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headlinxr · 4 days ago

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HACKER!STEPBRO HEESEUNG - TRAPPED.

The one where your antisocial stepbro pretends he's not obsessed—while secretly hacking you, jerking off to your secrets, and discovering about your desire. He’s obsessed… And you'll use it.

BEST TO READ IN DARK MODE FOR EFFECTS

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! mdni!, smut, angsty toxic Heeseung, obsessive, psychosexual dark vibes step bro Heeseung, stalker heeseung, if I can't have you no one can typpa heeseung, deep voyeurism kink, needy/pervy/manipulative reader, strong depiction of fantasies, sexual tension, consensual edging, p in the v, overstimulation, , light choking, public act, bad behavior's reader.

WORDCOUNT ↠ 9k (not proof read enough.. damn...)

Was literally obsessed with those two songs when writing this : https://open.spotify.com/intl-fr/album/4OFZVvqlg84Czl7td7XddK?si=rakigTTnSJyY8CnPyp8A7w

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Heeseung barely glanced up the first time you met.

Not when your mom introduced you, her laugh sharp and grating over the clink of designer glassware. Not when she called you her little angel, like she hadn’t spent the last decade ignoring your existence—like a piece of cloth begging to be brought back just because it’s trendy now. And definitely not when you smiled at him like you actually meant it.

He just slouched further into his hoodie—hood up, sleeves covering half his hands like armor. Said something that might’ve been “hey,” but it sounded more like: I don’t give a shit.

You smiled anyway. Quiet, composed. Like you didn’t notice he hadn’t met your eyes yet, hadn’t even registered the color of his irises. He had a good face, for sure. And a nice name. Heeseung. Hee—seung.

Let’s try not to forget it…

He’s Heeseung—the one who doesn't match the luxury flooring or manicured smiles. Heeseung, who looked more interested in his phone screen than the pricey piece of steak he’d just been served.

You—

You were different. And Heeseung noticed.

Because other girls—especially the daughters of his father’s revolving door of Stepford wives—always played the same game: almost flirty, too fake, self-obsessed, and excited to be part of the family. You… you were calmer. Almost shy. Ashamed to even call your mom “Mom.” You were also interested in his presence—lightly tapping his foot with yours, giving him those apologetic doe eyes, like: Sorry that my shameless mom got a grip on your already-married dad just to milk him dry…

But it’s not like he divorced his mom for yours. And it’s not like you were the first one. Generally, the other step-siblings never asked about him. Never cared to know what lay beneath the hoodie-tortured-kid style he wore like armor.

You?

You looked at him like he was a person. Like you saw something he didn’t even believe was still there. And with months—and then a year—maybe… you liked what you saw.

You asked questions. Not the fake kind. Real ones.

“You coded that game on your own?”

“You really won a national contest?”

“That glitch mechanic you added… did you write it from scratch?”

He wasn’t used to that kind of attention. Not anymore.

You leaned over his laptop one afternoon, wide-eyed, genuinely impressed. Your breath was warm on his shoulder, the scent of vanilla and soft detergent clinging to your hoodie—one he was almost sure used to be his.

“You’re kind of a genius,” you’d said, and smiled that smile. Soft. Easy. Like you weren’t afraid of him.

Because why would you be? You were always so nice and caring to him. You’d bring him a plate of food when his dad never cared to check even once. Leave Post-its with sweet pep talks before exams—ones that made him smile for the first time in a decade. Sit silently beside him after he got scolded for placing second on the honor board. Your hand, always soft and peach-scented, would stroke his hair like he wasn’t eight months older. And your eyes—so sweet when they met his.

You weren’t supposed to make him feel things.

And he wasn’t supposed to want someone like you.

But there you were. Not just prim—but infuriatingly so. You weaponized it. You made being stuck-up look like a goddamn virtue. All perfect posture and polite smiles. Still, something was off. Like how you made him open up to you, but never really talked about yourself—your life, your past. Always mysterious, always evasive when he got curious, always turning the tables on him.

You… you made him feel watched. Seen. Known. And he didn’t like not knowing you back. Because he needed to know everything. It was pathological. Every variable that could disturb his life. Every secret. And you—you were the unknown variable. The only one he couldn’t figure out.

And the worst part?

Heeseung couldn’t match you. He wasn’t good with people. Never had been. Getting you to open up? Never happening. He even got tense in crowds. Even if girls liked him, he couldn't maintain relationships beyond hookups. He could throw a punch, sure—but he'd rather let the other guy walk off with a smirk, too bored to bother.

But he was good at something: systems. Code. Surveillance.

So he broke the rules he’d promised himself he wouldn’t—with you.

He hacked your devices.

He shouldn’t have connected to them. Shouldn’t have hijacked your phone. Shouldn’t have hacked your webcam feed like it was just another game level to conquer.

It started innocent—ish. Really. Just some harmless digital snooping. New mother, new stepsister, weird vibes, potential threat to his peace and privacy—totally justifiable.

But your passwords were laughable. The kind of thing a middle schooler could crack.

Seriously. “Bookworm123”?

Please.

After all he was Mr. Cybersecurity Prodigy. Award-winning code monkey. VPN for his VPN, two-factor-auth god.

And he peeked. Just a little…

Your instagram private account, that your mom swore you didn’t have because “socials medias was too destructive for her future doctor of a child.”

Your spotify. Pinterest boards. You’re files.

like essays about behavioral neuroscience and a note named “journaling” : Plans. Rage. Angry rebellion written between textbook reviews. Your escape plan : college far away, control of your own life, zero influence from Barbie and her string of Stepdads. How you craved more. Your identity crisis, GPA fetishist, and how competitive you were to the point of mania. Basically, a mirror of Heeseung in the shape of someone who tried to play the hero of his narrative.

Then, it got worse.

Because curiosity became fixation. He was too deep for it not to be.

On sleepless nights, Heeseung discovered things he absolutely shouldn't.

That his straight A’s and volunteering hours stepsister — was actually sneaking off to frat party with her friends, just feel alive, get waisted and let some sophomore finger her.

The music you fall asleep to, your “fuck” playlist too — the one you wouldn’t admit to owning even under threat of death.

That habit of yours to flirt with strangers like you had a death wish or just want to be ruined so badly being jailed would be for your own good.

That you send cropped pics, no face — just enough tits and thighs, to creeps then ghost them when they beg to meet, just to feel seen.

And he knew the kind of porn you watched on school nights, after wishing him sweet dreams. Earphones on, lips between your t-shirt collar like you’re scared someone might hear you in that big mansion. And what killed him is how fucking rough it is. Spit. Hair-pulling. Throat-fucking. Girls like you weren’t supposed to want that. Girls like you were supposed to blush and look away, like when he got too close. You’re supposed to be horrified at things like that — not get off to it at 1:38 a.m.

He discovered your texts with that secret boyfriend of yours. How badly he treated you—and how you let him, just to feel owned, loved. He knew when you snuck in those late-night FaceTimes, shirt half-off, hand between your thighs, playing the loyal girlfriend for him and his pathetic dick.

And Heeseung? He was obsessed with that version of you—the one he didn’t even dare to fantasize about, yet you handed to him on a silver plate.

Your self-care sessions got him hard under his desk. Got him jerking off to the way your fingers curled around your own throat in the dim hue of your bedroom, playing at power, pretending you didn’t crave being broken open.

You were too good at pretending. Sitting across from him, blouse crisp, smiling like a poetry award was the climax of your week. What a goddamn lie.

But at least he’d seen you now. Most of you. And he understood better. Understood your issues. But something in him snapped. Because this wasn’t just about obsession anymore. It wasn’t about lust. Or even protection.

It was about you.

And how you made him feel real again.

How you gave him a purpose.

You didn’t flinch when he glared. Didn’t avoid him at dinner. You just smiled, slid him your extra fries, and asked about the AI competition like it mattered. You looked at him like he was a person. Not a project. Not a problem. Not a hacker. Not a delinquent. Not some mistake his father regretted.

And that… made you dangerous. Because now you were a necessity. Something—someone—he cared about. He did want to protect you.

But he also wanted to own you.

To erase the line between your bedroom and his. Between your thoughts and his access. Between your gasps at night and his name.

You weren’t supposed to get close. You weren’t supposed to care.

And he wasn’t supposed to fall for you.

Fall for you?

...

But now what ?

You were the virus in his system.

The girl who said “good job” when he didn’t ask for praise. Who laughed when no one else did. Who touched his shoulder once—just once—and left him with a twitch in his fingers he couldn’t debug.

But you were a line of code he couldn’t rewrite. A live feed he couldn’t turn off.

And maybe, if he watched long enough—if he memorized every breath, every sigh, every single unguarded look—you wouldn’t disappear like the others.

Maybe, if he learned your pattern…he could break you open before you broke him.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d want him to. Even if it meant losing something. Even if it meant pulling you into the dark with him… and never letting you go.

Now you were sitting across from him. You spare him a glance while structuring your salad like a freak, with those doe eyes and he’s hard. Hard at a family dinner while they talked business.

Suddenly his breath catches your feet touching under the table. Like questioning, you good ?

Yeah it’s me, Heeseung. That sweet voice of yours haunting his head.

His foot slides slower in between your legs mindlessly and when you almost jolt, he realizes.

“gotta go sleep.” he blurred, rushing off the table. “Tomorrow is exam day.”

Fuck, he wants more. More of your secrets.More of you—the real you.

So he turned on your webcam, night after night, and your phone’s, and tab. like you were his favorite streamer, his favorite radio mc, the best sound to sleep. Like you wanted him to fantasise, think of it every night…

You were stretched across your bed, laughing into your phone, wearing nothing but a tank and panties, circling your finger on your belly mindless. The way girls do when they forget they’re being watched.

You laid out your clothes for the next day like some little honor-roll princess—giggling when your friend called you a chaebol, and you shrug her off.

But the way you lingered on the lace you never wear… the silk you only sleep on alone… the sheer pieces he has never seen— holding them up to your chest, slow movements like the reflection was his to tell you what to wear. It was fucking foreplay. You were a fucking siren, with your fucking hair finally down, and those dumb big scare glasses off.

And him ?

Heeseung…

He was already crashing on the rocks. He was a black-hat addict no-full-blown cyber-pervert. rock hard, mindlessly stroking his bulge at the sheer form of you in unmatched underwears.

So innocent. So mine.

Some days later, you knocked on his door while your parents were off circling the globe, allergic to stillness and obligations. Your hair was tied up but messier than usual, cheeks sun-kissed, eyes almost red—like you’d cried.

God, if someone made you cry… I’d kill them.

You held two glasses of soda, dripping with condensation. No way you could deny you’d been pacing by his door for the last hour.

“What are you up to, genius? I’m bored,” you said, voice half-curious, half-something else.

Heeseung—fool, addict, liar—let you in. Let you get too close. Showed you things he shouldn’t because you asked with that look that made him feel like a god, not a glitch. But also made him wonder who had made you sad enough to want to change your mind.

Still, you smiled at his screens like they were art. Touched his keyboard like it was sacred. No step-sister had ever looked at him like that before—hell, no one actually had. Fuck, he needed to focus. Focus on you, not you.

“You really made all this?”

He nodded, trying not to smirk, trying not to shake. His fingers danced across the keys like a seduction.

“Wanna see something fun?”

A window blinked open. He typed some commands, and grainy footage appeared: the neighbor’s yard. Middle-aged man with hedge clippers, snipping bonsai like manicuring his soul.

He tapped more keys. Suddenly, sprinklers roared to life. The neighbor shrieked, dropped the shears, and bolted.

You burst out laughing, collapsing into him, palm against his chest. That sound—reckless, sweet—made something snap inside him. It wasn’t just pride. It was possession. You weren’t weirded out. You liked it. Liked him. Not the fake polite way. The way that made him want to caress your cheek and kiss those red eyes.

But he was a coward—or your strongest soldier, as he liked to call himself. One who wanted you close, for good, not some fling you’d regret like the others he barely tolerated. No, he wanted you for life—and he was in the perfect position, as long as your parents behaved.

Then your eyes met. Dangerous idea sparking. You dared him with your gaze, then dashed out of his room.

“Try it on my bedroom camera!” you shouted, disappearing down the hall, hoodie flapping like a flag.

Fuck. If only you knew he was already connected.

Moments later — Cam03: Her Bedroom Feed lit up.

You stood in front of the lens—he used to fuck himself to thoughts of you—starry-eyed as he purposefully reactivated the red dot, signaling it was on. Made a mental note to re-enable it later.

You waved. Smiled like sin. Mouthing: “See me?”

He choked. Because yes—he saw you. Always had. But now? Now you saw him.

Like you always knew.

You reached for your top, lifted the hem just enough to flash bare skin, then darted out of frame, laughing like it was a game.

His chest burned. Panic and arousal mixed in his bloodstream like a drug. Heeseung’s brain broke.

But he didn’t shut it down. He couldn’t. Instead, he gave in. His trembling fingers dimmed your room’s lights, shifting godspeed to soft pink. He knew it was your favorite. Knew too much.

Then he started your playlist—the one with soft beats, gentle melody, moonstruck, your favorite.

You paused in the doorway. Turned just enough for the camera to catch you again. Smiled with pure fascination, like a kid. You should’ve been afraid. But you weren’t.

You looked at the cam again, really looked, like he was the sweetest boy, and you didn’t care much what he was capable of—because it was him.

You walked back to his door, dripping sunlight and mischief.

“That was so cool,” you said, high-fiving him like your heart wasn’t thundering. Like you hadn’t just exposed the darkest part of him and come back wanting more. “Can you, like… track people? Their phones or whatever?”

Heeseung blinked. “I-if their GPS is on. Or if they ping the network.”

You tilted your head. Bit your lip. “…Wanna play hide and seek?”

He scoffed in disbelief, but there was a glint behind his eyes—half challenge, half thrill. Like he’d just been dared to play a game he already knew the rules to.

He grabbed his laptop. The mansion was too big. Too full of shadows, quiet corners. A maze of marble, high ceilings, inherited guilt.

Heeseung sat somewhere, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

You texted him: “find me.” One signal. One flare. Then silence.

He tracked you through your phone GPS—chose not to use the hallway cams, even though he easily could have. Something intimate, invasive, about watching your little red dot move on his map. Every time he walked to you was an ode to the game only you two could play.

Library.

“Checkmate. You’re here.”

“Wow! So you really can!”

West Wing.

“If I’m facing a mirror, it’s too easy… not even fun.”

“Fuck…”

Wine Cellar.

“If you’re trying to get drunk, pick the 2007 Bordeaux.”

You laughed.

The pool.

He stuck to the GPS. The red dot blinking. Stalling. Then disappearing.

You texted: “find me now.”

His screen dimmed like the whole house was holding its breath.

Heeseung’s pulse quickened. GPS cut out. No new pings. He tried again. Twice. Three times. Nothing.

Every nerve in his body was a wire of curiosity. The air heavy with chlorine and humidity as he stepped toward the pool deck, leaving his computer by the bar.

Then he found it—your phone, face down on the stone near the pool.

But you, where—

“Got you!” You leapt.

Laughter, bare legs, hoodie off. Heeseung didn’t have time to react before you crashed into him—both of you tumbling into the water with a splash that shattered the silence.

You surfaced first, grinning like a devil. “You can’t find me if I don’t want you to, huh?” you teased, flicking water at him.

Heeseung stared at you, laughing mid-cough. Clothes heavy. Hair plastered to his forehead. The water clung to your skin in a way that made his hands twitch under the surface. You floated closer then. Then reached out and hooked your fingers in his bangs, stroking them like you always did. Then tugging gently.

“How about I cut your hair?” you whispered, too close to him not to have his eyes linger on your lips. “We’re starting university soon. Can’t show up like some code-goblin, right?”

He snorted. But you two didn’t move. Just watched each other's souls for too long. Heart hammering. Skin burning. You were in his pool. In his arms now. In his system.

“Are you okay?”

He, with the most considering eyes a family member ever gave you. But you just nodded to his biggest displeasure. Something was wrong, yeah.

Actually, everything was wrong. And surely something was wrong with you. You felt trapped. In your studies, in your relationship, in these always-new families, in your boring unstable life. You wanted more. More attention, more love, more recognition, more freeness, just more…

You weren't special like Heeseung. You couldn’t clap your fingers and get that video back from your so-called boyfriend—he threatened to leak it if you ever thought of leaving him again. Couldn’t clap your fingers and make a scholarship appear on your forms for university, and couldn’t clap your fingers to make you go to your best choice without the biggest loan you can think about.

But it was better to tell him everything was okay. Because if you didn't fake it… you’d be dead by now.

And maybe it’s the weather, or his concerned look, or his trembling hands on your ribs—not too low, not too high. But it felt good being with Heeseung, even better seeing the way he looked at you—you really had a problem.

“Can you… like… if I ever asked you…”

“What?” He came closer, almost locking in his hands. “Tell me…”

“If someday I needed you, would you… like… help me if I have something very complicated to solve... like… you know, math.” You laughed it off like you weren't about to ask him to get that sextape back.

He nodded so obediently it hurt. Fuck, you had him in the palm of your hand without doing anything more than just letting him watch. Deny his ever-growing desire. Playing this game you caught him in.

Yeah… maybe you really were what your mom made out of you… sadly.

After that, Heeseung was like a man on a mission. He hacked every piece of info he could find on that deep shit. Until he found it… your complicated math exercise…

A tap of you and him. Filmed like you weren’t aware of it. Heeseung couldn’t find the courage to watch it…

Until he did.

And it was everything he ever fantasized doing with you.

I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him.

That guy needed to be out of your life.

Now.

He could frame him for anything he wanted. Crash his Tesla. His mind was spiraling as he bit on his nail, replaying that video again and again and again. Zooming on you.

I’ll protect you.

First, you needed an escape. Easy—that guy already cheated on you with so many girls, it was easy for you to catch him. So he wrote a fantasy he hoped you’d fall for. He drafted messages from your bf’s phone. A fake date. Something sweet, just enough like your boyfriend to pass.

“Meet me tonight baby girl. Just us. Let’s talk. 9PM. My room.”

“Baby girl…” you hated that name, but still couldn’t refuse him. And now Heeseung understood.

You saw it, and for a second, you believed. He watched you re-read it, then start getting ready—lip gloss, that fluttery dress, even that nervous little smile like it still meant something.

Meanwhile, your boyfriend was across campus, buried in someone else. Moaning her name. Careless, as always.

Heeseung watched it all—your hope fading when you opened that door, his betrayal, his choke. Your silence. Her grasp. One earbud in, one eye on every camera feed you both could offer.

You left the place in a rush, your phone starting to buzz as Heeseung watched every message your now-ex boyfriend sent you. You found yourself drifting in a club. You needed air, music, and drinks.

The music wasn’t even that good, your drink, not that strong. You didn’t plan to dance. And you didn’t plan for some no-brain guy with smooth hands to hit on you.

And you almost let him have his way near the bathrooms. Just to forget the sound of your phone. Forget that you had to go back to that guy until he decided he’d had enough or leaked the tape.

Almost.

Until Heeseung’s hand was on your wrist, showing up out of nowhere to pull you away.

“Heeseung?”

He got you out of the club, his hand digging into your wrist. The car ride was dead silent. Heeseung looked pissed. You were hollow, but not dumb. And you let him snap.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer.

“... Don’t you have a bf?”

Still silent. Tears welled up before you could blink them back, and Heeseung was at a loss for words. Yeah, it was that easy to shush him—crocodile cries easy.

“Stop crying…” he muttered, but he looked panicked now. Like your tears were acid on his skin. “Tell me what’s going on?”

Like he didn’t know.

But you had to play it well. Make him do it tonight, and no other night.

“He cheated…”

“Then leave him…”

“I can’t…” Hee looked at you with fake wonder. “He filmed me once�� and…”

He nodded, enough to tell you you didn’t need to keep going.

When you got home, Heeseung took your hand before you stormed into your room, and he watched you—really watched—and got in a hug. Caressing your hair, getting closer to your ear, “I'll help you.”

You almost feared he could feel your smile. You detached your head with the saddest questioning expression.

“I’ll protect you,” he said, the heaviest stare he ever gave you.

You just nodded like you weren’t expecting much. When you actually wanted exactly what he gave you.

Back in your room, you kept re-seeing Heeseung’s expression. Almost mad, almost dangerous.

And you. You wanted more. You wanted everything—not just protection, but revenge. Revenge for the time you lost on that guy, for your virginity you couldn’t bring back, for the stress… for everything.

So you opened your laptop. Placed your phone next to it like it’s part of the performance. You know he’s watching.

You know.

Heeseung, on his part, got in his room ready to execute the next part of his plan when the ping of your camera alerts him. But tonight is not the night. After seeing you like that, he doesn't want to do that.

So he started to undress. Until—

“Heeseung?”

His head snapped to his monitor. WTF.

“You’re here, no? I mean, you’re watching.”

He almost fell on the ground, unable to walk straight to his computer.

What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What?

The webcam light doesn’t flicker on right away when you open it.

You look at your reflection. This webcam is better than the last time you used it. Wide-angle. Pretty high-def. You can see almost your entire room. Bed. Closet. Console. The mirror angled just right to show the bathroom.

God. You made it so easy for him.

You let your fingers lazily drift to your dress straps. In a slow reveal. You watch yourself in the camera—legs tucked just right to keep mystery intact. Eyes locked on the return. You open your—

“You like it when I do that?” You looked almost innocent doing it. What the fuck were you doing, Heeseung’s mind screamed. “You want more?”

Heeseung was stunned. Too many questions. Too many desires.

He didn’t even respond, his hand mindlessly disconnecting your camera’s red dot and reconnecting again like Morse.

“Then ruin him for me. Make him as ashamed as I was.”

You were pulling his obsession like strings. A puppet master in silk cloth. The light on the webcam flickered once again.

You smiled, slowly nodding. “Good night, Heeseung.” Shut it all down.

By morning, half the campus was infected with a juicy little virus: dozens of very compromising photos of your now-ex, including a special feature of him being pegged by none other than his mom’s best friend.

Iconic.

The breakup text? Already sent. Blocked him before your brain even had a chance to process.

You didn’t see him all day. No dinner, no open door when you brought snacks. Nothing.

Maybe you really fucked up. Poor Heeseung, thinking you were innocent, only to find out you were just like everyone else—grey, messy, complicated.

But just before bed, your phone lit up. A note. Your password written clear on the screen.

You sat frozen, eyes flickering between the note that started typing on its own, and the webcam pointed right at you.

“I’ll always protect you.”

Then, an mp4 file popped up. Your lips curved into a shy smile.

You almost said something, but instead, you tapped beneath his words:

“Thank you, Heeseung. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t there.”

The cursor blinked, paused—like he was thinking hard about what to say next.

“I protect what’s mine.”

Your eyes drifted to the webcam. “Am I?”

“Aren’t you?”

Your gaze dropped shyly, biting your lip to keep the smile from slipping out. Fuck, it was hot—this obsessive, protective boy who’d kill for you.

“I am…” you breathed, fingers playing with the thin straps of your dress.

“Maybe?”

Slowly, you peeled it off. No bra. No panties. Just you—bare, glowing in the soft light of your screen.

Heeseung’s side: panting mess. Trembling. Rock hard. Watching was always intense, but this? His brain shorted out. Every movement you made poured fuel on the fire in his chest—the way you loosened your hair, slid off your glasses, shy but teasing.

Your voice slipped through his headphones like a spell.

“Tell me what you want,” you breathed. “I’ll do it. As a thank you.”

He was nearly feral, watching you perched like a dream made just for him. But now you wanted him to take the lead. For once, you wanted control handed over.

And for a long, heavy moment, silence.

Then, a new line in your notes:

“Anything?”

You nodded, lips parting.

Another line.

“Touch yourself.”

“For me.”

You rose, heading for your bed.

Then:

“No. Here.”

You sat back down. Fully exposed. The chair never felt colder. The electricity on your skin was undeniable—the weight of someone watching, devouring every move.

You shivered. Something folded inside, vulnerable but not scared.

Then your screen flickered.

A video opened.

Porn.

But not just any porn. A girl like you—same frame, soft lighting. She was in a gaming chair, legs parted, cat headphones, a pink toy buzzing between her thighs. Moaning like she’d been waiting for eyes to watch.

You blinked. The message was loud and clear.

Your breath caught—not shocked, but challenged.

Back to the webcam—doe eyes, tempted. Your fingers traced lower, hips shifting, copying her exact position. Mimicry never felt so twisted.

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers moved.

Heeseung watched like it was a live confession. Pupils dilated, chest heaving, gripping himself tight, trying not to explode too soon.

A message appeared:

“Slower.”

You obeyed, breath shaking, already slick with every stroke.

Another message:

“Fuck, you’re shaking.”

You were. Legs twitching, spine arching against the chair.

You never thought you’d go this far, but he was puppeteering you with his commands.

Then:

“I’ve never seen you like this. Fuck. I want to cum in you. In that chair. Just like that.”

You groaned, eyes fluttering shut, but forced them open—locking onto the lens like it was him.

Another message:

“I want you ruined. For anyone else. Say it.”

You moaned, fingers freezing.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

“Say it again,” he typed.

“I’m yours, Heeseung.”

The pressure built—right at the edge—

Then:

“Stop.”

“Don’t cum.”

Your breath hitched. You froze mid-stroke, legs trembling.

Another line:

“I said stop. If anyone makes you cum tonight—it’s me.”

Your fingers hovered, shaking. The ache burned deep in your thighs, stomach taut.

But you stopped.

Because his word mattered more than your desire now.

Your screen blinked.

“Get your toy.”

You swallowed, nodded, reached into your drawer.

The vibrator was familiar—sleek, pink, faintly scented from your date-night oil. You rubbed it, coating it with your wetness, then slid it slowly inside, breath heavy.

Then the toy buzzed. Flickered. Came alive.

You gasped—he was controlling it.

Before you could say a word, it pulsed hard. Your body jerked, chair creaking beneath you. Your grip tightened on the arms as pleasure rolled through you like a whip.

“That’s it,” he typed. “Don’t touch it. Just take it.”

You moaned—too much, too fast—your body trembling, legs spreading without control. The sounds you made were filthy, desperate.

Heeseung’s fingers typed again.

“Grip the chair.”

You obeyed.

The toy buzzed harder, relentless and cruel.

“Look at the camera.”

Tears pricked, but you held his gaze—through that little glowing lens. Your thighs trembled, breath catching—

He knew.

He memorized every sound, every gasp, every twitch.

Your climax hit like an explosion—so fierce your back arched from the chair. Toes curled, lips parted in a silent cry.

If only you could hear it—the gasp, the groan, the shuddering moan from his room. Rooms apart, perfectly synced.

You collapsed back against the seat, chest heaving.

The toy powered down. The room fell silent but electric. Only the Notes app stayed open. One final line appears:

“I know your body better than anyone ever will.”

You smile, eyes rolling, calming yourself. You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes.

Unknown Caller.

You smirk. Answer it without hesitation.

Hee,” you whisper, lazy satisfaction dripping from your tone.

You hear him—shaky, panting, like the edge nearly broke him. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck… You’re so pretty. So fucking pretty. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His voice is hoarse, frayed with restraint. You picture him—still burning from his climax, hand resting low, skin flushed.

“You drive me insane. Every breath you take, every moan...” He watches you lift your thighs, tucking yourself shyly behind them like a girl playing innocent. “It’s mine. You’re mine. Don’t you get it? I want you so bad I—fuck—I can’t even—”

You cut in softly.

“Heeseung,” you murmur, voice smooth like silk sliding over a blade. “I never said I was yours...”

Silence.

You lean in, sugar-sweet, doe eyes locked on the lens, like you don’t quite know what you’re doing.

“You think this makes me yours?”

He breathes hard. You swear you hear the tension in his throat—how he swallows that growl.

“Then what?” he whispers. “What do I have to do?”

You hum, hiding your face in your thighs, thoughtful. “I’ll know.”

Heeseung almost chokes. “You’re playing with me.”

You tilt your head.

“Of course I am, Hee. Isn’t that what you like? What we always did? Playing games.” Your voice softens, teasing, the tone that always breaks him. “You’re obsessed, Hee. But to own me?” you shake your head slowly. “You’ll have to do more than just watch me cum on camera.”

A pause. You let it hang, let it burn. Then, low and teasing:

“If you really want me,” you whisper. “Stop being a coward. Show me.”

His breath catches. You almost feel the stillness on his end.

Click.

You hang up.

Still smiling, you toss your phone aside.

“Good night, Heeseung,” you murmur to the camera before shutting everything down.

Heeseung hadn’t heard your voice in three days.

Not on the phone, not through the headphones, not even that little intake of breath when you tiptoe around your room late at night.

Three days.

Seventy-two hours of silence.

No webcam flickers. No Notes app replies. No little “good night, Hee” teasing him through pixels.

Nothing.

He tapped at your IP like a lunatic. Pinging dead signals. Checked your cloud for new files. Scraped your cache for cam logs, anything—anything—that might prove you were still playing.

But you weren’t. You’d shut him out completely. Blocked him, in every way that mattered—except the one that destroyed him the most: in person, you were still perfect.

Because in real life, you were still her.

Still the step-sister who sat next to him at dinner, nudging his arm, sipping from his glass like it meant nothing. Still in those stupid soft modest dresses that smelled like your vanilla lotion and innocence. Still saying his name in that sweet voice that didn’t match the girl who once whispered “I’m yours” for a night, while fingering herself in his favorite dress.

Still shy smilling in front of the parents, like he wasn’t slowly going fucking insane of you ghosting him in the cruelest way possible.

Heeseung clenched his jaw until it hurt. His fists, tighter. You were torturing him. Training him with your silence. Denying him touch, sound, ownership—making him feel like just another loser watching from a screen.

And worst of all? You liked it.

He could see it in the way you smiled at him when no one was looking. Like the devil behind a halo. Like the dom who knew her puppy would crawl the moment she said good boy.

You knew what you were doing. And you knew he was starving.

He watched you meet someone new through your messages—tracked him from his first DM. The second the guy sent a heart emoji, Heeseung had full access to his cloud, laptop, phone, and location history.

So when you showed up at that guy’s place in that same dress as that night, Heeseung went feral. watching you through the guy’s hacked MacBook camera. Front-row seat. 1080p. Wide angle. Clear sound. Perfect view.

You didn’t even try to hide untapping your phone camera, angling it for him. But he was already there.

He watched the way you swayed when you walked into the room. That skirt was short—barely legal. Hair done like you were on a mission to ruin him. Lip gloss like you were asking to be kissed. Or owned.

Heeseung’s fists dug into his thigh. You let the guy kiss you. Hands on your hips. Heeseung scoffed in fury. The guy went down on you and Heeseung leaned forward—eyes glued to your face smiling at him. Not for the man.

Only for him.

You mouthed his name, Heeseung, made that sound again—that sweet gasp that cracked every nerve in his body—and his hands were already down his pants before he even realized it. Stroking slowly. Angry.

Then the guy started fucking you. It was… pathetic.

You looked bored. Pretty. But not wrecked. Not how Heeseung would have done you—needed you. Not how you looked when he edged you, whispering commands through your notes.

He texted :

He’s not even close to making you cum.Why are you with him?Stop.

Now.

Please.

You didn’t stop. You got louder. Not for performance, because knowing hee was watching, unleashed you.

Heeseung’s hand stuttered. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard it bled. You were performing. For him, not the other guy. You had to be. And yet you didn’t stop when he begged you.

Heeseung didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t call a friend.

He texted one of the girls who’d been orbiting him since he entered university—some pretty, pouty girl with no idea what she was walking into.

She came fast. Obedient. Heeseung fucked her like punishment.

Shoved her onto his lap, dragged her skirt over her hips without a single word. Didn’t ask if she was ready. Didn’t even pretend to care. Just spread her thighs, lined himself up, and buried in—rough, silent, merciless.

She moaned his name, kissing his neck. Heeseung kept his eyes on the screen. Because on the monitor behind her?

You were still live. Fucking someone else. His airpods were in. And he was moaning your name under his breath.

The girl was clueless to much overwhelmed by his deep, rough trust. Riding him like she thought she was doing a good job for him to be so feral.

Heeseung touched her the way he would have to you, controlling. forcing her in position trying to reach her deepest part, as he watched your hips roll on screen. Your nails dig into someone else’s back.

“Grippe my back. leave marks.” he ordered her.

He hiss, mouthing along with your sounds like a prayer.

“Fuck—Louder. Just like that... Just like that—fuck.”

The girl on his lap whimpered, “does it feel good, Hee?”

Heeseung stared at your body—your lips, your tits, your sweat-shined thighs.

“You’re so perfect,” he muttered. “Fuck—you…”

His climax came hard, violent. He choked your name on the exhale and came inside the girl like she didn’t matter—because she didn’t.

When the girl left, he stared at the screen for an hour. Watched you dress. Watched you check your phone. Smiling.

Not once did you reply to his messages.

You were killing him. Starving him. Making him beg. He slammed the laptop shut, chest heaving, hatred and love boiling into the same sick ache.

You were right. He was a coward. But not for much longer.

You found it on your bed. No card. No note. No sender. Just a black box, wrapped in a ribbon you never heard arrive. Inside: lingerie. Lace. Sheer. Decadent. Your exact size. Your exact taste. Lightly soaked in a scent you could recognize in your sleep—his cologne.

Your fingers trembled when you held it up to the light. No message. But then again, he never needed words.

Heeseung didn’t ask. He tried to command.

So, you didn’t text. Didn’t thank him. You just wore it.

That night, when the webcam light blinked to life, you were already sitting pretty in front of your laptop. Sheer fabric draped over your body like a sin begging to be confessed.

You leaned into the camera, eyes soft, voice sweeter.

“Goodnight, Genius. Hope uni’s not eating you alive.”

And then—

You logged off. Just like that.

Left him starving. You knew he’d pretend it didn’t affect him. He tried, bless him.

He texted the next day, like it was nothing. Invited you to his university party. Like this wasn’t war. Like he wasn’t already losing.

Of course, you went. Dressed in red. Not the lingerie—something sharper. Something that made his friends stare a little too long.

Heeseung barely spoke to you that night. Slipped back into his old self—like he hadn’t spent the week watching you like a man possessed. But he was in his element, charming his nerdy circle, and you were happy just watching him thrive.

Then, it changed.

He didn’t introduce you as his stepsister. That alone cracked the air between you. His hand found your back, fingers tracing lazy nothings while he laughed with his friends, eyes on you like you were art.

You liked seeing him smile. Liked knowing you made it easier.

And then—he excused you both. His friends wished you luck with admissions. So polite. So clueless.

He walked you up a narrow hallway, like it was nothing. A quiet corridor, half-lit.

Then he locked you in a hug.

And kissed your neck.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, hands already exploring.

“You too,” you murmured, smiling. “New haircut? You kept it long in the back. Looks good.”

“You said I should, so...”

You smiled harder, went in for a kiss—your first. His lips were maddening. Soft, sure, and hungrier than you expected. He kissed like he’d waited for years. Like he’d decided waiting was over.

"Untie your dress," he whispered against your mouth, voice low.

You raised a brow, smirking. “Thought you liked watching from afar.”

His jaw flexed. “Not tonight.”

You let the ribbon fall, letting the dress slip open. Underneath—his gift. His breath caught.

“You like it?” you teased.

He didn’t answer. He spun you, pressed you into the wall, and his hand was already between your thighs—finding you soaked.

His mouth brushed your ear, voice cracking with restraint.

“Fuck. You’re so wet for me. I’ve waited so long.”

“Say it,” he growled.

“What?”

His thrust was sharp—two fingers deep.

“Say you want me to ruin you. Say you like it.”

You whimpered, arching into his hand. “I like it when you ruin me.”

“Say it right.”

You licked your lips. “I want to be yours, Heeseung. Ruin me.”

His exhale was jagged—like something inside him broke.

Then came silence. Just heat. Breathing. Fingers moving in and out of you as he grinded against your body, shameless and reckless in a hallway anyone could walk into.

And just before you came—he pulled away.

“No,” he said simply. “Let’s go.”

“Home?”

“No. My room.”

His dorm was massive, dark except for the red glow of a snoozed monitor. His roommate was nowhere. Probably never real to begin with. You practically jumped on him. Messy kisses. Wandering hands. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, your back—and then—

Your hand brushed his desk. The monitors flared to life. And there you were—your webcam feed, glowing on the screen.

Recording. Your name as the file.

“You always make me watch,” he whispered, stripping you down to the lingerie. “Now watch yourself.”

He pulled you onto the bed, body still facing the screen.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, spreading your legs for the camera. “I’ve owned you since the first time you stepped into this house.”

On screen—your reflection trembled. Moaned. Melted in real-time.

He eased fingers inside you again while holding you in his lap, pinching a nipple until you gasped, breath tangled.

“I know what you fantasize about when you’re bored,” he whispered.

He started humping you, slow and heavy.

“I know what kind of porn you scroll past—then go back to.”

Thrust.

“I know which songs you loop when you touch yourself. I synced your playlist.”

You choked on a gasp.

“I know you changed your passwords, just to make me mad.”

His hand curled lightly around your throat.

“But I like it. I like when you pretend.”

He never slowed—just kept pushing you higher, mean and relentless.

And when you moaned his name?

He broke.

“I’m going to give you every twisted thing you’ve ever typed,” he growled. “Every fantasy you deleted. Every filthy draft you couldn’t finish. I’m going to make them real.”

Your climax slammed into you, shuddering through your bones—but he didn’t stop.

“I’ll tie you up in the library when no one’s looking,” he said, voice wicked. “Bend you over your best friend’s bed and leave a bruise only I’ll recognize.”

He laughed.

“I’ll make you cry my name with someone else inside you—just to remind you no one will ever ruin you like I do.”

You turned and kissed him, wild and unhinged.

He kissed back like a claim. Like he was branding your soul.

Then he grabbed you and threw you onto the bed. Reached for a condom.

You stopped him.

“It’s safe today, Hee. Do me raw.”

His pupils darkened. Something dangerous sparked.

He freed himself and dragged his cock against your wetness, teasing your entrance. You moaned each time the head kissed you. His smile was smug. Addicted.

“Heeseung. Please.”

He nodded—and slid in all at once.

You gasped, overwhelmed, stretched so good it hurt in the most perfect way.

He rocked into you deep and slow, biting your neck, lips pressed against skin he couldn’t stop worshipping.

Then he pulled you upright—still inside you.

“You like this position, huh?”

You nodded, dizzy, undone. He studied you like he’d been preparing for a test. He always aced those.

Then—his thrusts changed. Not faster. Just deeper. Harder.

“Hee—”

“Like that, yeah?”

You nodded again, mouth open, breathless at every delicious, punishing thrust.

He looked so fucking good like this—hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted, eyes glazed with need. You went for another kiss and he gripped your neck, slid to your hair, pulling until your back arched.

“Like that?”

“Yeah—yeah—fuck—don’t stop—”

He sucked your tits, relentless now, chasing both your highs. You clenched down so hard his groans turned ragged. He bit your nipple, then folded you in half, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

And then—he lost it.

He didn’t slow.

Not even as your body bucked under him, shaking.

He buried himself deeper, fingers biting into your hips, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucked you like he wanted to unmake you.

The monitors kept rolling. Your name flashing on screen, over your own moans.

You reached for him—some desperate grasp for balance—but he pinned your wrists above your head, fucked you harder. One of your legs slipped off his shoulder, and he yanked it back up with a grunt.

“Keep it there,” he snarled, breath ragged. “Don’t move unless I say.”

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You were already too far gone.

You felt yourself stretch around him again, again, again—your walls pulsing and fluttering with every brutal thrust. It was filthy, unrelenting, and it wasn’t enough.

Heeseung's voice was in your ear, low and wrecked.

“This how you like it?” he panted. “Getting used like this—getting ruined on camera for me?”

You sobbed a yes—high and gasping—and he growled. His hips snapped forward again, this time shoving you higher on the bed.

“Fucking take it.”

He leaned in, biting your lip, grinding deeper. The rhythm turned meaner—each thrust slamming into you with brutal precision.

“You like knowing I’ll replay this?” he whispered. “Jerk off to it when you’re not around?”

You moaned helplessly.

“Want you to. I want you obsessed.”

“Oh, I am,” he said. “You made me this.”

His rhythm stuttered—he was close. You could feel him twitch inside, groaning against your mouth.

Then—

He came.

Hard.

Buried deep.

His whole body went taut over yours, shuddering as he emptied himself, hips rolling slower, deeper. You felt the heat inside you, the stickiness, the way his cock throbbed even after the high.

And still—he didn't pull out.

He kissed your collarbone, your throat, lazily now. Worn out. Quiet.

The screen behind him kept glowing.

Your body was wrecked, your heart pounding against his chest.

He pulled you close, like he wasn’t finished. Like he never would be.

The next morning, the sun barely broke past his blackout curtains. You were still half-naked in his sheets when you heard his fingers tapping at his laptop. A fresh hoodie hung off his shoulder, hair a messy halo.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

You groaned into the pillow. “Already working?”

He smirked. “Coding clears my head. Better than coffee.”

You rolled over. He looked too good like this. Soft around the edges. Eyes warm.

“I wish you could come here,” he said. “To my university.”

You blinked, suddenly alert. He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “You did apply, right?”

“…Yeah.”

He nodded like he already knew. “But you didn’t tell me…pfff.”

Your stomach turned, just a little, as you smirked. “I didn’t want you to be happy for something so unsure.”

“I know.”

Silence. He got back typing.

“You really think I wouldn’t find out?” he said. “You think I’d just… let you leave somewhere else?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

He smiled. Shrugged. “Nothing you’ll ever be able to prove.”

Your heartbeat slowed. Thick. Smiling unsure.

“Heeseung...”

He stood, walking over. Calm. Barefoot. Still smelling like last night and wanting more.

“I didn’t touch your application,” he said softly. “But I might’ve nudged the scholarship committee. You’re exceptional, after all.”

You froze. “Why?”

“Because you belong here, in that prestigious place and nowhere else.”

His fingers grazed your chin. Tender. Possessive.

“...With me.”

You swallowed. He tilted your face up to his, eyes half-lidded.

“You would've turned it down if you knew,” he murmured, getting his lips closer, smooching slowly. “You’re too proud for that kind of help. Too proud to admit you want to be kept.”

Your voice caught in your throat. “That’s not why I applied.”

“I know why you applied, just like me.”

His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.

“That’s why I made sure you’d stay. to be free.”

A flicker of something dangerous passed between you. Or maybe it had always been there. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“You think you’re playing me right now, huh,” he whispered, “but—what if I like being used, if it means I get to keep you?”

Your breath hitched. And he smiled. Like he’d already won. Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe you’d just let him believe he had.

Author’s Note:

Babies~ here it is!! 💗 The second part of my enha stepbro AU (first one was HUNTED).

I really hope this one pleased you… did it??? 🥺

I worked so hard on this piece to match the exact vibe I had in mind. Like—why was I waking up at 3 AM with wild ideas for scene effects that were borderline impossible to execute?! 😭🌀

This one definitely has a different flavor! While HUNTED leaned into soft, needy sub!Jakey energy (bless him), I wanted TRAPPED to explore the more intoxicating side of obsession—but not so far that we start hating our sweet little Heeseung~ Just a touch of crazy, y’know?

I really hope the mood translated well, because after rereading it 500 times, I fully lost that "first read magic" feeling I’m not super proud of this draft yet—kinda wish I had more time to proofread and polish it up. I’ll probably update it later (perfectionist problems 😭).

Next up is Part 3, which is supposed to be Sunghoon’s! Let me know if you want anything special in it—I’m all ears... and pervy brain. Just know it’s gonna involve dacryphilia, so bring tissues… for various reasons

XOXO

Reblogs and thirsty little thoughts are always appreciated don’t be shy~© Lassiie

@heejunluvr @choeryyxyz @hoonprksung @schniti-is-in-the-house @ii2sanrio @woniedoyouloveme @saeris-world @gonorrheaisme @soobiverse

1K notes · View notes

headlinxr · 2 months ago

Text

pink stationery ❤️‍🩹 w.jh

synopsis: everything with junhui has been a step towards something, but neither of you are very clear on what when it comes to the other. genre: co-workers to lovers ; angst, fluff. pairing: office worker!wen junhui x fem!reader word count: 7.9k rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: it's stupidly vague and i'm sorry for that. minimal swearing, i guess? mentions of eating and food. they're just stupid what to listen to: starstarstar - dosii ; take me - miso ; say yes - seventeen ; heart burn - sunmi ; i was made for lovin' you - kiss. author's note: i'm going to be honest, i've been having a really hard time with life and i just wanted to write something regardless of deadlines and expectations. i also don't care if it makes sense, i just wanna write. i love my collabs, though, and they will get done. i just want to be vague and mysterious and stupid for a moment in time and not worry. welcome our beloved junhui to the haologram blog <3 i've missed him so dearly. [star dividers] by @/saradika-graphics here on tumblr, and thank you to cam for the bar name! enjoy!

HE SMELLS LIKE LUMBER SOMETIMES.

He smells like the tree trunks he chops for firewood at his cabin on the weekends, and he picks up pinecones. He dusts them off and examines them, and the best one is always promptly delivered to your desk by lunchtime on Monday afternoons.

That was the extent of your relationship with him, and really, any of your co-workers. He’d never spoken a word to you (not that you could remember, anyway) but has somehow figured out that you like pinecones. Particularly not ones that smell like cardboard boxes from the home section at Marshall’s.

No one speaks to you unless they need something, and rarely does someone need something from you as a person.

No invitations to drinks after work – you see them enough as it is. You hang up on remote meetings without saying much of anything, and you’re usually the first to leave the call without so much as a goodbye. Your emails and short and dry, signed off with only your name. You avoid the catered lunches provided by whatever restaurant your company paid out and stick to wedging yourself into the sixth-floor storage room with your package of fruit snacks and a sad turkey sandwich. There was a pink chair in the corner that you liked and tried multiple times to convince Mike (the janitor) to let you have but he refused.

You do not make eye contact during breaks, and you don’t stop by the break room for coffee or complimentary muffins. You lied about why once, when you were asked by a coworker – and absently claimed a gluten allergy, only to be seen eating bread a few hours later. That coworker hasn’t spoken to you since, and you don’t think she plans to.

But him?

He started talking about two years ago, a year after you joined the company. He started talking too much, you could argue, but he would say it’s just enough.

He’s too friendly, you thought. He dropped by your desk with a warm cup of tea every morning, if not your precious Monday morning pinecone. He slid a soft, lemon-blueberry muffin under your nose with a soft smile every once in a while. He asked you to lunch, to drinks, and he always sent you a separate follow-up email after remote meetings when he could very well just add your tasks to the bottom of the mass list he always sends in the group mail.

He was just above you on the corporate ladder, but you felt no pressure to answer him in terms of social interaction. He didn’t make it a point, either – he just existed in your vicinity, and only came into your space when you allowed. Quite like a cat, you are.

He told you about his life, quietly, calmly. He told you about how he learned wushu growing up, and how he played piano. He told you about how he got the cabin as a gift from a friend who was moving abroad, unlikely to return and much less spend time in the quiet woods surrounding your town. He told you about his late-night snacking habit, about his cat, Luna. He told you about his best friend, Minghao, and how he was the best man at his wedding a few years ago.

But above all?

He listened to you.

He looked at you like every word from your mouth held weight, carefully nodding along to your mumbled stories of troubled childhood. He listened to you talk about your favorite dish, your favorite color, even your theories about how middle children suffer the most. He laughed at your wry jokes, the dry humor – though he would bite it back at the deadpan comments you’d make during department meetings.

He always sat next to you in those department meetings. His knee was always just barely brushing yours, the soft material of his slacks making your skin prickle as it touched your bare thigh. He’d pass you doodled notes on his pink stationery with My Melody on the edges. He always adjusted the hem of your skirt down subtly when you stood up and pushed your chair in after you skirted around it. He waited until you’d gathered all your materials to leave, walking alongside you back to your desk even if his was across the office.

And it made people wonder what about you had his attention so deeply.

You’re not interesting to any of them, you never had been. You’re a liar (about a gluten allergy, of all things) and the kind of quiet that made them feel stupid if you looked at them for too long. They felt like you were judging them, when really – you were hoping they’d speed up their long-winded questions to end the painfully awkward social aspect of you fixing their problems.

Sometimes, he’d send you home early to help you escape their judging eyes.

He’d send you an email – the subject line usually only taken up by “🏠?” The body usually contained nothing more than a new picture of Luna, but you always appreciated it.

He’d be looking over the edge of his monitor to watch you hear the dreaded Outlook ding, your eyes slightly lighting up at the sound before really brightening the moment you saw it was him. You’d look over the edge of your monitor, raising a brow that didn’t hide your shy smile as you sent him an email back before quietly packing your bag and slipping out of the office.

It was always just a meme you’d found during your lunchtime Pinterest scroll – one you’re sure he’d seen you add to your shared board.

Because, of all things, he’d chosen to first share his Pinterest with you. You saw his dream home, vintage cars, cool jewelry and the stupid memes he liked you send you in the middle of the night when he was thinking of you.

You still reread that text, he sent it over a year ago.

MESSAGE FROM: Wen Junhui ♡ [2:32AM] of course i think about you. [2:33AM] i think about you all the time. after breakfast, when you try to sneak out of the office to hide in that storage room upstairs. even outside of work, sometimes i see things i think you’d like. but i mostly think about you now. [2:34AM] i think it’s a comfort that you pass my mind before i go to bed. or maybe just an association i've made with the fact that i check our board every night to see if you’ve added anything. [2:35AM] but...i prefer the former, honestly. goodnight, y/n. sleep well. ♡

You added the little heart to his contact name that same night.

Granted, things between you and him never went further. He talked to you, he walked with you around the office, he gave you many ways to contact him outside of work even if you never texted him first. He shared moments of his day with you if you missed work or worked from home �� which was rare and always worried him. He would send pictures of a lone pinecone sitting on your mousepad if you weren’t there when he delivered it, followed by whatever random emoji he felt fit the mood. Sometimes it was a hazelnut, sometimes it was a cat.

Sometimes, it was the heart wrapped in a bandage.

You tried not to overthink it.

But it was hard not to notice the whispers about him.

How a lot of your coworkers talked about him, and how cute he is. How sweet, smart, gentle. How he’s soft-spoken until he’s around his friends, even though you knew that his best friend was just as soft spoken. He worked two floors down, Xu Minghao.

You met Minghao and his wife (and the rest of their shared friends) the first time you were ever invited out for drinks – and the first time you ever hesitated to say no.

Junhui managed to get you right in the nick of time, too – right as the clock struck five. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to log out of your programs when he leaned over the wall of your cubicle with a twinkle in his eye that made your chest ache.

“Have a drink with me. My friends are coming, too, but you know. I’ll be there.”

And you had more than a drink – you had a good time. You had three blood orange margaritas and a sip of his beer, but it was like you were shining brighter than a million suns. You let yourself sink into the soft vinyl of the booth, surrounded by him and his scent and his friends. You let yourself talk, out loud and with gusto about everything. You were uninhibited, and you remember how they all warmly smiled as Junhui pushed your hair out of your eyes as you talked about how there was no way the megalodon shark was extinct.

He walked you home that night, the two of you a little too tipsy to navigate the train or drive. He walked on the sidewalk closest to the street and held your pinchy heels in his fingers, letting you skip around and complain about the humidity. He only smiled, his hip bumping yours every once in a while, when you swayed a bit too far.

When you got back to your apartment, he waited against the railing in front of your doorstep to watch you step inside. You remember hesitating before asking him if he wanted to come in for a nightcap.

His eyes widened, and for a moment – he considered it. You saw how his eyes flickered to your lips, before he cleared his throat.

“Maybe another night. Thank you for coming out with me tonight, I hope it wasn’t too overwhelming.”

It hadn’t been, but his soft rejection was certainly disappointing. You shook your head then, staring at him for a split second more before speaking.

“It was nice. I’d...I’d like to do it again, sometime. Just us.”

You smiled softly, before giving him a curt nod and slipping into your apartment before he could respond. You leaned against the door, sliding down the cool wood before hearing him utter a soft goodnight.

Since then, the two of you had gone for drinks over and over again – just the two of you, and with his friends. When it was just you, he’d talk about everything and anything under the sun. But when it was with his friends?

They really liked you, enjoying the excitement that they never saw in the office. One of them, Kwon Soonyoung in finance, offhandedly mentioned that they hadn’t known you and Junhui were friends until he started mentioning you at random moments. Your face had felt hot as the rest of them giggled and agreed, with Minghao’s wife letting it slip that ‘random moments’ meant any time he could.

“Yeah, he brings you up a lot. Oh, Y/N likes this. Y/N would love that. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N. It’s so cute.”

You don’t remember Junhui refuting it, but you remember the flustered blush that settled in his cheeks after that. Things between you and him didn’t change, though.

Until they did – one month, three days later, Junhui got a girlfriend.

It was like he had vanished entirely – gone were the warm cups of tea on your desk, the muffins, the pinecones. No more invites to lunch or drinks with him or his friends. No longer did you receive emails asking if you wanted to go home early, no more pictures of Luna, no more separate follow-up emails outlining your tasks after remote meetings.

None of it really bothered you, until you realized that your shared board hadn’t been updated by him in a while. Then, you noticed it, truly – he'd unfollowed you. Pinterest, Instagram, even Spotify. Spotify!

He didn’t sit next to you at department meetings, either. No more passed notes, no more pushing your chair in. And he rushed out right after, not bothering to even speak to you.

And people noticed.

You hadn’t realized that by allowing yourself to associate with Junhui and his friends, you became more than a blip on people’s radar. People knew your name; they knew your face. The girls gossiped about what he could possibly see in you, unaware that you were reapplying deodorant in one of the stalls. Men speculated about your relationship status, wondering amongst themselves if you were open-minded – while they stood outside for a smoke, making you scrunch your nose in disgust at them for more reasons than one.

People knew you – his friends, still said hello in the hallways. Minghao, gave you warm smiles and extended invites to drinks that you’d swiftly decline – with excuses of working late, of being tired, or whispering that time of the month. He always nodded, smiled...but you knew he didn’t believe you.

Once you realized Junhui was avoiding you for what you believed was a girlfriend, it took you less than twelve hours to get back to your reserved demeanor. As long as you didn’t make noise in your cubicle, no one came around – and people realized then that your gaze wasn’t mean to intimidate or judge, but to time. You didn’t want to talk to anyone you didn’t have to, more than you needed to – and that was bothersome to most of them.

Of course it was; in their minds, they’re great.

They’re a catch, they’re fun to be around.

But they’re not him.

They’ve never cared to ask you a single thing about yourself beyond your relationship status and where you got your shoes. You always just stared until they left or mumbled something about the local DSW.

Things with him never returned to the easy friendship you thought was starting to form, even as you rung in the new year at the company party. It made you sad.

Maybe because you had a bit of a crush on him, actually.

You thought a little too hard about the meanings behind his messages, the pictures of his weekend retreats to his cabin that he insisted you were always welcome at, especially if his friends were there. You missed the shared memes, the shared playlists, the way he’d sometimes find you inside the sixth-floor storage room, sitting on the dusty pink chair that always made him smile a little too fondly.

You liked Junhui, more than just a cubicle crush that you could discuss with your girlfriends that you didn’t have.

But he had one. One that meant more to him than you ever would, even with the way he opened his heart to you.

You thought about what he shared with you – videos of him playing the piano at Minghao’s wedding for his first dance with his wife. He shared his presence and comfort, often walking you home and your hands always brushed. You felt like a schoolgirl every time you’d tuck your hand into your pocket. You once got caught in the rain together and stood under the bus stop before he fished his headphones out of his pocket and gave you one.

He played starstarstar by Dosii as he pulled you out from under the safety of the bus stop, and the two of you walked to your apartment instead. Hand-in-hand, soaked to the bone, with the string of his headphones forcing even more proximity that made your cheeks heat.

You don’t remember who interlaced your fingers. If it was you...you’re still happy. It means he was okay with it, maybe he wanted to.

If it was him?

He definitely wanted to.

However, it’s all filed in your memories now – because you look over your monitor to see his brows fixed in concentration as he types across his keyboard, with you not even a blip on his radar. You watch carefully as he reads his own words over and over, before his eyes flicker up and meet yours.

You’re not surprised when his shoulders sag for the umpteenth time, and he looks away.

Like he wants to say something. Like he wants to talk to you, but the words get caught in his throat and he can’t seem to get them out. It’s been a year since you’ve spoken, and you would’ve forgotten the sound of his voice if he wasn’t your co-worker – but you never forget that night last spring, drenched in the rain.

You would’ve kissed him; you could have kissed him.

It’s spring, again.

You walk to the train station after work in silence, with nothing playing in your headphones for the first time. You sit in between an elderly couple and a lone high school girl absently staring at a long thread of messages on her phone. They’re all left unanswered, and she repeatedly fills the text box with words before deleting them and starting over.

You feel like that girl – except she’s brave enough to ask for answers and you’re gripping your purse in a claustrophobic panic.

It’s a Wednesday in summer when you finally get tired of waiting for answers. Almost a year to the date when he first asked you to get drinks with him, you get an idea.

Have a drink with me tonight.

That's all it says.

You stand over the copy machine, the sticky note you scribbled on moments earlier folded neatly in your hand. You wrote and rewrote it at your desk, your hands trembling and smearing the ink. You had to walk past his desk to submit the paperwork you were making copies of, and you planned to slip it onto his mousepad on the way back to your own.

You don’t get a chance to do that, though.

Your eyes are closed when you hear the copy room door open, but you don’t bother to look up as that same woodsy smell fills your nostrils.

He doesn’t speak, but you know it’s him.

You know, from the smell of lumber and the click of his shoes and the tension that makes you feel suffocated as you peer over your shoulder. He’s silent, thumbing at his own paperwork. He only glances up when he feels your eyes on him, but this time, you don’t look away.

His jacket is gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie slightly loosened. You’d stare if it wasn’t against girl code to ogle someone else’s man.

You turn, fully facing him as your last copy gets stapled by the machine and slides out. You gather them in your arms, before holding them to your chest and holding the sticky note out to him between two fingers. He glances at the hot pink paper, swallowing carefully before reaching for it.

You give him a soft smile, before spinning on your heel and heading out of the room without a word.

You’re moving at lightning speed to get out of the office before he can get a chance to catch up with you – shoving your copies into your manager’s hands with a rushed run-down of the day’s events and outages. You thank her with a bow, before beelining for your desk and yanking your purse out of the bottom drawer.

You make it to the elevator without him noticing you, your eyes catching a flash of his white shirt and the hot pink paper unfolded in his hand.

You feel your phone buzz in your hand as you reach the lobby.

NEW! Message From: Wen Junhui (WORK) [5:32PM] where?

It’s nearing seven when he finally has the courage to get out of his car.

He’s been sitting in front of the bar for ten minutes, hoping to see you walk by. If you’re late, you won’t notice that he is.

Message From: Y/N ♡ [5:35PM] at dizzy’s [5:35PM] 6:30?

He waits another three minutes, watching the corner before his hand finally grabs the door handle and pulls.

He sees you almost instantly, sitting quietly at a booth in the back. You’re not in your work clothes anymore, instead wearing a soft red dress and your hair is pinned back. You’re smiling at the waiter, who seems to be really interested in talking to you as he slides a margarita on the table. He holds the menu out, only for you to shake your head.

He watches your glossed lips shape around the words: I’m waiting for someone.

Him. He’s the someone.

He wants to be the only one. Ever.

He tongues his cheek as the waiter nods, patting the vinyl of the booth above your head. You lean your head back slightly, closing your eyes as your forefinger picks at your thumb’s cuticle. A nervous habit of yours, one he’d picked up on the first time he spoke to you.

About pinecones, actually – but you don’t remember that at all. He doesn’t know what possessed him to bring them up – but he learned, through your hushed whisper in the elevator that morning – that you liked them. You like pinecones, because they are so diverse while all still being the same thing.

He hadn’t understood it then, but he did now – albeit differently.

He was like the pinecones, because he tried to show you that he liked you in so many ways...through the invites to drinks, the lunch, the shared memes.

The pinecones.

Sliding warm tea on your desk and lemon-blueberry muffins, to cracking jokes and passing notes to you on his pink My Melody stationery. To pulling your hair out and brushing your hair out of your face, to letting his friends embarrass him by practically outing his interest in you every time they got together with you and him for drinks at this very bar.

To walking you home, even in the rain, just to spend a little more time with you.

Only to realize that it was futile, because you didn’t see him that way.

You didn’t see him as more than a friend, but he’s not brave enough to tell you why you should.

“Hi.”

Your voice is smooth as he finally slides into the booth opposite you, his skin warming at the sound of it. He clears his throat, giving you a curt nod as he adjusts himself in his seat. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it to the side before feeling guilt begin to settle in his stomach.

“Sorry. I was...”

He gives up on coming up with an excuse, only running his hand through his hair as you nod. Your manicured fingers stir your straw in figure eights, the flash of an heirloom ring you never take off catching his eye. “I’m sorry.”

“For?” Your eyes are curious, before tilting your head. “Being late? It happens.”

He shakes his head like he doesn’t know, before clearing his throat again when the waiter swoops in to save the day. He internally thanks whatever God is out there as he asks for a beer, earning a scrunch of your nose as the waiter nods and leaves once more.

You don’t say anything as he shifts, only stare. Maybe through him, maybe into him.

He doesn’t mind the warmth of your gaze. He never has.

“I didn’t know getting a girlfriend meant you’d treat me like I never existed.” You start softly, his eyes widening as you purse your lips. “I understand creating distance, because there is someone new. Someone who could perceive you and I as something more, when it’s not.”

“I...I don’t know what to say.” He admits lamely, the shock of you thinking he has a girlfriend not yet settling into his bones. “Who told you I have a girlfriend?”

You only shrug, taking a quick sip of your drink before shaking your head.

“Does it matter?”

He blinks, when the waiter slides the beer bottle on the table as he passes by. He touches it, the glass cold as he tongues his cheek.

If this is a way to get over you, by getting you believe there is someone else when there isn’t -- he’ll take it. He’ll take it because then it means he never has to tell you how he feels, and he’ll never have to face the way you reject him so kindly.

“I guess not.” “Mmh.”

You trace circles into the side of your glass with your thumb, before another smile graces your lips.

“Are you happy?”

How could you ask him that?

Of course he’s not happy.

He hasn’t had a proper conversation with you in an entire year, and he’s been too much of a coward to admit that he wants more. He wants to kiss you in the elevator, in the break room, in the storage room on the sixth floor during your lunch break. He wants to hold your hand on the way to department meetings, under the table at drinks with your friends, on the walk to your apartment before you pull him in for a good night kiss. He wants to come into your apartment for a fucking nightcap without knowing he’ll say too much and lose any chance of ever being more to you.

So instead, he pulls away.

He stops talking to you, he removes you off every social media platform he can think of, so he doesn’t have the urge to peek at your dream home board on Pinterest, or the way your dream wedding is so similar to his. So he doesn’t have to be subjected to the cute outfits you post on your Instagram story before you leave your apartment for work, even though he’ll just see it when you arrive and he’ll have to take a deep breath so he doesn’t scream about how nice you look.

So he doesn’t have to know that you’re listening to the playlist he made for you to stay calm in the packed morning train on the way to work.

On the way to him.

“No.”

Your eyes soften, your brows scrunching in that same worried way they do when you’re listening to someone explain their problems to you at work. You nod, that comforting look of understanding glazing over your eyes.

“Can I ask why?”

He doesn’t bother responding, his mind racing as he thinks about all the pinecones sitting in his car, the ones that he’s deemed perfect enough to place on your desk but hasn’t been able to. He thinks about the way you slip out of the office and how your heels sound as you sneak upstairs to the sixth floor during lunch. He thinks about when Mike caught him off-guard by coming down to his desk and saying that you liked a pink chair that was in the storage room and kept asking about it.

A pink chair that used to belong to him, when he first got the company a few months before you did.

He sighs, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and sliding two twenties on the table.

“No. It’s better if you don’t.”

He doesn’t allow himself to look at you as he slides out of the booth, his hand gripping his suit jacket much too tightly for it to go unnoticed. You don’t stand, only nod as you take another sip of your drink.

“I hope it gets better. Have a good night, Junhui.”

He fights back tears as he makes his way out of the bar, your understanding look stuck in his mind as he drives home. He doesn’t bother looking at the pinecones in his backseat or changing the playlist that blares through his speakers when he connects his phone – a playlist you made for him, for his long drive home from work.

You’re in everything he holds dear to him. The music, the cabin – even if you’ve never been there. You know him, everything about him that is worth knowing in his eyes.

Except the fact that he’s in love with you, and that he’s a liar.

JUNHUI ISN'T AT HIS DESK ON THURSDAY. OR FRIDAY.

The whispering starts on Monday, with lots of wayward glances towards you and you almost want to go down to Minghao’s desk and ask if Junhui is okay.

But you don’t -- you glue yourself to your chair until lunch time, only to see that the pink chair you loved is no longer in the storage room. Mike tells you that the original owner took it out on Wednesday night and offers a soft apology. You shake your head and say it’s okay, before turning around and going back to your desk.

You arrive at your desk on Tuesday morning to your desk chair missing. There is a warm cup of tea on a coaster, and a cranberry orange muffin in front of your keyboard – but none of it distracts from the sudden pop of color next to your mousepad.

A plastic pink storage box.

You don’t bother to put your purse down as you crack the corner up, and your eyes widen as you realize it’s full of pinecones. There’s an envelope attached to the underside of the lid, and you pluck it off carefully before leaning against your desk. You peel it open gently, only to see the familiar pink My Melody stationery.

Junhui.

You ignore the urge to look up at his desk to see if he’s watching you over his monitor, feeling eyes from your co-workers trickling in as they spot the pink box. His handwriting is scrawled in purple ink across the stationery, and your heart sinks as you take in the slightly smudged words.

My Y/N,

I’m sorry about Wednesday. In fact, I’m sorry about the past year that I’ve gone without speaking to you. I have no excuse, only an explanation that probably won’t make things any better but will certainly give you some clarity.

I pulled away because I knew things would get too much for me. I’ve got a weak heart, and I can’t take rejection well – so I figured I’d cut ties first. It never worked, cutting contact with you; I found myself constantly missing the sound of your voice. I wanted so badly for you to reach out first, but I should’ve known better than to expect that when I was the one who wedged my way into your life. Our friendship was fun, and I miss listening to playlists with you during the walks to your apartment, but it simply can’t be anymore.

I like you so much, it’s painful to be around you and know you don’t feel the same.

I wanted to kiss you that night last spring. The rain and everything, it felt like a movie. Maybe that’s corny, and maybe it’s too forward but it doesn’t matter anyway because nothing will come of this. I’m sorry, for being too much of a coward to ever explain this to you in person. And for telling you now, through a letter written on stationery.

With this, I’ve got to admit something; finding out that you think I have a girlfriend when you’re all I’ve been able to think about since that first day we spoke is insane to me. Where do you get your gossip from? Is it a subscription? Unsubscribe effective immediately.

Speaking of effective immediately, I’ve taken a new position at a new company. So not only am I a coward for confessing this way, but also because I’m running away from it all. I don’t think I could handle not going home to you, even after seeing you all day. I’m not equipped for the agony of a silent, one-sided office romance that you read about in books.

I recommended you for my position. Don’t worry, people won’t talk to you nearly as much as they do now; but still...have fun, yeah?

I hope you enjoy these pinecones, for whatever you might end up using them for – and the pink chair. Funny, it belonged to me when I first got to the company. That’s why Mike never gave it up, but he told me you liked it so I figured you should have it.

Now it belongs to you! Quite like my heart.

Have a good day, Y/N. I’ll miss you.

Always and forever yours, Junhui ♡

Your chest aches as you realize all the opportunities have slipped through your fingers.

“Miss Y/N, Mr. Wen said he’d like for you to have this.”

Mike startles you as you see the pink chair being rolled behind your desk, the fabric pristine and the small stain from spilled coffee at the edge is gone. Your fingers flit across the headrest, before you look at him with tears in your eyes.

“Guess he changed his mind, huh?”

He only smiles, nodding his head before turning on his heel and leaving.

You look at the cup of tea. It’s still hot, so it must’ve been placed recently. You glance over at his desk; how vacant it looked. Almost like how your chest feels after having your heart ripped out.

You don’t really notice that you’re moving until you’re in the elevator, nervously nibbling on your lip as you frantically press on Minghao’s floor number while balancing the box of pinecones on your hip. It feels like an eternity as the damn thing jostles, and you nearly trip as it finally opens on the third floor. You beeline for Minghao’s desk in the back, only to see him quietly arriving with his headphones slid over his ears and his wife’s lipstick still stamped on his cheek.

He glances up as he feels your presence behind him, his eyes widening before a smile graces his lips.

“Y/N! What brings you down here?”

“Where is he?” You blurt, your hand still holding the note. He raises a brow, sliding his headphones off and onto the desk as he takes a seat in his desk chair.

“Where is who, sweetheart?” “Junhui.”

His lips form an o-shape, making him nod before he shrugs.

“Why should I tell you?”

You gape at him, almost losing your grip on the box on your hip.

“Because you obviously know, and if you care about me–” “Tell me why I should tell you, Y/N.”

You huff, your cheeks hot as you tap your foot. He tilts his head, an expectant look in his eyes before he speaks again.

“I do have work to do, you know.”

“Because I need to tell him that I...” You choke on your words, scoffing out a humorless laugh as you feel your eyes sting with tears. “Because I need to tell him that he’s an idiot.”

“You can text him that, you know.” “I’d rather die than text him how I feel.” “So, you admit you feel some type of way about him.”

He grins, slim fingers typing his password into his computer. You scowl.

“I never said anything of the sort.” You argue, and Minghao gives you a look that says, really bitch?

“You like him. It’s obvious to all of us, everyone in this office.” He reaches for his water bottle, his fingers aptly flicking the cap open. “So, admit it. Admit you have feelings for Wen Junhui, and I’ll give you the information you want.”

You look at the crumpled stationery in your hand, your heart swelling slightly at his handwriting.

My Y/N. Always and forever yours, Junhui ♡

“I love him.” You mumble softly as you stare at the paper, not catching how Minghao’s eyes widen. “I’m in love with him, Hao.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek and you quickly wipe it away, before looking up to see Minghao looking at you with a soft glaze over his eyes.

“I expect you and your boyfriend to get drinks with my wife and I this weekend in exchange for this.” His tone is warning as he reaches for a pen, his hand swiping a sticky note off the pad. You nod, ignoring the way your cheeks heat at the idea of Junhui being your boyfriend as he holds out the green paper. “Here, leave that. I’ll keep it safe, so you don’t have to lug it around.”

He holds his hands out for the box, and you hesitate before carefully placing it down. You open the corner, taking one of the pinecones out with a wince as he raises a brow before you shove it in your purse.

“I can explain.” “Over drinks this weekend. I’ll work out your attendance with your department manager.”

You smile gently, glancing down at the sticky note. It’s an address to an apartment building.

“Thank you, Minghao.” “Go, sweetheart. You’ll get caught in the rain if you stay any longer.”

And you go.

You don’t bother waiting for the elevator, practically flying down three flights of stairs. You sprint out of the lobby, nearly slamming into yet another of Junhui’s friends, Joshua, before yelling an apology over your shoulder. You make it outside, holding both pieces of paper in one of your shaking hands while the other fishes your phone out of your purse.

A fat raindrop falls on the screen as you map out how far the address is, and you almost welcome the cool water falling onto your cheeks as you run to the train station.

NEW! Message From: Hao [8:02AM] day 1 of my best friend being a traitor. how is working from home, you bitch?

Junhui snorts as the message comes in, settling carefully in his desk chair. He feels a bit alone as he texts back a simple, I’m sorry; the usual soft chatter of the office replaced by the sound of his aircon blasting. Everything feels too casual – his white t-shirt tucked into his blue jeans, the softness of his house slippers instead of his usual heavy dress shoes. He feels like he’s waiting for a lunch date with one of his friends, rather than signing into work for the day.

He looks over the edge of his monitor, no longer seeing your warm eyes looking back at him; but a cat calendar flipped to July. He rolls his shoulders back, sighing inwardly when his phone buzzes incessantly on the desk.

Your contact photo fills the screen.

INCOMING CALL FROM: Y/N [PLEDIS]

He feels the entire world stop. His breath is caught in his throat, and he suddenly can’t feel his limbs. He watches the phone ring until the call fails, nearly falling out of his chair as he stands up and grabs it. His hands are shaking too hard for him to press the missed call notification, only for you to call back again.

His chest is tight as he shakily breathes out, his thumb swiping across the screen to answer it.

“Hello?”

“I wanted to kiss you that night, too. I have never once though back to that night and didn’t feel regret knowing I didn’t kiss you.”

You sound slightly out of breath, and the sound of rain is loud in the background. He feels his stomach drop to his ass; feet rooted to his spot in his office.

“Y/N, I–” “You don’t have to say anything. Just come outside.”

He blinks as the call ends, staring at his reflection in the dark screen.

You’re outside.

“Shit.”

He nearly stumbles as he darts out of his office, beelining for his coat closet and shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers. He grabs the umbrella that leans against the frame of his front door, not bothering to grab his keys as he fumbles with the lock and throws the door open. A rumble of thunder startles him as he quickly shuts the door behind him, his fingers trying to fiddle with the umbrella when he hears your voice echo through the complex.

“Junhui!”

He glances over the railing, his eyes darting all over the courtyard before spotting you a few feet from the stairs. You’re wearing the black dress you wore the first time he’d spoken to you, and the attempt to wear open-toed shoes was ruined by the rain.

“Wen Junhui! Get down here!”

He feels laughter bubble up in his chest as he realizes you’re completely drenched, your hair is stuck to your face and your dress is practically dripping like the clouds above.

“You come up! It’s pouring out here!” “No, you have to come down here! I came all this way, it’s only fair!”

He can’t really see your smile from where you are, but he can hear it. He can hear it and it’s like the rain doesn’t matter. It’s like this very moment proves he was an idiot not to overthink all those intimate moments between the two of you – the way your eyes would light up at his stupid emails, the way you’d let his hands linger on your neck or ears after brushing your hair out of your eyes. All the playlists, all the similarities down to the fact that you both want marigolds for your dream weddings.

The way you interlaced your fingers that night last spring, and he’s so glad you did.

“Junhui!”

He shakes his head, dropping the umbrella on his doormat before sprinting to the staircase, hearing his heart pounding in his ears as he barrels down the stone steps.

“What...what are you doing here? You’re going to get sick, I...”

He trails off as he realizes you’re staring at him with a sparkle in your eye he can’t swallow. Your smile is all teeth, and he feels his chest ache as you shrug innocently. You take a step closer, tilting your head.

“I thought you wanted to kiss me.”

He feels his cheeks hot, and he absently runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re drenched, Y/N.” “I was that night, too. We both were.”

You shrug again, before stepping out from under the stairwell back into the rain. You hold your hand out, the rain pelting it as he hesitates to take it. You wiggle your fingers, making him tongue his cheek as he takes it, letting you pull him out into the rain. You hand slides up his arm and cradles his jaw gently, and he fights himself not to lean into it but ultimately fails.

“I told Minghao I’d tell you you’re an idiot.”

He snorts, “Is that on his behalf or yours?”

“Mostly mine, but I’m sure he has his own things to say about the matter. A year, Junhui? A whole year.” Your lip is jutted in a pout, and he sighs as the rain starts to soak in through his shirt. His hair is starting to stick on his forehead, and your hand swipes it back.

“I’m sorry. I know that it’ll never be enough to say it, but I truly mean it.” He gently touches his forehead to yours, his heart warming at the way you peer up at him through wet lashes. “I don’t blame you if you don’t forgive me, either. It was a shitty thing to do.”

He hates how your eyes soften, because he feels his knees grow weak as your other arm loops around his neck. He tentatively wraps his own around your waist, pulling you closer and he swears he sees your smile grow shy.

“I wouldn’t have come all this way if I didn’t think hearing you out would be worth it.” You say softly, and a rumble of thunder makes you both flinch. A laugh escapes you, before your thumb strokes his cheek gently.

“Is this still like last spring?”

He smiles softly, “No.”

“Did you ever think this would be the first time you get to kiss me? Like this?”

He laughs, “No.”

“Is it better, though?” “Considering I’d hoped we would’ve gone on a date—” “Say yes before I regret coming all this way.” “Yes.”

Neither of you move, but he feels it. He feels the same feeling of want he did that night, the same feeling of yearning that floated off you without a single word. You tilt your head up, your nose brushing his lightly .

“I’m really cold.” “I told you to come up.” “This is more romantic.” “I hope you know ‘romantic’ can also cost you three sick days at work.”

“You’re worth all my sick days, Wen Junhui.” You mutter, pressing your lips to his. He can’t help but smile into it, his arm tightening around your waist as his other hand cups your face softly.

All the warmth from your eyes, the bashfulness of your smiles, the kindness of your heart is too much for his heart to handle. He can’t believe you’re really here, in his arms...your lips so, so soft and eager against his.

“We have to go inside. You’re going to get sick.” He forces himself to pull away, his heart melting at the way you chase his lips slightly. You frown, and he can’t help but press a chaste kiss to your pouted lip. “We can kiss all you want inside the apartment, I promise.”

You don’t seem embarrassed at all as you smile at the mention of it, even if he feels his own cheeks grow hot as you nod. He feels his entire chest swell slightly as you interlace your fingers with his and pull him towards the stairwell, biting back his giddy smile.

YOU SMELL LIKE LUMBER SOMETIMES.

You smell like the tree trunks he chops for firewood at his cabin on the weekends, and you roast his marshmallow for him – despite Minghao’s teasing.

He still picks up pinecones. He dusts them off and examines them, and the best one is always promptly delivered to you at lunchtime as he drops by the company to whisk you away. The lunch invitations that once meant you’d be holed away in the storage room with a less-sad turkey sandwich from the deli down the block, now meant you’re getting bombarded with kisses before he finally lets you get out of his car with your to-go cup of iced tea.

That wasn’t nearly the extent of your relationship with him. Now, he has a photo of you on his desk at home – and you have one of the two of you together on yours. Your pink chair is complimented often by your coworkers, and you’ve apologized to Diane for lying about a gluten allergy.

Though you’re back to being under the radar, people notice the changes. They notice that Junhui, who no longer works alongside them, is still frequently in the lobby – but he’s picking you up. He’s kissing you; he’s spinning you around and calling you, my love.

No one speaks to you unless they need something, and rarely does someone need something from you.

But Junhui?

He can’t help but need you every single day. He slips his pink stationery love letters into your purse before you leave his apartment on Sunday nights, even if he’s begged you to stay the night just one more time. He accepts invites to anything that means he can bring you with him -- drinks with Minghao, lunch with his mother, even a weekend trip that was meant to be strictly business, but he spent most of the time that he wasn’t presenting glued to you in the hotel room.

Junhui doesn’t let you take the train anymore. Junhui takes your shy offers for a nightcap that usually end up with you kissing him breathless on your couch off two glasses of wine. Junhui, of all things, holds your hand on the table at drinks with his friends that are now yours, too.

Junhui listens – to your complaints about work; to your theories about birthstones and how whoever chose them was clearly biased for September to have the sapphire; to your sweet whispers as you slip your hand down his shorts late at night, and the whiny moans of his name that slip from your throat when he’s pinned you against his mattress.

But above all?

Junhui loves you.

Unabashedly, uninhibitedly and irrevocably.

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headlinxr · 2 months ago

Text

❪ 致你 ❫ ⨾ to you ﹐ 𝓳.𝔀

──𝐒YNOPSIS ┆ 𝔀. you've been meaning to visit your brother 𝐦in-gyu's new house for a while now. but when you finally arrive, somene else greets you─won-woo, his enigmatic roommate. nothing is quite as your imagined, and little by little, that stranger begins to stir questions within you... and feelings you never expected.

──𝐏AIRING ┆︵ 𝓦 ... 𝒻.ᐟℛ𝓮𝒶𝒹𝓮𝓻 (ft. 𝐦in-gyu, 𝐬eventeen).

──𝐖ARNING(s)┆𝐫eader is 𝐦in-gyu's sister, won-woo is 𝐦in-gyu's roommate, 𝐦in-gyu model, writer won-woo, artist 𝐫eader.

𓆤 ⎯⎯͟͟ HEADLINރR .☽༊˚ .°

It was Saturday, and today you were finally going to visit your brother in his new home. Min-gyu was always busy, with a schedule so tight that there was barely room to breathe, much less receive visitors. Opportunities to see him were few and far between, so any excuse to stop by and say hello was a small accomplishment. As an up and coming model, his career had him completely absorbed; it wasn't easy to find a niche in the life of someone making his way up through the big leagues.

Ever since he told you about his new apartment in one of Seoul's most exclusive areas, you had been curious to meet him. You'd been wanting to go for some time, imagining what the place he now called home would be like. And although he sometimes pretended to resent your insistence, you knew that, deep down, he liked having you around.

To your surprise —and, admittedly, also to your relief— Min-gyu had finally managed to squeeze you into his infamous rising star schedule. Between photo shoots, catwalks, social events and endless workouts, that he devoted an entire evening to you seemed almost miraculous. As soon as he wrote to you to confirm the time, a surge of excitement coursed through your body. You feigned indifference, of course, like someone who has a thousand plans and can barely make room. But the truth is that you had been waiting for this moment for days —maybe weeks— waiting for this moment.

When you arrived at his apartment, you couldn't help but smile like a fool. That wide, sincere smile that escapes without asking permission, the same one that always appears when you are about to see someone important to you.

As soon as you opened the door, you saw him standing on the threshold of the dining room, with his apron on (yes, apron), and you didn't think twice.

—Min-gyu!— you shouted excitedly before throwing yourself into his arms.

Min-gyu laughed, catching you with that characteristic carefree gesture, the one that reminded you that, even if his life was surrounded by flashes and red carpets, with you he would always be the same brother as before.

—Can you not shout? My neighbors already think I'm hiding a zoo here— he joked, although there was an unmistakable warmth in his voice.

The place was spectacular. Spacious, with a modern and minimalist design, and large windows that offered a view of Seoul so impressive that it looked like something out of a luxury architecture catalog. Everything was impeccable: The table was perfectly set, a soft and cozy playlist playing in the background, and a warm and spicy aroma coming from the kitchen.

—You did this?— you asked, raising an eyebrow with theatrical skepticism as you plopped down in one of the chairs. —Weren't you the one who mistook the microwave for the toaster?

—Times change— he said with a triumphant air, as he placed the plate in front of you. —Besides, I wasn't going to let you come all this way just to eat ramen. You had to try my best dish.

—And that would be...?

—Min-gyu style chicken. Patented. Unrepeatable. Probably slightly burnt.

You both burst out laughing. Dinner passed between jokes, anecdotes and that kind of complicity that only siblings who miss each other but love each other madly can understand. There was something comforting about being with him, as if the world was put on pause just to give them that moment.

But just when everything seemed perfect, the door to the apartment opened with a dry, resounding click.

A tall man stepped across the threshold. Dark, slightly tousled hair, thick-rimmed glasses, baggy T-shirt, backpack over his shoulder. His expression was that of someone who didn't expect to find a family dinner in the middle of the living room. He glanced sideways at you, then at Min-gyu, then back at you with a look somewhere between curious and tired. Finally, he nodded briefly, as if that were enough to say hello, and without saying a word, he walked quietly into the hallway and disappeared into a room, closing the door behind him as naturally as others open the refrigerator.

The silence that followed was... Peculiar. You looked at everything with your eyes wide open, as if you had witnessed a scene out of a domestic thriller.

—Are you going to explain to me what just happened?— you asked at last, pointing your fork down the hallway.

Min-gyu let out a low, amused laugh, as if everything was completely normal.

—Oh, right... I forgot to mention it. That was Won-woo— he said, as if it was the most irrelevant thing in the world. —My roommate. I've known him for a long time. He's quiet. A little strange, yes... But nice.

—Since when do you have a roommate? And why does he look like a mysterious character from a dorama who keeps secrets in his closet?

Min-gyu burst out laughing for real this time, leaning his head back with a laugh that filled the room.

—I swear he's a good person. He just doesn't talk much. And he always comes in like this. And he always leaves like that. You'll get used to it.

You blinked, still processing the fact that, of all the things Min-gyu could have told you, “I share an apartment with a quiet, handsome guy who looks like he's straight out of a Korean thriller” wasn't on the list.

The evening continued with the warmth that only the company of someone close can offer, but your mind was still anchored on that brief instant: The moment Won-woo crossed the room like a ghost not expecting to be seen. It wasn't as if you were expecting a formal introduction, nor a deep conversation with emotional fireworks, but his hushed entrance, his fleeting gaze and that enigmatic presence that trailed like a second shadow... It left you more than intrigued. They left you wondering.

—And how long has he been living here? you asked, hiding your growing curiosity behind a sip of water, as if the question did not carry a camouflaged interest.

—A few months already— Min-gyu answered as he poured himself another portion of rice, as if it were the most everyday thing in the world, —It was something improvised, he's my manager's brother and he was having trouble paying for his apartment at the same time I was looking for one. The rent here is crazy. But we get along well... Although sometimes he seems more like a cat than a person.

You let out a short laugh. Yeah, that sounded pretty accurate. Won-woo had that same feline energy: Elusive, silent, with a gaze that seemed to pierce through you without needing to touch you. As if he understood more than he said, and said less than he thought. An observer of the world, but in no hurry to be part of it.

—And is he always this... Expressive? you asked with a half smile.

—That was his effusive greeting— joked your brother —Believe me, he treated you well.

The evening closed with laughter, ice cream out of the freezer —which Min-gyu served with the air of a five-star chef—, and promises of a repeat visit. When you left, the hallway was silent, Won-woo's door was still closed, and curiosity followed you to the elevator.

You didn't see him again.

At least, not that night.

A few days passed before you came back. This time, at Min-gyu's spontaneous invitation: Movie night, just like in the old days. Movies, blankets and junk food. Your favorite plan.

When you arrived, Min-gyu didn't reply to your messages. But you already knew the code to the intercom —a privilege that did not go unnoticed— so you went in alone, as if it were your second home.

—I'm home!— you crooned as you entered —I hope you haven't prepared another cycle of psychological horror movies, because I'm not going to spend the night watching traumatized people.

The apartment seemed deserted. Silent. One of those silences that are not exactly uncomfortable, but expectant. You left your bag on the couch and headed for the kitchen in search of something to snack on. It was then that a low, soft, clear voice interrupted the air like a leaf falling on still water:

—Min-gyu is not here. He said he was arriving at fifteen.

You turned sharply.

Won-woo was there, leaning against the doorframe of his room, a cup of coffee in his hand, barefoot, his hair slightly disheveled as if he had just awakened from an eternal nap. His expression was serene, neutral, as if there was nothing unusual about finding you invading the kitchen.

—Ah... Hello— you said, a little awkwardly, trying to regain your composure.

—Hello— he replied with a slight nod of his head. His tone was calm, unhurried, as if every word was carefully measured.

The silence that followed was not awkward, but dense. Filled with something that had no name yet. As if both were waiting for the other to speak first, even if neither had the urgency to do so.

—I'm Min-gyu's sister, by the way— you finally added, breaking the stillness with a polite smile —I'm not sure if we officially met.

—Won-woo— he replied with a small gesture, though you knew perfectly well who it was. His voice, so low and deep, had a curious effect: It didn't fill the room, but it did catch your full attention to. —I know.

Pause.

—I saw you the other day— he added, as if it were a thought he'd suddenly given permission to come out, —You had rice in your hair.

You blinked, puzzled.

—What?

—When you were laughing— he clarified, with that same imperturbable calm —A grain fell on your head. You didn't say anything. You left it there as if you didn't notice.

You let out a laugh, genuine, surprised by the absurd memory of the moment. Had he really noticed that? And why did he remember it?

And then it happened: You saw him smile.

It wasn't a big smile. It didn't even go as far as a full one. Just a subtle curve at one corner of his lips, so brief that you doubted if you really saw it. But it was there. Fleeting. Almost shy.

—Are you always this observant?— you asked, half jokingly.

—Only when there's rice flying— he answered nonchalantly.

Another silence, but this time it was different. Warm, almost comfortable. Like when two people are tuned to the same frequency and don't know it yet. He took a sip of his coffee, turned to go back to his room, and just before disappearing, he said with a disconcerting naturalness:

—You look different today. More... Funny.

And then he simply walked away.

It took you several seconds to process what had just happened. Had it been a compliment? An unfiltered observation? Or just the odd —and slightly poetic— way he had of looking at the world?

Whatever it was, you felt it: That little knot in your stomach that forms when something unexpected touches you in just the right place. It was nothing concrete yet. Nothing definite. But there it was. A silent promise that something had begun.

You went back to the apartment, again, this time without a very concrete plan. Min-gyu had sent you a quick message, with all the elegance that characterized him:

[Min-gyu - 12:23]

I'm free this afternoon if you want to stop by.

Bring something to eat.

I literally don't even have bread.

A subtle invitation wrapped in emotional blackmail. So there you were, carrying a bag of snacks and a cold drink, without much expectation... Although, deep down, you knew exactly why your step had brought you to that door again.

Min-gyu was in the shower when you arrived. You knew because his muffled voice echoed from down the hall with the assurance of someone shouting into the wind:

—Put whatever you want on TV! I'll be out in five!

You plopped down on the couch with the familiarity of someone who had already turned that place into a kind of extension of herself. Reaching for the remote control, you noticed something different: On the table, a shiny black joystick connected to a turned-off console. Next to it, a stack of video games —some with Korean titles, others in Japanese, one you recognized from having gone viral a couple of years ago for its tragic story.

Curious, you picked up the controller and twirled it between your fingers, as if that small object could give you clues about its owner.

—I didn't know they played video games— you commented on the air, without waiting for an answer.

—I play— answered a voice behind you. Calm. Solid.

You turned around immediately.

Won-woo was there, leaning against the wall frame, dressed in a dark sweatshirt with his hair a bit disheveled, as if he had just stepped out of a parallel universe. In one hand he held his ever-present mug-you suspected it came standard with him.

—Oh, yeah?— you asked, smiling curiously, —I thought you were more of a "I meditate with my eyes open for three hours" kind of guy.

—I do that too— he replied matter—of—factly, and walked over to the game shelf without haste. —But on weekends I'd rather save fake worlds than fix the real ones.

His voice had that gentle tone that didn't need to get louder to stay with you. And his commentary... Well, it had that dark, sarcastic and strangely deep undertone that you were beginning to find addictive.

—And what's your favorite?— you asked, sitting up better on the couch, elbows resting on your knees.

—It depends on the day— You went through the titles with your fingers. —RPGs, mostly. Long stories. Where your decisions matter.

—Decisions that matter? Interesting, coming from someone who seemed to take five minutes to decide whether to answer a greeting or not.

He raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly, and muttered:

—That's exactly why. Words cost less if you don't use them all the time. Decisions, too.

He disarmed you. Not with an irrefutable argument, but with that way of his of saying things like someone who drops stones into a calm lake and watches the ripples.

—Would you teach me how to play?— you asked after a moment, pointing to the console. —I never understood anything about these worlds. But I always found them fascinating.

Won-woo blinked once, as if your request had taken a while to reach his brain. Then he nodded slowly.

—It depends. Do you have patience?

—I have brothers— you said with a smile. —I'm trained to deal with everything.

For the first time, you saw him laugh a little more freely. It wasn't a laugh, but a broader gesture. Almost human. Almost complicit.

—Then let's start with this one— he said, offering you a box. —It's long, slow... And if you do something wrong, you basically bring on the apocalypse.

—Perfect. Just what I need to relax.

You sat in front of the TV, you with the controller in hand and he calmly guiding you. You were surprised by the patience with which he explained each mechanic. He wasn't condescending, not distant, just.... Meticulous. He chose his words like someone tuning an instrument.

At some point, his fingers brushed yours as he corrected how you held the joystick. It was a brief touch, almost accidental. But you felt it. You felt it in every millimeter of skin he touched, in the silence that followed, in the way he just.... Went on, as if nothing had happened. Or maybe as if something did happen, but you didn't know how to name it.

When Min-gyu appeared, already dressed and drying his hair with a towel, he found them immersed in the game.

—What are you guys so focused on? Did you found a secret clan or what?

—I'm teaching her not to destroy a civilization in less than ten minutes— muttered Won-woo, without taking his eyes off the screen.

—It was a tactical error— you defended yourself with a chuckle —Besides, no one warned me that the “X” button decided the fate of a kingdom.

Min-gyu rolled his eyes and went to the kitchen.

But something had changed.

An invisible door had opened between you and Won-woo. It wasn't trust, not yet. But it was a silent connection, the kind that isn't shouted, forced, or announced. It was felt. And for now, that was enough.

The game had been paused for a while. The console slept like a contented pet, the background music was barely a soft murmur floating through the warm air of the apartment, and the dim lights bathed the room in that golden glow that only comes unintentionally, as if the night itself had made itself comfortable.

Dinner had arrived without great ceremony: Two open boxes on the low table, each with a personality of its own. One was overflowing with cheese to the brim, the other looked like some kind of culinary experiment that, against all odds, worked. Delivery chaos has never been so comforting.

The three of them sat down without order or protocol. Min-gyu plopped down on the floor like a K-pop star in the middle of a world tour break, you took the couch wrapped in a blanket you clearly already considered yours, and Won-woo, with his classic economy of movement, settled into one of the chairs with his legs crossed and his face half hidden behind a steaming mug.

As always, Min-gyu dominated the conversation with his inexhaustible energy. He told stories with that mix of sarcasm and drama that only someone with his social life could afford.

—Then the guy grabs the camera, puts it in front of his face and says, “How do you turn this toaster on?”— he recounted, between chuckles. —I don't know whether to cry about the state of the industry or nominate him for an unintentional comedy award.

—You're sure that wasn't part of the script?— you said, biting back a laugh.

—I wish. The worst thing is that that take did come out well. Ironies of the trade.

Then, as if suddenly remembering, Min-gyu raised a slice of pizza like a white flag and blurted out:

—Ah, and I'm going to China. Two weeks.

—What? So soon?— you asked, glancing sideways at Won-woo, who at that moment was stirring the edges of the cheese as if it were a chemistry experiment.

—Monday. Photo shoots, events, fake smiles. You know. What one does to survive in style. But I need you to keep coming over here— he said, pointing at you with the half-eaten portion. —This isn't just a casual invitation. It's a veiled plea.

—Why? Have I been assigned responsibilities without my consent?

—Let’s say, yes. I want you to hold down the fort, mostly because Won-woo…— he paused dramatically— Isn't exactly the pillar of domesticity.

Won-woo, without looking up from his pizza, mumbled in his unflappable tone:

—Said the man who washed clothes with dish soap.

—It was an international emergency!— Min-gyu defended himself. —Besides, the clothes were left with a citrus scent.

—And the texture of cardboard…

You covered your mouth so as not to spit with laughter, while the exchange continued with the fluidity of a sitcom you already knew well. But between bites and jokes, you kept watching Won-woo.

There was something fascinating about his silent presence. His glasses fogged up at times from the steam of the pizza, black hair fell untidily over his forehead, and his relaxed posture seemed as natural as it was learned. As if he had been in that corner for years, not asking permission to be there, but not needing anyone to invite him either.

And you watched him. Not blatantly, of course. Only at times. Like someone who leafs through a book without deciding yet if he wants to read it from beginning to end.

Min-gyu, in one of his multiple abilities to notice what is not said, interrupted you with a suspicious throat clearing.

—What? you asked, disguising the curve of your smile.

—Nothing. I just think this trip could be very, very productive.

—Productive in what way?

—In the sense that you'll be in charge of the emotional balance of this department while I'm away. And yes, that includes you keeping Won-woo from trying to live on ramen, tea and cynicism alone.

—You exaggerate.

—Your record speaks for you.

The conversation dissolved into more giggles and nibbles, until at one point, perhaps looking for a change of pace, you threw out a question that had been rolling around in your head for some time.

—Hey, Won-woo... What exactly do you do for a living?

He looked up with a leisurely gesture, almost as if that simple question brought him out of another world.

—I sell video games. Collectibles, rare editions. Some things from Japan and others restored. And I... I write, too.

—As a hobby?

—More like a refuge— he replied, without embellishment.

The way he said it was not melancholy, nor dramatic. It was direct. Almost overly honest.

—What kind of writing do you do?

—Situations, small details. Unexpressed emotions. That's where it's all at, I think.

That kind of answer was the exact kind of sentence someone else might have ruined for pretentiousness. But in his mouth it sounded different. It had weight, but not burden. And you didn't know if it was because of what he said, or how he said it, but there was something that stuck with you inside.

—And that pays the rent for this nice place?

—That, online sales, and avoiding going out too much. I don't have many vices.

—Just tea and games?

He nodded. And for the first time, he smiled with his lips, not just his eyes. It was slight, but evident.

The night faded naturally. When you got up to leave, Min-gyu was already half sprawled on the couch, using a napkin as a makeshift mask and the empty pizza box as an abdominal shield.

Won-woo escorted you to the door without a word. The sound of your footsteps on the wood floated over a comfortable silence.

—Thank you for... The pizza— he murmured.

—Thank you for letting me ruin only half a virtual village.

He laughed very softly, and for a second, just one, the two of them stood still. Not too close, not too far. Just... There.

—See you soon, then— you said.

—If I don't forget to pay for the internet, yes— he replied.

The door closed softly behind you, and as you walked down the stairs this time —without using the elevator, as if you wanted to prolong the moment— you realized that something had changed. Nothing definite. Nothing explicit.

But as in writing, what matters is not what is explicit, but what is suggested.

You had left Min-gyu at the airport barely an hour ago, and it already seemed to you that something was missing. Not so much because of the silence, but because of the way the air seemed to have lost its natural rhythm. Your brother had that effect: He made noise even without speaking. There was always music in the background, ridiculous anecdotes, impromptu plans or complaints about such trivial things as the weather or cold coffee.

Now, as you walked with a bag of groceries dangling from one arm and your cell phone vibrating in the other —messages you purposely ignored—you felt a strange anxiety. Attributable, of course, to the thought of having to visit the apartment without Min-gyu.... And with Won-woo there. Alone.

—I just have to check that he's still alive— you muttered to yourself, in a tone more humorous than realistic, though the image of him completely abstracted from the world amidst wires, screens and cups of tea didn't seem so far off.

That was it. Just checking that he hadn't merged with the couch or that he wasn't growing mushrooms in the fridge. Quick. Painless. No unnecessary emotions. No butterflies.

But of course, butterflies never ask for permission.

The click of the door was barely audible, drowned out by the soft hum of the television on. You entered without making too much noise, expecting perhaps to find the room empty, leave the food on the table and disappear. But no.

There he was. Sitting in the center of the couch, with the relaxed posture of someone who had lost track of time. He was wearing a black sweater with white letters almost erased, and his hair, messy as always, fell in unruly locks over his glasses. He was absorbed. He didn't move, except for his thumbs, which danced with surgical precision over the control.

There was something about that image that stopped you. Not just because he looked... Incredibly good —though it did, without pretension or effort—but because it seemed to be on its own planet. A silent, pixelated, and curiously attractive planet. There was something intimate about the scene, as if you'd caught him in a private moment, and yet he didn't seem uncomfortable.

Until he spoke.

—Did you bring food?

He didn't even take his eyes off the screen. But his voice, soft, with that low, neutral tone that sounded like something out of a lo-fi song, jolted you as if you'd been caught prying into his thoughts. Or yours.

—Yes— you said, holding up the bag as if it were a peace trophy. Your tone sounded more shrill than you expected, so you lowered your voice a little as you approached. —I thought you had no supplies beyond tea and apocalypse.

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn't look at you yet, but you could tell he had listened.

—It's a balanced diet.

—Of course— you replied, pulling out the food containers. —Balanced between nutritional collapse and dehydration.

This time he let out something very much like a laugh. Brief, as if he wasn't used to it, but real.

As you placed the containers on the table, you moved a little closer, without thinking too much. There was something in the atmosphere that made you want to stay. Maybe it was the soft music of the game, the artificial warmth of the apartment? Or just curiosity.

—What are you playing?

Pause. Now he turned down the volume of the TV and turned his head towards you. His eyes were dark and expressive, even behind the glasses. They didn't look at you with distrust, but with that kind of attention that comes when someone really thinks before they speak.

—Sinsong— he finally said. —It's Korean. A strategic RPG with moral decisions. Everything you do changes the course of the game.

—And have you destroyed any villages yet?

—Not yet. But there was a scene... Intense.

His answers were short, yes, but not evasive. There was something honest in the way he spoke, as if he didn't seek to impress, but he still couldn't help but be interesting. That kind of mystery that doesn't try too hard to be.

—Can I try it?— you asked, crossing your arms over the back of the couch.

He looked at you as if trying to figure out if you were serious. Then, very slowly, he nodded.

—If you don't mind losing in the first five minutes?

—I have pride, not fear.

He made room for you on the couch and handed you the controller without touching you, but so close that you could catch the soft scent of tea and freshly washed clothes. He stayed by your side, explaining game mechanics with a patience that contrasted with his seemingly introverted nature. He spoke in a low voice, weighing each word carefully. But there was something in his tone, in the way he glanced at you sideways every time you fumbled with the controller, that hinted at another layer.

Won-woo was reserved, yes. But not closed off. He seemed to live inwardly, observing everything, storing away details no one else noticed. Like when he scratched the back of his neck while thinking about how to explain a game system to you. Or when he pushed his glasses up with one finger without even realizing it.

And you... You noticed everything.

After nearly an hour, you managed to save one village and accidentally destroy another. He didn’t laugh, but his smile was clear enough to tell you he was enjoying it.

When you got up to leave, the atmosphere had softened, as if something had settled between you. Not necessarily immediate trust, but a quiet truce. A mutual recognition.

—Thanks for the food— he said, this time looking at you directly.

—Thank you for not judging my military skills— you replied, opening the door.

—I haven’t finished the analysis yet— he murmured.

You said it jokingly. But his voice… Carried something else. A spark. And for the first time since you arrived, you felt like maybe… It wasn’t just curiosity that kept pulling you back.

It was him. And now, more than ever, you wanted to find out what else was hiding behind those foggy glasses and carefully measured silences.

You were about to turn the doorknob when something —maybe your conscience, or maybe just that impulsive part of you that never shuts up— stopped you. The hallway was quiet, with that mid-week stillness buildings tend to have when everyone else has things to do except you.

You didn’t want to seem eager, or nosy, or anything like that… But something inside you refused to leave without trying. So you took a deep breath, like you had to convince yourself first, and spoke without turning around.

—Hey… Before I go— you began casually, like you didn’t really care about the answer. —You should give me your number. Just in case, you know... Fires, ninja attacks, the fridge becomes sentient and declares war. Emergencies, normal stuff.

The silence that followed was longer than you expected. Not awkward, but… Dense. Like inside the apartment, someone was reorganizing their entire internal operating system to process what you had just said.

You turned, and there he was, exactly as you’d left him: On the couch, the video game controller in his lap, body half-sunken into the cushions like he’d been there for hours. But now he was looking at you. And that already meant something had changed.

—My number?— he repeated, like the phrase was new to him, strange, or too intimate to process so quickly.

—Yes— you said, keeping a calm smile, even though you were chewing yourself up inside. —Not to stalk you or anything. Just... It’d be useful. In case I find out you left something on. Or if the ceiling collapses on you and I need to call emergency services. Nothing weird.

Won-woo shifted slowly, like his body couldn’t decide whether to stay where it was or bolt out the window. He took off his glasses and started cleaning them with the sleeve of his sweater. Not because they needed it, but clearly because it was his way of thinking without saying much.

—I don’t usually… Give out my number— he murmured, not looking directly at you. His voice was calm, but there was a hidden tension at the edges, that soft discomfort of someone not used to being reached.

—I don’t usually ask for the number of guys who barely talk— you replied, raising an eyebrow. —We’re both out of our comfort zones, aren’t we?

That pulled a half-smile from him. Brief, shy, but genuine. Like he was thanking you for not pushing, for understanding him even when he didn’t say things outright.

—All right…— he said finally, and looked down at his phone. —You give me yours too. For... Balance.

His tone almost sounded like a joke, but without the confidence of someone who tosses jokes around easily. It was more like an attempt to bring lightness to something that clearly felt very personal to him.

—I was just about to suggest it. We wouldn’t want to throw off the universal balance, after all.

You handed him your unlocked phone, and he took it with the care of someone holding a sleeping animal. He typed slowly, with long, meticulous fingers, making sure not to mess it up. Then he gave it back, barely looking at you, like he didn’t want to make you any more uncomfortable than this moment already was.

—Done— he said. —But... if you call me, I probably won’t answer.

—And if I text you?

—I’ll... Read it a few times. Maybe think of a reply in my head and not send it. Or write it and delete it. But... Yeah. I’ll reply. Sooner or later.

You couldn’t help but smile. There was something so transparent about him, so unfiltered, it was endearing. No effort to seem more interesting, more fun, more anything. He was just him. A quiet guy, distractingly attractive, with measured replies and long silences that somehow didn’t make you want to run away.

—Perfect. I’ll keep that in mind. Though I hope if the fridge explodes, your reply won’t just be an ellipsis.

Won-woo blinked a couple of times. Then, in his driest, most serious tone:

—I don’t use emojis.

And that was it —the final straw—. You laughed. It was quick, spontaneous. You covered your mouth with your hand, not out of embarrassment, but because it surprised you how easy it was to be there. With him.

You walked to the door, this time slower. You felt like you’d crossed some invisible line between the practical and the personal. You weren’t just “Min-gyu’s sister who’s watching the apartment”. At least not in the way he was starting to look at you.

—See you soon, Won-woo— you said as you opened the door.

He nodded. It seemed like he was going to leave it at that. But just as you took your first step out, his voice, almost a whisper, reached you from behind.

—Thanks for... stopping by.

It was simple. Unadorned. But coming from him, it sounded almost intimate. Like his own particular way of saying “I liked having you here” without having to face the embarrassment of saying it out loud.

You turned around one last time.

—It was… Nice— you said sincerely. Then, after a pause, —And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy beating you at the end.

Won-woo smiled to the side, like someone keeping a rematch hidden up their sleeve.

—That victory was... Generous on my part.

—Uh-huh. Sure it was— You winked at him. —Till next time, strategic-defeat champion.

The door closed softly behind you, but the echo of the conversation —his voice, his awkward interest— followed you all the way to the elevator. As it descended, with no one else around, you couldn’t help but look at your reflection in the steel doors and smile.

You didn’t know exactly what was starting to happen between you and Won-woo, but it was... Different. And somewhere deep inside, that subtle flutter told you you didn’t want it to end any time soon.

The elevator dropped you off on the ground floor, but your mind was still floating somewhere much higher. Between Won-woo’s final comment, that rare but real smile, and the way he said “thanks for stopping by”, something had lodged itself inside you. Something small. Uncomfortable in the best way. Like a pebble in your shoe, but in your chest.

You walked home more slowly than necessary, the empty bag swinging from your wrist and the ridiculous feeling that you’d left something behind. Not a scarf. Not your dignity. Something more subtle. Maybe part of your focus. Your energy. You.

When you got back to your apartment, you kicked off your shoes, dropped your keys on the table with a metallic clink that broke the silence, and flopped onto the couch with that kind of drama that only comes when part of you is waiting... For something. Anything.

You closed your eyes. Opened them again. Stared at the ceiling. Then turned your head toward your purse, knowing full well your phone was in there, waiting like a silent accomplice. And that’s when the inner battle began.

“There’s no point in texting him. You already said everything that needed to be said. It was just one shared afternoon. A video game. A pizza.”

But the other voice —bolder, more you when no one’s looking— piped up without shame.

“What if you just want to text him? Because not everything has to be necessary. Because maybe you just feel like it. And that’s enough.”

You sighed softly, grabbed your phone like someone surrendering to the inevitable, and opened the chat. The empty screen was intimidating. A blank, silent space that seemed to say “nothing’s happened here”. But you knew better. Something had.

You typed something. Deleted it. Tried an emoji, hated it, deleted that too. Until you gave in to what you actually felt: Simple. Light. Expectation-free.

[You – 10:17 PM]

Made it back fine. No alien invasions on the way. So far.

The moment you hit "send", you dropped the phone like it burned, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes debating whether to text him at all. You got up to make some tea, even though the water never even boiled. You came back to the couch. Looked at the screen. Still blank. Of course.

“He probably read the message, panicked, and is now thinking it over in some dark corner while his imaginary cat judges him.”

Eleven minutes later, just as you were about to give up and open a dumb video to distract yourself, your phone buzzed.

[Won-woo – 10:28 PM]

Good. Glad the fridge didn’t win this time.

You smiled. Not a loud one. Just that soft, silly smile that slips out when no one’s watching. The kind that says more than you’d ever admit out loud. Because he’d replied. Not just that—he got the joke. He matched your tone.

You read it again. As if there were a second, hidden layer beneath his words. Then you replied without overthinking:

[You – 10:29 PM]

It was a tough battle. I escaped with minor injuries (burned a finger on the microwave). But I survived.

A few seconds passed. You saw him “online”. Then “typing.” Then nothing. Then “online” again.

“Weird”, you thought, amused.

[Won-woo – 10:33 PM]

The microwave has always been the most treacherous one.

You laughed quietly, with that warm feeling that seeps into your skin without asking. You typed again.

[You – 10:34 PM]

I know. It has a suspicious look.

Thanks for today, by the way.

That “thanks” came out heavier than you meant. Because it had been more than just another afternoon. And you knew it.

A few minutes passed, then his reply came:

[Won-woo – 10:36 PM]

I didn’t do much.

But… It was nice.

The word "nice" felt small, almost shy. But coming from him, it sounded like a confession. Like low—volume vulnerability. Like “I liked having you here”, without actually saying it.

You rested the phone on your chest, as if its warmth might linger a little longer. The silence in your apartment didn’t feel so heavy anymore. It had a different texture now, like someone else had left their shadow behind.

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But something had shifted. Or started.

And for the first time in a long while, you wished the night would last a bit longer. Not necessarily to keep talking. Just to stay in that feeling. That invisible thread you’d somehow started to share with someone who spoke little but said so much between the lines.

The next time you went to the apartment, you weren’t just carrying food or some improvised excuse. You brought cookies. Homemade. Or, well, as close as you could get to something edible and baked, given your limited baking skills. The first attempt had been a tragic disaster, but the second... The second had shape, color, and even a promising smell.

You walked in without knocking, as usual, but this time he wasn’t in front of the TV, nor holding the joystick or lost in some video game. Won-woo was by the window, slightly hunched over an open notebook, as if the outside world didn’t exist beyond the words he was writing.

You stopped cold, not wanting to interrupt right away. The scene felt intimate, fragile. His glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose, and his messy hair shifted with every faint breeze sneaking through the window crack. He was so focused he seemed to float in a slower, entirely his own frequency.

You knocked gently on the doorframe with your knuckles.

He looked up, startled, like he’d just landed from somewhere far away.

—Were you writing?— you asked with a sideways smile, lifting the makeshift box of cookies like some kind of offering.

Won-woo closed the notebook quickly, almost guiltily, like you’d caught him doing something too personal. His reaction surprised you, though not entirely. There was always a part of him somewhere between wanting to share and the instinct to hide.

—Something like that— he said, not quite meeting your eyes. —Nothing important.

—And how do you decide that?— You stepped closer, setting the box on the table. —Do you always write by the window, or is that part of your mysterious writer aesthetic?

That earned a small, almost imperceptible smile—but enough.

—The light is good— he replied. —And almost no one interrupts me.

—Until today— you added, shameless. —But I come in peace. And with cookies. I think that gives me the right to stay.

He reached out to grab one awkwardly, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to eat something made by someone else. He examined it like he was analyzing its molecular structure, then took a bite.

The verdict: A neutral expression, followed by another bite and a slow nod.

—They’re good.

And for some reason, that simple "good", spoken in his quiet, honest voice, warmed your chest in a ridiculously disproportionate way.

—What were you writing?— you asked, nodding toward the now-closed notebook.

He hesitated. You saw him swallow, look down at his hands.

—Ideas. Scenes. Things I imagine when I’m not… Avoiding people— he said, with a hint of self-deprecating humor. —Sometimes I write stories. Other times, just scattered lines. Thoughts.

—And you keep them all in there? Like a journal?

—Not exactly. It’s more like… A conversation I don’t know how to have out loud.

That made you pause. The sentence carried unexpected weight. You looked at the notebook, now a loaded object.

—Have you ever thought about showing what you write?— you asked—not pushing, just curious.

Won-woo shrugged, lowering his gaze to his hands.

—I’ve thought about it. But I’m not sure what I write is any good. And sometimes, when I read it again, I feel like... I’m exposing too much. Like someone could read it and see all of me.

—That doesn’t sound so bad.

—For someone like me, it is.

You stayed quiet for a moment. Then decided to offer something back.

—I draw. Or at least I try to. I have a notebook full of mural ideas, abstract stuff, weird colors. Some phrases that keep following me around. I’ve always wanted to do something with it, but…— you shrugged —Sometimes we sabotage ourselves too, don’t we?

—Yes— he said, his voice barely a whisper. —You become your own obstacle.

There was a pause. One of those that doesn’t feel awkward—one that lets the words breathe.

—Do you have your drawings here?— he asked, with a softness you didn’t expect.

You shook your head, smiling.

—No. But if you ever invite me for tea, I might bring them.

He didn’t say anything—just nodded. But that gesture, that small tilt of his head, carried the gentleness of a true yes. As if he’d just opened a door that was entirely his… Just for you.

That night, you didn’t rush to leave. You left slowly, feeling that something had shifted. Not in a grand or obvious way. But just enough.

And when you got home—after slipping off your shoes and dropping your keys in their usual spot—you saw it. A short message glowing on your phone screen.

[Won-woo – 10:04 PM]

Thanks for the cookies.

And for staying.

The words came easier today.

You lay back on the couch with a soft smile, almost without realizing. The phone resting on your chest like a musical note still vibrating.

You didn’t know if he would ever show you what he wrote, or if you’d actually let him see your drawings. But something was definitely growing between the two of you. Not a movie—kind—of—story. Something slower. Something real.

Like a story written by hand.

Like a line sketched without erasing the one before it.

You returned to the apartment one afternoon when the sky seemed to have forgotten how to be blue. It wasn’t raining, but the air smelled like it might—like a promise of water, a soft melancholy that clung to your skin like a light blanket. It wasn’t a special day. Not his birthday, not a marked date. But you were carrying your notebook. That made it different.

You had told yourself you wouldn’t show it. That you’d bring it along "just in case", like someone taking an umbrella when the forecast says “maybe”. And yet, as soon as you stepped inside, you knew it wasn’t just a remote possibility. It was a decision you’d been chewing on for days.

Won-woo greeted you with his usual gesture: A slight nod, no words. But this time, his eyes lingered on yours a second longer, as if he noticed something different. Maybe he did. You felt it too.

He was in his favorite spot, by the window, a cup of tea in his hands and a half-open notebook in front of him. The pen rested on top, forgotten.

—Did I interrupt your creative session?— you asked, slinging your backpack over the back of a chair.

—Not enough to be mad about it— he replied without moving, with that dry tone laced with subtle humor that you were starting to understand better than anyone.

You sat on the couch, dropping your bag to the side. Outwardly calm. Inside, a whirlwind. You hesitated for a few minutes. Chatted about random things: The weather, the playlist he had on, how useless electric ovens were for baking decent cookies. He listened, quiet but focused, with that expression of his that made it seem like he wasn’t giving opinions—but was storing every detail in some private corner of his mind.

Finally, before you could change your mind again, you opened the backpack and pulled out your notebook.

You placed it on the table with a mix of shyness and determination, without looking at him directly. As if just putting it there was an act of bravery on its own.

Won-woo tilted his head, curious.

—Is that…?— He didn’t finish the question, but you filled in the silence.

—My sketchbook. Where I draw. Sometimes I write too. It’s not organized or anything.

He looked at it like you’d just offered him a map to an unknown place. And then, with the kind of respect someone might have for a borrowed relic, he asked:

—Can I see it?

You nodded. You weren’t sure if your hands were shaking on the outside, but inside… Every heartbeat felt like an unspoken truth.

Won-woo took it with both hands. His fingers were long, steady, almost ceremonial as he turned the first page. And then, simply, he began to read. Or look. Or feel—because he didn’t comment, didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask for explanations. He just moved through the pages with a reverence that made it feel like every sketch, every word, deserved its time.

Half-human figures, dreamed murals, fragments of poetry, splashes of color where some emotion had spilled uncontrollably. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t flatter you. But his complete attention was enough to make you feel that—for the first time—someone was seeing what you’d made without trying to fix it, just trying to understand it.

He stopped near the end, at a page you’d scribbled on at 3 a.m., the ink smudged:

“I’m scared to be seen. But I’m more scared of never showing myself at all.”

His eyes lingered on the words. And instead of saying something clever, he simply said:

—I feel that too.

It caught you off guard. He didn’t speak like that—not easily.

—You feel… What?

—I’m scared too. Of sharing what I write. Of someone reading it and really seeing me. But also… Of never letting that happen at all.

You didn’t say anything for a moment. You just sat there, sharing that—raw vulnerability. A mirror confession.

He was the one who stood up first. Walked over to the shelf, rummaged through worn—out notebooks, and pulled out one that looked like it held history. He handed it to you—not ceremoniously, but with a certain care. He opened it to a specific page, like he had chosen it in advance.

—It’s not a full story— he said. —Just a scene. But… I don’t know. Maybe you’ll like it.

You read in silence. It was a fragment of something bigger. A conversation between two characters on a train. He wrote with restraint, no unnecessary flourishes, but every line carried weight. It was honest. Deep without trying to be. As if he wrote from somewhere very far inside—but still with his feet on the ground.

—This character…?— you began.

—Isn’t me— he said right away. But then he added, lowering his gaze. —Not completely.

—You could write a whole story from this— you told him. —It’s beautiful.

He looked at you then—and for the first time, didn’t look away so quickly. There was something different there. A certain trust. Or maybe a need to trust.

—What if you drew the scenes?— he said. —Like little snapshots. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just something… Ours.

That last word hung between you. Not as a promise. But as a spark.

—We could try— you said. And you sounded more confident than you felt. But also… Freer.

You didn’t hug. You didn’t hold hands. But as you were leaving, he didn’t hand back the notebook.

—Can I keep it for a few days?— he asked.

—Sure— you replied. —But don’t correct anything.

—Never.

And when you closed the door behind you, you knew that something between you had opened. Not suddenly. Not loudly. But with the exact rhythm of a story just beginning—one no one else needs to understand for it to be real.

The message came mid-morning, while you were still in pajamas, your hair tied up any which way, the breakfast mug forgotten on the edge of the sink. Just another notification—no sound, no urgency—but the name on the screen was enough to make your pulse quicken, just a little.

Won-woo sent you an image.

You opened it without thinking. It was a photo. Nothing more. Nothing less.

An urban landscape, captured in a moment suspended between fog and noise. Sidewalks still wet from an earlier drizzle, reflections of unlit streetlamps on the asphalt, an old building in the background with glowing windows—as if someone were reading behind each one. No people. Just a near-cinematic stillness, like the world was breathing in a whisper.

You smiled, instinctively, automatically.

[You – 10:03]

It’s a beautiful photo.

Feels like a scene from your story.

You were about to set the phone aside when his reply arrived, as precise as a second thought:

[Won-woo – 10:09]

I’m glad you like it.

Are you free this afternoon?

I thought… We could go to a café. Talk a bit about last night.

You read the message several times. No exclamation points, no emojis—but knowing him, it felt like a leap. A simple invitation, but one that said a lot coming from him. And you knew it. It wasn’t just coffee. It was a bridge.

As you picked up the empty cup and forced yourself to pull together some kind of composure, your mind drifted to him. How he wrote. How he noticed beauty in the things others ignored. That quiet way he had of telling the truth without raising his voice. He had a kind of sensitivity that didn’t need to announce itself, and maybe that’s why it ran deeper.

“Elegant without meaning to be”, you thought. As if his talent weighed on him, as if he was shy about having something so personal others could touch.

You got ready without rushing, but with more care than you were willing to admit. You slipped a notebook into your bag—the good one, the one you used when inspiration truly hit—along with a few pencils, just in case.

The café he’d suggested was only a few blocks from the apartment he shared with Min-gyu. It wasn’t a well-known place. The sign was barely visible, the tables were pale wood, and the hanging lamps cast warm yellow light. The air smelled like freshly ground coffee and old books.

“Perfect”, you thought. It seemed like the kind of place someone like him would choose.

You arrived a few minutes early—because you wanted to. Because you wanted to be there before the moment began.

You waited outside, hands in your pockets, eyes scanning the street. And when you saw him coming, the world seemed to pause for a beat. He walked with that unhurried pace of his, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a gray scarf tied clumsily around his neck. His hair was carefully combed, though a rebellious strand still fell across his forehead. He wasn’t dressed to impress, but there was something about the way he carried himself that felt… Different. Present. Like he’d taken care, too.

He saw you and raised a hand in a brief wave. No words. But that small smile… Tt undid you.

—Hey— you said, glancing down a little, still smiling.

—Hey— he echoed, his voice calm, almost a murmur.

You went into the café and chose a table by a fogged-up window. He ordered an americano, no sugar. You got a cinnamon latte. The waitress jotted it down with a distracted smile and walked off. You were alone. The hum of the café made the perfect backdrop for what was to come.

—Did you bring your notebook?— he asked, motioning subtly toward your bag.

—I did— you said, pulling it out as if presenting something with reverence. —Also some pencils. In case inspiration decides to slip away.

—Or in case I start saying a very profound thing— he joked—his usual way: Barely noticeable, but charming.

You laughed, and that sound seemed to loosen something between you. The coffee arrived, bringing a comfortable pause. He held his cup with both hands, like it gave him courage. Took a sip, then looked at you—direct, but not invasive.

—I’ve been thinking… About what you said. About sharing what we make. About not always hiding it.

You nodded, but said nothing. You wanted to listen more than speak.

—I don’t know if I’m ready for a lot of people to read it— he went on. —But I’d like to keep sharing it with you. Not because I feel like I have to. But because… I want to.

Your heart made a strange noise. A flutter. A crack letting in the light.

—Thank you— you said. —I feel the same. I don’t know why, but ever since I started reading your words, I’m less afraid to draw the things that really matter to me.

He looked down for a second, a small crooked smile on his lips. Then he looked up, and for a moment, he wasn’t the shy Won-woo—you saw him more clearly. More fully.

—Can we create something together?— he asked. —A project, small, big, doesn’t matter. I want to see what happens when your drawings and my words meet in the same place.

—What if it doesn’t work?

—Then we’ll have shared something. That alone makes it worth it.

You picked up a pencil without thinking. Started sketching soft lines on the paper, no explanation. He didn’t interrupt. Just watched you, fingers still wrapped around his mug.

—What are you doing?— he asked eventually, curiosity blooming in his voice.

—Drawing you. But this time, without the mystery. Just a guy in a café, with the most honest eyes I’ve ever seen.

He blushed, clearly. And you pretended to focus on the paper so you wouldn’t laugh too loudly.

You spent the afternoon talking about stories. About characters you both wanted to write. About scenes you imagined. He told you he once wanted to be a screenwriter but gave it up because it felt too pretentious. You told him you once dreamed of painting murals all over Seoul, though you still weren’t sure if you had the courage.

The conversation bloomed like a flower you didn’t know you had planted.

And when it was time to go, he offered to walk you to the corner. Outside, the afternoon had already turned to night. The city lights felt like a soft echo.

—I want to keep seeing you— he said, like handing over something he’d been holding too long.

—Me too— you said, meeting his gaze with a sincerity that even surprised you.

The words came so fast, it startled you. Like all the air you’d been holding in your chest had finally been released in that sentence. And deep down, you knew it wasn’t just a response. It was the first time something inside you also wanted to be spoken.

Won-woo blinked, as if you’d thrown a stone into water and he was watching the ripples reach his side. He was silent for a moment, processing. Then, without panic, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, like searching for the right word in the maze of his thoughts.

—I’m glad— he finally said, in a soft, almost hesitant voice. —Because that way we can keep the story going.

The words fell like a single drop into a pond, sending out waves inside you. His reply came so quickly, so mechanically, that for a second you wondered if he really understood what you’d just said. Or if maybe, he’d gotten lost in his own world of untold stories and unsaid things.

And there it was —an unnecessary clarification, a near-clinical detachment that slightly ruined the warmth of the moment. As if everything that had just happened was now reduced to a continuation, an extension of something already in motion.

Your smile froze. It wasn’t sadness. Not contempt. Just... Confusion.

You weren’t expecting a grand declaration. You weren’t expecting anything specific. But part of you had lifted with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same. That his gaze held more colors. That his words carried more weight.

And now, hearing those simple words, you understood what made Won-woo who he was. Someone who maybe needed to frame everything —every gesture, every word. Someone who didn’t quite know how to let life happen without a script. Without something to hold onto.

—Right… The story— you said, lowering your gaze, feeling the weight of those words settling over you like dust. But you said it calmly, as if the world kept turning despite the tiny crack that had just opened between you two.

He nodded without thinking. Then looked away, as if the small curtain of silence that had just fallen between you didn’t affect him. As if he hadn’t noticed the faint shadow that passed over your face.

The disappointment —soft, almost invisible— cut deeper than you expected. But you understood. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to play in the shadows of the unsaid, in the small spaces where language fails. And still, in his own clumsy but honest way, he was trying.

You walked in silence, unhurried. The city carried on around you —cars gliding by, distant conversations humming, the sky heavy with a promise of rain. Each step seemed to move you further from what had just happened in the café. But something inside you —a small spark— remained alive. You weren’t ready to let it die.

—Don’t worry— you said, breaking the thick silence that had formed between you. —I love the story.

And it was true. You did. Even if the way he had said it left a bitter taste, there was still something in those story fragments that felt like yours. Like you were part of something bigger than just a simple encounter.

He glanced at you, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face. He didn’t say anything, but something in his body eased. Maybe, just maybe, he understood that not everything about you could be handled like a neat, linear narrative.

When you reached the corner, you both stopped. Just stood there, watching the street, the traffic, the ebb and flow of strangers as if looking for something in the city’s movement.

—Will I see you again soon?— you asked, no hesitation, letting the question linger like an unspoken wish.

Won-woo’s answer came with the same precision as before. His words, so measured and controlled, felt heavier than the silence that preceded them.

—Yes. I’ll write to you tomorrow. I promise I won’t leave it paused for too long.

Something in that response —so small and tangible— began to melt away the disappointment, though not entirely. It’s not what I hoped for, you thought. But maybe it’s all he can offer.

You watched him cross the street, unhurried, as if everything were perfectly normal. His scarf caught the wind, and for a moment, it felt like time stretched —that the image of him walking away etched itself in your eyes, like a scene from a movie whose ending you’d never get to see.

And as you watched him disappear, something hit you with sharp clarity:

“Not all feelings have to be big. Not all moments need to be monumental to matter. Sometimes, all you need is the quiet unfolding of a story —soft, subtle, whispered”.

“He’s trying”, you told yourself, feeling a quiet peace spread through your chest as the evening deepened and the city moved on.

That night, back home, the notebook you’d left on the table seemed to be watching you from across the room. And when you opened it, hands still slightly trembling, a thought came to you:

“Maybe I just need to let this story flow on its own—no rush, no expectations.”

And for the first time, that thought didn’t scare you.

The notification came just after noon, sunlight slanting across the table as you stirred a spoon in an already cold cup.

[Min-gyu – 12:04]

I’m back, little sis.

Are you coming over tonight? I’ve got stories to tell.

Brought stuff.

Oh—and Won-woo’s picking me up from the airport.

You read it once. Then again. And on the second read, your heart did that silly little leap you’d come to know so well.

Won-woo.

That name again, ringing like a held note, slipping into the spaces of your day. As if he’d become part of your routine without you realizing it.

He went to pick him up. You didn’t know why that mattered so much. But it did.

That afternoon, you packed a small bag —not because you needed to, but to have something to hold onto. You tucked in some lemon cookies, Min-gyu’s childhood favorite, and your notebook— the one you carried everywhere like a quiet secret. You picked an outfit—simple, but chosen with care. Nothing loud, but suggestive.

When you got to the building, the first thing you noticed was the apartment door—slightly ajar. A small gesture, but intimate. As if they were waiting for you.

You pushed gently. Stepped in.

And you saw him.

Won-woo was in the kitchen. Standing like a figure from another frame. No sweater or loose jeans today. He wore a blue linen shirt, the collar open, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Dark pants, crisply pressed. His hair styled with quiet intent. But that rebellious strand —always him— still fell over his forehead, undoing the seriousness.

He looked… Like a different version of himself. One you didn’t see every day.

And in that instant, a sharp mix of emotion and doubt swept through your chest. You didn’t know if it made you happy to see him like that. Or if it hurt.

Because you didn’t know if that version was for you.

Or for something that was about to happen—and that you still didn’t understand.

You raised your hand and smiled, trying to make sure the gesture didn’t give anything away.

—Hello— you said.

—Hello— he replied, with a half-smile that didn’t quite form.

Min-gyu looked up from his open backpack. —Little sister!— And then yes, you ran towards him as if time had rewound. You hugged tightly, with those laughs that didn’t need an explanation. The hug smelled like the airport, like new fabrics, like distance overcome. You closed your eyes for a second and let yourself be in that familiar place: the arms of the one who reminds you who you are.

—Look what I brought you— he said, rummaging. —I couldn’t resist—. He pulled out an embroidered blouse with golden threads, a pair of jade earrings that seemed to have been sculpted with ancient patience, and a bamboo-covered notebook that cracked when opened.

—Min-gyu… This is incredible— you whispered, touching the items as if they were fragile. As if everything, at that moment, was fragile. —Thanks to you— he said, lowering his voice too. —For respecting my space. For being here. You’re always here. You know you’re my safe place.

“My safe place”, you thought. How easy that sounds… When there’s no risk of parting. You settled in like always. You by the window, Min-gyu in his favorite chair. And Won-woo in the middle. But it wasn’t the same. There was something different in the air. In how he held his glass, in the way he didn’t quite settle back. Like he had one foot in another place. Min-gyu began to talk. And talk. About flavors, streets with red lanterns, clothes hanging from balconies, a man who mistook him for a famous actor and asked for a selfie on a train. You laughed, because laughter was a refuge, a pause. —And thanks for not killing the balcony plant— he joked, winking at you. —I’m impressed.

—It almost died. I talked to it. I gave it black tea. I think it believed me—. He laughed. You did too. And by instinct, by reflex, you turned toward Won-woo, looking for that shared glance. That invisible line that connected you when no one else could see it. But he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were fixed on his phone. And his expression was hard, tense. Like someone waiting for something important, or just having received it. Min-gyu noticed the silence.

—And you?— he asked teasingly. —What’s got you so caught up? Won-woo lifted his gaze like someone emerging from a dream.

He blinked. —A message. For work— he said, without inflection.

—Really? Where?— A second of pause. Almost imperceptible. Like he hesitated to say it.

—Busan.

And that’s when the world, for you, stopped spinning.

The blow was so brief, so clean, that you didn’t make a sound. Your body didn’t move. But inside, something cracked. Like a dry branch under the foot of someone who didn’t want to break anything.

Busan.

You repeated it silently. As if you could lessen its power by thinking it without sound. You gripped the edge of the chair, searching for air. And asked, with a voice you didn’t recognize as yours:

—And… Are you going to accept it?

Won-woo shrugged slightly.

—I don’t know. I just read it—. You didn’t look at him, but you felt it. You felt the distance. The pressed shirt. The faint smell of cologne. The way his attention had been elsewhere all night. Like something was already saying goodbye without you being able to stop it. Min-gyu changed the subject with a joke, with another story. But the thread that had connected your thoughts had already come undone. Everything was background noise. A stranger’s laughter. White light in a room too large. The story that seemed to be beginning now revealed itself as a parenthesis. Beautiful. But finite.

The offer was good. You knew that with a quiet certainty, almost painful. All it took was reading a line of what Won-woo wrote to understand it. He had that strange talent of looking at the world with a piercing tenderness, capable of turning a simple beam of light falling on a carpet or a pair of umbrellas forgotten at the entrance of a bookstore into a scene that tore at you, but in that sweet, almost addictive way. Like when an old song pulls you toward a memory you didn’t know you missed. That you thought you had forgotten. Of course they had wanted him.

Of course someone, somewhere in Busan, had read those words with the same tremor you felt the first time. That voice had something. Something valuable, unique. A quiet beauty that deserved to explode in more eyes, in more souls. To reach further. To be heard louder. And you… You just wanted to stay a little longer in that echo. In that half-open notebook that, for an instant, had let you see something not meant for anyone.

You thought about the offer. Drawing what he wrote. An apparently simple gesture. But to you, it was something else. It was a key. A crack. A secret invitation to an intimate place, where his thoughts breathed defenseless, where you could discover him without him knowing. And now… Where was that place? The emotion that had ignited you that afternoon —like a match that catches in the wind, fleeting but intense— no longer burned. It had been extinguished before you could bring your hands to the heat. Too soon. Too real. It wasn’t his fault. Not entirely.

But that didn’t stop the pain. You didn’t know what your place was in his life. Maybe you didn’t have one. Maybe you were just “Min-gyu’s sister who shows up with tupperwares and cookies”. Or maybe you did. Because there was something in his eyes. In the silence between words. In the way he listened to you without interrupting.

And yet, now you felt him closing up again. Like a flower folding before a storm. Like a door that opens just enough to make you dream of the light, and then shuts with that final click that sounds louder than it should.

Did you have the right to be sad?

You asked yourself that while pretending to laugh at one of Min-gyu’s absurd stories. This time he was talking about a taxi driver who collected traditional knives and offered him one wrapped in silk, in the middle of traffic. You laughed out of reflex, but you were far away. Very far. On another plane. Trapped in that thick, nameless emotion: Between emptiness, resignation, and a silent anger you barely knew how to recognize. You sought relief in the external world.

You looked at a cup, a scraggly plant, the shape the shadow drew on the floor. As if focusing on something else could save you from thinking about him. But then you did. You looked at him. Won-woo no longer had his phone. He had set it aside, as if it no longer mattered.

Now, he was watching you. Directly.

With those eyes that said more than words could hold. They weren’t cold. Nor empty. There was something calm but sharp in them. An unspoken goodbye. A doubt that begged to be read. There was no hardness in him. Rather, there was a fragility trying to appear solid. As if he were telling you with his gaze: "Don’t judge me for not knowing how to hold this." He stretched out his hand, took a cookie. Held it for a few seconds. Looked at it as if inside it he could find something missing. And then he bit into it slowly, as if buying time to avoid speaking.

Min-gyu, busy with one of his gifts, noticed the heavy air that had formed like an invisible cloud in the middle of the room. —So?— he asked with a sideways smile. —Are you going to tell us about that magical proposal, or are you going to keep staring at your phone like it’s a tragic novel?— Won-woo raised his eyes. His mouth was already empty, but his throat full of doubts. He took a second longer.

—There’s not much to tell— he finally said, in a low voice. —It’s just a possibility. Nothing certain.

Min-gyu snorted, amused. —Always so mysterious. You’re a poem locked with a padlock.

You remained silent. You felt that if you said a word, your voice would break in your throat. And maybe with it, something else. Min-gyu turned to you, with that playful spark he used when trying to lighten the mood.

—And you? How was it these days with this hermit of poetic silences?— Thousands of images crowded your chest. The walk under the wisteria, the coffee you shared without saying a word, the moment he took your notebook and flipped through it silently. "I want to keep seeing you", he had said. "To continue the story". And you had wanted to believe it was true. But now… Now you didn’t know.

—Fine— you said, and the word felt like a half-empty glass offered with a forced smile.

Min-gyu looked at you carefully. He read you like always. Quickly. Effortlessly. He raised an eyebrow, mischievously.

—Will you help me with something in the kitchen?— You didn’t need an excuse. You got up. Your body tense, as if it was about to break. You followed him. Only when you crossed the door and Won-woo’s face was out of your sight, did you release a little air. You didn’t know how long you had been holding it in.

Min-gyu opened a cabinet, took something out —it didn’t matter what— and placed it on the counter without even looking at it. Then he turned to you.

—Do you want to talk?— he asked, straightforwardly, with that unadorned tone he only used when something truly mattered to him. And you… Looked down. You didn’t know where to start. But you knew you needed to say it. The air in the kitchen smelled of wilting jasmine, like a memory refusing to disappear. The steam from the abandoned tea had dissipated, but its scent still floated between the shadows.

Half-eaten cookies rested on a cracked porcelain plate, silent witnesses to a conversation that had yet to begin. The hanging lamp bathed the scene with a warm, dim light, gilding the edges of the silence. Min-gyu leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his face serene. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hurry. He was just there, like a reliable presence who knew how to read the gaps between words. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table, white from tension, as if that wood could hold you beyond the inner tremor.

—It’s strange— you murmured, not lifting your gaze. —He asked me to draw his stories. That’s all, on the surface. But the way he said it… It sounded like something else. Like behind that proposal, there was a crack, an invitation to look inside something he himself didn’t dare name—. Min-gyu nodded, with a minimal gesture. He didn’t need to say anything: His listening was a refuge.

—I thought it was just a courtesy— you continued. —A passing comment from someone who admires your work. But his voice... It had weight. Like he was offering me a corner of his universe. Not a leading role, no. Just a corner from which to watch. And still… I can’t stop thinking about it—. You placed a hand on your chest, trying to calm the vibration that had settled there. A constant echo.

—Since then, I’ve been thinking about it. Not just about him, but about how he makes me feel. It’s like an unease that doesn’t dissolve. Like my whole body knows something is moving beneath the surface and can’t ignore it.

Min-gyu tilted his head, with that loving patience only seen between siblings who have shared scars. His voice was low, as if not wanting to disturb the delicacy of the moment. —And what do you feel?

You took a deep breath. The air thickened, full of the unspoken. Then you spoke, as if undressing with words. —It’s like walking on a tightrope. Sometimes, I feel like with just one look from him, I could understand everything. That his silence has more language than any phrase. And other times… He becomes distant, almost unreal. I convinced myself it was a delirium. A mirage I wove on my own.

Min-gyu moved away from the counter with a light sigh, crossing the space until he was closer to you. —It’s not a mirage if you feel it. Even if he doesn’t know how to hold it, even if he doesn’t even know he’s giving it. What you received, what made you tremble... It was real.

Your eyes found his, and for a moment, you found in his gaze the recognition you needed: Someone else validated the existence of that intangible thing that overwhelmed you.

—Sometimes, I imagine him in scenes. Neither romantic nor logical. Just… Moments. Like my mind searching for spaces where we can both be without this vertigo. Today, for example, I saw him eat a cookie, and I thought of drawing him like that. With his head tilted, eyes lost, as if he were chewing a memory. Or sorrow—. You laughed briefly, with a hint of shyness.

—And at that moment, I imagined he said something. I don’t know what. Something he didn’t say and maybe will never say. But it made me want to capture him there. With ink. As if by drawing him, I could keep a part of what I don’t understand—. Min-gyu watched you with an old tenderness, the kind that knows your defeats and doesn’t judge them. His words were soft:

—You are not naive. What you feel has roots. And what he carries... It's not light. Sometimes people walk around with stones in their chest without even knowing they are there. And then they trip, without even understanding why.

You nodded, swallowing the lump that rose in your throat.

—There are times when I wish I could hug him— you whispered. —But not with the desire of someone who loves. But with the urgency of someone who wants to stop the other from falling apart. As if just holding him could prevent his ruin.

—And other times…— Min-gyu added, anticipating your emotions, —...You wish you could shout at him. Ask him why he looks at you as if you were a fire. And then walks away as if afraid of getting burned.

You smiled sadly. A tear trembled, rebellious, but didn't fall. As if even your tears knew it wasn’t the moment to give up.

Min-gyu returned to his original position, took a sip of the now-cold tea, and scrunched his nose thoughtfully.

—Look, sister— he said, with his most intimate tone. —I don't know what knot he has in his throat, but I do know this: When someone touches your soul, even if just a little, it's natural to want to build them a shelter. But you can't live in that house alone, if he doesn't want to enter.

The silence returned, thick and sincere.

—So, what do I do with all this?— you asked, your voice low, as if carrying a secret too heavy to bear.

Min-gyu came closer. He wrapped his arms around you and held you, like someone who’s learned that sometimes the only remedy is human warmth. His chin rested on your head.

—You keep it— he said. —Like you keep an unsent letter. Not to forget it, but to understand it someday. And if the moment never comes, if you never get to deliver it... You’ll still know it was real. That it existed. That it made you tremble. And that, in itself, is love.

When you returned to the living room, the first thing you noticed wasn't his absence, but the perfect gap he left. As if the air was still shaped to his form. Won-woo was no longer there, but the cookies from the plate had disappeared, leaving only a few crumbs scattered like a harmless trace of what could have been a silent goodbye.

You sighed involuntarily, like someone exhaling a bit of their soul. You looked for Min-gyu, needing some form of refuge. He responded with a simple gesture full of tenderness: A hand on your shoulder, like an anchor; the other smoothing the couch, inviting you to rest as if he could shelter you from the weight you carried in your chest.

The night fell without drama, wrapping everything in that thick mantle that sometimes seems to have a will of its own. From the next room, you heard Min-gyu’s door close gently, like a curtain falling without applause. And then you were left alone, accompanied only by your thoughts, which were many, loud, and disordered.

You wrapped yourself in blankets, seeking shelter more than warmth. Part of you felt ridiculous. All this, you thought, why? For a man who hadn’t even given you certainties? For a connection that perhaps only lived in your imagination?

You turned on your phone. The cold light of the screen illuminated your face as if you were the protagonist of a scene with no name. You scrolled through the old messages with Won-woo. At first, there had been magic: Loose words that felt like keys, jokes with double meanings, questions that weren't asked out of courtesy but out of desire. Now, only gaps remained. Dead time. Interruptions that had become routine.

You sighed deeply and long. With a frustration that had no scream but had a knot. You threw the phone to the side, where it landed with a dull thud, without scandal. And you took your head in your hands, as if you could squeeze your thoughts to make them stop hurting.

—You shouldn’t do that— said a voice behind you, low and raspy, like the echo of an ancient dawn. —You'll have to buy another one later.

You froze. Your heart suspended. You turned slowly, as if fearing you had imagined it.

But no. There he was. Won-woo. Different. In a loose t-shirt and cotton pants, as if he had also stripped away all his masks. His hair disheveled, feet bare, and in his eyes, a calm that wasn’t indifference but intimacy.

—I couldn’t sleep— he said, his voice coming from a soft place inside him. —Do you want some tea?

You nodded. The words didn’t come, but your silence took the shape of acceptance. He walked to the kitchen without hurry, as if every movement were part of a secret ritual. The sound of the boiling water filled the room with a serene murmur. There was a sacred pause in the air. As if the whole universe had stopped just to listen to what you hadn’t yet said.

When he returned, he offered you a cup. He sat on the opposite end of the sofa, keeping a polite distance, but one filled with meaning. As if he knew getting too close would make everything explode.

—Thank you— you said, barely, with your voice wrapped in tea steam and fragility.

Won-woo nodded, but didn’t say anything right away. He took a sip, looked at the cup, and then spoke with the serenity of someone who had been chewing on his words all night.

—I was thinking... About the work. About the proposal.

You lifted your head, alert. It surprised you that he mentioned it again. After so much distance, that simple comment was almost a caress.

—And?— you asked, softly, not wanting to scare the conversation away.

He turned the cup in his hands, as if searching for answers in the porcelain.

—I don't know if I can— he said, straightforwardly. —I don't know if I want the world to see what I write. I’m scared they won’t care. That they’ll look at it and feel nothing. That it’ll be invisible. Or worse, that you’ll put your art into something that’s not worth it.

Your fingers tightened around the cup, as if you wanted to hold him too from afar.

—Don’t say that— you whispered, with a hardness you didn’t expect to have. —Your words matter. I read them. And they hurt, and they moved me. And they kept me awake, thinking. Not everyone can do that. You can.

Won-woo then looked at you, directly, with those eyes that couldn’t lie even if they tried.

—It’s not just the work— he said, and in his voice, there were cracks that let light through. —It’s what changed since I mentioned it. What happens to me when I imagine you drawing what I wrote. When I see you close. When I realize there’s something moving inside me, and I don’t know how to stop it. Or how to name it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was fertile. A ground waiting for the first seed.

Your lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. Because something inside you understood that this couldn’t be resolved by talking. That there were feelings that could only be held with a still body, with trembling breath, with the heart juggling.

Won-woo looked down at his cup, as if afraid he’d said too much.

—I’m scared of what crosses between us— he confessed. —What I don’t know if you feel too. What escapes me every time I look at you for more than five seconds.

You stayed silent, but brought the cup to your lips, as if the tea could give you courage. Your heart was beating in every direction. You didn’t know what to say, and maybe it didn’t matter. Because in that polite distance, on that shared sofa, with those two warm cups, the essential had already been said.

There were no names yet. No promises. Just a possibility beating between the two of you, like a flower about to bloom.

The silence settled between you like a third presence, invisible but intense, filled with something that had no name but pulsed strongly. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was dense, like the calm before an electric storm. Outside, the city seemed to have held its breath, and the distant lights of the buildings flickered like fireflies trapped in a glass jar.

The corner lamp spilled a soft, amber, and melancholic light, gently caressing the edges of the scene with tenderness. Your fingers played with the rim of the already empty cup, as if in that simple gesture, you could find some sort of comfort. Won-woo did the same. His eyes were lowered, but his brow spoke loudly. In his silence, there were questions he dared not ask, fears tangled with desires, words that seemed to have barricaded themselves behind his lips.

It was then, without warning, that your voice broke the calm surface of the moment.

—What if i do?— you asked, almost in a whisper. —What if we feel the same?

He lifted his gaze. One second. That was enough. Because sometimes a second is enough to crumble walls, to let a truth slip through the cracks of what’s unsaid.

Won-woo didn’t respond immediately. He took a breath, that dense air that seemed harder to take than before. He placed the cup on the low table with a slowness almost ritualistic, as if letting go of it was accepting that he could no longer hold that distance. He straightened up but didn’t come closer. Not yet. His eyes rested on you, with a gravity that hurt and healed at the same time.

—What if we ruin it?— he murmured, with that voice that seemed made for reading love letters that were never sent.

—What if we don’t?— you answered, not breaking eye contact, not trembling.

And then everything changed. Not like an earthquake, but like the thawing of an ancient river. You saw him give in slowly, as if he finally accepted that what was between you was stronger than the fear. Deeper than the doubts.

There was no music. No memorable phrases. Just his steps drawing near. First, his eyes, searching for you. Then, his hands, which hesitated in the air before touching yours. And then, the breath, warm and contained, suspended between you like an unsaid prayer.

The kiss came like the last leaf falling from a tree in autumn: Inevitable, silent, perfect.

It wasn’t a hungry kiss. It was deep. It was a descent into the sacred. As if by brushing your lips, he was opening his chest and showing, without reservation, everything he had hidden. He leaned towards you with the reverence of someone touching something sacred, and you received it with your eyes closed, as if this gesture were an old promise, finally fulfilled.

Your fingers clung to his shirt, not out of weakness, but out of the need for an anchor. His hand rested on your cheek, tracing a slow caress with his thumb, as if every inch of your skin could say something his mouth had yet to find words for. It was a kiss filled with tenderness, yes, but also with vertigo. A leap without a net. A language only the two of you spoke in secret.

And although it lasted only a few seconds, time curved. Because there are kisses that break the clock. That undo the rules. That melt the past and the future into a single, absolute now.

When you parted, it wasn’t by will. It was out of the need for oxygen. Your foreheads stayed pressed together, eyes closed, as if neither of you dared to look at what you had just unleashed.

Won-woo’s hands touched you with affection, an affection never expressed but always present in the silence of the air. A half-smile rested on his lips, almost sad, almost endearing. He moved closer again, this time with an intensity you never would have imagined from him.

His hand, which had rested like an anchor on your cheek, slid down the curve of your neck, barely grazing the skin with the tips of his fingers, as if exploring new and forbidden territory. It wasn’t the urgency of desire, but its most delicate version: The desire that breathes, trembles, waits to be allowed.

Your lips parted not to speak, but because the air seemed thicker, as if suddenly it was harder to hold it in your lungs.

—I don’t usually do this— he whispered, in a voice almost inaudible, as if speaking to himself. —Not like this.

—And how do you do it, then?— you asked, barely brushing the words, as if you weren’t sure whether you wanted the answer or the silence that could avoid it.

He didn’t answer. He only lowered his gaze to your mouth and then met your eyes again. There was a question unasked in his gaze, a surrender that wasn’t total but was inevitable. Then his other hand searched for the curve of your waist and wrapped around it with a slowness almost liturgical.

And you... You gave in. But not like a fall: You gave in like a flower blooming in the night, silently, without announcement.

Your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, not with desperate passion, but with the care of someone who fears that if they hold on too tight, the other will disappear. His mouth returned to yours. This time it wasn’t a shy brush: It was a slow, deep exploration, lips barely parted, breaths mingling. It was a kiss that didn’t ask, but offered.

Was it love? Was it desire? Was it the echo of a long-shared loneliness?

The doubt floated, suspended in the air, like an ancient perfume. And yet, you didn’t want it to dissipate.

He guided you without hurry, with fierce delicacy, to the carpeted floor. The blanket fell aside, wrinkled, like a silent witness. You lay between twisted cushions and soft shadows. No words were spoken. There weren’t enough words. Only sustained glances and caresses that asked without speaking.

His hand slid down your back, moving with a mix of respect and desire, as if seeking entry to something more than your body. Your legs tangled with his, seeking shared warmth, that warmth that starts as a brush and ends as an entire tongue speaking without a language.

He lay down next to you, pressed against you like a shadow finally merging with its origin. His warm breath grazed your neck, and you shivered. You closed your eyes, but not to sleep. You closed them to feel better, to let the touch speak for you.

—Is this... Real?— you asked, with a voice like water, like crystal trembling on the verge of breaking.

Won-woo didn’t respond immediately. He just held you tighter, as if holding you this way could seal something he didn’t yet know how to name.

—I don’t know— he whispered, his mouth barely grazing your clavicle. —But I don’t want it to stop.

And that was enough.

Because sometimes it’s not about understanding. Sometimes it’s just about being there, about allowing someone to come closer with that dangerous sweetness of someone who isn’t sure if they’ll stay, but touches you as if they will. Outside, the world could keep sleeping, ignorant of what burned inside those four walls.

But here, in this corner of night and desire, two souls were tentatively recognizing each other. And even though neither spoke the word “love”, in the way they touched —with fear, with surrender, with reverence— something sacred had already begun.

Because maybe love, at first, is nothing more than this: A shared silence, a tremble in the skin, the certainty that someone, at last, dared not to run away.

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headlinxr · 4 months ago

Text

( 分解 ) TRAUMA, HIP-HOP LINE ، ҂

𓏲 ┈─ ៵ trauma got me, baby ๋ ོ⁩❟

̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ 𓆸 TO THE OTHER SIDE ⸝⸝ You meet the hip-hop line after their breakup ˖ ៹

𓈒 𓄹 ⊹ , 夫妻 hip-hop line x fem!reader × ִֶ

𓆤 ; 廣告 IN THE NIGHT, I SPILL THE LIGHT ຳ

٬ ៶ ૂ 通告 , This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ༉‧₊˚

៹ 𓂃 HEADLINXR ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ 為了你，為了我 ؛ ៹

S. Coups: The phone vibrated on the table, breaking the oppressive silence of the room. A short, insistent buzz, like an echo of everything he had lost. Seung-cheol looked at it with his heart caught in a fist, the air heavy in his lungs. That sound, insignificant in any other circumstance, was now a dagger in his chest. It was a cruel reminder of everything he had let slip away, of every second he had let pass without realizing that time was eating away at the only thing that really mattered.

Your name glowed on the screen. His throat closed up. His hands shook.

The shock of reality shattered him like an unyielding wave. How long had it been since he had last seen your sincere smile? Since he had felt your voice filled with love, instead of resignation? He had allowed himself to be consumed by the deceptive glow of his success, by the false assurance that you would always be there, waiting in the shadow of his chaotic world. —I don't have time—, he had repeated to you so many times, until those words became an impenetrable wall between you. Until they became the dagger that finally made you leave.

And now, here he was. Alone. With the unbearable weight of his own pride turned to ashes.

He took the phone with numb fingers. The screen was still lit, the opportunity still dancing in front of him. Knew this call could be the ultimate end, the last time he would hear your voice before you disappeared forever from his life. But if he did not answer, if he did not at least try to hold on to the fragments of what they once were, then only absolute emptiness would remain.

He breathed deeply, as if the air entering his lungs were his last breath of hope, and slipped his finger on the screen. The silence on the other side of the line was worse than any reproach. A charged, intense pause with the tension of a thousand unspoken words.

—I miss you—. His own voice sounded broken, a whisper drowned by guilt. Seung-cheol closed his eyes, as if he could see you again, as if he could go back in time and undo every mistake.

—I love you...— The confession floated in the air, naked, vulnerable. Despair seeped into every word, into every syllable pronounced with the weight of all that had been so long silent. —I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t know how to move on if you’re not there anymore—.

The silence continued. His chest tensed, each beat a torture. The anguish grew with each second of unanswered, with each little air gap separating them further.

—I know I failed you—. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to contain the knot in his throat, the tremor in his hands.

—Please give me a chance. Just one more. I don’t know how to live with the certainty that I lost you forever—. The silence of the line felt eternal. His mind cried, begged, begged for an answer, a sign that there was still something to rescue. He could hear your breath on the other side, he could imagine you biting your lip, hesitating, fighting with yourself. But he knew that he could no longer ask you to stay when he had pushed you so many times to leave.

Finally, he heard your exhalation, a deep sigh that tore apart the distance between you. And though you had not uttered a single word, he understood. He understood everything.

The time, that same time he had wasted, now mocked his despair. And for the first time, Seung-cheol knew what it was like to lose something he could never get back.

Min-gyu: The last time Min-gyu looked into your eyes, so full of deep pain that it seemed to break him completely, he felt his world crumble. For so long he had lived under the arrogant conviction that his love was unbreakable, that nothing could destroy what they had. His mistake, in his mind, was insignificant, a fleeting adventure, a spark of emotion without consequences. —She will never know—, he thought, confident in the lie that he told himself. But the truth, ruthless and cruel, always finds a way to break through, tearing apart even the most solid facades.

The confrontation was a fierce, devastating gale. Your words, full of anguish, lacerated him like a thousand sharp blades. —I gave you everything, Min-gyu. Everything… And you failed me—, whispered between sobs, each syllable impregnated with a pain that burned his soul. He wanted to talk, he wanted to fight back, but his voice died in his throat. And then you stepped back. At that moment, Min-gyu realized the magnitude of his mistake, although his pride prevented him from accepting it completely. He let you go, convinced that time would cure everything, that, in the end, you’d come back to him.

But life went on, and his existence, once full of brightness and promise, became opaque. He sought refuge in other lips, in nameless nights, believing that the momentary pleasure would fill the void that consumed him. But no caress had the warmth of yours. No laughter could silence the echo of your absence. The applause that once intoxicated him now seemed distant, insignificant noise. The truth struck him with the force of a hurricane: He had lost you.

Desperate, Min-gyu returned to you, a broken man trying to collect the pieces of what he had destroyed himself. He presented himself to the door that he had closed with his own indifference, with his selfishness. —I miss you... I’m sorry... I love you— he muttered, his voice broken, his eyes on the edge of the abyss. His despair was tangible, an open wound that begged for redemption. He looked in your eyes for a sign, a glimmer of hope, something that would allow him to hold on to the idea that not everything was lost. But you, with devastating serenity, looked at him without hesitation, as if the love they once shared had been buried in the past.

—I loved you, Min-gyu—, said you, your voice imbued with an unfathomable sadness, but firm. —But I can no longer crawl for someone who did not value me, who saw me as an option and not a certainty. I can no longer wait for you. I can no longer lose myself in this pain—. Every word was a sure blow, an irrefutable sentence. And although inside you a part wanted to give, wanted to surrender to the memories, you knew that you deserved something more: Peace, freedom.

—I let you go, Min-gyu— you concluded, with a trembling but determined voice.

—Not because I have stopped loving you, but because I must love myself more.—

The door closed, and the sound resounded like thunder in the void that was now his soul. Min-gyu stood motionless as the weight of your loss rested on his shoulders with indescribable brutality. He felt the true meaning of loneliness, a darkness that enveloped him mercilessly. All that he had taken for granted, everything he had believed to be eternal, was now only ashes between his fingers.

And at that moment, with cruel and irrefutable clarity, Min-gyu understood what it really meant to lose something he never thought would go away. And for the first time in his life, he wished with all his strength to have been wiser, to have valued what he had before it was too late.

Vernon: Vernon sank into a whirlwind of strobes, out-of-control laughter and deafening music that devoured his senses. Every weekend he slid through the shadows of clubs saturated with ephemeral bodies and cups that never stopped filling. He believed that was the essence of his youth, his ultimate freedom. In every fleeting glance and whispered word, he found a passing satisfaction that never managed to calm the growing anguish in his chest.

You became a distant echo, an increasingly distant presence in their world of excesses. Calls were shortened, messages became sporadic. He no longer listened to you, he no longer looked for you. Your insistence, your need for more-more attention, more presence, more of him-suffocated him. Why didn’t you understand that he just wanted to be free? He thought, raising another cup, surrounded by empty faces that never filled the abyss of his soul.

For him, your love became a chain, a burden that he refused to carry. His nights were chaos, and in that chaos he believed he could find comfort. But as he drowned in an ocean of indifference, their relationship crumbled without him even deigning to look at the rubble. Every cup he drank, every shallow laugh, every blurry sunrise, drove him further away from the only thing that was real: You.

And then, one night, between the roar of music and the artificial glow of the party, the emptiness he had ignored for so long manifested itself in a frosty blow to his chest. The noise enveloped him, but inside there was only a terrifying silence. The alcohol could not dispel the truth that, like a poison, had already settled in his mind: He was completely alone.

The laughter around him was a meaningless echo, and in his memory, only shadows of what he had lost.

He remembered, then, every word of yours, every night you held him when he could not himself with his own weight. He remembered the deep conversations, the shared dreams, the fears confessed in the intimacy of your embrace. He remembered that you loved him even when he was not able to love himself. And he understood, with a heartbreaking lucidity, that while he was drowning in his own emptiness, you had already made the most difficult decision: To leave.

Desperate, with a fast pulse and cold sweat running down his back, he looked for your number. His breathing was erratic when the call rang. And when he finally heard your voice, his whole world broke apart.

—Sorry... I’m so sorry—, whispered, voice broken, almost inaudible.— I never understood what I had until I lost it... And now, now I have only this void—.

The silence that followed was more cruel than any answer. And when you finally spoke, your voice did not tremble, it did not hesitate. It was firm, serene. Definitive.

—Not enough, Vernon. I can’t wait around for someone who doesn’t know what they want. That you see me as just an escape, when I was always there for you—.

Your words pierced him like a cold dagger. He tried to answer, beg, tell you that this time he understood, that this time he was going to change. But your next words were the final blow.

—I loved you, but I can’t be your shelter. I don’t want to be part of your excuses—.

The sound of the finished call became the echo of his own condemnation. The truth struck him with the force of a devastating wave: The door that he himself had closed with his indifference was no longer open. And you weren’t gonna be the one to open it again.

He stood there, the phone still in his trembling hand, while the party was still vibrating around him, oblivious to his internal catastrophe. But he could no longer ignore it. The cage of his own void had closed around him, and this time there was no way to escape.

For the first time, he understood what it really meant to lose you. And for the first time, he knew there was no turning back.

Won-woo: Won-woo became a distant shadow, a wandering ghost trapped in a body that still breathes, but whose soul has been lost in the abyss of his own mind. He walked beside you, yes, but it was as if an invisible barrier separated him from the world, from you. His eyes, once full of life, were now two bottomless dark pits, unable to reflect anything but their own inner storm.

The conversations that once flowed with the naturalness of a river were now just cold murmurs, loose phrases, single syllables that stuck together like blades. Every attempt to reach him, to regain the spark of emotion in his gaze, ended up crashing into the icy wall of his indifference. —Where are you?— you wanted to yell at him, but you knew the question would not have an answer. The only thing that returned was silence... And that silence hurt more than any cry.

The air became dense between you, laden with an invisible weight that crushed even the purest of your love. Anguish was filtered in every corner, in every shared space. The house, formerly a refuge, became a maze of painful memories. Every time you spoke, that you exposed your pain, your fears, the desperate need to cling to what little was left of it, you only received a —sorry— empty, dry, meaningless. And then more silence.

But you weren’t ready to give up. Not yet. Not without fighting for what was once your all. You clung to one last hope, one last chance to save them from the abyss that opened beneath their feet. You arranged a rendezvous, a truce in the midst of the silent war that was being waged between you. You asked him to come, talk, at least try. And you waited.

You waited until time itself became an enemy. Every second that passed without its arrival was another nail in the coffin of your hope. The hours passed and anguish ate you inside, his absence was the fine thrust.

The hours passed and the anguish ate you from inside, his absence was the final thrust. Messages remained unanswered, calls were devoured by emptiness.

He never came.

And at that instant, you understood. You needed no words, no formal goodbye. His absence was his most cruel response. The night wrapped you in its icy embrace, and with the last shred of strength left, you made the decision you should have made long ago. You didn’t scream. You didn’t ask for an explanation. You just walked away.

But as you were rebuilding the pieces of your broken soul, Won-woo was drowning in his own torment. He did not understand it at that moment, not when he could have changed it. Not when his body was so present and his mind so distant. It was then, when the echo of his loneliness became a deafening cry, when the shadow of what he was became a specter that pursued him without rest.

The emptiness he thought he could ignore became unbearable. The distractions, the attempts to fill the abyss with fleeting moments, all were useless. He found himself alone, trapped in the prison of his own fear.

He remembered that last appointment, the one he never went to. And he understood, with a lacerating pain, that it was not just an oblivion. It was a reflection of his cowardice, his inability to open himself, to face his own demons. It was his fear that condemned him. And when he wanted to make amends, it was too late.

—I’m sorry... I’m so sorry—, he whispered in the dark of his room, throat broken and soul torn to pieces. But his words were lost in the wind, like everything he ever had and let go.

The love that once saved him was gone. And now, the refuge he found in his solitude had become his curse. There was no turning back. Only the weight of his repentance remained, an irreversible condemnation from which he could never escape.

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headlinxr · 6 months ago

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( 瘋狂的 ) HEADLOCK, P. SUNGHOON ، ݃ •

𓏲 ┈─ ៵ʾpassion is a positive obsession. obsession is a negative passion. . ㌐

̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ 𓆸 TO THE OTHER SIDE ⸝⸝ you are sung-hoon's muse ˖ ៹

𓈒 𓄹 ⊹ , 夫妻 photographer!sung-hoon x fem!reader × ִֶ

𓆤 ; 廣告 IN THE NIGHT, I SPILL THE LIGHT ຳ reader is jake's girlfriend, jake is a little red flag, reader wants to be a model 𓏲

៹ 𓂃 HEADLINXR ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ 為了你，為了我 ؛ ៹

The camera doesn't lie. Or at least, that's what Sung-hoon has believed for years, a truth he has carried with him in every step of his life. Through his lens, the world unfolds before him with absolute clarity, a universe reduced to lights and shadows, to shapes and textures, to a moment frozen in time that, according to him, reflects the immutable truth of existence. As a renowned photographer, Sung-hoon has achieved what few can: He has mastered his art with such skill that his images not only capture reality but also penetrate the very essence of his subjects, stripping their souls bare with almost surgical precision.

Each click of his camera is a sigh, a heartbeat, an attempt to capture the elusive. For him, photography is much more than a technical act; it is an unceasing quest for something deeper than a simple pose or a well-composed scene. In each photograph, Sung-hoon seeks to unravel the hidden essence of what he sees: that spark of vulnerability, that fragile beauty that lies behind everyday masks. The faces he photographs are not mere portraits, but windows to the truth, as if each image could decipher untold stories, repressed emotions, silenced fears. In his mastery of the interplay between light and shadow, he has found his most authentic voice, a visual language that allows him, with each shot, to transcend the limitations of the physical and touch the intangible.

He is a master in creating atmospheres, an alchemist of light who transforms the ordinary into something sublime. He knows that light, as elusive as life itself, has the power to reveal and conceal, to create depth in the superficial, and to give shape to what seems inert. For him, each shadow is a promise, and each flash of light, a revelation. In his hands, the camera becomes an almost divine instrument, capable of immortalizing moments that, in their transience, seem eternal. And yet, behind this unparalleled skill, there is a reality that Sung-hoon has refused for so long that he has come to forget it. His camera, which has been his most faithful companion, has also been his jailer.

Because while his art has elevated him to the pinnacle of recognition, it has condemned him to a solitary existence. The dedication he has put into his work, unwavering and absolute, has cost him much more than his time. He has sacrificed a personal life, a life he could never integrate with his vocation. He never had a partner who understood him, nor friends who shared his universe, nor family members who dared to call his attention outside of the studio. Love, friendship, human connections, seemed to him minor distractions in the face of the greatness of his photographic mission. In his mind, there was no room for anything other than visual perfection, the constant search for that transcendent image that could touch the very essence of life.

But while his world was being built through the lens, a subtle and silent darkness began to take shape within him. Each photo he took was a window to the outside, but at the same time, it closed the doors of his soul even more. The camera granted him the power to see and capture everything happening around him, but it denied him the ability to see what was happening in his own heart. In that space where shadows intertwine with light, where the ephemeral becomes eternal, Sung-hoon got lost. He became a distant observer, trapped in an endless cycle of images, but with no real contact with the life that existed beyond his lens. The loneliness he dragged along, hidden within the folds of his success, grew deeper, more overwhelming, until one day, he could no longer escape it.

As Sung-hoon's recognition grew, so did the shadow that loomed over his life. Fame, like a brilliant reflection, mirrored an image of success that the world applauded, but he felt increasingly disconnected, more alien to that applause, as if everything were part of a movie that was not his own. The galleries, the exhibitions, the critics' laudatory comments, the flashes capturing his moments of glory: none of it managed to penetrate the ice armor he had forged over the years. The camera, his tool of revelation, had made him an expert in the truth of others, but not in his own truth. And, despite being a creator of worlds, within himself lay a deep, unfathomable void that even the most powerful images could not fill.

In the stillness of his studio, surrounded by thousands of stories frozen on photographic paper, Sung-hoon found himself in a strange space, filled with foreign memories but empty of his own. The walls, adorned with his best works, offered him a vision of the world he had captured with meticulousness, but the images did not speak to him. Those faces, those gazes frozen in a second that seemed eternal, watched him with a fixity that overwhelmed him, as if judging him in their silence. The gestures he had halted in his journey through life now appeared to him as ghosts of a past he himself had lost. Each photograph was a masterpiece, yes, but also a cruel reminder that he had been a spectator in the lives of others, without truly participating in his own. The distance between him and his art had become an insurmountable abyss.

The studio lighting, which he had so expertly mastered when capturing the essence of others, now seemed distant and cold to him. The shadows he had used to build atmospheres in his photos now enveloped him like a mantle of darkness in his own life. His soul, which he had learned to sculpt in each image, slipped through his fingers like water, like a film unrolling before him, but which he could never touch. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when the last light of the day began to fade, he found himself in front of his photographs, in a silence that devoured him. A feeling of incompleteness overwhelmed him, as if his constant search in the eyes of others had been a way to evade his own face. Why, despite the fame, did he feel that something within him was slowly crumbling? The answer was not in the lens of his camera, but in the absence of a real connection with himself.

It was a typical work afternoon, without any preambles or announcements, when something inside him changed. While reviewing the photographs that would soon be part of his new exhibition, one in particular caught his attention. It was you, a young woman, with your gaze lost on the horizon, as if your thoughts floated beyond your body. In your expression, so laden with melancholy, Sung-hoon saw something he had never perceived before: His own reflection. The sorrow in your eyes, the fragility emanating from your face, the sadness seeping through your gestures, everything seemed so familiar. It was as if he himself, in his bewilderment and emptiness, had become you, trapped in a moment he couldn't let go of.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

Sung-hoon was forced to confront the question he had been avoiding for so long: How many times, while observing others, had he seen his own emptiness reflected in their eyes? How many times had he searched in the gestures of his subjects for the humanity he had lost, as if he could find something of himself in the faces of others? Each photograph, he thought, had been a search to find what he had not been able to find in his own life. He had spent years chasing a truth that only existed in the shadows of his lens, without realizing that, in the process, he had stopped seeing the light within himself.

That night, when the studio lights went out and darkness began to fill the corners of the room, Sung-hoon found himself in front of the mirror. The reflection he saw there was not that of the renowned photographer, the man admired for his skill, for his unique vision. It was the face of a weary man, marked by years of sacrifices, of renunciations, of living in the world of images without ever daring to live in his own flesh. The dimness of the room was reflected in his eyes, filled with shadows, unfulfilled desires, lost affections. And as he looked at himself, he saw the traces of loneliness that he could no longer hide, the marks of a being who had been running for too long, without really knowing where to.

It was at that precise moment when something broke inside him. As if a window in your soul had opened, finally letting in the fresh and renewing air of introspection. The camera, which had been his refuge, his lifeline, his prison, ceased to be the only means of expression in his life. And for the first time in years, Sung-hoon began to wonder if it was possible to live outside the lens, if he could find a new way to connect with the world, to stop being a spectator and become a participant. Would he be able to find a life that was his own, without the mediation of the camera?

The search for truth in others had brought him there, to that breaking point. But now, something was beginning to take shape in his mind. Maybe the story he really needed to capture wasn't that of others, nor the image of a distant subject, but his own. The camera would no longer be his only way of seeing; perhaps the time had come to learn to look, for the first time, without filters.

Despite the internal storm that was tearing him apart, Sung-hoon found himself being pulled by an almost mechanical impulse towards the meeting he had with Jake. The appointment was marked in his agenda like a beacon guiding him towards a destiny he could not evade, a point in time that, no matter how much his soul screamed in resistance, he had to fulfill. In his mind, chaos reigned, a whirlwind of doubts and unease that rose like black clouds above him, so dense that he could barely see the light that once propelled him. Despite the years of success and recognition he had harvested in his career, an unfathomable void devoured his being. That void, which neither fame nor applause could fill, was his constant companion, his inseparable shadow. But still, he got up that morning, with a heaviness that crushed his shoulders, and headed to the café where he would meet Jake, his long-time companion, a man whose relationship with life was so different from his that he seemed from another world.

Jake had always been his counterpoint, his antithesis, and at the same time, his reflection. While Sung-hoon got lost in the dark depth of photography, searching for the soul of his subjects, Jake glided over the surface of life, finding beauty in simplicity and human connections with an ease that Sung-hoon had never experienced. Jake was a man who saw life in bright colors, with a cheerful disposition that contrasted with the photographer's somber and analytical gaze. For him, each encounter, each face was a story told without the need for capture, while Sung-hoon looked through the camera, searching for shadows and reflections, the invisible that could only be observed through the lens. But despite their differences, Jake was his companion, and that meeting was a bond that still maintained the appearance of normalcy in a world that was slipping through his fingers.

Upon arriving at the café, the feeling of unreality enveloped him strongly. The bustle of conversations, the sound of coffee being poured into cups, and the aroma that filled the air seemed like distant echoes to him, as if he were looking at the world from the distance of a photograph, frozen and distant. Each object in the place, each face that crossed his path, seemed like a lifeless painting, a static image that had nothing to offer him beyond its fleeting existence. Only the constant buzzing in his mind kept him anchored to that reality, but everything felt like a dream he hadn't chosen himself.

When Jake greeted him, his face lit up with that broad and contagious smile that had always been so bewildering to him. Sung-hoon looked at him, recognizing in him the unyielding energy that he so often wished to possess but never could. Next to Jake, there was a figure that seemed familiar, but he still couldn't put a name to it. A young woman, whose presence seemed to fill the space with a natural light that had nothing to do with the shadows Sung-hoon had grown accustomed to. It's you, your smile was so open and generous that it contrasted with the coldness surrounding Sung-hoon, like a ray of sunshine entering a gloomy room. Despite your apparent tranquility, your energy was so vibrant that it seemed to fill the air around you, flooding the room with a vitality that Sung-hoon felt was foreign.

—I'd like you to meet (Y/N)— said Jake, with a spark in his eyes that Sung-hoon couldn't ignore. —She's my new model and, well, also someone I've been dating lately.—

Sung-hoon nodded mechanically, unable to find words beyond polite formality. His mind, on the other hand, was already beginning to process the image of you. Something felt unsettling to him, as if your presence challenged the stillness he had sought in the photograph. When you extended your hand to him, your gesture was warm and filled with that energy that Sung-hoon had never understood, as natural and genuine as the air he breathed. Despite his attempts to maintain emotional distance, Sung-hoon, inside, was as tense as a wire, with his jaw clenched and his fingers closing around his hand with a rigidity he couldn't disguise. It was as if he were touching something that didn't belong to him, something he couldn't possess.

—(Y/N), it's a pleasure to meet you— he said, with his usual cold and calculated tone, but despite his control, a small crack opened in his voice, a slight tremor that betrayed the internal storm shaking his chest.

You looked at him with a smile that, although warm, never wavered. Your posture was relaxed, completely oblivious to the conflict raging within him. It was a sight that seemed out of place in Sung-hoon's world. In the photograph he had captured the day before, you had been a shadow of yourself, a figure breathing sadness, deep melancholy, as if the world had stopped offering something worthy of your gaze. He had captured that essence, that gaze lost on the horizon, that fragility that so attracted him, seeking in you what he himself felt was missing: A naked truth, almost painful, that could only be understood through a lens. But now, in front of him, stood a completely different woman. The melancholy he had imagined was replaced by a vibrant light, an energy that seemed so foreign to the image he had created in his mind. It was not the sad figure he had seen in his camera, but a beacon of joy, a warm glow that illuminated everything around him.

Sung-hoon, for a moment, was paralyzed, as if time had stopped. The figure of the young woman in front of him was not the same one he had captured. The reflection he had found in his camera, the sadness and depth he thought he understood, crumbled before his eyes. Reality was imposing itself with a force that bewildered him. This woman was not a shadow, not an emptiness; you were the very antithesis of what he had sought. Something twisted inside him, a mix of frustration and fascination, as if the image he had created, the one he had conceived through his lens, was being torn from his being.

Was that the same woman he had portrayed? Was it possible for a captured image to be so radically different from reality? Confusion overwhelmed him, frustration began to take shape, mingling with a strange feeling of jealousy, as if your life were a slap in the face to the truth he had tried to find in his work.

While the conversation continued between Jake and you, Sung-hoon remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, who now seemed an impossible enigma to decipher. Every word you spoke, every move you made, confirmed something he feared: The image he had built of you no longer existed, and he was unable to comprehend the real woman standing before him. The photograph, which had always been his refuge and his way of understanding the world, now betrayed him, crumbling in his hands.

With each breath, a small dark spark began to burn within his being. It was no longer about admiration, no longer just fascination. It was something deeper, something that awakened in him an even greater sense of emptiness. There was something he couldn't reach, something he had touched in his chamber but that now seemed to slip through his fingers, like the light he had tried so hard to seize.

And as his heart beat with growing anxiety, he realized something terrifying: Perhaps photography hadn't given him what he thought it had. Maybe what he needed to capture wasn't in the world he saw through the lens, but in the darkness that hid within him.

From that day on, something in Sung-hoon began to crumble like an old film that, exposed to light, starts to tear and disintegrate. His initial fascination with you, a light curiosity, an admiration fueled by the desire to capture your ephemeral beauty, slowly transformed into an excessive obsession. The lens of his camera, that object he had used for years to spy on the human soul, now took on a different weight, a dark power that seemed to dictate the rules of the relationship. He no longer saw you as a fleeting muse, but as an immaculate canvas, a virgin territory that had to be conquered over and over again. Each click of the shutter was not just a reminder of his technical prowess, but a twisted validation of his need to possess the image of you, to freeze it in a perpetual instant, to impose his will upon you. Each shot was a subtle, almost imperceptible affirmation that what he captured through his camera was his. In his mind, distorted by obsession, each shot reinforced the idea that his love, his devotion to you, was reciprocated, that his control over the image meant control over your being.

The first time Sung-hoon photographed you without your consent, it wasn't an accident; it was a chance disguised as an opportunity. You were sitting on the edge of a window, motionless, looking out at the garden as if the outside world were an extension of your thoughts. The soft afternoon light slipped through the curtains, illuminating your face with an almost celestial clarity. In that moment, Sung-hoon raised the camera instinctively, almost as if the gesture were an extension of his own being. There was no time to think about it, no space for reflection. It was a visceral impulse, a need to capture the image before it faded, as if your beauty were a flash of light that only he could capture, preserve, and, in his mind, possess. The sound of the shutter, so familiar, vibrated in his chest with an indescribable satisfaction, a shiver that ran down his spine. In that single second, something inside him broke even more. The image he was creating was not simply that of a beautiful woman, nor just another of his artistic photographs. It was an attempt to possess you, to trap you, to hold you in a space that he controlled. Through the lens, you became a static object, a being that, for him, no longer existed in the unpredictable flow of time, but in a capsule of light and shadow that only he could decode.

The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of reality, began to transform into a channel to something much darker, a means to impose his will, to create his own distorted version of the truth. Thus, he began to photograph you compulsively, without rest. The sessions were no longer scheduled or agreed upon; they were driven by an uncontrollable impulse fueled by the need to see you in your purest, most fragmented, most his form. Sung-hoon was not just a photographer; he saw himself as a sculptor in the darkness, molding reality, shaping your figure with the precision of his lens, seeking perfection in every angle, in every light. He asked you to stay for an "improvised session," suggested poses with an apparent delicacy that disguised itself as professionalism, but in every gesture, every instruction, there was an insatiable need for control. The power of the camera, the ability to capture a moment in time, became a game of manipulation, a dance in which he was not only the director but the absolute creator.

Each image created was another step towards the achievement of his ideal, an ideal that distorted both your figure and reality itself. There was something perverse in the way he looked at you, a fascination that went beyond mere aesthetic pursuit. It was no longer just about capturing the beauty he had found in his other subjects; in you, he sought something more, something that belonged to him, a beauty he could hold in his power. And, like a painter who wants to capture the soul of his muse in every stroke, Sung-hoon aspired for that beauty to be his, only his, until it merged with his own vision. The camera was no longer just a medium; it had become an instrument of control, an artifact that, in his hands, could strip the woman of your humanity, transforming you into a frozen and manipulated image.

The sessions dragged on indefinitely, and you, although initially immersed in the fascination of art, began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. At first, you thought that Sung-hoon was simply an eccentric, a man trapped in his art, like those cursed geniuses of history who saw the world through a unique, distorted lens. You tried to convince yourself that your concerns were an overreaction, that you weren't seeing things clearly. But as the days went by, something inside you began to resist, as if a small alarm in your subconscious was going off. Every glance Sung-hoon directed at you, every moment he spent in front of the camera, made you feel as if his presence was constantly being analyzed, dissected, reduced to a series of visual formulas that he controlled at will. It was no longer just about capturing his image, but about taking possession of you. Each gesture, each instruction, felt like another strategy to strip you of your identity, to make it fit into the image he had created of you.

After one of those long sessions, you met with Jake to talk about what you had been feeling, even though the words seemed inadequate to describe the discomfort that was overwhelming you. You feared that by expressing myself, your feelings might seem excessive, melodramatic. However, something inside you told you that you couldn't ignore it any longer.

—Jake— you began, your voice wavering, —I'm not sure how to explain it, but... Sung-hoon is being weird with me. He is constantly taking pictures of me, but it's not just for work. Sometimes I feel like he isn't seeing the person I am, but rather an image he has created in his mind. It makes me feel… Uncomfortable. As if he were watching me to decipher something I can't control.—

Jake looked at you thoughtfully, but in his expression, there was something that suggested indifference. In his world, your image in Sung-hoon's camera was not just a portrait; it was an open door to fame. The name of Sung-hoon, so well-known, could be the key that launched your career. What better way to rise in the artistic world than to be under his lens?

—Come on, darling— he said with a confident smile. —Sung-hoon is eccentric, I know, but he's not doing anything wrong. You have to see this as an opportunity. Not everyone is lucky enough to be photographed by him. This could be just what you need to take the next step in your career.—

Despite Jake's reassuring words, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The discomfort you had started to feel with Sung-hoon persisted, growing with each session. Every time he looked at you through the lens, his eyes seemed not only to capture your image but to scrutinize, to penetrate deep within. In his mind, the photographs were not just images, they were not simply captures of a moment. They were symbols of his control, his power, his one-sided and uncontrollable love. In Sung-hoon's universe, each photograph was a declaration: I possess you, I have understood you, I have made you mine.

Meanwhile, Sung-hoon continued his obsessive collection of images. Each click of the shutter was another step towards the creation of a distorted version of you, a version that only he knew and that no one else could understand. In his mind, the photographs wove together like threads forming an invisible web, a space he controlled, where his impossible and unrequited love could live, eternal, beyond the truth.

As Sung-hoon's obsession deepened, his once contained and meticulous nature began to crumble slowly, like an hourglass whose grain of sand never ceased to fall. The darkness that surrounded him grew denser, like a thick fog that took over the room, the air, the space he occupied. Your perfection, so incandescent and ephemeral in its image, was no longer just your face, nor the curve of your body under the soft light of the sunset. No, you yourself had become the very essence of his vision, the focus to which Sung-hoon had dedicated every millimeter of his art. For him, you were no longer a woman; you were a symbol, a canvas yet to be painted, a mystery yet to be solved, and the camera, that extension of his being, was his only passport to that distorted world he had begun to build around you.

The photographer, trapped in his own twisted conception of love and beauty, no longer just captured the light that fell upon you like a brush caressing the canvas. He had become a sculptor of shadows, an architect of moments, a man trying to redraw reality to match the chaos that inhabited his mind. And while his lens rested upon you, his gaze went far beyond the visible, beyond the external appearance that so fascinated others. His eye, always trained to capture the raw and natural beauty of life, now dedicated itself to observing every crack in your soul, every fragment of vulnerability you tried to hide. His vision, once purely artistic, had become an act of possession.

Sung-hoon was not just a mere observer; he infiltrated, like a painter delving into the history of his muse before putting a single stroke on the canvas. He began to explore your intimacy with the same precision with which he composed a perfect shot. In every word you let slip unintentionally, in every sigh that was just for him, the photographer saw an opportunity to discover something new, something deeper. He knew you more than you could imagine. The cracks you had tried to cover with an impeccable facade were now his field of study. He knew of your fears, your dark memories, the scars you carried in your soul, those stories that, had it not been for Sung-hoon's meticulous patience, would have remained as secrets buried in time. He was not simply an observer, but a collector of broken memories, a gatherer of the fragments of your being that you had never shown to anyone.

In his daily interactions, his deep knowledge of your personal life slipped into the conversation with the subtlety of a sharp knife. In a casual comment, Sung-hoon inserted fragments of his private life, as if they were simple, unimportant observations. —I remember that time you mentioned your father, as if you were still seeking his approval— he said quietly one day, while adjusting the lights in the studio. —And that little corner in your apartment, where you keep the old letters... You always keep it closed, why is that?— Each word, each insinuation was like a fishing line cast into the wind, trapping you in an invisible net of your own past, a net that, although as fine as a thread, tightened over time until you could no longer move without being aware of Sung-hoon's constant watchfulness.

For him, it was not enough to capture the light that surrounded you; he had to seize your soul. With each shot, with each scene he asked to repeat, Sung-hoon was searching for something deeper: A distorted truth that only he could see, a facet of you that existed only in his mind. The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of others, transformed into his chain of control, a tool of power that connected him to you, an invisible bond that kept you close, that kept you in his line of sight. And although you began to feel the pressure, the threat of the invisible, you couldn't escape. At first thinking that it was all part of Sung-hoon's eccentricity, his dedication to perfection. But soon, the truth became evident: you weren't being photographed; you were being observed, studied, dismantled piece by piece.

Sung-hoon never resorted to brute force or open threats. He was much more skilled than that. His control was not in strong words or confrontation; his power lay in subtlety, in silent gestures, in the whispers that accompanied each shot, in the way he manipulated the perception of reality through the lens of his camera. He didn't need to say it openly: He knew you were beginning to understand the extent of his influence. Each suggestion, each gesture of support, was imbued with a tacit expectation, the expectation that you would follow him, that you would continue playing your role in the image he had created. He offered you opportunities, but those opportunities were nothing more than carefully woven traps, designed to make you more dependent on him, to draw you even closer to the distorted picture of yourself.

And, like a photographer who discovers an imperfection in a seemingly perfect image, Sung-hoon begins to notice the cracks in your facade. Your smile, which had once been natural and carefree, was beginning to seem forced. Your responses, once so full of life, were now shorter, more evasive. The sparkle in your eyes, which I had captured so many times, was now subtly fading. For Sung-hoon, each of these moments was a revelation. He was not only seeing the woman you pretended to be, but he was also seeing the woman he had begun to shape in his mind, a creation that had no escape. The pressure, invisible but palpable, was his signature. In the tremor of an unspoken word, in the imperceptible shift in posture, Sung-hoon found what he had been searching for: Beauty in fragility, art in oppression, control in broken perfection.

Meanwhile, you began to feel trapped in your own image, a distorted reflection that Sung-hoon had created around you. He, the god of shadows and light, saw the truth behind the masks, and you could no longer hide what he wished to see. The worst part is that, in his mind, you were already part of his creation, a muse that only existed through him. In the web he had woven, you found yourself trapped, not knowing if the exit was an illusion or if the only way to escape was to become someone else, someone completely different from the image he had shaped. But, as always happened in photography, there was no turning back: The exposure had been made, and what remained was a fixed, unchangeable image that only he could understand.

As the days slid by slowly, like a movie advancing in slow motion under the relentless direction of fate, you began to perceive how the walls of your own world, once open and full of possibilities, were closing in, trapping you with a subtle but devastating force. It was as if you were trapped in a photograph that never stopped being taken, each moment immortalized, each gesture meticulously framed. Every word Sung-hoon uttered, every glance he cast, were no longer mere interactions; they were fragments of a story he had written without your permission, a tale in which you were trapped, like a porcelain figure in the lens of a photographer obsessed with capturing your essence, with no voice or vote over your own portrait. It was a story that had ceased to belong to you, a narrative from which you had become an unwilling spectator, watching yourself from a distance that stripped you of your humanity.

In his mind, the perception of time and reality began to blur like the light dissolving on the horizon, tinting everything around him with increasingly dense shadows. Before, your world had been clear, like a well-exposed photograph; but now everything seemed to be revealed through a dark filter, as if the image were taken with a defective lens that distorted colors and shapes. The man who had been, until then, your mentor and companion, began to reveal himself as a dark, twisted, and distant figure, whose influence had infiltrated her life with the subtlety of a rising tide. Sung-hoon, with his gaze fixed like that of a predator, had managed to weave his control over you in such a subtle and meticulous manner that, at times, you wondered if you had ever been free. Freedom, once a natural right, now seemed to You an illusion fading among the folds of a photograph that had been taken without her consent.

Sung-hoon had transformed every corner of your life into a stage where only he dictated the rules. In his mind, every scene had to be directed by him, and you were nothing more than the actress chosen to play a role you didn't know. At first, you had believed that his obsession with you was the passionate fervor of an artist who seeks, like a painter lost in the meticulous details of his muse, to capture every nuance of your essence. But soon you realized that the camera, that extension of the human eye in which he trusted blindly, had become a watchful eye, an unrelenting lens that not only captured your image but also disfigured you, twisted you, and reduced you to a distorted shadow. The light, that sublime element which once revealed beauty, had ceased to be your ally. Now, each ray of light seemed like a threat, a deadly trap in which you found yourself ensnared, trapped within the frame of a reality he had created for you.

Sung-hoon's camera was not simply a tool for creating art; it had evolved into a weapon of control. Each click, each capture, was an assertion of his dominance, a manifestation of his power over your life and identity. In his eyes, you were not a complete woman, but a canvas on which he could paint without your consent, a blank page that had to be molded according to his will. And the most devastating thing of all was that, at first, You had believed he saw you as you truly were, that his work as a photographer had allowed him to delve into the very essence of your being. But, over time, the truth began to slowly unveil itself, like an old layer of paint peeling away, revealing the cracks in the facade he had built. Sung-hoon didn't see you. He didn't understand you. I had reduced you to an image, a figure projected onto the wall, a puppet whose only mission was to fit into the distorted vision of your world.

However, something within you began to awaken. It was a small spark, almost imperceptible, like a glimmer in the darkness, but it grew with each passing day under Sung-hoon's control. The feeling of being trapped became increasingly unbearable, as if his room were an invisible prison, a glass cell that only reflected your own image, as if You were looking at yourself through a mirror that only returned your despair. Every time he looked at you, every word, every seemingly innocent gesture of affection, transformed into a symbol of his manipulation. The casual comments about his past, the insinuations about his darkest secrets, no longer seemed like simple observations; they became sharp knives buried in your skin, constantly reminding you that he knew your vulnerabilities, that he could destroy you if he wanted to.

Each day that passed under his dominion, you felt your freedom fading more and more, like a photograph that, as it develops, begins to dissolve in the water, losing its definition, its life, its color. The pressure that was once subtle had transformed into an unstoppable force, a rising tide that pushed you towards the unknown, towards the disintegration of your own identity. The camera, which had been your refuge, your art, your way of seeing the world, had now become your jailer. And Sung-hoon, the man you had admired, had transformed into the architect of your destiny, a god who shaped reality at his whim, playing with light and shadow like a puppeteer who manipulates humans to his will.

Like a lighthouse in the midst of the storm, the possibility of escape began to become clearer, though still vague. You knew you couldn't keep living trapped in the shadows that Sung-hoon had cast over you. The struggle to regain your freedom turned into a frantic race against time, a desperate sprint to prevent him from completely destroying the public image you had so carefully cultivated. You began to search for clues, to scrutinize the details, to look for the cracks in the perfect facade of your life that Sung-hoon had built. You were like a detective in your own life, unraveling the web of lies he had woven around you, with every word, every action of his turned into a clue about his hidden intentions.

As your thoughts organized themselves, You began to notice details that had previously gone unnoticed. The photo shoots, which once seemed like an artistic ritual, now revealed their true nature: A carefully designed strategy to keep you close, to continue controlling your image and, therefore, your life. The compliments I once considered sincere, the insinuations that seemed like flattery, the intense looks from Sung-hoon, were no longer mere displays of admiration. They had become tools of manipulation, like the light a photographer uses to highlight only the elements they want, the viewer to see, darkening everything else. The truth, like a film that has been exposed to the sun for too long, began to reveal itself with blinding clarity.

Sung-hoon, however, was not a man who could be disarmed so easily. In his mind, each interaction with you was another shot, another take that brought him closer to his ultimate goal: to possess you completely, to break you until only the perfect image he had forged in his mind remained. He knew you were starting to notice his control, but, like a photographer playing with light and shadow, he remained in the shadows, hidden, manipulating every piece of the puzzle without your seeing it. His power lay in the ability to make you feel vulnerable, to introduce thoughts into your mind that would leave You trapped in your own confusion, like a poison silently seeping into the current of your consciousness.

Time, that elusive abstraction that had always slipped through his fingers like fine sand, began to take on the texture of an impenetrable wall. The days, which once stretched like an endless chain of empty moments, now intertwined in a spiral of shadows that faded and dissolved into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Each attempt to flee, each fleeting glance towards an exit that became increasingly unattainable, evaporated with the swiftness with which shadows succumb to light, leaving behind only the sensation of emptiness. In the course of your silent resistance, you came to understand, with painful and dizzying clarity, that escaping from Sung-hoon was not a tangible option, not a viable alternative. Like photographic film that, when exposed to light for too long, develops prematurely, the fate of your actions was already marked, predestined. And as this truth settled in his chest like an unbearable weight, hopelessness began to wrap around his soul, as heavy and dense as the camera hanging from his neck, like an extension of his own being, relentless, like the presence of a specter.

The air, once light and breathable, became thick, like the tension-filled atmosphere inside a dark room, where harsh and cold lights create a palpable sense of claustrophobia. The flow of life, that incessant and turbulent river, seemed to have halted its course, gently moving you towards an abyss from which you could not escape. You no longer fought against the current. The tide of your destiny enveloped you, absorbing you with an almost hypnotic force, as if everything were in its place, as if everything were part of a carefully composed picture. Your resistance dissolved, like an image fading in the developer, when the chemical envelops you and erases the edges of what was once defined. The contours of his will blurred, softening, fading, until the unquenchable impulse for release that had burned in his chest extinguished, fading like the last light of day when the sun sinks below the horizon, leaving only the cold darkness that follows.

Sung-hoon, the man who had been your mentor, your companion, your torturer, and your savior, had taken on the form of a dark, almost mythical figure, a silhouette in which light and shadow merged into an incomplete portrait. Throughout your time together, you had believed you knew him, that you understood each of the intentions hidden behind his icy gaze, like the reflection on the calm surface of water disturbed by a stone falling without warning. But now, in the midst of the silence that surrounded you, you realized that you had been nothing more than a piece in a work that you could not fully comprehend. You were part of a photograph revealing itself before you, an image constructed by a photographer whose vision had transformed you into something even you didn't recognize. And yet, instead of rejecting that truth, something strange began to well up in your chest, like a subtle whisper, a spark of light filtering through a crack in the darkness. It wasn't love, at least not in its purest form, but it was something that resembled it, something more enigmatic and complex. It was a fatalistic acceptance, a kind of silent submission that was beginning to reshape your perception of Sung-hoon.

You had feared it before, that light emanating from his chamber, which you had believed revealed the truth behind the masks. That same light, which now trapped you like an invisible spider's web, kept your soul captive. The intensity of his gaze, that tireless observation that never seemed to leave you, had become the core of your anxiety, a focal point of unease that consumed you. But, as time passed and the concept of escape faded as quickly as shadows succumb to the first ray of sunlight, you began to see something different, something new. Like a photographer examining an image on their screen and realizing that what once seemed blurry is, in fact, a photograph with a disturbing and unique beauty, you began to perceive the complexity of Sung-hoon. The darkness that once terrified you now contained nuances you could not ignore. Each of his gestures, each word he uttered, each glance, contained a profound truth about his being, something that transcended mere manipulation. It was like a lens that distorts the world, but at the same time, captures a raw beauty, a beauty that was undeniable, though incomplete.

Sung-hoon, in his obsession with perfection, was not simply a man with selfish desires for control. His need to capture the essence of the world, of humanity itself, through his camera, was something more visceral, more profound. The photographer was not just an observer of the world; he molded it, took it in his hands like a sculptor shaping clay. And you, caught in that web he had woven around you, began to see, even to admire, that skill, that tireless drive to dominate nature through art. Sung-hoon's vision was not a desire for manipulation, but a primitive impulse, a need to freeze the essence of the moment into a pure image, albeit devoid of all compassion. Somehow, you felt a deep admiration for him, for his ability to distill the chaos of reality into something simpler, more comprehensible. Light and shadow, those two opposites, were no longer enemies in his world. Now they were your allies, and you found yourself trapped in a scene where you were not only the subject but also the spectator of your own existence.

Sung-hoon was not just a man. He was the architect of his world, the demiurge who wove reality around him, undoing and redoing the threads of fate with the same skill with which he adjusted the frame of a photograph. Somehow, you understood that his own complicity in that process had given him the power to transform you. Like an old photograph that, over time, fades and changes, your resistance to him began to crumble like a negative dissolving in water. You no longer saw him as a jailer, a monster who kept you trapped. Instead, you saw him as the creator of a world in which, despite yourself, you felt special, unique. Sung-hoon's control was no longer oppressive; instead, it became a reflection of his own essence, a control woven with almost artistic patience and precision.

That feeling was an amalgamation of fear, fascination, respect, and acceptance. You disliked him, yes, but at the same time, there was something about him that attracted you, something impossible to ignore, something that overflowed the surface of his being. The shadows that once surrounded you now illuminated the truth of your existence, and what once seemed like a prison, a space of despair, now became a refuge where your soul, marked and distorted by Sung-hoon's lens, found itself. The light and the darkness, the contrasts and the shadows, began to weave into a single thread, creating a new reality, a new identity.

Each shot from Sung-hoon's camera not only kept you under his control. It offered you a strange form of comfort. In each image he captured, you saw not only a distorted version of yourself but also a more authentic, more complete one. The light and shadow, which once disturbed you, now took on a new dimension, one in which you found acceptance, transformation. Somehow, you had learned to embrace the image that Sung-hoon had created of you, an imperfect, broken portrait, but essentially true. A portrait that, like humanity itself, reflected fragility, internal struggle, and the inevitable beauty of the struggle itself.

Sung-hoon hadn't destroyed your identity. He had transformed it. And, slowly, as you began to understand the depth of that transformation, you realized that you were no longer a victim of his control, but a work in progress, an image still taking shape under the relentless lens of a man whose art had learned to reveal the deepest essence of your being. Without being able to help it, your feelings towards him became a whirlwind of contradictory emotions, a spiral in which love and fear, submission and admiration intertwined, trapped in a portrait whose exposure was not yet complete. And, like a photograph that is yet to be fully developed, you found yourself trapped in the endless process of its own revelation.

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headlinxr · 6 months ago

Text

( 罪 ) FATHER, L. HEE SEUNG ، ݃﹆⊱

𓏲 ┈─ ៵ what a pity drinking water isn't a sin! it would taste so good then!. . 𑁍 ࣪˖

̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ 𓆸 TO THE OTHER SIDE ⸝⸝ ; father hee seung can't stop thinking about you ˖ ៹

𓈒 𓄹 ⊹ , 夫妻 father!hee seung x fem!reader × ִֶ

𓆤 ; 廣告 IN THE NIGHT, I SPILL THE LIGHT ຳ the reader had a little adventure with jay, father hee seung, you must not sin, you are an amalgam of ideas 𓏲

៹ 𓂃 HEADLINXR ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ 為了你，為了我 ؛ ៹

The silence of the church was dense and profound, a stillness so palpable that it seemed to envelop everything, like a velvet cloak that absorbed even the last of the whispers. The walls, old and worn by centuries of prayers, breathed in time with forgotten supplications, as if the entire temple were alive, pulsing with the memory of the sacrifices that had forged it. Father Hee Seung, wrapped in the cassock that fell over his body with the same seriousness with which he had embraced his vocation, was at the back of the sacristy, trapped in a sea of files and papers that seemed to whisper stories of lives and deaths intertwined with eternity. The dust covering each page was a testament to the years that had faded away, leaving no trace but the ink that slowly slid across the paper, like the inexorable passage of time, which, like water, erodes even the hardest rocks. Each page that passed through his hands was a reminder of the heavy burden of his existence: A monotonous routine that, despite being his choice, was beginning to feel like an endless sentence. The task before him was nothing more than a mundane act, a repetition of empty gestures that reminded him of the insignificance of his being in the face of the divine grandeur to which he had dedicated himself. Each of those papers, frayed by time, seemed to him a metaphor for his own soul, cracked, wrinkled, and exhausted by years of sacrifices and renunciations.

Fatigue enveloped him in silence, a subtle yet relentless force that sometimes threatened to consume him. He was not unfamiliar with the shadows that lurked in his spirit, those that emerged in moments of solitude, when the brilliance of faith, so bright and warm on clear days, dimmed like a lighthouse extinguished by fog. In those moments, the struggle against doubts became titanic, like a river eroding stones over time, and the agonizing question assailed him: How could the life he had chosen to serve God sometimes turn into a prison of endless silences and unsustainable sacrifices? The eternal peace he had sought, did it truly deserve the high price of his torn soul? These questions swirled in his mind, and as he moved the pen over the papers, like an automatic act of faith, he couldn't help but let the ink, black as the uncertainty of his being, become the only possible comfort. It was as if his existence, reduced to those simple gestures of recording names and dates, was the only way to find an echo in the vast void of his own sacrifice. Hee Seung felt trapped at the crossroads between duty and despair, between devotion and the silent rebellion of his being.

Despite everything, faith was his only salvation. It was the anchor that kept him steady, even when his soul was crumbling into pieces. The light of faith, although sometimes flickering, never went out completely. Despite the fatigue, he knew he had to follow the path he had chosen, like Christ at Golgotha, who, with each step under the weight of his cross, showed salvation in sacrifice. Hee Seung understood that her destiny was to bear her own cross, no matter how heavy, and that in that suffering she found her redemption. Just as the shadows dissipate at dawn, his faith promised him that, after the darkness, there would always be a glow. But even in that sanctuary of peace, where the scent of incense floated in the air like a reminder of the closeness of the divine, the desire to escape rose like a specter. Sometimes, the desire to flee, to leave behind the endless hours of service, the repeated prayers, the empty and solitary days, would overwhelm him. Did he not deserve to rest, for a moment, from the weight of his weary soul? But his faith, firm and solid, was greater than any human impulse. Devotion, though worn, always drew him back, like the magnet that keeps the faithful attached to the altar.

It was then, like a whisper among the shadows, that a soft voice broke the deafening silence of the sacristy. The voice slipped through the folds of the air, like a celestial song resonating with the sweetness of angelic choirs. Hee Seung turned slowly, not immediately recognizing whether the voice came from his consciousness or from a tangible being. And there, at the threshold of the light filtering through the stained glass windows, your figure appeared, one of the new nuns who had joined the community. Your presence seemed to overflow everything he had known until then, as if the very celestial light had taken human form. Your eyes, deep and serene, reflected the diffused light that passed through the colored glass, as if Christ himself had decided to illuminate with his eternal gaze. Hee Seung, accustomed to the stillness and austerity of convent life, felt overwhelmed by the softness and delicacy of the young woman. The vision of you, almost ethereal, appeared to him as a being from another world, as if purity itself had taken flesh before him.

It was as if the Virgin Mary, with her immaculate grace, had descended from the heavens to walk among men, and Hee Seung, upon beholding you, recognized in you a vision that transcended the limits of reason. Each of your movements, delicate and serene, seemed imbued with a peace that transcended human understanding. You were not simply another nun; to Hee Seung, you were a manifestation of the divine, an incarnation of the pure light he had worshipped in the scriptures, but now presented before him with an almost unbearable proximity. Your white habit fell over your figure with the softness of a celestial cloud, and on your face, so serene, Hee Seung saw the promise of redemption, of a purity that seemed brought directly from the celestial realm, like a gift offered on earth.

Hee Seung's heart skipped a beat. His faith, which had been a rock and refuge, shattered for an instant at the sight of you. In that instant, the stillness of his being transformed into a whirlwind of emotions, something he could neither comprehend nor control. The temptation, disguised as light, had infiltrated his soul, challenging everything he had built. How could it be possible that, in such a sacred place, purity itself became an object of desire? The Virgin Mary had been for him an unattainable symbol, a beacon of eternal grace that guided the faithful towards salvation. But you, so close, so real, represented that same purity, and yet, the desire to approach you, to touch you, felt like a transgression. The priest, caught between his faith and his own impulses, realized that his struggle was not just against the temptation of the body, but against the fragility of his humanity.

—Father Hee Seung… Do you need help?— Your voice pulled him out of his reverie.

He blinked, forcing himself to lower his gaze, as if he could extinguish the fire that had ignited in his chest. The sweetness of your voice, serene and filled with a divine stillness, seemed to challenge his very faith, as if God were testing him. In that brief moment of suspended silence, Hee Seung understood that his devotion, although solid, might not be enough to withstand the test of his humanity. The temptation had come, not as a dark shadow, but as a blinding light, so pure and so dangerous that it threatened to consume him.

—No, sister, I'm fine— he replied hastily, caught between courtesy and an irrepressible desire to flee. He averted his gaze to the disordered papers, but the pounding of his heart was so intense that he feared you might perceive it.

When you bent down slightly to pick up a folder that had fallen to the floor, Hee Seung felt a pang of guilt pierce through him like a thorn from Christ's crown. That closeness felt like a profane act, a subtle betrayal of his sacred vows. Your beauty, so delicate and radiant, evoked in him the representations of the Virgin Mary; however, the holiness of that thought was overshadowed by an earthly longing that filled him with terror.

—Excuse me, I must... I must take my leave— he stammered, leaving the room with hurried steps, like a penitent fleeing from a temptation too great to resist.

In the following days, Hee Seung couldn't help but look for you with his eyes. Although he sought refuge in his duties, every time he saw you in the cloister, in the chapel, or tending to the garden, his heart would fill with a mix of awe and torment. It was as if the divine light he longed for in his prayers now reflected in that woman, but in a way that made him teeter between spiritual fervor and human desire.

—It's a sin to look at a sister in Christ like that— he reproached himself as he gripped the rosary in his hands with such force that the wooden knots dug into his skin. However, his attempts to distance himself were in vain. Like a wandering pilgrim in the desert, he found in you an oasis that irresistibly attracted him, even knowing that drinking from it could condemn him.

What ultimately unleashed his anguish was the growing closeness between you and Father Jay, another priest from the church. Jay, always charismatic and affable, engaged her in conversations full of laughter and camaraderie. From a distance, Hee Seung watched them, feeling how envy, a sin he thought he had overcome, seized his soul like a shadow stretching as evening fell.

—If the love of Christ is infinite, why does my heart insist on reserving a portion for her?— he pondered in his moments of reflection. He felt like Peter stumbling over the waters, unable to keep his gaze fixed on the Lord. Every time he set his eyes on you, it was another step towards the abyss of his own weakness.

One day, while he watched you pray in the dim light of the chapel, he compared you to the Virgin Mary again, but this time, the weight of guilt felt like a hammer striking his conscience. —The Virgin is an intercessor, not an object of desire— he reproached himself, but he couldn't quell the overwhelming force of his feelings. You had become the personification of a spiritual dilemma: The most demanding test of his faith and also a revelation of the abyss of his fragility.

Finally, determined to confront his emotions, he went to the confessional, not in search of an immediate absolution, but to face the internal battle he could no longer ignore. As the words flowed from his lips like a held-back tear, he understood that his struggle was not only against his heart but also against the very essence of his vocation. The faith that had been his rock was wavering, but it also invited him to immerse himself in the unfathomable mystery of love: A love that, like the cross, could be both redemption and burden.

—Father, I have sinned— he murmured with a tremor in his voice that betrayed his shame. —My heart has been occupied by thoughts that dishonor my vocation. I have felt impure desires towards... Towards a sister of our community—

The silence behind the lattice seemed to stretch longer than necessary, as if the priest on the other side were processing the words with a mix of surprise and curiosity. Finally, a deep and familiar voice broke the silence:

—Go on, brother. Tell me, which sister are you talking about?— asked Father Jay, with a tone that, although firm, had an almost imperceptible hint of sarcasm.

Hee Seung felt a shiver run down her spine upon recognizing Jay's voice. He had naively hoped that it would be another priest who would hear his confession, someone who didn't know the context of his torment. He swallowed hard and continued with difficulty:

—It's... It's Sister (y/n). Since she arrived at our church, I haven't been able to help but look at her with... With thoughts that embarrass me. I have tried to fight against them, but the more I struggle, the more this attraction consumes me. I feel like I am betraying my calling and dishonoring God—

An unexpected sound filtered through the lattice: A brief, contained, but unmistakable laugh. Hee Seung's eyes widened suddenly, his face flushing with disbelief and humiliation.

—Oh, brother!— Jay exclaimed, stifling laughter. —You too have fallen under the spell of the sweet sister. But let me tell you something, something that might surprise you—

Hee Seung felt a knot form in his stomach, but remained silent, unable to interrupt what was to come. Jay, with a tone that mixed cynicism and confidence, continued:

—Brother, I must admit that I have already shared very... Close with Sister (y/n). In this very church, under these same sacred roofs. Does it surprise you? Does it scandalize you? You shouldn't. After all, we are human, not angels—

Jay's words struck Hee Seung like lightning in the midst of a storm. It was as if the very structure of his faith was shaking before that revelation. Confessions should not be profaned with mockery or the cynicism of those who trivialize the sacred.

—How can you talk like that?— Hee Seung replied, unable to contain himself. —This is blasphemy! We have sworn to serve God, to renounce the temptations of the world. And you...? Have you betrayed that?—

Jay sighed, as if speaking to an innocent child.

—Brother, sin and virtue are two sides of the same coin. We strive for perfection, but our humanity always drags us into the mud. If we don't understand our weaknesses, how can we help others overcome theirs? The sister (y/n)… She is a woman, like any other, and I am a man. Neither more nor less—

Hee Seung abruptly got up from the confessional, unable to stay another second in that space tainted by irreverence. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor as he left the chapel, feeling torn between anger, sadness, and a profound spiritual disorientation. The figure of Father Jay had lost all authority in his eyes, and the image of you now appeared to him as an even more unfathomable enigma.

In the solitude of his cell, Hee Seung fell to his knees, seeking solace in a prayer that never came. The weight of the confession and Jay's words were a burden that sank him deeper and deeper. —God, enlighten me— he pleaded, but the echo of his prayer only returned a crushing silence. He had learned that not all the walls of the church were sacred and that even in consecrated hearts, corruption could nest.

Father Hee Seung bowed his forehead over an old missal, the yellowed pages of the book imbued with the fragrance of incense from years past. His trembling fingers toyed with the beads of the rosary, like a castaway clinging to the remnants of a shipwreck. The candle on the table cast shadows that danced erratically on the walls, drawing shapes that seemed at times like guardian angels, at other times like mocking demons. His prayer was an erratic whisper, words that dissolved like grains of sand between his dry lips.

A discreet knock on the door broke the stillness of the moment, a sound so faint it seemed more like a whisper of the wind than a real interruption. But before he could react, the door creaked open, and the sound of the hinges filled the space like an echo in an empty cathedral.

On the threshold, enveloped in the soft halo of light filtering in from the hallway, you appeared. Your habit, cinched with an almost virginal simplicity, reflected the candlelight, but your eyes shone with a brilliance that seemed to contradict their modest appearance. There was in your gaze a disconcerting mix of devotion and defiance, a fire that seemed to have been ignited by a purpose higher than mere obedience.

—Father Hee Seung— you said, your voice sweet but firm, like a bell calling to mass. —Excuse my intrusion at this hour, but I couldn't wait any longer—

The priest stood up immediately, his cassock brushing the floor with a nervous whisper.

—Sister (y/n)…— he murmured, his voice laden with a mix of surprise and alarm. —This is not right. You shouldn't be here—

You closed the door with a deliberate movement, your hands moving with the serenity of someone who knows there is no turning back. You advanced towards him, your steps light as the flight of a dove, but your presence weighed in the room like a chalice filled to the brim.

—Father, I cannot ignore what I have seen in your eyes these days— you said, your voice enveloping the words with a delicacy that disarmed any resistance. —You have looked at me as someone searching for something beyond what the world can offer—

Hee Seung felt the heat rise up her neck, a blush that burned like a glowing ember.

—Me... I don't know what you're talking about, sister— he stammered, his voice broken as if the very air refused to cooperate —If I looked, it was... just distraction, nothing more

You smiled then, and that smile was like the light filtering through the stained glass of a chapel at dawn, soft yet penetrating.

—Distraction...— You repeated, almost as if the word caused him tenderness. —Father, my arrival here has not been by chance. I have been sent to fulfill a divine purpose. I have come to relieve the forsaken hearts of this church. And yours, father... His soul, tormented and burdened with chains, is one that I must free—

Your words were like an echo from Genesis, where the voice of God separates light from darkness. But in this case, the two seemed to intertwine, and Hee Seung felt her spiritual strength crumble like the Tower of Babel amidst the chaos.

—Sister, what you're saying is... It's blasphemy— he tried to retort, although his voice lacked the firmness needed to convince her, or to convince himself.

You took a step closer, closing the distance between you, until both your breaths merged in the air thick with incense and something more.

—Blasphemy would be ignoring the voice that led me here— you replied —The Virgin is not only a symbol of purity; she is also a refuge for the lost, for those who have forgotten the way. If her eyes seek me, is it not my duty to be an instrument of her redemption?—

Your hand, delicate as an olive branch, rose to brush against Hee Seung's face. The contact was light, barely a touch, but within it there was a magnetic force that made him close his eyes, like someone who fears looking directly at the sun for fear of burning.

—Father, allow me to be the flame that illuminates your darkness— you whispered. —If your faith has led you to this trial, let me be the answer that reconciles you with yourself—

The silence that followed was dense, laden with possibilities and contradictions. Then, as if an invisible thread were pulling him, Hee Seung leaned his face towards yours. The kiss that followed was an act of surrender and rebellion, a wordless prayer ascending to the heavens while defying earthly rules. It was like the clash of two opposing worlds, where the divine and the human met in a moment overflowing with meaning.

When they parted, the candle on the table extinguished with a faint whisper, as if even the flame recognized that its light was insufficient to illuminate what had just occurred.

You looked at him with a serenity that contrasted with the turmoil in the priest's heart.

—This is just the beginning, Father— you said —Our path will be difficult, but divine grace always finds a way to guide us—

Hee Seung fell to his knees as you walked away towards the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His mind was a whirlwind of guilt, desire, and a question he couldn't answer: Was this an act of redemption, or the first step towards his downfall?

In front of the crucifix hanging on the wall, he whispered a prayer: —My God, if there is still hope for my soul... Show me the way—

But the silence that followed was neither condemnation nor absolution, just an abyss in which the struggle between flesh and spirit continued, incessantly, like a battle that would never be fully resolved.

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