atinyjules

[atinyjules]

Found Her In A Crowd Ft. Bad Boy!Jeno (pt. 1)

A/n: Bad boy!Jeno will always be my favourite genre.

I'll be putting up part two as well since I dont want to make it too long and risk losing it.

Genre: Bad boy au, romance, fluff, humour, best friend's sister au

Pairings: Bad boy!Jeno x Eunbi (fem oc)

Warnings: mention of alcohol, one-night stands

It was finally the weekend, and Jeno found himself doing what he did best—killing time at another party.

This one was hosted by Chenle, one of his good friends, which meant the place was already packed with familiar faces, loud music, and way too many red cups. He had greeted half the room within twenty minutes of arriving, tossed back two shots, and flirted with at least four different girls before making his way to the bar.

Now, with a half-empty beer in hand, he leaned casually against the counter, chatting with Mark, who had apparently decided tonight was more of a bar-hanging vibe than a dancing one.

“Couple of repeats here tonight,” Jeno mused aloud, scanning the crowd. “Not that I’m complaining.”

As if on cue, a pair of girls walked by—one of them flashing him a shy smile, the other tossing her hair as they passed.

Jeno smirked, lifted his chin in greeting, and they both giggled as they walked away, swaying their hips like they knew he was watching.

Which, of course, he was.

Mark took a slow sip from his drink and gave Jeno a dry look.

“You really enjoy this, don’t you?”

Jeno chuckled, eyes still following the girls. “What’s not to enjoy?”

Mark shook his head, not even surprised anymore. “You’re hopeless.”

“Confident,” Jeno corrected, tapping the neck of his bottle lightly against Mark’s. “There’s a difference.”

He turned back toward the crowd, casually scanning for someone—anyone—who didn’t look like they'd fall for a wink and a lazy smile.

Because lately… they all did. And it was starting to get boring.

Mark leaned his elbow on the counter, eyes scanning the party lazily before glancing back at Jeno.

“So,” he said, lifting a brow, “what’s the plan tonight? You gonna break a heart or break the record for fastest make-out on Chenle’s couch?”

Jeno let out a low chuckle, taking another sip of his beer.

“Meh.”

“Meh?” Mark echoed, amused.

Jeno shrugged, the corners of his lips twitching up into a lazy smirk. “If I’m interested enough, I might get drunk.”

He paused, swirling the bottle in his hand.

“Or, I dunno… maybe take a girl home.”

Mark snorted. “The enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

Jeno grinned. “You know how it is. Same girls. Same drinks. Same party, different weekend.”

Mark nodded slowly, not disagreeing. “You’re just mad no one’s slapped you yet.”

“That’d be new,” Jeno said, raising his bottle. “Spicy.”

They both laughed, easy and relaxed—two guys who had done this routine way too many times. The same playlist thumped through the speakers. People danced, some already sloppy, others buzzing and beautiful. A girl passed by and winked at Jeno, who gave her a brief smile, but didn’t really register her face.

Nothing felt exciting anymore.

Until the door opened.

And the energy shifted.

Jeno raised his beer to his lips, half-tuned into whatever Mark was rambling about, when the front door creaked open again.

A wave of unfamiliar voices and laughter floated in, and instinctively, his eyes flicked over—just in time to catch a group of new girls stepping inside.

He took a sip, swallowing slowly as his gaze followed the group. New faces. Definitely not the usual party crowd.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and quirked a brow.

“Well, well…” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Fresh blood.”

Mark followed his gaze, mildly curious. “You know them?”

Jeno shook his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up in mild amusement. “Nah. You?”

Mark gave the group another glance. “Don’t think so. Maybe they’re not from our uni?”

“Figures,” Jeno said, already smirking. “Chenle’s parties attract them from all over now.”

His eyes scanned the new arrivals, sizing them up like he always did. Cute girls, good energy. One or two made direct eye contact, already biting back smiles like they knew exactly who he was. He smiled back—automatic, lazy, practiced.

And then—

She walked in.

Everything else—music, chatter, clinking glasses—blurred into static.

She was different.

Unlike the others who made him grin in passing, this one made his breath catch in his throat like someone had physically hit pause on the night.

She wasn’t trying to turn heads.

She just did.

Voluminous curls bounced around her shoulders with every graceful step. Her makeup was minimal, but somehow made her features more striking. Doll-like eyes framed by soft lashes, a soft flush on her cheeks, and those glossy, plump lips that looked like they belonged in a commercial and a dream at the same time.

Her outfit was sleek and fashionable—well-fitted without being flashy. Sculpted, elegant, feminine without being soft. She walked like she knew every eye was on her… and didn’t care.

“Holy sh—” Jeno whispered under his breath.

Mark raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Jeno didn’t even look at him. His smirk was gone—replaced by something else. Curiosity. Fascination. Something deeper, heavier.

“Nothing,” Jeno muttered. But it wasn’t nothing.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t even glance in his direction.

And that, somehow, made her even more captivating.

He leaned back against the bar, eyes never leaving her figure as she greeted one of her friends and laughed—a soft sound that felt like it didn’t belong in this loud, drunken mess of a house party.

Jeno set his beer down slowly, lips parting as he murmured—

“Who is she?”

Jeno didn’t even try to hide it—his gaze followed her every step as she made her way into the room.

He let his eyes roam, slowly, instinctively—taking her in from head to toe.

Her body was sculpted in all the right places. Curves in the perfect balance between sharp and soft, the kind of figure that demanded attention without screaming for it. She moved with ease, confidence radiating off her like perfume—luxurious, unbothered, untouchable.

Every piece of her was curated. Effortless, but deliberate.

He licked his bottom lip without meaning to, still leaning back, sizing her up like she was the main event and everything else was just filler.

And then—her head turned.

She met his eyes.

His smirk curled up immediately, slow and sure—like a challenge. Like he’d just been waiting for her to notice.

Got you.

Except… she didn’t fall for it.

Not even close.

She let her eyes rest on him for a beat, long enough to make sure he knew she saw him—then chuckled softly, lips quirking into the faintest amused smile before she rolled her eyes teasingly and turned back to her friends.

Like he was cute, maybe.

But not worth interrupting her conversation for.

Jeno blinked. The smirk faltered just half a second.

Mark, who had been watching the whole exchange, tried not to laugh.

“Ohh,” he said under his breath. “That looked painful.”

Jeno didn’t respond right away.

He just stared.

Eyes still locked on the back of her head, processing.

She laughed again, this time with her friends, and Jeno swore the sound was silk.

“Seriously …Who is she?” he muttered again.

Mark shrugged. “Still don’t know. But you looked like you just got humbled.”

Jeno exhaled a low laugh, dragging his hand through his hair.

No one ever reacted like that. Not to him. Not to his smirk.

But she did.

And she made it look good.

—

Eunbi didn’t party much, but when she did she made sure it was worth it.

Eunbi stood in front of her vanity, curling the last section of her thick, voluminous hair. Soft spirals bounced over her shoulders, framing her face as she leaned in to apply a layer of clear gloss. Her lips glistened, plump and perfect under the soft lighting.

Behind her, the apartment was loud with voices and laughter.

“Eunbi! Are you wearing that skirt with that top?” Soojin called from the hallway, struggling to zip up her heels.

“Yes,” Eunbi replied calmly.

“You’re going to ruin lives tonight,” Naeun grinned, adjusting her gold hoops in the mirror they all fought over.

“She ruins lives just breathing,” Mirae chimed in dramatically, throwing herself onto the couch with a fake gasp.

“I can’t even lie,” Yura muttered as she checked her eyeliner. “I’d date her if I didn’t love men so much.”

Eunbi just smiled to herself. Her outfit was simple, but lethal—a draped, form-hugging crop top paired with a low-waisted black miniskirt that sat perfectly on her hips. She slipped into her knee-high leather-heeled boots and grabbed her tiny handbag.

Classy. Clean. Confident.

“Okay. You ready to destroy hearts?” Soojin teased, nudging her.

“I’m ready to dance and mind my business,” Eunbi replied, tossing her curls back with a slight smirk.

The five of them made their way down the street, a walking fashion editorial. Heels clicking, perfume lingering, laughter carrying into the night.

“I still don’t get how we got invited to this,” Mirae said, slightly breathless from walking fast in heels.

“My cousin’s boyfriend knows the guy throwing it,” Naeun explained. “I think his name’s Chenle? Apparently, he throws legit parties.”

“God, I hope it’s better than last week’s ‘party,’” Soojin groaned. “Two guys, a Bluetooth speaker, and warm beer? I almost cried.”

“I did cry,” Yura added. “From boredom.”

Eunbi chuckled. “I’m just hoping for good music and some space to breathe.”

“And maybe some cute boys?” Mirae wiggled her brows.

Eunbi smiled, shaking her head. “You girls can do the picking up. I’m just here for the vibe.”

They laughed as they reached the apartment. Even from outside, they could hear the bass thumping through the walls.

When the door opened, they paused at the entrance.

The space was wide and open, the lights low and warm, music pumping through proper speakers. People danced in the center, others gathered near the bar or couches, drinks in hand, laughter spilling everywhere.

This… was an actual party.

“Okay, this is promising,” Naeun nodded.

Eunbi stepped in confidently, her boots tapping against the hardwood floor as she looked around, instantly drawing eyes without even meaning to.

A proper house party. Stylish. Loud. Alive.

And she was ready.

She adjusted the strap of her top and scanned the room out of habit. Not looking for anyone. Just observing.

Then she felt it.

That stare.

You didn’t have to be a psychic to know when someone was looking at you—especially like that.

Her gaze slowly drifted toward the corner of the room where a tall guy leaned lazily against the wall, red cup in one hand, jawline sharp enough to slice through glass.

He smirked the moment their eyes met.

Of course he did.

The cocky ones always smirked.

She held his gaze for a beat, long enough to let him think maybe, but then she chuckled and rolled her eyes with a small, almost amused smile and turned back to her friends.

Let him wonder.

She wasn’t here to impress anyone. Especially not another troublemaker with too much charm and no idea how to handle a woman who actually knew her worth.

“Eunbi,” her roommate whispered beside her, nudging her arm. “That guy was totally checking you out.”

“I noticed.”

“And?”

She smiled calmly. “He’s cute. And full of himself.”

“So you’re into it.”

Eunbi laughed softly. “I’m not into predictable.”

Eunbi had drifted away from the dance floor not long after they arrived. Her friends were already getting cozy with their new “friends” for the night–dancing, laughing, sharing drinks like they’d known each other for years.

She, on the other hand, wanted something lighter.

She made her way to the bar, sliding onto the stool with a grace that contrasted the chaotic energy of the party. Her outfit caught eyes as she crossed her legs, but she didn’t notice, or maybe she just didn’t care.

“I’ll have a virgin mojito, please,” she told the guy behind the counter.

Moments later, she was sitting with a chilled cocktail in hand, mint leaves floating gently in the glass, condensation slipping down the side as the music thumped in the background.

She sipped quietly, letting her eyes scan the room.

It was nice, really. Good music, actual space to breathe, and not too many people stumbling over themselves drunk. Her lips curled slightly as she spotted Mirae already deep in conversation with some guy who clearly thought he was funnier than he was. Soojin and Yura were practically dancing circles around two athletes, and Naeun was busy exchanging numbers with a guy wearing sunglasses indoors.

Typical.

Eunbi turned back to her drink, swirling the straw between her fingers.

She didn’t notice the figure approaching, at least not right away.

It was only when a shadow leaned against the bar next to her, and she caught a faint whiff of cologne—clean, cool, faintly expensive—that she looked up.

And there he was.

That guy from earlier.

Leather jacket. Sharp jaw. That same lazy smirk playing on his lips like he already knew something she didn’t.

“You don’t drink?” he asked, glancing at her cocktail.

Eunbi didn’t blink. “I do.”

“Then what’s that?”

“A choice.”

He grinned at that, clearly amused. “A good one?”

She took another sip. “Better than warm beer, that’s for sure.”

He laughed softly, resting his elbow on the bar as he turned slightly toward her. “You’re not from our uni, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Makes sense,” he said, tilting his head. “I’d remember you.”

Eunbi smiled, soft and polite. “Is that supposed to flatter me?”

He leaned in just a little, eyes glinting. “Would it, if I said yes?”

She chuckled and turned back to her drink. "Not really.”

He paused, watching her with more intrigue than before. She wasn’t dismissing him, but she wasn’t giving him anything, either. Not even her name.

Which, for Jeno, was rare.

Very rare.

He extended a hand, playful but not pushy. “I’m Jeno.”

Eunbi looked at his hand, then up at him, considering for a second.

Then smiled.

And didn’t take it.

“I know,” she said sweetly. “You’ve got a reputation.”

Jeno raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Do I?”

She just sipped her drink again, eyes dancing with amusement. “Mhmm.”

She was clever.

Not just pretty–clever.

The kind of girl who didn’t just know she was attractive but knew how to use it. Not in a manipulative way, no. In a dangerous way—effortless, confident, and completely in control.

And it was killing him.

He kept his grin steady, the same one that worked nine times out of ten. He tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on her lips as she took another slow sip of her cocktail.

“So,” he tried again, letting his tone drip with charm, “are you going to tell me your name, or do I have to keep calling you ‘the mysterious mojito girl’ in my head?”

She hummed softly, not even looking at him. “Mojito girl has a nice ring to it.”

Jeno chuckled. “Alright, Mojito Girl. Do you always shut guys down this smoothly?”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “Only when they think they’re the main character.”

“Oh, I am the main character,” he shot back, flashing her that signature smirk again.

“And yet,” she said, finally turning to him fully, elbow resting on the bar as she met his gaze head-on, “you still don’t know my name.”

That made him laugh out loud.

She was quick. Sharp. Refined. Every word felt like a chess move, and she hadn’t let him win a single round.

“You’re good,” he said, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I mean it. Most girls tell me their name in the first five minutes.”

She raised a brow. “Most girls probably want you to remember them.”

He leaned in, voice lower now. “And you don’t?”

Her lashes fluttered briefly, but her expression didn’t waver. “You’ll remember me either way.”

He paused.

Damn.

She wasn’t just good, she was dangerous.

He let the silence sit between them, his smirk softer now, more genuine. This wasn’t just a chase anymore. This was fun.

“You always this hard to crack?” he asked.

“Depends who’s asking.”

Jeno nodded slowly, eyes still locked on her. “Fair enough.”

She glanced at her phone, then slid off the barstool in one smooth motion. Her boots touched the ground with a click, her silhouette still flawless even in the dim party light.

“I’ll see you around,” she said casually, walking past him.

And then, just before disappearing back into the crowd, she turned over her shoulder with a smirk.

“Nice meeting you, main character.”

Jeno stood frozen for a second, blinking at the spot she’d just been standing in.

Then he broke into a slow, stunned laugh, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.

“I need her name.”

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The sun was up, but Jeno’s mind was stuck on last night.

His motorcycle rumbled as he pulled into the campus lot, leather jacket tugged over his shoulders and helmet hanging from his grip. He should’ve been thinking about class—or at least about what excuse he’d give for not turning in his assignment.

But instead, all he could see was her.

Mojito Girl.

The way she smirked. The way she shut him down so effortlessly, like she’d seen through every smooth line before he even spoke. He could still hear her voice echoing in his head.

“You’ll remember me either way.”

Yeah. He did.

He hadn’t even gotten her name.

Jeno sighed and parked, kicking the stand down just as a familiar black car rolled into the lot and slid into the spot next to him.

Chenle.

Jeno blinked, looked up at the sky for a second, then muttered, “Thank you, universe.”

Helmet forgotten, he jogged over to Chenle’s driver side as the other guy stepped out, yawning and adjusting his hoodie.

“Yo,” Jeno greeted quickly. “Need your help.”

Chenle paused mid-stretch. “What, already? I just got here.”

“Do you remember that group of girls who came to your party last night?”

Chenle tilted his head. “There were a lot of girls last night.”

Jeno clicked his tongue. “The ones who weren’t from our uni.”

“Ohhh,” Chenle said, snapping his fingers. “Yeah. My friend’s girlfriend invited them.”

Jeno’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

Chenle smirked. “What, one of them catch your eye?”

“Something like that,” Jeno muttered, scratching his jaw.

“Can you—do you have pictures from last night?”

Chenle raised a brow, grinning. “What, fall in love or something?”

“Just check.”

Laughing, Chenle pulled out his phone and started scrolling through his camera roll. He flipped past dozens of chaotic party shots—dancing, drinks, blurry selfies.

“Here,” he said, holding the screen out.

Jeno leaned in, eyes scanning until—

There.

Her.

She was in the background of one of the group shots, laughing, her curls falling over her shoulder, her arm hooked casually with one of her friends. She wasn’t even looking at the camera, but Jeno felt his chest tighten slightly at the sight.

“That one,” he said, pointing. “Do you know her?”

Chenle squinted. “Ohhh! Yeah, I know her, but I don’t know her.”

Jeno’s brows pulled together. “What does that even mean?”

“She’s the friend of a friend’s girlfriend’s cousin or something,” Chenle said breezily. “They came through my friend's girlfriend. I just remember she was from that all-girls university across town.”

Jeno straightened a little. “You know her major?”

Chenle nodded. “Yeah, I think she’s a fashion major or something. Makes sense, right? All of them were dressed like models.”

Jeno stared at the phone a second longer before stepping back, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

A fashion major.

Mojito Girl was starting to take shape.

“Why?” Chenle asked, smirking. “You planning to track her down?”

Jeno smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the image in his head more than the screen.

“Maybe.”

Jeno stared at the picture again.

She was laughing—caught mid-smile, curls falling down her back, outfit sharp and unforgettable. He smirked to himself and sent the photo to his own phone before slipping Chenle’s device back into his hand.

“She’s worth finding,” he muttered.

And from that moment on, he tried.

Every party, every event—even the boring ones—Jeno showed up. He leaned on connections, asked casual questions, kept his ears open. Nothing. Every pretty face he glanced at just reminded him she wasn’t there. He even tried Instagram, searched tags from the party, scrolled through Chenle’s friends-of-friends.

But it turns out “mysterious mojito girl” was surprisingly untraceable without a name.

It was both maddening and... oddly addicting.

—

Two Weeks Later

He’d nearly given up when it happened.

Another weekend, another house party—this time at Renjun’s place. Jeno wasn’t expecting much, just some drinks, music, and a night to zone out.

He was mid-conversation with Haechan, lazily listening to him rant about how punch shouldn’t taste like cough syrup, when something made him pause.

Laughter.

Not just any laugh.

Her laugh.

His head turned immediately—and there she was.

Standing near the kitchen counter in an off-shoulder top, curls bouncing as she chuckled at something her friend whispered. She looked exactly the same—and somehow even better. Radiant, warm, completely untouched by the chaos of the party.

Jeno didn’t hesitate.

He handed Haechan his drink without a word and beelined through the crowd, dodging limbs and laughter until he reached her.

No cheesy lines this time. Just a smirk, and a chilled can of Coke, held out silently in front of her.

Eunbi turned, mid-laugh, and blinked when she saw the hand.

Then the smirk.

And the guy.

Her lips curled instantly.

“You again,” she said, tilting her head.

Jeno leaned slightly closer, eyes playful. “What a coincidence.”

He motioned with the can. “Peace offering.”

Her friend giggled behind her hand, already backing away with a mischievous wink.

Eunbi sighed, clearly used to this kind of setup, and took the can gently, her fingers brushing his.

“Extra points,” she said, cracking it open, “for getting me chilled Coke.”

Jeno’s grin deepened. “Only the best for Mojito Girl.”

She sipped slowly, amused. “Still calling me that, huh?”

“You haven’t given me anything else.”

Eunbi looked at him over the rim of the can, her glossy lips curving. “Maybe I just enjoy watching you try.”

Jeno leaned against the counter beside her, unbothered. “Then I’ll keep trying.”

Eunbi leaned one elbow on the counter, sipping her Coke like it was wine, her lashes casting soft shadows over her cheeks. She didn’t say anything, but her smile lingered.

Jeno took that as an opening.

“You know,” he said casually, turning to face her fully, “I’ve been going to every party the last two weeks hoping you’d magically show up.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Really? That desperate to get me to try actual alcohol?”

He laughed under his breath. “No. That desperate to get your name.”

Eunbi tilted her head. “You could’ve just asked for my number.”

Jeno leaned in a little, voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “Oh, I would’ve. But Mojito Girl disappeared before I could get past round one.”

She took another sip, unbothered. “Maybe I like keeping guys on their toes.”

“Maybe I like girls who make it worth the chase,” he replied smoothly.

She turned slightly to face him, her knee brushing his leg—casual, confident.

“Oh, so I’m worth chasing now?” she asked with a light smirk.

Jeno smirked back. “Trust me. You have no idea.”

Eunbi chuckled and looked away for a moment, cheeks rising just slightly. She was enjoying this—but not letting him win so easily.

“So what’s the plan now?” she asked, sipping her drink. “You going to follow me around all night with chilled beverages and compliments?”

He grinned. “If that’s what it takes.”

She gave a mock sigh. “Pity. I was starting to enjoy the mystery.”

“I’m still a mystery,” he said, placing his hand on the counter beside hers. “You just haven’t unwrapped me yet.”

She let out a laugh—genuine this time, lips parting as her eyes sparkled. “That was so bad.”

“You smiled,” he said, smug.

“Out of pity.”

“Still counts."

She rolled her eyes playfully and nudged his arm with her shoulder. “You’re relentless.”

Jeno smiled, eyes softening just a bit. “Only when I find something rare.”

And for a moment, there was a silence between them—not awkward, not tense. Just… a beat. A shared breath. A feeling like the noise of the party faded for just a second.

She rolled her eyes, lips curving as she set the Coke can down on the counter with a soft clink.

“Alright,” she said, finally extending her hand with a sly smile, “you’ve earned it.”

Jeno straightened slightly, eyes flicking to her hand—then back to her face.

“I’m Bi,” she said simply. “Just Bi.”

His brows rose with interest. “Bi?”

She nodded once, lips pressed into a knowing smile. “Short. Easy to remember.”

He took her hand, grip smooth but light, clearly savoring the moment. “I like it. Bi.”

“I figured you would,” she replied, letting her hand slip from his with just the right amount of reluctance. “One syllable. Harder to forget.”

Jeno grinned, leaning his elbow on the counter beside her. “And yet you’re still giving me half the story.”

“Maybe,” she said, sipping her Coke again, “because half the story is more fun.”

He tilted his head. “So it’s a test?”

“It’s a game,” she corrected. “The question is—are you smart enough to win it?”

Jeno let out a soft, almost breathy laugh. “Bi, I’ve been going to every party for two weeks looking for you. I’m not going anywhere.”

She turned to him fully then, one brow raised, playful but impressed. “Dedication. I’ll give you that.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dipping. “Then give me a name that’s not a nickname.”

She chuckled. “You already got a name. One most people don’t get.”

Jeno exhaled, grinning again. “Alright. Bi it is.”

Another beat passed between them, quiet but heavy with interest.

She toyed with her straw a little, then glanced sideways at him. “So what now?”

“I was thinking…” he said, standing a little straighter, “round two.”

Bi laughed softly, the sound soft and sweet beneath the music. “And what exactly does that involve?”

Jeno smiled. “You. Me. Less Coke. More conversation.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Smooth.”

“You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

He smirked. “Good enough for me.”

—

The party had started to wind down when Eunbi decided to leave.

She didn’t say much—just stood, offered him a playful look, and said,

“See you around, main character.”

And then she was gone again.

Jeno didn’t chase after her. He didn’t need to.

She’d given him her name—well, sort of. They’d laughed, flirted, bantered. He'd made her smile. That was more progress than he’d had in weeks.

He walked out of the house in a relaxed daze, hands in his pockets, lips still tugging up at the memory of her voice. The way she said “Bi.”

The night air was cool against his skin as he made his way to his motorcycle parked by the curb, party noise fading behind him.

For once, he felt content.

And then it hit him.

He stopped mid-step.

Paused.

Blinking at the ground like it had just insulted him.

“…wait.”

His head whipped up. “No way.”

He didn’t ask for her number.

He didn’t get her number.

He blinked again, then let out a sharp groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair and turned to his bike.

Then—bam—he kicked it once, the side of his boot hitting the tire hard enough to rock it slightly.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the handlebars like they were responsible for this colossal mistake. “You had one job.”

It wasn’t even about hooking up. He just wanted to talk to her again. To keep that momentum. To see her smile without fighting through three parties and twenty strangers.

Now he had her nickname, her laugh, and zero way to reach her.

He exhaled heavily, swinging one leg over the seat and gripping the handles.

Still, despite the irritation gnawing at him…

That smile?

Totally worth it.

Jeno revved the engine of his bike that night, still cursing under his breath, but by the time he hit the road, his jaw was set.

1Next time I see her… I’m not walking away without her number.

Not “maybe.” Not “if it happens.”

He’d find her. And when he did, there’d be no games, no forgetting.

He’d ask. Direct. Bold. No chance to miss again.

—

It had been a week and a half.

Jeno wasn’t expecting much when he showed up at a small rooftop kickback—music low, lights soft, nothing crazy. He came mostly because Haechan dragged him out, promising, “You’ve been acting weirdly romantic. You need alcohol and chaos.”

He didn’t find either.

But what he did find—was her.

She was sitting on the edge of the rooftop wall, legs crossed at the ankle, hair down in soft waves tonight. A white button-up shirt tucked into a black miniskirt, boots high as always, and a can of soda in her hand.

She was mid-laugh when he saw her, talking to a friend—but she paused as if sensing someone watching.

And then her eyes found his.

And just like that, her smile deepened.

Jeno smirked.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

He strolled up, hands in his jacket pockets, and stopped just in front of her. “Hey, Bi.”

Eunbi blinked once, that amused sparkle already forming in her eyes. “You again.”

“I told you,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Persistent,” she mused, sipping her drink. “You’ve got that down.”

“I’m also smarter this time.”

“Oh?” she asked, tilting her head.

He smiled slowly. “Will you give me your number?”

Her lashes fluttered slightly, lips curling as she looked him up and down, unbothered. “Hmm…”

Then she smirked. “Earn it.”

Jeno let out a low laugh. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He stepped closer, just enough to make her straighten a little on instinct. “Alright,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “Should I start with compliments?”

She raised a brow, interested. “Go on.”

He glanced at her drink. “You make soda look expensive.”

She snorted. “Lame.”

“Okay, okay,” he grinned. “You make a rooftop feel like a runway.”

Eunbi chuckled. “That’s better.”

He took one more step, now close enough to lower his voice. “You make it very, very hard to talk to anyone else.”

She looked at him—just a little longer this time.

Her smile didn’t falter.

But her gaze warmed.

“I’ll give you points for effort,” she said.

“Phone number level points?”

She smiled and then—without warning—she pushed herself off the edge of the rooftop wall and stepped toward him, slow and deliberate.

She closed the space between them with quiet confidence, and Jeno barely had time to react before her arms slid around his neck.

His hands instinctively found her waist, but his eyes didn’t move from hers.

Eunbi tilted her head, close enough that he could smell the light sweetness of her perfume.

Then Eunbi brushed past him, arms slipping from around his neck like silk—but Jeno didn’t let her get too far.

His hands stayed gently on her waist, holding her there—not forcefully, but deliberately.

She paused.

Slowly, she turned to look over her shoulder, a brow slightly raised—expecting another one of his lines.

But Jeno didn’t smirk this time.

He looked at her.

And with his voice lower, steadier, more sincere, he said,

“You’re pretty.”

The words weren’t loud or flashy—no performance, no cheeky tone. Just quiet truth.

Eunbi blinked, her expression faltering for just a second.

Then her lips curled softly. “Do you say that to all the girls?”

Jeno’s eyes didn’t waver.

“No,” he said, smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Just you.”

And for a moment, the rooftop noise faded.

Eunbi stood there, her hand resting lightly on his chest, gaze caught in his.

And even though her smile stayed, it wasn’t as playful now.

It was curious. A little slower. A little warmer.

“…You’re trouble,” she said eventually, shaking her head with a soft laugh.

Jeno leaned in just enough to reply near her ear.

“Only if you let me be.”

Eunbi laughed softly at his last line, shaking her head—but she didn’t pull away.

Her hand was still resting lightly on his chest. His fingers still rested against her waist.

And Jeno, eyes still locked on hers, let his thumb lightly brush along the fabric of her shirt at her side as he said, voice low and confident.

“You fit perfectly in my arms.”

Eunbi’s breath hitched—barely, but enough for him to notice.

She blinked once, her smile faltering into something unreadable.

Her voice was quieter now, just above a whisper.

“You practiced that one too?”

Jeno chuckled, but this time, it was softer. Almost fond.

“No,” he murmured. “Didn’t need to.”

Her gaze dipped for a split second—almost like she didn’t know what to say. And that didn’t happen often. Not to Eunbi.

The air between them thickened, charged and quiet. There was no music up here, no party energy, just the hum of string lights, the distant noise from downstairs, and the closeness of two people circling something neither of them expected to feel.

She tilted her head a little, voice playful again—but softer.

“You always say exactly what girls want to hear?”

“I don’t say things unless I mean them,” he said, simple and steady.

And for a second… she believed him.

Really believed him.

But Eunbi being Eunbi, she still smiled, still slipped out of his hold just enough to lean back with that signature tilt of her head.

“I bet that’s what you told the last one too.”

Jeno smirked, hands dropping reluctantly to his sides.

“There hasn’t been a ‘last one’ since you showed up.”

She arched a brow, pretending not to react. But her lips curved anyway.

And this time, as she turned to walk away, she didn’t rush.

She walked slowly.

Letting him watch her go.

And just before she disappeared into the rooftop crowd again—

She looked back.

And smiled.

—

The night air was cool, biting at his skin through his shirt as he shrugged on his leather jacket. Another party. Another almost-moment.

Again.

She always showed up like a damn eclipse—unexpected, impossible to look away from, and gone before he could blink twice.

He sighed, fishing into his jacket pocket for his bike key, his other hand running through his messy hair.

His fingers brushed something unfamiliar.

Paper?

Frowning, he pulled it out.

It was a small, neatly folded square—soft at the edges like it had been in there a while, but he knew it hadn’t been there before tonight.

He unfolded it slowly.

Two words. One number.

Eunbi.

XXX-XXX-XXXX

He stared.

No dramatic lipstick print. No “call me ;)”. Just a clean name and number.

She’d done it so casually, so sneakily, he hadn’t even noticed.

Jeno blinked, then let out a low laugh—more shocked than anything.

“Eunbi,” he murmured, rolling the name across his tongue like a secret.

Finally.

He leaned back against his bike seat, paper still between his fingers, heart doing something weird in his chest. Not nervous. Not excited.

Hooked.

Jeno was back in his apartment, freshly showered, hair still damp as he sat on the edge of his bed with the paper in his hand.

He looked at her handwriting again—his thumb brushing lightly over the name.

Eunbi.

It looked even better than Bi ever did.

He smiled to himself, then pulled out his phone.

He entered the number slowly, carefully, like it mattered.

Because this time—it did.

Once he was done, he saved the contact:

Eunbi 💫

He stared at the screen for a second.

Most guys would text.

Most guys would wait.

Let her make the next move.

But he wasn’t most guys.

So without a second thought, he hit Call.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

He leaned back on his bed, one arm behind his head, eyes locked on the ceiling.

Then—click.

A soft voice came through the line.

“…Who is this?”

Jeno smirked, laying back on the bed with one arm behind his head. “You gave me your number and already forgot about me? That hurts.”

There was a pause.

Then a quiet, amused exhale.

“Jeno.”

He grinned. “Knew you’d remember.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually call tonight,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

“You slipped your number into my jacket,” he said. “What kind of man would I be if I waited?”

“Most would’ve texted.”

“And you think I’m most?”

“I hoped not,” she said, softer now.

Jeno let the silence sit for a second before replying, “So, did I pass the test?”

There was a pause, and he could hear the faint sound of a breeze and a distant car—maybe she was walking, maybe still on the way home.

“You called,” she said simply. “That’s a start.”

He smiled. “I told you I don’t play games unless you want me to.”

“Hm,” she hummed. “Still deciding if I want to.”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “You’re hard to impress.”

“I have high standards.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said, voice lower now. “I don’t mind the work.”

Another beat of silence passed—comfortable, crackling with something unnamed.

Then, his voice dipped quieter. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“Which part?” she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

“You fit perfectly in my arms.”

She went quiet on the other end.

Then—

“…Good,” she said, her voice softer than before. “Because I wasn’t exactly struggling to escape.”

Jeno exhaled a slow laugh, his eyes closing.

This wasn’t just a chase anymore.

It was the beginning of something real.

Jeno stayed lying on his bed, one arm behind his head, phone pressed to his ear. The silence between them now wasn’t awkward—it was soft, familiar, like the space between two people figuring out where to go next.

So he asked, casually, because he was trying not to sound too eager.

“What are you doing right now?”

There was a brief pause on the other end. Then, her voice—calm, quiet, and completely unexpected.

“Thinking about you.”

His eyes widened a little.

And for the first time in a while…

Lee Jeno was speechless.

A soft laugh escaped him, low and almost disbelieving. “You serious?”

“I don’t joke around this late,” she replied smoothly, but there was a hint of a smile in her tone. “Why? Surprised?”

He let out a chuckle, his free hand resting against his chest as he stared at the ceiling.

“…Yeah,” he admitted honestly. “Kind of.”

He bit back a grin, his voice dipping. “Didn’t think I was the kind of guy who ended up on your mind.”

“You’re not,” she teased, “but unfortunately, you’ve been annoyingly hard to ignore lately.”

He laughed again, but this time, his cheeks warmed.

Really warmed.

He brought a hand up, covering half his face as if that could hide the dumb smile forming.

“I didn’t think you could catch me off guard,” he mumbled.

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”

“I noticed.”

Another beat passed. This time, neither of them filled it.

Jeno just laid there, phone tucked to his ear, eyes soft now. Less flirtation. More feeling.

“You’re really something, Eunbi.”

She didn’t answer right away—but he could hear the smile through the silence.

And then, her voice came through—gentler this time.

“So are you.”

Neither of them planned to talk that long.

But once the teasing faded, and the laughs settled into softer tones, the conversation just… kept going.

From rooftop parties to favorite childhood memories, from what their majors felt like on hard days to the kind of music they listened to alone—Jeno and Eunbi talked about everything and nothing.

At one point, she told him she liked thunderstorms.

He admitted he loved riding his bike at night because of the quiet.

She asked what made him happiest.

He asked if she always had her guard up or if it just looked that way.

Somewhere in the middle, she yawned softly.

And instead of ending the call, he whispered, “Don’t hang up yet.”

So she didn’t.

And eventually, sometime around 4 AM, with both of them lying in their respective beds, phones tucked close to their ears, Jeno fell asleep to the sound of her breathing.

—

The morning sun slipped in through the half-open blinds, casting lines of gold across Jeno’s room.

He blinked awake slowly, groggy, until he heard the faint buzz of his phone against the mattress.

He grabbed it lazily, expecting a missed alarm.

But the first thing his eyes landed on was the call log.

Call ended: 6:03 AM

Duration: 8 hours 08 minutes

A slow smile stretched across his face, sleepy but full of something warm.

He stared at the screen for a second longer—then tapped her contact.

Good morning ☀️

Hope you slept okay. Have a good day today :)

He tossed the phone on the bed, dragging himself to the bathroom.

Shower. Shirt. Backpack.

Even as he tugged on his jacket and slung his bag over his shoulder, the small smile never quite left his lips.

By the time he hopped on his bike and started it up, one thought ran through his head.

This day already feels good.

And it wasn’t the weather.

Jeno strolled into class that morning with something dangerously close to a smile on his face.

It wasn’t the usual smug smirk or amused grin—

It was softer. Real.

And Jaemin, already slouched in his seat with his head resting on his hand, blinked at him like he was seeing a ghost.

“…Are you smiling?” Jaemin asked, eyebrows raised. “Like, smiling smiling?”

Jeno dropped his bag into the chair beside him, still grinning slightly as he sat down.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Guess I am.”

Jaemin narrowed his eyes. “You’re never this happy in the morning.”

Jeno leaned back, stretching a little before glancing at his friend. “There’s this girl…”

“Oh?” Jaemin perked up immediately, grinning. “Now we’re talking.”

Jeno nodded slowly, still dazed. “She makes me feel… really nice. I finally got her number yesterday. We talked for like four hours last night before falling asleep mid sleep.”

Jaemin let out a low whistle. “Four hours? You? That’s relationship behavior.”

Jeno chuckled. “Her name’s Eunbi. She studies at Sunhwa Girls University. Amazing woman. Clever. Confident. The kind of girl who doesn’t fall for your usual crap—and still somehow leaves you wanting more.”

But instead of teasing him—

Jaemin burst out laughing.

Like, full-on wheezing.

Jeno stared, a little offended. “What?”

Jaemin could barely breathe. “No freaking way—Eunbi? From Sunhwa?”

“Yeah,” Jeno said, eyes narrowing. “What’s so funny?”

Jaemin wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “Funny thing... I have a twin sister.”

Jeno blinked. “Okay? And?”

Jaemin grinned wickedly. “Her name is also Eunbi. And she also goes to Sunhwa.”

Jeno’s expression fell into a stunned pause. “Wait—what?”

Jaemin leaned in, still laughing. “Hold on, are we talking about the same Eunbi? Does she major in fashion?”

“…Yeah,” Jeno said slowly, now starting to panic.

“Long, voluminous hair?"

“Yeah…”

“Really clever. Plays hard to get. Kind of scary but, like, in a nice way?”

Jeno squinted. “…Dude.”

Jaemin slapped the desk and cackled.

“That’s my sister!” he declared proudly. “You’re talking about Na Eunbi! That’s my twin!”

Jeno looked like he’d just gotten hit by a truck. “No. Freaking. Way.”

“Yup,” Jaemin said, smug now. “Dang, man. You of all people?”

Jeno rubbed a hand down his face. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you had a twin?”

Jaemin shrugged. “Parents divorced when we were little. She stayed with Mom, I stayed with Dad. We didn’t grow up in the same house, but we’re still close. We meet when we can.”

Then, Jaemin gave him a crooked grin. “But bro… I gotta admit. You’ve got taste. She’s a Na, after all.”

Jeno just groaned. “You’re never gonna let this go, are you?”

Jaemin clapped him on the shoulder, still laughing. “Absolutely not.”

That's it for this one!

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

Denial Never Looked So Good Ft. Werewolf!Yuma

A/n: Hello, hello! Back with Yuma! I love him so much but I feel bad that there isn't much fics on him. I'll try to change that!

Genre: Werewolf au, Fantasy, Romance, Fluff, Humor

Pairings: Werewolf!Yuma x Vampire!Ayane

Warnings: none

Prom was right around the corner, and Yuma was in his room, forehead pressed against the cold window, staring blankly at nothing.

How did Taki get a date before him?

Not that he had anything against the guy. Taki was... fine. Harmless. A little too enthusiastic about cookies. But Yuma was taller. Cooler. His ears didn't twitch uncontrollably every time someone said the word "crush." Yet somehow, Taki—clumsy, loud, perpetually confused Taki—got a yes before he did.

So unfair.

Everyone in the dorm had a date now. K had secured his three weeks ago and wouldn't shut up about it. Fuma had casually mentioned his plans and then smirked like he’d known all along he wouldn’t be attending solo. EJ got asked out—asked—by someone from the enchantment class. Nicholas and Jo had double dates lined up with two charm majors from upstairs. Harua didn’t even try. A girl from the archery team dropped her number into his lunch tray with a smile.

Even Maki. Silent, broody Maki who never talked to anyone unless they had a book in hand. Apparently, some witch girl found that "hot."

And Yuma?

Yuma got rejected.

Every. Single. Time.

It wasn’t like he was being weird about it. He was polite. Casual. He asked three girls from potions, one vampire from fencing, a selkie who sat near him in magical theory—and each time they smiled awkwardly, looked away, and said something like "maybe next time" or "I have to check with my familiar" or just flat out laughed.

What did they have against him? Was there some secret anti-Yuma alliance? A hidden curse? A rumor going around that he sheds?

He sighed and flopped backwards onto his bed, arms spread wide like a man in mourning. The dorm buzzed around him with the usual noise—K rehearsing dramatic lines in the hallway, Nicholas yelling about bowties, someone blasting music two rooms down. He closed his eyes.

It wasn’t about the dance.

It was the principle.

He wasn’t about to be the only werewolf in the entire dorm without a date. Not when even Taki had secured one by smiling too hard at a necromancer in detention. Not when Jo kept referring to himself as "taken, sorry" like he was suddenly irresistible.

There were still girls left. He had a list. Sort of. Mostly mental. But it counted.

If it came down to it, he’d just keep asking until someone said yes.

He sat up slowly, arms resting on his knees. There was a girl in his magical history class who always wore gloves. Had he tried her yet?

He couldn’t remember.

Didn’t matter.

There was still hope.

He was determined.

And he was not—not—letting Taki win.

Yuma woke up early the next day.

Unreasonably early.

The sun hadn’t even fully risen, and yet there he was, standing in front of the mirror, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to flatten the one lock of hair that refused to cooperate. He spat, rinsed, and pulled a comb through his hair for the third time.

Today was the day.

He was going to find a date.

No matter what.

—

By the time he got to his first class, he was ready. Clean hoodie. Half-decent cologne. Confident posture. He asked the first girl the moment they sat down.

She already had a date.

The second girl gave him a smile and said she’d rather go with her coven sisters.

The third just said, “No thanks,” and turned back to her runes notebook.

By mid-morning, he had struck out five times.

By the end of the third class, he stopped counting.

When lunch came, Yuma dragged himself out to the bleachers instead of the cafeteria. He rested his arms on the railing, head tipped back as the warm sun lit up his face, the breeze playing with his hair. He closed his eyes.

Maybe he was cursed.

That’s when he heard footsteps.

Slow, careful, oddly delicate footsteps crossing the field.

He cracked one eye open.

There was a girl he’d never seen before.

She moved like she didn’t want to be seen, and yet, she was impossible to miss. Her dress was long and black—simple, but elegant in a way that somehow looked expensive despite showing no skin. A lace-trimmed bonnet sat on her head, the veil attached to it shadowing her face. She held a black umbrella above her as she made her way toward the cafeteria like a drifting ghost, unbothered by the noise or people around her.

Yuma blinked.

He didn’t know why, but something about her stuck in his brain.

—

Over the next few days, the rejections piled up.

He tried casual. He tried bold. He even tried a pickup line Nicholas dared him to use, and it was so bad he wanted to crawl into a locker and stay there.

But through it all, he kept seeing her.

The girl in black.

She was always by herself. Quiet. Never sat with anyone. Sometimes she read in the shade, other times she just passed through the halls like she wasn’t really there. Always the veil. Always the umbrella.

He didn’t even know her name.

And yet... he started to look for her.

He told himself it was just because she was unfamiliar. A curiosity. A break in the routine of endless “no”s.

That was all.

—

One afternoon, during rugby practice, he was mid-jump, arms outstretched as the ball sailed toward him.

And then he saw her again.

Standing in the distance, under a tree, holding her umbrella with both hands.

She wasn’t looking at him. Maybe not even at the field. Just... existing.

Yuma caught the ball with a grunt, stumbled slightly, then broke into a laugh as he straightened up.

She was weird.

And somehow, he was starting to find that kind of interesting.

Two weeks later, Yuma had been rejected so many times he stopped keeping track. It stopped being frustrating somewhere around rejection fifteen. At this point, he just floated through the motions like a ghost with decent hair and a decent personality that no one apparently wanted.

His dormmates had started pitying him more than ever. K patted his back whenever he passed him in the hallway. EJ left sympathy cookies on his desk. Even Maki, who barely showed emotion, gave him a soft, understanding nod at breakfast like he was mourning something deeply personal.

Taki didn’t say anything. He just looked at him with sad, round eyes, like he couldn’t believe he’d surpassed Yuma in anything.

It should’ve been depressing.

But Yuma? He was actually fine.

A little dead inside, maybe, but fine.

—

The cafeteria was full that day. Like shoulder-to-shoulder, magically expanded tables full. Yuma stood in the doorway with his lunch tray, scanning the room and preparing himself for the worst.

That’s when he spotted the individual seating area near the back wall—quiet, barely lit, usually avoided by loud groups.

There was one empty seat.

And it was next to her.

The girl in black.

His brain paused. His legs didn’t.

He walked over before he could think about it too much. She was already sitting, posture relaxed, one hand holding a burger, her face still mostly hidden by the veil from her bonnet. Her black umbrella leaned against the wall beside her.

He sat down quietly, not wanting to disturb her, and started eating his lunch too. A beat passed. Then another.

She took a bite of her burger, unfazed by his presence.

He glanced at her. Then, casually, with no expectations left in his heart, he asked,

“You got a date for the dance?”

She turned slightly, and since her mouth was still full, she just shook her head.

His heart thumped.

Like, actually thumped.

He blinked and said, “Cool. Wanna go with me?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Sure.”

Yuma froze.

She’d said yes.

She’d actually said yes.

Not just any girl—her. The one he’d been noticing for weeks. The one he didn’t even know how to talk to. The one who intrigued him enough that he found himself looking for her without meaning to.

He smiled—genuinely, brightly, wider than he had in days.

“Great,” he said, a little stunned.

Then she reached up and removed her bonnet, fingers working at the ties with a quiet mutter.

“It’s getting harder to wear this thing during lunch,” she said under her breath.

And then he saw her.

For the first time, clearly.

Her skin was pale, like porcelain. Her eyes were the color of molten glass—shimmering and unreadable. Her lips were soft and a little red from the burger. Her features were delicate and deadly at the same time, like something sculpted by a vampire artist centuries ago.

She looked at him.

“Yuma, right?”

He could barely nod.

“…Yeah.”

She gave him a small smile.

“Cool.”

And went back to eating like she hadn’t just accepted his invitation and revealed herself like a calm hurricane.

Yuma blinked, then looked back down at his tray.

This was real.

This was happening.

And apparently… he had a date.

She took another bite of her burger before glancing at him again.

“I’m Ayane, by the way.”

Yuma stared at her for a beat too long.

Ayane.

Of course that was her name. A name that sounded like it belonged in some ancient vampire tale or a haunting ballad sung in the woods.

He blinked and looked down at his food.

Even her name was gorgeous.

He already knew he was in trouble.

“Ayane,” he repeated, a little dazed, then looked back up at her. “I’m still trying to process that you said yes.”

She smiled, subtle but amused. “Should I take it back?”

“No—no. You’re good. Just… surprised.”

There was a pause. Then curiosity won out.

“Why do you always wear that bonnet?” he asked, nodding at the fabric resting on the table.

Ayane brushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “The sun’s too bright. I get sunburned easily. It literally burns sometimes. Even if it’s just a few minutes.”

“But the other vampires aren’t like that,” Yuma said, brows furrowed.

She nodded. “Yeah. They’re fine. My skin’s just… sensitive. Always has been.”

He glanced at her again. Her cheeks were flushed—faint, but visible under the soft cafeteria lighting. It probably was getting too warm for her.

Without thinking, Yuma reached into his bag, pulled out a folded piece of lined paper, and started fanning her with it.

Ayane blinked, caught off guard.

“…What are you doing?”

“You looked hot,” he said simply.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not in irritation—just curiosity.

“You’re fanning me with… your history notes?”

“Yep.”

She looked at him. Then at the paper. Then back at him.

And for the first time since he sat down, Ayane laughed quietly under her breath, a soft little sound that didn’t match her usual silent presence.

“…You’re strange.”

“You said yes to me. That makes two of us.”

She smiled again, eyes warmer this time, and leaned just slightly closer to let him keep fanning her.

Yuma sat there with one hand awkwardly waving the paper, heart doing whatever it wanted in his chest, and wondered how on earth this was happening—but for once, didn’t feel the need to question it too hard.

That night, the dorm was in chaos.

Not because anything serious had happened.

But because Yuma told them he got a date.

And no one believed him.

“You don’t have to lie, man,” Nicholas said, flopped across the couch with a face mask sliding off his cheek. “We support you even if you go solo. You’re still hot.”

“I’m not lying,” Yuma said, standing in the middle of the living room, arms out, genuinely baffled. “Why would I lie about this?”

EJ looked up from his phone. “Because you’ve been rejected twenty-one times and counting?”

“Twenty-three,” Maki corrected without looking up from his book.

“Twenty-three,” EJ repeated with a sympathetic wince. “Exactly.”

Harua appeared in the hallway holding a steaming mug. “Is this about the imaginary girl again?”

“She’s not imaginary!” Yuma snapped.

K leaned over the kitchen counter dramatically. “What’s her name, then?”

“Ayane.”

They all paused.

“Never heard of her,” Jo muttered.

“That’s because she’s quiet,” Yuma said. “I saw her at lunch. We sat together. She was eating a burger. She said yes.”

Taki squinted from where he was curled up on the rug. “Wait… is she the one with the creepy umbrella and the hat that covers her face? The one who looks like she floats instead of walks?”

Yuma pointed. “Yes! That one!”

Everyone stared at him.

Silence.

Then Nicholas said, “Dude, you hallucinated your way into a yes.”

“I didn’t hallucinate anything!”

“I get it,” K said, nodding gravely. “It’s the stress. You’re projecting your ideal date onto the cafeteria ghost girl.”

“She’s not a ghost!”

“You don’t know that,” Jo muttered. “I’ve never seen her eat before. What if the burger was a trick?”

“She literally bit it.”

“Maybe it was a shadow illusion.”

Yuma groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. She’s real. She’s hot. She has a name. She said yes.”

EJ gave him the most pitying look of all. “Buddy… we love you. But you’re in denial.”

“I’m not in denial!”

“You’re yelling.”

“I have to yell!”

“Do you want one of my cookies?” Taki offered gently. “They’re from a cursed bakery but they helped me feel better when I got rejected.”

Yuma threw his hands up and stormed into his room, muttering under his breath.

Behind the door, his heart was still beating a little fast from earlier, from the way she smiled, the way she said his name. From the way he’d made her laugh.

Let them believe what they wanted.

He’d prove it soon enough.

Later that night, after the noise in the dorm died down and everyone had settled into their post-dinner chaos or sleep, Yuma shifted.

He didn’t shift often unless he needed to blow off steam or think. But tonight, he couldn’t sit still. Not after being called delusional in eight different ways.

The cool air hit his fur as he padded through the trees, paws crunching softly against fallen leaves. The forest behind the academy stretched quiet and endless, soaked in moonlight. He didn’t have a destination in mind—he just moved, letting instinct guide him.

That’s when he saw her.

A dark shape near the cliffs. Familiar… but different.

Ayane.

She sat near the edge, her long hair spilling freely down her back like ink over silk. Her bonnet was gone. So were the layers of dark fabric and veils. Instead, she wore a black nightgown—simple, thin straps over pale shoulders, the material light and swaying with the breeze. Under the moonlight, she looked ethereal. Almost unreal.

Yuma froze.

She turned her head slowly, sensing him.

Her eyes met his.

She didn’t flinch.

Instead, she held out a hand toward him, palm open and gentle.

He hesitated for only a second, then padded closer, lowering his head as he approached. She didn’t pull away. When he was close enough, her fingers brushed through the fur on his head, soft and cautious at first.

Then again.

Then again.

Yuma let out a slow breath, something content rumbling in his chest as he sat beside her.

Her touch lingered in his fur. Her fingers stilled, resting between his ears as she leaned in, peering into his golden eyes with something unreadable in her gaze.

“Yuma?” she asked softly.

He blinked.

And for some reason, in that moment, he didn’t want to change back.

She knew.

And she didn’t seem scared.

Not even a little.

Just… curious.

Maybe even calm.

She smiled, brushing her fingers through his fur once more as her hair shifted in the breeze.

“You’re a good wolf,” she whispered like it was a secret meant just for him.

Ayane’s hand stayed on his head, her fingers trailing gently through his fur like she wasn’t afraid. Like she was used to silence. Like she didn’t expect words.

Her voice came softly.

“What are you doing out here?”

Yuma didn’t respond, just blinked slowly and let her keep petting him. The night air was cool. The grass beneath them swayed lightly, the cliff humming with wind and stars.

She didn’t push for an answer.

But after a long moment, Yuma stepped back, just a bit, and shifted.

The silver shimmer of his fur pulled inward until he sat cross-legged beside her, human again, his hoodie a little loose around his shoulders. He ran a hand through his messy hair and let out a quiet sigh.

“Friends annoyed me,” he muttered.

Ayane chuckled softly, looking out at the cliff again. “That’s a daily occurrence.”

He huffed a laugh. “They don’t believe I actually have a date.”

She smiled faintly, her gaze still on the moonlit trees. “That why you came out here? To sulk?”

“Not sulking,” he said defensively. “Just… walking.”

Ayane said nothing to that. She just tilted her head slightly, the wind brushing through her loose hair.

“It’s weird seeing you without the bonnet,” Yuma admitted after a beat.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s weird for me too.”

He glanced over.

“I don’t wanna wear it either,” she added. “But it gets too bright. Even if it’s cloudy, the light stings my skin. I get blotchy and itchy, and it’s just—annoying.”

Yuma frowned. Her skin had looked flushed earlier. And she’d still smiled at him, said yes, sat beside him like it was nothing.

“That sucks,” he said quietly.

She shrugged. “It’s manageable. Just hot.”

He looked at her again, sitting there in the dark without layers, and something about it bothered him—not her, but the fact that she had to hide all the time just to be comfortable.

“I can help,” he said suddenly.

Ayane turned to him, brows raising slightly. “Help?”

“Yeah. Come without the bonnet tomorrow.”

She blinked, unsure if she heard him right. “What?”

“You don’t have to wear it,” he said. “I’ll help. Just… trust me.”

She stared at him for a moment, searching his expression. His voice wasn’t teasing. His eyes weren’t mocking. He meant it. She didn’t know how, or what he had in mind, but… she found herself nodding before she could think too hard about it.

“…Okay.”

Yuma smiled at that, soft and genuine.

“Cool.”

And for a while, they sat there quietly together, two silhouettes on a cliff under a pale sky, with only the wind and stars to witness the moment.

—

The next morning, Yuma got to school early.

For once, he wasn’t dragging himself in half-asleep or rushing last minute. He walked to the usual courtyard path with something buzzing beneath his skin—a quiet energy, steady and calm.

And there she was.

Ayane stood under the shade of a tall tree near the entrance, bonnet-less, her long dark hair pulled loosely behind her. Her expression was unreadable as always, but her hands were folded neatly in front of her, and she seemed... still. Not anxious. Not hiding. Just waiting.

Yuma smiled.

“You came,” he said as he reached her.

“I said I would,” she replied simply. “But I’m still not sure why.”

He stepped closer and opened his palm between them.

“Let me show you.”

In his hand, a soft glow flickered to life—gentle, bluish-silver and warm, like morning mist turned into magic. The energy hovered in a small, pulsing orb, steady and alive.

Ayane stared, intrigued.

Then he clenched his fist.

The orb collapsed into a burst of shimmering particles—like powdered moonlight—and he lifted his hand, letting the soft dust fall over her like a breeze. It clung to her skin for a moment, before dissolving into nothing.

She blinked, confused.

“What… was that?”

“You said the sun burns, right?” he asked. “My power controls temperature—my wolf side, at least. Heat, cold, surface energy stuff. So I adjusted it.”

He nodded toward the sunlight beyond the trees.

“You can walk in the sun now. You won’t overheat. No burning.”

She blinked again.

“You’re joking.”

“Try it.”

Ayane looked at him, then at the sunlight just past the line of shade. Her body tensed, just slightly, like she was expecting pain.

But she stepped forward anyway.

One foot.

Then the other.

Into the sun.

And nothing happened.

No burning sensation. No prickling skin. No rising heat in her chest or under her eyes. She paused, eyes wide, and looked down at her bare arms.

Instead of pain, she felt a cool sensation—like walking through a shadowed breeze.

She gasped.

Not loud, not theatrical. Just a short breath of surprise.

Then she turned to him.

“…You weren’t kidding.”

Yuma shrugged, grinning. “Told you I’d help.”

She stared at him for a moment longer, then looked back at the light surrounding her. The way her hair caught in it. The way she felt normal—maybe for the first time since arriving at the academy.

“…Thank you,” she said softly, almost unsure of how to say it.

Yuma just stuck his hands in his pockets and gave a crooked smile.

“No problem.”

Ayane stood in the sunlight for a moment longer, as if making sure it wasn’t a dream. Her hands lifted slightly, feeling the air against her skin. Her eyes shimmered with a quiet kind of wonder.

Then she turned to Yuma again, still barefoot in the light, her expression softer than he’d ever seen it.

She smiled.

Not the distant, mysterious smile she wore when passing through hallways like a ghost, but something warm. Close. Real.

Then, without warning, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms gently around him.

Yuma froze.

Her body was cool against his hoodie, her hair brushing his jaw as she leaned in.

“Thank you so much, Yuma,” she said, voice muffled against his shoulder.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

Before he could even register what was happening, she pulled back just enough to lean up slightly and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

Warm. Barely there.

But it hit like lightning.

She stepped back again, her smile shy now, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as her cheeks turned faintly pink.

Yuma blinked. Then blinked again.

“…Uh…”

She laughed under her breath.

“I’ll see you in class,” she said, turning and walking toward the main building—no umbrella, no bonnet, no layers.

Just her.

And Yuma stood frozen in the courtyard with his hands still in his pockets, cheek tingling, heart racing, and absolutely zero ability to process anything that just happened.

“…What the hell,” he muttered to himself, smiling helplessly.

—

Lunch that day was louder than usual. Prom week always turned the cafeteria into a circus of flower petals, perfume spells, and frantic last-minute asking.

Yuma walked in a little late, hair slightly messy from sparring class, hoodie sleeves pushed up. He scanned the room once, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him now—ever since people saw her with him.

He spotted Ayane sitting alone, as usual.

Except not really as usual.

No veil. No umbrella. Just her—dark hair cascading freely over her shoulders, her black uniform catching faint sunlight through the window. She looked like a painting someone accidentally brought to life.

He jogged over, slowing his steps as he neared.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “Got cornered by Jo and his fifteen prom theories.”

Ayane looked up and smiled gently. “It’s fine. I didn’t wait long.”

Yuma scratched the back of his neck, then cleared his throat.

“Actually…” he reached into his bag and pulled something out—carefully wrapped in a cloth to keep it protected.

Ayane tilted her head curiously as he unfolded it.

A corsage.

Black roses twined together with soft, shimmery ribbons and sleek raven feathers. It shimmered faintly, enchanted to catch the light just right. There was a small silver charm nestled at the center—an intricate moon engraved with delicate stars.

He held it out to her, looking a little nervous but smiling anyway.

“This is for you. And also… I wanted to formally ask.”

He swallowed.

“Ayane, would you go to prom with me?”

For a moment, she just looked at him.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

“I’d love to,” she said softly.

And she brought her hand forward, palm up, slender fingers ready.

Yuma grinned as he slipped the corsage gently onto her wrist, careful not to press too hard against her porcelain skin.

It fit perfectly.

Just like her answer.

As Ayane admired the corsage on her wrist, the shimmer of black roses and feathers catching the light, Yuma gently reached forward and took her hand in his.

Without a word, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

Her breath caught.

Her cheeks, usually pale and cool, flushed with sudden warmth as she blinked at him in surprise. For a split second, she didn’t speak.

Then she smiled, small but real, and let out a quiet laugh.

“You’re such a gentleman,” she said, almost teasing.

Yuma grinned. “Trying my best.”

They both chuckled, and for a moment, the noise of the cafeteria blurred into the background.

Then he reached into his bag again and pulled out a small, neatly packed box.

He placed it in front of her.

She looked down curiously and opened it.

Inside was a freshly wrapped burger—perfectly warm, still soft, just the way she liked it.

Her smile widened instantly, eyes lighting up with quiet delight.

“I figured…” Yuma rubbed the back of his neck, trying to sound casual. “You were eating one the first time we talked, and again the next day… and the day after that. So, you must really like them.”

Ayane nodded slowly, eyes still on the box.

“I love them,” she said, voice gentle but sure. “I’ve tried food from a hundred different places, but nothing beats a good burger.”

Yuma leaned on the table with a small smirk. “You say that like you’ve lived for a hundred years.”

She lifted her gaze, just enough to meet his.

“…Maybe I have,” she said with a sly look.

They both laughed again, and for a moment, it didn’t matter how many people were staring. Didn’t matter that two weeks ago, Yuma was the most rejected guy in school.

Because now, he had a yes.

From her.

And that changed everything.

Ayane took a bite of the burger, clearly enjoying it more than someone should reasonably enjoy cafeteria food. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, and she let out the tiniest hum of approval. Yuma just watched her with a small smile tugging at his lips.

There was a pause between them—comfortable, a little warm, and buzzing with something unspoken.

He leaned forward slightly.

“…Can I kiss you?” he asked after they finished eating.

She looked up at him, and blinked once.

Then smiled.

“Sure.”

Yuma didn’t hesitate. He leaned in slowly, giving her time to change her mind—but she didn’t.

Their lips met, soft and quiet, nothing dramatic or overly rehearsed. Just a simple kiss that felt like it belonged there—like it made sense.

When he pulled back, Ayane’s eyes were still on his, her expression calm but slightly pink.

“I liked that,” Yuma said, voice a little dazed but honest.

Ayane’s lips curved into a small smile again.

“Me too.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, nervous but trying not to show it. “So… do you wanna date?”

She didn’t hesitate this time.

"Yes.”

That was it.

No fireworks. No big dramatic moment. Just two people—both a little strange, a little guarded—sitting at a lunch table with a can pf soda between them, quietly deciding that they wanted more of this.

More of each other.

And honestly?

That was more than enough.

—

Prom night.

The gymnasium was glowing—golden lights strung overhead, floating candles bobbing near the ceiling, and a spell-enhanced mist curling at everyone’s ankles like a dreamy cloud.

Yuma stood just outside the entrance, hands in his pockets, leaning against a pillar under the glowing archway. He’d been waiting for a while.

And naturally, his dormmates were all over it.

“Dude, you can drop the act now,” Nicholas said, straightening his cufflinks. “Just come in and vibe. Solo’s not that bad.”

“It’s kind of sad at this point,” Harua added, sipping enchanted punch. “You’ve been committed to the bit for too long.”

K raised an eyebrow. “Is this like a mental exercise? Are you manifesting a date into existence?”

“I told you guys,” Yuma said calmly, not moving. “She’s coming.”

Jo nudged EJ with a dramatic sigh. “Denial’s a powerful thing.”

Even Taki patted his shoulder gently. “It’s okay. We’re proud of you for holding on this long.”

Yuma was about to roll his eyes when the air shifted.

And then she walked in.

The room tilted.

Every head turned.

She wore a black, floor-length dress that shimmered under the lights like night sky silk. The neckline framed her shoulders perfectly, and her dark hair was swept elegantly to one side. No veil. No bonnet. Just Ayane, radiant and confident, walking slowly through the doorway like she belonged there all along.

The guys froze.

“What the—” Nicholas blinked.

“Who is that?” Jo whispered.

Maki, for once, looked stunned. “Wait…”

Ayane approached them, completely unbothered by the stares, the whispers, the way the crowd seemed to part for her like water.

She stopped in front of Yuma and smiled softly.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, voice calm.

Yuma returned the smile like nothing else in the world mattered. “It’s fine.”

He glanced over her dress once, then back to her eyes.

“You look gorgeous.”

Ayane’s smile widened slightly, and before anyone could recover from their shock, Yuma leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips—just a brief one, easy and warm, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The boys behind him absolutely short-circuited.

He leaned back, his hand lightly brushing hers.

“Dance?"

Ayane nodded, her eyes gleaming.

“I’d love to.”

He took her hand, and the two of them stepped past the frozen group and onto the dance floor, leaving behind stunned silence and slack jaws in their wake.

Inside, the music shifted into something slower, dreamier.

And as Yuma pulled Ayane close under the golden lights, she rested her hand gently against his chest, her smile still lingering like the spark of a secret.

The music inside swelled as Yuma and Ayane moved together, her dress gliding like liquid shadow, his hand steady on her waist. He twirled her once—not too showy, just enough to make her laugh softly—and pulled her back in with an ease that looked almost rehearsed.

Except they hadn’t rehearsed anything.

They just fit.

At the entrance, the boys stood frozen.

Every single one of them.

Mouths slightly open.

Eyes wide.

Souls visibly leaving their bodies.

“…That’s her?” Nicholas finally whispered. “That’s Ayane?”

“The veil girl?” Harua choked.

“I—I didn’t think she had a face,” Taki whispered in shock.

“She has a gorgeous face,” Jo muttered. “Why does she have a gorgeous face?”

EJ didn’t speak. He just stared in silent disbelief, one hand slowly lowering his drink.

Maki pushed his glasses up slowly. “I retract everything I’ve ever said.”

K looked like he’d seen a ghost. Or a goddess. “You mean to tell me… all this time… he wasn’t lying?”

Out on the dance floor, Yuma laughed—actually laughed—as Ayane spun in and bumped lightly into his chest, smiling up at him. He said something that made her chuckle, and she nudged him with her shoulder, rolling her eyes fondly.

They looked like something out of a movie. Effortless. Real.

And above all—completely unbothered by the literal group of stunned werewolves still trying to process reality.

Taki finally broke the silence again.

“…Does this mean we have to apologize?”

Jo was still gaping. “I think it means we were witnesses to a prophecy.”

Nicholas slowly nodded, dazed. “He really won.”

K just groaned quietly, hands on his hips.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay, but how?”

Back on the dance floor, Yuma caught them all staring and grinned.

Then he winked.

Ayane turned to see what he was looking at, and when she spotted them too, she gave the boys a graceful little wave.

Every one of them flinched like they'd been physically hit.

“Yeah,” EJ finally said, voice hollow. “We’ve lost him.”

That's it for this one!

I made the confession low key for a change 😭

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

Shared Control Ft. Boyfriend!EJ

A/n: This was very unlike the usual content I put out and it was so hard to write it tbh 😭

Genre: Suggestive, Spicy, Romance, Fluff

Pairings: Boyfriend!Ej x Himari

Warnings: VERY steamy and suggestive!

The plates are long cleared, the window is cracked open with a soft breeze making the curtains sway. Himari is curled up on the couch with EJ’s head resting comfortably on her lap, her fingers combing through his hair. His eyes are closed, peaceful. For a moment.

Then—

“...Himari?” he says softly, without opening his eyes.

She hums, “Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about something. About us.” He finally opens his eyes and looks up at her, voice calm but hesitant. “When we kiss, or… do anything really—I love it. I love all of it. But... I think I wanna try something.”

Her fingers pause in his hair. “Okay. What is it?”

He sits up now, eyes locking with hers. “I wanna try being the… dominant one. Just once. Not because I don’t like how we are. I do. I love how you take the lead. I just…” He rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I think I want to try making you feel good. My way.”

She blinks at him, surprised. Not because of the request, but because of how sweetly he worded it. “You… felt like you couldn’t say that?”

“No, it’s not like that.” He shakes his head, cheeks flushed. “You never made me feel like I couldn’t. It’s not your fault at all, Hima. I just—get kind of overwhelmed when you take the lead. In a good way,” he adds quickly, grinning. “It’s just... this time, I wanna make you melt. I want you to relax and let me take care of everything.”

A slow smile curves on her lips. “You want to ruin me, huh?”

He laughs, flustered but proud. “A little bit.”

She tilts her head. “You don’t need permission, EJ. But I’m really glad you told me. I’d love to see what you’ve got.”

His heart leaps at her words. She leans in, kissing his cheek.

“And for the record,” she adds softly, “I always feel good when I’m with you. But I think letting you take over tonight sounds… really nice.”

He swallows, eyes darkening with a hint of anticipation. “Then… can we try?”

She takes his hand, threads her fingers with his. “Lead the way.”

EJ doesn’t wait.

The moment she says, “Lead the way,” something flickers behind his eyes—desire, sure, but more than that. Intention. He stands quickly, tugging her up with him. Before she can even tease him again, his arms slip beneath her thighs and he lifts her with surprising ease, making her gasp and instinctively wrap her legs around his waist.

He laughs softly at her reaction, adjusting his hold on her. “Told you I’ve been thinking about this.”

She smirks. “Apparently a lot.”

But his only answer is a smile—crooked, excited—and then he turns, carrying her down the short hallway. When they reach the door to the bedroom, he shifts his hold on her with a little bounce, presses her back against the wood, and lets her feel just how serious he is.

In one swift motion, he removes his glasses and tosses them somewhere behind him without a care. Then he leans in and kisses her—not soft, not shy, but hungry. The press of his lips is deep, and his tongue wastes no time, lapping at the seam of her mouth the second they connect. She gasps, caught off guard by the sudden boldness, and her legs instinctively tighten around his waist, pulling him closer.

His hands move to cup her cheeks, fingers warm against her skin as he tilts her head slightly to deepen the kiss. His thumbs stroke gently under her jaw, contrasting the intense heat of his mouth as he continues to kiss her—again and again, tongue coaxing, teasing, claiming.

Himari breathes out a soft moan into his mouth, hands knotting in the fabric of his shirt. She wasn't expecting this from him—not so suddenly. Not so confidently. But the way he’s holding her, kissing her like he’s starved and she’s everything, leaves her stunned and melting against the door.

He pulls back just an inch, their lips still brushing, and murmurs, voice husky, “I’ve wanted to kiss you like that for a while.”

Her breath hitches as her hands slide up to tangle in his hair. “Then don’t stop.”

His eyes darken. “Wasn’t planning to.”

EJ’s lips never leave hers as he blindly reaches behind her and fumbles for the doorknob. The door creaks open under his push, and he steps inside without breaking the kiss—like letting go of her mouth for even a second would ruin the moment.

He walks them over to the bed, the heat between their bodies only growing as her fingers keep pulling at his hair and her legs stay locked around his waist. Then, gently but with purpose, he lowers her onto the mattress, letting her back sink into the sheets as he follows her down.

Finally, he pulls away just enough to look at her—really look at her. Her lips are swollen, her eyes a little dazed. And the soft way she’s staring up at him nearly makes him lose his breath.

Without a word, he pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it aside, revealing the familiar contours of his lean frame. Her eyes rake over him like it’s the first time, and that makes something inside him spark.

Then he leans down again, his body hovering above hers, and gently takes her wrists in his hands. She watches, curious, as he brings them up and places them above her head, pinning them softly but firmly to the bed with his own hands.

“Stay,” he murmurs, voice low and warm—asking, not ordering.

She nods slowly, her lips parting to respond, but before she can speak, his mouth is back on hers, kissing her slowly now, deeply. His tongue glides along her bottom lip before dipping inside, taking his time as if savoring her.

While their mouths move in sync, his hands slip from her wrists to her sides, gliding underneath the hem of her shirt. His fingers are warm against her skin, brushing along her waist and ribs, trailing goosebumps in their wake. Her body arches instinctively beneath him, chasing his touch.

She lets out a breathy sound into his mouth—half a gasp, half a moan—as his palms slide further up under her shirt, exploratory, reverent. And all the while, he never stops kissing her, never rushes. Just takes, tastes, and touches like he’s finally letting himself feel everything he’s ever held back.

EJ’s lips trail down from hers, brushing along her jaw before finding the sensitive spot beneath her ear. He presses a soft kiss there, then another—open-mouthed this time, his breath hot against her skin as he begins to kiss and suck gently at her neck.

Her fingers twitch above her head, her body responding to every warm press of his mouth. He takes his time, dragging his lips down the length of her throat, letting his tongue tease the hollow there.

And then, between kisses, his voice rumbles softly against her skin.

“Does it feel good, Hima?”

She hums, head tilting back further into the pillow as a soft sigh escapes her. “Mhm… it does…”

That’s all it takes for a grin to curl at the corner of his lips—genuine, boyish, but laced with something darker, more sure of itself. He kisses her collarbone, then murmurs, “Good girl.”

The words make her shiver, and he doesn’t miss it.

Without a pause, his fingers hook under the hem of her shirt. “Can I?” he asks, his voice still low, breathless with restraint but waiting for her to nod.

She does—eagerly.

He slips it over her head and tosses it aside, eyes scanning her as her bra comes into view. He takes a second, just one, to admire the sight before leaning down again.

This time, his kisses are lower, his mouth brushing along the tops of her breasts. One hand stays above, lacing their fingers together again above her head, while the other smooths over her waist and up her side, grounding her.

Then he begins to mark her—slowly, deliberately—pressing kisses over her chest, lips warm and wet, alternating between kisses and gentle sucks. A small gasp escapes her when he lingers a little longer, his teeth grazing softly, then his tongue soothing the spot.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers between marks. “And you’re mine.”

Her breath catches as her back arches just slightly into him, her fingers tightening around his.

EJ lingers for a moment longer, mouth still on her skin, before he finally lifts his head and looks at her—really looks at her.

Her lips are parted, cheeks warm, eyes glazed with affection and heat. And something about the way she’s looking up at him makes his heart melt faster than anything else ever could.

His expression softens, the hunger in his eyes replaced by something quieter, deeper. He leans in and kisses her lips—not needy or rough this time, but slow and full of love, like he’s sealing something sacred between them.

“I love you,” he whispers against her lips, breath brushing her skin like a vow.

Himari’s hand cups his cheek, her thumb brushing over the soft flush there. “I love you too, EJ.” She smiles so warmly, so sincerely, it makes his breath catch.

Their lips meet again in a kiss that’s sweet and unhurried—just the two of them soaking in everything they feel, letting it settle between their chests like gravity.

Then, still smiling, EJ shifts.

In one gentle roll, he moves onto his back and guides her to hover above him, his hands resting softly at her waist. “Okay,” he grins, cheeks still a little pink. “How about… we take turns?”

Himari arches a brow, amused. “Is this your way of tapping out?”

He laughs, a little flustered. “I just think sharing is healthy.”

She giggles and leans down, brushing her nose against his. “Fine. My turn.”

Before he can say anything else, she kisses him again—this time playfully dominant. Her tongue flicks at his lips, slowly lapping at them the way he had done to her earlier. She feels him tense slightly, surprised, and then melt just as quickly.

The moment her tongue slides past his lips, EJ lets out the softest sound—a small sigh—and visibly sinks into the mattress beneath her, his grip on her waist tightening only slightly as his eyes flutter shut.

And just like that, he’s back in his favorite place—under her, surrounded by her, utterly wrapped up in the way she takes over.

“Mm,” he hums into the kiss, already forgetting whatever pride he had in taking the lead.

She smiles against his lips. “I think I like your technique.”

He barely opens his eyes, already hazy. “Take it. It’s yours now.”

As their kiss breaks, EJ is already breathless, his lips slightly swollen and his cheeks flushed red. Himari leans back just enough to look at him—his lashes fluttering, chest rising and falling quickly, hands still gripping her waist like she’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

She smirks, brushing her fingers through his hair before leaning in closer, her lips just above his ear. “I love it when you react like that,” she whispers, her voice like velvet.

His body jolts subtly beneath hers, and he lets out a soft sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, his grip on her tightening instinctively. Her words don’t just make him flustered—they fuel his pleasure. His eyes flutter closed, head tipping back, offering her more.

Himari doesn’t waste the opportunity.

She leans in and presses a slow kiss to the side of his neck, right below his jawline. He shivers under her. Then she does it again—this time open-mouthed—sucking lightly at the skin as she moves lower. Her tongue traces a warm path over his pulse, and she sucks gently, just enough to leave him moaning softly.

“Hi—Himari…” he breathes, voice shaking slightly, already dissolving beneath her.

She smirks against his neck, murmuring, “Yeah?”

He doesn’t answer—not really. Just lets out another breathy sound as her mouth continues its work, kissing, licking, and sucking new marks into his neck the way he had done to her not long ago.

“You’re so easy to ruin,” she teases, lips brushing his ear.

He turns his head into the pillow, trying to hide his face as his legs twitch beneath her. “It’s not fair,” he mumbles, voice muffled.

She chuckles and kisses the flushed skin just below his ear. “Then why do you love it so much?”

He groans softly, caught. “Because it’s you.”

She hums with satisfaction, pressing a kiss to his lips now—soft and deep. “Good answer.”

And just like that, EJ melts again under her touch, more than happy to surrender. Again.

Still straddling him, Himari kisses down his neck again, her lips warm against his skin. She finds a spot just below his ear and lets her teeth graze it—softly at first, then harder, until she bites gently, just enough to make him gasp.

EJ’s breath hitches, his fingers clenching at her hips.

But then she does something more—she rolls her hips.

Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.

A soft, choked sound escapes EJ as his head presses back into the pillow, his hands gripping her tighter now. His reaction is instant, his body arching slightly up into her. “Himari—” he breathes, voice cracking halfway through her name.

She lifts her head from his neck, lips curling into a sly smile. “Mm? What’s wrong?” she teases, eyes sparkling down at him.

He looks up at her, flushed and wide-eyed, completely undone beneath her. “You’re not playing fair…”

Her grin deepens. “Good. I wasn’t planning to.”

She rolls her hips again, a little slower this time, savoring the way his body reacts to hers. She watches his jaw tense, his brows furrow, and his hands slide up her waist as if trying to ground himself—or beg for more.

As she leans back down, her hair falling around them like a curtain, she bites at his neck again—this time a little deeper—before licking the spot to soothe it. “You like that?”

He can barely breathe, let alone form words. “God, yes...”

Himari chuckles low in her throat, brushing her lips along his skin. “Then get ready. Because I’m not stopping.”

EJ groans, overwhelmed and loving every second of it, his body already surrendering fully to her once again.

Himari’s movements stay steady, deliberate, as she keeps rolling her hips against him, feeling every small reaction he tries—and fails—to hide. His breaths come short and shaky, his fingers trembling slightly where they grip her sides.

But then, she leans down again, her forehead brushing gently against his. Her voice is softer this time—earnest, not teasing.

“EJ…” she murmurs, her lips ghosting over his. “Which do you like more?”

He opens his eyes, barely, eyes glazed but focused on her.

“Dominating,” she whispers, “or being submissive?”

She doesn’t say it like she’s challenging him. There’s no smirk, no sly edge. She asks it like she wants to know, like it matters to her—because it does.

All the while, her hips continue to move in that slow, rhythmic grind, her body pressed flush against his, warm and steady. She’s giving him pleasure, yes, but she’s also giving him space. Space to speak, to feel.

EJ swallows, his jaw flexing as his eyes flicker between hers. “I liked… being the one in control,” he says, breathless. “I really did. I liked… making you feel good like that.”

She nods gently, encouraging him to continue, never stopping her movement.

“But this—” he exhales shakily, his voice dropping to a whisper. “This makes me feel safe. With you on top of me, doing what you want… I just—” he groans softly, biting back a moan as her hips roll again—deeper this time. “I love it.”

Her gaze softens, her hands brushing his hair back as she kisses his cheek, then his jaw. “You can love both,” she murmurs. “I do.”

That makes him smile through the haze, and he nods, breathless. “Then let’s keep switching. Sharing. Whatever it is… I just want it to be with you.”

Her heart swells at his words, and she kisses him—slow, deep, loving.

“Me too,” she whispers.

And with her lips back on his and her body still moving against his in that hypnotic rhythm, it’s clear that whatever roles they take—whatever pace they move at—it’s always going to be together.

She kisses him again, deeper now, her tongue curling with his before she pulls back slightly, breath brushing over his lips.

“Then let me take care of you,” she whispers, voice like silk.

And she does.

Her hips start to move faster, pressing down into him with more pressure, more rhythm, grinding against the growing tension between their bodies. Every time she moves, EJ’s breath stutters. He arches into her without even realizing it, his fingers digging into the sheets now, his hold on her completely forgotten as pleasure overtakes him.

“Hi—Himari…” he breathes, voice shaky, almost pleading.

She trails kisses down his throat again, only this time, she doesn’t stop there. Her mouth moves with purpose—along his collarbone, down his chest. She sucks, bites, soothes with her tongue. Marking him.

Every sharp inhale he takes only makes her smile against his skin.

He whines again when she bites at the spot right above his heart. “Y-You’re gonna cover me—ah—everywhere.”

She chuckles softly, lips brushing over a fresh mark. “That’s the plan.”

He gasps again when she grinds down harder, the friction making his hips jerk up beneath her. His voice breaks with every breath now, soft little sounds escaping without him realizing—high, needy, whiney.

“God—Himari—please—”

She presses her palm to his chest, holding him down, and looks at him with a grin that’s both loving and wicked. “Please what?”

He tries to say something—anything—but another roll of her hips pulls a choked moan from his throat instead.

And she watches, heart pounding, as the usually composed EJ falls apart beneath her. Marked. Shaking. Breathless.

All because of her.

And it only makes her want to keep going.

The sounds leaving EJ’s lips are no longer words—just gasps and soft, desperate moans that rise every time Himari grinds down against him. His head tilts back into the pillow, exposing more of his throat, his eyes fluttering shut as he surrenders to the pleasure completely.

Himari watches him melt beneath her, every reaction fueling her own desire.

“You sound so good,” she whispers, her voice low, sultry, as she leans down and kisses along his jaw, her tongue flicking out to taste his skin. “I love hearing you like this…”

Her hips move faster now, more deliberate—dragging pleasure out of him with every motion. His body trembles under her as he clutches the sheets, needing something to hold on to.

“H-Himari, I—” he gasps, voice thin and broken, “I can’t—if you keep going—”

She silences him with a kiss, lips crashing onto his, swallowing his moan as her tongue sweeps into his mouth again—mimicking her rhythm below. Slow. Deep. Inescapable.

When she pulls back, her mouth is wet, her breathing heavy, and she smirks through half-lidded eyes. “You can,” she says, tracing her fingers down his chest. “You’re doing so well. Just let go.”

Then she continues marking him—his chest, his stomach, the curve of his collarbone—her teeth grazing and tongue soothing as her hips keep moving, grinding harder, faster.

EJ cries out softly, his body twitching beneath her, all pride forgotten. “Please, Himari—God, please—don’t stop—”

And she doesn’t. She gives him exactly what he’s begging for—her. All of her. Her mouth, her hands, her hips moving in rhythm with his reactions. Everything focused on him, on loving him in the most overwhelming way possible.

That's it for this one!

Who's sweating? I am.

Is it just me or do I always seem to post this type of content only on Sundays? 😭

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

STOP 😭 I read through this again today only to realise that an important part of the story was missing 😭😭😭

Velvet and Steel Ft. Knight!Yuta

A/n: I had to do it, guys. The thought of Yuta being a dad like 😭

Genre: Royal au, Knight au, pregnancy au, romance, fluff

Pairings: Knight!Yuta x Princess!Seoa

Warnings:

The palace halls were hushed that morning, steeped in soft golden light that crept past velvet curtains and stretched itself across marble floors. Everything was still — like the world itself had chosen to move quietly around her.

Seoa sat by the tall arched window in her private chambers, one hand resting over the swell of her belly. The child stirred beneath her touch — a slow, steady motion that had become her rhythm. Almost due. Any day now, they said. And yet, time felt suspended.

She had been born into tradition. Raised in elegance. The youngest daughter of the King, and the last piece of her mother left behind. Everyone said she looked like her — the same eyes, the same quiet tilt of the head when she listened too long, the same gentleness. It was why her father had always been softer with her. Why even his silence toward her felt like affection.

It was also why he hadn’t stopped her.

Falling in love with a knight hadn’t been part of any royal plan.

Yuta had once stood guard outside her doors, faceless and unmoving like the others. But there was something about him — something quiet. Unshakable. He didn’t look at her the way the nobles did, calculating and eager. He looked at her like she was human. Like she was allowed to feel tired. Like she didn’t have to smile.

She hadn’t meant to love him. Not at first. But her heart had made its decision long before her mind caught up. And when her father, wise and grieving, saw the way she looked at Yuta — and the way Yuta looked back — he did not scold her.

He arranged the marriage himself.

No fanfare. No ceremony broadcast to the court. Just a quiet vow spoken under candlelight in the old chapel at the edge of the palace gardens — the one her mother used to visit in the mornings. It had smelled of lavender and rain that day. Her gown had been simple. Her hair undone. There had been no ring to slip on her finger, only a promise whispered into her hands.

A year had passed since then.

No one outside the palace knew.

To the world, she remained untouchable. And Yuta, her loyal knight. If anyone whispered that he lingered too long near her side, they called it scandal, not devotion. She could not walk beside him in public. Could not touch his hand when they were out in the open. She could not call him husband — not where others could hear.

But she still did. In the quiet. Where it mattered.

And now… their child grew within her.

Her fingers curled protectively over her belly as the baby moved again, gentle but insistent. She smiled faintly. No title could make this feeling more real — this life, this love, this waiting.

Yuta was likely just beyond the palace now, finishing his morning drills. He would return after his duties — to sit at her feet, or press his lips to her forehead, or fold his hand over hers without needing to speak. He always returned.

Not long now, she thought, brushing a hand through her hair.

Not long until they’d no longer be just two people in love.

Not long until the child they’d made in secret, in love, in promise — would arrive.

And when that happened, even if the world never knew who she belonged to, that child would.

That would be enough.

That was everything.

❆

The sun had dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the castle’s outer yard. The clang of metal echoed in sharp rhythm — swords clashing, feet shifting on packed dirt, voices calling out stances and corrections. A handful of newly ordained knights stood in the training circle, sweat dripping from their brows as they worked through their drills under the eye of one man.

Yuta stood at the edge, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his eyes calm but alert. He wasn’t barking orders the way he used to. He didn’t need to.

Not today.

There had been a change in him over the past several months — something subtle. He was still the same knight who trained soldiers into shape, who guarded the palace gates with unwavering discipline, who followed protocol without flinching. But there was a softness in him now, layered beneath the steel. A lightness in his step. A patience in his tone.

He hadn’t said much when he first learned Seoa was carrying their child. He didn’t need to. But his actions spoke louder — the way he checked in on her between patrols, the way he carried her slippers to the windowsill on cold mornings, the way he smiled to himself sometimes when he thought no one was watching.

And now, as the baby’s arrival grew closer, that quiet happiness had started to rise like spring water. Steady. Warm. Uncontainable — if only in the smallest of ways.

“Again,” he said now, nodding toward the young knight whose footwork faltered. But his voice wasn’t biting. Just steady. Encouraging.

The knights reset their positions. He was watching their posture when a sudden scuffle caught his attention from the far end of the yard.

A small stablehand — barely ten — came tearing across the path, his feet kicking up dust. His oversized tunic whipped behind him as he ran, breathless and frantic. He must’ve sprinted the whole way from the stables because he barely saw the divot in the path ahead — and stumbled hard.

Yuta stepped forward just in time, catching him by the arm before he hit the ground.

“Easy,” he said, steadying the boy. “What’s the hurry?”

The boy’s chest heaved as he pointed a shaky finger toward the palace, wide eyes brimming with urgency.

“Sir Yuta!” he gasped. “Her Highness—she’s—she’s in labour!”

The words hit like a bellstrike.

Yuta’s breath caught in his throat. For half a second, he didn’t move. The yard around him vanished — soundless, motionless — like the world had narrowed to a single point.

And then he ran.

He was gone before the boy could say another word. Past the training ring, past the armory, past the fountain where Seoa used to wait for him after his patrols. His boots pounded against the stone, heart slamming in rhythm with each step as he raced toward the palace.

He didn’t care who saw.

He didn’t care about titles, or rules, or the eyes of the court.

All that mattered now was her.

Her — and the life they had made together.

Yuta’s boots hit the palace stone floors in fast, echoing strides, scattering maids and startled guards as he turned the familiar corners with precision. He barely noticed the surprised glances, didn’t stop when someone tried to call after him.

And then—

“Sion?”

A blur of dark hair and royal blue robes came running down the corridor. Sion — Seoa’s younger brother, breathless and flushed — was waving frantically.

“There you are!” the boy called, skidding to a stop. His eyes were wide, cheeks flushed. “She might give birth soon!”

Yuta’s stomach tightened. He didn’t even stop running — Sion just turned and ran alongside him, matching his pace through the west wing.

“How is she?” Yuta asked quickly, voice strained but low. “Was she in pain? For long?”

“She was with me,” Sion said, breath catching between words. “We were in the library. She was reading. Just… reading like always. Then she put the book down, said she felt something strange.”

Yuta swallowed hard.

“I thought maybe she was tired, but then she gripped the armrest and—she looked scared. So I ran to get the maids.”

“And they said…?”

“They took one look at her and started rushing around. Said she’s in labour. They sent for the midwife. She’s already been moved to the side wing.”

Yuta’s jaw clenched. He hated that he hadn’t been there — not for that first moment, not to catch the look in her eyes when the pain first hit. But he was here now.

They reached the corridor — quiet, candlelit, lined with double doors that led into the more private rooms of the palace. The place where the royal family stayed out of sight. The place where no courtiers were allowed without permission.

They rounded the final corner, the carved wooden doors just in sight—when they both halted sharply.

Standing beneath the archway that led to the private wing was a tall, imposing figure draped in muted royal robes. His back was straight, his hands behind him, and though his hair had silvered with age, his presence hadn’t faded one bit.

The King.

Sion faltered, stepping back instinctively. Yuta stopped too — not out of fear, but out of the gravity the man always carried. The air seemed to shift around him, like silence had settled the moment he arrived.

The King didn’t move, didn’t raise his voice. He simply looked at them — at Yuta, directly — and spoke, steady and calm.

“The midwife has made it clear,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “No man is to step past this hall.”

Yuta’s chest rose and fell once.

He didn’t argue — not immediately. He stood, jaw tense, fists slowly curling at his sides. His eyes flickered toward the door beyond, where he knew she was. Where she was breathing through the pain, scared or maybe calm, but alone.

The King’s gaze softened, just a little — the way it only did when Seoa was involved.

“I know,” he said, almost gently. “I know you want to be there. And if I had it my way, you would. But the room is already crowded. Her maids. The midwife. The healers.”

Yuta didn’t move.

“She’ll be fine,” the King added, looking toward the hall himself now. “She’s strong. Like her mother.”

The silence stretched between them — respectful, but heavy.

Sion lowered his head and murmured, “Should we wait here?”

The King gave a small nod.

And so they did.

Yuta stepped aside and leaned against the stone wall, placing one hand flat against the cool surface — just a little closer to her. Just enough to pretend that the wall wasn’t between them. His other hand rested on the hilt of his sword, though he had no enemies to fight. Only time.

He stayed there, heart pounding, waiting for the sound that would change his life.

Time passed slowly.

Yuta stood still, but everything inside him was moving. His thoughts, his breath, the beat of his heart — all in restless motion while his body remained rooted to the stone floor like a statue carved from restraint.

Beside him, the King was silent. Arms folded loosely behind his back, gaze fixed on the closed corridor doors that led to the side wing. His expression was unreadable to most — but not to Yuta. Yuta had learned to read people with precision. And in the set of the King's jaw, in the furrow of his brow… there was worry. Worry not for a daughter of the realm — but for his daughter. His child.

Sion stood on Yuta’s other side, pacing lightly, unable to keep still. His fingers kept tugging at the cuffs of his robe, glancing at Yuta every now and then as if trying to mirror his stillness — and failing.

The air was thick with silence.

Yuta’s eyes drifted to the tall windows that looked out into the palace gardens — the ones Seoa liked to sit near when the jasmine was in bloom.

He stared at the flowers swaying gently in the breeze.

And he prayed.

Please let her be alright. Let her not be too scared. Let her not be in too much pain.

He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing a slow, trembling breath. His fingers clenched tighter around the handle of his sword — the grip turning white with pressure.

He wasn’t thinking about protocol. Or secrecy. Or what the rest of the kingdom believed about them.

Right now, he was only thinking of her. Her laugh. Her tired eyes when she fell asleep reading. Her hand on her belly when the baby kicked. The way she whispered to him some nights that she was scared — and the way she smiled the next morning anyway.

He would’ve given anything to be by her side. Anything.

But he had to wait.

And so he did — sword in hand, heart in throat — praying that the woman he loved would make it through this storm.

The stillness pressed heavier now.

Each second dragged like a blade down Yuta’s spine. He hadn’t moved. Not even shifted his stance. His feet were planted firm, like if he dared move, the doors might open and tell him something he wasn’t ready to hear.

He stared at the carved patterns on the doors leading to her. Then at the floor. Then at the sky through the windows again — searching, somehow, for a sign. For a whisper of comfort.

His hand still gripped the hilt of his sword. It wasn’t even conscious anymore — the tight hold, the trembling knuckles. It was the only thing anchoring him, the only thing keeping him from bolting through that corridor despite everything the midwife had ordered.

Sion was sitting now. The King had long since stopped pretending to be composed — his hand rested on the back of a nearby chair, head slightly bowed in quiet thought.

But Yuta…

Yuta kept praying.

Please… please let her not be scared.

Please let her be alright.

Please let the pain pass quickly.

He didn’t care what else happened — whether the world outside ever knew they were married, whether he ever wore a crown or gained a title or had a place beside her in public.

All he wanted now was for her not to be afraid. For her to feel safe. Held. Even if it wasn’t his arms doing the holding.

If he could take her fear into his own chest, he would’ve done it a hundred times over.

He bowed his head — for the first time since arriving — and whispered under his breath.

“I’m here,” he murmured softly, even if she couldn’t hear it. “I’m just outside. I swear I’m here.”

The silence beyond the doors stayed unbroken.

But still, he waited.

Still, he stayed.

Time had stretched on like an endless thread, fragile and taut.

The corridor was heavy with stillness — no footsteps, no voices, only the quiet thudding of hearts that refused to settle.

Yuta hadn’t moved in what felt like forever.

His eyes remained fixed on the doors. His knuckles, white and strained, had long since gone numb around the hilt of his sword. He didn’t even feel the ache anymore — only the pulsing fear and hope trapped in his chest.

And then—

Footsteps.

Fast. Urgent. Coming closer.

All three men straightened, turning toward the sound just as the heavy door creaked open.

The midwife stood there, flushed and breathless — but alight with joy. Her apron was stained with effort, and her hands trembled from the hours she’d spent inside, but her smile lit up the corridor like sunrise.

“It’s a boy!” she called out, radiant. “A very, very healthy little boy!”

The words hit the air—

—and then came the sound.

A sharp, piercing cry.

Small, fierce, full of brand-new life.

The cry of a newborn.

Yuta didn’t breathe.

The hallway went still.

The King’s face slackened with stunned relief. Sion blinked rapidly, as if unsure he’d heard correctly.

And Yuta—

Yuta’s knees buckled.

The sword clattered to the floor beside him as his legs gave out without warning. His breath caught, and he fell to the side—arms numb, vision swimming.

“Hyung!” Sion shouted, grabbing him just in time.

Yuta leaned against him, gripping the boy’s shoulder like a drowning man clutches driftwood. His whole body trembled, not from weakness — but from overwhelming release. The wait, the fear, the prayers, the silence — it all collapsed at once beneath the sound of his son’s voice.

He couldn’t speak.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes — stubborn, silent things — and he didn’t care to stop them.

Sion steadied him, voice lower now. “He’s here. You’re a father.”

Yuta looked toward the door again, eyes wide, lips parting as if to say something — but no words came.

Just a whisper.

“…he’s here.”

The first bell rang clear and loud — then came the second, and the third.

Soon, every bell in the palace was ringing, their deep chimes echoing across the halls, spiraling up toward the towers and pouring into the gardens below. The sound rolled like thunder made of joy — strong, rhythmic, unignorable.

A birth.

A royal birth.

The official crier’s voice soon followed, sharp and proud as he stood beneath the high balcony and declared to all within earshot:

“Her Grace has delivered a son! A healthy boy, born under the sun’s last golden hour!”

“The House rejoices — a new heir has taken his first breath!”

Cheers rose from the lower levels of the palace. Maids wept in quiet joy. Guards smiled from their posts. The court’s formalities would come later — right now, the kingdom was simply glad.

But Yuta…

Yuta stood in the same place he had been.

Now outside the final set of doors — the ones that led into her chambers.

Behind them, muffled and soft, came the sound again:

His son’s cries.

The sound shook him down to the bones.

He didn’t care for bells or titles. Not for the announcer’s words or the echo of celebration through the palace walls. What mattered was that sound — that tiny, loud, persistent voice from the other side of the door that was his son. His.

Yuta's hand hovered just near the door frame, aching to push it open — but he didn’t.

Because he wasn’t allowed.

Not yet.

Tradition dictated that only the King and her brother enter first — to check on mother and child, to formally acknowledge the heir, to preserve generations of custom.

So Yuta stood there alone.

The King had entered moments ago, offering Yuta one brief, understanding nod before disappearing inside. Sion followed after, giving Yuta a quiet, “I’ll come get you the moment we’re allowed.”

And now the door was shut again.

He could hear movement inside. Gentle voices. Footsteps. The baby’s cries softening as someone soothed him.

And Yuta?

He wondered.

Does he look like her?

Or like me?

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, eyes closing for just a moment. Would he have her eyes — the kind that turned soft when she smiled? Would he have her laugh? Would he carry her stubborn streak?

Or would he carry the quiet in Yuta’s bones, the calm in his silences, the stillness of a man who had waited for love in a world where he was never meant to have it?

He hoped, with everything in him, that his son had her heart.

And he prayed — not for the first time, not for the last — that he would live a life worthy of the boy born just beyond that door.Inside the chamber, warmth reigned.

Soft light pooled through gauzy curtains. The heavy perfume of fresh florals filled the air, blending with the hush of low voices and gentle lullabies from the palace maids.

And in the center of it all, lying on a velvet-lined chaise, Seoa smiled.

Tired, yes — her body ached, her limbs felt distant, and a faint sheen of sweat still clung to her forehead — but her smile outshone everything else in the room.

In her arms, wrapped in blankets of royal gold and deep crimson velvet, her son stirred softly.

Her son.

She had held him only minutes ago for the first time, and yet already it felt like the entire world had narrowed to the weight of his tiny body against her chest.

Across from her, Sion who had just handed the baby back gently, his voice soft with something between reverence and disbelief. “He’s small… but strong,” he said as if he couldn’t believe it. “He gripped my finger so hard, Seoa.”

Seoa laughed, the sound light despite the fatigue in her chest. “He gets that from his father.”

At that, her gaze flicked around.

“…Where’s Yuta?”

Sion looked toward the door, amused. “Outside. Still.”

“He hasn’t come in yet?”

“He—well.” Sion scratched the back of his neck, suppressing a grin. “He collapsed when the midwife told us. Not unconscious or anything. Just… dropped like a stone. I had to catch him. I’ve never seen him that nervous.”

Seoa giggled behind her hand, eyes sparkling as she looked toward her father seated at her bedside.

“Can we not see him yet?”

The King, who had remained quiet — watching his daughter and grandson with that rare softness he only ever showed her — finally straightened. He let out a breath, his voice dry but resolute.

“…To the grave with tradition,” he said. “Call him in.”

Sion gave a pleased little laugh and nodded, slipping out of the chamber.

—

Yuta was still outside, slumped against the stone wall just beside the doorway. His head was tipped back against the cool stone, his eyes staring at the ceiling beams above like they might offer him strength. He felt nauseous. Giddy. Drained. Alive.

His heart thundered in his chest, each beat loud enough to make him feel sick. He hadn’t expected this part — the shaking, the dizziness, the rawness in his throat like he’d screamed even though he hadn’t said a word.

When the door creaked open, he flinched.

Sion poked his head out and grinned when he saw him. “You can see them now.”

Yuta didn’t move.

Sion’s smile faltered slightly. “Hyung?”

Yuta’s hands clenched against his knees. His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak.

“…What’s wrong?” Sion asked gently, stepping closer.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Finally, Yuta murmured, “What if I’m not a good father?”

The words came out so quietly, they barely held together. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, breath unsteady.

Sion’s eyes softened. A breathy chuckle escaped him, not mocking — just full of quiet affection.

“Stop doubting yourself,” he said, crouching beside him. “Enjoy the moment. You can worry about it later.”

And with that, he grabbed Yuta’s hand and stood up, pulling him along.

Yuta stumbled to his feet, hesitating—but not resisting.

The chamber was brighter than he expected.

The sounds hit him first: soft lullaby melodies, the crackle of the hearth, the rustle of robes and fabric… and then, the faintest sound — a baby’s hiccuping sigh.

Then his eyes found her.

Seoa sat upright, cradling the child in her arms as she giggled at something one of the maids said. Her hair was slightly messy, her skin glowed with exhaustion, but in Yuta’s eyes she had never looked more radiant.

She turned, catching his gaze — and her smile widened.

He still hadn’t seen the child’s face yet.

But—

He stilled.

His breath caught when he caught sight of the black strands peeking out from beneath the velvet wrap.

Obsidian. Sharp and soft and undeniably Nakamoto.

He blinked hard.

He had prepared himself — imagined a child with Seoa’s warm brown hair, her golden undertone, her gentle eyes. He had never imagined the baby would bear his mark first.

The world tilted.

A traitor of his own blood, born into royalty.

He was supposed to be the hidden one, the shadow in the corner of the palace who loved her in secret.

But here this child was, carrying his blood like a banner.

Yuta stepped closer.

Each footfall felt heavy, like he was walking through water — through time — through something too sacred to name.

And then he saw him.

Their son.

Cradled gently in Seoa’s arms, wrapped in royal gold and crimson velvet, the baby had finally settled. His eyes were shut in soft sleep, his mouth twitching slightly in a dream or reflex.

But Yuta could see it all clearly now.

The hair — jet-black, dark as obsidian.

The face — the same gentle angles, the same slope of the brow.

And there, just near his right cheek — a tiny mole.

Exactly where Yuta’s was.

He stared.

His throat closed.

“He looks just like you,” Seoa whispered, smiling as she gazed up at him — radiant and gentle, as if nothing in the world could ever dim this joy.

Yuta looked down, eyes wide and glassy.

His lip trembled, and he blinked hard — once, twice — trying, begging himself to keep it together.

But the tears spilled anyway.

Quietly.

He turned his face slightly and lifted his arm, pressing it against his eyes in a futile attempt to stop them, to hide them — but they kept falling.

Thick and silent.

He let out a quiet breath, broken around the edges, and it sounded almost like a laugh choked by awe.

Yuta stood there, shoulders trembling, his arm still covering his eyes as quiet sobs escaped him. Not loud — just broken. Just real.

He had tried so hard to hold it in.

He wasn’t supposed to cry like this. Not as a knight. Not as a husband. Not as the man she believed in.

But he couldn’t stop.

He hadn’t expected the baby to look like him. Not entirely. Not so clearly. Not down to the exact same mole on his right cheek.

He always thought of himself as plain. Just… Yuta. A man with a sword and nothing more. Unremarkable. Ordinary. Replaceable.

He had always hated the reflection in the mirror.

But now…

Now he was looking at a mirror wrapped in velvet and warmth — and it made his chest break open.

He couldn’t breathe.

He lowered his arm just slightly — just enough to look again — and that’s when he felt it.

Her hand.

Seoa’s soft fingers found his and wrapped around them gently. She rubbed the back of his hand in slow, soothing circles, her thumb tracing his skin like she knew exactly how to anchor him.

He looked down at their hands — hers, small and warm. His, shaking.

“You always thought you had nothing special in you,” she murmured gently, her voice like the hush of wind in the garden. “But look...he’s made of you.”

Yuta let out a sound — something between a laugh and a sob.

Seoa smiled up at him, tired but full of light. “He’s made of everything I love.”

Yuta couldn’t respond — not with words. His throat burned too much, and the tears just wouldn’t stop.

He looked again at the baby — his son — who had begun to stir slightly, a tiny yawn stretching his small mouth. His nose wrinkled. A sleepy sigh left him. All of it… his.

A quiet cry left Yuta again as he finally lowered himself to sit at the edge of her bedside, still clinging to her hand like it was the only thing keeping him together.

And maybe it was.

Yuta didn’t realize how badly he was shaking until her hand brushed against his cheek.

Seoa chuckled softly, her fingers wiping away the tears still spilling from his eyes. “You’re crying more than the baby will,” she whispered, teasing him gently even in her tiredness.

Then, with a soft smile that melted straight into his bones, she asked, “Do you want to hold him?”

Yuta’s breath hitched.

“I… I don’t know,” he said, voice trembling. “What if I drop him? What if I hold him wrong? What if I make him cry?”

As if summoned by the fear in his voice, the little bundle in Seoa’s arms let out a whimper that quickly turned into a cry — loud, scrunched, searching for comfort.

Yuta’s eyes widened in panic. “See? I’ll only make it worse—”

But Seoa gently reached out, took his hands in hers, and began guiding his arms.

“Yuta,” she said with quiet strength, “he’s already crying. So you have nothing to lose.”

And then, with care and trust that only love could create, she placed their son into his arms.

Yuta stiffened as the tiny weight filled the cradle of his forearms. His breath caught in his throat. He looked down at his son — so small, so warm — and for a moment, the world tilted.

Then slowly, instinctively, he began to rise to his feet.

His knees were still shaky. His body tense with fear. But he stood anyway, holding his son close against his chest as though rising to meet the weight of fatherhood head-on.

He had never felt so terrified in his life.

And still, the tears came — silent, hot, constant.

His eyes were glued to the baby’s face: that soft, round shape, that tiny chin… and right there, the mole on the right side, exactly like his.

He had always hated that about himself.

Now, looking at it on his child, he thought it was the most perfect mark in the world.

And then—

The baby stopped crying.

Yuta blinked, stunned, frozen in place as his son shifted, hiccupped once, then slowly nestled into his chest with a soft little sigh.

The stillness washed over him like a tide.

“He… stopped,” he whispered, too awed to believe it.

Seoa’s eyes sparkled as she watched from the bed, exhaustion battling joy on her face. “Of course he did.”

Yuta looked up at her, struggling to breathe through the emotion swelling in his chest.

“He knows you,” she said. “He knows his father.”

Yuta looked back down at the tiny miracle in his arms, still standing, his body trembling — not with fear anymore, but with something deeper.

He had spent so much of his life believing he was ordinary. That he was forgettable. Just a knight in service to others.

But this boy — his boy — had his eyes, his hair, his little mole. His everything.

And more than that… he had calmed in his arms.

A single sob escaped his lips, quiet and full of awe. His tears kept falling — matching the few that still clung to his son's lashes.

Father and son — both quietly crying. Both perfectly still.

And in that moment, Yuta knew:

He didn’t need to be anyone else. He didn’t need to prove anything.

He was a father.

And just by holding him — just by standing with him — he already was a good one.

A tiny hand reached upward — fumbling, searching — until it closed around his finger.

Yuta let out a soft, breathless laugh, his chest tightening as he looked down at the impossibly small hand clutching his own.

“Hey there…” he whispered, voice breaking with a smile, “you’ve got quite the grip, little one…”

And then he laughed — half sob, half joy — as his tears fell freely now, dripping down his cheeks as he swayed gently where he stood, cradling the child who had so effortlessly become his entire world.

Across the room, Sion sniffled loudly.

Yuta didn’t see, but Seoa did. She turned her head slightly to where her younger brother stood beside their father, eyes glassy and rimmed red as he wiped at them with the sleeve of his embroidered coat.

The King glanced at his son and huffed under his breath, a teasing smile curling on his lips. “Oh? Crying already? The boy hasn’t even said a word.”

Sion shot him a look, cheeks flushed as he wiped his eyes again. “You were crying too,” he muttered, voice cracking.

“I was not,” the King replied with absolutely no conviction, turning away just slightly — enough for Seoa to see him discreetly dabbing his eyes with his sleeve.

That only made her laugh softly, breath catching in her chest as her gaze returned to her husband and child.

There they were.

Yuta still standing, still swaying gently, completely unaware of the way the world had gone still around him.

Her husband.

The man everyone outside thought was just her quiet lover. The man her father had chosen to accept for her, despite the world’s opinions. The man she had chosen—without hesitation—over crown, over custom, over everything.

And their son — swaddled in gold and velvet, nestled against his father's heart like he belonged nowhere else.

Her smile trembled with emotion.

Yuta glanced up just then, his glistening eyes meeting hers. He saw the glow in her gaze. He saw the love. And he smiled — boyish, radiant, and overwhelmed.

With one hand, he reached out, cupping her cheek gently. His thumb brushed against her skin, wiping away a tear she hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“You did so well,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “So, so well.”

Then he leaned forward, pressing a long, soft kiss to her forehead. A quiet vow.

He stayed there, lips to her skin, until her hand found his and gently held it.

And so he stood — one hand cupping her cheek, the other cradling their son — gently rocking side to side, breath still shaking with wonder.

Seoa closed her eyes as she leaned into his palm. The maids had gone quiet now, soft hymns fading into the walls. Sion sniffled again behind them. The King crossed his arms, masking emotion with a deep breath.

And in the center of the quiet, in the warmth of flickering sunlight through the drapes, stood a knight who once thought he was ordinary — now holding the two most precious parts of his soul in his arms.

That's it for this one!

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

It was a treat to write 🫶🏻

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

Bite Ft. Werewolf!Harua

A/n: I feel like he'd enjoy being bitten 😳⁉️

Genre: Romance, established relationship au, fluff, werewolf au, suggestive

Pairings: Werewolf!Harua x Kitsune!Airi

Warnings: it's kind of suggestive but nothing too crazy, he bites

The front door creaked open, soft and familiar.

Airi glanced up from the couch, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as Harua stepped inside. His scarf was slightly crooked, boots worn, and his posture slumped with exhaustion.

“Welcome home,” she said gently, standing as he closed the door behind him.

Harua didn’t answer right away. He looked at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered. Then, with slow steps, he crossed the space between them and melted into her arms.

Airi wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest. She could feel how tired he was in the way he held her—arms snug around her shoulders, breath slowing.

“I’m tired,” he murmured, voice muffled against her hair. “Kiss me.”

Airi smiled softly. “You always know how to ask for things, don’t you?”

But she tilted her head up and kissed him anyway—gentle and lingering, their lips barely parting before he leaned in for one more.

She laughed under her breath, tugging at his sleeve. “Come on. Couch. Before you pass out standing.”

Harua let himself be pulled, dropping into the cushions with a sigh of complete surrender. Airi sat beside him, close, one leg folded under her. He leaned against her like he was finally home, head resting on her shoulder.

“Rough patrol?” she asked, fingers brushing through his soft hair.

“Too many trees. Too many smells. Not enough you,” he mumbled sleepily.

Airi snorted. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m serious.”

She kissed his temple. “I know.”

They sat like that for a while, warmth between them and the soft hum of the heater in the background. Then, just as she shifted slightly to reach the mug on the table—

Chomp.

She flinched.

His teeth had sunk lightly into the slope between her neck and shoulder.

She froze. “...Harua.”

He blinked, suddenly alert, and pulled back as if burned. “Wait—was that—? Did I—?”

“You did.” She touched the spot, sighing as she felt the sting. “Again.”

Harua looked like a guilty puppy, shoulders tensed. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t even thinking—I was just—”

“I know.” She cut in gently, already reaching for the little drawer beside the couch. Inside was the familiar tin of healing balm. “It’s okay. It just surprised me.”

His brows furrowed with guilt as she passed him the tin.

“Here,” she said, with a faint smile. “You bit me, you fix it.”

He took it, hands steady despite his nerves, and dabbed the balm carefully onto her skin. “Does it still hurt?”

“A little,” she admitted, “but I’ll live.”

He looked up at her through his lashes. “You should bite me back sometime. For balance.”

She gave him a mock stern look. “If I did that, you’d probably enjoy it.”

“…I wouldn’t not enjoy it.”

Airi had just settled back into the couch beside him, still half-smiling from their playful exchange, when Harua gently turned toward her. His expression was unreadable for a second—calm, tired, but something else lingered behind his eyes.

Still leaning into her, he slowly shifted his weight, moving so that he was hovering just above her, one hand braced beside her head on the couch cushion, the other gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Airi blinked up at him, relaxed. “What are you doing?”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Admiring my favorite person.”

And then he kissed her.

Slowly, at first. Gentle lips brushing against hers like a sigh. She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he settled between her legs, careful, warm, and so very present.

The kiss deepened gradually—his lips parting hers, the soft sounds of their breath between them, her fingers curling into the back of his shirt as he pressed in a little closer, a little more desperate.

Harua was never rough—not even now—but there was a heat to him when he let go like this. A hungry edge beneath all that softness. He kissed her like he’d been waiting all day to finally touch her again. Like kissing her made the world quiet.

Airi tilted her head slightly to meet him better, fingers brushing the back of his neck. His hand moved to her waist, anchoring her like she might disappear if he didn’t hold her just right.

He pulled back for a brief moment, just to look at her—lips slightly swollen, breath warm against his, eyes soft and half-lidded.

“Still tired?” she whispered, a teasing smile on her lips.

Harua shook his head slowly. “Not anymore.”

And he leaned in again.

Harua leaned back in, brushing his lips against hers again, slower this time—savoring the feel of her. One of his hands rested on her waist, the other slid up to cradle her jaw with the same care he always gave her, even when his breathing was starting to turn heavier.

Then, without a word, he dipped his head to her neck.

Airi’s breath hitched slightly as his lips found the spot just below her ear. He pressed a soft kiss there—just one—before trailing more down the slope of her neck. His breath was warm against her skin, his mouth open just enough for her to feel the edge of his teeth.

She didn’t stop him.

Harua's kisses turned wetter, slower—his tongue brushing her skin in gentle licks, like he was trying to memorize the taste of her. He sucked softly at her pulse point, lips creating a delicate seal that sent a shiver down her spine.

Then came the nip.

But it was different this time.

Not sharp, not jarring—just enough pressure to make her gasp quietly, just enough heat to make her toes curl. And right after, he soothed it with a slow, deliberate lick and another kiss, as if he was apologizing and indulging himself all at once.

Her arms tightened around his neck. “Harua…”

He hummed in response, still busy with her neck—kissing, licking, sucking again, until her head tipped back against the cushions and her body arched slightly into him. There was no pain this time. Only heat, only closeness, only the thrum of affection under every movement.

“You’re being greedy,” she whispered, breath trembling.

Harua pulled back just an inch, lips flushed and eyes heavy with something warm and hungry. “I missed you,” he said, as if it were the only reason he needed.

And then he returned to her skin, tongue brushing a trail back up her throat before sealing his mouth against her pulse again—this time with a soft groan that rumbled faintly in his chest.

Harua’s lips never left her skin for long.

He pressed another slow kiss to her neck, then another, trailing down to her collarbone, before tilting his head slightly and letting his fangs graze over her skin. His breath hitched as he tasted her—skin warm beneath his tongue—and a low, almost satisfied hum rumbled in his chest.

Then he bit.

Not hard. Just enough.

Airi gasped softly, her fingers tightening in the fabric at his back—but there was no protest in her voice, only heat curling in her stomach.

Harua pulled back just enough to look at the mark—already beginning to bloom faintly beneath the surface—then leaned back in and kissed the spot again, tongue flicking over it as if to soothe the sting. But as soon as he felt her relax, he shifted just slightly—

And bit again.

Another hum slipped from his throat. Not a growl, not threatening—just content. Gentle. Like he was tasting something only he was allowed to touch.

He worked slowly, his mouth moving along her neck and the curve of her shoulder. Each bite was followed by a kiss, a lick, or a murmured apology against her skin, even though they both knew she wasn’t going to stop him.

“You’re going to leave marks,” she whispered, breathless but amused.

“That’s the point,” he murmured into her skin.

Airi rolled her eyes faintly but didn’t move. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, giving him more room—and he took it, gladly.

More kisses. More soft sucking. More nips that made her body shiver under his, toes curling at the way he seemed to melt into the act. He was never in a rush, never too rough. Just hungry in the way only he could be—quietly possessive, always gentle, but with an edge she could feel through every kiss he left.

“You’re really into this tonight,” she mumbled, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Harua pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. His eyes were a little hazy, warm, golden. “I missed you,” he said again, voice low and honest. “And… you smell like home.”

Airi felt her heart skip.

Then he ducked back down and marked her one more time—just above her collarbone—with a soft moan like he couldn’t help himself.

And for once… she didn’t mind the bite.

That's it for this one!

I kinda wanna do one where she's the one biting him 😳

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

Safe and Sound Ft. Werewolf!EJ

A/n: I just thought about it while listening to wildflower 😭

Genre: Established relationship, comfort, angst, fluff

Pairings: Werewolf!EJ x Siren!Himari

Warnings: Near death experience, sad and scared EJ, very angsty

Himari had never run so fast in her life.

The moment the call came in—K’s voice shaking on the other end—she bolted. Out of her apartment, no bag, no coat, just gone. Her heart pounded in her ears louder than her footsteps as she sprinted through the streets, tears blurring her vision.

EJ had been attacked. A rogue, completely unhinged.

“Critical condition,” K had said.

Those words crushed her lungs. Werewolves heal fast. That’s what everyone always said. So for K to say “barely hanging on”—it meant it was bad. Worse than bad.

He had been so happy this morning. He kissed her forehead. Promised they’d get ramen after patrol.

Now he was in a hospital bed, teetering between life and death.

By the time she reached the hospital, her legs were burning, and her breath came in gasps between sobs. She spotted them instantly—K, Fuma, Taki, and the rest—waiting outside the emergency ward, faces tight with worry.

“Where is he?” she cried, stumbling into the group. “Where is EJ?”

K caught her by the arm before she could burst through the doors. “Himari—wait—”

“Where is he, K?” she choked out. “Where is he?”

“They’re not letting anyone in right now,” he said gently, holding her steady. “He’s still in critical. They said it’s—he’s unstable—”

“No.” She shook her head wildly, her voice rising. “No, no—I need to see him now. K, I need to see him. Please, I have to—”

The doors swung open, and a doctor stepped out. She didn’t even hesitate.

“Please,” Himari pleaded, stepping forward. “Let me see him. I won’t touch anything—I’ll stay out of the way—I just need to see him—please.”

The doctor didn’t even look at her long.

“I’m sorry. Not right now.”

And just like that, he walked off.

She stood frozen for a second. Then turned back, desperate, clinging to K’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her voice cracked.

“K… please tell them. Please. He needs me. Or else I’ll—”

Her breath hitched. “I’ll die. I swear, I will—”

Fuma stood up from the bench quietly, walking over and gently rubbing her shoulder. “Himari, it’s okay,” he said softly. “He’ll be okay. He’s strong.”

But she shook her head.

And then her legs gave out.

She dropped to the floor, hands trembling against the tiles, sobs shaking her shoulders. “No… EJ… he needs me. I need him. He’s scared…”

Her voice broke on that word.

K’s jaw clenched, his eyes glistening. He didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran down the hallway after the doctor without a single word.

Himari couldn’t stop sobbing. Her body trembled with the force of it as she sat slumped against the wall, hands clenched over her chest like she could hold herself together if she just gripped hard enough. Fuma stayed close, his hand still on her shoulder, but no words could reach her—not when every second felt like a lifetime without EJ.

Though there was a wall, a door, nurses and machines between them… she felt him.

He was scared. She could feel it deep in her chest like a sinking weight, heavy and hollow.

He needed her.

The silence dragged on until finally—finally—K returned, breathless, with a nurse following close behind. His face said everything.

“They’re letting one person in,” K said softly, his voice thick.

The nurse gave a nod. “You have five minutes. Don’t touch any equipment. He’s stable, but still very weak.”

Himari didn’t even hesitate. She ran.

The moment she stepped into the room, her breath caught—and her hand flew to her mouth.

A gasp tore from her chest.

EJ lay there, still as death but somehow still breathing. Wires ran from his arms, chest, even his head. Bandages wrapped tightly around his body. His face—oh gods, his beautiful face—was covered in deep bruises. His lips were split and bloodied, his skin pale beneath all the marks. His head was wrapped in gauze, and only the soft beep of the monitors confirmed he was even alive.

Her knees nearly buckled.

“No… EJ…” she whispered, her voice breaking as she stumbled to his side.

She reached out with trembling fingers and took his hand in both of hers. The moment their skin touched, something shifted.

His breathing—uneven and jagged—suddenly evened out. His lashes fluttered, and his eyes—just barely—opened a little more.

“EJ…” she choked, fresh sobs escaping her as she pressed his knuckles to her lips, kissing them again and again. “Oh god, EJ…”

“You’re okay,” she whispered through her tears. “You’re okay… you’re okay…”

His fingers gave the slightest twitch. A squeeze. Barely there, but there. And then—

A single tear slipped from the corner of his swollen eye.

She gasped softly, wiping it gently with her thumb. Her own tears poured faster as she held his hand tighter, bringing it to her cheek.

“It’s not fair…” she whispered shakily, her voice cracking. “You don’t deserve this…”

She kissed his palm, soft and desperate, as more tears escaped him.

Then she heard a faint sound—barely audible through the oxygen mask. A pained murmur. She leaned closer, bringing her ear to his lips.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently, brushing his hair back. “What’s wrong, baby?”

And then, with painful effort, his lips moved beneath the mask.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, voice so soft it was almost a breath.

Himari let out a quiet sob, her whole chest aching. She cupped his cheek, her tears falling onto his skin as she kissed his forehead, her lips trembling against him.

“Don’t be scared,” she whispered. “You’re okay… I swear, you’ll be okay. I’m here now… I promise… you’ll be okay.”

She kissed his palm again, and again, and again—like if she did it enough, he’d stay. Like her love alone could anchor him to this world.

The soft beep… beep… of the monitor was the only sound in the room, aside from Himari’s quiet whispers and the occasional uneven breath from EJ.

She didn’t want to let go. She didn’t want the moment to end.

But then the nurse stepped in, her voice low but firm.

“I’m sorry… time’s up.”

Himari froze, tears still slipping down her cheeks. She didn’t move, not until the nurse gently repeated, “Miss… I’m really sorry.”

Reluctantly, with every part of her heart protesting, Himari slowly began to rise, brushing her lips one last time to EJ’s hand.

But the moment she shifted, she felt it.

His hand—weak, shaking—tightened around hers.

Her head snapped back toward him, eyes wide.

He moved. Just a little. But it was enough. His head shook, barely noticeable, but desperate. And then—

She heard it.

Not out loud—but inside her. A voice in her mind.

“Don’t go. Please don’t go. I’m scared. I’m so scared…”

Her breath caught.

She looked at the nurse, eyes wide and wet. “He… he won’t let go,” she said, voice cracking. “He’s scared—he’s begging me not to go.”

The nurse hesitated. “He’s not strong enough to—”

“He’s talking to me,” Himari insisted, hand trembling as she held his tighter. “In my head—I hear him. Please.”

The nurse moved closer, gently trying to peel EJ’s fingers from hers.

The moment she did—

EJ let out a choked sob.

His eyes, already misted with pain, flooded completely. Tears streamed down his bruised cheeks as his body tensed. A strangled sound escaped his lips from beneath the mask, sharp and filled with anguish.

The nurse immediately backed off, startled.

Himari broke.

She sank back to his side, clutching him, her arms carefully wrapping around his broken body as she cried into his chest.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered desperately, her voice thick with tears. “You’ll be okay, I swear, EJ. You’ll be okay.”

She kissed his temple, her tears soaking into his bandages.

He didn’t say anything more—but his grip never loosened.

And neither did hers.

—

The night was quiet except for the soft beeping of monitors and the occasional rustle of fabric as Himari adjusted herself in the chair beside EJ’s bed.

He was still holding her hand.

Even in sleep—if you could call it that—his grip stayed, faint but present, like letting go would pull him under.

His eyes fluttered every now and then, struggling to stay open, just to check if she was really still there. Each time, she smiled and brushed her fingers gently against his cheek.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her voice as soft as the night. “Still here, baby.”

Her free hand reached up to lightly trace his face—around the bruises, between the bandages, memorizing every line like it was sacred.

Then, she began to hum.

A low, sweet melody—one her mother used to hum to her when storms raged outside. A lullaby made of safety and softness, the kind that settled deep in the soul.

EJ’s lashes fluttered. His lips twitched. But the tension in his face slowly eased.

She leaned closer, forehead resting gently against the edge of the bed as her fingers continued to caress his temple.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” she whispered, voice almost a lullaby itself. “I promise.”

Her humming continued, a steady rhythm just for him. For a boy who always tried to be strong. For the one who fought so hard to come back to her.

Whoever had done this to him—whoever had made him bleed, who had dared to touch what was hers—they were going to regret it. She didn’t care if it took days, weeks, or years. That rogue was marked.

But right now?

Right now, all that mattered was EJ.

And she wasn’t leaving him. Not tonight. Not ever.

That's it for this one!

How do we feel about a fic where Himari takes revenge? 😳

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

Sealed With a Kiss Ft. Country boy!Fuma

A/n: Here is part 2! If you haven't checked out part 1 yet, here is the link

Genre: Opposites attract au, romance, comfort, fluff

Pairings: Country Boy!Fuma x City Girl! Saya

Warnings: none really

It had been a month since that night at the community hall.

Saya had long gotten over it. The shame, the laughter, the judgment—it didn’t sting the way it did before. But somehow, even after it passed, her energy never returned. Her spark had dulled like the last flickers of a match.

She no longer wore her carefully styled outfits, no longer spent hours picking accessories or brushing out her curls. These days, she settled for joggers or oversized pajama pants, a shirt or jacket thrown over them. Gumboots had become her go-to—not because they were practical, but because they were just easy. Comfortable. Not worth thinking about.

It wasn’t about fashion anymore. It was about getting through the day without hearing another side comment.

Ever since Yuri and the others started commenting more—snide little remarks about how she “was trying too hard to be the main character” or “didn’t belong”—she slowly stopped caring. What was the point of dressing up just to be mocked?

Most days, Fuma would find her alone. Sitting in the haystack. Perched by the fence. Staring into the fields or watching the tiny strawberry buds she’d planted weeks ago. She always looked like she was deep in thought. Distant.

He didn’t know what had happened. But it worried him.

Right now, she sat in the middle of the glasshouse, one leg stretched out, the other tucked in. She was lazily munching on a strawberry she had picked herself, her eyes locked on the bed of strawberry plants in front of her. The fruit had just started to grow. Pale red. Small and soft. Not quite ready, but getting there.

She’d watered them already, but still she sat there—lost in silence.

Was she doing any of this right?

Had she been too much?

She didn’t care about the party anymore. But what if Yuri was right? What if the others were just laughing behind her back? What if the rest of the board members thought the same thing—that she was immature, that she didn’t know what she was doing?

What if she wasn’t cut out for Ichigo International?

The thoughts circled like a storm cloud.

She had worked so hard, tried so much—but people still saw her as the spoiled girl from the city. The one who played dress up. The princess who couldn’t handle real life.

Her fingers gripped a clump of hay.

Her parents had fought over her like she was a prize. A trophy in a custody war. They never asked her what she wanted. Just pulled her back and forth until she snapped and begged them to stop.

Her grandfather had been the only one to love her for who she was. He never made her feel like she had to choose a side. Never called her dramatic for dressing up or childish for liking pretty things. He saw her. He chose her.

But lately… she couldn’t even see herself.

Yuri had only gotten bolder too. She clung to Fuma like a shadow, bringing him pie, complimenting his work, laughing too hard at things he said. And Fuma, kind as always, didn’t push her away.

Saya sighed and bit into the last of her strawberry, her teeth sinking into the tart-sweet flesh.

She stared at the glass ceiling above her. The sky outside was gray, the light dull and soft.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t even feel sad.

She just felt… tired.

Tired of proving herself.

Tired of wondering if everyone saw her as the same lost little girl who couldn’t do anything right.

Maybe she wasn’t strong.

Maybe she wasn’t special.

Maybe, after everything, she really was just a city girl pretending to be something more.

She didn’t hear him come in.

The glasshouse was quiet, save for the hum of the warm breeze weaving through the cracked windows and the faint creak of his boots on the floor.

Saya quickly looked down, her fingers gripping the soft hay beneath her, trying to hide her glistening eyes.

Fuma didn’t say anything at first.

He just stood beside her in silence, then slowly lowered himself to sit next to her.

"You've been quiet lately," he said gently.

She didn’t respond. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared down at the dirt-streaked toes of her gumboots.

Fuma glanced at her, then without a word, leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her.

She stiffened for a moment, caught off guard—but then slowly melted into his chest, her forehead resting just under his collarbone.

He patted her back softly, his voice a low, comforting hum.

"It’s okay. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m here."

His other hand rose and patted the top of her head gently, fingers brushing through the loose strands that had fallen from her bun.

She closed her eyes, biting her lip to keep the tears from falling.

And in that quiet moment, in the warmth of his arms and the scent of strawberries still clinging to her sleeves, she finally allowed herself to breathe.

Her shoulders trembled as a small sniffle escaped her.

Then another.

And then, like a crack in a dam, Saya broke down completely—her fingers clutching the fabric of Fuma’s shirt as silent sobs shook through her.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask questions. He just tightened his hold on her, his palm moving slowly up and down her back in a rhythm meant to soothe.

"It’s okay," he murmured.

"Let it out. Cry as much as you want."

His voice was low, grounding—like a hand reaching into the storm and anchoring her in place.

She cried harder.

For the pressure.

For the loneliness.

For every whisper that chipped away at her.

For every day she doubted she belonged.

And still, Fuma held her—solid and calm, like the earth beneath her feet.

"You don’t have to hold it in here, Saya," he said softly, his chin resting lightly atop her head.

"You’re allowed to fall apart."

And so she did.

Wrapped in his warmth, heart raw and tears hot on her cheeks, Saya allowed herself to feel everything she’d kept buried.

And for the first time in weeks… she didn’t feel alone.

Her cries slowly softened, tapering into quiet sniffles. Her fingers loosened their grip on his shirt as she leaned back slightly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

Her eyes were puffy, cheeks damp and flushed, but she managed a shaky breath.

"It’s been hard," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"I keep trying, but… it feels like I’m always falling short."

Fuma watched her quietly, his hand still resting gently on her back.

"I feel like a failure," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Like everyone’s just waiting for me to mess up. Like I’m just playing dress up and pretending to be someone I’m not."

She paused, her gaze dropping to her gumboots half-buried in hay.

"I came here wanting to do something right… for my grandfather, for myself. But I can feel it. The girls, the way they look at me, talk about me. Like I don’t belong. Like I’m a joke trying to act important."

She looked up at him with teary eyes.

"I know I’m not like them. I didn’t grow up here. I don’t know how to shovel or deal with manure or… chase pigs or whatever—but I’ve been trying so hard. And it’s like no matter what I do, it’s not enough."

Her voice cracked again, but she steadied it with a breath.

"I just… I feel so alone in it."

Fuma’s gaze softened. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t brush it off.

He just listened.

Because in that moment, that’s what she needed most.

Fuma’s brows furrowed as she spoke, his expression turning somber.

He hadn’t realized.

He hadn’t realized that behind her quiet mornings and tired smiles, Saya had been carrying so much. That the shine in her eyes had dimmed not from fatigue—but from feeling isolated. Misunderstood. Alone.

Wordlessly, he rested his chin gently on top of her head, the scent of her hair faint beneath the soft breeze drifting through the glasshouse.

His hand moved slowly up and down her back, grounding her in his warmth.

"I didn’t know you felt like that," he said quietly. "I should’ve noticed."

His voice was low, steady.

"You’ve been doing more than most people would’ve even tried. Coming here alone, working from scratch, sticking through the teasing and looks… That takes guts, Saya. More than you know."

She stayed quiet, breathing slowly against his chest.

"You don’t have to be like them," he added, his hand gently rubbing circles over her back. "You’re not less capable just because you do things differently. Or because you came from the city."

He paused, then chuckled softly.

"Honestly, I think you’re doing pretty damn well for someone who used to scream at the sight of manure."

A breathy laugh escaped her, muffled by his shirt.

"You’re not a joke," he said. "And you’re not alone."

He squeezed her gently, chin still resting on her head as his voice softened.

"You’ve got me."

After a few more quiet moments, Fuma gently pulled back and looked at her.

“Come on,” he said, reaching out and holding her hand in his. “Let’s go home.”

Saya didn’t protest. She let him guide her, her hand snug in his calloused, warm grip as they walked together out of the glasshouse. The sky was turning a soft gold, brushing the world in the kind of light that made everything feel just a little less heavy.

Once they stepped inside the house, he turned to her and gave her a gentle look.

“Take it easy today. Don’t think about anything negative.”

She gave him a tired smile. “How?”

Fuma looked around, thinking. Then his eyes landed on the futon neatly laid out.

He turned to her with a soft grin. “How about you nap?”

She blinked. “A nap?”

He nodded, lips curling in amusement. “Yeah. You need your beauty sleep so that you can work hard tomorrow.”

Saya let out a little laugh, the tension in her chest loosening. “You’re really saying that to me right now?”

“I mean it.” He shrugged with a teasing glint in his eye. “You’re cute when you’re well-rested.”

Before she could say anything else, he gently pulled her into a quick hug. It wasn’t too tight, but it was warm—genuine.

“Just relax,” he murmured.

Then he pulled back, smiled at her, and gave a playful wink before leaving her to rest, his footsteps soft as he walked away.

Fuma wiped the sweat from his brow as he cleaned up the area outside the glasshouses, straightening a few tools and adjusting a torn tarp. The late afternoon sun warmed his skin, but his mind was still on Saya, curled up back at the house, hopefully getting the rest she deserved.

That’s when he heard the familiar voice.

“Fuma-kun!”

He turned, and sure enough, there stood Yuri in her usual sundress and practiced smile.

“Where’s Saya?” she asked, feigning casual concern. “Haven’t seen her around much these days.”

“She wasn’t feeling too good, so she’s resting,” Fuma said simply, going back to coiling a hose.

Yuri’s lips curved, but her tone sharpened in that all-too-familiar passive sweetness. “Oh, she’s still here? I thought maybe she went back to Tokyo. It’s been hard for her, hasn’t it? I mean, I never really see her working much. Must be so hard for you, Fuma-kun, doing everything alone. But I can always help, if you need it!”

The hose slipped slightly from Fuma’s grip as something inside him stilled.

Her voice, her words, they hit differently now. Sharper.

He thought back to Saya. To the way she looked down at her boots today. To the way she quietly cried in his arms.

To all the moments she said she felt alienated, laughed at, treated like a joke.

And now, standing here, he could finally see it clearly. The common thread woven through all those moments. The one smiling face behind the whispers.

His eyes narrowed.

“…What do you think you’re doing?”

Yuri blinked. “Huh?”

“That,” Fuma said, his voice low. “The passive aggression.”

She gave a nervous little laugh. “Fuma-kun, you’re mistaken! I’m just worried about you. And Saya too, of course.”

He shook his head, slowly. “No, you’re not. That’s not worry. That’s mockery.”

Her smile faltered. “Wha–? No, it’s not like that—”

“It is like that,” he cut her off. “And it took me a while, but now I get it. All this time… it’s been you. You’ve been the one making her feel small. Leading the others in ostricizing her. Making her feel like she doesn’t belong.”

Yuri’s lips parted in disbelief. “She’s a city girl! I was just trying to help her improve! She’s been slacking off—”

“Don’t,” Fuma warned, stepping forward, his expression sharp. “If anyone needs to improve, it’s you.”

Yuri flinched slightly.

“She hated touching dirt. Hated the mud. She used to scream when bugs flew near her. But she did it. Day after day. Because she wanted to prove herself, not to you, but to herself and her family. You saw her struggles and used them to humiliate her.”

Yuri’s voice raised slightly, desperate. “You’re only saying that because she’s pretty! You’re letting her off easy!”

Fuma’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”

He pointed at her.

“You won’t even touch potatoes because you’re scared of bugs. You complain when you get mud on your shoes. You always ask someone else to do your share when things get tough.”

“And Saya?” He exhaled sharply, furious. “She’s scared, yeah. She hates the mess. But she still does the work. Even when she wants to cry, she does it herself.”

Yuri clenched her fists. “She’s still nothing but a spoiled city girl who doesn’t belong here!”

Fuma’s jaw tightened.

“And you act like you’d survive a day in her world. You think the countryside’s hard? Try juggling the pressure of being the head of a business empire. Try working farm shifts while managing contracts and reports at night. She’s living two lives.”

He stepped closer until they were face to face.

“You wouldn’t last a day in her shoes.”

Yuri’s voice broke. “Why are you taking her side?! I’ve been by your side forever!”

Fuma’s voice dropped, but the sharpness remained.

“I’m not taking sides.”

“I’m standing up for what’s right.”

“You can’t keep putting on that fake smile, mocking people, tearing them down with sweet words, and expect no consequences. Not anymore.”

His gaze was cold now, unreadable.

“You might’ve fooled others. But I’m done letting you fool me.”

Yuri stood frozen, her lips trembling, 88not with innocence, but because for once, someone saw right through her.

And Fuma walked past her, toward the house.

Yuri stood there, shaking, watching Fuma walk away.

“I’ve liked you my whole life!” she suddenly cried out, her voice cracking. “And you’re choosing her?! A rich city girl who’s just gonna leave when this is all over?! She’s not staying, Fuma! This is just a phase for her! You don’t even see it!”

He stopped.

Slowly, he turned around.

His face was unreadable, calm, but his eyes were tired. Cold.

“You wanna know something, Yuri?” he said, voice low but firm. “A person who likes someone doesn’t sabotage others to get what she wants.”

His words landed hard, each one deliberate.

“That’s not love. That’s not even care. That’s obsession.”

Yuri looked like she’d been slapped, but he didn’t stop.

“Yeah, maybe it isn’t fair,” he admitted. “Maybe it’s not fair that someone new just… came into our lives and things started changing. But you know what’s really unfair?”

He took a breath and looked her dead in the eyes.

“It’s unfair that you made her feel like she didn’t belong just to make yourself feel more important. It’s unfair that instead of growing with someone, you tried to tear someone else down.”

Yuri opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“I never owed you my heart just because we’ve known each other a long time,” he added. “And maybe one day Saya will leave. But until then?”

He turned around again, his back to her.

“I’ll still choose the girl who tried, who fought every day to fit into a place that made her feel unwanted… over the one who made her feel that way in the first place.”

And with that, he walked away, never once looking back.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

Fuma quietly approached her room, raising his hand to knock gently against the wooden frame.

“Saya?” he called softly.

No response.

He knocked again—still nothing.

With a quiet breath, he slid the door open just a bit and peeked inside.

His lips curled into a small smile, and a chuckle rumbled low in his chest.

There she was, curled up on the futon, fast asleep. Her chest rose and fell softly, one arm hugging the edge of the blanket, her hair a little messy from the nap. She looked so peaceful, the kind of peace he didn’t see on her often enough.

He stepped in, careful not to make a sound, and sat down beside her futon.

His gaze softened as he reached out, gently brushing the strands of hair away from her face. The soft warmth of her skin against his fingers made his heart clench.

This girl... this vibrant, stubborn, sassy city girl had managed to carve out a space in his world without even realizing it.

And yet, he knew.

When all this was over, when her “mission” came to an end, she’d leave.

She’d return to the high-rise towers, to press meetings, to glossy floors and fast-paced days. Maybe she'd remember the strawberries, the mud, and the laughs. But probably not him, not the way he’d remember her.

His eyes drifted to the mirror across the room. In it, he saw himself: sun-kissed skin, dusty clothes, rough hands.

Not a man who could give her marble floors or designer chandeliers.

If only he had the money to build her a palace.

If only he had the power to let her sit on a golden throne, the kind he knew she came from—deserved.

But he didn’t.

All he had were these fields… this farm… his hands.

He looked back down at her, his thumb gently brushing her cheek. “Sleep well, princess,” he murmured, barely a whisper. “Even if you forget… I won’t.”

And then, quietly, he stood and left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

—

The next morning, Fuma stepped out of his room looking… dangerously good.

Saya blinked up at him from the kitchen, mid-bite of her toast. “Whoa.”

He raised a brow. “What?”

She pointed with her toast. “You look like you're about to run a multi-million dollar auction.”

He tugged at his tie and smirked. “I do have business partners to meet, you know. Gotta look the part.”

Saya rolled her eyes. “Don’t let them steal your strawberries. I worked too hard on those.”

He laughed and leaned in, poking her forehead. “You gonna be okay without me for the day?”

She puffed her chest out dramatically. “Please. I’m Saya. I can do anything.”

He gave her an amused look.

“In fact,” she added smugly, “if you take too long, I might just take over your family farm. Murata Ichigo, rebranded under my name.”

Fuma snorted. “Try it. See what happens.”

He reached out and gently patted her head, his palm lingering for a moment. “Take it easy, alright?”

“Go already,” she muttered, swatting his hand playfully.

He chuckled as he walked out, the clean lines of his suit catching the early morning light. He looked… annoyingly handsome. Saya stared as the van rolled off down the dirt road, dust trailing behind him.

The second he was gone, she sighed and stretched. “Alright. Time to get to work.”

She pulled her hair up into a cute ponytail and changed out of her oversized shirt. Today wasn’t for hiding.

She slipped on a white milkmaid blouse, her favorite pair of shorts, and her gumboots because she wasn’t dumb enough to try sneakers anymore. When she stepped out, Fuma’s mom was already waiting by the garden beds, holding a basket.

“My, my,” the older woman cooed, giving her a once-over. “Look who remembered how to dress cute.”

Saya laughed. “I was in disguise. Laying low.”

“Uh-huh,” his mom teased. “Or was it because my son’s been acting like a lovesick schoolboy?”

Saya flushed. “Excuse me?”

They both laughed, and for a while, they worked together among the greenhouses and tunnels, snipping weeds and checking for pests. It felt… peaceful.

Then, suddenly, Fuma’s mom took Saya’s hand and held it between her own.

“I don’t know how you feel about my son,” she said, her voice softer now, “but he really adores you.”

Saya’s eyes widened slightly.

“I’ve never seen Fuma let someone into his heart so quickly. So naturally. You brought something warm into this place. Into him. And if—if you feel the same way, even just a little... then just know I’ll welcome you with open arms, dear.”

Saya looked down, lips parted.

The words, the sincerity, they wrapped around her like a warm blanket.q

She smiled, gentle and a little shaken, and squeezed her hand back.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice small but steady. “That means a lot.”

And for the first time in days… her heart fluttered with something other than worry.

—

Fuma had just wrapped up his meetings and decided to stroll through the city while picking up a few things for his parents—some sweets his mom liked, a new pair of gloves for his dad.

He was just about to cross the street when he slowed. Then stopped. Then took a step back.

A small boutique had caught his eye. The display was minimal, elegant… and right in the center sat a pair of white satin heels with a delicate bow.

They were soft, feminine, and dainty—but had an edge in the clean square toe and slight height. They screamed Saya.

He stared for a full five seconds, blinked, turned to walk away… and then walked back.

Before he knew it, the bell on the boutique door rang as he stepped inside.

The shop assistant smiled, “Looking for a gift?”

“Uh…” He scratched his neck, ears already turning red. “Something like that.”

He ended up buying them. They wrapped it in a sleek cream box with gold ribbon, added tissue and a handwritten note card (which he left blank), and handed it to him like it was something special.

The entire ride back to the countryside, the box sat in the passenger seat, staring at him.

Fuma glanced at it, lips pressed tightly together. Then glanced again. His neck flushed red. His ears were already burning.

“What the hell am I doing,” he muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his neck.

He looked at the other bags—his mom’s sweets, his dad’s gloves—and then back at that box.

It was packed so prettily, tucked into a paper bag with ribboned handles.

He groaned out loud, thumping his head lightly on the steering wheel at a red light.

“How the hell do I give that to her?” he whispered. “Why did I even—what was I thinking?”

But his heart answered for him.

Because he wanted to see her wear something pretty again. Because she deserved nice things. Because she wasn’t just some city girl to him anymore. She was Saya.

And he wanted her to know that someone saw her.

Even if he didn’t know how to say it.

Just before reaching the town, Fuma pulled over near the rice fields and opened the glove compartment. He took out the blank note card from the boutique. With a pen he borrowed earlier, he scribbled a quick message in his messy, boyish handwriting. It wasn’t perfect, but it was from the heart.

Once he reached home, he passed his mother the sweets, tossed the gloves to his dad with a grin, and then quietly—almost too quietly—handed Saya the boutique bag.

“For you,” he mumbled before immediately turning and escaping to his room like the countryside was suddenly too hot.

Saya blinked, holding the bag in confusion. Fuma’s mom peeked over her shoulder with equal curiosity.

“What is it?” she asked with a playful grin.

“I… I don’t know,” Saya said, her voice soft and unsure. Her fingers opened the boutique paper bag gently. Inside, resting like treasure, was an elegant cream-colored box tied with a soft ribbon. She slowly untied it, lips slightly parted.

Her eyes landed on the folded note first. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up and read the slightly crooked handwriting:

“You deserve to feel pretty. And have pretty things too.

For the record, you still look great in gumboots.

I’m here if you ever forget that. – Fuma”

Saya’s cheeks burned as she bit her lip. Fuma’s mother leaned over, gasped, and whispered, “My son wrote that? I didn’t know he even knew how to be poetic.”

Even his dad looked up from the gloves, stunned. “That boy’s got it bad.”

Heart pounding, Saya slowly pulled open the tissue paper.

Inside sat the most dazzling pair of shoes she had ever seen—white satin heels with a delicate bow, elegant yet soft, classic yet a little playful.

Her breath caught in her throat.

They were perfect. And they were hers.

And somehow, in that moment, so was her heart.

Saya slipped her feet into the satin heels, holding her breath like she was about to break something sacred. They fit like a dream—soft, snug, and made her feel like she was stepping into a fairytale. She took a few slow steps, the heels clicking gently against the wooden floor, and suddenly the farm didn’t feel like a farm anymore.

“Oh my,” Fuma’s mom clasped her hands together, practically tearing up. “You look like a doll! A beautiful little bride—ah, I mean—” she quickly cleared her throat and looked away with a mischievous cough.

Saya let out a flustered laugh, cheeks warm. “They’re really pretty… I can’t believe he got these.”

Meanwhile, behind his closed bedroom door, Fuma had his back pressed tight against it, one hand covering his face as if that could cool down the absolute fire blazing across it. His ears were red, his jaw clenched, and he could still hear his mother cooing out compliments.

He muttered under his breath, “Why did I do that… why did I do that…” and then groaned, dragging his hand down his face.

His heart was pounding as if he’d just run ten laps across the strawberry tunnels.

And yet, he smiled to himself.

Because even without seeing it—he knew she looked beautiful.

The next morning, Saya strutted into the field with a smug little grin playing on her lips, arms behind her back as she watched Fuma inspect the soil near the glasshouse. The second he glanced up and saw her approaching, he knew.

She had that look.

She crouched beside him, chin resting on her palm as she watched him work. “So…” she began, her voice soft but playful. “You went all the way to the city and got me shoes? Is that part of the job description here at Murata Berry Farm?”

Fuma didn’t look up. “You talk too much,” he mumbled, dumping a shovel of soil into a basket. His neck was already turning red.

She giggled. “I’m just saying, they’re really pretty. Very bridal, I might add.” She leaned a little closer. “Were you imagining me walking down a strawberry field aisle or something?”

He paused mid-shovel, stared ahead for a second too long, then shook his head with a grunt. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I’m working.”

She laughed and stood up, brushing her palms on her shorts before walking around to face him. Her voice softened as she tilted her head at him. “Fuma?”

He looked up, slightly annoyed, mostly flustered. “What?”

“I really love the shoes.” Her tone was genuine, grateful. “Thank you. No one’s ever done something like that for me before.”

He blinked, silent for a moment as his heart skipped more than a beat. He looked back down at his shovel, tried to stay cool, and muttered under his breath—

“…you’re welcome.”

But the small smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

—

Days passed like warm breezes—soft and slow. The routine settled in, the teasing between them turned sweeter, and Saya found herself laughing more, worrying less. Fuma still acted like a grump half the time, but he always checked to make sure she was eating, helped carry her buckets, and occasionally left little cans of her favorite strawberry milk in the fridge.

Then one morning, still shaded in pale blue light, she felt her shoulder being gently shaken.

“Hey. Wake up,” Fuma’s voice whispered.

Saya groaned into her pillow, dragging the blanket over her head. “Five more minutes…”

“Nope. Get up. Now.” There was a strange urgency in his voice.

She peeked one eye open, glaring. “Why are you like this?”

He smirked. “Your strawberries. They’ve ripened.”

That snapped her awake like magic words. “What?!”

She jolted upright, hair wild, still in her oversized strawberry-print pajama top and cotton shorts. Not bothering to change, she threw on her pink room slippers and darted past Fuma, who just blinked at her chaotic energy.

She reached the glasshouse, heart pounding with excitement. The moment she pushed open the door, a gasp escaped her.

There they were.

Rows of strawberries—plump, perfect, and glowing red like clusters of rubies glistening with early morning dew. The light filtered through the glass, making them shine like jewels.

“They’re beautiful…” she whispered, eyes wide with awe as she crouched beside them. “I grew these…”

Fuma leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with a proud little smile.

“Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “You did.”

Saya beamed, practically bouncing on her feet as she darted between the rows, checking each plant with giddy excitement. “I did this! I actually did this!” she cheered, patting her own back with pride before spinning around and laughing to herself like a kid on Christmas morning.

Fuma stood quietly at the entrance, watching with his usual expressionless gaze… but his eyes were soft. A little sad.

“I have to call Grandpa!” Saya suddenly gasped, turning to him with sparkling eyes. “He needs to see this!! I’ll go call him right now!”

And just like that, she turned and sprinted off, slippers flapping against the ground as her strawberry-print pajamas danced in the breeze.

The glasshouse went quiet again.

Fuma stepped further inside, the scent of ripened strawberries wrapping around him like nostalgia.

He looked at the glowing red fruits—the same ones that grew from the soil she had once refused to touch without gloves. The ones she had crouched beside and whispered little encouragements to. The ones she had stared at when she felt like she didn’t belong.

Now, they gleamed. Like her.

He exhaled a long breath, running a hand through his hair.

He was proud of her. Really proud.

But he also knew what came next.

They’d be harvested, weighed, packaged. She’d be praised by her company, her family.

And then… she’d leave.

Back to Tokyo. Back to boardrooms and gala dresses and city lights.

He looked at the red jewels one more time and clenched his jaw.

I’m not ready for her to go.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

Her grandfather gently plucked one of the strawberries and bit into it. The sweet juice burst in his mouth, and his eyes widened.

“Well, I’ll be… This is divine, Saya. Better than even our best batches.” He turned to her, clearly impressed. “You really poured your heart into these.”

Saya smiled faintly, but her eyes betrayed a storm of emotion. She watched him enjoy another strawberry before quietly asking, “Grandpa…”

He looked at her, sensing the sudden shift in her tone. His smile faded into concern.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

She looked down at her shoes, then at the dirt floor of the glasshouse, then back up again—but not to meet his eyes.

“I… I kinda like it here.”

Her grandfather blinked, caught off guard. “You do?”

She nodded slowly, her fingers nervously tugging at the hem of her sleeve.

“I didn’t think I would,” she confessed. “At first, I just wanted to do this for you. But now… I wake up and it feels… good. Different, but good. I feel like I’m not pretending here.”

He softened, his heart warming at her words.

“And,” she added in a much smaller voice, “There’s someone I… like.”

That made his brows raise in surprise, and then a slow grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Let me guess,” he said, tone teasing. “Fuma?”

Saya’s head snapped up, shocked. “H-How’d you—?”

Her grandfather chuckled heartily, reaching out to gently pat her head. “Sweetheart, I may be old, but I’m not blind. I saw the way you talked about him. And when I mentioned taking you back, you didn’t look thrilled. That told me everything.”

He looked around at the rows of glowing strawberries, then back at her.

“So,” he said warmly, “tell me about Fuma.”

Saya’s cheeks flushed as she looked down at her hands, fidgeting with her fingers before a smile slowly formed on her lips.

“He’s…” she began softly, then glanced up at her grandfather. “He’s amazing. He’s so manly and strong, and he works so hard every single day. But at the same time, he’s kind and thoughtful. He understands me in ways I didn’t even know I needed someone to.”

Her grandfather stayed quiet, listening gently as she went on.

“He always looks out for me. Not in a way that makes me feel small or helpless, but like… like he sees me as someone strong too. Like I’m capable.” Her voice caught a little in her throat, but she smiled through it. “He makes me feel confident to be myself. Not the person everyone expects me to be. Just me.”

Her grandfather watched her with a soft, unreadable expression.

“And I know I probably sound silly,” she added quickly, “but I really, really like him, Grandpa.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he gave a gentle chuckle.

“You don’t sound silly at all,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You sound like someone who's finally starting to figure out what she really wants.”

She looked up at him, surprised by how calm he was.

“Do you think… it’s okay?” she asked tentatively. “To maybe not go back right away?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“If you ask me, Saya, Ichigo International can wait a little longer. But your heart? That deserves to be listened to right now.”

Saya's eyes widened. “Really?”

Her grandfather chuckled, the deep, warm kind of laugh that always made her feel like a little girl again. “Saya, I’m not that old yet. I can still run the company a little longer while you figure out what you want to do with the company.”

She blinked, hope slowly blooming behind her eyes. “Then… I was thinking…” She looked around at the land she had grown to love, the glasshouses now filled with strawberries she’d grown herself. “What about… another branch here? Like, an Ichigo International branch right in Shizuoka.”

Her grandfather blinked, and then—without a beat—he clapped his hands and threw his head back with a grin.

“Ever the dreamer!” he laughed proudly. “That actually makes a lot of sense. The freshest produce, right from the source. And if you want it—well, I’ll do it.”

Saya’s breath hitched, and she broke into a grin. He looked at her, eyes twinkling.

“You’re still Miss President, after all.”

She let out a small, teary laugh before throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. “Thank you, Grandpa,” she whispered.

He patted her back, smiling softly. “You’re making me proud all over again, sweetheart.”

—

Fuma lay back on the gentle slope of the hill, arms folded behind his head as he watched the clouds drift slowly across the sky. His eyes were a little glassy, though he didn’t cry. He just felt… hollow.

The glossy black cars had driven off not long ago—one of them carrying what he assumed was his heart.

He exhaled deeply, glancing down at the strawberry in his hand. It was perfectly shaped like a heart. Fitting, really. He plucked it this morning, thinking maybe… just maybe… he’d confess. But he never did. And now she was gone.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Why couldn’t I just tell her?"

The wind rustled gently through the trees, but suddenly, it felt… different. Like someone was watching him.

He opened his eyes—and nearly screamed.

Hovering over him was Saya’s face, looking at him with wide, curious eyes.

He jolted, startled, and slipped off the haystack with a thud.

“Ow—what the—” He scrambled to his feet, pointing at her. “What are you doing here? The car just left!”

Saya tilted her head casually. “I mean yeah, Grandpa came to visit… so now he’s returning back.”

“You were supposed to go with him,” Fuma said, still catching his breath.

“I was.” She smiled, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “But I didn’t.”

He stared. “Why?”

She looked out toward the fields, her voice soft. “I love the city, Fuma. I really do.”

His throat tightened.

“But…” she continued, turning back to him, her gaze meeting his, “I love someone else a lot more.”

He blinked, stunned. “What?”

Saya took a step closer, her voice barely above a whisper now. “You, idiot. I’m in love with you.”

Fuma was frozen. She kept talking, voice gentler now.

“I didn’t realize it at first. But when I thought of leaving… of not seeing you every day, not getting on your nerves, not hearing you yell at me for ruining my shoes in the field—it just… hurt.”

He breathed out shakily, eyes not leaving hers.

“I thought maybe I was just imagining things, that I was being stupid for thinking you might feel the same.”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took her wrist in his calloused hand.

“You weren’t imagining anything,” he said quietly.

Saya’s breath caught.

“Every single day,” Fuma continued, “you made this place brighter. You’re loud and dramatic and a total pain in the ass sometimes—but I’ve been falling for you since the moment you walked down the road dragging your ridiculous luggage behind you.”

Saya laughed, eyes misting slightly. “That was not ridiculous luggage, it was designer.”

Fuma grinned, then raised the strawberry he’d been holding. “I was gonna give you this. Dumb, I know. It looked like a heart, and I thought… maybe it meant something.”

She took it gently from his hand, her fingers brushing his.

“Well, it means something now,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

Fuma turned bright red. “Okay. This has to be a dream.”

“It’s not,” she smirked. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He took a moment, eyes softening as he pulled her into a hug. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not ready to let you go.”

She smiled softly against his chest as she hugged him, arms tightening around his middle.

"I love you," she mumbled, barely loud enough for the breeze to carry.

Fuma’s heart thudded like a drum. He let out a breathless laugh, one hand cradling the back of her head as he hugged her tighter, as if trying to fuse her into his world for good.

"I love you too," he murmured against her hair before pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The fields stretched out around them, the faint scent of strawberries hanging in the warm air.

Then he spoke, a little more hesitantly. "What about the company? Don’t you… have to go back?”

She leaned back slightly to look up at him, her eyes twinkling. “I talked to Grandpa before he left.”

Fuma blinked. “And?”

“We’re bringing Ichigo International here.”

His jaw dropped slightly. “Here? As in—this town?”

She grinned. “As in, we’re setting up another official branch here. The second headquarters. That way I can stay—and still run the company.”

He was stunned for a second, his mouth opening and closing like he didn’t quite believe her.

“You’re serious?” he finally asked.

Saya nodded. “I’m not going anywhere, Fuma.”

He couldn’t stop the wide, almost boyish grin that spread across his face. “You’re incredible.”

“I know,” she smirked, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “You better get used to having the President of Ichigo International around full-time.”

Fuma laughed. “As long as I get to be your personal farmer, I’m fine with that.”

“Deal,” she said, smiling so brightly it made the sun jealous.

Saya chuckled softly, her fingers still gently clasping the heart-shaped strawberry as she brought it to her lips. She took a bite, humming at the familiar sweetness, but a little piece still poked out between her lips.

Fuma watched her, his eyes warm and teasing. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body.

"You're gonna waste it," he murmured with a crooked smile.

Before she could react, he leaned in and caught the remaining piece between his lips, their mouths brushing. The moment hung — half play, half pull — before his hand cupped her cheek and he closed the distance, turning the playful bite into a kiss.

It was slow at first, like the soft rustle of wind through the strawberry fields, but deepened with the weight of all the things unsaid — every moment, every glance, every heartbeat shared.

When they finally parted, her eyes fluttered open, lips slightly parted.

"Guess I’ll never look at strawberries the same way again," she whispered, breathless.

Fuma laughed, resting his forehead against hers. “Good. Because you’ve ruined them for me too.”

Saya let out a soft laugh, cheeks warm and eyes twinkling. She reached up on her toes and gave Fuma the gentlest, cutest little peck on the lips — short and sweet, like punctuation to their moment.

“There,” she said playfully, eyes gleaming. “That one’s just because I felt like it.”

Fuma smiled wide, his heart doing flips in his chest as he looked down at her.

“You keep doing that,” he murmured, “and I’ll never let you leave again.”

She giggled, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Good. I wasn’t planning to.”

That's it for this one!

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

I really like this story tbh.

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

Laced With Strawberries Ft. Country Boy!Fuma [pt1]

A/n: This just came to me randomly, so please bear with me 😭

Genre: Opposites Attract au, fluff, romance, humor

Pairings: Country Boy!Fuma x City Girl! Saya

Warnings: none, except an annoying character.

The chandeliers glittered like constellations trapped inside crystal. Velvet drapes spilled from the ceiling in rich folds of crimson and gold, framing a grand stage at the front of the ballroom. Silver platters gleamed on every table, champagne flowed freely, and the scent of roses drifted in soft waves from towering centerpieces.

It was a party worthy of a king. Or, in this case—a legend.

The room erupted into applause as Ichiro Kisaragi, the patriarch of the Kisaragi empire, stepped onto the stage with the same calm, regal charm he had carried for decades. Tall, silver-haired, and wearing a plum-colored suit with a fresh strawberry pin on the lapel, he was still the most powerful man in the room.

Saya smiled softly as she watched him. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, her dress a sleek custom piece in midnight satin. She had grown up in rooms like this—drenched in wealth, glinting with status. But none of it ever made her feel quite as proud as watching him walk across a stage.

Her grandfather leaned into the mic with a cheeky twinkle in his eye.

“I’m guessing most of you are more interested in what’s in my file than the actual party.”

Light laughter scattered through the room. From one of the front tables, Saya’s aunt called out, voice sweet and strained:

“No, Dad! Go ahead!”

Saya bit her lip to hide a grin. Her grandfather chuckled.

“Well then. Let’s not waste any more strawberries on the cake.”

He lifted a sleek black folder and opened it with ceremonial flair.

“As most of you know, I’m retiring. This company, this family, this legacy—it’s time I passed it down to those I trust most. I have here a list of names. Each one carefully chosen to receive shares, responsibilities, or—in a few rare cases—ownership.”

A hush settled over the room.

Every chair leaned forward. Every fork stopped mid-air.

Even Saya straightened a little—though she wasn’t expecting much. Maybe a symbolic share or two. A gesture. She was the “darling granddaughter,” after all, not a player in the family’s cutthroat boardroom game.

The air shifted.

Conversations died. Forks froze mid-bite. Everyone leaned forward.

The names started coming. Her uncle was handed a tech firm. A cousin was given a major import branch. Applause rippled politely after each. Saya clapped along, only half-listening. She hadn’t even opened her mouth to ask for anything. She was the favorite—but she wasn’t a businesswoman. She just liked strawberries, luxury, and her grandfather.

Then—

“And for Ichigo International—our heart, our roots…”

A pause.

A breath.

“Saya.”

For a second, no one reacted.

Then—

“WHAT?!” Saya shrieked, practically shooting to her feet.

The room jolted with surprise. Several people turned to stare. Her aunt, sitting beside her, startled slightly—then broke into a wide grin and grabbed her hand.

“Oh sweetheart, yes! Congratulations!”

She pulled Saya in with one arm, hugging her from the side and patting her shoulder with pure delight.

“I knew he loved you most,” she whispered with a wink, her eyes misty with genuine joy.

“I—wha—huh?!” Saya’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. “Did he just—did you just—ME?!”

Her grandfather simply smiled at her, the same way he had when she was six and smeared strawberry jam all over his favorite tie.

“Sayaka Kisaragi,” he repeated, “will be the next president and owner of Ichigo International.”

A murmur of stunned reactions rippled through the room. One cousin looked like he might pass out. Another furiously tapped into their phone. But Saya barely noticed. Her pulse was still in her ears.

Her grandfather continued without hesitation.

“She’s always understood the heart of this company better than anyone. She doesn’t just love strawberries—she understands why we do. She’s watched this grow from the garden we planted together to what it is now.”

He closed the folder with quiet finality.

“And more than that—I trust her. With everything.”

And just like that, Saya, the spoiled, sharp-tongued, fashion-obsessed city girl was officially the owner of one of the biggest fruit-based food and beverage empires in the world.

—

The next morning was quiet, save for the soft clinking of silverware and the faint sound of birds outside the tall windows of the Kisaragi estate’s breakfast lounge. The sun poured in lazily, bathing everything in gold.

Saya sat across from her grandfather at the long table, dressed in a cream sundress and pearl earrings, legs tucked to the side as she sliced into a delicate strawberry mille-feuille served after breakfast. Her coffee steamed gently beside her, untouched.

“Still feeling overwhelmed?” her grandfather asked, watching her with a knowing smile.

Saya took a bite of the pastry, chewing slowly before shrugging.

“I mean… yes. But I’ve already decided I’m going to own it. Literally and fashionably.” She gave him a pointed wink. “President Saya Kisaragi. Has a nice ring to it.”

Her grandfather chuckled and leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Well then, Madam President,” he said, lifting his coffee. “I want you to embrace your first mission.”

Saya paused mid-bite.

“Oh?” she said, eyebrows raised. “What mission?”

He set his cup down gently.

“Since you are now the head of the entire Ichigo empire,” he said, “I want you to go see where we’ve grown from. Where our strawberries begin. I want you to learn how the fruit we love so dearly takes form.”

Saya blinked. “Oh, cool. Like… a tour? I can do that.”

He chuckled, eyes twinkling.

“I want you to go to Shizuoka. Our most trusted farmers grow their produce there. I want you to live there for a while and learn from them.”

Saya nodded casually. Then slowly stopped. Her fork hovered in midair.

Her eyes darted to him, confused.

Strawberries… don’t grow in the city.

They grow…

In the countryside.

She turned toward her grandfather slowly, her lips parted.

“Oh. In the… countryside?” she asked carefully.

Her grandfather nodded with a warm smile.

“Like… in the forest?” she asked again, a little weaker this time. “In the… jungle?”

“You could say that,” he said, amused.

Saya stared at her pastry. It had suddenly lost all appeal.

“I know you aren’t used to that kind of life,” he added gently. “But I trust you. I know that you’ll make Ichigo International even better than I ever could.”

She smiled tightly, lips pursed into something between agreement and inner screaming.

“Okay… so I just go there and… see? Watch them grow or something?” she asked, very hopefully.

“I want you to go there,” he said, “and get your hands dirty. Learn the whole process. From seedling to harvest.”

Saya’s smile froze

She slowly set her fork down.

“…Hands. Dirty,” she repeated.

He patted her hand, reassuring. “You’ll do great.”

She stared down at her manicured nails in silence.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The car pulled away, kicking up a swirl of dust behind it as it disappeared down the narrow road. And just like that, Saya Kisaragi was left standing in the middle of nowhere.

Literally.

She looked painfully out of place—like a glossy magazine ad had been dropped into a documentary. She wore knee-high heeled boots, a sleek black leather jacket with faux fur collars, a fitted turtleneck, a mini skirt over tights, and sunglasses perched in her perfectly done hair. Her handbag hung from one arm. Her luggage—two designer trolleys, two duffel bags, and two shoulder bags—sat in a pile beside her like misplaced treasure.

She stared blankly at the quiet country road.

“What now?” she muttered, her voice the only sound for miles.

She pulled out her phone, hoping to call someone—anyone—but the screen loaded sluggishly. One bar. Maybe. She groaned, squinting at the sky like it had betrayed her.

She looked down at the road beneath her feet. It was bumpy and brown and uneven.

“It looks like someone crumbled chocolate cookies all over the place,” she mumbled.

Still no one in sight.

Just when she was about to sit on her luggage and sulk, a loud mechanical grrrrnnnnn broke the silence. A tractor rolled around the corner, steadily approaching on the crumbly road. The man driving it looked to be in his late forties, in a checkered shirt and straw hat, humming to himself.

Saya waved both arms, stepping right into the road.

The tractor slowed, and the man blinked at her in surprise.

“Um… excuse me, kind sir,” Saya began, her voice a little too formal, “do you happen to know where the… Murata Berry Farm is?”

The man squinted, then broke into a friendly smile.

“Oh! The Murata family? Just over there!”

He pointed way out toward the distance, where a small building sat like a dot at the edge of the fields.

Saya stared at it.

“Oh… thanks!” she said with a strained smile.

The tractor chugged off again, disappearing just as easily as it came.

Saya turned back toward the endless dirt road.

Her smile dropped.

She glanced down at her bags. Then at the faraway building. Then at her bags again.

She groaned.

“The least they could do was come pick me up,” she muttered as she grabbed one trolley handle in each hand and started dragging them forward.

The wheels immediately protested, catching on rocks and dirt as she stumbled slightly in her heels.

One step in, her boot heel sank into the soil.

This was going to be a long walk.

Saya trudged forward, the sun now beginning its slow climb across the sky. The path narrowed as she went, forcing her to walk single file with her luggage dragging behind her like misbehaving pets. Her boots sank into the dirt with every few steps, and one of the duffel bag straps kept slipping from her shoulder.

She was sweating.

She was tired.

She was very close to throwing a designer bag into a bush.

Finally, she stopped.

Setting her bags down, she placed both hands on her hips and exhaled dramatically. Her entire body ached. Her hair clung to the back of her neck and her tights were sticking in places tights were never meant to stick.

But then… something shifted.

She looked up.

The breeze was soft and cool, brushing against her face like silk. The sun glowed warmly, lighting up the rolling fields around her in vibrant greens and golds. Birds chirped in the distance. Everything smelled fresh. Real.

Saya blinked.

She inhaled deeply through her nose.

Her eyes sparkled just a little.

“Doesn’t seem too bad…” she said quietly to herself, the corners of her mouth lifting.

Then her gaze shifted toward the end of the path. She squinted.

There it was—the building from earlier. Closer now. Real.

Saya picked up her bags again and continued.

By the time she reached the front area, she was out of breath and over it. She wiped her forehead, took a second to smooth her hair, and straightened her jacket.

That’s when she saw him.

A man—probably her age, maybe a little older—stood near a truck, unloading heavy sacks of something she couldn’t identify. He wore a faded white shirt and loose cargo pants, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing solid forearms. His hair was slightly tousled, his skin sun-kissed, and he moved with ease like he’d been doing this forever.

Saya tilted her head. He was definitely hot. In a rugged, farm-boy kind of way.

He noticed her a second later, standing there like a magazine cover on the wrong set.

“You lost?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “The winery’s down the road.”

Saya gasped, one hand flying to her chest.

“Excuse me? I’ll have you know I’m the new president and owner of Ichigo International!”

He blinked. Then slowly lowered the sack he was holding.

Saya huffed and reached into her handbag, pulling out a sleek business card. She marched right up to him and held it out.

He walked toward her, took the card between two fingers, and gave it a glance. Then his eyes flicked up, scanning her from head to toe.

Her heels. Her tight skirt. Her faux fur collar. Her lipstick that had somehow survived the heat.

She crossed her arms.

“I’d like to speak with the owner of Murata Berry Farm.”

“You’re looking at him,” he said, casually handing her card back.

Saya froze.

“What?”

“Murata Fuma,” he said, offering a small grin. “I run this place.”

She stared at him.

Then at the bags around her feet.

Then at him again.

“…You?”

“Yep.”

Saya blinked. Slowly.

She had just insulted her new farm partner.

Fantastic.

—

Fuma wasn’t sure what he expected when they said the president of Ichigo International would be visiting again. Actually, scratch that—he knew exactly what he expected.

Mr. Kisaragi. The sweet, sharp-eyed man who always came in with a warm smile, sleeves rolled up, and a real appreciation for their work. Fuma had known him since he was a kid. The man loved strawberries almost as much as Fuma’s own father did.

What he hadn’t expected was a very pretty young woman standing in front of the Murata farm like she’d wandered off a fashion set.

Black leather jacket. Faux fur collar. High-heeled boots. A fitted black turtleneck, mini skirt, tights, and makeup that still looked perfect despite the heat. She looked like she’d never even seen a dirt road before.

“How’d you even make it this far in heels?” he muttered under his breath, scratching the back of his head.

Saya raised an eyebrow at him.

“I was told the owner was a sweet man in his fifties” she said flatly.

Fuma gave a small smirk. “That’s my dad. He passed the farm and the business over to me last year.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Right.”

He looked her over again, then at the bags piled around her feet. His first thought was: Mr. Kisaragi must be out of his mind. His second thought was: She’s going to last two days, tops.

“So,” he said, shifting the sack on his shoulder, “you’re here to learn how we grow strawberries, huh?”

Saya gave him a smile that was way too rehearsed. Her expression screamed I don’t want to be here, but she was clearly trying not to say it out loud.

Fuma raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” he said casually, “if you don’t want to do it, you’re free to leave.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I mean,” he shrugged, “I expected your grandfather. Not someone who looks like she got lost on the way to the airport.”

Saya laughed nervously, adjusting her skirt. “Hey. I like a challenge.”

Even though every inch of her said otherwise.

Fuma watched her for a moment. She looked uncomfortable. Tired. Probably annoyed that her ride didn’t take her all the way in. But still, she was standing here. In those ridiculous boots. Trying.

He sighed, half amused.

“Well then. Challenge accepted, I guess,” he said, nodding toward the barn. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

Saya looked down at her bags. Then at him.

“This place better have Wi-Fi,” she muttered, grabbing her trolley handles.

Fuma didn’t even look back. “It doesn’t.”

She almost tripped.

This was going to be a long, long visit.

Fuma watched Saya attempt to lift one of the duffel bags and immediately decided she’d pass out before making it five more steps.

“Here,” he said, stepping in and grabbing two trolleys, slinging a duffel over his shoulder with ease. “I’ll carry these. Do you want to change and freshen up first?”

Saya looked at him like he’d just offered her cold water in a desert.

“Please,” she said, dramatically exhaling as she handed off her shoulder bags.

They walked down the short gravel path leading to the farmhouse. It was set against a backdrop of trees and strawberry fields, with a small garden lining the porch and laundry drying in the breeze.

Saya stared as they approached.

“This is your house?” she asked, voice a little uncertain.

Fuma glanced at her, frowning slightly. “...Yeah?”

She waved her hands. “No, I mean—it’s… it’s pretty. And cute.”

Before he could answer, the front door swung open.

A woman in her late forties appeared, apron on and hand still holding a kitchen towel.

“Hello! I was just about to come tell Fuma to pick you up!” she said quickly. “I’m so sorry! Messages come late out here!”

“Mom,” Fuma called, walking up the steps. “She walked the whole way.”

His mother gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “You walked? Oh no, sweetheart, I’m so sorry! This boy didn’t even check the time, did he?”

“It’s fine,” Saya said politely, though she looked like she wanted to fall into a bed and sleep for twelve hours.

Fuma’s mom took a moment to really look at her then. Her eyes widened just slightly in admiration. She stepped forward and reached out to gently pat Saya’s shoulder.

“Pretty girl you are,” she said warmly. “Come inside! You must be tired!”

Saya gave a soft smile, caught off guard by the kindness.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she said.

“Call me auntie,” the woman grinned. “Everyone else does.”

Fuma held the door open as they stepped inside, her bags in tow.

Saya paused at the threshold, then glanced around at the cozy wooden floors, the smell of fresh rice and simmering miso filling the air, and the soft afternoon light filtering in through the curtains.

This definitely wasn’t Tokyo.

But… maybe it wasn’t the worst place to crash for a while either.

—

The shower was a blessing from heaven. Warm water, lavender soap, soft towels—it made Saya feel almost human again. She changed into fresh clothes and tied her hair up loosely, ready to collapse face-first onto the floor futon that had been set up in the guest room.

She was just about to dive into it when—

“Come on.”

She shrieked.

Fuma stood at the doorway, arms crossed.

“Can you not just appear like that?!” she hissed, clutching her chest dramatically.

“Didn’t even open the door all the way,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

“Why? Where?” she asked, suspicious.

“I’m gonna show you around,” he said plainly. “Then we’ll get started on the job.”

She blinked.

“What do you mean get started?” she said in disbelief. “I’m tired! I’ve been walking for like—ever!”

“You look like someone who can’t handle it anyway,” he said casually, turning to leave.

Saya’s jaw dropped.

“I can!” she shouted, sitting up straight. “I… I can and I will!”

Ignoring the exhaustion in her limbs, she stood up, tossed her new outfit on, added earrings, and stomped out of the room. She had changed—but somehow into an even more glamorous look. Chic wide-leg pants, a tucked-in blouse with puffed sleeves, chunky gold accessories, and… satin wedge sandals.

Fuma looked her over slowly.

“You won’t be able to work well with those shoes. Or that outfit.”

“Don’t doubt me!” she snapped, pointing at him like she was issuing a royal command. “I can do it!”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. Follow me then, President.”

As they reached the front entrance, his mother peeked from the kitchen and widened her eyes.

“You’re taking her already? Fuma, let the girl rest, she just got here!”

“I’m fine, auntie!” Saya said quickly, stepping forward with a determined gleam in her eye. “I can do this.”

Fuma’s mom looked between the two of them, clearly unconvinced.

But then she saw the fire in Saya’s eyes.

Well… glittery, dramatic fire.

She smiled. “Alright then, Saya. Go show my son he’s wrong.”

“I will!” Saya declared like it was a national anthem.

Fuma muttered under his breath, “This is going to be fun.”

—

The sun had started to lower, casting long golden shadows across the fields. Fuma and Saya walked along the last row of neatly grown strawberry beds, the earthy scent of soil lingering in the air.

To his surprise, she hadn’t complained—well, not too much—through most of the tour. Sure, she’d almost twisted her ankle on a rock, screamed once at a bug, and loudly declared that she’d “never seen this much green in one place,” but she’d kept up.

Fuma crouched and carefully plucked one of the bigger strawberries, its skin plump and glistening red. He stood up and held it out to her.

Saya stared at it.

“What?”

He gestured with his hand. “Take it.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously but took it anyway.

“This is tradition,” he said simply. “Whenever our family starts a new deal or brings in a new partner, we give them a strawberry. One we picked ourselves. It’s like a seal of trust.”

Saya blinked, looking down at the fruit.

“…That’s kind of cute,” she admitted, impressed. “Old-fashioned but… classy.”

Fuma shrugged. “It’s how my grandfather did it. And his grandfather before him.”

She turned the strawberry in her hand, admiring it for a moment.

Fuma expected her to just pop it into her mouth and say, “It’s good” or “Sweet.” He was already turning away when—

“Oh. Oh.”

He glanced back.

Saya had taken a bite, and her entire face lit up like she’d just tasted happiness.

Her eyes sparkled. Her hand covered her mouth in shock.

“This—this texture is insane,” she said, almost breathless. “It’s firm, but still soft. The balance between acidity and sweetness is perfect. It’s juicy but not soggy. The sugar level has to be what—around 10 Brix? No, 11."

Fuma stared.

“The consistency? Flawless. The aroma hits before the taste and primes your tongue. And it finishes with this subtle floral hint—like a wild strawberry but… elevated.”

She took another bite.

“Where have these been my whole life?”

Fuma blinked. “...Are you secretly a strawberry critic?”

Saya just held up the bitten fruit like it was a treasure. “No. But I was raised by the man who built the world’s most successful strawberry company. I know good fruit.”

Fuma stared at her for a second longer than necessary.

Okay… maybe she was cut out for this.

Saya took the final bite of the strawberry, chewing slowly like she didn’t want it to end. Her fingers held the green top gently, almost mournfully.

“That’s it?” she muttered, lips slightly pouted. “I feel like I just discovered edible perfection and it’s already over.”

Fuma watched her with quiet amusement. She looked genuinely sad over a piece of fruit. He let out a short chuckle.

Without saying anything, he crouched down again and carefully picked four of the biggest, reddest strawberries in sight. He held them out in both hands, balancing them like they were precious stones.

Saya blinked.

“For you,” he said. “In very rare circumstances, we give more than one.”

Her eyes widened. “Seriously?”

He nodded once.

Her lips broke into a grin as she stepped forward and carefully took the fruit like it was sacred.

“Thank you,” she said, beaming at him. “I feel honored. Like, top-tier VVIP honored.”

“You should,” he said with a smirk. “We don’t do this for just anyone.”

She hugged the strawberries to her chest with a soft happy hum, then looked up at him.

“Okay, maybe this countryside thing isn’t totally the worst.”

Fuma smiled to himself, turning slightly as he started walking back toward the barn.

“Wait till you meet the goats,” he muttered under his breath.

“Goats?” Saya gasped, hugging her strawberries tighter. “I’ve never seen goats in real life before!”

Fuma stopped mid-step and turned to look at her, genuinely puzzled.

“…What do you mean never? You’ve never seen goats?”

“Only in books! Or like… luxury soap commercials.”

He blinked. “They’re literally just… goats.”

“They’re adorable little grass-eating creatures with square pupils!” she declared.

Fuma stared at her for a beat longer. She wasn’t joking. And for some reason… it was kind of cute. There was something ridiculously endearing about the way she got excited over something so simple. Like this whole world was still a mystery to her.

Before he could say anything else, a small blur of motion came bounding out from behind the tool shed.

A boy—maybe six or seven—raced up the path and jumped in front of them like he was the main character.

“BOO!” he shouted.

Saya yelped and took a step back.

Fuma didn’t even flinch. “There he is. One of the farmer’s kids.”

The little boy grinned wide, missing a front tooth.

“I’m Saiki!” he declared proudly, placing both hands on his hips like a superhero.

Saya’s expression immediately melted.

“Oh my gosh,” she whispered. “You are so cute I want to put you in my pocket.”

Fuma watched her soften instantly, her voice going gentle and eyes sparkling as she crouched down to meet the little boy. That same strange warmth settled in his chest again. The dramatic girl in heels had more heart than he thought.

“Nice to meet you, Saiki,” she said sweetly, then looked down at the four strawberries in her hands. She carefully picked two of the biggest ones and held them out. “Here. These are really special, but I want to share them with you.”

His eyes lit up like fireworks. “Really?!”

“Really.”

He took them with both hands and cradled them like treasure, beaming.

“Thank you, pretty lady!” he said before running off just as fast as he came.

Fuma watched her as she stood up again, brushing off her pants.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said quietly.

Saya turned to him, still smiling. “Yeah, most people don’t expect kindness and politeness from girls in heels.”

“No,” he said, his voice a little softer. “Most people don’t expect someone to act like seeing a goat is a life-changing event.”

She flicked her hair with mock elegance. “Well, prepare to be amazed, farmer boy. My standards for animals are sky high.”

Fuma let out a quiet laugh, eyes lingering on her face for a second longer than necessary.

“Great,” he said, shaking his head with a smile. “This’ll be fun.”

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The next morning came with birds chirping and the soft rustle of wind brushing over the fields. It was… peaceful. Almost too peaceful for Saya, who sat at the edge of the guest futon staring at her reflection with a deadpan expression.

She’d tied her hair up in a high ponytail, swapped her usual jewelry for bare ears, and stood in front of a pair of gum boots that looked like they came from a different planet.

“These are… hideous,” she muttered.

Fuma leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You need to wear them.”

“They’re—” she pointed dramatically, “mood killers.”

He let out a sigh and walked in, grabbing one boot and holding it up. “You’re pretty, so anything you wear becomes pretty. Even these.”

Saya paused. Slowly turned to him.

“…Really?”

He shrugged casually. “Yeah.”

Her lips curled upward, clearly pleased. “Okay then. Fine. If you insist.”

She stomped into the boots like she was putting on designer heels. Fuma rolled his eyes with a faint grin.

Once they got to the fields, the real test began.

“Here,” he said, handing her a shovel. “You’re going to help with the compost line.”

She blinked at the tool like it was a foreign object. “I’ve never even held a shovel before!”

He raised an eyebrow. “You could always give up.”

“Absolutely not,” she said instantly, gripping the handle. “There’s a first time for everything.”

He nodded in approval. “That’s the spirit.”

Five minutes in, she was sweating and already regretting everything.

“Why is this so heavy?” she groaned, trying to scoop dirt but mostly just shaking the pile slightly.

“You’re using it wrong,” Fuma said, laughing as he showed her how to get leverage. She mimicked his motion—and promptly tripped forward into the handle.

“Ow,” she whispered dramatically.

Then came the real horror.

He walked her over to a different pile—one she didn’t notice at first until the smell hit.

“What’s that?” she asked suspiciously, taking a cautious step back.

“Fresh manure,” Fuma said simply.

She stared.

“…You mean cow poop?”

“Yeah.”

Saya took three steps back. “I’m not touching that.”

“You don’t have to,” he said, holding out a pair of gloves. “Use these.”

She gagged.

“No. No, please. Gloves aren’t emotional protection. This is bio-warfare.”

“You said there’s a first time for everything.”

“Touché,” she muttered, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Besides,” he smirked, “if you survive this, you can survive anything.”

She glared at him over the gloves.

“I’ll survive it. But just know if I die, I’m blaming you.”

Fuma chuckled. “Fair enough.”

They sat under the shade of a large tree, the field breeze soft against their skin. Saya sat on Fuma’s flannel jacket, refusing to let her clothes touch the actual grass. Her boots were kicked off nearby, and she looked exhausted but oddly satisfied with herself.

Fuma handed her a small plastic box and opened it to reveal two round, white mochi dusted with powdered sugar.

“What’s the filling?” she asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

He smirked. “Try it.”

She took a cautious bite and immediately brightened. “It’s strawberry!”

“Of course.”

“It’s so good,” she said, mouth still full, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. She took another bite, savoring it, completely unaware that Fuma had gone quiet beside her.

He wasn’t eating. Just looking at her. Her legs tucked beside her, her cheeks lightly flushed from the sun, her smile small but real.

“You never really introduced yourself,” he said suddenly.

She looked at him, surprised. “I did.”

“Not to me.”

There was a pause before she wiped her fingers and held out her hand like she was reintroducing herself in a formal meeting.

“I’m Sayaka. But most of my friends and family call me Saya.”

He took her hand and nodded. “Saya.”

Something about the way he said it—low, easy, like it already belonged to him—made her heart flutter a little.

Just as she was about to take another bite of mochi, a voice rang out from the path.

“Fuma-kun!”

They both turned.

A petite girl came walking toward them, sundress swaying in the breeze, sunhat perfectly perched on her soft brown bangs. She looked like she had just walked out of a countryside magazine spread.

Fuma blinked. “Oh. Yuri.”

She beamed at him and held out a carefully wrapped bundle. “I made strawberry pie. I thought you’d like it!”

Then her eyes landed on Saya.

“Oh?” she said, blinking.

Fuma cleared his throat. “Yuri, meet Sayaka. Saya, this is Yuri.”

Saya noticed it instantly. He’d introduced her as Sayaka to Yuri. Not Saya. A small, barely-there detail—but it made her heart skip a beat. He saved the nickname for himself.

Still, she smiled and stood up with effortless grace. “Nice to meet you, Yuri.”

Yuri gave her a sugary smile. “So you’re the girl from Tokyo! It must be so hard for you to adjust to things here. No AC, no fancy food... no signal.”

Saya kept her expression light and warm, but something shifted quietly inside her. The tone was sweet, but there was something about the way she said it—pitying, almost mocking. Like she didn’t belong here.

Still, Saya just smiled brighter. “Oh, I’m managing,” she said sweetly. “I even shoveled compost this morning. With my own hands.”

Fuma held back a laugh.

Yuri tilted her head. “Wow. That’s so... brave.”

“I think so too.”

Inside, Saya could feel the polite tension curling under her ribs. She didn’t like the way Yuri looked at her—like she was the punchline to a joke only she understood.

But she said nothing. Just smiled.

Fuma didn’t seem to notice. He simply sat there, enjoying the pie and the shade.

Saya said nothing more, but made a quiet note in her mind.

Yuri was... off.

Fuma picked up a fork and sliced into the strawberry pie Yuri had brought. The crust crumbled just right, steam still rising from the filling. Without saying much, he held out a piece to Saya.

“Want a bite?” he asked casually.

Saya’s eyes flicked to him, then to Yuri—just in time to see something flicker across her face. A barely-there shift. Not anger, not surprise, but… something tight and unpleasant.

“Oh, I made the pie for Fuma-kun,” Yuri said quickly, her voice as sugary as ever. “But it’s fine, you can try too!”

Fuma looked at her. “If you don’t want me to give it to her, then it’s fine.”

Yuri waved her hands. “No, no! It’s totally fine!”

But the way she said it—too quickly, too wide-eyed—rubbed Saya the wrong way. It was the same tone girls in high society used when they smiled at you with lip gloss and knives behind their backs.

She gave a small, tight smile and shook her head. “I’m full, actually.”

Her voice was polite. Smooth. Perfectly sweet.

But something in her chest pinched.

Before either of them could say anything, she stood and brushed imaginary dust off her pants.

“I’m going to head back to the glasshouse,” she said lightly. “Thanks for the mochi earlier, Fuma.”

And without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving behind the pie, the sunhat, and the feeling that things had just gotten complicated.

—

Saya ended the call with a soft sigh, lowering her phone and staring out at the neat rows of glasshouses and plastic-covered tunnels that shimmered under the morning sun. Her fingers absentmindedly toyed with the hem of her sweater.

It had already been a month.

She didn’t expect to last this long. And she definitely didn’t expect to feel this way.

Her gaze drifted toward the barn where Fuma usually started his mornings, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted with earth, face glowing under the sun.

She had developed a crush on him. A hopeless, slow-growing, stupid crush.

I mean, who wouldn’t? He was manly, strong, and surprisingly gentle. Sure, he made fun of her city habits sometimes—like when she wore tinted sunscreen to milk the goats—but he wasn’t mean about it. He was just... honest.

But not everyone was.

Yuri, for example, was... not honest. Not really.

On the outside, she was all soft smiles and sweet laughs. But her comments were always too specific, too sugarcoated to be genuine.

Like that time Saya had been helping shovel compost and got tired, crouching to catch her breath. Yuri had taken the shovel with a tilt of her head and said loudly, “It’s natural, you know. City girls aren’t used to dirty work.” The other workers had laughed—harmless, maybe—but Saya had wanted to disappear.

Her chest tensed at the memory.

She was so lost in thought, she didn’t notice the small figure approaching until—

“BOO!”

She flinched with a yelp, spinning around.

“Saiki!” she gasped, then laughed as the little boy grinned up at her, hands behind his back.

“What are you doing sneaking around like that? You almost made me drop my phone!”

“I came to share!” he said brightly, pulling out a small plastic bag full of fat, plump blueberries. “Mama said she got too many from the other farm, so I can give some to you.”

Her face lit up. “You’re the sweetest thing on this entire farm, you know that?”

He puffed up proudly as she crouched down to take a few from the bag.

“Thank you, Saiki. These look amazing.”

“They’re magic berries,” he whispered. “They make you happy.”

Saya smiled as she popped a blueberry into her mouth, the sweetness melting on her tongue. Saiki sat cross-legged beside her now, picking grass and humming softly to himself.

“Magic berries, huh?” she said, glancing at him.

He looked up. “Yeah. Mama says food can make your heart feel different if you eat it with the right people.”

Her smile faltered slightly at his words. Something about them tugged at her chest. A long-forgotten memory bubbled up—the warm smell of strawberry jam, her small hands in her grandfather’s lap, and his gentle voice telling her stories that always seemed to stick.

“My grandfather used to tell me about magical strawberries,” she said quietly. “Each one made you feel something different based on how it tasted. One might make you feel brave. Another might make you cry. Another might make you fall in love. But no two berries were the same.”

Saiki blinked at her with big eyes. “Really?”

She nodded. “It was just a story. But I always liked it.”

They sat in silence for a moment before he tilted his head.

“Why are you sitting here alone, anyway?”

Saya gave a soft laugh. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“…Yuri,” she admitted.

His entire face changed. “Oh. I don’t like her.”

Saya blinked in surprise. “You don’t?”

He shook his head firmly. “She’s really fake. She’s always acting super sweet, but it’s weird.”

Saya couldn’t help but stare. “What makes you say that?”

“She’s always trying to get close to Fuma,” he said, scrunching up his nose. “One time, there were these girls who came for internship from the next prefecture. She told everyone they were eating the strawberries instead of working, even though they weren’t. She just didn’t want them near him.”

Saya’s brows raised slightly. “Seriously?”

Saiki nodded. “Even my mom doesn’t like her. She says Yuri acts all perfect and innocent when people are watching, but she’s always stirring stuff when they’re not.”

Saya was quiet for a moment, letting his words settle. A strange, quiet relief bloomed in her chest.

All this time, she’d been thinking maybe she was the bad one. Maybe she was just being insecure or overreacting. But no—Yuri really was fake. She wasn’t imagining it.

She wasn’t wrong for feeling off.

“…Thanks, Saiki.”

He tilted his head. “For what?”

“For the magic berries,” she smiled, gently tousling his hair, “and the truth.”

He grinned wide. “Anytime!”

Saya and Saiki were still chatting when she suddenly felt something warm brush against her side.

She turned slowly—then froze.

A round, pink pig had plopped itself right next to her. Its snout wiggled as it nudged her arm.

She blinked.

The pig oinked.

Saya screamed.

She shot up with the loudest screech the farm had probably ever heard, flailing backwards and scrambling to her feet. “NOPE—NOPE, WHAT IS THAT—”

The pig, unfazed, followed her.

She took off running in panic. “WHY IS IT FOLLOWING ME?!”

Saiki burst out laughing. “That’s Bunta! He’s nice!”

“I DON’T CARE IF HE’S NICE—HE’S A PIG—”

The commotion reached the glasshouse, and Fuma stepped out just in time to see Saya running in zigzags across the field, arms flailing, boots half-on, as a very calm and determined pig waddled behind her.

“Calm down! He’s harmless!” Fuma called out, trying not to laugh.

But she didn’t hear a word.

She made a beeline straight for him, shrieking, “GET IT AWAY FROM ME—” before practically launching herself into his arms.

Without even thinking, Fuma caught her—bridal style.

She clung to him like a lifeline, still kicking her legs slightly as she looked back. “IS IT STILL THERE?!”

He looked down at the pig, who had stopped right at his feet, snorting softly.

“Yep,” he said, trying not to smile. “He likes you.”

“WHY?!”

“You’re loud. He probably thinks you’re fun.”

She groaned, burying her face in his shoulder. “I hate this place.”

He chuckled, shifting her weight a little as he held her easily. “You said the same thing about gum boots and now you wear them voluntarily.”

“Gum boots don’t chase me,” she muttered.

“Fair enough.”

Behind them, Saiki was rolling in the grass laughing, while Bunta the pig simply sat, blinking up at them like nothing had happened.

Fuma looked down at the girl in his arms.

“Are you done screaming?”

“…Maybe.”

He grinned. “Good. Because I think you just made Bunta your biggest fan.”

Fuma adjusted his grip as Saya clung to him like a koala on a tree, her arms looped tightly around his neck.

“Okay,” he said, chuckling as he started lowering her down, “you can stand now—”

“NO,” she screeched, tightening her hold on him.

He paused. “Saya…”

“Don’t you dare put me down!” she gasped, casting a horrified glance over his shoulder. “It’s still looking at me! I can feel it breathing!”

“It’s a pig, not a demon,” he muttered through a laugh.

“Same difference!” she argued, curling further into his chest. “I’ve never been this close to one before. What if it bites?!”

Fuma looked down at Bunta, who was now lying flat on his belly, lazily munching on a patch of grass and clearly unbothered by everything.

“He doesn’t even have the energy to bite.”

“I don’t care! You're not putting me down until we’re somewhere safe. Like... on a roof.”

“On a—Saya,” he snorted, trying to keep his expression straight, “he can’t even climb stairs.”

She peeked down warily, still refusing to budge. “You promise he won’t come back?”

Fuma sighed, lips twitching as he gave in. “Fine. Princess mode it is.”

He shifted her in his arms again and started walking back toward the house with her still in his hold. From behind them, Saiki cheered.

“Carry her forever, Fuma-nii!”

“Shut it, Saiki,” Fuma called back.

Saya buried her face in his shoulder, red-faced but secretly kind of glowing.

Maybe pigs weren’t so bad after all.

They were halfway across the field when a voice called out behind them.

“Fuma-kun?”

Fuma slowed as Yuri appeared from the dirt path, holding a basket of flowers like she’d stepped out of a postcard. But the second her eyes landed on him—more specifically, on Saya in his arms—she froze.

Her mouth parted in a soft gasp. “Oh…”

Fuma nodded casually. “Hey, Yuri.”

Saya blinked, still holding onto him, and offered a polite smile. Yuri’s lips curved up in response—but her eyes didn’t match.

“What happened?” she asked, voice sugar-sweet.

“Bunta spooked her,” Fuma said, amused. “Pig came out of nowhere.”

Yuri giggled softly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Oh dear. That must’ve been terrifying.”

Saya opened her mouth to answer, but Yuri beat her to it—stepping closer with a look of faux concern in her eyes.

“I think,” she said gently, “you should go back to Tokyo.”

Saya’s smile faltered.

“I mean, it’s hard watching you struggle so much out here. All this… rough country stuff—it’s not really for people like you.”

The words were syrupy on the surface, but underneath, Saya tasted iron.

Fuma kept walking, not even missing a beat.

“She’s doing fine, Yuri,” he said with a small smile.

That one sentence sent a rush of warmth through Saya’s chest.

Yuri blinked. “Oh. Well… if you say so.”

Fuma didn’t look back. “I do.”

As they walked past her, Saya caught the flicker in Yuri’s eyes again—tight, unreadable, burning.

And for the first time, Saya didn’t feel small beneath her words.

When they finally reached the house, Fuma slowed and carefully lowered Saya to the ground.

She immediately dusted herself off, smoothing down her clothes and hair, trying to pretend her heart wasn’t thumping like crazy.

“Thanks,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

He chuckled, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “It’s fine. You were lighter than I expected.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one easy motion.

The air left her lungs.

Her jaw might’ve dropped just a little as she blinked, stunned.

The view of his back—tan skin, defined shoulders, muscles shifting as he moved—was something out of a countryside fantasy she didn’t know she had. He groaned slightly, running a hand through his hair.

“Ugh. I need a shower,” he muttered, stepping toward the door.

She stood there, completely frozen, blinking like she had short-circuited.

Then he turned. And caught the way she was very pointedly looking in the opposite direction.

He smirked. “What? Like what you see?”

Her face flared instantly. “I—I wasn’t—!”

He walked up to her, eyes gleaming with amusement, and held out the shirt.

“Be a gem and go put this in the laundry basket, will you?”

Before she could respond, he was already inside, leaving her holding the warm fabric and fuming.

Or melting. Maybe both.

He had become rather bold recently.

And it was absolutely driving her crazy.

Saya had just finished changing into a cute—yet sensible—outfit after Fuma’s mom had sweetly asked her to pick up some groceries from the nearby store. She was heading toward the door, passing Fuma’s room, when it suddenly swung open.

Her breath caught.

There he stood—damp, steam still clinging to his skin, a towel slung low around his waist and another draped casually over his neck. Drops of water slid down his collarbone, trailing over his chest like nature itself was showing off.

He blinked at her. “Where you going?”

“Shopping,” she blurted, too fast.

His gaze lingered on her a beat longer before he disappeared into his room again. A moment later, he emerged holding some money, walking toward her without a care in the world.

“Get me deodorant and some snacks,” he said, pressing the cash into her hand. “Buy something for yourself too.”

She nodded, tight-lipped, trying not to combust as she held the money like it was radioactive. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

But then he stepped closer.

She instinctively stepped back—only to be caught by the firm hand that slid around her waist, holding her in place. Her breath hitched as he leaned in, lips dangerously close to her ear.

“You’re being so obedient now,” he murmured.

Saya turned red instantly—flushed from head to toe—as she squawked something unintelligible and shoved his chest lightly before storming off like her life depended on it.

As she rushed out the front door, fanning her burning cheeks, she practically yelled at herself.

“Why is he being so hot?!”

The worst part?

There was no answer.

The small convenience shop smelled like soy, strawberries, and polished wood. Saya was browsing the aisles, her arms already full with deodorant, a few snacks, and a couple things she figured Fuma’s mom might like, when a familiar giggle caught her attention.

“Saiki?” she said, peering around the corner.

There he was—Saiki and two of his friends, crouched by the snack shelf, deep in a heated debate over two different treats.

“We can only get one,” one of the boys mumbled.

“But I want the strawberry mochi,” Saiki whispered.

“I want the chocolate fish crackers…”

Saya smiled softly.

“Why not get both?” she said gently, making them whip around.

“Saya!” Saiki beamed.

“You can get whatever you want,” she told them with a warm look.

Their faces lit up as they began loading the snacks into a small basket.

As she turned back toward the counter, a sickly sweet voice rang out behind her.

“Oh my, Saya-chan? Grocery shopping?”

She didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

Yuri appeared beside her, dressed in a pastel cardigan and pleated skirt, holding a single apple in her hand.

“It’s just… such a surprise,” she said with a coy smile. “Must be your first time doing chores.”

Saya let out the smallest sigh through her nose but smiled back, sweet and polished. “Mmm, shocking, right? Next thing you know I’ll be milking cows and fixing tractors.”

Yuri blinked, slightly thrown off by her tone.

Then, as if trying to reclaim control, she pulled a small envelope from her bag and held it out.

“We’re having a girls’ night at the community hall. Just us local girls. It’s very extravagant—super dressy. Its very evening dinner vibes. You should come.”

Saya blinked, surprised. “Oh… thanks?”

“You’re welcome!” Yuri chimed, voice sunny. “It’s gonna be so fun.”

Saya glanced at the envelope and then at Yuri, something flickering in her chest.

Extravagant, dressy and evening dinner? Finally, something in her element. And more than that—maybe a chance to show she belonged here. That she was more than some helpless Tokyo doll.

“I can do extravagant,” she said, smiling. “I’d love to come.”

Yuri’s smile faltered for a split second before bouncing back.

“I figured you would.”

As Yuri flounced away, Saya rolled her eyes slightly, her expression unreadable.

At the register, the kids reappeared, clutching their chosen snacks in tiny fists.

“I think we can put some back,” Saiki said reluctantly. “She might not have enough—”

Yuri, now conveniently loitering by the door, tilted her head. “You kids are so selfish,” she said lightly. “She probably doesn’t have enough money.”

Saya turned and gave the softest, silkiest smile as she pulled out her matte black card and slid it across the counter.

“It’s fine,” she said sweetly. “I’ve got it.”

The cashier’s eyes widened. So did the kids’.

Saiki’s friend whispered, “Is that a magic card?”

Saya chuckled. “Something like that.”

As the snacks were bagged, the boys stared up at her like she was some kind of snack goddess sent from Tokyo to rain sugar upon them.

“You’re the best,” Saiki beamed, hugging the bag.

“I try,” Saya said, tossing her hair.

And for the first time in weeks, she walked out of that shop feeling not like the outsider…

…but like the main character.

As Saya stepped out of the convenience store, the sun warmed her face, and the breeze played with the hem of her skirt. She spotted the boys gathered by the gravel path—Saiki right in the middle, dramatically reenacting something.

“She pulled out this black card! I think it had magic in it!” he said, eyes wide.

Fuma, crouched beside them, laughed as he ruffled Saiki’s hair. “Did she now?”

“She bought all our snacks!” another boy added, hugging his bag. “All of them! And she didn’t even blink!”

Fuma glanced up just then and spotted her walking toward them.

His eyes softened. His smile deepened.

Without a word, he stood and walked straight to her—completely bypassing Yuri, who was lingering nearby with an expression like she’d bitten into a lemon.

He reached out and took the grocery bags from her hands, his voice casually warm. “Didn’t know you liked kids that much.”

Saya blinked, surprised by the gesture, and then smiled as they started walking.

“I do,” she said. “They’re honest. And loud. And weird. It’s kind of refreshing.”

Fuma chuckled. “Sounds like a compliment to Saiki.”

“It is.”

He glanced sideways at her. “They like you.”

“Do you?” she teased.

He didn’t answer.

Not with words, anyway.

Instead, he gave her a half-smile that made her heart skip and looked straight ahead as if he hadn’t just set her entire bloodstream on fire.

Behind them, Yuri stood frozen, her invitation envelope still in hand, lips pressed tightly as she watched the two walk off together, grocery bags swinging, heads tilted ever so slightly toward each other.

It was the first time Saya didn’t feel like she had anything to prove.

She was just… part of the picture now.

And Fuma had only looked at her.

—

The dim golden lights of the guest room cast a soft sheen across the mirror as Saya turned, admiring the way the black metallic fabric shimmered against her skin. The strapless gown hugged her body like it had been made just for her—sleek, sculpted, and dangerously elegant.

She smiled to herself. For once, she felt back in her zone.

Until she twisted.

The zipper.

The infuriating, half-done zipper.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she groaned, tugging at the back awkwardly. Her fingers couldn’t quite reach. “Ugh…”

Grumbling, she grabbed a shawl, threw it over her shoulders to protect her dignity, and made her way downstairs, heels clicking gently.

“Auntie?” she called softly, looking around. Silence.

No mom. No dad.

Which left only one person.

She turned the corner—and nearly walked into him.

Fuma stood there, hair still slightly messy from drying off earlier, sleeves rolled up, and a towel hanging from his hand. His eyes landed on her, then widened, stopping mid-step.

“What do we have here?” he said, voice trailing into something quieter. He looked her up and down once—twice—his lips parting slightly.

She gave a sheepish smile. “I can’t zip the top. I was looking for your mom, but since it’s just you… help?”

His brows lifted, amused, but he nodded. “Turn around.”

She did, holding her hair up with one hand, the other clutching her shawl. Her heart thudded hard as she felt him move behind her.

His fingers brushed against her bare back—warm, steady—as he slowly zipped up the dress. The faint sound of the zipper felt deafening in the quiet space between them.

Once it clicked into place, he didn’t step back right away.

“You look gorgeous,” he said, voice low.

Her breath caught. Her arms slowly lowered, her eyes fixed forward.

“Thanks,” she murmured, barely trusting her voice.

“You really going all out for this party?” he asked with a hint of surprise.

She turned her head just slightly, lips curled. “Why not? A girl should remind people what she’s capable of.”

He smiled at that, a soft curve of lips. “Mission accomplished.”

And as she walked away, heels echoing against the floor, there was a quiet bounce in her step—part nerves, part fire.

He didn’t know it, but tonight…

She wasn’t just showing up.

She was about to own the room.

The community hall glowed under soft golden lights, paper lanterns hanging delicately from the ceiling. Everything was draped in white—linen tablecloths, satin ribbons, cloud-like floral centerpieces. The girls… all wore soft, flowy white dresses, pastel heels, and subtle pearl accessories.

Saya stepped through the doors, heels clicking confidently on the polished floor—until she registered the atmosphere.

Her heart dropped.

She stood out like ink on paper.

The shimmering black metallic gown hugged her curves like a second skin, catching the light with every step. Her sleek look was stunning, elegant, even regal—but in this sea of softness, she looked like she had walked out of the wrong movie.

The whispering started almost immediately.

Girls covered their mouths, stifling giggles. Some blatantly turned and stared, while others exchanged wide-eyed looks like they'd just seen a scandal walk through the door.

And in the middle of it all—Yuri.

Dressed in a puff-sleeved white dress with lace gloves and a dainty smile, Yuri giggled behind her hand and turned to her friends. "She looks like a devil," she whispered, loud enough for Saya to hear. “It’s like Morticia Addams came to a tea party.”

Saya took a slow, deep breath, letting the tension settle in her lungs.

Then she smiled.

She walked straight toward Yuri, ignoring the stares.

"Funny, isn’t it?" she said, voice calm but cutting. “You try so hard to act sweet, innocent, and perfect—but between the two of us, you're the real devil in this room.”

Yuri blinked, face stiffening.

Saya's smile never faltered. “Anyway, enjoy your cheap little bridal-themed party.”

She turned on her heel to leave, the room parting for her as her gown flowed behind like a shadow. But just before stepping out, she stopped, turned slightly, and added sweetly:

“Oh—Yuri?”

Yuri straightened.

“Your earrings?” Saya said with a tilt of her head. “So incredibly and obviously fake. I have the real ones. But cute try.”

The room froze.

Yuri’s jaw dropped. “W-what proof do you have?!”

Saya didn’t even stop to answer. She simply walked out, heels clicking with confidence, back straight, as if she hadn’t just been mocked by an entire room.

Saya had barely made it past the edge of the community hall when her composure cracked.

She threw her clutch onto the gravel, let out an annoyed yell, and aggressively raked her fingers through her perfect hair, ruining the glossy waves. “Ughhh!” she groaned, stomping in a circle.

“It’s okay, Saya. It’s okay. You don’t deserve that kind of energy. You are perfect. You are important,” she muttered, pacing as she hyped herself up.

And then she snapped.

“BUT I SWEAR IF ONE MORE PERSON ACTS LIKE I’M A VILLAIN IN VERSACE—!”

She kicked off a heel, grabbed it, and slammed the stiletto into the ground like it personally offended her.

Then silence.

Heavy breathing. Slightly calmer.

Just as she picked up her clutch and prepared to head back home, a sharp scream echoed from the distance.

A voice she instantly recognized—Fuma’s mom.

Without hesitation, Saya held up the hem of her gown and sprinted, heels back on, long legs flying as she bolted toward the source of the scream.

When she turned the corner, she saw him—a man in a hoodie sprinting down the dirt road, clutching a bag.

Fuma’s mom shouted, “Don’t follow him, it’s dangerous!” But Saya was already gone.

The robber glanced over his shoulder and relaxed when he saw no one behind him—until he turned again and saw a furious woman in a shimmering black gown, running like a possessed supermodel, heels clicking like gunshots on gravel.

“What the—?!”

She leapt forward and slammed her heel into the back of his leg with perfect aim. The man crashed to the ground with a wheeze. She snatched the stolen bag from him, spun around with a flip of her hair, and started counting the cash, unbothered as he groaned on the ground behind her.

Moments later—

“SAYA!”

Fuma’s voice rang out, frantic and fast.

He skidded to a stop next to her, eyes wide as he took in the scene: the thief on the ground, the money in her hands, and her dress torn slightly at the side from the chase.

He didn’t hesitate.

He rushed to her and cupped her cheeks, eyes scanning her face.

“Are you hurt? Did he touch you? Say something!”

Saya blinked, breath still catching up. “I— I’m fine…”

He looked her over again, jaw tight, hands firm but gentle against her skin.

She could feel the way his fingers trembled slightly. How his eyes didn’t move from hers. How he didn’t care about anything else—just her.

“I was just… angry,” she whispered with a weak laugh. “And then I saw her scream, and I just… ran.”

Fuma let out a shaky breath and pulled her into his arms.

“Remind me never to piss you off,” he mumbled.

And for once—she smiled without holding anything back.

That's it for this one!

I was thinking of ending here, but it seems incomplete, so I'll bring in a part two 😭🫶🏻

Part 2

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

Confessions of a Clumsy Werewolf ft. Werewolf!Maki

A/n: It's here!!

At first, I was gonna do like a hot, frat boy/ bad boy Maki, but then I got the inspiration for this so here we are!

Genre: Fantasy, werewolf au, fluff, humor, romance

Pairings: Werewolf!Maki x Fairy!Saki

Warnings: none

It was the peak of summer, the sun drenching the university in lazy golden light and the air thick with the smell of grass and heat.

Her hair was tied up in a loose side braid today, soft strands falling over her collarbone, framing her face like petals. A white milkmaid blouse hugged her shoulders, tied delicately at the sleeves. Over it, she wore a light green cardigan, airy and fluttering faintly with her movement. Her brown maxi skirt swayed with each step, brushing against her ankles. Her wings were folded and hidden beneath the cardigan, kept close and unbothered.

She liked the quiet of this time of day. The breeze. The warmth. The illusion of peace.

Until—

Laughter. Footsteps. Chaos.

From the other end of the walkway came them. A familiar group of boys barreling across campus like they owned it.

Maki.

And his gang of loud, stupid boys — Taki tripping over a bench, Yuma waving around a half-eaten popsicle, Harua chasing Jo with a rugby ball. Typical.

And of course, Maki — tall, and rumpled in a way that felt unfairly attractive. White athletic tee stretched over his shoulders, sleeves rolled, jaw set. He looked like the kind of boy who left dents in lockers and hearts.

And he was looking at her. Making a beeline toward her.

Eyes locked. Purposeful stride. A stupid and confident expression growing on his face.

Ugh.

She instinctively picked up her pace, muttering under her breath.

“Don’t come over. Don’t come over. Don’t—”

Too late.

Maki reached her before she could make it to the stairs. He stepped right in front of her, cutting her off like the six-foot wall of wolfish audacity he was.

“Wow,” he said, arms crossed. “You really dress like a mushroom farmer today.”

She stared at him.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean—like a cute one,” he added quickly. “Like one that sells organic stuff and curses people in her free time. Earthy. Weird. Kinda witchy.”

Saki blinked. Her eye twitched.

“Wow. You really know how to talk to girls.”

He scratched the back of his neck, flustered but pretending he wasn’t.

“I’m just saying. You’re the only fairy I’ve seen who doesn’t try to be all sparkly and floaty. You just kind of… stomp around. In skirts. And smell like compost tea.”

“Compost tea? Stomp around?”

“Okay, that came out wrong—”

WHACK.

She smacked him squarely with her sketchbook. Right on his broad shoulder. He staggered a little, looking personally offended by the paper impact.

Behind him, his friends were dying.

“She got you again,” Jo said, mouth full of granola.

“You deserve that,” Harua added.

“What did I even say?” Maki grumbled, rubbing his arm.

Saki walked past him and huffing without looking back, straightening up her form and taking a deep breath while fixing her hair.

“You talk like your brain is still buffering.”

He watched her go, hands dropping to his sides like even his muscles gave up on helping him flirt.

“…I meant she smells nice,” he mumbled to no one.

“…Like a forest. Not fertilizer.”

This had been going on since the last year of high school when Maki first transferred to her school halfway through the year.

He'd shown up like a storm cloud with sharp cheekbones.

Big. Loud. Confident.

And strangely… nice. To everyone.

Even the shy kids. Even the teachers.

But not to her.

From the first day, he had this strange thing with her.

He’d point out the way she walked “You walk like a wind-up toy.”

Comment on how she talked “Your voice is so soft I thought I was going deaf.”

Once he even told her, dead serious, “You blink weird.”

At first, she'd assumed it was a misunderstanding.

Then she hoped it was a phase.

And then, she accepted it:

Maki just didn’t like her.

Unfortunately, fate had a sick sense of humor. Because now, even after graduation, after her cautious dreams of leaving everything behind, he was here. At her university. Just as loud. Just as stupidly attractive.

And still just as rude.

She took her usual seat by the window in the lecture hall, sliding into her chair as the sunlight filtered across her notes. But her thoughts were tangled, refusing to let her focus. Her pen tapped idly against the paper.

Why?

Why her?

He was nice to everyone else. Friendly. Laid-back. Charming, even, if you weren’t the target of his unnecessary commentary.

What is it about me? she thought, bitterness curling in her chest.

What’s so special about me that he feels the need to make fun of me every single day?

She glanced at her reflection in the window.

Her braid was loose again. A few strands clung to her cheek in the heat. She pushed them back, adjusted her cardigan, sat a little straighter, like somehow that might make her less... mockable.

The professor began speaking, but her thoughts were already spiraling.

She wished she could ignore him.

She wanted to pretend his words didn’t crawl under her skin.

But every time he spoke to her, every time his eyes landed on her, her whole body braced for another judgment. Another insult dressed as a comment. Another reminder that she was, in his eyes, weird. Wrong. Laughable.

And worst of all?

Part of her still remembered what his smile looked like when he wasn’t aiming it at her.

The professor's voice droned on in the background, but Saki wasn’t listening.

Her gaze drifted to the window beside her, and through the shimmering summer haze, she spotted the rugby field down below. A few students were playing an impromptu game — boys laughing, shouting, tossing the ball around like overgrown puppies.

And right in the middle of them, of course — was Maki.

His shirt clung to him with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead as he dodged, blocked, tackled. He was fast. Sharp. Wild. Like he had too much energy and nowhere to put it.

She watched him for a second. Just a second.

And then she saw it happen.

Maki missed the pass.

It wasn’t a big deal, not to anyone else. One of his friends laughed and tossed him the ball again like it was nothing.

But Maki’s smile vanished in an instant.

He grabbed the ball and threw it into the ground so hard it bounced up and hit Jo in the leg. His shoulders tensed. His hands clenched into fists. His jaw locked.

He looked like he wanted to snap someone in half.

Jo laughed it off, said something teasing — probably something harmless — but Maki didn’t take it well. He turned away, storming off toward the edge of the field with that familiar dangerous energy trailing behind him like smoke.

Saki sighed and leaned her cheek against her palm, eyes still half on him through the window.

Classic Maki.

Couldn’t handle losing. Couldn’t handle being teased. Couldn’t handle anything, really.

He was like a volcano with muscles, always one stupid comment away from eruption.

She didn’t deny it, he still looked good.

Absurdly good.

With that sculpted jaw, his sun-warmed skin, the way his veins popped a little too nicely in his forearms. He looked like every girl’s bad decision.

But Saki had always been a little more careful than that.

If he had even half a personality to match his face, she thought, maybe I’d actually find him attractive.

But he didn’t.

He had a temper like wildfire and a mouth that only seemed to work when he was insulting her.

So she turned her gaze back to her notebook, tried to block him out again, and told herself — for the hundredth time —

“He’s not worth thinking about.”

She tapped her pen twice.

But even then… she still hadn’t turned the page.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

Maki gulped down his water, the cold seeping through his chest like it was trying to cool the frustration simmering under his skin. His shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat and clinging tight across his shoulders and back. His hair was a mess, his hands still dirt-smudged from the game, and his jaw ached from how tight he’d been clenching it.

The outburst had passed. His friends were laughing again. The game had moved on.

But he hadn’t.

His anger had cooled. Mostly.

But the stupid, infuriating feeling from the morning — from her — still burned at the edges of his chest.

Saki.

She’d hit him again.

Right in the shoulder with her sketchbook. Walked past him with a huff, her braid bouncing with every step and her cardigan fluttering like she had wind wrapped around her. Her eyes were fire and frost all at once — and they were always that way when she looked at him.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face and tipping his head back toward the sky.

Why couldn’t he just say it?

It was easy.

Just open his stupid mouth and say:

“You’re really pretty.”

“I like the way you braid your hair.”

“Seeing your face every morning makes my whole day less miserable.”

Easy.

Except not.

Not when her voice made his brain static. Not when she got that look in her eyes — the one like she was bracing herself, like he was some thunderstorm she had to walk through.

“You walk like youre crippled.”

“You blink weird.”

“You smell like compost tea.”

God, he was a mess.

She hated him. Obviously.

And could he blame her? He’d never given her a reason to think otherwise.

But damn it, he’d never hated anyone less.

He looked up toward the academic block and for just a second, he saw her.

Through the window. In that same seat by the window she always sat in, lit by the soft sun like she was painted there. Hair tied up. Arms folded. Her chin in her hand as she stared out the glass.

She was looking this way.

At him.

His breath caught — just a beat — before she turned away again.

Gone.

Like always.

Maki tossed the now-empty water bottle into his bag and muttered under his breath.

“You blink weird.” He scowled. “What the hell’s wrong with me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, muscles still twitching with leftover adrenaline — or maybe just leftover longing.

Maybe if she’d just hit me a little harder, he thought, it would knock the feelings out of me.

But knowing her?

She’d just hit harder next time.

And knowing him?

He’d probably like it.

—

The sun had started to dip behind the buildings, turning the sky a soft orange. Maki walked back toward the dorms with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds in but not playing anything. His shirt stuck to his back, still damp from sweat and grass stains, but he barely noticed.

His head was too loud.

Every step echoed with her name.

Saki.

Her voice. Her frown. The way she didn’t even hesitate before smacking him with her sketchbook like he was too far gone for words.

He groaned, running a hand through his messy hair.

“You're weird.”

He muttered it to himself, dragging his hand down his face. “Real smooth, jackass.”

He hated this.

Not her. Never her. Just the way everything short-circuited when she was around. He could charm anyone else on campus with a grin and a shrug — professors, upperclassmen, even the cranky guy who ran the cafeteria.

But the second he stood in front of her?

It was like his whole vocabulary collapsed. All his thoughts ran screaming for the hills and left him with scraps.

And yet… he kept doing it.

Kept finding her.

Kept saying the wrong thing.

Kept making her roll her eyes or slap him or walk away without even looking back.

Maki exhaled, shoulders heavy as he passed under the trees lining the path back to the dorms. A few fireflies blinked early in the evening light.

He stopped walking.

Let his bag slide off his shoulder.

Looked up at the darkening sky, fists clenched loosely at his sides.

Then he nodded once, jaw tightening.

“Tomorrow,” he said aloud. “I’m gonna tell her.”

No stupid jokes. No weird comparisons to mushroom farms or herbal tea or picnic skirts. Just the truth.

That he liked her. That he always had.

That seeing her every day was the best and worst part of his life, because it lit him up and broke him down at the same time.

And if he was lucky — by this time tomorrow?

He’d have her number saved in his phone with a little ❤️ emoji next to it.

He smirked slightly at the thought.

Then winced.

Because knowing himself, he’d probably blow it before lunch.

But still.

Tomorrow.

He was going to try.

Back in his dorm, Maki had just showered and his room smelled like musk, body spray, and failure.

He stood in front of the mirror, hands on his hips, mentally psyching himself up.

"Okay. Just be cool. Be natural. You're alpha material. She's just a girl. A very pretty, magical, perfect girl with sparkly eyes and flower soap smell and—"

He slaps both cheeks.

"Focus, idiot." He tells himself before calming himself.

He exhales, rolls his shoulders, switches into flirty mode. He leans a little toward the mirror, eyebrows cocked, voice low and smug.

"Hey… is it just me, or is it kinda hot out here?" He says as he lifts the hem of his shirt slowly, revealing toned abs, giving himself a smolder.

"Wait—maybe it’s not the weather. Maybe… it’s because you’re hot." He says in a low and hot tone.

He BITES his lip. Then immediately recoils in horror.

"NOPE. NO. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT." He exclaims as he slaps his face.

He paces the room like a rabid wolf.

"‘You’re hot?! She’ll think I’m hitting on her. Wait—I am hitting on her. But not like a jerk!! She’s gonna slap me again."

He glares at his reflection.

"Why is talking to one fairy girl harder than winning the full moon tournament?"

He tries again, dropping the flirt, going for soft and sincere:

"I think you’re… cool. Not, like, cold. Like personality cool. Like… calming." He says nervously.

Pause. He makes a face.

"Calming?! What is she, a cup of herbal tea?!"

He groans and lets his forehead thump against the mirror.

—

The next day rolled in warm and golden, the air thick with late-summer stillness. Maki had spent the morning fidgeting through classes, tapping his pen, bouncing his knee, looking around every corner hoping to spot her.

But no sign of Saki.

By the time break came around, his nerves were frayed and his shirt clung to his back despite the air conditioning. He wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to say anything anymore — but he had to try.

So when he spotted her — sitting under that tree with her legs folded, sketchbook balanced in her lap, a breeze catching her cardigan just slightly — his heart jumped. She looked like something from a painting. Warm, glowing, unreachable.

He ducked behind a wall. Quickly smoothed his hair back with his fingers. Straightened his red sleeveless shirt. Adjusted his black baggy pants— bold choice today, Maki. Bold choice.

Then he crunched down three — no, six — breath mints at once.

Too strong. Eyes watering. He coughed into his fist.

Okay. You got this.

He walked toward her.

Saki didn’t even look up from her sketch at first — but the moment she sensed him, her eyes flicked up.

Blank. Then annoyed.

"What do you want, Mickey Maus?"

He froze mid-step, blinking.

“…Huh?”

Then he looked down at himself.

Red shirt. Baggy black pants. Yellow decals. Big-ass sneakers.

He frowned. “Okay. That’s mean.”

She gave him a look.

“…Okay, fair,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But like—impressive wordplay.”

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight nervously.

This was it. The moment.

Just tell her. Tell her she’s pretty. That he likes her. That he’s been obsessed with her since high school and he doesn’t even know why except maybe it’s because she’s everything he’s not.

But instead, what came out was:

"Your outfit reminds me of the trolls from Frozen."

Silence.

Absolutely deafening silence.

Saki slowly closed her sketchbook. Stood up.

Her expression was unreadable. Dangerous.

"What is your problem, Maki?"

Her voice was sharp, tight, angry.

His eyes widened.

“No—wait, I didn’t mean it like that—!”

She stepped back, her eyebrows drawn, mouth tight.

"Why are you always targeting me?"

"It's annoying!"

"Go find someone else to obsessively annoy!"

And something inside him snapped — not with anger at her, but at everything. The pressure. The nerves. The fact that even when he tried, he still failed. His feelings, twisted and raw, came out in the worst possible way.

"Maybe if you didn’t smell funny, it’d be easier!"

It hung in the air like poison.

People nearby turned their heads.

Saki’s eyes widened — cheeks going red. Not from embarrassment, but fury.

Maki’s face paled.

“NO! No, I didn’t mean like bad funny!”

He gestured wildly. “I mean — it’s like this feeling funny! Like I know it’s you, like I feel it from far away and it’s—!”

WHACK

Her bag slammed into his shoulder — hard enough to make him stumble back.

“Don’t ever talk to me again, Maki.”

And then she turned. And walked away.

No look back. No hesitation.

Just storming off, braid swinging with every furious step.

Maki stood there frozen.

A few people stared. He didn’t even care.

The sun felt a little too hot. His mints were still burning his throat. His heart was somewhere in the dirt.

A low, involuntary sound left his throat — more instinct than thought —

a soft, pitiful whine.

Like a kicked puppy.

He stared at the grass.

“She’s really, really mad today…”

he murmured quietly to no one.

He stared at the ground.

And after a long, quiet moment…

His voice came out small. Almost broken.

“…I just wanted to say you look like a fairy princess.”

He swallowed hard.

“And you smell like the earth. Like flowers and moss and rain.”

“Like heaven.”

His shoulders slumped.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

Saki burst through the door of her dorm room and slammed it shut behind her. Her bag hit the floor with a heavy thud, but she didn’t bother picking it up. She kicked off her shoes, cardigan already halfway off, and stumbled toward her bed like a girl possessed.

She dove face-first into the blankets.

The room was hot and dim, only a sliver of light coming through the drawn curtains. Her heart was racing — her skin flushed from running the entire way across campus.

She’d left in the middle of break.

Skipped the rest of her classes.

Didn’t care.

Not after that.

She rolled onto her back, chest heaving slightly, and stared up at the ceiling, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“Maybe if you didn’t smell funny, it’d be easier.”

The words echoed in her skull.

He was a werewolf.

His sense of smell was ten times better.

If he thought she smelled weird… did that mean everyone else did too?

Her cheeks flushed red again, this time with embarrassment.

She slowly sat up and sniffed her shirt collar, frowning.

Earthy. A bit floral. Definitely her.

But… bad?

“What the hell does that even mean?” she muttered, scowling.

She threw herself back into the pillows with a loud groan, pulling a blanket over her face.

“Why is he like this?! Why me?! Why always me?!”

Meanwhile, across campus…

Maki sat in the cafeteria looking like a depressed, slightly sweaty mountain. His lunch tray was obliterated. Rice: gone. Dumplings: gone. Extra side of fried chicken: gone. Harua’s dessert: also gone.

He chewed aggressively on a cucumber, jaw tight.

Across from him, Jo watched him eat with mild concern.

“…You okay?”

Maki didn’t answer. Just stabbed a carrot.

Taki blinked. “Is he—rage eating again?”

Harua leaned back, expression unreadable. “What did you do this time?”

Maki dropped his chopsticks and leaned forward, burying his face in his arms.

His voice came out muffled:

“…I said she smelled funny.”

Everyone at the table went still.

“…You what?” Yuma choked on his drink.

Maki sat up slowly, expression full of shame and dumpling regret.

“I meant good funny! Like—like she smells like the forest! Or like… magic dirt! I don’t know!”

There was silence.

Then Jo, helpfully:

“…Did you actually say the words ‘you smell funny’?”

Maki let out a long, drawn-out groan and dropped his head back again.

“I hate my mouth.”

Taki patted his back gently. “At least you’re hot.”

“I’m not hot anymore,” Maki muttered into his arm. “I’m stupid.”

His friends shared a look.

Jo passed him a rice cracker. “You’ll figure it out, Miki Maus.”

Maki glared. “Don’t start.”

Later that evening, the halls of the dorm were quiet — most students were either studying, gaming, or nursing the soul wounds of an exhausting school day.

Maki’s door was slightly ajar, and the sound of heavy breathing and soft grunting came from inside.

Jo, Harua, Yuma, and Taki stood outside, exchanging confused glances before Jo gently nudged the door open.

“…Maki?”

Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the golden hue of a desk lamp.

And in the middle of it all — shirtless, sweaty, and doing push-ups like his life depended on it — was Maki.

His back muscles flexed with each motion. His face was tense. His dog tags swung slightly with every movement.

Taki blinked. “Oh no. He’s entered his Man Pain Arc.”

Harua walked in first. “Dude. It’s almost 8 p.m. What are you doing?”

Maki didn’t stop.

“Push-ups.”

“Yes. We gathered that.” Jo sat on his bed, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

Maki huffed. “Because I need to suffer while I think.”

Harua crossed his arms. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Respectfully.”

With one final grunt, Maki dropped onto the floor and flipped onto his back, chest rising and falling. He stared up at the ceiling like it had all the answers he didn’t.

“…I have a new plan,” he said, voice low and serious.

The guys all leaned in slightly.

“A plan?” Yuma repeated.

Maki nodded.

“Step one: Apologize.”

“Step two: Keep trying.”

“Step three: Win her over.”

Jo squinted. “Isn’t step three just… vague?”

“I’ll figure out step three when I get there,” Maki grunted, sitting up and running a hand through his damp hair. “Right now, all I care about is making things right.”

Harua raised an eyebrow. “Even after what you said?”

Maki groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

Taki whispered to Yuma, “I feel like we should start printing ‘I’m sorry for being me’ apology cards for him.”

“I like her,” Maki said suddenly, like it was being pulled from his chest. “I really like her. And I’ve liked her since high school and I’ve been a freaking idiot about it.”

He stood up and grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat off his neck.

“She’s smart. She’s beautiful. She smells like moss and sunshine and books. And instead of telling her that, I told her she smelled funny.”

Harua, calmly: “You also said she looked like a troll.”

Maki dropped the towel over his head. “I’m going to throw myself off the dorm roof.”

Jo clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Do it after you apologize. Timing is key.”

Maki sighed and slumped down on the edge of his bed, towel still over his face. His voice came out muffled.

“…I’m gonna fix it. Even if she hates me forever, I just want her to know I meant the opposite of everything I said.”

The room fell quiet.

Taki pulled out a cookie from his hoodie pocket and handed it to him. “For strength.”

Maki accepted it solemnly.

—

The next morning came with golden sun and a breeze that carried the soft scent of dew and wildflowers — and Maki’s nerves.

He was standing near the academic block, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie, eyes scanning the crowd like a bloodhound on high alert.

And then — he saw her.

Across the courtyard. Her braid was in its usual place, her cardigan fluttering gently. She looked calm. Untouchable.

Maki's heart leapt.

Now.

This was it.

He took a breath, preparing to sprint toward her.

But then—

His steps slowed. His nose twitched.

He winced.

There it was.

That overwhelming, sharp, artificial scent. Heavy and cloying.

Perfume.

Strong. Pungent. Not her.

He coughed softly into his fist, nose wrinkling.

She never wore perfume.

Her scent was normally… gentle. Subtle. Earthy. A mix of wildflowers, pine, old parchment, and sunlight.

This wasn’t that.

This was a wall of manufactured floral musk smothering everything she truly was.

His stomach dropped.

It’s because of yesterday.

She had doused herself in perfume because of what he said.

Guilt clawed at his chest. But he didn’t stop moving. He picked up his pace.

He ran to her.

“Saki—!”

She stopped.

Turned around with a calm expression that was too calm.

“I don’t want to hear anything from you, Maki.”

Her voice was quiet. Tired. Firm.

She turned to walk again.

But this time—

He didn’t let her leave.

“I’m sorry.”

She froze mid-step.

His chest heaved. His heart thumped like thunder in his ears.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, this time quieter. “For yesterday. For every stupid thing I’ve ever said to you.”

She didn’t turn around yet.

But she didn’t keep walking either.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Maki continued, voice tight with sincerity. “Not a single word. Not the troll thing. Not the smell thing. Especially not that.”

She slowly turned her head, just a little — enough to glance back at him from the corner of her eye.

“I panicked,” he admitted. “I always do when it comes to you. And I hate it. Because you make me feel… nervous. Like I’m always going to mess it up.”

There was a pause.

Saki looked forward again.

Still silent.

Maki swallowed hard. “But I’m trying now. I swear I am. I just… I didn’t want you to change how you are because of me.”

A breeze passed between them.

“…I like how you smell,” he said softly, so low it was almost a whisper. “Like wildflowers. Like the earth after rain. It’s the best scent I’ve ever known. And I hated that I made you think otherwise.”

She didn’t say anything.

But her fingers clenched slightly at her sides.

Maki stood still.

Waiting. Hoping.

He didn’t expect forgiveness.

He just didn’t want her to keep hiding herself.

Saki stood frozen.

Back still facing him. Her fingers twitched slightly at her side.

Then—

SMACK.

She slapped her arm hard with her palm.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say that before?!” she snapped, spinning around with her nose scrunched up, eyes glaring.

Maki blinked.

She looked furious. Like full-body tired angry. And flushed. And—

She slapped her arm again.

“Do you know how much I wanna puke because of this stupid perfume?!” she shouted, fanning herself with the collar of her cardigan.

“I’ve had a headache since breakfast!”

She stomped one foot. “I thought I’d go nose-dead but NOPE, still fully functioning!”

Maki was stunned.

“…Wait—you didn’t want to wear it?”

“NO!” she groaned, throwing her head back. “I only wore it because you said I smelled funny!”

He winced, guilt crashing over him again.

“I just—I thought maybe I really smelled weird and I started spiraling and then I couldn’t stop overthinking it and now I reek like a goddamn department store flower section—”

She stopped.

Took a deep breath.

Then let it out slowly, shoulders deflating.

Her face softened just slightly.

“I forgive you,” she said quietly, rubbing her temple. “But if you say one more weird thing to me again, I will set your hoodie on fire.”

Maki’s eyes widened.

“Like… with actual fire or—”

She turned.

“Bye, Maki.”

And with that, she walked away — not storming this time, but with a kind of tired grace. She was still annoyed. Still perfumed. But she’d forgiven him.

And for the first time in days, Maki could breathe again.

He stared after her, then slowly smiled.

A real one. Wide and toothy and relieved.

“…She forgave me,” he muttered under his breath, clutching his chest like he'd just won the Olympics.

Then he froze.

Sniffed the air.

Wrinkled his nose.

“Damn. That perfume is strong.”

Maki stood in place for a few seconds longer, still watching her walk away.

That braid. That tired stomp. The way her shoulders had just barely loosened.

She’d forgiven him.

She hadn’t hit him. She hadn’t screamed (well, not that much). She had listened.

She forgave him.

He exhaled with a dumb, happy smile starting to spread across his face—

And then it hit him.

His smile vanished.

His eyes went wide.

His mouth opened like a man watching a slow-motion car crash.

“…I COULD’VE CONFESSED.”

The words left his mouth in a gasp of horror.

He slapped his own face so hard it echoed.

“STUPID—WHY DIDN’T I SAY IT?!”

Another slap.

Jo, passing by a few feet away, paused mid-bite of a sandwich. “Bro… are you okay?”

Maki didn’t hear him. He was in full emotional collapse.

Hands in his hair. Knees slightly bent. Groaning into the air like a tragic romance novel protagonist.

“She forgave me! She said ‘I forgive you’ and THEN she walked away!”

He gestured wildly at the space she had just occupied.

“It was the perfect moment! It had all the emotional weight! And I just stood there like a damp towel!”

He sank to a squat, hands on his head.

“I wasted a cinematic scene.”

Jo slowly walked past. “I’m not touching this.”

Maki groaned, leaning back on the grass with a loud, exhausted sigh.

“Next time,” he muttered to the sky.

“Next time I swear I’m gonna say it. No more push-ups and perfume-induced near-death experiences. I’m gonna tell her. I swear.”

The wind rustled gently through the trees, like it heard him.

But it also kind of sounded like it was mocking him.

—

The next day, Maki showed up to class with a level of determination in his step and chaos in his soul that could only mean one thing:

he had a plan.

He had mapped it out at 2 a.m., in a crumpled notebook between a half-eaten protein bar and an empty energy drink.

Step 1: Apologize (done)

Step 2: Don’t say anything stupid (ongoing risk)

Step 3: Make her smile

Step 4: Tell her she’s pretty

Step 5: Confess and beg the gods she says yes

And today, he was tackling Step 3.

Saki was walking through the garden path between classes, trying to escape the lingering headache from yesterday’s perfume disaster. Her braid was a little looser than usual, and she was carrying a small book of pressed flowers tucked under her arm.

Then she saw him.

Standing under a tree.

Wearing a white t-shirt that was almost suspiciously fitted.

A single flower in hand.

Oh no.

She stopped walking.

“Maki, what are you doing?” she asked warily.

He turned, eyes wide like he hadn’t expected her to speak first — despite obviously waiting for her.

“Oh—hey! I was just, y’know. Chilling.”

He held the flower like it was a peace treaty. “This is for you.”

Saki narrowed her eyes.

“…What’s wrong with it?”

“What? Nothing!” he said quickly, voice cracking slightly. “It’s just a flower! A normal flower!”

“…Did you pick that from the biology lab again?”

“No.”

(Yes.)

She sighed but took it anyway, holding it like she might still throw it back at him.

“Okay. What now?”

Maki froze.

This was it. Step 3. Make her smile.

He cleared his throat.

“You, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “You look nice. Like… y’know, peaceful. Like a vibe. You’re very… vibes.”

Saki raised a brow. “Vibes?”

“Yeah. Like an aesthetic board. In a good way.”

She blinked. “Did you just compare me to a Pinterest board?”

“In a good way!”

Saki stared at him. For a long moment.

Then—just barely—

She snorted.

A small laugh, soft and unintentional.

Maki straightened up like someone had just tossed him a gold medal.

Step 3: Complete.

She looked away quickly, brushing hair from her face to hide the tiniest curve of her lips.

“I have class,” she said, walking past him.

He nodded, heart thumping.

But as she passed, she paused.

Just for a second.

“…Thanks. For the flower,” she said without turning.

And then she was gone.

Maki stood there, staring at the empty space she left behind, and whispered:

“Step 4, here I come.”

๋ ࣭ ⭑

Classes were done for the day, and Maki was walking back to the dorms with a convenience store bag in one hand and a popsicle stick hanging from his mouth. The sky was shifting into that late afternoon gold, casting long shadows across the campus walkways.

He passed by the girls’ dorm on instinct — it was on the route back.

He wasn’t even thinking.

Until—

His steps stopped.

His eyes drifted upward.

And his breath caught.

There she was.

On the rooftop.

Saki.

Her long hair was down for once, blowing gently in the breeze. She stood at the railing, hanging a thick blanket over the ledge to dry. The sun hit her just right — gold brushing against soft brown strands, cheeks slightly flushed from the climb, loose shirt fluttering faintly in the wind.

She looked—

Unreal.

Like some kind of angel. Like a painting. Like a poem someone forgot to write down.

He just stood there.

Mouth slightly open.

Completely dazed.

Until—

THWACK.

“OW—!!”

A sharp sting hit the side of his head as something small — and very solid — bounced off his temple and hit the ground.

He looked up, stunned.

Saki was squinting down at him, arms crossed.

“What are you doing staring at the girls’ dorm? You perv.” she called.

Maki panicked.

“WHAT—NO! I wasn’t—! I didn’t even know you were here!”

He held up his hands defensively. “I just—I was walking back from the store and I looked up and saw you! Just you! I swear!”

Saki raised an eyebrow.

“Are you lying, Maki?”

“No!!” he said instantly, eyes wide. “On my life. My popsicle’s honor.”

That one made her blink. And exhale through her nose like she was trying not to laugh.

She stared at him a moment longer, then nodded slowly.

“…Fine.”

She turned slightly, shaking out the blanket. Her movements calmer now. Almost… peaceful.

And Maki, still flustered and still rubbing the side of his head, was just about to say something normal when his mouth—betrayed him again.

“You’re pretty.”

It slipped out too fast. Too soft.

Too honest.

There was a pause.

Saki blinked. Her fingers stilled on the blanket.

Maki froze, eyes wide in immediate regret.

He stood there like a deer in headlights, stunned by the words that escaped before his brain caught up.

“…You’re really pretty.”

His voice had gone breathy. Dreamy.

Like he’d just realized it out loud for the first time.

Saki blinked again.

The breeze moved between them.

For a second, her expression softened — just a flicker — before she huffed and turned back to the blanket.

“…Idiot,” she muttered under her breath.

But there was no rock this time.

No yelling.

Just a soft blush brushing her cheeks as she quietly smoothed the fabric.

Maki just stood there. Grinning like a lovesick fool, hand still pressed to the spot where she hit him.

Totally worth it.

Maki stood under the rooftop, the second popsicle sweating slightly in his hand.

“Hey!” he called up.

Saki glanced over the edge, her loose hair brushing her shoulders, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“What?”

He raised the popsicle in offering.

“For you.”

She squinted down at him. “Maki, I’m on the roof. I’m not coming down just to get that.”

He shrugged. “You can just fly down.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he felt it.

That drop.

That shift in the air.

Saki went still. Completely still.

There was a pause — too long to be normal.

Then, in a voice too casual to be real:

“…I can’t fly.”

Maki’s heart dropped.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her hands rested at the railing, fingers curled in.

“My wings… they’re cracked,” she added after a moment. “Been like that since I was a kid. Permanently damaged.”

He froze, guilt slamming into his chest.

“Saki… I didn’t know. I’m—”

He took a step back. “I’m really sorry.”

She shook her head once, her tone dismissive but her eyes still distant.

“It’s fine. You didn’t know.”

But he wasn’t fine. His jaw clenched. He looked up again.

At the railing.

Then at the tall streetlight nearby.

And then—

He made a decision.

“Wait—what are you—”

“Hold on.”

“Maki. No.”

He backed up several steps.

Took one deep inhale.

And sprinted.

“MAKI—!”

He launched off the ground, one foot slamming against the curved base of the streetlight. His werewolf reflexes kicked in — the momentum vaulted him upward, foot pressing against the pole one more time as he kicked off with full force, catapulting himself into the air like a blur of red and sweat.

With perfect timing, he caught the edge of the rooftop.

Saki gasped as he landed neatly on the railing itself, crouched low, one hand steadying him while the other held out the slightly cracked popsicle.

Breathing a little hard. Smiling like a dumb hero in a shoujo manga.

“Still want it?” he asked, like he hadn’t just performed rooftop parkour for frozen sugar water.

Saki stared at him.

And stared some more.

Then huffed.

Snatched the popsicle from his hand and turned away, cheeks red.

“…Idiot.”

He hopped down beside her and sat on the railing, legs swinging as she sat in the plastic chair nearby.

They sat in silence for a while.

The wind tugged at her hair. The sun dipped behind the rooftops. Their popsicles slowly disappeared.

And then—

“You should keep your hair down more often,” Maki murmured, his voice casual but full of quiet wonder.

She blinked at him.

“Not that you don’t look nice when it’s braided,” he added. “But when it’s down, you look kinda…”

He paused. Swallowed.

“…Magical.”

Saki bit her popsicle harder than necessary.

“Say one more cheesy thing and I’m pushing you off this roof.”

Maki just grinned.

“Totally worth it.”

The sun was slipping low, casting long shadows over the dorm rooftops.

Maki stayed perched on the railing, popsicle in hand, face glowing with smug satisfaction.

Saki was sitting nearby, chewing on her own popsicle with narrowed eyes.

“Seriously,” she said, not even looking at him. “You can get down now.”

“I’m comfy.”

“You’re going to fall.”

“I’ll fall dramatically.”

She rolled her eyes. “I will push you.”

But before he could respond—

“EXCUSE ME!”

A sharp, commanding voice sliced through the rooftop air.

“WHAT do you think you're doing in the GIRLS’ dorm?!”

Maki and Saki both turned sharply.

Down below, standing with hands on her hips, was the dorm warden — a short, formidable woman in her late forties with a sleek bob and enough authority in her voice to make even grown wolves tuck their tails.

Maki blinked.

“…Uh oh.”

The warden’s eyes narrowed like a hawk. “Get. Down. Right. Now.”

Saki stood up in alarm. “You moron, you’re gonna get in trouble—!”

“NOW!”

Maki groaned as he dropped from the railing to the ground with a soft thump. He waved sheepishly down at the warden.

“Sorry, ma’am! Just… handing off a popsicle!”

“Handing off—what are you, a flying ice cream vendor?!”

He turned to Saki with an awkward little grin. “She’s kinda scary.”

“She is,” Saki muttered, looking mortified. “Now leave."

Maki gave her a wink. “Later, beautiful.”

She threw the popsicle stick at him. Missed.

He jogged towards his dorm, hands in pockets, while the dorm warden shouted something about protocol and boundaries and student conduct behind him.

By the time he disappeared from view, Saki was left standing alone on the roof.

She sighed.

Looked down at her half-melted popsicle.

Then shook her head with a quiet laugh she tried very hard to suppress.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

Maki was in bed.

Shirtless. Hair damp from a shower. One leg kicked up, then the other. His blanket twisted around him like a snake as he rolled dramatically for the fiftieth time.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

He stared up at the ceiling like it had all the answers.

“She blushed.”

He grinned like a lunatic.

“She actually blushed.”

He kicked his feet again like a schoolgirl on the phone with her crush.

His phone buzzed.

A meme from Jo.

He didn’t even open it.

He was too busy replaying the moment on the rooftop: her hair catching the sunlight, the way her eyes went wide when he landed, the tiny flush that crept up her cheeks when he handed her the popsicle and called her magical.

Kick.

“Ugh, she looked so cute.”

He rolled over and groaned into his pillow.

His thoughts drifted then — past her blush and her laugh — to the way she had gone quiet when he mentioned flying. The way her voice had changed.

He frowned.

“That’s why I’ve never seen her in the sky,” he mumbled. “Even during fairy races at the high school sports meets… she never joined.”

She had always been there. Sitting in the stands. Cheering quietly.

But never flying.

His chest ached. He had unknowingly talked about her wings and inability to fly. Guilt filled his heart.

“She used to fly.”

He stared at the ceiling, brows drawn together. “She wants to fly.”

He bit his lip, deep in thought.

What if… he could help her?

He wasn’t a genius. Or magical. Or anything delicate.

But he had strength.

Speed.

Arms strong enough to throw rugbyplayers across fields.

Could he—?

No, no. That was crazy.

…But maybe not that crazy?

His brain circled back to his notebook — the one from three nights ago.

Step 1: Apologize.

✅

Step 2: Don’t say anything stupid.

❌(okay, kinda failed)

Step 3: Make her smile.

✅

Step 4: Compliment her.

✅✅✅

He sat up suddenly, eyes wide.

“I DID THEM ALL.”

The realization hit like a tackle.

He slapped his hand to his forehead.

“All the steps are done… all that’s left is—”

He whispered it.

Like a forbidden word.

“Confessing.”

And then he flopped back dramatically onto the bed.

“Shit.”

—

The sun rose, and so did Maki — with the kind of determination that came once in a lifetime and was usually followed by heartbreak or a movie montage.

He stood in front of the mirror in his dorm’s shared bathroom, eyes locked on his reflection.

Today was the day.

He had decided.

His jaw was clenched. His shoulders were tense.

“No more running. No more being a coward.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, intentionally leaving it slightly messy — just the right amount of "ruggedly hot."

Then he leaned in.

“Just tell her. She’s beautiful. Magical. Amazing. She smells like forest rain and cinnamon and your heartbeat goes stupid when she blinks.”

He slapped his cheeks twice.

“YOU GOT THIS.”

He popped a few breath mints. A few more. Spit one out because it was too minty.

Checked himself in the mirror again.

Tight white shirt. Loose black joggers. That wolfish, boyish confidence.

Maki exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

“Today is gonna be fruitful.”

He grabbed his bag and walked out of the dorm like a man ready to marry the love of his life.

This was it.

Today was going to be fruitful.

And as the break hour came around, he had just the right idea.

“She likes sweet things,” he mumbled to himself as he stood in line at the cafeteria. “I’ll get her that honey peach drink she always steals from Taki.”

He paid for it, carefully held it in one hand, and practically skipped his way down the hall. He saw her near the courtyard doors, about to head outside — her braid swinging, wings tucked beneath her cardigan.

Perfect timing.

He adjusted his posture. Cleared his throat. Smiled a little. His hands were sweating again.

“Saki!” he called, heart thudding.

She turned.

And then—

SPLASH.

“AAAH—!”

In a blink, Maki had tripped over absolutely nothing — because of course he did — and the entire cup of cold honey peach juice went flying straight onto her sundress.

Time froze.

The straw bounced off her shoulder.

Maki froze too, still crouched, one leg twisted like a pretzel from the fall, eyes wide in horror.

“…Oh my god.”

Saki slowly looked down at herself, soaked in golden juice, eyes twitching.

“You—”

“I didn’t—! I swear, I was trying to—!”

SLAP.

The sound echoed louder than the cafeteria bell.

Maki’s face snapped to the side, and his heart dropped lower than the spilled drink on the tile.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t yell.

She just turned and walked away stiffly toward the ladies' washroom, clothes dripping, her face red with anger and humiliation.

And Maki?

He just sat there, knees bruised, cheek stinging, and heart shattered.

Students stepped around the scene awkwardly. One of the cafeteria workers quietly swept up the cup and ice shards. No one said anything.

He slowly reached up and touched his cheek where she hit him.

His hand still held the receipt from the drink.

He took a deep breath and straightened.

She was the one he liked and there was no way a glitch was about to stop him.

As the day progressed, Saki had changed clothes and Maki had become determined to win her heart.

Attempt #1

"I like your… uh… leaf dress thing. You look like a decorative salad." Maki said referring to her new change of clothes that consisted of a green fitted tee, a dark sage wrap skirt and skin tights paired with brown leg warmers and black loafers.

"Excuse me?" She deadpanned.

"I meant it’s—it’s nice! Earthy. Fresh. Not like the others who look like… grocery store salads?" Maki said as his voice laced with panic.

"Do you hear yourself?" Saki asked with an annoyed look.

WHACK—she smacks him with her sketchbook and storms off. He groans and slumps against the nearest tree.

"...I was gonna say she’s beautiful." He mumbled before groaning amd kicking a rock that then hit his head making him wince.

—

Attempt #2

"You’re the only one who doesn’t smell annoying." Maki said nervously.

"…What?" Saki replied as she looked at him, confused.

"I mean, I always know when you're near. You smell like wind and moss and—ugh, that sounds creepy. Forget it." Maki added, trying again.

"Is this another backhanded insult?" Saki asked while narrowing her eyes.

"No! It’s like... pleasant! You're just... aromatically tolerable!" Maki exclaimed, panicking after seeing the look on her face.

Saki hits him with her tote bag. Again.

"You have exactly three brain cells." Saki said before walking past him with a huff.

"That are in love with you." Maki mumbled to himself before pouting.

—

Attempt #3

"I think about you a lot before bed." Maki blurted out.

"…What?" Saki stopped mid-step before slowly turning to face him.

"NOT LIKE THAT. I mean like… your hair. Not your—NO. NOT LIKE THAT EITHER." Maki said quickly after realising how wrong it sounded.

"I swear to the moon—" Saki said in annoyance before cutting her sentence as she smacked him with her rolled-up class notes and stomps off red-faced.

"WHY do words betray me?" He groaned before scratching his head aggressively.

—

Attempt #4

Saki was packing up her things under her favorite tree when Maki walked over, determined this time to be smooth. He was rehearsed and ready.

“So… I was thinking… if you're always grounded, maybe that's why your grades are so high. Not a lotta distractions when you don't fly, huh?” Maki said after clearing his throat nervously.

“…What did you just say to me?" Saki asks, voice low and warning.

"I MEANT—you’re smart! I just meant… like, you have more time to study ‘cause you’re not flying around?? Like the other fairies do. Not in a bad way! Like—" He tries to fix it after realising she might not have liked what he said.

WHACK.

Her shoulder bag slams into his side with fairy fury. His eyes widen, and he stumbles back, wincing and gasping.

"Ow—what is in that thing, bricks?!" Maki says while groaning in pain and about to follow her.

"Stay!" Saki snaps and commands.

"Wh—"

She disappears down the hill, not sparing him a glance.

He straightens up slowly, still rubbing his ribs, stunned.

“…Did she just… tell me to stay?”

Maki scowls and asks himself.

“I’m not a dog.”

Pause.

“…I mean I am—but not like that.”

He huffs, crosses his arms. He stares at the spot where she vanished, whining softly.

He then sits. Right there. Under the tree. Grumbling about how that was uncalled for

“I hate and love how powerful she is.” He mumbled, feeling grumpy.

—

It had been a week since the fallout.

Seven long days of embarrassment, shame, and the distinct scent of failure that still clung to him.

The dorm had suffered.

Maki had thrown a rugby ball at the ceiling.

He’d chewed through two pillows.

He nearly tackled Yuma on Tuesday just for humming Saki’s name by accident.

He growled at Jo for suggesting he “just move on.”

And now… finally…

It was Sunday.

The dorm was quiet.

The sky outside the dorm windows was soft with warm light.

And Maki was slumped across the entire common room couch like a corpse, face half-buried in a throw pillow, tank top rumpled, a single breath mint on his chest like a fallen medal.

Across the room, Taki munched on cookies while scrolling on his phone. He peeked over lazily and said:

“She kinda hates you. So like… why are you even still into her?”

The room went silent.

Maki slowly raised his head from the pillow.

“Are you being for real right now?”

His eyes blazed like Taki had insulted his mother.

Taki blinked.

“She’s. Incredible.”

And just like that—

The floodgates burst.

Maki sat up straight, eyes wild, voice loud.

“She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life, okay? Like—stupid, jaw-dropping, eye-burning, ethereal levels of pretty. She looks like she came from a magical tree with sparkling wings and baby deer at her feet. And when her hair’s down? I can’t breathe. I forget how to function as a person. I literally bumped into a door last week because she laughed.”

Taki slowly lowered his cookie.

“Okay…”

But Maki wasn’t done.

“And she’s not just pretty! She’s cool! She doesn’t care about people’s opinions, she reads books with those little tabs in them, and she wears flowy skirts and draws wings all over her sketchbooks and has this weird way of rolling her eyes when she’s pretending not to smile but I KNOW she wants to smile because her nose scrunches a little when she’s fighting it—”

Taki stared.

Harua peeked in from the hallway.

“He’s doing it again,” he whispered.

Maki stood up now, pacing like a wild animal.

“—and she smells like the woods after it rains! Not perfume-y like other girls, but like real trees and sunlight and bark and it makes my heart do that thing where it feels like it’s gonna explode but in a nice way!”

“Like a heart attack?” Jo offered, poking in from the kitchen.

“YES! A LOVE HEART ATTACK!”

Taki raised his brows. “Dude…”

Maki finally dropped back onto the couch, flushed and panting like he just ran laps.

His eyes locked on the ceiling, starry and dramatic.

“…She’s Saki. There’s no one like her. She’s… her.”

There was silence.

Then a crunch.

Taki took another bite of his cookie.

“…Okay, yeah. That was kinda poetic.”

Then—

CRASH.

Everyone’s heads snapped toward the source of the noise.

The sliding glass door to the dorm’s backyard patio was open.

And standing just outside it, surrounded by scattered flower pots and a bag of snacks she brought as an apology fallen on the ground.

Saki.

Frozen.

Eyes wide.

Face red.

Jaw. Dropped.

Maki sat bolt upright.

“…Saki?”

Taki’s cookie dropped to the floor.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Saki was still holding the drink she had just fetched from the vending machine. The straw had slipped from her lips. Her fingers were gripping the cup like it was the last tether to reality.

Her gaze slowly shifted to Maki.

To his flushed cheeks. His messy hair.

His entire dorm audience.

He could feel the blood rushing up his neck, exploding behind his ears, his wolf instincts SCREAMING to run.

Instead, all he managed to say was:

“…H-How long were you standing there…?”

Her voice was quiet. Shaky.

“Since… the she's incredible thing.”

“Oh.”

Beat.

“OH MY GOD—”

Maki leapt off the couch like he’d been electrocuted, flailing his arms, eyes wide in absolute panic.

“I—I MEANT THAT IN A COOL WAY!!” he blurted. “NOT LIKE—ACTUAL MEDICAL—IT’S—LIKE—A FEELING—”

Saki just stared, still stunned, drink completely forgotten in her hand.

Maki looked around at the others in pure horror.

Taki whispered, “You’re screwed.”

Maki turned back to her.

“Listen—WAIT—okay—okay, that came out all wrong—actually, no, it came out exactly how I meant it but I didn’t think you’d hear it!”

He was full-on panicking now. Heart racing. Hands flapping.

“It was supposed to be private screaming!! With the boys!!”

Saki blinked. “So you think I smell like bark?”

Maki froze.

“...he did say that.” Taki added.

Maki turned beet red.

His voice cracked.

“GOOD bark!! Like—like nature bark! Not like... old wood. Like sexy—no, wait, not sexy bark—”

Harua slapped a hand over his own mouth.

Saki slowly blinked again.

Then…

She turned.

Walked away.

Silently.

Leaving the back door wide open behind her.

The only sound was the click of her sandals and the quiet flutter of her cardigan as she disappeared back down the path.

Silence.

“…You died.” Jo said.

Maki slumped against the wall, breath gone, face in hands.

“I need to leave the country.”

—

Saki ran.

Her face was burning red, her eyes wide in horror, and her hand clamped tightly over her mouth as if that could somehow keep the chaos inside her from spilling out.

Her mind was a blur. She barely registered the trees, the breeze, the path under her feet. All she could hear was the echo of his voice.

She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

She’s Saki. There’s no one like her. She’s… her.

GOOD bark!! Like—like nature bark! Not like... old wood. Like sexy—no, wait, not sexy bark—

“OH MY GOD.” she squeaked into her palm, stumbling around the corner behind the dorms and nearly faceplanting into a bush. Her heart was thudding so loudly it felt like the whole campus could hear it. Like the entire town was probably hearing it.

She darted behind the nearest tree, back pressed hard to the trunk, trying to breathe.

“What was that?!” she gasped, eyes wild.

She bent over slightly, covering her mouth with both hands now, heat rushing to her ears. Her drink was still in her hand but she didn’t even notice the drops slipping from the straw and onto her skirt.

“He likes me?!” she whispered-shouted. “He likes ME?!”

Her legs almost gave out.

She dropped her drink onto the grass and slid down to sit behind the tree, completely overwhelmed. Her hands were still over her mouth, but she couldn’t stop the flood of thoughts in her head.

That voice—his voice—when he said it. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t teasing. It had been… serious. Soft. Almost shaky.

And all those words—those stupid, perfect, panicked words—had come from him.

The Maki who tripped over nothing and always said the worst things. The Maki who teased her since high school. The Maki who once barked at a vending machine for taking his money. That Maki had just said she was beautiful. Magical. That he noticed when she tried not to smile.

Her heart gave a massive, reckless thump.

This couldn’t be real. She must have been hallucinating. That must’ve been another werewolf in the dorm.

“Stupid, dumb, big idiot,” she muttered into her hands. “Why���d you have to say it like that?”

She took a deep breath and leaned her head back against the tree, staring up at the fluttering leaves.

She had to calm down.

But her heart kept beating louder, faster, like it had known all along.

And her lips were still trying not to smile.

Saki was walking past the quiet neighbourhood park, still trying to cool down, when she heard it.

“Saki!”

She froze.

His voice.

She turned slowly, heart instantly picking up speed, and there he was — Maki, standing under the shade of a tree, hair tousled from running, a little breathless, and looking at her like she was the only thing in the world.

Her face began to heat up.

He took a step closer, then stopped, clearly nervous. He scratched the back of his neck, gulped once, then tried to speak.

“I, uh… what I said back there—” he looked everywhere but at her, “I’m sorry if you didn’t like it. I just—” his voice cracked a little and he winced, “You’re… oh my gosh, I don’t know what to say but I’ll say this—”

He finally looked into her eyes.

“Saki… I like y—”

He didn’t even get the last syllable out.

Because Saki’s hands flew up, cupped his face, and she kissed him.

Right there. Right in the middle of the path. Soft and deep and with so much heat that Maki’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

His brain short-circuited. His heart howled.

Her lips were warm. She tasted like peach juice and magic. He forgot how to breathe.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were wide, panicked, and her voice came out in a frantic gasp.

“That—That wasn’t supposed to happen!” she blurted, hands still hovering near his face. “I—I'm so sorry—!”

But Maki just stared at her like he’d been struck by divine lightning. His lips were parted, cheeks flushed, breath ragged.

Then, slowly, he reached up, cupped her cheeks, and kissed her back.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

And this time, she kissed him back just as hard.

They didn’t need to say anything more.

Because the bark-scented, emotionally-stunted werewolf and the wingless fairy princess had already said it all — in the mess, in the flailing, in the chaos, and in the quiet.

And now, in a kiss that had been three years and multiple slaps in the making.

They slowly broke apart, breath mingling in the summer air, foreheads still close, faces flushed, hearts racing.

Maki stared at her like she’d just rearranged his entire universe with one kiss.

Saki shyly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, still trying to catch her breath. Her lips tingled, her cheeks were practically glowing, and she couldn’t look away from his stupidly handsome, dazed face.

“So…” Maki muttered, voice a little hoarse, lips pink and just slightly swollen, “I reckon you like me too?”

Saki let out a tiny laugh through her nose, eyes crinkling as she hummed softly and gave a small, shy nod. “Maybe just a little.”

His grin bloomed instantly — boyish, crooked, so full of joy it made her stomach flutter.

They stood there for a second, caught in a soft, awkward silence, both of them fidgeting with their hands like middle schoolers with a crush.

Then Maki cleared his throat.

“I… kinda wanna do it again,” he mumbled, looking at her from under his lashes.

Saki’s face went redder than ever, and she rubbed her sleeve against her warm cheek.

“…I kinda want to do it again too.”

They stared at each other.

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeats.

Then—crash.

Their lips met again, with a little more desperation this time, a little more certainty. His hands settled gently at her waist, hers curled around his shirt, and they melted into each other like they’d been waiting their whole lives to do this.

It wasn’t perfect. It was clumsy, breathy, eager. His nose bumped her cheek, her fingers fumbled in his hair — but neither of them cared.

Because it was real.

From behind a tree, Jo watched in horror, face blank.

He’d followed Maki out of worry. But now?

He was witnessing full-on makeout madness in a public park.

“…I should’ve stayed in bed,” he muttered, dead inside.

Maki and Saki kissed again—deeper, more desperate.

Jo slowly turned away.

“I came for friendship. I got trauma.”

And with that, he trudged back to the dorm, whispering to himself, “Never again.”

That's it for this one!

You never know, I might just post frat boy/ bad boy Maki one day.

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

We have a clear winner!

The next fic will be for MAKI!

😭 I already have an idea so expect it to be out VERY soon!

[atinyjules]

Mirror Ft. Werewolf!K

A/n: It took me a while to decide who to give this story to, but ultimately, I chose K. ✨️

Genre: Werewolf au, angst, romance, fluff, soulmate au

Pairings: Werewolf!K x Mermaid!Kaori

Warnings: it's a little angsty but not a large amount.

They had loved each other for as long as they could remember.

K — brash, wild, and fiercely loyal — had always been drawn to Kaori, the gentle yet sharp-eyed girl who swam against every current fate threw at her. She was a mermaid, born of seafoam and songs, and he was a werewolf, made of fire and moonlight. And yet, for a time, none of that mattered.

They met as children beneath the cliffs where the sea met the woods, and they kept meeting, again and again, long after they were old enough to know better. Their love bloomed in secret coves and moonlit forests, in shared silences and hands held beneath stars.

But secrets, no matter how beautiful, never stay hidden forever.

K’s parents — alpha-blooded, power-obsessed, and cruel — had always made it clear: the bloodline must stay pure. Werewolves must only bond with werewolves. Anything else was weakness. Contamination.

When whispers of their forbidden love reached the pack, the punishment was swift and merciless.

They were ambushed.

Kaori remembered the day too well — the damp forest floor beneath her knees, the scent of moss and blood in the air, the sound of K’s agonized screams as his own pack mates beat him down in front of her, snarling curses about betrayal and filth.

She had begged.

Begged them to stop. Begged the moon. Begged the stars.

And when none of them listened, she begged him.

“Please,” she had whispered, through tears and trembling lips, her voice breaking as K struggled to lift his head to look at her, “Let me go. If loving me means this… I’d rather you live.”

He had screamed her name when she ran.

And she had never stopped hearing it since.

K was forced into an engagement barely a month later. Mina — a she-wolf with sharp claws and a sharper tongue — had always despised Kaori, jealous of the love K gave her so freely. Now, wearing the title of “fiancée,” Mina made it a point to flaunt it in every town gathering, every pack assembly, every breath she took.

She clung to K’s arm with pride. He bore it with dead eyes.

What hurt more than the bruises was the silence.

He saw Kaori often. Across the marketplace. At the river bend. Once, under the fading dusk as she stood barefoot on the sand, hair dancing with the wind like it used to around him.

And every time, she smiled.

A small, bittersweet smile that held no anger. No resentment. Just pain, and something worse — kindness.

She never looked away. Never made a scene. Never let anyone see the hurt except him.

It destroyed him.

Because Mina screamed to the world that she owned him — but it was Kaori, silent and unbitter, who held his heart. Always had. K saw her everywhere.

In the marketplace crowds. In the stillness of the forest. In the lull of waves crashing against the cliffside. But most of all—he saw her in the mirror.

Every time he looked up, her face was there. Not in flesh or ghost, but in memory. A trick of the mind. She’d stare back at him with that same bittersweet smile—the one that never blamed him, never hated him. Just accepted, mourned, forgave.

That smile broke him the most.

Because it said “I understand.”

Because it said “I still love you.”

And he didn’t deserve that.

Every time he stood before the mirror to adjust the ceremonial collar Mina forced on him—gold-threaded, symbolic of union—he’d catch Kaori’s reflection instead of his own. Her gentle expression, her ocean-deep eyes, the way she used to reach up and fix the collar for him while laughing softly. That memory taunted him now as Mina stood behind him like a conqueror, staking her claim on something he no longer had the will to defend.

He’d punch the glass sometimes.

Other times, he’d fall to his knees, forehead pressed to the sink, trying to breathe.

He hadn’t just lost her—he’d lost himself the day she let go.

Because he knew, deep down, Kaori didn’t walk away for her sake. She did it for him. Because she couldn’t bear to watch him be torn apart by the people meant to protect him.

Because her love had always been that kind.

And all he had done was let her go.

So when the masquerade was announced by the town—an annual event of unity, celebration, and peace among clans—he didn’t want to go. He hated the pretense. Hated the masks, the music, the illusion that everything was fine.

But Mina insisted. Paraded him through tailor fittings and rehearsals and laughed with her friends about how the world would finally see them officially together.

“The perfect couple,” she cooed.

K looked at the mirror as she said that—and saw Kaori’s smile fade.

It was the first time the reflection ever looked away.

That was when he knew:

He couldn’t pretend much longer.

Not without destroying what little remained of himself.

She had become his reflection.

Not just in glass, but in feeling. In ache. In soul.

Whenever K caught sight of Kaori from afar — across the square, at the shore, passing beneath the flicker of lanterns on festival nights — it was like looking into a mirror. A mirror that didn’t lie. One that showed him everything he was, and everything he’d lost.

She never had to speak. He didn’t need words. Just the way her eyes softened when they met his. The way her lips lifted into a smile that hurt more than any blow ever could. It was like she knew. Not just what he felt, but who he was.

She always had.

Kaori had loved him before the titles, before the expectations. Before the pack, before the pressure. She had known the boy who couldn’t shift properly at thirteen, who hated the way his parents used dominance as control, who ran barefoot into the woods just to feel free.

And she had loved him — not the wolf. Not the heir. Just K.

No one else ever saw that part of him.

No one else ever looked hard enough.

That’s why when he looked at Kaori, it didn’t just ache — it broke him.

Because she was the only one who had ever understood him, and he had let her go.

Even now, her pain mirrored his. He could see it when their eyes met. The same weight. The same quiet endurance. The same desperate smile.

It was like seeing his soul walk around outside his body, still glowing despite everything they’d done to her. Despite everything he had failed to protect her from.

She was his reflection.

Not in a way that mimicked him, but in a way that completed him.

She carried his pain like it was her own.

And he carried the ghost of her in every breath.

People thought he had moved on. That he had accepted the engagement. That he was stepping into his role as pack heir with grace and maturity.

But they didn’t see the mirror he saw.

They didn’t see the girl who still loved him, even after being torn from him.

They didn’t know he still woke in the middle of the night with her name on his lips. That when Mina reached for his hand, he pretended it was Kaori’s. That he hadn’t truly smiled since the day Kaori let go of his face and whispered, “Live.”

He hadn’t lived since. He’d just endured.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The mask was white.

Simple. Elegant. Blank—almost hollow, like him.

K’s fingers hovered over it for a long time before finally lifting it from the velvet box. His hands were trembling. Not with fear. With longing. With quiet fury. With the ache that came from holding back too much for too long.

White meant light. And light had always meant Kaori.

He pressed the mask to his chest for a moment and swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Behind him, Mina's shrill voice cracked the silence like a whip.

“K! Hurry up, for Moon’s sake! I won’t walk in late just because you’re sulking again.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at her.

Just strapped the mask across his face, hating that it didn’t hide the deadness in his eyes. The ache in his jaw from gritting his teeth. The hollow thump in his chest where Kaori’s name used to echo.

Mina stood in the doorway, dressed in a gown so extravagantly crimson it looked like blood dipped in glitter. Jewels glinted on her chest and feathers burst out from her shoulders like a peacock in heat. Her mask was an obnoxious red, dripping with rubies and trimmed with gold vines.

She looked expensive. Loud. Desperate.

He looked once, and looked away.

The act of it—all of it—made him want to gag.

Still, she grabbed his hand as if claiming a prize. Her perfectly manicured claws dug into his knuckles. A loud, forced smile stretched her lips as they walked to the carriage.

To the world, they must have looked like perfection.

But to K, it felt like walking to a funeral.

The car rattled over cobblestone paths. Outside, lanterns flickered as villagers and nobles alike made their way toward the grand manor at the edge of the forest — the chosen venue for the masquerade this year. It sat perched like a relic of old days, veiled in ivy and glass. Tonight, it would become a stage.

Mina was silent for once, but not out of grace. She was too busy adjusting her reflection, lips pursed, eyes narrowed as she reapplied her lipstick for the fifth time. Her compact mirror clicked open, then shut, then open again as she muttered about angles and lighting.

"They’ll all be looking at me," she said with a smirk, "and they should."

K didn’t respond.

His gaze was fixed on the window, but he wasn’t seeing anything.

He was back in the cliffs. Back in the cove where Kaori had kissed the top of his head and told him stories about the stars. He could still hear her laughter, soft and playful as water, echoing in the chambers of his memory.

He felt hollow. Like a wolf made of paper.

And he knew—tonight had to change something.

Even if it ended in ruin.

Even if it ended in blood.

Because if he had to live one more day as this version of himself, shackled to someone he loathed while the one who truly knew him stood in quiet agony just out of reach—

He would lose what little humanity he had left.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The mirror wavered slightly with her breath as Kaori sat before it, silent. The soft glow of candlelight flickered over the delicate curves of her face, catching on the corners of her eyes where tears hadn’t yet fallen, but threatened to.

Behind her, her mother gently fastened a silver clasp. A soft click sounded as the necklace settled around her collarbone—an old family heirloom. Pearls, tiny and luminous, like sea foam frozen in time.

Kaori stared at her reflection.

She looked beautiful. But not happy.

And she wasn’t sure which hurt more.

Her mother’s voice broke the silence, trembling as it reached her:

“If it hurts… come home.”

Kaori blinked, startled by the gentleness. Her mother never spoke much about K. Never disapproved. Never encouraged. Just… watched. Silently grieving her daughter’s grief.

But now, her mother’s eyes had turned glassy. The kind of look that only came when a mother saw her child quietly breaking.

“I can’t see you like this anymore.”

Kaori's lips parted. The words caught in her throat before slipping out in a broken whisper:

“I loved him…”

Her mother wrapped her arms around her from behind, resting her chin on Kaori’s shoulder. The hug was warm, steadying — a tether in the whirlwind Kaori had been lost in for too long.

“True love eventually finds its way back,” her mother murmured. “Be strong. Just a little longer.”

Kaori closed her eyes, fighting the wave rising in her chest.

She had never stopped loving him. Not even once. Not when he avoided her gaze. Not when Mina flaunted him like a medal. Not when Kaori caught him staring, looking like a man starved of air, holding her gaze like it was the only truth left in the world.

She had loved him in silence. With dignity. With pain.

And tonight… she would see him again.

The car ride was quiet.

Kaori sat alone in the back, white-gloved fingers gently holding the lace mask in her lap. It was simple—white with soft, dainty shimmer. Just like the necklace. Nothing bold. Nothing boastful.

It didn’t need to be.

Because tonight wasn’t about being seen.

It was about facing him. One last time.

She stared at the mask for a long moment, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.

Then she closed her eyes… and exhaled.

A deep breath. A fragile surrender. A whisper of strength returning.

She slipped the mask over her face, letting it rest against her skin like a second self. And though she couldn’t see it, behind that lace covering—her eyes no longer looked afraid.

Just ready.

—

The ballroom was alive with noise.

Crystals dripped from chandeliers like frozen stars, reflecting golden light across walls dressed in velvet. Music floated, couples spun, and laughter rang like bells off marble.

And K?

K was dying.

Mina clung to his arm like a thorny vine, dragging him from one pretentious cluster to another. Her voice was syrupy, dripping compliments and backhanded jabs in equal measure. Every time she laughed at something cruel or snide, he flinched inward.

“This is Mr. Ren’s son, you remember him?” Mina chirped, tightening her grip. “Oh! And Sera—did you see her dress? Tried too hard. Can’t even afford a seamstress worth their salt.”

The group laughed on cue, full of teeth and polish. K barely nodded. He didn’t hear them. He didn’t care.

His chest felt tight. His throat, dry. He wanted to leave.

He wanted to be anywhere else—

—and then the light changed.

It was like the room shifted.

Like someone had cracked open a door and let the moonlight in.

K looked up instinctively.

And saw her.

Kaori

She stepped through the arched entrance slowly, almost uncertainly, but it didn’t matter. Not to him.

He could recognize her in a storm.

She wore a pale blue gown, soft and fluid, like starlight woven into silk. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t scream for attention. And still—she was the most radiant thing in the room.

A delicate white lace mask framed her eyes. But even behind it…

He knew.

He knew the curve of her smile, the slope of her shoulders, the way she held herself with grace that came from knowing who she was, even after everything had been stolen from her.

Kaori looked like a miracle.

Like the person he had buried in his chest finally returning to breathe air again.

K’s eyes lit with something no one had seen in him for months—

Hope.

Mina was still talking, laughing about someone’s gaudy earrings, but he didn’t hear her anymore.

Because Kaori had looked up.

Their eyes met.

The air between them stretched, held, trembled. For a moment, no one else existed. Just him. Just her. And all the words they couldn’t say.

And then… she smiled.

It was soft.

Kind.

A little sad.

A little proud.

A smile that said “I see you. I remember you. And I’m still here.”

And K…

K felt his lungs collapse.

The orchestra began to play.

A soft trill of violins rose like fog, weaving itself through the grand ballroom. People began to pair off, laughter echoing, gowns twirling, shoes tapping lightly against polished marble. The masquerade had truly begun.

But K couldn’t hear the music.

Not properly.

Not over the roaring in his ears.

Because across the dance floor, amidst the blur of colors and candlelight…

She was dancing.

Kaori.

In someone else’s arms.

A stranger — maybe a noble, maybe a friend — with a charming mask and an easy, practiced smile. He held her gently, respectfully. His hand hovered at her waist, his steps graceful and confident.

And she was smiling. Polite. Poised.

But K saw it.

He saw the faint tension in her shoulders. The slight delay in her laugh. The way her eyes darted once — just once — across the room… to him.

And then she looked away.

K’s heart dropped to his stomach.

It was supposed to be him.

That was his hand that should’ve been holding hers.

That was his shoulder she should’ve leaned into.

That was his place. His dance. His Kaori.

His fists clenched by his sides, jaw tightening under the mask. Mina still chatted beside him, blissfully unaware, fawning over some duke’s daughter’s gown, but it all blurred. The whole world blurred.

All except her.

She spun gently with her partner, blue gown fanning like ocean waves, and for a heartbeat, time slowed.

He remembered the way she used to laugh when he twirled her around barefoot near the cliffs. How she once said, “Dancing is just flying with someone who won’t let you fall.”

And now, she was flying in someone else’s arms.

But not really.

Because she wasn’t smiling like she used to. Not fully.

She was pretending.

Just like he was.

And still… it shattered him.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The laughter and music of the ballroom faded behind her, melting into a dull echo as Kaori slipped through the side corridor and stepped into the night.

The manor gardens were quiet—just wind and roses and the distant hush of fountains whispering into the dark.

She walked until her heels clicked against the edge of a stone staircase leading down to a lower path, overgrown with ivy and moonlight. There, Kaori sat, exhaling the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her chest felt tight, her throat sore from smiling too much for too long.

She removed her mask and stared at it in her lap.

White lace. Soft shimmer.

She traced her fingers gently over the edges.

It had protected her all evening. Let her pretend. Let her smile and dance and not crumble.

But now—

A sudden sound behind her made her flinch.

Footsteps.

Too heavy for a servant. Too real for a dream.

Quickly, Kaori raised the mask to her face again, stilling her breath. She turned, expecting to see someone from the crowd, maybe even—

Her heart stopped.

It was K.

His mask was gone. His dark hair was slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His eyes—shimmering under the moon—were glassy, red-rimmed, aching.

And then he moved.

No words. No hesitation.

He descended the steps quickly, then fell to his knees in front of her and hugged her. Arms wrapping tightly around her waist, face buried into her shoulder as if she might vanish if he let go.

Kaori froze.

Then slowly—tenderly—her arms lifted, wrapping around him as her mask slipped from her hand and clattered to the ground.

“Kaori…” he whispered into her hair, voice cracking, “It hurts so much without you.”

She shut her eyes. Her throat tightened.

“I love you,” he choked, holding her tighter. “I love you so much I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

She pulled back slightly, eyes wide, heart pounding.

“K… someone might catch you—if they see you with me, your pack—”

He shook his head, voice trembling.

“I don’t care.”

He reached up, cupping her face, forehead gently resting against hers. His breath hitched.

“Please… just say it.”

His eyes searched hers, desperate.

“Say you love me too. Just once. Just say it. It’s been too long and I—I need to hear it. Please.”

Kaori’s lips trembled. Her heart had never stopped loving him. Not once. And now, here he was—unmasked, vulnerable, trembling in front of her.

And she couldn’t lie to him.

Not when he was finally hers again, even if only for this moment.

Kaori didn’t hesitate this time.

She wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her face into the crook of his neck as her breath caught. And then, softly—like a prayer meant only for him—she whispered into his ear,

“I love you too.”

K broke.

A sound escaped him—a sob, raw and quiet, as if years of pain had finally cracked the dam. His arms locked around her tighter, trembling, desperate to keep her close.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I can’t keep pretending… I can’t act like this arrangement doesn’t kill me every day. I can’t act like you and I were nothing.”

He pulled back, just enough to look at her, his hands still gripping her arms as if afraid she might fade away.

“I just want to love you, Kaori. No masks. No secrets. Just us.”

There was something helpless and beautifully determined in his eyes.

“Run away with me,” he breathed. “Please. We’ll go far away, start a new life. Somewhere they can’t find us. Somewhere it’s just us. I swear I’ll keep you safe—I’ll love you right.”

Kaori’s eyes welled again. Her heart ached—how easy it would be to say yes. To follow him into the night and never look back.

But she shook her head slowly, sadly.

“We’ll be found,” she whispered. “Eventually, they’ll catch us… and you’ll be punished again. I can’t bear to see that happen to you again, K. I won’t.”

His eyes darkened—not in anger, but in a grief that had no room to grow anymore. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling.

“I don’t care,” he whispered, lips trembling. “I don’t care what they do. I’m ready to let go of all of it. Everything. The pack. The name. The bloodline. None of it matters without you.”

Kaori opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, quietly—firmly—desperately:

“You’ve got your whole life ahea—”

“You’re my life.”

His voice cracked, and his tears spilled over.

“Living… means you, Kaori. I can’t breathe properly if you aren’t the one who stays with me. You’re the one who holds my heart.”

He took her hands gently in his, gripping them like a lifeline.

Tears hit their joined hands, one by one, like the sky itself was grieving.

Kaori let out a sob.

It broke something inside him. His head jerked up to look at her, and when he saw her—eyes squeezed shut, mouth quivering, pain written across every inch of her beautiful face—

His heart shattered again.

“Don’t cry,” he begged, voice small. “Please don’t cry, angel.”

But the tears kept coming, hers and his, until they could no longer hold back.

They leaned into each other, arms wrapping tight like the world might disappear around them.

And for that one moment, under the stars, in the quiet garden far away from judgment and fate—

They were just two people, completely and entirely in love.

Kaori opened her mouth to speak, voice soft and trembling with emotion—but a low, guttural snarl cut through the night.

She flinched.

K's entire body snapped to attention, the warmth of the moment vanishing as instinct took over. His head whipped toward the shadows, ears straining. The scent hit next—familiar, threatening.

Pack.

His pack.

From the top of the garden staircase, figures emerged—eyes gleaming, shoulders hunched, lips curled back in snarls. Werewolves. His own people. The ones who had once called him brother… now creeping forward like predators on a hunt.

“Kaori,” he whispered quickly, moving in front of her. “Get behind me.”

He gripped her hand and guided her carefully down the steps, keeping her body tucked behind his as the rest of the wolves appeared from the surrounding garden like shadows with teeth.

They circled.

Snarls echoed. Growls rumbled.

K cursed under his breath, heart pounding, senses alert.

He stood taller, arms out, holding Kaori protectively behind him.

He would not let them touch her. Not again. Not ever.

Then a voice—sharp and smug—cut through the chaos like a blade:

“Caught in the act, K.”

They both looked up.

Mina.

She stood at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, mask discarded, red gown glowing like fire in the moonlight. Her smile was triumphant, but her eyes blazed with hatred.

“How dare you embarrass me like this,” she sneered. “Engaged to me and here you are—holding hands with a filthy sea creature. What a disgrace.”

K’s jaw clenched.

“You were never what I wanted, Mina.” His voice was low, growling. “And I’m breaking this engagement. Right here. Right now.”

Mina's expression twisted into rage.

She turned to the wolves, eyes gleaming with cruelty.

“Make sure they both die tonight,” she spat. “Then come back inside. I’ll be waiting.”

And with that, she disappeared behind the garden doors, locking them with a harsh clack that echoed like a final sentence.

The wolves closed in.

Growling.

Snarling.

Ready.

Kaori cowered into K’s arms, her face pressed against his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. Her tears soaked into him like salt in a wound.

“I don’t want to die yet…” she sobbed, voice shattering. “Not when I just got you back.”

That was it.

That was the moment something snapped inside him.

Not rage.

Fear.

Real fear. The kind he hadn’t felt since that day—the day he was forced to let her go. But this time, it wasn’t his pain that undid him—it was hers.

The fear in her voice, the tears in her eyes, the way she held him like it was the last time—it tore him open.

He couldn’t lose her.

Wouldn’t.

His eyes welled with tears again, trembling as he looked down at her face.

And then—he turned.

His gaze lifted to the wolves.

And something inside him changed.

He snarled.

A sound low and dangerous, louder than the rest.

A heartbeat later—bones cracked. Fur erupted from skin.

He shifted.

Right there in front of them.

And when the transformation ended, standing in his place was a wolf larger and more powerful than any in the circle. Midnight fur shimmered under the moonlight, claws like steel, fangs bared and dripping. His golden eyes blazed with fury and love and command.

Some of the wolves hesitated.

But one didn’t.

It lunged—straight for Kaori.

She screamed.

But K was faster.

With a deafening snarl, he launched forward, tackling the wolf midair and sending them both crashing into the stone path. Teeth met fur. Claws scraped. The other wolf yelped in pain as K stood over it, snarling louder, tail high, dominance radiating like wildfire.

Kaori’s protector had returned.

And this time, he wasn’t afraid.

K lunged at the nearest wolf, his claws tearing into fur and flesh, snarls ripping through the night. He fought with the kind of fury only love could ignite—every slash, every bite a promise:

You won’t touch her.

Another wolf tried to circle around toward Kaori, but she was already moving. With trembling hands, she summoned the water from the fountain and air around her, her power rising with her heartbeat. A swirling torrent surged in a wall around her, crashing into the wolves that got too close, sending them skidding back across the stone.

She wasn’t helpless.

Not anymore.

K’s golden eyes locked onto her as he fought, a flicker of awe dancing inside the fury. She was standing her ground. She was protecting them.

And then—

It hit.

A piercing, low hum echoed through the air, then rose sharply into a deafening melody.

It was the song.

The cursed music — designed to ward off mermaids.

To hurt them.

Kaori screamed. Her hands flew to her ears as her legs buckled beneath her, the sound slicing through her like blades. She writhed on the stone steps, tears spilling as she cried out in pain.

“KAORI!”

K turned sharply just in time to see her body begin to glow, her outline fading like seafoam in wind—until, with a sharp gasp and the sound of rushing water—

She vanished.

Dust and droplets where she once stood.

Gone.

K stood frozen.

Panting. Shaking.

Staring at the empty spot where the girl who held his soul had just been.

The music stopped.

And in its silence… a voice he hated spoke.

“Good,” came the cold voice. “Finally got rid of the creature.”

K turned slowly.

At the edge of the garden path stood his father, dressed in formal black, a silver pendant gleaming against his chest. Several wolves lingered behind him, but none dared speak.

K shifted.

Fur melted away, bones cracked into place, and moments later, he stood tall in his human form—disheveled, bleeding, furious.

“You did this?” he asked hoarsely, eyes shining.

His father tilted his chin in disgust. “I told you from the beginning. That thing was a disgrace. A stain. A mermaid in our bloodline? Never.”

K took a step forward.

“You used a siren melody on her,” he said slowly, each word burning. “You made her disappear in agony.”

“I saved you from disgrace,” his father barked. “You should be grateful. She had no place with us.”

K’s jaw clenched.

“No,” he said. “You don’t understand. Kaori was my place.”

Behind his father, Mina stepped forward, eyes wide with rage.

“You’re just throwing everything away—for her?” she spat. “You’ll lose your name, your inheritance, your pack—”

“I don’t care.”

K’s voice rang out, unwavering. “I’ll love Kaori openly, proudly. She is the only one who’s ever had my heart. And she’s the only one who ever will.”

His father stepped forward now, eyes blazing.

“Fine,” he growled. “You want to leave? Then you lose everything. Your title. Your wealth. Your family. Your name.”

K’s eyes darkened.

“Then so be it.”

The garden stilled.

His father blinked, caught off guard. “What—?”

K turned around, his steps slow and deliberate.

“All this time, it was never about protecting me.” His voice was cold now, quiet and sharp. “It was about control. About status. About how we looked.”

He began walking away, back toward the cliffs. Toward the sea. Toward her.

His father’s voice turned sharp with alarm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

K paused.

Turned his head slightly.

And said:

“To Kaori.”

“You’ll lose everything! Including your father!” his father shouted after him.

K stopped.

The night held its breath.

Then K turned slowly, his eyes like winter fire.

“The day you hurt Kaori,” he said, “was the day my father died.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Mina stepped forward in shock, turning to K’s father.

“Stop him!” she hissed. “Don’t let him—!”

But K’s body shimmered again. Fur burst from skin.

And then—he was gone.

A flash of silver and black fur darted into the night, into the wild, into the unknown.

Toward her.

Toward Kaori.

Because nothing else mattered anymore.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The world twisted violently before settling into stillness.

Kaori collapsed.

Her body hit the cold, wet rock of the cliffside, sharp edges biting into her skin. Saltwater lapped at her ankles as the tide crawled in around her, but she couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, like every inhale was a battle.

Her ears were still ringing, painfully. The echo of that cursed melody still crawled under her skin, leaving behind its venomous trace. Her heart thudded dully, sluggish and fragile.

She blinked up at the overcast sky. The stars were hidden.

Her arms shook as she tried to lift herself. She managed to roll onto her side, chest heaving as she lay across the cold stone.

The sea shimmered faintly in front of her.

But even the ocean—her home, her blood, her soul—couldn’t soothe the ache that burned inside her.

The music hadn’t just hurt.

It had almost killed her.

Kaori coughed once, weakly, curling in on herself. Her hair clung to her face, damp with sweat and seawater, tears trailing silently down her cheek.

Everything hurt.

Everything was cold.

And then—

A voice.

Not in the air… but in her heart.

“Kaori, I’m coming.”

She gasped. Her eyes flew open.

It was his voice.

Not out loud, not spoken—but felt.

K.

Somehow—some impossible way—he was speaking to her. Not with words, not with sound, but through the bond that had never broken. Through the love that had never died.

His voice was warm. Steady. Full of pain, but anchored in her.

“Kaori, I’m coming.”

Her eyes filled with fresh tears—but this time, they were tears of relief.

A shaking breath escaped her lips, and her forehead dropped gently against the stone.

She smiled weakly.

He was alive. He was coming.

And she wasn’t alone anymore.

Kaori’s eyes fluttered closed again.

Her body was weightless with exhaustion, but her heart held tightly to his voice.

Kaori, I’m coming.

That one promise anchored her as the night stretched on.

Then—

She felt it.

Warmth.

Strong arms scooping her up, careful not to hurt her, lifting her gently like she was something fragile, something sacred.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, and through the blur of salt and tears she saw—

K.

His face hovered above hers, eyes soft, full of unshed tears and unwavering love. His brows were furrowed in worry, but his lips trembled with relief as he held her to his chest.

“K…” she breathed.

He didn’t speak—just leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

“How?” she whispered, voice barely there.

He looked down at her, thumb brushing her damp cheek.

“I left them,” he said quietly.

And with that, he turned and stepped into the waves.

The cold sea wrapped around them, but it didn’t sting—it healed. As they dipped beneath the surface, a shimmer of light pulsed softly around Kaori. Her skin brightened, her limbs stopped trembling, her breathing steadied.

The ocean had found her again.

K held her close as her strength slowly returned, his fingers brushing her hair back as he watched her with a quiet awe, like he still couldn’t believe she was real and safe in his arms.

She looked at him through the water, the sea cradling them gently.

“Why?” she asked, her voice now a little stronger, eyes searching his.

He didn’t speak.

But she heard him.

Because I love you. You're worth losing everything.

The words echoed through her heart, warm and sure.

She chuckled lightly, bubbles escaping her lips.

“Why?” she asked again, teasing this time, eyes gleaming now that her energy had returned.

He smiled—really smiled—the kind that lit up the water around them.

And then—

“Because you're my everything.”

His voice brushed through her again like the tide.

And before she could even respond, he leaned in.

And kissed her.

Beneath the sea.

The water rippled gently as they broke through the surface, the moonlight painting silver halos around them.

Kaori laughed softly, leaning back in K’s arms as the cool breeze kissed her cheeks. Her fingers trailed through the water, the sea now calm—no longer a battlefield, just a quiet witness to something real.

K looked at her with a dopey, love-struck smile, his wet hair falling slightly into his eyes.

She smirked.

“You only kissed me because you were running out of air.”

He gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense.

“Excuse me? How dare you accuse me of something so shallow!”

She raised an eyebrow, biting back her laugh.

“I’m not wrong, am I?”

He pointed a finger at her, trying not to grin.

“That kiss was purely out of love. I was prepared to drown romantically, thank you very much.”

Kaori chuckled, light and real. She swirled the water lazily with her hand, then looked up at him—truly looked—and her smile softened.

“I love you, K.”

Everything stilled.

His eyes glistened again, but this time not with pain. With something else. Something deeper. He let out a small chuckle, blinking at her.

“Of course you do.”

Kaori rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

He leaned closer, nose brushing hers, grin widening.

“And you’re mine,” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers.

But before she could respond, his hands cupped her cheeks gently, and he leaned in again—

And kissed her.

Properly.

Slow. Certain. Full of love that didn’t need any more words.

Around them, the sea moved in rhythm. Above them, the stars stayed silent, watching over the beginning of everything they were finally allowed to have.

“I love you too.” He whispered.

That's it for this one!

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

I love writing sob stories.

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

Velvet and Steel Ft. Knight!Yuta

A/n: I had to do it, guys. The thought of Yuta being a dad like 😭

Genre: Royal au, Knight au, pregnancy au, romance, fluff

Pairings: Knight!Yuta x Princess!Seoa

Warnings:

The palace halls were hushed that morning, steeped in soft golden light that crept past velvet curtains and stretched itself across marble floors. Everything was still — like the world itself had chosen to move quietly around her.

Seoa sat by the tall arched window in her private chambers, one hand resting over the swell of her belly. The child stirred beneath her touch — a slow, steady motion that had become her rhythm. Almost due. Any day now, they said. And yet, time felt suspended.

She had been born into tradition. Raised in elegance. The youngest daughter of the King, and the last piece of her mother left behind. Everyone said she looked like her — the same eyes, the same quiet tilt of the head when she listened too long, the same gentleness. It was why her father had always been softer with her. Why even his silence toward her felt like affection.

It was also why he hadn’t stopped her.

Falling in love with a knight hadn’t been part of any royal plan.

Yuta had once stood guard outside her doors, faceless and unmoving like the others. But there was something about him — something quiet. Unshakable. He didn’t look at her the way the nobles did, calculating and eager. He looked at her like she was human. Like she was allowed to feel tired. Like she didn’t have to smile.

She hadn’t meant to love him. Not at first. But her heart had made its decision long before her mind caught up. And when her father, wise and grieving, saw the way she looked at Yuta — and the way Yuta looked back — he did not scold her.

He arranged the marriage himself.

No fanfare. No ceremony broadcast to the court. Just a quiet vow spoken under candlelight in the old chapel at the edge of the palace gardens — the one her mother used to visit in the mornings. It had smelled of lavender and rain that day. Her gown had been simple. Her hair undone. There had been no ring to slip on her finger, only a promise whispered into her hands.

A year had passed since then.

No one outside the palace knew.

To the world, she remained untouchable. And Yuta, her loyal knight. If anyone whispered that he lingered too long near her side, they called it scandal, not devotion. She could not walk beside him in public. Could not touch his hand when they were out in the open. She could not call him husband — not where others could hear.

But she still did. In the quiet. Where it mattered.

And now… their child grew within her.

Her fingers curled protectively over her belly as the baby moved again, gentle but insistent. She smiled faintly. No title could make this feeling more real — this life, this love, this waiting.

Yuta was likely just beyond the palace now, finishing his morning drills. He would return after his duties — to sit at her feet, or press his lips to her forehead, or fold his hand over hers without needing to speak. He always returned.

Not long now, she thought, brushing a hand through her hair.

Not long until they’d no longer be just two people in love.

Not long until the child they’d made in secret, in love, in promise — would arrive.

And when that happened, even if the world never knew who she belonged to, that child would.

That would be enough.

That was everything.

❆

The sun had dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the castle’s outer yard. The clang of metal echoed in sharp rhythm — swords clashing, feet shifting on packed dirt, voices calling out stances and corrections. A handful of newly ordained knights stood in the training circle, sweat dripping from their brows as they worked through their drills under the eye of one man.

Yuta stood at the edge, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his eyes calm but alert. He wasn’t barking orders the way he used to. He didn’t need to.

Not today.

There had been a change in him over the past several months — something subtle. He was still the same knight who trained soldiers into shape, who guarded the palace gates with unwavering discipline, who followed protocol without flinching. But there was a softness in him now, layered beneath the steel. A lightness in his step. A patience in his tone.

He hadn’t said much when he first learned Seoa was carrying their child. He didn’t need to. But his actions spoke louder — the way he checked in on her between patrols, the way he carried her slippers to the windowsill on cold mornings, the way he smiled to himself sometimes when he thought no one was watching.

And now, as the baby’s arrival grew closer, that quiet happiness had started to rise like spring water. Steady. Warm. Uncontainable — if only in the smallest of ways.

“Again,” he said now, nodding toward the young knight whose footwork faltered. But his voice wasn’t biting. Just steady. Encouraging.

The knights reset their positions. He was watching their posture when a sudden scuffle caught his attention from the far end of the yard.

A small stablehand — barely ten — came tearing across the path, his feet kicking up dust. His oversized tunic whipped behind him as he ran, breathless and frantic. He must’ve sprinted the whole way from the stables because he barely saw the divot in the path ahead — and stumbled hard.

Yuta stepped forward just in time, catching him by the arm before he hit the ground.

“Easy,” he said, steadying the boy. “What’s the hurry?”

The boy’s chest heaved as he pointed a shaky finger toward the palace, wide eyes brimming with urgency.

“Sir Yuta!” he gasped. “Her Highness—she’s—she’s in labour!”

The words hit like a bellstrike.

Yuta’s breath caught in his throat. For half a second, he didn’t move. The yard around him vanished — soundless, motionless — like the world had narrowed to a single point.

And then he ran.

He was gone before the boy could say another word. Past the training ring, past the armory, past the fountain where Seoa used to wait for him after his patrols. His boots pounded against the stone, heart slamming in rhythm with each step as he raced toward the palace.

He didn’t care who saw.

He didn’t care about titles, or rules, or the eyes of the court.

All that mattered now was her.

Her — and the life they had made together.

Yuta’s boots hit the palace stone floors in fast, echoing strides, scattering maids and startled guards as he turned the familiar corners with precision. He barely noticed the surprised glances, didn’t stop when someone tried to call after him.

And then—

“Sion?”

A blur of dark hair and royal blue robes came running down the corridor. Sion — Seoa’s younger brother, breathless and flushed — was waving frantically.

“There you are!” the boy called, skidding to a stop. His eyes were wide, cheeks flushed. “She might give birth soon!”

Yuta’s stomach tightened. He didn’t even stop running — Sion just turned and ran alongside him, matching his pace through the west wing.

“How is she?” Yuta asked quickly, voice strained but low. “Was she in pain? For long?”

“She was with me,” Sion said, breath catching between words. “We were in the library. She was reading. Just… reading like always. Then she put the book down, said she felt something strange.”

Yuta swallowed hard.

“I thought maybe she was tired, but then she gripped the armrest and—she looked scared. So I ran to get the maids.”

“And they said…?”

“They took one look at her and started rushing around. Said she’s in labour. They sent for the midwife. She’s already been moved to the side wing.”

Yuta’s jaw clenched. He hated that he hadn’t been there — not for that first moment, not to catch the look in her eyes when the pain first hit. But he was here now.

They reached the corridor — quiet, candlelit, lined with double doors that led into the more private rooms of the palace. The place where the royal family stayed out of sight. The place where no courtiers were allowed without permission.

They rounded the final corner, the carved wooden doors just in sight—when they both halted sharply.

Standing beneath the archway that led to the private wing was a tall, imposing figure draped in muted royal robes. His back was straight, his hands behind him, and though his hair had silvered with age, his presence hadn’t faded one bit.

The King.

Sion faltered, stepping back instinctively. Yuta stopped too — not out of fear, but out of the gravity the man always carried. The air seemed to shift around him, like silence had settled the moment he arrived.

The King didn’t move, didn’t raise his voice. He simply looked at them — at Yuta, directly — and spoke, steady and calm.

“The midwife has made it clear,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “No man is to step past this hall.”

Yuta’s chest rose and fell once.

He didn’t argue — not immediately. He stood, jaw tense, fists slowly curling at his sides. His eyes flickered toward the door beyond, where he knew she was. Where she was breathing through the pain, scared or maybe calm, but alone.

The King’s gaze softened, just a little — the way it only did when Seoa was involved.

“I know,” he said, almost gently. “I know you want to be there. And if I had it my way, you would. But the room is already crowded. Her maids. The midwife. The healers.”

Yuta didn’t move.

“She’ll be fine,” the King added, looking toward the hall himself now. “She’s strong. Like her mother.”

The silence stretched between them — respectful, but heavy.

Sion lowered his head and murmured, “Should we wait here?”

The King gave a small nod.

And so they did.

Yuta stepped aside and leaned against the stone wall, placing one hand flat against the cool surface — just a little closer to her. Just enough to pretend that the wall wasn’t between them. His other hand rested on the hilt of his sword, though he had no enemies to fight. Only time.

He stayed there, heart pounding, waiting for the sound that would change his life.

Time passed slowly.

Yuta stood still, but everything inside him was moving. His thoughts, his breath, the beat of his heart — all in restless motion while his body remained rooted to the stone floor like a statue carved from restraint.

Beside him, the King was silent. Arms folded loosely behind his back, gaze fixed on the closed corridor doors that led to the side wing. His expression was unreadable to most — but not to Yuta. Yuta had learned to read people with precision. And in the set of the King's jaw, in the furrow of his brow… there was worry. Worry not for a daughter of the realm — but for his daughter. His child.

Sion stood on Yuta’s other side, pacing lightly, unable to keep still. His fingers kept tugging at the cuffs of his robe, glancing at Yuta every now and then as if trying to mirror his stillness — and failing.

The air was thick with silence.

Yuta’s eyes drifted to the tall windows that looked out into the palace gardens — the ones Seoa liked to sit near when the jasmine was in bloom.

He stared at the flowers swaying gently in the breeze.

And he prayed.

Please let her be alright. Let her not be too scared. Let her not be in too much pain.

He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing a slow, trembling breath. His fingers clenched tighter around the handle of his sword — the grip turning white with pressure.

He wasn’t thinking about protocol. Or secrecy. Or what the rest of the kingdom believed about them.

Right now, he was only thinking of her. Her laugh. Her tired eyes when she fell asleep reading. Her hand on her belly when the baby kicked. The way she whispered to him some nights that she was scared — and the way she smiled the next morning anyway.

He would’ve given anything to be by her side. Anything.

But he had to wait.

And so he did — sword in hand, heart in throat — praying that the woman he loved would make it through this storm.

The stillness pressed heavier now.

Each second dragged like a blade down Yuta’s spine. He hadn’t moved. Not even shifted his stance. His feet were planted firm, like if he dared move, the doors might open and tell him something he wasn’t ready to hear.

He stared at the carved patterns on the doors leading to her. Then at the floor. Then at the sky through the windows again — searching, somehow, for a sign. For a whisper of comfort.

His hand still gripped the hilt of his sword. It wasn’t even conscious anymore — the tight hold, the trembling knuckles. It was the only thing anchoring him, the only thing keeping him from bolting through that corridor despite everything the midwife had ordered.

Sion was sitting now. The King had long since stopped pretending to be composed — his hand rested on the back of a nearby chair, head slightly bowed in quiet thought.

But Yuta…

Yuta kept praying.

Please… please let her not be scared.

Please let her be alright.

Please let the pain pass quickly.

He didn’t care what else happened — whether the world outside ever knew they were married, whether he ever wore a crown or gained a title or had a place beside her in public.

All he wanted now was for her not to be afraid. For her to feel safe. Held. Even if it wasn’t his arms doing the holding.

If he could take her fear into his own chest, he would’ve done it a hundred times over.

He bowed his head — for the first time since arriving — and whispered under his breath.

“I’m here,” he murmured softly, even if she couldn’t hear it. “I’m just outside. I swear I’m here.”

The silence beyond the doors stayed unbroken.

But still, he waited.

Still, he stayed.

Time had stretched on like an endless thread, fragile and taut.

The corridor was heavy with stillness — no footsteps, no voices, only the quiet thudding of hearts that refused to settle.

Yuta hadn’t moved in what felt like forever.

His eyes remained fixed on the doors. His knuckles, white and strained, had long since gone numb around the hilt of his sword. He didn’t even feel the ache anymore — only the pulsing fear and hope trapped in his chest.

And then—

Footsteps.

Fast. Urgent. Coming closer.

All three men straightened, turning toward the sound just as the heavy door creaked open.

The midwife stood there, flushed and breathless — but alight with joy. Her apron was stained with effort, and her hands trembled from the hours she’d spent inside, but her smile lit up the corridor like sunrise.

“It’s a boy!” she called out, radiant. “A very, very healthy little boy!”

The words hit the air—

—and then came the sound.

A sharp, piercing cry.

Small, fierce, full of brand-new life.

The cry of a newborn.

Yuta didn’t breathe.

The hallway went still.

The King’s face slackened with stunned relief. Sion blinked rapidly, as if unsure he’d heard correctly.

And Yuta—

Yuta’s knees buckled.

The sword clattered to the floor beside him as his legs gave out without warning. His breath caught, and he fell to the side—arms numb, vision swimming.

“Hyung!” Sion shouted, grabbing him just in time.

Yuta leaned against him, gripping the boy’s shoulder like a drowning man clutches driftwood. His whole body trembled, not from weakness — but from overwhelming release. The wait, the fear, the prayers, the silence — it all collapsed at once beneath the sound of his son’s voice.

He couldn’t speak.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes — stubborn, silent things — and he didn’t care to stop them.

Sion steadied him, voice lower now. “He’s here. You’re a father.”

Yuta looked toward the door again, eyes wide, lips parting as if to say something — but no words came.

Just a whisper.

“…he’s here.”

The first bell rang clear and loud — then came the second, and the third.

Soon, every bell in the palace was ringing, their deep chimes echoing across the halls, spiraling up toward the towers and pouring into the gardens below. The sound rolled like thunder made of joy — strong, rhythmic, unignorable.

A birth.

A royal birth.

The official crier’s voice soon followed, sharp and proud as he stood beneath the high balcony and declared to all within earshot:

“Her Grace has delivered a son! A healthy boy, born under the sun’s last golden hour!”

“The House rejoices — a new heir has taken his first breath!”

Cheers rose from the lower levels of the palace. Maids wept in quiet joy. Guards smiled from their posts. The court’s formalities would come later — right now, the kingdom was simply glad.

But Yuta…

Yuta stood in the same place he had been.

Now outside the final set of doors — the ones that led into her chambers.

Behind them, muffled and soft, came the sound again:

His son’s cries.

The sound shook him down to the bones.

He didn’t care for bells or titles. Not for the announcer’s words or the echo of celebration through the palace walls. What mattered was that sound — that tiny, loud, persistent voice from the other side of the door that was his son. His.

Yuta's hand hovered just near the door frame, aching to push it open — but he didn’t.

Because he wasn’t allowed.

Not yet.

Tradition dictated that only the King and her brother enter first — to check on mother and child, to formally acknowledge the heir, to preserve generations of custom.

So Yuta stood there alone.

The King had entered moments ago, offering Yuta one brief, understanding nod before disappearing inside. Sion followed after, giving Yuta a quiet, “I’ll come get you the moment we’re allowed.”

And now the door was shut again.

He could hear movement inside. Gentle voices. Footsteps. The baby’s cries softening as someone soothed him.

And Yuta?

He wondered.

Does he look like her?

Or like me?

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, eyes closing for just a moment. Would he have her eyes — the kind that turned soft when she smiled? Would he have her laugh? Would he carry her stubborn streak?

Or would he carry the quiet in Yuta’s bones, the calm in his silences, the stillness of a man who had waited for love in a world where he was never meant to have it?

He hoped, with everything in him, that his son had her heart.

And he prayed — not for the first time, not for the last — that he would live a life worthy of the boy born just beyond that door.Inside the chamber, warmth reigned.

Soft light pooled through gauzy curtains. The heavy perfume of fresh florals filled the air, blending with the hush of low voices and gentle lullabies from the palace maids.

And in the center of it all, lying on a velvet-lined chaise, Seoa smiled.

Tired, yes — her body ached, her limbs felt distant, and a faint sheen of sweat still clung to her forehead — but her smile outshone everything else in the room.

In her arms, wrapped in blankets of royal gold and deep crimson velvet, her son stirred softly.

Her son.

She had held him only minutes ago for the first time, and yet already it felt like the entire world had narrowed to the weight of his tiny body against her chest.

Across from her, Sion who had just handed the baby back gently, his voice soft with something between reverence and disbelief. “He’s small… but strong,” he said as if he couldn’t believe it. “He gripped my finger so hard, Seoa.”

Seoa laughed, the sound light despite the fatigue in her chest. “He gets that from his father.”

At that, her gaze flicked around.

“…Where’s Yuta?”

Sion looked toward the door, amused. “Outside. Still.”

“He hasn’t come in yet?”

“He—well.” Sion scratched the back of his neck, suppressing a grin. “He collapsed when the midwife told us. Not unconscious or anything. Just… dropped like a stone. I had to catch him. I’ve never seen him that nervous.”

Seoa giggled behind her hand, eyes sparkling as she looked toward her father seated at her bedside.

“Can we not see him yet?”

The King, who had remained quiet — watching his daughter and grandson with that rare softness he only ever showed her — finally straightened. He let out a breath, his voice dry but resolute.

“…To the grave with tradition,” he said. “Call him in.”

Sion gave a pleased little laugh and nodded, slipping out of the chamber.

—

Yuta was still outside, slumped against the stone wall just beside the doorway. His head was tipped back against the cool stone, his eyes staring at the ceiling beams above like they might offer him strength. He felt nauseous. Giddy. Drained. Alive.

His heart thundered in his chest, each beat loud enough to make him feel sick. He hadn’t expected this part — the shaking, the dizziness, the rawness in his throat like he’d screamed even though he hadn’t said a word.

When the door creaked open, he flinched.

Sion poked his head out and grinned when he saw him. “You can see them now.”

Yuta didn’t move.

Sion’s smile faltered slightly. “Hyung?”

Yuta’s hands clenched against his knees. His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak.

“…What’s wrong?” Sion asked gently, stepping closer.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Finally, Yuta murmured, “What if I’m not a good father?”

The words came out so quietly, they barely held together. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, breath unsteady.

Sion’s eyes softened. A breathy chuckle escaped him, not mocking — just full of quiet affection.

“Stop doubting yourself,” he said, crouching beside him. “Enjoy the moment. You can worry about it later.”

And with that, he grabbed Yuta’s hand and stood up, pulling him along.

Yuta stumbled to his feet, hesitating—but not resisting.

The chamber was brighter than he expected.

The sounds hit him first: soft lullaby melodies, the crackle of the hearth, the rustle of robes and fabric… and then, the faintest sound — a baby’s hiccuping sigh.

Then his eyes found her.

Seoa sat upright, cradling the child in her arms as she giggled at something one of the maids said. Her hair was slightly messy, her skin glowed with exhaustion, but in Yuta’s eyes she had never looked more radiant.

She turned, catching his gaze — and her smile widened.

He still hadn’t seen the child’s face yet.

But—

He stilled.

His breath caught when he caught sight of the black strands peeking out from beneath the velvet wrap.

Obsidian. Sharp and soft and undeniably Nakamoto.

He blinked hard.

He had prepared himself — imagined a child with Seoa’s warm brown hair, her golden undertone, her gentle eyes. He had never imagined the baby would bear his mark first.

The world tilted.

A traitor of his own blood, born into royalty.

He was supposed to be the hidden one, the shadow in the corner of the palace who loved her in secret.

But here this child was, carrying his blood like a banner.

Yuta stepped closer.

Each footfall felt heavy, like he was walking through water — through time — through something too sacred to name.

And then he saw him.

Their son.

Cradled gently in Seoa’s arms, wrapped in royal gold and crimson velvet, the baby had finally settled. His eyes were shut in soft sleep, his mouth twitching slightly in a dream or reflex.

But Yuta could see it all clearly now.

The hair — jet-black, dark as obsidian.

The face — the same gentle angles, the same slope of the brow.

And there, just near his right cheek — a tiny mole.

Exactly where Yuta’s was.

He stared.

His throat closed.

“He looks just like you,” Seoa whispered, smiling as she gazed up at him — radiant and gentle, as if nothing in the world could ever dim this joy.

Yuta looked down, eyes wide and glassy.

His lip trembled, and he blinked hard — once, twice — trying, begging himself to keep it together.

But the tears spilled anyway.

Quietly.

He turned his face slightly and lifted his arm, pressing it against his eyes in a futile attempt to stop them, to hide them — but they kept falling.

Thick and silent.

He let out a quiet breath, broken around the edges, and it sounded almost like a laugh choked by awe.

Yuta stood there, shoulders trembling, his arm still covering his eyes as quiet sobs escaped him. Not loud — just broken. Just real.

He had tried so hard to hold it in.

He wasn’t supposed to cry like this. Not as a knight. Not as a husband. Not as the man she believed in.

But he couldn’t stop.

He hadn’t expected the baby to look like him. Not entirely. Not so clearly. Not down to the exact same mole on his right cheek.

He always thought of himself as plain. Just… Yuta. A man with a sword and nothing more. Unremarkable. Ordinary. Replaceable.

He had always hated the reflection in the mirror.

But now…

Now he was looking at a mirror wrapped in velvet and warmth — and it made his chest break open.

He couldn’t breathe.

He lowered his arm just slightly — just enough to look again — and that’s when he felt it.

Her hand.

Seoa’s soft fingers found his and wrapped around them gently. She rubbed the back of his hand in slow, soothing circles, her thumb tracing his skin like she knew exactly how to anchor him.

He looked down at their hands — hers, small and warm. His, shaking.

“You always thought you had nothing special in you,” she murmured gently, her voice like the hush of wind in the garden. “But look...he’s made of you.”

Yuta let out a sound — something between a laugh and a sob.

Seoa smiled up at him, tired but full of light. “He’s made of everything I love.”

Yuta couldn’t respond — not with words. His throat burned too much, and the tears just wouldn’t stop.

He looked again at the baby — his son — who had begun to stir slightly, a tiny yawn stretching his small mouth. His nose wrinkled. A sleepy sigh left him. All of it… his.

A quiet cry left Yuta again as he finally lowered himself to sit at the edge of her bedside, still clinging to her hand like it was the only thing keeping him together.

And maybe it was.

Yuta didn’t realize how badly he was shaking until her hand brushed against his cheek.

Seoa chuckled softly, her fingers wiping away the tears still spilling from his eyes. “You’re crying more than the baby will,” she whispered, teasing him gently even in her tiredness.

Then, with a soft smile that melted straight into his bones, she asked, “Do you want to hold him?”

Yuta’s breath hitched.

“I… I don’t know,” he said, voice trembling. “What if I drop him? What if I hold him wrong? What if I make him cry?”

As if summoned by the fear in his voice, the little bundle in Seoa’s arms let out a whimper that quickly turned into a cry — loud, scrunched, searching for comfort.

Yuta’s eyes widened in panic. “See? I’ll only make it worse—”

But Seoa gently reached out, took his hands in hers, and began guiding his arms.

“Yuta,” she said with quiet strength, “he’s already crying. So you have nothing to lose.”

And then, with care and trust that only love could create, she placed their son into his arms.

Yuta stiffened as the tiny weight filled the cradle of his forearms. His breath caught in his throat. He looked down at his son — so small, so warm — and for a moment, the world tilted.

Then slowly, instinctively, he began to rise to his feet.

His knees were still shaky. His body tense with fear. But he stood anyway, holding his son close against his chest as though rising to meet the weight of fatherhood head-on.

He had never felt so terrified in his life.

And still, the tears came — silent, hot, constant.

His eyes were glued to the baby’s face: that soft, round shape, that tiny chin… and right there, the mole on the right side, exactly like his.

He had always hated that about himself.

Now, looking at it on his child, he thought it was the most perfect mark in the world.

And then—

The baby stopped crying.

Yuta blinked, stunned, frozen in place as his son shifted, hiccupped once, then slowly nestled into his chest with a soft little sigh.

The stillness washed over him like a tide.

“He… stopped,” he whispered, too awed to believe it.

Seoa’s eyes sparkled as she watched from the bed, exhaustion battling joy on her face. “Of course he did.”

Yuta looked up at her, struggling to breathe through the emotion swelling in his chest.

“He knows you,” she said. “He knows his father.”

Yuta looked back down at the tiny miracle in his arms, still standing, his body trembling — not with fear anymore, but with something deeper.

He had spent so much of his life believing he was ordinary. That he was forgettable. Just a knight in service to others.

But this boy — his boy — had his eyes, his hair, his little mole. His everything.

And more than that… he had calmed in his arms.

A single sob escaped his lips, quiet and full of awe. His tears kept falling — matching the few that still clung to his son's lashes.

Father and son — both quietly crying. Both perfectly still.

And in that moment, Yuta knew:

He didn’t need to be anyone else. He didn’t need to prove anything.

He was a father.

And just by holding him — just by standing with him — he already was a good one.

A tiny hand reached upward — fumbling, searching — until it closed around his finger.

Yuta let out a soft, breathless laugh, his chest tightening as he looked down at the impossibly small hand clutching his own.

“Hey there…” he whispered, voice breaking with a smile, “you’ve got quite the grip, little one…”

And then he laughed — half sob, half joy — as his tears fell freely now, dripping down his cheeks as he swayed gently where he stood, cradling the child who had so effortlessly become his entire world.

Across the room, Sion sniffled loudly.

Yuta didn’t see, but Seoa did. She turned her head slightly to where her younger brother stood beside their father, eyes glassy and rimmed red as he wiped at them with the sleeve of his embroidered coat.

The King glanced at his son and huffed under his breath, a teasing smile curling on his lips. “Oh? Crying already? The boy hasn’t even said a word.”

Sion shot him a look, cheeks flushed as he wiped his eyes again. “You were crying too,” he muttered, voice cracking.

“I was not,” the King replied with absolutely no conviction, turning away just slightly — enough for Seoa to see him discreetly dabbing his eyes with his sleeve.

That only made her laugh softly, breath catching in her chest as her gaze returned to her husband and child.

There they were.

Yuta still standing, still swaying gently, completely unaware of the way the world had gone still around him.

Her husband.

The man everyone outside thought was just her quiet lover. The man her father had chosen to accept for her, despite the world’s opinions. The man she had chosen—without hesitation—over crown, over custom, over everything.

And their son — swaddled in gold and velvet, nestled against his father's heart like he belonged nowhere else.

Her smile trembled with emotion.

Yuta glanced up just then, his glistening eyes meeting hers. He saw the glow in her gaze. He saw the love. And he smiled — boyish, radiant, and overwhelmed.

With one hand, he reached out, cupping her cheek gently. His thumb brushed against her skin, wiping away a tear she hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“You did so well,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “So, so well.”

Then he leaned forward, pressing a long, soft kiss to her forehead. A quiet vow.

He stayed there, lips to her skin, until her hand found his and gently held it.

And so he stood — one hand cupping her cheek, the other cradling their son — gently rocking side to side, breath still shaking with wonder.

Seoa closed her eyes as she leaned into his palm. The maids had gone quiet now, soft hymns fading into the walls. Sion sniffled again behind them. The King crossed his arms, masking emotion with a deep breath.

And in the center of the quiet, in the warmth of flickering sunlight through the drapes, stood a knight who once thought he was ordinary — now holding the two most precious parts of his soul in his arms.

That's it for this one!

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

It was a treat to write 🫶🏻

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

What Love Protects Ft. Boyfriend!Yuta

A/n: I dunno, Yuta just suits these kinds of stories so well 😭

Genre: romance, angst, fluff, established relationship au, pregnancy au (?)

Pairings: Boyfriend!Yuta x Seoa (fem oc)

Warnings: toxic family, mentions of abortion and pregnancy

The news had hit like an asteroid.

The moment her family found out, Seoa was bombarded with questions and threats and useless advice that were supposedly for “her own good.”

Everyone had gone on and on about how it was immoral, how conceiving a child before marriage was looked down upon.

She’d tried to retort, tried to explain that it was an accident, that she hadn’t meant for this to happen.

And even if she did want to marry him, they’d never let her marry Yuta anyway.

Her father had been the loudest—spitting threats the second she told him.

He said this wasn’t what he raised her to do. That a child like that would shame the family.

He told her to abort it—commanded it.

Said if she didn’t, he’d make Yuta regret ever touching her.

Her mother hadn’t fought him on it. Just echoed his words in a meek, broken voice.

Even her friends—ones she thought would stand by her—told her to abort it.

Told her she was too young. Too unprepared. That it would ruin her future.

Ever since telling them, she hadn’t been allowed to see Yuta.

They took her phone. They kept her home.

They didn’t want her to “ruin herself” carrying the child of a street rat like him.

She lay curled up in her bed, the sheets pulled up to her chest like they could protect her from the weight of the world pressing down on her.

Everyone around her had seen it as a bad sign. Like a curse.

But why didn’t she feel that way?

From the moment the news came, yes—she’d been surprised. But not horrified. Not broken.

Somewhere deep in her chest, she felt… warmth.

A quiet flutter, soft and unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

The thought of her and Yuta’s child growing inside her—it didn’t feel like a mistake.

It felt… right. It felt theirs.

And she liked it.

She liked the idea of carrying his child.

Of something that was theirs and no one else's.

But everyone just kept brushing her off. Getting angry.

Yelling at her like she’d committed a crime. Shoving guilt and fear into her ears until it felt hard to breathe.

And she didn’t understand.

It wasn’t like she hooked up with some random stranger like her sister had.

She and Yuta had been together for four years. Four years. Solid. Unshaken. Steady.

This wasn’t some reckless accident in a moment of stupidity.

So why was everyone treating her like it was?

She squeezed her eyes shut, throat tightening.

She didn’t know what to do now.

She wanted to keep the child.

But her family didn’t. Her friends didn’t.

And Yuta?

She didn’t know.

What if he didn’t want it either?

What was she supposed to do then?

That night, when the house finally fell quiet, Seoa slipped on her hoodie, tied the laces of her shoes with trembling fingers, and snuck out the back door.

Her heart pounded in her chest with every step down the dark street, but she didn’t stop.

She didn’t care if her parents found out.

She just… needed to see him.

She rushed to his apartment, the wind biting at her skin, her breath sharp in her lungs.

By the time she reached his building, her hands were freezing, but she barely felt it. She raised a fist and knocked.

No response.

She bit her lip and knocked again, a little louder.

Still nothing.

He had to be home. She knew he would be.

So why wasn’t he opening?

Panic rising in her chest, she banged harder—once, twice—

She heard shuffling.

Then the sound of a lock twisting.

The door cracked open and Yuta appeared, hair damp, shirt slightly wrinkled, eyes tired like he had just been shaken out of sleep.

“Who the h—” he started, ready to curse whoever it was.

But the moment his eyes met hers, he froze.

“…Seoa?”

She looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

He was awake now. Completely.

He stepped forward and hugged her instantly, arms wrapping tight around her like he’d been waiting all this time just to do that.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough but soft.

“Hey…” she whispered back.

There was a pause.

She looked down, fidgeting with the sleeves of her hoodie. “I didn’t know where else to go. I just… wanted to see you.”

He didn’t ask anything. He just nodded once and stepped aside, motioning her in.

“Come in.”

She stepped inside. The apartment was dimly lit, warm, quiet. They stood near the door, not speaking for a moment.

Yuta scratched the back of his head before asking gently, “How are you feeling?”

“I… I feel fine,” she said softly.

Then after a short pause, she added, “The little one’s fine too.”

Her lips twitched as she gave a nervous laugh.

Yuta’s eyes softened.

Yuta smiled softly, eyes never leaving hers as she rubbed the back of her neck, clearly nervous.

“That’s good to hear,” he said gently, voice calm but warm.

They stood there in the quiet for a moment, the weight of unspoken things settling between them.

Then, her voice came out low. Barely above a whisper.

“…My family… especially my dad…”

She swallowed. “They want me to abort the child.”

Yuta’s expression didn’t shift yet—he stayed still, listening.

She kept going, eyes downcast.

“Everyone around me just… wants me to let go of it. They say I’m being immoral. That I’m ruining everything. That it’s not right.”

She hugged her arms tightly around herself.

“They all make it sound like I’ve done something unforgivable…”

Her voice cracked slightly at the end, barely holding itself together.

Yuta didn’t even let her finish.

The moment he saw her breaking, he stepped forward and pulled her into his chest, arms wrapping around her tight.

“Seoa…” he murmured, voice low, steady—but laced with pain.

She gripped the front of his shirt as she spoke, her voice trembling.

“My dad hasn’t stopped threatening me. Not once. And even the friends I thought would support me—” she swallowed thickly, “—they all turned their backs.”

Yuta’s hand found her back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as he held her.

After a few seconds, he gently broke the hug and stepped back just enough to see her face.

His jaw was clenched. His features tense—eyes dark with anger.

But not at her.

Never at her.

He brought his hand up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing the side softly as he stared into her eyes.

“I don’t give a flying fuck about what they want,” he said firmly. “I only care about what you want.”

Her breath hitched.

Her lips trembled, face tightening into a small pout as she spoke in a whiny tone, almost ashamed to admit it.

“I… I kinda want to keep it.”

Yuta blinked—then laughed, soft and breathless, like all that tension in him melted the moment he heard her say it.

He pulled her into another hug, arms wrapping tighter, chin resting over her shoulder.

“Then why the fuck are we even having this conversation?”

She blinked up at him, startled.

“Wait—what?”

Her voice was breathy and confused, eyes wide like she couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

He grinned. “We’re keeping it, baby. End of story.”

Her lips quivered. Her eyes welled up with tears, lashes blinking rapidly as her face crumbled softly.

But even through the tears, she let out a shaky breath as she asked,

“…What about you? What do you think?”

Her voice cracked at the end, uncertain, scared—like she still needed to hear it out loud, just once more.

Yuta’s smile softened, eyes holding hers as he gently reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m scared,” he said honestly. “I’ll admit it. It’s gonna be hard for me to watch you in pain.”

He paused, then his grin slowly widened—something warm and real spreading across his face.

“But the thought of us having our own child? Our kid?”

He let out a soft laugh, eyes bright.

“It makes my heart bloom with love… happiness… and excitement.”

That was all it took.

Her lips trembled again before she broke down, tears spilling over as her face twisted—brows furrowed, nose scrunched, mouth wobbling in a full meltdown.

Yuta blinked… and then stifled a laugh.

Not because she was crying—but because she looked unintentionally funny while doing it. Her expression was somewhere between tragic and comedic, like a baby trying to sneeze and cry at the same time.

He quickly pulled her into his arms, hugging her tight as a grin tugged at his lips.

“You kinda look like a gremlin right now,” he mumbled, voice teasing.

She gasped in betrayal, still crying, and smacked his chest weakly. “You’re such an ass.”

He chuckled and hugged her even tighter, hand smoothing over her hair.

“You love me.”

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The next morning, the Oh family’s house was disrupted by the sound of the front door swinging open.

Yuta stood in the middle of the entryway, his face calm, even smiling—casual, almost too casual—hands in his pockets.

Seoa stood behind him, fingers clenched nervously in the back of his hoodie, her head low.

Her father stood up from the living room in an instant, eyes blazing.

“What are you doing here?” he spat.

“I’ll call the police,” he added, storming forward.

Yuta chuckled, tilting his head slightly. “Please do. Please do.”

The smile didn’t leave his face, but the air grew sharp around him.

“I also have a few complaints I’d like to file with them.”

Everyone froze. Confused. Her mother looked between the two.

“What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly.

Yuta turned to her, grin still in place. “Oh, of course. Mental abuse.”

Seoa’s father’s expression twisted. “What are you trying to pull, huh?”

Yuta stepped forward calmly, his words crisp.

“Oh, well—since you’re threatening to call the police on me for ‘barging’ into your house,” he said, fingers making air quotes mockingly, “I figured I’d take the chance to voice my complaints too.”

He turned slightly, gesturing casually behind him.

“I mean, it’s not really barging in when I entered with your daughter, right?”

Her father’s face turned red with rage. “Call the police!” he barked at his wife. “Right now!”

Yuta smiled wider and nodded, eyes sharp. “Yes, ma’am. Please. Call them quickly.”

He leaned back a little and crossed his arms.

“I want them to know that Mr. Oh, a respected and influential politician, isn’t quite what he appears to be.”

“What do you mean?!” her father screamed.

Yuta didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned slightly and gently placed a hand on Seoa’s stomach, standing firmly in front of her.

“Well—let’s start with mental and verbal abuse. Then move on to threatening your own daughter, who, by the way, is pregnant. With my child.”

Seoa’s father looked like he was ready to explode.

Yuta just tilted his head and asked, still calm, still smiling:

“How do you think the public would feel if they knew that a politician like you—who campaigns for family values—is behind closed doors abusing his youngest daughter, pressuring her to abort, and threatening the father of her child?”

The room was dead silent.

Only Seoa’s soft, shaky breathing could be heard behind him as Yuta stood tall, still shielding her.

Yuta kept his hand resting protectively over Seoa’s stomach, standing tall as his voice dropped lower.

“I’m going to be a father now,” he said. “So I’m not just standing up for the woman I love—I’m standing up for my child, too.”

His eyes darkened, but his smile didn’t waver.

“A child whose existence you’ve tried to erase. Whose presence you’ve treated like a stain. Just because you care more about your damn reputation than your daughter’s heart.”

Her father glared, veins nearly bulging.

Yuta leaned forward slightly.

“Keep pushing, and I will expose every threat, every insult, every cruel thing you’ve ever done to her—or to me.”

He then turned to her mother, voice calm but cold, and offered a mock-polite smile.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said softly. “Seoa will never become a mother like you.”

His gaze returned to her father.

“And I, kind sir,” Yuta added, “will never be a father like you.”

There was a deadly silence as he stepped back and gently took Seoa’s hand.

“So if you really want to protect your oh-so-precious image,” he said, “I suggest you leave my girlfriend and my child alone.”

He glanced around the cold room once more.

“Also—Seoa’s moving in with me. You know, toxicity is not the best environment for a pregnant woman and her baby.”

He gave one last wide, almost sweet smile before nodding toward the door.

“Come on, Seoa.”

She nodded, her fingers tightening around his.

As they began to walk out, her father’s rage exploded.

“How dare you?!” he roared behind them.

Yuta stopped at the doorway, turned, and placed a finger gently to his lips with a grin.

“Ohhh~ I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said in a sing-song voice. “Let’s be mindful of our words.”

The mockery only made her father angrier.

“No one will believe you!”

Yuta shrugged, chuckling. “Maybe not.”

He looked down at Seoa, then back up.

“But everyone will believe Seoa.”

A heavy silence fell before her father snapped bitterly, “Go on, then. Dare to go with him.”

That was when Seoa turned.

She let go of Yuta’s hand and stepped forward, facing her father fully for the first time in weeks. Her voice was clear, shaky but strong.

“I love him,” she said. “And I love my child.”

Tears stung at her eyes, but she didn’t look away.

“I don’t care if we’re family. I will do anything—and everything—to protect my little family. I’m not holding back anymore.”

She took Yuta’s hand again and walked out with him, the door shutting behind them with finality.

The front door shut behind them with a soft but final thud, sealing the storm inside.

Outside, the night air was cool against Seoa’s cheeks, the silence a strange kind of freedom. Her fingers were still laced with Yuta’s as they walked down the steps together, not in a rush anymore. Not running—just walking. Forward.

Yuta glanced sideways, his hand tightening gently around hers.

“You were incredible back there,” he said quietly, lips tugging into a proud smile. “I’m so proud of you.”

Seoa blinked at him, the remnants of tears still glittering in her eyes. But this time, she smiled—small and soft—as she lowered her gaze to her belly. Gently, her palm rested over it.

“I just… had to,” she whispered. “For them. For us.”

Yuta’s hand slid over hers without a word, warm and steady. And with a tilt of his head, he leaned in and kissed her forehead—slow, lingering, full of everything he couldn’t put into words.

They stood like that for a while. Just them. Just peace.

And maybe—finally—a little happiness.

That's it for this one!

I hope y'all liked it 🥹 ✨️

I have another pregnancy/child au coming cause Yuta just fits domestic life.

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍 ✨️

[atinyjules]

Love, Unburned Ft. Werewolf!Jisung

A/n: The title omfg, I'm running out of ideas. 😭🤣🫶🏻 y'all are gonna have to bear with me.

Genre: Fantasy au, supernatural au, werewolf au, fluff, romance, comfort

Pairings: Werewolf!Jisung x Vampire!Lia

Warnings: She gets attacked, mentions of blood and maybe some strong language? (I don't remember lol)

The cicadas were screaming outside like they had a vendetta against silence. The sun was ruthless, blazing through the glass panels of the classroom and turning everything into a slow roast. Even the breeze that occasionally slipped in through the half-open windows was warm and useless—like someone breathing on your neck instead of cooling you down.

It was the peak of summer.

Jisung sat in his new seat—not directly by the window, but close enough that the sunlight pooled at the edges of his desk, casting sharp lines of heat across his notebook. Sweat dripped lazily down his forehead as he leaned on his right palm, eyelids heavy. He could barely hear the teacher’s voice as it buzzed somewhere in the background, mumbling through names and rearrangements.

This was the first lecture of the semester, and already, it was exhausting.

Every year it was the same—new seat arrangements, new weather to suffer through, and the same question echoing in his head

Why do I live like this? Why do I go through this heat every. Damn. Year??

Everything was warm, uncomfortable, and borderline unlivable.

Until—

“Seo Lia with Park Jisung.”

The teacher’s voice rang a little clearer this time, cutting through the haze in his head like someone flipping a switch.

Jisung sat up straighter, blinking once.

Did he hear that right?

He turned his head—and there she was.

Lia.

Gathering her things from across the classroom, quiet as ever. Her dark hair was tucked behind her ear, her eyes down as she carefully stacked her books. She didn’t look particularly thrilled or upset. Just… calm, like always.

Jisung swallowed.

Seo Lia. He hadn’t heard her name in a while, but it still stirred something in his memory. They had been classmates since high school—hell, even in the same cram school—but they had never once spoken. Not because of some drama. Just… things never lined up. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was the fact that werewolves and vampires didn’t really mingle back then—not seriously, anyway.

It wasn’t that he had anything against vampires now. That whole tension thing was outdated. But still… being seatmates with her? For the entire semester?

He scratched the back of his neck as she approached, glancing at him briefly before sliding into the seat beside him.

He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t great at talking. She looked like the type who preferred silence anyway.

But still.

The buzz of the cicadas returned, louder than before.

And for some reason, even under the heat, he felt… a little more awake.

Every day was the same.

They’d come into class.

He’d nod at her. She’d nod back.

That was their form of “good morning.”

Then they'd sit in silence. Side by side.

Jisung would half-focus on the lecture while Lia quietly fidgeted with the sleeves of her blouse—always long, even in the unbearable heat. She’d tug at the hem, twist the fabric between her fingers like she was trying to ground herself, and always after ten minutes—almost like clockwork—she’d raise her hand.

“Professor, may I go to the washroom?”

She’d slip out the door quietly, disappearing for a good five minutes before returning. Her sleeves would be wet at the ends, sometimes even dripping faintly.

It happened so regularly that even the professor stopped acknowledging it.

But one person didn’t.

“Some bladder she has,” an annoying voice would mumble from the back of the class—usually that guy from the rugby team, another werewolf with a permanently smug expression. He laughed at his own joke every time like it was new.

Lia never reacted. Never even looked back.

Jisung didn’t laugh either. Not because he was defending her. He just… didn’t find it funny.

But he also didn’t understand.

Not until that day.

Exactly two weeks into the semester.

It was hotter than usual. The kind of heat that made the air shimmer near the windows. Jisung was slouched in his chair, completely unbothered by whatever the professor was droning on about. His eyes drifted lazily around the room, until they landed on her.

Lia.

Sitting beside him like always, face slightly turned away from him.

But her skin—her skin was smoking.

His posture straightened immediately.

The exposed side of her face and arm, the side directly facing the window, was flushed, red—and worse, there was actual steam rising from it. Not just redness. Not just a sunburn.

Her skin was burning.

Jisung’s heart skipped.

He didn’t think.

He just moved.

"Hey—" he said sharply, reaching over and grabbing her arm. She flinched, startled, turning to him wide-eyed as he pulled her away from the light.

And that’s when he saw it up close.

The side of her face was raw, blistering slightly, and her arm looked like she’d pressed it against an open oven door. The smell of singed fabric lingered faintly in the air.

He stared at her, stunned. “You’re burning.”

Lia looked just as shocked that he was speaking—to her, let alone this panicked.

Her voice was small, like she hadn’t used it in hours.

“...The sun. It burns a little.”k

A little?

A little?

He stared at her for one more beat, and then stood without another word. In one motion, he dragged his chair with one hand and gently tugged her seat away from the window with the other, swapping their places.

She gasped in surprise, chair squeaking across the floor as she found herself suddenly where he had been sitting a moment ago.

Before she could speak, he dropped back into the seat by the window, resting his elbow on the sill like it was no big deal.

“Tell me next time,” he muttered, eyes forward. “You don’t just have to sit here and burn.”

Lia turned to look at him, completely stunned.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t ask for thanks. Didn’t ask if she was okay again.

But she couldn’t stop staring.

No one had ever done that before.

No one had noticed.

And even if they had, no one had moved.

But Jisung did.

Just like that.

Like it was nothing.

After that day—the day he switched seats with her and told her not to “just sit there and burn”—something quietly shifted between them.

Nothing major.

Just… their routine.

Every morning, Lia would now softly greet him with a “Good morning” the moment she slid into her seat beside him. Her voice was still quiet, still unsure, but it held a warmth that hadn’t been there before.

And every time Jisung accidentally dozed off during class—heat making his thoughts melt into mush—she would nudge him gently with her elbow and pass him her notes, pages already underlined and corner-folded. She didn’t say anything, didn’t scold. Just… helped. Like it was natural.

And every time he cracked another pen in half (usually during his bouts of dramatic boredom), she'd sigh under her breath and slide an extra one onto his desk without a word. Different colors every time.

It felt nice.

Unexpectedly so.

Because suddenly, the girl who had always existed in his life—same schools, same cram center, same Tuesday time slot—was now present in it. Like she’d stepped into focus.

He didn’t know if it was because of that seat switch or just timing. Maybe they had never really crossed paths before because they weren’t meant to—until now.

Not that Lia had been ignoring him before. They’d just… been parallel lines. Living near, never intersecting. Different circles. Different kinds of quiet.

But now?

Now she was right there.

A soft presence beside him that didn’t demand attention but made him want to give it anyway.

Even in the unbearable heat of midsummer, when the air felt like thick honey and the cicadas screamed their anthem from the trees, Jisung didn’t mind.

After all, his skin didn’t burn and smoke like Lia’s.

So he didn’t complain.

—

It was another sluggish afternoon when boredom crept in like a second skin. The professor’s voice buzzed like a broken speaker, and Jisung was already three blinks away from slumping fully onto his desk.

Instead, he turned slightly to his left, pencil in hand, and tapped her arm with the eraser end.

She glanced at him, curious.

He leaned in a little and whispered, “Do you… remember me from cram school?”

Lia blinked at him once, then nodded.

“Yeah,” she said simply. “We were classmates, too.”

That caught him off guard.

“You knew that?”

She tilted her head. “Of course. You had the loudest pencil taps during mock exams.”

He looked half-offended. “That was focus tapping.”

She arched a brow. “That was annoying tapping.”

Jisung paused, lips parting to argue—then he thought about it.

“…Okay,” he said eventually, “I guess it would be annoying if it wasn’t coming from me.”

That made her smile.

Not the quiet polite one, but a real one.

Her lips curled, her shoulders relaxed, and a soft chuckle escaped her throat. Just for a second. Barely even a sound.

But it was enough to set off a small explosion in his chest.

What the hell.

What the actual hell.

Since when did awkward vampire girls make spring bloom in his ribcage?

He blinked once. Twice.

She was still smiling.

And he wasn’t breathing properly anymore.

“Wha—” he started, but no words came out.

Lia turned back to the lecture, as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t just reached inside his chest and flipped every emotion switch on at once.

Jisung leaned back in his chair slowly, blinking at the ceiling.

“…She smiled,” he mumbled under his breath.

He wasn’t okay.

Jisung had never really thought about it before, but now that he was paying attention—he couldn’t help but realize something.

It wasn’t just that he’d always known Lia. It wasn’t just because she was good at everything, especially academics, and had the air of being too good for everyone else. She was a vampire, for god’s sake. That should’ve been enough of a reason for him to stay at arm’s length.

No, it wasn’t just that.

He’d always known her because, maybe, just maybe, he had actually found her cute.

He had never thought about it before. She had always just been there—that quiet girl who sat in the back and did her thing while everyone else ignored her. But now that they were seated together, exchanging notes, passing pens, he noticed more. Her small, graceful movements. The way she fiddled with the edge of her sleeve when nervous. The way her eyes would narrow slightly when she focused, making her look like a person with an entire universe in her head.

She was cute, he realized.

She was the only girl he’d ever really looked at.

The thought made him pause for a second.

But just as quickly, he shoved it away.

It was no big deal. It was just a classmate, right? A seatmate.

He wasn’t some lovesick fool.

He shook his head and tried to focus on rugby practice, but his mind kept drifting back to her.

—

Later that afternoon, after the usual run of drills with Jeno and Jaemin, Jisung jogged off to the side of the field to catch his breath. The air was thick, humid, but at least it wasn’t as suffocating as the classrooms. His teammates continued chatting, but Jisung found himself glancing around without thinking.

And then—there she was. Or, rather—there she wasn’t.

He blinked.

Where was Lia?

She was always the one to keep to herself, but Jisung never really noticed until now that, during every break or free time, she was always nowhere to be seen.

Even though they’d started to talk more, even though they shared this whole routine of passing notes and pens, he still didn’t really know where she went when they weren’t together.

He muttered under his breath.

“Where does she go…?

Jaemin, who had been laughing at something Jeno said, turned at the sound of his voice. “Who?”

Jisung didn’t mean to blurt it out. It was just a passing thought.

But now that it had escaped, he froze. “Uh… Lia. My seatmate.”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. “Lia? Who’s that?”

“Lia,” Jisung repeated, his voice a little louder than necessary. “My seatmate. The vampire . You know, the one with the long sleeves and—”

Jeno, who had overheard, snorted.

“Ohhh. That vampire.”

Jisung’s heart skipped a beat.

“That vampire?” he repeated, suddenly defensive. “She has a name, Jeno. And her name is Lia.”

Jeno waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, whatever. Who cares?”

The words stung more than he thought they would, but Jisung didn’t have time to react before Jaemin leaned in, a teasing grin lighting up his face.

“Aww, Jisungie’s got a wittle crushhh,” he cooed, practically rubbing his hands together with mischief.

Jisung’s face went red as he shot Jaemin a glare. “Shut up.”

“No, no!” Jaemin’s grin widened. “Come on, man. We’re just messing with you. We see the way you look at her.”

“I don’t—” Jisung started, but Jaemin was already nudging Jeno, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Ohhh, this is good,” Jeno said with a teasing wink. “So, Jisung’s got a crush on a vampire. This is gonna be fun.”

Jisung felt like his face was on fire. His thoughts were jumbled as he desperately tried to explain himself, but all that came out was, “I—I just—what are you talking about?!”

Jaemin just laughed, ruffling his hair. “I’m just saying, man. You’ve got it bad.”

The teasing continued for a few more minutes as Jisung tried to deny everything, but deep down, he couldn’t ignore the flutter in his chest.

Did I really have a crush on her?

He didn’t know.

But something about the way she smiled at him—actually smiled at him—made him think that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to this whole “seatmate” situation than he’d realized.

And that thought alone was enough to make him feel more than a little confused.

After practice, the teasing continued in waves—Jaemin’s “wittle crush” joke echoing in his head long after they’d showered and changed.

But what lingered more than the embarrassment was that gnawing question.

Where does she go?

It wasn’t like he was obsessed or anything. He was just curious. He had never really seen her eat lunch in the cafeteria or hang around under the shade like others did. And the heat today—damn, it was unbearable. Even for him, a werewolf.

So how was she handling it?

With that question clinging to his chest, he turned down the hallway, slowing his steps as he neared their classroom. The corridors were quiet now—everyone was either passed out in their dorms or tucked away in the common room, soaking in whatever breeze the ceiling fans could muster.

He pushed open the classroom door.

And stopped.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

Lia was there.

Collapsed on the floor beside the desk they shared—her body slumped, back pressed against the wall right beneath the window. The sun streamed in mercilessly, and even though her face was turned away, he could see it—she was barely holding herself upright.

“Lia?” he said, voice sharp, more urgent than he meant.

She looked up slowly, eyes a little glassy, her face pale under the shadows of her bangs.

“It’s… too hot,” she whispered, breath thin. “Sorry. I just needed to—rest a little…”

Jisung didn’t wait.

He dropped his bag and was at her side in a second, knees hitting the floor as he reached into his backpack, pulling out his water bottle and a small sachet of electrolyte powder. He always carried one during summer sports training.

“Hey, hey,” he said gently, popping the cap open and tearing the powder with his teeth. “Don’t apologize, okay? Just—here, drink this. Slowly.”

She blinked up at him, dazed, as he tilted the bottle and gently brought it to her lips.

He helped her sit up, one arm supporting her shoulder as he eased the water into her mouth, careful not to spill.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice oddly soft even to his own ears. “You’re burning up…”

She swallowed weakly, the cool drink finally seeming to pull her out of that fog, and a shiver ran down her arms as the heat broke in her system.

“I didn’t want to be out in the sun,” she mumbled, barely audible. “But the hallways were too full, and I… didn’t want to bother anyone…”

“Are you serious?” Jisung said, more harshly than intended. “You were burning. You passed out, Lia.”

She flinched slightly at his tone.

He bit his lip aa àa.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” he added, voice low now, almost a whisper. “I just… got scared.”

There was a long pause.

She stared at him.

The heat buzzed outside. Cicadas shrieked in the background. But between them, it was quiet.

“I didn’t know you’d come looking for me,” she said finally.

Jisung looked down at her—at the way her lips were dry, the way her voice shook slightly.

“Neither did I,” he said honestly.

She blinked.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, suddenly aware of how close they were sitting, of how her skin still sizzled faintly where it had been exposed.

“I just… got this weird feeling,” he added. “Like something was off. And when you weren’t around, I—”

He paused.

“I wanted to know where you were.”

Her glassy eyes softened slightly.

“Why?”

Jisung didn’t answer right away.

He could’ve lied. Said something casual. Made a joke.

But she was looking at him like she wanted the truth.

So he gave it to her.

“Because you matter to me.”

The words fell out.

He didn’t mean for them to come that easily—but they did.

Lia blinked once. Twice. Her lips parted.

And Jisung could feel his pulse racing like he’d just played another game of rugby, except this time, the stakes felt personal.

Too personal.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The classroom was empty again. It was the kind of stillness that only came during a canceled class on a weekday—the echo of cicadas humming outside, the overhead fan clicking lazily as it spun, and sunlight flooding in muted gold from the far side of the windows.

Jisung was sprawled out halfway on his desk, his head resting on his folded arms as he let out a long sigh. Next to him, Lia sat upright, sleeves down as always, carefully writing something in her notebook.

He tilted his head just enough to look at her.

“…Hey,” he said, voice soft and a little sleepy. “Can I ask something?”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, blinking slowly. “Sure.”

Jisung sat up a little, turning his body so he was facing her more directly.

“I realized something recently,” he said. “I’ve… never actually seen you around during breaks. Even back in high school. Not once.”

She stopped writing.

He continued. “Like—not even accidentally. Everyone else was running around, playing on the field, hanging near the vending machines, but you… it’s like you just disappeared.”

Lia slowly closed her notebook.

There was a small pause before she responded.

“…It’s because of the sun,” she said, almost plainly. “I’m a vampire, Jisung.”

He blinked. “Well… yeah. I know that.”

But the moment the words left his mouth, they hit him harder than he expected.

Oh.

His eyes widened a little in realization.

“You can’t go out in the sun,” he muttered.

She gave him a tight smile. “Not without consequences. My skin burns. Not always instantly, but under harsh sunlight for too long—it smokes, then blisters. Gets painful really fast.”

Jisung leaned back in his chair slowly, processing it.

He remembered the red on her arms. The faint sizzle. The pain in her eyes.

“You were serious when you said the sun burns,” he said, half to himself.

Lia nodded once. “Mm-hm.”

He turned fully toward her now, interest piqued and concern bubbling underneath his calm voice.

“Then… how do you come to uni every day? Or get home?” he asked. “I mean, it’s summer. It’s brutal out there.”

She shrugged lightly, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I carry an umbrella. One of those UV-proof ones. It doesn’t stop it completely, but it helps enough for me to get from home to class or back home.”

“That still sounds awful.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded, worn black umbrella, placing it on the desk with a small thud.

Jisung stared at it.

“You’ve been walking in this heat… with that tiny thing protecting you from being literally cooked?” he asked, voice tinged with disbelief.

Lia chuckled softly. “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than roasting alive.”

He leaned his chin on his palm, gaze still on her.

“So… that’s why you always stay in the classroom during break?”

She nodded. “Too bright. And honestly, too many people.”

That last part made Jisung smile a little.

“Fair.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “You know, I never really… thought about how different it is for you.”

Lia tilted her head. “Because I’m a vampire?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, we all know about vampires, werewolves, and all that, but we don’t really think about it. Like… what it’s actually like.”

He paused, eyes drifting back to the umbrella.

“How hard it must be. Every single day.”

Lia blinked, looking down. Her voice was small when she answered.

“…You’re the first person to say that.”

The words hung in the warm silence for a beat.

And Jisung felt that flutter again—the one that tugged something in his chest.

Like her words mattered more than they should have.

He looked over at her again. Her eyes were cast downward, but a faint smile touched her lips.

The sunlight didn’t reach her side of the desk anymore. But even without the light, Jisung thought she still glowed.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The next day arrived with the same unbearable heat, the same dry buzz of cicadas, and the same golden glow bleeding in through the classroom windows. Students filtered out as usual after the last class before lunch—laughing, chattering, heading toward shade or cold drinks or anywhere with even the slightest breeze.

But Lia stayed.

As always.

She pulled out her book and her umbrella, propped it nearby just in case, and got comfortable in her usual seat near the back. The fan above barely worked, spinning with a weak whir. The warmth made her a little drowsy, and she blinked slowly, fighting the tiredness.

Then—

The door slid open.

She looked up, expecting someone to have forgotten their notebook or water bottle.

Instead, Jisung stepped in.

She blinked once.

Twice.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, surprised, sitting up straighter.

He walked over casually, his long frame moving in a lazy, unhurried way, like the heat didn’t affect him one bit. Instead of heading to his usual spot—either by the vending machine or wherever Jaemin and Jeno were goofing around outside—he walked straight toward her.

Then he sat down on the floor beside her desk, back against the cool wall, legs stretched out.

Lia stared.

Jisung caught the look and tilted his head slightly with a soft smile.

“What?” he asked.

“…You usually hang out with your friends,” she said carefully. “Jeno. Jaemin. Rugby boys. You know.”

“I do,” he said, resting his head back against the wall with a sigh. Then he looked at her again and added, “But I wanted to hang out with you today instead.”

Lia’s heart hiccuped.

“You… wanted to?” she repeated, blinking.

He nodded once.

“No offense to the pack,” he said, glancing out the window briefly, “but it’s too hot to pretend I care about who wins at rock-paper-scissors for drinks.”

He turned back to her.

“And I figured it might be more chill here.”

Lia just looked at him for a long second, like her brain was still buffering.

“…You’re strange,” she said finally, though her voice wasn’t unkind.

“I get that a lot.”

She turned her gaze away quickly, hoping he didn’t notice the small smile that tugged at her lips.

But he did.

He saw it, and it warmed something in his chest.

They sat in a gentle silence for a while, the hum of cicadas like background static. Lia occasionally glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but Jisung didn’t say much more. He just sat there, comfortable, leaning back, eyes half-lidded, letting the moment stretch.

Eventually, she broke the quiet.

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

Jisung turned his head to her.

“Do what?”

“Sit here. Keep me company. I’m fine alone.”

He looked at her for a beat, then smiled—softer this time. Sincere.

“I know you are,” he said. “But I didn’t want to be alone.”

That made her stop.

Her fingers paused against the edges of her book.

He turned away again, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“It’s just nicer… when you’re around.”

The quiet stretched between them again, warm and comfortable now. Jisung let his head rest lazily against the wall, eyes roaming around the nearly empty classroom until they landed on the book in Lia’s hands.

The cover was pastel pink, a little creased at the edges, and had a simple illustration of two people holding hands under the stars. Definitely not a textbook.

He squinted at it.

“What are you reading?”

Lia blinked, a little caught off guard. She glanced at the cover like she’d forgotten she was still holding it.

“…It’s just a silly book about love,” she mumbled, brushing her thumb across the corner.

Jisung tilted his head. “Why silly?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know… It’s just a fantasy, I guess. The main character’s human, and she falls in love with this spirit guy. It’s dramatic. Cheesy. They’re always whispering in forests or gazing at the moon. Stuff like that.”

Jisung grinned, amused. “Sounds kind of nice, honestly.”

She looked at him, surprised.

He shrugged. “Love stories aren’t silly. I think wanting something soft is kind of… brave, actually.”

Lia blinked.

He leaned a little closer, peeking at the page.

“Let me read it with you.”

“…You want to read this?”

“Yeah. Scoot.”

And so, they did. For the rest of that break, they read from the same book—her holding it, him leaning in slightly, close enough to smell the faint trace of lavender on her clothes and ink on the page.

It became their new thing.

Every day after that, Jisung stopped going out for breaks. Jaemin teased him. Jeno rolled his eyes. But Jisung didn’t care. He liked the quiet. He liked the soft way Lia read aloud sometimes without realizing, barely a whisper. He liked how she always saved the page with a little red thread she kept in her pencil pouch. And he liked her.

More than he knew how to admit.

—

One particularly scorching day, with the fans barely working and the light outside blinding, Lia sat curled slightly in her spot, the book resting open on her lap. Her eyes had fluttered shut, her breathing light, but she wasn’t quite asleep.

Jisung watched her for a moment from his spot beside her on the floor.

At first, he thought she was asleep, but after a few minutes, her shoulders twitched. Her fingers kept curling and uncurling, like she was trying to relax but couldn’t.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said softly.

Her eyes opened—barely.

“I am,” she whispered.

He raised a brow. “Not really.”

She shifted and sat up a little, rubbing her eyes gently. “…It’s hard to.”

Jisung tilted his head. “Why?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted toward the window, toward the rectangle of blinding sun that poured across the floorboards just a few feet away.

And then she said—

“I’m scared that if I fall asleep… I won’t notice when the sun shifts. And it’ll burn me.”

Jisung blinked.

Something tightened in his chest.

“I usually nap in small bursts,” she added softly. “Just to be safe.”

He looked at the sun patch near her feet, then at her tired eyes, and then—he reached into his backpack and pulled out his hoodie.

Without a word, he stood, moved beside her, and gently pulled the curtain wider so the sunlight veered away. Then he draped his hoodie over the curtain rail to block even the gaps.

The room dimmed slightly.

He sat back down, cross-legged, and looked at her.

“I’ll keep watch,” he said simply. “So just sleep."

Lia stared at him, eyes wide.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“…What if you fall asleep?”

He gave her a lazy smile. “Then I guess we burn together.”

She chuckled at that, just a little—quiet but real.

Her eyelids fluttered again, slower this time. Trust had a funny way of sneaking in, warm and unnoticed—like how sunlight filtered through closed curtains.

And this time, Lia didn’t fight it.

The classroom was dim now, the buzzing heat softened by the shadow Jisung had carefully made. The book still rested open on her lap, pages fluttering in the breeze from the weak fan.

She shifted slightly.

Then—hesitantly, almost like she was scared she’d get pushed away—she leaned over and gently rested her head on his shoulder.

Jisung froze.

Just for a second.

Not in discomfort.

But in the kind of way someone freezes when they realize something is happening that they never expected to—but desperately don’t want to end.

Her hair brushed against his neck. She smelled like old pages and lavender fabric softener. Her weight was light, like she wasn’t even sure she could lean fully.

So he leaned into her. Just enough to let her know it was okay.

His shoulder tucked against her head.

“Comfortable?” he asked quietly, like his voice might ruin it.

“…Mhm,” she murmured, her voice already fading into sleep.

He swallowed.

Then, quieter:

“Good.”

The fan hummed above. Distant laughter floated from the open hallway. The sun stayed behind the curtain.

And for the first time in a long time, Lia slept—not in bursts, not half-watching the window, not worrying.

She slept.

Because someone was there.

Because Jisung was there.

And Jisung?

He didn’t move for the entire break.

He didn’t want to.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The usual calm of break was there—the quiet fan spinning, her head gently resting on his shoulder, the book open between them.

Jisung could feel his pulse a little louder today. Not because of the heat. Not because of the book.

But because he’d practiced what he was going to say at least fifteen times in front of his mirror last night.

Clearing his throat softly, he tilted his head, just slightly, enough for her to notice.

“Hey,” he began, his voice steady but a little tight, “I… have a match after class today.”

Lia didn’t move, but he could feel the shift in her attention.

“It’s nothing big,” he added quickly, “just a casual one—like an internal practice match.”

She lifted her head a little, blinking sleepily.

He scratched the back of his neck. “I was thinking… since the forecast said it won’t be too hot today, um, maybe—if you feel okay and it’s not uncomfortable—you could come?”

He glanced sideways, trying to play it off casually. “Only if you want to. Totally fine if not. Like, no pressure or anything.”

Lia looked at him quietly for a second, and then gave a small nod with a soft hum.

“Okay."

Just that.

A small word that lit up his entire face.

Jisung looked away quickly, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

---

That night, he practiced passing drills till late.

He even dragged Renjun out for advice.

“How do I say it like I don’t care but also kind of care a lot?”

Renjun had laughed. “You want her to know you want her there, without making it a big deal.”

“Exactly.”

“Then just ask like you did with me just now,” Renjun said, shaking his head. “You're a mess.”

But it worked.

—

The sun was unforgiving that day. Jisung had hoped the weather report was right, but it was almost worse than usual. His jersey clung to his skin, sweat dripping down his jaw as he warmed up with the others.

He kept glancing at the sparse crowd. Mostly pack mates, a few classmates, some faculty.

No sign of her.

And he didn’t blame her. Not one bit.

He shook his head and told himself:

Her comfort matters more. You said it yourself.

The whistle blew. First half began.

He played well. Kept his head in the game. But there was a slight tug in his chest—one that felt suspiciously like hope.

Half-time arrived and Jisung jogged to the benches, towel slung over his shoulder as he chugged some water.

Then—

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye.

A black umbrella. Familiar. Small.

Shielding someone petite and very much real.

His head snapped up.

There she was.

Lia. Standing among a handful of quiet supporters, black umbrella over her shoulder, shielding herself from the sun even as it made her cheeks flush from the heat. She looked deeply uncomfortable… but she was there.

She came.

Their eyes met.

She smiled. A soft, real smile.

And lifted her hand in a small wave.

Jisung felt his ears burn so hard he was surprised steam didn’t come out.

Still—he smiled wide, cheeks aching as he waved back like a goofball.

She giggled, mouthed something at him.

Good luck.

And held a thumbs up.

His heart skipped an entire beat.

Then maybe two more.

The whistle blew.

Jisung’s chest heaved as he bent over, hands on his knees, soaked in sweat—but grinning like a fool.

They had won. By just a few points. It was tight, rough, and exhausting.

But he didn’t even care about the win itself.

Because the moment the game ended, his eyes shot back to the crowd—to her.

There she was, still under her black umbrella, pressed just outside the shade line of the bleachers. Her eyes widened the second their gazes locked, and she straightened as he immediately bolted from the field.

Not to his team.

Not to the coach.

Not to the crowd cheering the last goal.

Straight. To. Her.

The wind from his sprint nearly blew her umbrella sideways. Lia barely had time to adjust it before Jisung came to a breathless stop in front of her, sweat-slick and flushed, jersey clinging to him and hair sticking to his forehead.

She blinked at him, a little startled—not because he was here, but because now everyone was looking at them.

But Jisung didn’t care. His gaze was fixed entirely on her.

“You came,” he said, chest still rising and falling with effort. His voice was bright and hoarse and stunned.

She blinked again, slowly. “You asked me to,” she said softly.

He swallowed, eyes searching her face like he couldn’t believe she really stood there.

Then—

“Still,” he said, voice cracking a little with the weight of it, “the weather’s awful and you’re out here… for me."

“I wanted to,” she replied.

And just like that—his heart exploded.

He couldn’t hide the smile that bloomed across his face, all teeth and bashful joy.

Before she could say another word, he gently reached up and took the umbrella handle from her hand, holding it steady above her head.

“Let me,” he said. “You came for me. The least I can do is make sure you don’t melt.”

Lia’s cheeks flushed deeper—partly from the heat, partly because now it really did feel like all eyes were on them. And Jisung, with zero awareness of the gawking onlookers, just… beamed.

“You played really well,” she mumbled, adjusting her sleeves. “It was… cool to watch.”

He grinned wider, shrugging. “Pfft. I only won ‘cause you came.”

She blinked. “What?”

“True story,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Your presence gave me unmatched strength. I felt like a main character. It was all you.”

And somehow, despite the ridiculousness of it, she smiled—tiny, quiet, but real.

The sun was beginning to dip. The heat still lingered, but the moment had its own warmth now.

Jisung looked at her under the umbrella—her pale face framed in soft shadows, a shy smile curving her lips.

He wondered, just for a second, how he had ever thought she was scary back in high school.

They didn’t head straight home.

Jisung gently tugged her along—his hand still lightly holding the umbrella over her head as they walked past the fading field and up the sloped path behind campus. It wasn’t far, just a few minutes to the old tree that stood tall near the outer edge. Everyone called it the big tree, its wide branches and leafy crown providing the best shade in all of university.

They reached it in silence, save for the sound of cicadas in the grass and the soft shuffle of their shoes.

Lia blinked in surprise when he led her right to the wooden bench tucked beneath the branches, its surface old but still sturdy, half in shadow and perfect for escaping the summer sun.

He plopped down first, sighing as he stretched his legs before glancing up at her.

“Come on, it’s safe here,” he said with a small smile, patting the spot next to him.

She hesitated only a second before quietly sitting beside him.

He gently closed the umbrella and rested it against the bench.

The air was cooler here. Still warm, but without the sting of sunlight on skin.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

Then, almost out of nowhere, he turned to her, gaze soft.

“You look really pretty in daylight,” he said.

Her head jerked slightly, stunned.

Eyes wide, lips parting just a little. “What?”

Jisung blinked, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—but it was too late.

“I mean it,” he shrugged, looking out ahead of them at the swaying grass. “Most people don’t get to see you like this. But I think you look… really nice in the sun. Not just the whole vampire-in-daylight thing. Just… you. You’re pretty.”

She turned her face away, flustered. She’d been called a lot of things before—scary, strange, too pale—but pretty? Especially in the context of daylight?

Never.

He didn’t press it. He just leaned back, hands resting behind him, squinting up through the leaves.

And after a moment of silence—so natural it didn’t need to be filled—he shifted and leaned sideways.

His head gently landed on her shoulder.

Lia tensed up a little at first, eyes wide in surprise. But she didn’t move away.

Not even when he quietly said, eyes half-lidded:

“Just let me rest for a sec. You’re a good pillow.”

A small, stunned breath left her lips, followed by the tiniest huff of amusement.

She glanced down at the boy beside her—sweaty, tired, and still smiling just a bit in the shade of the tree. And maybe for the first time since entering university, since hiding away from the sun and people and voices—

She felt completely seen.

Not as a vampire. Not as someone to avoid.

Just… as Lia.

And she didn’t mind being someone’s pillow today.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The walk home felt lighter than the air around them.

The sun had begun to lower, painting the streets in golden orange. The light hit the buildings gently, almost romantically, and for once Lia didn’t need her umbrella. She held it loosely in her hand, walking side by side with Jisung, their shadows stretched out in front of them.

They talked.

Nothing deep—just lazy, tired thoughts. A silly thing Jeno said during practice, a weird dream Lia had about biting a lemon thinking it was an apple, and how Jisung once accidentally knocked out a classmate with a dodgeball in middle school.

Lia laughed softly, and the sound made Jisung glance at her with that same fond, dumb grin he was starting to wear around her more often.

But as they neared a quieter neighborhood, she came to a stop.

“I’ll go from here,” she said quietly, turning to him with a polite smile. “My neighborhood’s mostly vampires. Older ones. They’re… not too fond of werewolves.”

Jisung’s lips tightened. “I can handle old grumpy vampires.”

She shook her head. “No. They’re different. It’s safer for both of us if I go alone from here.”

He looked at her for a long moment, conflicted.

But he understood. Some boundaries hadn’t been broken yet—no matter how much they wished otherwise.

He nodded. “Alright. Text me when you get home.”

She smiled and turned to go—but before she could take a step, he reached out and gently caught her hand.

She looked back, surprised.

“Thanks for coming today,” he said, eyes sincere. “It really meant a lot.”

Her chest fluttered.

“It’s fine,” she murmured, cheeks warm. “I had fun.”

And with one last smile, she walked off.

—

She walked through the quiet streets, the orange sky fading into dusky grey. Her heart still lingered back at the field—at Jisung’s smile, at the way he looked at her like she was human. Like she wasn’t some cursed legacy with fangs.

But that hope faded with her sigh.

She couldn’t wish for more. Not when the world was still painted in old bloodlines.

And especially not when her father was one of the most influential vampires in the region.

Suddenly, something shifted.

A chill passed through her spine.

She stopped.

From the dark mouth of a narrow alley, a glint of red eyes stared back at her.

She tensed, backing up slightly. Her powers—normally sharp and precise—felt slow. She’d stayed out too long. The sun had weakened her more than she realized.

Before she could react—

A growl.

A blur.

And then—

Pain.

The werewolf lunged, jaws sinking into her shoulder as she screamed, its weight slamming her to the ground. She tried to thrash away, but it was strong—too strong. Its claws tore at her side, and its teeth gnawed like it wanted to rip her apart.

“STOP—!” she gasped, blood spilling across the pavement.

The beast grabbed her leg and yanked, dragging her toward the alley.

She clawed at the ground—fingernails scraping the stone—but it didn’t stop.

Until—

“LIA!”

His voice.

And then—

A snarl. A crack. A storm of black fur.

The black wolf slammed into the attacker, tearing it off her with a bone-crushing blow. The two werewolves crashed into each other, claws and fangs clashing in a blur of fury and muscle.

Jisung’s wolf form towered over the other, eyes glowing with rage as he growled through his teeth, “You think you can just attack her?!”

He bit down, forcing the other to yelp and stumble.

The scene broke into chaos as more figures emerged from the shadows.

Vampires.

And not just any—her father at the front, face pale and sharp with fury.

He rushed to Lia’s side, kneeling, lifting her into his arms.

“Lia!?” he barked, eyes scanning her injuries. “Who did this—?!”

He looked up to see two wolves still fighting. And without hesitation, he barked, “End it! Kill them both if you must!”

But before anyone could move, a bloodied hand caught his wrist.

Lia’s.

Weakly, she whispered: “Jisung.”

The name rang like a bell through the stillness.

The vampires paused.

The black wolf stilled for a moment, before letting go of the attacker and stepping back.

The other werewolf growled low but Jisung didn’t let him retreat. He shifted right there, in front of all of them, back into human form. He was panting, shirt torn, skin streaked with blood, but his eyes were wild and furious.

He stepped forward, fists clenched.

“You don’t get to touch her,” he snarled at the other wolf. “Not her. Not ever.”

The vampires stared.

A werewolf—protecting a vampire. Bleeding for her. Fighting his own kind.

And Lia, in her father’s arms, watched with wide, trembling eyes.

Because no one—not even her—had ever fought like that for her.

The attacker—now human, exposed, and bruised—lay on the ground, barely conscious.

It was Minhyuk. The loudmouthed jock. Jisung’s own classmate. A fellow werewolf. A dumb bastard who played rugby like he ruled the field and walked the school like he owned it.

Jisung’s fists crashed into him again.

Once.

Twice.

“You thought it’d be fun?” he growled, rage consuming him. “You think she’s prey?!”

Minhyuk coughed out blood, trying to lift his arms in defense. But Jisung wasn’t done.

He grabbed the collar of Minhyuk’s shirt and threw him hard against the alley wall, eyes glowing bright yellow even in his human form.

Before he could hit him again, a cold hand caught Jisung’s wrist.

A vampire. Then another. Two more behind them. Minhyuk was quickly restrained by the clan that had appeared—his strength nothing compared to theirs.

“Enough,” one said sharply.

Jisung didn’t care. He turned, sprinting back to the motionless figure curled on the ground.

“Lia?” he called, dropping to his knees beside her, his voice breathless and panicked. “Lia?”

He barely noticed the figure already crouched by her side—a man with eyes like ice and presence like death. Her father.

But he didn’t register the danger.

All he saw was her.

“Are you okay? Oh god—” he murmured, eyes scanning her bloodied skin and torn clothes. “I should’ve never let you walk home alone.”

“Why did I let you—? I should’ve— I knew something felt off—!”

His voice cracked as his hands hovered over her, trembling.

The vampire lord stared, stunned.

A werewolf.

Panicking. For his daughter.

Her.

A vampire.

A soft sound escaped Lia’s lips as she whimpered in pain. Her skin was clammy, her lips pale. Her breathing was shallow.

Her father turned to the vampires behind him.

“She needs blood,” he said sharply. “Get the attacker. We’ll force a blood draw—”

But he froze.

Because Jisung—without hesitation—had already pulled out a Swiss army knife from his pocket.

He didn’t even hesitate.

With one swift motion, he cut his palm open, blood pooling fast in the curve of his hand.

“Lia,” he said softly, kneeling beside her, cupping the back of her head. “It’s okay. You need to drink. Just—just take some.”

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and faint.

“Jisung,” she whispered, horrified. “You’re bleeding…”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, offering his palm, voice calm and warm despite the panic under his skin. “I trust you. Just take it. Please.”

The vampires behind them tensed. Even her father looked rattled.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” one vampire growled.

“Saving her,” Jisung snapped without looking back.

Lia hesitated, shaking, but the scent of his blood—fresh, strong, warm—hit her like a wave. Her instincts screamed at her to take it. Her mind screamed not to.

But Jisung leaned closer.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

And with tears in her eyes, she gave in.

She gently placed her lips to his palm—barely a graze at first—but the moment his blood touched her tongue, she inhaled sharply, and color began to slowly return to her cheeks.

Her trembling started to still.

Her breathing evened out.

And Jisung just held her.

Letting her drink, even as pain shot through his hand. He didn’t flinch.

Because it was her.

And only her.

Lia’s lips trembled as she pulled away from his palm, the blood still warm on her tongue. Her breath was shaky, but stronger now. Her heartbeat, though faint, had steadied. Her fingers clutched the fabric of his sleeve weakly.

Jisung didn’t say anything at first. He just watched her with wide, worried eyes.

Then, without another word, he gently pulled her closer—wrapping his arms around her, carefully but firmly, like she’d break if he held her any tighter. One hand on the back of her head, the other across her shoulders. His chin rested lightly on the crown of her head.

She gasped softly into his shirt, startled.

But it felt… safe.

For the first time in a very, very long time—she felt safe.

Like the noise of the world, the danger, the heat, the tension between their kinds—none of it mattered.

His arms were warm.

His scent was grounding.

His heartbeat—strong and steady—drummed against her cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’ve got you now.”

Her hand slowly rose to hold the front of his shirt, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

“You’re okay,” he added gently, as if repeating it would make it true.

Behind them, the gathered vampires and werewolves looked on in stunned silence—no one daring to speak.

Even her father didn’t interrupt.

Because in that moment, no one else existed.

Just her.

And the werewolf who held her like she meant the world to him.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

A few days had passed since the night Lia was attacked.

Minhyuk, the werewolf who attacked her, had gone missing. Whispers said he’d been taken by someone from Lia’s side, but no one knew for sure. The university sent an apology to Lia’s family—formal, full of hollow regret and promises of stricter regulations.

Everything felt like it had gone back to normal. Students laughed in corridors, the sun blazed on, and teachers rambled on about coursework and deadlines like nothing had happened.

But Jisung knew better.

Lia hadn't returned to university. Her family insisted she rest, even though she didn't want to. And how did he know that? Because they’d been texting. Every day. She’d complain about how boring it was at home, how she missed class, how annoying her overprotective relatives were. How she wanted to sit under the old tree again and nap with her head on his shoulder.

Jisung smiled every time her name popped up on his phone. But today… today was different.

He was sitting in class during break, alone, the fan buzzing above him, books untouched. That morning, as he entered the building, a figure cloaked in shadows had appeared briefly, pressing an envelope into his hand before vanishing into thin air. No words, just a nod.

Now, his fingers held the envelope delicately. It was cream-white, expensive parchment with edges gilded in gold. A red wax seal pressed into the back bore the unmistakable insignia of Lia’s family.

His heart skipped a beat.

Carefully, he broke the seal and opened the letter. The script inside was neat, precise, elegant. The kind of handwriting that had lived through centuries.

He began to read.

---

To Park Jisung,

I have always despised werewolves. Not entirely, but deeply enough for the sentiment to run in my blood. It is a disdain I was raised to carry, as my fathers before me, and theirs before them. I held it like a torch in the dark, believing it necessary to protect what I love.

But throughout the many centuries I have walked this world, I have come across werewolves who challenged that belief—few, but memorable. And among them, you now stand at the forefront.

That night was chaos. Unforgivable and terrifying. No one could have predicted what happened. No one could have prepared. And yet, it was you who stood between death and my daughter. It was you who bled for her. Who fought one of your own, not as a werewolf for a vampire, but as a soul protecting another.

In all my years, I have never witnessed such a moment.

I have lived through wars, through centuries of hidden battles between our kinds, through the endless cycle of distrust. And yet I found myself frozen in that alley, watching a werewolf defend my daughter as though his own life meant nothing compared to hers. Watching you offer your blood when she needed it, shielding her, holding her like she was the most fragile thing in the world.

I will not lie and say everything I believed vanished that night. But I will say this—

You have my respect.

You have my gratitude.

And you have my blessing.

Thank you, Park Jisung—not just for saving my daughter, but for showing her, and all of us, that perhaps there is still something better waiting for our people than silence and hatred.

I am glad she has someone like you in her life.

From me, my family, and the people I lead—thank you.

Seo Doyun

Patriarch of House Seo

Father of Lia

Head of the Crimson Court

—

Jisung stared at the letter long after the words stopped. His heartbeat thudded in his chest like a drum. A blessing. Her father had given him a blessing.

And for the first time in his life, the wall between werewolves and vampires didn’t seem so unbreakable anymore.

—

After class, Jisung was walking back home with his bag slung over his shoulder, earbuds in, lost in thought. The streets were still a little hot from the late afternoon sun, the sky slowly dimming to golden orange. He was thinking about the letter, about her—always her—when suddenly he heard a soft “psst” from the side.

He blinked, pulling one earbud out and glancing around. Again, a sharp “psst.”

His eyes darted to a nearby alleyway, and there, in the shadows, stood a small figure—umbrella in hand, sunglasses covering half her face, hoodie pulled up loosely.

“Lia?” he said, stunned but already grinning.

She pulled her sunglasses down to the bridge of her nose and smiled at him, eyes crinkling. Even from here, he could still see the fading bruises, the healing scars that lined her cheek and jaw, but they disappeared in the light of her beam.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, hurrying into the shade beside her, eyes wide and a little confused but unmistakably happy.

She twirled the umbrella slightly, cocking her head. “I was bored,” she said simply. “So Dad said I could come meet you.”

His chest tightened. That meant a lot more than it sounded.

As she lowered her sunglasses, her eyes dropped to his palm. Her smile faltered as she gently reached out and took his hand.

“This isn’t even tended to properly,” she murmured, frowning at the barely scabbed-over cut from that night.

He laughed sheepishly, “It’s fine. Doesn’t even hurt.”

She shook her head at him, not buying it. With soft fingers, she ran over the skin of his palm—and Jisung gasped as the wound closed slowly under her touch, vanishing like it was never there.

He stared at his hand, flexing it. “That’s… insane.”

She grinned, teasing, “You’re welcome, big strong wolf.”

He chuckled, ruffling her hair as she squeaked in protest. They stood there for a while, talking in the cool quiet of the alley, her umbrella angled between them. She told him how dull the past few days had been, how annoying it was to be waited on, how she missed their breaks together.

When the sun dipped low enough that the shadows began to stretch long, he reached for her umbrella gently and took it from her hand.

“Let me hold it,” he said with a soft smile. “I’m taller anyway.”

She blinked but nodded, warmth blooming in her chest as they walked side by side down the sidewalk. They didn’t say much—just soft conversation and gentle laughter—as they made their way to the familiar old tree on campus, where the shade had already claimed its throne beneath the branches.

They sat beneath the old tree on the bench, the world still around them. The sun had almost disappeared now, leaving the air warm and tinted gold. Jisung shifted slightly, shoulders brushing hers before he turned to her, voice softer than usual.

“I missed you,” he said, eyes trained on the ground before glancing at her. “A lot. Too much, actually.”

Lia’s lips parted, her heart tightening with a kind of sweet ache as she smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. “I missed you way too much too,” she whispered. “That’s why I kept flooding your DMs with those ridiculous spams.”

He chuckled, but his throat tightened with the emotion blooming in his chest—something that felt like spring breaking through cold earth.

His fingers twitched nervously before he gathered the courage to slowly take her hand in his. She flinched, just slightly, surprised—but then she relaxed, her fingers curling gently around his. He began to trace soft circles on her knuckles with his thumb.

“You know…” he started, voice light but laced with nerves, “there’s this werewolf. My friend.”

Lia tilted her head slightly, hiding a smile.

“He likes this very cool, adorable, funny—and pretty—vampire from his class.” His thumb paused for a second, then resumed. “Just asking you since you’re also a vampire… would she ever, you know, like him back? Are there chances of it ever happening that they could go out together?”

His ears were already flushed red as he avoided her gaze, rubbing his nose with his free hand, trying to play it off.

She bit her lip, hiding a grin before she softly asked, “Is that werewolf… you, or?”

He glanced sideways, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “No, no. Just asking for a friend.”

That made her laugh—warm, airy, and real—as she turned toward him and leaned in. Without a word, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. His breath caught in his throat.

“She likes him too,” she said, her voice quiet and sure, her forehead resting lightly against the side of his.

Lia froze for a second—just a heartbeat—before slowly pulling back enough to look up at him, her hand still in his.

Jisung’s heart was pounding in his chest like it wanted to break free. Her kiss on the cheek had given him enough air to breathe, enough strength to say what had been sitting in his chest forever. Maybe even longer.

He smiled, shy but steady and said, “Well, since that’s possible for my friend…” He looked into her eyes, cheeks dusted with warmth, but this time, no hesitation in his voice. “Let’s say I like you. No, not like— I love you. What would you say?”

He felt exposed, vulnerable and bold at once. His thumb was still gently brushing over her knuckles, grounding him as much as it was comforting her.

Lia blinked at him, lips parted slightly. The silence stretched only for a second—but to him, it felt like forever.

And then, she smiled. The kind of smile that made cicadas go quiet and hearts swell.

“I’d say…” she whispered, tightening her fingers around his, “that I love you too.”

And just like that, the last breath of summer heat didn’t seem so unbearable. Not when she was next to him, not when the distance between vampire and werewolf didn’t matter—not when their hands were tangled, hearts finally speaking the same language.

Jisung gulped, eyes wide and heart stumbling as he asked, “Wait… for real?”

Lia chuckled softly, the sound like wind chimes in early spring, and nodded, her eyes twinkling. That was all he needed.

In a second, he pulled her into a warm, almost trembling hug—arms wrapped around her like he never wanted to let go. “I love you… a lot,” he mumbled into her hair, voice small but honest, full of all the emotion he’d been holding back.

Lia’s heart bloomed. She closed her eyes, arms tightening around his waist. “I love you a lot too,” she whispered into his shoulder, and he broke the hug slowly, as if parting from something sacred.

His hands came up to her face, cupping her cheeks gently. She looked up at him, still catching her breath, and he pressed a soft, adoring kiss to her forehead.

Her eyes fluttered closed as he did.

Then he kissed her right cheek, and her left, so tenderly it made her cheeks warm. A little laugh escaped her when he kissed the tip of her nose, then her chin—each one slow, full of affection and awe.

And then he stopped.

His gaze shifted to her lips, lingering.

He didn’t move. He didn’t rush.

His thumb brushed her cheek and his voice dropped low, nervous, quiet. “Can I…?” he asked, unsure if he should say the rest—but his eyes held it all. The want. The love. The fear of messing it up.

And the hope that maybe, just maybe, she wanted the same thing too.

Her eyes shimmered under the soft light filtering through the trees, glassy with emotion and something tender. She gave the faintest nod, cheeks flushed, before softly humming, “Mhm…”

That was all the permission he needed.

Jisung leaned in slowly, like the moment might break if he moved too fast—his hand still gently cupping her cheek. His forehead rested against hers for a second, his breath warm, his heart loud.

And then, with a softness that made time slow, his lips met hers.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was warm. Sweet. The kind of kiss that says "thank you for finding me," and "I’ll protect you, no matter what."

When they pulled apart, her eyes were still closed for a moment longer, and when she opened them—he was smiling at her. Ears red, heart full.

“You’re really mine now?” he asked quietly, still in awe.

She nodded, leaning in with a soft giggle, brushing her nose against his. “I’ve always been yours. You just didn’t ask sooner.”

She giggled, the sound light and full of joy as she leaned into him, arms wrapping around his middle. He let out a breathy laugh, completely enchanted, and hugged her back tightly, swaying them gently side to side under the shade of the old tree.

“You’re so warm,” she mumbled into his chest.

He grinned, resting his chin on top of her head. “Perks of dating a werewolf.”

She snorted at that. “Hmm. Guess I’ll keep you, then.”

“Forever, please,” he whispered.

She tilted her head up, eyes twinkling. “Okay, forever.”

And just like that—with cicadas buzzing in the background, the heat of summer lingering in the air, and two hearts finally in sync—they stood wrapped in each other’s arms, the world soft around them. Just Lia and Jisung, under their favorite tree, where everything felt right.

That's it for this one!

I hope y'all liked it 🥹🫶🏻

It was very soft and fun to write tbh!

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍✨️

[atinyjules]

Hearts That Break, Heal Again Ft. Knight!Jisung

A/n: Part 2 is here!! Idk how to feel about it, but I guess it's fine lmao.

Genre: Fantasy, Fairytale, Angst, Fluff, Romance, royal au

Pairings: Knight!Jisung x Princess!Lia

Warnings: mentions of death, blood

The wedding day had finally arrived.

The entire kingdom gleamed with joy and celebration, unaware of the heavy hearts buried beneath the gold and silk. Streets were adorned with luminous streamers, lanterns swayed from every post, and the air was rich with the scent of blooming flowers and sweet pastries. Laughter and cheer echoed across the stone walls of the city, and the people celebrated as if it were their own joy to share.

The palace, already known for its breathtaking beauty, looked even more divine now—draped in shimmering gold, every corner twinkled as if touched by the stars themselves. Music floated through the corridors, servants scurried about putting the final touches in place, and nobles arrived dressed in their finest silks and gemstones.

But far from the commotion, in a quiet wing of the palace, one heart refused to rejoice.

Jisung stood silently in front of a mirror, dressed in his full knight's uniform—medals polished, buttons aligned, cape flowing crisply over his shoulder. But there was nothing proud or strong in the way he looked at himself. His eyes, usually warm and spirited, were now dark voids, empty of light or hope. They reflected nothing but exhaustion and a pain that sat deep in his chest, unmoving and sharp.

He straightened his badges with mechanical precision, adjusting things that were already perfectly in place—just for something to do, something to distract him from the gnawing feeling in his gut.

Across the room, Chenle was pulling on his boots. He didn’t speak. He only glanced at Jisung now and then, his gaze filled with a soft, quiet pity. There was nothing to say—no words that could mend a heart that had shattered itself.

Meanwhile, inside the palace, chaos of a different kind bloomed. People bustled through the hallways with silk in their arms and trays in their hands, final touches being made on the banquet, on the grand ballroom, on the procession route. There was excitement in the air—one fit for a royal wedding.

But in the princess’s chamber, there was silence.

Lia had asked—no, insisted—that she get ready alone. She had told them she wanted no disturbance, and everyone had assumed it was simply nerves or the solemnity of the occasion. But the truth was far from it.

She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

Alone in her chambers, she leaned weakly against the vanity. Her dress—once a masterpiece of gold embroidery and silk—was now stained. Gold liquid, tinged with streaks of crimson, dripped from the corners of her mouth. She had thrown up again. Her body ached, her chest burned, and every breath felt heavier than the last. Her limbs trembled with effort, her heart screaming in silence.

She looked at herself in the mirror and barely recognized the girl staring back. Pale, sunken eyes. Lips too red. Gold streaking her cheeks from tears she hadn't even realized she’d cried. Her long golden hair framed her ghostly face like a cruel reminder.

She looked like death.

She hated it.

She knew what this was. The curse—the one she’d been born with, the one her grandmother had warned her of since she was a child—was claiming her.

“When your heart breaks,” her grandmother had whispered once, brushing her hair by the fire, “you must protect it. For your magic is not just power—it is your life. If it breaks, you break.”

Lia now knew what that meant.

Her heart had broken the moment Jisung had denied her.

And now, she was breaking too.

But she wouldn’t tell anyone. Not her parents, not the healers. She didn’t want to terrify them. She didn’t want anyone’s pity. Not when she had made her choice. Not when she had chosen to walk forward, even as every step dragged her closer to the edge.

So she wiped the tears—those glistening gold-specked tears—from her cheeks, steadied her breath, and forced herself upright.

She took a step forward.

Just one.

But a sharp, searing pain shot through her chest so violently that she gasped—her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the cold marble floor with a cry.

The pain bloomed like fire, stabbing through her left side with cruel intent. She felt something wet seep through the fabric of her gown, soaking into the embroidery just above her heart. Dazed and frightened, her trembling hand reached to her chest. And when she pulled it away—

She froze.

Gold.

Her fingertips glistened with it—thick, warm, shimmering blood. Not specked this time. Pure gold. Bleeding from her chest. Soaking through the delicate fabric. Painting her palm like molten metal.

“No…” she breathed out, eyes wide, voice cracking.

Her heart galloped in her chest, frantic and confused, as panic overtook her. She scrambled to her feet in a clumsy, staggering motion and grabbed the nearest cloth she could find, pressing it against her chest in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. Her hands shook violently, and her breathing turned ragged.

Her vision blurred.

Everything was spinning.

“No, no, no, not now,” she whispered as if pleading with the curse, the gods, fate—anyone who would listen. Her hands were stained gold. Her dress clung wetly to her. The room was spinning like a carousel of ghosts.

Her breath hitched again, quick and shallow, as she stumbled backward. She looked into the mirror—and her reflection shattered her.

The long golden hair spilled across the marble like sunlight melted onto snow, her gown stained with gold and red. Her face—once regal and proud—now twisted with fear and pain. Her eyes, swollen and glossed over with tears, darted to her golden locks, and she broke.

“It’s the hair…” she whispered. “It’s always been the hair.”

The golden curse. The sign of her bloodline. The reason she was so precious. So feared. So locked in a cage of velvet and thorns. Had she been born ordinary—had she been plain, had her hair not gleamed like sunlight—then maybe they would have let her live. Maybe Jisung would’ve fought harder. Maybe he wouldn’t have been afraid.

“I hate it…” she choked, fingers curling in the golden strands.

And then, without thinking—driven by pain, grief, madness—she reached for the ornate scissors on her vanity.

She gripped them hard.

One trembling snip.

Another.

And then another.

The golden strands fell in waves, curling on the floor like sleeping snakes. The more she cut, the more her chest burned. The more she sobbed, the more the gold shimmered in her tears.

And when the last of it fell—when her hair stopped at her chest in jagged, uneven lengths—something else changed.

Her scalp tingled.

The gold vanished, and in its place… obsidian black.

The remaining hair on her head shimmered into a void-like black, rich and deep, like onyx under moonlight. It was silent, surreal. As if the gold had never existed—just a dream, or a curse undone.

She dropped the scissors, panting, her chest heaving in pain. Her hand clutched her aching abdomen, her whole form trembling. She looked down at the golden hair scattered across the floor—like pieces of herself she could never put back.

She couldn’t stay.

Not like this. Not with people coming to take her to the ceremony. Not with blood turning to gold and her heart threatening to collapse inside her chest.

She staggered toward the balcony, wiping her cheeks and holding her side. Her vision was foggy, her knees weak, but she had to escape. No one could see her like this.

No one could see the ruin of the princess they thought was a symbol of light.

She climbed the railing, intending to lower herself down carefully, breath shaking and heart pounding.

But her body gave way.

Her arms trembled too hard to hold her weight.

She slipped.

Falling.

Her mind braced for the crack of bone, for pain—death.

But it never came.

Instead, she floated.

Gently. Slowly.

Golden dust shimmered off her body in wisps, trailing like feathers behind her. She blinked in disbelief. Her body—so light, so fragile—was being carried by the very curse that was killing her.

She looked down at her hands as she drifted lower, horrified to see her fingertips flaking into gold dust, disappearing slowly like ash on the wind.

“No,” she gasped again, curling her hands into fists, willing herself to stay whole.

She landed softly in the grass just beyond the palace walls, tucked away where no eyes could see—thanks to the quiet side her chamber faced. No guards. No maids. No witnesses.

Still clutching her aching chest, Lia got up—barely—and ran.

Ran from theceremony.

Ran from the ceremony.

Ran from everything.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

Jisung lay in the hay, eyes unfocused, staring blankly at the wooden beams above him. His once-pristine ceremonial uniform was now wrinkled, the cape crumpled beneath his shoulder, and his medals dulled with dust and disuse. He hadn’t even made it to the palace.

He couldn’t.

He had given up.

What was the point of watching the person you love marry someone else—especially when it was your own fear, your own cowardice, that pushed her away?

His fingers curled around a handful of straw, the silence of the stables weighing down on him like a shroud. By now, she’d be walking into the chapel. Probably smiling, glowing like the radiant sun she always was. A new beginning for her… and the end of everything for him.

He shut his eyes.

And then—

“JISUNG!!”

A voice tore through the air like lightning.

He jerked upright, startled, hay flying as he bolted up just in time to see Chenle bursting into the stables, breathless, wild-eyed.

“She’s gone!” Chenle shouted, barely pausing to breathe. “Lia—she ran away!”

“What?” Jisung was on his feet before the words even fully registered. His pulse exploded in his ears. “What do you mean gone? What—what happened?!”

“She’s not in the chapel! She never made it there—one of the maids went to check on her and her chamber was… it’s a mess. The King and Queen are losing it. Come with me!”

Jisung didn’t need to be told twice.

He bolted after Chenle like a man possessed.

By the time they reached the palace, the atmosphere had shifted entirely. The jubilant glow from earlier had withered into chaos. Courtiers stood frozen, whispering in frightened tones. Servants ran through halls. The floral arrangements had been abandoned mid-placement.

And outside the princess’s chamber—

Sobs. Desperate, shattered sobs.

The Queen was weeping into the King’s shoulder, his own face pale and twisted with helpless fury. The palace guards stood dumbfounded. Maids cried quietly in the corner.

Jisung's heart pounded as they let him through the doors.

The moment he stepped into the room, he froze.

It was like walking into a battlefield.

The vanity was overturned. The mirrors shattered. Blood—no, gold—stained the white of the rug, swirled in with real crimson in sickening patterns. The air was heavy with the metallic tang of magic, and something else—something dying.

And there, in the center of the room—

Her hair.

Long golden strands lay scattered like wilted sunlight. But the shimmer was dying. The magic—whatever it was—was draining. The strands were dulling, paling… losing their life.

“Jisung,” came a breathless voice, and he turned to see the Royal Advisor rushing toward him. “You—You know the Princess. You’ve known her since childhood. You love her. Please. Please help us. She’s not well—she was ill before the wedding—we were going to postpone but she insisted…”

The words melted into static.

Jisung couldn’t hear them.

His eyes locked on the gold-streaked cloth, the broken scissors, the streaks of blood-gold leading toward the open balcony doors.

Something clicked.

Something horrible.

A memory crashed into him like thunder.

A voice—softer, younger, delicate—echoed through the chambers of his mind.

“The Witch of the East touched me when I was a baby,” Lia had once whispered, curled beside him beneath the stars, “She cursed me. Mama said if my heart ever broke… truly broke… I’d die. Not all at once. Slowly. In pain. My body would turn to dust. Gold first… then nothing.”

His breath hitched.

No. No, it couldn’t be—

He ran.

Down the corridors. Through the halls. Out the balcony doors and onto the lower grounds.

His boots slammed into the earth as he skidded to a stop near the palace wall. Eyes darting, searching—

There.

Tiny specks.

Gold flecks shimmering faintly in the grass beneath the balcony. Barely visible unless you knew what you were looking for.

He crouched, trembling, brushing his fingers over the dust.

It was her.

She had fallen. Or leapt. But she hadn’t broken—she had floated probably. The curse was real. It was happening. And now she was turning to dust with every heartbeat.

“Lia…” he whispered, standing slowly.

And he ran.

Faster than he had in his entire life.

Because this time, he would not be a coward.

Because this time, he would find her before the curse did.

Because this time—he would not let her die alone.

—

Jisung stumbled through the gardens before stopping abruptly, his chest heaving.

Then, without hesitation, he brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, piercing whistle. The sound cut through the air like an arrow.

A distant whinny answered.

Moments later, his horse galloped toward him from the side stables. The moment the reins were within reach, he pulled himself onto the saddle with practiced urgency, his cloak whipping behind him.

“Come on,” he whispered hoarsely to the steed, “Please—hurry…”

He rode hard.

The wind tore at his eyes, but the tears came anyway, clouding his vision as he followed the trail of fading gold glimmers on the earth. They sparkled faintly in the setting sun, barely there—like her life was slipping out, leaving fragments behind.

“Please…” he choked, “Please don’t be gone. Don’t leave yet… Not before I tell you…”

He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

Minutes passed like lifetimes until, through the trees and rising hills, recognition bloomed in his chest.

The path… this was their path.

He yanked the reins as his horse reached the edge of the meadow.

He knew where she was going.

Their old hideout—the meadow tucked in the hills behind the palace, far from the eyes of guards and duties. A sacred place from their youth where they had once dreamed without fear.

Without hesitation, he dismounted, boots hitting the ground with a thud, and he ran—sprinting through the tall grass, lungs burning.

And then he saw her.

A lone figure in the soft light of the hilltop meadow.

Lia.

Her body was hunched forward, clutching her abdomen as she dragged herself through the grass. Her long, obsidian-black hair fell around her face like a shadow. She looked like a wraith—too pale, too thin, too quiet. The once-golden magic around her flickered and dimmed with each step.

His breath hitched, heart cracking open.

“LIA!” he cried.

She turned slowly.

Her eyes met his—glassy, unfocused, barely holding on.

And then she swayed.

Her knees buckled.

She would’ve collapsed—

But he caught her just in time.

He dropped to his knees, arms wrapping around her fragile form as she slumped into him. Her body was ice-cold. His hands trembled as they held her tighter, like he could shield her from everything if he just didn’t let go.

“I’m here—Lia, I’m here,” he whispered, his voice already breaking. “Please—don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”

She blinked slowly, her lips trembling as her gold stained hands grazed his cheek.

“You promised,” she whispered, her voice cracked and weak, “You promised… to love me forever…”

His face crumpled as tears fell freely down his cheeks.

“I know. I know—I was an idiot,” he sobbed, pulling her even closer. “I was a coward, I should’ve said something—I should’ve fought for you—I never stopped loving you, not for a second. You’re everything. Everything, Lia.”

She whimpered softly, her fingers curling into his uniform as her body shook.

“Everything hurts…” she whispered. “Inside… outside… my heart…”

He kissed her forehead as his tears fell into her hair.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed, his voice shattering, “I’m so, so sorry, my love. If I could take the pain away, I would—I’d take every drop of it if it meant you stayed. I love you—I love you more than words can ever hold. I love you more than life.”

And with that, he pressed his lips to hers—a kiss full of trembling desperation, sorrow, and a love that had waited far too long to be spoken aloud.

She sobbed against his chest, clutching him as though he were the only thing tethering her to this world.

And maybe, in that moment, he was.

Lia’s fingers curled weakly into the fabric of Jisung’s wrinkled uniform as she shook in his arms, her sobs shallow and broken.

“I—” she gasped, her voice barely more than a whisper, “I don’t… want to die… not yet…”

The words pierced him like a blade.

He felt his heart twist in agony as she choked on her sobs, her voice crumbling under the weight of her fear. Her body trembled so hard in his arms that he thought she might vanish entirely, like dust in the wind.

He held her tighter, as though his embrace alone could hold her together.

“I know,” he whispered, burying his face in her shoulder. His tears spilled freely now, hot and relentless. “I know, baby. I know. Please—just stay. Stay with me.”

His hand moved shakily to her back, gently cradling her as though she were made of glass.

“You’re not going to die,” he said again, more to himself than her. “You’re not. I won’t let you. I’ll find a way—I swear I’ll find a way, just—just hold on a little longer.”

She clung to him as though he were the last light in the world, her breathing ragged.

“I’m scared…” she admitted through her sobs, her voice cracking. “It hurts—everything hurts so much, Jisung…”

“I know, my love, I know,” he whispered, his voice shaking uncontrollably. He kissed the side of her head, his tears falling into her black hair. “I’m here now. You’re not alone anymore.”

He rocked her gently, whispering soft, desperate comforts into her ear.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t brave before. I should’ve been—should’ve fought harder for you. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Her sobs grew quieter, but her body remained weak in his arms, her skin unnaturally cool, her form far too light.

And still, Jisung held her, cradling her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Because she was.

As the wind swept gently across the meadow, stirring the grass around them, the gold specks in her skin shimmered faintly in the light, a soft and fading glow.

But Jisung didn’t see it as an end.

He saw it as a fight not yet lost.

Jisung held her tightly, arms curled protectively around her as he sat on the damp grass, rocking her slowly without realizing it. She was shaking against him, her face buried in his chest, her breathing uneven.

“I don’t want to die yet,” Lia choked out, her voice small, cracked. “I don’t—I’m not ready.”

“I know,” Jisung whispered, his voice barely steady. He blinked fast, trying to stop the tears, but they kept coming anyway. “I know. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

She gripped his uniform with trembling fingers. “It hurts.”

“I know,” he said again, brushing her damp hair back from her face. “I’m here. Just hold on. Please.”

She let out a soft, broken sound—part sob, part breath—as her body curled slightly, instinctively trying to fight the pain. Her forehead rested against his collarbone, and he pressed a kiss to her temple, closing his eyes.

“I should’ve been there,” he murmured. “I should’ve stayed by your side. I was scared, and I was stupid, and I let you face all of this alone.”

Lia didn’t answer right away. She was tired. Her breaths were shallow now, like each one cost her something.

“I missed you,” she finally said, her voice thready. “Even when I was angry… I missed you every day.”

Jisung’s jaw tightened, his throat thick. “I never stopped loving you,” he said. “Not for a second.”

She gave a faint nod, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again with effort.

The wind picked up slightly, brushing the meadow grass around them. Tiny golden flecks glimmered in the fading light, almost too faint to notice unless you were looking closely.

Jisung noticed.

His heart lurched, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

He just held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other cradling her head. And as she clung to him—still fighting, still here—he breathed slowly with her, steady and calm, as if his breathing alone could keep her grounded.

“Just stay with me,” he said quietly. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time. You’re not alone anymore.”

And for a while, neither of them moved. They just sat there, tangled together in silence—frightened, exhausted, but still holding on.

Jisung pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, his lips lingering in her hair as if trying to memorize the feeling—warm, real, here.

“When you’re better,” he whispered against her scalp, “I’ll take you to the swing again. The one by the willow tree.”

Lia gave a weak, shuddering breath, her fingers still curled into the fabric of his uniform.

“I’ll push you like I always did,” he went on, his voice gentle, almost steady now, like he was telling a bedtime story. “You’ll close your eyes and lean back and laugh like you used to. Like nothing else matters.”

Her lips twitched slightly. A faint echo of a smile, more muscle memory than anything. “You always pushed too high,” she murmured.

He huffed a soft laugh, brushing his thumb along her back. “You loved it. Said it felt like flying.”

Another breath from her, uneven but still present.

“And after that,” he continued, voice a little thicker, “we’ll sneak into the orchard. I’ll climb the tree like a fool and get you the sweetest, ripest apples I can find. You always liked the red ones that crunch.”

She nodded against his chest, her voice barely audible. “With honey.”

“With honey,” he repeated, eyes glistening. “And we’ll sit in the grass and eat until the sun goes down.”

Silence stretched for a beat. She was still breathing, still here.

He tightened his hold just a little. “So stay with me, Lia. Just a little longer. We still have apples to steal and swings to break.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she let out a soft, hoarse laugh—small, breathy, but real. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

It meant she was still fighting.

Jisung gently patted her shoulder, his hand moving in slow, comforting strokes. He continued rocking her, his chin resting lightly against the top of her head, trying to steady both of their breathing. The wind moved quietly through the meadow, brushing past them like it, too, was trying not to disturb the fragile moment.

He tilted his head slightly, lowering his voice. “Do you… need anything?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

For a long second, she didn’t respond. He thought maybe she hadn’t heard him—or maybe she didn’t have the strength to answer.

But then, just barely, a word escaped her lips. So faint, so fragile, he almost missed it.

“...Kiss.”

His eyes softened instantly. He pulled back just enough to see her face, her expression tired and pale but open, vulnerable. Her lips trembled ever so slightly.

He cradled her face with both hands, thumbs brushing the cold from her cheeks, and leaned in—pressing his lips to hers with a tenderness that broke something in him. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed.

It was a promise.

She responded weakly, her hands barely able to lift, but he felt the effort, the small way she leaned into him.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, she didn’t cry. She just closed her eyes and stayed in his arms, like maybe—for the first time in a long time—she believed him.

“I love you, Lia,” Jisung whispered, his voice shaking as he closed his eyes and held her tighter, like he was trying to shield her from the world. Tears slipped down his cheeks, warm and silent, soaking into her hair as he pressed her gently against his chest. “So much... I love you so much.”

He stayed like that, still and cradling her, as if he could stop time through sheer will. He didn’t notice how long had passed, didn’t feel the shift in the air. The wind had quieted. The dust no longer drifted from her skin.

Then, something changed.

He felt a stir against his chest. Arms—weak but certain—wrapped slowly around his neck. At first, he thought he was imagining it.

But then he pulled back, blinking rapidly as he opened his eyes.

Lia was looking at him. Her eyes were clearer, no longer glassy. Her body, no longer fading. Her skin was still pale, but steady—solid.

“Lia...?” he breathed, not daring to move too fast.

“I’m still here,” she murmured softly, her voice steadier than before. “I think... I’m not disappearing anymore.”

He stared at her, his heart slamming in his chest as relief hit him like a wave. His hands cupped her face again, gently, as if to make sure she was real. “You’re here,” he whispered back, voice cracking.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she gave him a faint, tired smile.

“I guess your love’s stubborn,” she whispered, her head falling softly against his shoulder. “It wouldn’t let me go.”

Jisung gasped, a broken sound that caught in his throat as the full weight of what had just happened hit him. She was still here. She was still breathing. His arms wrapped around her in an instant, pulling her tightly to his chest like she might slip away again if he let go for even a second.

“Lia,” he whispered against her hair, his voice trembling. “Lia, you’re really here.”

His hold on her was desperate, protective, overwhelmed. He buried his face into her shoulder, clutching her as if anchoring both of them to the moment.

She let out a shaky breath, her fingers gripping his cloak like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “I thought I was going to die,” she murmured. “I was so scared, Jisung.”

“I know,” he said, holding her even closer. “I know. I’m so sorry you had to go through all of it alone. I should’ve been there. I should’ve—”

“You’re here now,” she interrupted softly, her voice a whisper against his neck.

And for a long, quiet moment, they stayed just like that—tangled in each other, breathing the same air, heartbeats slowly falling into sync as the golden light of the meadow bathed them in warmth.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

Seasons passed, and with them, the curse that had once threatened Lia’s life faded into a distant, painful memory—one that still made Jisung hold her a little tighter on quiet nights, just to make sure she was still warm in his arms.

After that day in the meadow, she slowly regained her strength. Day by day, the gold dust ceased to appear, her coughs stopped, and the aching in her body became nothing more than a ghost she left behind. Her obsidian black hair remained—a quiet reminder of what she had endured, and perhaps a mark of her freedom. She was no longer the precious girl trapped in a tower of protection; she was just Lia now. And she was happy.

With the blessings of the entire kingdom—her family, the advisors, and even the nobles who once doubted them—Lia and Jisung married in a ceremony filled with warmth and joy. There was no grand display, no forced spectacle. Just her, him, and a world that had finally aligned in their favor. She wore a dress that sparkled softly, like starlight, and he stood at the altar not as a soldier or a knight—but simply as the boy who had loved her for as long as he could remember.

The chapel had been quiet when she walked in, her smile gentle, eyes glistening with unshed tears. When they said their vows, they weren’t just promises—they were truths they had lived through. Pain, love, loss, hope. And now, finally, peace.

They lived in the palace, of course, as duty called—but their hearts always remained in the meadow on the hill. They returned often, especially when Lia grew restless from royal life.

And sometimes—when the day was too warm or the breeze too sweet, she'd turn to him with that familiar glint in her eye and say, “Jisung. Carry me.”

And without hesitation, he would lift her into his arms with a laugh, pretending to complain about how heavy she was even though they both knew he would do it a thousand times over. They’d lie in the grass afterward, hand in hand, watching the clouds drift by.

No gold dust. No pain.

Just them.

Whole, healed, and in love—still and always.

That's it for this one!!

I hope y'all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it 🥹🫶🏻✨️

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🤍✨️

[atinyjules]

Hearts That Break, Don't Heal Ft. Knight!Jisung

A/n: kind of my take on rapunzel, but it doesn't really, completely focus on her hair 100% of the time.

It's kind of similar to the Knight!Jeno one but with fairytales woven in it.

Genre: Fantasy, Fairytale, Angst, Romance, Royal au

Pairings: Knight!Jisung x Princess!Lia

Warnings: Ansty shit, mentions of blood, death

“What if she wants marriage?” Chenle asked suddenly, squinting into the sun.

Jisung turned to look at him, eyebrows scrunched, the soft whistle of the breeze brushing past them both. They sat across from the stables, lounging in the grass with half-eaten apples beside them and no official duties for once.

“Shut up,” Jisung muttered, half-serious. “Don’t jinx me.”

Chenle grinned like he struck gold.

“So you have thought about it.”

Jisung didn’t answer immediately. His fingers picked at the hem of his sleeve, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the meadows.

“Do you love her?” Chenle asked, this time quieter.

Jisung's jaw clenched, but only for a moment.

“More than my own life.”

The smile faded from Chenle’s face.

“Then why does marriage taste so bitter in your mouth?”

Jisung exhaled, long and steady.

“Because our status doesn’t align. Because loving her is one thing—but claiming her?” He shook his head. “That's treason in a different dress. Her parents would never allow it.”

Chenle was about to respond—something likely thoughtful, probably annoying—when he paused, eyes drifting past Jisung’s shoulder.

“Don’t look now,” he said with a crooked grin, “but your problem’s jogging toward us.”

Jisung turned, then scrambled upright.

Across the fields, Lia was running toward them. Her golden hair streamed behind her like sunlight come alive, and she waved when she caught sight of them, a wide smile plastered across her face.

“Don’t say a word about this conversation,” Jisung hissed under his breath.

Chenle smirked.

“My lips are sealed. For now.”

Lia picked up speed—and then, in classic Lia fashion, tripped over a rogue patch of uneven earth and stumbled forward with a small yelp.

“Whoa—!” Jisung stepped forward just in time to catch her.

She landed in his arms with a laugh, blinking up at him like she hadn’t just nearly faceplanted in front of the castle’s best gossip.

“You really have awful timing,” he murmured, chuckling.

“You have great reflexes,” she shot back, dusting herself off once she was on her feet again. “Thanks.”

“You’re lucky he wasn’t the clumsy one today,” Chenle chimed in with a grin. “Or we’d be scooping both of you off the ground.”

Lia laughed, Jisung groaned, and the mood lifted like petals in the wind.

Lia laughed, brushing strands of hair behind her ear as Chenle got up with an exaggerated stretch.

“Where are you going?” she asked, tilting her head.

Chenle grinned knowingly. “I’ll leave the two lovebirds alone.”

Jisung glared at him, but it only made Chenle laugh harder as he waved and jogged off toward the stables, whistling a tune that made Jisung’s ears burn.

Now alone, silence briefly settled between them, gentle and warm like the sun on their skin.

Jisung turned to face her fully. His fingers lifted, brushing against her cheek as he cupped her face softly. She looked up at him, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.

Without a word, he leaned in and kissed her. Slow, sweet, like he had all the time in the world to hold her there.

When he pulled back, he smiled and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug, burying his face against her shoulder.

“I missed you,” he mumbled, voice muffled and bashful.

She chuckled quietly, her fingers threading through his hair.

“I missed you too,” she whispered, her smile just as soft.

Jisung leaned back just slightly, his fingers gently tucking a loose strand of her golden hair behind her ear. His thumb lingered near her cheek before dropping to his side.

“You look beautiful as always,” he said with a soft smile. “Any special reason you’re here?”

Lia shook her head, that familiar glimmer in her eyes.

“Not really,” she said. “I happened to be free at the moment, so I thought I’d come give you a visit.”

She let out a light sigh, one of pure contentment, as Jisung’s fingers moved back to her hair, brushing through the strands with a touch so tender it made her eyes flutter closed for a moment.

The wind shifted gently around them, the sounds of distant hooves and birdsong blending into the quiet space they shared.

Jisung leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his hand still lightly resting against her hair.

“I’m glad you could come,” he murmured. “Perfect timing too—no one around to disturb us.”

Lia smiled softly, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment, just to memorize the warmth of that feeling.

They spent the afternoon together—walking by the edge of the fields, lying side by side in the shade, stealing quiet glances and soft touches. When the sun began its slow descent and shadows stretched longer, Lia finally sighed and stood.

“I should go,” she whispered reluctantly.

“Just one more thing,” Jisung said, stepping forward.

He kissed her, slow and sweet, fingers brushing against her waist as if trying to hold on to the moment. She kissed him back, just as tenderly, before pulling away with a smile and a promise in her eyes.

Back at the palace, the atmosphere shifted. Her maids greeted her cheerfully and helped her into her chambers, brushing her long golden hair until it glowed under the lantern light. They twisted it into a more manageable braid with intricate patterns, perfect for the evening hours.

Once done, one of the maids gently tapped her shoulder. “The King and Queen request your presence in the court room, Your Highness.”

Lia rose, adjusting her gown, and made her way to the royal court. As the tall doors opened, she found her parents already seated, bright smiles lighting up their faces.

She curtsied gracefully. “Mother. Father.”

Her father motioned for her to sit. “Come, come. We have wonderful news.”

She blinked, curious but unaware.1

“What’s the matter?” she asked, settling into her seat.

Her father beamed. “We’ve found you the perfect match.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. “Match?”

Her mother clapped her hands gently, practically glowing. “A husband, dearest.”

It was as though her entire world stopped spinning.

Marriage?

Her pulse quickened. Her hands gripped her skirts.

“Oh… a… marriage?” she echoed, voice slightly hoarse.

Her father stood and took her hand with affection. “Yes, my star. Our princess only deserves the best man of the lot. And your mother and I… we think he’s perfect for you.”

Her thoughts spun in a spiral, disoriented and heavy.

“I… uh…” she mumbled.

Her mother stepped forward, cupping her cheek. “What’s the matter? You should be happy!”

She smiled, oblivious to Lia’s inner storm.

“He’s the prince of the Eastern Kingdom,” her mother continued. “Strong, kind, skilled in swordsmanship. He can protect you from all harm.”

Lia nodded faintly, but her heart felt like it had dropped straight through her chest.

And suddenly, the gold in her hair felt a little heavier than before.

Her mother cupped her cheek gently, eyes soft and earnest.

“With your hair… with its magic, many will try to harm you, darling,” she said quietly, brushing a thumb over Lia’s cheekbone. “But this man—the one we’ve chosen—he will protect you from all of that. You’ll never have to worry about danger ever again.”

Her mother’s words were warm. Reassuring. Loving.

And yet, somewhere deep in Lia’s chest, something wilted.

Would they still protect me this fiercely if I didn’t have magical hair?

If my hair were dark like theirs—ordinary, unremarkable—would I still be so treasured?

The thoughts crept in like shadows, quiet but inescapable. Her golden strands had always been admired, praised, feared, and watched over. Every affection, every careful word, every boundary—it had always circled back to her hair. To her magic.

She tried to smile, to respond. But her lips felt too heavy. Her voice was gone.

All she wanted, in that moment, was to run to Jisung. To feel his arms wrap around her. To hear him say her name the way he always did—like it was sacred, like it was hers, not just the princess with the gift of healing.

She wanted to yell I don’t want to marry the prince. She wanted to scream I’ve already given my heart to someone else.

But… how could she?

Her parents had raised her with nothing but love. Their affection had been constant, their protection unwavering. They’d given her everything—everything her heart ever asked for.

And now, they were asking for this.

How could she ever look them in the eyes and say no?

But still… her heart whispered back, Jisung. It had always been Jisung.

The one she laughed with. The one who kissed her with trembling hands. The one who brushed her hair like it was silk and whispered I missed you like it was a secret meant only for her.

If there was anyone in the world she wanted to marry… it was him.

Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of her dress, hiding the tremble in her hands.

And quietly, her heart began to ache.

The moment Lia stepped out of the throne room, she ran.

She didn’t care about appearances or the confused glances from the guards—she needed to find Jisung. She needed him. Her feet carried her through the corridors and down the winding staircases of the palace, through the arching halls she’d known all her life.

But when she reached the courtyard and asked the guards, her heart sank.

“He left for duty, Your Highness. He’ll return by nightfall,” one said, his tone gentle.

So she waited.

In her chambers, silent tears spilled down her cheeks as she sat by the window. The sunset painted her golden hair with warm light, but she couldn’t feel any warmth in her heart. She clutched a pillow to her chest, her eyes glazed with fear.

Fear of losing him.

Fear of everything changing too fast.

Fear of what might happen if her heart broke completely.

“I just want Jisung…” she whispered into the silence.

Night came. Quietly. Softly.

And with it, a flicker of hope.

She slipped out of her chambers the way she used to when she was younger—barefoot at first, then quickly slipping into soft boots. Her hair loose and flying with the wind, she ran, the chill night air tugging at her gown and twisting her golden strands behind her like silk threads.

She knew where he’d be.

The stables. He always went there after his duties, feeding the horses himself even though he didn’t have to.

Sure enough, when she reached the stable doors, she saw him.

His back was to her, linen shirt slightly untucked, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark pants tucked into his boots. He was bent over, feeding his horse, humming something under his breath.

“Jisung,” she whispered breathlessly, but he hadn’t heard her.

She didn’t wait another second.

With tears already stinging her eyes again, she ran forward and tackled him into a hug.

He stumbled back with a startled grunt, catching her just in time before they both fell. “Lia?”

She held onto him tightly—desperately. Her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt as if letting go would make everything real.

“My parents—they found me a husband,” she rushed out, her voice shaking, eyes already damp. “A prince. From the Eastern Kingdom. They’re going to set a date soon. Jisung, I—”

His arms froze around her for a second.

Then they tightened, wrapping around her with a protectiveness that made her knees weak.

“What?” he breathed, voice low. “A husband?”

She nodded into his chest, trembling.

“I didn’t know what to do… I just—I wanted to see you first.”

Jisung’s jaw clenched. He looked down at her, heart pounding, guilt already beginning to stir. His hands moved gently to her back as he tried to gather his thoughts—but all he could feel was her fear. Her pain.

And the sick feeling in his stomach that told him: he should’ve said something a long time ago.

Jisung felt the blood drain from his face. His arms were still loosely wrapped around her, but his entire body had gone cold.

“Ask them for my hand,” Lia said, her voice desperate. “Go to my parents and ask to marry me.”

He froze. “Lia… that’s…” he stammered, terrified, “that’s not something I can just do.”

She pulled away, looking at him with pleading eyes. “Then do it. Please. Just ask them.”

He shook his head slowly. “Lia… I’m just a knight. They’ll be furious. I’m no match for a princess.”

“I don’t care!” she said, eyes beginning to shine. “I love you, Jisung.”

He looked down, his voice quieter. “Your parents love you too much to let their only daughter marry a commoner like me. We should… think of another way.”

She shook her head, frantic now. “Other ways won’t work. They’ll only make things worse. This is the only way—ask them now, before it’s too late.”

Jisung clenched his jaw, stepping back as frustration seeped into his voice. “No. We wait. We figure out how to stop the wedding through something else—”

“No!” she cut him off, her voice cracking. “The longer we wait, the harder it’ll be to stop. If you don’t ask now, I’ll be married off to a stranger.”

“I know!” he snapped, louder than he meant to.

She stared at him, breathing unevenly. “Then why? Why won’t you ask them for my hand?”

“Because it’s wrong!” he shot back. “They’ll never agree. You’re a princess, Lia. I’m just a knight. Of course they’ll say no.”

Silence followed.

Then her voice, low but sharp. “You’re a coward.”

His eyes widened slightly.

“If you love me,” she said firmly, “then asking for my hand shouldn’t even be something you hesitate about. Especially when I’m about to be married off to someone else. If you won’t do it—I will.”

She turned and walked away, her golden hair trailing through the grass like a ribbon of light.

“Lia, come on. Don’t do this,” Jisung called after her.

She stopped, turned around, and looked him in the eye. “You say you love me, but you won’t even ask for my hand. Do you want to just stand by and watch me marry someone else? Because I don’t. You may be a coward, Jisung… but I’m not.”

She turned again and left him standing there in silence.

Jisung didn’t follow.

He remained in the quiet of the stables, his fists clenched, his heart twisting. The girl he loved more than anything was about to be married to someone else. But that someone was a prince.

And he… was only a knight.

There was no question about who they would choose.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The next day, Lia stood in the royal court, in front of her parents who greeted her with warm smiles.

“You look troubled, my star,” her father said. “Is something wrong?”

Lia looked between them, then took a deep breath. “I don’t want to marry the Southern Prince.”

The smiles on their faces faded as they exchanged confused glances. “Why not?” her mother asked gently.

“Because…” she hesitated, her fingers clutching the sides of her dress, “because I love someone else.”

That made both her parents sit up straighter. Her mother tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Someone else? But you’re not allowed beyond the palace grounds, Lia. How would that even be possible?”

Lia raised her chin. “He lives within the palace grounds.”

Her father furrowed his brow. “Who is it?”

She took a breath, steadying her voice. “Jisung.”

The name clearly meant nothing to them. Her father looked at her with confusion. “Who is Jisung?”

“He’s a knight,” she said firmly. “And I love him more than I love my own life.”

Her parents looked at each other again, this time with visible concern. Then her mother leaned forward. “Does he feel the same way about you?”

“Of course he does,” Lia answered without hesitation. “We’ve been together for a long while now. He loves me and I love him.”

Her father didn’t speak at first. Then he motioned to one of his advisors. “Go. Bring this knight to the court. I want to hear his side.”

Lia’s eyes widened slightly. “You don’t believe me?”

Her father shook his head. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, my daughter. But if he truly loves you—if he truly wants to be with you—then he will have no problem asking for your hand himself.”

He met her gaze seriously. “If he’s a man, he’ll come forward and speak for himself.”

—

Out in the training grounds, the clang of swords and the shuffle of boots echoed as knights practiced their drills. Among them, Jisung and Chenle stood off to the side, their swords loosely in hand, the morning sun glinting off their armor.

“She told me everything last night,” Jisung said quietly, eyes staring at the dirt beneath his feet. “She told me to ask her parents for her hand.”

Chenle’s eyes widened. “Well? This is your chance, isn’t it? You can stop the wedding and prove to everyone that you’re serious about her.”

Jisung shook his head almost instantly, jaw tight. “I can’t.”

Chenle frowned. “Why not? What are you so scared of?”

“I’m not scared of anything!” Jisung snapped, his voice a little louder than he meant. A few heads turned, but he ignored them, lowering his voice again. “I just… I just know they won’t allow it. She’s a princess, Chenle. A princess. And she keeps talking like marriage is the only way we’ll be together.”

Chenle let out a sigh, stepping closer. “Jisung… it’s not about marriage. It’s about love.”

Jisung looked at him, silent.

“She loves you,” Chenle said firmly. “A lot. Enough that she’s willing to risk everything—her position, her parents’ trust, even her future—just to be with you. She’s not asking because she wants to rush into being a bride. She’s asking because she’s scared of losing you. This marriage proposal, it’s a threat to her love for you, and she’s fighting back the only way she knows how.”

Chenle paused, watching the conflict flicker in Jisung’s eyes.

“But…” he continued, voice softer now, “maybe she’s the only one fighting for both of you. You’re being a coward, Jisung.”

Jisung’s grip on his sword tightened, his throat dry.

“She’s out there standing up for you,” Chenle said. “What are you doing for her?”

Jisung was about to respond when someone came towards them. It was the royal advisor. The two of them bowed and greeted him as Chenle asked, “What is wrong?”

The royal advisor looked at them.

“Which one of you is Jisung?” he asked.

Jisung started feeling scared.

“He’s Jisung,” Chenle said, motioning to Jisung.

The royal advisor nodded before saying, “The princess has claimed that she is in love with Jisung and that he loves her too. So I ask… is it true?”

Scared of what would happen, Jisung awkwardly stuttered before saying, “You must be mistaken…”

Chenle whipped his head to Jisung, giving him a look that screamed: What are you doing?

The royal advisor quirked his brow.

“The princess had very confidently stated that you both love each other,” he said.

Jisung gulped. “I’m… confused,” he mumbled, then quickly added, “Maybe she misunderstood because I don’t think so.”

He waved his hands in fear. “I was just being nice to her! She must be mistaken!”

The royal advisor, still confused, said, “The king had sent me here to get you because he wanted to hear it from your mouth that you love the princess."

Jisung chuckled nervously and waved him off. “You must be mistaken,” he said again.

He didn’t notice Chenle’s face shift into horror as he shook Jisung, but Jisung ignored Chenle and just told the royal advisor, “It must be a misunderstanding.”

The royal advisor reluctantly left, and Jisung breathed out a sigh of relief before looking at Chenle, who had a look of horror.

“What?” Jisung asked. But then he followed Chenle’s eyes and turned around.

What he saw made his heart stop.

He froze as he saw Lia standing there, eyes glassy as she looked at him in disbelief. He had never seen such an expression from her. It scared him.

His own eyes turned glassy after realizing that she might’ve heard everything. Fear coursed through his veins. His hands trembled.

“Lia…” he said, taking a step forward.

But she raised her hand to stop him from moving. Her tears dripped down as her face remained blank with disbelief. She shook her head and stepped back.

“You’ve… y-you’ve said enough…” she said, her voice softer and weaker than a breeze as she shook her head and stepped back again, making Jisung scared and worried as he took another step.

“L-Lia—please.”

Her face scrunched up and finally, she snapped.

“No!” she let out a shaky exhale, shaking her head. “No…. I had… I… so confidently… I told my parents so confidently that I loved you and that you loved me just as much, maybe even more. I… you… no…. you’ve said enough. You’ve said enough for me to realize that… you’re not—that you don’t care at all.”

Her voice cracked with every word, trembling like her fingers.

“I believed in us… I believed in you. And you stood there and said I misunderstood?” she asked, laughing bitterly through her tears. “You don’t care. You never did.”

Jisung’s tears fell. He became frantic and stepped in front of her. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re lying!” she screamed, shaking her head.

“When you love someone, you embrace it… You just care about status! You don’t care about us, you don’t care about me! You’re a coward who only thinks about yourself!”

She trembled, voice sharp with pain. “You were only being nice to me, huh? Well I don’t need your kindness anymore. I never want to see you again!” she cried out, turning and storming away.

Jisung, scared and crying, tried to follow her, but Chenle stopped him.

“Let me go!” Jisung snapped at him.

But Chenle shook his head.

“No. Let her go, Jisung. You messed up.”

Jisung stood frozen, chest heaving with sobs, watching the love of his life disappear into the palace.

Lia ran. Her breath hitched with each sob that broke free, but she didn’t stop until she reached her room. The moment the door shut behind her, she collapsed onto the floor, her knees giving way as her body slumped against the edge of her bed. She cried, deep and broken sobs wracking her chest as she buried her face in her arms.

She couldn’t believe it.

The man she had loved for as long as she’d known him.

Her universe.

Her forever.

He betrayed her.

She clutched her arms tightly, as if trying to hold herself together, and raised her head. Her long golden locks tumbled over her shoulders and into her lap. She gripped a handful of it, clutching it tightly as more tears fell.

It was all because of this.

All because of her hair.

Had she not been born precious—had she not been so likely to be harmed—none of this would’ve happened.

If only she had been born without magic.

If only she were ordinary.

Maybe Jisung wouldn’t have been such a coward.

Her gaze fell to her golden hair sprawled across the floor as she cried harder.

Why did Jisung have to say that?

Why did he have to be so cruel?

Was she really that bad?

The questions churned and twisted inside her chest as she drowned in her tears through the night. She didn’t sleep. She couldn’t.

By the time morning came, her eyes were swollen, but her face was expressionless.

She stood before her parents in the royal court, her posture stiff, her chin held high despite the storm inside her.

“I accept the proposal,” she said coldly.

Her father and mother looked at her, startled, about to say something—but she raised a hand and cut them off.

“I wish to not talk about anything other than what I just said,” she stated firmly. “And I don’t want you to be nosy either.”

With that, she turned and left, not once glancing back.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

Days passed since the meltdown. Since that moment that tore everything apart.

Jisung hadn’t seen her again.

She had completely disappeared from his life—as if she’d never been there at all.

She refused to see him. Refused to speak to anyone about what had happened.

Most of all… she had accepted the marriage proposal.

Jisung was a mess.

He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten properly in days. He’d gotten in trouble with the commander for slacking off, for always being in a daze. Eventually, he was suspended from duty—told to clear his mind and return when he was worthy of holding a sword again.

So most days now, he spent in the fields.

Lying on the grass.

Staring into the sky with no motive to move anytime soon.

Whether the rain poured down or the sun blazed above, he’d just lay there—numb, lost, broken.

He was an idiot.

And like Lia said… a coward.

Some days, he’d stare up at the sky as tears fell from his eyes like a silent waterfall. Each drop a regret. Each breath a wish to go back.

He was a knight.

He was supposed to protect.

But in the moments she needed him the most… he had turned into a damsel.

And she—she had become the knight.

The one who fought.

The one who protected the peace between them while he… just sat there.

Doing nothing.

And now, he was left with nothing.

Lia was no different.

She wore a stoic mask most of the time—cold, composed, unreadable. But when she returned to her chambers… the ghosts came back. They whispered and clawed at her heart until she broke all over again.

She cried alone.

In silence.

Every night.

But the worst part wasn’t the tears.

It was the blood.

She had grown increasingly weak. Her body felt heavier, slower. Her limbs ached without reason. And then, one night, she coughed—and saw red.

But in that red… shimmered gold specks. Tiny flecks of glittering gold that danced in the crimson.

She knew what it meant.

She didn’t tell anyone. Not her maids, not her parents. No one.

Because she already knew what was causing it.

Heartbreak.

When she was a child, her grandmother had once warned her.

“Protect your heart, little one. If it ever breaks… you’ll die.”

At the time, it had sounded like a fairytale.

Now, it felt like a prophecy.

Unfortunately… it had already broken.

And now, she was dying slowly—quietly. Secretly.

She coughed blood into silk handkerchiefs and watched the golden dust float within it.

She wept into her pillow and saw her tears leave trails of gold down her cheeks.

She was terrified.

Terrified of what was happening to her body.

But more than that… she was scared of terrifying her parents.

So she hid it.

Every trace. Every stain. Every sign.

And every day, she put her crown back on, painted her smile, and walked like her world wasn’t ending.

One day, as the sun dipped lower than usual and the sky burned a faint orange, Lia stood by her window—arms limp at her sides, body barely held up by the glass. Her skin was colder now, paler than usual, and her breaths shallow from the effort it took just to stand.

Then… she saw him.

Jisung.

Down below, walking across the far end of the grounds with his head down and his sword dragging loosely at his side. His uniform was unkempt, his posture tired, and his face… hollow. So hollow it hurt to look at.

Her heart clenched painfully at the sight of him—then beat weakly, as though even it wasn’t sure how much longer it could go on.

She hadn’t seen him in weeks.

And yet, every time she closed her eyes, he was there. His laughter, his voice, his warm hands… and the way he used to whisper her name like it was the only word he believed in.

Lia pressed her hand gently to the windowpane, staring at him from above.

She missed him.

God, she missed him so much it ached in her bones.

Her fingers trembled where they touched the glass. She wanted to call out. To bang on the window. To scream his name like she used to when they were younger, reckless, and free. But her voice didn’t come. Her throat ached too much. Her body couldn’t muster the strength.

She wondered, as she leaned her forehead against the window, if she looked as empty as he did.

Probably worse.

But she didn’t have the energy to look in the mirror anymore. Not when all she’d see was a reflection of what was once bright, now dimmed to a dying flicker.

And so, quietly, she watched him. Until he walked out of view.

And when he did…

She let the tears fall again.

Gold-speckled, quiet… and unbearably heavy.

—

One day, as the sun dipped lower than usual and the sky burned a faint orange, Lia stood by her window—arms limp at her sides, body barely held up by the glass. Her skin was colder now, paler than usual, and her breaths shallow from the effort it took just to stand.

Then… she saw him.

Jisung.

Down below, walking across the far end of the grounds with his head down and his sword dragging loosely at his side. His uniform was unkempt, his posture tired, and his face… hollow. So hollow it hurt to look at.

Her heart clenched painfully at the sight of him—then beat weakly, as though even it wasn’t sure how much longer it could go on.

She hadn’t seen him in weeks.

And yet, every time she closed her eyes, he was there. His laughter, his voice, his warm hands… and the way he used to whisper her name like it was the only word he believed in.

Lia pressed her hand gently to the windowpane, staring at him from above.

She missed him.

God, she missed him so much it ached in her bones.

Her fingers trembled where they touched the glass. She wanted to call out. To bang on the window. To scream his name like she used to when they were younger, reckless, and free. But her voice didn’t come. Her throat ached too much. Her body couldn’t muster the strength.

She wondered, as she leaned her forehead against the window, if she looked as empty as he did.

Probably worse.

But she didn’t have the energy to look in the mirror anymore. Not when all she’d see was a reflection of what was once bright, now dimmed to a dying flicker.

And so, quietly, she watched him. Until he walked out of view.

And when he did…

She let the tears fall again.

Gold-speckled, quiet… and unbearably heavy.

๋ ࣭ ⭑

The wedding day crept closer, like a storm slowly rolling over the hills. The palace was abuzz with silent preparation—no grand announcements, no public celebration, just quiet steps and folded whispers in the hallways.

The engagement had taken place weeks ago, silent and somber like a funeral. Only the wedding remained now.

And Jisung… Jisung heard things.

Rumors.

They floated around the guards' quarters, passed from one mouth to another with cautious tones.

"The princess hasn’t been seen in days.”

“They say she can’t even walk straight sometimes.”

“Someone saw her cough… and there was blood.”

“She looks like a ghost now, all her light’s gone.”

Jisung’s hands clenched the edge of the wooden bench he sat on in the stables when he heard the last one. His knuckles turned white, and his jaw ached from how tightly he was gritting it.

No.

No, she couldn’t be like that.

She couldn’t be sick.

Not because of him.

He sat there long after the others left, his sword leaning beside him forgotten, his eyes staring at the wall as if it held answers. His heart—shattered and worn—still beat for her. Even now. Even when he had no right to.

He had hoped that the rumors were wrong. That maybe she was just resting, staying out of sight because of the wedding. Maybe she was fine. Maybe she had moved on and was happy.

But that hope had grown thinner and thinner the more he heard.

"She doesn’t speak much anymore."

"She cries at night—someone said they heard it through the walls."

"Her skin’s gone pale. Sickly pale."

Please, he begged in his mind, gripping his knees. Please don’t let her be sick. Please don’t let her fade.

I still love her.

I never stopped.

I was just a coward. A fool.

But I never stopped loving her.

—

Days passed, and the dreaded morning arrived.

The wedding day.

The palace was quiet, unusually so for such an event. It was as if even the walls mourned the union they knew was born of broken hearts.

Jisung sat alone in the field behind the knights’ quarters, face buried in his hands. He had cried the entire night. His eyes were swollen, rimmed red, his breaths still shaky. Sleep never came. How could it? Not when today was the day he’d lose her for good.

He had heard that the prince was good—kind, smart, of noble lineage, the perfect match. The kind of man any kingdom would be proud to call their son-in-law.

But none of that mattered to Jisung.

He wished it was him instead.

He wished he had been brave enough to speak, brave enough to fight for her like she had fought for them.

But he wasn’t. And now it was too late.

She would wear white today. She would say vows today. She would smile for a man who wasn't him.

And Jisung?

He would sit here, hollowed out and aching, knowing that the love of his life would belong to someone else by nightfall.

His fingers trembled as they curled around the chain he always wore under his shirt—a small trinket Lia had once given him. He clutched it to his chest and let the tears fall again, no longer bothering to hide them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the wind.

“I’m so sorry.”

That's it for this one!

Dwdw, I'll be posting a part 2 soon. I've learnt from my mistakes 😭🤣

I hope y'all liked it and look forward to the final part!

Likes and rebloggs are appreciated 🫶🏻✨️