honeybeehorizon - Tumblr blog

honeybeehorizon · 26 days ago

Text

i CANT BREATHE HALP 😭😭

back to you — ten (two)

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 93k words… (53k words in this post)

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — after taeyong’s death, jeno and those closest to him are each haunted by memories and ghosts, real and imagined, that refuse to let them move on. grief shadows every moment, but when an unexpected night brings everyone all together, the lines between past and present blur, and everything changes in ways no one could have foreseen. in the midst of it, you and jeno find yourselves pulled back into each other’s orbit, unable to escape the unfinished story between you.

chapter warnings — post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, this chapter contains scenes of emotional abuse, bullying, and targeted harassment that may be distressing to some readers. this chapter is the largest yet, it’s incredibly heavy and loaded, take your time, i’ve uploaded it into two seperate posts, think of it a special two part(er), read the previous part here, i can’t add much here as everything in this chapter will be unexpected and a spoiler, but you’ll see the new york gang having slay moments, you’ll meet baby haeun, many jeno and nahyun moments, you’ll see familiar places :), i wanna preface by saying i haven’t proofread anything and there’s a high likelihood that there’s some small mistakes (i hope not a lot), if it’s something where i’ve accidentally copied and pasted the same section twice then tell me, if it’s correcting anything or being annoying then don’t tell me. the pacing may feel unsteady at times, characters may seem unlike themselves, i tried my best with this chapter lol.

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

[previous, 40k words]

𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐋. 𝟑𝟕.𝟓𝟓𝟗𝟖° 𝐍, 𝟏𝟐𝟕.𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟖° 𝐄

The plane touches down as dawn spills across the city, washing Seoul in streaks of pale gold and bruised violet, colors slipping softly through the window like a memory bleeding back into place. Jeno breathes shallowly, his chest tight, pulse flickering quietly under the collar of his hoodie, fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest as the wheels skid along the runway, jolting him gently into a reality he’s been running toward since he boarded. Outside, the airport stretches in sleepy precision, bright lights punctuating the lingering dusk, glass walls shimmering softly like the city itself had stayed awake waiting for him, prepared to hold him, knowing he’d return eventually.

Stepping into the terminal feels like stepping onto a familiar shoreline after years at sea, the air sharper, the signs clearer, every announcement over the intercom slipping through him like music he hasn’t heard in far too long. His sneakers squeak softly against polished floors, luggage rolling past him unnoticed, passengers flowing around him like a current as he moves forward with only one thought, one purpose, one face he’s trying to find among a crowd that blurs and shifts and parts until suddenly, unmistakably, he sees Mark.

His brother stands still in the chaos of reunion, head slightly tilted, gaze steady, a quiet grin starting to break the corners of his mouth open, and then he’s moving fast, arms already widening as they collide. Mark pulls him tight, tighter than Jeno expects, wrapping him into a hug fierce enough to break something loose in his chest, the weight of silence and distance dissolving between them like it never existed at all. Jeno clings back, fingers knotted into Mark’s jacket, eyes closed tight, the scent of his brother’s familiar cologne grounding him instantly, sharply, reassuringly. “You’re home,” Mark says quietly, voice catching slightly. “God, you’re actually home.”

The drive to Mark’s apartment feels surreal, the city streets gliding past the windows in smooth, rhythmic pulses of light and shadow, neon signs blinking lazily awake, the Han River glittering dark and gentle beneath bridges that feel more like memories than structures. Mark drives with one hand loose on the wheel, the other elbow leaning casually out the window, glancing sideways at Jeno with a smile still faintly lingering around his lips.

“How long has it been, man?” Mark finally says, breaking the quiet that had settled comfortably between them. “Feels like forever.”

“Too long,” Jeno replies softly, voice low, eyes fixed out the window, drinking in every building, every street lamp, every faded sign, and feeling each one settle softly in his chest. “You look good, Mark. You look happy, like you’re glowing.”

Mark chuckles, shaking his head slightly like he’s brushing off the weight of something heavier, but the sound doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He glances sideways at Jeno, meaning to tease him again, to keep the moment light, but the joke falters before it can rise. His smile softens, brow drawing faintly, gaze catching on the curve of Jeno’s profile—the set of his jaw sharper than before, the skin beneath his eyes a little darker, like time had pressed too hard and too fast. He’s still Jeno. Still handsome, still cut from the same impossible angles. But there’s no spark behind it. No glow. No light humming in his presence like there used to be.

The weight of it lands in Mark’s chest like a bruise swelling too slow to notice all at once. He remembers the way Jeno used to shine—bright, reckless, golden, the kind of boy who lit up rooms without knowing, who kissed with all his teeth showing and laughed like nothing could break him. He remembers the version of him that only existed around you. The softness in his voice when he said your name. The way his eyes followed you like they already knew the story and just wanted to live inside it. The way he smiled without needing a reason.

He took that for granted. That glow. That light. That boy.

And now, sitting beside him, Mark sees the man that was left behind. Beautiful still, stoic, whole in shape. But dulled, like a blade sheathed too long in grief and silence. The change is quiet, devastating in its subtlety, like realizing you’ve forgotten the sound of something you used to love. His posture is the same, his features sharp and familiar, but there’s a hollowness beneath it, an eerie stillness to the way he sits—like he’s holding his breath through every second. His voice lowers, steady but caught on something raw, something he’s trying to keep from unraveling. “Yeah,” he says again, barely more than a whisper now, eyes dragging across Jeno’s face. “One of us had to start making better choices eventually.”

Jeno laughs, a low, quiet sound that flickers and fades like the last light before blackout, a laugh that doesn’t belong in the moment, too easy, too soft, too far removed to be real. It fills the car like static—brief, warped, gone. And then he speaks over the silence Mark didn’t mean to leave. “Congrats, by the way,” he says, voice smooth, light, practiced. “Saw the post—Areum and you. It’s beautiful, the ring suits her.”

Mark realizes he’s not used to this version of his brother. He’s seen Jeno angry, guarded, and reckless. He’s seen him ruin things just to feel alive. But he’s never seen him like this—so drained, so shut down, like the fire’s been extinguished in his chest and someone locked the door behind it. It’s not numbness, it’s something darker, like whatever was bright in him had been pressed under for so long it forgot how to resurface. Like someone hollowed him out and left just enough to look intact. There’s a coldness in the car now—not between them, but wrapped around Jeno like a second skin. Like he’s already left something behind and the only thing left is a shadow that’s still learning how to walk.

“Thanks,” Mark answers after a while, voice softer, sincere. “Couldn’t have done it without you, though. Still got your texts saved. I reread them right before I proposed, it kept me from totally losing my shit, you really know what to say in moments like that.”

Jeno smiles slightly, leaning his head back against the seat. “Glad I could help.”

The conversation shifts, easy and flowing naturally into Jaemin’s post, the image of his daughter fresh and tender in their minds, the memory of her tiny fingers, her bright eyes. “Jaemin being a dad is the biggest shocker I’ve ever received,” Mark says, almost incredulous, half-laughing. “Can you believe it? Jaemin, of all people, has a little girl.”

“It’s what he needed,” Jeno murmurs, something softening deep in his chest. “He’s so in love with her. She slowed everything down for him. He used to rush through everything. Had a hundred things in his head all the time, couldn’t sit still for five minutes without checking a mirror or cracking a joke. But when he’s with her, all of that just… falls away. He doesn’t even realize it. It’s like the second he held Haeun, the whole world shrank down to her size and he didn’t want it to get bigger again. He watches her sleep like she’s going to tell him something. He hums when he rocks her. Sings, sometimes. Not loud. Just under his breath, like it’s only for her. He said she blinked at him once and he cried for fifteen minutes in the kitchen.” Jeno’s mouth twitches slightly, but it doesn’t become a smile. “She’s got his whole heart already. And she doesn’t even know it. That’s the part that kills me. She doesn’t have to try. She doesn’t have to do anything. He just looks at her like she’s the only thing that ever made sense.”

“Yeah,” Mark agrees softly, a quiet pause stretching between them as the car moves steadily through early-morning streets. “Changes things, doesn’t it? Makes everything else feel smaller.” He taps his fingers lightly against the wheel, gaze drifting forward, voice softening further. “Areum and I talked about it the other night. For the first time, like… seriously. Not just in passing, not in that ‘someday’ kind of way. We were lying in bed and she asked me what I thought our babies' laugh would sound like—our kid’s. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after that.” He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, almost something more. “I keep picturing her holding someone tiny, like a real person, a real part of us. I didn’t know I wanted that but I do. I want to give that to her.”

Inevitably, the topic neither has touched yet rising like mist—Taeyong. Jeno shifts slightly, clears his throat once, eyes lowering. “Remember when he used to pit me against you? It started during our little league days. He’d taunt me, he’d say if I didn’t hit harder than you then I wasn’t working hard enough. If I couldn’t outrun you, I didn’t deserve to lead. We were eight, Jeno.”

Jeno’s head turns slightly, but he doesn’t speak.

“I remember one morning—you missed a catch in the outfield, and he told me if I didn’t outshine you by the end of the week, he’d pull me from the starting lineup, he wasn’t even the Coach but he knew the power he had.” Mark laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “I was a fucking kid too, but I wasn’t allowed to be your brother, he trained us into becoming enemies.”

Jeno swallows, voice quiet but firm. “He just wanted to push us. He thought we’d make each other stronger.”

“No,” Mark says, eyes sharp now, hands white-knuckled. “He didn’t want us to ‘make each other’ anything. He wanted me to beat you and he wanted you to beat me. He never wanted us to love each other, he just wanted us to measure each other. And we both lived by it for way too fucking long.”

Jeno closes his eyes slowly, lids drawn tight like the darkness behind them might soften the weight of what Mark just said. His jaw flexes once, twice, and his fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans as if grounding himself in something real might keep everything else from caving in. The air in the car thickens. He exhales through his nose, long and quiet, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and raw, like it’s been scraped out of him. “He’s dead, Mark.” The words fall like stone. “He’s dead. And you’re still talking about him like he’s standing on the fucking sidelines taking notes.”

He turns his face toward the window again, the light catching the edge of his cheekbone, cold and clean. “I get it, he was cruel and made us compete. He broke shit we’re still trying to fix. But I can’t—I can’t keep dragging him behind me like he’s still watching. I already buried him once. I’m not gonna dig him up every time we talk about who we are.” His breath catches slightly, the truth splintering through. “He’s still my father and it’s obvious we both had a very different relationship with him but I still—” He stops. Swallows. His voice falters and turns sharp again. “It doesn’t matter.”

He presses his knuckles to his mouth, blinking hard once. “He’s dead, and it still fucking matters.”

His throat works hard around the weight sitting in it, and when he speaks next, it catches halfway out of him. “I bet you regret giving him your kidney.” The words hit the air like ice cracking over deep water—quiet, sudden, irreversible. Jeno doesn’t look at Mark when he says it, but his voice has already betrayed him, thin and cracking at the edges, like he’s still trying to claw the sentence back as it lands.

“I didn’t do it for him,” Mark says, and his voice is calm, but underneath it there’s something tangled—something bitter and loving and old. “You know that, right? I did it for you,” Mark continues. “I did it so you wouldn’t have to, I knew you weren't a match but even if you were I still would’ve done it. Just so he wouldn’t look at you like you owed him something else. He already took enough from you. I didn’t want him to take your body too.”

His hands drop into his lap, fingers tangled, still trembling faintly. “I kept thinking, when he was dying, when everything started shutting down, I kept thinking you’d wish you hadn’t saved him. That if you knew how it would end, you’d want the kidney back.”

Mark lets out a slow breath, shoulders tightening, then easing. “I still would’ve done it to prove a point. That I would be better. That I could give him something he didn’t deserve and still walk out of that hospital with my head up. It was one final choice that was mine. He made my life hell when he left my Mother so I made sure he got a piece of me, and I walked away knowing he’d have to live with the fact that the son he tried to erase was the one who kept him alive. In all honesty, I didn’t expect him to die, I didn’t expect him to go out like that. I thought he had more time.”

Mark exhales through a laugh, the kind that frays at the edge of something darker. “Or maybe,” he says, flashing Jeno a crooked smile, “I felt guilty about how I treated him at the wedding—thought I killed him with a punch and panicked, figured the least I could do was keep him alive long enough to die on his own terms. You know, poetic symmetry. Violence, then charity.”

“I saw the footage,” Mark finally changes the subject, voice carefully gentle. “From the gala.”

Jeno nods slowly, gaze fixed somewhere far away. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Jeno doesn’t answer right away, fingers tightening slightly in his lap. “I don’t know yet,” he admits finally, voice thin but honest. “I don’t know what okay looks like anymore.”

Mark nods slowly, understanding flickering quietly in his eyes. “You will. Eventually.”

The conversation softens again, lighter now, moving onto Nahyun with careful consideration. “And how’s everything else? With your future wife?” Mark asks, cautiously, mockery evident in his tone that he simply can’t mask.

“Not sure about that either,” Jeno admits quietly, gaze shifting out the window again. “Things got complicated. Really complicated.”

Mark doesn’t push, just nods gently, eyes thoughtful. “I’m here. When you want to talk.”

Jeno smiles slightly, forced and strained, turning his face toward his brother again. “I know, I just don’t want to talk about her right now, she’s already blowing up my phone with threats.”

Mark lets out a quiet laugh, but it fades fast, the silence between them tightening again, dragging like a thread pulled too far. Jeno shifts, glances out the window, the tension behind his eyes sharpening into something else, calculation, avoidance, maybe both. He squints at the road ahead, at the turn they just took, at the old buildings lining the side street now giving way to open sky and rusted fencing. The breeze through the half-cracked window suddenly feels colder, heavier. “This isn’t your apartment,” he says, voice flat and immediate, the deflection smooth, deliberate, clean.

Mark doesn’t look at him, just turns the wheel with casual ease, pulling off into the dirt lot like he’s done this a hundred times. “Yeah,” he says, the word too nonchalant to be real. “I forgot to tell you. I’m about to coach the team in a half hour.”

Jeno narrows his eyes, jaw ticking once as he takes in the broken bleachers, the sun-stained court, the torn net swinging in the breeze. He doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks clearly—he knows exactly what this is, and exactly why Mark brought him here. The city gives way slowly, like it’s peeling back its newer skin to reveal something older, something half-buried beneath fresh paint and broken promises. Mark drives like he’s following a path only muscle memory remembers, turning down a narrow side street lined with rusted bike racks and cracked pavement blooming with weeds. Jeno’s jaw tenses without him realizing. The buildings thin, the noise fades, and the sky opens wider as they pull into a dead-end where the curb fades into dirt and the gravel loosens beneath the tires.

Then he sees it.

The river court unfolds before them slowly, like something exhumed from memory rather than mapped on any living street—each detail bleeding into view with the aching precision of a place too deeply etched to ever fade cleanly. The low chain fences sag with the weight of seasons, links rusted to amber where palms once pressed, where laughter once spilled over stolen hours and bruised knuckles. The court lines are nearly gone now, ghost-pale beneath layers of weather and time, but you can still see their shape if you look close enough, scars preserved in the asphalt, lines once chased like lifelines by boys who believed they had something to prove. The backboards rise at either end like monuments, corners worn to splinters, the paint peeled back in flakes like sunburnt skin. Nets hang in shreds, silver loops torn into limp threads that sway in the breeze like forgotten ribbon, catching sunlight with the last of their dignity. The asphalt is cracked, uneven in places where tree roots have tried to reclaim it, but each mark feels sacred, proof that something real happened here, something fast and ferocious and worth remembering.

The river curls along the edge of the court like a silent spectator, glassy and unbothered, reflecting the sky in long, broken ribbons of gold. It glistens like memory does, framed by motion, distorted by light, impossible to hold without changing shape. The wind carries the scent of old sweat, wet bark, and worn leather. Somewhere behind the chain-link gate, a basketball echoes against the ground once, then again, slow, heavy, steady. Not performance. Not warmup. Just rhythm. Just pulse. It’s the kind of sound that fills the lungs before the ears, the low, familiar thump of something that never really stopped, just waited long enough for someone to come home.

“It’s Saturday,” Jeno says finally, deadpan.

Mark sighs, dragging a hand through his hair as he opens the door. “Yeah,” he says, stepping out with theatrical annoyance. “That’s why we’re not at the high school court. The boys have been slacking,” Mark continues, slamming the door shut and walking around the front of the car. “Skipping morning drills, dragging their feet at practice, throwing up half-assed passes like they’re on a vacation. So I started dragging them out here on the weekends. No AC, no polished floors, no fucking excuses. Just the river, the rust, and whatever grit they’ve got left. We have a state championship to win.”

Jeno finally steps out, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes as the wind skims across the court, cool and familiar. He looks around, at the faded free throw line, at the loose ball bouncing once, twice, then rolling to rest at the edge of the paint. His eyes fall on the far end, where the fence was once torn and patched with zip ties, still is. “You bring them here,” he says quietly, not a question, more like an observation soaked in something else.

Mark grins, clapping him once on the shoulder. “Figured it was time they learned where gods are made.”

The ball echoes again—then stops abruptly, followed by a sharp bark of a voice cutting through the still air like a whistle that never needed to be blown. “Yoon Keeho! If you jog that slow again I’m gonna staple your shoelaces together and make you race a pigeon for cardio!”

The chain-link gate swings open with a creak and out strides Chenle, clipboard in one hand, iced Americano in the other, hoodie halfway zipped and sunglasses perched on his head like he thinks he’s the lead in an off-brand sports documentary. His sneakers squeak across the cracked pavement as he stomps dramatically toward a lanky kid slouched by the free-throw line, who visibly flinches before straightening like a soldier about to be court-martialed.

“Look alive, your slouching is contagious!” Chenle snaps, taking a sip of his coffee without breaking stride. “And if you miss another layup with that limp wrist I swear to God, I’m putting your grandma in the game and she’ll outscore you blindfolded—don’t test me!”

Mark chuckles from behind the car, clapping once. “Chenle, relax before you give someone a moral injury.”

“I am the moral injury,” Chenle mutters under his breath, spinning on his heel—and then he freezes, halfway through another insult.

His eyes land on Jeno, who’s still standing at the edge of the court, hood up, hands in his pockets, gaze dragging slowly across the bleachers. Chenle blinks once, then twice, his mouth falling open just slightly. “No fucking way,” he says, loud enough to startle three kids on the bench. “Is that—Jesus Christ. Look what the NBA dragged in.”

Jeno lifts a brow. “You’re still alive?”

“I am,” Chenle says, already grinning like a hyena, arms thrown wide as he strides forward. “You, however—Jesus. Why do you look like you just walked off a GQ cover and straight into a crime scene? Like, stupidly attractive, but also like you haven’t slept since the draft.”

Jeno laughs under his breath, and they meet in the middle of the court, Chenle pulling him into a loose, sideways hug that thumps twice on the back with exaggerated drama. “You better not be here to embarrass me,” Chenle says, pulling away with a mock glare. “These kids already think I peaked in college and cry during rewatching The Last Dance.”

“Don’t you?” Jeno deadpans.

Chenle squints. “That was one time. And it was the Steve Kerr speech.”

Mark walks past them, nodding toward the players gathering on the court. “He’s been terrorizing them for weeks.”

“I motivated them,” Chenle insists. “With threats and caffeine and sarcasm. You know. Coaching.”

Jeno smiles, for the first time fully—quiet but warm. “Same old Chenle.”

Chenle throws an arm around his shoulder as they start walking toward the court together. “Damn right. Welcome home, legend. Try not to ruin my authority in front of these hormonal disasters.”

Jeno lets the banter fade behind him as he takes a few slow steps toward the edge of the court, sneakers crunching against gravel until he reaches the far side—just near the chain-link fence where the asphalt meets the grass and the river stretches long and glassy behind it. He exhales, shoulders loosening, and sinks down onto the faded sideline like his body remembers how without asking. The ground is still warm from the morning sun, cracked in places but familiar in a way that cuts deep, steady and slow. He leans back on his hands, legs stretched out in front of him, and just sits there for a moment, letting it all settle.

The court hums with life around him. Mark is already clapping his hands at half court, barking instructions with that calm-but-deadly tone Jeno recognizes from every practice they ever survived. Chenle’s pacing the perimeter with his iced coffee sloshing dangerously in one hand, swinging a whistle in the other like it’s both accessory and weapon. Their dynamic is chaotic but practiced, a constant back and forth of good-cop-bad-cop energy where neither one ever agrees on who’s who.

The boys, predictably, are a mess of limbs and hormones and unfiltered commentary. One kid’s shirt is half off for no reason. Another is doing half-hearted push-ups while making sound effects from an anime fight scene. There’s a lanky guard with a toothpick in his mouth who keeps yelling “lock in” like it’s a magic spell even as he airballs free throws. A smaller, more serious one in goggles refuses to pass unless it’s a no-look, and gets increasingly offended every time someone doesn’t catch it.

“Mingi, if you pivot like that one more time I’m gonna revoke your birth certificate!” Chenle yells, slamming his clipboard on the bench. “And put the damn toothpick away, what are you, a Western outlaw?”

“I play better when I’m chewing something!” the boy shouts back.

“Chew this playbook, then!”

Another kid whips a pass that ricochets off the backboard with enough force to startle a flock of birds across the river. The ball bounces toward the fence and rolls near Jeno’s foot. He bends forward, picks it up, turns it over in his hands slowly. The leather is worn, soft at the seams. He stares at the faint lines where sweat and sun and time have darkened the grooves, and his chest tightens. One of the boys runs over to retrieve it, slowing when he realizes who has it. His eyes go wide. “You’re Lee Jeno.”

Jeno nods once, passes the ball back. “You should’ve caught that rebound.”

The boy’s mouth opens, then shuts. He takes the ball and stumbles back, whispering something frantic to his friend as he jogs away. Jeno smirks a little, just barely. He glances up at the sky—clear and bright and impossibly blue, the kind of sky that used to mean one thing: game day.

Despite all the noise, the teasing, and the threats of humiliation-by-grandma, it’s obvious, especially to Jeno, that neither Chenle nor Mark are cruel. There’s no sharpness in their discipline, no real venom in the jabs. They’re not here to break the kids down. They’re here because they care too much to let them coast. The boys have been reckless lately, skipping drills, talking back, playing with half the heart and none of the focus. So Chenle’s sarcasm has sharpened, Mark’s drills have gotten longer, and their patience has worn thinner, but beneath it all is nothing but investment. Every raised voice, every pointed joke, every snatched clipboard or extra suicide run is just a louder way of saying: you’re capable of more. And Jeno can see it instantly—in the way the boys still listen, in the way they watch Chenle with wary amusement and Mark with tight-lipped reverence. They don’t fear them. They just know they can’t get away with being average anymore.

He listens, eyes half-lidded, every breath drawn slowly through the weight of memory, the kind that clings to bone. The rhythm of sneakers against pavement echoes like a pulse, not fast but constant, layered with the low hum of teenage voices cracking through banter and breath, the exaggerated groans of boys who pretend to hate drills but never miss a chance to outpace each other. Laughter rings out—too loud, too sudden—the kind that spirals uncontrollably after someone trips over their own feet or makes a half-court shot they swear was on purpose. There are impressions being shouted mid-sprint, mock arguments about anime power levels, a kid singing the wrong lyrics to a hype song under his breath while doing pushups like he’s the star of a training montage. One of them moonwalks during suicides. Two of them are chest-bumping dramatically after a blocked shot that wasn’t even legal. It’s messy, chaotic, undisciplined—and it’s alive.

Beneath all of it, layered beneath the cracked court and the beat-up basketballs and the broken rhythm of drills turned into inside jokes, Jeno hears it again. That steady, quiet thrum that doesn’t belong to competition or performance. It isn’t about legacy or pressure. It’s something older, something purer. The sound of effort for effort’s sake. The sound of love stitched into sweat and laughter and showing up, again and again, when no one tells you to. It hums beneath the sneakers, beneath the noise, beneath the wind pushing off the river. A rhythm that once made him whole. And for one second—maybe less—he lets it break over him like tidewater. The river breeze trails its fingers through his hair, warm sunlight dapples across his shoulders, and the sounds around him—laughter, scolding, impact, breath—swell like a song written only for those who’ve lived this kind of life. The court shimmers with old ghosts and new chances, and Jeno feels something rise up through his chest so quickly it catches in his throat. It feels like being seventeen again, skin sunburned and heart wide open, lungs aching from too much running and too much wanting. It feels like nothing’s changed, like the years never passed, like the game still matters, and so does the place where you learned to play it.

And in that flicker of time—sharp and gold and aching—it all matters again. All of it. Every second. Every sound. Every step that brought him back.

Jeno sighs, barely audible, letting his shoulders drop as he leans further back into the court’s warmth. There’s a comfort in the silence, in pretending no one’s noticed him, in watching from a distance like he’s no longer part of it, just a visitor passing through the ruins of something sacred. But the quiet doesn’t hold for long. He can feel it—eyes on him. The shifting air of boys too restless, too reverent to leave him be. “Coach,” a voice cracks out, too loud to be casual, too dramatic to be real. “How are we meant to concentrate when Lee fucking Jeno is just sitting there like a Greek god in joggers?”

Jeno opens one eye, brow arching. It’s Sohee—tall, wiry, with a mop of hair that hasn’t seen a brush all week and a personality that swings between theatrical and unhinged. He’s mid-drill but frozen now, mouth hanging open like Jeno just descended from heaven instead of a black car.

Another boy snorts. “Bro, focus. He’s not gonna sign your jersey if you keep looking at him like you wanna frame his sweat.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sohee fires back. “I’m about to ask if he’ll adopt me.”

Chenle doesn’t miss a beat. “You want him to adopt you?” he says, raising an eyebrow as he sips his coffee. “Get in line. Half the league’s been trying to get on his good side for years and you think you’re gonna cut through with that crossover?”

The court erupts into laughter, sneakers scraping as the drill falls apart, boys leaning on each other, waving their hands like they’re fanning the moment away. Chenle throws his hands up, mock-frustrated. “Alright, alright, fine! Water break, all of you. Get it together before I replace this whole team with benchwarmers from Daegu.”

The boys scatter toward the edge of the court, grabbing bottles and toweling off. A few of them inch toward Jeno, hesitating like he’s a statue in a museum, too sacred to approach but too legendary to ignore. Jeno blinks up at them, then slowly pushes himself to his feet. “You done?” he asks, dry but not unkind.

Sohee salutes with his water bottle. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Jeno glances at Mark, who just shrugs, then back at the boys now clustered around him, eyes wide and sparkling and waiting. They look like versions of who he used to be—bony, eager, sunburnt, full of noise and want. He lets out a breath, looks down for a second, then back up, gaze steady.

“You know, I used to run these exact same drills right here,” he says, voice low but strong. “Same court, same river, same garbage backboards.” He gestures behind him, and a few of the boys laugh. “I used to come here thinking if I ran harder, jumped higher, shot longer, maybe I’d matter more. Maybe the scouts would notice. Maybe my dad would say I played well. Maybe I’d feel like I earned the jersey I was wearing.” The laughter fades. They’re listening now. Really listening. “But that’s not what got me anywhere,” Jeno continues. “What got me somewhere was never giving myself the option to quit. Not on bad days, not after losses, not when I was playing through injuries or stress or shit I didn’t know how to name yet. You want to win championships?” He scans their faces. “Then show up when no one’s watching, become the best player on the court, believe in the version of yourself that hasn’t arrived, the one that still feels like a dream.”

There’s a long silence. The breeze from the river lifts gently through their jerseys. Jeno runs a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of how quiet they’ve gone. He clears his throat, voice softening. “I don’t say that because I have it all figured out. I say it because I don’t. I’m still trying to believe in things too.” He looks at Sohee, then the others. “So if you can do that now, here, at your age, then you’re already stronger than I was.”

There’s a beat. Then Sohee, with absolute sincerity, says, “I’m gonna get that tattooed on my chest.”

The group dissolves into laughter again, loud and unfiltered, and Jeno can’t help the smile that breaks across his face. It’s small but real. A few of the boys drift closer, shyly asking for photos. Jeno agrees, and suddenly it turns into a lineup. One by one, each kid steps up beside him—some grinning too hard, some trying to look cool but failing, one even doing finger hearts while Jeno just shakes his head.

Mark takes the group photo, holding the phone high while Chenle yells, “Act like winners, not clowns!”

The boys cheer, some jumping, some holding up peace signs, a few whispering under their breath that they can’t believe the Lee Jeno is in their team photo. And as the shutter clicks, Jeno stands in the middle of it all, surrounded by faces full of belief, hearts still unbroken, and for the first time in a long time, he feels something settle in his chest that almost resembles hope.

Mark blows his whistle, Chenle is the first to leave, followed by the last of the Ravens who pile into rideshares and parents’ cars, voices fading into the wind until the river court lies empty except for two figures in the lingering glow of the flood-lights. Jeno and Mark stay behind, rebound after rebound thunking off the backboard, sneakers rasping across worn asphalt. Chill air curls from the river, carrying the faint metallic smell of city water and rusted chain-link. Neither brother speaks; they just pass, dribble, shoot—filling the dark with the lonely percussion of a game that used to mean everything.

Mark finally traps the ball against his hip, breath frosting in the cold. “She’s fine, by the way,” he says, voice low, flattening the words between them. “Doing better.”

Jeno catches the next pass and pivots without looking up. “I didn’t really ask.” He fires the ball; iron rattles, the orange arc misses by a hair. He curses under his breath, snatches the rebound like it insulted him, drives hard to the left.

Mark steps into his path, palms up. “You were never meant to end up with someone like Nahyun. You deserve to be happy, to be in love. You’re not fooling anyone with that relationship.” His tone holds no heat—just grief, worn thin at the edges. “Taeyong couldn’t have left you this trapped.”

Jeno plants, shoulders tightening, but he doesn’t lash back. He simply nods once and shoulders past, tossing the ball at the rim with unnecessary force. Metal rings loud; the ball caroms wide, skids to the baseline. Sweat glistens on his jaw despite the chill.

“I didn’t even know you were capable of cruelty,” Mark continues, retrieving the ball. “Not until I watched you pick Nahyun over someone who would’ve walked into fire for you.”

A muscle in Jeno’s cheek ticks. “Just drop it.”

Mark ignores him, chest heaving. “You broke the one person who never asked you to be more than yourself,” he says, each word sharp as cut glass. “And you did it because you were scared. Because you’re haunted. Because you think you owe it to our twisted father to finish his script instead of living your own.”

Jeno takes the ball, dribbles once—hard—then spins, launching into a savage fade-away. Swish. He lands, breath gusting white. “I couldn’t choose her,” he says at last, voice cracking like brittle wood. “I had no choice.”

“You always have a choice.” Mark’s reply comes fast, furious. “You just couldn’t face what picking her would cost.”

Jeno palms the ball, fingers trembling. “You think I wanted this? You think I look in the mirror and see something to be proud of?” He bounces the ball so hard it ricochets up, catches it, slams it again—each impact a confession. “Every day I wake up inside a life that isn’t mine and try to pretend it fits.”

Mark’s anger thins into something raw. “Then change it. Before you can’t.” Mark scrubs a hand over his face, the breath he drags in sounding heavier than the river’s current. “I keep telling myself not to be angry,” he mutters, voice cracked around the edges. “Because I know how trapped you feel—how Taeyong wired duty into your bloodstream, how every decision you make still echoes his damn voice.” He kicks at a stray pebble, watches it skip before landing in the dirt. “But it fucking sucks how hard she got hit in the crossfire. I’ve never seen Y/N that broken, Jeno—she looked like someone had taken a crowbar to her ribs and stolen all the light.”

Jeno’s grip tightens on the ball until his knuckles blanch. He doesn’t lift his eyes.

Mark’s sigh gusts white in the cold. “You can make it better,” he says, softer now, pleading almost. “End it with Nahyun. Step out of the prison you keep locking from the inside. No more living for ghosts, no more finishing Taeyong’s script. Just—stand up, take one goddamn step toward the life you want, not the one expected of you.” Mark’s voice thins with urgency. “Show up. Beg. Plead. Do whatever it takes. She’s worth every bruise to your pride.”

Jeno’s breath catches; the basketball slips from his hands and rattles off into the dark. He finally meets Mark’s eyes—pupils blown wide, a raw sheen swimming there. “You think I don’t get it?” His voice is low, spent, every word scraped thin. “She’s in my head every damn minute. All I want is her. I want her like oxygen, like I can’t stay alive without it. But wanting doesn’t fix what I did. It doesn’t make me the guy she can trust again. I already proved I’m the one who bailed when it counted.”

Mark steps closer, jaw set. “Then prove something else.”

Jeno’s breath hitches; he shakes his head once, muted, despair turning the edges of his voice ragged. “I can’t.” Shoulders slump, gaze drifting to the river where the lights blur into dark water. “She deserves better than a man who can’t outrun his own chains.”

Mark exhales slowly, the sound heavy, disbelieving, filled with confusion that’s simmered beneath the surface for far too long. He shakes his head, voice lowering to a careful whisper, “I still don’t get it, Jeno. I don’t understand why you had to get engaged to Nahyun, or how it had anything to do with Taeyong dying. It just doesn’t make sense—it can’t be that bad.”

Jeno’s entire body stills, spine rigid like he’s bracing against something unseen, something terrible. When he finally answers, his voice is hollowed out, barely above a whisper, layered with dread. “It’s worse than you think.”

Mark’s gaze sharpens, brows knitting tighter. He steps closer, searching Jeno’s face for something more. “Then tell me. Just—let me help you.”

Jeno shakes his head, quick and harsh, eyes darkening with something haunted, something he can never quite escape. “No,” he breathes, the single syllable edged with a tremor. Shadows gather behind his eyes, secrets bleeding out between the lines of his face—horrors buried so deep he can’t give them a voice. “Trust me, Mark. Some things are better left buried.”

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊. 𝟒𝟎.𝟕𝟏𝟒𝟓° 𝐍, 𝟕𝟒.𝟎𝟎𝟔𝟎° 𝐖

New York feels different today.

Not loud, not brash—just bright in a way that makes you squint, like the light itself is searching for something. The city doesn’t rush around you so much as it sways, like it’s letting you breathe for the first time in days. Cabs drift past the terminal windows like yellow brushstrokes, horns muffled by the thick glass. The metal frames of JFK shine faintly beneath the pale afternoon sun, that particular shade of silver only New York manages to wear without effort. It’s cool, not cold, just enough that your coat sits snug on your arms, scarf loose around your neck, the chill brushing your skin like punctuation. Everything feels cinematic, on the verge of something, like the city knows what’s coming before you do.

You shift your weight against the railing near arrivals, watching strangers fold into reunions, mothers reaching for sons, business partners shaking hands, a toddler screaming at the sight of a balloon. There’s something sacred about waiting in a place like this, something almost religious about watching people return from elsewhere. In Seoul, everything moved with speed, with purpose, nothing ever lingered. There, you were always bracing for impact. Here, you’re bracing for warmth.

And you don’t realize how much of it you’ve been needing until the doors open again—and you see him. There’s something cinematic about it, absurdly so—the crowd shifts just enough, and there he is. Duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, head dipped slightly as he adjusts his earbuds. His hair’s longer than it used to be, grown into soft, careless waves that fall over his forehead and catch the light like they belong in a music video. His jaw is sharper now, shoulders broader, skin flushed golden from weeks under Southeast Asian sun, and something in your stomach folds in on itself. He looks like the kind of man people follow, the kind that should’ve slipped out of your story and never looked back. But he didn’t. He looks like a version of himself that should have moved on from you. But here he is. The world stills, just for a second and then he lifts his head. His eyes find you and his mouth curves. And that grin—soft, warm, shaped with recognition and something quieter than affection—undoes everything in your chest.

He walks right into your space, arms opening as he drops the bag without looking. You fold into the hug with a breath that feels like you’ve been holding it since he left. His coat brushes your knees. His arms come around your waist, gentle but full, and one hand settles at the nape of your neck like it’s supposed to be there, like he hasn’t missed a single beat. He smells like warm cotton, ginger and hotel soaps and the same scent that used to linger on his hoodies when you’d borrow them. He doesn’t let go until you do. When you pull back, your fingers brush the edge of his sleeve without meaning to. He’s already looking at you like he’s memorizing the changes.

“You look good, Yang,” you say, watching the way his skin glows under the airport light, the warm bronze still clinging to his cheeks and collarbone. “Thailand suits you.”

“Don’t flirt,” he murmurs, amused, as his grin spreads.

“Just being observant,” you fire back. You gesture toward the carousel as the belt begins to churn, the mechanical rhythm slicing softly through the terminal’s hum.

“How was it?”

He grabs his suitcase with ease, not once looking away from you, fingers curling around the handle like it’s weightless. “Hot. Busy. I did a digital detox, lived off rice and phone cards, learned how to negotiate in five currencies, helped film a local documentary with a group of kids in the North. Slept on five floors and one rooftop, ate too many things I couldn’t name, got food poisoning in Chiang Mai, swam in a waterfall two days later like I had something to prove. No Wi-Fi, no headlines, no real noise.”

His voice dips slightly, steadier now. “It was good for me. Like, actually good. Every day felt long in a way I hadn’t let myself feel in years, like I was finally stretching time instead of chasing it. The quiet made me honest. The heat made me slow down. I stopped checking the clock before bed, stopped refreshing anything, stopped wondering what came next. I just existed. And it didn’t feel like failing, it felt like healing.” He pauses, letting the suitcase fall back to his side. “I think I needed to get that far away to hear myself think again.”

You nod, lips parted but unsure what to say to that kind of clarity but his words cut your thoughts off. “I’ve missed you, baby,” he sighs, smooth and easy like the last six months didn’t stretch oceans between you. His tone doesn’t ache—it curls, warm and teasing. “Missed you the most.”

You arch a brow, letting your smirk answer before your words do. “Don’t call me that.”

He’s already stepping closer, unbothered. “Only if you call me daddy, I’ll stop.”

You swat his chest, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’ve not even been back for a minute and you’re already horny.”

“Mhmm.” He’s pulling you in again, arms sliding around you, hand rising to cradle the back of your neck, forehead pressing lightly into your shoulder. It’s instinctual. Slower this time, more grounding. Less arrival, more homecoming. He kisses your shoulder, then the space beside your ear, then rests his forehead against yours with a quiet sigh. His breath warms your cheek. His presence settles against your chest. He calls you something you’re not ready to hear, and it makes you want to laugh and disappear all at once.

There have been nights where you’ve moaned his name, let your nails scratch down his chest, kissed him like you meant it, thighs wrapped around his waist, your mouth open and breath hot against his neck as he fucked you slowly, deeper each time, whispering things like “you’re mine now, I’ve got you,” and you let him believe it. You let yourself believe it. You needed to. His cock fit like memory, not muscle, like something you’d held before and misplaced, and some nights, that was enough. You kept your eyes closed tighter when he was inside you, arched for him, legs shaking, the sweat between your bodies slick and silent, his name falling out of your mouth just fast enough to keep you from saying another.

Every time Yangyang is inside you, it feels like a reenactment of absence. Not love, not healing—just a borrowed body moving through the shape of someone else’s ghost. There have been nights when you’ve moaned for him, scratched marks into his chest like you were carving proof of your own distraction, kissed him hard enough to fake intention. Your thighs locked around his waist, your mouth hot against his neck, your breath sharp as he fucked you slow, deep, with the kind of rhythm that begs to be believed. He whispered things like ‘you’re mine now,’ and you let him believe it. Worse, you let yourself believe it too. Because memory is slippery, and his cock fits like something you’d lost before—not a new possession, but a returned artifact. Something once yours that had been misplaced and recovered in the wrong era, worn by the wrong hands. Some nights, that lie was enough.

You kept your eyes shut tight, not in bliss but in desperation, arched up into him like maybe movement could erase meaning, legs trembling, sweat gathering in the silence between your bodies. His name fell from your mouth at the exact pace it needed to, just fast enough to stop Jeno’s from escaping. And when morning came, when your cheek was against his chest and your thighs still ached, when his cum cooled between your legs and the sheets clung damp to your skin, you stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and frozen, replaying the way Jeno used to say your name when he finished. Like he was handing it back to you with both hands. Like he didn’t know what to do with it, but he still didn’t want to keep it.

Yangyang fucks you like he’s trying to make a home out of your body, like if he holds your hips hard enough and presses deep enough, you’ll stay—like you’ll melt into him and never leave. Every thrust is heavy with hope, every kiss a question he’s too afraid to ask. He touches you like he wants to rewrite something, to carve out a future in the wet curve of your throat, in the arch of your spine, in the way your mouth parts when you moan his name and pretend it’s enough. But Jeno used to take you like he already knew how it would end. He never begged. Never held on too long. He buried himself inside you like a secret, slow and certain, like he was memorizing the shape of your goodbye in every inch he claimed. His hands gripped your thighs not to possess you, but to feel what he was about to lose. And somehow, that quiet knowing—the way he fucked like he was bracing for the ruin—hurts more than anything. Because he was right. Because he left. Because even now, your body remembers him not like a lover, but like a wound.

No one else has touched you since. Not really. There have been men, their hands on your waist, their mouths near yours, flirtation folded into expensive drinks and laughter you never felt. But no one else has been inside you. Only Yangyang. Only the boy who stays because you won’t let him leave, because he fits into the broken rhythm you’ve built in Jeno’s absence.

The first time you let Yangyang inside you again, it had been a year after Jeno had left, a year spent untouched, untouched by anything but memory—your own hands, your own guilt, your own grief curling against your spine like smoke that wouldn’t clear. You hadn’t let anyone near you. So when you let Yangyang in—really in—it wasn’t because the pain had passed. It was because it hadn’t. The room had felt as hollow as your chest had become, every breath you took barely filling the empty space left behind. You’d close your eyes, hoping darkness could soften the sharp edges of loss, that Yangyang’s touch might quiet the ache that still burned bright beneath your skin. His fingertips brushed over you like someone tracing careful letters into sand, his mouth pressed to your collarbone, tender but uncertain, as though afraid you might dissolve beneath him. And when he moved inside you, slow and deliberate, he felt like the tide gently carrying you back to shore—except you’d long ago drowned, your heart weighted and sinking beneath the surface of someone else’s memory.

When he finished, you turned your face into the pillow, holding your breath until the tears fell, silent and relentless, sliding over your cheeks and pooling at the edges of fabric. Yangyang’s hand rested softly at your hip, warm and steady as if anchoring something precious, something whole. He didn’t notice the quiet unraveling, or maybe he chose not to, and when he asked if you were okay, your voice trembled out a lie you’d practiced too many times. “I needed this,” you whispered, when every cell in your body was screaming that it was someone else you needed—someone who had taken pieces of you when he left, fragments you’d spent nights trying desperately to forget.

Because when Jeno walked away, he took the color from your mornings and the warmth from your sheets, left your nights endless and cold, your bones aching in ways sleep could never heal. You’d laid awake for hours, wondering how emptiness could feel so heavy, how silence could speak louder than the whispered promises he used to spill into your skin. And now, each careful thrust from Yangyang felt like salt in a wound that refused to close, like retracing scars that never stopped hurting, no matter how gently they were touched.

For weeks afterward, every time Yangyang’s mouth brushed against yours, every time he pressed into you and filled the emptiness, you tightened your jaw to keep the truth locked behind your teeth. You’d close your eyes tighter, your fists twisting sheets that still didn’t smell like home, biting back the one name that always threatened to break free. Not Yangyang’s—never his—but Jeno’s. Always Jeno’s. His name burned at the tip of your tongue, hot and bitter like regret, an ache you returned to like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

Even now, each time Yangyang holds your body close, each time he looks at you like you’re something sacred and fragile, you feel the hollow place inside you growing deeper, a canyon carved out by someone who never meant to stay. And the cruelest part isn’t the way you still hear Jeno’s name echoing through your bones; it’s that every time Yangyang touches you, every time he tries to hold your broken pieces together, you feel the ghost of Jeno’s hands slipping through your fingers again. And again. And again.

Yangyang fucks you in hotel rooms, in the cold quiet of your apartment floor, in sheets that Jeno never touched. And every time, he holds your face like it’s sacred. Every time, he looks at you like he thinks you’re his. But he doesn’t know what he’s holding. He doesn’t know that when your limbs shake, when you can’t speak, it isn’t from being overwhelmed—it’s from grieving. No matter how many times you let him inside you, no matter how many ways you try to twist it into comfort, it never feels like Jeno. It never has. It never will. And the worst part isn’t that you keep trying. It’s that every time Yangyang touches you, it still feels like the moment Jeno let go. Again. And again. And again.

Yangyang wheels his suitcase behind him with one hand, the other tucked into his hoodie pocket, and you match his pace, the distance between your shoulders never more than a breath apart. You click the unlock on your car key and the soft beep echoes in the garage like a greeting. You toss his duffel in the trunk. He gets in the passenger side like muscle memory. The moment you pull out of the lot, he leans back and exhales like he’s been holding something in since the plane.

“So,” he says, side-eyeing you with that crooked smile that always threatens mischief. “How’s your boss era going? You look like someone who yells at interns with a smile.”

You scoff, shifting lanes. “I don’t yell. I just give firm feedback.”

“Firm feedback sounds like you told someone to rot gently,” he says, grinning.

You bite back a smirk. “I got promoted.”

“Yeah?” he perks up. “I saw something about that! There was this article—I think it said you left Apex, though. I was gonna text you but then I dropped my phone in a canal.”

Your mouth twists as you shake your head. “That article is garbage. Clickbait. I never left, I wouldn’t. That place is—” you pause, eyes still on the road but voice softening, “it’s mine. I built too much of it to walk away. I bled into that company. It’s everything to me.”

Yangyang hums, nodding slowly, the mood dipping into something quieter. “Good. You belong there.”

You glance over, just once, and his expression is soft, present, exactly how he used to look at you when you nailed something big—except now, there’s something else in his gaze. Maybe reverence. Maybe ache. “Speaking of wild headlines,” you pivot, turning the heat up a notch as the city blurs past the windshield, “can we talk about Jaemin having a whole daughter?”

Yangyang groans. “I nearly fainted when I found out. I thought someone was pranking me.”

“She’s the cutest baby I’ve ever seen. You have to see this.” Once you park up, you’re already scrolling through your phone, fingers nimble. You find the photo, the one where Haeun’s tucked into your chest, her tiny hand curled in your hair, and turn the screen toward him.

He leans in. “Oh my God. She’s got your eyes.”

“She’s not mine,” you deadpan, flicking your turn signal as you flash the photo.

Yangyang leans closer, squinting. “You sure? Because that’s a ‘my baby just discovered her toes’ smile.”

You snort. “I was literally just holding her, not adopting her. I think I’d remember being pregnant.” The words slip out with a laugh, light and careless, the kind of thing you say without thinking, without knowing the weight they might carry nine months from now, when the world will look different and memory won’t be as reliable as it once felt. Yangyang just hums beside you, the city unfolding past his window, and for a moment, it’s quiet in the car, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty, just patient. And somewhere, fate smiles in the rearview.

He throws his hands up. “Hey, I’ve been gone for a while. Anything could’ve happened. You could’ve had a secret love child and launched a baby clothing line.”

“She drooled on my hair and tried to eat my ring. That’s the extent of our bond.”

Yangyang grins, looking out the window. “Stranger things have happened.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you merge onto the bridge, the skyline stretching out like a future too far to touch. “Yeah, well. If I ever forget nine months of my life, please stage an intervention.”

“Still. You’re glowing.” You laugh, brushing him off but Yangyang doesn’t look away. He’s still staring at the photo like it’s something he needs to memorize, like the image of you with that baby curled against your chest, your cheek tilted, your eyes half-closed, your smile small and unbearably tender, is something he wants burned into memory. There’s something about the way your fingers had hovered protectively over the screen, the way your voice softened without you realizing, the way the light caught your face like it was trying to preserve it. He doesn’t say anything, but the silence stretches, and you feel it before you see it—he’s imprinting the moment like it matters. Like it already does.

You notice it. “What?”

He shakes his head a little too fast. “Nothing. Just… haven’t seen you look like that in a while.”

You blink once, then glance away, your voice a little too even as you murmur, “I like babies.” You shrug, but it’s the kind of shrug that tries to fold emotion into something smaller, neater, something that won’t spill. Your fingers drum once against the steering wheel, too casual, like you’re hoping he didn’t notice the way your mouth softened before the words even formed.

The car ride stretches with low music and soft laughter, hunger blooming quietly between your ribs like a thought you haven’t said aloud yet. You both keep stealing glances at the clock, your stomach curling with the kind of ache that isn’t just about food. The afternoon light cuts sharp across the buildings, slanting into the windshield, and the city smells like hot pavement and coffee somewhere close. When Yangyang spots the corner café—small brick storefront, pale green awning, windows fogged gently from the inside—he points with a nod, casual and eager. “There,” he says. “Best cortado in Brooklyn. Don’t fight me on it.”

You pull into the spot across the street, cutting the engine. The café glows in the winter light like a memory that doesn’t belong to you yet—wood tables, condensation curling on the glass, faint jazz filtering through the slightly cracked door like something whispered just for those who know where to listen. Inside, it smells like roasted beans and caramel, like warm mornings in a city that’s always half-asleep. The walls are lined with mismatched art and the shelves are stacked with local zines and books with cracked spines. It’s the kind of place where secrets could be overheard and kept all at once. Yangyang heads to the counter, already half-charming the barista, his laugh curling easily above the music. You sink into the corner booth, fingers curling around your phone, screen lighting up like a trap. Three headlines stacked in a perfect row like a punch you should’ve seen coming:

Lee Jeno returns to Seoul. Raven boys say: “He never stopped being ours.”

A photo—blurry but devastating—Jeno in a gym, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled, one hand gripping the shoulder of a teenage player. He’s mid-laugh, head tipped back, eyes shining. He looks like someone who survived the fire. Like someone who was never burned at all.

The One He Kissed, The One He Didn’t Marry. An op-ed dissecting the Legacy Gala montage. Your image captured mid-kiss, held like a relic. The final frame that launched a thousand speculations. Who really got left behind?

You scroll. You don’t mean to, but your thumb moves anyway, muscle memory from a time when knowing hurt less than imagining. The comments load slow beneath the op-ed, flickering into place like embers too stubborn to die.

“Apex’s golden girl. You can see it—she still owns him. That isn’t just nostalgia, it’s unfinished.”

“I never understood how he moved on. Nahyun’s pretty, sure, but Y/N looks like home.”

“There’s a difference between chemistry and comfort. With Y/N, it was both.”

“You can’t fake the way he looked at her. Go rewatch the clip. That smile? That wasn’t press training. That was personal.”

“She’s not just a ghost. She’s the storm. And he still stands in the rain.”

They’re flattering, poetic even, yet every compliment feels more like a blade sliding between your ribs, tenderly cutting deeper each time you breathe; the more they love you as a memory, the further you drift from the woman they’re holding onto. They talk about you as if you’re suspended in that one perfect moment, bathed in golden light and glittering confetti, forever preserved in the instant Jeno looked at you and made a choice neither of you understood yet, as if you’ve never stepped beyond the borders of that frame. They don’t know you now—they don’t see the late nights when your office becomes a sanctuary, the desk lamp a halo, the cold dinners eaten alone standing in the kitchen with the city murmuring at your back, or how every call from Seoul makes your pulse quicken with dread. They don’t see how hard you’ve fought to become someone whole without his gaze to tell you who you are, don’t feel the weight of the mornings you’ve woken in sheets untouched by anyone else, hands gripping fabric to remind yourself of reality, pulling your own heart back from wherever it wandered in dreams. They don’t realize that while he left, you stayed—stayed building, stayed breathing, stayed alive long after the cameras stopped rolling but all they remember is the footage, the way you smiled, the way your eyes shone as he kissed you, like he was pressing permanence into your skin rather than a goodbye neither of you knew you’d already started.

And beneath it all, one comment sticks sharper than the rest:

“You can see it. With Nahyun, it’s posture. With Y/N, it was gravity.”

You lock your phone, not to protect yourself, not to escape the words, but because every line etched into that screen rings true in a way that makes your chest ache like a bruise pressed too long. Not because you’re hurt but because truth doesn’t arrive gently, it doesn’t cradle or soothe, it lands like a body in water, sudden and heavy and dragging, and all you can do is feel it pull, slow and certain, down through the spine of who you used to be. I

When Yangyang returns, he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He takes one look at your face and doesn’t flinch, just sets your coffee down like it’s an offering, then slides into the seat across from you with the kind of ease only someone who knows you can carry. His knee nudges yours under the table, gentle, persistent, like a reminder that you’re still here. Then he says something stupid—something about the barista writing Yumyang on his cup instead of Yangyang—and the sound of your laugh comes out before you can stop it, cracked and too light, but real. He grins, proud of himself, and you shake your head, hiding your smile behind the rim of your cup.

He unwraps the sandwich you didn’t order but he knew you’d want, tears a piece off, holds it out to you. You try to protest, but he rolls his eyes and lifts his brows, and you take it because it’s easier than pretending you’re fine. He doesn’t say anything about your silence. He doesn’t have to. He just eats with you, bites and sips and casual conversation, his leg pressed warm against yours the whole time. And later, when your fingers tremble slightly from something you won’t name, he squeezes your wrist once and doesn’t let go.

After the coffee shop, the world narrows to two silhouettes in the pale hush of early morning, city lights melting into the windows as you drive home in silence, bodies aching for sleep that neither of you will claim. You shower side by side, steam ghosting the mirror, trading shirts and soft laughter that never quite climbs above the water’s rush. You change into clothes that smell like comfort, Yangyang’s hoodie swallowing your frame, your hair damp against your cheeks, the hour pressing you closer together, close enough to touch, never close enough to reach.

You collapse onto the sofa, limbs tangled, exhaustion heavy and indulgent, when he says, “I want to take you somewhere.” You glance at the clock—three a.m, it glows blue against the kitchen wall, a signal to most that the night is over. You could say no. You don’t. You let him pull you to your feet, let him drape his jacket over your shoulders, let him tell you that you don’t need to get ready or wear makeup as you’re already beautiful, you let him guide you down the stairs and into the dark city that blinks sleepily around you, street lights flickering in pools of honeyed gold. You walk together through streets emptied of hurry, your footsteps soft, your shadows braided along the concrete like a rumor. The air carries the taste of rain and old cigarettes, taxis yawning past, and the city’s insomnia tugs at your bones. Yangyang’s hand is warm around yours, steady, certain, and for a moment, you let yourself be led—if only because following is easier than choosing, and you crave ease the way some people crave air.

The riverside market reappears in fragments—lanterns strung above like planets scattered from old constellations, the hush of water, the taste of cinnamon and oil lingering in the breeze. You see your reflection everywhere, layered with strangers, with memory, with light. Yangyang buys you a dumpling, splits it with his fingers, and holds it to your lips. You eat because he wants you to, because it’s simpler to give him small victories than to tell him the truth. Yangyang watches you pick at your food, sees how you flatten your palms against the styrofoam cup just for heat, how your eyes never linger too long on anything lit or hopeful. He lets you drift beside him, arm slung loose around your shoulders, sometimes tucking your cold fingers into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, thumb sweeping over your knuckles in slow, unconscious circles. He tries to make you laugh—mocking the fried octopus mascot, teasing you for squinting at every price tag like a tourist—but the smile never quite roots, always fading too soon, your mind already chasing shadows that don’t belong to this place or this moment.

You both find a bench near the edge of the old dock, just beneath a tangle of lanterns knotted with red ribbon and dreams people wrote for a few hundred won. The bench creaks as you sit, wood worn smooth by years of lovers and secrets and the low thump of boats nudging the pylons below. Lanterns skim the surface of the water, bobbing gently, their golden bellies mirrored and multiplied until the river looks like it’s caught a thousand tiny suns. You lean into Yangyang’s shoulder, letting your body tip until your weight sinks into his, your thigh pressing hard against his under the cotton of his jeans. He breathes slowly, measured, and the hand that cups your thigh is steady, grounding, as if he could keep you from drifting with nothing but the heat of his palm.

And as you let him kiss you under the gauzy spill of lantern-light, you taste the truth you can’t voice: some people are made for chapters, some are written into endings. Yangyang is every gentle interlude, every midnight lull, every breath you take when the world softens and you almost believe comfort could be enough. But Jeno—Jeno is gravity, the axis, the singularity your life orbits whether you admit it or not. You let yourself linger in this scene, play your part, let his hands steady you for now, even as you know the story’s tide will always pull you back to where it started, where it aches.

Yet the truth cuts through the sweetness, slicing beneath the lantern-lit hush, coiling dark and certain at the base of your spine: just because you are tethered to a star doesn’t mean you’ll survive the orbit. Even gravity devours what can’t outrun it. Jeno is not a promise. He is every shadow you carry, every wound that refuses to scab, the ending that may never be written in light. If you find your way back, it will not be gentle. There are stories that circle forever, destinies that turn on themselves until they burn out. In this darkness, the future is no guarantee—only hunger, only longing, only the hollow certainty that love, when it returns, will arrive as reckoning, not rescue. Some orbits break. Some collide. Not every gravity leads you home.

Night stretches. The city stirs. You stay beside Yangyang, the placeholder and the solace, both of you bathed in borrowed gold. Somewhere, a violin bows a final, trembling note, and you understand: comfort is not destiny, and even the softest arms can’t keep you from the inevitability of your own return. He’s quiet for a while, just breathing with you, letting the cold fold around the two of you like a shared secret. The hush that settles between you feels almost sacred, woven from the gold hush of lanterns and the easy hush of strangers’ voices drifting over the water. Yangyang’s thumb traces slow circles on the back of your hand, his other hand cupping yours gently, and you feel the tremor in his fingers before he speaks—a nervousness he rarely lets show. He glances at you, then looks away, breath fogging faint in the night. His jaw flexes, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he gathers the courage to speak, eyes flickering to the lanterns and back to you, as if searching for permission.

“I want to tell you something,” he says quietly, his voice barely above the hush of the crowd, threading its way through the dark as if it was meant for only you. His fingers tighten around yours, the warmth of his palm grounding you, pulling you into the moment. He swallows, searching your face, and when he speaks again, his words tremble with hope and longing, gentle and unhurried, the syllables falling soft as silk.

“I think I’ve loved you for longer than I even knew,” he says, voice low and careful, as if the truth could slip away if he’s not gentle enough. “Since before I had any right to. Since those days when you still smiled at everything, when you looked at me like I was someone worth knowing. I know I joke a lot, and I know I never say it the right way, but I mean it—truly, I mean it. I’m so in love with you.” He lifts your hands, pressing his lips to your knuckles, holding them there for a beat too long, eyes shining with every word he can’t quite say. The world feels small, the night impossibly tender, and you realize he’s offering you everything he has, quietly, bravely, without asking for anything in return.

Yangyang’s hands find yours, gentle at first, fingers lacing through, thumbs smoothing over your knuckles as if memorizing the shape of your bones could make him braver. He stares at your hands for a long moment before he looks up, eyes reflecting every flicker of lantern-light, jaw set, mouth uncertain. He’s beautiful like this, undone and open, the usual mischief drained away, replaced by something raw and self-aware. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, careful, heavy with meaning that vibrates in every syllable.

“I know what I am to you,” he begins, the words tender and unflinching, almost an apology whispered against the night. “I know you’ll never look at me the way you look at him. I know—God, I know—there’s a part of you that I’ll never reach. That your heart still beats somewhere else, for someone who left it bruised and bleeding and who you’d let hurt you all over again if he asked. I know you’ll always love Jeno. I see it every time you look away, every time you go quiet and I know your mind is somewhere I can’t follow. I know what it’s like to be the man left standing in the echo of someone else’s story.”

His hands tighten, possessive now, desperate to tether you, even if only for this one moment. He breathes you in, gaze moving from your lips to your eyes, lingering like he wants to memorize the way you look when you’re almost his. “I want to be yours. I want to have you—any way you’ll let me. I’ll live with the ache, with the heartbreak, with being second, if that’s all you have for me. I’ll take the pieces. I’ll take the scraps. I just—” His words falter, heat rising in his cheeks, jaw clenching before he continues, lower, rougher. “I’d rather have you like this, on borrowed time, in the hours you can’t sleep, than never have you at all. I’ll take you when you’re empty, when you’re aching for someone else, when you let me fuck you because it’s easier than feeling nothing. I’ll take the hunger, the loneliness, the nights you cry out for him and let me hold you anyway.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, a tear caught between self-deprecation and hope. “I’m not stupid. I know you’ll never give me all of you. But I’ll take whatever you’ll let me have, and I’ll make it enough, I’ll worship you the only way I can. You want me to be a placeholder? I’ll be the soft hands, the mouth on your neck, the one who holds you together when you’re breaking, the one who lets you pretend it’s love for as long as you need. I want your body, your hurt, your worst, your emptiness—I want the part of you no one else has the patience to survive. Even if every time I touch you, it just makes you remember him more. I want you. That’s it. I want you any way you’ll let me. And if it means burning, if it means starving, if it means never being enough—I’ll do it. I’ll do it every night if that’s what you want.”

He pulls your hands to his lips, pressing kisses to your knuckles, your palms, your wrists—mouth lingering, breath hot, his grip steady even as his heart thrashes beneath the skin. His voice is a shudder, a plea and a promise all at once. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted this much. So please—let me have you. Let me love you, even if it hurts, even if it’s just for tonight.”

Tears prick your eyes before you can stop them, blurring the lanterns until the whole market swims in gold and shadow, softening the lines of Yangyang’s face and turning his confession into something almost mythic, almost too large for this small, trembling world you share on a bench by the water. His hands are still around yours, strong and shaking, and you watch the way his mouth hovers above your knuckles—hungry, afraid, willing to give himself away just to keep a part of you. You swallow, fighting the ache in your throat, your voice thin and cracked. “I always had an idea,” you whisper, every syllable barely holding together, “that you felt something for me. I could feel it in the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t watching, the way you’d touch my wrist and hold on a little too long, the way you’d laugh at my stupidest jokes like you wanted to memorize the sound. But I never knew it was like this, Yangyang. I never knew it hurt you. I never knew you’d be willing to burn yourself just to stay close, that you’d cut yourself open and bleed in my hands if I asked.”

You look at him, and something ugly rises, something desperate and raw, the dark kernel of need that’s been festering ever since Jeno left. You want to prove something—to yourself, to the world, to this man who holds your ruin so gently in his palms. You want to prove that you’ve moved on, that you’re not waiting for a ghost, that you are still alive and capable of being chosen, of choosing, even if it means lying to every part of yourself that remembers how it feels to be someone else’s. You want to prove you’re not broken, or maybe you want to prove you’re broken in a way that someone else can touch.

Somewhere in the quiet between your bodies, the memory unspools—how you first heard the news of Jeno’s engagement, the headline blinking on your phone like a curse, Nahyun’s perfect smile lacquered across every feed, her hand heavy with the ring you never wore. You remember the way your legs gave out before you even made it to the couch, how your breath caught sharp and hot in your chest, how the scream ripped from your throat, raw and primal, shattering the hush of your apartment. You’d dropped your phone, pressed your fists to your eyes, sobbed until the floor grew slick with salt and fury, the sound echoing through empty rooms that wouldn’t hold you. You didn’t eat for days, didn’t answer texts, didn’t open your curtains. You watched his face in every story, every pixel a knife, Nahyun’s beauty clinging to your ribs like mold, her name sour in your mouth. And standing here, holding Yangyang, you know what you’re really doing—you’re forcing the scales back into balance, trying to stitch up your own wounds with new promise, trying to prove to the universe and yourself that you can claim something, too. That you can say yes to the world again, even if your heart is still bruised, even if every “mine” is only a shield against what you lost.

Your hands reach for him, greedy now, trembling as you frame his jaw and pull him in. The kiss is brutal, feverish—your lips moving against his like you can erase the past, like you can scrape the memory of another man from your tongue and replace it with the salt and heat of this night. His breath stutters, surprise and relief warping into hunger. You tilt your head, mouth opening, and when he gasps you slip your tongue against his, tasting desperation and something sweeter, something that makes your pulse race for all the wrong reasons. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel his body pressed hard to yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, searching, terrified, and you don’t let him speak. Your voice comes out hoarse, ragged, but it doesn’t shake. “You can have all of me, Yangyang. I want to give you everything. Not pieces. Not scraps. All of it.” You force yourself to believe it, to live inside the fantasy, just for this moment.

He groans, surging forward, kissing you again, deeper now, like he can taste the promise you’ve offered, like he’s drinking it straight from your mouth. His hands roam your body, desperate, reverent, finding the heat under your jacket, sliding beneath your shirt, tracing the lines of your waist and hips. You let him, you arch into his touch, you let yourself unravel in his arms, and the crowd melts away until there is only the bench, the water, the two of you knotted together in the darkness. You want to be saved. You want to be ruined. You want to be his, if only to prove you’re not still someone else’s.

When you finally break apart, breathless and spent, he’s looking at you with a kind of awe that stings. You run your fingers through his hair, your mouth finding his ear. “Take me home,” you whisper, and when he does, you let him make you his. You walk home beneath a sky bruised with lantern-light, the city’s pulse quieting around you, Yangyang’s hand warm and insistent in yours, his thumb sweeping gentle arcs over your knuckles like a secret he’s been waiting years to tell. The festival fades behind you in a tapestry of voices and distant laughter, the smell of oil and cinnamon clinging to your clothes, the hush between you filled with things neither of you can name yet. Your apartment is only a few blocks away, the streets thinning to silence, storefronts shuttered, taxis ghosting through intersections with their lights winking drowsily.

At your door, you fumble for keys, the weight of what’s just passed settling into your bones—a tenderness stretched thin by longing, a hunger sharpened by the memory of other hands. Inside, the air is cooler, the rooms shadowed and soft. You drop your bag by the door, Yangyang close behind, hovering as if unsure where he fits, as if the threshold between friend and lover is as real as the floor beneath his feet. You turn, standing in the golden spill from your kitchen, the hum of the city curling up against your window. He looks at you—really looks, shoulders tense, lips parted like he’s caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to break. His hands are in his pockets, but you can see them shaking, nervous energy vibrating under his skin.

You step closer, heart tight, and rest your palms against his chest, feeling the wild beat under your touch. “Are you okay?” you ask, voice small, soft, aware that you’re offering something fragile. He nods, then shakes his head, lets out a breathless laugh that’s more fear than joy.

“I just—I don’t know what happens next,” he admits, searching your face for reassurance, for a script you both know you don’t have. “I don’t know what you want me to be. What I can be.”

You study him, eyes tracing the anxious set of his mouth, the worry in his brow, the hope that won’t quite leave his eyes. You remember every gentle thing he’s done, every moment he waited, every time he made space for your grief without asking anything in return. A tenderness wells up, heavy and bittersweet, and you reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Be my boyfriend,” you say it softly, as if you’re saying something secret. “Be mine.”

He freezes, blinking hard. For a split second, you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing, if the promise was too much, too soon, but then he’s laughing—quiet and stunned, a grin blooming slowly across his face. He tugs you closer, hands cupping your jaw, his thumbs stroking the corners of your mouth as if he can sculpt the shape of your smile, make it last forever. “Say it again,” he whispers, voice shaking.

You lean in, resting your forehead against his, the air between you buzzing with electricity, with longing, with the chance for something real. “Be my boyfriend, Yangyang. I want you to be mine.”

He kisses you, slow and careful at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast, then deeper, hands sliding to your waist, your back, anchoring you to the moment. He laughs into your mouth, pulls away only to look at you with a smile so bright it startles you. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he teases, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. “I’m high maintenance. I demand snacks, I steal blankets.”

You laugh, and it’s the kind that cracks something open in your chest, makes you feel light for the first time in months. “I can handle it,” you promise, thumb tracing his cheek. “I want to.”

He kisses you again, softer now, the kind of kiss that feels like an answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking. When you break apart, he doesn’t let go, arms circling your waist, his breath mingling with yours in the hush of the apartment. “Okay,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “I’ll be yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

You hold him close, your hands pressed flat against his back, your heart beating wild against his. And for this one quiet moment—beneath the hum of the city, the weight of your history, the ache of the love you’re still learning how to hold—you let yourself believe you could have this. You let yourself believe he could be enough. You let yourself believe in beginnings. Even if, somewhere deep in your bones, you know you’re still haunted by endings.

Yangyang shoves you back into the bedroom, lips crashing to yours with a force that steals the breath from your chest. You gasp, eyes wide, fingers tangling in his hair as he pins you to the wall, his mouth devouring you—tongue deep, hands greedy, rolling your nipple between his fingers so hard it sends a bolt of heat straight between your legs. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give you a chance to think, just tears your shirt off, fingers scraping over your skin, shoving your bra up until your tits spill into his palms. He groans, drops his head, sucks one nipple into his mouth, biting and pulling, making you arch and whimper and beg without shame.

His hands slide lower, hooking in your waistband, dragging your jeans and underwear down in one rough pull, baring you, shoving your knees apart as he sinks to the floor. He pushes your legs over his shoulders, his breath hot on your cunt, and then he’s licking you with an obscene, filthy hunger—tongue swirling, lips sucking, two fingers pumping into you fast and deep, curling just right. Your hips jerk, your thighs tremble, your hand flies to the back of his head, grinding his face harder against you as his mouth drags you closer and closer. You’re moaning now, voice high and desperate, pleading his name, legs shaking as you ride his tongue, slick and swollen and wet for him.

He doesn’t let up. “That’s it, baby, give it to me,” he growls, mouth shining with you, eyes wild as he pulls your clit between his lips and sucks until you’re cumming with a sob, thighs locked around his head, cunt pulsing, wet and hot on his tongue. He licks you through it, grinning, nipping your thigh as he stands, his cock already out, thick and leaking, slapping it against your cunt, smearing you with his precum. “Turn around,” he orders, voice hoarse, and you scramble onto your hands and knees, breathless, needy, hair a mess, ass up for him.

He doesn’t go slow—he spits in his hand, strokes his cock once, then presses the fat head to your entrance, shoving in all at once, filling you so deep and sudden you cry out, clenching tight, fingers clawing the sheets. He sets a brutal pace, fucking you hard, hips slamming to your ass, his balls smacking your clit, every thrust rough and raw and perfect. He grips your hips, hauls you back to meet him, using you, taking you, making you his. “You wanted me soft? I’m not fucking soft,” he snarls, snapping his hips, sweat dripping down his chest. “I’ve waited too long to be soft. You’re mine, you hear me? Mine.”

You can only nod, moaning, face pressed to the bed, drooling, wrecked for him. He grabs your hair, pulls your head back, bites your neck, spits on your cheek, fucks you even harder, so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. “You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, “so good for me, so fucking perfect.” His hand snakes around, fingers rubbing your clit, fast and ruthless, making you sob, making your legs shake, making you cum again, hard and helpless and loud.

He flips you over, manhandles your legs apart, lines himself up again and pounds into you, staring down, watching your tits bounce, your face twist, your pussy swallow him over and over. He leans in, kissing you hard, messy, tongue fucking your mouth as his cock slams into you, making you whimper, clawing his back, needing everything, giving him everything. “You love this, don’t you?” he pants, his voice a snarl. “You love being fucked like this, ruined like this, filled up and used.”

You choke out his name, nodding, pleading, begging him not to stop, legs trembling, body shaking as he hammers into you. He holds you down, his hand on your throat, squeezing gently, making your world narrow to his voice, his cock, his hands, his breath hot on your ear. “I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, thrusts becoming frantic, brutal, desperate. “Gonna fill you up, make you mine, mark you so you never forget this.”

You cum for him, back arching, cunt gripping him tight, tears in your eyes, mouth open in a silent scream. He groans, shoving in deep, hips jerking as he empties inside you, cock throbbing, filling you so full it leaks out the moment he pulls free. He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms, both of you sweaty, ruined, breathless—your bodies tangled, hearts racing, marked and claimed and needed.

And for one bright, burning moment, nothing else exists but the ache of his name in your throat and the heat of his body on yours. You fuck through the night, need rising and falling in endless waves, every time you think you’re finished his hands find your hips again, his mouth finds your throat, his cock slides in slick and urgent, wrecking you until your body is a map of his hunger. The hours blur—sheets damp, sweat sticking your skin to his, mouths hot and bruised, his voice rough with praise and want. He takes you from behind, your face buried in the mattress, his teeth pressed to your shoulder, then flips you over, pins your wrists, fucks you slow and deep, your thighs shaking, your cunt raw and greedy, tears on your cheeks from the overwhelm of being filled, emptied, filled again. He eats you until you’re delirious, slick all over his mouth, his hands never gentle, fingers in your hair, your ass, your mouth. He tells you he loves you and you choke on it, the sound of his need mixing with your own, lost in the haze of exhaustion, bliss, confusion.

By dawn, your bodies are tangled and spent, your skin covered in sweat and marks, every muscle aching, every inch of you claimed, sore, owned. He falls asleep with his face pressed between your thighs, his breath a warm fog over your skin, his arms heavy at your waist, anchoring you to the bed, to the illusion of safety. Your hand drifts through his hair, a slow, empty gesture, eyes wide and haunted, staring at the ceiling while the city outside yawns and glows in pale gold stripes.

You slip out from under him, limbs trembling, heart stuttering as you reach for your work laptop. You need something to ground you, to pull you from the echo of sex and need, the world in the other room. The screen glares too bright. You squint, opening your inbox. At the top—an email marked URGENT, the subject line clean and brutal: Seoul Masterworks Exhibition: Lee Taeyong Memorial Presentation Invitation. You click, your fingers shaking, bile rising.

You read:

We are honored to extend an invitation to you as the public face of this year’s Seoul Masterworks Exhibition—an event dedicated to commemorating Lee Taeyong, three years after his passing. Your expertise at Apex Analytics and your visionary approach to narrative sports storytelling have elevated both the industry and our memory of basketball’s greatest moments. We cannot imagine a more compelling voice to present this memorial, especially given your own acclaimed series currently featured at the exhibition. Your work has set new standards. We know you can capture the legacy, the brilliance, and the complexity of Taeyong’s impact. It would mean everything to have you lead this tribute, sharing your story, your insight, and your unmatched eloquence with the world. You are the one who made the stats feel like fate.

You read it again. And again. Each time, the praise feels heavier, more suffocating, as if every word is a stone pressed into your chest. The email is full of flattery, but beneath the gloss, you hear the ghosts—every lie, every threat, every secret Taeyong ever hung over your head. His voice rises in your mind, low and cruel, blackmail thick as oil in your ears, the memory of what he did to you, what you did to survive. The screen pulses. You can’t breathe. Your hands start to shake, first gentle, then wild, your fingers slipping off the keys as your vision tunnels. You double over, clutching your stomach, body wracked by a sudden wave of nausea so sharp you gag. Your skin is cold and clammy, sweat slick on your upper lip, your whole frame quaking, teeth rattling as a seizure of memory and terror rips through you.

Taeyong’s name tastes like metal and rot, every syllable a curse. You see the footage—the old threats, the empty corridors, his eyes in the dark. Your chest tightens, air caught high and tight, and you rock, half-sobbing, unable to stop the panic that claws at your insides. You slam your laptop shut, gulping air, trying to steady your shaking hands, feeling your entire self collapse inward.

The cursor blinks in your inbox. You force yourself upright, wipe your mouth as you type ‘no.’ Your finger hovers, then hammers the send key. The word spits from your throat—final, cold, a weapon. You shut the laptop, let it slide from your lap onto the floor, curl yourself into a knot beside Yangyang’s sleeping warmth, shivering, hollow, every cell in your body buzzing with horror and exhaustion. The morning keeps getting brighter, but you feel no warmth, no comfort. Just the knowledge that you said no. Just the taste of old fear and new resolve on your tongue.

For a while, you do nothing but breathe in the stillness, the old terror still thrumming like static under your skin. The world narrows to the slow rise and fall of Yangyang’s sleeping chest, the sour taste of panic on your tongue, the pale morning sun bleeding through the blinds and painting bruises on your bare arms. You let the fear settle, let it carve you out, let it remind you how small and quiet a woman can feel in a world that’s been unkind. But the silence doesn’t save you. It never did. You know that now.

You close your eyes, and in the dark behind your lids, the memory of Taeyong doesn’t disappear, but he loses his teeth. His voice sounds smaller. You see the man, not the monster—the shadows he left behind, the places you’ve already outlived. You think about every time he used your talent and your pain for his own gain. You remember the old threats, the way he made you feel owned, a pawn, the thing in the room nobody listened to until the numbers matched the headline. You remember the humiliation, the blackmail, the coldness that followed you from locker room to office, from speech to silence. You remember the grief—but you also remember the rage. The injustice. The stubborn, reckless heat that survived every storm.

So you get up, feet raw against cold floorboards, and move through the apartment with your hair unbrushed, your face still streaked with old tears. You rinse your mouth, find your reflection in the mirror, see the ghost of a woman who once hid, and for the first time, you don’t look away. You open the curtains wide and let the light in, let it sting your eyes, let it demand you stay present. You don’t owe the past your shame. You survived him. That has to mean something.

You meet Karina on the rooftop of a café, clouds skimming the edge of sunset, wind tugging stray hair into your eyes. She’s all angles and poise in a belted trench, a paper cup cradled between slender hands, her presence a study in control until she laughs—head tipped back, mouth soft and honest, a sound that makes you remember who she is beneath the magazine gloss. You watch the city move below, nervous energy humming between you, until Karina breaks the silence with a story you never expected to hear.

She tells you about the year her entire brand nearly vanished overnight—a scandal she had no part in, an accusation that clung like oil, spreading in every group chat and backstage whisper. She’d spent weeks answering emails from people who only wanted her apologies, people who saw her beauty as a shield, not armor. “The hardest part wasn’t losing the contracts,” she confesses, voice pitched low, eyes flicking to the skyline, “it was believing that I deserved to be in the room again. I spent months feeling like a ghost, like if I spoke too loudly they’d remember I was still there and take that away, too.”

You listen, not out of politeness but hunger—a need to see yourself reflected in someone who’s learned to survive the glare. Karina’s words move through you, deeper than comfort, a blueprint for how to reclaim space that tries to shrink around you. “I had to tell my own story,” she finishes, thumb smoothing the cup lid, her gaze steady. “Even if they only heard it as noise. Even if it was just for me. Sometimes that’s the only way you get your body back.” For a moment, you let her words settle, breathing in the strange warmth of solidarity, the knowledge that even the women who seem untouchable are holding together at the seams, invisible but strong. She squeezes your hand once, hard, and you squeeze back—promise, pact, an offering passed between survivors.

Later, you find Yangyang sprawled on the living room floor, a half-built Lego set between his legs, his shirt riding up his back, laughter spilling out as he fumbles with tiny bricks. He grins when he sees you, all easy sunshine, and tugs you down into the mess with him, wrapping his arms around your waist until you’re both tangled, face to face on the carpet. He lets you lie in his arms in silence, thumb drawing slow circles on your hip, letting the day unravel from your bones. You close your eyes and listen to the thrum of his heart, his breath, the soft, aimless questions he asks just to keep you close—what you ate for lunch, whether you think ducks have best friends, if you remember the taste of lychees at the night market.

He says, “Whatever you want to do, I’m with you. Even if it scares you. Especially then.” His kiss lands at your temple, light as breath. “No one gets to tell your story but you.” You press your forehead to his, feeling the ache loosen in your chest, feeling the pieces of yourself slot back into place. Between Karina’s steel and Yangyang’s softness, you find something new—space to breathe, to hope, to dare. For the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it could be enough.

You return to the laptop that night, heart pounding, inbox full of polite urgency. More emails have arrived overnight—subject lines blooming with flattery and hope, your boss at Apex promising support, offering to let you choose your own format, your own script, your own stage. “If you want to reframe the event in your words, we’ll back you,” one reads. Another: “We trust you. You set the standard. No one else can tell this story.” One from an old player on the Ravens team: “I admire your work, I still visit the exhibition and it’s one of the few places that make me feel like I matter. I wish I had that when I was a kid, I needed someone to have that belief and confidence in me.”

You scroll further—messages, memories, reminders of every life you touched in the quiet margins of your own undoing. There’s a new colleague at Apex, a woman from Mumbai with a nose ring and sharp, hopeful eyes, who writes, “I started this job because you made me believe someone like me could belong here.” You remember the intern, trembling in a borrowed blazer, who cried in your cramped office the day you vouched for her, your own hands shaking as you typed the recommendation letter that saved her career. You think of the coach, old and unyielding, who once said, “You’re the only one who ever made my boys feel like more than stats,” the way he hugged you with arms that still smelled of liniment and legacy.

Your mind conjures every letter from parents—mothers, fathers, aunties—who sent lilies, chocolates, a woven red bracelet from Jeonju, because you wrote about their sons’ injuries and recoveries with truth, not pity, and it changed the way the world watched them. You remember standing at city council podiums in Seoul, heart stuttering, speaking out for safe practice spaces when others would have let the courts rot and crumble. You remember the weeks spent lobbying with your voice shot raw, organizing girls’ clinics with activists who wore their bruises like badges, hands sticky from street food and ink-stamped flyers.

You recall running fundraising campaigns for athletes who’d lost everything—auctioning your own signed jersey, hosting open-mic nights where you played your battered old bass, promising sponsors you’d give them better stories, truer stories, until the checks cleared and someone else got one more season on the court. You gave speeches at feminist rallies, hair in a messy knot, your coat wrapped around a crying volunteer because the air was biting and she was still shaking from her father’s anger. You led seminars at embassies, stayed late to tutor athletes on their visas, wrote op-eds about systemic inequity that got you hate mail and late-night threats but also won you the trust of girls who read your words by phone-light after curfew.

You remember all this because it kept you breathing. Even on the worst days, even with your heart in pieces—broken by Jeno’s absence, by the violence of losing, by the rot of secrets and betrayals you carried like splinters—you still opened the door, still answered the calls, still filled the rooms no one had ever built for you. You showed up, body aching, voice rough, smile shaky but real. You found a way to feed every part of yourself that was hungry for justice, for belonging, for something bigger than heartbreak.

You think about the new generation—the girls on the bench, the ones building new legacies in your shadow, the ones who watch the old tape and see possibility instead of fear. You remember what it meant, once, to stand on a court and speak for yourself, to claim a space no one offered you. You remember the sound of your own voice breaking through the silence, loud and bright and impossible to ignore. You think about Taeyong’s memorial, about the way people want to rewrite the past, want to gloss over the cruelty, the cost, the blood price of every win. And you realize: if you walk away now, he wins again. He gets the last word. The narrative closes without you.

Your pulse steadies. You type slowly, hands steady now, the fear still there but shrinking. “I’ll do it,” you write. “But on my terms. I will tell the truth. I will speak for myself. I will own my story and every inch of this stage.” You send it before you can hesitate, and when the confirmation pings back, you feel the weight shift—not gone, never gone, but lighter. Bearable. You don’t do it for him. You don’t do it for the glory or the forgiveness or the legacy. You do it because the world tried to erase you, and you refuse to disappear. You do it because fear has a taste, and you’re done swallowing it. You do it because every time you speak, the room tilts back in your favor. You do it for every girl who comes after you, for every woman who watches and waits for proof that it’s possible to survive, to speak, to be heard.

Steam coils around you as you step into the shower, the hot water washing across your shoulders like liquid forgiveness, peeling away last night’s skin—its shame, its sorrow, its trembling. You let the water pound your back until every trace of old fear drains down the drain. In the mirror, the reflection is sharp—wiser, fiercer, a face that carries every bruise and triumph in its lines. Your phone buzzes on the dresser. You glance over: Yangyang still sleeps, limbs curled around the pillow, his rise and fall a gentle reassurance that you’re not alone. For a moment, you let hope bloom in your chest, fragile and wild.

You press your fingers to the cool glass, steadying yourself. You are not a victim. You are not a ghost haunting someone else’s story. You are the author, the architect of every chapter that follows. This stage, this scar, this microphone waiting in Seoul—it belongs to you. You will step into that light, grip that mic, and call out every shadow by its name—memory, history, consequence, resilience. You breathe in deep, the promise of your own voice thrumming through your veins. You have always been your own rescue. Today, you decide the ending.

𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐋. 𝟑𝟕.𝟓𝟓𝟗𝟖° 𝐍, 𝟏𝟐𝟕.𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟖° 𝐄 — 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

Tonight feels like the night the axis tilts, the moment the city’s constellations shuffle themselves just to bear witness—a cosmic shift you feel bone-deep, every particle of you pulled taut between past and future, the sky above the ‘Seoul Masterwork Exhibitions’ stretch wide and tremble like a planet on the verge of collision. The air crackles with electricity, the hush outside swelling into a gravity that feels too big for your chest, your name threaded through the crowd like a prophecy that can’t be unspoken. Lanterns hover above the entrance like minor moons, casting halos on the marble, every footstep a ripple in the dark, every breath stolen from the mouth of something ancient and unseen. For one impossible heartbeat, the universe narrows to the length of your dress, the sweep of Yangyang’s hand at your back, the ache of anticipation threaded into your every vein. You are the event horizon—impossible to look away from, dangerous to cross, and as the world’s eyes gather at the threshold, you realise you are not just arriving, you are entering orbit, commanding the gravity of the entire room before you even step inside.

Outside the exhibition, the world has the hush of an orchestra holding its breath before the first note, every edge washed in the cool shimmer of evening, the kind that bends every streetlight into a star and makes the stone archway of the archives look otherworldly. The pavement glows underfoot, slick with rain that’s just begun to dry, reflecting neon from passing cabs and the soft gold of lanterns strung above the entrance like an invitation you still can’t believe is meant for you. The crowd is thinner out here but charged—a few journalists loiter near the velvet rope, voices lowered to the kind of hush reserved for confession or conspiracy, camera flashes popping in hesitant bursts, uncertain if they’re ready to capture a storm or a spectacle. Glass doors loom, too reflective, mirroring back a version of yourself you barely recognise: eyes bright with nerves, jaw set, mouth painted with intent.

You cling to the sensation of Yangyang’s hand at your back—a pressure equal parts anchor and dare. He stands so close that you can feel the heat radiate off his chest, his thumb pressing slow circles into your spine with a focus that’s both grounding and possessive. He looks devastating tonight: black mandarin suit flawless, collar sharp against the lines of his throat, hair pushed back to reveal the cut of his jaw, obsidian cufflinks catching every stray glint of light. He presses his body to yours, the lines of his suit brushing silk against your bare skin with every subtle shift, the hard length of his thigh slotting up against yours as you wait in the shadow of the entrance.

You try to steady your breath, but it comes shallow and quick, every exhale ghosting against the edge of anticipation. It’s not fear, not quite—but it’s something as volatile, a cocktail of dread and hunger and pride that has your pulse ringing in your ears, your hands trembling just enough that you keep them buried in the folds of your emerald dress. The fabric clings to you, alive with static, the slit at your leg revealing skin every time you shift, the neckline daring the city to look and Yangyang to touch. He notices. His palm slides lower, fingertips skimming the dip of your waist, squeezing once, twice, as if to reassure you that no one can touch you here unless you let them. His other hand comes up, knuckles brushing your jaw, and you turn your face into the gesture because it’s easier than meeting your own reflection in the glass.

He leans down, mouth hot and slow at the shell of your ear. “If you need a minute, say the word. I’ll make the whole world wait.” His lips graze your earlobe, his voice dark with promise, a little too loud for propriety and a little too intimate for the crowd. Your breath stutters, your body arches closer—not out of want, but because the nerves feel safer when they’re tangled with something physical, something you can feel rather than just dread. There’s nothing soft about the way you let him touch you tonight. It’s strategic, calculated—a way to shield your shaking hands, to focus the room’s energy somewhere other than your chest. He knows it. He likes it. His thumb drags slowly and deliberate across your exposed back as you both stand there, just outside the threshold, the buzz of the city swelling behind you, the exhibition’s glow beckoning ahead.

The doors are only a few steps away. Inside waits your own legacy, your enemies, your ghosts. You haven’t seen Jeno yet—you can feel the anticipation in your marrow, the sense of orbit around an unseen planet, gravity pulling harder with every tick of the second hand. But Yangyang keeps you in the present, holding you upright, keeping you moving, his body a barrier, his mouth a question you’re not ready to answer. You lean into him, for just a moment, letting the world blur and your fear burn off in the heat of his touch, and when you finally lift your chin, it’s with a breath that tastes like war.

He catches your eye, smirking as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and with one last squeeze to your waist, he guides you forward, the two of you slipping inside as the doors open—a vision carved from emerald and midnight, poised at the edge of everything you were, everything you are about to become.

The Seoul Masterworks Exhibition doesn’t feel like homecoming. It feels like entering the mausoleum of someone you once loved and barely survived. The air is glossy with anticipation, lanterns bobbing overhead like borrowed stars, the hush of the crowd thick as fog, every flash of a camera ricocheting off stone and skin with electric urgency. What used to be a living, breathing library—pages turned by hopeful hands, laughter echoing through stacks—has been hollowed and rebuilt, intimacy gutted, every surface lacquered in sponsorship and corporate gold. Sponsor logos gleam where the children’s sketches used to hang. Performance lights replace the old table lamps that made the world feel soft and slow. It’s a space staged for spectacle, not memory. Tonight, it’s curated nostalgia: legacy, sanitized and bottled, pain pressed flat beneath a glass pane.

You hover, heels pressed into slick marble, the city’s heartbeat slowing around you. Security guards line the velvet ropes, backs straight, eyes hard, blending into the shadows like warnings. You can hear Taeyong’s voice leaking through hidden speakers, ironed smooth and holy by editors who never heard him rage—now, he’s only wisdom and myth, his words warped, “legacy isn’t about being seen. it’s about being felt.” The irony stings. You inhale: roses, archival paper, champagne, your own nervous sweat, the press of history building behind your breastbone.

Yangyang stands at your side—hand steady on your bare lower back, jaw tight, eyes flicking across every movement. He radiates the kind of possessive pride that looks almost dangerous, thumb tracing the top of your spine, every muscle flexed in anticipation, not just for you but for the tidal wave of eyes waiting eagerly. He leans close, voice hot at your ear, “you’re the headline, baby. walk like it.” His touch lingers, more shielded than claim, every move calibrated to keep you upright. You arch into him, not for reassurance, but for proof: you are not alone, not tonight, not ever again unless you choose it.

You’re wearing emerald, cut like sin—shoulders bare, backless, the slit daring anyone to doubt your arrival. The dress catches the moonlights, shimmering green-gold, every step you take a statement, every fold of fabric a sharpened blade. The neckline is severe, the hem soft, the whole thing engineered for myth-making. You are the apparition they swore would never return and you look untouchable, a vision carved from resentment and renewal. Each step makes your heels sing against the stone. The crowd sees you, registers you, remembers you.

You step into legacy—the click of your shoes on marble a metronome, your breath white and measured. Every wall is backlit with interactive screens. Taeyong’s face rotates in high-resolution, his voice looping, the crowd's eyes reflecting the golden glow from sponsor lights. Security stands silent as statues, eyes flicking between you and Yangyang, the guest list, the press. Your name is everywhere: on the entryway screen, etched into the spine of every brochure, whispered on the lips of coordinators and critics alike. You see yourself in a hundred reflections: blurred, split, repeated, but never erased. The atmosphere feels thick, ceremonial—a hush just before a coronation, or an execution. The scent of fresh flowers and archival dust floats in the air. You’re not here to be welcomed; you’re here to be witnessed.

It feels like reclamation, not forgiveness. Like returning to a place that nearly ate you alive, and carving your initials into its heart anyway. The tremble is there, beneath your ribs, a quiver that isn’t fear but memory. You remember: the years you spent trying to fit your story into someone else’s legacy. The wounds. The silence. The way you almost didn’t make it. Tonight, your name is carved in gold. Not gifted. Earned. The eyes that follow you—panelists, rivals, sponsors, old lovers, new believers—hold something sharper than curiosity: respect. You walk straighter, heels biting, spine tall.

The architecture of the exhibition has changed—because of you. Your title on the brochure reads narrative curator. The script is yours. The legends wing is yours, too: stories of those erased by Taeyong’s shadow—coaches, assistant managers, women who rebuilt rosters from nothing, burnt-out seniors, single parents. You wrote them in, not as footnotes, but as pillars. On a glass panel, a quote reads: “We build rooms for voices that never had one. The legacy is not who you see—it’s everyone you forgot to look for.” Every guest pauses there, some with tears, some with pride, some with rage.

Ambient jazz hums, low and ghostly, distorting around the snippets of Taeyong’s voice that bleed through the room. Spotlights sweep the gallery, catching the green flare of your dress, the flash of your earrings. Every few steps you see yourself in the glass, fractured, multiplied—proof you survived. You are the voice at the centre now. The panel can’t start without you. The stories can’t be told without your curation. Every sponsor, every press outlet, every rival analyst whispers your name. Your voice is the one that opens the event, the one everyone came to hear. Even Jeno, somewhere in the crowd, whether he looks or not—you feel the shift. The weight is yours.

Yangyang leans close as you cross the last threshold. “You’re the moment,” he says. You feel the power in that, the promise and the warning.

Inside, the crowd falls into a new kind of hush. Not a vacuum, not the absence of noise—but a charged stillness, like the room is bracing itself for a story it was never meant to contain. The whispers start in waves—“APEX’s golden girl”—“that’s the girl who Jeno used to love”—“Nahyun’s gonna combust”—“she curated this herself”—“she shouldn’t have come.” Your name is already trending, the air thick with anticipation, respect, and old ghosts. Tonight, you will show them what it means to build something with your own hands, to walk through the ruins and call them home, to reclaim the story from the dead and live in the centre of your own legacy.

The stage is yours, every spotlight trembling with anticipation, but for one suspended moment, you hover on its edge, gaze sweeping the gallery with a searching ache. The breath in your lungs comes jagged, heavy with pressure, until you find the faces that anchor you and everything softens, your pulse unspooling from its frantic drum into something calm, measured, almost reverent. Mark and Areum stand first in your periphery, Mark stationed by the far wing, posture loose in his slate gray suit, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the fatigue of old heartbreak gentled by a new light in his eyes. Areum glows in midnight purple, her dress shimmering with drama, hair slicked back so she looks almost mythic, their hands joined, post-engagement bliss visible in the little glances and the way they orbit each other’s space. When she meets your eyes, she smiles—hesitant, genuine, bridging that long rift between you—and the relief inside you is so fierce it almost knocks the breath from your chest. Mark’s smile, softer still, is the oldest comfort you’ve ever known: fierce and loyal, a promise of forever support no matter the season, no matter the mess. He mouths something you can’t hear, but you know what it means. You exhale, shoulders lowering, heart grateful for the quiet foundation he’s never let you lose.

Karina sits in the reserved front, radiance in a pale dress threaded with pearls, one hand balancing her phone as she juggles the baby in her lap. Haeun—nearly two, cheeks plump and bright, a tiny lavender bow in her hair, shoes shiny and white—kicks her feet and babbles at you the second she spots your face. You can’t help but wave, the sight of her making your heart twist and bloom; she recognizes you instantly, reaching out with that sticky-fingered joy that belongs only to the most loved children. Each time you see her she’s taller, braver, more herself, and you coo under your breath, promising to visit soon. Jaemin sprawls beside them, black shirt rumpled, letting his daughter tug at his ear, his eyes flickering with exhaustion and humor—he catches your glance and salutes with two fingers, grinning crooked, the picture of a man who’s lost sleep but found meaning.

Coach Suh’s entrance breaks through the murmur like a thunderclap. He storms in fashionably late, navy blazer crisp, hair still dusted with chalk from some morning drill. He doesn’t pause for press, just barrels forward, announcing loud enough for the whole row to hear: “They said it was a tribute but forgot to mention half the people who built his legacy.” Laughter ripples, heads turn. He finds his seat in the second row, spine stiff, eyes blazing with a promise of mischief and loyalty. Just seeing him makes your chest fill with something old and safe—he’s always been your advocate, the storm that stands between you and any disaster, the grown-up who never lets the truth get lost in translation.

Irene and Doyoung stand together, center-left, elegant and timeless—her dress black as midnight, his touch always gentle at her elbow, eyes gentle and luminous beneath the soft lighting. Earlier, when your nerves were shaking you backstage, Irene had taken your hand, her grip unflinching, whispering with the wisdom of a woman who’s survived everything: “Breathe through it. You’ve done harder things.” The memory of her reassurance steadies you now, quiets the frantic stutter in your chest, lets you fill your lungs with courage you’d forgotten was yours. And at the very back, nearly hidden in the crowd, a face you haven’t seen in so long it aches—Jihyo, eyes already red-rimmed, holding herself together with the fragile dignity of someone who’s lost and forgiven in the same breath. You meet her gaze, surprise and apology knotting inside you, wave softly and promise yourself you’ll find her after. Guilt prickles at your ribs—she was there, she needed you, and you vanished from the bar without a single trace. You need to make it right.

Your eyes flicker toward the entrance every few breaths, heart bracing and unsteady, and for a fleeting second—just a trick of the light, a slant of dark hair, a set of shoulders in a navy suit—you think you see him, instinct sweeping through your chest with the force of old ache. Everything softens on reflex, your jaw loosening, your gaze caught between hope and dread, but then the angle shifts and the man is a stranger, just another face swallowed by the press of bodies and the flash of cameras. Jeno isn’t here yet. Nor is Nahyun. But the flashes pop faster outside, the crowd on edge, and you feel the static in the air—he must be close, must be threading through the press with that haunted calm, must be about to step into your world for the first time since the wedding, since the night everything broke so cleanly there was nothing left to salvage. You feel the weight of it gathering beneath your ribs: the knowledge that in minutes you’ll be breathing the same air, visible to each other, trapped together by memory and duty and a thousand invisible hands. The last time you saw him, he looked at you with the end of the world in his eyes. You remember the sharp finality, the wound he left behind, and the knowledge that no apology or time apart could erase the shape of what you’d been to each other. You wonder if he feels it too—the inevitability, the dread, the way tonight is already bruised by things neither of you will ever say aloud.

Your body betrays you, shoulders loosening as if on command, some old survival mechanism pulling you open before you can even stop it, as if you’re primed for him, always, as if every cell still remembers how it felt to be claimed by his hands, his mouth, the singular, savage way he made you his. Even knowing what he did to you, even with the scars of his leaving fresh as split skin, some fractured devotion still thrums through your veins—he’s the only one who’s ever mapped your insides, the only one who’s ever ruined you so exquisitely you can’t help but want him to do it all over again. The ache is its own pulse, deep and desperate, buried under the calm you wear for everyone else, flaring at the thought of his eyes finding you in a room full of strangers. It’s devotion, hunger, fury, loss—every flavor of love that outlives itself, every shade of need you swore you’d outgrow but never have.

For a moment you hate yourself for it, the instinct that softens you, the way your whole body folds toward the possibility of him. But it’s also the truest thing left in you—this gravitational ache, this reflexive surrender, the knowledge that it’s never been safe to let him close and still, if he called your name in this crowd, you’d go. Even now, standing in the light of your own triumph, you catch yourself wanting to disappear into him, craving the sharpness of his touch, the wound and the worship tangled together, the only proof you’ve ever needed that you were alive, loved and seen, even if it destroyed you.

You shake your head, forcing your eyes to find Yangyang. a fixed point in the constellation, a safe shore when you’ve spent years adrift and you try to let him steady you, try to focus on the gentle way he stands, the affection that fills his every glance, the fierce, uncomplicated loyalty that’s never once faltered or strayed. He’s here, present, willing to hold your burdens and shield you from the ghosts that prowl these halls, and you want—desperately—to let that be enough. But the gratitude you feel for him is brittle, sweet but distant, always laced with the ache of something missing. His devotion warms you, but the heat is borrowed, never searing, never reaching the hollowed-out ache that Jeno once filled with a single look, a single word, the kind of intimacy that made you burn from the inside out.

You try to erase the taste of Jeno from your memory, try to replace the gravity of his betrayal with Yangyang’s careful hands, his soft laugh, the quiet way he’s always known when to hold you and when to let you breathe. But the longing is stubborn—it claws up through every attempt at healing, every whispered promise to move on, every night you’ve spent tracing the outlines of someone who would never carve himself into you the way Jeno did. You want to believe you can anchor yourself in someone safe, someone who never taught you how to bleed. But love, real love, is a wound that never closes, a hunger that refuses to starve.

Still, you square your shoulders, chin high, refusing to let the ache devour you whole. Tonight is about survival—about reclaiming every piece of yourself that Jeno ever took, about reminding yourself that the story you’re telling is yours now, fierce and unsparing, rooted in the constellation of people who shaped, scarred and resurrected you. As the lights sharpen and the crowd settles, you let gratitude harden into pride, grounding yourself in the present, in this crowd, in this moment. You let the love—complicated, incandescent, cracked but luminous—steady your voice. You stand ready, heart thrumming with old ache and new hope, refusing to look back, refusing to let anyone else define your ending.

You step forward into the spotlight, emerald silk glimmering beneath the chandeliers, heels clicking like a signal flare on polished marble, every head turning with the sharp, charged hush of a city before thunder. Light strikes your collarbones, haloing the tension in your jaw, and you draw a breath so deep it feels like reclaiming air from the deepest vault of memory. Your hands steady on the podium—warm, unshaking, carved with intent.

The room holds its breath, drawn to the edge of your voice. You look out, gaze slow and unwavering, shoulders set with the certainty of someone who has built herself back from splinters and now stands, not as a footnote, but as the architect of the narrative. You begin, your voice sure and ringing: “Welcome. Thank you for standing witness to this evening—an evening built from legacy, yes, but also from the voices that once trembled at its edges. Tonight, I do not offer a sanitized history. I bring you the bruises, the triumphs, the echoes that still rattle the ribs of this city. Because greatness is not a myth sculpted in marble, it’s a living thing, a breath shared between those who built, those who endured, those who survived.”

Your words thread through the room, strong, each sentence deliberate and steady. You speak without apology, giving form to memory and weight to the hands that carried it. “When I was first invited to narrate this exhibition, they sent me a speech filled with words like ‘uncomplicated greatness,’ and ‘perfect legacy.’ I erased them all. I replaced them with the truth—the truth spoken to me by a coach who shaped a generation: ‘Truth, like victory, leaves bruises.’ And every voice here tonight, every pair of hands that ever laced a shoe or broke a sweat for the love of this game, has carried those marks.”

You let your eyes find Mark in the crowd, then Coach Suh, then the faces of colleagues and friends who once stood in the shadows, who now step forward into this reclaimed light. “This night belongs to all of you. To the legends crowned in gold, and to the architects whose names were never written on trophies. To the coaches who turned boys into believers, the women who kept records and hopes alive, the players who bled for teams that never made the news. Tonight, I honor every truth that survived, every lesson taught in bruises and sweat and the memory of being seen, even if only by each other.”

Your voice rises with the kind of conviction that sharpens memory into something sacred: “We gather not only to honor one name, but to ignite a hundred others. We gather not for comfort, but for clarity—for the understanding that every legacy is built by many hands, and every victory is the sum of countless unseen battles. This archive is not a mausoleum. It is a living, breathing testament to struggle, courage, and the quiet ferocity of survival.” You pause, letting the words settle. Lanterns flicker overhead. The room leans closer, drawn in by the gravity of what you’ve become. “I am honored—honored beyond measure—to share these stories, to carve new space for the voices that shaped this city, this sport, this room. And if truth feels sharp tonight, if it glimmers with pain as much as pride, that is proof we are still alive. That we remember. That we choose to build forward, not from illusion, but from the deepest honesty we owe each other.”

“My role tonight is simple but immense. I will guide you through these halls—as presenter, as narrator, as the voice behind the stories you’ll hear and the faces you’ll meet. Throughout the evening, I’ll host conversations with legends of the game: the coaches whose hands shaped destinies, the players whose names echo in every gym, and the silent architects who held their teams together off the court. You’ll find panels throughout the archive, and every hour on the main stage, we’ll sit down for interviews—live, unfiltered, and unscripted—so you can witness the truth behind the highlight reels. We want you to see every bruise and every breakthrough, every boundary broken and every legacy left unfinished.”

“We designed this experience to be interactive, immersive, and—above all—personal. At the entrance, you’ll find maps and programs to guide you, but more than that, you’ll find headset stations—just slip them on, and you’ll hear the narration, the interviews, the oral histories we fought to preserve. You’ll hear my voice guiding you room by room, but you’ll also hear the voices of those who stood beside Taeyong, who carried the banners, who dreamed without permission. You’ll see timeline projections, memory walls, and interactive displays where you can record your own stories—because this night is for every voice that ever echoed off a gym floor.”

You gesture gently, inviting them into the story. “If you look to your left, you’ll find the new Legends Wing—a space dedicated to those who held teams together in ways the scoreboards never measured. Every voice you hear in your headsets, every story you find on your phone as you scan the QR codes along the wall, was preserved because someone in this room fought for it. There are memory jars at the far end of the gallery, where you can write the name of someone who shaped you. There are candles waiting to be lit in the legacy alcove, every flame a witness to someone who mattered. The interactive screens along the south corridor will let you hear archival audio—raw, unscripted, sometimes painful, always real.”

“APEX’s goal, and mine, is not just to glorify the game. It is to illuminate the cost: the weight of pressure, the fractures under success, the need for boundaries and support for every person who ever puts on a jersey. We hope tonight is a reminder that greatness is not born in isolation. It’s built together, and it’s not always gentle. We want to shine a light on the overlooked, to build systems that offer support—mental, physical, emotional—to athletes and staff who have never been given the chance to rest, to heal, or to be seen. This is a new chapter—one where every player, every coach, every child in the stands is told: ‘there is space for you here.’”

“Practical details—if you need anything, our team is everywhere. Maps, headsets, translation guides are at the welcome desk. The main interviews begin at nine sharp in the auditorium, with guided tours every thirty minutes led by former Ravens and Apex mentors. There are interactive panels throughout the night, and you can leave your own memory—write a note, record a message, light a candle in the legacy corner.”

“I hope tonight, you take away something real—something heavier than nostalgia. I hope you remember what it feels like to belong, to build, to bear witness to greatness and also to the struggle beneath it. I hope you leave knowing that legacy is not a finish line, it’s an invitation—to do more, to see more, to make room for the next story that deserves to be told.” Your gaze sweeps the crowd one final time. You close strong, resonant, with the promise of your own authorship echoing through the marble hall: “Thank you for trusting me to carry this story. Thank you for stepping into the light with me. Let us honor the bruises, the brilliance, the broken and the beautiful—together, as witnesses, as survivors, as makers of history. Welcome to the archive. Welcome to the truth. The night is yours now. Let’s make it unforgettable.”

You steady your breath, the words still thrumming in your chest as the crowd’s applause washes over you, more wave than sound, more acknowledgment than adoration. You gather your composure, offering a gentle, assured nod to the sea of faces, then slip your hand around the mic, voice smooth but final: “I’ll join you all again after a short break. Please, enjoy the first gallery and tonight’s opening showcase.” The house lights shift, murmurs swell, and you step away from the podium, the click of your heels sharp and clean, the spotlight shrinking in your wake.

As soon as you round the velvet barrier, you make for your circle—Yangyang, Shotaro, Donghyuck, Chenle, Ryujin, and Ningning, all orbiting in a messy knot by the side bar, energy charged, laughter bright and easy. The moment you reach them, Yangyang’s hands find your waist, spinning you gently into his chest, lips pressing a proud, lingering kiss to your cheek. “You killed it,” he breathes against your ear, voice all honey and relief, his grip just shy of possessive, thumb tracing the bare line of your back. He pulls you in, arms circling tighter, as if to anchor you to this moment, to the reality of their presence and the safety of their eyes.

Chenle whoops, raising a glass. “I’d vote for you for president,” he declares, and Shotaro grins, eyes crinkling as he tucks you in for a brief, joyful hug.

Donghyuck, always the comic, slips a cocktail into your hand and whispers, “I’d have stormed the stage if you’d cried.” Ryujin drapes an arm over your shoulders, squeezing you closer, while Ningning surveys the room like a bodyguard in couture, smirking at anyone who looks too long. They surround you, laughter tumbling in soft crescendos, their warmth folding around your nerves until the adrenaline shakes from your bones and you finally let yourself exhale, grounded in the only truth that matters for a moment: here, you belong.

You’re mid-laugh, voice curled around some half-hearted joke Donghyuck is slinging about the past, your friends in a circle of warmth and bright edges, every nerve in your body tuned to the safety of the moment, when outside, the first shouts of press ripple through the marble foyer. You hear the snap of heels on stone, the jagged stutter of photographers backpedaling, and then the doors burst open, floodlights of flashbulbs swallowing the entryway in a white blaze that feels almost radioactive—like someone’s rewinding time, burning a hole straight through the narrative you built to survive.

Jeno enters first, black suit sculpted to his frame, no tie, throat bare, skin golden in the camera fire. He moves like an answer you never wanted, shoulders squared, posture a dare, every line of him carved clean and relentless, hair falling across his brow in an artful chaos that should have been outlawed. His jaw is set, mouth unsmiling, gaze slicing through the noise until it lands on you. Nahyun is on his arm, the silk of her dress bright as a threat, hand tight, smile bladed and brittle, a performance for every shutter click. The press eats them alive, a galaxy of lenses drinking in their perfection, the pair of them looking like a rumor made flesh—too glossy, too intent, the edges too sharp to be real.

For one molten, shattering instant, everything tilts—the room contracts, the ceiling blurs, and your friends melt into shadow, all color and sound drained to a thrum beneath your skin. The light catches on glass, on emerald silk, on the line of your jaw as you turn, and your pulse knocks so loud in your throat it’s almost music. No gasp, no slip, just a sudden hush that razors through your body, every atom strung out on that impossible, electric thread between you. You meet his eyes across the crowded hall, eyes that find you like gravity snapping bone, and the air splits, incandescent, sacrilegious, like a comet crashing through stained glass. It’s ruin and hunger and history knotted up in a single glance, the kind that folds time, that holds a thousand confessions behind it. You taste the disaster in your mouth but keep it caged behind your teeth, spine braced, hands steady, as if you could contain the collision, as if anyone could, as if the whole world isn’t teetering on the edge of what you both refuse to say.

Yangyang’s arm slides tighter around your waist, anchoring you to the ground, his jaw clenched, eyes tracing every detail, every glance Jeno throws your way. He’s closer than a secret, thumb moving in steady circles on your back, every muscle screaming that you are not for the taking. He turns, low-voiced, words meant only for you: “You okay?” You can’t answer, not now. The room has shifted orbit and the axis is burning.

Donghyuck snorts, tilting his empty glass toward the door with drunken bravado. “Oh, Christ, look who’s here. The prodigal son and his wax figure. I didn’t know they still made mannequins with that kind of warranty.” The whole group laughs, too loud, too grateful for the distraction, but it’s a shield, a way to keep the panic at bay.

Chenle winks, “If I trip her, do you think she’d melt?” Ryujin cocks her head, giving Nahyun a long, speculative once-over. “That’s not her hair color. Was it ever?”

Ningning leans in, all cool malice. “I swear she’s morphing. Like some prestige-level cosplay.”

Shotaro, face bright with the mischief of teenage memory, leans back against the bar. “This feels like when you rewatch a series and the new lead looks exactly like the old one. Kinda freaky.”

For a breath, you refuse to glance over, determined to keep your spine straight and your gaze fixed anywhere but the orbit of her shadow, fighting the cold crawl that ripples up your back, but Ryujin’s voice cuts close—soft, wicked, impossible to tune out—“Tell me I’m wrong, look at the slit, the way her hair falls, even the earrings.” Ningning hisses, “You could stand side by side and people would ask who wore it best.” Amusement flickers through the group but collapses fast, heads turning one by one, jaws slackening as the imitation reveals itself, no longer just a hint, but total, relentless duplication. Nahyun’s hair is the same obsidian fall you wore last winter, her mouth painted with the shade that used to be your signature, dress tailored to echo every sharp line and deep green sheen of your own, right down to the flash of emerald at her ears, identical to the ones Yangyang hooked through your lobes this morning, the kind he said made you look like vengeance and spring at once. She walks like you, poses like you, every flick of her wrist and curve of her shoulder a studied echo, a desperate theatre of your narrative worn so close it’s suffocating, her smile stretched thin, her posture sharpened to fit the outline you left behind, a living replica trying to bleed herself into the myth of you, still fumbling the script, lost in a costume that was never hers to claim.

You breathe in through your nose, try to steel yourself, the sound of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. Your friends close around you with jokes, arms, laughter, but the tremor is in your veins now. You won’t let them break you, no matter how precise the mimicry, no matter how bright the cameras burn. You raise your chin, turn toward the next question, the next handshake, every muscle taut with discipline. You remember why you’re here. You remember the speech you rewrote, the stories you brought into the room. You become the center of your own gravity, every word, every smile, every carefully placed hand a new claim.

The war moves in fragments from there, your gaze and Jeno’s finding each other in the gaps between sentences, the silence between panels. His hands clench at his sides, jaw flexed, attention nailed to you in a way that would feel like worship if it didn’t hurt so much. Nahyun tries to lean in, whispering something, her fingers tightening on his arm, but he flinches, pulls away without words, eyes never leaving you. You don’t look away. Not now. You speak of fractured legacies and bruised honor, your voice never trembling, the line cutting through the air between you like a blade. Yangyang feels the change—he’s watching Jeno the way a fireman watches the first lick of flame, hand glued to the small of your back, thumb pressing promises into your skin. The weight is almost too much, the air thick with memory and what-ifs, but you keep breathing, keep moving, keep claiming your space. You speak as if nothing has changed, and in the spaces between each sentence, you tell yourself that nothing has.

But you know better. You always have.

It’s time to begin, the opening act unfurling beneath the press of expectation and camera glare, and you step forward, not just a narrator, not just a curator, but a force remaking the narrative in every room you cross. Yangyang’s hand is warm at your back, steady and grounding, but as the crowd parts and the exhibition stretches before you, something inside you twists, a current of gratitude knotted with hollowness. You’re admired, envied, adored by every lens and eye in the space, yet there’s a subtle ache in your chest, a knowing that nothing here fits as seamlessly as it should, not even the arm that holds you steady or the gaze that scans for threats. Every word you rehearsed now hangs like breathless possibility in the air, yet none of it tastes like relief.

You walk through the halls, your halls, your name a pulse in the marble, your stories thrumming through the speakers, while Yangyang lingers at your side, proud, attentive, fingers tracing invisible patterns on your waist, as if he can ward off ghosts by touch alone. You lean in, allow his affection, draw on his presence as armor, but inside you feel the fracture widen, a quiet dissonance between what you’re supposed to feel and what won’t rise to meet you. His devotion is real, unwavering, yet it settles on your skin like borrowed light, never sinking deep enough to warm you from within.

The room swells around you, friends, mentors, rivals, every old pain and bright victory bottled into this moment, and as the lights dim and the first guests drift toward their places, you inhale slowly, heart pounding in your throat, knowing you are both celebrated and unfinished. The night is yours to conduct, the narrative yours to reclaim, but as you move forward, Yangyang close, the world watching, you can’t help but mourn what even triumph leaves unsaid, the secret chambers in your heart still echoing with a name you can’t afford to speak.

Your name blazes from every brochure, every panel intro, every whispered conversation between curators. You fought for this: to tear out the hero-worship, to build something living in its place, to write in every overlooked name. The opening walk-in is yours entirely, guests thread past walls pulsing with voice memos from players, coaches, friends, lovers. They laugh, they weep, they tell the truth. none of it polished, all of it true. You shaped the ‘Legends Wing’ yourself, cutting Taeyong’s exhibit down to size, building room for others to breathe. Coach Suh’s plaque glows under the softest light: “Basketball doesn’t build character—it reveals it.” You picked the candid shot: him mid-yell, sleeves rolled, conviction in every muscle, a timeline etched in sweat and tape. Next to it, you chose a voice note, “he never made us feel like tools. He made us feel like we were real.” When Coach Suh reads it, he halts, silent, a flash of something unguarded softens his face. The polished brass catches your reflection, just a tremor of green silk and iron poise, and in that glint he recognizes the architect of his reckoning. The match he’s carried for years suddenly feels lighter, its spark already searching for your silhouette on the horizon.

Mark’s tribute sits close by, quiet but strong, “head Coach, High School Seoul Ravens. 2025 finalist. A new generation’s guide.” Under glass, a game ball signed by the entire team; beside it, a photo of Mark crouched beside a sobbing player, the caption reading, “It wasn’t about winning. It was about keeping them from giving up.” You see him pause, jaw set, eyes finding yours for a split second—a silent thank you, a promise to keep going.

You even give Doyoung his due, tracing the roots of a legacy back to a single risk, multiple late-night meetings with Coach Suh, a fierce argument with the old board, a decision that let Mark wear a jersey with his own name stitched across the shoulders. “For standing up when silence would have been easier,” the plaque reads, tucked under archival footage of Mark’s first game as a Raven. Doyoung lingers in front of it, one hand pressed to his chest, pride swelling in the small, quiet space you’ve made for him in history.

A few steps away, Chenle’s corner is quiet, illuminated in silver light, ‘assistant coach’ title sharp beneath his name. The display isn’t loud or sentimental, but honest, photos from his earliest days, the cracked concrete of the river court under his sneakers, the sweat and long nights that shaped him. You chose a quote from an old interview, his voice more serious than most people remember: “We never expected a miracle. We worked for every second. Every loss was ours, every win belonged to them.” The room hushes around it. He stands there, hands folded, reading it again, the set of his jaw saying everything about the weight he’s carried and the pride he feels being remembered for more than just what happened on the court.

You pull the night’s center of gravity toward the ones the record books barely notice, letting their names flicker across projectors in grainy footage, letting their voices echo above the low hum of polite conversation and polished applause. The data girl’s story plays first. Her voice is soft but steady as she recalls nights hunched over spreadsheets in the campus library, shivering in a borrowed sweatshirt, missing the last train home to make sure every stat was perfect for a coach who never remembered her name. People watch her, eyes stinging, some brushing away tears they pretend are just a trick of the light. You linger at her story, narrating what her numbers built: championship banners, scholarships, futures for boys who never even knew her face.

Then comes the Daegu coach—old school, suit threadbare, voice quivering with pride and exhaustion as he recounts dragging a team of outcasts to nationals on borrowed gym shoes and donated meals. In his eyes there is hunger, not for medals, but for the rare moment a kid who was always benched gets called ‘starter’ and finds his name in the paper for the first and only time. You pause there, letting the moment hang, giving space for people to feel the ache and the triumph, the injustice of all the quiet victories never shouted from rooftops. A ripple of emotion cuts through the room, swelling until even the steadiest voices crack, shoulders trembling with the weight of empathy.

The last reel loops quietly: the ex-Raven who walked away from trophies to become a social worker in Busan, whose hands now steady the trembling of kids who remind him too much of his old teammates. His words are quiet, matter-of-fact—“Sometimes you win by leaving the game.” By the end, there’s a hush over the Unsung Court. The room swells with the truth of what you’ve built: every guest who lingers at this wall walks away altered, eyes red-rimmed and searching, hearts bruised with gratitude and guilt, because for once the invisible have been seen. You watch it unfold, the crowd in silent communion with stories too easily forgotten. You feel it in your own bones: this is your legacy, the echo of every unheralded name stitched into the fabric of a game that never loved them back. This is the moment the archive weeps, and in their tears, something holy and true takes root.

APEX’s mark is everywhere, but not as a brand—as an act of restoration. You install interactive maps, headphones at every entrance, letting people hear real voices: parents, partners, old teammates narrating the scars behind every statistic. Young women from the analytics team huddle around the new “resource wall,” interns post their own stories, strangers find space to connect. You’re quietly handed flowers, cards, hugs by those you’ve mentored, proof that your legacy is built in the people, not just the plaques. Visual cues deepen the effect: lanterns dangle overhead like constellations, some lit, some dim, each representing a story still unfinished. Bronze statues stand too smooth, and you catch yourself in the glass, always shifting, always in motion, a reminder that you are both witness and author here.

You’re watched, everywhere, by everyone. Not as a woman, but as a phenomenon, a force in a dress cut from envy and memory. Nahyun’s gaze lands on you with challenge, Yangyang’s with devotion, Jeno’s, when it finally collides with yours, is haunted, bruised, and searching for something he can’t reclaim. You move through it all as if this is your coronation. You don’t thank the room for letting you reclaim your voice, you make it clear it was yours all along. Every tribute, every name spoken, every hand you shake is a promise to never let the true story rot in the dark. You keep your voice steady, your head high, your purpose burning. This is not a memorial. This is reclamation. This is legacy done right. Tonight, history stands corrected, and it’s your hand that writes the record.

From the shadowed hush of the Unsung Court, you guide the room’s gaze further, deeper, toward the stories that press beneath the surface of the sport, the ones that can’t be lacquered over with nostalgia or gold medals. A projector flickers, drawing every eye as a black-and-white reel begins: a tribute to Seungmin, a young player lost three seasons ago to an undiagnosed heart condition that no coach, doctor, or news outlet cared to question until it was too late. You choose your words with the care of a surgeon and the ferocity of someone who’s been haunted, not every legacy is written by victory, not every loss ends with a eulogy broadcast at halftime. The room holds its breath. You show the family’s heartbreak, the empty jersey hung high in the rafters, the teammates who still can’t lace up without thinking of him, the silence that followed when headlines moved on but grief remained, heavy and raw, in the locker rooms and midnight phone calls. A mother’s voice—wavering but clear—plays above the crowd: “All I wanted was for his name to last longer than the final whistle.”

People break. You see it—men who once played with him, parents who held their sons closer that year, strangers who never learned to mourn until now. The story reverberates, echoing in the seams of the archive, and the air grows thicker with every unshed tear, every soft gasp swallowed in the dark. But the heartbreak doesn’t stand alone. All over the exhibition, gratitude glows. You’ve woven acknowledgement into every corner—recognition not just for those who stood under the lights but for the army of hands that built this night. You let the crowd see every staff badge glinting on a jacket, every tired coordinator tucking clipboards under arms, every intern shepherding guests from hallway to hall. You mention the architects who restored the archive, the sound engineers who stayed after midnight tuning microphones to your cadence, the artists and curators who lent their eyes to the gallery walls, the cleaners who polished the marble before sunrise, the writers and translators who made sure every quote was honored in every language spoken here tonight. There’s a moment where you single out the press coordinator, a woman who’s stood quietly by the velvet rope, never claiming the spotlight but managing every crisis with grace. You make eye contact, mouthing a silent ‘thank you,’ her face crumbling into a smile she can’t hide.

You gesture to your Apex team, colleagues who turned data into narrative, analysts who stayed late to proof every line, friends who handed you coffee and stubbornness on the nights you almost walked away. You even thank your rivals, competitors whose own push for excellence forced you to sharpen your vision. Every tribute, every acknowledgment, is a clear declaration: None of this was built alone. You let it be known that the truth of any great work—of any healing—is always collective. The archive is not just marble and memory, not just the echo of footsteps or the glint of a name on polished glass, it’s a cathedral built by every hand that ever reached out, every voice that ever called you back from the edge. You spent so many years refusing help, convinced that survival meant solitude, that the sharpest way to heal was to hold yourself apart and refuse every lifeline offered. You wore your independence like armor, let it harden into pride, convinced yourself that being alone made you braver, stronger, proof that you could carry the world without anyone’s hands but your own. For so long, you believed the only way forward was alone, that accepting help was weakness, that letting someone steady you would cost you the story you’d bled so hard to author.

Tonight, you finally admit it: no legacy worth keeping is carried alone. There is courage in letting yourself lean, in letting others hold your weight when your knees buckle, in sharing the burden with people who want to see you stand, not because you are invincible, but because you are so loved, because you belong here, because no one survives on their own. As you move through the hall, calling out every ally, every ghost, every friend whose hands are still warm from lifting you, you speak the hardest truth you’ve ever had to say: you could never have done this alone, and you never will. “There is bravery in the breaking, there is salvation in the chorus.” You let yourself belong, at last, and as you do, the whole world softens, not because you finally let go, but because you finally let yourself be held.

You inhale, slow and deep, feeling the weight of old names pressing in on your ribs, the way memory fills a room with both breath and ache. The truth is, no matter how much you rewrote, no matter how many stories you reclaimed tonight, there was always the inescapable shadow of Taeyong, the reason for this exhibition, the name stitched across every invitation, the myth and the monster at the center of the court. From the start, the brief was simple: honor his legacy. That’s what Apex wanted, what the sponsors demanded, what the city remembers when they hear “Lee.” You crafted your narrative to oblige them, gathering his history with careful hands, even as your spine tensed at every word.

You present Taeyong’s rise as cleanly as the record allows: a prodigy on the hardwood, a name on every roster that mattered, a point guard who moved like he could see the future, before a doctor’s diagnosis, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, ripped the game from his chest and left him chasing glory in new forms. He became a benefactor, a founder, a father to a dynasty, a mentor to young men who’d shape the future. You show the trophies, the cuttings, the gleaming highlight reels, the magazine covers, the charity events. The city eats it up. Cameras flash at every image of his rookie year. For a few moments, the room forgets what he did to those closest to him.

But you never allow the story to become worship. You curate his legacy with the same honesty you gave the unsung, a kind of respectful distance, a neutrality that tastes more like resolve than praise. You speak of his victories but mention the bruises that followed. You reference the men and women who carried the weight he left, who fought to turn pain into progress, who rose because they had to because surviving him became its own kind of championship. In every plaque, every soundbite, every shadow behind the spotlight, you bury the truth beneath the glass: greatness is complicated. Legacy is a house built on what we refuse to see.

It strips you to do this. stand before the crowd, poised and unflinching, speaking a legacy you once wished you could burn out of existence. Yet you steady your voice, shape the narrative with the same careful hands he once tried to break, and you do it not for him, not for applause, but because refusing to let him claim your ending is its own quiet reparation. There is a promise here, silent and veiled, that one day, something gentler will arrive to take root where the pain once nested, a softness the world will mistake for luck, a newness you’ll recognize by the hint of blues in the dawn light, subtle and miraculous, hidden in plain sight. You shape the story with patience, knowing the universe owes you something beautiful for every bruise you turned into music, and the truest repayment is already humming beneath your skin, waiting to bloom when the night finally breaks.

The universe owes you, and you know it. For every wound you’ve stitched shut with speeches and every ounce of grace you’ve poured into rooms that tried to swallow you whole, there is a debt racking up in the margins—cosmic, overdue, and definitely not paid in applause. Sometimes you think you’ll wake up and find your reward pressed into the morning, soft and blue at the edges, a kindness so quiet it feels like an inside joke only fate understands. But tonight, beneath the applause and reverence, there’s something colder pulsing through your veins, an unease that wriggles under your skin, and you try to laugh it off, but even that feels brittle. You’re surrounded by love, Mark stationed at your shoulder, Areum radiating sly reassurance, Donghyuck and Chenle weaving a perimeter of humor and bravado, Yangyang never more than an arm’s reach away. But it’s Nahyun you keep tracking in your periphery. The mimicry is blatant, so bald it nearly feels like a dare, it’s as if she practiced your smile in the hotel mirror. At one point, Mark leans in, voice low but unmissable, “If she blinks twice in that shade of lipstick, I’m calling for an exorcist.” Areum snorts, linking her arm through yours, “She’s one TikTok away from trying your coffee order.” You can’t help it, you laugh, sharp, startled, the sound carrying more relief than humor, and in that flash, you see the worry behind Mark’s grin, the way his gaze never leaves Nahyun for long, the way Areum’s hand tightens on your wrist.

The guys don’t say it, but they close ranks, shoulders squaring whenever Jeno or Nahyun draws too close, the air between you charged with something like wariness and something like defiance. There’s an unspoken promise circling tonight: you are protected, you are seen, and no one gets to bleed you out quietly, not this time. Even so, you can’t help dissecting every twitch in Nahyun’s posture, the subtle desperation when she mirrors your stance, the frantic edge in her laugh, the way she lingers too long near your exhibits, fingers trailing over captions as if searching for a secret only you could have written. You know what happens to those who build themselves from borrowed pieces, they crash, eventually, and when they do, it’s never quiet.

When you finally slip outside for air, the sky layered with velvet clouds and a thousand city lights, you find Seulgi perched on the steps, cigarette in hand, the tip glowing like an ember warding off every ghost. She sees Nahyun floating by the doors, catches your eye, and mutters under her breath, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’ve seen less desperate cosplay at a fan convention.” You laugh, deeper this time, real enough to warm your ribs. She flicks her ash, then beckons you over, pulling you into a quick, bracing hug, her arms strong and unyielding. “Don’t let her near your drink,” she says, eyes twinkling, and you both crack up, laughter dissolving the tension in your spine.

Seulgi’s voice softens, her edges rounding with something old and fiercely maternal, warmth stitched into every word. She sits a little closer, pressing her knee against yours, and you remember how, even after everything, even after Jeno left you bruised and hollow, she never let the distance grow. She was the first to call when you landed a new office, the one who sent flowers when you published your first piece, the only one who never made you choose sides. She fills the silence between you with a steady, grounding presence, thumb smoothing over the back of your hand, like she’s trying to iron the ache out of your skin.

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” she says, her voice quiet enough to keep the moment small and private, a cocoon in the city dark. “That hasn’t changed, nothing with him changes that. You’re family to me. You always were.” Her gaze is clear, gentle, and when she tucks a stray hair behind your ear, it’s as if she’s amending a thousand hurts, overcompensating for what her son could not give you—tenderness, apology, belonging. “You deserve better than what he gave. You always have. Don’t let anyone—him, her, or even the archive—try to rewrite that for you.” She smiles then, small and crooked, and presses a spare key into your palm, her hand warm and unwavering. “If you ever need to disappear, even for just a night, you come to me. I’ll be waiting. My door never closed on you, sweetheart.”

And you know it’s true—every gentle touch, every fiercely protective word, every effort to stay in your life is her way of healing what he broke, her love a quiet shelter that holds steady long after the storm. The air feels lighter, the ground firmer beneath you, and for the first time in hours, you let yourself believe that you are safe, anchored, still seen for who you are, and always—no matter the shadows—deeply loved.

Seulgi leans back, flicking her cigarette with a practiced snap, the night curling around you both. She’s been scanning the room all night, keeping tabs like a seasoned general, and now she lets out a huff. “That girl, Nahyun,” she mutters, rolling her eyes so theatrically you almost laugh, “she couldn’t find an original bone if she tripped over a skeleton. Did you see the way she keeps circling the mirrored walls? If she gets any closer, we’ll have to peel her off your reflection.”

You stifle a snort, glancing at the doorway where Nahyun lingers, posed and perfect, emerald dress glittering a little too familiarly under the lights. “You don’t like your new daughter-in-law?” you ask, voice sly.

Seulgi waves her hand like she’s batting a fly. “Daughter-in-law, my ass. I told Jeno if he wanted a mannequin, he could just go to the nearest department store and save us all the drama.” Her laugh is low and wicked, then she glances at you sideways, voice suddenly wistful. “Wish things were different, that’s all. Wish that boy of mine still had some sense, had a choice—wish he was standing next to the right woman tonight.”

You blink, eyebrows rising. “What was that?”

She freezes for a heartbeat, eyes wide, caught between confession and denial. Then she shakes her head, suddenly flustered, cheeks pink. “Oh, nothing—just old lady nonsense. I’m getting sentimental in my old age, you know how it is.” She’s already changing the subject, pulling you into a hug so tight you feel your ribs protest, whispering, “Don’t mind me. Just promise me you’ll eat something before the night’s out, or I’ll drag you into the caffe myself.”

You laugh, heart lighter, and let her fuss, letting the easy affection cover the jagged edge beneath. For a moment, all the pain and shadow recedes, the two of you a quiet axis of love and mischief at the edge of a world that never quite learned how to love you right. She holds you just a beat longer, and for the first time all night, you feel the weight ease, the universe tipping just a little more in your favor, a reminder that even in the ruins, you are still surrounded by those who would set the world alight for you.

The night folds in around you, a little softer after Seulgi’s warmth, but as you slip back through the press of the hall, you find Yangyang waiting, his hand reaching for yours with a reassurance that steadies you, his smile gentle as he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You squeeze his hand—thankful, but your mind already drifting when you catch sight of Jihyo weaving through the crowd, her eyes shining, more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen them, like she’s carried years of unsaid words to this exact moment.

You murmur, “Give me a second?” into Yangyang’s ear, brushing your lips across his jaw, feeling the safety of his touch even as you slip away. He nods, pride glowing in his gaze, stepping back so Jihyo can step in, and the space between you fills with everything that’s been left unsaid for four long years.

Jihyo’s arms close around you, tight and trembling, and for the first time all night your bravado cracks, tears pressing hot behind your eyes. She rocks you a little, the way old friends do, the way you forgot you ever needed, and you let your breath hitch against her shoulder, your voice faltering as the words finally tumble free. You draw back, wiping your eyes, voice shaking as you whisper, “I’m sorry. I should have come back—I know. I just—couldn’t. I was so scared, Jihyo. That night, when everyone showed up to hear me sing, when they filled the bar, when they made it feel like a spotlight I never asked for, I thought I could handle it, I thought I could make something beautiful out of the mess, but it felt like drowning. After that, after Jeno, I couldn’t come back. Every inch of that place felt haunted. I’d cross the street to avoid it, I’d turn off every song that reminded me. I shut out everyone, even you, and I’ve hated myself for it ever since.”

Jihyo’s eyes brim, her lips pressed together in understanding and hurt and fierce loyalty. “You were never supposed to carry it alone,” she murmurs, thumb brushing the tear from your cheek. “I watched you, you know, I find myself very protective over you, even from a distance, I never stopped wanting to protect you. Every article, every panel, every clip, they never told the whole story. I wanted to drag you back by the hair, but I knew you’d come home when you were ready. I missed you, you idiot.”

You both laugh, broken but alive, holding hands as if you might fall if you let go. Jihyo sighs, fierce all over again, her voice growing sharper. “He broke something in you, and I’ll never forgive him for that. I see you, how strong you are, how you put yourself back together and made something bigger than what he took. And when you’re ready, when you want it, the bar’s waiting for you. It’ll always be yours to reclaim. Don’t let his ghost stop you from walking through your own door.”

You swallow hard, blinking through the emotion. “What about you? What’s your life look like now? You still ruling the bar with an iron fist?” You manage a watery laugh, reaching for something bright.

She grins, but there’s something secret in her smile as she rolls up her sleeve, revealing a tiny, delicate tattoo. a sleeping rabbit, inked just above her wrist, its ears curled close, its body tucked in safe. “I had a little boy,” she says, and the words crack open your world, the ache of longing blooming fierce and sharp in your chest. She pulls out her phone, finds a photo: a chubby-cheeked baby, fists curled, eyes closed in blissful sleep. “His name is Minjun.”

You gasp, the sound bright and raw. “He’s beautiful, Jihyo—God, he’s perfect.” You coo at the image, your eyes welling up all over again, a tidal rush of tenderness and want so fierce it leaves you breathless. “I didn’t even know you had a partner. When did this happen?”

Jihyo’s eyes meet yours, steady, open, unflinching. “I don’t,” she says simply. “It’s just me and him. And I won’t pretend it’s not hard, but loving him? That’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

The words settle in the space between you, humming with an ache you barely understand, a pulse that moves beneath your skin in a place you never let anyone see. There’s a softness in your chest that feels new and old all at once, a kind of ache that flickers every time Jihyo’s thumb brushes the tiny rabbit on her wrist. You laugh through the longing, but your palm lingers low against your stomach, a gesture so small and instinctive you almost don’t notice you’re doing it—like muscle memory, or a wish you’ve never spoken aloud. Something in you stirs, a question without a name, delicate as hope, heavy as history.

Jihyo notices, smiles knowingly, but lets the moment drift, her advice falling soft and sure. “Don’t wait for the perfect timing, or the perfect person, or the perfect way to start over. You build the world you want, even if it’s just you and a baby and the ghosts you learn to live with. You deserve every kind of happiness, every kind of love, even if you have to build it from the ground up.”

You press your lips together, eyes full, heart wrecked and hopeful in equal measure. “You always do give the best advice,” you say, squeezing her hand, letting yourself lean in one last time before the night sweeps you back into its current. For a moment, everything feels soft and possible, a new kind of story humming beneath your skin, as Jihyo’s little rabbit tattoo—her badge of courage, her secret hope—glimmers under the exhibition lights, and you tuck her words away, letting them root in the part of you that’s still learning how to begin again.

But hope doesn’t linger long. Your pulse drums in your throat as you turn away, feet moving on instinct through the marbled corridors, every step a rehearsal for the confrontation you can’t escape. You brace yourself quietly, each heartbeat a careful negotiation with the dread in your chest, knowing what’s coming next will likely be the hardest moment of a night already strung tight with tension. Your next interview—with Jeno—is a cruel inevitability, something fixed into the timeline by forces beyond your control. You’d tried everything to escape it, every polite refusal, every quiet plea to the board, but they’d insisted. A conversation between the legacy’s face and its voice was the centerpiece they needed, a spectacle too significant to dismantle. You’d cursed the universe silently, bargaining for a repayment worthy of this suffering, something grand enough to soothe the ache.

Yet here you are, spine straightening as you let the fear settle somewhere below your collarbone, trying to remember how it feels to own the room, not just survive it. The lights feel harsher now, the crowd’s hum sharper—every detail rendered in high definition as you approach the edge of the gallery where your future is waiting, or unraveling, or both. You inhale slowly, grounding yourself in the memory of all the voices that told you to keep going, the warmth of old friendships, the echo of Jihyo’s quiet encouragement lingering against your skin. For a heartbeat, you let yourself believe you might actually be ready for whatever comes next. Still, as you round the corner and catch the first glimpse of Jeno standing in profile—shadowed, beautiful, every line of him etched with anticipation and regret—the only certainty you possess is that there are some reckonings no one can prepare for. Some reunions are born to change the shape of your life, no matter how steady your heart tries to be.

Before facing him, you seek refuge. Your feet carry you instinctively to Jaemin and Haeun, where softness blooms in the chaos, a sanctuary tucked away from the sharp edges of your anxiety. Jaemin brightens instantly when you approach, though his expression melts quickly into exaggerated despair as he sighs, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Honestly, ever since I became a dad, nobody pays attention to me anymore,” he jokes, eyes sparkling despite his mock wounded tone. You laugh softly, pulling him into a warm hug, whispering teasingly, “Sorry, Jaem, she’s just a lot cuter than you.”

You shift your attention fully to Haeun, gently lifting her into your arms. She’s grown so much in these months, her tiny frame sturdier, eyes wide and curious, peering at you as she babbles softly—syllables stumbling, adorable and innocent. You grin, stroking a finger delicately over her soft cheek, marveling at how far she’s come, heart swelling at each precious sound she makes. “She started talking a little,” Jaemin says softly, pride unmistakable as he watches his daughter nestled comfortably in your embrace. “It’s mostly ‘dada’ and random noises, but—”

“It’s perfect,” you interrupt gently, voice thick with genuine awe, your finger caught gently in her tiny grasp. “She’s perfect.” And she is—her dress a delicate cotton sundress dotted with tiny embroidered daisies, her dark hair pulled into two tiny pigtails tied with pale pink ribbons. Each detail melts your heart further, drawing coos and quiet gasps from your mouth, a soothing balm against the pressure looming overhead.

“How has she been?” you ask softly, rocking her gently against you, unable to pull your gaze from her warm, innocent eyes.

“Better,” Jaemin answers sincerely, relief coloring his voice, chasing away the shadows of past fear. “She’s stronger, more active—she’s finally able to do cute baby things, you know? Grabbing everything, babbling at random things, giggling. It’s like she’s finally living, not just surviving.” His words fill you with a tender ache, your own longing surging quietly beneath your ribs. You lean down, pressing a gentle kiss atop her tiny head, breathing in the soft scent of baby powder and innocence, your eyes stinging with a sweetness so acute it hurts.

It’s only then—midway through this gentle moment—that you feel the unmistakable sensation of eyes on you, the prickling awareness crawling up your spine, alerting you to a presence you’ve tried so hard to ignore. Slowly, inevitably, your gaze lifts and finds him, Jeno standing at the edge of the gallery, dark eyes anchored on you. The air seems to thin around you, breath catching painfully in your chest, because there, in his stare, is something searing, deep, unguarded. something he hasn’t let you see in years.

The room doesn’t turn, but your whole body does, as if some time-turner inside you has spun the years back, folding the present into those bright, impossible college days. He hasn’t looked this boyish—this breakable, this young—since college, since the last time he let himself be seen without armor, and for a second, you can almost pretend nothing’s changed, that the world hasn’t spun you both into strangers. But it’s all there in his stare: the searing ache, the years of unspoken longing, the grief and guilt and hope braided so tightly it hurts to breathe. The air goes thin, the ground uncertain, and you realize that every step, every speech, every thread of the night has led you right back to this moment, the two of you facing each other in a hall of ghosts, both changed, neither free.

He looks undone, caught in a moment he never expected. His carefully controlled expression fractures softly, raw yearning filtering through the cracks. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, burn softly, tracing the tenderness of your touch, how naturally you cradle Haeun, how easily your body settles into an instinctive, maternal curve. The intimacy of it seems to strike him like lightning, a revelation that draws his mouth into a quiet, devastating line.

You can’t look away, he won’t let you, gaze holding you captive, unblinking, demanding you see the truth he refuses to voice. You feel it like a touch against your ribs, an ache resonating quietly between you: longing, regret, and something deeper, something primitive and possessive he never learned to hide completely. He watches your gentle affection toward Haeun, your whispered words, your delicate hands, and you know he imagines, just for a breath, what could have been, what still could be if only fate had been kinder.

Yangyang clocks it from across the room, how the gallery’s hush sharpens around you, how Jeno’s gaze doesn’t waver, not even as the distance between you bristles with unfinished stories. He weaves through the crowd, his steps deliberate, posture broadening as he closes in, the tension in his jaw more pronounced than usual. He draws up beside you, looping his arm around your waist, thumb grazing a slow, grounding circle against your dress. His presence is steady, gentle, anchoring you, but it’s also a declaration, one that doesn’t need words, only proximity.

You feel the world contract to this frame: his hand at your hip, your arms full with the weight and warmth of a baby nestled close against your chest, soft as a secret and steady as a heartbeat. There’s a gentleness in how you hold the child, the rhythm of your palm soothing across their back, the kind of intimacy that says home in any language. Yangyang leans in, lips brushing the edge of your cheek, and you turn toward him with the practiced grace of habit, brushing your mouth against his jaw, smiling just enough for the flash of cameras to catch.

Jeno doesn’t move, his expression a study in contradictions—devastation polished into composure, the ache in his eyes dark and thunderous as he watches the tableau. For a breathless instant, the room itself seems to shift: every whisper, every sideways glance, every flicker of recognition in the crowd believes what they see, a family, untouched by loss, written in the soft lines of your embrace. You cradle the baby, crooning softly, fingers trailing through delicate hair, laughter bubbling up light and silvery, the sound so convincing it almost fools even you. You don’t look back, but you feel the heat of Jeno’s longing like a brand pressed between your shoulder blades, the memory of another life pulsing beneath your skin.

You see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his jaw locks, in the barely-restrained violence in his stare as Yangyang bends to press a gentle kiss to your temple. You let your head fall lightly to Yangyang’s shoulder, let your laughter ring soft and sure, let your body show comfort, partnership, belonging—all the things Jeno once believed would always be his. You let the baby clutch at your necklace, small hand fisted in gold, and you don’t look back.

The gallery becomes a stage: you, Yangyang, and the baby at its center, a portrait of happiness so convincing the air itself thickens with envy. Jeno’s eyes never leave you, never stray from the sight of what was promised, what he surrendered, what he would kill to have back. You lean into Yangyang’s embrace, press your lips to the baby’s brow, and in that moment you let the world believe this is your ending. In that moment, you make sure he sees what it means to lose everything that once belonged to him.

It’s in that moment you recognize the truth, crystal-clear, searing and irrefutable: Jeno might have hurt you, might have shattered the trust you once had, but in this moment, watching you cradle the fragile, miraculous weight of someone else’s child, he’s the one left wounded, stripped raw, his heart laid bare and bleeding quietly between you. You see his throat bob once, twice, swallowing the ache you’ve planted there without meaning to, his breathing subtly uneven, fighting to steady.

You break the stare first, turning back to Haeun, holding her a little tighter, breathing deeply through the overwhelming rush of emotions swirling inside your chest. Because no matter how deeply Jeno still affects you, no matter how intensely he looks at you tonight, you know with fierce clarity that you deserve better than the heartbreak he carries. You cradle the baby gently, grounding yourself in her quiet innocence, in Jaemin’s soft smile, and in the strength of knowing that you’ve survived worse—and you’ll survive this, too.

Jaemin finally reaches for his daughter, smiling with the familiar exhaustion of new fatherhood. “You know, she misses her godmother. I never see you anymore,” he teases, voice light, but his eyes search yours with real concern.

You force a smile, shifting Haeun gently into his arms, lingering for a second to brush her hair back from her forehead. “Jaemin, you’re going to be sick of me soon,” you reply, nudging his arm, “I’ll be spending a whole month at your hospital. There’s a new APEX project—they’re piloting a recovery analytics program that merges post-op surgical data with athlete rehab protocols. Your hospital is one of the few we’re working with for the initial rollout. I’ll be setting up lab works, running case studies, you name it. So get ready. You’re about to see way too much of me.”

His eyebrows shoot up, surprise giving way to a little burst of excitement. “Wait, you’re serious? When?”

“Next month,” you confirm, grinning as Haeun catches your finger in her tiny hand. “And I get to see my favourite girl for a whole month straight. I hope you’re ready for me to spoil her rotten.”

Haeun, as if on cue, gurgles happily, the word tumbling out clear as day: “Ya!” You and Jaemin both laugh—something eases in your chest, a weight lightened for just a moment. You kiss the top of Haeun’s head, letting yourself believe in ordinary joys, even if just for a heartbeat.

Under the winking, unnatural lights of the archive, the gallery is electric—a current that catches beneath your ribs, crawls up your throat, and thrums in your teeth. The hall is nothing but voltage, a river of hush broken by the tremor of names whispered like spells. You sit at one end of a marble bench, posture sculpted into armor, silk dress dark as myth, the fabric catching in the glow and making your whole body look like it was painted here by a vengeful hand. At the far edge, Jeno: cut from the same impossible gravity, all dark suit and coiled restraint, a man so stunning and unyielding he alters the oxygen in the room. Between you, an expanse heavy as a battlefield, crowded with everything you never said, years of ghosts pressing in so thick it’s a miracle either of you can breathe. Between you, a chasm: not space, not emptiness, but a living wound, alive with the static of old battles and unfinished sentences.

You study the seam between the tiles, heartbeat wrung tight as piano wire. Every move is choreography—fingers smoothing invisible creases, throat clearing, lashes low as you inventory every ache that has ever held your name. Jeno’s presence doesn’t fill the air so much as fracture it. His hands are thunder clenched into bone; every tendon in his neck stands out like the string on a guillotine. The gold of his championship ring glints on his finger—a monarch’s relic, worn by a man built to self-immolate. Above you, the projected footage flickers—a highlight reel of Jeno’s ascension, every impossible record a nail in the coffin of what you once were together. The crowd watches, rapt, but all you hear is the water in your ears, a slow roar that drowns out applause and memory alike. Your name is stitched across the program in ink, his across glass and myth, but it feels as if you’re both graffiti on a monument built to erase you.

You keep your eyes down, focused on the script you spent nights refining—each question more precise than a blade, more necessary than oxygen. You hear the crowd on the other side of the room: the murmur, the hush, the anticipation pressed like static against the glass. The display cases behind you are filled with relics—his jerseys, gleaming trophies, photographs of dunks so wild they seem conjured from fever, not sweat. Jeno’s presence is like thunder distilled to muscle, a force that bends the light toward him. Yet, in this moment, he doesn’t own it; he waits for you to set the rules, for your voice to shape the night’s reality. Nahyun sits in the front row, as meticulously composed as a wax figure, eyes darting between you and Jeno as if she can conjure possession from posture alone. Nahyun, lacquered and brittle as a porcelain mimic, sits in the audience with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, her knuckles pressed white against her clutch. She stares at the side of Jeno’s face, desperate for a glance, a kingdom, a claim. Her dress mirrors the curve of yours, her lips painted your red, her entire presence a distorted echo—yet every eye is on the gravity that hums between you and the man across from you, a universe of history stitched invisible in the air.

You don’t look at him at first. The space between you seethes, packed with years and wounds and a thousand borrowed versions of his face—the man you loved, the man who left, the stranger staring back from magazine covers. Every instinct says don’t, but the moment claws at you, demanding witness, and so, finally, you let your eyes climb the dark line of his suit, the column of his throat, the unyielding set of his jaw. What you find there is not the memory you’ve kept alive all this time; it’s something sharper, older, ravaged and rebuilt, a face that’s outlived a hundred endings and refuses to surrender. His jaw is a cut of obsidian, cheekbones painted with fatigue and defiance, his mouth drawn tight—a wound that’s never learned how to close. Every line of his body radiates tension and pride and old pain, a geometry of ache, but he is so beautiful you feel the violence of it in your ribs. He’s not just a man, he’s the aftermath of a disaster, magnetic and catastrophic, the kind of presence that makes you believe in ruin as a kind of religion.

When your eyes finally meet, it isn’t gentle. It’s the shock of water after a drought, an old scar split open by the tremor of recognition. Jeno’s gaze slams into you with the same precision he once brought to every game, every impossible shot, and for a second you are both twenty two again, unbroken and doomed, the world tilting on the axis of this one look. There’s longing in his eyes—undiluted, unwelcome, raw as a bruise. It sits beneath the surface, stubborn and wild, the sort of grief that doesn’t beg for relief, only acknowledgment. His irises are dark, shining under the exhibition lights, the color of storm-wet earth, rimmed in something close to hunger. When he blinks, his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks and it almost undoes you. There’s a shiver in the air, as if everyone in the room can feel the history vibrating between you, the truth that nothing has ever mattered so much as this collision.

You take inventory with the cold precision of someone cataloguing damage: the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before, the subtle tension in his throat when he swallows, the way his shoulders hold themselves too straight, too proud, as if bracing for another blow. He’s filled out, all muscle and purpose, but his beauty is still edged in the same dangerous charm that once undid you in empty corridors and half-lit gyms. His mouth, for a moment, flickers—just a ghost of the smirk you remember, the one that could make you reckless, and then it’s gone, shuttered by duty, by grief, by everything that’s come between you. You remember what it felt like to see him like this—untouchable and half-mad with ambition, a star about to burn itself out—and you wonder if he can see the same change in you, if he recognizes the girl he left behind in the armor you wear now.

You don’t blink. You don’t let him see the wreckage. The crowd leans in, transfixed by the spectacle of two architects of legend—twin calamities, separated only by a breath, a benediction, a blade. And the interview begins, not as a conversation, but as an exorcism, a reckoning disguised as ceremony.

You’ve spent weeks preparing for tonight, locked in your office until late, nights spent buried beneath archived footage, watching Jeno move, studying every angle, every tactic, every strategic shift from his earlier days at college until now. It’s unsettlingly familiar, reminiscent of those late nights from your shared past, when you analyzed his plays for the college project, memorizing the rhythm of his steps, the way his eyes scanned the court. Yet now, there’s a startling difference. The boy from your college days has been replaced by a man with harder edges, sharper instincts, eyes that have seen too much and seem to hold more secrets. His game, now clinical and ruthless, holds none of the reckless joy you once admired. Records now line his legacy, including being the youngest player in NBA history to reach ten thousand points. It’s a triumph, a legacy made solid, yet the victories feel hollow to you. You’ve watched his interviews, noticed how his smile never quite reaches his eyes, the boyish charm burned away by years in the spotlight. It leaves you both proud and strangely sad—like witnessing something beautiful slowly calcify.

The floor manager signals you with two raised fingers, and the cameras flicker red. You straighten your spine, emerald dress catching the light perfectly, posture flawless, eyes cool. Your voice is silk-smooth when you begin speaking, measured and calm. Your gaze finally settles fully on him—steady, analytical, as though he were just another player under your microscope. But you both know better. Up close, beneath the unforgiving lights, you see the evidence of time carved clearly into his features. Jeno has changed—beautiful still, devastatingly handsome, but undeniably older. His jawline, sharper now, is etched with shadows you don’t recognize. His cheekbones seem higher, defined by the faintest flush of tension, his eyes darker and deeper set. There’s a fine sheen of sweat along his temples, silver under the lights, his hair slightly mussed as though he’s fought a private battle to arrive here. His lips, pressed into a careful line, seem unbearably familiar yet somehow distant, as though they hold unspoken regrets.

Your pulse quickens slightly, breath hitching quietly at the intimacy of this first prolonged look at him since the wedding. It’s a silent reckoning, one you’ve spent years avoiding. He looks worn yet powerful, a carefully composed paradox of strength and vulnerability. His suit, tailored and perfect, emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, the solidity of his chest beneath the fabric, reminding you vividly of nights spent pressed against him, memories you fiercely shove away. But the boyish innocence, the reckless laughter that once danced easily in his eyes—that’s gone now, replaced by something raw and deeply guarded. Yet, even in this coldness, he still exudes a quiet, magnetic sexuality, the kind that feels dangerously alluring, impossible to ignore, even now. Your stomach twists painfully, your chest constricting with something dark and aching—recognition, yearning, and old grief.

The countdown begins: three, two, one—each second scraping across your nerves, peeling away the armor you’ve layered since the last time you stood this close. A sharp inhale steadies you, and with the final tick, you morph, not into the woman he left, small and open and half-destroyed, but into the one who rebuilt herself in the aftermath, brick by brick, breath by breath, swallowing ruin and spitting back something unbreakable. Your posture straightens, shoulders squared to the world, chin lifted so the gallery lights gild your skin. You embody the storm now, not the shelter.

Your fingers tighten around the microphone as you introduce him, voice liquid and exact, each syllable a scalpel. “Tonight, I have the honor of welcoming one of the most influential athletes of our era, a champion who has redefined the sport, a legacy not born, but built. Lee Jeno, fastest to ten thousand, breaker of records, son of the man whose shadow built this archive. Thank you for joining us.” There is no tremor, no apology, just steel, yet your words taste foreign, pressed into your mouth after weeks spent inhaling every statistic, every late-night article, every shaky phone clip. You remember college, nights curled in front of a glowing laptop, the thrill of gathering highlight reels just to watch him move, his skill, his joy, the reckless promise of youth. Now it’s different. Now it’s work. Now it’s the hollow echo of devotion retooled into duty.

Jeno’s gaze drops, and for a split second, the world collapses into the cold shimmer of that bracelet circling your wrist, every charm a secret scar, each one a relic of touch, devotion, and aftermath—the silver basketball he bought you after a study session for the project, the tiny book for all those nights you read aloud until you both fell asleep, the broken heart you snapped together and never mended. His eyes linger, dark and hungry, sweeping over metal that’s warmed to your skin, as if he can still feel the way it used to burn against his palm when he’d drag your hands above your head and fuck you slow enough to hear the charms rattle, a sound so intimate it’s etched into his blood. His voice comes out quieter than breath, a blade smothered in velvet, so careful it hurts, but you hear the ache beneath every syllable, the gratitude and regret braided together. “Thank you.” It falls between you heavy and bruised, a purple mark beneath the skin, a memory pressed deep, the echo of everything he gave you and everything he’s still trying to take back.

You allow yourself a single, measured breath, searching for the coldest part of your heart. Your gaze slides to his left hand, gold band mocking you from across the space, an artifact of all the things you lost. For a moment, you see your life cleaved in two: before this ring, before this heartbreak, before everything became so irrevocably distant. Your voice doesn’t falter. “And congratulations on your engagement.” Each word falls with the precision of a scalpel, slicing clean and deep. The pain is sharp, metallic, something you swallow until it settles in the hollows of your bones.

Jeno’s jaw flexes, eyes shuttered. “Thank you,” he answers, voice stripped raw—just the edge of a plea he would never let you hear. He won’t look at you. He can’t.

A ripple goes through the room, the soundless gasp of a hundred people bracing for the snap, laughter catching in the throat of some and dissolving into nervous coughs and shuffles, as if the very air might burst into flame. Somewhere near the front, Donghyuck’s jaw drops wide enough for the cameras to catch, Karina’s nails dig into Jaemin’s arm while he mutters, “Oh, she’s going for the jugular,” half-proud, half-terrified. Yangyang, off to the side, sees the glint in your eyes—something volcanic, a heat he’s never managed to draw out, and suddenly he’s hollow, acutely aware of the absence he’s already begun to inhabit, the way he’s just another spectator to a history he’ll never rewrite. In the rows behind, press members grip their pens tighter, whispering gleefully into their recorders; you can almost see the headlines birthing themselves—‘Scandal at the Seoul Exhibition: Ex-Lovers Face Off on Live Broadcast’—as the silence thickens, shivering with possibility.

Even the crowd’s laughter, when it comes, feels off-kilter, brittle and edged, some people elbowing each other as if they’re in on a private joke, others frozen in awe at the carnage. Nahyun sits rigid in her seat, mouth twitching as if she might spasm, smile brittle as spun sugar, blinking too hard, eyes flitting to the cameras and then to you, watching her legacy fissure in real time. The moment stretches, every breath drawn out and held, the tension so physical you could carve it and serve it for dinner. You cross your legs, deliberate and poised, every inch of you untouchable, voice smooth as glass. “It must feel surreal,” you murmur, each word silk-strung and sharpened, “to have your name up in lights, to become the legend everyone expected you to be.” The crowd inhales, the world leans closer, and for one suspended heartbeat, every secret between you hums just beneath the skin, history burning, futures unraveling, the kind of moment people will tell their children about, if only for the way it nearly undid you both.

He gives a half-shrug, sly and sharp, eyes darting across the crowd like he’s scanning for a lifeline, but when he finds none, he locks right back onto you, always, as if gravity won’t let him stray. “You tell me. You’re the one writing the story.” There’s a taunt curled into his tone, barbs and bravado. “Aren’t you the analyst? The expert at spinning stats into legend?”

You let out a little scoff, one brow arched high, mouth twisting into a smirk that’s all teeth and challenge. “Oh, I’m just following the data, Jeno. But you and I both know numbers lie—maybe as much as you do.” There’s a ripple of laughter in the room, nervous and hungry, the kind that says everyone is already drafting tomorrow’s headlines. Karina coughs to cover a gasp, Donghyuck snorts, and the director, backstage, tries to wave you back to the script, wide-eyed and mouthing ‘move on’—but you don’t even blink.

Jeno leans in, just enough for the cameras to ache for a close-up, his voice dropping to a private dare. “Sometimes the story gets told before the truth can catch up. Have you ever thought about that? Or are you too busy fact-checking your own feelings?” He smiles, razor-sharp, the kind of smile that promises scars, and suddenly you feel the weight of every friend, every rival, every pair of eyes in the room waiting to see who will draw blood first. The hush is charged, history dangling between you, the crowd sensing they’re witnessing the kind of moment that will live in rumor and headline long after the lights go down.

You and Jeno eye each other, caught in the invisible thread that always winds you back together, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you, circling. It’s instinct—this need to challenge, to push, to try and one up the other, because it’s easier to spar in public than strip yourselves raw. This back-and-forth, this clever cruelty, feels safer than honesty, even as both of you know it’s only armor, only performance, only the familiar dance that keeps the world from seeing what’s really at stake. The audience senses it too, every laugh a little too sharp, every silence drawn out, and somewhere backstage, the director finally drops his script, head sinking into his hands as he mutters, “Let them eat each other alive.” No one moves to stop you. For a moment, it’s chaos wrapped in ritual—an audience hungry for blood, two survivors clinging to the only language they have left.

“Your father’s name is everywhere tonight,” you say, voice so even it cuts. “Does it ever get old, living in someone else’s shadow? Or have you managed to find the light?” Your words are silk and steel, each one poised to wound or worship.

Jeno’s jaw flexes, eyes never leaving yours. “You can spend your life trying to outrun ghosts, or you can turn around and chase them. I guess I just figured out how to build something worth haunting.” He gives you that infuriating half-grin, the one that always means trouble. “Maybe that’s why you and I never worked, too busy sprinting, not enough finish lines.”

You tilt your head, lips curling. “Funny, I always figured you liked the chase because you never could catch up.” There’s a ripple of laughter from somewhere in the crowd—Jaemin’s cackle unmistakable—and the press scribbles furiously, senses sharpened for every jab. Nahyun shifts beside him, charm bracelet jangling, her stare sharp and unblinking. All the while, you hold his gaze, tossing your next retort like it’s nothing: “But hey, someone’s gotta keep the story interesting. You break the records, I’ll keep breaking headlines.” The tension pulses, electric and relentless, both of you refusing to blink first.

“Are you happy?” Your question lands like a struck bell, bright and resonant, a dare masquerading as curiosity.

Jeno doesn’t flinch, but his lips part, tongue slicking slowly over his teeth, buying time. He lets the silence stretch, eyes holding yours until the room goes tight around you both. Then, softly, “Why don’t you answer that, too?” His voice is low, rough, almost teasing. “Are you happy?”

You let the corners of your mouth curve, all cool control. “I’m the one asking the questions tonight.” Your tone is light, but your stare lingers, making it clear you’re not dodging—you’re just refusing to let him have the last word.

Jeno drags his tongue over his lower lip, a slow, deliberate glide that glints under the lights. “Happiness tallies in banners, parades, rings,” he replies, voice pitched low and rough. “Run the numbers—tell me what they total.” His gaze locks on your mouth, as if he can already feel the reply forming there.

You tip your chin, breath steady, heat prickling along your skin. “I prefer red ink,” you answer. “Errors reveal truth faster than trophies.” You lean fractionally forward, emerald silk whispering. “I can draft a new ending faster than you can tally a box score. Ready for a rewrite?”

His jaw flexes. He lets a thumb circle the edge of his wedding band, gold catching the overhead glow. “Show me the revision,” he murmurs, words shaped like invitation and warning together. He shifts, knees angling toward you, suit pulling tight across his chest—controlled power wrapped in midnight fabric.

“First line,” you say, tilting the microphone closer, allowing your voice to slip into a register meant only for him. “A legend chooses love once, then chooses fear, and the record books turn to ash.”

He breathes out, a short rush that carries a hint of a laugh and the scorch of something darker. “Second line,” he counters, leaning in until your perfume settles between you, warm as a memory. “A strategist builds empires from ruins, but her heartbeat still maps to the rhythm of the first name she ever whispered in the dark.”

Your pulse answers that rhythm. You swallow it down, steady as a sniper. “Third line,” you continue, eyes gleaming. “Crowds cheer, sponsors celebrate, yet legacy still lodges in the throat—waiting for a song it never earned.” Your fingers brush the bracelet at your wrist, silver winking beneath the lights.

Jeno’s gaze drops to the charm, lingering, lips parting just enough to reveal the catch of his breath. Heat licks up your spine. “Fourth line,” he says, voice husky, every vowel an aftershock. “Two prodigies meet in a hall of ghosts, and the air remembers every secret their bodies ever kept.”

Silence hums, intimate and volatile. The gallery lights pulse, glass cases reflecting twin silhouettes leaning toward collision. The audience fades to a distant rustle, the cameras to blinking red eyes at the edge of vision. Only the charge remains—your breaths interlocking, your questions hanging unfinished, his answers trembling on the verge of confession.

You wet your lips, let your next words hover a fraction above a whisper. “Fifth line—”

He cuts in, voice velvet and iron. “Fifth line writes itself.” His palm lifts, hovering inches from your knee, halted only by the invisible wall of decorum. His eyes promise the touch. Your skin burns with the phantom imprint of it.

The director clears a throat somewhere offstage—signal to steer back to safe territory. Neither of you moves. Every heartbeat feels like glass cracking under too much heat, a soft, inevitable fissure.

You inhale, straighten a page you no longer need, and break the spell with the clinical precision you trained for. “We pivot to statistics now,” you announce, tone crystalline. Yet your pulse still thrums with the threat of proximity, with the memory of his breath, with the question that lingers unsatisfied between your bodies: happiness measured or stolen, rewritten or relieved.

Jeno shifts back, but his smile—sharp, private—tells you the interview’s boundary already shattered, words merely waiting for the next pulse to drag them under.

You shuffle your notes, the microphone poised delicately between your fingers, but it’s the glint in your eyes that draws his attention more than anything on the page. “People call you a machine on court. Ten thousand points, seven records shattered. So—what’s actually running in your head when you’ve got the whole stadium watching? Or do you just like showing off?”

Jeno’s mouth tips in a half-smirk, his gaze dropping to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “If I wanted to show off, I’d let you see my game-day routine.” The implication simmers between you, his voice smooth as glass. “Honestly? I don’t think. Not when it counts. That’s when it gets good. It’s like muscle memory—or maybe just muscle.” He lets the pause hang, then arches a brow. “Doesn’t mean I don’t have an audience in mind.”

You laugh, all low velvet, but your words have an edge. “So the Lee Jeno highlight reel is for the fans, not just for the stats?”

He shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave your face, hunger and amusement flickering in equal measure. “Some fans watch closer than others.” His thumb skims the edge of his jaw, as if recalling the brush of a hand that used to linger there.

You lean in, voice softening to something more intimate, the question landing heavy between you. “What do you think about when the game is on the line? Not the play, not the scoreboard—the risk, the want. Does the pressure make it better for you?”

He mirrors your lean, his knee nearly grazing yours beneath the table. “Pressure makes you sharper. Makes you honest. Only the real thing survives it. Same with love, right?” His gaze rakes over you, hot and searching.

You laugh, a little too breathless. “You’re saying you’ve never faked it?”

He grins, sharp and devastating. “I don’t need to. With the right partner, the game plays itself.”

You cock your head, eyes daring. “And when you lose?”

He looks at your mouth, then your eyes, something dark flickering in his stare. “Losing is only temporary. But the right loss? That one stays with you.”

A beat passes—electric, dangerous, thick with memory and what you’ll never say on camera. The room falls away, all sound pressed to the glass between you. You straighten, breaking the tension with a practiced smile, but your next question is barely more than a whisper. “Last one: who do you play for, Jeno? The name on your back, or the one you can’t forget?”

His answer is a look—devouring, helpless, almost loving. He doesn’t say a word, but his silence is the most honest thing between you all night. You pretend to scan your notes, but your gaze is fixed on him, sharp as a blade. “You broke your own records three times this year. Did you do it for yourself, or just to prove you could?”

Jeno leans back, stretching long legs beneath the table, his eyes sliding over you. “Sometimes it’s about proving you’re still alive. Sometimes it’s about proving you’re not.”

You smile, cool and incisive. “You’ve played injured. You’ve played exhausted. Where do you actually go when it gets that dark—who do you call when the crowd goes quiet?”

He smirks, licking his lips as if tasting a confession. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then, softer, “Not everyone can handle the truth. Most people want the highlight, not the aftermath.”

You cock your head, refusing to blink. “You’ve had your pick of cities, teams, lovers. Was there ever one you actually regretted leaving?”

His tongue traces his bottom lip again, jaw tensing. “Only the ones I lost for the wrong reasons. The rest? You learn to live with the ache.”

You let that answer burn. “Do you believe in loyalty, or just convenience?”

His smile twists, dangerous. “I believe in loyalty. Even when it hurts.”

You lean closer, lowering your voice. “What’s the thing you’ve never told the press? The truth no one’s ever asked for?”

He holds your gaze, the air humming between you. “That I’d trade every win for one more night with the right person.”

Your breath catches, cheeks flushed with something unspoken. “If you could rewrite any moment, would you?”

Jeno’s eyes lock on yours, a storm brewing there. “Every day.”

You tilt your chin, daring him. “And what about now?”

He laughs, low and raw. “Now? I’d risk it all, if I thought it would mean anything.”

A hush falls. The interview dissolves into a current of want and regret—every question a veiled plea, every answer a dare. You break the silence with a practiced, professional smile, heart pounding, fingers trembling. “That’s all we have time for tonight. Thank you, Jeno, for your honesty.”

He leans in, voice pitched only for you. “Anytime. You know where to find me if you ever want to finish the conversation.”

The air backstage is thick with the buzz of stagehands and the metallic ring of voices in the hall beyond, the thrum of applause from the last panel dying behind the wall. The dressing room is cooler, sharper—white bulbs spitting light across vanity mirrors, shadows pooling beneath chairs, silence pricking at your skin as you and Jeno are left alone, stranded in the aftermath of a public collision neither of you are ready to survive. You’ve barely spoken since the interview, but now, with the door closed and the chaos of the exhibition muffled to a hum, there’s no one left to play to, no audience but each other.

He’s standing at the far side of the room, arms folded, head lowered as if bracing for impact, suit jacket unbuttoned, posture rigid with unshed words. You pace near the table, notes for the follow-up scattered—questions about Taeyong, about Jeno’s early days, little league’s, his days as a Raven. It’s supposed to be about memory. About legacy. Instead, what lingers is the aftertaste of unfinished sentences and wounds reopened.

You’re both already at each other’s throats—tension brittle, voices low and tight, bodies angled toward collision, arguing about something so inane you can hardly believe it’s coming out of your mouth. “It’s forest green, not teal,” you snap, pointing at the program booklet on the table, half a laugh spilling out because the argument is absurd, the stakes are nothing, but your nerves are shredded and this is all you have left to grip.

Jeno scoffs, rolling his eyes, the old exasperation cutting through his polished calm. “You seriously don’t know the difference? This is teal. It’s always been teal.” He flips the booklet, fingers brushing too close to yours, and the contact sparks like static, neither of you willing to let go, neither of you letting it drop.

“Forest green has depth. That’s why I picked it,” you insist, stubborn and quiet, daring him to keep going, because it’s easier to bicker about colours than admit what’s really bleeding beneath your skin.

He shakes his head, a half-smirk curving his mouth, all arrogance and old affection, and you know he’s stalling just as much as you are. “If you wanted to win this, you should’ve picked something bolder,” he murmurs, and for a heartbeat, you almost forget why you’re both here, what’s at stake, how much still aches. It’s the kind of argument you used to have on late nights in college, voices echoing down deserted hallways, laughter covering wounds you weren’t ready to name. The tension is all surface, the old rhythm still there—deflect, distract, deny. Anything but the truth. And then, just as you’re about to retort, the knock comes, slicing through whatever threadbare comfort you’d found in the fight, and the world tilts back toward chaos.

The door groans open and in slips one of the interns, Jisung, he’s boyish, awkward, his lanyard twisted and badge flashing the wrong way up, clutching a battered manila folder like it’s a bomb he’s not trained to defuse. “Uh, Jeno, this came through for you,” he stammers, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “Coach Suh told me to tell you it’s urgent. It’s—uh—actually something about Y/N, but Coach told me to hand it to Jeno first, so…” His hands hover, indecisive, and he glances between the two of you, utterly oblivious to the tension in the room, the electricity crackling between where you and Jeno stand, not touching but close enough to bruise.

Jeno’s head lifts, eyes dark and unreadable. “Give it here.” The intern shrugs, hands it over, and lingers in the doorway as if expecting a medal for the errand.

You shoot him a look—impatient, raw. “What is it?”

He shrugs again, sheepish. “I don’t know. Said it was about you though. Some old stuff Coach Suh wanted passed along, he told me not to open it.”

You barely pause, your patience hanging by a thread, as you snatch the folder out of Jeno’s hands, knuckles white and jaw clenched, muttering, “You never read things properly anyway.”

He shoots back, “Give it here. It’s for me, not you,” grabbing at the other edge, both of you tugging the folder back and forth, petty and childish, forgetting for a split second that you’re nearly thirty, that the world’s watching, that you’re meant to be civil adults. Pages rattle between your hands, that old tug-of-war resurfacing—louder now, more desperate, more familiar than you want to admit.

Your voice is sharp: “If it’s about me, I should know.”

Jeno’s glare flashes, “Coach Suh said it’s for me—let go, Y/N,” and you refuse, stubborn as ever, neither of you ready to surrender, not even for a heartbeat. You both huff, rolling your eyes, your bodies closer than they should be, the friction almost funny if it weren’t so raw.

You lose your grip for half a second and he yanks it free, just as you reach again, knocking your hand against his, both of you snatching at the papers with that old urgency, too tangled in the ridiculousness of it all to care how ridiculous you look. This is what you do—what you’ve always done. Still, you flip open the flap as Jeno’s fingers anchor the bottom, both of you peering in, expectation sharp in the space between your shoulders.

Then your breath catches, because it’s not logistics, not press, not anything safe. And for a split second, neither of you move, the world narrowing to ink and memory and the shiver running between your palms. The first page is stamped with your name, bold, black, in letters that feel like a warning. Evidence—emails, witness statements, copies of messages, even an audio transcript. Your handwriting, your codes. Your fingerprints all over the exposé that saved him in college, the one that sent Eric and Sunwoo to jail. For years, the truth lay dormant, tangled in rumor and misdirection, everyone believing it was Donghyuck who pulled the trigger. But here it is: all the proof that it was you.

A long, excruciating beat stretches out, sharp as the thrum of blood in your ears. Jeno’s whole body stiffens, jaw flexing, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing as if the world has split beneath his feet. The anger doesn’t rise all at once; it coils, slow and poisonous, threading disbelief and insult into every line of his face. There’s a flash of horror, a wounded animal’s recognition, but it’s anger that catches and holds—hot, magnetic, terrifying. His hand clamps around the folder so tightly the paper warps, knuckles white against cheap Manila, veins standing out along his wrist. The air goes tight, electric, charged with a violence that never quite tips into action.

He stares down at the evidence, lips parted in a soundless curse, every muscle alive with fight. His gaze snaps to you, searching, burning, betrayal and something else written in a language you used to know. The intern, eyes wide and skin blanching, finally registers the threat simmering in the room and backs out in a hurry, door clicking shut and leaving you both sealed in the aftermath. For a moment, no one breathes. The heat in Jeno’s eyes is the kind that makes you want to run and want to stay—punishing, gorgeous, ruinous.

You yank the folder from Jeno’s hands with a sharp, desperate pull, the friction of his grip dragging a deep red crease through the paper as you tear it free. Your heart stutters violently as you flip through the first page, eyes snagging on names, timestamps, digital evidence—emails, recordings, every careful thread you’d tied in secret, the entire story laid out in black and white. The blood drains from your face, cold and raw as the truth crystallizes. You don’t even feel your own breath.

Jeno’s voice cuts through the hush, rough and razor-edged, pitched low enough to tremble the air between you. “You were the one behind this?” He doesn’t move, but the accusation hangs suspended, thick and dangerous. His hands hover near yours, wanting to seize the pages back, wanting to seize you. His eyes are wide, wild with disbelief, mouth set in a line that promises violence or devotion, you can’t tell which. “You did this? You risked everything—you put yourself on the line and didn’t tell me?” He shakes his head, a thousand unsaid words sparking in the distance between you.

You clutch the folder to your chest, pulse hammering, the weight of his shock almost unbearable. His voice shakes, fury laced with fear, and something wounded and desperate in his eyes. “How could you be so fucking stupid?” It isn’t contempt. It’s terror, the kind that wants to smash something just to keep it safe. He looks at you, seeing you all over again—seeing every choice you made, every secret you buried just to keep him standing. And for the first time, the consequences of loving him this way are laid bare, brutal and unmistakable in the silence.

You let out a ragged laugh, sharp at the edges, disbelief tangled with grief, every sound raw enough to sting. “You think I did this for me?” The words slip out trembling, half a cry, half an accusation. “You think I wanted any of it—lying, hiding, living every day with a target on my back just so you could keep breathing, keep playing, keep believing you weren’t alone?” Your eyes search for him, desperate for him to understand, to see all the nights you spent watching him crack under the weight of his father, all the ways you tried to save him without ever letting him see you fall apart.

Jeno shakes his head, fierce, something like anguish blooming in the lines of his face, his hand tightening so hard on the paper you think it might tear. “You could’ve ruined your name,” he bites out, stepping closer, voice low and shaking. “You could’ve lost everything, do you understand that? You could’ve been exposed, blacklisted, destroyed—why didn’t you tell me? Why the hell would you risk yourself like that for me? I should have stopped you. I should’ve—” He falters, jaw clenching, and for a second you see him as he was all those years ago, all fire and loyalty, willing to burn down the world to keep you safe, but powerless in the face of your choices.

You take a breath that shakes with memory. “I did it for you, Jeno.” The words are quieter this time, aching with everything you never said. “I did it because I saw you suffocating and no one cared, because I couldn’t watch you get eaten alive by your father’s world. Because nobody else would. Because loving you meant doing the impossible, the reckless, the unforgivable—over and over, even if it destroyed me. I did it for you because there was never any other choice.” Your voice breaks, but your eyes stay steady, holding his gaze as if your truth alone might be enough to save you both.

He looks stricken, voice low, urgent. “You could’ve gotten hurt. You have no idea—something could’ve happened and if it did, I—” He cuts off, swallowing hard, jaw working as he tries to keep control. “If it did, I’d never forgive myself. You’re—your safety was all that ever mattered to me. You should’ve let me protect you.”

Your glare wavers under the salt-bright flood of tears, jaw trembling with the weight of everything breaking loose inside you. “And what would you have done, Jeno?” you gasp, the words hitching on a sob you can’t bite back, breath stuttering as the pain rips through your chest. “What—just watched it all collapse? Would you have stood there on the edge and let them tear me apart while you played the hero, while you hid behind your fucking legacy?”

You shake your head, voice splintering, fierce in the way only someone utterly destroyed can be. “I did what you wouldn’t, what you couldn’t. I did what had to be done.” Your breath hitches, a sob scraping up your throat, and you can’t stop the ache from bleeding into every word. “But after your dad died, you left. You shut me out. You didn’t even give me a chance to fight for you, or with you. You just disappeared, like everything we had didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter. I begged you—God, I would have burned for you, I would have gone through hell for you, but you wouldn’t let me. You wouldn’t let anyone near you. You just ran.”

You look at him then, searching his eyes for any flicker of the boy who used to love you more than his own breath. “And I get it. I know there are things I don’t know. I know your father, I know Nahyun, I know there’s more to this than what I see but I don’t give a fuck. Your love for me—everything we survived—it should have been stronger than that. It should have been enough. You were supposed to be enough.” The air between you turns electric, almost violent, with everything you can’t say, everything you still want, every dream he crushed when he left you behind. “You chose her. You chose that life. You let me fight alone. And now you stand here and act like I’m the reckless one, like I’m the one who ruined things. I would have fought for us until my last breath, Jeno. I did fight for us. But you—you left.”

Jeno’s mouth opens, but at first, no sound comes out, only the tremor of a breath held too long. His eyes, always so guarded, fill with tears that spill silently, tracing the angles of his face with an honesty he’s never let you see. For a moment, he’s younger—desperate, lost, haunted by everything he can’t say. He tries to steady his voice, but it’s rough and breaking. “I know,” he rasps, a whisper meant only for you. “No one’s ever fought for me like you have. No one’s ever loved me that way, not once, not ever. I know you would’ve burned for me, I know you would’ve gone to war for us. You always have.”

He shakes his head, choking back the rest, reaching out as if to catch your wrist, then pulling back, hands shaking. “I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t want any of this. You think I haven’t replayed every second? You think I haven’t tried to figure out how I could have chosen you, how I could have fought harder, done something—anything—different?” His voice breaks, tears slipping down his jaw, his whole body curling in on itself with the weight of his confession.

His lips curve, sorrow softening into something close to awe, his tears still bright but now edged with a raw, reluctant admiration. He shakes his head, a wet laugh tumbling out as he swipes at his cheeks, failing to disguise the wonder in his voice. “You’re a genius, you know that? No one else could’ve pulled that off. No one but you. Of course it was you, I always had a feeling but I never wanted to believe it. You always saw what I missed, always had the guts to do what no one else would even dare. I should’ve known from the start, I should’ve given you more credit. You’re… fucking terrifying sometimes, Y/N.”

He lets out a trembling breath, shoulders finally sinking. “I mean it. No one else could have done what you did. I don’t think there’s anyone alive who would risk their whole future just to drag someone else out of hell. You didn’t even hesitate. That’s what gets me, you never do. I used to think you were reckless, or stubborn, but now I get it. You’re just braver than the rest of us. Braver than me.” His eyes search your face, earnest and wide, and for a split second the bitterness falls away, leaving only the naked truth between you. “I’m not shocked it was you. Surprised, yeah, but only because I didn’t want to see it. But I should’ve. I should’ve known it wasn’t Donghyuck, he isn’t smart enough. You always save everyone else, even when it breaks you. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

The room has gone strange with adrenaline, your own history looping around you, your emails, your plans, the truth told to Jeno at last. It’s suffocating, a kind of pressure you haven’t felt since college, so raw that even your pulse is unsteady. Jeno’s hands shake as he puts the folder aside, the enormity of everything—love, ruin, rescue—humming between you. For a suspended second you’re both drawn into it, faces close, the air electric with the tension of everything unspoken. Your foreheads nearly brush, mouths parted, breath mingling, the old ache and new wounds circling, unfinished sentences trembling in the charged silence.

The edge dissolves in an instant, shattered by the intrusion, reality crashing in. You snap back��shoulders tensing, heart thudding, the ache that had pulsed between you retreating into something raw and unnameable. There’s no line crossed, no heat traded, only two broken people suddenly reminded of everything standing between them. For a breathless beat, you both look away, as if remembering who you’ve become, what’s been lost, the gravity of all that’s happened. There’s no betrayal in this moment, you’re not cheaters and you’d never cross that threshold. There’s only the echo of what could have been, buried beneath too much pain, too many ghosts.

That’s when the door bursts open, slamming into the wall with a violence that breaks the spell. Nahyun storms in, heels clattering, fury carved into every line of her face—a mask of rage barely holding, hair falling loose, lipstick smudged, hands clenched at her sides.

Nahyun’s heels strike the floor with the violence of accusation, her silhouette framed in the door, all sharp edges and trembling fury. Her voice spits venom, loud enough to silence the corridor outside, each word vibrating with jealousy and something more dangerous—need. “Are you fucking serious?” she shrieks, the sound ricocheting around you, brittle and shattering. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. For everyone to finally see me. But you—” She jabs a finger at your chest, so close you catch the sweet rot of her perfume, her breath gone sour. “You couldn’t stand it. Had to claw your way back to center stage, even now. You’re a parasite, clinging to what isn’t yours, crawling after everyone else’s spotlight, begging for scraps because you’ve never had the guts to build anything real.”

Her face warps with rage and wounded pride, voice cracking under the weight of her own delusion. “You’ve always wanted to be me, don’t fucking lie about it. Always at the edge, always watching, always waiting to snatch what’s mine. God, it must burn, seeing someone actually loved for once, instead of pitied.” She laughs, sharp, deranged, wild, shoulders shaking, lips curled in a vicious imitation of a smile. “You think you’re better than me? All those years pretending to be above it, but you’re nothing. You’re just a shadow. My shadow.”

The words splinter in the air, and for a moment, you see it, the truth she’ll never admit, the emptiness clawing at her insides, the frantic desperation behind every insult. She isn’t just angry. She’s unstable, volatile, barely holding it together, her claws out because she’s terrified you’ll take what she’s spent her whole life pretending to own. And as she stands there, trembling, practically spitting in your face, the line isn’t just crossed—it’s obliterated. She rips into you, words sharp and spit flying. “God, you make me sick—always lurking in the background, a rat in designer shoes, acting like you’re some kind of savior. You’ve always wanted to be me, always. That’s why you’re obsessed with every fucking thing I do—copying, watching, waiting for your chance. Well, it’s pathetic. Everyone knows it. You’re nothing but a—”

The irony twists painfully inside you as she spits every word, her hair dyed your old shade, her mouth painted your signature color, her dress a nearly perfect replica of the one you’re wearing right now. She stands in front of you, trembling, a clone built from envy and desperation, unable to see how fully she’s lost herself trying to inhabit your skin.

Jeno moves faster than thought, his body slotting between you and Nahyun with a force that startles the air out of the room, one arm outstretched, palm up, a silent command for distance. His other hand hovers near Nahyun’s elbow, his grip the only thing preventing her from crossing that final threshold. “Nahyun, that’s enough.” His tone cuts through the hysteria, steel layered over exhaustion, eyes fixed on her but his stance angled to protect you, as if he’d take the blow if she tried to land it. “You need to stop now. Don’t touch her.” His jaw is locked, shoulders squared, the lines of his back radiating tension that vibrates through the air between you. He never looks away from Nahyun, but there’s a current running through him—every muscle set, every breath calculated—a wall between you and the chaos she brings. He’s not holding her. He’s holding her back, making it clear with every inch of space he claims: his body is here to keep you safe, and that’s the only thing that matters.

She whirls on him, shrill and splintering. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare take her side. After everything—after all I’ve done for you—you still look at her first. You always have. You always will!” Her voice cracks, wild with desperation, and for a second the whole world is just this: you, Jeno, Nahyun, three points in a broken triangle, everything unravelling in the fluorescent glare.

Nahyun’s shrek shreds the air before you even process her movement, her arm lashing out with a violence that feels almost feral. She shoves Jeno aside, hard, his feet sliding on the polished floor, and he staggers, momentarily thrown off-balance. In the blink it takes him to recover, Nahyun’s fist is already crashing into your jaw, a brutal, wild swing that splits your lip, the taste of metal bursting on your tongue. You reel, the pain shocking, her nails clawing at your wrist as she rips your charm bracelet clean off, silver links snapping, charms skittering across marble like tiny, frantic heartbeats.

You don’t get a chance to breathe. She lunges again, hands curling toward your throat, eyes wide and unseeing, rabid with fury. Her spit lands hot against your cheek as she spits curses, “You’re nothing—nothing, you hear me? You think you can take everything from me, you think you can have him, my life, my name—” Her fingers tighten, nails digging crescents into your skin, and in that second, you know she’d choke you if Jeno didn’t surge forward, grabbing her waist and dragging her bodily away from you.

He hauls her off with a force he’s never used before, his voice breaking as he grits out, “Enough—enough!” She thrashes, kicks, sobs, but he doesn’t let go until he’s wrestled her to the sofa, forcing her down, her limbs flailing as she crashes into the cushions. She collapses there, keening, arms thrown over her head, mascara streaking down her face, the beginnings of a full collapse wracking her body. Her rage mutates into broken sobs, the fight leaking out of her in ugly, guttural waves.

Jeno stands there, breath rattling, eyes wide as he stares at Nahyun curled and shuddering on the sofa, her chest heaving, tears streaking black down her cheeks. Shock freezes him—this is not the woman he got engaged to, not the polished, poised partner who smiled for the cameras and clung to his arm at every gala. In all their years together, she’s never unraveled like this, never let the mask slip so completely, never once shown the kind of feral violence now spilling out in shards. Something cold creeps through him, a dawning horror—he realizes, with a jolt, that if he’d ever seen this side of her before, he would have run. He would have ended it, long before rings and public promises, long before his name and hers were tangled up in press and legacy. He can barely process the scene—the screaming, the blood, the wild, manic eyes. In this moment, he knows with a finality that leaves him hollow: this is not just a mistake, this is something broken. Nahyun isn’t just hurt or angry. She’s unwell, untethered, truly in need of help that he cannot offer. Whatever pity or obligation he might have felt is eclipsed by fear, by the stark knowledge that her instability is dangerous, and he can never, ever justify looking her way again.

You’re left swaying, blood running warm down your chin, your hand shaking as you scramble after the bracelet, desperate fingers closing around scattered charms. They’re slick, some bent, one cracked in half. You’re crying, silent at first, then harder as it sinks in, the years you’ve worn it, the safety it promised, now shattered. Your shoulders hitch, a sob tearing loose as you cradle the ruined chain in your palm, eyes blurred with tears and pain.

Jeno stands frozen, torn between you and the wreckage on the sofa. He looks at you—uncertain, aching, his hands trembling as he grabs a tissue from a nearby table. He crosses the space slowly, voice rough, “Let me see—please.” When you flinch, he waits, patient, holding out the tissue. But you can’t stop shaking, can’t manage the wound yourself, so you let him close the distance. His hand cups your chin with reverence, heartbreak plain in his touch, and he presses the tissue gently to your bleeding lip, his thumb brushing tears from your cheek. The moment is raw, electric, an old ache rekindled in the hush after chaos—his hands steady, your heart splintered, the silver chain gleaming, broken, between your trembling fingers.

Nahyun slumps on the sofa, mascara smudged in wild, desperate streaks, her breaths ragged and eyes glassy with fury and exhaustion. She watches Jeno press the tissue gently to your bleeding lip, his hands trembling, his entire body a shield between you and her. For a split second, the room goes utterly silent—then Nahyun breaks it with a bitter, guttural laugh, voice wobbling on the edge of hysteria.

“You think I’m the villain?” she spits, lips curling, body curling in on itself and then snapping upright as she shoves hair from her face. “You want to know what I did? You want to know how long I’ve waited to ruin you? All these years, I’ve watched you haunt every man you touch, watched you walk through rooms like the world should just part for you. You want the truth? You want to know how long I’ve been waiting to watch you bleed?” She laughs, breathless, a noise too close to crying. “Every poster, every flyer—me. I spent days printing them. The night before your performance? I stayed up until dawn, cutting, taping, posting your face over every single noticeboard at the university, every campus gate, every bus shelter. I put them up in the men’s toilets, in the women’s, in the library, outside the gym, in the dining hall, even on the doors of the coach’s office. I wanted you to walk in and feel the world stare, I wanted you to choke on the attention, on the mic. I stood in the crowd that night and watched you realize what I’d done. I wanted you to feel hunted. That was the best day of my life.”

She wipes her nose, face twisting with a vindictive glee, tears and snot streaking her cheeks. “And the videos—I filmed you fucking Jeno, you know. You always thought you were safe. You never even looked for the camera, did you? That’s what makes you weak. You never see it coming. I sent the whole thing to Taeyong. I made sure he saw what you really were, what you were doing to his son. I wanted you both to burn for it. You have no idea how much I wanted to destroy you.”

Nahyun’s voice trembles, but the venom doesn’t fade. She hurls the next words like curses, spitting them into the open wound she’s made in the room. “And you know what? I wish I’d gone further. I wish I’d sent the tapes to your Father, to every professor, to the newspapers. I wish I’d ruined you on every continent. I wish I’d called the police and had you dragged out of there in handcuffs, I wish I’d told every man you ever dated, every boss you ever worked for. I wish I’d ruined every friend you had, poisoned every relationship, made you so untouchable nobody would ever want you again. I wish you’d been the one to drop out of college, to leave Seoul with nothing but a suitcase and your shame.”

Her chest heaves, her voice breaking, but the bile keeps coming, raw and rabid, hate curdled by her own unraveling. “And still, here you are. You survived everything I threw at you. You’re still standing here, head high, like none of it ever mattered. You have the job, the friends, the fucking exhibition. You have everyone in this building fooled. But I see you. You’re nothing but a leech, living off other people’s glory. You always wanted what was mine. Even him.” She jerks her chin at Jeno, eyes wild. “You never deserved him. You never did.”

The silence that follows is almost holy—so thick, so absolute it vibrates in your bones. You can’t speak, can’t do anything but clutch your broken charm bracelet, blood dripping down your chin, sobbing in short, silent waves. Jeno stands frozen beside you, his eyes stretched wide, devastation and disbelief playing out in real time, every last ounce of pity or loyalty for Nahyun shattering as she spits her truth. His hand, meant to comfort, hovers awkwardly at your lip, trembling with the effort to keep it together.

Nahyun is still shaking, shoulders wracked by the force of her confession. “You’re never getting him back,” she whispers, half to herself, half to you, a desperate benediction that falls flat. “I’d do it all again. I’d do worse. I wish I’d ruined every last piece of you. I wish I’d made you disappear.” But you’re still here, wounded but breathing, eyes streaming as you stare at the remains of the life she tried to destroy, holding on to the only piece of yourself she could never take. Jeno, silent, crumples the tissue in his fist, his face pale with shock and horror, unable to reconcile the woman he thought he knew with the monster unraveling before him. In this moment, the entire room feels suspended—on the edge of collapse, truth finally too heavy to keep hidden.

It takes a moment for the full weight of Nahyun’s confession to settle, time dilating, every syllable echoing off the marble and glass, shattering the illusion of civility and sanity she’s clung to for years. Jeno’s face, for a heartbeat, is carved out of disbelief and horror, something ancient and feral clawing through the surface of his composure. His mouth works around nothing, his hands flex at his sides, and you see the effort it takes not to let fury explode outward. His eyes flick from Nahyun, who’s panting and wild-eyed, back to you—where you’re slumped against the wall, breath snagging, fingers clutching the ruined bracelet and your own bleeding lip, body trembling in a storm of grief and panic that strips you raw. He shields you with his body, makes himself a wall, all that rage banked behind the tenderness in his gaze when it lands on you. You can’t catch your breath, your whole body wracked and shuddering, a panic so dense you’re not sure you’ll survive it, and it’s only his voice, low and shaking, that threads through the chaos—“You’re okay. I’ve got you. I promise, I’ve got you”—that tethers you, soft as a prayer, fierce as a shield.

Then he turns—slow, deliberate, every muscle taut with held violence—and faces Nahyun. She’s still talking, wild and fractured, a glimmer of mania sparking through her smile, but now her voice wobbles with desperation. “Okay, Jeno, baby, let’s just get out of here, alright? She’s lying, she’s always lied, you know she’s obsessed with you, let’s go home, let’s just,” her words come out brittle and staccato, crumbling under the weight of her exposure.

Jeno barely blinks. His eyes, cold and razor-bright, cut her down to size with a single look. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, not yelling but commanding, every word a bullet, sharp and final. “You’re done. You’re fucking done.” Jeno’s patience snaps—every trace of composure wiped clean from his face, voice dropping to a jagged snarl. “Don’t you fucking touch her. Don’t look at her. Don’t even fucking say her name, Nahyun. If you come near her again, I swear to god I’ll ruin you. I’ll make sure you never see the outside of a courtroom, never work another day, never so much as breathe in the same city. Try me.”

He steps closer, eyes blazing, teeth bared, practically daring her to move. “You want to know what it feels like to lose everything? Keep running your fucking mouth and I’ll show you. You’re finished. You hear me? Finished. If you ever threaten her again, I won’t just end you professionally—I’ll fucking end you. You don’t get another warning.”

When she whimpers, cursing and clutching at her broken pride, Jeno’s jaw ticks with disgust. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he adds, quieter, voice even more dangerous in its softness, “because I don’t think you’ll like what happens if you push me one more time.” The promise hangs, electric and deadly, as final as the lock sliding home on a cell door.

She stares at him, lips trembling, and takes a step forward as if she might close the gap, but Jeno blocks her with an outstretched arm, never looking away, never flinching. He turns back to you, checks your eyes, his hand gentle as it finds your shoulder, wipes the blood from your mouth with the edge of his thumb, and every bit of that anger melts into something else, something broken and gentle and haunted, meant only for you. “You’re safe,” he murmurs, just for you, “she won’t touch you again.”

But Nahyun won’t let go, her laugh jagged, desperate, shrill. “You’re going to throw all this away? For her? After everything I’ve done for you, Jeno, you’re going to—” She surges forward again, but Jeno’s hand flashes, the gold ring yanked off his finger, clattering across the marble in a metallic finality that leaves the whole room vibrating. “You don’t come near her. You don’t come near me. We’re finished. You’re a fucking bitch, Nahyun. You’re sick, and you need help, the last and only thing I’m ever gonna do for you is get you admitted into a hospital. But after that you’re not my problem anymore. You will never bother Y/N again. You don’t get to ruin another day of her life. Not one more second.”

Nahyun blinks at him, stunned, then tries to spit another insult, but Jeno’s already turned away, all of his focus, every trembling, exhausted ounce, poured into steadying you. His hand covers yours, his chest a barricade, and when your panic boils over, when the sobs wrack through you, he just holds on tighter. He tells you, voice thick and certain, “You’re here. You’re here with me. She can’t hurt you. Not anymore. I swear it.” His fingers stroke your hair back, his breath grounding you, every bit of his anger pressed into protection now, a promise he will never break.

You’ve always had fight in you, spite in your veins, a will that’s outlasted every storm, every night you thought you wouldn’t make it through. You’ve clawed your way out of worse, out of exile and betrayal and the kind of heartbreak that calcifies around the ribs and never quite lets go. But right now, slumped against the wall, clutching the shredded string of charms and bleeding from your mouth, you’re emptied out. The world spins, too bright, too sharp, every sound drowned out by the roar of what Nahyun’s just confessed. It hasn’t even begun to sink in, not truly. The pieces are still falling—flyers, bar lights, the humiliation, the invasion, the way she stripped you of your safety and named you a villain for no tangible reason. Nothing has ever made you feel this flayed, this undone, as if the marrow’s been scraped out of your bones and you’re left brittle and hollow, a monument to someone else’s cruelty.

You gasp for air, the sobs coming ragged and uneven, every breath scraped raw. And for the first time in years, you don’t try to patch yourself up. You don’t try to smile through the ruin or spit venom back at the world. The fight in you flickers, barely a spark, and it’s all you can do to focus on the present—on the weight of Jeno’s hand on your shoulder, the gentleness in his voice as he tells you, again and again, that you’re safe, you’re here, he’s got you. You can’t even look at Nahyun, collapsed and howling behind him; she’s a shadow, a cautionary tale, a storm that’s finally burned itself out. The devastation sits heavy on your chest, grief pooling in your lungs, and all you can do is lean into the touch that steadies you, the voice that promises you’re not alone, not this time.

And this—this is where Jeno’s fire begins. You’ve carried the weight for so long, survived every blow, rebuilt yourself from ashes and glass. Now, as your fight sputters out, as you sit there ravaged and spent, he kneels at your side with a new kind of resolve blazing in his eyes. This is his turn. You’ve fought for him so now it’s his turn. He’s not here for legacy, apology or atonement. He’s here to carry you when you’re too tired to stand, to battle every demon in the room—yours, his, and every one Nahyun ever summoned—until the story ends on your terms. He presses the tissue to your lip, voice hoarse but unwavering, “You don’t have to fight, not tonight. Let me. I’m not even started.” And in that moment, you know you’re not just being protected. You’re being chosen. Finally, without condition, without question, with the kind of devotion that doesn’t ask you to be strong, it simply lets you rest.

You fought for him for years—against his father, against the lies, against the world that told you both to settle for less. You threw yourself between Jeno and every storm, cut your hands trying to stitch him back together, lost sleep and sanity to keep him standing when he was too burdened to breathe. You lost count of the secrets you kept, the blows you took in silence, the ways you tried to protect his name even as your own was dragged through the mud. And now, in this blood-streaked aftershock, the gravity has shifted. You feel it in the way his body angles around you, in the rough tremor of his voice, in the steel of his promise—he’s done hiding behind excuses, done letting you take the fall alone. It’s his turn to raise hell, to shield you from every ghost that ever haunted these halls. The war you thought you’d lost is not over; you’ve fought long enough for him, and now, for the first time, he’s ready to fight for you. But it’s more than that—there’s no more lopsided sacrifice, no more one-sided war. This time, it’s both of you, side by side, battered and bruised and finally, finally choosing each other above every shadow that ever tried to break you.

The silence hangs jagged and electric, still throbbing with the wreckage of everything Nahyun unleashed, when the door swings open and Coach Suh storms in, his voice cutting through the aftermath like a lightning bolt. “Are you two ready for part two?” he calls, half triumphant, half exasperated, waving a thick sheaf of papers in one hand. “You will not believe what I have to share—” He stops dead in the doorway, taking in the sight: Jeno crouched beside you, blood on your lip and your charm bracelet clutched in trembling fingers, Nahyun collapsed and ruined on the sofa, Jeno’s engagement ring glittering and broken somewhere on the floor. His brows shoot up, and he gives you both a quick once-over, mouth twitching with something between disbelief and hard-won satisfaction. “What the hell happened?”

Coach Suh stands in the doorway, takes one look at the wreckage and lets out a long, world-weary sigh. He signals quietly over his shoulder, a subtle jerk of his hand, and mutters, “Alright, come on in.” The hallway erupts with the stomp of boots and the static buzz of radios, suddenly, police officers are everywhere, their uniforms a wall of navy filling the entryway, their movements efficient, practiced, unmistakable in their authority.

Nahyun doesn’t move, she’s frozen in place, mascara streaked down her face, mouth parted in disbelief. Coach Suh keeps his gaze on you, offering a reassuring nod, before stepping aside to let the officers pass. One reads from a folded slip of paper, voice echoing sharp and clear. “Kim Nahyun, you are under arrest for assault, harassment, conspiracy to commit fraud, and distribution of illicit materials. You have the right to remain silent—” The charges roll out, relentless as a drumbeat, filling the glass-and-marble room with every dark secret finally brought to light. Nahyun’s hands tremble as the cuffs close around her wrists. She jerks wildly, spitting threats, her voice rising in pitch until it’s almost inhuman, swearing revenge, screaming at you, at Jeno, at anyone who’ll listen, her body buckling as two officers pull her upright.

You stand rooted, torn between relief and horror, your chest heaving, your lip throbbing, as you watch them lead her out. For a moment you think it’s over, just about the assault, but then you catch the words—“additional charges pending”—and it cuts deeper, dredging up every bruise, every secret, every year she hunted you from the shadows.

Coach Suh lingers, his presence a rare comfort, steadying you through the aftershock, the chaos still ringing in the air. He squeezes your shoulder with a gentleness that catches you off guard, his gaze fierce and unflinching. “You should be proud of tonight,” he murmurs, voice roughened by years of too many battles and too much loss. “You could have disappeared. Could have let them write you out. But you didn’t. You stood here and made space for every kid who was ever overlooked, every story they tried to erase. Don’t let any of this ugliness steal what you did—you were the light in this room, even if the shadows tried to swallow it.”

He glances at Jeno, something almost fatherly flickering in his eyes—pride, regret, and an old, stubborn hope. “Don’t think I regret a single thing,” he says, shaking his head softly. “Not sending you to that bar all those years ago, not spending night after night digging into Nahyun’s past, hunting for the truth no one else wanted to see. Every hour, every risk—it was worth it for this. For you two.”

Then, his hand slips into his pocket, retrieving a small hard drive, its surface worn from being carried and hidden. He turns to Jeno, meeting his gaze dead-on. “There’s more, son. More than you’ll ever know. It’s all on here. You need to see it, but… do it with caution.” He hesitates, his thumb brushing the edge of the device, searching Jeno’s face for readiness. “I’d almost say have someone else watch it first. Some truths don’t get easier, even after all this time.” He sets the drive in Jeno’s palm, firm and final, a passing of the torch, a hand on his shoulder to seal it. Then, with a last nod, at you, at him, Coach Suh slips from the room, leaving behind the silence of what’s been revealed and the weight of what’s still waiting to come.

You can barely breathe, your vision blurring with tears and pain, blood still warm on your lip and the memory of Nahyun’s hand seared into your skin. Jeno reaches for you, his touch gentle, voice breaking, but the moment his fingers graze yours, you jerk away, shuddering, panic clawing up your throat. You choke on a sob, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as you gasp for air, every inch of you trembling.

“Please—” Your voice cracks, raw and desperate. “Get Mark and Karina. Please. I need them. I just—” The words tumble out, wrecked and pleading, as if the only lifeline you trust right now is the familiar safety of old friends, the ones who’ve never left you behind. You press yourself back against the wall, hugging your arms tight around your ribs, shoulders shaking, the room spinning with the aftershock. Jeno freezes, pain flooding his eyes, but he listens, nodding once before rushing from the room to find them, leaving you sobbing—broken open, held together only by the names you’ve always called home.

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

The invitation came as a single line on your phone, come keep me company tonight, so you slipped through the city dusk and pushed open the warped oak door, letting Jihyo’s bar swallow the street behind you. Inside, everything feels compressed by history, wood paneling holding the echo of years yet pushing you forward, violet and navy bulbs casting diffused halos that soften every edge. Shadows cling to the walls like velvet drapes, folding around the empty stools, and the jukebox breathes out a gentle Motown track that once floated through summer midnights, its brass notes tender as fingertips. Two glasses already stand on the polished counter, beads of condensation catching pinpricks of colored light, ginger ale for you, lavender lemonade for her, each chosen with quiet precision so your nerves land on something sweet instead of something sharp.

Jihyo appears from the storeroom carrying a basket of clean napkins, her movements deliberate, her smile a doorway you walk through without hesitation. She slides your drink closer, thumb brushing the rim, then leans in, resting forearms on cool mahogany while her presence settles over you like an embrace. The bar remains empty by design, closed to passers-by until closing time, and she makes a small gesture toward the dimmer switch, lowering the glow until it matches the hush in your chest. Music shifts to a low-slung soul ballad, bass curling along the floorboards, and you feel your shoulders loosen, heat unfurling behind your sternum. Every fragile piece of you begins to breathe in rhythm with the bar’s slow pulse, guided by her understanding of how atmosphere can stitch a person back together.

For the first hour conversation wanders through gentle territory: a new seasonal cocktail she is perfecting, a gossip column about a rock band that once played here, a memory of you balancing on a barstool after closing and belting out a chorus you barely recall. She apologizes again for the night paparazzi shoved their lenses into your grief, sorrow flickering across her features, yet you wave it aside because comfort matters more than revision. Silence follows, comfortable rather than punishing, broken only by clinks of glass as she refreshes ice so the fizz stays bright against your tongue. The hush is absolute except for music that ripples like silk, the whole space curated to keep anxiety outside the door.

Eventually she pulls a tabloid from beneath the bar, headline screaming about Nahyun’s trial, your name circled in red ink. She sets it down without drama, allowing you full control over whether to read or ignore. Fingers on the heavy paper, you skim the crimes: blackmail, harassment, illicit recordings, conspiracy. Your throat tightens yet Jihyo keeps her voice level, describing the labyrinth you will navigate when you testify, reminding you a transcript cannot erase your resilience. She places a bowl of sugared citrus peels beside your glass, bright sweetness to chase the bitterness of printed panic, and waits until you exhale before guiding the paper away again.

Conversation shifts when she lifts her hair to reveal a fine-lined rabbit tucked behind her ear, ink still sharp against skin. The rabbit carries her son’s initials, she explains, then unlocks her phone to show a photo: pudgy cheeks, wide trusting eyes, a smile so open it turns your chest molten. You stare longer than expected, drinking in that innocence, and your friend catches the hunger there. “Come by next Sunday,” she suggests, voice warm, “we’ll close early, let him crawl behind the bar, teach him how to stack coasters. He already loves the sound of ice in a shaker.” You laugh, promise you will bring picture-books and maybe cookies shaped like tiny microphones, because children deserve stage lights that never blind.

Hours slip by, measured in fresh ginger ale and half-remembered stories about university antics, until the violet bulbs feel like dawn rather than dusk. Jihyo keeps the room anchored in that gentle twilight, adjusting music whenever a lyric cuts too close to old pain, raising volume when laughter rises so echoes fill every corner. She tidies napkins, folds bar towels into perfect thirds, then checks that the back door remains bolted, shielding you from any uninvited echoes of the past. Each gesture confirms you were called here to heal, not to reopen wounds.

When closing time finally edges near she pops the cash drawer, counts tips with rhythmic taps, and describes a picnic she plans for the riverbank, complete with sand buckets for her son and blankets big enough for friends who feel like family. You accept the invitation, scribble the date across a coaster, and slip it into your pocket like a vow. The jukebox falls silent, humming electricity taking its place, and Jihyo circles the bar to walk you to the door. Streetlights burn outside, amber and unwavering, yet the warmth inside lingers on your skin, reassurance that soft spaces exist even amid trials and headlines. Before you step into the night she presses a spare key into your palm, for whenever home feels too far, and you hold it tight, feeling the smooth metal promise of a refuge you never have to earn again.

The door swings open on a tide of cold night air and before your gaze even lifts you feel the unmistakable pull at the center of your chest, the bar shrinking to a single point of gravity where Jeno stands framed by sodium streetlight, black shirt clinging to a leaner frame, hair swept back, eyes rimmed in sleepless regret, while Jihyo shoots you a look that blends guilt with a fragile hope, then steps aside so destiny can find its mark.

He crosses the floor as if every board remembers the weight of his victories and mistakes, stops at your elbow, breath catching on words that hang between you like splinters, then his voice cracks through the hushed music, “Please, five minutes,” a petition so raw it pries you open, so you give the slightest nod, granting an audience neither of you is sure you deserve.

“I’m sorry for disappearing after the funeral, for shutting every door between us when you were the only person who ever stayed,” he says, eyes fixed on the ring of water beneath your glass like it holds a map back to before. “I’m sorry I let my Father’s debts decide our future, that I turned grief into a cage and dragged you into it.” His hands spread on the counter, knuckles pale. “I thought if I could carry all the damage myself you’d be spared, but all I did was multiply it.”

He draws a breath that quivers, then lays the worst of it bare. “The engagement… I never loved Nahyun, you know that. My father made a deal with her father months before he died. Vantae was drowning in lawsuits over his offshore accounts, and Nahyun’s family held the evidence that could bury him posthumously, bury me by default. The arrangement was simple—marry her, merge the companies, everything stays sealed. He asked me in the hospital with tubes in his throat, and said it was the last thing he’d ever beg of me. I was twenty-five, terrified, and I said yes because I thought saying no meant losing him twice.”

Jeno rubs a hand over his face, voice breaking against his own confession. “I told myself it was a contract, not a life, that I’d get through a year then find some quiet way out. But every week the leash tightened—press releases, joint charity galas, marketing shoots where Nahyun called me ‘fiancé’ so often I started answering to it. And every time I saw your name on my phone I felt like the cheapest kind of liar, so I stopped picking up, convinced silence would hurt you less than the truth.”

He glances at you then, eyes glassy. “I’m sorry for that too—for treating you like a memory I could file away. It never worked. You were in every room, every sleepless night. I played the best basketball of my career just to outrun the thought of how badly I’d failed us.” A humorless laugh slips out. “Turns out medals don’t muffle guilt.”

He slides a folded document across the bar. “Three months ago I resigned as CEO. No press release, no grandstanding—just walked into the boardroom and said I’m done. I turned over every offshore file, every shell company ledger, and I named myself responsible. The prosecutors will use my testimony to sink Nahyun’s leverage and keep Taeyong’s victims on payroll until the company restructures. I didn’t come here to brag about it—I need you to know action came first, apology second.”

A tremor grips his next words. “What I didn’t know,” he forces out, breath shivering, “is that Taeyong blackmailed you. I never knew he’d shown you those videos, never knew he dangled them over your head to make you stay away from me, I never knew that was the reason you broke up with me during college. If I’d seen him do it I swear I would’ve put him in the ground myself.” Anger burns the apology raw, yet he steels it into remorse. “Finding that out broke whatever was left of the son he wanted me to be.”

His eyes glisten yet he keeps talking, voice hoarse. “I spent the last three months hunting every trace of those videos. I hired forensic techs to trawl the darknet, subpoenaed ex-employees who helped him store backups, bought old drives off auction sites, paid servers to run deletion audits line by line. Every video of you at the bar, every second of footage, every screenshot is wiped, overwritten, and the servers are gone. There’s nothing left that the internet can spit back at you.”

From his coat he pulls a matte black flash drive and a thin stack of notarized affidavits sealed in plastic. “These are the chain-of-custody logs,” he says, sliding them forward. “Independent firms signed off on the erasures, and the flash drive holds the final verification reports. If any copy resurfaces the bounty clause inside triggers six-figure penalties straight to you. I didn’t want to hand you cash to soothe guilt. I wanted to end the leverage that kept you awake at night.”

Jeno stops at your elbow, breath ragged from a sprint that must have started the moment guilt caught up to him, shoulders shaking as though only confession can hold him upright, and his first words spill fast and unfiltered. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice scraping through the hush, each syllable heavy with months of silence, “I’m sorry for disappearing, sorry for letting grief turn love into collateral, sorry for trusting a dying promise more than the living person who believed in me when no one else did.” His chest heaves and he drags a hand through his hair, but the apology keeps pouring, a river that refuses to dam. “I’m sorry I made you doubt every memory, sorry I let a stranger slide a ring onto headlines that should have been about your brilliance, not my cowardice. I’m sorry you cried alone while I smiled for cameras. I will be sorry for that every dawn I wake up and your name is the first thing my heartbeat remembers.”

“I’m sorry for every time your call lit my phone and I let it ring out because I didn’t know how to say ‘I chose a contract over us.’ I’m sorry that my silence made you question your worth, sorry my press conferences turned your achievements into footnotes, sorry I pretended winning games could drown the sound of you leaving my life.” His hands open in surrender. “Love shouldn’t taste like apology, yet that’s all I have left to give, and if it means anything at all, know that I will carry the word sorry like a second heartbeat until the day it stops.”

He sucks in a trembling breath, voice softening but steady. “I love you,” he says, no flourish, no expectation, just truth laid bare, “not the way headlines frame it or the way boardrooms negotiate it, but the way storms remember the first drop of rain, the way songs remember the first note. I love you in present tense even if the future writes us on separate pages. I’m not asking you to forgive me tonight, not asking you to leave anyone or anything behind. I’m not asking you to drop your life, not asking you to betray anyone who’s holding you steady. I’m just begging for one more chance. I know it’s selfish and I know I don’t deserve it, but I’d be the happiest man on the earth if you could give me one chance to show you that love can survive the wreck I made.”

His voice sinks to a whisper that still manages to quake through the room. “I can live without a career, without the family name, without the spotlight, without fucking basketball, turns out I’m already doing that, but I can’t live without loving you. Let me earn back a single inch of the space beside you. If you say no, I’ll stay gone and keep protecting you from afar. If you say maybe, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure ‘sorry’ is the quietest part of our story.”

Jeno’s breath is ragged, the kind that shakes his frame and pulls the old bar’s shadows tighter around him. He stands by for too long, eyes torn between the dim bottles and you, that familiar ache swimming just below the surface. His voice, when it finally breaks free, is gravel and confession, each word circling the space before it lands. “I’ve been everywhere but here,” he says, voice uneven, almost raw. “I thought if I stayed gone long enough it would stick, that you’d stop haunting every fucking thing I do. But every city, every bed, every win, I kept coming back to this room in my head. I had to see you. I had to tell you.”

You can’t look at him for long. His apology is jagged, tumbling out without elegance, sentences crashing over each other as he tries to cross the distance in one breath. “I spent months thinking I was doing you a favor, keeping my mouth shut. The interviews, the games—I’d say what people wanted and it was all bullshit. None of it mattered. I missed you. All I did was miss you.”

He fumbles with the pouch, fingers stiff and clumsy, not from nerves but from the weight of everything he’s ruined, grief etched into the shake of his hands. When he finally loosens the drawstring, the bracelet spills into his palm, silver glinting in the bar’s violet haze like it’s caught every memory he’s tried and failed to forget. He turns it over once, twice, voice dropping lower, edged with a vulnerability you’ve never heard from him before. “You always said the old one made you feel safe,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the links as if trying to transfer something unspoken through the metal. “When it broke, I thought about every promise I failed to keep. I couldn’t stand knowing it was in pieces, not after everything we survived. So I tried to build you a new one. Maybe it’s selfish, but I just wanted you to have something whole again, even if I can’t be.”

He lays the bracelet on the bar with both hands, as if the weight of it is enough to steady him, silver links catching the low light, every charm glinting with the ghosts of older nights. He doesn’t rush—his thumb moves slowly, naming each piece not as a collection, but as the closest thing he has left to a second chance. “They’re all replicas,” he says, his voice rough but careful, as if speaking any louder might crack something fragile between you. “I remember every one I gave you. I remember why, and when, and what I thought they’d mean—then and now.”

He nudges the basketball charm, its small surface inscribed with his new team number, his voice growing softer with the memory. “This one’s for the court. The first one I ever got you, remember? After you snuck into that away game and wore my jacket the whole way home. I thought a new number would feel like a clean slate, but all it does is remind me of the old one—of you in the stands, yelling at the ref like it mattered more to you than anyone else. There’s no point in winning when you’re not there.”

He moves to the next, a book with cobalt enamel, tracing the edge as if your laughter still lives inside it. “This was for that night in the library. You bullied me into reading that novel with you—said it’d change how I see everything. I hated it, but now, sometimes, I remember lines at random. You always said the story lives in the middle, not the end. That’s all I’ve had since you left—the middle, stuck and unfinished, chapters I keep rereading because I can’t let go.”

His finger lingers on the wave, a curl of silver and pale blue glass, smile tugging at his lips, tired but warm. “The wave—after our second date at the beach. You dragged me out into freezing water, made fun of me for shivering, then kissed me so hard I forgot the cold. I thought I’d never get that night out of my head. I never did.”

The microphone follows, its rose gold shining beneath his palm, a tether to every story you gave him, and every silence he regrets. “For your voice. Because you could quiet a room or tear it wide open. When you performed at the wedding it made me feel proud in a way I can’t even describe. You were fearless, you were radiant. I wanted to mark that. I wanted to give you something that said I saw it—how strong you’ve become since the night at the bar, how you can fill a whole room and make people listen. That’s a gift. You have no idea how much I admire you for it.”

The little shield comes last, engraved with a constellation. His expression falters, heavy with apology. “You never needed protection, but I should’ve tried. I should’ve put myself in front of all the things that hurt you, instead of hiding or making excuses. This is a promise that I will never let my mistakes touch you again.” He leaves the air vibrating with the weight of a love that finally understands its own destruction, a love trying to rebuild itself one unending apology at a time.

He pauses at the last charm—a ring, white gold with a single sapphire, his hand lingering as if he can’t quite let it go. When he finally speaks, his voice is raw, every word cut from somewhere deeper than regret. “This isn’t a proposal. I just—I remember the sky the night you first let me love you. It was that exact color. I wanted to give you something that meant I was still holding on, even if it’s just to a memory. You don’t have to wear it. I just wanted you to know you were always more than a chapter or a charm. You were the whole story, and I’m still reading the ending, even if you’re not in it.”

The bracelet lies between you, heavy with memory and hope, the chain coiled like some fragile proof that the past can still reach across time and touch you. You stare at it for a moment, your voice stuck behind the ache in your throat, but finally the silence unravels and you find the strength to speak, your hands curling around the edge of the bar. “What do you want to happen now?” you ask, your voice trembling but steady. “Jeno, you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep showing up with pieces of the past and expect them to fit where they don’t belong. So much has happened. How are we supposed to move on from this? I had to learn to survive without you, to build something real, something that doesn’t crack just because you show up again. I’m with someone now. I have a life I can hold together.” You swallow, trying to catch your breath, but the question sits there between you, final and raw. “Tell me—what do you actually want from me?”

He looks down, fingers brushing over the charms as if he can rearrange the past itself, and when he finally lifts his gaze it’s with a hollow resolve that shakes you to your core. “There’s one more thing,” he says quietly.

Before he can say more you interrupt, desperation surfacing in your voice as you try to cut the hope short. “Jeno, just stop. I can’t do this anymore. I have a boyfriend.”

He doesn’t flinch, not even for a heartbeat. Your words hang in the air, but he absorbs them with a quiet, unyielding force, the pain in his eyes eclipsed by something fierce and unshakeable. There’s a new steadiness to him, a razor-sharp certainty that feels magnetic, he straightens, gaze locked on you with a confidence that makes it suddenly impossible to look away. “Yeah, I know,” he says, his voice low and deliberate, a challenge and a promise in every syllable. He lets the words settle, lets you feel the pull of them, then leans in just enough for you to taste the gravity of what’s coming next. “I’m saying you could have a husband.”

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp—you feel your own pulse jump, shock and anger and longing twisting together until you want to scream at him for making this harder than it already is. He’s already reaching for the last charm, a ring of white gold, cool and luminous beneath the bar’s glow, sapphire winking in the dim light. He holds it out, his hand steady now in the way that comes with finality, not hope. “This isn’t a proposal,” he says, voice stripped down to the bone, eyes locked on yours so nothing can slip by unspoken. “I know I have nothing to offer you right now—nothing but a mess of apologies and a ruined name. I know you don’t owe me anything. I remember the sky the night you first let me love you, how blue it was, how certain I felt for once in my life. That’s why I picked this. It’s not for now, not for tonight. I’m not asking you to forgive me, not yet. I know I have a lot to prove before I’m allowed to mean any of this. I just wanted you to have something real—a marker, a reminder that you were always more than a chapter or a charm or a regret. You were everything. You are. And if there’s ever a day when you’re ready, when I’ve earned it—then I want to be the man you choose. I want to be your husband. I want you in every way there is.”

He drops his hand, the ring charm swinging between you, heavy with every confession that’s come before. The pain in his eyes is cutting—raw, naked, the kind of love that’s turned itself inside out so many times it’s become almost unrecognizable.

You stare at the bracelet, hands shaking, vision swimming as tears well and spill no matter how hard you try to swallow them down. Every instinct screams to hold on, to let yourself fall, but you force your hands to move, pushing the pouch back toward him with finality, refusing to let your voice waver. “Take the bracelet and go,” you say, every syllable heavy with sorrow, your eyes locked on his, daring him to challenge you, begging him not to. “I don’t need it anymore and you need to go too.” The words cut through the hush, brittle and irrevocable, but you’re not finished, not yet. Your voice breaks, raw and desperate, each tear carving a line down your cheek. “Some things aren’t meant to be fixed and maybe we’re one of them. I don’t need the charms anymore, I realised that I’m still strong without them. You need to leave, Jeno. Please.”

He stands there, taking in every shattered word, the tremor in your voice, the tears brimming in your eyes, and you watch him swallow the pain whole rather than spill any more of it onto your shoulders. His jaw clenches, shoulders rigid, and for a moment you see the war inside him—every muscle straining against the need to turn back, to beg for another chance, to let pride die for one last taste of you. Yet he doesn’t make you bear the weight of his longing, not now, not when you’ve asked him to let go. Instead, with a careful, almost reverent touch, he pockets the bracelet, a silent vow etched in the way his fingers linger just a moment too long. He starts toward the door with a heaviness that makes every step ache, not the resignation of a man defeated, but the stubborn ache of someone who loves you enough to wait—someone who leaves only because you need him to, not because his hope has died.

At the threshold, he pauses, hand pressed to the frame as if steadying himself against the future he’s not yet ready to face. He turns back, meeting your gaze with something that’s all promise, raw and undimmed. There’s no more pleading in his eyes, only a certainty carved out of heartbreak, a devotion that says he will carry the memory of your plea for peace, that he will not fight you now, but he will fight for you always. The silence stretches, thick as history, and in it you hear everything he cannot say: that he will wait for you, days or decades, that he will hold your absence like a sacred bruise, that he owes you the same fight you once gave him.

He leaves because you need him to, but he leaves loving you, loving you enough to stay gone, loving you enough to hope. When the door closes, the cold air that rushes in feels almost merciful, because it’s the only thing that cuts through the ache left in his wake. The quiet that settles is total, bruising, but somewhere beneath it all is the smallest thread of hope, something unfinished, something that might still come home to you, if you ever call for it.

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

The hospital hums with a restless stillness that seeps beneath your skin, all cool linoleum and too-white walls washed in winter morning light. You’re here for work—Apex’s first hospital focused performance project, a pilot you fought to launch, hoping proof of real impact would finally be enough to drown out everything that came before. You’ve been moving through the ward since seven in the morning, discussing integration with nurses, fielding questions from doctors, translating analytics into outcomes, all while clutching your clipboard like it’s armor.

Jaemin is beside you, his hand resting gently on his daughter’s shoulder, guiding her down the corridor as you talk through the rollout plan for post-op recovery tracking. Haeun trails between you, hair in soft pigtails, hugging a plush rabbit to her chest. Jaemin’s exhaustion shows only in the way he sometimes blinks too long at your charts, the way his hand never leaves her even as he explains, quietly, “She’s not a morning person, but she likes coming to work with me. Hospital breakfast is her favourite excuse.”

You round the corner together and see Jeno waiting near the play area, hands in his pockets, sneakers tapping nervously against the floor. He looks up—and when his eyes catch yours, the world shifts on its axis. Everything else falls away: the bright artificial lights, the scuffed linoleum, the cheerful pastel murals. There’s only the static in your chest and the way you both go utterly still, locked in a gaze so thick with history you can taste the ache of it. The sight hits you like a jolt, all your composure falling away as your eyes lock. He looks up, just as startled, but you piece it together quickly, the way Jaemin’s hand rests on Haeun’s shoulder, Jeno’s awkward anticipation, the subtle exchange you’re suddenly intruding on. He’s here for her, you realize, here to take Haeun while Jaemin works another late shift. The logic of it lands, but it doesn’t lessen the ache or the surprise, not when it’s him, not after all this time.

Jaemin catches the way your breath stutters, the way Jeno’s jaw tenses as if he’s fighting the urge to speak. Jaemin’s hand tightens on Haeun’s back, gently steering her toward the lounge. “Baby, let’s go, okay?” he says, his tone soft, protective, pulling her with him a few steps down the hall as if he’s shielding her from something too old for children to name.

Jeno shifts, eyes flicking from Jaemin to you and back, trying to steady himself. “Oh—I thought I was meant to take her,” he says, voice lower than usual, careful and measured. He looks down, then up at Jaemin, searching for permission or reprieve.

Jaemin glances at his watch, then brushes Haeun’s hair off her forehead with a tired fondness. “She can go in fifteen,” he says, managing a half-smile as he crouches to straighten her coat. “She’s got ten more minutes of my cuddles, right?” Haeun grins, melting into his arms, and Jaemin lets his head rest on her crown, mumbling something about how he’ll need extra hugs to get through another all-nighter on call.

You stand there, the clipboard pressed too hard to your chest, heart thumping so loudly it drowns out every other sound. The urge to speak is heavy on your tongue, a weight you’ve carried for months. Jeno’s gaze finally finds yours again, and this time neither of you look away. You clear your throat, letting the words settle between the three of you, shaky but honest. “I could talk to you, Jeno.” For a moment, time hangs suspended—Jaemin gently rocking Haeun, Jeno’s hand flexing at his side, your pulse hammering as all the old gravity draws you back into the orbit you tried so hard to escape. The air is thick with everything unsaid, hope and grief woven together, waiting for what might finally come next.

You guide him down a silent, half-lit corridor, every step echoing with nerves you can’t name. The hospital after-hours is nothing like the day, a hush drapes the halls, broken only by distant beeps, the low hum of air conditioning, and the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to the walls. You reach the on-call room, swipe your card, slip inside, and turn the lock with trembling fingers. The lights inside are dim, a muted glow spilling over a battered cot, two metal chairs, a tangle of scrubs folded carelessly on a shelf. It’s cramped, the air heavy with sleep and secrets, but all you feel is the pulse of his presence filling the space behind you.

You turn, and he’s already watching, shoulders squared in that familiar way, jaw sharp, hair a little tousled, every inch of him too much and not enough at once. His eyes find yours and in the silence, every memory of that night—every promise, every ache—floods you with heat. There’s a rawness to him, something softer than when you left him as he walked out of that bar, but the way he stands there, hands in his pockets like he’s afraid to move, makes him more devastating than ever.

He speaks first, his voice low, tender, full of something that splits you open. “Are you okay?”

The words scrape straight through you, and before you can answer, you gasp—can’t help it, can’t hold back—and all at once you close the distance, your hand curling into his shirt, your lips finding his, hungry, reckless, desperate for the taste of him after all those months spent pretending you could live without it. He kisses you back instantly, mouth warm and open, tongue searching yours, one hand cupping your jaw, his breath coming ragged against your cheek. He moans, the sound dark and needy, but just as your hands slide beneath his shirt, he gasps and breaks the kiss, pressing you gently but firmly against the wall, searching your eyes, voice thick.

“What about Yangyang?” he breathes, his words trembling against your skin.

You shake your head, barely able to form the words, your lips still brushing his. “I broke up with him. The week after the day at the bar. It’s over, Jeno. It’s only you.”

The air is thick with anticipation, sharper and more electric than anything you remember, every second heavy, charged, and you can feel the trembling hunger in the way Jeno looks at you, eyes almost feral, pupils blown wide with disbelief and want. You barely manage a breath before he’s moving, closing the distance with a desperate need, both of you drawn together as if your bodies knew this choreography long before your minds ever caught up. Your hands tangle in his hair, yanking him closer, and your mouth finds his—lips crashing, teeth grazing, tongues sliding wet and frantic, tasting years of ache and resentment and the kind of love that never left, only grew sharper.

The first kiss is messier than you could have imagined—neither of you careful, both of you greedy, gasping and breaking apart just to drag in a ragged breath before meeting again, harder, deeper. His hands roam everywhere, cupping your jaw, sliding down your neck, tracing your spine as if mapping you from memory. His tongue pushes between your lips, hot and impatient, coaxing a needy moan from your throat, the sound swallowed into his mouth. You press yourself against him, hips grinding up, your body arching with every greedy swipe of his tongue, every desperate drag of his teeth. It’s as if he’s trying to relearn you, trying to taste every version of you he’s missed.

You barely notice your back meeting the thin, creaky cot until the frame rattles beneath you, Jeno’s weight pressing you down, mouth never leaving yours. He’s clumsy in his hunger, breath stuttering against your cheek as he kisses you again and again, tongue slick and insistent, exploring the wet heat of your mouth like he’s starving for it. You claw at his shirt, nails scraping over his skin, needing him naked, needing to feel him everywhere at once. His fingers fumble with the zipper at your waist, dragging your clothes down with reverent urgency, pausing only when you press a palm to his chest, panting.

“Go slow, baby,” you whisper, voice fraying on the edge of a plea, your gaze locked on his. He nods, something gentle flickering in his eyes, softening all that wildness.

“I will,” he breathes, kissing you once, slow and deep, before trailing his lips down your neck, mapping the places that make you shudder and gasp. His hands move slowly now, sliding your panties down your thighs, exposing you to the cool air and the warmth of his breath. He kisses his way down your body, dragging his tongue along your hip, then sinking to his knees on the floor beside the cot, dragging your legs open with a gentleness that leaves you aching.

Jeno’s mouth hovers just above your cunt, his breath hot and shaky, lips parted as he looks up at you from between your thighs, reverence and hunger warring in his gaze. He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, sucking a bruise there, teeth grazing your skin, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat. He moves closer, burying his face in the heat of you, tongue flattening against your slit, licking a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance up to your clit. The sound that leaves you is helpless—an unguarded moan, loud and trembling, echoing in the tiny room. His hands slide under your ass, anchoring you as he settles in, devouring you with slow, worshipful strokes, his tongue tracing every slick, sensitive line, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking gently until your hips lift off the mattress.

He works you open with his mouth, tongue swirling over your clit, then dipping lower, fucking into you with slow, insistent strokes, savoring every reaction, every gasp and quiver. He moans into you, the vibrations rumbling through your core, his hands gripping your thighs so tight you’re sure he’ll leave marks. His mouth is everywhere—sloppy, greedy, never rushing, just savouring, eating you like he’s making up for every lost year. He flicks his tongue faster, then slower, learning what makes you whine, what makes you beg, and when you tug his hair he only groans, pressing his face deeper, nose nudging your clit as he works you over and over.

You can barely keep quiet, every sound spilling out of you raw, desperate, uncontrollable. Your thighs tremble around his head, hips rolling into his mouth, seeking more friction, more pressure, chasing the high that’s already burning through your veins. Jeno pulls you closer, mouth unrelenting, tongue fucking you, lips closing over your clit to suck harder, then gentle again, teasing, edging you closer and closer. His hands never stop roaming, squeezing your hips, kneading your ass, grounding you even as your body threatens to come apart. The room smells like sex and longing and the sweat beading down your chest, every breath sharp and shuddering.

He murmurs your name against your cunt, voice rough and adoring, praising how perfect you taste, how much he missed this, how he could die here and never want for anything more. Each word is punctuated by his tongue—slick, skilled, relentless—drawing you right to the brink. Your body shakes, head thrown back, hands tangled in his hair, thighs squeezing his head as you arch and whimper and fall apart for him, coming hard, everything tightening and breaking open with the force of it. Jeno doesn’t stop—he licks you through it, swallowing every pulse, eyes flicking up to watch you shatter, his own hunger insatiable, his devotion absolute.

His mouth never fully leaves your skin, but the desperation softens into something deeper, every kiss and touch a careful reacquaintance with the body he’s craved for years. Jeno’s hands cradle your hips as he rises above you, face close, eyes shining with adoration and nerves. You watch his lips part, breath unsteady, and reach up to cup his jaw, stroking your thumb along his cheek as he presses his forehead to yours. “God, I missed you,” he murmurs, voice trembling, and the confession makes your heart flutter. He kisses you, slow and loving, tongue gliding gently with yours as he lets his fingers explore—drawing circles at your waist, dragging up to lace your fingers together, holding your hand as if it anchors him to the moment.

You arch beneath him, feeling his weight settle between your thighs, his cock brushing over your slit with each teasing, careful roll of his hips. He’s tentative at first, rocking forward only enough to feel your wetness coat his length, breath catching at the warmth and slick heat of you. You can sense his hesitation—four years is a long time, and your bodies remember each other’s hunger but not the ease. He tries to push in, but you both gasp as the fit is too tight, your walls fluttering around his tip. He stills, forehead furrowing, hand returning to yours, and he kisses your temple with a soft, apologetic sigh. “Are you okay?” he whispers, voice velvet, and you nod, pressing your lips to his jaw, urging him closer.

“It’s just—slow, baby, please,” you whisper, your words shaky but sure, fingers squeezing his. Jeno nods, gaze softening, and presses tiny kisses across your cheeks, your mouth, your chin. He lines himself up again, this time guiding himself in with even more patience, letting you feel every inch as he rocks forward—pausing every time you tense, waiting for your breathy “okay” before easing deeper. It takes a few tries, both of you laughing softly through the struggle, eyes glistening with relief and nervous excitement. His thumb rubs soothing circles against your palm, and finally, finally, he slides fully inside, sheathing himself in your warmth, groaning low and broken into your shoulder.

You both stay like that, clinging together, your legs wrapped around his waist and his hand tangled with yours, neither willing to move for fear of shattering the fragile peace. His lips find yours again, kissing you softly, his other hand brushing sweaty hair from your brow. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart,” he coos, voice shaky and breathless, hips barely moving as he lets you adjust, lets the ache turn sweet. You moan, squeezing around him, your bodies falling into a rhythm as gentle as breathing, each thrust unhurried, every slide deeper wringing out a new gasp from your lips.

Jeno’s eyes stay locked on yours, his mouth falling open with every slow, tender push. He keeps whispering praise, voice thick with emotion—“Missed you, missed this, missed how you feel, how you sound, fuck, you’re perfect”—words falling between your kisses, your moans, the soft slap of skin against skin. You lift your hips, meeting him with every movement, your hands roaming up his arms, clutching at his back, then sliding down to lace your fingers with his, holding tight. He intertwines your hands above your head, pressing them into the mattress as he rocks into you, eyes wide and hungry, drinking in every sound, every stuttered breath, every shiver.

The lovemaking is almost worshipful, your bodies reacquainting with careful, loving strokes, his lips never far from yours. He kisses your eyelids, your collarbone, your chest, breathes your name like a prayer, and you reply with quiet whimpers and shaky pleas—“don’t stop, Jeno, just like that, please—” Your thighs tremble around his hips, your toes curl, and he groans into your neck, thrusts turning deeper but never losing their gentleness. He nuzzles your cheek, bites your lower lip, your hands clasped tight, hearts pounding in unison. Every movement is slow and melting, nothing rushed, every second soaked in longing.

His pace stutters, hips rolling deeper, the friction building but never harsh. “You feel so fucking good,” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, eyes glossy with adoration. You reach up, cupping his face, kissing him long and deep, your tongues dancing in slow, sweet circles, sharing every moan, every sigh, every unspoken promise. He holds you as if you’re breakable, thrusts lazy and unhurried, drawing out every pulse of pleasure, savoring the reunion as much as the release.

You feel yourself cresting, the pleasure bright and unrelenting, every stroke of his cock inside you winding you tighter, every brush of his lips sending sparks across your skin. He’s trembling too, holding back, wanting this to last, but you feel the way he loses control every time you moan his name, every time your hips buck against his, every time your fingers squeeze his so tight your knuckles ache. ��Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, “never want to stop, never want to let go—” and you cry out, meeting every thrust, loving him with every part of you.

Your legs are trembling, thighs slick and parted wide, Jeno’s body pressed to yours, all sweat and desperation, the mattress beneath you groaning with every slow, relentless thrust. His lips drag across your neck, mouth hot and open, tongue tracing the pulse pounding beneath your skin as he murmurs, “Fuck, you feel so good, I can’t—” His hand laces with yours, holding you tight above your head, and every movement is thick with longing, years of denial crashing down in the way his hips roll, how his cock splits you open, how he never looks away, eyes searching yours for every stuttered gasp, every shiver. You squeeze around him, needy, your own hips arching to meet him, and he groans, deep and broken, “Tell me you missed this, baby—tell me you missed me.”

You nod, voice barely a whisper, overwhelmed by the feeling of him inside, by the softness and the ache, by the way he fills you, slow and deep, so thick you swear you’ll never get used to it again. “I missed you so much,” you moan, voice shaking with truth, your nails digging into his back, scraping down his spine. “God, I thought about you every night. I touched myself thinking about this, about your cock—about you filling me up, fucking me like this. I need you, Jeno.” His eyes flutter shut at the confession, lips parting, and he leans in to kiss you again, tongue wet and greedy, swallowing your moans, your confessions, his hips stuttering as your words hit him.

He pulls back only far enough to see your face, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed with tears and lust. “You want me to cum inside you, baby?” he asks, voice rough, low and teasing, but there’s an edge of awe in it—like he can barely believe this is real, that you’re begging for him like you never left. “You want me to make you mine again? You want me to fill you up, fuck a baby into you?” He says it like a promise, filthy and reverent, rolling his hips slowly so you feel every inch, every twitch of his cock inside your soaked, fluttering heat. You whimper, hips grinding up, your whole body arching, shameless, “Yes, Jeno, fuck, I want it—I want your cum, I want you to ruin me, I want everything, please—”

The words break something in him. His hand tightens on your thigh, pushing you wider, holding you open as his pace picks up, thrusts deepening, each stroke deliberate, grinding into your sweet spot. “You want to be all mine?” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling as his voice drops to a possessive growl. “You want me to fuck you so full you can’t think of anyone else? Want me to watch you swell with me—my baby inside you?” His words are a dark caress, each syllable sending heat spiraling through your body, making your cunt clamp down on him, making you gasp and cry out.

“Yes, yes, please, please—” Your voice is wrecked, trembling, each sound lost in his mouth, his kisses desperate, hands everywhere—your waist, your breast, your jaw, claiming every inch of you.

His rhythm turns ragged, hips jerking, his voice a raw, needy plea. “Are you sure, baby? I’m close, I can’t hold back—fuck, say it again, tell me what you want.”

You pull him down, legs wrapping tighter, holding him in, moaning into his neck, “Don’t pull out, don’t you dare, I want to feel you, want to feel your cum leaking out of me, want to be full, want it so fucking bad, please, Jeno—” He whimpers, that sound you only ever heard when he was truly lost, truly yours, and he buries himself as deep as he can go, hips grinding, cock twitching, his whole body trembling with restraint.

You don’t even know why you’re begging him to cum inside you. The words spill out with every gasp and roll of your hips, the baby talk tumbling between kisses, dizzy and reckless—‘want you to fill me up, want your baby, want everything’—but you’re as startled by the rawness as he is. In truth, you don’t know what’s happening inside you, why your body and mouth crave that surrender, only that you’re on the pill and somewhere deep down you believe this can’t possibly become real. Logic dissolves under his hands; all you feel is the press of his body, the slick friction of skin on skin, the way his eyes lock to yours when you whisper, “Don’t pull out.” Everything else fades, the world narrowing to the fevered ache between you, to the need that makes you forget everything but him, to the wild, inexplicable want that pulses through you every time he thrusts deeper and you lose yourself in the promise of him.

The pressure builds, your body shaking, pleasure cresting and snapping all at once as he pounds you through it, his hand in yours, his voice in your ear, “That’s it, baby, come for me—let me feel you—fuck, you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” You break for him, crying out, cunt spasming around his cock, milking him for everything he’s worth, your whole world narrowing to the heat of his skin, the taste of his kiss, the way he moans your name like a prayer. He loses it then, hips jerking erratic, cock swelling and spilling deep inside you, his seed hot, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt, dripping down your thighs as you cling to each other, bodies shuddering, tears streaking your cheeks as he pants your name, broken and worshipful.

Jeno is still inside you, body trembling with the aftershocks, breathless confessions spilling against your neck. His lips graze your skin as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of goodbye, every kiss softer, more desperate, as if saying I love you enough could sew the seams of this moment closed. “I love you,” he gasps, voice cracked, eyes glossy with hope and something much darker. “I love you, I love you—God, you’re everything. You’re my whole fucking world, you know that?”

The words break you open. You feel his cum leaking from you, his hands tracing hearts on your damp skin, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes searching for a promise you’ll never give. Tears slip down your cheeks, salt mingling with sweat, and you can’t even pretend to hide them. He keeps whispering, “You’re mine. I’m never letting you go. I’ll spend every day proving it—every day, baby, for the rest of my life.”

You want to believe him. You want to live in this feverish hope, tangled in his arms, all need and forever. But something inside you splinters, a cold certainty settling in your bones—this is the last time. Fate is circling, hungry and jealous, and you know even as he spills his soul into you, you’re already a memory. You choke on a sob, clinging to his body like it’s the only thing holding you together, the pain sharp enough to feel holy.

He doesn’t notice the way your hands shake, the way your lips tremble beneath his. He just keeps loving you, frantic and sincere, pressing kiss after kiss to your cheeks, your mouth, your eyelids—like maybe if he worships hard enough you’ll stay. “Don’t leave me,” he breathes, raw and pleading. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it, I swear. I can’t lose you again. I’d die if I lost you again.”

You can’t answer. You can only hold him tighter, sobs slipping free as you ride the last waves of pleasure and grief together, knowing you’ll never tell him the truth—never tell him that destiny is cruel, that this is your last tangle, your last collapse, your last time letting him make you his. He kisses your tears, not realizing he’s drowning in the storm he can’t see coming, a prophecy sealed by every desperate, ruined gasp between your bodies.

You’re shaking when he finally stills, his arms wrapped around you, his love still echoing in your ear. But you know, deep in your marrow, that this is it. The end has already chosen you both. And as the afterglow fades, a cold shadow creeps in, winding tight as a curse around your heart—because the universe doesn’t care how much you love him, or how much he loves you back. You gave him everything. But tonight, love isn’t enough to keep you.

This is the last time he’ll ever have you like this, and you know it even as you arch into his arms, clutching him closer, your bodies still joined and trembling. You needed this—needed to be ruined by him, to let him mark you with everything you could never say, to have your goodbye etched not in words but in sweat, in moans, in the way your nails dig crescents into his skin. There was never going to be a conversation, never a promise to try again, only this one night where you could let go of every burden and be nothing but his—hungry, reckless, weeping into his mouth, giving yourself over for the last time so you could finally walk away. You take it all, let him love you, let yourself fall apart in his hands, because tomorrow you’ll be gone and he’ll wake to an ache that never leaves, and you’ll be nothing but the ghost of the best thing he ever lost.

It’s been eight weeks since that night, and you feel it in your bones, fatigue chasing you into every morning, nausea blooming at odd hours, a fog clinging to your brain that coffee won’t clear. You’re always warm, sometimes flushed and prickling with sweat for no reason, and hunger hits you in strange, sudden ways, sometimes replaced by aversion so strong you have to step outside just to breathe. There are moments when you almost forget, buried in the noise of daily life and deadlines, but then the dizziness returns, or you catch your reflection—paler, softer, eyes a little glassy, with a new ache behind your smile.

Today you’re in the hospital’s break lounge with Jaemin, both of you hunched over laptops and scattered binders, discussing Apex’s next phase of data rollout. Your notebook is open to patient compliance rates, your pen tapping against the page, but your focus keeps drifting. Jaemin watches you, eyes narrowed in that quiet, observant way that makes you uneasy.

He scrolls through a few charts, then glances at you, casual but pointed. “Hey, quick one—if you had to recommend prenatal vitamins for a new pregnancy, would you go with the high-folate blend or the one with added DHA? The pharmacy’s updating their stock and I’m meant to suggest one, but honestly, I trust your judgment more with this stuff.”

You barely look up from your laptop, mind still swimming in spreadsheets and exhaustion. “Honestly? The high-folate blend is best for early pregnancies—especially first trimester. DHA’s good for brain development, but you really need folate to lower neural tube risk, so if they have to pick just one, I’d say—” You pause, the words stalling on your tongue as you glance at Jaemin’s face, at the slow, knowing smile spreading across his lips. It takes you a second to put it together, but suddenly your heart is pounding, and your mouth goes dry. You blink at him, the realization finally sparking in your brain. “Wait—how did you…?”

He smiles softly, knowing, setting his tablet aside. “I work in peds, Y/N. I spend half my life around pregnant mothers. You think I wouldn’t notice? You’ve been sick every morning, yawning through meetings, always a little sweaty, and you only ever eat the salt crackers now. You think I haven’t seen this a hundred times?”

Your whole body goes cold, your breath stalling, a flush of panic prickling across your chest. “How did you know?” you whisper, the words torn from you, your hand pressed to your stomach as if you can hide the truth there. “No one knows,” you manage, voice splintering, and suddenly it’s too much—weeks of holding it in, the dread and the ache and the wild, unmoored hope you never let yourself voice. The tears come hot and fast, your shoulders shaking as you gasp for breath, and Jaemin is up in an instant, wrapping his arms around you. You cling to him, sobbing, unable to hold it back any longer. “I only found out a month ago,” you stammer, “I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t—fuck, Jaemin, how the fuck did this even happen? It wasn’t supposed to—when I told him to cum inside, it was because I was on the pill, I—I thought I was safe, I—”

He holds you tighter, hand rubbing slow circles into your back, voice gentle but honest. “The pill doesn’t always work, Y/N. Sometimes life doesn’t care what we plan.” He rocks you slightly, anchoring you, steady as a heartbeat. “I found out about Haeun in the worst possible way, you know. I was younger than you, more scared, handled it all wrong. But she’s the best thing that ever happened to me, I knew the second I held her for the first time.”

Your tears don’t slow, your breath coming sharp and shallow, panic still flickering in your chest. “I don’t even know what I’m going to do,” you choke out. “I don’t know if I’m keeping it, I don’t know how to tell him, I just, I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Jaemin’s hands pause on your back, his brows furrowing in gentle concern. “Well, what did you tell Yangyang?”

You pull back, blinking at him, searching his face for the hint of a joke but he’s dead serious, just waiting. Exasperation sparks through your tears and you smack his arm, half laughing, half crying. “It’s not Yangyang’s, are you serious? I haven’t had sex with him since last year. It’s Jeno’s, you idiot.”

His eyes widen, mouth falling open as the truth sinks in—he’s genuinely shocked, almost comically so. “What?” he stammers, blinking hard like he needs to replay your words in his head. “Wait, what?”

You wipe at your eyes, still trembling, and shoot him a tired, pointed look. “Why are you so shocked? Don’t you and Jeno share everything? You act like you’re not joined at the hip.”

Jaemin just shakes his head, still processing. “Well, Jeno doesn’t exactly have much to share about you right now because you keep avoiding him. He keeps trying to talk to you, but you keep slipping away. God, Y/N, you’re going to be a mother and you’re this immature? What’s happened to you?”

You look away, jaw tight, shame prickling hot under your skin, crawling up your neck until you can’t meet Jaemin’s eyes at all. He studies you for a moment longer, his patience finally worn thin by your silence. When he speaks again, his voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard, an edge of disbelief threading through every word. “You haven’t told Jeno?” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s hoping you’ll deny it if he just gives you the chance. “Y/N, you seriously need to tell him. You can’t just pretend this isn’t happening, or hope it’ll go away if you stay quiet. You’re not the only one this will change. He deserves the truth—the chance to step up, to decide what kind of man he’s going to be, for you and for your baby. You both deserve that, even if it scares the shit out of you.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw, frustration warring with concern in his eyes. “I know it’s hard. I know you’re scared. But this isn’t the kind of thing you run from, Y/N. It’ll follow you everywhere. It already is. You owe it to yourself—to the life you’re carrying—to face it head-on.”

His words settle over you like thunderclouds, heavy and absolute, the truth ringing so clear it almost hurts. The room feels smaller now, the air charged and trembling, as if something in the universe is holding its breath, waiting for you to choose which world you want to live in. And for a moment—just a moment—you feel the earth tilt beneath your feet, every possible future branching out, dazzling and terrifying. You could tell Jeno and watch your life split open, raw and real and honest, step into the storm of love, longing and hope and see if you both can survive it. Or you could keep running, hold this secret close, disappear into a quieter world where it’s only you and the heartbeat inside you, building a new life from scratch, never looking back.

Outside the window, the city spins, indifferent. Fate circles above you, silent, patient, as if waiting for your voice to rise up and claim a destiny only you can name. In this moment, you stand at the edge of everything, motherhood, heartbreak, rebirth, caught between prophecy and possibility, knowing that nothing will ever be the same. The next breath you take, the next step you choose, will change everything.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note —

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

131 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 1 month ago

Text

soft 2ho ૮･ﻌ･ა ♡ ʕ⁠⁠･ﻌ･ʔ

596 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 1 month ago

Text

I CANT STOP CRYING OHMYGOD 😭😭😭😭

back to you — five

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 43k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — the fallout from the bar backs you and jeno into a corner, forcing everything to unravel faster than you can control. just when the lines blur and restraint shatters, when old habits become impossible to break, you’re forced to confront a demon—but you can’t let him save you. not when the real threat has finally stepped out of the shadows, pulling the strings tighter, making sure there’s only one way this ends, and it’s not with jeno by your side.

chapter warnings/contents — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, i want to preface this by saying that this chapter explores heavy, dark, and deeply angsty themes. please read with care. without giving too much away, it delves into blackmail, a sense of entrapment, and the overwhelming weight of hopelessness. but i want to remind you—this is not the end of the story. we still have about four parts left, and what happens here is only a fragment of the whole. don’t take anything as final. if you see y/n break, if you see weakness, if it feels like all is lost—trust me, it’s part of the process. you haven’t seen anything yet, hard angst this chapter, get tissues ready please, this chapter is the embodiment of a roller coaster, a very needed mark and y/n bestie scene, desperate and horny smut as always, y/n riding like always, jaemin is back, descriptions of heavy emotions. please read with care, love you all 🖤.

authors note — very important note, this was going to be a single part upload but of course i can’t upload 80k worth of words in one post so like part four, it’s going to be uploaded in two separate posts. the next post will continue exactly where this post ends, just remember that as you’re reading! there’s still a lot more to take place.

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

You found the bar on a night when the city felt too sharp, too loud, its edges pressing into you like glass. It wasn’t the kind of place you were searching for, not the sterile cafés or fluorescent-lit study halls where you usually passed the hours, but something about the warm glow spilling onto the pavement made you stop. The hum of conversation didn’t feel intrusive here—it folded into the low strum of a guitar, into the soft clink of glasses, into the air thick with stories left half-told. It was a place that didn’t demand anything from you, didn’t ask who you were or what you carried. It just existed, steady and unchanging, waiting for someone like you to find it.

At first, it was just another stop for a project—some academic exercise in mapping out the significance of local businesses, analyzing spaces that held weight beyond their walls. You went in with observation in mind, your role meant to be distant, analytical, outsider. But then you met Jihyo. She had been a quiet storm behind the counter, all sharp edges and unreadable expressions, eyes like dusk settling over a city. She did not welcome easily. She did not waste time on strangers. And yet, the moment your presence folded into the hum of her bar, she had looked at you—not through you, not past you, but at you, as if already dissecting what you would be before you even knew it yourself. You’re a music major, aren’t you? It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge. She had asked you to play, not out of kindness, but because she wanted to see if you had something worth offering.

Her nod, after you played, had been slow, deliberate, something close to approval. Come back next week. And so you did. The bar became yours in the way places can belong to people—not in ownership, not in name, but in the way they hold the softest, most secret parts of you. It wove itself into your skin, into the fabric of who you were when no one else was watching. Here, you were not the version of yourself the world demanded. There were no expectations, no reputations to uphold, no ghosts of the past waiting in the shadows. There was only the music, the dim glow of the lights pooling like liquid amber against the walls, the quiet hum of conversation, and the people who came not because of you, but because of the way you made them feel.

And then, you shared it with Jeno.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to see you like that, lost in the music, stripped bare of the carefully constructed persona you wore everywhere else. But he wandered in one night, an outsider drawn into your orbit, caught in the gravitational pull of something he didn’t fully understand yet. He stood at the back of the room, watching—eyes dark, breath slow, body wound tight with something he wouldn’t name. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was hunger. It was awe. It was the moment before a supernova—when gravity falters, when the universe holds its breath, when all that exists is the unbearable tension of something vast and inescapable teetering on the edge of annihilation. Armageddon woven into stardust, devastation dressed as inevitability, the kind of collapse that doesn’t just destroy but remakes everything in its wake.

The air between you vibrated, charged with something vast and inevitable, the kind of force that shifts planets from their orbits, that drags comets screaming through the dark. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t falter—it only pulled, a gravity well with no escape. And you, reckless and wanting, let yourself be drawn in. It wasn’t curiosity that made you hold his stare; it was recognition, a quiet understanding that whatever existed between you now would either swallow you whole or burn everything you had built to the ground. The bar had been yours—your refuge, your world untouched—but in that moment, you felt its foundation tremble. Because Jeno had never been the kind to stand at the edges of things. He was the kind to step over the threshold, to carve his presence into a place until it could no longer be called whole without him. And somehow, you already knew—you would let him. You would let him ruin this, if only to see what it felt like to be unraveled by him.

And then, he kept coming back. Night after night, slipping into the bar like a shadow, lingering at the edges until he didn’t have to anymore. Until you started looking for him first. Until his presence wasn’t an interruption but an expectation, woven into the rhythm of the room, the silence between notes, the way your pulse stuttered the moment you felt him there. The space stopped being yours alone. He had carved himself into it, into you, a quiet inevitability.

And suddenly, the bar wasn’t just your sanctuary anymore—it was a constellation thrown into chaos, its gravity tilting, its meaning rewritten in the language of him. He was the rogue planet that had torn through your quiet cosmos, shifting your tides, unraveling your axis, pulling everything into a new and dangerous alignment. The space you had once claimed as your own no longer belonged to you alone.

The first time you let him touch you in the bar, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t some carefully orchestrated decision, a moment meant to unfold with purpose. It happened the way gravity does, the way the tide follows the moon, inevitable and ancient and completely beyond your control. He had been sitting in his usual spot—back against the worn wooden booth, eyes dark, following the curve of your spine as you played, the tilt of your throat when you sang, the way your hands moved over the strings like they were something sacred. And when you set the guitar down, when you made your way over, drawn by the pull of something neither of you wanted to name, he had reached for you without thinking, fingers brushing your wrist, your pulse stuttering beneath his touch.

And then you were in his lap. Just like that, as if you’d been there a thousand times before, as if you were made to fit against him like this, your knees bracketing his thighs, your fingers threading into his hair, your breath hitching when his hands finally, finally settled on your waist. The bar was still there—still humming, still moving, still existing in the background—but it felt distant, irrelevant, a different world entirely. This world, the one where you were pressed against him, where his lips were at your throat, his breath warm and uneven, belonged to the two of you alone.

It was yours and now, it’s broken.

You feel it before you see it, a shift in the air so visceral it presses against your skin like an oncoming storm. The static of unwanted attention hums beneath the usual noise, something foreign, something knowing. The bar has always been a refuge, a place that belonged to you in ways no one else understood, but tonight, the edges have been breached. The weight of strangers—of interlopers—sits heavy in the space, their presence poisoning something once untouched.

You scan the crowd, and the sight of them rips through you. The basketball team—every single one of them. They didn’t come here by chance; this was orchestrated. Someone called them, and they answered. Some lean against the bar, arms crossed, postures too casual, too easy, feigning disinterest even as their eyes flick between you and Jeno. Others are scattered at tables, half-engaged in conversation, but watching. Waiting. It’s a spectacle to them, and you are the entertainment.

The cheer team. Karina sits at the center, perched on a high stool, her body angled towards Winter, but neither of them are looking at each other. Karina’s expression is too smooth, too practiced, an intentional absence of reaction. Nahyun tilts her head slightly, lips curling in something not quite a smirk, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against her glass, she’s with Mia, Aisha, and Yiren, who giggle, whispering in hushed voices that carry just enough for you to know it’s about you. They’re poking fun at you, and they want you to know it.

Your classmates—people you’ve shared lectures with, worked on projects with—are here too. People who have never given a damn about your life before now, but suddenly, they’re watching, murmuring, collecting pieces of a story they were never supposed to be part of. Your close friends—they were enjoying themselves at first, oblivious to the shift. But then they see you. And they know.They know something is wrong. Shotaro’s face tightens with concern, and Chenle, normally so relaxed, stiffens beside him. Donghyuck and Yangyang exchange wary glances, not sure what to do, but instinctively closing ranks.

And then there’s Mark. Sitting off to the side, alone—but not really. Areum leans into him, murmuring something in his ear, but he doesn’t react, doesn’t even blink. His gaze is locked onto you, steady, unwavering, and yet so far away it feels like staring into a void. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look disgusted. But there’s something worse in his expression—something hollow, like recognition slipping through his fingers. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and realizing you are nothing like the girl he thought he knew. A stranger in your own skin. A stranger he once loved. The weight of that realization cuts deeper than anything else.

The world you kept separate has collapsed into this one. And now, there’s nowhere left to run. Your fingers tighten around the mic stand. You don’t shake—you refuse to—but your pulse is erratic, hammering against your ribs in a frantic rhythm you can’t ignore. The first chords echo through the bar. Normally, music grounds you. Normally, it pulls you under, drowns everything else out. But tonight, you feel watched in a way that music can’t fix. The melody slips from your lips, the weight in the air is wrong. You don’t make mistakes on stage. You never do. But tonight—tonight, you do. A chord lands a half-second too late, your voice catches on a breath that shouldn’t have been there.

It’s small. So small no one else should notice. But Jeno does. His grip tightens around his drink, jaw tensing, tapping his fingers against his knee in that restless way he does when he’s holding something back. His phone is still out, still recording, but he isn’t watching the screen. He’s watching you. His posture doesn’t shift, but the flicker in his expression does. Something almost like disappointment. Like a realization clicking into place.

Nahyun’s fingers continue their slow, rhythmic tap against her glass. Karina doesn’t move. And then, the whispers start. Soft at first, curling under the music, threading through the melody like a parasite. They grow, multiplying, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Someone laughs. Low. Quick. But sharp enough to slice. Your stomach clenches. You keep going. You have to. But it’s too loud now, not the noise itself, but the knowing. Because they do. They know. Someone told them.

You hear the murmurs slicing through the haze of the music. Is that her? Is that the girl Jeno’s fucking? Mark’s best friend? Accusatory, speculative, invasive. The weight of their stares turns suffocating. You look at Jeno, half-expecting to find an answer, half-hoping for reassurance—but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as flinch at the unraveling of your world. And that’s when you know. The sanctuary is gone.

Jeno doesn’t notice it at first. He’s caught in the undertow of your voice, the way it sinks beneath his skin, pulls him under, leaves no room for anything else. The world outside the song doesn’t exist. Nothing else matters—not the noise, not the people, not the way the air shifts around him like something tangible. He only sees you. Only hears the raw rasp of your voice, the way your fingers move over the strings with effortless precision, the way the dim light bends to you, making it impossible to look anywhere else. You are celestial. You are his.

But something fractures. A hairline crack in the illusion. A shift in the current, imperceptible at first, then all-consuming. He doesn’t know when he feels it, only that suddenly, the bar isn’t warm anymore. It isn’t safe. There are too many eyes in the dark, too many murmurs curling like smoke, thick and suffocating. The air is weighted, carrying something cold and sharp. A secret being pried open, a wound split for everyone to see.

The music stumbles—just for a breath, a note out of place, but it’s enough. The whispers swell, curling through the air like static, thick with something heavy, something knowing. And then, a voice. Low. Meant to be heard. Meant to wound. A careless remark sharpened to cut, dressed as a joke but dripping with cruelty. Jeno sees it happen in real-time. The way your fingers clench the mic stand, knuckles whitening with the force of restraint. You don’t flinch, don’t react, but he knows. He sees the slight tremor in your breath, the way your shoulders lock into place, bracing. The way you blink once—too slow, too deliberate. It’s all the confirmation he needs.

Something inside him uncoils. Not in anger, not in blind rage, but something darker. Something quieter. The feeling creeps in slow, pooling in his chest, seeping into his limbs before he even understands it. He moves without thinking, natural instinct taking over before logic can intervene. The scrape of his chair against the floor is unhurried, controlled, but it silences the murmurs like a blade cutting through air. Heads turn. The weight of his presence settles over the room like a storm rolling in, thick with warning.

No. There’s no way this is happening. No way these people are actually here. No way you just laid yourself bare, let something real slip from between your lips—only for it to be dragged into the light, exposed for anyone to pick apart. No. No. No. The denial loops in your head like a corrupted file, skipping, repeating, refusing to compute. Your mind moves with mechanical precision, scanning, assessing, sorting through names and faces, filtering through every interaction, every whispered confidence, every moment of trust. You test each possibility, examine every variable, trace every thread that led here. And one by one, they all unravel.

Except one. Jeno. The name lands like a system failure, a short-circuit searing through you with the force of a fatal error. Your breath is shallow, pulse erratic, but your steps are steady as you turn, moving without thought, without hesitation. Backstage. Away. You don’t shove past him, don’t even spare him a glance as you walk by—but it’s deliberate. A rejection louder than words, heavier than silence.

Jeno stands frozen, still caught between confusion and something deeper, something heavier. The noise of the bar hums behind him, distant, meaningless, but he doesn’t move. His body should follow you, his mouth should shape words, but nothing happens. Nothing makes sense. One second ago, you were his gravity, pulling him in without resistance, and now—now you’re gone.

But then instinct takes over, something primal, something that doesn’t leave room for hesitation. His feet move before his mind catches up, propelling him forward, past the curious glances, past the whispers still thick in the air. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t stop. He follows the path you carved through the crowd, slipping into the same shadows you disappeared into, chasing after the only thing that matters.

The door swings open, and there you are. The air in the small backstage room is heavy, thick with something he can’t name. You stand there, motionless, as if you expected him to follow, as if you knew he would. But there’s nothing in your expression—not anger, not fury, not even disappointment. Just a vast, hollow silence, carved deep into your features like something irreversible. Your eyes meet his, deadpan, unreadable, except for the sharp undercurrent of something that cuts straight through him. Hurt. Betrayal.

The space between you stretches impossibly wide, though barely a few feet separate you. The bar still buzzes behind him, voices blending into a meaningless static, but in here, there’s nothing but quiet. And in that silence, in the absence of everything you refuse to say, Jeno feels something sink, something cave in, something break. He’s seen you angry before, frustrated, amused, indifferent—but never like this, never stripped of every emotion, never with a silence so absolute it feels like there’s nothing left at all.

Jeno opens his mouth, but before he can even form a thought, you cut through the silence. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me.” The words barely rise above a whisper, but they hit like a blow, quiet and heavy, weighted with something raw, something that makes his breath catch. It’s not anger. Not accusation. It’s worse. It’s realization. Like you’re seeing him for the first time and finding nothing of the person you thought was there.

He falters, blinking, his mind racing to make sense of it, to grasp at the threads slipping through his fingers. He didn’t bring them here. He didn’t tell anyone. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “Do what?” His voice comes out too soft, too careful, a hesitation he doesn’t even notice.

You shake your head, slow, deliberate—not in frustration, not in disbelief, but in something far more final. “You fucking know what.”

A sharp, twisting pang lodges itself in his chest. He doesn’t know. Something about the way you speak, the way you still won’t look at him, the way your breathing is just the slightest bit unsteady—it makes his stomach turn. It makes him feel like he’s already lost. “Y/N, what the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Your voice wavers, just enough to betray you. You inhale sharply, swallowing it down before it can fully break. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

The distance between you stretches wider. Jeno feels it in real-time, the way something unravels between you, slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tries to hold on. His frustration coils in his throat, not at you, never at you, but at himself. At this moment. At the way everything is spiraling and he has no idea why. “Baby, I swear to God, I don’t know what—”

You laugh. But it’s not a laugh. It’s a breathless, bitter thing, hollowed out and stripped of warmth, and it makes his skin prickle with something cold. “Don’t call me that.” The way you say it, the way you spit it out like it tastes wrong, like the word itself is poisoned, makes something in him plummet.

“Y/N, please. Just talk to me.”

“Why?” The word is barely there, but when you finally lift your gaze to him, his chest tightens painfully. Your eyes are glassy, but there’s nothing behind them, no warmth, no anger, just empty space where something else used to be. “So you can lie to my face again?”

“I’m not lying to you, what are you talking about—”

"It doesn’t even fucking matter." The words come out too fast, too sharp, burning the air between you. You exhale, blinking fast, but it’s useless. Your vision is already blurred, the sting already settled deep. "Just go. Get out of here."

"No." His voice is steadier now, almost desperate. "Come on, I’ll take you home and then you can sleep on this and we’ll talk tomorrow—"

"No." The word is a wall, solid and immovable. The finality in it feels like it should shake the earth beneath you, crack the foundation of something neither of you want to name. "We’re done."

His breath stutters, chest tightening, a split-second of stillness before his voice comes again, softer now. "What?"

"It’s over, Jeno."

"You were ready to be my girlfriend an hour ago, and now it’s over just like that?" His voice wavers between disbelief and something rawer, something darker, like he’s grasping at air, at something that’s already slipped through his fingers.

You don’t debate. You don’t argue. You don’t give him anything. Every time he tries, every time his voice rises with another plea, another question, another attempt to pull you back, you silence it with nothing but a look, a shake of your head, a single, stony word. "Yes It’s done."

And then you turn. Mid-sentence, mid-conversation, mid-everything. You carve yourself out of the moment like a missing page torn from a book, leaving behind only the hollow shape of where you stood. Your spine locks into something unyielding, your steps crisp, purposeful, final. You don’t look back. Not because you don’t want to—because you refuse to. Because looking back is a trapdoor, a snare waiting to snap around your ribs and drag you under. Because if you see the way he’s watching you, the way his world is actively caving in, you might hesitate. And hesitation is how disasters are made.

Jeno doesn’t chase you. Not because he doesn’t want to—God, every fiber of him is screaming at him to move—but because he can’t. His body betrays him, feet locked to the floor, lungs forgetting how to draw breath, thoughts caught in the violent whiplash of what just happened? He watches you disappear through the haze of low-lit amber, the laughter and chatter around him muffled like he’s underwater. Like the universe has pressed pause on everything except the sound of your retreating footsteps.

And just like that, you’re gone. The absence of you is immediate, a vacuum that swallows sound, air, reason—leaving behind only the weight of everything that just unraveled between you. The realization is settling into his bones like an irreversible event, something written in the fabric of the universe long before this night ever arrived. He just lost you. And not in the way people lose their keys or their tempers—no, this is planetary collapse, tectonic shift, a fundamental change in the orbit of things. This isn’t a fight. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This is the first time Jeno truly understands—you are not his. You never were. And the universe doesn’t care how unprepared he is to exist in that reality.

The campus feels altered, as if reality has warped in your absence, as if the foundations of the world you once moved through so effortlessly have shifted just enough to unsettle your balance. The air is dense, not with fog or windy bite, but with something intangible—something weighty, crawling beneath the skin, slipping into the cracks of every conversation left unfinished, every glance that lingers too long. It clings to the walls, coils through the courtyards, distorts the familiar paths you’ve walked a thousand times until they feel like something out of a dream you can’t quite wake from.

It’s been days since that night, since the last time you saw Jeno, since you learned what he did. Days since you skipped class, something you never do, something that would have been unthinkable before. But today, you had to show up. And now, it’s the way the cold sinks deeper, how the shadows stretch longer, how even the familiar paths you’ve walked a thousand times feel foreign. The isolation clings to you like mist, curling into the spaces between conversations, slipping into the gaps between footfalls. And yet, you’re not alone. Shotaro and Donghyuck flank you on either side, their presence unwavering, their warmth solid against the chill pressing in from all directions. They walk with you, unhurried, as if the world isn’t different now, as if your reality hasn’t just been turned inside out.

You learn today that they defended you that night. All of your friends did—minus Mark, for obvious reasons. They stood up for you, argued for you, drowned out the laughter and the snide remarks with something sharper. It should be a comfort, should be a relief to know that you weren’t abandoned in the moment that mattered most, but it doesn’t feel like victory. It just feels tired. Donghyuck, never one to hold his tongue, fills you in on the gossip, his voice a steady hum in the chaos. It’s all anyone’s been talking about, he says. The incident at the bar, the breakup, you. The rumors shift like waves, changing depending on who’s telling them. Some say you dumped Jeno out of nowhere, blindsided him when he did nothing wrong. Others insist he cheated, that you made a scene, that you lost it. The worst ones are the ones that laugh, the ones who sneer, I guess she finally got what was coming to her.

You press your lips together, feeling the heat creep up your neck, the weight of unseen eyes pressing into your back. You’ve been off campus for three days. Three whole days, the first time in your life you’ve ever willingly skipped class. But you couldn’t bring yourself to face it. Not after everything. But reality was waiting, and it hit the moment you stepped into the hallways.

The whispers are immediate. Students pause mid-conversation as you pass, their voices lowering to hushed tones that somehow still reach your ears. Your name, spat out between half-hidden smirks, paired with mocking giggles and knowing glances. The details of that night have been twisted beyond recognition, warped by the relentless churn of rumor. She lost it on Jeno for talking to another girl. She embarrassed herself. She threw a tantrum. The words burrow under your skin, fester like an open wound. It isn’t just the breakup they dissect—it’s you. Your singing, your lyrics, the rawness you poured into the music. Someone sneers, Avril Lavigne wannabe, and laughter follows. Your jaw clenches.

But worst of all, it’s the disbelief. Jeno was with her? For real? That doesn’t make sense. It’s like they can’t even fathom that you were worth his attention, his time. Like it was a joke, a temporary lapse in judgment on his part.

You don’t lash out—not at first. You keep your head high, shoulders back, posture unshakable. But then someone has the nerve to stop you outright, some guy you’ve shared a class with but never spoken to, his smirk lazy and careless. “Hey, I heard you went crazy on Jeno for talking to a girl. That true?”

Something inside you snaps. “Mind your own fucking business.” Your voice is sharp, precise, carrying enough weight to send him reeling. He stumbles back a step, blinking rapidly before he mutters something under his breath and turns away. The next person who thinks to approach you doesn’t.

And yet, despite the bite in your words, despite your friends at your side, you still feel alone. The isolation isn’t just about the rumors or the humiliation—it’s about what’s missing. The bar was yours, your sanctuary, and now it’s gone. Your secret world, invaded. Your comfort, stolen. And worst of all, the one person who was supposed to keep it safe, the one person who should have protected you, is the reason you lost it.

Shotaro and Donghyuck talk, filling the silence, keeping the weight from settling too heavily. They tell you your performance was amazing, that your voice was otherworldly, that no one who matters is saying otherwise. You force a smile, nod, thank them. Because you’re grateful. Because they care. But deep down, there’s a part of you that’s just relieved.

Relieved that no one was there on the other nights, the ones where you stripped, where you performed without music, where the stage became something else entirely. Because if they had seen that version of you— You don’t think you could have survived it.

You shake your head, clearing the lingering weight of it from your thoughts. “I have to go soon,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “I have a tutoring session with Jaemin.” But before you can leave, there’s one last thing. One final certainty you need to grasp, even if you already know the answer.

In your head, you’re sure it’s Jeno who told. The process of elimination has left you with no other rational explanation. You’ve run through every possibility, every thread leading back to that night, compared every person who knew about the bar, who could have let the secret slip. None of them hold up as strongly as him. Not Karina. Not your friends. Karina is reckless, impulsive in ways that make her dangerous, but she’s also too skilled at hiding the mess she creates. If it had been her, she would’ve played it off, feigned innocence, kept her hands clean—but guilt has a way of slipping through the cracks, and you would have seen it. She isn’t careful, not really, and something would have given her away.

And your friends? There’s no reason to suspect them. They had no motive, no purpose in hurting you like this. If it had been one of them, the weight of it would be too much, too heavy to bury beneath casual conversation and knowing glances. And beyond that—none of them even knew. Not really. They found you sitting at the bar, not performing. They weren’t there the nights you stepped onto that stage, the nights you bared yourself under dim lights and heavy music. So how could they have known? How could they have spread something they never even had the chance to see? But still—you need to ask. You need to be absolutely certain before you let yourself believe it. Before you accept that there is only one possibility left.

You don’t want to make your words accusatory, not yet. You keep your voice even, steady, but there’s a seriousness to it, something raw beneath the surface. “When you guys came to the bar and found me with Karina,” you start, pausing, letting the words settle before lowering your voice to a whisper. “How did you find it?”

Shotaro and Donghyuck exchange a glance. It’s Donghyuck who speaks first. “There were posters. In the student union building,” he explains. “They listed the bar, its promotions. Discounted drinks, food deals. It looked like a vibe. We didn’t think much of it at first, but a lot of people were talking about it. It seemed like the place to go.”

Shotaro nods in agreement. “And there was something else on the poster. It said there’d be a ‘special performer.’ We didn’t realize it was you.”

Jeno wouldn’t go out of his way to print flyers, to scatter them across campus like breadcrumbs leading straight to you. A tightness coils in your chest, slow and insidious, winding itself around your ribs until breathing feels like a conscious effort. A new thread of doubt, a question you don’t want to ask but can’t push away—what if it wasn’t him? The certainty you felt that night, the conviction that made you walk away without hesitation, without looking back, suddenly feels brittle. You’d been so sure. You had laid out every possibility, tested every theory, let your mind operate like a machine, ruthless in its search for the only answer that made sense. And yet—what if you were wrong? What if, in your desperation to blame, to anchor yourself to something solid in the chaos, you had thrown him into the fire without stopping to see if he was even holding the match?

The memory of his face won’t leave you. The way his brows had drawn together, the way his voice had cracked—not defensive, not angry, just… lost. I didn’t— But you hadn’t let him finish. Hadn’t given him the chance to explain, to fight for himself, to fight for you. You had cut him off before he could even gather his footing, sealed the door shut before he could pry it back open. We’re done. And it had felt right in the moment, righteous even. But now, standing in the ruins, with the ashes cooling at your feet, you wonder if you had set fire to something that was never meant to burn.

The guilt is slow and creeping, settling in your stomach like lead. You don’t regret walking away. Not entirely. But maybe—maybe you should have stayed long enough to hear him out. Maybe you should have let him prove whether you were right before you made the choice for both of you. Because if you were wrong, if it wasn’t him, if you ended it with a finality so sharp there was no coming back—then what the fuck have you done?

For now, you have someone else to confront. Jaemin. He’s been gone for a month, away on a pediatric pre-medicine placement, working in a clinical setting with young patients, shadowing specialists, and gaining hands-on experience for his future in medicine. He’s always been meticulous about his career path, determined and methodical, the kind of person who follows through with everything he sets out to do. It makes sense that he’s been absent, buried in something bigger than campus drama, disconnected from the whirlwind of rumors and revelations that have unfolded in his absence.

But he’s back now. And whether he knows it or not, he’s about to walk into the aftermath of something he wasn’t here to witness. You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face, the weight of the morning pressing down on you. Shotaro and Donghyuck linger for a moment longer, their gazes searching, concerned, but you manage a small wave. A silent reassurance that you’ll be fine. They don’t push, just nod in understanding before heading off in the opposite direction.

Your steps feel heavier than they should as you make your way across campus, the cold biting at your skin, whispers trailing behind you like shadows. You ignore them, keep walking, keep moving, because stopping means sinking, and you can’t afford to sink. Not now. The tutoring center smells like coffee and ink, the low hum of whispered conversations weaving through the space like background noise. Usually, the quiet settles you, grounds you. But then you see him.

Jaemin is already there, waiting, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. His gaze lifts as you approach, and then comes the slow stretch of a smile, lazy, knowing. "I missed your performance," he says, casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t carry weight. No greeting, no small talk, just that. "Such a shame, it’s all I’ve been hearing about all over campus."

You don’t hesitate. You roll your eyes, already exhausted. "And you missed your tutoring sessions." You slide into the seat across from him, tone dry but lacking any real bite.

He grins, unfazed. "Touché." But the amusement fades, and something softer settles in its place. "Don’t worry about what people are saying. You know how this place is. The story changes every five minutes."

You exhale, long and slow. You’ve heard this reassurance before, from Shotaro, from Donghyuck, but somehow, it still doesn’t settle right. It should be comforting, knowing that rumors have a shelf life. Instead, all you can think about is how much damage they do before they die out. Jaemin leans forward slightly, forearms resting against the table. "How was the placement?" you ask, steering the conversation elsewhere.

His expression shifts, stretching out his limbs like he’s recounting something exhausting but rewarding. "Hospitals, clinics, shadowing doctors, the whole thing," he says, stretching his arms behind his head. "Long hours, a lot of standing around, but I loved it."

You tilt your head, intrigued despite yourself. "Pediatrics? I didn’t know you were set on that."

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair. "I like it. I think you would, too."

You scoff. "That’s random."

"Not really. I learned a lot during the placement. Not just from the medical teams but from the psychology specialists, too. You know psychology ties into medicine more than you’d think—developmental stages, trauma responses, all of it. I feel like you’d love it. Your project shows you have the brain for it."

That catches your attention. "It’s always been interesting to me, but it’s way too late to change my major."

Jaemin shakes his head, amused by your sudden interest. "Not really. I feel like the dean would allow it with how much work you do in other departments outside your own. You’d actually love some of the stuff I’ve been reading. Plus, the psychology department’s got some amazing professors. Maybe you should take a class."

Jaemin doesn’t look away. His gaze is steady, thoughtful, peeling back layers you haven’t even begun to process yourself. “I heard about you and Jeno.” He doesn’t preface it, doesn’t soften the words, just lays them down between you like a truth that can’t be avoided. His change in tone and topic is swift, seamless, and you know—you know—he’s been meaning to say this.

Your fingers tense around the edges of your notebook. “Of course you did.” The words are dry, clipped, but the tightness in your shoulders betrays you.

Jaemin doesn’t let you deflect. “I know you think he told.” A pause. “But he didn’t.” Silence stretches between you, taut and fragile. His voice is measured when he continues. “Jeno wouldn’t do that. Not to you.”

You exhale sharply, but it doesn’t feel like release. Just pressure mounting in your chest, twisting into something unspoken. You stare at the pages in front of you, the words blurring into meaninglessness. “Yeah.”

Jaemin tilts his head slightly, watching you with a quiet kind of scrutiny. “You’re being weird.”

Your jaw clenches. “I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Jaemin leans forward, resting his arms against the table, his voice lowering—not conspiratorial, but softer, more deliberate. “That’s bullshit.” His words don’t carry accusation, just quiet disappointment. “You do know. You’ve always known.”

Jaemin exhales, shaking his head, his voice quieter now, like he’s still trying to make sense of it himself. “I can’t believe you really ended it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. No hesitation, no second-guessing. One second, you were ready to be with him, and the next…” He trails off, watching you, searching for something in your face that you’re not sure you can give him.

The weight in your chest sinks deeper. “You weren’t there.”

“No, but I didn’t have to be. I know what he was like after.” His expression shifts, something raw bleeding into his voice. “I’ve never seen him like that. He’s not—he doesn’t break easily, but that night? He shattered.”

You flinch. It’s small, barely noticeable, but Jaemin catches it. “You weren’t just some girl to him,” he continues, quieter now. “You weren’t a phase, or a mistake, or something he could walk away from.” He pauses, searching for the words. “You were it for him. You are it.”

The weight of those words lands somewhere deep inside you, cracking something open, but Jaemin doesn’t give you the space to shut it down. “And I know,” he says, watching you carefully, “that you don’t believe it was him anymore. I can see it in your eyes.” A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost like a sigh, “You feel guilty.”

Your breath stutters, your hands pressing harder against the edges of your book. You want to look away, but you don’t. You force yourself to hold his gaze, to sit in the reality of it. “I don’t know how to fix it.” The admission slips out before you can stop it, quiet and raw, and it tastes like surrender.

Jaemin exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. His frustration isn’t anger—not at you, not at Jeno. It’s something else. Something close to exhaustion, close to care. “Start by not pretending like you don’t care.” The words are gentle, but they don’t let you escape. “If you regret it, then fucking do something about it.”

You shake your head quickly. “I wish it was that easy.”

Jaemin lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah? Then tell me what’s stopping you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes. No excuse, no justification—just silence, thick and heavy, pressing against your ribs. Because what is stopping you? Your pride? The fear that if you reach for him now, you’ll find nothing but air? That maybe, even after everything, after the way you burned it all down in your desperation to protect yourself, you don’t deserve to put out the fire? That maybe he doesn’t want you to?

The thought latches onto your lungs like smoke, something acrid, something inescapable. You feel it in the way your throat bobs with a swallowed answer, in the way your fingers tense against the paper in front of you like they might keep you from slipping under. You want to say something. You should say something. But the words don’t come.

Jaemin doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t press for an answer you can’t give. He just exhales, slow and steady, watching you with an understanding that sinks its teeth in deep. Like he already knows. Like he’s seen through every layer of hesitation and self-preservation and found the only truth that matters. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, but it lands with the weight of something irreversible.

“You love him.”

Loving Jeno was never the hard part. You’ve been falling for him for what feels like forever—long before you realized it, long before you were ready to name it. It’s in the way your body recognizes his before your mind can catch up, in the way your world tilts imperceptibly toward him, even when you swear you’re standing still. You know you love him. That’s not the terrifying part.

The terrifying part is how much. It’s not a soft, steady thing—not a quiet warmth you can tuck away, not something manageable. It’s all-consuming. It’s something you feel before you think, something that exists in the space between your ribs, in the gaps between your bones, something woven into the very structure of you. It’s the kind of love that rearranges things, that rewrites every rule you had for yourself, that makes you want in a way you’ve never wanted before.

And that’s what scares you. Because it’s not just admitting that you love him—it’s admitting that this is bigger than you, that it’s out of your control. That if you let yourself fall completely, there will be no catching yourself before you hit the ground.

You love him.

The sentence lands with the force of something irreversible. Something you can’t outrun. You stare at him, pulse hammering, your chest too tight, your skin too hot. The air between you feels suffocating. There’s a second—just a second—where you think about denying it, about shutting it down before it can grow roots. But you don’t. You can’t.

Jaemin doesn’t push further. He just lets the silence settle, lets the weight of the moment wrap around you, lets you sit in the truth of it. And then, with a sigh, he flips open his textbook, breaking the moment before it can crush you completely. “Come on,” he mutters, like the past few minutes didn’t unravel something inside you. “Let’s at least pretend to study.”

You hesitate, fingers still curled too tightly against the pages. Then, slowly, you let out a breath, forcing a small, reluctant laugh past the lump in your throat. “Fine.” And just like that, the tension shifts. Not gone, not even close. But something momentarily easier to carry.

The study session stretches on longer than you expect, the weight of Jaemin’s words pressing into your ribs long after the conversation fades into equations and notes. You try to focus, to let the work ground you, but your mind keeps circling back—back to everything Jaemin said, back to the truth you’ve been trying not to look at too closely. By the time you’re closing your books, Jaemin leans back, stretching lazily. “You need to talk to him,” he says, and you don’t argue, because he’s right. And somehow, the moment you dread comes faster than you expect.

It’s later in the day, the lull of afternoon settling over campus, when your phone vibrates with a message.

jaemin — meet me by the library? i need help with an assignment, i’m actually struggling this time.

You sigh but don’t think much of it. Jaemin skipping tutoring sessions was one thing, but he never let himself fall behind. It’s easy to believe he really needs you. So you go. The lounge is empty when you push the door open, thick with the scent of old books and worn-out ambition, only broken by the occasional rustle of paper and the distant hum of the library outside.

But Jaemin isn’t there. You step inside, scanning the room, about to pull out your phone—when the door creaks again. The air shifts. A presence heavier than silence itself presses against your senses, familiar and suffocating all at once. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. You feel it before you see it, the static charge in the room crackling like an impending storm. But you turn anyway. Jeno.

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between your ribs, refusing to settle. He’s standing in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the space, presence so effortlessly imposing that it makes the already too-small room feel claustrophobic. His hoodie is loose, hood down, hair tousled in that way that looks unintentional but isn’t. The dim lighting casts shadows along his jawline, sharpening the angles of his face, the cut of his cheekbones, the almost unfair symmetry of his features. His lips are slightly parted, his tongue swiping along the inside of his cheek as his gaze locks onto you, unreadable. And then there’s his posture—relaxed but not. Legs slightly apart, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, the fabric stretching ever so slightly across his chest. You know him well enough to recognize the tension in his stance, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw, the weight in his eyes that tells you he’s bracing himself.

He’s frozen too, staring at you like he wasn’t expecting this, like he’s still processing the fact that you’re actually here. You feel your fingers twitch, instinctively reaching toward the strap of your bag, toward the door—toward an exit. But before you can move, the unmistakable sound of the lock clicks from the other side. And then, laughter. Jaemin. And Chenle.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, already shoving at the handle, but it doesn’t budge.

“Not letting you out until you two talk,” Jaemin’s voice carries through the wood, amused, self-satisfied.

“Or until we hear something else,” Chenle adds, laughter curling at the edges of her words. “Moaning. Begging. You know. Reconciliation.”

Your entire body goes rigid, heat rushing to your face. “You’re both so annoying —”

Jeno doesn’t react to any of it. He just exhales, slow and deep, then moves to one of the couches, dropping onto it with a quiet, controlled weight. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak. Just sits there, legs spread, arms resting against the back, head tilted slightly forward. A storm. The kind that doesn’t come with lightning, doesn’t tear through with fury—just lingers. Dark and unshaken, waiting.

You take a breath. You’re never wrong. It’s something you pride yourself on. But you were wrong about this. And for once, you’re glad you were wrong.

The words pour out before you can stop them, unfiltered, raw, dragging the weight of your guilt and regret to the surface. “I’m sorry.” The confession trembles between you, thick with something fragile, something desperate. “I was irrational,” you force out, voice uneven, splintering at the edges. “I needed someone to blame. I needed a villain, and you were right there, and that night—Jeno, it was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever. And I—” Your breath shudders, throat constricting around the truth. “I panicked. I deflected. I didn’t even stop to think—” Your vision blurs, a single tear slipping free before you can stop it. You shake your head, swipe it away, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing can undo this. “I’m so fucking sorry,” you whisper, barely able to hold his gaze.

Jeno doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly—so softly you almost miss it— “Come here.”

Your heart lurches. He leans back further, shifting slightly, arms open, waiting. You don’t hesitate. You cross the space in an instant, slipping into his lap, letting him pull you in, letting his warmth anchor you. You kiss him, slow and trembling, and you feel the way he exhales against your mouth, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time. His arms tighten around you, fingers sliding under the hem of your sweatshirt, skin to skin, grounding.

Your apologies pour from you, whispered into the space between kisses, pressing against his lips like a prayer. He drinks them in without hesitation, swallows them whole, his mouth catching yours again and again, deeper, slower, like he’s memorizing you all over again. His fingers skim up your spine, featherlight, reverent, tilting your chin just so—so he can kiss you deeper, so he can taste every ounce of regret and longing tangled in your breath. His hands roam with an intimacy that makes your pulse stutter, sliding over your back, your waist, fingertips dipping beneath the hem of your sweatshirt like he’s relearning every inch of you, like he needs to feel you to believe you’re really here.

Then, softly— “What made you figure out that it wasn’t me?”

You exhale, slow and uneven, forehead still resting against his, your lips brushing his every time you speak. “The person who told everyone made flyers, Jeno.” Your fingers tighten against the back of his neck, nails pressing lightly into his skin. “They went out of their way to print them, to put them everywhere—that’s what led people to me.” You shift against his lap, the movement subtle, but enough to make his grip on your waist tighten. Your voice softens, something aching beneath it. “That’s how I know it wasn’t you, you wouldn’t use that sort of method and you would never do that to me. If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn’t waste your time running around campus, designing, printing, distributing flyers.” A quiet, breathless laugh slips from your lips, the sound fragile, edged with regret. “I know you.”

Jeno exhales sharply, the sound somewhere between amusement and disbelief, fingers flexing against your hips, thumbs rubbing slow, absentminded circles into the sliver of bare skin beneath your sweatshirt. “So that’s what made you realize it wasn’t me?” His voice is rough, low, but there’s something almost fond behind it. “Not the fact that I really fucking like you? Not the fact that I would never hurt you?”

You swallow, heart hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words sinking into your bones. You do know. You knew it the whole time—you just didn’t let yourself believe it. You shift again, slow, deliberate, just to feel the way his breath catches. “You know what I mean,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

His hands slide up, dragging heat along your skin, his nod slow, like he’s feeling the truth of it sink in. Because he does know. He knows exactly what you mean. He’s always known. “I was so stupid,” you breathe, brushing your lips against his, the kiss featherlight, teasing, a plea wrapped in something softer. “Of course you’d never do that to me, baby.” The words melt into his mouth, swallowed by another kiss, deeper this time, your hips pressing forward just enough to make his grip tighten, his breath shudder.

Jeno groans softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, and when his hands slide back down to your waist, his fingers dig in, guiding you closer, pulling you into him like he needs you closer, like there’s still too much space between you. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice low and strained, his lips trailing along your jaw, hands pressing you down against him. “You were stupid.”

His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, tracing down your spine. His touch is reverent yet desperate, mapping every curve, memorizing every inch. He kisses you like he’s savoring something he never thought he’d have, like he’s been starved for this. The warmth of his breath fans across your skin as he moves to your jaw, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat, tongue flicking out to taste, lips dragging, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

The room is too quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing, the slick, sinful noise of lips meeting, parting, crashing back together. Every kiss leaves you dizzier, head spinning, stomach fluttering. You can’t stop the needy little whimpers spilling from your mouth, and Jeno must like it because he groans against you, deep and guttural, his hands gripping you tighter, pressing you down against the hardness between his legs. His hips roll up instinctively, and you moan into his mouth, the friction sending shivers down your spine.

Then—banging. “Let’s hear some moaning!” Jaemin’s voice rings through the door, followed by Chenle’s cackling laughter.

You barely register it, still too lost in Jeno’s kiss, too breathless and dizzy from the way he’s kissing you, but then he lets out a quiet chuckle against your lips, forehead pressing to yours as you giggle softly. His fingers tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, his breath warm against your skin. “You wanna scare them?” you whisper, teasing, voice still breathless, still heady with the taste of him.

Jeno nods, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You nod back, lips twitching with mischief, heart pounding with anticipation. And then, without hesitation, you throw your head back and moan. Loud. Obscene and drawn-out, practically screaming it like you’re in the middle of the best fuck of your life, body arching, hands gripping onto Jeno’s shirt like you’re seconds from falling apart. “Ohhh—fuck, Daddy! Right there, yes, yes, yes!”

Jeno bites down on his lip, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter as he watches you put on the most ridiculous show, his hands still firm on your hips like he’s actually holding you steady through it.

From outside the door, there’s a horrified gagging sound.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“I’m gonna be sick—”

Jaemin and Chenle’s voices overlap, their disgusted groans filling the space, and then you hear it—the frantic shuffle of footsteps, the unmistakable sound of them retreating as fast as humanly possible. Jeno buries his face in your neck, laughing, his whole body shaking with amusement. You dissolve into giggles too, barely able to catch your breath, clutching onto him as you both tremble from the effort of holding it together.

The gym smells like sweat and varnish, the air thick with the residual heat of bodies moving in unison. It’s the final stretch before state championships, the last few practices where every second on this court is meant to sharpen the edges of something already honed to precision. It should feel electric—the weight of preparation, the intensity of competition looming just days away. But it doesn’t. The energy is off, subtle in its wrongness, like a melody just slightly out of tune. No one says it, but everyone feels it.

You stand at the edge of the court, your sneakers pressed against the polished wood, a reminder that you aren’t just watching anymore. You’re inside it now. A part of it. You didn’t realize how seriously Karina took the cheer oath when she first pulled you into this world—how binding it would feel, how absolute. There is no halfway, no tentative belonging. Once you wear the uniform, once you step into formation, you are the team. But standing here now, the fabric clinging to your skin, you aren’t sure what, exactly, you’ve become a part of.

The court has always been a place of discipline. Strategy. Control. It is supposed to be a perfect system, every movement dictated by external authority, every play a calculated effort toward something greater. Personal emotions are meant to be left at the door. There is no room for doubt here, no space for hesitation. And yet, that illusion of order is beginning to crack. The structure is still in place, but it’s hollowed out, weakened. The air hums with something tense, something frayed at the edges. It’s not chaos, not yet, but it’s the kind of stillness before a storm, when the sky holds its breath and the wind shifts just slightly.

Before, this was just a place you observed. You’ve always been good at watching, at standing on the outside and pulling things apart piece by piece. Your role has always been to understand people without being inside it yourself—to categorize emotions into neat little boxes, to study behavior from a safe distance where nothing could touch you. But you are no longer an observer. You are in the experiment now. You are no longer watching the variables—you are one, influencing the outcome in ways you can’t even begin to measure.

Basketball and cheerleading are both supposed to be about precision. They thrive on discipline, on coordination, on people moving as one. But both teams are unraveling, their seams splitting just slightly, just enough to notice. The Ravens aren’t playing like a team anymore. Their chemistry is disjointed, their rhythm offbeat. The cheer team isn’t much better—every movement synchronized in appearance but lacking real cohesion, girls stepping just half a second too late, a second too early. It should be instinct by now. It should be effortless. But it’s not.

No one says it, but it’s there. It lingers in the air like a scent no one can place, in the way passes fall just short, in the way plays fall apart at the last second. You see it in the flicker of hesitation before a shot, in the way trust between teammates is thinning like ice on a lake that’s starting to crack. No one understands what’s wrong, but they feel it. Doubt is creeping in like a slow-moving poison, seeping into every interaction, every glance exchanged in frustration, every loss stacking onto the last.

And Jeno—Jeno looks like he’s carrying all of it.

His shoulders bear an invisible weight, the kind that settles deep into the bones and doesn’t go away. He still moves like Jeno, still plays like Jeno, but something is different. His confidence hasn’t disappeared, but it’s been layered with something heavier, something that dulls his edges just enough for you to notice. You wonder if anyone else sees it, if anyone else knows. Or if they just assume that this, too, is part of the slow breakdown happening around them.

And yet, even in the middle of all of this, you feel warmth. A pulse of heat beneath your skin, a lingering glow inside you from last night—from the way Jeno held you, the way you fucked yourself onto him, the way he touched you like he was memorizing you with his hands. You still feel him everywhere. His lips against your throat, his breath against your skin, the way his fingers dug into your hips like he never wanted to let go. That warmth stays with you, curled in your chest like an ember, like something still burning even after the fire has gone out.

But there is something underneath it. A shadow stretching over it, barely there, just a flicker at the edge of your mind. You don’t know what it is, not yet, but you feel it. Like a drop in pressure before a storm, like a quiet pull in the wrong direction. Something bad is coming. You can’t rationalize it. You can’t categorize it. It’s not a logical conclusion, not something you can break down into a series of steps and predict an outcome from. But it lingers. This moment, this warmth, this fragile sense of happiness—it’s slipping through your fingers even as you hold onto it.

The downfall has already begun. You just don’t know it yet.

It’s Kun’s whistle that breaks through your thoughts, pulling everyone back into the immediate present. The echoes reverberate off the walls, the sound harsh and demanding, dragging the players from their scattered positions on the court. Kun stands at the center, clipboard gripped tightly, his usual composure strained by something he hasn’t yet voiced. The team moves toward him slowly, their exhaustion evident in every heavy step, the tension palpable in the way they glance at each other, searching for reassurance no one can offer.

Your gaze is instinctively drawn to Jeno. He’s standing slightly apart from Mark—noticeably apart—and the distance between them feels deeper than mere physical space. Jeno’s expression is carefully neutral, a mask you’ve rarely seen him wear so perfectly. His jaw is tight, shoulders squared beneath the fabric of his jersey, his entire demeanor one of careful detachment. It’s as if he’s bracing himself, prepared for something he’s long since learned to anticipate but has never fully accepted.

“Alright, listen up,” Kun begins, his voice firm but slightly strained, cutting through the uneasy silence. “You’ve worked hard today, and it shows. But there's something you all need to know.”

A ripple of uncertainty passes through the team. Chenle leans into Jaemin, whispering something urgent and confused. You see Mark stiffen, the muscles in his neck tightening as Kun continues. “I know some of you are wondering where Coach Suh is. He’ll be absent for a while—he’s recovering from surgery.”

A wave of murmurs flows through the group, surprise flickering across their faces. Jeno’s expression doesn't shift, but you notice his fingers twitch subtly at his side, the only visible sign he's affected by the news. You realize, suddenly, you’re witnessing something intimate—something you were never meant to observe. Something you were never prepared for.

“Rest assured,” Kun continues, attempting reassurance, “he’s okay. It’s nothing life-threatening, but he needs time.” The tension lifts slightly, though uncertainty still hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Kun hesitates, his fingers flexing around the clipboard. “But with championships approaching, we’ve had to make a difficult decision about a temporary replacement.”

You see the slight shift in Jeno’s posture—the cautious tilt of his head, the wary tightening around his eyes. He senses something you don’t yet understand.

Kun exhales, a faint apologetic smile tugging at his lips. “Guys, please don’t kill me.”

The double doors swing open, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Taeyong strides into the gym, and the room instantly contracts around him. His presence is immediate, absolute, suffocating. He carries himself like someone used to command, expecting obedience without question. Your gaze instinctively shifts back to Jeno, watching carefully. You realise that you’ve never actually seen the two interact firsthand before—of course, they’ve interacted countless times, behind closed doors or out of your view—but you’ve only ever heard whispers, pieced together assumptions from fragmented stories and unspoken truths. Witnessing it now feels strangely invasive, almost wrong—like stumbling upon something deeply private, a tragedy unfolding quietly in the open.

“Alright, listen up,” Taeyong’s voice slices through the gym, sharp and unyielding. He strides forward, authority radiating from every movement. “Coach Suh is out—recovering from surgery. Until he's back, I'm your coach.”

Instantly, murmurs ripple through the team. Chenle’s eyes widen, surprise breaking through his exhaustion. “Wait—since when?” he blurts out, disbelief coloring his tone.

Taeyong turns, narrowing his gaze with icy precision. “Since now,” he responds, voice cold, allowing no room for challenge. “Anyone else have an issue?”

Jaemin hesitantly lifts a hand, looking far smaller beneath Taeyong’s intense scrutiny. “Why you, though?” he asks quietly, attempting bravery.

“Because I was asked,” Taeyong responds evenly, stepping forward, forcing Jaemin to shrink back visibly. “Problem?”

Jaemin quickly shakes his head, lowering his eyes. “No, sir.”

Taeyong doesn’t hesitate or offer pleasantries. He scans the team sharply, eyes cold and calculating, silently demanding compliance. “I’m not here to babysit,” he begins, his voice hard-edged, emotionless. “I’m here to enforce discipline.”

He dismantles their confidence with surgical precision, attacking each flaw without mercy. “Mark, reckless doesn’t mean effective. Jaemin, hesitation is weakness—figure yourself out, or get off my court.” His eyes finally land on Jeno, lingering a second longer than necessary. “And Jeno, leadership means stepping up. Right now, you’re hardly worth the title.”

Your chest tightens. This is the first time you've ever witnessed Jeno with his father. You'd imagined many scenarios, pictured Jeno’s defiance, expected fire, or even quiet rebellion. But Jeno gives none of it. He remains utterly still, utterly unreadable, as if he's become nothing more than a silhouette in the harsh glare of Taeyong’s presence. Jeno's confidence, the quiet strength you've always known him to carry, dims visibly under his father's shadow.

Something inside you twists uncomfortably. Jeno has always been strong—almost untouchable—and seeing him shrink, even slightly, beneath Taeyong's gaze feels deeply unsettling. Taeyong notices this silence, takes it as submission, unaware of the quiet rebellion stirring deep within his son. Unaware that the seeds of defiance are already beginning to take root beneath Jeno’s passive exterior. You sense it—the inevitability of change hanging thickly between them. Something small, barely noticeable, has begun shifting in this moment. And Taeyong, blinded by his certainty of control, does not see it coming.

“Get in position.” Taeyong’s voice is razor-sharp, slicing through the air like a whip. His glare sweeps over the team, brimming with undisguised contempt. “You want to waste my time? Fine. But if you think I won’t tear each of you apart for slacking, you’re dead wrong.” His tone drips with venom, each word laced with a promise of punishment. “Move. Now.”

The players reluctantly disperse, each movement heavy with silent protest. Mark's intensity is palpable, frustration turning his movements sharp, aggressive. Beside him, Jeno remains deliberately distant, moving with mechanical precision, never letting his eyes stray too close to Mark. Taeyong's voice echoes across the court, cold and cutting. “Jaemin, pick it up! Jeno—is this your idea of leading? Mark, you're dragging your feet!”

Kun’s eyes flick over the exhausted players, growing more concerned by the second. Finally, he raises his whistle and blows sharply, slicing through the chaotic noise. “Alright, let's take a breather. Five minutes—get some water.”

Relief visibly washes over the players, their bodies slumping toward the benches. Taeyong’s head snaps toward Kun, eyes blazing with irritation. “Five minutes? They're barely warmed up.”

“They need recovery,” Kun replies firmly, meeting Taeyong’s challenging stare without flinching. “You won’t get results by running them into the ground.”

Taeyong holds the silence just long enough for discomfort to ripple through the gym before relenting with a curt nod. “Fine. Five minutes.”

The boys collapse onto benches, breaths coming in ragged gasps, sweat glistening on their skin. Jeno sits near Mark, hesitantly, maintaining that careful distance. Yet, as you watch, you catch them exchanging brief glances, quiet smirks passing between them. Something subtle, something secretive, shared silently—a flicker of understanding. It makes your chest tighten slightly, uncertain of what exactly you've just witnessed, but sensing instinctively it's important.

You notice Jeno lean toward Mark, lips moving quietly. The conversation is brief, punctuated by nods and subtle smiles. You're left wondering—did they reconcile? Did something shift? Your pulse quickens, sensing that whatever they've silently agreed upon is significant, that this careful rebellion has only just begun. The two brothers seem to share a silent promise—something deliberately hidden from Taeyong’s watchful gaze, something quietly powerful in its defiance.

And suddenly, you understand: beneath Jeno's careful silence and Mark's open rebellion, they're both choosing to fight back in their own ways. Against the control, the pressure, the suffocating weight of expectation. You just wonder how long their quiet resistance can last before everything snaps.

Their plan clearly unfolds with precision—too precise, too smooth. Every pass lands exactly where it should, each movement seamless, each play executed with practiced ease that feels deliberate. It's muscle memory, instinctive, something ingrained long before Taeyong ever stepped onto this court. It’s everything Taeyong doesn’t want, and yet it’s everything Coach Suh would have praised.

Mark and Jeno move like two parts of the same whole, their chemistry effortless despite everything that’s come between them. Their movements openly defy Taeyong’s rigid commands, directly opposing every demand he's made, every principle he's tried to enforce. And yet their plays are flawless. The ball moves between them in perfect rhythm, a game within the game—a quiet rebellion masked as cooperation. The harder Taeyong tries to impose control, the easier they slip from his grasp.

Jeno nudges Mark with his shoulder, and Mark shoves him back lightly, their laughter echoing across the polished floor. The tension that weighed so heavily between them only hours ago is gone. They stand shoulder to shoulder, no longer divided, no longer opposing forces. Brothers. As if they had never stopped being so.

Your heart clenches at the sight, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a fragile moment, a piece of something temporarily broken now fumbling toward being whole again. You don't know how long it will last—if it will last at all—but for now, it’s enough. For now, it’s everything.

Yet, not everyone shares your sentiment. When your eyes shift to the corner of the gym, they land on Areum. She’s standing rigidly near the bleachers, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her expression is wrong—not her usual composure, nor her usual soft, delicate eyes. Her lips are pressed together, her eyes distant but brimming with something raw. Hurt, betrayal, grief—emotions she’s terribly bad at hiding. She looks heartbroken, as if watching something slip irretrievably through her fingers.

You force yourself to turn away just as the air in the gym shifts. The warmth of the moment vanishes, replaced by a cold, oppressive weight. Under the sharp lights, Taeyong stands silent, his clipboard clutched so tightly his knuckles whiten. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his stillness says more than words ever could.

He is seething. For a moment, he simply observes, the silence stretching painfully. Every breath, every heartbeat seems amplified by the tension. Then his voice splits the hush with lethal precision. “You think this is funny?” The question is quiet, barely more than a growl, but it feels like a physical blow. Mark and Jeno exchange a glance, and though their laughter fades, neither looks away. Neither shows fear. Their faces are neutral, but their postures are ready—as if they've been waiting for this.

Taeyong’s lips press into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “What’s so damn funny?” he demands, voice taut with barely restrained anger. “Is it the part where you ignore every order I give? Or maybe you just love making a mockery out of this practice?”

Jeno’s jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. “We’re just playing basketball.”

The word lands like a spark to dry tinder. Taeyong’s eyes narrow, darkening with fury. “Oh, basketball,” he echoes, dripping with contempt. “That what you call blatantly disregarding every single command I gave you? That what you call turning my court into a joke?”

Jeno’s response is a slow, deliberate shrug. “We scored, didn’t we?”

Mark exhales a breath that's almost a laugh, and you sense Taeyong fray at the edges. Taeyong shifts his focus to Mark, eyes burning. “And you,” he snaps, “you think this is some game? You’re not here to show off. You’re here to follow my system.”

Mark’s smirk is razor-sharp. “What system?” he challenges. “Barking orders and working us to the bone isn’t a system.That’s just your ego.”

The air turns electric, charged with sudden danger. Taeyong moves closer, clipboard clutched so hard it might crack. “You want to keep laughing? You think you’re above this team? Above me?”

Mark sets his shoulders, refusing to back down. “It’s not that hard to be above you.”

Taeyong’s fury boils over. With a sudden lunge, he shoves Mark’s chest, the impact sharp and punishing. Mark staggers, eyes blazing, and drives both hands into Taeyong’s chest, forcing him back a step with a hollow thud that echoes across the gym.

Everyone freezes. Nobody breathes.

Mark’s voice is low, tight with anger. “You don’t fucking scare me. You’ve been throwing your weight around my whole damn life, acting like everything you say is law, like you can control me from a distance. But guess what? I’m not that scared kid anymore.”

He steps forward, forcing Taeyong back another inch. “This team isn’t about you,” he seethes. “It’s bigger than your fragile ego, and it’s sure as hell bigger than you. I’m done playing by your rules.”

A hush falls over the court, thickening the air until it feels nearly suffocating. You watch, breath caught in your chest, as the fragile balance of power shifts visibly between Mark’s defiance and Taeyong’s furious disbelief. Each word from Mark is precise, cutting, methodically dismantling the false authority Taeyong has built around himself. You see the strain in the older man’s expression—the cracks in his carefully maintained facade—and you recognize, deep down, that this is a turning point.

But your attention drifts briefly toward Jeno, who stands slightly apart, his expression tight yet carefully blank. His jaw clenched, he watches the confrontation without intervening, his posture stiff as though bracing himself against an invisible storm. You hate this sight—the way tension coils in his body, the muted resignation painted across his features. But then, Jeno’s eyes flicker toward you, catching your gaze with a precision that steals your breath. For a split second, the storm in his eyes breaks, revealing something softer beneath—something reserved only for you. A delicate smile, small and gentle, graces his lips, warmth peeking through the heavy tension. The corners of your mouth curve upward instinctively in response, a silent reassurance passing between you. In that brief moment, nothing else matters but the fragile intimacy of his quiet smile.

The moment shatters as Mia steps closer, her voice carrying an unmistakable edge of condescension. “You and Jeno are still together?” she sneers, her tone dripping with mock incredulity. “Honestly didn’t think you’d last. Didn’t think you were his type.”

Mia’s words grate on your nerves, an annoyance rather than outright anger. You roll your eyes, letting out a slow breath as you look her over with deliberate boredom. “And do you think you’re his type?” you drawl, arching an eyebrow to make it clear just how little you value her unwanted opinion.

Her eyes narrow, her expression sharpening. “Please,” she scoffs, her tone dripping with mockery, “like you’re actually his type.” Her gaze sweeps over you dismissively, lingering just long enough to emphasize the insult. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your rib cage, but you hold her gaze firmly. Before you can respond, Aisha chimes in from beside Mia, voice equally acidic. “Come on, Y/N, we all know you’re just playing pretend. You’re not some innocent angel like you want everyone to think. We’ve all seen who you really are.”

You swallow hard, fighting the urge to lash out. “And what's that supposed to mean?” you bite back, tone sharp and unwavering.

Yiren’s voice cuts in, taunting and smug. “It means that I’m surprised Jeno still wants to be with you as you’ve lied about who you really are. We know about the bar, Y/N. The smoking, the performance—pretending to be innocent isn’t really your thing, is it? ”

You roll your eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you’re that interested in me performing at the bar, just ask next time—I’ll get you private tickets.”

Nahyun mutters something under her breath, just loud enough to be heard. “Honestly, I don’t even know why you’re surprised, girls.” She exhales, arms crossed, voice dripping with patronizing amusement. “Jeno’s just experimenting. Mark finally came to his senses and dumped Areum, now I’m just waiting for Jeno to come to his senses, then both the Lee brothers—”

"I broke up with him, actually.” Areum’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and unflinching. She looks at Nahyun, chin lifted, eyes flashing, daring her to say otherwise. The air in the gym shifts as the girls exchange glances, taken aback by the steel in Areum’s tone.

You shake your head in frustration, not even bothering to suppress your irritation. “Nahyun, don’t even start,” you cut in, your voice flat with exhaustion. “You literally had to beg your way back onto the cheer team.” It lands exactly as intended—pointed, dismissive, a reminder that her opinions mean nothing when she’s only here out of necessity.

Nahyun’s face falters for a split second before she schools it back into indifference. She did beg to be let back on. She wanted this, needed it, and Karina, desperate for numbers with the state championships approaching, let her return. It wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about necessity.

Something shifts between you and Areum in that moment—a quiet understanding, a shared distaste for the girls standing in front of you. When your eyes meet, there’s a flicker of amusement beneath the irritation, the beginning of a small, almost imperceptible smirk exchanged between the two of you. For once, you’re on the same side.

Karina’s voice suddenly shreds through the tension. “I am so sick of this!” Her scream echoes across the gym, reverberating off the walls, sending a sharp jolt through everyone standing around. “The fighting, the yelling, the constant bullshit—I’ve had enough.” Her eyes snap to Nahyun, venom dripping into her glare. “You are on your last chance. Do you understand me?”

Nahyun swallows but doesn’t respond. Karina doesn’t wait for one. “Formation. Now.” She steps back, tossing a final glare at Mia, Aisha, and Yiren. “And if any of you want to keep running your mouths, don’t bother showing up to the next practice.” Silence. Then, begrudging movement as the girls start to shuffle into formation. But the damage is already done—the tension, the bitterness, the fractures in the team remain.

The cheerleading practice is a mess, just like always. There’s no unity. No real sense of teamwork. None of these girls like each other, and it shows. The routine lacks chemistry, the formations are off, and Karina is practically grinding her teeth in frustration. Mia, unsurprisingly, makes her presence known first. “You need to keep up, Y/N,” she huffs, arms crossed over her chest. “This routine isn’t for beginners.”

You scoff, throwing her a sharp look. “I’m keeping up better than you.”

Your words land, sharp and certain, cutting through the noise like a blade. The gym stalls, tension stretching in the silence left behind. You can feel the shift—eyes turning, breaths held, the undercurrent of something shifting beneath the surface.

But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you. Jeno’s gaze is steady, unreadable at first, but there’s something in it, something knowing. He doesn’t react to the murmurs or the way the practice has momentarily unraveled—his focus is only on you. His head tilts, the movement slight, careful, a pull toward the door so small that no one else would catch it. But you do. Because it’s not a question, not really. He’s not asking if you want to leave—he’s waiting for you to decide. Waiting to see if you need him to take you away from this, from them, from the weight pressing against your ribs.

It’s a way out. An answer to something you hadn’t even put into words. Your nod is small, almost imperceptible, but he catches it instantly. The corner of his lips quirks—not a full smile, just the ghost of one, something knowing, something meant just for you. Then he move, Jeno crosses the gym without hesitation, cutting through the tension like it doesn’t exist, like the weight of every lingering stare and unspoken judgment doesn’t matter. His presence alone shifts the air around you, steady and sure, yours.

Jeno’s arm slides around your back, firm and protective, pulling you in just enough that his body shields you from their stares, from them. His voice is low, meant only for you, the steady weight of it sinking beneath your skin like something permanent. “Ignore them” he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple. His fingers press lightly against the small of your back, a quiet reminder, a reassurance. “Come here.”

And then, just like that, he kisses you. It’s soft. Dreamy. A moment of quiet in the middle of chaos. His lips press to yours, warm and certain, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re standing in the middle of the gym, by the fact that people are watching. He doesn’t care—he only cares about you. And when you smile against his lips, when his hand curls just slightly at the small of your back, it feels like the both of you are in your own world, untouched by anything else.

His lips part against yours, slow and searching, the warmth of his breath fanning over your skin. He tastes like sweet, brown sugar and something else that’s undeniably him, something you could drown in if you let yourself. His grip at your back tightens, drawing you in until your bodies are flush, the heat of him sinking into you. Your fingers slide deeper into his hair, tugging just enough to earn the faintest, almost inaudible hitch of breath against your mouth. His other hand ghosts over your waist, not demanding, just there, steady and possessive, like he’s reminding you exactly who you belong to. The kiss lingers, deepens—lazy, intoxicating, a slow pull into something heavier. If you weren’t already breathless, the way he tilts his head, deepening it just enough to leave you dizzy, would’ve done it.

But the world is watching. You don’t notice Mark glaring, his jaw set, his expression dark. You don’t see Taeyong’s sharp stare, the unreadable weight in his eyes. You don’t realize that this moment—the way Jeno stands before him, untouchable, unconcerned, unafraid—is a fracture in something far bigger than the two of you. A thread pulled too hard, a balance tipping, a fault line beginning to crack. It does not shatter yet, but the weight of it hangs in the air, waiting.

Jeno pulls away slowly, his forehead still nearly resting against yours, his lips brushing over the ghost of your smile before he finally leans back. There’s warmth in his eyes, something soft and golden that lingers between you. Neither of you speak—you don’t have to. The moment stretches, slow and syrup-thick, wrapping the two of you in something untouched, something safe.

And then—splash.

A sharp gasp rips from your throat as the coldness seeps in first, biting against your skin, drenching through the fabric of your uniform. It’s thick, slow-moving as it clings to you, sinking into the fibers, sticky and sickly sweet. The scent of vanilla, artificial and overpowering, curls in the air around you before you even glance down. Milkshake. A Fucking milkshake.

Nahyun blinks at you, wide-eyed, faux-innocent, her hand flying to her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh my God,” she gasps, voice pitched just right, so perfectly performative. “I bumped into you.”

Jeno steps back slightly, just enough to register what’s happened, his brows knitting together in confusion before his expression hardens. His body shifts, his hand already moving—instinctive. The cold press of liquid against your skin has the fabric of your uniform clinging to you, the damp material turning sheer, betraying the curve of your body, the way your nipples tighten against it from the chill. His eyes flicker down, a muscle in his jaw ticking, but he says nothing. Just moves. The hoodie—his hoodie, the one you’ve stolen a dozen times before, the one that still carries the faintest trace of his cologne—is yanked from his bag without hesitation. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. Just drapes it over your shoulders, the motion deliberate, possessive. His hands ghost along the fabric, adjusting it so it shields you fully, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your collarbone.

The gym hums with murmurs, the weight of stares pressing into you from every angle, but Jeno doesn’t acknowledge them. He doesn’t turn to Nahyun, doesn’t waste a second giving her the reaction she wants. Instead, his grip tightens around your wrist—a silent let’s go—and he begins to lead you toward the doors, his steps purposeful, his intent clear.

Then—“Jeno.”

His father’s voice slices through the air like a blade.

Jeno doesn’t stop. “Jeno.” Sharper. Colder.

His steps slow, but he doesn’t turn. You see the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch slightly against yours. His father’s presence is an anchor, something suffocating and heavy that drags against him even as he tries to walk away.

“You don’t get to leave practice early.” Jeno stops. The gym is silent. You glance up at him, watching the war play out behind his eyes—anger, resentment, exhaustion, defiance. It’s all there, unraveling and rebuilding in real-time, his grip on your hand tightening as if he’s trying to ground himself, as if he’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t the inevitable pull of his father’s control.

You squeeze his hand, tilting your head just slightly to catch his gaze. “Just go, baby.”

Your voice is gentle, meant for him alone, meant to be softer than the weight pressing down on him. His eyes flick to yours, searching, uncertain. He doesn’t want to let go. You say it because you know him. Because you can see the war waging behind his eyes, the way his body tenses like he’s bracing for a fight he doesn’t even want to have. Because if you don’t say it, he’ll stand here forever, caught between what he wants and what he’s been conditioned to obey. You say it because you refuse to be another thing that weighs him down. Because you’d rather be the thing that makes it easier—that reminds him, even in moments like this, that he has a choice.

You nod, a small smile, a quiet promise. I’m okay. I’ll see you later. Jeno hesitates for just a second longer before exhaling, his jaw clenching as he reluctantly loosens his grip. His touch lingers as his fingers slip away from yours, the warmth of them still imprinted against your skin.

So Jeno stays. And you leave.

You step into the girls’ locker room, heart still racing from the chaos outside. The sticky sweetness of the milkshake clings uncomfortably to your skin, and your thoughts spiral between the sharp words exchanged, Jeno's comforting presence, and the soft, reassuring kiss that still tingles on your lips. You peel the damp fabric away, relief briefly washing over you at finally being alone, when the door creaks open. You turn instinctively, expecting—hoping—to see Jeno or even Mark, but instead, your blood runs cold. Lee Taeyong stands in the doorway, utterly unfazed as his eyes sweep over you, dominance and disdain clear in his sharp gaze. Without a word, he shuts the door behind him, and the soft click echoes ominously, sealing you both inside.

Your breath catches violently in your throat, a sharp, involuntary gasp ripping from your lips. Panic lurches through you as you scramble for Jeno’s hoodie, yanking it up to your chest in a desperate attempt to cover yourself. “What the fuck—get out!” Your voice cracks with sheer disbelief, your body moving back instinctively, pressing against the cool metal of the lockers as if you could somehow will yourself away from him. Your heart hammers against your ribs, the reality of the moment sinking in too fast, too suffocating.

Taeyong doesn’t flinch. He barely reacts at all, his expression remaining cold, detached, like your outrage is nothing more than an insignificant detail to him. His gaze flicks over you once—impassive, clinical—before he exhales, slow and deliberate, and shuts the door behind him. The click of the lock sliding into place sends a violent shiver up your spine.

Your stomach twists, nausea rising in your throat. “Are you insane? You can’t just—just walk in here—what the fuck is wrong with you?” Your voice is frantic, shaky, but edged with pure anger. You clutch the fabric tighter against your chest, heat rushing to your face, not just from humiliation but from the absolute audacity of his presence.

But Taeyong? He remains utterly unmoved. If anything, his disinterest in your outrage makes it worse. His suit is pristine, not a thread out of place, as if nothing in the world could possibly unsettle him. His eyes—Jeno’s eyes, but colder, emptier—fix onto you with something bordering on contempt. His lip curls ever so slightly, as if the very sight of you is offensive. “Oh, don’t act modest now,” he muses, voice like ice water down your spine. “You’ve been naked in front of my son plenty of times, haven’t you?”

Taeyong exhales sharply, shaking his head like the mere sight of you is exhausting. “You really thought you could sneak around under my nose?” His voice is sharp, steady, cruelly unimpressed. “That I wouldn’t notice the way you’ve been throwing yourself at my son, crawling into his bed, distracting him, ruining him?” His lips twist, the words dripping with disdain. “You think I don’t see what you are? What you do? You’ve been fucking Jeno, dragging him down with you, pulling him away from everything he’s supposed to be. And you really thought you’d get away with it.”

The words slap into you like a physical force, the air in the locker room thinning, closing in on you. Your fingers clutch tighter around Jeno’s hoodie, but there’s no hiding, no escaping under his scrutiny. He doesn’t look angry—not in the way people do when they lose control. No, Taeyong is composed, every syllable measured, a knife sliding between your ribs with effortless precision.

“I’ve known about you from the beginning,” he continues, voice smooth but cutting, like he’s stating something obvious. “I knew the second Jeno started slipping, the second his focus started waning. He used to be sharp, disciplined. Now?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “He’s careless. Distracted. By you.” His eyes flick down, scanning the hoodie wrapped around your shoulders, and his lip curls. “I should have shut this down the second it started.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between you without hurry. “But I waited,” he says, voice dropping just slightly, making the words heavier. “I let him get whatever this is out of his system. I tolerated it. I watched. And what did you do with that time?” He tilts his head, his stare sharp enough to flay skin. “You made it worse. You changed him. And not for the better.”

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to hold his gaze, even as his presence suffocates the space between you.

Taeyong lets out a slow, measured sigh, as if it genuinely pains him to acknowledge this. “Jeno has always had potential,” he says, and there’s something cold, final about the way he says it. “He was built for this. Raised for this. Do you even know the level of talent he has? Do you even comprehend what he’s capable of?” His voice sharpens, the edges hardening, the first real crack of irritation slipping through. “He was meant to be exceptional. And now? He’s squandering everything.”

The shift in tone is subtle, but you feel it. The control, the restraint, the absolute certainty he’s carried up until now—there’s something just slightly frayed underneath it. He’s pissed. “He’s fucking around with those morons—Eric, Sunwoo—gambling away his career, throwing himself into something that could ruin not just him, but the entire team.” His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. “And the worst part? He doesn’t think. Not the way he should. Not the way I taught him to. He acts on impulse, on whatever stupid, fleeting emotion he’s chasing at any given moment. He believes things will just work out—that no matter what he does, he’ll land on his feet.”

“And whose fault is that?” Your voice is quiet, but sharp, unwavering. “You say Jeno doesn’t think. That he acts on impulse. That he believes everything will work out for him no matter what.” Your head tilts, mirroring his own, a cold smile tugging at your lips. “Who do you think taught him that?”

Something in Taeyong’s gaze flickers. “You didn’t raise him to be careful. You raised him to win. To obey. To be everything you decided he had to be before he ever got the chance to figure it out himself.” Your voice is steady, but the weight behind it is undeniable. “You built him to push through everything, to never stop, never think, never hesitate. And now, when he finally does? When he finally starts making choices that don’t fit into the future you forced on him, you call it a distraction. A mistake.” Your eyes burn into his, unflinching. “You don’t like that Jeno is slipping, Taeyong? Maybe you should ask yourself why he was trying so hard to hold it together in the first place.”

Taeyong doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, his expression shifts, amusement flickering through his cold gaze. “There it is,” he murmurs, almost like it’s an observation. Like he’s studying you. “That little bite. That fire Jeno seems so drawn to.” His head tilts just slightly, and something about it makes your stomach knot. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

“You seem to have forgotten your place.” The words are quiet, unhurried, but they land with the force of something far heavier. “So let me remind you.” He takes a measured step forward, his gaze hard, unforgiving. “You are going to stay away from my son. No contact. No texts. No meetings. Nothing.” His voice remains infuriatingly steady, laced with the kind of authority that doesn’t entertain defiance. “I don’t care what delusions you’ve let yourself believe, what fantasy you’ve built in your head—Jeno is not yours to keep. You will cut him off completely, and you will do it now.”

His eyes flick over you, assessing, and then his head tilts, just slightly, something unreadable shifting behind his expression. “Or should I make you?”

You blink at him, his words hitting you with the force of something designed to break, to sever. A breath catches somewhere in your throat, half disbelief, half something darker. “Seriously? No, what the fuck, I’m not—”

“Yes, you will,” he cuts in, and it isn’t just an interruption—it’s a dismantling. His voice drops, something heavier curling around his words, pressing them into the space between you with an intensity that feels almost suffocating. “It’s not your choice. Either you do exactly as I say, or I will expose you.”

For a second, you can’t move. The words settle into the air like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore, threading through the small, imperceptible cracks in your composure. You hear the threat before you fully understand it, before your mind can wrap around the weight of what he’s saying. And then the realization crashes into you, something cold and sharp locking around your ribs. Expose you. Taeyong is methodical. Calculated. He doesn’t make empty threats, and he wouldn’t be standing here if he didn’t already have something to back it up. Your voice comes out unsteady, barely above a whisper. “Expose me? How?”

The smirk that flickers across his face is small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A cruel little thing that lingers in the corner of his mouth before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He moves with unhurried precision, scrolling through something, murmuring under his breath about the inconvenience of technology, like this is just another chore, another trivial task he needs to check off his list. And then, without fanfare, he turns the screen toward you.

Your breath catches. The image is grainy but unmistakable. You. On stage. The dim neon lights of the bar cast a shifting glow over your body, your movements languid, sultry, designed to seduce an audience you thought would never see beyond those walls. The outfit clings in all the ways you intended, the sway of your hips deliberate, practiced, controlled. It was supposed to be private. A secret life you kept locked away from the version of yourself that existed outside those doors. And yet, here it is, playing out on the screen in Taeyong’s hand like it was never really yours to keep.

He swipes, and the next video is worse. Jeno, pressed against you in the dim glow of the bar’s back corner, his mouth hot and insistent against yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough. The air is thick with smoke, the haze curling between your bodies as you exhale, your lips still slick from his kiss. His fingers drag up your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, pushing boundaries without hesitation. Another swipe. You, straddling his lap in a shadowed booth, grinding against him as his hands roam, as your lips ghost along his jaw, your breath warm and laced with the lingering taste of whiskey. Another swipe. His fingers at the waistband of your panties, yours curled around the cigarette he just passed you, the ember glowing between your fingertips as you take another hit, exhaling slow, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. The night bleeding into sensation—heat, pressure, the muted pulse of bass-heavy music, the world outside reduced to nothing but this.

It feels like drowning. Your stomach twists violently, the rush of nausea so immediate it nearly knocks you off balance. How? The word beats against the inside of your skull, frantic, insistent. How does he have this? Your voice shakes when you finally manage to speak, the syllables barely holding together. “How—how do you even have this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t need to. The phone disappears back into his pocket, and the look he levels you with is colder than before, if that’s even possible. “That’s not your concern,” he says simply, dismissing the question as if the answer is irrelevant, as if you are irrelevant. “What matters is that I have it. And trust me, Deloitte wouldn’t appreciate discovering your extracurricular activities. Imagine how quickly your opportunity would vanish once they see this.”

The breath in your lungs turns to stone. You feel it lodge itself there, unmovable, impossible to breathe around. He’s not just threatening you. He’s already won. “Delete those,” you snap, but the bite in your voice is weak, forced. Your fingers curl into fists, trembling despite your best efforts to keep them steady. “Now.”

Taeyong doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react. “Agree to stay away from Jeno.”

The words fall between you like a gavel striking down in a courtroom. Absolute. Unshakable. A sentence that has already been passed. The silence that follows is unbearable, stretching so thin you swear you can hear the pounding of your pulse in your ears. Your body is locked in place, every muscle tensed, waiting for something, for anything, for some miracle that won’t come. And then it happens. The words spill out before you can even process them, slipping from your lips like an instinct, like a reflex, like survival.

“I agree!” You lunge forward, your hands moving faster than your thoughts, reaching for his phone, needing to erase everything, needing to make sure it’s gone. Your fingers fumble as you unlock it, as you scroll through the videos, your breaths sharp and erratic, your heart slamming against your ribs in a frantic rhythm. It has to be gone. It has to be gone. The panic is suffocating, tightening around your throat, making your vision blur as you force yourself to delete each file, one by one.

“Are they only here?” you demand, your voice barely more than a whisper, your fingers still moving, still erasing, still destroying. You don’t stop until every trace is gone, until the screen is wiped clean of the evidence that he should neverhave had in the first place.

But the question lingers—How does he have them? The question gnaws at you, twisting through the panic, refusing to settle. Did he have someone follow Jeno, track his movements, watch him slip into the bar, wait for him to find you, wait for the moment your guard was down? Or did he buy the footage outright, slip money into the right hands, a transaction so effortless it barely cost him a second thought? Maybe he didn’t need to pay at all—maybe someone handed it over willingly, a nameless bartender or a faceless bouncer, someone who recognized Jeno, who knew exactly who his father was, who saw an opportunity and took it.

Maybe Taeyong barely had to ask. That’s what makes it worse—not just that he has them, but how easily he must have gotten them, how little effort it took to unravel something you thought was yours. It makes it bigger, impossible to trace, impossible to fight. You thought you were safe in the dark, that your secrets lived in the space between liquor-drenched laughter and neon-lit shadows, in the heat of Jeno’s hands and the haze curling from your lips. But you see it now—the illusion of privacy, the lie of anonymity. You were never hidden. You were never out of reach.

Taeyong nods once to your question, sharp and decisive. And you know. He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t need backups. He doesn’t need a second copy. He doesn’t need to hold onto them at all. Because he already holds you. But he’s not finished. You should’ve known he wouldn’t be. The power shift is too easy, too simple. Because blackmail alone isn’t enough. He can see it—the way you’re still breathing too hard, the way your hands are still trembling, the way your mind is still searching for an escape. You agreed, but it wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough.

And so, he goes for Jeno. “But understand this—if you defy me, if you even consider staying with my son, it will be Jeno who pays.”

The floor drops out from under you, but it isn’t the sharp kind of fall. It’s slow, measured, the kind that makes you feel every inch of descent, every second of helplessness, every breath that lodges in your throat and refuses to come unstuck. Your body locks up, panic curling in tight, but it isn’t just panic—it’s something worse. Because Taeyong knows. You see it now, the calculation in his eyes, the way he watches you like he’s already predicted every reaction, every desperate counter-move. His first threat was never going to be enough. He knew that. Knew there was a chance you’d find a way around it, that you’d figure out how to survive the fallout, that you’d swallow your own ruin if it meant keeping Jeno.

So he does what he always does—he makes sure there is no way out.

He goes for Jeno. And that’s what makes your breath stutter. Because it’s not just about you anymore. It’s not about your future, your dignity, the life you’ve been clawing your way toward—it’s about him. And Taeyong knows exactly what that means. He knows how you feel it in the pit of your stomach when Jeno so much as frowns, how your heart clenches when exhaustion lines his face, how you would give anything to keep that light in his eyes, to protect the pieces of him that Taeyong has spent years trying to snuff out. He knows that when it comes to Jeno, you would do anything. Everything.That’s why he doesn’t just threaten him—he promises. Promises to unravel the thing Jeno loves most, the only thing that has ever truly been his. And suddenly, it doesn’t matter what happens to you. It never did. The only thing that matters is keeping Jeno safe. And Taeyong knows—of course he knows—that you’ll do whatever it takes to make sure of that.

“It’s already clear he’s ruining his own future with his reckless gambling and impulsive decisions,” Taeyong continues, and the way he says it—so calm, so disappointed—sends a fresh wave of nausea through you. Like Jeno is nothing more than a failed investment. A project gone wrong. “But I’ll make sure he never sets foot on a basketball court again. I’ll destroy every opportunity, every path forward he thinks he has. And it will all be your fault.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. The words are there, caught somewhere between your ribs, but they won’t come out. Fear presses down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to move. Because you know he means it. And you can’t let him do it. You can’t. Jeno loves basketball the way most people love air, the way his heart beats without permission, without pause. It’s the only thing that’s ever been his. His father has stolen everything else—his childhood, his choices, his sense of self—but basketball? That’s the one thing he was never able to take from him. Until now. Until you.

So that’s it? That’s what you have to do? You have to leave? Take the opportunity he’s giving you, walk away, pretend Jeno was never yours to hold? Pretend none of it ever happened? You swallow, your throat so tight it hurts. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to.

“You want me to disappear?” The words taste bitter. “Just like that?”

Taeyong doesn’t even hesitate. Doesn’t falter. “Yes.”

The finality of it slices through you like a knife. There’s nothing left to argue, no room to bargain. It’s not a request. It never was. “You understand the consequences if you don’t, right?”

You nod. You don’t know if you mean it, but you nod. Taeyong claps his hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound that cuts through the suffocating quiet. “Then it’s settled. You’ll break it off with my son immediately.”

You barely move. You barely breathe. Taeyong’s irritation, his frustration, his cruel actions—they’re rooted in his desperation to maintain control. Mark had always challenged him, openly rebellious, and now Jeno is following suit, defying expectations, acting unpredictably. Taeyong’s power is slipping, and he's determined to reclaim it at any cost. You’re merely a casualty caught in the crossfire, powerless against the fury of Lee Taeyong.

The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against your ribs like a weight you can’t shake. Taeyong watches you, his expression unreadable, his presence an unshakable force that demands submission. And then, as if this moment wasn’t already unbearable, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You were always out of your depth,” he says, his voice carrying something between amusement and disappointment. “Did you really think this would last? That someone like you—some ordinary girl with nothing to her name—was ever meant to keep him?”

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Even Areum had more standing than you. A better family, real connections, a name that actually meant something. If anyone had a chance, it would’ve been her.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly, as if considering something. And then his lip curls, eyes flashing with something cruel. “And yet, even she proved worthless in the end. Let herself sink—dragged herself down to Mark, of all people.” He shakes his head again, like the very thought disgusts him. “So tell me, what makes you think you—with no name, no status, nothing—could ever be anything more than a passing distraction?”

The words slice through you, deep and deliberate. You knew, of course, that Jeno came from a world of wealth, of power, of things you’d never had access to. But this? This is different. This is Taeyong laying it out for you in brutal clarity: you were never worthy. Not because of anything you did, not because of any mistake you made, but because you were born beneath him. Because your family isn’t his family. Because you don’t have the name, the wealth, the legacy that he deems acceptable. And to him, that is justification enough. To him, that is reason enough to tear you from Jeno’s life.

Something ugly twists in your stomach—humiliation, rage, something deeper, something that makes your hands curl into fists even as you fight to keep your expression neutral. “You won’t be the first girl he forgets about when he realizes how small you are compared to his future,” Taeyong continues, his voice smooth, effortless, as if he’s not ripping you apart piece by piece.

Your nails dig into your palms. There it is. The future he’s carved out for Jeno—prestigious, untouchable, perfectly curated. One that has no place for you. And yet, something shifts in the back of your mind, something sharp and burning. “You’re risking compromising his future?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice quieter than before but just as sharp. “You know about Eric and Sunwoo, you know what they’re doing, what they’re pulling him into. You could fix it. But you’re not.”

A flicker of something crosses Taeyong’s face—so brief, so controlled, you almost miss it. But you don’t miss it. You see the momentary pause, the measured breath, the barest hint of something just beneath the surface. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deny it. And that tells you everything.

Because he doesn’t want to fix it.

He wants Jeno to fall just enough. Not enough to ruin him completely, not enough to destroy his potential—but enough to make him need his father again. Enough to remind him that Taeyong still holds the reins. Because if Jeno stumbles, if he makes a mess of things just before his future is set in stone, who else can he turn to?

And suddenly, everything is clearer. This isn’t just about you being a distraction. This is about control. This is about power. Jeno is slipping from his grasp, and Taeyong is tightening his grip in the only way he knows how—by cutting away anything that lets Jeno believe he has a choice.

You exhale slowly, the realization settling like lead in your chest.

Your eyes flick to Taeyong’s, and for the first time, you really look at him. The resemblance is striking—Jeno’s sharp jaw, Jeno’s piercing gaze, the same angular features. But where Jeno’s eyes hold warmth, his are devoid of it. Hollow. Merciless. It makes you wonder how long it’ll be before Jeno starts looking at the world the same way, if Taeyong keeps pushing. If there’s a version of Jeno, years from now, who stands in a room like this, with that same cool detachment, with that same soulless stare.

And maybe that’s the worst part. Not just the threat, not just the cruelty, but the possibility—the idea that Taeyong has already set the pieces in place, that he’s already shaping Jeno into something you won’t recognize. The thought sickens you. Taeyong lets the silence linger, a predator watching its prey. He’s so calm. So in control. He’s already decided this is over, already written you out of the story like you were nothing more than a misplaced footnote.

But you have something now. Something he wasn’t expecting. Desperation. He’s desperate. That’s why he’s acting now, why he’s here instead of watching from a distance like he has for months. He knows he’s losing Jeno, and that’s why he needs you gone. Because if Jeno doesn’t have him, who else does he have? You. And Taeyong can’t allow that.

The realization doesn’t change anything. Not yet. But you hold onto it, tucking it somewhere safe, somewhere deep. Right now, Taeyong has every advantage. He holds every card. But cracks are forming. And cracks always spread.

The room is dark, the only light coming from the slivers of gold slicing through the blinds, casting shadows across Jeno’s bare skin. The sheets are a mess beneath you, bodies tangled in the heat, in the desperation, in the quiet ache of knowing this can’t last. Your thighs are spread over his, knees digging into the mattress as you sink down onto his cock, slow and deep, the stretch pulling a soft, broken moan from your lips.

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should’ve ended it hours ago, should’ve walked away before you lost yourself to him again. But you can’t. You won’t. Because you love him too much, because you’re weak for him, because there’s something inside of you that needs to feel him one last time, to take him, to let him have you in the way only he ever has. You don’t know how to say goodbye, but you know how to love him. And so you do.

Jeno groans beneath you, hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you down as you roll your hips, fucking yourself onto him with a slow, devastating rhythm. "Fuck, baby," he rasps, his voice thick with sleep and pleasure, head tipping back against the pillows. "So fucking tight. You always take me so good."

You can’t respond, can’t do anything but feel—the way he fills you, stretches you, the way his cock throbs inside you with every deliberate movement of your hips. You lean forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands smoothing down his arms, tracing over muscle, feeling the way he tenses beneath your touch. You’re too quiet. You know he notices, knows he expects you to tease him, to say something sharp and playful between moans. But there’s no teasing tonight. No games. Just this. Just you and him and the unbearable ache of wanting him, of knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have him like this.

"Baby," you whisper, voice breaking, lips ghosting over his skin, over his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. You kiss him between gasps, between moans, between the slow grind of your hips, swallowing his groans like they belong to you. Your hands roam—grasping, desperate—sliding up his chest, curling around the back of his neck, dragging your nails through the short hairs there. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, his scent clinging to you like something you’ll never be able to wash away. "My baby," you breathe again, voice thick with something too raw to name, pressing your lips to his temple, to his eyelids, to the slope of his nose. "My baby. My baby. My baby."

Jeno shudders beneath you, a strangled sound slipping from his throat, his grip tightening—one hand firm on your waist, keeping you down, keeping you flush against him, the other sliding up your spine, spanning your back, dragging you closer, closer, until there’s not an inch of space left between you. His lips part against your shoulder, sucking, biting, marking. He’s not just holding you; he’s grasping at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he needs to feel you everywhere, all at once. His hips roll up, deep, slow, devastating, making you gasp, making you cling to him, fingers curling against his shoulders as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fuck—” his voice is wrecked, thick with something deeper than just pleasure, and it makes your whole body throb. His hand slides to your throat, not to choke, just to hold, to tilt your head back so he can see you, so he can watch every little tremor in your expression. “You feel so fucking good, baby. So perfect.” His lips crash into yours, tongue licking into your mouth, kissing you like he wants to drown in you. His other hand skims down, smoothing over the curve of your ass before gripping tight, guiding your rhythm, pushing you down harder, making you take every inch of him.

You whimper against his mouth, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, dragging your nails down his chest, watching the muscles flex under your touch. His cock twitches inside you, sending a sharp pulse of heat down your spine, making your thighs squeeze around his waist. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint it takes not to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress until you’re screaming. But he lets you take him like this, lets you have him, lets you control the pace even as his fingers dig into your skin like he’s barely keeping himself together.

"Jeno," you whisper, dragging your lips along his jaw, his cheek, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over his face, sucking his bottom lip between yours. He groans, deep and guttural, his hips bucking up involuntarily. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging slightly, grounding himself in the feeling of you, of this, of how completely you’re wrapped around him. “I love this," you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth, his chin, his throat. "I love the way you fill me up. Love the way you touch me." You lick over the salt of his skin, biting down gently, and he shudders beneath you, his cock throbbing deep inside.

"God, I love this pussy," he grits out, voice rough, strained, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. "Love the way you move on me. You’re so fucking beautiful." His hands slide up your back again, over your shoulders, fingers pressing into your jaw as he pulls you back to his mouth. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth, his breath hot and desperate as he groans into you, like he’s trying to pull you deeper, trying to merge you into him, trying to make sure you never leave.

And you let him. You let him take and take and take, because you’ll never stop giving.

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, trying to fight it, but the moment is too much. Every sensation crashes over you at once—the way he fills you, stretches you, the heat of his breath against your skin, the weight of his hands gripping your waist like he can’t bear to let go. Your chest tightens, breath catching, your heartbeat a frantic, stuttering thing against your ribs.

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. You try to blink them away, but the moment is too much, every sensation amplified, every touch searing into you like something permanent, something you’ll never be able to scrub from your skin. You think he doesn’t notice, think you can hide the way your body is trembling, the way you’re falling apart in more ways than one. But then he stills beneath you, breath heavy, fingers flexing where they hold you. Slowly, his grip shifts, one hand trailing up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up just enough for his thumb to brush over the wetness on your cheek.

His brows knit together as his thumb catches the wetness on your cheek. “Feels that good, huh?” His lips curl into a teasing smile, voice low and raspy, full of satisfaction. He thinks it’s the pleasure overwhelming you, the way he’s fucking you so deep, so slow, pulling sounds from you that you can’t control. He doesn’t realize there’s something else behind it, doesn’t see the weight pressing against your ribs, the ache curling beneath your skin. To him, this is just proof of how good he’s making you feel, how perfectly he has you falling apart in his hands.

You can’t answer. You just nod, swallowing hard, clinging to him as you sink down harder, as you grind yourself against him, as you chase the high that’s building in your stomach, in your chest, in the burning ache of your heart. Because this is all you have left. This is the last time he’ll ever hold you like this, the last time you’ll ever get to drown in the way he makes you feel. And if you think about that too hard, you’ll break completely.

Your hands tremble where they press against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. Jeno is still beneath you, his head tipped back against the pillows, his lips swollen from kissing you, his skin hot under your touch. Your hips move in slow, languid rolls, dragging out the moment, making it last, even as the tension builds between you both, curling tight and unrelenting. You don’t want it to end. You don’t want to let him go. So you don’t.

Instead, you lean down, capturing his mouth again, deep and messy, moaning softly into him as he groans into you. He cups the back of your head, tilting into the kiss, his other hand sliding down the damp skin of your back to squeeze your waist, grounding you in the rhythm you’ve both settled into—deliberate, unhurried, devastating. Every inch of him feels too good, too familiar, too much like home, and you let yourself drown in it, in him, just for a little longer.

His fingers tighten at your waist as he tilts his head back slightly, his breath ragged against your lips. "Fuck, baby—" His voice is wrecked, thick with pleasure, and you can feel the way he’s holding himself back, the way his hips twitch up into yours, desperate for more.

You press your forehead against his, gasping softly as you take him deeper, the pleasure mounting unbearably fast. It’s too much, too intense, the pressure in your stomach winding so tight you can barely breathe. "Jen—" His name is barely a whisper, your hands sliding up his arms, your nails digging into the muscles there, clinging to him.

He groans, his head tilting back against the pillow, his eyes squeezing shut. "I got you, baby. Come for me. Let me feel you."

And you do. The orgasm crashes over you, your body seizing up as waves of pleasure roll through you. You shake, breath hitching, moaning into his mouth as you kiss him through it, refusing to let go, to separate, to break the moment. Jeno follows soon after, a sharp, broken groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, his grip on your hips tightening as his body shudders beneath you. His lips curve against yours, smiling softly through the kiss, breathless and wrecked. His arms wrap around your back, pulling you flush against his chest, as if he can still feel the way you tremble against him.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. "Didn’t know you missed me this much," he murmurs, teasing, his voice drowsy with satisfaction. He runs a lazy hand down your back, tracing soft, mindless shapes against your skin, completely unaware of the weight pressing down on your chest, of the way your throat tightens as fresh tears spill over your cheeks.

You don’t move. You don’t pull away. Not yet. You just rest against him, soaking in his warmth, memorizing the feeling of him beneath you, around you, knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have it. But your mind is racing, spiraling through every possibility, every excuse to stay, every fear about leaving. You tell yourself this is the last time, but your body betrays you—clinging to him, pressing closer, moving like you want it to last forever.

Jeno is too wrapped up in the moment to notice. Too trusting. Too content in the haze of pleasure, in the way your body moves against his, in the warmth of your breath against his skin. He has no idea you’re slipping away. Not yet. Your senses are in overdrive. Every touch is a brand, every shift of muscle beneath your fingertips burns itself into your memory. The heat of his skin, the weight of his hands, the way he grips your waist like you belong to him. It’s overwhelming. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, trying to anchor yourself in him, but the thoughts keep creeping in. He doesn’t know. He has no idea. You’re about to ruin him.

Jeno groans beneath you, his hands tracing over your back, pulling you impossibly closer. He thinks your trembling is from pleasure, that your breathless gasps are for him, because of him. His lips drag along your throat, slow and reverent, pressing soft kisses into your skin as his hands skim down your spine. And then the moment shifts. He feels it before he fully understands it. The stiffness in your body, the way your breathing falters, the quiet sniffle you try to suppress.

Jeno frowns, his hands stilling against your back. "Hey," he murmurs, shifting slightly beneath you. "What’s wrong?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you press closer, pressing your lips against his shoulder, your fingers trailing down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He hums softly, tilting his head back as you mouth along his throat, your tongue tracing over the salt of his skin. His breath shudders, hands tightening at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You feel the slow drag of his fingers down your spine, the way his warmth engulfs you, but it only makes it worse. It only makes it harder.

You try to shift back, just a little, just enough to create space, but Jeno doesn’t let you. His arms tighten, keeping you right there, flush against him. "Where do you think you’re going?" he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, with something lazy and possessive, his lips brushing against your temple. His fingers curl around your hip, guiding you back down, pressing you deeper into him. "Stay with me."

It’s unbearable. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, how he’s making it impossible to leave cleanly. Every kiss, every touch, every pull drags you deeper when you should be pulling away. His hands roam over your skin like he’s memorizing you, like he has no idea he’s holding onto something that’s already slipping away. His warmth seeps into your bones, his breath skates along your jaw, his lips brush against yours again—soft, slow, lingering. Like he’s savoring you. Like there’s time.

But there isn’t.

Your fingers twitch against his chest, hesitation keeping you tethered for one more moment, one more second where you let yourself sink into the illusion of staying. His skin is hot beneath your touch, muscles flexing as he shifts slightly, as he tilts his head to nuzzle against you, sighing like he’s never been more content. And it wrecks you. It undoes you. Because this isn’t contentment—it’s blind faith. He trusts that you’re still here. That you’ll still be here when morning comes.

Your throat tightens, your stomach twists, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You have to go.

You force yourself to pull back, your chest aching as his hands slip from your body, as the air between you turns cold the moment he’s no longer wrapped around you. Your breath stutters, your fingers twitch like they want to reach for him again, but you don’t let them. You stay still for a second too long, caught in the space between leaving and staying, between cowardice and cruelty, but then you move.

You shift to sit beside him, curling your legs up to your chest, your arms wrapping around them like they might hold you together, like they might stop the inevitable. The bed creaks slightly with the loss of your weight against him, but Jeno doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything yet. You don’t look at him. You can’t. The silence is thick, suffocating, stretching between you like a chasm you can never close again. You’re still naked, still covered in sweat and cum, but none of it matters. Nothing matters anymore.

For a second, you consider just slipping away. Not saying a word. Not doing this at all. It would be so easy. He’s already spent, body loose and warm against the sheets, his breath deep and even. Soon, he’ll slip into sleep entirely, and that would be your moment. You could gather your things in silence, slip his hoodie over your head because it’s the closest thing in reach, because it smells like him, because even now, you’re weak. You’d take your phone off the charger, shove it into your bag, and leave—just like that. No note. No message. No explanation.

He’d wake up and reach for you, his palm smoothing over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, the warmth of you still tangled beside him. At first, he’d think you just had an early class, that you left in a hurry, that you’d be back later. Maybe he’d text you something lazy and sweet, something about how good last night was, how he’s still hard thinking about it. Maybe he’d fall back asleep, thinking nothing of it.

But then the hours would stretch. You wouldn’t text back. You wouldn’t call. By the time the evening rolled around, he’d start to wonder. He’d send another message—where are you? call me. Then another. He’d check your location, and for the first time in years, it wouldn’t be shared. That’s when it would hit him. That something wasn’t right.

You shake the thought away. You know better. Jeno wouldn’t just let you disappear. He wouldn’t accept silence, wouldn’t just let it be. He’d track you down. He’d demand to know why. And deep down, no matter how much you want to escape this conversation, you know he deserves an answer. You owe him that much.

But god, you wish you didn’t. The regret sinks in faster than you expected. It gnaws at the edges of your mind, twisting deep into your ribs. It starts while you’re still catching your breath, still tangled in the sheets with him. You should never have done this. You should have walked away last night, hours ago, before you gave in to the inevitable pull. But you were weak. You always are with him. You couldn’t resist the way he looked at you, the way his hands moved over your skin, like he knew every part of you by heart.

Jeno watches you, his frown deepening. "Y/N," he says, quieter this time, and it’s the way he says your name—soft, questioning, worried—that nearly makes you lose it completely.

You take a shaky breath, staring down at your hands, at the way they tremble where they rest against your knees. You can feel him watching you, waiting, his concern thick in the air between you. And then, finally, you say it. "Jeno. I have to tell you something."

A silence cuts through the room like a blade. The air shifts. Jeno blinks at you, the crease between his brows deepening. He pushes himself up onto one elbow, his eyes flickering over your face, searching. “Tell me what?”

You finally look at him. You shouldn’t. You should just say it, get it over with. But when you meet his gaze—still softened by sleep, hazy with affection—you hate yourself for what you’re about to do. Your throat tightens. Your stomach turns. “I’m leaving.”

Jeno stares at you. His expression doesn’t shift, doesn’t change—not at first. Then his brows pull together, his lips part slightly, like he’s trying to piece it together, to make it make sense. “Leaving?” His voice is still thick, hoarse from sleep, like he hasn’t quite shaken it off.

You nod, your fingers twisting in the sheets, gripping them so tightly they might tear. "The opportunity Coach Suh told me about." The words are heavy, unnatural in your mouth, but you force them out. "I’m taking it."

Jeno’s brows furrow slightly, but instead of immediate concern, a soft chuckle leaves his lips. "Why are you being so serious about it?" His voice is light, warm, filled with something you don’t deserve. "Even though you never told me that you’d be taking it until now, I always knew you were. You know I’m so happy and proud of you." He leans in, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your lips, a gentle smile curling against your mouth.

And for a second, you let yourself sink into it. Into the safety of him, the familiarity of his warmth, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. But it only lasts for a moment before you snap yourself out of it, before the reality of why you’re here slams back into your chest. You pull back, forcing space between you. "Jeno, I’m leaving." You say it again, firmer this time, hoping he understands what you mean, hoping he doesn’t make you say it outright.

He blinks, his smile faltering as confusion creeps into his features. His lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Then— "Just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean we have to break up."

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, sharp and humorless. It sounds crueler than you intended, but maybe cruelty is necessary. "And how will we stay together? Jeno, I’m going to be halfway across the world."

His expression shifts. The amusement in his eyes flickers and fades, replaced by something heavier, something you can feel settling in the space between you. He moves closer, like proximity alone will make this make sense. "Why are you talking like this?" His voice is quieter now, hesitant, like he’s starting to piece something together. "Like you’ve already made up your mind."

Because you have. Because you don’t have a choice. Because Taeyong made sure there was only one way forward, and it meant walking away from Jeno. But you can’t tell him that. You can’t tell him anything. So you keep going, keep twisting the knife deeper, keep making this easier for him in the only way you know how. "Because it’s the truth," you say, voice flat, emotionless. "I’m leaving."

Jeno stares at you, the weight of your words sinking in, settling into his bones like something cold and foreign. You see it hit him, watch the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch against the sheets. It should make you feel accomplished, should make this easier. It doesn’t. It never does. The moment feels like a rug being pulled out from under him. The contrast makes it worse—the remnants of last night still lingering around you both, his hoodie draped over your frame, his scent clinging to your skin. The intimacy of it all makes the pain sharper, like glass cutting through soft flesh.

Jeno lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of it. "You're joking." It’s not a question. It’s a plea.

You don’t smile. You don’t soften. "I’m not."

He moves closer, something desperate slipping into his voice. "Y/N—"

You cut him off before he can reach for you. Because if he touches you, you’ll break. "It wouldn’t have worked anyway." The words feel like acid on your tongue, burning, scarring. You shrug like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter. "This just makes sense."

Jeno’s mouth parts slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His expression twists, frustration creeping in, mixing with something raw. "This makes sense?" He scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his movements sharp, tense. "You’re actually being serious right now? We were fine—we made up, we were fucking fine. What changed?"

Jeno’s breath stutters, his frustration shifting into something closer to disbelief. “No—seriously, what the fuck changed?” His voice is sharper now, cracking slightly, like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands flex at his sides before he runs a rough hand through his hair, his movements quick, restless. “Because last night, we were fine. You were fine. You looked at me like—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Like you wanted this, wanted me.”

Jeno exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of something impossible. Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low and unsteady but laced with frustration. “After the shit at the bar—why did you forgive me? Why did you tell me everything was okay? Why did you kiss me, fuck me every night after that, like nothing else matters?” His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides. “And now, when you knew you were gonna end it, you did it again. You kissed me, you fucked me like you were never gonna leave. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, Y/N. You’re supposed to be a smart girl.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a vice. It lodges there, thick and suffocating, but you force yourself to swallow it down. Your pulse pounds in your ears, a relentless, deafening beat, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but this. You try to breathe past it, try to keep your face impassive, your voice steady. But it’s slipping. It’s all slipping. The agony claws up your throat, rips through your chest, fractures something deep inside you. You have to sell this—you have to make him believe it. Even if it kills you. Even if it destroys everything inside you.

“I did,” you force out, the words jagged and strained, like they’re being ripped from your throat. "And now I don’t. I thought I wanted this, but I don’t."

Jeno’s expression shatters for a split second before he shields it, jaw clenching so tight you swear you hear his teeth grind. “Bullshit.” The word is sharp, slicing through the thick silence like a blade. His head shakes, his breath uneven, his eyes darkening as they lock onto yours, searching—desperate for something, anything that makes this make sense. "You don’t just wake up one day and decide you don’t want something anymore. That’s not how this works."

Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, nails digging into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded."Maybe it is," you whisper, but your voice falters at the end, betraying you.

Jeno exhales, a rough, humorless sound. "No. That’s not you." His voice lowers, turns into something rough, something almost pleading. "You don’t just change your mind overnight, Y/N. Tell me the truth."

You hesitate—too long. And he sees it. The flicker of doubt, the war behind your eyes. And it’s that, not your words, that really starts to break him.

His breathing turns uneven, his body tense with restrained frustration, but now there’s something else—an unraveling, a slow, agonizing realization that he can’t yet name. "Y/N," he says again, quieter this time, almost hesitant, like he’s trying to read you, to pick apart what you won’t say. "You don’t just wake up one morning and decide you don’t want someone anymore. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work."

His jaw clenches again, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you in, to shake the truth out of you. "You think I don’t know you by now? You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?"

Your stomach twists. You can’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—he’ll see the way your resolve is crumbling, the way every word out of your mouth tastes like poison. But Jeno doesn’t let up. He moves closer, his voice quieter now, rough with something like desperation. "Tell me why you’re really doing this," he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours, waiting for something—anything—that makes sense. "Tell me why you’re looking at me like that, like—" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Like you don’t want to do this either."

And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes it unbearable. Because he’s right. Because he knows you. Because no matter how much you fight it, no matter how steady you force your voice to be, he can see you breaking. He sees it in the way your breath stammers in your chest, the way your hands tremble where they grip the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. He sees it in the way your eyes refuse to meet his, darting away too quickly, like the weight of his gaze alone could shatter you.

And yet, you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Because the choice was never yours to begin with. Taeyong had been nothing more than a distant figure, a name spoken with reverence and fear, a man who existed in the periphery of your world—but now he’s everywhere. He’s in the air you breathe, thick and poisoned, curling inside your lungs and making every inhale feel like submission. He’s in the walls closing in around you, in the weight crushing down on your chest, in the suffocating certainty that no matter which way you turn, he’s already thought ten steps ahead. His presence is a noose cinching tighter with every second you hesitate, every flicker of doubt in your eyes that Jeno might catch onto. And the worst part? You never even saw it coming. One moment, you were free—untethered, yours—and the next, he had his hands around your fate, stripping you of every last illusion of control, carving out your path before you even had the chance to resist. The ground beneath you is gone, the door to another outcome slammed shut, locked, buried. And Taeyong holds the key like it was always his to begin with.

It’s suffocating. It’s a straightjacket laced so tightly around your ribs that every inhale feels like a punishment. And the worst part? He doesn’t even have to do anything anymore. You know what he’s capable of. You know that if you hesitate for even a second, if you let Jeno see too much, if you let him reach for you one more time, you’ll ruin everything. For him. And that’s what guts you the most. Because if it were just you—if it were only your future on the line, your reputation, your opportunities—maybe you’d be able to claw your way out of this. Maybe you’d fight back. Maybe you’d burn for him if it meant staying. But Taeyong knew that, too. Knew that there was only one way to bind you, to make sure you listened. And he was right. He always is.

So you do the only thing you can do. You twist the knife deeper. Jeno is still waiting, still searching your face, clinging to some last shred of understanding. But there’s nothing left for him to find. Nothing you can give him. Nothing you’re allowed to say. "None of this matters,” you force out, your voice thin, hollow, something barely held together by breath and will alone. "Whatever you say doesn’t change the fact that I was always going to leave."

His lips press into a thin line, his whole body going rigid like the words have physically struck him. His hands twitch at his sides, clenching into fists, releasing, like he doesn’t know where to put the weight of his emotions. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. Waiting. Giving you a chance to take it back. But you don’t. "Whether we were together or not." His voice is quieter this time, but the sharp edge hasn’t dulled—it just cuts differently now, deeper, more controlled.

You nod. "Yes."

Silence stretches, thick and unbearable, swallowing the room whole. Jeno’s breath comes uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady movements like he’s trying to contain something that refuses to be caged. His fingers flex again, curling, uncurling, but he doesn’t reach for you. Not this time. He doesn’t ask you to stay. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg. And that should be a relief. Should make this easier. But it doesn’t.

"So that’s it," he breathes, the words dragging out, drained, like he's losing the strength to even argue." His voice is rough now, frayed at the edges, like he’s barely holding it together. "Just like that? After everything, after every moment together, after this—you’re just walking away? Like none of it meant anything?"

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, trying to force yourself to breathe past the burn in your chest. Because that’s what you have to make him believe. That none of it mattered. That last night was just a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness. That you hadn’t spent every second memorizing him, holding onto him like it was the last time—because it was.

"It doesn’t change anything," you murmur, forcing the words out even as they threaten to choke you. "It never did."

And just like that, you watch it happen. You watch the exact moment the fight drains out of him, watch the light flicker out of his eyes. You’ve hurt him in ways you never thought you’d be capable of. And yet, the worst part is knowing this isn’t even the real betrayal. The real betrayal is that you can’t tell him the truth. That you have to let him believe this was always going to happen. That no matter what, this was inevitable.

The air between you feels scorched, the remnants of something burning out too fast, too violently. It’s like standing at the epicenter of a supernova, watching a star collapse into itself, all that light and warmth turning to ruin in an instant. You can feel it in your chest, a pressure so crushing it threatens to hollow you out from the inside. He blinks at you, slow, disbelieving, like the world has just tilted beneath him, like he’s suddenly weightless in the worst possible way. A breath shudders from his lips, and for the first time, he looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you at all.

And it’s devastating. You thought it would be cleaner than this, thought you could carve yourself out of his life like a knife through flesh, quick, precise, a wound that might scar but wouldn’t fester. But nothing about this is clean. It’s messy and raw and impossible to contain. He doesn’t say anything, but his silence is louder than anything he could have said. It fills the room, thick and suffocating, pressing in from all sides, settling into the spaces where there used to be something else—where there used to be you and him.

There is no you and him anymore.

You feel the shift, the finality of it, the way something fundamental snaps between you, severing what was already frayed beyond recognition. You watch him grapple with it, the slow unraveling of understanding dawning across his features, the realization that this isn’t just an argument, isn’t something that can be fixed with the right words, the right touch. It’s over. You’re over.

And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something. A reason. An explanation. Anything to make this make sense. But you’ve already given him all the answers you’re allowed to. You’ve already destroyed him in every way that matters.

So you do the only thing left to do. You turn away.

The classroom thrums with a dissonant symphony—paper rustling, chair legs scraping against linoleum, the faint, discordant pluck of a guitar string. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a clinical glow, too sharp, too harsh, buzzing faintly like an exposed wire. Somewhere, the metronome ticks steadily, but the rhythm feels off, mismatched with the rapid pulse hammering against your ribs. The professor’s voice rises and falls, something about dissonance resolving into harmony, how tension in music must stretch itself thin before it can finally snap back into place. The lesson should interest you. It doesn’t. The words are little more than static, blending into the low, suffocating hum in your skull.

You try to focus. You try to force your attention onto the sheet music in front of you, onto the pen in your hand, onto the clean, structured lines of notation that should provide some sense of order. But the moment your pen hovers over the staff paper, the voices slip through the cracks.

It started the moment you walked in, a shift in the air so tangible you could taste it. It’s been like this for days. The stares, the murmurs that don’t stop when you look up, the way people avert their gazes just a second too late. Your name has become a low, slithering thing in the mouths of strangers, spoken in hushed tones, followed by sharp laughter, raised eyebrows, knowing smirks. You knew this would happen. You knew how quickly rumors fester and spread, how people carve their entertainment from the bones of someone else’s misery.

Jeno has been fucking around. Relentlessly. He dealt with heartbreak the same way he’s always dealt with anything painful—drowning in excess, losing himself in distraction. There was no hesitation, no moment of pause. One night, he was yours, his hands gripping your waist, his mouth whispering your name like it was the only one he knew. The next, he was on someone else, inside someone else, chasing the kind of numbness you can only find between someone else’s legs.

And maybe that should give you some kind of peace. Maybe you should be grateful that he’s doing exactly what you wanted him to do—moving on, forgetting you. Hating you. But you’re not. Because now you’re stuck here, sitting in the wreckage, while he gets to bury it in someone else’s body. Because while you are unraveling in real time, while your heart aches with every passing second, Jeno is grinning at some girl at a party, pressing her against the wall, dragging his teeth down her neck, whispering things to her he probably once said to you. And you know it’s not personal. It’s not about her. It’s about you. About making sure he never has to think about you again.

You know you have no right to be angry. You know this. You gave him up. You made the choice. You told yourself this was the only way, that you had to let him go, that this was what was best for him. But knowing that doesn’t stop the burn in your stomach, the sharp sting behind your ribs as the words reach you, each syllable carving deeper into something raw and unhealed.

"Apparently they broke up."

"Obviously. Jeno’s already fucked half the campus."

"He doesn’t waste time, does he?"

The words slip out between hushed giggles, between the casual shuffle of papers and the scratch of pens. The voices belong to Yunjin and Chaewon, their heads dipped toward each other, their smiles laced with something cruel and amused. They aren’t being loud. They don’t need to be. The words find you anyway, slicing through the stale classroom air, settling beneath your skin like rot.

But then—

"Can’t believe she actually thought she could keep him."

Your breath catches, a sharp hitch that you swallow down before it can betray you. The world tilts slightly, but you don’t let yourself move. You don’t let yourself look up. The whisper is just loud enough to reach you, threaded with something that feels like pity and scorn all at once. Like you were delusional for thinking you ever stood a chance. Like this was always going to happen, and everyone knew it but you.

Your heart is a violent, stuttering thing against your ribs. You can hear it over everything else—the professor’s voice, the metronome, the slow-building pressure in your skull. Your hands are cold. Your face is hot. The anxiety settles like a second skin, thick and cloying, wrapping itself around your lungs. You tell yourself to breathe. Breathe. But the notes in front of you don’t make sense anymore, their meanings lost to the haze creeping in at the edges of your vision.

Chaewon clicks her tongue, a soft, amused sound. “Wonder who he’s with tonight.”

Laughter follows, light and careless. It’s too much. The walls press in. The lights buzz louder. The classroom feels impossibly small, like it’s shrinking around you, like you need to get out, now, before it drowns you completely. But then there’s a shift next to you, just barely noticeable over the static in your head. Mark is beside you. Where he always sits. He hasn’t moved seats just because you stopped talking. Mark’s not the type to change things just because it might make you more comfortable.

He leans in slightly, voice low, quiet enough that only you can hear. “What are they talking about? Why is Jeno fucking other girls? Thought you guys were together.” His tone is casual, like he’s just asking a simple question, but there’s an edge beneath it. Not curiosity. Not concern. Just something sharp, something unreadable.

You don’t look at him. You can’t look at him. Your fingers tighten around your pen, stiff, unyielding, like they’ve locked into place, like if you loosen your grip even a little, everything will spill out. “Well, we’re not,” you mutter. It’s barely a whisper, barely real, but he hears you. Of course he does. Because Mark doesn’t say anything else. He just leans back in his chair, silent. Watching. Waiting.

And then it starts.

The whispers crawl into the music, curling between the notes, staining the melody, twisting it into something unrecognizable. It seeps into the empty spaces, wraps around the rests, crushing them, filling the silence with static—too much static—just noise—just words—just—

The sheet music in front of you melts. The notes stretch, bend, peeling away from the staff, unraveling, slipping through the page like they’re trying to escape. Your vision flickers. The air is too thick, the room too tight, the fluorescent lights too loud. You blink, but the motion makes it worse. Your stomach plummets, weightless for a moment before the sickening lurch of vertigo grips you.

Your fingers tremble. The pen slips. The world tilts.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and clear, slicing through the noise, through you. His hand moves behind your back, pressing firm and steady, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. The contact wrecks you. It doesn’t calm you, doesn’t ground you. It sends you spiraling, makes the crash hit harder, faster, sharper. Your pulse slams against your ribs, every heartbeat a violent knock, knock, knock—

You barely register Yunjin muttering something under her breath, her voice laced with something biting, something sharp. But before the words can land, before they can sink their teeth into you, Mark snaps, “Shut the fuck up.” No hesitation. No room for argument. He doesn’t even look at her. His focus stays on you, locked in place, like he already knows you’re slipping.

Your chair scrapes against the floor, the sound shrieking, slicing through the air. It feels distant. Not yours. Like you’re watching someone else stagger to their feet, someone else’s hands shaking, clumsy, fumbling to grab their things, shoving crumpled papers into a bag that suddenly feels too small, too useless, too fucking much. The tremor in your fingers is uncontrollable now, shaking, shaking, shaking, and you can feel Mark’s eyes on you, that quiet, assessing gaze, like he’s trying to map out what’s happening inside your head, like he can see the walls caving in.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. You don’t wait for the professor to acknowledge you. You don’t breathe. You don’t think. You don’t look at Mark. You don’t look at anyone. You just leave.

The classroom spins, the air clogged with voices, scraping against your skin like sandpaper. Too bright, too loud, too much. Your legs feel wrong, unsteady, disconnected from the rest of you, but you move anyway. The door shoves open, the hallway air rushing in, but it doesn’t help. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. It’s too much. The noise. The room. The hands reaching out. The concern in his voice. The way his touch felt like something you could have collapsed into, something that would have caught you—

You can’t. You won’t. You just need to get out. You need air. You need—

You don’t know.

The hallway stretches long and endless, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, casting everything in a sterile, artificial glow. Your breath is ragged, uneven, the walls pressing too close, the floor too unstable beneath your feet. You push forward, past the blur of indistinct voices, past the vague shapes of people you don’t recognize, don’t care to recognize. The world outside is too loud, too sharp, but you don’t stop. You don’t stop until your fingers curl around the handle of a door, until you shove it open and step inside.

The private studio has always been an escape, a refuge stitched together with quiet and clarity. Even now, its presence is familiar—soft lamplight spilling over polished wood, the faint scent of old sheet music and varnish clinging to the air. The piano stands in the center like an altar, its black lacquer surface gleaming under the dim glow. This room has always been a place where you can exist outside of everything else. A space where nothing reaches you. Where sound bends to your will.

But tonight, it is not safe.

Tonight, it is too still. The quiet is suffocating, pressing against your ribs, filling your lungs with something thick and unbearable. You sink onto the bench, fingers hovering above the keys, but the second you press down, the sound is wrong. Too sharp. Too jarring. It crashes into the silence instead of settling into it, shattering the illusion of control you once had.

The keys feel foreign under your fingers, cold and stiff, resisting your touch like they know you don’t belong here anymore. The room feels haunted, thick with ghosts you can’t shut out. Jeno, leaning against the piano, arms crossed, watching you with that lazy smirk, tilting his head at a wrong note, teasing you like he had all the time in the world. Try again, baby. But he’s not here, and the warmth in his voice is just an echo, a phantom, fading like the last notes of a song that was never meant to last.

You try again. The notes slip, tripping over each other, breaking apart before they can even form something whole. The melody evades you, slipping through your fingers like sand. You press harder. The frustration curls inside you, thick and choking. Again. Again. But the more you try to force the music out, the worse it sounds, unraveling at the seams, collapsing beneath your touch.

The whispers won’t stop. The image of Jeno—hands on someone else, lips ghosting over someone else’s throat—lodges itself in your mind like a knife between ribs. He moved on so easily. He let go so easily. And you— A strangled noise leaves your throat. You slam your hands down against the keys. A discordant, violent explosion of sound ruptures the stillness, ringing in your ears, rattling through your arms, through your chest. But it isn’t enough.

Nothing is enough.

The music should flow like water—effortless, unbroken, slipping through your fingers and cascading into something whole. But it doesn’t. It staggers, trips over itself, breaking apart before it can even find a rhythm. The notes are jagged, gasping, drowning in the silence that follows. You press harder, desperate to regain control, but the melody resists you, resisting like a current pulling against your limbs, like the rush of a waterfall swallowing everything in its path. And you—you—are caught beneath it, dragged under, crushed by the weight of something that once felt freeing.

You shove away from the piano, the force knocking over a stack of sheet music. The pages scatter like dead leaves, skidding across the floor, twisting and turning before settling into a mess of ink and chaos. Your breath is shallow, too fast. The room is shrinking, the walls pressing inward, the ceiling pressing downward, the air turning thick, heavy, unbreathable. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms, grounding you in the sting, but it doesn’t help.

Glass shatters. The sharp, discordant sound slices through the air, and your gaze snaps to the floor. The metronome lies in ruin, its fractured pieces catching the light, splintering into tiny, fractured reflections. Time. The irony is suffocating—you thought you had time. Thought you could handle this. But everything is unraveling too fast, spinning out of control, slipping through your fingers like the scattered sheets around you.

A blast of air surges into the room. The door slams against the wall, the impact rattling through the floorboards, shaking through your bones. Loose papers lift and spiral into the air before collapsing back to the ground in disarray, the lamplight flickering against their chaotic descent. Cold rushes in, sharp and unyielding, but it’s nothing compared to the presence that fills the space, pressing against your skin like a weight, heavy and inescapable.

Mark stands in the hallway, chest heaving, eyes sweeping over the wreckage—the scattered pages, the shattered metronome, the trembling mess of you in the center of it all. He doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside, moving toward you with careful, deliberate strides, like he’s already assessed every detail of the room, already knows what’s happening, already knows you. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a second, you can’t breathe. You can’t move. The weight in your chest expands, pressing tighter, heavier, until your knees buckle beneath it.

Before you can hit the ground, his arms are around you. Strong, steady, catching you before the fall can steal you away completely. One hand grips your waist, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing at all. The motion is seamless, like he was expecting it, like he knew your body was going to give out before you did. His hold is firm but careful, his warmth sinking into your skin, and there’s no hesitation—no doubt, no reluctance, just a quiet, undeniable certainty. He’s here. He’s got you.

The world bends in on itself, a house of cards collapsing in slow motion, each breath knocking another piece loose. The air is thick, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore, a weightless thing detached from the frantic pounding in your chest. You know Mark is touching you, feel the press of his arms, the heat of his skin against yours, but it’s distant, like you’re watching from behind a thick pane of glass. The moment fractures, splinters into something unreal, something unsteady. You can’t find the door. You can’t get out.

“Shit. Okay, okay. I got you,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, grounding. His arms tighten around you, adjusting his grip, making sure you’re secure against him. He doesn’t let you slip, doesn’t shift even as your body trembles violently in his hold. His chest rises and falls beneath you, deep and measured, a rhythm to follow, something to anchor yourself to. His fingers press into your back, rubbing slow, steady circles, urging you to breathe, to be here, to stay with him.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Slow. Just like that. I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

You can’t. You can’t stop crying. The sobs tear through you, ragged and unrelenting, your whole body shaking with the force of them. Your hands fist into his hoodie, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t move, doesn’t let go, just holds you through it, his arms strong and unyielding, like he’s trying to absorb every ounce of your pain into himself.

His chin drops, lips brushing against your temple, barely there, a soft, fleeting press. Then another. And another. Each one a whisper of reassurance, a silent promise. He’s here. He’s not leaving. You’re not alone. His breath warms your skin between each kiss, slow and steady, grounding you in something real, something solid, something safe.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His words melt into your skin, threading through the chaos, pulling you back from the edge. He keeps talking, keeps filling the silence with something warm, something steady, something that doesn’t break. His voice is a tether, something to hold onto, something to follow out of the storm.

“I’m not going anywhere.” His fingers trace slow, soothing lines up and down your spine, mapping out comfort between each breath. “Just breathe. You’re safe. You’re okay.” Your sobs start to slow, breaking into uneven breaths, the tremors still there but softer now, not as consuming. Mark doesn’t let go. His arms stay firm, his touch never faltering. His fingers curl around the back of your neck, thumb stroking lightly against your skin, grounding you. He waits, patient, unwavering, like he’s done this a million times before, like he knows what you need without you having to ask.

“I got you. Just—just breathe, okay?”

You try, but your breath is too fast, too erratic, catching on the edges of every inhale like you can’t find the air. Your body jerks with the force of it, chest stuttering, lungs fighting against you, and Mark feels it, all of it. His grip tightens, pulling you closer, pressing you into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Slow,” he murmurs, his voice low, grounding. “Feel that? Just follow me. In—” He exaggerates the inhale, slow and deep, his hand moving against your back in time with the breath. “Hold it. Just for a second. Now let it go.”

You clutch at him, hands fisting into his hoodie, fingers curling so tightly it almost hurts. The first breath doesn’t work. The second barely makes it through. But Mark doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just keeps murmuring against your temple, his breath warm and steady, his fingers tracing soft, rhythmic circles into your back.

“Breathe with me,” he whispers again. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Little by little, the air starts to come back. It’s shaky, uneven, but it’s there, slipping through the cracks of your ribs, settling in your chest instead of fighting against it. The worst of the spinning ebbs, the grip on your lungs loosening just enough for the exhaustion to sink in, heavy and suffocating in its own way.

Mark feels it, the way your body sags against his, and he adjusts his hold without hesitation, shifting his grip to keep you upright, to keep you close. His chin dips, lips brushing against your forehead, barely there, a fleeting press, a silent reassurance. Then another. And another. Soft, steady, constant.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. You’re alright.”

His voice stays gentle, a low hum threading through the quiet. His hands never stop moving—one rubbing slow circles into your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. He’s careful, deliberate, like he knows exactly how fragile this moment is, how easily you could break apart again.

And then, after a long moment, after your breath has steadied just enough, his lips press to your temple one more time, and he exhales, something half a laugh, half a sigh. “Not gonna lie,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, “that was kinda dramatic.”

A choked, breathless noise escapes you, something between a sob and a laugh, and he smiles—you can feel it against your skin, small and warm, familiar.

“There she is,” he whispers. You shake your head against him, fingers still curled into his hoodie, your chest still tight, but the weight pressing down on you doesn’t feel as unbearable anymore. It’s still there, still lingering, but so is he—steady and sure, holding you up, keeping you close, keeping you safe.

Mark unlocks the door without hesitation, the keys turning in the lock with a quiet click, a sound that should feel like permission, like belonging. But as the door swings open, the apartment is unfamiliar. The air inside is stale, untouched, filled with the scent of new paint and sawdust rather than something lived-in, something yours. You haven’t been here in weeks. The space is supposed to be a marker of the future, of a life being built, but instead, it feels like a project abandoned mid-construction. Mark doesn’t say anything as he steps inside, but you see the way his gaze sweeps over the half-painted walls, the unopened furniture boxes stacked against the far corner. He notices the things you’ve neglected, the things you’ve left unfinished.

You follow him in, your footsteps quiet against the bare floors. The apartment is in limbo, caught between being a place and a home, and the weight of its incompleteness settles heavily on your chest. You were supposed to be here more, supposed to have put in the time to turn it into something real, something yours. But you hadn’t. Life had gotten in the way. You had gotten in the way. Mark doesn’t say it, but you know he’s thinking it too. His eyes linger on the makeshift dining table, on the paint cans pushed into the corner, on the shelves that still lean against the wall instead of standing upright. This place was meant to be more than this. You were meant to be more present. And now, standing here, the regret seeps in like a slow tide, inevitable and inescapable.

The couch had arrived in pieces, packed neatly in boxes that promise an easy assembly, though you both know better. You push the coffee table aside, clearing space in the center of the room, and set to work. The process is slow, frustrating, full of missing screws and instructions that barely make sense. There’s a moment when Mark sighs, running a hand through his hair, ready to call it quits, but you shake your head. Not yet. Giving up feels like admitting defeat, like acknowledging how much distance had grown between you both these last few weeks. And so you keep going, pushing through every minor inconvenience, every misplaced bolt, every silent thought that lingers in the air between you. When the final piece clicks into place, it’s not just the couch that stands more solid than before—it’s something else, something unspoken but understood.

Neither of you sit on the couch. Instead, you collapse onto the floor, backs pressed against the fabric that had taken three hours to assemble. Your legs stretch out in front of you, exhaustion settling deep into your muscles, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes with accomplishment. The takeout containers between you are still warm, the scent of food curling into the space between your quiet breaths. You don’t rush to fill the silence. Neither does Mark. This is how it’s always been with him—patience in the stillness, understanding in the unsaid. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand words from you, but you know he’s waiting. You can feel it in the way he sits beside you, steady and unwavering, like an anchor keeping you tethered when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under.

You tip your head onto his shoulder, feeling the tension in your body ease just slightly. The apartment isn’t finished. The walls are still bare, the furniture still sparse, but there’s something in this moment that feels like progress. Maybe not in the way you expected, maybe not in a way that erases the last few weeks, but it’s something. And for now, that’s enough. Sitting here with Mark, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beside you, it’s a reminder that some things can still be pieced back together. That not everything has to remain undone.

Mark nudges your knee lightly, his voice soft when he finally speaks. “We’ll finish it, we have time” He says, and you know he’s not just talking about the apartment. You nod, exhaling slowly, allowing yourself to believe it. It’s not much, but it’s something. And right now, that’s all you can ask for.

You barely touch the food in front of you but Mark eats slowly, methodically, his gaze flicking toward you between bites. He’s waiting. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t push, but the weight of his patience is heavy. You know him too well to mistake his silence for anything else. He’s giving you space, but he’s also waiting for you to speak. And eventually, when the weight in your chest becomes unbearable, when the words press so hard against your ribs that they threaten to spill out, you do.

At first, it’s slow. Stilted. You don’t even know where to begin. You try to keep your voice steady, try to downplay the gravity of what you’re about to say, but Mark isn’t stupid. His brows draw together, his chewing slows, his body tenses almost imperceptibly. He’s listening, absorbing every word, every hesitation, and you can tell the longer you go without getting to the point, the more worried he becomes. When you pause too long, he finally speaks, his voice low, careful, but firm. “Tell me who the fuck I need to kill.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head as his jaw clenches. “Do I need to deal with Jeno?”

The laugh that escapes you is short and hollow, nothing more than a breath between tears. “Mark, he’s your brother.”

His eyes find yours, dark and steady, the weight of his words settling between you. “And you’re my best friend.” It’s not a reassurance, not a question—just fact, the kind that’s always been unshakable. And despite everything—despite the ache in your chest, despite the mess of it all—you smile, because you know. No matter what, no matter how bad things get, he’s on your side. The silence stretches, but it isn’t heavy. It isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just you and Mark, like it’s always been, like it always will be. And then, finally, he nods, exhaling like he’s made his decision. He’s listening. He’s not going to fix this. He’s just going to be here for you. He lifts his hand, wordlessly, pinky extended. You hesitate—just for a second—then hook yours around his. A promise. One he won’t break.

For a second, you let yourself exist in that small pocket of reassurance. But then, the weight of reality crashes back down. You tell him everything. About Taeyong. About how it started. About how you didn’t see it coming. How he had been watching you, disapproving of you and Jeno from the start. How he had always held quiet control over Jeno’s life, and when the moment was right, he struck. You try to explain the sheer power he holds, the way he makes you feel small, insignificant, weak. Mark listens, expression darkening with every word. You can feel the shift in him, the quiet rage building beneath his skin, the way his shoulders tighten, the way his fingers curl into fists against his knees. And then, when you tell him about the leverage—when you tell him what Taeyong has—his entire body goes rigid.

You don’t look at him when you say it. Your eyes stay locked on the floor, on the cracks in the wood, on the places where the varnish has worn away, anything but his face. Then you force it out. The videos. The proof. Recordings of you at the bar, on stage, wrapped around Jeno like you had no shame. Videos of you drunk, high, grinding against him in the dim glow of neon, his hands rough and greedy on your body. Footage of you in his lap, skirt pushed up, his fingers buried inside you right there in the open, your mouth slack, eyes glazed over. Your legs hooked around his waist, your body rocking down onto him, your lips parted, moaning for him like you belonged to him. Images of Jeno sucking bruises into your neck, dragging you into the back hallways, pressing you against walls, against doors, fucking you like he couldn’t stand the distance between you. Evidence of every filthy, desperate moment you thought belonged to just the two of you. You swallow the nausea rising in your throat and say the rest like it’s choking you, like it’s bile in your mouth.

This is what you tell Mark. Every single detail, every threat, every sickening way Taeyong made it clear just how little power you had. You tell him how Taeyong had been watching, waiting, collecting every mistake, every moment he could use against you and Jeno. How he knew exactly when to strike. How he cornered you, laid it all out, and left you with no way out. He made it clear—if you didn’t end things, if you didn’t make Jeno believe you were gone for good, he would use everything against you. He would send the videos to the right people, spin the right narrative, destroy you with one move. He’d ensure your future with Deloitte was down the drain.

Mark doesn’t say anything at first. His breathing shifts, shallow and uneven, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles go white. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his shoulders rise with each inhale, how his entire body tenses like he’s trying to hold himself back from exploding. The silence between you is suffocating, heavier than the weight of the confession itself.

Then, finally, his voice cuts through it. Eerily calm. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t need to. The silence is enough. The way your shoulders sink, the way your eyes dart away. The truth sits between you, heavy and unmoving.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You’re not kidding.”

Mark is still trying to process everything, his mind struggling to catch up with the weight of what you’ve just told him. He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to ground himself, to make sense of something that refuses to settle. “I didn’t even know you had this opportunity,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, almost distant. His hands are clasped together, knuckles still taut, as if holding onto himself is the only thing keeping him steady. He lifts his gaze to you, searching, trying to understand. “You’re leaving?”

You nod, the guilt pressing down like a vice. “I was always going to take it, Mark.” And it’s the truth. The opportunity with Deloitte would always be a part of your plan, a chance you had worked for, something you had earned on your own. But everything else—leaving Jeno, making him believe you chose this over him—that had never been part of it. “It’s not permanent. It’s a hybrid role. I’ll be between here and New York, working on-site, but I’ll still be around. I’ll still be coming back.” Your voice drops lower, trying to soften the blow.

He exhales. “So what about the apartment?” His voice is careful now, measured, but you can tell he’s holding something back. “We were supposed to live there. First year on our own. I mean—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration leaking through the cracks. “What’s the point of moving in together if you’re going to be gone half the time?”

The guilt deepens, pooling in your chest like cement. You had thought about this already, had mapped out the logistics, but now, seeing the way Mark’s looking at you, it’s clear you hadn’t fully considered what this would mean for him. “It won’t be like that,” you promise, even as the words taste uncertain in your mouth. “I’ll be back just as much as I’m gone. It’s not like I’m moving out. The place is still ours. Plus, you’ll have Areum, you won’t be alone.”

Mark lets out a slow breath, nodding once, but his fingers drum anxiously against his knee. He doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t look convinced. There’s an unspoken worry in his eyes—one that tells you he knows, just as much as you do, that nothing is going to be the same. Then, almost as an afterthought, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “We broke up.” The words are blunt, clipped, like he’s already resigned himself to them.

You huff out a small laugh, not unkind, just knowing. “You guys will find your way back to each other.” His expression doesn’t shift, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tenses. “You’ll figure it out. you’re soulmates.” His eyes flicker to yours, something unreadable passing through them. Then he nods, barely, and you don’t push it further. Because this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you. And what you still have to say.

Your voice cracks before you even finish the thought, breath shaking on the exhale like your body is rejecting the words before they can fully form. “Me and Jeno aren’t going to find our way back to each other.” It’s not an uncertainty—it’s not a possibility lingering in the air, waiting to be disproven. It’s a death sentence. Cold. Irrevocable. The kind that snuffs out whatever ember of hope you were stupid enough to still be holding onto. You bite down on your lip so hard it stings, trying to keep the emotion at bay, but it’s already spilling over, thick and suffocating, settling in your lungs like smoke after a fire has burned everything to the ground. “I—” You stop, shaking your head, because what else is there to say? That you don’t want it to be true? That it still feels like something in you is being ripped apart at the seams, like you’re losing a limb, like the part of you that belonged to him—belongs to him—will never belong to anyone else? That you still love him? That you probably always will?

Your fingers clench uselessly at the fabric of your sleeves, twisting, pulling, something to hold onto, because there’s nothing left of him to reach for anymore. “I didn’t want to leave him like this.” Your voice is paper-thin, fragile, cracking under the weight of it all. “I didn’t want to end things like this.” But you had to. Had to. That’s what you tell yourself, over and over and over again, like repetition might make it easier to believe. Like it might dull the ache. But it doesn’t. It never does. Because the reality is—it doesn’t matter how many times you try to convince yourself that this was the only way. It doesn’t change the fact that you broke him. That you had to break him. That you had to look into the eyes of the only person who has ever made you feel like home and set him on fire.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift beside you—the way his arm comes around you, grounding, steady, pulling you in before you can fall apart completely. Your breath is uneven, shallow, but you force yourself to keep talking, to push past the ache threatening to consume you whole. “I had to make him hate me.” The confession spills out like a wound being torn open, raw and bleeding. “I had to make him believe I didn’t love him anymore, that he wasn’t enough, that I was already moving on.” Your voice wavers, but you don’t stop, even as your throat burns. “So I lied to him. I told him that even if he begged, even if he asked me to stay, I wouldn’t. That this opportunity meant more to me than he did. That nothing he could say would change my mind.” The words land heavy, final, echoing in the quiet, and for a second, you swear you can still hear the way he said your name when you left. Like it was the last time.

Your breath stutters, breaking, and the silence that follows is unbearable.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before you continue. "I was always going to take the opportunity," you say, voice thick with exhaustion, eyes burning from the weight of it all. "But I was never going to end it with Jeno. That was never the plan." You blink hard, forcing back the sting in your vision. "I had to make him believe I would. I had to make him think I chose this over him."

Mark’s gaze sharpens, confusion flickering beneath the frustration he’s barely holding back. His fingers flex against his knee, fists curling like he’s resisting the urge to do something—anything—to change what’s already been done. "And he just let you go?"

“He let me go,” you nod, the words barely holding together. “And then he did exactly what I knew he would do—he burned himself down completely.” The image of Jeno—reckless, self-destructive, breaking himself apart piece by piece—flashes through your mind, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut against it. “He’s spiraling, Mark. He’s fucking everyone, throwing himself into distractions, trying to erase me from his system. And it’s destroying him.” You force yourself to meet Mark’s gaze, to let him see the devastation in your own. “But there’s nothing I can do. If I go back, if I try to fix it, Taeyong will follow through. He’ll make sure Jeno never steps foot on a professional court.”

Mark’s brows knit together, confusion creeping into the storm of emotions already brewing inside him. “But… the blackmail was against you.” His voice is slower now, cautious, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit. His eyes narrow. “How does this affect Jeno?”

You take a breath, your chest tightening, knowing that the next part is going to destroy him. Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them, and you blink furiously, jaw tightening. "Because it wasn’t just me," you whisper. "Taeyong blackmailed Jeno too—just not to him. Jeno has no idea. He doesn’t know any of this."

Mark stills. His expression darkens, breath hitching, body coiling like a live wire about to snap. "What the fuck are you saying?"

You wipe at your face, fingers shaking. "Taeyong knows how much I love him," you choke out. "He knows how much I care, how I’d put him before myself, before anything. So he told me—if I ignored him, if I still tried to be with Jeno, then he’d come for him."

You tell him about the ultimatum. How Taeyong laid it out for you in brutal, clinical detail. How he told you that if you didn’t leave Jeno—if you didn’t make him believe it—he would make sure Jeno never played professional basketball. How it wouldn’t even take much. Just a few well-placed words. A few whispers in the right ears. A few clicks to send out the files he had. You tell him how you tried to find another way, any other way, but there wasn’t one. How you knew, the second Taeyong laid it all out, that you had already lost. “I didn’t have a choice,” you whisper. “I had to break his heart. I had to make it hurt. Because if I didn’t—” Your voice catches, but Mark is already finishing the sentence for you, voice tight, raw, furious. “He’d lose everything.”

Mark braces himself, shoulders tensing, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. "He told me," you continue, voice hollow, "that if I didn’t leave Jeno, he’d make sure his future ended before it even started. He’d spread the videos of us around, spread the rumors to the wrong ears. He’d destroy him. Even though I deleted them from his phone, who am I kidding? He probably has them stored somewhere else."

Mark’s entire body is rigid, but you push forward because you have to. "And it’s not just that," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "He has everything on Jeno. Every fight, every reckless decision, every time his temper got the best of him. He’s been documenting it all, just waiting." You let out a shaky breath. "He has enough to paint him as unstable, uncoachable, a liability to any team."

Mark already knows Jeno’s been fucking up lately. He’s seen the fights with Eric and Sunwoo, the reckless plays on the court, the way he’s been losing himself. But what he doesn’t know—what no one knew—is that Taeyong was watching it all. Waiting. Calculating. And now, he has the power to end Jeno’s dreams with a single move.

Mark is silent, but his breathing is heavy, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. And then he stands up abruptly, running a hand through his hair, pacing the small space between the couch and the half-built coffee table. “We have to tell Jeno.” His voice is resolute, sharp. “He needs to know.”

You shake your head before he even finishes. “No. No, Mark. You can’t.”

He turns to you, eyes blazing. “You think I can just sit here and do nothing?”

The panic rises in your chest, choking, suffocating. “If you tell him, it’s over,” you say, voice breaking. “Taeyong has everything, Mark. If Jeno knows the truth, if you even hint at it, Taeyong will pull the trigger. He'll make sure Jeno never plays basketball again. Do you understand? Jeno's entire life, his dream—it's hanging by a thread, and this is the only thing keeping it from snapping."

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less firm. “And you think he just gets to win?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, staring down at your hands. “He already has.”

Mark shakes his head, jaw tight, barely containing the anger still thrumming beneath his skin. “No,” he says, voice steady, final. “No, he hasn’t.”

"I don’t know what to do anymore." Your voice breaks. "I can’t fix this, Mark. I’ve tried. I’ve thought about every possible way out, and there’s nothing. I have no choice. I was supposed to have a future with him, we were going to figure it out together. And now—" A sob lodges itself in your throat, thick and painful. "Now I’m just supposed to disappear? Like none of it ever mattered? Like he doesn’t matter?"

Mark exhales sharply, he looks at you, really looks at you, and what he sees must break him because his voice is soft when he finally speaks. "You’re so in love with him."

You let out a small, broken laugh. "Isn’t it obvious?" The admission nearly shatters you because loving Jeno should have meant fighting for him, staying with him, choosing him. But instead, it meant destroying him so Taeyong wouldn’t do worse.

Your voice trembles, breaking under the weight of everything you can’t change. “It’s cruel,” you whisper, each word dragging itself from your throat like it hurts to say. “That I can’t be with the man I love.” It’s not just cruel—it’s suffocating, unbearable, a slow and deliberate kind of agony that gnaws at the edges of your sanity. Your breath shudders, your fingers curling into your palms like you can hold yourself together, like you can stop the pieces from slipping through the cracks. And then, softer, almost to yourself, “But at least he’ll still have basketball.” The words taste bitter, like something sharp and wrong. Like a lie you’re trying to believe. You let out a breathless, broken laugh, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like resignation. Like the final nail in the coffin of everything you wanted, everything you’ll never have again.

Mark lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the air like a blade. “Will he?” His eyes lock onto yours, unflinching, waiting for the weight of it to settle. “You really think he still has basketball?” His voice is edged with something raw, something almost desperate, like he needs you to see what he sees. He shakes his head, exhaling hard. “He’s fucking up, Y/N. He’s spiraling. He’s still messing around, still point shaving because he has no other choice.” He pauses, letting it sink in, watching the way your expression wavers, the way your breath catches.

“You think he’ll be fine just because you left? You think he’ll be okay?” His laugh this time is even sharper, disbelieving. “He’s not okay. And this—this shit you’re doing, keeping him in the dark—it’s not making it better.” His hands flex, like he’s fighting the urge to grab your shoulders, shake sense into you. “You think walking away saved him? You think this is what’s best for him?” He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair, voice dropping lower, tighter. “Open your fucking eyes. You’re not protecting him. You’re just leaving him to drown.” Mark knows his words are harsh, knows they cut deep, but he doesn’t take them back. He can’t. Because they’re not just cruel—they’re the truth. And maybe it’s brutal, maybe it’s unfair, but it’s necessary.

A lump forms in your throat, heavy and thick. Because he's right. You’ve been telling yourself that as long as Jeno has basketball, as long as he still has his future, then maybe—maybe it’s worth it. But what if he doesn’t? What if you’ve destroyed him for nothing?

Mark leans forward, voice low and firm. "Y/N. I love you. I won’t go against you despite how badly I want to but I don’t agree with this. I know why you’re keeping it a secret. I get it. But Taeyong doesn’t have Jeno’s best interests at heart. Don’t you think it’s worse that you’re not telling him? That he doesn’t even realise just how much his own father is his biggest fucking enemy?"

You nod slowly, hands trembling in your lap. Because you can’t disagree. There’s no good outcome, no real benefit, no silver lining. You’ve been choked by this situation, forced into a corner with no escape. If Jeno doesn’t end up happy, if he doesn’t thrive in his career, then what was the point? What was the fucking point? Taeyong isn’t going to help Jeno deal with Sunwoo and Eric. He could fix everything with a single snap of his fingers, but he won’t. So if Jeno is going to stand a chance, if he’s going to make it out of this in one piece—you have to be the one to do something about it.

Your pulse thrums with a new kind of urgency, something raw and unshakable clawing its way to the surface. You have to fix this. There’s no more waiting, no more hoping that things will settle on their own. Jeno is slipping, spiraling further with every second you waste. You’ve already taken everything from him—his trust, his belief in you, his sense of stability—and if you don’t act now, if you don’t move, then Taeyong will win. He’ll have orchestrated this entire thing, pulled every string, crushed every last piece of Jeno until there’s nothing left of the person he was supposed to be.

You won’t let that happen.

You can’t let that happen.

Your hands clench into fists, fingernails biting into your palms, and you force yourself to breathe, to focus, to think. There has to be a way. A way to fix this, to protect Jeno, to take back control of something—anything. You don’t know how, you don’t know what it’ll cost you, but none of that matters anymore. Because you have to do this. Because there’s no other option. Because if you don’t, then what the hell was all this suffering for? The fear is still there, curling in the pit of your stomach, but it’s different now. It’s fuel. It’s fire. It’s the thing that’s going to push you forward.

You have to move. Fast.

The past few nights have been long, stretching endlessly between exhaustion and restless thoughts that refuse to quiet. You’ve thrown yourself into work, into research, into anything that might make the ache in your chest feel a little less unbearable. It hasn’t helped. Your research sits open in front of you, the screen of your laptop casting a dim glow over the clutter of notes, printouts, and half-empty coffee cups scattered around you. You’ve been here for hours, flipping between tabs, scrolling through pages of information, chasing leads that feel both urgent and impossible. But none of it drowns out the gnawing, ever-present weight of him.

Jeno. You haven’t seen him in days. Not properly. Not in a way that means anything. And it’s obvious why. He’s avoiding you, pulling away, sinking into self-destruction the way he always does when he’s cornered. And you understand. Of course you understand. But it doesn’t stop the selfish part of you from wanting more. From expecting, against all logic, that he’d come back. That he’d want to see you, speak to you, be with you. Because no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, you miss him. You miss him in a way that makes your chest feel hollow, in a way that lingers, thick and unbearable, no matter how much you try to bury it.

You don’t know what you expect anymore. Any hope of holding onto something with Jeno—whatever fragile, unspoken thing used to exist between you—has already slipped through your fingers. You tell yourself it’s over, that you can’t have him in any way that matters, but some selfish, hopeless part of you still craves the impossible. Still aches for his presence. Still wants him to come back—to want to come back. Maybe it’s delusional. Maybe it’s just muscle memory, the way your world used to tilt toward his without effort. But the truth is undeniable. he’s carved out a space in your heart that no one else can fill.

The weight of his absence lingers, stretching across the past few days like an open wound. You try not to dwell on it. Try to push forward, to focus on the work in front of you, to convince yourself that distraction is enough to keep the ache at bay. But nothing changes the fact that something in you has been waiting—bracing—for the moment he’d come back. Even if you know better. Even if you know he won’t.

The air shifts before you even hear the door. The space around you grows heavier, charged with something electric, something visceral, something undeniably him. Your fingers still over the keyboard, your breath catching in your throat, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. And then, finally, you sense movement—the subtle drag of footsteps, the faint creak of the door easing shut, the quiet force of a presence too familiar to ignore.

When you look up, he’s already staring at you. The sight of him nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. He looks good. Unfairly so. Even like this—tense, annoyed, still brimming with that barely-contained frustration he’s been carrying for weeks—he’s still devastating. The sharp angles of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the way his hoodie hangs loose over broad shoulders yet does nothing to hide the sheer strength coiled beneath his skin. He’s every bit as infuriating as he is magnetic, and the moment your eyes lock, the world tilts.

He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click, slow and deliberate. And then he moves. It’s not rushed. It’s not aggressive. It’s controlled. Every step forward is measured, precise, his gaze locked onto yours with the kind of quiet intensity that makes it impossible to look away. It’s been weeks since you’ve last held eye contact like this, and you’d forgotten—God, you’d forgotten—how it feels. How completely, overwhelmingly consuming it is. How Jeno doesn’t just look at you; he sees you, strips you bare with nothing but the weight of his attention. And under that attention, under the heat of it, everything else—the laptop, the research, the reason you’re even here—vanishes.

You should move. You should close the tabs, shut the screen, do something—anything—before he gets too close, before he notices. But you don’t. You can’t. Because he’s already in front of you, already closing the space between you like it was never there to begin with.

Jeno doesn’t sit across from you. He doesn’t give you distance, doesn’t allow you the space to think, to breathe, to pull yourself together. Instead, he drops into the seat beside you, legs spreading wide, his forearms bracing against his thighs as he leans forward. It’s intentional. Deliberate. He takes up space, forces you to feel him, to acknowledge him. And you do. You do.

His scent crashes into you. A dark, intoxicating mix of cardamom and smoked cedarwood, something that clings to the air between you like an unshakable memory. It smells like the kind of warmth you could sink into, like a quiet storm before impact—subtle, unrelenting, inevitable. There’s something dangerous about it, too, something that lingers on your skin, in your lungs, making it impossible to think about anything but him. It reminds you of nights spent tangled in sheets, of things you shouldn’t be remembering. Of things that are gone now. But the scent is still here, clinging to you, wrapping around you, as inescapable as the man in front of you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face, down to your hands curled tight in your lap, back up again. Waiting. Testing. Searching for a crack, for any sign that you’ll fold first. And then—finally—he speaks. “I need to talk to you.” His voice is low, steady, but edged with something you can’t quite place. A quiet frustration, maybe. Or something heavier. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to swallow, but it barely helps. “Okay,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes. And for a second—for just a fleeting, reckless second—you forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget what you’ve been doing. Forget everything except the weight of him beside you, the heat of his thigh brushing yours, the way the air feels razor-thin between you. And then his gaze shifts. Just slightly. Just enough. And he sees it. The moment his eyes land on your laptop screen, the energy between you shatters.

Jeno hadn’t meant to come here. Or maybe he had. He wasn’t sure anymore. Avoiding you had been easy enough these past few weeks—easier than he thought it would be. If he didn’t see you, didn’t hear you, didn’t give you the chance to dig your nails into the open wound you’d left behind, then maybe he could convince himself it didn’t exist. That it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. But the lie had begun to unravel faster than he could stitch it back together. Because something still pulled him toward you, something gnawed at the back of his mind every time he closed his eyes, every time he caught himself checking for you in the places you used to be.

He told himself he just wanted to see how much effort you’d been putting into the project without him. Maybe he’d find some bitter notes, some passive-aggressive remarks about how he was slacking off, something to prove that you were pissed off at him. But instead, he finds this.

Your laptop screen is filled with names. With research. His name. Sunwoo’s. Eric’s. His stomach tightens, his muscles coil, and suddenly he’s moving. “What the fuck are you doing?” The words rip out of him before he can stop them, sharp and cutting, laced with something that isn’t just anger—something worse. It’s panic. Fear. Because he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, doesn’t understand why you—of all people—are digging into things you shouldn’t be touching.

You move on instinct, fingers flying toward the laptop, but it doesn’t matter—he’s faster. His hand clamps around your wrist, stopping you cold, the sudden contact knocking the breath from your lungs. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s there—unshakable, unrelenting, a quiet assertion of control that sets every nerve in your body alight. His fingers press into your skin, warm, steady, possessive in a way that sends something dark and unspoken curling through you. He’s not just stopping you. He’s holding you. Holding you in place, holding you still, like he wants you like this—trapped beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of his gaze pinning you down as effectively as his grip. And maybe it’s twisted, maybe it’s wrong, but you don’t pull away. You won’t. Because part of you—some reckless, desperate part buried deep in your chest—wants to see what he does next.

Jeno notices. His jaw tightens, his fingers flex against your skin, and something in his expression flickers—something dark, unreadable, something that makes the air in the room shift. He should be yelling. Should be demanding answers. Should be furious. But he doesn’t say anything, not at first. He just looks at you, eyes locked onto yours, his grip tightening ever so slightly, firm but not cruel, possessive but not punishing. Like he’s holding you in place. Like he’s making sure you don’t run.

“Explain.” The word is low, rough, dragged from his throat like it barely made it out at all. There’s no fire behind it, not anymore. Just something heavier, something coiled tight between you, thrumming like a live wire.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You force yourself to breathe, to think, to say something. But you can’t tell him the truth. You can’t let him know what you’ve been doing, what you’re trying to protect him from. And you can’t lie, not fully, not when he’s this close, watching you like he can already see the cracks forming. “It’s for our project,” you say, keeping your voice even, steady, measured—but the way your breath hitches at the end betrays you. “I was looking into the team—into different types of connections. It’s relevant, Jeno. It’s part of what we’re supposed to be doing.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his fingers pressing just a little harder against your skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, slow, deliberate, and your stomach tightens because he knows. He can feel the way your pulse betrays you, racing under his touch. He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bullshit.” His gaze flickers over your face, searching, testing, reading between the lines, catching every unspoken thing tangled in your words. He just watches you, waiting, waiting, as if daring you to say something else. As if daring you to lie again. And the worst part? You think you might let him.

Instead, he exhales sharply, his grip tightening around your wrist for just a moment—just long enough for you to feel the heat of him searing into your skin—before he lets go. But the space between you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it feels tighter, drawn even closer by something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name. His fingers twitch like they don’t want to leave you, hovering in that impossible in-between, the ghost of his touch still burning against your pulse. His jaw flexes, his throat works around a slow, deliberate swallow, and for a fleeting second, you swear you can feel the weight of his hesitation pressing into you, thick and stifling, like a breath held too long, like a moment stretched to its breaking point.

“You need to stop this.” His voice is a shade rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel, but there’s something underneath it—something more insistent than anger. Not a threat. A warning. A demand wrapped in desperation. “Right now.”

Your stomach twists. You open your mouth, searching for something to say, but your voice betrays you, coming out too soft, too unsure. “Jeno—”

“No.” The word is sharp enough to cut as he moves closer, the space between you vanishing into nothing. His eyes are locked onto yours, intense, unyielding, something almost unbearable brewing beneath the surface. “You don’t get it.” His breath is warm against your lips, the closeness stealing the air from your lungs. “You can’t do this. You can’t dig into this shit, you can’t get involved—they will notice. And when they do, you won’t be safe.”

The fear in his voice unsettles you in a way nothing else has. Because Jeno doesn’t scare easily. He doesn’t break. But this—this is different. The muscle in his jaw ticks, his shoulders are tight with something that looks too much like helplessness, and his fingers flex again at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or let you go. He exhales through his nose, steadying himself, but you don’t miss the way his throat works through a thick swallow.

And then, before you can react, his hands are on your face. Not rough, not demanding—just there. Holding you. Grounding you. Pleading with you in the only way he knows how. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his touch firm but unbearably careful, and his forehead presses against yours like it’s instinct, like he needs to feel you just to breathe properly. Your lashes flutter, your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. You can’t pull away. Not when he’s looking at you like this, not when his fingers tighten ever so slightly, keeping you anchored to him.

“Is that what you want?” The words are barely a whisper now, his lips just a breath away from yours, his voice threaded with something devastating. “To get yourself hurt?”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Your voice is quiet but unwavering, the promise settling between you like something immovable. “That’s all you need to know.”

Jeno exhales sharply, his grip tightening against your skin, like he’s trying to pull something from you—something real, something whole—but you don’t give. You can’t give. His forehead presses against yours, and for a second, his eyes flicker shut. His fingers move, tracing lightly over the side of your face, a barely-there touch, his thumb skimming over your cheekbone before dipping lower, ghosting over your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them. You shudder beneath the contact, your own hands hovering near his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

“That’s not good enough,” he murmurs, his voice fraying at the edges. “That’s not—” He swallows thickly, his breath warm against your lips, and when he speaks again, it’s barely a whisper. “I can’t lose you.”

Your fingers twitch before they move on instinct, sliding up the front of his hoodie, grasping at the fabric like it might hold you together. His own grip shifts, sliding down, his palm pressing flat against your ribs, warm and grounding, fingertips pressing just barely into your skin like he’s trying to anchor you there. Like if he holds on tight enough, he can stop you from slipping through his fingers.

“You won’t,” you whisper back, your voice softer now, edged with something fragile. And it’s not a lie. Not really. But the way his jaw locks, the way his fingers flex against you, tells you he doesn’t believe you. Not yet.

His lips are so close to yours. Close enough that you can feel the heat of them, the ghost of a touch, so close to stealing your breath. You can feel it—the restraint, the breaking point, the way his fingers tighten at your waist like he’s convincing himself to hold back, even as every muscle in his body screams to do the opposite. And you? You don’t move. You should move. You should push him away, turn your head, do something to stop what’s about to happen. But you don’t. Because despite how fucked up, how wrong, how impulsive everything about this is—you still miss him. And he still misses you. And it’s so difficult. Too difficult.

His breath is uneven, lips just barely brushing yours, fingers digging into your ribs like he’s anchoring himself. And then, slowly, slowly, he leans in. His nose nudges yours, a quiet inhale, a moment stretched unbearably thin—he’s about to kiss you. About to close the distance. About to claim your mouth like it’s his to take.

And then the door opens.

“Hey Y/N, I know you’d said you’d meet me outside but—oh—woah.”

Mark stands at the door, eyes wide, blinking like he’s just walked into something he really shouldn’t have seen. His presence slams into you like a cold shock, snapping you back into the moment, into reality, into the undeniable fact that Jeno has you caged against the desk, hands gripping your waist, lips a breath away from yours.

You swallow hard, throat dry. “Mark was gonna drive me home,” you whisper softly to Jeno, voice barely steady, eyes flickering away from his for the first time to glance at Mark.

Jeno doesn’t even hesitate. He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “Don’t look at Mark. Look at me.”

Your breath catches. You gulp, hesitant. “But me and him agreed to meet at this time, he wants to drive me to my apartment, to—”

“I can drive you there,” Jeno cuts in, voice smooth, low, almost dangerous.

You hum, lips parting slightly. His eyes flicker down to your mouth. And that’s it. That’s when he decides fuck it. His hand slides up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, and then he kisses you. Hard. Heavy. Desperate. His mouth slants over yours with a hunger that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long, like he’s been starving for this, for you. Your gasp is swallowed between his lips, your fingers gripping the front of his hoodie without thinking, pulling him closer, needing him closer. He groans softly against your mouth, a low sound of frustration, of relief, of everything he hasn’t said out loud.

Mark makes a confused sound, an incredulous huff. He takes in the scene—the way Jeno is pressed against you, the way your fingers are curled into him, the breathless space between your lips—and then, whether out of respect or just sheer fucking bewilderment, he exhales, shakes his head, and pulls the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone.

Jeno doesn’t stop. He doesn’t fucking stop. His lips move over yours feverishly, demanding, parting your mouth with ease. His tongue slides against yours, deepening the kiss, drinking you in like he needs this to breathe. Your back presses against the desk, your body arching into his like second nature, like instinct, like you belong here. His hands, once steady, are now restless—palms dragging down your sides, fingers curling at your waist, tugging, gripping, owning.

You whimper against his lips, and he shudders. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours, his chest heaving. His grip on you tightens, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth for just a second before letting go, before he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring you.

"Jeno," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, your lashes fluttering as you meet his gaze—heavy, unrelenting, something unreadable burning behind it. “We can’t do this.”

His breath is sharp, uneven, forehead pressing against yours, his fingers tightening where they rest against your hips. "Tell me to walk away," he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something almost pleading. "Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you don’t want me."

But you don’t. You can’t.

Jeno exhales slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s steadying himself, like he’s been carrying the weight of this moment for too long and doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it in. His eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface, something too raw, too heavy. "I’ve been thinking about this," he starts, voice lower now, rough in the way that makes your stomach twist. "About you. About how you broke up with me. Even when I don’t want to, I’m always thinking about you."

You swallow thickly, pulse skittering at the sheer certainty in his voice. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. He’s not just talking—he’s laying something bare. He shifts, moving in closer, the air between you thinning into something electric, something suffocating. "And the more I think about it, the more I realize… something is wrong. Something about this entire situation is off." His jaw tightens, his breath a slow, measured thing as he exhales through his nose. "I know you. I know you so well, and I just don’t believe you breaking up with me was real.” His voice dips lower, rougher, something fragile threaded beneath it.

“It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like you.” His fingers flex, like he wants to reach for you, wants to hold you still, “Not after everything—not after how you forgave me. After the way you looked at me, after the way you held onto me like you never wanted to let go.” He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “None of it fucking makes sense. Not after all the moments we spent together, not after everything we went through. Not after how you made me feel like—like I was everything to you.”

You’re silent. Your heart is in your throat, and your fingers are curled too tight into the fabric of your sleeves. He notices. Of course he notices. His gaze flickers over your face, his lips parting like he wants to say something else, like he’s grasping at something he can’t quite reach. And then his hands are on you. Soft but insistent, his palms settling on either side of your face, his thumbs grazing just beneath your cheekbones. He tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze back to his, and the intensity in his stare makes your breath hitch.

"There’s a reason that I liked you so much more than I’ve ever liked any other girl." His voice is softer now, but there’s a weight behind it, something immovable. "Because you never pretended to be something you’re not. You always said what you meant, you always—fuck, you were real in a way that nobody else was. Nothing feels like you." His thumbs brush against your skin, a ghost of a touch, reverent and grounding at the same time. "But the way you’ve been acting… it’s not you. I know you, and you’ve been acting unlike you."

Your chest tightens. Your eyes burn. It’s so hard, so fucking hard, and you feel yourself breaking under the weight of his words, under the way he’s looking at you like he’s willing you to give him something. You shake your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. "Jeno, please stop. You don’t want to get into this—"

His grip tenses for just a second, and his brows furrow. "Get into what?"

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And that’s when it happens—the shift, the realization, the way his breath catches and his fingers tighten against your skin like he’s piecing something together in real time. He thinks about the way you looked at him the last time you saw each other. The way your words said one thing, but your eyes—your eyes—told another story entirely. The way you hesitated, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands clenched like you were bracing for impact.

Jeno steps in closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat, but breath, but the weight of everything unsaid. "Look at me." His voice is steady, careful, deliberate. "Just tell me the truth."

You gulp. Your fingers twitch at your sides, restless, uncertain. "Jeno, I’m not understanding what you’re trying to say."

His jaw clenches. He breathes in deeply, searching your face, and then— "What I’m trying to say is… did anything happen to make you break up with me?" His voice is quieter now, but no less firm. "Did Eric and Sunwoo do anything to you?"

Your breath catches, a split-second hesitation that you know—know—he feels. Because Jeno isn’t just reckless, isn’t just driven by emotion. He knows you. Knows you in a way that no one else ever has, in a way that feels almost unfair, because it means he doesn’t need words to read you. He’s always been sharp, always been just a little too good at seeing through you, at catching the cracks before you even realize they’re there. And now, he’s doing exactly that—watching, waiting, cataloging every flicker of movement, every shift in your expression, every little tell that you don’t have the strength to hide. He’s studying you, the way he always does, the way he’s done a thousand times before, but this time, it’s different.

Because you thought you were the one in control. You thought you were the one keeping him at arm’s length, the one dictating how this would play out. But the truth is, Jeno has been doing the same thing to you. This whole time. Reading you just as much as you’ve been trying to read him, peeling back every layer, every carefully constructed defense, until there’s nothing left between you but the unbearable weight of the truth. And this time, he’s piecing you back togetherinstead of just knowing you. Taking the fragments you’ve tried to bury, the pieces you never wanted him to see, and fitting them into something dangerous—something dangerously close to the truth.

Your throat tightens, and you hate the way your body betrays you—how your breath comes out too shallow, how your fingers twitch like they want to hold onto him, how you can’t look away even though you should. “You’re wrong,” you whisper, but it’s weak, unconvincing, a last-ditch attempt to keep yourself together.

Jeno’s grip on you doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t ease either. He stares at you, waiting, his jaw locked, his breath slow and measured, but his fingers flex against your waist like he’s barely holding himself back. “Am I?” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it presses against your chest, suffocating. “Because I don’t fucking feel wrong. I know you. I know the way you look at me, the way you sound when you’re lying, the way you—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to keep himself from unraveling. “You don’t just wake up one day and decide to leave me. That’s not how this works. That’s not you.”

You shake your head, throat burning. “Jeno, please—”

“Please what?” He’s closer now, and it’s unfair, the way he knows exactly how to crowd you, exactly how to pull you under his weight without even touching you. “You don’t want to talk about it? You don’t want to explain why the fuck you’ve been acting like a stranger when I know you still—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “You still care about me.”

Your stomach twists violently, your pulse hammering in your ears. “I don’t—”

“You do.” His voice drops lower, something raw bleeding through the words. “You do and it’s fucking killing me.”

Your breath stutters. Your eyes burn. He sees it. You know he does.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” Jeno’s voice is quieter now, rough, desperate in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I don’t feel it every time I look at you? I don’t care what you say. I know you, and I know you wouldn’t leave me unless—” He exhales sharply, and when he speaks again, his voice is steadier, but it’s laced with something unbearable. “Unless someone made you.”

You gasp. You flinch. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s enough. Jeno stills. The air shifts. “Tell me.” His voice is softer now, but it’s not a request. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, a demand, a fucking lifeline he’s throwing at you, desperate for you to take it. “Tell me if someone did something. Tell me if they—” He swallows thickly, like the words are hard to say. “If he did something.”

Your breath catches. Eric. Sunwoo. That’s where his mind goes first. That’s what he assumes. That’s what makes sense to him, because he knows what they’re like, knows what they’re capable of. And of course, of course, he wouldn’t ever think of the real reason because it would never cross his mind that his own father is the one who orchestrated this.

Jeno is close. So fucking close. But he doesn’t know it yet. He doesn’t want to know it. Because that would mean confronting something that he’s buried so deep, something he’s spent years forcing himself not to look at too closely. He knows his father. Knows how ruthless he can be, how much control he likes to wield. But that control has always been directed at him, at shaping him into something stronger, something more, never at you. His father never had a reason to see you as a threat. Never had a reason to interfere. And if Jeno lets himself think about it, really think about it—about all the times his father has made decisions for him, about all the times he’s spoken in absolutes, about all the times Jeno has let him because it was easier than fighting back—then he might have to accept that this is just another move in a game he never agreed to play.

And he’s not ready for that. So instead, his mind goes where it can go. To the obvious answer. To the people who have hurt him before and would hurt the one person he cares about the most in this world. To the people he already hates. He takes a step closer, voice low but firm, as if softening it will make you more likely to tell him the truth. He asks again. “Did they do something to you?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Because for once, you have no idea what to say. Every excuse, every carefully crafted lie, every way out you’d prepared—it all crumbles under the weight of his voice, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. You inhale sharply, your throat tight, your fingers curling into fists at your sides like you can anchor yourself to something, anything. “Jeno, you’re—” You hesitate, swallowing hard, searching for words that won’t come. “You’re reaching.” It’s weak. It’s unconvincing. And you both know it. You shake your head, eyes darting away like you can physically pull yourself from the noose tightening around your lies. “This isn’t—there’s nothing for you to dig into. I don’t know why you keep—” Your breath stutters when you finally meet his gaze again, because the look in his eyes is devastating. He’s searching, reaching for something, anything, and you know, deep down, that if you don’t end this now, if you don’t cut him off, he’s going to find exactly what he’s looking for.

“Do not lie.” This time, he’s not just asking—he’s pleading. It’s in the way his hands find your arms again, the way his fingers press into your skin, firm but not forceful, like he needs to feel you, needs to know you’re still here. His touch is warm, searing through the fabric of your clothes, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist, tracing over your pulse like he wants to memorize the rhythm. His grip tightens slightly, his body leaning in, closer than before, close enough that his breath fans over your cheek, over your lips, as he exhales, slow and uneven. It’s not just desperation anymore—it’s something else, something heavier, something electric, thrumming between you, thickening the air until every inhale is just him. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t let you go, and for a fleeting second, you forget why you ever wanted him to.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, the sharp edges dulled by something painfully raw. His chest rises and falls too fast, his composure splintering, and when he tilts his head, his nose just barely brushes yours. The contact is featherlight, barely there, but it’s enough to steal your breath, to leave you frozen in place. “Please.” His grip shifts, his hands sliding lower, curling around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against him like he needs the contact to steady himself. “You can tell me anything.” His lips part, like he’s about to say more, like he’s about to close the last inch of space between you, but then he exhales sharply through his nose, brows furrowing, something breaking inside of him. “I’ll fix it. I’ll take care of it.” He swallows, his fingers flexing where they hold you, voice dropping into something lower, something that barely makes it past his lips. “I’ll take care of you.”

Jeno doesn’t just promise things lightly. When he says something, he means it. And you know, without a single shred of doubt, that if you let him, he would go to any length for you. He would burn everything down, he would tear through anyone who hurt you, he would give up pieces of himself if it meant keeping you safe.

But you can’t let him protect you. You refuse to let him try.

And in your silence, he gets desperate. You can feel it in the way his fingers tense, in the way his breath stutters, in the way his body leans in just a little more, like he’s trying to physically bridge the distance you keep forcing between you. He knows he’s close to something—so close—but you’re being silent, unresponsive, unhelpful, and it’s driving him insane.

So he says what’s been bleeding on his mind, what’s been clawing at his chest every second he’s been apart from you. “I still want you. I miss you.” His words are raw, stripped bare of pride, of anger. Just vulnerable. Just desperate. He thinks he’s fixing things and it fucking breaks you. Because the moment you hear it, the moment those words leave his lips, something inside you snaps. Your vision blurs, a tear slipping down before you can stop it, before you can bite down the words you swore you wouldn’t say.

“If you still want me, then why have you been going around and fucking other girls?”

It’s a confession in disguise, a wound torn open right in front of him. Because it’s not just anger, not just jealousy—it’s heartbreak. It’s love. It’s everything you told yourself you wouldn’t say. But it slips out before you can stop it, before you can shove it back down. You’ve given yourself away. You’ve shown him exactly what you didn’t want him to see. That no matter what you say, no matter how hard you try to push him away—he still has you. He’s always had you.

He laughs, but it’s choked, disbelieving, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His fingers flex at his sides, his breath coming harder now. “What? What? That is not what I’ve been doing. That is so far from the truth. Who have you heard that from?”

“I’ve heard it around campus.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “People are lying for no fucking reason. You know how it is on this campus.” His jaw clenches, his hands twitching like he wants to grab you, shake the thought out of your head. “I tried to fuck around, but I couldn’t.” His voice drops lower, rougher, like the words taste bitter on his tongue. “I couldn’t take it further because I realised it’s not what I want, you’re the one I fucking want. Isn’t that clear enough?”

You swallow hard, trying to process his words, trying to catch the tell—the flicker in his expression, the shift in his stance, the way his lips might curl slightly when he lies. You know Jeno. You know when he’s bullshitting. But there’s nothing now. No hesitation, no falter in his voice. Nothing but raw, painful honesty.

He shakes his head again, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I’d just move on? That I’d just fuck someone else and forget about you?” He steps closer, gaze dark and unwavering. “I can’t. I haven’t even tried these last few fucking days because all I can see is you. You are in my fucking head, in my hands, in my fucking mouth every time I try to do anything.”

His breathing is uneven now, his chest rising and falling too fast, frustration bleeding through every word. “So if you think I’ve been sleeping with other girls, then you don’t fucking know me at all.” Jeno’s eyes darken as he steps in closer, his breath coming harder, controlled, but barely. “And have you fucked anyone since me?”

His voice drops lower, rougher, curling around you like something physical, something impossible to escape. He steps closer—so close you feel the warmth radiating off of him, the scent of him filling your lungs, drowning you in something you swore you wouldn’t let yourself want. His fingers graze the underside of your jaw, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine, enough to make your knees threaten to buckle. His touch is teasing, taunting, like he wants to see you react, needs you to.

Your stomach twists. Your throat feels impossibly tight, but you manage to force the words out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Of course I haven’t.”

His jaw tightens, and you see the flicker of something almost amused in his expression—except it’s not amusement. It’s something colder, something sharper. He exhales a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head, his tongue running over his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something worse. “You’re good at changing the subject, aren’t you?” His voice drops lower, curling around you like smoke, slow, taunting. “You bring up who I’ve fucked, knowing damn well I haven’t fucked anyone, hoping I’ll focus on that instead. Hoping I’ll forget about the real problem. About you. About how you’ve been acting recently.”

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips, the heat of him pressing against every inch of your resolve. His fingers brush over your jaw, not quite holding you, but close enough to make you ache for it. His next words are softer, more dangerous. “Don’t deflect. I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you anymore.” It’s a weak attempt, and you both know it. Your voice doesn’t carry the weight it should, doesn’t hold the finality you need it to. It just sounds tired, forced, like you’re running out of ways to push him away.

Jeno exhales sharply through his nose, and then, in a blink, his fingers are at your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough to make you meet his gaze. “Answer my question.” His voice is low, firm, but there’s something else laced beneath it—something dangerous, something desperate. “You’re not stupid. You know exactly what I’m asking. Do I need to deal with Eric and Sunwoo?”

You’ve needed to deal with Eric and Sunwoo since day one, but you haven’t. You swallow the words down, pressing them deep into the pit of your stomach, forcing yourself to stay quiet. So now I am.

You shake your head, but your hands betray you, curling tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him in instead of pushing him away. Your breath is unsteady, words barely forming as you whisper, “You don’t need to do anything for me, Jeno.” Your fingers tremble where they grip him, but you force the rest out, even as it rips through you. “All you can do is just go. Just—just leave me alone.”

His gaze drops, zeroing in on the way your fingers clutch at his hoodie, trembling, desperate, as if letting go would mean collapsing entirely. A slow exhale escapes him, deliberate, measured, his breath rolling over your skin like heat before a storm. He tilts his head, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, voice a rasped whisper soaked in something dark, something unrelenting. “You’re telling me to go,” he murmurs, his lips dragging just enough to make your breath hitch, “but you’re the one who’s pulling me closer and closer.”

You are. God, you are. Even though you shouldn’t be. Even though every rational thought in your head is screaming at you to push him away, to stop this before it unravels completely. But it’s already too late. His scent is in your lungs, thick and heady, his heat pressing into you like a slow burn, consuming, inescapable. And then he’s touching you, his hands gliding over your sides, memorizing, owning, his palms dragging down the curve of your waist before gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes you shiver.

His thigh nudges between yours, pressing up, solid, unyielding, the friction sending a sharp pulse of heat through your body. You inhale sharply, but your hips betray you, rolling against him, instinctual, desperate. Jeno hums, low and satisfied, his hands tightening their grip as he pulls you closer, until there’s not a breath of space left between you. Until you’re trembling against him, overwhelmed, drowning in him.

"That’s it, baby," he whispers, his voice dark, dripping with something dangerous, something that coils hot and tight in your stomach. One hand skims lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers dragging up over bare skin, up the delicate lines of your stomach, before dipping beneath the band of your panties. "I knew you’d let me touch you like this again. I knew you’d still be mine."

A broken moan spills from your lips as he cups you, fingers pressing against the slick heat between your thighs, teasing, coaxing. "Fuck," he exhales, his breath hot against your cheek, his lips brushing, featherlight. "You’re soaked for me. You always get so fucking wet for me, don’t you?" He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just dips his fingers lower, dragging through your folds, spreading the wetness before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that make you whimper. His pace quickens, fingers fucking into you, pushing you higher, his thumb circling your clit in tight, devastating strokes. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your head tipping back as a strangled moan escapes your throat.

And then he does it—his lips brush against yours, featherlight, barely there. A tease. A question. He pulls back, his breath heavy, eyes flickering over your face before he does it again, pressing another soft, aching kiss to your lips, then pulling away just as quickly. Then again. And again. Slow, fleeting, like he’s relearning the shape of your mouth, like he’s savoring every stolen moment before you disappear again.

“God, I missed this,” he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, wrecked. “Missed the way you taste.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his tongue flickering just barely against your bottom lip before he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and ragged. “I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

“You think you’re the only one?” The words slip out, broken, barely above a whisper. “You think I don’t—” Your voice catches, and you shake your head, your lips grazing his with the movement. “I don’t know how to stop either.” It’s not a confession. It’s a curse. A wound torn open between you, raw and festering, because you shouldn’t be saying this, shouldn’t be letting him hear it, shouldn’t be giving him even the smallest piece of the truth. But it’s too late. His breath stutters, his fingers digging into your waist, and the look in his eyes—God, the look in his eyes—tells you that you’ve just made everything worse.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you, eyes drinking you in, memorizing every flicker of hesitation, every breath you take. And then—then he smiles. Soft. Just barely there. It shouldn’t make your chest tighten the way it does, shouldn’t make something fragile and aching unravel inside of you, but it does. Because it’s the first thing he’s been able to get out of you. The first crack in the walls you’ve built between you. And it makes his heart overflow with that tight feeling he always gets around you—the one that makes his ribs feel too small, his breath feel too shallow, like loving you has always been too big for him to contain.

Jeno hums low in his throat when he sees the tear slip down your cheek, his fingers twitching where they still frame your waist, like he’s holding himself back from reaching up to brush it away. And then, slowly, he lifts his hand, the movement reverent, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His thumb drags gently across your cheek, catching the tear, warmth lingering where he touches, burning something deep into your skin. His palm lingers against the side of your face, his fingers curling around the curve of your jaw, holding you there—not forcing, just grounding. And God, you feel it, feel the quiet desperation woven into his touch, the way he’s still reaching for you even when you keep trying to slip through his fingers.

His other hand moves next, shifting from where it rests at your waist, slow, deliberate, until it finds yours. His fingers brush over your knuckles before curling between them, a silent question, an unspoken plea. He wants to go. He wants to take you with him. He wants to hold you all night long, wants to tangle himself into every inch of you, wants to make love to you until neither of you remember where your bodies end and where they begin. Until you forget the world outside of his arms. Until you remember that you belong there—that you have always belonged there.

But you hesitate.

His breath hitches just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t push, doesn’t beg. He just holds your hand in his, his grip steady, unwavering, like he’s waiting for you to come back to him on your own. Like no matter how long it takes, no matter how far you try to run, he’ll always be right here. He swallows hard, jaw tensing, something flickering behind his eyes—something softer than longing, heavier than love.

His voice is quieter when he finally speaks, but it’s steady, solid, like a promise carved into the earth itself. “I will always be there for you.” He shifts just slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath fanning against your lips. “I will always protect you.” And you know—you know—that he means it. That there is no ocean too deep, no storm too violent, no darkness too consuming that he wouldn’t wade through for you. He would follow you anywhere. He would burn the world down for you. He would bleed for you, again and again and again, if it meant keeping you safe. If it meant keeping you his.

But you can’t let him. You can’t let yourself reach for him, can’t let yourself take his hand and let him pull you back into the place you want more than anything. So you stay still. You don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. Because the moment you do, you know you’ll be his again. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be strong enough to leave twice. You shake your head. “I’m not going with you, Jeno.”

His jaw tightens. “Y/N.” It’s a warning, low and frayed at the edges, but there’s desperation threaded through it, too—desperation he can’t quite swallow down.

You exhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep the distance between you even as every part of you aches to close it. “You don’t get it. You can’t fix this, okay? This isn’t something you can fight your way through.” Your voice shakes, but you push forward. “You’ve let Eric and Sunwoo play you like a fool this whole time, and now you suddenly think you can handle them? You think any of this changes if I’m involved or not?”

His lips part, but he doesn’t immediately respond. He just watches you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, something deep, something determined. And then, softer, steadier, he says, “It does change. If you’re involved, it changes everything.”

Your breath stalls, fingers twitching at your sides. Because he believes it. He’s looking at you like this is all he needs to make sense of things, like this is what he’s been searching for—this explanation, this false puzzle piece that fits well enough to make him stop looking elsewhere. You can feel the calculation threading through your thoughts, trying to assess whether this is good, whether it benefits you that Jeno believes Eric and Sunwoo are the ones behind your behavior. If he stays focused on them, he won’t turn his suspicion elsewhere. He won’t suspect the truth. He won’t suspect his father. And you don’t know what kind of chaos would unravel if he ever did. All you know is that you need to protect him. You need to keep his future from falling apart. You need to make sure Jeno wanting you doesn’t cloud his judgment—doesn’t pull him down with you.

Jeno exhales, a slow, measured breath that barely masks the weight pressing on his chest. His fingers twitch where they hold you, like he’s trying to convince himself he still has some kind of grip on you—on whatever this is, whatever’s left. “Let’s just… let’s rest on this,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, quieter, careful. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight, alright? Just come with me. We’ll sleep on it. That’s all I want.” His gaze softens, something unbearably raw in the way he looks at you, the way his thumb brushes lightly over your wrist. “I just want you in my bed, that’s it. Nothing else matters right now.”

The tenderness in his voice wrecks you. It twists something sharp in your chest, something fragile, something you’ve spent weeks trying to keep buried. You try to shake your head, try to tell him no, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat, lost in the sob that chokes its way out instead. Your body betrays you—shaking, crumbling against him, unable to hold itself together any longer. And Jeno feels it. Feels you slipping through his fingers, slipping away, and it kills him. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he doesn’t know how to hold you without hurting you, without making things worse.

“Come with me,” he whispers again, softer this time, almost afraid of the answer. “Please.” His voice trembles, just barely, but you hear it. You feel it. And it shatters you completely. You shake your head again, squeezing your eyes shut as another sob escapes, as you force yourself to breathe, force yourself to rebuild the walls that keep breaking every time he looks at you like this.

“I miss you,” he confesses, and it’s not just words—it’s everything. It’s sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, haunted by the shape of you beside him that no longer exists. It’s the hollow ache in his chest that never quiets, the phantom weight of your hand in his, the way every room feels colder without you in it. It’s the cruel tricks his mind plays, catching glimpses of you in crowded hallways, in places you’ll never be again. He’s pleading now, voice shaking, unraveling at the seams, because you were never supposed to be someone he had to beg for. You were supposed to be his. But not anymore. And maybe that’s the worst part—you still feel like his, still fit against him like you belong there, but the moment you step away, the moment you say no, he’ll have to face the truth. That you were never his to lose, because you were already gone.

You force yourself to stand still, to breathe, to act like his presence doesn’t unravel you. Your pulse is a vicious, unsteady thing, beating against the walls of your throat, but you refuse to let it show. You can’t let it show. “You need to listen to me.” The words are sharp, cut from something jagged, something desperate, and you force them through your lips like they’re the only thing keeping you alive. “Nothing has changed. Nothing will change.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a pair of hands. Jeno watches you, eyes dark, waiting, searching, hoping. His breath is uneven, his body taut, and you can see the battle inside him—the part of him that still thinks he can fix this, the part of him that still believes in you. That’s the part you need to crush.

So you do. “I left you because I wanted to.”

It feels like swallowing glass. Like choking on a scream that will never come out. The lie slashes through you as it leaves your tongue, violent and unforgiving, poisoning the air between you. But you hold your ground, even as you feel the weight of it settle in your chest like something rotting, something unholy.

Jeno’s body goes rigid. His breath catches in his throat, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it, wasn’t expecting you to be able to force it out. His hands twitch at his sides, curling into fists like he wants to grab you, like he wants to shake you out of whatever fucking daze he thinks you’re in. But he doesn’t move.

And you can feel it—the shift. The moment something inside him breaks. “You’re lying,” he murmurs, but the confidence in his voice is cracking, splintering under the weight of what you’ve just done. His jaw clenches, his eyes burn into yours, searching for something, anything, that will tell him this isn’t real. That the way your body still reacts to him, the way your hands still tremble when you touch him, wasn’t just muscle memory. But you don’t give him that. You can’t.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before forcing the words out, each syllable like dragging barbed wire through your throat. “You need to stop this,” you whisper, voice cold, detached—a cruel echo of the person you used to be with him. “You keep looking for something that isn’t there. You need to let me go, Jeno.”

His breath hitches, sharp and shallow. The words hit their mark, sinking into him like blades, and for the first time, you see something flicker in his expression—something you never wanted to see. Acceptance. And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes your stomach lurch, makes your nails dig into your palms so hard you think they might draw blood. Because Jeno has always fought for you. Always. He has never given up on you.

When he speaks, his voice is stripped bare, scraped raw like something vital has been carved out of him. “You didn’t even look me in the eyes when you left.” It isn’t an accusation, nor is it a plea—it’s something quieter, something fractured, something irreparable. His breath shudders as he steps closer, the space between you vanishing, his presence wrapping around you like a weight, like a tether that refuses to break. His voice dips lower, threading through the silence like a final thread unraveling. “Do it now, then.” The words are softer, but they carry the force of a knife pressing against a bruise, searching for pain. His gaze holds yours, steady despite the storm raging behind it. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

“Because I fucking love you.” His voice is a wound torn open, raw and gaping, spilling everything he’s tried to hold back. “I love you so much it fucking hurts. It’s in my bones, in my blood, in every second of my goddamn day. I can’t turn it off, can’t shut it down—I don’t even fucking want to. You’re in my head, under my skin, in the way I breathe, in the way my body aches for something it can’t have anymore.” He drags a shaky hand down his face, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to steady himself, but it’s useless. “I love you so much I don’t know how to stop. You’re in me. Inside me. Like a fucking sickness, like something I can’t cure—I wake up with you in my lungs, go to sleep with you in my blood. I can’t escape it. I don’t want to escape it.”

He shakes his head, swallowing hard, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he can anymore. “I’m ready,” he chokes out, barely above a whisper, raw and desperate. “I’m ready to give you everything. All of me. My heart, my fucking name, everything. Just say the word. Just say you want me and I’m yours. I always have been.”

His voice wavers, thick with something too heavy to name. “But if you look me in the eyes right now and tell me you don’t love me—if you really fucking mean it—I’ll walk away. I’ll leave, and I won’t come back.” He steps closer, just enough that you can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the flicker of something breaking apart behind his eyes. His breath shudders, uneven, like he’s fighting against something that’s already overtaken him. His whole body is tense, like a wire pulled too tight, like if you so much as breathe wrong, he’ll snap. “Just say it.” His voice is quieter now, but no less desperate. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll let you go.”

The lights are blinding, the heat of the stage burning against your skin. You can hear the audience holding their breath, feel the weight of their stares, the anticipation thick in the air like smoke curling against your ribs. The final act is here, the moment you have to deliver your most convincing performance yet. And Jeno—Jeno is your scene partner, but he doesn’t know the script. He doesn’t know how this ends.

You step into your role, slip the mask over your face, paint your expression with precision. A detached calm, a forced indifference, a woman who is not breaking apart at the seams. A woman who is not in love with him. Because if you falter, if you let even the smallest sliver of truth bleed through the cracks, he’ll never believe it.

But he’s looking at you like he already knows. Like he’s reading between the lines, like he’s memorized every inflection, every pause, every unspoken confession you’ve ever had the misfortune of slipping. His jaw tightens, his breath shudders, but he waits. For you. For your answer.

And of course you love him. You love him like oxygen, like gravity, like something embedded into the marrow of your bones. It’s a love that has unraveled you, stripped you raw, built and broken you in equal measure. It is the kind of love that rewrites destinies, that turns men into myths, that should have been yours to keep. But this story was never meant to end in a happy ever after. The villain in your play has made sure of that.

The looming, ever-present shadow that has followed you since the beginning, orchestrating your downfall before you ever even knew you were falling. Taeyong was always there, waiting in the wings, watching. He let you believe you had control, let you believe you were safe, let you believe that loving Jeno could ever be something you were allowed to have. But now the final act has come, and if Jeno still believes you love him, it won’t end here. It won’t end at all.

So you do what you must. You prepare yourself for the lie that will end all lies.

Except—it isn’t a lie, not really.

Your hands tremble at your sides as you force yourself to meet his gaze, as you force yourself to stand tall, to deliver the line that will cut him from you forever. The words rise up in your throat like bile, sharp, acidic, burning as they take shape on your tongue. You inhale, steady yourself. And then you say it.

"I can't love you."

His face goes still, like the world has just cracked beneath his feet, like the foundation of everything he’s ever known has been torn out from under him. You watch it happen in real time—the way his breath catches, the way his eyes darken, the way something inside him fractures so violently you swear you hear the sound of it breaking.

And you should stop there. You should let the curtain fall, let the weight of the tragedy settle, let the story end in silence, in a fate already sealed. But you don’t. Instead, you step closer, reckless in your own destruction, reckless in the way you give him one last thing to hold on to, only to rip it away. Close enough for him to feel it, the finality thick in the air between you. Close enough for him to see it—the death of something sacred, something neither of you were ready to lay to rest.

I can’t love you.

It’s a breath, barely a whisper, but it shatters like glass between you, cutting through whatever fragile thread was left holding this together. You see the moment it sinks in, the way his chest rises, the way his jaw locks. It’s perfect, this lie. A masterpiece of deception. Not a denial, not a rejection—just a slow, merciless killing. Because can’t is worse than don’t. Can’t is an inevitability, a cruel truth written into the script before either of you ever had a chance. And yet, it’s not even a lie, not really. You can’t love him, not like this, not when the love you carry for him is a weight too heavy to hold, a blade too sharp to keep grasping. Not when loving him means condemning him to a battle he doesn’t know he’s already losing.

The silence that follows is not just silence. It’s a graveyard. It’s a warzone after the dust has settled, a battlefield littered with things unsaid, with love left to rot in the ruins. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just watch as it sinks into him, as he absorbs it like a fatal wound, as the light in his eyes dims in a way that makes you want to take it back, take all of it back, until you remember why you can’t.

Jeno doesn’t fight. Not this time. Not anymore. But he wants to. God, he wants to. You can see it in the way his chest rises too sharply, in the way his lips part like he’s about to say something, then close again, like the words can’t find a way out. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, his breath coming uneven, and when his fingers twitch at his sides, you think—maybe. Maybe he’ll try one last time. Maybe he’ll see through you, push past the lies, break through the walls you’ve built just to keep him out.

But he doesn’t. He exhales, slow and shaky, and his eyes burn as he searches your face—one last time, one last desperate attempt to find something, anything, that proves this isn’t real. But all he finds is your silence. And when the first tear slips down his cheek, when his brows pinch together like something inside him is cracking wide open, your breath catches, because you’ve never seen Jeno cry before.

He blinks, another tear spilling, and then he shakes his head. “Fine.” His voice is wrecked, hoarse like it’s been torn straight from the rawest part of him. His jaw tightens, his lips barely moving as he forces the words out. “Fine. You fucking win.” You don’t know what he thinks he’s losing. Maybe he believes you’ve been playing a game all along. Maybe he truly thinks that this is what you wanted—to break him, to make him small, to watch him walk away like every moment between you was something disposable.

But that’s the furthest thing from the truth.

He takes a step back, then another, his eyes never leaving yours. But they’re different now. There’s no warmth, no fire, no fight left in them. Just something empty. Something hollow. He looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you anymore.

And then, without another word, he turns. And then, for the last time, he walks away.

And the moment he’s gone, something inside you gives out. The strength you clung to, the carefully constructed facade, it all shatters in an instant. Your legs give way, and you fall, knees hitting the floor before you even register the pain. A strangled sob tears from your throat, and then another, and then another, each one ripping through you with the force of a hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake. Your hands clutch at nothing, nails digging into your skin, your clothes, the floor—desperate for something, anything to hold onto. But there’s nothing.

Nothing but the emptiness he left behind.

Tears spill freely, hot and unrelenting, blurring your vision, soaking into your skin. Your breath hitches, broken and uneven, gasping through the sobs that refuse to stop. You can’t stop. You don’t know how. It feels like you’re drowning, like you’re suffocating in the wreckage of what you just did. Your own voice sounds foreign to you—raw, desperate, cracked open beyond repair. You whisper his name once, twice, like a prayer, like a plea, but there is no answer. No arms wrapping around you, no voice murmuring reassurances against your temple. Just silence. Just the weight of your own grief pressing down on you, smothering, unbearable.

You did this. You were forced to do this.

The realization is a knife to your ribs, twisting deep, splitting you apart. The lie you forced past your lips echoes in your head, over and over, until you can’t hear anything else. Until it drowns out every other sound, until it becomes the only truth you know.

He’s gone. And he’s not coming back.

Your body shakes violently, the sobs tearing through you without mercy. You curl into yourself, arms wrapping around your torso like you can hold yourself together, but you can’t. You are unraveling, thread by thread, falling apart into something unrecognizable. The pain is too much, too vast, swallowing you whole. It claws at your chest, burns through your veins, crushes you under its weight.

And yet, the world moves on. The night stretches on beyond the walls of this room, indifferent to the devastation inside it. Outside, cars still pass, people still laugh, lights still glow in the distance. But in here, inside you, everything has ended.

There is no applause. No curtain call. No second act. Only silence. Only the wreckage. Only you—standing there, staring at the space he used to fill, at the ghost of him lingering in the air, at the imprint of his warmth fading from your skin. The weight of it crashes into you all at once, an avalanche, a tidal wave, something vast and merciless that steals the breath from your lungs.

The stage is empty, the script unwritten—only the echo of his absence remains, carving its name into the ruins of you.

authors note — please don’t kill me guys. remember you have 40-50k more words to read to finish this part!! but please don’t send me an ask or message to ask when it will come up, it’s currently unwritten, i will work on it as soon as i can. also if you haven’t read my authors note at the start of the fic read it now please, it’s important.

authors note —

208 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 1 month ago

Text

KYUUUUU WADAFAWWWWKK 😭 OHMYGOD AND TO THINK THIS WAS UR FIRST YH FIC????? GOSH I NEED MOOOOOORE

» DEOBI DAY SPECIAL REQUEST DELIVERY »

to: anon

req: younghoon x fem reader | mariposa by peach tree rascals

summary: you've been waiting for younghoon to come your way, or was it the other way around?

genre: college au | fluff, angst if you squint a little bit :)

warnings: alcohol consumption

wc: 2.1k words

an: i did my best to write all the parts i knew i wanted to include so this doesn't become another spontaneous wip 😭 sooo she was a little longer than i anticipated.. anon i hope you like it <3 i clearly had so much fun writing jealous younghoon.... i might need to write more jealous tbz.. they are my WEAKNESS!

stars: @carrotsworld @winterchimez @honeybeehorizon @sknyuz @bbangbies @from-izzy @jaehunnyy @blizzardfluffykpop | taglist

masterlist | @deoboyznet

“-how many?”

younghoon looks up at jacob, reaching for the beer on his hand. he didn’t hear the first part of jacob’s question, only focusing on the fact he was empty-handed.

“hoon-ah, i asked how many you’ve had?” jacob holds up a can but keeps it out of younghoon’s reach.

it’s been a while since younghoon kept track of the time, now simply counting down to midnight when they would be able to rightfully kick people out of their house.

younghoon shrugged his shoulders, then threw his head back. massaging his temples, he can’t figure out if his dehydration or this lame party caused his headache.

“stop giving him drinks, he’s had more than enough,” hyunjae turns his focus on their conversation.

although he was busy hosting tonight, hyunjae has been keeping an eye on younghoon by making sure he stayed close by. jacob glares at hyunjae, not appreciating the accusatory tone that laced his words, but he let it go as soon as younghoon asked for some water.

“did something happen? he doesn’t ever drink- at least not this much,” sangyeon chimes in. he sat on the ledge of the couch, opening the water bottle before handing it to younghoon.

“-nothing happened,” younghoon interrupts, somehow managing to find a confusing middle—sounding firm and absolute and sounding like he wants to convince himself that nothing actually happened.

sunwoo walks back from the lively living room after he spots the boys gathering around the couch. he tried to ask hyunjae what was happening, failing to communicate only with their eyes.

something about younghoon being in the middle of the the circle intrigued sunwoo, especially since they were the closest out of the group along with hyunjae, with all three growing up in the same hometown.

a chorus of cheers erupted across the room. a game of beer pong reached its peak, excitement surged through each player and lurker.

but younghoon’s eyes immediately darts on one person: you.

judging on your stupid grin, it’s clear that you were winning the game. yes, you were competitive, but everyone can see that smile wasn’t about the game. you weren’t watching the cups, but was instead pouring all your attention to your partner, beomgyu.

“since when did we invite those txt kids?” younghoon grumbled, grabbing the bag of chips on the table.

hyunjae and sunwoo made eye contact upon hearing his complaint. they had their suspicions since the start of the night, although, if they were being honest, the signs have been there for weeks now.

they laughed out of the blue, raising weird looks among their other clueless friends.

“what is it?” sangyeon asked, familiar with hyunjae and sunwoo’s antics, “something must be so amusing, you’re just gonna have to share with the class.”

“i don’t know, but younghoon might know a thing or two-” sunwoo bursts out laughing, enabled by hyunjae’s knowing look.

younghoon snaps out of his trance, realizing he hadn’t taken his eyes off your direction, when he hears his name.

“no. i don’t know what you’re talking about. stop-” younghoon starts throwing his chips at sunwoo.

hyunjae took a sip of his beer, smiling at the sight. younghoon took the bait and he was clearly struggling as they were reeling him in. he looked at the rest of the guys and pointed straight at you.

“you guys know y/n, right?”

“are you seriously gonna do this-”

“chanhee’s cousin, y/n?” jacob asked.

“yeah, they’re related. but did you know she grew up with us too?” sunwoo mentions, winking at younghoon.

“heard about it- why? what about her?”

younghoon plops back down the couch. he wants to walk away from this conversation but he didn’t have the energy, or really, the space to get away from it. he accepted his fate and went back to munching on his chips, seething in his discomfort quietly.

from time to time, younghoon glances at you from a distance, trying not to count the times your eyes found him (which was zero).

“y/n had a huge crush on younghoon growing up. she followed him everywhere since elementary to high school. they were famous for being tom and jerry, only if they were human and one was madly in love with the other,” sunwoo explained.

“i’m guessing he rejected her-” sangyeon whipped his head back at younghoon.

“not just once, or twice-” sunwoo nodded.

“-twelve times,” hyunjae rolled his eyes, “four during elementary, two in middle school, five times in high school, and once when we were all in uni. this fool has rejected her twelve times.”

jacob and sangyeon’s jaws dropped looking at younghoon, who is now avoiding their stares.

for the longest time, you and younghoon were paired together by everyone. the difference between your feelings was striking, the same way you were polar opposites in your personalities.

the cold, aloof prince and his persistent, bubbly admirer. where he was, there you were.

despite all the teasing, there was not a day where your eyes left younghoon. he didn’t have a proper explanation for all the times he pushed your feelings away, baffled at how your feelings remained no matter how many times you were rejected. you were the annoying girl who followed him everywhere, while he was the boy of your dreams.

“you have your feelings, i have my own,” you told him after he declined coming to homecoming with you during sophomore year.

rejection #10.

when you brought up how many times he has rejected you, younghoon was a little surprised.

he knows you’ve been following him for years but never thought his rejections to have reached that number. it would be a lie to say he wasn’t flattered. after all, you matched his interests and likes so perfectly.

that's why even when he continued to say he was overwhelmed by your loud expression, he couldn’t admit that he was starting to get comfortable with the thought that you were always there.

that was until you weren’t.

“half of those don’t even count- we were just kids. she didn’t mean it,” younghoon mumbled.

“so, you’re saying you didn’t mean some of those rejections either?” hyunjae hummed, raising his eyebrow. he doesn’t answer the question.

younghoon looked at you for a second.

you were still standing by the ping pong table with a drink on hand. beomgyu was standing directly behind you, his arm was propped down the table, leaning towards you.

younghoon clenched his jaw when he saw beomgyu’s face turn towards your neck, stopping by your ear to whisper.

the music is not that loud for him to be doing all that, younghoon thought.

“seeing that his eyes could burn a hole through that beomgyu kid right now, i’m guessing he hasn’t been all that truthful on those rejections…” jacob smirked.

“aren’t they dating?” hyunjae asked, pointing at you two.

“they’re not,” younghoon stands up, grabs hyunjae’s drink and takes a swig, “they’re not dating.”

…

unlike younghoon had thought, you have been watching him all night.

how could you not? it was not out of the norm for younghoon to stay in one place during a party, even one that was held at his own house, but it was not like him to drink all night.

“hey,” beomgyu hands you an unopened can of hard seltzer, “care for another round?”

your eyes wandered for a moment, noticing that younghoon finally stood up and made his way outside. beomgyu held the chilled drink at the back of your hand, snapping you out of focus.

“i think i’ve had enough beer pong tonight,” you gave him a quick smile and played it cool.

without taking the drink, you excused yourself to get some water in the kitchen. all common sense flew out the window when you walked the opposite direction anyway, following younghoon out to the side porch.

you earned a startled response from him when you opened the door and stepped outside. a guilty look washed over your face. maybe younghoon needed the space to get some air, but here you are again, seeking him out unprompted.

when it comes to him, rational thoughts never come front and center. but this time, before you were able to give him a quick sorry and leave, younghoon says hi.

“y/n- hi,” he waved, “how are you?”

“i’m- doing good. i’m good,” you smiled, shifting yourself to face him.

“i haven’t seen you around lately,” younghoon mirrors your expression.

he has always been a little hard to read, but you knew what his eyes looks like when he’s genuine. you know he was happy to hear you’re doing good, and you know he was actually curious as to why he hasn’t seen you recently.

“well, we dont live next to each other anymore,” you looked back at the house, scanning the spacious lawn around you.

“how are the dorms? you like it?” he asked.

“it’s nice. there’s no commute because it’s on campus- definitely saves me time. how are you liking the house? i heard from chanhee, eleven guys in one house can be a bit of a handful sometimes…”

younghoon chuckled, “i have to drive to campus but having my own space is real sweet. we can be a handful, it’s true. but we almost all have different schedules so it doesn’t get too crowded.”

“they seem nice, too,” you say, walking by the ledge.

“they are,” he agreed.

younghoon takes a step closer to your space, leaning the same way.

you both took a peek at the front of the house, watching people come in and out of the front door. the dim porch light was flickering, but it was enough to shine on your face.

slowly, his eyes move from the party goers to your side profile. you were too preoccupied to notice him staring.

“so-” you both started, surprised to hear you two had something in mind at the same time.

“-you go first,” you say quickly as you shifted your weight back and forth, swaying your body ever so slightly, left and right.

younghoon couldn’t help but smile when he noticed your old habit. you do that when you’re curious but have to hold back from asking a million questions or when you had something to say but have to find the right time to say it. you both realized both scenarios were true at the moment.

“that guy, beomgyu?” he asked vaguely.

“huh?”

“-nothing you just… you just looked close that’s all,” he adds, still lacking the main point of what he was asking.

“beomgyu… he- uhm- lives on the floor above me. i guess we’ve been bumping into each other more often these days.”

“y/n, are you avoiding me?”

“what- me? avoiding you? of course… not.”

younghoon makes direct eye contact with you when he asks that question. it didn’t matter if he sensed you were nervous talking about beomgyu. you were more hung up on the fact he’s bringing up that you were avoiding him, genuinely believing he wouldn’t notice.

everyone tells you that over time you’ll get over this silly crush, and you believed them. thinking your feelings are fleeting, you left them unchecked especially when younghoon never changes the way he acts towards you.

now that you’re in university, you know that it is time for a new beginning, meet a lot more people, find versions of yourself you’ve yet to discover. there was more to life than what you already know. but unfortunately, you weren’t avoiding younghoon because you stopped having feelings.

you were avoiding him because you never lost them.

younghoon has always rejected you, but he was never mean. constantly interacting with someone who has come clean with their feelings towards you means awkward tension will always follow.

looking back, you would definitely change the way you behaved around younghoon most times, but he never treated you any differently.

still, you know you wanted more and that you’re always going to want more.

“younghoon, i have a question- and i need you to be honest.”

“why?” he laughed nervously.

“you just have to.”

younghoon looks down to think for a second before saying okay. you stopped swaying, planting your feet on the floor, unsure of what to do with your hands.

“beomgyu asked me out yesterday…what should i do?”

“-why are you asking me?”

“i’m just asking you about what you think…”

because this might be the first and last time i will ask you.

you stare at him, scanning his expression for any emotion, any reaction. disappointed to see it unchanged, you made up your mind to go home.

you were about to turn your heel and leave without another word, smiling bitterly.

“okay- i got it.”

until, younghoon’s hand gets a hold of your arm and pulls you back closer to him. younghoon can't believe what he was about to say at that exact moment, but he believed that he needs to before it's too late.

“don’t- dont go out with him and just keep your eyes on me.”

55 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 1 month ago

Text

🫠🫠🫠🫠

back to you — one

pairing — lee jeno x reader

word count — 58k words

genre — smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — lee jeno forces his way into your life, first by pushing into one of your college projects and then refusing to leave. as mark’s best friend, you’ve always hated jeno—arrogant, reckless, and everything mark isn’t. but what starts as reluctant tolerance spirals into a secret affair fueled by lust, obsession, and the thrill of keeping it hidden. as lies and jealousy pile up, your connection becomes a dangerous game that pushes you to confront how far you’re willing to go—and how much you’re willing to lose—for the one person you swore you’d never fall for.

chapter warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, dominant!reader/submissive!jeno (yeah hehe), power struggles and control shifts, forced eye contact, choking, spanking, face slapping, name-calling and degradation, oral sex (male receiving), explicit descriptions of penetration, vaginal sex with deep and rough thrusts, reader rides yeehaw, overstimulation, mutual orgasms, squirting, possessive behavior, cum play, explicit body worship and focus on physical sensations, graphic descriptions, strong language, emotional manipulation and mind games, depictions of toxic relationships and power struggles, angst and emotional tension, forbidden relationships and moral ambiguity, mentions of alcohol consumption, intense arguments and interpersonal conflict, jeno and reader can both be seen as very toxic and always wanting to one up another, very sexually tense scenes, reader can appear very cold, detached but she’s super cool and observant (trust me), haunting descriptions, heated college party scenes as expected, just read it, trust me you’ll love it <3 there’s not much i can reveal, mentions of nct '00 line and other '99 and '00 liners and jihyo!

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

authors note — the word count… i’m sorry 😭 your girl got carried away. but no, i’ve been obsessed with writing this, and it’s been my secret little obsession for so long. i totally tricked you guys by saying it’d come out in spring, but hehe surprise!! i’ve been working on it nonstop for the past two months. every part of this fic is going to be long, and that’s just the way it’s gonna be. this story is a lot—intense, mind-fucking, emotional, and filled with twists you won’t see coming. you’re in for a ride, and yes, it’s going to be detailed and deeply layered. the world-building? the emotions? the tension? yeah, i went all in. it even got so long i had to cut a whole scene from this part 🥲 so please, buckle up and prepare yourselves. it’s going to be a journey. positive feedback, comments, asks, likes + reblog are always welcome :)

this fic is the second and final instalment of the love + games universe, read mark’s here (you don’t need to read mark’s to read this but it’s recommended)

Jaemin doesn’t struggle because he’s stupid—he struggles because he’s impatient. The first thing you noticed about him was how his notes sat in disarray, pages flipped with unnecessary force as if they were to blame for his confusion. His brain outruns his pen every time, leaving words half-formed, thoughts leaping ahead without ever landing. It’s not a lack of intelligence; it’s an inability to tether himself, to pause long enough for clarity. You’ve been tutoring him for weeks now, and it’s always the same: his frustration simmering just beneath the surface, a quiet storm waiting to break, while you remain calm and steady, pulling him back to the fundamentals with unshakable composure.

The early morning light streams through wide windows, painting soft, golden patterns across polished wooden tables. The room hums with quiet focus—the scratch of pens on paper, muted whispers of explanations exchanged. You sit across from him, composed and poised, a notebook spread open before you. The pages are lined with impossibly neat handwriting, each equation so precise it feels premeditated, like it existed in your mind perfectly formed before it ever met the paper. Your voice cuts through the stillness—calm, steady, deliberate—as you guide Jaemin through the problem once more, unraveling it into smaller, manageable pieces, your methodical approach leaving no room for confusion.

“Don’t rush,” you say, your tone balanced—calm but unyielding. “You’re skipping this part because you think you already know the answer. That’s exactly why you’re missing it.” Your pen glides smoothly over the paper, circling the overlooked section of the equation with precision. Jaemin leans closer, his brows knit tightly, frustration radiating from him in waves. You don’t flinch; you’ve seen this reaction countless times before.

As you speak, your mind operates on parallel tracks, a seamless machine of analysis and order. You’re gauging his comprehension, dissecting his furrowed expressions, and calculating the next step in your explanation. But even now, your thoughts stray beyond the table—to meetings waiting to be had, deadlines looming, and projects requiring your attention. You’re already arranging them all into the meticulous schedule that keeps your world running. Structure is your sanctuary, the one constant that assures you everything is exactly where it should be.

“This part,” you say, circling the error lightly with your pen, “you forgot to account for the variable here. Try shifting it before you simplify.”

Jaemin’s brow furrows, but he nods and adjusts his work. You wait patiently as he works through it again, the pause in his movements finally breaking with a quiet sigh of satisfaction when he reaches the solution. He glances at you with a small smile, proud but almost reluctant to show it.

That look—the fleeting satisfaction in his expression, the way his tension unravels—sends a quiet jolt through you. It’s not just about teaching him the material; it’s about control, precision, the satisfaction of knowing you’ve guided someone to the right answer, that your effort has been acknowledged. His success reflects on you, a silent confirmation that your meticulousness has value, that you’re needed. It’s not kindness that fuels you—it’s the clarity of seeing your work pay off, of proving, even in this small way, that you know what you’re doing.

You clear your throat, breaking the silence as Jaemin pauses mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the paper. Something had been on your mind since the start of the session, and you figured now was the time to bring it up. “So there’s this project I’m working on,” you begin, keeping your tone casual but deliberate. “An extracurricular for credits. It’s focused on performance under high-pressure environments—analyzing behavioral patterns, stress responses, that kind of thing.”

Jaemin glances up at you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He leans back slightly, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Sounds cool, but what does that have to do with me?”

You tilt your head, your gaze dropping briefly to the basketball jersey he’s wearing. It’s crisp, his number bold against the fabric, and it clicks—you’d almost forgotten there’s a match later today. Yet here he is, squeezing in a tutoring session, driven and diligent even with the game looming over him. “Basketball,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “That’s what this has to do with you. I chose it because it’s high-pressure, fast-paced, and everyone involved—players, coaches, even the crowd—responds to stress in different ways. It’s the perfect setting to measure those responses in real-time.”

You pause, watching his reaction. “I’d be observing things like body language, facial expressions, and decision-making under pressure. Maybe even gathering data about physical signs of stress—like heart rate, if I can get it—but nothing invasive. Just detailed observation, maybe a few interviews. It’s not difficult or complicated, educationally speaking. Actually, it’s a lot simpler than it sounds.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “That sounds super interesting, and I know how you’re always doing all these extra projects—like you need the extra credits.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly but continues, “I digress. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m failing. Bad. That’s why you’re tutoring me, remember?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I could use someone on the actual team,” you admit, the hint of a smile playing on your lips. “I could interview and make observations about you, starting with the match later today.”

“What about Mark?” Jaemin’s question lingers, and your lips soften into a quiet smile at the mention of him. Mark. Your best friend. His name alone carries a comfort few things in your life do.

Mark has always been a steady presence—not loud or demanding, but consistent in ways that matter most. He’s the kind of person who notices when your energy dips, quietly handing you water or slipping a snack onto your desk without saying a word. You think of all the moments Mark has been there for you: staying up with you through late nights, even when his own schedule was clear, walking beside you on empty streets just to make sure you felt safe.

His care never feels forced; it’s a quiet, steady presence that’s simply part of who he is. Mark doesn’t ask for recognition or gratitude—it’s in the way he listens when you vent, remembers the smallest details about your day, and always shows up when you need him. There’s a warmth to him that you’ve never questioned, a constant reassurance that, no matter what, Mark will always have your back.

You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering on your lips. “Of course Mark isn’t insufferable like the rest, he’s my best friend. But he hasn’t been playing in the professional environment of basketball for long at all, so it wouldn’t make sense to work with him for my project.”

He recently joined the Seoul Ravens, approaching the basketball court with the quiet determination you’ve always admired. Mark doesn’t boast about his abilities, but you’ve seen the hours he’s put in, the focus and care he pours into everything he does. Today is his first official match, and you feel proud because he’s doing something that reflects all his hard work and dedication.

Jaemin chuckles, the sound low and easy, pulling you back to the moment. “Makes sense. Also, you know…” His gaze flicks toward you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “The other boys on the team aren’t bad once you get to know them.” You raise an eyebrow but don’t respond, letting your silence speak for itself. He leans back slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You really want my help for this project?”

“Yes.” Your words are deliberate, purposeful, as you glance at the clock, ensuring your timing is precise. Then your gaze meets his again, steady and unwavering. “It’s a trade-off, really. You help me streamline my work; I give you an edge where you need it. Teamwork, Jaemin. It’s efficient.”

Jaemin doesn’t respond immediately, his lips twitching into a half-smile as his eyes shift toward the door. There’s something unspoken in the way he tilts his head, a flicker of recognition or intrigue flashing across his face. “Looks like your next project just walked in,” he murmurs, his tone light and teasing, but the weight of his words lingers. He doesn’t answer your pointed question about the project; instead, his focus drifts entirely, and you know something—or rather, someone—has disrupted the calm of the room.

You don’t respond, keeping your pen poised over Jaemin’s notebook, but your focus falters. The air shifts, heavier now, more charged. You feel it before you hear him, a presence that has a way of bending the room around it. When the door creaks shut behind him, the quiet hum of pens scratching on paper feels too faint, too distant.

Lee Jeno strides in, his duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder, but there’s nothing casual about the way he moves. His duffel bag hangs lazily over one shoulder, the strap digging into his hoodie where it lies half-zipped, just enough to reveal the deep maroon of his basketball jersey beneath. The fabric clings to his frame, the cut emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his build. His hair is damp, stray strands sticking to his forehead as though he’s come straight from practice. There’s a casualness to the way he carries himself, but it’s deceptive. He’s too controlled, too aware of the eyes that follow him, his presence impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t even glance at Jaemin—not directly, at least. His gaze sweeps the room once, brisk and indifferent, before locking onto you with sharp precision. His attention is singular, cutting through the space like a blade, leaving no doubt about who he’s here for. Jaemin, seated only inches away and his best friend since childhood, might as well not exist.

“Got a minute?” Jeno’s voice slices through the quiet, smooth but carrying an edge that ripples through the air. It isn’t a question—it’s a demand dressed in courtesy, the kind you recognize instantly. His tone doesn’t ask for permission; it takes.

Your pen pauses mid-stroke, but you don’t immediately look up. Instead, you force your attention to linger on Jaemin’s notebook, the deliberate delay giving you a fleeting sense of control. When your gaze finally lifts, it’s sharp and unwavering. “Not really,” you reply, your tone calm but cutting, steady enough to deflect the weight pressing down on the room. “I’m in the middle of something.”

Your eyes meet his, and the tension snaps taut, hanging heavy in the air between you. Jeno doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. His confidence is a steady hum, but there’s something deeper, something restless in the set of his jaw and the darkness of his gaze. It’s a quiet storm, restrained but threatening, and it crawls over your skin like a warning.

The stillness stretches, charged and unbearable. His focus is razor-sharp, the kind that demands without words, and it lingers on you like a touch. You hate the way it unsettles you, hate the way it feels like a challenge you don’t want to rise to. But you don’t break—you hold his gaze, even as something hot and volatile simmers just beneath the surface, too close to dangerous for a quiet morning like this.

Unfazed, Jeno drops into the seat across from you, leaning forward with an ease that feels calculated. “I need your help,” he says, his voice low but insistent, laced with just enough charm to almost mask the edge in his tone. “Tutor me. You’re the best in the class, and I could use the boost.”

You arch a brow, finally meeting his gaze fully. “You have the second best grades after me,” you counter flatly, your tone sharp and unyielding. “You don’t need tutoring.”

For a moment, his smile falters, but he recovers almost instantly, slipping into something smoother, more convincing. “Basketball’s eating up all my time,” he says, the lie rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “I’m stretched too thin.”

He keeps his expression neutral, but beneath the surface, his thoughts churn with barely restrained tension. He didn’t come here for tutoring. This isn’t about college, and it never was. It’s about Mark—stepping onto his court, into his world, with a confidence that makes Jeno’s teeth grind. Mark isn’t just a new player; he’s something else entirely. A reminder of things Jeno doesn’t want to confront. A half-brother in name only, an unwelcome shadow creeping into spaces that were never meant to be shared.

The thought makes Jeno’s jaw tighten. Mark doesn’t know what it means to earn a place, to claw for respect under the weight of someone else’s expectations. He hasn’t lived the life Jeno has, yet somehow he’s here, taking up space that Jeno fought for. Worse, Mark isn’t just a part of the team—he’s in Jeno’s way, shifting the balance Jeno worked so hard to control.

Mark’s presence feels like a shadow creeping into every corner of Jeno’s life, and if he can’t push him back directly, he’ll find another way to assert control. You’re part of that plan—a tool, a move on the board, a way to get under Mark’s skin and remind him where the balance of power lies. It’s not about fairness; it’s about regaining control. Winning. And Jeno has no intention of losing.

Jeno sits down without asking, his duffel bag dropping to the floor with a muted thud. His movements are precise, intentional, the kind that demand attention without asking for it. He leans forward, his broad shoulders angling toward you as if closing the already minimal distance. The heat from his body is subtle but palpable, a reminder of his proximity, and the sharp set of his jaw tightens as his eyes fix on yours. He radiates confidence, but there’s something beneath it—something simmering, restrained. Frustration, annoyance… and maybe something more.

“I need your help,” he says again, his voice measured and steady but unmistakably pointed. The repetition isn’t accidental—it’s deliberate, calculated. He’s testing you, trying to wear you down in that way he’s so used to doing with everyone else. His tone carries an edge, a challenge just daring you to push back.

“No.”

The simplicity of your response hits him harder than expected. His brow furrows slightly, and there’s a brief flash of disbelief in his expression before he composes himself. “No?”

“You heard me.” Your tone doesn’t waver, each word delivered with cool precision. You level with his gaze, your eyes sharp and unwavering. “You don’t need help, and I’m not going to give you help.”

For a moment, his composure slips. His mouth twitches, as if he wants to say something but can’t quite form the words. There’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken frustration. Then his jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leans in closer, the air between you growing thicker.

It’s not just the rejection that unsettles him—it’s the way you deliver it, so unbothered, so certain. He’s used to being in control, used to commanding attention, and your calm defiance throws him off balance. And that, more than your words, is what he can’t seem to shake.

His excuse is quick, almost too quick, like he’d been waiting to use it. “I’m juggling a lot,” he says, his tone clipped, brushing past specifics as though the weight of his responsibilities should be self-evident. “Figured you could help me stay ahead.”

His excuse is flimsy, and he knows it. But the way your brow arches, how your lips part to challenge him, it stokes something deep in his chest. You’re too composed, too steady, and it only sharpens his frustration. You can see the cracks in his logic, the way he’s deliberately vague, sidestepping any real explanation. It stirs something in you—part annoyance, part intrigue.

“You know,” you counter, your voice sharp but steady, “you could’ve signed up like everyone else. Instead, you’re here, expecting me to drop everything just because you asked. That’s not how it works.”

Jeno doesn’t move back. Instead, he leans in further, his forearms brushing the table, his jaw tight as his eyes meet yours. “I thought you’d appreciate a little initiative,” he bites back, his voice lower now, a challenge lacing every word.

Your gazes lock, the space between you heavy with unspoken tension. His face is so close now, close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his hairline, close enough to feel the restrained energy thrumming beneath his skin. He’s waiting for you to flinch, to react, but you don’t. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, your expression calm, your voice steady.

“If you’re serious, then go sign up,” you say, enunciating each word with deliberate control. “I don’t have any time for this or you.”

His lips twitch, his composure fracturing ever so slightly. “Right.”

The tension simmers hotter now, your stubbornness colliding with his in a battle neither of you wants to back down from. His fingers tighten on the strap of his bag, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The frustration etched in his face is almost palpable, but so is the undercurrent of curiosity he can’t seem to suppress.

Finally, he stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice clipped but laced with something darker, something unresolved. His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for a crack in your armor. “See you around.”

You watch him leave, his shoulders rigid beneath the maroon of his basketball jersey, each step deliberate, charged. The room feels quieter without him, but the air isn’t lighter—it hums faintly, an unwelcome echo of his presence prickling at the edges of your thoughts.

Jaemin leans back in his chair, letting out a low, amused whistle. His lips curl into a smirk as his gaze flicks from you to the door Jeno just walked through. “Didn’t know tutoring included… hands-on benefits,” he teases, his tone light but pointed. There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes, but it doesn’t quite mask the curiosity simmering beneath. “Or is that a special service just for him?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you snap, sharper than intended, though you don’t look up. Your hand grips the pen tightly as you force your attention back to Jaemin’s notes, the strokes of ink digging deeper into the paper than they should. The tension doesn’t settle; it lingers, weaving itself into the quiet of the room, refusing to be ignored. You hate how his presence lingers, how his gaze feels imprinted on your skin, sharp and unrelenting, even now.

For Jeno, walking away feels like defeat, and that’s not something he’s used to. His jaw clenches, his fists tightening against the strap of his duffel bag as he stalks down the hallway. You’ve unsettled him, thrown him off balance in a way that makes his frustration curdle into something sharper, something hotter. Control has always been his, always within reach—on the court, in his relationships, even in the way he fucks. It’s in the sharp precision of his movements, the calculated pressure of his touch, the dominance he wields like second nature. He’s the kind of man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it, leaving no room for uncertainty. But at the end of the day, control is nothing more than an illusion.

But with you, he feels it falter. Even after one brief interaction, it slips through his fingers, leaving him raw, exposed in ways he doesn’t understand. You’re a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve, a challenge he can’t resist. There’s something about the way you hold your ground, the way you don’t crumble under his gaze or yield to the power he’s so used to wielding. It unnerves him. Excites him.

And Jeno doesn’t back down from challenges. Not ever. But for the first time, he’s starting to realize that control might not be something he holds—it might be something you’ve taken from him without even trying.

The sun dips lower in the sky, its pale light fractured through the skeletal branches lining the path, pooling on the pavement in jagged patches. The air is sharp, biting, and carries the faint, bitter tang of autumn’s decay—leaves curling at the edges, their scent clinging to the quiet corners of campus. With each step you and Jaemin take, the dry crunch underfoot mingles with the faint echoes of distant conversations and bursts of laughter, sound rising and fading like restless waves.

The campus feels different tonight—its usual rhythm muted, as if the impending game has drawn all attention inward, leaving everything else hollow. Groups of students pass, their faces half-hidden in the dimming light, voices subdued but edged with anticipation. The arena looms ahead, stark against the bruised blue of the sky, its lights glowing faintly like a promise of the chaos waiting inside. The air tightens the closer you get, tension curling into your lungs, weighing heavier with each breath. Even Jaemin, usually irreverent and quick with a joke, is quieter, his focus gradually shifting toward the arena ahead.

“You know,” Jaemin says, his voice finally breaking the stillness, conversational but laced with something knowing, “Jeno’s not as bad as you think.” He glances at you sideways, the faintest smirk playing on his lips as he gauges your reaction.

Your gaze stays fixed ahead, mapping the narrowing path with precision, each step carrying you closer to the glowing entrance of the arena. “Didn’t ask,” you reply, your tone sharp and deliberate, slicing through the air with an edge that leaves no room for argument. You don’t look at him or waver.

Jaemin chuckles, the sound low, unbothered. “Just saying,” he continues, unfazed. “Off the court—away from the noise—he’s not what you think he is.” His words linger, insinuations woven through them, but you don’t take the bait, keeping your focus ahead, your steps deliberate and steady.

The arena looms in front of you, massive and overbearing, its sharp angles cutting into the darkening sky. The glow of its entrance beckons, casting shifting shadows on the pavement, but the pull it exerts isn’t welcoming. It’s invasive, pressing against your thoughts with a strange weight. The crackling energy in the air clings to you, sharp and electric, as if the building itself is watching, waiting for you to step inside.

By the time you step through the heavy double doors, the hum has become a roar. The scent of sweat, rubber, and buttery popcorn saturates the air, thick and inescapable. The harsh overhead lights reflect off the polished court, amplifying every sound—the screech of sneakers, the chatter of players, the low pulse of the crowd. Jaemin doesn’t stay long. The moment he spots the team near the court, he’s already gone, drawn like a moth to flame. “Catch you later,” he says over his shoulder, his grin quick but distant, already halfway absorbed into the knot of players and cheerleaders huddled near the baseline. His absence leaves a hollow sting, a sharp reminder of how quickly the crowd swallows its own, leaving you standing alone, untethered, at the edge of their world.

You’ve been in rooms like this before—not arenas, but spaces where chaos and hierarchy hum beneath the surface, where everyone seems to know their place except you. It reminds you of growing up in a house that wasn’t yours, at dinners where polite conversation veiled deeper fractures. Here, as then, you scan the scene for something to hold onto, a point of familiarity to ground you, but there’s nothing. The tension coils tighter in your chest as your eyes sweep the room and land on nothing but movement, noise, and faces that barely register your existence.

The low murmur of conversation, the undercurrent of motion—it all ebbs and flows with a rhythm that excludes you entirely. Your gaze lingers, not searching but absorbing the way the world moves seamlessly without you. No one pauses, no one looks your way, and the absence doesn’t sting. It never does. It’s an emptiness that’s carved itself into you, a weight so ingrained it feels like part of your foundation, like it was always meant to be there. It doesn’t just settle—it grips, sharp and unyielding, pressing deeper with every passing moment, steady and inescapable.

Your gaze moves quickly, catching on the Seoul Ravens huddled near the baseline—a whirlwind of animated shouts, easy laughter, and camaraderie that feels almost theatrical in its intensity. The cheerleaders hover nearby, their bright smiles and poised beauty seamlessly stitched into the scene, like they’re as much a part of the game as the players themselves. And then there’s Mark. He stands slightly apart, his posture straight but detached, his energy quieter than the others. He doesn’t demand attention, but it lingers on him anyway, magnetic in the way stillness can be when surrounded by motion.

Karina stands at the center of it all, her long black hair falling in sleek waves, perfectly framing her sharp features. The cheer uniform clings to her figure, the short skirt swaying lightly as she moves with a deliberate, polished ease. Her beauty is striking, the kind that lingers in your mind even after you look away. She doesn’t need to try to stand out; her presence commands attention without effort. People glance at her cautiously, as if hesitant to stare too long, yet unable to resist the pull. She carries herself with quiet confidence, every step and gesture exuding a natural control over the space around her.

Then there’s Areum, Jeno’s girlfriend. She stands close to him but with a quiet restraint, her posture straight and her movements careful, never drawing attention. Her gaze shifts across the room, focused yet fleeting, taking in everything without lingering too long on anything. She doesn’t speak or engage much, but nothing about her seems uncertain. There’s a composure to her, steady and deliberate, but it’s paired with a distance that feels intentional. She stays on the edge of the energy around her, observing but never fully part of it. It’s not hesitation, and it’s not discomfort—it’s precision. She reminds you of Mark, both of them existing apart from the noise, though her distance feels purposeful, where his feels unguarded.

Your eyes flit briefly to Jeno, standing at the heart of it all, the nucleus of the team’s energy. His laugh cuts through the noise, low and magnetic, the confidence in his movements so ingrained it borders on arrogance. He’s impossible to ignore, not just for the way the team orbits around him, but for the sharp contrast he makes to Mark. Jeno belongs here; he’s thrived in this environment for years, molded by it, commanding it. And yet, even from this distance, his gaze feels like it cuts through the crowd, deliberate and pointed, before shifting back into the fray.

Your fingers curl around the clipboard you’re holding, its weight anchoring you in the moment. Your project isn’t just a distraction—it’s the reason you’re here, the justification for standing on the edges of a world that isn’t yours. A study on the psychological effects of competition on team dynamics, assigned by one of your professors, the kind of work that demands you observe everything: the players, the crowd, the interactions, the cracks beneath the surface. The tension simmering in this arena, the chaotic bursts of noise and movement, all of it is fodder for your research. It sharpens your focus, dulls the edge of your nerves, even as the uneasy energy lingers at the back of your mind.

But most importantly, you’re also here for Mark.

That’s what keeps your feet moving, carrying you closer to the court, even as the weight of the arena bears down on you. Mark has been your best friend for as long as you can remember, the one constant in your life when everything else felt uncertain. You’re here because he would be here for you if the roles were reversed, and that thought alone keeps your focus steady. The lingering stares, the unspoken judgment in the room—they don’t matter. Let them assess, let them dismiss. You’ve never cared about fitting in here, and you’re not about to start. You’re here to support him, to remind him he’s not alone in this, the same way he’s done for you a hundred times over. Whatever they think, whatever this space feels like, none of it changes the fact that you’re here for Mark, and for yourself.

As you move closer to the court, Karina and Areum’s attention shifts toward you. Their glances are pointed, sharp, cutting through the noise like a silent commentary aimed directly at you. Karina leans in toward Areum, her voice low but deliberate, and whatever she says earns a quiet laugh. You don’t need to hear the words to know they’re about you. You feel it in the way their eyes linger, assessing, dismissing, as if you’re a puzzle that doesn’t belong in this picture. But you don’t stop, and you don’t give them the satisfaction of even a glance. Their opinions are as irrelevant to you as the hum of the crowd. Your focus stays fixed on Mark, standing near the edge of the team. His posture is straight, his expression unreadable, but there’s a familiarity in the way he carries himself—steady, grounded, it’s what makes him distinctively him. It’s enough to cut through everything else, to remind you why you’re here.

When you reach him, you tap his shoulder lightly. He turns quickly, his brows furrowed for a split second before his expression softens. The tension in his posture eases as soon as he sees you, and his lips twitch into the kind of small, relieved smile that makes you wonder if he’d been holding his breath all night.

“You made it,” he says, his voice low and steady, but there’s an edge of disbelief there, like he hadn’t expected you to show.

“Obviously,” you say, nudging his arm. “What kind of best friend skips this? First game with the Ravens? That’d be friendship treason.”

Mark lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. You just wanted a front-row seat to watch me trip and ruin my career before it even starts.”

“Mark, you’re not going to trip,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Don’t even start with that. I’ve seen you work harder for this than anyone else. Freezing nights at the river court, mornings when you could barely keep your eyes open—this is what it’s all been for. You’re ready. You’ve always been ready.”

Mark opens his mouth to respond, but his gaze drops to the clipboard in your hand, and he raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Another project? What is this, your tenth one this term?”

You smirk, lifting the clipboard just enough to make your point. “What can I say? Some of us have standards to maintain.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with teasing disbelief. “You know, normal college students go out, party, get drunk, and hook up. You should try it sometime. Might even loosen you up.”

Your smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a faint pause, barely perceptible, before you answer. “I’ll think about it,” you say casually, shifting the clipboard in your hands, the movement smooth, practiced. “Anyway, I actually like doing these projects. No one forces me to take them on—it’s my choice every time.”

Mark furrows his brows slightly, his teasing demeanor softening just a little. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, right?” he says, his voice quieter now, not accusatory, just matter-of-fact.

The words hang in the air for a beat, and you shrug lightly, your smile still intact. “I know,” you reply, quick and even, like that’s the end of it. The tightness in your grip on the clipboard goes unnoticed as he glances toward the court.

You lean in before he can say anything else, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Good luck, okay? You’ve always made me proud,” you say softly, your tone steady, before stepping back and turning toward the stands.

For a second, Mark just looks at you, his teasing expression fading into something softer. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and even though it’s just one word, you can hear everything else he’s not saying.

“You’re welcome,” you say lightly, stepping back. “Now, go. Win. I’ll let you know if you’re worthy of a real congratulations afterward.”

Mark huffs out a laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he shakes his head. “No pressure, right?”

“None at all,” you say with a grin, turning to head to the stands.

As you walk away to get to the stands, you make your way through the cheerleaders, weaving past their perfectly straight lines and perfectly straight teeth. Their gazes sweep over you, eyes narrowing just slightly, quick glances that linger a beat too long, assessing. You can feel the silent commentary behind their stares, the unspoken judgment in the way their bodies shift to make space for you— not welcoming, but begrudging, as though your presence is a disruption to their order. It’s the kind of dismissal you’ve felt before, the silent reminder that you don’t belong in spaces like these.

Your grip tightens slightly on the clipboard, but your steps remain steady, your head high. It’s a practiced reaction, one you’ve honed over time: keep moving, show nothing. Let them think what they want. Their opinions don’t matter. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then you cross paths with Karina and Areum, standing off to the side, their conversation halting the moment you enter their space. Karina turns to look at you, her sharp eyes raking over you from head to toe. Areum, in contrast, doesn’t even look at you. She leans away from Karina, her focus on her nails, inspecting them with a casual indifference.

Karina doesn’t wait for you to pass before speaking. “Seriously? A clipboard?” she says, her voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “What are you doing, running a study on how not to fit in?”

Areum’s laugh comes quick and light, almost like a reflex, but her attention isn’t fully on you. She doesn’t say a word, her gaze briefly flickering your way, her smirk widening for a second before she looks back down at her nails, uninterested. It’s not malice—it’s detachment, like she’s barely invested in the exchange but finds Karina’s remarks amusing enough to entertain. Her presence doesn’t add weight to the moment, but the laugh lingers, brushing against your already-fraying composure.

The weight of their judgment presses against you, but you don’t stop. You bite your tongue, your jaw tightening slightly. Without pausing, you keep your head held high and walk away, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. By the time you sit down, your focus is already on the notes in your lap. You start jotting down notes, forcing their words out of your mind. It’s just noise. You’re here for your work, for Mark.

It’s not that you’re unaware of the stares, the laughter, the low hum of judgment behind you—you feel it as clearly as the pen in your hand. But you’ve long since learned to focus through it, to let it blur into the background. You scribble away, pen scratching against paper, your jaw tightening for a fleeting second before you press it down and keep writing. You don’t stop to wonder if anyone might step in. Why would you? People don’t defend you. They never have.

It’s easier this way—to stop convincing yourself that anyone was ever meant to stand with you, to let the fire rise and take what it will without reaching for hands that were never there. The laughter doesn’t cut anymore; it drifts by, hollow and distant, as inconsequential as the faces behind it. You’ve unlearned the need to want, stripped away the instinct to hope, and in its place, something sharper remains—a clarity that feels almost intoxicating. The weight of solitude no longer presses; it stays steady, familiar, like a second skin. This isn’t defeat, nor is it grief. It’s an undeniable truth, calm and unwavering: some paths are meant to be walked alone, and maybe that’s where the strength lies.

But what you don’t notice is that someone does care. Someone does look out for you when you’re not paying attention. Mark had been watching you this whole time—since you walked away from him, weaving your way back toward the crowd. He’s seen this before—the steady but distant way you carry yourself, like you’re holding onto space that always feels just out of reach. He knows the weight it takes to be here, the quiet effort it costs to keep your head high when everything around you seems designed to press you down.

Karina and Areum command attention, as always. Karina’s confidence is calculated, every word designed to wound while her sharp-edged smile masks the intent. Her presence demands space, loud and unapologetic. Areum moves differently, her quiet magnetism effortless and untouched by the noise around her. Mark knows why he’s always noticed her, why his feelings for her linger ever since they were younger, quiet but persistent. It’s not about the way she shines, but the ease with which she moves through spaces that still feel foreign to him. Yet tonight, something in him shifts.

He watches her stand beside Karina, laughing lightly as Karina’s words turn cutting. Areum’s silence isn’t malicious, but it stings all the same, mingling with the precision of Karina’s cruelty. And then there’s you, walking away with your head high, shoulders stiff, the clipboard in your hands gripped too tightly.

It twists something in him, sharp and immediate. He knows that walk, knows how hard you’re working to hold yourself together, and for the first time, it hits him differently. It’s not just about Karina’s words or Areum’s laughter—it’s the sight of you being treated like this, dismissed like you don’t belong, when he knows how much it took for you to be here.

The sting burns hotter, pulling Mark forward before he can think better of it. His footsteps are firm, deliberate, cutting through the noise of the gym as he moves toward Karina and Areum. Their laughter falters as they catch sight of him, their conversation dying mid-sentence.

Karina’s eyes widen first, surprise flashing across her face before she masks it with that sharp-edged smile, her confidence curling back into place like armor. Areum’s reaction is quieter—her lips part slightly, her brows knitting together in subtle confusion, but it’s the way her gaze locks with Mark’s that lingers. There’s something unspoken in the look they share, a tension that neither seems willing to name. It feels heavier than the moment, deeper than the words left unsaid between them, but Mark doesn’t let himself sink into it. Not now.

He stops in front of them, his presence carrying a weight they weren’t expecting. The air shifts, the silence stretching just long enough to make Karina shift uncomfortably, her confidence wavering for a fraction of a second. “She’s got more of a place here than you do,” Mark says, his tone sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

The shift is immediate. Karina falters, her eyes flick to Mark, and her expression softens, her tone changing in an instant. “Relax, Mark,” she says, her voice smoother now, practiced. “It was just a joke.” She steps a little closer to him, her body language shifting—her shoulders turning slightly toward him, her gaze lingering in a way that’s anything but casual. Mark doesn’t miss the way she brushes her hair back, her smile edging into something almost flirtatious.

Areum shifts uncomfortably beside her. She doesn’t speak, her earlier amusement replaced by a kind of unease, her gaze flickering between Mark and Karina before settling on the floor.

Mark doesn’t let up. “Maybe you should focus on your own life instead of hers,” he says, quieter now but no less cutting. His jaw is tight, his shoulders squared, and there’s nothing in his expression that suggests he’s willing to let it go.

Karina’s laugh comes, thin and strained. “Whatever you say, Mark,” she mutters, her smile still in place but lacking its usual bite. Her eyes linger on him a beat too long before she steps back, finally breaking the tension.

Mark doesn’t wait for her to add anything else. He turns sharply, heading back toward his team, his steps firm, his shoulders tense as the weight of the moment clings to him. The gym’s noise begins to swell again, the confrontation fading into the backdrop as if it never happened. But it did, and everyone who saw it knows it did.

Mark doesn’t feel it immediately, but the attention follows him as he walks away, the weight of lingering glances pressing heavier than before. For years, he’s been the quiet one, his presence steady but overlooked, his name spoken in passing while louder, flashier figures like Jeno commanded the spotlight. At the river court, he was a constant, but not the kind of presence anyone lingered on. Yet something has changed, subtle but undeniable. People are starting to notice—not just his game, which has sharpened with every hoop, every deliberate play, but the way he moves now, deliberate and steady, as though he’s no longer willing to stay in anyone’s shadow. There’s a gravity to him that wasn’t there before, something that draws attention and holds it. Even Karina had felt it, her words softening, her gaze dragging over him like she wasn’t used to seeing him this way. She noticed, and so did everyone else. Mark wasn’t invisible anymore, but the weight of being seen is one he doesn’t dwell on—not when something else matters more.

You’ve fully zoned out, lost in your own world. You don’t notice Mark’s eyes following you, the way they try to catch your attention, to anchor you to something outside of yourself. You don’t see him watching, the tension in his jaw or the stiffness in his shoulders, like he’s holding something back, something heavier than words. For you, this moment is no different from the ones you’ve endured countless times before—another invisible cut to add to the rest, another reminder of how easily you slip to the edges, always slightly out of step with the rhythm everyone else seems to follow so naturally.

The stares are always first, dragging over you like they’re waiting for the moment you crack. Then come the whispers, deliberate and sharp, just loud enough to reach you but not enough to let you defend yourself. The laughter follows, inevitable and bitter, wrapping around you like an echo of something you’ve long stopped trying to drown out. It presses against you—not crushing, but constant—a dull weight you’ve carried for so long it feels easier to let it settle than to push it away.

And yet, even as you sit there, trying to convince yourself it doesn’t matter, something shifts. Mark watches you from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering as though to make sure you’re okay. He cares—more than you’ll ever realize—and even though you’ve never expected anyone to step in, he already has. You’ll never know that he defended you, and that he would again, without hesitation. For Mark, this wasn’t just another moment to let pass. It wasn’t just about what was said or who said it. It was about a line crossed, one he refused to let go unnoticed. He stepped out of the shadows for you—not for attention, not for recognition, but because you deserved better. Even if you never know it, even if you never see it, it mattered. To him, it always will.

You’re still sitting in silence, the weight in your chest dull but persistent, when a voice cuts through the gym’s noise. “Oh, look who decided to show up,” Donghyuck’s familiar tone cuts through the noise, amplified by the mic in his hand. He’s got his portable speaker slung over his shoulder, his grin sharp and full of mischief. “Ladies and gentlemen, the queen of overachieving herself has graced us with her presence. A round of applause, please!”

Your head snaps up, irritation flickering, but it dissolves as quickly as it comes. Donghyuck strides toward you with exaggerated confidence, dragging everyone else in his orbit. Chenle’s already laughing, Yangyang has a bucket of popcorn tucked under one arm, and Shotaro waves both hands high like he’s signaling a plane to land. Nahyun, trailing behind, nudges Shotaro lightly in the ribs, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Donghyuck, stop,” you say, leaning back in your seat.

“Oh, she speaks,” Donghyuck drawls into the mic, his gaze flicking toward you. “What’s the matter? Too preoccupied to notice pure brilliance right in front of you?”

Before you can respond to Donghyuck’s jab, Chenle grabs the mic from his hand, cutting him off effortlessly. “Ignore him,” he says with a smirk, his gaze flicking over to you. “But seriously, I can’t believe you almost didn’t show up. What kind of friend does that?” It’s true—you had been close to staying in, the weight of your project and looming deadlines pressing down on you, convincing you there were more important things to focus on. But then there was Mark—his debut wasn’t just important, it was something you couldn’t miss. You’d seen him work for this moment, and staying home would’ve felt like a betrayal. And then, of course, there was Chenle, who had called earlier, his teasing charm cutting through your hesitation and leaving you with no real excuse to stay away.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” you reply, shifting in your as Yangyang plops down beside you, the popcorn now balanced on your lap.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yangyang says, ruffling your hair with exaggerated affection before leaning back into his seat. “I brought popcorn. You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite yourself, before standing to hug them all. Donghyuck is first, pulling you into an exaggerated, theatrical hug. “Finally, you’ve come to a match!” he exclaims dramatically, his voice loud enough to catch the attention of a few nearby. “I’ve been saving all my best material for you, and you’ve been missing it. Do you know how much harder it is to narrate these games without my number one audience?”

Donghyuck’s “material” isn’t just his usual sarcasm—it’s his self-proclaimed role as the game’s unofficial commentator. Armed with a mic connected to a portable speaker slung over his shoulder, he spends every match narrating the plays with the flair of a professional broadcaster. He embellishes every move with ridiculous metaphors, overly enthusiastic descriptions, and enough wit to make the crowd laugh—even if half of them roll their eyes at his antics.

Chenle pulls you into a quick, firm hug next, clapping your back in that no-nonsense way that feels more grounding than anything else. Yangyang doesn’t bother standing, just pats your head twice before reclaiming the popcorn like it’s his lifeline. Then there’s Shotaro, who pulls you into a full-body squeeze so intense it knocks the air out of you. You wheeze a laugh as he steps back, grinning wide.

When it’s Nahyun’s turn, her smile is smaller, softer. She reaches out, her hands warm against your shoulders as she hugs you, her embrace unhurried. “It’s good to see you,” she says, her voice quiet but sincere.

“You too,” you reply, matching her tone, and for a fleeting moment, the weight that’s been sitting on your chest feels just a little lighter.

When the whistle blows, the gym seems to hold its breath for a fraction of a second before erupting into movement. The ball is tipped into the air, and the game begins with a sudden, sharp energy. Players streak across the court, their sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, the ball bouncing rhythmically as it moves from hand to hand.

Shotaro leans closer to you, his voice low and steady, explaining the setup. “Mark’s starting as shooting guard,” he says, nodding toward the court. “He’s got to control the pace, look for openings, and capitalize when they find them.” His explanations are precise, but his eyes never leave the court, his focus unwavering.

“Jeno’s in as a small forward tonight,” Shotaro says, his voice low but deliberate. “He’s been the shooting guard since, like, forever. For Coach to move him? That’s unheard of, Jeno’s spot on the team has been untouched… until now.”

You glance toward Jeno, your attention catching on the way he stands just outside the action, shoulders squared, his jaw tight. He doesn’t look at Mark, doesn’t look at anyone, really, his focus locked on the ball as though willing it to find him. There’s an edge to his movements, sharp and restrained, like he’s holding something back.

He fits here effortlessly—physically, at least. The jersey clings to his frame, his stance rooted in the kind of confidence that’s been built over years of owning his place on the court. But something feels off. It’s subtle, the way his posture stiffens when the ball shifts away from him, the way his eyes flick to Mark for just a fraction too long before looking away again.

Mark, on the other hand, is easy to spot. He’s quick but measured, his movements are purposeful as he shifts around the perimeter, scanning the play with sharp focus. When the ball finds him, his hands are steady, fingers splayed as he calls for it, his voice cutting through the noise of the gym. The reaction is immediate as Donghyuck’s voice booms through the speaker, brimming with exaggerated flair. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen! Number twenty-three, Mark Lee, officially making his debut with a clean pass that’s smoother than butter!”

Your friends erupt into cheers, their voices blending into the crowd’s growing roar. Chenle pumps his fist into the air, Shotaro nods approvingly, and Yangyang leans forward in his seat, his eyes locked on Mark as if willing him to succeed.

The ball comes back to Mark seconds later, this time just outside the three-point line. His movements are fluid, his form perfect as he fakes a defender with a quick pivot and drives toward the basket. Donghyuck narrates every second. “Did you see that? A fake that could break ankles—Mark Lee with the drive! Look at him go!”

The shot is clean, the ball arcing through the air before swishing through the net. The crowd surges with noise, and so do your friends.

“Yes!” Chenle shouts, clapping so loudly you think his hands might sting. “That’s how you do it!”

Yangyang exhales sharply, his grin widening. “He’s standing out already,” he says, his tone filled with awe. “First few minutes, and everyone’s already watching him.”

And it’s true. The curious eyes of the crowd seem to stick to Mark every time he touches the ball. There’s something magnetic about the way he moves—calculated but confident, the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it.

Donghyuck doesn’t let up, his commentary a mix of genuine pride and playful exaggeration. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think you’re ready for this. Mark Lee is owning this court. Someone call the league because we’ve got a star in the making!”

Yangyang leans closer, his gaze still fixed on the court. “This is wild,” he says, his voice quieter now, threaded with something heavier. “We used to play until we couldn’t feel our fingers, and now he’s here. Real jersey, real court. He actually made it.”

Chenle nods, his tone softer. “Worked harder than anyone. No one else could’ve done this. He earned all of it.”

Mark glances toward the stands after another clean pass, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before pausing, just briefly, in your direction. His expression is unreadable, but something in his posture eases, the tension in his shoulders loosening as if he can feel your presence there.

Your chest tightens slightly, not with worry anymore, but with something closer to awe. You’ve seen Mark play a hundred times before—on cracked concrete, under dim streetlights, with nothing but scraped knees and determination to show for it. But this is different. This is Mark stepping into a spotlight he’s never had before, and already, it’s like he owns it.

The ball comes back to him, and the crowd leans forward as one. Mark moves with ease, weaving through defenders like it’s second nature before going for a layup that’s so clean it feels almost effortless. The scoreboard buzzes, the points adding up, and the gym erupts again.

Shotaro claps, his expression calm but his pride evident. “That’s Mark,” he says simply, like nothing more needs to be said.

Yangyang shakes his head, a small laugh escaping. “We used to joke about this, you know? Like, ‘what if he actually makes it?’ And now…” He trails off, his eyes fixed on the court. “Now, it’s real.”

“Meanwhile,” Donghyuck’s voice cuts in through the speaker, “we’ve got Jeno Lee, usually the pride of the court, looking a little out of rhythm tonight. Guess even stars stumble when the spotlight shifts, huh?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it, enough to draw a few murmurs from the crowd. Your attention flickers back to Jeno, his movements tense, controlled to the point of rigidity. He’s not playing poorly, but there’s a hesitation in him, a subtle weight that wasn’t there before.

Your gaze catches on Jeno near the baseline, his movements precise yet brimming with a tension that feels almost dangerous. He carries himself with an intensity that pulls focus without trying, each motion deliberate, calculated, but edged with something raw. His shoulders are set, his jaw tight, every shift of his body radiating control that feels like it might snap at any moment. There’s something magnetic about him, the way he commands his space with an unspoken arrogance, like he knows exactly how to draw attention—and keep it.

But it’s the cracks in that control that hold your focus. The slight flare of his nostrils when the ball slips out of his reach, the way his hands flex like he’s suppressing the urge to lash out. His eyes flick to Mark, dark and unreadable, before darting away again as Mark sinks another clean shot. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a flicker of frustration, or something sharper, lurking just beneath the surface. You can’t decide if it’s anger or something else entirely, but it simmers in the set of his shoulders, in the deliberate sharpness of his next move, and it doesn’t let go.

You notice the way his shoulders tense, the way he’s caught between holding back and wanting to dominate. His aggression is layered, restrained enough to stay controlled, but just barely. Jeno doesn’t just play the game; he pushes it, toeing the line between brilliance and frustration. He’s not easy to read, but that’s what makes him impossible to ignore.

From the corner of your eye, you catch movement at the edge of the gym. Taeyong Lee—Mark’s and Jeno’s father—stands by the sideline, a stark figure against the chaos of the game. His posture is impossibly still, his sharp features betraying no emotion as he watches the players. He’s not just observing; he’s calculating, the weight of his presence dark and deliberate. There’s something unsettling about him, a quiet menace that doesn’t need words to be felt. The resemblance to Jeno is striking—the sharp jaw, the controlled stance—but where Jeno’s tension simmers, Taeyong’s feels unshakable, like a blade waiting to be drawn. You don’t know if his attention is fixed on Jeno, Mark, or something else entirely, but the unease his presence brings is undeniable.

Jeno doesn’t look at Coach Suh on the sidelines, but you can feel the weight of his coach—and his father—in every movement he makes. Coach Suh, known for his precision and demanding leadership, stands with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the court. A former player turned renowned coach, he’s as much a strategist as he is a disciplinarian, a figure who commands respect without ever needing to raise his voice. He’s shaped players for years, turning raw talent into polished skill, and his expectations are nothing short of perfection—especially for his own players.

You force yourself to keep taking notes, eyes skimming over the scribbled lines, but your focus falters when it drifts to Coach Suh. He stands at the edge of the court, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the players with a calm intensity that feels too precise. There’s something about the way he carries himself—steady, deliberate—that makes your stomach knot, a tension blooming in your chest that you can’t quite suppress. Your lips press into a thin line, the motion subtle but instinctive, before you force your eyes back to your notes. The pen in your hand hovers, unmoving, as the quiet weight of his presence lingers.

For a moment, the noise of the gym recedes into a distant hum, replaced by a sharper, more personal tension. It’s not the first time his presence has unsettled you—not the first time your composure has felt fragile under the gravity he seems to carry—but tonight, it feels heavier, cutting through your practiced detachment like a blade grazing too close to old wounds. You don’t look up again, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease, no matter how hard you try to will it away.

Nahyun leans in, her voice low but insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your thoughts. “I know Coach Suh is really hot, but you were really staring just now,” she says, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

You blink, caught off guard, before a quiet laugh escapes you, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble, though the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

“Sure you weren’t,” Nahyun replies, her giggle light and teasing, but her tone isn’t sharp. It’s the kind of comment only she would make—honest but harmless, pulling you out of the moment without pushing too far.

For a brief second, the weight in your chest eases, but your gaze drifts back to the court, where Jeno’s intensity hasn’t faltered for even a moment. Mark, on the other hand, is thriving. Every pass he makes is precise, every shot purposeful, and the crowd is feeding off his energy. The gym hums with excitement, spectators leaning forward in their seats as they watch the new addition to the team move like he’s been playing here his entire life.

You catch a glimpse of Coach Suh and his assistant, their wide eyes betraying a mix of surprise and approval. They exchange quiet words, their expressions unreadable but focused on Mark. It’s clear he’s exceeding expectations, a standout in his very first game. The spectators clap and cheer louder with every shot he makes, and the gym’s energy feels electric, vibrating with the kind of unity that only a win can bring.

Donghyuck’s voice booms through the mic, loud and playful as always. “Ladies and gentlemen, can we just take a moment to appreciate number twenty-three, Mark Lee? He’s not just a rookie—he’s a revelation! Someone get this man a cape, because he’s carrying the Ravens to glory tonight!”

Your friends erupt in cheers as the final countdown begins, the seconds ticking down like thunder. “That’s our boy!” Yangyang shouts, pumping his fist in the air. Chenle and Shotaro join in, their voices blending with the roar of the crowd. Even Nahyun claps, her usual quiet demeanor replaced with genuine excitement. It’s not just pride—it’s joy, infectious and overwhelming, the kind that pulls you in completely.

The buzzer sounds, and the Ravens secure their win. The stands explode into celebration, students jumping to their feet, shouting and clapping in unison. And at the center of it all is Mark, the clear standout of the night. His teammates pat his back, their smiles wide as they pull him into a huddle. For a moment, everything feels lighter, the weight you carried into the gym replaced with something brighter as you watch Mark soak in his victory.

But the shift comes fast, sharp, and unexpected.

Your gaze catches Jeno breaking away from his teammates, his expression unreadable but his steps purposeful as he moves toward Mark. The celebration continues around them, but there’s a sudden tension that coils in the air, snapping your focus back to the court.

Jeno’s voice is low, his words too quiet to reach you, but whatever he says makes Mark turn sharply, his smile fading into something harder. Mark squares his shoulders, his hands rising slightly as if to diffuse the moment, but Jeno doesn’t stop. He steps closer, his stance confrontational, his frustration from earlier spilling over like a dam breaking.

The punch comes before you can fully register what’s happening. Jeno’s fist connects with Mark’s jaw in one sharp, brutal motion, and the sound of it cuts through the gym like a crack of lightning. Gasps ripple through the crowd, the celebration grinding to a halt as Mark stumbles back, his hand shooting up to his face.

“Whoa, whoa!” Donghyuck’s voice booms through the mic, shock laced into his usual dramatic tone. “Someone call security, because that is not regulation play!”

Mark doesn’t retaliate, at least not immediately. His eyes blaze as he steadies himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smears across his knuckles, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps forward, his voice sharp as he fires back at Jeno. You can’t make out the words, but the intensity between them is palpable, a storm brewing in the center of the court.

Teammates rush to intervene, pulling them apart before it escalates further. Jeno struggles against the hands holding him back, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on Mark with a fury that feels unrelenting. Mark, on the other hand, seems calmer now, though the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease as he’s pulled toward the sidelines.

The gym is no longer celebrating. The buzz of excitement has drained out of the room, leaving only a suffocating silence as the aftermath of Jeno’s outburst settles like smoke in the air. Spectators shift uncomfortably in their seats, whispers rippling through the crowd as everyone tries to piece together what just happened. You can’t look away. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch Jeno being pulled toward the bench, his jaw clenched tight, fury still radiating off him in waves. Across the court, Mark stands tall, though his jaw is red from the impact, and there’s a tension in his posture that betrays the calm he’s trying to project. The victory—the joy of the Ravens’ first win with Mark on the team—feels like it was hours ago, eclipsed by the chaos that unraveled in a matter of seconds.

“Let’s go,” Yangyang mutters, already moving down toward the court. You follow instinctively, weaving through the thinning crowd with your friends close behind. Mark is surrounded by his teammates, their congratulations now muted and uneasy, but he’s still smiling when he spots you all approaching. The moment his eyes land on you, the earlier tension in his shoulders eases just slightly, and he steps forward to greet you.

You reach him first, pulling him into a tight hug without thinking. “I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the knot in your chest.

Mark’s arms tighten around you briefly, grounding you even amidst the chaos. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and for a second, you see the weight he’s carrying—the strain behind the composed exterior. “Really. It means a lot.”

You hesitate for only a moment before speaking, your tone softer now. “Are you okay? You shouldn’t have to deal with him,” you say, the words edged with quiet anger. “Jeno’s an ass, Mark. He’s always been like this, and you don’t deserve it.”

Mark shakes his head, a tight-lipped smile crossing his face. “I’m fine,” he says, the words steady but leaving little room for argument. “It’s part of it, right? Just something I’ve gotta handle.”

You don’t agree, but you don’t push either. Instead, your voice lowers, firm but full of care. “He’s lucky that’s all you gave him.”

That pulls a faint laugh from Mark, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re not wrong,” he says, the tension in his expression easing, even if just for a moment.

The others swarm in after you, the tension easing as Donghyuck throws an arm around Mark’s shoulders, ignoring the red mark on his jaw. “Dude, that was insane,” Donghyuck says, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, as if the fight hadn’t even happened. “Seriously, I’ve got a whole commentary reel planned for you. Starting with: Mark Lee, the pride of the Ravens—taking hits on and off the court!”

“Cut it out,” Shotaro says, but there’s a small smile on his face as he passes Mark a towel. “You did great out there. Really.”

“Seriously,” Yangyang adds, his usual playfulness absent. “We know what it took to get here, and… well, just don’t let idiots like him ruin it for you.”

Mark laughs, but it’s quiet, a sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m good, I promise.” he says, but there’s a tension in his tone that none of you miss.

“You sure?” Nahyun asks, her voice softer, steadier. She’s watching Mark carefully, her concern clear in the way her gaze lingers on him.

“I am,” Mark insists, but when he looks at you, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable, something unspoken. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and you all let them sit, knowing he’s holding back more than he’s letting on. The pep talk that follows isn’t just for him—it’s for all of you, a way to push back the nervousness gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

“Chenle’s right,” Donghyuck says, his tone lighter now but no less genuine. “Screw Jeno. He’s just pissed because you’re better than him, and he knows it.”

“And because Taeyong knows it,” Yangyang adds, glancing toward the sidelines where Jeno’s father watches with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel.

“Taeyong’s not playing,” Shotaro says firmly. “This is your game, Mark. Don’t forget that.”

Mark nods, his smile small but real this time. “I won’t,” he says. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

The Ravens’ bench is a stark contrast to your group, the tension between the players palpable. They’re scattered, avoiding each other’s gazes, their confusion and unease as visible as the sweat on their brows. Even Jaemin, who rarely lets his composure slip, exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically shake off the discomfort of being stuck between Mark and Jeno.

The chaos doesn’t just sit with the Ravens, though. It’s there in your group too, beneath the laughter and teasing, in the way your friends stick close to Mark like they’re guarding him from the fallout. You all know what this team means, what joining the Ravens will cost him. It’s not just about the game. It’s about Jeno, about Taeyong, about the pressure that’s already weighing on Mark’s shoulders.

Chenle breaks the tension with a grin, leaning in to nudge Mark. “Just don’t forget about us when you’re a big star, alright? You might be getting a lot of fans and attention now, but we paid attention to you first.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it, a quiet plea wrapped in humor. Chenle rarely says what he means outright, but the way his gaze lingers on Mark, steady and uncharacteristically serious, gives him away. It’s not just a joke—it’s a reminder of where they started, a subtle way of grounding Mark when everything else around him feels uncertain.

Mark doesn’t even pause to consider his response. “Never,” he says firmly, his voice cutting through the noise around you with a conviction that feels unshakable. His gaze sweeps across your group, and you can see it in his eyes—the promise isn’t just for Chenle. It’s for all of you. “It’s home. Always will be.”

The words are simple, but the weight they carry is anything but. There’s something unspoken that passes between all of you in that moment, a reassurance you didn’t realize you needed until it settles in your chest. Mark might be here, on this bigger stage, surrounded by new teammates and a louder crowd, but he’s still yours. No matter how far he goes, no matter what heights he reaches, Mark’s roots are with you, and he’s not leaving that behind. He’s not leaving you behind.

He’s still the same Mark who sat with you on the cracked pavement of the river court when life felt too heavy, the basketball forgotten at his feet as he listened without interrupting. The same Mark who stayed until the sky turned dark, the faint hum of the river filling the spaces where words couldn’t. He’s still the same Mark who played with you until the streetlights flickered on, who laughed until his sides hurt when Donghyuck tried to narrate the games like a professional announcer.

Yangyang claps Mark on the shoulder, breaking the quiet thread of nostalgia with his crooked grin. “You better not,” he says, his voice low but firm, his usual humor taking on an edge of seriousness. “Because if you do, we’ll drag you back ourselves. No way you’re leaving us in the dust.”

Mark’s laugh is quiet, but it’s real, a soft sound that feels lighter than anything that’s passed between you all tonight. For a brief moment, the weight of the fight, the tension in the gym, and the unease that’s lingered since the final buzzer all seem to fade. It’s just you and your group, the people who’ve been there for Mark through everything, and who always will be.

When he turns back to you, his expression softens, and there’s a hesitation in his eyes that pulls at something deep in your chest. “Did Mum come?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost unsure.

You look at him for a moment, as if searching for an answer, even though you already know it. Finally, you shake your head, matching his tone as you reply, “No. She didn’t.”

Mark nods slowly, his smile faltering for just a second before he recovers, smoothing it out into something steady and practiced. “It’s fine,” he says, his tone even but distant. “It’s not her thing anyway.”

You don’t press, and neither does anyone else. The silence hangs heavy for a moment, before Donghyuck, ever the deflector, slings an arm around Mark again. “Alright, alright, enough with the moody stuff,” he says, launching into an exaggerated monologue about Mark’s “heroic performance” on the court, complete with mock commentary and over-the-top gestures. The absurdity finally earns a real laugh from Mark, one that ripples through the group like a wave, lightening the air around you.

The tension lingers in the background, but it doesn’t define the moment. What stands out is the way your group comes together, the way each of you leans into your roles without even thinking—Donghyuck’s humor, Yangyang’s blunt honesty, Nahyun’s quiet warmth, Shotaro’s steady presence, Chenle’s sharp wit—all of it meshing into something that feels solid, unshakable. It’s effortless, a kind of belonging that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud, and for a second, it feels like nothing outside of this small circle could touch you.

The Ravens linger on the court, their movements stilted, their expressions uncertain as they glance toward Mark. Their unity feels like an illusion—strained and held together by necessity rather than genuine connection. The difference is glaring. It’s not hard to see where Mark truly belongs, where his foundation lies. It isn’t with the polished façade of his new team, where harmony feels more like an obligation than a bond. It’s here, among the people who’ve been with him before the spotlight, before the stakes were this high. The ones who don’t need a crowd or a jersey to know who he is, who will stay long after the lights fade and the noise disappears.

But then your gaze shifts, pulled by something darker, something unspoken that cuts through the lightness of the moment like a blade. You feel him before you see him, an unseen ripple in the air that brushes against your senses, cold and invasive, like the first breath of winter creeping through a cracked window. It isn’t sound or movement that gives him away—it’s the weight, a suffocating presence that clings to your skin, seeps into your chest, and settles heavy, like an omen you can’t ignore. He’s a shadow stretching long before dusk, a storm carving silence into the sky, waiting to break. By the time your gaze finds him, it’s almost too late—he’s already there, fixed and unrelenting, a wound you didn’t realize you’d opened.

Jeno.

He sits on the bench, his body honed and sharp as a predator in stillness, elbows braced on his knees, the loose fabric of his jersey stretching over shoulders that seem carved to intimidate. His posture is coiled, almost too controlled, as if the slightest shift would unleash something you aren’t ready to see. His jaw is tight, the sharp line of it catching the light, and a faint pulse throbs at his temple, rhythmic and precise, like the ticking of a countdown. His eyes—dark, endless, and cutting—are locked onto your group with a focus that feels inescapable.

It isn’t anger flashing in those depths; it’s something quieter, more insidious, a steady burn just beneath the surface. It’s the kind of gaze that knows its own power, that pins you in place, a hunter with no need to chase. He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t soften the sharp edges; it amplifies them. The shadows clinging to him aren’t imperfections—they’re the thing that makes him impossible to look away from.

The gym hums with life around him, the sound of laughter swelling as Mark smiles, as your friends lean into each other’s easy rhythm like nothing else matters. But Jeno’s gaze cuts through it all, invasive and heavy, pressing against your chest like it knows where you’re weakest. It’s not just loneliness—not the hollow ache of solitude—it’s sharper, crueler, the kind of emptiness that demands to be filled.

Even his stillness is deliberate, a quiet defiance against the chaos of the gym. He doesn’t belong here, not among the fleeting ease of laughter or the bright warmth of companionship. He’s the shadow cast by the light, the storm biding its time. The muscles in his forearms flex subtly as his hands curl into fists against his knees, and you realize the tension isn’t just in his body—it’s in the room, in the way everything seems to shift under the weight of his presence.

His stare is slow, deliberate, and every time his eyes lock onto yours, it feels as though the world grinds to a halt. That gaze—it’s sharp enough to slice, dragging over you like a scalpel cutting too deep. There’s no fury, no malice, but it doesn’t need either. It’s the precision of it—the way it peels you open, lays you bare, and leaves you exposed to something raw and unrelenting.

He holds it, letting the moment stretch thin and taut, the air between you charged with something you can’t name but feel in every nerve. The gym falls away; there’s only him, watching you like a man standing on the edge of something he can’t turn back from. His beauty is almost unnerving up close—the symmetry of his features made sharper by the darkness in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth a whisper of something dangerous.

And just as quickly, it’s gone.

He leans back, the movement unhurried, fluid, the kind of grace that seems effortless but deliberate, like every shift of his body is crafted to draw your attention. The loose fabric of his jersey pulls against his chest and shoulders as he stretches slightly, his physique etched in sharp lines and hard edges, a perfect blend of power and control. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, the muscle flexing beneath his skin before his expression smooths out, closing off like a door slammed shut. His fists tighten briefly on his thighs, the veins running along his forearms stark and pronounced, a quiet reminder of the restrained strength lying just beneath the surface. When he exhales, it’s measured, calculated, a coldness settling over him that feels more like armor than indifference. But the weight of him doesn’t leave. It lingers, creeping into your skin, slow and invasive, a chill that roots itself deep. Even when his eyes are no longer on you, their imprint remains, like a scar carved by a blade you never saw coming.

A sudden warmth pulls you out of your thoughts. Yangyang’s arm slides around your waist, his voice low and steady. “What’s up? You’ve been zoning out all day.”

You blink, shaking off the heaviness that clings to you like a second skin. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Yangyang doesn’t push, though the slight tilt of his head tells you he doesn’t believe you. Before he can press further, Donghyuck’s voice cuts through the moment, brimming with energy. “Alright, listen up! Post-victory meal, my treat—unless Mark’s paying, which he should be, considering he’s the star tonight.”

Mark groans, rolling his eyes as the rest of the group chimes in with cheers and playful demands. Chenle nudges your shoulder, smirking. “You coming, or do you have another meeting to attend? You’re always running off somewhere. Deadlines to crush, right?”

You shake your head, letting out a soft laugh. “I’ll meet you guys there. I have something to take care of first.”

“Of course you do,” Donghyuck teases, tossing a glance your way as the group starts to head out. “You practically live on campus anyway. Do they even let you leave, or are you just chained to your deadlines?”

You roll your eyes but don’t reply, the weight of your next destination already pulling at you. The group moves ahead, their laughter a distant hum, fading into the background as you take a different path. The echo of Jeno’s gaze lingers, an unwelcome shadow pressed against your thoughts, sharp and piercing. You push it aside, but it clings to you, a reminder you don’t have time for.

The court feels unnaturally quiet now. The noise and energy that had filled the space are gone, replaced by a heavy stillness that settles in the corners. You stay near the sideline, notepad balanced on your palm, the pen in your hand tapping absently as your focus shifts. The remnants of the game—the tension, the collisions, the unspoken hierarchies—replay in your mind as you sift through your hurriedly written notes.

You flip to a blank page, drawing a line to separate the chaos of the match from the clarity you needed now. The fragmented thoughts scrawled earlier in the heat of observation begin to take shape, sharp edges forming where before there had only been loose ends.

Notes from Match Observation:

Team Dynamics — Disjointed. Evidence of strain between players, particularly between Mark and Jeno. Tension palpable during high-pressure plays. Needs further analysis—determine if conflict is personal or role-based.

Mark — Quick on his feet. Adjusts easily to dynamic shifts. Shows natural leadership qualities, but lacks rapport with senior players. Body language relaxed, even during high-pressure moments. Maintains focus despite external distractions.

Jeno — Aggressive playstyle. Repeated possession turnovers suggest emotional interference. Observable frustration when Mark assumes control. Physical responses to perceived loss of dominance (e.g., tightened jaw, clenched fists, heightened aggression). Behavior warrants deeper psychological analysis—potential patterns of territorialism or insecurity.

You paused, rereading the notes about Jeno. The way he moved on the court stuck with you, more than anyone else’s performance. His aggression hadn’t just been frustration; it was personal. His focus had lingered too long on Mark, his movements sharper, almost reckless, when the ball left his hands. It wasn’t just about winning—it was about control.

Potential hypothesis for the project, you wrote, underlining the phrase. Jeno’s performance linked to perceived loss of position and authority. Explore psychological response to shifting team roles.

The project was still forming in your mind, but the path was becoming clearer. The study wasn’t just about the game itself; it was about what happened beneath the surface—the interplay of ego, competition, and vulnerability in a team dynamic. Jeno, whether he realized it or not, had become central to your observations. His reactions on the court offered more insight into the psychological strain of competition than anything you’d seen in prior matches.

But the plan went beyond just observing. You would have to dig deeper—find the cracks in the polished surface and figure out what made players like Jeno tick. It wasn’t enough to watch. You’d have to challenge them, push them, get under their skin in ways they wouldn’t expect.

You scribbled another note on the page, bolder this time: Focus: Jeno. Fractured team hierarchy—monitor response under controlled pressure.

The quiet of the court was beginning to feel heavy, oppressive. You exhaled, pressing your pen to the page one last time. The plan was taking shape, but the weight of it was settling in your chest. This wasn’t going to be easy, not with players like Jeno in the mix.

Closing your notebook, you glanced toward the gym’s exit. The next step was clear, and your meeting was waiting. You square your shoulders, tucking the notepad under your arm as you make your way toward Coach Suh’s office, the project already shifting in your mind, gaining sharper edges with every step.

The walk to Coach Suh’s office was short, but the weight of anticipation stretched it, each step landing heavier than the last. The muted thud of your shoes against the polished floor echoed faintly in the empty hallway, a sound that seemed to grow louder in the silence. Your grip tightened on the neatly stacked notes in your hand, the edges digging lightly into your skin—a grounding sensation against the hum of thoughts swirling in your mind. By the time you reached the door, your mask of composure had settled firmly into place, every movement deliberate as you raised your hand to knock twice, the sound sharp and decisive before you stepped inside.

Coach Suh was both a seasoned coach and an adjunct professor in sports psychology, overseeing several interdisciplinary studies, including yours—a project on the psychological effects of competition. His dual roles made him an intimidating figure, but his insight and fairness were undeniable, and you valued the rigor he brought to your work. It was his belief in the importance of understanding team dynamics and mental resilience that had made this project possible.

His office reflected the complexity of his role, blending academic precision with a personal history rooted in basketball. The polished wooden desk at the center of the room gleamed under the warm glow of a desk lamp, its surface organized with neatly stacked papers, a clipboard, and a single coffee mug faintly stained at the rim. Behind him, shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with psychology textbooks, binders filled with meticulous notes, and scattered awards gleaming faintly in the light.

Framed photos of championship wins lined the walls, capturing moments frozen in time—his younger self alongside triumphant teams, the exhilaration of victory etched in every face. Notably absent, however, was a photo of the current Seoul Ravens holding the state championship trophy. That picture didn’t exist yet; they hadn’t won. The space where it could hang seemed to glare as a reminder of the pressure that loomed over the team, the weight of expectations yet unmet.

Beside them hung detailed diagrams of plays and strategies, their edges worn from years of reference. A basketball, worn smooth from countless games, sat proudly on a stand in the corner, its surface scuffed with the marks of a career steeped in competition.

The room smelled faintly of leather and coffee, grounding yet charged, and the hum of the air conditioning added a low, constant backdrop. It was a space that felt deeply personal yet exuded structured professionalism, every detail chosen to reflect both his authority and his humanity.

But you weren’t prepared for Jeno.

He was slouched in one of the chairs, his long frame sprawled in a way that seemed deliberately enticing—like he was daring the room to notice him. His posture feigned ease, but the tautness in his jaw betrayed him, and the restless rhythm of his fingers against the chair’s arm hinted at a frustration that wasn’t meant to stay contained. There was something magnetic about him, a pull you couldn’t deny, even as his irritation crackled in the air like static. The loose fabric of his jersey stretched over his chest and shoulders, the exposed skin at his neck glistening faintly under the office’s fluorescent lights, and his legs, spread wide, radiated a careless confidence that felt far from accidental.

“…completely unacceptable, Jeno. I don’t care how frustrated you were out there. You’re the captain—you set the tone for the team. This isn’t just about you.”

Jeno’s nostrils flared slightly, his lips thinning as though he was physically swallowing the retort clawing its way up his throat. He didn’t move, but the air around him shifted, charged with something volatile. His gaze burned like a smoldering coal, the weight of it heavy and deliberate as it dragged over you the moment you entered the room. He didn’t look at you like you were interrupting—he looked at you like you were trespassing. And yet, his eyes lingered, dragging over you with a heat that felt out of place in the sterile office, searing and unsettling.

You don’t feel conflicted about interrupting them—not even for a second. Whatever tension you’d walked into, it didn’t belong to you, and you weren’t going to let it settle on your shoulders. Jeno’s sharp gaze might have been meant to unnerve you, but it slid off like water against stone. This was your meeting, your project, and your purpose in this room wasn’t secondary to his reprimand. You stepped forward with steady composure, the cool detachment you’d mastered over the years serving you well now. Whatever storm you’d walked into, you didn’t plan on getting caught in it.

However you apologise out of common courtesy “Sorry to interrupt,” you said evenly, your voice steady as you moved further inside. The door clicked shut behind you, and the sound felt louder than it should have in the tension-filled room. You turned toward Coach Suh, keeping your focus sharp. “I’m here for our meeting.”

Coach Suh’s stern expression softened slightly as his attention shifted to you. His demeanor was still authoritative but carried a familiarity that felt both reassuring and dangerous. He gestured to the empty chair beside Jeno. “Right on time, as always. Have a seat, Y/N.”

You moved toward the chair, acutely aware of Jeno’s eyes tracking your every step. Jeno didn’t adjust his posture as you passed him, but you felt the weight of his gaze tracking you, his annoyance now mixed with something harder to place. You settled into the seat, placing your notes on the table and smoothing them out as if to physically organize the tension crackling in the air.

Coach Suh resumed speaking, his tone sharp but composed as he turned back to Jeno. “Your role as captain isn’t just about skill, Jeno. It’s about leadership. You can’t afford to lose your head during a game. What you did tonight put the entire team at risk.”

Jeno’s jaw ticked, and his hands curled into loose fists on the armrests, the veins along his forearms standing out against his skin. He exhaled through his nose, a short, sharp sound that felt more like a warning than a concession. His eyes flicked to you again, narrowing slightly, as if your presence added another layer to whatever war was raging beneath his skin. The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept your expression neutral, your gaze trained on Coach Suh.

You didn’t need to look at Jeno to know his body language screamed defiance. You could feel it in the taut silence between his words and his barely restrained movements, in the way his fingers curled and straightened against the armrest like he was trying to grip the air itself. It wasn’t just the reprimand that had him on edge—it was the fact that you were here to witness it.

And yet, he said nothing. For all his irritation, his silence was its own kind of rebellion, simmering and sharp, just waiting for the right moment to explode.

You set your pen down beside your notes and finally broke the silence. “Should we get started?” you asked, your tone professional but with an edge of confidence. You weren’t about to let Jeno’s simmering irritation throw you off. This was your space now, not his.

Coach Suh gave a sharp nod, his focus shifting to you. “Yes, let’s.”

Coach Suh leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his sharp gaze fixed on you as you explained the framework of your project. “The psychological impact of team dynamics and competition,” you began, your voice measured and steady. “I want to examine how roles, rivalries, and external pressures affect both individual and collective performance under high-stakes conditions.”

“And your methodology?” Coach Suh asked, his tone challenging but not dismissive.

“I’ve started with observational data from games and practices—analyzing body language, verbal communication, and physical responses during pressure moments,” you replied, meeting his gaze directly. “That’s supplemented with self-assessments from players and, eventually, post-game interviews to compare their internal perceptions to observed behavior.”

Coach Suh nodded slowly, the gesture deliberate, his approval subtle but palpable. “Interesting approach. And you believe these observations will lead to actionable insights for the team?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “The goal isn’t just analysis. It’s identifying patterns and providing strategies to improve cohesion, reduce conflict, and maximize performance.”

Jeno’s presence, however, was impossible to ignore. He hadn’t moved much—his arm still draped over the backrest of his chair, the other resting lazily on his thigh—but there was an electric undercurrent to his stillness, like a predator waiting to pounce. His fingers tapped against the chair’s edge, an uneven rhythm that grated against your nerves. His gaze burned into you, heavy and unreadable, and every now and then, a quiet scoff slipped past his lips, deliberate enough to make sure you noticed.

You ignored him, for the most part, focusing instead on presenting your findings. But as you reached for your notes to hand them over to Coach Suh, Jeno moved faster than you anticipated. His hand shot out, snatching the pages from yours, the brush of his fingers against your skin fleeting but searing. He leaned back in his chair, unfolding the notes with an air of casual arrogance, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

Jeno’s scoff deepened as his eyes flicked down each page, scanning it with a deliberate slowness that felt almost mocking. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the notebook, his brow furrowing at certain lines. A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Finally, he glanced back at you, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“This is what you’re so proud of?” he said, his tone cutting. “Psychological impacts? Team dynamics? What’s next, diagnosing us all with daddy issues?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, your hand darted forward, fingers curling around the other edge of the page to snatch it back. For a fleeting moment, your fingers brushed against his. His skin was warm yet rough against yours, and for that brief, electrified moment, it was impossible to ignore the tension pulling taut between you.

His eyes snapped to yours at the touch, dark and unreadable, as if daring you to say something.

You muttered under your breath, barely audible, “Wouldn’t be hard considering who your father is. He’d give me enough material for a dissertation.”

Jeno’s head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing, tension coiling around him like a wire pulled too tight. “What did you just say?”

You straightened slightly, meeting his sharp gaze with a coolness that only seemed to stoke the fire in his expression. “I said, if you’re feeling particularly exposed, maybe that’s a reflection of your own behavior,” you shot back, your tone cutting and deliberate, the weight of your earlier mutter still hanging unspoken between you.

“So, basically, you’re just going to watch us, scribble a few notes, and decide who’s the problem?” His voice was low, biting, but his words landed with the precision of a thrown dagger.

You turned toward him, your expression calm but sharp. “Not at all,” you said evenly. “Besides, if there’s a problem, it usually makes itself obvious.”

Jeno’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Sounds like you’ve already decided how this ends.”

“Only for people who give me something to write about,” you shot back, your tone cool and unyielding.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours, the air between you shifting, tightening, until it felt like the whole room was holding its breath. He let the words hang for a moment, the tension palpable, before his lips curled into something dangerously close to a sneer. “Right,” he drawled, tossing the notes onto the desk in front of Coach Suh with deliberate carelessness, “because watching us like we’re lab rats is definitely going to help the team.”

“You’re not that interesting, Jeno,” you said coolly, your voice steady despite the fire licking at the edges of your composure. “But if you think my observations might shed some light on your temper tantrums, feel free to keep reacting this way. You’re making my job easier.”

Jeno leaned forward now, the arm he’d draped lazily over the chair falling to rest on his knee. His eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in them almost suffocating. “You really think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and edged with something darker.

You didn’t back down, your gaze unwavering as you met his. “I don’t need to figure you out,” you replied, your voice sharp and unwavering. “You’re doing all the work for me.”

The corners of Jeno’s mouth twitched, his lips curving into a faint, taunting smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He leaned back, his body settling into a posture that screamed ease, though the charged air around him told another story. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” he murmured, his voice a low drawl, laced with a dark amusement that made your stomach twist. His gaze flicked over you, deliberate and heavy. “Let me guess—you think you’re the smartest person here. That whatever this little project of yours is, it’s actually going to matter.”

You let his words hang in the air for a beat, your fingers curling tighter around the edge of your notebook. Slowly, you tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm that didn’t waver, though your pulse thrummed in your ears. “I am the smartest person in here and it matters enough to get under your skin,” you replied, your voice smooth but cutting, each word measured. You leaned forward just slightly, the movement deliberate, like you were closing the distance without actually touching him. “For someone who acts like they don’t care, you’re trying awfully hard to prove it.”

Jeno’s expression hardened, the mocking curve of his lips flattening as his eyes darkened. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the weight of your words hang in the air between you. The room felt too small, the tension pressing against your skin like a vice, but you refused to break eye contact, your fingers tightening around your notebook as if it could ground you.

Then, he shifted, rising slowly from his chair. The scrape of the legs against the floor echoed in the tense quiet, sharp enough to set your pulse racing, but you stayed seated, your back stiff and your chin lifting just slightly in defiance. He didn’t say a word as he moved closer, his steps deliberate, calculated, the weight of his presence pressing down on you with every inch he closed.

Stopping just in front of you, he leaned down, one hand gripping the back of your chair, the other settling on the edge of the desk beside you. His scent—an intoxicating mix of cedarwood and something darker, like smoke and the faintest trace of cologne—washed over you, unsettling in its familiarity. The proximity was dizzying, his broad shoulders framing your view, his presence magnetic in a way you couldn’t ignore. The way he loomed over you wasn’t just intimidating; it was suffocating, every inch of closeness a silent dare.

“For someone who claims to have me all figured out,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that slid down your spine, “you’re spending an awful lot of time looking at me. Writing about me.” His eyes flicked down briefly, catching on your notebook still clutched in your lap before dragging back up to yours.

Your grip on the notebook tightened, but you didn’t flinch. “I’m doing my job,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor threatening to creep into it. “If that bothers you so much, maybe stop giving me so much material.”

Jeno let out a low, humorless laugh, the sound vibrating in the charged air between you. His gaze dropped to your lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he said softly, leaning in closer, his breath brushing against your skin. Without touching you, he leaned in, the space between you evaporating as his hand slid along the desk, bracing firmly against its surface. The movement was deliberate, calculated, and as his arm inched closer to your shoulder, the proximity boxed you in completely. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and faintly uneven, and the sheer weight of his presence felt like a challenge you weren’t sure how to answer.

“And you think you’re intimidating,” you shot back, your voice sharp and unwavering, even as the air between you crackled with tension. Your heart was racing, a rapid, pounding rhythm that betrayed the calm exterior you wore, but you didn’t shrink away. Instead, you tilted your chin higher, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. You leaned forward ever so slightly, your movement instinctive, a flicker of something unspoken drawing you closer.

Jeno’s reaction was immediate, though fleeting—a slight hitch in his breath, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through the tension in his expression. His gaze dropped, sweeping over you as if recalibrating, before locking onto your eyes again, sharper now, darker. His jaw tightened, his grip on the desk shifting subtly, his knuckles brushing the edge as if grounding himself.

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, the words almost a growl. Yet, for all the bite in his tone, there was something else lingering in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his gaze swept over the angle of your jaw, your mouth. It wasn’t intimidation he was trying to hold onto now—it was control.

You leaned in slightly, your breath brushing against his jaw as you spoke, your voice calm but edged with challenge. “You know, all you’re doing is proving my point,” you murmured, your words deliberate, carrying a weight that matched the tension between you. Your hand shifted subtly, resting against the arm of your chair, grazing the space where his fingers gripped the desk. The movement wasn’t calculated, but the way his breath hitched, the flicker in his eyes as they dropped to the closeness, told you he’d felt it too. You tilted your head just enough to meet his gaze fully, daring him to say more.

Jeno’s eyes dropped to your lips, the movement subtle but unmissable. He didn’t hide it, didn’t even try, and the deliberate slowness of it sent a jolt through you. The air between you felt impossibly heavy, the heat of his body so close it brushed against your skin. Your hand shifted on the chair’s arm, the movement unthinking, but it brought your fingers close to his on the desk, grazing just barely. His breath hitched, the sound almost imperceptible, but it was there.

His gaze snapped back to yours, darker now, his pupils blown wide. “You really think you have the upper hand here?” he asked, his voice low and biting, the edge of it sharp enough to draw blood.

You didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Your lips curved just slightly, and you answered with a simple, defiant, “Yes. Of course I do.”

There it was—the faintest stifle of a sound in his throat, one he couldn’t quite swallow back. His tongue darted out, dragging across his lips in a way that seemed more reflex than intention, but his eyes were glued to yours—or, no, to your lips. The intensity of his stare burned through the space between you, and it felt as though the air itself had thickened, holding the two of you in place.

The moment stretched unbearably long, charged with an energy that had nowhere to go. His hand pressed harder against the desk, veins tightening against his skin, while his shoulders shifted, leaning just enough closer to make you feel like he was about to say—or do—something neither of you could take back.

“Am I interrupting?” Coach Suh’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and clear.

You didn’t move. Neither did Jeno. Your eyes stayed locked, breaths shallow, the weight of Coach Suh’s question lingering somewhere outside the charged bubble neither of you dared to acknowledge. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven, and despite every shred of composure you clung to, your gaze flicked there—just for a moment, just long enough to make the heat between you unbearable.

But you didn’t stop. Your eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the faint flex of tension in his throat as he swallowed hard, the way his tongue ghosted over his lower lip like he couldn’t help himself. Something unspoken crackled between you, thick and suffocating, and when your eyes snapped back to his, they were darker, hungrier, as if he’d caught you staring and wasn’t letting it go.

Still, neither of you flinched, neither of you gave in, your breaths coming too shallow and too close, mingling in the small space between you. His hand, still braced on the desk beside you, tightened briefly, his knuckles brushing against the edge of your armrest. You leaned in just slightly, so slightly it wasn’t deliberate—but the effect was devastating.

His pupils dilated further, the sharp inhale he took barely audible, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. His gaze dragged down again, tracing the curve of your mouth, then slowly back up to your eyes, holding them with a force that sent a shiver skimming down your spine. The room might as well have disappeared.

Coach Suh cleared his throat again, louder, pointed, and still neither of you turned. The tension hung heavy for one more breath before Jeno shifted, leaning back slightly, though the heat of his presence didn’t fully retreat. His fingers stayed braced against the desk, his eyes lingering on yours, daring you to break the moment first. You didn’t.

“That’s enough,” Coach Suh said sharply, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. He leaned forward, placing a hand on the notes Jeno had carelessly tossed onto his desk, his eyes narrowing. “Y/N’s work isn’t just about pointing out flaws, Jeno. It’s about understanding how we can work as a team. You’d do well to listen. Right now, your attitude is one of the biggest problems this team has. If you’re so determined to be involved, start by proving you’re part of the solution instead of the reason we need one.”

Jeno didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered briefly to Coach Suh. But the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease; if anything, it seemed to coil tighter. Slowly, his eyes slid back to you, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though every breath in the room had been sucked away. He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk that wasn’t amusement—it was provocation, sharp and deliberate.

Coach Suh’s eyes moved between the two of you, his tone now laced with warning. “If you’re both finished,” he said, his voice low but firm, “we still have a meeting to conduct. I suggest we get back to it before this spirals into something that becomes out of control.”

You straightened in your seat, shifting your focus back to Coach Suh with as much composure as you could muster. But the energy in the room didn’t dissipate. Jeno didn’t leave, didn’t even shift far from where he sat, his presence as heavy as a storm cloud on the horizon. His hand remained braced against the desk, his posture deceptively casual, though his gaze stayed locked on you for just a second too long before he finally leaned back further into his chair.

Even as you resumed explaining the next phase of your project, detailing your observations and plans with measured clarity, you could feel his eyes lingering on you, dark and calculating. It wasn’t over—not by a long shot. Whatever reason he had for staying, it wasn’t just to listen, and the weight of his unspoken motive hung between you like a challenge you couldn’t yet name.

Coach Suh leaned back slightly, his arms folding across his chest as his gaze flicked between you and Jeno. “Alright, Y/N. For this project, I assume you’ll need direct input from the team. Have you decided who you’d like to work with?”

You straightened in your chair, calm and collected, though the weight of Jeno’s stare was impossible to ignore. Your fingers brushed the edge of your notebook as you replied, your tone measured. “Jaemin. He’s reliable, and I think his dynamics will give me a well-rounded perspective.”

The creak of Jeno’s chair pulled your attention despite yourself. He leaned forward, his elbow braced against the desk, and his voice broke through with a forced casualness that was anything but. “That’s it? No room for the captain?”

Your gaze didn’t waver from Coach Suh, your expression neutral. “I’ve already made my choice,” you said smoothly. “But thank you for your interest.”

Jeno’s response was instant, his voice dipping lower as he said, “I wasn’t asking.” The sharpness in his words made your shoulders tense. You turned to him, meeting his unyielding gaze head-on. His eyes locked on yours, dark and intent. “If you’re going to be watching us, writing about us, you’ll need the full picture. And last I checked, I’m the one leading this team.”

“Last I checked,” you countered, your voice cooling with every syllable, “I choose who contributes to my project.”

Coach Suh cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. His expression was neutral, but there was a finality to his tone. “Jeno has a point. As team captain, his perspective could be valuable.”

You pressed your lips together, the frustration curling tight in your chest. “That’s not necessary,” you replied, turning your attention back to the coach. “I’m more than capable of getting what I need without his… input.”

Jeno leaned back then, his smirk infuriatingly smug, like he’d already won something you didn’t know was a competition. “Guess you’ll have to deal with it anyway,” he said, his tone smooth, almost lazy, but with an undercurrent sharp enough to cut. “Because I’m joining.”

You didn’t look at him right away, your fingers tightening briefly on the edge of the desk. When you did turn, the weight of his gaze slammed into you, dark and unyielding, daring you to challenge him. “You don’t get to decide that,” you said, your tone measured but edged, like the calm before a storm. “I don’t need you. I’ve already decided.”

His smirk deepened, the curve of his lips sharp, deliberate, as his eyes darkened with something unreadable. “And you think I care?” he said, his voice low, edging closer as he leaned forward. The weight of him pressed into the space between you, suffocating and electric. “You’re picking apart my team, pulling us apart like we’re an experiment, and you thought you could leave me out of it?”

“This isn’t your project,” you shot back, turning to meet his gaze head-on, the heat between you immediate and suffocating. “It’s mine. And frankly, I don’t need your temper or your control issues derailing it.”

His smirk vanished, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous. “Control issues?” he repeated, his voice almost a growl. “You’re writing a whole damn thesis on me, and I’m the one with control issues?”

You leaned back slightly, crossing your arms as you let out a sharp laugh. “You have nothing to give me,” you said flatly. “I need something useful, not someone wasting my time.”

The shift was subtle but immediate. Jeno straightened slightly, his hand pressing against the desk, his fingers brushing dangerously close to yours. “You don’t think you’ll get what you need from me?” he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “Or are you just afraid you’ll get more than you bargained for?”

Your stomach twisted, a flicker of heat rushing through you that you shoved aside. “I’m not afraid of you, Jeno,” you said coolly, meeting his gaze head-on. “But I’m not interested in indulging whatever game you think this is.”

“Enough,” Coach Suh’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding, slicing through the tension like a blade. Both of you turned to him, the weight of his authority undeniable. His gaze shifted from you to Jeno, lingering on the latter with a look that was more judgment than approval. “Jeno, you’re joining this project.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Coach Suh held up a hand, cutting you off with a firm gesture. “This isn’t negotiable,” he said, his tone steady but sharp. His gaze shifted to Jeno, his words deliberate and cutting. “Your behavior on the court has been affecting the team. I want to see you take accountability, and this project is an opportunity for you to reflect and improve.”

He cleared his throat, the sound slicing through the tension lingering between the three of you. “And let me make one thing clear, Jeno—if you’re not on board with this, I have no problem benching you for the next game. That includes the second half of the season if necessary.” The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, quieting the unease that had begun to stir in the small office.

“Sure,” Jeno said, leaning back slightly, his tone casual and annoyingly smug. “Whatever you say, Coach. I’m in.”

Jeno’s gaze flicked to you, his smirk widening as if he knew exactly how much his compliance had thrown you off. “Guess you’ve got your player,” he added smoothly, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “Should be fun.”

You blinked, struggling to process his reaction, the calm exterior you tried so hard to maintain now wavering. “This is ridiculous,” you said finally, turning to Coach Suh, your voice tight with frustration. “He’s just going to disrupt everything.”

“That’s on you to manage,” Coach Suh replied, his tone measured but firm. “And Jeno—don’t think for a second this means you get to coast through this. You’ll contribute, or there will be consequences.”

“Gladly,” Jeno said, his voice smooth and dripping with taunt. His eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and unwavering, the satisfaction in his tone curling through the air like smoke. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

You clenched your jaw, swallowing the retort that burned on the edge of your tongue. Your fingers brushed over the edges of your notes, the motion brisk and deliberate as you redirected your focus to the desk in front of you. “Guess we’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Jeno murmured, his words quiet, but laced with amusement that grated against your composure. His tone was low, meant only for you, and it crawled under your skin.

You didn’t look at him again, forcing your eyes to remain locked on Coach Suh as he resumed speaking. But Jeno’s presence wasn’t something you could simply ignore—it lingered, pressing down on you with an unspoken challenge. It was a storm you could feel building, relentless and impossible to escape.

Jeno’s lips curled into a slow, smug smile, a rare, genuine satisfaction lighting up his features as Coach Suh confirmed he’d be your partner. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it lingered—a quiet triumph glinting in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, stretching an arm over the backrest like he’d already won something, and his gaze flickered to you. But you didn’t notice, too busy jotting notes to catch the shift in his demeanor.

Internally, he was calculating, already deciding how he’d spin this situation to his advantage. You were observant, sure—annoyingly so—but if he could steer your attention away from assessing him, focus it elsewhere, maybe even use your diligence to his benefit, he could get through this project unscathed. After all, it was just another game, and Jeno had always been good at playing the game.

Yet beneath that smugness, Jeno was fuming. He’d never intended to actually participate in your project; his goal had simply been to annoy you and shift your focus. Now, he was stuck, and the idea of spending more time with you—dealing with your sharp tongue and infuriating composure—was already grating on him. And still, there was something there, a flicker of something he refused to name, let alone acknowledge. A part of him—small but persistent—was intrigued by you. You weren’t like anyone else he knew. You didn’t crumble under his presence or fawn over his charm like others did. Instead, you stood your ground, matching his fire with your own sharp edges, and somehow always managing to get the last word.

It was maddening, frustrating in a way he couldn’t quite place, but it was also addictive. The way you carried yourself, the way you didn’t fold under the weight of his reputation or his attempts to push your buttons, only made you more fascinating. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly—but it was something close enough to unsettle him.

Jeno’s smile lingered, masking the whirlwind of conflicting thoughts beneath. He thought he’d won this round, that he’d managed to take control of the situation. But there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, one he stubbornly ignored. He didn’t realize yet how wrong he was. This wasn’t a game he was prepared to lose. And with you, losing might not even be the worst outcome. You were already a step ahead, even if he couldn’t see it yet.

The hallway outside Coach Suh’s office was eerily quiet as you stepped out, the door clicking shut behind you. The air felt heavier somehow, the tension from the meeting lingering like a shadow pressing against your chest. Your pulse still raced, the leftover adrenaline making it hard to focus as you tried to replay the exchange in your head. Relief flickered at the edges, but it was overpowered by frustration—the way Coach Suh’s finality had left no room for argument, and the way the entire conversation had left you feeling unsteady. You rubbed at your temples, exhaling slowly, trying to regain some semblance of calm as you moved down the dimly lit hallway.

The faint hum of the overhead lights gave way to the distant sounds of the campus at night as you made your way toward the parking lot. Your steps felt heavier than usual, each one a reminder of the tangled emotions clawing at your chest—irritation at the unresolved tension, a reluctant satisfaction that the meeting was over, and a quiet unease at what lay ahead.

Near the line of cars, you spotted them—Mark and Yangyang—waiting just outside, leaning against a lamppost. Yangyang scrolled idly on his phone, his face illuminated by the blue light, while Mark stood with his arms crossed, his head lifting as he caught sight of you. The sight of them caught you off guard, and you hesitated, blinking in surprise.

“Finally,” Yangyang said, grinning as he slipped his phone into his pocket. Mark gave you a small nod, his expression neutral but his presence grounding.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Your tone came out softer than you intended, touched by the unexpected warmth of their gesture.

“It’s late, and you don’t drive,” Yangyang replied with a shrug, as if the decision was obvious.

“Ouch,” you muttered, your lips twitching into a faint smile. Yangyang chuckled, the sound light and teasing, and even Mark’s lips curved slightly at your reaction.

Mark pushed off the lamppost, his arms uncrossing as he approached you. “You okay? How’d it go in there?” he asked, his voice low but warm.

His words hit you harder than expected, the genuine concern behind them making it difficult to mask the lingering tension in your chest. You paused, gripping the strap of your bag tightly before finally meeting his gaze. “It went…” you started, but the words felt insufficient. You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly. “It’s fine. Just tense. You know how these things are.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly, his concern shifting into something more thoughtful. “You sure? You seem… off.”

You hesitated, the weight of the meeting still pressing against your ribs. “I’m fine,” you said again, but your voice lacked conviction. The truth was, you weren’t sure how you felt—relieved, frustrated, and somewhere in between. And from the way Mark’s gaze lingered, you knew he wasn’t convinced either.

“I know something that can cheer you up,” Mark said after a moment, his voice steady but quieter than Yangyang’s teasing tone. “The group’s at that food place near the river court. Figured we’d wait and head over together.”

Your stomach growled loudly, cutting through the moment and making Yangyang snicker. “Sounds like someone’s ready to eat.”

A soft laugh escaped you, the tension in your chest loosening slightly. “Guess I am,” you admitted, your lips curving into a genuine smile. Mark smiled back, and Yangyang gave a mock bow, gesturing for you to lead the way.

And then you felt it—that shift, subtle but undeniable, like the air had thickened around you. Your steps faltered for a fraction of a second, the sound of Yangyang’s teasing fading into the background as your senses honed in on something—or someone.

And there he was.

Jeno stood beside his car, its sleek, dark frame glinting faintly under the glow of the streetlight, half shrouded in shadow. The contrast between his vehicle and Mark’s couldn’t have been starker—Mark’s car, parked just a few feet away, was practical, unassuming, and a little rough around the edges, while Jeno’s looked every bit the luxury statement it was meant to be. His stance matched his car’s energy: effortless, confident, yet inherently confrontational. One arm rested on the car’s roof, his fingers tapping idly against the polished surface, while his other hand hung loosely by his side. The shadows played tricks across his face, obscuring parts of him but never dulling the sharp intensity in his gaze. He wasn’t trying to hide his focus; his eyes followed you as you stepped closer, flicking to Mark just briefly before settling on you again, deliberate and unrelenting.

The space felt charged, and as the three of you approached, the unspoken weight of Jeno’s presence drew a tension so palpable it made Yangyang glance your way, his grin faltering slightly. “What’s his deal?” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for you and Mark to hear.

Mark’s posture stiffened beside you, his gaze narrowing as it locked on Jeno. The tension between them was immediate, the air thickening as Jeno shifted just slightly, his movements slow, calculated. His lips curled into the faintest smirk, the kind that barely reached his eyes but still managed to drip with something darker than amusement.

“Something on your mind?” Mark finally asked, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of a challenge. He took a subtle step forward, his body angling slightly in front of yours as if anticipating what was coming.

Jeno let out a quiet laugh, pushing off the side of his car and taking a single step closer, his movements deliberate. “Just appreciating the view,” he said smoothly, his gaze sliding from Mark to you, lingering just long enough to make the statement feel personal. His tone was light, but the tension behind it was anything but.

The contrast between them was striking—Mark’s controlled resolve against Jeno’s unsettling ease, his presence like a shadow that refused to be ignored. The difference in their cars felt like an extension of their unspoken rivalry, a visual reminder of the tension simmering between them now.

Jeno’s lips curved slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine. The satisfaction in his expression was undeniable. Smug. That was the word. Smug, because he’d forced his way into your project. Smug, because you’d have to deal with him now, day after day, night after night. Smug, because he knew what you didn’t want to admit—that proximity could be dangerous. And yet, there was something darker behind his satisfaction, something aimed squarely at Mark. For Jeno, this wasn’t just about the project. It wasn’t even about you, not entirely. It was about Mark.

Mark had taken something from him. Stolen it. His place on the team, the spotlight, and the validation that should have been Jeno’s. As far as Jeno was concerned, Mark hadn’t paid the price for stepping into a life he had no business claiming. Their rivalry was born in moments like this, where the weight of their shared history loomed like a storm cloud. Two brothers who were never really brothers, whose lives had only become more entangled as time dragged them into each other’s orbit. Jeno resented every inch of it, every loss that he blamed on Mark’s presence. This project? It was leverage, another weapon in his arsenal, another way to prove that Mark didn’t belong.

Mark had a hard time holding back—always had, but especially when it came to Jeno. The tension between them was palpable the moment you stepped outside. You caught it in the subtle way Mark’s body stiffened, his shoulders squaring as though bracing for a hit. Yangyang, who had been leaning casually against Mark’s car, noticed the change immediately. “Here we go…” he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with exasperation as he straightened, his easy demeanor fading in an instant.

“What are you doing here?” Mark’s voice was calm but edged with steel as he stepped closer, subtly angling himself between you and Jeno. Protective, as always.

Jeno pushed off his car, his smirk widening into something razor-sharp. “Just making sure Y/N got out of her meeting alright,” he said, his tone drenched in mock concern. “Didn’t realize she had an entourage.”

“She doesn’t need you to make sure of anything,” Mark shot back, his jaw tightening as his patience thinned.

Jeno’s eyes flicked toward you briefly, his smirk deepening before he turned back to Mark. “Doesn’t seem like she needs you either,” he said, the words delivered with surgical precision, designed to hit where it hurt. His voice carried something darker—possessive, taunting, a deliberate dig.

Mark stepped forward, his voice dropping. “Why don’t you say what you really mean?”

Jeno didn’t hesitate. His smirk sharpened into something cruel as he met Mark’s glare head-on. “Alright,” he said, his voice smooth, low, and cutting. “You’ve been pretending like you belong here, acting like you’re on my level, but we both know the truth. You don’t belong on this team. You’ve never belonged and I’m not about to let you get in my way.”

Yangyang shifted uncomfortably, his hand brushing Mark’s arm in a futile attempt to defuse the tension. “Guys, seriously, this is—”

“Stay out of it,” Mark snapped, shrugging Yangyang off without breaking eye contact with Jeno. His voice was taut, sharp-edged, and his body moved instinctively closer to Jeno’s, drawn in by the confrontation. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Jeno’s head tilted, his smirk darkening as he met Mark’s glare. “Don’t I?” he said, his tone low, deliberate. “Let’s not pretend, Mark. You’re just holding a spot—taking up space that’s not yours.”

Mark’s jaw tightened as Jeno took another deliberate step closer, the air between them heavy with tension. “What’s your problem, Jeno? You can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes?” His words were sharp, anger cutting through the controlled tone he tried to maintain.

Jeno tilted his head, his smirk turning colder, crueler. “Center of attention?” he repeated mockingly, his voice smooth but layered with disdain. Then, without warning, his focus shifted, his gaze boring into Mark’s with a sharper intent. “You know, you’ve never mattered to him.” His voice dropped lower, heavier, carrying a weight designed to hit its mark. “He’s never spoken about you. Not once. Not even your name.” Jeno leaned in just enough to make Mark stiffen, the movement deliberate, calculated. “You don’t exist to him, Mark. And you never will.”

Mark’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles whitening as he absorbed Jeno’s words. The tension in his jaw was visible now, his teeth gritting against the weight of what had just been said. His breath hitched, just for a second, before his eyes snapped back to Jeno’s, blazing with something that burned hotter than anger.

“You don’t get to talk about that,” Mark said, his voice low, strained, but steady. Each word came out like it was pulled through glass, sharp and deliberate. “You think you know everything? You think this is some kind of game?” His body shifted forward, stepping into Jeno’s space, the distance between them evaporating. “You can keep running your mouth, Jeno. Keep throwing shit around like it’s going to break me. But we both know the only reason you’re standing here is because you can’t stand what’s already broken in you.”

The tension crackled, heavy and suffocating, as Yangyang hovered nearby, his eyes darting nervously between the two of them. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, holding up his hands as if to defuse the situation. “Can we just—”

“Meet me at the river court,” Mark cut in, his voice slicing through Yangyang’s attempt at peace. The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, as was the fire in his eyes. “Let’s settle this.”

Jeno blinked, his expression blank for a split second before a slow, calculating smile spread across his face. He took another step forward, his presence looming as his gaze bore into Mark’s. “You sure about that?” he asked, his voice quieter now but loaded with implication.

“More than you’ll ever be,” Mark shot back, not flinching under the weight of Jeno’s stare.

Yangyang groaned audibly, running a hand down his face. “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, but neither of them paid him any attention.

You didn’t step in. You should have—your better judgment whispered it, but something deeper, something darker, kept you rooted. They were two forces destined to collide, and for reasons you couldn’t fully articulate, you let it happen. Let them tear into each other. Let the tension explode. It wasn’t indecision; it was deliberate. Their words were knives, flung with precision, cutting through the air as you stayed silent. Perhaps it was frustration, a morbid curiosity, or the flicker of something more unsettling—an unspoken desire to watch the chaos unravel, to see who would break first. Whatever it was, you didn’t stop them. You simply watched, a quiet conductor letting the storm play its symphony.

Jeno’s smile lingered as he finally stepped back, his hands slipping into his pockets with an air of smug satisfaction. “Don’t be late,” he said, his voice deceptively light, before turning on his heel and walking to his car. Even as he walked away, the weight of his presence clung to the air, heavy and suffocating, a shadow you couldn’t quite shake.

The rumble of his engine broke the silence, low and menacing as his car pulled out of the lot. His taillights disappeared into the dark, but the tension he left behind didn’t fade.

Mark was still. His shoulders, rigid moments ago, slackened slightly, but his silence spoke louder than any words could. You watched him from the corner of your eye, waiting for him to move, to speak, but he didn’t—not at first.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression steady but his eyes searching, holding a weight you hadn’t seen before. “Do you think this is a good idea?” he asked quietly, his voice low and deliberate. “Should I even go through with this?”

You met his gaze, the answer forming before you even had to think about it. “Destroy him,” you said simply, your voice unwavering.

Mark didn’t hesitate. He nodded once, his jaw tightening as if the words solidified something in him.

Yangyang groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he stepped back, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that followed. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, shaking his head as though resigning himself to the inevitable. Without another word, he fell in line behind you and Mark, his footsteps slower but steady, trailing as the three of you made your way to the car.

The river court buzzed with energy as you arrived, the kind of energy that prickled against your skin and made the air heavier, like it was bracing for what was to come. The sky hung low in a muted purple, dusk casting a hazy glow over the cracked pavement. The court was worn but alive, its faded lines and chipped concrete bearing witness to years of games that were more than games—rivalries fought and friendships forged under the open sky. Just beyond the court, the river flowed steadily, its rushing sound threading through the air like a heartbeat, a constant reminder that time moved forward, even when everything here felt suspended. The streetlights flickered reluctantly to life, their uneven glow spilling across the edges of the court and stretching the shadows of the gathering crowd into long, distorted shapes.

The court wasn’t just a place. For you, it held a kind of familiarity that was hard to explain but impossible to ignore. You’d been here before—countless times. Not as a player, but as a spectator, a supporter, someone who had seen it in every light and weather. Late summer evenings, where the sun dipped low, casting orange streaks across the river’s surface, and the games ran long into the night. Damp mornings, when the court was slick from rain but still drew in the faithful who didn’t care about getting their shoes wet. You remembered the laughter that echoed here, the sound of sneakers skidding on concrete, and the rare moments of silence, when the outcome of a game hung in the balance, everyone holding their breath.

It wasn’t just a court; it was its own world, separate from the polished gyms and structured arenas. It was raw, gritty, and completely unforgiving—a place where there were no refs, no rules, only pride and skill. For you, it was also a place of memories, fleeting but vivid. The times you stood on the sidelines with your friends, sharing snacks and commentary, your voices carrying over the court. The way the river glimmered in the background, a backdrop to so many moments that felt small then but monumental now.

It was where you learned to read people—the way their body language shifted, how tension seeped into a game before the first shot was even made. Watching those games, you’d started piecing together what made people tick: the subtle shifts of insecurity masked as arrogance, the way rivalries simmered beneath seemingly friendly smiles. You didn’t know it then, but those countless hours spent as a quiet observer shaped how you moved through the world now—calculating, precise, always looking for the things unsaid. The river court wasn’t just familiar ground; it was where your instincts sharpened, where you learned that every move, every glance, carried weight. And tonight, as you stood on that same cracked pavement, it felt like the court was daring you to see it all again.

Tonight, it didn’t feel like the same court, though. The tension in the air was almost physical, clinging to your skin like the humidity of an oncoming storm. It wasn’t just a game tonight. The stakes, the crowd, the undercurrent of emotion—it felt like the river court itself had absorbed all of it, as if the cracked pavement carried the weight of what was about to unfold. This wasn’t just about basketball; it was about something deeper, darker, more personal. You could feel it in the way the crowd shifted, their voices louder but more uncertain, and in the way the court seemed to hum, as if it, too, was waiting for the storm to break.

Mark pulled up first, his car’s headlights cutting through the fading twilight. He stepped out with a quiet sort of confidence, his movements deliberate, his face composed but taut. He didn’t need theatrics to announce himself; his presence alone spoke volumes. Your friends had left their food and the warmth of their plans to be here, standing with Mark. They didn’t agree with this conflict—most of them thought he should’ve walked away—but their loyalty was steadfast. That was the thing about Mark’s side: smaller, quieter, but unwaveringly close-knit. Their warmth was palpable, a sharp contrast to the restless crowd gathering for Jeno.

And then came Jeno.

He pulled up late, as expected, his sleek, polished car skidding to a halt and kicking up gravel. The gleaming vehicle, pristine and out of place, clashed against the gritty, weathered backdrop of the river court. He moved with an aggression that mirrored the tension building for days, slamming the car door shut as his group of friends—Jaemin, San, Wooyoung—spilled out behind him. They carried themselves with the same air of superiority, the confidence of boys who thought the world was their playground. But it wasn’t them who caught your eye. It was Jeno’s girlfriend, Areum.

Areum followed behind, her expression tight, her posture stiff, moving with the kind of tension that couldn’t be disguised under the polished image she and Jeno projected. This is what they are. Jeno and Areum aren’t just well-known—they’re desired. They’re the kind of couple people talk about, whispering behind their backs, dissecting their every move. People want to be them or be with them. You’ve seen it—the way eyes linger on them too long, filled with envy and something darker. It’s intoxicating, the kind of attention that uplifts, seduces, makes them untouchable in the eyes of everyone watching. But it doesn’t fool you. They can’t fool you.

Areum didn’t cling to Jeno, didn’t move with the ease of someone who felt at home in his orbit. Their relationship was strange—polished on the outside, like a perfect photograph, but hollow where it mattered. They didn’t touch, didn’t exchange glances, and the space between them spoke volumes. You’d noticed it before, the way Areum often felt more like an accessory to Jeno than an equal. Tonight, though, the cracks in their facade felt deeper, the distance between them more glaring, like even the weight of this night couldn’t pull them closer.

You glanced around. Karina was here too, along with a mix of people who didn’t belong—girls batting their lashes at Jeno, boys who barely knew the river court but wanted to bask in the chaos. And then there were the eyes. You felt them, sharp and lingering, their gazes flitting between you, Mark, Jeno, and Areum. They wanted to see you all fall apart, to dissect the tension.

The stark differences between the two sides were impossible to miss. Jeno’s supporters were bigger in number, louder, their voices already filling the space with jeers and taunts. Most of them weren’t even familiar faces, people who had never stepped foot on the river court before. They were just here for the spectacle, drawn in by the promise of drama. Even some of the Seoul Ravens were here—guys who wouldn’t normally be caught dead on this cracked pavement. The river court wasn’t theirs. It wasn’t shaped by them, and they weren’t shaped by it.

Mark’s side was smaller, quieter, but there was a warmth to it, a solidarity that made you feel grounded despite the tension swirling around. Jeno thrived in moments like these, you knew. He lived for the attention, the validation of the crowd. Mark, on the other hand, didn’t need it. He wasn’t here for the spectacle; he was here for himself, for something more meaningful.

The air at the river court was electric, anticipation buzzing through the crowd like static. You stood by the sidelines, arms crossed, watching as Donghyuck stepped forward with a mix of confidence and unease. His eyes flicked to the unfamiliar faces lining the court, a far cry from the usual crowd. The tension in his posture betrayed him, but when he spoke, his voice was smooth, lighthearted, masking the unease.

“Welcome to the river court showdown!” Donghyuck’s voice carried a steady confidence, though the way his gaze darted between Mark and Jeno betrayed his unease. “Tonight, we’ve got a clash of brothers—Mark Lee, the underdog with everything to gain, and Lee Jeno, the Seoul Ravens’ star point guard, the player who’s built his reputation on moments like this. The stakes? As high as they’ve ever been.”

The crowd buzzed with anticipation as Mark grabbed the ball, his movements smooth and composed. He turned it between his fingers, his gaze calm and focused, a quiet intensity radiating from him. Without breaking his focus, he passed the ball to Jeno, the exchange seamless but loaded with tension. Jeno caught it and slammed it into the pavement, the sound slicing through the murmurs like a challenge. His stance was coiled, every movement sharp, deliberate, and charged with aggression. Where Mark’s focus was inward, controlled, Jeno’s energy spilled over, his eyes scanning the crowd with a smirk, feeding off their attention like fuel. They were night and day—one steady and resolute, the other bristling with raw, unrelenting force.

Donghyuck continued, his voice steadying as he found his rhythm. “On one side, we’ve got Jeno—fast, sharp, a force to be reckoned with. On the other, Mark—focused, precise, with everything to lose.”

You glanced at your friends. Their support for Mark was unshakable, but the nervous energy was palpable. Yangyang shifted on his feet, biting his lip, while Hyeju whispered something to Shotaro, her expression tense. Chenle, standing just behind them, crossed his arms and let out a low whistle, a habit he had when trying to steady himself. You, however, felt none of it. Doubt had no place here—not when it came to Mark. The quiet determination in his eyes didn’t need to be loud or flashy to make its point. You’d seen it before, how he moved in this space like it was built for him, how his focus cut through everything else. This wasn’t just a game—it was Mark in his purest form, and there was no scenario in your mind where he didn’t own it.

Mark dribbled the ball to center court, his movements fluid, every step deliberate, the rhythm of the ball hitting the pavement steady and composed. Jeno shadowed him, his stance wide, his body coiled with tension and energy that seemed ready to snap. The whistle cut through the air, sharp and commanding, and Donghyuck’s voice followed, light but laced with gravity. “And here we go—Mark Lee, steady as ever, playing like the court’s an extension of him. Lee Jeno, the Ravens’ star, all fire and precision, ready to remind everyone why he’s the name they chant. This one’s going to get heated, folks.”

The match was unrelenting, a clash of tension that seemed to ripple through the court itself. Jeno was all motion, fast and volatile, his movements a blur of power and precision. Every dribble was sharp, every step purposeful, and his trash talk was a weapon, thrown out with the confidence of someone who’d never needed to doubt his place. “You don’t belong here, Mark. This isn’t your world.” His voice cut through the crowd, loud enough to leave no question of its target.

Mark didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His silence wasn’t passive; it was deliberate, like he was saving his energy for something that actually mattered. But when Jeno closed in, his taunts like sparks looking for fuel, Mark finally answered. “If it’s not my world,” he said, his voice low but clear, “what are you doing here?” The words weren’t meant for the crowd; they were for Jeno, deliberate and heavy, slicing through the air with quiet authority. It wasn’t a question. It was an indictment.

You didn’t just watch the game—you studied it. Mark moved with a precision that wasn’t flashy, but it made you proud, a quiet reminder of why you’d always believed in him. His shots didn’t just land; they cut through the tension, crisp and clean, like a scalpel finding its mark. Jeno, on the other hand, burned too hot, his aggression almost feral, every step brimming with intensity that verged on desperation. But Mark’s game wasn’t reactionary. He wasn’t here to prove Jeno wrong; he was here to prove something to himself. And watching it unfold, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of what this moment meant—not just for them, but for the quiet battle of identities this court had come to represent.

Donghyuck’s voice carried over the court. “Mark with the shot—nothing but net!” His tone was lively, carrying the energy of the crowd but none of the surprise. Unlike the murmurs rippling through Jeno’s side, Donghyuck didn’t sound shocked—why would he be? This was Mark, and anyone who truly knew him understood this wasn’t luck. It was skill, honed and steady, the kind of precision Donghyuck had seen countless times before.

Jeno’s frustration was impossible to miss. His movements grew sharper, more frantic, his dribbles louder, as though he could force the game back into his control. His shots, once fluid and automatic, began to falter, each miss tightening the tension in the air. But Mark didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t look at Jeno, didn’t acknowledge the taunts or the growing desperation. This wasn’t about outplaying Jeno—it was about playing his own game, proving to himself that he could stand tall here, on his court.

You saw it all happen in what felt like slow motion—the perfect arc of Jeno’s shot, the way the ball seemed destined to slice through the net and shift the momentum in his favor. But then there was Mark, moving with a speed and precision that made it seem as though he’d read Jeno’s mind. He leapt, arm outstretched, and the slap of his hand against the ball reverberated through the court like a firecracker, louder and sharper than any cheer. The ball flew out of bounds, scattering the tension like shrapnel, and the crowd erupted.

Donghyuck’s voice cut through the chaos, his tone brimming with excitement. “Jeno shoots… and misses!” He paused, his disbelief almost theatrical as he added, “Holy crap, did you see that? Someday men will write stories about that block, children will be named after that block, and Argentinian women will weep for it!”

This wasn’t like any game you’d ever watched before. It wasn’t just basketball—it was something raw and alive, every second steeped in stakes that went beyond points on a scoreboard. And yet, as the cheers echoed and your chest tightened with pride, you couldn’t help but feel like this moment belonged to Mark. His focus, his determination, his refusal to bend to the pressure—it wasn’t just impressive, it was something more. You didn’t just feel proud—you felt certain. Certain that this court, this game, this moment, was his.

“Mark with the rebound. He’s fast. He’s focused.” Donghyuck’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and clear, as Mark’s movements were steady, deliberate, and unrelenting as he drove toward the hoop. Jeno was on him, aggressive and desperate, but Mark didn’t falter. Each dribble was purposeful, each step a quiet display of control that left no room for doubt. The court seemed to shrink around them, every sound fading except for the rhythmic echo of the ball hitting the pavement. When Mark reached the edge of the key, he paused just long enough to find his opening. Then, with a quick shift, the ball left his hands in a clean arc that felt inevitable, as though the basket had already accepted it.

The sound of the ball snapping through the net was sharp, definitive, and the crowd erupted a moment later, the realization crashing over them. “And that’s it! Mark Lee wins!” Donghyuck’s voice rang out, full of triumph, his words slicing through the noise like a declaration.

The celebration that followed was instant and chaotic. Mark’s friends surged onto the court, their shouts of excitement filling the air. Yangyang nearly tackled him, laughter spilling out as Nahyun and Shotaro cheered wildly from the sidelines. Chenle was the loudest of them all, his voice carrying over the chaos as he jumped up and down, grinning like he’d won the game himself. You stayed back, the chaos of the celebration folding into the background as your focus sharpened on Mark—not the noise, not the others, but him.

His posture shifted, shoulders easing with relief rather than triumph, the subtle curve of his mouth acknowledging the moment without boasting. Every movement was deliberate, as though the victory wasn’t for anyone but himself. When his gaze swept over the crowd, it lingered briefly, grounding him, marking the moment as his own—not for dominance, but as someone reclaiming what had been taken. This wasn’t just a win over Jeno; it was a quiet, resolute statement that he belonged here. You saw it in the way he carried himself—a transformation so understated most wouldn’t notice, but you did.

You lingered at the edge of the chaos, an observer rather than a participant, fingers brushing the pen in your pocket as you replayed the details in your mind. The celebration faded into irrelevance—noise and emotion held no value compared to the mechanics of what unfolded before you. From a distance, you watched Mark, dissecting the subtle shifts in his posture, the small, deliberate adjustments that spoke volumes. His shoulders eased—not in triumph, but in something quieter, more personal, like relief settling into his frame. The faint curve of his mouth wasn’t a smile; it was a fleeting acknowledgment meant for no one but himself. His gaze swept the crowd, steady and deliberate, cataloging rather than basking, grounding him in something inward. You made mental notes, knowing they would translate later into the project you’d dedicated yourself to—the study of body language under pressure, the unspoken truths told through movement. Each step he took, controlled and methodical, fit into your need to understand, to deconstruct moments like this. You weren’t pulled by the celebration but by the precision of it all, the quiet reclamation in his stance, every shift etched in your mind with the meticulousness you pride yourself on.

But there was something else—something you hadn’t expected. Mark was the center now. The shift was sudden, almost jarring, as if the court itself had realigned its axis around him. Those on Jeno’s side—the people who moments ago were silent in defeat—found themselves glancing at Mark, as though he had somehow claimed not just the game but the space itself. He was the orbit, drawing everyone into his pull with a quiet, understated power that felt impossible to resist. You caught Areum’s gaze lingering on him, her expression unreadable, like she was seeing him in a new light. Karina and the other cheerleaders stood off to the side, biting their lips and batting their lashes, their attention clearly fixated on Mark in a way that was hard to ignore. It was subtle but palpable, a whiplash moment where you realized the court wasn’t just his stage anymore; it was his world.

Your friends’ voices called out your name, cutting through the still noise in your head, but you didn’t turn. You stayed where you were, still and unmoving, rooted at the edge of the celebration. The chaos behind you rolled on—cheers, laughter, movement—but it didn’t pull you in. You weren’t drawn to the noise or the excitement. Instead, your focus lingered on the quieter details, the things others wouldn’t notice. The court felt different now, smaller somehow, as if the space itself carried the weight of what had just happened. It wasn’t that you didn’t care—it was that you cared differently, drawn to the stillness and the meaning left behind after the noise had passed.

But then, something shifted. At first, you barely noticed it, just a flicker on the edge of your awareness—a break in the background noise you’d trained yourself to filter out. You stayed rooted, clinging to the stillness you’d worked so hard to maintain, your focus steady on the court and the aftermath it carried. Yet, an unfamiliar tension crept in, threading its way into your calm. It wasn’t immediate, wasn’t sudden, but like a weight pressing slowly against the edges of your mind, demanding attention you didn’t want to give.

Your senses betrayed you first. A pulse of awareness tugged at your periphery, pulling your focus away from the grounded silence you depended on. You resisted, tried to bury it under the usual steady rhythm of observation, but it was there—persistent, undeniable. Your gaze wavered, almost imperceptibly, before landing on him. Jeno. He was still, rigid, his frame holding a tension that rippled outward like an unseen force. He stood apart, fists tight at his sides, his jaw locked so firmly you could feel the strain even from here.

You told yourself to file it away, to make it part of the project. The mechanics of his stance, the stillness of his form—details to catalog, nothing more. But even as you tried to frame it that way, your thoughts began to fracture. Your gaze lingered too long, no longer following patterns or posture but drawn by something deeper, something that wasn’t supposed to matter. For all his confidence, all the ease with which he usually commanded attention, it was gone—replaced by something raw, something exposed.

You tried to force your thoughts back into order, to rebuild the detachment that had always come so naturally to you. But with every passing moment, the calm you clung to unraveled further. Your eyes betrayed you completely now, tracking the way he stood as though tethered to the court, refusing to move. It wasn’t anger, not entirely. It was something heavier, something that held you in place just as much as it held him.

No one—not your friends, not anyone—had ever drawn your attention away from the steady rhythm of your thoughts, the meticulous focus that always kept you grounded and apart. But Jeno did. His presence reached into that protected space and shattered it, scattering your carefully constructed thoughts until they spiraled in ways you couldn’t control. He hadn’t even looked at you directly, but he didn’t need to. The weight of him was enough—suffocating, consuming, like an unspoken command pressing into the air between you.

You should have stayed rooted in Mark’s win, let Jeno’s loss be a quiet, satisfying afterthought. But the way he stood, so still yet so loud in his silence, wouldn’t let you. His figure was unyielding, locked in place as though the loss itself hadn’t finished with him. He didn’t turn to his friends, didn’t shrug it off, didn’t hide the cracks the way he always had before. He just stood there, unshaken by the noise around him, yet radiating something that made it impossible for you to look away. He wasn’t just in the moment—he was the moment, consuming it, distorting it, and pulling you further from yourself with every second that passed.

You didn’t understand why you couldn’t look away, why the weight of Jeno’s stillness seemed to press against you like gravity. Was it empathy? The thought felt foreign, almost laughable—you weren’t the kind to feel for someone like him, someone who wore his arrogance like armor. Maybe it was curiosity, a morbid fascination with the cracks in his composure, the way someone so sure of himself could falter so completely. But even that didn’t sit right, because it wasn’t just curiosity—it was something heavier, something that twisted uncomfortably in your chest.

Around him, the court began to empty, the crowd thinning as people drifted toward their cars, their voices hushed, their energy subdued. A few lingered at the edges, stealing glances at Jeno but saying nothing, and even his teammates hung back, hesitant, like they didn’t know whether to approach or leave him alone. And he was alone, his presence towering and isolating all at once, his fists tight at his sides, his shoulders tense as if bracing against the silence. It unsettled you, the way the moment seemed to cling to him, and no matter how hard you tried to dissect your reaction, to rationalize why you cared, you came up empty.

The diner hummed with life, its retro charm illuminated by the glow of neon signs that flickered in soft pinks and blues, casting a nostalgic haze over the checkered floors. A jukebox in the corner cycled through crackling tunes from decades past, its rhythm barely audible beneath the chatter and clatter of plates. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling burgers, greasy fries, and milkshakes topped with whipped cream, sweet and heavy like the moment itself.

You slid into a vinyl booth near the back, its cushions worn but inviting, sticking faintly to your skin as you settled in, Yangyang pressed against your side with a closeness that felt familiar. Across from you, Mark claimed his seat, his phone buzzing incessantly on the table, its screen lighting up with every notification. Donghyuck elbowed Chenle for room, while Shotaro balanced precariously on the edge, and Nahyun draped an arm along the backrest as if she owned it. Laughter bubbled up around you, filling the air with a warmth that contrasted sharply with the adrenaline still humming in your veins. The energy was contagious, amplified by the clink of milkshake glasses and the shuffle of servers weaving between tables, balancing trays piled high with burgers and fries.

Mark’s phone buzzed again, the sound cutting briefly through the conversation, but no one seemed to mind. The win had done its job—lifting everyone’s spirits, filling the booth with a kind of camaraderie that felt earned. The river court might’ve been left behind, but its electricity lingered, settling into the diner like it belonged.

“Alright, who’s ordering the milkshakes?” Donghyuck asked, flipping through the laminated menu with exaggerated focus, even though he clearly had it memorized. He tapped the plastic cover dramatically. “I’m thinking vanilla, but if anyone dips their fries in it, we’re fighting.”

“Bold of you to assume your milkshake won’t get stolen first,” Chenle shot back, his grin wide as he leaned over and snatched the menu from Donghyuck’s hands.

“You’re all wrong,” Yangyang chimed in, throwing an arm casually around your shoulders like he’d been crowned the authority on diner orders. “Strawberry milkshakes are undefeated. Right?” He glanced at you, his brows raised expectantly.

You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Depends on who’s paying. I feel like getting chocolate tonight.”

Nahyun leaned back, her nails clicking against her phone case as she slid it into her pocket. “Order whatever you want,” she said lightly, her tone breezy but definitive. “It’s on me. Consider it my treat for Mark’s win.”

Mark glanced up briefly, his lips twitching into a polite, tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, Nahyun,” he said, his voice soft. Her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable before she turned away.

“You’re so sweet,” Shotaro teased, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at Nahyun with adoration. “Our girl’s out here spoiling us.”

Nahyun grinned, rolling her eyes as though she wasn’t the least bit flustered. “You’re all broke, and someone has to keep us fed.”

Yangyang shot you a quick, knowing glance, his lips quirking up in silent acknowledgement. Nahyun was loaded, after all—her father was a well-established businessman with a name that carried weight in every room it entered. She didn’t like to boast about it, though, always downplaying the resources that made moments like this seem effortless for her.

“Mark deserves it,” Nahyun added, her voice gentler now as she leaned forward slightly, her gaze briefly flicking to him. “The win, the attention—you’ve worked hard for this.”

Mark’s smile softened, though his focus seemed to drift as his phone buzzed again on the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

“Mark’s big now,” Donghyuck teased, leaning over to nudge his shoulder, his tone exaggeratedly playful. “The river court king. Bet half the campus is sliding into your DMs.”

Mark laughed, locking his phone with a shrug. “It’s not that serious,” he said, though the flicker of pride in his expression betrayed him.

“Not serious? You’ve been glued to that thing all night,” Yangyang quipped, tossing a fry in his direction. “Who’s got you so distracted? Don’t tell me it’s Areum.”

At the mention of her name, something shifted—not in Mark, but in you. His response was easy, casual, the kind of thing anyone else would accept without a second thought. “It’s nothing. Just some texts,” he said, and his voice carried the same calm steadiness it always had. But you knew him too well, knew the weight of his pauses, the way his focus drifted even when he tried to stay present. It wasn’t anything obvious, not a conscious change, but you felt it anyway, a quiet pull that instinctively made you hesitate.

The laughter and teasing at the table felt distant, like you were watching it play out from a step behind. You’d known Mark for so long, understood his rhythms in a way no one else did, and this was different. Subtle, but there. The slight shift in how he carried himself, how he let the group orbit around him, how his attention flickered in and out. It wasn’t that he was pulling away deliberately—it was more like a current you couldn’t see but could feel, pulling him toward something else, leaving you tethered in a place that no longer felt the same. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was there, a quiet pull you couldn’t ignore.

Still, the energy around the booth buzzed on, as chaotic and lighthearted as ever, pulling you back into the present. Chenle, predictably, had stolen Yangyang’s burger, holding it just out of reach while Yangyang swatted at him. “You’re insufferable,” Yangyang grumbled, leaning across the table with exaggerated annoyance, his arms flailing dramatically as the group erupted into laughter.

Donghyuck, leaning back against the booth with a smirk, shook his head. “It’s like watching two toddlers fight over a toy. Pathetic.”

Shotaro laughed, breaking a fry in half before tossing one piece at Chenle. “Just share the burger, man. Yangyang’s probably starving.”

“Starving for attention,” Chenle shot back, grinning as he finally handed the burger back.

Nahyun, ever the composed one, glanced up from her milkshake. “You boys are exhausting. Remind me why I hang out with you again?”

“Because you love us,” Donghyuck quipped, winking at her. “And you pay for our food.”

Mark chuckled quietly, the sound soft but warm as he leaned back in his seat. Finally, he had set his phone down and cleared his throat. “I keep getting messages about Jeno’s party,” he said casually, his tone light but purposeful. “I think we should go.”

The table fell quiet, all eyes turning to him. Donghyuck raised an eyebrow. “Really? You want to party with Jeno after what just happened?”

Mark shrugged again, leaning back in his seat with a casual air that didn’t quite match the flicker of something unsure in his eyes. “Why not? We deserve to celebrate, and he throws good parties. Plus, what’s he gonna do to me? To us?”

Donghyuck snorted. “I can think of a few things. None of them are great.”

Shotaro frowned slightly, clearly uneasy. “It feels weird, though. After the game and everything… would he even want us there?”

Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Does it matter? He’s not going to do anything. It’s just a party. And honestly? I’m not gonna let him think he can intimidate us. We deserve to have a good time.”

Yangyang hesitated but finally nodded, tossing a fry into his mouth. “If Mark says it’s fine, it’s fine. Who’s going to argue with him after that win?”

The group began to come around, one by one, as Mark’s quiet confidence settled over the table. Even Nahyun, who had initially looked skeptical, sighed and leaned back. “Fine. But if it turns into a disaster, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Mark laughed softly, his gaze finally landing on you. “What about you?”

You frowned slightly, your reluctance clear in the way your fingers tapped lightly against the table. “Do I have to?”

“For me,” Mark said simply, his tone softer now, almost persuasive in its simplicity.

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. You didn’t want to go. The idea of stepping into Jeno’s world felt wrong, like crossing a line you weren’t ready for. But Mark’s gaze held steady, and you knew the answer before you spoke. “Fine,” you muttered finally. “For you.”

The group’s mood lifted again, the earlier tension dissolving into laughter and teasing as plans were tossed around for what to wear and who would show up. But the unease lingered at the edges of your mind, quiet but insistent. Mark’s growing confidence, his ease with stepping into Jeno’s orbit, felt like the start of something you couldn’t quite name yet—and you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

The upscale apartment towered over the skyline, a shimmering pillar of glass and metal that exuded wealth and exclusivity. Even from the sidewalk, it drew stares from passersby, the kind of building that made you stop and wonder who could possibly afford to live there. As you and your friends approached the entrance, the conversation faltered, each of you glancing upward, wide-eyed and momentarily silenced by the sheer grandeur of it.

Inside, the lobby was sleek and cavernous, the kind of space designed to intimidate. Marble floors stretched out in gleaming, uninterrupted perfection, reflecting the soft golden light of chandeliers that hung like modern sculptures. Every detail was curated—the smooth black leather chairs arranged in precise symmetry, the abstract artwork that lined the walls, the faint scent of something expensive and floral lingering in the air. You hadn’t been here before, but the weight of it pressed against your chest. This wasn’t just an apartment; it was a symbol, a statement of status that felt like it had nothing to do with the lives most people lived.

Yangyang let out a low whistle, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where he lives? Seriously?”

Donghyuck snorted, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Of course it is. It’s Jeno. Did you think he was going to live in a regular dorm like the rest of us?”

Chenle raised a brow, his voice light but tinged with disbelief. “This isn’t even a home—it’s a fortress.”

You stole a glance at Mark, catching the faintest flicker of something in his expression as he took it all in. His posture was steady, but his jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the lobby. Indifference. That’s what it looked like on the surface, but you knew him too well to miss the weight behind it. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel the dissonance in him. This world, Jeno’s world, was so far removed from his own—a world where appearances and wealth dictated everything.

The elevator ride was silent, the mirrored walls reflecting back the tension none of you dared to name. Each passing floor only heightened the unease, and though Mark kept his head high, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. You wondered if he was thinking about the river court, the place he’d claimed as his own, the place he fought to hold onto. The implications were stark—Jeno’s life was one of privilege, his apartment a stark testament to a kind of luxury Mark had never known.

And yet, Mark didn’t falter. When the elevator doors slid open, revealing a hallway bathed in soft lighting and lined with minimalist decor, he stepped out first, his movements steady. You saw it then, the subtle shift in his shoulders, the way he squared them just slightly, like he was ready to walk into another game. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice low and calm, though his gaze lingered for a fraction too long on the massive double doors ahead of you, the sound of distant bass thumping behind them.

The party hit you before you even stepped through the door, the bass vibrating through the walls in relentless, bone-deep pulses. As the door swung open, the scent hit you—a dizzying mix of expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and something rawer beneath it: smoke, sweat, and the faint bite of something illicit. It was overwhelming, like walking into a storm of excess, where every sensation was heightened, every edge sharpened.

The apartment itself was striking, luxurious in a way that felt almost clinical. From the outside, it had been a fortress of wealth, gleaming and untouchable, but inside, the chaos unraveled its perfection. The once-pristine marble floors were sticky with spilled drinks; velvet cushions were tossed haphazardly onto the ground, stained and trampled underfoot. Sleek black leather couches, carefully arranged for mingling, had been overtaken—strangers lounging, laughing, or passing joints back and forth like they owned the space. A glass-top coffee table bore the brunt of the mess: red solo cups, half-eaten snacks, and the unmistakable burn marks from ash that hadn’t quite made it into the tray. The air reeked faintly of weed, the scent clashing with the sharper tang of alcohol soaked into the upholstery.

Everywhere you looked, the apartment bore Jeno’s mark—modern, sleek, and deliberately impressive. The walls were lined with trophies, sports medals, and action shots of him mid-game, frozen in moments of triumph. Framed magazine covers featuring Jeno in his prime hung near the mounted TV that dominated the living room, but their significance was buried under the noise of the party. A tall bookshelf near the corner displayed a mix of Jaemin’s art books and a few carefully placed plants—small signs of someone quieter, someone who didn’t thrive in this chaos. Jaemin’s reading chair, tucked beneath a tasteful lamp, was the only corner of the room untouched by the storm, its presence almost laughably out of place amidst the mess.

The open space was designed for gatherings—couches arranged for conversation, edgy bar stools in brushed steel pulled up to a sleek black granite counter—but the party had warped it. Furniture had been shoved aside to accommodate the crowd, and the careful curation of Jeno’s life was slowly being erased by the sheer weight of it all. A framed photo of one of Jeno’s biggest wins lay shattered on the floor, symbolic of how his true self—the ambitious athlete, the rising star—was being buried beneath the excess he hosted.

“Jeno’s parties are insane, he has a reputation.” Donghyuck muttered, leaning in close enough for you to catch the hint of tequila on his breath. His gaze swept the room with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Remember that one time someone ended up naked in the pool? Fully dressed when they got here. Ended up naked. In December.”

Chenle, already nursing his second drink, let out a sharp laugh. “That was Jeno’s fault. Pretty sure he dared them.”

“Not Jeno,” Shotaro said, swaying slightly as he leaned against the counter, eyes glassy from the buzz. “It had to be Jaemin. He’s the quiet troublemaker. You know, the ones you don’t see coming.”

Yangyang leaned casually against you, his elbow brushing yours as he scoffed. “Jaemin? That guy doesn’t dare anyone to do anything. He’s probably off somewhere reading. If it was anyone, it had to be Jeno. You’ve seen him—he eats this kind of chaos up.”

Donghyuck snorted, grabbing a shot and passing it to Chenle. “Eats it up? He runs it. Guy stirs the pot, sits back, and watches it all go down.”

“Remember that time someone got caught hooking up in Jeno’s bathroom?” Chenle said, barely containing his laughter. “I swear the guy ran out without his pants.”

Yangyang leaned back, biting back a grin. “Not before Jeno walked in and decided to stay. Didn’t he just… join in?”

Donghyuck barked out a laugh, slamming his drink on the counter. “He didn’t just join in—he locked the door and told everyone to wait their turn.”

Chenle doubled over, tears in his eyes. “The way people were banging on that door for ages, like their lives depended on it. Only Jeno could turn his own bathroom into some kind of sex den.”

“You think that’s bad? Look over there,” Donghyuck added, nodding toward the dark hallway where a couple disappeared seconds ago. “Guarantee he’s set up the guest room for round two.”

You stared at them, shaking your head in disbelief. “Wow, Jeno is such a jerk. Doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Hasn’t he been with Areum for several years?”

Mark, who had been quiet up until now, looked up from his drink with a shrug. “Not exactly. They’re on and off a lot. Honestly, they’ve spent just as much time apart as they have together.”

Your brow furrowed, and you glanced back toward the chaos. “That’s… complicated.”

“Welcome to Jeno,” Donghyuck said again, raising his glass like he was toasting the chaos itself.

“Don’t forget the guy who lit a joint with Jeno’s scented candle,” Chenle added, grinning as he tipped his drink back. “High as hell and smelling like lavender.”

You shake your head in disbelief as the group exchange stories back and forth. You didn’t belong here. Not really. But your friends were with you, grounding you in their chaotic way. Donghyuck had already taken a shot and was loudly challenging Chenle to do the same, while Shotaro swayed to the music with a looseness that made him look like he’d been born to dance. Yangyang was at your side, his hand brushing your elbow whenever you seemed to falter, his presence a quiet anchor in the madness. “You good?” he asked, his voice barely cutting through the din, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a tight smile. The truth was, the air felt too thick, the music too loud, the sheer volume of people overwhelming. But you stayed. For Mark. For the group.

Mark was at the center of it all. People you didn’t know—some you recognized from the river court, others from campus—seemed to orbit him, clapping him on the back, offering him drinks, pulling him into conversations. His phone buzzed constantly in his hand, but he barely acknowledged it, his gaze drifting now and then to Areum. She stood with Jeno on the other side of the room, flanked by Karina and Winter, their presence impossibly polished, their beauty almost weaponized in the way they commanded attention.

Jaemin stood near the edge of the chaos, his expression unreadable as his eyes flickered over the mess that sprawled across the apartment. He sighed, shaking his head, the movement subtle but telling. You only knew Jaemin from tutoring him, but it had become clear early on that he was someone who valued his peace and personal space. He had a calmness about him, a quiet, introverted nature that seemed at odds with the chaos of the wild parties Jeno was known for throwing. He wasn’t the type to seek attention or thrive in the noise—he preferred stillness, his presence subdued but steady. It was almost jarring to see him here, surrounded by the mess and the loud, unruly energy, yet somehow still managing to keep a part of himself separate from it all.

It surprised you that he was on the basketball team at all, let alone so closely tied to Jeno. The bond between them was evident in the way Jaemin moved through the space with a familiarity that spoke of years spent by Jeno’s side. They weren’t just teammates; they were something deeper. Best friends since childhood, practically brothers. There was a loyalty between them that ran deep, even when their personalities seemed to diverge so sharply. Jeno was loud, commanding, thriving on the chaos he created, while Jaemin was his quieter counterpart, the steady presence who stayed even when it didn’t seem like he fit.

In contrast, the other Seoul Ravens dominated a corner of the room, their energy loud and brash, their voices and laughter cutting through the space like a blade. Soobin, San, and Wooyoung didn’t need to dance to draw attention; their charisma was magnetic, pulling eyes and energy toward them like a gravitational force. They were effortless, their confidence bordering on arrogance, but even they couldn’t outshine Jeno. No one ever did.

Jeno was everywhere and nowhere, his movements fluid as he worked the room, drink in hand, a sharp smile cutting through the tension that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He wasn’t sulking, wasn’t brooding—but the anger from earlier hadn’t entirely left him, simmering beneath the surface. You hated how easily he drew your gaze, the way his shirt clung to his frame, the veins in his arms catching the dim light when he tipped his drink to his lips. He was beautiful in the most infuriating way, his presence commanding without effort. But Areum at his side was an afterthought. They barely spoke, her hand resting on the stem of her glass while his attention wandered. It felt… off. Detached.

Yangyang nudged you, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You look like you need some air.”

You didn’t argue. The party was too much—too loud, too hot, too suffocating. You hated parties for this exact reason: the way they seemed to demand something of you, the expectation to blend in, to enjoy the noise and chaos when all you wanted was a quiet corner and a little distance. Yangyang led you through the throng, his hand on your back guiding you until you slipped through a side door and into the cool night.

This place was a maze, the kind of sprawling luxury that felt both overwhelming and impersonal, but Yangyang moved through it with surprising ease, his confidence unshaken as he led you through the labyrinth of rooms and corridors. His sharp jawline caught the dim light as he glanced back at you, his hand brushing against your elbow in a subtle, protective gesture that didn’t go unnoticed. After a few wrong turns, you both stumbled onto a quiet pocket of the apartment: a balcony with a stunning skyline view. It stretched wide, the sleek glass railing giving way to an unobstructed view of the glittering city below. Tall stools were arranged near a brushed-steel bar cart, the surface polished to perfection, though it seemed untouched tonight. The space was eerily empty, a quiet reprieve from the chaos inside.

You leaned against the bar, Yangyang passing you a drink as you glanced around. Small plants lined one side of the balcony—succulents in pastel planters, a tiny herb garden pot nestled among them. They were a gentle contrast to the sharp, high-tech edges of the rest of the space. Inside, the apartment carried the same contradictions: a shelf stacked with sleek, framed sports memorabilia next to an understated stack of art books, and a cold, modern sectional softened by an oversized, well-worn knit throw.

You turned to Yangyang, the question bubbling up before you could stop yourself. “Yangyang,” you said softly, your voice low against the hum of the city, “does Jeno live with anyone?”

Yangyang nodded, taking a sip from his cup before answering. “Jaemin’s his roommate. They’ve been close forever—like brothers, practically.”

You exhaled, leaning back slightly. “That explains it.” The contrast made sense now—the scattered pieces of personality you’d noticed throughout the apartment. The herb garden on the balcony. A reading corner tucked away in the living room. The occasional soft touch amid Jeno’s sleek, modern display of wealth. You could see both of them in the space: Jeno’s need to impress and Jaemin’s quiet search for peace.

Yangyang walked toward the glass railing, gesturing for you to join him. As you approached, the view below caught your breath in your throat. The city lights stretched endlessly in one direction, glittering like a sea of stars. But just beneath the balcony, a hidden garden sprawled—a pocket of calm in the middle of the chaos. String lights draped between the trees, casting a warm golden glow over stone pathways and soft greenery. The scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers reached you even from here, clean and grounding, and for the first time that night, you felt like you could truly breathe.

Yangyang handed you a plastic cup, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The rim was cool against your lips as he encouraged you to drink. “Better?” he asked, his voice quiet, his gaze steady and warm as it lingered on you.

“Much,” you admitted, exhaling a long breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. These quiet moments were everything—the antidote to the overwhelming night you’d been navigating.

He smiled, soft but with a flicker of playfulness that you knew all too well. “See? I know what I’m doing.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, the tension in your chest loosening just a little more. “You’re a good friend.”

The peace didn’t last. A shout cut through the stillness, sharp and angry, slicing through the muted hum of the city below. Both your heads snapped toward the noise, your breath catching as Yangyang instinctively straightened beside you, his drink set down with deliberate care. His expression shifted, tightening, and you missed the way his jaw ticked when you said the word friend with a conviction you wholeheartedly believed.

You and Yangyang stood above the garden, leaning slightly over the railing as you gazed below. The soft glow of the string lights cast flickering patterns over the greenery, but it wasn’t enough to distract from the voices rising from the apartment. Inside, near the far wall, Jeno and Areum stood locked in a tense standoff. Their words, low and cutting, drifted out, slicing through the muted hum of the party as if the air itself had been stilled by the weight of their argument. Around them, the usual chaos of the party seemed to pause, as though everyone was quietly attuned to the tension radiating from that corner.

“Are you serious?” Areum’s voice rose, trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief that carried across the room. “You bet on me?” Her words cut through the air like a slap, and even from where you stood, the rawness in her tone made your chest tighten.

Jeno’s response came in a low growl, the words edged with venom and frustration, though you couldn’t make out every detail. His stance was unyielding, his shoulders squared, but there was no triumph in his posture—only a kind of cold, simmering fury.

“Let’s go to my room,” he bit out suddenly, the sharpness of his voice leaving no room for negotiation. He didn’t look at her, didn’t look at anyone, his gaze fixed somewhere distant as he turned on his heel. His movements were rigid, his usual confidence replaced with something harsher, more volatile.

Areum hesitated, her expression shifting between fury and humiliation as her hand tightened around the stem of her glass. For a moment, it seemed like she might stay rooted there, but then she followed him, her steps brisk, the tension in her frame palpable. The sound of the door slamming shut reverberated through the space, silencing the murmurs that had begun to ripple through the room.

Yangyang nudged your arm gently, his voice low. “Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the main room. “Let’s go find the others.”

You followed him reluctantly, your thoughts still tangled in the confrontation you’d just witnessed. Inside, the chaos surged again, but it wasn’t the same. The buzz was different now—hushed whispers, curious glances, and stolen conversations feeding the room like static electricity.

“Did you see Areum storm off?” Donghyuck exclaimed as soon as you rejoined the group. He was already holding a drink, his cheeks slightly flushed. “That was brutal.”

Chenle leaned in conspiratorially, his grin as sharp as ever. “Brutal? Jeno had a full meltdown. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Shotaro, oblivious as always, swayed his way over to you mid-dance move, his hands raised in mock innocence. “What happened? I was on the dance floor!” he exclaimed, his movements loose and carefree, as though he hadn’t just walked into the aftermath of a storm. The contrast was almost comedic, his carefree rhythm completely out of sync with the tension simmering around him.

“Jeno’s a mess, that’s what,” Donghyuck said with a smirk, swirling his drink. “Shit like this is always happening at his parties. This is just another Friday for him.”

Your gaze swept the room, catching sight of Mark lingering near the bar. His expression was hard to read, his fingers idly toying with the rim of his drink as if he were deep in thought. Something about his stillness struck you, and before you could second-guess yourself, you walked over to him.

You made your way toward Mark, your steps cutting cleanly through the noise around you, the weight of what you’d overheard pressing heavily on your chest. Areum’s words replayed in your mind, sharp and cutting: that Jeno had a deal with Mark, one that involved her as some twisted prize. The very idea of it unsettled you, twisting your stomach into knots. “What’s this about you and Jeno betting on Areum?” you asked, your voice low but firm, each word deliberate and sharp, demanding an answer.

Mark blinked, his head snapping toward you. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your arms crossing. “Is it true?”

Mark sighed, his shoulders dropping as he glanced away briefly. “Yeah… before the showdown, Jeno and I made a bet. If I won, I’d get to stay on the team—and I bet I could have Areum. If he won, I’d have to leave.”

The words hit you like a slap, and before you could stop yourself, you jabbed him hard in the arm, your expression tightening with disbelief. “What the fuck, Mark? Betting on a girl? That’s not like you at all.” He winced, rubbing his arm as his gaze met yours, his posture shifting uncomfortably under the weight of your accusation.

“I wasn’t serious,” he defended, his voice low but firm. “I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. You know how he is—arrogant, always trying to one-up everyone. I wasn’t going to follow through.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening with disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even think something like that, whether you’d follow it though or not. You’re one of the good guys, Mark.”

Mark’s jaw tightened, his expression softening slightly. “I would never actually do it. I just… I wanted to put him in his place. That’s all.”

Before you could respond, the sound of murmurs pulled your attention to the surrounding partygoers. Their whispers had grown louder, feeding off the tension in the room like vultures circling prey. You glanced around and realized people nearby were eavesdropping, their gazes darting between you, Mark, and the aftermath of Jeno and Areum’s confrontation, hungry for the next piece of gossip.

Yiren, Aisha, and Mia stood near the drinks table, their voices low but sharp, ensuring their words carried just far enough to be heard.

“Wow,” Yiren muttered, swirling her drink lazily. “That’s… rough.”

“Sucks to be her,” Aisha added, her tone flat, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at her lips.

Mia let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Guess she’s learning the hard way.”

Their remarks hung in the air, dripping with feigned detachment, their lack of sympathy slicing through the atmosphere. They didn’t bother to hide their interest, their words quiet enough to pass as casual but biting enough to linger.

Across the room, Karina and Winter—Areum’s closest friends—stood by the bar. Neither of them looked concerned, their expressions carefully indifferent. It was almost jarring, their lack of reaction, but you could tell there was more to it. Maybe they were used to this kind of drama. Or maybe they blamed Areum for getting involved with Jeno in the first place.

Amidst the heavy drama, you caught glimpses of Donghyuck and Chenle at a makeshift drinking game with a few of the Seoul Ravens guys. They were clearly hammered, Chenle’s laugh carrying over the din of the party while Donghyuck shouted something unintelligible, waving his glass in the air. Every so often, they yelled for you or Mark to join in, but the weight of the night kept you rooted, too consumed by the fallout to respond.

Shotaro, oblivious as ever, was happily dancing among random partygoers, a carefree contrast to the tension that gripped the room. Yangyang, ever the anchor, hovered nearby, his eyes darting between you and Mark. He tried to check on you more than once, his hand brushing against your arm in quiet concern, but each time, something else demanded your attention, leaving him trailing behind, his brow furrowed in frustration.

Nahyun stood further away, sipping from her glass as her gaze flickered between Mark and the chaos. Her expression was unreadable, but she kept glancing at him, her focus lingering longer than it should have. Shotaro, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware, too lost in the rhythm of the music to notice anything beyond the dance floor.

Then Donghyuck appeared, stumbling slightly as he reached you, his words slurred but sharp enough to land. “Word is Jeno just dumped Areum. And for good.” He paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle. “Apparently, she’s sobbing upstairs. He made it clear—this isn’t one of their breaks. It’s done. Over. She’s heartbroken.”

The words hit you, and you gasped, the shock twisting your stomach. You turned to Mark instinctively, searching his face for a reaction, but he was already moving away, his shoulders rigid as he slipped into the crowd without a word.

Your eyes followed his path through the throng of people, bracing yourself when you saw Mark and Jeno crossing paths near the edge of the room. Their interaction was brief—a few words exchanged that you couldn’t hear—but the energy between them was unmistakable. It wasn’t tense, not outright, but it wasn’t friendly either. Somewhere in the middle, simmering with unspoken frustration and emotions that seemed ready to boil over at any moment.

But then, without a glance back, Mark disappeared, his steps purposeful as he ascended the staircase leading upstairs. The room felt smaller, heavier, as if everything hinged on what would happen next. This moment, you realized, was a pivot point.

It would be the one to change his life forever.

The party felt like it had been swallowed by a dark undercurrent, the energy pulsing with something heavier than the bass vibrating through the walls. Amidst the clinking glasses, careless laughter, and swaying bodies, one thread of tension stood out: Jeno. His presence loomed, even when he wasn’t in sight, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

The fallout from the river court was still fresh, his loss to Mark an unspoken shadow over the night. Add to that the bet, the breakup, and Jeno was more than just a name on people’s lips—he was the source of the drama everyone had come to revel in. You caught snippets of murmured conversations, hints of his movements through the apartment. Someone mentioned seeing him nearly knock over a table in frustration, another laughed about how he’d brushed off a girl trying to flirt with him.

Jeno wasn’t sulking, wasn’t brooding—he didn’t need to. Even without trying, his energy was volatile enough to crackle through the walls, drawing eyes and igniting speculation. A few bold partygoers seemed almost eager to provoke him, circling closer, testing boundaries. It felt as though everyone was waiting for something—an eruption, a confrontation, a moment where the tension snapped and spilled over.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The party, the tension, the endless whispers—it was all too much. “I’m heading out,” you announced, your voice cutting through the noise. You avoided their surprised looks from your friends, already standing up and brushing imaginary lint off your clothes.

Yangyang immediately straightened, his brow furrowing. “I’ll take you home.”

“Me too,” Donghyuck added, already reaching for his jacket.

You shook your head, offering them a small smile to ease their concern. “It’s okay. I can handle it. I’ll book an Uber.”

Yangyang hesitated, his eyes scanning your face, but you stood firm. “I’ll be fine,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Just… stay here. Have fun. I’ll text you when I get home.”

Donghyuck exchanged a glance with Yangyang, then shrugged. “Fine. But if you don’t text, we’re coming to find you.”

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips, more reflex than amusement, as you forced a nod. “Deal.” Without looking back, you turned toward the hallway, the distant pulse of the party fading behind you like an afterthought. But as the sound grew quieter, the weight in your chest grew heavier. Leaving wasn’t just about escaping the noise or the heat of too many bodies pressed together; it felt like trying to outrun something larger, something sharp and inescapable that had settled deep in your chest.

The hallway stretched before you, lined with identical doors and sharp, minimalist edges. Everything gleamed under muted lighting, the kind of cold perfection that left no room for warmth. You moved through it with purpose, but as each turn led to another unfamiliar corridor, your determination began to unravel. The apartment was a labyrinth, designed more for show than function, and you were caught in its web, spinning deeper into its maze-like silence.

You told yourself you were simply searching for the exit, but your steps slowed, hesitation creeping in with each door you passed. Something about this place made you linger—curiosity, fascination, or perhaps the knowledge that leaving wasn’t as urgent as it had first felt.

A door caught your eye. Slightly ajar, it stood apart from the others, a faint glow spilling into the dim hallway like an invitation. The handle was cool under your palm as you pushed it open slowly, the breath catching in your throat as the room beyond revealed itself.

It was a monument to his achievements, a gallery of accomplishments that demanded attention.

Trophies glinted under warm light, their metallic surfaces catching and reflecting the glow like captured fire. Medals hung in perfect symmetry, their ribbons vivid against the dark shelves. Framed jerseys lined the walls, their bold numbers standing out like markers of past victories. Photographs were scattered throughout—Jeno mid-jump, his face a mask of fierce determination; Jeno drenched in sweat, his hands gripping a trophy; Jeno smiling with his teammates, the picture of triumph.

But it wasn’t just basketball. Academic certificates were framed alongside the sports memorabilia, their polished plaques and embossed seals a testament to a relentless pursuit of excellence. Engineering awards and science fair ribbons filled the spaces in between, balanced with letters of recognition from world-class institutions you knew well—MIT for engineering, FIBA for basketball. You always knew Jeno was intelligent, but seeing him acknowledged by names of this caliber felt almost surreal. Every piece was deliberate, curated, a seamless display of achievement.

As your gaze swept across the room, it caught on something that disrupted the flawless symmetry—a torn jersey, encased in glass. Small and clearly from his youth, its fabric was frayed and stitched together with uneven, amateur hands. The imperfections stood in stark contrast to the polished brilliance surrounding it, yet it commanded attention. It was the only piece that revealed struggle, rawness—a crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor of perfection.

Your feet carried you closer without thought, drawn to the display. The jersey’s stitches told a story—of effort, of failure, of resilience. It didn’t fit the flawless narrative surrounding it, but that only made it feel more real, more intimate.

You leaned into the wall’s cool surface, fingers curling instinctively around the spiral of your notebook. The pen moved without hesitation, tracing the polished lines of the room onto the page—the trophies catching the light, the torn jersey stitched with uneven hands, a single imperfection amidst calculated perfection. The motions were practiced, precise, capturing each observation as though the details alone could unlock something vital.

Your notes shifted, bleeding seamlessly into fragments from earlier: the river court, sharp words cutting through the air, the weight of tension in every movement. The faint bass from the party hummed beneath it all, a distant thread pulling at your focus, but you pressed on, turning the moment into something structured, something useful. This was for your project—at least, that’s what you told yourself, even as the stillness of the room wrapped tighter around you, every detail anchoring you deeper into its grip.

A faint smile touched your lips as you jotted down a final note, your heartbeat finally evening out. Just a few quick observations, you told yourself. Then you’d leave. But you didn’t stop. The pull was stronger than you expected. Quietly, almost guiltily, you reached for your phone, snapping a few photos of the room. The soft click of the shutter seemed too loud, echoing in the silence. This was for your project, you reminded yourself, though the tightness in your chest whispered otherwise.

But the calm shattered when the door behind you snapped open.

Your entire body went rigid, the notebook clutched so tightly to your chest that your fingers ached. Jeno stood in the doorway, his broad frame shadowing the room, shoulders tense and chest rising with slow, controlled breaths that betrayed the storm beneath. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone, a vein in his neck pulsing visibly under the dim light. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, locked onto yours with a heat that made your stomach twist, flicking briefly to the notebook in your hands like it was a weapon aimed directly at him.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low, dangerous, carrying a jagged edge that scraped against your composure. The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality, sealing you in, the sound loud in the silence.

Your throat went dry, but you forced yourself to speak, gripping the notebook as if it could shield you from the weight of his gaze. “Nothing. I’m just leaving.”

He didn’t move, but his presence expanded, his gaze cutting through the air and landing squarely on the notebook in your hands. His eyes lingered, heavy and sharp, as if dissecting every inch of it—of you. The muscle in his jaw ticked, a brief yet telling betrayal of the tension coiled in his frame. His anger wasn’t loud; it didn’t need to be. It pressed into the room, hot and suffocating, like a force you couldn’t ignore. You shifted instinctively, no hesitation in your steps, aiming to brush past him without a word, your shoulders back, your head high, but his hand shot out, lightning-fast and unforgiving. It wrapped around your wrist, firm but not crushing, halting you mid-step.

The impact was immediate. In one fluid motion, he pulled you and turned, your back colliding with the wall with a soft thud. A startled gasp left your lips, your notebook slipping from your fingers to dangle uselessly by your side. His body followed, a solid, immovable force pressing into yours, caging you between him and the cold wall. His chest barely grazed yours, enough to steal the air from your lungs, his proximity overwhelming. Heat radiated from him, a searing contrast to the chilled surface at your back.

You tried to inhale, to regain control, but his scent wrapped around you first—Something heady and sharp, a woodsy scent tangled with the faint bite of smoke, cutting through the air like a temptation you couldn’t escape. The weight of his hand remained on your wrist, pinning it just enough to keep you still but not enough to bruise. His other arm braced against the wall beside your head, boxing you in completely.

“What the hell is this?” His voice was a low snarl, and he nodded toward the notebook still clenched in your hands.

The words were barely out before you planted your hand firmly against his chest, shoving him back just enough to create space, reclaiming a fragment of control in the process. His sharp eyes followed the movement, narrowing with unrelenting focus, but he didn’t resist. Not yet. The heat of his body lingered, palpable even with the small distance you’d forced between you. Your breath hitched as you steadied yourself, flipping open the notebook with deliberate precision, the pages whispering against your fingers. Then, without hesitation, you let the words pour out, each one landing like the sharp crack of a whip.

“Lee Jeno,” you began, your voice sharp, deliberate, each word calculated to land like a blow. “Arrogant. Reckless. Self-absorbed.” The pen in your hand moved with purpose, its scratch against the paper slicing through the heavy silence. You didn’t just write the words; you said them, letting them hang in the air between you. “Short-tempered. Led by ego, not logic.” Your gaze lifted briefly, meeting him with a challenge, before returning to the page. It wasn’t an accident. It was a provocation.

The weight of his presence pressed against you like a storm building at your back, his silence louder than anything he could have said. You didn’t falter. “Irresponsible,” you continued, your tone colder now, sharper. “Thinks he’s untouchable.” The tension was suffocating, his breath audible behind you, but you refused to stop, the pointed edge of your words cutting deeper with every stroke of your pen.

The tension shattered in an instant. With a speed that left you breathless, Jeno moved, tearing the notebook from your grip before you could even think to hold on tighter. The sheer force of it left you gasping, the sound sharp and startled as your back hit the cold wall behind you. The heat of his body closed in, erasing the space between you, suffocating in its intensity.

“Your project,” he hissed, the venom in his tone sinking into your skin as his fingers tightened briefly around your wrist before releasing it. His hand braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in, while his other hand lifted the notebook, the motion swift and deliberate, like he was ripping away your control. “You mean this?” he continued, his voice low and cutting, the notebook dangling from his grip like a taunt, daring you to respond.

He held it above you, using his height advantage effortlessly, his smirk sharp, deliberate, like the blade of a knife pressing into soft flesh. His body was so close, the heat of him licking at your skin, his chest brushing faintly against yours with every slow, measured breath. His arm stayed raised, muscles taut and flexing just enough to draw your attention, a silent reminder of his strength, his control. The weight of his dominance was physical, palpable—his free hand resting on the wall beside your head, caging you in as his scent, heady and sharp, filled every shallow inhale you managed. His eyes dragged over you like a slow burn, flicking from your parted lips to the slight rise and fall of your chest, as though cataloging every reaction you couldn’t suppress.

He flipped the notebook open, pressing it against the wall with one hand, his eyes moving swiftly over the pages, the crease in his brow deepening with every note he absorbed. The corners of his mouth twisted into something between amusement and irritation, a sharp exhale slipping past his lips as he caught glimpses of your observations. He didn’t care that he was invading your space, your secrecy—it wasn’t even about the notebook anymore. It was about peeling back every layer, uncovering every thought you’d dared to put on paper about him, dissecting the way you saw him as if it held the answers to his frustration. His grip on the notebook tightened as he lingered on a particular line, the muscle in his jaw twitching in a way that betrayed his otherwise cool exterior. The need to read everything, to know exactly how you thought of him, burned in his eyes, unrelenting, as though your notes could explain the unrelenting pull between you.

Above you, the notebook became both a shield and a weapon, his towering frame closing the space further, radiating power and dominance as if he knew exactly how to wield it. He snapped it shut with a deliberate flick, the sound sharp and final, before letting it dangle carelessly from his grip, mocking in its weightlessness, his presence pressing into you like a command you weren’t sure you wanted to disobey.

“Every move I make, every mistake—you write it all down, don’t you? You love dissecting me. His voice dropped lower, smooth but cutting, each word dragging across your nerves like a deliberate provocation. “Tell me,” he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your temple, “what did you think you’d find? Something worth understanding?”

“Give it back, Jeno,” you snapped, your voice sharp with rising fury. You reached for it, but he held it higher, his smirk twisting into something cruel. “I’m done with this party. I just want to leave.”

“Running away again?” His tone was mocking, the sarcasm cutting. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You always watch from the sidelines, scribbling in your little book. And then you vanish. But not this time.”

He stepped closer, his body pressing more firmly into yours, the heat between you becoming unbearable. You could feel every shift of his muscles, the unrelenting tension rolling off him like static electricity.

“Jeno, stop,” you tried again, your voice faltering but firm.

“Stop what?” he bit out, his voice sharp, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Stop calling out your bullshit? Or stop letting you treat me like some experiment?”

You exhaled sharply, your anger surging past your unease. “Your meltdown isn’t my responsibility,” you spat, your words cutting through the charged air like a blade. “You humiliated yourself.”

His expression flickered—pain, pride, fury—all flashing across his face in a heartbeat before his smirk returned, colder this time. “Maybe I’ll humiliate you next.”

Your chest heaved against his, the sensation maddening as you struggled to gather the strength to push him away. But the storm in your chest betrayed you—frustration, defiance, and something darker tangled together until you could barely tell them apart. “Let me go,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone falling flat beneath the tension, a crack in the armor you were desperately trying to maintain.

Jeno didn’t flinch. If anything, your demand only deepened the smirk on his lips, sharp and dangerous. “You keep saying let me go,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that scraped against the edges of your composure, hot breath grazing your ear. “But you keep pulling me closer.”

You gasped, the sharp sound catching in your throat as the weight of his words settled over you. It was only then that your brain caught up to your body—realizing, with a jolt of clarity, what you had been doing all along. Your hands, which had meant to push him away, fisted into the fabric of his shirt instead. The soft sound that spilled from your lips, unbidden and undeniable, felt like a confession, one he noticed immediately. His eyes flickered with something darker, his body pressing closer, the heat of him bleeding through the thin layers of clothing between you.

The hard line of his cock ground into you, the contact deliberate and unrelenting, sparking a tension so electric it made your thighs clench involuntarily. Your gasp turned into something closer to a moan, half-caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the wall, the cold surface a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins. His hips rolled, slow and measured, dragging against you with a precision that felt calculated to drive you insane.

Your hips moved instinctively, grinding into him with a deliberate defiance that matched the fire in your voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you demanded, your words trembling with anger, but the heat behind them betrayed something darker—desire, raw and undeniable, pulsing through every deliberate motion.

“What you’ve been asking for,” he bit out, his voice rough. His hand, once braced against the wall, moved with purpose, sliding down to your waist. His fingers curled into your hips with bruising intent, pulling you into him, eliminating any space that might have offered you reprieve. His breath ghosted over your neck, warm and ragged, his lips grazing close enough to tease but never landing. Instead, he focused his weight, pressing you back into the wall, the firm lines of his chest and abdomen crushing into you as though daring you to deny this.

“Don’t play innocent now,” he hissed, his voice low, dripping with arrogance. “You’ve been watching me, writing about me, tearing me apart piece by piece in that notebook of yours.” His eyes burned into yours, daring you to deny it, but you couldn’t find your voice. “So tell me—” he ground his hips against you again, the motion deliberate, devastating, dragging a guttural sound from the back of your throat, “—is this the part you wanted to see? The part you couldn’t write down?”

The grind of his hips was deliberate and devastating, his erection a blunt, heated pressure against your core. He didn’t move cautiously, didn’t hold back. The roll of his body into yours was unrestrained, the friction igniting something raw and animalistic between you. Your gasp broke the heavy silence, high and desperate, and your hands moved without thought, clinging to his shirt like an anchor against the overwhelming tide of him.

Jeno’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you even closer. His hips surged forward, the hardness of him dragging along the seam of your jeans, the layers of fabric doing nothing to dull the shocking intensity of the contact. A low sound escaped his throat—half a groan, half a growl—as if he, too, was unraveling under the weight of the moment. His other hand slid from the wall, trailing down to join the first at your waist, pulling your body flush against his with a force that made you arch into him.

You could feel his muscles tense and shift beneath his clothes, his strength tangible and all-encompassing as he moved. Each thrust was hard and precise, leaving you breathless as your thighs clenched against the wall, your body caught between unrelenting heat and the cold, unforgiving surface behind you. Your breaths came faster, shallow and broken, each exhale brushing against his neck as the space between you ceased to exist.

“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice rough, laced with a dark edge as he leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?” His words sliced through the air, sharp and cutting, their effect only amplified by the next grind of his hips, harder this time, as though punishing you for every unspoken thought he’d somehow dragged to the surface.

You didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. The push and pull of his body against yours had robbed you of coherent thought, leaving only the heat and tension and the maddening friction that made your head tilt back against the wall, exposing your throat to the warm rush of his breath. Your nails scraped against his chest, desperate for purchase, for anything to ground you, but the smirk tugging at his lips told you he had no intention of letting you find it.

Jeno’s hands slid lower, gripping your hips so tightly you could feel every ridge of his fingertips through the fabric. He pushed you down into him, his next thrust leaving no room for subtlety as his cock ground into the most sensitive spot between your thighs, sending a bolt of electricity up your spine. The sound that tore from your throat was involuntary, a mixture of frustration and something far more dangerous, and his answering groan was a low, guttural sound that made your stomach tighten.

“You don’t get to walk in, fuck with my life, and think you can just walk out,” he growled, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice fraying at the edges with the rawness of it all. “This is what you wanted—so take it.”

His hips surged forward again, harder, faster, his hands pulling you into every punishing thrust, leaving you gasping for air, for control, for anything that wasn’t him. But Jeno wasn’t offering you an escape—he was pulling you deeper, dragging you into the chaos he’d been holding back until now.

The tension snapped taut, and Jeno’s voice cut through the charged air like a blade. “You will not analyze me like I’m some kind of lab rat,” he growled, his tone low, firm, laced with a sharp edge of warning. His hand braced against the wall near your head, the other still gripping your hip, a physical manifestation of his need to assert control. “You’re going to listen to me. For once. No scribbling notes. No sideline stares. Just me.”

The heat of him pressed into you, each word dragging against your composure, unraveling it thread by thread. “Say something,” he demanded, his voice dark, dangerous, the kind of command that made defiance feel futile. “Don’t just stand there. You came into my space, took me apart in that little book of yours—own it.”

For a moment, you let him believe it—the commanding stance, the clipped words. His proximity, his intensity, all felt like a calculated act of dominance. And yet, something in the air shifted. Your breath hitched involuntarily, your voice trembling just enough when you tried to counter, “This isn’t—”

“Don’t.” His grip tightened, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to draw a sharp inhale from your lips. “You act like you’re untouchable—like you’re better than all of this—but you’re not. Stop pretending.” His other hand slipped from the wall, curling under your chin to tilt your face toward his, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. “You want to tear me apart? Do it here. Look at me. Say it to my face. No hiding behind your notes. No running away.”

Your hands moved on instinct, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as your hips rolled against his in deliberate defiance. “You want me to say it to your face?” you challenged, your voice darkening with every word. “Fine. You’re messy, arrogant, impossible. You push too hard, take too much, and it drives me insane. And still, here I am.”

The weight of your words didn’t settle; they ignited. The moment hung heavy between you, the heat, the pressure, his commands wrapping around you like a vice. For a fleeting second, your silence gave him the victory he wanted, the illusion that he was in control. But even he couldn’t fully ignore the way your breath wavered, the unspoken tension that pulsed between every defiant inhale.

Jeno leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a low snarl that sent heat curling through your stomach. “See what you do to me?” His hips shifted slightly, the movement deliberate and devastating, the friction between you enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips that you couldn’t suppress.

“This is messed up,” you bit out, your tone sharp but breathless, trying to keep some semblance of control. “You can’t just—”

“I can do whatever I want,” he interrupted, his voice a dark rasp as his grip on your waist tightened, his hand slipping lower with the kind of confidence that left no room for doubt. “This is my place. My rules.”

When someone called his name from beyond the door, the sound was jarring, slicing through the haze between you. Your heart kicked into overdrive, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your instincts flared with the threat of being caught. But Jeno didn’t flinch; his gaze remained locked on yours, unwavering, burning. The name came again, louder, more insistent, but he didn’t so much as glance toward the door. Instead, his grip on your waist tightened, his hips rolling into yours with a grinding motion that stole your breath.

“I’m busy!” he shouted, his voice rough, guttural, carrying a raw edge of impatience that matched the fire in his gaze. The footsteps hesitated outside, the muffled voices trailing off, and the moment stretched between you, charged and unbearable.

The sound of your notebook hitting the floor snapped you back to reality, the weight of his dominance crackling through the room. “Get out,” he commanded, his voice low, vibrating with finality. His hand slid from your waist, leaving a burning imprint behind as he stepped back, the sudden loss of contact a jarring contrast to the heat that had engulfed you moments ago. “Take your stupid notes and go.”

With a sharp breath, you bent to retrieve the notebook, your fingers brushing against the cold floor as his shadow loomed over you, heavy and deliberate. Just as your hand closed around the spiral binding, his presence surged closer. You stiffened when his hand moved, fingers grazing along the curve of your hip and trailing down, settling at the waistband of your jeans. The pressure was firm, the rough pad of his thumb brushing just under the hem of your shirt where it met denim. It was a touch that made your breath hitch—not gentle, not hesitant, but entirely purposeful.

Straightening abruptly, your glare locked onto his, fury searing through every muscle, but it only seemed to amuse him, his smirk dark and deliberate. “Fuck you, Jeno,” you spat, your voice shaking with equal parts venom and the heat coursing between you, every word cutting through the suffocating tension that bound you both. Yet, even as you stood your ground, the phantom of his touch lingered, burning hotter than it should have.

You hated how he acted like he held all the cards, as though every move you made was under his control. The way he pressed his dominance into every look, every word, every graze of his hand—it made your blood boil. But what you hated most was the way your body responded, as if betraying the firestorm in your head, craving the very control you wanted to snatch from him.

So you didn’t leave. Not yet. The moment was cut too short, the fire roaring in your veins demanding more—demanding control. You stepped closer, your hands fisting into his shirt as you spun the two of you around with a force that startled him. His back hit the wall with a sharp thud, the sound reverberating through the room. Your body pressed into his, not gently but with purpose, your hips driving forward to meet his with a ferocity that made him inhale sharply.

You wanted him to feel it—the power, the control shifting from his hands to yours. The heat radiating from him only fueled you further, your body moving instinctively as your hips ground against his in a rhythm that felt raw, undeniable. The hard press of him beneath his jeans brushed against you in a way that made your breath catch, but you refused to give it a name, refused to admit what it ignited in you. All you focused on was the way his chest rose sharply against yours, the way his hands twitched as if they didn’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Your fingers gripped his shirt harder, nails digging into the fabric as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. His smirk had faltered, replaced by something darker, something uncertain, and for the first time, you felt it—the satisfaction of making him unsteady, of seizing the upper hand. You wanted him undone, caught in the very chaos he tried to pin on you. And if he thought he could still hold control, the press of your body against his made it clear—he was wrong.

Jeno’s eyes widened briefly, shock flickering across his face before it was overtaken by something darker, hungrier. His hands found your hips, his grip unrelenting as he pulled you closer, the friction between your bodies igniting a fire that burned hotter with every deliberate motion. His breath hitched, a low groan escaping his throat as your movements grew bolder, your hands sliding down his chest with an authority that left no room for misinterpretation.

“You’re not in control,” you murmured, your voice low, firm, each word dragging across his nerves like a challenge. His fingers flexed against your hips, digging into the flesh as though he could tether you to him, his body grinding against yours in desperate, unrestrained retaliation. Your hands moved with purpose, sliding up the expanse of his chest until your fingers found the first button of his shirt. With slow, deliberate movements, you began to undo it, the pads of your fingers grazing his skin with every flick. Each undone button revealed more of his taut, heated flesh, and you caught the sharp inhale he failed to suppress as your touch ignited a tension that went beyond control.

His voice, low and ragged, finally broke through the heavy silence. “You think you can—” he started, but the words faltered, lost in the sharp exhale he released as your hands flattened against his chest, sliding down to his abdomen. The warmth of your palms seared through the fabric of his shirt, your touch deliberate, unhurried. His tone shifted, quieter now, reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe the situation he’d found himself in. “You don’t fight fair.”

Your lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk, your movements slow, calculated, as you leaned in, your breath skimming over the hollow of his throat. His pulse pounded beneath your proximity, and you could feel it quicken. “And you don’t seem to mind,” you murmured, your voice velvet and sharp, a perfect taunt. The words slithered through the air, unapologetic in their bite, their confidence making his breath hitch.

Jeno knew better than anyone how deceiving appearances could be—how the cleanest, most composed surfaces often hid the darkest edges. But even then, he hadn’t expected this. You were the kind of girl he’d automatically slotted into a category: a goody two shoes, the rule-follower, the one who kept her head down and did what needed to be done without stepping out of line. You weren’t supposed to be the kind of person who would back him into a wall, your hips grinding against his like you owned him. The disconnect was maddening, and the sheer audacity of it made his jaw tighten, his chest heaving with labored breaths as he fought to regain some semblance of control. But control was slipping fast, burned away by the way you looked at him—eyes sharp, unyielding, daring him to do something about it. You were confident in a way that wasn’t just hot—it was intoxicating. And with every deliberate movement of your body against his, he realized how thoroughly he’d underestimated you. You weren’t just rewriting the image he’d had of you—you were setting it on fire.

His hands moved instinctively, trailing up your sides with a deliberate slowness, his touch trembling slightly, caught between hesitation and need. His fingers flexed, brushing the fabric of your shirt, stopping just shy of your waist as though unsure if finally gripping you would set him alight. But the heat between you demanded more, and the tension in his hands betrayed his restraint, every flex screaming a hunger to claim, to ground himself in the chaos you commanded. His lips parted, his breath hitching, but no words came—just a sharp, shaky exhale that betrayed the unraveling control he clung to. The weight of your dominance bore down on him, your presence a palpable force stripping him bare, leaving him trembling beneath your gaze. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the rhythm breaking under the pressure of you. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to you—but the way you moved, the way you dismantled him with every sharp, calculated motion, left him powerless to stop it.

“Why are you so quiet now, hm? You wanted me to listen, didn’t you?” you murmured, your tone so low and enticing that it sent a shiver down his spine. You tilted your head, forcing his gaze to lock with yours, the weight of your command clear in your eyes. “This is me listening. Now what are you going to do about it?”

His jaw twitched, his silence betraying him, the usual edge to his demeanor dulled by the firestorm building in the space between you. The rhythm of his breaths staggered, your nearness, your audacity pulling him under. Finally, he swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper, the words dragged out like an admission he hadn’t meant to give. “I don’t know,” he rasped, his tone raw, laden with something between awe and frustration. “What do you want me to do?”

And still, he didn’t move. His control, his power—everything he’d used to define himself—crumbled in your hands, and for the first time, he didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate that you were the one taking the lead, that you were the one pressing into him with an intensity that made him dizzy. He didn’t know what to do with you—but it was clear you knew exactly what to do with him.

The air between you didn’t shatter—it stretched, thin and taut, vibrating with the weight of something unsaid as Jeno leaned closer. His breath skimmed your lips, warm and deliberate, a quiet threat disguised as temptation. The moment was agonizingly slow, a pull so visceral it felt like gravity itself had shifted to align with the space between you. His gaze burned into yours, daring, dark, and for a fleeting second, you felt the heavy inevitability of his mouth on yours, like it had already happened in another life.

But just before his lips could meet yours, you moved—decisive, sharp, unstoppable. Your palm flattened against his chest, firm and commanding, halting his advance mid-breath. The soft laugh that spilled from you wasn’t gentle; it was a weapon, slicing through the air and carving your dominance into the space he thought he controlled. Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt, your nails scraping just enough to make his breath hitch, but you didn’t close the gap.

Instead, you tilted your head, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw as you murmured, “You really thought I’d let you kiss me?” The words were slow, each syllable dripping with taunt and precision, as though you were savoring the power of holding him suspended like this. You shifted closer—not enough to close the distance, but just enough for your body to graze his, letting him feel the weight of your control. “Not a chance,” you finished, pulling back just enough to see the flicker of something desperate and undone flash across his face, feeding the fire you had no intention of extinguishing.

His frustration was a tangible thing, a heat that radiated off him, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as his parted lips trembled with words that never came. You leaned in, the brush of your lips barely skimming the shell of his ear as your hand slid lower, gliding over the taut planes of his torso. Your touch was slow, deliberate, and excruciating, your fingers tracing the waistband of his pants with a teasing pressure that made his breath stutter.

When your palm pressed firmly against the rigid heat straining beneath the fabric, his body jerked, the faintest sound—a mix between a groan and a gasp—escaping his throat. “So hard for me,” you whispered, your voice dripping with taunt and power, every word deliberate and cutting. Your fingers flexed slightly, drawing a sharp inhale from him, your lips curving into a smirk as you tilted your head to meet his wide-eyed, breathless gaze. “Is this what you wanted, Jeno?” you murmured, your tone silk and fire, dragging the tension higher as you let your palm press harder, savoring the way his composure crumbled beneath you.

A broken moan escaped his throat, raw and guttural, as his hips pressed into your touch instinctively. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure whether to grip the wall for support or touch you, but he didn’t move. You relished his submission, the way his control shattered under your dominance, the power shifting entirely into your hands.

You crouched slowly, each movement deliberate, your lips hovering mere inches from the bulge in his pants. The tension between you was unbearable, your breath ghosting over the straining fabric, teasing, testing the limits of his control. You lingered there, savoring the way his body reacted—his chest heaving, his fingers twitching at his sides as if restraining himself took every ounce of his will.

Then, with agonizing slowness, you leaned in, pressing a kiss against him through the fabric, the heat of him searing against your lips. Your tongue followed, a languid flick over the barrier of his pants, tasting the faint salt of his anticipation. The sound he made—a guttural, raw groan—sent a shiver through you, his hips jerking involuntarily toward your mouth as though chasing the relief only you could provide.

“Please,” he rasped, his voice raw, wrecked, laced with a desperate edge that made the air between you crackle. Your name fell from his lips, not like a prayer, but like a demand barely restrained, broken and yet brimming with need. His hand moved to your shoulder, tentative at first, then tightening with an urgency that betrayed the control he was struggling to hold onto, his grip firm but trembling. “Don’t stop,” he growled, the words dragging rough and low from his throat, teetering between pleading and commanding, as if he couldn’t decide whether to beg you or take what he wanted.

You’d heard the stories about Jeno—late-night whispers curling through dorm rooms like smoke, tales of a man who didn’t just fuck but ruined people, leaving them trembling, insatiable, chasing after something only he could deliver. He was calculated, relentless, a master of control in every movement, every breath. He took his time, they said, dragging you to the edge and keeping you there until your entire body begged for release. His prowess clung to him like a second skin, an invisible crown he wore without effort, without arrogance. You’d seen it, felt it even now—the way his presence wrapped around you, heavy and suffocating, like the air itself couldn’t ignore him. He made you want to step closer, to see if the promises in his gaze were true, or to push him away just to prove you didn’t need him.

But tonight, those promises didn’t matter. You knew why he wanted this, and it had nothing to do with you. His bruised pride wasn’t subtle; it burned off him like smoke from a fire, stoked higher by the sting of losing Areum. This wasn’t about desire—it was about power. About proving to himself that he could still have anything, anyone, if he just reached for it. And if he thought you’d give him that satisfaction? That you’d unravel for him because he leaned in close, whispered your name like a secret, and let his lips hover just out of reach?

Not a chance.

You lingered, lips brushing against the fabric one last time, deliberately slow, leaving the faintest trace of your warmth. The act was intimate and deliberate, each second dragged out until the tension in the air felt unbearable. Straightening, you let your gaze lock with his, the smirk tugging at your lips daring and victorious, a reminder that you controlled this moment. “Maybe next time,” you murmured, your voice soft yet dripping with authority, a silken dismissal that cut deeper than words should.

With a casual motion, you wiped your hands on your jeans, an effortless contrast to the chaos you’d ignited in him, and turned to leave. Each step was unhurried, your exit deliberate, knowing he wouldn’t—couldn’t—look away. Just as your hand touched the doorframe, an instinct made you pause. You glanced back over your shoulder, and the sight that greeted you was nothing short of devastating.

Jeno was undone. His head was tipped back against the wall, his chest rising and falling in uneven, labored breaths. His lips parted, releasing quiet, wrecked groans, each sound more raw than the last. One hand braced against the wall as if anchoring himself, his knuckles white, while the other was buried beneath the waistband of his pants, his movements slow and desperate, chasing the edge you’d left him teetering on.

The sight was primal, magnetic, every inch of him radiating a vulnerability you’d never expected, and for a brief moment, you hesitated, letting it sear into your memory. But you didn’t stay. You didn’t need to. The image of him—wrecked, ruined, and completely at your mercy—would linger with you long after you left, his soft groans trailing behind you like a confession as you disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

jihyo — y/n, are you asleep?

The screen glared back at you, her message cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You didn’t respond, didn’t even let yourself process it, just locked the screen and slipped your phone back into your pocket. She must’ve messaged you by mistake, you told yourself. Tonight wasn’t your night to deal with anyone’s chaos but your own.

You didn’t need to turn back to know exactly where he was—still against the wall, hand working desperately beneath his waistband, chasing what you’d denied him. By the time the night was over, you had no doubt he’d bury himself in someone else, finding release in another body, someone who’d give in without hesitation. That was Jeno’s way—fast, raw, and detached, his pleasure stripped of meaning. But tonight, you weren’t going to be his easy satisfaction, his fleeting indulgence. You could feel it in the charged air you’d left behind, in the weight of his need you refused to satisfy. Let someone else fall into his orbit; you weren’t going to be another mark on his tally.

Slipping past the crowded living room, you kept your head low, avoiding the glances of anyone who might stop you. Your chest tightened as you moved, the apartment’s maze-like corridors taunting you with their sharp turns and identical doors. It felt like you’d never find the exit, like the building itself was conspiring to keep you there. But then, finally, a side door appeared, half-hidden by shadows, and you slipped through it like a fugitive.

The cool night air hit you like a blessing, the weight in your chest easing as you stepped into the quiet. The contrast was stark—inside was a war zone, outside was stillness. The distant hum of city life felt surreal, as if it belonged to a different world entirely.

You glanced around, scanning for any sign of Jeno. His car was still parked where it had been earlier, a sleek black beacon in the dim light. Relief flooded through you; he hadn’t followed. He was still inside, probably oblivious to the fact that you were already gone.

But then your eyes caught something—someone—further down the street. A gasp escaped you before you could stop it, your body freezing as you recognized the figure leaning against a car. Mark. His familiar frame was impossible to miss, even from this distance. Your breath hitched, and instinctively, you stepped back into the shadows, your heart racing. He didn’t see you—his entire focus was on Areum, who stood close beside him. Too close.

They looked… intimate. His hand brushed hers briefly, his posture tilted toward her like he was trying to comfort her. She looked upset, her expression barely visible from where you stood, but the way Mark leaned in, the way their bodies angled toward each other—it told a story you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

Mark and Areum? The thought twisted in your chest as you watched them climb into his car together. You didn’t even realize it had gotten to this point. Whispers from the party earlier floated back to you, snippets of gossip you’d brushed off at the time.

“Did you see Mark leave with Areum?”

“Jeno’s ex hooking up with his rival? Wild.”

You’d dismissed them as rumors, exaggerated drunken chatter—but now the evidence was staring you in the face.

The night felt heavier than before as you called for an Uber, your fingers trembling slightly as you typed in the address. You were drained, every part of you screaming to go home, to crawl into bed and pretend none of this had happened. But as you climbed into the car, your phone buzzed again.

jihyo — hey, can you come over? i really need you right now.

You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the screen, the message from Jihyo burning into your mind like an unspoken demand. You weren’t scheduled tonight. You didn’t have to go. College loomed in the morning, the weight of deadlines and responsibilities already pressing down on you, a sharp reminder of how tightly you’d orchestrated every detail of your life. Structure was your safety net—plans meticulously crafted to keep chaos at bay. But tonight had already upended all of that. Jeno’s touch still lingered like a bruise on your resolve, the firestorm of his presence leaving cracks in the walls you’d built so carefully. To go now would be a departure from everything you tried to hold steady. And yet, staying meant sitting in the wreckage of a night you couldn’t undo, letting it fester.

jihyo — i’ll pay extra. trust me. it’s important.

You exhaled sharply, Jihyo’s words cutting through the exhaustion draped over you, but igniting something buried deeper, something restless. The money mattered, sure, but that wasn’t what made your pulse quicken. Those nights had their own gravity, pulling you into a space where everything sharpened—where the lines blurred between control and chaos, between exhibition and escape. It wasn’t just the thrill of stepping into that world; it was the power it gave you, the way it stripped everything raw. Eyes watching you, wanting you, yet never able to touch what you didn’t allow—it wasn’t just a distraction. It was a reckoning, a way to take back what the day, the world, or even Jeno had tried to steal. It left you electric, a storm gathering force, untouchable yet so dangerously alive.

you — fine. on my way.

The driver glanced back as you changed the destination, his expression unreadable, but you ignored it. No rest for you—not tonight. You were already in the storm; you might as well keep going. The car merged onto the main road, the city lights blurring past the window as you braced yourself for what came next.

The door clicked shut behind you, swallowing the last remnants of the outside world and plunging you into the bar’s embrace—a space carved out of darkness, hedonism, and heat. Smoke coiled through the air, not lazy but purposeful, weaving tendrils that clung to your skin like an invisible hand, teasing your senses. The low hum of neon lights pulsed overhead, bathing everything in shades of crimson and cobalt, the colors spilling across the room like spilled wine—dark, intoxicating, and staining everything it touched. Shadows played along the walls, stretching and shifting, hinting at secrets shared in low whispers and heavy gazes.

The leather booths gleamed like ink under the sultry glow, their deep cushions practically inviting bodies to sink into them, to forget everything but the pleasure of proximity. Tables stood scattered like forgotten lovers, their polished surfaces catching flashes of light, betraying the careless fingerprints of those who came here to taste sin and leave nothing behind. The floor, slick and reflective, mirrored the sharp heels of women striding past, the flex of muscle beneath fitted suits, and the languid movements of hands resting too low on thighs.

Behind the bar, rows of bottles glinted like trophies in a predator’s lair, their contents catching the light in amber and emerald hues. The faint clink of glasses, the steady rhythm of liquid pouring into crystal, blended into the room’s soundtrack—an undercurrent of murmured conversations and occasional bursts of low laughter. A mirror stretched across the back wall, catching glimpses of sweat-slick necks, the curve of lips wrapping around the rim of a glass, and the hollow of throats exposed as heads tipped back to swallow.

The air was heavy, oppressive, but not stifling—a perfect, suffocating warmth designed to coax bodies closer. It reeked of whiskey, sweat, and the faintest trace of musk, an unrelenting mixture that clung to your nostrils, seeping into your lungs with every breath. The scent mingled with something sharper, darker, primal—a promise of bodies pressing together in shadowed corners, of hands gripping too tight, of mouths tasting what they shouldn’t.

Everywhere you looked, the bar seemed alive—alive in the way a predator watches its prey. Velvet curtains hung in uneven folds along the far wall, their deep red fabric glowing under the faint light, hinting at spaces hidden behind them where the rules of this room didn’t apply. Low-slung chandeliers dripped with chains instead of crystal, their edges sharp, casting fractured shadows that danced like foreplay across bare skin and rumpled clothes. A faint graffiti scrawled along the wood near the booths read like confessions of sins past, promises unfulfilled, and moments stolen.

This was nothing like the chaos of a college party; there was no raucous laughter or frenzied energy here. This was curated, intentional—a realm of indulgence and raw tension, crafted for those who came searching for something darker. This wasn’t just a bar; it was a temple to indulgence, to raw, carnal desire. Everything about it whispered permission—permission to touch, to taste, to lose yourself. The air itself felt alive, pressing into you, pushing boundaries you didn’t even know you had. The faint vibration from the bassline crawled up your legs, a visceral reminder of where you were and what this place demanded. It wasn’t just a space—it was a promise, a provocation, daring you to step further into its embrace.

Jihyo caught your gaze the moment you approached. She was a force of nature, her grungy, tattooed frame exuding authority. Dark hair fell in lazy waves around her sharp features, her lips curled into a smirk that carried no softness. She leaned against the bar, one hand braced on the counter as she handed off a glass to a waiting customer without breaking eye contact. Her fitted black tank revealed toned arms, and the silver rings on her fingers reflected the neon haze. “Don’t keep them waiting,” she muttered, her voice low but loaded with intent.

You didn’t respond. There was no need. You knew your role here, the unspoken contract that hung between the two of you like smoke in the air. You moved with precision, slipping through the crowd. Men in tailored suits and loosened ties leaned into their drinks, their gazes heavy with expectation but never once settling on you. They didn’t see you now. You were invisible until you chose not to be. You recognized some of them, regulars whose eyes would burn with recognition the moment the lights hit you. But for now, they were just part of the background.

The hallway to the back room was narrow, quieter, the sound of faint music pulsing in your ears as you stepped inside. The dressing room was small, unassuming. A rack of costumes hung to the side, their vibrant, provocative fabrics glinting faintly under the overhead light. You moved quickly, shedding your everyday clothes with the kind of efficiency that came from practice.

Your outfit was more skin than fabric—a two-piece ensemble of black and crimson lace. The top clung to you like a second skin, the delicate material dipping low enough to frame the swell of your breasts, daring anyone to look closer. The thin straps looped over your shoulders, leaving your back bare, the lace barely covering anything more than necessary. The matching bottoms were scandalous—a high-cut thong that left the curve of your ass exposed, with sheer panels running down your hips. Over-the-knee stockings in the same black lace hugged your thighs, the faint shimmer catching the light. Heels completed the look, sleek and deadly, adding inches to your already commanding presence.

You slipped a sheer cover over the outfit as you stepped out, the translucent material doing nothing to hide the boldness of what lay beneath. The contrast between this version of you and the one who existed outside these walls was stark, but here, you owned it. The weight of the outfit, the makeup, the stage—it wasn’t a mask. It was power, weaponized and perfected.

The air thickened as you moved back toward the main floor, clinging to your skin with an almost tangible heat that promised indulgence. Every detail of the bar seemed alive—the low murmur of conversations, the rhythmic click of glasses meeting wood, and the bassline vibrating through the floor, steady as a pulse. You stepped into it seamlessly, the chaos bending around you, feeding into your calm. This was your world, a place where you thrived, where the night was yours to command.

Jihyo lounged against the bar like she owned not just the room but the energy pulsing through it. Her ripped jeans sat low on her hips, the cropped leather jacket hinting at smooth, taut skin beneath. Her dark waves fell just past her shoulders, intentionally messy, as if the chaos of the bar itself had shaped her. She didn’t need to posture; her presence was enough—a sharp contrast to the haze of smoke and dim light around her. Her eyes locked on you, assessing with the precision of someone who knew the stakes. “About time,” she said, her voice low and cutting, designed to carry. “They’ve been waiting. Don’t make me regret it.”

You offered her a faint smirk, slipping through the crowd with ease. Hands reached out, voices murmuring things you didn’t bother deciphering. They were just noise. You were above it. You were untouchable—at least until the lights hit you, and then you’d become something else entirely.

The room shifted as you stepped onto the stage, a low thrum of noise rippling through the crowd like an electric charge. The smoky haze wrapped around you, thick and deliberate, distorting the neon reds and blues into streaks of fire and ice against the darkened corners of the bar. Men filled the space—leaned against the bar, lounged in leather booths, or stood near the stage, their gazes following you with blatant hunger. Some whistled, some cheered, their voices cutting through the murmur of clinking glasses and low conversations. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t need to. This was your territory, a place where their attention didn’t intimidate but fueled you.

Your outfit wasn’t just something you wore—it was a part of the performance, inseparable from the electric guitar slung across your body. The black lace and bold straps didn’t merely adorn you; they claimed their place under the lights, commanding attention as much as you did. Over it, the sheer slip clung to your frame, translucent in a way that revealed just enough to tempt, every line of your body hinted at with a calculated elegance meant to provoke. It wasn’t meant to conceal—just the opposite. It was a challenge, an invitation for their imaginations to linger, to want it gone, to fantasize about tearing it from you. But you kept it on, a barrier as much as a weapon, daring them to think they could earn the right to see what lay beneath.

The plunging neckline framed you like a spotlight, drawing attention to every deliberate curve, while your thighs, bare except for the sheen of thigh-high stockings, seemed to catch the glow of the lights as if the stage itself bent to your command. The guitar rested against your hips like it belonged there, its sleek design a mirror to your presence—bold, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore. Each strike of your boots against the floor resonated through the room, not just a sound but a signal, an assertion of control. The stage lights burned hotter here, casting shadows that danced across your bare skin, accentuating the sharp edge of your makeup—smoldering eyes framed by dark liner, crimson lips curving with intent, and cheekbones kissed with gold, gleaming like a challenge to the crowd below.

This wasn’t the controlled environment of a college performance. This was raw, unfiltered life. Jihyo’s bar wasn’t for the faint of heart—this was a world that thrived on indulgence, a crucible of lust and longing. For a music major accustomed to structured critiques and the polite applause of recitals, this was the ultimate test—no safety nets, no scripted feedback, just raw energy and the unspoken challenge to dominate the room. You’d spent nights here, studying its rhythm, commanding its energy, bending its wild currents to your will. Tonight would be no different.

The stage was intimate but powerful, elevated just enough to force their gazes upward, demanding their attention. You draped the guitar strap over your shoulder, the motion deliberate, a slow sweep of control that carried through the room. Fingers lingered over the microphone as you adjusted it, the faint scrape of metal against your palm drawing their focus like a spark in the dark. The subtle glint of your rings caught the light, a quiet accent to your movements that added an edge of elegance, of authority. The crowd stirred, their energy thickening as you struck a single note, the low, resonant hum rolling through the air and settling deep in their chests. Conversation stilled, eyes locked on you, the weight of their anticipation pressing against your skin. You felt it—the shift, the slipping of the everyday you into something sharper, bolder, untouchable. The stage demanded it, and you gave in, letting the persona settle over you like armor, every movement calculated to feed the tension until it was yours to command.

The first chords came slow, deliberate, matching the rhythm of your pulse. Your voice slipped into the room like smoke, low and melodic, pulling their attention closer, deeper. The lyrics dripped from your lips, edgy and provocative, laced with innuendo that lingered just long enough to make them wonder. This wasn’t just a performance—it was control. You let your hips sway in time with the beat, the thin straps of your outfit shifting with each movement, teasing the audience, daring them to want more.

For the first few minutes, you kept to the plan—a carefully orchestrated set that teetered on the edge of seduction without ever tipping over. The bar hummed with its usual energy, smoky and intimate, the kind of place where regulars stayed long enough to blur the line between night and morning. It wasn’t the sort of place anyone stumbled into; it was hidden, unmarked, known only to those who needed its refuge. That was why you came—because the world outside couldn’t find you here. No familiar faces. No unexpected encounters. Just you, the stage, and the pull of the crowd.

Your eyes flitted across the room as you moved, your guitar humming low against your body. The regulars were in their usual places—men leaning back in leather booths, their gazes fixed on you with a hunger you knew how to wield. They didn’t intimidate you; they gave you power, their expectations feeding your confidence as you leaned into the mic, your voice curling around the lyrics like smoke.

But then, the door creaked open.

Your brow furrowed, your fingers faltering over the strings for a split second before you recovered. No one ever walked in this late. The bar wasn’t the kind of place that welcomed wanderers or drew in curious strangers. This was a den for the initiated, a haven for those who knew its rhythms. You cast a glance toward the entrance, the faint glow from the streetlights outside cutting through the haze for a moment. And there he was.

The moment your eyes caught his, it was like the room contracted, pulling all its weight into that single point. Jeno. His name wasn’t a thought—it was a sensation, crawling down your spine and sinking low into your stomach. You didn’t look away, though every nerve in your body begged you to. His gaze was steady, unrelenting, a tether you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t break.

Your stomach coiled, your pulse stuttering with a certainty that was both sharp and undeniable: he wasn’t supposed to be here. He couldn’t be. This wasn’t some calculated move on his part, no deliberate hunt to corner you after the chaos of the party. He hadn’t followed you—you’d left him where he stood, undone and occupied, and this bar wasn’t the kind of place anyone stumbled into without intention. It wasn’t just hidden; it was deliberately unmarked, an enclave you’d chosen for its anonymity. Here, you existed beyond recognition, beyond anyone’s reach. Yet now, his presence fractured that carefully built illusion, the one you’d relied on to ensure this life stayed separate from the other.

He took a seat at the far end of the bar, the kind of spot that seemed designed to swallow a man whole. The broken neon light above flickered unevenly, throwing his sharp features into alternating patches of crimson and stark white. It was a seat of contradictions—a beacon and a shadow, a throne and a confession booth—its placement isolated but deliberate, as if it had been waiting for him. Smoke coiled lazily through the air, softening the sharp angles of his leather jacket, but nothing could dull the weight of his presence. He fit too well here, as though the atmosphere itself bent around him, drawn to the tension coiled in his frame.

The leather creaked faintly under him as he leaned back, his hand curling loosely around a glass of whiskey, its amber surface catching the flicker of light. He didn’t slouch; his posture was a restrained defiance, his shoulders pulled back with just enough tension to suggest a man holding himself together by a thread. The muscles in his jaw shifted, a faint tic betraying the storm behind his calm exterior. He moved like he belonged here, like the low hum of the bar’s indulgent haze was something he had mastered—but you knew better. This wasn’t his world; he hadn’t been here before. And yet, the way his fingers traced the rim of his glass, the calculated ease of his movements, made it feel like he had already claimed it as his own. It was unnerving how natural he looked in a place that thrived on artifice.

His hair was the first thing you noticed, even in the dim lighting—black with streaks of dark blonde, each strand catching the faint neon glow as though it had been deliberately placed to draw the eye. The contrast was intoxicating, rebellion and refinement fused together. The black served as the perfect base, rich and glossy, grounding him in something darker, while the golden highlights shimmered like fleeting promises, perfectly framing the cut of his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. The layers of his hair were deliberate, falling in a way that suggested he’d just run his fingers through it moments before stepping inside, each strand a statement of effortless chaos.

His outfit demanded attention. The brown leather jacket clung to his shoulders, every crease and fold amplifying the lean muscle beneath. It was open, revealing a ribbed white tank that hugged his torso, the fabric stretched taut over the hard planes of his chest. A silver chain rested in the hollow of his throat, glinting faintly as he shifted, the simple accessory exuding a quiet power. His pants, black and tailored, sat low on his hips, sharp lines accentuating the languid grace of his movements. Everything about him felt polished but raw, as if he carried chaos beneath his skin, barely restrained.

He exuded a magnetism that didn’t beg for attention—it commanded it. The sharp line of his jaw flexed subtly, tension coiled beneath the surface, hinting at a storm he kept firmly restrained. His gaze, dark and deliberate, moved through the room like a current, assessing and discarding with a precision that felt unnervingly purposeful. The faint clink of the glass in his hand punctuated the stillness around him, his fingers gripping the rim with a controlled force that betrayed the energy thrumming beneath his composed exterior. Every motion, from the subtle shift of his shoulders to the way he leaned just slightly forward, felt charged, deliberate, as though the space bent to accommodate him. It wasn’t restlessness—it was calculated patience, a quiet certainty that wherever he looked, the room would eventually meet him on his terms.

Your gaze caught him from the corner of your eye, but you knew he didn’t see you. Not really. The dim lighting played tricks, the haze of smoke blurring edges and muting details. You were cloaked in stage lights, your face and body transformed by the bold makeup, the provocative outfit, and the sheer persona you wore like armor. This wasn’t the girl he’d argued with at the party or Coach Suh’s office or the girl who left him gasping against the wall. You were someone else here—a performer, a presence, a force he couldn’t yet name.

His gaze skimmed past you at first, hungry but detached, as if you were just another face in the haze of smoke and dim light. He wasn’t really seeing you—not yet. His focus drifted the way it did with the other women in the bar, drawn to the stage out of instinct rather than intent. Lost in the pull of his drink and the muted hum of the room, he seemed adrift, the alcohol softening the sharp edges of his attention. For a fleeting moment, you felt an unfamiliar sense of relief. He didn’t know it was you—not under the glare of the stage lights, not with the veil of makeup and the electric energy you wore like armor. It granted you a power you hadn’t anticipated—the freedom to hold his gaze on your terms, unburdened by history or expectations.

But then, something shifted. It was subtle at first—a flicker in his expression, the faint crease of his brow as his eyes lingered just a second too long. There was a rhythm in the way you moved, a note in your voice, the precise way your fingers danced over the guitar strings—it pulled at something buried in his subconscious. The realization unfolded in pieces, each one hitting him harder than the last. His body froze, the glass in his hand stilled mid-motion, and his chest heaved with a single, sharp breath. And then it hit him fully, recognition breaking over him like a storm, his eyes locking onto yours with a weight that made your pulse skip.

Your lips curved into a private smirk, the tilt of your head deliberate, daring him to come to terms with what he was seeing. His eyes burned now, no longer detached but heavy with something deeper—lust sharpened by disbelief, an attraction laced with a hunger that felt almost territorial. He leaned forward, his glass forgotten, every line of his body drawn taut as though the air itself had become charged with electricity. His chest rose in deliberate, uneven breaths, as if he were trying to steady himself but failing under the weight of his own realization.

The noise of the bar faded into the background, the cheers and whistles from the crowd mere static. For you, there was only his gaze, and the way it pierced through you with an intensity that left you breathless. For the first time, you felt seen—not just looked at but truly seen. And it wasn’t just the desire in his eyes; it was something raw and deeply personal, something none of the other men in the room could offer you.

His hand flexed once against the bar, as if grounding himself, but the motion was futile. There was something magnetic in the way his gaze locked onto yours, something unrelenting. It wasn’t just his attention—it was possession, unspoken yet impossible to ignore. His lips parted slightly, as though words might follow, but they never came. Instead, his silence spoke louder, the tightening of his jaw and the dark flicker in his eyes unraveling you piece by piece.

But nothing would ever make you lose focus. Focus. Be the performer now. Forget the party. Forget him. The voice in your head tried to command your body, but it was a losing battle with the way his attention clung to you like a second skin. The crowd roared as one of the regulars broke the tension, his voice cutting through the smoky air with a drunken “Woo! Take it off!”

You tilted your head toward the mic, your lips curving into a teasing smile. “Maybe…” you murmured, your voice dripping with a sensual lilt, “if you tip enough.” The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers, the noise folding into itself like waves crashing against the shore, but it only served to highlight the stark silence from him. Jeno didn’t laugh, didn’t cheer—his eyes were fixed, his gaze heavy, his jaw tightening as though trying to hold something back.

The stage had always been a metaphor for your liberation—a place where control didn’t mean confinement but something far more powerful. You weren’t the neat, restrained observer the rest of the world thought you were. Up here, you owned the chaos, commanded the energy, and embraced the wildness that simmered beneath the surface. This wasn’t about pleasing them; it was about owning yourself.

And tonight, as you teased the slip off your shoulders, it wasn’t just about the crowd. It was about him—about the way he looked at you, like he was unraveling piece by piece, like you had shattered everything he thought he knew. You’d never stripped on stage before; you didn’t need to. But this was your stage, your rules, your power. And for the first time, you wanted to see what it would feel like to take it further, to step into that raw, unapologetic space you’d always hovered just outside of.

Plus, you liked the way Jeno was looking at you.

That was all the reason you needed, the spark igniting something bold, something unrestrained inside you. Your breath caught for a fleeting second, but you didn’t falter. Instead, you leaned into the tension, letting it coil and settle around you like a second skin. His recognition fed your confidence, the weight of his gaze fanning a fire you hadn’t realized you were ready to set loose.

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers hooked under the edge of the sheer slip, the movement deliberate enough to pull every eye toward you. The fabric slid from your shoulders, cascading down in a soft, sinful whisper until it pooled at your feet. The crowd erupted, their cheers slicing through the haze like a knife, but it all dissolved into nothingness. None of it mattered—not the noise, not the lights, not the sea of faces below.

The moment was yours, and you owned it completely.

Jeno didn’t move, didn’t blink. His gaze locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, as though the air between you had grown too thick to inhale. Unlike the others—whistling, shouting, drunk on the spectacle—he was silent, his reaction starkly different from the intoxicating frenzy around him. It wasn’t the kind of hunger that screamed for attention or demanded more; it was quiet, devastating, consuming.

His eyes trailed the line of your body like a slow burn, lingering on every curve with a heat that made your skin feel bare in ways the crowd couldn’t match. And when you had stripped into nothing but the lingerie you had on, his gaze didn’t shift, didn’t darken into a baser territory like the others. It remained steady, unwavering, as though he wasn’t seeing less of you but more, something deeper, something only he could touch. It was intimate, maddening, as if he’d reached straight through the noise and lights and found the parts of you no one else could.

You tilted your head again, the strands of your hair sliding under the stage lights, catching glimmers of red and gold as though even the air around you conspired to accentuate your movements. Each shift of your body became calculated, a weapon wielded against the unrelenting intensity of his gaze. The slow roll of your hips was no longer just part of the rhythm—it was deliberate, provocative, designed to make him feel the weight of your control. His eyes followed every curve, every tilt, as though mapping out the exact places where his restraint would falter. And falter it did. His posture betrayed him—leaning forward slightly, his chest expanding with a breath that seemed too sharp for the smoke-filled room. His gaze dragged over your bare shoulders, lingering at the delicate way your fingers toyed with the edge of your slip.

Your hand slid down the mic stand in a languid motion, the small gesture enough to draw his attention downward before you reclaimed it with the arch of your back, the subtle twist of your waist. The lace of your outfit glinted in the light, a fleeting tease that dared him to imagine what it concealed—and what it didn’t. Your fingers danced along the strings of the guitar, the low, sultry hum of sound coaxing the room to quiet, but it wasn’t the music that had him transfixed. It was you, owning the stage and pulling him into a space where he was no longer just a man nursing a drink—he was your audience, your captive. Every breath he took felt heavier, charged, the grip of his hand on the bar white-knuckled and desperate for stability. But his hunger for you was anything but stable.

And then, you parted your lips—a soft, teasing exhale that hovered in the air like an unspoken promise. It wasn’t a lyric, not yet, but the anticipation it stirred was palpable. His chest rose and fell with a rhythm too uneven to be casual, the lines of his jaw tightening as though bracing himself against something inevitable. The heat between you burned brighter, sharper, the distance between stage and bar dissolving in the heavy weight of his stare. Whatever barrier you’d maintained before now felt irrelevant, shattered under the pressure of the moment. His expression shifted, the raw hunger in his eyes replaced by something even more consuming—a blend of want and need that left you unsteady for just a second. But only for a second. Because the power was yours, and you weren’t done with him yet.

For a second, the world stilled, and it was just the two of you—no stage, no crowd, just the raw, unfiltered connection that burned between you like a live wire. His silence spoke louder than the shouts around him, his eyes a promise, a challenge, a plea wrapped in desire. He was unraveling. For the first time, it felt like the entire performance was for one man, and you leaned into that, letting your body speak what words couldn’t, knowing he was the only one who truly understood.

It was in the way he looked at you—like he’d been the one peeling the slip from your shoulders, his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin with an unbearable intensity. It wasn’t just watching—it was devouring, a slow, deliberate claiming of space between you, charged with a hunger that felt almost dangerous. Every shift of your body made his focus darker, heavier, sharper, as though the world around him had dissolved and all that remained was you—bare, commanding, untouchable, and somehow still completely his.

With the last hum of your guitar, the applause crescendos, swelling to fill every crevice of the dimly lit bar, but it barely registers in your mind. Your gaze remains fixed on him, as though tethered by something neither of you can name. Jeno stands near the edge of the room, the smoky haze and flickering neon light carving out sharp lines in his features. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, don’t waver from you, and in the space between your final note and the eruption of cheers, the world tilts, just slightly, aligning you both on the same magnetic plane.

As the sound begins to fade, you slip the thin, translucent layer of fabric back over your shoulders, a deliberate act that feels like a dare. Jeno doesn’t blink, his gaze dragging over the slip as though he’d stripped it away himself and was now punishing himself by watching it return. The weight of it settles over your skin like silk, but the fire in his eyes burns through every layer, searing into you. Your pulse quickens—not because of the applause or the tips that litter the stage—but because of him.

Jihyo gestures wildly from the side, mouthing, “What the fuck are you doing?” You see her, hear her command, but your body moves before your mind can catch up. There’s no logic to it, no plan—only the magnetic pull that drags you forward, deeper into something you know you shouldn’t want. You’re supposed to stay put, bask in the aftermath, rake in tips, flash smiles, but none of it matters. Not when he’s there. Not when the fire in his gaze makes your skin burn in ways applause never could. He isn’t just a prize; he’s a temptation, glittering and dangerous, something you should leave untouched but can’t help craving. Every step closer feels like surrender, like giving in to the bad habit you’ve tried to quit but never truly wanted to. You know better. You can’t stand him, he’s insufferable. He’s made Mark’s life a living hell, torn through everything steady and safe, leaving nothing but chaos in his wake but the ache inside you wants more—wants him.

You step off the stage, moving through the crowded floor, your steps drawn toward him as if the pull between you is something tangible. He moves, too, cutting through the maze of bodies in your direction, but the path isn’t easy. The press of people closes in around you, and suddenly, you’re intercepted.

“Let me buy you a drink, sweet thing,” a slurred voice murmurs, too close, as a hand slides to your waist.

Your smile is polite but forced as you step out of reach. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

He doesn’t take the hint, his fingers grazing lower. The tension in the room shifts, heightened, buzzing in your veins. You glance at Jeno, who has stopped, his jaw set, his hands flexing at his sides. There’s a storm in his eyes, a crackling intensity that makes the room feel smaller, hotter, and infinitely more dangerous.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, sharper now, but the drunk man is insistent, leaning closer, his breath heavy with whiskey.

Your gaze snaps back to Jeno, drawn as if by instinct, a fleeting glance that feels more like a confession than a look. His eyes meet yours, dark and commanding, a silent pull that roots you in place and sends your pulse spiraling. The air between you crackles, and before you can think, before reason has any hope of catching up, the words spill from your lips, soft and breathless, like they’ve been waiting there all along.

“My boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”

The air shifts again as Jeno moves with an ease that feels almost too deliberate, each step closing the space between you with unbearable tension. His focus is razor-sharp, cutting through the chaos around him, but it’s not the crowd he sees—it’s you. The heat in his eyes doesn’t waver, doesn’t drift; it pins you where you stand, as if daring you to look away. The curve of his mouth, the set of his shoulders, the way his body shifts with purpose—it all draws you in, tightening something low in your stomach. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t falter, as though every motion was designed to pull you closer. By the time he reaches you, you’re caught entirely in his orbit, and the man beside you barely exists in the wake of his presence.

“Hi, baby,” Jeno says, his voice smooth, unhurried, as if the word was made for him. He slips into the role so naturally it startles you, an ease you didn’t expect. His hand finds your waist like it belongs there, his fingers curling just enough to anchor you to him. The motion isn’t rushed or hesitant—it’s grounding, a quiet declaration. His eyes hold yours with a warmth that burns slow, the kind of gaze that makes it impossible to look anywhere else. “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, softer, like he’s letting you in on something meant only for you. “The whole room couldn’t take their eyes off you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, but it’s the subtle ways he moves—angling his body to shield you from the drunk man, the slight press of his fingers against your waist—that catch you off guard. There’s a thoughtfulness in the way he takes off his black jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, the gesture unspoken but so deliberate it feels like second nature. The fabric settles around you like an unspoken promise, heavier than the air around you and infinitely more secure.

He leans closer, his breath brushing your ear, his lips grazing the shell just enough to make your stomach flip. His voice drops, a quiet rumble only for you. “Boyfriend, huh?” There’s a faint, teasing curve to his words, but beneath it lies something deeper, sharper. “I like the sound of that.”

Before you can respond, the drunk man speaks again, his tone laced with disbelief. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. I’d know if you did.”

You arch a brow, your voice steady but razor-sharp. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

He scoffs, stepping forward as if to challenge you, but Jeno moves faster. He turns, his hand sliding up to cradle your face, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss crashes over you, fierce and unrelenting, pulling you under its weight and leaving you breathless. His mouth crashes onto yours with a heat that burns through every barrier. His hand fists in your hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a gasp from you, your lips parting instinctively as his tongue sweeps in. The taste of him is intoxicating—warm, electric, and maddeningly assertive as he deepens the kiss without hesitation, claiming every inch of you with each deliberate stroke. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his top, yanking him closer, your body pressed so tight against his you can feel the flex of his chest against yours.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, biting down just enough to send a shudder ripping through you, before he soothes the sting with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. A low, guttural moan escapes from deep in his throat, vibrating against your lips, and the sound makes your knees weaken. His free hand slides down your spine, the heat of his palm branding your bare skin. His fingers skim lower, gripping at the curve of your ass where nothing but the thin band of your thong separates you from him. He squeezes hard, possessive and unapologetic, pulling you even tighter against him until there’s no space left between your bodies.

The kiss grows filthier, wetter, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that’s as desperate as it is deliberate. Each drag of his lips against yours feels like fire, each press of his hands against your body a silent command. You meet him with equal hunger, your nails scratching lightly at the nape of his neck as you tug him down, urging him to keep going, to take more. His groans deepen, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he angles his head, capturing your mouth harder, deeper, like he’s devouring you.

His hands roam without restraint—one slipping to continue to knead the bare flesh of your ass, fingers pressing into your skin, the other sliding back up to cradle your face as though to keep you exactly where he wants you. You moan into his mouth, the sound shameless, and his lips curve against yours in response, his control faltering for just a moment as he bites down on your lip again, harder this time. The sting only heightens the need coursing through you, your body arching into him, chasing his heat.

The world falls away entirely, the noise of the bar drowned out by the wet, erotic sounds of your lips and the desperate gasps that escape between kisses. Time stretches, warps, until the only thing that exists is him—the scrape of his teeth, the slide of his tongue, the way his hands hold you like he never wants to let go. When you finally break apart, it’s not because either of you wants to stop, but because breathing feels like a necessity. His forehead presses against yours, his breath heavy and uneven as his thumb grazes your cheek. His eyes meet yours, dark and blown wide, and for a moment, it’s as if the whole world is burning just for the two of you.

The drunk man mutters something under his breath before slinking away, but neither of you spare him a glance. The moment is yours, and for the first time, it’s not about riling each other up or gaining control. It’s about surrendering to the pull, to the unspoken connection that’s been building, crackling, waiting to ignite.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The tension crackles louder, sharper, until the only thing you hear is the thrum of your pulse in your ears. You lean in just enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing tonight?”

His lips curl into the faintest smirk, his hand sliding down to rest on the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively. “That depends,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with suggestion. His thumb brushes against your bare skin, teasing. “What are you doing tonight?”

You feel yourself leaning into him, your body responding before your mind can catch up. Your hand slides to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. “You,” you whisper, letting the single word hang in the air, thick and undeniable.

Jeno’s eyes darken further, his grip tightening as he pulls you flush against him, his voice a quiet growl against your lips. “Let’s get out of here.”

The crowd outside dissolves into static as Jeno’s hand wraps firmly around yours, his grip confident, his strides purposeful. He tugs you along without hesitation, his broad shoulders cutting a path toward the front door. There’s no pause, no glance back, like he’s certain you’ll follow, falling effortlessly into step behind him. His fingers tighten, the weight of his presence commanding without effort.

But then your heels dig in. The abrupt resistance jolts through his arm, halting him mid-step. His head snaps around, the motion sharp, confusion clouding the dark intensity of his eyes. “My place,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, the words brushing against the static hum of the night. His free hand finds your waist instinctively, sliding there like a reflex, his grip almost possessive. It lingers, coaxing, as though he’s guiding you forward even now, oblivious to the shift in control already beginning to slip from his grasp.

“Too far,” you murmur, the weight of your words pressing like a palm against his chest. His lips part, as if to argue but you’ve already moved. Your hand slides from his grasp, cool and deliberate, only to knot tightly with his own. Your grip is firm, not a suggestion but a command, and before he can react, you’re steering him down the narrow hallway. The air shifts around you, dim light casting shadows that ripple as your steps quicken. His pace stumbles, caught between following and being pulled, and yet he doesn’t resist. The faint scrape of his shoes against the floor echoes the heat in his gaze—smoldering, restless, entirely at your mercy. Every step you take leaves no room for doubt: you’re leading, and he’s already given in.

By the time you reach your dressing room, the tension between you feels suffocating, a palpable charge in the air that crackles like static. You shove the door open, pulling him in behind you, and with one smooth motion, you kick it shut and turn the lock. The metallic click reverberates through the cramped space, the sound echoing in the silence as your eyes meet his.

The room is small, stifling almost, the faint scent of your perfume mingling with the lingering heat from the performance. Clothes hang haphazardly on a rack against the wall, makeup scattered across the vanity, a worn chair tucked into the corner. But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like that—his chest rising and falling, his lips slightly parted, and that damn smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth.

Your grip on his arms is defiant, a silent refusal to yield, but it doesn’t matter—his strength eclipses yours, sharp and deliberate. In one fluid motion, he spins you, your back meeting the wall with a jarring thud that reverberates down your spine. The cold surface seeps through the thin barrier of fabric, a biting contrast to the heat coursing through you. His body presses into yours, solid and unrelenting, a force you can’t escape, no space spared between the hard planes of his chest and the soft curves of your frame. His presence consumes, each breath he takes pushing against you, every inch of him demanding to be felt, leaving no room to question who’s in control.

His lips pull away from yours, leaving your skin tingling, as if the heat of him has seeped beneath the surface. His breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts as his head tilts back, exposing the taut line of his throat, and his gaze flickers over your shoulder to the wall holding you there. The chipped paint and uneven surface press into your back, a subtle but insistent reminder of how tightly he has you pinned. His eyes shift again, landing on the worn chair by the dressing table, his brow furrowing as though calculating where he’ll take you—against the wall, where you’re trapped under his weight, or on the chair.

The indecision lingers for a heartbeat, thickening the air, but then his gaze snaps back to yours. The hesitation evaporates in a flash, replaced by something darker, hungrier. “Not a bad idea,” he murmurs, his voice low and cutting, its teasing edge sending a jolt through your core. The smirk tugging at his lips deepens, sharp as a knife, and he leans in, reclaiming your mouth with a kiss that’s rough and all-consuming, matching the unrelenting pressure of his body pinning you in place.

This time, he descends on you with a force that borders on reckless, his mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that’s all hunger and demand. There’s nothing careful in the way his lips move—hard and insistent, a clash of teeth and heat, as if he’s determined to strip you down to nothing but raw instinct. His breath mingles with yours, feverish, intoxicating, his confidence threading through every movement like an unspoken dare.

His hands slide over your body, dragging down your sides with a roughness that sets every nerve alight. His fingers curl into your waist, blunt nails digging into the fabric of your dress with just enough force to make you squirm. It’s not just touch—it’s possession, each grip and squeeze leaving your skin hypersensitive, the imprint of him burned into you in ways you’ll still feel tomorrow.

Then, without a word, he shifts. His hands are on your thighs before you realize what he’s doing, spreading wide to anchor your legs as he lifts you effortlessly. The movement is sharp, dizzying, and your breath catches as your body twists mid-air, a startled sound breaking from your throat. Before you can recover, the solid, unyielding surface of the wall meets you again, your chest pressing flat against the cold plaster. The shock bites into your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still pouring off him as he pins you there.

Your spine arches instinctively, the chill forcing you to react, but his hands are already back on you. They move lower, greedy and deliberate, gripping the curve of your hips, his thumbs pressing hard enough to make your breath stutter. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask—he acts, his body crowding yours, his presence so consuming it feels like he’s claiming more than just space.

Jeno’s lips find your neck, his breath scalding as he works his way down with kisses that aren’t soft—they’re bruising, his teeth scraping your skin, his tongue soothing over each bite only to do it again. His hands are everywhere now, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, before settling on your ass. His grip tightens, fingers kneading and squeezing with a bruising intensity, pulling soft, involuntary moans from your lips.

His breath fans against the back of your neck, his voice low and hoarse as he growls, “Don’t move.” His fingers hook into the thin straps of your thong, tugging them down with maddening slowness, the fabric dragging against your skin until it pools at your feet.

The air shifts, thick with anticipation, before the sharp crack of his palm meeting your bare skin breaks through it. The sting is immediate, fire spreading across your ass as you jolt against the wall. He doesn’t wait for a reaction, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before striking again, harder this time.

You don’t answer, your breath catching as silence stretches between you. The tension snaps with the sharp crack of his palm against your skin, the sting blooming instantly as his hand lingers. “Did you think you could ignore me?” he growls, the sound dark and dangerous, reverberating through the cramped space. He kneads the reddened flesh, his touch rough and possessive, each squeeze leaving your body trembling.

His hand slides lower, slower than before, his fingers grazing the slick heat between your thighs. He moves deliberately, each teasing stroke designed to pull a reaction from you, to remind you who’s in control. A soft gasp escapes your lips despite yourself, and he chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your neck. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing deeper, claiming more, as his grip on you tightens.

He chuckles darkly, leaning in until his lips brush against your ear. “You’re soaked,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You can pretend you’re not loving this, but your body’s giving you away.” His fingers dip further, gathering your wetness before sliding back up to press against your clit.

The sharp crack of his palm meeting your ass echoes through the room, each strike landing harder and faster, a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning under his touch. The sting spreads like wildfire, the heat intensifying with every slap, every deliberate swing of his hand, until the ache becomes something molten, something you can’t help but arch into. His hand lingers between strikes, fingers kneading the soft flesh roughly, possessively, before pulling back to deliver another.

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts, each exhale jagged as the relentless pace of his punishment leaves your legs trembling. The warmth radiates from where his palm lands, blooming outward and seeping into your core, the pain and pleasure indistinguishable now. His grip on your neck tightens slightly, a grounding force that keeps you pressed firmly against the wall, pinned exactly where he wants you. His fingers dig into the nape of your neck, holding you still as his other hand continues its torment, the cadence unyielding, every movement a silent assertion of control.

“You take it so fucking well,” he mutters, his voice dark, hoarse with arousal. His lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath spilling across your skin as he lands another sharp slap on your ass. The sound echoes through the room, louder this time, the sting spreading fire through you. “So fucking beautiful—marked up, trembling for me. You take it so well, I can’t get enough of you.”

But he doesn’t see it slipping. With every strike, every grinding roll of his hips, the control he’s convinced he has starts to unravel. His rhythm falters, the confidence in his grip turning just a little hesitant, his actions betraying how lost he is in you, how tightly he’s gripping onto the dynamic he doesn’t realize he’s already lost.

You twist sharply, moving faster than he anticipates, his balance tipping just enough for you to break free. Before he can react, your hands shove him hard, slamming his back against the wall with a thud that leaves him momentarily stunned. His shoulders hit the surface, his breath catching as his lips part, his gaze meeting yours with wide eyes, half-lidded from lust but entirely caught off guard.

Your body presses flush against his, pinning him there, and you don’t give him a second to recover. One hand slides up his chest, slow and deliberate, the pads of your fingers grazing the heat of his skin through the fabric before curling around his throat. Your grip is firm, your thumb pressing against the rapid flutter of his pulse, and his head tilts back instinctively, lips parting in a soft, breathy gasp.

The sharp click of your tongue fills the silence as you tighten your grip on his throat, tilting his chin higher until his eyes meet yours. His breath catches, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as he struggles to process the sudden shift. “What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper, your voice low and deliberate, a calm veneer masking the storm beneath.

His jaw tenses at the sound, the movement sharp, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His lips part like he’s about to answer, but all that comes out is a strained, “…Fucking you?” His voice wavers, caught somewhere between confusion and the lingering need that tightens his body against yours.

A slow, mocking laugh spills from your lips, warm and soft against the side of his face as you lean in, your breath brushing his ear. “‘Fucking you?’” you repeat, each syllable dripping with amusement and a condescension that makes his breath stutter. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

He blinks at you, dumbfounded, his lips still parted as though searching for a retort that refuses to come. Your hands shift, sliding down his chest, your nails grazing over the hard planes of muscle beneath the thin fabric. The touch is slow, almost languid, a deliberate reminder of the control slipping from his hands.

Before he can react, your grip tightens, and with a sharp push, you shove him backward. His body stumbles into the chair behind him—the one tucked neatly in front of your vanity, its chipped wood and faded upholstery an unassuming witness to what’s about to unfold. The wood creaks loudly under his weight as he lands, his legs spreading instinctively, his body folding into a position that leaves him utterly exposed.

Jeno stares up at you, chest heaving, his expression caught between shock and arousal, the sharp edge of his usual confidence dulled by the realization that he’s no longer in control. “Who said you get to control things here?” you ask, stepping between his legs, the heat of your body brushing against his thighs as you lean forward. Your hands grip the arms of the chair, trapping him in place, your face close enough to feel the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breath.

The flicker of defiance in his eyes doesn’t last; it crumbles under the weight of your stare, unrelenting and burning with a fire that leaves no room for argument. You drag your fingers down his chest, each pass slower, heavier, before pressing him firmly back against the chair. The reflection in the vanity mirror catches your attention, the image of him looking up at you—wide-eyed, lips parted, completely at your mercy—only fueling the satisfaction curling low in your stomach.

“Do you think you’re in control tonight?” you whisper, tilting your head just enough for your lips to ghost over the corner of his mouth without fully touching. “Because you’re not. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to ruin you.”

Jeno’s groan is immediate, raw and guttural, spilling out like something torn from deep within him. His head tips back against the chair, the tension in his body unraveling in ways he didn’t know were possible. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitating, unsure whether to grip the arms of the chair or reach for you, the uncertainty foreign to someone who has spent his entire life mastering control.

And control is all Jeno has ever known—his constant, unwavering companion. On the court, every move is deliberate, precise; in life, every decision calculated, a performance for everyone watching. Even in bed, he’s always the one steering, leading, dictating. But now, with you standing over him, your eyes sharp, your touch deliberate, and his body pinned beneath the weight of your dominance, that control feels distant, useless, slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers.

It’s unfamiliar, terrifying—and intoxicating.

His chest heaves with every shallow breath, the tension he’s carried for years fraying at the edges as his body betrays him. He’s never allowed himself to feel this exposed, this vulnerable, but the sight of you towering over him, your fingers sliding lower, commanding his every reaction, sets him alight in ways he didn’t think possible. He’s so used to being the one in charge that the sudden, absolute loss of it is dizzying—and yet, it feeds something buried deep within him, something he didn’t know he craved.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word half-growled, half-broken as his body shivers beneath your touch. His hips jerk involuntarily, his restraint cracking with every deliberate stroke of your fingers teasing the waistband of his pants. “You don’t even fucking know… what you’re doing to me right now.” His voice is strained, frayed with tension and desire, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “You’ve got me so fucking hard I can’t think straight—can’t think about anything but you.”

Your smirk deepens, the sight of him unraveling beneath you igniting something sharp and primal inside you. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” you murmur, your tone soft but laced with unshakable control. Your hands slide lower, grazing the hard, unrelenting line of him through the fabric, and his breath hitches, sharp and loud, filling the small space between you.

You glance down at him, your vantage point offering a view you could never tire of: Lee Jeno, always so composed, always so in control, now trembling beneath your hands. His head tips back, exposing the taut line of his throat, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as though he’s forgotten how to breathe properly. His lips are parted, swollen and wet, the slightest quiver betraying the effect you have on him. It’s a sight you want to etch into memory—Jeno, stripped of his carefully constructed control, utterly undone by the simplest brush of your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning closer until your lips brush the curve of his jaw, your breath warm against his skin, “I haven’t even fucked you yet.” Your voice is low, teasing, every word deliberate, and you feel the sharp hitch in his breathing as your lips ghost over him. His body tenses beneath your hands, every muscle coiled and trembling as you drag your palms higher along his thighs, grazing the firm muscle beneath, each touch slow and deliberate.

“You haven’t even had my mouth around you,” you continue, your tone soft but dripping with intent, your teeth grazing his jawline before your lips press against it. The first kiss is deliberate, calculated, and when you hear the faintest sound slip from his throat, you press harder. “Haven’t felt me ride you,” you murmur against his skin, trailing lower, your lips finding the sensitive spot just below his ear, “until you can’t think, until you can’t breathe.”

His hands twitch at his sides, his head falling back further, baring his neck to you without thinking, and you take full advantage. Your mouth moves lower, sucking at the skin just above his collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark. His breath stutters, the sound rough and broken as you work your way back up, your teeth scraping the edge of his throat.

“Look at you,” you whisper, your lips brushing over the rapid flutter of his pulse. “You’re already falling apart—and I haven’t even started yet.”

His breath catches, a sharp intake of air that barely makes it past his lips. His voice is rough, breaking as he murmurs, “I know… fuck, I know.” His head tilts further, exposing more of his throat to you, his body trembling under your touch. “You’ve got me so worked up, I can’t—” His words falter, his jaw tightening as a low, guttural groan escapes. “I’ll do whatever you want… just don’t stop.”

“You’re not used to this, are you?” you murmur, your lips brushing against his skin again. “Letting someone else take the lead.” Your tone is soft but cutting, each word a reminder of just how deeply he’s falling into unfamiliar territory.

“No,” he admits, his voice barely audible, his eyes fluttering shut. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

And that’s when you realize—it’s not just desire coursing through him; it’s need. He needs this. Needs the weight lifted from his shoulders, the persona he so carefully wears stripped away, and the relentless pressure to always lead momentarily silenced. You see it in the way his body trembles beneath your touch, his breaths uneven, his hands clenching as though he’s barely holding himself together. And you? You’re more than happy to take it all from him.

With deliberate ease, you lean forward, sliding onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs as your weight settles against him. His breath stutters, and his hands instinctively find your hips, gripping them like he needs something to ground himself. “Come here,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and low, even though you’ve already made yourself comfortable in his lap.

You adjust slightly, your hips pressing closer to his, and the contact makes his body tense under yours. Your movements are slow and calculated, your chest brushing against his as you shift, letting him feel the deliberate roll of your body against his. His eyes drop immediately to your chest, his gaze fixated on the swell of your breasts, and you see the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

“Jeno,” you call softly, your tone sharp enough to pull his attention back to you. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, wide and glassy with arousal. “Eyes up here,” you tease, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

You lean in closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his jaw as you tilt his head back slightly. Your lips press softly against his, the touch so gentle it feels almost out of place in the charged atmosphere between you. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s still—frozen beneath you like he can’t believe it’s real, like the tenderness is too foreign in a moment so thick with desire.

When he finally responds, it’s hesitant, his lips moving against yours as though he’s afraid the fragile connection might break. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, his body instinctively seeking more of you. The kiss deepens, soft and slow, and you feel the tension bleeding out of him, the weight he carries melting away as he lets himself sink into the moment.

But as you kiss him, something shifts inside you, the heat between you tempered for just a moment by the vulnerability you feel in his touch. His hesitation, the way he trembles beneath you, makes you pause. Your smirk falters, and you pull back just slightly, your lips brushing against his jaw as your hands slide down to rest on his chest.

Your palms press against him—not demanding, but grounding—and you feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath your fingers. He’s so used to control, to leading, to bearing the weight of expectation. But here, now, he’s unraveling, the walls he’s so carefully built starting to crumble under your hands. And suddenly, you need to know—need to hear him say it.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, your voice quieter now, stripped of the teasing edge you’ve carried so far. It’s raw and unmasked, a question that feels as much about him as it does about you. “Do you want me to lead, Jeno?”

The question hangs between you, the vulnerability in your tone catching him off guard, and for a moment, his breath stills. His eyes meet yours, wide and dark, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost fragile compared to the tension between you. Then, stronger, with a desperate edge: “Yes. Fuck, yes. I need this. I need you.”

The honesty in his voice hits you like a jolt, but you don’t let it show—not fully. Your lips brush his again, firmer this time, as your hands slide lower, teasing over the hard, unrelenting line of him through his pants. His head falls back again, a quiet, desperate groan slipping past his lips.

“You’ve been so good to me tonight, helping me out with those guys earlier” you continue, taking a step closer to him, the heat in your tone softening into something that feels almost like praise. “You deserve something for being such a good boy, don’t you?”

He nods and you take a moment to admire him—flushed, breathless, utterly undone. The sight of him, usually so cocky, now reduced to this trembling, obedient version of himself, sends a wave of satisfaction rushing through you. He’s listening. Actually listening. Not arguing, not resisting, just sitting there, wide-eyed and waiting for your next command.

Your smirk sharpens, your fingers trailing down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt. You press your palm flat against him, feeling the erratic thud of his heart beneath your hand as you lean in, your dominance radiating in every deliberate movement.

“Then take your pants off,” you say, your voice soft but unyielding, every word laced with heat. You step back, your eyes boring into his, daring him to disobey. “Now.”

His hands move quickly, trembling as he struggles with the waistband of his pants, finally pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs forward, thick and heavy, flushed with need, the sight alone making your breath catch. He’s bigger than you anticipated—bigger than what you’re used to—but you bite down on the flicker of hesitation, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing. You won’t let him see the challenge he presents or give him any room to feel smug.

You step forward, pressing one hand flat against his chest and pushing him back until his shoulders meet the chair. He’s perched at the edge, his legs spread wide, his breath shallow and erratic as he stares at you, his cock standing rigid against his stomach. “You’re going to sit there and take it,” you murmur, your voice low and commanding, the words laced with heat that makes his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

Lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs, you drag your hands up his thighs, your nails grazing his skin lightly. He shudders beneath your touch, his muscles tensing as you lean in closer. “You’ve been good so far,” you whisper, glancing up at him, your voice teasing but firm. “Let’s see if you can stay that way.”

His breath hitches as your lips ghost over the tip of his cock, soft and feather-light. His hips jerk involuntarily, a strained groan slipping past his lips. “I didn’t say you could move,” you chastise, your tone sharp, dripping with condescension as your nails dig into his thighs, holding him in place.

“Fuck—sorry,” he chokes out, his head tipping back against the chair, his knuckles white as he grips the edges of the seat. His chest heaves with the effort of keeping still, every inch of him taut with restraint.

Satisfied, you let your lips brush over him again, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive head. The taste of him spreads across your tongue, rich and musky, and you hum softly, your hands tightening on his thighs. You take him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, your tongue swirling around the tip before sliding lower, inch by inch, until the weight of him fills you.

A guttural moan escapes his lips, his thighs trembling beneath your hands as you begin to move, your mouth working him with precision. You hollow your cheeks, letting him feel the tightness, the warmth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you take him deeper. He’s big, stretching your jaw, but you refuse to falter, refuse to let him see anything but control.

“Fuck—God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he mutters, his voice ragged, breaking with each shallow breath. His head tips back further, his lips parted as his moans grow louder, the sound reverberating through the small space.

Your pace quickens, your movements relentless as you take him deeper, letting the head of his cock nudge the back of your throat. His body jerks involuntarily, and his hands twitch against the chair, his knuckles tight and trembling as he fights the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t you dare move,” you warn, pulling back just enough to let a trail of saliva connect your lips to his cock. You glance up at him, your gaze sharp and unyielding, your voice a low, commanding hum. “You don’t get to come until I say so. Understand?”

“Yes,” he groans, his voice cracking, desperation lacing every word. “Yes, fuck—anything you want.”

You smirk, satisfied with his surrender, and take him into your mouth again, deeper this time, your hands gripping his thighs to keep him still. His groans turn to loud, broken cries as you work him mercilessly, your lips sliding down his length, your tongue pressing and swirling with every movement.

The mirror catches your attention—a perfect reflection of the way his body trembles under your control. His head is thrown back, his eyes squeezing shut before rolling open again, his lips parted as he moans without restraint. His hips jerk slightly despite your grip, his entire body betraying his need.

“Please,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked as his eyes meet yours in the reflection. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t take it.”

“Yes, you can,” you reply, your voice muffled against his cock as you take him even deeper, the strain in your jaw undeniable, but the power in his unraveling making it all worth it.

His thighs tremble harder beneath your palms, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder. He cries out, his voice breaking as his hands grip the arms of the chair so tightly they shake.

“Good boy,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to let your tongue drag over the head of his cock, swirling around the sensitive tip before sliding back down. “That’s it—stay just like that.”

“Fuck—fuck, please,” he whimpers, his voice barely audible as his head tips back again, his jaw slack. “I need—I’m so close—please, can I?”

You smirk, your nails digging into his thighs as you pull back slightly, meeting his wide, glassy eyes. “Not yet,” you command, your tone sharp enough to make him groan in frustration, his body trembling as he struggles to obey.

You take him back into your mouth, relentless now, your pace unforgiving as his cries grow louder, echoing in the room. His hips buck slightly despite your grip, his restraint crumbling as he gasps your name, his moans broken and desperate.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, his body shaking as his head falls back against the chair.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice low and dripping with authority. “You can. Be good for me, Jeno.”

His response is a strangled groan, his eyes rolling back as his body tenses beneath you, every muscle trembling as he fights against the edge. His hands grip the arms of the chair with a desperation that borders on pain, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, barely holding himself together. His lips part as if to beg again, but no words come, just broken, needy sounds spilling out as his head falls back against the chair.

You let the moment stretch, the tension thick and almost unbearable, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, teasing him with light, deliberate flicks of your tongue. “Not yet,” you murmur again, your voice a quiet warning, the control in it making him whimper softly. When you finally pull back, meeting his dazed, glassy-eyed stare, you let a smirk curve your lips. “Alright,” you whisper, your tone soft but commanding, dragging out the words as if savoring his desperation. “Come for me.”

The second the words leave your lips, he shatters. His hips jerk, his hands flying to grip the chair as his cock pulses in your mouth. The heat and saltiness flood your tongue, but you don’t stop, your movements slowing only to milk every last shudder from him. His cries echo in the room, raw and unrestrained, his body trembling violently as he surrenders completely.

When you finally pull back, his chest heaves, his eyes half-lidded and glassy as he stares at you, his lips parted, his voice barely a whisper. “Fuck,” he breathes, his hands shaking as he reaches for you, but you push him back into the chair, smirking.

“Good job,” you murmur, your voice soft but laced with satisfaction. “But don’t think we’re done yet.”

You rise slowly, the weight of your body shifting just enough to brush against him, your thighs straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the chair on either side. The air between you feels thick, charged, and the sight of his cock—hard, flushed, twitching as it stands against his stomach—sends a rush of heat through you. His chest heaves, his breaths uneven, and his hands tremble where they grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white from restraint. His lips part, and the words spill out in a cracked, desperate voice, like he’s already forgotten how to hold them back.

“Please,” he gasps, his breath catching like the plea has been ripped straight from his chest. “I—I need you. Please, just—fuck, I can’t take it anymore.” His eyes flicker wildly, darting between your face, your body, the space where you hover just above him. His hips twitch upward, chasing contact, and his fingers flex against the arms of the chair like he wants to grab you but doesn’t dare. “Please,” he repeats, voice cracking again, thick with desperation.

You sink down onto his lap, your weight settling on him without fully taking him in. His cock presses against you, caught between your bodies, and the moan that escapes him is guttural, raw, his hips jerking as if he expects you to move.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay perfectly still, your nails grazing along his jaw as you smirk at the way his breath stutters, his chest heaving against yours. The tension in his body coils tighter with every second, and the moment he realizes you’re not going to give him what he wants, the begging starts.

“I can’t—fuck, I need it. I need to feel you,” he groans, his voice shaking as his hips jerk beneath you, the thick length of him pressing insistently against your heat. “Please,” he chokes out, the words tumbling out in broken desperation. “Let me have your cunt. I’ll do anything—fuck, anything—just let me feel it, please.” His eyes are wild, glassy with need, his entire body trembling as he fights against the unbearable tension you’ve wrapped him in.

You drag your nails down the column of his neck, light but deliberate, until your hand rests firmly on his jaw. Tilting his chin, you force his gaze to meet yours. “You need it?” you murmur, your voice sharp and teasing, but there’s steel in it, enough to still him completely. Your thumb brushes the corner of his trembling lips, and his breath stutters, his head tilting into your hand as though it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice rough and uneven, his body trembling beneath your touch. “I’ll take anything—whatever you want, just… fuck.” The words break off into a desperate groan, his eyes locking onto yours, wide and glassy with raw need, his pupils dilated as if he’s losing himself entirely in you.

The corner of your lips curves into a slow, deliberate smirk as your palm slides to his cheek. For a moment, your touch is light, almost soothing, before you slap him—not hard, but enough to make his head jerk to the side and a broken sound escape his throat. His cock twitches violently against you, the sharp crack of your palm against his skin reverberating through the charged air.

“Again,” he moans, his voice wrecked, raw with need. His head snaps back, his gaze locking onto yours with a fervor that makes your stomach clench. His hands grip the arms of the chair harder, the veins in his forearms straining as he fights not to touch you.

You oblige without hesitation, slapping him again, slower this time, your palm lingering to feel the flush of warmth spreading across his skin. His hips jerk beneath you, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as his body trembles with barely restrained desire.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, leaning in closer, your nails grazing along the edge of his jaw. “Look at you—begging, shaking like you can’t survive another second without me. Do you even hear yourself?”

He whimpers, his lips parting, his head tilting back slightly as though offering himself up to you completely. The sound is raw, guttural, filled with something so consuming it makes your smirk widen.

You straighten, lifting yourself just enough to position him at your entrance. His cock presses against you, the heat and weight of it making your breath hitch despite yourself. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his body shuddering as though he might snap from the tension.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow, punishingly so, every inch deliberate, your body taking him in entirely as you watch the way his jaw slackens, his eyes rolling back as a choked groan tears from his throat. His hips buck, but your nails dig into his chest, sharp and grounding.

“Stay still,” you snap, your voice cutting through the haze of his desperation. “You move when I say you can.”

“Yes,” he gasps, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “Yes, I—fuck, I’m sorry—fuck, I’ll be good.”

Your pace starts slow, calculated, each roll of your hips pulling another broken sound from his lips. When you lean forward, your fingers wrapping around his throat, your thumb pressing lightly against his pulse, he shudders beneath you, his body trembling like he’s unraveling one second at a time.

“You don’t come until I say so,” you murmur, your voice low and sharp, watching the way he fights to hold on, every ounce of his control slipping through his fingers as he trembles beneath you.

When you start to bounce, it’s immediate and feral, your movements savage and unrelenting, driving down onto him with a pace that leaves no space for tenderness or adjustment. Each thrust sends a jolt through your body, the wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoing in the charged air. His cock fills you completely, the stretch almost too much, but you refuse to let it show, your focus locked on his reaction. His head snaps back, his jaw slack as a guttural, animalistic groan tears from his throat, his body helpless against the onslaught.

“Fuck—oh my god, you’re so fucking tight,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in broken desperation. “It’s like—shit—I can feel every fucking inch of you gripping me.” His breath hitches, his fingers clawing at his thighs, digging into the muscle as though the pain might ground him. “You’re—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight I can’t—” His words cut off in a ragged groan, his cock throbbing as your walls drag against him, pulling him deeper with every brutal thrust. “It’s too much, too fucking good,” he gasps, his head tipping back as his body shudders beneath you.

You lean in, your voice a soothing contrast to the brutal rhythm of your hips, “Shh, baby,” you murmur, pressing your lips softly to his temple. “I know it’s a lot. You’re doing so well for me.” Your fingers trail gently down his chest before curling around his jaw, tilting his face up so his glassy, desperate eyes meet yours.

You slam your hips down harder, the impact sharp and merciless, drawing another desperate cry from him. His breath stutters, his chest heaving as he chokes out, “I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Don’t even think about it,” you snap, your voice razor-sharp, cutting through his haze of need. You grind down on him between thrusts, your hips rolling in a way that forces every inch of him deeper inside you. The friction sends a thrill up your spine, your nails digging into his chest to steady yourself as you keep him exactly where you want him.

His body jerks beneath you, shuddering violently, his hips bucking despite his efforts to stay still. You catch the movement instantly, your hand darting to his throat, your fingers curling tightly enough to make his gasp catch. “Already wanting to cum?” you taunt, a smirk curling your lips as you lean in closer, your breath brushing against his ear. “I haven’t even started.”

The words make him groan, his cock twitching inside you as his head tips back against the chair. “Please,” he whimpers, his voice cracking, wrecked and raw. “Please, I can’t—” His words dissolve into a broken moan, his hips lifting as though he’s trying to chase the friction you’re controlling.

“You’ll hold it,” you growl, your tone cold and commanding as you ride him harder, faster, your pace unrelenting. “You’ll hold it until I say you can. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, the word a strangled sob, his hands trembling as they grip the chair like a lifeline. His cock throbs against your walls, each bounce sending him closer to the edge, his entire body writhing beneath you. His voice grows desperate, his cries sharp and guttural as your movements grow even more punishing, driving him into complete submission.

Each bounce is merciless, your ass meeting his thighs with sharp, punishing force that sends shocks through both of your bodies. The relentless drive of your hips forces his cock to fill you completely, the stretch and friction so intense it borders on unbearable. The sound of wet, obscene slaps echoes in the air, mingling with his broken moans and your sharp breaths. Every thrust grinds him deeper, the brutal rhythm pulling sharp gasps from your lips as your nails rake down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you lean forward, your body grinding down onto him with a deliberate roll of your hips that pulls a ragged groan from his throat. His chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his head falling back, the column of his throat exposed as if in surrender. He can’t keep still—his body jerks and twitches under yours, his muscles taut as if they’re about to snap. You feel every tremor, every pulse of his cock as your walls squeeze around him mercilessly, refusing him a moment of respite.

The chair creaks beneath you, the rhythm of your movements relentless, driving him deeper and deeper until it feels like he’s splitting you open. Your breaths mix with his, harsh and uneven, your control unwavering even as his moans turn into desperate, incoherent sounds. He tries to shift beneath you, his hips bucking slightly, but you slam him back down with a firm hand on his chest, your strength keeping him exactly where you want him.

“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss, your voice sharp and commanding. His eyes flutter open, wide and glassy, his pupils blown as he looks up at you with a desperation that sends a wave of heat straight through you. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are swallowed by a guttural cry as you slam your hips down again, the force of it pushing him deeper, the angle leaving him gasping.

Your pace shifts, faster now, the intensity ramping up as you grind down onto him between thrusts, the friction sparking a raw, unbearable pleasure that leaves you both shaking. His cock throbs inside you, each pulse a testament to how close he is, how completely he’s unraveling beneath you. His hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of the chair, and you smirk at the sight of him—wrecked, trembling, completely under your control.

He whines, the sound pitiful and raw, his eyes fluttering open only to meet your gaze. The desperation in them makes you smirk, your hand sliding to his jaw to hold him still. “Is this too much for you?” you ask, feigning sweetness, your lips curving into a mocking smile as his chest heaves beneath your touch.

“No—no, please,” he stammers, his voice breaking, his hips jerking up involuntarily only to be met with your punishing grip. “Please—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

“Don’t worry,” you purr, leaning closer, your breath hot against his ear. “I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your fingers tighten around his wrists, the raw strength in your grip forcing his arms high above his head, the hard press of your body keeping him pinned. His biceps strain, the muscles flexing as he instinctively fights for control, but you’re unrelenting. You shift slightly, your thigh bracing against his forearm, ensuring he has no leverage, no escape from the restraint of your body. His chest heaves, frantic and uneven, as you lean in, your breath brushing over his neck, the sheer dominance in your presence leaving him trembling.

Your other hand glides up his chest, fingers splayed wide before wrapping firmly around his throat. Your palm molds to his skin, thumb pressing into the frantic pulse hammering beneath it. The column of his throat arches, his head tipping back involuntarily, a guttural sound breaking free from his lips. His cock throbs deep inside you, every twitch dragging heat through your core as your walls squeeze around him, owning every inch.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your voice low and cutting, the intensity in your words making his body jerk beneath you. You lean closer, the sharp curve of your hips grinding down onto him, your pace slowing, deliberate, teasing. “Every inch of you belongs to me right now. Don’t forget it.” The sound he makes is wrecked, raw, a broken moan that spills from his parted lips as his eyes flutter shut, his fingers twitching uselessly against your grip.

His head tilts forward slightly, lips brushing against your shoulder as though he’s desperate for contact, but you don’t relent. “Look at me,” you command, tightening your grip on his throat just enough to pull a sharp gasp from him. “Eyes open. You don’t get to hide from this. You don’t get to forget who owns you right now.”

As your grip loosens around his throat, you lean back slightly, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves, his pupils blown wide as he looks at you with a mix of hunger and reverence. His hands, trembling from restraint, rise tentatively, brushing against your sides before trailing upward.

Your lips curve into a smirk as his fingers reach your breasts, his touch hesitant at first. “You’re bold,” you tease, your tone laced with amusement, but there’s no protest in your voice. You arch into his hands, the deliberate movement pressing your chest into his palms.

“I can’t help it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, every word spilling past his lips in broken desperation. His fingers pinch your nipples harder, his breath stuttering with each punishing roll of your hips. “You’re too fucking perfect—so soft, so—fuck—I couldn’t stop myself.” His grip tightens, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your breasts with a fervor that borders on frantic, the heat in his touch sending sparks straight to your core.

His thumbs circle over your nipples, the firm strokes drawing sharp, electric pleasure that makes your walls clench tighter around him. A guttural groan rips from his throat, his head falling back as his body jerks beneath you, trembling with every wave of sensation. But his eyes snap back to yours in an instant, wide and glassy, like he’s terrified of missing a single second of you.

You let him indulge for a few seconds longer, watching as his touch becomes rougher, more insistent. The way his hands mold to your body, gripping and squeezing like he can’t get enough, makes heat coil low in your stomach. But when his movements grow frantic, you grab his wrists, wrenching them away with a strength that startles him.

“What did I say about touching?” you hiss, your tone sharp, dripping with authority as you press his hands back against the chair. His eyes widen, his lips parting to stammer out an apology, but you don’t give him the chance. Instead, you soothe the tension briefly with a gentle touch, your fingers stroking down his chest, only to strike harder with your palm against his skin. The sound echoes through the room, sharp and commanding.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice hoarse, cracking as he squirms under your hand, his breath hitching with every strike.

“You think begging will save you?” you mock, your nails dragging across his chest, leaving faint red trails in their wake. His cries grow louder, his body arching as your words cut through his haze of desperation. “You’re going to take everything I give you, Jeno. Every. Fucking. Second.”

When you strike again, harder this time, his guttural moan makes your core tighten, his body trembling under your control. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” you snap, your palm delivering another blow, leaving his skin flushed and hot beneath your touch. “You’re going to learn to listen.”

His tears brim, his lips trembling as he gasps for air, his submission so raw it sends a thrill straight through you. You tilt his head up, forcing his glassy eyes to meet yours as you press your fingers to his lips. His tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting you, and the sight alone makes your breath hitch.

“Open,” you command, your voice soft but firm, and he obeys immediately, his mouth parting as you slide your fingers inside, pressing against his tongue. His lips close around you, the heat of his mouth making you smirk. “Deeper,” you instruct, your tone low and teasing as you push further, feeling his throat constrict around your fingers as he chokes slightly. His eyes flutter shut, his face reddening as he struggles to take you.

“Look at me,” you snap, your free hand tugging his hair roughly to hold his attention. His eyes snap open, wide and glassy, tears slipping down his cheeks as he meets your gaze. “I didn’t tell you to stop looking.”

His throat bobs as he sucks harder, his lips wrapping tightly around your fingers, his breaths ragged and broken. You press deeper, your control absolute as you watch him tremble beneath you, his entire body reacting to your dominance. When you finally pull your fingers free, they leave a trail of spit glistening along his lips. You smear it along his jaw with deliberate slowness, your eyes never leaving his.

“Good boy,” you purr, your hand sliding back to his throat, your fingers curling tightly as you slam your hips down onto him, harder and faster. The brutal rhythm pulls a wrecked moan from him, his body jerking against you, his cries raw and broken as you take him apart.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you listen,” you murmur, your tone laced with dark satisfaction, each word punctuated by the sharp snap of your hips. His submission is total now, his body yours to use as you see fit, and the sight of him like this—wrecked and trembling—only drives you to push him further.

He is fucking breathtaking.

It’s undeniable, an unfair truth etched into every perfect angle of his face, almost cruel in its certainty, the kind of beauty that lingers in your vision long after you’ve looked away. Every inch of him seems carved with intention—the sharp angles of his cheekbones catching the dim light, the line of his jaw taut as his head tips back, and the delicate flush blooming across his neck and chest. Sweat glistens on his skin, running in rivulets that trace the contours of his body, each droplet catching on the dip of his collarbones and the curve of his throat like liquid stars. His dark eyes, usually so composed and guarded, are utterly undone—blown wide, glassy, and filled with the kind of desperation that makes your stomach clench.

Right now, he looks otherworldly—utterly wrecked by you. The sheen of sweat on his temple, the way his lips part around ragged moans, trembling and red, make him almost too much to take in. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. He’s the kind of breathtaking that feels like a punch to the ribs, an ache that spreads, unbearable in its intensity. Like the sun sinking into the horizon, beautiful enough to make you want to reach out and touch, even if you know it’ll burn you.

Your rhythm falters, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you lose yourself in the sight of him. For a moment, all your control slips through your fingers, and the words spill out in a soft, broken moan, surprising even yourself. “You’re so fucking pretty,” you gasp, leaning forward, your hands trembling as you cradle his jaw. “So handsome.”

You’ve always known it, even through the years of hating him, resenting him, wanting to be anywhere but near him. It was an unshakable truth that no amount of anger could erase: Lee Jeno was, quite simply, the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on.

It’s a fragile admission, out of place amidst the raw hunger of the moment, like a fragile bloom growing in the cracks of a storm-battered stone. The words hang in the air, vibrating with the kind of vulnerability that feels dangerous, but you can’t pull them back now. You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so tender it feels like it doesn’t belong here. It’s desperate in its softness, a startling contrast to the roughness that came before, like silk brushing against jagged edges.

For a moment, he’s frozen, his breath catching against your lips, as though he can’t quite believe this is happening. Then, slowly, his lips move against yours, hesitant at first, before matching the quiet desperation in your kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated, all teeth and open mouths, his moans spilling into yours like confessions. His breath stutters as his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when your hips roll against him, pulling a strangled sound from deep in his chest, it feels like the ground beneath you is shifting.

His body shudders beneath your touch, his hands twitching as if to reach for you, only to falter, his restraint holding by a thread. You feel the weight of his surrender, the way he melts into the kiss, giving you everything without hesitation. It’s intoxicating, watching someone so breathtaking, someone who could have the world with a glance, completely undone by you.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your breath still mingling with his in the charged air between you. His chest heaves, each rise and fall frantic, his lips swollen and slick from your kiss, slightly parted as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes—half-lidded and glazed over—lock onto yours, dark and unfocused, brimming with a desperation he can’t quite conceal. For a fleeting moment, it feels like looking into his soul, a raw, vulnerable window to something usually locked away beneath his composed exterior.

The intimacy feels like too much, too exposed. The softness lingers in the air like an uninvited guest, pressing against the raw edges of the moment. You shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if to dispel the weight of it, a silent denial of the connection crackling between you. Vulnerability wasn’t part of this—it wasn’t supposed to be. You came here to take, to dominate, to unravel him until nothing was left but submission and need. This? This fleeting tenderness feels misplaced, like silk trying to smother a flame.

Your grip tightens on his jaw, a reminder of control slipping back into your hands like a mask you wear too well. With deliberate force, you tilt his head down, breaking the fragile spell and redirecting his attention to where your bodies are joined. His cock is buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your very core, every inch of him slick and glistening with how greedily your cunt swallows him. His breath catches, a guttural noise tearing from his chest as his hands clench into trembling fists at his sides, every part of him strung so tight he looks ready to snap.

“Look at that,” you murmur, your voice cutting through the charged air like a blade, your dominance settling back over you like armor. “Look at how perfectly you fill me up, Jeno. Every inch of you disappearing into me.” You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, forcing your walls to clench around him, pulling a strangled gasp from his lips. “And yet,” you pause, letting the weight of your words press into him, “you can barely hold it together.”

“I—I’m trying,” he stammers, his voice trembling as his cock throbs inside you, twitching with every cruel grind of your hips. His head falls forward, his forehead brushing your shoulder as he struggles for control, but you shove him back against the chair with an unrelenting grip. “Fuck, I’m trying—I swear—”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” you snap, your fingers tangling in his hair instead, tugging sharply as his head jerks back, a broken whimper spilling from his lips. The tension in his body ripples under your control, his throat bared to you, vulnerable and exposed. “You’re already falling apart, Jeno, and I haven’t even given you my best yet. What does that make you?”

His jaw tightens, his lips parting as though he’s about to argue, but all that comes out is a broken, wrecked moan. “Yours,” he finally manages, the word shaky and soft, like he’s barely holding on. “I’m yours. Fuck—do whatever you want—just don’t stop.”

A smirk curls your lips, the sight of him trembling, undone, making heat surge through you. You lean forward, your breath brushing his ear as your voice dips lower. “You sound pathetic. Like a desperate little toy, begging for me to use you. Is that what you want, Jeno? To be mine to ruin?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. “Yes, please—I’ll do anything.”

You lift your hips slightly, just enough to make your cunt squeeze tighter around him before slamming back down with brutal precision. The wet, obscene sound of him filling you completely echoes in the room, and his entire body shudders, his cock twitching violently as if it’s trying to bury itself deeper. He’s trembling now, his fingers twitching at his sides, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of you taking him completely.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your nails dragging along his chest again, this time down to the sensitive skin just above his navel. His hips buck involuntarily, trying to meet your punishing rhythm, but you press him back with surprising strength, keeping him pinned. “And you’re going to sit there and take it while I make you fall apart.”

“Fuck—please—” he whines, his voice a wrecked whisper, his head falling back as he groans. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Can’t?” you mock, gripping his chin tighter and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ll take every inch of me, Jeno. You don’t have a fucking choice.” You tilt his head back further, making him watch as your cunt swallows him whole, the sight of him disappearing into you completely leaving him gasping for air. “Look at you,” you sneer, grinding down harder just to hear him cry out. “Pathetic. So desperate. You can’t even handle how tight I am around you.”

His hips jerk again, his control slipping further as his moans turn into something almost feral, his body arching against you. “Please,” he gasps, his voice raw, wrecked, broken. “You’re so—fuck—you’re perfect. I need more—I need—”

“You don’t get to need anything,” you hiss, leaning down until your lips are a breath away from his. “The only thing you get is what I decide to give you. And right now? You’re going to stay right here and watch while I ruin you.”

But the moment cracks, his control shattering as you lift yourself slightly, your body taut and poised to slam back down onto him. His palm snaps to your lower back, holding you in place with a force that’s as commanding as it is infuriating, while his other hand digs into your hip, the bruising grip leaving no room for escape. Before you can argue, the air shifts, thickening with the wet, lewd sound of him gathering spit. You open your mouth instinctively, heat flooding your core as his head dips, and he spits directly onto your tongue—hot, filthy, and deliberate. It pools there for a moment before you swallow, your lips parting again as his eyes darken with something raw and primal. He doesn’t stop. Another wet strand lands on your chest, sliding down to the curve of your breast, the glistening trail catching the light before his hand smears it lower, dragging the slick mess down your stomach and over the arch of your back. His palm presses harder, his cock throbbing deep inside you as his lips curl into a smug, defiant grin.

His hands move immediately, smearing the spit across your skin with deliberate, controlled motions. His fingers press firmly into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading the wetness with maddening precision, working it over every curve as if he owns you. His grip tightens, kneading and pulling, his palms hot against your skin, the pressure sparking heat that radiates through your body. His cock twitches inside you, thick and pulsing, sending shocks of pleasure that coil in your stomach. He leans in, his breath hot and heavy, his hands sliding lower to spread the spit even further, as if marking every inch of you as his. “Look at you,” he growls, his voice dripping with contempt and possession. “So fucking filthy. So desperate. Do you even realize how pathetic you look right now?”

“Pathetic?” you bite back, your voice sharp, cutting through the haze of his dominance. Your hands shoot out, grabbing his wrists as you shove his grip away. “I’m the one riding you. Don’t forget that.” You grind your hips down hard, forcing a guttural groan from his throat as his head falls back. His smirk falters for a second, replaced by a flash of vulnerability in his darkened gaze.

But he doesn’t relent, snapping his hips upward with a brutal thrust that forces a broken cry from your lips. “Feel that?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction. “You’re shaking around me. You’re the one falling apart. Admit it—you’re fucking addicted to me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, leaning forward, your fingers curling around his throat. You squeeze lightly, enough to make his breath hitch as your hips shift to take him deeper. “You don’t get to talk. Not when I’ve got you like this.”

His response is a low, defiant chuckle, even as his thighs tremble beneath you. “That all you’ve got?” he rasps, his voice rough, but the quiver in his tone betrays him. “You’re trying so hard to be in control, but look at you. You can’t even stop moaning.”

Your nails drag down his chest in retaliation, leaving angry red trails that make his cock jerk inside you. “You’re going to regret that,” you snap, slamming your hips down hard enough to make his eyes roll back. The wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoes around you, and the sight between your legs—the way his cock disappears into you, stretching you, slick with your arousal—makes your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands twitching at his sides like he’s barely holding himself together. “You’re so—shit—how do you keep getting tighter?”

“And you’re going to feel every second of it,” you murmur, your hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that make his breath hitch. His hands flex at his sides, and you lean in, pinning his wrists above his head with a smirk. “Stay still. You’re mine to break, Jeno.”

But he doesn’t stay still. His restraint snaps, his hips slamming up into you with enough force to leave you gasping. “Is this how you’re going to break me?” he bites out, his voice strained but defiant as his hands grip your hips, holding you in place. “Look at you—shaking like that. You’re barely holding on.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying to force him back down, but he doesn’t let up, his smirk cutting through your attempt at control.

“Make me,” he growls, thrusting deeper, his gaze locked on yours, daring you to take it back.

“You asshole,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you try to regain control, your body arching with each brutal thrust. “You’re so fucking desperate. Can’t even last without trying to take over.”

His laughter is wrecked, strained, as he leans up, his lips brushing against your ear. “And you’re soaked, trembling, fucking yourself on my cock like you can’t get enough. So who’s desperate now?”

Your bodies collide in a frenzy of dominance and submission, both of you battling for control even as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. His cock drives into you, relentless and unyielding, the stretch almost too much to bear, but you meet him thrust for thrust, refusing to back down. Your nails rake down his back, and he shudders, his breath stuttering against your lips as his movements grow erratic.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the heat between you threatens to consume everything. “I’m—Jeno, I’m—”

“Let it go,” he groans, his voice strained, his own control hanging by a thread. “Come on, baby. Together.”

The tension snaps all at once, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body clenches around him, a scream tearing from your throat as you shatter, the wetness flooding between you, spilling out in an uncontrollable gush that leaves both of you gasping. Jeno follows a second later, a guttural moan ripped from his chest as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with everything he has.

Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging in as his hips jerk uncontrollably, prolonging both of your highs. His forehead falls to yours, his breaths coming in ragged bursts as the tremors in your body echo in his. For a moment, neither of you move, the silence filled only with the sound of your labored breathing and the sticky, heated mess between your bodies.

Your body feels wrecked, trembling with aftershocks as you try to catch your breath. Your skin burns where his hands had gripped you, his touch still ghosting along your thighs, your hips, everywhere he’d claimed you. Your chest heaves, your pulse erratic, and when your gaze locks with his, it sends another jolt through you. His eyes are dark, wide with something raw—shock, maybe regret, but laced with hunger that hasn’t quite faded. His lips are swollen, parted slightly as he struggles to steady his breathing, and the way he looks at you makes everything tighten again, an ache blooming low in your stomach. You see it there, in the way his brows pull together, in the slight tremor in his hands still resting on your hips—he’s just as undone as you are, and it terrifies you.

This isn’t a beginning; it’s the wreckage of everything you swore to keep intact—a body trembling beneath the weight of its own undoing. The room feels unbearably quiet now, the sound of your shared breaths the only thing grounding you both. You’ve just fucked him—Mark’s brother—the one person you should have never touched, and it feels like you’ve set fire to everything you’ve built. The heat still lingers between you, searing, scorching, and yet it’s the aftermath that threatens to suffocate—the realization that you’ve not only crossed the line, you’ve obliterated it. The moment feels like a collapsing star, all-consuming and inescapable, and yet neither of you moves, as though staying in this broken, twisted orbit might somehow keep the inevitable from swallowing you whole.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @alltimernctzen @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin

authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

964 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 1 month ago

Text

155 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 1 month ago

Text

THIS WAS FREAKING ADORABLE KYU!!!! I LOVEF IT SO MUCH!!!

» DEOBI DAY SPECIAL REQUEST DELIVERY »

to: maki @sknyuz

req: changmin x reader | in the morning by rocco

summary: because nothing can truly stop you from meeting a cutie, not even your allergies!

genre: college au | cat cafe employee!changmin, strangers to lovers, fluff, (secret) mutual pining :D

warnings: none

wc: 1.8k words

an: when maki sent that detailed request, i could easily picture out the scene, it was amazing... it's so easy to write for a fluffy changmin, my goodness i love him i love him 😟🫶🏼 thank you maki for sending this sweet sweet req <3

stars: @carrotsworld @winterchimez @honeybeehorizon @sknyuz @bbangbies @from-izzy @jaehunnyy | taglist

masterlist | @deoboyznet

pit-pat-pit-pat…

you were leaning your head on the pole before lifting it off it to look down at your feet. something brushed your legs before you had the chance to hear it coming. after taking off one side of your headphones, you were able to hear it again.

pit-pat-pit-pat…

footsteps. a lost kitten.

“oh, kitty,” you immediately reached down to pet the cat, but froze mid-way before frantically opening your backpack.

you rummaged through your bag for your astelin, even though you knew it was useless to keep searching. having it on hand would have been for nothing anyway since you would need half an hour for the medication to work or else you start-

“ahh-achoo!” you sneezed, realizing you had been crouching down all this time after setting your bag down on the ground.

the kitten’s cute little face was less than 2 feet away from yours.

waking up 20 minutes later bought you more time to sleep after studying late last night, but remembering to take your allergy meds also happened to be at the bottom of your priorities.

“i should have known i forgot something- aah- ah-choo -important today…” you sighed, “i changed my bag because of finals.”

still, you couldn’t resist petting the cat. its collar caught your eye, the pendant in front was dangling along as the kitten walked around. chewy, as engraved, seems to be its name.

“chewy? are you lost? sweetie, how can i help bring you home?” you flipped the pendant revealing a phone number and a name.

ji changmin.

“just wait for a little bit, chewy, okay? we’ll get you back home in no time!” you smiled at the kitten, holding back another sneeze unsuccessfully.

“ready, set, kyu! thank you for calling kitty kyu, how may i help you?” a bright, chirpy voice greets you over the phone. you instantly recognized where chewy may have come from.

“is this ji changmin?”

“yes, that’s me.”

“hello, my name is y/n. are you guys missing a kitten?

“-ah! we’re currently looking for one!” he sounded surprised and relieved at the same time.

“actually i’m nearby- i’m currently at the bus stop at the corner of venice and georgia with chewy- aaah-achoo!” you sneezed on the phone, feeling your eyes water even more now that you’ve picked up the cat in your arms, “i know your cafe, i’ll start walking there.”

“yes, we’re two blocks away from venice street. thank you so much!” he says, making his way to the front of the building to start walking in your direction as well.

the entrance bells rang as he walked out to look out the street, waiting to see you turn the corner. while staying on the call, changmin can hear your sniffles.

“you’re allergic,” he muttered on the phone.

when you reached the cafe’s block, changmin saw you had taken your phone out of your ear, holding chewy on your right and covering your mouth with your left elbow after sneezing for the tenth time.

changmin doesn’t waste any time before running towards you to take the kitten off your hands.

“you really didn’t have to rush and take him all the way here- look you’re having a reaction!”

as a cat lover, you were cursed by the worst allergy possible.

nothing excited you more about your daily commute than passing by to see this cat cafe when you first moved to town for college. you thought about holding one of your study sessions in the cafe with it being so close to your usual bus stop. but, relieving your stress surrounded by the cutest friends would just be replaced by a whole other problem entirely.

so, you’re a regular at kitty kyu—not the kind who comes in, knows all the cats, knows all the staff—but the one who only looks over from a distance.

your hands briefly brushed at the exchange when you looked up to meet changmin.

it’s him.

the cute guy who works at the cat cafe.

you never went in the cafe nor looked long enough to recognize any of the staff, but you did recognize changmin.

you only started noticing him at the start of the school year, walking past the cafe every saturday heading to and back home from campus.

changmin’s cute dimple smile greeted your early days since fall. he opens the cafe in the morning, just before your bus comes, and cleans up to close while you’re on your way home. sometimes you can see him greet all the fur parents who left their cats in the cafe and came back to fetch them at the end of the day.

your favorite part of the cafe was the viewing ledge by the corner of the front window. despite the staff’s best efforts, they can’t stop some of the naughtiest cats from jumping off the highest tower towards the door. that cute guy with the dimples always caught the cats on time—he was strict with them like a doting parent but still treated them with the best care.

it wasn’t long until walking past the cafe to see your crush became part of your weekly routine. to see changmin, who was always somehow around and near the front of the cafe on saturdays.

but now, what better timing is it to meet the stranger you’ve been crushing on for a long time than when you’re uncontrollably sneezing, your nose is itching, and your eyes are watering.

“i-it’s really not a big deal, i wanted to help-” you sniffled, trying to crack a smile in the midst of a fit, “-and i wasn’t too far. chewy was so small and shy, he must have been afraid.”

changmin’s concern remained on his face, towards you or chewy, it wasn’t clear. he held the cat close to his face, petting him affectionately. chewy now looks relieved and comfortable with someone who seemed more familiar.

you looked at both of them so sweetly, trying not to think about who you actually found more adorable.

“you bad boy- running away while we were all busy and now, you’ve made poor y/n all sniffly instead!” he playfully scolded the kitten.

“i’m sorry- all the sneezing might have bothered him,” you pouted, feeling sorry for forgetting your allergy meds again.

“wait- y/n, let me just bring chewy back in. just wait here because i’ll be back, okay?”

changmin waved chewy’s arm goodbye to you before disappearing inside the cafe. you were confused but chose to listen to him and stayed anyway.

after a couple minutes, changmin comes out of the cafe. this time, he’s alone. using a lint roller to get rid of the fur on his clothes, he walks towards you.

“i know getting rid of the fur now doesn’t automatically take care of your allergies, but i shouldn’t make it worse,” he looked apologetic, signaling you to come follow him, “come here- i’ve got something to help you with all that sneezing.”

you asked where you’re heading when he points up. there was a sign for a clinic just above the cafe. you’ve passed by this cafe countless times but never realized there was a vet clinic upstairs.

“they’re closed this afternoon, but don’t worry- i basically own the place,” he winked after successfully putting the door pin to open the entrance of the clinic.

ugh, you’re much cuter up close than through the windows, you thought to yourself.

your blank stare, which was to you an obvious display of your admiration, only alarmed changmin. panicking, he immediately follows-up to explain that his family both owns the clinic and the cat cafe.

“don’t worry, you don’t strike me as the breaking and entering type-”

“oh? what do i seem like to you?”

it took you an embarrassingly amount of time to figure out changmin was teasing you.

after entering the clinic, you stayed in the lobby while changmin headed directly to the office.

“not allergic to anything?” he asked from the other room, searching through a cabinet, “i mean- besides cats.”

“nope,” you laughed.

“if your reaction is this severe and fast, i’m guessing you do take something for your allergies, yeah?”

“astelin or any over-the-counter antihistamine- i just forgot my spray today,” you say as he comes back with a squeeze bottle on hand.

“the bathroom is on your right. this should help at least for a quick remedy.”

“thank you so much!”

changmin waited until you were finished flushing out your congestion with saline solution. your eyes look better than before and you can breathe freely without sneezing every few seconds.

unfortunately, your makeup is definitely ruined.

silently cursing yourself in the bathroom, you collected yourself after cleaning up. after all, not everyone can check off completing a nasal irrigation upon meeting a boy for the first time on their bingo cards.

“all good?” he asked.

“mhm- so much better,” you smiled, “thank you again.”

“no- thank you!”

you looked at each other before laughing at this silly encounter, sensing you would probably end up thanking each other a couple more times before stopping. changmin makes sure to lock the clinic before he follows you out to send you off.

“bye, changmin. it was nice meeting you and chewy-”

“wait- y/n,” he taps you on the shoulder after you turned around, “chewy could have genuinely gotten lost without your help. i- uhh, i would like to do something- give you something in return?”

“hmm?” you asked, “you helped me with my allergies, trust me, you’ve helped plenty!”

“give us a visit- your drink’s on me!” he blurted out.

you were quiet for a moment.

changmin, who was oblivious to you freaking out inside, regretted what he said right away. he saw how his offer could be seen as insensitive, inviting you over to a cat cafe when you were obviously, severely allergic to cats.

“oh shit- nevermind. that wouldn’t work-”

“-i’ll come!” you immediately said, stopping him from taking back his offer.

changmin waits to hear the rest of your reply, feeling better when he saw you weren’t offended at his thoughtless comment.

he finally figured out where he has seen you before, realizing you’re the one who always walks by and stops to look at the cats every saturday. changmin wondered why you never went in the the cafe, especially if you seemed to love hanging out with the cats.

now, it’s clear why.

“i mean- i would love to visit… of course, once i take my meds, i can manage. enough to hang out by the cafe area at least,” you rambled on, making sure he knows that you were as excited at the thought of coming back.

“great!” he grinned, pulling out his phone, “oh- i was going to give you my number but i guess you have it now.”

you know your cheeks were red from the irritation but you swore they grew even redder because of what he said.

“don’t worry, i’ll have it saved.”

“i’ll see you.”

looking down at your phone, you couldn’t hide your smile. while walking back to the other direction, you felt your phone buzz.

one notification followed after another and another.

hey, it’s changmin.

btw i start my shift at 10 AM on saturdays

see you then :)

64 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 1 month ago

Text

reblog if you have skilled writer friends and you're damn proud of them

42K notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 2 months ago

Text

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA tHE SOULMATES LOCKSCREENS!! hALP THEYRE SOOOOO DOWNBAD FOR EO 😭 mAY THEIR LOVE LAST FOREVER EVEN IN THEIR NEXT LIFETIME 🥰

claiming that their mark is forever glowing 😌

thank you kyu for this one 🥹🫶🏻

» DEOBI DAY SPECIAL REQUEST DELIVERY »

to: anon

req: eric x female reader | lilac by dept (ft. ejean)

summary: *finally* making it official with the one you're destined to be with <3

genre: soulmate au | fluff!!!

warnings: none

wc: 780 words

an: as per anon's request (and for everyone who absolutely enjoyed BY FATE) this is a bonus chapter! aka what happened shortly after y/n and eric confessed their love for each other (middle of the last chapter just before y/n and juyeon's conversation) see more at the end of the chapter for an extended author's note !

stars: @carrotsworld @winterchimez @honeybeehorizon @sknyuz @bbangbies @from-izzy @jaehunnyy | taglist

masterlist | @deoboyznet

“yes, ma’am. that was part of the performance," you say without hesitation.

eric stood there, amazed, unable to hide the astonished look on his face. you lied so well that he almost believed it was true.

half an hour ago, you ran away after completing your performance with eric in front of the whole class. now, you're in your professor’s office to explain, or at least attempt to give a half-decent reason for what happened.

“eric, you looked surprised earlier. was that intentional?” professor castro asked smiling, scrutinizing every shift in your reactions.

but what you didn't know was that regardless of your honesty, professor castro would have taken whatever lame excuse you throw her way.

she had the whole semester to observe your budding romance, realizing you were more involved in each other’s lives than strangers paired up for this project.

it was painfully obvious in the way your body always gravitate towards eric.

how you were always early for class but continue looking at the door, waiting until he arrives. or how you laughed at his stupid jokes and be entranced in a whole different world as if the rest of the class didn't exist.

frankly, eric wasn't any better.

his eyes never left you. he probably couldn't even if he tried. anyone with common sense can guess you were the only target audience for his jokes. it's a relief you always laughed at them.

"actually, you don't answer that," professor castro had to keep her composure when she noticed eric's shaking eyes.

you looked at eric and shared a knowing smile.

oh, young love—she muttered quietly, reminiscing her own memories in the past. in no time, the professor dismissed you from her office with no further questions.

walking out the door, eric matches your steps and follows you out the building. eyeing your swinging arm, he hesitates to just go for it. to hold or not to hold. to hold or not-

"it's not like you asked to kiss me before you actually went for it," you say, playfully.

"does this soulmate thing come with telepathy or-"

"eric, your hand is tickling me and you've been staring at it for the past two minutes," you rolled your eyes.

without wasting another second, you took the leap and grabbed his hand, "who knew mr. playboy could be so shy?"

eric was speechless. not for the lack of trying, but out of pure delight. the adrenaline from confessing everything to you slowly waned.

meeting you has changed eric in ways he couldn't imagine, and that includes being reduced to a nervous mess in front of someone he genuinely likes.

someone like his girlfriend?

"-wait, this means you're saying yes to us being in a relationship right?" eric starts panicking.

eric replayed the moments after you ran out the classroom. there may have been mentions of you deserving so much better and loving you until the end in the midst of that chaotic whirldwind, but he never officially asked you out.

“oh.”

you stopped walking. your cheeks were flushed, somehow blushing in this sunny spring weather.

in your head, you were beyond excited at the thought of making your relationship official, but your one-word reaction didn’t help ease eric’s worries—still mistaken thinking you’re on the fence.

“y/n…” eric called you, almost as if he was whining, “i made up my mind and want to prioritize communicating with you- do you know how many times younghoon hyung drilled that in my head last night- i really want this to work out so-”

holding his hand tightly on one hand, you cupped his cheek with the other and kissed his pouting lips.

eric raised his eyebrow when he looked at you, grinning from the sweet surprise. he blinked his eyes so rapidly, making you laugh. you showered him with a couple more quick pecks all over his face while trying to hold him still, he was squirming from your ticklish touch.

“stop worrying and get the hint, loverboy,” you tapped his nose.

“well, that’s good- i was gonna ask you out every day until you said yes.”

“no way-”

eric brushed your hair away from your eyes and planted a soft kiss on your forehead, “i can still do that if you’d like.”

“that doesn’t sound too bad,” you chuckled.

you two continued walking hand in hand. fully accepting that you’ll be subject to your boyfriend’s antics from here on out, you glance at him every once in a while just to check if you’re dreaming or not.

you’re brought back to reality when you feel him squeeze your hand in return.

“you’re mine?”

he asked for the fifth time.

“i’m yours.”

...

an: extremely important detail found in chapter seven! y/n only says "i'm yours" towards eric. when juyeon asked y/n when they we're still seeing each other, y/n only tells him "you're mine" instead of fully giving herself. a significant difference between what she was willing to accept subconsciously :)

this scene was previously cut from the original because i wasn't sure with the flow... but i'm so happy i was able to add these back into the narrative. thank you so much anon and again, thanks to everyone who enjoyed by fate <3

33 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 2 months ago

Text

omg thank you???? I LOVR BY FATE SO MUCH 😭🤍🫶🏻

» DEOBI DAY SPECIAL REQUEST DELIVERY »

to: anon

req: eric x female reader | lilac by dept (ft. ejean)

summary: *finally* making it official with the one you're destined to be with <3

genre: soulmate au | fluff!!!

warnings: none

wc: 780 words

stars: @carrotsworld @winterchimez @honeybeehorizon @sknyuz @bbangbies @from-izzy @jaehunnyy | taglist

masterlist | @deoboyznet

“yes, ma’am. that was part of the performance," you say without hesitation.

eric stood there, amazed, unable to hide the astonished look on his face. you lied so well that he almost believed it was true.

“eric, you looked surprised earlier. was that intentional?” professor castro asked smiling, scrutinizing every shift in your reactions.

but what you didn't know was that regardless of your honesty, professor castro would have taken whatever lame excuse you throw her way.

she had the whole semester to observe your budding romance, realizing you were more involved in each other’s lives than strangers paired up for this project.

it was painfully obvious in the way your body always gravitate towards eric.

frankly, eric wasn't any better.

his eyes never left you. he probably couldn't even if he tried. anyone with common sense can guess you were the only target audience for his jokes. it's a relief you always laughed at them.

"actually, you don't answer that," professor castro had to keep her composure when she noticed eric's shaking eyes.

you looked at eric and shared a knowing smile.

oh, young love—she muttered quietly, reminiscing her own memories in the past. in no time, the professor dismissed you from her office with no further questions.

walking out the door, eric matches your steps and follows you out the building. eyeing your swinging arm, he hesitates to just go for it. to hold or not to hold. to hold or not-

"it's not like you asked to kiss me before you actually went for it," you say, playfully.

"does this soulmate thing come with telepathy or-"

"eric, your hand is tickling me and you've been staring at it for the past two minutes," you rolled your eyes.

without wasting another second, you took the leap and grabbed his hand, "who knew mr. playboy could be so shy?"

eric was speechless. not for the lack of trying, but out of pure delight. the adrenaline from confessing everything to you slowly waned.

meeting you has changed eric in ways he couldn't imagine, and that includes being reduced to a nervous mess in front of someone he genuinely likes.

someone like his girlfriend?

"-wait, this means you're saying yes to us being in a relationship right?" eric starts panicking.

“oh.”

you stopped walking. your cheeks were flushed, somehow blushing in this sunny spring weather.

holding his hand tightly on one hand, you cupped his cheek with the other and kissed his pouting lips.

“stop worrying and get the hint, loverboy,” you tapped his nose.

“well, that’s good- i was gonna ask you out every day until you said yes.”

“no way-”

eric brushed your hair away from your eyes and planted a soft kiss on your forehead, “i can still do that if you’d like.”

“that doesn’t sound too bad,” you chuckled.

you’re brought back to reality when you feel him squeeze your hand in return.

“you’re mine?”

he asked for the fifth time.

“i’m yours.”

...

33 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 2 months ago

Text

hiiiiii

i reached a follower milestone a few days ago but realized that (sadly) majority of my mutuals have either moved, deactivated, or aren't actively posting/reblogging tbz content...severely lacking tbz enjoyers at the moment (finding y'all has been hard a lil hard omg)

so i'm trying to find active deobis on this site ◡̈

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A DEOBI AND WANT TO FIND MORE MUTUALS ♡

if this flops, you didn't see it

54 notes · View notes

honeybeehorizon · 2 months ago

Text

🥹🥹🥹🥹 i need days to recover over this fic

Too Sweet | Jeong Yunho

🥃 Summary: Two complete opposites who are quickly falling for each other, one wanting more but the other afraid of all the things that could go wrong.

🥃 Pairing(s): upcoming rockstar!Jeong Yunho x F!Reader

🥃 Genres/Tropes: upcoming-rockstar au, opposites attract au, what could have been, fluff, angst, suggestive, hurt/no comfort

🥃 Warnings/Tags: Fem!reader, no use of Y/N, kinda yunho centric, explicit language, insecure yuyu, use of alcohol, smoking cig, arguments, mingi is a good friend, mention of religion and satan, stereotypes about rockbands, post-orgasm conversations, making out and brief nipple play (f receiving), a lot of crying, sad ending, not beta read and MDNI!!!

🥃 Wordcount: 19.3K

🥃 Author's note pt.1: It's been a while....Here's a lil something inspired by hozier's too sweet. The way I have so many drafts for this story in different AUs. I couldn't decide whether to make it into an Idol AU or not, so I did a mix. 😭 It wasn't supposed to be that long either but apparently I have no limits when it comes to writing lmao. Keep in mind that I have little to no knowledge about instruments, rock bands, etc, so everything I know is from given (the anime), KISS and wikipedia. English isn't my first (or second) language, so if there are any errors please do tell.

AO3 Masterlist Moodboard

This is all fiction and not meant to represent Yunho in any way or form.

The first time Yunho laid eyes on you he knew you’d never be his. Not because of some ancient family feud forbidding you from one another or because you were star crossed lovers in a dystopian world. No, it wasn’t anything dramatic like that.

You’d never be his because Yunho would simply not let it happen.

Yunho jumped off the makeshift stage set up in the corner of the saloon that waited on them each Friday night and walked through the drunken crowd of people. The band finished their weekly gig at Crescent and were being treated to drinks by the owner for bringing such a big crowd to the bar.

Slightly hunched over the counter, left forearm pressing against the smooth wooden surface while the other idly rested on his thigh and feet propped on the footrest, Yunho silently thanked the bartender for the drinks. One for him and the other for his bandmate seated to his right. The drummer brought a lot of attention to them, with his bleached hair styled to get that disheveled spiked look and handful of tattoos and piercings littering his body. Despite the flashy details, Mingi was quite the eye-candy. His thick lips and equally big and straight nose, made him popular with the ladies as well as the men, and not to mention his chiseled jaw. A big pair of shades covered his fox-eyes – he was too lazy to smudge some makeup on – and the miniature face tattoo reading ‘fix-on’ inked on his cheekbone, unlike the big butterfly on his neck that was fully exposed.

Yunho usually didn’t like sitting at the corner of the long bar, but it provided more space for his long legs and a better view to the rest of the room which, on second hand, he was grateful for otherwise he’d miss the door opening and the group of girls coming through. Each was different from the other, he thought as he skimmed past them only to back track at the last one trailing in.

Staring at you from across the room – a place he never imagined a speck of purity in – he swiveled the drink in hand, allowing the whiskey to swish around in the bottom before tipping his head back and letting some of the brown liquor cascade down his throat. Despite having a speaker right above his head, your angelic laughter still managed to reach Yunho’s ears and it was better than any melody performed by the next indie group. Eyes wandering down your figure, body clad in a white sundress with a pattern of miniature pink roses, he stopped at the heart shaped front giving a little tease of what hid beneath. The fabric hugged tightly around your torso and hips, then widened like a flower in bloom and stopped right above your knees. A gold necklace with a delicate heart pendant rested subtly near the crevic of your chest. Arms and legs bare, only a matching golden bracelet glinting on your right wrists and nails painted in white. You wore the cutest pair of pink ballet flats Yunho had ever seen and it brought a little smile to his face.

“What are you smiling about?” Mingi asked with a teasing tilt to his voice, a brow curiously arched and bottom lip stuck between his teeth.

Yunho shook his head and took another calculated sip of his drink.

“Nothing.”

“Right, so you didn’t just plan a marriage with the angel-look alike overthere, huh?” Mingi nodded towards the girls who were inching closer to an empty table. “She seems sweet.”

And sweet you were. Oh, so sweet. From your strawberry lip gloss to the notes of your brown sugar and vanilla perfume lingering in the air. Eyes twinkling in the dim lights and nose scrunching before a giggle came out at one of your friends’ jokes, hand automatically going up to cover your mouth.

“Well,” Mingi started and tapped his fingers against the bar, “if you’re gonna shoot your shot about now would be the time to do it.”

On cue you passed the two giants and stopped to the left of Yunho where you could get a clear view of the bartender, and hopefully catch his attention. Being the one to cancel the last outing, you took it on yourself to pay for the first round of drinks as a way of apologizing to the girls even if they didn’t chastise you for it.

You were prettier up close, Yunho thought as he scanned your profile. Pretty lips, gorgeous eyes and captivating makeup.

“Hey,” he finally said and slightly turned towards you.

A friendly smile splayed on his face and ears were slightly red either from his drink or the warmth from the heavily packed bar. Never one to turn down a conversation, you greeted him back with upturned lips and faced the front again. Luck wasn’t on your side as the bartender brushed past you on multiple occasions, eyes filtering over you as if you weren’t there. Not giving up, you let out a huff of annoyance and stepped closer. Standing on your tiptoes – not that you needed it, but maybe then you’d get his attention – and arms crossed over the surface you followed his movements, eyes burning into him but to no avail. The man took order after order and not once did you get the chance to speak up. Yunho, who watched the whole thing play out, slightly raised his hand and the bartender spawned before him in seconds. Lips parted in disbelief, you couldn’t believe how easy the dark haired man made it out to be. There you were, waiting like a dog for a crumb of attention while he got it with a lift of his fingers.

“This pretty lady has been wanting to order for a while now,” Yunho stated calmly, yet his eyes were hard as steel.

Saying nothing, the bartender turned to you with a raised brow, quietly urging you to spit it out.

“Two mojitos, one martini and mai tai, please.” As the bartender got to work, you thanked the guy with the helping hand.

“No worries, it tends to get rather busy here on Fridays…That’s a lot for just one lady though.”

“Well, this lady didn’t come alone.”

In any other circumstance, Yunho would interpret the statement as snarky and a telltale of not being interested but your soft spoken words said the complete opposite.

“Ah, there go my plans of buying you a drink.”

Taking a better look at the man you realized he was quite handsome. Face full of delicate features; a long nose, thin cupid’s bow mouth and eyes soft but dark as the handful of oak trees outside. The smokey makeup fit the whole wanna-be-rock-star-look and so did the ring protruding from the left side of his bottom lip. His mass of black and burgundy hair was ruffled up and parted in the middle, revealing his forehead. Blue pants with interesting design swirls fit around his legs and he wore a black sleeveless shirt that showed off his perfectly formed biceps and shoulders. A bunch of silver necklaces hung around his neck and each finger was adorned with one or two rings; some thin and plain, and others thick and covering whole digits. So not only was he handsome, but had a good fashion sense too. All he was missing was the sleeve of tattoos and you’d dub him a real rock star. Eyes crinkling and lips pursing in an almost teasing manner, you decided to take a huge leap of faith.

“Who’s to say you still can’t?”

The teasing remark indicated you didn’t know he was a member of Blue Bird and it sent waves of relief through him. It wasn’t like he didn’t want you to know about the band, but most people that did only approached him because of it and not his personality. Starting a conversation with ‘fuck me like a rockstar’ quote unquote, wasn’t the best way to get into Yunho’s pants.

“Perhaps the partner you came with.”

Yunho’s chin rested against the palm of his hand, brows slightly raised and lips quirked up.

“Lucky for you, it’s just me and my girlies.”

“As much as I’d like to crash ladies night, let’s do this instead. I’ll give you my number and you text me when you’re feeling for another drink, on me, yeah?”

Like a moth drawn to a flame, you subconsciously leaned closer to him. Slightly swaying side to side with eyes trained on him, completely missing the entertained look on Mingi’s face who watched the interaction with glee. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d pick a person up from a night out, even upcoming rock stars had needs to quell, but something was telling Mingi you weren’t interested in a quickie in the bathroom. Forever engraving the image of his friend smiling at a girl that was the complete opposite of him, Mingi smiled. Perhaps you were the cube of sugar Yunho needed with his all too bitter coffee.

The second time Yunho laid eyes on you he really wished for things to work out. That despite your differences you’d find a balance solid enough to keep a healthy relationship. While Yunho usually wasn’t a naive guy, his adoration towards you weighed heavier than any rational thought screaming at him to cut the interaction short. Wanting to bask just a little more in the sunlight that was you, Yunho decided – for once – to be selfish.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when you stepped foot in a, you wouldn’t call it a rundown neighborhood but it wasn’t that wellkept either. The playgrounds made for kids were far from eye-catching with the once vibrant colors taken over by rust that even you – an adult – wouldn't try out the rides. The navigation in your phone chimed as you entered a white building identical to the other structures and began climbing the several flights of stairs, re-reading Yunho’s instructions of how to get to his place. Chest heaving and cheeks ablaze, you sent three rapid knocks against the door. One would believe the resident’s surname to be somewhere near but that wasn’t the case as only the apartment number in metal was drilled on the wall beside. The door swung open and you were greeted by a smiling Yunho, the lip ring glinting in the corridor lights.

“Hey, I was worried you wouldn’t find your way here but you’re a pro.”

While you weren’t dressed in a cute sundress, you still looked as sweet with your pink knitted sweater and light blue pants. What really took his breath away were the bright bows in your hair. If you were the sun then Yunho was the moon with his dark bottoms and identical hoodie thrown over the only bright fabric on his body.

“Now you know not to underestimate me, Yunho.”

Hands thrown up in surrender, he walked backwards as you followed in tow.

“Consider the lesson learned.”

The apartment was neater than expected – white walls, laminated flooring and a few family pictures hanging here and there – considering it was in the care of two guys and the interior proved that as the living room solely consisted of a sofa big enough for two with a small coffee table in the middle and the biggest plasma TV you had ever seen nailed to the wall. On the brightside there weren’t any dirty underwear or rotten leftovers lying everywhere.

“Well this is my place, or mine and my roommate’s, but still welcome.”

“It looks nice,” you honestly responded and that counted as a victory in Yunho’s books.

“Thank you, obviously I do all the furniture shopping. My friend isn’t all that interested in the interior of the place as long as we have somewhere to sit and sleep.”

The kitchen was shaped in an upside down L with black tiled floor starting from the threshold, the walls were still white. The slimmer and oblong part consisted of black marble counters and the usual mechanics that had a little shine to them telling you they cost a good penny. In the wider part of the kitchen was a round table and a set of four chairs. Black curtains were drawn together yet you could make out an empty balcony through the small gap. There weren't a lot of miscellaneous decorations in the place, as if the apartment was barely in use but to stay the night. Taking a seat by the dinner table, you rested your chin against your palms and smiled as Yunho opened the fridge.

“Ah, is that why there’s a massage chair in the hallway?”

The cold temperature chilled Yunho’s burning cheeks. Collecting himself, he slid you a can of coke and took out the rest of the preparations he needed to make dinner.

“That’s one of Yeosang’s many dumb investments, once again why I’m in charge of the interior.”

“He’s the one with the neon green hair, right?” You recalled as the different faces came to mind.

“Yup.”

It dawned on you that all of Yunho’s friends were strikingly handsome, but Yeosang was by far the prettiest. With a face of both sharp and soft features he was sculpted better than any ancient Greek statue, and possessed a jaw sharp enough to cut through skin. His eyes were large and dark but with a gentle shape to them, just like his heart shaped lips. A raspberry smudge bloomed by the side of his upper cheek, another pretty and heart shaped detail to his already unique face. His hair was long enough to be tucked behind his ear with some neon green strands falling in his line of sight. This man could very well fit in the Louvre and no one would bat an eye.

The afternoon continued pleasantly as dinner was made. Yunho, who had barely any cooking knowledge, relied on you who relied on an online recipe. Saving you the trouble of accidentally burning down the kitchen, Yunho decided to cut up vegetables and prepare the table while you were responsible for the chicken and ramen that turned out great considering neither having prior-experience of making a real meal. The success was celebrated with a brand new flask of wine that Yunho apparently saved for special occasions, completely dismissing your protests.

“So what does the Yunho do for a living?”

The question wasn’t foreign to him as everyone back in Gwangju asked it – some out of spite and others with genuine curiosity – yet anxiety seeped under his skin, raising the hair along his arms as his doe eyes widened. Noticing the lack of mischief behind your choice of words, he willed himself to relax and masked the surprised expression with a smirk.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Considering we barely know anything ‘bout each other…yes.”

Despite having alcohol in your system you noted the hesitation flash across his features, shoulders sagging and fingers slightly clenching around the utensils. It hit you that everything besides his governmental name – and the fact that he lived with a roommate who was working late – was undisclosed. For a moment you entertained the idea of Yunho going under a false name or that you could possibly be on a date with a geondal. Why else would he invite you to his home and not somewhere public? You made a mental note to share your location in the group chat just to be on the safer side. The motion of his hand going to scratch the back of his neck plunged you out of your wild fantasies.

“Okay, but it might come as a shock…or not, we’ll see.”

That did not help his geondal-agenda and Yunho took notice of your sudden silence, quickly waving his hand in a no-motion.

“It’s nothing bad I promise. It’s just…not a normal nine to five job and it’s, well, not many are supportive of it and it doesn’t…pay much.”

The piece of chicken in your mouth wasn’t as satisfying anymore. Thinking it probably couldn’t hurt to know considering he was so willing to share it, you slowly nodded. Instead of giving an immediate answer, Yunho inhaled deeply and ran his hand through his black locks.

“I’m the lead guitarist of Blue Bird with three other guys…and Yeosang’s our manager.” Yunho scratched the back of his head, “I’m sorry for not saying anything earlier but I figured you didn’t know and I wanted to keep it that way so you wouldn’t build an image of me based on what other people say. Now that I’m saying it outloud I realize how dumb that was and quite selfish of me and I’m sorry if that offends you?”

“Oh, oh! Not that all! It explains a lot actually, I mean I thought you were just dressing as a rockstar but now that I know you’re one, let’s just say it makes sense.”

The sincerity brought him ease and eyes turned soft again. Yunho never blushed but his ears always gave him away, currently glowing red like the organic tomatoes in the cornershop and lips pulled in a gentle smile. The whole exchange was going smoother than anticipated and he only hoped it wouldn’t ruin the friendship you built up so far.

“Plus, it’s not that far from what I had in mind,” you continued.

“And dare I ask what you would guess then?”

“Fine, but you can’t laugh at me for it, promise?”

Reaching over the table you held out your pinky finger, waiting for him to latch onto it with his own.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

Ignoring the swarm of butterflies fluttering in your stomach, you took a sip of the red wine and cleared your throat.

“A body artist.”

Almost choking on his ramen, Yunho coughed and recovered before you could think much of it.

“I think you’ve got the wrong impression. I’m not anywhere near suitable for that job, like I hate the feel of shit piercing skin and I can’t draw for the life of me.”

“Well, I blame the rings and clothes. And besides, what is it really that determines how good of an artist you are? I mean art is a personal thing, just like music, right? Obviously not everyone’s going to like everything you do but it doesn’t mean it’s badly done. So I don’t think it’s a question of how good you are, rather a question of personal taste.”

Speechless. You had rendered him speechless. A few years ago, when Yunho revealed he wouldn’t be applying for college and would try the one in a million chance of becoming a superstar, everyone was against it, claiming that the career wouldn’t last long and he’d eventually return back to Gwangju empty handed (not to mention the claims he was being possessed by Satan). The only one giving him enough support to cover for his absent family was Yeosang, who followed Yunho to Seoul, and now you, practically a stranger he hadn’t even known for more than a few weeks.

As you looked up from your bowl, you were startled at his baffled expression and immediately put down your utensils.

“Did I say something wrong?”

His heart beat loud in his chest and palms grew sweaty under your curious gaze. Mouth parted as he struggled to answer the question and finally settled on an awkward chuckle.

“No, it just…caught me off guard,” he assured and quickly averted the spotlight on you. “Enough of me, I want to know more about you. Tell me, what do you do then, is it something more exciting than dancing in a room all day?”

“I don’t know about that, but it’s nothing cool like yours–”

“And I wouldn’t think anything less of you either way.”

Smiling like a thousand suns you said, “I’m a preschool teacher.”

Of course, Yunho thought, even your line of work had to be cute. It was only right for a kind soul like yours to be at a place surrounded by everything innocent and pure. Although Yunho liked performing and singing in front of others, staying awake until the early hours of the morning, perfecting different riffs and learning new pitches of singing, he didn’t like how it added to the growing distance between you.

“Would you look at that, I think you’re even sweeter now.”

You took a bite of the food as you let the revelation sink in. The compliment getting to your head and warming your cheeks. You had been called every sweet adjective under the sun. Cute, endearing, angelic, the words were a repetitive mantra in your life but hearing them from Yunho made you feel like a high schooler buzzing to jump in bed and just write down the whole conversation – dotting your ‘i’s with hearts and stars – to read back in a couple of years and remember the affection bestowed on you.

Waking up to the motion of his phone buzzing violently beside his head, Yunho groaned and pressed the off button without checking the caller ID. He mentally cursed Mingi for being an early bird and not knowing how to respect others' boundaries. The sun creeped through the blinds in his room, reflecting in the body length mirror and hitting him right in the eyes. Yunho covered his head with one of the many pillows surrounding him. A few seconds later his phone went off again and he gave up on catching some extra z’s. Sitting up, hair messy and face puffy, he rubbed the sleep from the corners of his eyes and squinted at the bright screen of his phone. The numbers showed 10:03 AM and below was your name followed by a picture of you staring at a sunflower stopping a few inches above your head. Entranced by the image he took of you a few days ago, when he was free from schedule, he startled as his home screen appeared with a message popping up seconds after.

You [10:06 AM] Does coffee sound like a good excuse to spend time together? :P

If there was one thing Yunho cherished more than his bed then it would be coffee. Black coffee that tasted bitter but warmed him up like a cup of hot chocolate. It dawned on him that he only got around four hours of sleep and he needed at least six to function like a guy who gets the recommended amount, but saying no to you was worse than making a kid cry by simply offering a smile.

Yunho [10:08 AM] Do you even need to ask? I’ll pick you up in ten

Yunho [10:08 AM] Btw you don’t need an excuse to see me ;)

He threw on random clothes scattered around the room, a white shirt and black pants – but not before giving them a few excessively sniffs – and his obligatory leather jacket, the one with fuzz on the inside. Falling asleep with wet hair came to bite him in the rear as the strands wouldn’t cooperate now, refusing to lay down tidely. Lucky for Yunho, nine out of ten times he could just cover it with his helmet. Catching one last look in the mirror he sighed at the dark circles under his eyes. He quickly ventured into his bathroom and dragged the red-ish eyeliner pencil close to his lash line. It looked messy and nowhere near neat as when Seonghwa did it for him but it was alright. If you didn’t sneer at a sweaty Yunho with black liner smeared everywhere then you probably wouldn’t now either.

The sound of his motorcycle echoed through the block and he ignored the dirty looks passed from the elderly women sitting outside. As promised, Yunho was in front of your apartment with a few seconds to spare. He killed the engine and edged the kickstand into position with his left foot. While waiting on you, he unclasped the spare helmet from the chassis of the bike and made sure it was clean. Hongjoong, the leader and bassist of Blue Bird, had yet to get his driver’s license and would catch lift from the other guys which left everyone with a really small helmet in their possession. Yunho just hoped it would fit you.

The sound of someone clearing their voice caught his attention and as Yunho turned the breathe was knocked out of his lungs. He liked to think he was getting immune to the effect your skirts had on him, but no one warned him for the white lacy tank tops especially not when the material was hidden beneath your blue cardigan. Trying to play it off, he thrusted the helmet in your hands.

“I didn’t know you had a motorcycle,” you started and checked it out.

Whatever brand it was, it looked cool. You especially liked how it played into Yunho’s rock star style and matched his hair; entirely black with red design stripes going from front to back.

“Are you okay with riding?”

The dirty thoughts were pushed to the far back of his mind as he reminded himself of who he was talking to. You weren’t just a random chick he picked up after one of his shows; figuratively.

You hummed and stepped closer, your hand hovering over the seat. “I think so. As long as I don’t fall off.”

“As if I’d ever let that happen. Here, lemme help you with the helmet.”

“It’s fine, Yuyu, you’ve proven yourself a gentleman multiple times and I think I can do this.”

Hearing nothing beyond the unexpected nickname, his brain crashed like a hard disk from overheating. Thoughts a jumbled mess where the only thing making sense was the new abbreviation of his name. Yunho gripped the helmet as if it were a lifeline keeping him from straying away with the tidal wave. The gentle touch of your palm against his brought him back to reality.

“Are you okay?”

Chuckling like he always did when you caught him being weird, he shook his head and gently pushed the helmet over your own.

“Just a bit tired–” the worried scrunch of your brows stopped him mid sentence “–it’s nothing to worry about I promise. I’ll be back to normal after we get some caffeine pumping in my veins.”

“Were you sleeping? Oh, no, I woke you up, didn’t I? Yunho, I told you to tell me off when practices were running late!”

“And you know I’d never bring myself to do that, I like spending time with you.”

“And I’d rather not have you running on coffee and zero sleep! I could’ve just made myself a cup at home.”

“But then we wouldn’t be here enjoying each other’s company. Now, is this alright? Try shaking your head a bit and see if it's not too tight or too loose.”

You did as told and the headgear barely budged which earned you a thumbs up from Yunho. He then flicked the visor down and you let out a ‘hey’ in protest. Sucking on the inside of your cheek, you gingerly studied him. While he looked sleep deprived he didn’t act the part, and you didn’t know if he did it to keep you from worrying or if he was genuinely alright.

“It’s alright. Not too tight or loose, but listen! The coffee’s on me,” you declared and before he could protest you quickly filled the short silence, “or I’m never going with you anywhere again. I’m serious, Yunho.”

“...Only if you call me that again.”

“Call you what? Yunho?”

“No. The other thing, y’know…”

A smile broke out on your face when you realized what he was implying.

“Yuyu?”

The rockstar whipped his head so fast you thought he’d snap it off his neck.

“Oh, you are mean.”

“No, I just did what you asked me to!”

The inbuilt bluetooth did a great job transmitting your sugary laughter and God was he proud of himself for thinking ahead. He could never get enough of it and it was like music to his ears and it warmed him better than the sun of a summer’s day.

“Put this on.” He handed you his leather jacket.

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, I’m a big boy.”

Yunho helped you mount the motorcycle, giving you tips on how to swing your feet and where to hold so the whole thing wouldn’t fall over. Not that it was possible as his legs were glued to the pavement.

“And your hands go here.” He grabbed your wrists and placed them around his stomach so your front was flushed to his back. “Don’t be afraid to hold on.”

The contact had your face burning and you wondered if he was anywhere near as flustered. You wondered if he was always this touchy or was it some exclusive treatment.

The local coffee shop you frequently visited or stopped by before your shift at the preschool wasn’t packed, which came as a surprise considering it was almost lunch hour but nothing you complained about.

“Okay, what are you getting?” You asked and gazed up at the oversized menu on the wall behind the workers.

Maybe you’d get a strawberry macchiato or a caramel one, you couldn’t decide– oh, the matcha tea didn’t sound too bad either. Yunho hummed in fake wonder with his eyes trained on an oblivious you. He didn’t need to read the menu to know what he was getting.

“I think I’ll take a caramel macchiato, I mean I had the strawberry one last time so it’s only fair I try something else now,” you argued mostly to yourself and like your coffee choice, Yunho found the rambling to be cute.

“That makes sense but I don’t think there are rules for what you can drink and when you can drink it, sweetpea.”

Toes touching the wall and hands holding the counter for support, you tilted your head backwards and looked Yunho right in the eyes. The top of your head barely grazed his chest and he restrained himself from gently grabbing your hips. You were slightly taken back at the pet name that rolled off his tongue. You expected a lot but not that.

“Sweetpea? That’s a new one.”

“I figured you’ve heard most of them so I wanted to try something new.”

Trying to keep your eagerness on the low you stifled a giggle.

“Ahhhh, you wanted to stand out, is that it?”

“I didn’t know it was a crime to speak my truth, I guess I’ll just have to call you something cheesy like petal or sweet cheeks.”

“If it makes you feel better, no one's called me either of those things, Yuyu. So you’re doing a good job at both standing out and being cheesy.”

The tips of his ears burned and Yunho internally groaned as all his thousand good comebacks flew out the window, and right when he thought he was going to embarrass himself the barista – unintentionally – swooped in and saved the day.

“Welcome to Star’s Coffee, are you ready to place your order?”

Jumping abruptly from Yunho, you politely smiled and nodded.

“Yu–yes. I’ll take a caramel macchiato”

“Will that be hot or iced?”

“Iced please, and then we’ll take a…”

“An iced americano,” Yunho quickly filled in, “Black with no milk, thank you.”

As agreed you swiped your card and paid for the drinks even if it hurt Yunho’s pride. Deciding to sit at a table by the window, he quickly ran ahead of you and pulled out a chair and beamed brightly. It fit right in with the other chivalrous gestures Yunho spoiled you with and while you weren’t used to being pampered, you could totally get behind it. Before he could occupy the seat across from you, the barista’s voice stole the spotlight as she called out your orders and he was already walking in her direction.

“A caramel macchiato for m’lady and an iced americano for the fine gentleman keeping her company.”

You looked up at Yunho and thanked him through a giggle as he handed you the beverage. An identical paper cup was cradled in his hand, fingers wrapping all the way around and nearly making it as if he was holding air. He occupied the seat across from you and as he got comfortable, you jokingly raised the drink and smiled as the cups bumped against each other. Taking your first sips together, you waited for the sweetness to hit your tongue and cringed at the strong metallic taste that followed instead.

“Oh, God that’s sweet,” Yunho exclaimed as the heavily sugared coffee exploded in his mouth.

“And this is horrible! How can you, ugh– How can you even drink this? It’s strong and bitter and give me back my coffee!”

“Coffee?! That’s like unicorn piss mixed with water and sugar, how can you drink that is my question.”

“At least it doesn’t taste like something straight out of my grandma’s garden,” you bit back and tried washing out the dirt-ish flavor with extra big sips of your so-called unicorn piss coffee.

Spoiler: it didn’t help.

“I don’t get it,” Mingi voiced from beside Yunho, fingers quickly fiddling with the joysticks on his Xbox controller.

The drummer looked nothing like on their nights out. Face bare from makeup and his usually gelled hair was combed and took on the resemblance of a cloud. Instead of skin tight clothes he had a worn out Fall Out Boy shirt he bought a few years back and paired it off with some loose fitted pajama bottoms. His neck and fingers were bare from kilos of jewelry, it was just his colored nails and chest tattoo that were still there. Yunho took ‘bare’ to another level as he walked around in his underwear and just a pair of Spiderman socks.

The boys sat on the sofa which was barely big enough to fit both of them, knees touching and eyes glued to the TV-screen. The gaming session had been running for at least an hour or two and the street outside Yunho’s apartment was slowly being emptied of cars and people. Yunho would soon have to start getting ready for the dinner he invited you out to. Reservations were made at a little pricier restaurant for people with enough money to be deemed important or idols and celebrities who wanted some privacy from the prying eyes of locals and camera lenses. Yunho obviously didn’t have the money for it but with a few pulled strings and a call to his friend in the fashion industry, he made it work.

“What don’t you get?”

The question came a few seconds later and it wasn’t anything Mingi paid attention to as they were both occupied with protecting their base from demons and gargoyles.

“Why you don’t just ask her out. You’ve been hounding her for like, what? Four months now?”

“I haven’t been hounding after her,” Yunho argued, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards in a sneer.

“Dude.”

Pausing the game Mingi turned to his childhood best friend and the guy had the audacity to stare back at him with an equally deadpanned look.

“What? I haven’t.”

“Don’t what me, Yunho. Is this thing serious or are you just having fun because from what I understand she’s not a one and done type of girl, is she?”

Almost as if defeated, the lead guitarist slumped back against the couch and sighed. Mingi was right, you weren’t just a girl he picked up from a nightclub hoping for a quickie that would leave him waking up to an absent space the morning after. You were a girl who liked to take things slow. Three dates and maybe on the fourth one you’d reward him with a peck on the cheek. If he was lucky you’d hold his hand as you walk side by side, slowly unraveling each other’s preferences. Early bird or night owl, cats or dogs, sunrise or sunset, the list was endless and he’d know more about you than his own best friend by the end of the day.

Gigs, parties and one night stands were fun. It was a fast life that made him feel alive, like he had a purpose being on stage besides signing autographs for random people or finding a minimum wage job. Then he met you, the girl with the pretty bows in her hair and an unhealthy addiction to strawberry flavored pocky rather than his cancer sticks, and realized you brought him that joy too. Through the jokes you could barely get out between your giggles or your affectionate yet worrisome words reminding him to drink two glasses of water for every cup of coffee he poured. And it was always a pleasant surprise waking up with you knocking on his door, a freshly baked batch of brownies in hand as you bid him a good morning despite it being three in the afternoon. It was the small things Yunho liked, but also despised, because if you were everything good – the white marble in his sack of charcoal – what was he?

“I don’t know,” Yunho finally answered.

“Don’t know if it’s serious or…?”

“I don’t know what I want. If I want a serious relationship or just someone to pass time with, and I know how that sounds; it’s fucking awful, and she doesn’t deserve that nor would she be up for it either. She dates to marry, and well, let’s be honest here I’m not the guy she wants to spend the rest of her life with anyway.”

Yunho pressed ‘resume’, seemingly putting a stop to the conversation he wasn’t currently in the mood for. A conversation he purposely avoided every single time Mingi questioned his lack of action with the exact words of ‘put a ring on her finger, man'. And it was funny the first three times then it just became a walking reminder of why Yunho precisely didn’t do it. Having had enough of his friend's stupid antics, Mingi stood up and parked himself in front of the TV. Hands on his hips and bottom lip jutted out.

“That’s bullshit, Yun. I get being indecisive. Your last serious relationship was ages ago and it’s weird going from being single to taken in one night, but the thing about not being the one for her? Don’t be fucking stupid.”

Growing agitated himself, Yunho paused the game again and tossed the controller onto the sofa as he looked up at Mingi with tired eyes.

“Yeah, what good can I bring her? Tell me, Mingi. I’m nothing. My sleeping schedule is fucked and I work more than twelve hours a day for a minimum pay. If it weren’t for Yeosang’s parents I’d practically be living on the street. I eat take out for breakfast, lunch and dinner and have no college degree and probably won’t be getting one anytime soon. She’s educated, has a respectable job and lives a healthy life that won’t coax her into bad habits. She shouldn’t be associated with someone like me. It isn’t ideal for her to be with me, it’s not safe.”

“Oh my God, would you shut the fuck up?”

Yunho startled at the sudden raise in tone, not expecting Mingi to get so worked up over nothing.

“What does that even mean; too good for you? Yunho, dude, you’re the most selfless guy I know. You’re a kind, funny and quick witted gentleman who cares about those around you and always tries to make everyone smile, even if you’re going through shit yourself. So if you aren’t worthy of her then I should just stop looking for a partner all together! We are going to be rock stars, yeah, people look at us like we’re out of our mind or worship Satan, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t deserving of living like a human. And don’t even start with the homeless shit. I’d never let that happen…”

The little speech slapped Yunho across the face and only Mingi’s heaves of air resonated through the apartment. The two rarely got into arguments and while this conversation wouldn’t be jutted down as one, it still left Yunho at unease. Usually being the one to reprimand his friends, he didn’t know how to act while on the receiving end. Especially not when it was Mingi – the softie who took hours to eat a slice of bread and liked being called a princess – beating sense into him.

“It’s true she’s good for you, Yunho, and I doubt she’d stay around if you weren’t good for her either. She’s kind, not gullible.”

On the other side of town you sat before your vanity mirror and carefully applied make up. Yuqi sat on your bed, fingers hastily scrolling through social media apps and updating you about the recent gossip at her workplace.

“I can’t believe you’re not telling me anything about this mysterious man!” Yuqi exclaimed from your bed, legs in a pretzel position and fingers frozen mid air as she stared at the picture you airdropped her. “And the fact that I only now find out you’ve been seeing someone, that hurts you know!”

It wasn’t intentional. You knew if you told them a super cute and handsome man asked for your number, they’d rush right up to the counter and harass any guy who fit your description which, admittedly, only a few did. After the long night out you were all tipsy and too focused on getting everyone safely home that the handsome stranger was pushed to the back of your mind and forgotten until the next day when you woke up to a message from an unknown number.

Everyone was so caught up in their lives that you hadn’t thought of telling them about Yunho, then the whole rock star-identity was revealed and you certainly couldn’t tell them about him after that – already knowing what they thought about guys like that – not even your best friend who with just one glance knew something was different. Not necessarily bad, but just different. The outline of two massive hearts reflected in your eyes and you wore a smile so wide she thought you won the lottery, she didn’t stop to think the reason behind your gleeful expression could be because of a man. Not that you were an untouched woman, you had done a few things here and there, but because you were selective with your partners. So to hear you gave away your number and meet up with Yunho on multiple occasions piqued her interest.

“I told you it wasn’t on purpose! We were just both busy with work,” you pouted and applied mascara to your eyes.

“I know babes I’m just messing with you.”

Yuqi slumped back on your bed and tapped open your Instagram following list, quickly trying to find the guy you had been ‘unintentionally hiding’ from her.

“Are you like a thing now?”

“No or at least I don’t think so.”

Abandoning her search at your words, Yuqi put her phone down and stared at you through the mirror.

“What do you mean? Either you’re or you aren’t.”

“Well we haven’t really talked about that sort of stuff. When we go out we just let the conversation flow and I mean, it’s not like he’s explicitly asked me out on a date-date. And neither have I, for the record. We just go out for lunch or dinner, sometimes coffee, like we do with the girls.”

There was also the fact that he was going to be a rock-star who didn’t even have time to wipe his ass, let alone be in a relationship.

“Yeah, but I don’t invite you to my house and cook you an expensive dinner with expensive ass wine.”

“No, you’d rather tell me how you’d take me then and there if you weren’t painfully straight.”

She waved her hand in dismissal and pushed up to sit on her knees. “Guys don’t just do all those things if they aren’t interested, babes. You know that, you’ve dated a hundred guys before.”

“Yeah, but this is Yunho and not one of my previous dates. Maybe he just wants to be friends, like permanently.”

“You are insufferable. The guy likes you! I mean, you’ve already gone on a hundred mini-dates so this doesn’t come as that big of a surprise but why the hell would he ask you to dinner – only giving you the instructions to dress accordingly – on a Friday night if he absolutely wasn’t smitten with you?”

You sighed and closed the eyeshadow palette. In the softest voice possible you whispered out, “To get in my pants…”

“Oh, sweetie.”

Yuqi was up in seconds, throwing her arms gently around you and caressing the flesh of your biceps.

“Guys are douchebags and I can’t say for sure but what you’ve told me about Yunho, he doesn’t sound like the type to do that.”

“I know but then I start thinking about the what’s and the if’s and it all leads back to that one thing. It would be easier if he just said what he was thinking and feeling out loud.”

“Considering you guys haven’t talked about more serious things, you don’t know each other on that level. You don’t know what’s going through his head, if he’s been wronged before or is scared of commitment, bubs. Maybe he’s scared you don’t feel the same and is trying to play it safe, waiting for a sign that indicates you want more.”

Or maybe he was scared of what his bandmates would say, what their little group of fans would say. Maybe he wasn’t interested in girls like you at all, mayne he was drawn to the…flashier ones who were there for a good time and not a long one. A small sliver of you hung on the hope that it didn’t have to mean anything. That not all rock stars were up for that dirty and fast life.

“I baked him my specialty,” you pointed out, that alone was enough to tell him how you felt without vocalizing it.

“And I’m sure the brownies were delicious, bubs, but he doesn’t know they are reserved for special people, now does he?”

You shook your head and the frown that followed really didn’t suit your dolled up face. There was no time to sulk as Yunho would be arriving in roughly half an hour, but the thought of your intimate gesture flying over his head as friendliness set a bitter taste on your tongue. The thing you could think of to be more obvious was to decorate the dessert with swirls of chocolate reading out ‘I like you’ and while it would be a cute way to confess, you weren’t that confident.

“Enough sulking,” Yuqi suddenly declared and pulled you up by your wrists. “What are we wearing, huh? Are we going for something bold, something that will give poor Yunho a hard time keeping his thoughts in check or are we leaning for a more cutesy approach?”

By the way your lips curved up in a smirk, Yuqi knew exactly what you were going for.

The nerves danced across Yunho’s skin as he aligned the bike with the curb outside your apartment. He stole a quick glance up at your window and sighed. This would be the closest thing to a date and he wanted to impress you, so in good ol’ Yunho fashion he planned ahead. First he’d treat you to a tasty meal at one of the best restaurants in the city, dessert was a given so that would be the next stop and if the night didn’t turn too cold maybe he’d decide on a quick stroll across the Dongho Bridge, but not until he knew what the weather would be like, it was still late February. Otherwise a quick ride through town wasn’t a bad idea either but it left no space for the little things like hand holding, unless he wanted to jeopardize your safety.

Yunho sent you a short message, notifying his arrival and leaned against his motorcycle. There was a slight breeze in the air and the weather wasn’t too hot indicating the approaching end of winter, and Yunho wondered whether to scratch the promenade from his plans. Too caught up in his own mind he missed the apartment door swinging open as you sashayed out, head held high and purse in hand.

The click-clack of your boots snapped Yunho out of his daze and eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets at your appearance. The cutesy pastel colored clothes, bows and lace were replaced with something out of your usual wardrobe; a short black dress that clung to your body like a second skin. The hem made it to mid thigh and Yunho just knew it’d ride up even shorter when you’d sit down. The dress was backless and left your shoulders exposed while the front accentuated your chest. You looked hot and you’d be even hotter with his leather jacket on. Your designated heart necklace was still in place and you paired it off with small golden hoops. A pair of leather boots reached up to your knees, revealing a snippet of glowy skin (thanks to your body lotion).

“You look good,” you said and smiled, lips painted a deep red and Yunho imagined the trail of kisses it would leave on his neck.

Clearing his throat, he cast a look at his own attire and chuckled. He too was wearing something out of his usual closet. Instead of ripped jeans and a fishnet shirt, he borrowed one of Mingi’s old high school suits that still miraculously fit. He looked sharp and important, something Yunho wasn’t all that used to, but it balanced it out with his scarlet helmet and motorcycle.

“Well, I couldn’t let you take all of the spotlight, now could I?”

Dressed as a couple even the universe rooted for you to snap the translucents restraints of fear.

“Before I forget.” He snatched the single rose tucked neatly between the windshield and handlebars of the bike. “You are absolutely beautiful.”

Day met night as you reached for the flower, fingers brushing against Yunho’s. You smelled the red petals like the main girls do in movies but with a real smile that their fabricated ones would never reach. When Lord Byron claimed chivalry was dead he didn’t take count for men like Jeong Yunho. Men who bought their dates their favorite flowers after mentioning it one time in passing, men who gave up their jackets when a light breeze swiveled through town or men who never let their eyes wander from one diamond to another. While the acts were nothing of a grand gesture they still sent squeezes of affection straight to your heart. Taking it as a sign of the stars aligning and sending a normal guy your way for the first time in what seemed to be forever, you allowed yourself to relax and follow the stream.

“Right when I thought you slipped up.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

Like always Yunho helped you with the helmet and to get on the bike, and heat pooled beneath the skin of your cheeks as you huddled closer to him. Your legs were glued together and slung over one side of the motorcycle, and Yunho promised he’d drive slow so you wouldn’t fall off – as if that was ever going to happen – with the order that you hold on tight. The thrownless flower was in your hold as you reached around him. He patted your hand twice, the mute signal that he was starting the engine. Throughout the whole fifteen minute drive, Yunho refused to disclose the name of the restaurant, arguing it would ruin the suspense and feigned hurt when you said he hadn’t even planned anything. You couldn’t have been more wrong.

With your arm looped through Yunho’s, you approached a tall building that reminded you of a hotel and just the exterior had you gasping, fingers pressed to your lips. The outside was sculpted with details from ancient Greek architecture. Marble columns pushed out from the black walls as pediments marked the beginning of the second floor. The rest of the building changed hues from black marble to beautiful cream colored bricks full of golden rimmed windows and black balcony railings with swirls and fleur-de-lis. You walked the little path leading up to the double doors and suddenly the pavement underneath turned soft and drowned out the click-clack of your heels. The carpet underneath was a rich red and you were curious how they kept it nice and clean from rain and other mud. By the entrance stood an elderly man dressed in a neat costume, his white gloved hand already pushing down the golden doorknob at the sight of guests and greeted you with kind eyes.

Your whisper of Yunho’s name tugged at the corners of his lips and he wanted to tell you that there was more, keeping his excitement at bay he reached and patted the hand clutching his elbow. Allowing Yunho to guide you, he stopped at what seemed to be a reception where a young lady with a bright smile and red lips waited.

“Welcome to the Red Ruby.”

Completely lost in the details of the place, you didn’t bother tuning in on the brief exchange. The inside was even prettier, you came to realize. It was a small space not much bigger than your living room but probably held more worth than your whole apartment. A big chandelier hung in the center of the room that reflected against the black and white tiled floor. The left side sported a big entryway that led to a big dining area. Its primary colors ranged from red hues to matte gold. Further inside you made out a few tables draped over with long tablecloths and exquisite centerpieces bigger than your head. The chairs were big and soft to the eyes, made out of the finest velvet material you ever borne witness to.

“Thank you. We have a reservation under the name Jung Wooyoung.”

If you weren’t so mesmerized by the place, you’d give him a weird look and ask about this so-called Jung Wooyoung.

The lady scrolled through her tablet and smiled as she came to a halt. “Of course. The elevator will take you to the upper floor and my colleague will further assist you. Have a wonderful evening.”

“Thank you,” Yunho replied once again and gave you a soft tug, finally catching your attention.

“Are we not sitting there?” You nodded towards the majority of people who were happily dining and conversing in the red room.

“Not quite. Only specific people are allowed in the Red Ruby, besides those seats don’t require a reservation and it’s a lot more open than where we’re sitting.”

Specific people meaning celebrities, actors, important people. Not locals like yourself. The ding of the elevator cut the conversation short as the doors parted and for the second time in ten minutes, you gasped. Flashing lights of the outside world stared back at you through the windows stretching from the floor to the high ceilings. Blue and purple hues of the night sky blended with the fading orange color. As the sun was slowly setting, the moon made its appearance with smaller stars dashed across the dark blue canvas, shining brighter than any streetlight and airplane. The view resembled a watercolor painting and its beauty couldn’t even be captured with the most developed camera.

As promised, another worker – a man not older than yourself – waited by the doors wearing a maroon red suit that was adjusted to his precise measures, a towel thrown over his forearm and hair slicked back with gel.

“Reservation for Mr. Jung?” He asked and Yunho nodded. “Right this way. My name is Sieun and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

The second floor – what you soon came to realize was actually the twentieth – was a stark contrast from the dining area downstairs. The whole outerwall consisted of just windows with an overview of the heart of South Korea and the interior took on more of a modern design with black and white colored seats, marble tables and crystal chandeliers that did little to lighten the room. The floor was pipsqueak clean and you could even see your own reflection in the black tiles. Instead of flower bushes, literal trees popped out every now and then and you couldn’t figure out if they were real or manufactured. Mouth open and eyes wide you were at a loss for words as the waiter led you to a table further away from the other guests. Two menus bigger than your head laid neatly on the surface and the waiter left with a promise of someone coming back to take your orders.

“This is beautiful,” you exhaled, eyes glued to the lively city below.

“Right?” Yunho smiled, chest exploding with warmth and pride.

While you were occupied with watching the ant-like people and shimmering stars, Yunho stared at you as if the view outside wasn’t anything special. And it wasn’t, not with you sitting there looking breathtakingly beautiful.

“Personally, I prefer their food over any other restaurant. Their yakisoba is the closest thing I’ve tasted to what they have in Japan.”

“I have no doubt, their water probably tastes like heaven, too. I mean did you see that crystal fountain, in the middle of the room?”

Yunho chuckled at your words and it tore your eyes from the windows. “I can assure you their water is just normal tap water.”

As you opened your mouth, Sieun came back and the ten minutes of thinking were up.

“Are you ready to place your orders?”

“Yes, please.” Yunho closed his menu despite not taking a look inside. “We’ll take a full course dinner with your evening's specials, that way we can try a little bit of everything.”

“Of course, sir and in the meantime would you like anything to drink? If I may propose one of our finest wines, perhaps?”

Eyes on you, Yunho quirked a brow letting you decide. Picking up on the memo, you cleared your throat and agreed to the proposition. Sieun nodded and bowed politely before venturing back to the culinary side of the restaurant.

“This will cost you a fortune,” you sighed and fiddled with your fingers. “And I don’t know what you thought but by the looks of the interior, the food’s probably a month’s worth of salary, my salary.”

Yunho laughed at that. As if he’d ever let you near the bill, let alone split it.

“Don’t think about that, let's just enjoy it and I’ll deal with the rest.”

“Yunho,” you began, leaning forward and mustering up your biggest puppy eyes that he was quick to shut down.

“I know you’re worrying, but seriously don’t. It’s a favor I’ve asked of my friend so it won’t make a dent in my wallet. Besides I wanted to do this for you, okay. Something nice.”

“But why?”

The overwhelming feeling to reach over the table and place his palm over yours was stronger than anything pull he felt before, but he kept it glued to its current position and flashed a smile that made his cheeks pop and eyes crinkle.

“Because it’s what you deserve.”

Preparations for upcoming gigs and events were truly draining him. Practices started early in the morning, hours before the sun peeked over the horizon, and ended after the moon was high up in the sky. It left barely any time for the Blue Bird members to indulge in their own interests. Yunho wanted to spend as much time with you as but it was quite difficult as your schedules didn’t align, mainly because of his impractical working hours. Instead of going out for lunch or dining in grandiose places you couldn’t afford without giving up a kidney on the blackmarket, you opted for quick coffee breaks and late night drives to vacant places; the beach, some random hill with a great view of the city, a kids’ playground.

The clock was well past midnight and your eyes were surprisingly wide open, brain awake and ready to run laps around your apartment. How you’d survive the morning shift was beyond you, but with the faith that it wasn’t anything an extra spoon of sugar couldn’t fix, aimlessly continued counting each bump on your popcorn ceiling, willing the time to move faster for something – someone – to happen. Days off were spent alone in your apartment reading books to rid of your boredom but every once in a while you found yourself yearning for even the tiniest interactions with a certain puppy eyed man who also happened to be a future rock-star carrying a calendar with all three-hundred and sixty-five boxes marked. Maybe that’s why you didn’t hesitate at his sudden offer of going for a late night walk to buy slushies; his treat as the message read.

“I’m surprised you were still awake.” Was the first thing Yunho said as you ventured out of the apartment complex.

You pushed the black beanie further down on your head and by the creases around your eyes Yunho knew you were smiling hard beneath your white scarf. A breeze blew through the neighborhood and that white hoodie of yours looked to do little against the chilly night. Yunho pondered if he should wrap you up in his leather jacket or clasp your hand in his – if daring enough, maybe even braid your fingers together – and hide them in the pocket of the black material.

“What? I don’t always sleep early…”

The sprinkle of sulk to your words squeezed his heart affectionately and he imagined a little pout to your look, head free from his previously temping thoughts.

“No, but you never stay awake to see the clock change from PM to AM.”

“Hey!”

Yunho moved away as your arm swung in his direction. Chuckles bubbling out of him as he jogged ahead of your punches, they barely did any damage anyway but it was endearing to see you run after him.

“I’m kidding, kinda.”

“Where are we going anyway…Won’t your friends worry?”

“Not really, I mean even if they did it’s not like we’re doing anything illegal. We’re just getting some slushies.”

Your face scrunched together like you bit into something sour and lips set in a thin line. While you enjoyed Yunho’s company more than you wanted to admit for your own mental health, you also despised it. There was something so gut wrenching about not being able to hold his hand as you walked down the streets of Seoul or adjust his unruly strands of hair after a stronger gust of air messed it up. The worst thing about it all was that his future image was the last thing holding you back, it was the fact you weren’t anything but friends.

“So, what have you been up to today? How was work?”

“It was alright, a bit annoying with the pollen season having everyone act up and sneeze every five minutes but it’s nothing I’m not used to and the kids are cute so it evens it out. What about you, I thought practice wouldn’t be running later than eight?”

It wasn’t supposed to but in the last quarter someone suggested a change in the performance with an added solo, and the three hours of practice were done in vain as they had to re-learn the most important part. Yunho loved his members, his brothers, but they sure could get on his nerves at the most unexpected time. Safe to say the sudden change in Yunho’s demeanor had everyone on edge – despite him not trying to show it – and they were diligent in their learning. It still didn’t stop Hongjoong from having a talk, or a check-in as the leader liked to call it, with Yunho. After some brief but believable words of assurement he was off the hook like nothing. Yunho was lucky he roomed with Yeosang, their manager, and not with Hongjoong. The lead guitarist would never leave the apartment without the elder breathing down his neck. Yeosang was more laid back like that, keeping to himself but still indulging in Yunho’s interests every once in a while and simultaneously taking care of him in his manager role.

“Yeah, no, we had to change up the performance so we were running later than expected…It’s crazy that after all these years it still surprises me that practice doesn’t end on time.”

“I think that’s just wishful thinking, everyone has it Yuyu.”

“What’s your wishful thinking then, sunshine?”

“Well wouldn’t you like to know?”

A laugh skipped through the chilly march night. The smug words he once threw at you long before you knew who he was coming to bite him in the rear; cutie-pie style. Eventually the all too familiar corner store – in which you spent way too many mornings contemplating between choco-chips and strawberry pocky – came to view and the conversation dissolved. The young boy behind the counter paid you no mind, sleep evidently tugging at his eyelids as he barely kept upright in his chair. Working in tandem you separated like the branches of a tree, one pouring up the slushies and the other filling a basket with snacks.

Despite how much Yunho disliked seeing you reach for your wallet, he couldn’t do anything about it – as you argued it to be unfair if he paid for it all – and settled with a mental note lingering in the back of his mind to pay you back. Plastic bag in hand and card tucked back in your wallet, you slowly walked towards the exit.

“I’ll take a pack of red Marlboros, too.”

Out of all the facts about Yunho this was the most surprising one, followed right by him being in a rockband and never having watched Twilight. You stepped out in the open with Yunho close behind, the outline of the pack in his pocket and a slushie in each hand, one brown – seemingly coca cola flavored – and the other a pretty mix of blue and red.

“Thank you,” you murmured as he took the bag from you in exchange for the drink.

“Come on, let’s go somewhere away from the street.”

Yunho’s hand hovered over your lower back as you turned into a random street with different local restaurants and stores, all closed at this late hour much to your pleasure. The further you went, the fewer shops there were and more houses instead. The neighborhood was on an uphill path leading to the top of the mountain and soon a set of stairs popped out of the sleek pavement making it easier to venture by foot. To break the silence settled over you, Yunho first slurped on his slushie.

“Everything alright?”

The question worked as a needle breaking the layer of a balloon, bringing you out of the bubble you were stuck in.

“Hmmm, yeah I was just lost in my thoughts.”

“Are you tired? We can walk back home if you want.”

“No, no! I’m good, I promise.”

Yunho bobbed his head up and down, bag gently swinging from between his fingers and then put down on the ground beside his plastic cup.

“Okay, then at least take this.” Immediately you opened your mouth to say no, but Yunho wasn’t finished. “And I’m not taking a no for an answer.”

Your body was covered in a layer of warmth – the warmth of his jacket – and you gave him a small smile, a thank you for not letting you freeze to death even though that was impossible.

“Don’t get sick on me now, Yuyu. If you feel just the smallest tingle of a cold you tell me right away, okay.”

He pouted, “Why not? Won’t you come and take care of me then, hmmm? Some chicken soup to heal my tummy.”

The motion of his hand rubbing against his stomach had you giggling. The cheerful expression that made him fall pathetically in love with you was back and that was better than any jacket or hotpacket to keep him warm.

You trudged up the last flight of stairs and in front was a bus stop big enough for two, maybe three people if you could squeeze in on the tiny bench. The road wasn’t connected to the path and continued in two directions, one going further up the hill and the other leading down and around the neighborhood to what you assumed was the city. The bus stop was placed right on the curve of the road with a great view of Seoul. It wasn’t anything like looking out the windows of the Red Ruby, this was less hectic. Mountains nearly blended with the dark sky and the distant lights of cars and billboards twinkled light stars, you were sure if you walked a little bit more out of the city the real stars would prevail. It was much quieter here too, no chatter of people or overproduced vehicles making whirring noises.

You leaned your hand against the road barrier and smiled as the wind kissed your cheeks. Following your lead, Yunho did the same but with both hands and knees slightly bent as he put his whole weight against the metal fence. Turning your head to the left, you were once again taken back by his beauty. Features perfectly illuminated by the moonlight and jaw sharp as ever you couldn’t help but step back, snatch your phone up and tap open the camera icon.

“What are you doing?” Yunho asked, amused as he caught sight of your abrupt movements.

“Don’t move! Look out again, it’s great Instagram material and although I’m no professional photographer I think they’ll still turn out amazing. Just fix your hair a bit.”

Heat spreading to his cheeks, Yunho bashfully smiled and did as told. Looking through the rectangular phone screen you moved around a little, stepping closer and inching a bit to the left before completely freezing up in place. The perfect shot was in view and with a few instructions aimed at the unofficial model, you snapped a handful of photos. In some where Yunho looked mysteriously out, others where his gaze was locked in on the circular camera alternating between a relaxed expression and cheek-popping smiles.

“Look.”

You pushed the device in his hands and waited patiently for his reaction.

“Maybe I should buy you a camera,” he said more so to himself but it still drew a sharp gasp out of you.

“Don’t you dare!”

And all you got back was a teasing wink, telling you your words entered in one ear and out the other.

“Send these to me, would ya? It’s been a while since I posted something on Instagram.”

While you got busy airdropping him the pictures, Yunho frantically patted the front and back of his jeans, searching for something that was in the pocket of his coat.

Clearing his throat and gauging your reaction, he said, “Can you pass me the cigarettes?”

In all honesty, you forgot the packet was even in your possession. Digging around in the pockets – first the left and then the right – you passed him the packet along with a red lighter in silence mainly because there was nothing to be said.

“Does it…Will it– I mean…Ah.”

“You can go ahead and light one, it doesn’t disturb me if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh-okay. Wait, let me just.” In three quick strides he stepped around you. “Now the smoke won’t get in your face and clothes.”

You weren’t new to the smell or taste of tobacco. Having friends who smoked and even took a few puffs when offered, you quickly realized it wasn’t something to your liking. The taste was worse than any cup of black coffee and you’d opt for the caffeine filled drinks rather than those sticks. Despite that you couldn’t stop staring, almost as if mesmerized, as Yunho opened the sealed packet, tore out a cigarette with his teeth and lit it with a flick of the lighter. You definitely couldn’t stop staring when a whistle of smoke blew out from between his lips making him somehow more attractive than he already was.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t do it often, just when I’m stressed.”

He tapped the cigarette ash into his empty slushie cup and took another drag of the intoxicating stick. You watched it mix with the few droplets of blue water and replayed his answer.

“Are you stressed right now?”

Always the gentleman, Yunho blew out a cloudy stream of smoke in the opposite direction before looking at you.

“With you here? Not a chance.”

You could never find anything to hate about Yunho. He was funny, kind hearted, thoughtful, smart, handsome, everything, and yet you really disliked the way your heart fluttered at his cheesy lines that would fit right in a K-drama. Your face burned like the end of his cigarette and you forced yourself not to look away, cheeks hurting from your wide smile. With one last drag of his cigarette he extinguished it and let it fall in his cup. Eyes finding yours again he smiled goofily, tracing all crevices of your face, finding you as beautiful as the first time he saw you.

“I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, the blood practically boiling beneath your skin and fingers tightly clutching the long sleeves of his coat. Of all the days you spent with him, from the extravagant dates to domestic hangouts at your place, not once did you think your first shared kiss would be under the stars while dressed with minimum effort. Nonetheless you really wanted to kiss him too.

“What’s stopping you?”

The last string keeping Yunho from doing what he’s been dreaming of snapped and he quickly dropped everything in his hands to cup your face. Thumb gently caressed your cheek like he was molding clay into a beautiful piece of art, his palm rested against your jaw, fingers long enough to graze the back of your neck as the other hand fell to your waist, the touch burning through the thick layer of his coat. High on his touch, your own hands clasped around his wrist and neck in a poor attempt to ground yourself. The faint stench of tobacco reached your nose but it was quickly drowned out by his pleasant scent of rain-soaked earth and camp fire.

Gaze flickering between your eyes and lips, Yunho slowly inched closer, noses millimeters away from brushing. A light smirk crossed his features as you rose impatiently on your toes, quietly yet so loudly telling him to do it already. Right before you took matters into your own hands and nearly yanked him by the collar of his shirt, Yunho tilted his head and brushed his lips softly against yours, and they fit perfectly. The little squeeze he gave your waist sent shivers down your spine and cliche as it sounded, fireworks and confetti poppers exploded in your stomach. Eventually relaxing in each other’s embrace you worked your lips against his, parting them and allowing his tongue entry as you simultaneously stroked his wrist in a slow motion. Your fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his neck. The kiss was great with no tongue being shoved down the back of your throat or mouth vacuuming your whole face. All your senses were overtaken with Yunho, Yunho and Yunho.

It was sweet, gentle and soft – everything you hoped for – and then it was not. The aftertaste of his cigarette and coca cola slush rolled off his tongue and left quite a bitter tang on yours. It wasn’t strong, but it wasn’t pleasant either and you willed yourself not to pull away too soon yet that’s exactly what you did. Yunho, still lost in the daze of the kiss, chased after your mouth wanting to claim your lips again. Panicking, because on one hand you wanted to feel him on you again – the perfect curve of his lips massaging yours and noses brushing against each other – but on the other hand you also didn’t want to taste ash and smoke, and would rather kiss Yunho and not the remainder of his cigarette.

The soft call of his name brought him back to earth, ears painted that perfect shade of crimson clover and you probably weren’t looking any less flustered. Going from this confident guitarist with the world beneath his feet to an awkward man who still hugged his pillows to sleep, Yunho visibly deflated like a balloon.

“Did I do something wrong? Did–uh, did I make you uncomfortable?”

The whisper hit you square in the heart and you shook your head. There was no bone in your body that didn’t think kissing Yunho was perfect, in fact it was everything and more and you’d want to do it again but maybe with the taste of something sweeter like chocolate covered strawberries.

“No. Yunho, no, I promise. It was great, I liked it a lot actually–”

“But…? I’m sensing there’s a but coming.”

“But the taste– the cigarette taste isn’t that nice.”

Yunho licked his lips and surely there was an ashy sprinkle besides the faint flavor of strawberry that was you. He had never wanted to smash his head against concrete as much as then or go cliff diving without a parachute.

Winter surrendered to spring and days turned longer, and so did the time you spent with Yunho. The kiss you shared with the moon as your only witness was one of many, much to your delight, and ever since then it was as if you became inseparable. Late night drives turned into weekly hangouts at each other’s places (mostly at yours), hand holding was exchanged for cuddles on the couch – bodies pressed together and legs intertwined – the empty side of your wardrobe was suddenly full of large hoodies with prints of different bands and sweatpants, and your digital phonebook showed hundreds of calls to a ‘yuyu 🐶💘’ lasting up to hours. Nights together were always an adventure as Yunho watched you fall apart on his tongue and fingers, and then put you back together with those same limbs.

“Have you ever considered getting a tattoo or more piercings?” You asked one night as you laid bare in his bed, skin against skin and his blue blanket the only thing shielding you from the outside world.

It wasn’t the first time you imagined his body covered in ink or new shiny rings glistening in the moonlight and from his sole lip piercing, you knew you’d need a few days off work to recover if he were to get some more. Heat flooded your cheeks at the idea of Yunho sporting a full sleeve and the previously subdued ache between your legs slowly grew again. Most of Blue Bird had done some body art and were eager to do more. You knew Mingi’s body was prickled all over, from his face down to the tips of his fingers, and the man was always eager to do something more. Hongjoong and Seonghwa had a few tattoos here and there although Hongjoong’s was the crown holder of having the most piercings. Yunho was the one with least the altercations and if it weren’t for a dare back in his last year of high school, he probably wouldn’t have added anything.

“Yeah, whenever I accompany Mingi to a tattoo parlor and lemme tell you, that bastard really does a good job at persuading people.”

“But?”

“But I know I’ll change my mind in the future or probably regret getting it done and then I think of how it will look when I’m eighty and all wrinkly. Like imagine an eighty year old Mingi with a face tattoo…and I get that not everyone thinks that far or simply doesn’t care but I don’t know…It’s just weird to me. I like my skin bare.”

“I like your skin like this too,” you replied and kissed the spot beneath his collarbone. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo since I can remember.”

Not in a million years did Yunho expect to hear that. Caught so off guard, he leaned back on his forearms to get a better view of you.

“Really?”

“Yep. My parents blame it on my uncle. He was like eighteen, I think, when he got his first tattoo – without grandma’s approval of course – and I was the only one who knew. I could barely speak back then so I guess he didn’t think it would matter if I saw it or not. Well, no one could explain the sharpie-drawn cat on my forearms that they definitely weren’t allowed to wash away or I’d throw a tantrum. Long story short, I accidentally rated him out to my grandma when he was sleeping, pulled up the sleeves of his shirt and everything so yeah.”

You chuckled at the fond memory and Yunho fought the urge to kiss you until he was on the brink of passing out.

“What would you get done then?”

“I don’t know, I’m really indecisive but I’m thinking of a back tattoo, you know those that go along your spine?”

For being someone opposed to getting tattoos, Yunho nearly took note from Mingi’s 101 guide of persuasion and got down on his knees. A back tattoo – any tattoo really – on you would have him barking like a dog and living up to the name of being a golden retriever and he felt no shame about it.

“Th–at would look good on you,” he coughed.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d like that perv.”

Yunho poked you in the side and you immediately curled up on yourself which only made matters worse as you moved closer to him.

“Stop! I’m sorry,” you said between giggles and he immediately ceased his advances.

“That’s what I thought, now up. Gotta give you a bath.”

The gentleman he was, took care of you in many ways besides worshiping between your legs. Always attentive and vocal about your needs, he made sure you were comfortable even while you floated between consciousness and dreamland.

“Nooo! I’m tired.”

The grip around him tightened but with legs like jello and your brain only recently coming back from the post orgasm haze, Yunho could have you in the bathtub in seconds. You nuzzled against his chest and blinked slowly while asserting your thoughts. As dizzying as your vanilla perfume was to him, Yunho’s scent of burning wood was completely intoxicating and it nearly lulled you to sleep if it weren’t for his fingers caressing the back of your neck. How he got you to pee was a mystery of its own.

“Okay, a few more minutes but I’m getting you in that shower either way.”

“Thank you, Yuyu!”

He earned a kiss to the apple of his cheek and triumph fluttered through your veins at his red tinted ears. It was funny how he was more flustered over an innocent peck than staring straight at your wet core. Yunho felt the smugness radiate off you in waves and quickly redirected the attention elsewhere.

“Have you always wanted to be a preschool teacher?”

“No,” you started and softly ghosted your fingers on the spot beneath his peck, a trail of goosebumps trailed after your touch. “It’s silly, but I wanted to be a cat shop cashier.”

“A cat shop cashier?”

Yunho craned his neck and if you weren’t so tired you’d laugh at his frozen expression. Instead you mustered up a hum and drew an invisible cat on his body, much like the one from your childhood days.

“I warned you it sounded silly.”

“I’m not judging you, I’m just…what is that?”

“A girl who sells things with cats on them,” you said like it was as clear as the sky being blue and the grass green.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t have the money for it. A shop doesn’t just fall from the sky, you know? Plus my parents weren’t, I wouldn't say they were against it but they were worried I’d end up on the streets or something so I did the next best thing and studied hard, enrolled in college and now I’m waving bye to kids wearing backpacks with dogs on them.”

Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around you and squished you closer against him, and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to the crown of your head. Hearing about your cat-shop-dream not even having the chance of leaving the four walls of your childhood bedroom really struck a chord in him. If it was someone who understood how it felt to not have anyone in their corner, it would be Yunho. With a five dollar bill, a guitar case and a poor impression of Spongebob he took the first train to Seoul to pursue his dreams and while he wasn’t exactly famous, he wasn’t whatever his parents thought he’d be.

“But it all played out in the end,” you finally said and closed your eyes.

“How come?”

“Because I found something better.”

One of the many Spiderman movies played on the TV in your living room. It was Yunho’s idea to have a movie marathon over the weekend and you were currently watching the second movie starring Tobey Magiure. Snacks and soft drinks littered the table, but you weren’t craving them as much as Yunho’s touch. Laying in his embrace, back against his clothed chest and one arm thrown over your waist, you wondered if the movies were an excuse to get cozy with you.

Throwing a quick glance at the digital clock in the corner of the tv screen you realized it was nearing midnight and you could feel the sleep sneaking up on you. It was gradually becoming harder to keep your eyes open and just when you were about to succumb to dreamland an electric like jolt shocked you awake. The hem of your shirt had risen through the night and Yunho’s fingers found comfort on the exposed skin of your tummy. His hand flew from you as if being burned by a hot stove.

“I’m sorry, was that too much?”

You shook your head and smiled at the instinctual worry. There was something so attractive about his attentive side. You were one month into…whatever this labeless thing you were having and not once did he make you feel uncomfortable. He always checked in on you, made sure you were on the same level and asked for permission about the smallest of things but it was appreciated, nonetheless.

“No, it was just unexpected…but not unwanted.”

You steered his hand back over your stomach and fought the shiver wanting to glide down your back. Despite their humongous size, his fingertips were soft and gentle, and the warmth of his touch sent goosebumps trailing along your skin. Face burning and heart doing somersaults, you nuzzled against his bicep taking on the task of a pillow under your head. Pushing yourself, you pressed a chaste kiss to the muscle and glued your attention back to the movie, refusing to meet his eyes. In that moment Yunho swore he could feel his heart jump in his throat and he didn’t even need to touch his ears to know they were burning red.

You had gotten quite intimate with each other. Never being able to finish a movie without locking lips or being in the same room for more than five minutes without one hand straying to the other. Not to say Yunho wasn’t affected by your sudden displays of affection – because he was – yet those small innocent acts did far worse things to Yunho’s well being than anything else.

“Who’s your favorite Spiderman?” You asked to distract him from what the hell you just did.

The lack of answer didn’t go unnoticed and as you turned your head sideways, lips parted and ready to ask again, your breath hitched in your throat at his half lidded eyes drinking you up. They were blown out with lust and desire, a look you’d gotten familiar with.

“Yuyu–”

“I want you so badly,” he said, voice low and soft that you simply couldn’t deny him.

You also couldn’t fight the fact that you wanted him equally as much. Saying nothing you pressed your lips against his and he was quick to set the pace, starting gentle and then turning needy and sloppy with tongues rolling against each other. Consumed by the heat of the moment, Yunho grabbed your hips and perched you on his lap while he simultaneously sat up against the sofa. Like two puzzle pieces completing each other you slid your hands to the back of his neck and played with the hair on his nape. The movie was long forgotten and all the sound effects were drowned out by the muffled whines and moans filling the apartment.

“Yunho,” you panted and rolled your hips against his.

In return his hands roamed the sides of your body, squeezing at every curve and dip, and smirked at your beautiful noises. His every kiss and grope of flesh was driving you crazy and you were seconds away from begging for his fingers, mouth, cock. Whatever he wanted to do, you’d let him.

Breaking apart for air, Yunho didn’t stop showering you with affection and peppered kisses from your jaw down to your neck that you oh-so generously exposed by tilting your head sideways. Sucking, nipping and licking, he gave you no rest and awakened a needy pulse between your legs. Your breathy moans grew louder and shot straight to his groin and he had to physically restrain himself from bucking up against you. Thighs so thin you could feel the hard tent in his sweats that also did barely anything to cover his length. Wanting something else to occupy your hands, you slid them down his shoulders and chest, and with burning cheeks you sneaked them under his shirt exploring the muscles over his stomach. You traced each and every outline with feather-like touches that sent his stomach contracting and a deep groan reaching your ears. Your ego rocketed at the bodily reaction and quickly faltered as licked over the spot right between your jaw and ear, earning himself another breathy moan,

“Yunho, please.”

“Please, what?”

You could feel his devilish smirk against your skin. To coax you into speaking, he did it again followed by the graze of his teeth.

“Need yuh, please.”

“What, darling? What do you need?”

You whined as he continued the assault on your neck, covering it in beautiful love bites, and all you did in return was grind against his cock trying to find some relief to your aching cunt.

“Want me here?”

He flicked his thumb over your covered left boob and a sharp sensation shot from your cunt to your breast like lightning. The sudden change of atmosphere left you more courageous than usual. Grabbing the hem of your shirt you tore the material off yourself and left Yunho stunned. Despite not being completely nude, he’d be damned if he didn’t appreciate you like the art you were.

“You’re beautiful,” he said and traced the edge of your bra cups.

Not expecting the night to take a drastic turn, you didn’t think to wear anything nice but a set of black underwear.

“May I?”

He reached around your body to the clasp holding your bra together. High on love, you nodded with your bottom lip stuck between your teeth. His fingers grazed the skin on your back and left exploding tingles in his wake. With your consent he unclasped the top and cupped your breasts in his hands, giving them light squeezes that had you arching your back in response, pushing more into his touch.

“You’re perfect,” Yunho whispered and hovered his thumbs over the hardened nipples. “I wonder if they taste as sweet as they look.”

He breathed hot air over them making you squirm more in his lap and looking up, he was meet with your fucked out gaze – eyes barely open, lips swollen and shiny from his spit – and he was yet to even touch you properly. Easing you into it, he pressed a chaste kiss to your breastbone before latching around your left nub and sucking hard. Your hands flew up around his hair, pressing his head further into your chest. Yunho then released and blew gently on your puckered nipple.

“Mo-h, more!”

“I haven’t even touched you, baby, and you’re already whining? Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Yes! Yes, I can handle it, I’ll be so good, just pleas–”

Wasting no time, Yunho wrapped his lips around the other boob, giving it an equal amount of attention. His tongue drew circles around it, making it shiny just how he liked it and then sucked again. It was messy and nasty but felt so good. Your brain was already short circuiting and hips moved on their own, practically humping his hardened dick that stood proudly against the gray fabric. The thought of his cock – large and thick – had you soaking through your panties and you wondered how he’d make it fit. Would he use his long, nimble fingers or his tongue?

A lewd image of you laying in bed on your stomach with Yunho behind, dick aligned with your wet pussy, popped in your mind. Him groaning in your ear from how hard your pussy clenched around his cock and you moaning from the delicious stretch that came with every thrust, reaching deep into you. That alone could make you come right on the spo–

A sharp ring cut through your sinful thoughts, but Yunho kept sucking on your tits. In your dazed state he even shifted to the other one, saying something about taking care of his girls as he pinched the wet nub between his thumb and index fingers, squeezing and rolling it until you were left breathless.

“Yun-ah! Yunho! The phone,” you whined out.

“Ignore it,” he growled and kissed your neck again, hands coming down to squeeze your ass.

The feel of his large hands on your backside quickened the pace of your moving hips. You almost obeyed his order as the phone stopped buzzing only for it to pick up again. Finding the light in your hazed mind you put the intimacy on pause. Hands pushing at his shoulders until he complied and leaned against the sofa.

“It may be important. What if it’s one of the guys?”

Your words were distant as his eyes were locked on your chest dripping and bruised from his work.

“Yunho!”

“Wha– I’m listening!”

“Answer the phone, you weirdo.”

Standing up on wobbly legs you nearly toppled over and you would, hadn’t Yunho caught you by your hips. The ‘thanks’ died in your throat at the sight of his stiff cock. It wasn’t the first time he got hard from a make out session and it probably wouldn’t be the last either. You quickly put the shirt back on while he awkwardly grabbed his phone.

“Don’t cover up just yet, doll, I’m not done with you.” He answered the call with a, “This better be important.”

And it was judging by the way his jaw unclenched and eyes widened.

“Finally! Where the hell have you been?!” You could make out the faint and distressed voice of Yeosang. “We’ve been trying to reach you for a while now, we need a group meeting.”

“Group meeting? For what?”

Panic rose in a sickening surge as you listened to the one sided conversation.

“That’s the thing. I can’t say over phone so get your ass to Hongjoong’s.”

“Is everything alright?” You whispered from beside him.

“I’ll be there, just give me a few.”

The call ended and Yunho stuffed the phone in his back pocket.

“Yeah, or at least I think so? Yeosang called for a meeting but didn’t say why...”

A mischievous smirk tugged at your lips as you took his hand in yours.

“Well then, pretty boy. I say you get over there and hurry back to me.”

The wiggle of your brows had you both bursting out in laughter and Yunho closed the distance between you once again.

Of all the things Yunho could expect the meeting to be about, he never imagined it to change the trajectory of his life. In less than twenty four hours Blue Bird would be signing a record deal with one of – if not the – biggest music companies in Seoul. Their teenage dreams of making music and performing in front of thousands would come true and Yunho couldn’t be happier. The one thing he was praying for, despite not feeding into his parents’ religion, came to life and in that moment he cursed himself for not sharing the same joy as his bandmates. Because all Yunho could think about was what that meant for you.

“We have to celebrate,” shouted Mingi and slung one arm over Yunho’s shoulders.

Hongjoong, Seonghwa and Yeosang jumped in tow, all sporting wide grins and even tears shining in their eyes.

“I’ll call Wooyoungie and see if he wants to come,” replied Yeosang as he left for the kitchen.

“We should see if he’s up for designing us some clothes. It would give us more exposure for sure.”

Seonghwa clapped his hands together and immediately imagined the crazy clothes he’d have on stage. He’s always wanted to try corsets and heels, and pretty skirts and with Wooyoung’s magic he’d definitely not be disappointed.

“I’m bringing out the champagne!”

Yunho watched Hongjoong run after Yeosang, his platinum hair shining in the dim light, and slumped back against the couch. It was weird. He’s been dreaming of this opportunity ever since he was introduced to KISS back in middle school (secretly of course, God forbid his parents heard what their eldest son was listening to) but he couldn’t shake away the bittersweet feeling festering in his stomach. A rough shove against his side snapped him out of his dazed thoughts.

“You good?”

Mingi, always the observant one, noticed the flicker of sadness in Yunho’s eyes. The taller of the two nodded despite feeling his dinner climbing its way back out.

“Yeah, it’s just…crazy.”

“Tell me about it, but hey we’re just getting started. A whole new life’s waiting on us. Girls, money, fame, everything we’ve dreamed of, Yunho.”

For once, Yunho’s dreams of a fast and luxurious life with expensive bikes, clothes and VIP parties lasting until the early hours of the morning changed into something quiet and humble; an apartment big enough for two and a dog lingering between his legs as he laid in bed with you in his arms. His dream of swimming in money burst as a new cloud came to mind. A dream of a girl who brought out the best in him with her kind words and soft touches of affection. His own thoughts were taunting him just like his relatives did back in Gwangju – about the dream he’d never achieve – and unlike then he was starting to believe it.

That night Yunho didn’t allow himself to sleep. His mind tortured him with flashbacks of all the times the universe sent him signs that you were two stars on completely different sides of the galaxy. Yunho couldn’t light a cigarette without seeing your scrunched up face or drink a cup of coffee and not imagine your downturned lips and tongue sticking out in disgust. At the same time, he avoided anything and everything sweet as it worked as a reminder of the very person he deprived himself of.

After tossing and turning for the most part of the night, you woke up to the sound of heavy rain splattering against the windows of your bedroom. You couldn’t shake away the inkling feeling that it wouldn’t be the best day of your week, and considering last night’s scare you insisted your worry wasn’t unjustified. The time on your phone showed you still had a few hours before your alarm would go off for work. You wondered what Yunho was doing and what the meeting was about. There were no messages or calls from him, which wasn’t that unusual, but you were used to good morning texts and an array of different emojis.

Willing yourself not to think much of it, you made yourself a cup of coffee and clocked into work earlier than scheduled. You couldn’t stop thinking about Yunho and decided to send him a quick message despite the moral part of your inner-self telling you not to. The following embarrassment was locked in your work cabinet with all your belongings and worrisome thoughts. For the next eight hours you busied yourself with work; playing with the kids, serving them food, changing diapers, putting them to sleep. You moved on autopilot and didn’t, not once, think of a certain tall boy who could play the guitar blindfolded.

The clock struck five PM and you kept your dignity in mind as you refrained from bolting down the hallway. The last group of kids had just been picked up and you made a beeline for the locker room.

You [06:05 AM] Good morning 🌷how’d the meeting go? Delivered

The message was left unread and the delivered status was exceptionally bright. You couldn’t shake away the thought that something wasn't right, but you didn’t want to overwhelm Yunho as you still didn’t know what the meeting was about. You’d be damned if it turned out to be something bad. The last thing he needed was a girl pestering him about it. Doing what you did best, you put on a smile and went back home, but not before stopping by a bakery for some strawberry pastries with the hopes of sweetening up your gloomy afternoon.

The red bike you were very accustomed to stood parked outside your apartment building but its owner was nowhere in sight and your phone was still void of notifications. It could only mean one thing. You raced up the flight of stairs and lo and behold there he was; sitting on the stair outside your door with a lighter twirling between his thumb and index finger. He looked nothing like the Yunho you knew. His face was bare and lacked the usual dark makeup smudged on his skin, and he only wore a gray hoodie and sweatpants while his fingers were void of silver bands and whatnots. He still looked handsome as ever though.

“Yuyu!”

You jumped in his arms and he grabbed onto the railing not to fall backwards. Your body slotted perfectly against his and your breath tickled his neck. Yunho had one arm around your waist and the other moved to cup the back of your neck. He inhaled your vanilla perfume and tried engraving in his mind.

“I thought I recognized your ride. What are you doing here?”

“Just needed to see you,” he replied as you moved to unlock the door.

His hand itched to reach for yours. To have you tucked under his arm or back glued to his chest, elbows or knees touching, anything really. He just needed the feel of your touch.

“Ah, you had me worried! I mean I’m happy to see you, but you didn’t reply to my text this morning and seeing the bike I really thought something happened.”

A forced laugh made its way past his lips and he was quick to pat your head.

“You always worry about me, don’t you?”

His hand slid down to your jaw and thumb caressed your chin, grazing your bottom lip.

“I’m sorry. I forgot my phone at Hongjoong’s and he’s still at work so I couldn’t get it. Was it something important?”

“You’ll drive me into an early grave, Jeong Yunho.”

“Yah, don’t say that!”

Yunho nearly ascended like a helium balloon at the sound of your laughter. The Heaven’s gate came to view as you blessed him with that bright smile of yours. Teasingly you got closer to him so your breaths mingled in the air.

“Who will be the death of who now?”

The question was soft and came out in a hushed whisper, and if you weren’t a pinky away from him you’d completely miss it. Yunho gazed into your eyes and you had never felt so seen before. He looked at you as if you had the world in your palms and he was ready to risk it all. A bit flustered under his loving stare, you tried reflecting his attention elsewhere.

“How’d the meeting go?”

The moment the words left your mouth Yunho visibly sagged and his lips pursed into a tight line. You tried finding an answer in his suddenly softened eyes but all you could see in them was sadness. Yunho cleared his throat and widened the distance between you as if it would lighten the blow of his news.

“So…Blue Bird is signing a record deal with Brother Choi Industries…”

“Oh my God! Yunho, that's great!”

Yunho caught you in the air. Your arms and legs wrapped around him and your cheek squished against his. The happiness surged out of you like rays of the sun and instead of warming him up, it pierced his body to the core. You planted a quick kiss to his cheek that left a prickling feeling after and then you were down again, feet meeting the floor.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?! We have to celebrate! C’mon, we’ll do whatever, it’s on me.”

Fingers latched around his wrist and the purse with all your belongings thrown over your shoulder, you headed for the door again but Yunho didn’t budge. Like an oak rooted to the ground, he stood in place and it dawned on you that he didn’t match your excitement.

“Can’t we just, I don’t know, stay inside? Watch a movie or something…”

“Yeah– yeah, of course,” you whispered and led him to the living room. “Put on whatever and I’ll bring some snacks.”

You couldn’t help but worry. News like that usually called for drinks or a nice dinner with one's friends or family. The thoughts of what could have happened were endless and did nothing to soothe the growing ball of anxiety in your abdomen. Patient as always you didn’t push further on the matter and just gathered whatever snacks you had in your cupboards (oreos and a half-empty packet of chips). Your eyes traveled the length of Yunho’s body stretched out on the sofa and then shifted to the TV.

“Bluey?”

“I like the gentle-parenting,” Yunho whispered and you nearly turned into a puddle on the spot.

“It’s a good show. I give it five stars and the preschool teacher approval stamp.”

As you laid down everything on the table, Yunho raised one arm in the air, a silent request for you to make yourself at home in his hold. Head on his chest, you could hear the rhythmic beat of his heart and the warmth seeping through his thick clothes. His hands were intertwined on your lower back, occasionally rubbing his thumbs over the fabric which would have any cat purring in seconds. Your left arm was squished against the sofa while the other played with one of the strings on his hoodie.

The series of colorful dogs wasn’t new to you as almost the entirety of the kids at the preschool had some kind of product with the cartoon characters splayed on, whether it be a backpack, water bottle or bandaids. It was either that or Paw Patrol, and personally speaking you preferred the Australian doggos.

For a good hour or two Yunho just laid there with his eyes glued to the animated show but mind running laps. He didn’t reach for any of the goods on the table or excused himself for a pee-break he so desperately needed because he knew the moment he moved, you’d look at him with pleading eyes and ask what’s on his mind. And although he’d been camping outside your apartment for three hours, he still couldn't find the right words to tell you what’s been bugging him since Yeosang’s revelation. He wasn’t there to tell you about the stupid record deal or how he forgot his phone (it was in his back pocket). Yunho came to break things up, something he knew was inevitable since the first night he laid eyes on you.

“Yuyu,” you whispered and poked his cheek, trying to get his attention.

The guitarist was there physically but where he had gone mentally was a mystery and you noticed it early on when he didn’t mention anything about Bandit playing the toy drum set.

“Hmm?”

He blinked back to reality and turned to face you who had changed position to lay flat on him, chin perched on top of your hand and pouty lips.

“Your heartbeat’s really loud. Is everything okay?”

Nothing about this was okay.

It wasn’t okay that your bodies fit like puzzle pieces. It wasn’t okay that you were great together despite your contrasting looks. It wasn’t okay that the girl of his dreams was the polar opposite of himself.

“I’m just thinking…a lot.”

“About the record label?”

Fuck the record label, is what Yunho wanted to say. It was the last thing on his mind, right below his parents and every other person who had their doubts about him. The real words lingered on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spoken out in the open and he nearly swallowed them back down, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie, not when you looked at him with worry written all over your features.

“About…you. About us.”

“What about us?”

Your voice came out higher at the end and he knew the question you were thinking of was something completely different than what he was about to say, and it hurt so much.

“It's just not…I don’t think we’re that good of a match.”

He caught the moment your world came crashing down. How the light of worry turned into confusion.

“What?”

“We shouldn’t keep doing this.”

By that point you both sat back up on your knees and hands on your thighs, while he moved so his legs were drawn up to his chest.

“I don’t understand. I thought you liked me...”

“I do, but it’s not– I’m…sorry.”

This was all too much for you and you were torn between lashing out in anger or hearing him out. Your heart pounded against your chest and you could feel it crack from the pressure of his confession. As if that wasn’t enough a stinging sensation burned behind your eyes.

“Why didn’t you say anything from the start then? If you never wanted this to happen, why’d you kiss me in the first place or take me out on dates? We’ve been tiptoeing between friends and something more for the past six months and suddenly we can’t be either?!”

The desperation dripping from your words was clear as a summer’s sky and while you tried to prove a point, Yunho wasn’t having any of it.

“It felt right in the moment, but the more time we spent together I realized that we’re too different, it just won’t work–"

You were quick to follow up. Tongue sharp and fire behind your words, they were nothing like the sweet scent of strawberries and roses he was used to. Yunho had never seen you so upset.

“This has nothing to do with our differences, Yunho! We are great together and we’ve proven it countless times. There’s something deeper than that, something you’re not telling me and I don’t know why. What have I done to ruin your trust in me?”

A beat of silence passed. The apartment was completely quiet and you wondered if the neighbors were listening in on the argument, and if they did then what a great first impression Yunho was leaving them with.

“I’m afraid I’ll ruin you,” he whispered, lips in a pout and eyes glistening like an ocean’s reflection of a night sky.

As if a pair of invisible hands, the words plunged into your chest and forcefully grabbed at your heart only to tear out the poor beating organ and throw it across the ground. To think Yunho saw himself as a problem – as a stain in your life – that he was depriving him (and you) of something beautiful, it fucking hurt.

“Don’t do that. That’s not fair, Yunho. You’d never ruin me, do you understand? This is the happiest I’ve been in a long time and I need you to know it.”

“It’s not going to work. You’re too good and I’m– you’re, I’m bad for you.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me! It’s not like I’ve never touched a cigar before in my life, or tried strong liquor or, I don’t know, had flings here and there! You’re talking as if you’re a drug lord or something. You’re just a– a– an upcoming rockstar! With an ambition that takes up a lot of your time and who occasionally smokes and drinks to de-stress. Don’t think I’m some saint you’re going to corrupt because I’m far from it, Yunho.”

Silence.

While Yunho knew everything you said to be true, it didn’t fit the image he created of you and he could only fault himself for it. You noticed his eyes wandered around, jumping from furniture to furniture, all to avoid yours. So with shaky hands you gently – like he was a baby chick – cradled his chin and turned him towards you.

“I want you, so why won’t you let me have you?”

The crack in your voice confirmed his stupid theory of being bad for you. It was better this way, but goddammit did he want to wrap you up in his embrace and kiss the top of your head and whisper soothing things in your ear. To say ‘I’m not going nowhere’ and ‘I’m sorry’ a thousand times over until the damage would glue itself back together. He wanted to be the one giving you strength and not stack rocks upon rocks on your shoulders.

“It’s not just about that. I’m going to be a…rockstar soon. The fans, some of them are going to be nice, but not all will wish the best for us. If something were to come out about us, they’d leave you restless. I’ve seen it happen to others and I don’t want you to suffer that same path.”

And if you could see through his lies, you mentioned nothing of it.

“That’s not your decision to make and you know it! I like you and you obviously like me, nothing else matters besides that, please, listen to me. Yunho, I don’t care about anything else but you.”

He nuzzled against your palm and leaned closer until his forehead rested against yours. He wanted to remind you of your agreement, to call him Yuyu and only that, but it was a privilege he wasn’t granted anymore. You squeezed your eyes shut, not bearing to see his wet cheek, but even that didn’t stop your own tears. You felt the soft pad of his thumb wipe away the streams of salty water flowing down your skin and you didn’t know what was worse. That he was the reason behind them or that it was the first and last time he’d ever wipe tears from your face again.

“You’re gonna have a good life without me, you’re gonna grow and go places. You’re gonna get that cat lady shop and be the best cat shop cashier the world has ever seem, and you’ll meet someone way better than me–”

“But I want you!”

“You’re gonna forget about me and find someone deserving of you. Someone that can shower you with unconditional love.”

“Then be that someone. Get better, do better and stop trying to ruin this thing we have!”

“And I want you to stay just as you are. Okay? Gentle and loving and sweet. This world doesn’t deserve you and neither do I, but you deserve someone, yeah, sweet pea?”

Yunho’s voice cracked and you quickly dragged him into a bone crushing hug. He hid in the crook of your neck, arms going around you in a tight grip as if you’d disappear the second he let go. In the safety of your arms he let down his guard and the loud cries that followed prickled your skin just as much as yours clawed at his heart. You stayed in each other’s hold and drew soothing shapes on each other’s backs as you cried your hearts out.

Your arms were numb and your body refused to produce more tears to cry, but even then you didn’t budge. You knew if you let go Yunho would take it as his cue to leave and you couldn’t bear that just how you couldn’t stop whimpering as he pressed soft kisses to your temple or whispered apologies in your ear.

“I have to go,” he eventually whispered and your heart – that you were still picking up the pieces of – broke all over again, sending shards of blood and tissue everywhere.

Your hold tightened and he truly felt evil as he broke out of your grip and got a good look at your swollen face.

“I’m so sorry, sweet pea.”

“Pluh-please, don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Kiss me, then,” you wailed. “If you can’t stay, just kiss me one last time.”

Never one to deny your wishes he slotted his lips against your and tasted the mix of your salty tears. Your fingers curled painfully in his cheeks and the hold he had on your waist was sure to leave bitter bruises in the morning. Yunho poured every ounce of affection, his heart and soul – his everything – into the kiss. It was something he’d never done before but he needed you to know that while you maybe hadn’t reached the stage of love just yet, his adoration of fondness was never fake. Whatever feeling he had for you that was the closest to love, it was never fake.

Teary eyes stared into each other as you parted, breaths heavy and lungs ready to burst through your chest. He gave you one last peck on the cheek and broke free from your grip, and like the broken record left in his childhood bedroom, he repeated the useless apologetic words until they lost all their meaning. Your muffled cries shot straight to his heart and he could feel it crack with each step taken further away from you

As Yunho passed the threshold of your apartment for the last time, he kept telling himself that it was for the best. Your undeserving love would just be ruined in the palms of his hands and he had to leave before it became something he was too afraid to let go off. He had to leave even if meant snapping free from the vines you barely managed to twine around his limbs. It would be sharp and quick and hurt like a paper cut but with no permanent scars.

The more he lingered around you, the deeper and tighter the roots went and more sweetpeas would grow and wrap around his body, and fill him with a love and warmth that was impossible to flee. And when the seasonal change began and all the birds fled somewhere warmer, he’d have no choice but to forcefully cut the vines curled around him and hurt you beyond repair. That wasn’t something Yunho could ever see himself do and before it turned into a cloying love, he’d save you both the hurt and pain, and just leave. You’d eventually grow your sweetpeas somewhere else.

Because in the end, you were all too sweet for him.

Author's note pt.2: I've read a lot of different interpretations of the song and I wanted to share my (if you haven't kind of already grasped it). While reading the lyrics, I understood that person A doesn't believe they are worthy of person B because of their different life styles and nature. In short, they are complete opposites. While that can be good (opposites attract) person A doesn't see it that way. They know right from the start that they aren't destined to be (the reasons to this are endless) yet they still try to pursue a relationship with person B until something tells them "this isn't right". Now being polar opposites, Person B thinks that person A is the one for them despite their differences. As mentioned, I know there are a lot of different opinions of what the actual meaning of the song is and I can totally get behind those too, but this was my first interpretation and what kick-started this whole oneshot.

Disclaimer For this fic, I didn't want to make it into an experienced x inexperienced trope. Mainly because a lot of people associate innocence with dressing/acting cutesy which I believe isn't valid. People can still like pastel colors, cute trinkets, dress cute and still be experienced (with sex, smoking, drinking, tattoos, piercings, etc). I think it gives a little more depth to the story by not making the MC new to all that, but I'm not trying to spread shame on those who are inexperienced as there's absolutely nothing wrong with it!!!

Also it's my first time ever writing something close to smut and it was so hard! I can't stress it enough 😭 I'll have to practice it way more before even attempting the real deal lmao. While we're at it, it's also my first time writing for Yunho so I hope I brought him justice!

If you've made it this far I just wanna thank you for reading (everything) and I hope you've enjoyed ❤️

419 notes · View notes