before, there was a risk of getting caught. Now, it's just you and him in your home.

As soon as you nod, Chan slides back to your entrance and dips two fingers in your hole.

You gasp at the stretch. Your body leans forward as if to get away, but Chan follows you, sinking his fingers deeper.

"So tight and wet," he marvels. "You remember how my cock filled this pussy last time?"

He begins pumping his fingers slowly, speeding up as he continues talking. Soft moans spill from your mouth.

"How it stretched you and had you moaning?" he asks while he adds another finger.

You nod, eyes on his gaze through the mirror. The wet sounds of your pussy grow louder the faster he fucks his fingers into you.

"Fuck, Chan. Channie," you gasp.

"Call me that again," he demands and slows his pace. His fingers begin stroking your inner walls, making your mouth fall open.

"Channie," you whine. He smiles.

"You ready for my cock, pretty girl?" he asks, dipping his head down to capture your lips. You lean up on your elbows to meet him halfway.

"Yes! Fuck me, Channie. Please. I need your cock," you whimper against his mouth.

Chan curses as he pulls away and sits up. With one hand, he spreads one of your ass cheeks, and with the other, he aligns his tip with your entrance. Without another word, Chan rolls his hips.

Your mouth drops in a silent moan as he pushes inch after inch, after inch, into your dripping hole.

"Oh, fuck, you feel as good as I remember," he groans.

Your hands claw at the floor the deeper he gets, trying not to whimper. His thick length forces your walls to accommodate him, and while it hurts now, you know it'll turn into pleasure soon. He stills when his hips are flush with your ass.

"You okay, baby?" he asks, gaze rising from where you're connected to yours in the mirror.

You give him a reassuring smile and release a breath you didn't realize you were holding.

"Yeah. You're just…" you trail off.

He chuckles and tucks his head down like he's embarrassed. His hair falls in his face, hiding his eyes. "I know."

"But you feel good," you say, walls clenching unintentionally, making him suck in a breath. "I love how big you are."

Chan tries to hide his smile but fails. He nods and moves his hands to your ass, squeezing and spreading your cheeks. Your heart races knowing he's staring at how well your pussy is taking him.

"You okay if I move?" he asks after a few seconds.

"Yes."

Chan's thrusts are slow and shallow at first. It's a pace that causes you to focus on every inch of him inside you. The way his length slides along your slippery walls drives all thoughts out the window. Over time, Chan slides more of his cock inside. Only when he stuffs your pussy all the way that he starts a faster pace. Each thrust cranks up the speed until the sound of his hips against your ass is so loud, you're sure your neighbors can hear.

Your arms give out, and your chest falls forward onto the floor. Your cheek rests against the cool surface, eyes closed as you let Chan pound into you. A chorus of moans leaves your mouth and combines with all the other obscene noises filling your home. It's almost humiliating how loud the squelching is; you've never been so wet before.

"You're so fucking warm and tight," Chan grunts, hands gripping your hips roughly to keep you from sliding forward. "All those nights I spent touching myself. Thinking of your pretty pussy wrapped around my fucking cock and your breathy moans."

Your walls squeeze around him at his words. You love knowing he got off at the memory of you. He wasn't the only one replaying that day in his head. You thought of it more than you'd like to admit.

"They never did the real thing justice. You feel so damn amazing." He sighs with pleasure. He shifts his weight so he's nearly on top of you, causing him to thrust deeper.

"Channie," you cry at the new angle.

He grabs your hair and raises your head so you're looking into the mirror. Chan's hair hangs over his forehead, and his muscular chest has a sheen of sweat. He looks incredible. Chan nearly moans when his eyes find yours. Your mouth is open; your eyes are dazed.

"Look at you, baby," he says between breaths. "So beautiful getting fucked by me."

You moan at his words.

"Think you can come for me?" he asks.

"Need more," you whine.

He nods and lets go of your hair. When your head begins to droop, he slams his hips into you roughly.

"Eyes on me, baby. Keep watching," he demands.

Your eyes snap up, obeying him. You watch his hips thrust forward, hitting your ass and making it bounce. The sight makes the coil in your stomach tighten.

Chan reaches a hand down your stomach and begins rubbing your clit quickly.

"Chan!" you gasp, hips immediately bucking at his rough movements. "Oh my god."

"Need you to come over my cock," he rasps. His pace slows down slightly as he focuses on your clit, but he still rocks into you with power. Each movement is so precise and sharp, reminding you how skilled he is with his hips.

You press your hands into the floor to keep your body from moving too far forward.

"C-Close," you mewl, dropping your head to your chest.

"Look. At. Me," Chan nearly growls and pinches your clit.

"Fuck," you gasp as your head springs up.

Chan smirks and rapidly rubs your bud. Suddenly, the coil snaps, and your walls squeeze tight. Your body jerks and trembles throughout your orgasm. Your eyes roll back while your toes flex.

"Fuck yes, baby," Chan pants.

The moment you sag against his body, he yanks his cock from your spent cunt. He rolls you over to your back and cradles the back of your neck as he moves forward.

His cock comes into full view. As if it's an automatic response, your mouth drops open as you continue panting.

Chan moans at the sight and jerks his fat cock rapidly. His brows are knitted together while his chest rises and falls quickly. Soon, spurts of hot cum land on your face and in your mouth. Chan's moans are deep in his throat and send another wave of desire straight to your core.

You stare up at him as his climax courses through his body. You're still coming down from yours to even gather your thoughts.

After a moment, Chan lowers himself to the floor and tugs you to his chest. He carefully wipes away his cum on your face with his thumb. He brings the digit to your awaiting mouth, and you happily clean it. He chuckles and kisses you once he's done.

You stay in his arms for a long while. Neither of you says anything while you gain strength again. Chan pets your head in the silence, and you rub his back lazily. Against your better judgment, your heart falls for him a little more. Perhaps it's the after-sex glow, but there's a shift in your chest that's unmistakable.

"You okay to stand?" he asks softly. You notice the contrast from earlier. Selfishly, you wish you're the only one who knows the Chan who gets rough when turned on.

You nod.

Chan stands slowly and helps you up. You take one step with him, but your knees buckle.

"Maybe I was too rough," he says while sweeping you up in his arms. You nuzzle your head against him shyly.

"I liked it," you murmur.

Chan laughs lightly as he makes his way to your bedroom.

"That's good to hear," he replies. He angles his face to kiss your head. "I liked it, too."

He sets you down in the bathroom, gives you a soothing kiss, then allows you privacy as he steps out.

After using the restroom and washing your hands and face, you find him in the living room, dressed in just his jeans.

"Your turn," you say.

"Okay," he replies and hands you your clothes. While he's in the bathroom, you slip on your underwear and shirt. You don't bother with clean clothes since you need a shower anyway.

Your sight lingers on Chan's hoodie. There's a delusional part of your brain that wants to wear it and pretend you are something more. It looks soft and surely smells like him.

"Wear it," Chan says from the bedroom door.

You jump at his unexpected arrival. You step away from the hoodie, embarrassed to have been caught staring at it.

You shake your head. "It's yours."

He laughs and grabs it. He steps closer.

"Arms up," he instructs.

You shake your head again. "I'm okay, really."

"Up," he repeats with a smile.

Sighing, you raise your arms.

Chan carefully slides the garment over your arms and down your body. The hood gets caught on your head. He carefully tucks stray hairs behind your ears before his eyes dance over your frame.

"Perfect," he murmurs, leaning in to plant a kiss on your lips.

Your hands curl over the edges of the sleeves as you relax into his touch.

"Are you leaving?" you ask after he pulls away.

Chan grabs his phone from the kitchen and takes a glance.

"I've got some time before I have to go. Do you want me to leave?" he questions, setting the device back down.

You shake your head and reach out for him. You shouldn't, but you can't help it. It's so easy to slip into the alternate reality that he's yours.

Chan beams you his signature handsome smile and lets your arms snake around his waist. He wraps his own around your shoulders, resting his head against yours.

"You look good in my hoodie," he says quietly, almost as if he didn't mean to say it aloud.

You can't fight the smile on your face, snuggling closer to him. His warm skin is slowly turning cooler.

"Can we cuddle on the couch?" you ask and peer at him. You slide the hood off so you can see him better.

"Of course," he replies and slips from your grasp. He holds one of your hands as he walks to the couch. He lies down and pulls you on top of him, legs tangling.

An hour passes before Chan reluctantly leaves. It's spent talking about your move and what you like to do in your spare time—with a few kisses in between. You learn he likes to dance and sing, and that he's not the best video-game player. When you take note of the ring on his pinkie, he informs you it's a friendship ring. It's unusual to see men with friendship rings, but you find it endearing nonetheless.

Chan tells you to keep the hoodie while he slips on his shoes. Despite your protests, he doesn't yield. Something about it being an excuse to come see you again, which you don't object to.

By the time he's gone, you're left with your thoughts. You never imagined you'd bump into Chan again. Let alone be able to experience his touch once more. Despite loving every second of it, you fear you'll never find someone who can fuck you as well as Chan does. The delightful soreness between your legs is just a testament to your theory.

You're preparing to take a shower when you notice a folded piece of paper on your bed with your name on it. Knowing it can only be from Chan stretches your lips into a smile. You open it eagerly.

Here's to getting to know each other more. I had fun spending the day with you 🖤 Channie

Your smile widens when you see he left his phone number. He must trust you to have done that considering he's been hesitant to disclose that information from the start. The realization causes your heart to flutter in excitement and nervousness. You know once you message him, things will change. You still don't know if you'll ever be more than friends, but like you felt the first time you met him, even if you were to be loved by him for only a little while, it would’ve been worth it.

You pick up your phone and type the number, hope filling your chest.

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[aliendes]

is it time to post something? has it been long enough? lololol

[aliendes]

literally my fave series 🖤

nightlight | lights out series

It was terrifying to think that you would now be in the limelight for the first time in your life. Terrifying, but freeing.

✮ pairings: yoon jeonghan x female reader x joshua hong ✮ genre: fluff, smut [18+] ✮ aus: theatre director jeonghan, rockstar joshua, polyamorous relationship, mlm ✮ word count: 24.5k

✮ warnings: smut with plot, alcohol consumption (no dubcon), possessiveness, jealousy, mmf threesome, oral sex (m receiving), penetration anal and vaginal, making out, edging, dirty talk, fingering, cumming on skin, breeding kink, use of toys, exhibitionism, cucking, brat taming: cold shoulder, bondage. dom joshua, switch jeonghan, sub reader. pet names: beautiful, bunny, princess, baby (hers) babe, handsome (jihan)

› 🎧: seven – jung kook | am pm – jay b ft. whee in | can't get you – jaehyun | moonlit floor – lisa | baby – jay b | slow dancing – v | hit the floor – ethan low | being – tabber ft. yerin baek | truth be told – baekhyun

→ season one — season two — read more

✮ author's note: HELLOOOOOO!! i just want to preface this by saying that the content of this chapter and series as a whole is not a reflection of josh's life as an idol whatsoever. this is just fiction 🙂

✮ author's note 2: soooo, this one is a little bit long, lol. they take a little while to gdtf ksksks but bear w me, because the sex scene is loooooooooooong. i apologize but at the same time idc, this fic is super indulgent for me hahakjfhf

enjoy!

⌈special thanks to @aeristudios for helping me figure out some of these scenes out, ty baby ♡⌋

✮ disclaimer: minors DO NOT INTERACT. this post is intended for 18+ readers ONLY. please have your age stated in your blog description and try not to look like a bot please 🙂

part viii

Home.

You woke up with a slightly throbbing headache. As soon as your lucidity kicked in, you were aware of the arm draped on the curve of your waist. You stirred beneath the tangled bedsheets, breathing in deeply.

Jeonghan tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him before you could wander away from him. “Morning, princess,” he mumbled lazily, his tone low, and there was a slight gruff to it that you only heard when he woke up.

You smiled to yourself, curling back against his body. “Morning,” you mumbled back, creaking one eye open.

Joshua’s side of the bed was empty. And he was nowhere to be seen around the bedroom.

“What time is it?” you asked.

“Dunno. Don’t care,” he breathed, but didn’t attempt to move.

You let out a disgruntled sound, trying to reach your phone on the nightstand, but the grip Jeonghan had on you made it difficult. You turned over, only to catch a sight of his face partially buried on the pillows. “Hannie, let me move,” you whined just as impishly.

He took a deep breath through his nose. “No,” he mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes.

You stared at him in utter disbelief, yet he didn’t even open his eyes. “Jeonghan,” you muttered, kicking your butt back at him but only making him grunt. “Come on, I need to pee.”

He muffled a lazy giggle on the pillow. “Go and then come back here,” he replied sluggishly.

You rolled your eyes, nudging his shoulder with the palm of your hand. “God, you’re so clingy,” you teased, giggling at him.

That drew a smile on his face. He stopped hugging you, pulling his arm from your waist. “Says you,” he mumbled lazily.

You slithered beneath the bedsheets, letting out a tiny yelp when Jeonghan slapped your thigh playfully as you were climbing off the bed.

But you walked to the bathroom through the hallways cluttered with cardboard boxes containing your belongings.

When you came back, the bed was empty and already made. You snorted when you noticed the noise coming from the kitchen. So you made your way there with a quiet gait, following the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen.

Jeonghan was leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed on his chest. He was giggling about something you weren’t able to hear when you got there. But his eyes were on Joshua, who was busy putting ground coffee into the brewer. His back was turned, but he was saying something, and from the sound of his voice, you could tell he was smiling.

The moment slowed down for you as you witnessed it.

They both were so wrapped up in their conversation that you went completely unnoticed. You watched as Joshua turned to Jeonghan, putting a hand on the counter, right next to Jeonghan’s hip.

Jeonghan raised his face, a nervous look crossing his face as Joshua leaned forward, Jeonghan closed his eyes as they both shared a tender kiss. It was quick, but it left Jeonghan with a smile on his face as Joshua turned to continue his task. Jeonghan watched him briefly, but his eyes were drawn to you as if he might’ve felt your presence.

Joshua followed Jeonghan’s gaze, finding you standing beneath the doorway. “Good morning, bunny,” he said gently.

“Morning,” you replied with a smile, approaching him to plant a small kiss on his cheek, then moving to kiss his mouth.

Jeonghan watched, and you already knew what he would say before he uttered the words: “What about me?”

You panned to him, making him giggle. “Come here, you,” you mumbled, pressing your lips to his. You noticed as you placed your hand on his shoulder that Jeonghan was wearing Joshua’s clothes.

“How did you sleep?” Joshua asked, turning the stove on.

“Fine, but I am kind of hungover,” you admitted with a shy smile.

“Well, you were partying like you’re the rockstar here,” Jeonghan snorted, nodding at you. “Go rest, baby. We’ll take breakfast to you.”

You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching your boyfriends move around each other seamlessly. Like they had a plan they had spoken about before you got there and were just following along without them having to talk.

They looked at each other occasionally. Jeonghan smiled like there was something he was keeping a secret. But you knew there was a shyness to his smile, the way he drove his gaze away and just kept to his task at hand.

But Joshua wasn’t having it—he mumbled something under his breath, making Jeonghan smile and huff. Joshua came closer to Jeonghan, leaning towards him and looking at his face intently.

Jeonghan didn’t skip a beat—he closed the space between his lips and Joshua’s, planting a quick and playful kiss. “You’re going to burn the pancakes,” he reprimanded with a chuckle.

“You keep distracting me,” Joshua mumbled, turning over his shoulder to look at you.

You smiled at him when he noticed your gaze upon them, observing the tender moment they were sharing.

Jeonghan turned around, following Joshua’s gaze. He left the open kitchen, wandering towards you and sat down beside you, his fingers brushing your ankle. “Did you take the drugs I left you on the nightstand?”

“Yeah,” you replied aloofly, looking at his dishevelled form. His black hair was messy on one side and flat on the other, he looked cute despite that. You noticed he was wearing Joshua’s t-shirt, one that he usually wears to sleep.

You reached out, brushing his hair with your fingers. “Thanks for taking care of me, Hannie.”

He pressed his lips into a smile. “Always, princess.”

Joshua came into the living room with a plate of toast and a mug of coffee, which he set down on the coffee table. He had a sleepy smirk on his face, but he looked happy, almost excited, even.

After he set everything on the coffee table, he practically plopped down across both your legs and Jeonghan’s with a dramatic sigh.

You switched your hand from Jeonghan’s hair to Joshua’s, which you noticed now was slightly wet from the shower he took before you woke up. “We’ll have to get a giant couch eventually. One that actually fits the three of us.”

Jeonghan smiled softly, a hand moving to rest on Joshua’s hip. “Yeah, about that,” he mumbled, aiming a knowing look at Joshua.

“What?” you asked, panning from Jeonghan’s face to Joshua’s.

Jeonghan’s fingers fumbled with the hem of Joshua’s t-shirt nervously. “I’m moving in,” he announced, lifting his gaze to look at you. His mouth parted as he studied your face. “I decided to move in with you both.”

The first thing you knew was that Joshua was fully aware of this turn of events. His silence told you that much, and his gaze was focused on you, waiting for your reaction.

What you felt then was an immense sense of relief. This was what you wanted—a home with both of your boyfriends, something that provided you with more stability. Commitment.

“Oh—o-kay,” you whispered, gathering your words. But you were happy beyond belief. You finally smiled. “Oh my god,” you stuttered. “I’m so excited.”

Jeonghan blinked when he heard the emotions making your voice quiver. “Yeah?” he mumbled, his eyes starting to glint.

You nodded happily. “This is going to be great.”

Joshua smiled too as he rose from the couch. “That means you’ll have to start packing up,” he told Jeonghan with a pleased sigh.

“That is the part that doesn’t excite me,” Jeonghan said through gritted teeth, but then he finally smiled. “I think I could hire someone to do that for me.”

You clicked your tongue, reaching to grab a waffle. “Don’t be lazy, Jeongjeong,” you said, taking a large bite. “I could help you with that.”

Jeonghan giggled, slapping your thigh playfully. “I am lazy. Do you know how much shit I have?”

Your eyes widened. “Oh, then we’ll probably have to look at other apartment options,” you said.

Joshua pressed his lips, humming thoughtfully. “I think the apartment you chose is perfect,” he said.

“Yeah, I don’t think we need more space than that,” Jeonghan chimed in, using his hand on your thigh to caress your skin.

“But I do agree with you, bunny. We need a bigger couch,” he smirked, entering the kitchen to grab the two forgotten mugs of coffee and bringing them over to the living room, giving one to Jeonghan.

Jeonghan received his mug, looking at Joshua sitting down next to him. “We need bigger everything,” Jeonghan agreed. “Maybe a bigger bed, even.”

You gave him a pained look. “I like my bed.”

“Yeah, because you don’t sleep with yourself,” Jeonghan chuckled and then explained: “You move around all the time.”

You gaped at him, shocked. “That’s not true.”

“It’s true,” Joshua mumbled under his breath, sipping from his mug quietly.

“Specially when you’ve had too much caffeine throughout the day,” Jeonghan said, now emboldened. “That’s why I hug you through the night, so you stop moving.”

You made a horrified expression. “So you don’t hug me because you love me?” you cried out.

Jeonghan started laughing, tipping his head back. “Of course I do, baby—”

“I thought you both liked cuddling me!” you squealed, trying not to smile at your own ridiculous act.

Joshua raised his palms innocently. “Don’t drag me into this,” he said. “I’m used to you moving around—”

“Oh, so you also hate me.”

Jeonghan squeezed his eyes shut, still laughing. “Princess—”

“You bastards,” you accused falsely, making him laugh even harder.

“You should’ve just kept your mouth shut,” Joshua told Jeonghan, concealing a small smile.

“Baby, you know we love you,” Jeonghan said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “But you need to fix your sleeping habits.”

You dropped your act, your shoulders going slack a little. “Yeah, you’re right,” you conceded, sighing through a smile. “Maybe one day I will.”

“Until then, we get a bigger bed,” Jeonghan said, laughing again when you deadpanned at him.

But you couldn’t lie, you were happy.

The morning of the move came. You woke up before your alarm went off, and the sudden rush of excitement kicked in, pushing you out of bed. The realization of how much stuff you had accumulated over the years hit you as you walked from your bedroom to the living room, which was littered with tons of moving boxes.

Around the time the truck came in, you were ready to go. Joshua helped you with moving boxes, and soon the apartment started to empty. Jeonghan arrived some hours later, more to monitor rather than do the heavy-lifting, occasionally taking one box to the truck.

As the space started to feel hollower, you slowed down, appreciating this part of your life you were leaving behind, taking a moment to reflect.

Joshua left the box labelled as notebooks on the kitchen counter with a loud thud. He sighed, walking towards you. “What’s wrong?” he asked, immediately noticing something in your eyes.

The apartment where you had lived for years was now completely empty. Every single corner that you had filled with memories was now stripped, echoing with each footstep you took towards the door.

You had stopped in the kitchen to ponder, watching the space in silence.

“Nothing,” you finally replied, lifting your gaze to find him. “I’m okay,” you said, but your tone was off.

Joshua’s gaze softened. “You sure?” he asked, pouting slightly as his brow furrowed. “You look sad.”

“I’m just thinking,” you muttered softly, extending a hand to him.

He took it, slipping an arm across the small of your back, turning you around so he was the one leaning back against the counter, wrapping you with his arms in a hug. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, studying your face.

You placed your hands on his chest, shrugging slightly in his embrace. “After I published my first book, I had enough money to move out and live alone. I moved to this apartment and started building a life, little by little,” you told him, your gaze flitting across the white walls. “Then I met you. I’m just thinking of how crazy life is.”

Joshua tilted his head to one side. “Are you sad that you’re leaving this place behind, then?” he asked curiously, and when you nodded, he smiled slightly. “Well, look at this the other way around—we’ll be taking this huge step, all of us. Together.”

The twinkle in his eye told you everything you needed to know. Joshua was happy. It warmed your heart to see the corners of his eyes lifting in a happy smile. You ran your palms down his chest, holding his gaze.

“I’m only sad I’m leaving this place behind because it holds so many memories,” you said quietly, trying to convey all your emotions with a single glance.

“We’ll make new ones,” Joshua said, still holding you firmly. Something made his smile fade, but whatever he was thinking of, it didn’t tarnish the twinkle in his eyes. “And who knows—” he shrugged slightly, “—maybe being in a bigger place will give us the opportunity to start thinking of the future.”

You blinked dumbly at him. “Like what?” you asked.

He paused briefly, licking his lips as he selected his words carefully. “Yeah, I mean… we’re a family now. You, Jeonghan and I. It would make sense for us to take things further, right?”

“Further as in…” you trailed off.

He gave you a nervous smile, one that was gone in a second. “I know that things are more complex now that we have Hannie, but—” he took a deep breath. “I haven’t given up the idea of making you my wife.”

Your heart stopped for a second, and your mind started reeling. Everything about his demeanor told you he was sure of his words, even if he looked nervous to voice them.

Joshua noticed the shock in your eyes, so he continued: “Don’t panic yet,” he said, a smile spreading on his face. “I just think that we should talk about it. Soon.”

“Yeah, I think we should,” you agreed. “What about Hannie?” you asked, lowering your tone due to the nervousness tightening around your throat.

“Maybe I spoke too soon,” Joshua smiled lightly. “I plan to talk to both of you about it. With us moving in together, I just think that we should consider taking things seriously. All three of us.”

You coughed an awkward chuckle. “Joshua, you’re making no sense,” you said.

But in that moment, Jeonghan stepped into the apartment, looking distracted. His sweet brown eyes fell on you and Joshua, and his shoulders went lax. “Oh, I see you two lovebirds are slacking off,” Jeonghan accused, looking at you reproachfully. “I was beginning to wonder why you guys didn’t come down.”

Joshua released you at once, and you backed away, still distraught. Joshua cleared his throat, facing Jeonghan. “There’s only one box left,” he pointed to the box he had left on the kitchen counter previous to your conversation.

“Okay, then you take it,” Jeonghan ordered with a cheeky look on his face.

Joshua smiled, but it was very obvious that his nervousness hadn’t washed off. Quite the contrary.

Jeonghan extended an arm out to you. “Ready, princess?”

You nodded, breathing in deeply. “I’m ready,” you said, approaching him to take his hand.

Jeonghan laced his fingers with yours as Joshua grabbed the remaining box with your stuff. Then you walked out of the empty apartment, throwing one last look over your shoulder before Jeonghan closed the door for you. And then you, Jeonghan and Joshua stepped out of the building, embarking on a new chapter of your lives.

Together.

Jeonghan sat on the foot of the new bed for a minute, staring at the screen of his phone.

He’d just agreed to direct a huge TV series for a very popular streaming service. And the script he’d been offered wasn’t even half-bad. But it felt unpolished. It had pacing issues, underwritten side characters and too many songs one after another.

He’d mainly been tasked with offering structural feedback before the shooting began—tomorrow, he’d sign the contract. And he already felt the burden of this opportunity sitting on his shoulders.

His phone buzzed inside the pocket of his hoodie. Sighing, he reached for it, pulling it out and glanced at the screen.

It was an email. An invitation passed to him from one of his team’s assistants. The subject read, You’re invited to The Quiet Spring Premiere.

He arched an eyebrow. And almost decided that it was too late in the day to open it.

But the pad of his thumb hovered over the screen.

He clicked the message.

You are cordially invited to the premiere of The Quiet Spring, directed by Daniel Hwang.

He huffed a quiet laugh. They had mailed him a proper invitation to his office. But since he had taken too long to give a reply, the director of the movie had reached out to his assistant to send him the email.

Jeonghan stared at the screen for a long moment.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been invited to one of these events. And he’d attended begrudgingly, only because he wasn’t the social butterfly everyone seemed to think he was. But that isn’t to say he wasn’t popular; he was just a little awkward.

But this one was a big deal. Not some indie screening in a bar. This was the press, red carpet, formal wear, full industry, and the world’s eyes.

He took a screenshot and sent it to Seungkwan, typing, Did you give them my personal email address?

His right-hand man and close friend responded immediately with a, What do you think? I almost gave them your phone number since you’ve taken like a month to respond.

Jeonghan clicked his tongue.

On his screen, he saw three little dots appearing, indicating Seungkwan typing a long message. But at the end of it, Jeonghan thought his friend might’ve changed his mind, because the text only read, Are you going alone?

Jeonghan felt a shudder. As though he’d just swallowed a cube of ice.

But he replied, I have a plus one.

And then he locked his phone, tossing it on the bed as he rose from it and walked out of the bedroom.

The boxes sat on the pristine marble floors of the new apartment. It had been just a few days since you all moved here. Half-eaten takeout boxes were littered on the counter, three sets of chopsticks sticking out like abandoned flags. The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamps on the ceiling.

Jeonghan sighed tiredly, walking down the hallway from the master bedroom to the living room. You were curled up on the massive new couch, legs across Joshua’s lap. He sat next to you with his head leaning back against the headrest, his hand resting on your knee. None of you was really talking; tiredness had consumed you from the eventful day. 

Joshua ran his fingers along your shin, absentmindedly looking at the ceiling, his gaze drifted. “You took long enough,” he said, looking now at Jeonghan.

Jeonghan had just finished a long work call that took the last bit of energy he had. So he plopped down on the couch, next to Joshua and instantly curled against him, resting his head against Joshua’s shoulder. “Thank god it’s over,” he said.

You looked up from your phone screen, a sweet smile spreading on your face once you saw your boyfriends curled up on the big couch. “What was it about?” you asked, not hiding the curiosity in your tone.

Jeonghan drew in a breath, a spark of mischief appearing in his eyes. And fighting the smile that threatened to break the soft features of his face, he said: “Oh, it was just one of my mistresses, honey. Nothing to worry about.”

Joshua clicked his tongue, shrugging Jeonghan’s head off his shoulder. “Like you have the time to get other partners,” he huffed.

Jeonghan grunted as his face bumped against Joshua’s shoulder. “Ah—you little shit!” he said while laughing.

“Who were you talking to?” Joshua pressed, as curious as you were now that Jeonghan was holding back.

“It was a work thing,” he finally explained, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

“Was it about the series you were invited to work on?” Joshua asked at once, as though the memory of Jeonghan telling him about the project had never left his mind.

“Yeah. I was negotiating,” Jeonghan sighed, driving his gaze to the ceiling. “I demanded that my production team get involved, too. That way Seungkwan gets to work with me—”

“And he will take a lot of workload off your hands, got it,” Joshua muttered under his breath.

Jeonghan shot him a dark look, which Joshua just shrugged off.

“Did they agree?” you asked.

Jeonghan nodded, a triumphant smile drawing on his face. “They agreed to all of my terms. Gonna put them in the contract tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!” you asked agape.

Joshua also turned to him, eyes opened in surprise. “Hannie, this is huge,” he said, finally smiling. “Congrats. We should celebrate.”

“I agree. Congrats, baby,” you also chimed in.

Jeonghan smiled, hiding his face a little behind his hands. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice muffled a little.

Outside, the sky had already deepened into a rich navy, and the windows were glowing faintly from the city lights below. Somewhere in the silence of the apartment, the buzz and the hum of the traffic provided a steady background. You, Jeonghan and Joshua just relished in the silence, too tired to move, but happy.

You sighed loudly. “I’m exhausted. We should go to bed,” you said. “I vote for watching a dumb show tonight.”

Jeonghan patted your thigh lovingly, his cold hand sending tingling down your skin. “Why don’t you go, baby? We’ll be there in a minute.”

You immediately caught on that Jeonghan wanted a minute alone with Joshua. It was pretty obvious, and as you looked at both of them, you almost refused. But you stood up from the massive couch, noticing Joshua’s curious face as he eyed you and then Jeonghan.

“Don’t take too long, you two,” you said, raising a finger at them. “Or I’ll come get you.”

Jeonghan smiled, blinking slowly at you. “Of course, baby,” he replied warmly.

You walked away from the living room with a gentle pace, feeling two pairs of eyes on you as you turned on the corner and down the hallway, disappearing from view.

“What’s up?” Joshua asked, raising his head from Jeonghan’s shoulder too look at him fully.

“We need to talk,” Jeonghan mumbled, peeking from where he sat to the spot you had disappeared mere seconds ago.

“About what?” Joshua replied, following Jeonghan’s gaze. But you were very obviously nowhere to be seen.

Jeonghan hesitated for a second, his lips parting softly right before he released a brief sigh. “I got invited to a film premiere.”

Joshua raised an eyebrow. “For what?” 

Jeonghan sat up straight on the couch. “It’s called The Quiet Summer, or something like that. Daniel Hwang directed it. Big deal, apparently.”

“Daniel Hwang? You haven’t worked with him since—”

“Yeah, I know,” Jeonghan said quickly. “I was surprised, too.”

Jeonghan glanced between the hallway and Joshua’s face, then he continued, more cautiously now. “They’re doing a lot of press around it. And I’m on the guest list… so I am expected to walk the red carpet. Especially now that I’m on this new project, I need to put myself out there.”

Jeonghan could see in his boyfriend’s eyes the pieces of the puzzle coming together. But then there was a sparkle in his eye, Joshua had caught on.

“I’m asking Bunny to come with me,” Jeonghan said softly, his heart beating rapidly against his throat.

Joshua opened his mouth, then closed it. “So we’re doing another ‘official couple’ thing?”

Jeonghan bit his lower lip, nodding once. “Maybe I could pull some strings and get Midnight Haze invited too.”

Joshua took a long moment to reflect. “Why? You two could have your moment without me being there, you know? We avoid unnecessary drama.”

Jeonghan winced at that. “But I want you there too,” he muttered in a lower tone. “I want both of you there with me.”

Joshua gave him an empty smile. “We can’t just show up all of us there. It would defeat the purpose of you and Bunny doing the official couple thing entirely.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “You’re obviously not posing for the cameras with me, dummy. But I think you should also be there,” he said, and with a note of nervousness, he added: “I want you to be there.”

Hearing this, Joshua smiled lightly, his gaze softening. “You want me there or Midnight Haze?” he teased.

“I obviously want you there,” Jeonghan pouted. “Look, if you don’t want to be there for me, then fine, I c—”

Joshua laughed, pushing forward to grab Jeonghan, hands cupping his neck. “Shut up, you dumbass,” he said, crushing his mouth against Jeonghan’s. “Of course I’ll be there for you.”

The moment was put to a halt. Jeonghan melted instantly, his shoulders going slack at the same time that a sharp gasp spilled from him. But he gave in, grabbing Joshua by the hem of his t-shirt to pull him closer.

Joshua parted his lips, giving access to Jeonghan’s with a tiny but guttural moan. Jeonghan rolled his tongue inside Joshua’s mouth, now kissing him with abandon, and a hint of anger from his fleeting tantrum.

“Why did you tell Bunny to wait in the bedroom, though?” Joshua asked quietly, pulling away slightly to look a Jeonghan’s face.

“Because she’s planning to part from her anonymity because of you and me,” Jeonghan explained with a more serious tone. “Her career is changing—she’s growing quickly. And I’m going to put her in the limelight as my partner too. I wanted to talk to you about it before you freaked out.”

Joshua’s gaze disconnected as he listened. “It’s ok. I won’t freak out,” he replied quietly.

“Really?” Jeonghan asked. “People will be able to finally put a name on her face. There will be a straight line connecting her to you because of me and all the media perusing in your personal life.”

Joshua blinked, and the anxiousness was evident in the way his breath caught in his throat. “But the media talk surrounding you isn’t nearly as insane as it is with me,” he countered.

“And what if it gets to that point?” Jeonghan ventured, his pulse quickening too.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Joshua replied, but there was something off about his tone. He breathed in, shifting on the couch slightly in discomfort. “Look, I don’t have a lot of answers right now. But I do know that the way the media will treat her with you won’t be as harsh as it will be with me.”

Jeonghan knew this to be right. Even if it were just a simple theory.

So far, the only talk held by the media and fans surrounding Joshua’s complicated love life is that there was a girl in his life, but people didn’t know who this person even was. No one knew for sure it was you. Blurry photos, and low-quality videos of you walking hand in hand with Joshua were already floating on the internet. What gave Joshua some peace of mind was that no one knew your name or face yet.

“Promise me that whatever happens, we’ll talk about it before you lose control again,” Jeonghan said, his tone shaky but his gaze steady, lingering on Joshua’s face.

Joshua knew this wasn’t something to take lightly. Every promise he’s made with Jeonghan, he’d taken seriously—even those broken by life’s unexpected change of direction.

“I promise,” Joshua mumbled, his tone unwavering.

Jeonghan pulled back, but stuck out his hand, holding up his pinky finger.

“Really?” Joshua chuckled.

“Really,” Jeonghan punctuated, holding his hand an inch higher, insisting.

Joshua’s smile became wider. But he didn’t hesitate, lacing his pinky finger and meeting the pad of his thumb with Jeonghan’s. They stayed like this for longer than they needed to, none of them really wanting to let go—their fingers remained laced, their thumbs touching until they started to feel each other’s pulse.

A second lasted an eternity.

Jeonghan lifted his face, finding Joshua’s gaze set on him. And before neither could speak up, they were closing the space between each other, meeting in a slow, tender kiss. Jeonghan locked his lips with Joshua’s, matching a perfect synchronicity almost instantly.

The kiss was wet, warm, and it had everything that drove Joshua a little crazy. Jeonghan let out a sweet but tiny grunt into Joshua’s mouth, moving his hand to Joshua’s cheek, pulling him closer, telling him to crush him with kisses if needed. Joshua also moved his hand, finding Jeonghan’s waist, gripping it gently.

Jeonghan paused for air, pressing his forehead against Joshua’s for a long moment. And Joshua was too, breathing softly but with a slight hint of desperation. “We should get to Bunny,” he whispered shakily.

“Yeah, we should,” Jeonghan said distractedly. His hand lingered on Joshua’s cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth twice. “Just give me a moment,” he said.

Joshua let out a short sigh, smiling. There was a quippy remark sitting on the tip of his tongue, and Jeonghan could sense it. So he quickly brought his thumb to the center of Joshua’s lips, sealing them for a second, bringing him to a stop.

Jeonghan squeezed his eyelids briefly, armoring himself with enough valor to speak what he hadn’t for days since Joshua kissed him for the first time. He never said these things first, and he wasn’t good at confessions. But this time, he decided to take another route.

“Hey,” Jeonghan whispered, not removing his thumb from Joshua’s lips. He breathed in, feeling himself brimming with so much nervousness that he felt like a kid meeting love for the first time again. “I love you,” he said, a little bit louder now.

Joshua took a quick breath, one that Jeonghan felt due to the proximity he still had to Joshua’s face. But Joshua pursed his lips against Jeonghan’s thumb, grabbing his hand by the wrist and pulling it down. “I love you too,” he replied with a nervous giggle.

Jeonghan released a gentle exhale, slipping his hand below Joshua’s nape, feeling his dark hair through his fingers. Joshua met him halfway with a tender kiss.

“Are you two coming to bed?”

You were standing in the living room right in front of them, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt you stole from Jeonghan’s closet. But your pretty face wore a pout, eyebrows knitting softly—well aware that this expression was a weakness to both your boyfriends.

Joshua pulled back, Jeonghan’s hand slipping down his neck, causing a shudder down his spine. “Yes, baby,” he chuckled lightly.

You smiled sweetly, tilting your head to one side. Something about the glint in your eyes captured Jeonghan’s attention.

Jeonghan blinked, getting up from the couch. “You were listening, weren’t you?”

The giggle that escaped you told them all they needed to know, as with that laugh, you gave yourself away. “I didn’t mean to!” you cried, watching as Jeonghan approached you with two efficient steps. “I was coming to get you, but I also didn’t want to interrupt…”

“How much did you listen?” Joshua asked curiously. 

“Enough,” you giggled as Jeonghan clicked his tongue. “It was cute!”

“Come on, you little minx,” Jeonghan quipped, slapping your ass playfully and laughing at the tiny squeal you emitted. “Let’s go to bed,” he said, sneaking a look over his shoulder.

Joshua was rising from the couch, a serene smile painting the beautiful features of his face. He blinked slowly at Jeonghan, as though signalling that everything was fine. There was no need to worry, no need to leave the conversation pending.

And despite the quick beating of Jeonghan’s heart, he knew that he was safe. He was home—with you and Joshua.

“So…” Jeonghan started, trying to drag your attention as you quite practically threw yourself on the bed, sitting right in the middle, like always.

“What?” you asked.

Jeonghan sighed, not knowing where to start. “Will you go to a film premiere with me?”

Your mouth parted in a tiny ‘o’, blinking in surprise. “Oh my god, o-of course, Hannie,” you gasped, a smile forming across your features. “For what movie? When?”

A warm feeling washed all over Jeonghan, the rigidness in his entire body dissolving once he saw your eagerness. “It’ll be soon. But are you sure, baby? There’ll be cameras, and press—”

“I’m sure, babe,” you said, nodding twice. You let out a sigh that denoted a quiet resignation, one that you were more nervous to confront with both Jeonghan and Joshua. “I’ve decided to let go of my anonymity.”

It was something you’d already disclosed to both of them before. But it was never really a conversation held in depth, and so much has changed in the past couple of weeks that you’ve decided to put it aside.

“How would that work?” Jeonghan asked, careful and curious.

The question hung in the air briefly, and Joshua looked at you with the same curiosity written in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” you sighed. “I’ll have to do now in-person interviews, maybe book tours, signing? Yena mentioned that I’d have to be more open now in social media, show my face more.”

“All the things you love,” Joshua commented, sarcasm coating his words.

You lowered your face slightly, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your t-shirt. “I used to think that I wanted to remain hiding behind a pen name the rest of my career. But now… I don’t know, plans change.”

Joshua climbed onto the bed, sitting right next to you. “We’ll protect you where we can,” he said, reaching to grab your hand. “And where we can’t, we’ll stand beside you.”

Your heart fluttered. “Yeah?” you asked softly, lifting your face to lock eyes with him. The optimism in his words felt like armor, soft and strong.

It was still terrifying to think that you would now be standing fully under the limelight. Terrifying, but freeing.

You shrugged slightly. “I guess I will be writing this new chapter with you two,” you smiled softly at them.

Joshua matched your smile, soft but proud. “That’s my girl.”

Jeonghan lay down on the bed next to you, grabbing your hand to place a tender kiss on your knuckles. “Our girl.”

There was an ominous silence in the car. One that you just assumed was born out of the nervousness that Jeonghan was trying to conceal.

He was partially turned to his window, his elbow placed on the windowsill of the car as he rubbed two fingertips on his lips. He did this as a nervous tick, you knew.

You reached out to grab his hand. “Hey,” you said softly. “Are you okay?”

Jeonghan blinked, clearly snapped out of his thoughts. But he turned to you, turning his hand over to squeeze yours. “I’m fine,” he replied with a gentle tone, taking a deep breath. “Just nervous.”

You showed him a smile. “You’re going to do fine,” you asserted.

He pressed his lips in a kind smile, but you could tell he was still nervous. “What if I say something wrong?”

“What could you possibly say?” you shrugged.

“I don’t know. I stutter when I get nervous,” he chuckled, giving your hand another tight squeeze. 

You laughed softly, but then you noticed something in him. Something that wasn’t just connected to tonight’s evening. 

Jeonghan turned slightly on the seat, grabbing both of your hands in his. “Baby,” he breathed, and his sweet brown eyes connected with yours. “I wanted to do this differently, but I guess life has been too crazy lately and we really haven’t slowed down.”

You never saw Jeonghan this nervous, let alone this serious. Your tummy clenched, and your hands instantly started to sweat. “Yes?” you whhispered shakily. 

He closed his eyes, sighing slowly. “I really wanted to do this differently, but now I have no other choice,” he told you solemnly, opening his eyes. “Would you be my girlfriend?” 

You stared, thinking that you might’ve heard wrong. 

But he continued. “I feel sad that we started our thing with the wrong foot. But now I’m about to launch you to the world as my girlfriend without me ever asking you formally.” 

Your heart squeezed. “Hannie—” 

“I know I’m sounding ridiculous,” he chuckled. “But I love you. I want to do things right with you.” 

That instantly warmed you up. You smiled at him. “You know my answer is yes,” you told him, your tone honeyed. “I love you too.” 

Jeonghan smiled as well, leaning to press his forehead on yours. “I love you, baby,” he repeated, softer now. 

The black car rolled to a stop at the curb outside the hotel. Jeonghan let out a labored breath, forcing himself to calm down.

“Ready?” you asked.

He shook his head, his eyes catching sight of the man standing outside the door. “Nope,” he said honestly. “But I’m still doing it.”

Jeonghan’s door opened, camera flashes popping instantly as he stepped out of the car. He fixed his jacket, turning around to extend a hand at you. You grabbed his hand, stepping out of the car too and standing now next to him.

Flashing lights showered over you, and you could immediately tell that they were not solely focused on Jeonghan. People knew your name now. Your true name and not the author’s. The first person calling for you wanted you to turn to their camera lens. And at first, to hear your name being called out loud made your stomach turn.

Jeonghan linked your fingers with his, squeezing your hand tightly. And then you knew what had truly been making him nervous.

You were no longer a mystery. You were now a story. Something for the world to put a name on it, to fully appreciate. 

“Ready?” he murmured, leaning to your side slightly.

You wondered if he’d read the anxiety in your face now. “No,” you said, giggling. “But we’re here. There’s no backing out now.”

He nodded. “No backing out,” he repeated.

You walked hand in hand with him just like you did that same morning. But now it was in full view of the world, the gossip sites, and the media. The first few photos were polite, routinary. Jeonghan was standing stiffly at your side, smiling carefully.

But people started calling his name, trying to get his attention. He turned to give you a look and you nodded at him, stepping back to let him do his thing. The questions started as soon as he approached.

The first few questions were peaceful, aimed to the true purpose of his attendance at that event. “How does it feel to be stepping into this new role?” Was one of the first questions, or “Who are you excited to see tonight?”

But as he continued going down the line of interviewers from magazines, websites and such, smiling and replying to each question politely. And Jeonghan, being who he is, noticed everything. He knew everything was going to be livestreamed and knew that he would soon see his face plastered on social media.

It wasn’t his first rodeo, but it sure was the first being so… personal.

Jeonghan turned to you, grabbing your hand as his face contorted into an expression of true anxiety. He broke into a chuckle once you noticed the very obvious state he was in. “Let’s get inside,” he muttered, nodding to his team.

“You have one more,” one of his coordinators told him, nodding to a male interviewer.

He didn’t have time to let go of your hand when the person was already speaking to him. The man greeted him amicably, to which Jeonghan replied in kind, bowing his head. The guy wasted no time, saying: “You’ve been keeping things under wraps for a while. You’re for sure surprising us and your fans. Should we be asking about the project or the relationship?”

Jeonghan blinked, an anxious feeling gnawing inside him. But he kept himself composed. “We’re here to celebrate the work of our colleagues, nothing more.” 

Unfortunately, that just opened the door for everyone to scream questions at him. Questions that were to some extent, loud enough for you to hear and understand clearly, even though the voices clashed and mixed.

“Is it just the two of you tonight?” one woman quite literally shouted from the back. At the same time, someone asked: “Is this your official debut as a couple?” and one faceless voice from the bunch spoke loudly: “How long have you been keeping it a secret?”

At that, Jeonghan pulled you away from the swarm of microphones, video cameras and lights. And you caught a glimpse of his face as you tried to keep up with his pace, he was not pleased.

“That was insane,” he said under his breath, motioning for you to walk before him.

You wished to have something witty to say, if it weren’t for the anxiety and adrenaline coursing through your veins. “It’s my first time facing this,” you commented, shaking your head lightly as you got to the entrance to the hotel. “It is insane.”

“If it makes you feel better, it’s my first time getting questions like this and not people asking who I am,” he chuckled, but then slowed down to direct a scrutinous look at you. “Are you okay?” he mumbled, softer now.

You walked at his pace, almost coming to a halt. “I am,” you nodded.

He released a shaky breath. “Well, I was terrified,” he admitted shyly.

Your heart stuttered. “I know. I could tell,” you teased gently. “But you handled it well.”

“You think so?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, of course I do,” you replied with a light smile, bumping his shoulder with yours.

The anxiety on his face was broken by a broad smile. He panned at you from your feet to your head. “You stole a lot of looks tonight,” he said, biting his lower lip as he wrapped an arm across the small of your back, bringing you closer to him.

You huffed, blinking slowly. “It’s the dress,” you said, looking down at your chest. “My boobs look great, though.”

Jeonghan coughed up a laugh. “You’re right about that,” he said under his breath. But then he seemed to compose himself, directing you another look. “You look gorgeous,” he said softly.

“Thank you, Jeongjeong,” you replied, feeling your chest heat up.

You looked around the lounge, which was dimly lit and completely covered in luxury. There were velvet cushions and high-top tables, and just enough distance from the noise of the gala.

“Do you think Joshua is already here?” you asked, anxiously looking for him.

He followed your gaze while gnawing at his bottom lip. “I don’t know, but we shouldn’t look too suspicious.”

You looked at him. “There are no cameras inside this place,” you pointed out. “There’s no harm in just hanging out with him, right?”

Jeonghan tilted his head to one side. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said, hesitantly. Then, he sent a look around too, through the unfamiliar faces. “Where is he?” 

As soon as he got there, Joshua wanted to leave. 

He had slipped into the side lounge quietly, pleased that his presence had gone unnoticed by the media. He had nearly begged his manager to find a way to get into this premiere without having to answer any questions. And he was lucky enough that he didn’t have to do any promotional duties for his band.

Midnight Haze had amassed recognition.

So he walked there with his hands tucked in the pockets of his black pants. His hair was styled in a messy way, strands of hair hanging messily in every direction while the rest of his hair was slicked back.

When he got in there, he noticed a few familiar faces, and he couldn’t quite avoid the attention he got from other famous people.

But then he saw you.

Joshua would never be able to explain what he felt when he saw you. In the room full of people, he heard your voice, instantly plunging him back to the day he saw you for the first time. Even though it happened a long time ago, his reaction was the same—he searched your face, saw your eyes and lips. You were gorgeous, the prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on.

His nervousness evaporated when he saw you standing proudly, grabbing Jeonghan’s arm. And that’s when Joshua remembered the whole point of this. You had renounced a big part of your life that you held with secrecy, stepping into the light not only with Joshua’s best friend—but with his new life partner too.

And you both stood out—you always did. A slight feeling of perplexity coursed through Joshua when he noticed just how attractive you both were. You and Jeonghan attracted everyone’s eyes, and you simply had a very special synergy with Jeonghan.

Joshua approached you and Jeonghan with effortless calm, one that he could only get once he saw how happy you looked. You were so wrapped up in a conversation with Jeonghan that you didn’t notice him coming closer.

But Jeonghan did. He raised his gaze, finding Joshua standing right behind you. An easy smile drew on Jeonghan’s face, blinking at him slowly.

“Are they serving any champagne here?” Joshua said.

You winced, caught off guard by his presence. “Oh god,” you muttered, turning around. Your eyes glinted as you searched Joshua’s face. “Hi, babe!” You mumbled sweetly, not even trying to hide the affection brimming from you.

Jeonghan wrapped his arm tighter around your waist. “Easy there,” he muttered beside you.

You giggled bashfully. “Sorry, force of habit,” you said.

Jeonghan slid a flute of the champagne he decided to neglect across the high-top table. “Here. Drink mine,” he said.

Joshua gave him a thankful nod. Drinking the contents from the flute in one go. He directed you and Jeonghan a cheeky look. “You two look very convincing,” he said.

Jeonghan arched one eyebrow. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Absolutely,” Joshua said with ease. “But I shouldn’t hover for too long. I don’t want this to backfire on our faces.”

You listened intently, keeping your gaze on both of their faces.

“I think you could stay here for two more minutes without drawing unwanted attention,” Jeonghan rolled his eyes slightly. “You’re not that popular,” he teased.

Joshua smiled, giving you an amused look. “Okay. Two minutes.”

You laughed, unsure. “So do you think this is working?”

He scratched his forehead hesitantly. “I guess we’ll have to see,” he pointed at you and Jeonghan. “I’m pretty sure that you’ve convinced at least some people. And I’m pretty sure that the media is already frothing at the mouth about your debut.”

Jeonghan sighed, pressing his lips in a tight line.

You noticed it. “Are you sure you’re okay about this, Joshua?” you insisted.

Joshua tilted his head back a little, looking at the ceiling. “The fewer questions they ask about the three of us, the better.”

“They did ask, though,” Jeonghan said, keeping his tone flat.

But in his eyes, you could see a twinge of deception. He didn’t like this plan. And he didn’t like that Joshua had the urge to keep secrets. You knew this.

“That’s why I have to step back a little. Let you two shine,” Joshua urged, motioning a step back.

But you stepped toward him, Jeonghan’s hand slipping in yours, trying to reel you back to him discreetly. “Seriously, Josh, are you okay?”

If Joshua said no in that moment, you would drop the act. Deep down, you didn’t care about appearances, about what the media or the world thought.

But Joshua looked at you and smiled. It wasn’t a forced smile, but something softer, easier. “I’m fine, baby,” he muttered quietly, but then glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention.

Jeonghan stepped closer to you, placing a possessive hand really low on your hip.

Joshua noticed the subtlety of the action and thanked that Jeonghan shared the same thoughts as him. “As long as we don’t get weird headlines or speculations, I’ll be okay. You two make the cute couple the media can root for and I get to stay in the background where the real stuff happens.”

Jeonghan huffed. But he concealed his reaction by moving his hand from your hip to your lower belly, keeping you close to him. “Very selfless of you.”

Joshua smirked. “Don’t ruin it.”

They shared a look, and you didn’t need to tap into their special connection to know what was happening. Jeonghan was still unsure about this plan, but seeing Joshua relieved that it was working put him at ease.

Joshua cleared his throat, stepping back again. “I’ll go check on the boys,” he said, finally removing his gaze from Jeonghan. “Tell me when you’re ready to go home, yeah?”

“Of course,” Jeonghan replied.

“Just wanted to say that you two are handling this well,” Joshua said, giving you both a gentle smile.

You huffed. “We’re pros,” you rolled your eyes playfully.

He started walking away, but a thought made him stop briefly: “At least... we’re the ones who know what really happens behind closed doors.”

You smirked, a nice warm feeling blooming in your chest. Joshua gave Jeonghan a quick wink, then walked away, leaving you and Jeonghan in the spotlight.

It was well past midnight when you got back home.

The elevator ride was quiet. The kind of quiet that spoke more about your collective tiredness than anything else. Socializing came harder for you than for your boyfriends, and it was a good thing that not much of it was required from you. But you still felt drained.

The apartment was dark. You slipped out of your high heels the minute you crossed the door, fumbling to get the light switch.

Jeonghan beat you to it, turning the lights on with one hand as he slid his jacket off his shoulders. Joshua came in last, slower than usual. He was tired, and even though the night had gone well, you could tell that there was a lot he was leaving unsaid.

He loosened his jacket, following you and Jeonghan to the bedroom and just stood there for a minute, like he didn’t know what to say once the noise was over.

You turned to him as you removed your earrings. “You disappeared after the set.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I know,” he said, unbuttoning his black dress shirt. “There were a lot of people looking.”

Jeonghan reappeared from the kitchen holding a large glass of water. “You didn’t have to vanish either, you know? You were also a guest.”

“It felt safer,” he replied gently, removing the shirt from his shoulders.

Jeonghan let out a labored sigh. “Well, I’m done with that for tonight,” he said, undoing his shirt as well.

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around both of them. “I’m glad we’re back home.”

A fraction of a second passed before you felt both Jeonghan and Joshua ease into the hug. You felt one of them loosen up and heard the other one sigh. You lifted your head, sneaking a look at them as Joshua rested his forehead on Jeonghan’s shoulder. “I needed this,” he said.

Jeonghan sighed, slowly leaning over to press a long kiss on Joshua’s head.  “Me too,” he replied softly.

Joshua lifted his head, his face so close to Jeonghan’s that it was easy for him to press his lips against Jeonghan’s. It was a sweet kiss that was immediately reciprocated, making Joshua hum.

Clothes came off first, jackets and shirts tossed over the chair that was pushed to the corner of the bedroom. No one spoke for a while, and you just co-existed with them in silence, letting it settle around you comfortably.

You flopped onto the bed with a groan, crawling to lie down right in the middle, as you usually did. Now the bed was wider and more spacious than your previous one, so there were enough pillows and space to stretch and get comfortable.

Joshua came to your side, curling up next to you. You rested your head against his chest, humming slightly as his fingers started playing with your hair.

“Tomorrow’s the recording session, right?” you asked him.

“Yeah, baby,” he replied, his tone waning in tiredness.

Jeonghan came back to the bedroom, sighing as he lay down on your other side. “What’s happening tomorrow?” he asked.

“I’m having a live session recording with the boys,” Joshua explained, though this was the second time he told Jeonghan this information.

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” Jeonghan said with a tone of acknowledgement.

“Are you nervous, Josh?” you asked softly.

“No,” he told you. “We’ve rehearsed a lot. I could practically do it with my eyes closed now.”

“How humble of you,” you giggled softly.

“What can I say?” Joshua smirked, giving you a quick wink. “We’re pros.”

You smiled in response, enjoying the look of quiet confidence he showed you.

Joshua was nervous.

There were only a few times when he truly felt like his anxiety was eating him alive. The feeling fluttered in his stomach, quick and alarmed, demanding attention. It also made his limbs tremble if he let himself feel it.

But he fought against it. He knew that he felt like this only because he cared so much. This was important, and it was a milestone that he had wanted to achieve ever since he took on the path of being a musician.

The makeup artist took little time with him, focusing more on styling his hair than his face. They adorned his ears with subtle earrings, his neck with a heavy choker made of leather and chain; and lastly and a detail that couldn’t be missed, they changed the stud piece for a black one on his eyebrow.

As he sat in front of the vanity mirror, he rehearsed in his head one more time. He didn’t doubt his ability to get the show done. It was more like a mechanism to fight off the anxiety running around in circles inside of him.

You’ll do amazing, babe. You got this. I love you, read your last text message, which sat at the bottom of the chat. You always had great timing for these types of things, always saving him when he needed it the most.

Joshua stood up from the chair once the makeup artists took a step back and went on to work on his bandmates. He grabbed the leather jacket from the clothing rack that was labelled with his name and put it on with a short sigh, letting out the last bit of his nervousness.

And as he was getting mic’d up, his mind slowly got into a state of unbreakable focus and determination. His body only followed, forgetting about the restlessness caused by his heart.

There were three stationary cameras planted on each side of the studio, where the positions would be filled by Joshua, Jihoon, and Vernon respectively. Their places were marked solely by their equipment, which where carefully and very stylistically placed—Joshua’s vintage guitar was neatly placed in a stand right next to his microphone.

A cameraman was standing behind Joshua. He could sense the air settle as the director gave the signal for the cameras to start rolling, the lights focused on each spot in burning oranges and muted yellows—and the room fell dead quiet.

Through the corner of his eye, Vernon and Jihoon walked into the studio and stepped on the small stage with an easy gait, quickly getting into their positions. That was Joshua’s cue to follow, and he started walking.

The camera moved with him, filming the back of Joshua’s head as he walked to his position, grabbing his guitar by the neck and strap and adjusting it on his shoulder as he regularly would. Stillness still ruled over them, aside from the quiet rustle of fabric, and the soft intakes of breath of his bandmates and him, who were all mic’d up.

Joshua grabbed the lonely pick that you had given him once from the mic stand. He lifted his gaze, directing a look at his bandmates, and with enough confirmation that they were ready, he started strumming his guitar.

The song was a quieter version of one of Midnight Haze’s most popular songs. They had adapted it only for this occasion, as they had with the rest of their setlist. The idea was for Midnight Haze to show their range, and that came with no difficulty for them. The first song was the one they usually played to open their shows, and it flowed quite differently now that it was stripped of the trashing of the drums and the strumming rhythm of the guitars.

But as the setlist went on, just like a regular show would, Joshua closed his eyes to relish the euphoric feeling of playing music—of his fingertips dancing on the neck of the guitar, the gentle sway of his body as he practically swam with the lyrics.

He felt how much he thought of you when he wrote music. Oh, because the lyrics weren’t subtle at all, they have never been. And in his heart, just like always, he felt you there with him on stage.

“You might be the melody I need, The only one that makes my heart complete, But you kiss me like I’m leaving, Even when I say I’ll stay.

Don’t let me go, Take me with you, Don’t let me go, Stay here with me.

I can give you what you want, I can’t give you what you want.”

His eyes remained close through each line, which he sang with a heavy layer of significance, letting them out with a rawness that he felt in his very soul. As if he were still deciding to set his emotions free, or let them choke him out.

But the attempt to keep his emotions to himself was merely futile. Soon, he became a puppet to his own songs, the words resonating in his chest, each chord he struck hitting a particular place in his heart.

And then, he was truly one with his music, as he always intended to be.

Time stopped and lost all importance—he forgot that he was supposed to be looking good for the camera while playing music nonstop. And when he looked at his bandmates, he was lucky to see that he was not alone in that.

The set was coming to an end, and Joshua almost didn’t want to let go. As much as he loved standing on a stage, sharing his music with tens of thousands of unknown faces—he was completely enamoured with a quiet, smaller session like this. It sent him back to the days when his only stage was Seungcheol’s bar, and only twenty people were there to listen.

Now, he knew that hundreds of people would watch this video. But in that moment, he didn’t really think of that. Right at that moment, he let himself feel his music just for the sake of feeling it. This was his dream.

And when the final song ended, the echo of the room captured Joshua’s voice, wrapped in the last chords of his guitar. The sound was beautifully haunting, like water running in a distant dream, fading into the stillness of the night. He stood there, hand wrapped around the neck of his guitar, while the other came to grip the mic as he sighed out the last note.

He blinked slowly, realizing that he hadn’t really engaged with the cameras at all. He had forgotten about them. About the people standing in the room with him.

Because no one moved, it was as though no one would dare to.

But then, someone clapped. One cooed in amazement. Then more joined in, putting their hands together, politely restrained, but there was a clear hint of awe.

From behind the sound console and cameras, the sound engineer nodded. “That was perfect,” she said.

And the director also gave a nod. “That’s it,” he agreed. “In one take.”

Joshua placed his hands on his hips, realizing he was out of breath. “Really?” he asked, shooting a glance to his bandmates, who were equally astounded.

“Yes! Really,” the director laughed.

People started moving again, turning off the spotlights, picking up equipment and such. The spell was broken now, but traces of it still lingered in the air for Joshua, even as he removed his in-ears, coiling the cord around his fingers.

A crew member came up to Joshua as he gathered with his bandmates. “Are you guys coming to the afterparty?”

Joshua blinked. He’d forgotten that was happening. “Ah, yeah. Just… I need a minute.”

He gave the in-ears to the first crew member who offered to take them off his hands. Then he removed the strap of his guitar from his shoulder and tucked the custom pick you gifted him in the pocket of his jeans. The next movement was transactional—the guitar returned to its stand just as Joshua pulled his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans.

He had turned it off to avoid any potential interruptions. So when he turned it back on, he found out with a pleasant feeling that Jeonghan had also left a brief but sweet message right before the cameras started rolling.

You’ll do a great job, Shuji. Come back as soon as you’re off.

Joshua smiled faintly, his thumbs hovering on the keyboard as he thought of what to reply. I’m omw. I’ll change quickly and then we have a party to tend to.  

Jeonghan’s reply came back instantly. A party?

The elevator ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. This new building had a very ostentatious feel to it. The floors were made of faux marble, the walls slick and gray, and the small monitor to one corner beside the doors displayed the many levels he still had to go.

His new home was spacious, yes. But it accommodated three people perfectly. And although only two weeks had passed, there were still boxes full of stuff in the hallways as he stepped inside the apartment.

As soon as he closed the door, he heard a rustle of fabric, clothed feet running from the bedroom and down the hallway told him that it was you running to receive him.

“Hi, handsome!” you squealed as soon as you laid eyes on him, brimming with so much joy that it showed in your sparkly eyes.

You didn’t give him the opportunity to reply on time, throwing your arms around his neck as he barely caught up, wrapping his arms around your waist.

A gasp escaped him, but he was smiling already. “My love,” he murmured tenderly, sinking his nose into your mane of hair and using his arms to lift you off the floor. “Hi, beautiful.”

When Joshua lifted his head from the crook of your neck, he found Jeonghan—leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a light smirk displaying on his face as he looked at you with adoration.

Joshua might belong on stage, yes. But his heart was here. With you. With Jeonghan.

“Hi there, Shuji,” Jeonghan said, pushing himself off the wall and approaching slowly.

Joshua returned you to the floor, receiving Jeonghan with a brief kiss on his lips. “Hi there, you,” he replied, smiling softly.

“How did the recording go?” Jeonghan asked.

Joshua pulled his phone out, handing it to Jeonghan. “I recorded some snippets from the monitors, and it came out fine.”

“Honestly, I thought you would take more time to come back,” you said, still smiling softly. You slipped your fingers between Joshua’s, pulling him softly as you started walking in the direction of the bedroom.

“We did it all in one take, baby,” Joshua commented offhandedly, even adding a sigh.

“One take?” Jeonghan huffed. “Then it came out more than fine,” he said, unlocking Joshua’s phone by entering the number combination swiftly.

“I guess all that rehearsing paid off,” Joshua shrugged, starting to remove his jacket when you were all in the bedroom.

Jeonghan watched the phone screen intently, humming in amazement. “Oh, wow. You guys look like pros,” he giggled.

“We are pros, Hannie,” Joshua rolled his eyes, giggling too.

“You know what I mean,” Jeonghan replied without taking his eyes off the phone screen as he sat on the bed.

You climbed on the bed right behind Jeonghan, peeking over his shoulder to watch the video too. “Oh, wow, you look great, Josh,” you immediately said, adding a giggle. “I mean—you all look great. But you’re the most handsome.”

Joshua was undoing the button on one of the sleeves of his shirt when you looked at him. He flashed you a smirk, winking at you cheekily. “I know, baby,”

You smiled shyly, sneaking another look at the screen. “Oh,” you breathed. “Oh—you used the pick I gave you,” you realized, raising your twinkling eyes at him again.

Jeonghan blinked, looking at you and then the screen. “Why don’t you ever gift me things?” he asked, pouting dramatically as he set the phone aside.

You laughed, immediately catching on to his game. “I get you things all the time, silly.”

Joshua smiled at the little quarrel between you and Jeonghan. But as he finished removing his shirt, he saw both of your attention drifting to his chiselled chest.

Taking advantage that both you and Jeonghan were looking at him, he asked: “Are you guys going to get ready? Or are you going to show up in your pjs?”

“Get ready for what?” you asked.

“Didn’t you tell her?” Joshua asked Jeonghan.

Jeonghan sighed, a guilty smile painting his face. “I forgot.”

“There’s an afterparty the studio is throwing. I was thinking of going for a bit,” Joshua shrugged, as though discarding any importance to it.

“Oh, okay,” you said while climbing off the bed. “I’ll get ready.”

Jeonghan placed his hands behind him for support. He was still sitting on the bed, his gaze set on his two lovers as they got undressed in front of him. While Joshua did it methodically, you decided to put on a show, noticing his eyes on you.

Joshua followed you with his gaze too, as you removed your tank top, stripping your torso for their view. It messed your hair, but that brought a giggle out of you as you picked the stray pieces of hair off your face. Then, quite playfully now, you threw your tank top at Jeonghan, who, expecting it, caught it mid-air with a light but impressed chuckle.

“You’re in a mood today,” Jeonghan pointed out, tossing your tank top aside on the bed.

You shrugged, tucking your thumbs beneath the elastic band of your sweats and pushing them down. “I wanna have fun,” you said with a light tone. “I think we need a party.”

Joshua smirked. “Haven’t you been partying a lot lately, princess?”

“Let her have fun,” Jeonghan interceded before you could open your mouth. Then, tilting his head mischievously, he added: “Maybe we could help her with that.”

Joshua’s eyes scanned your frame up and down once, the soft smirk not vanishing from his face as you paced around the room, wholly naked now. “Mmn, what are you suggesting?”

You slowed down, now paying attention to what they were planning. You had grown used to their schemes and also to their playful banter. To the point that sometimes you thought they said things to see if you were actually listening and not in your head too much.

“There’s a toy we haven’t used, remember?” Jeonghan said, still sitting on the bed and looking at you and Joshua like you were both Jeonghan’s personal little strip show.

“There are quite a few we haven’t used yet,” Joshua replied, arching an eyebrow. He stood before Jeonghan, wearing nothing but a pair of washed-down jeans.

Jeonghan lifted his gaze, letting his eyes outline Joshua’s toned body. “The one we could control both with our phones,” he said, smiling once Joshua hummed in acknowledgement. “Yeah. That one. Go get it.”

Joshua’s eyebrows flicked once, noticing the snappy tone that Jeonghan had used. But with a smile on his face, he turned around and pulled a drawer open.

“What are you two doing?” you said, finally catching on to what they were about to do. You were about to put on a little black dress you picked if an occasion like this ever presented itself. It was tight, and it allowed you to go braless without minimizing your figure.

Joshua pulled out a small satin bag, handing it to Jeonghan with a bottle of lube. You were observing them now carefully, so Jeonghan just patted his knee twice, motioning at you. “Come here, baby,” he said.

You panned to Joshua, who stretched out a hand and grabbed yours, pulling you in between Jeonghan’s thighs. Joshua’s large hands slid from your shoulders to your waist, gripping you gently. Standing behind you now, he bowed his head towards your shoulder, pressing his lips to your skin.

You shuddered instantly, skin instantly reacting with goosebumps all over. “What’s happening?”

The bed was high enough for Jeonghan to look at your naked chest directly, noticing your nipples pert and hardened. A tiny smile appeared on his face as he raised his sweet brown eyes to look at you. “You’re going to use this for us tonight,” he said, raising the small satin bag in his hand.

“What’s that?” you said, though you already knew it was a toy. From the moment you saw Joshua pull the first drawer open, you knew.

Jeonghan fished the toy from the bag, discarding the latter somewhere on the bed. The toy was small, egg-shaped, and it hung from a string by Jeonghan’s fingers, it’s pastel pink and blues gave it an innocent presentation it—but you knew better.

“Joshua and I will control it, while you have fun tonight, yeah?” Jeonghan said. He showed you the toy, biting his bottom lip as his eyes surveyed your reaction.

You swallowed. “Will it be very noticeable that I have it in me?” you asked at first, not saying no.

“I don’t know, princess. We haven’t used it yet,” he replied, giving a nod at Joshua. “He bought it for us to play with when he went on tour last time,” he informed you.

“Why haven’t we used it?” you asked, trying to glance at Joshua’s face, but he was still comfortably resting on your shoulder.

Jeonghan shrugged. “We were busy with other things, I guess,” he chuckled. “Like you pegging me.”

Your eyes widened at the memory. “Jeonghan!” you squealed, trying once again to see Joshua’s reaction at those words.

Jeonghan’s laugh filled you with a tingling sensation that sat at the pit of your stomach. “Baby, don’t worry!” he said. “Joshua loved watching the video we made of that time. Why do you think he wanted to try it next?”

“You never told me you wanted to try it,” you mumbled quietly.

Joshua’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Some day in the future, baby,” he replied to you as he lifted his head from your shoulder, pressing a kiss on your cheek.

Jeonghan’s anticipation was palpable now. “What do you say, princess?” he said, tugging the toy by its string.

You nodded. “Okay. I’ll use it,” you said, but then paused. “But don’t go crazy with it, okay?”

Jeonghan chuckled. “Princess, that takes the fun out of it,” he said.

You disregarded his comment. “Should I lay down?” you asked curiously.

Jeonghan shook his head. “Just come closer, baby. And place your knee here,” he motioned you closer, patting the bed right next to him and taking the dress from your hands.

You raised your knee, placing it on the edge of the bed, as though you were about to straddle Jeonghan, but not quite so. Joshua pulled your hair back from your shoulder, leaving it bare for him to place more sweet, distracting kisses. You tilted your head to the side, opening your neck for his soft lips.

Jeonghan bent his head forward, meeting your chest with his lips too with a kiss placed on your heart. The contact of both their wet lips against your skin made you shudder, gasping softly as Joshua’s hands held you in place.

Your eyes fell close, relishing the sweet kisses that became needier as they progressed. Joshua continued kissing your shoulder, trailing up the crook of your neck, his hot breath brushing your skin. Meanwhile, Jeonghan kissed your chest, placing his free hand on your hip to bring you impossibly closer. He took one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue swirling around it to make you moan.

They knew that you could practically cum from a little nipple teasing. But this time, you felt like you were craving their touch for so long that it sent you into euphoria to finally feel it. Jeonghan suckled at your nipple—lightly at first, brushing the pebbled bud with the tip of his tongue over and over again. One of Joshua’s hands left your waist, his fingers teasing the nipple that wasn’t in Jeonghan’s mouth. You winced slightly when Joshua pinched you, and Jeonghan grazed his teeth on you in response.

With a low hum, Jeonghan pulled back, his eyes searching your face as his hand travelled from your hip to your crotch, slipping a finger in between your pussy lips. “So fucking wet. We just teased you a little, baby,” he said with a honeyed tone, biting his lower lip as his fingers explored your wet cunt.

Your face grew hot, but you angled your cunt for his fingers by pushing your hips forward. Jeonghan dipped his finger between your folds, finding your pooling entrance. “Hannie…” you sighed, dropping your head back on Joshua’s shoulder.

Joshua sighed, his arms keeping you firmly in place. But he found his own distraction, teasing your nipples relentlessly with the tips of his fingers as Jeonghan started thrusting his lithe fingers in and out of your pussy.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Joshua mumbled in your ear, making you shudder again.

You nodded aloofly, gnawing at your lower lip as Jeonghan’s fingers fucked you slowly. You were not cumming like this, you were sure of it, but it just felt so good to have them pleasuring you.

But then, Jeonghan inserted the toy inside you, making you snap your eyes open.

“Jeonghan!” you cried out, pouting at him. “Why did you stop?”

“Can’t let you have too much fun before the party even starts,” Jeonghan said, chuckling lightly at the expression on your face.

You clicked your tongue, lowering your leg from the bed. “Can I know how this thing feels like beforehand at least?” you asked, still pouting.

Joshua stepped aside, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “You might want to lie down or sit,” he said.

You sat down on the foot of the bed, looking at both of your boyfriends expectantly.

Jeonghan stood beside Joshua, who was looking at the screen of his phone intently. “Is it this?” he asked quietly of Jeonghan.

“Yes—the lower mode first,” Jeonghan instructed.

And they both looked at you.

“Is this thing on?” you asked. “I can’t feel—oh!”

The toy became alive with slow, gentle vibrations that teased a particular spot inside you. You instantly sank into a puddle of pleasure, pushing yourself down the soft covers of your bed.

“How is that, baby?” Joshua asked.

“That feels…” You drawled the words with a sigh. “Good. So good.”

Jeonghan giggled playfully, muttering something at Joshua that you were quite too gone to even care. But they were discussing that the toy was very silent, and they wanted to see if it would still be like that in the highest mode.

The intensity of the vibrations increased, shaking inside you in relentless, almost violent patterns. And because of its design, it was lodged in one particular spot inside you that felt so much and very intensely. You cried out loudly, legs tensing and hands curling into fists.

“God, fuck!” you yelled.

“How about that, princess?”

“T-too much!” you squealed, opening your eyes to see them both looking at you with fascination written on their faces.

“Maybe we should just keep it on the lower modes,” Joshua said quietly, still looking at you dazedly.

You were writhing on the bed now, gasping for air as the toy pulsated inside your walls listlessly. “God… m-make it stop, please,” you pleaded, squeezing your eyes shut.

The toy died at the same time you felt it was just about to tear an orgasm out of you. You took a big gulp of air as soon as it stopped, feeling your body go lip almost as though against its will.

But once it was over, you wanted more.

“Oh… tonight is going to be interesting,” you said with a labored sigh, finding your shaking limbs to sit up.

Joshua and Jeonghan exchanged a meaningful look. You didn’t have to be an expert to recognize that brief gesture. You knew.

“You wanted to have fun…” Joshua shrugged, smirking mischievously.

You stood up from the bed, grabbing your dress from where it had been previously discarded to put it on. And then you grabbed a clean pair of panties. “If you two are going to have control over this thing, don’t you think it would be safe to put some limitations?”

“It’s your decision, princess. Whatever you say goes,” Jeonghan said as he put on some dark denims, which he paired with a black t-shirt and a leather jacket.

You smoothed the fabric of your dress while humming thoughtfully. “I think that as long as you don’t go overboard with it, I’m fine.”

Joshua smiled sweetly at you, approaching you to press a kiss on your forehead. “You got it, baby.”

“Maybe you could give us a signal if you want to stop,” Jeonghan suggested, running a hand through his long, dark hair.

You hummed thoughtfully. “I could squeeze your hand twice, or something,” you nodded.

“Or give me a very passionate kiss in front of everyone,” he said, giggling when you deadpanned at him. “What? It’s a great idea!”

The loft was already buzzing with life when you arrived.

It had an industrial feel to it. High brick walls with barred black windows extended before you on dark gray floors. A mix of blue and red neon lights gave the place a murky feel, like being in a club but exclusive only to friends. The place was already packed, and it surprised you to see some familiar faces, famous people such as actors and musicians.

But the world seemed to stop once Joshua stepped in.

All eyes were centered on him. Everyone stopped to say hi, to wave, and call his name. Your stomach dropped at the sight of people taking out their phones to snap photos of him.

Joshua looked over his shoulder to see you and Jeonghan. There was an air of coolness about him, but the flicker in his eyes told you he was nervous about this—about being so close to the limelight with you and Jeonghan closely behind him. An undercover lover, standing in plain sight.

Someone received him with a glass of whisky, sliding it into his hand while giving him a pat on the back. “There he is! I thought you had pulled a disappearing act!”

And that’s where the avalanche of praise started.

People came closer to Joshua, quickly surrounding him and swallowing him out of their line of vision. Your chest tightened once you couldn’t even get a glimpse of his face.

Jeonghan’s grip tightened. “Come on, let’s find something to drink,” he murmured close to your ear.

You nodded, deciding that maybe one drink wouldn’t hurt.

Slipping between the mass of unknown faces, you slowly became aware that Jeonghan was quite popular as well. People made subtle nods at him as you passed, by patting his back or his shoulder, to which he also responded politely.

But it was Joshua who continued moving through the loft like he belonged there. The smile he wore was intentional; you could tell as you cast a look over your shoulder, spotting him talking with people. He laughed and bowed his head, which made you think that he was being complimented.

Jeonghan tugged your hand, egging you close to him. “Stop gawking, people are already looking at us,” he told you, leaning towards your ear.

“Right, yeah,” you mumbled, turning to the bar in front of you. “Tequila?” you asked him.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips cutely. “Mmmn, I think we should switch it up a little, don’t you think?” he flashed you a grin.

“Gin and tonic?” you blinked.

He grimaced. “I hate gin.”

“You what?” you asked, scandalized, even though part of you already knew this bit of information.

He chuckled, tipping his head back. “Strawberry Mojitos?”

“Oh, you want to get drunk fast?”

“I mean, we gotta get through this party somehow,” he rolled his eyes playfully. “Besides—,” he leaned forward, his breath fanning your ear as he said: “—you need to get loose, princess.”

Your entire body became alight. You had forgotten about the toy still lodged inside your walls. “Okay, you may have a point there,” you nodded.

“Always do,” he said, winking at you.

“Pffft,” you huffed, giggling with him.

Jeonghan smiled once he heard your laugh, his eyes outlining your face swiftly. He turned to the bartender, raising two fingers as he gave the order. The very sleek and polite air to which he commanded himself was perfect—almost annoying. It drove you a little crazy.

It was hard to remove your eyes from him, but you still did it, scanning the room once. Twice. Then again.

Then your eyes found him.

Joshua had moved to the balcony. Leaning back against it and facing the loft. He was surrounded by unknown faces, silhouetted by city lights. He barely moved, but somehow, he sensed your gaze on him. Like something magnetic.

His eyes saw you, but he gave you no reaction. His face impassive as he yanked his gaze from you when someone called his attention.

It left you breathless. The empty exchange of glances, as though you were nothing more than his best friend’s girl. The past and present between you are shadowed by the spotlight on him.

Jeonghan circled your waist with his forearm, slipping a cool glass into your hand. He followed your line of sight, just as you were turning. But you saw, Jeonghan’s eyes were on the balcony, his features went rigid—probably encountering Joshua’s coldness too.

“You okay there?” Jeonghan asked you, glancing your way now.

You nodded. “I’m okay,” you said. Raising your glass to him. “It’s all part of the plan, right?”

The corner of his lips curled slightly. “Indeed, princess,” he said, clinking his glass with yours.

You both drank deeply, lowering your glasses once they were empty. Jeonghan sighed heavily, putting his empty glass back on the countertop. “Another?” he asked you.

You shook your head slowly, wiping the corner of your mouth with the pad of your thumb. “Hold your horses, cowboy,” you giggled.

“Right,” he smirked. “Lightweight.”

 “Don’t challenge me,” you quipped, but sheepishly.

Jeonghan didn’t listen to you; instead, he pulled out his phone, opening an app you didn’t recognize. “Are you ready for this?” he asked meaningfully, showing you his screen briefly.

You gaped a little, thankful for having tried it at home first. “Slowly, please, Hannie,” you said.

He gave you a smile in reply, but conceded to your request anyway. And your breath hitched, bracing for it.

The toy vibrating inside you instantly brought a hot wave of shame to your cheeks. You swore you could feel it spreading all over you. Your back instantly tensed up, and you quickly reached out to grip Jeonghan’s arm.

“Good?” he asked, his eyes scanning your face over and over.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I think I’ll need another drink.”

Jeonghan sighed with a smile on his face. “Your wish is my command,” he said gleefully, turning to order the second drink.

Your fingers were beginning to shake in response to the toy inside you. An idea sparked in your mind—maybe having the toy massaging your walls was making you feel more embarrassed than aroused.

You sent another look over your shoulder. Joshua wasn’t looking your way this time.

Maybe Jeonghan was right. Maybe you needed to loosen up.

Jeonghan handed you the newly filled glass, and you began to drink.

It was difficult to relax with the toy activated inside you. Despite the gentle, unstoppable vibrations inside you, you couldn’t really allow yourself to feel them. Your surroundings were overwhelming, loud, and buzzing.

“Jeonghan!” someone called, probably an actor or someone important, judging just by the appearance alone. He was tall, slender, and beautiful—already approaching. “What are you doing here?”

Jeonghan turned with an easy half-smile that was already fueled by the alcohol you were both quickly consuming. “Oh, you know me, I’m everywhere.”

The other man grinned. “Honestly, that’s not even a lie,” he said, shooting you a quick look, as though noticing you there for the first time.

Jeonghan quickly got to it. “This is my girlfriend,” he said proudly. “Baby, this is Doyoung, a friend from high school.”

You smiled politely, heart beating rapidly in your chest due to the anxiety running in your veins. “Nice to meet you,” you said, bowing your head kindly.

Doyoung seemed appreciative of your demeanour, replying to you with a bow and a smile.

Something inside of you blossomed with a mixture of shame and embarrassment. It excited you to think that no one but you and your partners knew what was going on, the game you were subjecting yourself to with them.

But at the same time, you were expected to play a role in this party. You were here as Jeonghan’s girlfriend, and he was expeditiously introducing you to new people, important people. You couldn’t afford to make a fool of yourself in front of these people.

You squeezed Jeonghan’s arm once, tightening your hand meaningfully.

Jeonghan pulled out his phone mid-sentence, but without stopping the flow of his words as he told a story to his friend. With zero regard for any potential possibility of someone catching sight of his phone screen, he switched the intensity of the vibrator inside you and pocketed his phone elegantly.

You relaxed your grip around his arm. Even though he hadn’t brought the toy to a stop, it was a significant switch.

But you were being edged. And that left a bite that you couldn’t quite fend off for much longer.

You cast another look over your shoulder.

However, this time, the scene you caught was different.

Joshua had moved from the balcony and was now standing closer to you and Jeonghan. He was, as expected, not alone. People surrounded him wherever he went, and even though the crowd was different this time, you recognized one face in particular. It was from a long time ago; however, the experience had left its mark in your memory, otherwise she would be just a face in the crowd. Just another person trying to catch five minutes with the famous Joshua Hong.

Her name was Thea. Your brain clicked with the information immediately. And from that moment on, you found it very difficult to pull back. As if the memory activated a slope in your mind, and your hands were too slippery to stop it.

Seconds. Just mere seconds were the ones you got to see from the scene unfolding before your eyes. Joshua was a few meters away from you, but close enough to discern the words Thea told him.

“Did you miss me, Joshie?”

Her voice was all but low. And with a jab to your heart, you assumed that she had nearly screamed those words to grab your attention. Did she remember you? You did not know. And you hoped she didn’t.

Joshua turned, and for the first time in the night, his shoulders relaxed. He smiled, but much to your painful demise, it wasn’t one of those smiles he used for the cameras. It was a smaller smile. Kinder.

“Thea,” he replied, still wearing that stupid smile. “It has been a while.”

You turned back. You couldn’t watch anymore.

But you heard her laughter. And the words she replied to Joshua were all but a ringing of her voice. Almost like echoes designed to haunt you.

You almost obligated yourself to pay attention to Jeonghan’s conversation with his friend. But they were far too deep in their chat that you couldn’t discern what the topic even was. You forced a smile when they both laughed amicably.

Doyoung excused himself, saying he had to say hi to other friends. He said goodbye to Jeonghan and bowed again to you politely.

Jeonghan wasted no time, pulling you closer to him with his arm around your waist. “He’s handling it. Calm down,” he muttered into your ear.

You winced in alarm, shock washing over you like an iced bath. Was your reaction too obvious? You pulled back, looking at him with a question written all over your face.

Jeonghan blinked, showing you a tender smile. “If anyone knows you well, it’s me, love,” he told you sweetly, a hint of playfulness in his tone.

“But I haven’t said anything,” you countered, frowning slightly.

“You keep gawking at him,” Jeonghan said, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “And he’s talking to his ex, so you’re obviously coming off as interested in the situation.”

You arched an eyebrow. “So you know her too?” you asked.

Jeonghan rolled his pretty eyes. “I don’t like what that tone is insinuating,” he chuckled briefly. “Yes, princess. I know who she is. I met her a couple of times after she and Joshua were done.”

“Oh,” you let out quietly, trying to sneak another glance at Joshua. “So you didn’t meet her when they were…”

Jeonghan shook his head twice. “Nope. But I know that she tried to sleep with him multiple times after they broke up. He said no every single time,” he coughed another chuckle. “So you have nothing to fear, baby. Trust him. He knows what he’s doing.”

Trust Joshua.

You were able to look past Jeonghan’s shoulder, spotting Joshua—still engaged in his conversation with Thea. She was gorgeous as you remembered her. Tall and slender, shiny hair, sparkly make-up, and long eyelashes. The way she leaned towards Joshua and laughed made your stomach churn, evoking a wave that boiled up the blood in your veins, so strongly that you were completely unsure whether it was just jealousy.

Maybe the jealousy was also fueled by the relentless massaging of the toy that was still lodged inside your walls.

You looked down at your shoes. “Am I making a fool of myself?” you asked.

“No, baby. You’re not,” Jeonghan said with a warm tone. He shrugged. “If anything, you’re just reacting naturally. I’d be concerned if you weren’t at least a little bit jealous.”

It was then that it dawned on you. “So you are jealous too?”

Jeonghan slipped his hands on your waist, trailing down until his fingers reached the line of your panties that were well concealed by the little black dress you wore. His smiling eyes looked at you up and down, pulling you closer with his hands nearly reaching your ass. “I don’t let it get to me anymore,” he replied sincerely.

You blinked repeatedly, overwhelmed partly because of his words and also because of his hands pressing on your rear. You placed your hands flat on his chest, trying to find some support there. “Anymore?” you wondered. “Were you ever jealous of me?”

Jeonghan smirked, as though already expecting your question. He bent over, pressing the tip of his nose against your cheekbone, angling your head back for him to kiss your cheek. He pressed his lips against your cheek, then against your ear, then lastly on the shell of your ear.

“No,” he replied to your question. “I liked you from the moment I met you. I wanted to know how your lips tasted, how your kisses felt. I wanted you for myself.”

You laughed. “Stop lying, Jeongjeong,” Your voice rose higher, manipulated by the arousal your body was subjected to, and also from the kisses Jeonghan was leaving below your earlobe.

“You think I’m lying?” he purred in your ear.

“Yeah,” you sighed, almost inaudibly. And it was then you knew the alcohol had poisoned your judgment. “I think you’re full of shit.”

Jeonghan laughed, the sound low and raspy in your ear. “Ready for more, princess?” he asked, pulling out his phone. 

You nodded, circling your arms around his neck to brace yourself. Your knees were beginning to tremble, and you knew that despite not being able to pay attention to the toy vibrating inside your body, it was getting to a point where you couldn’t just ignore it. Jeonghan amped up the mode of vibration, and you squeezed your eyes shut to embrace it.

“Good?” Jeonghan whispered in your ear.

You nodded, unable to talk.

“Just feel it, baby. Don’t worry about it,” he talked you through it, kissing your ear, your cheek and then your lips.

“Okay,” you whispered shakily, not sure that he could hear.

Maybe you were already drunk. Maybe Jeonghan was, too. But as seconds went by, the world surrounding you started to drift away, to lose meaning. Faces became blurry, music louder, and lights too intense.

You slipped your lips between Jeonghan’s, moving passionately, seamlessly. His hands slipped further down, now fully cupping your ass quite shamelessly. You didn’t know if this was for show or to fight back against Joshua. As though reminding him what he’s missing—or what he stands to lose if he lets his diversions go out of hand.

But Jeonghan kissed you deeper, a deep moan vibrating in your mouth when you rolled your tongue inside his mouth, feeling his tongue in the process. You were now fully making out, oblivious to the people around you, not caring whether you were seen or not. 

The vibrations were slowly and very efficiently building their way into getting you to climax soon. Despite the mode of the toy being still on low, the kissing and the groping were not helping in keeping you still.

You hugged Jeonghan tighter, arms still around his long neck. “Jeonghan,” you called out at once when you pulled back from the kiss.

“Still good?” he asked knowingly.

The music was loud, and people were either too drugged or too drunk to even look twice your way. But you still pulled Jeonghan closer. “I think I’m close,” you muttered shyly into his ear.

You could feel him laughing in the way he released air. “Just feel it. No one will notice,” he told you, pressing a kiss on your temple before adding: “I got you, baby. Let go.”

His arms tightened around your waist, keeping you steady as you crashed down against him. This orgasm was like nothing you’ve ever felt before. You were still on your feet, knees shaking, and barely keeping you up. You tried hiding your face on the crook of Jeonghan’s neck—but he was faster, catching you with a kiss before you could even move.

Jeonghan kissing you made your orgasm better—more violent and intense than before. You felt waves of heat expanding inside your body, easing all tension, and leaving you feeling languid, almost depleted of energy. You tried to moan, to writhe, but it was nearly impossible. Pleasure burned inside you like never before, and it was exciting.

You searched his body, finding his arm to squeeze, feeling as if you let the toy keep going, you might need to find a place to hide completely.

But before Jeonghan moved to get his phone, the toy was shut off. At first, you thought that the battery might’ve died, but as Jeonghan frowned at his screen, you realized something.

With little to no control over yourself, you sneaked another glance at Joshua. Where you had previously thought that he was letting the conversation with Thea be his diversion of the night, you were instantly corrected.

Joshua was watching you and Jeonghan. Even as he tried to pretend to be entertaining Thea, his focus was still on you. And he’d watched you cum in the middle of a crowd of strangers.

You saw it. Joshua’s reaction. Barely. His grip tightened around his third glass of whisky. Then he gave you a tiny smirk.

You tilted your head in reply, trying your best to give him the lightest of smiles. A you okay?

His eyes flicked through the crowd, then back. A tiny shrug.

He was surrounded. Untouchable.

You took in a big breath, letting it out with a small hint of frustration. You wanted him to be there with you and Jeonghan. You knew you were being just jealous, possessive. But you also didn’t care.

Joshua saw that from afar, and it was as though he had a direct line to your thoughts because of the slow blink he gave you. As though saying, I know. I see you. I want to touch you too.

Jeonghan’s arms came to hold you against his chest, pulling you closer to rest his chin against your head. “I guess he’s feeling a little bit left out too,” he said, and by the tone of it, you knew he was smiling.

You thought about it for a second.

You were still in a position where you could spot Joshua. Thea told him something that made him turn her way, the pad of his thumb still hovering on his screen. But he listened to her intently, his smiling eyes outlining the perfect features of her face.

It didn’t matter. Whatever good judgment you could muster was nullified by either the alcohol or the jealousy still running in your system. Greed took over you, and you were instantly switched to his position.

Whereas you were jealous of seeing the situation in front of you, Jeonghan was the only one who could have you in the light of the world. Joshua had made it so he couldn’t come close to you like this.

And something sharp twisted in your chest.

Thea giggled. She was gorgeous. Whatever the tone of the conversation was, it had her slipping her hand around Joshua’s wrist, making him act quickly and shut his phone off before her gaze could wander to his screen.

You didn’t wait.

You grabbed Jeonghan by the hand, pulling him through the crowd in the direction towards the first room you could find. Lucky for you, it was a bathroom. You locked the door, switching the light on in quick succession.

And then you pushed Jeonghan against the cold wall of the large bathroom.

A sharp exhale left his body, his eyes widening in surprise. “Someone’s riled up,” he smirked, but welcomed you in his arms, nonetheless.

“Shut up,” you sighed, suddenly feeling thankful that you wore high-heels to this stupid party, because there was no need to stand on your tiptoes. You grabbed his chin, pushing your lips against his almost forcibly, making him hum into the kiss.

“Yes, I am,” you whispered, wasting no time and started fumbling with the buttons of his silk black shirt.

“Wait, wait,” he stammered, trapping your hands with his own. You tore your gaze from his chest, looking at his eyes, still widened. “Right now?” he asked, sending an alarmed look around. As though you were still standing in the middle of the crowd.

You cupped his face with your hands, looking at him intently, from his eyes to his lips. “What, are you scared now?” you asked, lowering your tone to an innocent one. “You’ve been teasing me the whole night. Now you don’t want to?”

Jeonghan responded with a startled look. “I just didn’t think you’d want to do it—” he stuttered when you lowered a hand, undoing one more of his buttons. “—here, you know?” he laughed softly, closing his eyes as you finished unbuttoning his shirt.

“Well, you should’ve thought about that before you put that stupid toy inside me,” you countered.

Jeonghan swallowed hard. Your hand was running down from his chest to his belly button, the tips of your fingers brushing down the soft hairs of his happy trail. “You know, princess, you’ve become even more daring these past few months.”

You hummed. “Try having two insatiable boyfriends at the same time,” you quipped, smiling at him softly.

He was a squirming mess, his fingers shaking as he fumbled with the straps of your dress. “I’m the least insatiable out of the two of us,” he argued, his eyes flitting to the door behind you and your face. “We’re gonna have to do this quick.”

You batted your eyelashes at him. “Why do it quickly when you two have literally edged me all through the night?”

Jeonghan gave you a hollow laugh, successfully removing the straps from your shoulders and zipping it down to let it pool at your feet. His demeanour changed the moment he saw you half naked, the only thing covering you was your lace panties, which literally left nothing to the imagination.

“Because,” he started, his tone so low that you could barely hear it over the loud banging of the music outside. “I want us to come back home and have you all to ourselves, princess.”

His finger trailed from the dip between your collarbones then down to your chest, between your breasts. “We can’t do that in here, don’t you agree, baby?” he purred, his eyes lowering to follow the tip of his finger, pausing before the band of your panties.

“It’s not entirely my fault that we can’t,” you said, trying to shrug to appear uninterested. But the quiver in your tone betrayed you. Your skin tingled where the tip of his finger stood, right before the band of your panties started.

“Mmn,” he sighed, the sound deep and almost raspy. But still, it was sweet. Jeonghan was always so sweet to you. “Baby, you got all riled up with a little teasing, don’t tell me you can’t handle it?” he purred, the tip of his finger finally sliding lower, making it to the crotch of your panties.

Your eyelids fluttered when his finger swiped a line between your pussy lips, feeling the obvious heat and wetness pooling in your panties. “Jeonghan, stop playing.”

“Stop playing?” he asked, pulling back to look at your face. “You’re the one who wanted to have fun.”

You rolled your eyes, but just slightly. A smile betrayed you, too, stretching on your lips before you could command the muscles of your face. “Just shut up and fuck me, Jeonghan,” you said, trying to exert as much confidence as you could.

But he smiled, defeating you instantly. “Talking to me like that won’t get you anything,” he said defiantly. But clearly enjoying this, he bit his lower lip briefly, nodding at your lower half. “Take your panties off.”

You hooked your thumbs beneath the band of your panties, pushing them down your legs and effectively going completely bare in front of him. To the exception of your high heels.

His hands quickly found the button of his pants, undoing it and swiftly moving his boxers down. You saw him as he pulled his cock out, already hard and leaking for you. And suddenly you realized—he’d been playing with you the whole time, making out with you and holding you close as you had an orgasm in the middle of a party.

Jeonghan acted quicker than you. Before you could push him to sit on the nearest surface so you could ride him, he grabbed your hips, turning you over and facing the mirror. You saw your face, already looking fucked out—eyes glazed and dreamy.

“Hold this for me,” you told him, putting your panties in the pocket of his pants.

He sighed, the smile not quite vanishing from his beautiful face. “We’ve created a little monster, it seems,” he mumbled, looking at you as you took the toy our of your pussy. It was slick, covered in all your mess.

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, biting your lower lip as you reached behind to grab him. You rolled your hand all over his hard cock, feeling the veins in his shaft and the precum leaking from his dark pink tip. Your mouth watered, anticipating the feeling of him stuffing you full.

“I suppose we shouldn’t play with you too far next time,” he said with a low tone, his voice raspy as you guided him inside you, notching his tip in your entrance to taunt him. His hands clenched at your sides, his body tensing beneath you. “You’re so fucking wet, baby,” he sighed, tilting his head back.

You saw his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. His eyes, which had stopped looking at the door from time to time and were now zeroed on your reflection in the mirror. He saw your face, your tits, the way you arched your back and angled yourself to take him.  

“God, I love you so fucking much,” Jeonghan exhaled blissfully as he bottomed out on you completely. “That’s it, baby, take me. Take all of me,” he whispered, his eyes lost on the reflection of you in the mirror.

And you were also captured by the sight of him. His silk shirt was parted, slipping from his shoulders slightly. You had fumbled with his pants and boxers enough to get them halfway below his hips. But it was his face that you couldn’t look away from—the pieces of his dark hair were messily on his face, lips chapped from kissing you all night, and his eyes were darkened by a lust you were well acquainted with.

Jeonghan was looking solely at you. And you knew why. The muscles of your face had relaxed—whether it was because of the alcohol or the arousal flowing through your veins, you didn’t know for sure. But your eyes were dreamy, glistening slightly as you blinked slowly at him. Your mouth was parted, lips swollen, red and wet.

And your body—wholly naked to the exception of your high heels that you had kept on. Your tits bounced at each thrust Jeonghan gave you, nipples pert and swollen, skin already covered in a light film of sweat.

You were hot. Alluring, even. The near-animalistic way you were letting Jeonghan take your body made you even more aroused, seeing yourself angling your ass for his thrusts, arching your back to take him in deeper—you loved it. You felt obsessed with it.

Jeonghan showed you a fucked out smirk. “Like what you see, baby?” he asked, noticing that you were getting off by looking at yourself in the mirror. The way Jeonghan’s eyes scanned you through the mirror and then switched to looking at the line of your back all the way to your ass made you think that he also liked what he saw.

You nodded, unable to talk back.

Having him inside you satisfied an urge that you had been trying to keep at bay all night. You instantly moaned, unafraid of being heard, and almost careless. Something invaded you. The same need that crawled beneath your skin came back, but ten times harder now that you were bending over for him.

You pushed a hand against the mirror for support, but angling your ass for his relentless thrusts. “Hannie,” you mewled, taken over by the pleasure quickly building back inside you, but stronger now.

He closed his eyes, humming softly under a long, blissful sigh. “Fuck, princess,” he moaned, grabbing you by the hips to keep you in place. “I needed this.”

You knew it was a quick fuck, but god you wanted it to last. You were so needy from being teased for hours that you were almost too overstimmed to enjoy him fully. Especially when you were in a bathroom, a party was going on outside. And Joshua would probably take notice of your absence in the next seconds.

You tightened your jaw, angling your hips on him to search for that spot that never failed to drive you crazy. You moved your body back, but just slightly, ready to take him deeper inside your walls with each thrust.

Jeonghan noticed that you were seeking to satisfy yourself more than him. His eyes quickly scanned your face in the mirror, a smile stretching on his lips. “That’s it, baby,” he whispered, his hands grabbing your ass. A strangled moan spilled from his pretty lips. “Make yourself cum.”

He tipped his head back, his eyes rolling back too as he breathed in deeply. You knew he was trying to resist his orgasm, squeezing his eyes shut and sinking his fingers onto your skin. “Baby—fuck. Princess, I’m not going to last long.”

You whined. “No, please. Just a little more,” you said, not caring how pathetic you sounded. “I’m close too.”

He straightened, moving a hand from you to palm the pocket of his pants. He quickly fished out his phone, opening it and pressing the on button for your toy. You gasped instantly, feeling it vibrate inside your closed hand.

“Give me that,” he ordered, his tone raspy and low. Hearing the urgency in his tone, this ignited something in you.

You obeyed, handing him the toy without question.

Looking at you through the mirror, he pressed the toy against your mound, sending its intense vibrations straight to your clit. You opened your mouth, a strangled cry coming out of it as you practically started slamming down your hips with more urgency.

“Oh, Jeonghan!” you cried loudly, the sound high-pitched and raspy at the same time. “Fuck, Jeonghan! Yes, yes, yes,” you mewled, closing your eyes to welcome the orgasm you’ve been craving to have all night. It came in fiery waves, crashing over you and causing you to writhe and moan desperately.

“Fuck,” he gasped, and the hand that remained clutching your hip tightened.

With clean and perfect synchronicity, you grabbed the toy from his grasp, keeping it on your clit as his hand switched to grip your throat, yanking you back up. You gasped, instantly immobilized by both his hands on you and the quick jackhammering of his hips against your ass.

“God,” he gasped on your ear, and through the mirror, you saw him blinking slowly. “I fucking love this pussy. Feels so good.”

You let out a strangled moan. The sounds from his skin slapping against yours became louder, faster. And the squelching from your dripping pussy also became more noticeable, made you feel ashamed.

“I’m gonna cum,” he told you, directing a look at you through the mirror. “Want me to do it inside?”

You nodded, but barely. His hand still gripping your throat made it impossible for you to move freely.

A cunning smirk lifted only the corner of his mouth. “Course you do,” he whispered, kissing your earlobe. He was panting, trying to keep the pace of his merciless rutting. “Want me to put a baby in you?”

Your eyebrows instantly knitted, and a moan caught in your throat. “Please,” you mewled pathetically. The thought alone made you feral, even though you knew it was nearly impossible—the attempt to get you pregnant was enough to make you orgasm.

He pressed the tip of his nose against your ear, and you felt his breath fanning your skin and making you shudder. “I’m gonna make you a mommy,” he half moaned. “Make you mine forever.”

You were quite practically helpless. The vibrator was still pressed to your clit, but it was what Jeonghan said that sent you to another climax. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out of it, silently cumming hard until your eyes brimmed with tears.

Jeonghan smiled, as though the sight was something he wanted to achieve before he fucked his load inside you. “C-cumming,” he told you.

You opened your eyes, finding his face in the reflection. He looked languid in bliss and pleasure all over—sweating from the neck down, completely disheveled. He gave you a couple of sloppy, deep thrusts until both of your orgasms started to subside. Panting, you pressed your back against his chest, taking the vibrator off and then his arms wrapping you in a languid hug.  

Jeonghan dipped his head to kiss your neck, softly pressing his wet lips against the crook of it, and then trailing down to your shoulder blade. “That was intense,” he admitted with a soft laugh, his breath fanning over your skin.

You laughed, unable to comment on anything about it. You were trying to catch your breath, feeling the loving pecks Jeonghan was leaving on your back, making your skin prickle.

“Be my girlfriend.”

You blinked and turned over your shoulder, thinking that you had misheard. “What did you say?”

Jeonghan had a smile on his face, it was playful and full of joy. “Be my girlfriend,” he repeated.

“I thought I already was,” you replied, arching an eyebrow. You were convinced now that this was another one of his pranks.

He shook his head lightly. “I wanted to ask you again.”

You snorted. “Right here?”

He emitted a laugh, one that was loud and playful. You loved it. “I could ask you every day. Anywhere,” he said.

“We live together now, Hannie,” you teased him, tangling your fingers in his hair lazily.

“Maybe I just want to make extra sure,” he said while still panting softly. He gave you a lazy grin, one that made his eyes glint. “Before we start talking about marriage.”

Your heart slowed down. “You heard that,” you said, your smile fading.

He blinked slowly at you. “Of course I did, baby,” he told you in a slightly lower tone. “And everything that came after.”

“I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have talked about it without you,” you said, your heart squeezing painfully. “It just came up, and the conversation just flowed naturally.”

He tilted his head to one side, searching your eyes. “It’s okay, I get it,” he reassured you. “But I still want us to talk about it.”

You gave him a tiny nod. “Then we should get out of here,” you suggested firmly.

“Agreed,” Jeonghan smirked.

You braced yourself before he pulled out of you, and then you immediately started to clean up. Quickly, you gathered your clothes, putting them on as fast as you could with trembling fingers.

“Do you think we were too loud?” you wondered now that you were coming down from your frenzy.

“Pfffft,” Jeonghan giggled, waiting for you at the door with a hand on the handle. “Of course we were, baby,” he told you shamelessly.

You felt a hot wave wash all over your face, leaving a tingling sensation on your cheeks. “Fuck,” you gritted. “Oh, that’s so embarrassing.”

“Well, you didn’t look one bit embarrassed when you were screaming my name,” he mumbled under a breath when you approached the door.

You looked at him blankly.

Jeonghan giggled again anxiously. “What?” he shrugged, playing innocent.

“Do you think we’ll get in trouble?” you asked, now more nervous to come out of the bathroom.

“With security?” he asked, but then he gaped in acknowledgement. “Oh—with Shua?”

You nodded, unable to speak up.

“Well, obviously,” he arched one eyebrow. “I thought that was what you wanted,” he said. Then he opened the door for you, grabbing you by the waist to pull you in closer to him, and serve as some sort of shield as you walked back into the sea of unknown faces.

Jeonghan pushed his shoulders back, slipping his arm from your waist to grab your hand firmly. When you looked at him, you noticed him holding his chin up, a shadow of a smirk on his face as though telling the world that yes, you were his. His girlfriend.  

The music was still so loud that it brought you an odd sense of calm. As it reverberated against the walls and made your whole body vibrate, you knew that it would’ve been nearly impossible for everyone to hear you and Jeonghan.

But as you saw Joshua still standing in the same spot, you knew that there was no way he didn’t know what you and Jeonghan had been up to when you both disappeared. The quick, dark look he shot at you told you everything you needed to know.

A smirk spread across his lips, and then he blinked away.

Jeonghan squeezed your hand tightly. As though saying, I told you so.

“Can we go home now?” you asked, feeling shame heating up your entire body.

Joshua was still talking with his ex. But the fixed features of his face told you he was nowhere near pleased to be looking at her face.

The music swelled, louder, almost as though trying to expel you out of that place.

“I’ll call a car,” Jeonghan told you, leaning over so you could catch his words. “Let’s tell Shua, okay?”

But before you could protest, he took you with him, pulling you by the hand.

You tried slipping off, but Jeonghan took it as you were still frustrated with Joshua, so he pulled you tighter, making you unable to escape.

So you hid behind Jeonghan, trying to lower your face as much as you could. Jeonghan approached Joshua, leaning to his ear to inform him that you wanted to go back home.

And through the corner of your eye, you caught her looking at you. It was quite impossible to escape it now. Recognition flashed through the features of Thea’s face as she blinked at you. Her mouth parted, and you knew that she remembered you from that very brief moment where you both met a year ago.

It felt like that had happened a lifetime ago.

But Thea still knew you.

Her widened eyes panned from you to Joshua, and you could almost read her mind. The clear, there’s something going on here, was evident all over her face.

Shame coursed through you, but you couldn’t back away now. You knew that there would be different stories forming in her mind, but this is what you had to commit yourself to.

Joshua nodded when Jeonghan finished speaking. And you were irritated that the music was so loud, because you couldn’t tell what Joshua replied, but his demeanor was dry, devoid of all emotion.

But you were relieved when Jeonghan pulled you in the direction of the door.

Casting one final glance over your shoulder, you saw Joshua waving Thea goodbye. Her face was riddled with questions all over, but a hopeful glance lingered over Joshua as he walked away from her, following you and Jeonghan.

But then she looked at you. And a dark smirk painted her face.

You tore your gaze from her, now determined to look down as you stepped into the elevator.

The minute Joshua stood by your side, you knew you were in deep trouble.

He was quiet. Not the kind of quietness he exerted whenever he was tired or sleepy. No, this kind of silence was the kind he kept because he wanted to tell you something once he felt safe to do so. It was the kind of silence he kept before he bent you over to spank you.

It made you feel excited.

Jeonghan slipped an arm on your lower back once you swayed to his side, stumbling slightly, partly because of the high heels and the alcohol intake. “Steady,” he whispered, looking at you fondly.

“Mm, sorry,” you replied, giggling softly. You placed a hand on his chest for support and then leaned your head on his shoulder, using this new angle to direct a look at Joshua.

But he wasn’t even paying attention. He was holding his phone up, looking at the screen intently as though reading something very interesting or amusing.

Joshua was giving you the cold shoulder.

You turned to look at Jeonghan, who gave you a light smirk, lifting his eyebrows slightly. You sighed in response, either too tipsy or too deep into your post-orgasm haze to even muster a bolder reaction.

The car ride was even more off-putting.

Joshua kept his act up, not fading once in his own way to exert his dominance. He only did one thing—ignore you completely. And it worked, because once you were home, you felt the pressure of his silence start to choke you. It left a pulsated feeling inside you.

“Josh,” you called softly as he headed straight to the bedroom.

“Baby, you’re not getting anything out of it right now,” Jeonghan told you as he followed you down the hallway.

But you were stubborn. “Joshua,” you called again, your voice more demanding.

He was beginning to remove his shirt, undoing each button with one hand expertly. “Sit her down,” he commanded, motioning to the armchair placed directly in front of the bed.

Your heart fell to your stomach when you felt Jeonghan’s slender fingers circle your arm, pulling you to the vintage armchair. A huff escaped you in sheer disbelief. “So you flirt with your ex all night, and I get the cold shoulder?” you asked, feeling emboldened somehow.

Joshua had absolutely no reaction to your words. And you hated it. Half-naked now, he turned his back to you, pulling the drawer open and getting a pair of leather wrist cuffs, and with no word at all, he threw them at Jeonghan, who was pushing you to sit down.

Your body started heating up. You sat down on the velvet chair, a short sigh escaping you as you looked up.

Jeonghan knelt before you, looking at you sheepishly through his eyelashes. “Safeword?” he mumbled, testing you.

The word spilled from your lips. However, you held out your hands for him.

Jeonghan paused, the shadow of a smirk appearing on his lips before he grabbed one of your wrists first, strapping it safely to one of the arms of the chair. “Too tight?” he said, testing the buckle carefully.

“It’s fine, Hannie,” you replied to him. And he gave your other wrist the same treatment, strapping it to the other arm of the chair with the same tightness. It was tight enough for you to move your wrists slightly, but not loose enough so you could pull out free easily.

“Good girl,” Jeonghan whispered, a tender look in his eyes as he bent over, grabbing your leg by the back of your knee to place a sweet kiss on the inner side of your knee.

You giggled softly at the feeling of his breath fanning on your skin.

“The sweetest girl,” Jeonghan added, louder this time.

“Put this on her,” Joshua’s voice came like a whip.

Jeonghan obeyed, turning around to receive what Joshua had in his hand. It was another toy. But unlike the one you used at the party, this was supposed to be worn inside the tiny pocket in your panties, tightly pressed to your mound. Jeonghan turned to you again, consent written in his eyes as he motioned to your legs.

You shifted on your seat, tilting your pelvis up, inviting him in.

“So obedient now,” Joshua muttered under his breath, sitting on the edge of the bed to get a better view of Jeonghan sticking a toy inside your panties.

“She always is,” Jeonghan mumbled softly, lifting his face so you could see him wink swiftly.

You smiled in response.

“If that were true, this night would’ve ended differently,” Joshua said.

But Jeonghan didn’t reply at that. He swallowed hard, asking for permission once again with his eyes, and when you nodded wordlessly, he moved forward. His hands slid on your bare thighs, under your dress, pulling the skirt up to uncover your body from the waist down. He moved slowly, as though giving you ample chance to stop if anything wasn’t to your liking.

However, you were more than eager to know what was going to happen. Even more, you closed your eyes to enjoy the melting shudder that shot across your skin, leaving goosebumps all over it. Jeonghan’s touch was light on your thighs, and even more so as his fingers sneaked beneath the crotch of your panties. A sigh escaped through his parted lips when he felt the warmth and the wetness pooling there.

When he stored the toy inside the tiny pocket of your panties, Jeonghan got up, removing his leather jacket in the process.

“Why am I getting punished?” you asked almost innocently.

Jeonghan smiled without looking at you, as though telling you to be careful with your words, but at the same time enjoying seeing you dig your own grave in real time.

Joshua placed his hands behind him, leaning back on the bed as he looked Jeonghan up and down as though you didn’t exist. “Did you have fun, Hannie?” Joshua asked, his tone honeyed.

“I did, Shua,” Jeonghan replied, removing his watch with his lithe fingers. “And you?”

Joshua blinked slowly, shrugging. “It was fun watching you two from afar, even if I couldn’t join for a lot of it.”

“You were busy,” Jeonghan muttered, approaching the foot of the bed and standing right between Joshua’s parted legs.

You just watched, balling your hands into fists as Joshua fidgeted with the small controller that was between his index finger and thumb. “Busy talking with his ex,” you said under a huff.

It was then that Joshua acknowledged you for the first time. A smile spread across his lips, but he didn’t look at you, he didn’t even reply verbally. He raised his hands, placing one on Jeonghan’s hip and the other flat on the abdomen. “Take this off,” he muttered softly.

Jeonghan obeyed again, beginning to unbutton his black shirt with swift fingers. As Jeonghan’s shirt parted, leaving his chest exposed, Joshua leaned closer, placing a trail of kisses from Jeonghan’s sternum all the way down to his belly button. Jeonghan laughed softly at the feeling, and despite you being a mere spectator, you also shuddered, knowing well how Joshua’s lips feel.

The second acknowledgment from Joshua came when you least expected it. He pressed his thumb down on one of the buttons, activating the toy inside your panties. Your thighs tensed up, knees bouncing slightly as you fought and lost against the gasp that came out of your mouth.

Jeonghan turned to look at you, but he was quickly subdued. Joshua grabbed him by the chin with one hand, forcing him to look directly ahead, not at you. “Eyes on me,” Joshua told him sternly. “You’ve had her all night, fucked her for everyone to hear.”

Jeonghan smirked as he slipped the silk shirt off his shoulders. “Well, you didn’t look too bothered by it.”

“What did you expect me to do?” Joshua said, arching his pierced eyebrow. “Walk in there when everyone saw you two go into the bathroom?”

Jeonghan shrugged. “Maybe,” sighed shakily when Joshua started toying with the belt on Jeonghan’s pants. “Would’ve been fun. Very rockstar on your part.”

Joshua smirked bemusedly. “Did you enjoy it? Taking her in that bathroom?” he asked, bending his head to press a soft, wet kiss below Jeonghan’s belly button, right where his happy trail ends.

“Uh-huh,” Jeonghan replied aloofly, tilting his head back as Joshua palmed his growing erection beneath his pants. “She felt so good, Shua,” he drawled lazily. “She was so good for me.” 

“Mmm,” Joshua replied. Raising his eyes to look at Jeonghan’s face, Joshua muttered gently, his tone gruff with arousal. “Yeah, I know. She’s only good for you.”

You gasped, wrestling slightly against the handcuffs. The vibrator was gentle at first, merely distracting and not at all intense enough to bring you to a climax. But you could feel its gentle motions starting to cause a tickling sensation around your groin, making you writhe.

“I’m also good for you, Josh,” you said, trying to make him look your way, to do something to acknowledge you one more time.

But he rose from the bed, now standing face to face with Jeonghan. And then they dove into each other’s lips again. Joshua hummed into the kiss, the sound coming out almost like a purr. The kiss was sloppy, and you could see it progress into something more demanding, more urgent. Jeonghan let out a grunt, slipping a hand below Joshua’s nape to pull him in impossibly close.

But then Joshua pulled back, exerting his control again.  

“Get on your knees.”

With no hesitation, Jeonghan obeyed once again, dropping to his knees as Joshua and you just watched. But Joshua was still ignoring you, knowing that this was the kind of punishment that you absolutely hated.

But he pressed another button on the controller, bringing the vibrations a little higher. You gasped, closing your eyes briefly to get used to the change.

Joshua caressed the side of Jeonghan’s face, sliding a finger down the cut of his jawline. “Are you going to be good for me, Hannie?”

As you blinked again, you caught a glimpse of Jeonghan nodding his head silently, looking up at Joshua.

“Good boy,” Joshua whispered, smiling softly.

Jeonghan didn’t look at you again as per Joshua’s instructions. And jealousy gnawed at your heart when you saw Jeonghan willfully pulling Joshua’s boxers down. Joshua’s cock was fully hard already, veins trailing down his shaft, the pinkish brown tip dripping with precum.

And Jeonghan just didn’t wait a second longer. Circling his fingers around the thick shaft, Jeonghan rolled his tongue around the bulbous head of Joshua’s cock, bringing out an airy moan from him.

“Fuck,” you gritted, squeezing your thighs together, but in that, you just ended up pressing the toy to your mound tighter. You gasped, relaxing your thighs again but it was too late.

Pleasure built up quicker than before, the sight before you so alluring that you felt you could cum just from watching it. Jeonghan took Joshua’s cock into his mouth, bobbing his head back and forth, his mouth creating a wet smacking noise as he pulled away.

“That’s it. You’re perfect,” Joshua praised, his voice waning. He tilted his head back, swallowing hard. “So good for me.”

You whined, and the sound reminded Joshua of your existence in the room, amping up the intensity of the toy still in your panties. A sharp gasp escaped you, but you made no other sound to retaliate.

Joshua tangled his fingers in Jeonghan’s long hair, following the movements of his head. Jeonghan took the veiny shaft further, stroking what he couldn’t take into his mouth, humming softly as he pulled back, picking up a pace.

“Show her how it’s done,” Joshua whispered, a smirk painting his face.

“Josh!” you squealed. “Not fair,” you said through a sigh, squeezing your eyes shut as waves of pleasure barrelled down your spine, tearing an orgasm out of you. A whiny cry escaped you as you let the waves of pleasure take you, making you writhe desperately on the chair.

“Oh god,” Joshua drawled the words out, sounding gruff and languid as his head remained tilted back. You saw his throat bobbing, his breathing shift. “You can stop now, Hannie.” 

Jeonghan pulled back, and without hesitation, he looked your way. It was by sheer impulse, but his eyes locked with yours, filled with lust and expectation. You were coming down from your high, panting and shaking still.

“Get ready,” Joshua told Jeonghan meaningfully.

Jeonghan got to his feet, removing the last pieces of clothing with no hesitation while Joshua opened the drawers to get a condom and a bottle of lube. They both stood naked before you, acting as though you weren’t there at all while they shared a passionate kiss. Jeonghan placed his hands on Joshua’s waist while Joshua grabbed him by the face, deepening the kiss. You saw their tongues brushing as they both hummed into each other’s mouths.

A strangled noise slipped through your gritted teeth. You wanted their attention, you wanted them to turn to you and shower you with kisses instead. But you continued watching, still strapped to the chair, powerless.

“Get on the bed,” Joshua said, his tone raspy, denoting his need.

Jeonghan hesitated for the first time, looking at you swiftly through the corner of his eye.

“Come on,” Joshua said, patting on Jeonghan’s side twice. “Don’t make me handcuff you too.”

“Tsk,” Jeonghan laughed softly, but got on the bed, choosing an angle so that his head was resting on the foot of the bed. You noticed he chose this angle so his eyes could divert towards you.

“Mmm,” Joshua hummed, clearly noticing Jeonghan’s intentions. But he said nothing about this. Instead, he used the controller to bring down the intensity of the toy, letting you rest from its intense vibrations for a while.

“Thank you,” you sighed out unconsciously, feeling languid with pleasure.

Joshua made his first mistake. He lifted his gaze as he climbed on the bed, looking at you with a tender expression written on his face. But the look was fleeting, realizing that he was loosening his dominance with each subby act you made.

“See?” Jeonghan said, blinking at you. “She can be good.”

Joshua giggled softly, clearly caught by the moment. “She’s still not getting away with acting jealous at the party.”

Jeonghan moved his legs so that Joshua could slot himself between them, sitting on his knees as he reached to grab the condom while Jeonghan picked up the bottle of lube, squeezing a good amount of it onto his palm.

“I thought you liked that,” Jeonghan replied, his tone genuine and devoid of snark.

“Maybe I do,” Joshua said, rolling the condom down to his hilt and taking the bottle of lube out of Jeonghan’s hand. He squeezed some lube onto his fingers. “But then she thought it was a good idea of getting you to fuck her in that bathroom.”

“I think you like that too,” Jeonghan said, his tone becoming more strangled as Joshua started spreading the lube around his hole.

“Yeah?” Joshua breathed, tilting his head to one side as he pushed his hand, slipping the first finger inside Jeonghan’s tight hole. “You think so?”

Jeonghan was rendered speechless, but he nodded either way. Slowly, he rolled his hand up and down Joshua’s hard cock, lubing him up.

Joshua started thrusting his finger in and out of Jeonghan slowly, reaching for the forgotten controller to change up the speed on the toy. Your pulse quickened, heart frenzied to know that you weren’t completely invisible.

“I think you like knowing that she drives me as crazy as she drives you,” Jeonghan croaked, getting the sentence out as though he were completely unable to stop himself.

That made Joshua laugh, the sound airy and sweet. It made his abdomen contract slightly—Joshua was glorious, in all the extension of the word. Naked, hair messy and completely hard. And Jeonghan was too, except that his hair was messier and he was already dripping precum onto his own tummy. 

The sight of both of your boyfriends naked on your bed made you choke back a moan. Joshua stopped thrusting his fingers inside Jeonghan, taking his cock on one hand, and guiding it to Jeonghan’s hole. There was an exchange of looks between them, and Joshua proceeded right after Jeonghan gave him a quick nod. Joshua moved Jeonghan’s leg up to his chest, and then started pushing his cock inside Jeonghan, slowly. Very slowly.

You shuddered again, your bound hands balling into fists as you tried to fight off the vibrations against your clit, but it was impossible, you were cumming again on the chair, liquid came gushing out of you as you whined helplessly. “Josh,” you choked back a sob, panting and trying to stop it.

Jeonghan closed his eyes, mouth parting as his eyebrows knitted. You could hear the sound of the air catching on his throat, and Joshua’s moan in response.

“F-fuck,” Jeonghan sighed, shuddering hard but still not opening his eyes. “Joshua,” he moaned.

Joshua mimicked Jeonghan’s expression—brows drawn inward, mouth dropping softly. He moved his hips slowly, shallowly at first. Jeonghan brought a hand to Jeonghan’s tummy, parking it flatly as though to hold him in place.

You shuddered too, trying to hold out as much as possible, but as one orgasm subsided, another one started. “Joshua, please,” you whispered, tears brimming in your eyes, but you couldn’t stop. The pleasure was too intense, too hot.

“Oh, god,” Jeonghan sighed, grabbing Joshua’s hand that was still resting on his lower abdomen. “Please, please, please.”

Joshua smiled softly. “You like that, Hannie?” he asked quietly.

In that moment, you knew how Jeonghan felt—the stretch of Joshua’s cock inside you, the feeling so good, so delicious it consumed you slowly. Unable to talk, you whined again, trying to get his attention.

But Joshua didn’t raise his gaze at you, instead, he pulled his hips back slightly, driving his cock back in with one thrust, letting out a strangled moan. “So tight,” he whispered, blinking slowly.

Jeonghan was reduced to a complete mess—only able to let out mere babbles and long, raunchy moans. His eyes remained closed, his hand placed on top of Joshua’s while the other gripped the covers tightly. 

Carefully and slowly, Joshua bent over Jeonghan, pressing a hot but fleeting kiss on his lips. He put a hand on the bed, pushing Jeonghan’s legs up to his chest as they kissed one more time. And then Joshua resumed his deep thrusting, pulling back to sit on his knees again. 

“God,” Jeonghan exhaled as Joshua started pushing his cock at a steadier pace. Your heart twisted with jealousy again because all you felt was a tingling sensation shooting right at your core, making you squeeze your thighs again. “Fuck, Joshua, don’t stop please… please.”

“Mmm, I might just stop right now,” Joshua taunted. “See what you’ll do without my cock.”

“No, no, please,” Jeonghan whispered, tightening his grip around Joshua’s hand.

“You think—” he uttered, pushing his hips deeply, “—you’re cute? Fucking our Bunny in the bathroom without me—?” he drove in deeper, getting a raunchier moan out of Jeonghan. “—where anyone could hear?”

“Fuck,” Jeonghan sighed, pushing the back of his head against the covers. Ropes of cum spilled from his cock, landing on his skin, on his lower abdomen, and chest and just continued leaking. “Fuck, god, fuck,” he gritted, taking his cock with one hand and started jerking himself off until the last drop of cum dripped out of him.

The sight was just too much for you. You nearly screamed, cumming so hard that you saw stars behind your eyelids. “Fuck-k, Joshua!” you whined, thighs trembling, wrestling against the shackles to no end. You bent over, trying to resist the urge to squirt on the chair again, but it was pointless.

Joshua threw his head back, moaning salaciously as he continued fucking Jeonghan rutting against him desperately—spilling himself into the condom. Jeonghan was rendered languid, panting and sighing as he finally looked at you.

Jeonghan watched you cum for the final time, shaking, sobbing and crying. You were completely overstimmed now.

“Please, Josh,” you whined pathetically.

“Shua,” Jeonghan said. He tapped on the back of Joshua’s hand, snapping him out of his trance.

Joshua grabbed the controller, bringing the toy to a full stop.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, completely out of breath. You were an absolute disaster, shaking, crying, and your thighs were dripping with your mess.

Joshua was panting too, his chest rising and falling dramatically. “You okay?” he asked Jeonghan first.

Jeonghan nodded slowly. “I’m good. Go take care of her,” he urged.

Joshua wasted no time, pulling out of Jeonghan slowly and heading to the bathroom immediately to discard the condom. He came back quicker than you thought, kneeling in front of you to take care of the shackles.

“You’re okay, baby?” Joshua asked, his tone gentle.

You nodded, still feeling trapped in the aftershocks of the never-ending orgasm you just had. “I’m okay, babe,” you said. “I just need a shower.” 

Joshua smiled softly. “Let’s take care of you now, okay?”

Then, without any more preamble, he scooped you up from the chair, taking you to the bathroom where he had already started the shower. He didn’t let you move a finger, removing your dress and panties for you, and guiding you to stand under the shower.

“Good?” he asked, testing the temperature.

You shuddered blissfully. “Perfect,” you told him, giving him a tired smile. “Thank you, babe.”

His gaze softened, but he nodded at you and then headed back to the bedroom.

Some minutes later, Jeonghan stepped into the shower with you, giving you a sheepish look.

“You betrayed me,” you told him, pouting at him.

Jeonghan started laughing, shame painting the tips of his ears red. “I’d say I’m sorry, but,” he shrugged, placing a hand on the back of your head to then press a kiss on your forehead. “I’m not sorry.”

“Mmph,” you smirked. “I know.”

Then Joshua came in, standing right behind you. The shower was big enough now to fit you three, and water rained down on all three of you from ahead. Joshua instantly wrapped his arms around you, pulling you to his chest and pressing a kiss on your hair.

“Baby, you trust me, don’t you?” Joshua asked, sweetly now.

You turned to look at him, his warm chest pressed to your back. “I do, babe,” you blinked. “But I can’t help getting a bit jealous when a girl is all over my man, you know?”

Joshua giggled softly, tilting his head back a bit. He reached for the bottle of shampoo. “I was just playing a role, baby. I couldn’t even pay attention to what she was saying.”

“I think she might’ve recognized me,” you told him, rubbing soap on your legs.

“She absolutely did,” Joshua emphasized with a labored sigh. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t do anything about it.”

“Why?” Jeonghan asked curiously. “I mean, she saw Bunny with me, wasn’t that the point?”

“And you were practically flirting with her all night,” you said through your teeth, pretending to be busy scrubbing your body.

A firm slap was delivered on your ass, the sound wet and loud. You yelped, laughing immediately despite the quick shot of pain. “Josh!”

Jeonghan laughed as well, grabbing you by the arm to keep you steady.

“I wasn’t flirting,” Joshua mumbled quietly, but he diverted his gaze almost shamefully.

“It doesn’t matter if you were flirting, Shua,” Jeonghan pointed out, rolling his eyes swiftly. “We have to keep up appearances,” he told you directly now.

At that, you rested your case. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you said.

“But also getting jealous of it is also natural,” Jeonghan added, shrugging lightly. “So you can’t tell her anything about it either, Shua.”

“So you’re the only one winning tonight,” Joshua smirked.

Jeonghan mirrored the smirk. “Yes, indeed,” he said, lifting his chin proudly.

You curled up to Jeonghan on the bed, rubbing your feet together as he rolled on his side, facing you. He slipped a hand beneath your t-shirt, parking it right on the centre of your tummy. “You okay, baby?” he asked softly.

“I’m good,” you replied. “I’m ready to pass out,” you told him.

Jeonghan showed you a tender smile. “You don’t want anything else?” he raised his eyebrows. “Tea? Water?”

You shook your head. “I might be paying the consequences tomorrow morning,” you giggled shyly.

“You shouldn’t have drunk too much,” Joshua reprimanded, but his tone was devoid of seriousness. He climbed on the bed, flopping down next to you with a tired sigh.

“Let her have fun,” Jeonghan repeated, leaning over to press a kiss on your temple, his hand still parked on your tummy.

“Measured fun is also an option,” Joshua pointed out, smirking when you stared at him blankly. “I’m just kidding, baby.”

“I had fun tonight,” you mumbled, closing your eyes briefly.

“Yeah?” Joshua whispered, the weight on the bed shifting beside you as Joshua rolled to his side too. He pinched your chin, making you open your eyes. “I’m glad, baby.”

“I’m happy,” you told them both.

Jeonghan’s gaze softened.

“We’re happy too, baby,” Joshua whispered.

“I know,” you sighed, showing them a light smile. But then your eyes shot open again. “Oh, that reminds me—”

“What?” Jeonghan asked.

You turned slightly to look at Joshua. “Babe, we need to start thinking about the future,” you said promptly, getting a surge of energy out of nowhere.

Joshua frowned. “Right now?” he dragged the question for a few seconds longer than needed.

“Yeah, I mean… we live together now. And in the future, what are we going to call this?” you asked, swiftly sending a look at Jeonghan.

Jeonghan squeezed his eyes shut in secondhand embarrassment. “Baby, this isn’t the best way to talk about it,” he gritted.

“I mean it already has a name, right?” Joshua said, still out of the loop. “It’s a relationship. That’s what it is.”

“She means further down the line,” Jeonghan aided, still looking ashamed because he knew where this conversation stemmed from.

Joshua blinked, then turned more serious. “You told him?” he asked you briefly.

“No, I heard you talking about it,” Jeonghan said.

Joshua sighed briefly, but wasn’t upset. “I only brought it because I’ve always wanted this. I was just making sure we were still on the same page,” he said, shrugging slightly.

“But you didn’t think that I would want that too?” Jeonghan frowned.

“No—I mean, I was going to talk to you about it. I just needed to know she still wanted it first,” Joshua explained, calmer now.

You traced your thumb over Jeonghan’s arm, listening to them while arranging your ideas. “I don’t think people like us fit into wedding registries, you know, babe?” you asked Joshua, your tone kind and low.

Joshua let out a breath. “I know. But there are other ways,” he said thoughtfully. “And I don’t want this with anyone else.”

Jeonghan gave a soft laugh. “Can you imagine that wedding? Would be long as hell,” he joked.

But his joking gave you hope. “Imagine the paperwork,” you added, laughing too.

“Imagine the headlines,” Joshua also jumped in. “Rockstar marries his best friend’s girlfriend… and his best friend,” he said with a mocking tone.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t deny the warmth blooming in your chest. “It’s not that impossible.”

Silence fell, but this time it felt like everyone was considering that future.

Joshua’s voice dropped. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

“In the future,” Jeonghan emphasized.

“At least we know now that we all want it,” you said, your tone dropping halfway through your sentence.

“I agree with Hannie, baby,” Joshua spoke now after some seconds of silence. “We should take it slow.”

Jeonghan leaned in, brushing a kiss against your cheek. “Thank you, baby,” he whispered to you.

You nodded at him, turning to kiss Jeonghan back on the lips, then you did the same thing with Joshua.

Then the quiet that followed didn’t feel tense, nor complicated like all the times you’ve had serious conversations in the past. This time, the moment was filled with tenderness, wrapped in trust.

It was the start of a promise. And you’ve never felt more optimistic. 

✮ author's note: hi there!

i took so long to post this chapter. i began drafting it around june 9 and i'm just finishing it.

this month has been such a roller coaster of emotions, really. i moved out of my parents' house, i started a new job, and then, i lost my fur baby. i'm trying to think positively and keep writing because it's the only thing that truly gives me joy. even if my heart is broken, writing makes me forget about it for a little while.

so if you read this note this far, i thank you with all my heart. and if you'd like to support my writing journey, whether that's through kind words, sharing my fics, or joining me on patreon, it would mean the world to me.

but truly, just being here and reading what i write is already a gift

here’s my patreon, in case you’d like to take a look 🩵 alternatively, here’s my ko-fi

thank you again, really. sending love to you all 🥺

✮ CHAPTER NINE COMING SOON ✮

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

© TO HANNIEWEEN — I DO NOT ALLOW TRANSLATIONS, CONTINUATIONS, REIMAGINATIONS OF MY WORKS OR THEIR REPOSTING ON OTHER WEBSITES.

[aliendes]

potatoes are magical wdym

[aliendes]

DOKYEOM 😍😍

[aliendes]

Baby | ksy (m)

Pairing: Soongyoung x f. reader

Summary: Soonyoung had been in your life for as long as you can remember. You haven’t spoken since your wedding to someone who isn’t him, but when you uncover your husband’s plans to turn against your family, you don’t know who else to call.  

Word Count: 29,988

Genre: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers

Type: Smut, Heavy Angst

Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

Warnings: Full warnings available under the cut.

❀ A/N: This fic is a part of my newly announced Syndicates Collection. I want to emphasize that in this fic, everyone is associated with criminal behavior and deeply ingrained in a Syndicate culture in which illegal activity, violence and drug use is the norm. If you cannot handle that - especially because I make no attempt to moralize their behavior - this isn’t the fic for you. Additionally, there are violent scenes. It is a violent story. That’s okay if this isn’t for you, just skip this one. 

❀ A/N 2:  i love jo and jade the end <- left by @daechwitatamic while beta reading but also thank you @eoieopda for beta reading - also dropping this a day early because it’s @eoieopda’s birthday and I love them very big. HBD shrimpie.  

❀ Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All members of Seventeen are faces and name claims for stories. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios. Moreover, none of my works accurately reflect, represent or take a stance on the nuances of Korean culture, cities, people etc. Seventeen members are not Seventeen culturally, intellectually, physically, or representationally in my stories, and should be considered name and face stand-ins for made up characters.

Main Masterlist | The Syndicates Collection | Tag List Request Form | Ask | Playlist

Warnings: Graphic violence generally associated with mafia behavior, mentions of murder and blood, morally grey characters, themes of codependency (a little bit), a bit of a toxic relationship with Soonyoung and reader at times (they like to make each other jealous), bar fights, women being very petty, recreational drinking and drug use, heavy angst, depictions of death (funerals for parents), fight scene that ends in death in a domestic situation, difficult relationships with parents, reader and her husband have a terrible relationship and hate each other, depictions of blood and stabbing in one scene (it is the most graphic scene in the whole fic but kept short), reader agonizes over decisions she's made and struggles mentally with a lot of it, depiction of a full blown anxiety attack, sexually explicit content including fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, crying during sex, a lot of making out and biting, multiple orgasms... sorry this is so long, I want to over-warn for everything happening here so if I have missed something you think needs to be warned, please tell me!

-

Kwon Soonyoung is crying the first time you meet him. It’s a loud, warbling cry that you’re not used to, and you flinch at the pitch as you hide behind your mother. Soonyoung and his mother are standing in the grand foyer of your home, his fists twisted in her tweed skirt as he begs her not to leave him. 

His mother sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. You’ve seen her around before on the arm of her husband at your family dinner parties and for afternoon tea with your mom. This is the first time you’ve seen Soonyoung, though, and you’re unimpressed as his shrieking only gets louder when she crouches down to look him in the eye fondly, brushing the tears from his face. 

You don’t know a lot of other kids, but the noisiness of him startles you. Unsettles you. Sensing your unease, your mother reaches to pull you from behind her, giving you a single look that you know means please behave. You straighten immediately, turning to watch the sniffling boy as he calms down. 

Soonyoung is round-cheeked, his dark eyes swollen and face reddened from working himself up. His mother murmurs something to him and he nods, wiping the snot from his face with the back of his hand.

Seungcheol must notice the crying has stopped. He appears from the kitchen, giving Soonyoung an unimpressed once over as he strides toward you and your mother. She clucks her tongue at the cheek of her eleven year old, giving him a hard look. 

“Seungcheol, don’t be rude,” she admonishes. “Greet our guests properly.” 

Your older brother glances at you and you lift a shoulder. He’s going to lead the family one day, it’s important for him to show manners. You know this even at a young age - have always known what his place is among your family, what your place is. 

Cheol is in line to become the Tower of the Choi Syndicate, an empire that you cannot fathom at your age but you know is important. You are its insurance, a second heir if something happens to the first and a bargaining chip for future partnerships. A potential logician, if you’re good enough. 

Turning to Soonyoung and his mother, Seungcheol bows politely. “It’s nice to meet you, Soonyoung. Are you here to play video games?” 

Soonyoung perks up at that, looking at his mom, eyes going round. She grins and nods her head, pulling her hands from where they rest on his shoulders. “He is,” she agrees. “We thought it might be good for you to become friends.” Her gaze drifts to you. “All three of you.” 

That makes you frown. You don’t really like playing video games. Seungcheol never lets you win and forces you to play for hours in exchange for him letting you borrow his AetherLink at night to scroll the internet. You’re not allowed to have one yet, even though you’re only four years younger and all of your other friends have them to enter virtual chat rooms and play online games.  

“Do I have to?” you ask your mom, looking up at her. 

“Yes,” she says firmly, gently nudging you by the shoulder toward where your brother is not so patiently waiting to escort you to the gaming room. “Go.” 

“Why don’t you want to play?” Soonyoung asks, pouting a little.

“I’m not any good.”

“That’s okay. I’ll let you beat me.” 

Seungcheol moans. “Ugh, don’t let her win. Come on. I got the new Grid Fighters game on the Reality Rift console!” 

“No way!” 

Seungcheol grins and shoots off toward the gaming room, Soonyoung hot on his heels. You hesitate for a moment, staring after them with indignation. Soonyoung stops at the doorway, turning to you. His face is still ruddy from crying, but he’s suddenly smiling, cheeks round and smooth.

“Come on,” he whispers. “I’ll let you win, I promise.” 

-

“Holy fuck, can you let me win for once?” Soonyoung groans, rolling over on the mat. He’s dripping in sweat, wiping it away from his brow as he stands with effort. 

Grinning, you skip away from him, reaching for your water bottle. Music pounds through the speakers of the training room. Overhead, the blue neon casts an eerie glow over the two of you. Seungcheol ignores you both in favor of using the weight machines in the far corner of the room. 

On the far wall, your health and fitness data is displayed, each one of your bodies outlined and flashing as new data comes in. Right now, you’re in the red zone, heart pounding hard from your bout with Soonyoung, who is in the orange zone. 

Which confirms your suspicion that he’s not trying as hard as he could be. 

“Maybe if you weren’t afraid to actually hit me,” you offer. The water helps cool you down as you eye Soonyoung. Even at fourteen, he’s started to fill out his form more, arms corded as he hones himself into a weapon. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Seungcheol scoffs from across the room. Maybe he wasn’t totally ignoring the two of you. He drops his cool-older-kid act to turn and grumble, “He’d put you on your ass, Baby. Lucky for you, he always lets you win.” 

The nickname makes you bristle. You hate when people point out that you’re the baby of the family, like you’re something less than or incapable of keeping pace. You especially hate it when Seungcheol uses it to put you in your place, reminding you that one day your shithead older brother is going to be leading the family business. 

The family business is the reason you spar with them at all. Occasionally Vernon joins, though those days are as unpredictable as his appearances. Usually when he’s over at your house, it’s never a good thing. His arrivals are always bracketed with the sound of his father’s manic yelling and his mother’s frantic begging, followed closely by slammed doors and your father’s calming voice. 

Today it’s just the three of you, though. Soonyoung comes over and sits on the mat by your feet, holding a hand up to you. You pass him your water bottle, rolling your eyes at him even though it doesn’t really bother you. 

Nothing Soonyoung does really bothers you. Since that first day he showed up at your house sobbing because his mother was leaving him for the day, he’s grown on you. More than grown on you, in fact. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t noticed your lingering gazes and the way he flusters you when he gets too close, and you hope to keep it that way. 

“I don’t want to hit you,” Soonyoung offers gently, voice low over the metal clang of Seuncheol’s weights. “And it’s not ‘cause I don’t think you can’t take it,” he adds with a grin, bumping his shoulder against your leg. “I just don’t like the idea of you getting hurt.” 

“Everyone treats me like a baby.” 

“You are. But it’s not a bad thing. For example, you say jump and everyone says how high. Even my dad.” 

That makes you smirk a little. You look at the floor, letting his words wash over you. They do ring true - there’s no one in the Syndicate who would deny you anything, and though you’re utterly terrified of Soonyoung’s dad, he would do anything for you. In a way, it was the Kwon family’s divine purpose to be by the side of the Chois. 

“What about you?” you ask. 

“What about me?” 

“Jump.”

Soonyoung grins and sets the water bottle down, getting up to his feet at your command. “How high, Baby?” 

-

Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear on the day of his parents’ funeral. He’s a far cry from the little boy who showed up at your house to play video games and become friends. 

Instead, he sits in silence, eyes raging - always raging, now. You don’t think the fury stops, his gaze burning the entire ceremony. His grip on your hand is like iron, and after a while, your arm tingles with pins and needles. You say nothing, willing to endure. Eventually, your arm goes numb entirely, and he keeps holding your hand. 

Afterward, Soonyoung says nothing. You do the talking for him, accepting the hand shakes and bows on his behalf when he doesn’t reach out to accept them, thanking those who have come to offer him condolences and respect when he doesn’t speak.

His grip on you is steadfast. Iron and fire. Even when your father drops his gaze down with a look of disapproval, Soonyoung doesn’t let go and you don’t ask him to. If there’s any day that you can break decorum and tradition, it’s certainly now in the wake of Soonyoung’s loss. 

They don’t need to know you’d let him hold you anyway.  

The boy who existed before the murder of his parents is dead. You knew it before the funeral. But when the last guest finally leaves the Choi Estate and Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear, you realize it isn’t just his parents that you’ve buried. 

The sweet, gentle boy who had cried those tears for fear of his mother leaving him has died too. And you don’t think you’ll ever see him again. 

-

“You want me to do what?” Soonyoung asks, pulling you into his room and looking out the cracked door to make sure no one else is around. “Where is your brother?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“You can’t just- ” Soonyoung fumbles for words as he shuts the door and takes a few steps past you into his room proper. It’s dark, safe for the glow of his AetherLink glowing with a paused video game. “Did he see you follow me up here?” 

“Why are you being weird? I’m in here all the time. You live here.” 

“I’m being weird? You just asked me to kiss you. Neither your brother nor your dad want you in my room in the middle of the night.” 

You frown. “Since when? Look, I’m sixteen and I’ve never been kissed, and Lin just lost her virginity to Jeonghan. What happened to when I say jump you say how high?”

“Oh don’t start with me. Who cares if Lin is giving it up to Jeonghan. She blew Wonwoo like two weeks ago. It’s not a competition.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, caving in on yourself a little. Maybe it was a stupid idea to ask Soonyoung after all. But you can’t get over the way all of the other girls were clinging to Lin’s every word as she spilled the details of sleeping with Jeonghan. Everyone else in your friends group had at least made out with boys - you had nothing. 

Being the daughter of the leader of the Choi Syndicate has its benefits. Being accessible to do things like kissing boys and going out with your friends to new cool clubs like Echo Space and Hyper Vibe were not one of them. Getting any of the boys your age to even look you in the eye was impossible, the fear of catching the wrath of Seungcheol and your father looming over them like the Sword of Damocles. 

Soonyoung is Soonyoung, though. Your father has brought him into the fold like one of his own, keeping his oath to Soonyoung’s parents to always watch over him and protect him. You’re old enough now to understand that the bonds between higher members of the Syndicate are bonds of faith and blood, of family and something more. 

If anyone shouldn’t be afraid to kiss you, it’s Soonyoung. He lives down the hall from you, and he’s best friends with your brother. It wouldn’t be that weird. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you lay awake in your bed at night while you stared at the ceiling, fingers trailing your lips. 

Now, you’re not so sure. The way Soonyoung recoils makes you realize you hadn’t thought of the single most important thing before marching in here and asking him to be your first kiss: maybe Soonyoung didn’t want to kiss you. 

It hadn’t even crossed your mind - one of the many downsides to getting mostly everything you wanted. You’re so infrequently told no that in the light of rejection, you don’t know what to do, recoiling like you’ve been mortally wounded. 

Nodding your head, you turn away from Soonyoung, throat tightening as the new wave of emotions threatens to spill over. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” 

“Baby,” he sighs. You ignore him, bolting for the door. Soonyoung is fast, though. He snatches your arm and drags you back toward him, though you turn your face away from him to hide the evidence of oncoming tears. “Don’t be like that.” 

“I’m not being like anything. It was a stupid favor to ask.” 

“Would you look at me?”

“No.”

He sighs heavily. “Why are you being so difficult?”

Trying to wrench your arm from his hold is useless. He’s not hurting you, but the grip on your bicep is firm. “Well if I’m so difficult then let me go.”

“Baby.” The frustration in his voice is evident. You ignore the way your nickname rolls off his tongue, the way he’s the only person you don’t absolutely hate the name from. 

“Just let me go!” 

“No. Why do you want me to kiss you?”

The question is like nails against chalkboard now, your embarrassment peaking. “Forget I even asked, just let me go!” 

“Fuck - are you crying?”

“No.”

“Baby, look at me.”

Too afraid that the wavering in your voice will give you away, you shake your head, refusing to turn and face him. With a growl, he gives a sharp tug on your arm, spinning you toward him. You let out a noise of protest, ready to lash out at him again when you feel his mouth on yours. 

Startled, you don’t do anything at first. Soonyoung’s grip is still on your bicep, firm and steadfast. Your eyes blink for a second before they flutter closed, unsure exactly what to do beyond lean into him a little, pressing your lips firmer to his. 

It’s somehow exactly what you expected and totally unexpected at the same time. Soonyoung’s mouth is softer than you were ready for, slotted gently against yours. He’s warm and smells like vanilla and sandalwood, a scent you’ve grown familiar with. Your thoughts peter out, enjoying the way he holds you to him, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. 

When Soonyoung pulls away, you look up at him through half-lidded eyes, your breath shaky. He doesn’t pull back very far, looking down at you with a dark gaze. This close, you can see the real Soonyoung. His expression is soft, eyes sparkling in the blue light of his room. He looks so young suddenly, all of the rage and wrath that lurks under the surface of the calm mask he wears gone for just a moment. 

“You have pretty eyes,” you whisper. His mouth twitches at the corner, an almost smile. “I’ve always thought you had beautiful eyes.” 

He opens and closes his mouth again, trying to find words. You wait him out, heart thudding. He’s still holding you close to him, fingers digging desperately into your arm. 

Footsteps thundering up the stairs wake him from his daze, Seungcheol calling your name. Soonyoung drops his hand and steps away from you, a cool mask of calm sliding into place, the vulnerability gone in an instant. “There’s your kiss,” he murmurs. “Is there anything else you need from me or do I need to jump too?” 

-

Synth pulses through you, vibrating your very bones as you lounge on the velvet couch in a private section of the club. The lights above you are hazy, but you can make out the shapes of holographic dancers, their graphics so high definition that you can see the sweat beading down their bare backs. 

From the VIP section, you have the perfect view of the DJ platform. Screens flash behind it, holographic wonders of creatures and places and visuals flashing brightly. Writhing bodies twist on the dancefloor around the DJ like a pit of snakes. Among them, you know your father’s Taps slither among the crowd, pushing drugs and psychedelics into the hands of those who can afford it. 

A trained eye can spot a Tap well enough. Though they blend in with the nylon and leather of the partiers, they tend to be sharp eyed and lucid, chewing on stim pops or some other substance to keep them awake and alert. 

It’s not the drug dealers in the crowd who keep drawing your attention, though. You shouldn’t be able to spot Soonyoung in the mass of bodies so easily, but you do. His hair is bleached, reflecting the flashing lights around him as he presses in close to the girl attached to him, hips swaying.

Your mouth sours. Leaning forward you snatch one of the bottles from the ice bucket and pour a shot into a crystal glass. Angel raises her brows as you slide the glass over to her and pour another for yourself. She’s not much of a drinker, but she takes the glass wordlessly, sensing your need to have a partner in crime.

Knocking it back, you hiss as the liquor burns all the way back. Even the high grade alcohol is like fire, washing away your irritation for a dizzy moment, veins buzzing. Leaning back, your eyes scan the crowd and settle on Soonyoung again. This time, he’s leading his partner through the crowd and toward the stairs. The stairs that lead to you. 

Seungcheol and Wonwoo crashing onto the seat next to you breaks your concentration. Seungcheol’s pupils are wide as saucers, eyes trailing upward to dance at the visual of a woman with pink skin sliding out of her top. 

Next to him, Wonwoo pulls a small bag with glittering dust from his pocket, shaking it to settle all of the contents at the bottom before unsealing the top. The way the powder glows against the lights tells you its high quality frostbyte, a powerful stimulant named for the biting feeling when inhaled. 

Instead of yelling over the music, you gesture toward the bag, catching Wonwoo’s attention. He gives you a surprised look followed by a wolfish grin. Wonwoo loves when you partake in partying harder, a side everyone so rarely sees from you. 

Sliding a knife from his pocket, you watch with rapt attention as Wonwoo dips it into the baggie, scooping delicately. You’d rather he cut lines on the table, but you’ll take what you can get, watching as he expertly fishes out a decent sized amount for you to take. 

You’re mutely aware that a group of bodies enters your section. Vernon throws himself down next to Angel, jostling you both as you lean over Seungcheol’s half-asleep form toward where Wonwoo extends the knife toward you carefully. You ignore the weight of Soonyoung’s eyes on you as he, Mingyu and a group of girls sit down and reach to fill their glasses with liquor. 

Wonwoo’s hands are steady as he holds the tip of his blade out to you, a hand held underneath to catch any powder that slips off the blade. Careful not to lose your balance and stab yourself, you level your face with the knife, inhaling sharply. 

Immediately the drug bites the back of your throat, eyes watering as you tilt your head upwards and blink for a second, letting it settle. Sniffing harshly a few times, you clear your nasal passage and blow out a breath, feeling the softest beginning of a tingle as you look at Wonwoo, who is still holding his hands out to you. 

“Thanks,” you nod. He grins and pulls back, rubbing the excess powder along his gums as you fall heavily against the back of the booth. 

Turning to look at your brother, you elbow him. “Are you alive?”

“Mhmm,” he grunts, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. Lights dance across his face, all pinks and blues and purples as he breathes in heavily. “I am fucked right now. Can you get me a stim pop from Hoshi? If I do anymore frostbyte I’m gonna get a nosebleed. Again.” 

Actually, asking Soonyoung for anything is the last thing you want to do. However, your brother does look like he needs to wake up, the mess of drugs and alcohol in his system working overtime to put him on his ass. Stim pops are a quick fix, a careful mix of sweet candy and methylphenidate to wake up the nervous system. Soongyoung always has them on his person, especially for when he works late night shifts. 

Turning in the booth, you’re smacked with a wave of color. For a moment, you drink it in, tilting your head upward as the figures dancing above explode into a world of lavender butterflies. They’re utterly captivating, your eyes watching them twist and dance in the air as they flutter. 

A laugh bubbles from your lips, entirely childlike. Grinning, you watch them for a few moments more before they disintegrate into stars, entire solar systems hovering and floating through the space above your head.

Seungcheol elbowing you breaks you from your concentration. Right. Stim pop. From Soonyoung. Glancing at the man in question makes your stomach plummet. Soonyoung’s head is resting against the back of the booth, the girl next to him draped over him with her mouth pressed hot to his throat, her teeth overly white in the blacklight of the club. 

A surge of rage shivers through you, your nails scratching across the green velvet, leaving marks in their wake. Leaning forward, you reach out a hand and smack Vernon’s knee to get his attention. He turns his lazy gaze on you, brows raised. When you point at Soonyoung, he nods and yells over his shoulder to get your target’s attention.

Soonyoung’s eyes flutter open and flick to where you’re sitting. He drinks in your expression before muttering something to the woman mouthing at his neck and peels her off, standing up and shuffling over to you. Angel makes room for him, all but sliding into Vernon’s lap as Soonyoung crashes down on the couch next to you. 

“Hi, Baby. What’s up?” 

“Cheol needs a stim pop,” you answer curtly, leaning away from him. He smells like vanilla and sandalwood laced with alcohol. Soonyoung is so close you can feel his body heat, his breath fanning across your bare shoulder as he moves to look at Seungcheol half asleep on your other side. “Then you can go back to your little public sex session.” 

Soonyoung makes an angry cat noise, narrowing his eyes at you as he smirks. He leans toward you further to reach into his pocket, shoulder pressed against you. His scent fills your nose, heady and familiar. You’re dizzy with it, the touch of his warmth against your skin making you flush.

Suddenly, his nearness is overwhelming. Every hair on the back of your neck stands on end, your skin hypersensitive to the way he leans against you. The glow of the lights is sharper than you remember, and you swear you feel the blood rushing through your body.

A response that could be either because of the drugs you inhaled a moment ago or because Soonyoung is pressed against you and you have the sudden urge to lean into him, to feel his warmth, to press your lips against his and feel their softness. 

In an attempt to save yourself from the trap, you shove back at him. He huffs, glaring at you as he fishes a stim pop out of his pocket and hands it over to you. You’re careful to avoid his touch when you snatch it from his nimble fingers, turning your back on him in the booth to look at Seungcheol.

“Why are you being a brat?” His voice is loud over the music, shouted into your ear as he tilts back into your space again. You can feel the warmth of him on your back. 

“Go away.”

“Baby, please don’t start with me.”

“I’m not starting fuck with you.” 

Seungcheol cracks an eye open to observe your argument with a look of interest. Seungcheol’s pupils are dilated like moons, totally empty of any coherent thought. You peel the wrapper off the stim pop, careful to hold it by the cardboard stick as you pop it into your brother’s mouth. 

For a few moments, your brother lolls the candy around his mouth, sucking greedily. Then, he blinks his eyes open, pupils narrowing as he drinks in the lights and the clubs. He sighs in relief, patting your thigh gratefully as the stimulant chases away whatever else is washing him out.

When you turn around, Soonyoung is still lingering, his dark eyes fierce and focused only on you. He looks good tonight. He looks good every night. He has become your picture perfect torture since that night you asked him to be your first kiss, kickstarting something you were incapable of foreseeing. 

The bleached hair is new and you hate how much you like it. The silvery strands look just as soft as his natural black, and it’s a nice contrast to his dark eyes and sharp cheekbones. Those stormy eyes are staring at you now, something playful that you don’t like glittering under the surface. 

He pouts at you. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you. Go away!”

“You definitely are. What did I do, hmm? Tell me.” 

“Please fuck off.” 

He rolls his eyes, peeling himself off the couch and muttering something under his breath. You’re sure he has nothing nice to say, so you sink further into the couch, crossing your hands over your chest as you sulk. 

Sticky air clings to your skin. You can feel your heart racing in your chest, the music vibrating your ribcage. Your anger is like a monster given life, fueled by the frostbyte and the feverish anger taking root in your stomach as Soonyoung settles back in his spot, pressing his mouth sloppily to the woman next to him. 

And that’s the problem, really. It’s not you that is pressing your mouth to his jaw while he leans against the back of the seat. It isn’t you running manicured nails down the front of his shirts, pulling at buttons despite the audience. 

It isn’t you and it should be. You want it to be.

It’s been two years since Soonyoung kissed you for the first time in his room. You’ve had more experience with other people since then, but it dulls in comparison to his simple kiss. You hate it. What you hate even more is how childish it makes you feel, embarrassment heating your cheeks and throat when he catches your gaze across the booth and you divert your attention. 

For the second time, Soonyoung peels the girl off of him, making like he’s going to get up and come sit next to you again. This time, his companion keeps him rooted to the spot, her nails digging into his forearm as she hisses something at him. He groans, head tilted back like he’s once again the most inconvenienced man in the room. 

Wanting nothing more than to blot him out, you call Wonwoo’s name again, leaning forward heavily for more frostbyte. Soonyoung whistles and snaps his finger in your direction as though to tell you no. You bristle, your anger turning to an inferno, burning up inside of you. 

Vernon and Angel both cringe, leaning out of your line of fire as you swivel to angle yourself toward Soonyoung, hands shaking. “Don’t fucking whistle and snap at me! I’m not a dog.”

“Baby, you don’t need more. Your pupils are the size of Mingyu’s big ass head.”

Mingyu, though right next to Soonyoung, doesn’t hear the insult, his tongue being sucked down the throat of the girl sitting in his lap, hips grinding on him. Another girl is pressed to his side, teeth nipping at his jaw. At least someone is having fun, you think, the three of them totally aware of the crackling tension in their booth. 

The girl attached to Soonyoung’s neck a moment ago bristles when she hears your nickname. “Baby?” she asks, face scrunching. “Are you serious?”

“Chill out, Victra. It’s her nickname.”

“Yeah,” you agree, shooting her a venomous look, despite her doing nothing to earn your ire. “Chill, Victra.”

Once again, you turn your back on Soonyoung, standing and scooting Seungcheol over to swap places with him. He does so with a keen eye, watching the scene unfold as he sucks his lollipop happily, content to watch the drama. 

Wonwoo dips his knife into the bag as you settle in next to him, bouncing with excitement. “I love when you do drugs, you’re so much fun.” 

“I don’t feel very fun right now.”

“Drugs will fix it!” 

“Wonwoo, don’t you dare give her that,” Soonyoung warns. He pries Victra’s hands off of him, leaning forward as though to reach across the table. 

“Ignore him,” you insist. 

Wonwoo hesitates, stuck between a rock and a hard place. The last thing he wants to do is tell you no. No one but your father and older brother get to tell you no. Wonwoo knows this better than most people. But he also doesn’t want to cross Soonyoung, a venture nearly as dangerous as pissing off Seungcheol. 

Soonyoung hisses at the girl next to him,  “Stop clawing at me! Baby, please stop being stubborn for one moment. Just one. ”

“Why the fuck did you even bring me up here?” Victra interrupts, ignoring Soonyoung’s plea. “You’ve done nothing but fawn over her since we got here. This isn’t fun.” 

Soonyoung ignores her. “If you’re mad at me, be mad at me. Stop blowing shit up your nose to prove a point and be a bitch, though.”

“I’m not proving fuck, Soonyoung. And Victra’s right, go fuck her in the bathroom or something and stop telling me what to do.”

“So it is about her?” 

“I have a name!” The her in question snaps. You turn around, temper flaring as you level your glare at her. She turns her nose up at you as she says, “It’s obvious you’re bothered he brought me here. Your jealousy is insufferable.” 

“Ding, ding ding,” Seungcheol imitates a bell. You turn around to look at Victra. “Round one! Fight!”

It takes a second for Victra’s words to land. It’s like each one hits you a second apart, packing their own punch as you register them. The pulsing music around you fades to a dull roar as you stare at her, seeing the way her lips twitch upward as she realizes she’s right. You are jealous that Soonyoung brought her up here. 

Victra’s grin is all it takes for you to spill over. Before you can register what you’re doing, you’re out of your seat and leaping over the table at her, knocking over glasses and bottles. Wonwoo cheers in delight behind you as your brother catches you by the waist, trying to keep you on your side of the booth as you tear at his hands to get across the booth. 

Seeing the attack of opportunity while you’re subdued, Victra shoots to her feet. Angel is fast as an adder, one moment sitting in Vernon’s lap and the next striking Victra down into the booth, knee planted in her stomach. Vernon does nothing to stop his girlfriend, opting instead to reach for a water bottle, unscrewing it to take a sip as his girlfriend pins Victra down to the seat with little effort. 

Noticing for the first time that their friend is in distress, the two women with Mingyu lift their heads. As soon as one starts to slide from his lap to reach for Angel, you kick a foot out, striking the bucket of alcohol and ice. The bucket goes flying at her, hitting her hard in the face. She screams, crumbling in Mingyu’s lap, cradling her face. 

Mingyu and Soonyoung are on their feet in seconds, soaked from the waist down and trying to gain control of the situation as it spirals. Mingyu becomes a blockade between Victra’s two friends, trying to keep them on their side of the booth. Soonyoung is prying a bottle from a hand before it can make its way toward you, yelling something indecipherable. 

Angel is still pressing her knee deep into Victra’s gut. Victra’s attention has diverted from you entirely as she screams like a wounded animal, pushing and scratching at Angel’s knee to try and get her off. You’re sure it hurts, but Angel doesn’t budge, sinking her weight into it. 

Leaning down, you grab something to lob at them - someone’s shoe - but Seungcheol manages to haul you off your feet and spin you, planting you into the booth behind him. You growl, shoving at his legs to move him out of the way, trying to re-engage. 

“Fucking hell,” he grunts. “Are you fucking juicing? Why are you so strong?”

“It’s the drugs,” Wonwoo offers unhelpfully. “Really top of the line drugs.”

“Shut up, Wonwoo!” Both you and Seungcheol bark at the same time. 

Wonwoo holds up his hands, leaning back into the seat as he watches the mess unfold with a delighted grin. You strike out with your foot, slamming against the booth’s table, shoving it in Soonyoung’s direction. You hear glass shatter as more things fall off the table, clattering to the ground. There are shrieks and curses that you can’t see with Seungcheol blocking the way. 

“He’s a fucking asshole!” You seethe to your brother, panting with rage. 

“He is, and you did exactly what he wanted you to do.” You try to kick the table again but he stops you, grabbing your knee. You feel like you can’t get enough air, sweat slicking your skin and the velvet of the couch too sharp against your flesh. “Soonyoung loves a fight when he’s fucked up. You know that.” 

“Well fuck him!”

He pulls the stick from his mouth, candied stim gone. He tosses it onto the floor and looks over his shoulder where Mingyu and Soonyoung are corralling the three women out of the booth. “God, Angel  broke that girl's rib I think. Hahahha!” 

“I want to break her fucking face!” 

“I think you broke her friend's face. She is fucked up. That bucket hit her right in the eye. What a shot.” 

“If you’re so entertained, why’d you get in my way?”

“There’s a lot of eyes here.” You glance around, noticing other booths looking at you, people ducking toward one another to whisper. “You have an image to maintain.” 

Adjusting your shirt, you settle back into the booth. “Alright. Alright I’m good.”

When Seungcheol moves out of the way to take a seat, Soonyoung replaces him. You glare up at him, feeling your anger curl up in you again. His lips twitch, a hint of a smirk as he sits down next to you, sighing heavily and tilting his head to look up at the flashing lights.

The girls are nowhere to be found. Angel is sitting back down next to Vernon who hasn’t moved, and there are servers picking up the mess you made. Mingyu is notably absent, though you can guess where he’s gone for the night. He’s good at making scorned lovers feel better about their bad luck. 

“Jealousy is crazy on you,” Soonyoung notes, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he glances at you sidelong. “I kind of like it.” 

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” you warn. He laughs, the fight totally leaving him. “I’m serious. Don’t ever do that to me again, Soonyoung. Not to me.” 

“Alright, alright. When you say jump, right?” 

Soonyoung’s fingers brush against yours. Just the rough feeling of his calluses against the tips of your fingers has you shivering, anger replaced with want. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t move to do anything else but lean back in silence with your fingers touching. 

Resigned, you say nothing else to him. You’d got what you wanted - sort of - even if you know you made an ass out of yourself doing it. It isn’t the first time he’s made you jealous, but it is the first time it’s boiled over so violently. 

You remind yourself not to do frostbyte when you’re mad anymore.

You turn your attention to where Angel is snorting frostbyte up her nose off of her boyfriend’s phone, accidentally turning on the hologram as she does, her face suddenly caged by green screen data. You call her name gently. She looks up at you, pupils blown, reflecting the lights dancing above like dark glass. “Thanks,” you offer. 

Her grin is too wide, teeth too white. She reminds you of a demon more than she does an angel. “Anytime.” 

When you settle back in, you glance at Soonyoung once. He looks down at you, smirking a single time before he leans into you and rests his head on your shoulder. You feel him melt into you, sighing as his eyes close and he nuzzles a little closer. You put your hand on his thigh, squeezing once before you leave it there, feeling the heat of his skin through his pants.

It isn’t until he’s almost asleep, pressed as close as possible to you that you realize maybe he got what he wanted too. 

-

Rain washes over the black city, the mist turning the thousands of digital and holographic advertisements into a watercolor smear of neon. It smells wet and like rot, the drains overworked and belching water and trash back out into the street as you walk, feet splashing. 

You quickly duck out of the way of a group of rowdy men spilling from a bar. You can smell the drink on them, their feet sloshing in the rising water of the street as they dredge toward the next bar. They whistle at the pretty girls dressed in light up raincoats and flickering green contacts, stumbling toward a brothel instead of the bar. 

Gripping your umbrella tighter, you quicken your steps. Grease smoke drifts toward you from various hawker carts, the sizzle of meat making your stomach growl. You ignore them, knowing you have dinner with your family later as you take a corner and plunge into the darkness of an underground stairwell. 

The LEDs on your umbrella cast a pink light as you descend the stairs, careful not to slip on the caked grime. Two guards stand outside metal double doors, music pulsing faintly behind it. They look you up and down, ready to deny entry until you state your name at the bottom of the steps. 

“ID?” the one on the right asks, giving you a critical eye. 

Of course he doesn't believe you. The daughter of the Tower would never walk anywhere without a body guard, especially in this part of the city. You spin the umbrella, the pink coalescing as he takes the phone from your hand and taps it, blue lighting up his face when your ID and profile appear in holographic data above the screen. 

He clears his throat and bows at the waist. When his counterpart doesn’t, he smacks him hard on the back, making the man lean over. “Apologies, Miss Choi. Right this way.” 

Music hits you full on when the doors open, the base creating static in the air. You cringe as it vibrates through your ribcage and teeth, wondering how anyone could stand to be in a club this loud. Popping the umbrella shut, you let your eyes adjust while one security guard remains at the door, shutting it behind you, and the other hands you your ID.

“Should I escort you to the office, Miss?” 

Writhing bodies dance together, scintillating like snakes in a pit. Above them, lasers and holograms light up the world with flashes of colors you didn’t even know existed. A wide bar stretches to the left of the floor, lit up by soft cyan lights. Behind it, the bartenders move in a blur, the glow on their clothes turning them ethereal. 

You glance at the security guard, who waits patiently before shaking your head. You point to the space above the bar where there are two large, mirrored windows looking out into the club. “Up there?”

“Yes,” he answers, hesitating. “Let me escort you.” 

With a roll of your eyes you nod, gesturing to him to lead the way. He clears a path, clubbers and workers alike moving out of his way when he shoves them. You walk behind him, swinging your head from side-to-side as you look at the people, fascinated. 

People with spikes pierced in their skin and whorling tattoos with glow ink stare back at you, glowing contact lenses and gemmed teeth all taking you in. You rarely get to mix in with the crowd that partakes in more unique cosmetic alterations and fashion, fascinated by someone who walks by with red glowing face tattoos like a demon mask. 

At the foot of the stairs, the guard lets you walk up first. It’s clear of people, so he remains standing at the bottom, taking up an imposing position with his hands linked in front of him, blocking the stairway entirely. 

The thud of music vibrates through your boots as you climb the stairs, greeting another security guard. You can tell he’s already been warned you’re here - he bows immediately and keys in the pad at the door, opening the office for you. 

You pass by him airily, stepping into the dry and much cooler office. The door closes behind you, immediately cutting off the sound with high–tech sound proofing. Soonyoung is leaning against the bar, his back to the door as he watches out the windows, a glass in his hand. 

“What in the fuck are you doing?” he asks, tossing you a look over his shoulder. You grin, skipping over to him. He doesn’t grin back, looking you up and down as you join him. You reach for the decanter he’s drinking from but he smacks your hand, viper fast. “Not a chance.”

“What? Why not?”

“You shouldn’t be here, much less without a security team. The Tower will be livid.” 

“The Tower doesn’t have to know.”

Soonyoung’s jaw flexes. “The security team will tell him you were here.”

“Not if you tell them not to.”

“Baby,” he sighs, tilting his head up and closing his eyes. You lean against the bar, watching him. The lights from the club are dimmer in here, but they flash against his face, painting him in golden light. He’s beautiful. “What are you doing here?”

“Angel said you had a bad day.”

“I always have a bad day. And tell Angel to shut her mouth.”

You snort. “You tell her that.”

That gets a grin out of him. He lowers his head, dark gaze finding yours. “You can’t just walk around the Lower City without a personal guard, Baby.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know you’re not. I’m not either but people try to rob me all the time. You, on the other hand, are a lot prettier of a prize than I am.” 

“So you think I’m pretty?”

This time when Soonyoung sighs, it’s affectionate. He sips his glass of amber liquid, turning to watch the crowd outside the office. He holds out his glass to you, a concession. You grin further, accepting it from him and bring it up to your nose to smell. You don’t know anything about liquor, but from the spiced scent you can tell it’s good quality.

You take a tiny sip. It goes down smooth - strong, but good and warm. Instead of giving him the glass back, you cradle it to your chest, leaning against the bar next to him close enough that your arms are almost touching. He continues looking out at the crowd, keen eyes serious and back to work while you look at him. 

Soonyoung is beautiful. His side profile is lethal, the slope of his neck elegant, the curve of his jaw sharp but delicate, his high cheekbones catching the light. His eyes are dark pools, reflecting the snatches of light that come through the dark windows. 

“Did you come here to stare at me?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the crowd. 

“What if I said I did?” 

His mouth twitches at the corner. “Unfortunately I would believe you.”

Watching over clubs isn’t usually Soonyoung’s job. But this club is in a terrible part of the city and isn’t worth much to the Choi Syndicate, so sometimes he’s awarded the opportunity to prove himself to your father and to the elders of the Syndicate that he’s competent and capable of leadership, despite the fact you’ve always known him to be. 

Soonyoung isn’t meant for leading like Seungcheol. But there is a certain level of loyalty and understanding he has to cultivate with the heavies of the family, the Swords who carry out the bloody tasks of removing people from the way and keeping assets safe. His father had been the Sentinel of your family for years until his death, and Soonyoung is expected to pick up that mantle.

This is all a part of that. Soonyoung already has the loyalty of the security team running this hole in the wall, alerting him the second you arrived and refusing to let you go up the stairs alone. Had they failed to do that, you might think a little less of them. 

Soonyoung also probably would have had them beaten. 

Finally, Soonyoung turns to look at you. He sighs and raises his brows expectantly. 

“What?” you ask. 

“What did you come here for? Real answer, this time.” 

“I told you. Angel said you had a bad day. That is my real answer.”

“And?”

You shrug, sipping from the glass and turning toward the windows. “I wanted to make it a better one.” 

That makes him go silent. You can see him turn to look at you, his stormy gaze pinning you to the spot. You don’t look at him, letting him stare as you nurse the drink and watch the dancing crowd down below. They’re beautiful, in a way, an ocean of bodies saying as colors turn them blue and then green and then bright red and then lavender. 

Soonyoung leans toward you, bumping his head on yours lightly. That gets a laugh out of you, stomach fluttering and wishing he would stay leaned against you. He pulls away though, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his eyes back to his job. 

“Thank you,” he finally says, voice quiet. “It is already a better day.” 

The silence is comfortable. You eventually give him the drink back and he takes it, tongue darting out to lick the lip gloss you left. He hums. “Cherries.” 

“You’re gross.” 

He smiles into the glass, taking a sip. “I actually have something for you.” 

“A present?”

He snorts. “Not exactly. Go to the desk - top drawer on the right.” 

Eagerly, you do as he says. The heavy wooden desk sits in the back of the room, imposing even without the metal lockers behind it with weapons. You ignore the heavy guns under padlocks and go for the drawer in question. 

A rectangular box is in the drawer Soonyoung specified, unmarked. You turn it over in your hands, curious. It’s not very heavy and fits mostly in your palm. 

“Bring it over here.” 

You do, trailing back to Soonyoung. He extends his hand and you pass it over to him, watching with interest as he cracks the box open with the sheer strength of his fingers. He pulls out a small device, a wire and what looks to be a plug, tossing the box to the bar. 

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, holding up the device. 

It’s a small rectangle with a keypad and a screen. You raise your brows in surprise. “It is a very old phone.” 

“It is.” He smiles, pleased with your answer. He passes the materials over to you and you hold them against your chest. “That’s the charger and the charging cord. It’s one of the old kinds of phones that requires a phone tower. There are barely any in the city.” 

“And what is this gift for?” 

“I own the phone towers that support it.” You raise your brows. Soonyoung rarely spends the inheritance his parents left behind, so you’re surprised. “It only has a single phone number programmed into it that will call the one I have.”

At this, he reaches into his pocket and produces the phone’s twin. He shakes it for emphasis, pressing a button and lighting up the screen. “You have to make sure to keep it charged. I want you to have it for emergencies only. And I mean emergencies, Baby. This is a last resort kind of device, alright?” 

You chew your bottom lip, dragging your eyes to look up at him. “Why?” 

“Because I need to know that you always have a last resort.” His gaze darkens. “Clearly your assigned security team lets you give them the slip. I need to know that you can hit the dial on this faster than you can on our phones. They’re overly complicated and not quick. With this?” 

He reaches over and turns on the phone in your hand. Once booted, he presses the one button. The device in his hand starts ringing. “Direct and fast access to me at all times. Do it even if you can’t tell me where you are. I’ll find you.” 

Emotion twists your throat. You grip the phone with a vice grip, looking up at him with wide eyes. His face is serious. He slips his phone in his pocket, turning back to do his job. “I will answer,” he promises. “It doesn’t matter when and where. I will answer that phone even if I’m dying. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.”

He nods. “Good.”

-

A knock on your door wakes you up from a dreamless sleep. Darkness spills across your room like ink as you slip from your bed, cursing when you kick the corner of your nightstand. With a raspy voice, you ask the automated room assistant to turn on the nightlights, a hazy purple immediately lighting the circumference of your room.

Squinting against the lavender glow, you pad over your room to open the door. Soonyoung is leaning heavily against the wall just beyond the threshold, his chin tucked to his chest and his hair sweaty and clinging to his temples. 

He doesn’t move when you open the door, the lilac light casting an eerie radiance on the side of his face. It’s hard to make out his expression in the lurking shadow of the hallway, and he offers no explanation for why he’s knocking on your door at three in the morning. 

“Soonyoung?” you whisper, eyes darting down the hall. No one else is around. “Where are Cheol and Vernon?”

“S’cheol is still working. Vernon went to stay at Angel’s.”

“Are you - Soonyoung are you drunk? Or high?”

“Yeah.” 

Both you realize. You can deal with both. 

Grabbing him by the hand, you tug him gently. He pushes off the wall with heavy steps, stumbling through your open door and into the room. You grip him tighter, shutting your door with a gentle click before turning around to face him. 

Soonyoung won’t look at you, turning his face away as he sways a little where he stands. Now that you can see him fully, you realize that there is blood on the collar of his shirt. Heart thudding, your hands reach for it, peeling it back to look at his neck. Specs of dry crimson flake from sweaty skin, making your terror reach new heights. 

He shrugs you off. “Not mine.” 

“I - what’s going on?” 

Instead of answering you, he walks a few crooked steps toward your bed and sits down on the edge. Licking your lips, you approach him slowly. He’s slouched over, elbows pressed to his knees as his head hangs heavily. He still hasn’t looked at you properly and you’re aching to see his eyes. You can always understand him better when you see his eyes, able to read the depth of emotions hiding beneath his mask.

When you reach him, you crouch down. Instead of grabbing for him again and risking him pulling away, you rest your hands on top of your knees. When afraid or upset, Soonyoung is like a cornered animal. You don’t know whether he’s in fight or flight, both just as dangerous as the next. 

“Soonyoung,” you say again gently. You watch his every move. “You’re scaring me. Do you need me to call Cheol or Vernon?”

If Seungcheol is working the circuit, he isn’t the best to call. Late night circuits include going from club to club under the Choi banner to monitor the drug trafficking and attend small business meetings as appropriate. Seungcheol will drop whatever he’s doing for you in a heartbeat, but it’s more complicated than that. 

In theory, Vernon is easier to get a hold of. He’s already off work and though he might not answer his phone if you call, you know his girlfriend will. Plus, the blood on Soonyoung’s shirt and skin can give you a guess at what’s happened, and Vernon is more equipped for that type of thing than you are. 

“Let me call Vernon-”

“No,” he finally says. “No. Sorry. I just.” 

Your chest squeezes in pain. It’s like you can feel the torture radiating through him, feel the weight of whatever it is that’s dragging him down yourself. Desperation drives you to reach out toward him slowly, watching for any sign of startling him. When he doesn’t move to pull away, you touch him gently, squeezing his knee gently. “What do you need?” 

“My dad always said I should feel something.” His words are halting, coming out slurred. You wait, holding your breath as he works through them. “Always said that you should feel something when you kill someone. If you don’t, it means you’re nothing more than a beast with base instincts. Not intelligent or refined.”

It takes everything in you not to let your grip turn to steel at his words. Instead, you rub your hand up and down his thigh soothingly, saying nothing. Soonyoung has never killed someone before. You would know if he had. He’s the last in your immediate circle of friends beside yourself to take on the weight of stealing life, and you’ve dreaded this day for a long time. 

Murder is an inevitability in your family. Keeping the Choi Syndicate on top requires sacrifice, cruelty and cunning. Soonyoung had started serving as an officially ranked member of the Syndicate over a year ago, and though he had fucked up a lot of people and brought them to the brink of death, he hadn’t actually done it yet. 

“I felt nothing,” he whispers, voice thick. “Fucking nothing.” 

“What do you mean?”

“There was no guilt. I didn’t even flinch. It was so easy, like fucking breathing. That’s not what my dad wanted me to be. He always said that those who felt nothing were just… baser creatures. That we were better because we were… made better.” 

“I think your dad wanted a lot of things. You being alive was the most important of those things, Soonyoung.” 

“I’m just tired of feeling fucking empty. I don’t give a shit that I killed someone, Baby. Honestly? I was fucking looking forward to it. I thought maybe - just maybe - I would feel something, even if it was guilt or horror or satisfaction. There was nothing.” 

You have no idea what to say. Instead of words, you surge forward, letting go of Soonyoung’s knee to push yourself between his thighs, wrapping your arms around his middle. He flinches for a moment, arms hanging dead at his side as you press your cheek to his chest, squeezing. 

Inside, you feel your heart crack open. You shove down the overwhelming sense of despair on his behalf, instead focused on him. There’s nothing to say with words, and you hope he can feel what you’re trying to tell him through touch, that he can feel everything you don’t know how to say as you hold him tight, clinging to him. 

Slowly, his arms encircle you. It takes him a moment, but he applies a little pressure back. It makes you scoot in more, pressed as close as you can get to him. He buries his face in your neck, his breaths warm and smelling like tequila. He smells like him too, vanilla and sandalwood. 

“I don’t feel like a person sometimes,” he whispers. “It’s like the ability for me to feel anything died forever ago. Like I killed it so that I didn’t ever have to hurt again. Now I only ever feel when-”

He cuts himself off and sinks into you a little more. You bear his weight, willing to carry any burden for him. You don’t think he realizes that he could ask you to jump and you’d say how high. You’ve always been willing to jump for him, always willing to do whatever he wants, whatever he needs. 

Gently, you ask, “You only ever feel when what? You can tell me if you want. Whatever you need.” 

“I feel when I’m with you.” Soonyoung whispers it like it’s a secret he doesn’t want you to hear. You feel the words hit your skin where he speaks them, a shiver slithering through you. His grip on you tightens a little with the admission, like now that he’s said it, he can’t let go. Won’t. “I feel most like a person when I’m with you.”

Pressing the flat of your hand to his back, you begin to stroke up and down slowly, touch following the careful ridges of his spine. He sighs, shivering in your hold. You want nothing more than to take the pain or whatever he’s feeling away, to rip it from him and to destroy it. 

The fierceness of your love for him is hard to tamp down. A fiery admission of your feelings for him isn’t what he needs right now. You know Soonyoung like the inside of your own soul, everything that makes him tick, every habit he’s picked up over the years. You can sense him standing lost at sea, needing an anchor. Needing you. 

“Okay,” you say softly. “So stay with me. Be a person with me.”

“I’m not made for you.”

“Yes you are.” Your nails dig into his back through his shirt, pressing sharply. The desire to covet him is so intense it overtakes you. “If I make you a person, then how could we be made for anyone but one another?” 

Silence greets your logic. You stay holding him like that, desperate to keep him there, terrified he’ll shrug you off and get up. He’s done it before, shucking off your affection like something to be disposed of. And still you give it to him freely, begging him to take it. 

He doesn’t shy away from you. Instead you feel him nod, mouth brushing tenderly across your throat in the ghost of a kiss. “If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave. Do you understand? I won’t… I will be incapable of ever letting you go. Ever. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You hug him tighter. “Try to leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung.” 

-

“Where’s your other half?” the voice causes you to turn from where you lean against the bar. Angel slides up next to you, cocking her head as she does. She looks like a wraith, dressed in a rain slicker over black long-sleeved shirt that’s tucked into black pants. Her jacket and combat boots are wet, suggesting it’s still raining outside. “You’re usually attached at the hip. My therapist calls that codependency. Says Hansol and I have it too.” 

“Does your therapist also know you’re a murderer?” you mutter. The bartender slides drinks over to you and you nod in thanks. “Or that you’re only seeing her because Jeonghan made a bet with you? Or that your job often involves extortion? What does she think about that?” 

As a Rook of the Choi Syndicate, Angel’s job is a far cry from the holy nickname she’s sported since she was a child. Like Vernon, her role within your father’s empire is to collect debts owed to the Choi family and to remind them never to fall behind on payments. Other times, she’s simply used as a good tool to put the fear of god into enemies of the Choi family, and she’s good at it.

Raised under the careful tutelage of the Yoon family, there’s no weakness Angel can’t find and use. The only one better at it than her is her step brother, who is probably sitting next to your brother behind closed doors somewhere in the Choi Estate holding a meeting.

As Seungcheol’s future second in command, it’s Jeonghan’s responsibility to learn the ropes just like your brother. One day, it’ll be the two of them leading your family, a thought that makes you cringe with worry. 

Angel answers your question with a shrug. “I’m sure she knows I’m into some shit. I’m learning all kinds of new things about myself.” 

“Oh yeah? Like what?” 

“I don’t like therapy. And I kind of want to ask my therapist why she thinks she’s qualified for therapy when she’s fucking three of her clients.”

A snort escapes you as you shake your head. Of course Angel knows that about her own therapist. Lifting the two drinks on the bar, you drift away from her, eyes flicking over the Rook. “Stay out of trouble, Angel. And give Vernon my love.” 

She grins, wicked sharp and deadly. “No bar fights, hmm? Enjoy the party.” 

The party in question is exhausting. You’ve been playing pretty princess all night, saying hello to all of the right people, shaking all of the jeweled hands, kissing all of the right asses. You’re exhausted and the tension in your shoulder has been knotting further and further. 

Once upon a time you would have been thankful to at least not be Seungcheol. He shouldered a lot more responsibility. Now you’ve realized that you don’t shoulder less than him - it’s just different. If Seungcheol is the sword and shield of the Syndicate, you’re the face and smile. Galas, charities, celebrity events - it’s a never ending stream of smile, pose, shake hands. 

It doesn’t hide the fact that you sit on a throne that belongs to a criminal empire, of course. But it’s also no secret that the Three Syndicates run the city. Your family has long been one of the stalwart backbones of the government and city infrastructure. Only the Kim family and the Yong family come close. 

Still, appearances are everything. Especially when the Yong family owns most of the media outlets, weaponizing it against the Choi Syndicate every chance they get. You make it harder for them, using your appearances and platforms like a carefully wielded sword. 

Spotting Soonyoung among those dressed in dark security uniforms is easy. He nearly blends in with the dark pipe and drape that has been set up all over the ballroom of your home, but you could find him anywhere, your internal compass pointing to him even in the dark.

Soonyoung’s eyes alight on you, sharp and intense. His face is a cool mask of indifference, but you can see the way interest sparks in his eyes as he drinks you in. He’s already seen you in your dress tonight, but it doesn’t stop him from refamiliarizing himself, eyes tracing every dip and curve.

God you wish you were somewhere else with him. Specifically wrapped in the gray sheets of his bed, sweat-slicked and out of breath. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” you say shyly, handing him a drink.

He takes it and looks up at you, arching a brow. “I can’t drink this, I’m working.” 

“It’s just soda with lime, the way you like it.” 

His lips twitch in a smile as he takes a sip, nodding in confirmation. He doesn’t reach out to you and hold you close like you know he wants to, respecting the propriety of his position and the fact that he is on the clock right now. 

“You look tired,” he murmurs, eyes studying your face. 

So does he. As an official Sword of the Choi family, his job keeps him out late, bloodied, and tired. He’s completely changed from the man who sank into your arms that first night he killed someone, hardened into someone that your father sends to do just that often. 

A weapon. A Sword. A trusted knife in the dark for the Choi family.

You think Soonyoung is more capable than being a heavy for your dad and his associates. Soonyoung is intelligent and sharp, having gained perspective and a wealth of knowledge from living with your family. Still, his dad had been the leader of the hired guns for the Choi Syndicate. Soonyoung is an efficient killer, his fate bound by his father long ago.

“When are you off tonight?” you ask instead of telling him how tired he looks.

“I’m not.” You frown. He sips his drink again and gives you a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been busy. The Yong family are getting in our way at the docks. I gotta head down there with Vernon and Jeonghan after the party.” 

“The Yongs are doing it outright?” 

“No. We’re pretty confident it’s them though. Jeonghan is working on it. If we can bring the Xu family under our wing, it would be a lot easier to push them out.” 

“They have a son,” you note, thinking about the last event you attended where the Xu heir was in attendance. “Maybe marriage to one of our big hitters? Nexus Capital has an heiress.”

“I’ll mention it to Jeonghan. Who the fuck would want an arranged marriage, though?”

“Not me,” you laugh, wiping the eyelash you spot on his cheek gently. He gives you a tired, albeit affectionate smile. “You’ve been working nonstop. Tell Seungcheol you need a night off.”

“We both know it’s not Seungcheol working me to the bone, Baby.” 

Swallowing thickly, you turn away from him under the guise of scanning the crowd. You know you don’t fool him. Both you and Soongyoung know your father does not approve of your relationship, taking it out on Soonyoung to keep him busy and away from you. 

Your father would never hurt Soonyoung directly. You know that. He loves him like a son - sees his late best friend in the features of the man that Soonyoung has been shaped into under his care and tutelage. When you started dating Soonyoung seriously, you thought your parents might be happy. They adore him and they loved his parents just as much. 

Soonyoung is below your station, though. 

Your father will never say it outright. He wouldn’t insult his late friend’s son that way. But the way your father works Soonyoung harder than anyone else, holding him to a standard he doesn’t even keep for his highest level of men, you realize how deep the dissatisfaction goes. Even your mother’s adoration of Soonyoung does little to shield him from the petty assignments, try as she might. 

Still, you don’t care. And at the end of the day, neither does Soonyoung. As long as he gets to have you, he’s willing to put up with the petty assignments and the working late. 

“Hey,” Soonyoung says gently, bringing your attention back to him. He finishes his drink and sets it on a banquet table nearby. His eyes are averted, looking somewhere across the room as his hand slips around your waist to squeeze you quickly and press a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got to go - I’ve got a meeting with Vernon before we head out tonight. I’ll see you when I’m done. Probably won’t be until late morning.” 

“Alright,” You sigh. His hand slips from your waist and you wish you could pull him back to you. “Love you.” 

He grins brightly, giving you a wink before he melts into the crowd, weaving around party goers. Your heart squeezes when you lose sight of him. 

Someone clearing their throat catches your attention. You spin around to see Lan, one of your father’s personal Swords nodding politely at you. “Your father wishes to see you in the West Parlor. I’m to escort you.”

“Oh. Sure.” You set your drink down on the banquet table, wiping your damp hands on your dress. “Lead the way.” 

People bow their heads in respect as you go. You keep an even pace with Lan, which is hard to do with his long strides and your strappy heels digging into your ankles. He slows for your benefit and you give him a grateful smile, the swelling noise from the party leaving you behind as you step out of the ballroom and walk toward the west wing of the house. 

Some people mill about the halls of the estate. You can spot the members of the Syndicate who are on duty, mostly Swords that belong to the security force employed under the Choi family. You spot Chan leaning against a wall while gesturing broadly with his hands as he speaks to the owner of a new club on the edge of the Pearl District. When he catches your stare, Chan winks before focusing his attention back on the owner. Probably trying to work out some sort of deal or partnership, as is his job. 

The west wing of the house is quiet and off limits to the rest of the party. Your bedroom is just up two flights of stairs, your bed calling your name as you pass under the stairwell into the hallway that belongs to the West Parlor, the library, the study and your father’s billiards room. 

Old Man Vero is standing outside your fathers study, his hands linked in front of him and his head straight forward. He glances your way as Lan leans you toward the door, cracking a bit of a smile on his leathery face and giving you a wink. You grin, lightly reaching out and touching his elbow as Lan opens the door for you. Your father’s Swords have been in your life since you were a child, permanent figures of fixed loyalty and familiarity. 

They love you like they love your father, like they love your brother. It isn’t pure fear and power that keeps the Choi Syndicate together. Your father has plenty of that among the ranks, but the loyalty and love between him and his higher ranking members is real. Critical. It was a skill he taught you and Seungcheol, both of you arming yourself with your own shield of friends and confidants. 

Your father sits in a leather armchair, leaned back with his eyes closed. Next to him, a cigar smokes in the ashtray, threatening to go out as the thin wisps of smoke vanish into the air. An old fashioned record player echoes in the far corner of the room, smoothe notes vibrating through the air. 

“Tower,” you greet him formally, bowing at the waist. “How can I be of service to the family?” 

His eyes flutter open and he looks at you tiredly. He looks so much like your brother that it’s uncanny, sometimes. But his youth has worn off, his age more and more evident these days as he spreads himself thin expanding the Choi empire. Your mother has asked him - begged him - to give more responsibility to Seungcheol, but he refuses.

At least you know where your stubborn streak comes from. 

“So formal,” he notes, his lips twitching upward. He gestured for you to sit in one of the arm chairs. You do, smoothing your dress carefully as you sit. Behind you, Lan exits the room, the soft click of the door behind you. “You were always a better student than your brother.”

“That’s because he’s a man.”

A hearty laugh makes you grin, feeling a flutter of fondness. He was never an overly affectionate father, but he’s always been kind, though firm. You respect him, which is saying something in your world.

“Spoken like an intelligent woman,” he sighs. You wait patiently, watching as he seems to gather his words. Your stomach knots, sensing a trepidation about him that you’re not used to. “Your intelligence has always been your best asset, though you’re a little hot-headed like your brother.” 

“Steadfast is the mountain,” you say, quoting the Choi family motto.

He grins and adds your mother’s family moniker, “But the fire does burn. I knew marrying your mother was a good choice. Marrying the right person is paramount in this life. Family unions can make or break an empire, and they forge old alliances anew or secure new alliances.” 

A prickle down your spine makes you sit straighter. You had implied as much earlier to Soonyoung about the Xu family, knowing marriage was a viable option to bring the shipping mogul into the Choi empire. Now, though, the notion has you on edge, watching him like a frightened cat.

“I didn’t pick your mother, you know,” he muses, his eyes unfocusing somewhere far away. “But when my father recommended her, I knew he was right. I was familiar with her, of course. We went to school together. Fought like cats, but she was so intelligent and fierce.” 

You’ve heard this story before. Your father hadn’t loved her to start, but your mother had loved him right away. Had always known that she loved him. She’d shown up at one of his billiard nights and told him exactly how she felt, asserting that they would be married and that he would be loyal to her. 

He’d fallen in love with her that night. 

He sighs heavily. “I see a lot of your mother in you.”

“Don’t let her hear you sound so disappointed. She might be offended.”

“She’s better than me,” he says. His eyes focus on you, flicking back to appraise you. Sweat slicks on your back and only years of training keep you from not fidgeting under his weighty gaze. “But it would be easier sometimes if you were more like me. Less fire, more mountain. Still, you are rational, so let us speak plainly: you are going to marry the Kim family heir.” 

Silence hangs in the air. You stare at him, your brain taking a moment to catch up with his words. It’s like you’re moving in slow motion, processing the firmness in his voice, the way he looks at you with heavy countenance. 

You are going to marry the Kim family heir.

A high-pitched ringing starts in your ears and you feel the buzz of panic start to tingle at the base of your spine. Your fingers dig into the arms of your chair a little, trying to fight the staccato rhythm of your heart from getting out of control. 

“What?” you ask. It feels dumb, compared to the eloquence you’re capable of. 

“Kim Yijun is a perfect match,” he says simply. “He’s in line to inherit the Kim Syndicate. There is tension with the Yong family, and I will not lie to you: they have a far larger reach than we would like. They don’t do things the old way like the Choi and Kim families. They have started to ally themselves with the Arash family in Veridian, giving them cuts and room in our city to spread their reach outside the bounds of their own city.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“The Kim and Choi families have been united before. They’ve always been our first ally in times of city upheaval and Syndicate war, and they, like us, don’t believe in letting outsiders have a seat at the table. The Yong family don’t understand that, and are willing to let vermin have scraps if it means scooting us out.”

“I’m-” you shake your head. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“I’m not asking.” He reaches for a lighter and picks up the cigar. He takes a moment to relight it, taking his focus off of you. You feel your pulse spiking, your grip on the chair like iron. “I am telling you that this is what your future will be. I understand you like the Kwon boy, but-”

You sneer, baring your teeth. “The Kwon boy? Don’t reduce him to some stranger. Soonyoung grew up in this house, he is family. And I don’t just like him, I love him. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you bullying him because you’re frustrated that I love him. You love him too.” 

“I do. I love him like my own. But he is not for you.”

“He is. I will not marry Yijun. I am asking you not as a member of this Syndicate, but as your daughter to drop this machination from your plans. I am your blood, you cannot ask this of me.”

“I told you, I am not asking. I am telling you.” 

A tremor starts in your hands. Your heart races so fast that you feel sick, sweat slicking your skin as you begin to pant sharply. The ringing in your ears grows until you feel disconnected to it, like suddenly you’re living in third person. You’re aware that you’re hyperventilating and yet, suddenly it’s separate from you.

Standing abruptly, you feel the world tilt. You take a second to steady yourself, feeling the numb tingle spread throughout you like a flood. 

“Sit down,” your father demands. You hear the warning. Recognize the firmness in it. This is the Tower of the Choi Syndicate speaking, not your father. 

“Take this as my resignation from the family,” you tell him. Your voice doesn’t feel like your own, steady and without inflection. “I’ll renounce my inheritance and will not use the Choi family for any connection or advantages-”

“You will not!” 

His voice startles you. Lures you away from the safety of your detachment. You look at him, eyes wide and shaking. His hand is fisted on the armchair, his rage crackling around him like a thunderstorm. “I will not have my only daughter sabotage everything this family has built for the affection of someone unfit for her station. Kwon Soonyoung is a weapon meant to serve you. You will marry Kim Yijun or I will remove the obstacle altogether.” 

Your entire life there have been two versions of your father. The stoic leader of one of the oldest criminal empires in Hyperion, the vicious man who could be cold and calculating, and who was reverently feared by his enemies. The kind father who watched you and Seungcheol study math together, carefully explaining to you how to carry numbers over in the equation. 

It is the former who sits before you now. Someone entirely unfamiliar to you, though you’ve always known he existed. And why would you? Your father has never had to be ruthless with you before, hiding the way he could cut from you until it was necessary. 

Soonyoung knew. You know it with absolute clarity. You remember the fear in his eyes when you had slipped into his room that night asking for a kiss, the way that he is always so careful about when and where he touches you, the way he takes the assignments and the mistreatment without so much as a protest because it means he gets to have you.

“You would kill him?” you whisper, looking your father in the eye. “You promised to take him in when his family was murdered. He had no one, and you promised his father you’d raise him as your own. You would go back on that?” 

He scowls. “If his father knew what he was, he’d kill Soonyoung himself. That boy is a dog to be set upon whoever his owner wishes, who kills with impunity.” You say nothing. I don’t feel like a person. Soonyoung’s words echo in your mind, haunting. “I hold the collar and I will put him down, if need be.” 

“So you raised a pet to be disposed of at your convenience?”

“I raised a boy who should be grateful I haven’t put him in the fucking ground for sullying my only daughter. I let you two have time, and you should be grateful. It is my love for him that has stayed my hand this long. No more. You will marry Kim Yijun, or you will bury that boy. This is the command of your Tower.”

“Mother will not let you-”

“Your mother doesn’t let me do anything. I am the Tower of this family, and it does what I command. You will fall in line.” 

Tears spill from your eyes. You suddenly feel like you’re standing on a cliff, the vertigo of nothingness at the bottom making you sick with fear. Desperation grips at you as you stare at your father, willing him to change his mind. Begging him. 

His pity doesn’t come. There is only resolute silence, watching as you crumple in front of him, knees going weak as you abruptly sit - fall - on the floor. You bury your face in your hands, grief for something lost stealing your ability to maintain control before you’ve even given an answer. 

I’m not made for you. 

Soonyoung had tried to tell you a long time ago and you’d brushed him off. Of course he was made for you. He was all you’ve ever wanted, and you’ve always been given what you wanted. You made him whole, and he you. How could you not be made for one another. 

“Please don’t do this to me. Daddy,” you whisper, trying to appeal to him with the little girl he loves. “Please, I love him.” 

“Lan will escort you to your room.” You ignore his words, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, willing the tears to stop. You know later you’ll feel pathetic for the display of emotion, for the meltdown in the face of adversity. “You will announce your engagement at the end of the week.”

“Yes, Tower.”

“If you so much as remotely try to sneak around with him, I will put him in the ground and bear the weight of that grief for eternity.” 

“Yes, Tower.”

“Know that I love you. We must make sacrifices for this family we wish not to. But you will make the sacrifice like I have so many times before. So will Soonyoung.” 

You stand, limbs shaky as you look at your father, the heat of your mother’s rage fueling your gaze. “Yes, Tower.”

-

Sleep claws at you with greedy fingers, unwilling to give you up to the waking light of day. You groan, suspended in that moment of almost awake but achingly unaware. A brush of warm skin on your arm pulls you the rest of the way from heavy sleep, your thoughts sticky as they formulate and you open your eyes, squinting in the gray light of your room. 

Squinting at the clock displayed on your nightstand, you realize it’s late morning. The tinted windows of your room keep out the sunlight, but a single panel has been adjusted to let some of the cloudy day in, a single shaft of gray spilling into your room like muddy water. 

Warmth presses behind your back, the steady touch on your arm trailing up and down. For a second, you lean back into it, feeling your head thud against Soonyoung’s chest, his mouth pressing against the crown of your head. He drags his fingers up and down your arm absently, light as a feather. He smells like soap, a hint of his familiar vanilla and sandalwood. 

“Have trouble sleeping?” the words are mumbled against you. 

“Hmm?”

“There’s lines of crushed knockout on your nightstand, Baby.” 

You look at the nightstand. Sure enough, the white pills you crushed are dusted across the surface. The reality of why you used them slams into you so suddenly that you stiffen, muscles locking.

Soonyoung notices immediately, his touch stilling. “What?”

Finding the words is impossible. You don’t know where to start, your father’s words make you dizzy. The sheets stick to your skin, Soonyoung’s warmth too hot to stand. You scramble from bed, kicking at the sheets and putting distance between you as you bolt toward the bathroom. 

“Hey,” he calls after you. You don’t turn to look at him, the cool tile giving you goosebump as the lights flicker on. You close the door behind you firmly, pressing your back against it. Soonyoung’s knocks are immediate, his voice calling your name on the other side. “What’s wrong?” 

The use of your name sours your stomach. You lurch forward, diving for the toilet as the contents of your stomach empty. The bile burns, your eyes watering as you press against the cold porcelain, clinging to it for life. 

Soonyoung opens the door, letting himself in as you heave again. He’s quick to react, opening the medicine cabinet to remove an anti-nausea inhalent. He wordlessly pads over to you, crouching down to extend it toward you. 

You avoid looking at him directly in the eye as you snatch it from him. His brows are pinched in concern, face swollen with what little sleep he got and mouth turned downward. Your stomach roils again but holds as you crack the inhalent and wave it under your nose, breathing in gently. 

The stimulant makes your eyes water, but immediately the churning in your stomach subsides. You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, trying to regulate yourself. Soonyoung watches in silence, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he wants to reach out and touch you but doesn’t. 

When you open your eyes, there is so much love and concern on his face that you almost break right then and there. Instead, you clear your throat and straighten, tossing the medication in the trash.

“Thanks, just hungover. I need to shower.”

He looks doubtful. “Alright.”

Soonyoung stands, heading to the shower. You clear your throat and he pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Alone, please.” 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just want to shower.” 

He says your name again. Not Baby. Not any other derivative. Your name. “You can talk to me.”

Your heart cracks. You panic. Your brain races for the only viable option. “I just want to take a fucking shower, Soonyoung.” You push yourself off the ground, scowling at him. He moves out of your way as you pass him, stunned to silence. “I don’t need you crowding my space every five seconds.” 

Refusing to look at him as you hit the panel in the wall, you instead focus on the water that falls from the ceiling, a storm of heat and the smell of peppermint. You keep your back turned toward him, staring at the water as it heats, steam curling in tendrils where it hits the stone tiles. 

“You can go,” you say sharply. 

“Alright.” 

The gentle click of the door when he leaves is barely audible over the hum of the shower. You let the rushing water lull you into a state of numbness, peeling your clothes off with unsteady, mechanical movements. 

Hot water slicks off your shoulders. You close your eyes and hang your head, letting the feel of the peppering water sluice over your ears, eyes, nose, mouth. You let it blind your senses to nothing but the roar of water, blotting out everything else. 

If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave. 

You remember when Soonyoung whispered it against your skin just a few years ago, spoken carefully and clearly, a promise and a warning. He would never let you go. You had to let him go. Telling him what your father has asked of you - has threatened to take away from you - will only make Soonyoung’s feet dig in further.

For as long as you’ve known him, Soonyoung has been a covetous creature. You remember the night at the club he antagonized you just to see that spark of want, just to prove to himself it was him you wanted. You remember the way he clung to you in the dark of your bedroom, the only person who could ever make him whole. Who could make him feel. 

Your father sees Soonyoung as a loyal attack dog - but it isn’t the Tower of the Choi Syndicate who holds Soonyoung’s collar. It never has been. Soonyoung has never asked your father how high. 

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you start deep breathing exercises. In through your nose, out through your mouth. The shaking in your fingers begins to subside, the logic part of your brain turning on. 

The threat on Soonyoung’s life is real. You saw the resolve in your father’s eye, the painful glint. He would hate to do it, but he would do it. You’re entwined too deep into your family’s affairs and business to vanish. There is nothing in the world you have that’s your own, no assets that are not connected to them in some way.

And if you tell Soonyoung, he’ll face the problem like he does everything that stands in his way: try to kill it. 

For a split moment, your brain chases the thought like a mouse after cheese. Like a long math problem, you work out if it’s possible to commit patricide and get away with it. Your mother will never forgive you, but Seungcheol might. Your friends would - they’re loyal to you, especially Jeonghan and Angel. 

The older generation, though- 

You toss aside the thought almost as quickly as you thought of it - not because you don’t want to kill your father, but because it isn’t possible. Not just like that. There are too many pieces on the chessboard, too many domino effects spreading out in every direction if you take that route.

No. There is only a single path for you, set in motion by a hand with more power than you. 

And there’s only one way you can move forward with Soonyoung. 

There’s so much of your mother’s side of the family you’ve inherited. Her side has always been associated with the phoenix, the burning immortality of their name and their strength, a blazing glory. Your maternal relatives have always been the rage and the fire that was needed for a Syndicate to advance, a good partnership for the Choi’s who were cold and steadfast. 

What you need now is the winter of the mountain, not the rage of the phoenix. You need to be a Choi. 

Steadfast is the mountain. 

You love Soonyoung. You love him you love him you love him youlovehimyoulovehimyoulovehimYOULOVEHIMYOULOVEHIM- 

Pressing your fist to your mouth, you bite down for one, blinding moment of untapped rage. You feel your skin break, taste iron and salt, feel pain bloom. 

Steadfast is the mountain. 

Then it’s gone. You drop your hand from your mouth. Open your eyes. Turn off the shower. The rage is gone, buried beneath a layer of newly formed ice. If there is anyone you can do this for, it’s Soonyoung. You love him. You will destroy him. But he’ll be alive. 

Soonyoung is sitting on your bed when you open the door. He’s got a tablet in his hand, the holographic images displaying above the screen, haloing his face in blue light. There are circles under his eyes and his teeth worry at his bottom lip, which is chapped. He’s shirtless, the compact planes of his body half shadowed by the single shaft of light filtering through a window. 

He looks up at you but you ignore him, heading to your closet. The silence is brutal. You push through it, opening the closet doors to reveal a massive space nearly the same size of your bathroom. Track lights kick on, rows and rows of clothes by color greeting you. In the middle, there is an island counter, filled with drawers and biolocked jewelry safes. 

Soft steps tell you Soonyoung is standing at the entrance of the closet. You still don’t face him, walking over to your section of black clothes. You flick through them, eyes scanning. Black seems appropriate. It feels like death, afterall. 

Soonyoung’s voice is soft as his late night kisses. “What’s going on?” 

“I’m marrying Kim Yijun.” 

A beat passes. Then another. 

“Is that supposed to be a joke? I’m not interested in pranks this morning.”

“It’s not a prank.” You pull out a black, silk dress. “The Tower has asked this of me, and I’ll be doing it.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

You continue, undeterred as you put the dress back and keep looking. “The Kim family has agreed to the match ahead of the rising tensions with the Yong Syndicate and their new take on foreign allies. A united front of the old families will benefit our family-”

“You’re not fucking marrying Kim Yijun.” 

“All of the metrics we’ve run for public opinion and potential city-wide reaction are favorable. The Tower needs his children to fall in line, and I intend to do so.”

Soonyoung storms toward you. You turn on your heel, holding a finger out to him, voice severe, “Don’t come near me.” 

“Why? Because you know you’ll lose your resolve? Because the second I touch you, you’ll drop whatever bravado this is and let me help you?”

Exactly that. He knows you inside and out. Sees through the front. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need him to believe you, you need him to obey. 

He takes another step and you back up. “I will scream,” you threaten, venom in your voice. “I will scream and Seungcheol and Vernon are right down the hall. Whose side do you think they’ll take, with your reputation for violence?” 

“Fuck you, they know I’d never hurt you.”

You hear the waver in his voice. That tiny sliver of doubt, so small and tiny but there. They do know he would never hurt you, but Soonyoung isn’t convinced they’d believe him. It makes you sick, but you latch onto it, unspooling that tiny bit of hurt. “Do they, Soonyoung? I hear some of them call you a mad dog because you attack with no regard for anything. Do you really think they trust you entirely with me?”

Soonyoung is raging. His chest rising and falling, shaking his head back and forth as he tries to understand. You’re rooted to the spot, muscles coiled, pulse thudding in your throat. “You are not,” he growls. “Marrying Kim Yijun. You don’t even want to, don’t try to lie to me about your feelings or insult me thinking you can bait me. You love me. You are mine.” 

“I belong to the Choi family and it’s what my family needs from me. I will do my duty.”

“Fuck your family!” His roar makes you flinch, briefly closing your eyes. His palm slams on the top of the countertop in front of him, sharp in the silence. “You have a duty to me. I told you I would not fucking let you go. You’re not doing it. I’ll fucking kill him, you think I won’t? I’ll murder every last one of them-” 

“You don’t tell me what to do, Kwon Soonyoung. I will do this, and you will obey.” He bristles, going rigid as your words land like a slap. “When I say jump, you say how high. You’ve always known that.” 

For a second, he cracks. The Soonyoung you first saw on your doorstep, crying and round-cheeked and ruddy returns. His lip trembles and the way he looks at you nearly melts your iron will. You’re so close to collapsing, to laying it out before him, to risking it all. 

“Don’t do this to me.” His whisper is made of glass. Delicate. He presses his palm to his chest, right over his heart. Earnest. “I can’t - you know I can’t. I- please. I can’t do this.” 

Licking your lips, you look him in the eyes. His eyes are your favorite. Dark. Stormy. Endless. They are lined with silver, panic rippling across the surface. 

You lift your chin and push back your shoulders. “You can and you will, because I told you to jump, Soonyoung. Now ask how high.” 

-

Sunlight warms the back of your neck, humidity clinging to your skin like a second layer. You take a deep breath, though the steamy air offers no relief. You snap open a silk fan, waving it in front of your face in hopes of chasing away some of the sweat, feeling the separation between skin and makeup the longer you sit in the wretched heat of the garden. 

It’s not even real sunlight or heat. You can’t tell beyond the projection in the room, but you know that there are vents heating up the room and controls that make the air humid and sticky, making it feel like you’re sitting in a real garden outside somewhere lush. 

Lin drones on and on about something. You tuned her out long ago, eyes flickering back and forth to your watch and the women’s faces around you. None of them here are really your friend - not in the way Angel is, the way Wonwoo or Jeonghan are. 

Yet you’re expected to be here, entertaining the upper echelon wives of the Choi and Kim Syndicates, boiling away in an imaginary garden while you sweat to death, dress clinging to your skin and thighs slippery in the seat as you adjust yourself, uncomfortable. 

“It’s hot as a motherfucker,” a whispered voice comes from next to you. You look up to see the newly engaged heiress of Nexus Capital next to you, glaring behind the dark shade of her sunglasses as Lin continues rambling about something. “Couldn’t she have made it less real?”

A smirk twitches on your lips. You haven’t spoken to her much, but her recent engagement to Xu Minghao had secured the position the Choi Syndicate had been fighting for in the shipping yards and docks with the Yong family, elevating her family into the favored circle of your father.

Suddenly, you remember who had recommended that marriage in the first place. You remember the party, the pretty dress you wore, Soonyoung’s hand briefly on your waist as he kissed you goodbye for a meeting. You had no idea then that your throwaway comment about an arranged marriage to benefit your family would become your own nightmare under an hour later.

Grief is a funny thing. You never knew that you could feel grief for someone who isn’t dead, yet sometimes you feel such an overwhelming amount of grief at the hole that Soonyoung has left behind that you can’t breathe. 

Throat dry, you reach for water, drinking eagerly. You feel a bead of water run down your face, but you ignore it in favor of trying to focus on not panicking. 

Anxiety attacks are new for you. Though your entire life has been colored with stressful situations unique to growing up in a criminal Syndicate, you could never say that you were anxious before. At least not in the way that made the back of your neck too hot and the tips of your fingers buzz with the threat of a looming meltdown. 

You ignore it. It’s all you know how to do. The anxiety medication your therapist gave you doesn't work, and you can’t crush a bunch of pills and inhale them anytime you feel like you’re about to get tunnel vision and spiral. 

Well, you suppose you can, but you’re trying not to get into the habit. 

Instead of acknowledging the way the panic lurks around your edges like a predator waiting to pounce, you listen to the dull conversation around you. Focus on the gossip that you don’t care about, exactly, but know it’s good to have. 

Since marrying into the Kim family, you’re not sure what your job is. With your family, your role as the face, the legacy and the representation of the Choi Syndicate had always been clear and obvious. Now, your husband sends you to stupid things like this with preening people that you don’t like and makes you leave events early when he’s irritable. 

Gossip is a weapon, though. So you gather it when you can, taking in bits of information and storing it for yourself. Rarely do you offer it to Yijun - not that he would take it - but Jeonghan finds the information you share useful. So does Angel, but there’s rarely anything you know that she doesn’t. 

Just as your anxiety begins to fade, the source of it materializes. 

At first, you think you’re seeing things when a door appears in the wall depicting an apple orchard and Soonyoung strolls out into the fake-sun. You blink dumbly, spine tingling as you realize that your mind is not playing tricks on you and it is him. 

He sees you immediately. His dark eyes burn like embers, pinning you to the spot. His face remains motionless but you see his jaw tick, the only sign that he is immediately on edge when he sees you. He’s dressed for work in an all black suit, required for the Swords of the Choi family. 

Giggles breakout around the table as he approaches, the ladies around you all flushed cheeks and demure smiles. You feel the buzzing start in your hands again, this time worse. It goes up your arms, working its way to your chest as the anxiety increases tenfold, heart pounding.

Soonyoung bows. “I beg your pardon, ladies.” 

“My goodness, Soonyoung,” Lin preens. “You must be horribly hot in that suit, but you do look handsome.”

You fight the urge to snarl at her that the imitation of the garden isn’t real and no amount of pretending will make it real. You even imagine reaching across the table and plunging her fish knife into her hand. Instead, you watch Soonyoung, your hummingbird heart fluttering. 

He gives her a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be alright. I apologize for interrupting, but the Tower of the Choi family has sent me to escort his daughter home.” 

“Home?” 

“The Choi Estate.” 

He doesn’t say what he means: the Kim Estate is not your home. 

“Alright,” you say, voice reedy. Your hands are trembling as you slide your chair from the table, the metal legs grinding loudly against concrete. You flinch at the sound, hyper aware of every bead of sweat crawling down your spine, every beat of your heart that is too fast, too hard.

Static fills you as you mumble parting words to the women who watch you in confusion. At least, you think you mumble your goodbyes. Blood rushes in your ears as you take uneven steps toward Soonyoung, who turns on his heel and starts marching toward the apple orchard. 

It feels like you’re in an echo chamber. Everything suddenly feels hollow and everything sounds as though you’re hearing it through a thin wall. Muted. Dull. He opens the door that you can’t quite spot even this close, ushering you inside as your vision starts tunneling to a narrow point, everything else blurry and distorted. 

No. No no no no no. 

Lifting your hands, you glance down at them to see them trembling, opening and closing your fists in an attempt to stop the buzzing feeling, as though you could will it away. You think Soonyoung says something but you can’t hear him over the roar of panic that grips you and tears you sideways.

Instead of following him down the hall, you lurch toward a different hall, rushing toward the powder room. It feels like the walls are narrowing as you throw open the door, breath coming out in pants. Everything feels tight and compact, crushing smaller still. 

Stumbling to the sink you try to turn the faucet on. Once. Twice. Cold water spits from the faucet and you gasp, leaning down over the sink to splash freezing water into your face. It doesn’t have the desired effect, the water is not cool enough to shock you out of your panic. 

Soonyoung speaks behind you. You can’t hear him, the grip of your anxiety so strong that you grab the edges of the sink to keep you up right. You’re heaving now, heart rattling so hard you think that maybe you’re having a heart attack instead. 

A firm grip wretches your attention from the porcelain sink to the mirror, where you see your dripping reflection, eyes blown like saucers. Soonyoung is standing behind you, a hand on your bicep, squeezing. His face is no longer a mask of indifference, but one of confusion. 

His mouth moves and you shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “I can’t,” you gasp, ragged. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” 

Then, he does something that catches you entirely off guard. You watch in slow motion as he steps back and removes the gun from the holster underneath his suit jacket. You hear the safety on the gun click and the hum as the weapon charges, ready to fire rounds of plasma if he squeezes the trigger. 

And then he points the gun at your head, the lights on it flipping from blue to red, signaling it’s ready to kill. 

The world stops. The panic vanishes for a split second, replaced with utter shock as you stare at him in the mirror. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you demand, voice stronger than you expect. 

Soonyoung is ten levels of crazy, but he’s never pointed a gun at you before. You stare at him, open-mouthed and wondering if he’ll do it. If he could pull the trigger. He’d told you a hundred times when you were together that he would never let you go and it was always with clarity that you understood what he meant: it’s me or no one. 

With stark clarity, you realize there’s no reason for Soonyoung not to pull the trigger. He doesn’t care much about the value of his own life from what you can glean over the last two years, and he doesn’t really seem to care about yours. 

Not that he should. You promised to make him feel human and you did. Then you took it away from him, leaving him adrift in a vast ocean of nothing alone and untethered. 

No, you don’t think you inspire Soonyoung to feel human anymore. If anything, you probably make him want to be the worst version of himself. 

Soonyoung’s voice holds no emotion when he asks, “Are you with me?”

“Why are you pointing a gun at me?” 

“Breathe,” he says instead. He doesn’t lower the weapon, stormy eyes focused on yours. “Breathe,” he repeats. “Slowly, maybe.” 

“Soonyoung, you are holding a gun at me, what do you mean breathe?” 

“What do you mean what do I mean? I mean what I fucking said. Breathe normally.”

“Lower the gun!” He does. “What the fuck?”

He breaks eye contact, sliding the weapon back into his suit jacket. He turns away from you as though he didn’t have you at gunpoint a second ago. “You were having a panic attack. Sometimes a shock to the system stalls it. Your breathing has slowed down now. And you’re not panicking.” 

A beat of silence passes. Then, “So you leveled a gun at my head?” 

“It worked. Let’s go.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Yes. Now let’s go. You’re needed at the Choi Estate.”

“Why?” 

“Do I look like I have all the answers? I just do what I’m told. When a Choi says jump, remember?”

You visibly flinch as his words land. Soonyoung doesn’t wait for you to gather yourself, spinning on his heel and exiting the powder room to stride through the halls. Tightness gathers in your chest, left over from your anxiety attack. 

Pressing your hands against your dress to wipe the sweat from them, you chase after Soonyoung. He’s already by the apartment’s elevator, jamming his finger into the button. He doesn’t look at you as he waits, content to stare at the metal door. 

You don’t know where else to look - you want to look anywhere but him. Turning around, you fixate on the floor to ceiling windows. It’s still morning outside, but it’s hard to tell with the way the clouds block out the view, turning everything to mist. 

This high up in the city is reserved for the elite. You can’t imagine why - there’s nothing to look at but clouds, clouds, and more clouds. It’s what makes them have virtual reality rooms in the first place, trying to recreate the experience that they might have if they were wealthy enough to own land. 

The sound of the elevator arriving makes you flinch. Soonyoung ignores you, getting in and leaning against the wall as he hits a button to go to the parking garage. You scramble in after him, a little breathless as the doors close just behind you. 

Immediately you start shooting down several floors. He glares at the wall, unseeing and unfeeling. You swallow thickly, watching the numbers decrease until you’re at Lin’s private parking garage. Soonyoung is out of the elevator before it finishes opening all the way, storming toward the car he’s left running idle. 

Normally someone would open a car door for you. Instead, Soonyoung gets in the driver’s seat and slams the door shut. You reach for the handle of the passenger seat and pause. Normally you sit in the back when being driven somewhere, it’s always been like that. But this is Soonyoung and you’ve always been beside him in the car, his equal. 

A muffled get in the fucking car reaches you. Deciding that sitting next to him is too personal, you open the back seat and slide in. You’ve barely shut the door when he punches the gas, slamming you into the back of the seat as he goes. 

“Would you stop being an asshole?” you seethe, ripping the seatbelt from next to you to buckle in. Your hands are still shaking and it takes a moment for the clasp to click.

Instead of answering, you hear the way the car accelerates under his foot. Scowling, you look out the window. He speeds into the lift that brings the car down to the ground floor. Lights blur by as the lift drops at lurching speed, your stomach in your throat. You hate coming to apartments for this reason, the feeling of having to freefall to leave never growing on you. 

It’s raining when the lift opens to the wet street. Soonyoung peels out on the pavement, tires spinning until they gain traction and the car slides onto the road, narrowly missing someone. You slam against the seatbelt, cursing and clinging onto the door as he pushes the gas down, engine roaring.

“Are you trying to kill us?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer you. You think it might be because he’s not explicitly trying to kill the two of you, but he doesn’t care if he does. You try not to think about it so much as he powers through the streets of the Upper City, driving past towering businesses, luxury districts with entertainment and bars and apartment buildings. 

The road starts to incline and you hit a line of trees. The city vanishes behind you as Soonyoung drives the car up the winding road, leaving a world of metal and lights for greenery and earth. The contrast between the cities below and the Estates above is stark, especially as he drive’s higher up the mountain, snatches of the city below visible. 

“Why did you come to get me?” you ask, flicking your gaze to the rearview mirror to watch him. Soonyoung keeps his eyes on the road, but you see his mouth tighten. “Last I checked you’re not an errand boy.”

“So what, you check on me?”

“It’s a figure of speech, you know what I mean.”

“The Tower personally requested I come get you.” 

That gives you pause. Soonyoung’s face reveals nothing as he turns on the street that will inevitably lead to the massive metal wall that blocks off the world from the Choi Estate. There can only be a single reason why Soonyoung was sent to fetch you when usually your husband’s staff would do so.

“What’s happened?” 

Soonyoung doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he rolls the window down at the guard house to show his face. The security team recognizes him immediately, waving him through as the gate begins to slide open to reveal lush, green jungle. 

Gravel crunches underneath the car tires as he drives through the winding foliage on Choi grounds. Your great-great-grandfather had built the Choi compound, the first of the few elite houses on the mountain. He thought it was important to keep the plant life and sprawling greenery to conserve, but you knew it was really about power. Symbolism. Greenery didn’t really exist in the city, and this much space and plantlife meant wealth. 

The sprawling estate you grew up in reveals itself. Multiple buildings dot the property, making it more a family compound than an estate. Now that Seungcheol is old enough, he’s moved out of the main house and into one of the smaller homes, occupying the space with his own men and staff. Still, he’s just a brief stroll away from your childhood home.

Home. Even two years under a Kim family banner hasn’t erased the feeling of home for you. There is nothing in the house you share with Yijun that makes it feel like you. It is as devoid of love as your marriage, merely a placeholder for you to sleep, eat, and occasionally, try to produce an heir. 

Soonyoung pulls up to the long building that serves as a garage, hitting a button on the car’s screen to open one of the bays. He pulls in slowly, the outside world fading as the garage door shuts behind the car, dousing it in darkness until the neon lights above flicker on. 

Without a word, he powers off the vehicle and gets out. Taking a deep breath, you square your shoulders and get out of the car. He doesn’t wait for you - even shuts the door as he enters the main house so you’re forced to lug it open. 

He’s already opening the door to the main house a few yards away, forcing you again to haphazardly navigate gravel in your heels as you give chase. You’re sweating and irritated by the time you’re up the steps and pushing through the front door, a nasty quip on your lips ready until you see your aunt coming down the stairs. 

“Oh thank goodness,” she says, seeing you. She looks older than you remember, the lines of her face deep and the hair at her temples gray. “Come along.”

“What’s going on?” you ask, uncertain as you step into the foyer and let her take your arm. 

She scowls. “Did that useless boy not tell you? Your mother suffered a heart attack this morning. She’s with Dr. Ymir in the medical wing.”

Your heart thuds to a stop as you wheel around to look over your shoulder at Soonyoung. His gaze is stormy but his face gives away nothing as he turns to leave the way he came, slamming the front door and vanishing down the steps to leave you alone. 

“No,” you mumble as your aunt pulls you down the hall. “He didn’t tell me.” 

Because that’s how much Soonyoung hates you. Hate isn’t even the right word, you think. It is something far deeper and far more sinister, fueled only by taking away something that he valued more than anything else in the world and forcing him to live with it. 

I deserve this, you think as the door to one of the private medical rooms opens, a clinical smell hitting you in the face. I deserve everything that happens to me. 

-

I deserve this. It’s all you can think of as you watch the black casket lower into the ground. Seungcheol stands beside you, his hands linked in front of him. You want to reach out and take his hand in yours, but you don’t want him to look weak. Don’t want others to see him crack like you know he will if you comfort him. 

Instead, you comfort yourself as best you can, which isn’t saying much. You’ve never been good at dealing with your feelings, too much of your mother’s blood running through you. It was your father’s least favorite trait of yours and perhaps Soonyoung’s favorite.

Soonyoung, who has always been your emotional tether and outlet. You’re not accustomed to dealing with grief alone, and the pull of it feels like an undertow threatening to drag you under and drown you. 

Someone shifts behind you, close enough that you feel Yijun next to you stiffen. You turn to look over your shoulder, blinking in surprise as you tilt your head up to see Soonyoung. He doesn’t look at you, dark eyes fixed forward and jaw flexing tightly. He’s standing closer than is necessary, as shown by your husband’s scoff. 

Soonyoung doesn’t move, though. He remains nearly pressed against your back, so close that you can smell vanilla and sandalwood. Turning away from him, you feel your shoulders relax. He ignores you, but he’s there, a stoic guardian that’s just out of reach.

The Tower of the Choi Syndicate is too lost in his grief to notice or care about Soonyoung’s proximity to you. Your brother couldn’t care less, barely realizing that his brother by choice is an inch away from him. But you know Soonyoung is there and that’s all that matters. 

The grief lessens, turning back from churning waters to gentle, lapping waves.

-

“Your brother doesn’t respect me,” Yijun asserts. You look at him in the bathroom mirror. He’s standing behind you in the closet, taking out glinting cufflinks to replace them in the countertop in the middle of the aisles of clothes. “You should work on that.”

“Seungcheol hardly takes what I say to heart.”

Yijun snorts, detecting the lie before you can even get it out. Seungcheol very much values your insight and opinion far more than he’s interested in Yijun’s. He’s made it clear at multiple parties and events now, often asking you how business is and how the shared Kim-Choi accounts are doing, despite not having anything to do with them. 

Seungcheol hates your role within the Kim family. On more than one occasion he’s recommended Yijun make use of you somewhere in the family business, to make you the head of operation somewhere so that your schooling and experience weren’t going to waste. Yijun asserted that your social skills were being put to perfect use, entertaining the wives of his associates and serving as the perfect host when his business colleagues and friends were over. 

“He’s going to be leading the family soon,” Yijun sighs. “It would be better for us if he saw me as a real ally.”

“He does see you as an ally. You’re married to his sister.”

“Exactly, so you should remind him that I’m family.” It doesn’t sound like a threat, but it also doesn’t sound like a request. Sighing, you shut the drawer in the counter forcefully. It draws his attention, gaze darkening. “Don’t you want your brother to respect your husband?”

No, you think. You don’t respect your husband, so why should Seungcheol?

Instead, you sigh. “Of course, Yi.” He doesn’t soften at the nickname. “I’ll talk to him, alright? He’s got a lot going on. And don’t talk about my father’s health that way.”

“I didn’t say anything about his health.”

“Please,” you snort. “I know what you meant about Cheol taking over soon.” 

Yijun had been talking about Seungcheol more and more. You’ve watched with a sour taste in your mouth as your husband tries to earn your brother’s attention and trust, flashing what he thinks Seungcheol cares about in his face, telling him about the new car he acquired, or the historical art piece you purchased at an auction, and the new apartment building he’s constructing. 

Seungcheol doesn’t give a fuck about any of that. The Choi family never has. Your ancestors didn’t make a name for themselves and carve it on the mountain they built their home on by showing off their wealth and what it could do for them. They did it by earning it, and by remaining steadfast and intelligent. Political. 

Yijun understands none of that. As the eldest son of his family, it’s a shame. The real world of the Syndicates is lost on him. He has enough business acumen to run companies under his father’s careful tutelage and instruction, but he doesn’t have the social savvy for it, the right drive. 

His brother does. You think of Kim Minchan and nearly shiver. The middle child of the Kim family has more than enough understanding of the way that things work, but the ocean of blood behind him is enough for you to prefer Yijun leading the Kim Syndicate any day. 

“I’m just saying,” Yijun grunts, flicking off the lights in the closet. “Your brother has all the reason in the world to respect me and he doesn’t.” He looks at you, face hardening. “Do you tell him not to? Is that what it is? His baby sister tells him how useless her husband is?” 

Danger is in the air. Yijun won’t lay a hand on you, but it doesn’t make this dance any less stressful. You turn away from the mirror, looking at him fully. He’s not terrible to look at - he has a sharp jaw and a broad nose and a pleasant shaped mouth. He’s handsome, even. 

He’s not Kwon Soonyoung. 

Swallowing away the thought, you reach up to put your hands on his chest, placating. “I wouldn’t do that,” you assure him, softening your voice. You hate the sound of your voice, hate the way you pitch it low and gentle. “You’re a reflection of me too. I would never let my brother think any of those things about my husband.” 

Yijun swats your hands away, making you grit your teeth. “Don’t act like a whore. Just - tell your brother. I should be in his inner circle by now. Make it happen.” 

As Yijun leaves the bathroom, the urge to grab him by his collar and yank him back in to smash his head on the counter almost wins. You stare at him until he vanishes in the bedroom, your rage a live, sentient thing. You feel it crawl beneath your skin, slithering and clawing and biting and begging to be let out. 

Steady is the mountain. You take that fire and shove it down. Years of instinct of reacting with your mother’s temper peter out slowly. It’s a shame - you’re the last woman left from her side of the family, the only one who can carry the fire of the phoenix. 

You glare at the bedroom. Somewhere, Yijun lurks, getting into bed. Oh how the shadows of the weak choke out the fire of the strong. 

If killing Yijun wouldn’t risk everything, you’d have done it already. That first month spent with him where you realized this would not only be a loveless marriage, but a hateful one had almost driven you to it. The Choi Syndicate could surely survive a war with the Kim Syndicate - you had better assets, stronger loyalties, and more money. 

But if the Kim family turned to the Yong family… 

Avoiding unification of the Kim and Yong families is why you were married to Kim Yijun in the first place. To murder him now would mean Syndicate war, and despite the fact that every moment with him is hateful and poisonous, you’re too nervous to put your family at risk. 

Especially with your father’s failing health, as Yijun had pointed out. 

Syndicate war isn’t the only thing keeping you from stabbing Kim Yijun until you can’t feel anything anymore. Minchan’s shadow of a presence lingers over your thoughts, one of the few threats you truly fear. Any harm to his brother would elevate Minchan to a position where he could only wield his power more. 

And he’d hunt you like a bloodhound. You’re unsure if there is any corner of the world he would leave unturned if you killed his brother, no matter how much it would benefit him if Yijun keeled over tomorrow. 

Inside your bedroom is dark. It doesn’t feel like your bedroom at all. There’s nothing homey about it, no possession or unique decor, no pictures. You wouldn’t sleep in here at all if Yijun didn’t make you, insisting that he couldn’t trust any of the house staff not to tell your father you weren’t sleeping in the same room. 

Your father doesn’t care. He stopped caring about anything the day you put your mother into the dirt. Even if he hadn’t, as long as your relationship looked functional to whom it mattered, it mattered little to him if you slept in the same room or if you even liked Kim Yijun.

He’d made that very clear the day he tore away your future with Soonyoung. 

Yijun is already snoring when you climb into bed. You grind your teeth, reaching to pull open the nightstand for noise cancelling earbuds and sleep medication. The medication isn’t as strong as the crushed up knockout you might have used previously, but it helps take the edge off without making you vulnerable to attack. 

Which is something you still worry about. 

Setting your phone on silent, you settle in for sleep. It takes a long time, but you finally drift away to thinking about smothering the man next to you in his sleep. 

-

Something wakes you. Blinking sleep from your eyes, you sit up in bed and look around the room. It’s dark, but you can see the barely-there outlines of the furniture in your bedroom. Next to you, Yijun is gone. You can feel the lack of presence there more than you can see it, reaching your hand over to confirm the bed is cold and that he’s not been there for a while. 

You reach for the phone on your nightstand but can’t find it. Frowning, you press your hand on the cool marble, sweeping back and forth to no avail. You lean further, finger finding the button to the light function on the stand and press down. 

Dim, lavender light halos the top of the nightstand. Your phone is nowhere in sight. It’s just your jewelry dish, a decanter for water, and your sleep medication. You’re pretty sure that you put your phone face down before you went to bed, but you can’t be sure. 

Pulling open the nightstand drawer only makes the back of your neck sweat. Your phone isn’t there, but neither is the gun you keep in the top drawer. Both you and Yijun sleep armed, despite having armed guards on the premises at all times. 

Snapping the drawer shut, you roll to the other side of the bed and pull his open. A book, a watch, some pill bottles and a pack of cigarettes fill the drawer. No gun. 

The back of your neck tingles. You rip the sheets off of you, heading to the bedroom door. The house is mostly dark when you open it, the entire second floor dim. Leaning over the banister, you can see a shaft of light falling across the room, perhaps coming from the kitchen. 

Quietly, you stalk toward the top of the stairwell, trying to reduce noise as you creep down. A high pitched whine rings in your ears, heart thundering. You have no idea why you’re so afraid all of the sudden, especially in your own house, but your instincts tell you to be alert and quiet. 

At the foot of the stairs, you confirm the light is coming from the kitchen. It’s not uncommon for people to be in the house in the middle of the night. Official Syndicate business happens at any time, and often goes into the early hours of morning. 

Tonight, it’s not busy. Before you’d gone upstairs to bed, you’d noted that it was a skeleton crew security team for the night, just a few of them at the gate house and walking the premises while you and Yijun returned upstairs for the evening alone. 

Creeping toward the hallway, you pause when you hear voices. You identify Yijun’s voice right away, holding your breath and straining your hearing as he says, “What do you want me to do here?” 

“Keep her contained. Make sure no one from her family can reach her.”

“I already took her phone and her gun.”

Your stomach drops. “Good.” That’s Minchan’s voice, you realize, dread growing tenfold. “The second she finds out the Tower has fallen, she’ll try to run or her brother will try to get her.”

“Or that psycho fuck,” Yijun mutters. 

“You’d be lucky if it was Seungcheol who came to get her. If Kwon Soonyoung comes looking, call me immediately. We’ll make our move in two hours. We’ve got the biggest team outside the Choi estate ready to go in and we’ve got men and women stationed at all the key points.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and babysit my wife?”

“Yes.” Minchan’s tone is nonnegotiable. “We’ll leave the guards at the gatehouse but we can’t spare anyone else. This kind of assault requires everyone. The Yong family will take care of the Pearl District and the Salt.” 

Yijun hesitates. “What about the Yoon family? Are they all accounted for?” 

“Yes. I have a team on the crazy one - what do they call her?”

“Angel, I think.”

Minchan laughs. “Demon is more fitting. Stay here. Stay by your phone. We’ll call thirty minutes before we give the signal to link everyone on comms. We do this right, and the Choi Syndicate is gone.” 

Panic presses in for a moment. Your heart hammers. Your hands shake. Bile churns your stomach. It feels like you can’t get enough air, the pieces of what they're talking about falling into place.

The Tower has fallen.

Your father is dead, and in the wake of the crushing blow, the Kim family intends to strike at yours alongside the Yong family. The realization lands like a blow, immediately slapping you out of your panic. 

Fear turns to rage. Rage turns to ice. You are fire, you are the mountain. 

Steadfast is the mountain, but the fire does burn. 

As quietly as you can, you creep up the stairs. You keep turning over your shoulder to ensure Minchan doesn’t leave the kitchen and catch you creeping back toward your bedroom. When you hit the second floor landing, you all but sprint to your room, gears turning. 

Yijun took your phone and intends to keep you locked in the house until they finish their plan. From their discussion, you know they intend to mobilize within two hours, targeting important members of the Choi Syndicate across the city with the help of the Yong family. 

It means you have only a few minutes to warn your family to respond, to prepare and to fight back or strike first. Which is hard to do without a phone, but your husband doesn’t know you nearly as well as he thinks.

Door closed behind you, you flip the lock on the bedroom door and dash for the closet. The lights above come to life, bathing you in ghoulish, grey light. You dive to the floor toward your shelf holding all of your shoes, the carpet burns nothing compared to the pain starting to bloom behind your sternum where your grief builds slowly under your anger. 

Your father is dead. The Kims are going to turn on you anyway. Your marriage to Kim Yijun to secure alliances against the Yong family was for nothing.

You’ve endured for nothing. 

Snatching a pair of boots, you swallow down the bile again. You will not break now, not when there are more important things than the time you’ve wasted withering away in this cold home. Shoving your hand inside the boot, you come into contact with what you were looking for. Your hand closes around the device, yanking it out and powering it on. 

The screen flashes to life. You press one and hold, hearing the buzz on the phone as it begins to ring. You cradle the phone against your shoulder and ear, nearly sick with the adrenaline that is pounding through you, your vision blurring, hands shaking. 

You grab another shoe, this time reaching inside carefully instead of shoving your hand in. The smooth, bone handle of a knife meets your hand and you wrap your fingers around it firmly, pulling it out. 

Soonyoung answers on the fourth ring. “Where are you?” 

“The Kim family has turned on the Chois. They’re mobilizing for a full scale attack in roughly two hours. The Yong family is helping them. They’re at the estate and all over the city - anyone who is important to us regardless of position will need to be warned. The Yong family is handling the Pearl District and the Salt.” 

“How many men are at Yijun’s estate?” You can hear him moving on the other side of the line, something rustling. Perhaps clothes as he gets dressed. “Are you armed?” 

“There are men at the guard house and one walking the perimeter. It’s just me and Yijun inside, I think Minchan is leaving. I’ve got a knife.” 

“Where are you in the house?” 

“Bedroom, second landing to the right and all the way at the end of the hall. There are windows but they don’t open.” 

“Listen to me,” Soonyoung says, voice like ice. “The second we start moving into position to accept the assault, they’ll know something is off. When that happens, Yijun is going to try to kill you, do you understand?” When you say nothing, he asks again, voice louder. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes.”

“I need you to fight back. Either kill him or hold him off until I’m there.” 

“You need to warn-”

“Don’t worry about the fucking Syndicate! We’ll be fine. You’ve given us more than enough time. I need you to be entirely focused on yourself.”

You take a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “Okay.”

“Do you have frostbyte?”

“Maybe? Yijun might have it in the nightstand.”

“Take some. Not enough to fuck you up, but enough to pump that adrenaline and make your head clear. I will be there in thirty minutes.” 

“Okay.” 

You squeeze the phone, unwilling to hang up. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t heard his voice in months. It doesn’t matter that he hates you, it doesn’t matter that you know whatever used to be between you is broken and it’s entirely your fault. You just… don’t want to hang up. 

“Hey.” Soonyoung’s voice is soft, drawing you from your trembling spiral. “Do what I said. Do the frostbyte and kill him if you have to. I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” Soonyoung pauses, the silence heavy on the line. “I love you.” 

Nothing breaks you like those words, whispered but firm, whispered in case you die before he gets there. He doesn’t have to say that’s why he’s saying it - you know. You know the chance of him not getting there fast enough is likely and real. He does too, but instead of telling you, he gives you this. 

You whisper back, “I love you.” 

Soonyoung hangs up the phone and you fight a sob. You bring the knife up to your hand, pressing your pointer finger down on the tip. The sting is immediate, making you his in pain as blood beads on the tip of your finger, red and garish in the closet lighting. 

The sting grounds you enough to push yourself from the floor, following Soonyoung’s directions to Yijun’s nightstand. You yank it open, rattling around the contents until you find the bag of frostbyte you were hoping was there. Yijun uses it the nights he attempts to put an heir in you, numbing himself the way you never did, taking your punishment for what you’d done to Soonyoung raw.

Not enough to fuck me up, you think, untwisting the bag and shaking. Just enough to make it easier. 

Dipping the tip of your knife into the bag, you pull out a small lump of the glittering drug. You try not to think about that night at the club all those years ago, when you and Soonyoung were still dancing around one another’s feelings, doing anything you could to get a reaction out of one another. 

You take a sharp breath in. The drug hits your nasal passage and it burns, your eyes smarting as you tilt your head up, cursing and blinking away the tears. It hits the back of your throat, bitter and awful as you cough a little, trying to wait for it to clear your nasal passage.

When the burning subsides a little, you do it again. It’s less harsh than the first bump but still just as awful, making you wonder how the fuck you did this on the weekend with your friends as a teenager. Tossing the back on the nightstand, you stand waiting, closing your eyes and trying to do deep breathing exercises your therapist taught you to calm down. 

Frostbyte works fast. It hits your bloodstream and an electric calm comes over you. Everything comes into sharper focus, the adrenaline pumping as your simmering rage turns to a boil, ready to kick the fucking door down and hunt down Yijun yourself.

Nerves fade away to the background of your mind. You walk toward the door, waiting to the side so when Yijun ultimately kicks it down, you’re ready. 

Ten minutes pass. The entire time your ears are ringing, heart thundering in your chest. You think the frostbyte was a good idea - if you had to wait in silence like this without it, you would have gone crazy by now. Even with the drug, fear nips at your ankles, a hound ever on your tail. 

Yijun’s footsteps thunder up the stairs. Your heart lurches and you inch away from the door, readying yourself. He storms down the hall, fury in each step until he gets to the door and turns the handle. It doesn’t move. He tries a few more times, shaking the door. 

His roar on the other side of the door is loud and feral, making you grin as he thrashes against the door, cursing and screaming at you. The door holds, rattling in place as he slams what you think is his shoulder into it multiple times. 

The bombardment pauses for a second and then restarts ten times stronger. This time, you recognize that it’s his foot slamming into the side of the door. You realize he’s kicking where the door is latched, trying to break it open instead of kicking through it. 

A small crack sounds. You take a breath, readying yourself as you hear another snap go through the door, now rattling loose in its frame. He kicks hard again and the door blows open, nearly smacking you as it does. You roll away from it on the wall, keeping close as Yijun barrels past you, swinging his head from left to right as he looks for you.

It’s your only chance to get the jump on him. You slide from the dark, heart hammering. You’ve never stabbed anyone before, but you’ve practiced. You drive the knife upward, intending to puncture his kidneys. Yijun twists a little to the side, sensing your presence as the knife plunges into his side. 

Yijun screams. Your satisfaction only lasts a second before he throws his elbow backward, catching you in the nose. Pain explodes in your face, blinding you as your eyes water and you stumble backward hands shooting to your face. 

Removing the knife from his side, Yijun screams at you, spit flying as he comes at you. Through tears and warm blood rushing from your nose, you reach for anything to use as a weapon. Your hand closes on the ceramic artwork on the dresser and you launch it at him, hitting him hard in the face. 

The ceramic shatters and he drops the knife. You dive for it but he grabs you by the hair, ripping you upward and backward like a ragdoll. You lose your footing, screaming as he tightens his fist in your hair and drags you toward the bed, tossing you there. 

With a feral shout, you kick your foot forward, catching him in the lower gut. He grunts but wraps his hand around your ankle, yanking you back off the bed onto the floor, where the knife lays. You reach for it, seething, your hands managing to close around it just as he pivots, foot landing against your ribcage. 

Again, pain explodes inside of you. With the frostbyte, you barely recognize it, grabbing the knife and stabbing him in the calf. He shrieks and collapses to a knee, reaching for the knife. This time you rip it back out, nearly losing your grip on the bone handle, fingers slippery with blood. 

You stab him again, this time in the thigh. His knee presses into your stomach, crushing you and forcing air from your lungs. You ignore the pain, stabbing him again and again in the thigh until he falls backward off of you, muscles malfunctioning, tendons give away. 

Yijun kicks out at you with his good leg but you’re already moving, ignoring the way your body is screaming in utter agony, every part of you throbbing and begging you to give up. 

You don’t. You scramble on top of him. His hands shoot up to your throat but you spit at him, a spray of blood blinding him and making his grip loosen momentarily. It’s enough to bring the knife down home again, this time directly in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. 

For a second, he fights back. You hear the wet gasp and he thrashes, but you stab him again. And again and again and again and again -

You think about all of the times that you were forced to submit to him. 

And again and again and again - 

The way he heaved himself on top of you, trying to force a child into you so he could be done with you, the way you’d wish it had been Soonyoung instead. 

And again and again and again - 

The way Soonyoung’s face broke that morning, begging you not to do this to him. 

And again and again and again -

All for the Kim family to turn on the Choi’s anyway, wasting the entire time you’ve spent under lock and key, doing Yijun’s bidding while Soonyoung hated you. Loathed you. Wish you never happened to him. 

Again and AGAINANDAGAINANDAGAINAND- 

Yijun isn’t moving under you. Your hand is warm and wet, the knife becoming slippery as you let it go. It clatters to the floor and you sit backward on his knees. He’s unmoving as you heave, sucking down air that tastes like iron and salt. 

Sweat slicks the back of your neck and down your spine. Somewhere in the house, there’s a crashing noise. You leap for the knife, rolling off of Yijun’s mutilated body toward the door, positioning yourself in a defensive position as feet thunder up the stairs. 

You bare your teeth, knowing this is it. Knowing Soonyoung hasn’t come quickly enough but it doesn’t matter, because you warned them and they are safe. Your penance for destroying him has been paid in half, though never full, and -

Soonyoung appears in the doorway. He looks like an angel from hell, wreathed in shallow light that comes from the first floor, his silver hair stained with blood. He’s in black trousers and a short-sleeve shirt with his favorite band on it - one of his sleep shirts. 

For less than a second, he stares at you. Then, Soonyoung dives at you, dropping the gun in his head and grabbing you. You hadn’t realized that you’d sunk to your knees, looking up at him as he grabs your face, turning you this way and that. He’s asking you a question but you can’t understand him, dizzy and confused and in so much pain that the edge of your vision wavers. 

“Baby,” Soonyoung begs, his voice warped and echoey. “Hey, I need you to answer me. Where are you bleeding?” 

“S’mostly his,” you answer, feeling how heavy your tongue is. Your thoughts are sticky and slow. Concussed, you think. “Maybe broke my nose.” 

Soonyoung’s thumb brushes gently across your cheek, smearing blood. “Can you walk if I help you?”  You think about it. Shake your head. “Okay. I’m going to lift you up, alright? Tell me where it hurts so I don’t hurt you, Baby.” 

“Ribs.” 

“Left or right?” 

You pause, breathing in and feeling the pain bloom. “Right.” 

“Okay, tell me if I hurt you, okay? We’re going to take you home.”

“Thank you.” Soonyoung hesitates at your tone, looking at you. His eyes are vulnerable and open, more raw than you have seen them since you were kids. “You didn’t have to come get me.” 

He stares and stares at you. The world fades a little and Soonyoung lifts you toward him. “Of course I did,” he murmurs, so soft you barely hear what he’s saying. “When you say jump, remember?”

-

“Where's this?” You mumble, looking out the window at a small home behind high gates.

Soonyoung has been driving for an hour and a half, his silence nearly unbearable as you both left the city. You don’t ask about where you’re going or if everyone is okay - you don’t think you can stomach the answers right now. Not while in the car. 

Rain mists through the window as Soonyoung rolls it down to punch in a code in front of the gate. It flashes green and the metal starts to roll open, revealing a large but modest house - at least by Syndicate standards. He drives through, gravel crunching beneath the tires. 

“Safe House. Very few people know it exists.” 

“Are we in Levin?” He nods his head. You’ve never been to the small town, but you know it’s mostly a vacation village on the coast. “Who does this place belong to?” 

“Me.” You look at him, surprised. “I bought it when you… got engaged.” 

It’s like a stone sinking to the bottom of your stomach. You don’t have to ask why. It was his failsafe for you, a way to get you away from Yijun if you had just asked. 

You should have asked. Should have just thrown it away and called him, should have begged him from your knees- 

Soonyoung turns the car off and opens the door. You open yours, rain pattering against your red skin. He rushes to help you out of the car, hands hovering around you, unsure where to touch. It makes you want to sob. You want him to touch you anywhere - everywhere. 

Instead, he leads you to the house, a hand wrapped firmly around your forearm to keep you upright and steady as you walk up the steps. 

A porch light flickers on. You cringe away from the brightness, squinting through your fingers as the door opens to reveal Vernon standing on the other side. His eyes flicker between the two of you and he nods, stepping to the side to let you in. 

Warmth blankets you as Soonyoung shuts the door. You’re standing in a small entryway with a staircase to the right leading to the second floor. Straight on, the lights are on, revealing a sliver of the living room. You can hear voices pause as they hear the door shut. 

Angel materializes in the doorway, her hair damp. She’s dressed down like she recently showered, her eyes on you as she heaves a sigh of relief. “It’s Hoshi and Baby,” she calls over her shoulder, coming forward. 

Soonyoung nudges you toward Angel gently. “Take her to shower.” 

“Yeah of course.” 

“Where’s Seungcheol?” You ask, turning to look at Soonyoung, who is already looking at his phone, holoscreen lighting up his face. 

“On his way. The main crew is safe.” He hesitates. “We lost Lan, Old Man Vero and Yoon Minji.” 

Your heart seizes, eyes darting to Angel. “Angel, I’m-”

“Jeonghan is taking care of it.” For the first time in years, you hear a note of pain in her voice, raw and real. Angel has - had - a complicated relationship with her step-mother, the matriarch of the Yoong family. “I’ve already satiated my vengeance. This is his. Come on.” 

You hesitate. Soonyoung nudges you toward the stairs gently by the hip, suddenly looking tired. “Go. I’m going to find a doctor for that nose.” 

“Is it terrible?” 

He huffs, trying not to laugh. “No, but it needs to be fixed. Go. Shower.” 

I love you. It’s on the tip of your tongue, right there. I love you. It’s all you can think about, thundering in your ribcage. I love you. It consumes you, makes you freeze up, staring at him. I love you. 

Angel tugs your wrist delicately and breaks the spell. You follow her up the stairs. She’s careful with you, making you take one step at a time. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her so gentle, her eyes softened with worry and her touch on you delicate as butterfly wings. 

Upstairs, she leads you into a room that smells like vanilla and sandalwood. Soonyoung. This room belongs to Soonyoung. You spot his subtle touches, a gaming computer shoved in the corner and powered off. A closet with a metal door that is under lock and key. A single gun sitting on top of the nightstand. 

But what makes the room spin is the touches of you. A teakwood candle sitting on the dresser. Weighted blankets folded at the end of the bed. A bookshelf with all your favorite titles. A jar of saltwater taffy in multiple flavors. 

Angel hesitates by the bathroom door, watching you drink in the room. You turn to her, shaking your head, confused and mouth open. She nods. “I know. I didn’t know either.” 

“I could live and die a thousand times and never deserve him.” 

“I’m not the best judge of character, but I don’t think I believe that to be true.” 

Angel isn’t the best judge of character. But she also doesn’t say things she does not mean. She’s the last person in the world to offer words of comfort, and yet she’s standing in the bathroom staring at you like she can see through you, right down to the very core. 

Maybe she can. Seeing what is rotting people on the inside and sniffing out their weaknesses is what she does best. 

Instead of pointing out where you hurt, she manages to get you into the bathroom. It’s spacious but not grand like what you’re used to - it’s small. Safe. She starts the shower and backs away, helping you get out of your bloody clothing. 

Everything hurts so bad. Your ribs ache, the bruising on them blotchy and horrendous as Angel peels back your shirt. She thankfully doesn’t react - she’s seen worse and done worse. Suddenly, you realize why Soonyoung picked her to help you. She’s steady, her fingers sure as she holds your arm while you pull your pants down.

You don’t dare look in the mirror. From what you can see without it, it’s already bad enough. Yijun hadn’t dealt fatal damage, but you know you’re bruised and covered in dry, flaking blood. 

Angel leaves you in the shower, shutting the door to go sit on the sink, a guardian willing to give you space but ready to help when you need it. Shaking, you shuffle into the stream of hot water, hissing when it hits your skin. 

It’s both heaven and hell. The hot water feels so good on your aching muscles and throbbing pain, but it also hurts when the water taps against your nose, reminding you that it is indeed broken. You suck in sharp air as you slowly begin to work your fingers into your skin, turning the water pink as you wash off the blood. 

Blood that belongs to you. Blood that belongs to Yijun.

Yijun. 

You’re not sorry you killed him. It was satisfying and necessary. But… the weight of your grief comes crashing into you. You could have killed him years ago and ran. Could have gone crawling back to Soonyoung and asked for his help. Could have told him that the only reason you ever agreed to marry him in the first place was to protect him. 

None of it mattered. You bought him a paltry couple years worth of protection and for what? To shackle yourself to a man who thought little of you, who wanted to fuck you until you gave him another version of himself, who wanted to kill you at every moment because he knew you didn’t respect him and because he was afraid of you and the way you command respect from your family, but he never did.

All that time you’d made yourself smaller for him. Held back your bite. Hid your teeth. Mourned Soonyoung everyday, knowing that you’d never touch him again, that he would never kiss you again, that you’d never wake up in the morning when he got home from work and crawled into bed with you.

A potential lifetime of happiness, one of your own making, wasted on a promise that they broke anyway. 

For nothing. It had been for nothing, you’d hurt Soonyoung for nothing, shut him out, promised you would never leave him and threw him away, forced him to jump for you, forced him to leave you when he said he wouldn’t all for nothing nothing nothing nothing notHING NOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHING-

Angel’s arms are around you. You startle, looking up to see that she is in the shower fully clothed, holding you to her. You hadn’t realized you’d been crying - screaming - in the shower. She presses you closer to her, the only way she knows how to tell you that she’s got you. She’s there. She understands. 

You crumble, leaning heavily on her as you let it out, sobbing. Your throat is raw, your face throbbing each time you squeeze your eyes shut. Angel says nothing, content to hold you while her clothes soak up the water, weighing her down as you let out your grief in full, ugly waves. 

Eventually, the water starts to get cold and your tears start to dry up. You sniff and groan, the pain in your face so poignant that it can’t be ignored. Lifting your head from her shoulder, you glance at her boots, soaked and murky red around the edges.

“Can I tell you something?” Angel asks, voice low. You nod. She hesitates, putting the words together before she says, “He’s going to accept you back. He’s going to do it with no conditions, and ask nothing of you. You’re going to want to torture yourself and beg for his forgiveness and deny yourself of him because you think you should be punished, that there is not a god powerful enough to hurt you the way you deserve.”

You blink in surprise. Angel isn’t religious, despite the nickname. She also isn’t overly emotional or wordy. But you see the severity in which she tells you this, see the pain in her eyes. You remember that she has demons far older than yours, ones that have followed her since childhood. 

And she’s right. She reads you like a book, seeing the fucking pain radiating inside of you, the desire to be punished and hated and whipped- 

“Let him take you back.” Her words are firm. “Don’t make him punish you. Don’t believe for a second that Soonyoung wants to make you pay. He doesn’t. He doesn’t care what you did or why. Just… let him have you. You’ve endured enough.” 

You nod. “Alright. I’ll try.”

“Good. Um - can we get out of the shower though? It’s very cold in here.” 

You laugh, immediately followed by a groan. “Please don’t make me laugh. I am in so much pain.” 

“Yeah, let’s go get you some drugs, dude.” 

-

The three Syndicates of the city are officially at war. Of all the news that has poured in over the last few days, this is the least surprising. When you’d seen Seungcheol that first night after everything went to hell, he’d held you close and promised that he would kill every last Kim in the city.

He had also told you he was proud of you. Not just for surviving Yijun long enough for Soonyoung to come get you, but for being able to warn the family what was coming. Your single warning alone had saved them a great deal and wounded the Kim Syndicate more than you could understand. 

The days following your father’s death are strange. It doesn’t feel like he’s dead - at least, you haven’t truly processed it yet. There are things that demand your attention like being seen by Dr. Ymir for your fractured nose and bruised ribs, and the accounts and logistics of what being at war with the Kim and Yong family truly means. 

On the fifth day at the safe house, you go back home. Seungcheol makes you ride with him, unwilling to let you out of his sight these days. You’re the only two members of the Choi family left, and it’s up to the two of you to rally the troops and remind everyone what the mountain can do. 

Seungcheol replaces your father as the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. Typically there’s a small ceremony to pass the torch so to speak, but there’s no time for that. Seungcheol is buried in problems and trying to maneuver the family into a favorable position, but it’s hard - the Yongs and Kims have been preparing this for a while. 

You’re suddenly given a job again. Fresh in his position leading the family, Seungcheol needs those he trusts by his side, immediately appointing you as the Architect of the Syndicate. There’s no one he trusts more with the finances and the logistics of the businesses under the Choi banner and who have pledged to his family. 

With Yoon Minji’s death, Jeonghan’s takes his rightful side as the Wisdom and second in command to Seungcheol. It’s like you’d always known it would be as a kid, but it brings you no joy to see the two of them together in an office until the early hours of the morning, worn at the edges and sick with the grief they’re ignoring to push forward. 

With no surprise, Seungcheol immediately promotes Soonyoung to the lead military position, rising from Sword to Sentinel in a single night. It’s the same position his father held under your father, and Soonyoung takes it with steely resolve. 

It also means you don’t see him. You move back into your old room at home. At first, it doesn’t feel like your room at all because Soonyoung isn't in it. He had moved into your room when you first started dating, spending two years in that bed with you. Now, he’s taken up residence in his room down the hall, so close and yet the distance feels larger than ever. 

Of all the problems mounting for you to solve, Soonyoung is the most important. You know he shouldn’t be. There are a thousand other things that you need to figure out, like how to assure that the businesses you own in and near the Kim and Yong family territories won’t go under or be attacked, or how to assure that payment to the family won’t increase now that there’s a fight. 

Your days are filled with countless meetings, assuring loyal patrons that the Choi Syndicate will not fall and will not fail them, and that the Choi’s protect their own. You can see the fear in people’s eyes - the city hasn’t had the big three at war in a long time. Already the city officials are cracking down on Syndicate activity to try and establish order. 

It’s farcical at best. 

Squeezing your temples between your fingers, you lean back from the desk in your newly appointed office - which is really just your father’s. It feels weird to be in here. It still smells like leather and sweet tobacco, a little bit of smoke hanging in the air. 

The last time you’d been in this office, you’d fallen to your knees and begged him not to make you marry Kim Yijun. Now you sit at the desk, hanging up the phone as another call ends - not as bad as the first, but not as good as you’d hoped. 

Quickly, you scribble down a summary of the call to give to Seungcheol. You know he’ll read every word you write, determined to hear each concern of those under Choi patronage, whether they’re valid or not. 

At the sound of the door opening, you glance up. Soonyoung sticks his head in, surprising you. You straighten in your seat, heart racing when you take him in. His silver hair has grown longer, tapered a bit at the neck. He’s dressed in all black but he’s clean, indicating that he showered not that long ago. You thought he would be out all day like usual, looking at your watch to see he’s back far earlier than normal.

“Is everything alright?” You start to get up and he rushes to you, hands lifting to help you. “I’m alright. I am well on the mend.”

He chews his lip, nodding before dropping his hands hesitantly. “Everything’s fine I just.” He hesitates. “Do you want to eat lunch?” 

“Oh. Sure.”

Soonyoung’s smile is tentative. Shy. You give him one back, following him out of the office while sending a quick note to Jihoon that you’ll meet with him later. He sends a thumbs down back, less than pleased that you’ve not made time to talk to him about your potential murder charges for Yijun. 

“Are you busy? We don’t have to-”

“It’s just Jihoon.” 

“Ah. He’s persistent, are you sure-”

“I want to have lunch with you, Soonyoung.” 

He blushes and you grin. “Alright,” he murmurs. “When you say jump and all that.” 

That makes you pause. “You don’t have to do anything I tell you.” 

“What?” He stops walking, confused. 

“You don’t have to ask how high if I tell you to jump... I’m wrong a lot of the time. I don’t… want to be that.” 

I don’t want to repeat my mistakes. You don’t say it, but you think Soonyoung senses it when he says, “I’ve always wanted to jump for you. That hasn’t changed.” 

Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you. 

Angel’s words come back to you so you swallow down your guilt and you nod, giving him a tentative smile that he returns. This time, he holds out his hand to take you in the kitchen. You take it, the feeling of his fingers wrapping around yours both foreign and familiar. 

The way he holds your hand in his makes you tremble. It’s something so simple and benign and yet you’re screaming on the inside, looking at where your fingers twine together like it’s everything, like it’s the only thing. 

Lunch consists of very badly burned grilled cheese. You don’t care because Soonyoung makes it, insistent that he wants to and that he can. He’s good at a lot of things, particularly on the spectrum of murder and weapons, but he is terrible at putting bread, cheese and butter in a pan. 

You eat it anyway, burnt bread and all. He sits next to you, his stool pulled so close that your thighs touch. You want to reach out and brush your fingers across his face, down his neck, through his hair. You want to touch until you’re grabbing, grab until you’re pulling. 

Instead, you let him lead this dance, too afraid to initiate. 

Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you. 

You don’t, but you can’t let go of the fear of rejection. Can’t bring yourself to toe the line beyond what he’s giving you, which is more than you ever dreamed of. So you accept when he offers to take your plate, fingers brushing over the top of your hand either by design or by accident you don’t know. His touch makes you shiver and he notices, pausing. 

Slowly, you look up at Soonyoung. His eyes are dark and misty as ever, churning with emotion that you’re a little too afraid to read. Instead of taking the plates to the sink, he sets them down and reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. 

A sob works its way up your throat but you force it down. You will not cry over this. You will not make him comfort you. 

“Are you afraid to touch me?” His question is gentle. You nod, eyes fluttering shut as his thumb brushes back and forth across your cheekbone. “Why?” 

“I… want to so badly. I just want it to be your choice.” 

“I want you to.” You open your eyes. His earnestness is right on the surface of him, rippling for you to see. “I’m dying for it. Please.” 

Soonyoung’s please sounds like that morning he’d begged you all that time ago. It freezes you in place, heart beating like a prey animal in fight or flight. He steps closer, his breath on your forehead when he whispers, “Please.” 

Slowly, you bring your hands up to his wrists. Licking your lips, you place your hands on him. His eyes close. His skin is warm to the touch and you feel him tremble as you brush your hands upward, tracing his forearms, his corded biceps. You brush your fingertips over the sleeves of his shirt and toward his neck until you’re cupping his throat, your thumbs resting against his hammering pulse. 

You close your eyes, remaining still. Both of you remain that way, his hands on your face, yours on his neck. You’re shaking under his touch, feel his breath against your forehead. His fingers add a little pressure to your face, careful not to hurt you where your bruise is finally fading on your nose as he turns you to look up at him. 

Soonyoung licks his lips, eyes open. “There is not a second I didn’t love you.”

And there it is. The admission that he never hated you. You bet he tried - you know he tried. You know the inside of Soonyoung’s soul better than you know your own, no part of him hidden to you even with time. 

“I don’t care why you did it,” he continues. “Not anymore. Not after everything. I don’t care about any of it. I just… want you.”

“Soonyoung-”

“I know you’re sorry. I know you hate yourself. I know there is guilt eating away at you. Get over it, because none of it changes how I feel. I love you. You’re mine. I don’t want to leave you again. You cannot make me.” 

“I know. I won’t make you.” 

“Good.” Soonyoung presses his forehead to yours gently. He’s careful not to knock noses with you too hard, aware of the pain it’ll cause. “I cannot do any of this without you.” 

“I know.”

Soonyoung’s mouth is tentative when it presses against yours. Your grip on him tightens, leaning forward into the kiss. It is everything - the only thing. You feel something wet on your face, thinking that you’ve got another nosebleed, but when you pull away, you realize it’s because Soonyoung is crying.

Crying for the first time since his parents died. 

You stand up from the stool, gripping the back of his neck to pull him toward you. He melts under your touch, letting you meld your mouths together. He tastes like his burnt sandwich and like him, his mouth warm and wet against yours. Vanilla and sandalwood invade your senses, overwhelming as you grip him for dear life, never wanting to let him go.

He doesn’t want to let you go either. His grip on your hips is crushing, fingers digging into flesh and bone as though he can force you to become one. The thought makes you dizzy. You slide your fingers in his silk-soft hair, wrapping the strands around them to pull lightly, pull him closer, pull him to you, pull him back. 

Soonyoung whines against your mouth and you break the kiss, panting. “Take me upstairs,” you whisper between peppering kissing against his mouth, his bottom lip, the corner of his lips. “Please take me upstairs.” 

He does. Soonyoung grabs you by the hands, tugging you toward the stairs that lead to your room - the room you used to share. The room that still smells like him, even if faintly. He takes you to your bed, where you’ve spent hundreds of nights with him, and lays you down gently like he has a million times before. 

Soonyoung touches you like you’re holy. His hands skim over you in worship, they scratch you in penance, they hold you in reverence. He slots himself between your knees, stealing a kiss from you like it’ll breathe new life into him, bare him anew, purge him of sin. 

You love him. You love him you love him you love him you love him you love him -

A moan leaves his mouth when your nails drag down his back. He is quaking under your touch, his mouth hungry but careful against yours, wanting to swallow you whole but knowing you’re hurt. You know he won’t break you but you wish he would.

There’s time for that later. Now isn’t the time for rough and biting. Now, Soonyoung peels the shirt from your skin, immediately covering your arms, chest, collarbones, shoulders in kisses. You vibrate under his touch, lashes fluttering as he sucks at the sensitive skin of your neck, tongue pressed flat to your pulse as he tastes you. 

You tug at his shirt and he complies, leaning upward to toss it. He’s back on you in a second, pressing you close, hip to hip as he tangles his tongue with yours, drinking you in. His touch ignites a fire and you’re burning, a complete inferno as you drag your fingers up the hard contour of his stomach to the firmness of his chest and around to his shoulders. 

“I love you,” he mutters against your mouth, rolling his hips into you. You let out a breathy sound and he groans. “Fuck I love you. I missed you. I love you.” 

“Please,” you beg. He understands, burying his face in your neck and biting down lightly. You feel like you’re going to burn up under him, an out of control blaze while his fingers work the buttons on your pants. “Never let me go.”

“Never.” 

Jeans scrape down your legs, his hands following. He drags his blunt nails down your thighs. Your hips twitch upward, loving the scratch, loving the way he touches you, loving him. He returns his mouth to yours, unable to get enough of your kissing. 

Soonyoung’s hand slips between your thighs, the pads of his fingers pressing against your clit through your underwear. You keen for him, pulling at the long strands of hair at the back of his neck. He moans in tandem, his pleasure driven by yours, loving the way you sound as you start to come apart under the gentle circle of his fingers. 

He only teases you a little, knowing the friction with the fabric between his fingers and your aching cunt isn’t enough. He finally decides that you’ve had enough, hooking a finger to pull them aside, the cool air hitting your sticky folds. 

Before you can complain, Soonyoung’s touch is there. He drags his fingers slow-soft from top to bottom, circling your clit slowly. He’s not in a hurry, dragging it out as he sucks your tongue into his mouth, sliding his fingers back down to press against your entrance but not breach it. 

You whine and he grins, pulling your bottom lip with his teeth until he lets go with a pop. “I love those sounds you make.” 

“Feels good,” you admit, head falling to the side as you close your eyes, enjoying the pressure he puts on your clit, wiggling his fingers back and forth. Your thighs close around his hand but he’s unbothered, drawing more arousal from you as he plays. “Fuck, your fingers.” 

His laugh is throaty and he shakes his head, attaching his mouth to your jaw where he sucks at the skin. He makes himself comfortable with nibbling toward your neck, both of his hands reaching for the sides of your underwear to pull them down. You let him, folding your knees toward your for a moment to help. 

Soonyoung’s hand returns to the wetness between your legs except this time, he’s not teasing. He presses a finger in deep and you whine, hips wiggling. You squeeze down on his finger, pussy spasming as he begins to pump leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.

And he does, doesn’t he? The work is far from done and the world is falling apart, but it doesn’t matter because he’s here with you. Because Soonyoung is yours again - always has been - and because he’s drawing your mouth toward his to kiss you messily, swallowing down your moans as he presses in another finger. 

Now you crumble beneath him. You can’t stop your hips from coming off the bed. You loop your arms around his neck, keeping him close, breathing the same air. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes impossible dark and half-lidded as he hooks his fingers, dragging them against that sensitive spot. 

You cry out his name and he grins. Now he knows where it is, pressing repeatedly as he fucks you on his fingers, driving you directly toward an orgasm. Your breathing becomes labored, your legs squeezing his hips, your fingers digging into his shoulders. It is so good that you think you might die, letting him yank you toward release. 

Soonyoung kisses you again and you come crashing down, cumming around his fingers, body squeezing, ignoring the ache in your ribs and the millions of other places that you’re sore. He doesn’t slow down, scissoring his fingers to pry you open, to stretch you more.

“Soonyoung,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “Soonyoung Soonyoung Soonyoung.” 

“Just like that,” he agrees. You can tell he loves the way you say his name, knows that on your tongue it means something different. “Come on, one more.” 

You’ll give him anything he wants. Never again will you deny him. You let him work you up again, feeling the way your breath gets stuck in your lungs and you shiver, another wave washing through you as you shudder around his fingers. 

When you start to pant, he pulls his fingers out. You feel the wet schlick as he does, immediately hating the way you feel empty, hating the way he leans away from you. Whining, you reach out toward him, needy. He hushes you with a brief kiss, only standing to rid himself of his jeans and briefs. 

Using the fingers covered in your arousal, Soonyoung pumps his cock, smearing a mixture of your slick and his precum down his shaft as he kneels on the bed again, taking his place between your thighs again. You watch with hooded eyes as he rubs the head of his cock through your messy folds, a moan dripping from your lips. 

Soonyoung is beautiful, skin flushed and a sheen of sweat on his arms. His stomach flexes and clenches as he presses the tip of his cock into your entrance, both of you taking a shaky breath together. He slowly slides home, the stretch of him driving you wild, pussy fluttering around him until he’s slotted to the hilt. 

He hangs his head, panting as he plants his hands on either side of your head. He takes a moment to collect himself, shaking. You turn your head to the side, kissing his wrist, peppering any skin you can reach with your love while your hands drift up his back, feeling the muscles flex. 

When he begins to move, you nearly die. It feels so good, your breath lodged in your throat. He lowers his face to yours, kissing you as gently as he fucks you. His thrusts are deep and timed, not hard or fast but slow and measured, pressing all the way in as he uses his weight to his advantage. 

Your fingers turn to talons on his back, nails biting his shoulder blades. He’s precise, the tip of his cock finding the right angle to make you nearly sob in a matter of a few thrusts. It’s familiar. Home. 

Soonyoung lowers himself to his forearms, pressing your chests together. The friction of his skin against your pert nipples makes you squeeze around him, his name a whisper on swollen, kiss-bitten lips. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing shakily as he continues to fuck you.

You feel him everywhere, feel everything that he wants to say. Soonyoung has never needed words to communicate to you and he doesn’t now, the way he shakes as he lets out a wispy moan enough, the way he slides one of his arms under your back to cradle you to his chest, closer closer closer.

He wants to be closer and so do you, arms around his neck, drawing him to you. You never want to let him go, never will let him go. You’ve learned your lesson and this, right here with him is the only thing that matters. 

“Shh,” he hushes. You realize you’re crying, tasting salt on your lips when he brushes his mouth against yours. “I know.” 

“I love you.”

“I know.” 

Soonyoung’s pace picks up only a little bit. It’s enough, sending you careening toward your third orgasm. He can feel it - needs it. He chases after your high, catching your mouth to brush his tongue against yours, rolling his hips until you’re clenching around him, whining into his mouth, lips buzzing against his.

He hums against you, waiting until your pussy lets go of its vice grip to speed up a little bit, the wet smack of his hips against yours loud and lewd, driving him forward until he comes, your name on his lips, his face buried in your neck. His thrusts slow, both of you trembling like leaves until he finally stops, remaining seated inside of you. 

“I will love you for a thousand lifetimes,” he mutters against your mouth, with no intention of moving. “You know that, right Baby?” 

You nod, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. “Leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung,” you rasp, quoting yourself that first night he finally caved, where he finally told you that he couldn’t exist without you. “I will never go anywhere ever again.” 

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SYNDICATE ROLES

Tower - title for a Syndicate boss Wisdom - title for the second-in-command to a Sydicate boss Sentinel - title for the main military leader of a Syndicate Riots - title for a member of the Syndicate responsible for sowing discord Swords - title for a member of the Syndicate who is a fighter/military role Chariots - members of the Syndicate who make deals/act as business brokers Rooks - members of the Syndicate who collect debts/lead the extortion practices Justices - members of the Syndicate on the legal counsel Hanged Men - members of the Syndicate who betrayed their Syndicate Watchers - members of a Syndicate who are spies/informants Patrons - citizens who pay homage/have an alliance/are under the protection of a Syndicate Vanguard - official members of the Syndicate who don't have specific roles but do work for the Syndicate

[aliendes]

brb sobbing into my pillow

yeoubi. // chwe hansol

여우비 (yeo-u-bi) : noun. literally “fox rain” — when sunlight filters through rainfall, creating a golden shower.

PAIRING : vernon x f!reader

INFO : east asian historical fantasy(ish. i kinda made up my own mythology), fox demon!vernon, silver!vernon, immortal!witch!yn, fluff, magic, strangers to lovers

WORD COUNT : 22.3k+

WARNINGS : blood mention, injuries, slight discrimination against yokai, cursing

NOTES : for the @camandemstudios winter with you collab! i had so so so much fun writing yeoubi and it's genuinely one of the best things ive done this year. writing a fantasy au soft vernon fic was never something that i thought i needed to write, but now i have, and i love him and i love this and i hope everyone loves yeoubi just as much as i do too <3

SYNOPSIS : living as a magic, immortal healer in a rural, human mountain village means most of your existence has been rather peaceful. that is, until one cold winter when an injured yokai stumbles into your life; and though everyone else is terrified of him, you take him in, nurse him back to health, and show the others that some demons aren’t that scary after all. (...and maybe, just maybe, you end up falling for the pretty fox yokai too.)

For the first time in years, the river freezes over.

During winter, it’s often a lot harder for you to notice things like this, as the cold dulls your senses and numbs your fingers, so you’re only informed of this fact when the village children come to your cottage in the morning, their high-pitched voices blending with the mismatched beats of their fists knocking against your door.

“Miss Witch! Miss Witch! There’s something wrong with the river!”

“The river is all solid, Miss Witch!”

“Miss Witch, we can’t play in the river! Can you fix it for us, Miss Witch?”

Blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you open the door with a groggy smile, squinting down at the children on your doorstep.

“Hello, little kids. What are you doing here?”

“Miss Witch!” one of the children chirps. “Good morning!”

Despite being half-asleep, you can’t help but laugh a little at their chipperness. The children are, undeniably, your favourite people in this entire village.

“Good morning,” you say, bemused. “How may I help you?”

Their voices rise in volume again, all of them clamouring to be heard over each other. It can’t be any later than five in the morning, and your fingertips prickle with the cold grey of the mist as you blink down at them, surprised at their energy.

A girl tugs at the end of your blanket, wide-eyed. “Miss Witch, the river is all hard. We don’t know what’s going on.”

“Ah,” you say gently. “I see.” Crouching down so you’re at eye level with the kids, you ask, “If the river is hard, solid, and cold, what do you think that means?”

The children blink at you. 

“What else is hard, solid, and cold?”

One of them brightens. “Ice!”

“Exactly,” you say, smiling. “The river has turned into ice. It’s nothing to worry about, but it does mean it’s very, very cold right now, so why aren’t any of you wearing any hats or scarves, hm?” 

You ruffle the hair of the nearest child, and she shakes her head, giggling. “We were helping the grown-ups, of course! Something happened at the river, an’ they told us to go away.”

“So we came to you,” another boy pipes up. “They said something’s wrong!”

You tilt your head. Whilst it’s certainly been several decades since the river last froze over, it’s no reason for the villagers to worry that much about it. It’s also not something that your magic can fix, or something that needs to be fixed, so—

“Y/N!”

You look up at the call, and see a man in the distance, jogging down the pathway towards your cottage. It’s still far too dark to see clearly, but you smile at the familiar voice.

“Soonyoung,” you call back. “Good morning! Are you here to tell me about the frozen river, too? Don’t worry, it’s completely normal and not dangerous at all.”

His reply, if he has any at all, goes unheard as one of the children suddenly cries out, as if he’s had an epiphany.

You look down at him, amused. “What’s wrong?”

“I just remembered, something else happened at the river,” he says brightly. His remark makes some of the other children perk up too, as if they also remembered this other thing that had happened.

The kids are all at the age where something like a leaf falling onto their heads would be remarkably significant, so as you wait for Soonyoung to come closer and deliver the actual news, you decide to humour them, smiling and tilting your head interestedly. “Oh, really? What was it?”

 “There’s a man in the frozen river, Miss Witch!”

“A—” The smile turns to stone on your face. “A what?”

“Not a man,” Soonyoung says. He’s finally reached your doorstep now, and you notice that his usual easy smile is nowhere to be seen. He frowns down at the children, displeased. “What are you all doing here? We told you to go home, not to Y/N.”

“They thought I could help,” you say placatingly. “It’s okay. And if there’s a man stuck in the river, you might need my help after all.”

“Not a man,” Soonyoung repeats, his face darkening. “It’s not a man.”

You raise an eyebrow at the graveness in his tone. “Well, then you certainly do need my help, it seems. What is it?”

Soonyoung sighs. His exhale clouds the air, and your fingers prickle even more at his next words, like invisible icicles piercing through your skin.

“It’s a demon.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

You are not exactly a human.

Certainly, you look and dress like one—and you have to eat and sleep like one too, otherwise terrible things happen to your energy levels—but that doesn’t mean you are human. There are some things which make you slightly different.

One of those things being that you live forever.

“What do you mean you don’t know if it’s hostile?” Soonyoung demands, struggling to match your strides as you hurry towards the river. “Of course it’s hostile. It’s a fucking demon!”

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you come to realise that some yokai aren’t hostile,” you respond, frosted-over leaves crunching under your feet. Soonyoung squawks back something unintelligible, too out of breath to make an argument. 

After encouraging the children to return back to their homes and sleep—since it really is five in the morning, and none of them should be awake—you and Soonyoung began making your way to where the rest of the villagers were. 

The river flows down from the mountain that the village is located near. The further up you go, the more dangerous the terrain becomes, and you pause on a jagged rock to frown down at Soonyoung, who’s gasping as he tries to keep up.

“Did you really find the yokai over here? Why were any of you up here in the first place?”

“We didn’t,” Soonyoung said hoarsely. “I’ve been trying to tell you for ages. The demon was found near the edge of the woods.”

“Oh.” You blink. The two of you had marched past the woods a decent while ago. “Okay.” And then you float down from the rock, lightly hopping over frozen patches of land, past Soonyoung again. “Come on, let’s turn back, then.”

Soonyoung sighs, turns around, and begins his clumsy, human descent. “You could at least use your magic to help me down too, you know.”

And that’s the other different thing about you. Magic. It’s such a flimsy, weak word for what you can do, but it’s also the best way to describe it. There are certain things about you, certain things you’re capable of in the way that no human can ever truly be.

Without even looking back, you wave a hand, and a glowing stream of wind nudges Soonyoung’s feet towards the easiest path down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And hurry up before those villagers aggravate the yokai even more.”

Demons, or more traditionally, yokai, aren’t something you’ve encountered in countless decades. As technology and weapons developed, and the human population expanded, many yokai simply faded out of existence, unable to sustain themselves in the less wild, less natural environment that humans created. Others were smart enough to recognise they now had less of an advantage over humans, and tended to stay away from densely populated areas, preferring to target any lone travellers who ventured too far into their territory.

Yokai values and morals are vastly different to humans, and they are so incomprehensible to mortals that yokai gained a reputation for being vindictive, vicious, vile, and all other negative ‘v’ words. That doesn’t necessarily make them so, however, and over your lifetime, you’ve encountered some who don't quite fit the stereotype that humans are all too eager to place on them.

It takes you and Soonyoung long enough to get to the river that the sky has lightened ever so slightly, but the lacey edges of morning mist are still blurring the edges of your sight, and you can only barely see what the villagers are looking at, especially with them all crowding around and pushing against each other to get closer to the river.

You crane your neck, standing on tiptoe, before huffing. Scratch that, you can’t see anything.

“Move out of my way, please,” you say sharply, adding a little volume magic to your voice so that it carries over the whole crowd. 

Most of them instantly look back at that and clock your presence, eyes widening. Some of them begin rushing towards you, looking almost like their children as they begin talking over each other all at once.

“Y/N, there’s a demon—”

“Absolutely vile creature, is there any way—”

“—river’s all frozen, how did it even get here—”

“Okay, okay, okay!” you interrupt, adding even more volume to your voice to be heard. “Minah, yes, I know there’s a demon. Soonyoung told me. And no, Joongseok, we don’t know if it’s truly vile yet. And Woongri, yokai often work with magic, so it could’ve gotten here in a variety of ways. But if you want me to do something, you have to let me through. Yes?”

You’re tired, and cold, and dealing with stressed adults is not the best way to start the day, so you're more blunt than is perhaps necessary, but it gets your point across. The villagers look sufficiently contrite and finally shuffle to the side, making way for you to get through. Seungcheol, the village leader, nudges his way through the crowd until he’s by your side, face solemn.

“Good morning,” he says. “Sorry about the chaos.”

“Good morning,” you say back, voice now normal volume once again. “It’s okay. Everyone’s scared. You don’t call me at ungodly hours unless it’s serious, so I don’t mind.”

Seungcheol nods, looking both grave and apologetic. “We only ever want you to use your magic for good.”

It’s a terribly human thing to say, and you  smile dryly. “Of course. What can I help you with this time?”

“Well… You can help with that.” Seungcheol points to a mound of warped ice a little ways down the river. “How can we get rid of it?”

You squint in the direction Seungcheol’s pointing at, peering through the tendrils of mist, and then gasp. Half-buried into the ice of the river, you can make out a blurry, pale-coloured figure clothed in pale silk. Dark liquid pools in all directions surrounding the motionless body, and anyone can tell the yokai is very badly hurt. 

“It’s already bleeding half to death, so it shouldn’t be too hard to finish— wait, Y/N!”

Ignoring Seungcheol’s shouts, you step onto the frozen surface of the river and rush towards the yokai, and your blood runs cold as you take in the sight before you.

The yokai is a fox demon, you notice, with white ears and soft silver hair and a gorgeous white tail, which is partially being crushed by a river’s worth of ice. He’s waist-deep in the frozen water, and a thick layer of more ice has begun to form around the yokai’s torso from where he’s slumped against the surface of the river at an almost unnatural angle, causing his poor tail to be twisted and buried both in the river and the new ice.

“Oh, darling,” you whisper, kneeling down beside him, tracing a finger across the yokai’s cheek. Your finger comes away stained dark with blood, and you swallow thickly, heart constricting.

The crushing ice isn’t the end of the damage: there’s blood pouring from seemingly unknown sources, matted into the fox demon’s hair and streaking down his neck. He must have been in some sort of fight before getting stuck in the river. 

Gently, you thumb over the yokai’s cheek, taking in the pale skin and delicate eyelashes. This fox demon is devastatingly pretty, and seeing him so badly injured makes your heart hurt even more.

Something rustles near the riverbank, and you look back to see some of the children hiding amongst the leaves, peering curiously at you as you kneel next to the yokai. Further up the river, Seungcheol is approaching you, wanting to know your thoughts on the demon, and his eyes widen as he also notices the children in the bushes.

“What are you doing here?” he says in their direction, the disapproval clear in his tone. “It’s dangerous! You shouldn’t be looking at this. Where are your parents? Didn’t Soonyoung tell you to go home?”

“But we wanna see Miss Witch,” one boy says, eyes wide. “Please, can’t we stay?”

You frown and open your mouth, preparing to reprimand them, but then the yokai makes a soft, pained sound beside you, and you instantly return your attention to him, bending down even closer to his face.

Seungcheol cries out, this time in your direction as you lean towards the yokai. “Y/N, what are you doing? Stay back!”

You ignore him, reaching out a hand to brush matted hair out of the yokai’s eyes. “Hello? Hello, can you hear me?”

The yokai scrunches his eyes up, whimpering in pain. The moment he’d returned to consciousness, he’d started shivering intensely, struck by the cold of the river. 

“Hello?” you repeat, gentle. You move your hand away from the yokai’s face, directing it towards the ice surrounding his back instead. Silently reciting an incantation, the ice begins to glow orange under your palm, slowly beginning to melt away. “Can you tell me your name?”

The yokai shivers, mumbles something unintelligible. Then he looks up at you, golden irises shuddering in fear, every movement of his face telling you it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. 

One of the children lets out a shriek, and you whip your head up in alarm. They don’t look hurt, but the yokai notices the sound too, raising his head to look at them with wide, unsettling eyes, and the children shriek again, all of them frozen in fear. You can kind of understand why: the fox demon is covered in blood, and anyone unacquainted with the supernatural would find his slitted golden eyes petrifying. 

But before you can say anything, do anything to reassure them, the ice around his back makes a cracking sound as it melts under your hand, and the yokai’s mouth drops open in pain. He coughs, splattering blood over the ice, more of the black liquid dripping from the corners of his lips as he starts writhing and scratching against the river, hauling himself up onto his elbows, eyes fixed on the children in the distance, and all hell breaks loose.

The children are screaming, ear-piercingly loud, and Seungcheol is screaming too, and the yokai starts writhing even harder, yipping and gasping like a distressed fox, his hands sticky with his own blood as he tries to push against the ice. 

“No, it’s okay— don’t do that—Cheol, let me think!” 

It’s obvious Seungcheol wants you to kill the demon, especially with the way he’s screeching at you right now, but the yokai looks so pitiful, ears shaking, eyes wide, still bleeding from gashes all over his body.

“Think about what?” Seungcheol yells, children cowering behind his legs, and he shields their eyes from the river. “Y/N, please, you have to get rid of it!”

You look at him, and then down at the helpless yokai beside you, and really, it takes you less than a second to decide what to do.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, getting to your feet. Seungcheol tenses, sensing something wrong in your tone as you look down at the yokai again, leaning down with your hand outstretched. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Your fingers come into contact with the yokai’s forehead, and there’s a golden glow before his eyes flutter shut and he freezes up, before collapsing against the ice.

Hidden safely behind the village leader, the children stop screaming. Seungcheol also doesn’t make a sound, still staring wide-eyed at you, and now the yokai is no longer moving, the early morning air is frozen still once more. You look back at Seungcheol, and he blinks, his face unreadable.

“Please tell me you killed that thing.”

You smile weakly, dried-up demon blood on your fingertips. At your feet, the yokai’s shoulders move up and down ever so slightly with every shallow breath he takes, unconscious.

───────────── ‘✽, 

“Bad idea,” Seungcheol admonishes loudly from outside your window, and even though there’s a whole wall and a thick pane of glass separating him from you, his disapproval is crystal clear. “This is a bad idea. Y/N, let me in. We have to talk about this.”

You don’t look up from the boiling pot on the stove, simply lifting a hand and giving Seungcheol the finger.

“How dare— Y/N, you cannot let that thing live. It’s a danger to us. Especially the children! Y/N, think of the children, please, it could hurt the children.”

Seungcheol raps against the glass insistently, but you ignore him, humming to yourself as you ladle some of the boiling concoction into a wooden bowl. Gently, you blow on the steam, inspecting the lilac colour of the liquid before nodding, pleased, and heading over to the yokai asleep on your couch. 

It’s been some hours since that moment on the frozen river, where you’d decided to save the yokai trapped in the ice rather than kill him. None of the humans agreed with your decision, however, so you’d had to make the tiring trek down the mountain yourself, a heavy, unconscious yokai in tow. That’s partly the reason you’re so tired right now, arms aching as you set the bowl down on the coffee table, where you’ve laid out bandages and various dried bags of poultices and face towels to help clean up the yokai. 

Said yokai is still unconscious and bleeding all over the fabric of your sofa, the golden threads of magic you’d used to briefly staunch his wounds already beginning to fray open once more. You sigh, settling down beside him, and begin inspecting the more serious injuries on his forehead and down his arms.

“What happened to you, hm?” you say softly, ignoring Seungcheol still rapping against your window. “Why are you so hurt?”

Living as the only magic user-slash-competent doctor in a rural village means that you have plenty of experience in patching up the particularly nasty injuries that the villagers sustain, and your hands are careful and practised as you dip a towel into the warm, disinfectant potion you’d made, swiping it over the yokai’s skin. He’s injured practically everywhere: deep gashes are scored along his arms, his hands, and there’s one slashed across his chest. Not to mention his definitely-broken tail, the still-bleeding head wound and, judging by the way blood had been pouring from his mouth out on the lake, some internal injuries you can’t see. 

You wince, taking a towel into your hands. “Sorry,” you say, heart twinging in sympathy for the yokai. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. But don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

Ideally, you’d run a bath first and scrub the yokai clean of all the grime and blood before getting to tending his wounds. But he’s a fox demon—ridiculously tall and with a fluffy tail and delicate ears, so he won’t fit in your tiny tub and it’ll end up being more troublesome than anything else.

So, you’ve resorted to magic, dipping a cloth in the potion you've made to melt and dissolve all the dirt into thin air.

The wounds are all worryingly deep, most notably the still-bleeding one on his forehead, and if he were human, you’d be concerned that he’ll suffer a serious concussion afterwards, along with an inability to use his hands for a long while. But as it is, the ancient demon-magic that he’s made of will mean that he’ll heal pretty quickly, and there should be no grave threat to his life.

Hopefully. As long as he doesn’t develop an infection from the open wounds. 

You finish cleaning up the blood and then wipe down his face with a cool cloth, frowning slightly at how his skin still feels unusually hot. Infections will make his healing process much longer and much more arduous. The poor yokai looks like he’s already been through more than enough, so you really hope the fever dies down soon.

Seungcheol is still yelling at you from your window when you finish your preliminary clean-up, and you sigh heavily, beginning to develop a headache from how annoying he's being. So you walk over to the window, wrench it open, and jab a bloodstained finger in his direction.

“Seungcheol. Kindly, please, fuck off.”

Seungcheol blinks, both startled by your abrupt confrontation and a little affronted, but before he can say anything, you carry on. 

“Currently, this yokai is injured, and it’s my job to take care of injured people, regardless of who they are, so you can take any thoughts of me killing him and shove them up your ass. It’s not happening, and it’s never happening, and you’re also disturbing my patient with the racket you’re creating, so please go away.”

If it were anyone else talking to him like this, Seungcheol would have blown up with anger a solid thirty seconds ago—as it is, he simply stares at you, still looking affronted, before he sighs, and all of the energy drains out of him. He knows how headstrong you are, and when you get like this, he knows there’s no way he can sway you. He’ll have to wait until you’re no longer brimming with obstinacy to get his thoughts across.

His gaze drops from yours to your bloody finger, and then he sighs again, folding his hands behind his back.

“Give the demon my wishes for his speedy recovery,” he says at last. “But we still have to talk about this later, Y/N. Okay?”

You huff, and lower your hands. “Fine. Later.” With a resolute swish of magic, you shut the window once again and turn your back on Seungcheol to return to your patient.

As village leader, you can understand why Seungcheol may have concerns regarding a yokai entering a human village, but that doesn’t mean you like how he has no qualms with telling you to just kill it in an instant. Discrimination against magical creatures is half the reason they’re so hostile to humans, anyway, and you’d know firsthand how painful it is to be targeted and attacked purely for being who you are.

It’s not like you ever asked to be magic. And yet, people end up hating you for it.

You look down at the unconscious yokai, with his silver-white fur and gentle eyelashes and those heart-wrenching injuries. Then, wordlessly, you pick up one of the poultices and get to work.

───────────── ‘✽, 

Hansol wakes up to the strong, warm smell of chrysanthemum.

It’s an unusual scent to wake up to, and his ears prick up, alarmed—only for him to cry out a few seconds later, upon realising the action sends a sharp bolt of pain throughout his entire body.

“Oh!” 

A voice sounds from somewhere above his head, and he startles even more, trying to open his eyes and locate the sound, before realising he can’t see.

He cries out again, panicking at the pitch black that surrounds him, flailing around before realising that that action also causes him debilitating pain, and he begins panicking even more. How did he end up here? What happened? All he remembers is being chased through the forest and then tripping and crashing into a river, and then hard ice and the cold water and the throbbing in his head and then— and then—

Something damp and heavy gets lifted from his eyes and he gasps, freezing up as bright white light almost blinds him.

“Sorry, sorry,” the voice from before says, sounding terribly apologetic. “I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you before doing that.” 

Hansol scrunches his eyes, and then squints, vision all blurry from having been unconscious and now being blinded by bright light. He can’t see who’s speaking, but whoever they are, they carry on, the words steadily flowing out faster and faster as the person rambles. He can barely keep up with the onslaught of noise, twitching confusedly and trying to see what’s going on. The world feels like it’s spinning. He’s pretty sure the world isn’t meant to spin this fast.

“That was probably really scary when you woke up, huh? I’m so sorry. The towel slipped from your forehead and covered your eyes, and I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I didn’t expect you to wake up now, but I guess that’s a good thing, ‘cause you’ve been out for a whole day, and any longer and we’re veering into coma territory, which would mean that you were really, really hurt. Which is, like, definitely not good, you know? But you did wake up, thank goodness, so that means there’s a chance you’ll get better very soon. Plus, your fever isn’t that bad anymore, so it seems you really are on the road to recovery, which is all very—oh, wait. Sorry. It’s still too bright, isn’t it?”

Another wave of chrysanthemum hits Hansol’s senses and a hand comes up to his face, creating a shadow over his eyes so he’s no longer squinting furiously up at the disembodied voice.

“Sorry,” the voice says, apologising yet again. “Is that better?”

Hansol blinks, slowly opening his eyes fully to look up, and then, the whole world abruptly stops spinning as he finds himself looking at the most beautiful being in the entire history of the universe. He doesn’t say a word, mouth falling open in shock.

You smile down at him, made anxious by his silence. “Hello,” you say, hand still shielding his eyes from the brunt of the winter light. “My name is Y/N. What’s yours?”

Hansol squeaks, a small, high-pitched sound that instantly floods him with mortification when it accidentally slips past his lips, and he screws his eyes shut and curls into himself, knocking your hand away hurriedly in his rush to hide his face. He tries to bury himself into the couch, shaking. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say, gently, worried you've scared him. “I promise. I want to help.” Perched on the edge of the couch, you lean over and slowly lower the yokai’s hands from his face, coaxing him to look at you again. “Can you please tell me your name?”

You smile, again, and Hansol feels a little faint as he looks up at you. His vision is still slightly blurry from his eyes being shut for so long, and the way you’re backlit by the light makes you look like you’re glowing, a gentle halo of silver light surrounding your form. That, coupled with the way you have the prettiest smile he’s ever seen, is making him feel all dizzy. And a bit warm. The air feels like it’s suffocating him, actually, but all of that is made irrelevant by how pretty he thinks your smile is.

There’s a possibility he’s still in the process of getting rid of his fever, because he blinks slowly, focused, and when he opens his mouth to speak, the next words spill unbidden from his lips.

“My name is Hansol,” he says, “and I think you’re the prettiest person alive.”

Your eyes widen at his words, a flush rapidly creeping up your cheeks. Hansol looks at you, worried that you’ll suddenly hate him for what he’s just said, but you just laugh, flattered, and bring your hand up to his forehead. The touch is cool against his skin, like a soothing balm.

“Thank you, Hansol,” you say. “Your fever seems to still be pretty high, if you’re saying stuff like this, huh? I’m currently brewing some chrysanthemum tea, and I think it’ll be a good idea for you to have some too.”

Hansol blinks slowly again. “Chrysanthemum tea,” he muses. He looks up at you. “That must be why you smell so warm and pretty.”

You laugh again, flustered, subconsciously brushing his hair back from his forehead and cupping his cheek, your fingers feather-light. “Perhaps. So would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please,” Hansol says. “I’ll have anything… you… give m…” His eyelids and ears slowly droop, and before he can even finish his sentence, he drifts back off to unconsciousness once again, head leaning into your hand.

Open-mouthed, pink-cheeked, you look down at the one-more unconscious yokai in your hands. 

“Wow,” you breathe out. And then you smile. “You’re adorable.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

Over the next few days, the yokai—Hansol—constantly drifts in and out of consciousness, his fever fluctuating in intensity the entire time.

It’s difficult to pull coherent sentences out of him, and anything he says is a mixture of your name, his name, and also how pretty he thinks you are.

You chalk it up to his fever.

His demon-magic must have taken a serious blow from the extent of his injuries, as it takes him a lot longer than you’d like for him to finally shake off the infection. A whole excruciating week goes by, and you almost cry with relief when, as you get up to check his temperature in the middle of the night, you find that his fever has finally broken, and he’s able to breathe easily once more.

When the weak sun finally peeks out from over the horizon, you enter your spare room to check on Hansol. Sometime after his first bout of consciousness, you’d gathered enough energy to move him from your couch to the spare bedroom in your cottage. It had taken a lot of work, and a lot of magic—weakened by the stress of taking care of a dying fox demon and trying to fend off any curious and judgy villagers, it takes a lot of energy for you to do anything strenuous lately—but you managed. And it certainly seemed to help, as he slept a lot better in an actual bed.

Humming absentmindedly to yourself, you make your way over to the guest room, fingers dancing and causing golden threads of magic to tidy up the state of your house as you go along. 

To your surprise, the yokai is wide awake when you enter the room, and he startles when you noisily open the door and step inside. The moment you make eye contact with Hansol, you freeze, the song dying off your lips at the same time as your magic drops a partially-fluffed up cushion in the living room.

“Um.” You blink, hanging off the door handle, staring at the yokai picking his bandages in bed in the middle of your guest room. “Good morning?”

Hansol doesn’t respond, continuing to stare at you, wide-eyed.

You cough, feeling terribly awkward, attempting to adjust your stance and take your hand off the doorknob in the most natural way possible. “Hello. I’m, uh, Y/N. How are you feeling?”

There’s another beat. Then Hansol finally opens his mouth, only to completely ignore your question to say, “You’re the one who smells like chrysanthemums.”

“I— Sorry, what?” You blink, taken aback by the abrupt and unrelated question, before nodding. “Oh, yeah. I guess you remember the chrysanthemum tea I made you?” You smile slightly. “I can’t believe you remember that. That was when you were the most unwell.”

“Oh.” Hansol’s ears twitch, and he continues to look at you with his golden eyes, somewhere between bewildered and amazed. (Amazed by what, you aren’t entirely sure.) “I do remember, though. I remember you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to push down the blush that threatens to rise up your face. Having a handsome yokai stare at you with such focus, saying that he remembers you even when he was deep in the throes of a fever is such a heart-fluttering thing to experience early in the morning. You aren’t nearly awake enough for this conversation. If you aren’t careful, you could accidentally fall in love right then and there.

“That’s nice,” you croak, and then shake yourself. You have a job to do. Hansol’s a patient under your care, and you need to check his condition. “Um. Sorry. But, uh, I do have to check if you can remember anything else,” you say, slipping into healer mode as you step further into the room, walking towards the bed. “Do you remember your name?”

Hansol nods, intently following your movements as you draw closer. “My name is Hansol,” he says.

You smile, relieved by the coherency of his answer. The fact that the yokai remembers his own name is a very good sign. “Yes, you are. Do you remember how you got here?”

“Yes,” Hansol says obediently. “I was in a river. Trapped in the ice. And you… saved me.”

That makes you smile a little wider. “I took care of your wounds, yes! It’s really good you’re finally awake and able to answer questions, ‘cause it’s a sure sign there’s no lasting internal damage. I do have to check your bandages, though, so… may I?”

You make a gesture towards Hansol’s bandaged arms, and the yokai obliges, raising his arms to let you see. 

You take Hansol’s hand in your own, preparing to lift his arm up higher—but the moment your palms brush, you gasp, fingers tightening around the yokai’s at the sudden sensation. Hansol, too, lets out a small noise of surprise, looking up at you.

The yokai’s hands are firm, strong, and perfectly healthy, but they also thrum with magic. You can feel every spark and fizzle of the magic as it dances under his skin, spinning and zipping back and forth like a cloud of hyperactive fireflies. Like the magic can talk, and when it noticed the magic that lives inside you, it seems to yip with recognition, spinning itself around in excitement in the yokai’s hands.

“It’s so strong,” you say, amazed. “I didn’t realise magic could be this powerful.”

Hansol’s also staring up at you, similarly in awe. “You’re magic too?” he asks, looking like he’s never fathomed such a thing is possible. “You’re like me?”

You laugh slightly, made a little giddy by the feeling of how alive the magic is under Hansol’s skin. “Not exactly,” you say, releasing Hansol’s hand to finally reach for the bandages, feeling around to see whether his skin is still tender underneath. “I don’t have the ears or the tail, do I?”

Hansol’s ears flick. You’re decidedly focused solely on the yokai’s bandages, but you can feel Hansol looking at you intently as you work. 

“But you’re very pretty,” Hansol says. “Are you sure?”

fuck. Hansol has to stop saying things like that, because they’re very bad for your poor heart. Very bad.

“I’m sure,” you say with a smile, straightening up once again. “I think all your wounds are healing nicely. Now your magic’s come back to its full strength, it’ll help you heal the rest of the way in no time.”

You can’t help but reach for Hansol’s hand again, once more feeling pleasantly surprised by the light zap of magic when your hands touch. Now you can feel the thrum of it under Hansol’s skin, it’s easy to realise how unwell the yokai was before, when his hands had been deathly cold with no fizz of magic in them at all. You’re just endlessly relieved that you can feel that fizz once again.

Hansol looks down at your intertwined hands, and then up at you, a smile lifting up the corners of his lips. “Thank you,” he says, so very sincere that it melts your heart. “Thank you for looking after me.”

You can’t help but smile back, squeezing Hansol’s hand once. “Of course. It’s my pleasure. Really.”

Hansol smiles even wider, ears twitching pleasedly, and you once again have to try and valiantly fight away your blush. fuck. This yokai really needs to stop making you blush so easily, and fast, else you’re going to start having problems.

───────────── ‘✽, 

It turns out, the blushing thing ends up being the least of your problems, because later that day, Hansol tries to leave.

Sometime after bringing Hansol a breakfast of soup and chrysanthemum tea (since he really seemed to like the tea), you’re drying away the breakfast dishes when a blast of cold air slices through the cottage, and you look over to see Hansol holding open the front door, looking like he’s about to step out.

“H—wait! Hansol, what are you doing?”

The yokai looks over at you, still holding the front door, confused. The bottom half of his tail is still bandaged, making it difficult for him to move it around, but it still sways from side to side unsurely as he blinks at you.

“I’m leaving,” Hansol says, like it’s obvious. “You took care of me. And I’m now better. So I’m going to go.”

You gape, jaw almost dropping to the floor at the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“Like hell you are,” you say, marching over to the front door and firmly shutting it with your still-soapy hands, and then ushering Hansol back to the guest room and into bed. “You are very far from being better, Hansol. Your tail is still all bandaged up! I’m not letting you leave until you’re back to full health, so don’t you dare think for a second that you get to go before then.”

Hansol makes a noise of confusion as you fussily tuck him back into bed, fluffing up the pillows behind his head and arranging the covers around him. “What? Why would you let me stay?”

“Why wouldn’t I let you stay?” you counter, patting down the duvet and absentmindedly brushing away the strands of hair that fall in his eyes. “I want to take care of you. I want you to get better. I can’t exactly do that if you go off into the woods all by yourself and get up to heaven knows what, can I?”

Perched on the edge of the bed, you smile and pat his head. 

“I’m not letting you out of my sight for a long while yet, mister,” you say, the faux-scolding adding a light playfulness to your tone. “You’re going to stay with me and get better until I say so.”

Hansol looks up at you, tilts his head, and scrunches his nose just slightly as he smiles, shy. “So you’ll let me stay as long as I like?”

“Obviously,” you say, smiling back. “However long it takes you to heal, and then some, if you want. Of course, unless you have somewhere else to go.”

The yokai hesitates, ears flicking unsurely. “Not really,” he admits, lowering his gaze. “I’ve never actually had anywhere real to stay.” He looks back up at you again, golden eyes glinting hopefully. “So if it’s okay…”

“Oh, of course you can stay here,” you rush to reassure him. And then you pause, deflating a little. “Although…This is a human village, so they don’t really like… your kind. It might make life a bit difficult, but since you’re with me, they shouldn’t bother you too much. Though I understand if that makes you hesitant to stay.”

Hansol shakes his head, smiling slightly. “That’s okay. I like it here, so I don’t mind staying with just you.” 

“I’m glad,” you say sincerely. “Seriously, you can stay here for however long you want.”

Hansol ducks his head shyly. “Thank you. Genuinely, thank you.”

You awkwardly pat his hand where it lays on the covers, a little embarrassed in the face of his obvious gratitude, and instruct him to rest up before exiting the room. You’re glad that the brief misunderstanding had been cleared up, because you don’t want Hansol to feel anything less than welcomed. Being a yokai, he won’t have received similar acts of kindness in the wild, and as a magical being yourself, you know how that can feel. No one deserves to feel unwanted, least of all an injured yokai who’d obviously been hurt intentionally before you found him.

Unfortunately, though, the trials of Hansol’s first weeks of consciousness do not end there. Some days later, at some point during the afternoon, Seungcheol comes knocking on your door.

You hadn’t intended on inviting Seungcheol in. But afternoons are always a miserable time during winter, when the sky darkens far too early for anyone’s liking, and it’s difficult to find one’s way through the cold, barely-lit paths. That’s why you often get people coming to your door during the late afternoon, lost or confused or panicked because they’ve lost their way, and your cottage, shimmering with gold magic and warm lights is the only beacon they recognise.

So that’s the only reason why, when Seungcheol turns up, you accidentally open the door for him. Not that you have anything against the village leader, but—Hansol’s only been awake for a week at this point, and you don’t have the mental capacity to deal with a talk about getting rid of him.

Unfortunately, when Seungcheol already has one foot in a door, he will not go. Literally.

“Get your foot out of my door,” you say exasperatedly, struggling to push the door shut as Seungcheol pushes back. His foot is still wedged in the doorway.

“Let me in,” Seungcheol says. 

“No. You’re gonna tell me to hurt the yokai again.”

“I’m going to tell you to get him out of here.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Seungcheol says, finally giving up on the little game and pushing his way through the door like it’s no difficulty at all, making you let out an indignant hey!. “We need to talk about this, Y/N. You cannot harbour a demon in our village without discussing this with anyone. He needs to go.”

“He’s hurt,” you say. “He can’t go anywhere! And he won’t hurt anyone, I promise.”

“You can’t know that.” Seungcheol furrows his brow, his tone grave. “He’s a demon, Y/N. You don’t know what he’s capable of. You can’t keep him here.”

“Yes I can,” you insist, “because he’s a fucking real-life being with feelings, not this scary, evil harbinger of doom that you’re making him out to be, and I know this, because he’s been here with me, in my own home, and he’s quite possibly the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

Over the last several days, Hansol has been healing rapidly, so much so that most of his bandages have been removed and he practically glows with magic every time you see him. It’s incredibly relieving to see, and it’s also allowed you to get to know him better: sometimes unintentionally, as a natural side effect of living with him now, but also, sometimes quite on purpose. Because he’s pretty, and he’s interesting, and you want to know who he is.

Turns out, one of the key things about Hansol is he’s the most adorable being you’ve ever met.

He’s adorable, in an awkward sort of way, from the way he hovers hesitantly in doorways to the way his tail always fluffs up with contentment when he feels the tendrils of your magic brush across the room.

Unlike yokai, who simply have ancient magic embedded in them from birth, you are born of magic and made entirely of magic, so the stuff practically spills out of you wherever you go. The magic can’t only be felt from under your skin, but extends out and away from your being. You’re not used to having guests in the cottage, so you weren’t aware of the extent of how much you let your magic run free when in the safety of your home, until you noticed how Hansol reacted. He always blinks in surprise, lifting his hand palm-up, fingers curling inwards, as if your magic is some elusive silk strand that constantly evades his grasp. It’s as if he can truly feel it, and he always seems to like it.

“Can you actually feel my magic?” you ask one day, and he looks up from his hand, surprised. His tail is all fluffy and big, lazily waving from side to side and creating static against the decorative pillows on your couch. You’re sitting on an armchair next to him, smiling at him amusedly from over the book of hexes you’re reading. He doesn’t even seem to notice what his tail is doing, too occupied with the invisible tendrils between his fingers.

“Yeah,” Hansol says after a moment, closing his hand and resting them both back in his lap, a little awkward. “It feels warm. Nice.”

“Really?” 

You can’t help but smile at that, oddly flattered. To you, your magic is just… yours. It doesn’t feel like anything in particular, nothing more than a familiar tingle in your hands and a weight against your skin. Though you like describing it as gold, in reality, your magic doesn’t have any colour or any real tangibility to it apart from a fleeting pressure. The idea of it being “gold” is just how you feel about it. It never occurred to you that others could feel it, let alone feel differently about it—living amongst humans, your magic has always subconsciously curled tighter around your arms when you interact with the villagers, not wanting to weird them out with your abnormality or make them feel intimidated by you.

Hansol nods, tail swishing once more. The static has caused all his white fur to stand on end, making him look even more fluffy and adorable. “Yeah,” he says again. “It’s so much calmer than the way my magic feels. It’s really cool.”

He’s looking at you earnestly, as if expecting you to totally agree that your magic is “calmer” than his. And even though you’ve only felt his magic twice before, you nod along in agreement anyway, and Hansol nods back, satisfied with your assent. Then he lowers his gaze back to his lap, opens his hand again, and goes back to playing with your magic.

An endeared laugh bubbles up into your throat, and you smile at the top of Hansol’s head before turning back to your book. Goodness, Hansol is so ridiculously cute.

That interaction only happened some days ago, and whenever Hansol smiles at you or stiltedly asks if he can help you around the house, the surge of affection comes back even harder. So you cannot stand Seungcheol standing here, right now, frowning at you like you’re being unreasonable in your decision to treat Hansol like a normal being.

Seungcheol continues to frown, and you simply stare defiantly back, arms crossed. You don’t let him walk further into the cottage, and a stare-off commences there in the front hallway, neither of you willing to back down.

That is, until there’s a loud crash from further inside the house, and both of you flinch in alarm.

“What was that?” Seungcheol asks, and you look back to where the sound had come from. Connected to the living room, behind a door disguised as an unassuming bookshelf is your own personal library, filled with all the tomes and books on magic and alchemy you’ve collected over the centuries. That’s where the sound’s originated from, which is definitely a cause for concern, but you don’t say so, lest Seungcheol uses this to fuel his argument against Hansol.

“Probably nothing,” you say, though you still glance over in the direction of the library. “You know my cottage. Everything’s old and falling apart.”

Seungcheol looks at you suspiciously. “That’s a lie. You always keep everything in perfect condition.” He begins to move past you. “I bet it’s that demon, isn’t it?”

“No, I—” You try to stop Seungcheol from investigating, but it’s a futile effort. “Cheol, come on, you shouldn’t go see him, he’s still unwell and you could end up distressing him—”

Hurriedly, you trot after Seungcheol through the bookshelf door and into the library, only to end up slamming face-first into his back when he stops abruptly, stunned at the sight before him.

You’re quite proud of your library. It’s an open secret that the bookshelf in your living room leads to it, which is cool all by itself, but your library is also made of magic. What appears as a normal, small study behind the bookshelf turns into a large and sprawling library with high ceilings and mahogany shelves and rows upon rows of books when you step inside. 

You’d allowed Hansol access to the library when he’d asked what was behind the bookshelf, and as far as you know, he’s been peacefully situated there the entire day. But, as you peer over Seungcheol’s shoulder to see why he’s suddenly stopped, you realise you can’t see the yokai at all.

In the middle of the floor, there’s a large… fort of books. A book fort. With four walls built of books piled on top of each other, complete with battlements made of upright books and towers with open books as turrets, it’s actually quite amazing to see. The only drawback is how some of the walls are falling down, books tumbling from where they’re piled up. 

Also the large spread of ice coming from under the fort, that’s very slowly continuing to pool further and further outwards.

Seungcheol blinks. “Uh… Y/N… you wouldn’t happen to be doing this, would you?”

You shake your head. “Weather magic is my weak point.”

Suddenly, two white ears and a head pop up from behind one of the crumbling walls, and Hansol’s eyes widen when he realises you’re here with a guest.

“Oh!” He ducks his head down, and then straightens once more so he can fully see over the walls of the fort. “Hello. I was just building a castle. One of the walls fell down, ‘cause I sneezed, but I can fix it.”

The tip of his nose is slightly dusted with glittering frost, but he doesn’t even seem to notice that or the ice that’s creeping across the wooden floor. His eyes are shining as he looks at you, infinitely more relaxed than when you’d first seen him, and he inclines his head respectfully in Seungcheol’s direction, looking as humble and polite as possible even when half his face is covered by his book fort. 

“Hello to you too. It’s nice to meet you.”

You’re not sure what Seungcheol is most flabbergasted by: Hansol’s gentle manners, or the book fort he’s quite amiably making in your very respectable-looking, very grandiose library, or the circle of ice that’s very clearly coming from the yokai. Hansol is very close to giving the village leader a heart attack any time soon, it seems.

“I— This is— You’re using Y/N’s books to do this?” Seungcheol eventually manages to ask, looking both confused and horrified. “She let you?”

Hansol’s ears droop just slightly, but there’s no obvious change to his expression. “Well… no. But none of the books are damaged, and I’m going to put them back once I’m done with them.”

“It’s fine,” you interject. “I could probably fix a few ripped pages. You can do what you like.”

You couldn’t, probably, fix a few ripped pages, because each book is nearly as old as you. But you’re not going to say that, because you don’t want the confusion on Seungcheol’s face to turn into grim disapproval, and you also don’t want Hansol to feel guilty for what he’s doing.

“Although,” you say, looking down pointedly at the floor, “do you think you could stop the ice?”

Hansol peers over the wall, eyes widening when he realises what you’re talking about. “Oh, sorry. It just happened when I sneezed, I think. Everything is still going haywire… I think I’m still sick.”

The movement of the ice slows to a halt, until only a spattering of frost manages to creep over to where you and Seungcheol are standing. It covers the whole expanse of the floor, now, and there’s not a single patch of the warm brown that’s not frosted over, but it’s okay. That is definitely something you can fix.

Ignoring Seungcheol, who’s still standing there like he can’t believe he’s looking at a walking, talking yokai, you move forward and make your slippery way over to the fort. Hansol moves away a column of books, allowing him to step out of the fort and meet you.

“Is this one of the humans?” Hansol asks in a low voice before you even say anything. The sweetness in his face has disappeared, replaced with an icy look of anxiety. “He’s one of the mortals who don’t like me, isn’t he?”

You try not to wince. “Yes. He’s Seungcheol, the village leader here. He… wants me to get you out of here.”

Hansol regards you for a moment. “You make it sound a lot nicer than what he actually means,” he says. “He wants me killed, doesn’t he? At the very least, badly injured and banished from here.”

“Well… no,” you try to say, but yes, that’s actually exactly what Seungcheol wants. “He doesn’t want you badly injured. He’s just… scared. Of your kind.”

“Hm.” Hansol nods, expressionless. “Same thing, really. He wants me out.”

“Okay, Y/N, stop whispering with the… him,” Seungcheol says, and you look up to see the village leader making his slow way across the ice towards you. “We need to talk. Discuss what you’re going to do, because you are going to do it, for the safety of our village.”

You frown, frustrated. “Hansol’s not a threat to our safety,” you argue. Seungcheol continues to slide gingerly across the ice, and he sighs and shakes his head as you carry on. “He doesn’t have anything against humans. And if he did, he’d have been dead long before we found him at the river, because—Hansol. Tell him why you ended up there.”

Hansol hesitates, looking at you unsurely. The other day, you finally managed to ask him why he’d been so injured and how he’d gotten trapped in the river. It was nothing unexpected, but it still had broken your heart, and hopefully, hopefully, it’s enough for Seungcheol to feel a little bit of empathy towards the yokai. Seungcheol’s a good man, a kind man, and all he needs to do is realise Hansol’s not evil, and he’ll warm up to him faster than anyone could think possible.

“Some other yokai attacked me in the forest,” Hansol says slowly. “Really old yokai. Older than me. And… I got hurt.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow, looking at you like he doesn’t get the point of this. You simply glare at him, silently telling him to continue listening.

“It wasn’t bad. Just a broken tail and some scratches,” Hansol says, and Seungcheol blinks, surprised at Hansol’s nonchalance. “But then some demon hunters found me, and tried to get me to… attack them? I dunno. They were picking a fight, and when I didn’t give it to them, they also hurt me.”

Almost imperceptibly, Seungcheol’s face softens a fraction, and you feel a flicker of hope. You know he’s weak in the face of innocently victimised stories like this.

“And so I was trying to run away from them, but everything is kind of in pain at that point. So I end up tripping down the mountain and into your river. My magic goes haywire when I’m sick,” he adds, “so that’s how I end up accidentally freezing ice all over me, too. It kind of responds to my feelings I guess? So when I’m scared, it starts acting up even more, which is why the ice was so thick, too. Like it was trying to protect me, ‘cause it knew I was scared of someone hurting me.”

It’s the most that Hansol’s said in one go, uninterrupted, before. Seungcheol’s face softens even further, and he straightens slowly. He’s been standing still, a few metres away the entire time Hansol’s been talking, like he’s been frozen by his tale.

“And yeah,” Hansol finishes awkwardly, ears twitching. He’s sensed the change in atmosphere, Seungcheol’s empathy tangible in the air. “Then I ended up here.”

“After several, painful weeks of healing,” you add, and Hansol nods jerkily.

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Seungcheol says gently. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were so scared. But…” And then he sighs, straightening up further, the softness melting away from his face. “That doesn’t mean you’re not a harm to the others, now you’re all better. Who knows how you might feel when you’re hungry, or angry. You said your magic acts up according to your feelings, and I can’t have it acting up and hurting people here.”

Hansol’s face scrunches up in confusion. “When I’m hungry?”

It’s a bit absurd that’s the thing he’s focusing on, so you feel indignation over Seungcheol’s whole speech on his behalf, crying out at the injustice.

“What do you mean?” you argue. “You’re saying that like he’s some mindless beast.”

“He may as well be, for all I know,” Seungcheol sighs. “He’s not human, Y/N. We don’t know how he’ll act. And I need to think about the villagers. They’re… they’re like family to me, you know that.”

“I’m not human either,” you point out angrily. “And yet I’m also a part of this village. What are you saying, Cheol? Do you not consider me family?”

Seungcheol’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head instantly. “No, you are. But still, you’re more human than he is. And… there are days where I’m a bit wary of you too, Y/N.” At your outraged look, he rushes to continue, “Because you’re so powerful! But you’ve been with us for so many years, during the time of my father and his father, and his father before that, so I know you’re good. You’ve saved their lives. Saved everyone’s lives. Hansol, on the other hand…”

You scoff, beyond furious. “That’s absurd. There’s no such thing as being ‘good’, just as there’s no such thing as being ‘evil’. We don’t live in a fucking fairytale, Seungcheol.”

“I know. Maybe if you’d made different choices, I’d think of you as less good, too, but…” Seungcheol trails off, shrugging helplessly.

You stare at him, eyes so impossibly wide that it’s actually hurting your eye sockets, astounded by what he’s just said. Seungcheol? Thinking of you as evil? Just because of your power? 

Beside you, Hansol stiffens just slightly, and during the course of the conversation, he’s somehow ended up so close to you that you can feel his magic simmering frantically under his skin. You don’t know why he’s so worked up, and distantly, you wonder whether it’s on your behalf.

Seungcheol, noticing how irate you’re getting, takes a step forward to try and placate you. But he misjudges his balance on the ice surrounding the fort, leg twisting and his eyes widen and he yelps as he falls forward, on course to crashing face-first onto the hard, frozen ground. Your eyes widen, and you reach out to him, before then—

There’s a blur of white fur and Hansol catches him before he falls over and breaks all the bones in his knees, gripping him loosely around the torso, getting to Seungcheol before you can even blink. He gingerly helps him back into an upright position, and you wave a hand to whisk away the rest of the ice with streams of gold before another accident like that happens again. Hansol’s still holding Seungcheol when you’re finished, but by the shoulders now, looking the village leader right in the eye, golden irises soft and determined at the same time.

“I get you have a responsibility,” Hansol says. “I used to have one too, in the wild. To keep myself alive. But my rule, and this should be yours too, is to not hurt anything that doesn’t hurt you first. I haven’t hurt you. You shouldn’t hurt me. And Y/N—” He looks over at you, eyes flashing, before looking back at Seungcheol. “Y/N has never hurt you. So don’t act like you’re preparing for the day she one day will.”

Seungcheol’s face doesn’t change, but you’ve known him long enough to detect the minute shifts in the air around him as he digests Hansol’s words and, grudgingly, accepts it.

“I apologise,” he finally says, reluctant but sincere in the way only Seungcheol can be. “That was cruel of me. To you and Y/N.”

He looks at you, and Hansol’s hands fall away, allowing him to walk towards you.

“Sorry. But you have to understand where I’m coming from,” Seungcheol says, almost pleading, and you realise that, whilst his stance on Hansol’s existence has wavered, his overall reluctance over him being here hasn’t changed. “At least don’t let others see him, if he’s going to stay. They’ll be terrified.”

“That doesn’t sound like Hansol’s problem,” you retort. “I know these villagers, Cheol, and they’ll warm up to him, they really will.”

You look over at Hansol as you say your next words.

“Hansol is sweet and kind and really rather funny, and it breaks my heart to hide him from others because he might be seen as scary. That’s just people’s prejudice talking.” You smile. Hansol’s eyes are wide, lips parted slightly, and a fluttering warmth unfurls up inside you as you continue to smile at him. “Because I’ve seen Hansol, and he’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met.”

Hansol’s entire face goes pink, and he looks away.

“Maybe so,” Seungcheol says heavily, and you look back at him. The warmth in your chest fades at his tone, dropping to the depths of your stomach. “But I can’t risk them being near him. Don’t let him out.”

You sigh, disappointed. “No. He can leave the house if he wants to, Seungcheol. He’s not some kind of housepet you can impose rules on just like that and expect me to follow through with them.”

“Y/N—”

“Get out of my home,” you say, evenly. “Go. You can take your rules and go piss off out of my sight.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

You stew in your anger towards Seungcheol for several days. 

He comes to your door every so often, either with a letter or a plea to talk through this, but you refuse to let him in and instead tell him to, not so kindly, fuck off. 

Hansol looks at you with a mixture of affection and disappointment each time you do so. You don’t really understand why he looks at you like that—neither the affection nor disappointment—but he doesn’t say anything and goes back to what he was doing soon after, either playing with your magic, or his own, or reading your books.

Having him around the house is quite like having a very adorable, very shy, fox. You might’ve gotten furious at Seungcheol for treating Hansol like a pet, but you don’t mean it like having a pet fox: it’s just like having an inquisitive, cute being around the house who quite likes following you around as you go about your day.

It’s cute. He’s cute, with his swishing tail and his sudden bursts of frost when he’s fiddling with his fingers, and the way he stays perfectly still whenever you gain the courage to slowly inch closer to him on the sofa until you’re laying on his shoulder, at the perfect angle to peer down at the book in his hands so you can read it with him. They’re all your books, of course, so you know what they’re all about, but it’s quite nice leaning against Hansol, feeling his warmth through the silk of his clothing, and the pleasant hum of his magic under your ear.

He never initiates physical contact, but he seems to like having you near. He’s never protested when you’ve held his hand or laid on his shoulder or (very, very gently) touched his ears, so.

He’s quite like a fox, in that way. But he’s like a fox in other ways, too: namely, how it appears that he’s a bit nocturnal.

Sometimes, you’ll awaken at three, four, five o’clock in the morning to someone clattering around in your house. It always turns out to be Hansol, trying to occupy himself without waking you up, but always failing to do so.

“Hansol?” you murmur blearily, shuffling into the kitchen where the flurry of clatters had emitted from earlier. It’s dark, and all the curtains are drawn; nevertheless, his dim silhouette looks distinctly guilty as he whirls around to face you, pots and pans in his hands. “What’re you doing?”

“Sorry,” he says apologetically. “I read some potion in your book, and I wanted to try it out.”

“At three in the morning?”

“Five,” Hansol corrects. You fix him with a look, and he winces, demon magic-enhanced night vision meaning he can see you perfectly clearly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. It’s cold in the kitchen, and being exposed to the chilly night temperature is gradually waking you up. “It’s okay. I guess you don’t sleep a lot, huh? You’re wide awake, even though it’s so early in the morning.”

Hansol shrugs. “Dunno. But I always just feel like I have so much energy. Like it doesn’t have anywhere to go, and I can’t sleep for too long before it tells me to do something.”

“I see.” You purse your lips thoughtfully, pondering why Hansol’s feeling like this and what could cause it. And then, a realisation strikes you and your eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, I get it. I understand why you’re feeling that way.”

The yokai tilts his head. “Really?”

“Yeah, and it’s totally okay,” you reassure, nodding your head. “Totally understandable, too. But don’t worry, it’s easily fixed.”

You wave a hand and turn all the light fixtures on so you can see Hansol properly. The yokai literally does look like he’s vibrating with extra energy, holding your cooking utensils in his hands, ears perked upright and tail fluffed up to the max. Yeah, he’s definitely understimulated and frustrated with it right now, even if he doesn’t realise that’s what it is.

You smile. This is a good way to help him and piss off Seungcheol at the same time.

“Come on, Hansol. Let’s go outside.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

Not even an hour later, you’re making a trek up the mountains in your warmest clothes, lagging behind Hansol even with your magic-aided agility helping you up the hardest of the steps. The yokai is bounding on ahead, nimble and quick-footed even in the darkness of the early winter morning, and you can hear the light crunch of snow under his footsteps as he moves.

This is what Hansol needed. Some time outside, where he can finally breathe.

Some minutes later, as you’re sitting on a log on the path to catch your breath, Hansol comes back down the mountain to meet you, settling down by your side.

“It’s so quiet,” he whispers. The air around you is lit with a faint glow, courtesy of a visibility spell you conjured so you wouldn’t fall flat on your face as you walked. It makes Hansol’s face look golden as he smiles at you, eyes shining. “Everything is so quiet out here. I can hear the animals.”

You smile back, finding joy in how relaxed he looks. “Doesn’t that make it noisy?”

Hansol shakes his head, and then looks away from you, ears cocked to the side, listening. “No. This is like a familiar buzz of noise, so familiar that it becomes silent.” He looks back at you again, smiling. “Down in the village, it’s so noisy because of all the people, but up here, it’s all gone.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you say with a smile, and Hansol nods so quickly that you laugh, endeared. “I’m glad. You can go off for a bit, if you want, and I’ll wait for you here.”

Hansol beams. “Okay.”

And like that, he’s off, nothing more than a faint swish of a silver tail before he disappears once more.

He doesn’t come back to you for some time, which gives you a chance to sit there and breathe in the cool air. It’s so cold that it feels like inhaling clouds of peppermint, but it’s… relaxing. 

You haven’t had a chance to properly rest this winter. Winter’s a tricky time for you: the cold numbs your senses and makes your magic more sluggish. This year feels much colder than usual, and now the prolonged adrenaline that came with bringing Hansol back from the brink of death is fading, you’re beginning to anticipate feeling more worn out more often, the warm fizz in the tips of your fingers not as present as it ought to be.

Strangely, though. It hasn’t happened yet. Maybe being around Hansol and his frost-related magic has built up your resistance to the cold.

Or, he’s just so lovely and comforting that you don’t feel the effects of the winter.

That’s always a possibility. You look down at your hands, still glowing slightly with the visibility light you’ve put on yourself. It hasn’t faltered even once, a brilliant gold, and when you think of the colour of Hansol’s eyes, the light seems to glow even more.

You breathe in, and then exhale, kicking your feet out in front of you, looking down the dim mountain. You’ve been up here, thinking, for so long that the weak sunrise is beginning to peek its head above the horizon. Hansol still hasn’t come back. Though, you find you’re not too worried about that: somehow, you know that he will come back to you, though you can’t find ears nor tail of him while he’s gone.

It’s incredible how much you’ve come to trust and believe in Hansol, though he’s only been with you for several weeks. He’s been so reserved, anxious and afraid at times, especially during the early days, when he’d been bandaged up and newly healing in an unfamiliar environment, but now it’s clear how earnest and gentle he is. Something in your chest tightens and then relaxes with happiness whenever you see him smile. He’s just so—genuine, and you really like that about him.

You like him. A lot. He’s certainly an unexpected new part of your life, but now he’s here, and you can’t imagine living without the silver-furred fox yokai by your side.

There’s a rustle in the evergreen bushes to your left, and, as if he’s here answering your summons, a familiar silver head of hair pops out, golden eyes shining when he sees you. 

He blinks at you, ears flicking curiously, twigs in his hair like he’s been rolling around on the forest floor. His tail is out of sight, but you can imagine how it’s waving from side to side in contentment, the morning dew slowly turning into frozen crystals in his fur. You smile.

“Hey,” you greet, the moment you see Hansol’s face. “Are you gonna come over?”

Instantly, he stands up, hops over the bush and makes his way to you. His footfalls are light, looking like he’s dancing over the rocks before he settles next to you once more, looking like he never left your side.

“Hey,” he says. “There are so many rabbits in these mountains, you know? Like I’ve never seen so many rabbits gathered in one place before, because normally they get killed by hunters or there’s just not enough food in that area to sustain so many. It’s actually insane how many rabbits you have up here.” When you just smile, his eyes widen, ears pricking upright. “Oh, is it you? Do you do something to help them stay alive? With your magic and all that?”

Hansol then launches into a flurry of questions for you, so eager and animated that it surprises you a little, before melting your heart.

At the sight of sunrise, you’d taken down your visibility spell, but Hansol is still glowing, looking so alive with his cold-dusted cheeks, shining eyes, wind-fluffed hair and the frost dusting the tip of his nose, which must have accidentally happened when he’d gotten too excited and lost control of his magic.

Hansol’s positively lit up, now he’s surrounded by all this nature. He must’ve been so cooped up and nervous before, when he was just in your house, barely anything to do. Now he’s healed, and outside, and you can tell that being out of the house is where he’s meant to be.

“It’s not me,” you admit after Hansol’s finished conjuring up crazy theories. “Well, kind of. I messed around with the mountains about eighty years ago and did something by accident so we get a lot more winter flowers than normal. The rabbits love eating them, so we get a lot of them too.”

“Oh,” Hansol says, amazed. “That makes so much sense. I saw so many flowers. I thought that was a little bit weird, but I just chalked it up to Mother Nature having fun, or something.”

You laugh. “Yeah. I guess Mother Nature was having fun,” you say, gesturing to yourself, and Hansol grins too. His eyes crinkle as he does so, the corners of his lips spread wide so his pearly whites are fully visible, the tips of his yokai fangs slightly on display. Even his big, bright smile is as cute as he is. You’ve never seen him smile this widely before. It’s… pretty.

Even though he’s all warmed up to you now, even though it’s clear he trusts you, it’s obvious he’ll always be most at peace out here in the big, wide world.

His gaze slides away from yours, looking at something behind you, and he gasps.

“What is it?” You turn to look back, trying to find what had caught his eye, but Hansol doesn’t respond. He jumps up, diving into the bushes without a word.

A moment later he emerges, and in his hands is…

“A daffodil?” you say, amazed. “What’s this doing here? Spring is very, very far off.”

“I guess it’s because of you,” Hansol says, handing you the flower. 

You accept it gratefully, tracing the edges of its buttery yellow petals, such a warm, golden colour in your hands, in stark contrast to the cold white of the snow around you. It’s so pretty, so pristine, and it’s amazing it managed to survive in the freezing winter temperatures. Must be due to your magic, like Hansol said.

“It looks like you,” Hansol says suddenly, and you look at him in surprise. 

“Really? How?”

“You look like spring, to me,” he says. The frosted tip of his nose looks pink, as do his cheeks. A decidedly warmer, blushier pink than they’d looked before. “All warm and gold and pretty. Like the daffodil. And I…” He pauses, and then seems to change his mind, shutting his mouth and blinking at you like he wasn’t about to say anything else.

You smile, so endeared that you’re practically glowing with it. “Thank you,” you say, touched, and look back down at the daffodil in your hands before raising your eyes to the definitely-blushing yokai once more. “That’s so sweet.”

Hansol shrugs, a little bashful, before standing up abruptly.

“I’m gonna go find the rabbits again,” he says, and before you can even reply, he’s disappeared.

You laugh, breathing in the crisp air and then releasing it in a sigh, feeling warm all over despite the cold. You shake your head, fond. Hansol is just so…

That’s it, you decide. You’re not going to let Seungcheol dictate where Hansol can and can’t be. You’ll let Hansol do whatever he wants, and encourage him to do whatever he wants. 

Whatever makes him smile.

───────────── ‘✽, 

From that day on, you make it a point to take Hansol to the mountains as often as you can.

He loves it—he’ll never say it in so many words, extremely shy when it comes to voicing his preferences for reasons you cannot discern, but it’s so obvious that those few hours he gets to spend with you, in the fresh air, away from all the people, are his favourite hours in the day.

It’s another one of those mornings when you’re up in the mountains with him. You can’t come here every day: you’d collapse from exhaustion if you had to wake up at four in the morning every day, but today, it’s a particularly clear-skied day, and you wanted to watch the sunrise with Hansol.

He’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with you, looking silently down at the village below. It’s still not sunrise yet, but the sky’s beginning to lighten gradually, and you can see some of the windows beginning to light up with orange lights, everyone slowly waking. Hansol hasn’t said a word for a while, so you haven’t either, content to just look down at everything in silence.

The entire experience is rather humbling. From the mountain, the village looks so small, like it’s merely a miniscule dot in existence, something that could be missed in a single blink. Like each mortal is worth next to nothing. Like each could be destroyed in a second.

That’s what a lesser immortal would think, anyway. For you, however, rather than how fragile life is, being this high up makes you marvel at the intricacy of it. Every person, every soul, despite being so small, is filled to the brim with so many unique experiences that no one else can ever live through as that person did. They live, and they die, but almost magnificently so. Like a one-of-a-kind snowflake that melts as soon as it lies in your hands.

You look at Hansol next to you. His eyelashes flutter thoughtfully as he looks down at the village, delicate against his pale skin. 

Every life should be cherished, you think. Because if even the fleetings lives of humans are that complex, then what of the immortal creatures, who live forever? No one should tell them to hide themselves away.

“I can hear you cursing Seungcheol in your head,” Hansol says abruptly, pulling you out of your thoughts. He’s staring at you, now, no longer focused on the village, and he tilts his head bemusedly when you meet his gaze. “You’re still mad at him, aren’t you?”

You blink, and then smile. You were kind of cursing out Cheol in your head, you admit, and it’s kind of funny that Hansol picked up on it.

“I am,” you sigh, looking down. “Well, now I’m more annoyed, really. I know I should be glad that he’s not going to extremes, like some other people in the world, but…”

Hansol nods slowly. “I get where he’s coming from, though,” he admits, and you look up. “What? Seungcheol cares for his village. These people… they all mean a lot to him, and he doesn’t know me, so I guess it’s natural for him to be cautious.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s no excuse. These people all mean a lot to me, too. I watched them all grow up! And Cheol should know I wouldn’t suggest anything that puts them in danger.” You frown. “It’s frustrating. It feels like he doesn’t trust my judgement, even though he’s literally known me his entire life.”

The yokai hums, and reaches over to pat your hand placatingly where it rests in your lap.

“Also, it pisses me off that he’s saying all this without ever making an effort to get to know you, and see if his judgement is right,” you say, looking at Hansol, catching his hand in your own when he begins to move away. “You’re just—you’re just so lovely, and how dare Seungcheol try to hide you away, like you’re something taboo, or something to be ashamed of?”

Hansol’s eyes widen, and he blinks rapidly, before averting his gaze to your intertwined hands. “Oh,” he says, after a moment, clearly embarrassed by your sincere compliments. “That’s… nice.”

You laugh, fond, squeezing his hand comfortingly. “I’m always nice,” you tease. “I’m the nicest person in the entire world, actually.”

To your surprise, Hansol doesn’t smile back at your joke, and simply ducks his head shyly. “You are.” 

And then he keeps lowering himself down until he’s laying in your lap, the tips of his flickering slightly at the contact as he adjusts himself until he's practically lying down in the log, head in your lap. You stiffen in surprise, and Hansol slowly shifts so he can blink up at you with innocent, gold eyes. 

“Can I lie here?” he asks, even though he's clearly very much lying there already, and you smile, relaxing. 

“Yeah, I guess,” you say, and Hansol smiles, closing his eyes as your hand goes to his hair and begins to gently run through the strands with the tips of your fingers. 

You stay like that for some time, running your fingers through Hansol’s hair and over the soft fur of his ears. Abruptly, he playfully flicks his ears as you trace a finger through the fur at the base of them, making you yelp in surprise, and he smiles, pleased at having made you jump. You lightly tug at a few strands of hair, teasing, and he smiles wider, eyes still shut, the slight points of his canines visible.

Too distracted with Hansol’s face, you end up completely missing the full sunrise, and eventually it becomes late enough in the morning that the village fully awakens, bustling with noise as people go about their day. But curiously, you can’t hear a single thing. It’s like your world has narrowed down to you, your hands, and the yokai laid comfortably in your lap.

He really is very pretty. You notice the small spattering of snowflake-like freckles on his cheeks, and smile. He’s so pretty that it isn’t even fair.

You trace a thumb over his cheekbones, opening your mouth to comment on them before Hansol’s eyes snap open, and his ears suddenly tilt towards something down the mountain, listening. Your hand freezes, and you let him turn his head, alert.

“What’s wrong?”

Then, you hear it: the crunching of twigs underfoot, and the telltale huffing and puffing of a human making their way up the mountain. Your hand falls, and you get ready to stand up before—

“Y/N?”

Soonyoung, clad in winter furs and holding a woven basket in his hands, blinks at you in confusion, and then he glances to the yokai in your lap, and shakes his head, his expression becoming even more mystified than before.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” you ask back, equally confused as Soonyoung. “You literally hate climbing the mountains. What are you doing?”

Soonyoung looks at you oddly, lifting up the empty basket. “I’m here to collect wildflowers for you,” he says. “I asked you the other day if you could make some of that non-dangerous magic fire you did last year. You said you needed wildflowers harvested at sunrise to make that potion, so I’m here to get those.”

“Oh. Did you really ask me that?”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says. “You said you’d make them for me. And also complained for like five minutes because I tried to pay you, and you wanted to refuse ‘cause you said I was paying you too much. As if there’s such a thing as being paid too much money.” He rolls his eyes for emphasis, and you laugh.

The conversation comes back to you now, and you shrug sheepishly. “Yeah. Sorry. I forgot about that.”

Soonyoung makes a disgruntled sound, feigning annoyance before his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Don’t worry about it, boo. Just as long as you remember to make the potion, it’s all fine. The children’ll love it for the bonfire tonight.”

Your eyes widen. “You want me to make it for tonight? There’s a bonfire tonight?”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says. “I specifically told you when I asked, as well. Goodness, you’re forgetting everything today, huh?” Then he gestures casually to Hansol, who’s still lying in your lap, looking unsurely at the villager. “Don’t tell me, you also forgot you have the injured demon in your lap, too?”

He points to Hansol so naturally, so calmly that you look down in surprise, as if you really had forgotten the yokai was there. Soonyoung laughs, shaking his head as he bends down near a bush, poking through the dirt to see if there are any flowers. He turns his back on you and Hansol, craning down towards the ground to see better as he continues to talk.

“Cheol told me all about the demon and how he disapproves of you keeping him alive,” Soonyoung says. He manages to find a few wildflowers, and lets out an aha! of pride, putting them away in his basket. “Not gonna lie, I agreed with him a bit. But then I come up here and find him in your lap as you pet him like a cat, and now I’m thinking, maybe not so much.”

Soonyoung turns back to face you once again, and somehow, during those thirty seconds, he’s managed to get dirt all over his nose.

“Plus, you seem to like him,” he carries on. “So he can’t be bad, can you? Because you’d kick his ass if he was.”

You quirk a grin at that, proud. Then you nod down at Hansol. “He has a name, though, you know. And he can hear you.”

Soonyoung’s eyes widen in realisation, and he stands up quickly, brushing down his clothes. “Oh, sorry, you’re right. Sorry. Hi, I’m Soonyoung, one of the villagers who live here. It’s nice to meet you.”

He extends a gloved hand towards Hansol, and Hansol looks at the hand for a long moment. Then he slowly sits upright again, and grasps Soonyoung’s hand in a firm handshake, the corners of his mouth relaxing slightly.

“Hansol,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

And then he must do something, because Soonyoung lets out a small yip in surprise, withdrawing his hand quickly as Hansol observes him amusedly, eyes glinting. 

“Did you…” Soonyoung starts, wide-eyed. “Did you just. Give me an electric shock? On purpose?”

Hansol cracks the slightest smile, evidently pleased with Soonyoung’s reaction. He’s in a playful mood today, you muse, smiling as Soonyoung stutters, clearly not sure what to do when a yokai plays a prank on him like this. It makes you smile too, amused.

“You have to show me how to do that,” Soonyoung eventually says, going from surprised to confused to full of amazement. “Can you show me? Is that something which can be taught?”

That makes Hansol smile properly, lips curving upwards. “You’re funny.”

“I’m being serious!” Soonyoung says, but something about Hansol’s smile must make him smile too, because eventually he laughs, shaking his head. “Goodness, you magic people need to stop messing with me. One day, I’ll accidentally set myself on fire, and it’ll be your fault.”

“You’d do that anyway,” you tease, and Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I have to get going, I think. Jeonghan’s coming over for a poultice for his back pain, and I need to get to my cottage before he does.”

“Okay,” Soonyoung says. “This is a hell of a way up the mountain, by the way. I might go down with you as well, and see if I’ve missed any flowers.”

“Cool.” This is definitely not that far up the mountain, and even though Soonyoung hates climbing, it shouldn’t have taken him more than twenty minutes to reach where you are. It’s clear he wants to walk with you for a moment to tell you something, so you look at Hansol, and offer him the chance to stay up in the mountains by himself for a bit.

He agrees, so you and Soonyoung begin your slow descent.

“What do you want?” you ask, when you’re out of Hansol’s hearing range.

Soonyoung just smiles, shaking his head. “Nothing bad,” he says. “I meant it when I said Hansol seems like a cool guy. I just…” He pauses, thinks over his words, and then leans in closer. “Bring him to the bonfire tonight.”

You reel back. “What? Are you crazy?”

“Hey, if you’re worried about him getting hurt, you shouldn’t be,” Soonyoung says placatingly. “Hansol’s a demon. He can hold his own. Plus, the people aren’t as against yokai as you might think. Cheol’s just overly cautious, and the elderly might have traditional views about it, but it won’t be hard to make them like him. He’s cute.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“He is!” Soonyoung argues. “I saw him in your lap, Y/N. He’s adorable. And very… docile? Like, he’s so quiet. But also very silly. The kids would love him, you know. So would everyone else.”

“Even Seungcheol?”

Soonyoung thinks about it for a second. The cold air has made his cheeks all ruddy red, and he looks like a very earnest, very red-cheeked schoolboy as he nods firmly. “Yes. Even Seungcheol.”

You hum, still incredibly sceptical. “Well. I’ll think about it. We’ll have to see.”

───────────── ‘✽, 

Unfortunately, even though you were slightly swayed by Soonyoung’s words and his instant kindness and all-round chillness in Hansol’s presence, you ultimately end up not bringing Hansol to the bonfire night. It’s not your decision, though: it’s Hansol’s.

“Are you worried about the humans?” you ask, when Hansol tells you that, respectfully, he doesn’t want to go. “You don’t have to worry about that. I could blast them all to pieces for insulting you, if that makes you feel better.”

Hansol smiles a little, before shaking his head. “No. It’s actually just… I’m not really a big fan of all the noise and stuff. And how hot bonfires are.”

“Oh.” You soften, concerned. “Have you been… hurt by fire before?”

“Huh? Oh, no,” Hansol says. He shrugs. “I just don’t like being too warm. Makes me uncomfortable.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. Because even as he says this, he’s cuddling up into your side, head on your shoulder, his tail curled comfortably around him. “Really?” you say. “You don’t like being too warm?”

Hansol’s ears flick. “Yeah. My magic originates from winter, as you might have noticed, so…”

“Oh, I hadn’t realised,” you say teasingly, tapping the tip of his nose lightly. “I thought the white fur and random bursts of frost on your skin meant you were a summery fox.”

Hansol scrunches his nose, and you laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it does mean I don’t like being all warm, so fires are a no-go for me. Especially bonfires, where there are many people. That’s way too much warmth for me, for sure.”

“I see,” you say, reaching a hand up to tuck some of his silver hair out of his face as he nestles closer into your side. “That’s cool. But I am going to have to go, even if you aren’t. Will you be okay if I leave you here by yourself in the evening?”

“Yeah. Can you make me dinner before you go, though? Last time I tried, I almost destroyed your kitchen.”

“What? When was that?”

“Oops. Did I not tell you?”

Anyway, the bonfire night ends up being a bit of a disappointment. Several of the villagers have cottoned on to the fact you’re housing the yokai, and express their concerns to you over the matter several times over the course of the night. You love these people, you really do, but hearing so many of them advise you to send him back off into the woods for your own safety really wears you down after a while.

“I think Y/N understands what you’re saying now, imo,” a gentle voice butts in, right when you’re in the middle of having a particularly exhausting conversation. This tricky older woman’s insisting you let the yokai go… only, she’s using much more unkind words.

You were very, very close to losing your cool with her—respect the elders be damned because hell, you’re way older than she is—before she’s interrupted mid-sentence by a villager appearing over his shoulder, and you smile in relief as you recognise him.

At the call of “auntie”, she looks up and comes face-to-face with your saviour, Joshua, and all it takes is another gentle smile and some sweet words before he successfully convinces her to leave your side and rejoin her friends on the other side of the bonfire.

“Don’t worry about it,” Joshua says when you thank him for his help. “You know how they are. Once they latch on to you, it’s impossible to get them to leave without using some sort of witchcraft to pry them away.”

You laugh at that. “And yet, it seemed to be you who helped get them off me. Maybe you’re the real witchcraft user out of the two of us.”

Joshua laughs, light and melodious, magical fire reflecting in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything to your joke, however, and nods into the distance behind you, down the darkened paths that lead to your cottage. “You need to bring him out, though,” he says. “Whilst he’s still unknown, they’ll continue conjuring theories that become wilder by the day. They need to see the yokai so their suspicions can be wiped away once and for all.”

“Wh—Hansol?” You blink. “It’s dangerous, Shua. They might hurt him.”

“They’re hurting him now,” Joshua says. “They’re hurting you and hurting him by making stuff up. Just introduce him to them, okay? He can’t become part of our village if he never meets our villagers.”

At your stunned look, Joshua smiles. 

“What? I know you, Y/N. You’re attached. You want him to stay. And honestly…” His smile turns a little more secretive, a little more knowing. “I think he wants to, too. The yokai will stay for you, but to truly bring him in, you have to bring him out to us.”

Joshua smiles again, the colours of his irises swirling together, before he pats you on the shoulder and gets up, leaving you there speechless.

He isn’t… wrong. But hearing it like that sounds insane.

You shake your head. Hansol will have to meet everyone sooner or later, you suppose. You very much do not want to go ahead with Seungcheol’s idea to let him be hidden, like a secret, so of course, you need to bring him out into the open.

You shake your head again, mystified. Joshua’s correct, but how does he know so much?

Honestly, you really do think he’s more of a witchcraft user out of the two of you. His incredible timing, his knowledge of all your thoughts, the fact he’d called Hansol a yokai rather than demon…

Also. How old even is he, anyway? 

Too confused and befuddled by all the thoughts in your head, you end up playing with the children and run through the fire all night instead. It’s a lot safer than having to deal with all the grown-up stuff of thinking about things.

───────────── ‘✽, 

Both Soonyoung’s and Joshua’s words linger in the back of your mind for days after that, and you contemplate how to get Hansol out of the house. Hansol had never really shown signs of wanting to be part of the village, which had made you reconsider this whole thing, wanting to brush away the villager’s words, before you actually asked the yokai, and—

Hansol shrugs. “Yeah. I’d like to get to know everyone. I want to be part of the village.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he says again, smiling at you. “This village is your village, and I want to be with you.”

Oh. You smile back, touched. Hansol smiles wider, brightening at the eye contact, all sweet and lovely and really quite cute, before ducking his head and disappearing back through the shelves of your library once again.

So Hansol turns out to be not as against the idea as you thought, which makes you feel a lot better about thinking of how to get the villagers to trust him and how to get Seungcheol off your back for taking care of Hansol in the first place.

However, it ends up not being you who makes the first steps into getting him known. Oh, no.

Instead, Hansol does that all by himself.

It happens during the first snowfall of the year. You’d woken up to the beautiful sight of the white crystals floating down and covering the entire village with a soft, muffled coat, and the equally beautiful sight of Hansol, who had already woken up, practically pressing his nose against the window to look at the snow in awe.

He’d clearly wanted to go out and be in the snow—as a winter yokai, that made sense—but you’d had some errands to run that day, so you’d told him he could stay only in the front yard of the cottage and go no further.

Hansol had smiled at you, an amused quirk of his lips that acted as all the reassurance you needed.

So he’s sitting in the snow in front of your cottage, legs out in front of him, the silk of his clothes getting damper the longer he sits on the cold ground, but he hardly notices, more focused with tracing a finger through the soft white that is steadily building up.

Snowfall is Hansol’s most favourite wintry thing. It’s a perfect, wondrous phenomenon: the intersection of the perfect time and the perfect weather and the perfect temperature that makes the sky release soft handfuls of the white stuff down on Earth. Even nature falls silent when the snow falls. In Hansol’s opinion, that’s proof enough that it’s something to be appreciated beyond belief.

His robes, his old robes, used to have silver snowflakes embroidered into them, intricate and sprawling patterns that he could run his fingers over and almost feel the cold gust of wind that accompanied the snow. They’re not on the robes he’s wearing now—he’s wearing ones you’ve given him, after his old ones were ruined by his own blood—but he traces his fingers gently over the sleeves, letting frost spread out from his fingers like the feathery patterns that used to adorn the cloth he wore.

He quickly grows bored of that, though, and turns to the real snow in front of him, ears flicking absentmindedly to get rid of the small pile-up gathering on his head. He absentmindedly gathers the stuff in his hands, patting it into shapes and then leaving them out on the lawn. 

This carries on for some time, and eventually there is an army of misshapen snow clumps in your front yard, all frosted over with a touch of his magic, and he grins, satisfied. And then his ears twitch again, and he feels… eyes. Watching him.

Hansol turns around, and some houses away, peeking from over a well-trimmed, leafless hedge, he sees three children clad in fluffy winter clothes staring at him, curious.

He doesn’t have much experience with human children. Or any children, for that matter. But he’s pretty sure that, when a yokai makes eye contact with them, they’re not meant to light up with glee and come running over with absolutely no regard for the icy paths or the danger that said yokai could present.

Surprised, Hansol jumps up to his feet, reaching out hands to steady the little kids as they skid over the snow and come to a stop right in front of him, eyes shining, expectant. He doesn’t know what they’re expecting, and being so close to these mini humans is a very awkward experience for him. He’s not sure what to do.

So he lifts a hand, and waves. “Hello?”

The three children beam, and one of them, the girl, practically vibrates with happiness when he speaks.

“Hello!” she chirps, and waves back. “I’m Yeowon! What’s your name?”

Hansol blinks, taken aback by her enthusiasm. “I’m Hansol.”

“Hansol!” Yeowon keeps speaking in exclamation marks, and it’s honestly kind of amusing. “It’s nice to meet you! This is Junghoon, and this is Minjun!” she says, gesturing to the boys on either side of him, who also give Hansol equally enthusiastic waves.

“Hello,” he says unsurely. How old are these kids? He doesn’t know much about human years, but they look… very young. Where are their parents?

He doesn’t get to voice his concerns before Yeowon starts speaking again, going a mile a minute and he can hardly get a word in edgeways.

“We were watching you from Minjun’s house,” she says, and picks up one of the snow balls that Hansol was making, lifting it up so he can look at his own handiwork. “These are so pretty! We wanted to come over and play with you, ‘cause we’ve never seen you before, but you live with Miss Witch, right?”

Hansol opens his mouth, but it’s apparent that wasn’t an actual question when Yeowon barrels on.

“So you must be a good guy! So we wanted to come say hello and play.”

She blinks big, innocent eyes up at him, as do the two boys, evidently begging him to play with them, or something. He doesn’t know what play entails, but… there’s no harm in entertaining these fun-sized humans, right?

So Hansol nods, says they can play with him, and sits down in the snow again. And then, before he knows it, they’re all shrieking and climbing over him and asking him to make figurines out of ice and snow and patting his hair in amazement and asking if his ears are actually real.

Children are very overwhelming, Hansol quickly learns. But he also kind of likes them: likes the way their eyes light up when he makes them the little ice characters they want, likes their fascinated smiles and the way they very gently touch his ears and accidentally get damp suede of their gloves in his mouth in their excitement. They’re bubbly, full of life, and so friendly with him that it honestly makes him so delighted that it surprises him.

“Make me one too! Make me one too!”

“Your ears look super fluffy! Can I touch your tail?”

“Why are your eyes yellow?”

“Can you make me something out of magic too, Mister Fox?”

“Mister Fox! Mister Fox!”

Hansol doesn’t know how it happens, but he blinks and suddenly he’s surrounded by what seems to be every child in the village, clamouring around him and asking if he could play, Please, Mister Fox, won’t you?

Your front lawn is quickly becoming a gathering place for the little humans who had swarmed towards him so quickly that Hansol’s starting to think they were waiting in the background for his very opportunity, and he makes more ice figures and listens interestedly to their babbling as they conjure stories for the figurines on the spot. They’re all so very noisy, but Hansol smiles, brimming with a similar sort of energy as his magic fizzes and pops with glitters of snow and makes the children laugh.

There’s no other way to describe it. He’s feeling happiness, pure and simple.

Unbeknownst to Hansol, there’s one human who’d been watching the entire scene right from the beginning. Coming down the path, on his way to visit the village’s magic-user, Soonyoung had noticed Hansol sitting by himself and had prepared to go over, extend a hand and a friendly word before Yeowon, Junghoon and Minjun had run over.

As a result, Soonyoung retreated a little ways round the bend to watch from a distance, which is where he is now, smiling at the innocent joy of both the children and Hansol.

From the opposite end of the path, he spots you walking back to your cottage, and clocks the exact moment you realise what’s happening in your front yard. Your eyes widen, and you stop in your tracks, before your eyes slowly lift further and you notice Soonyoung standing there too, smiling.

See? he seems to say with your eyes, meeting your gaze. They love him. 

One of the children shrieks with laughter as she grabs Hansol’s tail and he playfully gasps in shock, scooping her up and lifting her into the air until she’s giggling and burbling for him to put her down. At his feet, one child is patting snow into the hem of his robes, and another is playing with a fox-eared figurine that Hansol had made him.

It looks so natural, and you watch them for a moment before looking at Soonyoung again. Soonyoung smiles even wider. You have nothing to worry about.

You laugh, a little bit in disbelief, warmth spreading across your face as you smile back, looking fondly at the sight in your front yard. Finally, you really do believe that that’s the truth.

───────────── ‘✽, 

“Let’s go out,” you say, and Hansol looks up from his book, tilting his head inquisitively.

“Hm,” he says in reply. “Are you sure?”

It’s been a few days since the first snowfall, but the wintry precipitation has not let up, and it continues to softly drift down from the sky even as you speak. The blanket of snow covering the earth has also blanketed your senses, and your magic is nothing more than a gentle hum beneath your skin. A month ago, this would have stressed you greatly, but with Hansol and his winter-attuned magic singing happily around the entire room, you feel nothing but peace. 

Nodding in reassurance, you smile at Hansol. “Very sure. Let’s go out today.”

Hansol blinks, once, and then smiles back, closing the book and getting up from the couch. “Okay. Where are we going?”

You smile wider. “To make you some friends.”

That was the plan, anyway. Ever since the first snow, when Hansol had been accosted by the children and ended up playing with them for a good part of the day, you’ve had several villagers come to your door, either complaining about the yokai or wanting to know more about him. So, you figure, today you should get him out to the village square so he can finally meet everyone. Regardless of their opinion of him. 

Because you have trust in Hansol. Now, you have confidence he can turn their opinion around. 

Hansol, despite having all the appearances and mannerisms of an introvert, doesn't seem to mind leaving the house for so many days in a row, and eagerly agrees as you urge him to get dressed and head out to the village square. There's the daily market taking place, and most people will be there, so it'll be a good opportunity to introduce him. 

But, like you said, that was the plan. 

Unfortunately, you're whisked away by some of the villagers who need help with their sick relative, leaving Hansol stranded in the village square. 

“You don't have to stay,” you insist to him, as you're rushed off to deal with the medical emergency. “Seriously, Hansol, you can go home. Especially if anyone starts throwing insults, then just go, okay? I'll be with you as soon as I finish.”

Hansol watches you go, head tilted, slightly amused. It's kind of cute that you think he needs protecting. You know, since he's an ancient demon, and all. But before he can say as such, there's a small voice near his knee, and he looks down to see a small child, piping up in favour of him. 

“Don't worry about Mister Fox!” the small boy chirps brightly. “We will look after him!”

And as if out of nowhere (seriously, where do these kids come from?) several children come up to him and cling to his robes, waving at you as you leave the market square. Hansol waves too, mystified by the miniature support latching onto him, but also a bit touched by their loyalty. They're really sweet. 

“So what do you wanna do, Mister Fox?” the first little boy says, and Hansol recognises him as one of the first children to come up to him a few days ago. Minjun. “Are you hungry?”

Without even waiting for Hansol's answer, Minjun and the rest of the children start ushering him to the food stalls, fiercely advocating for their choice of what Mister Fox should eat first. 

“Wait,” Hansol says, interrupting the particularly fierce fight over having hotteok or bungeoppang first. “Kids. Do you have any money?”

There's a short silence, and all the children look down, which is how he learns that they don't, and so they don't end up buying anything at all. Except, Yeowon, who joined the discussion partway through, manages to wheedle some of the stall-owners to give her free food with her big puppy eyes and innocent pout.

It’s like a magic trick, Hansol has to give her that. And when she happily tells the vendors that she’s sharing the food with Hansol, the villagers do nothing other than blink in surprise and then smile, polite and awkward, well. That’s also an incredible magic trick too. 

They sit on the outskirts of the village market, pillowed by the mounds of snow all around them as they eat their steaming hot snacks. They’re delicious, and sticky, and very sweet, so it’s not too long before Hansol has several super-hyper, sticky-fingered children on his hands, who are all practically launching themselves into the snow with the bounding amounts of energy they have.

It becomes very noisy very fast, and Hansol starts panicking slightly, before he loudly suggests they ought to go and make some snowmen, and all the children whip their heads around to look at him, wide-eyed, and then—

“That’s such a good idea!”

“Yes! Let’s do that!”

“I’m gonna make the best snowman!”

“No, me!”

“No! Me!”

And then they go tumbling off into the snow, and Hansol slumps back down, relieved. He can still see them, and he can still sense them, too, so there’s no worry in any of them getting lost. At least he can now have some peace and quiet.

Twisting his lips thoughtfully, he gathers handfuls of the white snow, turning it over. He turns it over again, and then begins patting and shaping it in his hands until he has something that resembles a little snow duck.

It’s terribly misshapen, and the beak is a bit too long to be a duck, but it’s cute, and Hansol’s pleased. He swirls his fingers in the air, and uses some magic to add finishing touches, trying to rectify the wonkiness. It doesn’t work, but he still thinks it’s cute. You’d probably find it cute, too. Right?

Probably. Hansol hums to himself contemplatively. You like everything he does. It’s very sweet, he thinks, that you’re always so receptive to him, and it’s even sweeter that you genuinely enjoy his company. You brighten like a blooming chrysanthemum, spring-like in your warmth whenever he says something to you, and it makes him feel all warm too. Ever since the first time he woke up on your couch, out of his mind with a fever, and he’d noticed your floral chrysanthemum tea scent and accidentally called you the prettiest person ever, you’ve always been so gentle and kind and oh, Hansol likes you so much.

You’re just—lovely. You’re the loveliest being he’s ever met in his entire life, and that’s saying something, because Hansol’s been alive for a really fucking long time.

“Hello.”

He’s startled out of his thoughts by a light, melodic voice coming from over his shoulder, and Hansol looks up in surprise to see a villager bent over him, warm brown eyes glinting and the corners of his lips curving upwards in a seemingly permanent smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. I just saw you, and thought I’d say hi,” the villager says, smiling properly, extending a hand. “I’m Joshua. You’re the yokai, right?”

Hansol manoeuvres his body around awkwardly and shakes Joshua’s gloved hand. “I’m Hansol, and yeah, I am the yokai. How could you tell?” His ears flick pointedly as he talks, and Joshua’s eyes immediately go to them before he smiles wider.

“Yeah, I guess it was a silly question,” Joshua says, and his fur boots crunch in the snow as he climbs over a mound and crouches down next to Hansol. “But I don’t wanna seem impolite, you know?”

Hansol shrugs, but he understands. “Yeah. I get it.”

Joshua smiles.

They say nothing for a moment, and Hansol lifts his head up briefly to check on the children. He can still see all of them, actually, dotted about the edges of the market as they build their snowmen. He watches them thoughtfully, and then down at the snow at his feet.

It only takes a moment for a snowman of his own to begin to form, aided by his magic as the snowballs roll themselves to become bigger and more round.

“That’s really cool,” Joshua comments, and Hansol had almost forgotten he was there. He’s so quiet, feather-silent, but when he catches Hansol’s eye and smiles, there’s a twinkle to his presence that makes him wonder how he could have ever forgotten him. “I’ve never seen anyone other than Y/N be able to do that.”

“Hm?” Hansol looks at the snowman that’s slowly being built. “Oh, well, it’s nothing, really.”

Even as he says so, his tail fluffs up in pride at Joshua’s words, and he begins adding more and more intricate frost details to the snowman. The feathery patterns wind through the body of his creation, like embroidery, and Joshua whistles, amazed.

“It’s very cool. Your magic is very cool.”

Hansol shrugs, bashful. “Thank you. But really, it’s nothing.” As the snowman continues to construct itself, he leans over to Joshua as if confiding a secret. “In the wild, there are yokai who can create literal monsters out of ice. In about five seconds flat. But I mostly just deal with frost and snow, so it’s a lot more difficult for me.”

Joshua tilts his head, genuine interest written all over his face. “Oh. I didn’t know there were differences in yokai magic.”

“Of course there are,” Hansol says, like it’s obvious. “Like there are differences in humans’ skills, there are differences for yokai, too. We are not unlike you, you know.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Joshua says thoughtfully. And then he looks Hansol in the eye again, smiling. Joshua is honestly so friendly, and even though they only met two minutes ago, he feels like he’s known him for years. “So you won’t object to being friends with a human, right?”

Hansol blinks, surprised, and Joshua’s smile just widens. It’s obvious what he’s asking, and Hansol feels… touched, that he’d even suggest such a thing.

“Yeah,” Hansol says, and his magic finishes off the snowman with an intricate flourish of frost. “I’d love to be your friend.”

“Joshua!”

The calling of the human’s name makes both Joshua and Hansol turn around, and they see one of the elder villagers coming over to them, the skirts of her robes swishing as she walks. She’s terribly intimidating, greying hair pulled back into a bun with a pointy hair stick, marching over with incredible grace even through the ankle-deep snow that has gathered. She squints at the yokai and how close Joshua is sitting to him. 

“Mrs Choi,” Joshua greets, apparently oblivious to the sharpness of the woman’s gaze. “Hello. It’s very cold today, isn’t it?”

She eyeballs Hansol for a moment before nodding at Joshua. “Very. Frightful weather, but at least the children are enjoying the snow.” Mrs Choi lifts her gaze and squints into the distance, where the children are playing. “I hope someone is supervising them.”

“Oh, well, Hansol is, so don’t worry about it,” Joshua says with a smile. 

Mrs Choi snaps her gaze back to them. “Is he really?” Hansol nods, doing his best to look as earnest and trustworthy as possible, and she hums. “I see.”

“He has them doing a snowman competition, actually,” Joshua says. “He’s very good at making them himself, too. Look. Don’t you think his creation looks amazing?”

He points to the snowman in front of them, glistening with frost and embroidered with thin ice, clearly a work of his magic. Hansol swallows, expecting Mrs Choi to fly into a tizzy over the presence of such witchcraft, but she just scrutinises the snowman, and then—

She smiles.

“It’s very pretty,” she says, and in the blink of an eye, her expression has turned warm. She’s smiling so nicely at Hansol, and then she leans down and brushes a hand over the top of his head, gently dusting away the snow that had landed in his hair. “Just like you, my dear.”

Hansol blinks up at her, open-mouthed. “I— thank you, ma’am.”

She chuckles, straightens, adjusts the skirt of her robes. “No need to thank me. I’m simply telling the truth.” Mrs Choi nods in the direction of the children, before turning away. “Thank you for taking care of the children, also. Keep up the good work.”

Hansol watches her go, feeling a little dazed. She had looked so sharp and stern at first, but something about him sitting there harmlessly and making a harmless snowman with harmless snow gathered in his hair must have done something to convince her that he’s, well, harmless. Which is good. Very good. Hopefully she’ll let everyone else know, too.

“Yeah, she looks scary, but Mrs Choi is anything but,” Joshua says with a laugh, when Hansol directs his wide-eyed gaze to him.

“She’s terrifying.”

“Her son takes after her,” Joshua chuckles. “Choi Seungcheol. He looks scary, but he’s a right softie on the inside, trust me.”

Hansol’s eyes widen further. “She’s Seungcheol’s mother? The village leader?”

“The one and only,” Joshua affirms. He laughs. “Don’t worry about him. His own mother found you cute. I’m sure he’ll be won over by you in no time. Especially if you keep making snowmen that rival Y/N’s in their intricacy. Seriously, I think yours are the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Shua, I hope I didn't just hear you dissing my amazing snowman building skills.”

Hansol looks up at your voice, and sees you slowly treading over to them, a drawstring bag dangling over your shoulder as you pick your way through the snow. The tip of your nose is red from the cold, cheeks a pretty pink with an amused smile on your face, and the moment he sees you, it’s like you’ve stolen his breath away.

Whilst Hansol’s too busy being starstruck, Joshua laughs, leaning back on his hands.

“So what if I was?” he teases, and nods to Hansol’s snowman. “Doesn’t it look amazing?”

You look away, directing your gaze to the snowman. Humming thoughtfully, you eye Hansol’s creation, and he begins to grow a little nervous under your critical silence, fiddling with his fingers and digging them into the snow, wisps of cold air seeping from his skin.

And then you smile, a lopsided smirk that makes Hansol feel a little dizzy.

“I can certainly do better.”

Before he can say anything, you set down your bag, and with a flick of your wrist the snow begins to swirl and gather itself before you. Under your command, golden streaks of magic begin to press the snow together, creating larger shapes that you obviously plan to sculpt into a showstopping piece.

You look almost relaxed in your movements, the entire process taking nothing more than a slight twitch of your fingers as magic sparks zip around the sculpture that’s gradually beginning to form. Hansol can only watch in awe, amazed at the fluidity and effortlessness of your power. By his side, he thinks he hears Joshua chuckle softly.

After a few short moments, the three of you are staring at a large, smoothly finished sculpture of a winter fox, and you smile and cross your arms, satisfied.

“What do you think?” you say, smug, confident in your belief that you’ve proved yourself.

Hansol’s jaw is on the floor. Delicate pointy ears, a fluffy-looking tail all made out of snow, and wow, are those whiskers? Did you really make whiskers?

“Wow,” is all he can say, staring at this lifelike fox that’s made entirely out of snow. “Wow.”

Just then, there are high-pitched exclamations from somewhere in the distance, and the children that Hansol’s been supervising come bounding over, shouting in amazement at the fox that you’ve made. 

“Hi, kids,” you say when they’re close enough, laughing when Yeowon barrels into your legs to give you a hug. “Quick question, which snow sculpture do you think is better? The fox, or the Frosty the Snowman?”

They all look very thoughtfully at the two snow pieces in front of them, before unanimously pointing to your creation, and you grin triumphantly at Joshua and Hansol. Hansol just smiles back, totally expecting such an outcome. You’d beat him any day when it comes to stuff like this, and he’s totally fine with that.

“That’s not even a snowman,” Joshua protests, but it’s clear he’s arguing just for the fun of it. “Y/N, that’s not a fair competition.”

You shrug flippantly. “I’d win anyway.” And then you wink, pleased, and Hansol feels like burying himself in the snow just to try and get rid of his red cheeks.

“Mister Fox, we wanna play with you now,” Minjun says, and he looks up to see the children standing around him, red-cheeked and damp-haired but still eager to play more. “Can we play a game with you?”

“It’s getting late,” Hansol tries to say, but apparently, that had been a rhetorical question, because they’re hauling him up to his feet so they can play with him. “The market’s already closing. Shouldn’t you all go back to your parents now? Joshua? Y/N?” He looks back pleadingly as he gets dragged away, and you and Joshua just laugh, waving him goodbye.

“Have a nice time!” Joshua calls, standing up from the snow and brushing down his clothes. He stands closer to you, smiling as you both watch him begin to play. “He’s good with them, isn’t he?”

You smile too. “He really is.”

“The best,” another voice adds, and you look over your shoulder to see some of the villagers also watching Hansol. They’re all the parents, and yet they seem perfectly content to let their children play around with the yokai, any trace of hostility gone from their faces. 

That makes you smile wider. “I’m glad you think so, Mrs Lee,” you say, and the woman smiles back. “Don’t worry. He’ll keep your children safe.”

Mrs Lee bows her head in acknowledgement, eyes turning soft as you all watch Hansol let the children punt tiny clumps of snow at him. “We know.”

They stay with you for a little longer, chatting about Hansol’s gentle nature and how wonderfully he gets along with the children, before eventually they disperse and begin packing up the market for the day. Next to you, Joshua is also smiling, looking fond, which is really weird because he barely knows Hansol but there’s definitely a clear look of admiration and affection in his face. Before you can comment on it, though, he pats you on the shoulder, and begins to step away.

 “I better go,” he says. “Cheol’s coming your way. I think he wants a talk.”

He bids you goodbye then trudges back through the snow, and you look over your shoulder to see that Seungcheol really is coming your way. Instead of greeting him, however, you look back out at Hansol, and wait until the village leader is by your side.

“Hello, Y/N.”

“Hello, Seungcheol.”

You don’t offer him anything else, and so the two of you stand there in silence, continuing to watch Hansol play with the children. It is an adorable sight, though, and makes the corners of your lips twitch upwards the longer the silence goes on. He’s totally lenient with them, letting them pull his tail and ambush him with damp gloves and shrieking laughter. His head whips back and forth constantly between the two sides of kids that have inexplicably formed, somehow finding himself in the crossfire as snowballs get flung around him.

It’s cute, and it makes you laugh, heart warming with fondness. You can feel Seungcheol watching you out of the corner of your eye, and when it’s clear he’s not going to say anything until you do, you sigh and turn your back on Hansol at last, raising an eyebrow.

“Well?” you prompt. “What’s up? You didn’t come find me just to say hello.”

Seungcheol pauses, and looks down. “No. I didn’t.” A beat. “My mother actually told me you were here.”

“Okay. And?”

“She talked to Hansol,” he says, and both your eyebrows raise this time, in surprise. “She said to me that she liked him, and she wanted me to open my eyes and finally realise how much of a good person he is.”

Seungcheol clasps his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. He looks over your shoulder, at where Hansol is undoubtedly doing something silly to entertain the children, and his eyes go gentle. They don’t soften, and they certainly don’t melt, but his gaze becomes a little more mellow, like a layer of hardness has finally given way.

“And he is a good person,” Seungcheol says, looking at you again. “I’ve been watching him all day. All week, in fact, and even if my mother hadn’t said anything, I would’ve sought you out to tell you this, because I think I owe you an apology.”

You breathe a laugh. “You certainly do,” you say, but there’s no real bite. Seungcheol’s actions were understandable. You’ve already forgiven him.

Seungcheol seems to know that too, because his lips quirk up into a half-smile. Nevertheless, his words are genuine when he says, “I’m sorry. I was too rash, and too harsh. Any worries I had over yokai did not excuse the way I talked about Hansol. Do you think you can also tell him how sorry I am?”

You draw in a long breath, cross your arms and lean back, staring down your nose at Seungcheol. His smile wavers, a little, but then you relax, breaking out into a grin.

“You can tell him yourself. He’d love to talk to you,” you say, and Seungcheol smiles too. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You’re just looking out for the village, like you always do. But…” You shrug. “I was looking out for my kind, also. I was frustrated that you were treating Hansol like that just because he was a yokai.”

Seungcheol breathes out, wisps of white spilling from his lips. “I get that. It makes sense that you felt that way.” His eyes lighten with mischief suddenly, his smile taking on a teasing edge. “Especially considering the fact you’re in love with him, too.”

The world grinds to a halt. You stumble, taken aback by Seungcheol’s words. “I’m sorry, what?”

Nothing else gets to be said about the matter, though, because a small child goes zooming past you right at that moment, brushing against your side. And then, half a millisecond later, a fat clump of snow hits you square in the back.

The child continues running off, bubbling laughter fading into the market square. Slowly, very slowly, you spin on your heel and come face-to-face with the culprit.

Hansol’s still frozen in his throw position, one hand incriminatingly covered with snow. The moment he sees your face, his face breaks into a wide grin, that beautiful, big grin that shows the slight point of his yokai fangs. His eyes are glowing, alight with amusement and another, warmer emotion you can’t quite name.

He tilts his head to the side, eyeing the snow gently tumbling down your back. “Whoops?”

“Whoops?” you echo, breathing a laugh. You look at Seungcheol, as if saying Can you believe this guy? before turning back to Hansol, a handful of snow magically making its way into your hands. “Oh, you’re going to be saying a lot more than ‘Whoops’ in a minute.”

Hansol laughs, holding his hands up placatingly. “Now hold on a minute—”

Abruptly, his head jerks back, and he gets knocked off his center of balance by the force of the snowball you’d just lobbed at him.

You burst into laughter as Hansol, sitting on the ground and with snow in his hair and up his nose, wipes his eyes with a grin. “Now you’re just asking for it, I think.”

Still laughing, you snap your fingers, and several more balls of snow float up around you. “Oh, it’s on.”

Cut to several minutes later, and somehow, the snowball fight between the two of you has devolved into a village-wide thing, children slipping and sliding in the snow alongside their parents as Seungcheol yells at his team to close ranks and you yell at yours to focus their sights on Hansol. The icy air stings your cheeks, and at some point it begins to snow again, hard, blurring your sight, but the whole thing still continues, the square filled with the laughter of the villagers.

And throughout it all, Hansol manages to find your gaze no matter where he is, gold eyes seeking your gold magic, and the beautiful sound of his laughter leaves you breathless every time.

───────────── ‘✽, 

All things considered, perhaps it’s totally expected that you end up falling for Hansol.

You don’t get to truly mull over Seungcheol’s last words until much later, when you and Hansol have both changed out of your sopping wet clothes and are sitting curled up together on the sofa, both of you blinking sleepily at the fire you’ve lit in the fireplace.

The snowball fight ended incredibly amiably, with everyone agreeing that Seungcheol’s team had obliterated everyone else’s, despite the lack of magic users in his group. You’d helped some of the villagers dust themselves off, and used magic to dry off the people who had gotten the most wet. Soonyoung, inexplicably, looked like he’d been dunked five times in a swimming pool, rather than emerging victorious from a snowball fight.

Finishing with Soonyoung, you’d looked back, and of course—Hansol was playing with the children, again, as if he had endless reserves of energy to spare. But in between letting the kids climb his legs and play with  his swishing tail, he was chatting with the rest of the villagers, helping them tidy away their things.

It made you smile. 

And then Hansol had looked back at you, as if sensing your gaze, and his entire face had lit up, brighter than the brightest summer’s day, and he’d quickly said goodbye to the villagers before coming bounding over to you, face so open and comfortable and warm and—

Yeah. You like him a lot. And you’re sure that he likes you a lot too.

Hansol yawns, big and wide and content, his tail flicking lazily as he rests on your shoulder. Outside, the snowfall has increased to a snowstorm, complete with howling winds and dark, looming clouds, but inside, your cottage is warm, and you have a sleepy yokai pressed against your side, and life is, admittedly, kind of perfect.

There’s just one thing, though.

You need to tell him.

Lost in thought, you shift around absentmindedly, and Hansol looks up questioningly at the movement. The warmth of your magic prickles softly in the air around you, and when he takes your hand, you can feel his own magic murmuring softly in tandem with your own. 

He continues to look at you, and then smiles, eyes glowing. Goodness, he really is so pretty.

“I like you,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips as if he’s enchanted you, bewitched you into saying how you truly feel for all to see. “I like you, Hansol.”

Hansol blinks, slow, cat-like. He lifts his head up, pulls away slightly from your shoulder so he can sit up and look at you properly. His eyes are shining, slitted pupils widening and rounding in adoration.

“That’s good,” he says. “Because I think you’re the prettiest person alive.”

It’s almost a direct copy of the first words he’d said to you, almost a lifetime ago, when he had been out of his mind with a fever, red-cheeked and hazy-eyed and fixated on the way you smelled like chrysanthemums. The memory makes you laugh, heart squeezing with fondness, and you reach forward to cup Hansol’s cheeks, smiling wider when his eyes flutter shut briefly and he leans trustingly into your touch.

“That’s funny,” you say. “Because I think you’re the prettiest person alive.”

Hansol’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, showing those yokai fangs that you adore so much. His ears twitch with happiness, light speckles of frost covering his cheeks as he blushes. He’s so pretty, and you love him so much.

Slowly, you inch closer until the tip of his nose brushes against yours. So close that you can count the snowflake-shaped freckles on his cheeks.

“You forgot to say it back, though,” you murmur. “Hansol, you didn’t say you like me back.”

Hansol breathes a soft laugh. “I thought it was obvious.” His smile widens, so enamoured that it warms your heart. “Y/N, I like you too. In fact, I think I’m in love with you.”

You beam. “You know what? I think I’m in love with you too.”

And then you lean forward, and Hansol leans in too, and your lips meet in the softest, sweetest kiss. He tastes like magic, like love, like soft snow that numbs your senses but leaves your heart alive and alight and oh, this is everything you never knew you needed and more.

Hansol’s silver-white hair is falling into his eyes when you pull away, his golden irises shining brightly through them like dazzling, gorgeous sunlight peeking through the translucent colours of snowfall. The sight makes you instantly lean in to kiss him again, dizzy with adoration because goodness, this happiness is for you. He looks like this because he loves you.

And you love him too.

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @doublasting @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @jeonride @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @haodore @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit

[aliendes]

between you and me ❄️ l.c [m]

↳ part of the winter with you collab! synopsis: everything you've ever done, chan has been by your side - either egging you on or talking you off the ledge. after a rough year of studying, failed relationships and having chan be the insistent angel on your shoulder, the holidays roll around - and let's just say you're not too happy about it. genre: holiday au. bffs to exes to lovers (what a doozy); angst, fluff, smut. pairing: lee chan x fem!reader word count: 40.4k (DON'T LOOK AT ME!) rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: swearing, references to smoking weed, alcohol, food, use of sex as a general coping mechanism, jealousy. general exes who are still friends type of dynamics. mentions of misogynistic views, mentions of having kids, mentions of seasonal depression. chan is a bit of an asshole but redeems himself (and is overall just a good person but yk...) reader has a strained relationship with her mother. reader deflects a lot, chan cannot stop running his mouth. mingyu and sooyoung make several appearances. mutual pining. smut warnings: (let's take a deep breath for this one!) multiple scenes because they're fucking freaks (3 total!) alluded virginity loss (not depicted, backstory). teasing, frottage, heavy petting, bitiing, chan cums in his pants once. oral (m&f. rec.), face sitting, ab riding, subtle body worship (m&f. rec.), fingering (f.rec), pussy slapping (i know i know). nipple play (m&f. rec.), hair pulling, spitting, cumplay (just...okay?), switch!chan x switch!reader, chan likes it when she's mean, whiny!chan (can i get a hell yeah!?). slight strength kink, breeding kink, d*ddy kink (save me), love (?) kink (?). dirty talk (HELP. ME.), pet names (baby, princess, babe, etc.,) unprotected sex (don't do this), missionary (wouldn't be a haologram fic without missionary and body worship but i digress.) i think that's it! what to listen to: meddle about - chase atlantic ; habit - seventeen ; to die for - sam smith ; wait - dino ; heart - dawn ; scared to live - the weeknd ; fantasy - bazzi ; don't leave me - intro ; kiss it better - rihanna ; all mine - plaza ; the party and the after party - the weeknd ; always - daniel caesar ; fade into you - mazzy star. author's note: i fear i cannot shut the fuck up! yet another behemoth for caratblr, loverboy!chan save me please. special thanks to my dearest @diamonddaze01 for betaing this big ass fic an encouraging me to not give it up when i was truly losing my mind. thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be in yet another collab of theirs. as always, dedicated to the most devoted dinonara i know, @bitchlessdino. snowflake dividers are by @/strangergraphics here on tumblr! enjoy the wild ride and happy holidays, everyone!

DECEMBER 22, 4:32PM.

Your car horn cannot take another beating, and you're not sure Chan's ears can take another annoyed, muttered string of expletives from your mouth – confirmed the moment he yells at you to pull over. You argue back that you're in the middle of the expressway and everyone around you is going over sixty miles an hour, but he doesn't care. You mumble profanities as you merge several lanes, pulling over only for him to tell you to stay inside and he'll get out. 

"You've been driving me up the fucking wall since we left the apartment. What stick do you have up your ass that you're upset about everything!?" He practically slammed your car door as he got into the driver's seat, swatting your bare thigh as you climbed over the console to the passenger side. You scoff, batting his hand away from your legs as you plop into the seat. 

"Nothing, Channie. I'm fine." You grit, yanking the seatbelt a little too hard for him to think you're fine. He sighs, resting his forehead against the steering wheel before he turns to look at you. 

"Y/N, I've known you since we were in diapers. I know when something is bothering you, you're not weaseling your way out of this." What was wrong with you? You're sitting in your old beater car with your life-long best friend, wearing his old cheer shorts and his t-shirt and probably his socks as well. You're on your way home during an unusually warm winter, hence the shorts, and you're nursing a cup of his infamous hot cocoa. The one with actual mini marshmallows, none of that Swiss Miss bullshit.

You'd had a great cheer practice before the break ended, with your coach telling you and Chan to please rest during the holidays – it wasn't exactly either of your fortes. She knew the two of you went home for the break together, and you'd likely be practicing stunts in your parents' basement – but you knew exactly why you were upset and it had nothing to do with cheer and everything to do with the fact that your best friend has had the best years of his entire life while you're being a sulky baby.

You cross your arms, the drawstrings of your hoodie yanked by the seat belt as Chan turns in his seat. "Everyone has bad days, Y/N." "You don't." You mutter, crossing your legs at the knee before you feel Chan's fingers pinch your cheek. "Yes, I do. I don't know where you got this idea that I'm perfect. I'm flattered, but I'm just as human and clumsy as you are." "Yeah, well…shut up." You huff, feeling Chan press his lips to your temple. "Don't be so sour. We're on vacation, let's enjoy it. It's our last one before we graduate, isn't that exciting?" It's not. It makes existential dread weigh on your shoulders, and it's so stupid. It's stupid dread, rooted in misogyny and lies and comparison that is the thief of joy. It makes you hate him, knowing that Chan doesn't have to worry about any of this but you do simply because you have some stupid biological clock that works AGAINST you.

You know once university is over, your parents will start to ask about marriage and kids. You know that they'll bring up Chan, over and over until you tell them for the third year in a row that you and Chan tried it and it just didn't work. 

Freshman year of college between you and Chan has to have been one of the strangest years yet. He had rushed a frat and you helped him move from his dorm into the house – and the brothers made eyes at you until Chan lied and said you were his girlfriend. None of them bought it, so much so that Chan had confessed about it and you were so wide eyed he was scared your eyes would fall out. Once the initial shock wore off, you shrugged and agreed you'd be his pretend girlfriend – that it would definitely get you out of some bullshit.

Simultaneously, it got you into some bullshit.

It was a few weeks before winter break, and you were both drunk at your first frat party. The two of you had been locked away in his room getting high earlier that day, and neither of you were in the condition to interact with anyone else or even go downstairs for more drinks – so you just laid in his bed and giggled about nonsense. He was propped up on his elbow, telling you about how the older brothers had made him pants the president of Alpha Phi and you were just staring off into space while you nodded along.

Until you looked at Chan a little too closely, your head on his pillow as he pushed your hair out of your eyes. He smiled down at you, his fingers tracing the shell of your ear as he continued talking when you sat up and anxiously pressed your fingers to your pulse point, having felt your heart rate spike at just the slope of his nose. Everything felt way too hot and intimate for two best friends.

He'd asked if you were okay, if you needed water – assuming you were too crossfaded to prevent the panic attack that seemed to creep on. You shook your head, screwing your eyes shut as you flopped back down and tucking yourself into his chest. He'd assumed you wanted to be held, so he threw your leg over his waist and ran his fingers through your hair, murmuring subtle praises as you tried to regulate your breathing – but the smell of the weed and your best friend's cologne was just too much and you wound up pushing him away.

"Channie, get away from me!" You'd whined, shoving him back and attempting to pull your sweater over your head. You failed, and he laughed, yanking it over your head the rest of the way. "Are you hot? Should I open the window?"

"You should kiss me, you fucking idiot. How can you tell your entire fraternity I'm your girlfriend and you won't even kiss me?" You'd poked your finger into his chest, your t-shirt rumpled from the sheer force of your sweater coming off. He blinked at you, lip jutted out in a pout. "Well, how am I supposed to know you want me to kiss you when you literally just told me to get away from you?"

"I'm your fake girlfriend! I'm getting zero play from anyone else because they think we're a thing!" 

"Aren't you a virgin?" He asked, sitting up as you smoothed your shirt over your belly, lying back down on your side, propped up by your elbow. "Aren't you? You're my best friend, it's not like we'd hump and dump each other. If we're bad, we can just learn."

Chan had been truly appalled at your words. The two of you had never crossed into this territory, despite knowing everything about each other. You'd been each other's first kiss back in high school, but that was fully a dare from your other friends and neither of you spoke about it again. He dated around with other girls and you had one boyfriend that was shitty, but it was always just the two of you at the end of the day.

"You want me to…" "Only if you want to."

"Are you joking?"

You hadn't been, and you proved that by tugging Chan down by his collar and pressing your lips to his. He immediately reciprocated, pushing you onto your back and shoving your thighs apart to settle between them. He wasn't a bad kisser at all – a little too skilled for your shy touches, but you quickly caught on to his movements as you felt him grow hard. 

"We don't have to do this at all. You know that, right?"

"Chan, I want you to."

He'd blushed slightly as you flipped the two of you over, letting him sit up with you in his lap and quickly pulled your top off. His hands were warm and nervous, but you kissed him again and it felt like everything fell into place. 

The first round was slow and gentle – you were on top, and he kissed all over your chest and face as the two of you got into it. By the third time, you were covered in nips from his teeth and his saliva as he folded you in every position imaginable. He was a young guy with a Costco box of condoms and the girl of his dreams in his bed – he had to commit this to memory. The two of you went at it like starved, depraved lovers – it was nearing seven in the morning by the time he reached into his nightstand and the box of condoms was empty. You were both sober by then…and the reality of your decisions began to sink in as you let him sink into you, raw.

"Y/N…" He whimpered into your neck, entirely too sensitive for this to be happening but you only mewled in response. "Feels so good, Channie, please…"

You only spurred him on, clawing at his back and whining his name as your walls overstimulated him. Every single part of his body felt like it was on fire under your touch, and he relished in the way your teeth sunk into his shoulders and neck as he brought you over the edge repeatedly. 

"Shit, b-baby…I'm gonna.." 

You only wrapped your legs around him, pulling him into you deeper as you kissed the words off his tongue. He tried to kiss you back, he really did – but failed miserably as he came inside you, hips involuntarily working the two of you through your shared orgasm. You kissed him messily as he came down, feeling his hands on your cheeks as he slowed you down, before pulling away fully.

"We need to clean up." He muttered, resting his forehead against yours, your eyes closed as you nodded tiredly. "I don't think I can get up."

You hadn't been able to – Chan wound up carrying you into his bathroom and holding you between himself and the wall in order to help you shower. You were so tired your eyes remained closed for the majority of it all – something Chan was grateful for because he just couldn't stop roaming his eyes all over you.

Thankfully, it'd been a Saturday the day before – so there was no reason for you to leave his bedroom. He gave you the cheer shorts he usually wore, and tugged an old sweatshirt over your head while also stripping his bed of the sheets. He threw your clothes in with it in the wash – and returned to see you asleep. He had so many questions, just watching as you snuggled into his pillow as he sank onto his bed, reaching for his phone to order delivery – only for you to tug him back.

"We can eat later."

"When can we talk?"

You peeled your eyes open for that one, looking at him tiredly.

"You're my boyfriend, Chan. Couples have sex."

"But–""I love you. Now, hold me."

And he did. He laid down, and you draped yourself over his chest. His hand went under your sweatshirt, rubbing small circles into your back as the two of you fell asleep. But his mind never strayed from how confidently you said those three little words.

That was one of many nights between you and Chan. You were referring to each other as significant others, subconsciously going on dates, and fucking like there was no tomorrow. He'd get you flowers, tell you how pretty you looked. You'd fluster him with comments of how handsome he was, and you'd spend hours slow-dancing together in his bedroom if you weren't just basking in each other's presence.

Neither of you spoke about feelings, but rough whispers of I love you slipped out often during sex, softer ones when he dropped you off at your dorm (that you were hardly at because you spent all your time with him), teasing ones when he just felt like it. You found it harder to say after the first time – kissing him in response, feeling your cheeks grow hot as he looked at you with said love in his eyes. Sometimes you'd mumble it, only loud enough for him to hear.

You loved him too. You didn't know when it became romantic, you'd never been in love before. But, perhaps if you'd looked deeper – you would understand that feeling like you can hardly breathe from pure excitement when he's around is a tell-tale sign of being absolutely enamored.

Perhaps, you said I love you first – because you were scared that if you let it fester inside you, it'd become too overwhelming. 

It did, anyway.

The two of you went home that holiday break and tried everything possible not to tell your parents anything. Chan's family owned the house next door and only used it when he was home – but you knew you wouldn't be able to sleep separately after weeks of constant skinship. You tried for the first three days – only for Chan to sneak into your bedroom and stuff your panties in your mouth to keep you quiet.

Everything had been going smoothly until your parents found out – spotting a hickey on your collarbone that hadn't been there when you arrived. Your mother was the first to question you – her interrogation light over dinner with Chan and his parents.

"So…find any cute boys?" She asked as she poured you a glass of water, one you immediately reached for as you choked on your bread. Chan's eyes widened as they fell on you, spotting the bruised mark on your skin under your t-shirt from across the table. "Mom, what gives? That's so embarrassing." "I sort of asked Chan the same question." Mrs. Lee shrugged, before her hand reached to tug on her son's sweater. "Then I saw this and got my answer."

Two hickies on his chest, and Chan's cheeks burned beet red as he wiggled away from his mother. "Can we not do this?" He asked through gritted teeth, and you only covered your face with your hands as your father snorted.

"We always figured the two of you would end up together. It's just the way it goes sometimes. Friends before lovers is a good way to start a beautiful relationship." He nods, patting your back gently to ease your discomfort. You gave Chan a glare through our fingers, only for him to gawk at you as if you were blaming him for the entire thing.

"We're glad it's you, Y/N, really. I was always worried my Chan would get his heart broken by someone ruthless." Mrs. Lee pinches her son's cheek, making him groan as he moves away. "This is so embarrassing, stop it!"

"We've only been together for a few weeks, so can we drop it?" You mumbled, stabbing your fork into a meatball as your mother glanced your way. "...Sure, honey."

Your parents didn't bring it up again for the rest of your vacation, but things felt a lot more breathable after. You and Chan went out on your own several times – dinner, stargazing, a few hikes. You kissed eagerly behind closed doors, but kept your touching to a minimum in front of siblings and parents. He held your hand as the New Year's ball dropped, and kissed you moments after when his parents looked away. You felt your stomach fill with butterflies at the tender touches, but started feeling antsy as days continued and you couldn't have sex.

He offered to take you on a drive after your parents went to bed, and you wound up fucking in the backseat of his car that night to the sound of Meddle About by Chase Atlantic. It was by far the most desperate you'd ever seen him, and the night you accidentally discovered a small kink of his – one the two of you swore not to speak of again after. Or rather, he asked you not to – but what kind of girlfriend and best friend are you if you don't tease him about his little ticks? You both returned to campus a few days later, and Chan managed to get you naked in his bed before you even unpacked your things. You'd decided to forego buying condoms on the way home to avoid the temptation, but just looking at you was enough to get Chan going and he had no idea how to make you understand that.

Until the spring semester started and the two of you got slammed with essay after essay, lab after lab, pop quiz after pop quiz. It was February by the time the two of you got to spend more than an hour alone – and you had nothing to talk about. You just kissed quietly, feeling each other up for hours until your underwear was soaked through with your arousal and Chan was painfully hard.

"We should break up." You murmured against his lips, and he nodded. "We should. After this, though." "After." You agreed, not knowing that Chan's chest had tightened at your words. Not knowing that he hoped just feeling you around him would mend that pain he felt, and not knowing he hoped he could get you to stay through the night – and break up in the morning. Not the night of his birthday, not the first night he gets to have you again after missing you for ages. Not the day that seems to have completely slipped your mind.

And, it worked. Yet another large box of assorted condoms and half a bottle of unnecessary lube later, you were tucked in his bed again. In his cheer shorts, in his shirt, and with dozens of love bites littered around your body. You kissed him as he slid into bed next to you, your arm draped over his chest as you began to talk.

"I'm sorry if it's sudden. You're my best friend and I don't want to lose you, but we just…don't have time." You had muttered, and Chan fought back tears as he nodded, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "I don't want to lose you, either. But if we break up…we have to stay friends, Y/N. We have to." He meant it. Even if it meant he had to break his own heart by spending time with you and not being able to kiss you, caress you, love you, he meant it. You were all he knew – his first kiss, his first crush, his first fake-girlfriend. His first real girlfriend, despite having dated around. His first time having sex, making love, and everything in between. The first woman he'd learned inside and out, and the only woman he wanted to know that way.

If time was the issue, he'd wait. 

But you didn't know that.

Shortly after your relationship ended, Chan found himself restless. His hand wasn't enough anymore, but neither was anything else he tried. He lost interest in porn easily and even wound up sneaking peeks at your Instagram for some sort of relief. He resorted to asking one of his frat brothers what he should do – and Wonwoo calmly looked up at him and said, "You fuck someone else."

Chan hadn't been sure what to do with that information. He wound up going to cheer practice early that day, only to find you doing stunts with Minghao, a fellow spotter and one of his frat brothers – his hands tightly gripping your waist as he threw you up in the air. He catches you swiftly, and Chan only feels his cheeks heat in embarrassment as you eagerly compliment Minghao on his skills, your hands gingerly wrapped around his biceps – your nails still the soft pink he chose not even a month before.

It was too much touching for Chan's taste, and he wound up turning right back around and skipping practice, sneaking out of the gym before either of you could see him. When Minghao arrived at the frat after practice and saw Chan in the kitchen, he asked him where he'd been – that you'd asked for him and wanted him to help Minghao with your stunts. Chan simply clicked his tongue and shrugged, "Was busy. She can figure it out." Minghao had been a bit taken aback by his comment, but said nothing as Chan practically pushed past him. There was a party a few days after that, with both you and a bunch of random girls in attendance – mostly girls from the fraternity's sister sorority. Chan had one up in his bedroom within the hour, and another two hours later.

You went home after seeing him take the first one upstairs.

After that happened, and Minghao spoke to you about Chan's behavior about the entire stunt situation, you felt a shift in your friendship. Chan became a serial monogamist for a long time – none of his flings lasted longer than two weeks, and he kept them at arms' length. He never mixed business and pleasure – the cheer girls were strictly off limits, much to their dismay. 

But you were the person he drunk texted. Saying he misses you and wants to hang out – and you'd hang out. You'd go pick him up and take him back to your dorm (later, your apartment) and watch movies, get drunk and fall asleep on your couch. He never made a move on you, and you never made a move on him because you were just friends.

So you shoved it all down. You watched him bag girl after girl, you watched him win trophy after trophy. You watched him make the Dean's list every semester, you watched him build unbreakable friendships, you watched everything he touched turn to gold and it made frustration fester inside you.

You struggled a lot after the breakup – from branching out and meeting new guys to your grades tanking just a bit – and it made you feel pathetic. You slept with one other guy, a guy from a different cheer team. You met him at a competition, and it was in the next city over, so you and your team had to get a hotel. You and Chan naturally roomed together…only for Chan to hit it off with a girl from another team, and it led to a heated argument between you and him to see who got the room for the night. He wound up storming out and staying with her, only to come back in the early morning to a locked door and the sound of you and the guy going at it.

Neither of you spoke about it. You didn't speak on the ride home, either – and you ignored him for a week until he texted you and asked if you wanted to get drinks. You agreed, and he apologized for his behavior. You only nursed your cosmopolitan, and accepted his apology with the condition that he buy you an appetizer.

An order of mozzarella sticks and a thing of marinara later, you forgave him. The two of you danced around conversations for a bit, before he offered you a lift home. You gracefully accepted, and he dropped you off at your apartment with a hug goodbye. A hug that lasted longer than any had since the breakup, and you felt…slightly put back together.

Things seemingly settled after that. 

Fast forward to senior year – you and Chan are still inseparable. You're co-captains of your cheer team, he's the vice president of his fraternity and you find yourself there every weekend to help with events if the two of you aren't at a cheer competition. He holds your hair when you throw up and he helps you glue on your false lashes for competition nights. He drives you to places when you're too tired but still want to go out, he tutors you for Organic Chemistry and gives you gummy bears as rewards for getting questions right.

Chan is your best friend, and he makes sure everyone knows – including the girls he gets in his bed every few nights.

Your eyes still lingered on him at parties – the way he'd grind against girls, the way he'd never done with you because you weren't a stranger to him. He'd seduce them with his confidence and kiss them, but never in the way he kissed you. You could see it, how shallow it was to him, before he'd begin moving them towards his bedroom.

But, even now – you miss him. Lonely nights in your bedroom turned into lonely nights in your shared apartment with him, having been convinced to move into a two-bedroom with him as a reward for making it to senior year of university without any major fuck-ups. However, you felt like a major fuck-up – because now this meant he'd bring girls to the shared home.

He hasn't, yet. But, he will. You're sure of it.

It makes your stomach turn to think about it.

"See how much calmer things are when you're not the one driving?" Chan's voice breaks you out of your thoughts, and you scowl. "Shut up." He only rolls his eyes, but you feel your thighs clench at the way he looks when he drives. You'd gotten used to this sight in many lights – Chan driving you home from an arcade night, Chan driving you home from getting drinks. Chan driving you home from the movies, Chan driving you home from cheer practice.

Chan driving you home after that night he fucked you senseless three years ago in his backseat, whispering how good you felt around him and how he couldn't imagine a life without you in it.

You sigh inwardly at the thought of it, opting to recline your seat and cover your face with your arms. You cross your legs before feeling Chan's hand squeeze your knee, making you jolt as you swat at him. "Stop touching me, I'm sensitive!"

"Your knee is sensitive?" He teases, fingers pinching it again as you groan. "You're pissing me off, Chan."

He only snickers, his fingers brushing up your thigh before you shove it away. "Quit." "Alright, alright. At least put on some music, I need to hear something other than your whining." He holds up the aux cable, and you take it and plug it into your phone. You press shuffle on your Spotify, ignoring the way your cheeks heat the moment Meddle About by Chase Atlantic starts. 

He only turns the volume up.

"You guys are home!" Mrs. Lee greets you by throwing her arms over you, and you nearly stiffen before Chan gives you a pointed look. You hug her back warmly, thanking her for being so excited to see the two of you. "How is school? Still doing well, I hope!" "Doing great, Mrs. Lee. Chan's helping me quite a bit these days." You nod in the direction of her son, who is unloading everything as you shove a stick of gum into your mouth. His arms look great in that long sleeve…he should wear it more often…

"...And your mom made that brown sugar ham you love! Isn't that exciting!?" Mrs. Lee's voice brings you back as you nod quickly, shoving your hands in your jacket pockets as the wind picks up a bit. "Yes! I'm starving, you have no idea. We survived on jerky." Your pout makes Mrs. Lee coo, her knuckles pinching your cheek as she beckons you to follow her into your house. Chan gives you a glare as he grabs your duffel, and you only blow a kiss at him as you follow his mother inside. "Y/N!" Your little sister can be heard screaming from the top of the stairs, and you smile as you turn – seeing her practically fly down them, her arm in a pink cast as she wraps it around you. "Hey, babycakes! What happened to your arm?" "Rosie took a tumble down the stairs last week, I keep telling her to slow down." Your mother appears out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel as she presses a kiss to your cheek. "Welcome home, darling."

Your sister begins to ramble about everything going on at school with her friends – that Katie has a crush on Hyunjin but Hyunjin likes Minseo and Minseo thinks Katie is too mean to join their coloring circle. All too much for you to process in one go, and definitely too much for her to get out in one breath because she stops the moment you hear Chan grunt, kicking the door open slightly to make his way inside.

"Chan!" She abandons you, and Chan lights up as she runs into him, spinning her around. "Hey, Rosie! It's been so long, oh! What happened to your arm?" 

He kneels down to her height, and it makes your heart warm. Your parents definitely did not plan to have another child so late in life, but Rosie was the easiest kid ever. You remember when they brought her home – you were a junior in high school and you were ecstatic. You'd been staying with the Lees, and they all came over to meet her.

Chan was the only one who pulled you aside and asked how you were doing. You admitted you were a bit overwhelmed, and he wound up offering to stay the night and just talk. His parents allowed it and the two of you ordered takeout and spent the entire night just talking.

Rosie kept your parents young and on their toes – enough that they made friends with other couples in their neighborhood. Rosie was popular, she had lots of friends at school and around the neighborhood – loads of people came to her birthday parties and your home was the designated playdate house. 

You zone back in to see Rosie offering Chan a marker, and you gasp. "No way you're letting him sign before me! I'm your sister!" "But Channie's my best friend." She retorts as you walk over, squatting next to Chan, who sticks his tongue out at you. "That's what you get for not helping me unload the car." "Oh, but you're so big and strong! You're supposed to do it!" You argue back childishly, only for your little sister to stomp her foot. "Sign it! I have things to do!" Chan bites back his laughter as he signs it, before handing the marker over to you. "Do tell, Rosie. What things do you have to do?" "Well, I have a tea party in ten minutes and I do not like to be late. The tea will get cold." She sniffs, and Chan pats her shoulder. "Have fun, pipsqueak." She runs off, obviously over the excitement of her sister and her 'best friend's' arrival. Chan gives you a glance, "Feeling better after having to do nothing?" You shrug, smiling at him. "I appreciate you, you know that." "You have a funny way of showing it." He says pointedly, before tilting his head towards his duffel. "Mom said I have to stay with you this time, my cousins are in town for a few days and they're in my room. Is that cool?" "Promise you'll wear socks to bed?" You hold your pinky out and he sighs, shaking his head as he links your pinky with his. "Fine, but that means you have to wear pants." You smirk, winking at him. "It's my bed, Chan." You stand up straight, shaking your legs out before walking away from him. He shakes his head again, tonguing his cheek as he follows suit. You wander into the kitchen, and your mother greets Chan with a hug. They start catching up about little things as you open the fridge, grabbing a wine cooler for yourself and a beer for Chan, shoving it into his chest and leaving. You hear your mother jokingly ask if Chan wanted the air mattress, and he only laughs before denying it, saying he should help you unpack and get comfortable. She agrees.

"Need help?" He moves to leave the beer on the table, your wine cooler tucked under your arm as you hoist your duffel over your shoulder. 

"Nope." You smile, making your way to your bedroom. Yours is the only one downstairs, and it's in the furthest corner in the house as well. You practically begged your parents for it, insisting it was the warmest room in the house when the winters came about – and once Rosie came along, they let you move downstairs, saying the baby needed to be near them. You'd eagerly agreed and moved out happily.

Chan followed behind you quietly, his own bag over his shoulder as he took a sip of the beer you gave him. He wouldn't finish it, and the two of you would likely swap drinks before either of you had too much of it. As he reached your room, he saw you backflip onto your bed, a groan from your lips as you sank into the memory foam mattress.

"Fuck, this is gonna do wonders for my back." You moaned, eyes closed as you kicked your shoes off. He snorted, putting his beer next to your wine cooler on your dresser before doing the same. "Jesus, when did they get this for you? Your mattress has always sucked." You know he's not referring to the time three years ago that he snuck in, but your cheeks heat anyway as you look at him. His eyes widen, and he clears his throat. "I didn't mean–" "They got it for me last summer." You interrupt, and he nods quickly. "Sorry." "For?" You try to act nonchalant, but you clear your throat one too many times for him to think it's fine. So…he makes it worse. "We never talk about those days, you know. It's not like…it's weird. Right?" Not weird at all. I don't miss the way you felt inside me, nope. Not at all.

"Do you…want to?" You don't mean to sound so bitter, but Chan clicks his tongue. "I mean…it wasn't the worst thing ever. I…liked you a lot." You grimace at the awkwardness, but try and shrug. "I mean…I hope so. We did say we loved each other. A lot, might I add." "I said it a lot, you deflected." He corrects you, and you turn your head to look at him. "Are you doubting that I loved you?" "You wanted to break up on my birthday, Y/N, not even a week before Valentine's Day. Forgive me for assuming." He rolls his eyes, and you sit up. "No, I didn't. Your birthday is on the 11th." "Yeah. You came over on the 11th after we didn't see each other for weeks. We were kissing and you said that we should break up." He props himself up on his elbow, and your brow furrows as you think. 

The two of you managed to sneak a glance or two in during cheer practices, but the days before blurred together because you pulled several all-nighters studying for your anatomy midterm. You remember checking the time before you left your dorm to go spend the night with him, it'd been five-thirty.

On February 11th.

"Shit, I'm sorry." You breathe, and he shakes his head. "What good is it now?" He shrugs, picking at a loose thread in your comforter.

"Chan, I'm sorry." Your hand finds his shoulder, and he gives you a soft smile. "It's fine. You finished the day with me anyway, that was all I'd wanted that year."

I'm sorry for breaking up with you, I wish I hadn't done that.

"I did love you. I still do, you're literally my best friend." You say gently, and Chan's eyes meet yours. They hold something you can't quite grasp, "It's different. Of course I love you, you're my best friend." You feel like your stomach is about to fall out of your ass when Chan shrugs again, his shoulders constricted by the tightness of his top. Your eyes follow the curve of his waist, his sweatpants tied around his hips loosely. "It's just different between you and me now, you know? It's not the same friendship it was before." He rolls onto his back, arms behind his head as he keeps talking. "Sometimes, I think it shouldn't have happened at all. I mean, let's be honest. Between you and me…things have always just been simple. We overcomplicated it by doing whatever it is that we thought would enhance our relationship." You can feel your chest aching with every word, but you can't seem to stop listening. Your eyes burn with tears as you let him keep talking. We?

"I guess it was something of a dumpster fire. Everyone always assumed we'd be something, maybe it's good we got it out of our systems." He nods, before looking at you. His eyes widened, sitting up quickly as you covered your face with your hand. "Y/N–" "You can be really, really coarse sometimes." You mumble, sliding off your bed and grabbing your wine cooler off the dresser. "I'm going to go find my dad, make yourself at home." You tighten your sweater around yourself, flinging the door open and slipping into the bathroom. You refuse to let the tears fall, taking a deep breath before drinking half of your can. You press the cool metal to your cheeks before stepping out, walking out towards the garage to see your father tuning one of his many guitars.

"Oh, you're home! I've missed you!" He puts the bass guitar down, before he frowns. "What's wrong, honey? Are you okay?" "M'fine. Hey." You shake your head, giving him a one-armed hug. He's not convinced, holding you closely. "You can talk to me, you know that." "It's stupid. What are you doing here?" You set your drink down on his workbench, only to see your father's stern look staring down at you. You sigh, running your fingers over the strings of the guitar. "Chan and I broke up." Confusion crosses his features as you take a seat on one of his cushioned bar stools. "I thought you broke up ages ago, sweetie." "We did. That's the problem." You mumble, feeling a tear slip out of your eye and you brush it away quickly, but your father sighs carefully, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. You bury your face into his ribcage, feeling sobs rack your body as he hums quietly. Your father had always been the person you went to when it came to Chan, because your mom was convinced you'd be the brute of the relationship – and insisted you were too harsh with your words at times.

"What'd he say this time?" He asks softly, and you wipe at your nose with your sweater sleeve, trying to form it in a way that doesn't expose your entire relationship. "He just mentioned that he felt like our friendship was different now that we'd involved feelings in the past, and that he thinks it's better that we 'got it out of our systems.' He said that he wishes it'd never happened sometimes, who says that?" Your father nods, a frown on his lips as he sighs. "I'm sorry he said those things, honey. I assume he didn't know you still felt some type of way about him?" "I don't." You lie through gritted teeth, but your father knows you far better than that. He pats your shoulder, glancing down at you. "Now, you and I both know that's not true. You called me crying about him a few weeks ago, didn't you?"

You had. You don't exactly remember what you'd said, but you remember it being three in the morning and your mother taking the phone and telling you to get a grip. It only made you cry harder, enough that your father stayed up for the next two hours soothing you over the phone. Chan walked into your bedroom a few hours later and asked if you were okay. You kicked him out of your room out of embarrassment. "Why can't you be one of those dads that kicks the guy's ass for me?" You pout, swatting his arm as he lets out a full bellied laugh. "Because I have two wonderful daughters and a loving wife I need to provide for. If I beat up every guy that crosses you, I'd be sent away. I'd miss graduations, birthdays, anniversaries. Weddings, at some point. I'd hate to miss those beautiful moments." You roll your eyes, and your father smiles lightly. "I also happen to know how to distinguish when my daughter is doing these things to herself. Chan might be saying things you don't exactly want to hear, but that's exactly what you're not doing. You're not talking to him about anything. He can't know how you feel if you're not telling him." You huff, but you know he's right. "Well, it doesn't matter anyway. There's nothing to tell him, and if he wants to act like we're better off being as distant as we are then I'm no one to beg for his presence." "That pride of yours will get you in trouble. Knock it off." He says pointedly, before sitting on the stool next to you. "Now, listen to this. I think my tune is still off."

Dinner was always a nice, intimate affair between your family and Chan's. You gather around the large mahogany table your father made years ago, and talk about everything and anything under the Sun. They ask you and Chan about school, cheer, and dating. Rosie talks about her friends and her toys, your mother talks about her restaurant and your father about his music store. The Lees tell you about their dance company, and give you updates on Chan's younger brother, who would be spending the holidays stuck at work. 

Dating spins the table once more, and your father gives you a look that says he'll change the topic if you say the word. Mrs. Lee starts by teasing her son, who flushes beet red and insists he's not looking for anything right now. 

"I still never found out why you and Y/N broke up." Mr. Lee chimes in, and you feel your cheeks grow hot as you grip your fork. Rosie looks between the two of you, her nose crinkled. "Ew! You were boyfriend and girlfriend?!" "No." You answer quickly, and your voice is far too nonchalant for Chan's taste, it seems. He gives you a confused look, and you shrug. "We just didn't work out. It wasn't good for us." "Easy for you to say." He mutters, shoving a piece of bread into his mouth. You grimace, and Mr. Lee shifts uncomfortably before you feel the words tumble from your mouth. "Yeah, well when you tell your girlfriend she doesn't love you, it's kind of hard to want to be together." Mrs. Lee's eyes are wide, spluttering over her glass of water as Chan groans, pulling his cap over his eyes. "That's not what I said, Y/N, you're twisting my words." "Am I?" You scoff, letting your fork clatter on the table as you push your chair back. "I mean, seriously, who fucking cares anymore? It's been three years." "Language, Y/N." Your mother's voice is stern, gesturing to your little sister who looks increasingly bewildered. You sigh, closing your eyes as you scoot your chair back into the table. "We just broke up. It's fine. I'm sorry for swearing, Rosie. Bad girl Y/N." You apologize to your sister, who nods slowly.

Chan mumbles an apology to Rosie as well, and the tension is thick as Mr. Lee clears his throat. "I'm sorry for bringing it up."

"Not your fault, Mr. Lee. Sore subject." You shake your head, patting the left side of your chest, as if saying it pains you. He gives you a sorry smile, before Mrs. Lee speaks up. "Will you be fine to room together? I don't want you guys to fight this entire trip, we haven't seen you in so long." "It's fine." You and Chan say in unison, eyes meeting in a glare over the table. "I know how to keep my mouth shut, it's no problem." You add, and Chan scoffs, mumbling something like ridiculous under his breath.

"Alright, that's enough. We haven't seen you guys in four months. We're going to sit here and enjoy this dinner, damnit!" Your mother speaks loudly next to you, making you jolt. Chan apologizes as he sits up in his chair, your little sister wide eyed as your mother shoves a spoonful of mashed potatoes in her mouth. You elbow her lightly, and she coughs.

"Sorry, Rosie." Your father makes the rest of the dinner go smoothly. He mentions his store, and tells a story about a guy who came in wanting to learn a few songs for his wife who was in the hospital. Everyone listens intently, and dinner is wrapped up within the hour. You offer to pick up, your mother's tired eyes thankful as she carefully hauls your now sleeping sister up the stairs to bed.

You tongue your cheek as you bid goodnight to the Lees, offering to wrap the cake your mom made in case they want to have a sweet midnight treat. They accept it and you watch them as they make the walk down the lawn to their house. You shut and lock the door, seeing Chan lingering at the bottom of the stairs speaking to your father. They both look apologetic, but Chan's cheeks are tinged pink as he rubs his neck, a habit he developed when feeling sheepish or admitting something.

You frown to yourself, turning back to the table. You gather all the plates, stacking them as you walk around the table. You'd pack the leftovers first, but you had to move everything out of the way properly.

"I'll wash." You hear Chan say, before he takes the plates from your hold. You don't reply, simply moving to gather all the cups and silverware. You dump any remaining drinks down the sink, ignoring the way he scrapes the plates over the garbage can. You move around in silence, quickly wrapping leftovers and moving them into containers, before sliding everything into the fridge and standing next to him as he washes the cups, moving onto the silverware quickly.

"I didn't think it would bother you." He begins, and your hand tightens around the glass in your hand, before you wipe it down with the rag in your other hand. He scrubs the silverware harshly as you mutter, "You assumed." "Yeah, well, I thought we were best friends. I thought I could assume shit and be right." He huffs, and you carefully take the knives from him, swiping the rag over the blades with ease. "You are right." "What?" He looks up from the soup bowl in his hand, and you shrug. "You are right. I guess I just didn't want to admit it earlier, but things are different between us now. It's whatever." You're lying. You're absolutely lying and Chan's face tells you he knows.

"You've always been a bad liar, Y/N. Don't start trying now." He scoffs, and you don't say anything as you dry the forks and spoons, opening the drawer to put them away. He washes the rest of the bowls in silence, but sucks his teeth the moment he grabs a plate.

"Why?" He asks reluctantly, and you raise a brow at him. "Why, what?" "Why are things different?"

You hum in response, drying a bowl as you think.

"For one, you've been inside me." You start, making him cough. "Be serious." "I am serious! Did you not fuck me three ways to Sunday every time I slept over? Did I imagine that?" You snort, and you watch his cheeks flush as he tongues his left one. "Whatever. What else?" "You stopped hanging out with me as much. I would call or text and you'd leave me on delivered for hours, and then get back to me once I was already ready for bed. Or you'd drunk dial me and come over. You used to properly spend time with me, but after that whole dumpster fire, you kind of just hung out with me when you wanted to." You don't intend to sound so hurt as you say this, but Chan's hands slow under the running water. He nods, a soft look in his eyes as he glances at you. "I'm sorry." "What good is it now?" You repeat his words to him, and he looks up at you. "Don't be like that." "You also blatantly made moves on other girls in front of me. If the relationship meant nothing to you, you could've said that. It would've made moving on a lot easier." You say pointedly, before forcing out a humorless laugh. "God, your body count must be in the double digits now. Is it?" He doesn't reply, but you nudge him with your elbow. "Is it?" "Yes."

You shake your head, tonguing your cheek as you open the cabinet and slide the bowls in carefully.

"What's yours?" "Two." You respond shortly, his eyes wide as he looks up at you again. "Two?"

"Problem?" Your brow is quirked as you reach for the first plate, and he shakes his head. "No. I just…" "Assumed it would be higher? Yeah, you're doing a lot of that lately." You roll your eyes, and he scowls. "Can you stop? You had some fault there too, you have to admit that." "I don't see how I'm to blame at all for you just assuming I didn't love you. I spent every waking moment by your side if I wasn't studying or showering, and even then it was like we were glued at the hip. I hardly had my own space, you literally snuck into my room after three days because you couldn't sleep without sticking your dick in me." "Why do you keep talking like the sex was only good for me? Like you didn't enjoy yourself? Because I remember something very fucking different." He scrubs the plate in his hand with vigor, and you let out a soft, mocking laugh. "Maybe I don't remember it that way. Maybe it was only good because I loved you. The other guy was very different." Chan tenses at your words, his hands still under the running water. "Was he?" "Yeah." You nod, but the truth is, you didn't like it nearly as much. He made you cum, sure, but it was missing that…flair. That eagerness Chan always had, the passion he had, the stamina to keep up with you. It was missing the love you had for Chan, and you remember struggling not to ask this random hookup to hold your hand, or kiss you when you came, or to tell you he loved you.

All things Chan did without realizing.

"Mmh." He doesn't speak again, handing you the dishes almost angrily before muttering something about a shower and leaving the kitchen. You wipe down the counter silently, your eyes welling with tears when you hear Chan rustle about. You assume he's moving into the bathroom when you feel a hand on the back of your head, carefully tangling in your hair as you feel his lips brush the shell of your ear.

"You do a really good job of pissing me off, but I won't ever deny that you're the best I've ever fucking had. No one feels like you and no one has made me feel like you have. No one." He pushes you back lightly, storming back out of the kitchen with his shirt in his hand. You get a glimpse of his bare back, the muscles tense as he walks away. You feel your heart racing in your chest, your fingers coming to check your pulse as you take a deep breath.

Some vacation this is going to be.

DECEMBER 23, 7:22AM.

You thank God for the fact that everyone in your house is a deep sleeper, and can't hear how loud your heart is beating in your ears at this present moment.

Chan had taken the edge of the bed closest to the door, something he always did when the two of you shared a mattress. Or rather, the edge of the fucking mattress — he was practically hanging off. You curled into the corner closest to the wall, and stayed there the majority of the night. Chan left your TV on, knowing the white noise of whatever show he put on would lull you to sleep.

However, throughout the night, Chan migrated closer and closer to you – eventually opting to pull you into his chest. Your leg was draped over his hip and your face was nuzzled into his neck, breathing in his soft body wash and the baby powder deodorant he stole from you.

"Chan, get off me." You groaned, pushing the heel of your palm into his shoulder. He scrunched his nose, shoving your hand away before pulling you back in. "Just fucking hold me, will you?" He rested his chin on your head, arms wrapped around you like a boa constrictor attempting to asphyxiate its prey. "Chan, I can't breathe." You're muffled against his ample chest, and he only slightly loosens his arms. You wiggle about, attempting to get comfortable at the very least, when his hand moves to grip your hip.

"Stop." His voice is hoarse as he pushes your hips away from him, which ends with you on your back and his arm over your waist. You sigh, reaching for your phone to check the time.

Seven-thirty-four. Your mother is likely either about to get up or making breakfast right now.

"I'm gonna get up." You mumble, wiping at your eyes when Chan is muttering under his breath. You lean closer to hear him, but he stops. "Speak up, I can't hear what you're saying." "Nothing, go. Eat something." He turns his head away from you, buried into the pit of his arm and the pillow. You raise a brow, turning back on your side. "Why can't you just tell me? Have you always been this difficult?" "Y/N, I'm hard as a rock right now. You can get out or you can watch me take care of it, I frankly don't give a flying fuck." He spits, and you feel your cheeks heat as you clear your throat. You move his arm from your waist, carefully peeling the blanket back to climb off the bed. He lets you slide over him, before his hand shoots out to grab your wrist, yanking you back onto the mattress. You yelp, your back hitting the comforter as he quickly moves to hover over you, his lips crashing onto yours. Your hands fist his shirt, your eyes fluttering shut as he carefully licks into your mouth. 

You let him cup your face gently, his thumb softly caressing your cheek in tandem with the movement of his lips. He pulls away, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips quickly before your eyes open and he's looking down at you intently.

Neither of you speak, but you both know what he wants. His eyes dart all over your face, and you feel your cheeks heat as your hand shakily moves to palm him through his sweats. His jaw clenches at the friction, his hips involuntarily rolling into your hand when he shudders.

"Only if you want to." He murmurs, and you nod slowly. "I want to. Take your pants off." He pushes off you, sitting on the edge of the bed and you take the opportunity to kneel on your rug. It's nicely padded, but he scoffs as he grabs one of the pillows and makes you move onto it. He undoes the drawstring, but your impatient hands move to his hips and you pull the sweatpants down to his knees carefully. He hisses at the feeling against his cock, but says nothing as your hand wraps around it.

Your heart is racing as you stroke him a few times, his lip tucked between his teeth as he tries not to buck into your hand. "Don't tease me, please." He breathes, and you feel your lips twitch as you lean forward, spitting on the leaking head and spreading it carefully. You lick a stripe up the underside, following the thick vein with the tip of your tongue, working your hand at the base.

He groans, leaning back on his hands as you flatten your tongue against the head. You swirl it slowly, remembering how much he liked it the few times he let you go down on him. Chan, ever the giver.

"Fuck, baby, please." His hand moves to your head, gathering your hair in a makeshift ponytail as you take him into your mouth carefully, hollowing your cheeks as you let his tip hit the back of your throat. He sighs as you start to bob your head up and down, your tongue never stopping its laving as your throat constricts around his tip slightly. You push yourself to take him deeper, your nose slightly brushing his pelvis as he lets out a guttural groan.

“Can you shut up? My parents will hear you.” You pull off entirely, a frown on your spit-slick lips as he nods quickly, mumbling a breathy sorry. He sucks in a sharp breath as you sink back down on him, his hips involuntarily jerking into your mouth, making you gag slightly. "Shit, sorry–" "Just keep doing that." Your voice is slightly raspy, his eyes wide as he swipes your hair away from your face. "A-Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you–" "Do you want to finish or not? I can get up right now." You roll your eyes as you adjust yourself on the pillow, his hand still in your hair as he stands, tonguing his cheek. "Open your mouth." You do as you're told, instinctively sticking your tongue out as he holds his shaft, a soft moan from his throat before he leans slightly. The hand in your hair moves to your jaw, before a wad of spit lands on your tongue. You feel your cheeks warm, eyes fluttering shut when you feel his tip drag across your bottom lip. His fingers gather your hair again, his voice gentle as it hits your ears. "Let me know if I'm too rough." That's all he says before you feel the weight of his cock on your tongue, hearing him let out a quiet hiss as his tip hits the back of your throat. He's slow with his movements, methodical thrusts into your mouth as your hands rest on his toned thighs, digging your nails into the sides. "Eyes open, baby. Wanna see you." His voice is hoarse as it hits your ears, your eyes slightly watery as you peer up at him through thick lashes. His lips are bitten raw as he looks into your eyes – it proves to be too much for him as you whimper around his cock in your throat. "Fuck, you look so pretty like this." You ignore the way your stomach flutters as he rolls his hips messily, thumb coming to wipe the corners of your mouth from the bubbles of spit. Your hands move up his thighs, shoving his shirt out of the way to watch the way his chiseled torso flexes as he fucks into your mouth. He whines at your touch, his grip on your hair tightening as you notice a faint tattoo on his hip. You file it to the back of your mind as you feel his cock twitch in your mouth, his release spilling onto your tongue with a whimper.

You move back slightly, his fingers carding through your hair as he softly massages your scalp. "You okay?" His breath hitches in his throat as he feels your tongue on his tip. He pushes you away slightly, before his hands wrap around your wrists, pulling you off your knees. "You're fucking insatiable, you know that?" You shrug, "If you say so." He stares into your eyes for a moment, his own glazed over with a mix of lust and something you can't decipher. He leans forward a bit, brushing his lips to yours. You let out a shaky breath as he nips at them, watching your lower lip bruise slightly. "Pretty. I've always loved your lips." You roll your eyes, going to move away when he presses his lips to yours chastely. Once, twice, three times before his lips travel to your cheeks. He peppers kisses all over your face, making your nose scrunch as he pecks the tip of it.

"I'm sorry about everything yesterday." He murmurs, his hands moving to hold your cheeks. Your hands rest on either side of his hips, and you sigh. "It's whatever. Pull your pants up, what if someone comes in here?" "It's not whatever, Y/N. I hurt your feelings, and it was shitty of me to say those things. Especially when I didn't mean any of it, I was just…" "Angry?" You suggest, and he sighs as he moves to tug his sweatpants over his thighs. He ties the drawstring as he sits back down, your knees now settled on the pillow beneath you once more. "I don't know if I was angry. It's stupid, really. I shouldn't have spoken about it that way, is all. And I'm sorry." "You made me feel like I was just the first notch on your bedpost. You could've told me that was all I was to you, but it wasn't necessary. Not with the way you just started sleeping with other girls so soon after our break-up." The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, and he gapes at you as you shift uncomfortably, opting to stand up. You pick the pillow up, fluffing it before tossing it onto the bed and drifting to your mirror. Your lips were a swollen mess, and you wiped at them with your hand before hearing a soft knock at the door.

You glance at Chan, who has a stoic look on his face before he stands up and answers the door. It's Rosie.

"Hey, babycakes." You call over Chan's shoulder, and he moves to the side as she waves. "Mommy told me to tell you it's time for breakfast!" "We'll be right there, pipsqueak. Ten minutes, tops." Chan smiles, and she nods excitedly, before bolting back down the hallway, screaming your estimated time of arrival. You smile to yourself as you yank open your dresser drawer, fishing out a t-shirt.

Chan's hands are on your waist as you root around, and you peer over your shoulder to see a soft glaze of tears over his eyes. Your brows raise in concern, and you twist to face him, your hands cradling his cheeks. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" "Do you ever consider how you made me feel? Or how you make me feel when you say things like that?" His voice is thick, and you feel your eyes begin to sting as your lips part. You shake your head slowly, his arms wrapping around you tightly.

"Did you think about what I said last night?" He asks softly, and you avoid his eyes as you sigh, nodding your head. "You know that's not just about sex, right? That's about everything, ever. You're the only person who has ever made me feel that way." "What way? Like you need to fill a void? I get it, I'm shitty for breaking up with you on your birthday." You mutter, and he tilts your chin up to look at him. His eyes are still glossed over but hold a stern look.

"In a way that I feel like I can't fucking breathe without you. Nothing means anything to me since we broke up, but just a crumb of your attention makes me feel fucking insane. I don't think you understand how much you and your moods and the way you talk affects me. Everything about you drives me up the wall with want and need and I need you to understand that."

Your voice is lost on you, your throat constricting as he tucks your hair behind your air, thumbing at the small hoops he's never seen you without. "I look for you in every girl I've been with since. Every single one, and none of them compare. None of them are as stubborn as you are, none of them give me shit when I do something stupid. If you want to talk about sex, fine. I've never finished, not once. None of them feel the way you do, none of them kiss the way you do. Not a single one of them can I close my eyes and have their body burned in my mind, not the way I have yours. Not a single one has filled the spot you left, and I'd rather die an honest death and tell you that no one ever will if it's not you." Your lip is quivering as you look away from him, and he rests his forehead on your shoulder as your arms drop to your sides. "Please, please tell me you feel the same." You can't. You want to, you feel the ache to fill his cup until it overflows deep, deep in your stomach. But you're scared this is just for the moment, the fact that the two of you are away from any available hook-ups within a ten-mile radius. You're afraid that this is something temporary, just like the first time – but this time, with the intent of ending.

You hadn't wanted to call it quits then. You hadn't but it was the right thing to do – no matter who chastises you for it. You'd known, in your heart, that Chan was the person you are destined to love forever – whether you knew it then, drunk and high that first night in his bedroom, or in the backseat of his car, or even that time under the bleachers at a national cheer competition…it doesn't matter. Whether you knew it'd be in this pathetic way, doesn't matter. You know now.

He's looking for a good time, you tell yourself. And you may be a good time, a great time, even – but you won't do that to yourself. "It took me two years to move on." You don't recognize your own voice, thick with tears and a bitter taste in your mouth. "Two years, and you fucked Chaeyoung in your bed because you saw Minghao and I doing stunts together and got jealous for no reason. You fucked Chaeyoung and Seonmi, within an hour of each other. You didn't even wait a month."

He doesn't speak, nodding his head in silence against your shoulder as he pulls you impossibly closer. His chest is flush to yours, and you can feel his tears soak into your collar. 

"All because you didn't want your fraternity brothers to flirt with me. All of this, years of pining after you, yearning for your touch, missing you in my fucking bed, because you're a jealous asshole who can't stand the idea of not being the only guy in my life. All of this, Chan, because you wanted to say that I didn't love you when I don't think I've ever been able to think of a future with a man that isn't you."

His hands grip your sides tightly, your own pushing against his shoulders as you let a choked sob fall from your lips. His eyes are just as red as yours, his cheeks just as tear-stained as yours. Heart, just as broken and empty of you as yours is of him.

"It's not fair to me. Not when I'm still hurt, not when I can still taste you in the back of my throat. Not when you ignored me for girls and drinks, not when I called my dad in the middle of the night because you weren't home and I'm worried that you're not answering my calls. Not when my mom thinks I'm the brute here, when it's you." He nods, eyes closed as he squeezes you in his arms. He rests his forehead on yours, "They're waiting for us. Wash up quickly." Your stomach sinks, but you feel your heart pick up a bit as he places a soft kiss on the corner of your lips. "I love you." You don't say it back.

Breakfast had been awkward, to say the least. You went to the kitchen after an hour, the two of you lying through your teeth to your parents about your red-rimmed eyes. Your father gave you a hard look, and you were set to clean the table after breakfast when Mrs. Lee offered to take you Christmas shopping.

"We can make a day of it, I miss my girl." She smiled sadly, and you'd only felt your cheeks warm as Rosie insisted she come along. Mrs. Lee agreed, and even roped Chan into coming, as well – his hesitance making your eyes gloss over with unshed tears.

He'd sat on your bed as you got ready, watching you tug on a nice sweater and a form fitting pair of winter pants. It'd begun snowing lightly during breakfast, and your father had suggested you layer up – though he was sure the snow wouldn't stick. You and Chan hardly spoke as he watched you get dressed, his eyes trailing your naked body shamelessly. He helped you put on your winter coat, and carefully helped you put on your watch – a gift from his mother one year. He picked your rings, mumbling about which ones fit the aesthetic of your sweater the best. The casual intimacy of it all was eating away at you, only for Chan to run his hand through your hair and kiss your cheek.

A silent vow that he'd earn you back, you both understood.

Mrs. Lee was a chatterbox – she made Chan sit in the back with Rosie, playing with the Barbies she insisted on bringing as she updated you on everything going on at the dance company. You and Chan had been enrolled as kids, Chan becoming a far better dancer than you were – but the two of you excelled the same amount when it came to gymnastics. Chan begrudgingly abandoned dance to cheer with you in high school, but he quickly became enamored with the sport.

Rosie stomped her feet as you asked her to leave the Barbies in the car, only agreeing when Chan said it'd be a shame if she lost them. You rolled your eyes as she asked him to pick her up, but he did so anyway, her pink cast scratchy against his neck. "Rosie, you know Channie's my best friend, right?" You teased her, earning a huff from the pouty six-year-old. She stuck her tongue out at you, earning a surprised laugh from Chan as he saw her in the reflection of a car window. The wind was biting, and you found yourself hovering behind Chan. As the four of you entered the mall, Rosie asked to be put down – only for Mrs. Lee to pull her close, holding her small hand within her ringed fingers as they wandered into a toy store.

"Cold?" He asked, snaking his arm around your waist. You shrugged, but your teeth chattered as you tried to speak. The two of you laughed in unison, Chan carefully swiping your hair out of your eyes as the two of you walked forward. You try not to let your face react as he interlaces your fingers.

"Did you get your mom's gift yet? I know your dad's is in the car, and Rosie's are all in my duffel." "Shit, I knew I was forgetting one. I got your parents tickets to a cruise, I need to print those, too." You tap your temple, and Chan gasps. "I'm their son, you can't get them a better gift than me!" "What did you get them? A picture of you in a frame from the thrift like you did in grade nine?" You roll your eyes, and he huffs, squeezing your hand. "No, I got my mom a few pieces of jewelry and my dad just wants a lawnmower." He rolls his eyes, and you snicker. "What'd you get me?" "My presence is your present." "Pretty shitty present, Chan." "Hey!" The two of you continue to bicker as you make your way to a few different stores – you swipe your card far too many times for you to count. Chan carries all your bags as you skip ahead of him, holding a cup of hot chocolate for your little sister as you find Mrs. Lee filed away with her in the back of a jewelry store. "What've we got here?" You squat down to Rosie's level, and she pulls her short hair back to show you her ears. "Mrs. Lee got me earrings like yours!" A pair of thin gold hoops sit in your sister's ears, and you glance up at Mrs. Lee with a pout on your lips. "You didn't have to do that, Mrs. Lee. I would've bought them for her." "Nonsense, it's the holiday season. I have her studs in my purse, don't let me forget to give them to your mother when we get back." She gives you a stern look, before glancing behind you, a smile on her lips. "Y/N's got you busy, huh?" Chan feigns annoyance as he huffs, "You could say that. What's going on here?" You turn to tell him when you see Rosie peeking into one of the bags before you cover her eyes. "No peeking! You'll see it on Christmas, babycakes." "Just one! Please, please, please!" She holds your hand in her sticky one, likely from any snack Mrs. Lee would've bought her at one of the stands. You grimace, before sighing. "Okay, one. When we get home, okay?"

"But I'm sleepy." She pouts, and you ruffle her hair. "Then you take a little nap in the car. You can use my coat as a blanket, okay?"

The six-year-old reluctantly agrees, before reaching for the cup in your hand. Chan and Mrs. Lee prowl the store together, their eyes lingering amongst all the glittering jewelry and whispers between them as you get offered a chair by a saleswoman. You tug Rosie onto your lap and ask her about what she did – she sleepily tells you Mrs. Lee took her on the carousel ride at the children's court, then bought her a piece of honey cake at a pastry shop. She yawns as she talks about a few pairs of shoes Mrs. Lee bought her – high top Twinkle Toes and a pair of winter boots to wear as the weather changes. She doesn't manage to finish the hot chocolate as she rests her head on your shoulder, and you finish it off before managing to throw the cup into a trash bin a few feet away.

Chan and Mrs. Lee are speaking to a saleswoman at the register, her eyes a little too heart-shaped as Chan fends his mother off to swipe his card. You hold Rosie close, your eyes watching the exchange as Mrs. Lee huffs, a triumphant smile on Chan's lips as they approach you again.

"Any more places you wanna hit before we go? My fingers are about to fall off." He shows the lines from the bags across his fingers, and you shrug. "You offered, now deal with it." He scoffs, but doesn't get a chance to retort as Mrs. Lee interrupts him.

"We should get going, actually. They did say it was going to storm pretty bad tonight." Mrs. Lee winces as the saleswoman walks up to Chan with a receipt, your eyes narrowing as he quickly tucks it in his pocket. Mrs. Lee speaks up again, "Kind of an odd thing to say, though, because it's been unusually warm." "First snow always sneaks up on us on years like this." You sigh, shaking your head as the four of you walk out of the store. You pick Rosie up, holding her on your hip as Chan shifts all the bags to one hand to push your hair out of your eyes.

"You guys are so cute!" An older woman compliments you both, just as Mrs. Lee appears next to you, her eyes slightly wide as Chan tucks your hair behind your ear. His cheeks tinge pink as his mother gapes lightly, but she says nothing as you walk towards the exit. You pull Rosie's hood over her head as you reach the doors, and tug her scarf up to her eyes before bracing the cold air. "Fuck, it's cold." You hear Chan mutter as Mrs. Lee shudders, her gloved fingers fumbling with the key fob as the car comes into view. You shiver as she pops the trunk, watching Chan carefully put everything in it as Mrs. Lee slides into the driver's seat, turning the heat on blast as she turns the engine on. You carefully slide Rosie into her carseat, trying not to wake her as you click her seatbelt in place. You slide your coat off, shivering immediately in the biting wind as you cover her lap with it before shutting the door quickly. 

Chan's eyes are wide as he sees you crossing your arms over your chest, your scarf the only layer protecting your neck as he nearly rips his coat off and wraps it around you. "Are you insane? Do you want to get sick?" He doesn't let you reply as he ushers you to the passenger side, nearly shoving you into the seat and all but slamming the door. He closes the trunk before getting into the backseat, his nose red from the cold. You glance at him through the rearview, watching him blow into his hands as he meets your eyes. He looks at you pointedly as Mrs. Lee pulls out of the parking spot.

You look away.

"So." Because your mother is at her restaurant editing the holiday menus and Chan has taken the rest of the day to spend time with his cousins, you've asked Mrs. Lee to help you pick out your Christmas Eve dinner dress. She is sitting at your desk as you model options for her, the current cranberry red dress a bit too short for her taste. You frown as you change in the closet, "So, what? What's up?" "When are you and Channie going to figure this out? I mean, it's been years." She sighs, and you hear her rustle through one of the shopping bags. You step out to see her holding the dress you bought for New Years' dinner, the black glitter mocking you as you sigh. "I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Lee." You smooth your hands over a forest green sweater dress with gold accents, before turning to her. "This one?" "You know what I mean, honey. There is still something between the two of you, don't think I didn't see the way he practically tore his coat off earlier." She shakes her head at you, and you scoff. "That doesn't mean anything, he's just a gentleman." "Yeah? Then what was last night's outburst about?"

You freeze, your hands fisting the dress as you go to pull it over your head. She peers at you through the full-body mirror, her eyes so reminiscent of Chan's. You purse your lips, looking away and at your socked feet as you slowly make your way over to her. You perch on the edge of your bed, "I don't want you to think less of me." Her hands hold your cheeks gently as you feel a tear roll down your face, her eyes wide and worried as she shakes her head. "Honey, I could never. You're such a smart and wonderful young woman, and you've always treated my Chan so well. You've been his biggest hypewoman, I could never think anything but the best of you." "I was the one who broke up with him, on his birthday." You say shakily, "I didn't remember it was his birthday, but that's on me. I just…I thought I was doing the right thing. I broke things off because I wanted us to focus on school. We were so busy after we went back from break that we didn't see each other unless we were at practice, and it was eating away at me." You wipe your eyes, Mrs. Lee's hands now folded in her lap as she listens. "No one can be upset with you for doing what you felt was best, honey." "Chan was." You scoff out a laugh, rolling your eyes as you sniffle. "He still is, I guess. We got home and we sat down in here for a bit, and we talked. He said that maybe it was better this way, that things had always been 'easy' between him and I, that involving feelings wasn't the best move. That our relationship was a dumpster fire, and that he's glad we got it out of our systems because he wishes it never happened sometimes. That he…felt like I didn't love him." You trail off, feeling a surge of tears roll down your face as you wipe at your nose with your sweater sleeve. You glance at her, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears as she tilts her head. "And he moved on. I didn't. So…I don't know if it's fixable. I'm sorry to disappoint you, if you thought Chan and I would be something of a forever as anything more than just friends." You give her a sad smile, and she quietly sighs.

"He called me a few days after his birthday that year, you know." She nods, looking at her nails before she flicks her hair out of her face. Your eyes widen as you sit up slightly, "He did?" "He was a mess." She laughed softly, running her hands down her jeans. "He cried and cried, I remember asking him if he wanted me to go up to the campus. I was so worried about him, until he told me that you two weren't seeing each other anymore. Just a boy needing his mother because the girl of his dreams broke his heart." Her voice is slightly teasing, but your heart sinks. "What?" "Oh yeah, honey. Channie's not very good at hiding his feelings, we knew he liked you since you were kids. We figured it would take him a bit to realize it, but once you two came home for the holidays that year, it was like he was a different person. He walked in with so much confidence, not that he needed anymore." She snorts, and you laugh softly. "He just seemed happier, a lot brighter. Like he does when he dances." You feel your chest ache as you look away, her hands finding yours. "I know that in there, somewhere…there is a love waiting to be let loose again. I know maybe then, it was the right thing to do. I know you wouldn't have done it if you didn't think you had to, I've known your heart since you were a little girl. I know it's kind and strong and you're a good person, Y/N. Don't think about it too much, I know you've both felt that pain but trust me when I say, there is no life without pain. All I can tell you is to live without regrets." She squeezes your hands, and you sigh shakily, your eyes still letting tears flow. "What if we break up again?" "Then you can always say you tried." She shrugs, "You're Y/N, he's Chan. If I know anything, it's that you're both hard headed and you never give up on anything. Why make your relationship the first thing?" She gives you a warm smile as you nod, and she glances at the sweater you have on. "Maybe not this one, either." She wrinkles her nose, and you scoff in mock offense. "I've tried everything on in my closet! Why don't you pick something for me, then?" She grins as she gets up, skipping to your closet and rustling about. You check your phone, seeing a few missed messages from Chan.

Msg From: Chan 💗 [5:33PM] dude these guys SUCK [5:34PM] come hang out with me :( [5:34PM] i'm sick of this shit, soonyoung keeps making spitballs?? are we fucking thirteen??

You snort, watching as Mrs. Lee drapes a few options over her arm. Msg To: Chan 💗 [5:55PM] can't, hanging out with ur mom [5:56PM] do you want to take a drive later? i think the temp went back up a bit and it's not as windy

Msg From: Chan 💗 [5:57PM] oh so you hate me??? you get her tickets to a cruise AND you're hanging out with her? do you just wanna paint me as a bad son??? [5:57PM] i'd say yes but i don't think i'll be back until right before dinner :( but tomorrow after dinner at your mom's restaurant? maybe we can catch a late movie or something.

You don't get a chance to reply as Mrs. Lee whispers a small aha! She rustles around a bit more before coming out with only one dress, one you hadn't worn since you bought it because you never had an occasion. It was a long, champagne colored dress with a sarong skirt and long sleeves. The skirt was carefully ruched at the hip, before flaring out in an open slit. It had a sweetheart neckline littered with rhinestones, and you winced as you ran your fingers down the fabric.

"It's not too showy for dinner? We're just going to the restaurant." You sigh, thumbing the stitching. Mrs. Lee scoffed, "Your mother has worn far more extravagant things than this, do you remember when she wore a ball gown to New Year's last year?" You snort, thinking back to the way you hide your face as you walked into the Lee home last year. Chan made a comment under his breath about how insane the baby blue dress was, but everyone was more or less a fan. 

You also remember the way his hand slid a little too low on your back that year as rang in the new year with a hug.

Looking up at Mrs. Lee, she gives you a mischievous smile. "Go on, try it on! And we can do some hair and makeup stuff before we have to have dinner!"

Needless to say, your mother did a double take when she arrived home and saw that you were fully dolled up at the hands of Mrs. Lee. Her jaw dropped as she took in the wine red lipstick you stole from her bedroom and glittery eyeshadow, before a huge smile overtook her face and she rushed into your room to talk. It holed you away in the bedroom for another hour and a half before you graciously kicked both women out for just thirty minutes alone before dinner.

You stood in front of your vanity, dress hung back up your closet and a sigh filled the room as you reached for a makeup wipe. You peered at yourself, Mrs. Lee's words filled your mind as you ran your hands through your hair. Pursing your lips, you tie your hair back before hearing a knock at the door, and Chan opens it slightly.

"Hey. I'm home." He's not looking at you as he tugs his coat off, a sigh from his lips as you quirked an eyebrow at him. "You don't sound very happy." "I'm just tired, I don't remember what it was like to shoot the shit with those guys." He scoffs, throwing his jacket over the back of your desk chair before sitting in it. His eyes widen as he finally looks at you, "You look pretty." "Thanks. Mothers." You shrug, before reaching for the makeup wipe you abandoned in order to tie your hair back. "Wait, wait, let me see." He reaches for your hand, pulling you towards him. You roll your eyes as you sit on the edge of the bed, your other hand on your knee as he looks at your face.

"Why haven't you ever worn this lipstick before? It looks really nice." His thumb pulls at your lower lip, before you swat his hand away. "Stop that, someone could walk in." "Then lock the door? I'm just looking at you." He rolls his eyes as he stretches, "Did you figure out what you're wearing tomorrow?" "Barely. I'm still overthinking it, but the Moms said to go for it so…we're going for it." You shrug, and he raises a brow. "Do you want to show me? Maybe a third opinion could help settle it." "Nope." You grin, before standing up to move back in front of the vanity. His hold on your hand pulls you back, his other hand snaking around your waist as he pulls you into his lap. You huff as he kisses your shoulder, "Chan. Seriously."

"I missed you." He pouts, leaning his cheek on your shoulder as you roll your eyes. "Yeah, well…" You trail off, your cheeks heating as he smiles up at you. He's about to say something when you hear a knock at the door, making you jump in his hold. You rip yourself away from him, nearly stumbling as you rip the door open. It's Rosie.

"Ooh, you look pretty! Can I try?" She hops into your room, puckering her lips as she looks into your vanity. You snort, "Hello to you, too. Do you come with a message or just demands?" "Dinner in ten minutes. Can I try now?" She jumps in front of the mirror, and you roll your eyes as you motion for Chan to hand you your makeup bag off the edge of the desk. He does, and you root around in it for the lipstick, pulling out a lip brush as well. You squat in front of her, "This is Mom's lipstick, okay? We can only use a little bit." She nods, letting you carefully trace the brush around her lips. You turn her around in the mirror when you're done, lifting her up slightly. "You like?" "I like!" She smacks her lips loudly, and you smile inwardly as you set her down. "Can I wear this tomorrow, too?" "If you ask Mom and she says yes, we can talk about it." You shrug, and she nods quickly, before grinning at herself in the mirror one last time. "Okay, bye! Thank you!" "Bye, babycakes." You laugh, closing the door as she runs out. You give Chan a glance, rolling your eyes as you reach for the makeup wipe. "Gotta love that kid." "Don't take it off." He pouts, standing up to slide next to you in the mirror. You scoff, "Why? You're just gonna stare at me over dinner and everyone's gonna think something that isn't." He huffs, resting his chin on your shoulder as you carefully wipe at your eyes. You peel one open, seeing him pouting in the mirror. You struggle not to roll your eyes as you turn your face to look at him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "Stop pouting, it's not a good look on you." His eyes are wide as you continue to wipe the makeup off, his hand coming to ghost over your jaw as he makes you face him. "I missed you." He repeats, before nuzzling his nose against yours. Your breath hitches in your throat as his lips brush yours, before he whispers against them.

"I love you."

And just like this morning, you let him. You let him slot your lips together in a tentative kiss, your heart beating wildly in your chest as he turns you around, pressing your back into the vanity. His hands move to hold your hips gently, his fingertips barely breaching the hem of your shirt as he pulls away. He doesn't move back much, brushing his lips against yours as he squeezes his fingers against you softly.

"Will you at least let me try to win you back?" You feel your skin grow hot as you look away, and your heart flutters in your chest as he cradles your face softly in his warm hands. He presses a kiss to your forehead, "Please?" You want to tell him there is nothing to win back, you'd always be there. If time was the issue, you'd wait – no problem. But there is that part of you that's hurt that wants him to fight for you. The part of you that wants him to beg for you back, the part of you that wants him to hold you tight and cry with you about how stupid he's been when you've been equally as stupid. Maybe in a different way, but you're both idiots in your mind.

You look into his eyes through thick lashes, the heat of his gaze making you want to melt into the ground. Chan, despite the history between you two and his bad habits, had always been both the angel and the devil on your shoulders. He could lead you down any path and you'd blindly follow, but you knew you were the same for him. The truth of it all was that your trust in Chan has never wavered, even when the pain of his actions settled into your bones.

"Okay." "Promise?" His eyes are wide as he holds his pinky out, and you sigh, closing your eyes as you nod and link your fingers. "Promise." You both kiss your thumbs and touch them to each other, before you wipe the stamped lipstick off his cheek. "Don't tell your parents anything or I'll get Soonyoung and Mingyu to put snow down your pants tomorrow." He rolls his eyes, "You still haven't let me introduce you to them, so good luck. I wasn't going to tell them in the first place, anyway, because they'd make me go to my room after Dumb and Dumber go back into town tomorrow afternoon. I still can't believe they didn't ask for the holidays off."

You roll your eyes, moving the makeup wipe to your lips as he traces circles into the skin of your hip under your shirt. "Double pay, probably. My mom is shelling out double pay at the restaurant these next few weeks." He hums in response, "Did my mom say anything I should know about?" You snort, "Wouldn't you like to know." "I would, thank you. Tell me." "I have to wash my face, Chan." You give him a pointed look as you push past him, moving to your bathroom as he sighs, trailing after you. "Okay, you can wash your face and speak." "Chan, get out of my bathroom. They're probably waiting for you at the dinner table." "If they're waiting for me, they're waiting for you." He reminds you, leaning against the doorframe. You huff, reaching for your face wash as you turn the faucet on. "Go. I'll be out in a minute." He sighs, before pushing off the doorframe and leaving without a word. You feel your chest heavy with worry as you lather your face wash into your skin, but you force yourself to push all your rushing thoughts to the back of your mind. If Chan is making the moves to make things right, you have to at least give him his flowers for that. He wouldn't pull a fast one on you, he's not that kind of guy.

Right?

DECEMBER 24, 6:05AM.

Dinner between the two families had been rather entertaining. Your mother was enamored with the earrings Mrs. Lee got for Rosie, and the parents discussed carpooling groups for the Christmas Eve dinner at your mother's restaurant. You and Chan would be the only ones not lumped into your father's SUV, and you couldn't help the way you glanced at Chan with a wince. He had a slight grimace on his face as he agreed quietly, the two of you holding up the façade of your fight so as to not make anything obvious. He snuck a few kisses to your lips as the two of you did the dishes, before the two of you turned in for the night. You showered and brushed your teeth, only to have to wait for Chan because you kicked him out of the bathroom before he could offer to save water by showering together. He'd pouted, but it didn't matter. There was a line you couldn't cross…and that's it, right?

Either way – Chan had pulled your back into his chest at some point throughout the night, not that you were complaining. Yesterday morning's shenanigans seemed to have continued – but this time, his hand was up your shirt as he grinded himself against your clothed cunt, nipping his teeth against the skin of your neck. You were about to turn over to kiss him when you heard the heavy knock of your father's hand on the door. You nearly shoved Chan off the bed with how quickly you sat up and jumped over him, answering the door with a flushed look.

"Dad, don't do that! I nearly shit myself." You hold your hand to your chest, and your father holds out two cups of coffee. "You have a shower, you'd survive." "Don't be gross." You grimace, carefully taking the cups and setting them down on the dresser. Chan sits up, eyes squinted as he stretches his arms over his head. "Good morning, Chan." "Good morning, sir." He mumbles, before running his hands over his face. Your father gives you a quizzical glance, seeing your eyes a bit low as he snorts. "You guys might want to wake up, the snow outside is insane and Rosie will want you guys to help her build a snowman." "You can't help her? It's barely six." You rub at your eyes with the heels of your palms as your father smooths your hair down. "I'll give you an hour." "Two hours." Chan groans from the bed, flopping back down and tugging the duvet over his shoulder. You snort, taking a quick sip from the steaming white mug. You crinkle your nose at the bitter taste, only to hear your father laugh softly. "Hour and a half. Deal?" "Deal." You nod tiredly, and he nods as he moves to shut your door. "Set an alarm, or I'm coming in here with pots and pans."

You only nod again, holding the coffee cup to your lips as he shuts it tightly. Looking over your shoulder, you see Chan sitting up on his elbows, a scowl on his lips. "Seriously?" "It's the holiday season and they haven't seen us all year, it's only normal that they want to spend time with us." You roll your eyes as you set down your cup, sliding back under the covers as he grunts. "They can't wait until the sun comes up for that? I love our families, but I don't wanna be outside in subzero temps." "It's not even subzero, dumbass. It's like, seventeen degrees out." You rest your head on your pillow, looking up at him with tired eyes. "Subzero or seventeen, it's still the asscrack of dawn." "Never too early to have your hand up my shirt though, is it?" You say pointedly, and he scoffs as you shift uncomfortably in your sticky shorts. "So if I pull your shorts down, you won't be wet? You weren't complaining." "I never said that, but you're complaining about it being the asscrack of dawn yet you're feeling me up in your pretend sleep." You shake your finger in his face, making him sigh as he lays on his side. "Sometimes I just like touching you, okay? It doesn't always have to end in something, baby." "You mean you like riling me up so I'll be the one to pounce. You're not slick, I know your tricks." You drape his arm over your waist as you face away from him, feeling his lips brush the shell of your ear. "So should I continue or are you going to play hard to get?" "You know, you just reminded me to shove snow down your pants. Maybe then you'll calm down."

He scoffs, pressing a kiss just under your ear before pulling you closer to him. You nestle into his warmth, feeling his hand slip under your shirt. He doesn't move it, his thumb caressing just above your navel as his breathing slows. You close your eyes, but not feeling the thick veil of sleep creeping up on you. Huffing, you turn on your back, making Chan stir slightly but he says nothing. You stare at the ceiling, the early morning sun barely peeking in through your blinds. 

"You're thinking too loud."

Looking at him from the corner of your eye, you snort. "Sorry, did my thinking disturb you?" "Go back to sleep, we're not going to get a chance to rest until after dinner." He sighs, before you roll onto your side to face him. "I can't."

He hums, opening his eyes with a sigh. "Better start trying, baby. It's been like twenty minutes since your dad left." 

Rolling your eyes, you shift lower to press your face into his stomach. His hand cards through your hair gently, his fingertips grazing the skin of your neck as they dip below the collar of your shirt. "Comfortable?" "It's alright." You retort, making him laugh quietly. "Just alright?" "You don't need your head to grow any bigger, Lee." "Humor me, will you?"

"Never." You huff, fisting the material of his sweatshirt. His breathing slows once more, but yours still can't match his. Frustration festers in your stomach, and you find yourself tracing circles into his sweatshirt before pushing it up slightly, bunching it around his ribcage. Your fingers make contact with his warm skin, drawing shapes into it with your dull fingernails when you feel him softly tug at your hair.

"Don't start something you can't finish, baby."

You scoff, your breath warm against his skin. "Shut up." He only hums, your fingers continuing their tracing when you find yourself pressing your lips to his skin softly. Once, twice, three times as you move around his slim waist. He shifts slightly, a shaky sigh falling from his lips as you nip at the skin around his navel. Your palm pushes his hip down until he gets the hint, moving to lie on his back as you push his sweatshirt higher. Your thighs rest on his as you straddle him, and you feel the outline of his cock against the soaked fabric of your shorts.

You can feel his eyes on you as your tongue pokes out from between your lips, licking a stripe up his sternum before pressing a kiss between his pecs. You pepper kisses across his chest, feeling his breathing ragged beneath your wandering hands. Your thumb lightly ghosts over his right nipple, and you feel him jolt beneath you.

"Y/N, what are you doing?" He groans, making you smirk against his skin as you flick the tip of your tongue against his nipple, his hands flying to your hips to hold you steady. "Baby." "Stare at the ceiling or something, stop interrupting me." You shrug, before pulling his sweatshirt higher. "Take this off." He obliges, nearly ripping the piece of clothing over his head before sitting up slightly, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you into a searing kiss. You let out a squeak of surprise, his tongue snaking into your mouth at the opportunity. Your hand snakes up his torso, your fingers pinching lightly at one of his nipples. His hips jerk roughly against you, a moan spilling into your mouth as you pull away quickly, clamping your hand over his lips with a scowl.

"Shut the fuck up! Do you want them to hear you?"

He licks your palm, making you grimace as you wipe it on his shoulder, his hand on your neck pulling you back down to his lips. "I don't give a fuck who hears me as long as you're the one making me sound like this."

"Yeah, well I have shame. Shut your mouth before I put something in it." You snip, but his other hand snaps the waistband of your shorts against your hip. "Yeah? You'll shut me up?" "You're a sick freak." You scoff, shoving yourself off him. "Go lock the door."

His eyes widened as you began to undo the drawstring of your shorts, your thumbs sliding under the waistband with a pointed look. "Hello? Lock the fucking door, Chan." He nearly falls off the bed getting out of the sheets, making you snicker to yourself as you shove your shorts down your legs. You ignore the few strings of arousal connecting you to the ruined cotton and the way the cool air of your bedroom makes you wince, reaching for your phone as Chan slides back into the bed. 

7:15am.

"We only have fifteen minutes." You flick your shorts to the side as you move back over Chan, his eyes wide as he glances at them. "Baby." He breathes, holding them up by the waistband.

"Shut up, I'm ovulating or something." You roll your eyes as a blush coats your cheeks, making him snort. "Or something? Just admit you like it when I feel you up in my 'pretend' sleep." He makes air quotes with his fingers, making you scowl as you take the shorts from his hand.

"Open your mouth, since you can't stop running it." He sticks his tongue out at you, before happily opening his mouth. You stuff the crotch of the shorts into his mouth, ignoring the way his eyes flutter at the taste makes your core clench around nothing. You try not to look at him as you settle yourself onto his chiseled torso, the same faint tattoo mocking you as you try to figure it out. Biting your lip, you gently rolling your hips against him, the feeling of the hard muscle against your clit enough to make your legs tremble slightly. He groans around the shorts, his hands moving up your thighs as you grind down against his stomach.

With every rut of your cunt against his lower stomach, you can feel his painfully hard cock poking the meat of your ass. You ignore the way he winces every time, moaning softly around the soaked shorts as his hands move higher on your thighs, his grip only making you whine. It's not long before his stomach is covered in your arousal, your whimpers filling his ears as he covers your mouth with his hand before taking the shorts out of his mouth.

"I can make you cum faster than this." He whines as your thumbs circle around his nipples, but you roll your eyes, "I like it this way." "I know b-baby, but I'm two seconds from blowing in my pants." He sighs shakily as you move his hand from your mouth, pinning it above his head. Your lips brush against his as you lean forward, looking into his glossy eyes. "I'm not fucking you, you have to earn that." "Sit on my face." He breathes against your lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of them as you shake your head. "We won't have enough time–" "Two minutes, you know me." He begs, weaseling his arm out of your grip to push you up his torso as you huff. "Chan, it's risky–" "Everything about our entire relationship has been risky, why stop now?" He whispers, and you look at him to see a slightly dejected look in his eyes. He wants to please you, you know he does – and you want him to make it up to you. All those lonely nights missing his face between your thighs like a starved man, all the useless vibrators that got you nowhere near the orgasms he pulled out of you. "Make it fast." You mutter, moving to kneel over his face. He nods silently, his arms wrapping around your thighs as he pulls you down, his nose bumping your clit and making you jerk. "Chan!"

"Shh, baby." He murmurs, nosing at your pussy like a dog after a bone. "You smell so fucking good, missed this." 

You squirm as he places a kiss on your clit, your fingers holding onto the metal headboard for stability as he flicks his tongue against it teasingly. He moans into your wet heat, his pouty lips wrapping around your sensitive bud as you force yourself to swallow your whines, rocking your hips against his face, feeling your end coming embarrassingly fast.

"Chan." You breathe out, reaching down to pull at his hair as he furrows his brows, his tongue messily collecting your arousal with soft grunts. "Mmh?" You don't say anything, hoping he just knows what you mean as you let a whine slip, your thighs tightening around his head. He forces them apart, using his strength to grind you against his tongue. You're a whimpering mess above him, your thighs trembling as you fall forward against the headboard. You're gripping the metal with your hands as you come undone with a whisper of his name, feeling your stomach cave in as he keeps licking at you.

A knock at the door makes him stop (and you jerk), his arms holding you firmly against him as he clears his throat. "Yes?" "Are you guys up? Why is this door locked?" It's your mother, and she jiggles the doorknob as Chan laughs, lying on the spot. "I'm sorry, I'm changing! Y/N is about to get in the shower, she'll be out in twenty minutes, I promise." "Tell Y/N to wear leggings under her pants, it's freezing out there." She's not suspicious, and Chan gives you a look of relief as he answers. "Will do! Thank you!" "You're welcome!" The two of you sit in silence as you wait a few moments, before you feel Chan's tongue snake through your folds. You try to push off his face, but your legs feel like jelly as he fucks the tip of his tongue into you. "S-Stop, we have to go." "I bought us twenty minutes, gorgeous. Let me do what I gotta do." He mutters, practically making out with your clit as you squirm away. "Chan, we have to get up." He sighs, his hands massaging your thighs. "Can never relax, hm?" "Be so fucking serious." You scoff, mustering all your energy to get off his face. He watches as you lay on your stomach with a groan, "I can't even get up. Fuck you, man." "Please do. I never want to cum in my pants again, this shit feels so gross." He grimaces, sitting up and running his hands over your thighs, digging his thumbs into the sore muscles. You peek at his pants, your fingers coming to lift the waistband when he swats your fingers. 

"Come on, we have to shower or they won't buy it."

"Any time I've showered with you, you've tried to slide your dick between my asscheeks. I don't trust you." You snort, and he only lands a soft smack to your outer thigh. "It's a wonderful ass, can you blame me? But, for the sake of time and your so-called shame, I'll skip out on it." "Ugh, fine."

Chan stays true to his word, the ten-minute shower consisting of nothing but soft kissing under the showerhead and soapy hands sliding around naked bodies. Him finishing in his pants isn't a lie, either – and you apologize by letting him tongue at your nipples for two minutes. Every touch landing where it's not supposed to, pulling soft whines from each other as tongues slipped from mouths to collarbones before he reminded you that you couldn't mark each other above the neck if you wanted to remain undiscovered.

Chan toweled his hair dry and got changed quickly to appease your awaiting parents, but didn't leave the bathroom without a kiss…or three, to your lips. He lingered a bit as you dried your hair, a warm smile on his face as he watched your scrunched face in the mirror – when you caught his eye. "What?" "I love you." 

He doesn't wait for you to respond, only tucking his coat under his arm as he exits your bedroom. You pretend it doesn't make your knees weak as you pull two pairs of leggings on, and your snow pants. You pretend it doesn't fill your stomach with butterflies as you tug on two pairs of socks and your heavy boots. You pretend it doesn't make your cheeks warm as you pull on one of his t-shirts under your sweater, and you pretend it doesn't make you tingle with excitement as you shove on your coat and tuck your scarf under your chin. You slip out of your bedroom with your lip balm in your hand, only to see Mrs. Lee and your mother scolding Chan as he sits in one of the dining room chairs, your mother's hair dryer blowing hot air in his face. He's wincing as they let him have it, a pout on his lips as he sees you. "Tell them you hogged the hairdryer!" He begs, making you smirk. "I'd be lying, wouldn't I?" You reach out to ruffle his hair, sticking your tongue out at him as you make your way to the kitchen. You see Rosie and your father holding hot packs to their faces, your little sister's nose red from the cold. "Have fun out there, babycakes?" You ask, leaning on the island with a smile as she nods quickly. "Mingyu and Soonyoung helped me make a snowman! You and Channie have to help me, too. It has to be bigger!" "You met Mingyu and Soonyoung already? I haven't even met them!" You feign offense as she nods, your father rolling his eyes. "If you had been up earlier, Chan could've given you a proper introduction." "I was not going to be up at six in the morning to make a snowman, I'm sorry." You shrug, before checking your watch. "It's only eight, how are you guys so chipper?" "We don't have to wash all the dishes after supper. So I guess you're off the hook for not being up earlier." Your mother snorts from the kitchen entrance, a red-cheeked Chan following behind her. He sticks his tongue out at you, making you snort. "Nice hair, man." "Shut up." He rolls his eyes, and your mother sighs as she slides two plates of breakfast food in front of you. "Eat up, we've got a busy morning." You and Chan glance at each other, knowing she means that the entire family has to work to tire Rosie out enough that she takes a nap sooner rather than later. If she goes down later, everyone will be late for Christmas Eve dinner.

Which will make your mother very upset, and God forbid you make your mother upset during the holiday season!

You and Chan practically scarf your breakfast down as Rosie excitedly recounts how Mingyu and Soonyoung kept fighting over what carrot would make the best nose for her snowman. She smiles cutely as she holds up a carrot your father was holding, "But I saved the best one for our snowman, guys!" Your heart melts as she says that, your lip jutting out in a pout as you shovel the last of your waffles into your mouth. You take your plate and Chan's to the sink as she continues speaking, careful not to get your sleeves wet as you wash them quickly. Chan dries them as she gets to the part where Mingyu spit a raisin at Soonyoung, making you choke on your water. Rosie stops mid-story, tugging your father out of the kitchen – insisting she was all warmed up and ready to go back outside. "Save me!" Your father mouths as he allows your little sister to drag him out, making you snicker to yourself. Chan slides the plate into the cupboard, running the rag around the sink basin as the kitchen grows quiet. You swallow the last of your water, only to feel Chan's fingers on your jaw.

"Just a quick one." He utters quietly, his eyes darting to the entryway as you roll your eyes, pecking a chaste kiss onto his lips. He can't help but hold you in place, kissing you again slowly when you hear the door open. You push him away, sliding your empty glass onto the island as Mr. Lee yells into the house. "Get out here!" You both nearly trip over each other trying to exit the kitchen, Mr. Lee shoving two pairs of gloves in your hands as he shoves the two of you out. Chan shivers next to you, looping his arm with yours as you carefully make your way off your porch. You tug the gloves on, giving him the other pair as you brave the winter air.

"It's colder than a witch's tits." You hear someone say, and your head whips around to see two guys sitting in two folding chairs next to an abomination of a snowman, holding cups of coffee between ungloved fingers. Chan rolls his eyes as he tugs you towards them, their eyes averting to you and the one with blond hair nearly spits his coffee out.

"Don't be fucking weird, okay?" Chan says, and the blond one scoffs. "You didn't say she was a fucking bombshell, Chan!" "Maybe because it's none of your business if she is or isn't! She'd never date you, anyway." Chan pulls you close suddenly, and you smile sheepishly at the two men.

"Hi, Y/N." The brunet smiles at you, his eyes trailing you a bit too long for Chan's liking. "Don't look at his teeth, that's how he gets you." Chan covers your eyes with his hand, making you scoff as you pull it down.

"Don't be a baby, Chan." You roll your eyes, before extending your gaze to the men. "It's nice to meet you guys. Who is who?" "Mingyu." The blond one points at the brunet, who points back at him. "Soonyoung, resident idiot.' "Hey!" Soonyoung shoves him, making Mingyu snort. "It's the truth, Rosie made him eat a disk of snow with raisins on it."

You laugh as Chan sulks, making you pinch his cheek and coo. "Don't be jealous, Channie. As long as neither of them is taller than you–" "Suddenly, I need to stretch." Soonyoung says with a grin, and Mingyu rolls his eyes as Soonyoung tugs him up. Soonyoung is only two inches taller, but you find yourself whistling lowly at Mingyu's height.

"You're huge, dude." You look up at him, earning a huff from Chan. Mingyu smiles around the rim of his cup, shrugging as he takes a sip. "You're not the first to say that, but I can fit you in my schedule if you'd like to see what else is big." "Dude, no fair. He doesn't wash his socks, you know." Soonyoung scowls, making you snort. "Yeah? What about you, Soonie?" "Enough! We're out here to build a snowman that's better than your absolute monstrosity, not for you two to hit on my best friend until I vomit!" Chan stomps his foot like a toddler, and you laugh, patting his chest. "Chan, buddy, reign it in! Go get Rosie." He looks hesitant as his cousins make eyes at you. There's a pout on his lips as you pinch his cheek again, whispering in his ear. "Be a good boy and fetch, yeah?"

He should be embarrassed at how quickly his cheeks tinge pink at your words, ignoring his cousins' teasing as he turns on his heel to find Rosie. He watches from his peripheral as they joke with you, how easily they make you laugh and how you fit right in with the duo. His heart warms a bit at the idea of his extended family liking you so quickly, but the idea quickly gets shoved aside as he remembers how flirtatious and greasy his cousins can be. The next two hours are spent with Mingyu and Soonyoung calling you pretty and cute to bother Chan, and you instigating the compliments to get under his skin. Rosie got tired halfway through building the snowman, and made you promise you wouldn't finish it without her. She gave you the carrot for safekeeping, making you tuck it into your jacket pocket as your father hauled her into the house. Your mother and Mrs. Lee made a quick trip down to the restaurant, and your father and Mr. Lee opted to salt the driveways and sidewalks for the dinner trip later that day.

Chan? He's tonguing his cheek as he packs snow in his hand, hearing Mingyu call you gorgeous as you take a sip from his cup of coffee. He chucks it in his direction, hitting Mingyu square in the shoulder. Mingyu stops talking as he feels the impact, his jaw dropping as he sees the snow sliding off the leather of his thick jacket. He wipes the snow off his jacket with a boyish grin, and your eyes widen as Soonyoung quickly throws a snowball at Chan – who dodges it and lands one of his own on Soonyoung's chest.

You snort to yourself as the trio begin to throw snowballs of various sizes between each other, opting to settle in Mingyu's folding chair with your legs crossed. You hold his cup of coffee, before calling out to the men. "Whoever wins gets to help me pin Chan down and shove snow down his pants!" Mingyu smirks, running his tongue over his teeth as he zeros in on Chan – who is gaping at you. "Oh, come on! That's not fucking fair!" "Good luck!" You hold up Mingyu's cup, tilting it towards them as the two men begin to chase after Chan, who has a hefty head start as he hides behind your father's SUV before hopping the fence to your backyard. Your dad snorts as he salts the sidewalk you're sitting on, "You're awful to that boy, you know." "A little snow down the pants never killed anyone." You retort, making him shake his head. "How're Mingyu and Soonyoung? Nice fellas, eh?" "If you count them flirting with me to piss Chan off nice, I'd say so." You grin, and he rolls his eyes. "You're something else, honey. Just talk to the kid." "I do talk to him, Dad. Trust me, I talk. He just doesn't listen." Rolling your eyes, you hear something reminiscent of a battle cry when you see Chan pelting Mingyu and Soonyoung with snowballs as he whizzes past you and your father, making you both double over in laughter as they round the corner into the next neighborhood. It fades to quiet for a moment, before you hear yet another shriek, followed by a fuck yeah!

You and your father look up to see Mingyu holding Chan over his shoulder, thrashing in order to free himself. Soonyoung throws his scarf around Mingyu's waist, effectively tying Chan's legs to the bigger man. Chan slumps against Mingyu, and you almost feel bad as your father shakes his head at you, "Not too much snow, Y/N. Be considerate." "You got it, boss!" You call after him as he shuffles into the house, and Mingyu grins as he presents Chan to you, turning around to show you the defeated pout on his face. "You hate me, Y/N. You hate me and you're going to freeze my dick off with a chunk of snow." "I could never hate you, Channie. But, I do want you to suffer just a bit." You smirk, and he sighs. "Put me down!" "Will you run?" You take a sip of the cup, and Chan's eyes flash with jealousy. "No. But you can't use more than a snowball's worth of snow. Promise me." He holds his pinky out, and you wait until Soonyoung turns around to grab his coffee to peck his cheek. He flushes, but you can just barely tell under his wind-bitten skin. "No promises, Channie." Mingyu manages to wrestle his arms behind his back, Soonyoung just teasing Chan as they all watch you gather snow in your gloved hands. Chan whines pitifully in Mingyu's hold as you approach with a decent amount of snow in your hands and an evil smile on your face.

"Y/N, please. I'll beg, I will! Don't do this–" Your best friend squirms in Mingyu's arms, and you make kissy faces at him as your hand pulls at his waistband. The flannel lining is stark red against the white snow, and Chan braces himself as you press a shameless kiss to his forehead.

"Y/N, don't! I'll buy your breakfast for a month! I won't ever drop you during practice again, baby please–fuck!" Chan thrashes against Mingyu as the snow slides down his legs, having foolishly only worn the snow pants over his boxers. "Oh you fucking hate me, oh my God! Let me go!" He frees himself from Mingyu, who can barely hold himself up from laughing as Chan shakes the snow out of his pants, jumping around like a frog to warm himself up. "Go get in the shower before you get frostbite on your balls!" Soonyoung calls after him as he races into your house, making you snort as you finish off the last of Mingyu's coffee.

"Love that guy, he's so easy to torture." You roll your eyes as you take Mingyu's chair once more, earning a warm look from Mingyu. "How long did you guys date back then? He only told us so much." You shrug, "Couple months. A really good two months, but…just the two."

You toy with the cup, before Soonyoung sighs. "He's a good kid. Please don't break his heart again, I don't think he can take it." He rubs his neck, and Mingyu nods, kicking snow off his boot. "It's funny that we've never met you until now, Chan has talked about you as long as he's been able to."  The statement makes you snort. "Yeah, well. Chan's a jealous guy, that's how we even started dating in the first place. He didn't like that his frat brothers were making eyes at me when I helped him move in, but I guess he just never understood that…" You trail off, clearing your throat when Soonyoung finishes your sentence. "Understood that he's the only one for you?" He tries, and you sigh, nodding. "Yeah." "That's cute. Like, so cute. Adorable, even." Mingyu teases, and you lightly punch his shoulder. "Shut up." "I always thought Chan would end up with you. The amount of times we'd have to kick him off the Playstation because he'd talk about you instead of playing his turn was insane." Soonyoung scoffs, taking a sip from his cup. "I think I've heard your favorite color at least eighty times in my lifetime, tell me it's still green." "It is still green, ha." You smile shyly, and Mingyu lies down in the snow, staring at the sky. "Well, it's nice to know Chan has someone who clearly cares. I know you guys broke up because of school, right? Too busy and all that." "I felt so overwhelmed. We broke up and he made the fucking Dean's list, I was crushed when I didn't. Then again, Chan's always been better at masking how he feels when it comes to…things between us." Shrugging, you feel the heat of Soonyoung's gaze.

"Finding out about all those girls must've gotten to you, huh? He was an idiot, I told him he was when he talked to me about it. He cried, too. Dumbass." Soonyoung rolls his eyes, and your own widen. "He cried? Why?" "He told me two years ago, I think it was summer. I came up here, but you'd gone to a cheer camp for a few days and you came back the day that I left. We got drunk in the backyard and he cried his eyes out about you, and how none of the girls compared to you." He shrugs, and Mingyu pipes up. 

"I was there, too. My best friend was apparently the one who told him to fuck other girls, I cannot tell you how big of a fight we got into when I confronted him about it. It was so ugly, and I was pissed for so long."

"Wonwoo is also one to fucking talk, he's been stuck on one of my friends for ages. Last time he visited, I swear he lost his mind seeing her in her bikini." Soonyoung scoffs, and you nod quietly, "Chan is a dumbass, you're right."

"How long did it take you to move on? Did you?" Mingyu asks, propping himself up on his elbows. You frown, shaking your head. "I slept with one other guy, a year ago. It was okay, but you know." "It wasn't Chan." Soonyoung says softly, and you only slump in your chair. "I felt so pathetic. I still do, sometimes. It's hard not to think about those other girls when he's constantly just…there. He's both the angel and devil on my shoulder, he's consistently encouraging me but then he comes home for the holidays with me and he hurts my feelings." Mingyu sits up fully, a furrow on his brow as he looks at you.

"What do you mean?" "Ugh, it doesn't matter. It was stupid, and he apologized but now…now he's acting like he's in love with me, still. And I…don't know how to take it, or if I should believe him." You murmur, covering your face with your hands as Soonyoung hums. "Well, what did he say to make you think he's still in love with you?" "He said it, verbatim. He says he loves me, he said he wanted to try to win me back. He said that nothing meant anything to him after we broke up, and that he's looked for me in every girl he's been with since." Your voice is slightly muffled by your gloves, and you miss the endeared glances Soonyoung and Mingyu share.

"Then there you have it, Y/N. Not much to question when he's so outright, is there?" Soonyoung speaks around his cup, and you sigh, pushing yourself off the chair. "I guess…I don't know. We're taking a drive after dinner tonight, we might talk then. When do you guys leave?" "In about two hours. But, give us your contact information, you're funny." Mingyu holds his phone out, and you roll your eyes but quickly type in your information. Soonyoung hands you his as well, and they both send you a text to confirm their numbers. You give them each a hug goodbye, with Mingyu pinching your cheek and telling you to just go with the flow. Soonyoung ruffles your hair and tells you that at the end of the day, Chan is just a man and no matter how much you love him, you've got to put yourself first.

And you agree.

You don't get a chance to check in with Chan after saying goodbye to his cousins, because your father ropes you into waking Rosie up and helping her get dressed for dinner. You're holed away in her room, carefully curling her hair when she asks you about Chan.

"Do you hold hands with him?" She asks you suddenly, and you look at her in the mirror, the bathroom light making her dress glitter brighter. Hers was a soft ivory color, likely one to match your mother's. Your father had told you he'd get a champagne tie and pocket square so you'd all look cohesive, and you'd agreed as he left you to babysit Rosie – only for your mother to bang around in the kitchen moments after he left.

"With who, babycakes?" "With Channie, Y/N!" She whines as you spray her hair, and you snort. "Sometimes. When we cross the street, or sometimes just because. He's my best friend, we can do stuff like that." "Have you ever had a crush on him, Y/N?" She wiggles her eyebrows in the mirror, and you laugh, pressing a kiss to her hairline. "Yeah, I have. You can have crushes on your friends, it's very common. It's not always the best idea, though. It can be really hurtful if they don't like you back." "So were you boyfriend and girlfriend or not? Because you say no but Mommy said yes." She got you, hook, line and sinker. You gape at her, and her eyes are pointed as you scoff. "Okay, fine. We were boyfriend and girlfriend for a little bit." "A little bit!? Why not forever? Ugh!" She gripes, and you can only hold back your shock as you smear a little bit of sunscreen on her face. "Well, sometimes things just don't work out, babycakes. Plus, Channie and I will always be best friends." "Daddy told me that he and Mommy were best friends and now they're married. Maybe you and Channie can get married, too!"

You feel your chest grow warm at the idea of marrying Chan, and the fact that Rosie liked him so much that she wanted that for you. You recall your father also telling you the story of how he and your mother met, and why he was so adamant that you and Chan would figure it out. He told you that story so many times over the years, you had it practically memorized.

"Maybe, Rosie." You grin, kissing her nose. "No promises." "It's okay, Channie promised me." She shrugs, climbing out of her chair as you freeze. "What? What'd you say?" "I said, Channie promised me. I asked him yesterday when we were playing Barbies in the car. But it's a secret, so don't tell him I told you." She says sternly, making you gape as she abandons you to find your mother downstairs. You take a deep breath, ignoring the way your stomach fills with fluttering as you make your way downstairs. You see Chan sitting at the dinner table, hair mussed from the wind outside as your mother serves him a cup of coffee. His eyes catch yours, and you quickly look away as you jump the rest of the stairs and dart into your bedroom.

You barely make it to your bedroom without the tears spilling down your face, and you lock the door behind you. You slide down the door, pulling your knees to your chest as you think back to all the moments between you and Chan. All the times he said he loved you, all the times he said he couldn't imagine a life without you.

The time in the backseat of his car, almost three years to the date – where he said both over and over again. Where he dragged his lips anywhere you'd let him, whispers of how perfect you were for him and how insane you made him feel. Where he made you cry as he touched you just right, biting at your shoulders and digging his dull nails into your hips.

Where he told you that you'd tattooed your name across his heart and it was yours forever.

Your body shook with ragged sobs, and you forced yourself to get up off the floor as regret only sank further in. You broke up with him. It was the right thing to do, for the sake of your friendship and the idea of any future together. It was the right thing to do.

"Fuck." You hold yourself over the sink of your bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and letting it drip into the basin. Your tears mixed with the water, and you hear a soft knock at your bedroom door, before the doorknob wiggles. "Y/N? Are you alright in there?" It's your father. You quickly dry your face with a towel, tossing it into the sink before ripping the door open. "Hey, Dad. D'ya get your stuff?" "Honey, are you alright?" His face is worried as his hand comes up to your cheek, and you quickly nod. "I'm good, I promise. I just had one of those moments, you know. Seasonal depresh and what not." He quirks a brow at you, "Seasonal depresh?"

"Dad!" You whine, and he shrugs. "Yes, I got my pocket square. Can you check if it matches your dress? Oh, tell me you're gonna go for curls this year, because your mom is and she's mad that Rosie's are 'too tight.'" He rolls his eyes at the same time you do, making you snort. "Yeah, I'll check. I'm gonna start getting ready now, can you let Chan know so he doesn't come barging in here?" "He's at his house, he just left. He'll be driving you both, though, so you can be comfortable in your shoes." He nods, and you take the pocket square. "I'll get this to you when I'm done, okay?" "For sure, honey. I'll be back later, don't rush." He nods, closing the door as he leaves. You toss the pocket square onto the vanity, before looking into it with a slightly defeated look. You grimace, before grabbing a towel out of one of your drawers.

It didn't take you too long to get ready – you got in and out of the shower, and did your hair within two hours. Your makeup was done an hour later, with Rosie barging into your room and demanding you put lipstick on her, too. You rolled your eyes at her, telling her to say please, telling her to say thank you – both of which she did after you swiped the wine red on her lips. She scampered out of your room as you slipped into your closet, your mother appearing in your doorway to offer her help with zipping you up.

"You look just like me sometimes." She murmurs as she zips the dress, her fingers nimbly hooking the clasp at the top. She runs her fingers through the large curls you'd given yourself, smiling at you in the mirror. You give her a weak one in return, when she sighs, her hands on your shoulders.

"I wanted to apologize, baby." Her eyes are worried as you glance at them through the mirror, your fingers fumbling with the jewelry box in front of you. "Apologize? For what?" "A few years ago, I told you that I thought you were a little too harsh with your words around Chan. I think I went as far as calling you the brute of the relationship, didn't I?" She asks softly, and you look away as you tongue at your lower lip. "Yeah." "I'm sorry. I spoke to Chan earlier after his cousins left, he came in for a cup of coffee before he went to go get ready for dinner. I asked him a few questions about you, and he told me what he said to you a few days ago." She tucks a stray curl behind your ear, thumbing at the hoops she'd given you so many years ago. "It was really shitty of him to speak to you that way, and I told him so. I also told him that if he thinks he has even a remote chance of fixing things with you, that he better get on it soon. You're too kind for your own good sometimes, darling." "You think so?" You mumble, your eyes falling on a necklace Chan gave you for your birthday the year Rosie was born. You hadn't had a party that year, insisting Rosie was more important than anything else. He'd given it to you anyway, on the bus the morning of your birthday. You cried like a baby into his shoulder.

"I know so, honey. I know that somewhere in that heart of yours, you're waiting for him to make things right. Sometimes, I don't agree with it, but I also know you. I know you don't give anyone who doesn't deserve a second chance even a moment to speak to you. You're strong like that, just like your father."

You smile inwardly, her fingers lightly pinching your cheek. "I know you're good at taking care of yourself, but I also know Chan can take good care of you, too. I want you to be happy, and I know Chan makes you happier. You should've seen how you came into the house that year you were dating. You were smiling from ear to ear, like the Cheshire cat." She leaves with a kiss to your cheek, careful not to smudge her own lipstick onto it. She closes the door quietly, but not before you hear the Lees greet your father warmly as they filed into your home. You thumb at the necklace, the simple heart-shaped locket opening to a picture of you and Chan as teenagers. You often wore it open, liking when people asked you questions about the picture. No bigger than a coin, the gold locket has always been something you carried with you even if you didn't wear it.

"Y/N, I'm here for my pocket square!" Your father knocks on the door, and you open the door, holding it out. "Here you go." "Oh, honey! You look so pretty!" Your father covers his face as you spin, before he takes his pocket square. "Wow, you look so much like your mother sometimes." "Funny, she said the same thing." You snort, and he uses the vanity in your bedroom to fix his pocket square carefully. "We discussed seating charts, you're sitting between Chan and Rosie. Is that okay, or should I switch one of them out?" "That's fine. Can you actually send Chan in here? I need to talk to him." You nod, and your father glances at you in the mirror. "Are you sure?" "Positive. Won't take long."

Your father leaves with a kiss to your hairline, and you fumble with the necklace until you hear footsteps outside your door. You lean carefully, hearing a deep breath before a knock. "Come in." Chan slides through the door with closed eyes, almost like he's bracing himself for something. You snort, "What the hell is wrong with you? Open your eyes." "Your dad said you need to talk to me, and if you're going to dump me again, I don't need you to look beautiful doing it." He rushes out, making you gape. "Chan." "I'm serious. I haven't seen you yet but I know you look great. I mean, you always look amazing but I don't think I can handle you dumping me on Christmas Eve when you're in one of those pretty dresses you always wear." He can hardly breathe, and you can't help but laugh. "Nobody's getting dumped, please relax. I just need your help putting my necklace on." "I don't believe you, you could've asked your dad." He shakes his head, eyes screwed shut so tightly you're worried they might never open again. You walk over to him, running your fingers through his hair carefully, before thumbing at the small silver hoop in his ear. "You know we're not exactly together, right?" "In my mind, we've been married since we were in second grade and Hyewon officiated it." He scoffs, and you quirk an eyebrow. "Is that why you promised my sister we'd get married?" His eyes open wide, his lips parting slightly. "She told you?" "Oh good, your eyes are open. Help me put this on." You turn around, grabbing the necklace off your vanity. You pinch the chain carefully, holding it out to him when you look up to see his hand covering his mouth. His eyes rake over you slowly, and you feel your cheeks grow hot as he walks around you. You shift uneasily as he makes it back in front of you, "Do I look okay?" "Okay?" He whispers, making you look in the mirror. You run your hands down the bodice of the dress, "Is it too much?" "Too much?" He's still whispering, his eyes still running up and down your frame as you grow nervous. "Chan! You're freaking me out!" "Oh, baby." He murmurs, taking a few steps closer to you, taking your hand gently and making you spin for him. You feel nerves settle in your stomach, when he finally speaks. "You look so beautiful. I truly don't think words can express how absolutely angelic you look, are you real? Please tell me you're real, this would be a cruel dream." His eyes are wide and slightly glossy as he turns around, and you hear a soft sniffle. You watch his hands move around his face from behind him, your eyes growing wide as he turns back around, teary-eyed as he presses a kiss to your forehead. "No, it's not too much. You're never too much. You look great. Are you ready?" You gawk at him, "Chan, why are you crying?" "Nevermind that." He shakes his head, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. Your brows are furrowed, and you hold out the necklace. "Help me put this on." He glances at the necklace, his cheeks and ears burning a soft pink hue as you spin around, moving your hair to the front. He sighs shakily, carefully looping the locket around your neck and clipping it. You adjust the locket, your lips pursed as you open it. "Wear it like that." He speaks behind you, his hand appearing on your hip in the reflection. You raise a brow, closing the locket only to hear a whine as he rests his chin on your shoulder. Rolling your eyes, you open it, adjusting it to show the small photo of the two of you. "How was saying goodbye to your cousins? They had a lot to say about you." "It was fine. We sent them off with your mom's leftover cake, and Soonyoung finished it in the car before they even drove off. Mingyu was pissed." He snorts, and you hum quietly, reaching for the jewelry box once more. You sifted through your rings, Chan pressing a soft kiss to your jaw.

"I missed you." He pouts, and you give him a half-smirk as you peer down at him. "Did you, now?" "Stop talking to me like that, I'll get hard. You did it earlier too, but I was ashamed then, there were people around." He buries his face into your neck, and you snort out a laugh. "What are you talking about? I'm not talking to you in any sort of way." "Oh, so telling me to fetch like a dog isn't talking down to me?" He scoffs, cheeks aflame as he meets your eyes in the mirror. You suck your teeth, sliding on one of your rings with a shake of your head. "You liked that? You're something else, Chan." "I've literally always been like this, you just didn't notice before." Rolling his eyes, he wraps his arms around your waist. This is when you notice his suit jacket cuffed with silver cufflinks, a gift from your father years ago for graduation. You twist slightly, the top two buttons of his black shirt undone to show off a few layered chains. Some were gifts from you.

Your hand pushes him back slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as he lets you run yours all over him. Your fingers tug at his belt buckle, "You look really nice." "You can do better than that." He chides, and you swallow a scoff but roll your eyes as you pull him to you by his belt loop. You press your lips to his lightly, "You take what you're given, or nothing at all." He breathes out heavily against your lips, and you move your hand to rest on his stomach. "Are you ready? They're going to want to take pictures before we leave."

He can't reply, the two of you springing apart when you hear a knock at the door. You cough as Chan blinks, before opening it to reveal Rosie. "Hi, pipsqueak." "Mommy said that if you're not in the living room, she's going to leave you both here." She relays with a roll of her eyes, and you hold back a snort. "Can't have that, can we?" Rosie asks Chan to pick her up as you slide on one last ring, your fingers fumbling with the lights. Rosie's pink cast is around Chan's neck as he holds her on his hip, and you instinctively slot your fingers with his before remembering your parents will see you. He squeezes your fingers lightly, a sheepish smile on his lips as you let go.

"Wow!" Mrs. Lee is the first person you hear as you step into the living room, your cheeks burning as she clambers over. "Look at you, honey! Oh, you're so grown up." Her hands are tucking your hair behind your ears, the both of you missing the way Chan's eyes fill with adoration as he delivers Rosie to your father. He clears his throat inwardly, watching the way your parents move in front of your fireplace for photos. He can't keep his eyes off you the entire time, even as his parents shove the two of you together for a photo.

"Chan, don't act like you did on prom night. Act like you wanna be here." Your mother scolds him playfully, and you feel your heart flutter as you tug his arm around your waist. His fingers easily settle low on your hip, your own finding his shoulder and you rest your cheek on top. "Smile!" Chan's fingers squeeze your hip as everyone turns away, sneakily pressing his lips to your temple as you begin to move away. Your eyes are wide as he walks away, grabbing your coat off your father's hands and helping you slide it on from behind. Everyone is trying to help Rosie, and he takes the opportunity to whisper in your ear.

"I'm so in love with you. I wish things were different right now." He sighs, carefully tucking your hair into the hood of your coat. You feel your cheeks heat as you turn so he can zip it up, wrapping your scarf loosely around your neck as he connects the zipper at the bottom. 

"I know. Eventually, okay? Just give me some time." You mumble back, tucking the end of your scarf into the coat as he nods defeatedly. You resist the urge to caress his cheek, run your fingers through his hair, kiss him. A weak smile is all you can muster as he straightens fully, adjusting your scarf so the zipper won't snag.

Your parents are looking your way, your mother watching the way Chan carefully zips your coat up. Your father smiles as he makes your mother turn away, "Your keys are in Chan's coat. Lock the door, come on." The two of you scramble behind your parents, Chan hastily shoving his coat on as you wrap his scarf around him as he walks forward. You tuck it into the coat as he zips himself up, his hand holding you steady in your heels as you step onto the porch. He locks the door quickly, trying the doorknob twice as your father helps your mother down the steps, and he offers his hand when he looks at your feet. "Y/N, why are your shoes open-toed? Are you out of your mind?" "I didn't have any heels that matched! It'll be fine!" You huff, and he gestures at the snowy pathway leading to your car. "Your toes are going to freeze and then you're going to get sick and die. Do you want to get sick and die, Y/N?" He scoffs, and you feel your scream caught in your throat as he picks you up princess-style. "Chan! Put me down!" He ignores you as he steps off the porch, carefully maneuvering his way to your car as you huff. Your lip is jutted out in a pout as he unlocks your car, bending at the knee to open your door and carefully set you down on the seat. He buckles your seatbelt in for you as your father pulls out of the driveway, giving you a honk as he turns out of your neighborhood. Chan shuts your door, rounding the front of the car to the driver's side. "You didn't have to do that." You mutter as he slides in, sticking the keys into the ignition as he shivers. "Yes, I did. Don't be brat, just let me take care of you." You don't reply, picking at your nails as he plugs his phone into the aux, handing it to you. Shuffling one of his playlists, the two of you freeze as you hear the opening notes of Meddle About by Chase Atlantic flow through the speakers. Chan purses his lips, single handedly unplugging his phone and tossing it into the backseat. "Nope. No music tonight, it seems."

"I thought you liked that song." You reach for his phone, grabbing it off the edge of the backseat and sliding it into the cupholder as he pulls out of the neighborhood. He has a tick in his jaw as he flicks on the turn signal, "I like it when we're in the backseat and you're on top of me, not when I'm driving you to dinner and not when you're in my clothes on the drive to your house." Your jaw could very well be on the floor the way you're gaping at him, his fingers reaching over to close your mouth. "Chan." "What? I think about that night all the time." He scoffs, turning onto the main street that makes the drive to your mother's restaurant five minutes longer. His hand floats down to your thigh, settling high on it through the slit of your dress. Tonguing your cheek, you stare out the window as your hand settles atop his. "You mean the night that–" "Shut up." You snicker to yourself, sliding your fingers between his. "You know it's not the worst thing in the world, right? Tons of people have breeding kinks." He winces as you say it, making a strangled noise of discomfort from his seat before glancing at you. "Y/N, I want you to take a really good look at me right now and tell me that it wasn't weird." He scoffs, and you shrug, facing him.

"It wasn't weird. I liked it." You admit, "I think the slightly weirder part was calling you daddy, but some things you do out of…you know." You trail off, feeling your cheeks hot as you look out the window. Chan makes a noise of approval, his hand flipping beneath yours to interlace your fingers. He brings your knuckles to his lips, a chaste kiss pressed on top of your rings. "I know, babe." The rest of the ride is silent, some shy glances shared before you pull into the parking lot where your father is waiting with Rosie. You smile, squeezing his hand in the shadow of the center console before letting go. Chan pulls around the building, looking for a parking spot. "We're still taking that drive later, right?" "If you're not too tired, or drunk." He snorts, and you gasp, landing a soft smack to his arm. "I got drunk one time!" "You called me daddy one time, I think that goes to show that you're game for anything at least once." He teases, and you sigh inwardly. "I guess that's true." "I know it is, I know you like the back of my hand. I love you." He says, mostly to himself as he pulls into a spot just a few feet from the door. Killing the engine, he looks over the steering wheel at your father. "Can your dad see us from here?" "I don't think so, he's entertaining Rosie. Why?" You unbuckle your seatbelt as he gets out, and you feel the door close as he rounds the car to open your door. You wait, before feeling the cold gust of winter air rush into the car. You shiver, grabbing Chan's phone out of the cupholder and taking his hand to step out. He pulls you close, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ears as you look into his eyes. "Something wrong?" "No." He shakes his head, a soft smile on his lips as he thumbs at your earlobes. You tilt your head at him, eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?" "Don't drink tonight." He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you nod slowly. "Any special reason?" 

He shrugs, before looping his arm with yours and pulling you towards the front of the restaurant. You can't help but look up at him with a shy smile as he guides you around piles of snow, before seeing the flash of a camera. You blink rapidly, before looking up to see your father holding Rosie on his hip, her hands holding a camera. Chan greets your father warmly, and Rosie shows him the photo. "Can I see, too?" You ask, peering over Chan's shoulder when Rosie tilts it away. "No." Your pout does nothing to sway your baby sister, making Chan snicker at you. The four of you walk into the restaurant, the warm air of the establishment like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. "I still can't believe your parents named both their businesses after you." Chan murmurs as you walk to the reserved room your mother arranges every year, and you snort.

"What can I say, they love me." You shrug, resting your head on his shoulder. Rosie looks over your father's shoulder, a crinkle in her nose as she sees the closeness between the two of you. "Are you sure you're not boyfriend and girlfriend?" "We're sure, babycakes." You laugh softly, moving to pull yourself away from Chan but feeling his fingers interlace with yours before you can. You glance at him, only to see him sticking his tongue out at Rosie, who blows a raspberry at him. A pit of anxiety opens in your stomach as your father opens the door for you both, letting you slip by when you feel Chan's fingers let go of yours, and a murmur of Can I talk to you, sir?

Rosie enters with you, Chan and your father lingering at the door before they take a turn back outside. Your eyes widen as Rosie leads you to the table, your mother sharing the same quizzical look. "Y/N, where's Chan? Did you guys fight?" "No, no. He's…he's with Dad." You reply absently, pulling your coat off as your mother helps Rosie out of hers. The table is set and covered entirely with food, the roast pig being the main attraction in the center of the table. You find your seat, pulling Rosie closer to you to fill the strange pit you feel. Chan and your father don't appear for another ten minutes, but they're both rather stoic as they enter – but you see a soft smile on his face as Chan takes his seat opposite your father.

"Everything okay?" Mrs. Lee asks gently, and Chan nods. "Don't worry, all good." If anyone notices how quiet you are during dinner, they don't say anything. You feel the heat of Chan's gaze more than once, but everyone is too wrapped up in the food and the conversation – to even notice the fact that Rosie fell asleep into her mashed potatoes. You're the one who realizes she's fallen asleep, cooing as you carefully wipe her face and wrap her coat around her as her head lolls onto your arm. You scoot closer, lifting her onto your lap and resting her head on your chest.

"Did she fall asleep?" Your mother asks incredulously, making you snort. "Right into her mashed potatoes. Don't worry, I got it." You wrap your arms around her, leaning back in your chair. "Your dinner, though?" Your mother points at your picked plate, and you shrug. "I'll take it home. No big deal, I'm not exactly hungry. I could fall asleep right now, too." You shake your head, running your fingers through your sister's hair. Your mother nods, beckoning one of her waitstaff to wrap the plate up for you. His name is Hansol, and he carefully takes your plate and disappears with it.

Dinner continues for a few more hours, and you reach over to Chan and tug on his sleeve. He gives you a glance, concern in his eyes before you tap your wrist. He checks his watch, flashing it to you. Midnight. You wince, looking over to your father to see him glancing at his own watch. "Oh, man. It's really late, we should get going." He hisses, and your mother's eyes widen as she sees the time. "Shit, I told them we'd be out by eleven. Alright, up. Let's get going." Your father takes Rosie from your lap, and your mother carefully pulls her coat over the pink cast. You watch tentatively, ready to step in at any moment when you feel Chan's hand on your shoulder. Jumping slightly, you feel the soft fabric of your coat. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. Arms, please." You don't look at him as he works around you, until Rosie is on your father's hip and Chan is wrapping your scarf around you. "You're distracted tonight. Everything okay?" Chan's voice is soft as he zips your coat up, his own already settled on his frame. "What did you and my dad talk about?" You blurt, and he raises a brow as he follows the four parents out of the room, who are still chattering about everything and anything. He scans your face, concern weighing heavy on his brows before he smiles. "I didn't ask him to marry you, if that's what you're worried about. That's further down the line." Seeing the way your shoulders settle, Chan loops his arm with yours. "Did you want me to ask him?" You don't respond, letting him lead you out of the restaurant. Your parents are all still talking as your father buckles Rosie into her carseat, her eyes opening slightly as you pass by. You wave at her, only for her eyes to close again. Smiling to yourself, you wait for your parents to acknowledge you and Chan waiting by the front of your father's SUV.

"Going for a drive?" Your mother asks gently, and you nod. "Home soon, don't worry." You hold your pinky out, only for your father to clasp it with his own. "Take your time. Drive safe."

Your eyes search your father for answers, and he only smiles. "See you at home, honey."

Nodding slowly, you and Chan bid your parents goodnight, your mother's eyes lingering as Chan walks you back to the car. You can feel your chest a bit tight as he opens your door, but give him a strained smile as he gets into the driver's seat.

"Alright, what's eating you? Besides me." He jokes lightly, pulling out of the parking lot. You see your parents' car already at the stoplight in the street, the light turning green just as Chan pulls into the street. "Nothing." "You're lying." He plugs his phone into the aux as the light turns red, a click of his tongue as he presses shuffle on yet another random playlist. The soft melody of Scared To Live by The Weekend pours out of your speakers as he takes the oh-so-familiar turn down the same road you've taken this drive on every year. It's scenic, it's always decked with Christmas lights and it leads you right to a random cliff that overlooks the entire city. You sigh as he holds his hand out for yours, interlacing your fingers and leaning back on the headrest. You recline your seat a bit, crossing your legs at the knee. He lets go of your hand and you cover your face with your arms, his fingers sliding up and down your exposed thigh.

"You can always talk to me, you know." He murmurs over the music, this time it's Fantasy by Bazzi. You nod silently, hearing a hum from him as he traces circles into your skin with his thumb. The drive is silent aside from the music, Chan's comfort seeping into your body via his hand and your shoulders losing their tension as he pulls into the deserted cliff. You'd found it years before you went to college, and enjoyed retreating there to get high together behind your parents' backs. You also exchanged one Christmas gift here every year, basking in the privacy and security of each other's warmth on the hood of whoever's car you took that time.

"So? What's going on?" He parks the car, lowering the music as he turns to look at you. You peek at him from beneath your arms, a pout on your lips. "Nothing, really. I'm good."

Chan moves your arms from your face, his fingers coming to poke at your cheeks with every word. 'You are such a bad liar, baby."

You groan, "It's stupid. It's so stupid because you're probably not going to have to deal with until you're in your fucking thirties but I've been dealing with it since I was in high school." Your pout makes Chan thumb at your lip, an understanding look in his eyes. "You mean that same conversation your parents keep having with you about having kids and getting married?" "Yes! Ugh, that's why I was so quiet at dinner. And why I was so pissy on the way here from campus. I do not want to have this fucking conversation again this year, especially when I don't even know what's going to happen when we leave." You fall back into your seat, feeling Chan's hand cup your knee. "I'm so sick of being asked the same shit, I'll get married when I get married and I'll have kids when I have kids. What about my career? No one but you and my dad ask about what I want to do after college. What if I want a master's degree? What if I want a doctorate?" Chan listens intently, his eyes flowing between worried and understanding. "Well, what if? Do you want to do that? What do you want to do after we graduate? Do you want to move back here, do you want to move somewhere else, do you want to pursue something more? Do you want to work full-time?" "What does it matter what I want? You want to get married, Chan." You sigh, and he shakes his head. "It matters because you're your own person, not an extension of me. I don't want to get married if you don't want to, and definitely not if we're not well established. Stable present makes for a stable future, and I want things to be just as easy as they always have been between you and me. You call my name, I come. If time is the issue, I'll wait. I waited my entire life before freshman year, and I've waited three years since then."

You peer up at him, "So you're serious about marrying me? You weren't kidding?" "Respectfully, I don't think you've ever sounded more insane than you do right now." He scoffs, sitting up and pulling you with him. Your lip is jutted out in a slight pout as you thumb the seam of your dress, Chan's fingers grazing your jaw as he makes you look at him. 

"I love you, Y/N. I'd wait an eternity for you, as long as you're happy. I want you to feel fulfilled, and I know that you're not going to if I try to tie you down with bullshit. Yes, I want to get married. Yes, I want to marry you. You've seen me through every stage of my life and as painful as it may have been for you because I've been an absolute douche, you stuck by me. I don't know how else to make you understand that you're important to me, and that includes embracing who you are as an individual. Even if you say no to anything I offer, the house, the ring, the kids, the fucking pursuit of happiness by my side…none of it matters as long as I know that you're happy with yourself." You don't realize you're crying until his thumbs wipe at your cheeks, his fingers tucking your hair behind your ears. "I love you, endlessly. I'll always be here, and I know maybe that's not what you need to hear to be comforted but I need you to know that." You sniffle slightly, "What if my mother pressures me enough that I make a rash decision? What if she manages to get to me just like she always has?" "She won't. Even if she did, I know you in ways she doesn't. I know every side of your heart, I know how kind and forgiving it can be and I know how cold and cruel it can be. I know you're strong and independent and you don't need me to ever speak up on your behalf, but if ever your voice is lost on you, I can. I have, and I will continue to do so. Your honor is mine, even if mine isn't yours."

You rest your forehead on his shoulder, wanting the conversation to end. "I forgot your gift at the house. I'm sorry." 

"That's alright. I still have yours, if you want to go sit while I get the blanket." He presses a kiss to the shell of your ear, allowing you to change the subject. "I feel bad, though." "Go sit for me." He nips at your ear, making you jolt as you shove him. He smirks as you scoff, wiping at your face carefully as you open the door and step out. You shudder as the cold hits your feet, but you hoist yourself onto the hood of your car as Chan pulls the thick blanket you brought from your apartment out of your trunk. The metal is still warm before you feel him kill the engine, the motor dying under you as he shuts the door, shoving your keys into his pocket. He drapes the blanket over your face as you feel him grab your ankle. Jolting, you push the blanket off, seeing a pair of socks clenched between his teeth as he undoes the strap of your shoe.

"Where the fuck did you find those?" You let him slide the black sock over your foot, and he shrugs. "Your cheer bag is still in the trunk. I know these are new, though, because I put them in there before we left for practice last week." He shrugs, slipping off the other shoe and putting the sock on, covering you with the blanket once more as he rounds the car to throw the shoes into the backseat. You stare at the clear sky as he slides onto the hood next to you, a soft sigh from his lips as you drape the blanket over his leg.

"I didn't ask your dad to marry you, I promise. I just talked to him about how I felt and what he thinks I should do." You hear him say softly, and you turn to see him looking at you already. Your brow raises, and he holds up a white box. It's from the jewelry store you found Rosie and Mrs. Lee in when you went to the mall, the silver logo stamped on the top. "He said I should be honest and tell you what I want, and listen to what you have to say. So, uhm…this is more for you and I than anyone else, but I…I understand if you don't want it." He pops it open, a slim gold band slotted into the cushion with a thicker one, presumably for him. The rings are studded with stones, emeralds and sapphires with smaller white diamonds scattered about. You look at him, a certain softness to your gaze that has only ever been present for him.

"A promise ring?" He shifts under your gaze, cheeks tinging pink as he sits up, sliding off the hood of the car. He paces slightly, "I know it's so…ugh, it's so high school. And we're not even together, and I'm willing to wait–" "I'm not." You interrupt, "I'm tired of waiting, Chan."

His eyes are wide as you shrug, holding your hand out for the box. "Can I see?" He hands it to you, your fingers pinching the delicate band and holding it up to your eyes. "Is this what you bought when you were fighting your mom at the register?" "It's also why your class ring went missing last month, but that's neither here nor there." He admits sheepishly, making you gape. "You took it! You little rat, I knew you had something to do with it."

"I needed it for the sizing! And I got it back! Do you…do you like it?" He asks shyly, resting his hands on either side of your legs as he leans closer to you. You nod, "I love it, it's beautiful. Good eye, I guess." "Can't you just give me a compliment without making it sound so forced?" He rolls his eyes as you replace the ring, holding the box in your hand. You shake your head, "I'll have a lifetime to do that. Do I get to put yours on for you?" "You're taking it? You're saying yes, I mean?" His eyes are wide as he scans your face, and you scoff. "Obviously? We still have a lot of growing to do, but I don't take the steps to make a decision unless I know it's the right thing to do. You know that." "Including breaking up with me on my birthday?" "Including saying yes when you ask me to be your girlfriend in about two minutes. I should make you wait, but I'm impatient." He rolls his eyes, leaning slightly closer. You smile as you nuzzle your nose against his, feeling your cheeks heat as he brushes his lips to yours. "I love you." "You're right, I do deflect a lot." He laughs, peppering kisses around your face as you scrunch your nose. "Be my girlfriend, please. I'd be nothing of a man without you." "I mean, I guess if you want me that bad–" "Respond properly or I'm taking your socks off." "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend." You roll your eyes, pressing a kiss to his lips. He kisses you back softly, his hands moving to hold your face carefully. "You know the ring means you'll also say yes to being my fiancée and then my wife, right?" He speaks against your lips, kissing you between words. "Mhm." You hum in response, before taking the thicker ring out of the box in your hand. "Let me put this on you. You can't take it off, like, ever."

"Wait, you first." He pulls away, taking the ring out of the box and sliding it into his coat pocket. He takes your hand in his carefully, "I think I'm gonna cry." "That's okay. I've seen you cry before. I've seen you throw up and I still think you're a pretty okay guy." You joke to ease him, noting the way his fingers tremble slightly as they slide the ring down your finger. It fits snugly, and he runs his thumb over it a few times before looking up at you. "Are you sure?" "Are you?" You hold up his ring, and he nods slowly. "If I'm not sure of anything else in this life, I have the comfort of knowing I'll always be sure of you." "When did you become so profound?" You tease, slipping the ring down his finger. He scoffs, "What part of you deflect and I don't did you forget? I've always been this way! You've just gotten good at ignoring me because you don't like to admit my compliments make you feel some type of way." "You just make me nervous." You confess quietly, tugging on the lapel of his coat. "You think you don't make me nervous? I can't talk to you sometimes without getting my tongue twisted."

"Your tongue does better things than talk, Chan." "I thought we were having a wholesome moment here." He flicks your forehead, your hand moving up to swat his hand away. He grabs it midair, pressing a kiss to your fingertips. "Are we still keeping this under wraps?" Your eyes widen, "Shit, are we?" "I mean…my mom knows I got these." He winces, and you click your tongue. "Your mom also told me you're a crybaby who called her and said I broke your heart."

"I may be a crybaby but at least I can tell someone when I love them." He scoffs, making you furrow your brows. "You wanna play that game? Because I have so much shit from Soonyoung and Mingyu, too." "Tell me you love me!" He whines, and you roll your eyes. "I'm your girlfriend, not your puppet. I'll tell you when I'm good and damn ready." "Great, I'm ending the year with a girlfriend that hates me." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before sucking his teeth. "I did this to myself." "If you get me out of the cold within the next twenty seconds, I'll let you go down on me when we get home." You offer, before a shriek rips through you as he throws you over his shoulder. 

"As you wish, girlfriend."

DECEMBER 31, 9:42PM.

Chan in fact, did go down on you when you got home. Twice on your bed without even taking your dress off, and once in the shower. Your legs could barely hold you up, but that doesn't really matter when your boyfriend forgets his own strength while pinning you against the bath tile.

Christmas Day was rather uneventful aside from unwrapping gifts, with Rosie screaming excitedly about the extensive sets of Legos and Barbie dolls you and Chan got for her. Your parents gifted you and Chan a vacation to Bali, set for after your graduation, as well as a new pair of earrings. The Lees gave you a rush of nostalgia as they gave you yet another locket, this one with a picture of you and Chan as babies.

Chan watched the exchanges quietly, and the night concluded with you and him falling asleep watching a movie in your bed. His parents never did make him move to his bedroom after Mingyu and Soonyoung left, and your parents didn't mind him staying so long as you were fine with it. You still didn't fuck him, but he was perfectly content with waiting – so long as you didn't mind his tongue between your thighs in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn. You spent the next few days simply existing within your families. You got your nails done with Mrs. Lee, and took Rosie along with you. Rosie got her cast off and cried when the physician cut through your signature, tears only stopped by a scoop of chocolate almond ice cream on a waffle cone. You spent a bit of time with your mother at the restaurant, tasting a few of her new recipes and coming home to sleep in Chan's arms with a stomach ache from all the food. Per usual, Chan continued his whispered sweet nothings and you shied away from him often, only for him to pull you back into his embrace and kiss you until you couldn't breathe, followed by murmurs of I love you. 

The days were quiet, and your families were slowly growing used to having you and Chan around – something that always backfired on them, because the two of you usually left a day or two after ringing in the New Year together. It helped you beat the traffic back, and it helped you decompress from spending so much time with Chan.

Not that you'd need to do that this time…because, well. You know.

"Do I look okay?" You ask your mother for the billionth time, smoothing your hands over the front of your dress. She rolls her eyes as she sprays a bit of perfume in the middle of your back, making you flinch at the sensation. "You look lovely, darling. Please, get a grip! This is just the same people we've rung the New Year in with every year. Nothing new, nothing to be nervous about."

Your mother sprays perfume on her wrists, before dabbing them on her neck. "Go downstairs, check on Rosie. I'm going to be so upset if your father let her have anything that could stain that dress, it was too expensive to ruin." You sigh shakily, looking at yourself in the full-length mirror your mother had in her bedroom. Your dress was black and glittery, ending at your mid-thigh with an open back that left little to the imagination as it stopped just at the dip of your spine. It had straps that sat off your shoulders with a low-cut neckline, and you only wore a necklace that Chan had bought to play off the rings he'd gotten you. It sat nicely at the base of your throat, the only gift he gave you in front of your parents.

"Y/N!" Rosie called from the bottom of the stairs as you reached the first one, and you smiled down at her as you made your way down. "Babycakes! You look so pretty in your dress!"

"Thank you!" She beams up at you, holding a pink lollipop in her hand. Your father is sitting on the couch, eyes closed as you walk up behind him. "Catching up on sleep, old man?" "You know it. I love having you kids here, but I'm exhausted from all the socializing. I only have so many things to say." He sighs, and you snort. "Don't worry, just a few more days. Chan and I are leaving on the third, I think."

It's not long before your mother comes downstairs, her dress a sparkly burgundy this year. Her lipstick matches it, and your father presses a kiss to her temple as he helps her tug her coat on. Rosie is settled on your hip, her head resting on your shoulder as the four of you walk over to the Lees, and you already regret the thin coat you chose to layer over your dress. You shiver as you walk up the steps to the porch, Rosie fighting sleep as you bounce her around.

"Don't sleep, Rosie! It's just a little party!" You wiggle her around, her giggle tired as your mother knocks on the front door. Chan appears as he throws it open, ushering everyone inside. His eyes meet yours, widening at the necklace sitting on your skin. You feel your cheeks heat as you walk past him, setting Rosie down and tugging her coat off as he closes the door. You lower to her height, "Don't fall asleep, okay? You feel sleepy, come find me." You tap her cheeks, and she nods as she trails off to find your mother, who is greeting Mrs. Lee with the bottle of wine you brought over. Chan helps you stand upright, a soft smile on his face as he pulls you into a hug. "I haven't seen you since this morning. I missed you, gorgeous." He mumbles into your ear, and you roll your eyes as you weasel out of his embrace. "You always miss me. I'm literally across the lawn." You tug your scarf off, and he takes it, his hand awaiting for your coat. "What did your dad make this year?" You nod in the direction of the kitchen, the rich smell of lemongrass and garlic filling the house. He opens his mouth to respond, only for his words to get caught in his throat as you slide your coat off, his eyes landing on the expanse of your back. It's speckled with glitter, courtesy of your mother, and you swing your hair behind you as you hand him your coat.

"What? Are you okay?" Your voice is concerned as you glance at him, your hands moving to smooth the front of your dress. He blinks, before his mother's voice cuts through the air. "Y/N! Oh my, let me see your dress! Give me a spin!" She sets her wine glass down on the table, and you give her a warm hug before she spins you around. "You look stunning! Come, we have to take your picture." You give Chan a glance over your shoulder, his ears red as he snaps out of his daze, hanging your coat on the door as Mrs. Lee pulls you into the living room with your parents. She poses you all in front of her Christmas tree, before it's just you and Rosie. Rosie yawns as Mrs. Lee takes the photo, and you tell her it's best to just let the kid take a nap. "You can put her down in the guest bedroom, but can I get a picture with you and Channie first?" She nods, and you open your mouth to protest but she calls him over before you can say anything. He looks a bit bewildered as he walks over, clearing his throat as he stands next to you. You feel an awkward air floating off of him as he makes no move to touch you, and Mrs. Lee huffs. You quickly wrap his arm around your waist like you did on Christmas Eve, expecting his hand to fall in the same low spot on your hip – but you feel it ghosting over your back as you resume the same position. You don't say anything, just smiling as Mrs. Lee snaps your photo. She thanks you, turning away with the permission to drop Rosie in the guest bedroom.

"Wanna tell me what your problem is?" You mutter to Chan, who sucks his teeth. "Wanna tell me why you wore this dress?" "Oh, so I'm the problem? Good to know." You grit, before you pick Rosie up off the couch, hoisting her over your shoulder as you make your way to the guest bedroom. Chan follows closely behind you without you realizing, and is leaning in the door frame as you tuck Rosie into the bed, carefully covering her with the blanket so as to not be blamed for creases in her dress. You kiss her forehead, walking out of the bedroom only to bump into Chan, who grabs your arm and pulls you into his bedroom with a quick tug. "Bro." You're frustrated, pinching the bridge of your nose as you pull your arm out of his grasp, only for him to pull you into him by your waist. "Don't call me bro, I literally made you cum on my tongue this morning." He scoffs, his grip is bruising against your skin. "Who's the insatiable one now? Over a dress? Really?" You roll your eyes, but it seems your boyfriend has no time for your goading as he pushes you against his door, lips pressed against yours in a searing kiss. You melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as he slides his hands down your back. He pulls away with a nip to your lip, leaving you to pout as you chase after him. "Not just a dress, you in this fucking dress. What were you thinking?" "Wanted you to see me in it." You confess quietly, your eyes glued to his lips, now slightly stained with your red lipstick. He sighs, "Don't act cute. I can't be mad when you do that." "Don't be mad at me. Don't you think I look pretty?" Your eyes feign innocence, blinking up at him as he groans in lust-fueled frustration. "Not mad at you, baby. Never mad at you." He rests his forehead against yours, "I want you so fucking bad, it's pathetic." "Have me." You murmur, nosing at him as he shakes his head. "I can't, not right now. Certainly not in my parents' house." "Oh, but when it's my parents' house, it's fine??" You snort, making him laugh softly, brushing a kiss against your lips. "For old time's sake, I'll say yes. Keeping up with traditions and whatnot."

"They're gonna wonder where we are." You sigh, before feeling his hands travel further south. You swat them away, "If you're not gonna fuck me, you can't feel me up and leave me all needy. It's not fair." "I like it when you're needy." He kisses your jaw, and you scowl, pinching his nipple through his shirt. Of course, the rat bastard only leans into your touch, eliciting soft whine from his throat. "You're such a fucking freak!"

"You're literally the reason I'm this way. You're the blueprint." He rolls his eyes, before he turns you over, pushing your chest against the door as he presses his hips into you. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh falling from your lips as he grinds against you. His fingers toy with the hem of your dress, shoving it up slightly when you hear a gasp from his lips.

"Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me." 

He moves away entirely, and you feel him sink to his knees behind you. He pushes your dress up, the fabric bunching around your hips to expose your bare ass. You'd forgone underwear in hopes of things going this direction tonight, but certainly not this early in the night. But by all means, you're willing to let bygones be bygones as long as Chan keeps touching you.

You can almost hear his internal battle as he pushes you forward a bit, spreading your thighs with his hands. "You're gonna kill me one day, aren't you? In cold blood. I'll be dead because you can't behave." He's fighting himself as you glance over your shoulder, a look feigning disinterest on your face as you shrug. "Take it or leave it."

He chooses to leave it, but not before sinking his teeth into your thigh, pinning your arm to your back when you reach to swat at him. "Chan!" "Shut up, they'll hear you." He rolls his eyes as he stands, using his free hand to massage the bitten area. "You can wait, right? It's only two hours." "I don't want to." You pout, pushing back against him. He lands a quick slap to the meat of your ass, your cheeks flushed as he whispers in your ear. "You're gonna have to, baby. Be a good girl for me, yeah?"

You huff, squirming against him when you feel his hand slip between your thighs. His fingertips drag slowly through your wet folds, just barely breaching your entrance when he pulls them away. "Open your mouth."

You turn to see him licking his fingers clean, your heart beating wildly in your chest as he repeats himself. "Open. Don't make me do it for you."

"Kiss me first." He does as you ask, tugging the fabric of your dress back down as he snakes his tongue into your mouth. Your hands fist at the lapels of his suit jacket, whining into his mouth before he pulls away. Your lips jut out in a pout, a soft chuckle from Chan before he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Open up." You do as you're told, sticking your tongue out for him to spit onto. Your eyes flutter shut the moment you feel it, his hand on your jaw pulling you forward to kiss him. Your legs feel like jelly at his touch, feeling him mumble those three little words against your lips.

"I love you. Don't act up and I won't, either." He holds his pinky out, and you reluctantly link yours with it. He wipes the corners of your lips, "Go. I have to…calm down."

"Tell me you love me again." You look up at him, making him roll his eyes as he bites back a smile. "If I tell you again, will you get out?" "Maybe." You smile back, making him physically turn you, his hands on your shoulders as you turn the doorknob to his room. "I love you, baby. Now, go." You slink out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind you as you slip into the bathroom. Your skin feels hot as you look in the mirror, your lipstick only slightly smudged – a blessing, truly. You pat your fingers over your swollen lips, before checking the hem of your dress. You tug it lower, making sure it covers everything before ruffling your hair and taking a deep breath.

Two hours. Easy.

Not easy.

It's been an hour and forty-five minutes, and you can feel your patience wearing thin as Chan acts like nothing happened.

He's standing across the room, talking to your mother with a soft smile on his face – just like he has been for the last thirty minutes. His wine is the same color as her dress, listening to her drone on and on about the benefits of turmeric in cooking as well as body products. Your cheek is resting on the heel of your palm, your other hand holding your second flute of champagne as you stare at your boyfriend without a care in the world – when you see a little head start floating your way, a frumpled blue dress catching your eye.

"Y/N?" She calls tiredly, rubbing her eyes as she looks around for you. "Babycakes! I'm over here, come sit with me!" You pat your lap, setting your champagne on the table as she makes her way over to you. She climbs into your lap and you smooth her hair down as she rests her head on your shoulder.

"How was your nap? Any good dreams?" You ask, twirling a piece of her hair in your fingers. She shakes her head, "No dreams. Just sleep." She shrugs, yawning as she buries her face into your neck. You wrap your arms around her, rocking back and forth and humming quietly.

It's not even five minutes when she falls limp with sleep in your arms, and you rest your cheek atop her head as Mrs. Lee makes way to you, her silver dress stunning as she extends her hands. "Do me a favor, honey. Go steal Chan from your mother, we're going to start the countdown soon and I'm sure you want to spend a few moments with him.” Her eyes twinkle like she knows something, taking Rosie from your lap. You nod sheepishly, standing up and tugging your dress down slightly. You grab your flute of champagne, smiling inwardly as you make your way across the living room to Chan's side. You squeeze your mother's shoulder lightly to get her attention, her voice stopping in the middle of a rosemary and thyme soap recipe she's reciting. "Yes, darling?" "Rosie's up. Might wanna check on her, I can't gauge if she'll sleep tonight." You wince, and your mother nods, putting her wine glass down on the coffee table. She walks away, your father joining her in the kitchen when you feel Chan's hand on your lower back. "Hey." He pulls you into his side, his thumb rubbing circles into your skin. You try not to lean into the touch, a soft smile on your lips. "Hey. Tired?" "Exhausted, actually. I do not want to be here right now." He sighs, and you open your mouth to reply when you see Mr. Lee turn the television on to the New Year's Eve countdown from the Lotte World Tower. You smile to yourself as Chan shuffles you both behind the couch, his hand keeping skin-on-skin contact the entire time. You miss the glance your father gives you as you lean your head on Chan's shoulder, the way Chan's fingers run up and down your side.

You miss the way your mother joins him in looking at the two of you, the way Chan's looks at you adoringly. The way your arm wraps around his waist, and your fingers trace circles into his side, the glint of the ring he gave you mocking her in the light. Your mother gives your father a look, one that screams is that what I think it is? Your father only shrugs, draping his own arm around her shoulders and making her face the television. The reporter is excitedly moving around the prepared stage, talking a mile a minute about all the musical achievements by artists in a rapid fire attempt to fill the last two minutes to the countdown. Mrs. Lee slots her fingers with her husband, and you find yourself finding Rosie's sleepy eyes on your father's shoulder. She smiles, giving you a thumbs up and you scrunch your nose at her, giving one back. She points at Chan, and you tap him to get his attention for her. He looks up, meeting her eyes and receiving the same reaction. He gives her one back, and she closes her eyes, turning the other way.

"She's adorable." He murmurs as you look up at him, "She is." The reporter smiles widely as the large number 10 splays on the television. Your parents break into chatter, Chan's parents drifting over to yours slowly. You tug at Chan's sleeve, earning a hum as he looks at you once more.

"Do you ever think about what our kids will look like?" You whisper, and he nods. "Sometimes." 9…

"Do you have names?" "A few."

8…

"Do you think about our wedding?" "All the time. I'm going to cry like a fucking baby." 7…

"How do you feel about a summer wedding?" "Whatever you want, baby. I'd get married in the woods if you wanted." 6…

"Like in Breaking Dawn?" "That wedding was beautiful. I cried, remember?" 5…

"I do. You cry a lot, you know?" "Emotional vulnerability is sexy, is it not?"

4…

"You think so?" "I know so." 3…

"Hey, Chan?" "Yes, Y/N?" 2…

"Are you gonna kiss me?" "Yeah, babe. I'm gonna kiss you." 1…

"I love you." You mumble, pressing your lips to his as the reporter boasts a Happy New Year from Lotte World Tower!

His hand is low on your back as he kisses you deeply, your own holding his cheek as your parents cheer and congratulate each other. You hear a soft voice above it all, "Channie and Y/N are kissing."

You pull back from Chan to see your parents gaping at you, and Rosie smiling before she lays her cheek back on your father's shoulder. "I told you they were boyfriend and girlfriend. You owe me fifty bucks, Mommy."

You gawk at her, Chan coughing awkwardly as your mother covers her face. "You bet on us?" "I assume the two of you managed to talk things out." Your father's voice is level, a warm smile on his face as Chan clears his throat. "Yes, sir." "And everything is okay…now?" Mr. Lee chimes in, your face growing warm as you nod, "Yes, sir." "And you're…together? Officially?" Mrs. Lee asks calmly, a grin fighting its way onto her lips as you and Chan flush embarrassedly. "Yes." You say in unison, and Mrs. Lee smiles from ear to ear, holding her hand out to your mother.

"You owe me a hundred bucks." "Wanna take a drive? I don't want to see money exchange hands." Chan scoffs, and the parents start arguing within themselves – mostly your mother defending herself and your father rolling his eyes as he fishes his wallet out, eager to pay your mother's debts.

"We're outta here." You announce, grabbing your coat off the rack. Your father gives you a nod, "We'll be here a while, it seems. Be safe, honey."

You nod, placing a kiss on Rosie's head before you leave. "Thanks, babycakes." "You're welcome, sissy." She smiles tiredly, closing her eyes as you ruffle her hair. You slip out, Chan closing the door behind you as you tug your coat on. "We're not actually going on a drive, you know that, right?" His gaze is pointed, and you roll your eyes as you pull him off his porch, the cold winter air nothing in comparison to the heat on your skin as you fumble for your keys. He keeps his hands off you as you both make your way to your house, your fingers trembling in excitement as you stick the key in the lock and turn it. You push the door open carefully, and he slides in behind you, shutting it with his foot and locking it behind him.

You peel your coat off, handing it to him to hang on the rack by the door. He's oddly quiet as he does the same, before silently taking your hand and leading you to your bedroom. He lets you walk in first, locking the door behind him as you step out of your heels.

You feel his hands on your bare waist, pulling your back to him as he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. You close your eyes, feeling his lips trail up your shoulder, before his teeth tug on the necklace he gave you. "Can we keep this on?" "Yeah."

He hums softly, pressing a kiss behind your ear. His hands move to your arms, "Can we take this off? Is that okay?" You nod silently, letting him slip the straps of your dress down your arms, the fabric pooling around your hips as he sighs, keeping his hands on your sides as he trails open-mouthed kisses down your spine, breathing you in like you're the only oxygen he knows. His teeth tug at the hem of your dress, pulling it over the swell of your ass with ease. The flimsy fabric falls to your feet, his teeth nipping at your hip before you feel him stand, his hands on your waist turning you around.

"I love you." He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed as yours open. You look at him in the moonlight, every eyelash, every tired line, everything that is the Lee Chan you love illuminated before you. Your hands move to his shirt, "Is this where I say it, too?" Your comment makes him smile inwardly, "If you'd like. I heard you, when you kissed me. You don't have to, I know you do." You feel so vulnerable under him like this, but you know him. You know he's just as vulnerable as you are, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and untucking it from his belt. Your voice feels lost, but you clear your throat as you push his shirt down over his shoulders, revealing toned arms and the same muscular chest you loved to lay your head upon on sleepless nights.

"I love you, endlessly." You say softly, your eyes flickering up to meet his gaze. He nods silently, pressing a kiss to your forehead as your hands move to his belt, carefully tugging the leather strap from the silver buckle. You pull it through the loops, letting it fall to the ground as Chan's hands come to your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks gently as your hands unbutton his slacks, carefully tugging the zipper down as you brush a kiss to his jaw. 

He stops you from pushing his pants down, his lips finding yours with a gentle insanity one can only describe as love. He swipes your hair back over your shoulders as he lets your hands rest on his waist, his lips pouring every single word into your mouth with a passion you'd only ever felt with him. This is the kiss you missed for three years, the soft grip of his hand in your hair as he guides his tongue against yours fluidly. This is the man you longed for unknowingly for your entire life, so loving and soft and sensual as he sucks on your tongue with a quiet moan. 

This is the love you'd patiently waited to return to you, the way you felt the cool metal of his matching ring against the warm skin of your thigh as he picked you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as your arms draped over his shoulders. This is the love you'd wantonly waited for, the way he eased you onto your bed, not letting you untangle yourself from him as he continued to kiss you so agonizingly slow, you could feel your arousal slightly soak into the waistband of his slacks. 

This is the love you'd yearned for, where he remembers every single one of your buttons. How he doesn't stop kissing you because he knows you love the feeling of his lips against yours, the way his hand only slides from your thigh to your dripping core because he knows you hate when he's not touching you constantly. How he steadies himself above you by pinning one hand above your head, interlacing your fingers as his other hand spreads your thighs for him.

"I love you." He whispers against your lips, not giving you a chance to respond as he carefully glides two of his fingers through your slick folds, earning a shiver as he traces your clit slowly. You mewl in his ear, his skin prickling with goosebumps at how wet you are for him. He presses a kiss to your jaw, "My gorgeous girl. So perfect for me." You bite back a whimper as his hand lands a rather wet slap to your clit, your body jolting into his as he chuckles. "Still like that?" He does it again, your thighs flinching around his hips as a broken moan leaves you.

He kisses your lips, swallowing any sounds you could've let out as he stops teasing you, his fingers carefully curling into your entrance. You shudder against him, a high-pitched whine from you making him laugh against your mouth. "Feel good, baby?" His thumb circles your clit as his fingers scissor you open, the pads of his digits brushing that spongy spot inside you that makes your breathing shaky. Your walls are impossibly tight around his fingers and it makes him dizzy, feeling you clench around his hand every time he reaches that spot he knows can make you cum within minutes. "Faster, please…" You run your hand through his hair, pulling him back down to your lips. He kisses you messily, bullying his fingers into you faster and feeling you pant yes, just like that softly against his lips. "Just like that? Like it fast, baby?" He mocks you, loving the way you nod dumbly. "Love it, love you, Channie.." Your eyes are teary as he brings you to the edge, his stomach fluttering at your soft whines. You made him feel like he was on fire, overstimulating his every sense with your whimpered begging for more as he nipped at your chest, his tongue swirling around your nipple as he mimics you, "Yeah, love me? How much, princess?"

"So m-much, think about you all day. Want you all the time, f-fuck…" Your thighs tighten around his hips, "Want me all the time? You're so cute. So needy for me, huh?"

You can only nod, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes as your nails dig into his shoulder, a tell-tale sign you're going to cum if he keeps going. He pulls a guttural moan from you, his favorite of them all as you coat his hand and wrist with your orgasm. "That's it, baby. Let go for me." He works you through it, your thighs trembling just like the first night the two of you slept together, your moans becoming nothing but soft whines against his lips.

"S'too much, too much.." You push his hand away with a whimper, your eyes barely open as you watch him lick his fingers clean like he did earlier. You shift under him, blinking your eyes as wide as you can, watching the way his tongue slid between his fingers. "See something you like?" He purrs against your lips, his wet fingers flicking your lower lip as you nod your head.

"You." Your voice is soft, and you see his eyes soften slightly as he smiles shyly. You wrap your legs around him, running a hand through his hair again, tugging slightly. "Want you." "You have me, baby." He kisses you chastely, relishing in the way you chase after his lips, huffing. "Kiss me like you mean it." You pull him closer, nipping at his lower lip with your teeth as he connects your mouths. The kiss is wet and messy, and you can feel him rolling his hips into you, the tip of his clothed cock rutting against your clit deliciously. But, you want it off.

"Take your pants off. Wanna feel you." You bite at his lips, and he moans, rutting against you like he can't stop. You whimper, your hips moving in tandem with his as you reach down and snap his waistband against his skin. "Fuck." Chan breathes against your jaw, shoving his pants and underwear down with one hand before he lets go of your hand, pulling them off fully with a hiss. He moves back up to kiss you, your nails digging into his back as you hold him close, your legs tight around his hips as he grinds his heavy cock against your wet heat. You're messy but that's how he likes it – your thighs twitch with overstimulation as he ruts his cock against you, leaning up to watch the way he leaks beads of precum onto your skin. "So fucking pretty." His thumb finds your clit, smirking at the way your thighs close slightly.

"So wet, too. Messy, messy girl." He grunts in your ear, "Can I put it in? Can you take it?"

"Please." You breathe out, making him meet your eyes. "Please what, baby?"

You scoff at his teasing smile, but you don't miss the adoration in his eyes as he plants a kiss to your lips. "Use your words."

You don't respond as you pout slightly, his lips brushing against yours. Your eyes are shy as he tries to find your gaze, a hiss from behind his teeth as your fingers reach between you to wrap around his shaft, his hands fisting the sheets around your head as you align him with your entrance.

"Please? Want you." Your eyes are wide and watery, too much for him to handle. 

He caves, moving your hand out of the way to sink into you –  his tip barely breaching your walls when you hear a whimper from Chan, his eyes glued to your glistening folds. Your head falls back with a groan as he slides in deeper, a whispered chant of fuck, fuck, fuck from his lips as you clench around him. You whine, digging your nails into his bicep as you push his hips down the rest of the way with your legs, hearing him groan at the way you swallow him perfectly.

"D-Don't, don't move. Just…wait." Your eyes are screwed shut, Chan's running all over your body. A singular bead of sweat runs down your neck, his fingers instinctively reaching to wipe it. You lean into his touch, your eyes still closed as you take his hand in yours, kissing his fingertips. "I love you." "I love you too, baby." He murmurs, and you shake your head as you lean your forehead to his, holding his hand to your chest. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, "This is how I feel every time I see you. There has never been a minute of my life that I haven't been so pathetically in love with you." He doesn't respond, his eyes glazed with unshed tears as yours open. You blink at him silently, your arms moving to wrap around his neck as you press a kiss to his nose, then his cheeks. "Obsessed with you." You mumble against his skin, feeling his hands wrap around your thighs with a shaky breath. "Missed you, my baby." Your admission is followed by a kiss to his lips, Chan's eyes fluttering shut as you drag your lips down his jaw. "I missed you, my love." He whispers in your ear, the pet name one he only used during your relationship. His teeth graze on your earlobe, before he plants a kiss on your neck as you run your fingers through his hair, pulling him to your lips. You slot your lips with his carefully, swallowing a whimper as you feel his hands push your thighs apart more. 

"Ready? Want me to go slow?" His voice is shaky, making you run a hand through his hair. "Whatever you want, baby."

He nods, giving an experimental roll of his hips – his chest swelling with pride as your eyes roll back with a soft groan. You let him set the pace, the delicious drag of his cock making your hands fist the sheets as your head falls back against the mattress. His fingers are bruising around your thighs, his eyes glued to your face, biting back his moans as you whine pathetically.

"Feel good?" He murmurs as he thrusts into you a little harder, before letting go of your thighs and pinning your hand above your head, interlacing your fingers. Your eyes are closed and you can barely feel your head nodding as your limbs buzz with lust, a moan meeting his neck as you mouth at it. "Need words, baby." He leans to nip at your lips, feeling your other hand tug at his hair. "Feels s'good, daddy, fuck.." Your voice is no higher than a whisper, and Chan swears his brain short-circuits as he buries his face in your neck. He feels dizzy as he breathes in your perfume, hearing you whimper as he bullies his cock into you faster. 

“So. Fucking. Wet.” He groans, his teeth biting at any surface of your skin as he grips your hips bruisingly. "Missed you so much, baby. W-Wanna fill you up, shit. Make you mine f-forever." His ramblings are only slightly incoherent, your cheeks warming as if you're not both naked right now, the only thing remaining is your jewelry – all of which he's given you.

"Y-Yeah? Want it, want you to fill me up..." You rasp, tightening your legs around his waist as he whimpers loudly. Your fingers rake through his hair, pulling his head away from your neck and meeting his eyes. They're full of a certain craze you've only ever seen during your relationship, a dark look of lust that swirls from the depths of the brown in his irises that makes you shiver as you press your lips to his. It's messy and rough, his hand circling the base of your neck to steady himself. Your own wrap around his wrist, sliding your tongue into his mouth with practised ease. 

He sucks on your tongue messily, whining as you clamp down around him. You feel his hand loosen around your neck, sliding up to cup your face softly, your own moving to his back. Your nails dig into his shoulder as he thrusts into you, the tip of his cock brushing you just right that you moan into his mouth.

"Right there? There?" He pulls back, pistoning his hips into you as you nod frantically, your eyes filling with tears as your nails drag down his back. He tries not to close his eyes at the sensation, loving the way you bite down on your lip when his thumb pulls it out from under your teeth. "Wanna hear you, baby. Wanna know who's making you feel good." 

You can hardly speak through your whines, his vision going blurry as your nails dig into his hips. His lips find the shell of your ear, "Come on, baby. Tell daddy who's making you this wet." Your cheeks heat as you whimper into his skin, your lower lip dragging against his sweatslick cheek. You tug at the small silver hoop in his ear, "Y-You are. Always m-make me feel s'good, daddy. W-Wanna cum for you..." You trail off as his teeth nip at your neck, your voice reduced to breathy whines as he bites down on your chest. His tongue quickly licks over the indents of his teeth, as his hands move to your thighs, pushing them apart as he towers over you. Your eyes open only enough to see the wad of spit drip from his lips, your hips jolting as it slides down your clit. 

"Don't need it. Just like seeing you squirm, baby." He murmurs, pushing your knees to your chest as he continues to fuck into you. Your eyes fall on the ruddy blush on his cheeks, his own glued to the way your cunt swallows him perfectly. His fingers tighten around your legs, his lip tucked under his teeth as he screws his eyes shut, but you can't stop looking at him. The slope of his neck, littered with nips from your teeth that'll disappear by morning. His broad shoulders, slick with sweat and covered in deep, red marks from your nails. His chest, littered with faded love bites from the past few mornings waking up by his side. His forearms, flexing with every push of his hips, similar to the way they do when he holds you up against the shower wall. The sheen of your arousal on his fingers, the gold ring on his left hand that matches yours covered in a mix of spit and your cum. It's overwhelming, the way your insides feel fuzzy and the way your vision zeroes in on his ring, the glint in the moonlight mocking you.

"I can't wait to marry you." You mumble, covering your face with your arms as Chan jerks to a stop. You can still see him through a crevice in your arms, and you watch the way he swallows carefully. "W-What?" "I said, I can't wait to marry you." You repeat slightly louder, your eyes widening as you feel him twitch inside you. He scoffs quietly, "Babe, you can't say that." His eyes close, and you hear him take a deep breath as you sit up on your elbows.

"Why? I want to marry you." You huff, your mouth opening to say more when a sudden thrust from Chan's hips knocks the wind out of you. His whimper fills the room as he spreads your thighs out of habit, "I w-won't last if you say t-that." 

You can barely speak with the way he's drilling his cock into you, his thumb working tight circles into your clit as your head falls back against the sheets with pleasure. You manage to string your words together, your stomach filling with that familiar heat as you speak, "W-We have the rest of o-our lives, b-baby…" He whines loudly as his hips are flush to yours, shuddering slightly as he fills you with his release. He has a pout on his lips as he overstimulates himself through his orgasm, leaning into your soft whines, brushing his lips against yours. "I love you." He whispers as you clench around him, the band in your lower belly snapping as you whine pitifully as his hand slides in yours.

The air around you settles, Chan reaching to brush your hair out of your eyes and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I love you, baby." You nod loosely, a mumble of I love you tumbling against his clavicle. You feel him pull out slowly, a hiss from the both of you filling the silence. Wincing lightly, you go to sit up but his hand on your chest stops you. "Lie down." You don't question him as he slides one of your pillows under your head – but your brows are furrowed as he kisses down your body, sinking to his knees as he reaches the edge of your bed. You sit up slightly, "Chan, are you–" He doesn't reply, looking you in the eyes as he flattens his tongue against your sloppy cunt. Your eyes widen as he looks away, his arms wrapping around your thighs carefully. You're far too sensitive for this, but you can't seem to look away as he sucks your clit between his pouty lips. "You're fucking f-filthy, Lee Chan." "Open your mouth." He shrugs as he speaks into your skin, and you scoff out a laugh. He raises a brow as he looks up at you, making your cheeks flush. You sit up on your elbows, his arms pulling you closer to his face before fucking the wet muscle of his tongue into your spent hole. Your gasp is almost unnoticeable, your eyes starry as you watch him collect the mix of your releases in his mouth.

Your thighs tremble in his hands, your mind fuzzy with overstimulation as you whine softly. He pulls away, rising off his knees and sliding his thigh between yours as his hand finds your cheek. You instinctively open your mouth as he looks into your eyes, his thumb pulling at your lower lip as he spits his release onto your tongue. Your eyes flutter shut at the taste, feeling him snake his tongue into your mouth in a wet kiss. He pushes you back against the pillow slowly, his hand moving from your cheek to interlace your fingers as his lips trail down your jaw.

"I think your parents are home." He murmurs, and you try your best to zero in on any sounds that could allude to such. He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, "Do you want to stop?"

You don't respond, hearing the jingle of the doorknob as Chan tugs on your earlobe with his teeth. You cover your mouth as a breathy moan slips out, feeling Chan smile against your skin. "We can stop, baby." You shake your head frantically as you hear your mother sigh and the creak of the stairs under their footsteps. Your father's footsteps are heavy behind your mother's light ones, and you hear the door to their bedroom open, the hinges desperately in need of an oiling. It closes, and you breathe out carefully.

"I have so many questions but I can ask them later. Can you go again?" You mutter, feeling him scoff against your skin. "Is that how you're going to ask me?" "I can always just ride you until you cry like I did in the back of your car three years ago." You huff, feeling Chan pinch your hip. "Can you even hold yourself up?" He smirks down at you, making you furrow your brows.

"Watch me." "I intend to."

JANUARY 1, 5:44AM.

The only reason you and Chan stop is because he's made you soak through your sheets twice, the edge of your bed sopping wet as he carefully carries you into the bathroom. How he's even able to stand up is beyond you, your legs loosely wrapped around his bare waist as he leans to turn the water on in your shower.

You wince as he sets you down on the edge of the tub, his fingers expertly releasing the clasp on your necklace and draping it on your bathroom counter. "Don't want it to snag in your hair." He murmurs as he helps you back up, your legs hardly functioning as he makes you step into the tub. The hot water feels great against your hips, your lips parting against Chan's chest in a soft groan as he holds you to him. He laughs softly, and you feel the pads of his fingers digging into the sore muscles. "I'm sorry, baby. Maybe that last position was too much, hm?" "Fuck all the way off." You mutter, resting your cheek on his chest as he coos at you. "How's that for three ways to Sunday?" "Great. It was great, wonderful. If fucking someone three ways to Sunday was an Olympic sport, you'd win gold every time." You confess quietly, your eyes barely open as you hear him pop the cap of your shampoo. "You know, you talk a lot when we have sex." "Mmh, do I? What did I say?" You feel his fingers card through your hair, making him snicker. "For one, I think you're the one with the daddy thing. You said it more than once and I'm honestly a little impressed with your commitment to the bit…if it is a bit." "Shut up. Wash my hair like a good boyfriend." Your cheeks grow hot as he laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to your hairline. "You also asked me when I'd marry you, and that you'd marry me tonight if you could." "When?" Your head snaps up to look at him, and he shrugs, a teasing smile on his lips. "If I recall correctly, you were face down–" "Enough." You turn away, pressing your forehead to his chest once more. "You're not supposed to make fun of me, I was vulnerable." "M'not making fun of you, baby. I'm absolutely enamored with you, I'd also marry you tonight if you'd allow it." He shrugs as he tilts your head back to rinse your hair, and you pout up at him. "I have a question." "Shoot." He feels your hands trace his torso, before you flick his hip. "What is this?" He looks down, the faded tattoo you'd been wondering about peeking through your fingers. He sighs, "It's a tattoo, babe. What else would it be?"

"Well for one, it's shitty. Second of all, of what?" You run your thumb over his skin, making him snort. "It is shitty, because I was drunk and I got it done with Soonyoung and Mingyu at their friend Seungcheol's apartment. It's also shitty because Seungcheol wanted someone to practice his fine line technique on and I was so wasted that I volunteered." "You've never been that reckless unless you're with me. Where was I? And what is it!?" You insist, and he snorts as he pours your body wash on your loofah. "It's your name. I kept saying it because I always think of you when I'm drunk and Seungcheol assumed it was what I wanted. It was actually very pretty when it was new, it's just faded now. There's a little red splotch somewhere, it was a heart."

He nods as you gape at him, "My name?" "It was two years ago. I was actually going to call you before Soonyoung threw my phone in the pool and told me I didn't deserve to call you if I wasn't going to beg for you back. I was always willing, I was just scared you'd reject me because of how much of a douche I'd been." "How'd you explain this to your hookups?" You blurt, and he smiles. "I didn't. They always knew. I don't know if you want me to talk about that, though. Your feelings are important to me and I was so shitty to you then." "You're a dumbass, both for not just talking to me and for getting this done at someone's apartment. You should get it redone at an actual parlor, I heard Hansol does tattoos now." You trace the faded ink, and he snorts. "I'd bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? Just branding me like that."

You don't say anything as he runs the sponge over your body, your eyes pointed as he scoffs. "But I'm the freak." "I counted thirty six positions, you are the freak. God forbid I want a little something to kiss before I go down on you." You roll your eyes, and you hear him choke as he pushes you back slightly under the water. "Careful, you'll sound like me if you keep that up." "Oh my God, I fucking asked you if I was too rough! You insisted I keep going!" He whines, landing a soft smack to your thigh as he washes your legs. You snicker, holding onto his shoulders, looking down at the red lines you'd inflicted. "Oh, your back is gonna hurt, babe." "Well worth it, in my opinion. I honestly thought I was going to lose my mind yesterday." He sighs as he stands upright, your arms wrapping around his waist as he presses a kiss to your hairline. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get my shit together, my love." "You know you've never called me that outside of those two months we were together?" You murmur, and he nods. "Mmh. Can't call you something you aren't, can I? I mean, you'll always be the love of my life but you weren't exactly mine and I didn't deserve you then, anyway." "And you do now?" You ask softly, and he shakes his head as he switches you out to stand under the showerhead, wincing as the hot water hits his back. "No. I'm always going to be undeserving of you, especially after the shit I pulled. But I have no problem spending my lifetime proving that I love you."

You don't reply, holding onto him silently as he cleanses himself. Your eyes linger on the flexing of his muscles, the way his face twitches as your body wash stings the aftermath of your nails digging into his back. "I'll be nicer next time." You assure him as he rolls his eyes, a mumble of no you won't from his lips as he presses a kiss to your hairline.

The sun is beginning to peek into your bedroom by the time you and Chan exit, and you sit in your bathrobe as Chan strips your sheets. He makes your bed in silence, hiding his yawns with shakes of his head and fishing through your drawers for his old clothes. He finds a pair of sweatpants and an old cheer shirt of his, tugging them on before easing your tired form into your own pajamas. You nearly trip as he slides your shorts up your legs, his fingers cheekily pinching the swell of your ass as you swat at him.

"Unlock the door." You remind him as he slides you under the fresh blankets, and he nods, his breath minty from your toothpaste as he presses a kiss to your nose. He unlocks it quietly, checking the time on his phone before sliding in next to you. "What time is it?" "Almost seven. Rosie's gonna barge in here." He mumbles as you settle on top of him, your head on his chest as his hand slips under your shirt with a sigh. "I love you." "I love you, Channie." You murmur into his shirt, your eyes heavy as he pulls you impossibly closer, planting a kiss on your cheek without a word.

3:41PM.

You're the first to wake up, feeling like a train hit you as your muscles take in the absolute marathon you put yourself through with Chan the night before. You grimace as your back pops, stretching carefully so as to not wake up your boyfriend – who is curled into your chest, his arm hanging off your hip. Biting back your smile, you carefully run your fingers through his hair before sighing inwardly. 

Sitting up slowly, you see something on your dresser. It's a framed photo, and a Polaroid tucked into the corner of the frame. You squint at it, unable to make out the shapes without rubbing at your eyes. Chan stirs next to you, a pout on his lips as he peels his eyes open. "Lay down, I'm cold."

"Hang on." You slide out of bed, wincing as you stand up. Your eyes land on the photo once more as you stand in front of your dresser, and it's you and Chan in a gold frame. It's the night of the Christmas Eve dinner, and it's slightly blurry but you can see the way you're smiling up at Chan shyly, and the way his eyes are starry as he looks down at you. It's the photo Rosie took, the one she didn't let you look at.

The Polaroid is also of you and Chan, in your bed with the same clothes you have on now. They must've walked in in the morning when neither of you responded, because you're both sound asleep in the photo. He's holding you close, and your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, your promise ring glinting against his neck in the flash of the camera. Your foreheads are pressed together, cheeks flushed in the soft morning light.

The note sits under the frame, and you look closer at the frame. Between You and Me, it reads, and you feel your cheeks heat as you slip the note out.

We've been trying to teach Rosie how to be careful with her money, because your mother started giving her an allowance a few weeks ago. She wanted to get you a Christmas gift but didn't know what you liked, and instead of asking…she took your camera from when you were a little girl and snapped a photo of you and Chan at Christmas Eve dinner. She told me when we were getting the photos developed that she thought Chan was really important to you, and that she knew she was, too – so it was like a win-win situation, to give you a gift of the things you cherish the most.

She's pretty good at making something out of nothing, and she begged me to take her to that old thrift store you loved in high school. She found this frame near the old book section that you walked through a lot, too. So profound for a child, but I digress. The Polaroid is from me, consider it an apology for allowing your mother to make such insane bets when we all knew that the two of you were bound to fall in love. P.S. Rosie's pretty good at capturing beautiful moments. Do you think she'd make a good wedding photographer? ♡

– Dad.

Your vision is blurry as you feel the heat of Chan's body behind you, his fingers carefully picking the frame up and looking at it. "You're so in love with me." He murmurs, and you half expect to look up and see him smiling – but his face is serious, his thumb ghosting over your face in the photo. You swallow nervously as he stares at the photo, clearing your throat.

"I am. Is that…okay?" You whisper, and he nods silently, closing his eyes as he sets the photo down. "We're taking that home, right? We can't leave it here. I want to see it everyday." He's not looking at you, holding the Polaroid gingerly in his hand. You watch as he sets it back down, his fingers plucking the note from your hand, leaning against the dresser as he reads it. He's blinking back tears and you feel your chest warm as he sighs, running his hand over his face. "We need to get Rosie that Lego set your dad said no to. The really big one, what was it?" "Rosie has never even seen Titanic. She just wants it because she thinks the boat is cool, and my dad said no because it's seven hundred dollars." You snort, and he shakes his head. "Don't care. She needs it. I need to buy it, where are your keys?" 

"We'll take my dad's, I don't feel like moving her booster seat." 

You smile to yourself as your boyfriend hands you a pair of jeans to slide on as he roots around for his socks, and you quietly slip out of your bedroom after tugging them on. You see your parents sitting around your dining room table, a few drinks and a deck of cards spread out between the four of them. Rosie sits quietly in Mrs. Lee's lap as Mrs. Lee explains the game, and you clear your throat. "Good afternoon." You say softly, and the parents turn their heads to look at you. They're smiling, and Rosie lights up, wiggling out of Mrs. Lee's lap and running towards you. "Did you like my present!? I made it for you!" "I know, babycakes. I loved your present." You pick her up, holding her on your hip as she moves your hair out of your face. You turn to your father, who has a knowing look on his face. "You mind if I take her for a bit? Chan wants to buy her something." "No sugar. She got a filling this morning." Your mother murmurs over her cards, taking a sip of her drink as she nods. Rosie huffs in your grasp, about to protest when Chan appears behind you. "Hey. Ready?" 

His cheeks are ruddy as he greets your parents, and none of them say a word as you tug on your boots as he makes Rosie fetch her coat. She's nearly bouncing off the stairs as she runs back down, and Chan helps her put it on as she eagerly asks what she's getting and why she's getting it.

"Titanic." Chan shrugs, and your father nearly spits out his drink as you shove the two of them out of the door, grabbing his car keys off the hook. "Y/N! Don't buy her that, it's too expensive!" "Can't hear you, Pop! See ya!" You grin cheekily, slipping out the front door and seeing Chan and Rosie giggling as he buckles her into her seat. Your heart warms at the sight, and you make eye contact with Chan as he shuts the door. He smiles, tilting his head towards the passenger side door as he opens it for you. You climb in silently, his eyes watching your every move. "You okay?" "I love you."

EPILOGUE – JANUARY 7, 5:30AM.

"Do you have to go?" You'd already stayed four more days than you'd originally planned, and you were really cutting it close by driving back on a Sunday. Rosie's eyes are tired and pleading as you hold her on your hip, Chan struggling to shove the last bag into your trunk as you snicker. "We do, babycakes. But don't worry! I'll come home with Channie in April for your birthday! Isn't that fun?" "I guess." She pouts, resting her head on your shoulder. "Will you call me everyday?" "Yes, I'll call you everyday." You nuzzle your nose to hers as Chan huffs, slamming your trunk shut. "Babe, someday you're going to have to pack this car and you'll understand why I sleep on the way back to campus." He's red in the face as your mother ventures outside to retrieve your little sister, Mrs. Lee in tow with a bag full of goodies for the trip back to campus. You smile softly at your mother as she takes your now crying sister, your heart aching as you wipe her tears.

"Don't cry, Rosie. We'll be back soon, I promise." Chan nods, holding his pinky out for your little sister to take. She sobs into your mother's parka as she does so, and your mother gives you a warm smile. "You guys take care of each other, okay? No more breaking up!" "No more breaking up." You both repeat, your cheeks flushing as Mrs. Lee gives you both a hug goodbye. Your father appears, holding up two tumblers full of hot chocolate and Mr. Lee hands Chan an envelope. "Pocket money. Don't let Y/N starve on the way home, she told us you only fed her beef jerky." "I did not!" He begins to protest, but you clap your hand over his mouth with a wide smile. "Thank you, Mr. Lee. I appreciate you worrying about my appetite." The goodbyes are not nearly as sappy as they usually are, but you know it's because they're looking forward to graduation. It will approach fast, you know you'll lose yourself in the excitement of it all and best of all, Chan will be right there with you. You're in the car waving to Rosie until you turn the corner, before your shoulders sag against your seat. You pout, making Chan smile as he reaches to pinch your cheek.

"Rosie will be okay, baby." "I know, I know. I just wish I was around more to see her grow up. She won't think I'm as cool by the time I'm finally around to hang out and stuff." "Babe, she's seven this year. She's gonna think you're cool." He rolls his eyes as he stops at a red light, connecting his phone to the aux and handing it to you. You sigh, unlocking his phone to see a photo of you and Rosie at the Lego store on New Year's Day as his home screen, paired with the same sentimental baby picture that rested in your locket as his lock screen – that one never changed. You say nothing as your cheeks warm, opening his Spotify and pressing shuffle as he turns left to take the exit to get onto the expressway.

You both tense as you hear the beginning notes of Meddle About by Chase Atlantic. He gives you a sideways glance as the lyrics start pouring through, and you clear your throat quietly.

"There's an exit…up ahead. It leads–" "Into the woods, yeah. I'm just gonna–" "Yeah. Should I-" "Start taking your coat off, mhm." "Got it. Are you gonna–" "Yup. Didn't bring any condoms with me." Your cheeks flush as you queue the same stupid sex playlist you made three years ago as he silently takes the exit before the one for the expressway, tonguing his cheek as he drives into the still-dark solace of the woods. You have your shirt off by the time he finds the same spot you found three years ago, and by the time he kills the engine, you're in the backseat.

"Hey, Chan?" The opening notes of Kiss It Better by Rihanna fill the car as he all but rips his coat off.

"Yes, Y/N?" "I love you." He smiles, kissing you tenderly as he lays you down in your backseat.

"I love you, baby."

haologram © 2024 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[aliendes]

me rn writing like three different fics

okay, yes, I know that comma isn't supposed to be there but I want the reader to take a breath! I want a pause! Stop trying to correct me, I'm trying to control the flow of reading

[aliendes]

I’m certifiably obsessed with this couple 😭

unknown / nth ⭐ minghao x reader.

your boyfriend gives you a language lesson before bed.

★ minghao x translator/interpreter!reader a.k.a the lost in translation couple ★ word count: 1.9k ★ genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, conversation about mandarin (my reference). takes place post-lost in translation! not entirely necessary to have read the fic prior to this. title is from hozier's song of the same name. not proofread. ★ footnotes: minghao did a brief weibo live and i've been missing lost in translation for quite some time now, so i jammed this out really quick 🚬🦆 may write more for/about this couple in the near future, so take this as the first of many! ♡

“I think Cold Love really represents me well. It’s probably because I’m an INFJ.”

You press your palm to your mouth to stifle your laugh. Minghao doesn’t react visibly, but his hand waves at you off-camera. A wordless reminder of Be nice. 

The two of you are across the room from each other— him, perched on the couch of his hotel room, while you’re already tucked in bed. Minghao had promised his fans a quick Weibo live to discuss his most recent EP, leaving you to your own devices for the next hour or so. 

You didn’t mind. It was one of life’s simple joys, listening to your boyfriend talk. 

He spends the next thirty minutes or so discussing his creative process and answering fans’ questions. You don’t bother him, knowing you’ll have all the time in the world later to tease him for some of his remarks. Like his indignance at growing taller or his jabs at his age. 

As you busy yourself with mindlessly scrolling through your phone, you relish in the familiar sound of Minghao’s Mandarin. It’s probably your favorite version of white noise, really. The mellow tone of his voice contrasts the rapid, sharp way that he speaks. Despite being well-acquainted with the language, there are still some words that elude you. You make a mental note to ask Minghao about them later. 

Less than an hour has passed before you hear Minghao beginning to wind down. “Good luck on all of your exams. To the people working, keep working hard! Make lots of money,” he says hurriedly. “And good luck with love, too. I hope you all find someone who loves you back so you can experience all sorts of feelings.” 

He’s never been the type to drag out his goodbyes, so you’re not surprised when— after a final heart sign and wave to the camera— Minghao is finally clocking out of his live. 

Immediately, he slumps back onto the couch like the whole thing had drained him. Sure, lives weren’t necessarily one-sided, but he did have to hard carry when it came to the talking part of the affair. You flash him a sympathetic smile as you sit up in bed. 

“Done, xīngān?” you call out. 

Minghao doesn’t respond right away. You don’t hold it against him. He sometimes needed a moment, needed a minute or two to pull himself together. 

After staring at the ceiling for what feels like forever, Minghao lets out a shuddering exhale. “Done,” he responds, and he’s moving before you can register it. 

He gets to his feet and crosses the room in a few, quick strides. Once he gets to the bed, he wastes no time in reaching for you. His knees sink in the mattress; his hands dart out. 

You let out a slight squeal when Minghao tugs you into him. 

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. This had been a premeditated act. You can tell in the way his arms immediately snake around your waist. 

You let out a defeated sigh against his chest, but make no move to pull away. “Tired?” you ask, your hands resting on the small of his back as you return his embrace. 

He hums a quiet ‘mhm’. “I’m not built for this anymore, xīngān,” he whines. 

The two of you know that’s a bold-faced lie. Still, you indulge your sulking boyfriend lest he begin to pout even harder. “My poor baby,” you coo, running your hands up and down Minghao’s back in a show of comforting him. “Gonna blame it on being an introvert?” 

“Shut up.” 

You let out a small laugh. You can’t see it, but you swear you can feel the curve of Minghao’s smile as he presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head. 

“Thank you for being here,” he says after a moment of comfortable silence. “It means a lot.” 

A part of you wants to insist that it’s nothing. It’s not every day that you can steal away to his hotel room, though. In between your own work of interpreting for the boys and working on subtitles for videos, there’s also the added layer of keeping your relationship on the down low. 

Tonight, Minghao had just tried to asked. Texted a couple of hours ago that he wanted to see you. And you could never really deny him anything, not even on your best days. 

“Anything for you,” you respond as you stroke the short hair at his nape. 

Minghao buries his face in the crook of your neck, his smiling mouth warm as he mumbles against your skin. “Don’t give me that much power,” he warns. “I’ll abuse it.” 

You chuckle. “I don’t doubt that.” 

The two of you lapse into another bout of quiet. This had always been your way, even back when the two of you were friends: Comfortable silences, unspoken agreements. Your new relationship had only given you two the carte blanche to be a little more touchy during your shared moments of peace. 

You’re fairly sure that Minghao has fallen asleep when he speaks up again. “How do you think I did?”

“With the live?” 

“No, with cuddling. Yes, with the live.” 

“Ask nicely.”

“Please?” 

You put Minghao out of his misery by returning his earlier gesture— leaving a quick kiss, this time to the line of his jaw. “Stellar as usual,” you reassure him. “I didn’t pick up on everything, though.” 

“That’s new.” Minghao shifts around on the bed until he can prop himself up on one elbow. He rests his chin in his hand but doesn’t stray too far. He stays hovering over you, his free arm remaining around your waist. 

He goes on to goad, “Your Mandarin must be getting rusty.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, shooting him a half-hearted glare. “How can it be rusty,” you retort, slipping into the language as if to prove a point. “When you’re always insisting that we use it?” 

No matter how many times that you speak to him in his mother tongue, Minghao always seems momentarily startled. The surprise always fades into affection, evident in the fond way that he gazes down at you. 

He matches your code switch without missing a beat. “I’ve told you, haven’t I? I love it when you speak Mandarin,” he says, punctuating his words with a quick pinch to your side. 

You swat his hand; he giggles down at you.

“Which parts did you miss out on?” he asks. 

It takes you a moment to recall the terms and phrases you’d wanted to question him about. “撒娇?” you ask, the unfamiliar word sounding almost hesitant on your tongue. Sājiāo.

A thoughtful ‘ahhh’ escapes Minghao. “Think of it like aegyo,” he offers delicately. “It’s— often in the setting of a relationship. Acting cute to be endearing.” 

“Like when you gripe about me not responding fast enough.” 

“Examples aren’t necessary,” he says wryly. “But, yes. Like that.” 

You flash Minghao a grin before snuggling a little closer to him, entangling your legs. The added touch makes his expression softens in the way it only ever does when it’s you. 

“Anything else?” he prompts. 

It’s not everyday that Minghao gets to play the ‘teacher’ role in your relationship. In the beginning, you had been his Korean tutor. In the longer run, you had helped him translate and transpose words that he couldn’t reach. Every so often, you would run to him for some Mandarin help, and you could tell that he relished in the shift in dynamic. 

The thought pushes you to keep asking, even though the words are inconsequential. “You used the term 暖男,” you note. “What was that one?” 

“Nuǎnnán,” he echoes, correcting your intonation. You repeat the word as he said it, and he gives a small smile of approval.

“It’s our version of ‘nice guy’,” he explains. “But it’s rooted a lot in culture. A nuǎnnán is a man who can be considered inherently warm-hearted in an otherwise patriarchal society. And no—” Minghao’s tone takes on a more chiding quality when he sees you about to interrupt. “Do not try to call me a nuǎnnán.” 

You jut out your lower lip slightly. “Why not?” 

The arm that Minghao had around your waist rises, just enough so he can tap the tip of your scrunched nose. “Don’t pull out sājiāo on me,” he scolds. 

It’s not necessary for you to act cute. Your boyfriend would be endeared by you either way. 

You chuckle at being caught, and Minghao’s sternness mellows. “One last.” You hold up a finger as you try to nail the phrase that had first caught your attention. “裸婚?” 

There’s a flicker of surprise on Minghao’s expression. “That was from a fan making a joke,” he warns before repeating the word himself. “Luǒhūn translates to— hear me out, okay?— ‘naked marriage’.” 

The sight of your raised eyebrow draws a sharp laugh from Minghao. “It’s another one of those cultural things,” he says. 

When he doesn’t add onto his words, you shoot him an incredulous look. 

“What?” he asks with feigned innocence.

“That’s it?” you prod. “You’re not going to explain what ‘naked marriage’ means?” 

“You have access to the internet, don’t you?” 

“Xīngān.” 

“That’s me.” 

At Minghao’s continued evasion, you merely huff and give up. It’s getting late, anyway, and he has to be up early in the morning for sound check. Come tomorrow, you’ll have to slip away before anyone can come looking for either of you. The boys aren’t privy to your relationship yet, and God forbid any of the other staff find out.

“Fine,” you say, unable to resist the urge to just be a little haughty. “Let’s go to sleep.” 

Minghao is undeterred by your contempt. If anything, it only makes him smile a little wider, gives him an excuse to pull you into his chest. He goes to cradle the back of your head, his fingers playing with the strands of your hair. 

You lean into his touch, burying your face into the front of his shirt. There it is again. Those few, precious moments where the two of you can just bask in each other’s presence. 

The silence stretches on this time. You’re properly drowsy by the time Minghao speaks up, his words quiet as he mumbles them against your shoulder. 

“No house, no car, no fancy ring,” he murmurs, his tone contemplative and sleepy. “Luǒhūn.” 

“A naked marriage,” you respond mid-yawn. 

“Mhm.”

“Nothing but love.” 

“You got it.” 

The conversation feels like it’s teetering on the verge of something consequential, something of value. But with the two of you already halfway asleep in each other's arms, there’s not much you can do besides exchange some light pecks and mumbled words.

“I think I’d want at least a house before getting married,” you say. “Or, like, an apartment.”

“What, you wouldn’t live out on the streets with me?” he teases lowly. 

Your eyes flutter close. “You would have to convince me,” you shoot back. 

Minghao responds with a lingering kiss to your forehead. 

“How long will it take to convince you?” 

It’s a little too early in your relationship for the topic of marriage to be seriously brought up. It’s fun to dream about, though. To talk about in hushed tones, to toy with in Minghao’s mother tongue. 

To imagine a time where this might be your every night— falling asleep in each other’s arms. 

“Might take you years and years,” you answer, a giggle rising from the back of your throat. 

Minghao’s arms shake as he laughs. His lips stay on your head, almost like he can’t bear to peel away from you for a minute too long. 

“I don’t mind,” he says as the two of you begin to succumb to sleep. 

The last thing you hear is his affectionate, soft promise of, “I’ll start working on convincing you, xīngān.” 

[aliendes]

The anon button is not for hate. The anon button is for horny and embarrassed about it.