myjjongie

[myjjongie]

wait….

manhwa like genre/tropes. i’m SAT

𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 。 crawling back to you , busy being yours to fall for somebody new

synopsis in the gilded shadows of the Victorian era, hidden princess, yn and a charming bar boy, jake sim cross paths under impossible stars. what begins with playful banter and secret glances soon spirals into a love neither of them expected—but fate has a cruel sense of timing. when truth unravels and betrayal cuts deep, they are forced apart by forces far bigger than them. years later, a chance encounter reignites everything they buried. But is love still enough, or is it too late?

pairing commoner! jake x secret princess! reader

featuring jake, jungwon, sunghoon of enhypen / ness, an oc (me hehe) / cassendra "cassie" knight (23) — the oldest princess / genevieve "jen" knight (18) — the youngest princess

genre forbidden love, secret identities, fluff, angst, forced marriage, victorian themes

word count 23.5k :O

warnings jake gets betrayed, angst towards the end, kissing, nothing too explicit but kinda suggestive, yn is misunderstood as the second daughter, mentions of crying, mentions of cheating in marriage (i do NOT induce cheating!!!), ness has something going on with jungwon hmmm

playlist the lakes — taylor swift. war of hearts — ruelle. kingdom dance — tangled. sign of the times — bridgerton. where is my mind? — the blue notes. happiness is a butterfly — lana del rey. loss of my life — taylor swift. young and beautiful — lana del rey. mystery of love — sufjan stevens. my tears ricochet — taylor swift. i miss you, i'm sorry — gracie abrams. softly — clairo. do i wanna know — hozier.

nessie note hello and gm :3 posting this 5:30am after a WEEK (plus a little) of writing this. i hope y'all like my baby as much as i do. if it's not obvious by now, i LOVVVEEEE me some angst. it's my favourite thing to write about because if i'm not happy, NO ONE SHOULD BE HAHAHHAHA (kidding i love all of y'all everyone please be happy y'all deserve it <3333)

in the heart of the kingdom of decelis, where fog hugged the cobblestone streets and ivy curled up the walls of timeworn manors, there was a legend whispered in every bakery line and under every breath of steam from a blacksmith’s forge.

the royal family had daughters. but no one knew how many, or what they looked like. no portraits hung in the town square. no names were ever announced at royal galas. it was said the king kept them veiled behind silken curtains, safe from the world’s ugliness—or perhaps from its temptations.

still, in the morning haze of the village, a girl walked freely. she wore plain dresses, ones she sometimes patched herself with clumsy stitches. her boots were scuffed, her fingernails always had ink or dust beneath them, and she never introduced herself by anything but a shrug and a crooked smile.

to the children, she was the one who taught them to skip stones across the river. to the older women, she was the girl who helped grind herbs behind the apothecary. to the baker, she was the thief of day-old pastries—and the reason he never bothered locking his side door. but she didn’t belong to them, not really.

no one knew where she returned to when the market stalls packed up. no one knew why she refused to speak of her family. no one knew that beyond the forest edge, behind a wall lined with gold-dusted leaves, stood the royal palace of decelis.

and within it, she was princess yn of the house of ainsley, second daughter of the king, born under a rare moon and hidden just as quickly from the world.

she’d grown up reading books about the world outside her garden gates—about laughter that wasn’t stiff, words that weren’t rehearsed, dances that didn’t need permission. and when she turned sixteen, she started slipping past the guards at night.

what started as curiosity had become a necessity. because out there, beyond her velvet prison, she could breathe. no titles. no etiquette. no expectations. just the feeling of her own limbs belonging to her.

only her maid, her best friend, ness, knew the truth. and though she scolded her every morning yn returned—hair tangled, smelling of smoke and fresh bread—she never told a soul. she had once been in love herself, a long time ago. she understood. but secrets had a way of testing their holders. and hers, so fragile and young, was about to collide with a secret of its own.

and it would all begin on the day the boy from nowhere lost his job.

jake sim didn’t ask for much.

a roof, a stable job, maybe a warm drink that didn’t taste like scorched disappointment. oh, and not being yelled at before noon. that was his one request. and yet, here he was, standing outside the thistle & thorn tavern with his apron balled in one hand and the bitter stench of stale beer in his hair.

“you’re a menace, sim!” 

that was the last thing the barkeep had screamed, red-faced, before tossing him out the back door like yesterday’s dishwater. jake scoffed, muttering under his breath as he adjusted his coat. "it was one broken tray. one. and it wasn’t even my fault—who puts a damn chair in the middle of the kitchen door?"

the town of riverfield was already proving to be a disaster. he’d arrived only a fortnight ago, hoping for quiet work and simpler living. but the villagers were nosy, the streets had too many corners, and now he was unemployed before breakfast.

brilliant. he rubbed the bridge of his nose and decided to sulk dramatically near the market, as any reasonable man would after being humiliated.

the village square was alive already, warm bread smells wafting from open ovens, flour dust in the air like snow, kids weaving through stalls barefoot, vendors shouting about turnips like they were made of gold. jake shoved his hands in his coat pockets and grumbled. he hated it here.

that’s when it happened. something collided with him. soft but fast. like a bird made of elbows and curses.

“bloody hell—” jake stumbled backward, nearly slipping on an apple someone had abandoned on the cobblestones. he blinked as the impact staggered off him.

it was a girl. or rather, a blur of wool and brown curls and very, very annoyed eyes. she turned around mid-step, clearly prepared to deliver some biting remark—he could see the way her brows lifted, mouth parted, about to spit fire—and then she stopped.

she blinked at him. and he blinked at her. and for a moment, the market noise faded to background fuzz.

jake didn’t know what hit him harder—the unexpected collision or the face staring back at him. she wasn’t the kind of pretty you could explain to someone. not with words. it was something else. something about the way her features didn’t quite sit still—soft and sharp all at once, like light flickering over river stones. there was dirt on her cheek. her coat was too big. she held a half-loaf of bread like it was a newborn child. and she looked at him like he was the one who’d bumped into her.

“watch it,” she muttered, brushing past him.

jake opened his mouth. nothing came out. he turned around to follow her steps, mouth still ajar like a stunned trout. “wait—you ran into me!”

the girl glanced over her shoulder. “and i survived. congratulations to us both.”

he gaped for a second and she was already gone. vanished into the crowd, bread still tucked under her arm like a trophy. jake stared after her, one hand lifted uselessly in the air. his pride? shattered. his job? gone. his brain? possibly leaking out his ears.

jake sim had never believed in fate. but now? now he was convinced it wore muddy boots and a stolen coat and smelled faintly of rosemary. and despite everything—the humiliation, the job loss, the fact that he was probably going to have to beg the bakery for leftover crusts—he was already wondering when he’d see her again.

whoever she was.

the lake behind the chapel ruins wasn’t much—just a quiet stretch of water cradled by willows and old mossy rocks. the kind of place that looked like it had secrets. the kind jake liked.

it had taken him an hour of aimless wandering and ten muttered curses to get there, but now, seated on the bank with his coat off and sleeves rolled to his elbows, he finally felt like he could breathe. no angry barkeeps. no nosy shopkeepers. just the soft slap of water against stone, the occasional chirp of a bird that clearly didn’t give a damn about the complexities of unemployment, and the setting sun casting gold onto the lake like melted coins.

he picked up a flat stone, tested the weight with a flick of his fingers, and threw.

plop. terrible. the next one skipped once. better. the third skipped thrice. by the fifth, he was starting to forget how annoyed he’d been. until—

“you’re terrible at that,” a voice called from behind.

jake turned sharply, squinting against the light. the silhouette stepped into view with an infuriating kind of ease, hands in the pockets of a different coat this time, a mischievous glint in her eyes like she'd been watching longer than she should’ve.

“you.” he blinked, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “bread thief.”

“unemployed flirt.”

jake huffed a laugh. “well. that’s new. usually i get ‘charismatic’, or ‘charmingly unfortunate’. but alright.”

she stepped closer, looking out at the water like she wasn’t impressed. “your form’s all wrong,” she said, crouching beside him. “you’re supposed to flick the wrist. not… lob it like you’re throwing cabbage at a wall.”

jake looked down at her, cocking a brow. “you’ve got strong opinions for someone who bodyslammed me this morning.”

“i was in a hurry.”

“to rob another bakery?”

“to feed a fox, actually.” she smirked, grabbing a stone. “not that you deserve to know.”

he watched her then—really watched her. the way her hair caught the gold of the setting sun, how her lashes cast little fans across her cheekbones, the effortless way she carried herself, like she’d grown up learning to dance between footsteps. there was something undeniably regal about her, even in oversized coats and scuffed boots.

“i’ve got to admit,” he said, leaning back on his elbows, “i didn’t expect to be blessed with your presence again so soon.”

she didn’t look at him. “don’t get used to it.”

jake grinned. “is that a threat? or a promise?”

she sighed audibly, lips twitching. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” he said, watching her skip a perfect four-stone ripple across the lake, “here you are. voluntarily sitting beside an insufferable man.”

“because i felt bad.”

“oh, don’t do that,” jake groaned dramatically. “pity is so unflattering. at least lie and say you missed my face.”

“i missed the way your hair looks like it lost a duel with a broom.”

he touched his hair, mock-offended. “that’s cruel. it’s got character.”

she stood again, brushing dirt off her skirt, already turning to go. “you talk too much.”

jake stood too, following without being asked. “you’ve got the eyes of someone who’s keeping a thousand secrets.”

she didn’t respond.

“and the mouth of someone who’s never going to tell me any of them.”

still, nothing. “also,” he added cheerfully, “a really pretty nose. has anyone ever told you that?”

she glanced at him sideways. “no. and don’t start.” too late.

“i’m starting,” he said, hands in his pockets now, grinning like a fool. “pretty nose. even prettier mouth. your insults are getting prettier too.”

“stop.”

“can’t.”

“seriously—”

“it’s a condition.”

she turned to him then, mid-step, and finally—finally—let herself smile, just the smallest bit. a twitch. a crack in the royal mask he didn’t know she wore. jake saw it. and something fluttered in his chest he didn’t want to admit.

“well,” she said softly. “i suppose the lake wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

the conversation had wandered without agenda—through stories of markets and misfortunes, complaints about loud vendors, exaggerated tales of fish that nearly bit his fingers off, and jake’s ongoing argument with the village baker about the definition of “too toasted.”

she had laughed once. once. jake had pretended not to notice, but the sound had echoed in his chest like church bells. not loud—just long-lasting.

she sat cross-legged beside him, hands buried in the sleeves of that oversized coat, the last rays of the setting sun brushing soft light across her cheek. her gaze wandered toward the lake now and then, but mostly it lingered on the ground, or on her fingers, or the fraying threads at the hem of her coat. like she wasn’t used to holding eye contact. or maybe she just didn’t like letting people in.

and then—just as he’d begun telling her a story about how he nearly set fire to a barstool while trying to impress a girl who said she liked “dangerous men”—she suddenly stiffened. her spine straightened like a pulled bowstring. her head whipped to the west, where the sky had dipped into a dusty indigo.

“…shit,” she whispered, eyes wide.

jake blinked. “wow. harsh review. i thought that story was charming.”

“no,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “no, i didn’t—i lost track of time—”

“what time is it?” he asked, confused, still on the ground.

“i—it’s nearly seven. i’m late. i have to go. i really have to—” she was already backing away, stumbling slightly as she turned on her heel.

“woah, hey, wait—late for what? did the fox schedule a dinner party?”

she didn’t even smirk this time. her face had gone pale, mouth drawn tight. it wasn't just urgency. it was fear. panic, almost.

jake stood quickly, taking a step forward. “at least tell me your name.”

that stopped her. barely. one step from vanishing into the trees, she hesitated—shoulders rising, then falling. she turned her head slightly, just enough for him to see the silhouette of her profile.

“i can’t.”

jake tilted his head. “can’t? or won’t?”

she didn’t answer.

he tried again, softer this time. “okay. then can i tell you mine?” silence.

“jake,” he said anyway. “jake sim.”

and for a moment, she stood completely still. as if memorising it. as if folding the syllables up and tucking them somewhere deep.

then, she ran. not a polite jog. a full sprint into the fading light.

jake stood there, wind catching the edges of his shirt, watching her disappear like the last streak of sunset. he scratched the back of his neck, feeling oddly… cold.

“jake sim,” he said again to himself. then huffed a laugh. “that’s me. just out here... falling for ghosts.”

he looked down at the skipping stones scattered by his boots. she hadn’t given him a name. but she’d left something else behind. something far more dangerous: curiosity. and yet, jake sim had never really been good at minding his own business.

the palace of decelis was beautiful in the kind of way that made your bones ache. all white stone and sprawling staircases, with archways carved into scenes of myth and gold-gilded ceilings that caught fire in the afternoon light. it was the kind of place made for silence and stillness. every footstep echoed too loudly. every whisper risked being overheard. and nothing, absolutely nothing, ever felt truly hers.

especially not the back kitchen corridor she now sprinted through, boots caked in mud, the hem of her dress wet with river water and flecked with grass stains. the air smelled faintly of rosemary and smoke—dinner being prepped somewhere below. her breath caught in her throat as she turned the narrow corner, heart pounding against her ribs like it wanted out. just as she reached for the brass handle of the servants’ pantry door, someone grabbed her by the wrist.

“you’re late.”

yn yelped and whirled around, only to find the familiar face she knew she'd see.

“ness,” she breathed, half a laugh, half a wince.

ness stood there with one eyebrow cocked, arms crossed, and her apron stained with flour. she was effortlessly pretty, even with her hair knotted into a bun and smudges of ash on her cheek. her soft, wheatish skin glowed under the candle sconces, and her big, doe-brown eyes were as expressive as ever—wide with worry and narrowed with judgement at the same time. and those dimples—those damned dimples—made it impossible to take her scolding seriously.

“you said you'd be back by six,” ness hissed, dragging yn inside and quietly shutting the door behind them. “do you have any idea what time it is?”

“just past seven?” yn guessed with a sheepish grin.

ness glared and grabbed a clean cloth, throwing it at her. “try almost half-past. your father asked where you were during the tea sitting. i lied. again.”

“i owe you,” yn muttered, peeling off her coat. “again.”

“you owe me your entire life at this point.”

the servants’ dressing quarters were narrow but hidden behind the massive kitchen halls, where the scent of firewood and cloves clung to every surface. here, everything was quiet. secret. safe.

ness pulled out a fresh dress from the linen shelves and shoved it into yn’s arms. “your sisters are already in the dining hall. you’ve got ten minutes before your absence becomes another point of gossip.”

yn quickly started changing behind the curtain partition. “cassie’s too busy talking about wedding colours to care. and jen will just say i was off with a headache again.”

“you're lucky they cover for you sometimes.”

“not really. no one actually cares where i go. they just don’t want me embarrassing them.”

ness’s gaze softened. she didn’t argue. instead, she helped yn out of her boots, brushing off flecks of grass. “you really shouldn’t run off so often,” she said gently.

“why not? it’s not like anyone notices when i’m here.”

“they do,” ness said softly. “your father does. your mother just… doesn’t like when things slip outside the script.”

yn rolled her eyes. “of course. because heaven forbid i step off the page cassie wrote for me.”

ness gave her a look. “you don’t have to become her. you just have to survive dinner without starting a scandal.”

yn snorted. “not promising anything.”

as ness fastened the buttons at the back of her dress, yn grinned over her shoulder. “speaking of scandal... jungwon’s coming tomorrow, isn’t he?”

ness froze, her fingers lingering on the last button. “he’s just bringing supplies.”

“oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”

“yn.”

“he flirts like a boy with a crush. you tuck your hair behind your ear when he talks. it’s almost cute.”

ness flushed, swatting her arm. “it’s nothing.”

“liar. i saw him give you his scarf last week when it got chilly.”

“he was just being polite!”

yn smirked. “if that’s what we’re calling flirting now, i’m in trouble.”

ness tried not to smile, but her dimples betrayed her. “hurry,” she said instead, pushing her toward the hall. “go pretend to be respectable.”

the dining room of the castle was a cathedral of etiquette—high-vaulted ceilings, tapestries of long-forgotten wars, and candles floating like stars above an endless mahogany table. the three sisters were seated across from one another, and her parents sat at the head—noble, polished, cold.

cassendra knight, eldest at twenty-three, sat with her back straight, posture perfect, and a diamond pin in her hair. she looked like she had stepped out of a royal portrait. her voice was calm as she discussed seating arrangements and florists with the queen.

genevieve—jen—sat across from her, twirling her fork with all the ease of a youngest child, laughing softly at something the steward had said before dinner.

and yn, slipping into her seat at last, slightly breathless, dress still wrinkled from the rush, felt exactly as she always did. extra. she wasn’t the first. not the bride. not the youngest. not the darling. she was the middle—the blurry one.

"where were you today?" her father's voice rang across the table like a verdict. there it was. the question she always heard. not how are you. not what did you do.  just where. always where.

"garden," she lied quickly, unfolding her napkin. "by the orchard."

the queen nodded, eyes narrowing slightly. “your cheeks are flushed.”

“it's warm in the corridor.”

cassie said nothing, but she didn’t need to. she never did. her quiet glances said everything—that yn was unpredictable, that she would never be enough. jen kicked her under the table with a tiny grin. yn smiled back.

that night, dinner passed in silence on her end. she ate without tasting. spoke when spoken to. laughed at the appropriate moments. but her mind was somewhere else. somewhere by the lake. with a boy who knew her only as a girl with muddy boots and a pretty coat. with a name he didn’t know—and a smile he’d already memorised.

it had been an unusually warm morning, and yn was wandering the village again before she could even register her own feet moving. she told herself she needed to clear her head. that it was about getting air. that she was absolutely not looking for someone. someone with a crooked grin and eyes that made everything else around him blur. no, she wasn’t thinking about him at all. except she was. she had tried not to. but last night, as she lay in her canopy bed, drowning under silken sheets and royal silence, all she could hear was his voice.

"jake sim," he'd said. like it was the only name in the world. and of course, like a damn idiot, she hadn’t given him hers. the smarter choice. the safer one. so she had absolutely no business being this disappointed when she rounded the bakery corner and—

“—you.”

she walked straight into a warm chest. again.

“oh my god,” she muttered, stumbling back as familiar hands gently steadied her by the arms. “this is becoming a thing.”

jake looked far too pleased with himself. “you really need to stop bumping into me like this,” he said, eyes glittering in the sunlight. “people are starting to talk.”

she shoved him away. lightly. not convincingly. “are you following me?”

jake raised both hands. “i’ll have you know, i am a man of high moral standing. i was just heading to the well.”

“you live nowhere near the well.”

“…that’s true,” he admitted. “but you live nowhere near the bakery and you were here, so…”

yn narrowed her eyes. “so you were looking for me.”

jake grinned, like he was proud of himself. “i’ve got a mission.”

she crossed her arms. “let me guess. world peace?”

“close,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “figuring out your name.”

yn rolled her eyes and turned to walk again. “you’re wasting your time.”

jake followed with his hands shoved in his pockets. “i don’t think so. it’s like a puzzle. mysterious girl. stolen bread. muddy boots. lies for days. what’s not to obsess over?”

“you sound dangerously unwell.”

he laughed, catching up easily. “you know, last night i was trying to guess. thought maybe it was something sharp. like ravenna.”

she snorted.

“or something delicate. like lily.”

“do i look like a lily to you?”

jake tilted his head. “no. definitely not. you look like trouble.”

she didn’t look at him, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “that’s not a name.”

“it is now.”

they kept walking, their steps falling into rhythm without them realising. people passed by with baskets and chatter, but it all felt slightly removed—like they were orbiting something entirely their own.

“why does it matter so much?” she asked finally.

jake didn’t answer right away. he looked ahead, toward the river path, lips pursed in thought. “because…” he said eventually, “i don’t want to keep calling you girl who threw insults and skipped stones better than me.”

she huffed a small laugh.

“and because,” he continued more softly, “if i’m going to fall into this story, i’d at least like to know the name of the main character.”

that stopped her. just for a second. she stared at him, expression unreadable. and jake, to his own surprise, didn’t fill the silence with another joke. he just… waited. her voice, when it came, was quieter. but steady. “call me…” she paused. thought. “addy.”

jake raised an eyebrow. “that’s not your real name.”

she smirked. “it’s enough.”

jake grinned, like he’d just been handed a riddle and a key at the same time.

“alright then, addy,” he said, testing it on his tongue. “can i walk you home?”

she hesitated. just a blink. but then she shrugged, starting down the hill again. she wasn’t about to expose where she lived, jesus christ as if. she had a destination by the lake she always lied to say she was from. then when jake walked away she would run away to the palace.

“if you can keep up.”

jake let her walk ahead, then caught up easily, bumping shoulders just slightly. “oh,” he added, like it was an afterthought. “and you’re thinking about me now, aren’t you?”

she didn’t respond. but she was. god, she was.

jake had expected a few things when he ran into her again—mostly sarcasm, some vague insult about his hair, and maybe, if he was lucky, another sideways smile that made his chest ache in a way he didn’t want to examine. what he hadn’t expected was for her to say, after a shared moment of stubborn silence and narrowed eyes, “come on. i’ll show you around.”

just like that. like she hadn’t been dodging every real question he asked. like she wasn’t the most confusing girl he’d ever met. like he didn’t already want to follow her anywhere.

he said nothing at first—just fell into step beside her as they turned down the sun-warmed path leading deeper into riverfield’s winding streets. she walked ahead of him, hands in her coat pockets, chin lifted slightly like she was daring anyone to ask where she belonged. for the first time, jake wondered if maybe she didn’t belong anywhere at all. or maybe she belonged everywhere—depending on who was asking.

their first stop was the bakery, which smelled like honey and cinnamon and exactly the kind of thing jake needed after another night on a lumpy mattress in the tavern’s spare room.

“edric,” she called casually as they stepped inside, “be nice. i brought a friend.”

the man behind the counter—mid-fifties, large belly, ruddy cheeks—looked up from kneading dough and narrowed his eyes. “a friend, huh?”

jake straightened, smiling reflexively. “pleasure—”

“don’t bother charming him,” she muttered under her breath. “he’s immune.”

edric’s eyes raked over jake’s coat, hair, boots. judging. thorough. a dad-level inspection if jake had ever seen one. “is he the one you stole the rye loaf for two days back?” edric asked, voice low.

jake turned. “you stole bread for me?”

she scoffed. “i did not.”

“she did,” edric confirmed, deadpan.

“i was testing its crust,” she insisted.

jake looked very pleased. “you stole bread for me,” he said again, like it was proof of something.

she rolled her eyes, tossing a coin on the counter. “one honey twist, and nothing more for this idiot.”

as they left, jake tore into the bread, humming in delight. “that was the best crime ever committed in my honor.”

next was thalia, the old florist who sat outside her shop surrounded by baskets of wild blooms and herbs. she looked up from arranging violets and clucked her tongue when she saw yn.

“you’re late, darling,” she said, brushing petals from her apron. “i saved the purple ones.”

“i wasn’t coming for flowers today.”

“well, too bad. you’re getting some.” thalia handed her a small bunch of lavender and yn accepted it with mock reluctance, then handed one to jake without explanation.

jake stared at the single stalk in his palm. “are you proposing?”

“i’m keeping your hands busy so you don’t touch anything,” she muttered.

they moved from stall to stall. she introduced him to the apothecary twins, mira and mabel—tiny, quick-witted women who sold everything from cough syrups to potions that allegedly kept suitors away. mira asked jake what his star sign was. mabel offered to brew him something to “stop being annoying.” they passed the old shoemaker, who gifted yn a polished button from his days in the royal guard. the fishmonger who greeted her with, “back for gossip or haddock?” the boy who sold ink and paper, who turned pink when she smiled at him. and jake watched all of it with growing disbelief.

“you know everyone,” he said, finally, when they reached the river bridge and paused to catch their breath.

she shrugged. “i’ve been here a long time.”

“but no one knows your name.”

she didn’t answer that. just leaned over the bridge’s stone railing, watching the ripples below.

jake glanced at her profile—how the light softened the edges of her, how the breeze played with the strands of hair that had come loose. “i like this version of you,” he said quietly. “the one that smiles more.”

she shot him a look. “you say that like you know other versions.”

“i’ve met the one who dodges questions and threatens to drown me in a lake.”

she smirked. “that version has her uses.”

he watched her for a beat longer, then joined her at the railing. their shoulders brushed. neither moved away.

“so,” she said after a moment. “what about you? what’s jake sim doing in riverfield?”

he blew out a breath. “that’s a loaded question.”

“i’m not in a rush.”

he looked at her, the way her eyes stayed focused on the water, not him. like she wanted the truth but didn’t want to press too hard. “my mother’s family is from the coast,” he said finally. “korean sailors. she married into a merchant line. my father’s… well, a mess. still chasing fortunes in ports that don’t want him.”

“i’m sorry.”

jake shook his head. “don’t be. i’m not. just got tired of following his shadow. figured if i had to be broke and aimless, might as well do it somewhere quiet.”

“and here you are. aimless and in excellent company.”

he grinned. “exactly.”

she turned toward him. “and what do you want, jake sim?”

he opened his mouth. closed it. “i’m still figuring that out.”

they stood there for a while longer. then she said, “come on. one more place.”

he followed her to the hill just behind the village, where a hidden orchard bloomed quietly, tucked away from the world. they pushed through ivy and wild roses, and the sunlight poured through the branches like it was spilling secrets just for them.

she pulled herself up onto a low wall and looked out across the trees. jake climbed up beside her.

he watched her more than the view. “did you ever want more?” he asked. “than this?”

she was quiet. then: “i don’t know. i think i just wanted… to be seen. to matter.”

“you do.”

she met his eyes. and for a second, everything in her chest fell silent. he said it so easily. so sincerely. “you’re strange,” she whispered.

jake tilted his head. “and you’re hiding something.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“you can’t prove it.”

“give me time.”

she smiled despite herself.

he grinned like a boy with a secret. “addy,” he said again, deliberately. “i like saying that.”

she lowered her eyes. “don’t get used to it.”

“i think i already have.”

and then they sat, quiet again. but not awkward. never awkward. just… full. charged. like the wind might carry them both off if they weren’t careful. by the time they headed back toward the village, the sun had already begun to tip westward, throwing amber light across the fields. jake didn’t want to say goodbye. she didn’t either. so they didn’t.

they lingered by the well. talking about nothing. laughing about the honey twist. jake told a story about nearly falling into a cargo hold. she told one about a goat that chased her through a market when she was fifteen. and all the while, the air between them softened. tightened. pulled.

“same time tomorrow?” jake asked, half-hopeful, half-sure she’d disappear again.

but she just nodded, already turning away. “if you can find me.” and just like that—she was gone. jake stood there, grinning like a fool, lavender stalk still in his hand.

the palace kitchens, though tucked away from the grandeur and polish of the rest of the castle, had their own kind of magic. it was warmer here—always smelling faintly of cinnamon, boiling broth, or fresh herbs drying by the stone window ledges. the hearth crackled even in late spring, and somewhere in the corner, a cat dozed in a basket of cloth scraps, twitching in her sleep. yn liked it here. always had.

the marble halls above were cold and sharp, too clean, too quiet. but here, everything was alive. the clatter of spoons, the thump of knives on chopping boards, the soft gossip passed between maids like sugar cubes—this was the beating heart of the castle. and tucked into the far wooden bench, arms folded on the table, yn sat with her chin in her hand, watching ness devour half a blueberry pie with all the grace of a girl who hadn't eaten in days.

“you’re going to regret that later,” yn muttered, smirking as she reached over for a bite.

“you could have just taken a piece yourself,” ness muttered without looking up.

“i like yours better,” yn replied sweetly, dropping another berry into her mouth. “it tastes like justice. forbidden, juicy justice.”

ness gave her a look but didn’t bother swatting her hand this time. she was too content — cheeks slightly pink from the warmth, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hair tied in the loose bun she always wore when she wasn’t “on castle time.” a smudge of flour dusted one cheek, and the corners of her mouth were stained purple-blue from the filling.

“i think i like him,” yn said suddenly, eyes fixed on the window across the stone courtyard, watching the flutter of birds and not the way her heart started speeding.

ness paused mid-bite. 

yn rushed to explain herself. “not in the way like ‘ohh i have to have him. i have to kiss him,’” she giggled at the thought. “but like, in the way, it’s nice to have someone my age to talk to. you know, apart from you.”

“oh?” ness cocked a brow at her.

yn bit her lip. “it’s stupid. i barely know him. and i haven’t even told him anything real about me.”

“does he know your name yet?”

she gave a small, guilty shrug. “...sort of. i gave him a fake one. i told him it was addy.”

ness raised a brow. “addy?”

“do not judge me, ness. it came out of nowhere.”

“i’m not judging,” ness said, grinning as she stabbed a piece of crust with her fork. “it’s very... you.”

“you’re not helping.”

“well, you’re also not giving me details.”

“that’s because if i do, it’ll feel real. and if it feels real, then it’ll get ruined.”

“or it won’t.”

yn hesitated. then plucked another berry and popped it into her mouth, mumbling, “he’s clever. too clever. he’s already suspicious.”

“oh no. someone caught onto the act?”

“no, not the act. me. the real me. i didn’t mean to say so much yesterday, but i… i think i wanted to. and that’s dangerous.”

ness leaned forward, dropping her fork into the empty plate with a soft clink. “or it’s honest. sometimes, it’s scarier being seen than hiding.”

yn glanced at her, heart tugging. “when did you get so wise?”

ness smirked, just as the outer kitchen door creaked open. they both turned toward it — but only one of them froze. jungwon stepped in, his boots soft against the old stone floor, sleeves rolled neatly up his forearms, a light sheen of sweat still on his brow from the walk in. he was carrying two large sacks — one on each shoulder — filled with rice, his blonde hair slightly tousled from the wind.

“ness?” he called out, not seeing yn just yet as she sat tucked against the prep table by the hearth.

ness stood too quickly. “you didn’t have to carry those both at once—”

“they’re not that heavy.”

“you’re sweating.”

“you’re glowing,” he corrected, smiling like an idiot.

yn blinked. her mouth slowly curled into the beginnings of a grin. ness looked like she wanted to fling herself into the oven. “put them near the grain bins,” she mumbled, stepping aside. “i’ll sort them later.”

he did as she said, flexing a little more than necessary. his movements were fluid, casual, but there was something inherently gentle in the way he handled everything, like he didn’t want to make a mess of the space she’d made her own. as he returned, he brushed his hands against his trousers and looked at her again, eyes scanning her face like he was checking for something.

“you look tired. did your back hurt again this morning?” he asked quietly.

ness blinked. “how did—?”

“you always stand with your hand pressed to your side when it does.”

yn’s jaw dropped — silently, dramatically — from her place by the table. ness was flushed now, an actual pink rising from her cheeks to her ears. “i—i’m fine,” she said a little too quickly. “and you don’t have to say things like that—”

“i just worry,” he replied, stepping a bit closer. “you don’t let anyone else worry about you.”

ness’s eyes flicked nervously toward the kitchen entrance. “jungwon—”

“just let me,” he said, soft and honest. “at least once.” and then, very casually, very quietly, like he asked a million times before, he added, “can i have a kiss, darling?”

ness went completely still. her breath caught in her throat. her hand froze halfway through brushing flour from her apron. her eyes darted to the far corner, where she now remembered her royal best friend was very much present.

yn cleared her throat. loudly.

jungwon turned, startled — then horrified. his face lit up in a blaze of red so fast it could’ve set the pie on fire. “princess,” he croaked, eyes wide.

yn raised a hand like she was greeting a bird in a tree. “hi.”

“i—i didn’t see you there, i wasn’t—this wasn’t—”

“oh, no, don’t mind me,” she said sweetly. “i was just over here, eating pie and listening to the single most romantic grain delivery i’ve ever witnessed.”

ness groaned, burying her face in her apron. “i’m going to throw myself into the oven.” jungwon looked like he wanted to follow her in.

“you two are so obvious,” yn teased, grinning now as she slid off the table. “do you know how many times i’ve seen you blush like that from the stables? i thought maybe ness had allergies.”

“your highness—” jungwon tried, face bright red.

“i’m not scolding you,” yn said, chuckling as she dusted her skirt. “if anything, i’m rooting for you. i just think if you're going to confess your undying devotion, maybe do it when i’m not three feet away.”

“i wasn’t confessing—!”

“you asked for a kiss,” ness muttered into her hands.

“bold,” yn commented.

“brave,” ness added.

“embarrassing,” jungwon mumbled, before finally groaning and rubbing the back of his neck. “i’ll just—go.”

“don’t forget your reward,” yn called, grinning.

and as if that hadn’t already flustered him enough, ness stepped up on her toes and gave him a quick kiss to the cheek. “next week,” she whispered. “don’t be late.”

jungwon looked stunned. like he’d won a duel, a bet, and his own heart back all in one. “i—i won’t.” he turned and left quickly, practically tripping over the doorway. the second the door closed, ness let out a wail and covered her face.

“please,” she muttered. “please drop me into the pie.”

yn walked over and wrapped her arms around her from behind, giggling into her shoulder. “you love him.”

“i don’t—shut up.”

“he loves you too. it’s cute.”

“you’re evil.”

“and you’re soft.”

they laughed together, the kind of laugh that only came from years of friendship and secrets shared in corners like this. and for a moment, the stress of royal life, hidden names, and forbidden affections slipped away. ness turned to look at her finally, her smile gentle now. “so,” she said, picking up her fork again, “tell me more about the boy who makes you lie through your teeth and glow like you're standing next to the oven.”

yn smirked. “only if you tell me what it feels like when he brings you sacks of rice like a love letter.”

they leaned in close, and for a while, they were just two girls again. dreaming, scheming, hearts pounding. in love — just quietly.

the sky had barely settled into its blue when yn made her way into the village. she hadn’t meant to take the longer route, past the bakeries and spice carts, but her feet wandered. they always did when her mind was restless. she hadn’t seen jake in three days. not for lack of thinking about him. every time she caught herself smiling for no reason, every time her fingers played with a loose string on her sleeve, she’d think of the way he said her fake name like it meant something real. addy. whoever she was when she was with him, it felt honest. more than any title, more than any silk dress or ballroom rehearsal her family forced her through.

she was halfway to the well, about to pass the old bookseller’s stall, when she heard something unexpected. laughter. not just any laugh—jake’s. full, loud, a little pitchy-like a giggle. it froze her in her tracks. the sound came from across the square, by the corner where the new grain store had just opened. fresh wood. a proud sign written in both common tongue and hangul. it was the newest addition to the village—a korean-run family business, traditional and practical. most villagers welcomed it with open arms, especially when rice prices dropped overnight.

jake was standing right outside the front doors, animatedly talking to the older man behind the stall—a man yn assumed to be the owner. they were speaking in korean, rapidly, fluently, with that ease people only had when their native tongue curled back into their mouths after weeks of swallowing it. jake’s entire posture had shifted. he wasn’t leaning with arrogance, or slouching with charm. he was alive. eyes lit. gesturing excitedly with his hands. the quiet grin she was used to seeing had been replaced with something bright and genuine. he looked… happy. and for some reason, it made something tight coil inside her chest.

she didn’t realise how long she’d been staring until she caught sight of someone new approaching from behind the store counter. a girl. roughly her age—maybe a bit younger, but not by much. she wore layered robes, embroidered at the collar, sleeves lined with delicate silver threading. her hair was twisted into an elaborate braid that fell down her back, pinned with a piece that sparkled in the sunlight. it was the kind of outfit not even yn, a princess, would dare wear openly in the village. which meant one thing: this girl wasn’t hiding. and she wasn’t shy, either.

the girl slid up beside jake like she’d done it a hundred times before, pressing close, her hand brushing his arm as she handed something to her father. her eyes barely flicked to the pouch of grain. they were focused on jake. she laughed at something he said. touched his shoulder. stood too close. and jake—jake—was laughing back. flirty smile and all. not pulling away. not even noticing her.

yn blinked. her feet didn’t move. why… why wasn’t she moving? she told herself it wasn’t jealousy. it couldn’t be. she didn’t even know what she was doing with jake. they hadn’t even—he didn’t know who she really was. but watching him now, eyes crinkling at the corners, fingers brushing the girl’s sleeve as he handed her a bag of rice—it made her feel small. tight. like someone had grabbed her by the ribs and squeezed. this wasn’t part of the plan. she wasn’t supposed to care.

the girl leaned in and said something in korean—something that made jake laugh again, softer this time, sheepish. like a boy caught red-handed. and that’s when yn’s boots finally started moving. straight toward them. she didn’t even bother schooling her face into pleasantness. she just walked up, head high, back straight, and inserted herself right between them.

jake’s eyes flicked toward her, startled. then lit up. “hey—”

“hi,” yn said, sickly sweet, planting herself beside him.

the girl blinked, taking in yn’s slightly wrinkled coat and messy braid. her eyes dragged down and up slowly, expression cooling by the second. a perfect, practiced scowl hid behind her sugary smile. “and who might you be?” the girl asked, her tone casual, but her eyes anything but.

yn smiled wider. “addy,” she said, voice light. “nice to meet you.”

the girl didn’t offer her name in return. instead, she tilted her head. “never seen you around. are you from here?” before yn could answer, another voice cut in. low. tired. familiar.

“…addy?”

she turned just in time to see jungwon walking up, a stack of burlap sacks on his shoulder, brows furrowed from the weight and the sight in front of him. he stopped short. froze. his tired eyes went wide. “oh no,” yn whispered.

the girl blinked. “you two know each other?”

jungwon opened his mouth, clearly seconds away from saying something he absolutely should not—

“walk with me!” yn blurted, grabbing jungwon by the sleeve and dragging him around the corner of the store before anyone could stop them.

“wait, what—”

“i’ll explain, i swear,” she hissed, breath coming fast. “just—two seconds, please.”

jungwon blinked at her, confused but compliant. they ducked behind the wooden beam of the shop, away from view. he dropped the sack with a thud. “okay,” he said, crossing his arms, all his honorifics for her dropping immediately. “you want to tell me why the hell the princess of decelis is parading around the village using a fake name?”

yn winced. “shhh!”

“you’re lucky i didn’t say anything back there!”

“i know! that’s why i dragged you back here.”

jungwon looked like he wanted to scream. “does ness know?”

“of course ness knows.”

he stared at her, incredulous. “unbelievable.”

“i’m not doing it to stir drama. i just—i needed space. i needed people to see me like me, not as some perfect royal mannequin everyone expects me to be.”

he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “so let me get this straight. you’ve been sneaking out for months, hiding your name, and now you’re… what? flirting with jake sim?”

she flushed. “i’m not flirting.”

“really? because i walked up and it looked like you were about to maul him.”

“okay, maybe i was a little jealous.”

jungwon stared again.

then groaned. “you’re unbelievable.”

she tugged on his sleeve, desperate. “please don’t say anything. especially not to him.”

jungwon studied her face for a moment. the plea in her eyes. the way she looked more like herself than she ever had inside the castle. then he sighed. “you owe me.”

“forever.”

they returned around the corner, rejoining the other two. the girl—still looking thoroughly annoyed—raised her brows. “oh,” she said. “you’re back. that was quick.”

jungwon clicked his tongue at her. “wonlin, be nice.”

yn smiled. “just a quick hello. jungwon and i go way back.”

jake looked between them. “you do?”

before yn could answer, the girl–wonlin–cut in again. “that’s odd. we just moved here.”

jake turned toward her. “wait, really?”

she nodded slowly, eyes never leaving yn. “just two weeks ago. father opened this branch. we used to live further inland. so unless you know him from somewhere else…” her tone was thick with suspicion now.

jungwon, to his credit, stepped in smoothly. “ah,” he said quickly. “she’s friends with one of our former vendors. we crossed paths a few times. isn’t that right, addy?”

yn nodded vigorously. “exactly. small world.”

wonlin didn’t look convinced. jake seemed puzzled, but shrugged. “well, you’re lucky. jungwon seems great.”

wonlin smiled at jake, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “yea right whatever, i guess he is.”

jungwon, thoroughly done with the whole situation, grabbed another sack and muttered something about deliveries. as he walked off, he whispered to yn, “you seriously owe me.” and she did. but the moment jake turned back to her, smile soft and eyes gentle, she didn’t care. she’d find a way to pay him back later.

the air was softer as they walked—less sunlight, more breeze. the afternoon had begun to dip lazily into early evening, throwing amber and honey-gold across the cobbled streets of riverfield. a few market stalls had closed, and the vendors that remained were half-heartedly waving flies away or watching children race through the alleyways.

yn and jake strolled without purpose now. they’d already seen most of the village, and yet somehow, their feet kept finding new paths. jake kicked a pebble ahead of them, hands stuffed into his pockets. his strides were even, casual. he walked beside her the way one did when they had nowhere else to be and no one else to walk with. it felt… natural. comfortable. but something was off.

it wasn’t his voice—he was still talking, teasing, tossing the occasional flirty remark her way when she made a face or threatened to push him into a well. but something about the energy had changed. just slightly. just enough for her to feel it. “why are you being weird?” she asked finally, after they passed the old lamplighter’s post and he hadn’t said anything in a full thirty seconds.

jake blinked. “weird?”

“you’re quieter than usual.”

he shrugged, then shot her a grin. “maybe i’m just enjoying the scenery.”

she narrowed her eyes. “nice save.”

he bumped her shoulder lightly with his. “maybe i just know better than to keep talking when you’re lost in thought.”

“i’m never lost in thought.”

“you were definitely staring at a squirrel like it had insulted your entire bloodline.”

“i was imagining how i’d kill someone with that pinecone beside it.”

he laughed, genuine, but it faded too quickly again. they turned past the bakery, past the alley behind the mill, into the lesser-traveled part of town where the trees bent a little lower and the ivy grew thicker against cracked stone. she was about to ask again—press just a little further—when he spoke. “so…”

uh-oh. that tone. nothing good ever started with “so…” like that.

“do you think jungwon’s… cool?” he asked, and his voice was way too casual to be actually casual.

yn blinked, caught off-guard. “what?”

jake cleared his throat. “just asking.”

she tilted her head. “cool how?”

jake looked off to the side, like he was studying a particularly fascinating chunk of moss on a wall. “you know. just… cool.”

“…you mean attractive?”

he didn’t answer. which was answer enough. a slow, knowing smile curved her lips. “are you jealous?”

jake scoffed, but she didn’t miss the way he rubbed the back of his neck, fingers twitching slightly. “no.”

“you’re totally jealous.”

“i’m not.”

“you are! oh my god.”

jake groaned, dramatic. “i just asked a question. why does that mean i’m jealous?”

“because you’ve been acting weird ever since we left the shop. and now you’re randomly bringing up jungwon like you’re on trial for something.”

he muttered something in korean under his breath that she didn’t quite catch but sounded very much like ‘stupid handsome stock boy.’ she burst out laughing. jake scowled, cheeks slightly pink. “it’s just—he’s nice. people like him. he’s always there. and you—you called out to him like he was your favorite cousin coming back from war.”

“my favorite cousin?!” she wheezed.

“i panicked!”

“jake,” she said, still laughing, “you’re ridiculous.”

he looked at her, face serious despite the blush creeping up his neck. “so? do you?”

yn paused. then softened. “no,” she said. “i don’t like jungwon. not like that.” he looked relieved, but she wasn’t finished. “he’s in love with my best friend.”

jake blinked. “what?”

“yep. been watching him fall harder every week.”

“but… he didn’t say anything.”

“he doesn’t need to.” she grinned. “it’s so obvious. he looks at her like she hung the moon. and she pretends not to notice, but she totally does.”

jake stared at her for a second, like he was trying to process the image. then he relaxed, finally, shoulders easing back into the posture she was used to. but now she saw it. now she knew. she couldn’t not say something. “you were jealous,” she said again, this time with a victorious glint in her eyes.

jake groaned and covered his face with one hand. “why did i even ask?”

“you blushed, jake.”

“i did not.”

“you did. like, full color change. red cheeks. heatwave.”

“i loathe you.”

“no, you don’t.”

he shot her a glare, but she only grinned wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. and then his cheeks flushed again.

“you’re cute when you’re flustered,” she added.

jake sim never blushed. not when he had his first kiss at eight years old with the girl who lived next door to his family’s old stone cottage. she’d pushed him into a patch of dandelions behind the baker’s shed, told him to close his eyes, and then kissed him square on the mouth before promptly running off, leaving him stunned and grass-stained. he’d gone home whistling. didn’t even tell his older brother because he didn’t want to share the victory.

not when he got caught sneaking into the pub cellar at fourteen, red-handed with a stolen bottle of plum wine and a bag of stolen sausages in his satchel. the innkeeper’s wife had laughed until she cried while jake stood there shrugging, entirely unbothered.

not even when, at seventeen, he’d taken a drunken dare to swim across the lake fully bare—and came up at the other end only to realize a group of visiting merchants (and their daughters) had arrived early for the midsummer fair and were all watching. he’d sauntered out of the water with nothing but damp pride and a wink. people still brought it up years later.

jake sim did not blush. it simply wasn’t in his nature. he flirted too easily, laughed too loudly, and recovered from embarrassment with the smoothness of a boy who learned young how to make people like him. how to make himself untouchable. he had a charm like armor—carefully worn, perfectly deflecting.

but now? now, standing on the edge of the village’s quieter road, the sun dappled through trees and birds half-singing their evening lullabies, he felt it. that tell-tale sting. a creeping warmth rising in his neck. the flush crawling up the back of his ears like an ambush. all because of her.

yn was looking at him with that impossibly smug, satisfied expression. the kind of look people wore when they found out a secret you didn’t even know you were keeping. and he was just standing there, like an idiot, caught red-cheeked in a moment he hadn’t prepared for. “you blushed,” she said again, voice a half-laugh, half-whisper of disbelief. “and now you're blushing again.”

jake swallowed, very aware of how warm his collar suddenly felt. “no, i didn’t.”

“yes, you did.” she stepped closer, eyes narrowing with faux curiosity. “oh my god. that was a real blush. that was actually pink on your face. i’ve never seen it before.”

“i’m sunburnt,” he tried weakly.

“you are not,” she said, too quickly, delighted now. “you’re flushed. oh my god. did i just witness history?”

“could you stop looking at me like i’m a fish that just learned to walk?”

“no. because jake sim—the most annoyingly smug, unfazed boy to ever exist—just blushed. over me.”

jake groaned and turned, walking a few steps ahead like it would help. it didn’t. the grin on her face was practically tattooed into his brain now.

“i’m never going to hear the end of this, am i?”

“oh, never,” she said, jogging to catch up beside him, eyes dancing with amusement.

and the worst part? he didn’t even mind. jake rubbed the back of his neck, willing the heat to dissipate. it didn’t. she kept walking, spinning a piece of thread around her finger absently, her steps light against the cobbled path. the light caught on her lashes, made her eyes seem brighter somehow, and the breeze tugged loose a few strands of hair that curled around her cheek. she wasn’t even doing anything special. and he still felt like gravity had tilted toward her.

when had that started? was it the first time she rolled her eyes at him, arms crossed but mouth twitching? or maybe when she shoved a honey twist into his hand and acted like it didn’t mean anything? or when she called his name across the river, barefoot and breathless, like she knew he’d look? jake didn’t know. all he knew was—he was falling. and fast. faster than he meant to. faster than he ever had.

he snuck a glance at her now, walking beside him like the village had always belonged to her. as if her bare feet knew every stone in the path, every branch that swayed, every wind that came through the orchard trees. she hummed something under her breath—probably one of those old tunes people sang in kitchens while shelling peas. jake had never liked quiet so much.

“you know…” he said slowly, casually, trying to ground himself in words, “if you keep bringing up the blush thing, i will find a way to make you pay.”

she raised a brow. “ooh. scary.”

he grinned. “i’m resourceful.”

“try me.”

jake tilted his head. “you ever been dumped in a haystack?”

she gasped. “you wouldn’t.”

he shrugged, stepping slightly behind her. “guess we’ll find out.” before she could retaliate, he grabbed her wrist gently and twirled her around once, just because he could. her laughter bubbled up mid-spin, bright and surprised, and when she landed in place again, their steps fell into rhythm without even thinking.

yn looked at him then—really looked—and for a split second, she thought: this is what it’s supposed to feel like. not staged, not planned, not royal duties or polite smiles at banquets. just… her. him. this road. this ridiculous moment. she didn’t say any of it aloud. but it sat in her chest like a second heartbeat.

“i didn’t think you were the jealous type,” he said, breaking the silence after a while, her voice quieter now.

yn raised a shoulder. “i’m not.” he looked at her knowingly. “i’m not!” she said again, laughing despite herself. “just didn’t like the way she looked at you.”

“she looked at you.”

“well, maybe i didn’t like that either.”

he laughed again. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet, here you are.”

“i must be bored.” jake bumped his shoulder into hers gently. “admit it. you like me.”

she turned toward him. “maybe.” he blinked. that was… not the teasing tone he expected. “maybe?” he echoed.

“maybe,” she said again, and her smile was soft this time. not mischievous. just real.

jake felt his heart clench and swell all at once. yeah. he was falling. and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

yn would remember it for the rest of her life.

the smell of rain on warm stones. the sound of it crashing against the wooden awning above them, rhythmic and relentless. the way jake’s arm brushed hers as they huddled close beneath the shallow overhang of the cottage roof, the sky split open in angry grays and soaked gold.

one minute they were giggling by clearing, the next they were scurrying around in what started as a drizzle—light, playful, teasing as they made their way back from the orchard path, laughing about something ridiculous jake had said about a goose with a limp. but within minutes, the clouds had rolled in like an avalanche and the heavens cracked. and now they were soaked. drenched, more like—her flyaway hair sticking to her forehead, the hem of her skirt heavy with water, and jake’s shirt clinging to his frame like a second skin.

they had ducked under the nearest shelter without a word, their breaths coming hard with laughter and surprise. and then… then the silence began. not the awkward kind. not even the kind you feel the need to break. the kind that simmers. that makes the world hold its breath with you.

rain poured just inches away from their boots, puddles rippling under the flickering glow of a single lantern hanging beside the cottage door. they were standing too close. she knew it. she could feel the heat of him even in the cold.

her head rolled sideways, eyes shifting to his side profile. his eyes were closed, raindrops sliding down his long nose. his slightly tanned skin was glistening and wet. he was still panting, the ran over from the clearing having happened so suddenly. she gulped unintentionally. eyes raking his features shamelessly, satisfying her sight and heart.

jake turned toward her, one shoulder leaning lazily against the wall, his damp curls pressed to his forehead. a droplet trailed down the line of his neck, disappearing into the collar of his half-unbuttoned shirt. he caught her staring and smirked. “what?” he said, voice soft, low—dangerously playful. “never seen a man get soaked before?”

“you look like a wet dog,” she managed to say, though her voice wavered.

“and yet,” he drawled, “you’re still looking.”

she scoffed, turning slightly away, but he leaned closer. there was a hum in the air now. like tension tightening a string, plucked just once and still vibrating.

“admit it,” he murmured. “you like the view.”

she dared a glance at him. his eyes were darker in this light, pupils blown, hair curling at his temples, lips parted just slightly as he looked at her—not with mischief now. with intent. “you’re impossible,” she whispered.

“and yet…” he echoed.

her breath hitched as his hand came up—not touching her, not quite. just brushing the damp strands of hair off her cheek, fingers grazing her skin like a question. his hand lingered. god, it lingered. she could feel her pulse thudding under her jaw. jake’s eyes dropped to her lips. the space between them collapsed. their shoulders brushed. his thumb swept lightly along her cheekbone, anchoring her there, pinning her to the moment.

she swore the world had gone completely still. except her. she was trembling. not with fear. with want. she felt it in her stomach, her chest, her knees. felt it in the way he leaned in just a bit more, his nose almost grazing hers, his breath fanning across her lips as his other hand settled against the beam behind her, caging her in. and for a second—just one second—she knew he was going to kiss her.

he wasn’t teasing anymore. this wasn’t a joke. this was the moment. the one she’d been dreading and craving all at once. she tilted her chin up. just a little. jake leaned in. closer. closer—

“did you hear?” a voice said from the road, muffled by rain and distance but still loud enough to cut like glass through the haze. a man’s voice. excited. “her highness is throwing a ball! for the princesses, they said. it’s next week!”

yn froze. every muscle in her body turned to stone. the air between her and jake shattered like ice.

“…a ball?” came a second voice, a woman’s this time, her tone hushed and awed. “for all three of them? they’ve never even shown their faces—”

she stepped back. jake’s brow furrowed, lips still parted. “what’s wrong?” but she wasn’t listening. a ball? what ball? this was the first she was hearing of it. and it was her palace throwing it. her father. her mother. her sisters. cassie. jen. how—how hadn’t she known? her throat tightened. “i—” she stammered. “i have to go.”

jake blinked. “wait, what?”

she was already moving, stepping out into the rain, the water hitting her skin like needles. she stumbled into it like a fever, her heart pounding with panic and confusion and something dangerously close to guilt.

“addy!” jake’s voice cut through the rain, sharp and full of confusion. rain smacked his face like a thousand icy needles.

she was already halfway across the muddy lane, her braid a dark streak against her back, skirt twisting around her knees as she pushed forward, feet stumbling slightly in the flood-soaked street. she didn’t stop. not the first time he called her. not the second. not even the third, when his voice cracked slightly—caught between disbelief and desperation. she just… ran. she didn’t even glance back.

“are you serious—?” he muttered, more to himself than anything. jake stood frozen for half a breath. his hand still hung where her wrist had been. the warmth of her skin had already vanished, leaving behind nothing but cold rain and a burn he couldn’t name. and then he took off after her, boots splashing hard through puddles, his shirt sticking to his back like glue, hair plastered to his forehead. he wasn’t even thinking now—just moving. because whatever had just happened, whatever had made her flee like that, he couldn’t let it end this way. “addy!” he tried again, voice sharp and desperate now. “what’s going on?!”

she reached the edge of the orchard path before he caught her. jake’s hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist, spinning her halfway around. she stumbled, startled, nearly falling into him from the force of the stop. they both stood there—soaked, breathing hard, staring at each other like strangers suddenly aware of how much they didn’t know. his lungs burned. his shirt was plastered to him, heavy and dripping, curls stuck to his forehead. water ran into his eyes, into his mouth. but he ran. because something was wrong. her breath came in harsh, panicked gasps, and she wouldn’t look at him.

“addy,” he said again, softer now, barely audible over the rain hammering down on the rooftops above them. “what the hell just happened?”

she didn’t speak. jake blinked, heart racing. “we were… we were fine. we were more than fine. you were about to— i was going to—” he stopped himself, jaw clenching. “and then you just—ran.”

her lips parted, and for a second, he thought she’d finally say something. but she didn’t.

“i mean—was it me? did i do something? say something wrong?”

“no—” she finally gasped, shaking her head. “it’s not you.” she turned away, and he stepped in front of her.

“then what?” he asked, stepping closer. “because five seconds ago i was about to kiss you and i swear to god, i thought you wanted that too.”

her lips parted, but no sound came out.

jake searched her face—her trembling mouth, the way her hands curled at her sides, the flicker of something in her eyes that looked too much like panic. “i wanted to,” he said, voice hoarse now, rainwater sliding down his temple. “hell, i still do.”

her breath caught. he took one more step. they were inches apart now. close enough to feel the heat of her, even through the cold. close enough for the air between them to thrum again with that unbearable, beautiful ache.

“i don’t care what your name is,” he said, softer now. “or what you’re hiding. you drive me insane half the time and i still… i want to kiss you so badly it’s ridiculous.”

her throat bobbed with a swallow. she looked up at him—so vulnerable, so present, like she was seconds away from falling into him again. but then— her face crumpled. “i can’t.”

jake froze.

“i just—can’t,” she whispered again, voice cracking like thunder behind her words.

he stood there, stunned, the weight of her rejection hitting heavier than the rain. “why?”

she shook her head, eyes glistening, her hand slowly slipping from his grip. “i’m sorry.”

“addy—” but she was already pulling away. and this time, he didn’t follow. he watched her vanish down the orchard path, a fading silhouette swallowed by mist and leaves and storm. his hand was still outstretched where hers had been. jake sim had been stood up before. he’d been kissed and forgotten, laughed off, passed over, turned down—none of it ever stuck. none of it had ever mattered. but this? this left a hollow behind his ribs so loud he couldn’t hear the rain anymore. he stood there in the silence she left behind, the storm still raging around him. and for the first time in his life, he wished he had never wanted anything as much as he wanted her.

the rain was still coming down hard when yn pushed open the back kitchen door, breath heaving, hair soaked, her chest a mess of panic and guilt and something dangerously close to heartbreak. she stumbled inside, boots squelching, water pooling beneath her step. the castle kitchen, warm and dimly lit, smelled of rosemary and yeast. the air was thick with steam and the faint scent of woodsmoke—comforting, familiar. but nothing about her felt comforted.

she stood there, soaked to the bone, the door swinging shut behind her with a dull thud. her lungs still fought for air, but it wasn’t from the sprint through the rain anymore. her heart thudded like a drum inside her ribs, uneven and panicked. her hands shook as she brushed wet hair from her face. “ness—” her voice cracked before she could finish.

there was a rustle, a startled shift, and two heads popped up from the corner behind the flour racks near the hearth. ness and jungwon. curled up together, arms tangled and hair damp. jungwon’s coat was wrapped partly around her shoulders, and ness’s face was flushed, mouth slightly parted, eyes wide with surprise. her hands were still resting gently on his chest. his were on her waist. they had clearly been in the middle of something intimate—a kiss, or maybe the seconds right after one. their closeness was obvious. the tender atmosphere still hung in the air, soft and golden, thick with the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. on any other day, yn would have screamed. she would’ve laughed and thrown her arms around ness, shrieked something ridiculous like “finally!” and shoved jungwon teasingly for taking so damn long. she’d been waiting for this—for them—to admit what had been dancing between them for months.

but right now? she couldn’t even smile. because her heart was breaking.

ness blinked, pulling away from jungwon slightly as her eyes landed on yn’s soaked, trembling figure. “princess—? are you—?”

“did you know about the ball?” yn cut in, voice sharp with urgency, pain laced beneath it.

both of them froze. ness sat up straighter, glancing at jungwon briefly before rising to her feet. “i— i thought you knew,” she said cautiously, brushing her dress straight. “your father announced it this morning.”

yn stared at her, chest tightening. “you thought i knew?”

“i just assumed—”

“you assumed i would know about a ball thrown by my own family?”

ness stepped forward quickly, reaching for her. “yn—”

she pulled back, stumbling into a chair at the long wooden prep table and dropping into it like her legs had given up. her soaked dress made a sickening squish against the seat. she didn’t care. her hands rose to her face, fingers threading through her wet hair, elbows braced on the table’s edge. everything was spinning. her lungs refused to fill properly. her eyes burned. her head pounded with too many thoughts—of the rain, the roof, the closeness of jake’s mouth to hers. his voice. "i want to kiss you so badly it’s ridiculous.” and she’d left him. without an answer. without an explanation. without a damn thing.

ness crouched beside her, voice softening immediately. “yn… i didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”

“i ran,” she whispered. “i just… ran.”

“from who?”

yn didn’t answer. but ness knew. her hand found yn’s wrist gently, thumb rubbing comfort into her damp skin. “jake?” yn nodded once, then let her head drop forward, her soaked hair falling like a curtain around her face. jungwon stepped closer but stayed quiet, respectfully distant.

“i didn’t tell him, ness. i didn’t tell him anything. and he was about to kiss me, and i wanted it—i wanted it so badly and then…” her voice broke, the memory hitting her like a punch to the chest. “then i heard them talk about the ball. and i panicked. i just left.”

ness’s face twisted with sympathy. “oh, sweetheart…”

“he must think i’m insane,” yn said, choking on a laugh. “or cruel. or lying.”

“you’re not.”

“but i am, ness!” she hissed, sitting upright, voice raw. “i let him believe i was someone else. i let him flirt and fall and care—and now what? what happens when he finds out i’m not addy, i’m not some girl in the village? i’m a princess.” the word tasted bitter in her mouth.

jungwon finally spoke, quiet but firm. “jake’s not stupid.”

“no,” she agreed. “but he doesn’t deserve this. not the lies. not the mess. not me.”

“don’t say that,” ness said instantly, reaching for her again.

but yn shook her head. “i’m not like cassie. i don’t glide through rooms in silk with perfect words and a throne waiting for me. i’m not like jen—bright-eyed and brilliant and loved by everyone she meets. i’m the one who hides. who sneaks out. who disappears for hours because no one even notices she’s gone.” her voice cracked again, softer now. “and jake noticed me,” she whispered. “and i left him.”

ness was quiet for a moment, her hand still holding hers.

then slowly said. “you’re allowed to be scared. you’re allowed to not have all the answers right now.”

“but i hurt him.”

“then fix it.”

yn looked up. “tell him the truth,” ness said, eyes fierce now. “he deserves that. you both do.”

“i’m terrified,” she admitted.

“that’s how you know it’s real,” jungwon said from the corner. his voice was calm, sure. “the good things… they scare you before they save you.” yn stared at him for a long moment. then, finally—finally—she let herself cry. just a few tears. quiet ones. and ness held her hand through all of them. the ball was coming. the world she had carefully separated from jake was about to collide with him. with her. and whether she liked it or not… he would know. all of it. and she had no idea if he'd still want to kiss her once he did.

by the time yn reached her chambers, her dress was dry only in patches—along the edges where the fire-warmed halls had kissed away the rain—and her bones ached with exhaustion she didn’t know how to carry anymore.

she opened her door without thought, letting it creak softly into the silence. and paused. jen was there. her younger sister stood near the bed, arms crossed over the back of one of the velvet chairs, her chin resting atop them in a posture of almost-bored suspicion. the soft auburn curls she always wore half-up were slightly damp, as if she too had been out for a while. she was frowning. her eyes narrowed. “finally,” jen said slowly. “you took forever.”

yn blinked. “what are you doing here?”

jen didn’t answer right away. instead, she tilted her head with all the audacity only an eighteen-year-old princess could carry. “you look like someone shoved you into the lake.”

“i feel worse.”

“where were you?”

“not now, jen,” yn muttered, shutting the door behind her as gently as she could.

“i checked the west gardens,” jen continued. “the chapel, the music room, even that stupid little reading nook you think no one knows about. you weren’t in any of them.”

“i wasn’t hiding.”

“then where were you?”

yn sighed, stepping toward the fireplace to peel off her damp outer robe. her fingers fumbled at the ties. “i said i’m not in the mood.”

jen paused, sensing the fatigue. “yn…” yn looked at herself in the mirror—raindrops still dripping from the tips of her hair, her eyes rimmed in something close to grief. she took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “with jake,” she said, finally. quietly. honestly.

jen’s eyes lit up. “jake?!” yn could’ve laughed at her sister’s instant transformation—eyes wide, mouth parting with excitement, body bouncing upright in glee. “oh my god—the boy you’ve been sneaking off to see?!”

yn let her head drop back against the mirror. “jen—” turning slightly, she met her sister’s wide, delighted eyes.

“it was him, wasn’t it? oh my god, you’re in love with him!” jen was already halfway across the room, spinning like she’d just heard the best secret of the century. “who is he really? what does he do? how does he talk? does he kiss like the poetry books say? was there touching? are you going to run away with him?! tell me everything, right now.”

despite herself, a sliver of a smile tugged at yn’s lips—just a twitch. a flicker of the old warmth that used to exist between them, before everything royal and wretched got in the way. but the smile never quite made it. it fell too fast. jen saw it. her excitement faltered. “…what happened?” she asked quietly, stepping forward again, more gently this time. “did he do something?”

yn shook her head. “then what?” jen's voice was softer now. yn took a breath. “there’s going to be a ball,” she murmured. “for the princesses. the whole kingdom knows. apparently.” there was a beat of silence.

“you didn’t know?” jen asked, brows furrowing. “but i thought—father said he sent out word to all of us two days ago.”

“no one told me.” yn looked down, her voice barely audible. “not father. not cassie. not you. not a single soul thought to mention it to me.”

“i thought ness would’ve—”

“i only found out because i overheard villagers talking about it.” her hands trembled at her sides, nails digging into her palms. “right as jake was about to kiss me.”

jen’s lips parted in surprise. “oh…” yn turned toward the fireplace again, wrapping her arms around herself. the warmth from earlier—the memory of him, of that roof, of that moment—was tainted now. ashy and sick in her chest. jen shifted nervously, then whispered, “it’s not just a ball, you know…” yn stilled. “what?”

jen rushed to explain, “i only overheard a few things! i wasn’t told directly or anything—just… in the corridors, you know? something about alliances and signatures and a royal visit—”

“who?” yn whispered.

jen blinked. “what?”

“who am i supposed to be engaged to?”

jen’s lips pursed like she was trying not to say it, as if saying it aloud might make it worse. “…park sunghoon,” she finally muttered. “from the eastern territory. the coastal kingdom.”

the room went deathly still. jen looked alarmed now, sitting upright, her voice wobbling with guilt. “i thought you knew! i—i assumed you had been part of the planning. cassie said something earlier about—yn?” but yn wasn’t listening.

“when were they going to tell me?”

“i don’t know. i didn’t think—”

“of course you didn’t,” yn snapped, her voice sharp as glass. “because you’ve always known what’s going on. you’ve always been part of the circle. but me?” her laugh was bitter now. “i’m just the invisible one. the middle one. the one no one bothers to ask.”

jen flinched at her tone, guilt flashing across her features. “yn, i didn’t mean—”

“an engagement?” yn repeated, stunned. “they expect me to walk into that room next week and be given away like livestock? to someone i’ve never met?”

jen looked down. “i thought you knew…”

tears stung yn’s eyes, hot and angry. all those times she wandered the village. all the sunsets she spent laughing with jake. all those stolen moments. her secret world. her life. all of it had been a fragile, borrowed fantasy. and now it was cracking. “what about jake now?” she whispered. jen looked up, confused. but yn was already sinking onto her bed, her hands trembling in her lap. “what do i do?” she whispered. “what the hell do i do now?”

jen stood frozen, arms crossed, unsure of whether to leave or stay. the room, usually so calm and filled with candlelight and books and memories, now felt like a prison. a cage about to close.

yn felt the weight of everything: the lie, the almost-kiss, the unspoken feelings and her impending engagement to a stranger. she felt it all settle like a stone in her chest. and all she could think was: he’s never going to look at me the same way again. “engaged,” she whispered bitterly under her breath. “to someone i’ve never even met.” she wanted to scream. or throw something. or cry again—but she had done enough of that tonight.

across the room, jen sat cross-legged on her bed, still dressed in her sleep gown, brows furrowed as she watched her sister quietly unravel. yn didn’t even notice her stand. didn’t hear the whisper of silk as jen padded across the thick rug toward her. she was too deep in her thoughts—jake’s voice still haunting her like an echo: “i want to kiss you so badly it’s ridiculous.” god, why had he said that? why had he meant it? and why had she wanted to let him?

“let’s go,” jen said suddenly, sharp enough to cut through the storm in yn’s chest.

yn blinked, turning around. “what?”

“to see him,” jen replied, as if it were obvious. “jake.”

yn gawked at her. “are you insane?”

jen shrugged, casually. “probably. but i’ve seen you spiral before and i’ve never seen you like this.”

“i’m not spiraling,” yn lied.

“you’re pacing like a lunatic. you look like you’ve been struck by lightning. and honestly, if someone told me earlier today that my sister—the invisible one, the one who disappears to the village every other day—was actually out here catching feelings? i’d have laughed.”

yn scowled. “you’re not helping.”

jen stepped closer, her voice softer now. “but i am. you’re hurting. i can see it.” yn didn’t respond. “you like him,” jen added, smiling faintly. “even if you’re being stubborn about it.”

“it doesn’t matter now. i’m—” she stopped, voice faltering. “i’m being promised to someone else. someone i’ve never met. someone who probably sees me as some diplomatic pawn in his father’s kingdom strategy.”

jen frowned. “and you’re just going to… let that happen?” “do i have a choice?”

jen was quiet. and then: “maybe not. but you do have a chance to say goodbye.” yn’s eyes met hers. jen tilted her head, voice earnest. “you can’t change the ball. or what they’ve planned. but you can tell him the truth. or lie. whatever you need to do to breathe again.”

“i can’t tell him the truth. not now.”

“then lie,” jen said, simply. “but don’t let him go thinking he meant nothing.” that settled in yn’s chest like a stone. jake. his smile. the way he looked at her under the rain. the way he waited, the way he believed her—believed in her—even when he didn’t have to. no one had looked at her like that in a very long time.

she swallowed. jen nudged her. “come on. get dressed.” “i am dressed.” jen raised a brow. “not like that. you’re still too… princess-y. he’ll smell royalty on you.” yn let out a huff of air, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “you’re impossible.” “and you’re wasting time.”

they crept down the east staircase, past the quiet wing where the staff quarters rested. the rain had stopped sometime around midnight, leaving the castle grounds coated in a slick sheen of mist and petrichor. lanterns flickered weakly in the distance. the scent of wet earth clung to the air. they had cloaks on now, hoods pulled over their heads, boots tight to their ankles. lamps clutched in hand, the two sisters kept to the side paths, ducking through hedges and along the stone wall behind the garden where the old vines grew thick. the world felt like it was holding its breath. 

yn’s chest ached. she kept her eyes ahead, her feet moving forward though her body screamed to stop. jen’s words echoed in her ears: “you don’t have to tell him the truth. but don’t leave without saying something.” she didn’t know what she’d say, not really. maybe: “i’m sorry i messed with your head. i never should’ve let it go this far.” or: “forget me. i’m moving away.” it was easier to be cruel. to lie. to be forgettable. it was safer. because the truth was ugly and messy and filled with too many what-ifs. and if he knew—if he knew who she was, what she was bound to—she didn’t know if he’d forgive her. so she’d lie. just once. let him think she was some girl who came and went. a blip. a beautiful mistake. her throat burned at the thought.

they reached the village by the time the moon had slipped out from behind the clouds. its light stretched long over the cobblestones and shingled roofs, casting faint glows against puddles and windowpanes. a quiet hush blanketed the street. most lamps were out. the baker’s shop was long closed. a dog barked somewhere far off. and there—just ahead—was the small cottage tucked behind the bar. the one he sometimes mentioned working near. the one ness had once described as “the crooked-roof one with the green vines out front.”

yn’s steps slowed. her fingers tightened around the handle of her lantern. her heart… thundered. this was it. she had practiced the speech at least twenty times in her head. “i’m sorry for wasting your time.” “i shouldn’t have let it go on this long.” “i’m leaving the village soon, so you won’t see me again.” simple. clean. like surgery. sharp, neat cuts that would bleed later but not in front of him. that was the plan. she would say her piece, maybe offer a hug if he looked particularly hurt, and walk away without looking back. easy. except—nothing about jake sim had ever been easy.

and when the door opened, and she saw his face again for the first time since she ran away from him in the rain, everything fell apart. his hair was still slightly damp, curling at the ends. he was wearing a plain linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar loose—he looked like he hadn’t slept much. his eyes were tired and guarded, rimmed with something like confusion… or maybe disappointment. and beneath all that, his expression cracked with the faintest, most visible shock at seeing her. and god, he looked sad. not angry. not cold. not mad the way he should have been. just… sad. like she’d taken something from him when she left. her lungs seized. the speech was gone. all of it. vanished like breath in winter.

jen peeked out from behind her, wide-eyed and grinning, oblivious to the thick tension cutting through the doorway. “hi!” she said brightly, completely ignoring the tension in the air. “i’m... aria. her cousin. visiting.”

jake blinked, his eyes flicking to jen. his smile, if you could call it that, was brief and tight. “jake,” he said shortly, polite but distracted. his voice was hoarse. then he looked back at yn. right into her. and the sound of her own heartbeat was so loud she was sure he could hear it too.

yn’s chest hurt. “i—” she started, and then stopped, because what was the point of the speech now? her script had drowned in the puddle at her feet the moment she saw his face. the sadness there. the softness. the hope he tried to smother in case it hurt too much. “i love you.” the words tumbled out of her mouth like a secret that had waited too long to be free.

jake’s lips parted, his brows shooting up so fast she saw the flicker of panic and surprise in his eyes before they even registered in his body. behind her, jen audibly gasped. yn’s breath hitched. she had no idea what her face looked like at that moment—only that her entire body was humming with adrenaline, her heart thudding like it was trying to claw its way out of her ribs. jake just stared. so she did the only thing she could do now: she kept talking.

“i love you,” she repeated, softer this time. her hands were shaking. “and i wasn’t going to. i was going to come here and feed you some ridiculous story about leaving town and wanting to say goodbye but... it’s a lie. not the leaving part. i am leaving. but everything else… i couldn’t go without telling you. i love you.” she swallowed, hard. “i left because i was scared. because i’ve never felt this way before. because—because you make me feel like i can be seen.” jake still hadn’t moved. so she took a shaky step closer, her voice trembling now. “and i didn’t want to lie to you anymore. not even with goodbye.” more silence. 

behind her, jen’s grin was splitting her face. she gave jake a very obvious thumbs up and then, as though finally catching the memo that this was not her moment, turned around and muttered, “i’ll just… be over there.” rainwater dripped slowly from the edge of the roof behind her. the lantern in her hand flickered faintly, her fingers tight around the handle. the breeze carried the scent of lilacs and rain-wet leaves. jake finally let out a breath. his eyes hadn’t left hers once.

“addy,” he said softly—addy, still, like he was trying to convince himself she was real. jake stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time. the candlelight flickered across his jaw, catching the hurt there, the cracks and the sharp edges she’d left behind. but there was something else too. something fierce and vulnerable and achingly tender. and slowly—so slowly—he exhaled. “say it again.”

her breath caught. “what?”

“say it again,” he repeated, stepping forward now, his own hands shaking. “like you mean it.”

her heart clenched. “i love you,” she whispered. “i think i’ve been in love with you from the second you called me an artful goose.”

jake let out a strangled sound—something like a laugh and a sob tangled together—and stepped forward until they were barely inches apart. and then—without saying a word—he pulled her into his arms. she nearly tripped over her own feet as he wrapped himself around her, arms tight, his face buried into her damp shoulder. “you’re an idiot,” he murmured into her cloak. her hands slid around his waist automatically, curling into his back, eyes squeezing shut. “i know,” she whispered back.

“you left me in the rain.”

“i know.”

“i couldn’t sleep.”

“i couldn’t breathe.”

jake pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes searching her face. “you love me?” he asked again, quieter this time. not teasing. not smug. just… hopeful. her fingers curled at his sides. “i really, really do.”

jake broke into the kind of grin that made her forget the name of the planet. “well,” he said, stepping impossibly closer. “i love you too.” her breath caught. 

“i’ve been going insane, addy.”

“me too.”

“i thought i was too late.”

“you’re not.”

yn’s heart was a wild thing in her chest, thudding with a rhythm she couldn’t name. she could feel every point where their bodies touched—his hands cradling her waist, his chest brushing hers with each breath. there was a certain warmth radiating off him, like he carried the last remnants of summer in his skin. and she was burning in it. he hadn’t kissed her yet. not yet. but he was so close. so close. she didn’t move. couldn’t. she was afraid that if she did, the moment would pop like a soap bubble and she’d be back to the aching distance, the pretending, the constant weight of the truth pressing against her ribs.

jake’s eyes searched hers—gentle, unreadable, like he was trying to memorise the way she looked right then. like he knew something was different tonight, something quieter and more fragile than before. and then he whispered, “tell me to stop if you don’t want this.” his voice was low, but his hands never moved. he didn’t push. didn’t lean in. just… waited.

her chest rose sharply. “i don’t want you to stop,” she said, voice barely there. he exhaled, like the breath had been locked in his lungs for hours. “i’ve wanted to do this since the moment i saw you,” he said, tilting his head just slightly, his lips curling into a lazy grin as his eyes flickered attractively in a triangle with her eyes and lips. “when you marched up to me by the lake with mud on your skirt and sarcasm in your smile.”

she laughed nervously, breath hitching with nerves. “i was trying to be annoying.”

“you were,” he agreed. “it was adorable.”

she rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed, and he chuckled.

then—slowly, like he was afraid she’d vanish—jake brought one hand to her cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb over her skin. her heart skipped. “have you ever been kissed before?” he asked softly, just barely a whisper, not mocking—just curious. careful. she shook her head. “no?”

“no.”

jake smiled, and something about it—soft, reverent—made her chest ache. “alright,” he said, stepping even closer. “then let me take my time.” and god, he did.

his lips brushed hers like a secret, gentle and warm and impossibly slow. he didn’t rush it, didn’t deepen it too quickly. just let it linger, like a promise whispered between two people who had all the time in the world—even if they didn’t. yn's eyes fluttered shut, her breath catching in her throat. it was like falling—smooth and sudden and terrifying in the best way. jake kissed her again, just a little more firmly this time, one hand cupping her face, the other sliding to the small of her back. she tilted her head instinctively, chasing the softness of his mouth, her fingers clutching the edge of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

it wasn’t perfect. their noses bumped slightly. her teeth grazed his bottom lip once when she got too eager. but he didn’t care. he was grinning now—kissing her again between laughs, murmuring her name against her lips like it was the only thing he knew how to say. and yn—god, yn was flying. it was sweet and slow and completely her. her first kiss. not some stiff castle-dictated moment in a cold ballroom. not a stranger’s hand on her glove.

jake. jake, whose voice always softened when he teased her. jake, who listened to her rant about nothing. jake, who called her addy like it was the most beautiful name in the world. jake, whose thumb was now brushing the edge of her jaw as he pulled back, just barely, to look at her.

“you okay?” he whispered, searching her face like he’d broken her. she nodded quickly, blinking up at him with flushed cheeks and dazed eyes. “didn’t expect you to be that good,” she mumbled.

jake smirked. “there’s more where that came from, sweetheart.”

she shoved his shoulder lightly, but she couldn’t stop smiling. her cheeks hurt from how hard she was smiling. “you’re such a flirt,” she said.

“you love it.”

unfortunately, she did. he kissed her again—just a quick press to the lips—and she melted into it like he was something safe. and for a few minutes, nothing else mattered. not the looming engagement. not the lies. not the ticking clock above her head. just him. his mouth on hers. his arms around her. the way her heart swore, for the first time, that it had found something worth holding onto.

the music from the ballroom poured through the open stone arches of the palace entrance, slow and regal, the waltz of a kingdom already celebrating a union not yet sealed. the evening air was scented with roses and polished wood, every corner glowing with torchlight and lanterns hung like stars in the garden beyond. and yet, in the shadows just beyond the grand ballroom, behind the towering palace gates where the guests couldn’t yet see her—princess yn stood completely still.

a picture of poise. a sculpture of stillness. dressed in a sweeping ivory ballgown embroidered with pearls and golden thread, she looked like the perfect painting of a royal bride-to-be. her corset pulled her waist taut; the skirts fell like a waterfall around her feet. her hair was pinned in glimmering loops, the tiara—modest, but unmistakable—balanced like a weight on her head. but beneath all of it, she was vibrating with tightly-wound panic.

beside her stood ness. no longer a maid tonight. but a guest. a woman of the court. and god, if yn hadn’t already known she was beautiful, tonight would’ve been proof. the deep blue of her gown glimmered in the moonlight, hugging her curves, the sheer sleeves glittering with the tiniest sewn-in gems. her hair was swept up into a delicate crown braid, neck long and elegant. her hand reached for yn’s. “you okay?” ness asked quietly.

yn’s fingers gripped hers. “nope.” they stood that way for a moment—hands clasped, eyes ahead—while the palace gates loomed before them, the ballroom inside filled with noise and expectation. behind them came the soft rustle of silk. jen and cassie. and then their parents. the king and queen.

cassie’s face was unreadable, elegant and blank as ever, but yn noticed the slight twitch in her brow, the barely-there furrow at her mouth. jen, by contrast, was fidgeting. she looked beautiful, yes, but she was clearly just as nervous as yn was. her soft lilac dress fluttered with every shift of her weight, and she cast quick glances at the gate like she might bolt. the queen glanced at the watch hanging from her gloved wrist. “he’s late.” of course he was.

the one man everyone had been waiting for—the one man yn was supposed to smile at and pretend to be in love with—was nowhere to be seen. until he was. jogging. from the far arch of the gardens, through the side entrance, breath misting lightly in the night air—park sunghoon.

she hadn’t known what to expect. she’d heard of him, yes—tales of his sharp swordsmanship, his noble lineage, how he was well-read and good with animals. but stories couldn’t quite prepare her for the quiet power in his steps or the way he didn’t seem fazed by the grandeur around him. he was, in a word, pretty. striking pale skin with a flawless jawline, his features so finely sculpted it made sense that half the noblewomen in the region had probably once pinned portraits of him to their diaries. his hair, raven-black and perfectly styled, caught the firelight. but what caught her eye most of all—was the constellation of moles across his face. a tiny galaxy on the slope of his cheek, near his eye. beautiful. unmistakable.

but still… he wasn’t jake. not with his sun-browned skin and soft tanned hands with thick veins and that nose she wanted to trace with her finger.. and then maybe sit—

yn swallowed the thought. because sunghoon was here now. and the kingdom was watching. he stopped a few feet away from her, straightening his coat, catching his breath. “your highness,” he said, voice cool, polite, practiced.

“you’re late,” she said softly, eyes unreadable.

he gave a faint smile. “i know.” she should’ve been furious. should’ve been insulted. but when his eyes flicked—not to her, but past her—yn followed his gaze instinctively. and found it locked on—cassie. cassie, whose usually stiff posture faltered for just a second. whose lips parted, ever so slightly. whose fingers dug into her own wrist. oh. yn turned back to him. “do you want this?” she asked suddenly. quiet enough that no one else could hear.

sunghoon blinked, startled. “what?”

“this.” she gestured to the looming ballroom. “the marriage. the show. all of it.”

he hesitated. then he leaned slightly forward, voice lower. “no,” he said honestly. “i don’t. i—” his eyes flicked toward cassie again, “—i wanted to marry her.” yn’s breath caught.

sunghoon’s voice was soft. “i tried. but she said she wasn’t going to marry anyone. said she wanted to study abroad. said it was her duty to put her brain before her heart.” 

yn turned back toward her sister briefly. cassie was doing a phenomenal job of pretending she wasn’t listening. but yn knew. she knew now why cassie had been so sharp, so bitter lately. why her eyes had lingered too long whenever someone mentioned sunghoon’s name. “does she love you?” yn asked, just as soft.

“i think so,” he said, voice breaking slightly. “but she chose her duty. like we’re both supposed to do now.”

yn didn’t reply right away. but something in her chest shifted. because here they were. two people—being asked to pretend. to parade. to play parts they never auditioned for. and in that moment, looking into sunghoon’s quiet, pained eyes, she made her choice. “let’s fake it,” she said.

he blinked. “what?”

“we’ll play the part. be the picture of royalty tonight. but we don’t go through with it. not truly. let them see what they want to see. and then—when the time comes—we walk away.”

sunghoon stared at her. then slowly—slowly—a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “you sure?” yn nodded. “because there’s someone else, right?” he guessed gently. her silence was enough. sunghoon offered her his arm. “then let’s put on a good show.”

and just like that—the gates opened. the music swelled. and they stepped forward. two hearts belonging elsewhere. two masks held perfectly in place. but behind them, cassie's hand trembled. and ness watched it all, knowing there was only so much longer they could pretend.

jake sim had never expected to attend a royal ball.

hell, he hadn’t even expected to stay in the village this long. everything had been temporary. his job. his room above the pub. the friendships he accidentally made while drinking ale and talking nonsense with edric and mabel. even his fondness for the cobbled roads, the smell of hearthfire and rain. temporary. just like her. or at least, she was supposed to be.

she said she was leaving. she told him—told him with sad eyes and quiet panic—that she was skipping town, running far away. she never explained why, and he hadn’t pressed. he figured… maybe he wasn’t meant to know. so when she left, he didn’t chase her. he stood there with her confession echoing in his chest—i love you—and he let her walk away. that had to count for something, didn’t it? letting someone go? even when they were everything?

the ball had been the last thing on his mind. nobles. princes. silks and scandals—it was none of his world. but the pub owner, an old woman with arthritic fingers and too much love for his half-grumbled charm, had shoved the invitation into his hand that afternoon. “don’t waste this,” she’d said. “dress nice. see something golden before your heart rusts shut.” so jake had stood in front of the mirror with a starched white shirt and a suit he hadn’t worn since his mother’s funeral. it didn’t quite fit—his shoulders had grown broader—but it was the best he had. and now here he was. at the gates of the grand palace of decelis. a place he never thought he’d step foot near, let alone enter.

the crowd around him buzzed with excitement. edric from the bakery, thalia with her silver-rimmed glasses and too-loud laugh, the twins mira and mabel—all faces he’d come to know and cherish. they all looked at him with teasing pride.

“look at you,” mira smirked, elbowing his side. “all cleaned up.”

“don’t get used to it,” he muttered, but he smiled anyway.

the gates loomed in front of them, golden and glittering. guards moved people forward in groups, checking names against the guest list. carriages lined the walkway. the whole sky shimmered with soft lantern light, casting a halo over the castle’s stone towers. jake should’ve felt lucky. he should’ve been impressed. but the whole time, his mind itched with thoughts of her. addy. that impossibly frustrating girl who made fun of his scowl and rammed her way into his life with blueberry pies and muddy skirts. who kissed like she meant it and ran like it terrified her. he missed her. and even though she had left, he still found himself scanning every face in the crowd. he didn’t expect to find her. not truly. 

but then—he saw her. and his world stopped. she didn’t step through the crowd. she descended. through the arched marble corridor at the far end of the ballroom stairs, like a painting come to life, a vision in ivory. her hair pinned in golden loops. a delicate tiara atop her head. jewels glittering at her ears, her throat. her posture was perfect. her expression, practiced. and her hand—her hand was in someone else’s. jake didn’t move. couldn’t. because standing beside her was a man jake didn’t recognise, but could instinctively tell was royal. tall. sharp-featured. dressed in a perfectly tailored coat that screamed pedigree. the two of them glided down the staircase like they’d rehearsed it.

the room hushed. people bowed. and jake—jake could barely breathe. because her hand fit into the man’s arm too naturally. because they looked like they belonged in every storybook he’d never read. and because… her eyes had found his. right through the crowd. right through the noise. the very second they stepped into the ballroom, her gaze found his—and locked. everything paused. and he saw it. the moment her mask cracked. in the blink of an eye, jake watched a million things flicker across her face: panic, regret, pain, familiarity. and he knew. she hadn’t left the village. she was the palace. addy… was a princess. and she hadn’t told him.

a coldness spread through his chest like frostbite. he felt his throat tighten. something deep in his stomach turned painfully. she looked at him like she wanted to speak. like she had something to say. but what could she say now? what words could undo this? his name wasn’t called from the ballroom entrance. the guards didn’t bow for him. he didn’t belong here, not really. but he stood, somehow frozen in gold and silk and betrayal. he watched as her gaze flicked away, like it was too hard to keep looking at him. and jake sim—jake sim, who had held her in his arms like she was something precious, who memorised the curve of her smile and the sound of her laugh—then her name rang through the ballroom—princess yn of decelis—something inside him crumbled. but the moment the herald added, “—and her betrothed, prince park sunghoon,”—that’s when the ache started.

a tight, twisting, white-hot sting that burned from his throat down to the pit of his stomach. it wasn't even the fact that she was a princess. it was the fact that she'd lied. the fact that she stood there in pearls and gold beside another man, head held high, looking like she was born to rule while he stood in boots caked in village dirt, barely clinging to the inside of the royal walls. she was staring right at him when the announcement was made. he saw her flinch and so did sunghoon. just for a split second—a wince so quick and sharp that no one else noticed but him. and suddenly, the sharp stab of betrayal was pierced by confusion. they… didn’t want this?

jake’s brows furrowed, chest rising and falling unsteadily. the whole room clapped. laughed. toasted. every noble within earshot turned with wide smiles and lifted flutes of champagne, the celebration thundering through the walls. but jake couldn’t hear any of it. because right then, sunghoon dropped to one knee. there was a hush. silence. the music faded, the lights seemed to dim, and yn was left center stage. jake could barely breathe as he watched sunghoon hold up a small velvet box, a thin gold band glinting inside. her fingers trembled. and then—“yes,” she said, the smile so fake it looked painful on her lips.

his heart cracked. but she wasn’t done. because after the applause—after the hollow claps and echoing cheers—came the kiss. it was gentle. chaste. polite. but it still knocked the breath out of jake’s lungs. he turned. and this time, his feet moved. Fast. his legs carried him through the ballroom, past startled nobles and confused guards, out through the archway and into the garden until he hit the front lawn. and that’s when the tears came.

jake sim—who never cried. not when he was six and his home was taken in a flood. not when he watched his mother wither into bone and silence before the age of thirteen. not when he buried her under a willow tree behind their old town. but now. now he cried. he cried into his forearm as he felt the tears blur his vision. shoulders trembling, his breathing sharp and uneven. because she—she made him believe in something more. in softness. in magic. in evening strolls and stolen laughter and the idea that maybe, just maybe, someone like him could be loved by someone like her. and it was a lie. all of it.

“jake!” her voice sliced through the quiet night like a blade.

he didn’t turn. she ran to him—her skirts heavy, shoes kicking up grass and dew. the jewels in her hair were loose now, a few strands of hair escaping, cheeks flushed. “jake, please—”

he wiped his face with the back of his hand. “don’t.”

she froze at the sight of him—red-eyed, tear-streaked, lips trembling.

“i told you,” he whispered, voice thick. “i told you i don’t cry.”

yn’s heart broke clean in half. “i know,” she whispered. “i know you don’t.”

“not even for my mother,” he choked. “but for you—” his voice shattered.

“jake—”

“don’t lie again,” he said sharply, voice cracking. “not now.”

“i didn’t lie—”

“you told me you were leaving, addy.” he poked his cheek with his tongue, correcting himself immediately, voice bitter. “sorry princess, i meant yn.”

she winced at the tone of his voice and cried out. “because i didn’t know what else to do! what was i supposed to say? ‘hey jake, i’m secretly the princess of the kingdom you just moved into?’”

“you could’ve said something!” he said, voice loud now, but still hoarse. “god, you looked me in the eye and told me you loved me—and i believed it. i fucking believed it.”

tears welled in her eyes. “i did mean it,” she said, her voice shaking. “i do love you.”

he looked away, jaw clenched.

“i’ve never loved anyone like i love you, jake,” she continued, stepping closer. “you think i wanted any of this? you think i’d choose to live in that gilded cage, with rules and duty and arranged marriages?”

he didn’t answer.

“do you know how long i’ve been sneaking into that village just to breathe?” she whispered. “just to feel like me? like a person? not a pawn on someone else’s game board?”

he slowly turned his head, eyes swollen, red. “so you ran there.”

“i ran there every day i could. and that day i found you sitting by the lake—” her breath hitched. “—it was the first day someone saw me. really saw me.”

jake looked at her like she was made of both fire and water.

“i wasn’t going to marry him,” she said. “we… we talked about it. we’re pretending. that was all for show.”

his brow furrowed.

“we planned it,” she explained. “sunghoon—he’s in love with my sister, cassie. and i’m—” she looked at him, stepping forward again, “—i’m in love with you.”

he let out a sharp, wounded breath. “then why do i still feel like i lost you?”

her hands twitched at her sides. “because for a moment… i lost myself.” silence fell between them. she looked up at him, eyes shining. “but i’m still here. and if you’ll have me, i’ll run again. with you, this time.”

he exhaled shakily, like her words cracked something open in his chest again. “say it again,” he whispered.

“what?” “that you love me.”

she didn’t blink. “i love you,” she said, voice steady now. “i love you, jake sim.”

he let out a quiet, broken laugh. and then he stepped forward. not with the same raw fury or desperation from before, but with a stillness that came only from letting his guard fall completely. he cupped her face, wet lashes meeting hers. “i love you, too,” he whispered.

she melted into him, and for a moment they just held each other, shaking, messy, broken—but together. jake stood still, tears still damp on his face, her hands cupping his jaw, her gaze begging him to believe her. and something in him cracked open. softly. quietly. but undeniably. because god, it had always been her. not the fake name. not the secrets. not the tiara or the silks. but the girl who made him laugh when his chest ached. the girl who rolled her eyes when he flirted but never walked away. the girl who once offered him half a burnt pie and a warm shoulder at the lake.

addy. yn. whoever she wanted to be. he didn’t care anymore. because she was his. she looked at him like she still wasn’t sure he would forgive her. her fingers trembled slightly where they held his face. her eyes shimmered with tears she hadn’t wiped away, cheeks flushed from crying. and jake—jake leaned in. slow. so slow it hurt. but when his lips brushed hers, she sighed. a real kiss. a soft one. like an apology. like a question. his thumb lifted to trace her cheek, still wet with tears, and then he kissed her again—deeper this time, his hand slipping to the back of her neck, anchoring her to him like he’d never let her go again.

she kissed him back with everything she had. not like that stunt in the ballroom with sunghoon—scripted, mechanical, cold. no. this kiss was the kind you felt in your lungs. like a breath after drowning. jake pulled back first, only just. their foreheads touched, noses brushing. they were both still crying but it was different now. “i’m sorry,” she whispered again, voice cracking.

he shook his head. “don’t say it again. just… don’t lie anymore.” 

“i won’t.”

“promise me.”

“i swear.”

she clutched his lapel like she might fall over. “i’m going to fix this.”

jake’s brows furrowed softly, like he didn’t dare believe it.

“i’m going to talk to them,” she went on, quiet but sure. “my parents. tonight. i’ll tell them everything. that i don’t want to marry sunghoon. that i’m in love with someone who makes me feel more like myself than i’ve ever felt in that palace.”

he blinked at her, almost dazed. “you’d do that?”

“i’d run away if i had to,” she whispered. “but i want to do this right first. for you. for me. for us.” his jaw clenched like he was trying not to cry again. “and after that,” she added, her voice barely audible, “i’ll come back. to you. i will. just… wait for me?” jake let out a shaky breath, eyes burning again, but this time not from anger. she was coming back. she chose him. even after everything. he nodded. “i’ll wait,” he whispered. “just don’t be long.” she smiled, broken but real. then kissed him again, softer this time. just a brush. a promise. a quiet goodbye for now. and when she pulled away and turned, skirts swishing against the grass, her hand brushing his one last time—jake watched her go. heart in his throat and hope in his chest.

jake waited. for a night. then a day. then three more. and then a week and still, no sign of her. no familiar figure in the village square. no laughter by the baker’s window. no flutter of skirts at the lake. no addy. no yn. nothing. he paced the same roads they’d walked together, eyes scanning the corners of town she used to take him through. the flower stall. the blacksmith. the bell tower. he hadn’t even realised he’d memorised the route until she was no longer there to follow beside him.

the first few days, he held hope tightly between his hands like a glass that couldn’t crack. she said she’d come back. she said she was going to fix it. she’d kissed him like she meant it. and jake sim—stupid, bleeding-hearted jake—believed her. but then came the silence. and silence had a way of becoming truth. 

the villagers knew now. of course they did. the morning after the ball, the whole town had been buzzing. princess yn. the second-born royal. the one they never saw. the one who had been among them this whole time, walking with muddy hems and wind-tangled hair, disguised as a commoner. there were whispers in every alley and bakery. jake couldn’t even open the pub door without someone side-eyeing him. like he was foolish for thinking she would ever choose him. and maybe he was. he hadn’t realised just how hard it would be to breathe without her. and yet he tried. every morning, he opened his eyes and hoped today would be the day he saw her again.

until he saw ness. he had recognised her features from the way yn had described her best friend—a natural pout on her lips, dimples poking through her rosy cheeks and wavy hair tied up into a messy updo.

it was late afternoon, the sun warm and golden against the cobbled road. jake was walking toward the grocer’s when he spotted a familiar silhouette tucked just outside jungwon’s shop—the weekly supplier’s little storefront with sacks of grains stacked by the door and flowerpots lining the front window. ness stood there. or rather—beamed there. her cheeks glowed, her eyes big and soft as she laughed at something jungwon had said. he stood too close. she let him. her fingers brushed his sleeve and lingered a second too long. he bent forward to whisper something in her ear, not pulling back without a soft kiss to her eyebrow as she averted her gaze from him. they were wrapped in a bubble so intimate it almost hurt to watch. jake had to break it.

he approached slowly, hands in his pockets, trying not to startle them. jungwon looked up first, blinking. “oh—jake,” he said, smiling politely. “didn’t expect—”

“sorry,” jake said, forcing his voice to stay even. “didn’t mean to interrupt. i just…” he glanced at ness. her face paled the second she registered who he was.

“you’re jake,” she said quietly, as if his name was a knife she’d been holding in her throat.

he nodded once. “yeah. i was… wondering if either of you had seen her.” no name needed, everyone knew who he meant.

ness stepped away from jungwon slightly, hands wringing at her waist. “i… oh, jake.” something in jake’s chest twisted. her eyes were swimming now, guilt written across every inch of her face. “i didn’t know how to find you,” she whispered, reaching into the folds of her robe. “she asked me to give you this. in case…”

jake didn’t ask. just took the letter with slightly trembling fingers. it was folded neatly, tied together with a very familiar twine. he recognised it from when they found an old bookstore, stealing a bunch of twines from the far end of the dusty room. the parchment was soft. royal. and it had his name. Jake. nothing else. no title. no princess handwriting. just his name.

he looked up once more to see tears brimming ness’ eyes. “i’m sorry,” she said. “she didn’t want to go. i swear it. but they—” he nodded once, a silent thank-you, and turned. he didn’t want to cry here so he made it to the hill just past the village, by the little tree where she’d once shown him the view of the valley. then sat and opened the letter.

dear jake,

i don’t know how to write this. i’ve rewritten this letter ten times already. nothing feels right. but if you’re reading this… then you already know. they sent me away. the moment i told them about you, my parents made arrangements overnight. i wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye. i barely had time to write this. i’m in the eastern kingdom now. sunghoon’s home. they said it was for “my protection”—to avoid scandal, to save face. they locked me into a new agreement. the wedding is approaching. it’s being planned around me, not with me. i’ve never felt more like a pawn.

sunghoon knows. he’s as miserable as i am. he said something funny though—he said, “i think we’re the only people in this situation who both want to run away.” maybe one day we will. but right now, jake… i don’t have a choice. i want to believe i’ll find my way back to you. i still do. but things are starting to slip through my fingers.

i’m writing this with my heart in my throat. i keep thinking about our kiss. your hands on my waist. the way you said you’d wait. and i’m terrified because i don’t want to ask you to keep waiting, not when i don’t know how long i’ll be gone. or if i’ll even get the chance to leave. but if i don’t say it, i think i’ll break.

i love you. i love you so much it hurts to breathe. please don’t hate me. please understand.

i'm so, so sorry.

forever and ever yours only and truly, addy yn

jake stared at the letter for a long, long time. the wind rustled the grass around him. distantly, he could hear birds. he didn’t move. didn’t speak. didn’t cry this time. he just folded the letter carefully, pressed it to his lips like he might keep her there for one more second and closed his eyes.

america was loud. louder than the hush of decelis’s palace halls. louder than the quiet sighs of tea poured into porcelain cups. louder even than the thoughts yn carried like stitched threads behind her ribs, still knotted after all these years. the clamor of the docks, the honking carriages, the rapid buzz of a foreign tongue—it overwhelmed her senses. and yet she smiled. because smiling was expected. because she had perfected the art of looking content. because she had sunghoon beside her—tall, polite, quiet—and their daughter asleep in his arms, her tiny head tucked into his shoulder, curled like she always had since she was born.

they had arrived in new york that morning. a beautiful estate waited for them on the edge of the hudson river, one arranged in advance through letters and assistants and layers of royal planning. sunghoon had looked at her carefully when he brought up the location months ago. “it’s where cassie studies,” he’d said. yn had only smiled. she hadn’t asked if he wanted to see her. she didn’t need to. “go ahead,” she’d said. “if that would make you happy.” sunghoon didn’t answer, but the way his throat tightened told her everything.

they had never fallen in love. not the kind that changed the way your name felt in someone’s mouth. not the kind that made you want to set the world on fire just to keep someone warm. not like she did jake. their marriage was like a book with pages glued shut. all appearance. all ritual. nothing bled through anymore. after the wedding, they’d simply become… two people who understood each other. enough to exist together. enough to survive. but not enough to live. and that had been fine.  

until their daughter was born. a tiny, impossibly loud girl with curls that bounced and a mind that never stopped. she was six now, just old enough to question everything. just enough to start pointing out things they had both kept hidden. “why do you call dada ‘sunghoon’?” she asked once, nose scrunched. “mama nessie calls dada won ‘sweetheart’ or ‘love’.” yn had just smiled and said, “because dada, sunghoon’s name is very pretty.” it wasn’t a lie. it just wasn’t the truth either.

ness arrived a few hours after they docked. a flurry of hugs, royal bows, and squeals from the little one who adored her mama nessie. jungwon followed soon after, bags in both hands, the same boyish charm still lingering on his face—though now his eyes held more quiet, more strength. he had grown into a man in those years, but his love for ness hadn’t changed one bit. they were married now. and had followed yn to america out of loyalty—not to the crown, but to her. they worked under the park household as trusted aides, but their affection for yn was never professional. it was personal. they had been her family when her real one had fallen quiet. now, years later, they shared a soft home on the far side of the estate. ness helped with yn’s daughter often, and jungwon helped sunghoon manage the household’s business affairs in the new city. the arrangement worked. but it never filled the hollow. that particular hollow had been carved by jake.

it was colder at night, even in early summer. not in the way decelis had been, with its cool marble halls and formal silences. but a bite in the air that felt more honest. more alive.

yn sat in the backseat of a carriage, her head tilted slightly toward the window, watching the cobblestones pass like old memories she couldn’t stop replaying. her daughter had been dropped off with the caretaker earlier, her laughter echoing down the hallway even as yn walked away. sunghoon had been gone all afternoon—said he wanted to visit cassie now that they were in the same country again. she’d just smiled, nodded, waved him off with nothing more than a simple “go ahead.” because if anyone deserved happiness out of this broken marriage… it was sunghoon.

yn had done her duty. had smiled and bowed and made her parents proud, her kingdom proud. she’d raised their daughter with more love than she knew she had inside of her. but still… something had always been missing. and today, as the sun dipped behind the buildings of new york city, she felt that hollowness gnawing more than usual. ness noticed it too. which was why she and jungwon had insisted on dragging her out tonight. “we’re not doing this, yn,” ness had said while adjusting her earrings. “you’ve been moping for days.”

“i haven’t,” yn argued weakly, slipping on her gloves.

“yes, you have,” jungwon chimed in with a soft grin, his coat already buttoned up. “you miss being twenty-one and reckless.”

yn had sighed. “don’t we all?”

the bar was warm, polished, crowded enough to be lively but not stifling. laughter rose in pockets, a piano clinked near the corner. americans were loud, but their joy was infectious. “this,” ness declared, spinning once, “is what the queen would faint over.”

jungwon chuckled. “that’s why we didn’t bring her.”

they found a booth by the window. ness and jungwon slid in first, shoulder to shoulder, their whispered giggles already starting. yn sat across from them, unwinding her scarf. her daughter was at home, napping peacefully under the eyes of their most trusted caretaker. sunghoon had gone out for dinner with some associates—and maybe, possibly, cassie. yn didn’t ask. she just wanted a night where she didn’t have to be anyone. no titles. no rules. just herself.

and then—“alright,” a familiar voice said from above, clipped with casual sarcasm. “what’ll it be tonight? let me guess. something that tastes like regret?” her breath caught. her spine straightened. slowly, so slowly, she looked up. and the world stopped moving.

jake.

yn hadn’t said his name in years. not aloud.  but god, did she think it. everywhere. when she passed the smell of fresh bread near the bakery. when she caught a glimpse of old cottage roofs hidden behind flowerbeds. when her daughter smiled with too much mischief in her eyes, her hands smudged with blueberry jam. jake had never left her. not really. and some part of her hated herself for it. sunghoon never brought it up. never asked. but the weight of unspoken things hung between them, as ever-present as breath. still, she had made peace with it all. or so she told herself.

and there he was. older. sharper. but him. his jaw was more defined now, cheekbones stronger. his hair was a bit shorter, still dark and messy, like he never quite bothered with brushing. he wore an apron that read “no, i won’t marry you,” and it made her lips twitch.

his eyes met hers. and for one suspended second, everything fell away. no palace. no husband. no years. just two people who had once been everything to each other. jake blinked. his hand dropped slightly from where it rested on the tray, like it had forgotten what to do. “...addy?”

her heart squeezed. “yn,” she corrected, gently.

jake’s lips parted. “right. of course.” his voice was a little rougher now, but the warmth hadn’t gone. it was there in the curve of his mouth. the faint disbelief in his laugh. “you’re here.”

“i am.”

jake stared at her for a second longer—like he was afraid if he blinked she might disappear again. then ness cleared her throat, trying very hard not to grin. “you going to take our order, or should i get behind the bar?”

jake startled. “right. uh. drinks?”

“your strongest,” jungwon said, slipping an arm around ness.

yn smiled faintly. “surprise me.” jake hesitated. then nodded. “i can do that.”

the drinks came quick—jake clearly knew his way around a bar now. 

the evening moved. laughter grew louder, the night warmer. ness and jungwon whispered and giggled across the table like teenagers, legs tangled beneath the wood. yn sipped her drink slowly, letting the quiet burn settle into her chest. she watched them with soft eyes. jungwon brushing a strand of ness’s hair behind her ear. ness fixing his collar like it was second nature. their love didn’t ask for attention—it just was. a constant. and watching it made yn feel something she hadn’t in a long time. envy. not the bitter kind. the wistful kind. because once, she might’ve had that too.

“want some air?” came a voice beside her. she looked up. jake. his expression unreadable, but his gaze gentle. she nodded. they stepped out to the patio behind the bar, string lights twinkling overhead, casting amber glows across wooden beams. it smelled like old whiskey and fresh bread and wind.

jake leaned against the railing. “didn’t think i’d see you again.”

“didn’t think i’d ever get to explain.”

“you didn’t have to,” he said, eyes on the city lights. “i figured it out eventually. your life was never really yours to begin with.”

she sighed. “still. i’m sorry.” he glanced at her. “i forgave you a long time ago.”

she looked down. “i never stopped thinking about you.”

“i know.”

she smiled faintly. “i still remember that day at the lake.”

jake laughed under his breath. “the almost-kiss?”

“you were going to kiss me.” “i wanted to kiss you.” “you looked so proud of yourself.” “i was proud. i was charming.” “you were insufferable.” “you loved it.”

she laughed. and god, it felt like breathing. silence fell between them then. comfortable. real. jake turned to her fully, finally asking, “so what’s your life like now?”

yn hesitated. “not what i imagined,” she said honestly. “we’re… comfortable. sunghoon and i. we tried to make the best of it. and then our daughter came and she became everything.”

jake nodded. “does he make you laugh?”

she looked at him, slowly. “no. not like you.”

jake smiled, sad and soft. then: “you look good. happy.” “are you?”

he shrugged. “i’ve got a bar. a decent place. friends. a dog named lady layla.”

she blinked. “seriously?”

he smirked. “she’s royalty, obviously.”

she laughed again. jake watched her. really watched her. and when the wind picked up and her hair swept across her face, he reached out and tucked it behind her ear. her breath caught. the same hand brushed her cheek. “you still freeze up when i do that,” he murmured.

“you still know.” “i never forgot.”

she looked up at him. all those years. all that space. and still—it felt like them. and maybe it was selfish, maybe it was foolish, but she whispered anyway—“if we’d met now... do you think it could’ve worked?”

jake’s smile was heartbreak and home all at once. “i think it still could.”

a beat. then he leaned in—not for a kiss, but for something simpler. his forehead against hers. his breath against her lips. no promises. no claims. just the quiet knowing that sometimes, love doesn’t need a title.

it just is.

© ikeu, 2025

[myjjongie]

hi can i borrow your lighter

HELL YEAH !!!!!

lighter reveal :3

[myjjongie]

actively writing for TDTL and i’m cooking so hard. hitting 5k words and we haven’t even gotten to the major plot yet 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[myjjongie]

oh they getting FWEAKY

TAKE ME FOR A RIDE ; l.hs ׅ 𐙚 ׄ .

SYNOPSIS ──── heeseung takes you on a ride in his new car. ( warnings ) ──── ㅤノㅤ𓈒ㅤlee heeseung x fem ! reader 765 word count. 彡 not proof read, smut mdni, pwp, recording, chain pulling and biting, dirty talk, kinda subby!hee & dom!reader?, handjob..... pure filth ✧:･ﾟ

It was silent save for the rattle of your shaky breath, lips glued to Heeseung like your life depended on it. His hands explored your body with virtue — his tongue ever so slick against your lips. His brand new leather seats clings to your naked thighs with discomfort. The air in his Mercedes was thick, your heaving breathing filling up the car like smoke in an already burning building, but you were in too deep to care. Too intoxicated on the feel of his lips against yours; the heat pooling between your legs was almost unbearable. You needed something, anything — to satiate the desperation you felt; wanted feel him, wholly. 

Your lower half was naked, as was Heeseung, your hand pumping his cock with a slow precision — enough to drive him absolutely insane; just how you liked it. Pre-cum beaded at the tip of his cock, your hand rounded it using the sticky substance as lubricant as you moved your hand faster up and down his shaft. “Holy fuck.” He groaned, a guttural sound deep in his throat. It served as your encouragement. You continued your movements, searching his face for pleasure. A slow smirk spread across your lips as Heeseung kept his eyes screwed shut, his hand gripping the center console so hard his knuckles were white. You loved this side of him; the side that allowed himself to give way to the pleasure completely. The Heeseung who groaned and moaned like no one was listening. 

“I love your new car, baby.” You smiled, a sweet smile that would otherwise turn Heeseung to mush. You had him right where you wanted him. “It’s perfect for times like this..” You trailed off, your hand yanking at Heeseung’s silver chain around his neck — pulling his face closer to yours. His eyes were heavy lidded watching your every movement. His heavy breath fanned across your face. Your lips wrapped around the chain, biting down on the metal like an animal in heat. 

“Oh my god.” Heeseung’s eyes were wide as he watched you. “You’re so fucking hot.” His hands lifted from your waist to paw at your clothed breasts, squeezing them in his hands softly. “You have the best tits, baby.” 

“Yeah?” You asked, letting his chain fall back down against his chest with a thud. “I’d say you’re the hot one….” You reached your hand down while still keeping a slow languid pace on his cock. “I need to keep this moment forever, Hee.” You grabbed your phone that sat perched in the car's cup-holder before turning it on and opening the camera app. “Can I do that, baby?” You asked, “Can I record you?” 

Your hand quickened, rising and falling so fast your fist smacked against his thigh. He jerked forward, grappling at anything nearby to center himself; bring him back down to earth. “S-shit.” He gasped, “Y-yeah, yeah you can.” You smiled a small smile, cooing at him before pressing the record button on your phone. Your hand was shaky causing the camera to tilt a little but you didn’t mind. The video was for your eyes and your eyes only anyway. You lifted your phone catching Heeseung’s face in the frame, his eyes once again heavy lidded with the pleasure coursing through his veins. 

“Do you wanna cum?” You asked, your voice low and sultry with need. Heeseung only nodded, his mouth opening and closing but no words coming out. “I said…” You trailed, tanking your hand from his cock, “Do you want to cum?” 

Heeseung reached for your wrist “Yes! Fuck, don’t – don’t stop.” Your hand found his shaft again, working him up and down like he asked. He was whining, damn near with tears in his eyes. It was a sight to behold; one you were glad to be capturing. 

“I want to see you cum on camera, Hee.” He was close, his breathing quickened; his head thrown back against the seat of the car. He groaned, low. It had your core throbbing at the sight. You couldn’t believe he was yours. 

“I’m gonna cum.” He nodded his head — his eyes screwed shut. You angle your camera just right; ready to capture the moment like it were a cinematic masterpiece — You the director and Heeseung the shining star. “Don’t stop, I'm gonna cum.”

“I’m not going to stop.” You cooed as you watched the show. Heeseung came with a groan, low in his throat. His spend coating your hand and dripping down your arm. 

“Like I said.” You smirked, watching him come down from his high. “I love your new car.” 

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox @firstclassjaylee @teddybeartaetae @hoonjayke

[myjjongie]

THE DRAGON AND THE LADY ── PARK JONGSEONG◞ teaser

SYNOPSIS ⸝⸝⸝ from the day you were able to understand the things around you, you were relentlessly told about the long lineage of your family's history. being blood tied to a saintess—hand picked by the gods. you learned everything there was to learn. from the great start of the saintess and the dragon's alliance, to their inevitable downfall. you learned all of it. soon earning your parents strict instructions to never socialize with the dragon of your generation. yet now here you were standing at an altar, face to face with him—jay. all for the emperor's will of wishing you to bear jay's child.

WORD COUNT ∿ tba

PAIRING ∿ dragon!jay x noble lady!fem reader

GENRE/WARNINGS ∿ marriage of convenience, love at first sight, pregnancy trope, runaway trope, angst, violence, mentions of blood, smut

EVIE'S NOTE ˚. ᵎᵎ finally time to work/release a lengthy ass fic. er we're gonna ignore the other jay fic i said i was gonna work on... i'm sat for this i fear. this was HEAVILY inspired by the manhwa "It Was Just a Contractual Marriage". very obsessed with this manhwa now that it's off hiatus once again. excited for what my brain cooks up :3 also if you want to be tagged leave a comment !

TBR ∿ 07.07.2025

Your whole life, you were taught the upbringing of your family’s history. You lived by it. Learned from it. The family history had all started from a woman. Yet she wasn’t just someone ordinary. She was deemed a saintess. 

The Saintess—handpicked by the gods. Chosen to help, aid, and lead the people. As she went on spreading her wisdom and solace to the people. The saintess soon met an unfamiliar being—a dragon. 

The mystical being was unlike anything she had seen before. Eyes colored like gold that quietly held the lowering sun in its eyes, scales that glistened like obsidian whether in the sun or moonlight. Then when the dragon morphed into a human, it was shown to have midnight hair that swept across the floor, with a build that of an adult man, all while still having those piercing golden eyes. 

The Saintess soon became intrigued by this being. Her only wish was to form a friendship—a connection. The Dragon happily accepted her offer, hoping to learn more about the humans that shared the world with him.

But soon The Saintess would be betrayed by The Dragon. It was said he hurt the people around The Saintess, going as far as burning down the things important to her. From then on The Dragon was sworn to never be forgiven so long as The Saintess willed it. 

As The Saintess’ kin expanded, so did The Dragon’s. As the children of The Saintess grew older and bore children of their own, the blessing bestowed by the gods withered away. With it, they were now regular humans that walked along the earth.

perm taglist ( open! refer to this post ) . . . @ikeulove @leehsngs @ijustwannareadstuff20 @enhanextdoor @zaycie @dylanobr1ens @miraeluv @ancnymcnzjy @lvvrikss @treasureteez @delirioastral @izzyy-stuff @sunghoon-cam

©myjjongie 2025

[myjjongie]

gotta support my angel bear pie ronnie

YOUR HEART GOT TEETH | CHOI. YEONJUN ⨾ teaser

SYNOPSIS ٬⠀⠀✦ in a world ruled by blood and territory, you built your empire from ash and betrayal. years ago, yeonjun shattered your life with a single lie — and vanished. now he’s back, offering salvation laced with secrets, handing over pieces of your land to save the very people he once left to die. old scars reopen as you're forced into an alliance stitched together with memory, resentment, and the kind of tension that never really left. while danger brews at every border and loyalty crumbles beneath ambition, you must decide if the devil you once loved is worth trusting again — or burning with everything else.

PAIRINGS 🗝️ mafia! yeonjun x fem! reader

WARNINGS ❜୧ violence, mafia themes, enemies to lovers, stabbing, blood, grief, all kinds of illegal activities, fighting, smut WORDCOUNT ''. 25k est.

AUTHOR'S NOTE ٬ ✦ this is my first time writing a mafia fic and ngl i was super nervous 😭 i’ve never touched this theme before and i was so scared it would come off super cheesy or over-the-top but honestly?? i’m really happy with how it’s turning out so far 🖤 this is just a teaser — the full fic is coming soon, and if you wanna be tagged when it drops, just comment below! - Hi guys! this is rain @heesmiles, i'm making this layout for ronnie; i made the header too ! like this its so cutie core

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ#nowplaying - teeth by 5 seconds of summer

Choi Yeonjun steps into the light like a punchline you should’ve seen coming.

He’s wearing all black, something tailored and expensive, hands in his pockets, and a smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s been entertained for hours. His eyes settle on you instantly, curious, sharp, and already amused. “Well,” he drawls, voice smooth, deep, familiar in a way that makes your spine lock. “If I’d known you were gonna show up looking like that, I would’ve cleaned the place up a little.”

You don’t flinch, you don’t blink. “Yeonjun.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You know my name. I’m flattered.”

You arch an eyebrow back. “You should be.”

Beomgyu takes a step closer, but you raise your hand again. Yeonjun’s eyes flick over him, then Jay, then land back on you with an edge of something darker. “So,” he says, voice lazy like a slow burn. “You want your boy back.”

“I do.”

“And you’re sure I have him.”

“I’m sure someone in your chain does. And if he’s not back by the end of the week, I’ll tear your operations down brick by brick until I find him.”

Yeonjun smiles wider, slow and amused, like you just told him a joke he wants to hear again. “Fight so dirty,” he says, almost a whisper, “but you love so sweet.”

TBR - 06.27.2025 | my masterlist

[myjjongie]

hai ily imy

i’m gonna send you a photo of me in my stupid green apron. ily sm

[myjjongie]

TWO .ᐟ ── j0b. that's a slur...

SYNOPSIS: another casual grueling day at your job lands you to reunite with jake sim—your hallway crush who moved away in high school. not wanting to hope for more from the chance encounter, you end up being paired with jake for a semester-long project. knowing deep down things will never happen, your only goal is to be friends with jake. while on the other hand, you haven't left jake's mind since he moved away.

prev | m.list | next

evie's note: okay wait... 100+ notes on chapter 1 is a wittle bit crazy ngl (>.<) !! im so glad everyone is enjoying OOML so far :D !! also thank you to my angel pie ronnie for some quick help :3

out of my league taglist ... ( if interested leave a reply ! )

perm tag: @ikeulove @leehsngs @ijustwannareadstuff20 @enhanextdoor @zaycie @dylanobr1ens @miraeluv @ancnymcnzjy @lvvrikss @treasureteez @delirioastral @izzyy-stuff

@rairaiblog @izzyy-stuff @thing89 @cinnamqnki @viagumi @zyvlxqht @wonzzziezzzz @manuosorioh @hizhu @soobundle1009 @right-person-wrong-time @vvenusoncasual @letwiiparkjay @jayhoonvroom @djikeu @aineest4r @wenomakiluvr @jaysguitarstring @heejamas @haechology @kukkurookkoo @ilovhoonie @trsrworld @ilovewonyo @luhvletters @wonuziex @p1hbrook @qtke @remgeolli @hunnyuwu

©myjjongie 2025

[myjjongie]

NO FUCKING WAY

HATE TO HAVE YOU p.js

synopsis ⤑ You were here for work. That was it. You didn’t even like hockey players. They were too raunchy, too noisy, just too much. You were a put your head down and listen to classical music through your headphones, type of girl. Your brother was a hockey player, your dad as well. All you wanted to do was help people, not fall in love with clients that were off limits. Clients who were the captain of the hockey team your dad coached. No, he was very much off limits and he would most certainly hate to have you. 

pairings ⤑ hockey player!jay x coaches daughter!reader word count ⤑ 34k

warnings ⤑ smut, oral (m. rec.), forbidden romance, mentions of hockey injuries, angst, parental angst, kinda yearning jay???

crossing the line masterlist here.

a note from rain; it's done. crossing the line is finally finished, and the last one this one is the longest. Honestly, my favorite one is Sunghoon's but this one is i will hold dear to me since it is the conclusion. Thank you to everyone who has read and loved crossing the line as much as i have. ily

The diner always smelled like old coffee and fried memories. Grease clung to the air like a second skin, settling into the cushions of red vinyl booths and the strands of your hair no matter how tightly you kept your hood drawn. Outside, Seoul had cracked open into winter’s throat, grey light pressing through the glass like fogged breath on a mirror, leaving halos around the fluorescent signage. You sat in a corner booth by the window, jacket still zipped, hands tucked into your sleeves like you could hide your disappointment in the folds of fabric. The waitress didn’t ask for your order; she knew you. You’d been here before, many times before, waiting for a man who never came. So she brought your tea without a word and left it there to steep and grow cold. You were not surprised.

No, this sort of thing had long ago stopped being shocking. You were just…tired. Tired in the way only daughters of distant fathers could be, tired in your bones, your breath, your blood. You stirred your tea absentmindedly, watching the bag swirl like a limp ghost tethered to nothing. Your phone sat face-up beside the cup, silent and useless, save for the three unanswered texts and one call that had gone straight to voicemail. You didn’t leave a message. What was the point? If Coach Bennett cared to call you back, he would. But he never did, not when you scraped your knees learning to ride a bike, not when you stood alone at your middle school science fair, not when you left home for university. Hockey always came first. Always. 

And yet, somehow, impossibly, you still wanted his help. 

You weren’t here to be his daughter today. No, you were here for something more transactional, something clinical, something you thought he might be able to handle better than love. You were studying to be a sports therapist. Four years of aching backs, anatomy charts, injury reports, textbooks that read like they’d been translated from another language. You wanted to help people. Heal them. Tape their fractures, ease their bruises, guide them gently back to the things they loved. It made sense, in some twisted, ironic way, that your professors had suggested you intern under your father’s team. He was a seasoned coach, after all. Revered. Tough. Efficient. And you were nothing if not logical, so despite the rotting ache in your chest, the cold cup of tea, the flaking vinyl under your thighs, you had agreed to meet him and ask for the position. You’d rehearsed the words. I’m not asking for favoritism. I just want experience. I can do the job. I’ll keep my head down. I promise.

But now, the booth was empty except for you and your churning disappointment. Even the jukebox refused to play, the silence punctuated only by the clink of cutlery and the occasional bell over the door. Your eyes drifted to the window again, catching your own reflection faintly superimposed over the world outside: still, with shadows under your eyes and something hollow about the mouth. Not sad. Just used to it. There’s a difference. Eventually, the weight of waiting tipped you out of the booth, and you slipped your coat back on like armor. Your headphones dangled around your neck, the edges of a Bach concerto still humming faintly from the right side, but you didn’t lift them up. Not yet. You needed clarity, not comfort.

There was only one place he ever went this time of day. The ice rink. And so, you walked. Outside, the wind curled under your scarf like fingers seeking a pulse. Streetlamps flickered overhead, their bulbs blinking like tired eyes. Seoul was a city that didn’t sleep so much as dream with its eyes open, neon blinking against concrete, traffic lights blinking in cold Morse code. You passed through it like a shadow in motion, barely noticed, anonymous. Just the way you liked it.

When you reached the rink, it loomed like a cathedral of frost and echo. You could see your breath crystallizing in the air as you stepped inside, the glass doors groaning shut behind you. The chill wrapped itself around your bones, but you welcomed it. Cold was easier to handle than hurt. Cold made you sharp. Precise. Focused. The fluorescent lights buzzed above as you made your way down the corridor, the familiar scent of rubber and sweat filling your lungs. The hum of skates on ice reverberated faintly through the walls, scrapes, stops, a dull thud against the boards. Music, in its own rough language. You passed trophy cases lined with glimmering relics, photographs of boys with helmets crooked on their heads, their eyes wild with victory. One of them was your father, decades ago; before he grew bitter and distant, before he learned how to love the game more than he could ever love a family.

You expected the rink to be quiet, still and empty as a prayer unspoken. But as you stepped through the doors, the cold air kissed your cheeks with the gentleness of a ghost, and you heard it: the unmistakable scrape of blades against ice. Not chaos, not the frenzied thunder of a team in motion. Just one. A lone figure gliding back and forth, carving perfect arcs into the surface like a calligrapher with a silver pen. You paused at the boards, the glass cool beneath your fingertips, watching him move, fluid and sure, even in solitude. He skated like someone who didn’t need an audience. Who wasn’t chasing applause, just clarity. Repetition. Discipline. He wove through imaginary obstacles with practiced grace, the sound of his skates echoing like poetry in an empty room. You could almost forget how much you disliked hockey in moments like this, when it looked like dance, when it sounded like breath, when it shimmered with something close to silence.

You lifted your hand, tapped gently on the glass. Just once. He startled. The boy spun with a sharp jerk, arms splaying briefly for balance before he caught himself, chest rising with the kind of laugh you could only hear in body language. He glided toward you, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes beneath the helmet. He stopped just before the boards, breath fogging the space between you, and when he pulled his mouth guard down, his voice was warmer than you expected.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, with an apologetic nod, “but this is a closed practice.” You blinked. Not at the words, but at the way he said them, so earnestly, like a knight gently turning away a princess at the edge of a battlefield. His voice didn’t have the bite most hockey players used with girls near the boards. No teasing arrogance, no swagger. Just simple, practiced courtesy.

You smiled without thinking, soft and shy and almost surprised by your own reaction. “I’m too young to be called ma’am,” you murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. He blinked, then fumbled for a response, cheeks blooming with something faint and pink, even in the cold. “Oh—God, I—sorry. I just—my mom raised me that way. To be respectful. To women. Not that you’re old—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t saying that—” He trailed off, face contorting with the kind of mortified sincerity you rarely got to see outside of romantic comedies.

You let yourself laugh. Quiet, melodic. Just enough to lighten the air. “It’s okay,” you said gently, your voice muffled just slightly by your scarf. 

He blinked again, eyes flicking briefly down, then back up, as though recalibrating everything he assumed about the world and his place in it. His hands fidgeted with the edges of his gloves, and he glanced over his shoulder, as if remembering that he was the only one on the ice. “Still, I’m sorry, really. The rink’s closed to non-personnel. I — I can’t really let anyone just come in. Even if you’re not a… ma’am.” His smile was a little crooked now, tilted with humor at his own expense, and you couldn’t help it, you liked the way it softened his face. You liked the way he stood there, unsure, waiting, instead of telling you to leave outright. You lowered your hood, let your voice rise just enough to reach him clearly.

“I’m looking for Coach Bennett,” you said. “He’s my father.” The effect was immediate. He straightened like he’d been struck by lightning, helmet tilting back slightly as he stared at you with wide, stunned eyes.

“Wait—Coach Bennett’s daughter?” he echoed, like the words didn’t quite fit in his mouth. Then again, more flustered: “You’re—oh my God, I—I didn’t know—I mean I would’ve—God, I’m sorry.” He scrambled to unclip his helmet, fingers tangling in the strap before he finally pulled it off, revealing a mop of dark hair and a face flushed with either embarrassment or exertion, or both. He was handsome in a way that didn’t feel intentional. His features were sharp, yes, and he had the jawline of a boy who could ruin hearts without meaning to. But there was something open about him, something too human to be threatening.

“Really sorry again,” he said, standing straighter now, as though trying to look more official. “Coach is in his office—I can show you where it is. If you want. I mean, of course you want. You’re here to see him. So yeah. Come with me.” You bit your lip to hide another smile and nodded, falling into step behind him as he pushed open the side gate and stepped off the ice with surprising grace. The blades of his skates clinked against the rubber matting as he led you down the corridor. He didn’t speak at first, and neither did you. It was comfortable, the silence. Not the awkward kind. Just… quiet. Reverent. As though something soft and strange had entered the air and neither of you wanted to scare it off.

When he stopped outside your father’s office, he turned to you again. His eyes were warmer now. Curious. Kind. “I’m Jay, by the  way,” he said. “Captain of the team.” Of course he was.

You nodded once. “Nice to meet you, Captain.” And then you knocked. But for a heartbeat before your father’s voice called you in, you could feel Jay still looking at you, like he was trying to solve a riddle written in your eyes. And in that fleeting moment, you didn’t feel like a coach’s daughter. You felt like a secret worth keeping.

Coach Bennett’s office smelled like old sweat and ambition. The kind that settled into the corners, into the folds of jackets slung over chairs, into the woodgrain of the desk itself, soaked in over years of lost games and close calls. The room wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It felt clinical, hollow, like it didn’t belong to a person so much as to the idea of one. Hockey posters curled slightly at the edges, clinging to cinder block walls. The light overhead flickered with a low hum, casting everything in a tired, blue-toned glaze. He was there, hunched over a chaos of papers like a priest at his altar, eyes scanning injury reports and scouting notes as if he could rearrange fate with a red pen. You didn’t knock. Not this time. 

The door creaked open like a protest, and your footsteps broke the hush as you stepped inside. He didn’t look up at first, so absorbed in his paperwork that he didn’t hear the threshold of silence cracking like ice beneath your presence. But when he finally did, when your shadow crossed into his peripheral and your scent, faintly like jasmine and old books, stirred the air, he looked up, and his whole body stilled. His eyes widened with something between guilt and surprise, the pen in his hand faltering mid-sentence. The creases in his brow deepened like riverbeds. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the papers aside like they were something shameful. “I forgot. I—I’m sorry, I—” 

“Don’t,” you cut in, quiet but sharp. Not angry, just done. The kind of tone that grows in the lungs of girls who have been left at too many diners. “It’s whatever.” You stepped closer, not to bridge the gap, but to exist plainly in the room; as yourself, not a child in need of anything emotional. Just a student now. A professional. Someone with a clipboard of her own, even if metaphorical. You kept your coat on. Your scarf still looped tight at your throat. You weren’t here to unpack old things. You were here to ask for a favor. He sat back in his chair, watching you warily now, like you might say something he wasn’t prepared to hear. “What’s going on?” he asked, voice carefully neutral. 

“I need a team,” you said simply. “For my internship.” He blinked, clearly caught off-guard. You inhaled slowly, pressing your hands into your coat pockets so he wouldn’t see how tightly they curled. “For the school. I’m in the sports medicine track. Therapy. I need a team to tour with. Help the players after games. Manage muscle strain. Recovery. Things like that.” 

You watched his face shift as he absorbed the words. Something almost like pride flitted behind his eyes for a moment, brief, cautious, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he was allowed to feel it. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “You can work with us.” That fast. No negotiation. No warnings. No conditions. Just an open door.

You didn’t smile. Not really. But a breath left you; just one. Like the first note in a song you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in your chest. “Thank you,” you said, not out of gratitude, but necessity. The way you might thank a stranger who held a door open. Polite. Distant. You turned to leave. But of course, he had to say it. Had to reach across the gulf between now and then. “I really am sorry,” he murmured, just as your fingers grazed the handle. You paused. Not long. Just long enough for him to hope.

Then you shook your head once, gently, like you were brushing a snowflake off your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” Because you’d learned long ago how to build yourself from all the words he didn’t say. You didn’t need apologies. You didn’t need explanations. You needed a future. And you’d just stepped into it.

Outside, the sound of skates had stopped. Silence had settled again like fresh snowfall. And somewhere in the belly of the building, Jay was probably unlacing his boots, running his hands through his hair, wondering about the girl who tapped on the glass like she belonged on the outside looking in. And maybe she still did. But not for much longer. Because from here on out, you would walk through every door like it owed you something. And whether they liked it or not, you were on the team now. 

The rink always had a certain silence before practice, like a church before mass, where the faithful trickled in one by one, lacing up their skates like ritual, shrugging on jerseys like armor. The air was sharp, biting, clean in the way winter mornings were clean, unforgiving but pure. Jay had always liked that about hockey: the brutal grace of it. How something so violent could also be so precise. How blades could slice through frozen water like poetry written too fast. He stood at center ice, tapping the butt of his stick against the boards while the rest of the team gathered, jerseys fluttering slightly in the wake of their motion. There was a quiet hum of voices, low laughter, murmured complaints about the early hour, the chill, the drills surely to come. Jay felt the same pre-practice electricity that always curled under his skin, warm and charged and constant, but there was something else today. Something different. A shift in the air.

Sunghoon slid up beside him, eyes narrowed. His movements were slower than usual, still cautious after weeks of physical therapy. But there was that familiar smirk, like mischief lived permanently in his mouth. “Any idea why Coach called us early?” he asked, stretching one leg experimentally behind him. 

Jay shook his head, brows furrowing. “No clue. This wasn’t on the schedule. Even I just got the text.” 

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “And the great Captain Jay doesn’t know? Guess it’s serious.” Jay didn’t answer, but his mind turned. Coach Bennett didn’t do things last minute, not unless something was off, or something was about to change. And Jay had learned, over the years, to pay attention to change. To study its rhythm. To anticipate the way it could shatter routine like glass beneath a puck. Coach appeared then, stepping out from the tunnel with that familiar commanding presence, clipboard in hand like a sword, whistle bouncing lightly against his chest. His expression was unreadable. It always was. But today there was a glint in his eye, a sharpness, like he was bracing for something no one else could yet see. The team quieted instantly. Skates stilled. Conversations stopped.

“Listen up,” Coach said, voice firm but even. “I’ve got an announcement.” Jay felt his spine straighten out of instinct. He always did when Bennett spoke like that; like something important was about to be carved into stone.

“My daughter,” the coach began, pausing just a second too long, “will be joining the team.” A beat of silence. Then confusion cracked through the ice like a jagged fault line. Heads turned. Eyebrows raised. A few muttered responses, some curious, some amused.

Sunghoon leaned in again, voice low. “Wait — coach has a daughter?” Jay didn’t respond. He was too busy sorting through the flicker of memory from the night before: the knock on the glass, the girl with the music still folded around her like armor, the soft voice that said I’m too young to be called ma’am. The gentle dismissal, I’m here to see Coach Bennett. 

Coach cleared his throat. “To clarify, she’s not playing.” A few guys chuckled awkwardly, one of the rookies whispering something under his breath about whether Coach’s daughter could skate. He was promptly elbowed. “She’s a student in sports medicine,” Bennett continued, eyes scanning them like a general addressing soldiers. “She needs an internship. She’ll be traveling with us, working with you all post-practice, post-game — helping your muscles recover, monitoring fatigue, treating strain. You’ll see her on the bench. In the locker room. On the road.” 

Jay watched as the team absorbed this. Some looked impressed, some still confused. A few clearly still processing the idea of a girl, the coach’s daughter, no less being part of their inner circle. Coach’s gaze fell to Sunghoon. “You’ll be working with her the most at first.” 

Sunghoon blinked. “Me?” 

“You’re still coming off that leg injury. She’ll be helping your mobility and monitoring your recovery. You miss any check-ins, I’ll know.” Sunghoon nodded slowly, the surprise quickly replaced by professionalism. Jay knew he hated being treated like glass, but he’d also never refuse a chance to speed up healing. Not when playoffs were on the horizon.

Coach looked back at the group as a whole then, jaw set like he was preparing to say something final. “She’ll be here tomorrow. Watching your style. Observing how you move. How you break down. How you come back.” He paused again, the silence stretching like a taut wire. “She’ll be with us every day. Every game. Every trip.” Then his voice dropped just slightly, softer, but more dangerous. Like frost underfoot you didn’t notice until you were falling.

“And she’s off limits.” That silenced even the whispers. “No dating. No flirting. No ‘accidental’ drinks after practice. She’s not here to be your distraction. She’s not here for you to impress. She is a part of this team now. And that means she’s under my protection.” Jay felt something tighten in his chest, an invisible thread pulling taut. Because the words made perfect sense. They were rational. They were fair. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of her from the night before. The way she stood with snow melting on her coat, headphones tucked like secrets around her neck. The way she didn’t smile with her mouth, but with the corner of her eyes. The way she said thank you like it wasn’t a gift, but a necessity. Polite. Distant. And now she would be here, every day. A ghost walking among them. Not haunting; but changing the temperature of every room.

“Understood?” Coach asked, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. The team nodded. In uneven unison. A few shared glances. One or two looked like they’d already started mourning the idea of flirtation. Jay just said nothing. He wasn’t planning on breaking any rules. He never had. But something in his gut told him that this particular rule wouldn’t break loudly. It would break quietly. Like a blade slicing through ice. And the sound wouldn’t be heard until it was too late.

The locker room after practice was its own kind of cathedral, sacred, exhausted, and a little broken. The air still hummed with the echoes of movement: the scrape of blades off concrete, the thud of pads being stripped away, the muffled laughter of boys who were half-wolves when they played and half-children when the ice was gone. It always smelled like the aftermath of effort, sweat, steel, cold leather, and adrenaline fading into silence. Jay moved like a ritualist through it, toweling off damp hair, peeling away his jersey, hanging it neatly in his locker like a soldier laying down his colors. The room had grown quiet now, most of the team already gone, off to late dinners, to laugh about drills over ramen and muscle aches. Jay remained behind, as he often did, not because he had to but because some part of him needed the stillness. 

He liked to stay until the air was empty. Until it was just him and the hum of fluorescent lights above, buzzing like tired thoughts. He didn’t hear Coach Bennett at first. Not until he felt the weight of a presence at his back, and then the familiar sound of heavy boots on tile. Jay turned, towel slung around his neck, hair dripping dark at his temples. The man stood there, shoulders squared, arms folded across his chest. He didn’t speak immediately. He never did. He was the kind of man who let the silence do the talking until the words felt necessary. 

“Coach,” Jay said softly, straightening a little, though the comfort between them ran bone-deep. “Everything alright?” Coach’s eyes flicked over him, assessing, calculating, not as a player, but as a person. He gave a small nod, stepping forward. “Got a favor to ask you.”

Jay nodded instantly, without thought. “Anything.” And he meant it. Because if Jay had a compass in this world, it pointed north toward Bennett. Always had. He didn’t come from much, not stability, not praise, not the kind of family who cheered at games. But Coach saw him. Had plucked him out of obscurity like a diamond mistaken for coal, shaped him, believed in him when no one else even bothered to learn his name. Made him captain. Made him better. Taught him that strength wasn’t loudness, but consistency. That leadership wasn’t glory, but showing up, day after day, even when no one clapped.

Coach laid a hand on his shoulder, heavy and solid like a benediction. “It’s about my daughter.” Jay stilled, just slightly. The name unspoken but implied, hanging in the air like frost, delicate and dangerous. He swallowed once, slowly.

“She’s new to all this,” Coach went on, voice quieter now, like the edges of him softened when he spoke of her. “And I know this team. Hell, I built this team. I know how boys act when there’s someone soft in the room. And she’s not here for that. She’s here to work. To learn.” 

Jay’s jaw tensed faintly, but he kept his voice even. “Of course, Coach.” 

“I need someone to make sure the guys don’t get any ideas. That they remember she’s not a conquest, or a game, or something to write about in a group chat. And she doesn’t need to know I asked. She’d hate that. She’s got my pride.” He gave a small, humorless chuckle then, rubbing the back of his neck like the confession cost him something. “She already thinks I don’t see her. If she finds out I’m watching her through other people’s eyes, it’ll just make it worse.” 

Jay nodded again, slower this time. The weight of the request sank into his skin like bruises not yet visible. He could feel it, the invisible line being drawn, taut and fine and humming with tension. The line between loyalty and temptation. Between what was right and what had already started to stir quietly in the marrow of him. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” Jay said, and his voice didn’t falter, not even once. “I’ll make sure the guys don’t bother her. She’ll be safe. I promise.”

Coach’s eyes lingered on him, long and searching. For a moment Jay wondered if he saw it, whatever it was that had flickered in Jay’s chest when she knocked on the glass, when her eyes met his with that quiet, disarming clarity. But if he did, he didn’t speak of it. He just gave one firm nod, and a clap on the back that thudded like approval, or gratitude, or maybe a little bit of both. “Good man,” he said simply. “I knew I could count on you.” Jay smiled faintly. It was small. Hollowed. 

And when Coach walked away, leaving the door to his office open behind him, Jay sat back down on the bench. The metal was cold beneath him. The silence returned, thick and echoing. Only now, it felt different. Because promises, he’d learned, were like the game itself. 

They seemed simple from the outside, pass, skate, score, but beneath the surface, they were brutal. They cracked bones. Split skin. Cost you more than you realized when the puck first dropped. And now he’d made one. To the man who had given him everything. About the girl who didn’t know he existed yesterday. And something about that equation already felt like a game he wouldn’t win. Not cleanly. Not without bleeding a little. 

The next day you walk into the rink with your headphones on like armor, like a barrier of strings and sonatas against the roar of blades slicing across frozen ground. The music didn’t have words; just aching violins and mournful piano keys, the kind that curled around your ribs like ivy and whispered things no one else could hear. You liked it that way. Preferred it, in fact. A world where no one expected anything from you but observation. Where you could move quietly, head bowed, tucked into yourself like a letter never meant to be opened. The rink was alive with noise, the kind of chaotic, youthful clamor that echoed endlessly in the domed cavern of the arena. Hockey boys were everywhere. Loud, brash, laughing with the type of ease you had never possessed. They moved like wild creatures in a frozen jungle, owning the space with the kind of confidence that repelled you. You wanted none of it. You were here for school. For requirement. For the credits that would get you closer to your degree, to a future far away from this cold-blooded sport that had always taken more than it gave.

You didn’t want to be here because it meant being near him, Coach Bennett. Your father. The man whose love always came in second to a scoreboard. You hadn’t even told anyone he was your dad until college forced your hand. Until the paperwork made you declare your internship, and your professor raised a brow when you mentioned the team he coached. "Isn’t that your father’s team?" they'd asked. And you had smiled, thin and bitter, the kind of smile that knew it was a confession more than a truth. Now, standing at the edge of the rink, you felt the cold creeping through the soles of your boots, settling into your spine. You scanned the ice, eyes drifting lazily across the players in warm-ups; men with sticks and padded shoulders, like warriors readying for a war made of bruises and bloodied lips. You didn't know most of their names. Didn’t care to. But one face stood out, again.

Jay. The captain. He was skating like it meant something, like each stride was a prayer, a promise. His eyes were focused, intense, not like the others who grinned and jostled and cracked jokes. He skated like he was carrying something, like the weight of the team sat across his back and he had no choice but to bear it. When he saw you, just for a second; only a second, his eyes met yours. The glance was sharp and immediate, but then he looked away, just as quickly, like the connection had burned too hot, too fast. You didn’t think much of it. You barely knew him. And besides, you weren’t here for moments. You were here for muscle strain and injury reports. 

You made your way to the benches, setting your things down with clinical precision. Notepad. Pen. Clipboard. You moved like a doctor in a morgue, dispassionately pulling back the veil. You were already scribbling notes about posture, alignment, joint tension, before the first whistle blew. And then it did. Your father stepped out of his office and blew the whistle with the kind of command that could stop time. It pierced through the air, slicing straight through conversations and momentum alike. In a heartbeat, every player stopped. The way they lined up felt orchestrated, almost like choreography, the kind of order that came from months, maybe years, of discipline drilled into bone. They formed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard, eyes alert. Soldiers in helmets. Artists in blood and bruises.

Coach Bennett tilted his head toward you. It was subtle, but it might as well have been a spotlight. You straightened awkwardly, your headphones still dangling around your neck like a noose of quiet rebellion. Your legs moved toward him before your heart caught up, and soon you stood beside him, exposed and scrutinized, every eye on you like you were some strange new species being introduced to a pack. “This is my daughter,” he said. No warmth in it. Just the words, dropped like a coin into a vending machine. Clink. Fact delivered. Move on. 

There was a flicker of confusion in the air, brief and bewildered, but your father cut through it before it could grow. “She’s not here to play. We already discussed this yesterday. She’s here as part of her medical program. She’s going to be working closely with Sunghoon—” he nodded toward the boy in question, who shifted his weight onto one leg with a lopsided smile, “—but she’ll be observing all of you. Watching how you move. Learning how to help you recover.” He paused, and then added, with a finality that could crack glass, “She’s officially part of this team now. That means she’s under my protection. Act accordingly.” And then, just like that, practice began.

You faded back to the bench, taking refuge in your notebook like it was the only world that made sense. Scribbling notes as the players moved, trying to catch the little things, the slant of a shoulder, the twist of a knee, the strain in a calf that hinted at fatigue or overuse. You wrote like you were solving equations, like the body was a riddle you could unravel with enough observation. But part of you was still listening. Watching. You paid attention to Sunghoon especially. His recovery was evident, he moved smoothly, mostly, but every so often you’d catch a limp, a shift in balance that told a different story. You jotted it down: Left leg bears less weight on turns. Compensation in hip angle. Follow up post-practice. His injury had been bad. You remembered reading about it. The kind of injury that ended careers. But he was back. They always came back, stitched together with willpower and tape and the kind of stubbornness only athletes seemed to possess.

Your eyes flickered once more to Jay.  He moved with that same elegance, only sharper. Cleaner. Like he was made for the ice. Like the rink recognized him as its own. You wanted to look away. But something about him made you linger a little longer. 

The whistle blew like a sudden gust, sharp and liberating. It sliced through the rhythm of skate blades and sent a collective exhale through the room, a pause carved into the body of practice like a rest note in a long and relentless symphony. Coach’s voice echoed through the chilled air "Ten minutes" and the boys broke off in various directions, some slouching against the boards, others throwing their helmets onto the bench with a satisfying clunk, already gulping down water like it could cure every bruise they've ever earned. 

You sat at the edge of the bench, body still and stiff, the kind of ache blooming at the nape of your neck that only comes from too much focus, from staring at bodies in motion, at joint tension and gait compensation and every angle of athletic wear and tear. The muscles of your own body felt coiled from stillness, from quiet endurance. You pulled your headphones down around your neck and exhaled, shaking out your head like a bird flicking off water from its feathers. Your eyes burned slightly, not from emotion but from overexertion, your thoughts running laps, your pen still ink-stained from the first hour of meticulous note-taking. And then, instinctively, you looked up. And he was looking at you. Jay. 

It wasn’t a curious glance. It wasn’t fleeting or accidental. It was… deliberate. His gaze held weight, anchored like a stone skipping across still water, disrupting something in you that you’d carefully kept dormant. For a heartbeat, time stalled. Not in a romantic way; no, you didn’t believe in that kind of thing. But in the way a deer pauses when it senses it's been seen, body still, breath caught. And then he looked away. Too quickly. Like he’d been caught committing some small crime. Like your eyes had burned him and he hadn’t expected the flame. You tilted your head, puzzled but unwilling to overthink it. Not your business. Not your problem. You were here for work, not curiosity. You weren’t a girl who chased after glances. You weren’t here to peel back the layers of hockey boys with brooding eyes and sharp cheekbones. You were here to help, to heal. Not to unravel. 

Still, the interaction clung to your ribs as you stood, notebook in hand, purpose hardening your spine like steel beneath silk. If your father wasn’t going to introduce you properly, then you’d do it yourself. You’d show them that you weren’t just the coach’s daughter, you were the intern, the analyst, the healer. You walked with quiet authority across the ice-chilled floor, each footstep sure, your notes pressed tight against your chest like scripture. First, Lee Heeseung. Tall, almost too tall to be real, with a kind of radiance that caught light like polished glass. He moved like he was made for attention, but your trained eyes saw what others didn’t; the slight forward hunch, the overextension in his reach, the way his shoulders bore weight wrong, unevenly, like a house built on a tilted foundation. You stepped toward him, gentle but firm. 

“Do your shoulders ache?” you asked, voice calm but clear. 

He blinked at you, eyebrows pulling upward in bemusement. “Uh… yeah, actually. Constantly.” 

You nodded. “Because your form’s too open. You reach too far with your stick and overcompensate with your back muscles. You’re burning out your deltoids before you even get to the second period.” He stared, dumbfounded, as if you had read it off a hidden manuscript folded inside his bones.

“If you rotate more from your hips instead of your upper back, you’ll take pressure off the joint. I’ll show you how to fix it after.” He said nothing, only nodded with an almost reverent curiosity, as though he were seeing you for the first time. You moved on.

Next, Sunghoon. He was lounging against the wall, sweat dampening his dark hair like ink spilled across paper. You studied the subtle shift in his stance, the way he favored one leg. It wasn’t overt, but to you it was a glaring neon sign. He didn’t wince, but his left side moved slower, more cautiously. “You’re compensating,” you said, making him look up. 

He grinned. Not a cocky grin, but the kind that folded warmly around the edges. “Can’t help it.” 

“You’re doing well, considering. You land softly, roll through your hips, you don’t put too much pressure on the joint; but I can still see it.” 

He shrugged. “My girl’s a figure skater. Taught me how to fall pretty.” That made you smile. A real one. One that cracked the ice around your ribs a little. You nodded in approval. “She taught you well.” 

And then, Jay. You approached him last. His expression was unreadable, but something in the air around him shifted as you neared, like the temperature dropped a few degrees. He sat on the bench, helmet resting beside him, forearms braced on his thighs. Up close, he looked even more cut from marble, angular and quiet, a monument to restraint. He didn’t look up at first, not until your shadow settled over his lap like a silent challenge. “Does your knee hurt?” you asked, flipping a page in your notebook. 

His head rose slowly, his gaze flickering over your face like he was trying to piece something together. There was no trace of the sheepish boy you’d startled in the rink a few nights ago. This Jay was guarded, mouth tight, voice low. “I’m fine.”

Your eyes didn’t waver. “You favor your left side. Every time you cut left, you hesitate. You don’t fully extend through the glide.” 

He scowled faintly. “It’s nothing. I know how to stretch.” 

You raised a brow, the edge of your mouth tugging upward; not in amusement, but something sharper. “Obviously you don’t. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

His jaw ticked. “I don’t need help.”

“This isn’t up for debate,” you said, your voice steady as a blade sheathed in silk. “You’re not exempt just because you’re the captain. If you want to avoid tearing something before playoffs, meet me after practice. I’ll show you the stretch.” And with that, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving the weight of your words lingering in the air like smoke after a firework. 

Practice ended not with a bang, but a slow unraveling, a sigh across the rink, the hiss of skate blades leaving ice, gear clattering into duffels like thunder softened into memory. The tension of the game dissolved into the scent of sweat and the chill of melting frost on players' necks. You lingered by the boards with your notepad, pen scribbling observations in swift, decisive loops. Notes about posture and movement, pain disguised as endurance, tight shoulders masked by bravado. Each boy became a puzzle, a map of injuries and habits and patterns, bodies writing stories in the snow, and you were trying to read them in a language only you understood. You made your rounds with professionalism sewn into your spine like armor. Softened your voice for Sunghoon, smiled gently at Heeseung, offered a shoulder tap and quiet praise where it was earned. But your eyes kept slipping, to the back corner of the locker room, where the Captain sat like a storm gathering in silence. Jay, half-shadowed, alone.

He was stretching. Technically. But he was doing it all wrong. The angle of his knee, the twist of his ankle, the way his weight was distributed, off, completely off. It wasn’t just inefficient; it was dangerous. You watched him for a minute too long, notebook momentarily forgotten. Something about the way he moved, so precise and careless at once, frustrated you. Like watching someone trying to read with their eyes closed, convinced they didn’t need light. You sighed, a breath curling like frost against your throat, and tucked your notepad under your arm.

Your footsteps echoed lightly across the tiles as you approached him, the hum of the fluorescent lights above buzzing like the wings of an insect trapped in amber. “You’re doing it all wrong,” you said simply, voice even but firm. Not mocking. Just true. Jay didn’t look at you at first. He exhaled hard through his nose, like your presence was an ache he didn’t know how to stretch out. Then, he rolled his eyes with all the weariness of a boy who’d spent his life hearing people tell him what to do. 

“I told you already,” he muttered. “I don’t need help.” You laughed. Not a bright laugh, not one made of bells or sunlight. It was dry and sharp, like the snap of a twig underfoot, unexpected, dismissive, real. “Yeah, well,” you said, stepping a little closer, “I’m here whether you like it or not.” 

He didn’t respond. He stayed seated, hands braced behind him on the bench, jaw tight. You knelt beside him carefully, knees folding like paper cranes, your movements deliberate. You reached for his leg, intending to guide it gently, to correct the twist in his stretch; But he flinched back, gaze snapping to yours, guarded and immediate. “Why are you touching me?” he asked, low, almost startled. As if your hand were a flame and he hadn’t expected to get burned. 

You froze, hand hovering midair, your breath catching in your throat like a note not quite played. “Sorry,” you murmured, retreating an inch. “But I kind of need to touch you to show you how to bend your knee properly. That is… if you want to stop tearing ligaments before you’re twenty-five.” He looked at you for a long moment. His eyes weren’t angry, just… unreadable. The color of storm-drenched bark, of something old and rooted and worn by wind. Then, finally, a single slow nod. Permission granted.

You inched forward again, carefully, the space between you electric and small. Your fingers found his knee, warm through the thin fabric of his compression pants, and turned it just so, guiding his leg into a safer, smoother line. You spoke softly, explaining the movement, the angle, the way the muscles needed to engage. Clinical, composed, but your voice wavered just slightly beneath it all, like a violin string drawn too tight. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But his eyes never left your face. You felt the weight of them, like moonlight poured too heavy, like winter sun through an old windowpane, quiet but inescapable. You tried not to notice. You focused on your task. You were a professional. You were your father’s daughter. You had no room to blush under scrutiny. 

But still, his gaze burned. Not cruel, not invasive, just… watching. Like he was trying to solve something about you. Like he didn’t expect you to exist the way you did. Like you were a song in a genre he’d never listened to before and suddenly couldn’t stop playing. Your hands paused, still resting on his leg. You looked up, the air between you catching on your ribs. “You’re holding your breath,” you said quietly.

Jay blinked, startled. Then slowly exhaled, a sound so faint it could’ve been mistaken for silence. “I didn’t realize,” he said. You nodded, pulling your hands away, letting the warmth of his skin fade from your fingertips. You stood slowly, brushing off invisible dust, the ghost of contact lingering like the smell of smoke on fabric. 

“Well… now you do,” you replied. You didn’t look back as you walked away, not even when you felt his eyes follow you. You didn’t need to. You knew. Something had shifted. Not broken. Not begun. Just shifted. And shifts, small as they seem, have been known to start avalanches. 

The ice rink hums behind you, echoing with the aftertaste of exertion; shouted jokes, distant thuds of sticks dropped to concrete, the hiss of showers roaring to life. You’re gathering your things slowly, as if the weight of your bag is heavier now, as if the moment you shared with Jay, fleeting as a spark, has thickened the air around you. Your fingers fumble with the zipper of your notebook pouch, and the stretch in your chest still lingers, not quite tension, not quite ache. Your pulse is a quiet metronome, steady and unhurried, but a part of you wonders, why did it feel like he was looking at more than just the position of your hands? You shake the thought loose, like snow from your shoulders. You’ve always been good at untangling what doesn’t belong. 

You slip your headphones over your ears out of habit, though the music hasn’t started yet, and turn to go, ready to leave behind the clattering cold, the conversations you’re not a part of, the ache behind your eyes that only fluorescent lights and long-held disappointment seem to bring. But just as the door brushes open, his voice stops you. “Hey—wait.” It’s your father.

Coach Bennett. To them, just Coach. To you… a name wrapped in thorns and fatherhood, a man who taught you to ride a bike and then promptly missed every school play after. You turn, slowly, shoulders still braced with the tension of too many unsaid things. He’s leaning by the locker room threshold, towel looped around his neck, clipboard in hand, a man caught between work and worry. There’s something weathered about him, eyes rimmed in fatigue, mouth tight as if every word is weighted with the pressure of needing to win. Always needing to win.

“You headed out?” he asks, trying for casual, like he didn’t leave you waiting in that diner with a glass of tea  sweating between your fingers and a heart already resigned to being forgotten.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve got notes to type up.”

He clears his throat and glances down, as if suddenly remembering something that’s been burning a hole in his clipboard. “Right, well, your mother and I… we were hoping you’d come to a dinner at our place.” You blink. The sentence feels foreign. Bent out of shape.

“Dinner?” you echo, like it’s a language you haven’t spoken in years.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s cooking. We’re having the Yang family over. You remember them? They used to come to your birthday parties when you were little.” You remember. Vaguely. A woman with kind eyes and a son with sticky fingers who pulled your hair when he thought you weren’t looking. You remember the way your mother always smiled too hard when she hosted, like she was trying to win some unseen game. 

“I don’t know,” you say slowly. “I have stuff to do. I was gonna —”

“Your mother would really like you there.” The words land gently. But they wrap around your ribs like guilt. You stare at him, this man who knows how to rally a team, who can read the trajectory of a puck midair but never quite learned how to read you. Still, something in his voice is softer than usual. Maybe it’s the way he says her name. Maybe it’s the fact that he said we. You sigh. Your fingers tighten around your strap. You tell yourself you’re doing it for her, not for him. That there’s a difference. That the knot in your stomach isn’t because he asked you like he meant it.

“Fine,” you mutter, eyes dropping to the floor. “I’ll go.”

He nods, relief flickering in his features for just a breath. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to. You both know that this is just another quiet truce in a long line of unspoken compromises. And just like that, you step out of the locker room, into the sharp wind curling through the corridor, your footsteps echoing down a hallway that always felt too wide for love. The evening air slips beneath your jacket, and you slip your headphones back on, press play. A cello fills your ear, slow and mournful, dragging its bow across your bones. You walk alone, music in your blood, but the memory of Jay’s eyes watching you refuses to fade. Like a handprint pressed to glass. Like a ripple after the stone is gone. 

Your dorm smells like lavender detergent and pencil shavings, the remnants of college life settled like dust in corners you’ll never quite reach. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you let the weight you’ve been holding all day slide off your bones. Your bag slumps to the floor with a thud that echoes like a memory, and your limbs follow suit, dragging you toward the bed like gravity’s favorite child, like weariness itself lives beneath your skin. You plop down with all the drama of a sigh swallowed whole, limbs sprawled like you’ve been dropped by life itself. The mattress dips beneath you, cradling your exhaustion like it knows every ache by name. You stare at the ceiling. That blank, indifferent canvas.

The plaster above you doesn’t blink when you ask it silent questions. It doesn’t flinch when your heart tugs in that old, familiar way; a tender throb behind your ribs that speaks not of heartbreak but of something older. Something more foundational. A longing not for romance, but for recognition. You think about the way your father spoke to Jay earlier today. The firm hand on his shoulder. The way he called him “son”  with that gravelly voice full of trust and something perilously close to affection. You picture Jay, upright, respectful, attentive. A good soldier. A son made in the image of the game your father worships. And somehow, it makes sense. Of course he sees Jay like that. Like someone to be proud of. Like someone worth asking anything of.

You turn over, your cheek pressing into the cool cotton of your pillow, and let your eyes flutter closed. But sleep does not come. Instead, there’s that image again: your father, standing tall and certain beside Jay. There’s something about the way they fit together, coach and captain, like two sides of the same coin. A partnership born on the ice, forged by whistles and drills and the quiet understanding of shared purpose. And you? You were always just orbiting that world. A speck caught in the gravity of pucks and sweat and chalk-drawn strategies on whiteboards you weren’t supposed to read. You learned early on how to be quiet in a room full of roars. How to braid your silence into usefulness. How to stitch your dreams into shadows.

You swallow hard, turning again, burying your face deeper into the pillow as if it could erase the bitterness clinging to the edges of your thoughts. There is no use in comparing. You tell yourself that. You chant it in your mind like a prayer you almost believe. But it doesn’t stop the twinge. That sting of jealousy, quick and sharp like the slap of cold air when you step out of the rink. You hate it. You hate feeling this way. It makes you feel small, like a child standing in the doorway of a room where they were forgotten. You were never enough to pull him away from the ice. Not really. Not when it mattered. 

Your thoughts spiral, curling tighter and tighter, like leaves drying in the sun, until they crack and crumble into a quiet resentment you’ll never say out loud. It isn’t rage. It isn’t even hurt. It’s that soft, bruised ache of a girl who stopped asking a long time ago. Your fingers clutch the edge of your comforter. You inhale deeply, try to ground yourself in the scent of fabric softener and the faint trace of your shampoo clinging to your sheets. This is your life now. Your space. Your silence. You’re here to work, to help, to heal. You are not here to unravel. You are not here to bleed. You exhale slowly, trying to empty yourself of all the noise you never say aloud. 

And yet, as your body finally begins to still, mind untethering from the day’s demands, you can’t help but remember the way Jay had looked at you. Eyes tracking your every move like you were a constellation he didn’t expect to find. As if he didn’t understand you, but wanted to. And worse still… the part of you that didn’t mind it. You clench your jaw and squeeze your eyes shut harder. No. You’re here to observe. To support. To become what you’ve always wanted: a healer. Someone who listens to pain and knows what to do with it. Someone who helps others move forward, even when she’s stuck in place. You are not here to fall. Not for the captain. Not for the boy with tired eyes and a voice that turned cold when you got too close. Not for the one your father already loves.

You curl beneath your blanket, trying to block out the sound of the skating rink still echoing in your head, like ghosts tracing figure-eights across the floor of your memory. But they linger. All of them. Every step, every look, every word not spoken. And outside your window, the moon begins to rise like a watchful eye, silver and silent, bearing witness to your quiet war.

The frat house buzzed with the soft murmur of voices and the low thump of bass-heavy music, vibrating faintly through the wooden floors like a second, impatient heartbeat. The air was warm, too warm, thick with the scent of beer-soaked upholstery, half-eaten takeout, and a kind of restless boyhood energy that lingered like smoke. The overhead light flickered with a kind of tired stutter, casting shadows that leaned against the walls, distorted and lanky, as if even they were eavesdropping on the night. Jay sat perched at the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, fingers absently turning his water bottle in slow circles. It squeaked quietly against the condensation pooling beneath it, an accidental metronome keeping time with his drifting thoughts. Around him, the world blurred into soft focus. Heeseung lay sprawled like a cat on the floor, his hair a mess, flipping a bottle cap into the air with lazy grace. Sunghoon was halfway into the armchair, legs dangling, his voice doused in mischief as he picked apart the drama of someone else’s heartbreak with all the casual cruelty of young men who’d never had their own hearts split open properly. They were all happily in love anyway. 

“Swear to God,” Sunghoon was saying, “the second Yunjin started that book club she didn’t invite him to? I knew she was checking out.”

Heeseung scoffed, his laugh low and sharp. “Nah, it was when she posted that solo beach trip pic. The one with the mysterious shadows and cropped-out shoulders? Amateur breakup announcement.”

Jay should have laughed. Should’ve said something clever and mean. But the words got lost somewhere between the memory of your hands on his knee and the way you’d looked at him, not like he was special, but like he was stubborn and wrong and in desperate need of correction. He didn’t know why it stuck with him. There’d been dozens of people who’d corrected him before, coaches, trainers, even professors. But you... you’d done it with a tilt of your head, a certainty in your voice that was almost tender and almost cruel. As if you weren’t trying to prove a point, but trying to protect him from himself. And that smile you gave afterward. Small. Smug. So real he could taste it on the back of his tongue.

“You good, Jay?” Jake’s voice slid in, calm and grounding, like a stone skipping across water.

Jay blinked, head snapping toward him as though waking from a fever dream. “What?” 

Jake gave him a look, familiar and knowing. “You’ve been staring at the coffee table like it offended your ancestors.”

Jay exhaled, trying for a laugh. It came out more like a sigh. “Just tired.”

Jake grinned, leaning back, fingers running through his messy hair. “Join the club. Sera’s been doing these 3 a.m. concerts lately. I think she’s rehearsing for some kind of sleep-deprivation competition.” At that, Jay smiled. It was easier now, hearing Jake talk about his daughter, his eyes softening in the way only a father’s eyes do, even a young, exhausted one. It reminded Jay that not all responsibility weighed the same. Some burdens were chosen. Some were gifts disguised as sleepless nights.

“How is she?” Jay asked, voice quieter than before. At once, Jake lights up. It’s the kind of brightness that’s hard to fake, pure, paternal, cracked wide open with joy. “She’s perfect,” he says. “I mean, I don’t sleep anymore, and I’ve memorized the words to like six lullabies I didn’t know existed, but... when she grabs my finger with her whole hand? Man.” He grins, shaking his head. “I get it now. That stupid thing people say about how it changes everything. It does.” Jay listens. Really listens this time. There’s something grounding about Jake’s voice, the softness of it, the awe. It steadies the storm in his chest for a moment, like wind pressed flat under a gentle palm. “We are...figuring it out. But yeah. She’s everything.” 

Jay nodded slowly, absorbing it. He tried to picture it, being someone’s anchor, someone’s whole world before they even knew what a world was. He wasn’t sure he could. His own childhood was too quiet, too cold. His father’s hands had never lingered in his hair, never tucked in his jersey, never taught him how to be soft. But Coach Bennett had. In his own gruff way. He’d shown Jay how to lace up ambition like skates, how to hold his chin up even when the game turned against him. He’d made Jay captain when everyone else had told him he was too intense, too focused, too rough around the edges. Coach had believed in him, and Jay never forgot that kind of loyalty. It was the kind that carved itself into your bones. 

Which is why it was maddening, this new pull, this flickering tension every time your eyes met his. You were Coach’s daughter. A line drawn bold and black across the ice. He couldn’t even skate near it. But still. He kept remembering the way your brows furrowed while watching the team, the soft movements of your pen against paper like some orchestral conductor writing a silent symphony of muscle and breath and pain. The way you didn’t flinch under the weight of so many eyes. The way you didn’t once search the crowd for your father’s approval. That part, especially, had lodged itself in his throat. Because it wasn’t just that you were off-limits.

It was that you were untouchable in ways that had nothing to do with rules and everything to do with the ache he’d spent years learning to ignore. Jay shifted on the couch, elbows tightening against his knees. “She’s different,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Jake raised a brow. “Who?” Jay looked up, startled, caught.

“No one,” he lied. But his thoughts were already spiraling, your hand on his knee, your voice in his ear, that laugh, dry and sarcastic, like a dagger wrapped in silk. He didn’t know what game this was, but it wasn’t one he knew the rules to. And worse still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to play fair.

It was the kind of night that felt like a sigh, long and low and inevitable. The sun had dipped behind the hills hours ago, leaving behind a sky bruised in soft purples and melancholic blue, like the hush before a confession. And still, here you were, standing at the edge of your parents’ driveway, dread curling around your ribs like ivy. You would’ve given anything to turn around, to walk back into the familiar solitude of your dorm room where silence hummed in soft harmonies and your music knew how to hold you without asking for anything in return. But no, the pull of obligation was a cruel thing, thick and choking, and tonight, it dragged you home. The house was lit up like a stage set, warm lights glowing from the windows, casting golden halos against the glass. You inhaled once, twice, steeling yourself, then stepped inside. 

“Sweetheart!” your mother’s voice lifted into the air like a melody composed of saccharine niceties and desperate hope. She wrapped her arms around you before you could brace for it, her perfume, something powdery and expensive, sinking into your coat like memory. “I’m so glad you made it,” she whispered into your shoulder, though it felt less like a welcome and more like a plea. You nodded, lips pressed into a polite smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes. The scent of roasted garlic and marinated meat drifted in from the kitchen, thick and inviting, almost enough to distract you; almost. But then you heard your name called, and when you turned, you were met with the carefully curated smiles of two strangers standing too close to the polished mahogany of the entryway table. People you’ve seen before but don’t really know. 

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Yang,” your mother said, her voice bright with a rehearsed kind of joy. “And their son, Jungwon.” Jungwon. His name hit the air like a pebble in still water, creating gentle, rippling waves of expectation. You gave them a nod, soft, distant, the same way one acknowledges clouds passing in the sky. He was handsome in the clean, quiet way some boys are, shirt tucked in too neatly, posture molded by years of piano lessons or polite dinners just like this one. He smiled at you, polite and kind. But your heart remained unmoved. There was no stirring, no ache, no static hum beneath your skin. He was fine. But you wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

Without a word, you slipped past them and made your way into the kitchen, the sound of your boots echoing against the tiled floor like the punctuation to a sentence no one had the nerve to say. “Hey,” you murmured, your voice low but warm, as you stepped behind your brother, who was busy laying out silverware with an absent frown. Jaehyun didn’t look up at first, just kept folding napkins like it was some kind of test. 

“You made it,” he said flatly, glancing over his shoulder.

You bumped his arm with your knuckles, a small sibling gesture of truce. “Unfortunately.”

He snorted. “Tell me about it. They made me help prep. Felt like I was in culinary boot camp.”

“How’s hockey?”

At that, he shook his head, tousled brown hair falling into his eyes. “Brutal,” he muttered, the word pulled like a string from his throat. “We lost by five. My shoulder’s still sore from that last check.”

You laughed, though it was more of a breath than a sound. “You’ll live.” He rolled his eyes, but you could see the ghost of a smile playing on his lips before your mother’s voice called again, floating in from the hallway like a chime in a storm.

“Dinner’s ready!” Just like that, the spell broke. Jaehyun gathered the last of the glasses and followed behind you into the dining room where the long table waited like an altar, gilded with candlesticks, lace runners, and plates of food that looked too pristine to eat. You took your place near the end, far enough from the guests but close enough for civility, your back straight, your hands folded in your lap like the good daughter they always hoped you'd remember how to be. The Yangs spoke in soft, lulling tones, words that barely scratched at the surface of anything real. Their son sat across from you, occasionally meeting your gaze like he wanted to say something, something clever, or thoughtful, or maybe just nice, but you weren’t in the mood for pleasantries. Not tonight. Your smile was a veil, your laugh a curtain. You were not here. Not really.

Your father sat at the head of the table, his expression stoic, eyes moving from plate to plate, from person to person, as though dinner was just another meeting he had to manage. He asked about hockey like it was the weather, predictable and detached. He spoke more to Jaehyun than he had to you all week. And as the meal wore on, you found yourself chewing more on thoughts than on food. You thought about how he called Jay “son” sometimes in passing. How his voice softened when he talked to his players, how he clapped them on the backs with the kind of praise you used to dream about. You thought about the way Jay had looked at you today, the way his eyes followed your fingers, the heat of his skin beneath your hands, the tension of muscle and meaning that neither of you dared acknowledge. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, pushing your fork through a piece of untouched chicken. You were tired of feeling second. Tired of the way your family only saw you when they wanted to show you off, when your presence meant something shiny and packaged. You thought about how Jay had rolled his eyes at you earlier, and how, weirdly, that had made you feel more seen than this whole table full of curated smiles and forgotten birthdays.

Dinner dragged on like a clock with too many hours, and you responded when spoken to, nodded at the right moments, said thank you when dishes were passed. But your mind wandered, to the rink, to the feeling of being useful, of having something to offer, even if the captain of the team found you irritating. At least that irritation was honest. And honesty, you were learning, was a rare delicacy in this house.

The clink of forks against porcelain had become a steady rhythm, a kind of soft percussion to a dinner that already felt twice its length. Small talk meandered between sips of wine and half-hearted compliments, your mother commenting on Mrs. Yang’s earrings, your father asking about Mr. Yang’s latest business venture with the polite detachment of a man doing what he was told. Across the table, Jungwon answered when spoken to, his voice low and kind, a boy raised to be gentle, to make eye contact, to smile when he felt uncertain. You didn’t mind him, not really. He seemed sweet. But sweetness, you were beginning to learn, rarely held weight when placed against the fire of ambition or the ache of unmet need. You chewed on a piece of bread, nodding along to a joke your brother made, when your father cleared his throat. The kind of clearing that meant a shift, a tone, a pivot into purpose.

“So,” he began, looking down the table as though he weren’t already directing the spotlight right at you. “Jungwon will be joining the team this semester. Equipment assistant.” Your eyes flicked to the boy across from you, his cheeks pinkened slightly, bashful beneath the weight of your father’s pride. You gave him a polite smile, one that said, Good for you, but not I care.

“He’ll be on the sidelines with you,” your father added casually, as if mentioning the weather again, but there was something careful in the way he said it, something staged. You caught it immediately, the way his gaze slipped from Jungwon to you and then lingered just a moment too long. You stiffened slightly in your chair, already sensing the script he had in his mind.

“That’s great,” you said lightly, reaching for your glass. “We’ll be co-spectators then.” But your father wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

“You two should spend more time together,” he said, letting the suggestion unfurl itself with the soft force of velvet gloves. “Jungwon’s a good kid. Focused. Thoughtful. Comes from a good family.” His smile flickered toward the Yangs like a candle catching draft, then returned to you, heavy with intention. And there it was, the curtain lifted, the illusion gone. You blinked slowly, letting the silence settle just a beat too long before speaking.

“I’m not dating right now,” you said plainly, though your voice was calm, even lyrical. A stone skipping across still water. “Not planning to until after I graduate next year. Boys are a distraction.” You said it like fact, not defense. Like gospel truth carved into stone tablets handed down by a wiser version of yourself. And maybe it was. After all, how many years had you sacrificed for perfect scores, for internships, for the dreams that danced just beyond reach like distant galaxies? You had no room for curated love stories or staged introductions masked as fate.

Your mother chuckled softly, a little forced. “Darling, no one’s saying you need to rush anything.”

But your father leaned forward ever so slightly, elbows on the table like this was suddenly a negotiation. “It wouldn’t hurt to keep an open mind.” You met his eyes then, really looked. Not through him, not past him, but at him. The man who gave his softness to the boys on his team, who wore fatherhood like a jacket he could take off when it became too warm. You didn’t glare, didn’t raise your voice. But your gaze was steel behind a glass window. Clear. Unyielding.

“I know what you’re doing,” you said, barely above a whisper. “And I’m not interested.” The room went still for a moment, the way a violin string quivers just after it’s been plucked. Jaehyun looked down at his plate, chewing slowly. Jungwon rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed to have been made a piece on someone else’s chessboard. 

Your mother, ever the conductor of delicate recoveries, let out a laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Well! Why don’t we pass the salad around again? There’s more in the kitchen.” But you’d already pushed your plate aside, appetite gone, your chest tight with the strange ache of not quite belonging anywhere, not even here, not even with the people whose house you were raised in. You weren’t angry, not really. Just tired of the orchestration, the planning of your life as though it were a charity auction item passed between polished hands.

You didn’t want curated affection. You wanted to be chosen for who you were, not for who you were supposed to be. And outside, behind the thick curtains, the wind picked up in a hush, as though it, too, was trying to say something no one else could quite hear.

After dinner the table sat stripped of its former warmth, plates cleared, wineglasses emptied, napkins folded in the hush of a meal that had long since soured in your mouth. The laughter had faded like perfume lingering on a dress after the wearer has gone, and the only sounds now were the distant humming of the dishwasher and the shifting of chairs against hardwood as the front door shut behind the last of the guests. The air was still, thick with the kind of silence that waits to be broken, and you could feel it crawling up your spine like a storm on the edge of breath.

You stood there for a moment in the half-light of the dining room, your arms crossed against your chest like armor, your lips pursed in a line that threatened to break. Your mother moved quietly through the kitchen, her hands busy with cleaning, like always, her fingers always searching for distraction. Jaehyun yawned and leaned against the doorframe, phone in hand, already halfway out of the scene. But your eyes were fixed on the figures seated at the kitchen island: your parents, still playing their parts, still pretending that everything had been done out of love and not control. You stepped forward then, your voice calm but edged with the kind of cold that burned. “I didn’t appreciate what you tried to do tonight.”

Your mother looked up from the sink, the sponge pausing mid-scrub. Your father set his glass down, the click of it against granite too loud in the stillness. “We were just trying to help,” your mother said, gentle and practiced, the way someone might approach a wild animal, afraid of startling it.

You shook your head, swallowing down the heat that rose in your throat. “No. You weren’t helping. You were arranging. You were deciding for me.” Your father’s brow furrowed, his voice firm, that coaching tone slipping through like oil under a door. “We just thought you could use someone stable. Jungwon’s a good kid.”

“I don’t care,” you said. “That’s not your choice to make.”

There was a beat of silence before your father leaned back, his arms crossing, his jaw tightening like the locking of a gate. “Well, I already told the boys not to even think about you. I made it very clear; you’re off-limits to that team.” And there it was. The line drawn in blood. The decision inked into law without your consent. Your chest rose, breath shallow and burning, and for a moment all you could hear was the rush of your own heartbeat in your ears, like the distant roar of a tide pulling away from the shore.

“You what?” you asked, though you had heard him perfectly. You just needed to hear it again, to confirm the absurdity.

“I told them you’re off-limits,” he repeated. “I won’t have distractions on my team. You’re not there for that.” Something inside you cracked, quietly, the way a branch bends too far before it finally breaks. It wasn’t about boys. It wasn’t about Jungwon or Jay or anyone else on that ice. It was about you, your choices, your agency, your life being treated like a project in his playbook, another thing to coach into submission. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” you said, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with the sheer weight of everything you’d carried. “You don’t get to police my life just because you missed out on being a part of it before.” Your mother gasped softly, the words hitting her like a gust of wind through an open door. Jaehyun had long gone silent, his eyes darting from you to your father like a spectator at a match he didn’t want to see. Your father looked stunned, as if he hadn’t expected the defiance, as if the girl he’d always seen; dutiful, distant, quiet, had finally stood up and lit the room on fire.

“You don’t get to be their father and mine only when it’s convenient,” you whispered. “You don’t get to show up now and act like you’ve earned the right to guard my future.” There was nothing left to say. Not really. You turned on your heel, grabbed your bag with trembling hands, and stormed toward the door, your footsteps loud against the wood like drumbeats announcing a war. No one stopped you. No one dared. The air behind you folded in on itself like paper, creased, tense, ready to tear.

Outside, the night was cold, the stars bleached white against a velvet sky. You walked fast, like maybe the wind could carry your fury away or the moon could catch the tears you refused to let fall. You didn’t cry, though. You were done crying. You had your own life to live.

The rink was a cathedral of stillness when you arrived, the kind of sacred hush that only exists before the world wakes up fully, before blades scratch across ice, before whistles pierce the air, before voices rise like a storm. The overhead lights cast long shadows across the rink’s frozen surface, a pale, dreamy silver that shimmered like moonlight trapped beneath glass. You moved quietly, your footsteps muffled against the concrete, setting your things on the bench with the kind of careful intention that comes from routine born out of necessity. The cold curled around your ankles and fingers like a ghost; familiar, but not quite welcome. You slipped your headphones on, the music like a balm against the clutter of your mind. It dulled the noise from last night, dimmed the echo of your father's voice, the barbed twist of his authority. You had buried your anger beneath a layer of icy professionalism, telling yourself that this was work, just work. This was about anatomy and muscle tension, about tape and breath and recovery, not about fathers who try to cage you or boys with dark eyes and heavy gazes who can make your pulse falter with a look. 

You sat with your notebook open, sketching out plans, rotations for dynamic stretches, observations from the last practice, notes about posture, fatigue, habits of the body you were learning to read like language. You were deep inside your own head, scribbling something about joint stabilization and impact absorption, when a gentle tap on your shoulder sent a shock through your bones. You turned fast, heart stuttering as you tugged your headphones down, blinking up to find Jungwon standing just behind you. His hands were up in mock surrender, a soft smile pulling at his lips like sunshine trying to break through a curtain of clouds.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low, a little sheepish. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You let out a breath and gave a small shake of your head, smiling despite yourself. “No, it’s okay. I was just… somewhere else.” 

He nodded, eyes flicking to your notebook, then back to you. “I just, uh, I wanted to apologize. About dinner. I had no idea our parents were planning that.” His voice was genuine, and something about the tilt of his head and the nervous shuffle of his feet told you he meant it. You relaxed, the tension in your shoulders loosening like laces unthreading.

“It’s not your fault,” you said, voice softening. “I could tell you were just as surprised as I was.”

He smiled at that, a little embarrassed, and glanced toward the cooler by the far wall. “I’m here early to fill water cups. I like getting everything done before the chaos starts.”

You glanced at the rows of plastic Gatorade cups lined up like soldiers waiting for orders and raised your brows, amused. “You take your job seriously.”

“I try,” he replied with a small shrug. “I’m not on the ice, but it still matters.”

You nodded, watching him for a moment, then turned back to your notebook. “I come early for the quiet,” you said after a pause, almost without thinking. “It’s like…the silence here has texture. It feels like something you can fold yourself into, like a blanket that doesn’t expect anything from you.” He looked at you then, really looked, like he was trying to memorize the way the words left your mouth, the way your eyes stayed downcast even though the thought you’d just spoken hung shimmering in the air like frost on windowpane. There was a flicker in his gaze, surprise, understanding, maybe a touch of admiration. Something tender bloomed between you, unspoken and strange, the way dawn makes you pause even when you’ve seen it a thousand times before.

You talked after that, quietly at first, about nothing and everything. The weather, school, how strange it was to be pulled into something bigger than you without consent. You learned that Jungwon liked history podcasts, that he hated the taste of mint and that he had a younger sister who adored figure skating. You told him about your internship, about your coursework, about the way you sometimes felt like no matter how hard you tried, your father would never see you as someone separate from his plans. And Jungwon listened, nodding, offering soft words that didn’t feel like pity but presence. You didn’t notice when the first skates hit the ice. Didn’t hear the buzz of the locker room doors or the scuffle of blades being adjusted. Time warped, folded into something tender and slow, and it wasn’t until a burst of laughter echoed from the tunnel and the boys began to file in like birds in flight, loud, messy, full of life, that you realized how long you’d been talking.

Your eyes flicked up instinctively, scanning the incoming flood of players, and there, in the midst of them, Jay. He looked good with the morning light painting silver into the dark of his hair, but his gaze was unreadable, distant. For a moment, just a flicker, your eyes met. He didn’t look away this time. But he didn’t smile either. And then the moment was gone, swallowed whole by the whistle of your father calling for warm-ups, the clash of skates against ice, and the ache in your chest that you didn’t want to admit had settled in for good. 

Jay pushed open the doors of the rink with purpose, his duffel slung over one shoulder, skates clinking softly against the strap. The air hit him like a second skin, cold and sharp, the kind of cold that woke you up and carved clarity into your bones. It smelled like ice and effort, like old sweat and tape and victory dreams long since frozen in the boards. The kind of air that said this is where we fight, even if the war is only against the self, against time, against the nagging voice in your head that says you’ll never be enough. The week had been long, coiled tightly around the pressure of expectation. Their first game loomed on Saturday, close enough to taste, close enough that even his sleep had taken on the rhythm of the game, his dreams broken by phantom goals and aching limbs and the roar of a crowd that may or may not come. He was ready. Or at least, he was supposed to be. 

He was lacing himself with determination as he stepped into the rink, threading it into every muscle. His footsteps echoed in the early hour, crisp and measured. He knew his role. Captain. Enforcer of grit and order. No time for softness, no space for distractions. Today was about execution. Focus. Edge. But then he saw you. You were perched on the lower bleachers, a notebook open on your knee, a pen in your hand like a wand drawing invisible maps through the air. You weren’t wearing your headphones this time. You were smiling. That soft, crooked kind of smile that looked rare on you, like something tucked away for safekeeping, only pulled out when no one was supposed to be watching. And you weren’t alone.

There was a boy beside you, shorter than him, younger-looking, with kind eyes and easy laughter, his body angled toward you like a sunflower turning toward the light. Jay hadn’t seen him before, which made something in his chest curl tight and sour. He felt it at once, sharp and unexpected: that gnawing sense of displacement, of not being in on something, of something already being taken. It was ridiculous. He barely knew you. You had spoken what, three times? You’d argued, mostly. Clashed like fire meeting stone. And yet… And yet.

Something about the sight of you sitting there with this stranger stirred up a noise inside him he couldn’t quiet. He told himself it was irritation, annoyance at having his morning disrupted by something irrelevant. That it was just the weight of practice and captaincy and pressure twisting his mood. But he knew the truth. Or at least, he feared it. He was jealous.

Not in the loud, possessive way of boys who’d already claimed something. But in that terrible quiet way that sneaks in when you weren’t even aware you’d begun to care. It crept in through the cracks, through the way you had corrected his stretch without blinking, through the way your fingers had pressed against his knee like a dare, through the way your voice held thunder even when you whispered. He hadn’t meant to remember the shape of your mouth or the way your eyes flared when you were angry. He hadn’t meant to notice the way your laugh sounded reluctant, like it had to fight its way past pain. But he had. And now here you were, smiling at someone else. Someone who made it look so effortless. And Jay, who lived his whole life wrapped in performance and grit and silence, felt, for a moment, like he was drowning in something he couldn’t name.

He tore his gaze away, jaw tight, back straight. He said nothing. Walked past you like you were a ghost and he was a man haunted. But even as the coach called the team to warm up, even as blades began to scratch their war-song into the ice, Jay couldn't help but glance back once more; just once, like a secret. And you were still laughing. God, he hated how beautiful you looked when you weren’t looking at him.

Practice begins like it always does, cold and unrelenting, the sound of skates slashing against ice like knives against glass, every player carving their hunger into the rink, hungry for speed, precision, and that brutal dance of dominance. You sit at the edge of it all, notebook in hand, eyes trained like a lighthouse beam over the curling mist of motion. The air bites, numbing fingers through your gloves, but your mind is sharp, cutting through every stride and swing with the precision of a scalpel. Your gaze is calculating, watching the way Sunghoon adjusts for his healing leg, the way Heeseung still hunches slightly too much on his left shoulder, compensating with poor posture. But today, something feels… off. Unsettled, like the silence before a storm when the trees go still and the birds forget to sing. 

And it doesn’t take long for you to realize that the eye of that storm is Jay. Jay, whose presence on the ice is usually a poem in motion, a wolf weaving through wind, disciplined and razor-focused. Jay, who has always worn his title of captain like a stitched-on second skin, no room for error, no time for weakness. But now, he’s fraying at the edges. There’s something in the way he’s skating that makes your breath catch, a subtle stutter in his turns, a tension in his shoulders, like he’s being chased by something no one else can see. His movements are all wrong, off by mere seconds, fractions of angles, but wrong nonetheless. You notice his hesitation, how he favors the leg he’s always guarded like a secret. His eyes aren’t focused, not really. They’re vacant, elsewhere, like his mind is pacing in some far-off room, and his body is merely a ghost skating through the motions. 

You frown, gripping your pen tighter, every instinct in you whispering a quiet warning. And then it happens. It’s not theatrical, no loud snap of bone, no scream echoing through the rink, but it is enough to silence the room. Jay goes down, a crack of imbalance catching in the middle of a play. His skate catches on the edge of a turn, his body unable to compensate in time, and suddenly he’s hitting the ice hard, elbow first, knee twisted beneath him in a tangle of velocity and weight. The sound he makes is more frustration than pain, but it’s guttural, and it sinks into your bones like cold water. He stays down for a heartbeat too long. Long enough for every eye to turn toward him. Long enough for your own lungs to forget how to breathe. 

And when he finally rises, it’s with a sharp grimace and a tight jaw. He limps, not dramatically, but noticeably, dragging pride along with that wounded leg as he makes his way to the bench. You’re already up before your mind can catch up, your body drawn to him by something magnetic, something wordless and inevitable. You clutch your notebook to your chest, knuckles white, as you cross the ice’s edge with quick strides. By the time you reach him, Jay has torn his helmet off and flung it against the bench with a metallic clatter, the sound echoing like a gunshot. His gloves are off next, thrown down in a storm of self-loathing. He mutters curses under his breath, short and sharp, like they’re meant to punish the very air he breathes. His hair is a mess of sweat-damp strands, stuck to his forehead, and his eyes are wild, filled with that raw, reckless anger that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with pride.

You don’t say anything at first. You simply sit down beside him, close but not too close, letting the silence stretch thin and humming between you. Letting him cool like a blade just pulled from fire. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the way his chest heaves, the clench of his fists, the storm tightening and loosening behind his gaze. And finally, when the heat of the moment has dulled to a quiet ache, you speak. “I’ll need to look at that knee after practice.”

Your voice is soft. Not gentle, not coddling, just calm. Firm in that way that says you’re not asking for permission, but not picking a fight either. You expect the pushback, the snide remark, the roll of his eyes, the stubborn “I’m fine” that he usually keeps locked and loaded. But it doesn’t come. Jay doesn’t argue. He just nods, curt and silent, like something inside him has cracked open a little too wide to bother trying to hold it all in. Like he’s tired of fighting everything, including himself. 

You don’t press him further. You don’t say what you’re thinking, that he’s been off since the moment he walked in, that you saw him watching you earlier with that dark, unreadable look. That you can feel the jealousy clinging to him like smoke. You don’t say that maybe you understand a little too well what it means to be someone who feels everything too much and yet can’t say a word of it aloud. You just sit with him, watching the other players file back onto the ice like nothing happened, like the world didn’t just tilt slightly off its axis. And in that quiet, in that fragile space between heat and healing, something unspoken passes between you.

You glance down at his knee, at the way he’s holding it like he’s not sure if he can trust it anymore. And your hands itch to help. To touch. To fix. Not just the bruises in his body but the ones buried in places far deeper, places that you, too, have learned to protect like sacred, broken things. Practice continues without him, Coach barking out instructions, pucks ricocheting off the boards, skates slicing like silver across the white. But the two of you remain seated, tucked just slightly out of reach from the rest of the world, bound together not by words but by silence and circumstance and a tangle of emotions too complex to name. You jot down a few notes in your book, pen gliding mindlessly now, thoughts half-drowned in the electricity that hums quietly between your shoulder and his. 

Jay leans back, rubbing his hands over his face like he’s trying to scrub something out of his thoughts. And you don’t look at him, not directly. But you feel him there, beside you, in the weight of his breathing and the simmer of his presence. You wonder if he feels it too, the way the space between your knees barely touches, the way your shoulders almost brush, the way every breath you take feels just slightly heavier because of him. 

After practice, the rink is quieter now, emptied of the thunderous rhythm of blades on ice, the thudding pulse of pucks striking boards, the boyish laughter and the barking drills. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, a tired orchestra of static and hum that fills the cavernous space with a ghostly kind of stillness. You sit cross-legged on the bench, notebook splayed open like a journal of war wounds, a ledger of flaws you’re determined to help fix. Jay is beside you, not quite close, not quite distant, but sitting with the kind of posture that speaks of restlessness buried deep in muscle and bone. The kind that no stretch can ease. You glance sideways, pencil poised above the page, waiting for the conversation to start, for him to meet you halfway. But he doesn’t. He’s there in body only, shoulders drawn taut beneath his hoodie, jaw clenched, eyes fixed somewhere out past the rink walls like he's seeing something far, far away. Something he won’t share.

You clear your throat softly, trying not to let the irritation creep into your tone. “Are you even listening?” you ask, voice light, teasing almost, but there’s an edge there, a sharpness hidden behind the casual. “Because if you don’t care about getting better before the game, then we’re wasting our time.” Still, no answer. Just the faint sound of him shifting his weight, his knee probably still throbbing beneath his clothes, though he refuses to complain. Jay has always worn pain like a badge, never seeking sympathy, only challenge. But this, this silence, it isn’t stubbornness. It’s something else. Something quieter, more personal. It feels like a wall rising up between you again after you’d both spent so long trying to tear it down with quiet gestures and silent understanding. You set your notebook down slowly, turning to look at him fully now. And that’s when he speaks.

“Who was that boy you were talking to in the beginning of practice?” His voice isn’t biting, not sharp or mocking like you expected. It’s careful, too careful, like he’s trying to sound casual but failing entirely. It lands in the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples that reach far deeper than he’ll admit. And for a moment, you just stare at him, lips parting slightly in confusion, the question catching you so off guard you almost forget to breathe. 

You blink. “Jungwon?”

There’s a pause. A beat that stretches too long. Then: “Yeah. Him.”

You furrow your brow, unsure whether to laugh or scold him. “What does that matter?” Jay shrugs with the lazy grace of someone pretending not to care, but you see the way his fingers twitch against his knee, the way his jaw ticks slightly. He’s too composed for someone who's supposedly just ‘curious.’ His eyes don’t meet yours now. Instead, he busies himself with examining the tape on his wrist, like it holds answers he’s too afraid to find in your face. 

You narrow your gaze. “That’s not really any of your business, you know.” And there it is, the truth unsaid, the fragile line you both keep walking. The tension coiling beneath every word you speak to each other, a dance of proximity and avoidance. His eyes finally lift to meet yours, something unreadable in them. A spark of something you can’t name. Not yet.

He shrugs again, but this time it feels like armor. “Didn’t say it was. Just… wondered.” You exhale, the sound heavy with frustration, but not just at him. At yourself. At how quickly your chest tightened when he asked. At how easily you could read between the lines of his too-casual tone. You pick up your notebook again with shaking fingers, trying to will the heat from your face, trying to shove the moment back into something clinical, something safe.

“Well,” you say after a pause, voice clipped as you flip a page, “I’d like to get back to your stretches now, if you don’t mind.” Jay doesn’t respond immediately. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head tilted slightly toward you. He watches the side of your face like he’s trying to memorize it, trying to see something in your profile that you won’t say out loud. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask again. Just lets the silence stretch between you like a fraying thread. And still, even in the stillness, you feel the weight of him beside you like a gravity pulling at the edges of your restraint.

You begin to talk again, reciting what needs to be done, which muscles he needs to target, what angles he needs to avoid to stop aggravating the joint. But your voice sounds strange to you now, too tight, too careful, like it’s been dressed in armor. You glance up briefly and catch him staring again, not at your hands, not at your notes, but at you. Always at you. 

Time stretches, slow and sticky like sap from a wounded tree, as you move through the remainder of your notes, explaining each stretch again in patient, measured tones. Your voice is soft but firm, the kind of gentle insistence that comes from knowing what you’re talking about and caring too much to be dismissed. Jay listens this time, even if his expression is unreadable, more shadows than light. He sits with his back curved, eyes lowered, brow furrowed in a quiet storm of frustration and focus. You ask him if he’s been doing the stretches you assigned and his reply is a low grumble, almost a growl, as if admitting defeat to the air rather than to you. 

“Tried,” he mutters, voice roughened by pride and something he can’t quite name, “but they hurt more than they helped.” 

You sigh, the sound carrying a weight that doesn’t belong solely to this moment. You kneel before him, brushing your hair behind your ears like a soldier tying back their banner before battle. “Then you were doing them wrong,” you reply, the words not scolding but certain, like the slow unfolding of spring after a bitter winter. You rise and move toward him, slipping into the space beside his seated form on the bench, your fingers brushing over his wrist gently as you coax him to stand. He obeys, but not without reluctance, the kind of resistance that doesn’t come from distrust, but from something deeper, something tangled in his own ribs, knotted in the cords of his heart. You demonstrate the posture again, turning slightly to show how your knee aligns with your hip, how the stretch should feel like a pull and not a tear. But as you step back to make room for him to try it, your foot catches on the edge of your own bag, traitorous and silent, and suddenly the world tilts. You flail forward with a gasp, arms reaching for something solid, and Jay catches you before your body can meet the cold, uncaring floor.

His arms come around you swiftly, instinctually, like muscle memory, like he’s caught you a thousand times before in dreams he doesn’t remember. His breath escapes him in a hiss as the movement jars his knee, and you gasp in tandem, both of you locked in a suspended, breathless moment of mutual alarm. You straighten in his hold, hands resting lightly against his chest now, your palms splayed over the steady drumbeat of his heart. It’s only then that you realize he’s still holding you. And you’re still letting him. For a heartbeat; no, for a whole symphony of heartbeats, you don't move.

His arms, warm and trembling ever so slightly, are wrapped securely around your waist. His eyes, dark and lit with something you can’t quite decipher, stare down into yours with an intensity that steals the air right out of your lungs. The fluorescent lights above seem to fade, casting the moment in a softer glow, as though time itself has folded inward and left only this suspended pocket where nothing exists but you and him. And then, without even thinking, without fully realizing what your body has decided, you begin to lean in.

Your breath catches. His lashes lower. The world narrows to the mere inches of space between your mouths. You can feel the heat of him, his breath, the soft rustle of the fabric at his collar, the barely-there tremble in his hold. You’re close enough now to see the faint freckle at the corner of his jaw, the smudge of tiredness beneath his eyes, the scar just above his brow. You are close enough to kiss him. And you want to. God, you want to. But just as your lips begin to close the distance, just as the air tilts toward something irrevocable, Jay turns his head sharply to the side. You freeze. Mid-motion. Mid-breath.

He clears his throat awkwardly, a hand coming up to grip your arm, not harsh, but firm enough to guide you back to earth. “Sorry,” he mutters, almost too quiet to hear. “I — my knee, I shouldn’t be holding you like that.” And then, carefully, gently, like you’re made of spun glass or secrets too delicate to break, he sets you down on your own two feet again.

The warmth leaves you immediately, as though someone has opened a window to let in the cold. You step back, confused and suddenly small, the edges of your confidence curling in on themselves like burning paper. You blink down at your shoes, cheeks heating, pulse racing as if your body hasn’t quite caught up to the rejection your heart just received. “Is there anything else you want me to do?” he asks, his voice quieter now, strained and formal. He doesn’t look at you.

You hesitate, your throat tight, your pride frayed. You shake your head, a whisper caught in your chest. “No. That’s… that’s all for now.”

Jay nods, expression unreadable once more, a mask of cool indifference pulled over the face of a boy who just looked at you like you were made of starlight. “I better get going then.” You say nothing. You can’t. You watch as he limps slowly away, each step echoing like a closing door, like a heartbeat fading in the dark. And then he’s gone.

You sit down slowly, notebook still open in your lap, pages fluttering in the draft he left behind. The silence that fills the rink is different now, thicker somehow, as if it holds echoes of things unsaid. And you’re left there alone, heart stinging, face warm with humiliation, and a bitter taste blooming at the back of your tongue. You want to scream, or laugh, or cry, or maybe all three. But instead, you sit there with your hands still trembling slightly, wondering what exactly just happened. Wondering if it meant something. Wondering why it couldn’t.

The days pass like breath caught in your throat, never quite exhaled, never quite released. You keep your head down, hands busy, heart shelved like an old book collecting dust behind your ribs. You move through practice with the cold efficiency of someone who knows what they’re doing and refuses to be shaken by sentiment; at least not anymore. If Jay notices the way you don’t linger by the benches anymore, or how your gaze drifts anywhere but in his direction, he doesn’t say anything. Or maybe he does notice, maybe he notices everything and simply doesn’t know what to do with it, with you, with the heavy silence left in your wake. You’ve found a temporary anchor in Sunghoon, who’s been limping slightly on his left leg for a few practices now. He’s easier to work with, smiling, receptive, appreciative without crossing invisible lines. You offer him techniques, adjustments, reminders to ice and rest. He listens. He thanks you. And though your mind drifts back to Jay more times than you’d like to admit, flashing in those brief seconds between movements, appearing like a shadow every time you blink, you push those thoughts down, burying them like seeds in winter soil. 

But you notice.

Of course you notice.

Jay’s limp, though masked well beneath his stubborn pride and athletic grace, returns the day before the first game. Subtle to the untrained eye, just the slightest falter in his stride, the tiniest hesitation when he pivots too hard on his left side. It cuts through your self-imposed indifference like a blade, sharp, inevitable. You clench your jaw, fists tightening around your clipboard, war playing out behind your eyes. You don’t want to care. You don’t want to still care. But here you are, caring anyway. Coach calls for a ten-minute break, his voice echoing through the rink like a church bell, and you take that sound as your cue. You move toward Jay without thinking, clipboard held like a shield, resolve coiled tight in your chest. You tell yourself you’re here to be professional, that this is part of your job, that your heart is nothing but a quiet organ beating behind your ribs, it has no business interfering with tendons and joints and routines. Jay sits on the edge of the bench, pulling at the tape around his wrists, and your shadow falls over him before your voice does.

“I noticed your limp’s back,” you say, even and clinical, like you’re reading out symptoms from a chart instead of acknowledging the ache that’s been burning a hole in your chest for days. You don’t look at him. You can’t. He straightens slightly, wiping sweat from his temple with the back of his glove. “I’ve been doing the stretches.”

You nod once, still focused on your clipboard, though the words blur and bleed together on the page. “Before tomorrow’s game, stretch early and ice immediately after,” you say. “Don’t skip it.” He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s waiting for something more, like he’s holding something in his mouth, something fragile that might shatter if he breathes too hard. Then, carefully, his voice cracks the air between you like a pebble on glass.

“About the other day in the locker room—” Your spine stiffens. Your pulse stumbles. But you don’t let your mask falter. Instead, you cut in, your voice brisk and precise.

“I was thinking we could try a different form of therapy,” you say. “Something that focuses more on low-impact stretches and deep tissue. It might help more long-term.”

He exhales, and it’s not frustration or anger; it’s confusion, maybe even hurt. “That’s not what I was going to—” 

“It’s fine,” you say, and this time your voice does falter, just slightly, like a violin string pulled too tight. “You don’t have to explain. It was clear.” His mouth opens. You keep going. “You don’t feel the same way,” you say, and now your eyes lift, finally meeting his. And it’s a terrible thing, because he’s looking at you like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of your mouth, like he’s never been more stunned in his life. But you don’t let yourself get swept up in it. You keep your voice level, sharp with embarrassment, honed by the weeks of silence and avoidance and pretending. “I’d appreciate it,” you say, and your voice is soft now, almost breaking, “if you wouldn’t bring it up again. Just… spare me the humiliation, okay?”

And then, before he can speak, before he can call out your name or reach for you or cast another look that might make your knees weak, you turn and walk away. The sound of your boots on the ice-polished floor is the only thing you hear. Not the beat of your heart, not the breath caught in your throat, not the echo of your name behind you, only the silence that follows you like a shroud, thick and unyielding. You walk until the cold air bites at your cheeks and the rink fades behind you. You walk until you are just a girl again, alone in the echoing hallway, heart bleeding quietly inside your chest. 

Finally, It’s game day. 

The air feels heavy with electricity, like something important is about to break. The rink is abuzz with the quiet war-drum of preparation, sticks clacking against the ground, skates carving soft grooves into rubber, the rustle of jerseys being pulled on like armor before a battle. You stand in the back corner of the locker room, tucked away from the fray but still inside its rhythm, your clipboard abandoned for now, your laughter light and warm as it floats into the stale air. Jungwon is beside you, easy company with a boyish grin and a kind sort of curiosity that doesn’t ask for anything more than what you’re willing to give. His presence is uncomplicated, a balm to the storm that’s been churning in your chest for the past week. He’s cracking jokes, a little sharp but clever, and you laugh freely for once, like the sound doesn’t cost you anything. There’s something about today that feels strange though, like you’re standing at the edge of something. A precipice. A cliff with no railing.

Jungwon nudges your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling with mischief as he leans in to whisper something only you can hear, something stupid about the way Heeseung tapes his socks too tight or how Jake brought his baby’s pacifier instead of his water bottle. You giggle into your hand, shoulders shaking, just in time for a voice, deep, commanding, like thunder cracked through a glass sky, to slice through the locker room. “Huddle up.” Everyone moves instantly.

Jay’s voice is unrecognizable from the one you’ve grown accustomed to, the one laced with sarcasm or irritation or those low, quiet murmurs you’ve only ever heard in the in-between moments when it was just the two of you. No, this voice is a war cry. It’s sharp and magnetic, dragging the eyes and ears of every player to him like he’s the only sun in the room and they’re just desperate, orbiting things. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you exhale. Jay stands in the center of the locker room, tall and broad, chin tipped up, one fist closed around his helmet and the other gesturing with subtle but unshakable control. His dark hair is damp and pushed back, beads of sweat just beginning to prick along his brow from the warm-up, and his eyes are twin daggers, focused, deadly. You realize, then, that this is Jay as captain, Jay in his final form, Jay as the version of himself that eats pressure for breakfast and spits out excellence. You’ve never really seen him like this. And it hits you square in the chest. 

God, he’s beautiful like this. Beautiful and terrifying. Like lightning dancing across a frozen lake. Like something wild that could burn you alive if you got too close. You stand frozen, wide-eyed, caught in a kind of reverent silence that only deepens when Jungwon leans close again, voice low and teasing: “You’re staring.” You laugh — too loud, too quick, startled out of your daze, and that’s when it happens. Jay stumbles. Not on his feet, no, his posture stays rigid, his stance the same, but the words in his mouth, once flowing like riverwater, trip over themselves. A stutter, subtle but jarring, breaks the air like a skipped heartbeat. You blink, confused at first, and then you follow the line of his gaze; his eyes locked directly, unflinchingly, on you. Your laughter dies in your throat.

Jay looks away fast, like your face was too bright, too blinding. He shakes his head once, hard, trying to dislodge whatever momentary ghost took hold of him, and when he speaks again, his voice is firm and clean. No cracks. No hesitation. But the pause, the falter, it lingers in the air like perfume. And everyone felt it. Maybe they don’t know what it means, but you do. Oh, you do. You stand a little straighter, Jungwon now just a shadow beside you as your focus returns wholly, helplessly, to Jay. He commands the huddle with renewed authority, drawing the team in like stars around a sun. And still, beneath all that composure, you know it, you can feel it, the tension that thrums in the silence between his words. The weight of what was left unsaid in that locker room. The awkwardness of that almost-kiss, that half-second eternity where your heart had leapt and his had pulled back. You wonder if he feels it too.

When he finishes the pep talk, the team breaks with a unified roar, sticks thudding against the benches, skates scraping as they rise to storm the ice, but Jay doesn’t look your way again. Not once. He keeps his gaze forward, unyielding, captain-steady. And yet, for that one fractured breath, he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. Like maybe the words he couldn’t say had filled his mouth all at once and rendered him speechless. And it lingers. Like smoke after fire.

The arena is alive. Electric. It thrums with the kind of energy that only belongs to game night, shouts and whistles, sneakers scraping against concrete, the distant reverberation of blades cutting across frozen ice like poetry etched in glass. The crowd swells and hollers and surges in waves like a storm kept just barely at bay, but you, you are still. Poised at the edge of the chaos, pen between your fingers and a notebook cradled in your lap like it holds the whole universe. You’re supposed to be calm. Collected. Clinical. But beneath the soft tap of your pen against paper, your pulse is racing like something wild caged beneath your skin. They’re doing it. They’re actually doing it.

Every note you wrote, every correction you whispered beneath fluorescent locker room lights, every careful observation you tucked into the quiet margins of your planner, it’s breathing now. It’s real. The team is moving like a single beast, every shift on the ice more seamless than the last. Their passes are tight, clean, threaded like silver through the seams of the opposing defense. Their positioning is sharp, adjusted just as you suggested, and Jay, God, Jay is a storm in motion, skating with such relentless precision it nearly makes you dizzy to watch. There’s a moment when he pivots on a dime, receives a pass from Jake, and nails a slap shot that rockets straight past the goalie’s glove with a sound like thunder, echoing, undeniable, final. The whole crowd erupts. And your chest swells with pride so fierce you forget to breathe for a second. You don’t cheer. You don’t scream. You don’t jump up and throw your arms around like the rest of the spectators who are all giddy limbs and painted cheeks. But your smile; quiet, soft, almost secret, could light the whole rink. 

There’s a strange ache in the joy. Because it’s not just about the win. It’s the knowledge that they trusted you enough to listen. That the time you’ve spent, invisible and tireless, is finally seen in the way they skate, in the way they communicate on the ice like a language you helped translate. And maybe, just maybe, you matter here, something more than a daughter, something more than a placeholder. You’re part of the architecture. The bones beneath the flesh. Jungwon darts past you in a blur, a clipboard under one arm and a trainer’s bag in the other, his cheeks pink from exertion. You call out something teasing, and he shoots back a reply that makes you snort into your scarf, the two of you slipping into that easy rhythm that’s started to settle between you, like an echo, like something familiar that never needed to be explained. He’s good at what he does, even if he’s still learning. And there’s something charming in his eagerness, his instinct to over-prepare, to over-perform. You can’t help but admire it. He’s not trying to impress you, and maybe that’s why it’s so refreshing to be around him. He doesn’t want anything from you that you aren’t willing to give. 

You glance to your left where Heeseung and Sunghoon’s girlfriends are perched on the edge of their seats, wrapped in puffy coats and scarves and radiant with adrenaline. They’re shouting their boys’ names at full volume, jumping and gasping and squealing at every near miss and every stolen goal. Normally, the noise would drive you crazy, but there’s something endearing about the way their voices crack when they cheer. You watch one of them grab the other’s arm and shake her when Sunghoon skates too close to the boards, laughing like she’s afraid and thrilled all at once. There’s love in it. Raw and sweet and loud. You wonder, absently, what it must be like to feel that kind of closeness, to wear your heart on your sleeve without fear of how hard it might be broken.

And still, your eyes find him. Jay.

Every time you think you’ve pulled yourself out of the orbit of his gravity, your gaze is drawn back like a tide to the moon. He skates with his teeth gritted and his shoulders tight, every movement packed with intensity. He’s not reckless, but he’s ferocious, like something is burning behind his eyes and this is the only way he knows how to put out the fire. You see the slight limp in his stride, the subtle favoring of his left leg, but he masks it well, well enough that your father hasn’t caught on, but you notice. Of course you do. You know him too well now, even if you pretend you don’t. Your fingers tighten on your pen. There’s a moment when he looks toward the bench during a shift change, breath fogging up in the cold, jaw clenched. His eyes sweep the stands, and for a breathless second, you swear they land on you. You sit frozen. His gaze holds, unreadable. And then, he’s gone again, swallowed up by the game. You pretend not to notice the flutter in your chest.

The scoreboard blinks and buzzes, a mechanical hymn to their success, and the crowd surges forward in delight. The game marches on, and you try to return to your notes, to professionalism, to detachment. But it’s hard when your hands are trembling, not from cold, but from something far more dangerous. From hope. From confusion. From want.

The air is electric in the aftermath of victory. The walls of the locker room hum with the echoes of triumph, whoops ricocheting off metal lockers, the sharp clatter of skates being kicked off, towels slapping wet skin, voices riding high on adrenaline and pride. It smells like sweat and ice and something more sacred, like the echo of glory, like the start of something golden. The boys move through the space like kings returning from battle, bumping shoulders and laughing with that rare kind of joy that only comes from shared struggle turned into triumph. Heeseung’s lopsided grin is as bright as the scoreboard, his arm slung over Jake’s shoulder as he recounts a moment on the ice with exaggerated flair. Jay gets the loudest praise, backs patted, hands clapped, helmets nudged against his in celebration. He stands at the center of it all, looking like something carved out of fire and iron, stoic and silent, but there’s a glimmer in his eye that betrays the satisfaction he won’t speak aloud. You keep your distance.

It’s become your safe place, that edge-of-the-room observation. You smile when spoken to, you nod when needed, you laugh when the jokes make their way to you, but your heart is folded up tightly, tucked beneath the quiet task in front of you. You’re kneeling by the therapy corner, setting up Jay’s post-game ice bath, something you insisted on weeks ago when the limp first returned, something he never complained about, not even after the... moment between you. The container is half full already, the ice bucket humming beside you as cubes tumble in with mechanical rhythm. Your fingers are cold from testing the water, your breath fogs lightly in the sterile air, but your mind is far, far away, adrift on memories of locker room silence, almost-kisses, and the sound of his voice when it turned soft for you and only you. Most of the team is gone now, filing out with damp hair and open jackets, loud voices echoing down the hall. Even Jungwon gives you a wave goodbye before disappearing with your father to inventory the equipment one last time. You murmur your farewell, gaze flickering, pulse steady. Or at least it was, until the warmth of a hand wraps suddenly around your elbow. 

You startle, spinning halfway as a gasp lifts in your chest, but it’s Jay. His hand is firm but not rough, callused fingers pressing into the crook of your arm as if trying to tether you to the moment. The look on his face is unreadable, carved from stormclouds and moonlight. You straighten, trying to compose yourself, your lips parting for a question you never get the chance to voice. He cuts you off before it can form. “Are you dating Jungwon?”

The words are sharp and blunt at once, like being struck with something soft but heavy. You blink up at him, confusion furrowing your brows, heart stuttering in your chest. “What?” you manage, voice more breath than word, but he interrupts again, more urgent this time. 

“Just, please. Are you dating Yang Jungwon or not?” There’s something vulnerable hidden behind the edge of his voice, something frayed and fierce. He looks at you like the answer might shatter him, like he’s already halfway broken by the not knowing. 

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper. “Not that it’s any of your business.” But he doesn’t seem to hear that last part. Or maybe he does, and chooses to ignore it entirely. His eyes are still locked on yours, black as night and brimming with something you don’t yet have the language to name. Something heavy. Something real. He leans in. Not fast, not abrupt, no. Jay moves like he’s afraid to break the air between you. Like every inch is sacred. Like he’s measuring the distance to your mouth with centuries of longing compressed in his chest. And when his face is so close that his breath brushes yours, he murmurs, “Say the word, and I’ll stop.” It’s the gentlest threat you’ve ever heard. The sweetest cliff you’ve ever been asked to jump from. But you don’t stop him.

And when his lips finally meet yours, soft and uncertain and tender in a way that rips the breath from your lungs, it’s not fireworks that you feel. It’s silence. That same kind of silence you chase in the early mornings. That rare, impossible peace that only exists when the world forgets to spin. His kiss is reverent, hesitant, but aching beneath its restraint. It tastes like all the things he’s been trying not to feel, all the things he thought he wasn’t allowed to want. You make a sound, small and startled and aching, and then you're leaning into him, reaching up, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. He kisses you again, deeper this time, and everything unravels. His hand finds your waist, the other rising to cradle your jaw like something precious, something fragile. You feel your back press against the wall as he walks you backward, the air around you thick with want. He kisses like a man who’s been waiting too long, like he’s trying to memorize you, like he wants to carve the shape of your mouth into the backs of his eyelids. And then it gets deeper, hotter.

His body presses into yours, anchoring you to the wall with a force that makes your breath catch, that makes your knees feel untrustworthy. His lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, your throat, breath warm and desperate. You arch into him, eyes fluttering shut, drowning in the scent of him, sweat, cedarwood soap, something uniquely him that drives you mad with the simplicity of it. But then, he pulls back. He lets go with a gentleness that makes the moment worse, like the kiss had been holy and ending it was sacrilege. He exhales slowly, still so close his breath dances across your skin.

“Is there anything else you want me to do?” he says quietly, his voice low, almost pained.

“Keep going.” You breathe, the air shot from your lungs as his mouth found yours once again, soft but urgent. Like he was giving himself to you slowly and deeply, like his heart was a locked box with the key now in your hands. 

The kiss deepens, not in haste but in gravity, as if time itself has bent its laws to accommodate the want simmering between you. Jay’s hands are a prayer pressed against your waist, the curve of your jaw, the span of your back as if committing you to memory beneath his palms. He kisses you like you’re not just a girl but a revelation, like he's been wandering ice-covered roads for years and you’re the first warmth he's felt. His body shields yours from the cold tile of the locker room wall, and you can feel every inch of him, tense and trembling with the weight of restraint, of something that borders on reverence. You’re gasping softly into him, losing all sense of place, of direction, of anything that isn’t the taste of his mouth and the staccato rhythm of your pulse thundering between your ribs.

There is nothing polite about this desire, it is vast and raw and aching, a tether pulled taut between you, stretched across every stolen glance and unsaid word since the first time he looked at you and didn’t speak. Every second of tension in the past weeks has culminated in this: the electricity when your bodies align, the reverberation of heat low in your belly, the way his lips move against yours like he’s not just kissing you; he’s trying to say something in a language only the two of you can understand. And then, The sharp groan of a door creaking open cleaves the moment like a blade through silk.

You both jolt as if shocked by lightning, Jay stepping back just enough to break the kiss, though his hands linger at your sides, still warm, still trembling. Your breath catches in your throat as you both snap toward the sound, and there, standing frozen in the doorway, is Soobin. Tall, sweet-faced Soobin, with wide eyes and a half-twist of a smirk he’s trying (and failing) to suppress. “I was just coming to get my water bottle…” he says, his voice pitched high with embarrassment, words slow and uncertain like they’re skating across black ice. He gestures vaguely toward the benches, where his half-drained bottle sits beside a crumpled towel.

Jay doesn’t move. Neither do you. You’re still pressed up against the wall, lips flushed, heart a living drumbeat in your throat. The silence stretches out, taut and teetering on awkwardness. Finally, Jay gives a tight nod, measured, unreadable. Soobin grabs his bottle in the silence that follows. “I’m gonna go… good game,” he mumbles, already halfway out the door before the sentence finishes falling from his mouth. And then he’s gone, leaving nothing but the click of the door echoing in his wake and a sudden rush of cold air that feels like the world snapping back into its natural order. And for a second, the tension remains suspended, like a note left hanging at the end of a song.

Laughter. 

It bubbles up inside you so quickly you can’t hold it back. It starts as a breathy exhale, then spills out of you in waves, warm and full and uncontrolled. You lean forward slightly, your head falling against Jay’s chest, laughter shaking through your ribs. It's the kind of laugh that comes only after a release of something heavy, something long held in, the absurdity of the moment, the sweetness of it, the fact that you were just caught making out with Jay in the locker room like a scene pulled from the pages of some high school drama. You can’t stop. Jay watches you for a beat, stunned and dazed, and then a smile slowly curves across his lips. His own laugh escapes like a sigh of relief, low and rich, a sound like melting snow in spring. His arms circle your waist again, tugging you close, and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck for a moment like he’s trying to hide from how much he’s smiling. You feel the sound of his joy vibrate against your collarbone and it feels so impossibly intimate you almost tear up. When the laughter fades, you look up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

Jay reaches out, tender and slow, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing the shell of it like a secret. His touch is feather-light, reverent, and it stills something wild in you. You swear the whole room stills with it. He leans in again, but this time it’s gentle, slow. No rush. No chaos. Just him, kissing you like you’re the calm in his storm. His lips move over yours with a softness that makes your eyes flutter shut, with a quiet longing that tastes of something deeper; something that might become love if left to bloom.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His breath is soft, his voice even softer. “Good night,” he murmurs, a whisper sealed against your skin, a kiss wrapped in syllables. And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough. His eyes hold yours for a moment longer, and then he turns and walks toward the exit, leaving you still leaning against the locker room wall, your lips tingling, your heart dancing somewhere halfway to the moon.

You don’t move right away. You just stand there, smiling like a girl who has a secret no one else knows, eyes dazed and warm and so full of something sweet it could carry you away. You’re on cloud nine, weightless, golden, floating. And maybe, just maybe, starting to fall.

The night air wraps around them like a loose scarf, warm enough to leave their jackets slung lazily over their shoulders as they leave the arena, the scent of ice and sweat still clinging to their skin like ghosts from the game. Their footsteps echo on the pavement, scuffed sneakers and boots dragging over gravel and cracks, their voices a low current of triumph and teasing that rides on the heels of victory. Jay walks with Jake on his left, Heeseung and Sunghoon trailing a step behind, their laughter low and lazy, the kind of carefree sound that always blooms after a win. There’s a looseness to them, shoulders unknotted, mouths grinning wide, and Jay finds himself smiling too, just enough, just the corners of his mouth, but there’s a subtle difference in the curve of his lips. Because while they talk about the game, about Sunghoon’s near goal, about the idiot who almost got benched for not backchecking, Jay’s thoughts are stuck in the locker room, with your lips against his, your laughter blooming like a secret in the hollow of his chest.

Jake throws an arm over Jay’s shoulders, leaning into him as they walk. “So,” he says, voice drawn out and heavy with mischief, “we thinking post-game celebration at the house? Open invite? You know… keep the momentum alive.” 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Jay murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair, still damp from his quick rinse after the game. “Maybe we invite… her,” he adds, not daring to say your name but letting it hover like perfume in the air, thick and noticeable. Heeseung, ever the perceptive one, arches a brow, lips quirking into a half-smile that says he’s already ten steps ahead. “Her, huh?” he echoes with a lilt of curiosity and amusement, shooting a look over Jay’s shoulder. “You mean Coach’s daughter?”

Jay just smirks, the kind of smirk meant to deflect without answering, one corner of his mouth curling while his eyes give away nothing. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he says casually, like it’s a motto, a rule etched into his spine. Jake lets out a low laugh, nudging Jay in the ribs, his grin all teeth. “Guess Coach’s orders don’t apply to the golden boy, huh?” And that’s when it hits. The truth of it. 

Jay’s smile falters, not dramatically, not so much that anyone watching would think he’d been struck, but inwardly, he feels the fault line open just beneath his ribs. For a brief moment, he’d forgotten. Forgotten that you weren’t just you. That you were Coach’s daughter. That there was a silent border etched in the ice between what was allowed and what wasn’t. That all this, the kiss, the way his heart had lunged forward at the sound of your laughter, the heat that had stirred when you leaned into him, wasn’t just a risk. It was forbidden. He’d let himself feel weightless with you, floating in the space of almost, and now gravity pulls him back down with a vengeance.

Sunghoon sees the shift, quick as a cut. His eyes sharpen, his joking tone dropped like a stone. “Oh no,” he says, not unkindly, but with an edge of understanding that slices clean. “Coach doesn’t know, does he?” 

Jay shakes his head, once, the movement short and stiff. His jaw flexes. “There’s nothing to know,” he says, too quickly. Then again, slower. “It means nothing.” A beat passes. It’s the kind of sentence meant to close a door, but it doesn’t quite shut. It hangs there in the air between them, fragile and unconvincing, like a paper shield against a rising tide. Jake looks over at him, not buying it. Heeseung doesn’t say anything, but the raise of his brow deepens, a silent accusation or maybe just concern. And Sunghoon, ever observant, watches Jay like someone looking at a puzzle with one corner piece missing.

Jay stares straight ahead, jaw clenched, heart dragging behind his ribcage like an anchor. The truth echoes loud in his head, though he won’t speak it: it didn’t mean nothing. It meant everything. The way your lips trembled against his, the way your laughter cracked something open in him, the way he felt more like himself, more like someone he didn’t have to guard, when you looked at him with those eyes that didn’t expect him to be the captain, or the golden boy, or anything but just… Jay. But he says nothing. Because what can he say? That he kissed the one girl he’s been told to stay away from? That in the span of a few moments, he’s already losing the fight against the feelings he wasn’t supposed to have?

So instead, he settles for silence. The kind that tastes like regret and fear all at once. The guys let it go, at least on the surface. They start talking again, lighter topics, shallow water. The conversation shifts toward what drinks to bring, who to invite, how late to stay up. But Jay barely registers it. He’s lost inside himself now, knee-deep in thoughts he can't outrun. The stars overhead glimmer faintly, veiled by the streetlamps and campus haze. He thinks of you again, of how soft your lips were, of the gentle way you laughed like you had the sun inside you, of how your hands felt when they pressed against his chest like a heartbeat, unsure and wanting. And beneath all of it, like the faint growl of distant thunder, he hears your father’s voice. The warning. The rule. And wonders just how far he’s willing to fall to keep touching the one thing he was never supposed to have.

Still, he picks up his phone and sends you a text. Even if it was wrong, it felt right.

You step through the threshold of the frat house like a swimmer entering the ocean at dusk, hesitant, but pulled in by the current of something irresistible. The air is thick with warmth, buzzing with music that pounds like a second heartbeat beneath your ribs. The lights are dim, golden and hazy like candle flames through whiskey-stained glass. Laughter echoes against the walls, tangled with the clatter of red plastic cups and the stutter of music that skips every so often when someone leans too hard against the stereo. Bodies move around you like a tide, fluid and flushed, the scent of beer and cologne clinging to everything. You feel a bit out of place, dressed more nicely than most, a little too alert to be fully one with the crowd. But there’s something thrilling about it too, about being here, in this noise and light and heat, as though stepping into a life just slightly tilted off your usual axis. You belong to the world your father tried to keep you from, and even though you’re standing still, your heartbeat is already racing.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, through knots of people, couples kissing in dark corners, teammates whoop-laughing over some inside joke you can’t hear. You spot Heeseung near the window, kissing his girlfriend like it’s the last night on Earth, hands tangled in her hair, their bodies pressed together in a way that makes you look away with a soft laugh caught in your throat. You weave your way further in, bumping shoulders with strangers, eyes searching. And then, just as you pause near the base of the staircase, two arms wrap around your waist, strong and familiar, pulling you backward into warmth that makes every nerve in your spine flare. You whirl around with a sharp breath, only to find Jay grinning down at you like the world just tilted in his favor. His smile is boyish, easy, but his eyes, they hold that steady fire that always seems to look right through your defenses. “You came!” he says, surprised but pleased, voice barely audible over the hum of music and laughter. You nod, letting a smile curl slowly over your lips. “Of course I did,” you murmur, and you don’t say it, but it’s the truth, you would’ve followed him anywhere tonight. 

Jay’s hand finds yours and it’s instinctual, the way your fingers fit together like puzzle pieces. He tugs gently, leading you across the crowded room toward the far couch where Jake, Sunghoon, and Heeseung are half-lounging, half-sitting, deep in a conversation about the game that had them all riding high with adrenaline. Heeseung’s girlfriend is curled up next to him, glowing with affection and soft laughter, and you’re pulled into the circle like a ripple in still water. The jokes start almost instantly, teasing remarks flung like soft snowballs, warm and harmless, and you laugh in return, each giggle shaking loose the tension that had clung to your shoulders since you stepped through the door. For a few moments, you forget about boundaries. About who you are and who Jay is. You forget about your father’s rules and the ache of rejection that had lived in your chest not so long ago. Here, among Jay’s friends, among your friends, maybe, you feel light. Like you’ve found something that belongs to you, something you’ve been missing. That is, until Soobin stumbles in like a storm no one saw coming.

He’s already glassy-eyed and red-faced, his gait loose and uncoordinated, that unmistakable sway of someone who’s a few drinks past his limit. He barrels into the living room like a wrecking ball, slinging an arm around Jay’s neck with the kind of heavy-handed affection only drunkenness can excuse. “Chill out on the drinks, man…” Jake says, reaching for Soobin’s cup, which is dangerously tilted and threatening to soak Jay’s shirt. His voice is careful but not unkind. “I’m good,” Soobin slurs, blinking as he tries to focus. His voice is too loud, too relaxed, carrying a reckless kind of weight. “Anyone know any single girls around here?”

Sunghoon chuckles, tossing a comment over his shoulder about Soobin’s breakup with Yunjin. There’s a teasing edge to his words, but Soobin doesn’t flinch. He just shrugs like the loss of someone he loved is an old wound he’s decided to stop tending. Then his gaze shifts, and lands on you. Recognition hits his face like a lightning strike. “Hey—” he slurs, pointing at you with a crooked smile. “Did coach lift the ban on dating his daughter—?”

The question hangs in the air like a guillotine. But Jay is quick. “Shut up, Soobin,” he snaps, voice low and sharp enough to cut. His arm tightens slightly at your waist. Soobin blinks, confused for a beat, then throws up his hands in surrender. “Damn. My bad.” Jake grabs him gently by the arm, steering him away toward the kitchen, his voice hushed but firm. “Come on, man. Let’s get you some water.” 

The group’s laughter doesn’t return. The bubble pops. The easy lightness vanishes. And suddenly, all you feel is every pair of eyes that had glanced your way during that too-loud moment. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until Jay’s hand gently slides into yours again. “You wanna go upstairs for a bit?” he asks, voice soft this time, quieter, like he’s asking if you want to escape. You don’t hesitate. You nod.

Jay’s room is quieter than the rest of the house, sealed off like a snow globe from the riotous storm downstairs. When you step inside, you pause for a moment just beyond the threshold, unsure of what to expect but immediately hit by a surprising stillness. The air is tinged with something faintly woodsy and familiar, maybe his cologne or the way his jacket always smells when he leans too close. You drift further in and lower yourself slowly onto the edge of his bed, fingertips brushing the neatly tucked comforter, as your eyes sweep over his space with a subtle curiosity. Everything is tidier than you imagined it would be, books lined up like soldiers on his desk, sneakers in a straight row near the foot of the bed, a single jacket hanging from the back of his chair. It’s lived-in, but purposeful. A room that carries him in every corner. It doesn’t scream for attention. It doesn’t try to impress. It’s just... him. And maybe, for some reason, you aren’t surprised by that. Jay is a boy of precision, quiet control, even when the world around him spins out of balance. He closes the door with a soft click, leans his back against it for a moment like he’s collecting himself, and then lets out a breath. “Sorry about Soobin,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice soft. It’s not the first thing on your mind, not even close. But it’s easier than diving straight into the waves crashing inside your chest. The silence stretches, heavy with everything you aren’t saying. Jay crosses the room slowly, but not to sit beside you. He hovers near the desk for a second, hand drifting across a stray pen, eyes lost in thought. You know he feels the tension, same as you. And maybe, for once, silence isn’t the answer. So you break it.

“I don’t care what my dad says,” you tell him, your voice low but steady, slicing through the quiet like a blade. “He can’t dictate my life.” That catches him. Jay turns to look at you fully now, the weight of your words visibly landing in the set of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow. But he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets out a rough sigh, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to clear the thoughts clouding his mind.

“Your father’s been like… a father to me,” he finally says, voice strained and quiet. “I don’t think I’d still be playing if it wasn’t for him. He’s given me so much. And now—” He exhales sharply. “Now I feel like I’m betraying him.” You swallow hard. Not because you’re angry, but because you understand. You know what your father has meant to Jay, how he took him under his wing, coached him, mentored him, praised him in ways you only ever watched from a distance. But it still hurts, because the man Jay reveres has always kept you at arm’s length.

“At least he acted like a father to someone,” you say, and there’s something quiet and broken in your voice you hadn’t meant to let slip. Jay straightens, confusion flickering in his gaze.

“What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, fingers laced tight in your lap. “I mean… he was never really there for me. Not in the way that matters. He was always on the ice, always yelling plays, chasing glory. And when he wasn’t focused on the team, he was focused on Jaehyun. Because Jaehyun played hockey. Because Jaehyun was his golden boy. And me?” You shrug, bitter laughter bubbling in your throat. “I was background noise. Just a complication he had to keep out of the way.”

Jay doesn’t speak, but he moves, slowly, cautiously, sitting beside you now, close enough that your knees brush. His eyes are on you, unreadable but soft, like he’s seeing pieces of you he hadn’t known to look for before. “He doesn’t get to tell me who I can care about,” you say, voice firmer now. “Not when he didn’t care enough to be a father to me when it mattered.”

Jay swallows hard, his throat bobbing with the weight of everything he’s holding back. And then, almost cautiously, he reaches for your hand. When your fingers touch, it’s like the air shifts again, warmer, charged, trembling with something unspoken. “Then we should tell him,” Jay says quietly. “We shouldn’t hide it. If this is real, if you’re willing, then we should tell him. Together.” 

You stare at him, heart thudding, and slowly you nod. “Okay. Together.”

And something shifts in his expression, relief, maybe, or quiet awe. But you don’t have time to name it, because he leans in. The kiss is gentle at first, slow and uncertain like he’s afraid to break you. His lips press to yours with the care of someone tasting something they never thought they’d get to have, a wish whispered into reality. Your hand lifts instinctively to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palm, and he deepens the kiss, his fingers finding your waist like they’ve always belonged there. The air around you grows softer, heavier, your breaths mingling in the small space between your bodies. And when the kiss turns into something more — when it becomes less about proving something and more about being seen, there’s no fear. Only trust.

He touches you like he’s memorizing you. Like every moment might be his last. You guide him just as much as he guides you, hands and lips and hearts speaking in the language only the two of you understand. There’s nothing rushed or reckless about it, only an aching tenderness that bleeds into every motion. You hold him like a promise, and he holds you like a prayer. He moves inside of you with practice poise and heavy breathing. “You feel so good.” He breathes onto your shoulder, his forehead stuck to the skin, leaving feather-like kisses along the column of your neck. You arched into his touch with gasp leaving your mouth like wind. 

“Jay” You whined, nails scratching at the skin of his back. No doubt leaving marks in their track. “Jay Jay Jay” His name became a chant, a prayer. Your heat in tandem with his movements, your bodies so close it leaves little room to be desired. You loved him, in this moment you loved him. You don’t know how real it was, or if the euphoric feeling of being so close to him was clouding your mind but you didn’t care. This is where you wanted to be. And when it’s over, when the hush settles around you once again, Jay wraps his arm around your waist and draws you against his chest, your legs tangled under the sheets, your head on his shoulder.

Neither of you says anything for a long while. There’s nothing that needs to be said. His fingertips trace idle patterns along your spine, and you close your eyes, letting the rhythm of his breathing lull you into something peaceful. Something safe. You know the world won’t make this easy. You know the storm is still waiting just outside the door. But here, in this small, stolen moment, it’s just you and Jay. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like that’s enough.

Morning clings to your skin like sunlight through gauze, gentle, golden, slow to wake. Jay’s room is dim, the blinds cracked just enough to allow the earliest threads of dawn to filter in and cast warm slants across his bare shoulder, across the soft rise and fall of his chest where your cheek had rested not long ago. You’re still tangled in his sheets when you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, his skin tasting like sleep and dreams and something sweeter still. He hums, barely conscious, but his arm curls around you reflexively, keeping you close for a second longer, like even in sleep he can’t quite bear to let you go. “I’ll see you at practice,” you whisper, brushing your fingers across the mess of his hair. And Jay, with eyes still heavy and lips curled into the faintest smile, murmurs, “Yeah. You will.” It’s not a promise, exactly, but it feels like one. A truth passed quietly between two people who’ve crossed a line they can’t uncross. A line they don’t want to.

You leave his room feeling like you’ve been rewritten. Every step down the stairs, out the door, into the crisp morning air is wrapped in the strange, shining veil of newness. The sky above is still pale and sleepy, the trees rustling with the hush of an early wind, and the world, for once, seems like it’s moving in rhythm with your heartbeat. It’s all the small things you notice now. The way the clouds stretch like long strokes of white across soft blue. The way your lips still buzz with the echo of his. The way your heart tugs you back toward him even as you walk away. 

You don’t want to leave this bubble. You don’t want to break the illusion, the sweet, delicate dream you and Jay carved for yourselves in the safety of his room. But the real world waits, loud and sharp and unavoidable. And as you climb into your car, as the engine hums to life and your fingers grip the steering wheel, a new weight settles in the space behind your ribs, the knowledge of what’s coming. Because sooner or later, this secret won’t stay wrapped in soft cotton and whispered kisses. It’ll be exposed. Confronted. And though Jay hadn’t said it with urgency or fear, you could tell in the way he looked at you last night, bare and serious, that it mattered to him. That this thing between you wasn’t something he wanted to hide in shadows, even if it meant facing the hardest part of all: your father. You sigh as you pull into your neighborhood, the sun climbing higher behind you like a slow, burning truth. You’ve gone over it a dozen times already in your head — what you’ll say, how you’ll say it, how your father will react. But the words never quite line up. Not in a way that doesn’t twist your stomach into uneasy knots. Because you know your father. You know his pride, his protectiveness, the fire behind his eyes when someone breaks the rules he’s set in stone. And this? You and Jay? You’ve broken more than just a rule. You’ve stepped directly into the one place he made clear no one was allowed to go. But how can you explain that Jay is worth the fallout?

That behind the hard shell of his quiet and his discipline is a boy who holds you like you matter. Who listens when your voice wavers, who catches you when your steps falter, who kissed you like he was both terrified and thrilled to finally get to do it. Jay isn’t just a boy on your dad’s team. He isn’t just another name on a roster. He’s the reason your heart races when you walk into a room. The reason practice feels like more than just routine. He’s the one who’s made you feel, truly feel, after years of being tucked into the corners of someone else’s life. But will your father care about any of that?

You pull into the driveway and sit there for a moment, your hands trembling faintly over the wheel. The house is quiet. The world is quiet. But inside you, a thousand questions scream to be answered. You wish it could be easy. You wish you could walk through the door, look your father in the eye, and tell him that for once, you chose something for yourself, and that you’re not sorry for it. Instead, you think about how to crack the surface. How to ease into the truth without igniting it like a fuse. Maybe over dinner. Maybe after the game next week, if the mood is good. Maybe if he sees that Jay respects you, if he knows this wasn’t reckless or flippant. Maybe then, Your phone buzzes softly in your bag, drawing you out of the spiral. A message from Jay. “Made it out of bed. Barely. Miss you already.”

And just like that, a smile tugs at your lips. Even in the shadow of what’s to come, he finds a way to make the light reach you. And maybe that’s enough to keep going. To brave the hard conversations. To start telling the truth, piece by piece. You text him back.

“See you at practice, golden boy. ❤️” Then you take a deep breath, open the car door, and step out, each footfall soft and deliberate, like walking a tightrope strung between the memory of last night and the weight of the day ahead.

Practice is a familiar rhythm now, a melody you’ve memorized without meaning to, clipboards and crisp notetaking, laced-up skates echoing against the boards, the low bark of your father’s voice commanding drills like a general at war. You drift through it in your usual way, purposeful and observant, always keeping one eye on movement, posture, the subtle twitches of discomfort or strain in the players’ bodies. You jot things down. You offer suggestions to Jungwon, who takes your advice with a grateful grin and a chuckle. He’s become a good friend, easy to talk to, funny without trying too hard, unbothered by your silences when you’re deep in thought. And today, like most days, he’s helping your father by handing out gear and managing water bottles, moving with that natural rhythm he has, an ease like he was born for this, even if he doesn’t have the bruises or battle scars of the guys on the ice.

But today is different. Not for any visible reason, not for any change in the air, but because Jay is here, and he’s looking at you like you hung the stars he’s been skating under. And you? You’re trying your best not to look back. You fail, of course. Miserably. You catch yourself glancing at him over the rim of your clipboard, pretending to check a stat when in truth you're watching the way his jaw clenches when he’s focused, the way his brows furrow as he lines up a shot. There’s a softness to him now that you know what his kisses feel like. A gravity in the way he moves that you notice only because you’ve seen him at his most unguarded, tangled in sheets and moonlight. Every time your eyes meet, his mouth pulls into a lopsided grin, and once, when your father is turned and barking instructions at Heeseung, Jay has the audacity to wink at you. You nearly drop your pen.

It becomes a game. A subtle, delicious one. Eyes across the rink. Smirks hidden behind hands. He bumps shoulders with Jake and Sunghoon like normal, but every time he skates past your side of the rink, he finds an excuse to glance your way. And though you keep your expression mostly neutral, dutiful, professional, you feel like a teenager sneaking glances at a crush across a crowded cafeteria. There’s something electric in the secrecy of it, something young and stupid and wonderful. Then break is called. Water bottles pop open, helmets are tugged off, and the room settles into temporary chatter. Jay meets your gaze again, this time not playful, not teasing, but something more. A tilt of his head. A quick nod toward the hallway. You blink, then lower your clipboard and move, careful, subtle. You duck past the bench, past Sunghoon and Jungwon chatting near the entrance, and slip into the hallway like you were meant to be there all along.

The moment you round the corner, he’s there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting hours instead of seconds. He straightens when he sees you, that familiar smile blooming across his face, and before you can say a word, he steps forward and kisses you. It’s fast and warm and a little clumsy from urgency. You make a surprised squeak against his mouth, but the sound dissolves into laughter as you push playfully at his chest. He chuckles, pulling back just enough to look at you, and there’s mischief in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do that all practice,” he murmurs, still close enough that you can feel the breath of the words on your lips. You shake your head, heart racing, but your grin is impossible to hide. “I’ve been wanting you to do that all practice.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, like he wants to memorize it, the way you taste like mint gum and something undeniably you. His hands settle at your waist and for a moment it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. There’s no ice, no drills, no clipboard or game or coach waiting to shout your name. There’s just this hallway, and the silence between your joined mouths, and the pulse of something bright and blooming in both your chests. When he finally leans back, brushing his thumb across your cheek, his tone softens. “Did you think more about what we talked about? Telling your dad?”

The smile slips a little from your lips. Not completely; but enough to show the weight of it. You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I think we just need to do it. Rip the bandaid off. Clean, quick, no waiting around for the perfect moment.”

Jay lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-nerves. He leans back against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. “God. You’re braver than me.”

“You’re the one who said we should tell him.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually agree.” You laugh, but there’s truth nestled in the heart of it. “He’ll get over it,” you say, but the words taste like hope more than certainty. “Eventually.”

He nods. The silence is longer this time, but not uncomfortable. It’s thick with unspoken things, what-ifs and maybes and fears that neither of you are ready to voice yet. Then, from the far end of the rink, your father’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. “Hey! Where’d you go?”

Jay straightens like he’s been electrocuted. You stifle a laugh as he leans in quickly, kisses your temple with exaggerated tenderness, and says, “Guess that’s my cue.” You roll your eyes, turning to follow him back into the rink, but then, like he can’t help himself, he smacks your butt lightly with one hand. You yelp in surprise, twisting back to glare at him, but he’s already walking away, grin stretching wide across his face. He tosses a wink over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

The weight of practice has barely settled into Jay’s muscles before he hears it, his name, sharp and unmistakable, barked across the rink like a slap. “Park!” Coach Bennett’s voice booms above the low hum of skates and post-practice chatter, and it lands like a stone in the pit of Jay’s stomach. He straightens instinctively, spine stiffening, turning his head toward the source. The coach is standing at the threshold of his office, arms crossed, brows low with that permanent scowl etched into his weathered face. It’s impossible to tell if he’s furious or just...being himself. But Jay knows that tone. Knows it too well. It’s the tone that means come here. Now. 

He nods once, respectful, as if he isn’t panicking inside. As if his hands aren’t suddenly clammy and his heart isn’t hammering against his ribs like it wants out. He gives a fleeting glance back toward the ice, where you’re still collecting equipment with Jungwon, your eyes catching his for a moment, just a flicker. He doesn't smile this time. Just turns and walks. The office door clicks shut behind him, sealing out the familiar chaos of the rink. In here, it’s quiet. Sterile. A single desk lamp casts a dim, amber light over the papers scattered on Coach Bennett’s desk. Framed photos of past seasons hang on the walls, championships won, trophies hoisted high, a dozen versions of the same proud scowl that the coach wears now, as he motions silently for Jay to sit.

Jay obeys, lowering himself into the chair like he’s done a hundred times before. But today, the air feels thicker, like it’s pressing down on his chest. He keeps his expression neutral, hands clasped tightly between his knees. Captain’s posture. Soldier’s stance. Coach Bennett doesn’t beat around the bush. “Jay, I’m going to be honest,” he begins, his voice rough as gravel, fingers laced tightly together as he leans forward on the desk. “I’ve heard some rumors.”

Jay’s mouth goes dry. The coach continues, eyes boring into him like a spotlight. “Rumors that someone on this team has been fooling around with my daughter. Even after I forbade it.” Jay blinks, once. The seconds stretch and bend like rubber bands. His throat tightens.

“Do you know anything about this?” He wants to lie. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he wants to rip the words from his chest and lay them out plain. He swallows hard. “No, Coach, I–” But Coach Bennett doesn’t let him finish. He leans back, cutting him off with a raised hand.

“I trust you,” he says, voice suddenly softer. And for a flicker of a moment, a single heartbeat, Jay feels relief. His breath catches on the cusp of hope. Maybe this is his way of saying it’s okay. Maybe he knows, and he’s offering a backdoor blessing. Maybe, just maybe — 

“I trust you,” the coach repeats, voice firm now, “to nip these rumors in the bud.” Jay’s heart stops. “You’re the captain. That means handling this, loudly and clearly. In front of the whole team. If someone is messing around with my daughter, I want to know who. And I want them dealt with.” Jay opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Coach Bennett isn’t finished.

“Whoever it is, if I find out, they’re suspended indefinitely. Until I decide if they ever come back.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t care how good they are. Rules are rules. And I don’t break them for anyone.” Jay’s stomach churns. Then the killing blow. 

“You’re like a son to me, Jay. That’s why I made you captain. I trust you.” Jay tries to swallow the guilt rising like bile in his throat, tries to keep his features smooth and unreadable. But it’s like a knot has formed in his chest, thick and tangled and impossible to ignore. Like a brand seared into his ribs. The kind of pain that doesn’t scream, it smolders.

He nods once. “Yes, Coach. I’ll take care of it.”

The coach leans back in his chair, apparently satisfied. “Good. You’re dismissed.”

Jay stands, body on autopilot, legs heavy as stone. He walks out of the office slowly, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. The air out here feels colder. Sharper. Like the truth is a knife pressed against his neck. He should feel proud. He said the right thing. Wore the right mask. But he doesn’t feel proud. He feels hollow. There’s no ice bath waiting for him now. Only the silent weight of guilt, trailing him like a shadow as he heads for the locker room. And for the first time in years, Jay isn’t sure if he deserves the “C” stitched to his jersey, or the way you look at him like he’s someone worth trusting. Because he’s lying to the only two people who’ve ever mattered. And that lie is starting to rot in his chest.

Practice ends beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of skate blades scraping against ice, but Jay’s world has long since tilted off its axis. He doesn’t even register the ache in his body anymore, not the dull throb in his knee nor the stiffness in his arms. He’s moving on instinct, eyes only searching for one thing, you. You’re by the bench with Jungwon, laughing at something he said, your hair falling in a way that makes his heart clench. For a moment, Jay forgets the weight in his chest, the pressure behind his eyes. You look so soft in the cold of the rink, a calm tucked away in chaos. He doesn’t have time.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words falling from his lips like lead. You turn to him, confused, eyebrows furrowing, lips parting to ask what he means, but he’s already walking away, like a man marching toward his own execution. And maybe that’s what this is.

He doesn’t glance back as he calls for the team to gather. “Line up,” he shouts, his voice sharp and firm, echoing off the walls. The players shuffle toward him in loose lines, shoving each other, still high off adrenaline from drills. You’re watching now from the sidelines, your clipboard held tightly in your hand, curiosity pinching your expression. Jay forces himself not to look at you. If he does, he’ll lose the will to speak. “I have an announcement,” he begins, loud enough to silence the chatter, his voice ringing out into the stillness. And then the words leave him, like poison.

“There are rumors floating around that someone on this team has disobeyed Coach Bennett’s orders regarding his daughter.” The moment your name hangs in the air, not spoken, but pointed at, like a dagger, everything stops. You freeze, blinking at Jay, disbelief warping across your face like a crack in glass. Your breath catches in your throat. It doesn’t make sense. Is he —?

“She is off limits,” Jay continues, his jaw clenched, every word a betrayal. “If you’re caught with her, you will be suspended pending review by the coach. If he decides you’re no longer necessary to the team, you’ll be removed entirely.” The silence is deafening.

You step forward like your bones are no longer willing to sit back and let this happen. Your face is a map of fury and heartbreak, eyes blazing, jaw trembling. “What the fuck, Jay?” you shout, voice rising like a wave crashing against the shore. “What the hell is this? What are you doing?” He can’t look at you.

You shove past the stunned players and stomp into the center of the rink, your voice climbing in volume, sharp and sure. “I’m not a fucking piece of meat. I’m not something you can pass rules about like I’m property.” Your voice wavers with rage, with disbelief, with the sudden sting of being betrayed not only by your father, but by the boy who kissed you like you were everything. “I’m my own person. You don’t get to control me.”

Coach Bennett’s voice cracks like a whip across the silence. “Rules are rules.”

You spin on him now, eyes flashing, years of buried resentment erupting like magma. “Your rules are bullshit! They’ve always been bullshit. You think you can control everything with a whistle and a clipboard, but you can’t. You were never there for me. You were there for Jaehyun. For hockey. But not for me.” The entire team is frozen. Nobody dares to breathe.

Coach Bennett’s face darkens. “I can’t dictate your life,” he says lowly, “but I can dictate theirs.”

That’s when it snaps. You feel it inside your chest, the last strand of restraint snapping like a violin string under pressure. You look at him, then at Jay, and the pain in your eyes could shatter the ice beneath you. “Go to hell,” you spit, your voice like fire. “All of you.” You throw the clipboard. It hits the ground with a clatter that echoes like a gunshot. And then you turn, storming out of the rink, each footfall hard and fast, your breath shallow, your fists clenched at your sides. No one calls after you. Not even Jay.

He just stands there, alone at the center of the storm he helped create, watching the person he loves disappear through a door he may never be able to open again. And the silence you leave behind is heavier than any punishment Coach Bennett could ever give.

The hallway smelled like stale sweat and antiseptic soap, like frozen water thawing too fast, and your breath came in jagged pieces, lungs aching against your ribcage as you tried to contain everything you felt, humiliation, betrayal, rage. They were blooming in you like rot, black and furious, and you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe. Your fingers were trembling as you pushed open the locker room door, letting the chill of the empty room swallow you whole. It was quieter in here, almost sacred in a way, the clatter and chaos of practice replaced by the muffled hum of old air vents and the distant drip of melting ice. You moved robotically, grabbing your notes, your clipboard, your stupid pens that you didn’t even like, stuffing them into your bag like they’d wronged you personally.

If this internship wasn’t so damn important, if you weren’t so close to the future you’d been clawing toward for years, you’d quit right now. Walk out of this rink, toss your badge in your father’s face, and never look back. But you couldn’t, not yet. How dare he try to dictate your life. And how dare Jay let him? You blinked hard, the sting of unshed tears biting at the corners of your vision. The boy who kissed you like he meant it, who whispered against your skin like you were precious, who looked at you like he was seeing something holy, that boy stood in front of an entire team and threw you under the bus like you were just some distraction. Just some problem to be managed. After everything you’d shared. After what you gave him. The door creaked open.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. The room felt different with him in it, weighted and warm in that way that used to make you feel safe, but now made you want to scream. Jay stood there in silence for a moment, his mouth parted, like the words were caught behind his teeth. His eyes searched your face like he could still find a trace of forgiveness there. Like maybe if he looked long enough, the damage he did might disappear. “I’m sorry—” he started, voice soft, pleading.

You spun around fast, eyes wild, your voice sharp like a blade. “You humiliated me.” He flinched like the word was a slap, but you didn’t stop. “You took his side. After everything we said. After what we did. How could you?” Jay opened his mouth, but nothing came out. No excuses. No explanations. Just silence.

You shook your head, bitterly, lips tight with disbelief as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Forget it,” you muttered, walking toward the door like you could outrun the hurt. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known better than to think I mattered more than him.”

“Please—” he called out, voice cracking. “Just… let me explain. Please.” You turned to him, hollow laughter spilling from you like a broken song. “Why should I? What I say doesn’t matter, Jay. You’ll just do whatever my dad says anyway.”

He groaned, running a hand down his face like he could pull the guilt off himself. “He’s like a father to me—”

“And he’s my father,” you snapped, your voice rising with the full weight of all the years you’d held this in, “Mine. And he treats me like I’m a fucking ghost. Like I’m not even there unless I’m making his coffee or holding his clipboard. You think it feels good to watch someone who isn’t even his blood get treated like a golden child, while his real child gets nothing? Not praise. Not love. Nothing.” Jay’s face softened with something that looked like heartbreak, his mouth trembling with words he didn’t know how to say. “He cornered me in the office today,” he said, his voice rough. “He demanded I make a statement in front of the team, to put the rumors to rest, and if I didn’t — he made it sound like I’d be finished. What was I supposed to do?” 

“Tell the truth,” you breathed. “You should’ve told the damn truth.” He sighed, defeated, and sat down on one of the benches like the weight of it all had finally caught up to him. His shoulders curled forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limp.

Then, quietly; so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I love you.” The air left your lungs. He looked up at you now, and his eyes were nothing like the confident boy you first met on the ice. They were soft, and tired, and afraid. “I know it’s soon,” he said. “I know everything’s a mess. But I do. I love you.” 

Your heart clenched. You hadn’t expected it, not here, not like this, not in the middle of a locker room still echoing with betrayal. But even now, even bleeding, you knew your feelings hadn’t changed. So you sat beside him, your thigh pressed to his, and reached for his hand. “And I hate that he wasn’t a good dad to you,” Jay whispered, his voice cracking. “I hate it. But I can’t lie to him, not after everything. I owe him.”

You nodded slowly. “I agree, Jay. I’m not asking you to lie.” You turned to him, your voice quiet, but firm. “But I won’t be with you if we keep this a secret. I won’t be your dirty little secret. We tell him. Or this ends.”

Jay nodded, gripping your hand tighter. “Okay. Let’s—” A voice cut through the air like a gunshot.

“Too late.” You froze. 

Your head whipped toward the door, and there, standing in the frame like the ghost of a thousand disappointments, was your father. Coach Bennett. Face hard. Shoulders squared. His eyes were sharp and unreadable, but the fire beneath them was unmistakable. Every nerve in your body screamed. Jay stood up slowly, but you didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. It was too late. You didn’t need to tell him. He already knew. The moment felt frozen in amber, suspended between one breath and the next. You stood beside Jay like you were both statues cast in shame and defiance, the silence between the three of you straining at the seams.

His eyes bore into Jay with something colder than ice, sharper than skates on glass. His voice came low and level, but the weight of it dropped like an axe. “I trusted you.” 

Jay didn’t flinch, but you saw the way his eyes dropped, the way his shoulders curled inward slightly like he’d taken the hit straight to the chest. You wanted to speak, to say something, but you felt your pulse in your throat, thick and rising. Jay looked at his shoes, then at your father, then finally at you, his eyes steady, jaw tight. And then, slowly, deliberately, he reached down and took your hand in his. “I love her,” he said. No embellishment, no excuses. Just truth. Laid bare like a wound. “I’m sorry.” For a heartbeat, it almost felt like that might matter. Like maybe love could be enough to change something here.

But your father’s eyes darkened, his lips pulling into a grim, tired line. He didn’t even blink. “You’re suspended.” The air in the room imploded. The silence that followed was so deep it rang in your ears. You felt the earth tilt under your feet, the ripple of that sentence echoing in your bones. You didn’t move. Neither did Jay.

“Dad—” you started, your voice raw.

“No.” The word came fast and sharp, slicing through your protest before it could fully form. He didn’t even look at you. His eyes were still locked on Jay like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re suspended,” he repeated, voice like splintering wood. “Until I’m ready to let you back. Heeseung will be acting captain. Now get out of my rink.”

Jay inhaled sharply, something like heartbreak flashing behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, voice trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t gotten the chance to say. “Coach—”

“Get out.” There was finality in those words. No room for argument. No crack to slip a plea through. Jay stood still for a moment, eyes flicking to you one last time, and there was something in his gaze, something that said I’m sorry. He picked up his bag without a word and walked out, the door shutting softly behind him, the sound so gentle it felt cruel. And then it was just you and your father, the air still vibrating from all that had just broken apart.

You turned toward him slowly, your heart pounding, your face flushed with fury. There was no more space left inside you for restraint, for tiptoeing around his silence or swallowing your feelings like they didn’t matter. “How dare you?” you breathed, your voice a whisper and a scream at once. 

His eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest like a fortress. “Rules are rules.” But you weren’t having it. Not now. Not anymore.

“No.” You stepped closer, heat radiating off you like a wildfire. “What is your problem? Why the sudden urge to act like a father now? What, because it finally gives you control over something? Someone?” He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his stare hardened, and you could see it, that wall he always kept between the two of you, the one made of pride and coldness and hockey schedules and missed birthdays. 

“This isn’t up for discussion,” he said, like he was reading from a goddamn script.

You scoffed, bitter laughter escaping before you could stop it. “Of course it isn’t. It never is with you. It’s always do this, don’t do that, be quiet, be useful, don’t embarrass me. You never listen to me. You never see me.” He didn’t say anything. Didn’t blink. Just turned back to his desk like he could will you out of the room by ignoring you.

So you did what you always wanted to do. You left. You turned on your heel, your throat burning, your heart thundering, and walked out without another word. Not because you were giving up, but because there was nothing left to say to someone who never heard you in the first place. The door clicked shut behind you with a sound too small for how big this moment felt. And still; through the rage, through the betrayal, through the cracks, you carried one thing with you as you walked: Jay's words echoing soft as snowfall. I love you. That, at least, was still yours.

Jay’s house is quieter than you’ve ever known it to be. The kind of quiet that sinks into your skin, that makes you wonder how long he’s been alone with his thoughts, how long he’s sat in this silence with the weight of your father’s words pressing into his chest like stones. Sunghoon answers the door after only a few knocks, and his face softens when he sees you standing there. There’s something in his gaze that reads like understanding, like he knows exactly where you’re headed and what you need to say. He steps aside without a word and gestures upstairs. “He’s in his room,” he murmurs, voice gentle, as if not to disturb something sacred.

You nod your thanks, offering him a small, grateful smile, and begin to climb the steps. As you approach the top, a sound reaches you, soft, melodic, aching in its simplicity. Not loud or showy. Just… honest. It takes you a second to realize what you’re hearing: music. Guitar strings plucked with care, each note falling like a raindrop into still water. The sound is fragile and deeply personal, like a secret you’re not sure you’re meant to hear. You pause just outside his room, heart slowing to match the rhythm of the melody, and close your eyes for a moment. You let it wash over you, the way it trembles, the way it yearns. It speaks of sadness and of hope, of loss and love all braided into the same fragile thread. You push the door open gently and there he is, Jay, sitting on the edge of his bed, guitar nestled in his lap, his fingers dancing across the frets with a kind of quiet reverence. His brow is furrowed in focus, his lips slightly parted as he hums along, completely unaware that the world is watching. That you are watching. And something in you splinters, because how can someone look so heartbreakingly beautiful in their stillness?

He looks up and startles slightly when he sees you, his cheeks flushing the softest shade of pink like you’ve caught him baring something intimate. He moves to set the guitar down quickly, a sheepish laugh escaping his throat. “I didn’t think anyone was home,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting away.

You step into the room, closing the door behind you. “It was beautiful,” you say softly, like speaking too loudly might break the magic still lingering in the air. He lets out a small breath, almost relieved, but shrugs modestly. “I only play sometimes,” he murmurs. “When it’s quiet. When I need to think.”

You walk closer, until you’re in front of him, your gaze soft but steady. “I’d love for you to play for me sometime,” you say, and you mean it. There’s something deeply vulnerable in the way he held that guitar, something that speaks more truth than words ever could. Jay looks at you then, really looks, and you see the shadows behind his eyes, the questions, the uncertainty, the pain he’s been hiding under that quiet exterior. “Are you okay?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as if asking it too loudly might cause him to retreat into himself again.

He exhales, his shoulders sinking as he leans back slightly, resting his arms on his knees. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know who I am without hockey.” You nod, understanding that ache all too well, the feeling of being untethered, of having the one thing that defined you ripped away before you were ready to let go. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

But Jay reaches for your hand and shakes his head, his fingers curling around yours with surprising tenderness. “Don’t apologize,” he says firmly. “You didn’t do this. I made the choice. I just… wish it didn’t feel like losing everything.” 

Your heart aches for him, for the boy who’s spent his whole life trying to be good enough for a man who only saw his potential on the ice. You lift his hand to your lips and press a kiss into his knuckles. “I see you,” you say softly. “Even without the jersey. Even without the captain’s C.”

Something flickers in his expression, gratitude, adoration, a flicker of something deeper. He leans in slowly, brushing his lips against yours, tentative at first like he’s afraid you might still be angry, still slipping through his fingers. But you lean into him just as hungrily, and the kiss deepens, your hands finding their way to his hair, his neck, pulling him closer like you never want to be apart again. The guitar is long forgotten, resting gently on the bed as your bodies lean into one another. The heat builds slowly, quietly, in the soft sighs between kisses, in the way his fingers trace along your spine, in the way you fit together so naturally. There’s no rush, no desperation, only the steady, quiet need to be known. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, and you respond with forgiveness, with fire.

The room fills with the sound of breath, of whispered names, of two people trying to love each other through the wreckage. And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, with your heart pounding in tandem, you realize that even in the ashes, something new can grow. That maybe love is the one thing strong enough to stand after everything else falls. 

You lean back only slightly, your lips leaving his. “I have something that might make you feel better.” Your voice carried a heavy lit to it, sultry and sweet. Jay’s eyebrows rose, a playful smirk on his lips. 

“Yeah?” He asks his tongue darting out to lick his lips, his hands finding your waist to pull you impossibly close. “How, so?” 

You fall to your knees in front of him, your hair hanging around you like a veil waiting to be pushed aside. Jay let out a low groan, one that stems deep within his belly — deep and guttarl. He wore grey sweatpants, your nimble hands finding the jaw string to pull at. His eyes drank in every movement. The way you lowered his pants to his ankle, the way you pulled him out of his boxers with a hiss, a small knowing smile on your face. 

“Fuck.” He choked out his hands finding your hair. Your mouth found his tip, sucking slightly. Jay’s eyes fluttered a shaky breath leaving his lips as he gathered your hair into a tight ponytail, tugging just lightly. “Agh fuck.” 

His groans were only encouragement for your movements, a rhythm settling in as you bobbed your head up and down on his shaft. The hand that wasn’t holding your hair, settled on your cheeks as his fingers grazed the indentation of himself inside your mouth. “Don’t stop.” He praised, his grip on your hair tightening “Don’t fucking stop, i’m close.” 

You speed your movements up — a gag in the back of your throat sounding over the harshness of Jay’s ragged breath and gurgling moans. “Where do you want it, baby?” He asked you. You nodded at him, signaling for him to finish in your mouth and that he did. His eyes squeezing shut, his hand yanking at your hair like it was a lifeline. He came down your throat – hot. You pulled away, your breath harsh swallowing all that he gave you. 

“Did that help?” You smirked, whipping your mouth with the back of your head. Jay laughs his head lazily, nodding a smile on his face. “I’m glad.” 

The morning is crisp and cold, the sky still tinted with the faded gray of pre-dawn. The air bites at your cheeks as you walk across the familiar parking lot, one last time. You’ve arrived early, earlier than anyone else, before the team, before Jay, even before the locker rooms have truly come alive. The hum of the arena is low and steady, the kind of hush that exists only in those sacred minutes before the world begins to move again. You clutch the envelope in your hand tightly, the edges slightly curled from how many times your fingers have clenched it overnight. It holds not just a few simple documents, but the manifestation of your decision, your first true act of defiance not rooted in emotion but in intention. Your choice. You make your way through the maze of hallways you know by heart, each echo of your footsteps reverberating off the walls like a goodbye. When you reach the door to your father’s office, you hesitate for just a second. Your fingers hover over the woodgrain, and you let out a slow breath, steeling yourself. Then, you knock.

The door opens shortly after, and your father blinks in surprise when he sees you. He’s not dressed in his usual suit and tie just yet, still in his fleece-lined warm-up gear, clipboard tucked under one arm. You hand him the envelope without a preamble. Your voice is level, your gaze steady. “I need you to sign these.” 

He furrows his brow, flipping the envelope open and scanning the first page. “What’s this?” 

You don’t flinch. “They’re transfer papers. I’ve accepted an intern position with the university across town. Their hockey program offered me a place to work starting tomorrow.” The silence is sharp and immediate. His eyes snap up to meet yours, laced with confusion, the beginning edge of protest in his throat. “You’re transferring? You don’t have to do that. This is rash. You’re not thinking clearly.”

But you don’t budge, don’t shrink under his stare. You won’t be talked down from this cliff. “No,” you say calmly, each word deliberate, crystalline. “I’ve thought about it a lot. This isn’t just about what happened with Jay. This is about years of feeling small around you. Of being overlooked. Of being managed instead of raised.” He opens his mouth again, some protest half-formed on his lips, but you don’t give him the space. You don’t come here for a fight, you’ve had enough of those. Instead, you keep your tone measured, professional. You say everything you need to say without a single trace of venom.

“I won’t let you ruin my life more than you already have,” you tell him. “I’m not your soldier. I’m not your project. I’m not a pawn on your team board. I’m your daughter.” And for the first time, you see something flicker behind his eyes; not anger, not frustration. Something quieter. Smaller. Maybe even guilt. But you don’t wait to hear what he has to say. You simply turn and walk away, papers left behind on his desk like a verdict. Your spine is straight, your chin lifted, but your heart pounds like a war drum in your chest. Not from fear, but from the quiet, powerful rush of choosing yourself. You don’t pause. You don’t look back. And behind you, in the stillness of that office, your father is left alone, left with the papers, with the silence, and with the heavy weight of everything he’s done to bring you here.

It had been a week of something close to heaven, a fragile but precious interlude where love bloomed without restraint. Mornings tangled in soft sheets and half-spoken promises, afternoons chasing sunlight and teasing kisses, evenings curled into each other like pages of the same chapter. Jay held your hand like it was sacred, touched your face like he still couldn’t believe you were real, and kissed you like he wanted to make time stop. And for a while, it did. For a week, the world outside didn’t matter. But the silence had started to hum. Not the sweet kind, no, this was the brittle, broken silence of something missing. You caught it in the way Jay paused when the boys group chat lit up with win updates, locker room jokes, team photos without him in them. He never said it aloud, never dared to pull at the thread unraveling slowly in his chest, but you could see it. He missed it. Hockey wasn’t just a sport to Jay; it was his identity, his language, the thing he’d bled and bruised and burned for since he was old enough to grip a stick. And now, stripped of it, he smiled with his mouth but never fully with his eyes.

You missed it, too. The chill of the rink, the warm camaraderie of the team, the way Heeseung grumbled every time you corrected his posture but secretly appreciated it. You missed teasing Sunghoon, calling him a ballerina every time he accidentally twirled like a figure skater on a bad turn. And then there was your father, a ghost in the hallways of your heart, haunting the edges of your mind. As much as his choices hurt, as much as his anger pushed you away, there was still a child inside you who missed their dad, no matter how absent. 

So when the boys decided to have a barbecue that Saturday, burgers sizzling on the grill, laughter echoing through the backyard, bottles of soda clinking together like makeshift champagne, it felt like breathing again. The world righted itself for a moment. Heeseung and his girlfriend were playfully arguing over the best way to season corn, Sunghoon was making a mess of the grill, smoke billowing in a way that made Jake dramatically declare they were “all going to die,” and Jay, your Jay, was watching you with soft eyes and Sera babbling in his lap, gripping his thumb with her tiny hand. You leaned into the warmth, into the joy, just as your phone rang. 

The screen lit up: Mom. Your heart stumbled. You hadn’t heard from her in a while, she was always somewhat removed, orbiting your life like a distant moon. Not unloving, but not present either. Always polite. Always brief. Her voice on the other end of the line was calm, collected, and surprisingly direct. “I’d like you and Jay to come to the rink,” she said. “Just the two of you.” The words hit you sideways, strange and off-kilter. You blinked at the grill smoke, at the glow of the afternoon sun casting long golden rays across the yard. Jay noticed your expression, his brows furrowing in gentle concern.

“Why?” you asked your mother, confused. “Why the rink?”

She didn’t explain, not really. “I think it’s time,” she said instead. “Please.” 

And somehow, despite every piece of your rational mind screaming confusion, your heart said yes. Not because you knew what waited at that cold rink. But because something inside you, some sliver of hope still left unspoken, whispered that maybe, just maybe, the ice didn’t have to be a battlefield forever. So you turned to Jay, hand still wrapped around your phone, and told him. “She wants to meet us at the rink.”

His face mirrored your own disbelief. But he didn’t ask why. He just nodded. And said, “Okay.”

The sky is beginning to gray by the time you and Jay reach the rink, that familiar stretch of parking lot empty and echoing beneath your footsteps. The glass doors hiss open, letting out a breath of cool, sharp air that prickles against your skin like old memories. The sound of skates against ice, the steady drone of a Zamboni finishing its last lap, the scent of chilled rubber and piney disinfectant; it's all the same, unchanged, and yet nothing is the same at all. 

Jay squeezes your hand as you walk in, and you squeeze back, his warmth grounding you. You keep expecting to see your mother, her sleek coat, her warm expression, her sunny voice carrying across the echoing lobby, but when you step fully inside, it's not her standing under the buzzing fluorescents. It’s him. Your father. You freeze. Rage unfurls in your chest, slow and molten. You turn immediately, heels pivoting toward the exit with cold finality, but Jay is quicker; he gently catches your wrist, his voice soft, pleading. “Just… stay. Please. Hear him out.”

And you don’t know why, but something in his tone, in the quiet steadiness of his gaze, makes you stay. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or maybe it’s hope, shriveled but not yet dead. Your father’s shoulders look heavier than you remember. There’s a strain to his face, like he’s been carrying something too long. And when he speaks, it’s not the usual bark of orders or that razor-edge tone laced with judgment, it’s low. Gentle. Sincere.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words hit you like the crack of a puck against the glass.

You blink. “What?”

He nods slowly, eyes on you with something startlingly close to regret. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For everything. For… not being there the way I should have. For choosing the game over you. For being too proud to see what was right in front of me.” You don’t know what to say. This is the man who turned away when you cried, who praised your brother's goals but never your straight A’s, who ran drills longer than dinners and could name every stat in the league but forgot your favorite color. And now he's standing here, shoulders sagging, saying sorry like it costs him everything. 

“I lost my daughter,” he continues, voice gruff with the weight of what he’s admitting. “And I lost the best player I ever coached. The best captain I ever trusted.” He glances at Jay, who stands beside you, spine stiff but eyes glistening. “It was like a slap in the face,” your father murmurs. “And I deserved it.”

Silence settles, a snowfall between you all. “I wish I could go back,” he says. “Wish I could change a lot of things. But I can’t. I can only move forward. And moving forward means trying to be better. Not just as a coach. As a father.” Your eyes are glassy now, throat tight. You look at Jay, and he’s watching you; not your father, not the rink, but you, like you’re the only one that matters in the world. 

Your voice comes out small, trembling around truth. “Jay makes me happy.”

And that’s when your father finally turns to him, arms crossed like a coach, but not unkind. “Then I want you to be with him. If he treats you right.” Jay blinks, startled, then nods quickly, a smile breaking slowly over his face like dawn cresting the horizon. Your father lifts a brow, his voice tinged with dry humor now. “If he doesn’t… he’ll regret it.”

Laughter bubbles up, genuine and breathless. You laugh, and Jay laughs, and even your father chuckles, shaking his head like he’s only just beginning to understand what it means to let go of the past and step into something new. And in that moment, everything shifts. Not completely. Not perfectly. But enough. You walk out of the rink hand in hand with Jay, the weight in your chest lighter than it’s felt in years. The past is behind you. The cold can’t touch you. And ahead lies only the warm unfolding of a future finally, finally your own. 

@hoonjayke @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah

series taglist. (★) @saejinniestar , @vixialuvs , @slut4hee , @xylatox , @skyearby @m1kkso @jakeswifez @heartheejake @hommyy-tommy @yunverie @lalalalawon

@strayy-kidz @wolfhardbby @kwiwin @immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @starfallia @mariegalea @adoredbyjay @strxwbloody @lovingvoidgoatee @beeboobeebss @zyvlxqht @weyukinluv @flwwon

@guapgoddees @demigodmahash @cloud-lyy @heesky @ikaw-at-ikaw @shuichi-sama @shawnyle @kwhluv @iarainha @ikeuwoniee @mora134340 @firstclassjaylee

[myjjongie]

i need a nuke to be placed straight on my forehead A S A P

my feelings and emotions are so twisted and complex at the moment i fucking crashed out.

like. this shit sucks and i want to be freed.

fmbl (fuck my baka life)

[myjjongie]

guys. might work on this soon....

i wont edge y'all and lie, i swear.

౨ৎ to my beloved ── p. jongseong ⟢ teaser

SYNOPSIS . . . Moon Yn daughter of a notorious Duke who is said to be one of the Emperor's most loyal aides is married off to Archduke Park Jay. Their marriage soon became the talk of the country. Everyone adored the joining of Yn, daughter of Duke Moon and the Emperor's eldest son Jay. Two people the Emperor cherished very deeply. Unaware of Duke Moon's true intentions, he desired the throne the Emperor sat on. Using his own daughter as a means of infiltration he marries her off to Jay. Yn being shackled down to her father listened to everything he told her to do. Eventually when the day came for the overthrowing of the Emperor's throne Yn dies before ever knowing who truly won in the end.

OR

IN WHICH . . . Yn is sent back in time to before she married Jay, before her father started preparations to overthrow the Emperor, before everything was lost. Finally having a second chance to save the people most dear to her. Yn won't let her father control her as he pleases this time. For Yn will make her own decisions despite the unforeseeable future. With this second chance she'll marry Jay with the intentions of helping him without the control of her father. ⌇WORD COUNT . . . 382 ⌇

.ᐟ PAIRING . . . archduke!jay x archduchess fem!reader

.ᐟ GENRES . . . oneshot histrorical au, time travel trope, enemies to lovers (if you squint your eyes hard enough), magic/magical beings are a thing, contract marriage, she fell first he fell harder, angst, yn was a villainess in her past life (???)

.ᐟ WARNINGS . . . yn unalives herself (in the beginning), family abuse (all from the father), heavy descriptions of certain topics, detailed scenes with physical touch

.ᐟ STARRING . . . enhypen (all members) ive (liz) nct (chenle + mark) aespa (giselle) + possible mentions of other idols

•

꒰ evie's note : so i cooked up this snippet an hour or so ago. posting this fic teaser to test the waters in a way cause i only have a smau being posted at the moment. i've also been itching to write write something and it's been a hot minute since i've gotten my creative brain juices flowing as well. back into reading manhwas again so if this reminds you of any of those, yes. and yes it's about jay again IM SORRY i miss my pookie bear angel can yall blame me :( also if i finish this within a timely manner i wanna have it out before the end of next week tbh. really hoping i'm able to do this fic justice for yall. but alas enjoy the tiny bit of what my brain cooked up. ꒱

taglist ( open! send a ask/comment to be added ) . . . @shinkenprincess-oh @jiryunn @rebeccaaaaaaaa @fancypeacepersona @thinkinboutbin @nnnecubrate @pyreflyforest776

perm. taglist ( open! send a ask/comment to be added ) . . . @ikeulove @leehsngs @nickiminajleftasscheek

YN POV .

My eyes blink open to see the view of an all too familiar ceiling above myself. It was the same cream colored ceiling that belonged in my bedroom in the manor at the Moon duchy. Slowly sitting up my eyes scanned my surroundings. It was exactly as I had remembered the room, the sitting area for when guests were over. The windowsill where I had often read books to pass time through the day. The tall walls decorated with intricate designs only a Duke could afford for a singular room. Thing was the last time I had been in this room was before I left for the Park duchy. When I left to get married to Duke Jay. My mind was a mess of memories as it all dawned on me.

I remembered the blazing fire as I ran through the trees in the forest next to the Park duchy. I could recall the stinging pain as the branches scratched and tore at the skin of my arms. Then the feeling of my legs numbing as I sprinted in the heavy dress that was tailored for a archduchess to wear. My head ached as everything came back to me. Remembering the sound of the knights corning me in the forest, shouting how I needed to go with them. Jay wanted me alive, but I knew it was all a lie. My father had started a coup d’état, he always craved for the higher power in the aristocracy. Being granted a duke title while not being related to the royal family simply wasn’t enough for him. So he sought out higher power, the throne of the Emperor. Jay was one of the Emperor’s sons, there was a feeling in me. Jay wouldn’t stand for his wife being the daughter of the man who wanted to take his father’s throne as well as his life. If the knights captured me to take me to Jay he for sure would have killed me with his own hands. With no other choice I took my life. In hopes that there would be one last thing I had control over before I died. It was laughable at how in the end I only had control over how I got to die and who got to kill me.

©myjjongie 2025

[myjjongie]

rain has done it yet again

waiting for crossing the line to finish (binge that) and then sit all pretty waiting for this

IN THE FAST LANE ENHYPEN HYUNG LINE

.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . I'm back again with ANOTHER hung line series! this time; street racers (: I'm super excited to write these as I'm currently working on the last and final crossing the line fic, I felt I loved that series so much I wanted to start another! as always, this is kinda? interconnecting stories and all of them will contain smut and heavy violence so mdni! I hope you guys love these!! The dates of when these will be released is TBD but the first one; Heeseung's should be out by the end of the month hopefully, If not beginning of July for sure! Comment here or send an ask if you'd like to be on the taglist!

CLUTCHPLAY l.hs

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 20k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 street racer .ᐟ heeseung ៹ best friend's .ᐟ little sister reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ brother's best friend

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ smut violence drug and alcohol use fighting illegal street racing + more I will add.

synopsis ୨୧ You had one rule: stay away from Heeseung. He was no good, a trouble maker with a temper. You didn't like those kind of guys anyway. The arrogant, cocky...handsome - no. no. you definitely didn't like those kind of guys.

LIKE A PRAYER p.js

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 20k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 street racer .ᐟ jay ៹ best friend .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ childhood friends to lovers

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ smut violence drug and alcohol use fighting illegal street racing + more I will add.

synopsis ୨୧ Jay was your best friend. You grew up together, lived next door to each other for years, you told each other everything. Well, except for the fact that you were in love with him. He was acting strange, leaving in the middle of the night, rolling in money and driving a brand new car every few months. So you follow him one night, and did not expect to find what you did. You didn't know Jay, not like you thought.

GETAWAY CAR s.jy

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 20k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 street racer .ᐟ jake ៹ mayor's daughter .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ forbidden romance

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ smut violence drug and alcohol use fighting illegal street racing + more I will add.

synopsis ୨୧ This was all fun, just a way to piss your father off. Pretending to date a bad boy street racer, surely that would get your father to notice you. You didn't expect to fall in love with him, you didn't even expect to like him.

ONLY THE STARS KNEW p.sh

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 20k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 street racer .ᐟ sunghoon ៹ rival enemies sister .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ forbidden romance ˒ Romeo and Juliet AU

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ smut violence drug and alcohol use fighting illegal street racing + more I will add.

synopsis ୨୧ You've been warned time and time again. There was nothing good about that no good Park Sunghoon. He lies, he steals, he cheats his way to the top. So what you've been told. So why does your heart skip a beat every time he's in the room. Why is he sweet, and caring and why do you like him? Even when you shouldn't. Even when it's wrong.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[myjjongie]

Hello, I’m Sol, and I am a proud daughter of immigrant parents. Today I come to you in hopes that you can stop and read this message. 

I have always dedicated this account to be a safe space for all; an escape from the busy world, and a chance to offer community. It’s easy to use these spaces as a way to tune out all the negativity that may go on in your daily lives, but with the way the world has become, there is no longer such a thing as a safe space. I refuse to let this account remain idle, knowing my platform and the potential reach— silence is complicity, and right now, it’s exactly what the government wants from us; to remain uneducated, to remain quiet in hopes that others will step up for us. 

It is urgent, now more than ever, that we use our voice— exercise our rights, to speak up and look after those who are unable to do so for themselves. ICE has been sent to raid Los Angeles, they are kidnapping people and deporting them without due process, using force against protestors who are bravely demanding change and letting their voices be heard. It is an inhumane act of violence and racism that is not only affecting the defenseless, but getting twisted in the media to turn civilians against each other. People are afraid to leave their homes, afraid to go to work, to send their children to school, in fear that they may never see each other again. Families are being ripped apart— tell me, is this something that you want to watch happen, standing idly in silence?

Now, you may be asking yourself, what can I do to help? First and foremost, educate yourself. Be aware of what is happening in the world, why it’s happening, and what others are doing to strive for change. Do not let this post be your only knowledge— do your research, stay updated. Second, there are many protests that are happening all around the world; look into them, see if there are any you can go to, let your voice be heard, and show your anger. There is currently a nationwide protest happening June 14th, with a website dedicated to it: nokings.org. Do not fall for the propaganda of good protestor vs. bad protestor. When our humanity is being stripped away from us, and our rights are ignored, why should we be expected to stay in place and beg on our knees for our government to listen? Third, spread awareness, donate to organizations that help our cause— I am currently looking into opening commissions, with many affordable options, in hopes that I can donate the proceeds to organizations such as CHIRLA, who are dedicated to advancing the rights of immigrants and refugees, and HEAL Palestine, an organization dedicated to providing health care, education and aid to children, because there is no such thing as justice until we are all free. The conflict and war crimes in Palestine continue and only worsen as time goes on; the situation is dire— they are without food, without homes, without access to medical help— and it is not something that will be forgotten, even as other crises arise. 

If you find yourself aggravated by anything I said, annoyed at seeing this post on your timeline,  unwilling to care or take action, unfollow me, and block me immediately. I do not want you here. Now is the time to speak up and educate ourselves in a world where our ignorance is profited off of, and we are all expected to turn against each other; You do not need to “be affected” to act. Do not be a bystander, and stay safe.

Thank you.

[myjjongie]

thank you for 500 followers 😣😣😣😣

[myjjongie]

okay before i ever made this acc. i would lurk enhablr, especially for smaus. and this smau…. bro.

this smau also pushed me into being a jay bias ngl

like. i miss this smau everyday (i never finished it cause i knew it was on h1atus)

come home soon i miss you </3 (no rush)

yours forever in 786

PAIRING ▸ private investigator!jay park x fem!reader

GENRES ▸ social media au (smau), smut, fluff, angst, mystery, drama, enemies to lovers au, college au, rich kid au

SUMMARY ▸ after being blackmailed into accepting an assignment, jay park, a young private detective, is thrown back into college. this time, though, he’s at an ivy league and tasked to follow you to uncover what dark secrets your old money family is hiding. in doing this, jay must fraternize with your inner circle by joining a secret society called the “order of kryptos.” what he doesn’t realize is that the deeper he gets into his mission, the more he starts to lose himself.

WARNINGS ▸ profanity, slowburn, alcohol/drug consumption, portrayals of addiction, sexual jokes, sexual content, betrayals!! backstabbing!!, toxic relationships, order of kryptos isn’t a real secret society but heavily inspired by the ivy league secret societies, emotional cheating (BOOOO! not from mc or jay tho), jay and mc have a small age gap (2 years), most of the characters are pretty toxic so please note that this is not attune to their real life personalities at ALL

STATUS ▸ on hold (coming back soon)

PLAYLIST ▸ fatal trouble by enhypen • still sane by lorde • this is what makes us girls by lana del rey • too good by troye sivan • paparazzi by lady gaga • old money by lana del rey • i was never there by the weeknd, gesaffelstein • prisoner by the weeknd, lana del rey

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hello !! i’m back with another smau but this one’s less lighthearted and more heavy ? sort of an experiment let’s see how it goes, but hope u enjoy and lmk what u think !! ♡

Keep reading

[myjjongie]

wait you think i’m like beomgyu

ONE .ᐟ ── SYBAU

SYNOPSIS: another casual grueling day at your job lands you to reunite with jake sim—your hallway crush who moved away in high school. not wanting to hope for more from the chance encounter, you end up being paired with jake for a semester-long project. knowing deep down things will never happen, your only goal is to be friends with jake. while on the other hand, you haven't left jake's mind since he moved away.

prev | m.list | next

evie's note: YIPPEE YIPPEE chapter one is here !!! sorry if its a little short, trying to map it out more thoroughly for what i have planned for upcoming chapters :3

out of my league taglist ... ( if interested leave a reply ! )

perm tag: @ikeulove @leehsngs @ijustwannareadstuff20 @enhanextdoor @zaycie @dylanobr1ens @miraeluv @ancnymcnzjy @lvvrikss @treasureteez @delirioastral @izzyy-stuff

@rairaiblog @izzyy-stuff @thing89 @cinnamqnki @viagumi @zyvlxqht @wonzzziezzzz @manuosorioh @hizhu @soobundle1009 @right-person-wrong-time @vvenusoncasual @letwiiparkjay @jayhoonvroom @djikeu @aineest4r @wenomakiluvr @jaysguitarstring

©myjjongie 2025

[myjjongie]

i’ll doxx myself in the dms.

we can go on a date, i’ll take you to chilis, the most tourist central mall in my city, round 1, the beach, whatever else i can think of on the spot :D

i drive so you can be passenger princess for the weekend :3

──★ JUST LIKE HEAVEN (part. 2)

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 90s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, exes to lovers, fluff, smut … ﹒w/c: 15k synopsis: three years. that’s how long it had been since you last saw jay park. since spring break, since mixtapes and goodbye letters and i’ll write when i can. he had traded the life you knew for one on the road — guitars, neon lights, hotel rooms in cities you’d never been to. and it was 1994 now, you had your own place, your own rhythm. you had almost convinced yourself you were over it. until a concert. a song. a glance across a crowded room. and suddenly, nothing was over at all. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), smut, mdni!!! 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure | read part 1 here <3

it’s been three years since you last saw jay park. and somehow, it still feels like yesterday.

by 1994, everything feels different. you’re in your last year of college now. you know how to make your bed in the dark, how to survive on gas station coffee and a playlist that’s been the same since sophomore year. your books are underlined and frayed at the corners. the shoes by your door don’t match on purpose anymore. jungwon’s in college now, halfway through. he’s still figuring things out, but his voice has settled, and so has his energy. a little more grounded, a little less wild around the edges. he doesn’t call as much as he used to, but he writes sometimes. signs his letters with messy doodles and stories that sound like home: who’s dating who, which professor’s a nightmare. he’s talking about studying abroad next year. says it like a joke, but you know he’s serious.

your friends are scattered across cities and apartments, student loans and early jobs. some of them are in long-term relationships. some are engaged. some are already talking about house payments. they still write you, too. sometimes on postcards, sometimes in long emails typed from shared computers in dorm basements. you keep every one.

you've learned how to let go of things slowly. how to miss people quietly. how to stop expecting things to stay the same.

the world has changed since 1991. nevermind came out. so did automatic for the people. you cut your hair once, just to feel something. you fell in love with someone else for a little while, then out of it, and didn’t talk about it much after. the posters in your room have faded from the sun. you don’t live in the dorms anymore. you don’t listen to the same tapes every night. just most nights.

you don’t talk about jay. not really. not out loud.

he shows up in passing. in jokes jungwon makes. in old notes you kept but don’t read. in the way your breath still catches when someone plays just like heaven on a jukebox too late at night. you heard he’s playing in a band now. you don’t know much. just that sometimes, when you pass a flyer on a telephone pole or a crumpled gig poster in a café window, you pause a little longer than you mean to. and sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you see his name is on it.

sometimes, in the middle of doing something normal — folding laundry, walking back from class, standing in line for coffee — you remember that last afternoon.

spring break, 1991. the sky was overcast, warm in the way that made you think summer might arrive early. jay was leaving again. his band had just gotten picked up to open for someone bigger, someone you’d never heard of but pretended to recognize. he had a folded schedule in his back pocket, all scribbled in blue ink and crossed-out cities.

“you should come,” he said. “i’ll leave your name at the door.”

you smiled. nodded. said, “yeah, maybe.”

but you never did.

the next semester hit hard. papers stacked up, internships started, and time blurred. phone calls turned into postcards. then into silence. it wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. he had tour dates. you had midterms. and something about trying too hard to hold on felt embarrassing after a while.

the last thing he sent was a letter.

you still remember the envelope. thin, bent at the corner, his handwriting slanted and messier than usual. you read it in your dorm room one night, sitting on the edge of your bed while your roommate snored into her pillow.

y/n,

i’m sorry i’ve been gone. i mean, i’ve been here, just not really anywhere at the same time. i thought i could keep up with everything. with touring, with writing, with remembering to breathe. but i keep messing it up. i keep losing time. i didn’t want to stop writing. i just didn’t know how to keep showing up if i wasn’t doing it right.

i still think about you. that’s probably unfair.

i hope you’re good. i hope you’re better than i’ve been.

— j

you kept that letter for too long. read it twice. three times. then put it away in a drawer and didn’t open it again.

after that, things just… faded. you didn’t write. he didn’t call. you heard from jungwon once that jay had been in town for a weekend but didn’t stop by. you told yourself that was fine. you told yourself it didn’t matter. until that night in 1993, in the back room of someone’s party. the music loud. drinks half-finished. two girls near the record player talking about some band they saw the week before. one of them said, “the guitarist was so hot, i swear he was flirting with me all night backstage.” and the other one laughed. “the one with the flannel? that’s jay, right?”

you froze. just for a second. and didn’t say anything. you didn’t ask if it was the same jay. you didn’t need to. you left early, walked home alone, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you were fine. that you’d grown out of it.

but some nights, when it’s too quiet to lie to yourself, you replay that last goodbye. the way he’d said, “you should come.” and the way you never did. you wonder if he waited. for how long. or if he stopped counting somewhere along the way.

and here you are, 1994, months from graduating, pretending the weight on your chest is just the pressure of adulthood. pretending you don’t still rewind that tape sometimes. pretending you haven’t memorized his handwriting even though you haven’t seen it in years.

you’re fine. you smile when people ask. you talk about plans. you fill your days with work and lists and voices that keep you forward-facing. but every once in a while, at the end of a song, or the bottom of a box, or when you see someone in a denim jacket that doesn’t quite fit, you feel it again.

you never really let go. you just learned how to carry it differently.

it started as something casual, something thrown into a friday night without much weight — just yunjin walking into the room with two tickets and that grin she always had when she knew you needed something to pull you out of your head. she said bon jovi was in town. said yeonjun already had his and that the three of you could go together. said she didn’t want to hear any excuses. and you didn’t have one, not really. so you nodded, and told yourself it would be good to get out. you hadn’t been to a concert in a while. not a big one, not the kind with lights and heat and voices shouting into the dark.

you didn’t think about jay right away. maybe just for a second. a flicker of memory at the name. you remembered him talking about bon jovi, you remembered that t-shirt you painted for him. 

so you went. you got dressed. you wore your denim jacket and borrowed eyeliner from yunjin. yeonjun picked you both up in his dad’s car, windows down, music too loud. it was the kind of night that felt like it could belong to anyone. the arena was full. the floor vibrated before anything even started. people were already on their feet, beer sloshing from plastic cups, voices rising together like they’d been waiting all week just to scream. you found your seats, somewhere near the back but high enough to see the full stretch of stage. the lights dimmed. a ripple ran through the crowd, electric and hungry. and then the band was there. you let yourself enjoy the first songs. let the music rush through you, let the drums hit your chest. yunjin was dancing in her seat. yeonjun kept shouting lyrics half a beat too late. the night blurred around the edges in the way concerts always do.

and then came the next song. always. you recognized it before your brain caught up. 

and that’s when you saw him.

your eyes were scanning the stage out of habit, and there he was. standing off to the left, half-shadowed in blue light. guitar slung low across his chest, hair falling forward a little as he tilted toward the mic. he looked older. not in a bad way, just real. flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands steady on the strings. and then he opened his mouth and sang. not lead. just backing vocals.

your body didn’t move. couldn’t. it was like the floor had locked you in place. you stared. the rest of the crowd kept moving. the lights kept flashing. yunjin was still beside you, completely unaware. but your world had shrunk to the length of the stage and the shape of his shoulders and the way he closed his eyes when he hit a harmony.

jay. after all this time.

after postcards and silence and a hundred almost-memories you tried not to replay.

he was looking out into the crowd, past the lights, into the blur of people that you had somehow become a part of. and still, something in you reached for him. your fingers curled against your jacket, your breath caught halfway. you didn’t cry. not yet. you just kept staring, like maybe if you stayed very still, the universe would shift, and he’d look up, and see you. but he doesn’t see you. of course he doesn’t. you’re just one face in a crowd of thousands, too far up and too far back and too far gone. but when the last chorus of always starts, something in your chest breaks open anyway.

you hear him — clear, right through the echo and the noise. i know when i die, you’ll be on my mind, and i’ll love you, always.

your breath catches so hard you forget how to let it go.

your fingers find the edge of your seat. your knees lock, then unlock. and before you even know what you’re doing, you’re standing. slipping past yunjin’s knees, brushing yeonjun’s arm. you don’t look at either of them. you just go.

“where are you going?” yunjin’s voice follows you.

yeonjun chimes in too, confused. maybe a little annoyed. “dude. what—”

but you don’t answer. you can’t. you’re already down the stairs, already pushing through the hallway, the noise of the concert fading as you make your way out. the air outside is colder than you expected. your legs feel heavy. your hands are shaking, and you don’t stop walking until you’re alone. you take the long way home, even though the buses are still running. even though your shoes are not made for this. you walk like you’re trying to wear the feeling out of your body. like distance could make this less real.

and when you finally get to your apartment, you shut the door quietly behind you. you don’t turn on the lights. you just stand there, coat still on, bag still slung over your shoulder, and you let yourself feel it. you cry. you cry in that ugly, helpless way where your hands can’t keep up with your face, where your chest folds in on itself, where everything you’d been holding in since 1991 spills out like it never had anywhere to go. you cry because you saw him. because it’s been three years. because you didn’t know he would be there and now you don’t know how to be here without the weight of that moment pressed into your skin. and then you sit down on the floor, like your body doesn’t know what to do next.

you think about all the things that came flooding back the second you saw him: that christmas, the porch light, the sound of his voice in a letter, the way he used to rest his forehead against yours like it meant something. the lake house. the mixtape. the last kiss. you think about the letter he sent before it all went quiet. the way he said i still think about you, and how you never answered. you think about the day you heard someone else say his name and pretended it didn’t knock the air out of you.

you think about how, even after all this time, you still knew his voice the second you heard it. and somewhere under all of that, buried deep in the ache, there’s something like pride. because he made it. you always knew he could. he was good, really good. not just at guitar, but at meaning what he played. and now here he is, sharing a stage with one of the biggest bands in the world. and sounding like he belongs there. you’re happy for him. you are. but it still hurts. not because you wanted him to stay, but because some part of you never expected to lose him like this. not so completely.

you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jacket. pull your knees up to your chest. the room is quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of a light somewhere down the hall. and in the middle of all that silence, your heart keeps repeating the same question, over and over. does he ever think of you when he sings it? you don’t know. maybe you’ll never know.

but tonight, for a moment, you were eighteen again. and that’s almost worse than forgetting.

you wake up with your face still puffy, the inside of your mouth dry, and the memory of always still echoing in your chest. you sit on the kitchen floor with yesterday’s clothes and a cold cup of coffee, and you think, i’ll just move on. you don’t mean to say anything about it. you don’t wake up planning to talk. but then there’s a knock and it’s yunjin, holding a paper bag and looking like she already knows you’re not okay. yeonjun’s behind her, carrying takeout cups and wearing his we come in peace t-shirt that always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

they don’t press at first. they come in, settle onto your couch, act like it’s any other morning. yunjin puts music on low — something soft, r.e.m. — and yeonjun turns on the kettle like he lives there. you sit cross-legged on the floor in your hoodie, and after a few minutes of silence, yunjin says, “you didn’t come back.”

and that’s when it breaks, and you tell them everything. not the whole thing. not every letter, not every tape, not the lake or the kiss or the way he once said you make things feel easy. but enough for them to understand that it wasn’t just the shock of seeing him. it was everything around it. the time, the loss, the space between who you were and who he is now. they don’t interrupt. they don’t try to fix it. yeonjun just nods, real slow, and mutters, “damn.” yunjin reaches over and squeezes your hand.

hours pass, blurring into a quiet afternoon of them helping you pack away some of the memories, pausing only to put on some mindless show. they don't stay too long after that. eventually, they get up and start talking about dinner, about how you're going out whether you like it or not, and you let them take you along because the apartment feels too full of memory, and because they're trying, and because you've always been better at pretending when someone else is watching.

the diner they pick is on the corner near the old bookstore, the neon sign flickers a little, and you feel something in your chest settle as soon as you sit down. yunjin and yeonjun are talking, laughing quietly about someone from class, their legs brushing under the table in that way that makes you suspicious. they’re trying to act normal, but there’s something too soft in the way she hands him the salt. you watch them out of the corner of your eye, chewing on your straw, and finally smile for real for the first time all day.

but after a while, the noise gets too much again. you excuse yourself, and step out the front door, letting it shut behind you with a soft click. the sky’s dark now, but not cold. the street’s mostly empty and silent, except for a few cars passing, the occasional sound of a skateboard or a laugh from somewhere around the corner. you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. one left. figures. you picked this habit up during finals last year. felt cool. felt like the end of a music video, like it did in the 80s. but now, in the 90s, they say it’ll kill you. but it shuts everything up for a second. so.

you don’t know how long you stand there like that, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting the night breathe around you. and then headlights hit the pavement, a car pulls into the lot — dark green, polished, the kind of old-school cool that feels deliberate but not forced. it’s a 1992 chevy camaro z28, all angles and muscle, the kind of car a guy buys when they’re not quite ready to settle down.

you watch without thinking. the door opens. a guy steps out, tall, black jacket, looks vaguely familiar. another follows, laughing, pulling off a beanie. you know them. not well. not personally. but you recognize them. because you’ve seen them before.

on stage.

the third door opens slower.

and there he is.

jay.

he steps out like he’s unsure of the ground under him. same flannel, sleeves rolled, hair a little shorter now, but still him. still the same shape of boy you kissed once in a field of stars, the same voice on every tape you kept hidden in your drawer.

he’s looking down at first, shoulders slightly hunched. and then he looks up. right at you. he freezes. you freeze too. for a second, maybe longer, neither of you moves.

the other guys are still talking, already walking toward the diner entrance. but jay doesn’t follow. he stays there, by the car, staring at you like you’re something he thought he made up. like seeing you breaks some rule. your cigarette burns down between your fingers. you forget to breathe. you forget to blink. and in the silence between one breath and the next, the years fold up like they never happened. it feels like you’re just two kids again.

the car door is still open behind jay, one of the other guys calling his name from a few steps ahead, not noticing, or maybe not caring, that he hasn’t followed. his eyes stay on you like they’re trying to make sure you’re not just a trick of the lights, something he pulled out of a dream too late at night. you don’t look away. you can’t.

he closes the door and takes a few steps forward. slow and careful, like you might run.

“hi,” he says, voice low, uncertain, like the word isn’t big enough for what he’s feeling.

“hi.” you say it back.

and then silence again. the kind that comes heavy and weird, pressing between the two of you like fog. you cross your arms. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. a door opens somewhere behind you, someone laughs from inside the diner, but it doesn’t touch either of you. he clears his throat first.

“i forgot we were in your city,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “too many cities lately. i don’t even know what day it is half the time.”

you let out a small, dry laugh through your nose — not exactly mean, just tired. “yeah,” you say quietly. “i went to the show.”

his eyes widen a little, like the information hits harder than it should. “you—what?”

you nod once, slow. “i didn’t know you were part of the band. it was my friend’s idea. she dragged me out.” your voice is steadier than you expected. “i recognized your voice first. then i saw you.” he doesn’t say anything. his mouth opens slightly like he might, but nothing comes out. “you’re really good,” you add, softer this time. “i mean it.”

his shoulders drop a little. his mouth twists, not into a smile, exactly, but something close. “thanks.”

“i didn’t know you made it that far,” you say. “bon jovi.”

he exhales. his eyes are shining a little, and he looks down like he needs a second to get control of whatever’s happening inside him. “i didn’t know you’d be there.”

“me neither.”

he takes another step toward you. you don’t move. "i didn’t think i’d ever see you again," he says. his voice cracks at the end, just a little. "and now you’re here, you’re smoking."

you let out a low laugh, real this time. “yeah. turns out i have terrible coping mechanisms.”

he smiles, but it’s cautious. “i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for disappearing. for not writing. for—”

you hold up a hand, just slightly. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” his voice is steady now. quiet, but clear. he’s still standing a foot away, but it feels like he’s closer than that. “i wanted to reach out a hundred times,” he continues. “but it felt like too much. or not enough. and then time just… passed.”

you nod, slowly. “yeah. it does that.”

he looks at you again, really looks this time, like he’s trying to see who you became. “you look good,” he says. “different, but not really.”

you smile, even though it hurts a little. “you too. the flannel’s still doing the heavy lifting though.”

he laughs, finally, and it breaks something between you. for a second, you let it be easy again. he tilts his head, eyes soft. “can i—are you okay?” you hesitate. then nod. “i don’t know what this is,” he says. “i don’t know if i have the right to even be talking to you right now. but i’m really glad i saw you.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “me too.”

he takes a breath like he might say more, but the diner door swings open then, and yunjin leans out. “hey—are you—”

she sees him, and freezes. then looks at you. then back at him. her mouth opens like she wants to say something but she wisely doesn’t. “i’ll give you a minute,” she says, disappearing back inside without another word. you and jay both laugh under your breath at the same time. and just like that, it’s quiet again. he takes one more step forward, close enough now that you can see the curve of his lashes, the slight stubble on his jaw, his birth mark on the side of his neck. the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“can i give you a hug?” he asks, voice soft. unsure.

you nod. barely, but it’s enough. he moves toward you and wraps his arms around you, carefully at first, then tighter, like something in him breaks open when you don’t pull away. and you sink into it. not because you want to, but because your body does before your mind can think twice. his arms are strong, warmer than you remember. he smells like the kind of cologne you’d smell on someone walking by backstage, faint smoke and something sharp underneath it, but it’s still him, still familiar. you bury your face against his shoulder, and neither of you says anything for a long time. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. doesn’t let go.

“i think about you a lot,” he says, voice rough. “still.” you meet his eyes, breath shaky. he continues, “some songs... i write thinking about you. i don’t mean to. it just happens.”

you blink hard, chest tight again. “i liked always,” you say. “it’s a good one.”

he looks down, just a second. his hand still resting on your back. “yeah, i wrote that one,” he says. you stare at him for a beat. he shrugs a little. doesn’t say if he wrote that one thinking about you. but his eyes say more than his mouth ever could. you look away first. try to breathe again.

“how’s jungwon?” he asks suddenly, gently shifting the weight of the conversation.

you smile, genuine. “he’s good. third year. studying architecture. i don’t know where that came from.”

“he always liked building stuff. remember that weird tower he made out of cereal boxes?”

you laugh quietly. “yeah. and glue sticks. and half the living room rug.”

he smiles at that. the kind of smile that aches. “i missed him. i miss home sometimes.”

you nod. “me too.”

he looks at you again. more carefully this time. “what about you? last year, right?”

“yeah. almost done.”

“how’s it been?”

you shrug. “busy. normal. lonely, sometimes. i live alone now.”

he opens his mouth to answer, but the door behind him swings open again. two guys step out, the same ones from the car. one of them grins when he sees jay and calls out, “hey, you coming in or what?”

jay glances at them, then back at you. “i’ll be in soon,” he says. “ran into a long-time... friend.”

the pause in the middle of the sentence hangs there. not heavy. just strange. like both of you noticed it, but neither wants to name it. the other guy raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t ask anything. they head back inside. the silence creeps back in. the door opens behind you this time. “hey,” yunjin says, stepping out. “we’re heading out. you coming?” yeonjun follows, one hand casually linked with hers. they both look at you, curious but not nosy, like they know enough not to ask. you glance at them, then at jay. then back.

you shake your head. “i think i’ll stay.”

yunjin squeezes your arm, just once, and nods. yeonjun just smiles, like he expected that answer all along. they wave as they walk away, hands still linked, disappearing around the corner. you turn to jay. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. waiting. and somehow, without a word, you both understand the next step.

and that's when jay thinks about everything that happened in the last three years. he didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did.

at first, he thought he could balance everything — school, the band, writing, you. he really thought he could make it all work. but time moved differently back then. and he was always chasing something. a setlist. a deadline. a bus that left too early or too late. the band got serious quicker than any of them expected. one night they were playing to twenty drunk kids in someone’s garage and the next they were opening for someone bigger, someone with real equipment and real fans. people started showing up. listening. remembering his name. it was addictive but also terrifying. 

college faded into the background. it didn’t make sense anymore. he stopped going to most of his classes. said he’d take a semester off, then another. his parents were furious at first. called it reckless. stupid. said he was wasting potential. but then they came to a show. just one. they saw the way the crowd reacted, the way he moved with his guitar like it was part of him, like the music wasn’t something he made but something he became. after that, they softened. not completely, not all at once, but enough.

he kept going. city after city. song after song. sleeping in vans, missing birthdays, forgetting what day it was. he lost track of holidays. of phone calls. of you.

but he thought about you all the time. 

he thought about you when the van was too quiet and everyone else was asleep. he thought about you when he saw lights flickering in some motel parking lot and it reminded him of that night in the lake. he thought about you when he wrote something too soft, too raw, and didn’t know why it mattered until your name crossed his mind halfway through the chorus. he thought about you every time they played near your state and he almost said something to the manager. almost asked if you’d be there. he thought about you every time he rewound that tape you gave him, the one with your handwriting on the cover and that one song you swore would always make you think of summer.

he started writing that last letter months before he sent it. scratched out versions of it in different notebooks, napkins, corners of lyric sheets. tried to get the words right and never did. everything sounded like a lie, or worse, like a goodbye. and he didn’t want it to be that. but he also didn’t know how to keep pretending it wasn’t over. and when he finally wrote it, he kept it folded in his bag for three days before mailing it. didn’t sleep that night. didn’t tell anyone. he didn’t expect you to write back. but part of him always hoped you would.

he told himself he was doing what he was meant to do. that the trade-off was worth it. that this life — the shows, the travel, the applause — it had to be enough. but then the lights would go down at the end of a set, and someone would ask if he was coming out for drinks, and he’d find himself standing by the door too long, thinking of you. of your voice. of how you said maybe when he asked you to come see him play. he told himself you were probably happy. probably better off. probably didn’t think about him the same way anymore.

and then, three years later, he walked out of a car in a city he didn’t even realize was yours. and there you were, smoking a cigarette, looking at him like he’d never really left. like he was still someone you knew. and everything inside him just stopped. because it had been three years, and somehow, it still felt like you were the only part of his life that had ever been quiet enough to feel real.

he watches your friends walk away until they’re out of sight. the parking lot quiets down again, humming with the low buzz of neon and leftover conversation.

he turns to you. “do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, like it’s nothing. like it’s not everything.

you look at him for a second. just long enough for it to matter. “yeah,” you say. “i do.”

he nods, like he wasn’t expecting a yes. like part of him already had one foot back inside the diner. you both start walking toward the car, the one he came in, but he hesitates. “this isn’t mine,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “we’re leaving tomorrow morning. early. that’s the drummer’s car.” he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down for a second before glancing at you again. “my car’s at the hotel. about twenty minutes that way.”

“my place is closer. we can walk, if you want.” you don’t know why you say it. not exactly. the words come out easy, but they sit strange in your chest. there’s no plan. no reason. no expectation. just this pull that says don’t let him go yet.

he nods. “okay.”

the walk starts quiet. the streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet you only get in a small city late at night. the air is cooler now and makes your skin feel too tight. you pull your jacket tighter around you. he notices. he doesn’t say anything. just steps a little closer. your shoulders brush, just slightly. neither of you moves away. you pass under a streetlamp. it hums above you. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye — his jawline in the yellow light, the way his hands are still tucked into the sleeves of his flannel like he’s holding something in.

“i don’t know what to say to you,” you admit quietly. not looking at him.

“me neither,” he says, almost instantly. “it’s weird.”

“yeah.”

“but not bad.”

you glance up at him but he’s already looking at you. you nod. “no. not bad.”

you don’t speak again for a while. the silence between you isn’t empty, though. it’s full of everything you both remember and everything you’re both afraid to ask. every few steps, your arms brush again. sometimes your hands, and it doesn’t feel like an accident. but it doesn’t feel like a decision either.

you turn onto your street, point out the building without saying anything. he follows you up the front steps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear your keys in your hand before you realize you took them out. you stop in front of the door. and that’s when it really settles in — the closeness. the possibility. the strangeness of all of this.

you haven’t seen him in years, you barely know him now, but you used to. you really, really used to. and standing here, in front of your door, you’re not sure which version of him is looking back at you — the boy you kissed in the dark, or the man who sang backup on a stadium stage. maybe both. maybe neither.

you unlock the door with a quiet click, push it open slowly, and step inside first. you don’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp by the bookshelf. your place smells like lavender and the faint trace of the incense you burned the night before. you kick off your shoes, he copies you. he steps in carefully, like he’s not sure if he should be there, like he might break something by breathing too loud. his eyes move slowly across the room — the record player near the window, a stack of books with a coffee mug balanced on top, a blanket half-fallen from the couch.

he lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “you made it look like you.”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised. “what does that mean?”

he shrugs, walking a little deeper into the room. “i don’t know. it just... feels like you live here. it’s not just a space. it’s yours.”

you smile, small. close the door behind him. “thanks, i think.”

he turns back toward the shelf, fingertips brushing over the spines of the books, the edge of a candle, the side of your old walkman. he pauses. his hand stops at a cassette case, faded, slightly cracked at the corner, label smudged from years of being touched. he pulls it out gently. the handwriting is his.

he looks at you, eyes soft. “you kept this?”

you nod, slow. “yeah.”

he stares at it for a second longer, then sets it back down, careful. when he turns back toward you, his face is quieter than before, like something's settled. “do you... wanna talk?” he asks. his voice isn’t pushing. just curiosity and hope. “like—about everything. put things in order.”

you blink once, then nod. slow. “if you want to,” you say. “if you’re comfortable.” he nods too, eyes still on you. you motion to the couch, then the kettle. “you can sit, or make tea, whatever makes it feel easier. make yourself at home.” he lets out a little breath at that, the corner of his mouth tugging into a barely-there smile. he sits on the couch and watches as you move through the space. you light the kettle on the stove. he watches your hands. “so,” you say eventually, turning back to face him, leaning against the counter. “how did you end up playing with bon jovi?”

he huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly. “honestly? i still don’t totally know.”

you raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “you auditioned?”

he nods. “twice. the second time, i played a song i wrote. didn’t say it was mine. they figured it out later. he liked that too.” he pauses. “it happened fast. i didn’t expect it.”

you tilt your head. “but you wanted it.”

“yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands. “i think i did. i mean, of course i did. we were opening for a few mid-sized acts. nothing huge. a guy who did lighting for their crew saw us in a club, told someone higher up that our guitarist was ‘some kid with way too much emotion in his fingers.’” he rolls his eyes at that. “i guess jon liked that.” you walk over slowly, curling your legs under you as you sit across from him. he shifts just slightly to face you. “so,” he says, matching your tone. “what about you? how were the last three years?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t have answers — but because none of them feel simple. you shrug. “good in pieces.” he watches you for a second. not pushing, but not letting the question disappear completely either. you offer a half-smile. “i don’t think i figured anything out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

he nods. “i wasn’t.”

a quiet settles in again. and then he says suddenly: “i missed you.” with no hesitation. like the words had been sitting too long and couldn’t stay still anymore.

you really look at him. “i missed you too.”

his eyes soften again. he leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees. “sometimes i used to wonder if i made it all up. that summer. the way we were. if i just remembered it better than it really was.”

you shake your head, sure. “you didn’t.”

“you were always in the back of my mind,” he says. “even when i didn’t want to admit it. especially then.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “i thought about you a lot. more than i wanted to.”

you both sit in it for a moment — the weight of three years, of silence, of almosts that never got their ending. the kettle starts to hiss, soft and steady in the background, but neither of you moves. he leans back a little, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his hand only inches from your shoulder now. “i thought maybe we’d bump into each other again. and i hated that. the idea that it’d take chance, not effort.”

“but you’re here,” you say, quiet.

“yeah.” he breathes out. “and i don’t want to leave this time without doing it right.”

you glance at him. “i don’t know what doing it right means,” you admit.

he smiles, eyes tired and full. “me neither. but we could try.”

you look down at your hands, then at his fingers brushing slightly against the fabric of the couch. your heart’s louder now. you nod, barely. “we could try.”

you don’t know when it happens exactly, the shift. maybe it’s the quiet. maybe it’s the way the room’s only lit by the soft glow of the lamp. maybe it’s the weight of his words still floating between you. but suddenly, you’re looking at him, really looking at him, and he’s already looking at you. his gaze doesn’t move — not to your hands, not to the floor like it used to when he got nervous. it’s steady now, like he’s memorizing something. like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. your heart stumbles a little. and neither of you looks away, and the moment stretches. his knee is brushing yours. his hand still resting on the couch cushion. your whole body feels too aware of itself — your fingers, your lips, your throat. 

the kettle screams.

you both flinch, not much, just enough to break the spell, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“right,” you say, standing up quickly. “tea.”

he stays on the couch, watching you move across the room. you flick off the stove, pour the water into the mugs you grabbed earlier. you add honey to yours, then add some to his, too. you bring the mugs back, hand him his. he smiles when he takes it. that same crooked, tired smile you remember.

you sit again, curled into your side of the couch, feet tucked under you. “so,” you say, gently blowing over the rim of your cup. “rockstar life, huh?”

he really laughs, for the first time tonight. “i mean, it’s not exactly groupies and private jets,” he says. “sometimes it’s tuna sandwiches at truck stops and sharing hotel rooms with people who snore like they’re dying.”

you snort. “glamorous.”

“deeply.”

“do you like it?”

he thinks for a moment. “i do. most days. some days it’s exhausting. some days i feel like i’m just chasing noise.”

you nod, sip your tea. “do you ever get lonely?” you ask, quiet.

he looks at you. “yeah,” he says. “a lot more than i thought i would.”

you both finish your tea slowly, the conversation drifting here and there. small questions, quiet answers, tiny pieces of each other being carefully returned. it’s not like before. but it’s not not like before either. 

you place your mug down gently on the coffee table. he does the same. your hands brush. just barely. you start to move yours away out of instinct, but then you feel his fingers wrap gently around your wrist. you look up. he’s already looking at you again. his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is loud. louder than you want it to be.

he leans in, not quite closing the space, but almost. “you still do that thing,” he says, voice low. “twist the sleeve of your sweater when you’re nervous.”

you glance down at your hand. he’s right. you look back up at him. his face is so close now you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one from when jungwon pushed him off his bike in eighth grade. you could reach for him. you could close the distance. you could kiss him. 

you don’t move, not at first. you just sit there, watching him, feeling his hand warm against your wrist, his thumb brushing once against your skin like he’s asking something without saying it. the distance between you is nothing now, and he’s close enough that you can see the way his lashes fan downward, the faint crease between his brows, the softness in his expression that wasn’t there when he first stepped out of that car. his hand moves slowly, from your wrist to your jaw, fingertips grazing up the side of your neck. his touch is careful, your breath catches, and he feels it, you know he does, but he doesn’t stop. his palm settles against your cheek, his thumb resting just below your eye.

he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, and then he leans in. his lips meet yours in a kiss that feels like an exhale, full of everything that’s gone unsaid. he kisses you like he’s afraid to startle you, like he’s still checking if you’ll let him stay. and you do, you kiss him back without hesitation, your hand moving to his chest like you need something to hold onto. his breath hitches and he shifts closer, legs brushing yours, the heat of his body pulling you in. his other hand moves to your waist, anchoring. you tilt your head, your lips parting under his, and that’s when the kiss deepens.

you feel him everywhere — in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the press of his chest against yours, in the gentle sound he makes when you pull him in a little closer. the world narrows. the couch disappears. the years fall away. there’s only him, only this, only the you falling into together like no time has passed at all.

when he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t go far. his forehead rests against yours. your noses brush. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes stay closed.

“i’ve wanted to do that since i saw you standing outside the diner,” he says, voice low, breath warm against your skin. “actually, since before that.”

you smile, overwhelmed, a little breathless. “i know.”

you open your eyes to find his already on you. wide, tender, shining. “i didn’t think i’d ever get the chance again,” he adds.

you reach up, fingers finding the side of his neck. “you have it now.”

and he kisses you again, no pause this time. his mouth finds yours with more confidence now, more feeling. the way you mold into him is instinctive, your hand slides up into his hair, his fingers spread across your back. the kiss is soft, but it’s not shy. every press of his lips says i missed you, every shift of your body says i’m still here.

his lips don’t leave yours for long. there’s no rush, but there’s urgency, not of time, but of want. of having waited too long and not knowing how to say it any other way. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. he shifts closer, his body pressing into yours with a kind of hesitation that disappears as soon as you don’t stop him. your knees bump. your hands move without thinking, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. you feel the weight of him then — not just the physical, but everything he’s holding. 

he leans into you, and you lean back, and the cushions give under your weight as he gently guides you down, your back meeting the couch, his body following. he hovers over you for just a moment, eyes meeting yours like he’s asking again, silently, if this is okay. and you answer the only way you can: you pull him in.

his mouth finds yours with more fire this time. it’s still careful, still steady, but there's a heat now that wasn't there before, something that builds in the way he presses you into the couch, the way his hand finds your waist, the way he exhales against your lips. you feel the weight of his body above you, his knee slipping between yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. your hands explore him like you’re tracing something familiar and new at the same time — the slope of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the muscles shifting under your palms.

he pulls back just slightly, mouth still close, breath catching as he looks down at you, and then he says it, voice low and rough and full of awe, “god, you’re so beautiful.” you inhale sharply, eyes locking with his. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “always were,” he murmurs between kisses. his lips trail lower, grazing your neck, making your whole body tighten. “you don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers.

your breath hitches. your fingers tighten around his back. he kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. every shift of his body against yours makes your skin burn in the best way. there’s something new here, a closeness that’s never been touched before, but was always waiting. you find it overwhelming, but it’s not scary.  his hands move to your hips, grounding you, holding you like he doesn’t want to let go — like he couldn’t, even if he tried. his fingers dig in just slightly, and it sends a shiver through your body. you exhale, a soft, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out, and he hears it.

he kisses you harder. his mouth pressing into yours like he’s starving for it now. you feel his tongue slide against yours and you moan softly into his mouth, and that’s when you feel his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, skin against skin, warm and steady and reverent. he groans when he touches you. low, like it’s involuntary, like just feeling you beneath his hands undoes something in him. you reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, messing it up in a way that makes him hiss under his breath. he leans into it, hips pressing forward, his body sinking further into yours, like he needs to feel you everywhere at once. his knee shifts between your thighs, pressing in. you don’t know if he means to do it or if it’s just instinct, but it sends a wave of heat through your core that makes your back arch slightly into him. you let out a breathless moan and your hips twitch without meaning to, and he feels it. his breath stutters, his hands holding tighter.

“fuck,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you make the prettiest sounds.”

you let out another soft, shaky moan when his thigh presses in again, more deliberate this time, like he’s testing something, like he’s trying to see how far he can take you with just this. your head spins. his hands slide further up under your shirt, fingers spreading across your waist, his palms dragging up the bare skin of your stomach. you gasp softly when the cool air of the room hits the warmth of your skin, and he leans back just enough to look at you. his lips are parted. his eyes heavy and full of something dark and warm and wanting.

“can i take this off?” he asks, voice low, almost careful. “just your shirt.”

you nod, but it’s not enough — you’re already whispering, “yeah. yes. it’s okay.”

he lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing your ribs, the fabric sliding up over your head and landing somewhere behind the couch. his eyes drop to you, his gaze moving over your chest, your stomach, the way your skin is flushed and rising with every breath.

“jesus,” he breathes out, more to himself than to you. “you’re... fuck.”

you can’t look away from him. the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or fall to his knees, makes your whole body ache. he leans in again, this time slower. he kisses your collarbone. the center of your chest. his hands still holding your waist, guiding you gently as his mouth maps a path down the center of you. your hips move again, and his thigh finds its place between yours, pressing up, grinding just enough to pull another sound from you, one that surprises even you.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your ribcage. “just like that. let me hear you.”

you feel it all. his body above yours, your legs tangled under him. the weight of his thigh against your center, the warmth of his mouth, the hands that can’t seem to stop touching you. you don’t know where this is going yet — not fully — but right now, it’s everything. right now, it’s his breath on your skin, your hands in his hair, your lips swollen from kissing him over and over again. it’s the years that fell away the second he touched you. it’s the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

his hands never stop moving, dragging along your sides, your stomach, and he leans back just slightly, just enough to take you in again, his eyes dark and full of something that makes your skin heat under the weight of it. his fingers slide up one strap of your bra and down your arm, until the thin band slips from your shoulder. he presses his mouth there immediately — warm kisses, one after the other, his lips brushing over the new skin, then he bites gently, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans at the sound.

you moan softly, helplessly, when his mouth gets close to your breast, and that’s when he stops. just for a second. he lifts his head and looks down at you, breathing heavy, his hands still firm on your waist.

“do you really want this?” he asks, voice low and serious.

you nod right away, then say it out loud, because you want him to hear it. “i’ve been waiting for this for a really long time, actually.”

his eyes flash, jaw tightening, like the words hit deeper than they should. he groans, low in his throat, and then he’s on you again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, and you feel his breath, warm and fast, as he speaks between kisses. “yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “what exactly have you been waiting for?”

you let out a breathy laugh, your fingers digging into his back without thinking, and whisper, “i was waiting for you to make me yours.”

he curses under his breath, something sharp and guttural, and you barely have time to react before he’s reaching behind you, tugging your bra down with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin. “fuck,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “i’m gonna make you mine, then.”

his touch changes — still gentle, but firmer now, more certain. he cups your breast like he’s wanted to for years, his thumb brushing your nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth. your back arches without meaning to, a moan slipping out of your lips as your hand flies to his hair again, pulling slightly, needing something to hold onto. he groans into your skin, the vibration making you shiver. his other hand slides under your back, supporting you, keeping you close. your hips roll instinctively beneath him, your legs parting more, needing more of him everywhere. your nails drag across his back, not too hard, but enough to make him breathe harder, to make him growl softly against your chest.

“so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you’re really here. can’t believe i get to touch you like this.”

his voice is raw now, every word soaked in years of longing and frustration and heat. and you’re melting under him, body buzzing, mind gone, skin on fire. his mouth is still on your breast, warm and wet, his tongue circling your nipple in slow, maddening strokes before he sucks it into his mouth again. and while he’s doing it, you feel him shift his hips down into you, slow and deliberate, grinding his hardness right where you need him most.

your whole body jerks in response, hips tilting up into him, a sharp, breathless moan leaving your lips before you can stop it. his thigh is still between your legs, but now his cock is pressing right against your core, even through the layers of clothing — and it’s too much, not enough, exactly what you’ve been aching for. he keeps moving his hips, slow, hard, dragging himself against you like he knows exactly how close you are to falling apart.

you whimper again, high and needy, your hands clutching at his shoulders, at his back, at anything you can reach. “jay,” you breathe, voice thin and shaky, “please.”

he pauses, not pulling away, just lifting his head slightly from your chest to look at you. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips parted and wet. “please what, love?” he asks, his voice low and rough and teasing. he knows. of course he knows. but he wants to hear it.

you stare up at him, completely undone and open. “i want you,” you whisper. “i want you so bad it hurts.”

his breath leaves him in a rough exhale, and before you can say anything else, his hands are on your waist, lifting you and pulling you up onto his lap, your thighs straddling him, your chest still bare against his flannel. you can feel how hard he is now, pressed right between your legs, and the friction makes your head spin.

he kisses you hard, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue and want, and then he pulls back just enough to murmur, “tell me where.”

you blink, dazed. “bedroom. down the hall. second door.”

he stands with you still wrapped around him like it’s nothing, like he was meant to carry you. you hold onto him, arms around his neck, mouth brushing his jaw as he moves fast, focused, straight down the hall. he kicks the door open gently with his foot and walks you inside, setting you down carefully on the bed like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop, like he’s still trying to be careful even when he’s about to lose control.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you as he stands over the edge of the bed. “look at you.”

he crawls over you slowly, hands braced on either side of your head, and starts pressing kisses to your skin again — your jawline, your cheek, the soft space behind your ear, down your throat. every kiss is hot, open-mouthed, a little desperate. he whispers between them, voice hoarse.

“so perfect.”

“been dreaming of this.”

“can’t believe i get to have you like this.”

his hands roam over your ribs, your sides, your thighs. his body never leaves yours. every part of him is pressed to you, and you’re burning, pulsing, so far gone you can barely form thoughts. your fingers dig into his back, his arms, his hair, anywhere you can pull him closer. you moan again when he kisses the space between your breasts, grinding into you through his jeans, and he growls softly at the sound, kissing lower, biting gently at your hipbone.

“gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your skin. “gonna take my time with you. finally.”

you arch into him, legs falling open wider, and he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you — all flushed and panting beneath him, your eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen.

“you’re mine tonight,” he says, voice wrecked. “every inch of you.”

you nod, breathless, your whole body trembling. “i’m yours,” you whisper.

and that’s all he needs. he pulls back just enough to sit on his knees between your legs, breathing hard, his hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls it off slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor beside the bed. underneath, there’s just a worn black t-shirt and you watch, wide-eyed and barely breathing, as he lifts the hem and peels it off too.

he’s lean, all muscle and sharp lines, but not in a showy way. more like someone who’s lived in his body, worked in it, played night after night with a guitar strapped across his chest. his stomach is tight, his arms strong, his collarbones prominent in the low light. and god, he’s beautiful. you swallow, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and he sees the way you react to him, the way your eyes move over every inch of his chest like you can’t help it. like you’ve been thinking about this too long not to stare now that he’s finally in front of you like this.

he smirks, just a little. not cocky. just knowing. “you okay, love?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

you nod quickly, your lips parting around a soft gasp when he leans down again, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “you’re even better than i imagined,” you whisper, like it slips out before you can stop it.

he groans at that, something low and deep, and kisses you again, slow and hot and full of tongue, before he starts moving lower. his hands find your waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of your pants. he kisses your stomach once, just above the waistband, then looks up at you through his lashes.

“can i?” he asks, voice a little rough now, like he’s holding back.

you nod, and your voice is small but certain. “yeah. please.”

he hums like the answer physically affects him, and starts pulling your pants down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, your thighs, down your calves, until they’re gone. you’re left in just your underwear, legs spread for him, chest rising and falling fast, and he sits back for a second just to take it in. he lets out a sharp, helpless sound when he sees you.

“fuck, baby,” he says, eyes roaming. “look at you.”

his hands come to your thighs, thumbs brushing the inside where your skin is already hot and shaking. he leans in, kisses one side gently, then the other — slow, open-mouthed kisses to the softest parts of you, places no one’s ever touched the way he does now. his lips find the crease of your thigh, right where it meets your center, and you gasp, your hips jumping slightly. he chuckles against your skin, breath hot.

he kisses you through your underwear next, a soft press of his mouth right where you need him most, and it makes your entire body jolt. you whine, your hand flying to his hair, tugging lightly. he moans at the contact, at the scent of you, his nose pressing lightly against the fabric. and then he breathes you in, slow and deep.

“jesus,” he mutters against you. “you smell so fucking good.” his hands tighten on your thighs. he presses another kiss through the damp fabric, then another, dragging it out, letting you feel every bit of the tease. your hips roll again, trying to get more, chasing the heat of his mouth, and he just smiles. “fuck, baby, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he says softly, almost like he’s in awe. 

you can’t respond, not with real words, just a soft, shaky moan and your fingers digging deeper into his hair as he keeps kissing between your legs, building the pressure, praising you under his breath like it’s a prayer. your legs are trembling now, thighs twitching with every breath. he groans into you, deep and low, like he’s losing his mind just from being this close. then his hands slide up your thighs, slow and firm, curling around your hips as he pulls his mouth back just enough to look at you.

“can i take these off?” he asks, voice dark and tender at the same time, like he’s already halfway gone.

you nod fast, desperate, breathless. “please.”

he hums at the way you say it, like you’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted. and then, slowly, he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and pulls. he watches as he drags them down your legs, never breaking eye contact for too long. he tosses the fabric aside without care, like nothing matters but you now, here, like this. his eyes drop to your core, and he groans, deep in his chest. “fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so wet already.”

your cheeks burn, but you don’t hide. you can’t, not when he looks at you like that, like you’re sacred. 

he kisses your thighs again, then lower. kisses your mound. kisses the soft skin right beside where you need him most. teasing, worshipping. and then finally he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe from your entrance up to your clit. your whole body arches. your hand flies to his hair again and you let out a sound that’s not even a moan — just a desperate breath, cut short by how hard it hits.

he groans into you. “that’s it,” he murmurs, licking again, slower this time. “that’s what i wanted.”

his hands slide under your thighs and hold you open, steady, as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue moves like he knows you already, like he’s been dreaming about this for years — licking, sucking, teasing. he focuses on your clit in soft, steady circles, then moves down, tongue fucking you, groaning every time you moan for him. you can’t stop moving. your hips grind against his mouth, your thighs tense, your stomach pulling tight. and he just holds you there, letting you fall apart in his hands.

“you taste so good, baby,” he whispers between strokes. “so sweet. fuck.”

you whimper, fingers tangled in his hair, the pressure building so fast you don’t know what to do with it. he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even slow down. his mouth stays on you, perfect and hot and overwhelming, his hands holding your thighs open as he works you open with his tongue. when you moan his name again, sharp and breathless, “jay—,” he groans like it physically affects him, like it’s the only thing he ever wants to hear again.

“that’s it,” he says. “say my name again. let me hear you.”

every movement feels intentional — like he’s learning what makes you whimper, what makes your legs shake, what makes you cling tighter to his hair and moan his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to say. his mouth is relentless, warm and wet and perfect. his hands hold you firm like you might slip away if he lets go. the coil inside you is tightening fast now, heat building between your hips, up your spine, down your thighs. your whole body arches into him, and he groans at the way you move against his mouth.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby. come on. let go,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. you gasp, your fingers fisting the sheets now, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding. and then his mouth sucks your clit just right and your whole body shatters. the orgasm hits hard.

your back arches off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure rolls through you in waves. your legs tremble, toes curling, thighs squeezing around his head, and he just keeps licking you through it, gentler now, helping you ride it out, coaxing every last bit of it from your body with his mouth. “fuck,” you breathe, over and over, your voice shaking.

he finally pulls back when you’re twitching, your body too sensitive, your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh. he kisses your thighs again, affectionate, almost reverent, and then he sits up. his face is flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with you. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. and then, slowly, he reaches down and undoes his jeans. you watch, still trembling, chest rising and falling too fast. your eyes follow his hands as he pushes the denim down his hips, revealing the outline of his cock through his boxers — hard, straining, undeniable. he kicks the jeans off, and then he just stands there for a second, breathless, staring down at you with something between hunger and awe.

he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at the waistband of his boxers, pausing for a moment as his eyes roam over your face, your body, your chest rising and falling from the high he just gave you. you meet his gaze, and there’s something new in it now — something softer than before. not lust, not quite. something closer to reverence.

“i’ve thought about this,” he says, voice low, breath shaky. “so many times. more than i ever should’ve.”

you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him. “me too.”

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. then he kisses you again like he’s trying to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud yet. you taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth. he pulls back just enough to whisper, “i missed you so fucking much—” his hips grind against yours through the thin fabric still between you, “you. all of you.”

“i missed you too,” you whisper, and it comes out raw and honest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. then he finally pushes his boxers down, and you feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick, hard and heavy. you look down and your mouth goes dry. it’s overwhelming, in the best way — not just the size of him, but what it means. that he’s here. with you, like this.

he moves between your legs, settling into the space that always felt like his, and pauses. “you sure?” he asks again, his voice quieter now. steadier.

“yes,” you say, without hesitation. “please.”

he groans, and reaches down, running the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in you. the pressure makes you gasp again, your hips twitching toward him, desperate to feel him where you’ve needed him most. he lines himself up, eyes never leaving yours, and then he pushes in slowly and carefully, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you open. your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your back arching, hands flying to his shoulders. he curses low under his breath, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you feel like heaven. you feel... fuck, baby.” your fingers dig into him as he bottoms out, buried completely inside you, and he stays there for a moment — not moving — just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “you okay?” he murmurs.

you nod. “perfect.”

​​he starts to move, slow at first, with deep, steady thrusts that make your breath stutter with every roll of his hips. the friction is perfect, the heat between you unbearable. every sound he makes — every grunt, every whisper of your name — pushes you closer to the edge again. his hands roam constantly, like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. he kisses you between thrusts, muttering things into your mouth like so fucking good, and i missed you, and you were always mine.

you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, tighter, and he groans like he’s breaking apart. his rhythm builds, his hips slamming into yours with more force, more urgency. it’s not rough, not careless, but it’s just that he needs this. needs you, every part of you, and you need him too. the sounds of skin and breath and moans fill the room, tangled with his name on your lips over and over again. “jay—fuck—”

he kisses you hard, messy and open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours as he pounds into you, the headboard knocking gently behind you, his hands everywhere. one grips your thigh, the other pressing into the mattress by your head. and then his hand moves up, fingers brushing your jaw, your lips, and you part them instinctively, letting him slide his thumb inside your mouth. he watches you as you suck on it, his eyes dark, mouth falling open. “jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re... fuck.” 

you swirl your tongue around the pad of his thumb, moaning around it, and his hips stutter. he growls low, pulls it out, and brings that hand down to grip your waist as he fucks you harder and deeper, every thrust dragging against the sweetest spot inside you. “you feel so good,” he mutters, voice wrecked, barely coherent. “so fucking good. like you were made for me.” you cry out again, hips rocking to meet him, your nails raking down his back. your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, your second orgasm crashing close like a wave.

and then he says it, broken, breathless, true. “i loved you. all this time,” he gasps, pressing his forehead to yours, thrusts getting sloppy, more frantic. “i still fucking love you.”

you come undone with a cry — loud, raw, desperate. your whole body arches into him, clenching around his cock, dragging him down with you. you tremble under him, pleasure blinding, his name falling from your lips like prayer. he groans, deep and guttural, and pulls out at the last second, fisting his cock once, twice, before he comes with a growl, hot and thick across your stomach. he jerks in his own hand, breathing ragged, eyes locked on you as he spills everything onto your skin.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. his body trembles above you, he lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing your neck. “mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine. you always were.”

you hold him close, heart pounding, your legs still wrapped around his waist. and for the first time in years, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be. you stay like that for a moment, his body heavy over yours, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, your breath slowly returning to something close to normal. your skin is damp with sweat, your chest still rising and falling too fast, and you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs, loud and unsteady.

he doesn’t move right away. just presses his lips once, soft, against your neck, then your collarbone, then rests his forehead there like he can’t bear to let go of the closeness just yet. you slide your fingers up into his hair, brushing it gently back from his forehead, and whisper, “we’re a mess.”

he laughs, low and breathless, and lifts his head enough to look down at you. his gaze moves to your stomach, the evidence of him still there, and he hums, a little sheepish. “let me clean you up,” he murmurs. you nod, and he leans over the side of the bed, pulling a crumpled t-shirt from your laundry basket nearby — one of his, you realize, from years ago, soft and faded. he uses it carefully, wiping your stomach, being gentle like you’re fragile now, like he’s still not done taking care of you.

you watch him the whole time. the way his jaw clenches in focus, the way his hands move. the way he keeps stealing glances at your face, like he needs to check if you’re still with him. and when he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside and settles beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. you turn toward him instinctively, tucking yourself against his side, your leg draping over his hip, your hand resting flat on his chest. he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer. skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, almost afraid of the quiet that’s settled around you both.

you nod, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. “more than okay.”

there’s a pause, and he shifts a little, like he’s trying to find the right words. his fingers trace slow circles on your back, his breath even now, steady against your temple. “i meant what i said,” he murmurs eventually. you blink, and tilt your head to look at him. “about loving you,” he says. his voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet. like he’s scared to say it too loud, scared it’ll disappear if he does. “i didn’t know how to carry it back then,” he continues. “but i still love you, even after all this time.” you don’t interrupt, you let him speak.  “it never stopped,” he says. “not really. i loved you when i was writing songs in hotel rooms. i loved you when i saw your name on old letters and had to stop myself from riding to your city. i loved you when i stepped out of that car and saw you again for the first time.”

he turns fully toward you now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “and i love you right now,” he says. “more than i know how to explain.” your throat tightens and your eyes burn. you reach up, touch his face, and trace the line of his cheek with your thumb.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “always did.”

he leans in then, kisses you slow and soft. nothing rushed, nothing hungry, just love.

just all the things you both kept to yourselves for years, finally allowed to be spoken in the quiet of your room, under soft sheets and the faint hum of the city outside. you rest your head against his chest again, and he holds you tighter. 

“can we stay like this for a while?” you ask.

he kisses the top of your head. “as long as you want.”

and for the first time in a long time, there’s no distance. no almosts, no waiting.

and he sleeps over that night. not because you asked, not because he asked. just because neither of you ever considered the alternative.

you fall asleep tangled in each other, your leg over his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his breath steady against your neck. his skin is warm, even under the cool sheets, and at some point in the night, he murmurs something — too soft to catch — but it makes you smile in your sleep. when you wake up, the sun’s filtering through the blinds in thin lines, and he’s already awake.

he’s propped up on one elbow, watching you, hair messy, smile soft. “good morning,” he says, voice low, raspy from sleep.

you blink slowly, stretch a little, and smile back. “hi.”

he kisses your shoulder, then your cheek, then pulls you closer like he doesn’t want to leave the bed — like he could stay like this forever. but he can’t, and you both know that.

“i should get back to the hotel,” he says eventually, eyes apologetic. “they’re probably losing their minds trying to find me.”

you sigh, nestle into his chest for one more second. “what time’s the last show?”

“tonight,” he says. “city next over. it’s the end of the leg, then we get a few weeks off.”

you nod slowly. “you can use the phone,” you say, sitting up, brushing your hair back. “i don’t think it’s been used in days.”

he grins. “i missed landlines.” he pulls on his pants and shirt from the night before, pads barefoot to the phone in the corner of your living room, dialing a number from memory. you hear him talk to someone — probably the security guy — laughing a little, apologizing, promising he’ll be down in twenty. when he hangs up, he walks back toward you, hands in his pockets, eyes lingering on the edges of your apartment like he wants to remember it exactly as it is. “they’ll be here soon,” he says, voice lower now. “i should go.”

you nod. try to smile, but it’s small. he watches you for a second. then steps closer. his hands land on your waist. his forehead rests against yours.

“come with me,” he says.

your heart stutters. “what?”

“just for the night. the last show. it’s nothing big. we’ll be back by morning. or—” he laughs softly, eyes still on yours. “we won’t. we’ll figure it out.”

you blink. “jay…”

“i know it’s sudden,” he says. “i know we haven’t figured out what this is. but i don’t care. i just want you there.” you hesitate. not because you don’t want to go — but because it feels big. because everything between you always has. he leans in closer, kisses the corner of your mouth. “come with me,” he says again. softer this time. “please.”

he looks at you, you look at him. and then you’re moving.

you spin around, nearly tripping over your own feet as you head to your bedroom, pulling open drawers, grabbing whatever you can — a pair of jeans, a toothbrush, your tape player. he laughs from the hallway, breathless, half in disbelief. “i’ll take that as a yes,” he calls out.

you yell back, “shut up and help me find my shoes.” he grins, already heading into your closet like he’s lived here forever. and just like that, you’re going.

before you leave, you scribble a note on the back of an envelope you found near the phone, the ink shaky from how fast you’re writing. you fold it in half and slide it under the mat by your door. 

yunjin, if you pass by here — went on tour with jay. just one night. back tomorrow. probably. maybe.

you don’t sign it. you don’t need to. she’ll know, and then you go. the drive to the next city is quiet at first. the windows rolled halfway down, your bag in the backseat, jay’s hand resting on your thigh the entire time. there’s music playing low on the radio — tom petty, bryan adams, someone you don’t catch — and the sky is the kind of gray that doesn’t mean rain, just distance. he looks over at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re there. like he’s afraid to blink and find the passenger seat empty.

you get to the venue around three. the crew’s already setting up, cables and amps everywhere, the soundcheck halfway through. someone hands jay a setlist. someone else tells him where catering is. he keeps looking back at you like he’s trying not to lose you in the noise. you don’t get lost.

you follow him backstage, watch him tune his guitar, watch him run through scales absentmindedly with his eyes half on you. you sit on a speaker case and talk with one of the backup singers for half an hour about lip balm and tour food and how long the drives get between cities. you see the way the rest of the band looks at jay when he plays — the quiet respect, the ease, the way he’s earned his space up there. you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. and when the show starts, you watch it from the side of the stage. 

the lights are blinding. the bass shakes the floor. the crowd screams in waves, louder with every song. and he plays like he’s alive in a way you’ve never seen before, like every note is another word he doesn’t have to say out loud. you watch his fingers move across the strings, his head tilted back, sweat dripping down his temple. and all you can think is i’m so fucking proud of him. he looks at you once during a quiet moment between songs. you smile, he does too.

after the show, the band’s buzzing. half-dressed, towel-draped, beer-in-hand kind of buzzing. someone hands you both a drink. someone else tries to convince you to stay for another leg of the tour. you laugh it off. or maybe you don’t.

you end up in a hotel room around two in the morning. his guitar still in the corner, your makeup smudged, your voice a little hoarse from singing along. he presses his forehead to yours before you fall asleep, whispers, “you were my favorite part of today.” you don’t answer. you just kiss him.

the next morning, the world feels slower. the windows are fogged. the coffee tastes stronger. he sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, one sock on, and glances at you like he’s thinking too hard. “you know,” he says, not looking up, “this could be a thing. you and me. doing this.”

you pull the sheet up over your chest, lean on your elbow. “you mean… shows? cities?”

he nods. finally meets your gaze. “yeah. if you wanted.”

you don’t answer right away. because maybe this was supposed to be one night. maybe you were supposed to go home in the morning. but maybe you won’t. you think about the noise, the lights, the music. about his hand on your thigh in the car. about his mouth on your skin the night before. about his voice saying “my favorite part of today.” so you look at him — hair messy, guitar pick still in his pocket, smile soft, and you think: maybe i could get used to this.

and your life changed a little after that day. not in the kind of way that people notice from the outside, not right away, but something shifted. you came back home feeling different. lighter, like someone who finally let herself say yes, like someone who wasn’t afraid of living anymore.

you graduated two months later. your cap didn’t sit right on your head and your gown was wrinkled from the car ride, but none of that mattered. not when you saw him in the crowd, leaning against the back railing, sunglasses on, biting back a grin when you caught his eye. he didn’t bring flowers. he brought his car. you hadn’t packed a bag. he didn’t ask if you wanted to go, and you didn’t ask where.

you watched a concert in a city you never thought you’d see, slept in a motel with pink walls and a broken ice machine, woke up to him humming something under his breath while brushing his teeth, one hand tangled in your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. sometimes you went alone. just you and him. sometimes you brought a friend — yunjin once, who danced side stage like she’d been doing it her whole life, who whispered he’s so gone for you, you know that, right? into your ear after the show, and kissed your cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

sometimes you both passed through home. once, you and jay picked up jungwon for a weekend. no plan, just his overnight bag and your mixtape in the stereo. you ended up at the coast. jay let jungwon drive for part of the way, and you both screamed when he almost missed the exit. you slept three across in one bed, your feet tangled, your ribs hurting from laughing. jay played guitar on the porch of the tiny rental, barefoot and happy, and jungwon fell asleep with popcorn in his lap. 

no one talked about what it meant, but everyone felt it anyway.

you started carrying a small bag in the back of your closet, just in case. a toothbrush. a sweater. a cassette or two. he’d show up sometimes without warning, always leaning against the doorframe like he’d never left. “thought we could drive,” he’d say. and you’d go, you always went. you weren’t following him, you weren’t chasing anything. you were just there together making it up as you went along. saying yes to the kind of life that didn’t always fit in lines or schedules or plans. but fit him, and it fit you.

fit this version of love that moved, and stretched, and stayed. the summer blurred like that. with half-packed bags and gas station snacks, and hotel keys that never worked the first time. with sweat on your skin and his songs in your ears. with soft hands and sleepy grins and “come here” whispered into your neck in the backseat of his car at rest stops. with your feet up on the dashboard, and his fingers tracing your knee at red lights. it wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

you got used to the rhythm. not just of the music, but of the life. sleeping in unfamiliar beds. brushing your teeth in gas station bathrooms. ordering breakfast in diners that smelled like the seventies and played the same four songs on repeat. you stopped asking where you were. stopped keeping track of state lines. stopped needing to define what you were doing. but you weren’t trying to escape anything, you just didn’t need to stand still anymore.

some mornings, you woke up to the sound of his guitar in the other room, already strumming something into shape. other mornings, he was still asleep, one hand wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched. there were fights, too. about timing, about exhaustion, about space. sometimes he shut down. sometimes you disappeared into the crowd before the encore. but every time, you found your way back. not with apologies, always — but with hands reaching in the dark. with quiet dinners. with the word stay whispered into your hair.

you made friends with the crew. with the other musicians. you had your own backstage pass, but mostly you stayed out of the way. you read books in the greenroom and  you painted your nails on the tour bus floor. you stole his hoodies, of course. you took pictures you never printed. and in every city, he kissed you like it was the first time. you never asked what would happen after the tour ended, and he never offered a version of forever. but something in you both knew that this, whatever this was, had already become part of your bones.

one night, after a show in a city that felt too loud even in the fading hours, you and jay found yourselves driving back to your hometown. not just a quick visit, but the kind of week where time stretches slow and familiar. you needed a break from the tour, from the noise. the car hummed softly down the old roads you both knew by heart. the tour bus felt miles behind you, like a distant memory. the car was small, just enough space for both of you and a couple of guitars resting in the backseat. you didn’t say much, but the silence was easy and comfortable. jay hummed a melody low enough that it was more felt than heard, his fingers tapping softly on the steering wheel like it was another instrument. you reached over and squeezed his hand without thinking, and he glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for that all night.

when you arrived at your parents’ house, your mom opened the door, and the second she saw you, her eyes welled up with tears, of course. your dad, teased as always, “didn’t think you’d grow at all while you were gone.” and even though it was the same old line, you could tell he meant every word, his voice warm with relief. jay stood beside you, shifting awkwardly at first, but your parents welcomed him like he’d been part of the family forever — not just jungwon’s best friend, but the one who made their daughter smile in a way they hadn’t seen before.

the days that followed were a patchwork of memories and new moments stitched together. you went back to the park where you and jay had found each other again after you left for college, trying to make sense of everything that had changed. the diner where you’d shared late-night fries and whispered secrets during winter break, the neon sign buzzing softly overhead, still humming the soundtrack of your youth. you stood by the lake where the sky had caught fire the night of your first kiss, the water reflecting the soft glow of twilight. and then there was his childhood bedroom, tucked away in the basement of his parents’ house, walls still lined with posters, a guitar resting against the bed, and a window that looked out onto the quiet street. you remember the night he played “just like heaven” on his guitar there, fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and hope. it was before he left for college, before the silence stretched long between you. that song, that moment, stayed in your chest like a promise, one you both carried through the years.

that week, wrapped in the comfort of old places and quiet laughter, felt like a pause in the endless moving. a chance to remember where you came from, and to hold on to the pieces that made you whole.

and sometime in late october, you were at a city on the coast, windy, a little gray. the venue was old and charming. he was quiet that day, but not distant, just thoughtful. kept checking his setlist and tapping his pick against his thigh. didn’t talk much in soundcheck, and you knew better than to push. you watched from the wings, your arms crossed over your chest, the laminate pass hanging loose around your neck. and when they got to the second half of the show, the part where they sometimes rotated songs in or out, someone leaned over and told you he was going to do something different. you didn’t know what that meant, not until he stepped forward, a little closer to the mic, and looked out at the crowd like he was looking for something in it.

“we’ve been on the road for a while now,” he said, voice steady. “and this next one’s not ours. but it’s always been… mine. in a way.”

you felt it before he played the first chord. your breath caught in your throat. he glanced sideways, just once, just for a second, and then he started playing.

“show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…”

and your heart cracked wide open. because just like heaven wasn’t just a song, it was your song. from the very beginning, from that spring you thought you’d lost him, from mixtapes on train rides, from letters tucked into jacket pockets. from him playing it for you in his childhood bedroom, dreaming of what it’d feel like to be wanted the way those lyrics wanted someone.

you left the venue late that night, your hand in his, your cheeks still warm, your chest still aching in the best way. and no one said “the end” because no one needed to. some stories don’t end when the lights go down. they end quietly, in moments like that: in a guitar string still vibrating, in a look across the stage, in the memory of a song you never stopped hearing.

and in the way you still felt like heaven to him. always.

author's note: first of all… i’m so sorry for taking forever to update this 😭 life got busy, motivation disappeared, my brain shut down for like days, you know how it is. but we’re BACK and i’m so, so happy i finally got to share this part of the story with you

writing this second half felt like coming home in a nostalgic and painful and soft way. i always knew i wanted this fic to feel like growing up, and getting older, and realizing that love doesn’t always disappear just because time does, it just shifts. and maybe, if you’re lucky, it comes back <3

thank you for reading, screaming, crying, waiting, messaging, and just being here. this fic means the world to me. if you made it this far ilyyyyy!!!! you are the moment <3

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