hameesstuff

[hameesstuff]

"The Last Masquerade”

Pairing: Agent! Johnny x Agent! Reader

Themes: Spy!Johnny Suh x Spy!Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn | Masquerade Ball | Spy AU | Smut

Preview: They were trained by rival agencies. He calls you reckless. You call him predictable. Every op you’ve ever shared ends in blood, banter, and a body count. Until this one. One night. One ball. One job that forces you to pretend to be lovers in front of the most powerful arms dealer in Europe. But beneath the glittering masks and rehearsed smiles... your act starts to crack.

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Part 1 – “Pretend With Me”

Paris Safehouse — 6:18 p.m.

The silk dress was too tight.

Or maybe your skin was just crawling.

You adjusted the bodice in the mirror for the third time, catching his reflection behind you — Johnny, seated at the edge of the window in a half-buttoned dress shirt and cufflinks he hadn’t bothered to fasten yet. A gun on the table, a black masquerade mask resting beside it.

The room smelled like gun oil and the cologne he always wore on foreign soil: cedar and something cold.

“You’re staring again,” you said, smoothing down the side slit of your gown.

He didn't look away. “So are you.”

You turned.

He leaned back slowly, spreading his arms across the window bench, suit jacket abandoned somewhere behind him. The bandage on his left bicep was fresh — courtesy of you patching him up after a narrow escape last night.

“Sure you can walk in those heels?” he asked, eyes trailing unapologetically down your legs.

“Sure you can lie with that limp?”

He smirked. “I’ve faked worse.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your gloves from the chair. “Remind me why you’re my date again?”

“Because your real one’s in a Russian prison. And I look better in black.”

You stepped closer, cocking your head. “Try not to flirt too convincingly tonight. I’d hate to break character and stab you in front of a crowd.”

“Please do,” he murmured, standing and taking your gloved hand. “We’ve always danced better with knives drawn.”

9:04 p.m. — Le Palais Sanglant

You walked into the ballroom on his arm, a vision in blood-red silk and smoke-lined eyes. His mask glinted obsidian. Yours shimmered gold — goddess and ghost, side by side.

The chandeliers above spilled light like fire across mirrors and masks, shadows whispering between ballgowns and tuxedos. The target — Veyron — stood at the far end, watching. Waiting.

And Johnny… Johnny never stopped touching you. Hand at your hip. Palm at your spine. A whisper too warm against your temple.

"Keep smiling," he said through his teeth. “He’s watching.”

“I am smiling,” you replied with poisoned honey. “Because I’ve never hated anyone more.”

He chuckled low. “You sure? You tremble when I touch your waist.”

You leaned in, lips almost brushing his cheek. “You should know by now — I only shake when I’m about to kill someone.”

The Waltz

The dance floor shimmered like a dream.

He spun you into the first movement, fluid and precise — just like training, just like instinct. But there was something different in the way he held you tonight.

Tighter. Softer. Meaner.

"You clean up well," you said coolly.

He twirled you effortlessly. "You break hearts better than codes."

"I don't do hearts."

He leaned close, voice in your ear. “You did once.”

Your chest tightened.

He dipped you so low you saw the crystal ceiling — then pulled you back up, closer than ever.

“Keep pretending, Nightingale,” he murmured. “But I know what your silence means.”

You smiled.

“I’m not pretending,” you whispered.

And Johnny... blinked once — just long enough for his grip to falter. Just enough for you to know:

You’d won that round.

Part 2 – “Where It Hurts”

Paris — 10:42 p.m.

The shot came just as you turned your head.

Crack.

Glass rained from the chandelier. Screams tore through the ballroom.

You moved fast—dragged Johnny down with you as chaos exploded behind the velvet curtains.

“Sniper, southeast corner,” you hissed into your comm. “Suh’s compromised. I'm with him.”

You felt his hand tighten around yours as you pulled him behind the marble bar.

Close. Too close.

Blood was already sliding down his temple.

“You okay?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he was trying to memorize something in case it was the last time.

“Johnny—”

“I’m fine,” he said, standing. “Come on.”

Escape Alley – 11:12 p.m.

Rain slicked the cobblestones as the two of you ran.

You clutched your side, dress soaked and ripped, and he staggered slightly as he turned back to check behind you.

“Keep moving,” he muttered.

“Don’t tell me what—”

“Just keep moving.”

He caught your arm and shoved you into a stone arch just as another bullet slammed into the brick behind you.

Your chest hit his. His hand cradled your head, keeping you pressed to him as he waited for silence.

Your pulse was a thunderstorm.

So was his.

Safehouse – 1:03 a.m.

You locked the door behind you, fingers trembling from the adrenaline comedown.

Johnny kicked off his boots, collapsed onto the old sofa, and exhaled slowly. There was blood on his sleeve.

You crossed the room before you realized you were even moving.

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Take the shirt off.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You could at least buy me dinner first.”

You knelt in front of him, rolling your eyes. “I should’ve left you bleeding in that alley.”

But your hands were gentle. Familiar. Slower than necessary.

You peeled his shirt down carefully, exposing his ribs — the shallow cut still oozing red near his side. Another bruise was blossoming across his chest. You pressed a cloth to it without a word.

His breath caught.

“Since when do you care?” he murmured.

You didn't answer right away. Just kept cleaning the blood, not meeting his eyes.

“I don’t care,” you lied.

“Right.”

You finally looked up. “You could’ve died tonight.”

“So could you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

Your fingers stilled on his skin.

You swallowed. “The point is I didn’t want you to.”

The Shift

Silence stretched between you — full of static, heat, something that used to be hatred but now resembled gravity.

He reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’ve never touched me like this,” he said quietly.

“You’ve never bled for me before.”

His lips parted like he wanted to say something sharp. Something safe. But nothing came out.

You leaned in.

And he didn’t stop you.

The kiss was slow. Careful. Like two people who never learned how to do soft things with each other. His hands came to your waist. Yours slid behind his neck, anchoring.

He didn’t push. You didn’t pull.

You just stayed there.

Mouths brushing in a rhythm softer than breath, slower than war.

When you pulled back, his eyes were heavy, lips parted. You stayed forehead to forehead, hands still clutching each other like bruises.

Then — quiet as a secret — he tilted his head, leaned in…

…and kissed the side of your neck.

Once.

Slow.

Warm.

Like he meant to write a message there.

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time in your whole damn rivalry, you let yourself lean into him. Not as an enemy. Not as a spy.

Just as you.

Part 3 – “Burn Marks”

Paris Safehouse — Later That Night

He kissed you again once the bandages were wrapped.

This time, slower.

His touch was patient. Careful. As if his body knew what his mouth wouldn’t say.

You straddled his lap, arms curled around his shoulders. His hands moved reverently, as though discovering you piece by piece. The way his thumb circled your hipbone. The way his nose brushed against your cheek. The pause before he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You said his name like a secret — and that was enough.

He laid you down gently on the old couch. Mouthed along your collarbone, then lower. His lips barely touched you at first — slow as breath, warm as silk.

When he finally entered you, he held your face like you’d shatter. Foreheads pressed, lashes brushing, no urgency. Just that unbearable stillness.

Like the world had ended and started all over in the same heartbeat.

He moved inside you like he was memorizing it.

And you let him.

Let him kiss every part of you like it was fragile. Let his hands shake a little when you whispered, “You’re not my enemy anymore.”

He pressed his lips to your neck again and said, “You never were.”

Part 4 – “Extraction Denied”

Bogotá, Colombia — 02:11 a.m.

Cartel Compound – Inside the Red Zone

“Five minutes,” your voice crackled over the comm. “I can clear the vault and be topside—”

“Negative,” came Doyoung’s clipped reply. “Target Bravo’s rerouted the patrol. Johnny, confirm visual.”

You were crouched in the shadows, blade slick with blood, heart drumming like war in your ears. Gunfire echoed above. The operation was falling apart.

“Johnny?” you whispered, adjusting the pack on your back. “Where the hell are you?”

“East stairwell,” he answered. “Coming to you. Hold tight.”

The Hall of Smoke

The compound was chaos — flickering lights, bullets snapping into concrete walls, shouting in Spanish. You moved like instinct, like art through war. Three guards down. One more behind the vault door. You gritted your teeth and kicked it in.

Files. Cocaine. Two servers lit like shrines.

You ripped the hard drives out and stuffed them into your gear just as the alarms blared louder. A metallic grind. A siren shrieking.

Then—radio silence.

“Johnny?” you hissed. “Do not go dark on me—”

His voice came through, hoarse. “We’ve got two men down. Main exit is compromised. They’re locking the compound from the outside.”

Your hands went cold.

“I’ll make it to the roof,” you said.

“Not in time.”

“I will.”

“You’re three stories under concrete and boxed in.”

“I’ve seen worse odds—”

“I haven’t.”

You paused.

His voice softened—just enough to punch you in the gut.

“If you don’t make it,” he said, “I won’t either.”

You started sprinting, vaulting over crates toward the backup shaft.

But the explosion hit before you reached it.

A deafening boom shook the floor — your ears rang, the ground tilted, the hallway vanished in smoke.

Command Vehicle – 03:07 a.m.

The helicopter was spinning its blades. The surviving team was already on board. Blood. Shouting. Burned gear and ruined plans.

Johnny stood on the tarmac, comm to his ear, refusing to move.

“She’s alive. She’s still inside,” he said to the ops commander.

“There’s no signal,” she replied. “There’s no time.”

“Then give me five more minutes.”

“Johnny—”

“I SAID FIVE.”

But the team was pulling him back.

His eyes scanned the flames erupting from the side of the building.

And then—

The structure began to collapse inward.

Steel and smoke and fire swallowed the red-lit hallway where you were last seen.

Johnny dropped to his knees.

Later — Safehouse, Panama

He was silent for hours.

Didn’t speak on the flight. Didn’t clean the blood from his hands.

He sat in the safehouse bathroom, still in full gear, knuckles scraped raw.

In front of him, on the table, was your necklace — the thin one you always wore beneath your tactical shirt.

It was warm in his palm.

He closed his eyes.

And finally—he wept.

Not broken.

Just silent.

Shaking.

Like a man whose war had finally outrun him.

Part 5 – “The Ghost Walks In”

3 months later.

Rome – 10:58 p.m.

Post-Mission Safehouse, Trastevere

The laughter was the loudest it had been in months.

The team had earned it — a successful operation in Naples, no casualties, clean extraction. A miracle, really. Mark was recounting how he'd pickpocketed a guard using only a cappuccino and a distraction named Jaehyun.

Johnny was leaned against the wall, drink in hand, only half-listening.

He didn’t laugh anymore. Not fully.

His smile stopped just short of his eyes.

Then the door creaked.

No knock. No sound. Just the groan of old wood.

No one looked up.

The rain had just started outside — soft, rhythmic — and the warm bar lights cast golden halos across the floor. The scent of herbs, smoke, and red wine clung to the air.

You stepped inside without ceremony.

Wet from the storm. Hair tucked behind one ear. That same scar now faded across your temple like punctuation. You didn’t say a word.

You just walked in, poured yourself a glass of water at the counter, turned—

And sat down at the empty seat at the head of the table.

The one that used to be yours.

Mark froze mid-sentence.

Jaehyun’s beer stopped halfway to his mouth.

Doyoung choked on his own breath.

But it was Johnny who looked last.

And when he did—

He didn’t drop his glass.

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t move.

He just stared at you like time had slowed. Like the wine-dark room was a dream and you were the first real thing in it.

You took a sip of water. Set the glass down.

Then smiled — soft, not smug. Just tired and alive and finally home.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked.

No one spoke.

Then Johnny did.

He moved across the room like in a film — slow, silent — until he was standing in front of you.

So close, your knees nearly brushed.

His hand lifted.

Not to touch.

Just to look at you better.

“Say something,” you whispered.

He stared for another beat. Then:

“I thought I buried you.”

You blinked once. “You almost did.”

“I waited.”

“I know.”

“You died.”

“I didn’t.”

“I did.”

The silence cracked.

And then—he reached for you.

Both hands, all of him, gathering you like you were made of breath and breaking and everything he thought he’d lost in that fire. His mouth hovered over yours.

You tilted your chin up just slightly.

“I came back,” you whispered.

And he kissed you like he didn’t believe you yet.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t angry.

It was long — slow, searching — like he needed to memorize the shape of you again. Like he needed to rewrite the months he spent grieving you into a single point of contact: lips, breath, hands trembling.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

You whispered, “Took you long enough.”

He smiled for the first time in weeks. It was small.

But real.

“You’re staying?” he asked.

“As long as you’ll have me.”

Mark groaned from the table. “Someone sedate me, I’m crying.”

Jaehyun raised a toast. “To the dead rising.”

Doyoung whispered under his breath, “I knew she’d walk in like a movie scene.”

You didn’t look at them.

You looked at Johnny.

And he looked at you like you were the only person who existed.

The End.

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[hameesstuff]

"A Marriage Rewritten”

Pairing: Husband, Lawyer!Jaehyun x Wife, Artist!Reader

Themes: Arranged Marriage AU | Exes to Lovers | Jaehyun x Reader | Smut | Enemies to Lovers | Exes | Slow Burn | Angst, Humor, Longing

Word count: 4.4k

Preview: They were each other’s first everything — love, heartbreak, mistake. Jaehyun is now a ruthless corporate lawyer and her, a struggling but spirited artist. Years after their painful breakup, fate plays its cruelest card: their families arrange their marriage for business-political reasons. Just great.

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Part 1: Signed in Ice

The pen trembled in your hand.

"Don't make it dramatic," Jaehyun muttered across the table, his tone cool as a polished knife. "It's just ink."

You looked up slowly. He was seated like he always was—back straight, suit immaculate, jaw tight. Only his eyes betrayed anything. And even then, they were unreadable.

“You said the same thing when we signed the lease to our first apartment,” you said flatly.

Silence.

The lawyer in the corner shifted uncomfortably.

You signed anyway. Because what else could you do?

Your father's health was failing. Your art gallery was barely breathing. The offer had come dressed in silk and thorns — "a family merger," they called it. His family wanted the political ties. Yours wanted stability. And here you were, a broken love story tied up with gold and paper.

The moment your name hit the contract, Jaehyun pushed his chair back.

"Congrats, Mrs. Jung," he said without a smile.

You stared at him. “Still as charming as ever.”

He stopped at the door. “You knew what this was.”

“Yeah,” you muttered under your breath. “A mistake. Just like last time.”

But he’d already walked out.

Later That Week: The Penthouse

“Wow,” Taeyong muttered, looking around the pristine space like it was a museum. “Cold, sharp, and lifeless. Just like your husband.”

You laughed. “Don’t let him hear you. He might sue.”

He handed you a carton of takeout and flopped onto the modern black couch like he owned it. “So… how does it feel to be back in hell?”

You sighed, pulling your knees to your chest. “Familiar.”

You hadn’t seen Jaehyun since the signing. His assistant had dropped off the penthouse keys with a post-it that said “Don’t touch my wine.”

So you touched all of it. On principle.

Two Days Later: The First Fight

The door slammed just as you were dancing barefoot in the kitchen to an old indie song, wearing one of your paint-stained shirts.

“I live here too, remember?” Jaehyun’s voice cut through the music like a blade.

You didn’t even turn. “Thanks for the reminder. I was starting to feel safe.”

He appeared beside you, hair ruffled from work, tie loose. “And this?” He gestured to the chaos of your paints. “This isn’t a studio.”

You held up a brush and smiled sweetly. “Now it is.”

“God,” he muttered. “Why are you always so—”

“Alive?” you offered. “Free? Full of joy that makes your tight little jaw clench?”

His eyes darkened. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re boring.”

He stepped forward. “Say that again.”

“You’re boring, Jung Jaehyun,” you said, poking his chest. “You weren’t always. But now? You’re just a stiff in a suit who thinks feelings are weaknesses.”

His mouth was a breath from yours. "You’re one to talk about feelings. Who ran when things got hard?”

You shoved him lightly. “Don’t twist it. You walked out first.”

You didn’t realize how close you were until your chest brushed his.

His gaze dropped to your lips.

But he stepped back. Cold. Colder than the last time.

"Grow up,” he said. “You're not twenty anymore."

You didn't answer.

And the ache between your ribs reminded you that neither was he.

Part 2 - “Velvet Lies & Stolen Glances”

Charity Gala – Grand Hyatt, Seoul

The gala was for some high-profile legal foundation. Jaehyun’s turf. You were only there to play the role of a dutiful wife — the ornament beside Seoul’s most prized lawyer.

You’d worn black silk, not for him — for yourself. But the look in his eyes when you stepped out of the dressing room said otherwise.

He’d gone quiet. Too quiet.

“You clean up well,” you muttered, tugging your earring on as you passed him.

He didn’t answer — just stared.

But then came the car ride. Cold. Professional. His voice only used for directions and “You forgot your clutch.” The same man who used to kiss your shoulder at every red light now treated you like a contract clause.

Inside the Ballroom

You weren’t even halfway into your first flute of champagne before you felt a presence.

“Yo.”

You turned — and lit up. “Taeyong!”

He hugged you like the night hadn’t been awful. “You look like a painting tonight.”

You mock-curtsied. “I clean up when I want to show my ex-boyfriend-slash-current-husband that I’m still capable of turning heads.”

Jaehyun, standing not five feet away, tensed.

Taeyong grinned. “You still turning hearts, too?”

You leaned into him laughing — and Jaehyun’s hand appeared at the small of your back like a damn reflex.

“She’s married,” he said smoothly. “Remember?”

You turned your head slowly. “To you? Oh, right. I forget sometimes.”

His jaw flexed. “Clearly.”

Later: On the Balcony

You needed air.

The silk clung to your back like heat, and the music inside started to feel suffocating. You stepped outside into the cool night — and Jaehyun followed five seconds later.

“You like making me look like a fool?” he asked, not angrily — but low, sharp.

You scoffed. “If the title fits.”

“He touches you like you’re his.”

You turned to him. “And you act like I’m yours.”

A beat.

Jaehyun stepped forward, jaw taut, eyes unreadable. “Aren’t you?”

You blinked.

“You’re not dating him.”

“No,” you admitted.

“You’re wearing my ring.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

His voice dipped. “Then why do I still want to kiss you every time you laugh at someone else?”

You stared at him.

Silence stretched.

And then you turned away, heart slamming, voice low. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

He didn’t stop you from walking back in.

But he didn’t look at anyone else for the rest of the night.

Part 3 - “Cracks in the Ice”

Back at the Penthouse – After the Gala

The car ride home was silent again.

Only this time, the silence felt different.

He kept glancing at you. Like he wanted to say something. Like if he opened his mouth, everything he’d buried for years would spill out.

But he didn’t.

So when you got home, you went straight to your makeshift studio—Jaehyun’s sterile guest room, now littered with canvases and paint jars.

You kicked off your heels and dropped onto the floor, dress pooled around you, dragging your fingers through a half-finished piece.

Not five minutes passed before he stood at the door, hands in his pockets, tie loosened.

“You were flirting with him.”

You didn’t even look up. “And you were pretending to care in front of donors.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

Silence.

Then—his voice, sharper this time. “What does he give you that I don’t?”

Your head snapped up. “Kindness. Consistency. Someone who doesn’t treat me like a transaction.”

Jaehyun's jaw locked, but his eyes… cracked.

“He was never there when you fell apart. I was.”

“You also left me in pieces.”

That shut him up.

Next Day: Solo Gallery Appearance

It was supposed to be low-key. A community event for local artists — nothing glamorous, nothing massive. But the article dropped while you were still standing by your own canvas.

“Wife of Elite Corporate Lawyer Peddles Paintings at Local Crafts Fair?”

You froze. Mouth dry.

And then you saw the rest.

Anonymous quotes:

“She only got the spot because she’s married to Jung Jaehyun.”

“She’s talentless — the marriage is her real gallery.”

“Desperate for relevance.”

The world tilted.

Your hands shook. You stepped outside, back pressed to a wall as the chill hit your bare arms.

That Night – Back Home

You were curled on the couch, staring at nothing. Still in your gallery dress. Your phone on silent.

Jaehyun walked in and stood there for a long time.

Finally: “I handled it.”

You nodded numbly. “Good.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I had them retract everything. I bought out the blog. They’ll be issuing a formal apology tomorrow. And they’ll donate to your gallery.”

You stared at him. “Why?”

He knelt in front of you slowly. “Because I let you go once,” he whispered, “and I’ve regretted it every goddamn day.”

Your breath caught.

“And because…” his voice cracked, “you’re still the only person whose opinion has the power to ruin me.”

The air between you tightened. Dense. Fragile.

You leaned forward without thinking, forehead brushing his.

“Jaehyun—”

“I’m still in love with you.”

His hands curled around your waist. Yours knotted into his shirt.

And then—

You kissed him.

Hard. Hungry. But not angry.

It was years of silence being undone.

Part 4 - “The Wall That Broke”

The Morning After

You woke tangled in a blanket on the living room couch, your head resting on Jaehyun’s lap.

His fingers were in your hair.

Not moving. Not stroking. Just… there. Holding.

You blinked up at him. “Didn’t know lawyers came with built-in pillows.”

He didn’t smile. “Didn’t know artists kissed like they never stopped loving you.”

Your throat tightened.

Neither of you moved.

Then, softly: “Do we talk about last night?” you asked.

He looked away. “Do you want to?”

You paused. “Eventually.”

He nodded once. “Then eventually.”

But when you got up, he helped you straighten your wrinkled shirt.

His knuckles lingered on your collarbone.

That Week: Your First Real Outing Together

A city charity fundraiser. Crowds. Cameras. Handshakes.

He kept his hand at the small of your back all night.

You smiled when the press called you “picture-perfect.”

You didn’t know he’d canceled a major case to be there.

That Night – The Bedroom Door Left Open

You passed his room on the way to your studio.

His door was open.

He sat there in a white tee, head in his hands.

When he noticed you, he didn't speak — just patted the bed beside him.

You sat.

Neither of you said a word.

He laid back, arm brushing yours. You followed.

No kisses.

No lies.

Just silence and breathing, and his fingers grazing yours under the sheets like they used to.

Final Part - “The Letters He Never Burned”

The house was quiet when you returned from the hospital. Your father’s operation had gone well — a miracle, the doctor had said. The relief should’ve settled your bones, but it hadn’t. Not until the nurse handed you the paperwork.

Paid in full.

Signed: Jung Jaehyun.

You stood in the doorway of the penthouse, fingers trembling, the receipt still in your coat pocket.

He was on the couch, shirt sleeves rolled, legal documents beside him. He looked up when he heard the door—then immediately stood, brow creasing.

“You’re back late.”

You didn’t answer.

“Is your dad—”

“He’s fine,” you said softly. “Because of you.”

He went still.

You walked toward him slowly, heart loud in your ears. “You told me your family wouldn’t help.”

“They didn’t,” he said. Quiet. Careful.

“But you did.”

He swallowed. “You hate charity.”

You stepped closer. “You think this is about pride?”

“No,” he said after a beat. “It’s about how I failed you once. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to buy forgiveness.”

Your throat clenched.

Then you dropped the second bomb. “I went into the study.”

He froze.

“You should really lock your drawers,” you whispered.

He didn’t ask which ones. He knew.

“All the letters, Jaehyun.... Every single one. From college. From after the breakup.” You paused. “Even the one where I told you I hated you.”

His voice cracked, “Never believed that one.”

Silence. Heavy. Soft.

You stepped right into his space. “Why didn’t you let me go?”

He exhaled, hand brushing your waist with the ghost of a touch. “Because letting you go never worked. I tried.”

You blinked back tears. “And marrying me?”

“The only way I could keep you close,” he admitted, voice low. “Even if it meant you’d hate me again.”

Your breath hitched. “You think I still do?”

He looked at you like you were sunlight after a long winter. “I think I don’t deserve you. Even If I never stopped loving you.”

And finally—finally—you kissed him.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed.

It was reverent.

Years of pain melting into the space between your mouths.

He kissed your forehead. Your cheek. The tip of your nose.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I love you.”

His kisses were slow. Thoughtful. Like he was mapping the years you’d been apart with every touch of his lips. He didn’t pull you into bed like he used to — like a man starved.

No.

He laid you down like someone he'd loved in a hundred lifetimes. Reverently. Carefully. His hands explored your skin like an old story he finally had permission to reread.

Your breaths tangled. His forehead pressed to yours.

When he entered you, there was no sharp gasp. No race. Just a sigh — one that left both your mouths at once, as if your bodies remembered what your pride had buried.

His hand was laced with yours above your head. His voice was in your ear, cracked and breathless.

“I still see you every time I close my eyes,” he whispered. “Even when I didn’t want to.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“I never stopped writing letters,” you whispered. “I just stopped sending them.”

He slowed.

Held your face.

And moved inside you like he was writing one back — with his hands, his mouth, his heart.

No rush.

No noise.

Only softness. Only “I love you” in every unspoken place between your skin.

Epilogue – “Framed in Color”

Five years later – Seoul Contemporary Museum of Expression

The museum bustled softly, high ceilings glowing with morning light.

In the far wing — the one newly dedicated to living Korean artists — a six-year-old girl in a yellow sundress stood in front of a giant abstract mural, tilting her head.

Jaehyun crouched beside her.

“What do you think it means?” he asked.

His daughter scrunched her nose. “It looks like... Mama’s dreams.”

He smiled. “You’re not wrong.”

The plaque at the base read:

“To the woman who paints without apology, and the man who finally learned how to see her.”

— Y/N Jung

Your name.

Framed in gold.

You walked toward them with two iced coffees and a juice box, smiling as your daughter tugged her dad’s sleeve.

“She’s gonna be famous,” the girl whispered.

Jaehyun looked up at you, his heart never more full.

“She already is.”

And as your daughter ran off down the gallery, her laughter echoing, Jaehyun reached for your hand.

Not like he was holding on.

But like he’d never let go again.

The End.

Feedback is welcome!

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[hameesstuff]

“Marriage on Paper”

Title: “Marriage on Paper”

Pairing: Husband Doctor!Jaehyun x Wife CEO!Reader | Single dad! Jaehyun

Preview: Jaehyun hated her. Why does he need a wife when he's happy with his daughter? Another nuisance, just like his first wife. And she hated everything about him. But they clearly can't stay away.

Genre: Arranged marriage, Slow Burn, Single dad! Jaehyun | Enemies to Lovers | Humor | Domestic | Smut, Tension

Word Count: ~9.3k

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PART 1: THE MARRIAGE THAT LOOKED GOOD ON PAPER

Your lawyer had said it was a “mutually beneficial merger.”

You said nothing, mostly because you were too busy fixing your lipstick before the press conference that announced your arranged marriage to Seoul’s most annoyingly attractive surgeon—Dr. Jeong Jaehyun.

He, on the other hand, stood beside you like you were a mild inconvenience. Like he had better places to be—like an OR table or a luxury car headed away from this mess.

“Smile,” you hissed through your teeth as cameras clicked.

“I am,” he replied, deadpan.

You glanced sideways. “You look dead.”

He looked back. “That’s still a smile compared to you.”

The flashbulbs exploded. You two were golden. On paper, of course.

The marriage was arranged for reasons that made sense to your board of directors and his hospital’s board of trustees. Power couple image. Medical research grants. Business sponsorships. Tax benefits.

You? You were Seoul’s youngest and most intimidating CEO, known for firing underperformers in stilettos. You didn’t need a husband.

He? He was a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon with a God-complex, a tendency to ghost family events, and a four-year-old daughter named Jiyeon who looked like a doll and talked like a drill sergeant.

The man was cold. Distant. But unfortunately, stupidly good-looking. Which made it worse.

The wedding was private, clinical. A few papers signed. A few photos taken. Your designer dress was stunning, and so was his smug silence.

The next day, you moved into the penthouse apartment you were now legally required to share.

You saw the child before you saw him.

Jiyeon sat at the kitchen island, eating Cheerios from a pink bowl.

She looked up at you with big round eyes and said, “You’re the lady who married my Dad. ”

You blinked. “Yes.”

She nodded like a CEO. “Okay. I’m not allowed to watch horror movies. I like strawberries. And don’t touch Mr. Bubbles.”

“Mr. Bubbles?”

“My bear” she said, pointing to a stuffed animal on the counter.

Right then, Jaehyun walked in—hair messy from post-call exhaustion, in scrubs, rubbing his eyes.

He looked at you like the flu.

You looked back like antibiotics.

“Morning,” he said, voice gravelly.

“Afternoon,” you corrected. “It’s 2 p.m.”

He gave a faint smirk. “You really don’t know how to rest, do you?”

You ignored him, turned to Jiyeon. “I brought you strawberry jam.”

She grinned. “Okay, nevermimd I like you now"

At work, you crushed negotiations and led meetings like a queen. At home, your mornings began with accidental run-ins and arguments about kitchen cabinets.

He liked silence. You liked music.

He liked Jiyeon’s toys in one corner. You let her play wherever she wanted.

He liked routine. You liked control.

You both hated each other.

But Jiyeon?

She made it hard to stay angry.

One night, you came home late from a board dinner, heels in hand, headache pounding—and found her asleep in your bed, Mr. Bubbles’ tucked beside her.

A sticky note on your pillow read:

“You looked sad this morning. I saved you a place. — Jiyeon”

You didn’t cry.

You just laid down beside her and let her tiny hand wrap around your finger.

And somewhere around night fourteen, Jaehyun came home early, leaned against the kitchen counter while you reheated soup.

“You work too late,” he muttered.

“You don’t say much.”

Silence.

Then he added, “She likes you.”

You turned, surprised. “She’s easy to like.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his gaze unreadable.

“She didn’t like my ex.”

You blinked. “Was she her mother?”

A long pause.

“No. Her mother left before Jiyeon turned two.”

A strange ache stirred in your chest.

And that was the first time Jaehyun ever told you something personal.

No sarcasm. No sharp wit. Just the truth.

Later that night, you passed each other in the hallway.

He didn’t say anything.

But his hand brushed yours.

And he didn’t pull away.

PART 2: TENSION BETWEEN WALLS

You’d thought it was easier—pretending.

Pretending the apartment wasn’t too quiet. That you didn’t hear Jiyeon’s tiny feet running to greet him. That your heart didn’t shift, uninvited, at the sight of Jaehyun brushing her hair back like he’d done it a thousand times.

You weren’t looking for softness.

But somehow, it kept slipping through the cracks he never meant to open.

He came home late that Tuesday.

Jiyeon was asleep on the couch, curled up with Mr Bubbles. You were in the kitchen, pacing, still wearing your pencil skirt, blazer flung over a chair.

Jaehyun entered silently, a gym bag over one shoulder, shirt clinging damp to his skin from a post-op workout.

You stared at him. “You forgot to text.”

He blinked. “Didn’t know I had to.”

“You didn’t. But Jiyeon waited by the door for two hours.”

That silenced him.

He exhaled, dropped the bag, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quieter than you expected. “There was a code blue. I couldn’t leave.”

Your jaw locked, arms crossed. “I’m not asking for explanations. I’m just—”

“Worried?” he cut in, gaze sharpening. “Or mad because it disrupted your schedule?”

You bit your cheek. “Do you always push away people who care?”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked at you.

And for a second, neither of you breathed.

The tension in the room pulsed like a heartbeat. You could see it in his eyes—that restrained edge, that wall he kept up even when he wasn’t trying to.

Then he said, “She listens to you more than me.”

You blinked. “She’s four. She likes strawberry jam and picture books. That doesn’t make me her mother.”

“No,” he agreed. “But she smiles when you come home.”

Your heart stuttered. “That’s not love.”

“No,” he murmured. “But it’s the beginning of something.”

The next night, you found him asleep on the couch, Jiyeon curled against his chest. His arm wrapped protectively around her, lips parted slightly, brow relaxed. It was the only time he ever looked peaceful.

You brought him a blanket.

You didn’t wake him.

You just stood there for too long—watching the man who was supposed to be your husband feel like the stranger you were starting to understand.

At breakfast, he poured your coffee without asking.

“You drink it black,” he said, not looking up.

You stared. “How did you—?”

“You mutter in the mornings.”

You blinked again, flustered.

He finally looked at you, and it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t guarded. It was… warm.

You looked away.

This wasn’t in the plan.

PART 3: FRACTURES AND FLAME

The event was meant to be formal—clinical, even.

Your company’s healthcare merger dinner, filled with glass clinks and conversations too polished to mean anything real. You wore navy silk backless, sharp heels, and a CEO’s smile. Controlled. Charming. Unshakable.

You hadn’t expected Jaehyun to come.

But there he was—tall, poised in black, medical charm polished with just enough distance to draw eyes without asking for them.

He stood out like a mistake you wanted to make twice.

Your assistant whispered, “Is that your husband?”

You gave a tight smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Jaehyun, on cue, raised a brow from across the room. Heard it.

You stood beside each other for the first half hour, exchanging polite pleasantries with investors. He only spoke when needed. Let you lead.

But his eyes?

They didn’t leave your face.

Not once.

Enter David Seo—your firm’s latest clinical advisor and an old college flirtation turned slightly unhinged admirer. Handsome. Wealthy. Dangerous in that loud, performative way Jaehyun never was.

David leaned too close as he spoke to you, fingertips brushing your lower bare back once. Twice.

Jaehyun’s glass tapped the table with a soft clink. Not loud. But pointed.

When David asked, “Are you happy, though?”—Jaehyun was no longer beside you.

He was behind you.

Shoulders squared.

Voice calm. “She is. But thanks for checking.”

David blinked. “Doctor Jung, I presume?”

Jaehyun’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. I don’t recall you being relevant in her life.”

“Jaehyun —please.”

David scoffed and walked off with a muttered “territorial.”

You glared. “Was that necessary?”

Jaehyun’s gaze was hard. “He was touching you.”

“I can handle it.”

He stepped closer. “I know. But you shouldn’t have to.”

That silenced you.

Because it was… sincere.

And it rattled you more than his jealousy.

Later, in the town car home, silence sat thick between you.

You looked out the window. “You don’t get to be jealous.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then, softly: “I’m not jealous.”

You turned to him.

He added, “I’m angry. That someone thinks he can touch you like you’re available.”

You scoffed. “I am available. Our marriage is fake, remember?”

His voice dropped to a low murmur.

“Don’t say that in past tense. Not when you look at me like that.”

You turned your head quickly.

But you didn’t deny it.

PART 4: FRACTURE

The hospital walls blurred around him.

All he heard was the voice on the phone.

“Dr. Jung, your daughter’s been in an accident—hit by a distracted driver near the school exit. She’s stable. But she’s asking for you.”

He didn’t remember how he got there.

He barely remembered throwing off his white coat, running through traffic, or leaving his car at the ER entrance with the keys still inside.

His chest cracked open the moment he saw the door labeled Pediatric Trauma – 407.

And then—

Her voice.

Soft. Frayed.

“Sweetheart, you’re so brave. I’m right here, okay? It’s gonna be okay.”

He stepped in like the air wasn’t heavy with fear.

You sat on the bed beside Jiyeon, her tiny hand gripped in yours, your blouse torn at the shoulder, a gash on your forehead bleeding down the temple. Your blazer draped over her legs. You looked wrecked—but calm. Like you’d been crying for hours and were holding it in just for Jiyeon.

Jaehyun stopped in the doorway.

You turned.

And for the first time—there was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just you. Holding his daughter like she was yours.

“She wanted ice cream..” you said softly. “The cab drove through a red light. I protected her the best I could Jaehyun. I'm sorry.”

His knees almost buckled.

He knelt beside the bed and brushed Jiyeon’s bandaged forehead. Her eyes fluttered.

“Dad…”

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

Her fingers loosened from yours—and slowly found his. She fell back asleep.

Later that night, the nurse gave them clearance to leave.

But Jaehyun didn’t drive home.

He booked a nearby hotel. For Jiyeon’s comfort, he told himself. For rest.

But truthfully—it was because his hands were still shaking.

You stood by the window, changed into one of his spare shirts, hair damp from the hospital shower, bruised and tired and more beautiful than he ever remembered.

“You could’ve died,” he said, quietly.

You looked at him. “So could she.”

“She asked for you before me.”

“She was scared.”

“I’m scared.”

The confession was quiet. Raw. And terrifying.

You didn’t reply. Just walked over.

“I thought I lost her,” he murmured. “And then I saw you with her—and it hit me. She’s not the only one I’ve been afraid of losing.”

You looked up.

And in one moment, every wall shattered.

He stepped forward, cupped your face gently—brushed his thumb over the cut at your temple like it hurt him to see you hurt.

And then—

His lips found yours.

Not gently.

Not softly.

But like he was making up for every second he hadn’t.

You reached up and cupped his jaw. “You don’t have to be afraid. Not with me.”

His breath hitched at that, and then he kissed you — slowly, reverently, like he was trying to memorize the way you tasted in case this was all a dream.

He lifted you onto the counter gently, standing between your knees as he kissed you again, slower this time — not with urgency, but with weight. Your fingers slid into his hair, his hands resting on your thighs, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your skin like he was grounding himself in the reality of you.

“I want you,” he whispered back. “But not just like this.”

“Then how?”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “Like I’ve finally found my home.”

Your eyes stung, but you smiled.

“I want you too,” you breathed. “Like that.”

The world faded around you as he lifted you from the counter and carried you, lips brushing your temple, your shoulder, your hand. He laid you down in bed like you were something fragile — not weak, but precious. His shirt fell away, yours followed. No rush. No tension. Just layers falling away until only skin and breath remained.

His touch was slow. He kissed down your collarbone, between your breasts, over your stomach — pausing at every place his fingers had once only brushed. He whispered soft praises, nothing crude, just tender confessions: You’re so soft. I’ve never wanted anyone this way. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make you feel safe.

When he finally entered you, it wasn’t the stretch you noticed first — it was the way his eyes didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as he moved inside you with the kind of patience you didn’t know existed. Every roll of his hips felt like a promise. Every brush of his lips, a vow.

It built slowly — heat pooling low in your stomach, tears prickling at the corner of your eyes because it wasn’t just pleasure anymore. It was release. It was love.

You whispered his name like a prayer.

And he whispered yours back like it was the answer to everything he’d been missing.

When you came, it was soft and trembling, your breath catching in his mouth as you kissed him through it. He followed, moaning low and deep into your neck, his arms tightening around you like he was terrified to let go.

But he didn’t move away after.

He stayed on top of you, inside you, his fingers tracing your face like he was trying to remember this version of you forever.

“I love you,” he finally whispered, voice breaking.

You touched his lips with your fingers.

“I know. I feel it.”

And in that bed — skin to skin, heart to heart — you weren’t just lovers, or husband and wife.

You were something softer. Something sacred.

You were his again.

And for the first time… he let you be.

Final Epilogue – “Moonlight & Laughter”

The birthday dinner had ended with cake crumbs on everyone’s clothes and frosting in Jiyeon’s hair, but none of you wanted to go home just yet.

So Jaehyun had driven the four of you to the quiet park near the hospital, the one that stayed open late — the one with the soft lanterns that hung from the trees like sleepy fireflies.

Now the air was crisp and cool, the sky navy and full of stars. And you sat on a picnic blanket in the middle of the park, the soft hush of grass beneath you, your newborn cradled against your chest.

Jiyeon was running in wild little circles nearby, her pink dress now stained with ice cream, her laughter rising into the trees like music.

“Dad! Look!” she shouted, pointing to the stroller where Jaehyun had tucked the baby’s diaper bag. “He smiled at me! Baby smiled!”

Jaehyun, sitting beside you, chuckled and called back, “That’s because you’re his favorite.”

“I know!”

She bent down and kissed her baby brother’s forehead — all sticky fingers and warm cheeks — and whispered, “You were my birthday wish”

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

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[hameesstuff]

"One Step Closer"

As promised, here's the story :)

Pairing: Ceo! Jaehyun x Secretary! Reader

Summary: He was her cold, control-obsessed CEO; she was the chaos he never asked for but couldn’t ignore. What started as daily arguments and eye-rolls turned into rainy rooftop confessions and stolen kisses. Somewhere between the sarcasm and soft mornings, they fell—hard and unexpectedly.

CEO Jaehyun x Secretary Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn | Angst | Humor | Fluff

Word count: ~11k

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PART 1: Everything He Isn’t

There was something violent about the way he walked. Calm, controlled violence.

Every morning at exactly 6:57 a.m., Jung Jaehyun swept into the building with the kind of purpose that made even the security guards sit up straighter. His suit was pressed, hair perfect, eyes sharp enough to slice through glass. He never missed a beat. And he never acknowledged you unless it was to point out a mistake.

“Miss ___,” he said today, not even glancing at you as you matched his pace. “You’re five minutes late.”

“I’m two minutes early.”

“Then you’re five minutes late to being five minutes early.”

You didn’t flinch. “Did you memorize that from one of your management books, or is that original?”

He stopped walking. You nearly collided into him. His eyes finally found yours—dark, unreadable, and unreadably beautiful.

“Do you want to be fired, or are you just hoping I’ll lose interest first?”

You smiled. Tight-lipped. “Neither. I just want to survive the day without being treated like a defective robot.”

His phone buzzed. He looked away.

That was the thing about Jung Jaehyun. You could set yourself on fire right in front of him, and he’d critique the flame temperature.

Working for him was like constantly drowning in invisible water.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t swear. He didn’t even speak loudly. But his silence was a weapon. The way his pen would pause mid-signature when you entered. The way he corrected your grammar via email but never face to face. The way he thanked everyone except you when a project succeeded.

And yet… you’d lasted eight months. Longer than the previous secretary, who left after five and a half weeks with what HR called “emotional exhaustion.”

Why? Because you were stubborn. And maybe, deep down, you wanted to understand why someone who looked like him—who moved like him—was so completely unreachable.

You met Johnny in the break room after a particularly awful morning.

“He said what?” he laughed, nearly spilling his coffee.

“‘Fix this before it fixes you,’” you quoted, mimicking Jaehyun’s clipped tone. “It was about a typo.”

Johnny leaned against the counter, still grinning. “You know what your problem is?”

“You mean besides voluntarily working for a sociopath?”

“You fight him back.” He raised a brow. “He doesn’t know what to do with people who don’t flinch.”

You stared into your coffee. “I don’t want to fight him. I just want him to stop treating me like… like I’m a placeholder.”

Johnny studied you. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

But he just smiled into his mug. “Never mind.”

The Tipping Point

It happened on a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday, when you let your guard down.

The board meeting had gone sideways. An international partner pulled out last minute, and tension was coiled in every inch of Jaehyun’s posture when he returned to the office.

You were waiting at his door with an updated proposal. He didn’t look at you as he took it.

Thirty seconds later, his voice cracked through the glass.

“Why is this still formatted in the old layout?”

You blinked. “Because we haven’t received confirmation on the revised template—”

“I told you last week to anticipate the shift.”

“No, you implied we should prepare in case it was approved. It hasn’t been.”

He stood. Slowly. Like thunder building.

“This company doesn’t run on what’s implied, Miss ___. It runs on competence. If you can’t grasp the difference, maybe this position is too much for you.”

The words hit harder than you expected. Too much. You. Like you weren’t enough. Like you were the weak link in a chain he didn’t even believe you belonged in.

So you did something you never had before.

You turned and walked out.

Didn’t ask permission. Didn’t justify yourself. You left the report, the room, and him—standing in silence.

PART 2: Smoke & Spark

Johnny’s birthday party was the kind of event people talked about for weeks afterward.

Not because of the cake. Not even because of the expensive liquor or the live DJ in the middle of his penthouse balcony.

But because everyone showed up—and so did Jaehyun.

You weren’t planning on going. You’d ignored the group chat, ignored Johnny’s texts, and only considered it when he called you directly:

“If you don’t come, I’ll start spreading rumors that you’re in love with our CEO.”

“I’m already rumored to be his personal punching bag.”

“Perfect. Come as his emotional support pet.”

You almost laughed. And then you showed up.

The Scene

You walked in wearing a soft champagne slip dress with a low back and strappy heels that made your legs look dangerous. Not because you were trying to get attention. But because you needed to feel like something other than Jung Jaehyun’s personal piñata.

Johnny whistled the second he saw you. “Jesus. I almost regret setting you up for this.”

You blinked. “Setting me up?”

He grinned. “Jaehyun’s here.”

Your stomach flipped. Not in a cute way. In a don’t trip over your own feet way.

And then you saw him.

Black suit, no tie, collar undone just slightly—like he’d shown up straight from work and didn’t know how to relax. His hand held a half-empty tumbler of whiskey. His eyes found you instantly.

And they stayed on you.

You looked away first.

Later, on the balcony

The city glittered below you. You’d had half a drink and were starting to think maybe you could survive the night without punching someone.

That was when the balcony door slid open behind you.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

You didn’t turn around. “I didn’t come for you.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

He stopped beside you, just far enough away to be polite. Just close enough to ruin your breathing.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

You sipped your drink. “Or maybe I just like peace.”

“I deserved that.”

You scoffed. “You deserve worse.”

He didn’t argue. He just looked at you.

“You’re good at what you do,” he said suddenly. “Better than most people I’ve hired.”

You blinked. “Did you hit your head?”

“No.”

“Are you drunk?”

He gave the smallest smile. “No.”

“Then why are you suddenly complimenting me like I’m about to get hit by a truck?”

There was silence between you. Heavy. Almost tender.

“Because I saw your face,” he said quietly, “after I said what I said that day. And it’s been… bothering me.”

You turned, really turned, to look at him now. “So what, this is guilt?”

“No. This is the closest thing I know to an apology.”

“And what does that make me? The closest thing you know to a person?”

That hit. You saw it.

“I didn’t realize you cared what I thought,” he said, voice low.

“I didn’t,” you snapped. “Until I did.”

His jaw clenched. His fingers wrapped tighter around the glass.

You stepped closer, feeling anger and something else rise in your throat.

“You treat me like I’m disposable. Replaceable. Like I’m always one mistake away from being nothing.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.”

Silence.

Then softly, quietly: “That’s not what you are to me.”

The city spun below, the bass from the party thudded through glass, and your heart was a war drum in your chest.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

But something had cracked. And you both felt it.

PART 3: Rain Between Us

You didn’t mean to stay so late.

But after hours of biting your tongue while Jaehyun barked orders like he was building an empire with your sanity, you needed air. Not office air. Not elevator air. Real air.

The sky was heavy when you climbed up to the rooftop—grey clouds low and angry. But you didn’t care.

The second the first raindrops hit your cheeks, you closed your eyes and laughed.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t poetic.

You kicked off your heels, spun in circles, held your arms out like a drunk ballerina. The hem of your skirt clung to your thighs. Your hair frizzed in the wet air. And you laughed—giddy and breathless—as the rain poured harder, like the universe had finally decided to cry with you.

You twirled, clumsily talking to the sky like an idiot.

“Bet you’re having a great time watching me drown in email threads and printer jams, huh?” you shouted up, voice cracking with laughter.

The wind howled back.

And then—

A voice.

Cold. Low. Disbelieving.

“…What the hell are you doing?”

You froze.

Turned.

And there he was.

Jaehyun. Standing in the open rooftop door, already soaked. His white shirt clung to him. Hair dripping. Jaw tight.

“You—” He stepped out, letting the door slam shut behind him. “Are you insane?”

“Probably!” you yelled over the rain. “But I’m happy. Can’t say the same for you.”

He stalked toward you, water pooling around his shoes.

“You’re going to catch a cold.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll finally get sick leave.”

He looked ready to scream.

“You think this is funny?” he snapped. “You’re acting like a child—”

“You’re acting like a dictator!”

That hit.

You breathed hard. Rain blurred everything.

“You know what your problem is, Jaehyun?” you hissed, stepping toward him. “You’re miserable, and you can’t stand when someone else isn’t.”

His eyes burned into yours. “You think Johnny makes you happy?”

Your heart skipped.

“That what this is about?”

“You laugh with him. You smile like he means something.”

“Because he treats me like I mean something!” you yelled.

Silence.

Rain poured. Thunder cracked far off.

“You shouldn’t care,” you said softer now, stepping back. “I’m just your secretary, right?”

He was in front of you in two long strides.

“Stop saying that like it’s true.”

You blinked up at him, rain running down your face like tears.

“Why do you care, Jaehyun?”

He didn’t answer.

He just stared at you like he hated how much he wanted you.

And then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

Like a dam finally snapping open.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t polite. It was soaked, wild, angry. His hands gripped your waist. Your fingers fisted his shirt. The rain clung to your skin but none of it mattered because he was warm. He was real.

It was chaos. And it was everything.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

Both of you panting.

Both of you ruined.

“I don’t know what this means,” he whispered.

“But I can’t stop wanting you.”

You didn’t speak.

You just kissed him again.

Softer this time.

Because sometimes, the rain doesn’t wash things away—it brings them to the surface.

PART 4: Midnight Cake & Secret Kisses

You shouldn’t be here.

You knew that the moment you rang the bell to Jaehyun’s penthouse.

But here you were—hair a mess, shoes squeaking from the light drizzle outside, holding a badly taped cake box like it was a peace offering… or maybe a ticking time bomb.

The door swung open.

He stood there, barefoot in grey sweatpants and a loose black tee that made your heart thud far too loudly.

His hair was tousled. Sleepy. And when he saw you—

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Are you drunk?”

“Nope.”

“High?”

“Only on impulse and sugar.”

He stared.

You shoved the box at his chest.

“I brought cake.”

“You brought cake.”

“Yeah. You’ve been kind of… horrible. But you kissed me. So. I figured this was either an apology or a thank-you.”

Jaehyun opened the box slowly, expression unreadable.

“…It’s half-eaten.”

You grinned. “Well, I got hungry on the subway. Don’t judge me.”

A beat.

Then, to your utter shock, Jaehyun… laughed.

A real one.

Head thrown back, hand raking through his hair.

You stared.

“I—” he said between chuckles, “—you’re ridiculous.”

You pushed past him into the apartment. “I know. So let me be ridiculous in your kitchen.”

“Help yourself,” he muttered, shutting the door behind you.

His home was warm, sleek, intimidatingly tidy. You didn’t belong here—and yet, your mismatched socks were already padding toward the fridge like you owned it.

“Is this oat milk?” you called.

“Touch it and die.”

You snorted and set two forks on the counter.

He watched you fumble with the box, squint at the fridge light, poke the cake like it owed you answers.

“You’re the most confusing woman I’ve ever met,” he said eventually.

“I get that a lot.”

“You show up at my place past midnight…”

“Mm-hmm.”

“…with cake that you already ate…”

“Yup.”

“…and then raid my fridge like we’re married?”

You paused.

Tilted your head.

“…Do I get a ring if I finish the cake?”

His lips twitched.

You didn’t expect it, but he moved closer.

Crowded you against the counter, box squished between your hip and the marble.

You gulped.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered.

“Neither do I,” he murmured, brushing hair from your cheek. “But I like the sound of your laugh in my kitchen.”

You opened your mouth—probably to say something sarcastic.

But then he leaned down and kissed you.

Not like the rooftop. Not like he was trying to prove something.

This was slow. Gentle. A soft hum behind your ribcage.

His lips found yours again and again, like he was trying to memorize your laugh on his mouth.

You gasped when he gripped your waist, lifting you slightly onto the counter.

“Oh my god—Jaehyun—”

“Shh.” He kissed your neck. “You’ll wake the oat milk.”

You burst out laughing.

Squirmed in his arms, trying to shove him away.

He pulled you right back in, hands warm on your thighs as he buried his grin in your shoulder.

“You’re horrible,” you whispered between giggles.

“You’re the one who brought half a cake to a first date.”

You blinked.

Pulled back slightly.

“…This is a date?”

He looked at you, suddenly serious.

Then, softer than anything he’d said all week:

“It is now.”

You bit your lip.

And kissed him again.

Because somehow, this man who drove you mad at work had become the only place you felt like home.

Even if you were barefoot, laughing, and sticky with cake frosting.

PART 6 — “You Said It Like It Was Nothing”

Your eyes fluttered open to the sound of rain lightly brushing the windows.

A warm weight was pressed against you. Firm, steady.

And then you realized—

You were wrapped in Jaehyun’s arms. Again.

Not just lightly snuggled. Enclosed. Your back to his bare chest, his hand comfortably splayed over your stomach, your legs tangled like you were his.

Your heart jumped straight into your throat.

For one long second, you panicked.

Then: Okay. Breathe. Think. You hadn’t been drunk last night. You just... fell asleep after the movie. On his couch. And he joined. That’s all. Perfectly harmless.

Except—

“Stop panicking,” came a sleepy voice at your ear.

You froze. “I’m not.”

“You’re stiff as a board.”

“You’re spooning me like a koala.”

“You were cold.”

You twisted your head slightly. Jaehyun, still half-asleep, had one eye open and a drowsy smile playing on his lips.

“You’re also not wearing a shirt,” you muttered.

“You took mine.”

Your brain hiccupped. “I did not—”

He shifted slightly. You saw the cotton fabric on your body. His oversized shirt.

“Okay, maybe I did.”

He nuzzled against your hair like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Smells better on you anyway.”

You stopped breathing. “You can’t say things like that casually.”

“I’m not being casual.”

He was smiling now. Sleepy. Soft. Honest.

You didn’t know where to put your heart.

Trying to recover, you mumbled, “You drooled in your sleep.”

“You snored.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Like a kitten.”

You elbowed him gently, and he grunted, letting go so you could sit up. You rubbed your eyes, yawning as you stood, tugging his shirt down your thighs.

Jaehyun sat up too, ruffling his bedhead. “You want coffee?”

“Yes. And toast.”

“Demanding.”

“You love it.”

He smirked. “Unfortunately.”

You blinked.

Wait.

You turned slowly. “What did you say?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just walked past you toward the kitchen.

You followed. “No, seriously. What did you just say?”

“I said you’re demanding.”

“No, after that.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder. His smile was small. Gentle. Like he didn’t regret it at all.

“Unfortunately,” he repeated softly, “I love you.”

Silence stretched between you.

Your heart flipped upside down.

“You—you said that like it was nothing,” you breathed.

“It’s not nothing,” he said quietly, walking back toward you. “But it also doesn’t have to be some dramatic explosion either. It’s just… true.”

You stared up at him. Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Then—

“You idiot,” you whispered, surging forward and throwing your arms around him.

He laughed as you buried your face in his bare shoulder.

“I’m wearing your shirt,” you mumbled, muffled against him.

“I know.”

“I’m your secretary.”

“I know.”

“I love you too.”

You felt him smile into your hair.

Then he whispered, “We’re gonna be so weird at the office.”

You grinned. “Good. I’m still calling you boss though.”

“Even in bed?”

You shoved him, red-faced. “Oh my God, JUNG JAEHYUN—”

He chased you around the apartment, laughing.

And when you both left for work—he reached out and laced your fingers together in the elevator like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No panic. No second-guessing.

Just love—quiet and simple and absolutely, completely mutual.

EPILOGUE — “Half of You, Half of Me”

It was raining the morning your daughter turned three.

Not the loud, chaotic kind of rain — but the quiet kind. Soft, like a memory. It streaked the windows in silver lines while the house filled with the quiet chaos of celebration: wrapping paper on the floor, the faint scent of vanilla frosting, and a trail of pink socks that led nowhere in particular.

She sat cross-legged on the living room rug, her little fingers tugging bows off gifts with exaggerated grunts, puffing her cheeks dramatically when the ribbon wouldn’t budge.

Jaehyun was beside her, crouched with his sleeves rolled, calm as ever — but you could see it in the corner of his smile: the reverence. The awe.

You leaned in the doorway with a coffee mug, watching them.

“She’s half of you,” he said suddenly, eyes still fixed on her.

You tilted your head. “Which half?”

“The stubborn part. The soft part. The part that makes a mess of everything and still gets away with it.”

“She gets that from you,” you murmured, walking over and nudging his side.

She looked up at both of you and grinned — and Jaehyun froze for a second like he always did when he saw her smile.

Like something in him still couldn’t believe she was real.

There was a knock at the door before the moment could stretch too long.

It flew open before either of you could move.

Johnny barged in with three helium balloons, a sparkly birthday crown, and what looked like a half-eaten cake box.

“I swear the bakery lady blinked and it was missing a corner,” he said, unbothered.

“Uncle Johnny!!” your daughter squealed, running into his legs.

“Happy Birthday, Chaos Goblin,” he said, hoisting her up into his arms like she weighed nothing.

“She’s gonna think this is normal,” you warned.

“She’s gonna be cooler because of it,” Johnny said smugly, placing the crown on her head like it was a coronation.

“She’s gonna be impossible to raise,” Jaehyun muttered, though he was smiling — that quiet kind of smile that only reached his eyes when he was watching you or her.

Later that night, the house was dim again. The sky had cleared. She’d fallen asleep curled on your chest this time, hair damp from a bath, breathing warm and even against your skin.

Jaehyun watched you from across the couch, elbow draped over the backrest, silent.

“What?” you whispered.

“I’m just…” he exhaled. “I still don’t know how I got this lucky.”

You glanced down at your daughter.

“Half of you, half of me,” you whispered.

He leaned forward, cupped the back of your head, and kissed you. Soft, grateful. Like a promise never broken.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

And inside, everything you’ve ever wanted was already here.

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

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[hameesstuff]

Can we get a CEO Jaehyun x secretary reader story I really love the way you write 😭😭😭🙏🏻🙏🏻

Sure love❤ thx for the request. I'll post it by tomorrow ok?

UPDATE: IT'S POSTED!! here's the link

[hameesstuff]

You should create a masterlist! If you have one, can you provide the link to your masterlist? Thank you! I really love your stories! I'm looking forward for your future works❤️

OMG HIII!! OOHH ILL DEF CREATE ONE, THXX💖🥰

[hameesstuff]

“Stay for Him”

Pairing: Ex husband! Jaehyun x Ex wife! Reader

Word count: ~9.2k

Themes: Divorce, Family, Angst, Fluff, Tension, Jealousy, Slice of life.

Preview: You and Jaehyun are divorced, on a reluctant family vacation for your 3-year-old son, but you can’t stand each other—and he has a girlfriend now. Wonderful.

___________________________________________

“Stay for Him”

Part 1: One Room, Two Strangers, and a Three-Year-Old

The villa was too quiet for a family.

Or maybe it was just the space between you and Jaehyun that made it feel that way—cold, silent, suffocating.

Your three-year-old son, Jaejun, clung to your leg while you stood at the entrance, staring at the too-romantic white curtains and ocean-view balcony.

“Mommy, this house is big!” he gasped, running toward the windows.

“Don’t run—” you warned, but Jaehyun’s voice overlapped yours from behind.

“He’ll be fine,” he said flatly, wheeling in the last suitcase. “We’re not here to fight, remember?”

You turned slowly, your eyes narrowing.

“And yet you say that like you’re begging me to.”

His jaw ticked. “I’m here for him. Not for you.”

The air was thick with history. With resentment. And beneath that—something worse. The lingering ache of what once was.

“Great,” you said sharply. “We agree on something.”

The three of you had agreed—after months of arguing, after one too many court calls, after a particularly devastating night of Jaejun crying for both parents—that your son deserved a vacation where he could have both of you. Just for one week.

No yelling. No bitterness. No dragging him between homes.

Just one week of pretending like things were okay.

It was Day One, and the cracks were already forming.

Jaehyun dropped onto the outdoor couch, staring at his phone like it owed him something.

You caught a glimpse of the screen. A name. A heart emoji.

His new girlfriend.

Of course she had a heart next to her name.

You turned away before he could see the flicker of something—bitterness? sadness?—cross your face.

Later that evening, the villa was filled with the sound of waves, laughter, and cartoon sound effects. Jaejun lay on a blanket surrounded by toys, humming to himself.

You were making dinner. Jaehyun was setting the table.

It should have been domestic. Peaceful.

But it wasn’t.

“You always add too much salt,” he muttered, watching you taste the stew.

“And you always act like you’re still relevant in this kitchen.”

“Still feisty,” he mumbled under his breath.

You turned sharply, ladle in hand. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“I used to think it was.”

The room went quiet.

The only sound was Jaejun giggling at his cartoon.

You both stared at each other—years of history packed into one glance.

He looked away first.

You hated that part of you noticed how tired he looked. That he’d grown out his hair again. That he still wore the watch you gave him two anniversaries ago.

“Dinner’s ready,” you said coldly.

That night, Jaejun fell asleep on the couch with a beach towel as a blanket. You gently lifted him, and Jaehyun stepped in silently to help.

The two of you placed him in the big bed.

You reached for the extra pillow and started arranging a makeshift spot on the couch.

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. “You’re sleeping there?”

“Obviously.”

He smirked. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

“Good,” you said, tossing him the other pillow. “You’re on the floor.”

He scoffed. “This is going to be a great week.”

You threw the blanket at him.

“Goodnight, Jaehyun.”

He lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Jeong.”

Your heart twisted—for reasons you refused to name.

And somewhere between the soft crash of waves and your son’s quiet breaths—you wondered if one week would be too long.

Part 2: You, Me, and Her on the Screen

The sun was blinding the next morning—unforgiving, like it knew exactly how little sleep you got.

Jaejun was already digging in the sand with a plastic shovel, cheeks puffed with joy. You sat under the umbrella, watching him and sipping lukewarm coffee, when Jaehyun walked over shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder.

His body still looked the same.

That bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

You looked away first.

He didn’t say anything. Just dropped beside you, pulled out his phone, and opened a FaceTime call.

You weren’t looking until you heard the voice.

“Babe? Wow, the beach looks so pretty.”

You stiffened.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun said, and you couldn’t tell if he was avoiding eye contact or just being cruel. “It’s peaceful.”

The girl on the screen giggled. You caught a glimpse of her glossy lips and perfectly done nails.

Definitely the type who wouldn’t last one second with a toddler.

You stood to walk toward your son, giving them space. Not that you owed him that anymore.

But as you helped Jaejun build a sandcastle, you couldn’t help noticing—

He’d stopped talking.

His phone was still in his hand, but he was just… watching you.

His girlfriend was still on the call.

And he was watching you.

Later that afternoon, you all went for a short walk along the coast. Jaejun insisted on wearing his little straw hat, stomping through shallow water like a professional explorer.

“Hold my hand!” he shouted at both of you.

You reached for his.

But he pulled away. “No, both! Hold each other too! Like a real family!”

You and Jaehyun froze.

Jaejun’s wide eyes stared up at you, pout trembling. “Please? Just for the picture…”

A local photographer the resort had hired was patiently waiting. She gave a polite smile like she knew what kind of war was going on beneath the silence.

You swallowed hard.

Jaehyun’s hand reached out first.

You hesitated. But then you looked down at Jaejun’s hopeful face—his dimples, his soft hands—and took it.

His hand was warm.

And worse—familiar.

You stood there for one photo.

One forced, pretty lie.

The photographer clicked a few times, then nodded. “Got it!”

But Jaehyun didn’t let go right away.

You looked at him.

He wasn’t smiling. He looked like he was remembering something.

You yanked your hand back.

The walk back to the villa was silent.

That night, you watched Jaejun sleep, curled up in the middle of the bed with one hand clinging to both your pillows.

“I don’t want him to be confused,” you said quietly.

Jaehyun, now sitting on the balcony with a beer, looked up.

“He’s not,” he replied.

“He asked if we could all live together again.”

That made him go quiet.

You walked out and stood next to him. The night breeze was salty. Soft.

“He deserves to be happy,” you whispered. “Even if that means pretending we don’t hate each other for a week.”

He let out a breath. “You think I enjoy this?”

“I think you enjoy being right.”

“I think you enjoy running away.”

You glared at him, but he looked back at you with the same fire.

It only lasted a second.

Then he looked away. “We were good at pretending today.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the way his voice dropped—we were good at pretending—sounded too close to something real.

Something that used to hurt less.

Part 3: The Uninvited

The knock came at 6PM.

You were brushing sand out of Jaejun’s curls when the door opened and her voice rang out like perfume you never liked.

“Surprise!”

Minji. Tall, perfectly pressed in a linen jumpsuit that didn’t belong on a beach, red lipstick too bright for a family trip. She threw her arms around Jaehyun like she didn’t see your figure frozen in the hallway.

You stared.

She stared back—and smiled.

Not the polite kind.

The kind that cuts.

“Oh,” she chirped, glancing at you, “you must be the ex.”

You didn’t flinch. “And you must be the unexpected guest.”

Jaehyun tensed.

But Minji only giggled like it was cute.

Dinner was unbearable.

Minji talked too loudly, too quickly, clung to Jaehyun’s arm like he might float away. Jaejun sat between you and his father, oblivious and humming through spoonfuls of rice.

Then Minji tilted her wine glass and said it.

“You know, I always wondered what kind of woman Jaehyun used to be into. Guess now I know.”

Silence.

The air in the restaurant shifted. Even the background music seemed to fade.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Minji smiled sweetly. “Just saying—it makes sense. You’re more… domestic. Less of a threat.”

You heard it. So did Jaehyun.

You opened your mouth—but he beat you to it.

“Stop.” His voice was flat. Cold. Deadly.

Minji turned to him, visibly startled. “I was just teasing.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “You were trying to humiliate her.”

Minji’s jaw clenched. “I thought you said things were amicable.”

“We share a child,” he snapped. “We share a life. Show some respect.”

She turned red. Then pale.

You rose from your chair, lips trembling with the pressure of holding back a million words.

“I’m taking Jaejun back to the room.”

“Wait,” Jaehyun said, pushing up from his seat.

You didn’t turn around.

“Stay with your girlfriend,” you muttered, and walked away.

Later that night, Jaehyun knocked softly on your villa door.

You opened it a crack.

He stood there—alone. Hands in his pockets. Brows furrowed.

“I sent her home. We broke up...”

You said nothing.

“She crossed a line. I won’t let anyone talk about you like that.”

The air between you ached.

You nodded once, slowly, then shut the door.

But your hands shook for a long time after.

Not from anger.

From the part of you that wanted to believe him again.

Part 4: The Blue Dress

The next day, Minji was gone.

You didn’t ask. Jaehyun didn’t explain.

But things felt… quieter.

Softer.

And that evening, under the gold-spilled sky, Jaehyun set up a small dinner table right on the sand. Just the three of you. Fairy lights strung along driftwood, music humming from a portable speaker, and Jaejun chasing seagulls barefoot with squeals that made tourists turn their heads.

You almost didn’t come.

But then you looked at yourself in the mirror—sun-kissed skin, loose waves from the salt air, and the short blue dress you hadn’t worn in years.

It still fit.

When Jaehyun saw you, he blinked.

Actually blinked. Like he forgot how to speak.

You noticed.

But you didn’t say anything.

Dinner was grilled shrimp, pineapple rice, and laughter.

Jaejun insisted on feeding Jaehyun “like a big baby” and then threw rice at your knee when you teased him back. Sand clung to your legs. The music shifted to something slow, and Jaehyun was wiping sauce from Jaejun’s cheek when your son tugged your wrist and said—

“Dance with me, Mommy!”

You hesitated.

Jaehyun stood up too. “Let me steal the first one.”

You blinked, surprised—but Jaejun beamed and clapped.

So you took Jaehyun’s hand.

Barefoot in the sand, fairy lights flickering, the breeze warm against your skin, he held your waist lightly and swayed with you.

It wasn’t romantic.

Not yet.

But it was something.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said softly, eyes not leaving yours.

You gave a half-smile. “Not like your girlfriend?”

“She’s not here.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He didn’t respond.

But his hand tightened slightly on your hip.

Then Jaejun ran between you two mid-spin, and Jaehyun lifted him effortlessly onto his shoulders while you laughed so hard your dimples hurt.

And when you laughed—

He stared.

Really stared.

Like it broke something open in him.

You didn’t notice.

But later, when you leaned down to tuck Jaejun into bed, Jaehyun stood in the doorway and watched you for a long, long time.

Not saying a word.

Just remembering that once upon a time, this was his family.

And maybe—just maybe—it still could be.

Part 5: When She Fell

The stars were scattered like spilled salt across the sky.

It was past midnight, and the villa was quiet—except for the sound of your laughter.

Jaehyun stepped out just in time to see you darting barefoot through the sand, your short blue dress fluttering, the drink still in your hand, and your laughter too loud, too beautiful.

"Y/N!" he called, barefoot now too as he chased after you.

You twirled once in the wet sand near the water's edge, hands in the air, hair wild from the ocean breeze. “I’m a divorcee mermaid queen,” you slurred. “Bow before me—”

And then you fell.

Your heel caught in the soft sand mid-spin, and you went down hard with a surprised yelp. The cup flew. Saltwater sprayed. And Jaehyun’s heart stopped.

He was beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees. “Y/N—!”

You looked up at him, blinking, face half-lit by moonlight, laughing breathlessly as you winced. “Ouch.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, brushing hair out of your face, hands frantic but gentle. “You okay?”

You nodded, giggling, “I tripped on my past mistakes.”

He didn’t laugh.

He was still staring at you—your flushed cheeks, your bare legs, your voice so soft and wrecked by rum. And suddenly—

It hit him.

Like a fist to the ribs.

God, he was in love with you.

Still.

Hopelessly.

Painfully.

Every stupid piece of him.

You weren’t his anymore—but the way you blinked up at him, trusting, smiling even though you were dizzy and broken and a little scraped—he felt that familiar ache rise up and choke him.

You sat up slowly, hands in the sand, leaning closer without realizing it. “What?” you murmured. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He couldn’t answer.

He could only reach up and wipe a streak of wet sand from your cheek, fingers trembling.

And for a second, your smile faded too.

Because maybe—you felt it too.

That ancient ache neither of you ever really buried.

But then you looked away, cheeks pink, whispering, “Help me up, Jaehyun. I’m not seventeen anymore.”

He did.

And he didn’t let go of your hand.

Part 6: The Kitchen Kiss

You woke up with sand in your hair and a splitting headache.

The blue dress was crumpled on the bathroom floor, your skin still salty, and your memories were fogged over with half-laughs and half-lost moments in the tide.

You didn’t remember exactly what you said.

But you remembered how he looked at you.

The morning sunlight was too bright, the villa quiet except for the small clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

You dragged your feet across the cold tile and peeked around the corner.

Jaehyun was standing at the stove, shirtless, hair still damp from his shower. He was making eggs—burning them, actually.

Jaejun sat on the counter beside him, swinging his legs and licking strawberry jelly off a spoon.

When Jaehyun turned and saw you in your oversized tee and sleep-mussed hair, he froze.

You squinted. “You’re trying to kill me with breakfast?”

He exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair warning, I haven’t cooked in a while.”

“Yeah, well, neither have I. We’re both disasters.”

Jaejun giggled from the counter. “You fell in the ocean.”

You gasped. “You narc!”

Jaehyun chuckled as you reached out and pinched your son’s cheek gently, then moved toward the coffee machine. The space between you and Jaehyun was tight now—close in the quiet kitchen with the sun rising too slow.

You brushed past him to grab a mug.

And he didn’t move.

His hand caught yours instead.

You stilled.

Your breath caught. The warmth of him pressed against your side, not quite touching but close enough. The air was thick.

His voice was low. “Last night…”

You didn’t answer.

You looked at him, heart pounding.

And then—

He leaned in.

And kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t soft either.

It was remembering. It was years of silence crashing in one slow, aching press of lips.

His hand cradled your jaw. Yours clutched the front of his shirt.

And just as your knees buckled, a tiny voice interrupted—

“Are you kissing my mom?”

You both jumped apart.

Jaejun blinked, holding his half-eaten toast.

You cleared your throat, cheeks blazing. “Uh. No. That was CPR.”

Jaehyun, flushed but grinning, nodded seriously. “Very advanced CPR.”

Jaejun narrowed his eyes. Cheeks filled with bread.

Part 7: The Third Spot at the Table

Johnny showed up just after lunch, sunglasses perched on his nose, grinning wide with his usual easy charm.

You had invited him—Jaehyun knew that—but it didn’t make the sight of Johnny lifting Jaejun into the air and spinning him around any easier to stomach.

“Uncle Johnny!” Jaejun squealed, arms around his neck like they were long-lost best friends. “You brought the sea turtle toy!”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Johnny winked at him, then gave you a little mock bow. “And you. Looking gorgeous as always.”

Jaehyun didn’t say a word.

Just sat back on the edge of the porch, sipping from a bottle of water, jaw tight.

He wasn’t the possessive type.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But watching Johnny high-five Jaejun, watching you laugh at some stupid inside joke the two of you shared from work, watching Johnny casually touch your arm like it meant nothing—

Something in Jaehyun’s chest twisted.

And it twisted harder when Jaejun ran back up the porch, toy in hand, yelling, “Daddy, can Uncle Johnny come to dinner too?! He’s so funny!”

“Don’t be rude,” you teased softly. “Johnny’s been part of our life since before Jaejun could walk. Of course he can.”

Jaehyun forced a smile. “Sure. Why not.”

Johnny grinned. “I’ll bring the wine.”

Jaehyun stood then, brushing sand off his pants. “No need. I’ve already got it covered.”

And he looked right at Johnny when he said it.

Later, at dinner…

Johnny sat beside you, too close, shoulders occasionally bumping.

You laughed at something he said. Tossed your head back.

And Jaehyun stared.

Not at Johnny.

At you.

Because he hadn’t seen you laugh like that in days. Because you leaned into Johnny when you spoke. Because you looked happy, and he didn’t know if it was because of Johnny or despite him.

And it drove him insane.

So when Jaejun curled into Johnny’s side and mumbled sleepily, “Uncle Johnny? Do you like my mo-” Jaehyun finally stood.

“Bedtime,” he said a little too sharply. “Come on, buddy.”

Jaejun blinked. “But I wanna stay with—”

“Now.”

You looked at him, startled by the edge in his voice.

But you didn’t say anything.

Because part of you understood exactly what it meant.

Part 8: The Balcony, the Storm, and the Question

The villa had quieted.

Jaejun had long since fallen asleep in his bed, fingers still curled around the plush sea turtle Johnny gave him.

You were in the kitchen, putting away dishes, when Jaehyun appeared in the doorway—his shirt slightly unbuttoned, hair tousled from the wind, eyes unreadable.

“I poured you wine,” he said quietly. “It’s on the balcony.”

You hesitated.

Then followed.

The night air was thick with salt and tension. The waves were louder now, crashing softly below the wooden railings of the balcony. A single lantern above flickered warm, golden light across his face.

You stepped closer.

“You okay?” you asked, settling into the chair beside him.

“I’m not sure.”

You tilted your head. “Because of Johnny?”

He looked away. “No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s not about him. It’s about… you.”

You said nothing, sipping your wine. Waiting.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke again. “I saw you tonight. With him. With Jaejun. Laughing. Smiling. And I realized something.”

You set the glass down, heart crawling up your throat.

“I realized,” he whispered, “that I want to be the one you laugh with. Again. I want to be the one you come to after hard days. The one you drink wine with at midnight. The one you touch without hesitation. The one our son calls home.”

He turned to face you now—eyes blazing, jaw clenched.

“I want you to be my wife again.”

Your breath hitched. “Jaehyun…”

But he didn’t let you speak.

He stepped closer, reached for your face—roughly, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore—and kissed you.

Hard.

Desperate.

All tongue and teeth and too much emotion. The kind of kiss that hurt because it was filled with regret. The kind of kiss that pulled the air out of your lungs because it meant everything. The kind of kiss that you had dreamt about since the moment he walked away from you months ago.

You gasped, gripping his shirt, pushing him slightly—and then pulling him right back.

And he didn’t stop.

He cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. Kissed you again—slower this time. Tender. Raw.

When he pulled back, you were trembling.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Be my wife again. For real this time. No walking away. No bitterness. Just… us.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just leaned into him.

And kissed him back.

Bonus Scene: “Secrets for the Smallest One”

The house was quiet, bathed in the soft lavender glow of early evening. Somewhere in the kitchen, the dishwasher hummed. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the trees.

Inside, you were curled up on Jaejun’s bed, watching as Jaehyun gently helped him into his pajamas — dinosaur ones, of course. The toddler was swaying with sleep, arms lifted obediently, eyes half-closed but fighting the pull of dreams.

“Too tired to brush your teeth?” Jaehyun teased, kneeling in front of him.

“I brushed the air,” Jaejun muttered, head flopping onto his dad’s shoulder.

Jaehyun looked up at you with a helpless grin. “That counts, right?”

You smirked. “For today, it does.”

Once Jaejun was tucked under the blankets, he reached out and took both your hands — dragging your arm around his tiny body like a teddy bear, demanding you lay beside him. Jaehyun joined you on the other side, his legs hanging off the bed, big body comically curled just to fit.

It was a little too warm. A little too cramped. But no one moved.

“Mama,” Jaejun mumbled, already halfway into sleep. “When the baby comes… will they laugh like you?”

Your throat tightened. “Maybe. I hope so.”

He turned toward your bump, small fingers brushing your stomach. “I’ll tell them stories. About turtles. And Daddy screaming when he saw a worm.”

Jaehyun groaned. “It was a snake! You told everyone it was a worm!”

Jaejun was already asleep.

You and Jaehyun carefully eased off the bed, tucking the blanket up to Jaejun’s chin. You pressed a kiss to his forehead. Jaehyun did the same.

Back in your shared room, you changed into pajamas, your back turned as you spoke softly. “He’s getting so big, isn’t he?”

“Mhm,” Jaehyun murmured.

When you turned around, he was kneeling in front of your bump, hands gentle and warm on either side of your belly.

He kissed it once. Then twice. Then rested his forehead there.

“Hey,” he whispered softly, eyes closed. “It’s me. Your dad. I’m kinda bad at this sometimes. But I’m really trying.”

You froze, heart full and breaking all at once.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” he murmured. “Your brother’s crazy. Your mom is… everything. And you… you’re the next piece of us. The one we didn’t even know we needed.”

You knelt down too, crawling into his lap, burying your face in his neck.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jaehyun nodded against your hair, holding you tighter.

“I love all of us,” he said.

And under the sleepy roof of your quiet home, that love wrapped around the four of you — warm and unshakeable — like the softest blanket in the world.

[hameesstuff]

"Like A Tangerine"

Pairing: Jaehyun x Female NCT Member Reader

Genre: Slow burn, friends-to-lovers, teasing, fluff, humor, emotional comfort, Heavy smut at the end.

Length: ~10k

___________________________________________

“Your Heart’s in Wardrobe”

“Do I look like someone who just got dumped?” you asked, deadpan, holding two identical stage outfits up in front of the mirror.

“Hmm,” Jaehyun replied, leaning against the doorway, sipping his iced Americano with the casual arrogance of someone who always looked ten out of ten. “You look like someone who got dumped, stole his hoodie, and is now plotting his professional downfall. So. Kinda.”

You deadpanned at him.

He raised a brow. “Too soon?”

“You are too soon,” you muttered.

“Too soon for you, baby,” he shot back with a wink.

You rolled your eyes, but he caught the upward twitch of your mouth before you turned back to the mirror.

You hadn’t meant to cry on day two of tour.

But emotions were unpredictable—like airport schedules, or Jaehyun’s hair color.

One moment, you were fixing your mic pack; the next, your manager casually mentioned your ex's new public date, and the world tilted sideways.

And of course, Jaehyun was the one who found you curled behind the costume racks, holding back tears and threatening to stab anyone who said the word “feelings.”

“Are you… talking to the rhinestones?” he asked, gently crouching beside you.

“They’re listening better than you are,” you sniffed.

Jaehyun nodded solemnly. “I mean. That’s fair. I do zone out a lot when people say big words. Like ‘respectfully’ and ‘boundaries.’”

You snorted. And cursed him for it.

“Do you want me to punch something?” he asked. “Because I’ve been looking for an excuse to deck Doyoung again. He took my banana this morning.”

You blinked at him, caught between emotional breakdown and confused amusement.

“Why would you punch Doyoung when my ex is the problem?”

“Oh. Right.” He shrugged. “I just hate when Doyoung wins.”

It became a thing.

Every time you got quiet, Jaehyun would appear.

Sometimes with snacks. Sometimes with bad pickup lines. Once with a sock puppet.

“You deserve better than him,” said Sock-Jaehyun in a terrible falsetto. “Also, can I get your number?”

You threw a pretzel at his face. Missed.

He caught it with his mouth.

“What can I say?” he grinned. “I’m good with things women throw at me.”

The members noticed first.

“Jaehyun’s smiling too much lately,” Johnny muttered over ramen one night.

“Yeah,” Haechan said. “It’s gross.”

“Right?” Mark chimed in. “He even offered me the front seat in the van. That’s suspiciously romantic.”

You tried not to look guilty. Or flattered.

But Jaehyun?

He just shrugged, face calm, sipping his drink.

“I’m just a gentleman,” he said with mock innocence.

You kicked his shin under the table.

He smirked like he won.

“Late Nights & Mic Checks”

The first time Jaehyun changes his lyric just for you, you don’t notice.

Everyone else does.

It’s during rehearsal for your joint track—one of those sultry, layered duets with too much breath and not enough personal space. You’re adjusting your in-ears when you hear it:

“I’m not yours, but you got me…”

A beat.

“Wearing your smile like I owe you.”

Doyoung turns around instantly.

“What was that?”

Jaehyun shrugs, feigning innocence. “New vibe. Artistic choice.”

“Artistic my ass,” Johnny mutters. “You looked straight at her.”

You blink. “Wait. What did he say?”

Jaehyun smirks. “Don’t worry about it, baby.”

You throw your water bottle at him.

The teasing gets worse.

Or better, depending on who’s watching.

In the green room:

“Y/N, Jaehyun saved you the good chair,” Mark singsongs.

“He warmed it with his feelings,” Haechan adds.

During dance practice:

“Wow,” Ten whistles. “Did you two choreograph that eye contact?”

And on the bus ride to Osaka:

You fall asleep on Jaehyun’s shoulder.

When you wake up, he’s still there, still still, earbuds in, not even pretending to move.

“Was I drooling?” you mumble.

“Only a little.”

You groan.

He chuckles.

“You snore.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.” He bumps your head with his. “It’s cute.”

Your heart stutters.

You hate how good that makes you feel.

The night out happens in Kyoto.

A rare free evening. The members split into pairs to explore the market square—street food, neon umbrellas, the scent of rain in the air.

You end up with Jaehyun.

Of course you do.

You're both holding skewers of yakitori, standing under the same umbrella, close enough to share warmth. The clouds crack open with soft, rhythmic rainfall.

You should’ve been watching the lantern parade.

Instead, you’re watching him.

Raindrops catch in his hair. His hoodie’s damp around the collar. He looks over at you—and something in his eyes shifts.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, breath catching.

He doesn’t answer.

Just stares at you a moment too long.

Then steps closer.

The rain falls harder around you.

“Your lip,” he murmurs, eyes dropping. “You got sauce—”

And you don’t know who leans in first.

But suddenly, his face is inches from yours.

And you’re blinking up at him, lips parting, breath catching—and then—

“GUYS! We found mochi!” Mark yells from down the alley.

You jump apart like teenagers caught kissing behind the bleachers.

Jaehyun clears his throat. Looks away.

You curse under your breath and pretend to be very interested in your skewer.

He doesn’t touch you again the rest of the night.

But his hand stays very, very close to yours.

“Glint & Glow”

The Seoul night is alive.

The venue tonight isn’t a stage or a rehearsal room, but a rooftop club overlooking the city—neon signs bleeding into the dark sky, laughter and music echoing like a heartbeat across glass towers.

The boys had dragged everyone out after a successful showcase. “You need to let loose,” Johnny had insisted, tugging you by the wrist while Jaemin offered you a ridiculously large pair of sunglasses as a “party gift.” You rolled your eyes, but the truth is—you needed this. Needed the distraction. Needed to feel like something other than the girl who got left behind.

And Jaehyun…?

You’re not sure when it started feeling like he was your shadow. But lately, he’s been there—during breaks, after stage runs, beside you during long van rides. And tonight is no different.

Inside the club, the bass thrums under your skin like electricity.

You’re mid-laugh, drink in hand, as you and Haechan stumble through a chaotic attempt at dancing. He’s doing something between a robot and a chicken and calling it “experimental art.” You’re cackling. It's one of those perfect, dumb moments that loosens the weight in your chest.

That’s when Jaehyun appears behind you—his hand casually slipping around your waist as he leans in to be heard over the music. His lips are near your ear. Too near.

“You’re really bad at this,” he murmurs.

You spin around, mock-offended, grinning up at him. “Excuse me, I have rhythm.”

He tilts his head. “Sure. In your own… chaotic way.”

“Oh, you think you can do better?”

He just smirks.

And then—without warning—Jaehyun takes your drink, sets it on the bar behind you, and pulls you gently by the hand into the middle of the dancefloor.

You blink. “Wait, wait, wait—what is happening—”

“We’re fixing your reputation,” he says, that sly grin playing on his lips.

Your heart jumps. Because dancing with Jaehyun shouldn’t feel this intimate. But it does.

He’s close, not close enough to touch fully, but enough that every brush of your bodies, every shift of his hips as he matches your rhythm, feels like a static spark crawling across your skin.

The song changes—slower now. Thicker with beat and heat.

And he leans in again, voice smooth, teasing. “See? This is what rhythm looks like.”

You bite your lip, playfully rolling your eyes, but you can’t deny it—Jaehyun moves like the music lives in him. Smooth. Effortless. Confident.

“Fine,” you say, “teach me, oh dance god.”

His chuckle rumbles low. “You sure you can handle that?”

Your hand finds his shoulder, your other resting lightly at his wrist as he takes your waist. You expect him to pull you closer. He doesn’t. Not yet. He keeps just a hair of space between you, like he knows it’ll drive you mad.

And it does.

Because it’s right there—the energy buzzing between you, the closeness that feels so intimate without touching skin.

You dance. You float.

The city sparkles below, but the world narrows until it’s just him. Just Jaehyun and the way he looks at you—like there’s no one else. Like you’re not his member, not his friend, not the girl nursing a bruised heart. Just you.

He leans close again, this time his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You’re smiling,” he murmurs. “Genuine this time.”

You don’t even realize it until he says it.

“Yeah,” you admit softly, glancing up at him through your lashes. “Guess I am.”

Jaehyun’s eyes flicker downward for a second—at your lips, at the barely-there gap between you.

It’s so close.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, he just smiles. That soft, unreadable Jaehyun smile that makes your breath hitch, like he knows something you don’t.

“Rainfall and Almosts” (The Kiss)

You don’t even remember who first suggested it. Maybe Doyoung, maybe Mark. One moment, you're all spilling out of the club, hot and dizzy from dancing, and the next—you're wandering the quiet streets of Seoul at midnight.

It’s peaceful.

No crowds. Just streetlights and sleepy convenience stores, a soft summer breeze playing with the hems of your clothes. You’re walking beside Jaehyun again—of course you are—and the others are somewhere ahead, laughing over a bag of snacks.

Then the rain starts.

Not a storm. Just a quiet, steady drizzle—gentle, like it’s washing the world clean.

“Seriously?” Haechan groans. “Do we look like we prepared for a music video shoot?”

“Speak for yourself,” Johnny replies, running a hand through his wet hair like he’s in a shampoo ad. “I’m the main character.”

You laugh, water already soaking through your sleeves. Everyone’s making a mess of it—some ducking under bus stop awnings, others shrieking like children.

But you and Jaehyun?

You don’t run.

You just… stand there. In the middle of the sidewalk. Letting it fall.

“Rain suits you,” he says suddenly, watching you with unreadable eyes.

You blink, water clinging to your lashes. “Is that your way of telling me I look like a raccoon?”

His lip twitches. “No. You look… softer. Real.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything.

You just look at him. Watch the rain catch in the hollow of his throat. The way his shirt’s starting to cling to him. The glint of city lights in his damp hair. How gentle he looks—softer, like he said about you. But there's still something untouchable about him, like he’s carved out of something the rain can't erode.

But this moment?

It feels like something sacred.

Jaehyun steps closer.

You feel it before it happens. The shift. The silence. Your pulse ticking up in your throat. The way his fingers skim your wrist first—like asking permission—before they slip into yours, slow and certain.

And then his other hand is on your cheek, warm against your rain-cold skin.

You don't breathe. You barely exist. You're just waiting.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

“You’re going to disappear on me after this, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

You shake your head, voice barely a whisper. “No.”

He leans in.

And this time… he doesn’t stop.

Jaehyun kisses you in the rain, slow and aching. His lips taste like rain and tension and every almost you’ve ever had with him. It’s not hungry—it’s sure. Like he’s been waiting, choosing this exact second to fall.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

His arm slips around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the kiss deepens—like he’s pouring months of emotion into it, into you, into everything left unspoken.

It’s not fireworks.

It’s quieter.

More dangerous.

Like gravity shifting, locking you in place.

By the time you pull away, breathless and blinking through rain, he still hasn’t let go.

Neither have you.

“Velvet & Voltage – The Moment He Knew”

The ballroom feels like it’s from another era—chandeliers dripping with light, gold-rimmed champagne glasses clinking, silk gowns sweeping across the marble. And somewhere in that sea of people, you walk in.

Not alone, but glowing.

Your deep emerald gown clings in all the right places. Skin dewy, hair swept up with soft strands framing your face. Laughter dances in your voice as you say something to Haechan beside you, but Jaehyun doesn’t hear a word.

He sees you.

He’s across the room in a circle of executives, nodding at something Johnny says. But then he glances up—and time lurches. His breath stills. His lips part slightly.

You catch him watching.

And instead of blushing, you smile—soft, subtle, but real.

Jaehyun swears his heart actually stutters.

Throughout the night, he doesn’t approach right away.

He watches from the edges. Watches you tilt your head back in laughter at something Mark whispers. Watches you sway a little as the orchestra plays a familiar love song. Watches you twirl once, just for fun, when Yuta offers his hand dramatically.

Every movement feels like something out of a dream he’s been too afraid to have.

“She looks really happy tonight,” Doyoung murmurs beside him, handing over a drink.

Jaehyun takes it but doesn’t sip. “She does.”

“And you’re just going to keep standing here like a silent statue?”

Jaehyun glares. “I’m trying to figure out what to say when I do walk over.”

Johnny joins them, sipping champagne. “You don’t need to say anything, bro. Just go.”

“But she just got out of a breakup.”

“She’s glowing because of you, dumbass,” Doyoung mutters.

When the strings start their fourth waltz of the night, you’re on the edge of the dancefloor alone. The others have filtered to the bar or terrace. You’re just admiring the violins when a familiar deep voice breaks through the air behind you.

“Dance with me.”

You turn slowly.

Jaehyun.

Holding his hand out, lips quirked, eyes unreadable.

You give him yours.

He pulls you in with practiced ease—one hand at your waist, the other holding yours like you’re something breakable but divine.

Up close, the tension is palpable. He smells like dark cedar and champagne. His breath grazes your temple when he says:

“You’re the most beautiful thing in this room.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’ve been saying it in my head all night.”

You look up at him.

And this close—this slow—this warm—there’s no more pretense.

Just him, staring at you like he’s already in heaven.

Nearby, you hear a faint whistle—definitely Haechan. Johnny’s laughing into his flute. Yuta mutters, “Took him long enough.”

You flush.

Jaehyun just smirks, tilting his forehead to yours for a moment as you spin. “Ignore them.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

Later, alone on the private balcony, rain patters gently nearby. You’ve kicked off your heels. He’s unbuttoned his cuffs. The gala pulses in the background like a distant heartbeat.

You both lean against the railing, arms barely touching.

“You keep doing this thing,” you say.

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like you’re about to say something but never do.”

He turns his head, fully facing you now. “That’s because I am about to say something.”

You meet his eyes.

“Then say it.”

Jaehyun moves in. No rush. Just pure, slow want.

His palm finds your jaw, thumb brushing lightly over your bottom lip.

“I want you.”

“Gold and Honey"

The ballroom still glitters behind your eyes as you unlock the hotel suite door.

Your heels click softly on the marble floor, but your breath is already catching. You feel him behind you—his presence magnetic. Warm. Weighted.

"You're quiet," you murmur, not turning around.

Jaehyun’s voice is soft but full of something molten. “You wore that dress knowing exactly what it would do to me.”

You smile slightly. “And?”

“And I haven’t been able to think straight all night.”

When you finally turn to face him, his eyes are locked on you—dark, reverent, a flicker of restraint glinting behind the desire. “You looked like every fantasy I’ve ever had,” he says quietly. “And now I get to touch you.”

He steps forward and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing down your neck with agonizing care. “If you want me to stop, tell me now.”

Instead, you grab his lapel and pull him into a kiss.

It’s tender at first—slow, mouths molding together in pure want—but then his hand slides to the back of your neck, deepening it, tongue stroking yours with maddening grace. When you moan into his mouth, he pulls away just slightly.

“That sound,” he murmurs. “You make me want to ruin you.”

A thrill dances through your chest.

Jaehyun gently presses you against the wall, his thigh slipping between yours, pressing just enough to make you gasp. He leans down, lips at your ear. “Been thinking about how tight you’ll feel around me. Wondering if you can even take it.”

He groans, forehead resting against yours. “You’re going to kill me.”

His fingers trail down the side of your dress, unzipping it painstakingly slow, lips brushing your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers. “I’m going to worship you tonight.”

The dress drops to the floor. You're left in lacy lingerie—bare, wanting.

He steps back for a moment and exhales hard. “Jesus, baby… look at you.”

You reach for his belt, and he grabs your wrist gently. “Let me take care of you first.”

He kisses down your neck, down the valley of your breasts, lips slow and reverent. “Every inch of you deserves attention.”

When he drops to his knees, eyes still locked on yours, you whimper.

He licks up your thigh slowly. “Tell me what you need.”

“You.”

“Where?”

Your hips twitch forward. “Your mouth.”

He smiles, devilish and sweet. “Good girl.”

When his tongue finally strokes between your folds, it’s like fire. Slow, rhythmic, patient. He teases with his tongue, then hums low when he finds your most sensitive spot. Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging.

He praises between licks, voice deep and raspy:

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted… so wet for me already.”

“You take everything I give you, don’t you?”

“Such a perfect pussy. Made for me.”

You tremble as he works you closer and closer to the edge. When you finally fall over, he doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, twitching, his name breaking from your lips like a prayer.

He stands, eyes burning with pride. You barely register when he strips down, but when he’s finally bare, your breath catches.

He’s big. Thick. Veined.

His groan is feral. He climbs over you on the bed, positioning himself slowly, eyes glued to yours. “You sure?”

You nod, lips parted.

He pushes in slow—inch by inch. You both gasp.

“God,” he hisses. “So tight—so fucking warm.”

You dig your nails into his back, stretching around him. He holds still, breathing hard against your shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“More than okay. Please move.”

He begins to thrust slowly, hips rolling deep with each movement. One hand finds your thigh, hitching it up, angle hitting something devastating inside you. The pleasure spirals. He groans against your throat.

“You feel like heaven,” he pants. “Like you were made for me.”

You arch under him. “Jaehyun, I’m gonna—”

“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

You come again, harder this time, and Jaehyun follows with a guttural moan, spilling deep inside you with one final thrust.

He collapses over you, kissing your shoulder, lips pressed to your skin like you’re something holy.

After a long, warm silence, he murmurs, “That wasn’t just sex. You know that, right?”

You look at him, heart still pounding. “I know.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, voice rough and full of affection. “Let me be the one who never makes you cry. Except like this.”

You smile, wrapping your arms around him. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

EPILOGUE — “Daycare Diaries"

The NCT content team didn’t technically tell you you'd be spending the day surrounded by sugar-high toddlers. They just said, “Wholesome volunteer vlog. Family-friendly. Easy.”

So naturally, you ended up in a pastel-colored daycare with thirty children under five, Jaehyun, Johnny, and Mark—plus four cameras rolling and zero emotional preparation.

Jaehyun has one twin on each knee, reading a picture book in his softest voice, totally oblivious to the meltdown happening two feet away.

“Uh… I think that one just bit me,” Mark mutters, staring at a toddler who's now clinging to his leg like a lifeline.

You try not to laugh. “Maybe it’s a love bite.”

“I don’t want to raise children anymore,” he whispers.

Meanwhile, Johnny’s doing damage control with a group of kids who are coloring on the walls. “Okay, Picasso, let’s stick to the paper, yeah? The paper is your friend.”

You look over at Jaehyun again.

He's patient, unbothered, voice calm and steady. One of the kids hugs his neck like a koala, and he just smiles, adjusting to hold her better.

Your heart clenches.

“Why are you staring at him like he’s the star of a family K-drama?” Johnny teases from across the room.

“I’m not—”

“You’re definitely picturing him holding your future baby.”

You shoot Johnny a glare, cheeks heating. Jaehyun just smirks and keeps reading aloud, but he definitely heard that.

Mark limps over, still dragging a kid. “Okay, who gave the children sugar? Who allowed that?”

Johnny deadpans.

The End.

[hameesstuff]

Your stories are not getting worse at all! Thanks for writing! Believe in yourself babe!

I love you 🥺💖😭thx

P.S. ngl I missed your feedback so much lol I was wondering where you went😭 @bluedbliss

[hameesstuff]

Letting all the blogs I follow know how loved they are!! It’s so dead on tumblr sometimes and I’m just trying to spread some joy!! 💕💕💗💗💖💞💓

Aww l appreciate that!! Thank you especially now since I feel like my stories are getting worsee😩💗

[hameesstuff]

"Pirouette of Thorns"

Title: Pirouette of Thorns

Genre: Slowburn | Angst | Smut | Fluff | Arranged Marriage | Mafia x Ballerina AU

Pairing: Mafia Husband! Jaehyun x Ballerina Wife! Reader

___________________________________________

PART 1

You had always danced with ghosts.

In the silence of your rehearsal room, under the watchful eye of cracked mirrors and dust-flecked sunlight, you moved like grief personified—beautiful, fleeting, achingly distant. Every pirouette was a memory, every plié a protest. You had your art, your discipline, your pain.

And then you had him.

Jung Jaehyun.

The man you married not for love, but for peace. A truce between families, written in blood long before it was sealed with rings. He wasn’t cruel. But he wasn’t kind either. He was unreadable—Mafia royalty, silk-suited and stone-faced, with a voice like slow poison and a gaze that held storms.

The wedding had been cold marble and colder smiles. You didn’t cry. You didn’t even flinch when he slid the diamond onto your finger, its sharp glint mocking you in the candlelight.

"You're mine now," he said softly. Not possessive. Not romantic. Just factual.

You nodded.

Because what choice did a ballerina have when the stage she danced on was made of glass?

The penthouse was quiet when you returned from rehearsal one night. Your muscles ached. Your bun was falling apart. You carried your pointe shoes in one hand, your dignity in the other.

He was seated at the long dining table, sleeves rolled up, black shirt unbuttoned at the throat. A glass of bourbon sat untouched beside a stack of ledgers and phones that never stopped buzzing. You walked past him in silence, the hardwood cold beneath your feet.

“You’re limping.”

Your steps faltered. “It’s nothing.”

“Did you fall again?”

“Why do you care?” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

The silence that followed was thick and dangerous. You expected his usual dismissal, a cool glance and returned focus on business.

But tonight, he stood.

Tonight, he followed.

You reached your shared bedroom and closed the door behind you. Locked it.

You didn’t expect him to knock.

You didn’t expect the door to open anyway. He had the keys. Of course he did.

“Tell me what’s going on.” His voice was low. Controlled.

You turned to him, hair a mess, tights ripped at the knee. “Nothing’s going on. I fell. That’s all.”

“You’re hiding something.”

“I’m tired.” Your voice cracked. “And I don’t owe you answers.”

“You’re my wife.”

“And you’re my cage.”

The fight escalated quickly. Words like razors. You’d been quiet for so long, the pain had festered.

“You don't even look at me unless it’s for appearances,” you shouted. “You have all your little soldiers, your secrets, your crimes—and I’m just the pretty doll on your arm.”

He took a slow step forward. “Is that what you think?”

“Don’t play dumb, Jaehyun. You married me to clean your hands in public. To make your sins look romantic.”

Something dark sparked in his eyes. “You married me too.”

“I was forced!”

“And now?” he asked, voice like iron. “Now when you stare at me across the dinner table, when you breathe my name in your sleep—”

“You’re imagining things.”

He smirked, deadly. “Am I?”

___________________________________________

PART 2

You stormed into the bathroom, your chest heaving.

Behind you, his voice followed like thunder. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

You whirled around, fire in your throat. “Oh, I don’t? Because you’re what, Jaehyun? My husband or my warden?”

He stopped at the doorframe, jaw clenched. “I’ve given you everything.”

You laughed bitterly. “Everything but yourself.”

He looked away for the first time. And that small gesture—him avoiding your gaze—stung more than any insult could.

“You know what?” you said, quieter now. “Forget it. Go back to your empire. Your kingdom of guns and shadows. I’ll keep dancing for the ghosts.”

After that night, you barely spoke.

But he noticed things. Silently. Obsessively.

He noticed how you winced as you walked up the stairs, how you tied your ribbons with trembling hands. He noticed how you kept a photo of your late mother by the mirror in your dance studio.

And every week—without your knowledge—he sat in the back of the private theater where your company rehearsed. Unseen. In shadow. Watching.

You were heartbreak in motion. And it broke him to know you didn’t know he was there.

Weeks passed.

Then came the gala.

An annual event held for “philanthropy,” but really it was a mafia masquerade—lavish, deceptive, gleaming with lies. You wore a crimson silk gown that clung to you like a second skin, your hair swept back, your expression unreadable.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“You clean up well,” you said coolly when he offered you his arm.

He smirked. “You always look like a sin.”

At the gala, tensions snapped.

You danced with someone else—just one of the donors. Too close. Too long.

Jaehyun watched, unmoving, a storm behind his mask.

And when the dance ended, he pulled you aside into the nearest corridor.

“Are you trying to make me lose my mind?”

You tilted your chin. “Why? Jealous?”

He stepped closer, heat radiating off him. “Don’t test me.”

“Or what?” you whispered.

His hand gripped your wrist—not harsh, but firm.

“You have no idea how hard it is to pretend I don’t care.”

His words hung heavy between you, like the lingering scent of a storm that never quite broke. You stood frozen, breath catching.

“Then don’t pretend,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Jaehyun blinked, surprised. His hand loosened on your wrist, fingers trailing down your palm instead—slow, unsure. Tender.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to care,” he murmured.

“I didn’t think you could.” Your voice cracked. “You’ve spent so long building walls I stopped trying to climb them.”

He looked at you for a long time—really looked at you. And for once, there was no mask. No façade.

Just Jaehyun.

“I watch your shows,” he confessed softly. “Every one of them. I sit in the back. I don’t breathe when you dance.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to taint it. What you do… it’s too pure for someone like me.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

So he kept talking.

“I remember your first solo. You were in white. You didn’t see me, but you cried after. In the dressing room. I stayed outside the door for twenty minutes, not knowing what the hell to do.”

You stared at him. Your heart felt like it was breaking open in slow motion.

“And I’m sorry,” he added quietly. “For not being the man you deserved. For not knowing how to be a husband when I’ve only ever known how to be a weapon.”

Something inside you shifted.

You reached up, brushing your fingers over his lapel, smoothing it gently like muscle memory. “I never needed a perfect man, Jaehyun. Just an honest one.”

Back at the penthouse, things were... different.

Not loud or dramatic. Just quiet. Gentle.

You changed into a cotton robe, tying your hair back. He poured tea instead of whiskey. You sat on opposite ends of the couch, knees brushing. His hand found yours under the blanket.

No words were needed.

The TV flickered. Some old foreign film you barely paid attention to. You leaned your head on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

When he kissed your forehead that night before bed, it wasn’t possessive.

It was patient.

The restaurant was dimly lit, all soft jazz and gold-tinted chandeliers. Private. Expensive. One of the few places in the city where Jaehyun wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder.

He adjusted his tie in the private washroom mirror, frowning at the knot. It had been a long time since he’d tied one himself. His fingers worked slowly, methodically, until he was satisfied.

The door clicked open behind him. Silence.

When he stepped out, smoothing down the cuffs of his charcoal suit, he paused at the top of the curved staircase that led down into the secluded lower dining area reserved just for the two of you.

And then he saw you.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

Standing near the table, your fingers lightly traced the rim of your wine glass. The navy blue dress you wore flowed like ink over your figure—sleek, elegant, entirely devastating. Your hair was swept off your shoulders, neck bare save for a simple chain, skin glowing under candlelight.

For a brief second, Jaehyun forgot to breathe.

It was different tonight.

Not because of the dress, but because of the way you wore it—like armor and softness all at once. Like you were still healing, but standing tall.

And he realized with startling clarity: He wanted to earn the right to stand beside you.

His footsteps were quiet as he descended the stairs, but you turned before he could speak.

Your gaze met his—and everything in you stilled.

He looked breathtaking.

The suit, the tie, the way his hair was pushed back slightly in waves. But it was the way he looked at you that burned the slowest.

Like he’d been falling in love in silence for weeks. And tonight, he finally let himself admit it.

“You look…” he trailed off, then cleared his throat softly, voice quieter. “Like you stepped out of a dream.”

You tried to smirk, but your breath caught instead.

“So do you,” you whispered.

He pulled out your chair, waiting for you to sit before joining. There was no rush. No sharp edge to his presence tonight.

Just warmth.

“Try the wine,” he said. “I remembered it’s your favorite.”

Your heart ached in that beautiful, aching way that only happens when walls start to fall.

And as the dinner began, the candle between you flickered like a promise:

Something was changing.

The dinner ended late.

Neither of you spoke much on the way out, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable silence from before. It was a warm one—like a lullaby humming between shared glances and half-smiles.

The city was nearly empty as you walked together, Jaehyun’s jacket draped over your shoulders. The streets were slick with old rain, lamplight reflecting off the pavement in golden puddles. There was something almost cinematic about it—how quiet everything had become, how close he was walking beside you without touching, but every inch of your skin could feel him.

And then it started again.

A soft drizzle. Then a sudden, whispering downpour.

You gasped and laughed, lifting your face to the sky. The rain clung to your lashes, kissed your skin.

Jaehyun chuckled, deep and quiet. “We should find cover.”

You caught his hand.

“No,” you said, voice bright. “Dance with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Here. In the rain. Just one dance.” You spun once, water clinging to the navy silk of your dress, eyes wide with mischief and light.

Jaehyun shook his head with a soft laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

But you were already pulling off your heels, letting them drop to the side of the pavement.

You stepped out into the center of the road—empty, glistening—and began to move. Barefoot. Wet. Glowing.

A pirouette. A graceful arch of your arms. You leapt into a jeté, your soaked dress fluttering like broken wings. The street became your stage. The world fell away.

And Jaehyun stood still—utterly transfixed.

Your hair was drenched, your makeup smudged, but your smile was radiant. Free. Like you’d finally escaped the prison of silence you’d been trapped in for so long.

“Come on,” you whispered through your laugh. “Just watch.”

And he did.

He memorized the way you looked when you let go. The curve of your smile. The raindrops slipping down your collarbone. The shimmer of happiness on your skin.

When you finally stopped, out of breath, your eyes met his.

He walked to you slowly, rain soaking his suit, his hands raised like he didn’t know what to do with them—like you were too much to hold.

“You’re insane,” he murmured.

You grinned. “And you love it.”

And that was it.

He kissed you.

Soft, slow, reverent. As if he’d been waiting years for this moment but didn’t want to break it. His hand cradled your cheek. Your fingers fisted his wet shirt.

The rain poured around you.

But for once, you weren’t dancing for the ghosts.

You were dancing for him.

The rain had followed you home like a secret.

Everything in the penthouse was hushed. Dimmed lights. Fogged windows. The smell of rain and skin and something tender blooming quietly between your bodies.

Jaehyun stood in front of you, his white dress shirt clinging to him, half unbuttoned, hair still damp from the storm. But it was the look in his eyes that undid you—like he was staring at something sacred.

You.

His fingertips found your collarbone first, tracing the water droplets like he was learning your body all over again.

“Come here,” he whispered, like the words themselves might break.

You stepped toward him slowly, breath caught in your chest. He leaned in, kissing your forehead. Then your temple. Your cheekbone. The corner of your mouth.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t lust.

It was longing that had softened into love.

“I don’t want this to feel like a storm,” you murmured.

“It won’t,” he whispered back, cupping your face. “Not tonight.”

You undressed each other in silence. Gentle hands. Pauses. Deep breaths. When your dress slipped down your hips and pooled at your ankles, his gaze swept over you like poetry in motion.

“You’re art,” he breathed, voice wrecked with awe.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t with weight—it was with reverence.

He kissed every inch of you slowly: the curve of your shoulder, the soft skin under your breast, the inside of your wrist. His hands held you delicately, like he feared you’d vanish if he gripped too hard.

When he finally entered you, it was with a quiet gasp against your lips. His body sank into yours as though it had always belonged there. A perfect, aching fit.

You wrapped your legs around him, holding him closer, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

He moved inside you like a melody—slow, deep, patient. You didn’t rush. You just felt. Every roll of his hips was deliberate, like a verse, a promise, a prayer. His hand cradled the back of your head as he whispered things he’d never said aloud before.

“You make me feel human.”

“I love how your eyes close when I touch you like this.”

“I didn’t know softness until you.”

You moaned softly, lips parting as your body arched to meet him. Every thrust sent sparks up your spine, but it was the way he looked at you—like he was falling apart just to be sewn together in your arms—that unraveled you completely.

You came together like that—wrapped in each other’s arms, foreheads pressed, hands clasped tight.

Not chasing euphoria, but collapsing into it.

And afterward, when the only sound was the slowing rhythm of your breathing, he kissed your knuckles one by one, whispering:

“You’re the only home I’ve ever wanted.”

Epilogue – "Just Like Her Mother"

The theatre was packed.

Golden chandeliers lit the vast hall in a warm glow, murmurs filling the air like an orchestra warming up. But Jaehyun wasn’t listening to any of it.

He was watching the red velvet curtain.

Hands clasped tightly in his lap, tie perfectly knotted, his expression unreadable—but his eyes… his eyes were bright.

You leaned into him slightly. “You nervous?”

He exhaled a soft chuckle. “Terrified.”

You smiled.

Your hand found his on the armrest. It was trembling. He hadn’t looked like this since the night you danced at this same theatre for the first time. Back when he watched from the shadows, unseen. Longing.

But now, he was front and center.

And tonight, he wasn’t watching you.

He was watching her.

The music started.

The curtain swept upward.

And there she was—tiny, poised, radiant in a soft pink tutu. Hair slicked into a perfect bun. Her little satin shoes kissed the stage floor as she stepped into the spotlight.

Jaehyun’s entire body stilled.

“My God,” he whispered.

Your heart ached.

She moved with grace far beyond her years—light, floating, every step filled with purpose. And when she looked out toward the crowd with wide, earnest eyes, Jaehyun stood without realizing it, breath caught in his throat.

“She’s dancing for you,” you whispered.

“No,” he said, voice breaking, a hand over his heart. “She’s dancing for us.”

Half the audience turned to look as he clapped louder than anyone else when her solo ended. He didn’t care. Not when her eyes found him across the rows and she gave the tiniest, secret smile before leaping into her final pose.

Just like you used to.

She bowed with trembling hands, cheeks flushed, and the lights dimmed.

After the show, she ran out of the backstage door with her slippers half off, into Jaehyun’s arms.

“Did I do okay?” she asked breathlessly.

“You were magic,” he said, kneeling, scooping her up with a kiss on her damp forehead. “Absolutely magic.”

“I want to dance again tomorrow.”

He looked at you over her shoulder. You smiled, nodding.

Jaehyun hugged her tighter. “Then we’ll be right here. Every single time.”

As you all walked back to the car—her between you, holding both your hands—she chattered about costumes and spotlights and how she almost slipped but didn’t.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Jaehyun looked up at the night sky and felt completely, peacefully whole.

“She's just like her mother,” he said softly.

“No,” you murmured with a grin. “She’s better. She’s us.”

The End.

[hameesstuff]

"Underneath the Surface"

Title: "Underneath the Surface"

Pairing: Killer! Johnny x Detective! Reader

Word count: ~4k

Themes: HEAVY smut, dacryphilia, rough, unprotected, angst, multiple positions, fluff at end??

___________________________________________

The Case Begins

You leaned back in your chair, eyes scanning the board in front of you. Photos, notes, and newspaper clippings were pinned in a chaotic display across the corkboard. All centered around a string of unsolved murders that had been haunting the city for months now.

It wasn’t just the brutality of the killings that had made headlines—it was the precision. Each crime scene, so meticulously staged, so calculated. There was something almost… personal about the way they were set up. Like the killer wanted to leave a message—one that was too complex to decipher.

You rubbed your temple, frustration mounting. You knew you were close, but the pieces weren’t fitting. You could feel it in your gut. Every time you thought you were one step away, the trail seemed to fade just out of reach.

It was around that time that you noticed him—a figure who had become a familiar face in the case. Tall, with dark, brooding eyes. He’d been attending every one of the briefings, standing in the back of the room, barely saying a word but always watching. You couldn’t help but feel a strange pull whenever his gaze landed on you. It unsettled you in a way you couldn’t explain, and you weren’t sure if it was because he was involved or if it was just his presence that had an unnerving quality to it.

His name was Johnny—a former detective turned consultant for the department. He was there on his own terms, never explaining much about what he was working on, just offering his insight when the higher-ups requested it.

You’d found yourself alone in the office late one evening when he approached your desk. His steps were soft, but his presence was impossible to ignore.

"Still working on the case?" His voice was low, calm.

You glanced up, offering a tight smile. "Yeah. I can’t shake the feeling I’m missing something. But I’m not sure what it is yet."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. "You think you’ll figure it out? Or do you think the killer will get away with it?"

There was a sharpness in his voice, a coldness that sent a slight shiver down your spine. You met his gaze, trying to assess the man in front of you. "I don’t believe in giving up," you said firmly. "I’ll catch him."

Johnny didn’t speak for a moment. He simply stared at you, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible smile, he turned and walked away.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that his words weren’t just about the case. They felt like a warning—something that lingered, hanging in the air long after he was gone.

Tension Rising

Over the next few days, Johnny’s presence became harder to ignore. He would appear in the background of your meetings, always just out of reach. Every time you caught his gaze, there was something intense behind his eyes—something dangerous. It was as if he knew more than he was letting on.

One evening, as you worked late again, Johnny was the only other person left in the building. You had expected him to leave, but when you looked up, he was standing in the doorway of your office, watching you.

"You don’t give up, do you?" His voice was low, almost a whisper.

You felt a tightening in your chest as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I don’t. I need to finish this." Your tone was firm, but you couldn’t deny the slight nervousness creeping in.

Johnny walked closer, his movements fluid and controlled. "I admire that. But sometimes… the answer isn’t what you expect."

He was standing a few feet away now, his gaze fixed on you. There was something about the way he looked at you that sent a chill through your body.

"What are you saying?" you asked, voice low.

Johnny stepped closer, so close that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. "I’m saying you should be careful, detective. Some things are better left uncovered."

You swallowed hard, a knot forming in your stomach. There was a heavy silence between you, broken only by the sound of your breathing.

And then, before you could react, he was right in front of you, his hand brushing against your arm. The contact was electric, and you felt a pulse of heat shoot through you. You looked up into his eyes, searching for any sign of his intentions.

Johnny’s lips quirked into a small, almost knowing smile. "You think you can catch me, don’t you?"

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

The slow burn of tension between you and Johnny continued, like a thread that was growing tighter with each passing moment. You didn’t know why you couldn’t stop thinking about him. But every time he came near, that simmering unease—along with something else—pulsed between you.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you couldn’t shake the thought: What if he was the one you were chasing all along?

Only You Saw Me

The kiss deepened until it wasn’t a kiss anymore — it was a confession of everything you both had buried.

Johnny lifted you like you weighed nothing, setting you on the old wooden table in the center of the room, his hands firm but reverent on your waist. The tension between you snapped the moment your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him in close. His mouth dragged down your jaw to your throat, kissing with teeth, tongue, and heat.

"You don’t know," he rasped, pulling your shirt over your head, "how long I’ve needed this. Needed you."

Your fingers fumbled at his jeans, breath hitching as you felt him — big, hard, pulsing against your thigh.

He hissed as your hand brushed him, voice gravel in your ear. "You’ll ruin me."

His mouth found your breast, hot and open, tongue circling, sucking hard until you arched into him. Then he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, the other slipping past your waistband.

He found you soaked, panting, clenching at nothing.

"Already like this?" he growled. "All for me?"

You could barely speak. You nodded, gasping, body burning.

He yanked your pants down roughly, guiding himself to your entrance. "Eyes on me."

And when he pushed in — slow, thick, deliberate — your breath broke entirely.

You clawed at his shoulders. He groaned into your neck. "So damn tight," he gritted. "You’re mine now. You know that, right?"

You nodded frantically, crying out when he began to move. Fast, punishing thrusts that made the table creak beneath you. The slap of skin, the grip of his hands, the sting of every breath — it was rough but intoxicating. The way he bit your shoulder, licked over it, told you he was lost too.

He pulled out and spun you around over the table, tugging your hips back and sinking in again from behind with a loud groan. This time deeper, harder — you cried out his name, fingers scrabbling at the worn wood. He fisted your hair, pulling your head back as he snapped his hips into you with wild hunger.

"You take me so damn good," he grunted. "No one else. Only you."

Your legs trembled. The pleasure was overwhelming — and when he leaned over, hand sliding to your throat with just enough pressure to tilt your chin up, it pushed you to the edge. You came shaking around him, gasping like you’d been starved.

But he wasn’t done.

He turned you again, lifted you up onto him, and fucked you standing. Your back hit the wall, arms wrapped around his neck as you rode out his rhythm, overstimulated but too far gone to stop. His hands gripped your ass, bouncing you harder, faster, until he groaned like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

"Where do you want it, baby?" he asked, desperate.

You kissed him. "Inside."

He came with a loud moan into your neck, trembling, buried deep inside you as his body shook. You clung to him like gravity had disappeared.

Then he held you.

He sank to the floor with you still in his arms, your body limp against his, his hand brushing your hair off your sweaty forehead. He kissed your temple, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours.

"You okay?" he whispered.

You nodded, burying your face into his neck.

He cleaned you gently with his shirt, whispering praise like prayer. “So good for me… so beautiful, even now.”

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. His voice softened.

“I’ve done terrible things. But this—" he kissed your lips, slow, honest, “—this was the only thing that’s ever felt real.”

You hadn’t moved from his lap.

Johnny sat back against the wall with you curled into him, the early morning light creeping through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. His hand had never stopped stroking your back, like he feared you might vanish if he let go.

You didn’t speak. You couldn't. Your body ached in every delicious way imaginable, but your mind was at war.

He was a killer. You were a detective.

And you had just made love — no, fucked — like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

“I should arrest you,” you whispered.

Johnny laughed softly, but there was no mockery in it. “You should’ve done that the moment I had you against that table.”

You looked up, and his face was calm. Like a man who’d made peace with something, even if the world burned around him.

“You’re not afraid?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been running my whole life. I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid of you seeing who I was.”

You swallowed, throat tight.

“But you did,” he continued, brushing his fingers across your lower lip, “and you stayed.”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

“I don’t know what to do,” you said honestly. “You make me forget who I am.”

“No,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I make you remember who you really are.”

You stared at him, the man with blood on his hands and a heart that beat like it belonged to you. His touch was still gentle. Reverent. You realized his crimes weren’t just sins — they were shields. Walls he built around something soft.

You should’ve left.

Instead, you kissed him again — slow, searching, like maybe the truth lived somewhere between your lips.

The End.

___________________________________________

[hameesstuff]

"Trigger Discipline"

Title: "Trigger Discipline"

Word count: ~6.2k

Themes: Exes to lovers, Mafia, Violence, Soft Smut, Angst, Fluff, Almost death scene.

Preview: He’s dragged blood-soaked bodies through alleyways and whispered orders that ended lives. But nothing ever rattled Johnny like the new folder on his desk—one that read your name. You who once kissed his bloody knuckles and told him he was more than what the world made him. Now he’s ordered to erase you. The only woman he's ever loved.

But love doesn’t follow orders. Not even in the mafia.

___________________________________________

A Clean Shot

Johnny had a ritual when it came to bodies.

Late at night, when the streets fell silent and the city stopped pretending it was clean, he’d roll up his sleeves, light a cigarette, and handle the mess himself. It wasn’t about trust—though he had little of it—it was about control. About making sure every job ended with a period, not a question mark.

Tonight was no different. A warehouse. Concrete floors. One bullet to the head, another to the chest for good measure. He crouched beside the corpse in a black suit that didn’t wrinkle, pulled off his gloves, and stared into the glassy eyes of the dead man like he might confess something in his final silence.

He didn’t.

“You sure you wanna keep doing cleanup?” Doyoung’s voice echoed as he stepped into the dim light, arms crossed. “You’re the boss now. The man who orders the trigger, not pulls it.”

Johnny stood slowly, flicking blood off his gloves before tucking them into his coat pocket. “Sometimes I don’t trust the hands holding the gun.”

Doyoung raised an eyebrow. “That paranoia gonna kill you before anyone else does.”

A small smirk curled on Johnny’s lips. “Let it try.”

Two hours later, back at his office—top floor of a building people assumed was abandoned—he sat with a glass of whiskey and a stack of target folders. He wasn’t reading them. Not yet. He just liked the weight. The gravity of lives outlined in ink and photos.

Until one slipped free and landed face up.

Your face.

The glass in his hand didn’t fall, but his grip tightened. His throat clenched so hard he couldn’t breathe, like the past had reached out and wrapped its soft, familiar fingers around his neck.

You looked the same. Maybe prettier. Hair up in a lazy clip, a small crinkle at the edge of your smile as you knelt beside a child, their hands buried in paint. The caption on the photo:

Name: [REDACTED]. Status: Civilian. Occupation: Kindergarten Teacher. Priority: Immediate Termination.

Johnny didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared.

You hadn’t spoken in three years. He left you for a life he thought you’d never survive beside. You loved flowers and fairy lights and poetry about the moon. He left blood on his doormat every Thursday.

He should burn the file. Call it a mistake. Tell Doyoung he’d handle it and then vanish you to some new life in a different country, maybe.

But something in his chest—something he hadn’t felt since your bare arms wrapped around his torso in a summer rain—began to twist.

He leaned back, whispering like a curse:

“…Fuck.”

Paper Hearts, Loaded Guns

The street outside the school was quiet, dappled in soft morning light filtered through thinning spring leaves. Johnny stood across from the playground, silent, unmoving, the hood of his black coat casting a shadow over his eyes.

And there you were.

Bent over in a room full of color and chaos, gently tying the shoelaces of a boy who was crying too hard to speak. You whispered something—he couldn't hear it, but he didn’t need to. The child nodded, wiped his tears, and hugged you around the waist.

Johnny didn’t blink.

You hadn’t changed. Not in the ways that mattered.

Still pretty in the kind of way the world didn’t deserve. Still moved like the weight of the world was something you carried for others. Your hair was up in that loose twist you always did when you were focused. There were chalk marks on your skirt. Crayon smudges on your wrist. And somehow, it made you glow.

His fingers curled inside his coat pocket where the pistol rested, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth rising in his chest.

He’d forgotten how much he missed you.

He remembered the first time he kissed you.

He’d had blood on his hands that night too. You were barefoot on the kitchen floor in his apartment, laughing softly as you stirred noodles in a pot, humming something off-key.

“I’m dirty,” he had said, stepping in cautiously, fists clenched at his sides.

“I know,” you replied, and turned to look at him. “But I still want you to hold me.”

So he had.

And he hadn’t let go until the sun came up and his heart remembered it could still beat for something other than survival.

Now, watching you crouch by a chalkboard where your students had scrawled crooked letters, he felt the ghost of your fingers brush his again. The memory of your mouth against his jaw. The whispered I love yous in the kind of silence that made a man forget he was born into violence.

You were peace.

And you were on his list.

His phone buzzed in his coat.

Doyoung:

You’re dragging your feet. You said you’d handle it. HQ is breathing down my neck. We confirmed it—she’s the witness’ tie. Clean shot. No questions.

Johnny looked up at the classroom window. You were laughing now, hair falling out of its clip. A little girl placed a sticker on your cheek, and you didn’t remove it. Just smiled like joy was the most natural thing in the world.

That night, he didn’t drink.

He just sat at his desk, file open, staring at your name. Again. And again.

You were a teacher. A civilian. A bright spot in a world of darkness he’d willingly sunk into.

His thumb brushed your photograph.

The burn behind his eyes came fast.

He closed the file and whispered into the silence, “I’m not killing her.”

Even if it killed him.

The Man Behind the Bullet

Rain came hard that night—thick sheets against the glass, soft thunder rumbling like a distant war Johnny had already lost. The city was quiet in a way that made him restless. His office lights were dimmed low, his black shirt still clinging to him from the walk in. He hadn’t bothered drying off. He needed the cold.

The file sat open on the desk. Again.

Your photo stared back at him—head tilted, half-smile tucked into the corner of your lips like you were keeping a secret only he could ever understand.

Maybe you were.

Maybe that’s why it still hurt.

He hadn’t spoken your name aloud in years. Not since the night he left, standing in the doorway with his bag and his demons and that look on your face—the one that shattered him.

You never asked him to stay.

And he’d hated you for it.

But only for a day.

Then he hated himself.

Two years earlier

You’d been curled against his chest in bed, legs tangled together, rain tapping soft on the window.

“I can hear your heart when I lay here,” you’d murmured, fingertips grazing the tattoo over his ribs.

“It’s fast.”

“That’s just you,” he replied, kissing your temple. “You scare me.”

You smiled softly. “Why?”

“Because when I look at you, I start thinking about things I shouldn’t want.”

“Like what?”

“Like soggy pancakes with our lttle kids. Sunday mornings that aren’t covered in blood.”

You had gone quiet then. But not cold. You just whispered, “You deserve those things too, Johnny. Even if you don’t believe it yet.”

Now, in this office built on silence and fear, all he could hear was your voice—faint and warm and far too close.

He poured a drink. Didn’t sip it.

There was a knock at the door.

Doyoung stepped in, slicked with rain, holding a USB drive. “Final proof,” he said grimly. “Your girl was seen talking to the witness last week. Same bookstore. He was killed two days later.”

Johnny stiffened. “She’s a teacher. That shop’s on her route home.”

“She hugged him.”

Johnny looked up, slow and sharp.

Doyoung raised his hands. “I’m just saying. Boss, it doesn’t matter how she got tied to this. HQ wants it done. If it wasn’t you, they’d send Taeyong. And he won’t hesitate.”

The room grew still. Heavy.

Then Johnny said, voice low and hard, “If Taeyong touches her, I’ll put a bullet in his mouth.”

Silence.

Doyoung exhaled and leaned on the wall. “You never even told us why you left her.”

Johnny turned away. “Because I loved her.”

Outside, the rain had stopped.

And across the city, you were closing your classroom for the night, unaware of the storm circling your name. You packed up the glitter glue, hummed to the silence, then paused.

There it was again.

The ache in your chest.

Like someone you once knew was standing just outside the door.

Ghosts in the Doorway

It started with a knock.

You weren’t expecting anyone. It was nearly 9 p.m., and your apartment was tucked on the second floor of a quiet building that smelled like old books and warm bread. You were still in your soft house sweater—oversized, worn at the cuffs—curled on the couch with a mug of tea cooling in your hands.

The knock came again. Quiet. Firm.

You frowned, setting the cup down, the strange unease curling at the base of your neck. When you opened the door, the breath left your lungs.

Johnny Suh stood there.

Dripping rain onto your doormat.

Black coat. Black eyes. Hands stuffed in his pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still. You hadn’t seen him in three years, but God, he still looked the same—older around the eyes maybe, more carved at the edges—but still heartbreakingly him.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

For one long second, it was like the world had forgotten how to spin.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said first, voice low. Hoarse. Like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. “I swear.”

You didn’t move.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“I know.”

He exhaled, the weight of the universe in his shoulders. “But I needed to see you before they do.”

“Who?” you asked, even though part of you already knew.

He hesitated.

Then: “People who kill for less reason than I have.”

The silence between you turned thick. Heavy.

You stepped back without a word, and he followed you in.

Your apartment was small, warm. Familiar in ways that made his chest ache. You still kept candles on the windowsill. A bookshelf half-falling apart. A cat he didn’t recognize blinked up at him from the kitchen counter like it already hated him.

He stood in the middle of the living room, dripping on your rug, hands twitching.

You watched him carefully. “You said before they do.”

Johnny nodded once.

And then—for the first time—you saw it. The pain in his eyes. The guilt in the line of his jaw. The tight way he held himself, like he didn’t know if he was here to beg or bleed.

“They sent you,” you said softly.

Not a question.

He didn’t lie.

“Yes.”

The floor fell out from under you. But you didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stood there—arms crossed over your stomach like you were holding yourself together—staring at the man who once made you believe the world could be kind.

You let out a breath like it broke something inside you.

“Was I really ever just a job, Johnny?”

“No,” he said instantly. Stepped forward. “You were the only real thing I ever had.”

He didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

But he looked at you like a man memorizing every line of a poem he would never get to read again.

And then, finally: “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t care what they say. I’ll burn the whole organization to the ground before I let them touch you.”

You blinked.

“Why?” you whispered.

He looked wrecked when he said it.

“Because I still love you.”

Before the Fire Started

Three Years Ago.

The night before he left.

The city was asleep, but your apartment lights were low and golden. You stood in the kitchen wearing one of his old black shirts, too big on your frame, the sleeves rolled up as you swayed barefoot on cold tiles.

Johnny leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you stir soup in a chipped pot.

“You look domestic,” he teased softly.

You smirked without turning. “Don’t ruin it.”

He stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he knew this moment was borrowed time.

“I like it,” he murmured, now behind you. His arms wrapped gently around your waist. “You. Here. With me. Like this.”

You stilled in his hold.

Then slowly leaned back against his chest, letting the silence settle.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Everything in my world breaks. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

You turned then, both hands pressed to his chest.

“I won't, Johnny. Not when it’s you.”

He bent his head, forehead resting against yours.

“I don’t get to keep this life,” he said, barely audible. “The people I work for—they don’t let you have peace. Or light. Or love.”

You tilted your face up, eyes stinging.

“I don’t care.”

He smiled. Soft. Devastated.

“You should.”

That night, he made love to you like a man saying goodbye with every touch.

He memorized your breath, the way you whispered his name, the way your fingers gripped his shoulder when you came apart around him—like he was the only place in the world you felt safe.

He kissed your throat afterward, whispering, “I’ll never love again. Even if I live to be a hundred. There’s only you.”

You kissed his mouth to quiet the ache.

Now.

You stared at him in your living room, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. The hurt hadn’t dulled with time—it was just quieter now. Sharper in how it pierced.

He was still standing there, soaked and sleepless, looking at you like you were the only clean thing he had left in the world.

“I shouldn’t have left you like that,” he whispered.

You didn’t respond.

You just stepped closer—heart beating too loud—and reached up.

Your fingers brushed the scar under his jaw. One he didn’t have before.

He didn’t flinch.

“You still smell like smoke,” you murmured.

Johnny’s throat bobbed. “I never stopped burning.”

Between the Trigger and the Touch

You didn’t speak for a while.

Not after tracing that scar. Not after his breath hitched at your touch like he’d forgotten how to be held gently.

The room was quiet but charged. You turned away slowly, walking to the window, arms folding tight over your chest. The city lights blinked below, rain still glittering on the glass.

He didn’t move.

“I waited,” you said finally, voice like a scraped match. “For weeks. I thought maybe you’d knock again. Maybe you just needed space. But you didn’t even leave a note, Johnny.”

He exhaled sharply, pain twisting through his features. “I couldn’t. If I stayed—if I wrote, called, anything—they’d know you mattered. You’d be dead by now.”

You turned to him. “And now?”

“I don’t care anymore,” he said. “If I die protecting you, then I die doing the one good thing I’ve ever done right.”

Your breath caught.

Johnny stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, stopping a few inches from you. His voice dropped.

“I dream about you.”

You swallowed.

He kept going. “About what I left. About what I ruined. You cooking barefoot. Laughing. The way you used to fall asleep on my chest mid movie.”

Your lips twitched.

He saw it.

A faint, broken smile pulled at his mouth too.

And then: “Do you still listen to that stupid playlist? The one you made me for night drives?”

You blinked hard. “You remember that?”

“I remember all of it.”

Silence.

And then he said, quieter, “Do you want me to go?”

You could lie. You could say yes. You could ask him to disappear again so your heart didn’t have to remember how to ache.

But instead—

You reached for his hand.

Fingers lacing slowly. Trembling.

“No,” you said.

And he looked at you like he was about to fall to his knees.

When the Light Broke

You whispered, “Kiss me.”

And for a moment, nothing in the world existed except his lips brushing yours.

Slow. Reverent. Like he’d waited his entire life for that single contact.

It wasn’t just a kiss—it was an apology, a confession, a resurrection.

Your fingers trembled as they curled in his jacket. His hand cradled your jaw like you might disappear again if he held too hard. Your bodies hadn’t touched in years, but they remembered. His mouth moved like he was desperate to memorize you again.

You broke apart only to breathe. You were just about to say his name when—

The window behind you shattered into a thousand pieces. A blink. A sound like thunder swallowed in glass.

And then—

A burning punch to your side.

You gasped.

The air was gone. Your legs buckled.

Johnny caught you mid-fall, and suddenly the world was sideways. His arms tightened around your body, but your vision was already going soft at the edges.

“No.” His voice was jagged. “No no no no no—”

Your blood soaked through his hands instantly. Hot. Fast. Too fast.

He dragged you behind the couch in one fluid motion, his back shielding yours as more glass sprayed across the room—fragments glinting in the air like falling stars. But no more shots came. One bullet. One message.

You coughed. Choked on your own breath.

“Johnny…” you managed, voice like smoke.

He ripped his jacket off and pressed it to your side, hand shaking so violently he almost missed. “Stay awake. Don’t you dare fucking close your eyes—don’t you dare—”

Tears flooded your vision. Not from pain. From the sound of him. You’d never heard him sound like that.

Like he was dying too.

“Help’s coming,” he said. It wasn’t a promise. It was a prayer.

Your lips parted, blood trickling into your mouth.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wild, voice breaking. “I just got you back. I just got you back. Don’t leave me like this—not you—”

Your body was going cold.

But his hands never stopped holding you like they could pull your soul back in.

The Aftermath

The cold sting of antiseptic filled the air as Johnny rushed through the hospital doors, adrenaline still running through his veins, mixing with the heavy weight of panic.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be hurt.

He wasn’t supposed to be holding your bleeding body in his arms, fighting for your life in the back of his car. It wasn’t supposed to be real.

But it was.

He shouted for help as soon as the doors opened, his hands shaking so badly he could barely feel the blood on them anymore. Your blood. The warmth of it on his skin still burned like fire.

“Emergency!” he barked, voice cracking with desperation.

They moved fast, voices echoing in the chaos, and in the blur of rushing hands, he finally let go. Reluctantly. He stepped back, watching helplessly as the doctors and nurses surrounded you—working fast, speaking in quick, sharp commands. He was useless in this moment, and it tore him apart.

“She’s losing too much blood!” one of the nurses shouted.

Johnny barely registered their words as he stood, frozen in the doorway. His chest was tight, his throat clogged. His body was still shaking from the shock, but it wasn’t from fear anymore. It was from the guilt. The ache of knowing he might’ve just lost the one person who ever meant anything.

One of the doctors looked at him, eyes hard, and gave him a single, firm command.

“You need to leave. Now.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t fight. He turned, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders as he stepped into the sterile hallway, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts that couldn’t be caught.

The hours dragged by.

Johnny didn’t leave the hospital. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He just waited.

And waited.

By the time the sun cracked the sky and the sterile lights in the hospital halls flickered to life, his eyes were sunken. He’d spent all night pacing, trying to stay awake, to stay present. But a deep, gnawing dread crawled under his skin—the fear that you might not make it.

The sound of a door opening caught his attention. A nurse appeared, her face tired but calm.

“She’s stable.” she said, her voice soft. “She’s going to be okay.”

Johnny exhaled. It was like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath all this time. His heart beat again, and for the first time, the weight seemed a little less suffocating.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

“Can I see her?” he asked, voice raw.

The nurse nodded.

When Johnny walked into your room, the sight of you—pale, bruised, breathing steadily beneath the sterile white sheets—nearly broke him all over again.

You were alive. You were breathing. And that was enough.

He stood by your bedside for a long time, just watching you. His eyes tracing every inch of your face, memorizing every detail in case he never got the chance again.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, it wasn’t shock or pain that crossed your face. It was relief.

“Johnny…” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

He took your hand, fingers trembling as he gently kissed the back of it. “I’m here. I’m here.”

“Don’t leave.” You whispered, barely audible. The faintest of smiles curled your lips.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he whispered back.

And for that moment, it was enough. But not for long.

Hours later, you fell into a deep, healing sleep.

Johnny’s gaze lingered on your face one last time. He knew he should stay. He knew he shouldn’t go.

But there was something he had to do.

He quietly slipped out of the room, leaving a single kiss on your forehead, and as he walked down the empty hallway, the weight of the decision crushed him.

You’d live. You’d heal. But he couldn’t let this go.

Not yet.

The morning after, Johnny was already gone.

Blood Bath.

He didn’t wear gloves.

He wanted the blood on his hands.

Johnny didn’t knock when he entered the second-floor room of the warehouse. The metal door slammed open, a blinding flash of moonlight cutting across the shadows. Inside, the man who’d given the kill order—Leon Vargas—was seated at a round table, surrounded by half-empty glasses and two bodyguards.

Johnny didn’t hesitate.

Two bullets. Two guards dropped before they even reached their guns.

Vargas shot up from his chair, stumbling backward as Johnny strode in like death itself. Dressed in black, eyes cold, jaw tight—he looked like vengeance incarnate. His gun remained steady, a seamless extension of his fury.

“You shouldn't have touched her.”

“Johnny, wait—”

Johnny’s fist slammed into Vargas’ jaw, sending the man reeling against the wall. He followed him, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him down onto the table, glass shattering beneath the weight.

“Was it a message? Huh?” Johnny hissed, gun pressed to Vargas’ mouth. “That kindergarten teacher? My ex? That was the line you wanted to cross?”

“I didn't know—”

Another punch. This one split his lip.

“You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Vargas coughed blood, a shaky laugh escaping. “You went soft. Thought you needed reminding.”

Johnny froze for a moment. That laugh. That arrogance.

Then he smiled.

But it wasn’t kind.

He reached for a knife from his belt—cold steel glinting in the low light—and drove it into Vargas’ thigh.

Scream.

Vargas writhed beneath him, blood pouring down the chair leg.

“I haven’t gone soft,” Johnny whispered into his ear, voice calm and cold. “I’ve gotten worse. Because of her.”

He twisted the blade slowly, like he was savoring it.

“I love her. You made me bleed for her. Now you’ll drown in yours.”

He pulled the knife free, slick and dripping, then stepped back and emptied his entire magazine into Vargas’ chest.

The final shot went into his head. Point blank.

Johnny stared at the body, chest heaving, blood on his hands, his face, his soul. But his eyes were calm now. His monster fed.

He dropped the empty magazine, reloaded, and turned without looking back.

His hands were stained red.

And now, finally, so was his soul.

Epilogue: “The Quietest Thing”

The city was far behind them now.

Up in the hills, where the clouds rolled slow and the nights came soft, a quiet house sat tucked behind rows of apricot trees. It smelled like jasmine in spring and woodsmoke in winter. And tonight, it smelled like home.

Johnny stood barefoot in the hallway, shoulder against the frame of her bedroom door.

Inside, your daughter was curled up under a pink blanket, knees tucked to her chest, a stuffed rabbit clutched tight in her arms. Her hair fanned out across the pillow like ink in water—thick and dark, just like his.

You stood at her bedside, humming something faint as you tucked the blanket higher. The glow from the nightlight kissed your cheek, and Johnny felt it again—that quiet, shattering ache of love so deep it felt like forgiveness.

“She’s growing fast,” he whispered.

You turned to him, smiling gently. “She’s already smarter than both of us.”

“She’s got your heart,” he murmured.

“She’s got your fight.”

You walked over, sliding your hand into his. He kissed the back of it, eyes drifting back to the tiny body sleeping peacefully in the bed.

“She asked me today if you were a superhero,” you whispered. “Said you have hands like a soldier but eyes like a prince.”

Johnny swallowed. “What did you tell her?”

“I said no,” you said softly. “You’re not a superhero.”

His heart thudded. You leaned in.

“You’re her father,” you whispered. “That’s better.”

Outside, the wind danced through the trees.

In the living room, Doyoung was passed out on the couch, glasses askew, a coloring book open on his chest—one your daughter had abandoned halfway through. Crayons littered the floor. Classical piano music still hummed faintly from the kitchen speaker.

The home was chaotic in the way only happy homes are.

Johnny reached for you as you stepped into the living room, pulling you gently onto his lap as he sank into the armchair near the fireplace. You melted into him like you always did—like the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

“I thought the blood would follow me forever,” he murmured into your shoulder. “Even when I left, I thought… one day, she’d see it in me.”

“She won’t,” you whispered. “Because it’s not there anymore.”

He held you tighter.

“You gave her a different name than the one you lived under,” you said. “You gave her peace. You gave her a life.”

He looked up at you slowly, eyes glassy, voice raw. “You gave me a soul.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead to his. “And she gave us a forever.”

That night, as the fire crackled low and the world quieted, Johnny slipped into his daughter’s room one last time.

He kissed her forehead, brushed a curl from her cheek, and whispered the words he never thought he’d live long enough to say:

“I love you, little one.”

She stirred faintly in her sleep, a soft hum escaping her.

And in that moment, Johnny realized:

He’d never be a monster again.

Because the only thing he killed now—was the past.

The End.

___________________________________________

[hameesstuff]

Thousand Silent Frames

Pairing: Photographer! Jaehyun x Photographer! Reader x Architect! Johnny

Themes: Fluff, Slow Burn, Smut (not in this part), Slight jealousy?? Coworkers love, Childhood friends to lovers, Love triangle.

Summary: Jaehyun quietly harbors feelings for his coworker, capturing fleeting moments of her from behind the lens. But when her childhood best friend Johnny returns, full of effortless charm, the unspoken tension threatens to unravel everything.

Word count: ~3.1k

PART 1

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Light Leaks

The studio always smelled faintly like film—warm chemicals and the bite of fresh prints. You liked it. The quiet hum of creativity, the constant shuffle of ideas and cables, the unspoken understanding that sometimes silence spoke louder than direction.

Jaehyun wasn’t loud.

He was the kind of presence that filled a room without needing to speak. Always calm, always composed, his camera strap slung around his neck like it belonged there. The others called him "the human tripod" because he never missed a frame. You called him "Jae." He never corrected you.

You’d been working together for just under a year. Long enough to know he liked his coffee with one sugar. That he hummed under his breath while editing. That he got flustered when people complimented his work, brushing it off like it hadn’t taken him hours to perfect a single frame.

You were opposites. You were all instinct, chaos, and last-minute magic. He was precision, patience, and stillness. Somehow, it worked.

One afternoon, during golden hour, you stood beside him at the editing desk, reviewing shots from a brand campaign you’d both worked on. You pointed at one with a lopsided smile. “That shadow looks like a ghost.”

Jaehyun didn’t look up. “That’s the best one.”

“Of course it is,” you teased. “You like the weird ones.”

He glanced sideways, just for a second. “I like the ones that feel real.”

Something in his tone caught you off guard, but before you could reply, he clicked to the next image. The moment passed.

Over the months, you began to notice the little things.

He always took photos of the team, but there were more of you. Framed in natural light. Laughing off-guard. Walking away from the camera with your hair tangled in the wind.

He never showed them to you.

Once, while adjusting the studio lighting, you nearly tripped over a wire. He caught your elbow with one hand, quick and steady, and didn’t let go right away.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Just graceful as ever,” you joked, but your voice was quieter than usual.

He didn’t laugh.

He just looked at you like you were everything.

One night, you stayed late, finishing an edit that wouldn’t cooperate. Jaehyun sat across the room, headphones on, working through a set of portraits in silence. The only sound was the soft clicking of keys and the occasional creak of the old studio floor.

When you looked up, you caught him staring. His expression unreadable.

You raised an eyebrow.

He blinked, then smiled. “Sorry. Zoning out.”

But his ears were red.

You never asked.

He never told.

Things stayed in that delicate, unspoken balance.

Weeks later, long after the studio emptied out and the city hummed low under a spring night sky, Jaehyun sat alone at his desk.

The lights were low. His camera sat beside his laptop, still warm from earlier use. He scrolled through his camera roll slowly, carefully, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

One photo made him pause.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he closed the gallery and leaned back in his chair, the smile still lingering—soft, private, a secret folded into the quiet of the room.

He didn’t need to label it.

Some things weren’t meant to be said out loud.

Not yet.

Surprise Angles

The days that followed felt soft and stretched out—like light through a gauze curtain.

You and Jaehyun worked side by side through product shoots, gallery edits, and client briefs. He always kept a steady rhythm, never flustered, never impatient. You shared headphones sometimes, laughed over failed shots, and argued over color grading like it was a matter of national security.

Jaehyun didn’t say much outside work, but you noticed the quiet way he always offered you the better lens, how he stayed late if you were behind schedule. You noticed when he brewed a second coffee without asking. When his eyes found yours in a crowded room, holding for a second too long before flicking away.

It wasn’t spoken.

But it was there.

Or maybe it was just your imagination. You didn��t ask. And he didn’t say.

Then one Friday afternoon, everything shifted.

You were wrapping up a dull e-commerce shoot, kneeling on the studio floor and cursing your tripod’s loose leg, when—

“You haven’t changed at all!”

A voice.

Loud. Familiar. Impossible.

Before you could turn, two strong arms scooped you up and spun you around like a scene out of a cheesy drama. You shrieked—half laughing, half kicking—until you landed back on the ground, breathless.

“Johnny Suh?!”

“The one and only,” he grinned, arms still around your waist like he had every right.

He looked exactly the same. A little taller, maybe. More refined around the edges. But still Johnny—your reckless, ridiculous, ride-or-die from back when scraped knees and pinky promises were your whole world.

You hugged him again, tighter this time.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming!” you said, still stunned.

“Surprises are more fun,” he winked. “Besides, I owed you bubble tea and a decent hug. That one didn’t count—I caught you off guard.”

From across the studio, Jaehyun stood completely still.

Johnny didn’t leave your side for the rest of the evening.

He took over your chair, stole your cookies, poked around the camera gear, and made Jaehyun laugh twice with stories you’d completely forgotten.

The three of you went out for dinner that night. Just like old times. Except it wasn’t.

Because Jaehyun didn’t speak much after the third time Johnny casually tucked your hair behind your ear mid-conversation.

You didn’t notice.

But Jaehyun did.

Over the next week, Johnny started showing up more often.

He took you out for midnight walks and spicy tteokbokki, sent you memes at 2am, dragged you to vintage shops and old haunts you’d forgotten you even missed.

Jaehyun didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t ask where you were or why you were laughing more.

But when you came back to the studio late one night and found him still editing, his voice was quieter than usual.

“You’ve been busy lately,” he said without looking up.

You blinked. “Yeah… Johnny’s only here for a while. I haven’t seen him in years.”

He nodded, mouse still clicking.

You waited.

He didn’t say anything else.

But later that night, long after you left and the studio went dark, Jaehyun opened his camera roll again.

There you were.

Smiling at Johnny. Laughing in the street. Caught mid-spin, your face lit up like you’d swallowed the sun.

Jaehyun stared at the photo.

And this time, the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Out of Frame

It started small.

Missed cues. Interrupted conversations. A strange stillness whenever the three of you were in the same room.

Johnny was all light and movement, a walking sunbeam who flung himself into your orbit like he belonged there. And maybe he did. You laughed louder when he was around. Smiled wider. You always had. Jaehyun had no right to feel… anything.

But he did.

Like when you handed Johnny your camera with a grin and said, “Trust you with my baby,” and Jaehyun’s jaw tightened. Barely. But it did.

Like when Johnny rested his chin on your shoulder during a shoot and you didn’t flinch. Like when you leaned into his side during lunch without thinking. Like when you stopped asking Jaehyun if he was walking home, because Johnny already had the keys in his hand.

“Can you hold the reflector?” Jaehyun asked one afternoon. His voice was sharper than usual, cutting through the music in the studio.

Johnny, sprawled on the couch scrolling his phone, looked up. “You’ve got two arms, don’t you?”

Jaehyun’s eyes didn’t leave the viewfinder. “I asked her.”

You blinked, caught in the middle. “I got it,” you said, moving automatically.

Johnny sat up, brows raised. “Touchy today, huh?”

Jaehyun didn’t respond. His fingers moved fast, steady. But when he showed you the test shot, you could see it—his hands had trembled slightly. The focus was off.

He didn’t say why he deleted the photo without saving it.

Later that evening, Johnny dragged you out to a rooftop bar after hours. The city shimmered beneath you, cold air curling around your ankles. He bought you a drink, one of those syrupy citrus things you always loved, and leaned in close as the music played low.

“You ever think about coming back to Chicago?” he asked, chin propped on his palm. “Could open a studio there. Just us.”

You laughed. “You still hate cold weather.”

“I’d suffer for you.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a warmth in your chest you couldn’t quite name.

Jaehyun stayed behind that night, alone in the studio. He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t check yours.

He just worked—layer after layer, edit after edit—until his eyes burned and his throat was dry.

At some point past midnight, he accidentally opened a folder labeled with your initials.

Unedited candids. Photos you didn’t know existed.

He stared at them for a long time, then slowly hovered over the delete button.

He didn’t press it.

The next day, Johnny walked in like he owned the place—laughing, easy, unbothered. Jaehyun was already at his desk, headphones on, pretending not to notice.

You came in two minutes later, cheeks pink from the wind and your smile still lingering from something Johnny had said.

Jaehyun didn’t look up.

Not even when you called his name.

That tension settled like dust. Invisible. Heavy. Slow.

Jaehyun stopped staying late.

Johnny started coming more often.

And you—

You didn’t notice how Jaehyun watched the two of you.

Or how his hands curled into fists behind his back whenever Johnny spun you around without warning.

You didn’t see the photo he’d taken the day before—just the edge of your sleeve, blurred in motion, a ghost caught mid-laugh.

A perfect accident.

Or maybe it wasn’t...

PART 2 TOMORROW!

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[hameesstuff]

Hi. Can I request for the neos having some routine check-up in the hospital/company and the doctor is y/n? I am a doctor and I've always thought what if the boys suddenly are in my clinic. The thought sometimes helped fuel me up when I was assigned to the ER during my residency. 😄🙈 I love love love the doctor jaehyun fic, by the way. I think I read it 4 times alr. Thanks for that!

Heyyy! Im happy to hear that you enjoy my stories, I'll definitely cook up a good fic with the prompt you gave me no worries <3

Would you like it just as individual reactions or one where a member falls for yn lol (like an actual long fic)?❤

[hameesstuff]

Hii I really really like your arranged marriage writing trope for jaehyun, I don’t want to seem annoying but will there a longer fic or series for that particular trope? 👉👈

Heyyy! Oml yess that's a great idea actually. And dw you're nowhere near annoying.😘

I'll definitely work on that (I promise). I'm also currently working on a Johnjae series so stay tuned! Hehe!💗💗

[hameesstuff]

As somebody who works with kids, the last fic wrecked me. I want to thank you for confronting head on this VERY impt message of protecting children. They are not fucking toys and their "no's" do matter whether they are 3 or 30 (LOVED that line). Yay for daddy/hubby Jae in this one. ILY not just for feeding us so much with quality fics, but for the mssgs like this too.

Thank you😘...I've been wanting to plaster attention on overlooked topics like this. It's quite literally NEVER talked about in our community nowadays and that's honestly a problem. Plus it's sadder since their little minds don't know what to comprehend of the situation.😔