luckyroll3

[luckyroll3]

Mine Chapter 7

Mine Masterlist Previous Chapter

A/N: Additional Warnings: Possessiveness; Controlling behavior. (Please see the masterlist for the full list of warnings.)

As you sit at your desk, trying to focus on your laptop screen, your phone buzzes yet again. You glance down, expecting another email, but instead, it’s Minho. It’s been like this all day; a constant barrage of texts, each one more demanding than the last.

The chill of the air conditioning is a stark contrast to the heat that rises within you as your phone vibrates incessantly. Minho's texts flood in, each one like a drop of ink spreading through the watercolor of your day, staining it with his presence. His words are laced with affection, yet they subtly demand your attention.

Minho: [2 hours ago] Thinking about you. 😉

[1 hour ago] I miss your laugh. Wish I could be there to make you smile.

[30 minutes ago] How’s your day going? Text me when you get a break, okay?

[1 minute ago] Why haven’t you replied yet? Is everything alright?

His once cute habit of checking in on you was flattering at first, knowing that he was thinking about you all the time. But now that it has grown more frequent, it’s morphed into something suffocating. He wants updates on your schedule, questions any changes you make without telling him first. It causes you to be distracted, your focus ebbing away with every vibration, every buzz that echoes in your skull. Your staff notice your preoccupation, their curious glances adding a layer of embarrassment and stress to your already fraying nerves.

"Is everything okay?" Jen, your assistant, asks feigning nonchalance as she leans against your office door.

"Fine. Just... a lot going on," you mutter, trying to shake off the tendrils of Minho's control that coil around your mind. But even as you attempt to refocus on the task at hand, his presence lingers, an invisible weight pressing down on your chest.

As you stare at your computer, your mind wanders to your last encounter with Minho. His lips on your neck, his hands traveling over your body, leaving a trail of electricity in their wake. He'd been possessive then too, but it had felt different, like he couldn't get enough of you rather than like he was claiming his territory. You close your eyes, the ghost of his touch, a mix of tenderness and ownership, dancing across your skin.

In this quiet moment between emails and phone calls, you can't help but reflect on the duality of Minho's constant contact… how it makes you feel both wanted and trapped. You worry about the weight of his presence even when he's not physically there. Even now, he’s not here, yet you feel him. His need for you, insatiable and unyielding, clings to the air you breathe.

Another text lights up your screen.

Minho: Miss you. 🥺

You: Hey Min. Been super busy today. Lot’s of meetings. Miss you too.

You're a mosaic of both longing and dread. The weight of Minho, his love, his obsession, presses down on you, threatening to smother the flame he once kindled. And still, in the darkest corners of your desire, you crave the fire he brings, the way his hands command your body.

Minho: Hopefully you get a break soon. I was thinking about last night… The way your eyes rolled back into your head when I did that thing.

You: It was nice

The memory of his body moving against yours, rough and relentless, surfaces unbidden.

Minho: Just nice?? 🤨 Damn, means I’ll need to work even harder to make you cum next time. 😏

A shiver travels down your spine at his words, a cocktail of arousal and anxiety that leaves you breathless.

You: Challenge accepted. Gotta get back to it. I’ll talk to you after work.

****

The doorbell rings, jolting you out of your thoughts. You open the door to find Minho standing there, a bouquet of roses in one hand, takeout bags in the other, and that devilish smirk playing on his lips.

"Surprise," he smirks, brushing past you into your apartment. "I thought we could have a cozy night together."

His presence is unexpected and overwhelming, filling your space with his energy. You’d been looking forward to a quiet night alone. You swallow hard, trying to hide your annoyance.

"Minho, I... wasn't expecting you tonight."

"I wanted to see you. Is that so wrong?" He pouts cutely. His tone is light but there's an edge underneath.

The tension eases quickly as he hands you the roses and places a gentle kiss on your lips.

You smile despite yourself. "Of course not. It's sweet of you to bring dinner." You sigh, unsure how to broach the topic of boundaries without seeming ungrateful. "Minho, it's not that I don't appreciate the thought, but..."

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand. "I know, I know, I should've called first. I'm sorry, I just missed you, and I wanted to see you, but I get it.” He pulls you in for a hug. “I'll work on giving you more space, I promise."

His remorseful expression tugs at your heartstrings, and you relent. "It's okay, it's just been a long day, work's been..."

"Crazy, I know, you've mentioned." He releases you and gives you an understanding nod. “I just want to take care of you.”

Minho walks to the kitchen and starts to unpack the containers, as you look for a vase for the flowers. You take a whiff of the spicy aroma of Thai food that starts to fill the air.

“Wine or beer?” you ask over your shoulder as you arrange the roses and fill the vase with water.

“Beer,” Minho calls out. You grab two bottles from the fridge and pry off the caps before joining him at the table.

"So, tell me about your day, baby" Minho says, adding pad see ew and dumplings to your plate. “I want to hear everything.”

"Oh, you know. The usual. Meetings, reports, budget stuff..."

"What about lunch? Did you go out with coworkers?"

You hesitate, carefully selecting which details to share. Lately, any mention of coworkers or friends has been met with a barrage of questions and small flashes of… jealousy? And there's an intensity to his gaze that makes you squirm. "Just grabbed something quick at my desk. There was just too much going on."

Minho nods, seemingly satisfied. As you continue eating, he asks about your plans for the weekend.

“Mmmm…Will probably go for happy hour drinks on Friday. Meg said she wanted to hang out and Liz will probably meet us.

His eyes narrow slightly. "Meg? I don't think I've met her. What does she do again?"

“She’s the head of the finance team. We’ve both been swamped and haven’t had time to talk about anything besides work, so it will be nice to catch up.”

Minho's voice is deceptively casual. "I worry about you hanging out with people I don't know. The world can be dangerous. Maybe I should come along, just to be safe."

You bite your lip, conflicted. Part of you bristles at his presumption, but another part feels oddly comforted by his protectiveness.

"That's thoughtful of you," you murmur. "But I'm sure I'll be fine. And Liz will be there."

“I don’t know that I trust Liz. She doesn’t seem to have your best interests at heart.”

“Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I always feel like she’s trying to push you back to Chan.”

You laugh. “Liz can’t stand Chan. I had to stop her from keying his car when we broke up.”

“I don’t know. I don’t get good vibes from her.”

“She takes a while to warm up to new people. But she did say she liked you. Give it time.” You cup his cheek gently before kissing it.

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, with Minho sharing about the new book he started reading last night. Eventually, his hand finds your thigh under the table, igniting a fire within your core.

Your breath hitches, the air thick with unspoken desire as his touch climbs higher, emboldened, claiming territory with every inch of skin he caresses. The heat between your legs flares, a searing reminder of the raw, aggressive coupling that awaits, the kind that leaves marks and bruises, a testament to the carnal dance of dominance and surrender.

"I want you for dessert," he murmurs in your ear, and the room spins with the promise of pleasure. Your body responds to his words, a familiar heat building. You know you should address his controlling behavior, but god, the way he looks at you with such raw desire... You nod and Minho leads you to the bedroom, the sanctum of sin where he worships at the altar of your body with reverence and ruthlessness.

Stripped bare, the chill of the air contrasts with the fever burning beneath your skin. His hands roam over you, mapping every curve and valley with a possessiveness that should scare you, but doesn't. Not now. Not when his mouth descends upon you, a connoisseur savoring the taste of your arousal, drawing moans from your lips like sweet music.

As the night wears on, you find yourself drawn to him, unable to resist the allure of his touch. The sex is intense, aggressive, and dirty, leaving you breathless and aching for more.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," he growls against your skin, fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts into you. “Fucking perfect. You were made for me, baby."

In those moments, it's easy to forget the dark undercurrents that churn beneath the surface of your relationship. You give in to the pleasure, reveling in the feeling of being wanted, even if it's too much at times.

When you shatter, it's with a cry that sears your throat, a release so intense it borders on pain. He doesn't let up, riding out the aftershocks with you until you're nothing but a quivering mess beneath him, utterly spent.

"Only I can make you feel this way," he whispers, and you believe him because, in this moment, you belong to Minho, body and soul.

Tonight, you decide to look past Minho's clinginess and enjoy your quiet evening alone with him.

****

The scent of roses fills the air as you step into the lavish ballroom, adorned with twinkling fairy lights and the laughter of loved ones. You glide through the throng of well-wishers, laughter and clinking glasses scoring the celebration of your parents' enduring love. It’s their 30th-anniversary party.

You’re alone tonight. Minho is traveling for work, but the incessant buzzing of your phone in the pocket of your gown reminds you that he’s never truly gone. His texts are a mixture of sweet nothings and thinly veiled demands for your attention.

As you round a corner aglow with soft, amber lights, your eyes catch him. Chan. His presence is a shock to your system, an unexpected jolt that sends your heart into a panic. He's standing there, his brown hair perfectly combed back, looking suave in black slacks and a white cashmere sweater as he chats up old friends with that dimpled smile that once promised forever. You curse inwardly, wishing for forewarning, but your parents' affinity for Chan has always been strong.

You walk up to the bar where your dad is getting his drink refilled.

“I can’t believe you guys,” you say as you pick up a tall glass with one of the signature cocktails made specifically for the event.

“What did we do this time?” your dad asks with a chuckle. You use your chin to point in the direction of Chan before bringing the straw to your lips and taking a long sip. Your dad’s eyes follow and his eyebrows lift when he sees Chan. “Ohhhhhh…. yeah, that’s all your mother’s fault. I told her we should disinvite him, but she insisted.” He drops his voice as the bartender hands him a whisky sour. “You know she’s always had a little crush on him. She thinks he’s sooooo cute.” He grabs a tiny straw to stir his drink. “I honestly don’t get what you girls see in him.”

You roll your eyes; your dad has been saying that since the day you brought Chan home. But you’re pretty sure he also has a crush on Chan.

“You could have at least warned me he would be here.”

“Chan’s going to be here,” your dad adds with a smirk.

“Not funny.” You give him a playful punch in the shoulder.

“What’s the big deal? You said you and Chan were cool now.” Your dad is one of your best friends and you tell him just about everything. You’re surprised that he’s being so obtuse about this.

“No. I said I wasn’t as angry with him anymore. That doesn’t mean I want to spend time with him when I’m with my family. And what if Minho was here?” You give your dad the sad face you know he can’t resist.

“Oh, I’m sorry sweetheart.” He wraps a comforting arm around your shoulder and pulls you in closer to his familiar warmth. “It would be impolite to ask him to leave when he’s already here. But I promise, we won’t extend invitations to Chan for any future family events.”

“Thanks daddy,” you reply before leaning in to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Now just ignore him, enjoy the open bar, and have fun,” he advises, his voice light and reassuring.

You let out a resigned sigh. “I’ll try.” You take a long sip of your drink as you turn around to observe the mingling guests.

“You know who I meant to invite?”

“Who?” you ask, arching an eyebrow at your dad with curiosity.

“Your friend from work. The guy who runs security at your bank.”

“Seungmin?”

“Yes! Seungmin! I like him. He’s funny and he can drink.”

“And by ‘he can drink’ you mean he’s a lightweight. Like you.” You smirk, amused by their easy camaraderie and antics the couple of times they’ve been at the same gatherings. Your dad and Seungmin made a really interesting, and entertaining, pair. “The two of you always end up drunk together, then start singing or dancing.” You shake your head with a mix of affection and amusement.

“Like I said, he’s fun! I remember when that used to be you and me. I meant to ask you for his info.” Your dad grins. “Also, he’s really cute. Have you ever thought about hooking up with him?” Your dad nudges your shoulder playfully with his.

“Daddy,” you groan, rolling your eyes dramatically. “I’ve told you about trying to play matchmaker. Just… don’t. Minnie and I are just friends. He’s more like a younger brother.”

“You should think about it,” he suggests, his tone teasing yet sincere, “you know, if you and Minho fizzle out.”

You roll your eyes again, feigning exasperation. “Whatever, old man. I’ll make sure to text you his number and email so that you can rekindle your bromance.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite daughter.”

You laugh as he presses a tender kiss to your temple. “I’m your only daughter, sir. Unless you have a secret family somewhere.”

“Shhh!” your dad says with a devious smirk, causing you to burst into a louder laugh. He starts to chuckle along with you. “And on that note, I’m gonna go find my number one wife.” He presses another kiss to your temple, then strolls away leaving you alone with a warm smile on your face.

You sigh as you give one last glance to Chan and then turn in the other direction to find someone to talk to. You spot a couple of your cousins and make your way through the crowd towards them.

Two hours later and five cocktails in, you’re feeling nice and buzzed. You lean against a column and smile warmly as you watch your parents whisper in each other’s ears and pass kisses back and forth. You love how in love they still are with each other, even after all these years, and you can’t help but think about when it will be your turn.

"Looking beautiful tonight," Chan murmurs as he unexpectedly appears by your side, a warm smile gracing his lips. His words send a surge of emotions coursing through you as you stand there, frozen. Memories of your time together flood your mind, along with all the unanswered questions and unresolved feelings.

As you look into his eyes, you can’t help but feel a pang in your chest. And given that you’re a bit tipsy, the defenses you usually have up to keep him out of your heart and mind have been lowered. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, and you can feel your face flush, as if it were your first date again. The room around you seems to melt away, and it’s as if it were just the two of you.

The scent of his cologne fills your senses, taking you back to all the happy moments you'd shared. You feel naked under his gaze. A vulnerability creeps in, reminding you of whispered confessions and entangled limbs in the sanctity of shared secrets. For a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to imagine what it might have been like if things had been different. The familiar dimpled smile you'd once adored makes you tingle, and you have to remind yourself that this is the same person who'd hurt you so deeply.

"Thank you, Chan," you reply hesitantly, trying to keep your voice steady.

His eyes linger on you, taking in the curve of your hips and the swell of your breasts beneath your dress. A familiar heat blooms between your legs, and you curse yourself for the way your body responds to him. Still.

"Listen," he begins, sincerity lacing his tone, "I've been thinking about us," he confesses. “And I miss you. I miss us." His admission clutches at something deep inside you, tugging at buried feelings that squirm and writhe like living things desperate for air.

Your chest constricts, the walls of the grand hall suddenly too close, too stifling. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, the magnetic pull of his nearness a cruel reminder of the intimacy you once shared. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, your breath hitching in your throat as you try to process what he just said.

“I know I fucked up, and I’m so sorry.” He looks at you with those penetrating, soulful eyes, and for a moment, you almost believe him.

As Chan speaks, you glance around, acutely aware that there are multiple sets of eyes on you. Several people at the party are watching and listening to your conversation, their curiosity a tangible thing. Many of them had probably expected the next family gathering to be your wedding to each other, so it’s no surprise that they all have a deep interest in this conversation. Chan notices as well and seems to sense your discomfort.

"Can we go somewhere more private?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

You nod wordlessly, allowing him to take your hand and lead you away from prying eyes to a quiet spot. The two of you settle on a plush couch in the hallway just outside the ballroom entrance.

Glancing around to make sure no one is eavesdropping, he continues. “Cheating on you… it was the worst mistake of my life. I hurt you, and I'm sorry for that. You had every right to walk away from me.” His voice is husky with emotion and remorse. “I’ve realized I was scared; afraid of settling down, of losing myself.” His eyes search yours, seeking absolution in their depths. "I should've committed, should've been all in. Instead, I was a coward."

You feel his words like a physical caress, tracing the scar tissue of your broken heart. You want to hate him, to scream and rage at the pain he caused, but the sincerity in his voice is undeniable.

"I get why you moved on," he continues, his hand reaching out to tentatively brush your arm. "But I want you to know that I've changed. I've realized what's important, and I regret ever letting you go." He looks into your eyes and waits for a response.

But you don’t say anything, you just swallow the lump in your throat.

He sighs before continuing. "I know you’re with someone else now and I’ve heard he makes you happy." There's a hint of sadness there, a silent plea for your forgiveness. "Just know that your happiness means everything to me," he murmurs. "And if this guy is who makes you happy, then I hope you get your happy ending with him. I just want you to have the love you deserve, even if it’s not with me."

His words pierce through the haze of lust clouding your mind, making you question the very foundation of your relationship with Minho. But before you can fully process the implications, Chan pulls you into a tight embrace, his chest pressed firmly against yours. One of your favorite things about him is that he always knows when someone needs a hug and provides one.

You melt into his arms, resting your head on his shoulder, feeling a sense of comfort and familiarity that you haven't experienced since your breakup. A flood of memories cascades through your mind: the carefree laughter, the late-night movie marathons, and the warmth you felt in his arms. The world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you locked in this moment of vulnerability and longing.

As the minutes tick by, the tension between you grows stronger, and Chan releases you with a gentle kiss on your neck. His lips linger there for a moment, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you whole. His eyes search yours, filled with a depth of emotion you hadn't seen from him in a long time. It’s in that moment that you realize just how much you'd missed this connection, the effortless way you'd always understood each other.

The familiarity and comfort of your past together beckons you, and for a split second, you consider what it would be like to fall back into his arms. To pick up where you left off, as if Minho, and everything that had transpired since your breakup with Chan, had never happened.

But then reality crashes down around you. You think of Minho, who, despite his flaws, had been there for you when you needed him most. You think of the life you've been building together, imperfect as it may be. And most importantly, you think of yourself, of how far you've come, of the self-discovery and growth that had blossomed in the wake of your breakup with Chan.

You return his gaze. "Chan, I..." Your voice catches in your throat, choked by the tangle of emotions swirling within you. "I... I needed to hear that. I needed the closure. Thank you. And I... I…” You’re not sure what you wanted to say, but whatever it was, you just can’t get it out.

“It’s okay. Just know that I'll always be here for you, no matter what," he whispers against your skin before standing and walking back into the ballroom.

You're left reeling from the intensity of your interaction with Chan, the longing and desire threatening to overwhelm you. The air thickens around you, laden with unspoken truths and the what-ifs that haunt your dreams. You're torn between the rush of vindication at his confession and the gnawing emptiness his absence left behind.

You sit alone on the couch, staring at the patterns on the rug and waiting for your heart to stop pounding as your thoughts are consumed by the emotional complexity of your past with Chan and the uncertain future you face with Minho.

Ten minutes later, you feel less on edge and decide to head back into the party.

You head straight for the bar, asking the bartender for a bottle of water. You need to sober up a bit so that you can think straight about Chan’s words and adequately process your own feelings.

A look of concern plays on your mother's face as she approaches you, her eyes flicking between you and Chan. "So, how did that go?" she asks.

"Fine, Mom. We just... talked," you answer, trying to suppress the emotions welling up within you. “Well, he talked and I just listened.” You gulp half the refreshing liquid.

"Alright, honey. Just wanted to make sure you're fine," she says. She pauses as she examines your face. “You know it’s absolutely okay if you want to take him back,” she adds, her voice soft and caring. “I like Minho, but you and Chan had something special. You’re not undermining feminism if you forgive him and restart your lives together. Just food for thought.” She gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“I know this probably isn’t the right time to ask this, but did dad ever….?”

Your mom sighs before answering. “Yes. I cheated on your dad while we were engaged.”

“You cheated?” you say shocked, her confession unexpected.

“I did. It was early in our careers. Your dad was putting in a lot of hours at the firm and never had time for me. Not that that’s any excuse. And there was a guy at the museum, a co-worker. We flirted a lot; it was friendly, more of a joke at first. And then we started getting closer, and I confided in him about my relationship with your dad and how ignored I felt. Then while at a conference, we went to a happy hour with a group of colleagues and he and I stayed out longer after everyone else had left. We were both drunk and lonely and one thing led to another…” She paused and took a sip of her drink. “Not exactly the same as what happened with you and Chan. It wasn’t intentional, it was a one-time mistake.”

“And what happened?”

“I left the conference early. I woke up the next morning, left for the airport while he was still sleeping, flew back home and immediately confessed to your dad. He was so angry with me that he left to stay with Uncle Joe for 2 weeks. I gave him his space and prepared myself for him to call off the engagement. But he didn’t. He came back and forgave me, and apologized for not recognizing that we were disconnecting from each other because of work. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”

“Wow. You guys have never told me this before.”

“I never want you to see me at my worst, baby. But your dad took me back when he didn’t have to, because he loved me and he knew that despite what happened, I loved him. And that’s all we needed to recommit to each other. That may not be the same for you. But if you find yourself realizing that you’re still in love with Chan, you should consider whether that’s enough for you to forgive him and move on with your lives together. Let me know if you want to talk more about it, okay.” You nod. Your mom gives your hand another squeeze before leaving you to continue pondering the situation. You can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever truly be able to let go of what might have been.

An hour later you’ve said your goodbyes to everyone and given your parents the biggest bear hugs before making your way to the parking lot.

As you slide into your car, the quiet solitude wraps around you like a heavy blanket. Your mind races, the turmoil within you contrasted by the eerie silence. The drive home is a blur, the city lights flickering past your blurry eyes as you replay the encounter with Chan on a loop. Your thoughts are consumed by the what-ifs, the could-have-beens.

Memories of Chan's embrace and tender kiss on your neck collide with thoughts of Minho's possessiveness, his insatiable need for control. The desire you felt with Chan, the way your body responded to his touch, it all leaves you breathless and questioning everything.

Did I move on too quickly? you ask yourself. Have I allowed myself to become ensnared in this relationship with Minho so quickly, blinded by the passionate, raw sex and his seemingly endless attention?

"Damn it," you mutter under your breath, the weight of your thoughts becoming unbearable. You need someone to talk to, someone who knows you, can help you navigate this mess of emotions and longing, and will be absolutely blunt with you. And there's only one person who fits that description: Lucas.

You make a sudden detour, your tires screeching against the pavement as you head towards Lucas' place. The urgency propels you forward, desperate for the comfort and stability he has always provided.

Upon reaching Lucas' apartment, you waste no time in pounding on the door, the cold night air nipping at your skin. The door swings open a few moments later, revealing your best friend with wild hair and a concerned expression.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Lucas asks, stepping aside to let you in.

"Can we talk? I... I really need your help thinking through some stuff," you manage to choke out, your eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"Of course, come on in," he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he guides you inside. The warmth of his touch is soothing to your frayed nerves, and you're grateful for his unwavering friendship. “I guess you’re spending the night?”

“If that’s okay. You didn’t have plans for tonight, did you?”

“Nope. I’m all yours bestie. Come on.” He leads you to the bedroom and heads straight for his dresser. After rummaging through the second drawer, he hands you a pair of his soft cotton pajamas, the fabric worn from years of use.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “Can you…?” You point to the zipper at the back of your gown. He gently pulls it down and helps you step out of the dress. You don’t give a second thought to changing in front of him; the two of you have seen each other in various stages of undressed over the years. As you pull on the pjs, he walks to the closet to hang your dress up.

You crawl into his bed like you’ve done thousands of times before. The sheets are cool against your skin, providing a stark contrast to the heat that still lingers in your cheeks. Lucas slips in on the other side, facing you as he takes one of your hands in his. His touch is gentle, reassuring, and it's all the encouragement you need to open up about your conflicted feelings.

As you lay together, the floodgates open, and you pour out the tangled mess of emotions that have been plaguing you since encountering Chan. Lucas listens intently, his eyes filled with understanding and empathy. But it's not just about the emotional turmoil; you find yourself describing the steamy, uninhibited sexual encounters you've experienced with Minho, the way his hands grip your body, the rough yet intoxicating way he takes you, leaving you breathless and begging for more.

"Lucas, I really like Minho," you murmur, resting your head on the pillow as you roll flat onto your back and stare at the ceiling. "He makes me feel so alive, especially when we... you know." You can't help but blush as you think back on all the times Minho has made you cum, when he dominates you in the most delicious way possible.

"God, it sounds intense in all the best ways," Lucas murmurs, his voice laced with excitement, but also concern. "But what about everything else? Are you happy with him?"

You hesitate, thinking back to the possessive texts, the constant demands for updates on your whereabouts. "I don't know," you admit. "Sometimes it feels like he's suffocating me, like he wants control over every aspect of my life."

"That doesn't sound healthy," he says cautiously. "You deserve someone who trusts and respects you, not someone who's trying to control you."

“I think he has good intentions though. He’s just… intense.”

"But if you're having doubts, then you should listen to that."

His words echo in your head, a persistent reminder of the red flags you've been trying to ignore. The more you think about it, the more you realize how much Minho's possessiveness is affecting your happiness.

You nod, knowing deep down that Lucas is right. You need to confront the truth about your relationship with Minho and determine whether or not it's worth sacrificing your own happiness and well-being.

"Maybe you should talk to Minho about how you're feeling," Lucas suggests gently. "See if there's a way to work through this together."

"I know," you agree as you turn your head to look at him, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I'm scared of what might happen if I do."

"And that should be a red flag. When have you ever worried about what might happen if you talked to Chan about something, other than him being closed off? You shouldn’t be worried about your partner getting so angry that you’re scared…” You know he’s right. Lucas takes a deep breath. “Whatever happens, I'll be here for you," he reassures you, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

"Thank you, Lucas," you whisper, leaning against him, seeking solace in the familiar comfort of his embrace. "Thanks for always listening. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Hey, that's what friends are for, right?" He gives you a reassuring squeeze and chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. "Besides, I owe you big time for all those heartbreaks I went through with my terrible Tinder choices. Remember that guy who ghosted me after we had sex in the backseat of his car?"

You laugh, recalling how he'd shown up at your door, heartbroken and disheveled, needing your support to mend his shattered ego. It had been just one of many instances where you'd helped pick up the pieces of his shattered heart, allowing you both to grow even closer as friends and confidantes.

"Those guys were nothing compared to you," you say, half-teasing, half-serious. "They didn't know how to appreciate what they had."

"Guess we're both suckers for heartache then, huh?"

As if on cue, your phone buzzes with another call from Minho, which you quickly silence. A text follows soon after.

Minho: Where are you?

"Fuck," you breathe out, wishing he’d give you a moments peace. You set the phone to “do not disturb” and toss it on the side table, before cuddling back up with your best friend.

As you drift off to sleep, entwined in Lucas' arms, you can't help but feel torn between the undeniable passion Minho ignites within you and the unsettling control he wields over your life. But one thing is clear: you need to address these concerns with Minho, no matter how terrifying the prospect may be.

[luckyroll3]

Mine Chapter 6

Mine Masterlist Previous Chapter

A/N: Additional Warnings: Possessiveness; Emotional and mental abuse. (Please see the masterlist for the full list of warnings.)

There’s a sultry haze over the cramped dive bar as you lean against the sticky bar, condensation from your glass dampening your fingertips. The air is thick with the musky scent of spilled beer. Laughter spills from your lips, mingling with the raucous chorus of your friends’ revelry. Yet beneath the rowdy surface, a pulse of tension beats steadily in your chest, syncing with the incessant vibration of your phone. 

“Another message?” Lucas asks, his voice laced with concern as he catches the drift of your fleeting glances toward the device. 

“Just Minho,” you say, offering a half-hearted smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you swipe to silence the call. 

You rejoin the conversation about Liz’s frenemy at work. 

Your phone buzzes again, the fifth time in 20 minutes. Minho's name flashes on the screen. He’s calling. Again. The calls have been interspersed with several text messages, a litany of inquiries that already lie answered in your message thread. But he won’t let up; the calls keep coming. 

You sigh, shooting an apologetic glance at Lucas as you push off from the bar. "Be right back," you shout over the music. Lucas nods, his brow furrowing slightly as his eyes follow you.

You weave through the press of bodies, eventually finding a quiet corner near the restrooms where you can answer Minho's call. "Hey, what's up?" you ask, trying to keep your tone light.

"Where are you?" Minho's voice is taut, barely masking his irritation. "Who are you with? When are you coming home?" Minho fires off his questions like bullets, each one sharp and demanding. It's an interrogation.

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. "Minho, I already texted you all of this. I'm at O'Malley's with some friends. I'm not sure what time I'll be done." Your patience wanes, but you swallow the irritation, wrapping it in sweet assurances.

"Is Lucas there? He’s there with you, isn’t he?" The edge in his voice sharpens. The question is razor-edged and coated in honeyed jealousy.

A flicker of annoyance sparks in your chest. "Yes, Lucas is here. But not just him,” you assert, pushing back against the insidious creep of Minho’s control. “Liz and a few other people are with us. We’re all just hanging out. Why does it matter?"

Minho's silence is pregnant with unspoken thoughts. "I just want to make sure you're safe," Minho says, his tone softening slightly. "I worry about you, especially when you're out late and I’m not there."

You lean against the wall, conflict churning in your gut. Despite the prickling awareness of his encroaching dominance and the implicit lack of trust, you find the sentiment sweet. His worry masquerades as attentiveness, but part of you melts at his concern. 

"I appreciate that you care," you say carefully. "But baby, I am safe,” you reassure him, your words honey-dipped and soothing. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Always,” he replies, but the word hangs heavy. “I mostly don’t trust other guys.”

“The only guy here is Lucas and he’s my best friend. You don’t need to worry about him. And I can take care of myself."

Minho is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice drips with charm. "I know, baby. I just miss you. I want to be involved in your life, to know what you're up to. Is that so wrong?"

You bite your lip, torn. His attentiveness is sweet, even if it borders on cloying sometimes. "No, it's not wrong," you murmur. "I miss you too."

“Will I get to see you tonight?”

“Mmmm, not sure. I’ll let you know when I leave the bar though.”

“Okay beautiful.”

“Goodnight Minho,” you whisper, hanging up before another question can claw its way through the line. 

As you slip your phone back into your pocket, unease prickles at the back of your neck. Returning to your friends, you try to shake off the encounter, to immerse yourself once more in the warmth of their company. You plaster on a smile as you retake your spot at the bar. 

Lucas catches your eye, his gaze holding yours as he gives you a questioning look. You shake your head no, signaling him to let whatever he’s thinking go and turn your attention to Nat’s story. As you try to listen, you focus instead on the burn of whiskey sliding down your throat.

**** 

The chill of the grocery store's air conditioning bites at your skin as you meander through the aisles, a listless attempt to restock your empty fridge. You're lost in thought, caught between the memory of the previous night in Minho’s bed and the new drama between feuding managers at work. 

You're reaching for a carton of eggs when you hear a familiar voice behind you that almost causes you to drop the fragile items.

"Hey stranger," the voice says, its tone carrying a mix of surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You turn, and there he is: Chan, with that disarming dimpled smile and those warm brown eyes that once promised forever but now flicker with the soft glow of regret. You're hit by a wave of nostalgia so strong it feels like a punch to the gut. He's clutching a basket of groceries, hair slightly tousled like he just rolled out of bed.

"Chan," you breathe, heat rising to your cheeks. "I… I thought you’d be in Chicago by now," you say, your voice steady even as your heart races. The words hang in the cold aisle, suspended like the frost on the freezer doors.

He shakes his head, a lock of hair falling perfectly across his forehead. He shrugs, running a hand through his locks in an attempt to put them back in place. "Turned it down. It just wasn’t the right time for a move.” His eyes lock with yours, heavy with unspoken meaning. You swallow hard, remembering the last time you saw him… the tension and threat of tears at Travis' birthday party. “They were still able to give me the promotion though. Once they learned Hart & Associates tried to lure me away, a local promotion suddenly became available. You know how that goes."

You nod slowly. "That’s great. How have you been?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

"I’m ok, all things considered. You look well," Chan says, his gaze traveling over you in a way that makes your skin tingle. "Happy."

You nod again. “I’m very happy.” The air between you crackles with tension, memories of passionate nights and lazy mornings flooding back unbidden.

Chan smiles then, that damned dimpled grin that could make your knees buckle. "I'm glad,” he says. “You deserve it.” He shifts the basket to his other hand. “My mom’s been asking about you. I think she’s ready to trade me in for you as a daughter.”

You laugh. “She’s just saying that. She’d never give up her baby boy.”

“I hope not! You know I’d be lost without my mommy.” The two of you laugh, recalling your many conversations about Chan being a mama’s boy. 

Chan fills you in on his mom’s latest escapades with her book and wine club, where she and her friends spend more time drinking and gossiping than talking about the books. The conversation flows with an ease you hadn't expected, a gentle stream compared to the turbulent rapids of your last encounters. It's disarming, how simple it is to fall back into the rhythm of familiarity with him, to find comfort in the cadence of his voice.

“I’ll give her a call some time next week,” you say. 

"She’d like that.” The two of you lapse into silence. It’s broken when a cart being pushed by a 10 year old boy comes crashing around the corner of the aisle, causing the two of you to step out of the way quickly. His mother is not far behind. 

“Sorry about that,” she calls out as she chases after him. “Liam, stop! I’m gonna take away your cart privileges.”

“That just reminded me of the time I convinced you to sit in the shopping cart and we did our own version of Supermarket Sweep to try to get all our groceries as quickly as possible,” Chan says. “Remember that?”

You remember. The two of you zoomed down the aisles, narrowly dodging displays and confusing shoppers until Chan took a corner too fast and tipped the cart over. 

“Oh, you mean the time you flung me into a display of cereal boxes and they went flying everywhere? And instead of helping me up, you laughed so hard until you collapsed on the floor next to me.”

Chan chuckles. “The glares we got from the store employees…”

You laugh. “Yeah, they were pissed. And then they banned us. I’m surprised they didn’t send our photos around to the rest of the stores in the chain.”

“We had a lot of fun together,” Chan says quietly. 

“We did.”

“Yeah.” The two of you both fall quiet again. Chan sighs, breaking the spell before he continues. “I should get going." He looks into your eyes, assessing. "It was really good to see you."

“Nice to see you too, Chan.”

As he walks away towards the checkout, you clutch the egg carton to your chest, trying to slow your racing heart. You place the eggs in the cart and push it forward. 

As you continue to navigate the aisles, your mind replays the chance meeting. Chan’s easy demeanor, his genuine happiness at seeing you. It stirs up a whirlpool of emotions deep within. You can't shake the feeling of missing something, or rather someone, who once was your anchor. You’re happy with Minho. But seeing Chan again makes you long for the familiar comfort of his arms, that easy rhythm you once shared, just a tiny bit.

You shake your head and push that thought out of your head, forcing yourself to focus on figuring out which aisle to walk down next. 

****

You are curled up on your couch next to Minho, his arm draped causally over your shoulders. He asks about your week at work, nodding along attentively as you tell him about a big project you have coming up. 

"That sounds like a lot of extra hours," he says, a slight edge in his voice. "Will you have to work late nights?"

You shrug. "Probably a few nights here and there when deadlines get close. But it shouldn't be too bad."

He frowns. “That means less time with me.” An adorable pout frames his face. 

“Only for a week or so,” you say as you nuzzle your nose against his neck. “You can survive without me for a week.”

“I can, but I don’t want to.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. The two of you continue chatting about work for a few minutes. Minho tells you about his new client and you update him about the manager drama from the past couple weeks. 

“I’m legit concerned that they’ll start punching each other.” You laugh. 

“Maybe that’s what they need to get out all their aggression.”

“Heh. Next week I’ll ask the bank president if I can spend some of my discretionary budget on renting a boxing ring for a few hours. I know a couple folks who’d be willing to put down bets.”

“Could be a great bonding activity,” Minho smirks. “Should I order us dinner?”

“No. I finally went grocery shopping.”

“Thank god!” he exclaims. You share with Minho what you bought and he thinks out loud about what he can cook for you. But then you let slip the chance encounter with Chan between sips of your wine. Immediately, Minho’s aura darkens like a storm cloud ready to burst. 

His sharp cat-like eyes lock onto you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. They narrow, scrutinizing, dissecting every flicker of expression on your face for some hint of betrayal.

"Chan? Your ex?" he repeats, his voice low. "What the fuck did he want?"

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Nothing really. We just caught up for a minute. Talked about his mom." You sit up and turn to face him. “It was just a quick hello. No big deal.” You keep your tone light, but your heart races.

Minho's jaw clenches. "And why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" There's a dangerous edge to his voice, one that scrapes against your nerves. The room's temperature seems to rise quickly, your skin burning under his gaze, as if his jealousy were a tangible force, scorching through the fabric of your shirt.

"I honestly didn't think it mattered. It was so brief. I didn’t even know he was still in town. It was purely a coincidence that we saw each other." You try to maintain an even tone, but the tremor in your voice betrays you. You can see the muscles in his body tense, his hands balling into fists at his sides, his posture predatory.

"Coincidence?” he spits out, the word slicing through the room.

“Yes. We live in the same neighborhood, shop at the same grocery and pharmacy. It was bound to happen given that he never moved to Chicago.”

“Bullshit," he snarls, his eyes flashing. "Don't pretend like you don't still have feelings for him. You just can’t get enough of him. Can’t stay away, huh?"

The accusation is a physical blow landing hard against your chest. "What?! No, of course not! Was I surprised to see him? Yes, but it was just small talk."

Minho scoffs, his handsome face twisting into a scowl as he stands. "Small talk, my ass. Talking about his mom? Probably just an excuse to get close to you and you were dumb enough to fall for it.” 

You cock your head at his words. Dumb enough to fall for it? you think, his words echoing between your ears. The fuck!?!

Minho's footsteps echo like gunshots as he paces back and forth. His breath comes out in harsh gusts, stirring the still air that feels thick with accusation. You watch him, your arms folded across your chest as a shield against his barbs.

"Minho, please," you finally say, voice steady despite the roiling emotions within. "It meant nothing.”

But Minho's trust has fractured, cracks of suspicion marring his usually composed facade. "You think I can't see it? The way you light up around him? The mention of his name. He's always lurking around you, waiting for a chance to slither back into your life! And you’re not over him."

Your heart hammers in your chest, each agitated stride of his pulling taut the strings of tension between you. You shake your head, throat tightening. "Minho, no,” you argue, feeling a knot twist in your stomach. This isn’t the Minho you know. “That's fucking ridiculous. This is only the second time I’ve seen him, and it was for less than 5 minutes. Chan is in my past. I’m with you." Your words come out rushed, a desperate plea for understanding, but they seem to evaporate before reaching him. His possessive words have also sparked an ember of anger in you. "But also, you’re not my fucking parent. You can't control who I speak to. Chan and I have history…"

His eyes are dark thunderclouds as he steps closer to stand over you, his height casting a shadow that swallows your defiance. "FUCK! DON’T! I don’t give a FUCK about your history! This thing with Chan…it ends NOW. I won't have you pining after another man while you’re with me." His voice cracks like a whip, loud and violent. 

You flinch, not necessarily from fear, but from the sheer intensity of his words and presence as he looms over you. 

When Minho catches your movement, he pauses. The fire in his gaze flickers out as he sees the unspoken plea in your eyes.

"Fuck," he breathes out, the single word laced with a thousand regrets. His shoulders slump as if the weight of his own doubts finally anchors him to reality. “I’m sorry, I just….” He runs a hand through his hair as he steps back, placing space between you. "Listen to me," he starts again, voice softer but no less urgent. "I've had people I cared for fuck me over. They took pieces of me I'll never get back." His confession spills out, raw and jagged edges exposed.

Silence falls, heavy and suffocating. You watch him but don’t say anything, empathy warring with the heat of anger that hasn't quite cooled in your veins. 

"God, I'm so sorry," Minho whispers, his voice cracking under the strain of vulnerability. "I let my past poison us. I shouldn't have… I…"

You're caught in the eye of the storm, where the calm is as unsettling as the chaos that encircles it. His apology hangs between you, a fragile olive branch extended across the chasm of wounded pride and tarnished trust.

As his words trail off, you’re unsure of what to do or say next. You need space to breathe, to think, yet the pull toward him is gravitational, the orbit of your desires locked onto his presence.

He steps towards you, the heavy thud of his heartbeat almost palpable in the charged silence of the room. Minho's eyes, those sharp, cat-like orbs that had once pierced through your defenses with ease, now hold a different kind of intensity, a plea for clemency you're not sure you can grant.

"You’re everything to me. I can't lose you. Not to Chan; not to anyone. I can't lose you over my own fucked up insecurities," he breathes out, voice low and rough like gravel underfoot. "I'll do better. I will."

The rawness in his tone scrapes against the walls you've hastily erected around your heart. He moves even closer, and the warmth emanating from his body beckons you like a flame does a moth. Your skin prickles with awareness; desire coils within you, an unwelcome intruder in this moment of turmoil.

"Please," Minho murmurs as he takes your hands in his. "Say you believe me. Let me prove how much you mean to me."

Every fiber of your being trembles with the weight of his words, the proximity of his body. You're caught in a maelstrom of longing and disquiet, unsure if it's the magnetic pull of his presence or the echo of your own loneliness that makes you want to succumb.

"Minho…" The name is a sigh on your lips as you lift your chin to look into his eyes.

Your mind races, recounting every heated glance, every possessive touch, the way your name falls from his lips like a sacred invocation. Yet beneath the rush of blood in your veins, is a whisper of warning.

"Please," he says again bringing the back of your hands to his lips, the plea a whisper against your skin. You feel yourself relenting, inch by agonizing inch. Because even when the world seems to crumble at your feet, the allure of Minho's touch promises to rebuild from the ruins.

"Alright," you say, voice barely above a whisper, as you lock eyes with him. His sigh of relief is audible, an exhalation of tension that seems to fill the space between you with a beguiling promise. 

"Thank you," he says, and the sincerity etched into his features is almost enough to make you forget the serrated edge of fear that nicked at your soul for just a second mere moments ago. He kisses your hands again.

You nod, silent acknowledgment binding you to a decision despite your lingering doubt. Every sinew in your body is taut with apprehension, yet the seductive dance of light in his eyes draws you back.

"Let's put this shit behind us, okay?" Minho's soft voice is an attempt to swath the jagged remnants of the argument in something softer, more palatable.

"Okay," you reply, the word hanging in the air. But you are still wary after the argument. Minho seems calm now, but you can’t forget the darkness that surfaced briefly. 

When Minho sits next to you on the couch, an uneasy tension fills the small space between you. You mutter an excuse about getting water and head to the kitchen, needing space to think. 

You retrieve a glass from the dishwasher and fill it with tap water. You inhale a shaky breath before taking a sip, letting the cool liquid soothe your throat. 

Seeing Chan had certainly stirred up old feelings within you, but that didn’t mean you still wanted him. And he certainly wasn’t worth jeopardizing what you have with Minho. Sometimes he scares you, but you know he needs you too. I just need to help him overcome his insecurities, you think to yourself. 

Lost in thought, you don’t notice Minho until his arms slip around your waist, hugging you from behind. You flinch, heart racing, before forcing yourself to relax into his embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “I need you.” Slowly, he begins trailing kisses down your neck in a silent plea for forgiveness. Your pulse quickens at his touch. "Let's forget all about it." His words are a low, sensual promise, his voice dipping to a register that sinks into your bones and settles between your thighs. His lips move to your shoulder. 

Your heart hammers in an erratic rhythm, a traitorous masochist eager to revisit the hands that so recently shook you to the core. 

His index finger locks under your chin to turn your face to the side towards him. When his lips find yours, the kiss is hungry, devouring. Your reservations melt as you open yourself to him. You don’t want to give in, but your body betrays you. You turn to face him. In this moment, the heat between you and him is raw and unchecked as he holds you tightly against him. His tongue swirls into your mouth, and you gasp, arching into him, forgetting the argument, the harsh words, the creeping unease.

You know this doesn’t fix things, but right now you need the escape. You need him. You’re playing with fire, but the flames are too tempting to resist. Consequences feel distant; all that matters is the heat and the exquisite burn. 

His hands roam your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. They're everywhere, and yet, you can't get close enough, can't have enough, as both of your clothes disintegrate under the weight of your need.

You arch into his touch, aching for more contact. Minho's hands grip your hips, possessive, as he lifts you onto the counter, the cold granite contrasting deliciously with his heat. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him against you. Your kisses turn savage, biting and sucking as if you could devour each other. 

His lips trail down your jawline, leaving a trail of bites and kisses in his wake. He nuzzles your neck, his erection digging into your thigh as he kisses his way down your collarbone. His mouth is on fire, reducing you to a puddle of need; a shivering, quivering mess.

“I need you” you gasp. 

In response, he enters you roughly, wrenching a cry from your lips. This isn’t gentle or sweet; it’s fucking, plain and simple. The combination of pleasure and pain borders on too much, but you crave it. Crave him. 

He sets a relentless pace, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You rake your nails down his back, urging him on. Harder, faster, more more more until thought dissolves into pure sensation. 

You’re animals, primitive and unchecked. This is make-up sex in its rawest form. You can't think of anything but the fire he's stoking within you both, the need to feel whole again.

His lips find their way back to your neck, sucking and biting hard enough to leave marks. You moan wantonly, your eyes rolling back in your head as you submit to the delicious torment he inflicts on your body. He knows exactly how to make you lose control.

As he continues to thrust into you, he whispers reassurances in your ear. “I’m sorry for losing my temper. It won’t happen again. I’ll work hard to be the partner you deserve.”

When you come undone, it's with a scream that echoes off the tiles. But Minho is not done. 

“Tell me…. Please tell me you’re mine. That you won’t leave me.” He grunts as he slams into you again and again, harder each time. “Say it. Please!”

The desperation in his voice is unnerving, but in this moment, you couldn’t care less. “I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m here.”

A few seconds later, you feel his cock pulsing inside you. You stay locked together, foreheads touching, catching your breaths. 

After a few moments, you pull back slightly, meeting Minho’s gaze with a mixture of hope and caution. You want to believe Minho’s words, that he’ll do better. You want to trust that this relationship can overcome some of the challenges that have emerged. 

Minho lifts you from the counter and carries you to the couch. The two of you lay in a quiet embrace, the earlier argument momentarily forgotten. The doubts and fears remain, but for now you've found a temporary sanctuary in each other.

[luckyroll3]

Unexpected Chapter 28: Bad Girls Do It Well

Unexpected Masterlist Previous Chapter

Chan

Chan stared at his phone, Mia's last text message glaring back at him.

Mia: I'm so sorry, but I have to cancel our dinner plans again. This presentation is due tomorrow, and I'm stuck at the office late. I'll make it up to you, I promise. Love you.

He sighed heavily and tossed the phone on the couch. Between Stray Kids working on their new album and Mia's marketing job ramping up for their busy season, it felt like they were two ships passing in the night lately, missing each other at every turn. Their conflicting schedules made it nearly impossible to find time together.

Chan leaned back and rubbed his tired eyes. The guys, as well as the labels, were counting on 3Racha to write and produce more hit songs, but his mind kept drifting to Mia. He pictured her hunched over her laptop at work, brow furrowed in concentration as she put together yet another important client presentation. She'd been logging so many late nights at the office.

He picked the phone back up and typed out:

International Superstar Bang Chan: I miss you.

His thumb hovered over the send button for a moment before he deleted the message with a frustrated groan. It wasn't fair to make her feel guilty when she was working so hard. They were both pouring themselves into their careers right now.

A knock sounded at the studio door. "Yo Chan, you ready to lay down the demo for the next track?" Han called out. "Changbin and I finished the lyrics."

"Yeah, be right there," Chan replied, pushing himself up off the couch. Time to shift gears and get his head back in the game. This album wasn't going to produce itself.

He strode over to the recording booth, determined to channel his pent-up energy and longing into the music. If he couldn't be with Mia, at least he could write songs that expressed how he felt about her. A few of the new tracks were intensely personal and heartfelt. Definitely not his preferred style, but he had worked closely with Han, who was known for his emotional lyrics, to complete them. As he slipped the headphones over his ears and stepped up to the mic, Chan closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Mia's beautiful face, before launching into an impassioned vocal take, raw emotion infusing every word.

“You fill up my mind 24/7 I stay up all night, I can't even rest You seem to be fine The way that you smile it's giving me a heartache 'Cause I should be the one protecting it”

He would find a way for them to reconnect soon, even if it meant moving mountains with their busy schedules. Because at the end of the day, no matter how much he loved making music, Mia was now his ultimate muse and motivation. He never thought he could feel this way about someone again. Their relationship was worth fighting for, and he refused to let time and distance pull them apart.

A few hours later, Chan's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out, heart leaping at the sight of Mia's name on the screen. He quickly opened the message.

Mia: Hey handsome, just wanted to let you know I'm thinking of you. Miss you like crazy. Can't wait for our date night this weekend! XOXO

A bittersweet smile tugged at Chan's lips as he typed out a reply.

International Superstar Bang Chan: Miss you more, goddess. Counting down the minutes until I can hold you in my arms again. Love you.

He hit send, wishing he could express the depth of his feelings through the phone. Text messages were a poor substitute for being together in person, but they helped bridge the gap between their hectic lives.

Throughout the day, as Chan worked tirelessly in the studio, he and Mia exchanged a flurry of messages, sharing snippets of their days and words of encouragement. Each ping of his phone brought a burst of warmth and comfort, knowing that despite the distance, they were still connected.

As the weekend approached, Chan's excitement grew at the prospect of finally having some quality time with Mia. He had grand plans for their date night: a romantic dinner at a cozy candlelit restaurant, followed by a leisurely stroll under the stars, then back to her place…. They hadn’t been intimate in over a week. He was dying to touch her.

But just hours before they were set to meet, Chan's phone rang, Mia's face flashing on the screen. His heart sank, already sensing what was coming.

“Are you cancelling?”

"Chris, baby, I'm so sorry," Mia said, her voice heavy with regret. "We've got a crisis at work, and I can't leave. I'm going to have to cancel. I feel awful."

Chan closed his eyes, swallowing his disappointment. "It's okay, I understand. Your work is important."

"I promise I'll make it up to you. I love you so much."

"I love you too. Don't work too hard, okay?"

After hanging up, Chan sat in silence for a long moment, frustration and longing warring in his chest. He hated this feeling of powerlessness, of constantly having to put their relationship on the back burner.

But then an idea struck him, and he sprang into action. If Mia couldn't come to him, he would find a way to bring a little joy to her.

Half an hour later, Chan watched from his phone as a dot on the map, representing a delivery driver, approached Mia's office building with the takeout he had ordered for her with all her favorite comfort foods from her favorite Chinese restaurant in her neighborhood. He had included a note:

‘To my hardworking goddess,

I know you're giving it your all, as always. Remember to take care of yourself too. Enjoy a delicious meal and think of me. I'll be dreaming of the day when I can cook for you again and shower you with all the love you deserve.

Forever yours,

Chris’

It wasn't the romantic evening he had envisioned, but Chan knew that supporting Mia, even from afar, was the most important thing.

Chan, back in his room at the beach house, was lost in thought, trying to finish brainstorming ideas for the next comeback, when his phone buzzed with a message from Mia.

Mia: Chris, you amazing fucking man! Thank you so much for the surprise dinner. It means the world to me. I have a surprise for you too. Check your email. Love you! ❤️

Intrigued, Chan quickly opened his inbox and found an email from Mia with the subject line ‘For my International Superstar.’ Inside were six VIP tickets to the upcoming EDM festival featuring some of Chan's favorite DJs.

"Naur fucking way!" Chan exclaimed. He and Changbin had been talking about going to this for the past few weeks but hadn’t been successful at securing tickets since it had been sold out for months. Even the company had been no help.

The email also included a short message from Mia:

‘I know how much you've been wanting to go to this. My hookup got tickets for the guys too (and Lianna), so you can all enjoy a well-deserved break. Let's make some unforgettable memories together. Can't wait to dance the night away with you! 😘’

Chan immediately called Mia. "Mia, you're incredible! I can't believe you did this. Thank you so much, babe."

Mia laughed, her voice warm and loving. "I just called in a favor. You deserve it, Chris. You've been working so hard, and I want to make sure you have some fun too. Plus, I think we could both use a day of letting loose and enjoying each other's company."

"Absolutely," Chan agreed, his mind already racing with anticipation. "The Kids are going to be thrilled. This will be epic!"

As they ended the call, Chan couldn't stop smiling. Despite the challenges they faced, moments like these reminded him of just how blessed he was to have Mia in his life.

A week later, the day of the concert arrived, and the group was buzzing with excitement. Mia looked stunning in one of Chan’s white Fendi tank tops that she cut into a cropped style and denim skinny jeans; Chan couldn't keep his eyes off her. As they entered the venue, the pulsing beats and dazzling lights enveloped them, and they quickly lost themselves in the music. Mia’s VIP tickets got them access backstage, as well as access to the platform just behind where the soundboard was located.

Chan pulled Mia close, his hands on her hips as they moved to the rhythm. "Have I told you how amazing you look tonight?" he murmured in her ear.

Mia grinned, pressing herself against him. "You clean up pretty well yourself, handsome."

“Can I have some of that?” Lianna asked, cutting into their moment, referring to the gin and tonic Mia held in her hand.

“Do you have a wristband, ma’am?” Mia shot back sassily.

Lianna rolled her eyes. “C’mon Aunt Mimi. We drink together all the time.” She crossed her arms.

“Yes. At my house. Where I’m not in danger of getting arrested for child endangerment.”

“You don’t have to be so dramatic!”

“Here,” Mia said, handing her a bottle of water. “If you’re thirsty, hydrate.”

Lianna took the bottle and twisted off the cap before taking a swig. “I’m thirsty for something…,” she said as she turned her attention towards Changbin. “Chan. He’s still single, right?” She faced Chan, raising an eyebrow as she waited for an answer.

Chan chuckled. “As far as I knaur.” Lianna nodded as she continued to watch Changbin while chugging the water. Chan whispered in Mia’s ear, “She’s not serious, is she?”

“Oh, she’s very serious,” Mia answered quietly with a laugh. “She told me outright that she wants to fuck him.”

“Well then! Are you okay with that?”

“She’s her own woman. As long as she’s not forced to do anything she doesn’t want to, it’s her prerogative.”

As they danced, Chan noticed Lianna making her way towards Changbin, a determined look in her eye. He chuckled to himself, wondering if his friend was ready for the force of nature that was Mia's niece.

Lianna tapped Changbin on the shoulder, a flirtatious smile on her face. "Hey, wanna dance with me?"

Changbin turned, surprised but clearly intrigued. "Lianna, hey! Yeah, let's do it."

As the two began to dance, Changbin's hands found their way to Lianna's waist. Lianna wasted no time in repositioning his hands lower on her hips. Chan leaned in to whisper to Mia, "Looks like Lianna is making her move."

Mia laughed, shaking her head. "That girl is fearless. I just hope Changbin knows what he's getting into."

Chan grinned, pulling Mia even closer. "I think he can handle it.”

As the DJ’s set ended, Changbin walked to the bar to get a drink. On his way back to Lianna, he passed by where Chan and Mia were sitting.

“Mia. How old is your niece? I need to be sure I can’t get thrown in jail.” Changbin chuckled nervously.

Mia laughed. “You’re good. She turned 18 a few months ago and she’s very mature. You’re safe from the law, but not from her parents. Her dad is 6’2”, and honestly, my sister is probably more terrifying.” Mia took a sip of her drink. “Don’t worry, I won’t turn you in,” she whispered. “Just be decent or I’ll have to fucking kill you myself.”

“Easy Aunty Mimi,” Changbin said as he backed away playfully, his hands raised. “The sass must run in the family. I’ll be a perfect fucking gentleman.”

“I thought I wasn’t your type, Bin. She’s basically my clone.”

“I lied,” he whispered with a wink before walking away. Mia laughed.

“The two of them together might be trouble,” Chan said. He threw his arm around Mia and pulled her closer. “What to find a quiet spot?” He kissed her neck.

“Sure,” Mia said as she brought her lips to his.

Mia and Chan made their way to the VIP area backstage, hand in hand. They were both feeling a little buzzed from the drinks and the energy of the concert, but they couldn’t resist stealing kisses from each other as they walked.

As they reached the VIP area, Chan pulled Mia towards him and pressed her against the wall. “I can’t get enough of you today,” he whispered before capturing her lips in a passionate kiss.

Mia’s hands instinctively went to his hair, pulling him closer as she deepened the kiss. Their chemistry was undeniable and every time they kissed, it felt like fireworks exploding inside him.

After a few minutes, they pulled away breathlessly. “Let’s go back here,” Mia suggested.

They found an empty room backstage and quickly made their way inside. Chan locked the door behind them before turning to face Mia. She pulled him into another heated kiss and their hands roamed freely over each other’s bodies.

Chan’s mind was clouded as he lifted her up against the wall, his hands gripping her thighs tightly as he rocked against her. She moaned into his mouth, urging him on as she tangled her fingers in his hair. They spent the next half-hour making out and dry humping until someone knocked on the door. “Why is this door locked? Is someone in there? Fuck!” the voice on the other side of the door asked as they pounded their fist on the door.

“Oh shit,” Chan whispered.

“Shh,” Mia said with a soft laugh. “Don’t say anything. Let’s wait until they leave, then we can sneak out.”

“Okay.” He brought his lips back to hers. When they heard the person walk away, they slipped out of the room and headed back to meet the rest of the group.

****

Chan rubbed his eyes as he sat staring at his laptop. He needed to get these mixes done before he left the studio. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. He could have worked on this back at the house, but he was worried about the potential distractions. As he saved the first mix, his phone vibrated.

Mia: Still at the studio?

International Superstar Bang Chan: Yeah. One mix down, two more to go. I’ll probably be here for another 2-3 hours.

Chan took a break as he waited for Mia to message him back. He walked to the bathroom, then grabbed a water bottle from the mini fridge in the back of the studio. He returned to his chair and unlocked the phone. She hadn’t written back yet.

Chan opened the second file and got to work.

Forty-five minutes later, his phone buzzed again.

Mia: Hey. I’m outside. Come let me in.

International Superstar Bang Chan: Outside where?

Chan was confused.

Mia: The studio. Open the door. This isn’t the best neighborhood to be standing outside… alone… after midnight…

Chan pushed away from the desk and walked out to the lobby. He turned the deadbolt and pushed the door open. Mia was standing on the other side in a large red letterman jacket with black sleeves that was fully buttoned from her neck down to where the fabric reached her upper thighs.

“Took you long enough,” she said as she walked in, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He said as he pulled the door closed and locked it. She was right; this wasn’t the best neighborhood. He turned around to face her. “I mean don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to see you.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” she said cheerily as she took his hand. “Surprise! Anyone else here?”

Chan chuckled. “Naur. Just me.”

“Want to show me what you’re working on?”

“Sure.” He led her down the hallway to his studio. “What’s with the outfit? It’s a little hot and humid out for that, yeah?”

Mia pushed him into his chair. “I have no intention of keeping it on,” she said seductively as she held the jacket at the collar and pulled it open slowly, unsnapping the buttons one by one. Chan’s eyes widened as he took in the sight. The only thing Mia was wearing beneath was a red lace thong that matched the color of the jacket. “You like?” she asked as she dropped the jacket to the floor then straddled him.

Chan’s tongue pushed through the flesh of his cheek as he grinned. “Heh, I like very much.” He cupped her ass cheeks and pulled her in closer to his core.

Mia kissed his jawline, then whispered in his ear, “Make sure you save your progress.” She licked his neck, then pulled his skin between her teeth.

“Ah,” he gasped when he felt her bite. He swiveled the chair with his feet, then pressed command + S on his MacBook. “Saved.” He returned his hands to her ass and squeezed as he kissed her neck. “If this is an apology for all the times you stood me up, I forgive you!”

Mia didn’t respond, she just brought her lips back to his and slipped her tongue into his mouth. Her hands reached down between their bodies and unbuttoned his jeans. She eased his zipper down before she pushed her hand into his underwear.

Chan moaned as Mia’s hand wrapped around his length. A few strokes and he was fully hard, pushing against her palm. He broke the kiss to look down at her, his breathing heavy.

“Somebody’s happy to see me,” she said, her voice low and sultry.

Without saying another word, she lifted her body up and positioned herself on top of him, pressing his tip against the crotch of her thong. Chan hurriedly pulled the fabric to the side, then held onto her hips as she slowly lowered herself onto him, taking him in inch by inch until he was fully enveloped within her moist, warm walls. They both let out satisfied sighs before Mia began to move, rocking her hips back and forth as Chan helped guide her movements with his hands. Their pace started slow but soon picked up as they both succumbed to the pleasure.

The room was filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing, skin slapping against skin, and moans. Mia rode Chan with expert skill, her hips moving in a steady rhythm that drove him wild. He gripped her hips tighter, urging her to go faster, deeper.

Their bodies moved together, their breaths mingling in the air between them as they each chased their release. Chan couldn’t take his eyes off of Mia, completely entranced by her beauty, her confidence, and the way she felt around him. He let out a low growl as she leaned down to kiss him again, their tongues now dancing together.

Mia broke their kiss as she leaned back, placing her hands behind her to grip his thighs tightly for leverage as she arched her back fully and let her head fall backwards. The move positioned her chest perfectly in front of him and he couldn’t help himself burying his face in between her perky breasts. He slipped his hands up her back until they were between her shoulder blades. After placing a kiss on her lower sternum, he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth and bit softly before tugging it. His lips smiled around her boob when she gasped loudly, encouraging him to repeat the action before moving over to the next breast.

Mia bit her lip and her eyes fluttered shut as she enjoyed the sensations. Her back arched further with the help of Chan’s hands and her body started to shake with pleasure. Chan continued to suck and bite her nipples, each touch rippling through her body.

“Fuck, Christopher,” Mia moaned, her voice ragged. Chan was turned on even more hearing his full name come out of her mouth. Encouraged by her words, Chan moved his hands back down to her hips, guiding her movements as she continued to ride him harder and faster.

As they both got closer to climax, Mia’s movements became more erratic until she finally reached her peak with a loud moan that sent shivers down Chan’s spine. She continued to grind her hips against Chan’s seeking to prolong the pleasure as long as possible. That motion, coupled with feeling her clenched around him, pushed Chan over the edge as well, releasing himself inside of her with a growl.

They stayed connected for a few moments longer, kissing softly.

“Where did you come from?” Chan asked softly. “That was amazing. Best surprise ever,” he whispered as they both caught their breaths.

“Just making up for lost time,” Mia replied with a smile before kissing his cheek. “Can’t be a rockstar if you’re not fucking in the studio…,” she whispered, smirking against his ear. Chan chuckled.

They sat there for a while longer, Chan’s arms wrapped around Mia’s back and Mia’s arms around Chan’s neck. Her head rested on his shoulder.

Mia sighed as she sat up. “I should probably let you get back to work.”

“I might not be able to concentrate after that!” Chan said with another chuckle.

Mia laughed softly before resting her forehead against his. “Sorry,” she said quietly.

He kissed her neck. “Stay,” he begged. “I should be done in about an hour. You can hang out on the couch,” nodding to the large leather sofa on the back wall, “and then we can head back to my place to go to bed? I miss sleeping next to you.”

“Okay.” Mia eased herself off of Chan. After fixing his pants, Chan picked up the jacket and helped Mia put it back on. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom to clean up.”

“Take a left and it’s at the end of the hall.” Mia nodded and walked out.

Chan turned back to the laptop and continued working on the mix. A few minutes later, Mia walked back in and kissed the top of his head before curling up on the couch and pulling out her phone.

After 20 minutes, Chan saved his second mix and opened the last one. He looked back at Mia, who had fallen asleep, her halo of curls framing her peaceful face as she curled into a tiny ball. He walked over to her and wrapped her in a blanket, then he got back to work. After another hour and a half, he was done, and they were on their way back to his place for the night.

****

A few days later, Mia was surprised to find Chan waiting for her in the lobby of her office building, a mischievous grin on his face. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her heart fluttering at the sight of him.

"I'm kidnapping you," he declared, taking her hand and leading her to a waiting car, Jack in the driver’s seat. "We're going on an adventure."

Mia laughed, her curiosity piqued. "An adventure? Where?"

"It's a surprise," Chan teased, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Just trust me."

Thirty-five minutes later, the car pulled into the airport and Mia was shocked when Chan produced both her passport and her carry-on bag.

“How?” she asked.

“Lianna helped,” he responded. “And she worked with David to help clear your schedule.”

Hours later, they arrived at a stunning all-inclusive resort in Anguilla. Mia gasped, taking in the view of the crystal-clear waters and white sandy beach from their private villa. "Chris, this is incredible! This had to have cost a small fortune."

“Did you forget I’m a superstar? I can afford it.” He laughed, then pulled her into his arms, kissing her softly. "I wanted to do something special for you, for us. We deserve a break from the chaos, a chance to focus on each other, even if it’s just a long weekend."

“You’re too sweet.” Mia pressed her lips against his, then turned back around to enjoy the view. She leaned back against Chan and pulled his arms tight around her waist. “It’s nice that we have our own pool.” She turned back to look at him. “Let’s go skinny dipping,” she whispered with a smirk.

“You don’t want to wait until after dark?”

“Nope!” Mia released Chan’s arms and pulled her blouse off. She threw it in his face, causing him to chuckle. Then she unhooked her bra and tossed that at him too. She walked towards the sliding glass door as she unbuttoned and pulled down her jeans. “You coming, Superstar?”

She bent over dramatically as she shimmied her underwear down her legs and stepped out of the clothes. When she stood back up, she ran her fingers through her curls and used the spare hair tie she wore on her wrist to wrap them into a messy bun, arching her back sexily. Chan stared at her in awe wondering how he ended up with this goddess.

When he doesn’t speak, she added, “When you’ve figured out how to talk again, meet me in the pool.” She pushed the sliding glass door open and sauntered onto the back deck, the sun giving her brown skin a golden glow. Seconds later, she was walking slowly down the pool stairs until she was submerged to just above her breasts. She walked to the edge of the infinity pool and rested her elbows on the wall as she gazed out to the sea.

Chan felt his cock harden just watching her. He quickly shook himself out of his daze and followed her lead. He dropped her clothes to the floor, then quickly slipped off his own and added them to the pile. He joined her at the edge of the pool, sliding his hands around her waist. He placed his lips on her favorite spot on the back of her neck and gave it several kisses.

“You made it,” she said softly, as she reached her hand up to grab the back of his head, holding him to that spot.

“You’re so beautiful.” He slipped his hand down her belly, the cool water rippling softly around them. Mia gasped when she felt his fingers plunge into her. Mia leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Chan slowly pushed his fingers deeper into Mia’s wetness as he pressed his hard on into her back. Mia couldn’t help but let out little moans of delight, her body trembling under his touch. Chan used his thumb to start rubbing her clit as well. “Mmmm,” Chan whispered. “I love these sounds that you make.” His other hand moved up the centerline of her body and came to rest on her neck. He squeezed gently and Mia gasped.

As Chan continued to pump his fingers in and out of Mia while simultaneously tightening and releasing his grip on her throat, he heard voices. He looked towards the beach and saw a family of four near the water. The two girls and dad were splashing in the waves while mom sat in a beach chair, a daiquiri in one hand and a book in the other. He also spotted another couple walking hand-in-hand down the beach.

“How about I fuck you right here, with the audience. Would you like that?” he whispered.

Mia’s eyes fluttered open to look at the people a few hundred yards away.

“Yes.”

Chan could barely contain his excitement. This woman was his match in more ways than one.

Mia leaned onto the wall and pushed her ass towards Chan’s body. He released her neck and placed his hand on her shoulder, then he used his other hand to position his cock at her slit. He slid himself slowly into her and listened to her exhale as he filled her up.

Chan couldn’t resist the temptation of potentially being watched by others as he fucked Mia. He pushed himself deeper into her, feeling the warmth and tightness of her around his dick, in contrast to the cool water. Mia moaned and arched her back, her hands gripping the edge of the pool for support. Chan’s thrusts became harder and faster, his fingers digging into Mia’s shoulders.

“You like this, don’t you?” Chan growled in Mia’s ear, his breath hot against her skin. “The threat of being caught?”

Mia could barely form a coherent thought. She nodded her head vigorously, not really caring that at any second, one of the people on the beach could turn towards them and see everything.

Chan continued to thrust into her relentlessly, his hand now moving from her shoulder to wrap around her throat once again. Mia alternated between gasps and moans, unable to control herself under his dominance.

“You’re a bad girl Mia Sharpe,” Chan muttered, his lips trailing down Mia’s neck as he continued to pound into her, “and I fucking love it.”

Mia reached down in between her legs to rub her clit. The combination of Chan’s hard thrusts and her own stimulation, plus the rush of being in public, pushed her over the edge quickly. She moaned quietly in ecstasy.

Chan was turned on by her response to him. Chan groaned at the tightness of Mia’s orgasm around him. When he felt her compress around his dick, he picked up his pace. His groans grew louder. Mia turned her head to capture his lips in a kiss, an attempt to quiet him down. She also reached back and grabbed his balls, squeezing tightly.

“Ohhhh,” Chan moaned loudly into her mouth. Mia smiled against his lips.

“Cum for me, baby,” she cooed, echoing the words he usually said to her, her voice sounding like smooth honey.

Unable to hold back any longer, he released himself inside of her with a loud grunt before collapsing against Mia’s back, both of them panting heavily. He laid his chin against her shoulder and they both looked out towards the beach as they caught their breaths. No one was paying attention to them.

“That was nice,” Mia said, breaking the silence. Chan kissed her cheek. “What’s next?”

“Dinner?” Chan asked.

“Sure.”

They both exited the pool quietly and Chan handed Mia a beach towel from one of the chairs on the deck. She patted herself down, then wrapped the towel around her body, smiling at Chan as he did the same.

They both walked back into the villa hand in hand. “I’m gonna shower,” she said as she kissed him.

“Okay.” Chan walked over to his suitcase and started to unpack, placing his clothes neatly in the drawers, shirts and tanks in one, pants and shorts in another, sweatshirts in the third, and underwear and socks in the bottom. He unzipped one of the pockets in his suitcase and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, the keys in the lock, and set it on top of the dresser. He grabbed his toiletry kit and walked into the bathroom. “Can I join you?”

“Yeah,” Mia called out over her shoulder. “The water pressure is so good!”

Chan entered the shower and gave Mia’s back a quick kiss before soaping himself up. They emerged from the shower a few minutes later. As Chan did a modified version of his skincare routine, Mia walked back into the main part of the villa to get dressed.

“Fucking Lianna!” Mia called from the bedroom. “She only packed sexy things.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Chan yelled back. “I knew she was my favorite for a reason.”

“Sometimes you just want to be comfy on a vacation.”

“Comfy is overrated.”

Mia stuck her head in the bathroom door, “Says the person who only wears hoodies and sweatpants. I bet you have 3 of each.”

“Aye…don’t judge me! Or I won’t let you borrow any.” Chan laughed as he winked at her. Mia rolled her eyes and disappeared back into the bedroom. “Did Lianna tell you anything about her and Changbin.”

“Not really, but I was too afraid to ask. She’ll tell me eventually though. She always does. Why? What did he say?”

“Not much. Just that they had ‘fun’.”

“That could mean anything….”

“I knaur. He also said he kinda liked her and he’s looking forward to hanging out with her again. And not to say anything to you. He’s scared you might cut his balls off.” Chan giggled.

“Heh. He should be. I might if he pulls any shit with my niece.”

“I believe you!”

A few minutes later Mia walked back in with a slinky black, sleeveless bodycon dress on, the fabric hugging her curves.

“Can you zip this up for me?”

“Sure.” Chan turned around. “Is there anything you don’t look good in?” He found the zipper just above her ass and slowly pulled it up to her neck. He leaned in to kiss the back of her neck.

“Also, what the fuck is this?” She held up her hand, dangling the cuffs from her thumb. She turned to face him. The metal from the handcuffs glinted in the light.

Chan’s lips curved up into a bashful smile, his ears flushed red with embarrassment. “Well…,” he started, as he ran his fingers through his damp hair. “I thought we could spice things up while we’re here. If you’re up for it.”

He could see that she was struggling to stay serious but couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. “I’ll think about it.” Her eyes sparkled with a mix of playfulness and disbelief.

“Oh, you’ll think about it?” he said sassily as his arms wrapped around Mia’s waist with an easy grace, pulling her body closer to his. “You do that and let me know.” He smirked playfully as he kissed her, his tongue slipping into her mouth. As they kissed, his hands slipped up her back to cup her neck.

Mia pushed him away. “If you keep kissing me like that, we won’t leave this room all weekend.”

“Also don’t see how that’s a problem.” He pulled her back to him and kissed her neck.

“Put on your clothes and let’s go eat you fucking deviant.”

“Ouch!” Chan said playfully as he gripped his bare chest.

Mia smacked his ass through the towel as she walked back out of the bathroom to finish getting ready. Fifteen minutes later they were seated at one of the specialty restaurants, sitting side-by-side as they enjoyed wine and a gourmet meal.

After dinner, they gave themselves a quick tour through the resort, walking hand in hand, before heading back to their secluded villa.

As Mia took off her shoes, Chan walked into the bathroom to pee. When he walked out a few minutes later, he stopped dead in his tracks. Chan’s eyes widened in surprise as he took in the sight before him.

Mia had handcuffed herself, naked, to the headboard. Her hands were high above her head, close together, and her knees were bent and up near her chest. Her head was cocked to the side as she watched him with a seductive smirk.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, his gaze lingering on her body. She looked so damn sexy. Chan was instantly hard, his body immediately responding to the sight of her restrained and vulnerable.

“I thought about it,” Mia said coyly.

Chan chuckled and walked over to the bed. He traced a thumb down her cheekbone and then ran it along her jawline, before bringing it to her lips. He dragged her bottom lip down, smudging her dark red lipstick, then forced his thumb in her mouth. Mia took it willingly and sucked as she looked up at him.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly as he watched her in awe.

He removed his thumb and placed his hand under her chin to tilt her head upwards. He leaned down and kissed her tenderly, slowly, tasting the wine and ribeye she had at dinner. He pulled back, then dragged his fingertips from her triceps up to her wrists and back down again, watching her squirm from the sensation of his feather-light touch.

“Have I told you how much I fucking love you?” he asked as he moved his hand to one of her breasts and squeezed the nipple.

“You have. But I don’t mind hearing it again.”

“Well, I do. I love you. You are the perfect woman.” He pressed a forceful kiss to her lips, then stood up straight, quickly discarding his own clothes, his eyes never leaving hers.

Once they were naked together again, Chan climbed onto the bed, positioning himself in front of Mia. He rested his hands on her knees and gently pushed them open and down towards the bed, leaving her pussy exposed. He got excited when he saw it glistening from her wetness.

He brought his face in between her legs and placed his tongue flat against her as he licked upwards from her slit to her clit. She tasted exquisite. He lapped at her a few more times as he looked up, enjoying the pleasure he saw coursing across her face.

The sight of her restrained like this was driving him wild and his dick ached to be inside her. He sat up and threw both of her legs over his shoulders, using the full weight of his body to push her thighs up to her chest and pinning her against the headboard. Then, he eased himself into her. The position he had folded her into made her pussy feel tighter than usual and he couldn’t help but to groan a loud, “Fuuucccck,” as he entered her. He bit his bottom lip, tasting Mia’s juices on it, as he railed into her. He watched as Mia squirmed and bucked up against him, pulling on the cuffs.

He brought one hand up to Mia’s bound hands and intertwined his fingers in hers. His other hand wrapped around her neck and squeezed. Mia gasped for air with each of his thrusts.

Chan brought his lips to Mia’s ear. “Is it too much? Do you want me to stop?” he whispered. He knew he was being a bit rough, but he wanted to ensure that she was enjoying it just as much as he was. Mia shook her head no. “Remember to say ‘banana’ if you want to stop, okay?” She nodded, too out of breath to vocalize anything.

Chan kissed her again, then pulled back to continue watching her as he fucked her relentlessly. She looked so beautiful, her arms above her head, her mouth parted slightly, her thighs against his chest, his fingers around her throat, and a look of pure ecstasy across her face.

She was his dream woman. His goddess.

Chan could no longer hold himself together, “Oh shit. I can’t…. SHIT!”

His orgasm hit him like a ton of bricks.

He bit his lip again and groaned loudly, “Ah, Mia!”, the sound echoing through the villa as his cock pulsed inside her. Mia’s nails dug into his hand, her legs starting to tremble on his shoulder, but she hadn’t cum yet. He could tell that she was close though.

Mia gave him a look that said, ‘Motherfucker, really?’, followed by a breathless, “Chris, c’mon! What the fuck?!”

He removed his hand from her throat. “Sorry babe. Seeing you like this,” he kissed her, “I just couldn’t control it. I was too excited. Let me take care of you.”

“You better. If I wasn’t restrained…”

“I knaur, I knaur,” Chan said apologetically. He gave her another quick kiss, then slid down the bed onto his belly, burying his face in her crotch once again. His mouth covered her clit and he sucked and pulled at it, alternating between his lips and his teeth, tasting the mixture of his and Mia’s fluids.

“Yes,” Mia panted as she grinded her pussy hard against his face. “Yes. Mmmh. Yes!” After a few minutes, he felt Mia stiffen before her entire body shuddered. “Yes Chris!” Chan continued to lick at her swollen clit as the euphoria washed over her. When he felt her body still and go limp, he stopped.

Chan released her hands from the cuffs and allowed her body to collapse on the bed.

“Holy shit!” she exclaimed as she let her head roll back onto the pillow.

Chan wrapped his arms around her and pressed his body against hers. “I love you,” he whispered into her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

Mia looked up at him. “I love you.”

Chan kissed her forehead then pulled away to shut off the lights in the villa. Seconds later, he crawled back into the bed next to her, and rested his head on her chest. They lay together in silence for a few minutes until Chan spoke.

“Mia.”

“Hmmm?”

“Would you ever, maybe, want to go to one of the clubs with me sometime.” Chan wasn’t sure why he was nervous to ask her given the experiences they’ve had so far and her willingness to be open to trying things with him, even this early in their relationship.

Mia ran her hand through her hair. “Oh. I hadn’t really thought about it before.” Chan changed the position of his head on her chest so that he could look at her. Her brows furrowed as she thought about his question. She shifted her gaze from the ceiling to him. “Would we have to have sex with other people? Or can people watch us?”

“Everything would be up to us,” he said softly. “Whatever you want, whatever makes you the most comfortable. We could even do the watching ourselves and use it as inspiration for things we want to try at home, privately, if you’d prefer that.” Mia nodded as she listened to him. “I guess that I’d just like to share more of that side of me with you.” He kissed the skin just below her collarbone.

“I’d definitely consider it. For you.”

“Okay.” Chan grabbed one of her hands and brought it to his lips. “Are there any fantasies you’ve had that you haven’t gotten the chance to explore yet?”

“Other than being handcuffed to the bed you mean?” Mia smirked.

Chan giggled loudly. “Yes, other than that.”

“I don’t know. Maybe a threesome?”

“Really?” Chan’s interest was piqued. “Two girls or two guys?”

“I haven’t thought about it that much. I’ve never really been the jealous type, but I think I’d get jealous watching you fuck another woman. So maybe two guys? I think it would be hot to watch you with a guy actually,” she smirked. “I remember when we played Never Have I Ever, you drank when I asked the threesome question.”

“Yes. I’ve had several.”

“I’m not surprised. You are in a band. That seems like standard behavior.”

“Heh. I guess.” He chuckled nervously.

“You and Changbin? Or you and Hyunjin?”

“Both,” Chan said as he grinned sheepishly. “And also Minho. How’d you guess?”

Mia laughed. “You’re very close with Changbin. And he and Hyunjin both seem to be the two who are most into women except for maybe Jeongin and Seungmin. But you said Innie wanted to be a priest, so that may be too much for him. And Seungmin doesn’t seem like he’s with y’all’s bullshit most of the time. But, I also get some queer vibes from Hyunjin too; though, he seems like he’d fuck anything. So, I was guessing more so with him. Minho on the other hand surprises me.”

“You’re right about everyone. Damn, you’re really good at reading people.”

“One of my superpowers.”

“Among other things…” Chan paused to kiss Mia before continuing. “Hyunjin is pansexual.”

“Knew it! What about Minho? Also pansexual? Bi?”

“He doesn’t really like or use labels. He doesn’t discriminate, but he prefers men.”

“Have you and he…..?” Mia raised an eyebrow.

“A couple times, mostly in our pre-debut days, before he and Jisung became a thing. Hyunjin and Felix too,” he added nonchalantly.

“See, I would pay to watch you with any of them. Beautiful men fucking?” Mia sighed as a huge grin emerged on her face. “That shit turns me on. Are you a top or a bottom?”

“Depends on the mood I’m in, whether I want to be dominant or not.” He thought for a second before continuing. “If we were to have a threesome with any of my members, who would you choose?”

“I would have said Changbin; he’s definitely my type. But now that he’s probably fucking my niece, that would just be weird. Plus, I’d want it to be someone who would have sex with you too.” She looked at the ceiling as she thought deeply for a few seconds before continuing. “It can’t be Hyunjin; I can’t fuck anyone who is prettier than me. And Felix is just too damn cute. So, Minho, I guess. Also, he looks like he has very angry, rough sex.”

Chan laughed loudly at her analysis. “Um, I’m definitely prettier than you!”

“You fucking wish!” Mia scoffed. She kissed his forehead as she chuckled.

“We can make this happen, if you really want. Hyunjin will be mad though; he’s been trying to fuck you since he saw you at the club.”

“I could reconsider…” Mia said with a smirk. She leaned over and kissed Chan deeply. “I’d be willing to try just about anything with you,” she whispered.

Chan repositioned himself so that he was lying next to Mia. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him. They lay in silence for a while longer, enjoying the warmth and comfort of each other’s touch. Eventually, they both fell asleep in each other’s embrace.

The next morning, Chan woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside the villa. It’s the first time in a while he’s awakened after the sun has risen. Chan stretched his arms above his head before turning to face Mia, who was still sleeping peacefully. He couldn’t help but stare at her as the morning light streamed through the windows. Her curls pressed into the pillow; her lips stained by last night’s lipstick and slightly parted as she breathed softly; her eyeliner smudged in a way that made it look intentional. She looked ethereal in the early morning light.

Chan reached for his phone and opened the app for the resort. He messaged their concierge and requested breakfast be delivered to their villa, adding a note for it to be left at the door.

He turned back to Mia. He traced the contours of her face with his fingers before leaning down to place a gentle kiss on her lips.

Mia stirred awake at his touch, blinking sleepily at him. A smile spread across her face when she saw him looking at her with such tenderness.

“Good morning gorgeous,” she said softly.

“Good morning gorgeous,” Chan repeated, planting another kiss on her lips. Mia held his head in place and deepened the kiss.

“I love waking up next to you,” she said against his lips. They continued to kiss, their initially soft embrace turning into a full on make-out session, their hands roaming all over each other, their legs tangling, their bodies rolling back and forth as they switched who was on top.

They were interrupted by a series of 3 rapid knocks on the door.

“Who the fuck is that?” Mia asked, breathless, as she looked towards the door.

“Oh, I ordered breakfast.”

“Such a brilliant man.”

“I knaur.”

Chan rolled out of the bed and walked to the front door, all his muscles, his firm ass, and his semi-erect cock on display, while Mia watched him. He opened the door cautiously, double checking that no one was there before he pulled it open completely, not wanting to shock anyone with his nakedness.

As he bent over to pick up the large tray, Mia hooted, hollered, and applauded, adding “Now that’s a sight to behold!”

“Behave woman!” he yelled over his shoulder. He stood up and kicked the door shut with his foot, before walking the tray to the bed.

Over the next few days, Mia and Chan lost themselves in the beauty of the island and the depth of their love. They walked hand in hand along the shore. They danced under the stars, their bodies intertwined as they moved to the gentle rhythm of the waves. They made love every few hours in the luxurious suite… and sometimes in locations they shouldn’t have. Three days later, they were back in Miami and back to their busy schedules.

A/N: Song: Bad Girls Artist: M.I.A.

[luckyroll3]

Mine Chapter 5

Mine Masterlist Previous Chapter

A/N: No additional warning other than this chapter is pure smutty smut smut! 😏 Enjoy!

At the end of another enjoyable date, neither of you or Minho are ready to call it a night. After sharing that you want to dance, Minho takes you to a small night club. The space is dimly lit and the music is loud.

You down a couple shots at the bar, then drag Minho to the dance floor, your bodies colliding to the pulsating beats. The club around you fades away. The music pounds in time with your racing heartbeat as your hips move with each other. You run your fingers down his toned arms, feeling him flex beneath your touch. 

Minho places his hands on your hips and spins you around so that you’re facing away from him. He pulls you close against him, until you can feel every hard plane of his body, then guides you into the rhythm. You grind your ass back against him, eliciting a low groan.

His breath is hot against your neck as he trails open-mouthed kisses up to your ear. "I want you," he growls, nipping at your earlobe. His breath against your skin sends goosebumps up your arms, heightening your arousal tenfold. You can feel how hard he is for you, the growing bulge in his pants making itself known with every press of his hips against your flesh.

Turning in his arms, you crash your lips against his, kissing him hungrily. Minho's tongue plunges into your mouth and you suck on it eagerly, tasting the lingering flavor of whiskey on his lips. His hands roam your body greedily, grasping and squeezing your ass as he grinds his growing hardness against your core. The alcohol in your systems further fuel the fire between you, creating a sexual tension so palpable, it crackles like an exposed wire. 

Minho finally breaks the kiss to whisper in your ear, "I can't fucking wait anymore."

You know exactly what he means and you can’t either. Nodding in agreement, you let him lead you through the writhing crowd, your hands grasping tightly to his bicep as you weave through the bodies. Every step brings you closer to the back of the club where the single stall bathrooms are located. Luckily, one is unoccupied and Minho quickly pulls you inside and locks the door behind you. 

A second later, his lips are on yours again and his hands are everywhere, exploring every inch of your heated skin. Your breath starts coming in ragged gasps. You can't control yourself anymore, and you don't want to.

Minho’s hands slip under your dress to pull your panties down. You eagerly kick them off. Minho's eyes are dark with desire, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he lifts you onto the cold porcelain of the sink. He doesn't ask for permission; he doesn't need to. This is lust, pure and raw, and you crave it just as much as he does.

With the agility of a seasoned pro, Minho's mouth immediately finds your aching pussy. His tongue lapping at your wet folds, teasing your entrance before plunging inside the folds of your sex, sending a wave of pleasure coursing through your entire body. You grip the sides of the sink, as he fucks you with his tongue before he moves up to massage your clit with his lips. He alternates between sucking, nibbling, and grazing the sensitive bud, changing tactics every time he gets a certain reaction from your body. Each time he feels you getting close, he pulls back. He continues teasing you, sending you to the brink and then backing off, only to repeat the process again and again.

"Oh fuck, Minho," you moan, your head thrown back, resting against the mirror, unable to contain the moans of pleasure that escape your lips. He doesn't let up though, and his fingers soon join his tongue, working in tandem to bring you to the edge of ecstasy and back again. His fingers slide in and out, curling in just the right way to make you see stars; at the same time, his tongue prods and laps at your clit.

"I knew you’d taste so fucking good,” he says against your clit, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your core. 

You can't form coherent thoughts anymore, your entire world reduced to the pleasure he's wringing from your every nerve ending. It's too much, and yet not enough. You want more, and you want it now.

"Minho, please," you beg, your voice a pathetic whimper as you try to convince him to stop the teasing. You grip the back of his head and pull him closer, hoping it will help to keep his mouth against you. Simultaneously, you start rocking your hips back and forth, attempting to get his fingers deeper. 

Your actions cause him to chuckle against you. He looks up at you with a smirk, his eyes dark. "So greedy!” he mocks. “You want to cum?” 

You nod slowly and whisper out another, “Please.”

Without hesitation, he latches back on to your clit with his lips. Your breath hitches with every flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers. Together, they work you into a frenzy.

“I…. I…,” you mutter, but you can’t get it out. Suddenly your back bows off the sink and your body begins to convulse as the powerful orgasm rips through you. Minho savors it, continuing to twirl his tongue around your sensitive clit and enjoying every time it makes you twitch.

As your eyes flutter open, Minho stands and captures your lips in a passionate kiss. You can taste yourself on him and it only adds to the intensity of the moment. 

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, still trying to catch his own breath from pleasuring you. “That was beautiful.”

You run your hands through his hair, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss even further. His hands slide to your ass, squeezing it tightly as if claiming it for himself.

Your legs are still trembling as Minho helps you down from the sink. He holds you close, letting you regain your balance as he places gentle kisses along your neck.

You stare into Minho’s face, still breathing heavily as you come down from your high. His lips are wet and swollen from pleasuring you. 

“Take me home,” you whisper urgently. “I need you inside me. Now.”

“Let’s get out of here then,” he murmurs. You nod, eager to continue what you’ve started somewhere more private. 

Minho takes your hand and leads you out of the bathroom on shaky legs, grabbing your discarded underwear and shoving it in his pocket. You lean into him, the thought of leaving this bathroom and walking through the crowded club making you suddenly self-conscious. But Minho keeps you tucked protectively against his side as you make your way outside.

The cool night air hits your flushed skin. Minho hails a cab with ease, bundling you inside and giving the driver his address. As the cab pulls away into the night, Minho draws you close again, his lips finding yours while his hand trails up your thigh. The ride to his place is torturous, the tension crackling between you as Minho’s hand travels further up your thigh, until his fingers are brushing against your bare, still-sensitive center. You have to bite your lip to keep quiet when Minho lightly pinches your clit between his thumb and forefinger, not wanting the driver to know what he’s up to. 

"I'm not done with you yet," he whispers into your ear.

You whimper in response, arching into his touch. 

As soon as you enter his apartment, Minho has you pressed up against the wall, his mouth hot on your neck. "I need you. Now," he growls. His hands are everywhere, moving with an urgency you haven't seen in him before. He's always been so controlled, but now, in the heat of the moment, that facade is crumbling away. He flips you around roughly to get at the zipper of your dress, tugging it down then lifting the fabric over your head. He swats your bare ass playfully before turning you back to face him.

With a growl, Minho sweeps you into his arms, carrying you to his bedroom. He sits you down on his king-sized bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. He stands at the foot of the bed in between your legs, his eyes raking over your naked body. "You're so fucking beautiful," he breathes, his voice thick with lust. 

Your hands shake as you undo his belt, sliding his pants down his legs, freeing his hard cock. He moans as you wrap your hand around him, pumping him slowly. He takes off his t-shirt and tosses it to the side. 

“Lie back, beautiful. Let me do the work,” he says as he stops your hand. You obey and let your body fall backward into the plushy mattress. He looks at you adoringly and licks his lips. “My god,” he sighs, “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the moment I handed you that book.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Not sure how I managed to wait this long.”

You watch as he steps out of his pants, then slowly, Minho crawls up the bed, his hot tongue tracing a wet path up your thigh. He gives a few quick licks to your still sensitive folds before he continues trailing his tongue up your body. He's patient, taking his time to explore every inch of you, as if he's memorizing the taste of your entire body. A moan escapes you at the sensation, your skin tingling. When he reaches your mouth, he slips his tongue between your lips and kisses you so slowly, deeply. 

You’re so entranced by his kiss, you don’t notice when he positions the tip of his dick against your entrance. When he finally enters you, filling you up with one deep thrust that catches you off guard, you gasp in surprise. 

His hips flex and he starts to move, his cock pumping in and out of you in a smooth, steady rhythm. The tight stretch feels so good that tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you throw your head back. The friction against your sensitive walls sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, amplified by every powerful thrust. Minho groans deeply, his hands finding purchase on your hips as he takes control of the pace.

Minho’s movements grow more urgent as he loses himself in ecstasy, thrusting into you harder and faster as the headboard hits the wall with each movement. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you as he pounds into you relentlessly. His lips find your neck, teasing your skin with gentle bites and kisses as his hips snap against yours relentlessly.

"You feel so fucking amazing," he groans against your ear. His dark hair falls into his eyes as beads of sweat form on his forehead. Reaching down, he grabs your ass and lifts your hips off the bed to drive into you from a new angle. The change hits your g-spot perfectly and you cry out, nails digging into his muscular back. Your reaction makes him smirk. With each movement, Minho hits just the right spot inside of you that has your eyes rolling back and stars exploding behind closed lids. 

Just as you’re about to cum, Minho withdraws. Flipping you over, he maneuvers you to your knees as he positions himself behind you. He runs his hands down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before firmly pushing your chest down, until it’s on the bed. “Simply beautiful,” he quietly murmurs. You can feel his breath hot against your skin as he leans in and bites your left ass cheek. 

“Minho!” you squeal, followed by a laugh as you feel the sting of his playful nip. 

He chuckles lowly before re-entering you with one quick thrust, causing another moan to escape your lips. His pace is fast and relentless, each thrust hitting deep inside of you.

"S-slower," you manage to say between gasps and moans.

But Minho doesn't listen, instead picking up his pace even more. His hands grip onto your hips tightly as he pounds into you with no mercy. The headboard hits the wall harder now, matching the intensity of his movements.

"You're so beautiful like this," he whispers in awe, admiring the sight of you completely vulnerable and at his mercy.

You can hardly form a coherent thought at this point, lost in the overwhelming pleasure radiating through every inch of your body. Your fingers dig tightly into the sheets as Minho continues to push deeper and deeper into you.

"Simpl… fuu… plea… shhh… mmmh…," is all that comes out of your mouth in pleading gasps.

Minho is amused by your flustered state, but finally slows down a bit and leans forward to kiss the back of your neck, making you shiver. He wraps an arm around your waist for support as he rocks his hips slowly against yours, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from both of you.

He pulls you up so that you’re both now kneeling upright, your back against his chest. He thrusts slowly, deliberately, up into you, his pacing the complete opposite of the frenzy from before. His lips find your neck, kissing gently before he starts to suck and bite at the delicate skin, pulling with his teeth and probing with his tongue. You lay your head back to provide him with the access he needs. 

His hand on your hips slides slowly towards your belly, then down your center line until it finds your clit. He rubs it at the same pace he’s fucking you, nice and slow. When your mouth drops open to release the moan that’s been building inside you, you feel his other hand move up your throat and his fingers slip into your mouth. You close your lips around them and suck gently, causing him to groan at the feeling. 

After a minute, he removes his fingers from your mouth and grabs your wrist to replace them with your own, encouraging you to suck on them in the same way. Then he pulls your hand out of your mouth, leaving a trail of saliva as he guides your hand down to your clit. He shows you how he wants you to touch yourself. You follow his lead, using your own fingers to rub small circles on your sensitive nub.

“Keep going,” Minho whispers in your ear, “I want to watch you pleasure yourself.” He places his chin on your shoulder and looks down.

His words send shivers through you and you moan louder as you continue to rub yourself, matching the rhythm of Minho’s thrusts. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, and you know that Minho is right there with you.

“Don’t stop,” he growls, his voice low and husky.

You obey, picking up the pace on your clit as Minho thrusts harder into you. With the combination of his movements and your own, the intense pleasure building inside of you is overwhelming. Your entire body tenses up, then goes still. Seconds later, you feel that explosion deep within that starts to radiate and tingle throughout your entire body. You bite your lip as the wave of pleasure continues to wash over you. 

You feel your body start to crumple, now unable to hold your own weight up, but Minho wraps his arms tight around you to hold you in place as continues to thrust up into you. “I got you baby,” he whispers, his movement never faltering. Each thrust is hard and fast and makes you grunt from his force. 

A few minutes later, he finally reaches his own release, groaning as he spills himself inside of you. You both collapse onto the bed together in a sweaty heap, breathing heavily and completely spent. 

He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close against him as both of your breaths begin to slow down. You can feel his heart beating rapidly against your back and it brings a smile to your face.

“You’re amazing,” Minho says softly, kissing the back of your shoulder.

“I should be saying that to you,” you reply with a laugh. 

He chuckles in response before rolling over onto his back, pulling you along with him so that now you’re lying partially on top of him. He positions your leg across his body and holds on to it lightly, his hand just behind your knee. He runs the fingers of his other hand through your hair gently as he looks at you with a content smile on his face.

For a while, there is only silence as you both catch your breaths, eyes locked on each other. But eventually, Minho breaks the silence.

"Can I ask why?” You furrow your brows, not sure you understand the question. He smiles gently and uses his thumb to smooth out the wrinkles you’ve just created on your forehead. “Why did someone like you choose me?" he asks softly.

You place a hand on his cheek. "Because when we're together, everything just feels… right."

Minho smiles at that and pulls you closer to him for another kiss before tucking both of you under the covers and pulling them over your heads, creating a cozy bubble for just the two of you. Minutes later, you’re both asleep. 

****

You awaken to soft sunlight filtering through sheer curtains, Minho's strong arms wrapped securely around your waist. His warm breath tickles your neck as you savor this quiet moment of intimacy. Memories of last night flood your mind, sending tingles through your body. 

Minho stirs. "Good morning, beautiful," he murmurs, voice husky from sleep. He presses a few kisses into the back of your neck.

You turn to face him. "Morning," you reply softly, drinking in his tousled hair and chiseled features. A contented sigh escapes your lips as you snuggle closer, reveling in his masculine scent and the heat of his body pressed against yours.

Minho's hand cups your cheek tenderly as he brushes his lips against yours. The gentleness of the kiss contrasts sharply with last night's frenzied session. You melt into him, savoring this moment of peace.

As your lips part, a familiar spark of desire ignites between you. But something else lingers too; a deeper emotional connection that both thrills and terrifies you. Determined not to repeat past mistakes, you gather your courage.

"Minho," you begin hesitantly, "What do you see for your future?"

“For us?” he asks. 

“No, just in general.”

His brow furrows slightly as he considers your question. "Honestly? I want it all. A life with someone I love, marriage, kids; the whole package. I'd like to start a family in the next couple years."

Your heart soars at his words, perfectly aligned with your own timeline. "Really? That's exactly what I want too," you admit, a shy smile playing on your lips. “I know we’re still in the early stages of our relationship, so I’m not necessarily saying that I want that with you,” you add on, trying to make it clear you’re not trying to rush anything.

Minho's eyes light up, a grin spreading across his face. "But we can make that happen. You and me, building a life together."

He pulls you close, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that leaves you breathless. As it deepens, your body responds instinctively, pressing against his lithe form. 

You roll on top of Minho, straddling his hips as you break the kiss. His hands grip your waist possessively while you grind against his growing arousal. "My turn to take charge," you purr.

Slowly, torturously, you lower yourself onto him. A low moan escapes your throat as he fills you. Minho's eyes roll back in pleasure, fingers digging into your flesh.

You set a languid pace, savoring every sensation as you rock your hips. Minho matches your rhythm, thrusting up to meet you. The room fills with gasps and whimpers of ecstasy.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Minho groans, voice thick with desire. His hands roam your body reverently, caressing and teasing.

“Ohhh. Mmmmh,” you whimper as you continue to ride him. You lean down to kiss him slowly, pressing your body flush against his. His arms wrap around your back to hold you close.

The slow build of pleasure is exquisite torture. You increase your speed gradually, chasing your release. You break the kiss to catch your breath, but rest your forehead against his and stare into his eyes. You and Minho exchange breaths for the next 20 minutes as you fuck him relentlessly, allowing the intensity in his gaze to push you over the edge. Your breath becomes more ragged as you try and fail to hold on.

"That's it baby, cum for me," he urges softly, before pressing his lips to yours. 

Waves of euphoria crash over you as your orgasm hits. Minho’s breath hitches as your walls clench around his cock forcing his arms to tighten around you. Without warning he flips you onto your back and begins to pound into you hard and fast, fucking you through your orgasm. 

You’re so sensitive that every thrust sends jolts of electricity through you. “Min… oh fuck! Oh my…!” you moan.

Moments later, Minho’s body shakes and a strangled cry of completion rings in your ear before he bites your earlobe. He collapses on top of you, your sweat-drenched skin sticking together, both of you panting heavily. 

"I think I found that future with you," he whispers in your ear, voice raw with emotion, “if you’ll have me.” He rolls you both on your side and pulls you closer. As your breathing slows, a deep contentment settles in your bones. For the first time in ages, you dare to hope for a future filled with love and happiness.

****

You slide into the passenger seat of Minho's sleek black Audi sports car, the thrill of the past weekend still a pulse beneath your skin. He's at the wheel, his gaze stealing over to you with that knowing smirk, the one that says he remembers too. Every gasp and every touch.

"Where to?" His voice is soft but carries an edge, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

"Just drive," you command, feeling the power in the uncertainty of no destination. The engine hums to life, a growl that echoes the hunger inside you. As Minho navigates through the city's arteries, the streetlights cast fleeting shadows across his face, enhancing the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his lips.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, his hand finding your thigh, thumb brushing softly against the skin just below the hem of your skirt. 

"Can't stop thinking about you inside me," you confess softly, leaning back against the cool leather, letting yourself feel every vibration of the moving car as an extension of his touch. You watch his hand as it moves slowly up your thigh, beneath your skirt’s fabric, strong and sure, and remember the feel of those fingers trailing fire down your spine, igniting you in ways Chan never did.

"Good," Minho purrs, and that single word wraps around you like a promise of more… more pleasure, more moments lost in the heat of each other's bodies.

You lay your head back against the headrest and bite your lips as you feel his fingers enter you. He pumps three fingers in and out rhythmically and uses his thumb to rub circles on your clit. At the same time, you feel the car accelerate. 

The city blurs past you as Minho drives faster, the increased speed adding to the intensity of his touch. You let out a low moan, unable to keep the pleasure from spilling out of your lips.

"That's it, baby, let go," Minho encourages, his own voice strained with desire.

You grip onto the seat beneath you, your body writhing against his skilled fingers. The familiar heat builds within you, spreading through your limbs and making your breath catch in your throat.

Minho leans over and captures your lips in a fiery kiss, his tongue exploring every corner of your mouth. You moan into the kiss as his fingers push deeper inside you, hitting all the right spots that send sparks shooting through your body. As you yearn for more of his mouth, he pulls back and returns his gaze to the road, taking the curves around the hills way too fast. But you’re too consumed by what he’s doing to you to care. 

Your hips lift off the seat as you chase your orgasm, feeling it building and building until it finally explodes through you like a wildfire. Your whole body convulses with pleasure as Minho continues to move his fingers inside you, prolonging your release.

When it finally subsides and you come down from your high, Minho pulls back his hand and gives you a smug smirk before focusing on the road again. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you try to catch your breath.

You turn to look at him, admiring his sharp profile as he focuses on the road. You lean over to kiss his cheek before whispering in his ear, “Your turn.” You pepper his neck with kisses as your hands move to his jeans to undo his button and zipper. You’re unsurprised to find his cock rock hard and begging for release from the constraints of his boxers, and you assist in setting it free. You wrap your slim fingers around his shaft and gently rub up and down. 

Minho’s hand comes to your head, guiding it to his cock. You don't hesitate, sinking down on him, taking him deep into your mouth. He tastes salty, musky, like desire and need rolled into one.

It's Minho's turn to groan now, one hand gripping the steering wheel tightly to keep control of the car, the other tangling in your hair as you bob up and down, setting your pace. His cock is thick in your mouth, and you love the way he feels, hard and demanding against your tongue.

"Fuck," he groans, and you know he's close. You feel the car swerve a hard right and immediately come to a stop, but you keep working. You redouble your efforts, sucking harder, faster, until with a muffled curse, he cums, his release filling your mouth, warm and salty.

You swallow every last drop, savoring his taste, your heart pounding in your chest. He uses both hands to pull your head up from his lap and bring your lips to his so that he can taste himself on you. 

“You’re fucking incredible,” he whispers against your lips. “Get out.”

You unhook your seatbelt and join him outside the car, realizing that he’s pulled into an overlook area, one of those touristy locations where you can see the entire city. It’s quiet and isolated, save for the cars zooming by at 75 miles per hour on the highway behind you. 

Hand in hand you walk to the railing, the top of which is overlaid from one end to the other with interpretive information on a long, slanted rectangular sign. Minho hugs you from behind as the two of you take in the landscape and a soft breeze blows through. The view is captivating and beautiful, the city sparkling beneath you. 

“I need to fuck you right now,” Minho growls softly against your ear. 

“Here?” you ask, a bit panicked.

“Fuck yes, here.”

He leans your body down onto the sign, your cheek smushed against text detailing the founding of the city, and he flips up your skirt. He pulls the crotch of your thong roughly to the side and thrusts himself inside you so fast it makes you squeal, which then evolves into laughter. 

He fucks you hard and fast while whispering equally sweet and dirty things into you ear. “I love hearing you moan like that. You feel so fucking good wrapped around cock. You’re perfect, just like this. Every inch of my cock belongs to you now. I’m going to fuck you so good you’ll forget anyone else ever existed. You make me want so much more, beautiful.”

You don’t care as much as you thought you would that you are completely exposed and that anyone who dares to look to their right as they drive by will see you being taken by him; all you care about is how he’s making you feel in this moment. This is what you've been missing, you realize. The fire, the passion, the intensity. With Minho, you're alive in ways you didn't know you could be.

As days turn into nights and back again, you find yourself caught in a whirlwind of Minho's creation. Each encounter with him leaves you breathless, the intensity of your connection deepening with every clandestine kiss, every shared glance heavy with unspoken desires.

"Tell me what you want," he demands one evening, pressing you against the cool wall of his apartment, hands roaming in a dance of possession and reverence. His mouth is on your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he awaits your answer.

"Everything," you gasp out, "I want everything with you." And it's true. Every time he looks at you, it’s like he can see straight through to your soul, piecing it back together from the wreckage Chan left behind.

"Then take it," Minho growls, and suddenly you're moving together, a tangle of limbs and whispered obscenities. Your back arches off the wall as he slips his hand under your shirt, fingers teasing your nipples before he pinches them roughly. You shove him playfully away from you before you grab his hand and run to his bedroom. 

Later, you lie entwined in the sanctuary of his sheets, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm on the nape of your neck. The silence is comfortable, intimate, as you trace the veins of his hand resting on your stomach.

"Minho?" you whisper, turning to face him.

"Hmm?"

"Is this real?" The question hangs between you, laden with the weight of your burgeoning emotions.

"Realer than anything I've ever felt," he murmurs, kissing you softly, reassuringly. In those words, you find your new truth, the possibility of a future that glows bright on the horizon. A future with him.

The days bleed into one another, and every moment with Minho cements your conviction. This isn’t just a rebound; this is the beginning of something formidable. You’re falling, and for the first time, you don't fear the landing. Because with Minho, you've found the thrill of the fall itself.

****

You slide into the corner booth of the bustling brunch spot, Minho's hand firmly in yours. Warm light filters through the large windows, casting a cozy glow on your group of friends gathered around the table. They greet you both with smiles and laughter.

"Everyone, this is Minho," you introduce him, feeling a surge of pride as his electric aura effortlessly captures their attention.

"Hey, Minho! Nice to meet you," Travis offers first, standing up to shake his hand, while Natalie greets him with her warm, infectious smile.

"Hi! We’ve heard so much about you," Liz chimes in, her hazel eyes sparkling with curiosity as she sizes him up. You give her a quick side-eye silently communicating to keep her mouth shut about what she’s heard. Liz ignores you with a small chuckle.

Lucas gives him a nod and fist bump with a, “Hey man.”

Minho's charm offensive begins immediately. He regales them with stories that make Natalie laugh and Liz throw her head back in genuine amusement. Even Lucas, ever the skeptic, cracks a grin at Minho's tale of a pet sitter locking themselves out of a clients house with the puppy they were supposed to be watching still inside.

Throughout the meal, Minho keeps close, his thigh pressed against yours under the table. Eventually his hand makes it to your thigh, rubbing and squeezing gently. "Your laugh, it's so fucking addictive," Minho murmurs, for your ears only, each time your mirth rings out. He kisses you gently behind the ear.

The conversation takes a turn to the past, with your friends now telling embarrassing stories about you.

You cover your face with your palm as Liz shares the story of the time you tripped and face-planted into a giant cake at your cousin’s 19th birthday party. 

“Oh, that was epic. Frosting everywhere!” Lucas laughs. “She came up with blue and green icing just smeared all over.”

“It was the shoes. The wedges were too high and I couldn’t balance well in them, but they were so damn cute!”

“It probably didn’t help that we’d taken 4 shots of tequila before showing up to the party,” Liz added. 

“That too. Tequila is my fucking nemesis,” you chuckle. 

“Speaking of tequila,” Travis started. “Remember our vacation to Cancun, when you and Chan were so drunk on tequila shots, you challenged each other to see who could do a handstand the longest and you both started to puke while upside down?”

“Oh it was gross,” Natalie said as she made a puke face. “And neither of you could figure out why there was puke in your hair and eyebrows the next morning.” 

“Then you both jumped into the pool fully clothed, instead of taking a shower,” Travis continued. “Almost got us kicked out of the damn hotel.”

You can’t help but laugh at the ridiculous memory. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Minho’s jaw clench ever so slightly at the mention of Chan. Minho’s grip on your knee tightens and his fingers dig almost painfully into the soft flesh of your leg. You place your hand over his in an attempt to soothe him, but his muscles remain coiled. 

"Chan was history the moment I laid eyes on her," Minho cuts in, voice low but forceful, a hint of steel beneath velvet. The table goes quiet, the air suddenly thick with unspoken tension.

"Easy, tiger," Liz says, her words laced with humor but her gaze sharp, protective. There's a palpable shift; the mood sours ever so slightly, like cream on the cusp of curdling.

"Sorry, didn't mean to…" Travis starts, but Minho waves him off with a cool, practiced ease.

"Let's not dwell on past mistakes," he says, picking up the champagne bottle to refill everyone’s mimosa, the fluid motion a distraction from his earlier possessiveness.

“So…. anyone catch the game Thursday night?” Travis asks, attempting to shift the conversation. Liz happily helps him, sharing how unbelievable the final touchdown pass was for the rookie quarterback.

As they chat, Lucas leans over to whisper in your ear, "Are we still grabbing drinks tomorrow night?" His eyes flicker over to Minho quickly. “Or do you need to ask for permission first?” He raises an eyebrow. 

"What?” you ask incredulously. “I don’t need permission.” You slap his face playfully. “Center Bar at six right?” 

When Minho notices you whispering to Lucas, he wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls your body closer to his, placing a soft kiss on your temple. 

Lucas cocks his head to the side as if to say, See what I mean…, before taking a gulp of his mimosa. 

After brunch, as you all spill onto the sidewalk and Minho is distracted as he retrieves his ticket to hand to the valet, Lucas pulls you aside after you bid farewell to the others. "Listen, I get that Minho's... intense. But don't you think it's a bit much? A little too controlling?"

"Lucas, I think he was just annoyed with the Chan talk, that's all," you dismiss his concern with a wave of your hand, though a nagging thought creeps into the back of your mind that maybe he was a bit too upset. You push it away. "No one wants to hear about their new girlfriend’s ex. You're being overprotective."

"Maybe," he concedes, his expression unreadable. "Just... be careful, okay?" He grabs your hand and squeezes.

"Okay," you assure him, though the conviction in your voice feels forced. You turn back to Minho, who waits with an expectant look, his energy magnetic as ever.

"Ready to go?" Minho asks, his hand finding the small of your back, guiding you away from your friends and towards the promise of seclusion.

“Bye,” you mouth to Lucas over your shoulder. You blow him a kiss and he blows one back. As you walk, Minho’s thumb caresses your skin through the fabric of your dress. “You okay?” you ask Minho.

"Always," he says. You lean into his touch. “I liked your friends. They’re fun,” he adds casually. 

“Good. I think they liked you too.” 

****

The drive to your parents' house is a blur, the minutes melting away in a tangle of heated glances and stolen touches. Minho's hand rests on your thigh, his fingertips tracing patterns that make you squirm with anticipation.

Finally, you pull up to your childhood home. The welcoming scent of your dad's cooking wafts through the open door.

“Sweetheart!” your dad says excitedly with his arms outstretched when you walk into the kitchen. 

You can’t help but smile as you embrace your dad in a tight hug. “Hi, Daddy,” you say, feeling the warmth of his love envelop you.

Minho stands awkwardly behind you, unsure of how to greet your dad. He clears his throat and extends his hand. “Hello, Sir,” he says politely.

Your dad’s face lights up with recognition and he grasps Minho’s hand heartily. “Ah yes, the famous Minho! I’ve heard so much about you.”

You chuckle at your dad’s enthusiasm before introducing Minho to your mom who is busy choosing the night’s wine from her collection. Your mom pulls him in for a hug, causing Minho to laugh to himself softly.

“I was told you love home fragrances, so I brought this for you,” Minho says when she finally releases him from her grip. He hands her a small bag. 

“Oh, how sweet!” she exclaims as her hand reveals a beautifully decorated glass candle. “This is pretty.” She brings the glass to her nose and takes a deep sniff. “Very nice scent. Good job! Do you have a favorite wine?”

“Uhm. I’m not really a wine drinker,” Minho says as he scratches the back of his head. “But I am partial to Syrah.”

“Ah good choice. A syrah would go nicely with the steaks Dan is preparing. I’m pretty sure I have a bottle or two here.” She busies herself as she inspects the various bottles in her wine cabinet. “But we also have scotch, gin, vodka… I can make you whatever you want if you’re not feeling the wine tonight,” she adds with a warm smile.

“Thank you,” Minho says softly. “Wine should be fine if that’s what everyone else is having.”

“He’s being modest,” you add. “He’s a scotch drinker.”

“Then scotch it is!” your mom replies before Minho can protest. 

“Dinner won’t be ready for another… 30 minutes or so,” your dad calls over his shoulder, now back to his duties on the stove. 

"Thanks daddy. Come on, let me show you around," you say, leading Minho by the hand. You've been dying to show him this place, to let him in on this part of your life, and you're giddy with excitement.

You take him through every room in the house, showing him pictures and sharing stories from your childhood. He listens intently, asking questions and making comments that make you laugh.

Upstairs, you push open the door to your old bedroom. “This was my room,” you say. It’s been converted to a guest room now, but the walls still hold remnants of your teenage self: posters of bands and celebrities, quotes written in colorful markers, pictures of your best friends and cousins. 

Minho walks around the room, inspecting everything with interest. “I can imagine teenage you spending hours in here,” he says with a smile.

“Oh trust me, I did,” you say with a laugh. “My parents used to have to drag me out for dinner.”

He stops in front of a particular photo on your dresser, one of you with a couple other girls from high school. “Is this Liz?” he asks curiously.

“Yeah. We’ve been best friends since elementary school.”

He nods as his eyes continue to roam the room, his gaze landing on the bed. "Seems like we're overdue for a more... grown-up activity in here, don't you think?" His voice is teasing, but there's an undercurrent of seriousness in his tone, a challenge, even.

Dare swirls in your veins as you meet his smoldering gaze, the thrill of defiance and desire coursing through your veins. "I've never... done it in here before," you admit, your cheeks flushing a deep crimson.

“Really? Never? Not even when your parents were out of town and left you alone?” His eyebrow shoots up, and a cocky grin splits his face when you shake your head no. "Well, then it’s a perfect opportunity for a first," he drawls, his voice dripping with lust.

Before you can protest, Minho's hands are on your hips, his grip firm as he backs you against the cool bedroom door. His lips crash into yours, his tongue invading your mouth with a passion that leaves you reeling. His hands roam your body, settling on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh as he grinds his bulge against your crotch.

“Minho,” you breathe out. “My parents…”

“I guess we’ll just have to make sure they don’t hear us,” he growls against your lips. He resumes his kiss, slipping his tongue back into your mouth. 

Your last shreds of resistance melt away and your hands slip under his shirt, your nails raking across his back. Minho moans low in his throat, his grip on your ass tightening. With a swift tug, Minho yanks your jeans and panties down to your ankles, exposing your wet, aching pussy. "So fucking wet for me, baby," he purrs, his voice a dark, sinful whisper in your ear.

You kick one leg free from the fabric restraining it as Minho lifts you up against the door. His mouth left yours, blazing a trail of kisses and bites down your neck, his tongue flicking over your sensitive skin. You arch your neck, giving him more access, mewling with need.

Minho frees his cock from his jeans and brings you down on it. Your mind is a blur of pleasure as you feel him thrust up into you, your back sliding against the door. As you start to moan, his lips crash against yours again to silence you. He moves faster beneath you, his hips meeting yours with a force that drives you wild. 

You both freeze when someone knocks on the other side of the door and calls your name. “Dinner’s just about ready,” your mom says. 

“Thanks mom,” you reply, hoping she doesn’t hear how breathless you sound. “Be down in a sec.”

“Okay baby.”

As the sound of her steps grow fainter, you and Minho break out in laughter. “Oh my gawd,” you whisper. “You’re so bad, Min.”

Minho resumes fucking you slowly. “Oh, you’re enjoying the thrill of being caught,” he says softly before he kisses your neck. His pace picks up, each thrust deeper.

Your hands cling to his shoulders, nails digging in as he takes you harder and rougher. “Fuck Minho,” you gasp a bit too loudly, resulting in Minho covering your mouth with his hand. The barrier muffles your whimpers and moans.

“Shhh,” he whispers against your ear, followed by a nip at the earlobe. Minho bites down on your neck, hard enough to sting, marking you as his. "Mine," he growls against your skin. Your walls clench around him, pulling him deeper inside of you as your orgasm builds quickly.

Your climax hits you like a lightning bolt, shaking you from head to toe. You cry out his name behind his hand as the orgasm consumes you. Minho follows suit shortly after, his hips bucking violently against you as he fills you with his warmth.

You lean back to allow your body to be held up by the door. As Minho catches his breath, he pulls back to look at you; your lips swollen from his rough kisses, your hair messy, a bruise forming on your neck. He smirks at the sight of you, looking every bit the object of his desire.

He kisses your forehead before lowering you to the ground and removing his dick from you. 

“I can’t believe we just did that,” you say with a laugh.

Minho chuckles, running his fingers through your hair. “Well, I’ve always wanted to have sex in my girlfriend’s childhood bedroom.”

You smile at him before leaning over to pull up your jeans. You walk to the bathroom to clean up and fix yourself as best you can, attempting to eliminate traces of your heated encounter.

As if on cue, you hear your mom’s voice calling out from downstairs to ask if everything is okay.

You quickly smooth out your hair, while Minho adjusts his clothes and tucks himself back into his jeans.

“Everything is fine mom,” you call back before opening the door and heading down to the kitchen. 

Minho follows close behind you, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

“Sorry about that, I just… felt dizzy all of a sudden,” you say.

Your mom looks at you with raised eyebrows, but doesn’t pry further. “Well, I’m glad you’re alright. Dinner is ready, so come and join us.”

At the dinner table, Minho does a great job charming your parents. He engages them both in conversation and has them laughing. Half way through dinner, he offers your dad two tickets to see his favorite football team play next weekend. 

After dinner, Minho helps with the dishes as you chat with your parents in the living room. 

“So what do you think?” you ask them cautiously. 

Even though they do make comparisons between Minho and Chan, who they still hold dear to their hearts, your parents seem to be quite taken with Minho. They can't stop gushing over him and how thoughtful he is. They even go as far as to say they haven't seen you this happy in a long while. 

“He seems like a great guy,” your mom gushes.

You smile at her comment. “He is.”

“But don’t lose yourself in him,” she adds, her eyes dropping to the bite mark on your neck. “You were with Chan for such a long time, and I worry that you’re moving on too quickly instead of grieving what you lost.”

You nod earnestly, knowing that her words come from a place of love and concern for your happiness. “I won’t lose myself mom. And I know it seems fast, but I think Minho is exactly what I need. Someone who is open and not afraid of commitment.”

“Well it seems that he makes you happy,” your dad added. “So if he’s who you want, we’ll support you.” You hold back tears as your dad gives you a side hug. 

“Thanks daddy,” you whisper. He presses a kiss to your temple.

Their approval further solidifies your belief that you're on the right path and that this relationship might be the fresh start you need.

You head back to the kitchen and wrap your arms around Minho’s waist, pressing your cheek into his back as he finishes with the dishes. 

[luckyroll3]

Mine Chapter 4

Mine Masterlist Previous Chapter

Additional Warnings: Possessiveness (see masterlist for full list of warnings).

The gentle lapping of water against the dock sets a rhythm to the night as soft jazz spills from the speakers, mingling with the salty tang of the sea. You're at a secluded table, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over Minho's sharp features. His hand is warm on your thigh beneath the table, his fingers dancing a slow, deliberate pattern on your skin.

"Try this," Minho urges, pouring you a glass of wine so decadent, it's like drinking liquid velvet. He watches you, eyes intense and focused as you sip, the taste rich and complex on your tongue. It's clear he's sparing no expense tonight, and you can't help but feel like a treasure he's determined to claim.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," he says, his voice low and inviting, drawing you in. The conversation flows effortlessly, dipping into playful banter, deep secrets, and desires laid bare. His gaze never wavers from yours, those cat-like eyes probing, asking silent questions only your heart can answer. "Your dreams," he insists, "I want to know them all." 

And so you divulge, feeling strangely safe in the cocoon of intimacy he's woven around you. With each shared piece of your soul, the air between you thickens, charged with an electricity that's impossible to ignore.

His thumb traces the inside of your thigh, higher with each pass, and each touch is a promise, an insinuation of what's to come. "You have no idea how much I want you," Minho murmurs, his voice rough with barely restrained desire. The statement hangs heavy, a delicious torment as you both teeter on the edge of something more. "Later," he adds with that smirk you’ve come to adore, "I'll show you just how much."

As the night unfolds, Minho's surprise catches you off guard, an unplugged concert by one of your favorite musicians at an intimate club venue, just like he read your mind. The energy of the dimly lit club vibrates through you, a palpable current that syncs with the pounding of your heart. The small crowd is a sea of shadows, swaying and murmuring, but in this moment, they could be nonexistent for all you care.

"Excited?" he leans in, his breath tickling your ear, voice laced with that familiar brand of eagerness that sets your nerves alight.

"Beyond," you manage to say, as he hands you a drink, the ice clinking in the glass. “How did you get tickets to this? It’s been sold out for months.”

“It’s a secret,” he whispers before kissing your cheek.

You weave through the bodies, drawn by the magnetic pull of the stage until you're at the center, surrounded. Minho's presence is a flame to your moth-like desires, and as the music starts, it feels like an intimate serenade meant only for the two of you.

His body presses up against yours, fitting like puzzle pieces destined to connect. You move together, lost in the melody, his hand a constant pressure on your hip. Then suddenly, it's slipping further, delving beneath fabric and propriety in one bold stroke.

"Minho..." your protest is weak, feeble against the onslaught of sensations as his fingers find their mark, sliding between slick folds with an expertise that has your head spinning. It's public, it's forbidden, and it's lighting you up like a damn firework.

"Shh... just enjoy," he growls lowly, his words coming out in a filthy whisper that sends a shiver down your spine. You can't help but lean back into him, giving him deeper access, your body betraying any semblance of modesty.

The rhythm of the music becomes a backdrop to the pulsating need building within you. His fingers are relentless, curling and stroking in a dance more intricate than any beat the performer croons to. He finds that spot, that hidden gem inside you, and strokes with an insistent pressure that has you biting back moans.

"Look at you, so fucking wet for me and we haven’t even fucked yet," Minho's voice cuts through the haze, crude and oh-so-perfect. "Can't wait to taste you."

Your world narrows to the feeling of his fingers pumping into you, the rough pad of his thumb circling your clit in a maddening tease. Your hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more, chasing the coil of pleasure that's winding tighter and tighter.

"Minho, I'm…"

"Yes. Cum for me," he commands, and it's not a request; it's a demand that your body hastens to obey.

Your climax hits you with a force that robs you of breath, of thought. You cling to him, nails digging into his forearm as you ride out the high, your pussy clenching around his skilled fingers. The sounds of the club fade into insignificance against the ringing in your ears, the throbbing pulse in your core.

"Perfection," he murmurs, pride and possession mingling in those three syllables. And though part of you knows you should be appalled by the public display, all you feel is the dangerous thrill of being utterly claimed by Minho Lee surrounded by one hundred unsuspecting people.

****

You're perched on a checkered blanket, the grass beneath whispering secrets of earth and life as Minho unpacks a small cooler. The secluded spot by the river is your private haven, the water's gentle gurgle a soundtrack to the intimacy unfurling between you two. The lazy sun casts golden hues over his features, highlighting the intensity of his gaze as it fixes on you.

"Here," he murmurs, offering a strawberry dipped in dark chocolate. You bite into it, the rich sweetness bursting on your tongue, mingling with the lingering tartness of the fruit. Every sensation seems magnified, every touch laced with promise.

As he lies back against the plush cushion he’s brought along, he coaxes you to share more secrets, this time focusing on what scares you most. You lie back too and turn on your side to watch him. 

You hesitate, vulnerability a raw edge. But the way he looks at you, like you're both the lock and key to his secrets, has words tumbling from your lips. You tell him your fears of being alone and unloved. He listens, rapt, as if your confessions are sacred texts.

He also shifts his body to the side, now both of your bodies facing each other on the blanket. "Mine is that you've become... everything," he breathes, voice barely above a whisper, yet it feels like a scream in the quiet space between you. There's a fervency there, an intensity that should send warning flares sky-high. Instead, it swaddles you in a cocoon of importance.

You shake your head, unsure about being his everything so soon, but he's leaning in, close enough that his breath mingles with yours, a shared atmosphere charged with electricity.

His lips crash against yours before you can challenge his statement, a collision of need and want. It's like a spark to dry kindling, igniting something feral and hungry within you. His mouth moves against yours with a fierce urgency, his tongue seeking entrance, demanding surrender. You give it willingly, melting into the kiss, hands tangling in his hair.

The world narrows down to the feeling of him, the taste of desire slick and sweet on his lips. Moans escape unbidden as his hands roam, mapping the territory of your body with proprietary strokes. Your fingers claw at his shirt, yanking him closer until there's no space for pretense, only the raw friction of bodies and the heady scent of arousal.

"More," you gasp, the word a plea, a prayer offered up to the deity of touch that Minho embodies. He obliges, his hand slipping beneath your shirt to cup a breast, thumb teasing a nipple to a hard peak. You arch into his touch, craving the exquisite torture of too much, but also never enough.

"God, look at you," he groans, eyes hooded with lust as he pulls away to watch his own hand shape and knead your flesh. "So fucking needy."

"Minho," you breathe, all thoughts of other park goers and prying eyes lost in the whirlpool of sensation he's conjuring within you. You and Chan were affectionate, but never much into public displays of affection besides a tight hug and/or a gentle kiss. Being this intimate with Minho, so fast, so public, is a rush you didn’t realize you wanted.

"Say my name again," he commands, voice rough with desire.

"Minho!"

It's a cry torn from deep within as his other hand finds its way into your jeans, fingers dancing dangerously close to the heat pooling between your thighs. The world tilts, spins, reality fraying at the edges as you chase the pleasure he offers with single-minded focus.

"Touch yourself for me," he whispers, voice dripping with dark intent. Obediently, your hand slips down over his, replacing his, finding the slick evidence of your arousal. He watches, enthralled, as you tease yourself, fingertips circling your clit in mimicry of his previous motions.

"Fuck, that's hot," Minho swears, eyes blazing with a possessive fire that makes you wetter.

"Only for you," you murmur, and it's an admission, a binding tie that tightens with every stroke, every caress you share.

"Mmm. I like that. Only for me. Mine," he growls, reclaiming your lips in a searing kiss that leaves no room for doubt, no space for anyone else in this world you're creating together, one where only the two of you exist, consumed by the flames of passion and the torrid depths of a growing obsession.

****

Your breath hitches as Minho's lips, hot and demanding, press against the tender skin of your neck. The dim lights of the bar cast a halo around him, his cat-like eyes reflecting a hunger like that of a starving man. You're lost to the world, the raucous laughter and clinking glasses of the crowded bar fading into a distant murmur against the heat of his body pressed to yours.

"God, I want you," he murmurs against your ear, his words promising sin and salvation all at once. His hand, bold and unapologetic, slips beneath the hem of your sundress, fingertips grazing your thigh in a slow, deliberate tease that has you arching into him.

"You agreed to wait...," you say without much conviction. Your voice is a throaty whisper, laden with desire, inviting him to explore further, to claim every inch of you right there, amid the intoxicating chaos.

"Thanks for reminding me of the stupidest decision I’ve ever made," he growls, his restraint threadbare. "But when all the waiting is done, I'll have you spread out, tasting every part of you until you're shaking." His promise hangs heavy between you, a decadent vow that stokes the fire within, and you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your lips. He smiles wickedly at your reaction before pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. 

As Minho excuses himself to the restroom, your skin burns where his touch lingers, leaving you aching for more. It's then that you feel the weight of another gaze upon you. Turning, you lock eyes with a stranger who's been watching from across the bar, a man with a predatory gleam in his eyes that under any other circumstance might have made you wary.

"Hello, gorgeous," he drawls, sidling up to you with a confidence that borders on arrogance. "Couldn't help but notice you here all alone." His flirtation is blatant, his intentions clear as his gaze rakes over your body.

"Thanks, but I'm not alone," you retort, your tone edged with disinterest, though you can't deny the slight thrill that flickers within you at being pursued.

"Sure doesn't look that way," he insists, leaning closer, his scent mingling with the heady aroma of alcohol and anticipation.

Before you can rebuff him again, Minho returns. One look at the scene before him ignites a dangerous glint in his enigmatic eyes. "She said she's not alone," Minho interjects, voice deadly calm but vibrating with an undercurrent of threat.

"Hey, just having a friendly chat," the man replies, trying to defuse the situation with a casual shrug, but Minho isn't buying it.

"Walk away," Minho commands, the aura of controlled violence about him so palpable it's nearly a physical force.

"Minho, it's fine. I can handle it," you say, placing a hand on his arm in an attempt to soothe the emerging storm.

But Minho's focus never wavers from the man, who, sensing his intensity, backs off with a sneer before disappearing into the crowd.

Once the stranger is gone, Minho's gaze softens as he turns to you, the shift from wrath to warmth both jarring and exhilarating. "You're mine," he states, the possessive edge to his voice sending a new kind of shiver through you.

"Yours," you agree, feeling the truth of it in the way your body responds to his proximity, in the way your heart races at the thought of his hands on you again.

"Good," he says, his smirk belying the tension that remains. "Because I don't like to share."

His words should unsettle you, but instead, you find yourself drawn deeper into his orbit, the danger he exudes just as intoxicating as the need that throbs between your thighs. There's no denying the pull, the raw connection that binds you to this man who is as capable of gentleness as he is of ferocity.

You slide yourself up onto the stool and lean back as you spread your legs open wide. "Show me how much I belong to you," you challenge, your voice dripping with invitation.

Minho chuckles as he steps in between your thighs, his hands settling on your waist. “I thought we agreed to wait,” he says teasingly, parroting your statement from earlier before nuzzling his sharp nose against your neck. "Patience, beautiful," Minho whispers, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that's both a promise and a warning. "When I take you, it'll be worth the wait. Every second will be etched into your skin, every moan a testament to who you belong to."

And as his hands find their place on your thighs once more, squeezing with possessive intent, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you wouldn't have it any other way.

****

You step into the cool air of the trendy restaurant and see Liz standing near the hostess stand. She greets you with a tight hug, her perfume a sharp contrast to the scent of rich food wafting from the kitchen. The hostess walks the two of you back to the private dining area, with several tables linked together to create a long, banquet-like setting. You've been looking forward to this night, a chance to catch up with friends and laugh.

But the moment shatters when you see him, Chan, standing there with the casual confidence that always made your heart beat a little faster. He looks so damn good; he’s wearing a black and white striped sweater and ripped black jeans, your favorite because of the way they hug his ass. He's talking to one of his best friends, Hyunjin, and the birthday boy Travis, unaware of the earthquake his presence has just triggered in your world. Natalie, Travis’ wife and one of your close friends, catches your eye, her mouth forming a silent 'sorry' that does nothing to still the rising panic.

"I’m gonna go," you whisper to Liz, but she shakes her head stubbornly.

"No way. Don’t let that cheating motherfucker run you out here. We'll just sit on the other end," she insists, looping her arm through yours and steering you to a table bathed in the soft glow of hanging lights. Lucas gives you an encouraging nod as you slide into the seat next to him, his eyes shadowed with concern.

Natalie hurries over and throws her arms around your shoulders. “Fucking Travis!” she starts as she squats down to your eye level and takes your hands in hers. “I didn’t know he invited Chan. I’ve already given him an earful. I can kick his ass out, right now. I don’t fucking care that he was in our wedding.”

“It’s okay, Nat.”

“You sure? Cause I’ll do it without a second thought. Fuck Chan.”

You nod. “I appreciate the offer though.” She kisses you on the cheek and then moves on with her hosting duties, greeting the other guests as they arrive.

As dinner starts, you try to focus on the conversation, the laughter, but it's like trying to read a book in a language you once knew but have long since forgotten. The words are there, but they don't make full sense, not with Chan's presence at the other end of the table pulling at the edges of your awareness.

And then he's there, standing next to you, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "Can we talk?" Chan asks, his brown eyes searching yours for something you're not sure you can give.

"Leave her alone, Chan," Lucas interjects sharply before you even have the chance to form a response.

"Lucas, it's okay," you say, placing your hand on his knee, though your voice doesn't sound like your own. It's cold, detached, a stranger's voice.

"Is it?" Chan's gaze holds yours, and there's a sincerity there that twists in your gut. But you remember the nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering why you weren't enough, and the anger comes easier than forgiveness.

"Yeah," you finally answer. "It is. What do you want?"

Chan sighs, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Can we go somewhere private to talk?” he asks.

You hesitate, glancing at Lucas who is watching Chan with guarded eyes, his fingers tightening around his fork. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea…,” you start. 

“Please,” Chan says, his voice low. 

“You heard her Chan. She doesn’t want to go anywhere with you,” Liz says before whispering under her breath, “you piece of shit.”

“Whatever you have to say to her, you can say right here, in front of us,” Lucas adds haughtily. You’re so thankful for your best friends who you know would go to war for you without waiting to be drafted. 

Chan's eyes soften, his expression filled with regret. "I… I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For everything. I know I hurt you, and I'll never stop hating myself for it."

You remain silent, arms folded across your chest. The others at the table exchange awkward glances with each other. “Okay,” you say. “Anything else?” You purse your lips together.

“Uh… no.” Chan lingers for a moment longer before retreating, leaving behind a silence that throbs with unspoken words. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the way he runs his fingers through his hair again, the way his shoulders set as if he's bracing against a storm. He reclaims his seat next to Hyunjin, who leans over to whisper something in his ear. Chan just shakes his head before picking up his glass and downing what’s left of his cocktail. Hyunjin looks up and catches your eye; he offers a sad smile that you don’t return. 

The residual heat of what you and Chan once shared burns through you, igniting memories and desire in equal measure. But Minho's image flickers in your mind, the way he claims you with his touch, the possessive glint in his eyes. There's something thrilling, dangerous even, about Minho's intensity, a stark contrast to Chan's thoughtful distance.

"Are you okay?" Liz's voice cuts through your thoughts, and you nod, forcing a smile onto your lips.

"Of course." The lie tastes bitter, but you swallow it down with a sip of wine, letting the rich flavor coat your tongue.

It stings having Chan so close. You can’t stop thinking about him, the way his body looks in that sweater, the way his veiny hands look around that goddamn cocktail glass. 

You wonder if he’s seeing Claire, or someone new. You wonder if whoever she is gets the Chan that you always hoped for, waited for, the one who can fully commit. You wonder if she knows how good the two of you were together, especially in bed. You can’t stop thinking about him, and it’s driving you fucking insane.

“Hyunjin looks… good,” Lucas says as he refills your wine glass. The way he lingers on the word, the way his eyes sneak over to Chan’s end of the table and glide over Hyunjin’s form…. Lucas thinks he’s being subtle, thinks that he’s got you fooled. But you know this game, know exactly what he’s doing. You love him even more for it.

“Hyunjin always looks good,” Liz adds with a knowing glance at Lucas. “I heard that he’s single again.” Her voice is playful.

“Single, huh,” Lucas muses, his eyes flicking over to where Hyunjin now stands, casually leaning against the bar, a confident smirk playing on his lips as he flirts with the bartender. “Seems like he’s ‘single’ every other month.”

Liz leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you trying to hook up with him again?” 

“He wishes,” you reply with a teasing smirk, feeling a playful energy in the air. Lucas chuckles, flipping you off with a wide grin. The sound cuts through the noisy chatter and it’s a sound that rings louder than the chaos inside you. 

“But damn, does he just get sexier over time?” Liz remarks, her gaze following Hyunjin, or rather his ass, as he effortlessly saunters back to the table, handing Chan one of the drinks he carries. “And I’m not even into men like that.” You smirk as you listen to the two of them gush over Hyunjin. Some things never change. “I hear he’s a beast in the sack, any truth to that?” She turns back to Lucas. 

“Oh, Lucas wouldn’t know,” you say, taking another sip of your wine.

“What?!” Liz gasps, scandalized. “I thought you two…”

“They didn’t,” you say casually, recalling that night with a hint of amusement. “They just had a drunken makeout session in the backseat of my car for an hour.”

“Not for a lack of trying,” Lucas admits, a wistful look crossing his face. “I still have dreams about those lips though.” You can’t help but to giggle. 

The evening stretches on, filled with laughter and uneasy glances. When you finally escape into the cool night air, the relief is palpable. But so is the doubt, the gnawing question of what you truly want. Chan's dimpled smile haunts you, but it's Minho's dark promise that sends a shiver down your spine, a craving for the kind of consuming passion only he seems to offer.

At home, alone, you strip down to your skin, feeling the weight of both men's desires envelop you. You slide into bed, the sheets cool against your heated flesh, and close your eyes, but sleep is a distant dream when your body yearns for the rough press of Minho's hands, the growl of his voice claiming you as his own, marking you with every heated touch that brings you closer to the edge of reason.

"Fuck," you breathe into the darkness, the word a release and a curse all at once. Because no matter how much you want to forget, to lose yourself in Minho's commanding embrace, Chan's ghost lingers, a reminder of a love that once was, and perhaps, the one that got away?

The next night, you're nestled on Minho's plush couch after watching a movie together. As the credits roll and Minho makes some joke about the ending, the confession slips from your lips before you can stop it, about the unexpected encounter with Chan at the dinner, the unraveling of emotions it left in its wake.

Minho sits beside you, an attentive statue carved from concern and desire. His fingers brush against your arm, light as a feather, tracing patterns that sear through the thin fabric of your long-sleeved t-shirt. It's a touch meant to soothe, to comfort, yet it stirs something far more voracious within you.

"Tell me everything," he murmurs. You lean into him, craving the distraction from the chaos inside your head. Minho's hands are tender at first as they trail up and down your arms, a gentle exploration that eases the trembling in your bones, but they grow bolder, hungrier, exploring the rest of your body as he senses your need for escape.

"Chan wanted… to talk," you whisper, each syllable punctuated by the soft kisses Minho places on your neck. "He said he was sorry."

"Did you want to talk to him?" he asks, voice laced with that possessive edge. It prickles at your skin, a warning sign you're too entangled to heed. Minho's hands wander, one going to your waist, the other sliding under your shirt, fingertips grazing the lace of your bra with a tantalizing promise.

"No." The word is a gasp as Minho's mouth descends onto yours, claiming it with a ferocity that drowns out all thought. His tongue delves deep, leaving no room for past regrets.

"You didn’t want to get back with him then?" he breathes against your lips, his grip tightening around your waist, pulling you closer until you're straddling his lap feeling the hard bulge beneath the fabric of his jeans. 

You shake your head too worked up to speak. 

"Good." His mouth claims yours again and his hand guides your hips in a back and forth motion on top of him.

The air crackles with tension, thick and charged, as Minho's hands on your body claim it with a brand of ownership that should scare you; it doesn't. Not when his thumb circles your nipple through the fabric and his erection grinds against your pussy through several layers of clothing, coaxing whimpers from deep within your throat.

Swiftly, he pushes your shirt up and pulls down the delicate lace of your bra to reveal your breasts. He takes one hungrily into his mouth, sucking greedily as if trying to consume every inch of you.

"Say it," he demands, teeth grazing your nipple in a silent threat laced with carnal hunger. “Say you’re mine.”

You can’t deny the intoxicating feeling of being claimed by him. "I’m yours," you surrender, the word falling from you in a throaty moan like a sacred vow.

His fingers slip beneath your sweatpants and the elastic of your panties, a bold invasion that has you arching into his touch. Expert digits find the slick heat between your thighs, and he groans, a sound of dark satisfaction. Minho's movements are relentless, pushing and probing until you're writhing on top of him, a panting mess desperate for release.

"Are you thinking about him now?" Minho's voice is a growl, laden with jealousy and raw need.

"No. Only you," you breathe, clinging to him as waves of pleasure crash over you, drowning out everything but the feel of his fingers inside you, bringing you to the brink.

"Look at me," he commands, and your eyes lock with his, a tempest of cat-like intensity that burns right through you. "This is where you belong. With me."

You moan as the pressure builds inside you until you shatter, coming apart in his arms.

"Never forget that," he whispers, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that seals the unspoken contract between you two with a mix of affection and possession that's becoming harder and harder to untangle.

The aftermath leaves you breathless, sprawled against Minho's chest, trying to catch your racing heart. He wraps his arms around you and holds tight. His embrace feels like a fortress, strong and safe. Yet there's a shadow lurking, a hint of suffocation in the way his arms refuse to loosen their hold, reminding you that this passion could become a prison if you're not careful.

"Promise me, you're not going anywhere," Minho says, vulnerability from the fear of losing you peeking through his usually composed facade.

"I'm here," you assure him, even as a sliver of doubt worms its way into your mind, the image of Chan's regretful eyes surfacing unbidden. But for now, you push it away, allowing Minho's presence to fill the void, his possessiveness a tempestuous sea in which you willingly drown.

[luckyroll3]

Unexpected Chapter 27: No Turning Back Once We're Connected

Unexpected Masterlist Previous Chapter

Mia

As Mia pulled into her driveway, her thoughts still tangled up in the conversation with Jason, she noticed a familiar silhouette illuminated by the warm glow of her porch light. The figure stepped forward, and Mia's heart skipped a beat as she recognized Chan's handsome features.

She exited the car, her steps hesitant as she approached him. "Chris? What are you doing here?" Mia asked, her voice a mix of surprise and relief.

Chan's eyes met hers, his gaze filled with concern and tenderness. "I wanted to check on you, make sure you were okay." He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against her hand.

Mia enjoyed his touch, the warmth of his skin igniting a spark within her. “You could have waited inside. I know you still have the key.” He didn’t say anything. She fought the urge to intertwine her fingers with his, instead gesturing towards the porch steps. "Do you want to sit for a bit?"

Chan nodded, following her lead as they settled onto the worn wooden steps. 

Mia took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before speaking. "Things with Jason... it’s over. We had a good talk. It was hard, but it needed to happen."

She felt Chan's hand cover hers, his touch comforting and steady. "How’d he take it," he said softly.

Mia leaned into his touch, drawing strength from his presence. She began to share the details of her conversation with Jason, the words tumbling out as Chan listened attentively. His thumb traced soothing circles on the back of her hand, a silent reassurance. As Mia finished recounting the events of the night, including their goodbye kiss, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. If Chan felt a way about their final kiss, he didn’t let on.

“And how do you feel about it?” he asked instead. “About it being officially over with him?”

Mia sighs. “Honestly. I’m a little sad. We invested a decade into our relationship, and even though we haven’t been officially together for the past 2 years, tonight felt very… I don’t know… final.” She turned to face him, her eyes searching his. “But it needed to end. And I’m excited for what’s next.” Chan's presence, his unwavering support, filled her with a sense of peace and gratitude. "Thank you, Chris. For being here, for knowing that I needed you tonight, for listening."

Chan's free hand reached up, gently cupping her cheek. "I'll always be here for you, Mia." His thumb brushed lightly over her skin, sending a flutter through her heart.

Mia’s eyes drifted shut as she savored the feeling of his warmth, his tenderness. When she opened them again, she found Chan's face mere inches from hers, his gaze intense and filled with an unspoken longing.

In that moment, the world fell away, and all that existed was the two of them, their hearts beating in sync. Mia's breath hitched as Chan's lips brushed against hers, a feather-light touch. She melted into the kiss, her hands finding their way into his hair, pulling him closer as their mouths moved together in a dance of passion and connection.

Mia broke the kiss, her breathing heavy as she gazed into Chan's dark, desire-filled eyes. "Come inside," she whispered, her voice thick with longing. “Spend the night here with me.”

Chan nodded, his heart racing with anticipation as Mia took his hand, unlocked the door, and led him into the house. Mia paused to close and lock it behind them.

Chan couldn't hold back any longer. Before Mia could even turn around, he was on her. Chan pinned her against the door, his body flush against hers, and he captured her lips in a searing kiss. Chan kissed Mia with a hunger that left her breathless. 

Mia allowed her body to mold into his embrace, her hands roaming over his broad shoulders and down his back, feeling the muscles rippling beneath his shirt. Chan's touch was gentle yet possessive, his fingers trailing along her jaw, down her neck, and over her collarbone, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Mia moaned into the kiss as her fingers tangled in his hair while their tongues danced together. 

As their kisses grew more heated, Mia's mind was a whirlwind of emotions. Less than 30 minutes ago, her lips were pressed against Jason’s, but that was over and the magnetic pull between her and Chan was too strong to resist. Chan made her feel alive, desired, and cherished in a way she had never experienced before.

Chan's hands found the hem of Mia's shirt, and he broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over her head, revealing her smooth, glowing brown skin. Mia's heart raced as she watched Chan's lustful eyes, his gaze roaming over her body with an intensity that made her knees weak. Without a word, they tore at the rest of each other’s clothes, desperate for skin-on-skin contact.

Unable to control their need for each other, Mia and Chan stumbled further into the living room, shedding their clothes as they went. Mia ran her hands over Chan's chiseled abs, marveling at the feel of his warm, muscular skin under her fingertips. Chan groaned, lowering his mouth to her breasts, his tongue teasing her nipples until she arched her back in pleasure.

Mia gasped, her head thrown back as Chan moved his lips lower on her body, kissing and licking her skin to an exquisite edge. She was on fire, every nerve ending in her body singing. 

They dropped to the plush rug, their bodies intertwined. Time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in the sensation of their hands and mouths exploring each other, discovering every curve and plane of their bodies.

Mia couldn’t wait any longer. She pulled Chan on top of her and guided his hard cock inside of her. They both moaned in unison as their bodies connected. It felt so right, as if they were made for each other. Mia rocked her hips against his, matching his every thrust. They moved together, their gazes locked, their breathing ragged. 

The living room transformed into a sanctuary of pleasure and connection, filled with the sounds of their panting and soft moans of ecstasy. Mia arched into Chan's touch, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he worshipped her body with his lips and tongue. The world around them faded away, and all that mattered was the intense, all-consuming passion they shared.

“God, Mia,” Chan gasped, his grip tightening on her as he thrust deeper into her. “You feel so good.”

Mia whimpered in response as she reveled in the sensations overwhelming her. “Chris,” she cried out, her body trembling on the brink of release. 

Just as she felt the exquisite tension building within her, Chan's lips found her throat, his teeth biting into her sensitive skin. The tiny hint of pain sent Mia over the edge, her body convulsing around him as she climaxed with a shuddering gasp.

Chan's own release was not far behind. He stilled inside her, before his body shook as he cried out her name. As they lay there, panting and spent, their bodies slick with sweat, Mia smiled contentedly. This was what she had been missing all these years - this connection, this passion, this all-consuming love. She had never felt more alive, more complete.

Chan’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer as they both came down from their sex high. The soft fibers of the rug caressed their skin as they lay there, enjoying the quiet and the comfort against each other’s bodies. Mia's head rested on Chan's chest, his heartbeat a soothing rhythm beneath her ear. 

Chan was the first to break the silence, chuckling softly as he looked around the room, their clothes, bags, and shoes strewn about, the evidence of their passion still prominent on both of their flushed faces. 

“I guess we skipped the part where we actually made it to the bedroom,” Chan said, winking at her.

Mia couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bright and carefree. “I don’t remember ever being so impatient,” she teased, playfully nudging him with her shoulder. 

“I know. A week is way too long to be away from you.”

Chan's fingers traced lazy patterns along Mia's spine, sending delightful shivers through her body. She tilted her head, meeting his gaze, and found his eyes filled with a mix of tenderness and awe. A soft smile played on his lips, his dimples deepening as he looked at her with an expression that made her heart skip a beat.

"That was..." Chan started, his voice low and husky.

"Incredible," Mia finished, her own voice barely above a whisper.

They shared a smile, a silent acknowledgment of the profound connection they had just experienced. It was in that moment, as they laid there, naked and tangled together, that Mia realized just how much she had missed him, even after just a week. Being with Chan felt like coming home, a rightness that she hadn't even known she craved until it was within her reach.

As they lay there, Mia's stomach let out a soft growl, breaking the intimate silence. Chan chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath her cheek. "Hungry?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Mia laughed, burying her face against his neck. "Apparently, you've worked up my appetite," she teased, placing a soft kiss on his skin.

Reluctantly, Mia untangled herself from Chan and stood up. "I'll be right back," she said, padding naked towards the kitchen.

“What a view,” Chan called out playfully behind her as he watched her walk away. He couldn’t hide the grin that tugged at his lips. 

Mia made a detour to the bathroom first, then to the refrigerator.

She returned to the living room a few moments later, carrying a pint of vanilla ice cream and two spoons. Chan had retrieved a soft, fluffy blanket from the couch and was sitting on the floor, his back resting against the front of the sofa. He grinned as Mia settled down beside him, draping the blanket over their laps.

“You know, I’m technically not allowed to eat this….” Chan said as Mia handed him a spoon.

“Oh, fuck that! Your abs will be fine, superstar.” She rolled her eyes and held the mouth of the open container towards him. “You know you want it,” she whispered seductively with a grin. He chuckled and shook his head as he used his spoon to retrieve a hefty scoop. 

They sat there, wrapped in the blanket, sharing the ice cream straight from the container. Mia savored the creamy sweetness on her tongue, feeling a sense of simple, pure happiness wash over her. Chan made her laugh with his playful attempts to steal bites from her spoon, and they fell into an easy, comfortable conversation, their earlier passion giving way to a deeper, more profound connection.

As they talked and laughed, Mia felt the last of her doubts and fears about their relationship melt away. She realized that what she had with Chan was more than just physical attraction; it was a bond built on mutual understanding, respect, and a shared desire for companionship and love.

Mia leaned her head on Chan's shoulder, a contented sigh escaping her lips. "I'm so glad you're here," she murmured, her voice soft and filled with emotion.

Chan pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, his arm tightening around her waist. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be," he replied, his words a promise of their commitment to move forward together.

Eventually, Mia and Chan made their way back to her bedroom, their bodies still tingling with the afterglow of their intimate encounter. As they lay together, limbs intertwined, Mia gazed into Chan's eyes, marveling at the depth of emotion she found there.

"I never thought I could feel this way again," she whispered, her fingertips tracing the contours of his face. "You've changed everything, Chris."

Chan caught her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to her palm. "You've changed me, too," he murmured, his voice low and sincere. "I never knew what it was like to truly connect with someone until I met you."

They exchanged soft whispers of affection, their words punctuated by tender touches and gentle kisses. As they drifted off to sleep, wrapped in each other's arms, Mia knew that this was just the beginning of their journey together. 

The next day, Mia and Chan spent every moment together, relishing the opportunity to catch up on lost time. They stayed in bed, talking and laughing, sharing stories and dreams, and exploring each other's bodies with a newfound sense of intimacy and understanding.

As the sun started to set, casting a warm, golden glow across the room, Mia propped herself up on one elbow, her gaze thoughtful. She ran her fingers through his tousled hair. "Chris, we can't stay here forever," she said, her voice tinged with regret. “I wish we could.”

Chan sighed, reluctantly extricating himself from her embrace. "I know. Reality will catch up to us eventually."

"But until then," Mia whispered, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "we can create our own reality, right here, together."

Chan's lips curved into a devilish grin. Chan traced lazy patterns on Mia's skin. "I like the sound of that." 

Mia smiled as they continued their whirlwind of stolen moments. They knew the world outside their haven would eventually come crashing back in, but for now, they were content to be wrapped up in each other’s arms. 

A/N: Song: Connected Artist: Bang Chan

And they're back! Thanks for hanging in through all the drama, y'all. Eight chapters left.

[luckyroll3]

Mine Chapter 3

Mine Masterlist Previous Chapter

The weeks since Chan's departure have left you hollow, an automaton going through the motions of life. But with each passing day, each tick of the clock, a soft resilience buds inside you; a silent vow to rediscover the person who existed before him.

There's solace in routine: the brewing of morning coffee now just enough for one, the solo evening walks where the cool air chafes against your cheeks, the quiet nights filled with the sounds of turning pages instead of shared whispers. You've started filling your time with poetry readings at smoky cafes and art exhibits that leave your soul aching with beauty. Slowly, happiness creeps back in, like sunlight piercing through heavy drapes, tentative but determined.

Today, you seek solace between these rows of books, longing for a story to lose yourself in, something to dull the jagged edges of memory. You've sworn off romance novels for now; too many memories, too much pain. Instead, you gravitate towards the thrillers. Maybe some adrenaline and suspense will help you forget your own heartache, if only for a short while. You wander through the quiet maze of bookshelves, the scent of aging paper and dust comforting despite your scattered thoughts. Your fingers trail over worn spines, each title a whispered promise of escape.

Lost in thought, a volume with interesting red font on the spine winks at you from the top shelf and you stretch on your tiptoes, reaching for it. But just as your fingertips brush the spine, you collide with another person’s hand. The impact jolts through both of you, a touch fleeting and electric. Startled, you both retract in a clumsy ballet, stumbling backwards and muttering apologies that tumble into the hushed atmosphere.

"Sorry," you say, voice laced with the embarrassment of unexpected human contact.

"My bad," he counters, his voice low. “I, uh, didn’t see you there.”

As you straighten yourself, your gaze locks onto the most captivating pair of eyes you've ever seen. He’s lean, with a muscular build that's accentuated by his fitted graphic tee. His hair is a shade of dark brown that borders on russet, and it looks like he's been running his fingers through it non-stop, adding to his devil-may-care charm. He's all angles and grace, his jawline and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, with a crooked smile that could coax secrets from shadows. He exudes a confidence that is at once disarming and alluring, and your pulse quickens as if sensing the undercurrent of a new beginning, or perhaps a thrilling risk.

You blush, heat creeping up your cheeks. "No, I… I was... um..." Your words trail off, and you gesture vaguely at the bookshelf. "I was just, uh... browsing."

He laughs, and the sound is like warm honey, soothing your frayed nerves. "Hey, no worries. Seems we have similar taste," he observes, head cocked to the side, eyes glinting with mischief. There's a charm about him that feels like warmth spreading through your veins.

"Apparently," you respond, the word hanging between you, a bridge neither of you are sure whether to cross. You're aware of the space between your bodies, the magnetic pull of possibility.

"So many books, so little space, am I right? Allow me," he insists, a playful note threading his words. You bite your lip as you watch him. The air around you is charged, every sound and scent heightened: the musty allure of ancient pages, the faint echo of footsteps in the distance, the subtle spice of cologne as he leans closer to the shelf to pluck the book from its perch.

His touch grazes yours again, deliberate this time as he hands you the book, sparking a heat that blooms across your skin like blush on petals. And you wonder, heart skipping a beat, if this encounter is merely serendipity or the whisper of fate beckoning you towards your next chapter.

Your fingers linger on the spine of the book he has just handed to you, his touch still warm on your skin.

"An interesting choice for a casual read," he comments, gesturing toward the weathered book in your hands, some young adult horror book that speaks more to your current state than your literary preferences.

"Life's too short for only bestsellers," you quip, surprised at how easily the words come out, how effortlessly you fall into this dance of dialogue with him. He laughs, a sound that seems to fill the cramped aisle and reverberate among the books.

"I guess," he says with a smirk, his gaze intense but not overbearing.

“Weren’t you reaching for the same book?” you ask with a raised eyebrow.

"Ah, yeah,” he chuckles, “Always something about an interesting font or book cover, don't you think?"

You nod, and there's a flicker of something more than just amusement in his eyes; there's a recognition, perhaps, or the thrill of a shared secret. The two of you stand there, surrounded by the scent of old paper and leather bindings, an electric current running between you as if your very cells are reaching out towards each other.

He extends a hand. "Minho," he says, and it rolls off his tongue like a secret you're privileged to know. His voice is a soft baritone that vibrates through the air, settling somewhere deep inside you.

“Nice to meet you, Minho,” you say as you tell him your name, trying to steady your heartbeat as you take his strong, warm hand in yours. His grip is firm but not crushing.

Minho's eyes sparkle with interest. "Pretty name.”

And just like that, the two of you are engrossed in a conversation about your favorite authors, genres, and the merits of physical books versus e-books. The dimly lit bookstore seems to disappear around you as you find yourself lost in each other's company.

You study him as he speaks, the eloquent way he discusses themes and narratives, his hands moving with animated grace. Minho is passion personified, his every word painting vivid images in your mind, and you find yourself getting lost in the rhythm of his speech, the magnetic pull of his presence.

You're surprised by how easily conversation flows between you, witty remarks and literary references bouncing back and forth. There's an undeniable spark, an electric current humming beneath your skin.

"Have you ever felt like a character waiting for their story to start?" he asks suddenly, eyes locking onto yours. It feels intimate, this question, as though he's peering straight into your soul.

"Sometimes," you admit, the confession slipping from your lips, leaving you vulnerable under his gaze. But vulnerability feels different with Minho. It doesn't feel like weakness; it feels like freedom.

"Then let's hope this is a good chapter," he responds with a wink that sends a shiver down your spine. You can't help but return his playful smile, even as your cheeks heat up.

The moment breaks when someone jostles past in the narrow aisle, reminding you that there's a world beyond this small, shared universe with Minho. You glance at your watch and realize you’ll be late to meet your parents for dinner. “Sorry, I actually have to go.”

"Until next time," he says, stepping back with one last lingering glance that feels like a caress. “Enjoy the book.” You watch him go, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment that the encounter is over.

You make your purchase and as soon as you step outside the bookstore, you pull out your phone, eager to share this unexpected twist in your day. Your thumbs fly over the keyboard, as you open your group chat with Liz and Lucas.

You: Guys, you won't believe what just happened. I think I just had a meet-cute straight out of a romance novel. Name's Minho. Charismatic and cute; loves to read. It was nice. Really nice.

Lucas: What?!? Girl tell us EVERYTHING!

Liz: Yes, please!

You recount the meet-cute, each word punctuated by the pounding of your heart, an echo of the excitement coursing through you. As you wait for their reactions, you realize that, for the first time in weeks, your thoughts are filled not with the past, but with the possibilities of the future.

****

The conference hall buzzes with activity, a sea of suits and name tags. You unbutton your blazer, the article of clothing feeling tight after sitting for three hours. You walk towards the back of the enormous space to the corner where lunch is being served. Nothing looks appealing, so you settle for a Caesar salad and chocolate chip cookies, then find a place to sit.

The clink of cutlery against porcelain and the low hum of conversation form the backdrop to a lunch break that's more about networking than nourishment. It’s only day two of the conference, and you’re already networked out, relishing the empty seats at your table. You pick at your salad, your mind adrift amid the sea of suits and pencil skirts populating the conference hall. As you scan the room for familiar faces, your heart skips a beat. There, by the refreshment table, stands a figure you never thought you’d see again.

Minho.

He's even more striking than you remember, his dark hair perfectly styled, his lean frame accentuated by a tailored charcoal sports coat. He's all sleek lines and polish. A security pass dangles from his neck.

As if sensing your gaze, he turns, and those piercing cat-like eyes lock onto yours, alight with recognition. A slow smile spreads across his face and your pulse quickens, not from fear, but an undeniable pull toward this man.

He makes his way over to you, navigating easily through the crowd. "Small fucking world," he remarks when he reaches your table, the corner of his mouth lifting in that smirk that hasn’t left your brain..

"Minho? What are you doing here?" you ask. "I didn't expect to see you again... especially not here."

He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. "I could ask you the same thing. My company’s managing security for the event," he gestures to his badge. "And you? Didn’t take you for a finance bro."

"I’m the VP of HR for my bank," you reply, surprised by the coincidence. “I have to understand all this shit for when we’re recruiting the finance bros. Small world, indeed,” you say with a smile as you sit back in your chair.

"Or fate," Minho says, his gaze intense. “Can I sit?” You nod and he takes the chair next to you. He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I'm so glad we ran into each other. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind." Your stomach flutters.

Lunch forgotten, you engage in a dance of words with Minho, each line exchanged tightening the web of attraction around you. He talks shop with an ease that belies the depth of his knowledge, yet his gaze never wavers from yours, as if the rest of the room has faded into obsolescence.

Time slips away, unnoticed. As the lunch hour wanes, so does the space between you.

"Drinks later? There's a place not far from here, Yellowbird, that has a great selection of wine and scotch. And quiet corners perfect for private conversations." The offer hangs between you, tempting yet terrifying in its implications.

Hesitation claws at your insides. Part of you wants to say yes immediately, but Chan’s shadow still lingers, a ghostly presence that dampens the spark ignited by Minho's proximity. But there's something about Minho, something warm and thrilling that beckons you toward a future uncharted.

"I… I don't know," you start, the words a feeble defense against the draw you feel toward him.

Minho’s expression softens. "Hey, no pressure," he assures, the sincerity in his eyes disarming. "Just two people enjoying a drink together. No expectations.”

“I’m not sure, Minho,” you say softly. “I just got out of a very long relationship that ended badly. I'm not sure I'm ready to explore anything else just yet."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "I get it. Tell you what, how about we tentatively make plans for the last day of the conference. That way, you have two days to decide if you want to see me again. If you do, I’ll see you at Yellowbird for the start of happy hour; if not, no hard feelings."

His request is gentle, respectful, yet persistent enough to crack the shell of your resistance. His sincerity, combined with that disarming smile, chips away at your resolve. With a tentative nod, you agree. “Okay. Happy hour drinks at Yellowbird on Friday.”

"Great," Minho says, his smile widening. "I can't wait."

A flutter blooms within you, a sensation foreign and exhilarating, as you watch him walk away with the promise of soon hanging between you.

"Hope to see you then," he says over his shoulder, the words wrapping around you like a whispered secret, filling you with a sense of anticipation that hums beneath your skin, awakening dormant desires.

****

You slip onto the high stool at the dimly lit bar in Yellowbird, the soft conversation a backdrop to your jittery heartbeat. Shadows play against the walls, casting a seductive veil over the patrons as amber light pools from flickering candles on each table. The air is thick with the scent of aged wood and citrus from freshly twisted peels garnishing cocktails. Your fingers dance nervously along the cool surface of the counter, the weight of anticipation resting heavily upon your chest.

Minho arrives in a wave of confidence, his lean frame cutting through the happy hour crowd. His eyes, sharp and cat-like, find yours immediately and his face lights up. He greets you with a lopsided smirk, the one that hints at mischief and mysteries untold, his tailored shirt hugging his well-toned body in all the right places.

"You made it," he says, his voice a low purr that reverberates through the growing warmth in your belly.

"I did," you manage, your voice steadier than you feel.

He settles onto the stool next to you then orders you a glass of wine and a single-barrel scotch, neat, for himself.

The evening unfolds like the pages of a novel you've yearned to read but never dared to open. Minho is a gabber, sharing tales that make you laugh, a rare sound you hadn't realized had been absent from your lips for the past few weeks. He listens intently, nodding at all the right moments as you discuss your favorite authors, dissecting plots and characters with a fervor you both share. Then the conversation turns to relationships.

"Tell me more," he urges as you recount a story that feels too personal, yet spills from you with ease under his attentive gaze.

Your words hang between you, delicate yet potent, revealing the chasm within your heart left by Chan's departure. Minho's eyes soften, his hand reaching across the space to cover yours, a gesture so full of understanding it steals your breath. The warmth of his touch is comforting, grounding.

"I'm sorry," he says gently. "I didn't mean for you to reopen that wound."

"No, it's okay," you find yourself saying. "It's just... it was five years. I thought he was the one, you know?"

"You deserve someone who sees your worth," he says softly and something about the sincerity in his tone makes you believe him. "Someone who appreciates every facet of you; who sees you, really sees you."

The moment stretches, taut with the intimacy of shared secrets and the unspoken promise of new beginnings. You feel seen, truly seen, as if Minho can peer into the deepest recesses of your soul where shadows still linger. His touch is gentle, yet beneath it lies a current of something more, an intensity that both comforts and alarms you.

"Thank you," you whisper, the words barely audible above the clink of glasses and the murmur of other conversations. But they're for him, and he understands, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand. "I didn't realize how much I needed to hear that."

As the night progresses, you find yourself leaning closer, drawn in by Minho's magnetic presence and enigmatic eyes. The broken pieces inside you start to shift, realigning into something new and hopeful.

The bar's ambiance shifts subtly, the laughter and conversation around you becoming a distant soundtrack to the intricate dance of words and glances unfurling between you and Minho.

"So, what exactly does a security consultant do?" you ask, leaning in closer.

Minho's eyes flicker with something unreadable.

As he speaks of his work, a security consultant with veiled allusions to high-profile cases and clandestine operations, shadows seem to flit across his sharp eyes, hinting of a life skirted with secrets.

"So, you know, risk assessments, threat analyses. Boring stuff, really." He smirks, deflecting. "I'd much rather hear about you.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by his evasiveness. "Come on, it can't be that boring. Any exciting stories?"

He chuckles. "Maybe I'll tell you someday. For now, let's just say it keeps me on my toes. Enough about my boring day-to-day," he deflects again with a charming smirk, elegantly steering the conversation away from his job.

"What about your family?" you probe gently, curious about the man behind the charm.

Minho's expression tightens almost imperceptibly. "Not much to tell, really. We're not close." He quickly changes the subject, his eyes locked on yours. "But enough about me. What was your favorite session at the conference this week?"

You're curious, naturally, but not alarmed. Everyone has chapters they'd rather keep closed on a first date. You let it slide, drawn in by the gravitational pull of his charisma, the way he spins tales and listens with rapt attention, making you feel like the only person in the room.

As the evening winds down, Minho leans forward, his gaze intense, yet filled with a softness that makes your heart flutter. "I've really enjoyed tonight," Minho says as you prepare to leave, his voice low and intimate. "I'd love to see you again. Can I have your number?"

Despite your lingering doubts, you find yourself nodding. "I'd like that," you admit, surprised by your own eagerness.

You exchange phones. When he hands yours back, his fingers brush against yours, sending sparks throughout your body.

Minho's eyes meet yours, dark and intense. "I can't wait to see you again," he murmurs. "Expect a call," he promises, the corners of his lips turning up in that knowing smirk of his. It's a look that could mean anything: a playful challenge, a secret shared between just the two of you, or a prelude to something deeper.

You part ways outside the bar, the cool night air doing little to quench the warmth spreading through your chest. As you watch him walk away, that lean figure wrapped in a tailored leather jacket disappearing into the night, you can't help but feel a surge of excitement. The world seems sharper, your senses heightened, as if Minho's very presence has awakened something dormant within you.

Home feels both near and far as you float through the city streets, your mind replaying every moment, every word exchanged. Minho's blend of kindness, intelligence, and mystery has seeped under your skin, rekindling embers of hope you thought had been extinguished by heartbreak.

Tonight, as you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, you realize the truth: Minho Lee has entered your life like a storm, stirring up the still waters, and you are irresistibly drawn to the chaos that promises to follow.

****

The scent of roasted garlic and simmering herbs envelops you as you settle into the plush velvet booth, a vintage chandelier casting a warm glow over the intimate table. Minho's presence is electric tonight, the light accentuating his sharp features. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a thrill down your spine. He's chosen a romantic restaurant, the kind that whispers secrets and promises in its shadowed corners.

“You look stunning in that dress,” he says.

Heat rises to your cheeks. "Smooth talker," you tease, but can't help feeling flattered. You had second guessed wearing the long-sleeved, teal bandage dress, worried that the form fitting outfit accentuating every single one of your curves might send the wrong message. But you look amazing in it and seeing the way Minho responds also makes you feel amazing.

"Try this," he says, voice low, sliding a small bowl of very large meatballs in your direction. As you bring the fork to your mouth, Minho’s eyes are fixed on your lips. “Good?”

“Mmm,” you nod approvingly.

As the evening progresses, Minho opens up gradually. "I didn't have the easiest childhood," he admits, his voice low. "My parents... well, let's just say they weren't the most supportive."

You nod sympathetically, feeling a pull towards him. "I'm sorry to hear that. It must have been tough."

"It was," he says, his gaze intense. "But it made me who I am today. Strong. Resilient." His fingers graze your wrist. "Able to recognize something special when I see it."

Your breath catches. The air between you feels charged, electric. You find yourself leaning closer, drawn in by his vulnerability and charm.

He continues to weave more stories of his life into the conversation, of heartbreaks that left him questioning love itself. You listen, captivated by the raw honesty in his voice, sensing the depth of his past wounds mirrored in your own.

"Life... it's been a series of storms, but I've learned to dance in the rain," he admits with a wistful smile, his gaze never leaving yours. It's disarming, how he lays bare his soul, and you feel the walls around your heart crumble just a bit more.

The air between you thickens with every shared laugh and lingering look. His hand rests gently on your arm as he listens intently to your own tales of lost love, a silent vow of solidarity. The warmth of his touch radiates through the fabric of your sleeve, branding your skin with an unspoken promise of comfort.

"You know," Minho murmurs, "I don't usually open up like this. There's just something about you... I feel like I can be myself around you." He takes a sip of wine. "Thank you for being here, for letting me be myself. With you, I don't have to pretend."

His words tumble out, tinged with an unmistakable neediness that both exhilarates and alarms you. It causes a mix of excitement and unease to flutter in your stomach. To be needed, to be someone's haven, is intoxicating; it’s thrilling to feel this connection, but a small voice in your head whispers caution. Isn't it too soon for such intensity? you wonder. The tangled web of emotions leaves you breathless, your pulse racing in rhythm with the flickering candlelight.

As if reading your thoughts, Minho's hand covers yours. "I know we've only just met, but I can't help how I feel. You're special, truly unique."

You swallow hard, caught between desire and doubt. "Minho," you start, voice barely above a whisper, "I..."

His thumb traces circles on your palm, sending shivers up your arm. "It's okay," he soothes. "We can take it slow. We have time. All the time you need. I just want you to know how much you already mean to me."

As you gaze into his eyes, you feel yourself falling, despite your reservations. The blend of assurance and urgency in his tone wraps around you like a shroud, comforting yet constricting. You find yourself leaning into this burgeoning connection, even as a sliver of caution lodges firmly in the back of your mind. The spark between you is certainly undeniable, intoxicating. But as Minho's grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly, a flicker of something—possessiveness maybe?—flashes across his face, gone so quickly you wonder if you imagined it.

The night wraps around you like a velvet shawl as you stroll beside Minho, the moon casting silvery ripples across the lake's surface. The cool night air carries the scent of water lilies. The two of you pause at a secluded spot, your gaze drawn to the luminous reflection. You’re mesmerized by the shimmering water. Minho's hand finds the small of your back, his touch electric even through the fabric of your dress.

"It's beautiful," you whisper, more to break the tension than anything else.

Minho turns to you, his eyes dark and searching. "Not as beautiful as you," he murmurs.

Before you can react, his lips are on yours, passionate and demanding and consuming, a kiss that ignites every single nerve ending. Your body responds instantly, melting into him as his hands roam your curves. For a moment, you lose yourself in the kiss, in the heady rush of desire. Your senses reel, caught up in the dance of Minho's tongue against yours as the kiss deepens, the possessive yet comforting grip of his hands as they slide down your ass and squeeze.

Then, unbidden, Chan's face flashes in your mind. You stiffen, pulling back slightly.

"I'm sorry," you breathe, "It's just..."

Minho's expression softens. He cups your face gently with one hand while he removes the other from your ass and slides it back up your body, coming to rest in between your shoulder blades. "Hey, it's okay. We can take it slow."

His tenderness disarms you. You lean into his touch, surprised by the depth of emotion welling up inside you.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For understanding."

Minho smiles, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "I'd wait forever for you," he says softly.

Your breath catches at the intensity of his words. Part of you wants to dive headfirst into this, while another part urges caution. But as Minho pulls you close again, his kiss gentle this time, you decide to let yourself feel, truly feel, for the first time since Chan.

You're teetering on the edge, haunted by Chan's ghostly touch. But then, there's Minho… his tenderness piercing through the fog of your past, his understanding soothing your raw edges. You yield to the moment, allowing yourself to be enveloped by an intimacy so fierce it carves out a space where only the two of you exist.

The next morning, you're still floating on cloud nine as you slide into the booth across from Liz and Lucas at your favorite brunch spot.

"Spill," Liz demands, eyeing you over her mimosa. "You're practically glowing."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. "Minho is... incredible," you gush. "Last night was magical."

Lucas raises an eyebrow. "Magical, huh? So you..." He wriggled his eyebrows.

"No!" you laugh, feeling your cheeks heat up. "We just kissed, but... there’s just something about him.”

Morning light filters through the windows, painting soft streaks across the table as you recount last night’s events to Liz and Lucas. They hang on your every word.

“He's so attentive, so understanding. Minho just... he gets me," you confess, warmth pooling inside at the memory of his lips.

“How much can he get? You’ve only known him for about a week,” Lucas snarks as he takes a gulp of his Bloody Mary.

“Shut up,” you say with a laugh as you kick him under the table.

Liz leans forward, her expression a mix of excitement and concern. "I'm happy for you, sweetie, but... isn't it a bit soon to be this invested?"

You bite your lip, conflict evident in your voice. "Maybe. But he just feels right, you know? Minho makes me feel alive again. After Chan, I didn't think..."

"Hey," Lucas interjects, his tone surprisingly gentle. "There's nothing wrong with starting again.”

“Thanks. I don’t know. I just really like him.” You down half of your mimosa, feeling the bubbles fizz in your nose. “But he's also intense. I'm not sure I can handle someone needing me so much, so soon."

Liz reaches across the table, her touch steady and grounding on your forearm. "Then take it slow," she advises, her hazel eyes earnest. "You're still healing. Don't rush into anything."

Lucas chuckles, a glint of mischief in his brown eyes. "Or, y'know, just enjoy the ride. There's nothing wrong with a little fun, a good fuck, to get you back on your feet. Sometimes it’s exactly what you need." His words, raw and unfiltered, cut through the seriousness, drawing a reluctant smile from your lips. “And girl I know you need it now that you don’t have Mr. Bahng blowing your back out every night. They call em fuck boys for a reason…” He lifts an eyebrow as he uses the celery stalk in his glass to stir the Bloody Mary.

“He’s right,” Liz agrees as she releases her grip on you, settling back into the seat with a laugh. “Never anything wrong with a good fuck! Lord knows I could use one myself…. I think the only one at this table currently getting fucked is you, Lucas. You want to share about your date last night?”

“None of your business,” he retorts playfully, taking another gulp of his drink. “But what I will tell you is that kissing isn’t the only thing I did on my first date last night.” He winks at you.

“Oh, you’re such a slut!” you say with a loud laugh.

“Babe, let’s not pretend like you didn’t fuck Chan the night you met him.”

“What????” Liz exclaims as she looks at you. “You fucking liar! I thought you fucked on your first date?”

“That too,” Lucas says under his breath.

“I… technically didn’t lie… I just didn’t say anything. I neither confirmed nor denied.” You chug the rest of your mimosa as you side-eye Lucas for spilling tea you’d forgotten you told him and not Liz.

You think back to that night, one that was supposed to be low key until Lucas, your roommate at the time, begged you to go to a house party to be his wingwoman. You figured you’d stay for an hour, have a drink or two, then make a graceful exit before things got too chaotic or once Lucas started making out with the guy he had his eye on.

What you didn’t expect was to get roped into a game of beer pong, only to accidentally hit a stranger in the face with a flying ping-pong ball.

“OW! What the fucking hell?!?”

You turned to see the victim rubbing his nose, a very attractive, very confused-looking guy with messy curls and an amused smirk.

That was the first time you laid eyes on him.

Chan.

“I know it’s big,” he continued, “but that doesn’t mean it should be used for target practice!”

“Oh my God, I so did not mean to do that,” you blurted out, torn between laughter and mortification. “I was just…”

He bent down, picked up the ping-pong ball, and twirled it between his fingers. “You were just…?”

“Losing at beer pong,” Lucas chimed in.

Chan raised a brow. “That bad, huh?”

“She’s tragic,” Lucas confirmed.

You groaned. “Okay, rude. I’m just… out of practice.”

Chan grinned, unleashing those dimples, tossing the ball into the air and catching it smoothly. He looked up at you. “Lucky for you, I happen to be a beer pong champion.”

“Oh, are you?” you challenged, crossing your arms.

“Mmhmm.” He nodded seriously, eyes twinkling with mischief. He walked over to you and held the ball in your direction. “I’d offer to coach you, but I don’t know if you can be saved.” You snatched it from his palm and tried to look offended, but it was hard to keep the smile from your face. Instead, in an attempt to hide it, you brought your cup to your lips to take your penalty drink, eyeing him over the rim as he stared you down, his gaze moving slowly over your body.

“Okaaaay… then,” Lucas said, clocking the energy between you and Chan as you tried to play it cool. “How about you join her team, dimples, and you two can take on me and Jon.” Lucas, ever the matchmaker, had maneuvered it perfectly so that you’d be playing with this hot new guy while he got to cozy up with the person he’d specifically attended this party to flirt with.

That was all it took. Suddenly, it was on.

“Let me show you how to throw, beautiful,” Chan said as he stood behind you, his fingers gracefully tracing your skin as he helped you position your arm and talked you through how to flick your wrist. You were already tipsy and your entire body buzzed when you felt him step in closer to press his chest against your back. He leaned into your ear and whispered, “The name’s Chan, by the way,” then kissed the spot just beneath the lobe. “You ready?” he asked softly. You just nodded, too stunned to speak, which made him grin. “Let’s do this,” he called out to your opponents across the table.

A crowd gathered as you and Chan went head-to-head against Lucas and Jon in a playful, banter- and trash talk-filled round of beer pong. Chan definitely carried your team, but you insisted you contributed (despite only sinking one cup).

By the end, you were laughing too hard to care that even with Chan, the ringer, your team still lost.

“So,” Chan leaned in slightly, “should we go another round? I feel like since we’re warmed up now, this could be our opportunity. Or do you admit defeat?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no stopping the grin tugging at your lips. “I never admit defeat.”

“Good,” he said, smirking. “Cause I fucking hate to lose. I guess that means we’ll be here all night.”

Three rounds later, you were both beyond drunk. The two of you broke away from the group to share a hammock, where you continued your lively conversation, talking and laughing loudly with each other. Chan then snuck you upstairs into the main bedroom, allowing you to use the ensuite bathroom to bypass the long queue for the one downstairs.

“Are you sure this is okay,” you called out from the toilet through the crack in the door.

“Yeah. The guy throwing the party, Han, is my best friend. He wouldn’t mind.”

“My bladder appreciates you,” you said emerging from the bathroom after washing your hands. You found Chan leaning against the door frame, his eyes locking onto yours.

“You’re welcome. My turn,” he said, quickly pushing past you, causing you to laugh as he added, “I’m regretting trying to be a gentleman.”

As you waited for him, you walked around the bedroom, nosiness guiding your steps. Your eyes landed on an acoustic guitar resting against the wall, it’s polished wood gleaming under the soft light filtering in through the window.

“Is your friend a musician?” you inquired over your shoulder, keeping your eyes on the instrument’s intricate details.

“He is,” Chan called out from the bathroom. “A really good one. When we were younger, we talked about starting a band.”

You reached out, fingers brushing over the taut strings, and plucked a couple, the notes resonating softly in the room. “And now you’re in law school? You’re a fucking sellout!” you teased, a grin spreading across your face as you heard his laughter spill through the door.

“Oh wow! I wasn’t expecting to get called out!” he shouted back, his voice mingling with his lighthearted giggles that bounced off the tiled walls of the bathroom. You were starting to really love those fucking little giggles of his. So damn cute and you had noticed that he giggled more the drunker he got.

“So you’re not a sellout?” you challenged, glancing towards the closed door.

“Oh, I totally am,” he admitted playfully. “But when he’s a big-time music producer, I can lead his legal team.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” you replied, nodding to yourself.

A couple seconds later, you felt his warm hands slide around your waist, gently pulling you back against him. His breath was a soft tickle against your neck as you melted against him.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, his lips hovering dangerously close to your skin.

“Yes,” you whispered. Your eyes fluttered shut when you felt his mouth make contact with your neck, warm and tender.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked as his lips now traced a slow, deliberate path from your neck to your shoulder and back up, each graze a question.

“Yes.”

His hand grabbed your chin to turn your head to the side and back towards him, then he pressed his lips to yours, gentle at first, testing the waters before deepening it into a more passionate kiss, stealing your breath. You turned your entire body to face him and wrapped your arms around his neck as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, exploring, claiming.

You felt his hands tug upwards at your t-shirt, lifting it over your head in one swift motion. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body. Then his hands were at your back, his fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against your lips as the clasp finally came loose with a delicate flick. His breath was ragged, his voice a mix of hope and restraint.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered back and your heart melted at the sight of the boyish grin he gave you. He slipped the straps off your shoulder and you allowed the bra to flutter to the floor in between the two of you.

In response, you removed his shirt and paused at the glorious sight. You traced your fingers along the lines of his abs, marveling at the lean, chiseled, eight pack. He was a sculpture come to life. Chan broke your stare by bringing your lips back to his, then guiding you towards the bed with a gentle but insistent push. He laid you down softly and his eyes drank in your curves as his hands slid over your skin, exploring every inch with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

You reached up and pulled him down to you, your lips meeting in a hungry clash of desire. His kisses trailed down your neck, your chest, as his hands struggled to unbutton your jeans.

“I’m just a tad bit drunk,” he chuckled as he continued to struggle. “Give me a second… Why are there five fucking buttons?!?!?” he questioned as a mask of concentration moved over his face. His confession made you grin this time. “Fucking fashion!” he grumbled.

That made you laugh loudly. “I can help,” you whispered as you started to move your hands down to help.

Chan grinned as he swatted your hands away playfully. “No! I got it. I think.” He worked slowly through each button as he bit his bottom lip, one eyebrow raised in concentration. “I’m a big boy and should be able to get a hot woman naked on my own…” Once he was successful, he peeled the jeans off slowly, savoring the reveal of your toned legs, then kissed his way back up.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, unzipping them with deliberate slowness. He stood and let them drop, stepping out of them with an easy grace. His erection strained against his boxer-briefs, and you bit your lip, anticipation coiling tight in your belly. He climbed back onto the bed, hovering over you, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, sending jolts of electricity through your body.

He kissed you again, deep and consuming, as he ground his hips against yours. You could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your panties, could feel how badly he wanted you. His hands slipped down, fingers hooking into your panties and tugging them off in one fluid motion. You were completely exposed now, your skin flushed and burning with need.

Chan paused, his eyes locking with yours, searching for permission, for reassurance that this was all okay. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

“Please,” you whispered as you tugged at the back of his boxer-briefs yourself, pulling the fabric down over his ass, and he didn’t need any more encouragement. He freed himself, removing his underwear the rest of the way and positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you with the tip. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh as you braced for him.

He entered you slowly, stretching you, filling you, and a low moan escaped your lips. He kissed you to muffle your sounds, his movements gentle but unrelenting. Each thrust was measured, controlled, as if he was determined to make it last, to make every moment count. Your bodies moved in a slow, sensual rhythm, the bed creaking softly beneath you.

You arched your back, meeting his thrusts, your hands tangling in his mess of curls. The room was filled with the sounds of your breathing, your gasps and sighs, the slap of skin on skin. Chan’s pace quickened, his control slipping as he neared the edge. You could feel the tension building in your core, winding tighter and tighter.

“Shit Chan,” you breathed, and that was all it took. He drove into you harder, his face contorted in pleasure and pain. Your climax crashed over you, making your whole body tremble. He followed you over the edge, his hips bucking in a final, desperate thrust as he spilled into you.

He collapsed beside you, both of you sweaty and spent. He pulled you into his arms, holding you close as your breathing slowed. You stared at the ceiling in disbelief as your drunk brain processed that you’d fucked him after knowing him for only two, maybe three hours.

But you also really liked him.

Chan broke the lingering silence as he whispered your name.

“Hmm?” you responded, turning your head on the pillow to face him, meeting his gaze.

“Uhm,” he started, a nervous look on his face. You raised an eyebrow intrigued by his sudden shift in demeanor, so different from the confident man you’d been talking to all night, who’d just fucked you, and curious about what he was going to say. “Would you, uhm, like to go on a date with me?” he asked cautiously, his voice so low you could barely hear him.

A sudden burst of laughter escaped you, filling the small room. It was a laugh born of drunkenness and the sheer absurdity of the situation.

His eyes widened in surprise at your reaction and then a grin spread across his face as he joined in with a chuckle. “I should have probably led with that first, huh? Instead of the sex?”

You nodded, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Yup.” You brought your palms to his chest, staring into his eyes. “And yes, I’d love to go on a date with you, especially now that we have all the awkward shit out of the way.” His laughter echoed around you before he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a tender kiss.

And that was how it started: a flying ping-pong ball to the face, four terrible beer pong games, and a spark neither of you could ignore.

You push the memory from your mind and refocus on your friends.

“A lie by omission is still a lie, bitch,” Liz says as she playfully shoves your shoulder. “Also, why’d you tell him and not me. I’ve known you longer; literally since second grade!”

“Well you know now. Sorry.”

“Hmmph! Well I get first dibs on any Minho sex stories.”

“Didn’t you just tell her to take it slow?” Lucas tosses a napkin in Liz’s direction.

“Well I mean when she eventually gets there.”

As you and your friends continue to catch up over brunch, a part of you can't help but think about Minho and the next time you’ll see him.

[luckyroll3]

Mine Chapter 2

Mine Masterlist Previous Chapter

You stare at Chan's dimpled smile across the dinner table, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on his face. Your heart aches with unspoken questions, but your throat constricts each time you try to voice them.

"How was work today?" you ask instead, reaching for your wine glass.

Chan's eyes meet yours briefly before darting away. "Busy. The Johnson case is taking up all my time." He takes a large bite of pasta, chewing slowly.

You nod, trying to ignore the knot forming in your stomach. It's the third time this week he's mentioned work keeping him occupied. Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass as you recall Liz's words from earlier: You need to talk to him about where this is going.

But you can't bring yourself to do it. Not yet.

Instead, you watch Chan closely as he eats, searching for clues in the way his shoulders tense slightly when you lean closer, how he checks his phone more frequently than usual.

"I was thinking we could go away this weekend," you venture. "That little B&B we loved last year has an opening."

Chan's fork pauses midway to his mouth. "This weekend? I don't know if I can get away with this case..."

"Oh." You force a smile. "No worries. It was just an idea." You take a slow slip of your wine and look away.

He reaches across the table to squeeze your hand, his touch warm and familiar. "Maybe next month when things calm down a bit."

You nod, clinging to the feeling of his skin against yours. See? He still cares. It's just work stress. Everything's fine.

But as Chan pulls his hand away to reach for his buzzing phone, you can't shake the chill that settles over you when the realization hits you. Next month, there’s a possibility he won’t even be here. You push the thought away and take another sip of wine, remembering how he held you close a couple days ago, whispering, "Love you," against your skin.

It has to be fine. It has to be.

****

The water runs in the bathroom as Chan showers. You're sprawled on the bed, idly flipping through a magazine, when a sudden vibration catches your attention. Chan's phone lights up on the bed, a few inches away from you, and your heart skips a beat as you glimpse the preview of the incoming text.

A photo. A woman. Skin.

The woman, wearing sexy black lingerie, his favorite color, and posed on her hands and knees with her large boobs prominently on display, catches your attention.

You know her. Claire. She’s a paralegal in his department.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the device. You shouldn't. You know you shouldn't. But the gnawing doubt that's been eating at you for weeks propels you forward. The phone vibrates again. This time a message. The preview reads:

Claire: Hi Daddy.

You unlock the phone with a swipe. His pin has been the same for the past 5 years. You’ve never had the need to use it when he wasn’t around; trust has never been an issue between you. Your breath catches as you open the message thread and finish reading the most recent one.

Claire: Thinking about you. Hope you like the view.

"Oh, God," you whisper. Your vision blurs as you scroll through a cascade of intimate photos and flirtatious messages. "No, no, no..."

Your mind reels, unable to process the betrayal unfolding before your eyes. Chan's replies are just as explicit, filled with promises and plans for future encounters and what he’ll do to her.

"This can't be happening," you mutter, your voice raw. "How could he do this?"

Your fingers shake as you keep scrolling, each message a dagger to your heart. It's not just once. Not just a moment of weakness. This has been going on for weeks. It’s clear that they’ve met up several times outside of work and that they’ve had intimate encounters. More than that; they’ve fucked.

The sound of the shower stops, and panic grips you. You place the phone back exactly where it was, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Anger. Betrayal. Heartbreak. They crash over you in waves as you struggle to breathe.

What do I do now? you think to yourself as you look around the empty room, your world crumbling around you. You wasted five years of your life on someone you thought loved you more than anything. But now it all makes sense… the delays, his hesitations.

And you’re pissed.

Your heart pounds and you take a deep breath as you hear the bathroom door open, bracing yourself for the confrontation ahead.

Chan emerges, his hair damp and curly, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Any other time, the sight of his muscles and his skin glistening would have made your breath catch. Now, it only fuels your rage. He smiles when he sees you, oblivious to the emotions boiling inside you.

“Hey babe. You planning to shower? I didn’t use all the hot water this time,” he says casually with a grin as he grabs a t-shirt from his drawer in your dresser.

You stare at him, this man you thought you knew so well, now revealed as someone else entirely.

"Are you cheating on me?" The words burst from your lips, sharp and accusatory. Fuck sugarcoating; you need to get to the bottom of this immediately.

Chan freezes. He turns towards you, shirt half-pulled over his head. His warm brown eyes widen in shock. "What?” he asks incredulously, his voice laced with confusion and disbelief. "I... What are you talking about?"

You can see the panic flickering across his face, the way his muscles tense beneath his skin. It makes you sick.

Your eyes bore into his, flashing with anger and pain.

"Don't lie to me," you spit out, your voice quivering. "I saw the messages, Chan. The pictures. How long have you been fucking Claire behind my back?" you ask with gritted teeth.

You watch the color drain from his face. His mouth opens but no words come out.

He takes a step back, then tries to regain his composure. He pulls his shirt the rest of the way on. "I-I don't know what you're…"

"Stop!" You're shouting now. "Don't fucking lie to me!" you yell, hurling his phone at him. He catches it easily, clutching it against his stomach. “I deserve the truth. Why? Why would you do this to me? To us?"

Chan's shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him. "I... I'm sorry," he whispers as he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and the admission shatters something inside you.

"Sorry isn't good enough," you say, your voice breaking. "How could you? I trusted you," you choke out. "I gave you everything. I thought we were happy. I thought we had a future."

Chan runs a hand through his hair, his expression torn between guilt and frustration. "That's just it," he says, his voice low. "The future. It's always looming, isn't it? The expectations, the pressure…"

You cut him off, incredulous. "Pressure? What pressure?” You finally stand up and point at him. “I've never pushed you for anything!"

"Not explicitly, no," Chan responds, his voice rising. "But it's always there, no? The talk of settling down, of marriage, of kids, of building a life together. It's suffocating!"

His words hit you like a physical blow. You stumble back, your mind reeling. "So this is my fault? Because I dared to imagine a future with the man I love and have been committed to for five fucking years of my life?!" You’re fuming now, the anger rolling off your body in waves.

Chan's face contorts with regret. "No, that's not what I meant. I just... I don't know if I'm ready for all that. I don't know if I'll ever be ready."

The realization dawns on you, cold and cruel. His distance. The job offer he’s considering that he didn’t bother to talk to you about. You bring your palm to cover your face.

"You never saw a future with me, did you?" you whisper, your heart breaking all over again. You turn your back to him. "What did you think came next? All this time, I've been dreaming for both of us." He remains quiet. “You think you’re the only one who’s been offered promotions somewhere else?” You shake your head as you face him again. “Rich that I always considered the impact to you but I never even registered as a concern when you had the same options.” You chuckle, but it’s devoid of any humor.

You stare at Chan, truly seeing him for the first time. The warm brown eyes that once held such promise now seem hollow, the dimpled smile that used to melt your heart now a mask of deception. His muscular frame, usually so comforting, now feels like a threat, trapping you in this nightmare.

"You know what? Fuck you Chan,” you say calmly. “You're not the man I thought you were." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't even know who you are anymore. Your mother would be fucking ashamed of the son she raised." That last one is a petty shot because you know how much of a mama's boy he is, but you don't care at this point.

Chan starts moving towards you with urgency, his hand outstretched and trembling as he reaches for you. His voice quivers as he speaks. "Please, let me explain…"

You recoil from his touch, a surge of anger replacing your shock. "Explain what? How you've been lying to me? How you’ve been planning your escape from me? How you've been fucking some other bitch while telling me you love me every night?"

"I do love you," Chan insists, his eyes pleading. "This doesn't change that."

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. "Love? You don't even know the meaning of the word." You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what comes next. "Yeah… we're done, Chan. This relationship is over."

His face crumples, the reality of your words sinking in. "No. Please! We can work this out. I'll do better, I promise."

"There's nothing to work out," you say, your voice gaining strength. "You've made your choice, and now I'm making mine. I deserve better than this shit. Better than you."

Chan's desperation turns to anger. "So that's it? You're just throwing away everything we've built?"

"You threw it away the moment you decided to stick your dick in someone else. And you just confirmed we have nothing, no future. So what is there to save???" you spit back. "Get the fuck out of my house."

He stands there, frozen, as if he can't believe this is happening. "You don't mean that. You can't…"

The rage bubbles up inside you, threatening to consume you whole. "I said GET OUT!" you scream, your composure finally shattering like a glass vase hitting the floor. You grab his bag, haphazardly tossed on the foot of your bed, and shove it into his arms with all your strength. As he stumbles back slightly, shocked, you stride over to his open drawer and yank out a pair of his sweatpants. Without hesitation, you fling them at him as hard as you can into his face. "Leave! Now!"

Chan flinches at your outburst, then slowly turns and walks out of the bedroom, his head hanging low. He pauses at the front door to pull on the sweatpants and his sneakers, tossing the towel he had wrapped around himself onto the back of the couch. He opens the door and exits, but glances back at you one last time. His eyes are filled with sorrow and apology. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

You meet his gaze, unflinching. "You sure are," you reply, and slam the door in his face.

The sound of the door hitting the frame echoes through your body, reverberating in your chest like a hollow drum. You press your back against the cool wood, sliding down until you're sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to your chest. The silence of the house is deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing.

Your eyes dart around the room, taking in the remnants of your life with Chan. His leather jacket draped over the armchair, his half-empty coffee mug on the side table, his 50 lb dumbbells in the corner, a small collection of his shoes lined up neatly to the right of you; all relics of a relationship now shattered.

"What now?" you whisper to the empty space, your voice trembling.

Your fingers brush against your collarbone, tracing the spot where Chan's lips had been just an hour ago. The memory of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, a bittersweet reminder of what you've lost.

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. The faint scent of Chan's cologne still lingers in the air, mixing with the acrid taste of betrayal on your tongue.

"I should have known," you mutter, anger and self-doubt warring within you. "How could I have been so blind?"

Your mind races, replaying every moment of your relationship, searching for clues you might have missed. The late nights at work, the guarded phone calls, the subtle distance that had grown between you; it all seems so obvious now.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms. Was I not enough? Not pretty enough, not smart enough, not...? you think to yourself.

The questions tumble out, each one a dagger to your self-esteem. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room. You look tired and distraught; your eyes are watery with tears that you’ve been holding back, the drops threatening to spill. For a moment, you barely recognize the woman staring back at you.

"No," you say firmly out loud to the empty room, meeting your own gaze in the mirror. "This isn't about me. This is about him. His weakness. His betrayal. FUCK. HIM."

You stand up slowly, legs shaky but resolve strengthening. Walking to the bedroom, you begin pulling Chan's things from the closet, tossing them onto the bed.

"I deserve better," you say aloud, your voice growing stronger with each word. "I will be better."

As you work, the adrenaline that's been fueling you begins to ebb. The weight of what's happened settles on your shoulders, and suddenly, it's too much to bear.

You sink onto the bed, surrounded by the debris of your relationship, and finally let the tears come.

[luckyroll3]

Mine Chapter 1

Mine Masterlist

A/N: Heads up that this is probably one of the darkest stories I've written to date. Includes stalking, mental and emotional abuse, and obsessive and controlling behavior (see warning on Masterlist). But please note that I choose to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling; however, specific warnings will be provided as they come up at the beginning of each chapter. Therefore, if this type of content might potentially be triggering, I won't be offended if you skip. [spoiler] The story does have a very happy ending, but it will certainly be a roller coaster ride on the way there... [/spoiler]

The late afternoon sun spills golden threads through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over the living room where you lounge. The soft fabric of your couch cradles you, offering solace in solitude as you bask in the quiet hum of your life.

You thumb through a worn novel, a recent acquisition from your favorite used book store, but today your mind wanders, not to fictional realms but to the very real one you've built. You’ve been thinking a lot about the future recently and what it means for your current relationship.

As if right on cue, there's a click of the lock and a turn of the knob. The air shifts, charged with a new energy as Chan, your boyfriend, steps inside. His arrival is like a spark to kindling; its immediate warmth floods the space between you two, igniting the familiar dance of smiles and gazes that speak volumes without uttering a single word. He carries an aura of casual charm, his light brown hair tousled just so, as if he's walked straight out of your daydreams and into the room.

"Hey," he greets with that dimpled smile, the one that's disarmingly effective at melting any resolve you might pretend to possess.

"Hi," you reply, feeling the corners of your mouth betray you, curving upwards unbidden. Chan closes the distance, and his hands find your waist as he climbs onto the couch with you, playful and light, yet they ground you in the here and now. In his presence, there is no elsewhere.

"Missed you," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. The way he says it, tender and earnest, makes it easy to forget the world outside this cocoon of intimacy. He cuddles up next to you and places your legs over his, his hands settling gently on your knees.

The two of you slide into the easy banter, the back-and-forth that feels as natural as breathing, until the conversation meanders to the upcoming celebration of your parents' anniversary in three months, a landmark of commitment and time-worn love.

"Thirty years! I can't even believe that my mom has been able to put up with dad for that long. Can you imagine us, years from now, celebrating like them?" you venture, half in jest, half in a dare to dream.

Chan's laughter is a melody, but it veils something, a brief flicker in his warm brown eyes before he sidesteps the query with a grace that's almost too practiced. "Let's just focus on making sure your dad doesn't get too drunk and break out his dance moves at the party again," he deflects, and although the tease draws a laugh from you, it leaves a residue of unspoken words clinging to your thoughts.

There's no malice coloring his avoidance, but an undercurrent of something else, perhaps a reluctance to anchor himself to a future that looms vast and unknown. A shadow falls across the sunny tableau of your relationship, subtle, yet undeniably there, hinting at the chasm of commitment issues that have laid silently between the two of you for over four years.

But Chan is here now. His touch still lingering, his affection wrapped around you like a promise. You push away the nagging doubts, allowing yourself to be swept up in the allure of the present, the seductive pull of his nearness promising to hold the questions at bay, at least for a little while longer.

The residue of your conversation clings to the air, an invisible weight that Chan seems determined to lift. He leans in, his breath a warm whisper against your ear. "You think too much," he murmurs, his hands finding the curve of your ass with a practiced ease.

You're caught in his gravity, the inevitable pull between you as powerful as it is confounding. The room spins slightly as his lips trace the column of your neck, each kiss igniting a trail of fire on your skin.

“Love you,” he whispers in between kisses.

You can’t deny the chemistry that the two of you have always had, the electric connection that shivers down your center and pools in between your legs. His warmth envelops you, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself drown in the sensation.

“Love you,” you whisper back.

Chan grabs your hands and leads you to the bedroom. He begins to kiss you deeply as he guides you back, back until the edge of the bed nudges at your legs, and with a gentle insistence, he eases you onto the soft sheets. His eyes, those deep pools of brown, are locked onto yours. “You know I’m yours, right?” he asks as his fingers graze your cheek.

You nod slowly.

His touch is deft as he undresses you, each layer discarded like an afterthought, revealing the canvas of your body. There’s an artistry to his movements, a choreography you both know by heart. This dance is familiar, intimate in its repetition, yet tonight, it feels like a masquerade; a beautiful distraction from the hard truths lurking beneath.

As Chan's body melds with yours, the world narrows down to your shared breaths, the slick slide of skin against skin. The pleasure is potent as he thrusts into you, a heady rush that floods your senses and blurs the edges of reality. His rhythm is relentless, a tidal wave that sweeps you along, leaving no room for your doubts or questions, just the primal pulse of desire.

But as the waves crest and recede, leaving you both adrift in the aftermath, the silence returns. In his arms, you're cocooned in a protective embrace, the steady thump of his heartbeat a lullaby that should soothe your restless thoughts.

Yet, nestled against Chan's chest, you find the solace incomplete. A part of you remains alert, your mind tracing the contours of dreams unvoiced. You envision a future painted in strokes of domestic bliss, with the laughter of children, the shared secrets between partners bound by vows, the warmth of a home suffused with love and certainty.

These yearnings fill the hollow spaces, echoing with the intensity of whispered promises and hopes tenderly nurtured over time. They're visions you've harbored close to your heart, a commitment you've longed for with Chan. But as the night deepens, so does the realization that this dream may never be fulfilled.

You watch him sleep, the gentle rise and fall of his chest syncopated with your own uneven heartbeats. What is holding him back, you wonder, questioning whether the dreams you have ever wander through his mind as well.

"Chan," you murmur softly, the name a caress against the quiet room. But no answer comes, and you swallow the question on your tongue, burying it beneath the layers of denial. He loves you; that much is certain. Yet you know love doesn’t always signify forever. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body combat the cool tendrils of doubt that slither through your thoughts.

You breathe in the scent of him, fresh citrus, minty, and a hint of sweetness, and you press closer, seeking a reassurance that remains frustratingly out of reach. Chan tightens his embrace around you and his steady breathing, a rhythm you've come to know as well as your own, lulls you toward a restless sleep where dreams and desires entwine, a bittersweet tapestry of what could be… and what might never come to pass.

Morning dawns with a softness that belies the turmoil within you. You're alone now, the sheets beside you a vacant expanse where the heat of Chan's presence still lingers. He’s gone to the gym.

Your phone buzzes and you turn your attention back to the group chat between you, Liz, and Lucas, your best friends, their digital avatars smiling up from the screen, unaware of the seismic shift happening beneath your composed exterior. The conversation has been very active this morning, but you haven’t really been participating much, your mind on other things.

Liz: So, big anniversary for you and Chan next month Think he’s gonna pop the question?

Liz's text sparkles with her usual blend of anticipation and nosiness.

Lucas: Yeah, 5 years is a long runway for takeoff. 😉 What the fuck is he waiting on? ⌛️

Their words, light-hearted though they may be, claw at your freshly sown doubts. You laugh outwardly, typing back something non-committal.

You: We're happy where we’re at.

But inside, happiness feels like a jigsaw puzzle with one piece perpetually missing.

Liz: Sure, sure. But don't you want more? With him?

Her digital side-eye is very evident even through the phone.

More, echoes in your mind, a refrain that grows louder with each passing second. You do want more; fuck, you want it all. The ring that symbolizes eternity, the family gatherings with kids running underfoot, the shared life built on mutual dreams. And Chan? What does he want?

You’re not sure anymore.

You: Chan's got his own timeline, I guess. 🤷🏽‍♀️

The words are bittersweet as they slip through your fingers. Lucas' reply is immediate, a virtual hug wrapped in concern.

Lucas: Just make sure you're both reading from the same book, okay? Any other guy with common sense would have locked you down already. You’re a fucking catch, chica.

Liz adds a ‘100’ to his comment. You sigh, your finger hovering over the 'like' button before pressing down. A small acknowledgment of their care, yet it feels like conceding to an invisible adversary. There's a tightness in your throat that won't ease, a yearning that refuses to be silenced.

You: Thanks, guys.

A paltry raft of gratitude amidst a sea of unresolved emotions. You set the phone aside, your gaze unfocused as you contemplate the intricate web of feelings and fears that bind you.

Love is never simple, nor is the path it weaves. But as the sun crawls higher, painting the room in shades of hope and trepidation, you know one thing for certain: silence is no longer an option. You need answers, even if they come edged with the possibility of pain. Because without truth, what are you both clinging to but the ghost of a future that might never materialize?

The next day, the doorbell chimes, a soft intrusion that pulls you from the cocoon of your thoughts. Disentangled from the web of brooding reflections, you pad across the cool hardwood floor, curiosity piqued by the unexpected visitor. Your heart skips, half-hopeful, half-restrained as you swing open the door to find Chan's familiar grin, dimples etched deep into his cheeks.

“You have a key….” you say confused.

"I know. But I wanted to surprise you. Surprise!" he says, holding up a basket brimming with the makings of an impromptu Sunday picnic. The gesture slices through the fog of your uncertainties like a beam of sunlight piercing storm clouds. He steps inside, brushing past you with an air of excitement that’s contagious. It’s impossible not to smile back, to feel the warmth spreading through your chest.

"Come on," Chan beckons, grabbing your hand and leading you to the open space of your living room. "Let's make the most of this late afternoon."

You watch him lay out a blanket and adorn it with the decorative pillows from the couch. He meticulously arranges an assortment of cheeses, fruits, and a bottle of your favorite wine. His care, the undiluted attention he lavishes upon this moment, it reassures you in ways words never could. For a while, you allow yourself to be swallowed by the here and now, by the laughter and easy conversation that dances between you.

Three wine bottles in, Chan extends his arms wide like a budget version of Rose in Titanic and dramatically tips backwards into the mountain of cushions beside you.

You burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. “Has the ‘Fallen King’ returned?” you ask when you catch your breath.

“At your service, my queen,” he declares, his voice a blend of mock regality and hilarity, as he joins your laughter.

You roll to lay on your side and watch him pop grapes in his mouth as the memory of the first appearance of Chan’s Fallen King flickers in your mind. It was the first vacation you and Chan had taken with your group of friends.

On a Honolulu beach, Chan was determined to prove that he was an amazing architect and he suggested a sandcastle-building contest. He spent hours sculpting a masterpiece, complete with seashell decorations and a moat dug with the precision of a tiny medieval engineer. Just as he stood back to admire his work, a rogue seagull descended like a feathery wrecking ball, landing in the middle of his creation, sending it crumbling and causing the entire structure to collapse. Instead of accepting defeat, Chan dramatically flopped backwards into the remains of the sandcastle, declaring himself the fallen king of this now bird-conquered beach kingdom, and then promptly snow-angeled the rest of the structure as he laughed at the ridiculousness. It was one of the many moments at the beginning of your relationship that made you fall in love with him.

As night draws its curtain around the room, you stand, swaying slightly to the muted melody of a song that seeps from the speakers. Chan rises to meet you, his hands finding your waist, drawing you closer. You move together, a slow, intimate dance that requires no choreography, just the silent language of bodies in sync. The world shrinks until it's just the two of you, spinning gently in a bubble of shared solitude.

"Thank you for this," you whisper into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, a grounding, reassuring presence.

He hums in response, a low, affectionate sound that vibrates against your cheek. "Anything for you."

The music fades into silence, but neither of you stops moving. Instead, you drift toward the couch, still entwined. There, beneath the warm glow of a single lamp, you lower yourselves, a blanket of comfort enveloping you both. His lips find yours, a kiss that ignites yet soothes, that speaks of uncharted depths and the tender surface alike.

"Chan..." Your heart thrums with a cocktail of desire and that persistent, nagging uncertainty. But his touch is insistent, persuasive, guiding you away from the edge of doubts and into the realm of sensation. So you let go, allow yourself to be carried by the current of his affections, convincing yourself that love, in all its complexity, can be enough for now.

"Shh," he whispers against your mouth, a gentle command laced with yearning.

And you do. You feel the heat of his skin, the strength in his arms, the promise in his kiss. It’s seductive, this momentary reprieve from the questions haunting you. Maybe he does need more time. Maybe love is patient after all.

Chan pulls your shorts down, before releasing his throbbing cock from its cage behind the zipper of his jeans. Before you can say anything else, he throws your leg over his shoulder and he’s burying his dick deep within you.

As your bodies move together, a symphony of sounds fills the room: the creaking of the couch, your ragged breaths, and the soft moans and whispered words of endearment that spill from Chan's lips. He tells you that you’re beautiful, that he loves you, that he’s yours. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss laced with intention as he explores the contours of your body with his hands and mouth.

And yet, despite the intensity of your physical connection, there's a lingering hesitation within you. An uncertainty that persists like a thorn in your side, whispering reminders of all the unspoken questions between you and Chan. But he's relentless in his pursuit to banish your doubts, to prove with each stroke and thrust that this moment between you is real, that love can be enough.

But as you sink deeper into the embrace, into the hushed intimacy of whispers and tangled limbs, a part of you can’t help but cling to the hope that these moments are mere preludes to the commitment you so crave.

His lips find yours again, a desperate kiss that leaves no room for second-guessing. You respond with equal fervor, losing yourself in the sensations coursing through your body. His hands leave trails of fire wherever they touch, tracing down to your breasts, teasingly pinching your nipples until they harden between his fingers.

A shuddering breath escapes you when his fingers slip lower still, finding their way between your legs to tease at your clit. A wave of pleasure crashes over you again and again as he expertly builds on each touch until it becomes almost unbearable.

You're barely aware of him pushing up against you, his hips grinding against yours as he relentlessly pursues his own pleasure. His groans fill the air alongside yours until they merge into one symphony, a testament to the raw passion pulsating between you.

In this moment, doubts cease to exist. There's just Chan, just this consuming desire for each other that seems to stretch beyond time and space. You cling to him like a lifeline as he brings you closer and closer to climax, your mind consumed by the heat radiating from every point where his skin meets yours.

For tonight, though, you rest in the eye of the storm, caught between the tempest of your emotions and the tranquil harbor of Chan’s affections, wishing for nothing more than to prolong the illusion of perfect harmony.

****

The clink of glasses and the low murmur of conversations swirl around you, a symphony of corporate revelry. Chan’s law firm hosts these events several times a year. Warm light cascades from ornate chandeliers, casting a golden glow on the sea of suited attendees. Your fingers play with the stem of your wine glass, the cool surface slick against your skin. You search the room for Chan, wondering where he’s gotten off to.

"Quite the power couple, aren't you two?" Chan's boss, Thomas, a silver-haired man with a practiced smile, says as he leans closer across the table. His words are wrapped in congeniality. "You must be excited about his promotion and the potential move. They’d love to get him up at our firm’s headquarters. Your bank also has a branch there, no?”

Your breath catches, a frozen shard in your chest. “In Chicago?” He nods. “Yeah, we do.” The sip of wine you take is tasteless, its usual flavor stripped away by shock.

“So it would be an easy move for you too, right?” The news slices through the evening's ambiance, a stark contrast to the gentle moments of intimacy and reassurance shared not so long ago. It feels like betrayal, not just from Chan but from the future you've woven together in your mind.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “It would,” you squeak out, then plaster a smile on your face.

“Good, good. I’m glad to hear that. Hopefully he’ll make his decision soon.” He gives you a squeeze on the shoulder as he moves to the next table to chat with one of Chan’s coworkers.

Chan's laugh echoes across the room, oblivious to the tremor that has taken root in your world. He returns a few minutes later, all charm and dimpled smiles, sliding into the seat beside you. His hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing with an ease born of years, as if nothing could ever come between them.

"Hey there," he murmurs, the words a warm breath against your temple before he places a gentle kiss on it. He's close. You want to lean into it, drown in the comfort of his touch like you do so often, but a cold dart of doubt pierces through, sharp and unbidden. "Everything good?" Chan's voice is tinged with concern now, his brow furrowing slightly, a testament to his attunement to your moods.

You nod, forcing a brittle smile. "Just a bit tired from all the socializing," you lie smoothly, the words coated in the honey of feigned contentment. It’s an easy one that you know he’ll accept. You’re not necessarily an introvert, but you’re not the social butterfly that he is.

Internally, you're reeling, questions and accusations tangling like thorns. Does he not see a forever with you? Has this been his plan all along? A solo flight to a new life without you in the picture?

But no – this isn't the time or place for confrontation, despite the sting of uncertainty.

As the night wears on, each tender gesture from Chan feels soothing, but also a reminder of the distance that might soon separate you. The way he brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the softness in his eyes when he looks at you; it’s all there, yet somehow it feels like the prelude to a painful goodbye.

"Let's dance," he suggests playfully, as he stands and offers you his hand. There's an undeniable pull, the magnetic field of his affection drawing you in.

And you follow because it's Chan, because even as your heart wrestles with the fear of loss, your body craves the closeness, the undeniable connection that ignites between you two whenever you touch.

Despite yourself, you allow him to make you laugh as he starts doing body rolls and hip thrusts in the middle of the dance floor, before pulling you close to him to dance against you during the upbeat R&B song. For now, you dance, and Chan holds you tight. But as the evening draws to a close, the echo of his boss' words haunts you, a specter of change looming on the horizon.

****

The flicker of candles casts a warm glow over Chan’s bedroom, softening the edges of your simmering thoughts. He's sprawled on the bed, the epitome of ease, his light brown hair tousled just so, eyes reflecting the candlelight with that gentle and thoughtful look you’ve always found disarming. You trail your fingertips over his sculpted abs, the shadows dancing across his skin as you shift your position to look at his face.

"Chan," you begin, the word a tightrope walk between affection and uncertainty, "Thomas told me you’re being offered a promotion... in Chicago?"

He shifts his position, the springs of the bed creaking beneath him as he turns towards you, and there’s a lilt of dismissiveness in his face before he even speaks. "Oh, that?" Chan brushes it off, waving his hand like he’s swatting away a fly. "It's nothing concrete. Just... a possibility."

Your heart beats a staccato rhythm against your ribs. "But moving to another state, Chan? That’s not just any possibility. It's huge. Why wouldn’t you mention this to me?"

There's a shift in his demeanor, a subtle hardening like frost over glass. "I haven't made any decisions yet," he says, and you notice how he avoids looking directly at you. "It would be a great move for my career, though. I have over a month to think about it."

"Chan... What about us?" The question hangs heavy in the air, clinging to the rich scent of citrus and mint that has become his signature.

He finally meets your gaze, his warm brown eyes now shielding something behind their depths. "You understand, right? You know how important this is for me… to be able to become a junior partner so quickly."

You swallow hard, tasting the bitterness of unmet dreams. Chan assumes your silence is acquiescence, an agreement to the unsaid terms of his potential departure. But inside, a storm brews with doubt, fear, and a desperate longing for the future you envisioned together.

"Of course," you whisper, but the words are ash in your mouth. “And I’m happy for you.” But aren't WE important? you say to yourself, too in your feelings right now to ask it out loud. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining in a familiar dance, but tonight the touch feels hollow, a ghost of the connection you once believed unshakeable.

As Chan pulls you closer, wrapping you in the fortress of his arms, the nagging feeling clings to you like a second skin. It's the sensation of standing at the edge, peering down into a chasm that separates not just distance, but hearts. Your idealized view of your relationship, once vivid and vibrant, now appears as a mosaic of uncertainties, the pieces drifting apart slowly, almost imperceptibly.

All the while, Chan holds you, his heartbeat a steady drum against your ear, unknowingly serenading the end of an era.

****

You sit cross-legged on the sofa; it still holds the faintest scent of Chan's cologne embedded in its fibers. Your fingers trace an absent pattern on the cushion, a tactile reminder of countless nights spent curled up with him, discussing dreams painted in the hues of a shared future. You sift through memories like pages in a novel you've read too many times, each chapter laden with promises and soft laughter.

And yet, an undercurrent of discord taints the narrative. The images are there—wedding vows exchanged beneath a canopy of stars, the heartbeat of tiny feet pitter-pattering through hallways—but they flicker, unstable, as if threatened by an incoming storm.

The longing for something deeper, something more binding than ephemeral moments of passion, gnaws at you. You've tasted the sweetness of Chan's kisses, felt the electric charge of his touch sparking fire along your skin. But it's the unspoken words, the commitment hanging just beyond reach, that leave you famished, yearning for sustenance. You finally make the decision that it's time to strip away the veneer, to confront the raw, unvarnished truth.

You rise from the couch, resolve hardening like steel within your chest. The air around you feels charged, thick with the gravity of impending confession. There's a certain terror in not knowing how the conversation will unfold, in facing the potential unraveling of the tapestry you've so lovingly woven together.

But the fear is also exhilarating, a heady rush that propels you forward. You need to know where you stand, to see if the foundation you've built is solid or merely a bed of sand ready to shift beneath your feet.

"Chan," you practice the address, your voice low and steady, "we need to talk." The words hang in the air, a declaration of intent. You imagine his reaction, the furrow of his brow, the way he might run a hand through his tousled hair in frustration.

A deep breath fills your lungs, the oxygen emboldening your spirit. You'll speak your truth, lay bare the desires that have been cloaked in silence for far too long. It's a gamble, a roll of the dice with the highest stakes, but you're ready to play.

You reach for your phone, fingers poised over the screen, about to disrupt the delicate equilibrium that’s existed between the two of you over the past few years. Then you pause, allowing yourself one more moment of peace before diving into the tempest. One more heartbeat where everything is still possible, before you step into the unknown and confront the reality of your relationship with Chan.

[luckyroll3]

Mine Masterlist

Summary: When a devastating breakup with your longtime boyfriend Chan leads to a whirlwind romance with a charming, but dangerous Minho, you must fight to reclaim your life before you’re consumed by his obsession.

Chan x original character (f), Minho x original character (f); Smut, Romantic Thriller

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, rough sex, graphic language, and depictions of emotional abuse including obsessive and controlling behavior, mental and emotional abuse, stalking, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Updates will be posted 2-3 times week.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

My Masterlist

[luckyroll3]

Unexpected Chapter 26: Something That We're Not

Unexpected Masterlist Previous Chapter

Mia

Mia's fingers danced a jittery rhythm on the picnic table, each tap echoing her thumping heart. The sound of waves crashing on the beach provided a comforting backdrop, yet did little to ease the fluttering in her stomach. She glanced down at her shorts, second-guessing her choice of attire for the hundredth time since she'd left home.

Stop it, she scolded herself silently. You're not some lovesick teenager. Get it together, Mia Sharpe.

She spotted a figure down the beach walking towards the park. It was Chan wearing a black baseball cap, a black tank top, and black basketball shorts; his muscular arms and legs were fully on display. His dimples were carved deep into his cheeks as he pressed his lips together, folding them inward. As he got closer to the park, his eyes darted around the area until they landed on her.

Okay, here we go, Mia thought, attempting to dampen her nervous energy.

"Hey, Mia," he said as he approached the picnic table, his voice weaving through the air like a familiar melody, hoping to put them both at ease. "Sorry I'm late; our meeting with management ran a few minutes long." Instead of sitting next to her like he usually did, he sat across from her, giving her space. She was appreciative of that.

"Hi Chris," Mia replied, the corners of her mouth lifting despite the turmoil inside. "It's fine. I haven't been waiting long." A half-truth, but harmless enough.

"Thanks for coming," he said, his voice barely above the murmur of the park around them.

Mia nodded stiffly, her posture rigid. "We needed to talk."

They settled into a silence that hung between them, filled with unspoken questions and the remnants of past conversations.

With a cautious lean in, Mia folded her hands atop the wooden table, her eyes tracing the grain before settling back onto Chan. "So, how have you been?" She tilted her head slightly, the stray curl she had tucked behind her ear earlier slipping free.

"Good, I've been good," Chan replied, though his hands betrayed him as one lifted his cap and the other swept through his hair, a silent confession of the nerves he harbored. "Busy, but good. Forcing myself to stay busy…" His gaze lingered on her, reading the subtleties of her expression.

"Me too. Busy is... good," Mia said. The silence resumed as they watched each other.

Chan took a deep breath, his heart pacing like a drumbeat against his ribs. "Mia, I need to apologize to you," he began, his voice steady but heavy with sincerity. "I know I've made mistakes, ones I deeply regret."

She listened, her poised exterior unwavering, but her brown eyes softened, reflecting the gravity of his words. "Go on," she encouraged, her tone gentle yet guarded.

"I should have been upfront about everything and came to you immediately with the truth so that we could figure out next steps together," Chan continued, his own eyes earnest and imploring. "I can’t believe I let you find out that way. I just… I wasn’t sure how to handle it and tried to buy myself some time to figure it out. And that unintentionally made it worse. The guys, Min in particular, told me to just be honest with you, to call you that night, that you would understand and everything would be fine. I was too scared of losing what we had and I didn’t listen.” He paused for a few seconds. “But being apart from you, it made me realize just how much you mean to me, Mia. How much I love you."

The air around them seemed to still. Mia's heart raced, her practiced composure faltering as she absorbed his apology. He had also said that he loved her, and that confession made her heart skip a beat.

"Chris, I..." Mia trailed off, uncertainty lacing her words. She took a deep breath, grasping for the courage to voice her fears. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Look, I know why you're hesitant," he began, his tone laden with a mixture of regret and resolve. "I've been... careless with your feelings. I’ve not been transparent about how all this…," he gestured vaguely between them, "...might look. Or what it could mean for you."

"It's not just about optics, Chris. It’s about trust. I need to believe that I can trust you." Mia placed her elbow on the table and rested her head against her upright palm. She locked eyes with him and waited for him to respond.

After a minute, Chan broke the silence. "I know," he interjected softly. "And I want to show you, in every way, that you can trust me again. That I'm not just saying these things…I mean them.” He took a deep breath. "Look, Mia. I know I've messed things up between us, but... I want to make it right. If you'll let me."

Mia searched his eyes, looking for the sincerity she hoped to find there. The part of her that wanted to believe fought against the walls she'd built around her heart. She sighed, a sound heavy with unspoken words. "I also need to protect what I've built; my peace."

"Which I never meant to disrupt," Chan said quickly, leaning forward. "But I did. And I'm sorry, truly."

He looked away for a brief moment, then turned back to recapture her gaze.

"Mia, I..." His throat tightened, but he forced the confession out. "I realize now how deep my feelings for you go. And I can't... I don't want to imagine my life without you in it."

"Chris, I need to know this isn't just another fling for you," Mia said, her voice quivering with the strain of vulnerability. "That I'm not just a detour from your usual path."

He reached out tentatively, his fingertips grazing her hand. "You are not a detour, Mia. You're the destination. And if you'll have me, I want to walk that path with you, for as long as you'll let me."

Their hands met, fingers intertwining with a cautious pressure, a silent testament to the tentative bridge they were rebuilding.

"Chris," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "I need you to understand something. I’ve built walls, high ones, to keep myself safe."

Chan watched her intently, his gaze encouraging her to continue.

"It's not that I doubt you, or us... It's just that I've been down this road before. And each time, it led to a dead end." The words came out in a rush, like a dam finally giving way. "I'm scared of what it means to be this vulnerable again, to fully let someone in."

“I get that,” Chan responded.

“Did you mean it?” Mia asked. Chan raised an eyebrow, confused. “When you said you loved me a few minutes ago.”

“Shit. I didn’t even realize I said it… but I do. I love you.”

“When we first met, you said you didn’t believe in love. Has that changed?”

“I said I was skeptical about true love and that we each have one soulmate. But I’m not so sure anymore. What I do know is I love you, Mia. You’re only the second woman I’ve ever said that to.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Other than finding my group members, nothing has ever felt so right in my life.”

“I love you too, Chris,” she whispered. "It's just..." She paused, her curls tumbling as she shook her head slightly. "Even though I've tried to protect myself, my feelings for you have only grown deeper… entirely too fast. But there’s this fear, this undeniable fear of being hurt again."

"Thank you for telling me, Mia," Chan said softly, his Australian accent more pronounced in the quietude of their conversation. His hand caressed her face. "I can't promise there won't be bumps on the road, but I swear I'll be right beside you for every single one. We can take it slow, rebuild your trust."

"Okay," she whispered, the simplicity of the word carrying the weight of her decision. "We try again, together. But it has to be different this time. Honesty, communication, no holding back. Can you do that?"

Chan stood and walked around the picnic table to sit next to her, his gaze never leaving hers. "I can." He pulled her face to his for a kiss. Mia didn’t resist.

When their lips separated, he continued. "I'm truly sorry for the pain I've caused you," he said, his voice thick with regret. "And while I wish I could erase it, all I can do now is be honest with you, completely honest."

Mia nodded, giving him the space to continue.

"During our time apart, I was lost," Chan confessed, his eyes searching hers for understanding. "I had.... Uhm… I had sex with someone else. It meant nothing. It was a hollow attempt to fill the space you left behind." His admission hung heavy between them, a painful truth laid bare. He waited for her to pull away.

Mia's breath hitched in her throat, an unexpected ache blooming in her chest. Despite the sting of his words, she admired his courage to speak them. "Chris, I did too. I was with Jason," she admitted, her tone laced with reluctance. "He was a distraction, yes, but I can’t say it was meaningless.” Mia paused briefly before continuing. “He wants me to take him back. And honestly, I was considering it.”

Their confessions lingered in the air, a shared vulnerability that neither had anticipated. Mia watched as Chan's jaw clenched and his nostrils flared, a surge of jealousy flowing through him.

“Saur, will this be a thing moving forward? We fight and you run back to him?” His voice was shaky, showcasing his hurt, but also a twinge of anger.

“Don’t do that, Chris. We both fucked up. But I’m here with you. I’m choosing you.” She rested her forehead against his. “I chose you. Let’s move past this.” She looked into Chan's earnest eyes, seeing the man who had captured her heart despite the odds. They lapsed into a lingering uncomfortable silence.

“Okay,” he finally whispered. Their lips met again in a shared understanding and determination to move forward. As they kissed, the weight of their mistakes lifted and was replaced with a newfound commitment to each other. After what felt like hours, they finally pulled apart to catch their breaths.

“I missed these lips,” Mia said softly.

Chan smiled. “I didn’t think I’d get to kiss you again.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “Want to walk to the beach house for dinner? Minho’s cooking.”

“Sure.” They got up from the picnic table and walked down the beach.

The sun was beginning its descent, casting a golden hue over the horizon as Mia and Chan strolled along the sandy shore towards the beach house. The gentle lull of the waves provided a soothing backdrop to their shared silence, a comfortable space where words were unnecessary.

As they approached the charming beach house, the aroma of savory spices and grilled seafood wafted through the air. Lee Know stood over the grill on the back deck, a beer in one hand, tongs in the other.

When he saw Chan and Mia walking hand in hand, he brought the beer bottle to his mouth and took a sip. “One more for dinner?” he asked Chan nonchalantly as the couple walked up the four steps to the deck.

Chan nodded, trying to contain his smile.

“Hi Min,” Mia said as she approached him with her arms out.

“Hey Mia,” he responded as he hugged her tight. “So nice to see you.”

“Thanks,” she said as she stepped back. “Looks good,” she gestured to the grill.

“Thanks,” he responded as he flipped several lobster tails. “You sure you want to take this knucklehead back?”

“I think I’ll keep him for a little while longer,” Mia teased, shooting a playful glance at Chan.

Chan chuckled, shaking his head as he wrapped an arm around Mia’s waist, pulling her closer to him. “And I’m working on being less of a knucklehead.”

Lee Know raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "We’ll see. Mia, can I get you something to drink?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a beer.” Mia and Chan sat down at the outdoor dining table.

“Hannie!” he yelled. “Can you bring two beers.”

A few moments later, Han walks out the sliding glass door, two bottles in hand. “Why do you need two more?” he asked. “I just brought you that one a few minutes ago.”

Lee Know pointed with his chin in the direction of the table.

“Oh shit! Mia! Welcome back!” He walked over, threw his arms around her enthusiastically and placed a wet kiss on her cheek. Mia chuckled, and rubbed his back, enjoying his excitement. Then he handed her a bottle. “I honestly wasn’t sure that we’d ever see you again….” Han side-eyed Chan as he slid the bottle to him.

“Han!” Lee Know shouted as he shook his head.

“What? It’s the truth. He fucked up. I mean I’m glad they’re back together – I love love – but, after that fight, I thought for sure they were done.” Chan kicked him in the shin. “Ow! Sorry.” He turned to Mia, “You should talk to Binnie. You hurt his feelings when you told him to fuck off.”

“Ignore him,” Lee Know said as he wrapped his arm around Han’s neck and started to drag him away from the table. “He never learned how to keep his mouth shut. Consequence of being the baby of the family.”

Han fake gagged playfully, a full grin on his face.

“I didn’t tell him to fuck off, did I?” Mia asked with a laugh as she looked at each of the three men.

Chan took a sip of his beer. “Not in those exact words. Bin’s a lot more sensitive than he lets on. Don’t let the big muscles fool you.”

Right on cue, Changbin walked out with a pot of rice in one hand and a large bowl of salad in the other.

“Hey! I didn’t know Mia was here. Guess this means the two of you are good?” He raises an eyebrow at Chan as he sets everything on the table.

“For now,” Mia said as Changbin sat on the other side of her. Mia turned to face him. “Hey Changbin. I’m sorry for cursing you out that night. I know you were just trying to help. I was angry, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.” She cupped his cherub-like cheeks in her hands and placed a kiss on one of them.

“Yah!” Changbin yelled with a wide grin. Mia laughed. He leaned over to look at Chan. “She’s into me, hyung! You better watch out.”

“Ignore him too,” Chan said with a laugh.

“Don’t worry. She’s cute, but she’s not my type.” Changbin patted Mia’s thigh before whispering, “Sorry.”

Mia couldn’t help but burst into laughter at his ridiculousness. Any tension seemed to melt away as they all talked and laughed together.

Han joined them at the table as Lee Know served the seafood, chicken, and steak he’d prepared on the grill. During dinner, the conversation flowed easily, filled with light-hearted teasing and shared laughter. Chan’s hand never left Mia’s thigh. She found herself relaxing into the moment.

As dinner wound down, Mia could feel Chan’s gaze on her, his hand slowly rubbing her leg. She turned to look at him and his lips curled up in a smile. She leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips. “I gotta use the bathroom,” she whispered.

“Okay,” he whispered back.

Mia walked into the house and headed to Chan’s room. She placed her bag on his desk before entering the bathroom. As she washed her hands, she heard her phone beep. She walked back to the desk and pulled it from her bag. She sat on top of the desk as she unlocked the phone. It was a message from Jason.

Jason:

Just thinking about you, beautiful.

Hope you had a good day.

Shit, Mia thought to herself. Jason had been trying the past few days, calling and texting to check up on her. He hadn’t asked for anything; no favors, no sex, no demands for an answer to his question about them. She appreciated his attempt to be there for her while waiting for her decision.

But she had just made it and now she needed to tell him.

Mia:

Hey. I’m good. Thanks for checking up on me.

Are you home?

Jason:

Twice in one week?

You just can’t get enough of me, huh? 😉

Mia:

I just want to talk.

Jason:

Sounds serious. I’m here.

Just stop by; you have the gate code.

Mia:

Okay. Will probably be there within the hour.

Mia stared at the phone as she tried to make a game plan for the conversation she needed to have with Jason. She was so deep in thought, she didn’t hear Chan come in.

He rested his palms on her bare knees and slid them up her thighs as he positioned himself in between her legs. “Hey,” he said before kissing her on the neck.

“Hi,” she said with a soft smile, placing her phone face down on the desk. She grabbed his face and brought his lips to hers. Mia melted into the kiss as Chan’s hands moved to her ass, sliding her body closer to him.

“When we were at dinner, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things I want to do to you.” He picked her up and moved to the bed. He sat with Mia on top of him, resuming their kiss.

Chan held Mia close, his hands gripping her ass firmly as he kissed her passionately. Mia moaned into his mouth, feeling the warmth of his tongue dancing with hers, as well as his cock hardening beneath her. His hand traveled up her side, tracing the curves of her back before cupping her breast through her shirt. Mia gasped softly against his lips, arching into the touch as she felt herself grow wetter by the second.

As they kissed, Mia couldn't help but feel torn between the passion she shared with Chan and the looming conversation she needed to have with Jason. Her mind drifted for a moment, causing her to break their kiss.

As they pulled apart, Mia looked into Chan's eyes, seeing the depth of his emotions reflected back at her. She wanted to lose herself in him, in this moment of intimacy and reconnection that felt like a lifeline in her sea of emotions. “Chris,” she said as she gazed into his eyes, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chan looked at Mia with concern. “What is it?” he asked softly as he brushed a few wayward curls out of her face.

“It’s about Jason,” Mia said hesitantly. She could see the change in Chan’s expression immediately; from concern to slight annoyance mixed with jealousy. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her forehead against his, reassuringly, before continuing, “I need to go see him.”

“Right now? You can’t do it another time? I wanted you all to myself tonight.”

“I know.” She leaned in and pressed her lips softly against his before pulling away. She took a deep breath. “But I don’t think it’s fair to keep him waiting for my decision when I’ve already made it.”

Chan stayed silent for a few moments. “Okay. I understand.” He nodded, but she could see the hurt in his eyes as his shoulders slumped.

“You don’t need to worry.” She paused and looked deeply in his eyes. “I’ll make this up to you tomorrow. Give you the reconciliation of your dreams.” Their lips touched again, this time their tongues slipping past each other. Chan’s hands moved up Mia’s back pulling her closer to him as their kiss deepened.

“Mmmm,” he hummed against her lips. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Mia pushed Chan away and stood up. “I gotta go, Chris.”

“Okay, okay. Let me walk you to your car.”

Mia grabbed her phone and purse, and together they headed to the front door. They walked hand in hand down the street to the park. When they reached Mia’s car, Chan kissed her lips gently, then held the door open for her to get in.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said softly.

“Bye.”

Twenty minutes later, Mia was at Jason’s gate. She entered the code, and when access was granted, she drove up his winding driveway and parked her car next to his.

She knocked on the door before turning the knob. As she entered, her eyes landed on Jason lounging on the couch, a wine glass in one hand and a file folder in the other.

“Hey M,” his eyes moved from her head down her body and back up again. “You look good.” He sat up and placed both the file and the glass on the coffee table.

Mia sat next to him and he immediately wrapped his arms around her in a hug and brought his lips to her neck.

“What do you want to talk about?” he whispered before letting her go.

“Us.” She sighed. “Thank you for being so open with me the other night. You asked about the possibility of getting back together….” She trailed off, not sure how to continue.

“And….?” Jason grasped her hand.

Mia took a deep breath before continuing. “And I’ve thought about it a lot since then. And I think…. I can’t.” She watched Jason’s eyebrows raise in surprise, clearly not expecting this response from her. He quickly composed himself as she continued. “You will always have a place in my heart. But I realized that I am in love with Chris, and I owe it to myself to see what this could be. You and I? We've had our time.”

Jason’s face fell, and Mia could see the heartache in his eyes. His hand tightened around hers as he gazed into her eyes. “I see,” he said quietly.

Mia could feel the tension in the air as she waited for more of Jason’s response. She knew that this was not what he wanted to hear, but she had to be honest with him and with herself.

When he didn’t say anything else, she continued. “I’m sorry, Jay,” Mia said softly, her voice full of regret.

Jason sighed, released her hand, and sat back on the couch. “I understand,” he said finally. “I just thought we had something special, you know?”

Mia looked at him and they locked eyes. “We did. But I’m not the one that cheated… multiple times.” Jason broke their gaze as he looked away, guilt crossing his face. Mia touched his thigh. “As much as I love you Jason, I can never forget how you made me feel. Honestly, I feel it every time I look at you. I don’t know how to get past that.”

Jason leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his fists. “I know, Mia. I fucked up. I broke us. And I knew it was a possibility that it would come to this.”

“Just know this wasn’t an easy decision for me,” Mia said softly. “You’ve been a huge part of my life, and I hope you’ll still be moving forward. We were best friends first and I want us to keep that part of our relationship… if you’re willing. But I’ll understand if that’s too difficult.”

Jason nodded slowly, his eyes filled with a mix of hurt and understanding. They both sat there in silence for a few minutes. Jason took her hand once more, squeezing it tightly. “I love you, Mia. I just want you to be happy.” He kissed her hand. “And if that means we’re only friends, then I have to live with that.”

“Thanks Jay.” She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek before standing up. “I’m gonna go.”

Jason walked her to the door. Before she could open it, he hugged her tightly, his arms around her waist. Mia wrapped her arms around his shoulders. They both held each other for a few moments, their cheeks resting against each other.

Jason pulled his head back to look at her. Then, he leaned in and kissed her slowly and she reciprocated. They kissed passionately for what felt like an eternity, but in reality, it was only about five minutes, slow and heartfelt, as if it was the last time they’d ever be together like this.

Because it was.

When they pulled apart, Mia could see the pain in his eyes, but also a sense of acceptance.

“Bye M,” he said softly as he gave her one last kiss on the lips before letting go.

“Bye,” she whispered back before she walked out the door.

A/N: Song: Something That We're Not Artist: Demi Lovato

How are we feeling after this chapter?

[luckyroll3]

Unexpected Chapter 25: I Can't Control the Feeling

Unexpected Masterlist Previous Chapter

A/N: Just a very short chapter for this week...

Chan

Chan's thumb hovered over the screen of his phone, the light casting a soft glow on his furrowed brow. The silence from Mia was a heavy weight in his chest. Another day, another hour without a word despite his attempts to reach out; he checked the time again and the frustration knotted tighter within him.

"Still nothing?" Changbin's voice cut through Chan's contemplative thoughts, concern lacing his words as he peered over at the illuminated device.

"Nothing," Chan confirmed, his voice carrying a tinge of defeat. He ran his fingers through his tousled curls. "It's like she's vanished."

"Give it time, man," Han chimed in, slinging an arm around Chan's shoulders. "It’s only been a week. Mia's probably just sorting things out in her head."

Lee Know nodded in agreement, his gaze steady. "You know how strong-willed she is. She won't ignore you forever."

“Maybe I should just head over to her place, I still have the key….”

“No!” Changbin, Han, and Lee Know yelled collectively.

“You probably wouldn’t make it back alive,” Changbin said.

“You probably wouldn’t make it back with all your… parts,” Han added, his hands unconsciously covering his crotch in defense.

“You know that would probably just piss her off more,” Lee Know said, rounding out their Korean Greek Chorus. “She said she needed space and going to her house is the opposite of that.”

Chan let out a sigh, the sound mingling with the hum of cars driving by on the street outside beyond the window. His friends' words were meant to comfort, but the silence felt heavy, making him question his every move that led to this moment.

"Maybe she's waiting for something more... something real," Lee Know suggested softly, breaking the shared reflection.

"More real?" Chan echoed, perplexed.

"Like your heart, not just your words," Changbin said, his eyes locking onto Chan's.

"An apology. A genuine one." Han's words struck a chord, and Chan felt the truth of them resonate.

Determination settled over him like armor. He opened his messaging app once again, the blank space awaiting his confession. This time, instead of just asking Mia to talk, he let his guard down, let his emotions bleed into the text.

International Superstar Bang Chan:

Mia, I've been playing our last conversation over and over in my mind, and I realize how much I've hurt you. I should have just told you the truth, all of it, immediately. And I understand how my words may have reminded you of things that happened in your past relationship. I was a dumbass, I was wrong, and I'm truly sorry. I miss your laugh, your sense of humor, your no-nonsense attitude, and the way you challenge me to be better. I miss your eyes, the way you say my name, holding you in my arms, your legs wrapped around my body, your breath against my ear. I want to work things out, to move forward together. I can’t see my life without you in it. I promise, I’ll be all the man that you need. Please, let's talk.

He read it aloud to his members, who all nodded their approval.

He hit 'send' before his courage could falter. Chan watched as the message was delivered and wondered if it would be enough to reach her heart.

"Good job, bro," Changbin said approvingly, nudging Chan with a smile.

"Thanks," Chan murmured, hoping against hope that his message would bridge the distance between them.

Mia

Mia's phone vibrated against the kitchen counter, startling her from the trance she'd fallen into while chopping vegetables for dinner. With a sigh that seemed to carry a heavy weight, she set down the knife and wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist. Her fingers hesitated just above the illuminated screen before she picked it up.

"Chris," she whispered to herself, as she read the notification that flashed across the screen. She clicked on it.

The text was like a window into his soul; it was raw, pleading, impossible to ignore. Mia chewed on her lower lip, a storm of emotions swirling inside her. She wanted to dive into those words, to let them wash over her, but fear held her back.

Her thumb hovered over the reply field, indecisive. She couldn't answer; not yet. Mia needed time to process, to figure out how to navigate this treacherous path between her fears and the undeniable pull she felt towards him, not to mention the wrench Jason threw into her life by asking to restart their relationship.

She had the same issue with both of them. Trust. Could she put aside past hurt and embrace trust to move forward in a relationship?

With Jason, she knew what she was getting. Someone, who, despite all his faults, knew her too and loved her. But Jason had lied and cheated repeatedly. Even with his claims now that he had changed, Mia wasn’t sure she was willing to put herself through all that with him again.

With Chan, he was something new. He made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t in years. In some ways, he also made her feel safe. And despite the age difference, they had such a strong connection she couldn’t ignore. But his fame and lifestyle, not to mention that he lived on the other side of the globe, added another set of complications that Mia wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with.

The phone vibrated again, jolting her from her thoughts. A new message appeared, but this one was different… an audio file. With a trembling finger, Mia tapped play, and Chan's voice filled the room, tender and haunting as he sang lyrics to one of her favorite songs:

I can't control the feeling Girl, cause I know you're here I feel you from the floor to the ceiling Girl, I feel you when you comb your hair Lady, when we lock it low ah ah We get together, it's an overdose I'm slipping, I'm here, I'm on my knees I feel my heart's about to explode This is the highest cost Take you and make you off Lick you and leave you lost Will you forgive me?

Tears welled in Mia's eyes, each note wrapping around her heart, tugging at the walls she had so carefully built. His voice cracked with emotion, and she could picture him, that intense gaze of his focused, his nose scrunched, and his face full of feeling. The song ended, and silence enveloped her, but the echo of his melody lingered, a haunting reminder of what they might share if only she dared.

Chan

Chan paced the length of the living room, his mind a chaotic whirlwind. He'd poured everything into that song, every ounce of his truth, hoping it would reach her. After sending it, he'd felt a momentary relief, a sense of accomplishment, but now anxiety gnawed at him once more.

"Come on, Mia," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. The silence from her end was suffocating, unbearable. Impatience clawed its way through his resolve, urging him to take action.

"Enough waiting," he declared to the empty room. His heart thundered in his chest as he found her contact and pressed call. The phone rang, and he held his breath, rehearsing his apology, the confession of his need for her.

"Pick up, please," he whispered, a plea to the universe. Every ring was a tick in the clock of his anxiousness, each second stretching into eternity. Chan knew he had to make her understand, to bridge the gap his mistakes had caused. He needed to hear her voice, to have the chance to prove that he was more than his errors, to prove that he was someone worthy of her trust, her time, her heart.

And so, he waited, caught in the purgatory between hope and despair, ready to bare his soul, as the line continued to ring.

Mia

The screen of Mia's phone illuminated the dimly lit confines of her bedroom. Chan's name flickered on the display, and with it, a wave of trepidation crashed over her. She stared at the phone for an agonizing heartbeat, her index finger hovering above the silent device.

"Answer it," she whispered to herself, the words barely a breath. "Just... answer it."

Mia pressed the green icon, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. "Hello?" Her voice was reserved, a shell of the warmth that usually infused her words.

"Hey, Mia, it's me. Chris." His tone brimmed with urgency, laced with an undertone of hope. Through the speaker, she could almost feel his presence, imagining him pacing, the way he did when something weighed heavily on his mind.

"Hi," she replied, her response clipped, betraying none of the emotion that roiled within her.

"Look, I know you've been keeping your distance from me and I understand why. I'm sorry for everything that happened," Chan rushed out. There was a tremor in his voice, a hint of vulnerability. "I just really need to talk to you, Mia. Please."

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting against the surge of emotions his plea ignited. It would be so easy to slip back into their usual rhythm, to let his voice wash over her and erase the doubts.

"Talk about what, Chris?" Mia asked, her tone guarded.

"About us," he said earnestly. "I miss you, Mia. I miss us. And that song… I meant every word. It's how I feel about you. I've been a mess without you."

Her heart ached, the raw honesty in his confession chipping away at the walls she'd built. The song had moved her, resonating with the deepest parts of her soul.

"Chris, I..." Mia faltered, grappling with the desire to yield to his words and the fear that held her back. She needed more time, more space to sort through the muddle of her feelings.

"Please, just give me a chance to make things right," Chan urged, his voice breaking slightly. "Let me show you that I can be the man you deserve."

Jason had said the exact same words to her the other night. He sounded sincere, but so did Chan. Mia wondered if she could really just push aside the hurt, the misunderstandings, and leap into the unknown?

"Chris, I don't know if…" She stopped short, the rest of her sentence lost due to her uncertainty. “I just... need more time." Her words were carefully neutral, betraying none of the turmoil that churned beneath the surface.

"Time for what?" he pressed, sensing the walls she had built around herself. "To think? To continue distancing yourself from me?" His voice cracked with emotion.

"Maybe both," she admitted, though the admission felt like a betrayal of her own confused heart. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

"I can't fix this if you won't let me in, Mia. I'm trying here, but you’ve got to meet me halfway. Let's figure it out together," he said softly, his words a gentle nudge against her indecision. "That's all I'm asking for, Mia. A chance." After thirty seconds of silence, he added a strangled, “please!”

Mia took a shaky breath, her mind a battlefield of doubt and longing. On one side, the scars of past hurts and the scrutiny they faced as a couple; on the other, the undeniable connection that pulsed between them, alive and insistent.

"Okay," she finally murmured, the two syllables carrying the weight of her tentative hope. "We'll talk. We can meet."

"Thank you," Chan breathed out, relief evident in his tone. "Thank you, Mia." They made plans to meet later that afternoon.

The line went quiet again. As they ended the call, both Mia and Chan were acutely aware of the significance of the upcoming conversation. For Mia, it was a chance to face her fears; for Chan, it was an opportunity to prove his commitment. Neither knew what the outcome would be, but the decision to meet marked a turning point, one that could either bridge the gap between them or widen it beyond repair.

A/N: Song: Bad Habits Artist: Maxwell We'll see how all of this resolves next chapter. Promise! Thanks for reading y'all.

[luckyroll3]

Taking off the Edge

Summary: After several months away, you return home for a night of comfort and intimacy with your husband Chan and reconnection with your daughters.

Girl Dad Chan x Reader (f); Smut; Fluff

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 20,687

A/N: Let me apologize in advance for all the feels you're about to experience. [Sorry, not sorry]. Enjoy!

You slip through the front door like a shadow returning to its owner, careful not to disturb the silence that greets you. The house smells of cinnamon and something else… Chan's cologne maybe, faint but familiar. Your muscles, tense from days of hyper-vigilance, refuse to uncoil even as you set down your bag. Home should feel safe, but you've forgotten how to feel safe anywhere.

The stillness of the house wraps around you. No teenage footsteps thundering down the stairs, no music leaking from behind closed doors. You check your watch; it's 4:30 PM. Isabella should be at soccer practice. Emilia should be at her dance class. Chan should be at the hospital, elbows-deep in someone's chest cavity, saving lives with those steady hands you know so well.

A noise from upstairs catches your attention. Your hand instinctively moves to where your weapon would be if you hadn't already locked it away. Old habits. The training never really leaves you, even when you step through your own front door.

You ascend the stairs, each step deliberate and silent. The wood doesn't creak beneath your feet because you know exactly where to place your weight. Another noise, followed by what sounds like humming. The bathroom door, adjacent to your bedroom at the end of the hall, stands partially ajar, a ribbon of steam escaping through the gap.

With two fingers, you push the door open wider. The hinges offer a small betrayal, a squeak that announces your presence.

Chan is there, submerged to his chest in a tub full of steaming water, his head resting against the porcelain edge, eyes closed, wireless headphones covering his ears. Unaware. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

His eyes snap open at the change in light, and he jolts upright, water sloshing over the rim of the tub. Recognition floods his face, followed by relief, then something warmer, hungrier.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathes, yanking the headphones off. "You scared the shit out of me." His voice holds no resentment, only wonder, as if you're an apparition he's afraid might vanish if he blinks.

"I scared you?!?" You lean against the doorframe, feeling the ghost of a smile tug at your lips. "You're supposed to be at work, Dr. Bahng."

"Emergency appendectomy. Got covered in blood. Twelve-hour shift turned into sixteen." He gestures to his naked body submerged in the bath. "Needed this before I could even think about cooking dinner."

Your gaze travels over the familiar terrain of his face. The stubble on his jaw is darker than usual, the shadows under his eyes proclaiming his exhaustion. Yet his brown eyes still radiate that same warmth they did seventeen years ago when he first loclked eyes with you across a crowded emergency room.

"When did you get back?" he asks, his voice deliberately casual, though you can hear the underlying worry.

"About three minutes ago." You begin to unbutton your blouse, revealing inch by inch the landscape of your skin, sun-darkened in places, marred in others.

His eyes track a fresh bruise blooming along your ribs, but he doesn't ask. He never asks directly. That's the deal. Instead, he says, "Bad one?"

"Aren't they all?" you respond, letting your blouse fall to the floor, exposing more evidence of your absence: a healing cut along your collarbone, a yellow-green bruise on your shoulder. Your bra follows.

Chan watches silently as you shed each layer, his gaze a physical touch. You step out of your pants, then underwear, standing naked before him, all pretense stripped away with your clothing.

"Move backward," you tell him, and he obliges, creating space for you at the front of the tub.

The water is hot enough to make you wince as you step in, steam rising around you like the ghosts of your recent past. You settle between Chan's legs, your back against his chest, and his arms come around you, careful to avoid the worst of your injuries.

"Too hot?" he asks against your ear.

"Perfect," you sigh, letting your head rest against his shoulder. The warmth of the water works its way into your muscles, loosening knots that have been tied for days. Weeks, maybe.

Chan's fingers trace idle patterns on your upper arms, gentle enough not to hurt, firm enough to remind you he's there. Real. Solid.

"I had to tell Mrs. Peterson her twenty-two year old son was dead today," he says after a while, his chest vibrating against your back with each word. "Motorcycle accident. No helmet."

This is how it always goes. He tells you his horrors so you don't have to tell him yours. Because you can’t. 

"Did she cry?" you ask, knowing the answer.

"No. That's the worst kind. The ones who go completely still, like they've turned to stone." His hands move to your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tense muscles there. "She asked to see him. I had to tell her it wasn't a good idea."

You close your eyes, letting his words and his touch wash over you. "You did what you could."

"Yeah." He doesn't sound convinced. "Your turn."

You hesitate, calculating what you can share. "I spent three days in a room with no windows."

His hands pause momentarily before resuming their gentle exploration of your shoulders. "Alone?"

"Mostly." You don't elaborate. “And I got kneed in the ribs.”

“I noticed that.” Of course he did. He probably knows what every bruise and cut and scar came from; he’s seen it all as a trauma surgeon who often times subs in to work the emergency room. But he doesn't push.

“It was six this time,” you say softly. Again, you don’t elaborate, but he knows what you mean. 

“That’s a lot less than last time,” he says causally as he continues massaging your shoulders. 

“Yeah, the number goes way down when its hand-to-hand vs an aerial strike,” you say sarcastically. He doesn’t respond.

"Your neck's a mess," he says instead, fingers finding a particularly tight knot. "What'd you do, sleep standing up?"

A bark of laughter escapes you, unexpected and rusty. "Bold of you to assume I slept."

His lips press against the back of your head, a kiss so gentle you might have imagined it. "I could prescribe something to help with that. Take the edge off."

"The government already keeps me highly medicated," you reply, the words coming out more bitter than intended. It's not a lie; there are pills for sleeping, pills for staying awake, pills for pain, pills to make you forget. Pills to help you remember.

Chan's arms tighten around you, his chest expanding with a deep breath. "That's not what you need, though, is it?"

The question hangs in the steamy air between you. You both know the answer, have known it since the first time you came back to him from an assignment, hollowed out and raw.

"No," you admit, your voice barely audible over the soft lapping of water against porcelain.

What you need is this…his skin against yours, his steady heartbeat at your back, his breath in your hair. The reminder that there's still a place in the world where you're not a weapon or an asset or a liability, but simply a woman. His wife.

The scent of lavender and eucalyptus rises from the water, mingling with the clean, soapy smell of Chan's skin. You realize he's added your favorite essential oils to the bath; he anticipated your return even when he couldn't be sure of the day or hour.

"Isabella?" you ask, suddenly remembering your daughter.

"Soccer practice until seven. Kiki is bringing her home." His hands move lower, massaging the tight muscles of your lower back. "She missed you, even if she doesn’t admit it."

The words carry weight, implications. Your daughter's resentment is a tangible thing these days, sharpening with each absence.

"She'll get over it," you say, but you're not as confident as you sound.

Chan makes a noncommittal noise, his fingers working their way back up your spine. "She's sixteen. Everything's the end of the world at sixteen."

You let your eyes close again, sinking deeper into the water, into his embrace. The tension that's been your constant companion for weeks begins to dissolve, molecule by molecule, replaced by a different kind of tension, a slow-building heat that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

“I didn’t realize Kiki was driving now,” you say softly. Kiki and Isabella have been best friends since they met the first day of Pre-K.

“Her dad bought her a Jeep Wrangler for her birthday a couple weeks ago.”

“Hmmm. Sounds expensive. I bet Phyllis didn’t like that.”

“Not one bit. I ran into her at the grocery store and she bitched about Tom for 10 fucking minutes.” Kiki’s parents had a nasty divorce four years ago. “I had to fake a call from the ER to escape,” he added with a chuckle. His hands kneaded a particularly tough knot just under your shoulder blades, causing you to hiss lightly. Chan responded by using his thumbs to dig in a bit deeper as he kissed your shoulder. 

“And Emilia?” you ask wondering about your younger daughter.

“Leila’s mom is taking them to dinner after dance; she’ll probably be back by 6:30. But you know Emi; she’s always good. Yes, she misses you too, but she doesn’t take it as hard as Isa.”

“She takes after you in that way,” you whisper.

Chan's hands have moved to your sides now, his thumbs tracing the outline of your ribs, carefully avoiding the fresh bruises. His touch is clinical yet intimate, the touch of a man who knows both the fragility and the resilience of the human body. Of your body, specifically.

"I've got a shift tomorrow, mid-morning," he murmurs against your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below. "But tonight, I'm all yours."

The promise in his words sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the gradually cooling water. You turn your head, seeking his mouth with yours, finding it with the unerring accuracy that comes from years of knowing exactly where he will be.

His lips are soft, contrasting with the roughness of his stubble against your cheek. The kiss is gentle at first, a reintroduction, before deepening into something more urgent, more honest. Your hand reaches up to cup the back of his head, fingers threading through his damp hair, holding him to you as if he might try to escape. He doesn't.

When you break apart, both of you slightly breathless, his eyes are darker, pupils dilated. "Water's getting cold," he observes, though neither of you moves.

"I hadn't noticed," you lie, and he laughs, the sound reverberating through both your bodies.

"Liar," he accuses, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I can feel you shivering."

"That's not from the cold," you admit, and watch as his expression shifts, hunger overtaking exhaustion.

"No?" His hand slides from your side to your stomach, fingertips dancing along the sensitive skin there. "What is it from, then?" When you don’t answer, his hand slides further down, finding its way in between your legs. You sigh deeply as his fingers enter you slowly. Water sloshes over the edge of the tub with the coupled movement of your chest and his fingers, but neither of you pay it any mind. You close your eyes, and for the first time since you walked through the front door, you feel the last of your professional persona slip away.

The water drains from the tub in a slow, gurgling spiral, like time washing away between you. Chan rises first, water streaming down the planes of his body, and extends a hand to you. "Shower," he suggests, his voice low and graveled with intent. "Let's get you properly cleaned up." The words are practical, but his eyes tell a different story, one of hunger barely contained, of promises waiting to be fulfilled.

You take his hand, allowing him to help you stand. Your muscles protest after the temporary relief of the hot bath, and a small wince escapes before you can suppress it. Chan notices, he always notices, but says nothing, just tightens his grip slightly, steadying you.

The shower is only two steps away, part of the luxurious master bathroom you'd renovated three years ago during a rare six-month stretch when you were home. Chan reaches in and turns the knob with practiced precision, not even looking as he adjusts the temperature. Steam billows out almost immediately, curling around your naked bodies like a lover's embrace.

"After you," he says, and you step under the spray, allowing the hot water to pummel your shoulders. The pressure is different from the enveloping warmth of the bath—more insistent, more direct. Like Chan's gaze on your body.

He follows you in, sliding the glass door closed behind him. The space is large enough for two, but only just. His body radiates heat that rivals the water, and you feel yourself drawn to it, a moth to flame.

"Let me," he says, reaching for the soap. You turn your back to him, offering yourself to his care. The soap makes a soft scraping sound as he works it between his palms, building a lather that smells of sandalwood and something citrusy. It's a new soap he must have bought while you were away.

His hands make first contact with your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots at the base of your neck. Soap makes his touch slick, reducing friction as he works the tension from your muscles. You let your head fall forward, giving him better access, and a soft sound of pleasure escapes your lips.

"Too hard?" he asks, his breath warm against your ear before he kisses the bruise on your shoulder.

"Not hard enough," you reply, and feel his chest vibrate with a low chuckle.

He works his way down your back, fingers tracing the knobs of your spine, palms spreading lather across your shoulder blades. When he reaches the fading bruise at the small of your back, a souvenir from being slammed against a wall four days and half a world ago, his touch becomes feather-light.

"This is very new," he observes, voice neutral.

"It's nothing," you reply automatically.

His lips replace his fingers, pressing a kiss so gentle to the bruise that you barely feel it. "It's not nothing," he contradicts, "but it's healing."

You close your eyes as water streams down your face, washing away the retort that rises instinctively to your lips. Chan has always had this effect on you, disarming your defenses with simple truths.

His hands continue their journey, sliding around to your stomach, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin below your navel. Your breath catches as his soapy palms move upward, cupping your breasts with familiar reverence.

"Missed these," he murmurs, thumbs circling your nipples until they harden under his touch. He's always had appreciation for your small, but perky boobs.

"Just these?" you ask, arching into his hands. You turn around to face him and arch an eyebrow. The water now hits your back, rinsing away the suds.

He kisses the cut on your collarbone. "Among other things." His voice drops lower as one hand abandons your breast to slide downward again, fingers finding the juncture of your thighs. He doesn't linger, though, instead continuing his methodical washing, down your legs, carefully avoiding the still-tender cut on your right thigh. He kisses that too.

When his hands return up your body, they're empty of the soap but still slick with lather. He’s now face to face with you. His eyes are dark with desire, but there's something else there too; there's a careful assessment as he catalogs every mark on your body.

"Your turn," you say, reaching for the soap, but he shakes his head.

"Not done with you yet," he replies, reaching past you for the shampoo. "Hair." He turns you back around.

You submit to his ministrations, closing your eyes as he works the shampoo into your hair. His fingers are strong, massaging your scalp with just the right amount of pressure. The repetitive motion is hypnotic, and you find yourself leaning into him, your body seeking his warmth even under the hot spray.

"Tip your head back," he instructs, and you comply, allowing him to rinse the suds from your hair. Water cascades down your face, and you keep your eyes closed, surrendering to the sensation of being cared for; it's something you allow yourself only here, only with him. He repeats with a creamy conditioner.

Once your hair is clean, Chan's hands return to your body, but their purpose has shifted. No longer methodical or clinical or assessing, they now explore with clear intent, tracing paths of desire across your skin. His thumb brushes your nipple again, lingering this time, teasing until your breath catches.

"Chan," you murmur, his name both question and answer as you turn to face him again.

"I'm here," he responds, his lips finding yours under the spray. The kiss tastes of water and longing, of months apart and the promise of reconnection. His tongue slides against yours, and you press yourself against him, feeling his arousal hard against your stomach.

Your hands begin their own exploration, running down his chest, following the trail of dark hair that leads below his navel. He groans into your mouth when your fingers wrap around his cock, a sound that vibrates through your connected bodies.

"Thought you were tired," you tease, stroking him slowly.

"Second wind," he gasps, his hips moving involuntarily into your touch. "Or maybe it's my wife's magic hands."

You laugh, the sound strange to your own ears after days of tension and silence. "More likely your own stupidly high libido."

"Only for you," he says, his voice suddenly serious despite the playfulness of your exchange. His hand moves between your legs again, finding you slick with more than just water. "Only ever for you."

The declaration, simple and true, ignites something warm in your chest. You capture his mouth again, kissing him with renewed hunger, your body pressing against his as if trying to eliminate any space between you while you continue to stroke him.

His fingers are inside you now, curling in that way he knows drives you mad, his thumb circling your clit with deliberate pressure. Your hand falters in its rhythm as pleasure builds, and you brace yourself against the tile wall.

"Bed," you manage to say between kisses. "Now."

Chan reaches behind you to shut off the water, the sudden absence of sound almost as jarring as the cooler air that replaces the steam. He slides the shower door open and grabs a towel, wrapping it around you before taking another for himself.

Your drying is perfunctory at best, more a hasty rubbing than an actual attempt to get dry. Chan's hair still drips as he leads you through the door that connects the bathroom directly to your bedroom; another renovation choice, one you've never regretted, particularly in moments like these.

The sheets are cool against your damp skin as you fall onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and half-dried bodies. Chan's weight above you is familiar and exhilarating all at once, his solid presence a reminder of what's real when so much of your world is shadows and lies.

"I need you," you whisper against his neck, inhaling the clean scent of his skin.

"You have me," he answers, positioning himself between your thighs. "Always have me."

He enters you slowly, both of you groaning at the sensation of finally, finally being joined after months apart. The stretch and fullness of him inside you is a homecoming more profound than walking through your front door earlier.

His movements are measured at first, careful of your bruises, but your urgency communicates itself through nails digging into his back, hips rising to meet his thrusts. The message is clear: You don't want careful. You want him.

"Harder," you command, and he obliges, his control slipping as he drives into you with increasing force. The headboard knocks softly against the wall, keeping time with your shared rhythm.

Your world narrows to sensation: the slick slide of him inside you, the pressure of his pubic bone against your clit with each thrust, the soft grunts he makes, the taste of his skin when you bite at his shoulder. Water drops from his hair onto your face, mingling with the sweat that's beginning to form despite the room's cool air.

"Look at me," he demands, and you open eyes you hadn't realized were closed. His face hovers above yours, flushed with exertion and desire, eyes burning with an intensity that matches the heat building low in your core.

One of his hands slides between your bodies, finding your clit again, circling with just the right pressure. Your breath comes in short gasps now, tension coiling tighter with each thrust, each circle of his clever fingers.

"Channie," you breathe, a plea.

"I know baby," he answers, increasing his pace, his own control visibly fraying. "Together. Cum with me."

The command, delivered in that voice rough with need, pushes you over. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, muscles clenching around him as pleasure radiates outward from where you're joined. He follows you over the edge with a hoarse cry, his hips jerking erratically as he empties himself inside you.

For several heartbeats, neither of you moves. Chan's weight presses you into the mattress, his breath hot against your neck. The only sounds in the room are your combined panting and the distant hum of the house's air conditioning cycling on.

Eventually, he shifts, rolling to the side but keeping one arm draped across your waist, maintaining contact. His free hand brushes damp coils from your forehead with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the urgency of moments before.

"Welcome home, baby" he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You turn your head to look at him, taking in the contentment that softens his features, the way his lips curve into a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, displaying his dimples. This is what you fight for, what you come back for. This man. This bed. This moment.

"It's good to be back," you reply, meaning it more than you can express.

Chan's fingers trace idle patterns on your stomach, dipping occasionally to the juncture of your thighs where you're still sensitive. The touch isn't meant to arouse, not yet, but to maintain connection, to ground you here with him.

"How long?" he asks after a comfortable silence, the question inevitable.

"Sixteen hours," you answer truthfully. "I leave again tomorrow morning."

He nods, accepting without protest. This is the dance you've perfected over seventeen years; these brief interludes of normalcy between your absences, these moments stolen from a life that's never entirely yours.

"I'm making lasagna tomorrow," he says, as if deciding what to cook is the most natural response to knowing you'll leave again soon. "Isa's been asking for it."

The mention of your eldest daughter brings reality back into sharper focus. "How bad has she been?"

Chan sighs, his fingers stilling on your skin. "The usual. Slamming doors. One-word answers. She's channeling most of it into soccer, at least."

"And Emilia?"

"Quieter. She writes you letters that she never sends." His voice catches slightly. "I found a stack of them in her desk when I was looking for her field trip permission slip."

A knot forms in your throat. Your younger daughter, always so understanding, so careful not to add to anyone's burden. Sometimes her acceptance is harder to bear than Isabella's anger.

"We should probably get dressed," Chan says, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. "The girls will be home soon."

But neither of you moves, reluctant to break the bubble of intimacy you've created. His hand resumes its gentle exploration of your body, this time tracing the outline of a scar on your hip; it's an old one, from before you met him. It’s always intrigued him since your first night together.

"Tell me something good," you request, a ritual between you.

Chan thinks for a moment, his fingers continuing their journey across your skin. "I saved a kid last week. Ten years old. Fell from a tree house, ruptured his spleen. Parents thought they were going to lose him."

"But they didn't."

"No," he says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "They didn't."

You turn onto your side to face him fully, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. His stubble is rough against your palm. "You're a good man, Dr. Chan Bahng."

"Good enough to deserve another round before the girls get home?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows comically.

You laugh, shoving his shoulder playfully. "Insatiable."

"Only for you," he repeats his earlier declaration, but this time he pulls you on top of him, his hands settling on your hips as you straddle him. "Always for you."

His arousal is already returning, pressing against you, and you feel an answering heat building again in your core. You lean down to kiss him, your wet, elongated coils creating a curtain around your faces, a private world of just the two of you.

"Round two it is," you murmur against his lips, rolling your hips in a way that makes him groan. "But we'd better be quick."

Chan's hands tighten on your hips, guiding your movements as you begin to rock against him. "Quick can be good," he says, his voice strained with renewed desire. "But I prefer thorough."

"Show me thorough, then," you challenge, and his eyes darken with promise as he flips you onto your back and enters you once more.

Chan's mouth traces a burning path down your neck as you arch beneath him, fingernails digging half-moons into his shoulders. The world has narrowed to just this: his weight pressing you into the mattress, the sound of your mingled breathing, the slick heat where your bodies join. You're close again, teetering on the edge of release, when the bedroom door swings open with a decisive click that might as well be a gunshot for how it freezes you both mid-motion.

"Dad, can I—" Isabella's voice cuts off abruptly.

For one excruciating second, time suspends. Chan's body still covers yours, his face buried in your neck, your legs wrapped around his waist; a tableau of intimacy never meant for your daughter's eyes. 

Isabella stands in the doorway, her soccer bag dropped at her feet, mouth open in a perfect O of shock. Her dark eyes, so like Chan's, widen to impossible dimensions as understanding dawns.

The suspended moment shatters when Isabella makes a strangled sound somewhere between a gasp and a scream. "Oh my GAWD!" The words explode from her as she spins on her heel, nearly tripping over her abandoned bag in her haste to escape. You hear her add an “Eeewww!” as she quickly retreats.

"Isa, wait!" Chan calls, but the sound of her retreating footsteps drowns him out, followed by the definitive slam of her bedroom door down the hall.

Chan rolls off you with military precision, the mattress bouncing slightly with the sudden redistribution of weight. "Fuck," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I keep telling her she needs to knock before just barging in here.” His chest rises and falls rapidly, arousal giving way to parental panic.

"I thought Kiki was bringing her home at seven," you say, yanking the sheet up to cover your naked body. The clock on the nightstand reads 6:11. "It's not even six-thirty."

"Practice must have ended early," Chan replies, already reaching for his sweatpants folded neatly on the bedside table. "Shit, I should have locked the door."

"There's a lock?!" The question comes out more sarcastic than intended, a defense mechanism kicking in.

Chan shoots you a look that's half exasperation, half lingering mortification. "Not the time babe."

He's right, of course. Your sixteen-year-old daughter just walked in on you having sex. The fact that you didn't know the bedroom door has a lock now is irrelevant at this point.

Chan pulls on a t-shirt, his movements efficient as he transforms from your lover back into a doting father. "I'll go talk to her," he says, already heading for the door. "Try to explain that it's natural, that when two people love each other…"

"Let me handle it," you interrupt, surprising yourself as much as him.

Chan stops, turning to look at you with raised eyebrows. "You sure?"

The question stings more than it should. Yes, you're sure. You're her mother, even if you've been an intermittent presence in her life. Even if Chan is the one who's been there for every skinned knee, every failed test, every broken heart. Even if Isabella looks at you sometimes like you're a stranger who happens to occupy space in her home every few weeks.

"I'm sure," you say, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and reaching for your robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. "This is something a girl should hear from her mother."

Chan hesitates, doubt written clearly across his features. You tie the sash of your robe with a decisive tug, waiting for him to protest, to remind you of all the times you've failed miserably at this particular aspect of parenting.

Instead, he says, "Okay," in a tone that's carefully neutral. "But if you need backup..."

"I won't." You cross to him, placing a hand on his chest. "I know I haven't been..." The words tangle in your throat, inadequate before they're even spoken. "Just let me try. Plus she doesn’t need to hear any of that sappy shit from you right now," you add playfully to bring levity to the situation.

Chan smirks at your bad joke. “You love my sappy shit.” He covers your hand with his own, squeezing gently. "Just remember she missed you," he says simply. "We all did." He kisses you lightly.

The words carry no accusation, just fact. Somehow that makes it worse. You squeeze his hand back.

You slip past him, out into the hallway that leads to the girls' rooms, stopping to pick up the abandoned soccer bag. The house feels different now, charged with adolescent horror and parental embarrassment. The wooden floor is cold under your bare feet, each step bringing you closer to a conversation you're not prepared for but can't avoid.

Isabella's door looms at the end of the hall, plastered with posters of soccer stars Hope Solo, Megan Rapino, Sophia Smith, and Trinity Rodman. There are also warning signs: "Enter at Your Own Risk," "Knock or Die," and a new one since your last visit, "Privacy Please, I'm Having an Existential Crisis." The humor feels pointed now, a reminder of all the moments of her life you've missed.

You pause outside her door, hand raised to knock but not yet making contact. What are you going to say? Sorry you caught me having sex with your father? Sorry I'm home so rarely that my presence in my own bedroom was shocking to you? Sorry I'm the kind of mother who prioritizes national security over school plays and soccer games?

None of those apologies would be entirely honest. You're not sorry for loving Chan, for finding comfort in his body after days of isolation and danger and after months away from him. You're not entirely sorry for the work you do, even when it takes you away from your family. And you're definitely not sorry for having a sex life, even if Isabella might wish you didn't.

What you are sorry for is the hurt in her eyes in that split second before embarrassment took over. The hurt that said: You're only home for a few hours and this is what you choose to do?

You take a deep breath and knock, three sharp raps that sound unnaturally loud in the quiet hallway.

Silence greets you. You wait a beat, then knock again.

"Go away!" Isabella's voice is muffled but unmistakably upset.

"Isa, it's me," you call through the door. "Can I come in?"

"No!" The response is immediate and vehement. "I don't want to talk to you!"

You could leave it at that. It would be easier. Let Chan handle it later, when tempers have cooled and the initial mortification has faded. He's better at this anyway, knows the right words to say, the right tone to use. Isabella would probably prefer him anyway. Of your two daughters, she’s definitely the daddy’s girl.

But that's the problem, isn't it? The easy way out is what you've been taking for years when it comes to parenting. Leaving the hard conversations to Chan, the day-to-day struggles, the emotional heavy lifting. You've been more operative than mother, more asset than parent.

"I'm coming in," you announce, turning the handle before she can object again.

The door isn't locked; a small mercy. 

Isabella sits on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, a pillow clutched protectively in front of her like a shield. Her face is flushed, eyes red-rimmed but dry. She glares at you with a mixture of embarrassment and defiance that's so familiar it makes your chest ache. It's the same look you see in the mirror on your worst days. Her eyes might be Chan’s, but the rest of her face, her brown skintone, is undeniably yours. The combination still takes your breath away sometimes.

"I said I don't want to talk," she says, her voice thick with emotion.

You close the door behind you, leaning against it as you drop her bag to the floor. The room is a collision of childhood and impending adulthood, with soccer trophies and stuffed animals sharing space with makeup, clothes, and posters of bands you don't recognize. A photo on her desk catches your eye. Chan and Isabella at her last birthday, his arm around her shoulders, both grinning at the camera. You're not in the picture. You were in Beirut.

"Then you don't have to talk," you say, keeping your voice even. "But I think I should."

Isabella rolls her eyes, a gesture so perfectly teenage it would be comical in any other situation. "If you're going to give me the sex talk, I already know where babies come from, thanks." That dry sarcasm is also undeniably yours.

"That's not…" you begin, then recalibrate. "Well, not entirely."

"Mom, please," she groans, burying her face in the pillow. "This is literally the most humiliating moment of my entire life. Can we just pretend it never happened?"

You cross the battlefield of discarded clothes, school supplies, and sports gear to sit on the edge of her bed, careful to maintain enough distance so that she doesn't feel crowded. The robe gaps slightly at your knees. You adjust it, suddenly conscious of the irony, covering up after what she's already seen. "We could," you concede. "But I think that would be a missed opportunity."

She peeks over the top of the pillow, suspicious. "An opportunity for what?"

"For me to acknowledge that I haven't been the most... present mother," you say, the words difficult but necessary. "And that walking in on... that... must have been especially shocking because I'm hardly ever here."

Isabella's grip on the pillow relaxes slightly, her eyes studying your face with an intensity that reminds you of interrogations in far less comfortable rooms. "It would have been gross no matter what," she mutters, but there's less heat in her voice.

"Fair point," you acknowledge with a small smile. "No one wants to see their parents having sex."

"Ugh, don't say it out loud," she groans, but there's a hint of an unwilling smile tugging at her lips.

The tension in the room eases fractionally, enough that you risk moving closer, perching more fully on the bed. "I'm sorry you saw that," you say. "We should have locked the door."

"There's a lock?!" she asks, unknowingly echoing your earlier question.

"Apparently," you reply dryly. "Your father was equally surprised that I didn't know about it."

A reluctant laugh escapes her, quickly smothered. "You guys are so weird."

"Maybe," you concede. "But we love each other. And we miss each other when I'm gone."

She looks at you and the unspoken question hangs in the air between you: Do you miss me too?

Isabella's eyes drop to the pillow she's still clutching. "Kiki's mom says you travel too much for work," she says, not looking at you. "She thinks you're like, a pharmaceutical rep or something."

You’ve never corrected the assumption whenever Phyllis has brought it up. It's a convenient cover, one that explains your absences without raising too many questions. "What do you tell her?" you ask, curious despite yourself.

Isabella shrugs. "That you work for the government. That it's important." She picks at a loose thread on the pillowcase. "I don't tell her that sometimes I wish you had a normal job. Like a teacher or at an office or something."

The words sting, but they're nothing you haven't thought yourself during long nights in foreign countries, missing bedtimes and school events and ordinary family dinners.

"I wish that sometimes too," you admit, surprising yourself with the honesty.

Isabella looks up, clearly startled by your confession. "You do?"

"Of course I do." You reach out, hesitantly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn't pull away, which feels like its own small victory. "I miss so much. Your games, your school stuff. The day-to-day things that seem small but aren't."

"Then why don't you quit?" The question is direct, challenging; so like you it's almost unnerving. "Dad makes more than enough money."

It's a reasonable question, one with a complicated answer that involves national security, specialized skills, and oaths you took long before she was born. But also simpler truths: that you're good at what you do, that it matters, that some part of you needs it in ways that are difficult to articulate.

"It's not that simple," you begin, but Isabella cuts you off.

"It is that simple," she insists, anger flaring again. "You choose to leave. Every time."

The accusation lands like a physical blow. "Isa…"

"Don't call me that," she snaps. "Dad calls me that. Emilia calls me that. People who are actually here call me that."

You absorb the hit, forcing yourself not to flinch. "Isabella, then," you say, keeping your voice steady. "You're right. I do choose to leave. The work I do is important."

"More important than us?" Her voice cracks on the last word, betraying the hurt beneath the anger.

"No," you say firmly. "Never more important than you. Or your sister. Or your dad."

"Then why?" The question is small, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache. "Why aren't you just... here?"

It's the central question of your life, the one that keeps you awake on long flights home, the one that follows you into dangerous situations and quiet moments alike. Why can't you just be a mother, a wife, nothing more and nothing less?

"Because the world isn't safe," you say finally, choosing your words with care. "And I have skills that help make it safer. For you, for everyone."

Isabella studies your face, looking for the lie or the evasion. Finding none, she sighs, some of the fight leaving her body. "That sounds really noble and everything, but it still fricking sucks."

A laugh escapes you, unexpected and genuine. "Yeah," you agree. "It does suck. For all of us."

She's quiet for a moment, considering this. "Dad never complains," she says. "About you being gone. He always acts like it's just... normal."

"Your father is an extraordinary man," you say, meaning every word. "Far better than I deserve, most days."

"He loves you a lot," Isabella says, and though the words are simple, they carry weight. "Like, a lot a lot. It's gross sometimes."

"He loves you too," you remind her. "More than anything."

"I know." She looks down again, fingers still winding the loose thread. "He's always here."

The unspoken accusation hangs between you: unlike you.

"Isabella," you say, waiting until she looks up at you. "I know I've missed a lot. Too much. And I can't promise that will change in the short-term. But I want you to know that every day I'm gone, I think about you. About your sister. About your dad. You're what I come home for."

She doesn't respond immediately, absorbing your words. Then, with a hint of playful sarcastic humor, this time purely Chan’s sass, she says, "Clearly," with a pointed look in the direction toward the bedroom you've just come from.

Heat rushes to your face, but you refuse to be embarrassed for loving your ridiculously hot, sweet husband. "Yes, that too," you say, holding her gaze. "All of it. The whole package of having a family, even the messy parts."

"Speaking of messy," she mutters, then immediately looks horrified at her own words. "Oh my god, I didn't mean…"

You can't help it; you laugh, a real laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep inside you. After a moment of mortified shock, Isabella joins in, the shared laughter breaking the tension that's defined your relationship for too long.

When the laughter subsides, she looks at you with eyes that seem older, wiser. "Mom?" she says, the word still feeling like a gift after so many months of strained silence.

"Yes?"

"Next time, please just lock the door." Her face is solemn, but there's a glint of humor in her eyes; Chan's humor, but also yours.

"Deal," you promise, reaching out to squeeze her hand. She allows it, even squeezes back briefly before pulling away.

It's a small moment, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. You haven't solved the fundamental problem of your absences. You haven't healed all the hurts or bridged all the distances. But it's something; a foothold, a beginning.

And for now, that will have to be enough.

“It was so awkward,” you add. 

Isabella snorts. "Ya think?"

The silence stretches between you, elastic and uncomfortable. You notice a crumpled test paper on her nightstand, a 98%, circled in red. Pride blooms in your chest. She's always been brilliant like her father, even when you weren't there to see it.

Isabella's shoulders hunch forward. "I was so grossed out by what I saw," she finally blurts, the words tumbling out in a rush. Her eyes are wide, fixed on the wall opposite, as if making eye contact might summon the image again.

You laugh, the sound unexpectedly loud in the quiet room. "Yeah, I bet. If it makes you feel any better, I once walked in on my own parents when I was a teenager. I was fourteen and I woke up with stomach pains in the middle of the night. I walked to their room for help… it was pretty gross then too. My mom was riding my dad…" You nudge her with your knee. "Pretty sure it scarred me for life."

"Ew, Mom!" But there's a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "I did not need that mental image of Nana and gramps either." She shudders.

"The circle of trauma continues," you say solemnly, and this time she actually laughs, a brief, bright sound that reminds you of when she was small, and a mama's girl, before your absences started stretching longer, before Chan became her favorite parent, before she learned to guard her joy around you.

After a couple of moments of silence, you finally speak, your voice barely above a whisper. "You know, I was the one who gave you the nickname Isa when you were just a few months old." The memory of her earlier comment still gnawed at you, sharper than any of the physical bruises and cuts you’d accumulated over the past weeks.

She looks at you, her gaze steady and sincere. "I know," she replies, her voice carrying a hint of regret. Her eyes, filled with an earnest apology, hold yours as if trying to bridge the gap her words had created. "I didn’t mean what I said."

"I know," you respond with a small nod, acknowledging her sincerity, hoping to ease the sting that lingered between you both.

She picks up a stuffed elephant from her pillow. It's an old gift from you, brought back from some forgotten mission in Africa; Tanzania you think. She hugs it to her chest. 

Not so grown up after all.

"How will I know when it's the right time?" she asks suddenly, her voice smaller than before.

You blink, recalibrating. "The right time for what?"

Isabella gives you a look that could wither plants. "Sex, mom. How will I know when it's the right time to have sex?"

Your instinct is to say "never" or "when you're thirty," but you swallow those words. You promised yourself you'd never lie to your daughters, even when the truth is hard. Especially then.

"Is this a theoretical question, or is there a reason you're asking?" You keep your voice neutral, careful not to spook her.

She twists the elephant's trunk between her fingers. "Some of my friends are already doing it. And Jake…" She stops, then continues in a rush. "Jake's been talking about it."

Jake. The boyfriend. The one with the floppy hair and the skateboard and the easy smile and the smooth talk that makes your trigger finger itch. You've met him exactly twice, and both times, you resisted the urge to toss him in a dark room for an interrogation or run a complete background check. He looks like fucking trouble to you, but Chan claims he’s a good kid. Jake is lucky you trust Chan. Otherwise…

"You know they're probably lying, right? Your friends."

Isabella rolls her eyes. "Not all of them."

"Fine. But you shouldn't base your decisions on what other people are doing." You shift to face her more directly. "Look at me, Isa."

She does, reluctantly.

"You'll know it's the right time when you're not asking me when the right time is. When you're not doing it because your friends are, or because Jake wants to. You'll know because you'll want to, completely and without doubt, and because you trust him, and because you're ready for whatever comes after."

"That's not very specific," she complains.

"Because it's different for everyone." You take her hand, and she lets you. Her fingers are long like Chan's, capable. "But I'll give you some concrete advice. Only have sex when you're ready; not when you're drunk, or high, or feeling pressured, or because some boy has told you he loved you. Always use protection. Always, no exceptions, no 'just this once.' And come to me with questions. Not your dad, unless you want to hear all his sappy bullshit about true love. And definitely not your dumb ass friends who think they know everything about sex because they watched Euphoria or some porn once."

Isabella's face contorts in horror. "Mom!"

"What? They are dumbasses. And porn is a terrible sex ed teacher, by the way. It’s all so fake. Women rarely cum from shit like that."

"Please stop talking."

"No, because this is important." You squeeze her hand. "And if Jake ever—ever—makes you feel like you have to do something you're not comfortable with, remember that your dad would absolutely murder him and I would help hide the body in parts of the globe that have been generally untouched by civilization for millennia. I can promise you

 he will never be found again."

This startles another laugh out of her. "Dad wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Let me tell you a secret. On my third date with your dad, he got into a fight with a guy who touched me inappropriately and broke his nose.”

“Really?” Isabella asks, completely shocked.

“Really! It was so hot.” Isabella rolled her eyes and you laughed. “You'd be surprised what Chan would do for his girls." You smile, thinking of your husband's gentle hands that have both saved lives and held you with such fierce possession. "He'd destroy anyone who hurt you. So would I."

She picks at her pillow again. "Jake's not like that. He's... nice."

"Good. He better stay that way. And remember, you can always say no, even if you've said yes before. Even if you're in the middle of things. Even if…"

"Oh my god, mom, I get it!" She covers her face with her hands, but you can see she's smiling between her fingers.

You lean back, studying her. There's so much of yourself in her: the stubbornness, the sharp mind, the way she holds herself like she's always ready for a fight. But there's softness and silliness too; Chan's influence. You wonder if she knows how perfectly she balances between you both.

"Any other questions?" you ask. "Anything else you want to know?"

She hesitates, twisting the coils of her ponytail around her finger. "Does it hurt? The first time?"

The vulnerability in her voice makes your chest ache. "It can," you admit. "But it shouldn't be awful if you're relaxed and with someone who cares about making it good for you." You pause. "But the first time is always awkward, regardless of the circumstances. It gets better with practice though."

"Gross," she mumbles, but she's listening intently.

"And Isabella…" She looks back up at you. "Sex isn't just physical. It changes things between people. Sometimes in ways you don't expect."

She nods slowly. "I know."

"Do you?" You search her face, trying to see if she really understands.

"I think so." She shrugs again, but it's different from before. It’s less dismissive, more thoughtful. "I'm not in any rush. I don’t think I’m ready yet."

Relief washes through you. "Good. That's good."

You notice a string of polaroid photos pinned above her desk: Isabella with Kiki and their other friends at an amusement park, with Jake at a party, with Emilia on the couch. There's one of all four of you, taken last Christmas. Chan's arm is around your waist, your head tilted against his shoulder. You don't remember seeing the camera flash or even the picture being taken.

"Did you and Dad wait?" Isabella asks, breaking into your thoughts. "Until you were married?"

You snort before you can help it. "God, no."

"Mom!"

"What? You asked." You grin at her, unrepentant. "We met when your dad was in his first year of residency. Have you seen pictures of your dad at twenty-five??? My twenty-one year old brain couldn’t handle the fucking sexiness that should have been on someone’s runway, not in my hospital room.” You fan yourself dramatically as Isabella rolls her eyes again, but this time with a smile on her face. “He’s still very attractive now… I had gotten injured on a mission and was his patient. He was beautiful and sleep-deprived and kept trying to hit on me using cheesy medical pickup lines."

"That sounds like Dad," Isabella says, smiling.

"It was ridiculous. And adorable. And extremely effective." You remember Chan's dimples, the way his hands shook slightly the first time he touched you. "We waited two whole dates. I would have on the first date, but he was too much of a gentleman to push for more than a kiss."

"I cannot believe we're having this conversation," Isabella groans, but she's still smiling.

"Believe it. And remember it next time you forget to knock. Your dad and I are still very hot for each other, even after all these years. Not many parents can say that," you say proudly.

She flops backward onto her bed, arms spread wide. "I'm never coming into your room again. Ever!"

"Smart girl." You run your fingers through your still damp coils. "I'm sorry you saw that, but I'm not sorry we had this talk."

Isabella props herself up on her elbows. "Me neither, I guess." She pauses. "Thanks, Mom. For not being weird about it."

"Oh, I'm extremely weird about it. I'm just hiding it well." 

“I don’t think any of my friends are comfortable enough with their parents to talk like this.” You don’t respond; you just reach out and rub her shin lightly, thankful that she values your openness in this way.

"So," you say, rising from the bed and retying your robe more securely. "I should probably put on some actual clothes before your sister gets home."

Isabella rolls her eyes, but there's less heat in it now. "Probably a good idea."

You lean down and press a kiss to her forehead; she doesn’t pull away. She smells like honey shampoo and the vanilla lotion Chan buys for both girls' stockings every Christmas. You’re not sure how you ended up with a man who loves such cutesy scents. The thought makes you smile to yourself. 

You turn and walk away.

You pause at the door, looking back at your daughter, this strange, wonderful creature who is half you, half Chan, and entirely her own person. "Isabella?"

She looks up, eyebrows raised in question.

"I love you," you say simply. "Even when I'm not here. Maybe especially then."

She doesn't say it back, but she doesn't look away either. "I know," she says finally, and it's not everything, but it's not nothing.

As you start to open the door, you hear her voice once more. "Mom?"

You pause, hand on the doorknob, turning to look back at her. "Yes?"

"I'm glad you're home. I love you too." You nod, a small smile curling your lips. 

You start to walk away, but you turn back again. "One more thing…"

"Oh my gawd! What now?"

"Protection. Seriously. Every time."

"Get out of my room, woman!"

You close the door behind you, grinning. 

A strange sense of accomplishment settles in your chest. One difficult conversation down. These are the moments you fight to come home to, the conversations that matter more than any mission. 

As you stand in the hallway, your ears pick up the sound of movement downstairs: the front door opening, the sound of rapid patter of small feet, high, excited chatter. 

Emilia. Your youngest. Your Emi.

That sound, Emilia's voice, hits you like a shot of adrenaline, more potent than any combat stim. Your bare feet move silently across the wood floor as you head for the stairs, robe now firmly tied, ready for a completely different kind of mother-daughter moment.

"Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Patel!" Emilia's voice carries from the entryway, followed by the sound of the front door closing.

You pause at the top of the stairs, taking a moment to observe without being seen; an old habit. From your vantage point, you can see the living room but not the kitchen, where Emilia is presumably dropping her backpack and lunchbox. You hear the refrigerator door open and close, the crinkling of a snack wrapper. Everyday sounds that should be mundane but instead feel precious, collected like souvenirs from a normal life you only get to visit.

You descend the stairs quietly, still unnoticed. The house smells like the cinnamon candles Chan lights when he knows you're coming home; it’s his way of making the space feel warm, lived-in. The hardwood is cool under your feet, grounding you in this moment, in this home that sometimes feels like it belongs to someone else.

Emilia bounds into the living room from the kitchen, a yogurt pouch in one hand between her lips being sucked dry, her dark curls escaping from what was once a neat braid this morning. She's in her ballet uniform, a light pink leotard, brown tights that match her skin tone, and a pair of soccer shorts that she probably traded with her tutu after class. When she sees you at the bottom of the stairs, she freezes for a split second, her eyes growing comically wide.

"MOM!" The yogurt pouch drops to the floor, forgotten, as she launches herself across the room.

You brace yourself just in time as forty-five pounds of pure muscle and enthusiasm slams into you with a powerful leap that would put pro basketball players to shame. Emilia's arms wrap around your neck like a vise, her legs encircling your waist. You stagger back a step, laughing as you secure your hold on her.

"Well, hello to you too, Emi," you say, pressing your face into her hair. She smells like strawberries and playground dust and the faint chemical sweetness of whatever craft project her class did today.

"You're home!" she squeals directly into your ear, the volume making you wince even as you smile. "I didn't know you'd be here! Dad said maybe next week! But you're here now! Are you staying? How long? Can you come to my recital? Did you bring me anything? I missed you so much!"

The questions come in a breathless rush, no pause for answers. You carry her to the couch, her body still clinging to yours like a koala. When you sit, she immediately settles in your lap, finally pulling back enough to beam at you with Chan's same smile and dimples and your intensity.

"Slow down, squirrel," you say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "One question at a time."

Emilia bounces slightly on your lap, unable to contain her energy. "Are you staying?"

The question, the same one Isabella would ask with guarded eyes and careful indifference, comes from Emilia with nothing but hope. No accusation, no memory of past disappointments. Not yet.

"No," you say, because you never make promises you can't keep. "But I’ll only be gone for about two weeks this time."

Her face lights up. "So you'll be at my recital at the end of the month?"

"Front row." You tap her nose with your finger. "Wouldn't miss it."

Emilia throws her arms around you again, squeezing with surprising strength for a ten year old. Her small hands pat at your back, your arms, your face, as if reassuring herself that you're really here, solid and present.

"Tell me about your day," you say when she finally releases you.

That's all the invitation she needs. Emilia launches into a detailed account of everything that happened since she woke up this morning: the pancakes Chan made (chocolate chip, with extra syrup), the spelling test she aced (twenty out of twenty, even getting "necessary" right), the drama at lunch (Maya wouldn't sit with Zoe because Zoe said Maya's new haircut looked weird but Emilia loves it), and the art project (papier-mâché planets, which explains the dried paste under her fingernails).

You nod and make appropriate sounds of interest, but mostly you just watch her face, the animated expressions, the dramatic eye rolls, the way her hands never stop moving as she talks. She's so much like Chan in these moments, the same inability to tell a story without his entire body becoming involved.

"And then in dance class," she continues without missing a beat, "Ms. Leanne said my arabesque is getting much better, and I might get to be in the front row for the spring showcase if I keep up the good work. Look!"

She scrambles off your lap and stands in the middle of the living room, striking a pose with one leg extended behind her, arms gracefully positioned. Her form is near perfect, and her face shows fierce concentration.

"Very impressive," you say, meaning it. The last time she showed you this move, she was quite wobbly. "When did you get so good at this?"

"I practice every day," she says proudly, switching to an attitude by effortlessly bringing her lifted leg forward and bending it to 90 degrees. "Dad helps me. He holds my hand so I don't fall over."

The image of Chan, all 5’7” of him, still in scrubs after a twelve-hour shift, patiently holding Emilia's small hand while she practices ballet poses makes something twist in your chest. All the things that happen when you're not here, small moments building a life without you.

"And for cheerleading, Coach says I have the best spirit, even if I'm not the loudest." Emilia drops the ballet pose and immediately breaks into what must be a cheer routine, complete with jumps and claps. "Ready? Okay! Tigers, tigers, roar and fight! Win this game with all your might!"

Her solitary braid bounces as she jumps, feet landing with heavy thuds that probably have the next door neighbors wondering if you're renovating. You don't care. You'd let her stomp through the floorboards if it kept that smile, Chan’s smile, on her face.

"I'm working on my standing back handspring too," she says, breathless. "I already have the roundoff back handspring. Wanna see?"

"Maybe not indoors," you suggest quickly, having visions of Emilia's feet connecting with the coffee table. "But I'd love to see it in the backyard tomorrow morning."

"Promise?" She bounces back to the couch, landing half on you with her elbow digging into your thigh.

"Promise." This one feels safe to make.

She nestles against you, suddenly calmer, her small body warm against yours. Her fingers trace the old scar on your forearm, a thin tan line, slighter lighter than your skin tone, from a mission in Jakarta that she thinks came from a cooking accident. You never correct her. She’s loved playing with it since she was baby.

"I made you something," she says, her voice softer now. "It's in my backpack."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"It's a surprise." She looks up at you, her expression suddenly serious. "I make you something every week. Dad helps me keep them in a special box for when you come home."

Your throat tightens. "That's... that's really sweet, Emi."

"There's a lot in there," she says, and there's no accusation in her voice, just a statement of fact. "Dad says it's okay because your job is important. You help people, just like he does."

You swallow hard. "I try to."

"Are you like a superhero?" she asks, eyes wide and earnest. "Is that why you have to go away sometimes? To save people?"

The question catches you off guard. You look down at your daughter sporting Chan's face and your determination, all wrapped in innocent curiosity, and wonder what to tell her. Not the truth, certainly. Not about the blood and the fear and the moments when you've been more monster than hero.

"Not a superhero," you say carefully. "Just someone doing a job that sometimes takes me away from the people I love most." You press a kiss to the top of her head. "Which is the hardest part of all."

Emilia seems to consider this, her fingers still tracing the scar on your arm. "I think you're a superhero," she decides. "But with a secret identity. That's why you can't tell us everything."

You laugh softly. "Something like that."

She beams, satisfied with her own conclusion, and launches into an explanation of her cheerleading competition next month, complete with demonstrations of the "super hard" clap sequence they have to learn. Her hands pat against yours as she tries to teach you, her smaller fingers drumming impatiently when you deliberately mess up just to hear her giggle.

"No, Mom, like this!" She takes your hands in hers, manipulating your fingers with determined concentration. Her touch is light but insistent, the casual physical contact of a child who hasn't yet learned to guard affection.

Time slips away as Emilia continues her cheerful monologue, bouncing from topic to topic: the class hamster's escape attempt, the new girl who can speak three languages, the birthday party where they had an actual magician. You absorb each detail like water in a desert, storing them away for the next time you're somewhere you can't be reached, when these memories will have to sustain you.

Eventually, you notice the angle of the sunlight changing, the late afternoon stretching toward evening. You check the delicate watch on your wrist, a gift from Chan, engraved with a date that means something only to the two of you, the day you first said I love you to each other.

"Homework time, Emi," you say gently, stroking her hair.

She groans dramatically, flopping back against the couch cushions. "Do I have to? You just got home!"

"I'll still be here after homework," you promise. "And maybe we can convince Dad to get ice cream later."

"Vanilla and chocolate fudge sundae?" She perks up immediately.

"Is there any other kind?"

She scrambles off the couch with the same enthusiasm she showed jumping into your arms. "I only have math today. It's easy. I'll be done super fast!"

"Take your time and do it right," you call as she races to retrieve her backpack from the kitchen.

"I will!" she shouts back, already halfway out of the room.

You stay on the couch for a moment longer, listening to the sounds of her rummaging through her bag, the scratch of a chair being pulled out at the kitchen table. Normal sounds. Home sounds. You stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles from earlier activities with Chan, and think about checking in on him. The bedroom door was closed when you came downstairs. He's probably napping; the hospital had him working overnight shifts all week.

You rise from the couch, pausing to pick up Emilia's discarded yogurt pouch from the floor. As you toss it in the trash, you hear the soft scratch of pencil on paper from the kitchen table and smile to yourself. Two daughters. Two completely different relationships. Both worth coming home for.

It's time to check on your husband.

You approach the master bedroom with careful steps, the residual warmth of Emilia's enthusiasm still humming under your skin. The door stands slightly ajar, a thin blade of light cutting across the hallway floor. You push it open just enough to slip through, then turn and deliberately slide the lock into place, a pointed correction to the earlier oversight. The room is dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, but there's enough light to see Chan waiting for you, propped against the headboard with an iPad forgotten in his lap. His eyes find yours immediately, warm and patient and knowing, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The air between you feels charged, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

"Locked this time?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that still, after all these years, sends a current down your spine.

"Lesson learned." You move toward the bed, shedding the tension of parenting with each step. "Though I think we scarred our daughter for life."

Chan sets aside his iPad and extends a hand to you. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength. Surgeon's hands that have both saved lives and mapped every inch of your body. "She'll survive. I did, after walking in on my parents when I was twelve."

"That's exactly what I told her." You take his hand, letting him pull you onto the bed beside him. The mattress dips beneath your combined weight, bodies gravitating toward each other like planets locked in orbit.

Chan's thumb traces circles on your palm, a small, mindless gesture that feels more intimate than a kiss. His hair is mussed, dark waves falling across his forehead. At forty-two, there's a bit of silver threading through the black at his temples, lines deepening around his eyes, evidence of years spent squinting under surgical lights, of nights spent waiting for you to come home.

"How did it go with Isa?" he asks. "After she ran off screaming about her eyes burning."

You lean back against the pillows, your shoulder pressed against his. "Better than expected. We had the sex talk."

His eyebrows shoot up. "The full version?"

"As full as it gets when your teenager is dying of embarrassment." You run a hand through your hair, still damp and tangled from your earlier activities. "She asked about Jake."

Chan's expression shifts, the casual relaxation hardening into something more alert. "Jake? What about him?"

"He's been talking about sex." You watch your husband's face carefully, catching the slight tightening around his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

"She's sixteen," he says, as if reminding himself more than you.

"I was fifteen when I lost my virginity," you point out.

"Not helping."

“And you were…?” You know the answer already; he was sixteen and a junior counselor at a sleep away summer camp. You smile, nudging his shoulder playfully with yours when he ignores you instead of acknowledging his hypocrisy. "It’s not just Jake though. Apparently there are several people in their friend group who are now sexually active.” Chan makes a face. “I told her to wait until she's sure, to always use protection, and that her father would murder any boy who pressured her."

"Good advice." His hand finds yours again, fingers interlacing. "Though I wouldn't murder him. Maim, maybe."

"You wouldn't hurt a fly and we both know it."

Chan turns to you, his free hand coming up to cup your face. His palm is warm against your cheek, familiar and grounding. “Did you forget about that guy I punched for you?”

“How could I? It was so sexy and if we hadn’t already had sex, I certainly would have fucked you that night.” 

“If I recall correctly, you did fuck me that night,” he whispers. “We didn’t even make it out of the car.”

“I remember,” you whisper back before kissing the tip of his nose. 

He smiles before his face turns serious again. "For you and our girls? I'd do things that would shock you."

The intensity in his voice reminds you why you fell for him, this gentle man with a core of steel when it comes to protecting what he loves. Not so different from you, really, just operating on a different scale.

"I believe you," you say softly, turning to press a kiss to his palm.

His eyes soften again. "What about Emilia? I heard the elephant stampede downstairs. How she manages to create so much noise with that small body I will never know."

You laugh. "She showed me her arabesque and her cheerleading routine. Apparently, you've been helping her practice."

"Someone has to stop her from breaking her neck." His smile is fond, a little sad. "She misses you. Talks about you constantly."

The words settle like stones in your stomach, heavy with implications. "She thinks I'm a superhero with a secret identity."

"Aren't you?" Chan's question is light, but his eyes search yours.

"We both know I'm no hero." You look down at your hands; they’re unmarked now, but you can still feel phantom blood under your nails sometimes.

Chan lifts your chin, forcing your eyes back to his. "You are to them. To me."

The conviction in his voice threatens to undo you. This man who knows the worst of what you've done—not the details; not the who or the where; never the details, but enough—and still looks at you like this.

"I don't deserve you," you whisper.

"Probably not," he agrees with a grin, dimples appearing like punctuation marks at the end of his smile. "But you're stuck with me anyway."

His hand slides from your face to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. The touch is gentle but deliberate, a question being asked. You answer by leaning in, closing the distance between you until your lips meet his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative in a way your earlier coupling wasn't. That had been frantic, desperate, hands everywhere, two months of separation burned away in a fever of need. This is different. Slower. More deliberate.

Chan's lips move against yours with practiced patience, the kiss deepening by degrees. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth, and you open to him with a sigh that carries the weight of too many nights spent alone. His hand tightens in your hair, just enough to send a shiver down your spine, and you press closer, seeking his warmth.

Your robe has come loose again, the sash barely holding it together. Chan's free hand finds the gap, sliding inside to trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine. His touch is reverent, fingertips skimming over your skin as if rediscovering territory he's mapped a thousand times before.

"I missed you," he murmurs against your lips. "Every day."

You could say the same, but the words feel inadequate. Instead, you show him, shifting to straddle his lap, your robe falling open completely now. Chan's eyes darken as they sweep over you, taking in the scars and curves with equal appreciation. His hands settle on your hips, steadying you as you lean down to kiss him again.

This kiss is deeper, hungrier, but still controlled. You can feel him holding back, savoring each moment instead of rushing toward completion as you did earlier. His thumbs trace circles on your hipbones, a maddening tease that makes you rock against him instinctively.

He's still wearing his sweatpants, the thick cotton material doing nothing to hide his arousal. You grind down against him, swallowing his groan with your kiss. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, a ghost of a touch that makes you arch toward him, seeking more.

"Chan," you breathe against his mouth.

He smiles, you can feel it in the kiss, and finally, finally cups your breasts fully, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak under his touch. Heat pools between your legs, a slow-building ache that's all the more intense for its unhurried development.

You reach between you to tug at his sweatpants, and he lifts his hips to help you slide them down. When you wrap your hand around his dick, his breath hitches, head falling back against the headboard. You watch his face, the flutter of his eyelashes, the parting of his lips, the flush spreading across his cheekbones. Beautiful. Yours.

His hands leave your breasts to cup your face, bringing you down for another kiss that's almost painfully tender. "I love you," he whispers against your lips. "Every part of you. The mother, the wife, the warrior. All of you."

The words break something open inside you. a dam holding back emotions you can't afford to feel in the field. Here, with him, you can be vulnerable. Here, with him, you're safe.

You guide his cock to your entrance, sinking down slowly, taking him in,  inch by inch until you're fully seated in his lap. The stretch is exquisite, your body still sensitive from earlier. Chan's hands return to your hips, not guiding, just holding, his eyes never leaving yours as you begin to move.

This isn't the frenzied coupling from before. This is a conversation without words, each roll of your hips a declaration, each responding thrust from him an answer. Your hands brace on his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath warm skin. His thumbs press into the hollows beside your hipbones, not controlling but encouraging, matching your rhythm.

The room fills with the sound of your breathing, increasingly ragged, and the soft rustle of sheets beneath you. Chan leans forward to press his lips to the hollow of your throat, tongue tasting the salt of your skin. You tilt your head back, offering more of yourself to him, and his mouth traces a path up your neck to the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shudder.

"You feel like coming home," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion and desire. "Every time."

You tighten around him at the words, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His hands slide from your hips to your back, pulling you closer until your chests are pressed together, hearts beating against each other like birds in neighboring cages. The new angle changes everything, sends sparks shooting up your spine with each movement.

Chan's mouth finds yours again, the kiss messy and desperate now as the careful control begins to slip. One of his hands tangles in your hair, the other sliding between your bodies to where you're joined, his thumb finding the bundle of nerves that makes your rhythm falter.

"Look at me, baby," he urges, and you do, your eyes locking with his as he works you higher, his hips rising to meet yours with increasing urgency.

The pleasure builds like a tide, inevitable and overwhelming. You can feel yourself approaching the edge, your movements becoming less coordinated, more frantic. Chan holds you steady, his hand in your hair, his eyes on yours, his voice a constant stream of praise and encouragement.

"That's it, my love. Let go. I've got you."

And you do, coming apart in his arms with a cry that he catches with his mouth, kissing you through the waves of pleasure that leave you trembling and boneless against him. He follows a moment later, his rhythm stuttering, his arms tightening around you as he buries his face in your neck.

For several minutes, neither of you moves. Your heartbeats gradually slow, your breathing evens out. Chan's hands stroke lazily up and down your back, soothing and possessive at once. You press your face into the curve of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him: clean sweat, faint traces of antiseptic that never quite wash away, and something uniquely him that you'd know blindfolded.

Eventually, you shift, sliding off him to curl against his side. He immediately pulls you closer, arranging your limbs until you're draped half across his chest, your head tucked under his chin. His fingers trace abstract patterns on your shoulder, dancing over old scars with familiar tenderness.

"Do you think Isabella will be okay?" you ask into the comfortable silence. "About what she saw, I mean."

Chan's chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "She'll be fine. Traumatized for a week, maybe, but fine. It's good for kids to know their parents still desire each other."

"Still?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him, eyebrow raised. "Did you think that would change?"

His smile is soft, a little wistful. "Two months is a long time."

The unspoken truth hangs between you… that sometimes it's longer. That sometimes, you leave without knowing when you'll return. That he never asks where you go or what you do, because he understands the concept of classified information better than most civilians as someone who treats military personnel often with limited information , but also because he's afraid of the answers.

You trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble that's grown since this morning. "Some things don't change," you say. "No matter how long I'm gone."

He turns his head to kiss your palm, a mirror of your earlier gesture. "I know." His eyes hold yours, patient and understanding and so full of love it makes your chest ache. "I'm here. Always. No matter how long."

"I don't know why," you admit, voicing the doubt that creeps in during the darkest nights away from home. "I'm not here enough. I miss recitals and parent-teacher conferences and dinners…"

Chan silences you with a finger to your lips. "You're here now. That's what matters."

"Is it enough?" The question is barely audible.

"It has to be." He pulls you back down to rest against his chest. "Because I'm not going anywhere, and neither are the girls. We're your constants. Your fixed points."

"My home," you murmur, feeling sleep beginning to tug at the edges of your consciousness, your body heavy with satisfaction and the release of tension you didn't know you were carrying.

"Always." Chan presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Rest. I'll wake you before the girls get hungry enough to start a revolution."

You smile against his skin, allowing yourself to drift. Here, in this bed, with this man, you are not a weapon or an asset. You are not defined by the blood on your hands or the secrets you keep. You are simply loved. Completely, unconditionally, and without reservation.

It may not be enough to erase what you've done, but it's enough to remind you why you do it. Why you always come back, no matter how difficult the mission or how deep your cover. This. Them. The family that waits for you with open arms and understanding hearts.

Your last thought before sleep claims you is that maybe Emilia is right. Maybe you are a superhero, in your own way. Not because of what you do out there in the shadows, but because you've somehow managed to hold onto this… this slice of normal life, this love that persists despite everything.

And that might be the most heroic thing of all.

****

You wake to the gentle pressure of Chan's arm draped across your waist, his breath warm against your neck. The familiar weight anchors you to this moment, a fleeting treasure you're already mourning. Your body knows what your mind refuses to accept: by mid morning, you'll be gone again, your family a memory to sustain you through whatever waits beyond the threshold of your front door.

Chan stirs beside you, his consciousness rising to meet yours in the soft pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains. His eyes remain closed, but his fingers spread possessively across your hip, pulling you closer into the curve of his body. You feel the solid press of him against your back, a reminder of what you'll soon be without.

"You're thinking too loud," he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. His lips find the sensitive spot behind your ear. "I can hear the gears turning."

You turn in his arms, facing him with a half-smile. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."

"I know a cure for that." His eyes, now open, are warm brown pools that see too much.

When he kisses you, it's with the urgency of a timer counting down… because it is. His mouth moves against yours with a hunger that makes you forget, just for a moment, about passports and weapons and the car that will arrive in a few hours. His tongue pushes against yours, resulting in a moan that feels wrenched from somewhere deep inside.

Your hands tangle in his dark, wavy hair, still marveling, after seventeen years together, at how it feels like raw silk between your fingers. His left hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone, while his right travels a practiced path down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping your thigh to pull it over his.

You arch against him, your body responding with the muscle memory of countless mornings like this. And nights, and stolen afternoons when the girls were at school. The kiss deepens, becomes something desperate and adolescent, and you bite his lower lip just hard enough to make him groan. His hand slides beneath your sleep shirt, fingers splaying across the small of your back where he knows you're sensitive.

"We shouldn't," you whisper against his mouth, even as your body contradicts your words, pressing closer.

"We should," he counters, rolling you beneath him, his weight a delicious pressure. "We absolutely should."

His mouth finds the pulse point low on your throat, and you gasp as he sucks gently, deliberately marking you. Leaving something of himself on your skin to take with you. His ritual. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent moons from your nails that will still be there when you're a thousand miles away.

"The girls," you remind him, but it's a weak protest.

"Still asleep. Emilia still sleeps like the dead," he says, confidence in every syllable. His hand slides lower, squeezing your ass. "Besides, we have a lock on the door now."

You want to say yes. Want to lose yourself in him one more time before you go. But the digital clock on the nightstand catches your eye. 5:37 AM. And reality slices through desire like a blade.

“Chan,” you say, as he continues to mark your throat. You’re fighting a losing battle with your own resolve, your mind urging you to stop, but your body screaming yes, yes, yes.

“You don’t even have to do anything,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin. He makes his way down your body as he moves lower, biting at your skin through the shirt along the way. Each nip of his teeth makes your resolve dissolve a little more. “Just lie there,” he encourages softly, words hot against the now uncovered skin of your lower belly. His fingers hook into your waistband, tugging your panties down and off, leaving you exposed and wanting more than you can handle. 

Then he's between your legs, looking up at you with that infuriating smirk that tells you he knows exactly what he's doing to you. You’re helpless. He nudges your knees open with his shoulders, and his breath is hot against your folds before his tongue even touches you. The anticipation alone is enough to make you gasp. Then he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the center, and you nearly come undone.

“Ohhhhh,” you moan, the velvety slide of his tongue exquisite, each stroke sending electric currents through your entire body.

Your hands grip the sheets above your head, your body arching and offering itself to him, completely lost in the moment. He laps at you with slow, languid strokes, varying the pressure in a way that makes you writhe and gasp and forget about everything except this moment, this man, and the delicious torture of his mouth.

You give in with a kind of wild abandon, hips lifting off the bed as he sucks your clit hard. He knows exactly where to push, exactly how to make you lose yourself, exactly how to leave you trembling and weightless beneath him. You’re panting, the tight coil inside you winding tighter, tighter. Your mind starts to fade to white, filled with just him, just this.

You try to speak, but all that escapes is a breathless, desperate sound. He takes it for what it is and presses two fingers inside you. A groan tears from your throat as he curls them just right, in perfect time with the sinful orchestra of his tongue. You’re beyond caring if the entire block can hear. Each stroke and flick sends shockwaves through you, until you can barely stand it. Until you don't know how much longer you can hold on. 

Until you can’t hold on at all.

Your release is shattering, a white-hot explosion that leaves you shaking. You cum so hard you see stars.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, as Chan makes his ascent back up your body. “How are you still so good at that?”

“It’s easy when you’re so delicious,” he whispers against your lips before kissing you hard so that you can taste yourself. 

“I’d love to reciprocate, but I can’t move,” you say in between his kisses.

“Don’t worry about it babe. Next time.”

“Next time,” you whisper in agreement. “Definitely. Every day for a week at least. You deserve it.”

"I'll hold you to that," he says, pressing his forehead against yours before pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

You fall back asleep in his arms, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin like it's oxygen, another memory to tuck away for when you’re gone. But sleep is fitful, plagued by dreams where you're running down endless hospital corridors, trying to find Chan and the girls, but every door you open leads to another empty room with blood on the floor.

When you wake again an hour later, the space beside you on the bed is cold. The clock reads 6:42 AM. Chan's already up, and the distant sounds of kitchen activity drift upstairs: the soft clunk of the refrigerator door, the gentle sizzle of bacon hitting a hot pan, Emilia's high, clear laugh followed by Isabella's deeper chuckle.

You lie still for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, memorizing the contours of the small water stain in the corner that Chan keeps promising to fix. Another weekend project that will have to wait until you're home to help. Another piece of normal life suspended in your absence.

With a sigh, you swing your legs over the side of the bed. The hardwood is cool beneath your bare feet as you pad to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror looks back at you with dark, serious eyes. No visible bruises this time, at least, save for Chan’s love bite from this morning. The last one across your jaw a few months ago had been hard to explain to the girls.

You brush your teeth with mechanical precision, shower quickly. The hot water splashes over your body, washing away the last traces of sleep but not the weight in your chest. You dress in clothes that could belong to anyone: dark jeans, a deep green button-up short-sleeve shirt, sensible boots. Nothing memorable, nothing that would make a witness' description specific. Your wedding ring goes into a small hidden pocket in your bag, next to your real passport.

The duffel waits in the closet, already packed with generic clothes and toiletries. Thanks to Chan, that fucking saint. Sometime last night he’d removed your dirty clothes and repacked with clean ones. He’s also refilled your toiletries. You add a few last items: the photo of Chan and the girls at the beach last summer, folded small and tucked into an inner pocket where it won't get damaged. The worn silver chain with your mother's wedding ring that you never wear but can't bear to leave behind since she passed away.

When the bag is zipped, you place it by the bedroom door and stand for a moment, looking at the rumpled sheets, the indentation where Chan's head rested on his pillow. Your hand smooths over his side of the bed, a gesture both tender and final.

The hallway is quiet as you move down it, your footsteps deliberate and silent from years of training. You pass Isabella's room, door firmly closed as always, then Emilia's, half-open with stuffed animals visible on the unmade bed.

At the top of the stairs, the sounds from the kitchen become clearer: pans clattering, water running, the rhythmic scrape of a spatula. You descend carefully, one hand trailing along the banister, past the gallery of family photos that lines the wall. Chan insists on updating them regularly, filling the frames with evidence of a life you're only partially present for.

You pause at the kitchen doorway, unseen by your family, and the scene unfolds before you like a painting you want to step inside and never leave.

Chan stands at the stove in his worn blue pajama pants and a faded Georgetown Medical School t-shirt, flipping pancakes with the casual competence of a short-order cook. There’s a red glitter heart sticker just under his right eye and a silver star left of his chin. His hair is still mussed from sleep and your fingers, and he hums tunelessly as he works, occasionally glancing at the girls with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. At forty-two, he's more handsome than when you met him during his first year of residency; the years have etched character into his face, deepening his dimples, adding scattered silver at his temples that makes your stomach flip every time you notice it.

Isabella sits at the island, long legs crossed on the stool, scrolling through her phone. At sixteen, she's all sharp angles and careful distance, her athletic frame draped in an oversized soccer jersey, her dark hair piled in a messy bun of coils on top of her head. You catch the blue glittery moon sticker on her neck; probably too cool to have it on her face like her dad. Chan never worries about being cool. Isa makes a dry comment that you can't quite hear, and Chan's laugh booms in response.

Emilia dances around the kitchen in a continuous orbit, setting the table with more energy than precision. Her pink pajamas have unicorns on them, and her dark hair bounces in a ponytail as she twirls between the fridge and the counter, chattering non-stop about a school project. She moves like Chan, all fluid grace and expressive hands, and has his features: eyes, nose, cheeks, dimpled smile, and his soft unruly curls. Chan’s mini-me. If you hadn’t seen her emerge from your own body with that same milk chocolatey brown skin as yours, you would have thought she was his clone. She has pink glittery hearts at the corner of each eye, and a silvery star that matches the placement of Chan’s.

The scene contracts your heart to the point of pain. This is what you protect, you tell yourself. This is why you do what you do. But the justification feels hollow as you watch Chan expertly juggle four different components of breakfast while engaging with the girls, as you see Isabella's genuine laugh when Emilia does a dramatic reading from the back of the syrup bottle, as you notice how your husband has already set out a mug for your coffee, the one with the chip in the handle that you refuse to throw away until the handle breaks off completely.

The kitchen smells of warmth. It’s maple syrup and fresh coffee, bacon and Chan's cologne, the ever-present scent of the lavender dish soap he insists on buying because he knows you love it. You stand frozen, absorbing every detail, storing it away to revisit in cold hotel rooms and surveillance vans.

Chan turns toward the doorway, some sixth sense alerting him to your presence, and for a second, your eyes meet across the kitchen. A smile blooms on his face, the one reserved only for you. It’s a complicated expression of love and resignation, desire and understanding, and the ache in your chest expands into something too large to contain.

You feel it then… that uncomfortable heat that you recognize as guilt.

You step into the kitchen, and the other two pairs of eyes swivel toward you with varying degrees of surprise and delight. The tableau freezes for a heartbeat: Chan with a spatula suspended in mid-air, Isabella's phone forgotten in her hand, Emilia halted mid-twirl with a napkin clutched to her chest. Then the moment breaks, and they're moving again, the kitchen's rhythm altering to accommodate your presence like a new instrument joining an established melody.

"The sleeping beauty awakens," Chan announces, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He's holding the spatula like a microphone now, gesturing grandly toward the table. "Just in time for Chan's Famous Breakfast Extravaganza."

Your packed bag sits heavily against your leg, a physical reminder of what comes next. You lean it against the wall, trying for casual, but the sound it makes hitting the floor is too final, too loud. “I thought the Breakfast Extravaganza was reserved for Saturdays,” you say with a soft smile. 

“Usually,” Chan starts, “but since you’re here, we moved it up a day.”

"Mom! Dad's putting jalapeños in the eggs again," Isabella says, her phone now recording Chan's culinary crimes for her latest TikTok series. "Tell him normal people don't want their breakfast to make them cry."

"Weak!" Chan declares, pointing the spatula at your eldest daughter. "Your mother likes them spicy. Don't you, babe?"

His eyes meet yours across the kitchen, and there's that familiar spark, the silent communication perfected over seventeen years of marriage, sharpened by the repeated partings and breathless reunions. 

Yes, you like things spicy. And yes, he's well aware of exactly how much heat you can handle.

"Mom likes them super spicy," Emilia chimes in, abandoning her napkin-folding to skip toward you. "Daddy says it's 'cause you have a dragon inside you."

Isabella rolls her eyes. "That was when you were like, five, Em."

Emilia wraps her arms around your waist, tilting her head back to look up at you with Chan's exact smile, dimples and all. "I know that now. Mom's just tough."

You run your hand over her hair, savoring the silken feel of it, just like Chan’s, knowing that in a few hours, your hands will be holding something much less gentle. "Tough enough for jalapeño eggs," you agree, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Unlike the rest of you!”

“I love how dad calls me weak when he can’t even handle black pepper,” Isabella says sassily.

“Watch it kid! I can eat spicy food… sometimes.”

“Not without crying and turning pink,” Isabella adds under her breath. 

“You would turn pink too if we were the same complexion, daughter. Genetics gave you my tastebuds.”

“And I got mom’s,” Emilia chirps, her arms still wrapped around you. You kiss her forehead before she walks away.

Chan flips a pancake with theatrical flair, catching it perfectly on the other side. Isabella slow-claps, her sarcasm not quite hiding her admiration for his dexterity. He takes a bow, then glances at the clock on the microwave, a casual gesture that couldn't be less casual.

"Do you have time to stay for breakfast?" he asks, his tone light but his eyes serious. He knows the answer already. He always asks anyway.

"You know I can't," you reply, the familiar script bitter in your mouth.

Chan sets down the spatula and crosses to you, his movements as deliberate as they are graceful. He rests his hands on your hips, tugging you closer until you're flush against his chest. The smell of him, sandalwood, coffee and sleep-warm skin, wraps around you like a favorite blanket.

"Can't?" he murmurs, his bottom lip pushing out in an exaggerated pout that has no business being so effective on a forty-two year old trauma surgeon. "Or won't?"

His lips brush against yours, a whisper of a kiss that promises more. You're acutely aware of the girls watching, Isabella pretending disinterest while still recording, Emilia unabashedly staring with a hopeful grin.

"The car will be here soon," you remind him, but your hands betray you, rising to rest on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat through the worn fabric of his shirt, steady and familiar.

"It can wait, no? Like ten, fifteen minutes? That's practically forever," he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Time enough for pancakes, at least."

"Dad, ew, the eggs are burning," Isabella interrupts, though nothing is on fire. She's wearing the expression of teenaged disgust that barely masks her pleasure at seeing her parents still so obviously into each other.

Chan turns his head toward her but doesn't release you. "Impossible. I'm a professional."

"Yeah, at taking people apart, not cooking," Isabella retorts, but she's smiling as she says it.

"Show some respect to your father, the Pancake King," you say, and Chan beams at you, knowing he's winning this battle.

"Stay," he whispers, his forehead touching yours. "Just for breakfast. The world won't end if you're twenty minutes late."

But sometimes it would, is the thing you can't say. Sometimes twenty minutes is the difference between extraction and abandonment, between a mission completed and a target lost, between life and…

You push the thought away, focusing instead on the pressure of Chan's hands, warm through the fabric of your jeans as they slide to your ass. On Emilia, who has returned to setting the table, humming the same tuneless melody her father was. On Isabella, who's watching you with eyes too perceptive, too knowing for sixteen.

"Please, Mom," Emilia says, wielding the word like a weapon she knows you have no defense against. "Dad made blueberry pancakes. The good kind with the lemon zest."

"It’s a new recipe. And he'll be impossible to live with if you don't at least try them," Isabella adds, her tone casual but her eyes pleading in a way her words aren't. “And Emi can’t eat all those jalapeño eggs by herself.

Chan's hands travel up your sides, a slow ascent that leaves heat in their wake. "Thirty minutes," he bargains, pressing a kiss to your neck,  first on the mark he’s left, then just below your ear. "That's all I'm asking. Thirty minutes of normalcy before you go be a badass."

The offer is seductive in its simplicity: thirty minutes of what other people take for granted. Thirty minutes of chewing blueberry pancakes while Isabella details the latest drama with her soccer team and friend group. Thirty minutes of watching Emilia demonstrate her back handspring. Thirty minutes of Chan's knee pressed against yours under the table, his fingers occasionally brushing yours as he passes the syrup.

Your training screams against it. Protocol demands that you maintain separation, that you don't establish patterns, that you never, ever delay a departure. But protocol didn't account for Chan's fucking adorable dimples or the way Emilia's eyes shine with hope, or how Isabella is trying so hard to look like she doesn't care when you all know she does.

"Thirty minutes," you agree, finally caving, and the kitchen explodes with activity.

"YES!" Emilia pumps her fist in the air, a gesture so like Chan that your heart contracts.

Isabella tries to hide her smile behind her phone, but you catch it, a flash of relief, quickly masked.

Chan kisses you full on the mouth, a quick, passionate press that conveys everything he's not saying: Thank you. I miss you already. Come back to me.

When he pulls away, he's wearing a grin like he just won the lottery. Only Chan can manage to beg for ten extra minutes, and end up with thirty. “Girls, I’ll take you to school late so that we don’t have to rush,” he calls over his shoulder before he releases you and walks to the kitchen counter. "Well, don't just stand there looking pretty," he says, tossing you an apron that was hanging on one of the cabinet knobs. "Make yourself useful, babe."

The apron hits you in the chest, and you catch it reflexively. It's baby blue, with "Spice Handler" embroidered across the front in white letters. A Christmas gift from Chan three years ago that made the girls groan and you laugh until you cried.

"Bossy," you retort, but you're already tying it around your waist.

"You love it," he says, returning to the stove where the eggs are, in fact, just starting to stick to the pan.

And that's the bitch of it. You do. You love this impossible man with his terrible dad jokes and his gifted hands that can spend six hours reassembling someone's shattered femur and then come home to make elaborate breakfasts for his daughters. You love the life you've built together, these stolen moments of normalcy between assignments that get more dangerous every year.

You take a second to text your driver and your team, alerting them to the delay. Then you move to the counter beside your man, picking up a knife to slice the cantaloupe waiting on the cutting board. The weight of it in your hand is different from the knives you use for work; it’s lighter, less balanced, but your hands are just as precise. Chan watches you from the corner of his eye, always a little turned on by your competence with blades.

"Nice technique," he murmurs, bumping his hip against yours. "Very… efficient. And sexy."

"Eyes on your own work, Dr. Bahng," you warn, but you're smiling, feeling the tension in your shoulders loosen incrementally.

Across the kitchen, Isabella has abandoned her phone to pour orange juice into glasses, while Emilia arranges bacon on a paper towel, blotting the excess grease with the methodical focus of a bomb technician.

"So, like, when will you be back?" Isabella asks, her back to you, voice carefully modulated to sound casual.

The question hangs in the air. It's not one she usually asks, knowing the answer is always the same: I don't know.

You pause, knife hovering over the half-sliced cantaloupe. "I'm hoping before your next tournament in three weeks," you say, knowing it's risky to even suggest such a timeline. Knowing how much it will hurt if… when… you miss it. 

Isabella turns, juice pitcher still in hand, her eyes wide. "Really?"

The hope in her voice makes your chest ache. But this mission is supposed to be just surveillance. If everything is routine, you’ll be back in ten days. But in your line of work, very few things end up being ‘routine’. "As long as everything goes as planned, yes. And I'll do my best to make that happen," you say, which is all you've ever been able to promise.

She nods, understanding the unspoken disclaimer. But there's a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she returns to her task, and you count it as a win.

Chan slides up behind you, his chest warm against your back as he reaches around to steal a piece of cantaloupe. His lips brush your ear as he chews. "Delicious," he says, and you know he's not talking about the fruit.

"Insufferable," you counter, but you lean back into him anyway, allowing yourself this moment of contact. He kisses your neck softly. “And you have something on your face,” you add, referring to the stickers.

“They make me look pretty and sparkly,” he says with a grin. “Just the way you like me.” He snuggles into you, rubbing his nose on your face. You chuckle in response as you roll your eyes.

“I have some for you, too!” Emilia exclaims, bouncing over with a half-filled sticker sheet in her hand. “Which one do you want?”

“Can you choose something that matches my outfit, please?” Emi nods as she assesses what you’re wearing, then chooses a black sparkly star before peeling it off and pressing it to your left cheek. “That one’s perfect. Thank you, Emi.” You kiss her on the nose and she beams before skipping away.

The eggs are done, the pancakes stacked high on a platter, the bacon crisp, the fruit arranged in a colorful display that Chan insists makes it taste better. You all settle around the table, a choreographed routine of passing dishes and pouring syrup and arguing over who gets the crispiest pieces of bacon.

"Mom, tell Dad that his pancakes are better than IHOP," Emilia says around a mouthful, her cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, squirrel," Chan chides, but he's looking at you expectantly, waiting for your verdict.

You cut a piece, make a show of placing it in your mouth and chewing thoughtfully, as Chan makes a face that questions, Well…? "I don't know... those IHOP ones with the face are pretty darn tasty."

Chan clutches his chest in mock horror. "Betrayed! By my own wife!"

"The face ones do hit different," Isabella agrees, hiding her smile behind her juice glass.

"Oh, I see how it is. Gang up on the chef." Chan reaches over to tickle Emilia, who squeals and squirms in her chair. "At least my Emi loves my cooking, don't you, baby girl?"

"Dad! Stop!" she giggles, nearly knocking over her juice. "I love IHOP too!"

You catch Isabella's eye across the table, sharing a moment of amusement at Chan and Emilia's antics. She holds your gaze for a beat longer than usual, and you see it there, the silent plea that echoes your own heart. 

Stay. Just stay.

"These are better than any restaurant," you say quietly, and Chan stops tickling Emilia to look at you. "Always have been."

His smile is soft, private. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You reach for his hand across the table, squeeze once. "Nobody makes them like you, Channie."

The timer on your phone chimes, a warning that your thirty minutes are nearly up. The sound slices through the warmth of the moment like a cold knife, and everyone at the table stiffens slightly.

"Ten more minutes," Chan says, his hand tightening on yours. It's not a question.

You should say no. You should stand up, gather your things, and wait by the door for the car. That's what the protocol demands. That's what twenty years of training has ingrained in you.

Instead, you nod. "Ten more minutes." Somehow, again, Chan has managed to squeeze an extra forty minutes out of you and it makes you smile. If you weren’t the senior officer on your team, you’d be in deep shit.

And as Chan's face lights up, as Emilia launches into a story about her science project, as Isabella offers you the last piece of bacon with a small, shy smile, you think: Some rules are meant to be broken. Even yours.

These extra forty minutes stretch and contract like a living thing, the kitchen becoming a sanctuary. Time behaves differently here… slowing for the brush of Chan's fingers against your wrist as he takes a plate from your hands, accelerating through Emilia's breathless stories about school drama, stretching languorously when Isabella actually laughs at something you say. You move among them like a ghost already, memorizing details: the coffee stain on Chan's shirt collar, the chip in Emilia's purple nail polish, the new silver hoop in Isabella's right ear, a new piercing that you hadn't noticed before. Chan probably did it for her.

"Mom, you're doing it again," Isabella says, catching you staring as she loads dishes into the dishwasher.

"Doing what?" you ask, though you know exactly what she means.

"That thing where you look at us like you're taking mental pictures." She slides a plate into the rack with precise movements. "It's creepy."

"Creepy? My own daughter thinks I'm creepy for looking at her?" You clutch your chest in exaggerated hurt, and Chan snorts from where he's wiping down the stove.

"She got you there, babe," he says, flicking the dish towel in your direction.

Isabella rolls her eyes, but there's a smile fighting at the corners of her mouth. "I just mean... you don't have to memorize us. We'll still be here when you get back."

The simplicity of the statement, both promise and accusation, catches you off guard. You reach out to tuck a stray coil behind her ear, an excuse to touch her. She allows it, which feels like its own kind of victory.

"I know," you say, though you're all too aware that in your line of work, there are no guarantees. "I just like looking at you. You gorgeous creature that I created. Is that a crime?"

"If it is, lock me up too," Chan says, abandoning the stove to wrap his arms around you from behind, hooking his chin over your shoulder to stare at Isabella with an identical wide-eyed expression. "Look at our beautiful daughter, so grown up, so angsty."

"Oh my gawd," Isabella groans, but she's laughing now, her shoulders shaking. "You guys are the worst." Chan reaches over to tickle her and she playfully slaps his hand away.

"The absolute worst," Emilia agrees, appearing from nowhere to join the conversation, her face smeared with what looks like chocolate. "Dad let me lick the spatula after he made chocolate milk, and now I'm WIRED."

Chan gives her a mock-stern look. "Snitch!"

"Wired how?" you ask, reaching out to wipe the chocolate from the corner of her mouth with your thumb. "Like, ready to clean your room wired? Because that would be very convenient."

Emilia wrinkles her nose. "No, like, ready to show you my new cheer routine before you go wired."

"Ah," you say, as if considering a serious proposition. "That sounds more plausible."

"Please?" She bounces on her toes, all kinetic energy and hope. "It'll only take like two minutes, I promise, and Madison says I'm getting really good at the toe touches."

You glance at the clock. Your extra ten minutes are nearly up.

Chan's arms tighten around your waist, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, "Say yes babe. The world can wait two more minutes."

You lean back into his solid warmth, allowing yourself to absorb his certainty. "Let's see it, Em."

Emilia's face lights up like Times Square, and she dashes into the living room, shoving furniture aside to create a performance space. Isabella follows, shaking her head but settling onto the couch with her phone ready to record, always the supportive big sister beneath the layers of teenage indifference.

Chan takes your hand, threading his fingers through yours with practiced ease, and leads you to join them. The simple contact of his palm against yours, slightly calloused from weightlifting, warm and dry and familiar, sends electricity up your arm, a reminder of all the ways your bodies know each other. He sits on the floor and pulls you down next to him, draping your legs over his.

"Ready?" Emilia calls, positioned in the center of the room, feet together, arms at her sides, the perfect picture of concentration.

"Ready," you and Chan answer in unison, and she launches into a routine of jumps and claps and spins that looks impossibly complicated to your eyes but has Chan nodding along with professional assessment as her personal trainer.

"Nice height on that jump, Em," he calls out, and she beams without breaking stride.

You watch your younger daughter's face, the fierce determination, the flash of joy when she nails her standing back handspring, the quick glance at you to make sure you're paying attention. Ten years old and already she understands the value of the moments when you're actually present. The thought cuts deep, a blade slipping between your ribs with surgical precision.

When she finishes, striking a pose with her arms raised in a V, you and Chan applaud wildly while Isabella whistles through her teeth, a trick Chan taught her that you've never quite mastered.

"That was amazing, squirrel," you say, opening your arms as she runs to you, crashing into your chest with the full force of her small body. You breathe in the scent of her hair, strawberry shampoo and the lingering sweetness of syrup, and close your eyes, another memory to store away.

"Was it really good?" she asks, her voice muffled against your shirt. "Like, good enough for when we have the big competition in a couple months?"

A couple months. Another event you'll likely miss, another milestone observed through Chan's detailed text messages and video clips.

"It was perfect," you assure her, meeting Chan's eyes over her head. He gives you a small nod that says, I'll record everything, I'll make sure she knows you wished you were there, I'll handle it. As he always does. “And holy shit that back handspring was spectacular!” you add, causing Emilia to giggle. She always giggles when you swear. Which you do often. Isa used to giggle too; now she’s used to it.

Your phone chimes again; not a warning this time, but a notification. The car is outside.

The atmosphere in the room shifts like a weather change, sun giving way to clouds. Emilia's arms tighten around your waist. Isabella's smile falters, her eyes dropping to her phone though the screen is dark. Chan's jaw flexes, a tiny muscle jumping in his cheek, making the glitter star scatter light.

"Time to go, huh?" he says, his voice carefully neutral.

You nod, unable to force words past the sudden thickness in your throat.

Goodbyes in your household have a protocol all their own. You disentangle from Emilia's grasp, kneeling to her level. Her eyes are already shining with unshed tears, her lower lip caught between her teeth in a valiant effort not to cry.

"Be good for Dad," you say, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. "Help with the dishes without complaining. Finish that science project. And practice those toe touches; they're already incredible, but by the time I get back, they'll be Olympic-level."

"When will that be?" she asks. It’s the same question every time, though she knows the answer.

"As soon as I can," you say. It’s the same answer every time, though you all know it's not enough.

She nods solemnly, then throws her arms around your neck, squeezing with surprising strength. "I love you a million billion," she whispers, your private exchange.

"I love you a million billion and one," you reply, pressing a kiss to her temple before letting her go.

Isabella stands awkwardly by the couch, hands shoved in the pockets of her sweatpants. Approaching her is like approaching a half-wild animal; too much eagerness will make her retreat, too little will convince her you don't care.

"I'll do my best to make it to the tournament," you say, keeping a careful distance.

She shrugs one shoulder, the picture of adolescent indifference. "Whatever. It's just the semifinals."

Just the semifinals that she's been training for all season. Just the semifinals that could lead to a championship. Just the semifinals that might catch the eye of college scouts.

"I'll be tracking the scores of the games between now and then," you promise. "And bothering your father for constant updates."

"Hourly," Chan confirms. "Whether she likes it or not."

A small smile flickers across Isabella's face before she can suppress it. "Just... be careful, okay?" she says, eyes darting up to meet yours, then away.

The words strike like physical blows. Be careful. Such a normal thing for a daughter to say to a mother. Such an impossible promise for you to make.

"Always am," you say lightly, stepping forward to pull her into a quick hug. She allows it, arms stiff at her sides for a moment before they come up to return the embrace. “And I made an appointment for you with Dr. Ross for next week to get birth control,” you whisper softly so that only she can hear. “And if you want to wait for me to go with you, just let dad know to reschedule it for when I’m back. Totally your choice, okay.” She nods against your shoulder.

"Love you," she mumbles into your shoulder, so quietly you almost miss it.

"Love you too, Isa," you reply, using the nickname she pretends to hate but secretly loves. When you pull back, her eyes are suspiciously bright, but no tears fall. She's so much like you sometimes it's terrifying.

And then there's Chan, standing by the door with your bag already in hand, watching you with eyes that see everything: your fear, your resolve, your gratitude for him, your guilt about leaving. Seventeen years together, and he's never once made you feel like you have to choose between your family and your duty. Never once suggested that the work you do isn't worth the sacrifice. Never once failed to be here, solid and steady, when you return.

You cross to him, taking the bag from his hand, letting your fingers linger against his. "Thank you for making me stay for breakfast," you say, the words carrying the weight of so much more: Thank you for understanding. Thank you for loving me anyway. Thank you for making a home I can always come back to.

"Anytime," he replies, his smile soft at the edges. "Literally any time. Even if you call at 3 AM and say you're coming home, I'll have pancakes waiting."

You laugh, the sound catching on the edges of the emotion lodged in your throat. “And jalapeño eggs?” He nods. "I know you would."

His hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "Hey," he says, voice dropping to a register meant only for you. "Remember what you're coming home to."

Then he kisses you, and it's not the frantic, desperate kiss of earlier. This is slow, deliberate, a promise and a claim. His lips move against yours with practiced precision, knowing exactly how to make you forget, just for a moment, about anything beyond the two of you. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, memorizing the feel of him: the solid wall of his chest, the beat of his heart under your palm, the slight scratch of stubble against your skin.

When you pull away, you're both breathing harder. Behind you, Emilia makes a gagging sound, and Isabella mutters something that sounds like "get a room," but there's no real heat in it.

"I'll call when I can," you say, the familiar departure script.

Chan nods, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, mirroring when you did the same for Isa moments ago. "We'll be here."

You shoulder your bag, turn toward the door, then pause to look back at them, your family, arranged in a tableau that will sustain you through whatever comes next. Chan with his arm around Emilia, who leans against his side, Isabella standing slightly apart but still undeniably part of the unit. Your heart contracts painfully, a physical response to leaving them that never gets easier.

"Bye," you say, the word absurdly inadequate.

"Bye, Mom," Emilia calls, waving enthusiastically.

"See you," Isabella adds, lifting her hand in a more restrained gesture.

"Come back to me," Chan says quietly, the same words every time, his eyes holding yours.

"Always," you promise, the same response every time. And you mean it; you will always come back to him, to them, whatever it takes. 

Until the day you can't.

The front door closes behind you with a soft click, and the world beyond your home reasserts itself… the waiting car at the curb, the driver, Dan, standing by the open rear door, the weight of the bag on your shoulder containing everything you need to become someone else. Your skin feels too tight suddenly, like you're molting, shedding the person who makes pancakes with her family on Friday mornings and embracing the one who does things governments deny knowledge of.

You slide into the back seat of the nondescript black sedan, setting your bag beside you. The car pulls away from the curb, and you allow yourself one glance back at the house, your anchor point, your true north. Through the living room window, you catch a glimpse of them still standing together, Chan's arm now around both girls. That familiar ache returns. 

No government-issued cocktail of meds can fix the pain of leaving them behind again. Because this—Chan, your daughters Isabella and Emilia, their love—is the real medicine you need to take the edge off.

A single tear escapes, tracking down your cheek, the only one you'll allow yourself. You brush it away with a quick, impatient gesture and slip on your sunglasses, blinking rapidly until the burning in your eyes subsides.

Dan, meets your gaze in the rearview mirror. "Airport, lieutenant?"

"Yes," you say, your voice now cool and professional, the softness of home packed away like civilian clothes. You pull a folder from your bag, scanning the contents with practiced efficiency. "And I'll need to make a stop on the way." He nods as you give him the address. He pauses for a second, before tapping his left cheek lightly. You reach up to touch the same spot, finding the forgotten glitter sticker. “Oh… thanks Dan,” you say as you start to peel it off. He nods again, this time with a small knowing smile, then refocuses on the road ahead. You place the star inside the pocket of your bag, pressing it onto the fabric. 

As the car accelerates down the quiet suburban street, you feel the transformation complete; wife and mother receding, agent ascending. You run through mental checklists, review contingency plans, prepare yourself for what waits at the end of this journey.

But beneath it all, like a hidden compartment in a suitcase with a false bottom, you carry them with you: the taste of Chan's kiss, the sound of Emilia's laugh, the rare gift of Isabella's smile. Not baggage, but ballast. The reason you'll do whatever it takes to complete the mission.

The reason you'll always find your way home.

A/N: Every time I edited this, the goodbye scene always made me tear up. Every damn time. Hope you liked it! Share your thoughts.

My Masterlist

[luckyroll3]

Reposting from my favorite writer on here, whose work actually inspired me to start writing again. (Check out her stuff if you haven't. So damn good, I actually subscribe monthly to access her work. And I'm fucking cheap! 😂)

I attempted to say as much (but not as eloquently) on my final chapter of Thank You, Daddy, because the authentic engagement is what encourages me to share publicly. Otherwise I could just write for myself, which is enjoyable in it's own right, but not as fun.

So for the love of Beebo, please talk to us! [/insert Chan or Changbin pouty face]

[There was a text here. It's gone now. Shoutout to all sh2 lovers. So let me try this again properly for a targeted audience]

Dear friends,

Assuming you're an immigrant from another platform, I feel like an introduction is long overdue.

Hi! My name is Scarlet and I'm one of the many authors you follow here to read SKZ fics but never interact with. Welcome to the fic side of stayblr. It's awesome here, isn't it? ☺️ There are SO MANY extremely talented authors here who write awesome-ass stories that put published books to shame. Plus making your fantasies come true if you're into that. And a new one is joining us every week or so! We cannot be any more ecstatic ^^

But I want to talk to you about a long-standing tradition we have since you made a lot of older community members leave because of your disregard of it.

Which is interacting meaningfully.

You might have moved here because of Instagram or what's formerly known as Twitter. Or you might have just wanted to join this amazing community. Of course you would, it's awesome here! But here's the thing.

A lot of people moved here alongside you, and it's perfectly understandable if you don't know how things work around here, but I really think you should since it's not so awesome anymore.

Because collectively, you're hurting us tremendously.

It's really easy to make something viral on Instagram or TikTok when you hit the heart icon, or leave Kudos on AO3, but see, Tumblr doesn't work like that. The authors here aren't after your likes. We actually don't care for it at all. We are all here to interact with our readers and see their reaction to our work. Here, interacting means talking to each other. Authors would like to hear your thoughts because your "like" translates into "this is mediocre and doesn't deserve my further attention". We have already lost MANY top-tier authors to this drought because a good deal of newcomers think it's enough to like something they tremendously enjoyed. It isn't. Authors lean on your active participation to continue their ongoing work. They thrive on your interaction when you yell in the reblog tags, or comment on a one shot, or send an ask about how you liked their work, anonymously or not.

So please.

Please end this silent reading and blank reblog pandemic because you're hurting us. You're killing all the creative spark. I myself don't want to publish longform work on Tumblr anymore because the meaningful interaction rate makes me want to quit writing altogether. You make us feel like we're not good enough, and I can name a dozen other writers who feel the same. Please don't take away the ONE passion some of us quite literally need to stay alive.

There is no formula to write a "good feedback" and I assure you, nobody cares. Just tell your favorite authors what you feel about their latest chapter/story. If you signed up for their permanent taglists, interact with them because using them as alarm clocks for their latest drops is the rudest thing you can do (and frankly, it's a cunt move). Interact with them for the very reason you signed up. Because you think they write good stories. Write braindumps about how their work made you feel, it doesn't need to be coherent. Do live reactions as you read the chapters/stories because I guarantee they will CRY AT THEIR DESK out of joy if you do it.

So please, for the umpteenth time, sincerely, with all of my heart, on my father's late soul, please do not take the joy of writing away from us and be an active participant of the community. Because you carry half the responsibility for this to be called a "community" in the first place.

And sadly, it was before you all started playing the "I don't know what to say" card. We don't care what it is. Just say something because we're giving up on you.

Say something so that we know we're not throwing this work that took a ginormous amount of passion to create into a void.

P.S: Please stop using the fic tags (# group/member smut tags specifically) when you share a sexy picture or your one-sentence thirst because you're clogging the tags people use to find authors and stories. Your thing is what the hard thoughts tags are for.

Thank you.

[luckyroll3]

“Ok, ok, let’s not escalate into violence, it’s too early for that,” Chan said, palms up. “Let’s just… regroup, yeah?”

The cat’s tail whipped back and forth like an errant metronome. She fixed Chan with a stare that implied she was not amused. “Name’s Coco,” she said, licking a paw. “And if you’re the wizards running the show here, I got notes.” She gave Changbin a side-eye that could out judge one of Hyunjin’s.

@multi-stays @kpopwerewolf @beppybeesnuggets @lookitsjess @hanjiscake @mysteriousmagnus @minho-the-cat-dad @bangrychannie @stayinlimbo @raineonthemoon247 @esnoinhwu @blackvinylbloodx36 @scallywag1299 @silverstarburst @minniesmutt @anelderitchedntity

Part of Stayblr's SKZ MAGIC SCHOOL EVENT

EVENT GUIDELINES

STARTING SENTENCE

Chan and Changbin tried to summon a storm for class, but instead summoned... a very confused talking cat with an attitude problem.

[luckyroll3]

Unexpected Chapter 24: Yeah... We Crash

Unexpected Masterlist Previous Chapter

Mia

Mia's trembling fingers paused above the glowing screen of her phone. The last remnants of a once-blazing sunset bled away outside her window, mimicking the slow drain of resolve from her heart. Her thumb hovered, then decisively tapped out a message, her breath hitched in her throat as she sent it off.

Mia: Are you still at work?

Jason: Hi M. How are you? Oh me? I’m good.

Mia: 😒 Hi Jason. So…?

Jason: Yes. Still at work. What’s up?

Mia: Can you stop by on your way home? I need you.

Each word she typed was an admission of defeat.

Jason's reply came quick, laced with a smugness that felt like a tight coil in her stomach.

Jason: I knew you couldn't stay away. 😉

Mia: 🙄 Stop being a dick, Jay. You know what…

Mia stopped short of taking back the invitation. She couldn’t. She tried to keep her desperation from seeping through. She needed physical support, not his ego-stroking games.

Jason: Alright, alright. I’m kidding. You know I can never say no to you, M. I'll swing by after my last client. Does my key still work?

His message was casual, almost flippant, but she could sense the underlying anticipation.

Mia: Absolutely not! Your key hasn’t worked in ages. I’ll leave the door open for you. Just come in when you get here.

Mia’s heart sank a little further, disappointed in herself that she gave into her urges… that she gave in. It hadn’t even been a week since she walked out on Chan. She set the phone aside, a hollow feeling growing in her chest, and made her way to the sanctuary of her bathroom.

In the privacy of the steam-filled room, the shower's warmth enveloped her like a comforting embrace she so sorely missed. Mia massaged shampoo, followed by a deep conditioner, in her hair. She stood under the stream of water to rinse everything out. As the water cascaded down her body, washing away the day's grime, Mia's mind betrayed her, replaying memories of Chan: his smile, his touch, the way he looked at her like she was the only one in the world. His goddess.

A sob broke free, muffled by the sound of the water. She leaned against the cool tiles, letting the tears mix with the stream pouring over her. Here, in the solitude of her shower, she allowed herself to grieve what might have been.

"Get it together, woman," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rush of water. With a shaky exhale, she turned the knob to shut off the stream and stepped out onto the bathmat, her feet leaving damp imprints on the plush surface.

Wrapping herself in the softness of her white robe, Mia caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her usually vibrant curls plastered to her head, damp and lifeless. But beneath the vulnerability reflected back at her was the trace of the woman who had fought for everything she had in her life.

Jason is just a band-aid, she reminded herself, tying the belt of her robe a little tighter, as if she could somehow hold herself together with its terry cloth knot. You're stronger than this.

But even as she fortified her defenses with silent pep talks, the echo of Jason's imminent arrival pulsed through her veins, a siren call to the part of her that craved the familiarity of his touch, no matter how toxic it might be.

She added leave-in conditioner to her hair, and a little bit of oil, raking her fingers through the damp curls. That was all she had the energy for right now. She’d have to force herself to do her full hair care routine over the weekend.

Tonight, she resolved, staring down her reflection, tonight is just about getting through.

Mia headed to the kitchen to clean, setting her music player to random. She worked methodically, starting at one end of the kitchen until she reached the sink.

She sighed as she looked at all the dishes she allowed to pile up over the past few days. Washing dishes was her least favorite chore. Chan didn’t mind, though, and had been doing them for her the past few weeks.

Mia scrubbed at a stubborn stain on a plate as she leaned over the kitchen sink. The music from the speakers had been a welcome distraction until a Stray Kids song came on. Collision.

How appropriate, she thought. A song about falling hard for each other, breaking up, then falling apart. Her heart clenched when she heard Chan’s voice in the second verse; she reached over and tapped the device off, plunging the room into silence.

"Silence is better than memories," she muttered to herself, focusing on the rhythm she created as she washed and rinsed the dishes, trying to push away all thoughts of him.

The click of the front door and the soft shuffle of footsteps heralded Jason's arrival. Mia didn't turn around, didn't need to. His presence filled the space behind her, a warm familiarity that both comforted and unsettled her.

"Hey, stranger," Jason said, his voice laced with that same cocksure tone that always made her roll her eyes.

Before Mia could respond, he slid his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him. She felt his lips press against the spot where her neck met her shoulder, gentle yet deliberate. A shiver raced down her spine, her body betraying her resolve.

"Jason, don't," she whispered, but there was no real fight in her voice. It was too easy to melt into him, to forget why this was a bad fucking idea.

Jason ignored her. "I've missed you, M," he breathed out, his breath hot against her skin. He continued to press kisses on the spot. He knew it would turn her on.

Mia sighed as she let herself enjoy his touch. “Thanks for coming, Jay.”

"Of course. You know we're meant to be together."

She tilted her head to the side, that familiar gesture of disagreement, even as her body leaned back into his embrace. "We're not, Jason. You know that."

"Then why am I here, Mia?" he challenged softly, his hand slipping the robe down her shoulder, exposing her skin to the cool air of the kitchen.

"Because I'm weak," she admitted, hating how vulnerable she sounded. "And because you're always there when I fall apart."

His kisses trailed gently across her shoulder and down her back, each one a bittersweet reminder of their tangled past. "That's because I care about you. More than you know."

"Or maybe because you like to feel needed," Mia retorted, though the bite in her words was lost somewhere between her rapid heartbeat and her conflicting desires.

"Maybe," Jason conceded, the word vibrating against her skin as he untied the knot in her belt and removed her robe completely, letting it fall to the floor with a soft whisper. "But isn't that what we all want? To be needed by someone we can't stay away from?"

Mia closed her eyes, the plates forgotten as she surrendered to the moment, to the complex web of emotions that Jason always seemed to weave around her. She knew she would regret this, but for now, the only thing that mattered was the feel of his lips on her skin and the way he made her forget everything else, everyone else, even if just for a little while.

Jason turned Mia around so that she could face him, and brought his lips to hers, kissing her softly. “Admit it Mia,” he whispered against her lips. “You can’t stay away from me.” He snaked his tongue into her mouth as he grabbed her chin to keep it in place.

Mia couldn’t deny it. She couldn’t deny the pull that Jason had on her, even after all this time and all he had put her through. His words were true, and she hated herself for it. But in this moment, with his lips on hers and his hands roaming her body, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She needed this right now.

Jason deepened the kiss, his hands moving down to cup her ass and pull her closer to him. Mia let out a soft moan, wrapping her arms around him as she kissed him back just as fiercely.

Mia's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as she responded to Jason's kiss. His familiarity, his closeness, stirred up memories and feelings she had long tried to bury. With his hands moving over her body in a way that once used to set her skin on fire, she felt a flicker of the passion they once shared. But beneath it all, beneath the surface allure, lay the jagged edges of hurt and betrayal, wounds that had never fully healed.

As they separated for air, Mia whispered against his lips, “This doesn’t mean anything more than what it is, Jason.”

He pressed another kiss to her lips before moving his own down her jawline and to her neck. “Whatever you say, M.” He was clearly unconvinced. Mia wasn’t sure she’d convinced herself. What she knew was that in this moment, she couldn’t resist him.

With a gasp of surrender, Mia used her hands to lift his face back up to hers, bringing their lips together once again. As Jason deepened the kiss, Mia found herself responding almost instinctively, her hands reaching to clutch at his shoulders. A part of her wanted this; craved the comfort he offered even if it was only temporary. But another part rebelled against it, reminding her of the pain he had caused, the trust he had shattered. She pushed all of it aside and lifted one of her legs to wrap it tightly behind him, pinning her naked body in place between him and the sink. Jason took that as an invitation to scoop her up, wrapping her other leg around his waist too, and carrying her to the bedroom.

Mia’s mind was a blur as Jason carried her, their lips never leaving each other’s. She could feel the soft fabric of his shirt rubbing against her bare skin. It felt so right, yet so wrong. Her body was responding to his touch, his familiarity, but her mind was still trying to convince her to put a stop to it. She tried to ignore it and focus on the present, on the pleasure he was giving her in this moment. Her heart raced with anticipation and fear, knowing where this was going to lead, but unable to stop herself from giving in.

Jason gently laid her down on the bed, desire evident on his face as he looked down at her. Mia’s breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight of him: his perfectly chiseled features, his captivating eyes, his muscular chest and arms that were now pinning her down against the mattress, bulging through his shirt.

Immediately, Jason’s lips were back on hers, hungrily devouring her mouth in a fiery kiss that left her breathless. His hands roamed across her body, tracing patterns that made her shiver with delight.

He untangled himself from her for a brief moment to strip off his own clothes, his eyes never leaving hers. He reached over to Mia’s bedside table, opening the drawer to retrieve a condom. Mia drank in the sight of him, completely naked now, his skin ridiculously smooth and unblemished, just a shade lighter than hers. He was still so beautiful. Mia felt a surge of desire course through her veins as she watched him roll the condom down his long shaft.

Jason leaned down to capture one of her breasts in his mouth, causing Mia to arch off the bed with pleasure. She felt his hands roaming lower and lower until they reached her thighs and gently eased them apart. He positioned himself between her legs, eagerly seeking entrance.

In one swift motion, Jason entered her with a deep groan. It hurt, but felt oh so good too. Mia bit her bottom lip to stifle a cry of pleasure as he began moving in slow deliberate strokes inside her. His hips met hers with each thrust, creating a rhythm they both knew by heart as their bodies moved in perfect synchronization.

Jason moved his lips back to Mia’s. She tasted him on her tongue as they continued their intense kiss, their tongues dueling playfully against each other's mouths.

Jason pulled away from her lips to watch her, his eyes locking on to hers, searching for something. As he continued to thrust, he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“Tell me you want me,” he said softly before nibbling on her lobe.

Mia’s breath hitched as she felt his warm breath against her ear. She couldn’t believe what he was asking of her. She wanted him, that was for sure, but could she say it out loud?

Jason pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, waiting for her response. Mia could see the desire burning in his gaze and it only added to her own growing need.

With a shaky breath, she whispered, “I want you.”

As soon as the words left her lips, Jason’s movements became even more intense. Mia moaned loudly as he hit all the right spots inside her. Jason continued to whisper dirty things in her ear, driving her wild. “You still take this dick so well. This pussy is mine. It doesn’t matter how many other guys you fuck; it will always be mine, baby.” It was a game they used to play when they first started dating. In this moment, she wanted this with Jason; the passion, the intimacy, the connection. She wanted more to fill the emptiness currently inside her.

As if reading her mind, Jason leaned down to capture her lips once more in a deep kiss. His hand slid down between them and started rubbing circles on her sensitive nub, while his thrusts came harder and faster. Mia could feel herself reaching her peak, her body trembling as Jason's movements became wilder and more urgent. And then, with one final thrust, she exploded.

As she rode out her orgasm, Mia heard Jason's own grunts of satisfaction as he followed right behind her. They collapsed onto the bed in a heap of tangled limbs and heavy breaths.

The room was a muted sanctuary illuminated only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting shadows that flickered across the walls. Jason's breath was warm against Mia's skin as they lay entangled in her bed. He looked at her with a gaze that held both triumph and tenderness, tracing the line of her collarbone with his finger.

For a few moments, they simply lay there in silence. But then reality came crashing back down on Mia and she couldn't help but feel guilty for what they had just done.

She turned away from Jason and pulled the covers over herself, feeling exposed and vulnerable. She could feel his gaze on her but didn't have the courage to meet it.

But instead of pushing for more or trying to convince her to let him stay, Jason surprised Mia by gently wrapping his arms around her from behind and pulling her close. Mia hadn’t encountered this version of Jason in a long time. The one who was just as sensual and caring to the people he loved as he was an asshole. The one who knew that sometimes it was better to just not say anything in the moment, but rather to just be there and listen instead. This was the Jason she remembered falling in love with.

They lay like that for what felt like an eternity. After a while, Mia turned back to face Jason and nestled against his chest while he held onto her tightly, both of his arms wrapped around her body. And eventually, it started to feel safe and comforting instead of wrong and forbidden.

After about an hour of laying in each other’s arms, neither of them falling asleep, Jason spoke. “You want to tell me what’s going on? What happened to the guy you were seeing.”

Mia sighed as she looked up at Jason. "Nothing to tell. It's just over," she murmured, her voice barely above the rustle of the sheets. The words felt like stones in her mouth, heavy and hard.

Jason's eyes lit up, a spark of something that wasn't just satisfaction; it was hope. "I can't pretend I'm not happy to hear that," he admitted, his thumb brushing her cheek. "When you told me at the gala that there was someone new in your life, my heart nearly stopped. It felt like a punch in the gut. I guess I’d always assumed you’d be there waiting for me, no matter what.” There was a conflicted look in Jason’s eyes as he struggled with his feelings for Mia and the reality of her moving on without him. He used his thumb to tilt Mia’s chin upwards, bringing them eye to eye, the tips of their noses just barely grazing each other. “Mia, I've never stopped loving you. You're it for me, the only one. I know that now."

Mia met his gaze, but let the silence stretch between them. Her heart was a battlefield, love and longing warring with the remnants of hurt and betrayal.

"Talk to me, M," Jason coaxed, his voice a soft plea as he stroked her arm. Mia sighed but didn’t say anything, the weight of their history pressing down on her chest. She broke their gaze and rested her head back on his pecs.

Jason exhaled, the sound thick with regret. He had heard her response loud and clear, despite Mia not uttering a word.

"I know. I’ve been an asshole and an awful partner. I was overly ambitious, too focused on my career and myself, and easily swayed by my dick. I forgot what was important. You." He kissed her forehead, as his hand found hers, their fingers intertwining.

Mia felt the familiar tug of comfort that came from being with someone who knew all her flaws and fears. Yet, there was an ache for something else, a whisper of the growth she'd tasted with Chan.

"Jason..." She hesitated as she thought about what she wanted to say. "You hurt me. You literally crushed me. Every time you cheated and lied, it broke away a little part of my soul. I was desperately in love with you and it felt like it was never enough. Like I was never enough. It took me a while to remember that the problem was you, not me. You were my everything, Jay, but I don't know if I can trust you again after all this time."

Jason’s heart sank at Mia’s words. He knew he didn’t deserve her forgiveness, but he had hoped that she could one day give him another chance. "I know it will take time to earn back your trust.” He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes with all the sincerity he could muster. “You were always enough for me, more than enough. It was my own selfishness and insecurities that led me to hurt you. But I've changed."

Mia listened, her heart torn between wanting to believe him and protecting herself from being hurt by him again. That’s why their casual arrangement worked for her. She didn’t need to trust him to fuck him.

"Can people really change that much?" she asked, searching his hazel eyes for signs of the sincerity she so desperately needed to see.

"Maybe not completely," he conceded. "But we can grow. We can try to be better, for ourselves and for the ones we love. I want to do that for you, Mia. I want to be the man you deserve."

“How much of this is you thinking that you’d lost me for good when you learned I was with someone else? Why weren’t you interested in being the ‘man I deserve’ when I was single?”

“Touché. That’s certainly a part of it; that threat of loss. But Mia, I’m desperately in love with you too. I know you think I only say it when I want something, which is partly true. But I’ve been in love with you ever since I hit on you at that dinner party and you laughed in my face at how corny my game was, turned me down, then walked away to get a shot.” A small smile curled at his lips as he thought of the memory. “I’d never been rejected so harshly by a woman before! And I was hooked.”

As they spoke, Mia's mind wandered back to the laughter and challenges shared with Chan, to how he enjoyed her brash personality, to the way he pushed her to explore new horizons. But Jason had been part of her life for a decade. He knew everything about her: how to turn her on, how to piss her off, how to make her smile. Similarly, Mia knew everything about him: what made him happy, when he was telling a lie, that he’d rather spend money on other people than himself, that he secretly loved plants and gardening. But he had also been the source of some of her largest disappointments and saddest moments. Mia wanted to believe him. She knew deep down that Jason believed what he was saying, but trusting him again would mean risking her heart once more.

"Is it fair, though? To us? To start again, knowing there are still issues we haven't resolved?" Her voice trembled with uncertainty.

"Isn't that part of any relationship? Working through those things together?" Jason pressed, his touch gentle yet insistent.

Her ring felt cold against her warm skin as she fidgeted with it. Mia was caught between the allure of the past and the promise of the future, each holding pieces of her heart in their hands.

"Jason, I..." She trailed off, the conflict within too vast to put into words just yet.

"Take your time," he whispered, pulling her close. "You don’t have to answer right now. I'm here, Mia."

“Thanks,” Mia responded. After a few beats she added, “You know, Jay, we haven’t spoken like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, you’ve been very pissed at me lately and I have continued giving you reasons to be angry with me,” he said with a chuckle, before bringing her hand to his lips for a kiss. “I’m sorry for being a shit friend…. and for being a shit boyfriend.”

“Wish you’d had all this self-reflection 2 years ago,” Mia said sarcastically, as she pinched his nipple. Jason groaned playfully. “I’ve missed this version of us.” Mia nuzzled back against Jason’s chest.

In the quiet aftermath of their conversation, Mia lay in Jason's arms, the echoes of what once was and what could be playing a silent duet in the night.

Mia's fingers traced the outline of Jason's shoulder as he held her, the heat of his skin a stark contrast to the cold knot of uncertainty in her stomach. She wanted to lose herself in this moment, in the familiarity of his touch, but Chan's dimpled smile haunted her thoughts, a ghostly presence reminding her of what she was risking.

"Honestly Jason," she began with hesitation, her voice a fragile thread in the silence. "I can't stop thinking about him."

"Who? That other guy?" Jason's voice rumbled against her ear.

“His name is Chris.”

"Chris? I hate him already. Forget him, Mia. Be here with me." His hands roamed over her back, possessive and sure.

She should have felt comforted, safe within the familiar circle of Jason's arms, but instead, Mia felt adrift, caught between the pull of past and present. The same insecurities, the same fears that had ended things with Jason were now wedges between her and Chan. If she couldn't resolve them...

"I need more time. Maybe we both need time," she whispered, more to herself than to Jason.

"Time won't change how I feel about you," Jason insisted, his lips finding hers in a kiss that spoke of desperation and longing. "You don't need time, Mia. You need me. Let me show you that I can be everything you need and more."

His words unraveled her resolve, and she found herself responding to him with an intensity born of conflict. He pressed his body against hers, sliding his hand down in between her legs. Mia allowed herself to give into his seduction once again. The heat between them had never been a problem; it was everything else.

But then, in the midst of their heated embrace, a sudden flash of clarity pierced through Mia's clouded mind. It wasn't Jason she was yearning for in that moment. Despite how much Jason always turned her on, it wasn't his lips or his touch that she craved. No matter how convincing his arguments were or how skilled his seduction, Mia knew deep down that it wasn't him who held the key to her heart.

Yet, her body continued to betray her, seeking solace in the rhythm of their old dance, while her heart screamed for the feelings she’d unlocked with Chan. Dissonance between her body, mind, and heart, caused a tear to roll down her cheek as she and Jason fucked again.

She wiped it away before he noticed.

The next morning, Mia woke in Jason’s arms. It had been a long time since she’d allowed him to spend the night in her bed.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he said to her as he kissed her on the lips.

“Hi,” Mia ran her hand through her damp curls, pissed at herself for many things, including that she forgot to wrap her hair up, again. She locked eyes with Jason. “Last night was a lot. Waaaaaay too many emotions,” she laughed wryly.

Jason reached out to cup her face in his hands, gazing at her with an intensity that made her heart ache. "I hope you took me at my word last night. I love you and I think we can work through our issues together," he said earnestly. "We can make things right between us again."

Mia wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that they could somehow repair the cracks in their relationship and start fresh, but deep down she knew that things would never be the same between them. They’d never get back what they had in those early years, a friendship that blossomed into love.

"It's not that simple," she murmured. “I need to work through some of this in my head and heart. I know I still love you, too, Jason. It’s just… different. I’m not in love with you anymore. Maybe that will change, maybe it won’t. But I don’t have an answer for you right now. I hope you can be okay with that.”

“I don’t have a choice. I have to be okay with it. And I’m willing to give you the time and space to figure out that I’m your forever person.”

“Thank you, Jason. And thank you for last night.” She gave him a gentle kiss on the lips before she pulled away to start her morning.

A/N: Song: Collision Artist: Stray Kids

Poor Chris was skewered in the comments of the last chapter (though well deserved). Lol! But Mia is just as impulsive as Chris...This is why they get along so well.

Anyway, I don't think I ever mentioned the inspiration for Jason. The person I had in my head when writing Jason's character was the yummy Michael Ealy

[luckyroll3]

Picture Perfect

Summary: After experiencing loads of chemistry with Chan during a magazine photoshoot, your insomnia leads to a chance encounter with him late night at the hotel pool that turns into an intimate one-on-one private photography session.

Chan x Reader (f); Smut; Fluff

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 15,451

You arrive at the studio two hours before the scheduled shoot, the weight of your camera bag a familiar comfort against your hip. The space smells of cleaner and expensive equipment, a scent you've come to associate with the peculiar blend of anxiety and control that defines your work. Your footsteps echo across the polished concrete floor as you flick on the industrial lights, transforming the cavernous room from shadow to clinical brightness. Today’s subjects are from Stray Kids; they’re a global sensation, eight impossibly photogenic men. 

This is huge for you and you refuse to be anything less than impeccable.

The studio assistant has already arranged the sets according to your specifications, but you double-check everything anyway. Your reputation for perfectionism precedes you in the industry; it's how you landed this high-profile job in the first place. You adjust a reflector panel by two inches, tweaking the angle until the light bounces exactly right. Not harsh, not flat. Perfect.

You examine the concept boards propped on sleek easels with minimalist black frames housing images of striking contrasts and bold silhouettes. The brief called for "raw authenticity with polish," whatever the hell that means. But you understand the visual language behind the marketing jargon. These men need to look accessible yet untouchable, human yet godlike. The contradiction that sells.

Crouching beside your primary camera, you check the settings for the ninth time. Your fingers dance across the dials with practiced precision, muscle memory taking over as you mentally run through your shot list. Background music flows through hidden speakers; something ambient and unobtrusive, selected to create the illusion of calm in a space that will soon vibrate with heightened energy.

"Checking the histogram?" asks your assistant, materializing with a clipboard and a coffee that's more cream than caffeine.

"Always." You straighten up, rolling your shoulders to release the tension gathering there. "Did the stylist confirm the wardrobe arrived?"

Before she can answer, the atmosphere shifts. The front door swings open, and suddenly the air in the room feels electrified. You hear them before you see them; laughter, rapid-fire Korean interspersed with English, the unmistakable sound of a group that shares years of inside jokes and comfortable chaos.

Stray Kids spill into the studio like paint splashing onto canvas; They are vibrant, impossible to ignore, instantly transforming the space. Your eyes dart from face to face, mentally matching them to the brief profiles you'd studied. The tall one with the intense gaze must be Hyunjin. The one with the angelic features and impossibly deep voice has to be Felix. The one joking loudly and making exaggerated hand gestures is probably Changbin.

While your assistant scurries to greet them formally, you hang back, observing. It's part of your process, watching subjects before they know they're being watched often reveals the most authentic versions of themselves. The group moves like a single organism with eight distinct personalities, a choreography of friendship that speaks of a long-term shared experience.

And then, separated slightly from the playful chaos, your eyes lock with his. Bang Chan. The leader. You'd recognize those dimples anywhere, those intelligent eyes that seem to register everything at once. While the others are still shrugging off jackets and exclaiming over the studio setup, he approaches you directly, purposeful and present.

"Good morning," he says simply, extending his hand. His voice carries a hint of Australia in the vowels, a warmth that seems both professional and personal. "You must be our photographer for today."

His hand meets yours, and the contact sends an unexpected current up your arm. Static electricity, you tell yourself. The dry studio air. Nothing more.

You gave him a calm, practiced smile. "That's me," you respond, impressed by how steady your voice sounds despite the ridiculous flutter in your chest. “And you must be the one they warned me about.”

That earned you a soft chuckle. “Guilty. But I have a feeling they probably warned you about all eight of us.”

"You’re right. ‘Complete and utter chaos’, they said,” you confirm with a smirk. “Welcome to the studio. I've been looking forward to working with you all."

Chan's smile deepens, dimples appearing like punctuation marks on his face. "We've heard great things. Your work with that indie rock band last month, MindSweep, was incredible."

The fact that he's familiar with your portfolio catches you off guard. Most celebrities arrive prepped only with the bare minimum about the shoot itself.

"You've done your research," you say, allowing a small smile.

"Always." His eyes hold yours a beat longer than necessary. "It's important to know who's capturing your image, don't you think?"

Before you can respond, the management team arrives, breaking the moment with schedules and logistics. You slip back into professional mode, addressing the group as a whole, explaining your vision for the shoot, how you'll be working with each of them individually and as a unit.

"We'll start with group shots, then break into individual sessions," you explain, gesturing toward the main set. "The concept is contrast; light against shadow, structured against fluid. I want to capture the duality that defines your group."

As you speak, you notice Chan watching you with an intensity that makes your skin warm. Not a critical stare, but something appreciative; like he's seeing more than just another industry professional running through a routine.

The shoot begins, and you fall into the familiar rhythm of direction and capture. Your voice becomes firm, confident, all business as you position the group, adjust lighting, suggest angles. This is where you shine; behind the lens, control at your fingertips, seeing what others don't.

"Changbin, chin slightly lower. Seungmin, quarter turn to your right. Felix, that's perfect; hold that expression."

Through your viewfinder, eight faces transform under your guidance. You work quickly, efficiently, calling out adjustments and praise in equal measure. But no matter where you point your camera, you keep finding your focus pulled to Chan. The way he positions himself naturally, understanding the composition before you have to explain it. The subtle shift in his expression when the shutter clicks; somehow more present, more aware of the lens than the others.

"Chan, can you move slightly to center? Perfect." Your voice betrays nothing, but when he follows your direction with a knowing half-smile, something unspoken passes between you.

Two hours in, you're reviewing images on your monitor when you sense him behind you, close enough that you can smell the faint notes of his cologne. It’s something woody with subtle hints of vanilla.

"How are we doing?" he asks, voice low near your ear.

You scroll through the images, hyperaware of his presence at your shoulder. "Great. Your group photographs well together."

"Professional harmony," he says with a light laugh. "Over eight years of practice."

"It shows." You stop on a particularly striking image of him, the studio lights catching the angles of his face in a way that emphasizes both strength and vulnerability. "You have a natural instinct for the camera."

"Maybe it's the photographer," he counters, and you refuse to look up, focusing intently on the screen to hide the flush that threatens to rise to your cheeks.

When you move to individual shots, the energy shifts again. Each member brings a different presence to the set: I.N with his fashion-forward confidence; Hyunjin with his intense, almost theatrical expressions; Lee Know with his effortless cool that makes every frame look like an editorial spread.

During Han's session, you catch Chan watching from the sidelines, his gaze moving between you and the set with quiet assessment. When he catches you noticing, he doesn't look away. Instead, he offers that same half-smile that somehow makes you feel both seen and challenged.

"Chan, you're up next," you call after concluding with Seungmin, who thanks you with surprising formality before bouncing back to make fun of Changbin, who promptly pulls the younger member into a headlock.

Chan steps into the light with an ease that speaks of countless photoshoots, but there's something different about his demeanor now; a focused intensity directed at you rather than the camera. As you approach to adjust his position, your hand briefly touches his shoulder, and the contact, though professional, feels charged with meaning.

"Turn slightly toward the light," you instruct, your voice lower than intended. "I want to capture the contrast between shadow and illumination on your face."

He complies, but his eyes remain fixed on yours rather than looking into the lens. "Like this?"

You step closer, reaching up to adjust the angle of his jaw with your fingertips. The touch is clinical, something you've done with countless models, but your pulse quickens embarrassingly.

"Almost. Look past the camera, not at it. I'm trying to capture contemplation."

He holds the pose perfectly, and you retreat behind your camera, grateful for the barrier. Through the viewfinder, you see him differently; fragmented into composition, light, and form. It's easier to maintain professionalism when reducing him to artistic elements.

"Perfect," you murmur, capturing frame after frame. "Now, relax your shoulders,” you say, voice low. “Think less magazine cover, more… album you made for yourself but never released.”

His brow arches with amused curiosity, but he follows your direction. And when he exhales, the wall drops. The image you capture in that instant is breathtaking; it makes your heart skip.

“Now, don’t move but look directly at the lens."

When he does, the intensity in his gaze seems to bypass the camera entirely, connecting with you despite the equipment between you. Your finger hesitates on the shutter for a fraction of a second before continuing.

Throughout his individual session, you maintain the appearance of cool professionalism, but there's an undeniable current running beneath each exchange. His responses to your direction come just a beat slower than necessary, as if he's considering each word. When you show him a particularly striking image on the camera display, his shoulder presses against yours briefly, and neither of you moves away.

Chan hovers near your table as you scroll through the preview reel on your laptop.

“Got a favorite yet?” he asks.

You tilt the screen toward him. One of him leaning against a pillar, looking half-bored, half-thoughtful. 

He laughs. “I look like I just told someone they disappointed me.” 

“It’s honest,” you say. “People like honesty.” 

Your eyes meet again. Something soft flickered there; recognition, maybe. Or curiosity.

"I like how you see things," he says quietly, for your ears alone.

The final group shots are a controlled chaos of eight bodies and distinct personalities coming together under your direction. You navigate around the set, occasionally brushing past Chan as you reposition lights or adjust compositions. Each momentary contact feels deliberate on both sides, though nothing could be proven.

From across the room, you notice Felix whispering something to Seungmin while glancing between you and Chan. Seungmin responds with an eye roll that dissolves into a knowing smile. They've noticed something; perhaps the same electrical current you've been trying to ignore.

"Last set," you announce, positioning the group for the final concept. "I want movement in this one; natural interaction, nothing posed."

They fall into comfortable chaos: Changbin playfully headlocking Seungmin, Hyunjin dramatically posing while Han pretends to faint at his beauty, Lee Know trying to kiss I.N. while the youngest recoils in horror as he laughs, and Felix grinning brightly at all the chaos. Chan maintains his position slightly apart, his eyes finding yours over the top of your camera with unmistakable intent. When Han yells something loudly in Korean, Chan breaks the intense eye contact and dissolves into a fit of giggles.

You capture it all: the friendship, the playfulness, the subtle thread of tension that runs between you and the group's leader. In the viewfinder, they're just images, compositions of light and shadow. But the feeling in the studio, particularly when Chan's gaze meets yours, that's something no camera can fully capture.

When you finally call the shoot complete, the group erupts in relieved laughter and thank-yous. As they gather their personal items and the stylists begin packing up, Chan lingers near the equipment, examining your camera setup with genuine interest.

"This lens," he says, gesturing but not touching, respectful of your equipment. "It's the same one you used for that editorial last spring, isn't it? The one with all the dramatic shadows."

The fact that he remembers such a specific detail about your work catches you off-guard again. "Good eye," you reply, impressed despite yourself. "Most people wouldn't notice the difference."

He shrugs, a casual gesture that somehow manages to highlight the line of his shoulders. "I pay attention to things that interest me."

The statement hangs in the air between you, ambiguous enough to be professional, specific enough to be something more. Before you can respond, his manager calls him over to discuss scheduling, and the moment stretches thin, unresolved.

As the group prepares to leave, Chan turns back, catching your eye across the now-cluttered studio. The smile he offers is different from the ones he's given all day; smaller, more private, like a secret between the two of you. You nod slightly in acknowledgment, already knowing that the photographs you've captured today, technically perfect as they may be, won't fully convey what passed unspoken between photographer and subject.

You're coiling the last of the lighting cables as the clamor of eight voices, stylists' directions, and management's hurried phone calls has dissolved into a humming silence punctuated only by the soft clicks of your equipment being packed away. The overhead lights have dimmed to their evening setting, casting the space in a warm glow that softens the industrial edges of the room. You look up to find Chan standing by the door, one shoulder propped against the frame, watching you with a quiet intensity that makes your hands fumble slightly with the cable. You didn't realize he had stayed behind.

"I thought you left with the others," you say, voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet studio. You loop the cable with methodical precision, focusing on the task to maintain composure.

"The others went ahead to dinner." His voice carries easily across the space between you. "I told them I'd catch up."

You nod, placing the coiled cable in its designated case. The studio feels smaller somehow with just the two of you in it, as though the walls have inched closer. Your movements are deliberate, professional, a contrast to the inexplicable nervousness fluttering beneath your ribs.

"Everything go okay with the shoot?" you ask, though you already know the answer. The images captured today were some of your best work, partly due to the subject matter, though you're reluctant to admit that to him.

Chan pushes away from the doorframe and moves into the room with unhurried confidence. His presence seems amplified in the emptiness, drawing your attention even as you pretend to focus on closing equipment cases and checking memory cards.

"Better than okay," he says, approaching your workstation where the monitor still displays the last image you were reviewing, coincidentally, one of him, eyes direct and challenging the camera. "I've done hundreds of these, you know. But this one felt different."

You glance up, meeting his gaze. "Different how?"

He considers the question, running a hand through his tousled hair in a gesture that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Most photographers see what they want to see. You seemed to be looking for what was actually there."

The compliment catches you off guard. It’s specific, thoughtful, not the generic praise you typically receive. You turn away, suddenly conscious of how close he's standing, his presence radiating a warmth that has nothing to do with the studio lighting.

"That's the job," you respond, closing the laptop with a soft click. "Finding the truth in the performance."

Chan makes a sound that’s half laugh, half acknowledgement. "Is that what you think I was doing? Performing?"

You look up at him again, allowing yourself a moment of professional assessment. "Everyone performs in front of a camera. It's human nature."

"And what about now?" He gestures to the empty studio. "No camera. No audience. Am I still performing?"

The question hangs between you, weighted with implication. His expression is open, curious, with something simmering beneath the surface that quickens your pulse.

"I don't know," you answer honestly. Most of the celebrities you meet are always on, camera or not, audience or not. "Are you?"

His smile appears slowly, creating those dimples that the camera loves so much. In the softened studio light, they appear deeper, more intimate somehow.

He ignores your question. "Thank you," he says suddenly, the phrase landing with unexpected significance.

You tilt your head slightly. "For the shoot? Just doing my job."

"No." He shakes his head, taking another step closer. "For seeing us, seeing me, the way you did. The pictures were..." he searches for the word, "honest."

You find yourself mirroring his movement, drawn forward by some invisible pull until barely two feet separate you. The air feels charged, like the moment before a flash fires.

"Honesty makes for better art," you say, your voice dropping to match the intimate atmosphere that's developed around you both.

"Is that what brought you to photography? The pursuit of honesty?" His questions feel deeper than the typical post-shoot small talk, probing gently at your passion rather than just your process.

You consider how to answer, surprised by your desire to offer something genuine rather than the practiced responses you usually give. "Partly. I like finding the moments between the moments, I guess. The truth that exists when people think no one's watching."

Chan's eyes hold yours, and for a second, you feel as exposed as if you were the one in front of the lens. "Like how you were watching me today when you thought I wouldn't notice?"

Heat rises to your face, and you're grateful for the dim lighting. "I was doing my job," you counter, though the defense sounds weak even to your ears.

"Very thoroughly," he agrees, the teasing lilt in his voice making your stomach flip. "Especially during my individual session. I counted at least twice as many shots as the others got."

"Some subjects require more work," you reply, surprising yourself with the boldness of your response.

He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet studio. "Ouch. Is that how you talk to all your clients?"

"Only the ones who hang around after hours to critique my process."

"Not critiquing," he corrects, his hand coming to rest casually on the edge of the desk, inches from your own. "Appreciating."

The proximity of his fingers to yours creates a tangible tension, a magnetic field you feel compelled to either break or complete. You remain still, neither of you retreating or advancing.

"You know," Chan continues, his voice lower now, "I requested you specifically for this shoot."

This admission is surprising. "You did?"

He nods, eyes never leaving yours. "Your work has this... rawness to it. Even with all the commercial gloss, there's something uncalculated about your images. It's rare in this industry."

You find yourself momentarily speechless, touched by the specificity of his observation. Most people in his position would hardly give a second thought to who was behind the camera.

"I’m sure the label had several options," you say, recovering. "I assumed they made the final call."

"They did… after I made my preference clear." His fingers drum lightly on the desk, still tantalizingly close to yours. "I can be persuasive when I decide I want something."

There's that unspoken current again, running beneath his words, charging the exchange with meaning that extends beyond professional admiration. You should probably create some distance, maintain the boundary between photographer and subject, but your feet remain rooted to the spot.

"Well, I'm flattered," you say, aiming for nonchalance despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "Though you might be overestimating my talent."

"I don't think so." His response is immediate, genuine.

Your phone vibrates on the desk, breaking the moment. You glance down to see your assistant's text asking if everything wrapped up okay and if you need her to come back. The real world intruding on whatever bubble had formed around you and Chan.

"I should finish packing up," you say, though most of the equipment is already secured.

Chan straightens, giving you space, though reluctance is evident in his posture. "Of course. I didn't mean to keep you."

You busy yourself with the remaining equipment, aware of his presence as he moves to the doorway again, one hand coming to rest on the pillar in a casual pose that somehow manages to highlight the lean strength of his body. Even in this unguarded moment, he's naturally photogenic, and your fingers itch for your camera.

"I meant what I said about your work," he says as you shoulder your camera bag. "It's special. You see things others miss."

You allow yourself to meet his gaze again, abandoning the pretense of professional detachment. "And what do you think I see when I look at you, Chan?"

The question is bolder than you intended, stripping away the polite veneer that's characterized your interaction so far. His expression shifts, surprise giving way to something darker, more intense.

"I'm not sure," he answers honestly. "But I'd like to find out." There’s a smirk on his face that you try to ignore as you sling your tote bag around your body and pick up your box of equipment.

You move toward the door where he stands, knowing you need to leave but reluctant to end whatever this is. As you approach, he remains in place, his body creating a partial barrier that will require you to pass close to him.

“Thank you again for today,” he says softly. “You’ve got a really calm energy. Kind of rare in rooms like this.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. Thank you for being a great subject,” you respond as you readjust the box to hold your hand out to him. “Hopefully I’ll get to work with your group again.”

He takes your hand in his and squeezes gently. “Hopefully.” He holds onto your hand for a second too long, before releasing.

As you move by him, he remains close enough that your shoulder brushes against his chest, a contact that could be dismissed as accidental but feels entirely deliberate.

At the threshold, you pause and look back at him, standing in the glow of the studio, somehow looking like he belongs there. The day has been a symphony of unspoken communication, charged glances, and professional pretense masking growing attraction. Now, on the cusp of leaving, that attraction crystallizes into something palpable enough to touch.

As you finally turn to leave, his voice follows you one last time.

"And for the record," he says, "I wasn't performing today. Not with you."

You glance back over your shoulder, allowing yourself one last look at his face, memorizing the way the fading light catches his features. "I know," you reply simply. "That's what made it interesting."

His answering smile follows you out the door.

****

You stare at the hotel ceiling, counting the tiny stucco bumps until your eyes cross and uncross. Sleep is playing hard to get tonight, flirting with your consciousness before ghosting you completely. The digital clock on the nightstand flashes 2:17 AM like it's mocking you. Your body also still hums from the shoot. You’re creatively energized and emotionally restless thanks to the residual adrenaline, as your mind replays today's session on an endless loop, specifically the moments when Chan's eyes found yours over the camera lens, the way his voice dropped when speaking only to you. 

You reach for your phone, then think better of it. Your brain won't be silenced by another mindless scroll through social media or the muted sitcom reruns playing on the hotel TV.

"Fuck it," you whisper to the empty room half an hour later. With a frustrated sigh, you kick off the suffocating sheets and pad to your suitcase. If sleep is determined to evade you, you might as well do something about it. You pull out the yellow bikini you packed out of habit and a thin cotton cover-up that's seen better days but feels like an old friend against your skin. Hotels equal pools equal bikinis; simple traveler's math.

The elevator ascends silently as it carries you to the rooftop, the mirrors reflecting a woman caught in the liminal space between exhaustion and alertness. You pad across the marbled hallway and stop at the glass doors. According to the information packet in your room, the pool closes at midnight, but your keycard still grants access. Either someone forgot to update the system, or night swimming is the hotel's unspoken perk for insomniacs. You push through the glass doors into the night.

The rooftop deck appears as a midnight oasis, the pool a rectangle of liquid sapphire, illuminated from below by lights that pulse gently between shades of blue as moonlight dances across the water’s surface. The water glitters under the night sky, empty and peaceful, while silver patterns shift and reform with each gentle ripple. The city sprawls below in a patchwork of lights, but up here exists in a bubble of quiet separate from the urban pulse.

Not a soul in sight. Perfect.

You kick off your flip flops and drop the cover-up onto a lounge chair, its fabric forming a crumpled shape. You slip into the pool without ceremony, sighing as the warmth wraps around your skin when you slide beneath the surface. This is exactly what you needed, something real and immediate to wash away the day’s lingering electricity.

You float on your back, eyes open to the vast spill of stars above, letting your thoughts dissolve into the gentle lap of water against the pool’s edge. Your eyes gently close as the water plugs your ears against the world, creating a private universe as the silence holds you.

A splash shatters your tranquil solitude. It’s almost silent, signifying the execution of a clean dive.

You jerk upright, treading water, as a figure cuts through the water just below the surface with practiced grace and professional looking strokes, powerful arms slicing through the blue. When the swimmer surfaces with a satisfied inhale and exhale and pushes hair back from his face, your heart performs a complicated gymnastic routine against your ribs.

Chan.

He freezes and his eyes widen when they meet yours, recognition sparking between you like the underwater lights reflecting on the pool's surface. His surprised expression mirrors your own.

"Oh," he says, his Australian accent coating the syllable in honey as he treads water. "I didn't think anyone else was… I can go if you want privacy."

"No!" The word comes out louder, quicker than you intended. "I mean, it’s fine; it's a big pool. Plenty of room for two insomniacs."

His laugh is low and warm, creating ripples around his shoulders where they break the water's plane. "Is that what we are? Fellow members of the Can't Sleep Club?"

"Charter members," you confirm, treading water at what feels like a respectful distance. "I was halfway through counting those ceiling bumps when I had to bail."

Chan grins, accompanied by those infamous dimples. "I was writing lyrics in my head. Same ones I've been stuck on for three days. Figured maybe they'd flow better in water."

"Does that work? The water thing?"

He makes a so-so gesture with his hand, droplets flying from his fingertips like tiny diamonds. "Sometimes. Water, shower, driving; places where your body's busy but your mind can wander. You know what I mean?"

You do. You tell him about your own creative process, surprised at how the conversation flows easily, the water providing a buffer against the awkwardness of speaking with someone you spent the day assessing and photographing.

“What about you? What’s keeping you up?”

"Same disease, different symptoms." You don't mention that he, specifically, has been the primary thought keeping you awake. "The ceiling in my room was starting to mock me."

Chan laughs, the sound echoing slightly in the open-air space. "Mine was definitely judging my life choices."

He swims closer with lazy, confident strokes, coming to rest a respectful distance away. Water beads across his shoulders and collarbones, catching the moonlight like scattered diamonds.

"So," he begins, "do you crash hotel pools after 2 AM often, or am I witnessing a rare event?"

"Only when particularly photogenic boy band leaders keep me from sleeping," you quip before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up, and for a horrifying second, you think you've overstepped. Then his face cracks into a grin. "Oh? And here I thought it was my sparkling personality that made an impression."

"That too," you concede, relaxing into the banter. "Though your dimples did most of the heavy lifting."

He splashes a small wave of water in your direction, the playful gesture breaking any remaining tension. "And here I spent all those years developing my musical talents when I could've just smiled my way to success."

You splash him back without hesitation. "Don't sell yourself short. Your music isn’t that bad,” you add with a smirk, causing him to laugh loudly.

"You’re funny. So do you leave tomorrow?" he asks, gliding even closer, his body a shadow beneath the illuminated water.

"Yeah, I'm covering a music festival in Austin on Saturday for an online magazine. Arts and culture beat."

"We fly out tomorrow too. We have a couple performances in Tokyo before heading back to Seoul." His gaze holds yours a beat longer than necessary, and the water suddenly feels warmer against your skin.

The two of you drift into an easy conversation. You talk about music; not just his, though you do mention a B-side from their last album that you particularly love, watching his face light up with pride. He asks thoughtful questions about your work, listening with his whole body, nodding and responding in ways that make it clear he's not just waiting for his turn to speak.

He’s different in this setting: looser, softer. He's not Bang Chan the performer right now; he's just Chan, a guy with tired eyes and a bright smile that seems to pull from somewhere genuine. And when you laugh together, it doesn’t feel like a first-time thing. It feels familiar.

"That's exactly what I was trying to express in that track," he says, after you describe how a certain chord progression in one of his songs made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something both terrifying and beautiful. "Like you're about to jump, and you don't know if you'll fly or fall, but the not knowing is what makes it worth doing."

The conversation shifts to art, to creativity, to the way certain combinations of notes or words or colors can crack something open inside a person. You're both moving in lazy circles now, sometimes drifting closer, sometimes apart, like binary stars locked in orbit.

"I’m surprised you've actually listened to our music. I thought maybe you just did your homework for the shoot."

"I like to understand what I'm capturing," you admit. "But I was a fan of your production style before I knew about this job. The layering you do with vocal harmonies on your solo tracks is..." You pause, searching for the right word. "It's architectural. I mean, it’s also there in many of the group songs, you singing harmonies in the background, but it’s more pronounced on the songs you record by yourself."

Chan moves closer, genuinely intrigued now. "Most people don't notice that stuff."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees, eyes never leaving yours. "You definitely aren't."

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the gentle sound of water as you both tread calmly.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice is softer now, more intimate.

"Depends on the question."

"What made you become a photographer? Like, really; not the answer you give in interviews."

The unexpected depth of his question catches you off-guard. You consider deflecting with humor but find yourself wanting to give him honesty instead.

"I was always the observer," you tell him. "The kid on the periphery watching how people interact, capturing moments in my mind before I ever had a camera. Photography just gave me a legitimate reason to keep watching."

Chan nods slowly, absorbing your words. "That makes sense. You have that quality of seeing beyond what people present."

"What about you?" you ask. "Was music always the path?"

"Always," he confirms with absolute certainty. "Even when I was being passed over for groups and debut and my parents were gently suggesting backup plans. Music wasn't just what I wanted to do; it was the only way I made sense to myself."

His hand gestures animatedly as he speaks, sending small ripples across the water's surface. One hand comes to rest briefly on your arm to emphasize a point, and the contact, though fleeting, sends warmth radiating through you despite the cool water.

"I get that," you say. "Some pursuits aren't choices, they're necessities."

He studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Exactly. That's exactly it."

You've drifted closer during the conversation, close enough now that you can see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

"You know what's funny?" Chan says, his voice softer now. "I came up here to be alone, but this is the first time today I've felt like I could breathe properly."

"The irony of finding peace with a stranger in a pool at 3 AM isn't lost on me," you reply, and he laughs again, the sound rippling across the water's surface like rain.

"Are we still strangers, though?" he asks, and there's a genuine curiosity there, a head tilt that makes water droplets run from his hair down the curve of his neck.

You consider this. "Maybe not. Maybe we're... temporal friends. Friends for tonight."

"I like that," he says, swimming closer. "Temporal friends with potential."

"Potential for what?" The question hangs between you, heavy with possibility.

Instead of answering, he floats onto his back, staring up at the slice of sky visible above the hotel's glass barriers. You join him, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you drift. The contact sends tiny electric currents through your body each time it happens.

"Some people are just blips," he says eventually. "And some are turning points."

The philosophical tone surprises you. "Which am I?"

His hand finds yours underwater, fingers intertwining like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I don't know yet. That's what makes it interesting."

When you both right yourselves again, you're closer than before, your hands still touching. Close enough to see the water droplets clinging to his eyebrows, the moles scattered across his face and neck that makeup usually conceals. There's a small scar peeking out from the edge of his swim shorts on his hip; it makes you want to trace it with your fingertips.

"Today, during the shoot," he says quietly. "There was something there, wasn't there? I wasn't imagining it?"

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "No. You weren't imagining it."

"And now?" he asks. When you don’t say anything, he continued. "I have a confession," he says, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates pleasantly against your sternum despite the water between you.

"Should I be worried?"

"I couldn’t stop thinking about you from earlier today."

Heat that has nothing to do with the pool temperature rises to your cheeks. "Oh really?"

He nods, one hand reaching out to tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear. "How you talked about your philosophy for taking pictures, capturing the moments in between.”

His hand lingers near your face, and something shifts in the air between you. The playful banter recedes like a tide, leaving something more raw and honest in its wake.

"Chan…," you start, not entirely sure what you're going to say next.

"I like how you say my name," he interrupts softly. "Not like you're saying the name of someone you've heard of. Like you know me."

His arm brushes against yours as a slight current pulls you both toward the center of the pool. Neither of you moves away. The contact is deliberate now, the press of skin against skin underwater creating a different kind of conversation.

“Funny,” he says, bobbing in front of you. “I didn’t think the most memorable part of today would happen after the shoot.”

You look at him. “Are you trying to be charming?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Am I succeeding?”

Instead of answering, you move closer. So does he. And then the space between your bodies disappears.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks quietly, and the directness of it, the simple honesty, makes your breath catch.

You nod, and he eliminates the remaining distance between you with a smile that's equal parts shy and certain. His lips touch yours with cautious pressure, cool from the water but warming quickly. It's tentative at first. Slow, exploring, questioning. But when your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, the kiss quickly deepens into something hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip, and you open to him with a small sound that seems to echo across the water's surface.

His hands find your waist underwater, drawing you flush against him and anchoring you to him as your legs tangle together to stay afloat. The sensation of being weightless while he holds you makes every touch feel amplified.

You break apart, breathing heavily, foreheads touching. Around you, the water ripples with the movement of your bodies, small waves lapping against the pool's edge like applause.

"That was..." he trails off, searching for words.

"Good potential," you finish for him, and his laugh is breathless against your mouth before he kisses you again, more certain this time, his hands moving from your waist down to your ass.

You can feel every inch where your bodies connect: the firm plane of his chest against yours, the brush of his thighs against your own, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against your hip. The water seems to echo the sound of your combined breaths, magnifying them in the quiet night.

When you pull away again, his eyes are darker, more intense than before. The playful musician has been replaced by something more primal, more focused. It sends a shiver down your spine despite the warm water.

"My room or yours?" he asks, his voice rough at the edges.

You consider for a moment. "Mine's on the twelfth floor."

"Mine's on the fourteenth, but we’re more likely to get interrupted by my bandmates. They’re a bit… mischievous. And nosey."

"Mine it is," you agree, and there's a moment where you both just look at each other, a silent acknowledgment of the threshold you're about to cross.

He kisses you once more, softly, before you both swim to the edge of the pool. You climb out first, water cascading from your body, suddenly aware of how your bikini clings to every curve. Chan follows, and you allow yourself to appreciate the way water runs in rivulets down the contours of his chest and arms, highlighting the definition of muscles that his usual oversized hoodies conceal.

He retrieves your cover-up from the lounge chair, holding it open for you with a gentlemanly flourish that makes you snort with laughter, breaking the tension. He grabs his own t-shirt, using it to roughly dry his hair before pulling it on over his wet skin. It seems neither of you remembered to bring towels for your late night swim.

As you walk toward the elevator, leaving damp footprints across the marble floor, his hand finds yours again. It's such a simple gesture, fingers lacing together, but it carries the weight of intention. This isn't just about physical attraction. There's a connection here that transcends the random chance of two insomniacs finding each other in a hotel pool at 3 AM.

The elevator doors close, and Chan leans against the wall, still holding your hand, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Still temporal friends?" he asks.

"With increasingly clear potential," you answer, and his laugh follows you all the way down to the twelfth floor.

When you and Chan finally make it back to your room, it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels inevitable.

You fumble with the key card, your breath hitching when Chan’s hand brushes your hip, casual but deliberate. You open the door and step aside to let him in. The room is dim, painted in soft golds from the city lights bleeding through the windows.

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you with the finality of a decision made. The two of you stand in the dim entryway for a moment, water still dripping from both your bodies, the air between you thick with anticipation. You're suddenly aware of how small the space feels with Chan's presence filling it. His eyes catch the subdued light from the bedside lamp you'd left on earlier, turning them to liquid amber. The wet t-shirt clings to his chest like a second skin, leaving nothing to imagination yet somehow making you hungrier to see what's beneath. A small puddle forms where you both stand, neither of you moving, the moment suspended between hesitation and inevitability.

"So," Chan says, breaking the silence with a nervous laugh that humanizes him instantly. "This is the part where I'd normally make a joke about being all wet, but I'm trying not to be that guy."

"You just made the joke while saying you weren't going to make it," you point out, grateful for the tension breaker.

"Fuck. I did, didn't I?" His dimples deepen as he runs a hand through his damp hair. "Let me try again. Hi, I'm the hot guy from the pool who can't stop looking at your mouth."

Heat blooms between your legs. "Much better," you say, stepping closer. "I'm the girl who's thinking about peeling that shirt off you."

"Thinking about it, or...?" He lets the question hang.

In response you reach for him, bringing your lips to his.

The kiss is different now; deeper, more urgent. You curl your fingers into the hem of his soaked t-shirt, slowly pulling it upward. He raises his arms to help, and the wet fabric makes a soft sucking sound as it releases his skin. You break the kiss to pull it the rest of the way over his head. You drop it to the floor with a soft splat, your eyes tracing the contours of his chest and abdomen.

His hands settle on your ass, thumbs brushing the bare skin just beneath the bikini bottom.

He kisses down your neck slowly, as if savoring each inch of you. You shiver as his teeth graze your collarbone.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper. 

He chuckles against your skin. “Only if you want me to be.”

His palms slide over your ass, up your back, around your front and across your tits until they find the tie of your cover-up, tugging gently. "Fair's fair," he murmurs.

The light fabric falls open, then to the floor, and his breath catches audibly at the sight of your bikini-clad body. His eyes travel a slow path from your collarbone to your hardened nipples probing through the fabric, then down your stomach to your thighs, appreciation evident in the way his pupils dilate.

"You're staring," you whisper.

"Can you blame me?" His voice has a rough edge to it now. "I keep thinking I should pinch myself. The hot photographer from my shoot is standing in my hotel room in a wet bikini."

"Your hotel room is on the fourteenth floor," you remind him with a smirk. "This is my room."

"Details," he dismisses with a wave, stepping close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Important detail, though: I really want to kiss you again."

"Then do it."

His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a gentleness that contrasts the hunger in his eyes. This kiss is more deliberate, more knowing. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste chlorine and the steak he had for dinner. You press closer, your damp skin meeting his, and he groans into your mouth.

Your fingers dance along his spine, feeling each vertebra, mapping the terrain of his back. His hands move from your face to your shoulders, then lower, skimming the sides of your breasts through the wet bikini top.

"This needs to go," he murmurs against your lips, fingers finding the tie at your back. He pulls to loosen it.

"Yours too," you reply, hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his swim shorts.

There's a moment of clumsy, laughing urgency as you both shed the last of your wet clothes. Chan's swim shorts stick to his thighs, requiring an ungraceful hopping movement that makes you both dissolve into giggles. But the laughter dies in your throat when he stands before you, fully naked and unashamed.

His body is a testament to discipline. It’s all lean muscle under smooth skin, the definition of his abdomen leading your eyes downward to where he's already hard for you.

"Your turn," he says, his voice lower now, serious.

You reach behind your neck to untie the second set of strings of your bikini top, letting it fall away to the ground. Chan’s sharp intake of breath is more gratifying than any practiced compliment. His eyes darken as he takes in your bare breasts, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in an unconscious gesture of want. The bikini bottoms follow, sliding down your legs to join the puddle of wet materials at your feet.

For a moment, you just look at each other, naked in more ways than one.

"You're fucking beautiful," he says, and there's something raw in his voice that makes the words feel like more than a line, more than what you say in these moments.

"So are you," you reply, meaning it.

He closes the distance between you again, and the first touch of his naked skin against yours pulls a gasp from your throat. His erection presses hard against your stomach as his arms encircle you, hands splaying across your back to pull you closer.

The kiss deepens, turns hungrier. You walk backward toward the bed, unwilling to break contact, until your calves hit the mattress. Chan follows you down as you fall back, his body covering yours, hips settling naturally between your spread thighs.

"You've been driving me crazy all day," he admits against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below your ear. "Standing behind that camera, completely in control."

Your fingers trail slowly down his back. "And now?"

His smile is wicked, dimples appearing like punctuation marks to his intent. "Now it's my turn to capture you. Tell me what you want," he breathes against your neck, where his lips have been leaving a trail of heat.

"You," you say simply. "But also… talk to me."

He raises his head to meet your eyes, a question in his gaze.

"I want to hear you," you clarify. "Not just the polite, edited version of the idol they train you to be. I want the real you."

A slow smile spreads across his face, something darker and more primal than his stage smile. "Careful what you wish for," he warns, then drags his mouth down your body, pausing to take a nipple between his lips.

You arch into the sensation, a moan escaping as he uses his tongue in wicked circles around the sensitive peak. His hand finds your other breast, thumb brushing back and forth across the nipple in counterpoint to his mouth's rhythm.

"Fuck, you taste good," he murmurs against your skin. "Been thinking about this since I saw you this morning, standing there looking all professional but with this mouth that had me imagining all sorts of unprofessional shit."

His confession sends a thrill through you. "Like what?" you ask, running your fingers through his damp hair as he moves lower, lips tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your navel.

"Like how you'd sound when you cum," he says, settling between your thighs, his breath hot against your center. When his lips kiss the inside of your right thigh, it quivers. "Like how your body would react to mine. Like whether you'd be loud or quiet." His tongue takes a long, deliberate swipe through your folds as if he was licking a large scoop of ice cream. "Like how wet you'd get for me."

Your hips buck involuntarily at the contact, a whimper escaping your lips.

"That answers one question," he says with a smirk you can feel against your sensitive skin. "You're responsive. I like that."

His tongue finds your clit, circling it with just the right pressure to make your thighs tremble. One of his hands slides up your body to palm your breast again, while the other holds your hip, thumb making small circles against your hip bone.

"Chan," you gasp as he sucks gently at your most sensitive point. "That's… fuck…"

"That's the idea," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips shiny with your arousal. "But not yet. Want to taste you first. Want to make you cum on my tongue before I fuck the shit out of you."

The crude words in his gentle voice send a fresh wave of heat through you. His mouth returns to your center, more insistent now, tongue alternating between broad strokes and focused attention to your clit. He slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit the spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.

Your body arches into his hand and mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. He watches your reactions with the same intensity he brought to your camera lens, learning what makes your breath hitch, what draws out the low moan from the back of your throat.

"Fuck," you breathe as his fingers establish a rhythm that sends heat spiraling through your core. "Right there."

Chan's smile is both tender and triumphant. "I like when you tell me exactly what you want."

So you do. With unfiltered directness that makes his eyes darken and his movements grow more urgent. The professional distance that separated photographer from subject dissolves completely as you hold his head between your legs, as his tongue trades places back and forth with his fingers with devastating precision.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice vibrating against you. "Let me hear you. Tell me how it feels."

"So fucking good," you manage, your hands fisting his hair. "Don't stop, please don't stop…"

He doesn't. His fingers work in tandem with his mouth, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher. The tension coils tight in your core, your breath coming in shorter gasps.

"I'm close," you warn, and his response is to increase the pressure, the speed of his fingers, the suction of his mouth.

When you cum, you breathe out, “Oh Chan!” Your body arches off the bed. He stays with you through it, gentling his touch as the waves of pleasure wash over you, gradually bringing you down until you're boneless and breathing hard.

He kisses his way back up your body, a smug satisfaction in his eyes that you're too blissed out to call him on. When his mouth meets yours, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a renewed pulse of desire through you despite your recent orgasm.

"Condom?" he asks against your mouth.

You gesture vaguely toward your bag on the nightstand. "Travel pack. Always prepared."

He laughs, reaching over to open the bag and dig around until he removes the small box. "A woman who comes with emergency condoms. Be still my heart." He opens it and removes a packet.

"Less talking, more fucking," you say, grabbing his wrist to pull him back to you.

His eyebrows shoot up at your directness, but the dimpled grin that follows is approving. "Yes, ma'am."

He tears open the foil packet and rolls the condom on with practiced efficiency. Then he's hovering over you again, his weight supported on his forearms, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

"Ready?" he asks, his playfulness momentarily set aside for genuine concern.

You answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him forward, guiding him into you. His cock enters you in one slow, delicious slide, deep and intentional like he wants you to feel every second of it. And you do. “Chan…” escapes your lips in a breathless sigh.

"Fuck," he groans this time, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

Your bodies fit together like they’d been crafted with this moment in mind. He fills you completely, stretching you in a way that borders on too much but settles into perfect. For a moment, neither of you moves, adjusting to the sensation of being joined.

Then he begins to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, and coherent thought fragments into pure sensation. His eyes never leave yours, creating an intimacy that's almost too intense.

"You feel amazing," he whispers, pace quickening. “Better than I imagined.”

"You imagined this?" you ask, wrapping your legs higher around his waist.

His laugh is strained with pleasure. "All. Fucking. Day."

The admission pushes you closer to the edge, and you tighten your legs around his waist. You run your hands down his back, feeling the muscles work as he moves inside you, then up to tangle in his hair.

"Harder," you whisper, and something flashes in his eyes; relief, maybe, at being given permission to let go.

He complies, his hips snapping forward with more force, setting a new rhythm that has the headboard knocking gently against the wall. The new angle hits something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your hand slips between your bodies, seeking the additional pressure that will send you over. Chan watches with fascination as you touch yourself while he moves inside you, his rhythm faltering briefly at the sight.

"That's the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen," he murmurs, voice rough with desire as he increases the pace of his thrusts.

"There," you gasp. "Right there."

"Got it," he says, voice strained with the effort of control. He maintains the angle, the pace, then slides his own hand down to replace your fingers with his, circling your clit with the same rhythm he uses to fuck you. "Want to feel you cum around my cock, gorgeous."

The combination of his words, his skilled fingers, and the relentless pressure of him inside you pushes you toward the edge again. Your nails dig into his shoulders, causing him to hiss slightly.

"So close," you pant. "Chan, I'm…"

"Me too," he grits out. "Together, yeah?"

You nod, beyond words now. His movements become more erratic, his breathing harsh against your neck where he's buried his face. The tension builds and builds until it shatters, your orgasm washing over you in waves that have you crying out as you shake, clinging to him. He follows moments later, his hips stuttering, his face buried in the crook of your neck, a low, guttural sound torn from his throat as he pulses inside you.

Both of you lay tangled in the sheets, skin to skin. For several heartbeats, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is your combined breathing, gradually slowing, the silence filled with a kind of intimacy neither of you expected.

Eventually, Chan lifts his head, a dazed, satisfied smile on his face.

"Well," he says, "that was worth staying up for."

You laugh, the movement causing him to slip from inside you, which makes you both wince slightly. He deals with the condom, tying it off and reaching over to the bedside table for a tissue to wrap it in, before setting it on top. Then he lies back down beside you and closes his eyes.

Your bodies cool as breathing returns to normal, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on damp skin. He traces abstract patterns on your stomach with light fingertips.

You watch him as he breathes deeply. The bedside lamp casts a golden glow across his features, highlighting the sharp angle of his jawline, the curve of his shoulder, the contrast between light and shadow that defines his face. Something about the image calls to the photographer in you; the desire to preserve a moment of perfect vulnerability.

You sit up suddenly, propping yourself up on one elbow “Don’t move.”

Chan blinks, breath still shallow. “Huh?” He watches you with curious eyes as you reach for your camera bag on the bedside table. “What are you doing?”

"The light on you right now..." You turn back to him, camera in hand. "It's perfect."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flicker of hesitation. "You want to photograph me? Now? Like this?"

“Yeah,” you say softly, a hint of vulnerability in your tone as you sit cross-legged beside him. “You’ve never looked more honest than you do right now. I want to capture you as you are now, the moment between the obvious moments, you know? What no one else gets to see. And I'm not talking about dick pics for the internet. I mean... art. Something real. But only if you’re comfortable with it.”

He considers your words for a few seconds, vulnerability passing across his feature before resolution settles in. “I've been photographed thousands of times, but never like this. Never just as... me.”

His assessment touches something deep inside you. "Are you sure? These kinds of photos have a way of causing trouble if they get out."

"I trust you," he says simply with a sweet smile. "And only if I get to take pictures too."

“Okay,” you agree too quickly as you remove the lens cap.

"How do you want me?" he asks when you look back at him, bringing the camera to your face.

"Just be yourself," you say. "Forget I'm taking pictures. Just exist."

He nods, and you begin, the camera coming alive in your hands, an extension of your vision. Chan relaxes into the sheets, initial self-consciousness melting away under your gentle direction. You capture him in unguarded moments: stretching his arms above his head, the lines of his body creating geometric perfection against the white sheets, his hands covering his face as he tries unsuccessfully to hide from you. Fragments of him are immortalized in the frame:  the curve of his hip disappearing beneath the sheet, the hollow of his throat, the play of light across his collarbones.

You continue to snap more pictures. He laughs at something you say and you capture him with his head thrown back, his whole face transformed by joy.

"Turn toward the window," you instruct softly. He complies, the city lights creating a backdrop of unfocused brilliance behind his silhouette as he looks thoughtfully out the window.

"Beautiful," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, as you capture the image.

Something shifts in the atmosphere as you work. What began as artistic appreciation transforms into another kind of foreplay, each click of the shutter heightening the renewed tension between you.

"Your turn," he says after a while, his voice low and sure. When Chan reaches for the camera, you surrender it without protest even though you’re hesitant.

"I don't usually…"

"You promised," he responds with an adorable pout, that vulnerability back in his voice. "I want to remember you too."

You nod and show him the basic settings. Chan's a quick study, his artistic eye evident in how he frames each shot. He directs you with surprising skill, finding angles that frame your body in light and shadow. The sensation of being on the other side of the lens is foreign, exhilarating. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with your physical nakedness, but his genuine awe at capturing you makes it easier.

"Beautiful," he murmurs as he reviews the images. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

You move closer to see, your bodies aligning naturally. "You're good at this," you observe as he reviews an image on the small display.

"I've picked up a few things," he replies with a modest shrug that contradicts the confidence in his hands.

The photos are raw, honest; There’s one with your head thrown back in laughter; you gazing directly at the camera with an openness that startles you; you with your eyes closed, a small smile playing at your lips.

"We make a good team," you say, taking the camera back to scroll through all the images; his and yours intermingled, a visual conversation between two artists.

"We do," he agrees, and there's something bittersweet in his tone that makes you look up. "Come here," he says, arm outstretched in invitation.

You move into his embrace, your head fitting naturally into the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you to trace lazy patterns on your skin. You capture a couple more photos.  One of you and Chan’s legs intertwined with the sheets and selfies of you both looking into the lens as he kisses your forehead. Then you replace the camera on the side table and snuggle up closer to him.

Outside, the sky is lightening, the first hints of dawn creeping around the edges of the curtains. Reality begins to seep back in; he has a schedule to keep, a public persona to maintain. You have another job, a deadline looming.

"This was..." he starts, then pauses, searching for words.

"A perfect night," you finish for him.

He nods, relief in his eyes at your understanding. Without either of you saying it explicitly, you both know this can't be more than what it is, a beautiful, temporary connection between two ships passing in the night. You listen as his breathing steadies, but not deep enough for sleep.

"I should go," he says softly twenty minutes later, though he makes no move to leave the warmth of the bed, of your body against his.

You know he’s right, but neither of you seems ready to face the intrusion of reality. There’s a fragile peace in the air, an unspoken agreement to stretch this moment as long as possible. You shift slightly, soaking in the comfort of his skin against yours.

"Probably," you agree, equally reluctant.

A long silence settles between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It hangs there with weight and meaning, like an unfinished sentence where both parties know the end but are content not to say it out loud. Your fingers trace lazy circles on his chest and his hand moves slowly on your back, each of you committing this small eternity to memory.

Thirty more minutes have passed.

You lift your head from his chest to look at him. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you could almost believe that the rest of the world doesn't exist. He places his hands at the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his. The kiss is slow, easy, like it has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with connection. But you know better.

You turn your body to straddle him, and he lets out a small, surprised exhale against your mouth. You feel him harden beneath you, his body eager to defy the sense in his words.

"We're never getting out of here," he murmurs, voice a mix of amusement and longing.

You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. "I can live with that."

His laugh is a quiet rumble in his chest, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, hands finding your hips. You reach blindly for another condom, fumbling with eagerness, and break the kiss when your fingers wrap around it. He doesn’t stop you when you tear the wrapper open and slide the latex onto his already hard and ready cock; instead, he shakes his head like he can’t believe how lucky he is. 

He sits up against the headboard, an appreciative smile on his swollen lips. He lets out a shaky breath as your fingers skim along his length, adjusting the condom into place. Then you lift your body over his dick to lower yourself onto it, feeling every glorious inch of him filling you once again. The sensation is so consuming that you forget to move at first, the both of you going still in awe of the hunger that pulls you together. His lips crash back onto yours, kissing you like he needs it to breathe, his grip tightening at your waist to bring you fully down on him. You start to rock your hips slowly.

Chan’s mouth and tongue are relentless as he kisses you at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer. Your chests are slick with sweat as you lose yourselves in the friction, the heat. You move against him slowly, deliberately, savoring every pulse and gasp, determined to make this last, to stretch this out; this morning, this moment, this everything. His hips buck involuntarily upward in a particularly dizzy thrust, and you slip his name into his mouth like a secret, earning you a low growl of approval in return.

Your legs tremble while you try to maintain the languid pace, the teasing rhythm that has him groaning and biting at your lip in desperation. You know neither of you can hold on much longer, and you’re both okay with that. You arch your back, changing the angle, and Chan gasps your name like a plea, his fingers digging into your skin just shy of bruising. You clutch at his neck, your own breathing ragged as the two of you press your foreheads together, locking eyes and you let him guide you faster, harder, until there’s nothing left in the world but the two of you, right here, right now.

You and Chan move together in a rhythm that feels more like music than anything else. There is no rush. Just tension building between your bodies, heat cresting, pleasure folding in on itself. And when you finally come apart together, it is a full-body kind of release. You kiss again like you are trying to memorize his mouth, losing yourself in the taste and feel of him, in the beautiful lie that maybe this doesn't have to end.

But of course it does. Time is the only thing you don't have in abundance, and eventually, he draws back, the reluctance unmistakable. "One more for the road?" he asks with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, and it's clear he's not just talking about another kiss.

"Get out of here before I decide to keep you," you reply, though your actions say otherwise as you lean in to capture his mouth once more.

You finally roll off of him a few minutes later, and with a sigh he gets up. He drops the condom in the wastebasket under the desk and moves to the door. As he gathers his still-damp clothes from the floor, you watch him dress with an artist's appreciation and a lover's nostalgia. He looks younger somehow, more vulnerable as he struggles with the clinging fabric of his swim shorts then the t-shirt, an adorably embarrassed smile on his face.

You wrap yourself in the sheet, following him to the door. There's an awkwardness now that wasn't there before, neither of you quite knowing the protocol for this kind of goodbye.

"This wasn't..." he begins.

"I know," you interrupt gently. "It wasn’t for me either."

The understanding passes between you without need for elaboration. This wasn't casual, wasn't meaningless, but it also wasn't the beginning of something. It was complete in itself, a perfect composition needing no additional frames.

"I'll delete the photos if you want," you offer, giving him an out.

He shakes his head firmly. "Keep them. They're ours."

The possessive pronoun warms you, makes you smile. "Okay."

Chan leans in for one last kiss, soft and lingering. "Thank you," he murmurs against your lips. "For seeing me. Not Bang Chan from Stray Kids. Just me. Chan. Chris."

"Thank you for being worth seeing," you reply, “and for seeing me in return.”

He smiles, dimples appearing one last time, and then he's gone, the door closing quietly behind him. You stand there for a moment, the sheet wrapped around you like a toga, feeling the weight of the night settling into your bones, not with regret, but with a bittersweet satisfaction.

The camera sits on the nightstand, holding memories that will never make it to social media or a magazine spread. Just between the two of you, a secret collection of moments when two insomniacs found something real in the middle of the night.

You return to bed, sleep finally finding you as the sun rises, your dreams filled with chlorine-scented kisses and the echo of laughter across water.

****

Almost a year later, your name is finally starting to make the rounds in the art world, and even you have to admit it has a nice ring to it when you're not too busy downplaying your success. It’s been a whirlwind of openings, critiques, and collaborations, but this, your first solo show, is something else entirely. It feels like baring a piece of your soul on a white gallery wall. And nothing says "soul-baring" quite like the portraits from that night with Chan.

They’re intense, raw, somehow both detached and intimate. The more you think about it, the more you realize they belong in this show. They have to be in your show. You also realize you need Chan’s blessing before you drag his naked plump ass into your artistic existential crisis.

So you sit at your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys as if they'll self-destruct upon contact. You know how careful he is about his image, how much he values his privacy. Asking him to let you display these photos feels like asking him to strip down in front of strangers. Something he probably wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, you think with a small smirk.

You stare at the blank email, cursor blinking like a metronome counting down the seconds of your courage. The intimate, raw, unflinchingly honest images of Chan are scattered across the floor of your home studio, some framed, some still rolled. You need his permission, not just legally but emotionally, to hang these moments between you on sterile gallery walls for strangers to consume with hungry eyes.

The warm yellow lamp casts dramatic shadows across the portraits. In one, Chan’s face is captured in moments of unguarded vulnerability, his eyes holding the weight of sleepless nights. 

That one you printed just for you, not for public display.

Your fingers tap the desk, dancing with indecision. It's been eleven months since you last saw him. Eleven months since that night when he let you photograph him in the early morning hours, when your images became something more than pixels on a screen. Eleven months since there’s been any type of communication between the two of you.

You bite your lip and type out a message that walks the line between professional courtesy and personal appeal:

Dear Chan, you type, delete, then type again. Too formal.

Hey, you try. Too casual.

Hi Chan; or do you prefer Chris now? Delete delete delete.

Hey! Long time no see 😉 Yeah, no.

Chan, you settle on, simple and direct like the photographs that captured the planes of his face.

Your email takes shape, professional on the surface with undercurrents of something deeper flowing beneath each carefully chosen word:

I hope this email finds you well.

Better. You dive in from there.

My first solo exhibition opens in three weeks at the Harlow Gallery. It would mean a lot to me to be able to include portraits of the photos you and I took that night.

You pause, swallowing the memory of his skin warm against yours, how his fingers traced invisible paths across your back.

I believe these are among my strongest pieces. I wanted to formally request your permission to include them.

The truth clings to your fingertips: these are your strongest pieces because they're the only ones where your lens captured not just a subject, but a feeling; something raw and unfinished between you and him.

The images have been prepared with discretion in mind. Your privacy is my priority. Nothing identifiable will be shown in the pieces chosen for public display; no faces, no awkward explanations required if someone you know or who knows you comes across them. I've employed techniques to obscure any identifying features while preserving the emotional essence of the work.

Of course I’ll understand if you’d rather keep them private and will respect whatever decision you make.

You're lying through your teeth on that one; you will not "understand," you'll just quietly die inside, box up the portraits, place them in the darkest corner of your storage unit, and move on with your life.

The exhibition will proceed either way, with or without them, but these images, your images, represent something valuable in my artistic journey.

You stop typing, fingers trembling slightly. The lie burns in your chest; the exhibition would proceed, yes, but it would feel hollow without these centerpieces, these moments when your art found its truth.

If you could let me know by the end of the week, I would greatly appreciate it.

Too demanding? You bite your lower lip, tasting minty lipgloss and indecision.

At your convenience, of course. I know you’re a busy man.

Better. Respectful of his perpetually packed schedule; the endless rehearsals, the world tours, the 3AM studio sessions he described to you while in the pool, floating inches away from you.

Thank you for considering this request.

You hesitate over the sign-off. Warm regards feels too distant. Love feels too presumptuous. You settle on your name alone, letting it stand naked and honest like his portraits.

The completed email stares back at you. Your mouse hovers over the send button, your heart keeping time with the second hand of the clock above your desk. Your stomach twists with what feels like stage fright, though you're not the performer between the two of you.

With a deep breath, you click send before courage fails you and brace for an eternity of radio silence.

The email whooshes into the digital void, and you exhale. Your chest feels simultaneously lighter and heavier.

Your phone sits face-down next to your laptop; a deliberate choice. You know yourself too well; you'd check it every thirty seconds if you could see the screen. Instead, you slide it into your desk drawer and close it firmly.

You stand, stretching arms above your head, vertebrae cracking like kindling. The room suddenly feels too small, too full of reminders. You need distance from this space where his presence lingers.

Hours later, after a walk that took you nowhere in particular and a dinner you barely tasted, you return to your apartment. The desk drawer calls to you like a siren, but you resist, choosing instead to lose yourself in mindless TV until sleep claims you mid-episode.

Morning arrives with cutting precision, sunlight slicing through blinds you forgot to close. Your first conscious thought is of the email, followed immediately by a rush of adrenaline that propels you from dreams to reality in seconds. You fumble for the desk drawer, fingers clumsy with sleep and anticipation.

Your phone screen illuminates with notifications in the form of social media updates, promotional emails, app reminders, but your eyes search frantically for only one name.

There.

Your thumb hovers over his name. Four letters that contain multitudes. You tap, holding your breath as the message loads.

Yes, you have my permission.

One sentence. Five words. That’s it. No greeting, no sign-off. Just a simple, efficient granting of what you asked for.

You read it again. And again. Turning the words over like stones in a river, searching for hidden meanings in their smooth surfaces. 

You find none.

Your fingers feel numb, but you sense a warmth in your chest, an uncomfortable heat that you recognize as disappointment. The simplicity of the words leaves you reeling more than any objection could have. You expected... what? A question about how you've been? A comment about the images themselves? A catch, like maybe an interrogatory phone call? Some acknowledgment of what passed between you that morning? A cheeky postscript hinting at unfinished business?

But there’s none of that here. Just five words that feel as impersonal as a text alert reminder from your dentist’s office.

You place the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter under the weight of your expectations. The logical part of your brain offers explanations: he's busy, he's professional, he's respecting boundaries. The emotional part whispers less comforting possibilities: he doesn't care, he's forgotten, it meant nothing to him.

"At least I have permission," you say to the empty room, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

You force a smile that no one sees, straightening your shoulders as you stand. The exhibition preparation waits for no one's feelings, not even yours. You have frames to select, lighting to consider, labels to write. Professional obligations that require you to set aside the hollow feeling expanding beneath your ribs.

Your laptop wakes with a tap, calendar app open to a countdown of days until the opening. In twenty days the gallery will be filled with critics, collectors, fellow artists… people whose opinions could shape your career trajectory. This should be occupying every corner of your mind.

Instead, you find yourself opening your digital photo gallery, scrolling to the folder labeled simply "CCB." The photos inside are more honest than you've been with yourself. In every line, every shadow, every careful composition of his features, your feelings are transparent. No wonder you need these pieces in the exhibition; they're the only work where you've been truly vulnerable.

You close the folder and return to your email. You type a reply to Chan; brief, professional, and carefully constructed to match his tone:

Thank you. I appreciate it. I truly hope you’re good.

You send it without rereading, without allowing yourself to overthink, before opening your exhibition checklist. Then you immerse yourself in the practicalities of your upcoming show, burying your disappointment beneath layers of logistics and artistic decisions. 

You have permission. That's all you needed.

The rest? The unspoken words, the space between five clinical words and the volumes you wanted to hear? You'll transform into nervous energy for the exhibition. After all, isn't that what artists do? Turn heartache into something strangers can hang on their walls?

****

When opening night arrives, the gallery buzzes with bodies and champagne chatter. You smile with practiced ease as a woman in architectural glasses gestures toward your most vulnerable piece: Chan's torso in black and white, his face artfully shadowed beyond recognition, but his essence unmistakable to anyone who's ever run fingers along the ridges of his abs.

"The vulnerability here is striking," she says, and you nod, wondering if she can see your own nakedness beneath your carefully selected gallery outfit, your heart beating against your ribs like a trapped bird sensing freedom on the horizon.

"That's precisely what I was exploring," you respond, your voice pitched perfectly between passionate artist and composed professional. "The tension between revelation and concealment."

The Harlow Gallery hums with the particular frequency of successful opening nights: crystal glasses clinking, expensive perfume mingling with the subtle scent of the fresh flowers arranged strategically throughout the space, conversations rising and falling like tide pools of intellectual pretension and genuine appreciation. Track lighting casts dramatic shadows that seem to dance across the sleek white walls as people move between installations.

You've been on display nearly as much as your art tonight, smiling, explaining, accepting compliments with gracious nods while deflecting personal questions with practiced pivots back to technique or inspiration. Your outfit,  black, high waisted jeans and a silk blouse in a shade of gold that your best friend insisted makes your eyes and skin look "illegally good", was chosen specifically to make you feel armored without looking unapproachable.

A gallery assistant appears at your elbow with another flute of champagne, which you accept with a grateful smile even though you've barely touched your first. The cold glass against your palm grounds you as you survey the room, cataloging which pieces draw crowds and which visitors linger longest before particular portraits.

The unnamed portraits, displayed along the west wall in a deliberately subtle progression, have become an unexpected focal point. There are no names, no context; just light, shadow, and raw emotion. The Chan series, as you call them in your head, draw crowds who stand transfixed by their stark intimacy, unaware they're peering into their own fantasies as much as yours.

You watch as a couple stands before the centerpiece: the muscles in Chan's back rendered in exquisite detail, his head turned just enough that his jawline is visible but his identity preserved. The woman leans into her partner and whispers something that makes him nod slowly, appreciatively.

You feel a bizarre pride mingled with possessiveness. These strangers are connecting with intimate moments crystallized in grayscale, moments that belong to you and Chan alone. Yet sharing them was your choice; your art exists to be witnessed.

"The anonymity makes them universal," comments a man in a blazer too structured for the casual confidence he's attempting to project. "Yet they're so specific they feel like portraits of someone the artist knows intimately."

You offer a noncommittal smile. "Art exists in that space between the personal and universal."

"Did you sleep with him?" The question comes from a young woman with brightly colored hair and an MFA attitude, her voice just quiet enough to seem conspiratorial rather than rude.

You don't flinch, though something tightens in your chest. "I find that reducing art to biography limits its potential meanings," you reply, the rehearsed line flowing smoothly. You've anticipated this question, prepared for it, though hearing it still feels like a finger pressing into a bruise.

The critic from the local arts weekly approaches, notebook in hand, and you're grateful for the interruption. His questions are predictable but thoughtful, and you settle into the familiar rhythm of discussing inspiration and process without revealing the raw nerve at the center of this exhibition.

Hours pass in this manner; you circulate, champagne warming in your hand, feet beginning to protest against your sensible but still somewhat uncomfortable shoes, and your face aching from smiling too much. The gallery gradually empties as the evening progresses, guests departing in small clusters until only the most dedicated art enthusiasts and your closest friends remain.

Your agent catches your eye from across the room and offers a subtle thumbs-up. Red dots have appeared beside five pieces in the exhibition, each sold before the night is even over. Three from the Chan series. Success by any metric. You should feel elated.

Instead, you feel a curious hollowness. As if you've offered something precious to the world and the world has accepted it without recognizing its true value. Which is absurd; you created these works to be seen, to be sold, to launch this next phase of your career.

Eventually, even your most lingering supporters make their excuses. Your agent promises to call tomorrow with details about the sales and potential commissions. Friends hug you tightly, their proud whispers warming your ear. The gallery owner assures you the night exceeded expectations before instructing the staff to finish closing procedures.

"Take your time," she tells you with a knowing smile. "Artists should have a moment alone with their exhibitions. Lock up when you're ready."

Then they're gone, and the gallery transforms in their absence. The space seems to exhale, to settle into itself. The lighting, dimmed for closing, casts longer shadows that soften the stark whiteness of the walls. Without conversation to fill it, the room feels both vast and intimate.

You slip off your shoes, padding barefoot across the polished concrete floor, enjoying the cool firmness against your tired soles. The silence wraps around you like a familiar blanket. This is the moment you didn't know you were waiting for, communion with your own creation in the absence of external validation or scrutiny.

Your fingertips trail along the cool glass of one of the frames. You move slowly through the space, reacquainting yourself with each piece now that it exists in this public context rather than the private sanctuary of your studio.

When you reach the Chan series, you pause. In the softened light, the portraits seem to breathe with a life of their own. The careful shadowing that preserves his anonymity now looks like an invitation to peer closer, to discover the secret at the heart of each image.

You press your palm flat against the glass, as if you could reach through it and touch the texture of the print.

"They look different than I’d expected."

The voice freezes you in place. Low, accented, and unmistakable even after all these months. You don't turn immediately, irrationally afraid that doing so might dispel what must be an auditory hallucination born of exhaustion and champagne.

But then comes the soft sound of footsteps, and you have no choice but to face the source.

Chan stands at the far end of the gallery, half-illuminated by the ambient lighting. He's dressed simply, yet impeccably; black jeans, a white tank top beneath a black designer, tailored suit jacket, and those beat-up Converse he's always favored. His hair is slightly longer than when you last saw him, wavy strands falling across his forehead perfectly. The silver chain around his neck and the silver rectangles in his ears catch light as he shifts his weight.

Dimples frame his gorgeous smile as he stands there, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he can’t quite tell if he belongs here or not.

"Different from what?" Your voice emerges steadier than you feel, a small miracle.

He moves closer, each step deliberate. "Different from when we took them, I guess. You made me look… human."

“You are human, no?” you say with a small smile.

“Correction. I’m an idol.” He smirks, causing you to stifle a laugh at the memory of him sharing with you that part of the training they all received was that they could never admit they used the bathroom.

He stops before one of the pieces to the left of the centerpiece. In this portrait, one bare shoulder faces the viewer, head turned just enough to reveal the edge of his profile, one earring catching the light.

"You made me anonymous." It's not a question or an accusation, just an observation.

"I promised I would." You move closer, still maintaining a careful distance. "Your privacy was always going to be protected."

"I know." He nods, eyes still fixed on the portrait. "I trust you."

Three simple words that somehow mean more than his brief email permission. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat.

"Why are you here, Chan?" The question emerges harder than intended.

He turns to face you fully now, and the full force of his attention hits you like a physical touch. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that can turn so intense, search yours.

"I wanted to see them. See how they looked here, on display." He gestures vaguely at the gallery space. "I didn't want to come during the opening. Too many people. Too much…" He pauses, searching for the word. "Performance."

You understand immediately. His life is an endless series of performances, of being watched and evaluated. This, whatever exists between you and him, happened in a private space, away from scrutiny.

"How did you know I'd still be here?"

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, one of his dimples appearing. "I guessed. You seem like the type to always stay late. After shows, after shoots. You like the quiet after everyone leaves."

The fact that he deduced this about you from knowing you for a day, this small, insignificant trait, makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"Do you want me to show you around?" you offer, gesturing to the exhibition.

"I'd like that."

You move through the gallery together, maintaining a careful distance that nonetheless feels charged with potential energy. You explain certain pieces, the techniques you used, the challenges you faced. He listens attentively, asking questions that reveal he's paying genuine attention, not just being polite.

When you return to the Chan series, a comfortable silence falls between you. You stand side by side, both facing the portraits that capture moments only the two of you remember.

"That morning," he says finally, voice low enough that you have to lean slightly closer to hear him, "after our impromptu photo shoot. When we lay there together..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. You remember perfectly. The camera set aside, his arms holding you tight, your head on his chest, before you straddled him and the two of you fucked slowly, one last time.

"I never forgot," he continues as his eyes settle on the portrait of both of your legs tangled together with the sheets. "Even with everything; the tour, the comeback preparations, the endless meetings and recordings and fittings."

Your heart stutters in your chest. "I never forgot either."

His eyes find yours now, something vulnerable and determined in his gaze. "I know my email was short. Too short. I wrote about twenty versions before I just…" He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it aches. "I didn't know what was appropriate. What you wanted. If things had changed. But I wanted to ensure you had what you needed. So I just hit send."

"Nothing changed for me," you admit in a whisper, the words escaping before you can consider their wisdom.

Your fingers brush as you both shift position, and you feel a spark. Neither of you moves away.

"I'm here for three weeks," he says as he intertwines his fingers with yours, the casual tone of his voice belied by the intensity of his gaze. "Longer than I usually get. Some meetings, some studio time, but... lots of gaps. Actual free time."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"Would you…" he starts, then reconsiders. "Could I see more of your work? The stuff you haven’t shown anyone yet?"

The invitation is clear; not just to show him your art, but to rebuild the private space you once shared. Where he isn't Bang Chan of Stray Kids, and you aren't a photographer with a sold-out exhibition. Where you're just two people who created something together that exists beyond glossy prints.

"Yes," you answer, simple and direct. "I'd like that."

His smile breaks slowly across his face, dimples appearing like parentheses around joy. In this moment, he looks exactly like the man in your most treasured, private photos, the ones too intimate to ever display.

"Tonight?" he asks, hope threading through the word.

"Tonight," you confirm.

“I made hotel reservations, but…”

“You can stay with me,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’ll call my manager and have him cancel.”

You stand together, face to face, before the images that capture your shared, secret night, the air between you charged with the promise of something more real than art, something waiting to be brought into existence with careful hands and open hearts. Chan’s hand reaches up to cup your cheek, the touch featherlight as though he’s worried you might vanish. He pauses, thumb grazing your skin, searching your eyes for any hesitation. Then he cradles your face with familiar tenderness, leaning in until his lips brush against yours, gentle at first. The kiss deepens, drawing you in. You taste longing and the months between now and your last kiss, an entire year compressed into this one moment. His mouth moves with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring every second he wasn't sure he’d get again. His free arm circles your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you.

The two of you indulge in the quiet, charged moment. There are no loud declarations, just two people finding each other again. Maybe for real this time.

My Masterlist