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malunar28replies · 2 days ago

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❥volonté (m) | 𝟛

↳ Things begin to feel promising leading up to your first mission amongst this misfit crew... That is, until it all goes wrong, and a secret never meant to be known by you is ultimately revealed.

bang chan x fem!reader x lee minho — bounty hunters! fantasy, sci-fi, dystopia. found family, why choose?, action, violence, angst, drama, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mystery, secrets, near death experiences, complicated relationships, happy ending, plot-heavy!! smut. [7,2k wc ongoing] cws: heavy themes of violence, betrayal, distrust, toxic yearning/situationship, bad decisions, and falling for the guy who puts everything on the line for you... as well as the guy who wants you dead.

❥ masterlist | ao3

Waking up in the room you have been assigned feels bittersweet. On account of the fact that you cannot help but succumb to the insurmountable impression that your being here is wholly unwanted.

Still, an effort has been made to try and make it feel like something of a temporary home. It is small—little more than a bed built into the furthest end against the large window and a chair set up against the tiny offering of a desk. Minute additions have been put in place by whoever has been put in charge of getting it ready for you, and you do your best to acknowledge each and every one.

Though the walls are dull and lifeless, someone has placed a clothing rack up into the only space that it can reasonably go. Three sets of similar clothes reside there, as well as an extra holder for weapons. However, it is the desk that truly brings a brightness to this space.

A notebook, a pen, and a small desk lamp sit atop it. These are interesting choices to you, considering the technology has progressed so far past the need for anything as rudimentary as this. Still, looking at it has you wondering what the person who did this thought upon making the decision; what they think of you, what they suspect you might be like underneath the tragedy that has befallen you.

Then, you feel sick all over again.

Your stomach whirls with the feeling of nauseating discomfort, and the dizziness that has plagued you begins to return in full force. That's right, you recall, you are actively dying. The only thing standing between you and that eventual outcome being the concoction that awaits you down the hall.

But before you have the opportunity to start your journey, a knock comes from the other side of the door.

Encouraging their entry, you sit at the edge of your bed and are relieved by the familiar face that has come to find you.

Chan stands in the entryway with somewhat messy hair and a smile on his face. Based on his appearance and the fact that he is not yet dressed in the commonly worn garb of the crew, you have to figure that he has only just woken up, too. Fighting the smile that begins to match his is an impossibility given the sight of him, and even more than that; the glass of putrid-looking liquid held in his hand.

"You're up early, no?" Chan says as he walks the short distance to your bed. He pulls the chair from the desk space and sits himself down in it—backwards—casual and without the essence of a commander of the ship. "Must be like me. Morning person."

"I am, but I don't rest well in new places, either," you say. "Not to mention the fact that I think I am doomed to waking up with the most abrupt sickness you could imagine for the rest of my life… which I suppose will be short-lived, at least."

Chan snorts a laugh at that and says, "You know, most people wouldn't take this news so lightly. I don't want to say you're taking it well, but…" He pauses, but maintains firm eye contact with you as if trying to dissect the intricacies of your mind. "What is it about this—about you—that has you reconciling with the probability of this outcome with such ease?"

You have done your best not to think about it so much, but the question is a fair one. Acknowledging the fact of the matter is an obvious thing from the outside; you are not distressed, you are not crumbling under the weight of a devastating and soon to come future. This is, objectively, a strange reaction. Now you must face it and ask yourself why?

Taking the glass from Chan's hand, you down the liquid quickly and hand it back to him once empty.

"I knew what getting into this line of work might entail," you begin through a reluctant sigh. "We all get into it for the money, or because we don't have family to disappoint, or sadden. Nobody is waiting for us at home. But it's dangerous, it only takes one bad job, one betrayal, one instance of being at the wrong place at the wrong time for it to all come to an end. Just like that."

"You look at this as an inevitability," Chan concludes.

"Yeah, something like that. Granted, I anticipated a bullet to the head, not contracting some ancient toxin that nobody has heard of in years. Not exactly the glamourous downfall of a bounty hunter that one might imagine."

"Well, as much as you might accept it, I'm not," he says, cocking his head to the side in a curious sort of manner. "You saved the life of one of my crewmates—accidental, or not—and though you might not understand how absolutely crucial your doing that is to something much bigger, it is. I can't just sit back and watch you die, not as long as I have the opportunity to try and do something about it."

"Amazing how you seem far more appreciative of my having done that than the guy I actually saved is."

"That's because Minho doesn't care about himself in regards to all of this." Shrugging, Chan sighs through his nose and says, "I need Minho, and he knows that, but the only person that Minho needs—the real way to break that tough exterior apart—is Hyunjin."

Reaching out, Chan places a gentle hand onto your arm and offers another comforting smile.

"Save Hyunjin next time, and you'll have that guy in the palm of your hand."

There's a comical air to his tone that takes you a moment to parse through, but by the time you have, Chan is already back to his feet and making his way back towards the door.

"Wait, who is Hyunjin?" you ask abruptly, "Why him?"

Waving a nonchalant hand in the air, he does not turn back to look at you and as the door slides back open, all he says is: "He's going to be pissed off enough if he finds out I told you even this much, don't get me into even more hot water with my lieutenant. We land in Krynnor in approximately two hours. Be ready. I might need you on the front lines."

You scoff. "In my current condition? Is that such a good idea?"

"Do you really want me to wave you off on a mere assumption that you aren't perfectly capable of handling your own? That seems a bit unlike you. Besides, you can snap a man's neck in three seconds flat, I think you can manage."

The door closes upon his exit, and you've got no other option than to respect his incredibly persuasive maneuvers.

As charming as the Adala has been in all of her humble glory, the more the minutes tick by until your departure, the more willing you become to set foot once more on solid ground.

Ship life had never been a consideration for you when the career prospect of bounty hunting placed itself before you. Plenty of clans and crews assign themselves to the lifestyle—it is far from unheard of—and though you have been offered to join on more than one occasion, the idea of living in motion in such a way has never struck you as any life to live, at all.

But plenty of bounty hunters simply aren't up to snuff, either. They need a team. It's a difficult and dangerous job, the kind that makes having a solid place to come back home to all the more worth it at the end of the day. One place to call yours. A place that is still right where you left it when you set foot into yet another fiasco.

That place has always been your home, with no nagging interest in the back of your mind urging you to see what else is out there. You know what else is out there; more death, more destruction, more cities and civilizations facing the reckoning of someone with more money, power and influence. Nuvia is no different, if your failed mission is anything to go by, but at the very least it still stands tall and proud in the face of adversity.

The failure rests all the more heavy on your shoulders as a result.

By the time you make your way to the bridge doors, there are at least some people that are happy to see you already standing in wait. Seungmin greets you with a smile, followed by Felix and Jisung, and the three hurry towards you as the doctor rifles through the bag slung over his shoulder.

"Ah, here it is," he says brightly, handing you a small bottle with the top capped off. "You'll need this for when we're in Krynnor, since we won't be back to the ship in time for your dose."

Taking it into your hand, you can't help the grimace that curls into your features as you look at it. "I wonder how long I'm going to have to do this for," you say. "Be treated like a child." You pause and make eye contact with Seungmin, gently smiling. "No offense, I appreciate everything you're doing for me."

"None taken, I understand these circumstances are far from ideal. However, one should also consider that the day you no longer have to do this could very well be the day that you are dead. So, let's try to maintain something of a positive outlook, as far as what we're given is concerned."

"Hey, for all we know, there's information in Krynnor," Felix says with a happy shrug. "That's what we're going out there for anyway, isn't it? Information."

A jab from Jisung quickly finds Felix's ribs, as well as Seungmin's disapproving glare in a way that you've not quite seen from him before. You don't understand the nuance of what has been said, though you can read the room enough to know that it shouldn't have been—not with you around—and rather than poking further, you let it roll off your back in a silent acknowledgement… stowed away for later retrieval, if all goes well.

"Anyway, where are these guys?" Jisung says, craning his head to peer down the different walkways in hopes of finding someone.

"Don't rush us!"

Before Jisung has the opportunity to look down the aisle behind him, three more men appear from just around the corner. He jumps nearly out of his skin, a yelp that you're sure will be heard for miles—soundproofing be damned—but it does pull a laugh out of you, which is the important part, really.

By now you recognize the entirety of the crew enough to place familiarity, though you have not yet had the chance to formally meet them all. In fact, Jeongin is the only member of this group that you do know well enough to have met by name. More pressing than that fact, however, is the fact that one of the other two very much leaves an impression on you that you can't quite shake off.

That you have seen him somewhere before. Not from the bridge, not from dinner or passing amongst each other in the halls. No, you have had some sort of interaction with this man that has nestled itself inside of your memory. What that is… you can't quite place just yet.

One thing you have come to realize is that the majority of this crew is made up of vertically unimpressive men. A fact of the matter, rather than a slight against them, but this one in particular strikes you as interesting on account of not only that, but the work he has clearly put into maintaining a strong and incredibly sturdy physique.

Then, he holds a hand out towards you.

"We've not met officially yet. Seo Changbin. I guess everybody around here sort of has their special little job, huh? So, it's only natural that I tell you mine, get that out of the way from the start. If you need weapons of any kind; new, old, repairs, something you dreamt about that might not even exist yet… You come to me, you hear me? I'm the guy that's gonna make it happen!" He thumbs at himself with a big, proud smile, then goes on to say, "Oh, also any cybernetics stuff. Tech mostly but I also dabble into the physiological stuff a bit since Seungmin is all organic materials. Basically I'm saying if you get an arm blown off we might be able to do something about it, which is pretty cool."

"We've not yet had to do that," Seungmin adds with a sigh, "So our experience is, you could say, incredibly limited. But in theory, sure."

"He's very humble." Changbin shakes his head. "I'm not."

"That's very impressive, and good to have around in case of emergency," you say, genuinely both impressed and intrigued by the concept. "I've heard of cybernetic replacement in some of the larger metropolis cities like the Biodome, but never actually met anyone knowledgeable enough to actually be able to do it."

Leaning himself against the wall beside Jisung, Changbin crosses his arms and continues looking incredibly smug. "Well, can't say I'm looking forward to the day I get to test some theories out… but, ya know."

"Truly a scientist."

"A mad scientist," Seungmin says.

The conversation comes to a natural conclusion, but rather than go back to minding your own business or mingling with the people you have grown the most rapport with, your curiosity has your eyes slowly lifting to the man that is left with no formal introduction, but whose name you already know.

He is tall, much taller than what you have grown accustomed to aboard this ship, and stunning in ways that you can't quite put words to. His body appears to be rather lithe beneath the fabric of his uniform based on the comparison you make between the rest of them, and his hair is cropped shockingly short—clearly in the early stages of growing out from being completely buzzed off not so long ago.

Before you have the chance to look away, his eyes find yours. Unsure of what awaits you, your muscles tense for what you think is soon to be an altercation of some kind. You don't have a lot of information about anything going on here, but you do have enough to know that this man and Minho are deeply close in link.

Then, he smiles.

"Hyunjin," he says rather softly, "Things have been busy around here lately so I haven't had the opportunity to meet you properly. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, it's been something of a mess, for sure." Your voice shakes a little, incredibly unlike you, but the residual fear of a dispute that has not yet come still lingers in your bones. "It's not your fault, I mean, I could have introduced myself, too. But you know… I just didn't know if it was…"

Too much has been said already, the elephant in the room now fully acknowledged despite not being named. If you could kick yourself without being seen you most certainly would do so, instead, you have no other option than to play it cool and pretend nothing completely unwise has been said.

However, Hyunjin laughs a bit in the aftermath of it all, and your eyes widen at the sound of it. His head drops and then shakes a little as he looks down at the ground, then, he turns upwards again to see you.

"I know, didn't know if you were allowed. Probably for the best, if I'm honest with you. You don't want to step on any more toes than you already have. Especially when the toes in question feel continuously and repeatedly trampled on."

"Is it a good idea for us to even be having this conversation now?" you joke. Somewhat.

"Minho isn't my keeper, he doesn't get to decide who I can and can't talk to. It's not like that," Hyunjin says. "He's combative and aggressive and has a wicked violent streak for sure, but he isn't someone who controls me, makes decisions for me. Our history is a bit… It's complicated, as I'm sure you've gathered. We're close, he's just trying to keep me safe."

"He's got a funny way of showing it," you say, scoffing. "Last guy I liked, I just told him to get home safe every night, I wasn't trying to kill everyone who ended up in the same room as him."

He smiles. "Like I said, it's a bit complicated, unfortunately."

The doors to the bridge slide open, and the collection of you outside turn to look inside. Standing at the far end and in front of the control deck is precisely who you expect to see: Chan, arms crossed but with a small smile curled into one corner of his lips.

And right beside him, his lieutenant. No such smile to be seen.

Adala lands at the Krynnor docking station, but your immediate impression of the city is not at all what you feel you have been prepared for.

The buildings are not especially tall, and the heavy, looming clouds of gray cast a shadow across the city. They block the light of the sun from ever meeting the cold, wet cement of a place that has evidently long since been left to be forgotten—yet people still live here. People always find a way to live.

Those people, assumed to be Krynnor natives, greet you and Chan's crew as the group of you step onto the initial platform. Their uniforms are simple and heavily worn through the years even at a glance, but their smiles never waver in spite of the hardship they have almost certainly faced.

"Welcome to Krynnor," a small, blonde woman says. A scar sits just above her eye and through the center of her eyebrow. No hair grows in that place any longer. "Is this your first visit? Is there anything we can assist you with?"

Chan brings a hand up and waves the offer away kindly. "No, no. Just here for a meeting with a friend. It's been a long time, I'll tell you. But I have a crew now since the last time we met, you know? Can't just leave them on the ship, yeah?"

The other woman smiles in response to that. Short, black hair that hugs the line of her jaw. Less friendly in general appearances compared to the other one. "Of course, a lovely opportunity to stretch your legs and enjoy the sights. Please do take care, and don't be afraid to return to us for any inquiries that you may have while you are here."

"Sure, I will."

After navigating the winding dock and finally stepping foot onto solid, Krynnor ground, Chan lags behind the group to stand nearest to you—already hanging out as the last to be in line.

"So, what do you reckon?"

You look at him, taking in the minute details of his face upon asking you such a question. It's not for nothing, he wouldn't ask for no reason, but you know perfectly well the sight of a test when you see one.

"The locals seem friendly enough," you start, "But I think it's for show. My guess is your initial read of this place is right on the money and word has gotten around more than they might like, so they're trying to clean house straight out of the gate to drop any defenses someone might have upon entry." Your eyebrows pop upwards for a second, as if the next thought you have is the most obvious one in the world and you say, "I hope I'm wrong, but I don't think I am."

"It's a criminal city through-and-through," he says, doubling down on his understanding of the place from that first meeting about it on the bridge. "Put some nice, pretty girls at the front and hope most of the guys coming into this place are too stupid to see past it. It's not a bad plan, given the usual type of folks that come around."

"But you're immune, I suppose."

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. "Not immune, but I'm here for something a bit more important than the company of women, respectfully."

"And do I get to know why it is that we're here?" you ask, before quickly rearranging the thought and resubmitting it as, "Do I get to know why I'm here?"

"I told you why you're here," Chan says, another thing that is apparently so obvious, based on the tone of his voice. "We might need the extra hands, especially hands as useful as yours. As for me…"

His words trail off into nothing, and though the two of you continue walking in a few moments of silence, you take the opportunity to look around you.

Run down buildings, broken concrete walkways and gutters that have been so neglected the trash that clogs them might be a hopeless endeavor if one were to attempt to clean them out. Krynnor has nothing to offer at a glance, which means the sort of scum that spends its time here is the kind that knows information not commonly found through simpler, more pleasant pathways.

He sighs, and the torment that rests behind it is clear. You know already that whatever he may say is only a fraction of what will be left unspoken. Everyone has damage, especially out here.

"Let me at least get a drink in my hand before we dive into that. Besides, I have the feeling being seen without the company of a woman around these parts is enough to raise a suspicious red flag all by itself."

Minho leads the charge at the head of the group, through unmarked streets and past numerous city-dwellers with something to either sell, or request. You know the plan well, having already been briefed back on the ship, so once he gives the signal and the short alley comes to an end, the crew begins to split off into their assigned groups.

Though still quite a distance away from the destination, there is no difficulty in spotting it from where you and Chan stand. The building is not much taller than those around it, but it is longer and clearly holds much more space inside. A bright, glowing sign hangs over the doorway, blood red and ominous, feeling less like an invitation and more like a warning.

Felix, Jeongin and Jisung go first. You do your best to keep an eye on them as they weave through the small crowd of people littering the outside area of the establishment, but eventually, they disappear inside.

Next up: Chan and yourself.

He nudges you lightly, as if alerting you of the fact, but you're well aware of it without the reminder. You've embarked on missions similar to this one more times than you can keep count of, so the anxiety that you're feeling in relation to it all seems somewhat unwarranted. Perhaps it is your declining health, or being in a place that you are not at all familiar with. Far from home, far from the safety of things that you know and understand. Very near to people—even on your own side—that couldn't care less if you make it out of this dead or alive.

At the very least, you have Chan.

Changbin, Seungmin, Hyunjin and Minho are left to the tail end of entry. Suppose there is a method to Chan's reasoning as far as that is concerned. Send the hot-heads inside ahead of the rest so that they can set up shop in the event that things turn, and already have their footing to light the place up if anything goes awry.

The two of you walk towards the entrance, and you do your best to ignore the eyes that follow. Whether it be a general curiosity or the fact that the two of you clearly don't belong here, you can't be sure, but it becomes all the more reason to make this trip as quick as feasibly possible.

At the door, a large, burly man dressed in dark red stands beneath the vermillion hue. His arms are crossed and he does nothing more than stare at the both of you upon your approach, entirely unmoved by your being there.

"Say," Chan begins, leaning towards the man with a wry grin on his face. "You wouldn't happen to have a place I can take my… guest, would you? You know, something real nice, real special."

It's a façade, that much you know, but that knowledge does little to stave off the eerie creep that stretches across your skin.

However, the man nods once, moves aside, and grants entry without a hitch.

Entering into the first, small room—all black walls and red lights—you look at the coats that hang on the racks and sigh in relief at the fact that the two of you have made it inside. How the first three made it, you can't begin to fathom, or maybe the man at the door is another thing just for show here, too.

Another sign catches your eye then, this one far less boisterous than the one on the outside. It shows the silhouette of a person with horns atop their head, and a large, red X plastered over them.

You can't help but reel at the sight, because you've heard of this before but rarely ever seen it for your very own eyes.

Nudging Chan, you nod towards it and say, "No levva?"

"Old fashioned sort of place, I see." His words are calm, but there is a distinct change in his demeanor that you cannot write off as anything other than pertinent. Still, he shakes it off quickly and begins to move towards the rest of the club. "Let's find a spot near the doorway, for now."

Though the place is far from empty, it doesn't appear to be an especially bustling evening, either. There are plenty of people littered around the bars or close to the staircase, but only a few of the tables are occupied, and Chan picks the one nearest to the entrance but tucked into the corner to set up shop for the night.

Drinks come quickly, as do some small food items that appear to come along with the order. The sign sticks in your mind, however, and you find yourself unable to let the topic fall to the wayside.

"It's a little strange, isn't it? No levva, I mean, how many could they possibly be coming into contact here to require that?"

"Some cities are still stuck in their ways from times long since passed," he reasons, "And quite frankly, this seems like just the kind of place based on what I've seen already."

"Some people have automatic guns fastened into the socket where their organic arm used to be, and these people are worried about a group of people that's thought to be nearly exinct—if not fully extinct."

Smiling slightly, Chan takes a sip of his drink. "You see a guy with a gun for an arm and you know exactly what to expect out of him. Never really know what you're in for with levva, do you?" Another sip. "And they're not extinct, but uncommon, yes. You're not going to have your drink?"

"You'll have to forgive me for not rushing to the occasion. Given last time."

Mouthing an ah, Chan seems to quickly recall the reasons for your disinterest and drops the subject completely. "Doubt we'll be here long, we're not that early."

"Are you meeting someone?"

"Yes."

"That seems… unwise."

You feel the tension of familiarity from behind you, and watch Chan as he looks past you towards the door. Experience tells you not to turn and make your curiosity evident, as his calm reaction to what he has seen is everything you really need to know.

The rest of the crew have arrived.

Slumping back into the booth, Chan sighs and shrugs simultaneously. It would appear that this criticism is one he has heard many times before.

"Don't really have a choice. If I want information—and I do—then I have to go to the people who have it, and unfortunately for me, Krynnor is the place for people with the kind of information that I need."

"Is this in relation to—"

"Yes," he says, interrupting your question. Chan takes his glass into hand once again, has a long, thorough sip from the rim, and seemingly resigns himself to a conversation that he would rather not be having.

"Are you familiar with Aara?"

"Sure, it's that quarantined city past the Deadlands, not too far off from Thaleth."

"Right." Setting his glass down, Chan draws a circle into the table with his finger around it. "The Deadlands weren't always dead, it's just that all this ground around Aara is now also considered to be uninhabitable, the infection wiped it out."

"Yeah, but what's this got to do with you?"

Chan moves his finger and presses it down into the bottom of the shallow glass. He says, "Aara is my home. That's where I'm from."

You look at him for a moment in silence, then at the glass, and then back to him. "Okay, but you can't go there anymore. That's tragic and all but hardly an unheard of story these days. I think you could go to any city and throw a rock—probably hit somebody that's been displaced from somewhere."

"Are you from Nuvia?"

"Yeah, been there all my life except for a short stint I did in the Biodome for specialized training." Finally, you nod a bit and relent to the idea behind the question. "I know, I don't get it, probably never will since it looks like my days are numbered anyway. All I'm saying is… I mean, what are you going to do, realistically? We all know that place is desolate and probably barren by now, too. Even if you went back… the infection is probably still dormant there. Waiting for something to liven things up a bit. What's the plan of action, you know?"

"You've really got a way with comforting words," Chan says through a lighthearted chuckle, "But there is a plan, once I have enough information to actually move forward with it." His attention darts upwards as a slender, cloaked man appears just to your side, but before you have the opportunity to react, a white hand slips out from one of the long sleeves, slides a folded piece of paper across the table, and disappears into the darkness of the room.

"Okay. What the fuck was that?"

"My order just arrived," Chan says with a bitten back glee. He takes the paper into hand, unfolds it to read whatever is written on it, and then folds it a few more times so that it can fit into the front pocket of his pants. "Great news."

"And what's that?"

"Looks like we're moving forward, after all. Now, let's go find the kids."

Towards the back of the building, another hallway rests behind dark, velvet curtains. Another large man stands in front, and once again you know to assume your role.

Walking up to the man, you lean yourself closer to Chan, wrapping your arm around one of his own with a big, sultry smile on your face and a bit of a faux-drunken wobble to your step.

"Heard we can get a bit of privacy back there," Chan says. "I think the girl needs to lie down for a bit."

The man looks down at you with a similarly unmoving expression as the one from before. You wave at him with your free hand, pretending to stumble despite no longer walking. Really selling the part of precisely the kind of woman the men who come here like to have around.

"First fifteen is free, but after that, it's gonna cost ya," he says. "A lot."

But before Chan has the opportunity to respond, a familiar face bursts through from the other side of the closed off curtains.

Changbin throws his arms wide—not unlike the grin upon his face—and rushes towards Chan.

"It's about time you came, really taking your time with this one, aren't you? Don't want to have a rerun of the last… engagement, we had, do you?"

He turns to look at the bouncer, as if the man standing there is supposed to know what it is that he's referring to. As if everyone in current company knows the story.

"This guy… A bit of a sap, I'll tell you. I bring girls around and next thing you know, he's thinking this is his next wife. Wife number five. I keep telling him it's just for fun, can't turn 'em into housewives, you know? Some guys never learn, I guess. He means well. Too well. Oh well, what can you do?"

You want to laugh, but know it's in your best interest to very much not.

"Anyway! Let's bring him on back so he can make his next mistake. It's on me tonight, I'm funding the whole brigade back here!"

Changbin drags the both of you through the curtain without so much as an OK from the guy he has been having a one-sided conversation with, and somehow, it works.

Once the three of you get far enough away, Changbin's character falls away and he flatly says, "I think we have a problem."

Chan reels at that information, perhaps feeling the same whiplash of circumstances that you are. "A problem? How? What could possibly be happening now?"

You pry yourself away from Chan, but realize that your footing on the ground isn't as strong as it should be. You haven't had anything to drink, acting drunk meant to be nothing more than a means for keeping the attention off of you, but now you are finding it difficult to maintain a clear line of sight, and just like that the reminder comes crashing back to you.

"Fuck," you whisper aloud, though both of them hear it and look towards you, "I forgot. I have to…"

You dig through your pockets quickly in an attempt to find the bottle that Seungmin had given you earlier. The sound of what can only be described as a scuffle between bodies is heard from inside one of the nearby rooms, and you know that you don't have the necessary time to deal with all of this at once. Not right now.

"One of the girls, I think she's dirty," Changbin says as the three of you rush towards the place where the commotion is coming from. "I didn't want to barge in without confirmation, but I heard something about money, and it didn't sound like it was in exchange for services."

"Who's in there with her?" Chan asks.

You finally locate the glass bottle, pry to top off, and as you down it all in one swig Changbin looks back at Chan with a grave expression and says, "Hyunjin."

Reaching the door to the private suite, Chan and Changbin pull their guns and settle themselves on each side of the door. Chan knocks twice, waits a brief moment, and then says, "Security! Everything all right in here?"

No reply comes for a while. Too long of a while, but it's the least of your concerns with how drastically your health is waning. You can't help but wonder if you waited too long, perhaps allowed the veskaris to flow through your veins too much for Seungmin's concoction to lend you any further help. An outcome that you don't have the time nor comfort to consider, because just as the strength of your right leg attempts to give out from beneath you, a woman's voice sounds off from the other side of the door.

But not Hyunjin's.

"Everything is fine," she says, tone light and charming. Forced, to your incredibly trained ear. Chan looks back towards you, noticing your dwindling strength, and appears incredibly torn on which problem he is meant to tend to as of now. "My partner, he's just a little tired. What can I say, a job well done if you ask me!"

A simple reply, and all it takes for Chan to make his choice. He turns, takes a step back from the door, and then immediately kicks it down with his gun drawn towards the inside.

Changbin follows immediately after, and you don't know if it's best for you to follow or hang back. You could not possibly be of any use like this—perhaps you should try to fight through it, try to be the person that Chan trusted with this mission—but your lack of foresight has landed you in this incredibly unfortunate predicament.

Catching sight of the inside of the room, the woman jumps backwards with a knife in hand; Hyunjin cuffed and shoved into the corner with his mouth taped over.

"Step back!" Changbin demands, "Put the knife down!"

Once appearing frightened, the woman's face washes clean of the ruse and is replaced with a look of repulsion. "What are you, the cops? Ain't none of those left in Krynnor so you gotta be somethin' else."

"Yeah, something else," Changbin says, gun pointed straight at her as Chan tends to Hyunjin. "You picked the wrong guy, unfortunately for you."

"I wasn't gonna kill him, if that's what you're so worried about," she says, flattening her free hand down over her short, black dress. "I wanted his money, and I got it. If that's gonna be a problem for y'all then I hope you got more where that came from."

Before you have the chance to see it coming, a strong hand grabs you by the arm and forces you into the very same room. Lacking the strength to find your footing, you stumble and fall onto the small, plush couch positioned in the middle of the room.

She looks down at you and makes a disappointed face. "Yeah, you're gonna need more than that."

"That's okay," an additional voice says. You turn your head towards the entrance to find what you can only assume is the rest of the crew, but positionally, Felix stands in the doorway with an explosive of some kind clutched into his palm and Jeongin with the tip of his gun digging right into the temple of the man who only just brought you in here. "They got more."

But much to your surprise, the woman laughs. Eyes rolling and arms crossing over her chest as if only mildly perturbed by the way all of this is going for her. Amused, even—the demeanor of someone in not as dire a situation as the circumstances might lead one to believe.

You know there are more coming.

"We have to get out of here," you say, weak. "Now."

Chan asks Hyunjin if he is hurt, if he can walk, and Hyunjin gives the signal that he's perfectly well to make it out of this. From behind the crowd in the doorway, Jisung makes a sharp, high-pitched sound as if startled, and then immediately says to the rest of you, "We got more coming! We gotta get out of here."

"Move!" Watching bodies be shoved away from the door, Minho bullies his way into the room and beelines straight for Chan and Hyunjin. "You're okay?" he asks, and when Hyunjin nods, Minho turns towards the woman and places his gun straight at the center of her forehead.

"I'll blow your brains all over this room and let your lackeys clean up the mess, if they survive getting through us to do so, that is."

She chuckles again. "Oh, you think I'm the ringleader in this whole endeavor? Go ahead, there's a thousand other whores where I came from, darling."

Minho walks forward, closing the space between their bodies and pushing the tip of his gun just that much harder into her head, so much so that she cannot help but falter beneath the pressure and hiss at the feeling of metal digging into her skin.

"I don't care who the ringleader is, you're the one who's here now, and that's plenty good enough for me."

"Either pull the trigger or don't but we have to go!" Changbin yells, and though it appears to take a moment for the words to register in Minho's mind, he slowly pulls away and makes space between them once more.

"Too late," Jeongin says. You hear a sound that you've heard before—timed mini-bomb activating—then the subsequent smaller beeps of the ticks before it detonates.

"Minho," Chan says quietly, words that are supposed to be meant only for them but within the closed space, it's an impossibility. "You have to. There's no other way."

The lieutenant's face twists into something ugly, something offended by the mere implication of whatever Chan has just said to him. He says, "Are you out of your mind? Not a chance!"

"We don't know how many of them there are, she's down for the count, we can't get everyone out like this!"

The bomb explodes and the walls shake, small pieces from the ceiling coming dislodged and cascading down around you. Following that, a cacophony of gunfire from down the hall.

You try to gain your bearings, willing the mixture to work faster against the veskaris as it wreaks havoc on your body. Though your vision is becoming more steady, your muscles are still weak as you bring yourself back up to a standing position. You don't want Chan to be right, you don't want to put Minho in a position to do whatever it is that he clearly does not want to do—not for you, not like this.

"Just—" Minho looks towards you, and you know exactly what it is that he wants to say. Leave her, words that are written all over his face and intensified by the snarl curled into his lips. "What, is that an order?"

"You know I would never order this from you," Chan reasons, calm and understanding.

Minho turns to face Hyunjin, almost as if deferring to him. The two do not speak for what feels like an eternity, all of their communication done silently and without a single word said aloud.

But the look that Hyunjin gives is not the answer that Minho is seeking.

"Fuck," he breathes out. His eyes close, head dropping forward, defeated. When it comes back up, his eyes are open once again. He turns towards the woman as if contemplating killing her all over again if for no other reason than a misplaced belief that it will rid him of entangled feelings. Ultimately, he does no such thing.

Your surroundings begin to bend and reshape, the walls and furniture melting into the floor and eventually, into nothing entirely. Darkness envelops everything except for the bodies of the people that you have gone into the disastrous endeavor with.

The silence is impossibly loud and utterly empty simultaneously, your form feeling as though you exist everything and nowhere all at once. It's overwhelming to try to make sense of—especially in your condition—and the viciousness of the veskaris briefly seems to take hold of your consciousness once more.

With heavy eyelids, you begin to succumb to the sleep that is demanded of you, and right before you close your eyes you catch the sight of that distinct, greenish hue blossoming at the top of the heads of both.

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malunar28replies · 2 days ago

Text

CLOSER.

CHAPTER TWO

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

CLOSER MASTERLIST

Synopsis: Detective Christopher Bang has finally found peace—with a new life, a new love, and a past he’s sworn to forget. But when a jewel thief thought to be long gone resurfaces, leaving behind a familiar trail of silver, the lines between his obsession and his desire begin to blur. And the more he discovers, the harder it gets to tell who's really playing the game.

Author's note: Since this fic is not doing well (😂) I'll just continue it on my Patreon but let me know what you think.

The file’s open and so is the case board.

Chris stares at the printouts in front of him, the crime scene photos from MESA gallery laid out in perfect symmetry. The glittering trace of silver dust sits dead center—zoomed in, highlighted, enhanced, but none of it tells him what he needs to know.

Is it Silvene? Or is it someone pretending to be?

He leans back in his chair, arms folded, eyes dragging across the whiteboard filled with strings and names and arrows pointing nowhere. The hum of the precinct buzzes in the background, a static noise he’s learned to block out. It’s just him and the pieces Silvene left behind.

A few more hours, maybe a day until the lab result is out and he’ll know if the silver dust from the glass casing matches the samples from Silvene’s old hits.

However, Chris still doesn’t know which answer he wants more. If it’s not her, then it means someone’s copying her. Someone arrogant or foolish enough to mimic her modus operandi.

And if it is her…

He runs a hand through his hair as he thinks of the possibility. If it’s her, then she’s been here all along. Watching, waiting, picking her moment like a cat watching mice grow comfortable and it’s only about time until she pounces on him.

It’s been nearly a year of silence, of cold trails and unanswered questions, of sleepless nights wondering how a ghost could vanish without leaving a single trace. Now, as he flips through the evidence again, slower this time. Same M.O, same precision, same arrogance, but something about this one feels… deliberate. A tease, a new game.

Chris clenches his jaw, he picks up the silver-laced photo and stares at it again until it blurs. His head hurts. His eyes ache, but he can’t look away. No. not yet.

***

The apartment is small but it feels big when you’re alone.

You glance at the clock again and then at your phone. As expected, there’s still no reply.

Chris had missed dinner more than a dozen of times before but each time, he’d leave a text telling you that he couldn’t make it or he had dinner plans with colleagues or friends. And you hadn’t really expected him to make it home in time either, not with his job or the way he’s been lately, but still… you had hoped.

You pull your legs to your chest on the sofa, blanket pooled around you. Your phone rests on the cushion beside you and you check it again anyway, just in case you somehow missed a buzz or a chime or something when you were too deep in your head.

Nothing.

You know in his line of job, things can get dangerous and that he doesn’t always have time to answer, but the not knowing… the silence—it gnaws at you. You bite your bottom lip, squeezing at the edge of the cushion and try not to spiral.

You pick up the phone again, your thumb hovering over his name. Needing to hear his voice, needing to know that he’s okay. As you’re about to press call, the faint chime of the elevator echoes from the hallway.

Please let it be him. You quietly murmur as you wait for footsteps coming your way and not long after, you hear the sound of a key turning in the lock.

You jump to your feet, heartbeat skipping. You’re already halfway to the door when it opens—and there he is. You breathe out a shaky little laugh and give him your brightest smile, voice soft and full of quiet relief. “Welcome home, baby.”

His smile is automatic, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s thin, faint and stretched tight with something you can’t quite put your finger on—but it’s there. You know him too well not to notice.

Still, you step into him, arms wrapping around his frame as you press a gentle kiss to his lips. “Hey,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I missed you.”

His answer comes low, almost mumbled. “Missed you too.”

It sounds like a rehearsed line, a reflex. Something he knows he’s supposed to say, not something he feels. You study his face for another second and notice the way his shoulders sit a little heavier than usual, the way his eyes don’t linger on yours. You get the urge to ask, but something in you tells you not to push. Not yet.

“Are you hungry?” you ask instead. “I can make something up for you.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not hungry, no.”

You nod, trying not to let the quiet ache in your chest show on your face. “Okay.”

He leans down, presses a quick kiss to your temple. “I’m gonna put my stuff away.”

“Okay, baby,” you softly answer as you let him go.

You watch him disappear into the bedroom and soon, you hear the familiar sound of his badge and holster being placed on the dresser. But you just stand there, wondering why it still feels wrong?

After a while, you walk toward the bedroom and linger by the doorway as you watch him moves around the room, putting things away and then taking pieces of his clothing off one by one, precisely, methodically. He’s there but he’s merely a vessel and that’s when you know what’s wrong. Chris is here, but not here.

A plan is set in motion as Chris is in the shower.

You dim the lights until the room is bathed in soft golden shadows. A single candle flickers on the nightstand, its warm, floral scent blooming in the air. The sheets are turned down, the pillows fluffed. Everything is set for calm, for comfort.

For the final touch, you change into a silk night dress and perch yourself on the bed, legs folded under you as you wait. While you’re busy making your hair falls perfectly down your shoulder, the bathroom door creaks open.

Chris steps out, his curls are damp and tousled, his pale skin flushed from the shower. His dark boxers sit low on his hips and you catch a bead of water rolling down the outline of his abs, the sight drawing your eyes for just a second too long. When he sees you and the glow of the room you’ve created, his brows rise in faint surprise.

“What’s going on?” He asks, the smile that spreads across his lips is softer this time. More genuine.

The shower seems to help shedding a layer of exhaustion off him already. You brightly smile back at him and pat the mattress beside you. “Come here,” you say gently.

He quirks a brow, something playful dancing in his eyes and without words, he obeys, sinking onto the edge of the bed, back straight, legs parted. You move behind him, kneeling, your hands finding his broad shoulders before your arms wrap around his torso. You draw him close to your chest, holding him there, just breathing with him for a beat.

“Just sit back and relax,” you softly murmur close to his ear and then come the kisses.

You place slow, soft kisses down his warm skin. One pressed to the slope of his shoulder, another to the warm skin of his neck and then his jaw next. You feel him exhale beneath your mouth, and when you tilt his face slightly toward you, he lets you take his lips too. A gentle kiss, but he lingers in it.

“What do you have in mind, mmh?” he murmurs, lips ghosting against yours, voice dipped in mischief.

You rest your cheek against his. “You seem tired,” you whisper. “So… I’ll try to help you relax.”

That earns you a perk of his brow and a low hum. There's a spark behind his eyes now—a glint you know all too well. You let his imagination run free for a second as you crawl off the bed, letting him watch as your nightdress hitching just high enough to reveal the edge of your black underwear. You hear his breath catch ever so slightly and you take your time to get the bottle of massage oil on the nightstand.

As you turn back toward him, your voice feather-light as you ask, “Would you like a massage?”

Chris lets out a slow sigh, almost like he’s disappointed, and his smile curves into something teasing, but his eyes—his eyes stay locked on you.

“Yes,” he says, voice low and amused. “I’d love a massage.”

Bringing the massage oil with you, you settle yourself behind him, your knees bracketing his hips as you uncork the massage oil. The scent of lavender mingles with the candle’s vanilla warmth, thickening the air with something soft and sweet, something indulgent. You pour a small amount into your palms and warm it with a slow rub between your hands. Then, gently, you press your palms to Chris’s bare shoulders.

He’s warm under your touch. The muscles beneath your fingers are tight, coiled with tension. You start slow, lathering his skin in broad strokes, letting the oil glide over him before you begin to knead with your thumbs pressing into the hard knots that have built up under his skin.

“You’re so tense, baby…” you murmur, voice sultry as it grazes the shell of his ear.

Chris only hums in response, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest as he bows his head slightly, giving you better access. You smile at the silent trust, the quiet surrender. Your fingers work with firm, practiced pressure, tracing the stress buried in his shoulders, down the line of his spine, and along the curve of his back. Each time he exhales, you feel the weight lift from him little by little, his body slowly melting into your touch.

He doesn’t need to use words because you can tell by the way his shoulders drop, by how he leans into you ever so slightly, that he’s letting himself go.

Once you’re satisfied with the tension you’ve released, you smooth your fingers into his hair, slicking them gently back as you start a slow, rhythmic massage on his scalp. Your nails drag lightly across his skin, and his breath catches again from ease, from comfort you’re bringing upon him. You smile to yourself as you lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head before slowly guiding his chin up with your fingertips.

“Hey,” you whisper, lips hovering just above his.

Chris opens his eyes, and that softness in his gaze is there, unguarded, unburdened. He’s slowly coming back to the man you know and endeared. You tilt your head and capture his mouth in an upside-down kiss, a soft press of lips that speaks of love more than anything else.

When you pull away, his eyes are still closed yet a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and in that moment, you know you’ve reached him.

Now that he’s relaxed, comfortable and safe. You gently pull him flush against you, your legs still bracket his sides as you nestle comfortably on the bed, arms looping around his torso. The smooth warmth of his skin contrasts with the cool air between your bodies, and you rest your chin gently on his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of his soap.

“How was your day?” you ask softly, voice barely louder than a whisper, as if anything louder might break the fragile peace between you.

Chris sighs—long and heavy, but not unhappy. He leans back into you slightly, letting his head tip to the side. “There was a robbery at the MESA gallery,” he murmurs, eyes fixed ahead, almost absentmindedly. “Same MO as someone I’ve been chasing for months. Could be them. Could be a copycat. Lab results haven’t come in yet.”

You say nothing, giving him space to let it out, your fingers tracing idle shapes over his chest. “And how do you feel about it?” you finally ask.

“Like they’re taunting me,” he admits after a beat. “Whoever it is… they know what they’re doing. And it’s like they’re daring me to catch them.”

You hum in acknowledgment, hugging him tighter, your lips brushing the curve of his shoulder as you press a soft kiss there. Then, you turn slightly and tuck your face close to his, fingers brushing gently through his hair. “You’ll get them,” you say with quiet conviction. “You always do.”

He scoffs lightly, but there’s affection in his breath, the edge of a smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

You press a kiss to his cheek before adding playfully, “And Detective Bang will save the world once again.”

A low, genuine chuckle spills out of his mouth and it warms your chest. It rumbles in his throat and you feel it through your arms, the sound grounding you both.

The laughter lingers for a moment until he catches your chin, turning your face toward his with gentle fingers. His eyes meet yours, warm and wanting, and then he leans in. His lips press against yours, a tender kiss born from gratitude and fondness. But it builds quickly, deepening with every brush and tilt of your mouths. His hand slides to the nape of your neck, keeping you there, while your fingers wander over his chest, then lower still, skimming the tight lines of his abs.

Your breathing grows shallow as the kiss consumes you both, tongues tangled in slow, intoxicating rhythm. You let your hand drift lower, dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, where you find his semi-hard in your palm and the warmth of his length sends a flicker of heat through your body.

You stroke his cock gently, teasingly, relishing the quiet, stuttering breath he exhales against your lips. Then you pull back just enough to whisper, voice sultry and soft. “Oh, baby…” your lips graze his as you speak, “you’re tense in here too.”

Chris groans softly at your words, and the sound alone tells you he’s yours—utterly, completely, right here in your hands.

“Let me take care of you, mmh?” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear as the words melt against his skin.

Without words, he sinks back into you, surrendering without resistance, his body relaxing between your arms. His hands find your thighs, fingers curling into the soft flesh like he’s trusting himself to you.

You shift slightly, your arms moving with practiced ease as you tug his boxers down just enough to free his hardening member out of its confine. He’s already firm in your palm, and you wrap your fingers around him again, drawing out a soft, broken sound from deep in his chest.

Your strokes are slow and measured. You want him to feel all of it. Every bit of tenderness, every ounce of care. Chris’s eyes flutter shut, lips parted, and his head tilts slightly back against your shoulder. You take the opportunity to press gentle kisses to his temple, the corner of his eye, the edge of his jaw.

“Look at you…” you murmur sweetly into his ear, the words warm and affectionate, “letting me take care of you.”

A kiss follows, right on his jawline, and he shudders beneath your mouth. Your other hand moves to brush the hair off his forehead, fingertips skimming down his cheek while your strokes grow more purposeful, steady and sure.

His breathing quickens. His grip on your thighs tightens, fingertips digging in, leaving crescent marks on the skin. His chest rises and falls, every breath heavier than the last.

“Does it feel good, baby?” you ask softly, your voice pure silk.

He tries to answer, but it comes out as a groan—a choked, helpless sound that tells you everything you need to know. You kiss his open mouth, catching the sound between your lips, swallowing it whole. He leans into you more, melting, unraveling beneath your hands.

You feel the change in his body—the subtle shift in tension, the twitch of his hips, the low whine that slips from his throat. You know he’s close.

“Are you going to come for me?” you whisper against his cheek, breath warm, words thick with affection.

“Yeah…” His answer is immediate, voice strained, needy. “Yeah.”

You smile against his skin, so full of love and pride in how he gives himself over to you completely. You kiss him again, slow yet deeper and then quicken your strokes, your hand moving fluidly over him.

With how fast you’re pumping his cock and the way he’s twitching in your palm, Chris breaks with a gasp, his release spilling over your hand, thick and warm. You don’t stop right away. You slow your movements, easing him through it, drawing every last flicker of pleasure from him until he collapses fully against you, chest heaving, body flushed a lovely red.

You cradle him gently, arms wrapped around his chest, your cheek resting against the side of his face. “You’re doing so well, baby,” you whisper, fingers stroking his chest in slow, soothing patterns.

Chris turns his head just enough to look at you with his eyes heavy-lidded but soft, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. He leans in slowly and kisses you, tender and grateful, and you hold him tighter. You kiss him back just as slowly, memorizing the feel of him, the weight of him in your arms, the way his body melts into yours like he belongs there. And maybe this is the only place he can really rest.

Your fingers trace idle patterns on his skin, your lips brushing against the side of his face, and as his breathing begins to even out, you feel his hand gently squeeze your thigh and, in that moment, as you hold him and his heartbeat slows under your touch, you tell yourself—

No matter how far his mind strays, you hope he always finds his way back to you.

The soft rustling pulls you out of sleep—fabric shifting, the faint clink of metal, the almost-silent zip of a jacket. Your lashes flutter as you force your eyes open, the bluish tint of early morning bleeding through the curtains. You blink a few times, trying to focus and Chris is standing there, already dressed, already moving. He's buckling his gun holster, jaw tight in the hush of dawn.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, voice thick with sleep as you call him. “Baby?”

He startles just a little before turning to face you, his expression softening with guilt. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You glance at the clock. 5:47 a.m. “…Why are you up this early?” you mumble, rubbing at your eyes.

Chris picks up his jacket. “Felix and I are going to check out the lab results for a case we’re working on.”

You try to keep your voice gentle, not accusing. “And you have to go now?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just slipping his arms into the sleeves and smoothing the jacket over his chest after. When he finally speaks, it’s low but firm. “Yes.”

The way he says it… there’s no room left for questions and you know better than to push. You just sit there, watching as he crosses the room, hand bracing on the mattress as he leans in to kiss you. It’s slow and lingering, like he wants to stay but knows he can’t.

When he pulls back, his fingers sweep your hair gently from your face. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers.

Before he can pull away again, your hand curls around the lapel of his jacket and tugs him in for one more peck. “Be careful, okay?” you whisper against his lips.

He manages a small smile and a kiss to your forehead. Then he straightens up, heading for the door. But then he stops by the doorway, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Get some more rest, baby.”

You nod, barely and watch him leave. Once you hear the front door click shut, you lie back against the pillow, staring at the spot he left behind—still warm, still faintly smelling like him—and you exhale slowly.

Somehow, with each passing day, it feels a little more like he’s slipping through your fingers and you don’t know how to hold on without making him feel trapped.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzes quietly in the background as Chris leans against the counter, a paper cup of vending machine coffee warming his hands, the bitterness already coating his tongue. Felix stands a few feet away, sipping his coffee slowly, quietly. They’ve been waiting almost half an hour for the tech to return with the lab results.

Neither of them speaks much—just the occasional sigh or glance toward the hallway until Felix breaks the silence with a question that Chris kind of expected but not yet has the answer to.

“What if it’s not Silvene?” he asks, voice casual but not careless.

Chris keeps his eyes on the cup in his hand. “Then we still have to catch whoever did it.”

Felix nods and hums, lifting his cup for another sip. “And if it is Silvene?”

That makes Chris pause. He stares into the dark swirl of his coffee, watching the liquid settle. His fingers tighten slightly around the cup. “…Then we have to catch her,” he says quietly. “No matter what.”

His answer hangs in the air between them, full and heavy because deep down, he knows it’s not just about the case anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time. Felix knows that too without him having to explain it.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor shatters the moment and then the lab door creaks open. A tired-looking forensic tech walks in, a manila folder in his hand and a clipboard tucked under his arm.

“You’ve got something?” Chris straightens, setting his cup aside. Felix perks up beside him.

The tech nods, flipping the folder open as he walks toward them. “Yeah. We ran a breakdown on the residue found at the gallery scene. Composition matches the same fine silver particulate we’ve seen before.”

Chris doesn’t even have to say it as he exchanges a glance with Felix. The ghost of the past is haunting him, yet again.

“Identical compound,” the tech confirms, holding out the file. “Same chemical signature. Same distribution pattern. Same rare trace of mercury vapor, too.”

Chris grabs the file, eyes scanning every line even though he knows what he’ll find. That exact same blend that is so carefully crafted it’s nearly impossible to replicate.

Felix leans in slightly. “Can we trace it?”

The tech shakes his head with a faint grimace. “Still untraceable. Whatever supplier they’re using, it’s underground. We can’t link it to any commercial vendors. It's practically a ghost material.”

Chris exhales through his nose, jaw flexing. His fingers linger on the edge of the folder a second too long. The room suddenly feels too small. Too quiet.

Felix lightly nudges him. “Chris?”

However, Chris isn’t listening anymore. Because something coils in his chest—tight and familiar. He thought he'd let it go. He thought he buried it the moment he chose peace over obsession, you over the hunt. But now? Now, he can feel it returning—sharp, hungry, and all-consuming.

Silvene. She's back. She’s here. And this time, he won’t let her disappear.

These past few days have gone pretty much like this. Chris, hunched over his desk, red-rimmed eyes fixed on the looping footage from the gallery’s security cams. He rewinds the same three-minute clip again. Then again and again. Hoping he catches something, a glimpse of the silver-dusted ghost as he tells himself that there's something here. He can feel it. Something he's missing.

He rubs his face with both hands, exhaling through gritted teeth as he still finds nothing apart from the clues that leads to nowhere.

He barely hears the footsteps behind him until Felix appears at his side, holding a thin case file and two cups of steaming coffee. He places one on Chris’s desk without a word, then glances at the screen.

“You’re still watching that?” Felix sighs as he sets the file down. “Chris, it’s been days.”

Chris doesn't take his eyes off the screen even though his eyes are dry and heavy. “There has to be something.”

“We’ve combed that footage six times. There's no new lead.”

Chris exhales sharply, frustration clawing at his chest. “It’s Silvene. And if she’s here, she’s planning something. I can feel it.”

“I get it,” Felix says evenly, sitting on the edge of the desk. “But obsessing over this is getting us nowhere. You’re chasing a shadow, man. Meanwhile, these—” He taps the stack of folders on Chris’s desk. “—are real cases. Real cases with actual leads. Witnesses. Evidence. We need to handle it.”

Chris doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers curl around the mouse again, ready to scrub through the footage one more time. However, Felix is quick to grab the computer mouse from his hand.

“We’ve got stacks of cases piling up, Chris. And I get it—you want to catch Silvene. So do I. But you haven’t slept properly in days, and you’re ignoring everything else. You’ve been stuck in the same loop and it’s starting to show.”

Chris leans back in his chair, the words sinking into his skin, heavier than he wants to admit. He only realizes it now how his desk is a mess—case files untouched, coffee cups stacked like monuments to his exhaustion. He's been here every night. Skipping meals. Sleeping an hour at best. Pacing the same mental track until it’s burned into his brain.

Felix leans forward, sitting in the interrogation chair across from him with arms folded in front of him. “Just go home, man,” His tone softens as he continues, “Have some homecooked meals. Rest. Your girlfriend must be missing you.”

His chest tightens at the mention of you. He hasn’t texted you back in hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually looked you in the eye, touched you with intention, asked about your day. Even your scent—something that used to cling to his skin—feels like it's fading from memory. It’s only hitting him now that he indeed has been ignoring everything, including you.

Chris swallows down the guilt and slowly gets to his feet, he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. “You’re right,” he mutters.

Felix looks up. “Wait—what?”

“I said you’re right.” Chris exhales through his nose. “I’ll go home.”

“Holy shit,” Felix smirks. “Write that down. Detective Bang said I was right.”

Chris offers a half-hearted glare as he pulls on his jacket. “Hey, don’t push it.”

But even as he steps out of the precinct, the weight of Silvene still lingers in his chest and the guilt that is pooling at the pit of his stomach, follows him all the way home.

The apartment is quiet and dark when Chris walks in, just the faint glow spilling from the ajar bedroom door, painting a slice of warm light across the floor. He toes off his shoes by the threshold and sets his keys down with care, as if any louder sound might break the fragile stillness of the home.

It’s well past midnight—and he knows you must be asleep. You always wait up, but maybe even you grew tired of that this time. He pushes the bedroom door open gently, his eyes immediately land on the bed. The sheets are rumpled, but empty.

His brows furrow in question as he glances toward the bathroom—door wide open, no light inside. No sound of running water. No steam curling from the edges.

You’re not here and a knot forms in his chest. Did you… leave?

God, it makes sense. He’s barely spoken to you all week. Hasn’t touched you. Hasn’t looked at you. He’s spent more nights at the precinct than in this bed. He sinks down on the edge of the mattress, the ache behind his eyes blooming now into something ugly: Regret.

But then he hears a soft clatter from another part of the apartment and he stands abruptly, following the faint sound with long, careful strides. It leads him to the laundry room, the door cracked open just enough for him to peek through and there you are, hunched over the washing machine, lid open, a jar of detergent in your hands. You’re in your sleep shirt, hair loosely tied up, the warm light above casting a golden hue across your face.

“Babe?” he says quietly.

You yelp, spinning around with your hand over your chest. “Goodness, Chris!” you gasp. “Why are you sneaking up on me like that?”

He flinches just the slightest. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You huff softly as you quickly screw the lid back onto the detergent jar and tuck it away. You’re turning to face him fully now, your brows raised in a mix of surprise and confusion.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he says, taking a step closer. “Why are you doing laundry?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you shrug, your voice quieter this time.

It hits him all over again. You couldn’t sleep, probably waiting for him to come home for hours, alone, in the dark and yet… you’re still here. Before you can say anything else, he crosses the room in a few strides and pulls you into him, arms circling tight around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

You freeze for a second, surprised by the intensity of it, but your hands slowly rise to hold him back—one over his shoulder, the other cradling the back of his head.

“Rough day, mmh?” you murmur against his hair.

He can’t even answer. He just nods, the motion small, his throat too full to speak. Because it’s more than just a rough day. It’s a crushing week. A storm in his mind that never stopped. And right now, wrapped up in you, it all begins to quiet.

This. This is what he’s been missing. Not the case. Not the chase. Not the twisted satisfaction of being one step closer. But this warmth. This softness. You.

Chris have his hands stacked on the dining table, watching you make a bowl of noodles for him. You move in silence. Not cold, not angry, just... quiet. And it’s that quiet that unsettles him the most.

Even now, as the two of you sit next to each other on the dining table with the bowl of noodles between you, shoulders nearly touching, it feels like there’s a thin, invisible wall between you, it’s not something he can break with words and he doesn’t know how to start either.

So he picks up his chopsticks instead and starts to eat, the broth still too hot, the first bite burning the roof of his mouth—but he barely feels it. He swallows, then clears his throat. “It’s really good,” he says, looking over at you.

You glance at him, smile faintly as you reach for the pitcher of water. “All I did was boil the noodles and add the sauce packets.”

It’s such a simple, matter-of-fact sentence but to him, it feels like more than that. It’s like you're saying: I'm still here. But I don’t know for how long.

Chris nods once, slowly, and the weight in his chest tightens. He sets his chopsticks down, wiping his hands on the edge of the napkin. “I’m sorry,” he finally speaks.

You don’t say anything but pour him a glass of water.

“This past week… I haven’t been myself. The case I’m working on…” He decides to spare you the details and continues, “Been trying to solve it every hour I get because I can’t stand the thought of the perpetrator slipping away again.”

Still, you don’t interrupt as you slide the glass of water across the table.

“It’s the job… It gets in the way.” He swallows. “Of everything. Of us. And I know it’s not fair. I know I haven’t been here, haven’t shown up the way I should.”

You finally look at him and your voice is soft, but sure as you say, “Chris, I don’t have a problem with your job. If I did, I wouldn’t have dated you in the first place. I know who you are. I know what you do. It’s not about that.”

You pause, and the way you say the next words makes his heart clench. “I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

Something in him cracks and without hesitation, he reaches across the table and takes your hand in his. “You didn’t. I’m still here.”

His thumb tenderly caressing the back of your hand and with a low, hoarse voice, he sadly adds, “If you’ll still have me.”

You don’t answer but you reach up, cupping his jaw with your free hand, your thumb brushing lightly against his cheek.

Chris closes his eyes, the warmth of your touch grounding him more than anything else has in days. His hand rises, placing itself gently over yours, keeping it there. Leaning you’re your touch. Holding on.

For a long, quiet moment, he just stays like that. Breathing, letting the noise in his head fade, replaced by this: a tender touch that wards all of his worries away.

When he opens his eyes again, he finds you already watching him and he smiles, softly and gratefully because despite everything he’s done, despite how close he came to letting it all slip through his fingers... You’re still here.

The sheets are warm and tangled around your legs. Your body fits perfectly against his like it always does, your hands are clawing at his back, your breasts squashed between the chests. Chris has you under him, hovering just slightly, placing featherlight kisses on your neck, earning soft and breathy giggles from you and the sound making something flutter in his chest.

He can’t help it. He keeps going, kissing down your throat, your collarbones, back to your neck. You twitch under him from how ticklish it is, and your laughter bubbles out freely. It makes him smile against your skin, and oh, how he missed this. This closeness. The feel of your body against him. You.

His lips roam with a hunger that’s soft at first but grows with each kiss. On your lips. Your neck. Your chest. Anywhere he can land his lips on. He lets his hands slide slowly down the curve of your side, finding the dip of your waist, the softness there beneath his fingers. He squeezes gently on the flesh, drawing a gasp from you, and it makes him grin.

God, he missed touching you. Feeling you laugh underneath him. Hearing your breath hitch from his touches. The tension builds between your bodies like something familiar but newly precious. The kiss turns heavier, wetter, sloppier in the best way. He groans softly into your mouth, already losing himself in the feeling of you.

But then, you gently press your palm against his chest, pushing him away. “Just know that you’re not getting any tonight,” you mutter lowly, voice still breathless.

Chris pulls back slightly, blinking at you, then pouts. “Not even a little?”

He kisses you again, small and repetitive pecks to your lips, trying to wear you down. You just smile and brush back the curls falling into his face.

Your eyes catch his in the dim light, and he swears he could drown in the softness he sees there. “You have to try a little harder for that, sir,” you tease, voice light, fingers raking through his hair.

Chris groans dramatically and drops his head onto your chest, nestling it right between your breasts. He mumbles something incoherent, and you laugh again while lovingly patting his head.

“And it’s getting late,” you add.

Before you can finish that thought, he mutters quickly, “Okay, but you can’t stop me from kissing these babies.”

You don’t even have time to react, he’s already planted one messy kiss on each breast, smug satisfaction in the way his lips curl against your skin. You don’t stop him. You just let out a soft, amused sound and say, “I’m serious. It’s getting late and I’m sleepy.”

Chris lifts his head to look at you. His hand reaches up, tracing the soft curve of your cheek, then the bridge of your nose, the gentle swipes his thumb over your lips and then he leans in, placing the softest of kiss, pure and chaste like a promise.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

“Goodnight,” you whisper back as he pulls away.

He rests his head on your chest again, arms around your waist, body tucked against yours and when he closes his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his ear… he knows he’s home.

You wake to the soft weight of his arm around your waist, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back. You turn your head slightly and smile when you find Chris is still asleep, lips softly parted in the gentlest pout, breathing slow and even with the faintest snore escaping now and then. His curls are an unruly mess, sticking out in every direction from where he’d buried himself against you last night.

The morning light filters in, pale and golden, casting a warm glow on his pale skin, on the curve of his jaw, on the plush of his lips, on the mouth that murmured "goodnight" against your lips just hours ago. He’s the most beautiful like this. Peaceful, still, unguarded.

Your fingers drift along his arm, tracing the evident veins on his skin, feeling the faint twitch of muscle beneath. You let yourself stay like this for a while—held in his arms, listening to the quiet of morning, and thinking about last night.

The way he looked at you when he said, "If you’ll still have me."

The vulnerability in his voice. The weight in his eyes. They linger in your chest like an echo. You reach up carefully, brushing your knuckles along his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and he leans into it ever so slightly, even in sleep. There’s something sacred about this—being the one who gets to see him like this. The man underneath the badge, beneath the tough exteriors, the quiet walls he builds around himself when the world gets too heavy.

Despite it all, you still want him. And deep down, beneath everything, you love him too.

No matter what comes. No matter what breaks or bends. You’ll be there. For him. With him.

Always.

The curls of steam escaping your cup of coffee as you’re half-focused on your laptop, the warm mug in your hand keeping your fingers toasty. You're scrolling through movie listings when you hear the soft creak of the bedroom door opening.

You turn in your seat with a smile already forming. “Morning,” you sweetly greet.

Chris grins back at you, his eyes squinting slightly from the brightness of the room, his curls a full mess and his voice raspy with sleep. “Morning,” he murmurs back.

He pads over to you without hesitation, wrapping his arms around your shoulders from behind, leaning down to place a kiss on the top of your head. You tilt your head to the side and he instantly finds your lips, kissing you softly, still warm from sleep. Then he drops into the chair next to you with a sleepy grunt, rubbing his face.

You reach out and run your fingers through his curls. “Anything you want for breakfast, mmh?”

He just blinks slowly, too drowsy to form words and you chuckle from how adorable he acts, brushing more of his hair back. “I’ll just get you your juice, okay?”

You get up, walk over to the kitchen, grab a glass from the cupboard, and fill it with orange juice before coming back to sit next to him again. You place the glass in front of him, and he mutters a quiet gratitude before taking a sip. As you go back to your laptop, checking showtimes for a film you’ve been meaning to see, you feel his gaze flicker to your screen.

“Are you planning on seeing a movie?” he asks between sips.

You act nonchalant even though you have planned this ahead. “Yeah, I kind of want to see this one. Maybe I’ll go later.”

He puts the glass down, squinting at you. “And who are you going with?”

You shrug with your eyes still on the screen. “Alone, I guess.”

He narrows his eyes and rests one arm on the back of your chair, leaning closer. “And you’re not going to ask your boyfriend to come with you?”

You shrug again and bite back a smile. “Nah, my boyfriend is busy saving the world.”

Chris breaks into soft laughter and wraps both arms around you from the side, pulling you closer into his warmth. “I’ll come with you,” he says against your shoulder. “And I’ll even try not to fall asleep this time.”

You turn to look at him, quirking a brow. “Well, don’t you have a jewel thief to chase?”

His smile falters just a little, but he sighs with dramatic flair. “Not anymore,” he says, kissing your cheek. Then he leans back and adds, “I’ll try to get off work early today.”

This time, you’re the one giving him suspicious eyes. “Huh? Really?”

He grins, undeterred, and kisses you again on the lips. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”

You pretend to think about it, tapping your chin, making him wait a beat too long. “Yeah, okay,” you finally say with a sly smile. “If you insist.”

He laughs, pulling you fully into his side. “Oh, I do insist.”

You look at him, that sleepy smile still on his face, the light in his eyes earnest, and you trust him. You believe him. Still, you can’t help but tease, leaning in closer as you murmur against his lips, “You’d better be there… if you want to get any tonight.”

The scent of hair products still cling to your hair as you unlock your apartment door and step inside. It’s been a while since you indulged in a bit of self-care, and the way your freshly done hair sways as you move makes you feel a little more like yourself again. You’re feeling good—better, even.

You place your bag down and head into the bedroom, walking over to your closet. Fingertips trail over hanged clothes until they stop at the dress, the one you’ve been saving for a special occasion, something simple but pretty. You take it off the hanger and lay it on the bed before slowly changing, slipping out of your house clothes and into the fabric like it's second skin.

As you adjust the hem and smooth your hands down the front, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and it hits you that you and Chris haven’t gone on a proper date in what feels like forever. Between his long work hours, the emotional tug-of-war over the cases, and the quiet tension that’s been living in your shared space lately, there hasn’t been room for soft things like movie nights or dressing up for no reason. But tonight? Tonight feels different.

Excitement starts bubbling in your chest as you reach for your jewelry, nothing too flashy, just delicate earrings and a necklace. You fasten it around your neck and reach for your phone to check the time, but you find a new message from Chris instead: About to wrap things up here. Can’t wait to sleep through the movie.

Your lips curl into a slow, content smile as you sink onto the edge of the bed. He remembered. He’s making time.

Maybe tonight, after everything, after the apologies and the missed dinners and the late nights where you fell asleep before he even made it home, maybe tonight is the night you and Chris can really be together again. Just the two of you, and a long overdue date that already feels like the beginning of something real again.

Chris’s boots slam against the uneven pavement as he barrels down the narrow alley, his lungs burn from how fast he’s running. The perp ahead of him—lanky, fast, fueled by desperation—dives toward a chain-link fence, crouching low to slip through a hole at the bottom.

Luckily, Chris is faster. He lunges forward, grabbing a handful of the guy’s hoodie and yanking him back just as he’s about to escape. The perp lets out a strangled noise as Chris slams him to the ground, concrete scraping against his palms and knees.

“Nice try,” Chris mutters, heart thudding as he wrestles the perp’s arm behind his back and locks one cuff in place.

The guy squirms, cursing under his breath, but Chris keeps him pinned. The second cuff clicks shut just as heavy footsteps echo down the alley behind him.

Felix comes a little too late, panting, eyes wide as he slows down and surveys the scene. “Shit—” he exhales, bending forward with his hands on his knees before straightening up again. “You good?”

Chris nods silently and hauls the guy to his feet, gripping the chain of the cuffs. “Got him just in time.”

Felix lets out a dry breath, still winded. “You really can’t let me win once, huh?”

Chris flashes him a quick smirk but says nothing, stepping aside as Felix grabs the perp by the arm and jerks him toward him.

“I’ll take him to the precinct,” Felix says, already starting to walk the perp back toward the car.

Back in the precinct, Chris types furiously at his keyboard, eyes scanning the screen as he logs the last bit of information from the arrest. His desk is cluttered—half-empty coffee cup, a pen that keeps rolling to the edge, and a growing stack of reports he plans to ignore for now. He’s focused at the task in hand as he has somewhere to be, someone to get to and he’s not going to be late.

“Jesus,” Felix mutters from somewhere behind him, “I’ve never seen you this passionate about paperwork.”

Chris chuckles but doesn’t look up as his fingers still busy typing. “I’m just getting the job done.”

Felix scoffs a laugh and then he leans close, he lowers his voice as he jokingly asks, “What, did you have a sniff of cocaine in the evidence room or something?”

Chris bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking as he leans back and swivels his chair toward Felix. “Tempting but nope.”

Felix smirks, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the edge of Chris’s desk. “So what’s the rush? Hot date with your reports?”

Chris grins. “I’m going to the movies.”

Felix raises a brow. “With your girlfriend?”

Chris nods, expecting another jab—some sarcastic remark or over-the-top reaction, but Felix just gives a small nod in return and stays quiet. He narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Wait—are you not going to tease me?”

Felix shrugs, almost too casual. “Do you want me to?”

Chris huffs out a dry laugh. “I mean, you usually go on and on about how I ditch work the second she texts me.”

“Yeah, well…” Felix gives him a look—pointed but not unkind. “It just means you’re back to your normal setting.”

Chris knows exactly what Felix means and he’s right. The past few days, he had been spiraling, sucked into the storm that is Silvene. But now? Now, he’s thinking about you in a movie theater, maybe dressed up, maybe laughing at something dumb on screen while holding his hand in the dark. He’s thinking about your warmth, your voice, your lips brushing against his cheek before a kiss.

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” Chris mutters, mostly to himself.

Felix pushes off the desk and starts walking away, but he throws one last thing over his shoulder. “Just don’t fall asleep halfway through the movie, Romeo.”

Chris snorts at that and mindlessly mutters, “No promises.”

Then he turns back to his screen, eager to finish his job as soon as possible because he has a date to make and this time, he’s not going to miss it.

Once he’s finished with all of his tasks, Chris steps into the elevator, the metallic doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss. He pulls out his phone and opens your chat, his thumbs flying over the screen as he types: Just getting off work now. I’ll be there in about half an hour.

He presses send with a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Finally. It’s going to be just the two of you, and whatever movie you’ve picked. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could drag him to the sappiest rom-com or some three-hour slow burn and he’d still be happy. As long as he gets to be with you.

The elevator dings at the lobby floor. Chris walks through the precinct with a lightness in his step that feels rare these days. He heads straight to the underground parking lot, already fishing through the pockets of his jacket. He stops mid-stride and pats himself down, once, twice. A groan escapes him when the realization hits.

“Shit. I left them on my desk,” he mutters to himself, running a hand through his curls in frustration.

He spins on his heel and heads back upstairs, taking another elevator ride that feels longer than the previous. When the doors slide open, he walks back into the bullpen and there they are, right where he left them: his car keys sitting neatly beside his keyboard.

He grabs them with a scoff and mutters to himself, “So much for smooth exits.”

However, when he turns around, his stops on his track as there, across from him, sits the security guard from the MESA gallery and right next to him, Felix, arms crossed, looking slightly surprised to see Chris standing there.

Chris takes slow steps toward Felix’s desk. “Hey, what… What’s going on?”

Felix looks like he’s got caught doing something he shouldn’t. He scratches the back of his neck as he answers, “Uh I- I didn’t think you were coming back.”

Felix’s answer doesn’t quite tell Chris what he wants to know, his eyes narrowed at Felix and then at the guard who looks fidgety on his seat, his eyes darting between the two detectives, hands clasped nervously on his lap.

Felix nods toward the guy. “He walked in twenty minutes ago. Said he didn’t tell us something the first time.”

Chris’s grip tightens around the keys in his hand and he can feel all of it—the date, the movie, you—slowly slipping through his fingers. And in return, something else creeps back in. Cold. Obsessive. Silver.

You’re just getting off a taxi when your phone buzzes in your purse, you pull it out to see a new message from Chris: Just getting off work now. I’ll be there in about half an hour.

You smile at the screen, heart skipping a little beat. You knew he’d come through. You trusted him, and you’re glad you did. Maybe tonight really will feel like old times—just you and him.

You arrive at the movie theater a little early, it’s buzzing with the low chatter of people gathering for their own nights out. You don’t even hesitate, you step up to the counter and buy two tickets.

As you walk toward the seating area, you send him another text: Movie starts at 7. Don’t be late, detective.

You imagine the little grin that might tug at his lips when he reads that, maybe even the quickening pace of his steps. You sit down in one of the sofa benches, your fingers curl around the paper tickets in your hand as you wait.

But later, when you check the time and it’s close to 7, you begin glancing at the entrance every few minutes. You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s probably on his way. Or he’s stuck in traffic.

The time shows 7:02 so you text him again just to make sure where he is and how close he is to arriving.

Where are you? Are you on your way?

After a moment, there’s no reply. You give him more time while convincing yourself that maybe he’s stuck in traffic. Maybe his phone died. Maybe… something.

You open the chat again, stare at the last thing he sent, and then back at the ticking time on your phone. 7:20 now. You try calling. One ring, two and it sends you right to voicemail.

You press your lips together, exhale slowly. It's fine. He'll call back any second. Right?

Another fifteen minutes. You check the entrance again. People pass by in couples, friends, families but no sight of Chris. You call again and still no answer.

That small spark of hope you’d been tending to all day? It flickers now, growing dimmer with every minute that slips away.

Soon, the theater grows quiet as the last crowd disappears into their screens. You’re still standing outside, your ticket crumpled slightly in your palm, your other hand tightening around your phone.

You collapse onto the bench, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. You waited. You really waited. You gave him the benefit of the doubt, even when your gut twisted in that all-too-familiar ache.

It’s 8:52 now and you Realize that he’s not coming. You tear the movie tickets into shreds, dumping it into the trash and with that, you walk away with an empty promise.

The second you step into the apartment, the quiet swallows you whole. You drop your keys on the counter a little too hard, the metallic clatter echoing across the empty space.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the faint reflection of yourself in the darkened window. The dress you picked out hours ago, the one you thought he’d notice, suddenly feels ridiculous. The hair you intentionally did at the salon, now a mess from walking in anger.

One by one, you strip them away. The earrings hit the coffee table with a sharp clink. The heels land somewhere by the couch. You peel off the dress like it’s burning your skin, tossing it in a heap on the floor. You don’t even care if it wrinkles.

By the time you’re in an old T-shirt and shorts, your heart is still hammering—not from sadness, but from the hot, pulsing anger that’s been simmering all night.

It’s nearly midnight now and Chris still hasn’t texted. No sorry, no I couldn’t make it, no I’m safe. Nothing. Not even the bare minimum. You pace the length of your bedroom before finally sitting on the bed, staring at your phone like you can will it to light up, but the screen stays stubbornly black.

Even as you lie down on bed and ready to end the day, sleep isn’t coming. You stare up at the ceiling in the dark, every tick of the clock grinding into you.

Chris has made mistakes before—he’s human. But never like this. Never one you couldn’t tolerate. He used to be the man who would fight to keep his promises, even if it meant crawling to you at the last minute. He used to try.

Something’s different now and you can feel it in the way he looks at you—less often, less certain. In the way his voice drifts away mid-conversation, his mind clearly somewhere else. Somewhere you can’t follow.

You’re afraid, afraid that whatever’s pulling him away isn’t just the job. Afraid that this shift in him means something bigger, something irreversible. You’re afraid the relationship is changing and it’s not for the better.

The security guard’s hands fidget on the table, his eyes darting between Chris and Felix like he’s not sure who to be more nervous about. He’s been keeping one important detail about that night because he’s afraid of losing his job and now, he’s being intensively interrogated by the two detectives.

Chris leans forward, voice steady. “Walk me through it again. Every minute.”

The man swallows as he tells him again. “Like I said… nothing unusual until about two-forty-five. Then the lights went out. Lasted maybe… ten minutes?”

Chris’s pen stops moving. “Ten minutes.”

Felix shifts in his seat, brow furrowed. “That’s barely enough time for her to get in, grab anything worth taking, and get out without getting caught.”

“It’s enough for her,” Chris says without hesitation. His mind is already playing the scene in flashes—silver dust catching faint light, a shadow moving silently in the dark. “This is her window. She planned that blackout.”

Felix still doesn’t look convinced, but Chris isn’t interested in convincing him right now. He’s already on his feet, snapping his notebook shut. “Get the power outage logs. I want every second accounted for.”

The rest of the night blurs into movement—tracking the path Silvene might’ve taken, reviewing surveillance for the moments before the blackout, searching for patterns no one else would see. The trail feels fresher than it has in months, close enough he can almost touch her.

However, somewhere between reviewing timestamps and taking notes, he glances at his phone. The notifications have stopped coming. Hours ago, it wouldn’t stop buzzing—missed calls, texts from you, he’s sure, but now… nothing. Just a silent, black screen.

For a brief moment, something twists in his chest. He thinks about how you waited for him and how you realized that he’s not coming. He pictures you alone in the dark of the apartment, wondering where the hell he is and why hasn’t he say anything about it to you.

He does think about you, but the sooner he catches Silvene, the sooner he can come back to you. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he turns back to the case file and pushes everything else aside.

The clock on the far wall says it’s morning again, but his body doesn’t feel like it’s had a night in between. Chris rubs his eyes, the grainy fatigue settling in after hours hunched over reports, surveillance stills, and scribbled notes. He’s still deep in the outage reports when Felix strides up, a coffee in one hand and a rolled-up map in the other.

“Got something,” Felix says, spreading the map across Chris’s desk. His finger taps a red-shaded section. “That power cut wasn’t just the building we were looking at. It knocked out this entire district.”

Chris straightens, scanning the map with tired eyes.

“All these buildings,” Felix continues, pulling a printed list from under his arm. “Their electricity comes from the same grid. I marked them here.”

Chris takes the list, eyes darting down the column of names until one freezes him in place. The company name sounds familiar and then he remembers the night you received a call from work, something about the ransomware that took down the company’s system.

“You worked here,” he mutters, almost to himself as his finger trails over the name of the company, KSM Inc, and how it’s located only two buildings away from the gallery.

The memory sharpens: you laughing tiredly about pulling an all-nighter, your hands gesturing as you described the IT team scrambling. “You said their systems got hit… the same night as the outage.”

Felix tilts his head as he listens to Chris muttering things to himself. “What? Something comes to mind?”

Chris’s mind is already moving three steps ahead. “If she hit that building during the blackout, there’s a chance she was after more than just jewels.”

And if you were there that night…

Chris pushes back from the desk, the list still in his hand. You might be someone he can ask about that night. You might be a witness. A witness he needs to question.

The cursor blinks on your screen, the soft clack of your keys filling the quiet apartment. You’re halfway through drafting an email, brain locked on the numbers in front of you, when the sound of the front door opening breaks your focus.

You glance up, the habitual warmth already rising in your chest. Without thinking, you set your computer to sleep, pushing back from your chair. Your slippers flapping against the floor as you head toward the hallway.

That uncontainable smile breaks across your face before you can stop it, the kind of smile that always comes with the sight of Chris after a long night apart, but then your eyes shift past his shoulder, and the smile falters.

Behind Chris, Felix steps in and he gives you a small, polite smile the moment your eyes meet, but you’re too busy reading Chris’s expression, or rather, the complete absence of one. He looks… unsettled. His mouth opens once and then closes again, like the words he needs are still fumbling their way toward him.

“Hey. I’m sorry for coming unannounced,” Felix’s voice cuts through the awkward air, his tone careful but direct. “But can I have a few minutes with you? I just have some questions to ask you.”

You blink, a dozen questions of your own crowding your mind. What kind of questions does Felix have for you? Why is he here, in your apartment, looking so serious? But more than that—why hasn’t Chris said a single word since the moment he walked in?

A moment later, you sit on the couch, knees angled toward Felix, while Chris lingers in the kitchen with his back to you both, hands braced on the counter like he’s holding up the whole room.

Felix flips open a small notepad, his pen poised. “I wanted to ask about that night—you mentioned once you got called in for work at the KSM building for tech support?”

You nod. “Yeah. It was late. I got an urgent ticket to handle some ransomware issue for one of the departments.”

“What did you do exactly?” he asks, tone neutral, eyes scanning his notes rather than your face.

You recount everything—the security desk check-in, the empty halls, the endless troubleshooting that dragged until your eyes burned. Every detail you can remember.

Felix hums, jotting something down. “Do you remember if there was a blackout that night?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation. “It only lasted a moment. Lights cut out, monitors went black. Backup power kicked in almost immediately. I figured it was just a glitch.”

You pause, narrowing your eyes slightly. “I’m sorry but are these questions related to a case or something?”

Felix’s lips press into a thin line, and he glances toward the kitchen, seeking for permission to tell you. Chris doesn’t turn around, but you catch the subtle dip of his head—a nod so small it might have been missed if you weren’t watching for it.

“There was a robbery that night. At the MESA gallery. Which we discovered is only two buildings away from where you were working.” He leans back slightly, fingers fiddling with the edge of his notepad. “The blackout could have provided an opening.”

You shake your head. “It was so short—barely enough time to… I don’t know, grab a pen from a desk, let alone pull off a heist.”

“Yeah. I kind of doubt it too.” Felix’s gaze flickers toward Chris, and something silent passes between them, something you can’t quite read.

He closes his notepad with a soft snap. “You’ll probably be needed for more questioning at the precinct,” he says as he stands.

You follow suit, standing up and then nod at him. “Alright.”

“Thanks for your time,” he adds, his tone warm but brisk. Then, with a faint gesture toward Chris, he steps toward the door—making it clear he’s leaving to give you two privacy.

It’s just you and Chris in the room now. Neither of you moves, neither of you speaks, and the weight of it all sits heavy between you.

After a while, you decide to be the first to break the deafening silence. “So, you came home not to apologize or to see me,” you say, your voice cutting through the air, “you came because… I happen to be a witness on your case?”

Chris’s jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, his eyes giving away something you can’t quite read. He takes slow steps toward you, stopping just shy of your personal space, and says lowly, “I’m sorry.”

“Not only you missed our date, you didn’t come home. No texts, no calls, nothing…” Your voice wavers, but you meet his gaze without flinching. “Is this all we are now? A witness statement you need to take?”

You don’t mean to sound cruel, but patience has long since burned out.

He steps forward, closing the distance, and gently wraps his hands around your arms. “Let me explain,” he says, his tone careful, almost pleading. “I‘m working—"

You cut him off with a question that you’ve been itching to ask. “Do you even still care about our relationship?”

“You don’t understand. Catching Silvene is bigger than everything,” Chris snaps and a second later, it hits him that he’s just raised his voice at you.

You know he didn’t mean to snap at you like that, he didn’t mean to hurt you but it assures you that you’re losing him. You place your hand against his chest, holding his gaze steady as you firmly tell him. “Do whatever it is you want to do.”

“I just need to solve this case—” he tries again, but you cut him off with a look sharp enough to make him falter.

“Then let’s hope I’d still be around when that happens,” you say, each word deliberate.

That shuts him up, completely and you don’t wait for him to speak again. You turn on your heel, go back to your desk, and wake your computer.

The familiar glow of the screen feels safer than his eyes. Your fingers move over the keyboard, though your chest feels like it’s holding a storm that’s ready to split you open. You can feel him watching you from across the room, the weight of his stare pressing between your shoulder blades. You keep typing, keep ignoring him, until you hear him finally turn away.

The click of the front door is sharp and the sound of it closing behind him feels final.

Chris lingers by the door, one hand still gripping the cold metal of the knob. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe for a moment—just lets your words echo in his head like the final toll of a bell.

Then let’s hope I’d still be around when that happens.

He knows exactly what you meant and the truth is, it terrifies him—terrifies him more than anything he’s faced in the field. He’s faced armed suspects, high-speed chases, standoffs in narrow alleys—but the idea of losing you? Of watching this relationship slip away because he can’t seem to pull himself out of the case? That’s the kind of danger he can’t train for.

His eyes drop to his hand still clutching the knob and he feels a pull, a temptation to turn it, to step back inside, to cross the room and beg—beg you to stay, beg you to keep believing in him, but the question stops him cold.

Do I even deserve another chance?

A hand lands on his shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. Chris turns to find Felix standing there, concern etched across his features.

“You okay, man?” Felix asks, voice low.

Chris forces a smile, the kind that feels brittle at the edges. “Yeah.”

Felix studies him for a beat longer. Years of friendship have taught him when Chris is lying, and this is one of those times. “Things okay between you two?”

Chris can’t answer—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know if the thread holding you both together is strong enough to survive this.

Instead, he places a hand on Felix’s shoulder and steers him toward the elevator. “Let’s solve this case as soon as possible.”

Felix nods, but Chris barely registers it. His mind is still back in the apartment, still with you, still clinging to the faint, stubborn hope that when all of this is over… you’ll still be there.

This moment right here. With the whiteboard looms over him like a puzzle he’s been staring at for too long. Photos, crime scene notes, maps, and half-scribbled theories are all pinned and taped into a sprawling web—Silvene’s handiwork mapped out in black ink and red string. It feels like he’s reliving his life—before you came and made him forget.

Chris stands beside Felix, marker in hand, writing down the precise timeline of the MESA gallery robbery.

2:23 – security guard finished their sweep around the gallery. 2:45 – the blackout. 2:55 – the electricity turned back on. 3:14 – security found an item has been stolen.

3:42 – police dispatched on site.

Felix leans in, tapping the end of his pen against a map of the area. “There are cameras here, here, and here… but not one caught her. It’s like she vanished into thin air.”

Chris exhales slowly, eyes sweeping the board again. “She didn’t vanish. She planned her escape route down to the second. We’re missing something.”

They stand there in silence for a moment, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The board stares back at them, offering nothing. Every lead they’ve chased either ends in a dead-end or circles back to the same untraceable silver dust.

Felix shakes his head. “Feels like we’re chasing a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” Chris says quietly, more to himself than to Felix. “A person. And people make mistakes.”

His jaw tightens as he takes a step back, forcing himself to look at the mess of clues from a new angle. He’s so close—close enough to feel it in his chest. If he can just connect one more dot, find one overlooked detail, he can finally put this to rest. He has to, because every hour this case drags on, you slip a little further from him.

Chris grabs another marker, circling times, drawing lines, trying to piece together the night’s sequence from memory. He tells himself he’s doing this for the job, for justice—but the truth is simpler and more desperate: He needs to solve this before he loses you.

He caps the marker, stepping back from the board with a frustrated exhale. “I’m going to investigate more about the blackout,” he says, already moving toward the door. “Someone had to see something that night—an outage like that doesn’t just happen without anyone noticing.”

He’s halfway turned when Felix’s voice stops him. “She’s coming in today.”

Chris’s hand hovers in the air as he’s about to grab his jacket. “What?”

“Your girlfriend,” Felix says carefully, almost like he’s testing the words. “She’s giving her witness statement today.”

The mention of you makes his throat go dry, a knot tightening in his chest. He hasn’t seen you since—God, has it only been days? It feels longer. The last conversation still echoes in his head, sharp-edged and raw, both of you walking away with more unsaid than spoken.

The case has been pulling at him, dragging him under, but the distance between you feels heavier than anything pinned on that board.

“I’ll handle it,” Felix offers, breaking the silence. “If you’d rather…”

Chris looks at him, then down at the floor, his jaw working before he finally nods once. “Okay.”

He looks away, as if turning from Felix will make it less obvious that he’s avoiding you. That he’s choosing not to see you when every instinct in him used to fight for the opposite.

It’s not the first time you came to the precinct, you had came here once to bring Chris his forgotten files along with his packed lunch. But this time, you came in with a sole purpose. You sit across from Felix’s desk, your hands folded neatly in your lap as you wait for him to return from the break area with a steaming paper cup.

“Coffee,” he says, a small smile as he sets it in front of you.

“Thank you,” you mutter with a polite nod, lifting it to your lips for a small sip.

Felix begins to work on his computer, fingers poised over the keys. “Alright—let’s start from the night of the robbery.”

He types, eyes locked on the screen as you share everything you know, giving him every detail you can remember—the sudden hush on the street, the flicker of emergency lights, the faint hum when power returned.

As Felix’s attention stays fixed on the computer, your gaze drifts to the desk across from his where Chris’s desk is. The chair is facing away, empty.

Felix catches you looking so he says, “He’s out. Chasing down leads about the blackout.”

You turn back to him and wrap your hand around the paper cup. “The whole district’s electricity comes from the same grid, you know.”

He briefly looks away from his computer. “Yeah. We’ve confirmed that.”

“But the blackout only happened in this district.” You lean back in your chair. “That means someone hacked the system.”

Felix’s typing slows. His eyebrows lift with intrigue. “That’s… interesting. Still—blackout was only for a few minutes. Not much time to pull off the whole thing.”

“It was enough,” you counter quietly. “The gallery’s security system took a few more minutes to reboot.”

Felix’s face changes instantly—like a light flicking on. He grabs a notepad, scribbling furiously. “How did I miss that the first time?” he mutters, almost to himself. “How did I—” He keeps writing, underlining, circling, as though the answer’s sitting right there in ink.

Then, there’s this shift in the air as if the precinct is suddenly on high alert, voices rising, movement quickening, phones ring non-stop.

Felix notices it too, head turning around the precinct as if he’s trying to get some clues as to what’s happening. “Excuse me a second,” he says, pushing his chair back and weaving into the growing knot of officers near the center of the room.

You catch snatches of chatter from those passing by. “—shooting at the hotel—” “—units already dispatched—” “—suspect still armed—”

Your eyes find Chris’s empty desk again and a quiet, heavy thought anchors itself in your chest. Please… don’t let him be anywhere near that.

You wait for Felix by taking another sip of the coffee—lukewarm now, the bitterness coating your tongue. You try to focus on its taste instead of the gnawing unease clawing at your chest.

The shooting chatter in the background won’t leave your ears, no matter how hard you try to tune it out. You tell yourself Chris is fine, he’s investigating about the blackout, that he’s not anywhere near it, that you’re just overthinking, but the bad feeling won’t let go.

When Felix finally returns, you’re already halfway out of your seat before you even realize you’ve moved. “So, what’s happening?” The words come out sharper, faster than you intended.

One look at his face, and your stomach sinks. He hesitates, his mouth parting only to close again, as if he’s weighing how much to tell you. “There’s… a shooting. At one of the hotels downtown,” he says carefully, his voice lower now, meant just for you. “Units have been dispatched to the scene.”

You feel your hands go cold, your pulse pounding in your ears as you hesitantly ask, “And Chris?”

His gaze wavers and that’s all the answer you need before he even says it. “He’s there.”

The air feels thinner all of a sudden. You drop back onto your chair, your knees barely holding you. Your chest tightens painfully, and you close your eyes against the swirl of noise around you.

The last thing you’d said to him—“Then let’s hope I’d still be around when that happens”—replays in your mind like a cruel loop and now all you can think is, what if it’s him who won’t be around?

Chris drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gear shift, his mind still tangled in the blackout investigation. He already knows there’s nothing new to find—no fresh leads, no trail to follow yet he went anyway. He’s convinced now that he’s using it as an excuse to avoid you.

The thought of walking into the precinct and finding you there, the thought of meeting your eyes and seeing that flicker of hurt because of him… it knots something in his chest. He can’t bear it, can’t face the quiet realization that he’s the one putting that look on your face, the one causing your pain.

The police radio crackles suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. “All units, we have reports of an active shooter at the Grand Vale Hotel. Officers on site requested immediately.”

Chris’s grip on the wheel tightens. He knows that hotel. He’s not far. Without thinking, his hand shoots out to grab the radio. “Unit 103, badge number 30025. I’m close. On my way.”

He flicks the siren on, the wail piercing the air as the city blurs past. His jaw is set, eyes locked ahead. At the next light, he makes a hard turn, tires squealing against the asphalt, heading straight toward danger feels easier than heading toward you.

The Grand Vale looms ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the flashing red-and-blue from the cruisers already parked out front. Chris kills the siren but keeps the lights going, pulling in fast. He’s out of the car before it’s even fully stopped, adrenaline already coursing through his veins.

“Detective Bang!” an officer calls, jogging toward him with a bulletproof vest in hand. Chris shrugs into it quickly, fingers yanking the Velcro straps tight.

“What’s the situation?” he asks, scanning the lobby entrance where armed officers are stationed behind overturned furniture.

“Shooter’s on the fifteenth floor. Multiple hostages. SWAT’s moving in, but we’ve got civilians still being evacuated. We think he’s barricaded in one of the suites.”

Chris’s mind switches gears instantly—no more blackout investigation, no more Silvene, no more you. Just the job. Just the noise, the chaos, the sharp clarity that comes when the stakes are life and death.

The elevator is locked down, so he takes the stairs two at a time with two other officers, gun drawn, the radio clipped to his vest buzzing with updates. The higher he goes, the louder the tension builds—the hum of boots on concrete, the clipped orders, the faint, muffled sound of someone screaming behind closed doors.

And then— A gunshot.

The precinct is a hive of restless energy, but no one is moving with purpose—everyone is just… waiting. Phones ring, radios crackle, chairs scrape against the floor, but beneath it all is that thick, unspoken tension that wraps itself around your chest and squeezes.

You sit rigid in your chair, hands balled into fists on your lap, nails digging into your skin hard enough to sting. You try to keep your breathing even, to stay calm, but every second drags you closer to the kind of thoughts you don’t want to have. The kind where the worst outcomes take shape in vivid, merciless detail.

When the captain finally steps out of his office, every head turns. His face is grim as he announces. “The shooter’s in custody,” he says, voice heavy. A ripple of relief moves through the room—but it’s short-lived. “We have multiple injured officers on site. I don’t have confirmation yet if any are from our precinct.”

The floor tilts for a second, and you blink rapidly, swallowing the sudden rush of dizziness.

Felix appears at your side, pressing a paper cup of water into your hand. “Don’t worry,” he says, but the slight tightness in his voice betrays him. “Chris is… I’m sure he’s fine.”

You take a small sip, but the water tastes like nothing as your eyes drift, almost unwillingly, to Chris’s desk, still empty. You clench the cup harder, forcing the thought into your heart like a prayer. Chris, please… come back to me.

However, the minutes continues to stretch into something unbearable, each one heavier than the last. The longer you wait, the sicker you feel—like your stomach is turning over itself in slow, uneasy flips. You push yourself up from your chair, needing to move, to get air, to do anything other than sit here and wait. But your legs feel weak, they’re trembling and you end up plopping right back down, the edge of the seat catching you clumsily.

Felix is at your side in an instant, helping to keep you steady. “Hey, let’s just—I’ll drive you home,” he offers, crouching slightly so you meet his eyes.

You shake your head quickly, forcing a small, polite smile. “No. It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“Please, let me,” he says gently, sincerely yet his voice tinted with concerns.

You open your mouth to refuse again, but then his gaze shifts—drifting over your shoulder, past you—and something in his expression changes. His eyes widen, relief sparking like a match.

Before you can even turn, Felix is already moving, breaking into a jog. “Chris!” he calls out, his voice suddenly brighter, sharper.

Your heart lurches painfully. It could be nothing. It could be a cruel, false hope. You can’t stand the thought of turning and finding out it isn’t him. But you do anyway and there he is.

Chris is alive, whole and breathing.

Chris exhales slowly as he steps out of the hotel, the last of the shaken guests being escorted away by patrol officers. The shooter is in custody now, cuffed and locked in the back of a squad car, but the echoes of gunfire still feel like they’re ringing in his ears. The adrenaline’s fading, leaving behind the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that always hits after the chaos settles.

He walks to his car, sliding behind the wheel, and just sits there for a second, breathing, feeling the thump of his heartbeat start to calm. He’s grateful—God, he’s so damn grateful—to have made it out alive.

Eight years on the job, and it still scares him sometimes. No one likes to talk about that part. Everyone likes to pretend the badge makes you fearless, but fear’s still there, crouched low in the shadows. Chris knows he’s just a human and maybe that’s what keeps him alive—knowing he’s not invincible.

He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, the city lights blurring past his windows. Through all the noise in his head, one thought cuts clear. He has a reason to get back, to make it out alive every time and it’s you.

When he arrives at the precinct, the first thing Chris catches is Felix’s face—wide-eyed, tense, the kind of worry that only comes when you’ve been imagining every possible worst-case scenario.

“Chris!” Felix’s voice is sharp with relief as he strides forward.

Before Chris can even react, Felix’s hand is on his shoulder, gripping it tight enough that Chris feels the press of each finger through his jacket. He knows that hold, knows it’s not about pain, but about making sure he’s real.

Chris reaches up and pats Felix’s side, giving him a small, reassuring squeeze. “I’m alright, man,” he says, letting out a low chuckle that feels a little forced but necessary. “I’m still here to annoy you.”

Normally, that would’ve earned him some sarcastic quip, maybe even a light shove, but Felix doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smirk.

“It’s not that, it’s…” Felix starts, then trails off, his voice thinning out. He takes a small step to the side, letting Chris sees who’s sitting there across from Felix’s desk. You.

Your posture stiff but fragile all at once. You look worn—like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. Eyes still glazed with worry, panic clinging to your features like it’s etched in and his heart… breaks. Because despite everything you’ve said—every wall you’ve put up, every bit of distance you’ve tried to keep—you still care and maybe more than you’ll ever admit out loud.

Chris forces his legs to move, each step feeling heavier the closer he gets to you. He’s got a dozen things lined up in his head—questions, apologies, reassurances—but before he can get a single word out, you’re on your feet.

You don’t even look at him. Instead, your eyes dart to Felix. “We’re done, right?”

Felix hesitates, shoulders pulling tight before he gives a small, awkward nod. “Yeah.”

And just like that, you’re reaching for your purse. No words for Chris, not even a glance, just the quiet swish of the strap as it slides over your shoulder before you turn to leave.

Chris stands frozen, the air in his lungs refusing to move. He knows he should say something—anything—but his feet feel bolted to the floor. Then Felix’s hand presses firmly against his back, a not-so-gentle shove forward. Chris shoots him a glare over his shoulder but Felix doesn’t flinch, instead he snaps at him. “What are you still here? Go after her!”

That’s all it takes for the hesitation to snap. He’s moving before he even thinks, slipping out through the bullpen and scanning the hallway. He spots you on the stairs, your figure descending toward the lobby with clipped, determined steps. He takes the stairs two at a time until he catches up, his hand closing around yours.

Your head turns almost instantly, eyes locking with his. They’re glossy and fragile like one wrong word would send the whole thing shattering.

“Come on. I’ll drive you home,” Chris says quickly, the words tumbling out before you can pull away. He doesn’t wait for your answer, just shifts his grip to guide you toward the emergency stairwell.

The echo of your steps follows his as he pulls the door open, leading you down toward the parking basement. You don’t resist. You don’t speak. But you don’t let go, either. And Chris tightens his hold just enough to tell you—without saying it—that he’s here.

The drive home feels like wading through a swamp of silence—heavy, slow, and suffocating. Every glance he risks at you just makes it worse. Your face is turned toward the window, but your reflection in the glass makes his chest twist. He can’t tell if you’re angry, worried, or both, so he forces his eyes back to the road and grips the wheel tighter, letting the hum of the engine fill the void between you.

By the time you both step into the apartment, the quiet has turned unbearable. He sets his keys on the counter, draws in a breath, ready to start with a sincere apology but the words die the second he looks up and sees that you’re crying. Not just a stray tear or two—your cheeks are wet, your eyes swollen and red, your shoulders trembling under the weight of something he knows he caused.

“Hey—hey, baby, no. Please don’t cry,” he says softly, closing the distance in three long strides. His hands come up to your arms, warm and firm, thumbs brushing against your sleeves like he can soothe you through the fabric.

His plea only seems to break something in you as your quiet tears turn to ragged sobs, your breath hitching like you can’t catch it, and it kills him. He doesn’t know what to say, so he does what he can do—offer his comfort. He’s wrapping you up in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest. He buries his lips in your hair, pressing a tender kiss to the side of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words heavy with guilt. “I’m really, really sorry,”

His forehead comes to rest against yours, his palm cupping your jaw with a gentleness that contradicts the desperate edge in his voice. “Please, baby… talk to me, mmh?”

You keep crying instead, the tears slipping over his skin no matter how many times he tries to brush them away. After a while, you pull back just enough to wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, leaving your skin raw and damp.

Your voice is hoarse, fragile—like it might shatter as you finally speak. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The words hit him like a sucker punch, his whole body goes still and panic flares instantly in his chest. This. You mean this relationship. You mean him and you. Us? His mind scrambles, his grip tightening like he can keep you here if he just holds on hard enough.

“No, no—baby, I’m sorry. This is on me, I’ll be better, I’ll try harder, I—” His voice falters, his breath catching. “Just… don’t. Please don’t—”

“I love you too much,” you suddenly add and your voice cracks as those words hold so much emotions.

For a moment, Chris swears his heart forgets how to beat. He didn’t expect that—not now, not when everything feels like it’s falling apart. And yet, hearing it, just like that… it’s the most beautiful, gut-wrenching thing he’s ever heard.

“And I love you too,” he breathes out, the confession thick with everything he feels but can’t name. He leans in, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your lips before murmuring against them, “So much.”

Chris kisses you again, hard and desperate, pouring everything he hasn’t said into the press of his lips. The world blurs until there’s nothing but the heat between you, the rush of breath, the muffled sounds against each other’s mouths. It’s only a matter of time before it deepens—your lips parting, your hands tangling in his hair, your body pressing closer as though you could disappear into him entirely.

He drops his hands to your waist, fingers gripping tight, and with a swift motion, he lifts you onto the edge of the dining table. The wood creaks beneath the shift of your weight, but he doesn’t hesitate to claim your mouth again, faster this time, rougher, until you’re clinging to him with your arms looped tight around his shoulders.

Your hands roam, impatient, tugging at his shirt until it’s free from the waistband of his jeans. The metal buckle of his belt clinks as you work it open, and he shrugs off his jacket in a rush, letting it drop to the floor with the faint thud of his holster still strapped inside. His shirt follows, gone over his head in one motion.

When he puts his focus on you again, he catches you pulling at the hem of your skirt until it hunches around your waist and you don’t waste any second to tug at the elastic band of your underwear. He immediately helps to get it off of you and the lacey fabric drops onto the floor in a second.

There’s no slowing down now—only heat, urgency, and the need to be closer than close. He pulls you forward until you’re perched at the very edge of the table. You part your legs for him, allowing him to see between the legs, how you’re throbbing and glistening wet for him.

He slips his hand into his brief, taking his cock out of its confine, stroking at it slowly with his eyes glued to your heating core.

God, he can’t hold himself back anymore when you’re so close, so ready for him. So he aligns his length to your entrance and pushes inside, just an inch or two. Then he presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, holding you still for a beat longer as though he’s bracing himself.

A while later, he continues pushing in the remaining of his hard length into you and the moment your bodies fully connect, you both gasp. Your legs wrap around him, pulling him closer, keeping him there.

With a haste kiss on your lips and his hands gripping at your thighs, Chris begins to move, slowly yet intensely, until he’s lost in the feel of you, the sound of your breath, the way your eyes lock with his. He occasionally glances down to where his cock disappeared into you, to where you’re taking him too damn well and the pace builds without either of you meaning to—slower turns urgent, urgent turns relentless. Your fingers dig into his back, his name spilling from your lips between gasps and soft cries.

The table groans beneath the motion, but he can’t stop, won’t stop even though he knows you just came around him just now. When release finally takes him in the next moment, it’s with a raw sound against your mouth, his arms caging you in as though he could keep you right here, exactly like this, forever. He stays there, chest to chest, your breaths mingling, the thundering beat of your hearts in sync. For a long moment, neither of you move—just holding, just feeling, just being.

Then your lips land on his shoulder before trailing up to his neck in soft, tender kisses that make his chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the high he’s coming down from. Gently, you tilt his head, your fingers cupping his jaw with care, and press your lips to his. No rush, no urgency, it’s just a kiss layered with meaning, with intention.

When you pull back, there’s a smile on your lips, and you murmur playfully, “Don’t you miss that, mmh, baby?” before bumping your nose against his.

A chuckle slips from him before he can stop it. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of you, but then he pulls back just far enough to see your face. Both his hands cradle it, his gaze locked on you.

For a moment, he simply looks at the person he loves so deeply it hurts. The one he trusts without hesitation. His sanity. His clarity. His home.

The weight of it all sits heavy in his chest, and he lets it spill out in the only way he knows how. “I love you,” he says, the words raw enough to ache.

He leans in, pressing a long, chaste kiss to your lips, letting it linger before pulling away with a small smile. His voice low with amusement as he adds, “And yes. I missed it so much.”

You both laugh softly at that, the sound wrapping around him like the comfort of an old memory. Then your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him closer. You tilt your head toward his ear, your voice dipping into something smooth, warm, and sinful enough to make his breath catch.

“On the bed next?” you whisper, and Chris knows exactly what you mean without another word.

On the bed, you’re lying on your stomach, bare skin melting into the cool sheets, your fingers curling into the fabric as soft moans slip past your lips. Chris’s mouth is warm and unhurried against your back, fluttering little kisses pressing over your shoulder blades, down the dip of your spine. This—this is what you missed. The way he touches you, cherishes you, makes you feel not just wanted, but worshipped.

He keeps going, his lips mapping you until he reaches the curve of your butt. A teasing kiss lands there, followed by a playful nip that makes you gasp and throw him a glare over your shoulder. Your whine only earns a low chuckle against your skin.

Chris shifts, kneeling on the bed, settling himself behind you. His hand slips between your legs, fingers moving between your slick folds with practiced intent until you’re trembling and breathless. He easily locates your clit, applying gentle pressures on it to draw more pleasure, but also more arousal to prepare you for what comes next. Then, with a slow, deliberate push, he eases himself into you again, stopping with half of his length already buried in your tight walls as he hovers above you, forehead brushing your temple, breath warm on your ear.

He kisses along your neck and jaw, and when you tilt your head to meet his gaze, you catch the dark, lust-hazed glint in his eyes. “I almost forgot how big you are,” you whisper.

His lips curve into a knowing smile and he softly mutters, “But you take me so well, baby.”

His mouth crashes to yours at the same moment he pushes in fully, the stretch making you moan against his lips. He swallows the sound, moving with a deep, steady rhythm that leaves you clinging to him. His lips wander to your throat while his hands slip under you, cupping your breasts, kneading gently in time with each thrust, your sensitive buds caught between the fingers.

“You feel so good, baby,” you manage between breaths.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and thick.

Your eyes stay locked on his, drinking in the way his expression changes with every movement. “Oh, so good… so deep inside me.”

You feel him twitch inside you, and your grip tightens on his forearm. “Please, don’t stop.”

Those words unravel him in the best way. His breath turns rough, low groans spilling from his mouth as his pace quickens. The room fills with the sound of your bodies moving together, the sheets rustling beneath you. One of your hands finds his, fingers intertwining, the grip grounding you both even as the pleasure builds to something dizzying.

And then you’re falling—together. His name spills from your lips, his forehead drops to your shoulder, and you both come apart in the same breath, clinging to each other until the world feels still again.

You rest against the headboard, a pillow tucked behind your back, the sheets tangled low around your waist. Chris lies sprawled on his stomach, his head heavy on your chest, arms looped loosely around your middle. You’re both still naked, still warm from the sex, still basking in that post-high haze where the world outside doesn’t matter.

It’s nice—comfortable in a way that’s been missing for too long and from the way Chris is curled into you, purring like a contented cat with his eyes closed, you can tell he feels it too. You love him most when he’s like this—unguarded, open, vulnerable… yours.

You press a soft kiss to the top of his head and exhale. “How I miss you.”

His head lifts slightly, his brow furrowed. “I’m here.”

“Well, you were missing until now,” you casually say and you ruffle his hair playfully, but the way his smile fades tells you he understands exactly what you mean.

He props himself up on his elbows, caging you in as he looks down at you. “I’m sorry, baby.”

You can see the sincerity in his eyes, and you smile at him, but you also need him to know and understand—because this isn’t about the job itself, or the nights he’s spent away from you, or even the danger he faces. Your hand comes up to cup his jaw, thumb stroking gently over his stubble.

“I hate not knowing,” you tell him quietly. “I hate being kept in the dark. All I need to know is if you’re okay. If you’re safe.”

Chris nods slowly, taking in your words. His fingers wrap around the hand cradling his jaw as he leans into your touch. “I didn’t want to burden you with all of that,” he admits. “but at the same time, I didn’t realize what it was doing to you.”

“I want to be there for you,” you say firmly, tilting your head to the side without breaking the eye contact.

His eyes soften, but there’s a flicker of something—fear. “What if… it makes you go away?”

Your heart aches at the rawness in his voice. You lean forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “I won’t.”

The tension in his face eases, dimples appearing as his smile blooms again. “Promise?”

“I promise,” you answer without a beat but full of conviction.

The next thing you know, his mouth is on yours again, the kiss he gives is deep and lingering, as if the taste of you is the only reassurance he’ll ever need. When he pulls back, it’s only to settle his head back on your chest, sighing as you thread your fingers through his hair. You hold him close, stroking his back, making him feel loved in the way you’ve always meant to and that you’re here. For him.

It’s past midnight and the precinct is quiet except for the constant hum of the vending machine. He’s still here as he decides to continue watching through the rest of the security footage from the MESA gallery. His desk is littered with empty coffee cups and candy wrappers, casualties of the late-night shift.

He yawns, leaning back in his chair until it groans under his weight. The glow of the monitor bathes his tired face as he decides to watch the rest of the security footage from the MESA Gallery. Hours of pixelated nothing. Hours of shadows and empty corridors.

Felix picks up his phone, thumb tapping the screen to see that there’s still no reply from Chris. He scrolls up—three messages, all unanswered.

You back at the apartment yet? Everything good? …You alive?

A small smirk tugs at his lips as he sets the phone back down. “You’re busy making up, I see,” he mutters under his breath, the words laced with a tired chuckle.

Felix rubs at his eyes, ready to give the footage another cursory glance before calling it a night. The video flickers, a subtle jump in the feed, and then—

There. A shadow at the far edge of the camera’s range, just barely illuminated by the flickering security light. The figure moves fast, almost gliding past the frame, their face obscured. It’s too blurry to make out details, too fleeting to be certain, but it’s something.

Felix leans forward, pulse ticking up as he replays the moment in slow motion. The figure turns just slightly, catching enough light to know that it’s someone who has no business being there at that hour.

The screen freezes on the grainy silhouette, and Felix’s lips slowly curve into a smirk. “Gotcha.”

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malunar28replies · 4 days ago

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SECOND BEST

EP. 2 of THE BREAK UP BUSINESS

— contains adult content, minors do not interact 🔞 —

“Send me your location. Now.“

[ abstract ]: The only way to handle a rough breakup is talking to your bestie, getting dressed up and drinking every beverage the next club offers. Unfortunately, this results in you having much more than you can handle and tipsy as you are, you text Minho to pick you up…

[ general ]: minho + fem reader, childhood friends/enemies → lovers, non idol au, ex’s enemy, demisexual reader, angst + fluff + smut, sunshine x grumpy, she falls first but he falls harder

[ warning ]: alcohol consumption, break up and heart break, mention of infidelity

[ words ]: 1.3K

[ note ]: thank you lots for the lovely feedback on the 1st part. i appreciate you so much 🩵

[ !! ]: the beautiful dividers are from @saradika-graphics

You wake up after a nap with pure anger running through every cell of your body. Usually, you’re the sunshine turned into a person—a butterfly, if you will, that always puts everyone around them in a good mood. Well. Maybe that’s just because you’re generally very emotional and not afraid to hide your feelings—most of the time.

So, it’s not quite a surprise that you’re running around the hotel room Minho booked for you, and Hyunwoo still hasn’t reached out for you. On the other hand, you’re gonna make the best out of this disaster—ordering hotel room service with no end all night long, knowing quite well either Hyunwoo will pay because that guy rather goes bankrupt than engage in any inconvenience or that weird company he called to break up with you because your ex fiancé is too much of a coward to be honest.

Fuck. Minho said that your ex met someone else. One bottle of wine down and another one to go, you realise it then. That fucker cheated on you. That pathetic guy really did that to you. Conclusion is, you’re completely ignoring the stage of denial and going straight into anger. You’re way too hot-tempered for that.

The hotel room service knocks on the door and you open it, inviting them in for the three course meal you ordered. Everything smells fabulously. God, you haven’t had such a great dinner for what feels like years. You yourself aren’t that talented when it comes to cooking and Hyunwoo always said it’s ‘a woman’s job’. Why did you even date that loser, let alone plan to marry him? Cooking is a basic survival skill.

Fucking hell. How did you end up like this?

For a second you wonder why the so-called luxury food tastes so salty until you realise you’ve been crying. You’re shedding literal waterfalls of tears. And you’re so exhausted and confused, you didn’t even notice.

Or, well, you’re zoning out. That’s what you always do when everything gets too much, right? Worry turns into anxiety. Anxiety turns into panic. Panic turns into numbness. Numbness turns into paralysis.

But you’re dragged out of that state rather quickly again, when a knock can be heard from your hotel room door. Weird. You didn’t order anything else.

“Y-Yeah?” you ask with a blocked nose, hiding behind sniffles.

“It’s me, Y/N,” you hear the voice of your best friend.

“Come in, Soyeon,” you call her and a second later she enters. The woman runs straight towards you, pulling you into such a big hug, you fall right over and onto the bed. Giggles erupt in between the crying noises you still let out and for the first time in hours you feel safe again.

“So, axe, knife, poison? How do you want me to get rid of that asshole?”

“Hyunwoo or Minho?” you jokingly ask.

Soyeon looks around for a second, shrugs her shoulders, “Both.”

“You don’t question why I mention him?” you add, wondering now why she’s not confused about the announcement of your former friend and part time enemy.

“Minho… told me. He gave me the address of that hotel,” your best friend explains.

“That little rat,” you hiss.

“Hey, it’s fine. I’m here now, okay? That’s all that counts,” she reminds you.

You nod, asking silently for another hug and your best friend is happy to grant you that wish.

“Everything is gonna be okay, love. I promise, okay?”

You look at her with big, wet eyes, “I’m just… I want an explanation, you know?”

Because that’s what it is. Hyunwoo is an idiot. Even more so if he doesn’t have the balls to tell you to your face that he wants to end things. But without any reason?

Well, Minho said he met someone else. That would be the worst. Getting cheated on is one thing, but getting cheated on by a loser like–

Fuck, calm down. You dated that guy after all. Isn’t that… offensive towards yourself?

“He hasn’t even contacted you? Solely relied on that company to ‘break up’?” Soyeon asks.

You nod. “Yes. And out of all people he made Minho do it. As if it wasn’t humiliating enough.”

“Fucking asshole. The both of them,” your best friend states.

“Maybe I should call him,” you suddenly suggest.

“You shouldn’t,” Soyeon immediately says. And you’re aware that she’s right. But this isn’t about making the best decision, this is about finding answers no matter if you’re gonna get hurt.

“I know. But… maybe… just once?” you suggest.

“Y/N… this won’t help you get over him,” she reminds you.

“Worrying and wondering won’t help either. I just need an answer and then I will block him,” you promise.

All she does is give in. Soyeon knows how you can be sometimes. After all, you and Minho competed for the title of ‘who’s the most stubborn’ ever since middle school.

You grab your phone from the nightstand table, searching for his number. Yikes. The fact he’s still saved as ‘Babe’ makes your stomach turn.

Selecting the number, you call him. And it immediately sends you to his mailbox with a very pleasant announcement.

“Seems like he’s blocked me first,” you say through gritted teeth.

“Fucking asshole, part two,” your best friend adds.

“For real.”

Soyeon looks at you, bringing your attention fully to her, “What do you need right now?”

“You want me to be honest?”

“Always, baby,” she replies, giving you a warm smile.

“I need a pretty outfit, a bunch of drinks and then just go anywhere that doesn’t remind me of my wedding that’s never gonna happen.”

“Noted,” Soyeon chuckles.

An hour later, the two of you are living your life inside a cramped club, ignoring all the issues you’ve been dealing with. Right. That’s what freedom used to taste like.

You’ve always loved clubbing for the fun of it—dressing up prettily with your friends, having some fancy drinks and then being on the dancefloor, swinging your hips to your favourite songs.

Meanwhile Hyunwoo believed that one only goes clubbing for one night stands. Therefore, he wasn’t that keen on you going out. You did it anyway, not wanting him to tell you what to do. Although, now you wonder if this may have impacted the situation you find yourself in.

“Another round of shots!” Soyeon screams, her arm thrown around some guy named Felix that she met here before. You know that she’s safe with him and he’s never actually made a move on her but you know those glances.

So, you’re not surprised, when she starts flirting with him later but is respectful enough to not rub it in your face. Soyeon wouldn’t do something like that after you just got out of a long term relationship.

However, you feel bad about that. About you. About her holding back. About all this.

Which is why you decide to go outside a little, get some fresh air, when you allow your thoughts to run free. Well, and by that, you decide to text the man who’s responsible for this whole mess.

[ You ]: thsi all yuor fautl min

Why is your keyboard moving around? Weird.

[ You ]: all of it!! i gate you

[ You ]: i mwant gate yuo 🙄

Fucking hell. Can your fingers please type correctly?

[ You ]: fuck i hate you ok??? 😠

You immediately receive a reply.

[ Minho ❌ ]: Send me your location. Now. Or I’ll use other ways to find out.

Oh, God. This does something to your heart and maybe other body parts that you don’t want to admit.

Although, that’s what you do.

[ You ]: you kinda hit when you like taht 🔥

[ You ]: hot

[ You ]: 😉😉

[ Minho ❌ ]: I’ll count to three.

[ Minho ❌ ]: One…

Fine. You’ll give in.

[ You ]: ok ok sir here yio are 😇

[ You ]: 📍 sharing your location for 1 hour

And of course, Minho shoots another text your way.

[ Minho ❌ ]: Stay where you are. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.

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malunar28replies · 5 days ago

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Broken

Lee Know x F! Reader Synopsis: Minho comes to pick up his things from your place, and you two part ways. Warnings: SMUT, unprotected p in v, cunnlingus, fingering, pet names: baby, slut. Angst A/N: Hope y'all like it.

Ara, Minho’s best friend, was always clingy. She’d call constantly, interrupt date nights, she was constantly wanting to touch him, talking about how he was ‘her boy’ and her best friend and how close they were before you.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” your voice was a mix of shock and realization. There had been talks before but this was the beginning of the end and you could feel it.

“What are you talking about?”

You had come home early from dinner, faking feeling sick because you couldn’t take it anymore. The way she looked at him, dressed so skimpy, and talked about your relationship like you weren’t even there. It was annoying and you had enough.

“Ara! Minho, she wants you and you won’t set boundaries with her!” He laughed. Genuinely laughed in your face.

“That’s funny to you?” your brow quirked.

“It’s funny that you’re this jealous and insecure.” He laughed to himself. Your lips pursed and as you open your mouth to speak his phone rings.

He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen, then looked to you and back to the screen. You knew by the look on his face.

“I shouldn’t even have to tell you not to answer that,” you said through clenched teeth.

“She just wants to check-”

“I don’t care! We’re in the middle of something here!” your voice raised.

“Yeah a damn argument that I’m sick of!” he yelled back, “I’m sick of the same conversation!”

“We wouldn’t be having them if you listened to me! Damnit Minho why don’t you see it? Everyone else does!”

“I’m sick of you being insecure and quite frankly I’m done with it.”

Your brows shot up as he slid the icon on his phone.

“Hey, Ara.” Those two words felt like a sword piercing your heart.

“Yeah, we’re good. I know, it was probably the food. She’ll be fine,” he said and walked past you. Something in your soul broke that night, he didn’t care about you, he didn’t care about your relationship and that was it.

If she wanted him, she could have him.

A month later you’re waiting for him anxiously; pacing around the kitchen. You had the last of his things in a box, a jacket, a picture of him that he took and framed for you because you gushed about how much you loved it. Then there’s the hand written note he gave you two weeks into your relationship. Something small, but it held a lot of significance. Along with a few other little things.

A knock pulls you out of your thoughts.

You open the door, seeing Minho, a stone-cold look on his face. There’s an awkward silence, pain and frustration come up in your emotions but your lips stay sealed. The box makes its way to his hands, and he purses his lips.

“We really could’ve been good,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, if you would’ve put your foot down, we would’ve been great,” you mutter.

“If you wouldn’t have been so insecure we wouldn’t have had those issues.”

“You son of a bitch, I wasn’t insecure! She wanted us arguing, she wanted us apart! You were too fucking blind to see that! So tell me, how many nights has she offered to comfort you? How many nights have you taken her up on her offer? Is she good in bed, hmm?” The irritation in your voice is too obvious.

He smirks at your question as you wait for an answer. He moves past you into the apartment, setting the box down. You’re up against the wall before you can process it.

“What if she is?” he asks in your ear, body warm against yours. His thigh squeezes between yours, rubbing just enough.

“Does that make you mad? Jealous?” he asks and your teeth clench. You can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Fuck you,” you grumble, “If you wanna fuck her that’s your business.” You hadn’t really wanted an answer. You wanted to express your anger.

“Yeah? And what if I wanna fuck you?” he says, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, his words causing heat to rise in your belly.

“You’re such a whore,” you spit.

“Mmm, kitten” he warns. His teeth graze your neck, as your lids flutter shut, bathing your sight in darkness.

“What do you say, baby? One last time,” he whispers, voice desperate and dominant all at once. You groan as his thigh presses harder up against you. His cologne infiltrates your nostrils, weakening your resolve.

“One last time,” you breathe and he claims your mouth in a fiery kiss. His tongue glides against yours, hands splayed on your cheeks.

Your hips grind against him, mouth opening and a soft exhale escaping you as your forehead meets his shoulder. You groan and can hear his chuckle. A glimpse of his famous smirk plays in your mind.

“Quit enjoying this, fuck,” your fingers grasp his arms as he flexes his thigh. He tsks playfully as he removes his thigh, causing you to whimper. He pulls you back to the bedroom, both of you tearing each other’s clothes off, your top ripping from the sheer force of his hands. Buttons popping off his shirt from yours.

“What the hell,” you go to grumble about your shirt.

“Shhh,” he says and kisses your lips and he uses his belt to tie your hands to the headboard.

“I’m gonna ruin you for any other guy. You’ll think of me Every. Single. Time.” His promise echoes in your mind as his mouth suddenly latches onto your breast, tongue gliding over the nipple, his teeth encasing it, causing you to gasp and writhe beneath him.

Your hands pull against the belt, and his mouth attaches to the other, giving it the same treatment, smiling and chuckling to himself. He kisses down your sternum, and leaves a trail of blue and purple marks in his wake.

“Missed you,” he mumbles into your skin before nibbling your hip. It’s warm against his skin, your hips grind up, desperate for friction.

“Such an eager thing,” he chuckles as he settles between your thighs, eyes looking up into yours.

“So pretty, all spread out for me. So ready and slutty. Makes me hard,” he grinds down against your mattress and you writhe, pulling against the restraints.

“Don’t move,” he warns and instantly licks a stripe up your dripping pussy. You gasp and feel him smile against you, desperately trying to keep your hips still.

“Look at me while I taste you,” he demands and repeats his action, holding eye contact.

“Mm, such a good little slut,” he praises. Your hips roll instinctively and he slaps your thigh.

“I said don’t. move.” He raises a brow to you.

“’m sorry,” you whimper, feeling the pulse between your legs. You can see the glint in his eye, the way he gets off on teasing- torturing you. His mouth latches onto your mound, tongue swiping over your clit too fast and a little too hard, causing your hips to buck.

“Fuck!” you shout, back arching off the bed. He chuckles into your cunt, the vibrations causing your eyes to roll back into your skull.

Two fingers dip into your hole, curling and hitting your gspot.

“Keep still,” he mumbles against you and you force your hips, with all your might, to stay pinned to the mattress. The heat in your stomach builds like a ragging storm, your head falling back and digging into the bed.

“Minho, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper. His tongue doesn’t leave your clit but his fingers piston in and out at lightening speed.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you shriek, eyes screwing shut, to the point it hurts. Your legs shake as your body tenses and your orgasm washes over you. You pant, chest rising up and down.

But his tongue doesn’t stop, it goes at lightening speed, causing tears to prick your eyes.

“Fuck, ah, shit!” you desperately try to squirm away.

“You can give me one more, come on, baby. Be a good girl and give me one more,” he coos, adding a third finger, stretching you open.

“God,” you groan, body lifting off the mattress, clit stinging with a mix of pleasure to your core. Your hands pull, fingers flexing, desperate to ground yourself on something. Yips roll with his fingers now, completely unashamed.

“Come on, baby, cum for me. Show me how good I make you feel.” He says into you. You cry out in pleasure as your body trembles as another orgasm crashes over you, your juices now covering his hand as you squirt.

You gasp for air once again, body feeling slightly like you’re floating. Minho notices your face and body flushed. He gently kisses up your stomach, neck and your jaw line, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“You okay?” he asks, his own cheeks tinting pink. You nod, words lost.

“So pretty when you go dumb for me,” he groans, lips connecting in a rough passionate kiss.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the taste of your lips on his making him feral.

“Gonna fuck you so deep,” he whispers in your ear, clothed cock pressing into your thigh. He slips out of his pants and underwear, pumping himself a few times, noticing you lick your lips as you watch him. He wipes a bead of precum off the tip and taps your cheek. He shoves his finger into your mouth, cock twitching as your tongue circles the pad of his finger, sucking is softly.

He slides in, a hand bracing by your head, chests pressed together; sweaty and warm.

“Fuck,” you gasp as he finds your gspot and he smirks, dipping his head down to kiss your neck.

“Fuck you’re so wet,” he moans, breathing becoming more labored. He snaps his hips quicker.

He presses down on your stomach.

“Feel that, Kitten?” He smirks as your eyes roll back into your head for the millionth time.

Your walls flutter around him, causing him to choke out a moan. He sucks on your breast and brings his hand down to rub tiny circles on your clit, bringing you to yet another orgasm. Tears prick your eyes as you erupt, arching off the bed into him.

“God I could watch you fall apart over and over,” he growls as he thrusts into you harder and faster, clit catching just right.

“Minho, please,” you beg, tears slipping down your face from the exhaustion and overstimulation.

“Please what? You wanted this,” he teases, “You said one last time,” he mocks.

“Told you I’d ruin you.” He taunts, hips sputtering for a moment.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” he growls in your ear, your clit puffy and sensitive as he stimulates it again.

“I can’t,” you whine, sniffling slightly.

“You can,” he smirks as your walls flutter again.

“Fuck, come on, baby. One last time, then I’m done.” His fingers rub faster, your hips rolling and meeting each thrust at this point.

“Fuck, good girl, keep going, keep squeezing me, fuuuuck!” he gasps the tightening in his own body occurring as you both hit your final orgasm together. Ecstasy pumps through your veins, Minho filling you up.

The two of you pant as you stare at each other, your vision slightly blurry. The belt clicks as he undoes it, letting your hands free.

“Fuck,” he breathes as he pulls out. You watch as he walks away, your legs like jello, quickly returning with a warm cloth. He wipes away the mess gently and carefully. You don’t say a word to each other for a moment, letting reality settle. Its quiet- final.

He’s leaving.

You’re letting him go.

You pull on a t shirt and sweat pants as he gets dressed.

“Just so you know, I haven’t slept with her.” He mumbles. You nod.

“And you were right about her. I’m sorry.” He says and kisses your forehead before he bolts out the door, leaving you standing there with nothing but a memory.

Tags: @breakmeoff @thelovelybireader @crystal005 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @lezleeferguson-120 @princesskrystix @snowyquokka @wavetohannie @swariechan143

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malunar28replies · 6 days ago

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03. MINHO'S DEAL BREAKER , no strings attached ( lmh. )

❪ 概要 ❫‎ lee minho × fem!reader g. smau/fluff/suggestive/angst, college! au, fwb, relationship of convenience, ex-childhood friends to ? . . . . . cw. allusions to sex and mild nsfw talk, mentions of a toxic relationship 18ss.

note. we're progressing 🤭

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malunar28replies · 6 days ago

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「𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚋」 · page vi

IT'S JUST A PAIR OF GLASSES ➥ Chris accidentally discovers a glitch in your cold shoulder firewall.

➥ 1.5k (~6 min. read)

⚠ — Chris being a Samoyed, may cause cuteness aggression (see masterlist for more)

This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only.

Domestic. Be domestic, Chris keeps repeating to himself as he turns the key in the lock.

It’s almost 10 p.m. but the loft is quiet. You’re still not home, doing god knows what last-minute shit Alice must have dumped on you. Normally, this would be where Chris would start the “Baby, when are you coming home? 🥺” bombardment, but he decides to take this opportunity to reflect on his first club meeting.

It was… the strangest thing he had experienced to date, and if he didn’t have the actual book in his hand as the souvenir, he would be convinced it was some overworking-induced fever dream to tell Jisung about the next day.

Bro, you were the leader of the Simpology cult and taught a bunch of hopeless cases how to romance their girls through cheesy books LMAO wild, right?

Yup. He is the aforementioned hopeless case, and now he’s shitting bricks trying to figure out how to finish this long-ass book, also the size of a brick, by the next club meeting.

When he hears the clank of your keys hitting the door, he shoves the paper brick under the couch cushions in panic, trying to pose as naturally as possible with one leg swung over the armrest and holding the remote with the TV still off.

“Welcome back, baby,” he calls out towards the door as he frantically changes the channels.

You know he said it with that stupid smile of his because it echoed in his caramel greeting. You don’t say anything back. You don’t even look at him because you’re still hurt, and you have a problem not melting when he flashes those fucking dimples at you.

“But we won’t fix anything if you avoid me like the plague,” he protests with a pout, turning around on the couch and resting his chin on the backrest.

“Sorry, was that too high maintenance for you?” you retort from the kitchen, your back turned to him.

“I’m trying to crank up the maintenance to the highest here.”

“Meaning?”

He leaves the couch and heads towards you. You do your utmost best not to shudder when he stands right behind you, his warmth enveloping you, his cologne on your nose, and his breath on your neck. His hands gently stop you from removing groceries from the bags with an unnecessary amount of attention.

“There needs to be a set of rules,” he responds with the softest voice, “that we both adhere to.”

“That’s rich,” you hyperbolically wheeze your lungs out.

“It’s only fair.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

“Baby, look at me.”

He holds your chin and slowly turns you around. Your expression is all kinds of done until you look at his stupid, stupid handsome face, but an interesting detail makes you massssively malfunction.

“Hhhaa, you’re… w–wearing glasses?” you spectacularly stammer.

You have never seen Chris like this before. He looks so fucking hot with those like some sultry professor or a sexy doctor and more importantly…

…he looks so HUSBAND.

You throb a little bit. You want to have his babies, maybe.

“Oh yeah, I had to get them last month on the road,” he reaches for the temples of his glasses to take them off. “Hurt my 20/20 pride a little.”

You reflexively reach for his hand to stop him. Chris is pleasantly surprised, not expecting such a subdued feral reaction from you in the slightest.

“Do you… like them?” he asks with an endlessly pleased smile blossoming on his lips.

“They look… nice,” you avert your eyes and immediately get back to grocery sorting again.

SERIOUSLY?

So you like glasses, huh? That’s one idea in the bank he is most definitely going to make use of. You just wait!

“I’ll wear them all the time then,” he declares in a slightly smug tone.

“No.”

His smile is quick to replace itself with a pout. It was just an attempt to be playful, but… did he overdo it?

“Wear them at home,” you follow up on your refusal for clarification. “They look a bit too nice.”

As you mentally slap yourself to get it together, Chris contemplates how not to give in to the urge to bite you.

“And what would these rules be if His Excellency could grace me with them?” you scoff, very proud of yourself for sounding mildly annoyed instead of wildly horny.

Chris pushes his glasses up his nose like it’s a power move, which, unfortunately for you, it is.

“We say good morning to each other every day,” he starts listing his declaration of co-dependence. “And we don’t go to bed without saying good night.”

You narrow your eyes. This isn’t the power move you were expecting at all. Meanwhile, Chris is clearly relieved that you aren’t prompted to instantly shoot him down.

Maybe… he can shoot his shot to…

“Fine,” you agree with blank eyes.

“And we do chores together,” he continues with full confidence like he’s asking for things well within his rights.

“You want to do chores,” you tilt your head.

“Fuck yeah, I do.”

“Like folding laundry and stuff.”

“Would it be a problem?”

“Of course not,” you shrug, “but if you’re concussed right now, you can’t get out of it later.”

“As long as we do it together,” he smiles.

Come to think of it, he might indeed be concussed because despite all the consecutive “Don’t do it!”s his brain screams at him, he still… jumps the gun.

“And we sleep together in our bed.”

“No.”

“But if w—”

“I said no,” you counter firmly. “In case you haven’t heard about the you’re sleeping on the couch memes, go find some. I’m still mad at you.”

It’s probably intended as intimidation, but all that echoes in Chris’s head is, Stop being this fucking cute, I’m gonna bite you SO HARD.

But Jisung’s voice is quick to get into that mix, urging him once again. Don’t push it.

Okay, fine, no pushing the sleep together agenda, but this can’t be all. Now that you seem to agree to things on a mild scale, Chris needs to find other items for his list quick, but he draws a total blank.

“If there’s nothing else,” you shove the empty grocery bags under the sink, “I got work to d—”

“DATES!”

He screams the first thing that came to his mind out of panic, but the look on your face is at least not angry. It has to be a good sign, right?

Right?!

“We carve time just for the two of us,” he continues, terrified he’s going to spook you. “Every week.”

Every… week?

You try to remember the last time you went on a date together, and your heart sinks to your stomach when you figure out the actual day on the calendar. It’s been so long, around the invention of steam engines. He is always working, you are always working, he spends more time in his studio then he does at home, and you are no goddamn different.

Maybe… it wasn’t entirely on Chris that some things are… the way they are..

“Every week,” you emphasize once again to fully confirm.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you worried it might lead to a costly habit?”

Chris sees the speck of light flickering in your eyes, and something tries to take flight in his chest. He knows that pout you’re wearing instead of your now-faded lipstick. You’re gnawing at your lips again, trying so hard to suppress a smile. You’re loving this, and he’s an absolute idiot for not noticing certain things sooner.

Like how you want his attention, too.

“Form all the habits you want,” he tenderly wraps an arm around your waist and tucks your hair behind your ear. “I want to spend more quality time with my girl.”

Your chest tightens. Your pussy throbs. You’re so ridiculously in love with this man, it’s not even funny, but you also need to stand your ground. If you don’t do it right now, this same sequence is going to repeat itself in a few months.

And you’re not sure if you will be this tolerant by then.

“I told you. I don’t want to be out of your sight anymore,” he flashes the puppy eyes adorned with his dimples.

Fuck, NOT the dimples!

You can hear your resolve actively melting as he leans in closer. You want to kiss him so bad, but goddammit, you know exactly what’s going to follow. You have to deploy 100% of your willpower CPU to resist him, and it almost makes you pass the fuck out due to overheating.

In multiple places on your body.

“You didn’t earn it yet,” you miraculously manage to pull away at the last second.

“Oh, but I will,” he steals yet another illegal peck, this time from your forehead. “Fair and square.”

The smile you try to suppress so hard slips out as you gently smack his arm, then you disappear towards the darkness of the bedroom to change and go over tomorrow’s schedule. Once Chris makes sure you’re properly out of the danger zone, he sits down on the couch, and grabs the paper brick from under the cushions.

“Alright, book dude,” he whispers to himself. “You better have them tactics they can’t fucking shut up about.”

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malunar28replies · 7 days ago

Text

YOU BROKE ME FIRST

EP. 1 of THE BREAK UP BUSINESS

— contains adult content, minors do not interact 🔞 —

On the bright side—he’s got you back. But you wouldn’t give him a chance anyway, right?

[ abstract ]: What a start of the week and it’s only Monday. First, his situationship ends things for good, knowing Minho is not committed enough for anything serious. Second, his boss tells him to fulfill a commission by none other than his enemy. And when Minho realises that his task consists of telling you, this guy’s fiancée, that the wedding is called off, he becomes the villain in your story once again. But at least he’s got you back in his life, right?

[ general ]: minho + fem reader, childhood friends/enemies → lovers, non idol au, ex’s enemy, demisexual reader, angst + fluff + smut, sunshine x grumpy, she falls first but he falls harder

[ warning ]: break up, mention of infidelity

[ words ]: 2.6K

[ note ]: here’s the first part of my “new” series (this is a semi-rewritten repost)! I hope you guys enjoy. Let me know what you think of it in the comments, reblogs or asks! 🩵 i love you, always 🫶🏻

[ !! ]: the beautiful dividers are from @saradika-graphics

Minho decides to not hit the snooze button yet another time, when the alarm starts ringing once more. What a start of the week. He desperately would have needed another hour of having his eyes closed but there’s no minute left for that.

Sitting upright on his king sized bed, he swings his feet to the ground and gets up. When he finally blinks a few times and takes in his surroundings, he notices the red leather purse that’s placed on his huge sofa in his studio apartment.

”You’re still here, Tanya?” he asks, hearing his own voice echo into the distance.

There she is, already freshly styled and in a new outfit, reaching for her bag, “What do you mean, Min?”

She looks confused. Like she usually does when Minho asks weird questions like this. They’ve been dating for some time, so why is he speaking as if he wants to get rid of her?

“I’ve got a work appointment in less than an hour. I should get going. I wasn’t aware you’d stay here for so long,” he tries to save his ass but only makes it worse.

The blonde woman scoffs, “So, what? Am I an inconvenience for you? Good morning to you too, Lee.”

She grabs her jacket, already on the way to the door.

“Shit—wait, that’s not what I meant. It came off weirdly, I’m sorry. You mean so much to me,” Minho replies, running after her, as he reaches for Tanya’s hand.

She raises one of her eyebrows. “How much?”

“Very much,” he instantly replies. Because that’s the truth. At least he thinks so. He enjoys spending time with that woman, so why make such a huge fuss about it? Isn’t that all that counts?

“So much that you still haven’t introduced me to any of your friends, huh?”

Ouch. Right.

“I’ve explained it to you…” he says, sounding like a broken record to the woman whose hand he’s gripping onto right now.

“Yeah, Minho. And I’ve been patient,” Tanya starts again. “For way too long. I can’t do this situationship type of thing. You’re a great guy and I thought it was worth it to give it a try despite your commitment issues–“

“I don’t have–“

She sighs, “Are you lying to yourself now?”

“Sorry,” he says, his voice dropping quiet.

“That’s all you ever say, Minho. That you’re sorry. But your actions don’t show it. Last night was the last chance I gave you,” she explains to him.

He looks at her bewildered, not quite getting it. Now Minho is the confused one. “Last chance? I wasn’t even aware of that.”

Tanya chuckles, “That’s always what it’s like with you men. You didn’t see it coming.” She takes a deep breath. There’s no bad blood there, but she’s tired of it. “I’m not mad at you—maybe a bit, for wasting my time. Which is why I have to go. But I hope if you find the woman that’s worth fighting for so that you will man up and do so.”

“Tanya– wait!”

“Don’t. Have a nice day,” is what she says, her voice gentle, before Minho hears his front door close.

Fucking hell. What a start of the week. It’s only Monday. Minho pushes the sadness and all his feelings away, as he’s done for the past 26 years. Even though he just ended something that could have become so serious if he didn’t have those commitment issues. He’s gotta get himself together—there are a bunch of customers waiting for him, ready to get what they ordered.

So, that’s the irony, to explain a bit of context here. Minho basically has turned his weakness into his passion and career. Similar to Batman—but whereas the rich superhero saves the city, Minho basically destroys it. Okay. That’s a bit harsh. He only breaks hearts, professionally.

What does that mean?

Well, Minho works for a company that does the dirty jobs no one wants to do. They’re the ones you call when you—for whatever reason—aren’t able to end a relationship on your own. Minho will do it for you—visit your (still) significant other, deliver that message to them, offer a bit of empathy, and go to the next appointment.

He’s been doing this for a little over two years now, after he’s decided to start all over again and it’s going great. Minho is the most successful in his team, ending a couple of relationships per day. Seoul is a big city and there seem to be a lot of unhappy people that would rather have someone else send those awful news than do it themselves.

Jokes aside—there are situations in which it’s better for safety reasons to call a professional like Minho. The Break Up Business (they could have been a little more creative there) will also do the aftercare. A huge basket full of chocolate, awful romantic movies on DVDs (retro), tissues and whatever one asks for to get them through the next stage of their life.

It’s already noon and time for his lunch break, when Minho has saved a woman out of the claws of her possessive (now ex) boyfriend, called out a serial cheater and ended a relationship between two more couples that just didn’t know how to communicate.

When he’s done with his caesar salad and the iced americano, he receives a call from his boss.

“What is it?” he asks, listening to the man at the other side of the speaker.

“I’ve got another spontaneous job for you. I’ll send you the address, alright?”

That’s also how it’s gonna be sometimes. Usually, Minho meets the part of the relationship who wants to end things first, discussing everything with them. However, from time to time, there might be a job that one of his colleagues has already started and for schedule reasons he needs to finish it. It’s less work but also a bit more complicated to really get into a case this way. But he's gonna ace it anyway.

Minho takes a quick glimpse at the information and data his boss sent him, when he notices something. Weird. He’s heard of that street before. He remembers that his former best friend thought about moving there and even visited an apartment for sale.

Why is he remembering this?

Well, Minho has always compared himself to Hyunwoo ever since they became roommates in college. The slightly older one used to be way more charismatic, bringing home women after women, while still succeeding and being year’s best in school.

Minho has never had issues with that life—he’s kind of become this way nowadays too, having strangers sleeping in his bed over and over again—but a very certain detail makes his stomach do a little twist.

Chill the fuck out. It’s just the same street. This doesn’t mean that Hyunwoo is the customer.

Until he reads further.

Customer: Choi Hyunwoo

Fucking hell. The thing is—it wouldn’t be much of an issue if his former roommate didn’t start a relationship with a very certain someone. A person whose heart Minho does not want to break. After all, they destroyed his own little feelings years ago, without even knowing.

You.

The only woman he’s ever loved, cherished, imagined a serious future with. Until she decided to go out with his roommate instead because Minho was too much of a coward to be straightforward and honest when he knew he had the chance.

Shit. First Tanya breaks up with him and now a person from season 3 of his life returns to season 5. This can’t be real. And it’s only Monday.

And when Minho reads further, all his assumptions turn out to be true.

Partner: Y/L/N Y/N

He can’t do this. He can’t deliver a message of heartbreak to you. But Minho also has never cancelled a job offer. This would look very bad and he knows his boss has high expectations especially when it comes to him.

Minho knew this was gonna come back and bite him in the ass one day.

When he reaches your apartment building, luckily the door downstairs is opened, so he can just crawl up the stairs and get ready for his misery. The irony yet again. You are the one who’s gonna have their life changed in less than a minute and Minho is projecting it onto himself. But it’s the first time it feels as if he’s actually breaking up with someone and not just delivering a message.

The door swings open and he notices your smile fade away the second you see him. Gosh. You look even prettier than two ago when he last saw you. You’ve got your hair and nails done all prettily, wearing one of those illegally tight skirts that would make him go crazy even back in college.

Minho and you have known each other for a long time, getting way back to middle school, which makes his emotional attachment to you worse. Especially since that man has commitment issues and this is a foreign terrain for him.

“W-What do you want?” you ask. No hello, no greetings. But he doesn’t blame you. After all, you ended things on not so good terms.

“I’m…” he begins, his words getting caught in his throat. Shit. This has never happened to him. He’s so utterly nervous. “Can I come in?”

“Why?” you ask, looking at him confused, “Hyunwoo is at work, he won’t be back until the evening hours.”

Yeah I know. I read his case file. He’s already got someone else to stay the night with that’s been going on for some months but I’m gonna spare you the details.

“It’s… not related to him,” Minho lies.

And then, suddenly, your whole demeanour shifts.

“Shit. Did something happen? Something with your mum?”

Fuck. The fact that you’re instantly getting worried about his family makes him feel like an even bigger asshole. Why the hell is he doing this to you?

But it’s his job. He’s got no choice.

“Can I come inside?” he asks, ignoring your questions.

“S-Sure.” You let him in and tell him to sit down on the couch in the huge living room. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“It’s fine, thanks,” he declines.

Your apartment is beautiful, although a little pretentious but he knows Hyunwoo’s taste a lot.

“So, what’s with mum?” you ask now, referring to his mother. But you’re close to her too—after all she’s best friends with your mum—since Minho and you have known each other for over ten years.

“Nothing. I’m here for something else,” he admits.

“W-What is it then? Minho, you’re starting to scare me…”

He throws his head back, showing off his adam’s apple and it does something unholy to you that you’re way too ashamed to admit.

“I’m here because of Hyunwoo,” he confesses.

“I told you he isn’t there,” you state, looking at him confused. God, can all women stop looking at him like this?

“I know. I’m delivering a message from him,” he starts again.

“What are you now? A pigeon? I don’t understand this,” you try to handle the situation with humour.

“I work for a company called The Break Up Business and people call us if t-they want to end their relationship. I’m here to tell you that Choi Hyunwoo doesn’t want to be with you anymore,” he runs over his own words, blurting them out as fast as he can. Usually, he’s much more charismatic with that.

“What? Are you kidding me? It’s not even April Fools day,” you tell him.

“I’m sorry.”

You scoff, “No, you’re not, Minho. You’ve actually never been sorry for anything in your life. I know you too well for this.”

Ouch. That hurt. Although you might be right.

He reaches for a package that’s placed beside him, “I can offer you a basket filled with–“

“Shove that up your ass, Lee.” You laugh in his face because what else are you supposed to do? “Why the hell are you the one delivering that message? Why can’t Hyunwoo end things like an adult with me?”

You’re not gonna break my heart again. I’m over you. That’s why I started dating your roommate in the first place.

“Fucking shit, six months before the wedding. What a prick,” you sigh, speaking to yourself but you know that Minho is still listening. It’s probably part of his job. What a weird career path he’s chosen there. He might as well have ended up on a reality TV show instead.

“We offer–“ he starts but immediately gets interrupted.

“I don’t care, Minho. I’m not in a state to function right now, as you can see. I’m sure you’re familiar with these things, regarding you’re doing this professionally. I didn’t know you’d become so low.”

Ouch. That was personal. That was some hidden resentment that’s bubbling up like a volcano from within. But Minho is used to way worse reactions—objects being thrown his way, being yelled at until his ears hurt, having to call the police in a few cases.

“I understand that you’re angry. You’ve got every right to be,” is what he says—a typical customer service phrase that won’t get him in any legal trouble but serve the bare minimum of fake-empathy.

“Did he even give a reason?”

He realises now—that’s the first time you’re actually asking for details on the break up. So far, you’ve complained about Minho talking to you or Hyunwoo’s timing but not the situation itself.

“He did. He’s found someone else,” Minho states, telling you what he’s read in the case file.

“Cool. Cool. Cool. Yeah, no doubt. Kinda saw that coming, but I’ve always been blind I guess,“ you say, pushing your glasses a little higher on your nose.

“Again, I am really sorry. If you ever need help or someone to talk to–“

“That someone is definitely not you,” you spit back.

Minho takes a deep breath, pressing the palms of his hands together. “We have professionals. Here’s a list of phone numbers and mail addresses you can contact,” he says, handing you a piece of paper.

“Okay,” is all that makes it past your lips. “Can you please go now? I need to pack my shit and see where I’ll be staying the night.”

“Right,” he says, handing you another sheet, “we’ve booked a hotel room for you. You can stay there for the next night and then you’re asked to leave the apartment since it’s under Choi Hyunwoo’s name.”

Minho sounds like a robot.

He’s never thought he’d break your heart some day. But Minho is blatantly unaware of the fact this isn’t the first time this has happened. After all, you wouldn’t be in a position like this if he made the right decisions a few years ago.

“I’ll… I’ll see you again tomorrow, for another appointment regarding the moving out process,” your former childhood frenemy informs you.

“You’re gonna be there too? So your company does everything to ruin people’s lives?”

Nothing new for Minho and you. After all, he’s the one who was constantly picking fights and annoying you during middle and high school, then became friends with you in college just to walk out of your life again. You’re used to it by now.

“We will help you find a place to stay. You don’t have to take that offer. But we’re here,” he explains.

“Oh, I will. You’re the one who put me in this situation so you’re gonna find a solution for me.”

And perhaps there’s a slight chance that you want him to stay in your life for a day longer now that he’s back.

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Minho announces, before he leaves the apartment.

When he’s out the door, he feels tears pricking on his lower lashline. Fuck. He should have just told his boss to give that case to someone else.

But on the bright side—he’s got you back. You’re single. He’s single.

What if–

Shit, slow down. You wouldn’t give him a chance anyway, right?

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malunar28replies · 9 days ago

Text

CLOSER.

CHAPTER ONE

Bangchan x reader. (s,f,a)

CLOSER MASTERLIST

Author's note: I didn't mean for this fic to be this long but I kind of gone overboard with the roleplay 👀 anyway, hope you enjoy this one too 🫶

There are thieves, and then there’s Silvene.

Chris has chased men who break into safes with shaky hands and no plan, who leave chaos in their wake and flee in panic. But Silvene, well, if the whispers are to be believed that she even is a she, she moves like breath on glass.

No face. No fingerprints. No mistakes. Only the mark she always leaves behind: a faint dusting of silver.

Silvene doesn’t steal out of desperation. Her heists are too curated, too surgical. The pieces she takes are always one of a kind—historical diamonds, heirlooms with history and she moves with intention like she’s building a collection.

And Chris? He hates being outsmarted, hates the thrill she leaves behind in his chest, hates that months after her last heist, he still stays late just to stare at a wall full of dead ends.

He sits alone in the precinct’s dim back office, the case file open in front of him. There are dozens of photos, all colorless under the flickering light—smashed glass, gutted vaults, nothing helpful. And on the wall, a map. Red pins. Five cities. No pattern. No evidence. Just a name written across every report like a ghost: Silvene.

"You still here?"

Chris jolts slightly, glancing toward the door. His friend and also, a fellow detective, Felix, leans against the frame, sipping from a coffee cup that’s probably not his.

“I thought we agreed you were going to let this one go,” Felix says, eyeing the folder. “That’s the third time this week you’ve gone back to it.”

Chris shrugs, eyes dragging reluctantly from the map. “Just wanted to check something.”

Felix raises a brow. “Right. And that ‘something’ just happens to be the same thief who disappeared almost a year ago.”

Chris doesn’t answer.

Felix sighs, stepping inside. “You’re unbelievable.”

Chris flips the folder shut. “I know.”

“You have a blind date, remember?”

Chris freezes. “Wait—what?”

Felix grins. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you forgot. You told me yourself that it’s tonight.”

Chris glances at the clock and his jaws drop in slight shock. “Shit.”

Felix tosses him his coat. “Go before she thinks you stood her up and swears off cops forever.”

Chris’s eyes flicking once more to the closed file as he stands, grabs his jacket from the back of his office chair, and mutters under his breath, “She probably already hates me.”

Felix smirks. “So? She’ll fit right in.”

By the time he pushes open the door to the café, Chris knows he’s already blown it. Not only is he an hour late, but he’s also a mess. He’s wearing the same damn jacket from yesterday and a wrinkled shirt that still smells faintly like sweat and subway grime. He’d tackled a pickpocket this afternoon who tried to outrun him across three blocks and a construction site. There wasn’t time to go home. There wasn’t even time to care. But standing her up completely? That would’ve made him the worst person in the world. He tells himself that showing up counts for something. Even if he looks like a man who lives out of a suitcase.

It’s been years since he’s done this—dating. Or even trying to. Most of his nights are spent hunched over reports or staking out alleyways, chasing ghosts with criminal records.

So, when a friend from another precinct offered to set him up— “You need a damn life, Chris. Let me set you up with someone”—he didn’t say no.

Maybe a date would be good. Maybe it would get his mind off things. Off work. Off… Silvene.

The café is filled with low conversation and the sound of the barista working the espresso machine. There aren’t many people here, most are already in pairs or clustered in groups. For a moment, Chris thinks she’s already left and honestly, he wouldn’t blame her. But as his eyes sweep over the place, he notices a woman in the far corner, half-concealed behind a book. You’re alone, sitting on a table in the corner. Your posture relaxed, fingers curled delicately around the edge of the page.

He can’t see your face, but something about the scene makes him pause. It feels like you. Or he hopes that it’s you. Slowly, he crosses the room with his heart tumbling in his chest. “Excuse me?” he says, cautious.

The book lowers just enough to reveal your eyes and the bridge of your nose. Even half-covered, you’re breathtaking. Something about the eyelash fringed your eyes, the curiosity tinted your gaze, the slight raise of one brow. It’s like you know exactly how much of yourself to show and when.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry—I, uh. I don’t mean to be weird. I’m Chris. Bang. Chris Bang. I’m supposed to be meeting someone here and I just—well, I thought you might be…”

You lower the book all the way now and Chris forgets how to think.

Oh. No, this is... This is unfair. If you’re not her, he’s doomed because there’s no way he’s walking away from this. From you.

You look at him for a beat, tilting your head slightly to the side and say flatly, “And what can I help you with?”

Shit.

Chris immediately hides his disappointment behind a quick, polite smile. “Right. Sorry. My mistake.”

He turns to leave, already cursing himself and he can’t believe that he has to walk away from this. Then, he hears it, your soft laugh that strangely triggers a fluttering feeling in his stomach.

“I’m just kidding,” you say as you slowly put your book down on the table.

Chris turns back around and you're smiling now, and it’s brighter than it has any right to be. He exhales, somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You got me good.”

You gesture to the seat across from you. “You deserve that much for showing up late.”

He slides into the booth, finally letting the tension melt from his shoulders and he’s glad that you don’t even look mad which somehow only makes him feel worse.

“Hour late and no flowers,” you playfully mutter as you lean back on your chair and quietly taking him in. “You’re really setting the bar high.”

Chris offers a sheepish smile, resting his elbows on the table. “It’s been a long week.”

You tilt your head. “Rough job?”

“Police detective.” He shrugs. “Narcotics, mostly.”

One of your eyebrows lifts slightly. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

Chris huffs a laugh. “God, I hope not.”

You smile again, and it hits him like the coffee he’s drinking—slow, warm, spreading all over him.

“And you?” he asks, leaning forward. “What do you do?”

“IT,” you answer easily, tracing the rim of your glass. “System security. Networks. I keep things safe.”

He nods. “That sounds important.”

“It is.” You pause—just long enough to make him look up at you again. “But sometimes I like the idea of breaking through security instead. Just to see if I can.”

Chris raises a brow. “Rebellious side?”

You shrug and slyly smile as you say, “Oh, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

From that moment on, Chris barely registers the words as he’s too busy watching the way your mouth curves when you speak. The subtle elegance in the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. There’s a grace to you, sharp yet composed like you’re always two steps ahead.

“Detective Bang?” you tease.

“Huh?”

“You spaced.”

Shit. He clears his throat and shyly mutter. “Sorry. I just… you’re really easy to talk to.”

You let out an amused laugh. “That was the worst save I’ve ever heard.”

Chris laughs, genuinely this time, leaning back into his seat. The awkwardness from earlier has dissolved entirely. The conversation begins to flow like it always existed—effortless, steady, charged with something he’s not sure he should name yet.

You talk about growing up in a house full of brothers, how you learned to pick locks out of boredom, and how you once hacked into your school’s grading system “just to see if it could be done” but you swear that you never changed anything and just looked.

“I like knowing things I’m not supposed to,” you say, eyes gleaming in the low light. “It’s a bad habit.”

Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re either going to get promoted or arrested.”

“Let’s see which happens first.”

Chris doesn’t flirt, not really. Not since college. But with you, it’s instinct. The way you laugh at his dry comments. The way you lean forward when you talk, like he’s the only person in the room. Like you’re trying to read him as much as he’s reading you. And the most dangerous part? He likes it. Too much. Too fast.

You swirl what’s left of your drink, eyeing him over the rim with a curious smile. “So, detective,” you start, voice low and teasing, “is that like, actual detective work? Like tailing people and sneaking around with a badge in your sock?”

Chris chuckles. “Only on Thursdays.”

You laugh softly, leaning in just a bit closer. “Seriously though. Do you like it? The job?”

“I do,” he says, almost without thinking. “Most days.”

“And the other days?”

He hesitates. “It gets heavy sometimes.”

You nod, like you understand and for some reason, he thinks you do. Then your voice dips a little lower, more thoughtful. “Is there any case that ever… stuck with you? Something that really got under your skin?”

It’s the kind of question most people don’t ask. Most dates would keep it light—favorite colors, the last movie he watched or his current hobbies, or whether he’s ever been in a shootout, but not you.

Chris opens his mouth, and Silvene is right there on his tongue. The name tastes cold and bitter. The image of silver dust, fingerprints that never exist. He wants to talk about her—how she makes him lose sleep, how she’s the only case that haunts him.

But then he looks at you and you’re here. You’re real, warm and present. And you’re giving him all of your attention. He doesn’t want to think about ghosts when you’re sitting in front of him, full of curiosity and endless possibilities.

So instead, he leans back and says, “There was a murder case. A few months ago.”

Your brow raises in intrigue. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” he says with a half-smile. “But it ended well. Took a month of digging, but we got him.”

You don’t flinch. In fact, you look intrigued. “Murder, huh?” you murmur. “Sounds intense.”

“It was,” Chris says. “The guy almost slipped through. Used to be a lawyer, knew all the loopholes. But one detail tripped him up—he left a trail of receipts for a fake alibi.”

You hum appreciatively. “Rookie moves. Amateurs always forget to cover their paper trail.”

Chris huffs a laugh, amused. “Most people don’t say things like that.”

You just smile, that same playful curve of your lips that got him the first time. “I’m not most people.”

It’s true. He feels it in the way the conversation flows between you like you’ve known each other for years. The way you shift effortlessly from teasing to thoughtful, from soft to sharp. You keep him on his toes—and he likes it. It’s not just attraction. It’s something deeper. Something… instant.

When the check comes and you let him pay without protest, he knows he’s doomed. Not in a bad way. Just the kind that means he’s already thinking about when he’ll see you again. Because if this is what it feels like to be with someone who sees you, really sees you—then maybe it’s time to stop chasing a ghost.

The two of you step out into the night, the autumn air sharp but not cruel. The kind that slips into your sleeves and brushes against your skin like it’s testing how long you’ll last without a coat. You wrap your arms around yourself, and the wind stirs your hair, catching the light from the café’s neon sign. Chris watches as a few strands fall across your cheek and you brush them back without thinking. You look like you belong in a movie like you’ve already slipped into the kind of memory he won’t be able to let go of.

He doesn’t want to leave yet but he doesn’t know how to ask you to stay—not without sounding like a guy who gets too eager, too fast. And God, that’s exactly what he is right now. Eager. Caught off guard. Already in too deep and trying not to show it.

So instead, he exhales, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and says, “So... I guess this is it.”

You turn to him, smiling softly, and something in his chest tightens.

He clears his throat as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Would you—uh. Want to go out again sometime?”

You stare at him in mock thoughtful. “Maybe.”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “Maybe?”

“Well...” you tilt your head, lips curling into a smirk. “If you show up on time.”

He laughs, dropping his gaze for a second. “Right. Fair.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of your move. The quiet buzz of the city hums around you two, but it feels far away. Right now, it’s just the two of you, standing under the soft glow of a streetlamp, caught in something warm and unexpected.

And then you look at him right in the eyes and say, “Or… We could just skip the wait and go straight to the second date? That way you have no excuse to be late.”

It hits him in the chest like a slow, soft punch. He wasn’t ready for that. Not from you. Not from someone who’s got every reason to play it cool. But you’re looking at him like you mean it, like this wasn’t just a nice dinner and easy conversation—it was something more. And you want more.

He’s stunned and a little smug, but mostly stunned. So naturally, he tries to play it cool. He nonchalantly shrugs and says, “Hmm… tempting. But I don’t know. I’ve got protocols. Timelines. Rules.”

You roll your eyes. “Wow. Yeah, I forgot you are a cop.”

He grins and crosses his arms together in front of him. “I have a badge and everything.”

“Oh no, I can already hear it,” you say with a dramatic sigh. “Sorry, can’t kiss you, I’ve got a curfew. The chief said no fraternizing past ten.”

Chris bursts out laughing and probably a little too much for a sidewalk at night. He hasn’t laughed like this in months. Not the kind that feels like something cracking open in his chest. He catches your gaze again, and this time he doesn’t look away.

“Okay,” he says. “Screw the curfew. Let’s have that second date.”

You smile, and it’s the kind that doesn’t need words. It just sits there, soft and full of possibility, like something you’re both too scared to name yet. And for the first time in almost a year— Chris thinks maybe he’s allowed to want something that isn’t just the chase.

The second date takes place at a bar a few blocks away from the café. It’s dim and loud, but not too loud. It buzzes with warmth—soft yellow lights strung along the ceiling, music humming in the background, and the occasional burst of laughter.

However, to Chris, the world has shrunk down to a booth in the corner and the girl sitting across from him. You’re holding your drink with one hand, fingers lazily circling the rim. Your eyes flick up to meet his, and there’s a glint there—playful, daring. Dangerous, maybe. But God, he’s drawn to it like a moth to flame.

"So,” you say, tone light but laced with something heavier, “is it true all cops are secretly just lonely guys with a badge and a savior complex?”

Chris nearly chokes on his drink, laughing. “Wow. Going straight for the kill?”

You lean in, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Is it a, yes?”

He smiles. “I don’t think I’m lonely.”

“Mm. Just married to your job, then?”

“Basically.”

You tap your glass against his. “Tragic. But we can still fix that.”

He doesn’t even bother hiding the way his gaze drops to your mouth. You’re close. Too close. The kind of close that makes him hold his breathe.

You tilt your head slightly, catching him in the act, and smirk. “Do you always look at suspects like that, Detective?”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “Only the really dangerous ones.”

You laugh and gosh, he wants to bottle that sound, keep it tucked somewhere deep in his chest. It’s reckless how fast you’ve disarmed him and the way your body leans into the space between them—he feels it like a jolt. Everything in him tightens. You’re not subtle. But neither is he.

The air thickens, becomes electric. Each word, each look is another step toward something inevitable. It’s like gravity. You keep pulling him in.

And then, you do it again—lean in close, lips nearly brushing his ear, your voice a soft whisper: “You keep staring at me like that, and I might start thinking you're the dangerous one.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Yet his voice drops lower. “Maybe I am.”

But just when he thinks you’ll close the gap between you—when the only thing separating your mouth from his is a shallow breath—you pull away. You're standing up, walking away from the booth like you haven’t just set his entire nervous system on fire.

Chris watches as you make your way to the jukebox, hips swaying, your fingers trailing across the dusty surface of the machine like you’re teasing it, too. The hem of your dress rides up just slightly when you lean forward, revealing a hint of thigh that makes Chris’s mouth go dry. He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.

Soon enough, the music starts—a low, sultry pulse of old rock, smooth and aching. The kind that sinks into the bones and settles somewhere hot. You turn to face him with the soft red glow from the jukebox backlights your silhouette as if warning him that you’re an imminent danger to him. You walk back toward him and there’s no smile this time. Just a look. One that says come here, without needing to say a word.

Chris instinctively stands as you reach for his hand and pull him toward the open floor like you’ve done this before, like he belongs here with you. Your hands slide up his chest, warm and bold, resting against his shoulders. His settle instinctively on your hips, fingers tightening just slightly when you press against him.

The dance starts slow. Swaying, lazy, intimate. He gives you a spin, and when you fall back into his arms, your body fits against his too perfectly. You're so close now. Just enough distance for the tension to settle thick in the air between you. Close enough to feel the shape of your breath on his lips. Close enough to hear your quiet laugh when he fumbles the next step and mutters something under his breath about being terrible at this.

"You’re not that bad," you murmur, leaning in. "Just stiff."

His grip on your waist tightens as he teasingly says "I’ve heard that before."

You smile, eyes catching his like you know what you’re doing to him.

"You should loosen up," you say, voice soft, eyes hooded. "Let go a little."

Your hips move against his, slow and languid, guiding him into the rhythm of the music. It’s not really dancing anymore—not in the traditional sense. It’s something else. Something more primal. Less choreography, more instinct.

The air between you shifts as your arms loop around his neck. Your chest brushes his. Your mouth is so close—so maddeningly close—that all Chris can focus on is the way your lips part just slightly when you breathe, the way your gaze dips to his, then back up, then down again. It’s teasing. Daring. Alluring. Then you lean in, your lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whisper, “You look like you want to kiss me.”

Chris huffs out a soft laugh, heat pooling low in his gut. “I’ve wanted to since you called me out for being late.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your expression unreadable. Your hand cups the back of his neck, fingers playing with his stubborn curl there.

"Then why haven’t you?"

Just like that, his control frays. He finally closes the distance and he’s almost lets out a sigh of relief the second his lips touch yours.

The kiss is slow, deep, and hungry. Your lips are soft, your mouth warm, and the moment your tongue brushes his, something in him snaps. One of his hands slides up your back, gripping you closer; the other stays firm on your waist, grounding him through the storm of sensation. You kiss him back like you're feeding on him, like you need him, like this moment could swallow the both of you whole and neither of you would mind. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s… consuming.

You tilt your head, deepening the kiss. Your fingers tug at the collar of his shirt, and Chris exhales a shaky breath against your mouth, chest pressed against yours like he wants to imprint this memory in the back of his mind.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath and to take you in — the way your lips are swollen from his kiss, the way your eyes gleam under the dim bar lights, like you're lit from within. He gives you a sly, crooked smile, still catching his breath. “So,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “how about we skip ahead to the third date?”

You let out a soft laugh, and it’s almost a purr — dangerous and sweet all at once. “For a cop,” you tease, inching closer, “you really don’t give a damn about rules.”

Chris’s hands tighten on your waist. “Not when it comes to you.”

Your lips brush his again, but this time, it’s you who kisses him — slower, deeper, like a promise and a dare rolled into one. When you pull away, your lips linger against his, breath warm and ragged. “Then let’s go straight to the third date,” you whisper, barely audible against his mouth.

Chris is already moving before you finish the sentence — chasing another taste of you, heart pounding, knowing he’s in trouble, and yeah, you’re right, he’s not giving a damn.

Chris doesn’t know how he got here—tangled with you on his bed, your mouth moving feverishly against his, your body pressed so tight against him it feels like he’s burning alive.

You’re still in that damn dress, the one that’s been driving him insane all night. His hands glide down your sides, exploring every curve through the thin fabric until that’s no longer enough for him so he slips a hand beneath the hem, and the heat pooling between your legs nearly makes him lose it.

You gasp — breath catching, eyes fluttering — the moment his fingers manage to trace your clit through the silky fabric. He swears under his breath, voice hoarse against your ear.

“So soft…” he murmurs. “So goddamn responsive.”

Your body arches into his touch, hips moving with each slow, deliberate circle he draws on your bundle of nerves, and your moans are like gasoline to his fire. He can barely think. He doesn’t want to think. He only wants more, more and more.

With a rough tug, he slides the flimsy barrier down your legs, the cool air hitting your skin, and he shudders at the sight of you — bare and breathtaking. He pushes the hem of your dress higher, bunching it at your hips, then lowers himself between your thighs.

Chris doesn’t hesitate. He leans in, tasting you with a hunger that startles even himself. And God, the way you react — fingers tugging at his hair, back arching off the mattress, mouth parting around his name — he’s never wanted anything more than to give you everything you’re asking for without words.

He wraps his arms beneath your thighs, pulling you closer because he wants you and that sweet cunt nowhere but in his greedy mouth. Every sound you make urges him on, every tug of his hair lights a fuse inside his chest. Then he hears his name, falling from your lips like a breathless confession.

“Chris?”

He pauses, just long enough to lift his head and meet your eyes. His face is flushed, lips wet, chest rising and falling like he’s the one unraveling.

And you smile at him, sly and adoring all at once, as you murmur, “I like you. So, so much.”

Chris’s answering grin is cocky and sweet all at once, pure triumph and pure affection mixed together. “Yeah?” he says, eyes gleaming as he lowers his head again. “Let me show you how much I like you too.”

And then he’s lost in you again, in the taste, in the sound, in the way you give yourself so completely to him and Chris knows, even now, he’s already too far gone.

The room is dark, lit only by the faint moonlight leaking through the blinds. Shadows dance across your skin, soft and warm beneath him, your breath feathering against his jaw as he presses a kiss to your lips, to your jaw, to your neck, anywhere he can land his lips on.

Chris moves not out of restraint, but reverence. Every roll of his hips into yours is measured, deep and unhurried, like he’s trying to savor every second of being inside you. How it feels to be seen like this — touched, trusted, held in your gaze like he’s something worth holding on to.

God, he wants to ruin you. Wants to lose himself in the slick sounds and the grip of your cunt around his cock and the desperate way you whisper his name. But more than that, he wants this. This connection. This rhythm. This fragile, burning intimacy that wraps around the two of you.

You look up at him with your eyes soft, wide and vulnerable in a way that cuts him open. You’re letting him in, letting him see the person behind the teasing smiles and clever remarks. Letting him be with you, not just inside your body, but somewhere deeper.

Chris’s not prepared for it. Not for the way it hits him like a slow, rolling wave — steady and immense. You’re pulling him under, and he doesn’t even want to come up for air.

I want this. He finds himself thinking, chest tight, heart hammering as he thrusts into you again and again, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Your fingers trail along his spine, your legs wrapping tighter around him, and that look in your eyes… that look tells him you might just want the same.

The next day, when the morning light creeps in Chris wakes up to the steady rise and fall of your breathing against his chest, he knows for sure it wasn’t just a dream. You’re still here, curled beneath his blanket, tangled in the fabric and the afterglow of last night, your body tucked close to his like it’s always belonged there.

When he shifts, he does it carefully as to not wake you, his eyes find your face — serene, lips slightly parted, hair tousled across his pillow. God, you’re beautiful.

The flutter in his chest is immediate. It’s stupid, giddy, a little out of place for a man like him who’s hardened by the job, by long nights and empty beds — but it’s real and he wants this. Waking up to you, seeing you first thing in the morning, every morning.

Your lashes flutter open just as he’s about to lean down and kiss your shoulder. Your eyes meet his, still heavy with sleep — and instinctively, he blurts it out. “You’re my girlfriend now.”

A moment passes in silence. You blink once, twice, and slowly roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with an exaggerated groan. “God, what have I done?” you mutter, dramatic and husky with sleep. “I’m dating a cop.”

Chris laughs — a low, warm sound that rumbles in his chest — and shifts to hover above you, bracing his arms on either side of your head. “That’s right,” he says, grinning down at you. “No more breaking the law for you.”

You stretch your arms and put your wrists together before offering them to him with a sly smile. “Might as well arrest me now, detective.”

He easily takes both of your wrists in one hand and pins them gently to the mattress above your head, his body lowering until there’s barely any space between you. His breath brushes over your lips as he leans in, eyes locked on yours. “There’s no escaping me now,” he murmurs, voice deep and rough with affection.

With that, he kisses you, slow and consuming like a promise sealed in soft moans and sunlit sheets. Soon enough, the kiss deepens, lazy and heated, and he doesn't stop until you’re sighing into his mouth again. Your wrists still in his grasp, your body pliant beneath his, Chris pulls back just enough to look at you — flushed, smiling and officially his now. And in that look, in that breathless pause between kisses, he decides that he’s never letting you go.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The sky is a dull gray, heavy with the promise of rain, and the alleyway reeks of smoke and gasoline. Chris stands in the middle of the taped-off crime scene, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat as he surveys the area. His gaze is sharp, sweeping over the shattered glass, the scorched remains of a getaway vehicle, the bloodstains smudged on the pavement.

He points toward the burned-out car. “Get the forensics team to check for accelerants. If this was intentional, I want to know what kind of fuel was used.”

Felix, crouched nearby with a small notepad in hand, nods and scribbles it down. “Already flagged it.”

Chris’s attention shifts to a trail of footprints leading out of the alley. “Get prints and shoe impressions, too. And the camera—” He gestures to a security cam mounted just above the fire escape. “We’ll need that footage ASAP.”

“On it.” Felix flips to a new page, pen racing across the paper. “So far, we’ve got arson, suspected assault, possibly linked to the earlier drug bust. What else?”

Chris glances at his watch, the leather strap is worn, the one thing he never takes off. “Check if any witnesses were nearby. That diner down the block—someone had to see something.”

Felix nods again as he slips his notepad shut. “Already talked to the owner. He’s checking his own CCTV for us.”

Chris exhales slowly, looking around the crime scene once more just in case he missed something the first time. “Anything else?”

Felix stands, brushing dust from his pants. “Not until the lab sends back the full report.”

Chris takes one final look around the alley before nodding. “Alright. Let’s head back to the precinct.”

The precinct is quieter than usual, late afternoon light casting long shadows across the walls. He’s buried in paperwork—incident reports, witness statements, evidence logs—everything from today’s scene stacked neatly on his desk, waiting for his final signature. His fingers move across the keyboard steadily, the soft clack of the keys blending into the low hum of conversation and the occasional ring of a phone. He’s just finishing up the last report when he senses someone hovering nearby and he doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Felix. The quiet tapping of his pen against the desk gives him away.

“You done yet?” Felix asks, half-sighing. “Come grab a beer. You owe me one after I had to talk to that diner guy who only spoke in riddles and ancient parables.”

Chris chuckles but keeps typing. “Can’t tonight.”

Felix drops his head to the side and groans. “Let me guess—going home early again?”

Chris nods, still not looking away from his screen. “Told her I’d be home for dinner.”

Felix lets out a dramatic sigh and flops into the chair opposite Chris’s desk. “Jesus. You act like you’ve got a wife waiting at home with curlers in her hair and a roast in the oven.”

That makes Chris grin, his eyes finally flicking toward his partner. “Jealous?”

Felix scoffs. “I’m offended, actually. You’ve known her for, what, six months? We’ve been through hell together since the academy, and you’re ditching me for what? A roast chicken and mashed potatoes?”

Chris chuckles again and clicks submit on the final report. “It’s pasta night, actually.”

“Unbelievable,” Felix mutters, crossing his arms like a sulking child and starts swiveling his office chair from side to side.

Chris stands and starts gathering his things—his phone, keys and then his bag. He shrugs on his jacket last and gives Felix a firm pat on the shoulder. “Next time, drinks are on me.”

Felix narrows his eyes as he crosses his legs together. “Damn right they are.”

Chris heads for the elevator, already loosening his tie when he hears Felix behind him again. “I’m keeping your promise, you know! You owe me, Chris!”

Chris turns back just before the elevator doors begin to slide shut. “I know,” he laughs, lifting a hand to wave.

Felix scowls and flips him off in return, and Chris is still laughing when the doors finally close.

Chris can already feel his exhaustion leaving him the moment he steps into his apartment. He toes off his boots and calls out, “Baby, I’m home,” like he always does and he can already picture you welcoming him with that soft smile you always wear when you see him.

However, there’s no response, not even the faint shuffle of footsteps. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the hook by the door and try again, “Babe?”

Still no answer and a subtle tension begins to thread itself through his muscles, the instincts that have kept him alive in back alleys and tense raids kicking in. His eyes sweep the space as he steps further in and that’s when he sees a trail of red—thick, wet, splattered across the floor near the kitchen island.

Chris’s heart lurches into his throat. His hand instinctively goes to his side, where his weapon still trapped to its holster, his hand lingers there ready to use it when the situation calls for it. He moves quietly, cautiously and then he hears footsteps echo behind him. He swiftly spins around and ready for—

It’s you, you’re standing there holding a mop, eyes wide, startled by his sudden turn. But his gaze drops, locking on the front of your shirt, soaked in red and streaked across your chest, blotched near your ribs.

“Are you—what happened?” he asks with voice strained.

You immediately set the mop aside and hold your hands up like you’re about to calm a wild animal. “Don’t panic,” you say, already half-laughing at yourself. “It’s not blood.”

Chris’s jaw tightens, not entirely reassured until you continue. His hands reaching for you, wanting to make sure of it himself.

“It’s tomato sauce. I dropped the jar trying to twist it open and it exploded all over me.” You glance down at your shirt while uselessly trying to wipe it away. “It looks like a murder scene, huh?”

Only then does Chris let out the breath he’d been holding, the knot in his chest slowly loosening. He lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Gosh. I thought—” He stops himself before saying it. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You smile sheepishly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I was going to clean it up before you got home, but I guess you’re early.”

Chris steps closer, watching the way the mess clings to you. “Want help?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no. You’ve had a long day. Go shower first. I’ll handle this.”

But he doesn’t move toward the bedroom. He keeps his eyes on you, his expression softening. “Can I at least get a kiss first?”

You glance down at your shirt. “Chris. I’m covered in sauce.”

“So?” He shrugs with a smile.

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch into a grin as he steps forward. He gently cups your face, careful not to brush against your stained clothes, and leans in. The kiss is long and lingering, the kind that makes time slow down for a few precious seconds.

When he pulls back, your lips curve upward and you murmur quietly, “Welcome home.”

Chris lets the words settle into him and he can feel the eight of the day melts away from him because now he’s here with you. He’s home.

“You’d better put away that thing first, mmh?” You mutter, eyeing the gun resting against his hip.

Apart from the safety, the wage and the insane working hours, your least favorite thing about Chris’s job is his gun. In fact, the only condition you asked of him when he asked you to move in with him is to put that thing away from you. He doesn’t need to ask why, he understands right away without having you explained it to him.

So Chris heads straight into the bedroom, unholstering his gun with the practiced ease of muscle memory and secures it in the lockbox beneath the nightstand. Then he tucks away his badge, and places his handcuffs on the dresser where he’ll grab them again in the morning. That ritual also marks the line between his world out there and this world that feels far softer.

A hot shower is next. Steam rises in curls as the water beats against the back of his neck, washing away the city grit and exhaustion clinging to his skin. He leans into it, letting the tension roll off his shoulders, muscles loosening with every pass of soap and water. When he emerges minutes later, towel drying his hair, he’s already shed the weight of the day. He dresses in a soft, worn t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and with that, he walks out of the room.

Chris immediately finds you in the kitchen, completely in your element. The light above casts a warm glow over you, catching the curves of your face, the slope of your nose, and the small furrow in your brow as you concentrate. One hand stirring the sauce in a pan, the other is scrolling down the tablet probably making sure you’re following the recipe to a tee because you’re meticulous like that.

He leans against the doorway for a second, just watching. These are the moments that remind him he’s more than the badge, more than the cases and the cold bodies. It reminds him that he can have this. He can want this.

As if sensing his eyes on you, you glance up and flash him that radiant smile. “Due to the tomato sauce incident, dinner needs a little bit more time,” you inform, voice soft and inviting over the gentle sizzle from the pan.

His feet pulling him without thought, he comes up behind you, slipping his arms around your waist, fitting himself snug against your back as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

The scent of garlic and herbs drifts up, and he inhales deeply. “Smells amazing,” he murmurs.

“It better be. I’m not risking another kitchen massacre,” you say with a light chuckle.

He laughs and watches you dip the spatula into the sauce and have a taste with your finger, your face contemplative. “Mmm,” you hum, unsure. “I don’t know…”

Chris doesn’t hesitate to dip a finger on the sauce coated the spatula and brings it to his mouth, tasting it with a satisfied hum. “I think it’s good.”

You turn your head slightly to look at him, your lips curving. “You sure you’re not just biased?”

“Totally biased,” he admits, grinning. “Still delicious.”

You reward him with a quick peck on the lips. “Well, dinner’s ready then,” you say as you turn off the stove and start to pull away.

But Chris doesn’t let go. Instead, he turns you gently to face him, his arms still circled around you, and kisses you again, tasting a hint of sweetness lingering on your lips. In the next moment, he deepens the kiss as hunger rising in his chest. A different kind of hunger that can only be satisfied by you.

The scent of sauce fades into the background, replaced by the way you gasp softly against his mouth, the way your fingers tugging at the front of his shirt. Before he knows it, he’s lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms sliding around his shoulders.

You glance down at him, breath warm against his cheek. “Dinner first,” you remind him teasingly. “Dessert after.”

Chris huffs out a playful breath, shaking his head with a grin. “You think I came home early for your cooking?”

Your eyes widen, mock-offended. “Wow. I’m genuinely hurt.”

He kisses you again, slow and deep, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Dinner can wait.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before a single word can escape, he’s already carrying you toward the sofa, both of you laughing as the sauce simmers forgotten on the stove.

The sofa creaks beneath you both as Chris moves over you with a hunger he’s barely managed to keep under control all day, his pace relentless now as he thrusts into you. He glances down to where your bodies are connected, his cock slipping in and out of you One of your hands is braced against the armrest, your knuckles pale from the grip, while the other clutches at his shoulder, nails digging into the skin.

He loves this. God, he lives for this. It’s the way your body yields to him, the way you hold on like he’s the only thing anchoring you, and maybe he is. Because when Chris makes love to you, it’s never just about release—it’s about claiming, about worship, about telling you without words how badly he needs this. Needs you. How most of his day had been spent glancing at the clock, wishing the hours away, just so he could come home and lose himself inside you again.

When he looks down at you, at the way your back arched, your mouth parted open with breathless moans and stuttered words that don’t even make sense anymore, your eyes squeezed shut from the overwhelming pleasure, your breasts bouncing with each thrust—you don’t look real. You look like a sacred thing wrapped in sin, and you’re all his.

You whisper his name in desperation and needs, and he feels you clench around him—tight, trembling, fluttering in a way that tells him you’re close.

Chris groans low, the sound guttural, as you cry out, your body arching into his. "Chris—god—I’m coming," you gasp, voice airy and broken. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

That’s all it takes for him to finally able to let go. Chris lets out a strangled breath, nearly losing control then and there, but he pulls out just in time. His hand wraps around his throbbing cock, quick strokes guiding him through the final push, and with a rough gasp, he spills onto your stomach—thick, hot, the release shaking through him as his eyes stay locked on you.

Damn. That sight of your skin flushed, chest rising and falling fast, the white of his seed glistening on your stomach… it’s something that lodges itself in his memory, permanently etched there.

You squirm slightly beneath him, glancing down at your body, then look up at him with that teasing glint in your eye. “That’s a lot of cream for dessert,” you quip, voice light and lazy with satisfaction.

Chris lets out a breathy laugh, heart still thudding wildly in his chest. That’s what he loves about you—you always know. When to tease. When to be soft. When to melt into him like this, to offer yourself so openly, so fully. And when to hold your own with that sharp tongue and fire in your eyes.

Still catching his breath, he leans down and presses a kiss to your lips—slow, tender, lingering. Your hands come up to brush through his hair, fingers curling against his scalp, before a hand slides down to cradle his jaw. It’s so affectionate, so sweet, so you.

When you pull away, your expression shifts into something mockingly stern. “Can we have dinner now? The pasta’s getting soggy,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes.

Of course that’s what you’d say. Chris grins because that’s exactly why he loves you. Because you’re everything he wants—sultry, sharp, grounding, wild, soft—all wrapped up in one woman who makes his heart race and his world feel whole. He leans in and kisses you again, slower, sweeter. When he pulls away, he mumbles against your lips, “We’ll reheat it later.”

As you’ve expected, the pasta’s soggy and the sauce lukewarm but Chris couldn’t care less. You’re sitting beside him on the sofa, your legs tucked under you, wearing nothing but his oversized white t-shirt that hangs loose on your frame and honestly, you look too good for his own peace of mind.

Chris digs into the bowl of food, his bare chest still red in places from the aftermath, his grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips. You both eat like it’s the best thing in the world, even though objectively, it’s not. But there’s laughter between bites and that’s what makes it special.

And yes, he’s aware of your gaze that is burning into him from the side so he pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, and glances at you with a crooked smile. “What?” he asks with a teasing tone, already knowing there’s something behind that look.

You immediately look away, shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh. “Nothing.”

Chris leans in just a little, nudging your leg with his knee. “No, come on. Don’t do that. You were staring at me. I want to know what was going on in that beautiful little head of yours.”

You let out a soft chuckle, your fingers wrapping around your wine glass as you take a slow sip like you’re stalling. Finally, you glance over at him again, eyes dancing with amusement. “I was just wondering,” you murmur, lips curving into a knowing smile, “how you can eat like that after railed me so hard a moment ago.”

Chris grins around a mouthful of pasta, clearly pleased with himself. He sets the bowl down and leans back against the sofa, eyes gleaming. “I’m impressive like that,” he says, smug. “Multitalented.”

You roll your eyes but laugh, reaching over to tap a finger to his chest. “Flattery won’t get you a second round tonight.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Was worth a shot.”

In the bedroom, the movie flickers on the TV screen but none of you really pay attention to it as the two of you are tangled together on the bed. Chris has his head rested against your chest, listening more to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat than the film. Your fingers are in his hair, lazily combing through the strands as he melts under your touch.

“I didn’t really do much today,” you say softly, your voice a gentle hum above him. “But on the way back from grocery shopping, I found this new pho restaurant three blocks down. I think we should check it out.”

Chris hums, eyes half-lidded, comforted not just by your voice, but the casual way you say ‘we’ like it’s always been this way, like it’ll always be this way.

He shifts slightly, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before speaking. “It’s a long day for me,” he mumbles. “Felix and I checked out a new scene. Might be connected to a drug ring, might not. We’re waiting on lab results, so it’s more of a hold-your-breath kind of day than a productive one.”

You murmur a soft sound, encouraging him to go on and he sighs into your skin before speaking. “It gets frustrating, y’know? There’s always bad things happen every day. And sometimes I wonder if we’re ever going to catch a break.”

You keep running your fingers through his hair, silent but present, and he loves that. He loves that you don’t always have to fix it, just that you listen.

“I often find myself asking…” he adds with a thoughtful, wistful tone. “Am I doing enough?”

You gently cup his chin and tilt his head toward you, meeting his gaze. “Trust me when I say you’re doing the best you can, baby,” you assure him, keeping your voice low and soft. “Even though people couldn’t see it, but I do. And I’m so proud of you for making the world safer, better every day.”

He softly smiles when you bump your nose and rub it against his. Both his voice and gaze soften as he mutters, “I like talking to you about it. About all of it. Not just the job. Me. My head. It feels… safe.”

It’s true. He feels it deep in his bones in the way his body relaxes around you, in the way your touch melts the last of the day’s weight off his shoulders. This—being able to talk, to share, to just exist with you like this—is the kind of beautiful he never thought he’d deserve.

You tilt your head down, pressing your lips briefly against his. “And I feel safe when I’m with you,” you whisper.

The two of you eventually fall quiet, not because there’s nothing left to say, but because words aren't necessary anymore. You shift slightly and turn his face toward yours, and with a soft smile, he kisses you slowly yet deeply.

“Goodnight,” you whisper against his lips.

Chris brushes his thumb over your cheek and replies just as softly, “Goodnight.”

With that, he closes his eyes and slowly drift into sleep with a smile etched on his face because right now, he’s already had the best part of coming home.

Chris stirs awake to the sensation of someone collapsing on top of him. Warm, soft and familiar. You press your body flush against his and pepper lazy kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

“Christopher,” you sing in a sweet, melodic tease, dragging out the syllables like you’re serenading him into consciousness. “Wake up.”

He groans low in his throat, arms instinctively wrapping around your waist like a net pulling you in. “No,” he mumbles into the pillow, voice gravelly with sleep. “Five more minutes.”

You lean down to kiss the corner of his mouth and try again. “Come on, Christopher. Wake up...”

Without warning, Chris flips the both of you over, the world briefly turning upside down as he pins you beneath him, his arms caging you in. He lets his full weight rest gently atop you, head buried into the crook of your neck.

“You’re such a menace in the morning,” he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled and thick with sleep.

You huff but don’t push him away, your fingers slipping into his messy bedhead and combing through it lovingly. “We don’t have time to play,” you remind him softly, though the way you fondly touch him betrays you.

Chris only hums in response, burrowing even deeper into your neck like a cat refusing to be moved. “We’ve got time,” he says with a lazy smirk.

“We really don’t,” you reply with a sigh. “You’re going to be late. Again.”

Still, Chris refuses to move but then the sharp buzz of his phone on the bedside table breaks through the sleepy silence. He ignores it at first, clutching you tighter as if he can will the world to wait.

“That could be work, you know?” You sing again, taunting him sweetly. “Could be a bad guy on the loose and they need their favourite detective to catch him?”

Chris chuckles sleepily but cracks one eye open. “You’re evil.”

“I know I am,” you playfully admit as you’re wiggling under him.

With a sigh that sounds like it comes from the depths of his soul, he reluctantly reaches over and grabs his phone, squinting at the screen.

Of course, you’re right that it is work calling. Felix to be exact. He accepts the call and presses the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” His voice is still hoarse, but his posture begins to shift into work mode.

Felix’s voice crackles through the speaker, urgent but steady. “Lab results are in. There’s a development on the drug ring case.”

Chris rubs the sleep off his eyes and lifting himself to sit up on the bed, fully awake now. “Alright. I’ll be in soon.”

While he’s mid-conversation, you slip out from under him, smooth and smug. He watches with narrowed eyes as you saunter toward the bedroom door, wearing nothing but a grin and one of his old sweatshirt that hangs loose around your thighs.

You glance back over your shoulder with a smirk. “Better hurry, detective. You’ve got bad guys to catch.”

Chris groans and flops back against the mattress, the warmth of your body lingering on his skin and as much as he wants to stay buried in bed with you, tangled in sheets and sleepy kisses, he knows the world’s not going to stop spinning.

Criminals don’t take breaks but God, he wishes they did so he can have a few more minutes with you.

Chris moves in a blur, pulling on his clothes piece by piece, tugging the zipper of his pants while trying to shake off sleep’s last hold on his body. His shirt is neatly ironed, thanks to you. He shrugs on his jacket, reaching for the essentials from inside the lockbox. The gun goes into the holster, badge clipped onto his belt, and finally, he slides the cold weight of the handcuff back into the inner pocket of his jacket. His routine is always the same tedious thing until he walks out of the bedroom and finds you standing in the kitchen, a small wrapped sandwich already packed in wax paper and a bottle of orange juice waiting next to it.

You glance up as he enters, smiling as bright as the morning sun. “For the road,” you playfully say.

Chris feels the tightness in his chest that only comes when something feels too good to be real. He walks over and takes the breakfast with a soft “Thank you,” and without thinking, leans in, cupping your waist with one arm as he pulls you close and kisses you.

“Will you be home for dinner?” you ask, your voice gentle against the curve of his jaw as he pulls away.

Chris exhales, eyes flicking toward the clock on the microwave. “I doubt I’ll make it in time,” he admits. “But I’ll let you know.”

You nod with a small, understanding smile. “Okay.”

He hates leaving you, rushing off, but you never make him feel guilty for it. Somehow, you always manage to be soft when the rest of the world demands him to be hard.

“I have to go,” he says, and he really means it this time, though his body refuses to move just yet. “You know how it is.”

You step back slightly, giving him space, but not without brushing your fingers against his chest one last time. “Be safe, yeah?”

Chris turns to head for the door, but on impulse, he doubles back, giving your butt a quick, cheeky slap. “You too,” he says with a grin. “Gotta keep that safe.”

You scoff a laugh and raise an eyebrow. “Me or my butt?”

He lets out a bark of laughter, grinning. “Yes.”

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling and he sees the way your cheeks crinkle, the way your eyes soften. He leans in again, slower this time, taking a moment to really look at you. His fingers graze your jaw as he gives you a lingering kiss, one that says everything he doesn’t have time to: I love you. I’ll be back soon.

When he finally pulls away and heads for the door, you follow him out to the hallway. He presses the elevator button, adjusting the collar of his jacket as he waits. Out of temptation, he looks over his shoulder and there you are, lingering in the doorway and waving your hand at him with a scintillating smile that puts the summer sun to shame.

As the elevator doors close, Chris smiles as he mutters to himself that he already can’t wait to go home.

The precinct is buzzing with all kinds of noises from footsteps across the linoleum, papers shuffled, phones ringing and also, the occasional drunken shouts coming from the holding cell. Chris leans over the case file, elbows planted on the edge of the cluttered desk he shares with Felix. The drug ring case has taken a turn, a new lead surfacing late last night. Surveillance footage, a car trace, a potential drop location. It’s not a breakthrough, but it’s enough to chase.

“My CI confirmed that there’s going to be a drug deal at the warehouse. We’ll need to do a stakeout,” Felix mutters, tapping the map laid out on the desk. “Tonight.”

Chris nods, already reaching for his phone as he pushes away from the desk. “Yeah. Okay. I just need to make a quick call.”

He steps out into the hallway, somewhere quieter and presses call on your numbers. It rings once, twice, and then he hears your voice, soft and playful.

“Hey, sexy.”

“Hey,” he exhales a supressed laugh, the weight in his chest lightening. “Just wanted to tell you I won’t make it home tonight. We’ve got a new lead—stakeout duty.”

There’s a pause, then a teasing lilt in your voice. “Oh no, I guess I’ll have to put on my new lingerie and enjoy the silence all by myself.”

Chris’s eyes widen slightly, and he instinctively bites down on his lower lip, turning his back to the hallway to hide the grin that tugs at his mouth. Aware that people could pass him by at any moment, he keeps his voice low. “That was a dirty move.”

You laugh on the other end and hearing it makes him homesick. “Just trying to give my hardworking detective something to look forward to.”

Chris swallows hard, casting a glance around to make sure no one’s listening but of course, when his eyes land back on the bullpen, Felix is throwing daggers with his eyes from the desk, completely unamused. He clears his throat and composes himself.

“Nice try,” he mutters into the phone, as if that’s enough to hold back the image your words have already planted in his head.

You hum, not even a little sorry. “Promise me you’ll stay safe?”

He nods, even though you can’t see it. “Always. Try not to worry about me.”

“I always do,” you say quietly. “But I trust you.”

He can hear your smile through the phone and he can picture it perfectly, the curve of your lips, the crinkle by your eyes. He wants nothing more than to be home already.

“Go and save the world, tiger,” you say just as he’s about to hang up.

Chris can’t help the way his lips curl into a grin. He chuckles softly under his breath.

“Talk soon, baby,” he says, voice warm, and hangs up.

He tucks the phone into his pocket and turns to head back toward Felix, who’s already shaking his head in mock disgust.

Chris shrugs, smirking. “What?”

Felix rolls his eyes as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “You’re completely whipped.”

Chris grabs his jacket and the car keys. “Yeah,” he says without shame. “And I’m not even mad about it.”

The sky has long lost its colour, and the dark outside is only interrupted by the distant hum of traffic and the flicker of a faulty streetlamp near the edge of the warehouse. The stakeout’s been dragging as there’s no movement on site yet.

Chris exhales, his fingers tapping mindlessly on the steering wheel, the silence in the car thick until his phone buzzes from the inner pocket of his jacket. He reaches inside and fishes out his phone. The screen lights up with your name and a text preview. He unlocks it quickly and the first thing that loads is a photo.

You’re sprawled across the bed, lying on your stomach with your head turned just slightly toward the camera. The silk of your camisole barely contains the generous curve of your breasts, the neckline dipping dangerously low. The colour flatters your skin, but what makes him sucks air through his teeth is the way you look so damn tempting without even trying.

“Dammit, baby!” He swears softly under his breath and looks out the window to make sure no one’s approaching the car before turning his attention back to the screen.

Too bad I’m sleeping alone tonight, the next text reads.

Chris runs a hand down his face, fighting off the groan threatening his throat. God, you know exactly what you’re doing because he’s two seconds away from turning the car engine on and driving straight home.

Instead, Chris inhales air to calm himself down and composes a reply.

Stay like that until I come home.

Your response comes seconds later.

But then the ghost in our bedroom would be enjoying the view instead.

Chris huffs out a laugh, too loud in the stillness of the car. His head falls back against the seat, grin spreading uncontrollably.

The ghost can enjoy the view. And also enjoy what happens when I come home later.

Can’t wait to put on a good show later ;)

His thumbs hover above the keyboard before typing out, Go to sleep. I’ll be home soon.

Your final reply makes his chest warm. Okay. You stay safe for me, okay?

Copy that. Goodnight, baby. See you soon. He writes then presses send.

The moment he locks his phone, the passenger-side door swings open and Felix slides in, a little breathless from the short walk after debriefing the special ops. The car shifts under his weight as he pulls the door shut.

“Everyone’s in position,” Felix says, grabbing the soda can from the cupholder. “Now we wait.”

The silence resumes as Chris adjusts in his seat, brushing off the heat from your messages and trying to shift his focus back to the job. He thinks he’s succeeded until Felix speaks.

“So,” Felix starts, voice nonchalant, “things are getting serious between you two, huh?”

Chris glances at him, raising an eyebrow but casually, he answers. “Nah. Not really. We’re taking it slow.”

Felix snorts into his soda and quickly wipes a drop dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand. “Slow? Dude, you asked her out and started dating her after one date. Then a month later she’s living with you. You literally act like a loyal husband. You stay in on your day off and refuse going to the bar you’re your friend because she made dinner.”

Chris shrugs with a grin. “What can I say? I like her cooking.”

Felix raises the can to his lips but doesn’t drink it. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got a ring already tucked somewhere, waiting for the right time.”

Chris lets out an awkward chuckle. “It’s not like that.”

Felix side-eyes him, skeptical.

“We’re not in a rush,” Chris adds defensively.

“Sure. Tell that to your face every time she calls.”

Chris leans back, folding his arms over his chest as he looks at his friend of eight years. “Are you jealous? Want me to set you up with someone, Felix?”

Felix groans, his face is a mix of disgust and disbelief. “Absolutely not. I have peace. I cherish it. I don’t need anyone sending me thirst traps while I’m on the job.”

Chris laughs, the sound echoing slightly in the car. “Your loss, man.”

Felix takes a slow sip of soda, then adds more seriously, “I just don’t want you to make a decision you can’t walk back. That’s all.”

Chris nods in understanding. “I get it. I do. But this doesn’t feel rushed. Not with her.”

Before Felix can respond, he lifts a hand and points ahead. “Hey. Movement.”

Chris snaps his head toward the warehouse. A dark van has pulled up, headlights briefly flashing before cutting off. Two figures step out from the shadows, one with a briefcase. He leans forward, heart rate shifting gears. “That’s our guy.”

He grabs the radio mic clipped to the dash and brings it to his lips. “Suspects have arrived. Operation is a go. Special units hold position for confirmation.”

As adrenaline begins to churn low in his gut, Chris slips into professional mode—sharp, alert, steady. Still, the ghost of your photo, your teasing texts, your soft voice telling him to stay safe, stays right there in the back of his mind. Suddenly, he has even more reason to make it through the night unharmed.

The drug bust is a win. A big one. They seize everything—pills, cash, weapons. Arrests go smoothly. No one gets hurt. Felix is still riding the high from it, chattering about the logistics of processing evidence and writing up the report, but Chris’s mind is already somewhere else.

By the time he makes it home, it’s almost dawn. The apartment is quiet, dark except for the warm glow of a lamp in the corner. He exhales as he steps inside, shrugging off his jacket and the weight of the day slides off his shoulders with each step closer to the bedroom.

He knows you’re asleep so he tries not to make any sound as he slowly pushes the door to the bedroom. He pauses at the doorway, taking in the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the silk of your night dress catching the faint moonlight spilling through the blinds. You look so peaceful, radiant as you lie on your side, one arm tucked under the pillow, your face turned slightly toward him.

He pads over to your side of the bed, crouching down. Carefully, he brushes a lock of hair away from your face and leans in to press a kiss to your cheek.

“I missed you,” he whispers as he tenderly rubs your cheek with his thumb.

He moves quietly to his side, removing his belt, setting his badge and sidearm in their locked case. The routine is muscle memory, but his thoughts are still wrapped in you, in how you looked, in how you smelled and how he can’t wait to wrap himself around you.

After a quick rinse in the shower, Chris finally slides under the covers. The mattress dips as he presses close, spooning you from behind. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you snug to him. His nose buries in the crook of your neck, drinking in the scent that gives him a sense of comfort, of safety, of… home.

He knows he should let you sleep, but he can’t help it. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your shoulder and then the curve where your neck meets your collarbone. Each kiss lingers longer than the last. His hand rests on your stomach, thumb brushing the silk of your night dress. Your skin is right there—bare, inviting.

Soon enough, you stir and a breathy sigh escapes your lips before your eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep. You blink at him, the corners of your mouth lifting into a small smile.

“You’re home,” you mumble, voice low and soft. “Hi.”

Chris’s heart swells at your sweet, sleepy welcome. “Hi,” he whispers back.

He kisses you once and then, he kisses you again, deeper and harder. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, drawing him closer. His hand slips beneath the silk of your dress, palm finding the curve of your breast. You let out a soft sound, arching into him, and he can feel you waking under his touch. You delightfully hum as his thumb brushes your nipple, slow and teasing. He kisses you even hungrier now, like he needs you to know how much he missed this—missed you.

Your hand drifts down his torso, curious and unhurried, trailing heat in its wake. Then you pull back just slightly, and your sleepy voice is laced with mischief.

“I told you…” You pout. “No guns allowed in the house.”

He furrows his brows, confused—until your hand finds the growing bulge poking against his boxers.

You grin as you seductively murmur. “This is dangerous.”

Chris huffs out a quiet laugh, his voice low and rough. “Well…” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours, “looks like you’ll have to disarm it.”

He crashes his lips against yours—slow, deep, with the kind of promise that curls low in his belly and settles in his bones. He presses into you, his hand slipping down your body again, the heat between you two pulling tighter, closer.

Everything else—cases, reports, the city beyond the bedroom walls—fades. All that matters is this. Your warmth, your skin, your heartbeat against his and Chris never feels safer. Or more undone.

The soft shuffle of your footsteps enters the room just as Chris is slipping on his pants. He glances up—and there you are, holding a freshly ironed white shirt on a hanger, pride written all over your face.

“Wear this one,” you say, walking over. “You’re talking to the press today about the drug bust, remember?”

Chris raises an eyebrow as he takes the shirt from your hands, smiling. “You’re more excited about this than I am.”

“Of course I am,” you reply, smoothing your hands over the fabric as you help him slide his arms into the sleeves. “I want you to look good so people know how hot my boyfriend is.”

He chuckles, letting you button him up. Your fingers work quickly, carefully, and when you're done, you head for the drawer, picking out a navy tie with a subtle pattern.

“This one would go well on you,” you declare, holding it up to his chest for a moment before beginning to loop it around his collar.

Chris rests his hands on your waist, his thumbs grazing gently over your sides. As you work on his tie, he can’t stop watching you—your focused expression, the little wrinkle that forms on your brow when the knot doesn’t sit quite right the first time. His heart feels… full.

Ever since you came into his life, things have felt lighter. Easier. Better. He still works the same gruelling hours, still stares down dangerous criminals and long, dark nights, but now he has you. He gets it now what people mean when they say behind every successful man, there’s a woman. For him, that’s you. You’re his calm against the chaos. His anchor. His reason to come home.

You smile brightly once you’re done and gently pat the end of the tie flat on his chest. “There. That’s it. You’re perfect.”

Chris glances down at the knot, tugs lightly on the end of the tie, then raises an eyebrow, impressed. “You’re good at this.”

“Please,” you scoff playfully, stepping back. “You already look hot. I just made you look hotter.”

That earns a laugh from him, and before you can step away, he pulls you close again. One hand cups your jaw as he leans in, eyes searching yours and there’s so much he wants to say—about how much he appreciates you, how deeply he feels for you—but words aren’t enough. They never are.

Chris kisses you instead. It’s soft at first and then deeper, hungrier. It’s his way of saying thank you. Of saying I love you. Of saying I’d fall apart without you.

Your hands press lightly to his chest, and after a moment, you giggle, gently pushing him back. “Hey—don’t wrinkle the shirt.”

He pouts, just a little, but it melts into a smile as he leans his forehead against yours, savouring the closeness. The two of you stay like that for a while, holding each other, breathing each other in.

Until you break the moment with a whisper near his ear. “You’re going to be late.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he mutters followed by a sigh, spinning toward the dresser to grab his badge and holster, checking that everything’s in place.

You’re already jogging off to the kitchen and when he turns to the door, you’re there—waiting for him with a breakfast sandwich to go and a bottle of juice in hand.

He takes both with a grateful smile. “What would I do without you?”

“Starve,” you tease, stepping in for one last kiss and it lingers for a moment, a quiet goodbye wrapped in affection.

When he finally pulls back, you grin and give his butt a playful slap. “Kill it today, tiger.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he walks backward toward the elevator, eyes never leaving yours. You stay in the doorway, waving until the doors slide shut—and even then, Chris still feels the warmth of you clinging to his skin like sunlight.

Chris and Felix finishes the press conference with a question related to community outreach. Chris responds with confidence, emphasizing rehabilitation efforts, neighborhood support programs, and their department’s ongoing commitment to protecting the city.

“That’ll be all for now,” Chris finally says, backing away from the mic.

They step off the platform together, the crowd of reporters still calling after them, but Chris tunes it out.

“That went well,” Felix mutters beside him as they weave through the hallway.

Chris exhales, loosening his tie a bit. “You think?”

“You didn’t even stutter once,” Felix teases, nudging his arm. “Proud of you, man.”

Chris cracks a grin, bumping his shoulder in return. “Takes a good partner to make it smooth.”

Felix flashes him a crooked smirk. “Guess you’re lucky you’ve got me then.”

Chris chuckles, but there's a deeper truth behind the banter. They’ve been through a lot together—close calls, cold nights in stakeouts, months of tension building a case with nothing but scraps and gut instincts. The kind of stuff that forges bonds deeper than friendship. Brotherhood.

As they step back into the precinct, leaving the noise behind, Chris glances over at him again. “Drinks on me tonight,” he says.

Felix grins. “Make it top shelf.”

Chris nods, the corners of his lips twitching upward. “Well, you earned it.”

As it’s considered early for alcohol, the bar is not crowded—just enough people to blur into the background, giving them space to decompress without feeling alone. Chris leans back in his seat, shoulder pressing into the leather booth, his second drink in hand. The ice clinks gently as he swirls the glass and the sting of the liquor is familiar on his tongue.

Next to him, Felix raises an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing at his lips. “So…” he starts, lazily dragging his finger along the rim of his glass, “your wife not looking for you tonight, Detective Bang?”

Chris chuckles, lifting his glass in mock salute. “She’s not my wife,” he says, voice light. “But I appreciate the concern.”

Felix scoffs as he leans back on his chair. “Right. Not your wife. She just happens to like ironing your shirts and pack you breakfast every day. Totally casual.”

Chris laughs, warmth rising in his chest, and he claps a hand on Felix’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, she knows I needed tonight. She's cool with it.”

Felix nods, clearly satisfied with that. “She’s good for you,” he adds after a beat, quieter this time. “I mean it.”

Chris offers a small, grateful smile. “Yeah… she is.”

They fall into a comfortable silence for a moment, sipping their drinks, letting the weight of the day gradually fall off their shoulders.

“You ever think,” Felix begins, staring down into his glass, “how different life would be if we weren’t doing this job?”

Chris quirks a brow. “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” Felix says, shrugging. “Like, waking up at normal hours, not having to chase dealers through alleys or sit on rooftops in the cold for stakeouts. Having time to… breathe.”

Chris hums, considering it. “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I wasn’t doing something that mattered.”

Felix glances up, eyes meeting his. “You think we’re making a difference?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He thinks of the drugs taken off the streets, the terrified kid they pulled out of that warehouse last night, the quiet relief in the voice of that mother when they called her about her missing son.

“Some days,” he says softly. “Yeah. I do.”

Felix nods again. “Some days is enough.”

They clink glasses, a soft, solid sound in the middle of the bar's low noise.

Chris sighs as he leans back again. “It’s the people who keep me going. You, my ‘wife’,” he pauses to add a sly grin before continuing, “… the little wins.”

Felix grins as he raises his glass. “Well, let’s drink to that. To little wins, good partners, and your ‘wife’ whose patient enough to deal with your grumpy ass.”

Chris laughs, full-bodied and real, and raises his glass again. “Cheers to that.”

Their glasses meet again and, in this moment—with the burn of liquor, the sound of Felix’s chuckle, and the thought of you waiting at home—Chris feels like, maybe he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Felix is halfway through some long-winded joke—something about a drunk guy, a raccoon, and a karaoke machine—when Chris’s phone buzzes against the wooden table. He ignores it at first, trying to focus on the punchline, but then it buzzes again.

Curious, Chris tilts his phone toward him, screen lighting up. His curiosity piqued the moment he sees your name so he taps it open and immediately presses his lips together, hard, in a weak attempt to suppress the smirk spreading across his face.

You send him photos of you wearing that white lace set he knows damn well you bought just to tease him. The first photo is you lying back against the pillows, your legs slightly crossed, your fingers toying with the strap of your bra. The second is even worse—no, better. You’re on your knees now, one hand on your hip, eyes half-lidded, lips parted like you’ve just whispered something filthy.

Then another text comes: “911! Help! There’s a bad girl on the loose.”

His chest tightens with fondness but at the same time, something curls on the pit of his stomach. He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head, hoping his expression isn’t giving too much away. But of course, Felix notices.

“Let me guess,” Felix drawls, raising an eyebrow, “your wifejust sent you a picture that makes you want to risk a speeding ticket?”

Chris can’t help the grin. “Busted.”

Felix chuckles and takes another sip of his drink. The way his face contorts right after makes Chris laugh. “Jesus, why do I keep ordering this?”

“Because you never learn?” Chris offers, amused.

Felix shakes his head, then gestures lazily toward the door. “Just go, man. I’d rather drink alone than compete with your wife.”

Chris chuckles and slips his phone back into his jacket, shaking his head. “Nah. I’m here to hang with you. She’ll understand.”

Felix finishes the last of his drink with a wince and smacks his lips. “You’re a terrible liar, Chris. And also—you’re taking up too much of the ladies’ attention. I think I’ll have better odds without your face around.”

Chris barks a laugh and signals the bartender to close his tab. He glances back at Felix with a raised brow. “You sure it’s okay if I head out?”

Felix scoffs. “Please. I don’t want to be responsible for you getting scolded by the missus.”

Chris throws on his jacket, still grinning. “She’s not—you know what, fine. Whatever makes you happy.”

He takes a step toward the door but turns back. “Take a cab home, yeah?”

Felix slumps deeper into his seat. “Yes, Mom.”

Chris just rolls his eyes, walks behind Felix, and throws a playful headlock around his neck. “Don’t fall asleep here and make me come back to drag your ass home.”

Felix grunts under the hold but laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Go handle your emergency.”

Chris pulls back, gives his shoulder a squeeze, and says, “See you tomorrow, partner.”

“Not if I sleep in,” Felix mutters, waving him off with a lazy hand.

Chris walks out with a lightness in his step, the memory of your photos burned into the back of his mind. His fingers itch for his phone, his body already humming with anticipation.

Once he’s outside, cool air brushing against his flushed cheeks, he slides his phone from his jacket and opens your thread. His thumbs move swiftly across the screen and he writes back:

"Don’t worry, ma’am. Officer Bang is on his way."

He stares at it for a second, smirking to himself before hitting send and it’s game on.

Chris smooths down the front of his shirt as he steps out of the elevator and makes his way down the hall. He adjusts the tie around his neck, tugging it just right. It’s slightly wrinkled from the bar and the cab ride, but he straightens it anyway. His fingers graze the badge clipped to his belt, a subtle reminder of the role he’s about to play.

He stops at the door of your shared apartment and exhales slowly before rapping three sharp knocks. He hears you before he sees you, your soft footsteps and a faint, amused hum behind the door.

A while later, the door swings open and you’re leaning casually against the frame, lips curved into a knowing smile, the white lingerie set you’re wearing is concealed under a black silk robe but it’s just as inviting, as dangerous.

However, Chris doesn’t falter. He falls into character with practiced ease.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he says, voice low and polite, laced with authority. “I’m Officer Bang from the 25th precinct.” He flashes his badge as if you don’t already have it memorized. “We received a call about a disturbance in the area.”

You arch a brow, arms crossing slowly over your chest—drawing his attention precisely where you want it. “Good evening, sir.”

Chris narrows his eyes just slightly. “It’s Officer Bang, Ma’am.”

Your smirk deepens and you look down for a second to compose yourself. “Apologies. Officer Bang.” You shift, your hip pressing into the doorframe, chin tilted up as you look at him through your lashes. “How can I help you, Officer?”

He plants his hands on his hips, widening his stance, his voice steady even as your eyes rake slowly down his body. “There was a report of a… bad girl on the premises and I’m here to investigate.”

You say nothing for a beat, eyes lingering at the tight line of his tie, the broad set of his shoulders. Then you meet his gaze again, biting your lower lip with shameless intention.

Chris clears his throat, fighting the heat spreading in his chest. “Ma’am, I need you to use your words so I can assist you properly.”

You sigh, dramatic and sultry. “I called because…” You lean in just slightly, your voice like velvet. “There’s a very bad girl on the premises.”

Chris inhales through his nose. His jaw tightens but he reminds himself to stay in character. “Can you describe her to me?”

You turn now, letting your back rest against the doorframe as your body faces his, closing the gap between you by an inch, maybe two. Your voice is pure mischief, slow and teasing.

“She’s about this tall,” you hold up your hand to your height with a coy smile and the other playing with the knot on your silk robe, “wearing something extremely inappropriate… and she looks like she’s looking for trouble.”

Chris fights the twitch of a smirk. “Any additional information?”

You hum, lips pursed like you’re thinking real hard. “Well, she looks like she wants to be punished,” you whisper, “and punished thoroughly.”

The way you’re acting right now… Chris presses one hand to the doorframe beside your head, the other resting on his belt, and leans in just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off of him. “Well,” he murmurs, voice dipping deeper, “that’s why I’m here, Ma’am.”

His gaze drops to your lips for just a second. “To deal out punishment.”

Then he smiles a wicked smile and adds. “Respectfully, of course.”

You don’t move, don’t breathe, but he can hear the way your breath catches, sees the way your chest rises slightly faster, the way your lashes flutter and he hasn’t even touched you yet. Not really. But he’s going to.

Chris’s knuckles knock once more against the doorframe as he leans slightly in, voice steady and commanding.

“Ma’am, I need you to step aside,” he says coolly, letting his eyes shift past you into the darkened apartment. “I’m going to need to take a look around. Just procedure.”

Without words, you open the door wider with a graceful push and step aside, your silk robe brushing against his sleeve as he enters. He moves in with slow purpose, like a man walking into unfamiliar territory, even though he’s been living this space for almost five years now.

Still, tonight it feels different. The shadows stretch longer. The air carries warmth and spice from the flickering candles you’ve lit in the bedroom. A scene you set with intention.

He walks further in, his socked feet thud softly against the floor as he moves, and you trail just behind him, quiet as a secret. The lights are dim, golden and seductive, and it works. He stops at the threshold of the bedroom, pausing to take it all in. Then he turns to you, brow creasing slightly in mock concern.

“I’m sensing something dangerous here,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ll need to perform a full body check.”

You blink, feigning innocence. “Excuse me?”

Chris straightens, letting authority roll off of him like thunderclouds. “Put your hands behind your head,” he orders. “And face the wall.”

You hesitate, lips parting in soft rebellion, but the moment he says, “Unless you want me to cuff you right now,” the spark in your eyes betrays your excitement.

With a sultry smirk, you obey, lifting your hands behind your head and turning to face the wall. Chris’s breath hitches slightly at the view—your silhouette outlined by candlelight, the silk robe hugging your figure, slipping slightly at the shoulder.

He makes you wait, letting the anticipation bloom and stretch, winding around your spine until he sees you shift slightly in place. After a while, swiftly but gently, his hand finds the back of your neck, fingers curling around the base as he pushes you forward, your chest lightly pressing against the wall.

“Stay still,” his voice low and sharp, oozing with assertiveness. “And don’t even try to do anything stupid.”

Hearing no answer, he grips your neck just a little tighter. “I said—answer me.”

Your voice comes out like honey laced with sin. “Yes, Officer.”

That voice. That tone. Chris quietly exhales as he begins the search, starting with your arms. He’s running his palms down slowly, deliberately, feeling every curve, every shiver beneath your skin. His hands slide down your sides, the silk barely separating his touch from your flesh. At your waist and hips, he squeezes with unmistakable intention and then, he stretches his hands around you from behind, sliding across the front of your body. He palms your breasts in his hands, slow and unhurried, kneading as if testing you, testing himself. Your head bows slightly, eyes fluttering, and he watches every reaction, feels every breath catch.

He moves lower, his hand drifting toward your abdomen and then, he stops only to slide behind you again, patting firmly over your ass, then gripping, kneading, dragging his palms along the swell of your curves like he’s deciding whether to punish or worship.

Then, he steps back and shifts his stance, planting one knee between yours. “Open your legs wider,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your ear.

He hears the sharp inhale and notices the way your body responds—legs parting just slightly more.

Chris crouches low, running his hands down your thighs in slow yet firm touches. He drags them back up again, under the hem of your robe, getting a brief glimpse of your lace underwear. Your body trembles ever so slightly as his fingers skate up the inside of your thighs, nearing where you want him most. He keeps his hand there, hovering over your clothed sex and just when you start to sway, he pulls back.

He gets back on his feet and takes another step back. “Now, turn around.”

You obey him, turning on your feet slowly, like a slow burn and your eyes meet his immediately. Dark, full of wanting.

“Take off the robe,” he says, voice clipped but polite.

You cock your head. “Why, Officer?”

He plants his hands on each side of his hips to give off a sense authorities. “To make sure you’re not hiding anything… dangerous.”

“If you insist,” you mutter with a faint smirk tugging at your lips. You don’t break eye contact as your hands move to the knot at your waist. Slowly, sensually, you tug it loose and let the robe slip from your shoulders, and it hits the floor without a sound.

Chris swallows hard at sight of white lace, bare skin, delicate straps and sinful curves. He can barely breathe, can barely think at all.

“What’s wrong, Officer?” you ask with faux innocence.

He licks his lips before answering. “You’re clearly armed with dangerous intentions.”

You bat your eyes, feigning confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “You’re trying to seduce a police officer.”

“Is that wrong thing?”

Chris lets out a sigh. Controlled. Calculated. “I’m going to have to arrest you.”

You tilt your head and daringly say, “But I don’t feel like being arrested today.”

Chris doesn’t hesitate to sternly warns you. “Don’t make me use force on you, Ma’am.”

You shrug, not even hesitate to show your defiance this time.

That does it. He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out the handcuffs. They glint under the candlelight as he lets them dangle from his fingers. Your expression falters just briefly as he steps forward.

“Bend over the bed.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head slowly.

Chris inhales air before he grabs your waist firmly and hauls you forward. You gasp as you land face-down against the bed, and before you can fully push yourself up, his hands are already on yours, pulling them behind your back.

The cold metal of the cuffs click against your wrists and you groan softly beneath him, head turned to the side, breath uneven. He steps back to take in the sight, watching you—his perfect, dangerous girl—bent over with your hands restrained behind you.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Aren’t you going to read me my rights?”

Chris smirks, his eyes dark and hungry. “You don’t get rights,” he murmurs. “Not when you’ve been this much of a brat.”

This time, when Chris moves toward you, he does it with no more hesitation. He hovers above you, savoring the sight of your body bent over the edge of the bed, wrists bound, your breath shallow and trembling with anticipation. He lingers in that moment—watching you struggle to see him, turning your cheek toward the mattress as though trying to follow the heat of his presence behind you.

He leans in, mouth grazing your ear, his voice low and full of promise as he whispers, “Still going to act like a brat?”

You scoff, breathless but defiant. “Yeah.”

That answer makes something in him tighten with desire. He wraps a hand around your throat—not hard, just enough to tilt your head and expose your neck to him. He plants slow, heated kisses along the delicate skin, lips pressing down like a seal of ownership and then his body lowers, his weight brushing over your back, his hips rolling just enough for you to feel the hardness between his legs rub against the soft heat of your lace-covered core.

A quiet moan escapes you, muffled against the sheets, and Chris smirks. His hand traces down the curve of your back with purpose until he finds the swell of your ass and squeezes, letting his fingers dig in between your legs, meeting the lace fabric of your underwear.

“Yeah,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, “keep being a brat.”

He dips his hand deeper and palms you through the lace, his touch both firm and calculated. His fingers easily trace your clit and begin to tease, circling lazily while he leans down, voice laced with teasing mockery.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying this that much…”

A lie, of course. He can feel the heat radiating through the thin fabric and when he slips beneath it, he immediately greeted by your heating wetness. He wastes no time but let his fingers part you slowly, running them between your slick folds and the truth reveals itself in the essence that coats his fingertips. He finds your clit again, applies gentle pressure on it, and hears the stutter of your breath. Taking you by surprise, his two fingers slide inside and the way your body tightens around them sends heat flooding through him.

He watches your face as he curls his fingers inside just right, watches the way your brows knit, lips parting on a soft, involuntary moan. Your body gives him away—reveling, needy but he’s not going to let you have it easy. He draws his hand back suddenly, leaving you empty and the whimper you let out in protest tugs at something feral in him.

“Well?” he asks, voice gravelly. “Still going to be a brat?”

You glance over your shoulder, a wicked glint in your eye, and smile.

Without needing to hear it, he knows you’ll rebel so he delivers a firm slap to your ass once and then another one, measured yet sharp. You gasp, body jolting, and before you can fully recover, he lands a light, taunting smack over your clothed cunt. He can tell you enjoy it from the way you breathlessly, needily and fuck, he loves it.

Chris grabs your wrists, uncuffing them just long enough to flip you over. You barely have time to blink before he’s moving you to the center of the bed, guiding you like a man who knows exactly what he wants. Your back hits the sheets and then your wrists are bound again, this time above your head, metal cold against your skin as he locks the cuffs to the bedframe.

And now… now he gets to see you laid out in lace and silk, your chest rising, your lips parted, your eyes dark and wild. Your legs curl slightly, already aching for contact, but Chris takes his time, drinking in the sight. The glow of the candlelight dances along the contours of your body. He can see everything and it only fuels the hunger burning in him.

He leans over, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your thigh, and with a devilish grin, he lets his voice drop again into that delicious, commanding tone.

“Looks like I’ve got no choice,” he says, eyes dark with lust. “I’m going to have to take my time… make sure you’ve got nothing else dangerous hidden.”

He lowers himself until he’s right above you, lips brushing your collarbone, hands sliding up your legs again. He knows he still has a role to play but goodness… you’re making it so hard to stay in character.

Chris continues with his delightful assault by pressing warm, lingering kisses along your neck, savoring every twitch, every breathless gasp that escapes you. He trails down to your chest, letting his lips brush over the lace that barely contain the ample flesh of your breasts, and lower still—across your stomach, your hips, each kiss deliberate and unhurried. He dips to the side of your thigh, then lifts your leg gently, pressing your ankle to his cheek as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss the inside of your ankle, then your instep, and finally the sole of your foot—his touch reverent, a quiet act of worship that makes your chest rise with uneven breaths.

Chris gently lowers your leg back to the bed and then, he stands. He takes a step back from the mattress, his eyes remain on you. Still cuffed, still sprawled and flushed and helplessly beautiful. The sight of you stirs something dangerous in him—a mix of tenderness and need—but he holds back cause it’s your turn to wait.

Chris is putting on a show for you as he begins to undress himself in front of you. He shrugs off his jacket first and lets it fall to the floor without a second glance. Next, his tie. He tugs it free with one swift motion, the knot coming undone with a satisfying snap of tension, and he tosses it aside too. His fingers find the buttons of his shirt. One, two… each button opens like a secret, and he feels your eyes clinging to every inch of newly exposed skin.

By the time he parts the shirt open, revealing the lines of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders, he hears the soft jangle of metal—your wrists tugging at the cuffs, your need too great to stay still and you’re probably itching to touch yourself to the show he’s putting on for you.

He quietly smirks in triumphant, leaning forward with both hands propped against the mattress. “This much,” he says, pausing with the shirt still hanging open, “is all you get for being a brat.”

Your groan of protest is immediate, and your voice is sweet when you beg. “Please.”

Chris climbs onto the bed, one knee wedging between your legs as he hovers above you, eyes locked on yours.

“Please what?” he asks, but you don’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he feels you—your hips pressing up, grinding against his thigh, the friction making you shiver. He glances down and sees the darkened patch on his jeans, a visible mark of just how much you want him.

“Ma’am, you’re ruining my jeans,” he mutters, feigning disapproval.

You brazenly smile at him, clearly proud of what you’ve done and Chris, Oh… he’s weak for you.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Guess I have to get rid of the jeans too, yeah?”

He kneels on the bed, fingers working on his belt with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The metal buckle clinks, the leather slides free, and the zipper opens with a drawn-out rasp that echoes in the quiet room.

Your eyes stay glued to him. Wide, wanting and full of anticipation.

Chris pulls down both the jeans and briefs in one motion, tossed aside with zero care. Now, there’s nothing between him and you. He kneels there, bare and unashamed, desire etched in every line of his body. Your eyes fall to the evidence of just how much he wants you, your breath goes shallow at the sight of his swollen member with veins coiled every inch of the length.

He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking slowly, teasing you now with nothing but a look. “Do you want it?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod, lips parted, dazed.

His gaze sharpens as he catches your chin in his free hand, forcing you to look at him in the eyes. “I need you to use words, ma’am.”

“Yes,” you answer without a beat, “I want it.”

Chris continues to tantalize you, he strokes again, slower this time, his thumb brushing over the tip. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow, your breath shaky before you whisper, “In my mouth.”

That pulls a sharp laugh from him—mocking, amused. “Ma’am, I don’t think you can take my cock in your mouth.”

You match his energy with a wicked grin and say, “Don’t worry, officer. I’ll make it fit.”

That mouth of yours.

Chris groans, low and hungry. He shifts forward, one hand bracing the headboard beside you, the other still lazily stroking himself. “Open wide then,” he murmurs, gaze burning. “Let’s see what that bratty mouth can really do.”

Chris kneels in front of you, his length hovering inches from your parted lips, the heat between you palpable. You open your mouth without needing to be told, instinctively drawn to him. So eager, wanting.

He smirks, fingers lifting your chin with a teasing gentleness. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Open up.”

You do as you’re told and he slides two fingers past your lips, you suck on them immediately, your tongue swirling with purpose. Chris draws in a shaky breath, eyes narrowing at the feel of your mouth wrapped around him, wet and warm and knowing. You don’t look away. You want him to see. You want him to imagine.

He chuckles, a sound caught between amusement and arousal, and he slowly slips his fingers out your mouth, a trail of saliva left behind. “Open wider now,” he commands, soft but firm.

You lick your lips and obey, tilting your head slightly and parting your lips further, tongue peeking out in invitation.

He takes his cock in hand, lining up just right and then, slowly, he pushes in—just an inch or two, just enough for your lips to stretch and wrap around him. He watches, mesmerized, as you take it like you’ve been waiting all night. Your mouth molds perfectly around his girth, and the sound he makes is barely a groan—it’s too raw for words.

Getting impatient, you push forward, trying to take more of his length into your mouth by moving your head back and forth.

Chris scoffs a breathless laugh. “A greedy little brat, aren’t you?”

His hand slides into your hair, tightening just enough to anchor you. You don’t stop. Your mouth moves with intent, tongue curling around him, sucking deeper, harder, like you know exactly what it does to him.

And you know what? It’s working. He lets you go on for a while, his breathing unsteady, watching as your head bobs with a rhythm you’ve claimed as your own. But then he notices the way your movements begin to slow, fatigue starting to creep in.

He gently pulls back, not all at once, giving you a break, a space. You gasp when his cock slips free, breath catching, a string of saliva still connecting your lips to the tip of crest of his cock.

He cups your jaw firmly, tilting your face up to his. “You think you can take more?” he asks, voice gravel.

Despite everything, you smile at him, eyes daring. “Yes, officer.”

That damn mouth.

He slides his thumb over your bottom lip, pressing slightly, prying your mouth open again. “Stay just like that.”

And you do—obedient, still, with lips parted and your gaze locked on his.

This time, Chris leans forward, guiding his swollen cock into your mouth again, slowly and carefully. He waits for you to adjust, watches your eyes flutter, feels the way your body tenses slightly before easing into it.

When he deems you’re ready, he begins to move. His grip finds the bedframe behind you as he sets a pace, moving his hips, thrusting into your mouth—not fast, not rough, just steady, deep, deliberate. The slick heat of your mouth surrounds him, your tongue teasing him with each glide in, each slow pull out. He glances down and the sight of his cock disappearing between your lips nearly undoes him. You’re doing well. Too well.

He slows to stop, intent on pulling away, but you have other plans—your mouth sucks harder, refusing to let go. His hips jerk, an involuntary reaction, and his free hand finds your jaw again.

“Stop,” he breathes, warning low but you don’t. “I said stop!”

Even without his movement, you continue—relentless, sinful, determined to ruin him. He has no choice but to pull himself out with a little force, retreating from your warm, slick mouth.

You inhale deeply, your chest rising, but the grin that spreads on your face tells him everything.

He grips your chin again, eyes narrowing with a sharp heat. “You want me to come all over your face, huh?”

You meet his gaze, lips swollen, breath still uneven. And with that smirk that drives him insane, you answer, “You think I’d mind, officer?”

Chris exhales a low curse as he stares down at you, chest rising and falling as he fights to catch his breath, his gaze sharp and searing. You’re still panting, lips parted, hair wild across the pillow, your body flushed from his touch—and yet, somehow, still insatiable.

He smirks, eyes dark as he murmurs, “You really need to be punished for that.”

Before you can react, he kisses you—hard, hungry, a kiss that takes and demands, leaving no space for air or thought. His mouth moves with raw intent, tongue tangling with yours, hands fisting the sheets beside your head. When he finally pulls away, you gasp for breath, but he doesn’t give you long for his mouth trails down your skin, igniting sparks in every place he touches.

He sucks a kiss onto the soft swell of your breast, just above your heartbeat, and you squirm beneath him, back arching as his mouth finds another spot along your hip. He doesn’t stop until a dark mark blooms on your skin. Then he goes lower, his head between your legs, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. You hold your breath in anticipation. His mouth brushes over your inner thigh, and he bites just enough to make you whimper. You tremble, caught in the edge of pain and pleasure, his thumb rubbing softly over the fresh bruise he’s left behind.

Chris looks down between your thighs and lets out a low, amused chuckle. “Look at that,” he drawls, almost mockingly. “You’re making a mess on the bed.”

You don’t deny it. Instead, your hips move instinctively against his hand when he cups your drenched cunt, his thumb putting gentle pressures on your clit just enough to make you moan. Your body arches off the bed, chasing his touch, needing more.

“You’re so needy it’s pathetic,” he teasingly mocks you, his voice thick with amusement and something darker.

He lowers his head, giving your clit kitten licks before giving a kiss on it, softly at first and then sealing his mouth around it and sucking gently. His fingers join in, moving in sync, working in tandem to unravel you. He gives you no mercy, no escape—only everything you’ve been silently begging for.

When you hit your climax—when your legs tremble and your body seizes beneath him—he holds you down with one arm across your stomach, keeping you grounded as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

But Chris doesn’t wait long. He rises, positions himself between your legs, and in one smooth thrust, slides into you—hot, deep, all-consuming. You’re still fluttering from the aftershocks, and the way your body grips him almost undoes him. He groans low in his throat, forehead pressing against yours for a moment. It’s overwhelming—how right it feels to be inside you, to be connected like this. And just like that, you both drop the act.

He thrusts into you—not with dominance, but with heart. With the kind of passion that leaves no room for anything else. It’s all him, all of you. Bodies moving as one. You clutch the bedframe, holding on as he drives into you, strong and deep, your moans filling the room, your voice crying out his name over and over again.

“Please… please, Chris, please—”

He knows what you want. He wants it too. He leans in, capturing your mouth again, swallowing every broken sound you make as the pleasure builds and builds, a crescendo that neither of you can fight.

In no time, you come together and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he pushes deeper, burying himself fully as the last of his release spills inside you, his hands braced on either side of your head. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer still, and he lets you. He needs it too. His forehead rests against yours, your heartbeats pounding in unison, bodies still trembling from the high.

After a long moment, still hazy from it all, Chris reaches toward the nightstand, unlocking the cuffs with a soft clink. He immediately takes your hands in his, rubbing gently at your wrists, concern flickering in his eyes. He pulls you close until you’re snug to his side and it’s just hitting him now of what he’s done, what you’ve shared.

“You okay?” he asks softly, voice rough around the edges.

You laugh—soft, amused—and slide your arms around his neck. “Are you really asking me that?”

Chris lets out a breathy chuckle, kissing your forehead before try again. “Anything hurt?” he asks more seriously, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

You shake your head, eyes playful. “If anything, I want to thank you for not taking this bad girl to jail, officer.”

That teasing lilt in your voice makes his heart swell. You lean in and kiss him again and it’s gentle, warm, sweet that he feels it in every part of him. Oh, he can’t love you more than this. But somehow, he knows he will.

The morning sun filters through the tall windows of the hall, catching glints of silver and brass as the sea of formal uniforms shifts quietly in their seats. The room is packed—officers polished and poised in navy blues, caps resting on laps, medals already pinned or soon to be. The commissioner stands at the podium, his voice calm but authoritative, opening the ceremony with commendations and words about justice, integrity, and sacrifice.

Chris sits in the front row with the other recipients, his hands clasped in his lap, posture stiff but eyes distracted. The crisp edges of his uniform feel too tight today, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything else pressing on his chest.

He tries not to glance over his shoulder—tries not to look at the back row filled with families and relatives, but the pull is magnetic.

“Stop turning around,” Felix mutters beside him, voice low enough only for Chris to hear. “You’re not slick.”

Chris suppresses a sigh. “I wasn’t—”

“You were. You are,” Felix says, without looking at him. “She’s here. Your wife is here.”

Chris rolls his jaw, glancing down to hide the ghost of a smile that threatens to surface. “She’s not—”

Chris refrains from explaining further and shifts in his seat, his fingers brushing absently at the edge of his cuff. The word—wife—echoes again in his head. He’s denied it out loud too many times now, but the truth? He loves the sound of it. Loves the way it fits with you. Loves the idea of you standing beside him, not just after a case, or a long day, but for all the days that come after.

A thought pops in his head. Maybe it is time to start looking for a ring.

He doesn’t have time to follow the thought much further—because the commissioner finishes the speech, and the ceremony begins. Names are called, medals readied. Applause rings out as each officer takes the stage, and then—it’s their turn.

“Detective Sergeant Bang Christopher and Detective Felix Lee,” the announcer calls.

Chris stands with Felix and walks to the stage under the bright lights and reverberating claps, the echo of polished shoes against polished floors. Their recent bust had made headlines—months of wiretaps, surveillance, and calculated moves culminating in the biggest drug ring takedown the precinct’s had in years. It had been grueling, dangerous work but it’s worth every drop of sweat.

Felix accepts his medal first with a respectful nod, the commissioner clapping him on the shoulder and then it’s Chris’s turn next. The medal is clipped onto his chest, the commissioner’s praise ringing faintly in his ears—but his eyes are already moving, scanning the crowd, searching instinctively.

Even in a sea of faces, his eyes find you like they always do. You’re standing at the back, just a little to the side, away from the rows and rows of uniforms and brass buttons. But your smile is what struck him the most, bright, proud and it’s just for him. He doesn’t need anything else. Just you, smiling like that, looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters.

Something in his chest softens. Or tightens. He’s not even sure which anymore. All he knows is this—his heart just recognizes you. Always has.

He returns your smile—small, private, meant for only you. And in that moment, with a medal pinned to his chest and applause still echoing in the air, Chris doesn’t feel like a detective or a hero or a man in uniform. He just feels like… a man in love.

And yeah, maybe it really is time to start looking for a ring.

The precinct doesn’t do celebrations halfway. The bar’s packed—shoulder to shoulder with uniforms, laughter spilling into the night, glasses raised, backs clapped. The music’s low enough for conversation, but the mood’s buzzing. A win like this calls for drinks. Lots of them.

Chris stands near the long end of the bar, sipping on whiskey, keeping tabs on his surroundings out of habit. He’s been pulled into a few conversations already—his captain, some detectives from vice, a couple of brass from upstairs. But most of them are here for the same reason: to relax, to drink, to celebrate.

And you, you glide through the crowd like you belong here. Dressed in something understated but elegant, you’re effortlessly warm, even with strangers. Chris watches as you talk to the partner of one of his colleagues, your voice low and animated, your smile soft and easy. The way you laugh like you’re not even trying, like you’ve known these people for years. You seamlessly fit into this part of his life too like this was always meant to be. The next thing he knows, he can’t stop staring at you.

“Dude,” Felix mutters beside him, half-amused, half-exasperated. “She’s not going to vanish if you blink.”

Chris scoffs lightly but doesn’t deny it. He takes another sip, eyes still on you. “Just checking.”

“She’s in a room full of cops. She’s probably safer than you are.”

Chris laughs, his eyes finally leaving you for a beat to look at his partner. “You’re just bitter.”

Felix raises his glass. “I will be, until I’m dead or married. Whichever comes first.”

“Well, if it’s the latter, I’m gonna be the one teasing you when you start acting like this,” Chris says, nodding at himself. “All moony and shit.”

“Can’t wait,” Felix deadpans, draining his drink.

Chris is about to clap back when movement catches the corner of his eye—and there you are, walking toward him, drink in hand, eyes already on him like you knew he was watching. He can’t help the way his smile, it just… happens.

You slip into his side easily like you’ve always belonged there and if he weren’t surrounded by his entire precinct, Chris would kiss you right now—slow and deep and possessive. Instead, he slides a hand around your back, resting it on the small of your waist, behaving well.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” you say sweetly, eyes flicking between the two detectives.

“Just in time,” Chris says with a smirk.

Felix sighs dramatically. “Nope. Just talking about my inevitable descent into emotional unavailability.”

Chris shoots him a warning look. “Actually, I was planning to set Felix up with someone. Might help with the whole ‘bitterness’ thing.”

You laugh, glancing at Felix. “Oh, that sounds like a great plan. I mean, Chris and I met because someone set us up.”

Felix rolls his eyes so hard Chris swears he can hear it. He takes a slow, passive-aggressive sip from his drink.

“Felix, I’m sorry but I have to steal your drinking buddy,” you say with a charming tilt of your head. “I need to talk to Chris for a bit, if that’s okay.”

Felix forces a smile. “Go ahead. Take him away.”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “You want to talk?”

You nod. “Mhmm.”

You lace your fingers through his and tug, leading him toward the back. Chris follows with a quiet smirk playing on his lips, throwing one last smug glance over his shoulder at Felix, who flips him off behind his glass.

The bar’s back alley is quiet, dark and tucked away from the noise and chatter. The second the door closes behind you, you push him against the brick wall and crash your lips onto his.

He grins against your mouth, kissing you back with just as much want, just as much need. His hands find your waist, dragging you flush against him. It’s messy and heated, and neither of you seems to care. You're like two teenagers sneaking around again—and honestly, he’s enjoying the thrill.

You pull back just a little, your breath mingling with his, your eyes half-lidded with lust as you whisper, “I just can’t help it. Seeing you in this uniform…”

You bite your bottom lip and trail your fingers down his chest. “It does things to me.”

Chris smirks, eyes gleaming. “What things?”

You chuckle, voice low and sinful. “I mean, Detective Bang… you’re hot, you save the world and even got a medal for it—and now you’re in this uniform…”

Your hand glides lower, briefly grazing the front of his pants, and your eyes flick up to meet his again. Then you lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Please. Breed me already.”

The words hit him like a match to gasoline. His restraint crumbles and he growls into your mouth as he kisses you hard, deep, his tongue pressing past your lips. It knocks the air out of you, but you kiss him right back—equally desperate. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your back, tugging down your cardigan as his lips trail to your neck.

“You’re thinking of doing it here?” you whisper with a breathy chuckle.

He plants a kiss on your cleavage, breath hot against your skin. “You said it yourself. Don’t you want me to breed you already, huh?”

You laugh against his mouth, the sound full of disbelief and arousal. “Yeah, but not here—not now.”

He shuts you up with another searing kiss. He hoists you up easily, and your legs wrap around his waist like it’s muscle memory. The heat of you pressed against him—he swears he might lose it right here.

You’re kissing him back like the world is ending, like you can’t get enough of each other. Hands, lips, need—everywhere. Well, until your phone shrills from inside your purse and you freeze for a second, groaning as your head tips back.

Chris lets out a frustrated breath but he sets you down, though his lips never leave your neck. He kisses along your jaw as you fumble to dig out your phone and answer it.

From the short responses you give, he knows it’s work. Nothing personal. Nothing he should be worried about. Still, he pouts into the crook of your neck, leaving soft, ticklish kisses there that make you giggle despite trying to sound serious.

When you hang up, he kisses your lips again, and again, and again—but when he pulls away, you’re already telling him, “It’s a work emergency. I have to go.”

He groans, frustrated and needy, pulling you close again. “Don’t go.”

“I have to.”

He nibbles your earlobe which he knows for sure is your weak spot and you nearly drop your phone right there.

“Chris,” you laugh breathlessly, gently pushing him away. “Later, okay?”

He groans again, defeated, as he wraps his arms around you in a tight hug, his thoughts already racing with everything he wants to do to you once you're back.

Chris understands. He always does. Your job isn't always nine-to-five—especially when something serious hits, like a cyber-attack that demands your whole team onsite to contain it. So even if you're usually working from home and within arm’s reach, tonight isn’t one of those nights.

He slides his hand into yours and quietly leads you back through the hum of the bar, weaving through your goodbyes. He watches as you exchange short, warm words with a few of his colleagues—your smile easy, your presence so natural among them. He wonders again how he ever got this lucky.

Eventually, you return to Felix, who’s leaning against the bar, lazily nursing his drink with a side glance.

“Hey,” you say with a teasing smile, brushing a hand along Chris’s arm before facing Felix, “I give you your friend back.”

Felix, deadpan and dry as ever, lifts his glass and mocks, “Yay.”

Chris just shakes his head in disbelief, lips twitching in amusement, but when he glances back at you, you're chuckling, radiant even in the dim light.

You step closer to him, lowering your voice. “I really have to go now,” you say.

Chris draws you into his chest, letting his lips graze your ear as he mutters low enough only you can hear, “Go save the cyber world. And we’ll continue our breeding business later.”

He catches that flustered little flicker in your eyes before you gather yourself again, your gaze sharpening in that way he secretly loves. You lean up to press a quick kiss to his lips, murmuring, “Enjoy tonight.”

Then you turn to Felix with a playful and say, “Please, don’t let him go home until he’s drunk.”

Felix raises a brow at that, clearly impressed. “Noted.”

Chris catches your wrist gently just to steal one more kiss—soft and quick—and whispers, “Stay safe.”

You smile, nod, and finally head out the door. He watches you disappear into the night, fighting the part of him that already wants to chase after you.

With a deep breath, he returns to the bar and drops into the seat next to Felix. “Drinks,” he tells the bartender. “Two more.”

The bartender slides over fresh glasses just as Felix sips his old one and says, smirking, “Okay… I might like your wife a little.”

Chris chuckles, lifting his glass. “You know it’s better if you don’t like her at all.”

Felix snorts, “Fair.”

They clink glasses for a toast. “To us,” Chris says, “and the insane amount of work we’ve done.”

Felix lifts his drink. “And to the people who tolerate us.”

Much later that night, Chris stumbles into the apartment past midnight, drunk but still aware enough to notice one thing immediately: the bed is empty.

Chris exhales slowly, the pleasant buzz of celebration fading just a little. He knows you said it might be an all-nighter, and he trusts you, he does—but still. He shrugs off his blazer, toeing off his shoes messily before collapsing face-first into the bed that feels too big without you. But he can’t rest without making sure you’re okay, needing to hear your voice, even if it’s sleepy and annoyed.

Chris rolls onto his back and squints at the screen, his thumb fumbling through recent calls until he hits your name. It rings and rings, but you don’t pick up.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, staring at the screen until it goes dark.

He starts composing a text but somehow, midway through typing, his eyelids get heavy. He tells himself he’s only going to rest them for a minute. Just a second. But who is he kidding?

When he wakes up, it’s bright outside and the headache kicks in as soon as he opens his eyes, pounding right behind his temples. Chris groans and drapes an arm across his face, peeling it off only when the silence settles strangely in his chest. He turns his head to the side and your side of the bed is still empty.

That jolts him up and he stumbles into the kitchen, the cold tile waking his bare feet a little as he reaches for a glass and fills it to the brim, chugging it down like a man dying of thirst because the hangover is brutal and it’s not getting easier as he gets older.

He checks his phone, swiping through missed notifications, and scoffs at the half-written text still sitting in the message field. He really was going to send it, really meant to. He’s about to press call again when he hears the front door creak open.

Your voice follows, tired but sweet: “I’m home.”

Chris immediately steps into the threshold. You’re still in the clothes from last night, dark circles under your eyes, exhaustion weighing heavy in every step. And yet, you’re the best thing he’s seen all morning.

Without a word, he welcomes you with a smile and open arms.

You don’t hesitate—you run into it and immediately melt into him, dropping your bag by the door as you step into his embrace. Chris wraps you tightly, pressing his lips to the top of your head and keeping you there, like he’s afraid to let go. “Welcome home,” he murmurs against your hair.

You tip your head up and let him kisses you—slow and soft, as if grounding both of you. When he pulls back, his smile is sleepy and crooked. “You must be tired.”

You nod, pouting dramatically, then smirk just a little. “And you must be hungover.”

Chris chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guilty.”

Your lips curve up as you raise a hand, showing him the small brown bag and two takeout cups in your grasp. “Good thing I bought breakfast on the way home.”

His heart does that stupid fluttering thing again and he reaches out, takes the bag from you with a grin. “You’re an angel.”

You shrug like it’s nothing, but he can tell—underneath the fatigue, you were thinking of him too. You always do.

The two of you sit across from each other at the dining table, still in the morning haze, two people fueled by caffeine and the comfort of shared silence. You take a slow bite of your croissant, your voice soft and sleepy as you begin, “It was a ransomware breach—really bad. The company’s firewall got bypassed and a huge chunk of their data was encrypted. They called our team in around midnight. We’ve been trying to trace the entry point and isolate the damage ever since.”

Chris listens, nodding even though some of the words fly straight over his head but the fatigue in your voice, the long-winded frustration—he can relate to that. He may not know a thing about servers and packets, but he knows what it’s like to be called into chaos with no end in sight.

“That sounds like hell,” he murmurs.

You hum, lifting your cup for another sip. “Pretty much. I’m running on caffeine and pure spite.”

Chris chuckles at that, resting his chin on his palm as he watches you. Even exhausted, you’re effortlessly beautiful. How is it fair?

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he innocently blurts out mid-sip of his coffee, voice hoarse from the hangover.

You smile, still a little dazed. “Tell me that again after I’ve showered.”

Once the last bite is gone and your cup’s nearly empty, you rise from your seat and press a hand to his shoulder. “I’m gonna go wash up and change. You should too. Don’t you have work?”

He grunts as he leans back on his seat. “Eventually.”

The two of you move around the apartment in rhythm—Chris heads for the bathroom, you disappear into the bedroom. Doors open, water runs, drawers creak. It’s the normalcy he craves, just the mundanity of it.

After his shower, Chris steps out with a towel slung low around his hips, wiping the mist off his face. He expects to find you already curled up under the covers, buried in pillows like you always do after a long night shift.

But no, he finds you in the laundry room. His eyes widen at the sight of you crouched in front of the washer, a loose shirt draping over your thighs, an open jar of detergent perched on top of the machine like an afterthought.

“You’re doing laundry?” he asks, half amused, half exasperated.

You don’t even flinch. “I’m just loading it. The machine does the rest.”

He crosses his arms, water still beading off his shoulders. “Baby, the world won’t end if the laundry waits a few hours.”

You close the detergent jar and shoot him a tired little smirk. “Yeah, but my brain won’t stop thinking about it until it’s done.”

Fair enough. Once the machine starts its rhythmic hum, Chris steps in, curling his fingers gently around your wrist and steers your body. “C’mon. Let’s get you to bed.”

Without protest, you let him lead you. He guides you to the bedroom, tucks the sheets over you with a tenderness most people wouldn’t expect from a guy like him. But just as he’s about to pull away, you catch his wrist.

“Cuddle me?” you mumble, eyes half-closed.

He exhales, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re dangerous when you ask like that.”

Of course he can’t say no to that. He climbs in behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as you both melt into the mattress. His nose buries into your damp hair, and his chest presses against your back. Your breathing slows and he feels it in the rise and fall of your body against his. Within minutes, you're out—completely, deeply asleep.

Chris just lies there, letting the silence settle and the world stop for a while until his phone buzzes against the nightstand. He considers ignoring it, not wanting to face the world just yet but curiosity wins. Carefully, he shifts just enough to peek at the screen without disturbing you.

Felix: Meet me at MESA gallery. Don’t go to the precinct. It’s important.

Chris taps out a quick reply with one hand: Be there soon.

But before he moves, he looks at you again, watching you peacefully sleeping and decides to stay one more moment longer. Just holding you, memorizing the feel of you breathing softly in his arms. Then he slips out, slowly and carefully as to not wake you.

He brushes the hair from your forehead and kisses the space just above your temple, lips lingering. “I’ll be home soon,” he whispers. “Sweet dreams, baby.”

With one last glance, Chris shrugs into his jacket, fastens his badge, holsters his gun. He lingers in the doorway for a second, watching you in the hush of morning light, still sleeping, still his and still the one he can’t wait to come home to.

Morning traffic blurs past him, but all he can focus on is Felix’s text. His brows stay furrowed, the headache from last night barely hanging on—though now dulled by a new, sharper tension. The engine hums low as Chris turns onto the narrow street leading to the MESA Gallery and when he pulls up, it’s immediately clear something serious has happened.

The place is crawling with uniforms and yellow tape. Squad cars parked along the sidewalk. Forensics wheeling cases of equipment inside. A small crowd has already gathered outside, murmuring behind the barricades. Press will be here soon, if they aren’t already. Chris flashes his badge at the officer by the door and steps inside.

The gallery—usually quiet, pristine, almost sterile in its curated elegance—is in controlled chaos. Technicians move with gloved hands, cameras clicking, laser scanners humming. The polished white floor now marred by footprints in plastic booties.

He finds Felix near the center of the gallery, speaking with one of the forensic specialists. Chris doesn’t interrupt, just steps beside him and waits, hands on his hips, eyes scanning the room. When the conversation ends, Felix turns to him.

“What’s going on?” Chris asks, his voice low but firm.

Felix doesn’t answer right away. He just jerks his chin, gesturing for Chris to follow. They walk past rows of cordoned-off exhibits—ancient crowns, jeweled scepters, ceremonial daggers—each displayed in thick glass enclosures.

Felix lets the silence stretch for a beat, then murmurs, “This gallery was hosting a royal jewelry exhibit. The Crown of Ancients was taken sometime last night. No witnesses. No footage. Same signature.”

The further they go, the quieter it becomes, until they reach the back of the gallery, where one display sits out of place. A single glass case, now empty. Chris’s eyes don’t stop at the missing piece but his gaze drops lower—to the faint trail on the velvet platform inside the case. A silvery shimmer. Almost invisible unless you know what to look for.

His jaw tightens as the recognition hits like a punch to the ribs. No. It can’t be. But it is.

Felix glances sideways at Chris, then adds with a low, knowing voice, “It looks like your favorite thief has returned.”

Chris doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay locked on the delicate dusting of silver inside the case—taunting him, unmistakable. It glints under the track lighting like a signature.

She’s back.

His mind reels, trying to retrace the years, the nights, the investigations, the gut instincts he pushed aside in favor of peace. Turns out, it’s a lull in the storm and now the storm has returned, soft-footed and smiling in the shadows.

The silence between him and Felix stretches—weighted and tense—until Chris finally mutters, voice low and laced with disbelief, “Why now?” Felix doesn’t answer and the only reply Chris gets is the echo of his own question in his head so he steps closer to the empty case, like getting nearer will help him understand. But all it does is confirm one thing: Silvene wanted him to know that this is only just beginning.

✨CLOSER: CHAPTER TWO is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!

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malunar28replies · 9 days ago

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LEE MINHO

⌕🐰 3 a.m. - one shot | angst, fluff |

⌕🐰 soft hours - one shot | fluff, smut |

⌕🐰 from the coast with love - series | fluff, angst, smut |

⌕🐰 always remember us this way - one shot | angst, fluff |

⤷ masterlist

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malunar28replies · 9 days ago

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HEARTH.

Changbin x reader. (s,f)

Synopsis: One year into marriage, you and Changbin have built a life filled with warmth, laughter, and unwavering devotion. Every day with him feels like a honeymoon but as time passes, a thought begins to take root—a longing for something more, something neither of you ever planned for. With love as your foundation, you begin to wonder: what if happiness could grow even bigger? (17,5k words)

Author's note: An early Changbin bday fic because we all need some binnie fluff (a lot of it tbh). And as always, hope you enjoy it 💕

Love is easy. Marriage, on the other hand, takes work.

No matter how much you and Changbin love each other, it doesn’t mean you’re immune to disagreements. Some are small, forgotten in a matter of minutes. Others run deeper, turning into tense silences and stubborn pride.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The bedroom feels colder than usual, though you know it’s not the temperature. The silence is deafening, save for the occasional shifting of blankets as you turn on your side for the fifth—no, sixth—time. You’re restless, but you refuse to be the first to break.

You’re not even sure how the argument escalated so quickly. Something about schedules, about time spent together, about feeling unheard. Voices were raised, sharp words were thrown like careless sparks, and before you knew it, Changbin had grabbed a pillow and stalked out of the bedroom.

Now, he’s in the living room, and you’re here, alone.

You exhale, pressing your face into the pillow. You hate this. The distance, the unresolved tension, the way your heart aches despite your lingering frustration. You know Changbin is just as stubborn as you—if not more—but you also know that neither of you likes sleeping apart.

Minutes stretch into an hour. Maybe more. You wonder if he has fallen asleep on the couch yet. You wonder if he’s waiting for you to come out, just as you’re waiting for him to return.

The argument still lingers in the air, but the longer you lie in bed alone, the heavier your heart feels. No matter what was said, no matter who was right or wrong, one thing remains the same—you hate being apart from him.

With a quiet sigh, you slip out of bed and pad softly toward the living room. Changbin lays on the couch, his head tilted down as he looks at his phone. He looks deep in thought, his brows slightly furrowed, but the moment he notices you standing there, his gaze softens.

Neither of you speaks at first. The space between you holds a quiet tension, but there’s no anger in it anymore—only the unspoken longing to be close again.

You hesitate, shifting on your feet before pouting at him. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, you ask, “Are you still angry?”

Changbin exhales, and just like that, his expression breaks into a smile—one of those warm, lopsided smiles that always makes your heart stutter. Before you can think twice, you melt into his arms, wrapping yourself around him as if you’ve been apart for days instead of just a few hours.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur against his shoulder, breathing him in.

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “I thought you were still angry,” you murmur with a pout.

“No,” Changbin endearingly brushes your hair away from your face and lands a quick kiss on your temple. “I was angry before but not anymore.”

You smile as he holds your gaze and before he can say anything else, you kiss him. “I'm sorry, baby,” you grumble with a pout.

His arms tighten around you instantly, holding you like he never wants to let go. “Me too.” His voice is low, gentle. “I should’ve come to you first and hug you.”

This time, he kisses you, soft at first, then deeper, as if to erase the distance between you. When he pulls away, he’s smiling again, and you trace your fingers along his cheek, committing the sight to memory.

“I like it when you smile like that,” you whisper.

Changbin chuckles, shaking his head as he pulls you even closer. “Then I’ll make sure you see it every day.”

And before you can reply, he kisses you again—slow and lingering, his hands resting on the small of your back as if grounding himself in you. When he pulls away, he presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“No more fighting tonight,” he murmurs.

You nod, feeling the last of your tension dissolve. “No more fighting.”

Just love, just warmth—just the two of you, as it’s always meant to be.

Marriage, they say, will dull the spark. The butterflies will settle, the excitement will fade, and soon, routine will take over, replacing passion with familiarity.

But a year into your marriage with Changbin, none of that seems to apply.

You still wake up to his arms wrapped tightly around you, as if holding you in his sleep is the only way he can rest. You still catch him staring at you with that same lovestruck gaze he had when he first confessed—eyes warm and full of unspoken words. You still find yourself reaching for his hand absentmindedly, and without fail, he always gives it a gentle squeeze, like a silent reassurance: I’m here. I love you.

Even now, as you sit at the small dining table in your shared apartment, sipping coffee while flipping through your phone, Changbin is watching you. He’s supposed to be eating breakfast, but instead, he props his chin on one hand, grinning at you.

“You know, people say the honeymoon phase doesn’t last,” he muses, voice low and teasing.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? And?”

“And I think they’re wrong.”

He leans closer, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I still get excited every time I come home to you. I still wake up in the middle of the night just to make sure you’re real. And I still can’t believe I get to love you every day.”

His words send warmth blooming in your chest. You scoff lightly, trying to play it cool, but the way your lips curl up betrays you. “Are you always this cheesy in the morning?”

“Only for you.” He smirks before adding, “And maybe if I need to butter someone up for favors. But mostly for you.”

You shake your head, amused, before remembering something. “Speaking of buttering up, don’t forget we have dinner at Minho's place tonight.”

Changbin groans dramatically, dropping his forehead onto the table. “I knew there was a catch.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his foot under the table. “Oh, come on. You like them.”

“I do,” he admits, lifting his head with a sigh. “But I also like spending my nights cuddled up with you on the couch.”

“You can cuddle me all you want when we get back,” you say, reaching over to poke the dimple on his cheek. “Just don’t stay late at work and make me go alone.”

Changbin huffs a small laugh, catching your hand and pressing a quick kiss to your fingertips. “I’d never do that. I’ll be there.”

He lingers a little longer before finally standing up and grabbing his things for work. Before heading out the door, he turns back to you, his smile soft, eyes lingering on you as if memorizing the moment. “See you tonight, love.”

As he's about to walk out of the door, he swiftly turns around on his feet as if he’s just remembered he forgot something. He comes up to you and pulls you by the waist, hard enough your body crashes with his and then kisses you, taking your breath away. But what catches you off guard is the way his hand quietly makes its way down and all of sudden, you feel him squeezing on your butt cheek.

You break the kiss with a giggle. “That's enough. Time to go to work,” you remind him, taking his hand away to stop him from doing it again and not because you don’t like it, because you do.

“One more kiss,” he demands with a soft smile that you can't help but nod.

Changbin puts his lips on yours once more, long, lingering as if to make up for the time he'll spend without kissing you. You lost count of how many times the two of you have kissed but your heart is fluttering still whenever your lips meet in a kiss. And then—

He lands a gentle slap on your butt cheek this time, making you yelp against his lips. He smirks when he pulls away and before you can protest, he heads for the door.

“I love you,” his voice soft, sincere and his words radiating warmth.

“I love you,” you say back without a beat.

When you think he doesn't have anything else to say, he lingers by the doorway. “We should work on those glutes next time,” he add before finally walking out of the door.

You shake your head, but the happiness swelling inside you is undeniable. A year into marriage, and nothing has changed. You’re still in love—deeply, irrevocably, overwhelmingly so.

And if this is what the honeymoon phase feels like, you hope it never ends.

The neon sign at the front of building is turned off but you can still read the name of the tattoo parlor. Oddinary, and that's where Minho and his family lives, on the third floor of the building.

After ringing the door bell twice, someone finally opens the door. Changbin gushes the second he sees his friend, Minho but he stops from giving him a hug as he sees Minho carrying a baby in one arm.

“Please, come in,” Minho doesn't say much after that but leads the two of you through flights of stairs until you reach the third floor.

Despite the parlor's dark interior, Minho’s apartment is warm and lively when you and Changbin step in. The scent of home-cooked food lingers in the air, and soft music plays in the background.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he announces to the people in the room,

Minho’s wife appears with a warm smile, wiping her hands down her apron. “Hi, you two, nice to see you again!” she comes up to Changbin first, giving him a quick hug and then turns to you, giving you a hug and a cheek-to-cheek kiss.

Before you forget, you hand him the bottle of wine you brought as a gift and she thanked you for it. She then turns toward the living room next, “Byeol, look who's here? It's Uncle Binnie.”

Still carrying the baby in his tattooed arm in ease, Minho leads you both further inside, “Come on, everyone’s in the living room.”

Inside, his daughter, Byeol, peeks up at you from her spot on the couch, flashing a shy smile before running toward Changbin which he immediately lifts into his arms. “Did you miss Uncle Binnie?” he asks the little girl.

Without a hint of hesitation, Byeol shakes her head at that and giggles. “No,” she bluntly denies.

He pouts at that and then looks at Minho. “She really is your child, Minho.”

Dinner is a mix of conversation and laughter, with Minho and Changbin exchanging stories, his wife chiming in now and then, and Byeol occasionally adding a comment that makes everyone chuckle.

After dinner, you offer to help clear the dishes, and Minho’s wife gratefully accepts, leading you into the kitchen. She hands you a dish towel while she washes the plates, sighing dramatically.

“God, I swear I haven’t sat down properly in months,” she says, shaking her head. “Ever since Haneul was born, it’s been non-stop. Between him and Byeol, I barely have time to breathe.”

You glance at her, unsure of what to say. She sounds exhausted, but there’s a softness in her voice too, a quiet kind of love beneath the frustration.

She sighs again, then side-eyes you with a smirk. “What about you? You and Changbin planning on having a baby anytime soon?”

You freeze for a second, your hands tightening around the dish towel. You weren’t expecting the question, even though it wasn’t the first time someone had asked.

“I—” You hesitate, unsure how to answer.

She notices your pause and immediately waves a wet, soapy hand. “Oh God, sorry. That was probably a little too personal.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s okay. It’s just… we haven’t really thought about it much.”

It’s not a lie. You and Changbin had agreed from the start that kids weren’t in the plan—or at least, you weren’t ready for them. And he had never pressured you otherwise.

Minho’s wife snorts, nudging you playfully. “Good. Don’t do it.”

You stop moving for a second. “What?”

She laughs. “Seriously, don’t. Kids are true little shits.”

Despite yourself, you chuckle. “You say that, but you still had two.”

“I know, I know.” She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I love them to death, obviously. But they will drain the life out of you. Some days I feel like a zombie.”

You hum in understanding, but your mind is still stuck on her question. If she had asked you a year ago, your answer would have been simple—no. But now, for some reason, it doesn’t come as easily.

Before you can dwell on it, Minho’s wife dries her hands and sighs. “Alright, I need to grab something real quick. Do me a favor?”

“Sure,” you absentmindedly answer as you have nothing else to do as Minho and Changbin are busy catching up in the living room.

She picks up Haneul from his high chair and, without giving you time to protest, gently places him in your arms.

You stiffen immediately. “Oh—I, uh—”

“It’s just for a second,” she says, already halfway out the kitchen. “You’ll be fine!”

And then she’s gone, leaving you standing there, frozen, with a baby in your arms.

Haneul squirms for a moment before settling against you, looking up at you with big, curious eyes. You sit down carefully on the couch, unsure of what to do. Babies were never really your thing. You had nothing against them, but holding one always made you nervous.

Changbin, who had been chatting with Minho, notices you struggling and immediately gets up, making his way over to you. He sits next to you on the couch, his gaze flicking between you and Haneul before a soft smile spreads across his lips.

“Need some help?” he asks gently.

You nod wordlessly, and he chuckles before adjusting Haneul’s position in your arms, making sure the baby is comfortable. “There you go. Not so bad, right?”

Haneul lets out a tiny giggle, reaching a chubby hand toward Changbin’s face. Without hesitation, Changbin leans in and lets the baby grab at his nose, scrunching his face dramatically. “Ah! You got me!”

Byeol, who has been watching from the couch, giggles. “Uncle Binnie, you’re so silly.”

“That’s my job,” Changbin says with a grin, turning back to Haneul. “Isn’t that right, little bunny?”

“Be careful, he's a nose biter,” Minho warns him as he helps Byeol opening a bottle of juice.

“What—” Before Changbin can process the information, Haneul leans in as if about to kiss him but he goes for his nose instead and bites it.

Changbin shrieks in surprise as he slowly pulls his head away to safety. He turns at Minho as he rubs his nose. “You really are your father's child, huh?”

Haneul coos in response, clearly delighted. Changbin rocks him gently, his voice dropping into a soft hum as he sways back and forth. His touch is so natural, so effortless—it’s like second nature to him.

You watch him, something warm and unfamiliar stirring in your chest. You’ve always known Changbin was kind, but seeing him like this—gentle, patient, playful—makes you see him in a new light.

He catches you staring and tilts his head. “What?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing.”

But when he smiles at you, eyes full of warmth, you realize it’s not nothing.

That night, as you settle into bed, your mind refuses to quiet down. The room is dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and Changbin is in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. The distant hum of running water fills the silence, but your thoughts are louder.

You think back to the conversation you had with him before you got married—the moment you admitted that you weren’t sure if you ever wanted children.

It wasn’t an easy thing to say, not when you knew how much Changbin loved family, how easily he melted around kids. But you had been honest. You told him you didn’t know if you would ever be ready, if that kind of life was meant for you.

And Changbin, in the way that only he could, had smiled and taken your hands in his.

"I don’t need anything else as long as I have you," he had said. "Whether we have kids or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I love you and want to be with you."

Even now, the memory makes your heart ache in the best way.

He has never pressured you. Not once. Not when people asked, not when friends joked about it, not even when you brought it up yourself with uncertainty in your voice. He has always accepted you exactly as you are.

The bed dips slightly as Changbin climbs in beside you, pulling the covers over himself before rolling onto his side to face you. He studies you for a moment, his brows furrowing just slightly.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice thick with sleep.

You hesitate for a second, then shake your head, offering him a small smile. “Just… how lucky I am.”

His frown softens, replaced by the curve of his lips. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face before tucking his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “I’m the lucky one,” he murmurs against your forehead before placing a kiss.

“Minho has a really nice family,” You share as you think back to dinner earlier—Minho and his wife moving seamlessly around the apartment, their daughter Byeol chattering excitedly about school while baby Haneul giggled in his father’s arms. It was chaotic but warm, the kind of energy that filled a home with life.

He hums in agreement, shifting onto his side so he’s facing you. “Yeah. Honestly, I never thought I’d see the day he got married, let alone have two kids,” he chuckles. “Back then, he was always saying he wasn’t the type to settle down. And now look at him.”

You smile at that, but the words weigh on you more than they should. After a pause, you ask carefully, “Did you ever think about it? Having kids?”

Changbin doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly, a gesture so familiar and comforting that your heart clenches.

“I have you,” he finally says, voice soft. “And that’s enough for me.”

Your chest tightens. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask you to change your mind. He’s always been like this—accepting, unwavering, loving you for exactly who you are.

“You’re enough for me, too,” You say, climbing his body to lay on top of him. You lean in and lovingly kiss him before adding, “More than enough.”

His lips curl into a sleepy smile, and he tugs you closer, tucking you against his chest. “I know,” he murmurs against your hair.

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace. For now, this is enough. For now, you’re content just being his.

The moment his lips meet yours again, there’s something different in the way he kisses you—something deeper, more consuming. His hands roam your body with quiet reverence, fingertips tracing the familiar curves and dips of your skin, as if he’s rediscovering you all over again.

It starts slow. It always does with him. Changbin takes his time, he likes hearing the sigh that escapes your lips as he presses kisses along your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbone. His hands move with purpose, exploring, teasing, until your breath hitches and your fingers tangle in his hair.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, his voice hushed, as if the words are meant only for you. His lips travel lower, his touch burning and tender all at once, and he watches you, drinking in every reaction, every quiet gasp.

Then his hand glides down your front, not hesitating to slip under the silky fabric of your underwear. His fingers deftly find your clit, swelling with every gentle rub of his thumb on it, heat pooling between your legs and under his touch.

You moan, your body molding into him as he holds you from the back, seeking his warmth, the friction of his bare skin against yours and the hand palming your breast.

"Tell me what you need," he whispers while capturing your nipple in between his fingers.

"You," you breathe, no hesitation. "Just you."

His smile is soft, adoring, and when he presses a kiss on your neck, he whispers, "You have me."

He disappears for a moment to grab a condom from the bedside drawer and you frown at the loss of contact. You're on the pill but you both don't want to risk it, it's a hassle but it's safer this way.

When he returns, his hand reaches for the back of your thigh, lifting it just enough to give him access to slip his cock in between your legs and that way, he can align himself to your entrance from behind.

You're moaning into your pillow as he rubs his length between your folds before finally penetrating you with utmost attentiveness. Even with q layer of protection, you still can feel how hot, how hard he is that you feel a flutter in your stomach.

When Changbin moves against you, he moves in a slow, steady pace. He wants you to feel everything—to understand, without words, just how much he loves you. His hands cradle you like something precious, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss that steals your breath, and when he finally meets your gaze, the intensity in his eyes makes your heart stutter.

“I've got you, baby, I've got you,” he murmurs with his mouth lingering on the column of your throat.

And as he holds you close, as he moves with you in the quiet intimacy of the night, you believe him.

You feel it in the way he whispers your name like a prayer, in the way his hands never stop worshiping you, in the way he loves you so thoroughly, so completely, that it leaves you breathless.

Before you know it, you come around him, your body goes limp but he keeps drawing out every inch of pleasure out of you by dragging his cock out of you only to push it back in, deeper and he thrusts a few times more until he eventually reaches his high.

By the time he pulls you close again, bodies tangled in the sheets, your heart feels impossibly full. He presses a final kiss to your temple, his hand resting over your heart, and you know—without a doubt—that you are loved.

Completely. Irrevocably. Wholly. And as you drift off in his arms, that love is the last thing you feel.

Changbin stands in front of the mirror, adjusting his jacket while humming softly to himself. He looks good—effortlessly handsome, as always—but you’re too curled up in bed, clutching your stomach, to fully appreciate it.

Noticing your lack of movement, he turns to you with a slight frown. "Aren't you going to get ready?"

You groan, burying your face into the pillow. "I don’t think I can go."

His brows knit together as he steps closer. "Why? Are you feeling sick?"

You sigh, shifting to look at him. "Period cramps."

Immediately, his expression softens, concern replacing confusion. He sits on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair back gently. "Bad ones?"

"Not the worst, but enough to make me want to stay in bed all night." You offer him a small smile. "It's fine, though. You should still go."

He hesitates. "Are you sure? I can stay if you need me."

You shake your head, your fingers playing with the lapel of his leather jacket. "I promise, I'm just going to rest. You should go have fun with your friends."

Changbin studies you for a moment before exhaling, clearly reluctant. "Okay," he finally says. "But call me if you need anything, alright?"

You nod, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I'll bring you something sweet on my way back," he murmurs against your skin.

That makes you grin from ear to ear. "You're the best."

He grins, ruffling your hair before standing up. "I know," he confidently says.

As he grabs his keys and heads for the door, he pauses, looking back at you one last time. "Seriously, if you need me—"

"I know, baby," you interrupt, amused. "Just go. Have fun."

He sighs dramatically and comes up to you, giving you q long kiss on the lips. "I love you."

You smile against his lips and say it back with your heart aching in the best way possible. "I love you."

With one final kiss on your lips and a gentle pat on your head, Changbin finally steps out, leaving you to your much-needed rest.

You burrow into the blanket, wrapping yourself in the warmth as you play with your phone, mindlessly scrolling down until your eyes start to droop.

The warmth of sleep is just beginning to pull you under when you hear the familiar sound of the front door opening. You stir, blinking groggily as the soft rustling of fabric and the faint clink of keys being set down reach your ears.

"Changbin? Baby?" your voice is thick with sleep as you turn toward the bedroom door. "You're home already?"

A moment later, he appears, kicking off his shoes as he walks toward you. "Yeah," he says simply, shrugging off his jacket. "Told them I couldn't stay long because you weren’t feeling well."

Your heart clenches at his words, warmth blooming in your chest. "You didn’t have to do that," you say softly, sitting up a little.

He shrugs again, but his eyes are warm as he places a bag on the nightstand. "I wanted to."

Curious, you peek inside and let out a surprised laugh. The bag is filled with an assortment of sweets, a tub of your favorite ice cream, and even a small heating patch for your cramps. "You even got my usual remedies?"

"Of course." He grins, proud of himself. "I figured if I couldn’t take the pain away, I could at least bribe you with sugar."

You shake your head, touched beyond words. "You're too good to me."

He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. "Well, I happen to love you a whole lot, so."

Smiling, you reach for the ice cream, and he helps you peel off the lid. As you take a bite, he watches you with amusement, then gestures to your stomach. "Want me to give you belly rubs? Might help with the cramps."

You pause, blinking at him. "You’d really do that?"

He chuckles. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

You hum, setting your spoon down. "Don't know. Just didn't expect it."

"Well, expect it." He shifts onto the bed beside you, lifting the blanket so he can settle in close. His hand finds your stomach, rubbing slow, soothing circles. His touch is warm, comforting, and the combination of that and the sweets is enough to make you relax completely.

"Feels nice," you murmur, leaning into him.

"Good," he says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Now eat your ice cream before it melts."

You laugh softly, taking another bite, and as you lie there, wrapped in his warmth and affection, you realize—this, right here, is one of the many reasons you fell in love with him.

You take another spoonful of ice cream and feed it to him which he eagerly takes into his mouth and by the time you finish the tub, the cramps are still there, but with his touch and the sweetness settling in your system, they feel a little more bearable.

"Do you want to do something?" he asks softly, his voice low and soothing.

You hum in response, tilting your head to look up at him. "Like what?"

He shrugs. "We could watch a movie."

That sounds nice. You nod, smiling. "Okay. But you have to pick. I don't want to make decisions right now."

Changbin grins, already reaching for the remote. "I got you."

He scrolls through the options, finally settling on a familiar rom-com. It's nothing groundbreaking, but it’s comfortable—something the two of you have watched before, something easy to fall asleep to.

You curl up against him as the movie starts, pulling the blanket over both of you. He shifts to get comfortable, one arm wrapping securely around you, his hand still resting on your stomach. Occasionally, he rubs small, soothing circles again, making sure you’re comfortable.

Halfway through the movie, your eyelids grow heavier. The warmth of Changbin’s body, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the soft glow of the screen create the perfect lullaby. You feel yourself slipping in and out of consciousness, barely paying attention to the dialogue anymore.

"You still awake?" Changbin murmurs after a while.

"Mm… kind of," you mumble against his chest.

He chuckles, adjusting so you're even closer. "Go to sleep," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I’ll turn it off."

You don’t even hear him grab the remote. Sleep claims you before he can. The last thing you register is the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his arms around you, and the way he holds you like he never wants to let go.

Changbin owns a recording studio only a few blocks from the apartment and he's usually free on the weekend but a client moved a deadline forward, forcing him to work extra to finish the track right on time. He left early for work, and you know he’s been busy with other projects too. So, you decide to pack up a homemade lunch, hoping to surprise him.

When you arrive at the studio, you see what you expect to see, you find him l hunched over his desk, buried in work. What you don’t expect is the sight of Minho’s daughter, Byeol, sitting on his lap giggling as Changbin playfully lead her tiny hands to play a beat.

“You’re getting better,” he praises, ruffling her hair. “At this rate, you’ll be a producer before me.”

Byeol beams, her ponytail bounces as she turns her head. “Really?”

You watch from the doorway, a small smile tugging at your lips. Changbin hasn’t noticed you yet, too focused on entertaining Byeol. It’s rare to see him in full “uncle mode,” but when he is, he’s incredibly sweet—patient, playful, and completely at ease.

Byeol suddenly notices you standing there and gasps. She scrambles to her feet and rushes over, wrapping her arms around your waist.

“Hey, Byeol,” you greet, laughing as you hug her back. “What are you doing here?”

“My soccer practice is canceled and my dad couldn't pick me up so Uncle Binnie did,” she explains. “He said I could be his assistant.”

Changbin finally looks up, his face breaking into a wide smile when he sees you. “Hey,” he greets, walking over and giving you the gentlest of kiss on your cheek.

“What’s all this?” He gestures to the bag in your hands.

“Lunch,” you say, handing it to him. “I thought you could use a break.”

His eyes soften as he takes the lunch bag from your hand. “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs, placing a quick peck on your lips, aware of the presence of the child in the room.

Byeol gasps dramatically. “You cook for him? Wahhh, you really love him.”

You laugh as you place a hand on the back of her shoulder. “Of course I do.”

Changbin grins, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “She loves me so much, she can’t help but spoil me.”

You glance at Changbin, who’s already opening the lunch you brought, looking eager to dig in. Then, you look down at Byeol, who’s still clinging to your side, eyes full of curiosity.

“Hey, Byeol,” you say, an idea forming. “Want to go on a snack run with me?”

Her eyes light up instantly. “Really? Can I pick whatever I want?”

You can't help but laugh at her eagerness. “Within reason.”

Byeol turns to Changbin. “Uncle Binnie, do you want anything?”

Changbin, who’s already halfway through his first bite, shakes his head. “Nope. My wife already took care of me.” He flashes you a grateful smile. “You two go ahead—I’ll hold down the fort.”

Byeol cheers, grabbing your hand and practically dragging you toward the door. “Let’s go before he changes his mind!”

The two of you step out of the studio and into the warm afternoon air. The convenience store is only a short walk away, and Byeol chatters excitedly the whole way, telling you about school, her favorite shows, and how she thinks Uncle Binnie is "the coolest," but that her dad is still "cooler, obviously," because he has tattoos.

When you arrive, Byeol makes a beeline for the snack aisle, her little hands grabbing a mix of chips, chocolate, and candy. You watch her with amusement, setting a few of her choices back when she gets a little too enthusiastic.

“Byeol, do you like playing with Uncle Binnie?” you ask as you browse the shelves.

Byeol nods, stuffing a bag of gummies into the basket. “Yeah! He's silly and he always plays with me.” She pauses, tilting her head. “I think Uncle Binnie really, really loves you,” she says matter-of-factly.

You stop moving as you’re lifting a bag of chips. “Why do you say that?”

“He always talks about you. And when he’s with you, he smiles a lot,” Byeol casually answers as she puts down a pack of jelly bean into the cart.

Your heart melts a little. It’s one thing to know Changbin loves you, but hearing it from someone else—especially a child who sees the world so honestly—makes your chest feel warm.

You reach out and ruffle Byeol’s hair. “And I think you're too cute, Byeol.”

She grins before gasping suddenly. “Oh! I forgot to get a drink!” She runs off toward the fridge section, leaving you smiling to yourself.

You return to the studio with Byeol skipping happily beside you, her small hands clutching the plastic bag full of snacks. The moment you step inside, you notice Changbin is already back to work, his focus glued to the screen in front of him as he adjusts sound levels and clicks through different tracks.

Byeol doesn’t seem to mind. She plops down onto the sofa, immediately tearing open a bag of chips. You sit beside her, watching as she munches contentedly, her little legs swinging off the edge of the seat.

“Do you wanna try some?” she asks, holding out a chip.

You smile and take one, making an exaggerated “mmm” sound that makes her giggle. “Delicious. Excellent choice, Superstar.”

She grins proudly and continues eating. Every now and then, she glances over at Changbin, watching him work with quiet curiosity. After a while, she looks up at you. “What’s Uncle Binnie doing?”

You glance toward Changbin, who still hasn’t looked away from his screen. “He’s making music.”

Byeol tilts her head. “So, like… magic?”

You chuckle at Byeol's innocence and inquisitiveness. “Kind of. He takes sounds and puts them together to make something amazing.”

She hums thoughtfully before turning back to her snacks. You stay beside her, occasionally chatting, but soon, her blinks get slower, and her chewing slows down. Her head starts to droop slightly, and before you know it, she’s curled up against your side, her breathing even and soft.

You smile to yourself, adjusting her position so she’s more comfortable. Her small body is warm against yours, and despite the faint rustling of Changbin’s work in the background, the moment feels peaceful.

At some point, Changbin glances over, his eyes softening when he sees Byeol fast asleep on your lap. He smiles and mouths, Cute.

You shake your head playfully but find yourself gazing down at the sleeping child, a strange feeling settling in your chest. Byeol looks so at ease, so safe. You gently brush a stray strand of hair from her face, a quiet warmth spreading through you.

For a moment, you wonder what it would be like—having a little one of your own.

A little while later, the door to the studio swings open, and Minho steps inside, glancing around before his eyes land on Byeol, still fast asleep in Changbin’s arms. He lets out a small sigh, shaking his head.

“She’s really out, huh?” Minho murmurs, stepping closer.

Changbin swivels on his chair and nods “She had a full day of asking me tons of questions. Knocked out as soon as she finished her snacks.”

Speaking of which—“Oh, Minho, take this with you,” you say, grabbing the plastic bag of leftover snacks and handing it to him.

Minho takes it without a second thought, but when he peeks inside, his brows furrow. He reaches in, pulling out a lollipop, then a chocolate bar, then a bag of gummies. His eyes dart up to Changbin. “You bought my kid a mountain of sugar,” he sighs.

Changbin immediately points at you. “It was her!”

You gape at him, then smack his chest loud enough the sound echoing in the room. “Excuse me? You were the one who paid for it!”

Minho watches your exchange with an unimpressed look before sighing. “Well, at least you guys didn’t let her eat all of it at once.” He tucks the snacks away and adjusts Byeol in his arms, who stirs slightly but stays asleep. Then, he looks between you and Changbin, expression softening just a little. “Thanks for watching her today.”

Minho gives you a grateful nod before shifting his focus back to Changbin. “And you—next time, maybe buy her something other than just sugar?”

Changbin scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Noted.”

With one last thank-you, Minho heads out, Byeol still nestled against him, her tiny arms wrapped around his neck.

Once he’s gone, you turn to Changbin, crossing your arms. “I cannot believe you threw me under the bus.”

He laughs, the annoying kind before slipping an arm around your waist. “Hey, I had to save myself somehow.”

As the door closes behind Minho, the studio settles into a peaceful quiet. You let out a soft breath, your arms still crossed as you lean against the edge of the couch.

Changbin is still close, his big arm wrapped around your waist, his body warm against yours. You should say something—but instead, you find yourself lost in thought.

Spending time with Byeol today had been… nice. She was full of energy, endlessly curious, and even when she had tired herself out, she had curled up against you so easily, trusting and comfortable. And then there was Changbin—so gentle with her, so patient, playing along with all her little games like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That warmth still lingers in your chest, wrapping around you like a quiet embrace. You shift slightly, glancing up at Changbin, who looks at you with a soft, questioning gaze.

“What?” he asks, voice low and affectionate.

You hesitate for a moment before shaking your head, offering a small smile. “Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes playfully but doesn’t press. Instead, he tugs you closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’re thinking about something,” he murmurs.

You are. But for now, you keep it to yourself, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his hold instead.

The soft glow of the vanity lights casts a warm hue over your reflection as you apply the finishing touches to your makeup. You hum softly, reaching for your lipstick when you catch a familiar figure lingering by the doorway in the mirror.

Changbin stands there, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. His gaze is fixed on you, admiration written all over his face. His dark eyes trail over you slowly, from the way your dress hugs your figure to the delicate way your fingers move as you blend in the color on your lips.

You pause, smirking at his dazed expression. "If you keep looking at me like that, I might get pregnant."

His eyes widen slightly before a laugh rumbles from his chest, low and amused. He pushes off the doorway, stepping closer with that playful glint in his eyes. "Should I?" he teases, resting his hands on your shoulders as he meets your gaze in the mirror.

You roll your eyes with a chuckle. "Finish getting ready, Binnie."

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your exposed shoulder. "I would, but my wife looks too damn gorgeous. It’s distracting."

Your heart flutters still for every time he calls you ''my wife' like the fact that you're married to him hasn’t sink in yet, warmth blooming in your chest as you shake your head, feigning exasperation. "Flattery will only get you so far."

Changbin smirks, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist from behind. "Then I guess I’ll just have to keep making these eyes to you all night."

You laugh, gently swatting at his arms. "Dinner first, mister."

He grins, pressing one last lingering kiss to your cheek before finally stepping away. "Fine, fine. But don’t take too long. The sooner we leave, the sooner I can have you all to myself."

You scoff in disbelief, but the warmth of his gaze lingers as you finish getting ready, a soft smile playing on your lips.

The restaurant is warm and intimate, the low hum of conversation filling the air as you and Changbin settle into your seats. The soft candlelight flickers between you, casting a golden glow on his features.

He looks good tonight—not that he ever doesn’t, but there’s something about the way his dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, the way his sleeves are rolled up just enough to tease his toned forearms, that makes your stomach flutter.

“You’re staring,” Changbin muses, lifting a brow as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand.

You huff a small laugh, reaching for your water. “You were doing the same thing earlier.”

He grins as if he got caught doing something. “Still am.”

The waiter arrives before you can respond, setting down your meals, and the conversation shifts to lighter topics—his work at the studio, funny things that happened throughout the day, little moments that make you both laugh. It’s easy, effortless, the kind of night that reminds you just how much you love simply being with him.

At some point, you reach across the table, letting your fingers brush over his. He intertwines them instantly, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.

“I missed this,” you admit softly.

Changbin’s gaze softens. “Me too.” He squeezes your hand gently. “I know I’ve been busy lately, but I don’t ever want you to feel like I’m neglecting us.”

You shake your head. “I know. And I understand. I just… love nights like these.”

His lips curve into a smile, the kind that makes your heart skip a beat. “Then let’s have more of them.”

You smile back, warm feeling flooding your chest. The rest of dinner passes with laughter and soft touches, quiet promises between glances.

As you step out of the restaurant, hand in hand, the cool night air wraps around you. Changbin pulls you a little closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Ready to go home?” he asks.

You nod, leaning into his side. “Yeah.”

The two of you walk down the quiet sidewalk, the soft glow of streetlights casting long shadows as Changbin keeps your hand in his. The night air is crisp, but his warmth is enough to keep you comfortable.

As you pass by a brightly lit store, a familiar display catches your eye—tiny clothes, stuffed animals, and shelves stocked with all things baby-related. It takes a second for you to remember.

“Oh,” you say, slowing your steps. “Haneul’s birthday is this weekend. We should get him a present.”

Changbin follows your gaze, nodding. “Good idea. Let’s check it out.”

The bell above the door jingles as you step inside, the scent of baby powder and soft fabric surrounding you. The store is cozy, lined with neatly arranged displays of plush toys, tiny shoes, and pastel-colored clothes.

You and Changbin split up, scanning the aisles for the perfect gift. You find yourself drawn to a section filled with soft, cuddly stuffed animals, while Changbin inspects a tiny pair of sneakers, holding them up with an amused expression.

“Can you believe Minho’s kid is already one?” he says, shaking his head. “Feels like just yesterday he was telling us they were expecting.”

You smile, reaching out to run your fingers over a plush bunny. “Time flies, huh?”

Before Changbin can reply, a cheerful voice interrupts.

“Excuse me, do you need any help?”

You turn to see a shopkeeper approaching, her eyes bright with warmth. She looks between you and Changbin, then down at the stuffed animal in your hands, and her expression softens into something knowing.

“Are you looking for something special for your little one?” she asks kindly.

Your breath catches for a second, caught off guard by her assumption. “Oh, actually—”

“A first-time parent, I assume?” she continues, smiling. “This bunny is a popular choice—very soft, perfect for a newborn.”

You open your mouth to correct her, but no words come out. The thought lingers for just a moment—first-time parent. You’re not, of course. But standing here, surrounded by all these tiny, delicate things, you can’t deny the way your heart skips at the idea.

Changbin notices your hesitation, his hand finding the small of your back in a familiar, grounding touch. “We’re actually looking for a birthday present for our friend’s baby,” he says, his voice light but gentle.

The shopkeeper blinks, then laughs softly. “Oh! My mistake. Let me show you some of our best gift options.”

You nod, following her deeper into the store, but your mind lingers on that moment—on the unspoken thought that had crept in before you could stop it.

The car ride home is quiet, but comfortably so. The soft hum of the music fills the space as Changbin drives, his fingers loosely laced with yours over the center console. Every now and then, his thumb strokes over your skin absentmindedly, like he just needs to feel you there.

“I think Haneul’s gonna love his present,” Changbin says, his voice warm with excitement. “That blanket is so soft—he’s probably gonna be attached to it right away.”

You smile, watching the way his eyes crinkle with fondness. “You really like that little nose biter, huh?”

“Of course.” He lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before glancing at you briefly, a playful glint in his eyes. “But I like spending the night alone with you even more.”

You laugh softly. “Oh yeah? Then what happens if we have a child?”

Changbin hums, as if seriously considering it. He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second, you wonder if the question catches him off guard. But then, he squeezes your hand, his voice steady when he speaks.

“Then I’d love spending time with both of you,” he says simply. “The more the merrier.”

Your heart does something funny in your chest, but you mask it with a teasing grin. “That means no more date nights for us.”

Changbin clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “No way. We’ll just take them with us.”

You chuckle at that, shaking your head. “That’s not a date night anymore. That’s a family outing.”

“Same thing,” he says easily, bringing your hand to his lips again. This time, he kisses your palm, lingering just long enough to make your skin tingle. “As long as I’m with you, it’s a good night.”

Your chest tightens, but in the best way possible. You let yourself hold onto his hand a little tighter, letting the warmth of his touch settle into your bones as the car continues down the quiet road home.

As soon as you step inside your apartment, you set the shopping bag down on the dining table, already thinking about where to wrap Haneul’s present later. But before you can take another step, strong arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you flush against a firm chest.

“Finally,” Changbin murmurs, his voice low and rough in your ear.

Before you can ask what he means, he turns you around in his arms, one hand cradling the back of your head as he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is hard, urgent, like he’s been holding back all night. You barely have time to react before you melt into him, your hands gripping the front of his shirt as he deepens the kiss.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far—his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm as it fans across your lips. “I have all of you for myself now,” he mutters, his voice laced with something between relief and hunger.

Changbin doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. One moment, you’re standing in his arms, and the next, he’s hoisting you up with ease, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs as you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. A surprised gasp leaves your lips, but it’s quickly swallowed by his mouth on yours, deep and consuming.

He carries you through the apartment, his steps steady despite the way his lips move hungrily against yours. By the time you reach the bedroom, both of you are breathless, and as he lowers you onto the mattress, he follows, his body pressing against yours.

His lips trail from your mouth down to your jaw, then your neck, leaving a slow-burning path of heat in their wake. You shudder as his teeth graze your skin ever so slightly, your fingers threading through his hair as he takes his time savoring you.

Then, with his lips brushing against your ear, he whispers, voice dark and full of promise, “I’ve been thinking of so many ways to ruin you tonight.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, anticipation pooling in your stomach. His hands find your waist, anchoring you beneath him as he leans back just enough to look at you, his gaze filled with something deep, something unspoken.

You sit up slowly, propping yourself on your elbows as you watch Changbin roughly reach for the hem of his shirt. The anticipation coils inside you, your breath catching the moment he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside.

Even in the dim light of your bedroom, his body is a masterpiece—sculpted muscles, broad shoulders, and strong arms that have held you countless times. Your eyes roam over him, tracing every dip and ridge, the warmth in your stomach spreading as the sheer sight of him makes you ache with want.

He notices your hungry, lustful eyes. A slow smirk tugs at his lips as he steps closer to the bed, his gaze locking onto yours. Without a word, he takes your hand, guiding it toward his chest. “You don’t just have to look,” he murmurs, his voice rich and teasing. “You can touch.”

Your fingers skim over his skin, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. His warmth seeps into you, and you let your hands wander, palms sliding over his firm chest, down to his toned stomach. You feel the way his muscles tense slightly under your touch, the way his breath stutters for just a second as your fingertips explore him.

“You’re so…” you start, but words fail you. Big? Beautiful? Strong? Yours?

Changbin chuckles, low and knowing. “That good, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the way your hands stay on him betrays you. “Just let me admire my husband in peace.”

He doesn’t break eye contact as he presses you back against the mattress, his body following yours until he hovers over you. His lips find yours again—slow, deep, and consuming, like he has all the time in the world to kiss you breathless.

Then, his mouth moves lower, tracing along your jaw, down the curve of your neck. Each press of his lips leaves a trail of heat in its wake, his hands following suit as he pushes up the fabric of your dress. He kisses over the thin material, his pace unhurried, savoring the way your breath hitches with every touch.

Without a word, he lifts the hem higher, his gaze flicking up to meet yours—dark, teasing, unwavering. And then, with no hesitation, he slips his head beneath the fabric, disappearing completely from view.

A shiver runs down your spine as you feel him settle between your legs, his presence warm, solid, and unrelenting. His hands grip your thighs, parting them just enough as his breath ghosts over your clothed core. The anticipation is unbearable, the wait almost torturous.

And then, he’s there. Completely, entirely, devotedly there.

A gasp escapes your lips as Changbin’s hands grip your thighs, steadying you beneath him. The warmth of his breath fans across the skin of you inner thigh, sending a shiver up your spine. He lingers there, teasing, his lips grazing feather-light touches on the skin around, anywhere except where you want the most.

Your fingers tighten in the sheets as he plants his mouth on your clothed sex and then hums against you, the vibrations sending a rush of heat through your body. His grip on you is firm yet gentle, keeping you exactly where he wants you, where he can unravel you piece by piece.

The flimsy fabric doesn't stop him from opening his mouth wider to take more of you in his mouth, your underwear is damp with both his saliva and your arousal. Something slick and hot tracing your bundle of nerves through the fabric, his tongue, lapping at it in kitten licks.

Impatient, he pulls the underwear to the side. You sigh as his hot breath fans your wetness, his tongue darts toward your entrance, tasting the fresh essence coming out of you.

Once again, he dives into your cunt, running his tongue between your folds repeatedly. As if that isn't enough, he slowly pushes two digits into you, curling them just enough to hit you right on the spot. He moves his mouth and fingers in sync, slowly and steadily, savoring every reaction, every tremble of your body beneath him. You can’t see him—your dress still drapes over his head—but you can feel him, his devotion evident in every press of his lips, every flicker of his tongue.

A soft moan slips from your lips, and he makes a satisfied sound in response, as if he’s exactly where he wants to be. Your hands find their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, anchoring yourself as pleasure coils in your stomach.

Changbin doesn’t rush. He takes his time, exploring, worshiping, making sure you feel every ounce of his love. And as the tension builds, as your breaths grow shakier, you realize—there’s nothing in this world he enjoys more than making you fall apart under his touch.

He doesn't let go even though you're coming all over his mouth, if anything, he takes another dive into your wetness, ignoring the fact that you're at your most sensitive after climaxing.

“Oh...” You lowly moan as he presses the gentlest of kiss on your pulsating clit.

With his mouth and chin glistening with your essence, Changbin hovers above you, his body warm and solid against yours as he captures your lips in a deep, lingering kiss. You can taste the remnants of yourself on his tongue. Your breaths mingle, still uneven from the waves of pleasure he just pulled from you, and he groans softly as your fingers thread through his hair, holding him close.

He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark with longing. “I'll get the condom,” he murmurs, his voice husky and strained. He starts to move, but you tighten your grip around him, keeping him in place.

He looks at you, questioning, but you only answer by guiding his lips back to yours, kissing him slowly. When you finally pull away, your voice is barely above a whisper. “I want to feel all of you tonight.”

A sharp breath escapes him, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation—but he finds none. His hands tighten around your waist, his restraint hanging by a thread. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice gentler now, laced with something deeper than just desire.

You nod, running your fingers along his jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. “I’m sure.”

Changbin stills above you, his breath hitching as your words settle between you. His fingers tighten their grip on your waist, as if grounding himself, as if holding back the surge of emotions—of desire—that flickers through his darkened eyes.

He exhales a shaky laugh, tilting his head slightly as he watches you with a mix of amusement and hunger. “What happened to keeping it safe?” he teases, his voice low, teasing yet strained, betraying just how much you’ve unraveled him.

You meet his gaze, a sly smile curving your lips as you brush your fingertips along the nape of his neck. “I don’t want to play it safe tonight.” Your voice is soft, but your words carry weight, an unspoken promise that sends a shiver down his spine.

His expression shifts—his teasing smirk falters for a moment before his jaw clenches, his breathing uneven. You see it then, the way your words affect him, the way his restraint frays at the edges. “You can’t just say things like that,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing against yours, his body taut with tension.

You simply smile, your fingers drawing lazy patterns along his back. “Why not?”

His breath is warm against your lips as he whispers, “Because you have no idea what you do to me.”

And then he kisses you—deep, consuming, as if he’s trying to pour everything he feels into it. His hands roam your body with newfound urgency, reverence mixing with something more raw, more desperate.

Tonight, there’s no holding back. No barriers, no distance. Just you and him, lost in the moment, lost in each other.

The air is thick with heat, with the sound of your mingled breaths and the rhythmic creak of the mattress beneath you. Changbin thrust from behind you, his hands firm on your waist, guiding you with a force that has your body trembling beneath him. His eyes glance down to where his cock slipping in and out of you. His hand occasionally tracing the curve of your ass before squeezing on the flesh.

Both of your shadows dancing across the walls, but you don’t need to see him to feel everything he’s pouring into you—his passion, his need, his love. Your fingers grip the sheets beneath you, knuckles turning pale as waves of pleasure roll through your body. You bite your lip, relishing the intensity, but it’s not enough. You want more.

Glancing over your shoulder, you meet his gaze, dark and hooded, his lips parted as he watches you beneath him. “Harder,” you murmur, voice breathy but certain. “Please, baby?”

Something shifts in his expression—something primal, something that sets fire to your skin. Without hesitation, he tightens his grip on you, adjusting his stance before giving you exactly what you asked for. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as he picks up the pace, his movements deeper, rougher, and yet, perfectly in tune with what you crave.

A firm hand slips into your hair, fingers tangling at the roots before he tugs, pulling your head back just enough to make your back arch. The slight sting only amplifies your pleasure, sending sparks down your spine, and the sound that leaves you is anything but pained.

“You’re greedy tonight,” Changbin breathes, his voice husky with admiration and something darker. He leans down, his body molding against yours as his lips brush the shell of your ear. “You feel so good like this.”

The skin slapping sounds echoing in the room and it intensifies with each passing second. Changbin is relentless, keeping the motions of his hips going, the way you fluttering, pulsating around him, telling him that you're close to your release.

Two, three rough thrusts later, a shuddering gasp escapes you as the tension inside you unravels, pleasure washing over you in waves. Changbin feels it—the way you tighten around him, the way your body trembles beneath his touch—and he slows his movements, drawing out every last bit of your high.

His hands soften against your skin, no longer gripping but caressing, as he leans down, pressing warm, lingering kisses along your shoulder and up the curve of your neck. His breath is hot against your skin, voice husky as he murmurs, “You feel so good coming around me.” Another kiss, this time against the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “So good for me.”

His words send a shiver through you, a different kind of warmth blooming in your chest. You turn your head slightly, just enough for his lips to brush against yours, soft at first—then deeper. His fingers trace down your arms, grounding you, holding you close.

Even as your body trembles with the remnants of pleasure, you melt into him, into the kiss, into the way he makes you feel—cherished, adored, completely his.

He moves with care, his hands gentle yet firm as he slowly turns you over onto your back. His dark, hooded eyes search yours, filled with warmth, with desire, with something deeper that makes your heart clench. He brushes his lips over your cheek, your jaw, his breath warm against your skin.

“I want you to come for me, baby,” you whisper, voice soft but certain. Your fingers trail down his back, nails pressing just enough to make him shiver.

You don't have to tell him twice to make him cater to your need. He pulls himself back just enough to kneel on the bed, giving his cock slow strokes as if it isn't hard, swollen enough. A deep groan rumbles from his chest as he aligns the tip to your entrance, pushing in slowly, filling you completely.

A delighted sigh escapes his parted mouth from the feeling of being inside you again, wrapped him in warmth and that delicious tightness. He lifts your legs until your hips are off the bed, pressing them against his chest as he begin thrusting into you, his rhythm deep and painstakingly slow.

With each movement, he plants lingering kisses along your ankle, the curve of your calf, even the sole of your foot, his lips warm and reverent.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice thick with pleasure. “So perfect for me.”

His grip tightens slightly, his pace growing more urgent, but even in his intensity, there’s tenderness—an undeniable adoration in the way he touches you, in the way he gives himself to you completely. And as his breathing grows uneven, his movements stuttering, you know he’s right there, on the edge, ready to fall apart for you.

“Keep going, baby,” you encourage in between your low, sultry moans. You can tell he's close from the way he's twitching inside you.

Changbin’s breathing turns ragged, his movements growing more erratic as he nears his high. With a shuddering groan, he pulls out just in time, his white seed spilling onto your stomach and thighs, painting you in his warmth. His chest rises and falls heavily, his eyes locked onto you as you smile up at him, utterly unbothered.

Without a hint of hesitation, you drag your fingers through the white streaks of his release he’s made on you, smearing it over your skin. The way his dark eyes follow every movement sends a thrill through you. And when you bring your fingers to your lips, licking them clean with a slow swipe of your tongue, his expression shifts—his pupils blown wide, his jaw tightening as if restraining himself.

“God,” he breathes, voice wrecked with awe and desire.

Before you can tease him, he captures your lips in a hard, desperate kiss, his fingers threading into your hair as he deepens it, tasting the remnants of his own pleasure on your tongue. His kiss is consuming, filled with everything he feels—hunger, adoration, something raw and unspoken that lingers between you.

And when he finally pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, his lips curve into a smirk. “You're going to be the death of me, you know that?”

He presses one last lingering kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to look at you. His dark eyes sweep over your face—your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the way your breath still comes in soft, uneven pants. He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes.” His fingers trace gently over your cheek, down your jaw, before cupping the side of your face. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don’t want to know.”

His words hit you with an intensity that makes your heart clench. There’s no teasing lilt in his tone, no playful smirk—only raw, unfiltered honesty.

“You’re mine,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, laced with possessiveness. “I don’t care about anything else in this world as long as I have you. I’ll always want you, always love you, always take care of you.”

Your chest tightens at the weight of his love, at how deeply he feels for you. He’s never been one to hold back, but tonight, there’s something different about the way he’s saying it—as if he needs you to understand just how much you mean to him.

You reach up, placing your hand over his, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm. “I love you too,” you whisper, and the way his features soften at your words makes your heart swell.

Changbin exhales a breath, his lips curving into a small, tender smile. Then, as if he hasn’t had enough of you, he pulls you closer, tucking you into his arms, your body fitting perfectly against his. He presses a kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing soothing patterns along your back.

“Sleep,” he murmurs. “I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

And with the warmth of his embrace and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, you realize—this is more than just physical. This is trust, this is devotion, this is love in its purest form.

The low hum of conversation, bursts of laughter, and the occasional squeal from an excited child fill the air as Minho’s wife greet you both at the door.

“You made it,” she grins, coming closer to give Changbin a quick hug before turning to you. “And looking as stunning as ever,” she adds teasingly, giving you a hug and a cheek-to-cheek kiss.

“Come in, come in. It’s a full house today,” she beams, opening the door wider, letting you and Changbin into the house.

She isn’t exaggerating. As you step inside, you see clusters of guests scattered throughout the apartment—most of them Minho’s tattoo parlor employees, their arms decorated in intricate ink, laughing and chatting over drinks. Some are with their families, their children running around, their voices blending with the lively music playing in the background.

You hand Minho’s wife the neatly wrapped present, and she takes it with a grateful smile. “Thank you! You guys didn’t have to—”

“Oh, please,” Changbin waves off her protest. “We’re the cool Uncle & Auntie. Of course, we had to.”

She shakes her head as she lets out a light chuckle, but her eyes are filled with gratitude. “Haneul’s going to be spoiled rotten, I swear.”

Speaking of the birthday boy, he’s sitting on a play mat nearby, a tiny party hat perched slightly askew on his head as he gnaws happily on a snack. You and Changbin make your way over, crouching down beside him.

“Happy birthday, Haneul,” you coo gently, though the little boy barely spares you a glance, too engrossed in his snack.

Changbin chuckles as he tries to get Haneul’s attention by patting his back. “I don’t think he cares about anything except that biscuit right now.”

Minho, who’s hovering nearby, snorts. “That sounds about right. His entire world revolves around food and sleep which resembles yours, I believe.”

You chuckle seeing Changbin’s offended expression but he lets it go as Haneul kick his chubby legs happily, utterly oblivious to the fact that today is his special day. There’s something endearing about his innocence, the way he exists so freely in his own little world.

As the time comes to celebrate properly, everyone gathers around Haneul, who is now seated in his high chair, his tiny feet kicking in excitement. His birthday cake—a small, adorable confection decorated with pastel blue frosting and tiny fondant stars, clouds and moon—sits in front of him.

Minho’s wife gently adjusts the little party hat on Haneul’s head while Minho, standing beside her, leans down with a grin. “Alright, birthday boy. Ready?”

The room bursts into song, voices harmonizing in a cheerful rendition of the birthday song. Haneul blinks at everyone, his chubby hands resting on the tray of his high chair, completely clueless about why everyone is suddenly singing to him. His big, round eyes move from face to face, but the real star of the show—at least in his mind—is the cake in front of him.

Then, just before the song finishes, Haneul suddenly reaches forward and slams both hands into the cake. The room erupts in laughter and cheers as he pulls his hands back, covered in frosting and crumbs, and without hesitation, he shoves a fistful of cake straight into his mouth.

The guests continue clapping and laughing as Haneul, now fully immersed in his cake, takes another bite, his face quickly becoming a mess of blue and white frosting. His tiny fingers swipe at his cheeks, only succeeding in smearing the frosting even more.

“Oh my god, he’s a disaster already,” Minho’s wife sighs, though she’s smiling as she reaches for a napkin.

“You’re not stopping him, though,” Minho teases.

“Because he’s cute,” she retorts before attempting to wipe Haneul’s face, only for him to giggle and turn his head away, making an even bigger mess.

The joy in the room is infectious. There’s something heartwarming about seeing everyone celebrating such a simple, pure moment, you can’t help but feel a small warmth settle in your chest. Surrounded by friends, laughter, and the quiet joy of celebrating a life so new and full of possibilities, you know this night will be a memory you’ll cherish.

As the celebration continues, you make your way to the kitchen, opening the fridge to grab a couple of drinks for yourself and Changbin. The cool air rushes out as you reach for the bottles, but before you can take them with you, a small voice pipes up from behind.

“Excuse me?”

You turn to see Byeol standing there, her big, curious eyes looking up at you.

“Can you get me a slice of cake, please?” she asks sweetly, her hands clasped in front of her.

Smiling, you nod and set the drinks aside for now. “Of course.”

Lifting her gently, you sit her down on the countertop, letting her dangle her legs as she watches you carefully cut a piece of cake. You make sure to get the perfect balance of frosting and sponge, placing it neatly on a paper plate.

As you do, Byeol swings her feet playfully, one hand reaching at the lace details on the sleeve of your dress and then she says, “Your dress is really pretty.”

Surprised but touched by the compliment, you glance at her with a smile. “Aww, thank you, Byeol. That’s so sweet of you to say.”

She nods enthusiastically before adding with a little mischievous grin, “But Uncle Binnie said that I look more beautiful than you.”

You let out a soft chuckle at that and pretend to be offended. “Oh, did he now?”

Byeol giggles with her shoulders hunched and hands covering her mouth, clearly pleased with herself.

“Well,” you say, placing the slice of cake onto the plate, “I think Uncle Binnie is right. You do look beautiful today.”

Her cheeks flush slightly at the compliment as you help her down from the counter, steadying her little hands around the plate. Before you can step back, Byeol suddenly leans forward and places a quick, soft kiss on your cheek.

“Thank you for the cake!” she chirps before skipping away happily with her plate.

You stand there for a moment, touched by the sweet little gesture. As you make your way back with the drinks in hands, you catch Changbin smirking at you, clearly amused by what just happened. You plop down beside him on the couch, handing him his drink before playfully narrowing your eyes at him.

“So,” you begin, taking a sip of your drink, “I just found out you’ve been cheating on me.”

He raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Oh? With who?”

You huff dramatically, crossing your arms. “Byeol told me you said she looks more beautiful than me.”

He bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “Ahh, so that’s what this is about.”

You pretend to glare. “I can’t believe you. Cheating on me with a nine-year-old.”

Changbin leans in, resting his chin on your shoulder as he grins. “What can I say? She’s got me wrapped around her little finger.”

You scoff playfully as you bring your bottle of beer close to your mouth. “Unbelievable.”

He chuckles, then nudges his nose against your cheek before murmuring, “But you know you’re the only one for me, right?”

His soft, affectionate tone makes your teasing resolve crumble a little. You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Mmm, I don’t know… I might have some competition now.”

He laughs again before pulling you closer, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Nah. You don’t have to compete for my love.”

Satisfied with that answer, you finally let the matter go, laughing along with him as the party continues around you. You and Changbin are talking to Sujin and her husband, which is how Changbin got to know Minho. Sujin talks about how far along she is in her pregnancy as she also complaints about a few things she can’t do due to it.

“I would love a sip of that beer,” Sujin says with one tattoed hand cradling her twenty-two weeks old baby bump.

You glance at your bottle of beer, considering whether it's a good idea to, at least, let her have a sip. “Should you...?”

Her shoulders slumped once she realizes that she actually can't have any of it. “I shouldn’t,” she frowns, but she lights up once her husband comes with a juice box, the same one Byeol is drinking right now.

“Apple juice, how fun!” Sujin dramatically rolls her eyes but once her husband puts a straw on it, she drinks it without complaints.

Seeing the two begin to fall into a conversation, you excuse yourself to the bathroom and Minho’s wife directed you to the one in their bedroom. You do your business quick and check yourself on the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom.

You’re about to head back to the party when something catches your eye. Haneul is sprawled out on the bed, his tiny body stretched in the most relaxed position, his round cheeks rising and falling with each breath. His little hands clutch onto the edge of his blanket, his mouth slightly parted in sleep, looking so peaceful and content.

You pause at the edge of the bed, unconsciously drawn to the sight. There’s something about watching a baby sleep—so small, so innocent—that tugs at something deep within you.

For a moment, you just sit there, letting the quiet hum of the party outside fade into the background. You glance at his tiny fingers, his long eyelashes resting against his cheeks, the way his chest rises and falls steadily.

A soft smile tugs at your lips. There’s something oddly soothing about this moment, something warm and unfamiliar curling in your chest.

You reach out, hesitating for a second before gently putting your hand in his tiny palm. Haneul stirs slightly, letting out a tiny sigh before settling again, completely undisturbed.

Just as you’re about to pull away, the bedroom door creaks open. You glance up to see Minho’s wife stepping inside, her eyes immediately landing on you.

“Oh—sorry,” you say quickly, shifting as if to stand. “I didn’t mean to just sit here in your room—”

She waves you off with a small laugh, moving to sit beside you on the bed. “It’s fine. I get it,” she says, her gaze falling onto her sleeping son. “It’s kind of peaceful, isn’t it?”

You smile at that, watching the slow rise and fall of Haneul’s little chest. “Yeah. It really is.”

A moment of silence settles between you, but curiosity tugs at you, and before you can stop yourself, you ask, “Did you and Minho always plan on having kids?”

Minho’s wife hums, as if considering the question. “Honestly? No,” she admits. “I didn’t even think about marriage, let alone kids.” She glances at you, her lips curving into a fond smile. “But then I met Minho, and I just… I don’t know. I knew I wanted to grow a family with him.”

You glance at her, intrigued. “What changed?”

She chuckles softly. “I guess I just realized I didn’t not want kids—I just didn’t want kids unless it was with him.” She looks back at Haneul, warmth in her eyes. “I wanted a life with Minho, and whatever that life included, I wanted it because it was with him.”

The thought lingers as you both sit in the quiet, watching Haneul sleep. You let her words sink in, something stirring deep inside you.

Minho’s wife shifts slightly on the bed, turning to you with a gentle expression. “You know,” she says, “you don’t have to think too much about it. Or care with what people says. It’s your life, your marriage. You and Changbin should take it easy—enjoy what you have, and only do things when you’re both ready for them.”

Her words settle something inside you, but curiosity still tugs at your thoughts. “When did you know you were ready?” you ask softly.

She exhales a quiet laugh, looking down at Haneul. “I didn’t.” She glances at you with a small smile. “Even after having this little bunny here, I wasn’t always ready. There are days I still don’t feel ready. But I have Minho.” Her voice softens with something deeply fond. “And I know I’m not alone in this. We’re figuring things out together, learning as we go.”

She turns to you then, her gaze steady, as if she already knows the fears lingering in your heart. “But one thing I do know,” she continues, “is that you and Changbin love each other very much. I can see it in the way you look at each other, in the way he always reaches for you without even thinking.” A knowing smile tugs at her lips. “So no matter what happens, you have nothing to fear. As long as you have each other, you’ll figure it out.”

Something in her words eases the quiet uncertainty in your chest. You glance down at Haneul, his peaceful little face, then back at Minho’s wife, and you find yourself smiling. “Thank you,” you say, and for the first time, you feel like maybe you don’t have to have all the answers right now.

Ready to end a fulfilling day, you and Changbin are snuggled up in bed, limbs tangled together as the warmth of the blankets and each other lulls you into a peaceful state. He exhales a deep sigh, nuzzling his face into your hair. “I didn’t know a kid’s birthday party could be this exhausting,” he mumbles.

You chuckle softly, brushing your fingers against his arm. “What did you expect? Kids are tiny balls of chaos.”

Changbin groans playfully. “I thought I’d just eat cake and chill. Instead, I got scolded by Minho for feeding Byeol too many sweets, played tag against my will, and got betrayed by my own wife.”

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, feigning innocence. “Betrayed?”

“Yes,” he says dramatically. “You accused me of cheating on you with a nine-year-old.”

You laugh, poking his chest. “Because you did! She said you told her she’s prettier than me.”

Changbin grins, pulling you even closer. “Well, I had to let her win. She’s a kid.”

You roll your eyes, still smiling. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the sound of your slow, steady breaths filling the space. After a moment, you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together. Your heart feels full—so full it aches in the best way.

When you look into his eyes, your voice is quiet but steady. “I’m not scared anymore.”

His brows lift slightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Of what?”

“Of the future,” you admit. “Of whatever happens next. Because I have you.”

Changbin’s expression softens, and the love in his eyes is overwhelming. He lifts your joined hands, pressing a kiss against the back of your fingers. “You’ll always have me,” he murmurs. “Always.”

Your heart swells at his words, and as he leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet, you know without a doubt that no matter where life takes you, as long as you have Changbin, you’ll be okay.

The front door clicks open, and you turn just in time to see Changbin stepping inside, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. His black workout shirt clings to his torso, damp with sweat, and his hair is slightly tousled from exertion. You smile, walking up to him. "My big baby is home," you playfully greet him, tilting your head up, expecting a kiss.

He chuckles, holding up a hand as he takes a small step back. "I’m sweaty," he warns, though there’s an amused glint in his eyes.

You roll your eyes as you dramatically sigh. "Like I care."

Still, he keeps his distance—at least his body does—but he leans in just enough to give you a quick peck on the lips before pulling away with a smirk.

"How was the gym session?" you ask as he toes off his sneakers.

"Fun," he replies, stretching his arms over his head, his muscles flexing in a way that has your gaze lingering for a moment. "Tiring, but fun."

You hum in response, watching as he grabs a bottle of water and takes a few long sips. His Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks, and you shake your head at yourself for staring.

"I'm going to shower," he says, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder again. "Unless you wanna hug me first?" He steps forward teasingly, arms wide open as if to trap you in his embrace.

You squeal, pushing at his chest. "Baby, no! Go shower!"

He laughs, dodging your playful swats before making his way toward the bathroom. "Fine," he says, flashing you a wink. "But don't miss me too much while I’m gone."

A few minutes later, the bathroom door swings open, and Changbin steps out, steam trailing behind him. His damp hair is pushed back, a few stubborn strands falling over his forehead, and a white towel hangs dangerously low on his hips. Water still clings to his toned chest and abs, catching the light as he runs another towel over his hair.

You let out a low whistle, arms crossed as you lean against the kitchen counter. "Well, look at that..."

Changbin pauses mid-motion, arching an eyebrow at you. "What?"

You don't even try to hide the way your eyes traveling down his body as you teasingly say, "Shh... I'm enjoying the view."

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he continues drying his hair. He amuses you by making silly, bodybuilding poses, sending you into a wave of laughter.

Throwing you a playful look before he drops the towel from his hair onto his shoulders. "Anyway, what’s for dinner?"

"Pasta," you answer, turning to grab a couple of plates from the cabinet.

At that, his eyes light up. "Ooh, what kind?" He walks over, resting his hands on the counter as he peers at the pot on the stove.

"Your favorite," you say, meeting his gaze with a knowing smile.

The two of you sit next to each other at the dining table, sharing a quiet but comfortable dinner. Changbin happily digs into his pasta, humming in satisfaction at the familiar taste.

"You want me to make you a sandwich after this?" you ask, watching as he takes another bite. "You need the extra protein, don’t you?"

His eyes brighten immediately. "If you don't mind," he says with a grin, nodding eagerly.

Once you're done with your dinner, you get up to prepare the sandwich, quickly assembling it with the ingredients you have in the fridge. By the time you place the plate in front of him, he looks at you like you just handed him gold.

"Thank you, baby," he says with genuine gratitude before taking a huge bite.

You settle back in your seat, watching as he happily munches on the sandwich. After a moment, he glances at you and lifts the sandwich slightly. "Want a bite?"

You nod, but instead of leaning in for the sandwich, you move toward him and sink your teeth into his bicep instead.

Changbin lets out a startled yelp before bursting into laughter. "What the—?"

You pull back, grinning. "I want to eat you instead. You’re full of protein."

At that, he throws his head back and laughs even louder, his whole body shaking with amusement.

"What? Am I wrong?" you tease, squeezing his arm. "I mean, just look at all these muscles. You’re basically made of protein."

As Changbin continues laughing, his deep, hearty chuckles filling the space between you, you find yourself staring at him, completely mesmerized. His smile—bright, genuine, full of warmth—has always been one of your favorite things about him. You love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his dimples deepen, the way his entire face lights up when he’s happy. You want to see him like this always. Smiling. Laughing. Happy.

Because you know that your happiness is tied to his. If he’s happy, you’re happy. That’s all you’ve ever wanted—to make him happy.

And for the first time, as you watch him, a new thought blooms in your mind. A thought that lingers, gentle yet persistent. If having him in your life brings you this much happiness, how much more would it be to have another piece of him?

You imagine a tiny hand gripping his finger, a soft giggle that mirrors his own, a little version of him looking up at you both with bright, curious eyes. The idea of it stirs something deep within you—something tender, something beautiful. You don’t say it out loud, not yet. But for the first time, the thought doesn’t scare you. Instead, it feels... right.

Later that night, the two of you are curled up on the couch, a quiet night in after a long day. Changbin has his arms around you, absentmindedly tracing shapes along your arm while a movie plays on the TV. And in this moment, you feel it. The warmth. The fullness. The quiet but powerful contentment of being here, of sharing this life with him. But also… a quiet longing. A realization that you want more of this, more of him, more of this life together.

When you glance up, you catch Changbin looking at you, his eyebrows raised in curiosity. "What?"

"I love you," you tell simply him with a soft smile. "I love us."

A slow, adoring smile spreads across his lips. He puts his other arm around you, leaning in close enough you can feel his breath brushes your skin. "I love us too," he murmurs, his voice warm and full of sincerity. "More than anything."

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers with his, and he squeezes your hand gently. The two of you stay like that, soaking in the moment—just the two of you, in your own little world, filled with love, warmth, and the quiet promise of something even greater ahead.

The fluorescent lights cast a warm glow over Changbin’s bare upper body as he stands at the sink, washing his face. His muscles flex subtly with each movement, the ridges of his toned back shifting as he rinses off. You enter the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub, quietly admiring the sight.

When he reaches for a towel, dabbing the water off his face, he glances up at the mirror and catches your gaze. His lips twitch into a small smirk. “You’ve been staring for a while,” he says, voice slightly muffled as he pats his face dry.

You get up and step toward him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. Pressing yourself against his back, you trail fluttering kisses along his bicep, feeling his skin warm under your lips. He smells fresh—soap, water, and something inherently him.

He doesn’t stop his routine, squeezing some moisturizer onto his fingertips and rubbing it over his face. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, voice lower now, more curious than teasing.

You smile against his skin. “Like what?”

Changbin pauses, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “But it’s like… that.”

You tilt your head, resting your chin against his shoulder as you gaze at him through the mirror. There’s something in the way he looks at you too—soft, wondering, a little amused.

You press another kiss to his shoulder before whispering, “Maybe I just really, really like my husband.”

He smooths the moisturizer over his face, his eyes flickering to yours in the mirror. “You’ve been looking at me like that a lot lately,” he muses, setting the bottle down on the counter. “I wonder why.”

You hum against his shoulder, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over his stomach. “Is it a crime to admire my husband?”

He chuckles, placing his hands over yours, gently squeezing them. “No, but I know you,” he says, turning slightly so he can glance at you properly. “That look means something’s on your mind.”

You don’t answer right away, instead pressing a kiss to the dip between his shoulder blades. It’s true—you’ve been thinking about this a lot. About how much you love him, about how much happiness you’ve found in this life together. And about how maybe, just maybe, you want more.

You take a deep breath before dragging your lips to his ear and ever so casually, you tell him, “Bin, I've stopped taking my birth control pills.”

He freezes mid-motion, the bottle of lotion slipping from his hands and landing with a soft thud on the counter. His head snaps to you, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice careful, like he wants to make sure he heard you right.

You meet his gaze, heart pounding but steady in your decision. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” you say, watching as the words sink in. “And I realized that… I want this. I want it with you.”

He stays quiet, staring at you with an unreadable expression. You can tell he’s processing, his mind running through a hundred thoughts at once. Then, after a long pause, he exhales and says, “We talked about this. I just... I don’t want you to feel pressured to do it.” His voice is gentle, reminding.

You feel a different kind of rush as things only becoming clear to you. “Yeah, but I feel a little overwhelmed by your big love,” you playfully answer, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I need to share it with someone else.”

His eyebrows shoot up, clearly not expecting that. “Huh?”

“Wow, you’re malfunctioning.” You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. You take his hands and shaking them as if you put some sense into him, “Let's have one of those little shits. That's what I'm saying.”

He scoffs, still looking mildly shocked. “You just told me you stopped taking birth control, and now you’re saying you want to share my love? And now you want our own little shit. What does that even—”

You cut him off, cupping his jaw and tilting his face toward you. Your voice is softer now, laced with something deeper. “I want to grow a family with you,” you continue, watching the emotions flicker in his dark eyes. “Because I love you, and I know I’ll only be happy if I can keep loving every part of you.”

You lean in, capturing his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. He melts into it, his hands finding your waist, gripping you like he’s grounding himself.

And then, when you pull away just enough, you bring your lips close to his ear, your voice dropping into something sultry, something meant just for him.

“Put a baby in me, Changbin.”

His grip tightens instantly. A deep, shaky breath leaves him as his forehead falls against yours, his body going still for a beat. Then, in the next second, he lets out a soft, breathy chuckle, low and disbelieving.

“Shit,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, his pupils blown, his lips curling into something wicked. “You really know how to get to me, don’t you?”

You only smile, running your fingers over his jaw, your heart racing at the way he’s looking at you. Then, in a voice thick with emotion, he murmurs, “There’s nothing I would love more than having another piece of you to love.”

Your chest tightens at his words, warmth spreading all over you. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes briefly before pulling back to look at you again. “Thank you,” he says, voice quieter but no less sincere. “I know this wasn’t an easy decision to make.”

You shake your head immediately, eyes never leaving his. “Actually,” you say firmly. “This was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.” You cup his face, thumbs brushing gently over his cheeks. “Because I’m with you and I have nothing to be scared of when I’m with you,” you continue softly. “No matter what happens, I know we’ll figure it out together.”

Something shifts in his expression—his eyes darken, glistening with emotions you can’t quite name. And then he’s kissing you again, deep and slow, like he’s trying to pour everything he feels into it.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “You really are everything to me.”

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, you know there’s no turning back. You don’t want to. Because this love, this life with him is all you’ve ever wanted. And now, you’re ready to take the next step. Together.

The sheets tangled around your bare bodies as you lie underneath Changbin. His warmth seeps into you, his lips moving languidly against yours, unhurried, savoring every second of this intimacy. His hand runs along your side, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist before settling on your hip, grounding you to him.

When he pulls away, his dark eyes roam over your face with something deeper than desire—something tender, reverent. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

His thumb brushes over your lips, his gaze flickering between your eyes and mouth as if he can’t decide which captivates him more.

Your breath hitches when he leans in again, his lips barely grazing yours before he whispers, “I know our baby will be just as beautiful as you.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, a different kind of warmth blooming in your chest.

“They’ll have your beautiful smile,” he continues, pressing kisses along your jaw. “They'll have your beautiful eyes, lips... everything.”

His words melt into your skin, leaving you breathless—not just from arousal, but from the overwhelming love in his voice, in his touch, in the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

Changbin's lips trail down your body, leaving a path of warmth and reverence in their wake. His kisses are slow, chaste, as if he's worshipping every inch of you. When he reaches your abdomen, he lingers, his lips brushing tenderly against your skin. His hands follow, splayed wide over your stomach, as if he can already feel the life that isn't there yet but soon will be.

“You’re going to look so beautiful with a baby bump,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice filled with wonder. He presses another kiss, this time firmer, more purposeful. “I can’t wait to see you carrying my child inside you.”

His words send a deep warmth through you, something beyond desire—something raw, something real. You thread your fingers through his hair, heart swelling at the way he looks at you, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“I can’t wait either,” you whisper, and when he glances up at you, eyes dark and full of emotion

This is what you want. This is what he wants. And tonight, you’re ready to make it happen.

Changbin has made love to you so many times yet he always seems so eager to be inside you. He pushes his cock, struggling as he fights the urge to jam it all at once, but then he feels it, wholly and completely, the feeling of your walls wrapped around him. It overwhelms him so much that a raw groan slips out of his mouth as he drops his head to the back.

When he looks down to where your bodies are connected, he seems to lose all of the senses he gathered a moment ago, he stills, his eyes lingering on the way his cock is buried inside you without a layer of protection.

“Baby?” you gently nudge his arm and you can see how he returns to his vessel.

With a deep inhale of air, Changbin begins to move, slowly rolling his hips against you as if he wants to savor every second of being inside you. His hands cradle your face, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he thrusts into you with deep, measured strokes. There’s nothing rushed about the way he loves you tonight—just warmth, intimacy, and a devotion so intense it makes your heart ache.

His dark eyes stay locked on yours, filled with so much emotion that it steals the air from your lungs. “I’m going to put a baby inside you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with need and reverence. He kisses you, slow and deep, swallowing the shaky breath you let out. “You’re going to carry my child. Let everyone know you’re mine.”

His words send a shiver through you, your body reacting before your mind even catches up. Your fingers dig into his back, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him in even deeper. He groans, his grip on you tightening.

“You’ll be a great mother,” he whispers against your lips, his pace never faltering. “I just know it.”

The sincerity in his voice, the love in his touch—it’s overwhelming, dizzying. You squirm beneath him, whimpering as heat floods through you, and Changbin just smirks against your skin, knowing exactly what his words are doing to you.

Seeking that closeness, your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer as he continues to move within you, each slow, deep thrust making you feel everything—all of him, all of his love, all of his devotion. His breath is warm against your lips as he kisses you again.

Between soft moans and ragged breaths, you meet his gaze, your fingers threading through his damp hair. “I know you’re going to breed me so well,” you whisper, your voice laced with both affection and need. “I can’t wait to carry your child, to have a piece of you growing inside me.”

Changbin groans at your words, his movements faltering for just a moment as he buries his face against your neck, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His grip on your hips tightens, and you feel him tremble slightly, overwhelmed by what you’re giving him.

“You’ll be a great dad,” you continue, running your hands down his back, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch. “The best dad. Our child would be so lucky to have you—a father who loves so deeply, so devotedly.”

He lifts his head, his eyes dark with emotion as he gazes at you, his thrusts becoming deeper, more purposeful. “You have no idea how much I love you,” he breathes, his voice thick, almost desperate. “How much I want this—want you.”

His words, the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s holding you—it’s everything. It’s love, it’s intimacy, it’s the promise of a future you never knew you wanted so badly until now.

Changbin buries himself deep inside you with a final, shuddering thrust, his body tensing as he reaches his high, he keeps his cock deep as he's planting his seed inside you. A breathless moan escapes his lips, his forehead pressing against yours as he trembles, lost in the overwhelming pleasure and intimacy of the moment.

You hold him close as he collapses on top of you, his weight comforting, grounding. Your fingers trace the damp strands of his hair, your other hand running soothing circles over his back as his heavy breathing slowly evens out.

After a moment, he lifts his head slightly, his eyes finding yours, soft and full of something so deep, so unbreakable. You cradle his face between your hands, your thumbs gently stroking his cheeks as you take him in—every beautiful, loving part of him.

“I love you so much,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

His gaze darkens with tenderness, his lips parting as if to say something, but instead, he just breathes you in, like he’s imprinting this moment in the back of his mind, like he never wants to forget it. Then, with a quiet, reverent whisper, he finally speaks. “I love you too,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “More than anything.”

Neither of you moves for a long time. Wrapped up in each other, feeling the warmth of your bodies pressed together, you simply exist in the quiet, in the tenderness of the moment. Changbin’s arms stay securely around you, holding you as if he never wants to let go.

His breathing slows, matching yours, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. You close your eyes, relishing the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours, the way his heartbeat feels like it’s in sync with your own.

No words are needed. Whether the future holds a child or not, this love—the love you share—will always be enough. It has always been enough.

Changbin presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there, and you melt into him, sighing contentedly.

“We’ll always have each other,” he murmurs, as if reading your thoughts.

You smile, tightening your hold on him. “Always.”

And with that, you let yourself drift, safe and loved in his arms, knowing that no matter what comes next, you’ll face it together.

—

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@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @drhsthl @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanniebunch @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @rylea08 @hwangjoanna @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @angstraykids @lenfilms @inniesfanblog @multi-fandommaniac @tirena1 @nightmarenyxx @nebugalaxy @akindaflora @iknow-uknow-leeknow @satosugu4l @malunar28replies @deekaye @staytinyluva

#so happy to read about the crow gang hereeee #this was so good #forgot about commenting about this a few days ago #anyway every time I read your fics and it somehow relates to getting pregnant or kids I get that urgency of going through it #plsss DONT this to meeee 😭😭😭 like I don’t want to have kids but your fic get me on tippy toes in edge actually wanting to have a babyyyy #obviously with one of these 8 men because the rest are trash

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malunar28replies · 12 days ago

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「𝙱𝙻𝙴𝙴𝙿」 · teaser

Do you accept depravity enrollment?

Coming soon... (In the meantime, you can try and guess who has which pen)

COLLABORATORS

SCOVILLE · Chris Bang, PhD(c): Psychology · Seo Changbin, M.S.: Kinesiology · Han Jisung, M.A.: Philosophy

⇢ Research activity present, legitimacy dubious. Unwilling to publish the results of specific research projects that are allegedly "debauched" in nature. Disciplinary investigation mysteriously went away.

UMBRA · Asst. Prof. Kim Seungmin: Media Studies · Yang Jeongin: Media Studies (Advisor: Kim Seungmin, PhD)

⇢ Research activity present, temporary group due to Dr. Kim's guest researcher status. The duo is alleged to engage in "collaborations" that are beyond academic. Disciplinary investigation mysteriously went away.

VENOM · Lee Minho: Business · Hwang Hyunjin: Vis Comm · Lee Felix: Creative Writing

⇢ Cites huge amounts of "research expenses" although there is no research activity present. Alleged to be a money laundering front for certain families. Disciplinary investigation mysteriously went away.

🔖 Permanent taglist (form here if you wish to join): @straywrds @anylady-fics @skzfelixlove @xocandyy @stayceebs97 @surreallyst-void @jhstayy @staybangchan @imseungminsgf @changbinniesjutndae @krayzieestay @tirena1 @delulustardust @broken-glowsticks @idiotmaterial @binniesbabe @hwangjoanna @hwajin @tsunderelino @blainesglassesfelloffagain @bbygyuu @rubycrescentjane @fairylix @stayjinnie @thelovelybireader @dessianna1 @dollce-exe @cybergracie @rylea08 @possum-playground @palindrome969 @mrsha-ang-kim

*The blogs in red do not show up when @ ed. If you did not receive a notification, please check the visibility settings of your blog. Thank you!

#the purple pen has to be chris there is no other way that hoe be sexting and doing grammar corrections as if that was some kind requirement #*for fucking #and who insulted Minhos mom??? hehehe is it hyun #bin or jisung???? thoughts are being thunk

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malunar28replies · 16 days ago

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❥volonté (m)

↳ Some might call it an act of rebellion, but insisting on going it alone as a bounty hunter in this war-torn and disease-ridden hellscape is the choice you have made.

That is, until a job gone wrong lands you at the mercy of a crew of eight. You are certain to die after saving the life of one of them; a rare toxin running rampant through your veins.

Everyone has secrets, and you are soon to learn why it is that one member of the crew believes you to be better off dead.

bang chan x fem!reader x lee minho — bounty hunters! fantasy, sci-fi, dystopia. found family, why choose?, action, violence, angst, drama, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mystery, secrets, near death experiences, complicated relationships, happy ending, plot-heavy!! smut. [xx wc ONGOING] cws: heavy themes of violence, betrayal, distrust, toxic yearning/situationship, bad decisions, and falling for the guy who puts everything on the line for you... as well as the guy who wants you dead.

𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 + authors notes

note from the author: back with more sci-fi dystopia shenanigans! one of the dominate concert vcr's broke my brain so here we are. also, never had my hand at a proper why choose? trope so what better opportunity :)

𝕠𝕟𝕖 | 𝕥𝕨𝕠 | 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖 | 𝕗𝕠𝕦𝕣 | 𝕗𝕚𝕧𝕖

and more...

taglist: send ask to be added!

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