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ryorecs · 2 months ago

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back to you — nine

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 72k words… yikes

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — the wedding day finally arrives, lavish and luminous, yet beneath every shimmering surface lies the unshakable shadow of past heartbreak and unresolved longing. you and Jeno stand together amid the elegance, outwardly composed, but internally haunted by ghosts of choices left unspoken and wounds never healed. tension simmers dangerously between you both, manifesting in lingering gazes and heated silences, culminating in an intense encounter that shatters the facade of control, blurring the line between love and loss. but as night descends, a chilling event fractures the celebrations, forcing you both to confront not only your desires but also the painful secrets and betrayals buried beneath the day’s shimmering veneer.

chapter warnings — post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, this chapter is fucking huge, i have to warn you guys there’s a major character death in this chapter, i can’t tell you anymore but please read with care !!!, y/n and jeno will probably confuse you this chapter, huge scenes between them, communication (finally), hard truths and feelings, dom!jeno, choking, spitting, daddy kink, riding like always, you meet y/n’s in this!, her two older sisters and her parents, y/n and mark bestie scene, there’s a story with jeno and one of y/n’s sister but don’t take that plot too seriously !!, it’s just fun, more serious things happen this chapter <3 guys be prepared, put on the playlist and get some tissues cos you need it. this chapter is a whirlwind. y/n goes bridezilla in this (lol she’s not even the one getting married), and if you feel like certain characters become too silent/feel irrelevant this chapter mind your own business !! (jk, it’s all for a reason, trust the process)

also this isn’t proofread so don’t be that annoying person and point out any mistakes to me, i probably won’t care !!!

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

The altar breathes like an old god in sleep, heavy with the scent of bruised gardenias and salt dragged up from the cliffs below, the blooms wilting under the weight of a night too thick, too swollen with unsaid things. The floral arch creaks as the sea wind tugs at it, loosening petals that fall like bruised stars onto the stone, soft against your bare feet, the chill of the ground climbing your skin in slow, merciless kisses you barely feel. White chairs sit scattered like abandoned prayers, one toppled sideways, another sagging under the memory of bodies that haven’t yet come. A lace fan lies forgotten beneath a chair, fluttering once as the breeze catches it, then stilling like the last beat of a dying heart. Everything smells of salt, wilt, and endings, the air so humid and thick it feels like wading through the aftermath of something that has already broken.

You’re wearing Yangyang’s hoodie, drowning in it, sleeves swallowing your fingers, the hem skimming the tops of your bare thighs where your tiny shorts cling, damp with the ocean’s breath. You’re not dressed for reverence, or even for longing — you’re dressed like you ran from something, fled it in the middle of a heartbeat, and forgot to bring anything soft to catch you when you fell. You remember the way Yangyang hovered over you, the warmth of his body, the way his hips settled between yours as he pushed your knees apart and fumbled to line himself up. You remember how you tried to want it, tried to believe the weight of him could crush the grief out of your chest, but the second you felt the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, everything in you recoiled. It was wrong. It was so wrong, a scream curled up tight inside your ribs. You stammered an excuse — something about being tired, about not feeling right — and peeled yourself out from underneath him with a mumbled apology you barely heard yourself say. You left the room so fast your heart forgot to keep up, bare feet slapping the villa tiles, dragging his hoodie over your half-naked body like a shield.

The ground itself seems to pulse, a second heartbeat hammering low and slow beneath the soles of your feet, tugging you forward, tying you to something older than memory. You don’t move so much as drift, carried by the montage still burning itself across the backs of your eyelids—your laugh tangled with Jeno’s against the champagne-slick air, the rough clasp of his hand around your wrist after the win, the look he gave you when he thought no one else could see, like you were already his and he would burn down the world just to make it true. The projector’s light might have died but the images don’t fade, carved too deep into your chest now, dragging you step by step toward a finish line you were never going to outrun. Every breath feels wrong in your lungs, like you’re breathing in endings, like you’re walking into the mouth of something that’s been waiting open for you all along.

You are not clean. You are not holy. You are standing on sacred ground with another boy’s scent clinging to your skin, but none of it matters — none of it has ever mattered because when you lift your eyes, he is already there, as if he has been waiting for you through every mistake, every wrong turn, every time you tried to run from the only thing that could ever hurt you enough to feel real. There’s no noise or warning, just the terrifying certainty of gravity, of tide, of stars plotted years before you were ever born. Jeno stands at the altar like he was grown there, like the stone and the salt and the shuddering breath of the cliffs shaped themselves into the boy you have always been hurtling toward. His head is bowed slightly, hair ruffled by the ocean wind, the dark strands catching the silver light so he looks half-sculpture, half-ruin. His hands flex once at his sides, the slow, unconscious clench and release that only comes when someone is fighting themselves and losing. He’s beautiful the way shipwrecks are beautiful—devastating, inevitable, carved out of the violence of something larger than himself. The moon ropes a cold glow over his shoulders, pooling in the hollow of his throat, kissing the tense line of his jaw, catching in lashes that flicker once like the beat of wings when he lifts his gaze.

And when he lifts it, when those dark, bruised eyes find you across the stone—there is no surprise there, no confusion, no question. Just the awful, breathtaking knowing of it all. He looks at you like he’s been standing here through every lifetime you didn’t remember, waiting for this one moment to snap everything into place. You feel it in your marrow, the inevitability of it, the way the altar thrums louder now, the way the air crushes closer, how even the stars seem to hold their breath. This was always where it would end. You were never walking to meet him. You were being dragged back to him, reeled in by every choice you ever thought was yours.

And Jeno—standing there in the wreckage of the night, in the cradle of salt and bone and memory—waits for you like he has all the time in the world. You linger there for a moment, bare feet pressing into the cold stone, the oversized sleeves of Yangyang’s hoodie swallowing your hands, the hem fluttering around the tops of your bare thighs. The wind breathes heavily through the broken aisle, dragging the scent of salt and fading gardenias against your skin, but you don’t move until he does. Jeno stands ahead of you, framed by the crooked altar, the white wood groaning in the wind. Without speaking, his hand lifts in a slow, careless arc, palm open, fingers stretched in a gesture so effortless it tears through the thick ache in your chest. It’s the kind of gesture that says he knew it would be you. He knew it would always be you. Your body moves before your mind catches up, feet crossing the stone in small, certain steps, and you fit your hand into his like there was never meant to be any space between.

The warmth of him bleeds up your arm, rough and steady where his calloused fingers close around yours. You don’t stop. Some part of you breaks free, surging forward, tucking yourself into his side with a shivering breath you don’t release. He lets you in without hesitation, without question, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing you into the thick line of his body. He dips his head, mouth brushing the crown of your hair, and murmurs against your temple, “Take it off, baby. You’re freezing.” His voice rolls low through your bones, dragging shivers up your spine that have nothing to do with the morning cold.

You hesitate for only a second, standing small inside the heavy drape of his body, but Jeno is already peeling the hoodie from your frame. His jacket is thick, lined with fleece, still carrying the warmth of his body, and he swings it off his own shoulders with a firm, protective tug. Yangyang’s hoodie crumples forgotten to the stones. You are left in nothing but your tiny shorts, skin bare to the moonlight, and Jeno shifts automatically, standing broad and strong between you and the altar, between you and the cold. You pull the jacket around yourself with clumsy fingers, drowning in it, the weight of him anchoring you where you stand. His hands don’t leave you. He catches the zipper, pulling it up slowly, his knuckles grazing the soft skin at the base of your throat. His breath fans across your cheek when he leans closer, shielding you from the ocean wind, from the emptiness yawning all around. He towers over you now, t-shirt stretched tight across his chest, muscles shifting under skin golden in the heavy moonlight.

The air inside the jacket is warm, thick with the scent of him, and for the first time since you stepped into the night, you can breathe without breaking apart.

Jeno speaks first, his voice low but thick with something molten, like he’s trying not to shatter the fragile tenderness strung between you, his words curling through the cool night air softer than breath, “Shotaro really dug that clip out,” and when you glance over at him he’s already looking at you, eyes heavy-lidded and dreamy, warm in a way that feels too private for the open sky, too deliberate, too devastating, and it makes your ribs ache.

Your hands fumble for the frayed seam of the hoodie you dragged on without thinking, needing something to ground you as you murmur, “I hadn’t seen it since that night,” and your voice is barely a whisper, not because you’re afraid but because anything louder might break the way he’s looking at you, like you’re a memory he never learned how to let go of.

He hums under his breath, not a laugh but something softer, something that brushes the air like velvet, his hand shifting just slightly across the stone so his knuckles graze yours, his thigh pressing closer to yours in a way that feels more like an invitation than an accident, and his mouth curves up at the corner when he says, “You looked happy,” the words carrying a weight that has nothing to do with observation and everything to do with yearning.

You swallow around the thickness in your throat, tilting your head toward him just enough to breathe him in, answering with a smile that trembles even as it blooms, “I was,” because you were, you remember it in the marrow of you, the champagne fizzing behind your teeth, the way his arms found you in the crush of bodies, the way his mouth had found your temple like instinct, like need.

For a moment you just sit there, the altar rising empty behind you, the stars smudging themselves across the sky, his gaze never once leaving yours, not once flickering away like he’s tethering himself to you now because he’s too afraid that if he lets go, he won’t find you again, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a murmur dragged rough across the edges of hope, “I wasn’t supposed to kiss you there, not in front of everyone,” and his hand shifts, fingertips brushing the side of your pinky in a gesture so deliberate it makes your chest constrict.

You let out a soft breath, a laugh caught somewhere between nostalgia and ache, saying, “You did anyway,” and it’s impossible not to smile when he does, a lazy, crooked thing that melts his whole face into something boyish, something breathtaking.

Jeno hums under his breath, not a laugh but something softer, something rough-edged and vulnerable, his gaze dropping to your mouth for half a second before dragging back up like it costs him to look away, and when he speaks, his voice scrapes low across the small space between you, “Couldn’t help it,” he says, but he doesn’t stop there, doesn’t leave it at that, his hand shifting on the stone until his fingers brush yours deliberately, tender and trembling with how badly he wants to touch more, wants to touch everything, “You looked so fucking beautiful that night, you know that?” his voice breaks a little, warm and ragged, “I couldn’t believe it… I still can’t,” and he smiles then, this soft, wrecked thing, like he’s marveling at you even now, even after everything.

“You were laughing like you didn’t know anyone was watching,” Jeno murmurs, thumb tracing a small, almost apologetic circle against your knuckle, “You were just… happy. Fuck, I wanted to bottle that version of you, keep it just for me,” he laughs under his breath, shaking his head, cheeks flushed with how naked the confession feels, “You looked so bright it hurt to look away, and I didn’t want anyone else seeing you like that, I didn’t want to share it, I didn’t want to pretend I wasn’t already yours,” his voice drops even lower, his eyes locking onto yours, heavy and molten, “I think I kissed you because if I didn’t, I was gonna lose my fucking mind.”

You lean in without thinking, like the space between you has grown too charged to survive untouched, your voice softer now, thinner around the edges, the question tumbling out almost shyly, “Do you remember what you said after?”

Jeno chuckles under his breath, the sound rough, not really a laugh at all but something that scrapes the air between you raw, breaking a little like it still catches in his chest even now when he answers, “Yeah… ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I think I love you. Wasn’t the first time I said it though.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, a sharp, shuddering thing ripping through your ribs, your lungs squeezing too tight for air, and when you manage to breathe again your voice wobbles, whispering out so soft it almost gets lost, “I never forgot,” and then even quieter, the admission curling into the space between your bodies like smoke, “You sounded so scared.”

Jeno smiles at that, but it’s not the kind of smile meant for happiness, it’s sad, stitched together from the splinters he still carries under his skin, his head tilting slightly, eyes gleaming under the weight of old wounds as he murmurs, “I was. I’d never said it to anyone before, only to Areum but it never mattered.” When he nudges your knee with his, it’s gentle, grounding, a small point of contact that feels bigger than it should, heavier, and then he says it, his voice softer now too, “You didn’t say it back… you never have,” and the words don’t come out accusing, don’t come out cruel, but they land heavy anyway, and something inside you seizes up because it’s true, it’s always been true, and the shame rushes up your throat before you can choke it back.

You gulp hard, audible in the thick quiet between you, your fingers tightening in the hem of your jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, and Jeno sees it, of course he sees it, his eyes darken, flicker to your mouth, your hands, the way your whole body shrinks in around itself like you’re bracing for impact, but he doesn’t ask, doesn’t push, just watches you with that same unbearably soft patience that makes you want to cry harder because he could hurt you so easily and he never does, he never has.

Instead, you do the only thing your throat can manage, the only thing your heart can push past your lips, you change the subject too fast, voice small and cracking. You swallow again, hard, and when you finally lift your eyes to his, there’s no shield left between you, nothing but the aching sincerity that’s been gathering behind your ribs for longer than you want to admit, and when you speak, your voice is low but sure, the words slow and trembling but clear, “I’m sorry,” you start, and for a second it’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough, so you take a breath, press your palm flat to your thigh like you’re grounding yourself, and you go on, “I’m sorry for how I broke things between us… I’m sorry for how I handled the distance… for how I pulled away every time you reached out… for how I left you clinging to nothing but unanswered messages and crossed wires and hope you shouldn’t have had to hold by yourself. I’m sorry for prioritising my work over you.”

Your throat thickens but you push through it, leaning a little closer, needing him to feel the words in the air between you, needing them to be real, “I’m sorry I made you feel like loving me was a burden, like your wanting me was a weight I couldn’t bear. I’m sorry for every time I made you second-guess yourself, every time I kissed you and let you think it meant forever when I was already halfway out the door in my own head,” you shake your head, hating the memory of how careless you were with things that should have been sacred, “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye the way you deserved. I’m sorry I let silence do my dirty work instead of being brave enough to tell you the truth face to face. I’m sorry I fucked him only an hour after I left.”

You can feel it now, how much you’ve carried, how much you’ve owed him, how much you still do, the weight of it pressing into your ribs, into your tongue, but you keep going, your voice steady even as your fingers tremble slightly where they clutch your own knee, “You didn’t make it easy, Jeno, and I’m not pretending you did,” you murmur, not looking away, not blinking, letting the honesty split you open, “You made me feel alone even when you were right there, you made me wonder if I was ever enough for the version of you that only existed in your dreams, but even then—” you cut yourself off, breathing hard, fighting for the right words, and when you find them they pour out thick and cracked and real, “Even then, I should’ve fought for us, I should have stayed, I should have let myself be angry at you and still loved you anyway. I should have trusted that we were worth the mess.”

The wind shifts against the altar, cool across your damp cheeks, and still you don’t stop, your voice soft but cutting through the night with every syllable, “I’m sorry I let fear decide for me, sorry I let the past write our ending instead of fighting for a new one, sorry for every time I touched you like you were mine and then left you like you weren’t,” your hand moves without thinking, reaching out, brushing your fingertips against the back of his, light as breath, desperate for an anchor, “I’m sorry for the nights you stayed awake waiting for me to change my mind, and for the mornings you woke up alone anyway.”

You draw in a breath that trembles in your lungs but tastes like relief when you finally let it out, “I should have been stronger,” you whisper, the words heavy but not cruel, not to him, not to yourself, “I should have believed we were stronger.” And you finish, not with a plea, not with shame, but with the truth folded raw into your hands, “I’m sorry I made you doubt what we had. I’m sorry I made you doubt me but I never doubted you, not really, not where it mattered.”

You open your mouth to say more, to spill out another apology, something about the way you pulled away too early, about the nights you locked your phone and your heart at the same time, about how you never learned how to stay when it mattered, but Jeno doesn’t let you, he shakes his head once, slow and firm, his hands cradling your face tighter like he’s physically holding the words back, his forehead pressing harder against yours, his breath catching when he says, “That’s enough, this isn’t all on you,” and his voice is so certain, so wrecked and reverent, it steals the breath right out of your chest.

He cups your face in both hands like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he stops touching you, his thumbs stroking slow grounding circles along your jaw, forehead pressing soft against yours until your breathing syncs, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and cracked and steady like the only thing he has left to give you is the truth, “I’m sorry I made you feel alone when you needed me most,” he murmurs, the words warm and raw against your skin, “I’m sorry I pulled away when I should’ve pulled you closer, sorry I made you carry all the weight of us while I pretended I was too busy to notice you were slipping through my fingers.”

He leans in closer, breathing you in like the only prayer he knows, voice trembling as he presses a kiss to your forehead before continuing, “I’m sorry I let the distance turn me cold, sorry I let the calls go unanswered, the texts pile up, the days stretch long enough that it was easier for you to believe I didn’t care,” he pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands still cradling you with such aching reverence it breaks something inside you, “I’m sorry I made you doubt where you stood with me, made you feel like an afterthought when you were the only thing that ever mattered more than the game, more than the noise, more than any of it.”

His breathing stumbles, but he pushes through it, voice breaking but full of certainty, “I’m sorry I kissed that girl in New York,” he says, voice cracking harder now, eyes locked on yours, no flinching, no pretending, “I’m sorry I let myself get drunk and stupid and lost enough to let someone else put their mouth on mine a day after we broke up like it didn’t mean anything, like you didn’t mean everything, I’m sorry I let it be seen, I’m sorry you had to see it all over the headlines, that I let it stain everything we built, that I gave you that humiliation to carry on top of everything else.”

His breathing stumbles, but he pushes through it, voice breaking but full of certainty, “You didn’t make it easy, and you know that, but I should’ve fought harder anyway, I should’ve known when you were pulling away it was because you needed me to chase you, not let you go,” he tilts his forehead back against yours, the smallest tremor running through him, “I thought giving you space was the right thing, that staying silent was noble, but all I did was leave you to bleed alone while I waited for you to fix what I helped break.”

He strokes his thumb along your cheekbone again, so tender it makes your chest hurt, and he whispers, “I’m sorry for the mornings you woke up angry and aching and found nothing but an empty phone, sorry for every time you reached out and I made you feel like loving me was asking too much, sorry for kissing you like you were my future and holding you like you were temporary,” his voice shakes harder now, and he doesn’t hide it, doesn’t pretend it’s anything but grief, “I’m sorry for letting pride speak louder than love, for thinking if I stayed away long enough the wanting would stop, when all it ever did was grow teeth.”

When you open your mouth to speak he only shakes his head, firm but careful, pressing another kiss against your temple like he’s sealing the apology into your skin, his hands tightening at your jaw as if daring you to argue, his voice steadier now as he finishes, “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you you were already my home before you even knew you could be,” and you shudder under it, because it feels like being laid bare in the softest, sharpest way, like every wall you built crumbling all at once without a sound.

You move closer without meaning to, chasing the heat of him, pressing your body into his until there’s nothing left between you but the shaky drag of your breath and the solid thud of your hearts slamming against each other, your forehead still pressed to his, your hands sliding up into the hair at the back of his head just to stay tethered, and the silence that swells up around you is thick enough to drown in, heavy with everything you both said and didn’t, clinging to your skin and your ribs and your throat like smoke.

It eats at you, slow and aching, every second stretching until you think it might tear you in half, until Jeno finally cuts through it, low and rough and certain, his mouth brushing yours without kissing you yet, his voice scraping against your lips when he says it, “I forgive you,” and it isn’t soft, it isn’t questioning, it’s dominant and sure, a fact he decided before you ever sat down together tonight, a thing he carved into himself with blood and breath and every stupid, stubborn thing he still feels for you.

You close your eyes, feeling the heat of him against your mouth, the way his thumbs still brush your jaw, and you breathe out just as soft, “I forgive you too,” and you mean it, even if it scares you, even if it feels like stepping back onto cracked ground you already fell through once.

Neither of you says what’s obvious — that it’s easy to say sorry when you miss someone so much it guts you from the inside out, that forgiveness feels good but it doesn’t dig out the rot that’s already taken root between you, it doesn’t unsay the cruel things screamed across cracked phone lines or erase the cold nights spent pretending you didn’t care, and it sure as hell doesn’t erase the way you both let each other drown without throwing a rope, without even looking back. But you stay there anyway, forehead to forehead, clinging tighter because neither of you knows how to leave without setting yourselves on fire first, holding onto each other like two people trying to rebuild a house already burnt down to the foundation, like maybe if you press hard enough into each other’s skin you can rewrite what broke, maybe if you just don’t let go this time it’ll be enough to fool fate into giving you a second chance.

“I don’t want words anymore,” you whisper, your hands sliding up into his hair, fisting there gently like you’re scared he’ll pull away, “I need more than that,” and his breath shudders when he nods, eyes fluttering shut like he feels the same tight pull under his ribs.

“Actions,” he says against your mouth, not a vow, just something worn and raw and necessary, and when he says it he squeezes your hand like he’s anchoring himself too.

You don’t promise anything. You don’t ask him to. You just hold onto him a little tighter, feeling the sharp press of your teeth against the inside of your mouth, the familiar ache of hope trying to crawl out of a body that doesn’t know if it can stand another fall. “This has to be different,” you say quietly, not because you don’t want him but because you do, so badly it tastes like blood in your mouth, and he nods again, pressing his forehead harder to yours like he’s willing to believe it even if it’s foolish.

“I know,” he says, and you both hear the catch in his voice, the part of him that’s still afraid he’ll mess it up again.

You lean into him, soft and sure but shaking underneath it, your nose brushing his, your mouth barely skimming his like you’re both too afraid of breaking whatever this is before it even forms, breathing the same bruised thing between you because words are useless here, they always were, and neither of you has to say it — you’re giving each other a third chance, the one that’s supposed to be charmed, supposed to stick, supposed to be luck finally finding its way home, but even as your fingers tangle into the back of his shirt and his hands clutch your waist like he’s drowning, you both feel it, the crack already spider webbing under your feet, the familiar weight of history crouching low behind your teeth, and for now it’s enough, for now it’s everything, even if you can already taste how easily it might all fall apart again.

You can’t lie here. The altar is a mouth pried open to swallow every half-truth and false hope, a place where deceit rots before it can take root, where confessions bleed like water and ruin carves itself into something that almost looks like grace. Your bodies are already too close, thighs brushing, hands twisted into the fabric of his shirt like you’re bracing yourself against gravity, like the air between you doesn’t exist anymore, and when he tilts his head down, your mouth catches his without warning, a slow drag of lips breathing into each other, not crashing but collapsing, like a house folding into its own foundations, like a surrender pulled from somewhere deeper than thought. You lean in instinctively, weight tipping forward in small, helpless increments, your hands slipping higher into his hair without meaning to, your hips nudging toward his like your body’s already answering a question he hasn’t asked aloud, and Jeno feels it, feels the slow unravel, the way your grip falters just enough for him to take, and he does, steady and sure, his hands sliding low over your waist, guiding you into the curve of him without hurry, without question, like he always knew you would fold if he just waited long enough for you to remember how.

Jeno feels it, the way your hands twitch, the way your hips hesitate just barely above his, and he makes the decision for you — firm, inevitable, natural — his hands sliding down your waist with a surety that makes your breath catch, guiding you with steady pressure until you’re straddling his lap fully, knees pressing into the cold stone on either side of his hips, your body lined up against his like a match already struck. His mouth doesn’t leave yours, just deepens, taking more, giving nothing back until you’re gasping against his lips, your fingers clawing at his shoulders like you forgot how to breathe without him.

The second your hips settle down he groans low and filthy into your mouth, hands gripping your ass and dragging you hard against him, grinding you down onto the thick, aching length trapped between you. He’s already so hard it feels brutal, punishing, the heavy ridge of him pressing tight to your pussy through the thin layers left between you, and you whimper, half in relief, half in shock, nails digging into his back as he rolls his hips up slow but relentless, making you feel every fucking inch.

“Fuck, baby,” Jeno rasps into your mouth, voice thick and shaking, his hands branding your hips like he’s scared someone else might try to take you if he doesn’t leave fingerprints, “you’re already soaking for me, made for me, you know that?” and it doesn’t sound like a question, not when he says it like it’s bone-deep truth, not when his hips grind up so hard into you that the seam of your panties drags right over your clit, rough and perfect and maddening, his mouth dragging down your jaw, breathing you in like he’s trying to drink you straight out of your skin.

Your whole body shudders against him, a broken sound tearing loose from your throat, high and helpless, and your hands scrabble against his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself against the wreckage he’s dragging out of you, and your voice stumbles out in a breathless, pleading whimper, “missed you… missed the way you touch me, the way you ruin me, nobody else—” and the words die against his mouth when he thrusts up again, slow and merciless, and your panties catch harder, sending you reeling, grinding down on him like it’s instinct, like it’s need carved into bone, your cunt throbbing so hard you swear he can feel the slick heat through every ragged breath between you.

Your moans slip out faster now, breathy and high and ruined, hips stuttering against his, thighs clenching tighter around his waist, and he laughs under his breath, dark and low, tightening his grip until you can’t lift off him even if you wanted to, forcing you to take every slow, filthy grind exactly the way he wants you to. “That’s it,” he mutters against your jaw, mouth dragging wet kisses down to your throat, “show me how bad you need it, pretty girl, show me how fucking empty you’ve been without me.”

You’re crying into his mouth now, little gasps and sobs mixing with your broken moans, hands buried in his hair, yanking him closer, because it’s not enough, it’s never enough, it’s been too long, too much space and too much silence and too many bodies that never touched you like this, never made you forget how to stand. Your pussy throbs against him, slick and desperate, grinding against the bulge in his sweats until you’re sure he can feel every pulse of your cunt through the thin layers, until he’s cursing into your throat, hips jerking up harder without meaning to.

Jeno drags you higher by the hips, brute and precise, lifting you without effort and slamming your back flat against the cold stone of the altar, the shock of it ripping a gasp out of you that he swallows with his mouth, kissing you filthy and desperate, tongue sliding deep, hands bruising your waist as he locks you in place, grinding his hips into the cradle of yours like he’s trying to carve himself into the altar too. Your legs cinch tighter around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, your dress shoved up around your hips, panties twisted and soaked between you, every rough drag of his cock against your dripping pussy sending pressure spiraling up your spine until your fingers are scrambling for something, anything, slamming back against the stone just to keep from shattering apart.

He kisses you like he’s starving for the taste of your throat, your lips, your whimpering breath, devouring every noise you make as you rock harder against him, hips slamming, pelvises grinding so brutal you can feel the slick squelch of your cunt against his sweats, the fabric soaked and clinging to the curve of his cock as he mutters against your mouth, “Look at you, baby… fucking ruined for me, always mine, always dripping for me like this,” and the altar takes it all, the sweat, the stuttered gasps, the filthy desperate clash of bodies too hungry to be holy, the pale stone gleaming under the moonlight like it was built for this, like it was waiting all this time for you to fuck the memories back into each other here, where nothing could be hidden, where every grind and moan and shuddered kiss would echo into the night like worship and sin stitched together by skin and heat.

“Fuck— you feel that?” Jeno rasps against your throat, voice thick and shuddering, grinding his cock slow and heavy against your cunt until you whimper, the thick heat of him dragging over your soaked panties, obscene and messy, every slow rut making you feel the full length and weight of him straining against the fabric. “So fucking wet for me… can feel you through everything,” he breathes, mouth hot against your jaw, teeth grazing your skin, “fuck, baby, I missed this, missed you,” and he shifts his hips rougher, dragging the head of his cock right against the slick mess of your pussy, like he can’t stand even that small barrier between you. He pulls back just enough to look at you, panting, wild, his hands locking tighter on your hips as he grinds you down harder, forehead pressing into yours, and he mutters low and wrecked, “nobody else ever felt like this, nobody else ever fucking mattered.”

He kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside you, mouth messy and open over yours, teeth scraping your lip, tongue claiming every broken gasp you give him, grinding his cock so slow and thick against your pussy that you can’t stop the wrecked, breathless moans spilling into his mouth, your hips rocking hard and desperate without shame, without thought, just filthy need crashing through your bloodstream like heat. Your hands tangle in his hair, yanking him closer every time he tries to pull back for breath, your thighs locked around his waist, grinding yourself down onto him harder, wetter, the slick squelch of your soaked panties dragging against his cock every time he ruts up into you, slow enough to hurt, dirty enough to brand. The altar takes it all — your stuttering gasps, the brutal slap of hips grinding through layers of ruined fabric, the wet kiss of sweat against stone and the marble gleams under you like it has been waiting years for this wreckage, for this ruin, for the way you shatter into each other like prayer dressed in sweat and sex and breath that never learned how to let go.

Jeno shoves your hoodie higher up your waist, rough and hungry, his mouth trailing down your jaw, your throat, biting into the frantic pulse hammering under your skin until you gasp, tugging blindly at his shirt, desperate to get him bare against you, desperate to feel the heat of his body after too many nights lying to yourself you had ever moved on. His skin is burning against yours, salt and sweat and the kind of touch that makes your whole body sing with need, and when your hips grind down into him again, the thick line of his cock grinds back even harder, riding up against your soaked panties so rough you cry out into his mouth, broken and high, your nails clawing at his shoulders like you’ll drown if you let him go.

He kisses you rougher for that, hips rutting up once, brutal and hungry, and then he growls into your ear, low and slick, “Let me take you back to my room, baby, want you spread out on my bed, want you loud for me,” and it’s so filthy and sweet you almost come undone right there, laughing into his mouth, dazed and breathless and high on him, scraping your nails down his spine, trying to shove his shirt off his shoulders until he catches your wrists, panting against your lips as he mutters, “Not against the fucking altar my uncle’s getting married at tomorrow, baby, have a little fucking mercy,” and then softer, hungrier, he drags your hands back to his chest, kissing you again like he can’t breathe without it, “I said I’d take you to my room, let’s go.”

You pant, “oh, and should we fuck with Nahyun passed out two feet away? Real romantic,” and he huffs a sharp laugh against your throat, grinding up harder, like the idea of it almost makes him lose control.

You shake your head, giggling breathlessly, grabbing his jaw and pulling his mouth back to yours, biting his lower lip before murmuring against it, “There’s a few empty guest rooms, pretty boy, if you’re that desperate,” and he curses low under his breath, slamming your hips harder against his cock like he cannot stand one more second without being inside you, the heavy thick pressure of him rutting against you over your panties enough to leave you soaked, ruined, throbbing.

You barely remember how you got here, barely remember why you thought you could survive on anyone else’s touch when your whole body remembers his so perfectly it hurts, the way your hips rock down into him like muscle memory, the way he catches your moans with his mouth, rough and wet and endless. Nothing else matters. Not the mouths that touched you after. Not the hands that tried to make you forget. They are shadows, faded photographs, thin paper ghosts compared to this brutal, messy, aching reality of him grinding between your legs, of your panties sticking slick and filthy to your cunt, of his hands locking you to him like he’s scared the stone under you will crack before he lets you go.

You moan his name again, high and desperate, and Jeno groans against your jaw, voice breaking into something low and filthy and shaken, muttering, “Mine,” kissing the word into the corner of your mouth, “Always,” biting it into your throat, hips grinding rougher, harder, like he could fuse your bodies together if he just ruts deep enough.

Jeno leans back just enough to see you, his palms still firm at your waist, holding you steady against the altar like if he lets go you might disappear, and for a moment he does nothing but look, breathing you in slow and reverent, his lashes low and heavy over his wrecked eyes, the corners of his mouth curving soft with something more dangerous than lust, something older, something that feels like home after a lifetime in exile. His gaze roams you slow, hungrily, over your parted lips, the wet shine of your mouth where he kissed you breathless, over your flushed cheeks and the wild tangle of your hair, down the lines of your throat where his mouth had bitten earlier, and the look on his face is so unguarded, so raw, you feel it hit your chest like a blow.

He murmurs into the tiny spaces between you, voice thick and low, almost too soft for the air to carry, praises bleeding out of him like prayer, “So fucking beautiful,” he breathes against your temple, kissing it once, twice, three times, short, desperate kisses like he’s afraid you’ll vanish before he can map you back into his memory, “Missed you, missed this face, missed looking at you,” and every kiss he drags across your skin, your hairline, your cheeks, feels like a promise stitched in breath instead of thread. His hands run up your sides, under your hoodie, warm and possessive, coaxing little trembles out of you with every stroke, every brush of his fingertips over ribs and waist and hip.

You shiver, flushing under the intensity of it, under the way he worships you so quietly, like you’re some precious relic he’s terrified of shattering, and your fingers clench at his shirt, overwhelmed, dizzy from the way he never stops touching you, kissing you, breathing you in like every second without you has been some long slow death. His forehead nudges yours again, soft and firm, and he hums low into your skin, “Missed my girl.”

His hands trail up your sides again, slow and steady, like he needs to feel every part of you mapped under his palms, his mouth catching your jaw, the corner of your mouth, your temple, again and again in short desperate kisses that make your whole body ache, and he keeps murmuring it between breaths, between touches, voice wrecked and shaking with something too big to name, “Missed your mouth,” kiss, “missed your hands,” kiss, “missed the way you fucking look at me like you see right through me,” kiss, kiss, kiss, until you are trembling against him, your chest heaving with how heavy it feels to be wanted like this, to be claimed so tenderly you almost break under the weight of it.

You try to laugh, but it hitches in your throat, and you clutch at his shoulders harder, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling him deep like you could breathe him into the cracks he left behind, and your voice slips out small and shaking against his skin, “You still feel like home,” and you don’t mean to sound so broken but you do, you do, and you feel the way his arms lock tighter around you like he can hear it too, like he needed to.

You barely notice it at first, the way his hand finds yours, tangling your fingers together, the way he shifts you closer against him like you’re something precious he has to cradle even now, his mouth still brushing wet kisses along your jaw and temple, lips dragging slow across your flushed skin as if he’s memorizing you back into him. You gasp when you feel it, something cool and smooth sliding over your ring finger, a kiss of metal against overheated skin and your breath hitches sharp against his mouth. He chuckles low, almost shy, and pulls back just enough to nudge your forehead with his, murmuring rough against your lips, “Look, baby.”

Your eyes fall to your hand, and the world narrows to the quiet gleam wrapped around your finger — a thick silver band, matte instead of shining, the surface brushed soft like velvet under the broken moonlight. It sits heavy against your skin, heavier than you expect, molded to fit you without digging, the weight of it a quiet pressure, like a thumb pressing reassurance into your pulse. The edges are smooth, rounded just enough to catch the light without flashing it, and the thickness of it makes it feel deliberate, intentional, made to be worn not just today but every day after, and the longer you look at it, the more it feels like it was never missing from you, like your hand has been waiting for this weight all along.

“You know it’s not like the others,” Jeno says, voice low and steady as he kisses just beneath your ear, his hand cradling yours like it’s something sacred, thumb sweeping slow, rhythmic circles over your knuckles, and you lean closer without even thinking, breathing him in, feeling the weight of the moment fold over you.

You tilt your head into his and whisper, soft and a little breathless, “How, baby?”

He lifts your hand higher, lets the moonlight kiss the ring wrapped snug around your finger, and when he speaks again it’s softer, more deliberate, like he needs you to understand every piece of it. “The ones for Areum and the other girls… they’re pure platinum. clean cuts, polished bright, meant to shine for the pictures, meant to survive the wedding, but nothing more than that but yours…” he leans in, kisses the inside of your wrist, feels your pulse stutter against his lips, “it had to last longer than a day.”

His free hand slides over your waist, slow and careful, anchoring you to him without pulling you closer, just keeping you steady, and he keeps talking, voice growing rough at the edges. “I made it from a blend — platinum, palladium, and a little iridium to hold the structure together better over time. Took forever to get the alloy right. I had to melt and rework the cast twice because the first one was too soft and the second cracked when it cooled. I had to heat-treat the last version at a lower temperature so it wouldn’t get brittle, so it would flex a little with your skin, not against it.”

Jeno keeps your hand lifted between you, his thumb brushing soft strokes against your fingers like he cannot stop touching you, and his mouth tips closer again, voice dropping into something that makes your whole body light-headed. “I thought I knew what it would look like,” he murmurs, kissing your knuckles one by one, his lips dragging slow over your skin, “spent weeks trying to picture it… how it would sit, how it would feel.” He glances up at you then, eyes burning warm and wicked and full of something older than lust, and smiles a little against your hand, breath catching. “But, baby, I didn’t even come close.”

You blink at him, breath stuttering, heart ricocheting around your chest, and he leans in, brushing his nose along your cheekbone, laughing under his breath like he cannot believe it either. “You make it look so much better,” he whispers, voice catching, “fuck, you’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”

You shiver, flushed to the roots of your hair, and Jeno only smiles softer, kissing the corner of your mouth, nudging his forehead against yours. “Could’ve made a ring out of paper and it still would’ve been perfect on you,” he teases low, his voice curling around your ribs like a ribbon, “but I wanted it to be good enough. You deserve good, baby. You always did.”

He kisses your lips once, slow and sure, then kisses your nose, then your temple, and every press of his mouth makes you melt deeper against him, your free hand fisting his shirt like you cannot keep yourself steady otherwise. Your face burns so hot you are sure he can feel it radiating between you, but he only holds you tighter, only keeps brushing tiny, reverent kisses across your face like you are something he is scared to lose again. “You’re mine,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth, so soft you barely catch it, “you’re my girl. Always were.”

Your body betrays you before your mind can even catch up, hands clutching the front of his shirt, head tipping forward until your forehead presses hard into the curve of his shoulder, your chest hitching in violent, uneven sobs. It feels like the air has been knocked out of you and filled with something sweeter, heavier, like breathing him in hurts more than it heals, and still you cannot stop. You’re laughing too, soft and breathless against his neck, your nails curling into the fabric of his shirt because you cannot seem to hold on hard enough. Jeno cups the back of your head, presses his mouth to your hairline, kisses you slow and reverent like he’s trying to seal you back together, and you feel him shaking too, his own laughter threading wet through his breaths as he kisses your temples, your cheeks, your jaw, like he’s grateful for every place his mouth can find.

You pull back just enough to see him, your hands trembling as you wipe the tears from his cheeks with your thumbs, and he catches your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a kiss into your palm so fiercely it makes you shudder. “Baby,” he breathes, voice hoarse and broken, “look at me.” You do, blinking up at him through a blur of tears, your lips parting helplessly, and he smiles so wide, so wrecked, so beautiful that your heart twists sideways in your chest.

“I never stopped,” you whisper, your voice cracking hard over the confession. “I never stopped wearing you. Carrying you.” The words catch in your throat, thick and burning, but you don’t have to finish them because your hands are already moving, tugging your sleeve up with clumsy urgency, revealing the worn silver charm bracelet still looped around your wrist, the tiny chain glinting soft under the broken moonlight. His eyes catch on it instantly, wide and stunned, his breath stalling in his chest like he forgot how to use it, and you’re laughing through the tears now, soft and gasping, pressing your face into the warm line of his neck as you breathe against his skin, “I never took you off.”

Before you can even think, you’re tugging your shirt up too, turning slightly, your hands clumsy at the waistband of your shorts as you push them down just enough to bare the small inky ‘23’ etched low over the dip of your spine, and you feel him freeze against you, his fingers tightening where they grip your waist like he can’t breathe around it, and you laugh again, shakier this time, pressing your forehead to his shoulder as you whisper, “Never got it covered. Never wanted to.”

“Fuck,” Jeno breathes, and his hands are on you before you can even brace for it, tracing the ink with his thumbs, kissing down the slope of your spine like he’s memorizing every inch, and you’re trembling so hard you can barely stand. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters against your skin, his voice cracking open with something too big to name, and when he straightens up again, his eyes are wet and wild and full of something so raw it makes your knees threaten to give out, but his arms are already there, already wrapping you in, already holding you like you’re something he refuses to ever let slip through his fingers again.

You’re crying again without meaning to, laughing too, gasping against his mouth like you forgot how to survive without him, and he’s kissing your face in frantic, desperate bursts, your cheeks, your nose, your eyelids, anywhere he can reach like he’s trying to kiss you back into his life piece by piece. “No one’s ever made me feel like this,” you manage to gasp out, broken and breathless and drowning in him, “no one’s ever made me feel this seen, this wanted, this—” you shake your head helplessly, the tears slipping down your throat as you bury your face in his neck, “this fucking chosen.”

“I didn’t know how to stay without breaking you,” Jeno says against your hair, his voice rough and scraped raw, his arms locking even tighter around your shaking frame like he’s terrified the universe might rip you from him if he lets you go for even a second. “But fuck, baby, I’m staying now. Let’s start again.”

You laugh then, watery and wrecked, the sound tipping out of you before you can stop it, and you pull back just enough to cup his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks even as your own spill free, your nose bumping his as you whisper, “Until we break again?” not with bitterness, not with fear, but with the kind of battered hope only he ever taught you how to have.

“No,” he breathes, and he kisses you hard, sure, shattering the words between your teeth, his forehead pressing against yours, his hands shaking in your hair. “No, baby. Until it’s different.”

The ring presses heavy and warm against your finger where he holds your hand between both of his, your breaths tangled and messy between you, your bodies trembling like you’ve been stitched back together with nothing but spit and prayer. Maybe it will hurt. Maybe it will ruin you. Maybe you will destroy each other all over again. But tonight, here, now, it feels inevitable, it feels holy, it feels like the only future you were ever meant to burn toward, no matter how many times you fall apart.

You kiss him once more, longer this time, sinking into him like breath, like gravity, like the only thing left worth believing in when the world never made it easy and never once gave a fuck about how hard you fought to find your way back to each other anyway.

The sound comes first, slow and scraping, the lazy drag of leather against stone, not loud enough to startle but steady enough to unsettle, a rhythm that feels too certain, too sure of the fear it leaves in its wake. You freeze mid-breath, your mouth still caught open against Jeno’s, your fingers curling tight into the fabric of his shirt without thought, your lungs refusing to fill as the air thickens around you. Jeno stiffens too, a slow locking of his body against yours, not sudden but sinking, like a tide pulling out before a storm.

There’s a flicker then, a flash of something dark moving across the edge of your vision, and the hairs on the back of your neck rise before you even turn your head. The shadow stretches long before it reveals its source, reaching across the altar like a hand dragging itself over grave dirt. When he steps fully into view, it almost feels anticlimactic — Lee Taeyong, standing under the broken spill of moonlight, suit immaculate, expression indifferent, looking every inch the man who has seen too much rot to flinch at the sight of it anymore.

The light catches wrong around him, bending oily and slick, slipping off the sharp planes of his body without ever quite touching, while the air above you and Jeno remains harsh and clear, slicing straight through to the bone. It feels personal, the way the night itself recoils from him. The altar seems to sag under the shift, the white flowers draped along the stones wilting at the edges, bowing their heads like they recognize something unclean threading itself into the air, like even the dead things know better than to welcome a liar among them. The hush that falls isn’t peaceful. It’s the sucking quiet of a room holding its breath before the blow lands.

The altar hums beneath your feet, low and furious, the vibration threading through the stones like blood forced through a clenched fist, and it remembers every vow that was ever swallowed in fear, every kiss that turned bitter before it bruised the mouth, every promise that rotted before it reached the air. Tonight it recognizes the scent of ruin before the words even fully take shape, stiffening underfoot, not passive but coiling tighter with every breath you dare take, the flowers shuddering on their stems, the stones flexing like ribs bracing against an inevitable blow. It doesn’t wait for the lie to be spoken. It already feels it in the air, in the warping of the moonlight, in the souring of the breeze, and it braces the way living things do when they know they’re about to be broken open again.

“Didn’t know this place came with a reunion package,” Taeyong says, and the words curl into the air like smoke that clings too deep to be washed clean. His gaze slides over Jeno, lingers, then sharpens when it lands on you, a scalpel’s edge hidden inside a velvet glove.

Jeno’s hand leaves your waist, a slow unspooling you feel in your bones, and you have to catch yourself against the altar for half a second, the air colder where he used to be. He moves forward, arms unfolding, and embraces his father without hesitation, but it is clipped, practiced, the kind of affection that wears a threadbare smile stitched together with old nerves.

“You’re late,” Jeno says, his voice warm but pulled thin at the edges, and you hear how much effort it costs him to make it sound easy.

Taeyong claps his son’s back once, twice, the sound sharp against the hush. “Business,” he says, smooth as the night leaking under the door, his hand lingering a little too long before he steps back. “Things that couldn’t be left unfinished.”

The way he says it twists something deep in your stomach, something cold and wrong, but no one else reacts, the practiced smoothness of it sliding too easily into the night, too polished to disturb the surface. The altar tightens beneath your feet as if bracing itself, the flowers draped across the stones bowing lower in the thickening air, and the night itself seems to sharpen, pulling at the edges of the world like a hand dragging a blade slow across fabric.

Jeno smiles, small and tired, the kind of smile you would have missed if you were not watching him so closely. “Glad you made it.”

Taeyong’s eyes gleam as he steps slightly to the side, letting his gaze catch you again, slower this time, like he is turning over something fragile in his palm, wondering how best to break it without making too much noise. And even though Jeno is already shifting back toward you, reaching for you again without hesitation, you still feel it — the weight of being left alone even for those few seconds, the hollow space carved into the air where his protection should have been. Jeno’s palm finds your waist again, warm and sure, pulling you closer, shielding you once more without a word.

The altar remembers. It hums low under your feet, humming with the weight of every broken vow it ever bore witness to, every love story that curdled before it could survive. When Jeno shifts subtly, shielding you with the line of his body, you feel it — the altar tightening, a living thing recoiling, bristling, then anchoring itself heavier beneath your soles like it’s choosing sides.

“Didn’t know this place came with a reunion package,” Taeyong says, and the words slip out too smooth, too amused, warping the night even further, making the cold stick harder to the inside of your ribs.

Jeno rises immediately, his body cutting cleanly between you and the man who carved half the ruins in his chest. He says, “Dad,” voice flat, unreadable, and they hug — brief, stiff, the kind of embrace given to witnesses, not to fathers. You don’t move. You can’t. Every inch of your skin feels exposed, burning, like you’ve been dropped back into a memory you spent years trying to claw your way out of.

Taeyong’s eyes flick toward you next, a sharp glint of recognition in them, and you feel it before it happens — Jeno shifting again, subtle but surgical, stepping in without hesitation, so Taeyong would have to physically brush past him just to reach you. It’s almost casual if you don’t know what to look for. It’s a barricade if you do.

His hand settles against the back of your hip, not possessive, not pushing, just anchored there, a silent brand, a steady weight reminding you without words: I’m here. I see you. I’m not moving. His thumb strokes once over the fabric of your dress, grounding you, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. His body speaks it all — shielding your line of sight, blocking out the man who made you small, building a wall you didn’t have to ask for.

The altar seems to breathe around you, drinking the tension into its stones, holding its breath like it knows what you know — that not all ghosts need to be dead to haunt you. And for the first time in a long time, you realize you’re not facing this one alone.

Taeyong steps back just enough to look at you, and the weight of it is instant, curling tight under your skin like a hook sinking in slowly. He doesn’t glance. He studies. He peels you apart with his gaze, stripping you to nerve and breath and silence, cataloguing every fault like a man assessing damage he already knows he caused. It isn’t hunger that coils behind his gaze; it’s something colder, something that still wants to leave fingerprints on you just to prove he was there first. It’s the kind of gaze that brands itself onto your ribs, that sinks past skin and settles in the marrow, the kind that says I know what you are, and I’m not impressed.

Your fingers spasm once in Jeno’s jacket before locking rigid, your breath catching wrong, your chest tightening into a cold, raw knot. You can’t stop the way you tilt into Jeno, can’t stop the way your spine curves slightly toward him like a body bracing for a fall it’s already too late to catch. Jeno notices everything — the faltering line of your shoulders, the shallow drag of your breath, the tremor in your grip so he slides closer, his hand tightening around your waist with a quiet certainty that says without words that you’re not alone.

Taeyong’s gaze doesn’t settle on you. It settles on Jeno instead, on the way he tilts toward you without thinking, on the way his hand curves protectively around your waist like instinct, like loyalty already misplaced. His mouth quirks faintly, almost like amusement, almost like pity, and when he speaks, the words are tossed into the heavy night air like crumbs he has no intention of picking back up. “Some things always seem to come back looking heavier than when they left,” he muses, his voice smooth as oil sliding over broken glass.

The altar hums under your feet, low and warning, the scent of the flowers thickening into something too sweet, almost rotten. There’s a pause — one beat, two — and then Taeyong tips his head slightly, murmuring almost to himself, almost to the dark, “Sometimes,” he adds, voice softer now, silkier, the venom hidden so cleanly you could almost miss it if you weren’t already choking on it, “it’s easier to leave them behind altogether.”

There’s a sound that splits the thick quiet, not from Taeyong but from somewhere behind him, and it creeps slow across the altar stones like something spilled wrong, a dry chuckle curling into the air without a mouth you can see. You flinch without meaning to, your grip tightening reflexively in Jeno’s jacket, the cold sharpening along your ribs, and you blink hard, once, twice, but it’s already too late. The fear lodges deep. It blinds. It holds you too tight. It buries you in the way prey freezes before it knows it’s been marked.

You didn’t notice him because you couldn’t. You see him now, though, half-swallowed by the dark, standing just behind Taeyong where the light refuses to cling. Not a figure. Not a man. Something still enough to unmake the air around him, the faint glint of a ring on one hand the only thing catching the moonlight, the rest of him a silence shaped into flesh. He doesn’t move like the living. He doesn’t breathe like something that needs air. His stillness is not patient. It is certain. Certain that he is here for a reason and that you’re not it.

Your body goes colder than the wind moving through the white-draped altar. Your heart claws hard against your chest, too fast, too weak, and the altar seems to groan low under your feet, bracing itself as the weight of the night tips wrong again. You don’t know his name. You don’t know his purpose but the knowledge of him is immediate and complete — a wrong note vibrating through your blood, a thing dressed in borrowed skin, a shadow that is not a shadow at all but something older, something made from the rot that creeps into holy places when no one is left to pray against it.

And when you tear your gaze back to Taeyong, he’s smiling, soft and polite, like he doesn’t notice the corpse standing behind him or the way the altar itself has started to sink under the curse he brought with him. The flowers droop lower. The stones tremble under your soles. And the night holds its breath again, this time waiting for something it already knows it cannot stop.

Taeyong shifts first, the slow movement of his hand slicing through the thick night as he gestures lightly toward the figure beside him. His voice rolls out too easy, too polished. “You know Mr. Kim,” he says, soft enough to slide under your skin, “Nahyun’s father.”

Mr. Kim steps forward fully now, letting the space between you shrink in a way that feels deliberate. His suit fits too sharp across the shoulders, like a blade dressed in silk, and when his gaze drags over you, it feels less like looking and more like weighing something cheap. His mouth twists into something that might have been called a smile once, if it held any warmth at all.

“Supposed to be celebrating my daughter’s future this weekend,” he says, his voice cool and lazy, the words coiled with contempt, “but here you are with someone else, hands on someone else.” His eyes skim over your body like you are a bruise he can’t believe anyone would bother covering. “Guess some boys can’t tell the difference between a prize and a placeholder.”

The silence after it feels physical, pressing in around your lungs, stealing air, stealing the steady beat of the night itself. Jeno doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. He only shifts closer to you, his hand flattening fully across your waist now, fingers curling, a quiet claim written in touch before words even come. His voice, when it slices through the space between them, is low and precise, so steady it almost aches. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t want yours,” he says, soft and cutting, the words humming under his breath like something sacred.

Mr. Kim’s eyes narrow slightly, the weight of his stare dragging over you again as if recalculating something he didn’t like. His mouth curves, not quite a sneer, but something colder, more dismissive. “And who are you?” he asks, the question lazy on his tongue, as if he already knows the answer won’t matter. “What family do you belong to?”

Your pulse stutters once, hard, but you steady yourself, lifting your chin slightly. You tell him your name, your family name, clearly, steadily, without apology. No embellishments. No titles you don’t have.

Mr. Kim’s mouth twitches — not surprise, not offense — just that thin curl of distaste that says enough. “Ah,” he says, the syllable falling like a cracked glass onto stone. “No wonder I didn’t recognize it.”

Taeyong steps into the silence like he was always going to, his voice soft and careless, each word cleanly designed to bruise. “One of Mark’s little friends,” he says, almost a hum, almost a sigh, “attached herself to Jeno somewhere along the way.” His glance brushes across you like dust he doesn’t intend to clean up.

You feel Jeno tense at your side, his whole body tightening like a wire pulled too sharp. His hand firms against your waist, a silent brace, and you catch the flicker of movement as he half-turns toward them, shoulders squaring, breath shifting — the beginning of a confrontation he clearly wants to have. His jaw is set hard, tight enough you can see it from the corner of your eye, and for one thick, humming second, you know he is ready to step between you and the weight pressing in from Taeyong and Mr. Kim. Ready to throw himself into the line of fire before a single word could bruise you.

But then his gaze cuts down to you — sharp, fast, searching — and he stops. He sees you breathe in once, slow and deep. He sees the way your fingers loosen slightly instead of clenching. He sees the set of your jaw, the calm behind your fear, the line you are choosing to draw for yourself and so he lets you. Not because he doubts the danger, not because he isn’t furious, but because he knows you are stronger than they will ever believe. Because he knows you have survived worse than their names and their glances, and you don’t need him to cut them down when you are already holding the blade yourself.

Still, his hand stays at your waist, solid and sure, the quiet promise built into his skin — if you stumble, if you break, he will be there before you can fall. You step forward with his warmth at your back, steadying you, not shielding you. You smile — not wide, not mocking, just steady, just sure.

You breathe in slow, feeling Jeno’s steadiness anchored into your side, and you meet Mr. Kim’s gaze without blinking. “I curated the Seoul Exhibition a year ago,” you say, your voice clean and level, leaving no space for interruption, “the first under-thirty to design it in a decade.” You don’t stop. You don’t flinch. “The feature installation was based on a research project in performance theory and emotional design — one I developed and built alongside Jeno, alongside the Seoul Ravens basketball division. The same one that was piloted during the State Championships and later adopted into two separate national programs.”

The air sharpens slightly, like it knows the weight of what you’re laying down. “I have pieces archived in the National Design Archives,” you continue, voice steady and soft, “including the concept work from the Apex x NTU initiative.” Your hand brushes against Jeno’s briefly, a tether, a breath. “I published two essays last year on the integration of performance science into public installation spaces. I was invited to present the ‘Seoul Athletic Art Fusion Project’ at Milan Design Week this spring.” You let the words land where they may, smooth and unforced, cutting without needing to lift your voice.

“I co-designed the Sensory Translation Installations at the River Court Restoration site,” you say, voice low but unwavering. “I worked on Apex’s first Global Mobility Capsule Launch, integrating emotional durability into modular performance gear. I consulted on two independent case studies for the International Athletic Narrative Symposium in New York. I’m shortlisted for the Darwin Design Fellowship in London. I collaborated with the Seoul Civic Commission to embed emotional performance markers into public athletic spaces, creating frameworks for rehabilitation programs. I contributed research to the National Policy Forum on Sport Equity, proposing reforms for post-career athlete transition programs.”

“And,” you say, quiet but clear, feeling Jeno’s thumb graze slow against your hip, “I built my name. Without needing to inherit it. Without needing it handed to me.”

For the first time, Mr. Kim’s gaze flickers — almost imperceptibly, but it does, a tiny muscle in his jaw tightening like he’s tasted something he wasn’t expecting. He smiles, but it’s a thin thing, brittle at the edges. “Impressive,” he says, but the word doesn’t land clean — it hangs crooked in the air, tilted by the weight of what he doesn’t say. “Hard work is admirable. Especially when there’s no name to fall back on.” His voice is smooth, practiced, shaped to bruise without showing a mark.

Taeyong only smiles wider, the kind of smile that belongs to men who believe gravity can be mocked until it drags you down too. He exhales a soft sound, almost a chuckle, and says, “Well, some people have to build their futures by hand. Others are born with the foundation already laid.” His gaze flickers lazily over you, slow enough to feel like a blade sliding under your skin. “Both roads are valid but some hold up better than others when the storms come.”

You feel Jeno’s body shift before you hear him speak. A small movement, precise, cutting the air between you and them just slightly tighter, just slightly sharper. His voice when it comes is low, even, deliberate. “She built more with her own hands than most people inherit their whole lives,” he says, not looking at either of them, looking only at you, like he’s reminding you too. “And it’s standing a hell of a lot stronger than whatever foundations you think matter.”

Taeyong tilts his head slightly, studying Jeno the way a man might study something he once thought was a tool but realizes too late has teeth. His smile doesn’t falter, but it folds into something cooler, something thinner. “You always were talented at carving your own path,” he says lightly, but there’s an edge to it now, something too smooth to be safe. “Just remember, son — not every trail leads to the league.” You feel the warning in it before you understand all of it — the quiet hand tightening around Jeno’s future, the leash still coiled no matter how far he ran. You see Jeno catch it too. His mouth hardens and his spine straightens but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. His hand stays locked around yours, thumb brushing slow across your knuckles like a promise he won’t let them shake loose.

The words curl around the altar stones like a slow sickness but Jeno’s hand tightens around yours, steady and sure, and when he speaks again it is a blow honed too fine to miss, “Good,” he says, voice low and final, “I wasn’t ever playing for you anyway,” and it lands so cleanly the altar itself seems to flinch. He doesn’t wait for their reactions, he doesn’t offer anything more, just draws you closer with a quiet, dominant touch and steers you away from them without a word, every step he takes pressed full of tension and loyalty, a silent shield built from the parts of him that chose you and will never unchoose you again.

Taeyong hums low, the sound almost thoughtful, almost amused, sliding into the air like a knife tucked beneath velvet, “Some things aren’t built to last, no matter how pretty they look the night before,” he says, gaze heavy with meaning, voice soft enough that it feels more dangerous than if he had raised it.

You feel Jeno’s hand slip from your waist to your fingers, lacing them tight, anchoring you to him like a vow, and before Taeyong can sink the hook deeper, Jeno cuts him off, clean and final, “We were just heading out,” he says, voice clipped sharp enough to crack bone, “We’ll see you both at the wedding tomorrow.” He tugs you gently, decisive, already turning you both toward the path back to the villa. You can feel the heat of him still bristling, the way his body folds around yours without touching you more than he has to, already drawing you out of reach, out of danger.

But Taeyong steps forward a fraction, enough to catch it, to catch him, and says smoothly, almost like a father would ask a favor, “We need to walk, son. You know what about.” The words drop like iron into the space between them, poisoning the air you were almost breathing again.

Jeno goes still for a beat. His grip tightens on your hand before he releases it slowly, every inch of him screaming restraint he can barely afford. His jaw flexes once, his shoulders pulling tighter, but he doesn’t look back at you yet. He looks at Taeyong, bleeding loyalty and bitterness at the same time. “We’ll talk later,” Jeno says, the words gritted out low enough that you barely catch them, but Taeyong does — you can see it in the slight raise of his brow, the almost-smirk he doesn’t hide.

And then Mr. Kim laughs lightly, stepping in like smoke filling the cracks, his voice oiled and thin. “Don’t be too long, Jeno,” he says, pointedly casual. “Nahyun’s been wondering where her date disappeared to.”

The jab lands clean — cruel, masked, precise.

You see Jeno’s knuckles whiten at his sides, the muscle in his jaw twitching once, hard, but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t glance back. He just threads his hand back through yours again and leads you away without a word, his body shielding yours until the night swallows the sound behind you. The altar doesn’t soften or sigh when you leave its reach, it tightens under the weight you carved into it, holding the bruises like new veins stitched through stone, and even when the night swallows you and Jeno whole, it stays ready, still thrumming under the wilting flowers, still waiting for the rot it knows hasn’t finished growing.

The room glows with a gold too soft to trust, like light filtered through old honey, lazy and low, thickening the air rather than clearing it. The sheets lie untouched and freshly folded across the mattress, smoothed tight at the corners, waiting for something that hasn’t happened yet. A lace slip hangs off the back of a chair like a ghost mid-undress. The air carries the faint sting of salt, sea-wind curling in from the cracked window, brushing damp fingers along your bare thighs. It clings to your skin like a memory you can’t rinse off, like sweat trapped under shame. Jeno shoves the door open with the same hand that’s been clenched since the altar, his palm thudding against wood like it’s the only way to quiet the noise inside him. The door shuts behind you with a quiet, mechanical click — the lock sliding into place with the soft finality of a match blown out before the flame ever had a chance to catch.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, eyes scanning the room like instinct, gaze flicking over corners, shadows, the little details no one else would check. Not because he’s scared, but because he still doesn’t know how to turn off the need to protect you. His hand hovers behind your back for a beat, like he forgot it was there, and when it drops it’s only to rake through his hair before finding its place again — firm at your waist, grounding. You haven’t moved past the doorway yet. Your fingers twitch once at your side, then rise to graze your throat, light and unthinking. A memory, not a motion. You don’t want to be pitied. You want him to see you. You want him to hold what’s left.

Jeno doesn’t ask right away. He just looks at you for a moment, long enough that it presses into your ribs, his brow creasing slightly like his heart’s caught there, like he’s reading every inch of your silence before deciding what to say. Then he lets out a soft huff — not quite a laugh, more like a breath trying not to break — and shakes his head with that small, boyish smile he never gives anyone else. “Hey,” he says, voice low, warm, carrying just a flicker of that roughness that always makes your spine ache. “Come here.”

You go instantly, too tired to pretend otherwise. Your hands find his shoulders, your body folding into the space he opens for you like your chest’s been waiting for it for months. He wraps you up slow, steady, like he’s not rushing anything — like he’ll hold you for as long as it takes for your heart to settle.

Jeno’s mouth finds your temple, barely a kiss, just the softest breath of skin on skin, his hands steady where they cradle your back and your jaw, and he doesn’t ask again, doesn’t press or prod, just rests there — warm, sure, unmovable — like he’s telling you with every slow stroke of his thumb against your spine that he’s not going anywhere, that you don’t have to speak if it hurts too much, that he’ll still be here when you do. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and steady against your hair, “You don’t have to say anything yet. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You can take your time, baby. I’ve got you.”

You shake your head once, barely moving. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching, thumb already brushing beneath your eye though the tear hasn’t fully fallen. “Like what?” he murmurs, voice soft, teasing at the corners. “Like a person with actual feelings? Shocking.” He offers the smallest smile, tilted and hopeful, and the lightness in it tugs something loose in your chest. You let out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob, and he grins just slightly, brushing his nose against yours. “There she is,” he whispers, arms tightening around your waist. “You really think I don’t want to be here for this part? I’ve been waiting, baby. Not just for the best of you.” He kisses your cheek gently, right where the tear finally falls, and adds, quiet but sure, “I’m standing right here now. You don’t have to run.”

Your breath catches, lips parting around the start of a protest that doesn’t make it past your throat, and you shake your head, cheeks hot, eyes blinking fast. “You make it sound easy,” you mumble, voice thin with disbelief, with the kind of hope that’s been kicked in the ribs too many times to stand steady. Your fingers tighten in the fabric at his back, clinging without meaning to. “I didn’t want to look pathetic.” You glance down for a second, your voice softer now, smaller. “Didn’t want to ruin this. Us. Whatever this is tonight.” But his hands don’t move, don’t flinch. He just holds you firmer, steadier, like your worst could never scare him off. And when you finally look up again, your lashes wet, breath hitching, he’s still smiling — not big, not smug, but real. Still here. Still yours.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he murmurs, eyes warm. “You don’t have to hide from me.” You sniff, trying to look away, but he tilts your face back to his gently, his palm wide against your cheek. “It’s okay,” he says, softer now, smiling like it’s just the two of you in the world. “You don’t have to act tough, not with me.” He grins as your mouth twitches, and his voice dips playfully, “I’ve seen you cry over burnt toast and that one animated dog commercial, remember?” His thumb smooths the corner of your mouth. “This? This I can handle.” He pulls you closer again, forehead to yours, voice low and sure. “That’s better,” he whispers, teasing but reverent, “I like when you let me hold you like this.”

You shake your head slowly, blinking through tears, voice barely more than a whisper as you murmur, “You’ve never seen me cry like this.” There’s a nervous laugh tucked inside it, soft and small, like you’re trying to make light of something too big to hold steady, like you’re embarrassed to be falling apart in front of him now after holding it together for so long. “I always made sure you didn’t.”

“I just—” your voice cracks, your whole face folding inward as you try to explain something you don’t know how to name. “I didn’t think it’d still hurt this much.”

Jeno doesn’t let the moment slip. His hands, still resting warm at your waist, shift slightly — firmer now, more certain — and you feel the gentle tug before you register the movement. He’s walking you backwards, slow and careful, eyes never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees catch the edge of the mattress. The soft gold light spills across the bed in gentle pools, sheets smooth and untouched, waiting.

He sits first, gaze still locked on you, then leans back onto his elbows like he’s offering a place — a promise — and without thinking, you follow. Your knees slide either side of his hips as you climb onto him, slow and quiet, your breath hitching as the warmth of his body meets yours fully, chest to chest. His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs dragging slow lines over bare skin, grounding you there, tethering you to this exact moment.

You hover just a little, your mouth hovering above his, your breaths brushing in soft rhythm. It’s not urgent. It’s not desperate. It’s just soft. Steady. Yours. You tilt your head and kiss him — slow, breathy, lips brushing his like a question and an answer all at once. He exhales into it, his fingers flexing against your skin, and when he kisses you back, it’s the kind of kiss that feels like a homecoming, like forgiveness tucked between every soft press of mouths, like the only thing that ever mattered was this.

He breathes into your mouth once, then again, softer this time, until your lips part naturally, until your chest melts down into his like you’re letting go of something bigger than the night. Your hands press into the fabric stretched over his shoulders, his collarbone, your fingertips tracing idly along his throat like they’re afraid to lose contact even for a second. The kiss quiets, slows, your foreheads tipping together again as breath eases between you, and you both stay like that — still, silent, warm — until the hush starts to feel like it needs words.

Jeno speaks first, voice low and threaded tight through his ribs. “I didn’t know he was coming tonight.” His hands on your thighs pause. “He wasn’t supposed to show until morning.”

You nod once against his temple, cheek brushing his softly. “I figured. The way you stood in front of me… it didn’t look planned.”

He lets out a slow breath, not quite a sigh, more like something measured. “Did I do enough?” His fingers squeeze gently, grounding. “Back there. Did I make it clear?”

You nod again, then lean back slightly just to see him. “Yeah. You did.” Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet, like the words are still soft from the altar’s shadow. “You always know when I’m not okay and you didn’t let him near me.”

“I wanted to do more,” he says finally, and it’s not guilt — not quite — but something close. “I just didn’t know what would’ve made it worse.”

Your fingers twitch against the fabric at his shoulders. “You didn’t make it worse.”

He clears his throat once, the sound low, rough, not embarrassed but trying to break through the weight that’s still clinging to the air. His hands stay on your waist, steady and warm, but his eyes flick to your mouth like he’s afraid if he meets your gaze it’ll land too hard. “For the record,” he mutters, voice quieter now, “none of what they said… about your name, your work—any of that—was true.”

You watch him, lips parting slightly, your breath catching somewhere in the middle of your chest—not because you needed to hear it, but because of how much it sounds like a confession. He keeps going anyway, softer, more certain. “You don’t need a legacy to be better than every single person in that room. And I know they were trying to—” he hesitates, huffs a tired laugh that doesn’t quite lift. “—make you feel small but baby, they couldn’t even reach you if they tried.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod. Slow. Sure. Your fingers curl gently around the back of his neck, thumb stroking the nape like it’s muscle memory. “I know,” you say, voice barely above a breath, but it lands solid. True. “I never doubted that. Not for a second.”

You shift just slightly on top of him, the weight of your body still folded into his chest, but your fingers twitch against his collar. “What are you gonna tell Nahyun?”

Jeno doesn’t answer right away. His thumb keeps tracing the small of your back, slow, absent, almost like he’s ignoring the question. Then, flatly, “I don’t know. I don’t think it matters.”

You curl into his chest more fully, your cheek pressed against the stretch of his shoulder, voice muffled just enough to feel like a confession. “Still can’t believe you actually dated her.”

Jeno shifts beneath you, his voice low and edged with a dry kind of honesty as his fingers slide slowly across the top of your thigh, anchoring you there like he needs the touch to keep the words steady. “It just happened,” he mutters, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he’s trying to track the timeline in the plaster. “She was just always there,” Jeno says, voice low, almost annoyed with himself, like he’s admitting something he doesn’t respect. “Everywhere I went — training, events, even the hotel lobby — it’s like she was already waiting. I didn’t even get a chance to think about it, let alone stop it. It felt easier to let it happen than deal with what I was actually feeling.” He glances at you then, the side of his mouth twitching like he’s about to smile but doesn’t. “Didn’t mean anything. Just felt like there wasn’t a choice.”

Jeno exhales through his nose, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your hip. “And for the record,” he says, voice low but steady, “we were never official.” He looks at you then, serious now, no teasing in the set of his jaw. “She tried, once or twice. Asked what we were. I told her no every time.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Didn’t even let her leave a toothbrush.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyebrows lifting. “You looked pretty fucking comfortable at her birthday dinner.”

He gives you a flat look. “You clearly saw the footage she posted on her page. I looked like a hostage.”

You smirk. “A hostage in Balenciaga.”

Jeno snorts, a rough sound in the back of his throat, dragging his hand slowly up the back of your thigh, settling just beneath your ass with a squeeze that makes your breath stutter. “Okay, maybe I liked the jacket,” he murmurs, then lifts a brow, voice slipping into something lower, something edged with something else. “What about you and Yangyang, huh? You’ve been cosying up to him lately.” His hand moves again, firmer now. “Does he get to touch you like this too?”

You try not to stiffen, but your silence betrays you. You swallow. “He already knows, he knows I’m with you right now.”

His brow lifts, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You told him?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t have to. He’s not stupid.”

Jeno hums low under his breath. “Guess that makes one of us.”

You roll your eyes and swat his chest, firm enough to make him grunt, not enough to move him. “Be serious. You need to talk to Nahyun tomorrow,” you say, your voice soft but pointed, thumb grazing his collarbone like a threat dressed in care. “I’m gonna be focused on the wedding, and I don’t need her fake-crying near the aisle like she’s the jilted bride in some low-budget drama.” You pause, then add under your breath, “She already looks like she’s one missed meal away from fainting for attention.”

Jeno huffs a laugh against your throat, his breath warm and smug as his hands slide lower over your hips. “That’s brutal,” he murmurs, grinning into your skin, “but not inaccurate.” He presses a slow kiss just beneath your jaw, voice dipping darker. “I’ll talk to her. First thing. Before she gets any ideas about throwing herself at the altar or me.” He pulls back slightly to glance at you, one brow raised. “Unless you want her to watch when I put my hands on you instead.”

Your smile falters, just a little, enough for him to catch it. Jeno’s hand stills at your waist, thumb brushing slow and thoughtful as his eyes flick up to meet yours, something softer settling in the heat between you. You exhale, tilting your head to rest against his, voice lower now, quieter. “Her dad’s intense, Jeno,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can talk yourself out of them. “Like really intense. That man’s not here to play nice.”

Jeno hums, not dismissive but not rattled either, his voice lazy but clipped as he mutters, “You don’t need to be scared of him.”

You pull back slightly, eyes narrowing. “I’m not scared of him. I’m scared of you acting like none of this matters. Her father, and yours, could destroy someone’s reputation with a look. Don’t give them a reason to try.”

His jaw ticks. “I won’t. I’m not stupid. I know what men like them are like.”

You nod once, a small breath slipping through your teeth. “Good. Because I don’t want to have to clean up any mess tomorrow while I’m also making sure this wedding doesn’t implode.”

He smirks, eyes dipping to your mouth, voice low and deliberate. “Guess I’ll have to behave then.” His fingers flex against your hips, his smile a little dangerous. “But not tonight.”

You don’t respond right away — just watch the flicker behind his eyes, the way his mouth curls at the edges with that trademark smirk, lazy and teasing like always, but you know what it really is. It’s bravado, a shield he’s learned to sharpen into humor, something to soften the way men like his father and Mr. Kim carve the world into things they can own or ruin. You can feel the tension underneath it, the subtle clench of his jaw when he thinks you aren’t looking, the way his hands linger longer on your waist now, like he’s already planning how to keep you safe without saying it out loud. There’s a part of him that won’t let himself show the panic, the worry, because to do that would mean admitting they still have power over him — over you. So instead, he jokes. He flirts. He acts like none of it rattles him, because pretending it doesn’t hurt is the only way he knows how to hold the blade without bleeding.

You’re still in his lap, straddling him like you never left, but the air between you shifts. His hand has stopped moving, paused just under the hem of your jacket, fingers warm and splayed against your lower back like a placeholder he hasn’t figured out how to lift. He’s watching you, close, gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes, his breathing steady but not relaxed, and you know he can feel it — the way your pulse changed under his thumb, the way your hands have flattened against his chest now, not to push him away, but to hold him still. Something in you’s pulling tight again, something deeper than nerves or hesitation, and it hums inside you like a live wire behind the ribs.

He doesn’t speak, not right away. Doesn’t kiss you again either. Just waits. The quiet between you buzzes with what you’re not saying yet. Finally, he tilts his head a little, searching your face. “What?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, not impatient but tuned to you, tuned like a wire stretched just tight enough to hold tension without snapping. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest on your back, thumb grazing side to side like he’s grounding both of you, and the intimacy of it makes your chest ache.

You swallow, throat tight, eyes flicking past him toward the closed bedroom door, even though you know it’s locked, even though there’s nothing on the other side but silence and moonlight and a hallway that smells like gardenias and salt. “I just…” you start, then stop. You’re not even sure what you’re trying to say yet, but your mouth is dry and your heart is loud and your body feels like it’s trying to climb out of itself. You shift a little on top of him, not away, just… recalibrating. Your knees dig harder into the mattress on either side of his hips, and his hands steady you automatically, but you don’t miss the way his grip stiffens. He’s alert now. He’s listening closer. “I think we should talk.”

The words come out smaller than you meant. He stills under you completely. A pause follows, long enough to sting, short enough to keep you locked in place and then he shifts, slightly, just his shoulders, but it feels like the entire room tilts with it. “Talk about what?” His voice is quieter now. The space between your faces feels thinner than it did a moment ago, like if you breathe wrong, something will tip.

You pull in a breath that drags. “Your dad.”

He goes still again. No dramatic reaction, no sharp intake of breath or flinch — just a flick of his eyes, a tightening in the corners of his jaw, the sudden cold of a breath he doesn’t fully release. The softness that was warming his gaze seconds ago fades beneath the flatness that slips in. “What about him?”

You don’t answer at first. You’re watching him too now — the way he shifts subtly beneath you, the way the muscle in his cheek tightens like he already knows he’s not going to like this. You try again, quieter. “I just— I don’t think he has your best interests at heart.”

This time the reaction isn’t subtle. He exhales, fast and dry, a humorless breath of sound that doesn’t reach his mouth. Not a laugh. Not disbelief. Just… resistance. “Okay,” he says, and it’s clipped, like the word costs him to say. Like he’s already closing the door on whatever you were about to open.

You hesitate, not because you’re unsure, but because you know he’s already decided what he’ll allow himself to hear. “Did he say something to you?” he asks, and his tone doesn’t change — still low, still even, but there’s an edge under it now, a barely concealed coil of something bitter tightening in his voice. “What happened?”

You should tell him. You should. You know it, you should tell him about the blackmail but your mouth opens, and the lie is already there, waiting, warm and familiar like it’s always been part of you. “I’m fine.” You look down, not because you’re ashamed, but because the truth feels too big to carry between your eyes and his.

His voice sharpens, a crack barely visible. “Y/N.”

“He didn’t do anything.” The lie hits the room like a dropped knife — sharp, loud, deliberate. He hears it. You both do. You say it again, too fast. “He didn’t.”

The silence stretches thick between your thighs, heavier than it should be, like a curtain that doesn’t part even when touched. Jeno’s hands stay at your hips but they don’t tighten, don’t claim, just rest there with a kind of pressure that feels more like holding breath than holding you. He doesn’t ask again, doesn’t move, doesn’t blink too long, like if he lets anything shift he’ll miss what you’re not saying. You sit still in his lap, jacket half-unzipped, his shirt warm against your bare legs, and it should feel easy but it doesn’t. His chest rises under yours and you feel the gap now, the one between the rhythm of his breath and yours, like you’re not syncing this time and maybe he knows it too.

You keep your gaze low, lashes wet but not from crying, throat tight for reasons you haven’t named yet, and when you say it again — “I’m fine” — it’s not soft, it’s sharp, clipped at the edges and full of things that don’t belong in this room. Jeno doesn’t flinch but his jaw ticks once and you know he’s heard it, knows exactly what kind of lie it is. Your fingers twitch once where they rest against his collarbone but you don’t follow through, don’t kiss him, don’t collapse like you want to because the truth still tastes like someone else’s voice in your mouth, someone else’s hand in the dark, and you don’t know how to bring that into the light without it burning both of you.

Jeno exhales through his nose, slow and uneven, the kind of breath that sounds like it’s holding back teeth. His fingers flex once at your hips before going still again, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your mouth, to the collar of your jacket, to the floor. “You’re not telling me the truth, after everything and you’re still hiding things,” he says quietly, not cruel, not angry — just certain, like he’s known you too long to fall for anything else.

Jeno’s jaw tics once, his voice coming low and bitter at the edges. “If you don’t want to tell me, then fine. I’m not gonna drag it out of you.” He leans back slightly, just enough to put space where there wasn’t any before, his eyes scanning your face like he’s still hoping you’ll change your mind. “But don’t expect me to pretend I don’t see it.” His hand tightens at your hip — not harsh, just tense. “And don’t think I’ll be calm if I ever find out someone laid a fucking hand on you.”

He nods once, almost to himself, jaw tight. “If something happened—” he stops, then shakes his head, chuckles low, bitter under his breath. “If something ever happens and you don’t want to tell me then fine, I won’t ask for details. I’ll just handle it.” His eyes flick back up to yours, slow and heavy, and there’s nothing soft in them now. “You know that, right?” A pause. Then, quieter, darker — but not less loving. “You know I’ll lose my fucking mind for you.”

Your breath catches hard in your throat, heat rushing low in your stomach before you can stop it, your thighs tightening just slightly where they straddle his lap. His hand stays locked at your hip — strong, claiming, burning hot through the fabric — and the moment his fingers tighten, a jolt shoots through you so violently it makes your stomach clench and your teeth sink into your bottom lip just to keep the moan from slipping out. You shift instinctively, just the smallest roll of your hips against the hard muscle of his thigh, chasing the friction like your body’s betraying you, like it always does around him. The edge in his voice, the steel under the softness, the way he looks at you like he’d burn the world down if you asked — it makes your spine arch just slightly, makes your nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of your top, makes everything ache in that desperate, throbbing way you can’t mask.

You try to look away, but your eyes drag back to his mouth — pink, parted, still tense — and it makes something break loose inside you, molten and needy. “You’re really—” you start, then falter, voice thinner than you mean for it to be. You swallow, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You’re really hot when you say shit like that.” It slips out before you can filter it, and his brow lifts just barely, his grip flexing on your hip, and the pressure makes your breath stutter again. “Not the point, I know,” you mutter, trying and failing not to squirm. “But fuck, Jeno. You say one thing like that and I’m—” You break off, shifting against him again, your core throbbing, panties damp now with how fast your body gave in. “I’m not made of stone.”

Jeno’s jaw ticks once, his mouth curling into that slow, confident smirk that doesn’t quite touch his eyes — all male heat and knowing cruelty. “Yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, hand tightening on your hip like he’s testing how far he can push. His thumb drags slowly toward the waistband of your shorts, a whisper of pressure that makes your breath stutter, and his gaze drops — to your mouth, your throat, the flush spreading down your chest. “Didn’t think you’d get this worked up from me telling you not to lie.” His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and when he tilts his head, it’s with all the ease of a man who already knows what you’ll admit if he just keeps looking at you like that. “That why you’re squirming, baby?” he breathes, his hand sliding up your thigh, rough and lazy. “You like me a little mean?”

He watches the shiver run through you and grins — darker now, sharp and unhurried, his fingers flexing against your hip like he’s reminding you exactly who has you. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, the sound wrecked with heat, “you’re turned on from that?” His voice drips over your skin like syrup and ash, and his thumb strokes just beneath your waistband, slow and grounding. “You get wet every time I lose my temper, or just when it’s for you?” His nose brushes your cheek, lips grazing your jaw. “You act so tough,” he murmurs, his tone all velvet threat, “but the second I talk like I’d ruin someone for even looking at you—” he pauses, breath catching — “you melt like you want me to be the one to do it.” He leans back just far enough to meet your eyes, his own burning through you, and whispers, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your laugh comes out soft and breathy, barely a sound, more of a sigh that catches on your lips as you shift in his lap, slow and deliberate, grinding down just enough for him to feel how wet you already are. “You’re not wrong,” you whisper, and your voice is low and sinful, your mouth grazing his but never giving in, letting your breath fan across his lips as you smile against them. “I want you rough. I want you pissed. I want you when your hands are shaking because you’re trying not to fuck me right there against the wall.” You rock your hips again, a little sharper this time, watching his jaw tighten as his hands clamp down on your thighs, and you let the tease drip straight from your tongue. “I want you when you’re done pretending to be good.”

Jeno’s groan hits the back of your throat before you even kiss him, low and choked and primal, and that’s when you pull his shirt off, all nails and urgency, your breath catching when you feel the flex of muscle beneath your palms. “Take these off,” you murmur, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, voice turned molten and dark, “Take everything off. I want your mouth on me before I come in these fucking panties.”

Jeno doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His hands are already on your waistband, rough and deliberate, fingers hooking into the sides of your shorts with a grip that says ‘mine’ more than any word ever could. You barely breathe before he’s dragging them down your thighs, slow enough to make you feel the fabric peel away from your skin, fast enough to leave your pulse skittering. He doesn’t even look up. His gaze is fixed on the sight of you — panties damp, clinging, your thighs trembling just a little as the cool air brushes against heat. He lets the shorts fall. He leaves them forgotten, like nothing that ever covered you mattered.

He mouths at your neck the whole way, kissing and sucking like he wants to mark every inch of you he’s missed. Your bras gone before you notice his hand moving, and he pulls one nipple into his mouth without warning, sucking slow and rough until you cry out, grinding down harder on his thigh. His free hand slips between your legs, fingers dragging through the wet heat of your cunt through soaked fabric, and he moans into your chest like he’s the one being touched.

You kiss him like your ribs are splintering from the inside out, like something is breaking loose beneath your skin and leaking straight into his mouth, the press of your lips slow and trembling, not for passion but for memory, for need, for the ache of having something so precious in your hands again you’re scared to crush it. Your nose brushes his, soft and clumsy, and your thumbs stroke gently over his cheekbones as you tilt into him, breath stuttering once, then again, caught behind the knot in your chest. His mouth moves with yours like it remembers this rhythm too well to unlearn — like it’s been dreaming of this softness all year, the kind that doesn’t ask for anything but closeness, but presence. There’s no urgency. No rush. Just the slow burn of something that was supposed to die and didn’t. His hands don’t roam. They just hold you steady at the waist, thumbs anchoring you in the space between inhale and goodbye.

You feel the sigh catch low in his throat when you pull back, not a sound of protest but of surrender, like he knows not to chase you yet, like he knows this version of you is not one he can press too hard. Your fingers stay curled at the curve of his jaw, trailing down slowly, tracing the line of his neck like a goodbye folded into reverence. You lean your forehead to his, eyes closed, breathing him in through the spaces where you once left all your bruises, and your mouth hovers just above his like a secret. “Goodnight,” you whisper, and it comes out like an apology, like a promise you wish you could keep, your voice barely stronger than the tremble in your lip. You don’t mean to shiver when you say it, but you do. He feels it. And his hands press tighter, wrapping around your ribs like he’s trying to hold the words inside you just a little longer.

You shift to move — just enough to slide off his lap, just enough to slip free of the weight between you, but his hands find your hips before you make it far, palms warm and steady, not yanking you back, just anchoring you there like he can’t bear the space yet. His touch trembles slightly, not with anger, not with restraint, but with need, the kind that sits in the back of his throat and burns slow when he swallows it down. You pause, breath stalling as you glance down at him, and he’s already looking up, eyes dark and hooded, mouth parted just slightly, the ghost of a smirk there but it’s lazy, crooked, too intimate to be cocky, too hungry to be amused.

He leans in, voice low and frayed at the edges, dragging heat straight down your spine as he whispers against your skin, “Don’t go yet, baby… just stay right here a little longer.” His mouth brushes your collarbone, lips soft and open, like he’s already tasting the places he wants to worship. “You can’t kiss me like that and expect me to let you sleep,” he murmurs, hands tightening just enough to make you feel how bad he wants it, “I need to feel you again, need you under me… I’ll make it quick if you want, slow if you don’t… but fuck, baby, don’t walk away when I’m already aching for you.”

Your chest tightens, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with the ache of knowing he’s right. You were never leaving, not really. Not with his hands on your hips like that, not with his mouth already chasing your skin like he forgot how to breathe without it. You swallow hard, breathless and trembling as your fingers twist tighter into his shirt, clutching the heat of him. “We can’t,” you whisper, but it’s barely a protest, more like a whimper. “If we start now…” You shake your head, voice dipping softer, “I won’t stop. We won’t sleep. I need to be awake for tomorrow. I need energy for the wedding. I need to charge before the whole world sees us again.” But even as you say it, you’re leaning in, lips brushing the corner of his jaw, your thighs pressing tighter around his hips like you’re already betraying every word.

Jeno doesn’t tease. He doesn’t scoff or play coy. He looks at you like he already knows how this ends — like your breath will stutter the second his mouth finds the right part of you and your body will follow without question. His hands slide slowly over your waist, palms heavy and warm, dragging over the dip of your sides until his thumbs settle just under the swell of your ribs. “You don’t have to explain anything, just let me help” he murmurs, voice low and thick, each word a stroke against your skin. “You just have to let me do what I’m good at.” He doesn’t ask or wait. He just watches you unravel for him, already halfway there with nothing but the sound of his voice.

You exhale, unsteady and sharp, and your body moves without permission, hips pressing forward just enough to drag your cunt over the bulge in his sweats and it hits like a bolt straight through both of you. Your thighs tighten, breath catching hard in your chest, and his jaw locks instantly, hands freezing at your waist like he’s holding you down just to survive it. “Fuck,” Jeno breathes, his voice dark and reverent, a growl under his breath as he leans in closer, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so tight, baby. So pent up I can feel it in every fucking muscle.” His fingers flex, grounding you, steadying you. “Let me pull you open. Let me fuck the noise out until your body forgets how to hold it in.”

His hands stay on your hips like he’s waiting—waiting for you to move again, waiting for you to take him in deep and raw and ruin both of you. You shift, just enough to feel the heat of his cock drag along the mess between your thighs, your panties clinging to you like second skin, soaked through and bunched to the side. You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, grinding your cunt along his shaft while your teeth scrape his jaw, breath warm against his neck, and he groans low, a threat and a plea tangled into one. His hands twitch, like he wants to flip you, pin you, fuck into you so hard the villa shakes, but you keep control, keep him there, trembling beneath you while you slide forward again, letting the thick press of his cockhead catch at your clit with every pass. His stomach tightens beneath your palms, abs flexing like he’s holding back from begging.

You ease forward until your chest grazes his, your breasts brushing his skin with every breath, and the shiver it pulls from him is silent but deep. He’s still underneath you, barely moving now, like he knows he’s not allowed to. Your hips roll again, slower, lazier, the drag of your slick folds over his cock making everything between your thighs throb. You tilt your head, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and exhale soft enough to make him twitch beneath you. “You’ve thought about this,” you murmur, your voice all smoke and syrup, “about how I’d take you.” You kiss just below his ear, your mouth trailing down until your teeth scrape the edge of his jaw, your fingers sliding into his hair like you’re re-learning every inch of him with your hands. “How wet I’d be. How I’d moan when your cock pressed right here—” your hips shift, angle cruel, grinding his tip along your clit until your breath hitches and his jaw clenches tight.

He groans low, almost choked, trying to lift into it, to push for more, and your hand meets his chest, flat and commanding. His abs tense under your palm, his breath jagged, and you keep your weight steady, keep him grounded, pinned beneath you while your hips move just enough to keep him suffering. “Don’t,” you whisper, letting your lips brush the corner of his mouth but never kissing him. “You don’t get to fuck me yet.” You roll forward again, slower this time, letting your soaked panties drag over the length of him so slowly it feels like punishment. “You’re gonna lie there and feel it. Every second you spent not touching me.”

His brows pull together, hands gripping your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like it’s a nightmare, and you only smile, slow and sharp and sweet, pressing one last kiss to his parted lips before slipping off his lap. “I need a shower,” you say, calm and cruel, like you’re not soaked and trembling and dripping down your own thighs. He groans, head falling back, chest heaving, and when you look at him, it’s deliberate—your gaze drops to his cock, flushed and twitching, resting heavy against the cut planes of his stomach, a single vein running thick along the shaft. His thighs are spread, tense, all muscle and restraint, and his abs twitch when you drag your eyes up slow. Every line of him is heat and tension, chest rising fast, sweat making his skin gleam, and he looks so good like this—needy and wrecked and ready to break for you.

You take a step away, then stop at the edge of the bed. You should walk. You should leave him there, hard and aching but when you turn back, the sight punches the air from your lungs. His tongue runs across his bottom lip like he’s trying to taste the memory of you still clinging to his mouth. You move before you can think, crawling back onto the mattress with a hunger that feels ancient, falling onto him with your knees spread and your mouth open, and he groans like salvation when your lips meet his again��rushed, open, filthy—as you grind down hard, panties shoved aside, cock pinned perfectly between your folds, hot and slick and already sliding. You kiss him like it’s war, like if you stop now the world will split open, and he moans into your mouth as your fingers grip the base of his cock and guide him right where he belongs, right back inside.

“You’ve thought about this,” you murmur, voice thick with heat as your fingers slide into his hair, slow and possessive. “How slow I’d grind on you. How wet I’d be. How easy you’d give in if I just sat down and took it like this.” Your hips shift, dragging his cock along your soaked panties with enough pressure to make you gasp, and the tip catches right on your clit—sharp, perfect, a jolt that makes your whole body tighten. “You missed me?” you whisper into his jaw, licking over the bone before nipping just below his ear. “Missed being underneath me, hard and quiet, while I fucked myself stupid on your cock?”

He groans, deep and desperate, hands flying to your waist like instinct, like he forgot he ever lived without the weight of your hips in his palms, and you feel it—how tightly he holds you, how recklessly his body pushes up into yours, how the heat between your legs goes molten the second his thigh flexes beneath you. You grab his jaw, hold it firm, tilt his face toward yours and kiss him again, harder, sloppier, tongues tangling as you roll your hips down mercilessly, dragging his cock against your soaked centre with nothing separating you but ruined lace. You can feel how hard he is already, can feel how close he is to snapping, and you haven’t even taken your fucking panties off yet, haven’t even let him inside you, haven’t even started. You rock again, slower this time, the wet drag of your cunt slicking over his shaft until your thighs shake from how close it is, your breath hitching right as you whisper into his mouth, “You said you’d help.”

His hands grip tighter, fingertips pressing bruises into your ass as he surges up to meet your next grind, his cock dragging hot and thick against your folds and catching right where it makes you whimper. “So help,” you hiss, voice wrecked and trembling, and when you shift back to tug your ruined panties aside and reach between your bodies to line him up—your fingers sticky with how desperate you are for him—his eyes lock on yours like he’s about to lose his fucking mind. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, maybe a warning, maybe a plea, but you don’t give him the chance.

You sink down onto him in one brutal thrust, cunt stretching around him with a slick, obscene pull that rips a cry from your throat and a curse from his, your hand gripping his shoulder tight as you slam your hips down to seat him fully inside you, the angle sharp and punishing. His head falls back, chest heaving, and he moans so loud it vibrates through your spine, but you don’t stop, don’t pause to let him adjust, you just start bouncing—fast, messy, desperate—your thighs clapping against his as your cunt grips him tight, like your body never forgot the exact shape of him, like it’s been aching for this. His hands scramble over your back, fists greedy and clumsy, and as your hips slam down again, your tits bounce free—bare and flushed, swinging with every rough grind—and he catches one in his mouth without thinking, sucking like he’s starving, his teeth grazing your nipple right as your body jolts and your vision threatens to go white.

You ride him like you’re trying to burn the whole year off your skin—hips snapping down, tits bouncing, your breath catching every time his cock hits that spot that makes your knees give out. Your moans spill against his mouth, wet and messy, and when you kiss him, it’s nothing careful—just teeth and tongue, heads knocking, mouths clashing like neither of you can stand the space between. He’s so deep it hurts, the stretch relentless, your cunt dragging around him with every bounce, and the slap of skin is sharp now, echoing off the villa walls. Your nails carve down his chest, and you breathe against his mouth, voice all fucked-out rasp, “You don’t get to fuck me.”

Your thighs grind harder. Your hand grips his jaw. “You just lie there and let me fuck it out of you.” Another drop. Another slap. Your lips brush his, mouth still open. “The stress. The wedding. Your father and Mr. Fucking Kim. This fucking pressure. It was smart—letting me do this.” Your pace doesn’t slow. Your voice cracks. “You needed this. I needed this.”

He tries to obey. He really does but his hips twitch every time your ass hits his thighs, every time your cunt squeezes around him too tight. “Shit—” he gasps, too breathless to speak.

You cut him off with a slap—sharp and hot across his cheek, just enough to make his head jolt and his eyes fly open, glassy and wrecked as they lock onto yours. “Stay the fuck still.” Your hand slides up his throat, claiming it, your fingers curling hard around his neck as you ride him rougher, your hips snapping in tight, punishing circles. You grind your clit right against the base of his cock, wet and swollen and pulsing, the friction so sharp it makes you bite your lip to keep from moaning. He groans under you, body twitching, cock thick and pinned deep inside your cunt like it belongs there, and you keep fucking down on him like he’s yours to ruin.

You lean in, forehead smashing into his, both of you panting into each other’s mouths, teeth scraping, lips brushing. Your nose knocks against his as you whisper it, voice shredded, low, filthy—“Right fucking there.” Your hips keep grinding, cunt fluttering, slick dripping down to his balls with every twist of your waist. “That’s where I’m gonna cum. Don’t you fucking move. Don’t even breathe unless I say so.”

You fuck him like revenge, like a prayer, like if you go fast enough you’ll erase every month he didn’t touch you, every fucking day he went silent. Your hands are everywhere—his shoulders, his throat, tugging his head up so you can spit into his mouth and kiss him after, sloppy and breathless, while you keep fucking yourself on his cock like it’s the only way you’ll ever feel whole again. He groans every time you drop, helpless, wrecked, his hands struggling to keep pace with how rough you ride him, how greedy you are for every inch, for the stretch, for the burn. You grind in circles now, teasing and cruel, and when his fingers slip between your bodies to rub your clit, you flinch, biting into his shoulder to stop from screaming, your moans now shattered pieces against his throat.

“Fucking—Jesus—” he rasps, voice torn open, cracked and ragged as your pace turns merciless. You laugh into his neck, breath searing across his skin, and keep going—harder now, filthier, faster, until the headboard slams the villa wall with every bounce, until the sheets are a mess beneath you, soaked with sweat and slick and the way your bodies crash together over and over again.

Your thighs tremble, slick dripping down the backs of them as you bounce harder, faster, cunt twitching every time he throbs deep inside you. Your rhythm’s breaking apart at the edges now, more grind than drop, more drag than control, and you can feel it building sharp behind your ribs—tight and relentless, the kind that rips straight through your spine when it hits. Your nails rake down his chest, carving heat into his skin, and your voice spills out cracked and breathless, “You feel that? How deep you are?” Another bounce, another sharp clench around the base of his cock. “Yeah—keep it there. Don’t say anything unless you’re gonna moan my fucking name.”

He groans something broken, hands bruising your waist now as he thrusts up into you, brutal and hungry, his cock spearing deep with each hit, the stretch sharp and perfect and unrelenting. You ride him through it, bouncing with no rhythm now, just need, just raw, animal want, your moans spilling into his mouth as he pants against your skin. Your bodies slap together loud and wet, his cock fucking up into your cunt so hard you see stars, and every time you drop, he pulses inside you like he’s about to explode. “Take it,” you whisper, teeth scraping his jaw, voice cracked and soaked. “Fucking take it. Give me everything.”

You don’t slow. You don’t let up. You fuck him until you can barely breathe, until your bodies are soaked and shaking, until your lipgloss is smeared across his jaw and your sweat runs down his chest in rivers. Your cunt stretches around him, raw and aching and perfect, milking him with every clench, every grind, and when his hands slide to your throat, holding you steady, you meet his eyes again—wide and wrecked and gone—and it undoes you completely. You break in his hands, your body locking up, your moan ripped straight from your lungs as your orgasm tears through you, full-body, spine-arching, hips jolting and mouth gasping as you clamp down around him, shaking through every second of it.

He’s glassy-eyed and gone, arms stretched tight above his head, fists twisting in the sheets like he’s one second from breaking, from grabbing you and slamming you down harder. You lean in, tongue dragging over his nipple before your teeth sink in—just enough to make him jerk—and the gasp that rips out of him, desperate and ruined, makes your cunt clamp around his cock so tight you moan through your teeth. “You like this?” you whisper, voice low and cruel, dragging your mouth along his chest. “Being used like this—nothing but a cock to bounce on?” You slam down again, slow and punishing, the drag wet and loud, and his abs twitch under your palms. “Fucked dumb by the pussy you spent a year dreaming about.” Your nails rake down his ribs, and you don’t wait for him to speak. “Say it. Say you’re my little toy, say you’ll take it like the pathetic, cock-hungry mess you are.”

“Fuck—yes,” he groans, breath hitching. “Please—please just keep using me. I don’t care—do whatever you want—just ride me, ride me ‘til I can’t think—‘til I forget everything but you.” His voice breaks open mid-sentence, jaw slack, eyes wild. “Make me your fucking toy.”

You sit up on him like he’s a throne, spine arched, tits bouncing slick and high with every brutal slap of your hips down, your hands splayed over his chest to hold him in place while you fuck him deeper. He chokes when you slam down harder, the kind of bounce that forces the breath from his lungs and makes his cock twitch so violently inside you it feels like a warning. You grind after it—slow and mean—letting your clit drag along the base of him with every roll, and his moan tears out loud, ragged, wrecked. “You hear that?” you murmur, hips moving side to side, your cunt so wet it’s slapping slick across his cock. “That’s your fault. That’s what your dick does to me.” His body jolts beneath you like he can’t take it. “Deep as you are? You should be grateful I haven’t kept you in here all fucking year.”

“Fuck—please—” he pants, voice dissolving as he watches you ride him, eyes stuck to the place where your bodies meet. “I want it. I want all of it. Keep leaking on me. Fuck my cock until you break it—I don’t care—just don’t fucking stop.”

You laugh, low and breathless, cunt tightening around him as you lean back on his thighs and slap your own clit with one hand, just to watch the way his eyes roll. “Desperate little thing,” you whisper, tilting your hips and bouncing shallow now, filthy little thrusts that drag just the head of his cock in and out of your soaked pussy. “You’re hard even when you’re empty. You’d fuck me with your last breath if I let you.”

He nods, chest rising fast, skin flushed all the way down. “I would. I swear to God, I would.”

Your smirk deepens. You roll your hips slower this time, smoother, watching the way his stomach twitches when your cunt squeezes around him again, teasing the overstimulation right back into hunger. “Good,” you say, dragging your fingers down your own stomach to where you’re still stretched open around him. “Because we’re nowhere near done.”

Your pace turns brutal. No more teasing, no rhythm—just raw, punishing drops that drive his cock so deep you swear you feel it hit your ribs. Your thighs slap down hard, soaking him, drenching the sheets, and the noise is so loud, so slick, it sounds like filth. Your cunt flutters, squeezes, then drags up his length just to slam back down again, and he’s a fucking mess underneath you—red-faced, jaw slack, panting like he’s trying to keep up but failing with every bounce.

“You feel that?” you growl, voice sharp and low, your fingers pressing into his chest as your clit grinds down again, over and over. “You feel how fucking close I am?” You ride him faster, harder, and his moans spill out ragged and wet, his cock twitching like he’s right there, begging for permission. “Say it, baby,” you whisper, nails raking down his stomach. “Say you want baby to squirt all over your cock.”

“Yes—fuck, yes, mommy—please,” he gasps, wrecked and shaking. “Please cum on me—want to feel it, want to watch you make a mess of me—please, fuck, let me be your toy—let me make you cum, baby, let me feel you fucking drench me.”

Your eyes roll back as it hits, your hips slamming down one last time before your whole body locks. Your orgasm tears through you, violent and uncontrollable, a loud, raw moan ripping from your throat as your cunt clenches so tight around his cock he jerks hard beneath you. And then it gushes out of you, hot and fast, a full-body squirt that spills over his cock, down his balls, soaking everything between your thighs as you grind through it with a scream. Your hands dig into his chest, holding him down as your slick pours over him, pulsing in waves while your cunt milks every drop from him.

He cums with a broken cry, cock throbbing, hips twitching helplessly as he empties inside you again, his cum hot and thick as it mixes with yours, his whole body spasming under you while you keep rocking, dragging him through it. You don’t let up. You ride every last second of it, cunt fluttering, slick dripping, your thighs soaked and shaking as you moan low and breathless, “Good fucking boy.”

You wake up to the weight of him still inside you, thick, heavy and twitching like he dreamt about staying there, like your cunt is the only place his body remembers how to rest. The sheets are wrecked, soaked with sweat and breath and everything you didn’t say last night, and your thighs ache from how long you stayed on top of him, grinding until your spine locked and your voice went hoarse. Jeno’s hand is on your waist, fingers pressing slowly, palm wide and grounding, like he already knows you’re going to try to bolt and he’s trying to delay it. His cock is hard again. The room is too quiet and too still, and when you lift your head, hair clinging to your temple, you can see it — the villa gleaming too clean for morning, golden light bleeding across the marble like it’s been staged for a photograph, like the day’s already lying to you and you haven’t even stood up yet.

Linens drape over the balcony like surrender, white and shapeless, while the orchids bloom with surgical symmetry, mouths open like they’re mid-scream and trying not to be heard. The breakfast table looks like an altar, untouched, polished, waiting for something to go wrong and it does in tiny increments — the air too sweet, the quiet too controlled, the smell of citrus masking something sour underneath. You’ve been up for hours, dressed in silk that clings like it resents you, robe slipping down your shoulder and left that way on purpose because there’s no time to fix it, no point pretending it matters. Your clipboard slaps against your leg like a weapon you haven’t used yet and every step you take sounds like a countdown.

You don’t walk, you carve through the hallway like something cracked open and given direction, silk trailing like smoke behind you, heels sharp as if they could slice the day in half if they needed to. Every motion is loaded, edged, heavy with the kind of energy that makes people part when you pass, the kind that doesn’t yell to be heard — it drags its own gravity behind it, a kind of silence that curdles the air. The checklist in your hand is bruising where your grip won’t ease, names ticked with such pressure the pen nearly splits, pages turned like they’re skin being torn free. A server breathes too loud, moves too slow, and you fix the tray in her hands without looking at her, an act so instinctive it feels predatory. The tray crashes a second later but you don’t stop, don’t even blink as the sound echoes back through the corridor like a warning.

Behind you, Jeno trails in greyscale, all soft black and damp skin, the heat of the shower still clinging to him like steam, eyes low, steps quiet, tethered to your storm like he was born to navigate it. “Baby, breathe,” he says, voice gentle but not afraid, and you don’t turn, don’t flinch, don’t even acknowledge him — “I am breathing,” you say instead, sharp as silk cut with glass, a sound that doesn’t rise, only pierces.

You turn a corner. Donghyuck’s voice erupts from the wrong speaker in a burst of sound so shrill it almost scrapes, and your head doesn’t even move. Chenle rolls by with the champagne tower, two glasses already fractured at the rim, laughter trailing behind him like smoke from a fire that hasn’t caught yet. Your eyes flick once. They both freeze.

Jaemin opens his mouth and a silver spoon slams into the wall two inches from his head, thrown without looking, thrown like instinct, thrown like punctuation. He ducks with a yell. Karina doesn’t blink. She lounges on the couch in champagne silk like a queen watching a bloodsport, sips her coffee slow, legs crossed, murmuring something about last time and a near-castration and it barely registers. You’ve already moved on. The flowers are wrong. The violins too slow. The altar too pale, too empty, like it’s waiting to be stained with something honest. Ningning’s straightening table cards that were already perfect and when you see her hand move again your breath breaks out of your chest in a sound you don’t recognize. You don’t stop. You never stop. The seams of the tablecloth are crooked and your hand smooths them with enough pressure to bruise.

The air smells wrong, too bright with citrus and something deeper rotting beneath it, like a body hiding under perfume, and your jaw is clenched so tight the pop of bone clicks loud in your ears. It’s not the wedding. It’s not the guests. It’s not even the fact that you had sex with Jeno before sunrise and you’re still shaking from it — it’s the sense that something’s coming, something is off, and no one else can see it yet. The bouquet is gone. The orchids are too open. Your chest is tight and your arms feel wired and you haven’t sat down since dawn, haven’t stopped moving, haven’t stopped correcting and adjusting and controlling because if you pause, even for one second, something inside you might collapse. Jeno doesn’t speak again. He’s watching. Waiting. He knows what this is. He’s seen you like this before.

You walk out of the room with nothing soft in your step, silk robe open just enough to expose the outline of your ribs and the mark he left at your throat, the air dragging along your skin like static. Linens hang from the villa’s balconies like surrendered flags, limp and pale in the gold-drenched morning light, and the orchids—sharp, perfect, screaming into the silence with their mouths wide open—glare down at the table below like they know exactly what kind of day it is. The breakfast table’s laid out like a last supper, white and sterile and waiting to be ruined, silver cutlery gleaming too clean, the smell of citrus sliced too thin to hide the sourness underneath. You move like a problem given legs, silk clinging to the sweat between your thighs, still damp from riding Jeno until your hips locked, until your voice broke, and even now as your clipboard slaps against your bare thigh with every step, you feel it—his cum drying on your skin, your body still open from it, your core tight from the stretch.

Your heels hit the hallway tile like you’re calling something forward, each step deliberate, surgical, carved with the intent to cut through anything that gets in your way, and everything in your posture says this day will belong to you or it will burn. The silk belt tied loose around your waist trails behind you like a noose you haven’t fastened yet, fluttering with each movement as your clipboard bruises against your palm from how tightly you’re holding it. Every name ticked off the list is marked with a pressure like you’re trying to split the paper in half, every flipped page sounds like a skin being stripped from bone, and still it’s not enough. A server passes on the left and her tray’s angled wrong, balance off, too much ice in the mimosas—your hand reaches out, corrects it without a glance, and she nods like she’s grateful not to be executed. Ten seconds later, it crashes behind you. You don’t look back.

Behind you, Jeno follows with the patience of a man who’s already had you once this morning and knows it won’t be the last. His black tee clings to his chest, damp at the collarbone where you kissed it half an hour ago, and his sweats hang low on his hips, skin still warm from the shower he took while you redid the seating chart with your nails biting into the pen. His eyes track you with that lazy hunger he never bothers to hide, the kind that looks like he’s remembering the way you gasped when he stuffed his fingers in your mouth before you even opened your eyes. “Baby, breathe,” he murmurs, low and close, the edge of amusement tucked in the corner of his voice like a blade.

You don’t turn, don’t flinch, don’t break stride. “I am breathing,” you snap, voice light and soft and cold as sugar gone stale, too sweet to be trusted, too sharp to ignore. Behind you, Jeno doesn’t reply, just watches the sway of your hips as you slice through the hallway like you were sent ahead of the forecast, silk still sticking to the inside of your thighs from earlier, clipboard thudding once against your leg like a warning to the world that the storm’s already here. The moment you push the terrace door open, the air shifts — golden and glazed and suspiciously still, like the villa woke up and knew better than to exhale wrong.

The table is long and sun-soaked, laid out under a gauzy canopy that trembles slightly in the breeze, the kind that feels bought, staged, too careful to be natural. Everything gleams — the fruit bowls with their waxy sheen, the eggs soft-poached into quiet obedience, the butter carved into rosettes that sweat against porcelain and it smells like sugar and citrus and nerves, like brunch dressed up as a peace treaty. Mark is already seated, flipping a sugar packet between his fingers like a coin, brow raised but saying nothing. Karina and Ningning are tucked side by side near the head of the table, coffee cups steaming between them, one heel tapping and the other already halfway into her third critique of the croissant layers. Jaemin’s chair is crooked, his plate untouched, mimosa sweating onto the tablecloth, while Chenle and Donghyuck are mid-argument over which of them forgot the welcome speech. Yangyang hasn’t spoken since he sat down. You clock it all in five seconds flat.

Your heels scrape as you pull out your chair, and every head lifts — subtle, automatic, synchronised like birds startled from a wire. You feel the weight of it settle around you, but you don’t speak yet. You slide your clipboard onto the table, pick up your fork like it might be a weapon, and stare down your plate like it’s insulted you. Jeno takes the seat beside you with the ease of someone who’s earned it, hair still damp from the shower, the scent of your skin still caught at the collar. His knee brushes yours under the table. You don’t react, but Karina’s smirk twitches. Jaemin blinks. Shotaro blinks slower. The silence stretches.

You and Jeno eat in silence for two full minutes. Nothing is said. Not a glance is exchanged. The only sound is the scrape of cutlery and the sharp tick of your fork hitting porcelain, steady and deliberate like you’re trying to communicate something through Morse code. Everyone else just watches like you’re a live wire and he’s the match. Jeno spreads butter across his toast with focus, his sleeves pushed up, his jaw sharp, the scratch you left on his neck glowing red against his skin. Your robe’s slipped from one shoulder and stays there. Your legs are crossed, your clipboard resting against your thigh like a loaded gun, and your silence is the kind that tastes like threat.

“She’s chewing with intent,” Chenle mutters, barely moving his lips.

“That’s tactical chewing,” Ningning whispers, dead serious.

“She hasn’t blinked in at least a minute,” Jaemin adds, trying not to look directly at you. “It’s getting clinical.”

Karina sighs into her coffee. “Someone thinks Jeno’s cock solves things.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Jeno says smoothly, without even looking up. His voice is calm, a little amused. He takes a bite of toast like he’s earned it.

“And yet the tension remains,” Karina murmurs, unbothered, swirling her drink.

Donghyuck inhales to speak, but Chenle elbows him hard enough to shake the mimosa glass beside him, and whatever joke was loading dies instantly behind his teeth. Shotaro clears his throat, attempts a brave pivot to safer territory—something about honeymoon destinations, tropical or domestic—but chokes halfway through the sentence, orange juice catching sharp in his throat, and he barely manages a watery smile before going quiet. Your knife moves with mechanical precision, slicing through a strawberry like it said something unforgivable, the red pulp bleeding across porcelain while your other hand flips through the itinerary as if this table isn’t one dumb remark away from war. The silence creaks. The sun glints off your fork like it’s been waiting to be flung. Then you glance up—no smirk, no warning—voice smooth, surgical, and cold enough to still the wind. “Yes, we had sex last night, now please stop staring.”

The silence after your words doesn’t just land — it lingers, swells, takes up space like smoke in the lungs. The terrace doesn’t move. Forks stay suspended mid-air, mimosa bubbles slow like they’ve forgotten how to rise. Karina’s coffee cools in her untouched cup. Ningning blinks but doesn’t sip. Even the breeze seems to pause, unsure if it should stick around. You don’t look up, don’t blink, don’t do anything but cross your legs under the table as Jeno spreads his palm across your thigh, a quiet press of heat and ownership that settles low behind your ribs. He chews. You sip. The table waits. Until —

“I knew it,” Chenle says, slapping the table like he’s just solved a murder case, “You owe me twenty, Shotaro.”

Shotaro groans like he’s been wronged on a spiritual level. “Unreal. I really thought Y/N would wait until after the reception.”

Donghyuck nearly chokes on his drink laughing. “You lost because you believed in dignity. Rookie mistake.”

Then you turn. “Excuse me? You bet on us?”

“We didn’t bet if,” Chenle says, wounded that you’d even ask. “We all knew you’d end up on top eventually.”

Jeno doesn’t look up from his plate. “She didn’t. Not for long.”

Your eyes flick to him, jaw tight. “You wanna try that again with your teeth still in?”

He hums, slow and low. “Still sore, baby?”

“The bet was when,” Donghyuck adds, pointing a fork at Shotaro. “This idiot had faith.”

Shotaro shrugs, solemn. “I believed in your self-control.”

Jaemin clinks his glass against his own forehead. “That’s on you.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Where’s the orange juice?”

Chenle lifts his glass with zero shame. “Right here. I brought the wrong one just to see if you’d twitch.” You glare at him, eyes sharp enough to slice through glass, and your hand twitches like you might throw the juice in his face just to prove the point. He blinks once, mutters something about chaos being a lifestyle, and wisely leans out of reach.

You sink back into your chair with a groan that’s half-moan, half-murder, rubbing your temples like the breakfast table personally offended you. “They used the fucking wrong chair ties. Again. And the champagne flutes aren’t symmetrical. And who the hell approved the grapefruit glaze?” Your voice rises with every word, until it shatters the air like porcelain dropped on marble. Your clipboard lands on the table with a thud. Karina leans back, muttering something under her breath about war crimes.

Jeno’s fingers find your shoulders before anyone else dares to speak. Broad and sure, pressing into the knots of tension that have wound themselves tight beneath your skin since before the sun rose. “Baby,” he says low, too close to your ear, voice like hot syrup. “You’re gonna give yourself a stroke before vows even start.” His thumbs knead slow and firm, tracing over muscle with the ease of someone who’s done this before. You inhale once. A little softer. You tip your head back just slightly and let yourself exist in the space he makes for you, just for a moment, just long enough to think you might survive this.

Then you glance up and across the table.

Yangyang hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t smiled. Hasn’t even touched his breakfast. His eyes meet yours once, unreadable, then drop again. And just like that, the warmth drains from your spine. Jeno’s touch is still there, anchoring, steady, but your stomach coils tight again. You shift forward with a huff, pick up your pen, and go back to circling names on the guest list like you’re planning a heist instead of a wedding.

You’re chewing through another crisis with a pen between your teeth and murder in your eyes, mumbling about chair symmetry and shade angles while your fingers stab at the clipboard like it personally wronged you. There’s a misplaced sprig of thyme on one of the breakfast plates, and it’s throwing off your entire sense of balance. You mutter something about getting on a flight and never coming back, and Jeno—sitting right beside you, one arm stretched behind your chair, the other steady on your thigh—leans in and massages your shoulder like he’s trying to coax the fury out of your bones. “Baby,” he murmurs low enough only you can hear. “I need you to relax before you start categorising threats by knife size.”

Your lips twitch, slow and reluctant, the kind of reaction you don’t let him see, but the weight of his palm makes your shoulder ache a little less and the heat of his breath settles against your neck like something you could let in if you weren’t already full to the brim. He doesn’t say anything else, just keeps tracing soft circles into the muscle there, coaxing you to loosen the tension you’ve been holding since before sunrise, and for a second—just that—your posture shifts without you noticing, jaw unclenching, fingers easing off the napkin in your lap, the impossible list of tasks thinning at the corners in your mind even if it’s only temporary. Your head tilts slightly toward him, your eyes closing for the span of one breath, and you nearly forget the speaker cables still haven’t arrived, the aisle flowers aren’t sorted, Irene’s refusing to wear heels, and someone’s definitely spilled something sticky near the dessert tent because the air’s turned sweet and sharp with bees swarming the edge of the buffet.

Jaemin’s voice cuts across the table with too much brightness, dragging the attention with it as he lifts his glass and slurs something about the mimosas being suspiciously bottomless, the kind of line that wants to be clever but lands too loud against the white tablecloth, and then someone else—Shotaro—throws in a comment about the catering staff looking like they’re fresh out of prison, and the laughter that follows is jagged, mismatched, just a little too sharp to be natural. The moment you had is gone before you can cling to it, slipping through your fingers like the raspberry glaze that didn’t set right this morning, and you reach forward without thinking, aiming for the fruit tongs even though your focus is off and your hand moves too fast, catching the tray instead of the handle, your second attempt just as useless because your grip keeps sliding and your patience is already running thinner than the silk overlay that’s still not pinned on the welcome table.

Karina doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts in her chair with slow, languid grace, legs crossed under the table and her sunglasses too dark for the hour, her champagne flute swaying slightly between two fingers like it’s weightless, her attention drifting until it lands on you with precision and the kind of smug timing that feels earned. She taps the glass once, then again, her mouth curving as if the thought came to her naturally, and when she finally speaks it’s smooth as syrup, her voice low and too casual, like a dagger wrapped in lace as she leans back and lets the words spill easy. “I mean—” she pauses just long enough to sip and smile, “—you’d think someone who got absolutely wrecked last night would be a little more relaxed at breakfast.”

Karina doesn’t let up, just shifts in her seat with that slow, luxurious ease like she’s got all the time in the world and not a single thing to prove, she eyes Jeno with the kind of amusement that means she’s already lined up her next shot, and when she speaks again it’s too casual to be kind, her voice syrup-smooth and stretched with mock concern. “No, because now I’m worried,” she says, glancing at you just once before looking back at him like she’s genuinely puzzled. “If she’s still this stressed after whatever you did last night,” Karina says, propping her chin on her hand with a half-smile that’s all teeth, “then your dick clearly didn’t do its job.”

Jaemin makes a strangled sound, one hand slamming the table like he’s about to start praying, Shotaro chokes mid-bite and starts coughing into a napkin, and Mark just stands, muttering ‘I’m not emotionally equipped for this breakfast’ as he walks away without context, while Jeno doesn’t even blink, just shifts a little closer like none of this is worth the effort of a real reaction, arm heavy across the back of your chair as he exhales slow and says, voice low and even, “My cock works just fine but thank you for the concern.”

The laughter is still echoing when something shifts with enough to pull you out of it, like a pressure drop in the room you didn’t notice until it already sank under your skin. Chenle’s the first to feel it, mid-laugh, hand halfway to his glass before his fingers pause just over the rim. His gaze sharpens, brow twitching faintly, and the smile on his face falters, like something unfamiliar just touched the edges of his vision. Jaemin catches it too, though he doesn’t freeze — just chuckles under his breath, low and crooked, like he already knows what’s coming and can’t wait for the fallout. “Oh, he’s here,” he mutters, tipping his glass back without looking away, “this is gonna be great.”

Your eyes snap up at that, head turning just as Jeno’s fingers shift under the table, curling tighter around yours without warning, like his body clocked the arrival before his eyes did. The pressure is subtle, steady, his palm anchoring yours with a tension that doesn’t need explanation, and when you follow the direction of their stares, breath already caught in your chest, the air around you folds in on itself.

There’s something about the way the light slices across the terrace arch, that clean white drapery fluttering in the breeze like it’s been waiting for this moment, like it’s part of the entrance itself. You see movement first — two shadows cresting the path from the villa’s inner corridor, framed by the stark stone steps and manicured shrubs. And then they appear. Taeyong walks with a stiff kind of authority, shoulders squared under a fitted navy blazer, sunglasses tucked one-finger loose into the open collar like he wants to be casual, like he wants to be noticed but also wants it to look accidental. Mr. Kim follows, two steps behind, nodding along to something you know isn’t being said — just business-face smiles and small talk posture, rehearsed and meaningless. And then Nahyun steps forward.

The light hits her first — that soft halo glow that makes silk look more expensive, that makes her skin look powdered and cooled, her movements slowed like a camera’s watching. Her dress is a pale blush ivory, barely pink, cut in soft angles that whisper over her hips and skim her legs like they don’t dare cling too close. Her makeup’s perfect, her hair half-pinned, the type of effortless beauty that only comes from calculation and cruelty. But it’s her stillness that sharpens everything — the way she walks like she’s gliding, like her feet never touch the ground, like emotion doesn’t stick to her unless she lets it. She looks breathtaking. She looks blank. Like she’s here out of spite, not warmth, and every step she takes is for control.

She sees you. Her eyes sweep past the table with lazy indifference, but the moment they land on you and Jeno — the two of you tucked in close, his arm stretched behind your chair like he belongs there — something shifts in her face, subtle but deliberate. Her gaze settles on yours like she’s bored of what she’s seeing, like your presence is a smudge on the glass she hasn’t bothered to wipe. Her chin tips up a touch too high, lashes falling just enough to sharpen the shape of her stare, and then her mouth twitches with a flicker of something mean, something smug, like she’s looking at a mistake she already knew someone would make. She drags her eyes down your body once, slow and precise, then back up again like she’s assessing damage. Like she’s thinking that? really? and deciding she doesn’t need to say it out loud because it’s already written all over your dress.

Jeno leans in, voice caught just behind your ear, breath warm like he’s about to make a quiet comment, maybe about Nahyun’s glare, maybe about the death grip you’ve unknowingly kept on his hand under the table, but the moment dissolves before it can land. There’s a shift near the west lawn, just beyond the hedge-lined path that curves toward the outer terrace, and the atmosphere pulls tight as heads begin to turn. A soft clatter breaks the murmur — a tray slipping, a server stalling — and suddenly, all movement narrows toward the walkway where Taeyong has just stepped forward, posture tall, expression calm, the kind of calm that’s engineered.

Mark sees him instantly. His back pulls tighter, chest stilling mid-breath, but his face stays unreadable, eyes locked on the man approaching like the space between them carries weight he’s trained himself to carry without showing it. Taeyong walks with that quiet, deliberate control that always seems designed to impress someone, steps steady, expression relaxed in the way only performance allows, and when he lifts his hand in a light, practiced gesture, there’s no hesitation in the words that follow. “Mark,” he says, tone smooth with a shallow warmth that masks whatever he’s really thinking, “you look well.”

Mark doesn’t respond. His jaw tenses, his eyes stay fixed, but there’s a flicker of something behind them, a quiet, simmering resistance that tightens the air between them. From the corner of your eye, you catch Areum starting to move, subtle but swift, her hand clutching the edge of her seat, fingers curling around the strap of her purse, body angling like she’s ready to step in before the silence breaks too sharply. Taeyong pauses just short of the table, tilting his head with a faint smile that doesn’t quite settle, his voice dipped in something meant to sound sincere but sharpened at the edges like he’s enjoying the tension too much to hide it. “I’m glad you agreed to have me here,” he says, smooth and measured, every word a deliberate push. “It matters to me — being part of this day, standing with family. Especially since it’s such a rare thing now, getting your blessing.” The weight of it hangs heavy between them, stretched thin by the fact that they both know no such blessing was ever given.

Mark’s head tilts just slightly, lips parting around a breath that tastes like restraint until it doesn’t. His eyes lift, slow and sharp, and when he finally speaks, the words slide out low and bitter, laced with that brand of anger that’s gone too quiet to burn out. “Don’t act like this was your invitation to accept,” he says, tone clean, cut with steel, voice pitched just low enough that it doesn’t need to rise. “You weren’t wanted. You were tolerated. There’s a difference.” He shifts his weight forward, jaw flexing once, and his stare locks hard onto Taeyong’s, unwavering, lethal in its calm. “You showing up like this doesn’t make you part of anything — it just proves you still don’t know where the fuck you stand.”

Taeyong breathes out a soft chuckle, lips curving in that familiar, polished way — the kind that never quite reaches his eyes, the kind that always feels rehearsed. He folds his hands neatly in front of him like he’s entertaining a tantrum in a boardroom, head tilting as if he’s listening patiently when every inch of his expression says he’s already decided this isn’t worth his energy. “There he is,” he murmurs, almost fond, drawing the words out like he’s watching a performance he commissioned. “Always so good with language, I should’ve pushed you toward law school.” His smile widens just slightly, sharp enough now to reveal the edge beneath the courtesy. “You know, with how invested you are in family matters these days, maybe you should’ve gone into family law.” And then, as if delivering a punchline, he adds, “Still, it’s touching that you care enough to make a scene… son.” The word lands soft but loaded, slipped in like an afterthought and dropped like a match.

Mark doesn’t laugh this time. He steps in instead, slow and deliberate, gaze locked like a blade already drawn, voice low enough to force silence around it. “You love pretending this is all mutual,” he says, words crisp, carved clean. “That you’re here because you were invited, that you’re part of this because anyone actually wanted you near it.” He doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, just leans in half a breath closer. “You weren’t. You’re here because someone always covers for the mess you leave behind — in business, in family, in whatever image you keep polishing to distract from how fucking hollow it is.” His tone drops, final and precise. “You failed as a father, a husband, a brother, and now you’re failing as a man trying to prove he ever mattered outside a title someone else handed him.”

Your fingers tremble against the base of your glass, several thoughts stacking too high behind your eyes, one slipping over the next like glass ready to crack. The toast you haven’t sipped, the breath you haven’t taken and the wedding that’s meant to be everything — beautiful, unforgettable, yet all you feel is the air pulling tight around your ribs like it knows something you don’t. You lean in, slowly, like it costs something. Your shoulder brushes his bicep first, then your arm folds softly under his, head tipping until your temple rests against his shoulder, steam from the morning still woven into his clothes, his hand already finding your thigh again like he knew you’d need anchoring before you even asked.

“I get it,” you murmur, voice so low it’s barely sound, just breath and confession. “Why Mark’s on edge. Makes sense, honestly — every time Taeyong opens his mouth it feels like he’s trying to prove something that isn’t even his, but this was supposed to be—” you pause, jaw tight, voice folding inward. “It’s meant to be a good day. I don’t know why it feels like something’s about to go wrong.”

Jeno doesn’t say anything at first. His palm slides higher, over your leg, thumb smoothing against the inside of your thigh just once before he draws small circles there — steady, warm, slow. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw with infinite care, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s memorising the place your voice faltered. He leans in, his breath warm as it slips across your cheek, lips brushing so close to your temple it feels like prayer.

“Nothing’s going wrong,” he says softly, but with weight. “Not today. Not if I can help it.”

You close your eyes, just for a second. Let yourself believe him. When you open them again, you glance across the terrace — past the guests, the flowers, the perfect sunlight you no longer trust. Your eyes find Nahyun first. Then the man standing behind her.

You stiffen. Your voice is tight when it comes. “Why is her dad even here?” Your gaze flicks toward Nahyun again and you manage to swallow the eye-roll that fights its way up your throat. “I get why she’s here — fine. Whatever. But her father?” You shake your head, a bitter little laugh twisting at your lips. “He doesn’t even pretend to like anyone, the way he spoke to me yesterday was disgusting and so disrespectful, I’m tired.”

Jeno watches your face closely. His thumb keeps moving. His voice stays gentle. “Do you want me to walk over?” he asks, and the softness in it is real — no posturing, no ego, just the offer to protect. To intercept. To absorb whatever you shouldn’t have to.

You lift your face just enough to find his, your nose brushing his cheek before your mouth does. You kiss him once, soft and slow, like it’s a thank you you don’t know how to phrase, and then you kiss him again just to feel his breath catch against yours. Your smile ghosts across his lips as you whisper “Jeno,” low and close, like it’s only meant to exist in that inch of space between you. You shake your head, barely, your hand curling around his forearm beneath the table like you’re holding onto steadiness itself, and your voice breaks through quieter now, worn soft at the edges. “No. Just stay here. I don’t need you to fix it. I just need you to keep looking at me like that.”

Jeno watches your face the whole time. His thumb never stops moving. His eyes don’t stray once. When he speaks again, it’s not a question anymore — it’s a promise wrapped in calm. “Okay.”

Jeno leans in, lips hovering just over yours, his breath warm and slow and familiar as the sun you used to pray for. He tilts his head, nose brushing yours, voice barely a rumble when it spills across your skin. “Let’s disappear for a while,” he murmurs, the syllables folding like silk between your mouths, “just you and me… anywhere quiet.” His hand moves higher on your thigh, thumb stroking once, steady and coaxing like he already knows you’ll say yes.

You’re about to. You’re already halfway there — mouth parted, breath catching, lashes lowering — when your eyes drift past him and lock onto hers. Nahyun. Leaning back in her chair like she owns the view, posture perfect, smile absent. She’s watching you the way predators study movement. Like she’s choosing where to bite first. Her gaze doesn’t blink or break, it carves. Cold and surgical and if looks could flay, you’d already be skinless. She doesn’t glare, she just dissects.

Your body stills, lips hovering just shy of Jeno’s. Your breath tightens against your ribs, and you don’t even bother with a smile as you whisper, “You need to talk to Nahyun.” Then lower, quieter, dry as salt rimmed on a glass: “Before she decides to end me with her bare hands and a butter knife.”

You know he has to talk to her. Not because she’s owed anything, not because she’ll make it easy but because if he doesn’t, she’ll turn this day into a scene, and neither of you will be able to walk away clean. Her silence already feels like a blade. Her eyes haven’t left your face since the moment she sat down. She doesn’t want an answer, she wants control, and you know exactly how she works — all sweet-lipped venom and timing sharpened to ruin. If he doesn’t go to her first, she’ll come to you

The air turns heavier when Mr. Kim is near—like the light bends wrong around him, like the space around his presence forgets how to breathe. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s the weight of things unspoken. The kind of history that never needed to be written down because it was stitched into bloodlines and balanced on consequences. He didn’t come for the wedding. He came because Taeyong did. And Taeyong never arrives without a reason. Their names on the guest list read like terms of an agreement, not invitations. A performance dressed in formalwear. A transaction disguised as support. No toast would come from either of them without strings coiled beneath it, and whatever they’ve come to witness—it isn’t the vows. Somewhere deep in your gut, past logic, past language, you feel it. Jeno is the collateral, not a groom or a guest. Just a name inherited, a silence expected. Held in place by the weight of men who build dynasties from debt.

Jeno’s hand slips from your thigh to your jaw, calloused fingers grazing soft beneath your chin as he leans in without needing permission, his mouth brushing yours once, then again—slower this time, more deliberate, like he’s trying to press something steady into your bones before stepping away. His lips taste like citrus and breathless quiet, a lingering imprint that settles deep, and when he pulls back it’s only enough to breathe the words into your mouth. “I’ll find you after,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, a promise sealed beneath restraint, the kind you don’t ask questions about because you already know it’s real. You nod once, the movement barely there, and your hand brushes his wrist as he draws away, watching the shift settle over his face—how every softness tucks back behind his eyes, how the air around him sharpens into something precise, something he only wears when he knows what he’s walking into won’t be easy.

He crosses the terrace without ceremony, steps measured and composed, the clean glide of someone raised to move through tension without cracking. Nahyun stands several paces away, posture etched in glass, spine drawn tight beneath the silk of her dress, arms folded like she’s barricading herself from even the idea of intimacy. She turns when he nears but only just, her chin tilting in the smallest motion, her gaze sliding sideways instead of meeting his directly, like she’s assessing something not worth her full attention. They speak, but the words vanish beneath the soft clang of breakfast silver, the murmur of wind under the canopy, the hush that falls whenever two people too aware of their audience try to make war look like dialogue.

You watch the shape of it unfold from across the terrace, their silhouettes carved in tension, framed by the soft blur of morning light that doesn’t forgive anything, every movement between them deliberate in its distance, like restraint is the only language either of them still understands, like closeness would cost more than they’re willing to pay. Her arms stay folded too high to be casual and his hands stay buried too deep to be comfort, and even as they speak, nothing in their bodies bends, no gesture breaks the choreography of this unspoken war, this inherited detente that lives between them like second skin. There’s a moment where his gaze drops to the tiles, and she shifts her weight in the same breath, like the air passing between them has already reached its expiry, like every word exchanged is proof that peace was never an option in the first place.

You turn before it finishes, legs already moving before your thoughts catch up, carried by something deeper than logic — something older, almost muscle memory — because your body knows exactly where to go when things start breaking from the inside out, and without checking your phone or calling his name, you slip down the narrow corridor that runs along the villa’s west wing, shoes gripped in one hand, the other still clutching your clipboard like it might tether you to purpose, even though you haven’t looked at the schedule in over fifteen minutes and probably won’t for fifteen more. The lemon trees bloom too bright to the left, citrus sharp in the air, their branches filtering the sun into lines across your arms and shoulders as you pass under them, the path narrowing into quiet as the distant sounds of cutlery and laughter fade behind you, replaced by something softer — not silence exactly, but stillness that doesn’t ask anything of you.

The western balcony doesn’t belong to anyone, but everything about it screams Mark, the way the breeze moves without needing permission, the way the light lands softer here, like it knows when to back off. No one else ever comes this far during chaos, no one else disappears into quiet like it’s something they earned. You walk past the citrus trees, through the cool arch, barefoot across the stone because if there’s one place he’d be, it’s here.. You need to see him, for reassurance, for comfort — you just need someone who doesn’t ask anything from you, someone whose silence doesn’t feel like judgment. You need Mark because this place fits him like a second skin, and right now, everything else feels borrowed.

You reach the edge of the railing, fingers brushing its cool curve as you glance across the horizon, cliffs stretching out into soft golds and distant whitecaps, the kind of view that usually calms you, that used to feel like exhale when things were too tight to name. You scan the alcoves, the corners, the shaded stone ledges tucked behind the vines, but he isn’t there — no shape, no shadow, no weight where you thought there’d be someone who could see through you without asking questions. You whisper his name once, too soft to carry, maybe just to test the air, maybe just to remind yourself that it still exists outside your chest, and when nothing answers, you let out a breath that falls out of you like defeat, like a sound you didn’t mean to make, and you press your lips together because you won’t cry, not here, not yet.

You turn to leave, slow and reluctant, your body heavier than before, breath still caught somewhere shallow, and then you feel it — that shift in air, that flicker at the edge of your spine, that unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching you, that someone is already here. You look up and he’s there, framed in the archway you just passed through, the light behind him too clean to feel warm, casting him in sharp relief against the white stone, every line of his body composed like something frozen in the exact moment before it cuts. His hands are behind his back, posture still as sculpture, expression neutral in that way that masks calculation as calm, and for a split second you can’t move, can’t speak, because this isn’t who you came for, and he knows that.

Taeyong doesn’t speak first, but he doesn’t have to — his presence alone rewrites the air around him, too curated to be casual, too purposeful to be chance, and you can feel the dread rising in your stomach before your brain even catches up to it, a low-tide kind of fear that doesn’t scream but tightens your throat, the kind of dread that doesn’t come from danger but from familiarity, from knowing this man doesn’t walk into rooms without an agenda, doesn’t offer kindness unless it serves a function, doesn’t appear at the end of a path unless he’s sure he can weaponise what’s waiting at the other side.

When he finally speaks, the words slide from his tongue like a blade slipping from a sheath lined with velvet, too smooth to hear coming until they’re already at your throat. “You’re a brave girl,” he murmurs, like it’s meant to sound gentle, like he’s admiring something rare, though the weight behind it coils with condescension, with expectation, with heat that wants to brand. “Still circling my son like he’s your salvation, even after I made it very clear that the smart choice would’ve been distance.” His voice doesn’t echo — it doesn’t need to. It coils. It wraps itself around your ribs, a serpent made of civility and control, one that has sunk fangs into generations before you. “That kind of courage,” he continues, stepping one pace closer like the distance means nothing, “only ever comes from ignorance or obsession.”

You turn then and the light catches across your features just enough to frame you in clarity. “You think I’m still here because of him,” you say, voice low and measured, every syllable drawn clean from somewhere deeper than breath, “like I stayed out of love, or need, or some weakness you can use later.” His expression shifts at the corners, something between amusement and calculation, a glint that looks too much like approval to be anything but dangerous. You hold his gaze like a blade held still in your palm. “But maybe I’m still here because it bothers you that I didn’t leave when you told me to.”

Taeyong’s eyes shine too brightly under the balcony shade, but the gleam doesn’t belong to life — it belongs to polished decay, to things preserved in glass for appearances but hollow underneath. He adjusts the cuff of his shirt with delicate precision, like the gesture will erase the way his hand trembled a moment before, and when he speaks again, the warmth in his voice has turned stale. “You remind me of people I used to respect,” he says, voice low like a hymn sung in a church he burnt down, “people who knew how to use stillness. It’s always the quiet ones who end up closest to power. You’ve placed yourself well. Right between the wreckage and the ones I tried to keep untouched.”

Your grip on the railing doesn’t shift, but something in your chest does — not fear, not defiance, something quieter. Something that knows him too well to pretend this is about flattery. “I didn’t place myself anywhere,” you say, and your voice stays even, but the edge of it scrapes clean. “I just kept showing up in the places where people like you stopped looking.” The breeze hits your jaw, cool and sharp, and still, you don’t step back.

He watches you like you’re a story that might turn tragic if left unsupervised, but his face is slipping — just slightly — the shadows under his eyes darker than you remember, the gleam of sweat on his collarbone absorbed too quickly by the linen. He inhales once and something falters at the edge of it, a beat too slow, a tremor in his chest masked by a gesture too perfect. “Time used to serve me,” he says, almost with humour, though the smile that follows looks carved instead of worn. “Now it just observes.”

You stare at him — this god rotting inside a temple he built from broken sons and rewritten bloodlines — and you tilt your head slightly, just enough to let the light catch the coolness in your expression. “Maybe it’s watching to see how you fall,” you murmur, tone light, words shaped like silk drawn across a blade. “And who steps over you when you do.”

Taeyong smiles, but it’s thin, too clean, like it’s been sterilised of meaning before it ever reached his mouth. “Careful,” he says, voice light as prayer, almost kind if you weren’t listening. “There’s a difference between surviving a fall and being forgotten at the bottom of it.” He looks at you like he’s still weighing something — your loyalty, your usefulness, your silence — then adds, softer, like a parent reminding a child what not to touch: “Power doesn’t care who’s right, sweetheart. It remembers who lasted.”

You stare at him, this god rotting inside a temple he built from fractured bloodlines and boys he thought he could bend into monuments, and your head tilts slightly, just enough to let the sun slide along your jaw like a blade too clean to dull. “You look at Jeno and see softness you couldn’t beat out of him,” you say, voice low, not cruel but cutting in its clarity, “but I’ve seen what he does when the mask slips. You built him in your image, but you forgot to make him empty enough to survive it.” You shift, a slow step forward, nothing defensive in your stance, only control, the kind born from proximity to fire, not distance from it. “You want to scare me because you know he listens to me,” you murmur, chin lifted, voice silk-still. “But I’ve lived with worse than you. I’ve survived versions of myself you couldn’t stomach.” You pause, smiling softly and dangerously. “And you don’t intimidate me, Taeyong. You just look like a man choking on his own legacy.”

You don’t hear him at first. It’s the shift in atmosphere that gives him away — not the scrape of steps, not the click of the balcony threshold, just the sudden tilt of the air like the space itself recognised him first. You’ve just finished speaking. Taeyong still hasn’t moved. His words still hang in the air like poisoned incense curling too close to your throat, and you feel the weight of someone watching, but this time it doesn’t choke. It grounds. You turn slowly, unsure what you’ll find and that’s when you see Mark.

He stands in the archway with his spine drawn tight and his shoulders squared like he’s just walked into something he wasn’t prepared for but will never back away from, and the light behind him throws long shadows across the marble that stretch between you like smoke made of memory. He doesn’t move right away and he doesn’t speak, but the tension in his jaw and the slow rise of his chest say more than any greeting ever could. His eyes pass over Taeyong first and then find you, steady and unreadable, and it’s only then that the air shifts sharp enough to make your skin sting.

Taeyong doesn’t turn toward him, only lifts his chin slightly as if the sound has confirmed something he already predicted and his voice curls outward like it’s been waiting for a stage to perform on. “Ah,” he murmurs, soft and sweet like rotting fruit left too long in silver bowls, “the second son arrives.” His smile is tight and clean, a gesture with no affection behind it, and when he speaks again it’s slower and sharper. “You always did have a gift for walking into moments you were never meant to witness. So much hunger to be part of something that never needed you.” He adjusts the line of his cuff like your presence has made the room untidy and unworthy of hosting itself.

Mark doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t answer right away, only steps further into the light until the air thickens around him like the space is trying to swallow him whole. His voice is low and quiet, barely louder than the wind curling around the pillars, but it lands in the marble and in your chest like a nail pressed into soft wood. He doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t lift his gaze, just breathes the words like they’ve been waiting for years to be spoken aloud. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Taeyong exhales slowly, as if the idea amuses him, as if it’s a familiar song he’s heard before but never bothered to finish. His eyes shine too much under the light and his mouth pulls with something close to indulgence as he speaks. “Wouldn’t be the first time one of you tried,” he says, and his smile curls lazy and unbothered like he’s already seen how the story ends and didn’t think much of it. “Just make sure the paperwork’s cleaner than your last apology.”

Mark tilts his head slightly, eyes hard and jaw set, and the breath that leaves him doesn’t shake. “This time I won’t leave enough of you to file one.”

Mark moves now, not toward him and not toward you, but forward, each step slow and deliberate like he’s counting the weight of every inch that separates power from truth. He stops at the centre of the balcony where the light shifts from warm to clinical and stands there like the floor belongs to no one else, still silent, still taut, and then finally he speaks with a voice that is low but precise. “You weren’t invited. I will never stop reminding you that, I will ensure that this wedding is a living hell for you.” The words aren’t raised and they aren’t rushed, but they hit like a blade held flat to the skin.

Taeyong watches you for a moment longer before dragging his gaze back to his son, his expression clean as polished bone. “Forgiveness,” he hums, almost amused, “it is in fashion this season and I thought it polite to see how the family conducts itself now that everyone is so determined to rewrite its rules. Does that not make any sense?” He brushes a crease from his sleeve as if it offends him.

Mark’s laugh breaks the air but it doesn’t sound like anything you’d mistake for joy. “You don’t get to say family,” he replies, eyes locked onto his father’s like they’re dissecting something long dead, “when all you ever did was ruin it from the inside. You weren’t invited. You never are so why are you here? Why are you bothering Y/N?” His voice is level but the edge of it cuts so clean it feels surgical.

That flickers something in Taeyong’s mouth, not surprise but something close to curiosity. “I could say the same of you,” he replies, his voice coiling like steam off steel. “Hovering around whatever’s broken, always trying to shape it into something worth protecting. You think posture and proximity count for devotion but all I see is a boy who never learned when to let something die.” He pauses, then smiles again, this time soft and venomous. “You always did know how to make the smallest scenes feel so unnecessarily important.”

Mark doesn’t respond at first and when he does, his voice drops even lower, like what he’s saying was meant to be delivered between teeth. “I understand you better than anyone ever wanted to. That’s why I’m still standing here. You think showing up makes you real, that presence means something, but presence isn’t power. It’s exposure. You’re only visible now because no one’s scared enough to look away anymore.” His hands don’t move and his breath stays even, but the ground under your feet feels like it just leaned toward him.

Taeyong shifts his weight and inhales too sharply, the sound catching just beneath his collarbone before he smooths it away with a flick of his wrist, stepping forward with a hand raised like he might touch your shoulder in some mockery of affection, some staged moment of authority that never belonged to him in the first place. His fingers stretch forward, slow and rehearsed, but they never make it. Mark moves faster than thought, planting himself between you like he was born to be a wall, rolling his sleeves up with one fluid motion that drags the tension higher, arms flexed and jaw locked as he squares his stance with all the calm of a man who’s been waiting for this exact confrontation to come.

“Try that again,” Mark says, voice flat and sharp like metal pressed against bone, “and see how fast I make you regret it.” He steps closer until there’s no air left between them, eyes hard and unblinking, and when he speaks again it’s quieter, but it carries all the weight of a man who no longer needs permission to be dangerous. “I’m not that little boy you broke down for sport. I’m not the one who kept waiting for approval you didn’t have the spine to give. I don’t need a father anymore, Taeyong. I can face you now. I’m stronger than you ever were.”

Taeyong stills, then realigns his jacket, brushing something from the sleeve with clinical grace. “Son,” he says softly, as if the word still belongs to him, “you always did love playing guard dog. But be careful. People forget to feed the ones who bark too much, and the ones who bite without direction don’t get to live long enough to learn manners.” His eyes glint, but the light in them is hollow.

Mark leans forward slightly, enough for his shadow to cut across the tiles between them. “Say one more word,” he says, his voice impossibly quiet, “and I will bury whatever name you’re still holding onto like it means something. I will salt the ground it grew from and make sure nothing carries it again.”

The silence that settles between them is dense and sick with the scent of old power rotting in fresh air. Taeyong steps back once, adjusting his sleeve like it’s ceremony, then lets his smile return with the ease of someone who no longer cares if it looks real. “Charming,” he murmurs, gaze sliding lazily to you. “You’ve inherited your mother’s mouth and her poor taste in what’s worth protecting.” His breath escapes in a quiet sound that only pretends to be laughter. “I’ll leave you both to your delusions.”

He walks away like nothing that just happened was worth carrying with him, his footsteps soft across the marble as if retreat could ever be elegant, and the air doesn’t shift when he’s gone, it only thickens, tighter around your ribs like the space still remembers where he stood and refuses to release it. You don’t breathe again until Mark turns toward you and when he does, he is still furious, still quiet, and still waiting for the world to make sense around you again.

He remains still even after the echo of Taeyong’s footsteps vanish beyond the stone, his hands curved tightly by his sides and his gaze unreadable, fixed on the marble like he could carve through it just by looking long enough. The light bleeds across his shoulders and the air hangs heavy between you, thick with a silence that came from something deeper than words, like a storm’s breath still caught in the mouth of the sky. Your voice breaks through quietly, a lifeline woven in casual softness, a thread you’ve always known how to cast when his body coils too tightly to move. “Wanna go throw rocks in the water?” you murmur, tone light, eyes steady, each syllable a memory offered without weight. “Like the old times.” When he finally meets your eyes, something clicks into place, quiet and slow and warm, and he nods once, not to humour you but because something about the invitation feels right.

Your hand curls around his arm with the ease of someone who’s always known where to reach when the world splinters, and he doesn’t hesitate, falling into step beside you as the two of you move away from the carved perfection of the villa, down toward the edge where beauty begins to fray into something older. The cobbled path gives way to untamed stone quickly, its symmetry dissolving underfoot, each step rougher than the last, overgrown roots clawing through gaps like the earth wants to reclaim what was paved too cleanly. There are no railings here, no signs, no guards — only silence thick with memory, as if this place was never meant to be found again, and the cliffs stretch downward in jagged ribs, ancient and deliberate, their pattern too sharp to be anything but dangerous, their descent a careful seduction masked as a view. The water below gleams like a promise held in the palm of something cruel, deep blue and glass-still from this height, but there’s nothing soft in the way it waits.

Mark moves just behind you, one hand always near your waist, the other catching your elbow when your heel skims a loose edge, and the way he watches your steps is less habit and more devotion. “These cliffs are a death trap,” he mutters, not loud, but dry and real, voice curling close behind your ear as he steadies you past a drop so sharp it feels theatrical. “This is so unsafe.”

You glance back with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, pupils bright under the golden light, and tilt your head just slightly, feet bare, breath slow, heart humming like it’s already halfway over the ledge. “We could always jump,” you say sweetly, like the thought is charming instead of catastrophic. “Go out pretty. Two birds, one plunge.” His laugh is short, startled, a huff punched through the quiet, and you hear him murmur something that sounds like you’re insane but his grip only steadies further, fingers brushing your lower back as you keep walking forward like the cliff’s never asked for anything it didn’t already intend to take.

The wind thickens the closer you get to the edge, pulling at your hair and filling your lungs with cold salt, and when the path narrows, he shifts beside you, hand brushing near the small of your back with just enough weight to keep your balance upright. No words pass between you but everything about the way he walks is a conversation, every small movement an answer to something unspoken, and when your foot grazes a loose rock near the ledge, his fingers graze your wrist to catch it gently before you can slip. You keep walking, and so does he, until the path opens onto a flat stretch of cliffside that sits just above the drop, stone pale and sun-warmed beneath your feet, the sea roaring quietly below like something ancient breathing through its sleep. You crouch down near the edge and he lowers beside you, arms resting on his knees, his gaze calm for the first time in hours, and the air here feels cooler than the rest of the estate, like the ocean itself is pressing against your skin to soothe what fire still lives inside you.

You pick up a small rock and pass it to him, the gesture easy, familiar, and he takes it without pause, fingers closing around it with care. His arm moves in one smooth motion, the stone cutting through air before disappearing into the waves without sound, and he doesn’t react when it sinks, just reaches for another, hand slow and measured. The rhythm begins to settle around you, both of you moving in silence, the world falling away until it’s only wind and water and the steady roll of grief reshaped into something soft. When you glance over, his face is turned toward the horizon, mouth relaxed, jaw looser than it has been all morning, and when your head leans gently against his shoulder, his body curves into yours without resistance. The silence that follows carries weight, but not the kind that hurts, and the light spilling across his face makes him look younger, not in years but in spirit, as if this moment has peeled back something older than time and reminded him that stillness can be healing too.

The breath you let out isn’t heavy but it folds inward, the kind that leaves the ribs sore without ever making sound. His arm curves instinctively closer like he wants to wrap it around you but isn’t sure if it’s the right time, and his eyes flick toward your face as your head sinks gently into the crook of his neck, the weight of it fitting there like it’s always belonged. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay because he already knows how you hate that question, how it makes the ache in your chest feel exposed and clinical, and instead he just watches the ocean with you, hoping quietly, fiercely, that whatever’s hurting you eases with time or wind or warmth. You breathe in again, a little steadier, then smile faintly against his shoulder.

“What did you wish for?” you ask, voice low and curved like the wind around the rocks. It’s not a serious question, not really, but the moment asks for honesty and Mark always answers softly when it comes from you.

He turns to glance at you then, the corner of his mouth pulling into something so real and so sure it doesn’t need explanation. “Nothing,” he says, and his voice is gentler than you’ve heard it all day. “I have everything I’ve ever asked for. I’ve got Areum. I’ve got a life that feels like mine. I’ve got people around me who know how to love without turning it into leverage.” He exhales through his nose, quiet. “Even with everything. The HCM, the years I thought I wouldn’t make it past twenty-five, the noise in my head that used to tell me I wasn’t built for this… I’ve got her. I’ve got peace, I’ve got stability. I’ve got joy that actually wants to stay.” He shifts his hand near yours without touching it, like the feeling is already enough. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. That’s all I’d ask for again.”

He shifts slightly, fingers playing with a pebble like it might help him find the right words. “We were in Tokyo the week before we flew out here. Just the two of us. No schedule, no work, just late trains and corner ramen and staying in bed for too long. I think we ate ten different versions of the same mochi and got lost three times a day and didn’t even care. She found this temple tucked behind a bookstore and made us light a candle for good luck.” He smiles, really smiles now, that soft-boy grin that lives in the dimples and doesn’t care who sees it. “She’s been shooting weddings back to back this year and she’s still obsessed with them. Keeps facetiming me from flower shops and asking if this shade of peony feels too obvious.”

You lean closer into him, cheek pressing fully into his shoulder, and he lets out a quiet chuckle before continuing. “Watching her at this one though, it’s killing me, man. She keeps pretending she’s just focused on lighting or angles but I see the way she looks at the vows, the way her lip twitches when someone says something real. She keeps whispering shit like ‘that’s such a pretty venue’ like she’s not collecting ideas in a mental binder.”

He pauses, then exhales, soft. “I think I’m gonna do it. I think I’m gonna ask. I’ve been carrying the ring for months and every time I think I’ll wait for a better moment, I end up watching her laugh at something stupid and wondering what the hell I’m waiting for.” His thumb brushes the inside of his palm, nerves and excitement twined together like old threads. “I used to think I’d be too broken to love someone right. That I’d die young or ruin it before it even started but Areum doesn’t let me think like that. She holds my hand like I’m going to stay.”

He glances down at you, and there’s that same soft shimmer in his eyes, that sense of light held steady even after everything has tried to snuff it out. “So yeah,” he says with a quiet smile, “I didn’t wish for anything. I already have it.”

Your smile comes slow, wide, unguarded, the kind that starts in your chest and climbs all the way to your cheeks before you can catch it. It spreads with the kind of ease that only comes when happiness feels earned—not yours, but his, and that’s what makes it fuller. You lean in closer, shoulder pressed to his with more weight than before, the kind of touch that says I’m here, the kind that means I miss when we were younger, and when you speak, your voice carries that same warmth, unfiltered and steady.

“I’m really happy for you, Mark.” Your eyes don’t leave his, and your voice doesn’t shake, because there’s no space for envy in something this pure. “Like—actually, genuinely happy. You deserve all of it.” You let out a soft huff of breath, a laugh caught somewhere between pride and relief. “The peace, the love, the stupid flowers she keeps dragging you into. All of it. I mean, God, you’ve fought through so much shit to get here. It makes me feel lighter just knowing you’re okay.” Your hand brushes his arm and stays there, fingers resting warm against the fabric. “You’re glowing. It suits you.” You pause, glance at him again, your grin tugging playful. “Still think you’re insane if you let her talk you into peonies though.”

You reach down without really thinking, fingers curling around a flat stone nestled near your feet, and you toss it out into the open water with one smooth flick. It skips once, twice, then disappears into the swell, the sound barely audible beneath the wind. Mark watches it go, eyes flicking over the distance it covered, then back to you. There’s a glint in his gaze that’s equal parts fond and knowing.

“What’d you wish for?” he asks, even though he already knows you’re not going to say.

You smirk, leaning your head back against his shoulder again with a teasing shake of your head. “I’m not telling you.”

He laughs, soft and low, like he expected that answer before the words even left your mouth. “You never tell me,” he murmurs, glancing out toward the horizon like it might remind him of all the other times this scene has played out, all the other versions of you and him that have stood in different corners of Seoul and tossed wishes into moving water like prayer.

“You remember the Han River?” he says suddenly, voice quieter, more thoughtful now. “The summer I quit the little league team. You dragged me out there with a carton of banana milk and made me sit by the bank until sunset. You used to be bossy, still are.”

You glance at him, eyes narrowing slightly as your grin grows. “You mean when you swore off basketball and said you were gonna become a magician instead?”

He laughs again, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “I was dramatic, okay. Twelve-year-old dreams don’t come with realism. But I remember you sitting there all serious, holding your rock like it was cursed, and then you threw it so far I thought it was gonna hit a boat.” His voice softens, dipping into something more reflective. “I asked you what you wished for, and you told me to mind my business.”

“Still valid,” you say lightly, and he snorts.

“Yeah,” he hums, “but I knew even back then. You wished that I would go back or make my own team. Something like that.” You don’t answer. You’ve never confirmed it, not even once but he’s right. That wish was for him, just like most of them have been. When you throw stones, you think of the people you love. You think of them before they ever think of themselves. He’s always known that.

He sighs, a quiet breath pulled from somewhere deep, and then he turns to you, hand lifting to brush a piece of hair behind your ear before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. The kind that lingers, the kind that doesn’t need ceremony to mean something. “You always wish for other people,” he says, barely above a whisper. “That’s the part that breaks my heart and makes me love you more at the same time.” You don’t say anything. You just rest there beside him, cheek against his shoulder, the sea breathing beneath you, and the stone still warm under your heel like it’s memorised the shape of your standing.

He stays quiet for a moment after, still close, still steady, his eyes following the water like he’s reading something hidden in the waves. Then he exhales, slower this time, and you can feel it before he even speaks—the shift in his weight, the way his hand grazes yours like it’s lining up for something real. “I do love you, you know?” he says gently, the words easy but never careless. “You’re my best friend. Ever since you punched that kid who made fun of me and then dragged me to the bench by the slide and gave me your whole lunch because you felt bad I didn’t have enough.” He glances at you with a soft grin, voice dipping just enough to hold the weight of it. “And then you did it every single day that year like it wasn’t a big deal. Like sharing with me was normal.” He laughs under his breath, a sound more gratitude than humour.

“You’ve been looking out for me longer than anyone else has and I’ll never forget that, longer than Areum, longer than Jeno,” he says, voice lower now, not out of shame but out of respect, like some things deserve stillness around them when spoken. “It’s different, you know? What I have with them is real, it’s love, it’s strong and Areum is my entire life and my beating heart. But what I have with you—what we’ve been through, what you’ve done for me when no one else even noticed I needed it—that’s something else entirely. You were there before I knew how to ask for help, before I knew how to carry anything alone, and you gave without ever making me feel small for needing.” He exhales again, slowly. “That kind of love changes you. Makes you brave in quiet ways.”

You blink once, then scrunch your nose and jab him in the side with your elbow, just enough to make him flinch. “God, you’re such a sap,” you mutter, but your grin’s too wide to hide. He laughs under his breath, swatting half-heartedly at your hand, and you shake your head like it’ll cool your face down, even though the warmth’s already climbing to your ears. “I love you too, Mark Lee,” you say, mock-exasperated, dragging out his name like it’s a dramatic punchline. “Even if your idea of a good time is throwing rocks and trauma-dumping next to a potential murder cliff.”

He snorts, eyes crinkling, and picks up another stone just to lob it into the water with no real aim. “Speak for yourself, I’m taking Areum here after and then I’m gonna fuck her,” he mutters, tone dry and so casually inappropriate it makes you let out a sharp laugh before you can catch it.

“Not if I take Jeno here first.” You both pause. Then, in perfect sync, with matching sighs and just a trace of fondness, you both say it together without even looking at each other. “He’d be bitching about the salt in his hair.”

Mark bursts out laughing first, shaking his head like the image of it is too clear, and you’re already covering your mouth with your hand to keep from choking on your own laugh. “He’d literally walk five steps, wipe his palms on his pants like he’s been through war, and demand a towel.” You snort, eyes shining now, and Mark nods solemnly. “Then try to kiss you and pretend he’s not still pouting.” You lean back again, laugh softening as it fades, and the moment stretches quiet but full, like the water caught something between your voices and decided to hold it there.

Your laugh fades slowly, like it wants to stay longer than it should. He exhales through his nose, slow, thoughtful, like he’s deciding how to word it without knocking the calm off your skin. “I knew something would happen between you two this trip,” he says finally, his voice quiet, easy, but not careless. “I knew it when I saw you with him again. You weren’t trying to stay away and he—he didn’t even know how to act normal around you. It was only a matter of time.”

Mark leans back on his hands again, elbows brushing the stone, and his voice comes slower this time, like it’s tugged from somewhere he doesn’t usually reach for. “I’m not saying this to lecture you,” he says finally, quiet and steady, “but I remember how you were last time. When it all fell apart. When he left.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. His words are careful now, the way someone touches a bruise they know by heart. “You didn’t just cry,” he continues, staring out across the water like it’s safer than looking at you. “You stopped eating. You stopped speaking unless someone dragged words out of you. I had to sit in your room for six hours just to get you to drink water. Do you remember that?” His tone isn’t cruel. It’s painful. Honest. “You cut off half the people who loved you, and I don’t think you even realised you were doing it. You looked right through me for weeks. Like you weren’t in your body anymore.”

He pauses, and you feel the weight of that silence like a bruise that never healed clean. The cliffs are too quiet, too open, too exposed. “I’m not bringing it up to guilt you,” he says after a long breath, “but because I don’t ever want to see you like that again. You don’t deserve to feel that small. I just need you to know I’ll be here. No matter what happens.”

“At least you’re calm now,” he mutters with a soft smile, eyes squinting at the horizon. “You were chewing through people like bones an hour ago.” You let out a low hum, eyes still on the sea. You don’t argue. You don’t laugh. Mark doesn’t know it yet but the calm was never going to last.

There’s a shift behind you. The kind that enters gently but rearranges the entire atmosphere. Not footsteps. Not movement. Just presence — warm and rooted and familiar in a way nothing else in this villa has been. The silence adjusts around it. Your breath catches somewhere shallow before your mind even registers what’s changed. And then: “What’d I say about sulking where cliffs can hear you?” The voice lands light and worn, carried by the wind like it’s always known how to find you. It’s gravel-edged, sun-creased, touched with humour that doesn’t ask for attention, just offers it. The second it hits you, your whole body stills.

You twist around so fast your robe slips sideways across your waist, feet scraping against the stone, and for a second everything blurs. But he’s already there. Standing half a slope above the lower terraces, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, slacks creased with the kind of care that says he dressed fast but still wanted to show up looking right. His hair’s brushed neatly, but streaks of grey cut through the black like something time folded in when no one was looking, and a single curl has escaped against the edge of his forehead from the drive. There’s a fine line of sweat along his collar — no performance here, just proof he came straight from work.

The car he arrived in still hums unevenly down on the gravel, parked in a crooked angle that makes it look like it skidded to a stop. It’s the same car he’s had since you were sixteen. The same one he tuned himself, door panel screwed back in after you broke it with your cleats that one summer. He’s late because he runs a loading yard two cities over. Twelve-hour shifts that start before sunrise, no foreman to cover for him, no fancy title to excuse an early leave. He spent the last week making sure all dispatches were cleared so he could close just long enough to be here, then drove the whole way in silence because your mother was still packing sandwiches in the backseat. He doesn’t speak again, just watches you with soft, serious eyes that don’t miss a thing.

You scream his name before you even know you’ve said it. “Appa!” The sound comes out high, bursting from your chest like it’s been locked there for too long. Your legs move first. Mark calls your name but you’re already gone, bare feet catching on the warm stone as you run, robe flying behind you in strips of cream and sunlight. You collide into his chest without slowing, arms thrown around his shoulders, hands fisting into the back of his shirt, and he catches you like it’s muscle memory, like your weight has always been part of his balance. His arms close around your waist, strong and steady, lifting you off the ground just enough to make you feel held, really held, in a way that doesn’t demand anything from you.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low and even. “Still taking the whole world on by yourself?” You don’t answer. You just nod against his shoulder and hold him tighter. You can feel the tears pressing up against your eyes, not from pain but from relief, from the safety of having someone here who came for you and only you, no ulterior motives, no veiled control, no poison under the surface. Just love. Just arrival. Just your dad.

He pulls back slightly to look at you, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckle. “You’ve been crying,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to deny it, but the breath doesn’t come, and he already knows. “We came as soon as I could lock the yard,” he adds, glancing down the path. “Didn’t even stop for coffee. Your mom made me drink hers instead.” Your mother’s voice calls out a second later, yelling for your sisters to stop dragging the luggage through the gravel, and the bickering that follows is so bright, so loud, so them that it fills the entire cliff with sound like the tide came rushing in behind you.

Mark’s already standing now, watching from the ledge with a smile that doesn’t leave his mouth, soft at the corners like it’s been pulled from something old and fond. Your dad spots him, smile tugging wider as he lifts a hand and calls out, “Mark!” The name lands bright, familiar, and full of affection. “Come here, son.” Mark’s already moving before the sentence ends, grin crooked as he steps forward, and your dad pulls him in without hesitation, clapping a hand to his back and drawing him into a hug like it’s second nature. The embrace is brief but full, steady and warm and real, the kind that tells you exactly what kind of man your father is.

“Good to see you, kid,” he says, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “You’ve grown into yourself. I’m proud of you.”

Your father presses a kiss to the top of your head, firm and steady, the kind of kiss that knows exactly where you’ve been carrying the weight. He lets you go just enough to see your face, then tucks you right back against his side, arm wrapping fully around your shoulders like he’s locking you in. His voice comes quiet, but sure, threaded with warmth and pride that doesn’t need to announce itself.

“Irene told me you planned everything,” he says, eyes on the view, on the colour coordination across the hill, on the linen folds and floral scatter and wine glasses placed at angles only you would’ve checked twice. “This entire wedding. The layout. The decorations. Every detail.” He exhales through his nose and pulls you in just slightly tighter. “It’s so beautiful, baby. What can’t you do, huh?”

Your throat tightens immediately, lips pushing out in a soft pout before you even realise you’re doing it. You sniff once, nose wrinkling, trying to bite back the smile rising on your face. “You’re just saying that,” you mumble, half-hiding your cheek against his chest, but your voice has already gone wobbly around the edges, and he feels it.

“Don’t start with that,” he says, a low chuckle vibrating through his ribs. “You know I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

You look up at him, eyes wide, lip still jutted just a little. “Say it again.”

He laughs now, hand rubbing your arm. “What part? The ‘beautiful’ or the ‘what can’t you do’?”

“All of it,” you whisper, and your giggle slips out right after like a hiccup of joy you couldn’t hold in. “Word for word. Come on, Appa, I need it.”

He grins down at you and sighs like he’s giving in to something he’d always give in to. “Fine,” he says, voice lowering like he’s about to recite scripture. “You planned this entire wedding. The layout. The decorations. Every detail. And it’s so beautiful, baby. What can’t you do?”

You bury your face in his chest to hide the tears that almost come, your giggles muffled into the fabric of his shirt, and he just smiles like you’ve been his whole heart since day one.

Your father keeps an arm around your shoulders even as you begin walking, his gait slower than yours, like he’s making sure your feet don’t catch on the uneven steps. Mark stays close behind, a few paces back, quiet again but lighter now, like the weight of that cliffside has finally loosened its grip on his chest. The three of you pass beneath the shaded archway of the lower terrace — the one that opens into what the villa calls the ‘garden parlour,’ though there’s more stone than greenery, and most of the guests use it as a pitstop between champagne and heatstroke. The air inside is cooler, sweet with something citrus and something floral, and the noise of distant laughter hums through the arches like a party still learning how to breathe.

You spot her immediately — your mother, framed by the tall white columns near the wine bar, posture relaxed but never idle, one hand curled around a crystal glass, the other painting the air mid-sentence. She’s leaning toward Karina and Areum, saying something with that amused arch in her brow, the kind of line that sounds like a compliment until you look closer. Her blouse is tucked like it was steamed with intention, her lipstick unmoved, and her earrings catch the light like small, deliberate suns. When she turns and sees you, something in her face shifts, gentle and unguarded, like a candle catching light. Her smile deepens slow and sure, pride rising in her eyes before anything else, and for a moment she just looks at you — really looks — like she’s tracing every piece of you back to something she once held in her arms and never quite let go. Her gaze lingers head to toe, not to judge but to memorise, to marvel, like she’s cataloguing proof that her daughter grew into something extraordinary.

You grin instinctively and rush toward her, slipping out from under your father’s arm and straight into her space. She smiles wide as you approach, all teeth and cheekbones, and plants a kiss on either side of your face like she’s greeting a guest instead of a daughter. “You finally made it inside,” she says, brushing a wrinkle from your sleeve. “I was starting to think you were hiding out there to avoid me.”

You snort. “Maybe I was.”

She taps your wrist. “Don’t push your luck.”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. The moment he sees Areum, he’s already crossing the stone with a smile half-formed and a kind of softness in his chest that belongs only to her. He moves like gravity doesn’t apply, like the space between them never had a chance, and she meets him with that glow she gets whenever he’s near — eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed, hand already reaching. He kisses her before she even finishes laughing, mouth pressed gently to the side of hers, then again near her jaw, her cheekbone, her nose. You hear the way his voice drops as he leans in, murmuring something low and sweet just for her, something that makes her laugh even harder and slap at his chest like she doesn’t want to smile this much in front of company. They stay wrapped in that orbit for another few seconds before slipping away into the shadows of the back corridor like waves curling back into the tide, vanishing before anyone can tell them to behave. Your mother watches the exit and takes a long sip of her drink.

“God, the way he follows her around like a love-sick poet, I can’t believe that’s the same Mark Lee I watched you grow up with, I always assumed he’d have commitment issues.” She says under her breath, glancing at you and Karina with a smirk blooming slow at the edge of her lips, “you’d think he invented romance the way he looks at her.” Then she tilts her head, eyes glinting, tone silkier than necessary.

“And here I was worried you were the dramatic one.” Karina snorts into her glass. You roll your eyes, but it’s useless — your mother’s already moved on, her gaze chasing something across the room, satisfied like she’s won a game nobody else knew they were playing.

“Where are Sohee and Nari?” you ask, scanning for heels and high-pitched voices, but your mom just giggles, low, sly, a sound that makes something in your stomach twist.

“They’re talking to your boyfriend,” she says casually, like she’s talking about a florist or a waiter. You freeze. Karina nearly chokes on her drink. Your arm shoots out and jabs her in the side, but she yelps and waves her hand violently.

“I didn’t say anything!” Karina hisses. “I swear to God.”

Your mother hums as she sips her drink, tilting her head just enough to signal something sharper behind the ease. “Please. I know who Jeno is.” She says his name like it’s been rehearsed, like it’s come up in conversation before, though never to your face. “Mark’s brother. The one who answered the door when I came to see you. Covered in marks, wearing your blanket, hair damp like he’d just come out the shower he shouldn’t have been in.” Her tone is sweet enough to sting. “Didn’t even blink when he said you were asleep.”

You spin toward her, accusation already in your tone. “Well you visited without telling me!”

“It was a surprise,” she replies, smiling into her glass. “You used to love those.”

Your dad coughs behind you, but the sound’s suspiciously close to a laugh. Then his hand settles on your back, warm and steady, as he looks between the two of you like he’s catching up in real time. “Wait,” he says, brows pulling in, voice rising like an old fuse re-igniting. “Lee Jeno? Mark’s bitch-ass brother? The one you used to call a cautionary tale in Nikes? That’s your boyfriend?” He says the word like it personally offends him, hand now at his hip. “You said you couldn’t stand that boy. You said he was all biceps, no brain, and the emotional range of a pylon.”

Your face twists. “He’s not my boyfriend plus he’s none of that, I only said that when I used to hate him, when we were in high school.”

“Right,” your mother says, dry. “Just half-naked and answering doors on your behalf.”

“Covered in bruises,” Karina adds unhelpfully.

Your dad’s muttering now, low and incredulous, like he’s trying to piece together an entire puzzle from the wrong box. “Towels,” he says under his breath, jaw tightening. “He steals towels? Half-naked? In your apartment?” His voice gets sharper with every word, but there’s a baffled softness under it too — the kind that only comes from being very protective and very out of the loop. His eyes flick between you and your mother like this is the first time he’s hearing any of it, and that’s because it is. She didn’t tell him — on purpose. You can see it in the way her mouth twitches behind her glass, that smug little flicker she gets when she’s proud of herself for keeping a secret just long enough to drop it with style. He turns to her slowly. “You knew about this?” She lifts her glass like a toast and hums, all grace.

You inhale too fast, the heat still curling up your neck, and shake your head with a too-bright grin like that’ll distract from the colour still high in your cheeks. “Anyway,” you say, stretching the word with a forced lightness that doesn’t fool anyone, “where are Sohee and Nari?”

Karina nearly chokes on her drink, the sound sharp and amused as she leans slightly toward your mother for dramatic effect. “Same place they were when you asked two minutes ago,” she says, smirking around her glass, and that’s the moment it hits you. Your spine straightens a little too fast. Your fingers flex against the fabric at your sides. Your gaze flashes to the far corner of the room where light flickers between moving guests, and your stomach tightens with instinct before your mind even finishes the math. It’s Nari. Even though you love her with every stretched thread of sibling grace you have left, you’ve also lived with the particular chaos that follows wherever she turns her attention, and you’ve spent years learning how to quietly sidestep the fire before it sparks. The panic climbs slowly but surely, like it always does around her — a creeping tension that coils in your jaw as your eyes finally catch on the unmistakable silhouette of her talking to Jeno.

You spot them before they see you, Sohee angled elegantly against the glass railing with a lemon twist tucked into her drink, and Nari halfway through telling a story you know is exaggerated based on how wide her eyes are. Your feet pick up speed without permission, the ache in your ribs easing with every step closer to them, and when Sohee turns and opens her arms with a graceful, delighted “Finally,” you step right into her hold and squeeze tight. She still smells like rosewater and pressed linen, always the pristine one, always first to fix your hair and scold you with love. Nari joins a beat later, wrapping an arm around both of you like she’s crashing a secret, and the second she kisses your cheek she mutters, “You look like you’ve been committing crimes,” before biting down a grin.

You laugh, breath catching from the warmth of it, the reunion folding around your chest like a quilt you forgot you needed. “I missed you both,” you murmur.

Sohee rubs your back while Nari dramatically pats your ass and says, “You better have.”

That’s when Jeno turns, shoulders relaxing the second his eyes land on you. His mouth curves into that smirk he’s always trying to bury when your family’s around, but it doesn’t last long, not when he watches you with them, your arms tangled around both sisters like muscle memory, your face brighter than it’s been in days. The moment you meet his eyes, he slides an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, tucking you there like that’s where you’ve always belonged. “Hey, baby,” he says under his breath, lips brushing your temple, then glancing at your sisters with a nod. “They’re already better at keeping you sane than me.”

“Because we’re better looking,” Sohee says with a wink.

“And better at keeping secrets,” Nari adds, raising her glass. Then her gaze flicks down to the way Jeno’s holding you, and her smile tilts, just a little too knowing. “You’re looking very… moisturised.”

“You’re truly glowing, little sis’” Sohee says, and Nari snorts before you can respond.

“She’s glowing because she’s been—” she stops, eyes flicking to Jeno with a devil’s grin, “—hydrated.”

Jeno narrows his eyes slightly, something quiet flickering under the surface as he studies her face for a second longer than necessary. “Have we met before?” he asks, tone playful but edged, and Nari’s lashes flutter like she’s innocent.

“Maybe,” she says sweetly. “You seem like the kind of man who’s had a few memorable nights with very forgettable names.”

Jeno chokes, but covers it with a laugh that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Sohee snorts. You drop your face into his chest with a muttered groan. “She’s been like this since birth,” you mumble into his shirt. “This is the toned-down version.”

Nari raises her brows, deadpan. “And you used to cry if someone took your crayons.”

You breathe out a laugh, leaning in closer, but Nari’s already tossing back her drink like she’s won something. The flash in her eyes lingers longer than it should. And Jeno keeps looking at her like there’s a thread at the back of his memory he hasn’t quite pulled yet.

The sun’s shifted again, casting long gold angles through the glass of the south-facing suite, where everything’s been set up like a bridal nerve centre. It’s one of the smaller rooms off the main hall, tucked behind an archway that guests don’t bother wandering past, and yet somehow still feels like the most alive part of the whole villa. Clipboards on chairs. Fabric samples in mugs. Lip gloss on seat cushions. Music playing off someone’s half-dead phone. You’re kneeling beside a crate of boxed centrepieces when Yangyang walks in with the last stack of ribbon menus, and the quiet between you is companionable, the kind of easy silence that speaks of survival. You take them from him without a word and begin sorting through, and when his voice does break the stillness, it’s only with a slight huff.

“I’m glad you haven’t asked Jeno to do any of this,” he says, setting the extra stack beside you and collapsing into the low chair opposite. “He’d’ve dropped half the place cards, slept with the other half, and called it quality control.”

You don’t look up at first, fingers skimming the edge of a ribbon roll, but your mouth curls before your voice follows. “He wouldn’t be as good as you.” It’s clipped, quiet, firm. You say it like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true. Then you glance up, and he’s already looking away, but not before you catch it—the way his shoulders lose just a little of their tension, the way his lips twitch into something he doesn’t bother hiding. He was afraid that things would change, that fucking Jeno meant he’d been replaced, that the one thing still yours and his—the planning, rhythm, the dynamic, the trust—might’ve slipped away with the rest. But it didn’t. He’s still here. You still wanted him here and you can tell by the way he exhales, quiet and easy, that it means more than he’ll say.

You keep your focus on the seating chart a second longer than necessary, the edges of the paper tugging gently beneath your fingers as if buying you time, and then your voice slips out — even, but low, curved with quiet weight. “We’re okay though, right?”

Yangyang’s elbows rest against his knees, his wrists slack, and for a moment all you can hear is the rustle of the place cards shifting in his hand. “We don’t need to talk about it” His eyes flick up to yours for just a second. “I don’t want to talk about it. You told me what it was. I knew before we started that you didn’t owe me anything.” He exhales through his nose, reaches for another stack, and the movement is so steady it almost looks rehearsed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Then, with the kind of shift that feels like tugging a thread out of a wound, he steers the moment somewhere safer. “Saw your dad by the omelette station,” he says, flicking a card toward the pile. “Told me he used to play striker for the military base league. Told me again five minutes later like it was breaking news.”

You smile, threading a finished bundle of menus through a ribbon loop. “He does that when he likes someone.”

Yangyang leans in, forearms draped over his knees, mouth twitching into a half-smirk as he eyes the chaos around the room before shifting focus to you. “Is your sister single?” he asks, too casually to be innocent.

You pause, brows raised. “Which one?”

He shakes his head, already grinning. “The one in the green dress with the eyes that look like she’s ready to commit a felony if someone hands her the right reason.”

You laugh, real and sharp, warmth spilling into the quiet between you. “That’s Nari. She’s hot, sure, but definitely not hotter than me.”

“Obviously,” he says, tilting his head like the answer should be carved into stone by now. “I just didn’t want to get banned from another wedding for being too charming. You know how it is.”

You lob a folded name card at his chest and he catches it without flinching, flicking it back onto the pile like it was always part of the plan. “Sohee’s engaged,” you say, rolling your eyes affectionately. “Her fiancé is loaded, he works in finance. They’re doing a Bora Bora wedding next spring, and she’s already asked me if I can help plan the wedding.”

“And Nari?” he presses, chin propped on his hand, grin tugging at the edges of his mouth like he knows better.

You groan softly, pressing your palm to your forehead. “I don’t even know where to begin with her. She’s like a firecracker in a fur coat. Every story ends in either champagne or police intervention.”

“She’s hot though,” he murmurs, smirking like he’s collecting intel for a secret mission. “But still—” his gaze drags to you again, tone warm and final, “—not you.”

You snort. “We were raised the same, but we turned out nothing alike.”

Yangyang nods, gaze still on the cards laid out between you like they might rearrange themselves. “You’re the youngest, but you’re the one everyone listens to. They move pretty, talk nice, and always know what to say. But you’re the one who gets shit done. You’re the one who’d flip the whole room if it meant protecting someone you love.” He glances over then, lips twitching. “Your mom told me, she’s proud as hell.”

You grin, toss a folded napkin at his arm, and stretch your legs out like you’ve got all the time in the world, even though you know you don’t.

It’s golden hour, the kind that doesn’t ask permission before it paints everything in honey, and the terrace is soaked in it. Across the stone walkway and just past the edge of the infinity pool, the guys are posted like they’re in the soft-open of a cologne campaign, every movement loose, glinting, lazily magnetic. It’s pre-wedding calm, not quite the storm before it—but that strange lull where everyone knows the clock’s ticking and no one wants to say it out loud.

The heat sticks to their backs like oil, thick in the air above the villa’s sun-slicked balcony where the guys sprawl out like gods on vacation—shirtless, golden, half-drunk and half-stoned on whatever Jaemin passed around before the girls even made it down to the pool. There are towels draped across loungers, crushed beer cans in a bucket melting with ice, and someone’s speaker bleeding out an old Frank Ocean track, low and bass-heavy. Jaemin slouches back on the corner bench, vape between his lips, abs on display like he was born in a Calvin Klein ad. Mark sits cross-legged on a beach chair, blunt tucked behind his ear while he trims it again with practiced fingers. Jeno props one leg up, one arm draped over his knee, sweat tracing his chest in a glinting curve beneath the sun, and he doesn’t say much—just keeps flicking condensation off his bottle and squinting out at the pool like it holds answers.

“Yo.” Jaemin grins, tapping ash into an empty coconut shell. “Be honest. Who’s got the hottest family member here?”

Chenle perks up. “Easy. Remember Yangyang’s cousin? The one who brought her own flask to my birthday?”

“Shotaro’s aunt though,” Jaemin adds, snorting.

“Y/N’s family wins,” Jaemin declares, calm and conclusive, like he’s settled a debate none of them even started properly yet. “Her sister? That girl’s dangerous.”

“The one in the sheer cover-up?” Chenle glances over the railing toward the pool. “That’s her?”

Jaemin lets out a low whistle. “She’s unreal. Like, if I saw her in a dream I’d never wake up. I remember her, I knew she looked familiar. She’s two years above us, right? Do you remember that showcase tournament in Daegu, a few years back? She pulled up in those little heels, said she was there to support the team—had all the point guards lined up like puppies.”

Jeno’s brow twitches. His gaze drifts, slow, down to the pool again. Nari’s laughing, glass in hand, hair up, a few strands stuck to her neck. The curve of her smile jabs at something deeper than just recognition. “You know…” Jeno says slowly, turning his head. “She looks familiar.”

Mark blinks, mid-roll. “Who, Nari?”

Jeno nods. “Yeah.”

Jaemin leans back, considering. “She used to hang around the courts a lot. Traveled with the girls who’d tag along for Daegu’s summer league. You were at that camp, weren’t you? Freshman year?”

Jeno’s fingers still against his bottle. There’s a flash of memory—bleachers, a warm night, the low hum of floodlights and a girl in a red hoodie pulling him under the stands, whispering something about liking the way he handled the ball. He leans forward without meaning to, bottle slipping in his grip, knuckles whitening as the memory tunnels in fast and hot, His eyes widen. “Oh shit. I think I lost my virginity to her.”

There’s a silence so sharp it feels like it cuts the heat. Mark’s blunt pauses halfway to his mouth. “To Nari?”

Shotaro sits up from where he’s been half-dozing, blinking behind his shades like he’s not sure he heard right. “Wait—Nari Nari?”

Donghyuck chokes on his drink. “Holy fucking shit, bro—are you serious?”

Chenle freezes, then explodes into laughter so loud it echoes. “No fucking way!”

Jaemin drops his vape into his lap. “You smashed her?!”

Jeno just stares ahead, looking like he’s watching his past self make the worst decision of his teenage life. “She said she liked my free throw. I thought it was a compliment, I was young!”

“Oh my god,” Donghyuck groans, wiping his mouth. “This is the best day of my life.”

“You really lost your V-card to your girl’s sister?” Jaemin’s practically wheezing now, legs kicking against the bench.

Mark just leans back, grinning wide, slow. “You’ve been in the family longer than we thought.”

Shotaro snorts. “Imagine telling that story at the wedding.”

Jeno presses the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “I didn’t know, man. I swear to god I didn’t know it was her.”

Chenle slaps his thigh, cackling. “How do you not remember the face of the girl who took your virginity?”

“I was sixteen! It was a dark tunnel under a bleacher! She was chewing gum and pulled me by the waistband—what the fuck else was I supposed to remember?”

Mark shakes his head, smirking. “You always said you loved basketball. Turns out basketball loved you back.”

Jeno groans louder. “This cannot be real.”

His laughter fades before theirs does. It slips out of him too quickly, too hollow, the sound thinning against the back of his throat as the memory settles heavy, shame-caked and sticky, into his chest. Jeno sinks back into the lounger, elbows on knees, hands clasped over his face. The warmth that was in his laugh twists into something else—tight, nauseating. His mouth’s dry. His heart kicks once, hard. And suddenly he’s only thinking about you.

You’d roll your eyes first—he knows that much. That dry, unimpressed look you give when you’ve already written the argument in your head and you’re just waiting to deliver it in full. You’d probably cross your arms too, bite your cheek like you’re holding back something sharp. But you wouldn’t yell. You’d just sit with it. Let the weight of it do the damage. That’s the part that guts him.

He exhales into his palms, soft and stunned. “Shit. She’s not gonna be happy to hear this.”

Jaemin’s still chuckling but quiets when he sees the way Jeno folds into himself, the tension curving his spine like he’s trying to shrink. “You think she’ll really care?” he asks gently, nudging Jeno’s leg with his foot.

Mark sighs, low and thoughtful, like he’s been holding the words for a while. “She’s objective. She’s fair. That’s one of the things about her—you can fuck up, and she won’t spiral, she won’t turn it into a war. She listens. She thinks. She’ll try to understand you before she tries to punish you.” Jeno exhales and nods. “But,” Mark goes on, voice gentler now, “she’s gonna be annoyed. Like—deeply. Not just because it’s her sister, but because it’s Nari.”

The guys glance at him, curious now.

“I grew up around them, I know what I’m talking about. She’s always had a good relationship with her sister,” Mark explains, picking at the skin near his nail, “but Nari’s always been tricky and difficult to deal with, she’s more immature and self-centered. It’s not that she’s a bad person. She just takes up space, says things without thinking. Makes messes and doesn’t always clean them up.”

“The point is—she’s spent years trying to make sense of Nari. Trying to have a sister she respects, who respects her back. It’s always been a little uneven. So this? This feels personal in a way it wouldn’t if it were just anyone. She’s not gonna throw you out,” Mark finishes. “She won’t scream or sob or throw shit. She’ll just go quiet and scary, good luck man.”

Jeno doesn’t answer. He just stares out at the horizon, your face floating behind his eyelids like it never left. The way you looked this morning—barefaced and half-asleep, still chewing your lip while tying your robe, asking him if he’d eaten yet. It stings. The thought of hurting you stings in a place so deep he can’t even touch it.

“She’s gonna be fine,” Donghyuck offers, more gently than expected. “She’ll be pissed, yeah. Maybe call you a dumbass but she knows who you are now. That matters more than whatever you did when you were sixteen with a full head of hormones and no sense of the future.”

“Exactly,” Jaemin adds. “Tell her before she hears it from someone else. Or worse—walks in on one of us laughing about it.”

Chenle grins a little. “Which we will. Repeatedly.”

“I just…” Jeno’s voice comes quiet, raw around the edges. “I don’t want to see that look on her face. Like she doesn’t trust me anymore. Like I’m someone she didn’t know to be careful around.”

Mark meets his gaze and nods. “Then remind her who you are now. Remind her that it’s her you want. It’s always been her.”

He leans back, the sun grazing his skin, and exhales like he’s bracing for impact. “Fuck,” he murmurs again, this time not for the past—but for the fallout. He hears the words without context, murmuring just behind him, teasing and thick with implication—“Now’s your chance, Jeno”—but he’s already looking up, already halfway through a breath he doesn’t exhale, already staring.

It’s you, walking down the back steps of the villa, and Yangyang beside you and you’ve changed. The cover-up you’re wearing is so sheer it’s practically suggestive, soft mesh catching the wind and parting just enough to show the curve of your swimsuit beneath—black, high-cut, tied at the hips, like a arrow to his bloodstream. Your hair’s still damp, your skin sun-warmed and glistening, and you don’t even glance in his direction. You walk past the boys without a pause, stride unbothered, gaze locked straight ahead. Every part of you is deliberately unreadable. You don’t give him a look to grab onto, nothing to brace against. It hits him harder than anger would’ve.

You make your way across the stone path, the cover brushing against your thighs with every step, and drop to your knees beside your sisters without a word. Nari grins wide when she sees you, tugs you in close by the wrist, says something right into your ear that makes you smirk, lashes lowering with amusement. You whisper something back, fingers brushing hair out of your face, and she laughs—loud, bright, enough that a few heads turn. Then it happens. You both look up. You both look at him. Nari lifts her hand and points. Just once. Just casually enough that it lands like a blade.

Jeno knows. He doesn’t need to hear it, doesn’t need to guess. That’s the moment, the second it lands, when you find out, when she tells you the kind of thing that can change the shape of everything. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, a drop, heavy and cold. He holds your gaze, but yours is narrowed now, clinical, like you’re observing something you already expected. You don’t storm over or shout, you don't break a glass, you don’t even look disgusted. You just rise, legs stretching long, face unreadable as ever. You don’t look at Jeno with rage—you look through him like you’re figuring out whether this detail matters anymore and that, somehow, feels worse.

You walk toward him without saying a thing, sun kissing your shoulders, your thighs, the sheer fabric fluttering like a veil that never covers enough. Yangyang’s already crossed the deck, plopped himself beside Donghyuck and kicked at his legs. There’s a beat of confusion in Jeno’s gut, like whiplash, like bracing for something that doesn’t come. You reach him. He moves aside to make space, still watching you like you might detonate but you sit. Calm, close, thigh against thigh. Your hand finds his knee, your body tilts in and then you kiss him.

It isn’t casual, but it isn’t sharp either—not meant to punish or forgive, just something in-between. A quiet instinct, a need to feel his mouth before the words come, before the weight of what you know starts rearranging things you haven’t figured out how to carry. The first kiss is slow, not deep, just a press of lips to skin like you’re reminding yourself how close he is, how easy it’s always been to touch him, and the second follows with less hesitation, more familiarity, your mouth brushing over his in a way that feels too steady to be accidental. By the third kiss, you’re leaning in more, anchoring yourself, fingertips curling against his knee, breath shared in the space between, like you’re trying to stay grounded in something real before the floor gives out. The air shifts around you, people fall quiet, heads turn, but it all feels far away—like you’re underwater, like the only thing keeping you from floating off is the way his hand finds your hip, tentative but certain, like he doesn’t know what you know yet, but he can feel it, and he’s holding on just in case. You don’t kiss him to make a scene. You kiss him because you’re scared that if you don’t, you’ll lose the one part of this that still feels like yours.

You kiss him one more time, softer this time, your lips barely brushing his before you let the words out like a breath against his cheek, so low no one else can hear. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” The moment pauses around you, so tight it almost hurts. You feel the way his body freezes, the shift in how he holds you, like your question just bent the axis of the day. You keep your face close, keep your touch light, and when he finally blinks, when his throat moves slowly like he’s swallowed something jagged, he nods.

“Come with me.” He helps you up with careful fingers around your wrist, thumb brushing your skin like he’s testing how far he can go before you flinch. You let him lead you past the edge of the pool, where everyone’s trying and failing to pretend they’re not listening. Donghyuck straight-up follows with his head tilted like he’s narrating the damn thing in his head, and you catch Jaemin whisper something to Karina, who slaps his arm and then starts laughing. Someone behind you mutters “Ten bucks says she slaps him,” and someone else goes, “Nah, she’s too calm—it’s scarier when she’s calm.” You walk under the ivy-covered arch, into the side garden nook of the villa, just out of view. But you can still hear the others snickering behind you. “Should’ve brought popcorn,” Mark fake-whispers.

Jeno turns to face you once you’re alone, and he looks like he’s about to be sick. His hand runs through his hair, jaw tight, chest rising like he’s bracing for a punch. “Yeah…” he says, barely above a whisper. “Turns out I might’ve lost my virginity to your sister.”

You stare at him. You don’t blink, don’t move, just lock your eyes onto him like you’re waiting for the part where he says he’s kidding. He doesn’t. “What?” Your voice is deadpan.

“I didn’t know it was her,” he says quickly, voice steadying as he speaks. “It was high school, some party at that ski lodge. I was young, drinking too much, just trying to forget everything back then. She had her hair up, barely said a word the whole night, and I didn’t think twice about it. We hooked up behind the bleachers, she was gone by morning, and I never thought about it again until today.”

You nod once, slowly, and your face stays level, neutral. But something bubbles under your ribs, something sour and sharp and too familiar. “Okay,” you say. It sounds final. It sounds fake.

He tilts his head. “‘Okay?’”

“I don’t even feel angry,” you say quietly, eyes on the ground. “I think I’m just tired. I keep expecting to react, to feel something sharp or loud or obvious, but it’s like the feeling never arrives. You tell me something like that, and all I can do is stand here wondering why I’m not spiraling. It’s not that it doesn’t matter. It’s that I’ve spent so long bracing for things to hurt, I don’t know what to do when they actually do.”

Jeno shifts closer, cautious. “You don’t have to be fine.”

“I know I don’t have to be fine,” you say, voice even but worn, like you’re forcing yourself to sound calm just to hold everything together. “And I’m not trying to blame her, really, I’m just… tired. She’s always had this way of slipping into spaces without asking, like the moment I find something for myself, she’s right there acting like she belongs in it too but it’s different now because I actually care about this. About you. And maybe she doesn’t mean anything by it, maybe she thinks she’s being playful, but it doesn’t land that way for me anymore.”

Your eyes drop, lashes low, and you exhale slowly before continuing. “She’s never cared about anything real. Never pushed herself in school, never stuck with anything for more than a semester, just partied, floated, let the world shape itself around her. I spent years thinking I had to make up for that. That if she wouldn’t try, then I had to succeed for both of us. My parents leaned on me, praised me, expected me to set the example, and she—she never even noticed. Or if she did, she didn’t care. I joined the debate team, and suddenly she was in Model UN. I got accepted to the program I worked all summer for, and she told everyone she could’ve gotten in too if she’d bothered applying.”

You pause for a second, jaw tightening just slightly. “It was always like that. Always. Not malicious, just… constant. Little jabs, little shadows. If I read something, she’d call it predictable. If I dressed up, she’d find a way to wear the same thing louder. And now she’s here again, dropping comments about how you look tired after we spend the night together, or how I’ve apparently ‘trained you well.’ Like this is just another performance she gets to judge from the sidelines. And I know it’s probably a joke to her, but it doesn’t feel like one to me. It feels like she’s still watching. Still following.”

Your voice softens, almost apologetic. “I’m not mad at her. I’m just worn out from always having to brace for her next appearance. Every time I think I’ve carved out something that’s mine, something that makes me feel steady, she walks in and turns it into a shared space. And now I find out she had you, once, even if it meant nothing. It’s not about what happened. It’s about how it always somehow circles back to her.”

Jeno doesn’t answer at first. He just watches you—really watches you, in that quiet, unsparing way he always has when he’s not trying to be the loudest person in the room, when he’s thinking so hard it’s like he’s scared he’ll get this wrong if he says even one word too fast. His hand doesn’t leave yours. He shifts it, barely, lacing his fingers through yours like that might slow down the pulse hammering under your skin. Then he pulls you in—not urgently, not with force, just enough so your chest brushes his, and your breath catches at the contact, and it’s like he’s trying to anchor you by being close enough to count every inch of space between your bodies.

“I didn’t realize how much of this you’ve been carrying,” he says, voice low, like it’s meant to stay between you and the ivy. “You always seem so in control. Like nothing can touch you unless you let it.” His hand lifts to your waist, the curve of your ribs, warm and slow, holding there like he’s trying to make the world feel still. “I didn’t think—I didn’t think you’d feel threatened by this. By her. But now that you’re saying it, fuck, it makes so much sense.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he says, gently. “About any of it. About who’s around, or what they say, or what you think you’re supposed to hold together. None of that changes anything for me. Not when it comes to you.” His thumb brushes slowly across your side like he’s memorizing the shape of you through the fabric. “You walk into a room and I feel it in my whole body. Like everything else goes quiet until I’ve found you. It doesn’t matter who’s there, or what happened before, or what anyone else might think they know. I only ever want you.” He closes his eyes for a second, resting more of his weight into the space between you. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. You never did. I don’t care if you’re tired, or quiet, or unsure of yourself. I care that you let me see you like this. That you trust me enough to fall apart a little.”

You try to look away, but he dips down just slightly, making sure your eyes are still on his. “This—what we have—it’s not something she gets to touch. Even if it happened years ago, not even if it was an accident. You get all of me now. Not some memory. Not a version of me that didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. You.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, voice dropping low enough to rake straight down your spine. “That was nearly ten years ago, baby. I’m not that guy anymore.” His hand slides up your side, thumb grazing under your shirt like he needs you closer just to say it right. “I’ve had sex since then but none of it ever stuck. None of them felt like you.” His voice falters there, just a breath, then he steadies again. “And if you want to be mad, be mad. If you want to be quiet about it and just stand here like this, I’ll stay. You don’t have to bounce back right away. You don’t have to smile and make it easy. I can take it. I want to take it. Let me hold this for you for a second.”

“You don’t need to prove that you’re okay. I already know you’re strong. You’ve always been strong. Even when you shouldn’t have had to be.” You moan into his mouth before you can stop it, soft and aching, your hands clutching his shirt like the fabric is the only thing tethering you to the ground. His lips crash into yours with heat that builds slow, devouring, every glide of his tongue deeper, more possessive, until your knees threaten to give out and all you can feel is his mouth and the pulse between your thighs. You kiss him harder, hungrier, tilting your head to take more, let him taste how badly you need this, how badly you need him. Your breath stutters as you pull back, lips wet and parted, skin flushed, heart hammering like it might beat right through your chest.

He brushes your bottom lip with his thumb, voice low and controlled. “Are you calm now?”

Your eyes flutter, throat tight as you whisper, “Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs, mouth ghosting yours again, too close for your brain to work properly. “Stay that way for the wedding.”

The bridesmaid dresses drape across ivory velvet mannequins like sacred relics on display, humming with softness and intention beneath the filtered late-morning sun. They glow under the floor-to-ceiling windows, basking in the quiet reverence of their own craftsmanship. Karina designed each one herself—no two cuts identical, no color duplicated, but all speaking in the same hushed language of texture and soul. The fabrics fall like poured silk, touchable poetry: slinky champagne charmeuse, mink satin with the sheen of candle wax, layers of rose-smoke chiffon trailing like mist. There is crushed satin in sun-warm clay, oyster silk so smooth it looks liquefied, organza stiffened like breath held too long. Every seam speaks in metaphors—Areum’s dress clings with a corset back and a scatter of pale crystal beading like dew gathered on skin, Seulgi’s moves with her hips even on the mannequin, the asymmetrical slit hinting at mischief mid-stride. Yours is dangerous in its simplicity: bias-swept, body-hugging, the kind of silhouette that demands silence. Tucked into every bodice is a secret—wisteria pressed into Irene’s lining, wild rose for Karina, narcissus for Nahyun—each one invisible unless you already know where to look. Behind every zipper, her ghost signature: for the ones who make love look like power.

The grande suite exists in holy chaos. It’s built for light, for luxury, for myth-making—walls painted cream with undertones of gold, mouldings hand-carved into curling vines and soft arcs, mirrors edged in burnished brass. The room breathes in movement, filled to the edges with motion and bloom: robe sleeves trailing across silk rugs, foundation brushes stippling rhythm onto collarbones, rollers clicking shut into hair like armor. The floor is littered with satin sashes and curled ribbons, vows half-folded, petals that dropped too early from a floral arrangement now wilting near a Dior compact. A rogue heel lies on its side beneath a vanity; a lip liner rolls gently every time someone walks by. Sunlight filters in through sheer gauze curtains, painting warm gold onto glass tabletops and the marble that shines under your feet. Music moves between genres—slow R&B winding into baroque piano—its rhythm smothered by the noise of too many voices, too many hands, too much life. The scent is dizzying: freesia, rose oil, grapefruit toner, the heat of curling irons, something sweet and sharp in your throat. The air is thick with becoming.

The girls are scattered like brushstrokes across the canvas of the room, each one in motion, each one luminous in her own kind of disarray. Karina kneels at Irene’s feet, fixing a misbehaving hem with her teeth clamped around a pin, shoulders bare, her own dress undone down the back like she’s forgotten about herself. She moves with the precision of someone born to construct beauty under pressure, one eye on the thread and the other on the clock. Irene sits perfectly upright at the central mirror, still and royal, her hair sculpted into an elegant coil, her lips painted with near-military symmetry. A stylist fastens her earrings, and for a second, Irene doesn’t breathe. Seulgi leans out the window, half-dressed, fingers wrapped around a vape pen, laughing breathlessly at something someone shouts from the garden below. Her robe slides off one shoulder, tattoos catching the sunlight, bare legs folded like she’s a queen holding court. Areum perches on a chaise with her knees pulled to her chest, sipping champagne through a glass straw, her roller-set hair bobbing every time she giggles. She hums to herself between scrolls, scrolling through something she won’t name. Nahyun is locked in front of the mirror wall, expression flat, her gaze welded to her own reflection as a makeup artist paints soft shimmer onto her lids—too much gold, too exact. She doesn’t flinch. You sit at the edge of it all, legs crossed on a velvet stool, mascara wand in one hand, just watching.

Your slip clings in places the air won’t touch, your robe slouched low down your arms, and your eyes sweep the room like a camera lens stuck on slow zoom. Everything feels heightened. Every laugh is too bright, every sigh too sharp, every rustle of fabric layered with static. The world outside the room doesn’t exist. Nothing exists except the scent of heated product, the gleam of highlighter brushed across a clavicle, the soft sounds of breath and laughter and glass kissing glass. Someone’s dress hangs half-zipped on the door. Someone else’s lashes are still wet with glue. Hairbrushes lie teeth-up like traps across the vanity. Karina says something in a rush, tugs at a hem. Irene swats Seulgi for making a joke too loud. Areum spins the stem of her glass and whispers something that makes Nahyun turn her head just slightly, just once. The atmosphere isn’t tense—it’s thick, waiting, almost lush with the sense that something’s about to break open, that time’s stretching around you like a veil pulled tight before it tears.

The room feels like breath held in the chest of a goddess. Like every woman here has been summoned to play a part, and the script hasn’t been handed out yet. No one says it aloud, but you all feel it—that this is the kind of moment that becomes legend. You reach for your gloss without looking, tracing it across your lips slow, your gaze flicking toward the window where sunlight cuts across Seulgi’s ribs like gold wire. Irene’s reflection meets yours once in the mirror and then flickers away. Karina exhales, sitting back on her heels with thread between her fingers and tension still in her spine. Areum bites the edge of her straw. Nahyun blinks, finally. You inhale sharp, tasting powder and prosecco in the back of your throat, and you let it burn. You look at yourself in the mirror and wonder how much more you can take before you burst. The music dips into silence. Then the makeup artist behind you whispers, “You’re next.”

The makeup artist is sweeping powder across your jawline in slow, practiced strokes when a quiet knock interrupts the rhythm, followed by the soft creak of the suite door opening just enough to reveal a white-gloved hand sliding something inside. A box, wrapped in matte black velvet and tied with a pale ribbon that looks pressed by steam, rests now on the threshold, weightless in appearance but heavy with purpose. There’s no card on top, no logo, no hint at who it’s from—just the kind of packaging that speaks louder than names ever could. Karina notices first and raises an eyebrow as she sets her sketchbook aside, voice low and knowing as she murmurs, “That’s either a cease-and-desist or a sex toy,” with the grin of someone who already knows it’s neither and everything else at once.

The girls move fast—half-zipped dresses rustling, pins between teeth, mascara wands held mid-air—each one drawn by the scent of drama more than the delivery itself. Someone passes it to you, and your fingers hesitate on the bow like you’ve already guessed what’s inside, or maybe just hope you’re right. You peel back the ribbon slowly, careful with every fold, until the box sighs open to reveal a charm nestled in black tissue paper—small and silver, shaped like a wedding bell with tiny curved edges and an engraving so fine it reads more like a whisper than a message: ‘for the moment before the vows.’ It sits beside a second gift, layered in sheer white tissue, barely held in place—an ivory lace lingerie set, delicate and translucent, the kind of thing meant to disappear the second it’s worn. The thong is soft and light enough to crush under a fingertip, and the bralette is all embroidered vines and scalloped edges, more suggestion than coverage, designed with a purpose that speaks through fabric alone.

A card lies flat against the silk, plain cream with no envelope, only a few words written in the kind of handwriting your body already remembers: ‘Wear this for me.’ That’s all it says, but the message crashes through your chest like it carries years of weight behind it. You breathe in slow, mouth parted, hand hovering over the charm like it might imprint against your skin if you touch it long enough. The room around you erupts—Karina lets out a sound halfway between a shriek and a laugh, Irene covers her mouth with the back of her hand to hide the flush climbing up her face, Seulgi points at the thong like it’s a live wire and demands to know who the hell she has to marry to be treated like that (as if she isn’t already married), while Areum leans in closer, humming and twisting the lace between her fingers like it might dissolve if held too tightly. Nahyun stays silent, sitting straighter now, her gaze flickering only once toward the card before settling back on her reflection.

You say nothing, but your lips curve, soft and full, warmth blooming up your throat as you reach for your bracelet, undoing the clasp and slipping the charm onto the chain like it’s always belonged there. You don’t offer names or answers, don’t try to justify the color in your cheeks or the flicker in your eyes; the moment wraps itself around you like silk, light and rare and full of something you don’t want to name in case it slips away. The makeup artist resumes working, gentler now, like she’s caught the shift in the air without needing to ask. The girls buzz around you, half-teasing, half-envious, their laughter trailing through the room like perfume, and for once you feel weightless, pulled from whatever had been knotting itself beneath your ribs all morning.

Karina tilts her head, watching you closely as she fastens her own zipper, and her voice carries across the space with a grin sharpened by pride. “Well,” she says slowly, as if the words are obvious, “seems like you’re getting married next.”

Moments later, you find yourself sitting in the window seat tucked into one of the villa’s back corridors, the kind of place meant for slipping away rather than being seen, carved deep into the stone with a ledge wide enough to curl into and cushions softened by years of heat and salt air. The arched glass frames a view of the coast that flickers like a dream—sunlight bouncing off the tide, pale rooftops glowing against a sky that hasn’t decided whether it wants to storm or stay golden. Your dress settles around you like memory turned fabric, the silk folding at your waist in gentle ripples, the lace underneath clinging close like a secret only he’s supposed to touch. The charm on your bracelet shimmers each time your wrist shifts in your lap, scattering glints across the windowpane like little pieces of light that don’t know where to land.

You’d texted him without thinking, the way muscle remembers a dance. Meet me here. He comes quietly, steps muffled by the rug in the corridor, and you feel him before you hear him—something in the air shifting, your breath catching in a rhythm you never learned how to break. He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes travel down the line of your spine like he’s reading something sacred, tracing the shape of your shoulder, the place where your hair has been swept behind one ear, left bare for no reason except this. His breath falls quiet against the back of your neck, soft and warm and steady, and when he leans in, his voice finds you like a thread being pulled through silk.

“Look at you,” he says, and the words settle against your skin like silk, low and reverent, his tone brushed with something you don’t want to name. “You look so fucking hot right now.”

His hands find your shoulders, thumbs brushing along the dip where your collarbone curves, and the moment folds in on itself—quiet, golden, suspended. Your lips pull into a smile without effort, your eyes still half-fixed on the coastline ahead, though it shimmers now, slightly blurred, made less real by the weight of him behind you. “You’re just saying that because I wore the lace,” you murmur, light teasing woven into the edges of something warmer, deeper, less careful. He laughs under his breath, and you can feel it through your back, that sound curling low through your spine.

He leans in just a little, nose brushing your cheek, voice loose and familiar. “I’d say it if you wore nothing,” he murmurs, tone easy, like he’s half-joking—but only halfway. “But the lace’s a nice bonus.” One hand slides down to your hip, fingers catching the silk. “Makes it harder to focus, don’t know how I’m gonna get through his wedding in one piece.”

You breathe out a soft sound that barely passes for a laugh, your body still folded into his, the silk of your dress brushing against his fingertips where they rest at your waist. The lace beneath it feels warmer now, tingling where his voice landed a moment ago, but you shift slightly, tilting your head, eyes turning toward the horizon as if letting the moment pass like a pebble dropped into still water. “The view’s beautiful,” you say quietly, almost to yourself, your gaze catching on the curve of the ocean where it meets the edge of the cliffs. Light spills over everything, soft and gold, painting the stone rooftops and salt-bitten shutters in shades of pearl and honey. Far below, the water rolls in slow ribbons of blue and green, folding in on itself like silk layered in motion, calm but restless, always just on the verge of changing. A single cherry tree leans over the villa wall in full bloom, soft petals drifting off its branches like paper wishes in the breeze, a memory of spring in a place where spring has already passed. You watch one land against the stone, then lift again with the wind, carried out toward the sea.

There’s something sacred about it, this stretch of coastline that refuses to be loud, this hush of color and movement that wraps around you like prayer cloth. The cliffs remind you of ink-brushed screens from an old ryokan, the sea painted with the same restraint, the same careful quiet. The horizon fades into a soft haze, pink and pale like the space between dreams and waking, and the sun hangs there, blurred and still, like it’s pausing just long enough for you to say goodbye to whatever version of yourself you’ve been carrying all day. Your voice is softer now, threaded with something quieter, something wondering. “It feels like a place you don’t just visit. It feels like a place you leave pieces of yourself behind.”

“The view is beautiful,” he says after a beat, arms sliding around your waist as he presses his chest to your back, his chin finding its place on your shoulder like it’s been there a hundred times. Then, quieter, spoken close enough that your cheek warms from the breath of it—“But mine’s better.”

You jab your elbow back into his side with no real force, breath catching in a laugh, your head tilting just slightly so your lips can brush the edge of his jaw. “Corny fucker,” you whisper against his skin, though you kiss him as if you’ve been waiting all morning to melt back into this, into him, into the version of yourself that only exists when his hands are on your waist and his eyes are saying things his mouth won’t.

Your fingertips drift up to the back of his neck, curling at the base of his hair, and you let yourself lean into him fully, body folding into his like memory slipping back into a groove that never fully faded. “I missed you,” you say, too gently for it to sound like a confession, but not careful enough to pretend. The words find him and linger, and his arms tighten in response, drawing you closer, breath steadying against your cheek like he’s settling into something he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to feel again.

The two of you stare out at the sea together, but your eyes lose focus, drawn more to the reflection of his hands resting on your stomach, to the flicker of his smile in the glass. The sun dips lower, casting long gold shadows across the tile, and everything slows. Something inside you loosens, folds inward, curls around the softness he always brings when you let him this close. You feel weightless here, surrounded by warmth, by silk, by the illusion that this—this quiet, this comfort, this version of together—can stretch into something that lives beyond the afternoon. But even as your cheek rests against his shoulder and your fingers curl around his wrist like they’re meant to stay there, you feel it begin to slip again—slow, subtle, the way saltwater seeps through cotton, impossible to catch until it stains.

The breeze curls through the corridor with a softer touch now, brushing the silk at your ankles, lifting the edge of a petal that never quite made it to the ledge. You stay for a beat longer, body still folded into Jeno’s, his hand warm at your waist, his breath grazing the top of your shoulder like a tether. The world outside the window stays golden, suspended, the sea still folding in slow ribbons, the sky still soft with a haze that makes everything feel unreal. Your fingers trace the charm at your wrist without thought, the glint of it catching the sun just as you shift—ready to say something, maybe nothing at all—until the sound comes.

Footsteps, measured but off-rhythm, echo against the stone like someone walking faster than they want to be seen. Then a cough, short and dry, cutting through the stillness like something sharp drawn across velvet. You lift your head. Jeno straightens behind you. Mark is already there. He’s framed by the curve of the archway, shoulders back, hands loose at his sides like he’s been wringing them without realizing. The tux clings clean to his frame, the lines of it sharp and deliberate, but his bowtie hangs undone and his shirt collar gapes slightly, like he put himself together too quickly or stopped halfway through.

“Y/N. You have to come with me,” Mark says.

Jeno shifts behind you, stepping closer without saying a word, already falling into place beside you. Mark finally looks at him then, just for a moment, something unreadable flickering through his expression before he turns. His shoulders are straighter now, jaw set, the sharp angles of his tux catching the light as he walks back down the hallway he came from—silent, expectant, not waiting to be followed, but certain you will. The soft clang of a distant bell drifts in through the window behind you. The petals are still falling. Somewhere deeper in the villa, music stirs faintly into life.

And still, the only sound you hear is your own breath tightening. Something sacred cracks open just slightly at the edges. You follow.

The hallway narrows the farther you walk, the marble growing colder beneath your feet, the sun thinning into shadow as it filters through narrower windows and aging drapery that doesn’t move with the breeze. Mark walks ahead with a pace too measured to be casual, too clipped to be calm, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact, like whatever waits behind the next door already hit him first. Jeno stays close beside you, his hand brushing the base of your spine now and then, steady and wordless, fingers curling just slightly into the silk of your dress when you walk a little too fast. The charm on your wrist tugs every few steps, a tiny pulse against your skin that wasn’t there before, heavier somehow, as if absorbing the air’s new weight with every corridor passed.

The music you heard before fades beneath the low murmur of voices and the clink of glass, distant but fractured, like a celebration you’ve suddenly slipped behind. The final door opens without ceremony, Mark pushing it in with one palm, and the air inside is sharp with perfume and unease. The suite isn’t quiet—but it isn’t loud either. It holds the kind of tension that lives in dressing rooms before curtain call, in kitchens before plates hit tables, the kind of breathless stillness that masks itself as control. Irene paces barefoot across the rug, one hand curled tight around a half-full flute of something warm, the hem of her dress brushing over the edge of a cosmetic case left open on the floor. Her veil hangs from the back of a chair, strands of her hair slipping from the pins as she walks, muttering something too low to catch.

Karina stands near the wardrobe with her phone raised like she’s waiting for it to ring, the screen glowing against her face, brows pulled so tight they cut her expression into pieces. A makeup artist lingers uselessly in the corner, still holding a powder brush in the air like she forgot how to move, eyes darting toward Irene, toward you, toward the door Mark just closed behind him. The vanity is cluttered with chaos—false lashes peeling at the corners, a cracked perfume bottle tipped on its side, a printed setlist streaked with something that looks like foundation. Twenty missed calls blink on the screen of a phone someone left buzzing in a nest of tissues and ribbon. Mark runs a hand through his hair like he’s buying himself another second of silence, but it doesn’t hold. It breaks instead.

You step forward slowly, silk brushing at your ankles, voice caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “Okay,” you say, quieter than you meant to, eyes flicking from Mark to Irene. “What happened?”

Mark doesn’t waste the breath to preface it. “The lead singer from the band—she’s gone. They were rehearsing down by the terrace, and she started feeling sick. High fever, dizzy, collapsed. They rushed her out in a cab twenty minutes ago. No one’s answering her phone.”

Irene lets out a shaky exhale, glass tipping slightly in her hand. “The band’s still here, the instruments, the sound techs—but she was the voice. The person we booked. She was supposed to sing after the vows, during the slow dance.”

Jeno’s brows pull in, arms crossed loosely as he leans into the wall behind you. “So get a backup vocalist?”

Karina doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Not at this hour. They’re trying, but everyone’s either at another wedding, stuck in traffic, or hasn’t responded. She was a solo artist—they built the whole set around her.”

You glance at Irene, her whole body curving inward now, like she’s shrinking into herself just to keep the dress from falling off. Her fingers press against her forehead, lips parted like she’s trying to inhale enough air for someone else. You step forward again, softer this time. “How long do we have?”

Mark’s jaw ticks. “Forty minutes.”

Irene’s eyes lift, slow and careful, the way someone looks when they’re almost afraid of naming what they need. Her voice is soft but breaks just slightly around the edges. “You know the song, right?”

You’re still watching the setlist. The paper’s been smudged by someone’s powder-covered hand, a lyric blurred at the bridge. Your gaze drifts to the champagne glass on the vanity, the wet ring it’s left behind, the sound tech’s clipboard still leaning against the chair. “Yeah,” you murmur, barely thinking, voice too low to carry weight. “I know it well.”

Silence. Then—movement. You glance up, and both of them are staring. Mark’s head tilted just slightly, arms crossed like he’s already piecing it together. Irene’s face has shifted entirely—hope blooming too fast, too loud. Her shoulders square, her mouth parting, her eyes waiting. They watch you with matching expressions—eyes wide, brows soft, like they rehearsed it beforehand. The exact same tilt of the head, the same hopeful half-smile, the same silent please. It’s disturbingly in sync.

You freeze. “No,” you breathe out, almost laughing as you step back. “No. No, no—don’t look at me like that.”

Your hand lifts instinctively, fingers brushing your temple like you can wave the pressure off your skin. “I can’t do this. I don’t sing. I haven’t sung in public since—” you cut yourself off, pulse stammering in your throat. “Forget it. I just can’t.”

Mark’s voice comes slow, quiet, like he doesn’t want to push too hard. “You can.” A pause. “You do sing. All the time.”

You shoot him a look. He doesn’t back down. “You sing every single one of my demos. You hum through the verses like you’re the one who wrote them. You tweak the keys when they’re off and then send me voice notes pretending you don’t care.”

You look away. Mark’s voice dips lower, steady and knowing. “You’re the best singer I know.”

You sigh, slow and uneven, the kind that folds in on itself before it ever fully leaves your chest. The room feels too loud now—even in its silence. Too many eyes, too much pressure blooming under your ribs like heat that doesn’t know where to land. You stare at the floor, the blurred edges of the setlist, the way your own reflection wavers faintly in the polished wood beneath your heels. In your head, the list forms without meaning to: reasons to say yes, reasons to run. You know the song. That’s one. You love her. That’s another. But your throat is already tightening and you haven’t even opened your mouth. You haven’t done this in a long time, you’re still scared. This is Irene’s moment. This is a room full of people who will remember. Either way, something cracks open.

Jeno steps in before either of them can say another word, his body angling closer to yours like instinct, like a shield pulled tight around your hesitation. His eyes land on Irene first, then Mark, sharp and unreadable, but steady in the way that makes silence stretch. “If she doesn’t want to sing,” he says quietly, “then that’s it.”

There’s no challenge in his voice, just weight. Finality. Like he’s not asking for permission, only drawing a line.

He doesn’t move in front of you, doesn’t pull you back—just stays close enough that you feel the quiet charge in him, his presence curling protectively at your side like a silent promise. His voice is low but firm, cutting through the tension without raising. “You’re not here to fix anything,” he says, eyes still locked on Irene and Mark. “You’re here because they asked. You planned every part of this wedding. You made it beautiful, personal, theirs. That’s enough.” His jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t owe anyone anything more.” Then he looks at you, and his expression softens, all that heat turning inward. “You don’t have to do this.” His voice drops lower, more private. “You don’t always have to be the one who saves the day.”

You don’t answer right away. You just stand there, the weight of the room closing in soft and slow, like steam rising in a space too tight to breathe. Jeno’s voice still lingers at your side, warm and firm, wrapping around the parts of you that started to unravel the second you looked into Irene’s eyes. You don’t owe them anything, maybe that should be enough to keep you still but something in you shifts anyway, delicate and stubborn, caught between love and the kind of ache that doesn’t know how to name itself.

You feel him watching you before you turn. His gaze is already there, quiet and unblinking, so deep it makes your breath stutter. When you meet his eyes, it’s like standing too close to something molten, something true. He sees it, he always does. The exact second your heart tilts in a direction you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet. That terrifying intimacy of being read without asking to be, understood without speaking. There’s no flinch in him—just a slow exhale, like your decision hurts him too, and he’s already accepted it anyway. Then, softly, with that kind of warmth that feels like the opposite of pressure—just space, held open for you—he says, “But if you want to do it, if it’s your choice, and no one pushes you into it, then I’ll back you with everything. Every second of it.”

Your gaze drifts to Irene, to the way she’s holding her breath without meaning to, knuckles white around the stem of the glass she forgot to finish. She’s not begging. She’s just hoping and that’s worse. It would be easier if someone demanded it. If someone asked loudly enough for you to say no. But this—this quiet, breaking kind of trust—this is the thing that undoes you.

Your throat tightens. Your fingers twitch at your side. The list in your head starts again, but this time slower, more fractured. You’re scared. You hate the spotlight now. You haven’t sung in front of anyone since that night. You don’t even know if your voice will hold but you love her. You owe her nothing, and yet—you love her. In the end, that love outweighs the fear, drowns out the logic, silences the part of you that wants to run. It pushes forward, steady and impossible to ignore, because even when you don’t choose it, love chooses you and it always wins.

Your lips part before you’ve fully decided. Your voice barely pushes through the air. “I’ll do it.” You say it like surrender. Like it’s being pulled out of your chest piece by piece. You say it because no one else will. Because you’ve spent so much of your life learning how to hold other people’s moments together without asking for one of your own. Because the song shouldn’t be missing. Because you shouldn’t be missing from this either.

Mark exhales first, like he’s been holding the air in his chest this entire time, only letting it go when your words settle into the room for real. His shoulders drop, eyes softening as he watches you with something that looks like pride pressed up against guilt—grateful, but heavy with the knowledge that it shouldn’t have had to be you. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once, slow and quiet, like he knows a thank-you would cheapen it.

Irene’s lips tremble before any sound comes. The glass in her hand wobbles slightly, and she sets it down on the vanity like she suddenly remembers she’s holding it. Her eyes are already glossed, lashes catching with the beginning shine of tears, and her bottom lip tucks in like she’s fighting it—but failing.

You raise a hand before she can even open her mouth. “Don’t. Don’t you dare cry. You’ll ruin your makeup and you’re already two pins away from that updo falling apart.” She lets out a broken laugh, sniffling as she reaches for a tissue, dabbing carefully. You point toward the makeup chair with practiced command, your voice slipping right back into steel. “Sit down. Let them fix you before you walk down the aisle looking like you crawled through a rainstorm.”

She obeys without hesitation, the familiarity of your tone grounding her more than any comfort could.

You turn to Mark next, arms folding, your brows lifting. “And you—maybe try panicking a little less next time and give people a second to breathe before you start dragging them through hallways like it’s a hostage situation.”

His mouth twitches, and he looks like he might argue, but then thinks better of it. You raise an eyebrow. He throws his hands up in mock surrender, stepping back with a half-smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

You glance around the room once more, all that fear from before folding into purpose now, your voice clipped and commanding as you nod to the stylist. “She’s ready. Again.” No one moves fast enough for you. “I need someone on lips and someone on hair now.” You don’t raise your voice, but the way it cuts through the air makes it clear you won’t repeat yourself. “Two pins are falling from the left side of the bun, and she needs a touch-up along the lash line. I don’t want to see a shimmer of tears in a single photo.”

The artists scramble into motion. Irene sits up straighter without needing to be told. You don’t smile, don’t soothe. You manage. One hand on your hip, the other flicking through the crumpled setlist on the vanity as you scan the rest of the space. “And someone fix that bouquet,” you snap, nodding toward the corner where the blooms are already wilting from too much sun and too little water. “Tell the florist to remake it or add hydration beads—I don’t care how they fix it, just make it photo-ready in ten.”

Mark shifts a little behind you, and you turn sharply. “You.” Your finger jabs in his direction. “Unless you’ve suddenly learned how to blend concealer or pin a French twist, get out of the way. Go check on the sound check or the lighting—something useful. Go.”

He blinks, stunned, but obeys, backing toward the door with both hands raised like you’ve pulled a weapon.

You scan the room again, breath steady now, fingers curled slightly at your sides. The chaos doesn’t rattle you anymore. It sharpens you. Fear has shape now. Command. Direction. Irene peeks up at you through the mirror, her mouth twitching. “She’s back,” she murmurs.

You don’t respond. Just turn on your heel, silk brushing like breath against your calves as you move through the suite with clipped purpose. Jeno follows without hesitation, quieter than your steps, his eyes tracking the tension that’s building in your shoulders with every hallway you pass through. He doesn’t speak at first—just reaches out, fingers ghosting along your arm before gently curling around your hand, grounding you with a touch so tender it nearly slows your pulse on contact. He laces your fingers with his, his thumb brushing along the edge of yours, and leans in close enough that his voice lands warm against your temple. “Hey,” he says softly, “come here for a second.”

You stop walking, but your body’s still locked in that rhythm of movement, like your thoughts are pacing even when your feet aren’t. He steps in front of you, one hand still holding yours, the other sliding up to rest at your waist, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking without asking. “Breathe with me.” His eyes search yours, gentle but firm, the kind of gaze that sees everything and doesn’t flinch. “Do you wanna take a second before all of this kicks off?” he murmurs. “Just you and me? No noise. No decisions. Just… a breath.”

You shake your head, barely, just enough for him to feel it through your fingers. Your voice is quiet but clipped, too full of momentum to be softened now. “There’s no time.” Then you’re moving again. Your hand stays locked in his, dragging him with you through the corridor, steps sharp and certain, dress brushing against your ankles as the villa tilts around you like a set piece that needs rearranging. His grip tightens in yours, no resistance, no protest—just the weight of him following, tethered and willing, holding on like he knows it’s the only thing keeping you steady.

The hallway grows narrower the farther you go, walls blooming with soft shadow, light tapering to a silvery blur across the polished floor. The scent changes too—less floral now, more storage room chill, hints of eucalyptus and green foam brick, the quiet, cold smell of water left too long in glass. You’re barely breathing as you turn the final corner. Behind you, you can feel the wedding pulsing to life. Music building from the terrace, voices carrying through the high windows, laughter feathering across the marble as more guests arrive. Somewhere, someone is placing the last flute of champagne on a tray. Somewhere, the string quartet is tuning in harmony. You should be by Irene’s side right now, touching up her veil, calming her nerves. But instead you’re here—fixing what should’ve already been perfect.

The staging room is bright, too bright, the overhead lights buzzing faintly as you step inside. Everything is lined with symmetry—four mirrored trays stretched across a linen-draped table, each holding a bridesmaid bouquet resting on a single square of ivory lace. It’s beautiful at first glance. Orderly. Cinematic. Until it isn’t. Your eyes land on the fourth bouquet from the left, and something inside you coils too tight. It’s subtle, a barely-there imbalance, but you see it instantly. The shape leans too far forward. One side heavier, slack where it should be arched. You move closer, heels clicking like punctuation, hands already curling at your sides before your mind catches up.

They were meant to be uniform—hand-tied, tightly domed, held together with pearl pins and finished with soft cream ribbon. Karina had chosen the stems herself: white orchids for elegance, hydrangeas for volume, gardenias for scent. A balance of softness and structure. Nothing too bright, nothing too traditional. A visual echo of Irene’s dress, of the curved silhouette of the altar, of the silk tulle in the cathedral veil that still waits in its box. But this bouquet—the one closest to your hand—is wrong. The orchids are bent, their pale petals bruised at the tips like they were crushed in storage. Two of the hydrangeas have started to sag, heads nodding forward like they’ve wilted under the heat. And tucked between them, obscenely out of place, are three pale pink roses.

You freeze. Just for a second. Then your fingers reach without permission. You lift it gently, and then not-so-gently, the stems pressing hard against your palm as your grip tightens. The ribbon twists under your knuckles, catching on the curve of your ring. You hold it up to the light like it might explain itself. It doesn’t. The pink blooms stare back like a dare, and something behind your ribs gives way to anger. This was supposed to be the final hour. The quiet before the aisle walk. Everything laid out, pristine and waiting, just like she imagined. And now there’s this—one small flaw threatening to throw off everything.

Behind you, Jeno steps into the room, the echo of his shoes softer than yours. His presence trails through the doorway like heat following a shadow. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches the way you’re holding the bouquet—like it’s something that wronged you personally. He crosses the space slowly, hands open at his sides, shoulders low, eyes gentle even in the silence. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a murmur. “Hey. You want me to find out who handled these last?”

You don’t wait for an answer. You push past him, bouquet still gripped in your hand like you’re delivering evidence to a crime scene, silk ribbon fluttering from your wrist as you move. The door swings open in your wake, catching the edge of the light and throwing it hard against the marble. Jeno follows, a step behind and quiet, but his presence is a tether, thick and close. He knows better than to speak right now.

The hallway stretches long and pale ahead of you, lined with window seats dressed in cream cushions and embroidered throws. Golden light spills in from the south-facing windows, dust particles catching mid-air like glitter suspended in honey. Your friends are scattered all along it—some perched delicately, murmuring over flutes of rosé, others walking in soft heels and open jackets, waiting to be summoned to the ceremony. There’s a hush over it all. That particular, weighted hush that comes right before something beautiful is meant to begin.

But you’re cutting through it like a knife.

Each step of yours lands with more bite than intended, your heels echoing sharp against the floor as heads turn, subtly at first, then with more curiosity. You don’t look at anyone. You don’t need to. You can feel them—watching the woman with the crooked bouquet and the storm in her jaw, the undone robe slipping down her shoulder, the man behind her trying to keep up, one hand half-extended like he’s ready to catch her if she shatters.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You’ve had two iced coffees, half a mimosa, and a bite of a macaron that tasted like perfume. You’re supposed to sing in front of a hundred people in less than an hour. You just found out that Jeno lost his virginity to your insufferable sister and somehow, you’re expected to smile through florals like that’s not your villain origin story.

You’re gripping the bouquet like it’s a weapon. Not a dainty little floral arrangement but a goddamn threat. The stems are crushed in your fist, white orchids bent out of shape, and someone’s added fucking pink roses—pink. You don’t even remember how you got to this point, but suddenly you’re standing dead center in the villa’s staging room, bridal robe falling off one shoulder, hair only half curled, and murder in your eyes. “Who,” you breathe, slowly, dangerously, “did this.”

“Is it too much to ask for one thing to go to plan? One thing! I don’t even care that my boyfriend banged my sister behind the bleachers, but God forbid the florals stay on theme!”

The room freezes. Chenle’s the only one dumb—or brave—enough to answer. He glances at Jaemin, who’s already halfway behind a curtain. “I think she’s gonna stab someone with that,” he mutters under his breath, but not low enough. “Should we disarm her or… watch?”

Your head snaps in his direction like a hawk, bouquet raised. “You think this is funny?” you hiss, seething. “You think I spent four months coordinating hand-tied, stem-cut, ivory-only orchids for one of you frat-touched Neanderthals to fingerfuck the arrangements like it’s an elementary school art class?”

Jaemin fully vanishes. Chenle throws up his hands. “I didn’t finger anything. Bold accusation.”

You’re halfway to lunging when a hand wraps around your wrist—broad, firm, claiming—and it stops you cold. Jeno doesn’t rush, doesn’t flinch. He moves in slow, all quiet control and barely veiled heat, like he’s handling something wild that only he’s ever been allowed to touch. His shirt clings across his chest, open at the throat, collarbones shadowed and sharp, his forearms flexing where his sleeves are rolled, veins thick, hands made to restrain. He looks down at the bouquet in your hand like it’s ridiculous, then meets your eyes again. “Put it down,” he says, voice smooth and firm, no space for argument.

His shirt clings to his chest, collar open, the edge of his chain catching the light against his collarbones. Sleeves rolled high on his forearms, veins stark under golden skin, and the way he moves—controlled, deliberate—makes your pulse jump. His other hand comes up slowly, palm brushing your side, then gripping the base of your spine as he leans in.

You don’t. Your jaw locks in defiance, eyes flicking back to the bouquet, breath ragged.

He tightens his grip on your wrist, just enough to remind you he feels everything—every tremble, every twitch, every refusal. His head tilts, and his mouth brushes near your ear, breath hot. “Y/N,” he says again, firmer this time, deeper. “Put. It. Down.”

You don’t. Not right away. Your breath is shaking and your pulse is feral, hammering in your chest like it’s trying to break through bone, and the bouquet in your hand feels heavier now—less like decoration, more like a threat. “I swear to God—” you snarl, voice splintered, on the verge of detonation. Karina freezes mid-step, her eyes darting from your hand to your face like she’s weighing whether to intervene or sprint. Areum mouths something silent and horrified to Mark across the room, hands clutched to her chest, and Shotaro—sweet, useless Shotaro—literally ducks behind a drinks cart like flower shrapnel might fly. No one steps in. No one ever does. You’ve been like this before—volatile, burning at both ends, impossible to soothe. They all know there’s only one person who ever gets close when you’re like this.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice like the press of a thumb to the back of your neck—firm, intimate, final. His fingers tighten around your wrist just enough to make you feel the difference in control. “Look what you’re doing.” He nudges your hand up, just slightly, makes you see the bouquet trembling in your grip, petals bent and bruised, stems crushed where your fingers won’t let go. His eyes stay on yours. “Calm down.” Another beat. Another inch closer. “Breathe for me.” His tone dips lower. “Or I’ll make you.”

Jeno’s already taking the bouquet from your grip. He doesn’t throw it, doesn’t mock it, just sets it on the table like it’s done nothing wrong. Then he moves closer—right into your space—and tips your chin up with two fingers. His palm curls around the back of your neck, grounding, thumb brushing slow beneath your jaw. His eyes lock on yours, and everything around you starts to dull.

“Come with me.” His voice is low, warm, dipped in something rougher now—something that brushes right up your spine and doesn’t ask twice. His hand slides down your wrist, fingers curling around yours like a command dressed as comfort. “We’re gonna take a breather,” he murmurs, stepping in until your bodies touch, “and you’re gonna walk out of here before you do something stupid with a centerpiece.” His mouth grazes your cheek, not quite a kiss. “Now.”

You’re still fuming, jaw tight, shoulders locked, every instinct in you wound tight enough to snap as you chew through crisis after crisis, running on caffeine, sex and the desperate need to have everything perfect because if you stop moving, you’ll fall apart. You haven’t breathed all morning, haven’t let anyone touch you, calm you, help you—not Karina, not Shotaro, not even Mark—but his hand is still on your neck, warm and firm, thumb stroking just beneath your hairline like he owns the fuse and knows exactly how to keep it from blowing, and the heat of his body crowds yours until for the first time today you stay still. You don’t speak, but he sees it in your face, the twitch of your lip, the defiance behind your lashes, the way your throat works like you want to spit something bratty just to push him and maybe you will, maybe you want to, but you don’t pull away and when you try, just slightly, he leans in closer, mouth brushing your temple like he’s memorizing your temperature, and you—wild, wound, ruthless—you let him because he’s the only one who’s made you breathe.

“Or,” he murmurs, “if you’re still feeling mouthy… I’ll take you upstairs, bend you over the bathroom sink, and fuck the fight right out of you.”

That’s what breaks you. Not the threat. The promise in it. The way his voice goes soft and low and vulgar all at once, like it belongs closer to your skin than your ears, like he already knows exactly what you need before you admit it. The way you know, know, he’d do it right now if you said please, no hesitation, no mercy. Your breath stutters and your body tips forward without thinking, a soft moan breaking loose as you lean into his chest, your fists curling in the fabric of his shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to something solid. One tear slips out, then another, hot and silent, streaking your cheek as your jaw locks tight and your eyes flutter shut. His hand never leaves your neck, never loosens, just holds you there, steady and close, like he knew this was coming and planned to catch it all.

From behind the curtain, Chenle mutters, “I knew she’d weaponize florals. Respectfully though.”

“She was wielding that bouquet like she trained in ancient Greece,” Jaemin whispers, slowly crouching like that’ll save him. “That’s not a centerpiece, that’s a goddamn war hammer.”

“Bro, those are hydrangeas,” Chenle hisses. “She was about to commit a felony with hydrangeas.”

Jaemin peeks out again, eyes widening. “Do you think if I scream ‘she loves me, she loves me not’ she’ll chase me?”

“You’ll be dead before she hits ‘not.’”

“She’d look good at my funeral.”

“You need help.”

“Out,” Jeno says without looking away from you.

The room clears in fifteen seconds flat. It’s just you and him now, heat pressing off your skin in waves, his hand still holding your neck, your breath catching between your lips like you’re about to either scream or cry. He leans in, tilts your face, eyes searching. “Say it,” he whispers. “Say please.”

Your pride burns through your chest. Your throat tightens. You say it anyway—quiet, low, breathless against his mouth—and when he kisses you, it’s rough and slow and grounding, like you’re still holding the weapon and he’s letting you use it, letting you lean into the fire just enough to soften without turning to ash. He holds you through it, one hand firm around your waist, the other curling behind your neck, thumb dragging under your jaw with the kind of touch that doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate. When his lips trail up and press to your temple, the kiss lands with aching precision—like he’s closing a wound you didn’t know had split open.

Someone coughs behind a curtain, but Jeno doesn’t turn. His voice stays low, steady. “I said out.” Just three words, no sharpness, no theatrics, but the tone pulls movement from every corner. Chairs scrape quietly. Breath is held. You hear Chenle curse under his breath and the soft tap of shoes as the final person filters out. The door clicks closed, and stillness settles thick around the two of you like velvet pulled tight.

He tilts your chin, eyes moving over your face as though every shift, every quiver, every flicker of control means something he understands too well. “Breathe.” His forehead presses lightly to yours. “Just you and me now.” He takes your hands in both of his, thumbs brushing along the insides of your palms, smoothing over the creases where stress still lives. His touch is deliberate, tested. He knows where it hurts. Knows what to do when you go quiet and coiled.

“I just know what’s gonna calm you down,” he says, soft and certain, the corner of his mouth curving like it’s been waiting to say it. “Come with me.”

His hands stay locked with yours as he guides you through the corridor, past half-open doors and sun-warmed windows. The villa breathes differently now—quieter, slower, as if it feels him leading you away from the wreckage. Light floods the long hallway through tall panes of glass, golden and late-afternoon rich, casting soft reflections over the polished wood floors. Outside, through the windows, the horizon glows like a painting just beginning to blur at the edges.

He doesn’t rush. His thumb still strokes the back of your hand, and his other hand rises to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear with so much care it makes your chest pinch. When you reach the end of the hallway, he pushes open the double doors to the old piano room, and you feel it immediately—the stillness of it, the cool air, the way sound seems to fold inward inside these walls. Sunlight pools across the keys in uneven stripes. The bench waits, polished and warm, and Jeno turns to you with a quiet breath, lips brushing your temple again. “Sit with me,” he says gently.

The bench is cold beneath you at first, carved dark walnut softened by age, the kind that creaks slightly beneath shifting weight but holds its history in the curve of its spine. The piano stretches out in front of you like a body waiting to be touched, black and ivory worn from love and time, each key a secret that only responds to pressure in the right places. Your fingers hover over the octave you know too well and your breath stumbles before it can leave your mouth, jaw locked, stomach tight, heart a mess of chords thudding out of rhythm. You play a few notes—they clatter, off-tempo, clumsy, too fast and too shallow. It sounds like nerves, like pressure, like someone else trying to imitate your hands. Jeno moves closer beside you then, close enough for his thigh to brush yours, his body a soft perimeter of heat and stillness and weight, and he watches you—your jaw, your hands, the way your knee bounces without rhythm—like he’s reading sheet music etched into your pulse.

Your nail drags to your lips, a bad habit pulled from some bruised corner of your childhood, and before you can bite down he catches your hand in his, slow and certain, presses your knuckles to his mouth and holds them there, his kiss warm and still and grounding. “This is why I was nervous about you doing this,” he says gently, his voice low but steady, no judgment in it, just knowing. “Because there’s only so much a person can hold before something slips.” He doesn’t mean it as a criticism—it’s more like truth, soft-spoken and carefully delivered, like a chord you don’t expect but fits perfectly when it lands. His hand never lets go of yours. He lets it rest on your thigh, thumb stroking along the edge of your skin just under the hem of your robe, and the rhythm slows everything in you. Your shoulders ease. Your breath finally catches and releases. And when he leans in close, the press of his chest brushing your shoulder, the room starts to mute around the edges.

“Try again,” he murmurs, and this time he says it like he means it, like it’s a gift instead of an order, and when your fingers move again, they don’t fumble. They settle. They remember. The first notes hum out clear and round, soft and steady like breath returning to a body. The keys don’t feel foreign anymore—they feel like flesh, like language, like something sacred you thought you lost. The melody unfurls slowly from your chest, and when your voice joins it, it’s quieter than usual but stronger too, like it’s coming from someplace older than fear, someplace he knows how to reach. He watches you the whole time—not to judge, not even to guide—but like he’s listening with every inch of his skin. His hand doesn’t leave your leg. His thigh stays pressed to yours, the warmth of it bleeding through silk and nerve endings. It feels like you’re being played too, like the music is threading through both of you, pulling taut the silence between inhale and exhale.

“I used to play this with my dad,” you whisper, fingers still ghosting the keys. “When I was little. He’d sit next to me on this terrible bench that squeaked every time we moved, and he’d play the chords I couldn’t reach yet. He always smelled like bergamot and chalk.” You laugh, soft and breathy, something aching just beneath it. “He never sang, though. Said his voice was for yelling, not melodies.”

Jeno doesn’t speak at first. Just rests his forehead against the side of your temple, his breath warm against your skin, his silence louder than any response. Then his fingers lace tighter through yours. “Your voice belongs here,” he says simply, reverently. “Right here. Like it’s always known how to come back. You got this. Your voice is gonna save the wedding, sing it like it’s just for us.”

Your mouth tilts into a smile, slow and dangerous, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes but still pulls the memory up from somewhere buried beneath your ribs. It curls there for a moment, smoke rising off something half-burned. “Do you remember the first time you watched me at the bar?” you murmur, voice low, like you’re whispering to someone who’s already seen the worst parts of you and stayed anyway. The air in the room shifts around it, heavier now, thick with something unspoken. You don’t look at him when you say it—you stare ahead, at the piano, at the way your fingers hover just above the keys like they’ve forgotten whether they’re supposed to make sound or stay silent. Your hands are always like that when he’s this close. Like they remember things your mouth is still too afraid to say.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that silence tells you everything. You feel it in the slight tension of his thigh brushing yours, the way his chest doesn’t rise for a breath, the quiet way he watches you. That night is still alive in both of you—not a memory, but a locked room with no windows, no clocks, just red light and ruin and the exact moment everything split in two. It was never casual. Never accidental. You were both running from something you didn’t name, and the music in that place didn’t sound like music—it sounded like a warning, like metal stretched too tight, like desire curling inside danger. He wasn’t meant to be there but whatever God pulled you into the same room at the same time had no interest in peace. It was always going to end with teeth.

“When I saw you,” he says finally, voice thick and low, heavy with something darker than awe. “I just froze. I had never felt like that in my entire life, it was like the air changed to make space for you.” His words slow as they form, deliberate, controlled, but you feel the truth sliding beneath every syllable—his restraint, his hunger, the memory of the moment he saw you sing. “You opened your mouth,” he murmurs, his hand tightening slightly on your thigh, “and I knew that it was you, Mark’s best friend, insufferable, stubborn, someone who I should’ve never looked at and wanted the way I wanted you that night.”

His breath skims your cheek, low and warm, dragging your pulse with it. “You were onstage and you didn’t flinch once. Didn’t glance at the crowd, didn’t adjust your mic, didn’t break when the bass kicked in—you just sang. Like you were already somewhere else. Like we were the ones interrupting.” His voice dips, rough now, close to dangerous. “I was already hard halfway through your second line. You hadn’t even looked at me and my whole body knew.” He shifts closer, thigh pressing tight against yours, eyes tracking your mouth without shame. “No one’s ever hit me like that before. Not with sound. Not with silence. Nothing has touched me the way your voice did that night.”

His hand moves, slow and sure, up your thigh—his fingers sliding just beneath the edge of your dress like they belong there, like they’ve always belonged there. His other hand catches your wrist gently and lays it flat against the closed lid of the piano, palm down, as if anchoring you there. His eyes stay on your face the whole time, studying it like the words live somewhere in your skin. “I remember the way you held the mic,” he goes on, voice lower now, almost hoarse. “Like you didn’t need it. Like the sound would’ve come from you anyway, whether we were ready for it or not.”

He breathes out slowly, like the memory tastes heavier than he expected. “And I was standing there, thinking this was some kind of fucking punishment. That I’d done something wrong in another life and this was the consequence—having to sit and watch you. Not being able to touch you until after. Watching you sing like you weren’t meant to be seen, like the whole goddamn world was already inside you.” His thumb drags a slow line up your inner thigh. His mouth presses once to the side of your neck, just under your ear, not soft—curious, like he’s revisiting something that never stopped living in his head. “I fell into you and I haven’t heard silence the same way since.”

You let the silence hang there just a little too long, the heat between you curling tighter with every second, his words still simmering low in your stomach like they’ve hooked something and started pulling. Then you shift on the bench, slow, deliberate, your thigh pressing into his like you’re daring him to flinch. Your eyes flick up to meet his—darker now, sharper, a little cruel. “The second I started singing you didn’t even pretend to look away. You just looked at me like you already knew what you wanted and were waiting for me to catch up.”

You slide into his lap without warning, slow and heavy, your dress hiking higher as your thighs cage him in, your hands planting firm on his shoulders like you’ve done this a thousand times in your head. You rock once, hips pressing down with quiet intent, and the breath he pulls in is sharp enough to cut. Your voice stays low, your mouth near his ear. “Then I saw you properly. Lee Jeno. Captain of the Ravens. Mark’s cocky little brother. The one who strutted through campus like every hallway was made for him. Everyone knew you. The arms, the jaw, the fucking mouth—yeah, all of it. But the thing that really got whispered about?” You shift again, grinding slow against the thick press under you now, your lips dragging along his cheek. “Was your cock. Big enough to ruin girls. Heavy enough they bragged about how sore they were the next day.”

Your fingers tug his shirt just a little, knuckles brushing skin. “I should’ve walked the fuck away. Should’ve known better. But then I saw your lips—full, slow, too pretty for someone who looked like he fucked rough—and I just knew. I was gonna ride you until you forgot your own name.” Your smile flicks sharp, your hips rolling once more. “And you let me so I still sang for you.”

Your mouth brushes his jaw, slow and sure. “Didn’t matter that I’d heard about you. That you were a player, that you were a shitty boyfriend, that you left girls in tears and didn’t call back. You watched me like you were already under me. Like you were already mine.” You glance down, just once. “And when I got you alone—and saw how fast you gave it up, how quick you let me take control—I knew. I fucking knew I had you.”

You lean in closer, lips grazing his jaw as you speak, slow and hushed, like this is only for him. “Everyone else at the bar disappeared. I couldn’t see anything but you. I don’t remember the second verse. I don’t remember the bridge. I just remember your face. That grip you had on me from across the crowd. I could feel it. I was singing for you by the end of the first chorus.” Your tone dips silkier, tighter now, like a ribbon drawn across skin. “Didn’t know what I was doing. I just wanted to see what you’d let me take. How far you’d go for me. How far I could push.”

The moment hangs between you, breathless and heavy, like a dropped match waiting to burn through the floor. You don’t blink. He doesn’t move. But the tension shifts — coils tighter, thicker, deeper, until it cracks open between you with a low, ragged inhale that’s more instinct than breath. His mouth catches yours before you finish your next thought, and the kiss is harsh from the start — desperate, consuming, all tongue and teeth and hunger, like you’ve both been holding this in for too long and now there’s no way to stop. His hands find your waist, your hips, dragging you closer until your thighs frame his, until your bodies press in everywhere they can. You moan into him and feel it echoed back in the way he growls softly, low in his chest, the sound vibrating through your ribcage. He’s already trying to hike the dress up higher, fisting the silk against your ass, until you break the kiss with a gasp and a smirk and slide your hand down his wrist.

You break the kiss only when his fingers start gathering your dress too roughly at the sides. You pull back just enough to let your voice cut between you. “Careful,” you whisper firmly, nails scraping along his back until he freezes mid-motion. “If you ruin this dress I’ll strangle you mid thrust.” Your eyes flick to his—dark, daring, half-lidded, but deadly serious. “And I really want to fuck you first.” The corner of his mouth curves, but he gets it. His touch changes instantly. Slower now, reverent even, the same control you always knew lived under all that force. His palms move under the silk like they’re reading you, mapping every place he’s already claimed and finding the ones he hasn’t yet. He hums once, a sound deep in his chest, amused and wrecked and reverent all at once, and kisses you again, slower this time, letting his tongue trace your bottom lip like he’s smoothing over the chaos he just caused.

The kiss deepens again, but it’s no longer desperate. It’s controlled. Purposeful. His hand cradles the back of your neck, thumb grazing beneath your ear with that precise pressure that always makes you melt. His other hand slips under the hem of your dress with practiced ease, not yanking, just lifting until the fabric pools at your thighs, warm against your skin, heavy with threat. You let him—because the way he touches you now is reverent, like silk is sacred and your body is scripture, and he’s memorizing both in the language only your nerves understand. His lips move to your throat, grazing down slowly, mouthing at the place your pulse flutters just beneath the skin. You tilt your head back, giving him more, even as your fingers curl into his shirt, dragging it loose at the hem, searching for skin. He groans into your neck, one hand still cupping your thigh, the other trailing fire down your spine, and when he speaks again, it’s more breath than voice.

The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that pulls the breath from your chest. The sound vanishes into the charged quiet of the piano room, where everything feels untouched, preserved, waiting. The grand piano stretches across the floor like a black monolith, gleaming in the late-afternoon light, its lid down, its keys still reverberating faintly from the last song you played — like they remember your fingers, your voice, your unraveling. Your dress is bunched high around your thighs, the bodice pulled taut across your chest, wrinkled from where his hands have already been. Jeno’s blazer is somewhere on the floor behind you, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms veined and flexing, shirt sticking to the sculpt of his torso like he was poured into it.

This isn’t a room anymore. It breathes like it’s alive, like it’s watching, like it’s holding its breath for you. Every corner hums with memory, with heat, with the tension of something about to break. It’s a sanctuary carved out of pressure, a stage where nothing stays hidden, a confessional without mercy. The walls feel too close and too wide all at once, the light too gold, the silence too loud. And the piano—black, gleaming, still humming from your last touch—is no longer furniture. It’s an altar dressed in shadow and reflection, waiting to be worshipped or ruined. It’s the only thing in the world solid enough to catch you when your body finally gives in.

He kisses you like he’s been holding it back all day, like he’s starving and you’re the last thing in the world worth sinking his teeth into. His mouth is hot, open, forceful — tongue sliding deep, dragging heat from your chest into your throat, groaning against your lips like he’s tasting the fear you didn’t voice. There’s no fumbling, no hesitation. His hands are already under your dress, palms dragging up the backs of your thighs, thumbs bruising the swell of your hips as he moves with purpose. Lace is shoved aside with a flick of his fingers. He finds you wet and swears into your mouth like it’s a prayer. You grind down into his touch, chasing friction, your breath hitching, your thighs tightening around his wrists like you’re begging without language. He doesn’t give you time to catch up. He just grips your waist, spins you, and bends you over the closed piano lid so fast your breath punches out in a gasp. Your palms flatten against the wood, cool and smooth beneath your skin, the arch of your spine instinctive, heels planted wide.

The room is silent, unbearably so, thick with tension and sweat-slick heat, save for the ragged catch in his throat when he fists the base of his cock and pushes between your thighs, dragging the swollen head through your folds like he’s savouring it — slow, slow, then deeper, deeper, until he bottoms out with a groan punched from his chest, and you’re split open around him, stretched tight, hole clenching involuntarily as you gasp, ass in the air, chest pressed flat against the cold, glossy curve of the piano. The angle’s brutal — deliberately so — your back arched like a bow strung too tight, cunt forced to take every inch without resistance, every nerve ending scraped raw by the drag of his cockhead as he grinds deeper.

Your knees are already trembling, locked wide and helpless, the burn shooting up your thighs delicious and filthy. He doesn’t thrust yet, doesn’t give you even a rhythm to chase, he just stays buried, holds you there like a fucktoy meant to wear him, every inch of him pulsing hot inside your gut. One hand grips your hip, the other spreads across your ass, squeezing, then prying your cheeks apart to watch himself disappear into you, his breath catching again. “You feel that?” he mutters low, more to himself than you, but it licks down your spine like a promise. “Fucking dripping. Swallowing me whole.” You’re leaking around the base of his cock already, slick dripping down your inner thighs, pooling between your legs, and when he gives the slightest twitch of his hips, not a thrust, just a tease, you choke on a moan, whole body clenching as the stretch lodges in your throat like a sob. You can’t think. You can’t move. You’re impaled, used, and already begging for more with your body, and he hasn’t even started.

One hand spreads wide across your shoulder blades, pressing you down hard until your chest molds tighter to the piano’s curve, forcing your spine into an obscene arch, ass high and trembling, legs locked open like they’ve forgotten how to close. His other hand slides into your hair, threading in deep at the roots until he’s gripping your whole scalp, angling your head back until your throat’s exposed like an offering. You feel it before you hear him, before he even speaks, the wet warmth of his spit landing hot on your cheek, rolling down in a slick line toward your mouth. He doesn’t wait. He catches it with his fingers, spreads it messily across your lips, then pinches your chin until your jaw drops open for him like muscle memory. “That’s it. Show me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, and slides two fingers between your lips, curling them over your tongue with a pressure that’s possessive, worshipping.

Your moan wraps around them. He thrusts forward hard at the same time, brutal and sudden, the head of his cock punching deeper into your cunt, and the sound you make is ragged, animal, caught between a choke and a cry. You gag around his fingers and he groans, low and guttural, hips grinding deeper as his palm at your back slides lower, gripping your waist like it’s his anchor. “There she fucking is,” he snarls, dragging your mouth open wider, spit stringing from your lips to his knuckles. His voice is thick with filth, but it’s the way he says it, slow, measured, almost loving, that makes your cunt clench, your eyes flutter. You’re drooling down your chin now, thighs slick and shaking, nails scraping uselessly against lacquer, and you still want more. You want him nastier, deeper, meaner. You want to be taught, to be fucked through, to be stripped of whatever’s left of your control until all you know how to do is obey.

His fingers are still in your mouth, curling deeper now, pressing down on your tongue until your moans turn to muffled pleas, nothing but heat and drool and need spilling past your lips. He watches it all, how your body jolts with every grind of his hips, how your thighs quiver when he pulls almost all the way out, slow and cruel, before slamming back in with a growl that ripples through your chest. Your eyes roll, your breath catches, and still, he gives you no mercy. Just that same punishing pace, every thrust angled to hit the spot that makes your legs kick, your back arch, your voice break around his hand.

“You wanna come, baby?” he rasps, leaning in close, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dark and coaxing. “Say it. Say what you need. Say who you need.”

You whimper, the noise pathetic and soaked, spit running from the corner of your mouth down to your jaw. He pulls his fingers out, slow and wet, smearing the mess across your lips like gloss. You chase the touch, drunk on it, and the absence burns worse than the stretch.

“Please,” you manage, voice wrecked, hips stuttering beneath his grip. “Please, I need—”

He slaps your ass again, rougher this time, palm cracking loud across your skin, the sound bouncing off the piano’s polished surface. You jolt forward, walls clenching hard around him. He laughs, soft and cruel, dragging you back again until your cunt’s swallowing his cock to the hilt. “No,” he hums, “use your words. Tell me who’s making you feel like this.”

Your lips tremble. Your eyes sting. You’re dizzy with it, all of it — the burn, the rhythm, the way his cock hits so deep you swear he’s carving out space inside you. “You. You are—”

“Wrong,” he snaps, grabbing your face, fingers digging into your cheeks until your mouth is forced open again. “Try again. Or I’ll edge you all night, baby. I’ll fuck you stupid and empty, and you still won’t get to come.”

It slips out of you like instinct, like prayer sharpened into confession. “Daddy,” you gasp, voice cracking at the edges, “Daddy, please, please let me come— I need it, I need you, I’ll be good, I swear, just—”

He slams into you so hard the piano shudders beneath your ribs, a guttural noise ripped from his throat. “That’s it. Fucking beg for it. Beg like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

“Daddy—” you sob, choking on the word, on the shame and heat and the unbearable fullness inside you, “Daddy, please let me come, I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, I’ll stay bent just like this, just don’t stop—”

“Good fucking girl.” His voice breaks. “You sound so fucking pretty when you cry for me.”

The sound you make isn’t human. It doesn’t have to be. His thrusts are ruthless now, no rhythm, just brute force, hips slamming into your ass until the piano rocks under you. The lacquer groans. The keys cry out, discordant and shrill. You try to reach back, to brace yourself, but his palm cracks down across your ass again — hard enough to welt, hard enough to leave you gasping — and his voice whips across your spine like a leash. “No hands. You stay where I fucking put you.”

You whimper, head bowed, breath steaming against the lacquered surface, lips parted, drool catching on the curve of your chin. Every muscle in your thighs is trembling, every nerve pulled taut, but you grind back harder anyway — shameless, greedy, your cunt clenching like it’s starving for him. “Fuck,” you hiss through clenched teeth, desperate to feel him deeper, meaner, rougher. He snarls behind you, a brutal sound, then grabs your hips like handles, fingers digging in so deep you’ll wear his marks for days. In a single motion, he lifts you clean off the keys, spins you like a ragdoll, and tosses you onto your back across the piano lid. The thud echoes beneath you, sharp and jarring, lacquer biting into your spine and shoulder blades, but you don’t care — legs falling open on instinct, knees bent, toes pointed like a whore waiting to be used.

You barely catch a breath before he’s shoving in again, a savage, hungry thrust that splits you open from the inside, your slick gushing around the base of his cock as your whole body arches. “You were made for this,” he growls, voice shaking with restraint. “Made to take me like this. Like a good little slut.” His hands snake around your throat again, callused thumbs bracketing your jaw as he starts to fuck up into you — brutal, relentless, each thrust slamming you against the unyielding wood, each drag of his cock obscene and wet and unrelenting. He’s not choking you, not exactly — just holding you still, keeping you there with that sick possessive grip like your body is his anchor and he won’t let it drift an inch.

Your heels dig into his back, calves tightening around his waist as you start to move too — riding him from beneath, bouncing on his cock like you need to be ruined, like you want it enough to sob for it. The slap of skin against skin gets filthier, wetter, faster. Your tits bounce with every thrust, nipples pebbled, mouth open wide as breathless moans turn to ragged cries. “You like that?” he spits, slamming up harder, driving his cock into your cervix like he’s trying to fuck you straight through the piano. “You like being flipped and fucked like a toy? Look at this fucking mess — drooling, bouncing, begging me to break you.”

You can’t answer. You can only moan, eyes rolling back as your hips slap down again, cunt so soaked it sounds pornographic. You ride him harder, grinding with every downward roll, letting him use you like the filthy little thing he always knew you were. Your hands claw at the keys beneath you, hitting sharp discordant notes that scream beneath your body, and still he doesn’t slow. “Show me,” he snarls, eyes locked on yours. “Bounce on it. Fuck yourself on my cock. Come on, baby — make me come with you.”

You ride him like you’ve been waiting your whole life to be ruined, thighs spread wide, knees digging into the bench on either side of his hips as you bounce on his cock with reckless, messy abandon. Your palms press into his chest for leverage, nails dragging down his sweat-slick skin, your body snapping up and down in frantic rhythm, tits bouncing, mouth open, breath coming out in hot, stuttered gasps every time you drop your weight and take him to the base. The piano bench creaks beneath you, sharp and jerking, but you don’t stop — you can’t — not with the way his cock bullies into that perfect spot with every bounce, the drag and stretch driving you insane. Your cunt clenches wet and tight around him, soaking him to the base, your slick coating his thighs, dripping down to the wood beneath you. You fuck yourself like you’ve got something to prove, grinding on every downstroke, riding that thick cock like it’s the only thing keeping your body from shattering. He’s gripping your waist now, letting you do the work but guiding you, dragging you down harder, faster, snarling up at you like you’re the prettiest slut he’s ever seen. You throw your head back, hands sliding to his shoulders, and moan through gritted teeth as your pace turns feral, hips snapping, ass clapping down with every bounce, fucking him deeper, fucking yourself dumb.

“Fuck—fuck, I missed this,” you sob, voice high, wrecked, hands braced against his chest for leverage as your hips snap, grind, roll. “I missed how deep you get. How full you make me, I can feel it deep inside of me, baby—” He groans beneath you, breath ragged, hands fisting around your waist to hold you steady as you fuck yourself on his cock like you’re trying to bury him in your womb. You know he’s watching — the bounce of your tits, the way your stomach flutters with every slam, the sheen of sweat dripping down your spine. You lean closer, panting in his ear as your rhythm turns desperate. “You like watching me? Like seeing your girl bouncing like a whore, soaking your cock, using you to fuck herself stupid?” You grind deeper, clenching around him, and his cock twitches hard inside you. Your lips brush his, teeth grazing, filthy and breathless as you whimper, “Then let me perform. Let me come for you, baby. Let me fucking sing.”

His hand flies up to your jaw, grabbing it rough, tilting your face to his until your noses nearly brush, and his voice rips out of him like a growl dragged through broken glass. “Look at me.” His eyes are wild, pupils blown, locked onto yours like he’s about to devour you. “Fucking look at me while I break you open. You wanna sing for me, baby? Then earn it. Come on my cock with your eyes wide, looking at the man who owns every fucking part of you.”

You try. God, you try. Your head lolls, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, and your fingers scrabble at the edge of the piano, nails scraping ivory, the instrument shrieking beneath you. Your cunt clenches hard — too hard — and he groans like it hurts. “That’s it,” he bites out. “Come on this dick. Squeeze it. Show me how fucking ruined you are.”

Your body’s already trembling when he shifts beneath you, still balls-deep inside your soaked cunt, still hard, still twitching, the weight of his cock stretching you full and high and aching. His hands roam your back, slow and reverent now, dragging down the slick curve of your spine, then back up again, pressing you tighter to his chest as you grind your hips in slow circles, cunt fluttering with overstimulation. It’s not the frantic bounce from before — this is deeper, filthier, more intimate. You roll your hips deliberately, letting the tip of his cock kiss your cervix on every pass, your clit grinding against the seam of his pelvis until your whole body quivers from the inside out. You bury your face into his neck, moaning soft and wrecked, breath catching when he presses his lips to your shoulder. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Take it slow, baby. Give me all of it.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he shudders when your walls squeeze around him, tight, hot, desperate. “Baby,” you whisper, voice barely there, more breath than sound, “I’m close. I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—” Your thighs shake, hips stuttering, every nerve drawn tight like a bowstring about to snap. He kisses you then — soft, deep, tongue curling into your mouth like he wants to feel your orgasm before it even hits — and thrusts up into you with a rhythm so perfect it breaks you open. You cry out into the kiss, loud and raw, grinding hard against him as your climax rips through you. Your cunt clamps down around his cock like a vice, pulsing, sucking him in, and your whole body jerks in his lap, every muscle seized and shaking. Your mouth opens wide, a gasp caught somewhere between sobbing and singing, and your fingers tremble against his chest as the wave crests and crashes, crashing again, spilling through you in shudders.

He doesn’t stop — just fucks you through it, holds you through it, his arms locking tight around your waist as you ride out every pulse, every twitch, every aftershock. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your jaw, lips soft, his voice low and reverent. “So fucking beautiful like this. So good for me. Look at you.” You’re gasping, eyes hazy, fucked-out and floating, and when he feels your cunt milk him again, tighter this time, more needy, more greedy, he groans — deep and rough, hips bucking once, twice, then slamming up into you as he comes with a snarl against your throat. He spills deep, cock twitching hard inside you, his whole body going rigid as he empties into you, thick and hot and endless. You feel it coat your walls, drip out around him, your cunt still fluttering from the aftershocks, still squeezing him like it wants to keep every drop.

You stay like that, wrapped around him, unmoving, your head buried under his chin, your chest heaving against his. Neither of you speak. The silence is warm, sacred, stretched thin between two ruined bodies coming back together. His hands smooth up and down your back in slow strokes, and your thighs twitch every time his cock shifts inside you, still buried, still plugging you full. He kisses your temple again — longer this time — and breathes into your skin like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. You hum, soft and raw, a sound closer to love than lust, and your fingers toy with the hair at the back of his neck. “You okay?” he murmurs. “You here?” You nod, weak but sure, your voice cracked from screaming, from moaning, from all the words he fucked out of you.

His mouth brushes your temple one more time, and he smiles, tender and quiet. “You ready?” he asks, but this time there’s no teasing, no expectation, just warmth — like he’s giving you the choice to stay, to breathe, to be held. Your voice is gone. But your eyes are open, soft and shining, and your lips curve with something more than just the afterglow. Your whole body is molten in his arms, wrecked and cherished all at once.

“Now I can sing.”

The villa has been transformed into something almost mythic, like the final act of a play too divine to name. Pale stone stretches beneath tall open archways that frame the horizon like a painting in motion — sea kissed gold by the late afternoon sun, the sky heavy with light, clouds dragging slowly above like silk soaked in honey. The altar is built from old ivory columns entwined with draping orchids and twisted wisteria, everything blooming outwards in soft white and antique blush, petals drifting loose in the breeze like the ceremony’s already begun weeping. Rows of chairs line the platform in perfect symmetry, every detail curated to whisper reverence — thin velvet ribbons, golden place cards scrawled in delicate ink, glasses of sparkling citrus spritz balanced on side tables that catch the sunlight in shards. The sound of the ocean below blends with the music still tuning in the background — violins soft, expectant, like a throat clearing before a vow.

Guests have started to arrive in slow waves — family friends, former teammates, board members in tailored suits, plus-ones holding nervous smiles and clutching their handbags like shields. Nahyun sits toward the second row with her father, legs crossed, eyes cast to the floor like she’s trying to stay invisible — though her dress clings too sharp, too smooth to ever blend in. Her father hasn’t removed his sunglasses. He sips his drink like it’s penance. Chenle and Shotaro are seated farther back, whispering commentary in low bursts, adjusting their collars and pretending they’re not watching you every time you shift in your seat. Karina’s down front beside one of Irene’s nieces, checking the time every ten seconds like she’s waiting for someone to detonate. Doyoung stands off to the left of the altar, arms crossed behind his back, mouth tight, suit sharp, but his gaze flicks toward the entrance every few beats, like he’s tracking the wind for signs of a storm.

You arrive moments before the music begins, slipping into the side wing of the platform like a secret. Your heels don’t echo, they hum. The bodice of your dress hugs high across your ribs, shoulders bare, your arms loose at your sides, and the fabric catches in the wind just enough to make it look like you’re part of the altar itself — not walking toward it, but rising from it. Your skin glows, flushed but even, that halo of fresh touch still clinging to your throat like memory. You’d barely had time to touch up in the mirror before Karina shoved you into place again, but it doesn’t matter — your lips are soft, your hair is coiled loose and perfect, your wrists still bear the imprint of Jeno’s fingers. You’ve been undone and remade in under twenty minutes, and the evidence is everywhere. It’s in the way your eyes gleam brighter. The way your steps carry heat even through marble.

Jeno is already at the front, barely seated, collar open at the neck where he didn’t bother refastening his tie, his chest rising slightly too fast as he scans the altar and then — you. His gaze locks. He doesn’t look away. His suit fits like it was tailored in a rush, one button slightly skewed, his cuffs half rolled again, the aftershock of you still visible in the way his legs are spread and his palms drag down his thighs like he needs to anchor himself to the moment. When you pass behind the back row of chairs, your fingers drag the hem of your dress gently to the side, and he watches your hand like he can still feel it wrapped around him. You don’t smile, but your mouth curves. And when he shifts again — when his knuckles graze his jaw, when his tongue presses slow to the inside of his cheek — you know he’s thinking about what you did in the piano room. How you sounded. What he took, and what you gave.

Your family sits along the right-hand row, halfway up. Your mother in a pale mauve wrap dress, perfectly pressed, hair pinned tight, eyes scanning the altar with restrained tension like she’s watching a test she doesn’t believe you’ll pass. Your dad beside her, stiff, trying to make polite conversation with a guest who clearly doesn’t remember who he is. Nari is on the aisle seat. She looks radiant, cheeks pink, dress tight in the way she knows works for her body, one leg crossed high and head tilted every time someone interesting walks past. She smiles easily, but her eyes flick to your mother every so often like she’s waiting for approval, or judgment, or a reason to vanish. None of them know what just happened in the piano room. None of them know what it cost you to walk out here glowing. But they feel the echo of it anyway, even if they don’t name it.

A bell rings faintly in the distance. It’s not real. Just wind brushing against the chimes from the far end of the terrace. But it feels like a signal. The kind of sound that closes a chapter. Somewhere behind you, Irene stands up, exhales once, and says your name.

Outside, the wedding has bloomed. Canopies stretch across the side lawns like sails mid-flight, each corner anchored by heavy iron lanterns that glow dim amber under the afternoon haze. Plates are already laid out in precise rows—gold-rimmed porcelain, linen napkins folded into delicate lilies, glass flutes at every seat already half-filled with rosé that catches the light like fractured gems. Long wooden tables hum with the promise of a feast, each centerpiece a climb of white branches and pale dahlias, tea lights flickering like tiny heartbeats under leaf-dappled shadows. Waiters move like ghosts, gliding between chairs with trays of champagne and citrus-smoked olives. Nothing’s been touched yet. Everything waits. Everything holds.

The violinists are positioned at the far left, beneath the ivy-covered archway that curls just before the aisle begins. One of them plucks a soft arpeggio to tune, and it sounds like a breath held too long, like someone stepping back into a memory they haven’t had time to grieve. The rest of the quartet adjusts their bows, straightens posture, reads the same line of music over again. The opening note hasn’t begun, but the silence feels shaped around it.

From where you’re standing now, the sea is glass. The sky feels like the lid of a treasure box slowly sliding shut. Somewhere behind the altar, Irene’s about to make her entrance. But for a moment — just a moment — everything belongs to the tension braided between your gaze and Jeno’s, tight and breathless, stretched across the marble like a drawn bow.

Behind the columns and chiffon curtain folds, where the altar can’t be seen but its gravity still holds, the air is denser. Thicker with perfume and nerves and hairspray, with the sharp sweetness of peonies pushed too close to the edge of their bloom. Irene sits on a velvet bench near the open terrace doors, hands clenched tight around a silk handkerchief that’s already been folded twelve different ways. Her dress gleams against her skin like a second spine—structured, commanding, beautiful—but it doesn’t hide the way her knee keeps bouncing. Her makeup is flawless, her hair curled into place, but her eyes shift too often, too fast, and when she glances down at her bouquet, she counts every stem like it’s a mantra. Beside her, Areum mutters something meant to soothe, but her voice is too high, too breathy to land. She’s flustered, beautiful, impatient in that Areum way—lipstick reapplied twice in five minutes, strapless dress adjusted with every inhale, pretending she’s holding it together when her hand hasn’t left the compact mirror since she arrived.

Mark stands slightly apart from both of them, near the curtained divider that separates this corner of the villa from the ceremony aisle. His tux is immaculate—black silk lapels, navy pocket square folded with quiet precision—but his jaw is locked, eyes unmoving. His fingers tap his thigh in a steady rhythm, but his shoulders don’t twitch. Stillness like that only comes from fury, or focus, or grief, and Mark’s carrying all three. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t check his phone. His attention is fixed on the gap in the curtain where the sunlight bleeds through, pale and soft and waiting. He’s listening. For footsteps. For voices. For the start of something he doesn’t know if he wants to end or preserve. When Areum shifts again and sighs, Mark’s brow twitches, barely visible—but it’s there. You know he’s watching the timeline split open again in his head.

Inside the bridal suite, Irene stands still beneath the soft glow of the chandelier, lips parted, whispering something soundless into her bouquet—half-prayer, half-ritual, her breath fogging the petals like confession. Her eyes flick upward as if searching for something to hold onto in the rafters, something steady above the weight in her chest. The silk of her gown glimmers with every shift of light, her veil trembling slightly at the edges, whether from nerves or wind no one can say. Everything about her seems suspended—between fear and joy, between memory and future, between the person she was and the one she’s about to become. She’s mouthing the vows under her breath now, like a mantra, like armor, but her hands won’t stay still, fingers twitching against the stems of the bouquet that’s already beginning to wilt from how tightly she’s gripping it. The room doesn’t breathe. It waits.

You tilt your head slightly, the corner of your lip caught between teeth as you study her profile, the flutter in her lashes, the way her fingers adjust the bouquet even though it hasn’t moved. “Are you okay?” you ask gently, barely louder than the wind stirring the linen drapes behind you, and she nods too quickly, like it’s instinct, not truth. Her breath catches halfway, and you see the moment settle in her shoulders, the weight of it, the truth of what comes next. You don’t let the silence win—you reach for her hand, folding your fingers over hers, thumb sweeping slow across her knuckles. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you murmur, tone quieter now, built from years of knowing how she listens. “You just have to be here. You’ve already done the hard parts. This is the easy part. This is love, not war.” Her grip tightens, barely, her fingers warm and trembling, and she doesn’t say anything right away—just closes her eyes for a second, exhales again like she’s remembering how.

Mark steps close with the kind of quiet you rarely ever see from him, eyes softer than they’ve been in years. He lingers near the curtain just a beat too long, then steps forward and smiles—genuine, tilted, a little crooked in that way that only belongs to him. “I’m supposed to be heading out to stand near Doyoung,” he says, voice low, a breath threaded through a smile, “but I had to come see my beautiful mother first.” Irene turns at the sound, her lips parting in something between surprise and relief, her lashes still damp from that last blink. She hasn't said anything yet. She doesn’t need to. Mark closes the space between them, slow and easy, and brings both hands up to cup her face, his fingers careful not to smudge the veil as he presses a kiss to her temple.

“You look beautiful,” he says, softer now, close to reverent. “Like you dreamed this into being.” His thumb strokes gently along the lace edge of her veil as he sets it into place, and this time, Irene doesn’t tremble. Doesn’t break. She just holds his gaze with something full and glowing in her chest. Her fingers come up to touch his wrist, and he smiles again, tighter this time, like he’s holding back more than just tears. “Go on,” he murmurs, stepping back and nodding once toward the chapel doors. “They’re all waiting for you.”

You step back, watching them, something thick blooming in your chest. “She’s ready,” you say, and this time, Irene is.

The aisle stretches ahead like a prophecy written in marble, anchored between rows of silk-covered chairs that gleam under the muted gold of a sky preparing to bear witness. Every seat hums with stillness, every guest poised in reverence, breath held behind the rims of crystal flutes and linen fans trembling in the warmth. Light slips through the stained-glass arch above the altar, diffused into amber and rose, painting the floor in ribbons like old blessings unfurled. The altar itself rises like a quiet cathedral—draped in ivory voile, garlanded in jasmine and orchid, each bloom fresh with dew, each ribbon floating like a held breath caught midair. No chandelier dares interrupt the air; only low candles, set deep into carved stone sconces, flicker with purpose, their flames dancing like they’ve been taught the language of devotion. The violinist lifts his bow, still suspended in pause, the air split with tension so fine it feels like a hush that belongs to God. The first step lands soft beneath your heel. A breath later, the world pivots around it.

You move forward slowly, each step measured against the heartbeat in your chest, each footfall sinking into the silk runner like the start of something mythic. Your dress clings and drapes, spun sugar and gravity, pulled tight across your frame in places and floating in others, like it was sewn by hands that understood longing. The orchids in your bouquet curve toward your fingers like they recognise your touch, their pale throats gleaming beneath the soft cascade of cream ribbon. You keep your gaze ahead, fixed on the slow unfolding of the ceremony, yet every shift in the room reaches for you—the tilt of a head, the intake of breath, the collective silence curved into admiration. The sun stretches lower through the western panes now, catching the sequins on your shoulder, and it feels like stepping into an old prayer meant only for you. The aisle beneath you is smooth, clean, sacred in the way fire is sacred—something meant to burn away the noise and leave only what matters.

He stands just beside the altar, haloed in shadow and light, a portrait rendered in contrasts—dark suit, pale collar, a throat that moves when he swallows like he’s holding something back that might burn. You see him before you mean to. Your gaze catches on the curve of his shoulder, the tension in his jaw, the hand curled briefly at his side like it remembers your shape. His eyes are already on you. They track the sway of your dress like it’s music he hasn’t heard in months. It’s not just desire. It’s dread. It’s reverence. It’s the look of a man who’s memorised too much and survived too little, who would follow you through ruin if it meant hearing you say his name again. You blink, and the candlelight seems to bend toward him. He stands there, chest rising slowly, a prayer written across his sternum and buried beneath the wool. If this wedding is the crescendo, he’s the pause between movements—the silence that threatens to swallow the song. Your feet still move forward but your pulse stumbles, your breath twists. You’re walking through a cathedral of strangers, but all you feel is the weight of his stare.

There is something terrible in the way he waits. Something holy. You don’t look at Mark, not even when he shifts beside Jeno, face gentler than it’s been in weeks. All you see is the man you almost ruined, who let you do it, who held your wrists and begged for more. He doesn’t smile but his lips part slightly, just enough for you to remember how they felt against the inside of your thigh. Just enough to make your breath drag harder through your lungs. Your hands tighten around the bouquet, stems creaking beneath your grip like bones bracing for impact. He stands beneath the stained-glass arch like he was built into the architecture, like he’s been standing there since before you were born, just waiting for you to walk into this moment and let it destroy you. You wonder if he knows—how the lace at your thighs is still damp, how your skin burns where he last kissed it, how every step toward him feels like falling out of your own body. You don’t break eye contact. You don’t need to. He already knows. He always has.

Behind you, Areum follows with practiced grace, the soft blush of her gown gleaming with every sway of her hips, her hair swept into a coiled arrangement of pins and delicate white combs. She smiles just enough to be caught by the light, her expression poised between elegance and effort. The two nieces follow, small in stature, heavy in symbolism, their dresses fluttering like opened letters passed between generations. A single flower slips from one of their bouquets—a pink gardenia, petal-folded and still warm from a child’s palm—and lands gently near the curve of the runner, settling there like a silent offering. The violin begins to climb in pitch. The sound blooms against the pillars, and the atmosphere turns electric with anticipation. It feels like the inside of a heartbeat.

And then Irene steps into view. Every motion becomes reverent. The light follows her first. The silence bends in her direction. Her gown flows behind her in waves, the fabric glinting with barely-there shimmer, each step stitching her more deeply into the moment. Her bouquet trembles once before stilling again, white lilies and pale roses arranged with the kind of deliberateness that reads more like confession than decoration. Her veil floats behind her, sheer and edged with antique lace, like a whisper of the women who came before her, who dreamt of this but never made it past the threshold. Every person stands. Every person turns and for a suspended breath, she walks through their gaze untouched—like myth turned flesh, like her love has built a new religion around her. Doyoung waits at the altar ahead, but she doesn’t hurry. The music swells like a vow, time reshapes itself to let her pass.

From the rightmost aisle, Mark watches. His head tilted slightly, eyes fixed on his mother the way a boy might look at the sea after years of drought. His mouth lifts, just slightly, reverence blooming through the corners. His suit is tailored sharp, collar open, and there’s something raw caught in the set of his jaw. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink—just absorbs every step she takes like she’s rewriting something in him. Her hand lifts briefly as she approaches, and you can see the way it trembles before settling on Doyoung’s arm. Then her eyes flicker to Mark, just once, long enough for the air between them to thicken. The violin holds a single note too long. The moment stretches and then Irene smiles. The kind of smile saved for the end of a journey. The kind that carries both peace and weight. The kind that means everything’s about to change.

Doyoung stands steady at the end of the aisle, his shoulders square beneath his tailored jacket, hands clasped in front of him like a soldier waiting for home. The guests blur into softness, their outlines indistinct in the golden haze of afternoon light that spills through the open archways. Each footstep she takes sounds like it’s wrapped in velvet, the hush of the room bending to let her pass. Her gown spills over the marble like poured milk, heavy silk whispering at her ankles with every step. You can feel her heart from where you stand—the rhythm of it stitched into the silence, into the way her spine holds straight, into the way she walks like a woman stepping into myth. Candles flicker along the aisle in tight glass cylinders, the flames low and reverent, like they recognize something sacred in her passage. She does not look left or right. She looks forward. She walks to him.

Doyoung takes one step forward before she’s fully arrived, and that’s the part that catches. Not the vows, not the music swelling behind them, but that instinct—his reach before the world gives permission. His eyes never waver, but they soften as she nears, mouth twitching with something he’s trying to swallow whole. Her hand finds his like she always meant to. They don’t speak yet. The silence between them folds like linen, thick and pressed with years of weight. The priest says something soft and measured—about love, about time, about hands that endure—but you barely hear it. The altar feels suspended now, wrapped in something larger than glass or sound. Even the sky seems to pause outside. The ocean doesn’t move. The wind has gone still. Irene turns toward him, and it’s the first time she blinks since she entered. Doyoung lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been waiting forever.

Their vows begin slow, trembling at the edge of restraint, but you watch how the words build, how Irene’s voice clears mid-sentence, how Doyoung straightens when she says ‘I choose you, every time.’ It isn’t the grand declarations that land—it’s the way their bodies lean into each other like gravity’s been pulling them closer for years. He holds her hand as if she’s fire and anchor both, and when he speaks, he doesn’t raise his voice. His words fall between them like stones in a riverbed, soft and irreversible. The sky outside brightens by a shade, as if the sun knows this moment needs recording. Somewhere behind you, someone sighs. Someone else wipes a tear. But in front of you, it’s just two people who stopped waiting. Two people who said yes when the world kept telling them to pause.

The priest’s voice breaks like thunder under silk, low and sonorous, as though it’s being exhaled from the bones of the villa itself. “If anyone objects to this union—speak now or forever hold your peace.” The words spill into the air like smoke through a cathedral, curling through breath and blood, freezing time just enough to make the world lean forward. The violin stills mid-glide, bow suspended like a blade about to fall, and a hush blooms so wide you can hear the wine shift in the glasses and the wind sighing through the drapes. Your spine draws tight. Every rib seems to listen. Something in the air pulls taut. It holds there, trembling, like it knows what’s coming before it arrives.

The scrape carves through the silence like a faultline breaking open mid-prayer, one chair dragging against stone, a screech that sounds too raw, too real, too much like a warning dressed in mundane disguise. It cuts through the air like a blade, turning every head, freezing every breath mid-inhale, as though even the wind dares not move until the sound finishes landing. You don’t see him first but you feel it, a disturbance rising like static in the chest, the kind of shift that rewrites the temperature of a room before your eyes catch up. Then there he is. One figure rising from the far end of the aisle, slashed in shadow, etched in the pale gold that bleeds through the arches like a crown forced onto the wrong king. His suit hangs heavy, collar askew, his tie wilting against the press of his sternum like something losing its shape. Taeyong. Standing. Or trying to. A hand lifts, suspended mid-air, trembling as if reaching for something he once had the right to claim. His mouth parts — barely — and you see it then: the flinch in his eyes, the panic fluttering beneath the glaze, the recognition that he’s forgotten the names of everyone watching him bleed from the inside out. He doesn’t look furious or guilty. He looks like a ghost still tethered to its body. And then —

Taeyong rises in pieces. His posture cracks first—one knee buckling before the other straightens. His foot catches, scrapes stone, and his shoulder clips the chair next to him. It tips, half-lurches, rights itself. His foot skids, heel catching crooked against the pew’s base, and for one breathless second his body pitches forward, spine bowing, one arm slicing through the air like he’s reaching for a rail that no longer exists. You see the shift in his weight, the jolt through his spine like something inside short-circuited. One hand shoots out for balance, fingers grazing the back of the nearest pew, but his grip slips, weak, shaking. He stumbles forward. It’s not enough to fall but just enough to make everyone think he might.

The sound that rips through the room isn’t a gasp—it’s the inhale before disaster, the kind of breath that clings to the throat like smoke in a locked stairwell. It doesn’t carry fear. It carries knowing. A premonition cloaked in lungs and salt. Something ancient and blood-bound. It sweeps through the space like an omen cracking its knuckles—familiar and final and already too late.

He straightens again—but too fast, like a marionette pulled hard on frayed strings, his head snapping upright, eyes wide, mouth hanging just barely open. His breath sounds wrong in his throat, shallow and wet, like he’s exhaling smoke no one else can see. The gold light through the windows cleaves his face in half—one side haloed, the other swallowed by shadow—and in that contrast, he looks biblical. Or blasphemous. A man who once stood behind pulpits now haunted by the ghosts that watched from the pews.

“I can’t—” he chokes, then swallows hard. The silence swells. “This can’t happen. This isn’t how—” His voice falters. “He was supposed to— I was…” His words twist and stumble the way his body just did, cracked and barely holding shape. He blinks rapidly, lashes twitching like something behind his eyes is unraveling faster than he can name it.

“I object.”

The words fall like metal dropped in a church—jagged, echoing, wrong. Not a plea or a cry, just the sound of something breaking where silence used to live, a hinge rusted shut, a door locking behind a ghost. You feel it first in your gut, sharp and cold, like the clink of silver against glass at a wake no one planned. You don’t move. No one does. The stillness isn’t stillness anymore. Jeno’s hand tightens around yours, almost too tight, the skin between your fingers pulled taut. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw locked, as if seeing Taeyong standing there has ripped open something he buried years ago. His breath halts in his chest, and you can hear it—feel it—like a pressure drop before a storm. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just holds you, as though if he lets go, you’ll both fall through the floor.

Mark’s eyes are already wide, chest heaving like he’s run somewhere he can’t name. His head snaps toward Irene, then back to his father, and something wounded flashes across his face. Not disbelief—recognition. Like he’s seen this before, maybe in a dream. Or a warning. His hands hover at his sides, fingers twitching, caught between stepping forward or bolting out of the room.

Nahyun shifts half a step back, confusion carved across her features like she’s waiting for someone to explain the joke. Her eyes dart to you, then to Jeno, then back to the figure swaying at the altar’s edge. Her father reaches for her arm in reflex, protective, but it only unbalances them both. He stares hard at Taeyong, lips pressed in a line, the kind men wear when they’re bracing for a headline.

Jaemin doesn’t move at all. He’s seated at the aisle’s end, body a statue, expression unreadable save for the slight crease in his brow, the sharp blink that betrays how closely he’s watching. As though he knows what’s about to happen, has already played it forward in his head and is just waiting to be proven right.

The priest’s book lowers by a fraction. His lips part, but no words come. He stands frozen, spine stiff, eyes fixed on Taeyong as though he’s not entirely convinced the man belongs to the living anymore. Doyoung’s fingers shift around Irene’s hand, but he doesn’t pull her back. And Irene—her breath catches like fabric tearing in her throat. Her mouth opens, then shuts, lashes trembling once before she lifts her chin. She’s holding on now. Bracing.

You don’t know if he sees any of you. The way Taeyong stands there—off-balance, blinking too slowly—it’s like he’s already somewhere else, answering a question none of you heard asked. And still, no one moves. Because no one knows whether this is a man clinging to what’s real—or a ghost that doesn’t yet know he’s dead.

Taeyong’s gaze drags across the crowd, jittery and unfocused, like he’s trying to recognize faces that once belonged to a life he no longer remembers. His breath comes faster now, words tumbling again before they’re shaped. “She doesn’t know. You think she knows, but—” He coughs. “They’ve lied. The history—her family—mine. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.” His voice sounds like it’s rotting. Like it’s been buried too long and just dug itself back up. There’s a tremor in his jaw, a twitch in the tendons of his neck. He clutches the edge of a chair like it might anchor him to this plane.

The air has gone still. Even the candles seem to lean away. Flames shrink low in their holders like they’ve seen too much, like they’re preparing to be snuffed. The walls feel narrower. The light flickers from the weight of something darker, something pressing. A silence that hunts. Then—he laughs. It scrapes the air like metal teeth dragged across glass, too dry to carry, too slow to feel real. The sound comes from somewhere guttural, somewhere rotting—a crackle that stutters out of him like his lungs had to dig it up from underneath grief. It echoes sideways, warped by the marble and the arch, slithering past the rows of stunned guests like a whisper sent to the wrong century. It doesn’t land where it should. It doesn’t fit this wedding. It lingers too long and dies too slow, like something half-alive trying to crawl back into silence. A laugh pulled from the mouth of a man who’s already seen his own obituary and underlined the name in red. The kind of laugh that happens a moment before someone throws themselves into traffic—not out of recklessness, but inevitability. “You don’t know who I am anymore.” His voice curls under the altar like smoke beneath a locked door, chasing breath out of lungs before anyone can remember how to scream.

His knees buckle again, a slow sinking, joints folding like paper soaked through—but they don’t break. He rights himself just before bone meets marble, legs stuttering beneath him, spine wavering like a signal gone static. Still standing but only because collapse is choosing not to take him yet. He sways like a man waiting to be pulled offstage by something he owes. A debt come to collect. His body jerks once, a half-step forward that isn’t movement—it’s memory. It’s guilt returning to its origin point.

It’s disintegration dressed in memory, ritual gutted at the spine. The kind of undoing that starts at the seams—threads tugged by invisible hands, versions of him long buried clawing their way back to the surface. It bleeds from him now, thick and sour, fevered like confession whispered too late. Each word spills like it was never meant to leave the body. His mouth forms shapes that don’t feel human anymore. His breath stutters. His suit hangs limp, soaked with sweat, clinging like a borrowed name. The silk at his cuffs is stained, his tie wilts like it’s grieving. His shadow stretches crooked and long, curling across the stone like a spill that can’t be mopped up.

The body stays standing but everything else gives. The silence. The illusion. The unspoken pact to keep the past buried beneath clean linen and rings. Whatever line was drawn between the sacred and the ruined dissolves beneath his shoes. The guests don’t breathe. The priest doesn’t blink. You don’t know if you’re watching an objection or a resurrection. He looks like a man already halfway across, shouting from the shore, begging to be dragged back by the only thing strong enough to do it—truth. A god undone, crown melting down his throat. A father unraveling not into death, but into memory.

Mark moves. Each step lands like a warning, sharp against stone, echoing with the precision of something final. His shoulders stay rigid, suit pulled tight over his frame, breath shallow, locked inside a body wound for violence. The aisle stretches before him like a fuse, and he’s walking straight into it, eyes lit with a kind of rage too cold to shake. The guests scatter without needing to be told—Chenle reaches toward his arm once, hand half-lifted, but never makes contact. Mark walks through the space like he owns it, heat trailing in his wake, fury stitched into every tendon, every clenched muscle. His jaw is granite, his fists already curling at his sides with the slow rhythm of something about to strike. Taeyong stands near the altar, slack-eyed, muttering, unraveling by the second, and Mark only picks up speed. Every inch of him reads like impact. Beautiful. Tortured. The kind of fury that’s been waiting its whole life for an opening. When he reaches his father, he doesn’t pause. No speech. No hesitation. Just the sheer, unrelenting momentum of a son stepping into blood.

Taeyong staggers back, spine crashing into the edge of the pew, his body folding inwards for a second before he steadies again, arms limp at his sides. He stares ahead, glassy-eyed, lips parted like he doesn’t know whether to respond or vanish. There is no fight in him, no fury, no defense. Just the quiet slackness of a man who knew this moment was always coming. Mark’s voice cuts through the tension like a hot blade through ice. “You disgusting fucking coward.” His words land heavy and raw, throat scraped hollow from the force of them, too loud for this room, too real for this ceremony. “I told them not to let you come. I told them you’d do this. That you’d stand there like a goddamn monument to everything you broke and act like you deserve to be here.”

He steps forward again, taller somehow, broader in that rage, and his hand lifts for another shove, this one meaner. Taeyong folds against the motion, stumbling sideways into the pew again, breath knocked from him. “Every woman who’s ever trusted you,” Mark spits, “every girl who thought you were safe. You took that from them. You stole it and then you walked away like it wasn’t real.” His voice cracks, not from weakness, but from the unbearable truth of it. “And now you stand here like it never happened. Like you can just show your face and sit front row like this family wasn’t built on a fucking lie.”

Mark’s voice doesn’t rise—it tears. Straight from his chest, splintered with something rawer than rage. “You didn’t just ruin my life.”

He steps forward again, eyes burning through the candlelight, every word landing like glass underfoot. “You ruined everything.” His hand cuts toward Irene without touching. “You ruined his.” A flick toward Jeno, jaw clenched, unreadable. “You left pieces of yourself in all of us and then walked away like we were supposed to survive it.” His voice warps now, fury catching on the edge of grief. “You could’ve stayed gone. You should’ve stayed gone.”

Mark’s chest heaves once. Then he laughs—short, bitter, hollow. “You wanna know how you ruined my life?” His eyes lock on Taeyong’s, blazing. “You made me grow up in a fucking lie.” He steps forward, voice rising. “I spent half my childhood thinking I was your secret, the other half wishing I wasn’t. You left my mom in a one-bedroom flat with no heating and a son who looked like the man who walked out. You never visited. Never wrote. Never cared.” Mark shakes his head. “I used to think if I worked hard enough, played good enough, maybe one day I’d earn a seat at your table. But you already had a family. You already picked.”

He leans in. “You made me watch you love a son who got everything handed to him, while I clawed for scraps just to be allowed in the same room. And now you’re here, pretending like you were ever a father, ever a member of this family.” His fists clench again. “You didn’t just ruin my life. You made sure it’d hurt every time I tried to fix it.”

Chenle’s the first to move, fast and sharp like instinct cracking through the haze. His shoulder cuts through the aisle’s edge with a jolt, one arm shooting out toward Mark’s chest—no command, no scolding, just a hand pressing back, trying to wedge itself between rage and ruin. “Bro, that’s enough,” he mutters under his breath, but his voice trips halfway, unsteady. “You made your point. Come back.”

Mark doesn’t budge. Doesn’t blink. His chest is still heaving, suit stretched tight across his frame, jaw clenched like he’s chewing on everything he never got to say. Behind him, Donghyuck’s already crossed the threshold of hesitation—he doesn’t speak, doesn’t joke, just grabs Mark’s wrist and tugs, firm and bracing. “You’ll kill him,” he says quietly, more warning than concern, and there’s no fear in it, only exhaustion. Shotaro trails close behind, slower, more stunned than anything else, eyes flicking from Taeyong’s bent form to the edge of Mark’s mouth like he’s trying to gauge which part will crack next. “Mark—seriously—”

“Get the fuck off me.” Mark snarls it, but his voice breaks halfway, the fury starting to ripple into something darker—hurt that’s taken shape in his throat and now bleeds through every syllable. His shoulders tighten under their hands but don’t fight back fully, body twitching with restraint like a dam trying not to split at the seams. He takes one final step forward anyway, breath fanged, eyes still locked on Taeyong’s face, like if he looks away first, he loses. “You wanna beg now? Do it somewhere else.”

Taeyong doesn’t speak. Doesn’t wipe the blood at the corner of his lip. His gaze wavers, unfocused, and for a second he looks old. Smaller. Almost swallowed whole by his own name. Then he turns. Or is turned—pushed by the weight of Mark’s fury and the quiet pressure of the boys’ hands pulling him back—and stumbles toward the end of the aisle like a shadow unraveling.

“Get him the fuck out,” Mark bites out. “He’s not family. He’s not anything. Don’t let him look at her again.”

And that’s how Taeyong’s sent out—by the hands of strangers, by the silence of the room, by the eyes that watched and didn’t flinch. The door closes behind him like a verdict. And no one claps. No one speaks. All that’s left is the ache of everything Mark didn’t finish saying.

Jeno’s shoulders hold a shape built from stone, rigid and sculpted like restraint worn too long. His jaw pulses, breath shallow, each inhale caught in the hollow of his throat as if the air thickens before it reaches him. There’s weight behind his eyes—buried, dark, ancestral—the kind that settles before it swells, the kind that keeps men frozen in their bloodlines. He remains where he stands, fists carved tight, arms locked by his sides, the pressure curling into his bones like a command whispered from something older than shame. His stare clings to Taeyong like it’s searching for proof that this version is real, that the father in front of him can still bleed. His body pulls forward and stays still all at once, like every muscle screams toward war while his soul drags him into the silence.

Something roots him there. Maybe guilt. Maybe memory. Maybe the thought of what happens if he steps one inch closer and loses himself in the fury his brother couldn’t swallow. His eyes flick toward Mark once—quick, fractured, unreadable—and return just as fast, like he fears what he might find in the mirror of that rage. You watch him. Always. You know the lines around his mouth by now, the twitch in his brow, the storm in his ribs. And right now, there’s a boy trapped beneath the captain’s skin, someone small and scarred, someone waiting for the ground to give out. The room keeps breathing. He does not.

Nahyun’s hand spreads across her father’s chest, a wide, steady anchor, not for protection but for control. Her mouth stays neutral, but her eyes drag across Jeno’s form with a kind of sick anticipation, like she’s watching a gun held just below the frame. Irene keeps her bouquet angled at her waist, petals shivering where her fingers flex tighter, face tilted into the light like a statue carved from silence and grit. Her gaze meets Taeyong’s and holds it like a crucifix, unmoving, her chin lifting just barely as if she’s watching him disappear in pieces. You grip your dress tighter, bunching fabric into your palm, silk wrapped like rope between your knuckles. The threads bite against your skin, sharp enough to keep you present, sharp enough to keep the room from swallowing you whole.

The air shifts again, dragged taut by the scrape of ceremony left undone. Silence lingers like smoke, heavy and hung with unfinished chords. Then: movement. Donghyuck steps forward from the side, loose-limbed but decisive, the only one with enough voice to fill the vacuum. His hand rises, open and calm, but his eyes sweep the crowd like he’s pulling triage from memory. “Everyone,” he says, firm but smooth, “the ceremony is on hold. For now. Please—help yourselves to the buffet, take a moment outside. Breathe.” He doesn’t ask. He instructs. And maybe it’s the shock, maybe it’s the tone, but no one protests. The air breaks open with the hush of shuffling chairs and low murmurs, shoes whispering against marble, glasses clinking from somewhere unseen.

You see Jaemin near the altar, head bowed slightly, exchanging quiet words with Shotaro, whose expression is pale, stunned. Irene disappears with Doyoung through a side passage, his hand resting over hers in a grip that feels more like anchoring than affection. Nahyun tugs her father toward the far exit, both of them shadowed in the same stunned grief, their silhouettes warped by stained glass. And Jeno—Jeno stays still. Like stone cracked down the center, no sound, no motion, only the visible tether of something inside him breaking quietly. His fists don’t unclench. His jaw stays locked. You catch it—one muscle twitching just beneath his cheekbone, the barely-there flicker in his gaze. He is stuck between the boy he was and the man he’s trying to be, bound by a name that holds too much rot.

Your dress is still bunched in your hands like a lifeline, silk crushed where your fingers refuse to let go. You feel the press of your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in your ribs. There’s too much stillness, too much air, and you have no idea where Taeyong went. It’s like he evaporated. Ghost, gone, unreconciled. As if he was never flesh, only consequence.

Areum crouches beside Mark near the back pew, icing his knuckles with the grace of someone who’s done this before. Her voice is low, lips barely moving, but the care radiates from her like warmth through wool. She doesn’t look scared of him. She looks scared for him. One hand holds his wrist, the other presses the makeshift ice pack tighter, and her eyes shine with something raw—fear, love, fury on his behalf. Mark won’t speak. He won’t look at her. But his free hand covers hers, silent gratitude in every inch of the touch.

Seulgi stands at the edge of it all, ghost-pale and unmoving, her lips parted just slightly like she’s still catching up to the moment. Her eyes don’t search for Taeyong. They search for the damage. She catalogues it in silence. One hand lifts slowly to her necklace—clasps it like a charm—and when her breath steadies, she nods. Just once. The kind of nod that carries history. The ceremony must continue.

Later, once the space is reset and the guests reseated, once the ache in the air becomes bearable again—once the music returns in careful waves and the priest steadies his voice—Irene and Doyoung face each other under the soft canopy of trailing jasmine. Their vows are soft but clear, shaped by years of ache, of silence, of choosing each other anyway. And when the priest calls the words—“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the sky opens above the arch.

Under the awning of a sky scraped raw by dusk, the world holds its breath again—not in fear this time, but reverence. The love echo soft through the jasmine-sweet air, not loud but thick, each syllable woven with years, with silence, with the kind of love that rebuilds instead of rewinds. Irene’s voice doesn’t shake. It steadies mid-word, like she finds her footing in the way Doyoung’s eyes stay on her, the way his hand never lets go. Their fingers remain locked, tight, unmoving, the tether around which this whole fractured day finally begins to spin forward again. When the priest calls the last line, it rings not as tradition but as triumph. Husband and wife. A declaration, a resurrection. The crowd exhales as if they’ve been underwater since the scream, and in that breath, the world shifts again.

From the edges of the altar canopy, a sudden cascade ignites—petals burst into the air in soft blush and ivory, freed by a near-invisible mechanism hidden beneath your floral rigging. They swirl upward like smoke in reverse, catching the late light, glowing almost metallic where sun and wind collide. The sky itself opens above the altar, a muted explosion of pale fireworks from the ridge behind the villa, set off precisely as you’d arranged. Not loud. Not chaotic. Just a slow-blooming flare of light across the violet horizon—fire without violence. They shimmer for a breath, gold dust cracking over indigo, a promise painted in combustion. Like love reimagined as spectacle. Like pain made beautiful only by survival. You watch them bleed into each other, burst then soften, fall like stars nobody got to wish on.

The guests erupt into applause, but it doesn’t feel performative—it feels sacred. Mark pulls Areum into his arms, his chin tucked into her hair, the ice long gone, only warmth between them now. Jaemin lifts his drink and clinks it against Chenle’s, both of them still shaken, but laughing now, quiet and real. Shotaro claps with his whole body, eyes wide, the ghost of the earlier rupture still trembling in his throat. Nahyun stands near the edge with her father, holding him like a child holding a photo she can’t burn. The sky keeps blooming. Jeno turns to you with a look that breaks through your bones, eyes so full of you they spill over the rim. No words. Just a hand reached across breathless distance, and the grip that holds you like he’s never letting go again.

And still, the sky burns slow. The flares don’t stop immediately. You timed it so the last ring of light would split as the couple kissed—a twin-burst, gold and crimson, like a heart pulsing its final beat before resetting anew. Hidden meanings coil beneath every spark: the way the explosions mirror the wreckage and the repair, the way the soft fall of petals echoes Irene’s veil, her breath, her stillness. Celebration here doesn’t erase what came before—it absorbs it. This is beauty built from ruin. Love gilded in ash. This is the ceremony not ending but transforming, the altar repurposed not as a stage for heartbreak but a sanctum for survival. You feel the moment root itself into the floorboards of memory. And you know: the aftermath is coming. But for now, the light holds. The kiss lasts. The sky, somehow, does not fall.

The table stretches longer than the room knows how to hold, draped in silk that gleams under the low halo of candlelight, each flickering flame mirrored in cut crystal and water beads clinging to silver-rimmed glasses. The plates gleam—hand-etched, gold-laced, nestled on chargers of deep obsidian. Soft blush and white roses spill down the length of the runner in wild, tangled clusters, veined with olive and eucalyptus, like the table bloomed straight from a myth. You sit tucked against Jeno’s side, your thigh pressed into his, your shoulder caught beneath the curve of his arm as if he’s forgotten how not to keep you close. His napkin rests untouched in his lap, his fork turned sideways beside his untouched glass. He hasn’t spoken much—not since the sky fell, not since the altar trembled—but the quiet he wears now isn’t peace. It’s weight.

The first course arrives like ritual. Truffle-oil burrata split over heirloom tomatoes dressed in basil oil, served with charred fig and balsamic crackle. Then the sea: seared scallops on lemongrass puree, a whisper of pomegranate gel curled like a signature around the rim. The mains come next, plated with reverence—bone-in ribeye butter-seared and fanned open like pages, roasted duck breast glistening with cherry jus, wild mushroom risotto cradled in edible blossoms. Every dish smells like elegance, like wealth, like the kind of celebration that shouldn’t ache the way this one does. Dessert waits in the wings, suspended chocolate spheres to be cracked open by spoon like secrets begging to be spilled.

Across the table, Mark leans forward on his elbows, hands clasped before him like he’s about to preach something unholy. His voice rings clear above the din of wine and whispered aftermath, his words a soft balm lacquered in mischief. “To my mother,” he starts, and Irene’s eyes close briefly like she needs that second just to prepare. “Who has survived more chaos, more men, and more bad choices than any woman I know—and still had the audacity to walk down that aisle looking like the patron saint of rebirth.” Laughter spills from the table like sunlight off a mirror. Mark lifts his glass with a smirk. “To Doyoung, who finally realized my mother was the best thing he’d ever fuckin’ lose. And chose to stop losing her.” It’s crass. It’s perfect. It lands exactly where it should, somewhere between the ribs and the relief, and Doyoung covers his face with a laugh. Irene swats at Mark’s arm. Her smile doesn’t waver.

Mark doesn’t sit down yet. He leans further into the candlelight, the flicker catching on his cheekbones, casting hollows beneath his eyes like he was carved for moments like this—equal parts son and sinner, reverent and wild. His voice dips slightly now, lower, steadier. “I grew up watching a woman pull herself back together with nothing but teeth and silence. She gave me the best childhood, the best upbringing, despite everything I never felt like I was missing out and I never said this out loud, but there were nights I thought she’d vanish from how hard the world tried to break her.” His gaze flickers to Irene, then briefly to you. “But she didn’t. She turned breaking into a language and made the rest of us learn it, the strongest woman I know.” The table stills for a beat. Even the glasses seem to still mid-glint.

He tilts his head, smirking again, but the edge is softer now. “And to Doyoung,” he adds, “for standing in a fire you didn’t start, and still choosing to hold the hand that could burn you.” A few of the guests let out quiet exhales, smiles blooming slow across the faces that matter. Mark raises his glass again, but his gaze sharpens on Jeno for a heartbeat too long, like he sees something no one else has noticed. Then he smiles like it costs him nothing. “To love that hurts. To second chances. To choosing each other, even when it’d be easier to walk the hell away.” Three glasses clink near you. A fourth lags behind. Jeno doesn’t lift his. You do. For both of you.

You glance toward Jeno. His hand still rests beneath yours, but he hasn’t laughed. Hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t even touched the wine. You lean in closer, chin brushing his shoulder. “You sure you’re fine?” It’s the third time. This one lands quieter. Slower. You feel his jaw move first, the clench just beneath your cheek, before the words arrive.

“Y/N.” A pause. “Drop it.” He says it soft. But final. Like that’s all the space he’ll allow for grief tonight. You nod slowly, curling closer, but something inside you tenses. He hasn’t let go of the day. He’s wearing it under his skin. Jeno’s silence hangs heavier than the chandeliers. You feel it in your bones, in the twitch of his thumb where it skims the seam of your wrist. He hasn’t said a word about Taeyong. He hasn’t flinched. He hasn’t broken but he’s still bleeding somewhere quiet and you’re the only one close enough to taste it.

Mark lifts his glass higher, catching the light, and his voice stretches out with the kind of grin that commands attention without raising its volume. “I hope you’re all ready for what’s coming next,” he says, eyes sweeping the long, candle-lit table like he’s letting them in on something rare. “We’ve got a slow dance under strings of lanterns that’ll make you believe in every love song you’ve ever pretended not to cry to. We’ve got a midnight toast waiting on the balcony with firecrackers rigged to spell their initials in the sky. A dessert table that looks like someone robbed a French patisserie blind. Tarot readings from Jaemin, who swears he’s only drunk enough to be accurate. Late-night espresso martinis on demand. A photo booth hidden in the wine cellar. And if we’re lucky, a dancefloor moment that’ll end with Donghyuck trying to split his pants again.” Laughter spills across the table in waves, lifting the mood like lace caught in the wind. “And last,” Mark says, voice softening as he tips his glass a little toward you, “a performance by the one and only Y/N, whose voice could get God to sit up straighter.”

You feel the burn of everyone’s gaze before your head fully turns, the heat catching your throat somewhere between flattered and exposed. You laugh, small and stunned, eyes darting toward your empty glass, but Jeno’s already there, smiling in that soft, slow way that always makes your pulse forget itself. He leans in, pressing his lips to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, barely a whisper of pressure before he rests his forehead against yours. “They’re not ready,” he breathes, voice dark with pride. “But I am.”

The hall is golden with fatigue now, soft with the blur of wine and fading laughter, the kind of quiet that settles only after something almost fell apart and didn’t. Candles flicker lower than they did before. The buffet’s been picked clean, shoes long abandoned beneath tables, and Seulgi’s tucked into a corner with a glass of something aged, whispering about the stars. Doyoung and Irene sit curled together near the terrace, his fingers tracing patterns into her wrist like he’s still memorizing her after decades of almosts. Jaemin’s halfway to sleep in a booth, tarot cards face-down beside a coffee cup that never saw espresso. Someone’s playing with the leftover sparklers on the lawn. The night’s slower now. Heavier, but intact.

And you—backstage, velvet curtain parted just enough to watch the lights stretch long across the stage—you’ve got Jeno’s back pressed to a wall, your body flush against his. Your hand curls around the base of his neck, fingers tracing the line of his jaw like you’re drawing a map you already memorized. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. His grip anchors low, palms full of your ass beneath the curve of your skirt, thumbs dragging slow and deliberate across your skin like he’s branding intention into every breath. “You nervous?” he murmurs, voice rough, warm against your cheek. His mouth doesn’t move far. Every word is a kiss half-given, the drag of his lips across your temple, your hairline, your jaw. “You can tell me.”

“I’m strong enough to do this.” You say it like it costs something, but like it’s worth every drop. Like it’s been carved out of bone and time and rebuilt from the inside. There’s no tremor in it now, no pause for reassurance—just the clean edge of conviction returned to its rightful place. And still, when you lower your hand from where it rested at his chest, you move as if it aches somewhere beneath the skin. Like memory still burns behind the scaffolding of your strength, like muscle still remembers how it used to shake. But you don’t.

You stand with it now. All of it. The girl who couldn’t meet her own eyes in the mirror after that night at the bar, after the final spiral that cracked your ribs from the inside out. The one who let silence become a habit, who swallowed every song until they tasted like dust. She’s still in you, but no longer holding the pen. The version of you that steps forward now has flame in her spine, rhythm in her pulse, and her voice—your voice—has found its shape again. Built from absence. Sharpened by grief. Held together by hands that refused to drop the thread.

Jeno watches you like he knows all of it. Like he saw the worst parts break and waited, quiet and close, while you decided if the pieces deserved to be gathered. His hands haven’t moved. His breath stays low, measured, reverent. And though he doesn’t say a word, there’s a shift behind his eyes—something that tells you he’s not thinking of the stage, or the guests, or even the song. He’s thinking of that night you said nothing and still let him hold you until morning. He’s thinking of the first time your voice cracked mid-verse and you didn’t run from it. He’s thinking of the war it took to stand here now, and how you already won. And the door waits, just ahead. The spotlight behind it. The hush of the crowd. But for this second, it’s just you and him. The version of yourself that came back. And the man who never stopped listening for her return.

“I know you are,” he murmurs, voice low and hushed like it was meant for a darker room, a later hour, a softer world. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever fucking known.” His hand moves up your spine, slow and sure, until his palm cups the back of your neck and he draws you in again, forehead brushing yours.

Jeno’s hand stills against your waist, fingers curling with the kind of quiet pressure that says he’s memorizing this—you—not just the moment. He leans in like the space between your bodies doesn’t exist, breath catching as his lips brush your temple. “You don’t know what it does to me,” he whispers, voice thick, almost raw, “watching you step into yourself like this again.”

You nod. Once. Then again. But there’s something tight at the edge of your smile, something old and aching that flickers in your eyes. He sees it. He holds your chin. “You’re about to sing like the world depends on it,” he murmurs, brushing your mouth with his. “But after? You come back to me. You dance with me.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone. “Promise?”

His voice catches. “Promise.” His pinky wraps around yours like a charm against the inevitable.

Outside, the spotlight slices through the twilight, fierce and unforgiving, cutting across the terrace like a blade hunting shadows. Its fractured beams splinter through aged glass, scattering pale silk ribbons that ripple ominously along the stone floor, each one whispering secrets better left buried. You remain pressed against him, frozen, heart stuttering to a halt exactly where his lips had brushed yours, pinkies interlaced in a fragile grasp that quivers between a promise and a threat—too tenuous, too charged to decipher clearly. Silence enfolds you both, rich as velvet yet suffocating, and beneath your ribs something shifts, slow and insidious, an unseen tremor that hollows your chest, carving out spaces you didn’t know existed. You tilt your forehead gently into his cheek—not quite devotion, not quite surrender—but suspended in that nameless moment, you forget all that lies beyond this fragile hush. The air around you thickens, charged like the electric stillness preceding a storm ready to crack open the horizon. As the spotlight retreats, pulling its warmth away and leaving behind an aching chill, something inside you recoils—sharp, sudden—as if mourning a warmth that left too soon, a room haunted by the echoes of things already lost, long before the door ever opened.

Moments slip past unnoticed until suddenly you’re no longer grounded in reality but stepping over an invisible threshold, and the stage rises beneath you, lifting your body as though the tide itself has chosen you. The lights blossom across your skin, fierce and sanctifying, heat radiating like a whispered confession, turning every nerve ending incandescent. The microphone trembles lightly in your grip, no longer a mere object but a weapon you’ve finally earned the right to wield, power pulsing eagerly beneath your fingertips. You stand exposed, poised and luminous, your heartbeat reverberating through the polished wood beneath your feet, lips parted with the first haunting note already coiling delicately behind your teeth, ready to spill forth like smoke.

Under the delicate canopy of the terrace, the atmosphere unfurls around you in gentle silk folds, caressing your legs as you stride forward with practiced grace. The crowd parts fluidly, not silent but thrumming with warmth and anticipation—a charged, restless energy gathering like distant stormclouds lighting up at the edge of a darkening sky. The polished oak gleams softly beneath your heels, guiding you toward the modest yet reverential stage ahead, beautifully framed by trailing ivy and lanterns suspended like captured stars, flickering gently as if coaxed down from the heavens. Behind the instruments, velvet curtains billow subtly, their soft undulations breathing life into the moment, as though you’ve crossed into the realm of dreams you’ve visited countless nights before, now finally given substance. A live band waits beside the microphone, arrayed like echoes from a forgotten era—upright bass humming deeply, electric guitar angled reverently, brushed snare drum whispering quiet rhythms, an upright piano standing elegant and austere, carrying memories of melodies older than your lifetime. First, the guitarist nods softly, a silent acknowledgment matched by the pianist’s steady gaze, their eyes speaking fluently without the intrusion of words. Your fingers curl gently around the mic stand, a quiet reverence tightening your grip. You inhale deeply once, drawing courage from the hush. Then, on the exhale, music floods the space, and you step fully into your voice.

The melody crawls up from the floorboards, rich and slow, every note stretched to the edge of indulgence, and your voice follows with that kind of aching control that stirs in the marrow and works its way outward. The sound is sultry, layered with restraint and a heat that refuses to beg for permission—it unfolds the way dark red wine might stain the inside of a mouth, slow to hit, impossible to forget. You don’t glance at the crowd all at once. Your eyes trail over them like smoke—first the couples at the nearest tables swaying in their chairs, then the figures gathering at the edge of the dance floor, drawn like magnets into orbit. Jaemin and Karina are already moving, her smile pressed to his jaw as their hands settle low at each other’s backs, and Doyoung pulls Irene toward the floor with a grace that feels more earned than practiced. Nahyun leans into her father’s shoulder nearby, their steps slow, circular, a rhythm of generations finding one another again. And you—centered under the spotlight, mini skirt cutting into your thighs, hair backlit like fire—you sing like you’ve lived through the song’s final verse and came back to teach it from memory.

Each note spills from your mouth like silk soaked in heat, unspooling through the air in long, deliberate ribbons—sensual, slow, the kind of sound that wraps around bodies and doesn’t let go. You hold the room like it’s yours by bloodright, hips swaying in tempo not to the rhythm but to the tension it builds. The light clings to your skin like a lover, golden and low, casting sharp shadows across the column of your throat, the dip of your collarbone, the part of your lips as the next note slips free.

Jeno stands beside the pillar where candlelight blurs into shadow, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at skin you already kissed, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s ready to step into you the second this song finishes. His gaze holds, fixed on you like the only thing he sees is the way your voice curves, the way you tilt your head for a high note and arch into the mic like a promise he already made. The look on his face—slow-burning, jaw tense, eyes low and smoldering—makes your thighs shift where you stand. He’s touching you without touching you. You can feel it. Your voice dips lower, softer, just for him, just for that. You let the note stretch. You let the silence hang just a little too long between verses. You don’t smile. You breathe him in from across the room and sing the next line like it tastes like his name. Jeno finally steps forward, moving through the soft-lit crowd with that look carved straight from heat and devotion, you already know—this is the moment. This is the start of everything that breaks.

You hear the wind howl first, a moaning whisper that devours the soft, golden evening in its monstrous teeth, clouds clawing across the bruised sky like a thousand jagged scars torn open anew. There is no warning, only the way the gentle hum of your song fractures mid-note, shattering into silence beneath the crush of storm and shadow. The moon slips from its orbit, consumed slowly, methodically, by a beast made of ink and gloom, and the darkness seeps downward like a veil of oil, thickening the air until breathing becomes a struggle. Thunder snarls in the distant hills, vicious in its hunger, a reckoning foretold by stars falling from their places in the heavens. Your voice falters, heart stuttering as a chill creeps through your spine, a prophecy carving itself across your bones.

He emerges then—a phantom birthed from chaos and rot, moving through the sprawling gardens like a plague unfurling its blistered fingers toward every soul within the villa. Lee Taeyong, but no longer the man who once walked these halls; he’s a shadow, barely human, his skin pale and waxen, draped over bones that shift with the unsettling rhythm of something ancient and unburied. Eyes sunken, dark as a dying planet, haunted by things that should have stayed dead, should have remained beneath the earth that once claimed him. His footsteps drag slowly, as if gravity itself rejects him, each step an agonized collision with earth, a dying star falling through its final, doomed orbit. He lifts his head toward you, and even from here, you see his hollow gaze, the sickly glow of a soul returned to finish something unspeakable, a reckoning clawing free from its grave, ravenous and unrelenting.

The wind tears the music from your throat, ripping notes like delicate petals violently plucked from their stems. Your song breaks midair, splintering into shards that scatter helplessly into the void, a silence so raw and sudden it bleeds. You clutch desperately at the mic stand, fingertips numb, lungs frozen as though an unseen hand has slipped into your chest and closed slowly around your heart, squeezing until every fragment of melody dies inside you. Lee Taeyong stands below, gaze dark and lifeless, the eerie pull of his presence robbing you of sound, voice stolen once again by a man who has haunted every shadowed corner of your life. His stare is hollow, but it penetrates like cold iron thrust into flesh, silencing you not through fear alone, but something deeper, ancient and sickly, his existence a living scar carved across your memory.

Gasps ripple violently across the terrace, glass slipping from fingers and shattering, guests stumbling backward as the elegant calm fractures, splintering into shards of panic. Irene grips Doyoung’s arm until her knuckles whiten, breath frozen in her chest. Karina recoils, stepping instinctively into Jaemin’s shadow, eyes wide, hand trembling as she presses it to her lips. Donghyuck’s laughter dies brutally in his throat, eyes widening as if faced with a nightmare resurrected. Jeno stiffens beside the stage, jaw clenched painfully, fists tightening with quiet fury. Everyone stands paralyzed beneath the horror-stricken weight of recognition, faces drained of warmth, a collective heartbeat stuttering to a terrified halt.

Mark moves first, propelled by something dark, vicious, an anger shaped and sharpened over years of wounds left raw and bleeding beneath careful smiles. He shoves chairs aside, steps rapid and furious, eyes blazing with a rage that sparks like lightning. His fist rises, knuckles white, muscles coiled like wire pulled taut—yet just as he lunges forward, Taeyong stumbles grotesquely, knees buckling beneath him like brittle twigs snapped by invisible hands. Taeyong crumples forward, collapsing a split second before Mark’s blow lands. To the stunned crowd, it seems Mark struck him, but Mark himself knows the truth, knows he touched only air, Taeyong’s fall inevitable, preordained by something more sinister, more final.

Taeyong hits the ground with sickening impact, limbs sprawled unnaturally, bones shifting visibly beneath his waxen skin. His body convulses violently, back arching like a marionette dragged roughly by tangled strings, veins straining black and grotesque along his throat and temples, lips parted wide in a silent, horrible scream. His fingers claw desperately at the stone terrace, nails splitting, blood smearing against marble like a grotesque painting of agony. Eyes rolling back, white eclipsing black as he struggles futilely against the violent rebellion within his own failing heart, Taeyong looks like something ripped straight from the grip of death and thrown cruelly back for one final torment.

Darkness gathers around him, an oily shadow seeping from beneath his trembling form, spreading outward slowly, consuming the floor inch by terrible inch. The terrace lanterns flicker violently, their glow sputtering in protest, illuminating his final moments in sickly, jaundiced yellow, casting distorted, monstrous shadows across faces twisted in fear and horror. Taeyong’s mouth stretches wider, chest convulsing in rapid, horrific pulses, a final desperate attempt to breathe, his body buckling and spasming, bones cracking audibly beneath skin stretched impossibly tight. A choked, guttural sound claws free from his throat—a wet, strangled whisper of agony and despair.

Then he stills, sudden and unnatural, limbs dropping heavy, eyes staring sightlessly into a sky devoured by storm clouds, mouth frozen open in silent pleading. Silence thickens, oppressive, unbroken except by the wind’s ghostly whisper and the slow, rhythmic drip of blood against polished marble. Mark stares down, chest heaving, horror etched deep into his features as he steps back shakily, fists unclenching, eyes darkening with understanding that this death was not by his hand, but something crueler, something darker—fate itself laying claim to a soul whose debts were finally due.

You remain frozen, voice still stolen, heart caught in your throat, knowing the night will never surrender the memory of this moment. Taeyong lies lifeless, a corpse turned prophecy, an omen staining the ground at your feet, his silence louder than screams, his departure not peaceful, but violent, relentless, a shadow that will forever haunt the cracks of the villa’s stone foundations.

Jeno breaks from the crowd in a sudden, violent burst, tearing forward as though a lifetime of restraint has snapped beneath the unbearable weight of seeing Taeyong sprawled, twisted, lifeless on cold marble. You’ve never seen him like this—raw, stripped down to exposed nerves, a boy cracked open, heart bleeding through skin, grief and rage entwined in a nightmare tango. He drops beside Taeyong, knees colliding brutally with stone, barely registering the pain as he grabs his father’s limp body roughly by the shoulders, voice shattering into fragments of desperate pleading.

“Dad,” he cries, the word splintering into something broken and childlike, years peeled away in seconds, revealing a boy who once idolized the same man he learned to despise. “Dad, Dad—wake up!” His voice climbs higher, frantic, jagged at the edges, echoing across the terrace like glass shards scattering over stone. His shaking hands press urgently into Taeyong’s chest, fingers splayed, pressing down hard and merciless in rhythm, a sickening crack sounding beneath his palms as he begins CPR, tears tracking messy paths down his face. He breathes desperately into his father’s slack mouth, each breath raw and gasping, desperate life breathed into death.

Around him, the world fractures into chaotic still-frames of horror: the stunned silence of Mark, eyes wide and hollow with regret; Irene clutching Doyoung as if she might fall into the abyss opened beneath them; the wild-eyed terror etched deeply into Jaemin’s usually calm facade. Jeno’s sobs become violent, shoulders shuddering under an impossible burden, each compression an attempt to undo decades of heartache, bitterness, betrayal—to somehow reclaim a childhood stolen, a father he’d learned to bury long before this moment.

In flashes, memories rip violently through Jeno’s mind—his father’s strong hands teaching him to ride a bike, a laugh rich and warm against sunlight; the darker nights that followed, arguments bleeding through thin walls, sharp words carving invisible wounds into his young skin; afternoons in empty bleachers, waiting for a father who promised to show but never arrived, disappointment carving deeper scars than bruises ever could. All these splintered pieces of love and loathing collide violently inside him, breaking open wounds that never truly healed, grief erupting from a lifetime of suppressed longing and rage.

His desperate movements slow as exhaustion claws at his muscles, heart shattering again with each futile breath forced into lungs refusing air. Jeno sobs openly, tears mixing with sweat and blood, dripping onto Taeyong’s ashen face, skin already cool beneath trembling fingertips. Silence closes in, thick and final, the hopelessness suffocating, heavier than death itself.

Then—impossibly—Taeyong jerks, limbs seizing violently, back arching off the stone terrace as if electrified. A ragged, wet gasp tears from his throat, wretched and unnatural, chest heaving upward as his lungs inflate with a desperate, rasping breath—a corpse dragged cruelly back from death’s embrace. His eyes snap open, blank at first, pupils wide and unseeing, milky white rolling back until dark irises slowly reclaim their place, wild and terrified. His fingers clutch blindly at Jeno, nails digging fiercely into skin, a drowning man clawing desperately for air and warmth.

The terrace erupts with screams, startled cries of disbelief and horror ricocheting into the night. Jeno recoils in terror but cannot pull away fully, trapped beneath Taeyong’s frantic grip. His father coughs violently, choking on air as though it were poison, convulsing as life tears viciously back through veins already stilled. Color floods his pale, corpse-like flesh with grotesque immediacy, a flush of sickly red blossoming in jagged patches, the sight disturbingly unnatural—a resurrection in shades of violence and fear.

Taeyong’s voice splinters painfully into the darkness, rasping words spilling forth like shattered glass, broken and sharp-edged: “Jeno—help me—please.” Each syllable drips agony, desperation raw and terrifying in his wide, panicked eyes. And beneath him, Jeno kneels stunned, horrified, holding the man he’d spent years convincing himself he could never save, haunted by the monstrous paradox of wishing both for death and for another chance to forgive.

At ten thirty-five PM, paramedics flood the villa grounds, bodies clad in ghostly white uniforms flashing beneath the strobing scarlet sirens. They move like wraiths, quick, precise, clinical in their grim choreography of revival. Jeno trails them closely, footsteps hollow, face drained of all but the ghastly pallor of a son facing the unimaginable. His breath clouds visibly against the cold night, a tremor rattling violently through each hurried exhale, an involuntary rhythm to his own inner chaos. Mark follows at a distance, movements reluctant, hands trembling and stained with imaginary guilt. He stares numbly ahead, haunted by the horrific illusion of violence—the thought that his fist had ended a life. Around them, whispers ripple like shadows flickering along the walls, each murmured word sharpening into accusations and disbelief, the bitter aftertaste of catastrophe heavy in every throat.

At eleven twenty-three PM, beneath the hospital’s sterile fluorescent lights that hum coldly overhead like impatient vultures, a doctor stands rigidly, face expressionless yet profoundly grim. “His heart is failing,” he announces, voice dry and mechanical, precise as clockwork ticking toward doom. “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy has left his heart muscle rigid and thickened, unable to endure this trauma. The strain is simply too great; his body is spiraling downward.” Jeno flinches as though struck, a visible shudder that tears down the length of his spine, fingers curling involuntarily into his palms, nails leaving crescent-shaped scars as the weight of inevitability burrows itself deeply into his bones. Behind him, the family hovers, silhouettes twisted in silent despair, each absorbing the news like a blade slipping smoothly between ribs.

At twelve forty-seven AM, in a shadowy corridor lit only by dimmed, buzzing bulbs, you approach Jeno with careful footsteps, each step weighted by hesitation, each heartbeat drumming painfully in your ears. You reach for him, fingers trembling slightly as they brush his arm—only to feel him jerk violently away, muscles coiled taut like steel cables, eyes vacant, glazed in a terrifying emptiness. “Don’t,” he growls, a low sound harsh as broken glass, voice slicing brutally through the silence. You recoil instantly, your hand frozen mid-air, heart splintering quietly within your chest. A cruel, unspoken wall erects itself swiftly between you—cold, impenetrable, absolute—leaving you stranded in helpless anguish, watching Jeno retreat deeper into an internal darkness you cannot reach.

At one fifteen AM, the nightmare escalates—Taeyong’s liver begins to fail catastrophically, his organs mutinously collapsing one after another, toxins surging through his bloodstream like venom. The doctor returns, tone heavier, voice quieter, bearing yet another crushing revelation. “He needs an immediate liver transplant, or his entire body will succumb to sepsis within hours. Without it, his organs will systematically shut down; death will be swift but excruciating.” His words hang thickly, like smoke pooling beneath a suffocating ceiling. Jeno’s gaze fixates blankly at the linoleum floor, mind spiraling with panic, desperation, helplessness crashing violently in waves behind his carefully schooled mask.

At two thirty-six AM, test results strike another brutal blow: Jeno is no match. Mark, bitterly, ironically, is a perfect donor. Mark’s face twists darkly at the news, jaw set with immediate refusal, bitterness etched in every defiant line. He stands immovable, determinedly denying compassion, until Jeno approaches him—a hollow specter of anguish, desperation etched into every sharp, shadowed line of his face. Jeno says nothing; he doesn’t need to. His eyes speak a language of suffering older than words, pleading silently from an abyss deeper than pride. “Please,” he whispers finally, voice ragged, breaking on a single, desperate note. Mark’s resolve cracks violently, a fissure splitting wide through his bitterness as he nods slowly, defeated. He consents only because the alternative—watching Jeno shatter completely—is a pain he cannot bear.

At four fifty-nine AM, Taeyong lies sprawled beneath the merciless glare of surgical lamps, chest opened, heart pulsing weakly beneath sterile hands. Surgeons maneuver swiftly, desperately, placing Mark’s liver meticulously into Taeyong’s failing body. But soon, a chorus of alarms erupts like banshees wailing through the operating theater. Taeyong’s body convulses violently, rejecting the transplanted organ with primal fury, immune system screaming betrayal. The surgeons’ frantic, urgent movements blur in panic as Taeyong’s vitals spiral out of control. Blood seeps thick and dark across surgical linens, instruments clatter, a dreadful symphony marking the inevitable descent into oblivion.

At six forty-one AM, doctors step aside, eyes shadowed, voices reduced to whispers: “It’s time to say goodbye.” The room fills with a haunting silence broken only by quiet sobs and the faint hum of machinery counting down to death. Mark says nothing, standing rigid and numb beside Irene, eyes downcast. Irene brushes her fingers softly against Taeyong’s cool cheek, whispering final words heavy with regret. Karina and Jaemin hover at the threshold, expressions tight, grief etched deeply into their features. Only Jeno remains unmoving, anchored beside his father’s bedside, holding Taeyong’s limp hand like a lifeline he refuses to release. He whispers broken words—apologies, accusations, pleas—all colliding in a quiet storm as he watches Taeyong’s chest rise and fall one last, feeble time.

At seven thirteen AM, the door swings open slowly, as if weighed down by the very gravity of death itself. Jeno steps through the threshold alone, emerging like a shadow reborn, the sterile white corridor engulfing him immediately in its stark, unforgiving glare. The fluorescent lights above flicker momentarily, as though even they sense the unnatural presence now inhabiting his frame. His face is pale, waxen—skin stretched taut over hollowed bones, gaunt in a way you’ve never seen before, every feature starkly defined by grief and something infinitely darker.

His eyes, once warm and fiercely alive, now stare forward with a chilling emptiness that sends an involuntary shudder through everyone gathered nearby. They gleam hollowly beneath the harsh hospital lights, pupils wide, lifelessly black, reflecting nothing but a terrible void. Yet, there is something burning within them, a dreadful, alien spark that wasn’t there before—something cold, sinister, achingly familiar. The eyes of his father, freshly extinguished, resurrected now in the gaze of his son. It is as though the soul of Lee Taeyong has seeped directly into Jeno’s bloodstream, saturating every cell, consuming his identity completely.

Every step he takes echoes down the hall, precise and measured with an unnatural calm, footsteps landing with the meticulous, ruthless rhythm of someone accustomed to causing pain rather than feeling it. The sound reverberates coldly against the polished tile, each echo magnifying the unsettling shift that has occurred within him. Nurses glance up and freeze mid-action, sensing an inexplicable chill; doctors fall quiet, conversations dying abruptly as a silent unease spreads swiftly through the corridors.

You stand at the far end of the hallway, breath trapped painfully in your throat as you watch Jeno approach. His movements carry a rigid control, shoulders squared beneath an invisible burden he seems to carry effortlessly now, as though grief and darkness have strengthened rather than broken him. He doesn’t pause, doesn't look sideways, gaze fixed forward with an intensity so cold and detached it pierces straight through your heart.

The next day, at twelve fifteen PM, skies churn overhead, iron-grey clouds gathering like bruises spreading slowly across the heavens, heavy with impending storm. You find Jeno outside, framed against a landscape drained of warmth, the air biting fiercely through your clothing, chilling your skin and seeping into your bones. The distance between you feels immense, vast, even as you step hesitantly forward. He senses you immediately, turning with a stiff precision that chills you to the core.

His eyes, now completely devoid of the gentle warmth they once held for you, stare into yours with raw, brutal indifference. The expression carved into his face is one of finality, ruthless determination etched deeply into every line. Your breath catches painfully, words faltering on your tongue, an instinctive plea rising within you. But before you can speak, he cuts you off, voice slicing through the brittle air with surgical precision.

“We’re done,” he announces flatly, the words coldly brutal, devoid of hesitation or remorse, falling from his lips like stones plunging irretrievably into the deepest, darkest waters. Each syllable echoes dully in the space between you, heavy and unrelenting, crushing whatever fragile hope still fluttered within your chest. “Stay away from me. Forever.”

You recoil instinctively, stumbling backward as though struck physically, chest constricting sharply, a tight ache gripping fiercely around your heart. A desperate, instinctive hand reaches toward him, trembling in silent pleading, your fingertips straining for the comfort of his touch, the reassurance that somewhere beneath this monstrous transformation, the boy you loved still survives. But Jeno jerks away violently, muscles coiling as if your proximity sickens him, gaze sliding mercilessly through you as though you are nothing—less than nothing.

His voice lowers further, becoming chillingly quiet, dripping with disdain and an eerie, detached cruelty. “I said leave,” he repeats coldly, eyes narrowed, jaw tightening viciously, resentment and pain merging into a volatile blend that seeps through his words like venom. “You have no place here anymore. Forget you ever knew me.” The raw cruelty in his tone slices through you more deeply than any physical wound could, tearing through flesh and bone and memory, leaving you hollowed and bleeding invisibly in the bitter wind.

He turns sharply, back rigid, walking away with chilling certainty, each step deliberate, leaving behind only echoes of the warmth he once held for you. You watch helplessly, paralyzed and numb, as he moves further and further into the gathering darkness, becoming one with the shadows stretching toward him eagerly. Jeno disappears from sight entirely, taking with him the last fragments of your shattered heart, leaving you abandoned beneath an unforgiving sky, haunted by the chilling realization that he has become precisely what he swore never to be—a reflection of his father, cold, unfeeling, and terrifyingly final.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄: 𝐒𝐈𝐗 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐆’𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇, 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐎 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍—𝐀 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐂𝐘, 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐄, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖

“In a move that has set both the sports and business worlds ablaze, NBA phenomenon Lee Jeno has officially announced his engagement to renowned influencer and heiress Kim Nahyun—just six months after the death of his father, the infamous mogul Lee Taeyong. The announcement, confirmed late last night through a carefully curated photo drop and closed-door press release, has reignited national conversation around power, inheritance, and the ever-expanding shadow of the Lee family legacy.

At twenty-seven, Lee Jeno has rapidly risen to become one of the league’s most explosive and merciless athletes, his presence on the court described by analysts as “ghostlike, surgical, possessed.” Since his father’s collapse and subsequent death, Jeno’s transformation has been startling: emotionless post-game interviews, streaks of unrelenting performance, and a gaze that, as one coach put it, “doesn’t blink when it should.” His movements echo Taeyong’s relentless hunger but where the elder Lee cloaked his ambition in charisma, Jeno wields his like a blade.

The announcement’s most circulated image? Not the diamond-studded engagement shoot, but a candid photo snapped during what sources confirm was a high-stakes contract finalization: Jeno, shaking hands with Chairman Kim Doyul—CEO of Doyul Group and father of Nahyun. The handshake isn’t simply symbolic. Insiders claim it marks the execution of a sealed merger between legacy holdings long prepared by Taeyong before his death—assets that, up until now, Jeno had deliberately left untouched. Until now.

Kim Nahyun, a household name in fashion and digital influence, boasts over twelve million followers and a curated empire of beauty and luxury endorsements. But her true value lies off-screen—in boardrooms and family lineages. As the only daughter of one of South Korea’s most powerful industrial dynasties, Nahyun brings more than social capital to this engagement—she brings bloodlines, power, and global visibility.

The timing is precise. Too precise, some argue. Though whispers have long tied the two together, the engagement’s sudden confirmation following Jeno’s recent real estate acquisitions and withdrawal from post-season press suggests careful orchestration. Observers point to this union as more than romantic—a calculated alignment of wealth, legacy, and consolidation. Not just a marriage. A new empire.

And yet, beneath the polish, speculation simmers. Those close to Jeno—former teammates, childhood friends—have fallen silent in recent months. Some say he hasn’t been the same since the moment he stepped out of that hospital room, eyes empty, spine too straight. Others say Nahyun is the only one who’s ever been able to hold his gaze without flinching.

Whether love, legacy, or ghost-haunted obligation fuels this union, one thing is clear: Lee Jeno is not stepping out of his father’s shadow. He is wearing it. And now, with Kim Nahyun at his side, he’s walking straight into the empire Taeyong left behind—stone-faced, unreadable, and more dangerous than ever."

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

authors note —

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

positive feedback means the absolute world to me. so remember, fill my inbox!

important authors note —

hi my loves — before anything, i just want to say thank you so much for reading, for feeling this story so deeply, and for sitting with every chaotic twist i throw your way. i know the ending of this chapter, especially jeno’s behaviour, is a lot. it’s brutal, it’s cold, and it hurts and i promise you, that was entirely intentional. please know that how i write has always been dramatic, layered, and pushed to emotional extremes. i love the ache, the tension, the flawed choices and the uncomfortable silences between characters who don’t know how to save themselves, let alone each other. this scene is no exception.

but also — you’ve only seen that night through fragments. snippets. you weren’t there for the full unraveling, the hours of silence, the things said off-page, the weight jeno’s been dragging behind him for longer than even he realises. grief is not linear. it’s not always quiet. sometimes it manifests in cruelty, in withdrawal, in self-sabotage, especially when someone’s entire identity collapses in a single night. jeno is drowning. and right now, he thinks pushing everyone away is the only way to survive. a lot happened that night but i only showed about 5%.

you don’t know everything that’s happening under the surface yet. you don’t know what’s been buried. or what’s about to resurface.

so please — be kind. not just to jeno, but to the story as a whole. let it breathe. let it get ugly. let it break you before it makes you feel again. remember grief looks different on everyone.

thank you for trusting me with your hearts.

with all my love,

sophs <3

176 notes · View notes

ryorecs · 3 months ago

Text

overdrive

word count — 33k

genre — smut, fluff, angst

synopsis — jeno is a legend written in midnight asphalt, too fast to catch, too reckless to forget, the kind of driver who disappears into smoke and sirens with your pulse still racing. you were never meant to touch that world—underground races, rigged bets, bloodstained payoffs but you’ve always known how to gut it from the inside. your job? dig up the dirt, rip through the rot, and run the exposé that takes down the syndicate from the top down. he was supposed to be your double-cross, your decoy and your downfall wrapped into one. you were supposed to stab him twice, once for the story, once for survival but instead, you let him fuck the truth out of you. now you’re in too deep, hips grinding in the front seat of his getaway car while your recorder’s still running, chasing headlines with your back arched and your mouth gasping his name. and the closer you get to the finish line, the more you realise—some stories don’t break, they burn.

fic warnings/contents — explicit language, explicit content, dark themes & moral ambiguity, violence, corruption, and crime, includes sabotage, mechanical tampering, crashes, assault, threats, illegal racing, blackmail, hacking, emotional dissociation, trauma aftermath from car crashes and near-death experiences, lots of fucking in this phew, explicit sex, semi-public settings (garage, racing tracks, in cars), mid-race blowjob scene, public/risky sex, oral sex while driving, power dynamic, dominance, sensory overload, rough, emotionally charged sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), praise, begging, name-calling (good girl/baby/slut/reporter girl), dirty talk & possessiveness, jeno is quite vulgar, dominant and unwelcoming at first and very hot, just wait, appearances from nct dream ‘00 line and mark, lots of racing (duh), badass hot y/n who races too, lots of technical talk, size kink, overstimulation, creampie, choking, spit, mild breathplay, light bondage, physical restraint. plot moves quite fast, did as much world building as i could. i hope you enjoy 🖤 been working on this a few weeks actually, this won the poll but i knew it would win any poll 😭 that’s why i’ve managed to upload it a week before jeno’s birthday <3

likes, reblogs and asks always appreciated 🖤 banner made by my lovely @umwaitwhatwhy

You tell yourself you won’t feel anything walking into this building. You practised it all morning, the tight jaw, the steady breath, the look of quiet indifference that could carry you through a firing squad without blinking but he moment you step into the thick glass lobby of Han & Associates, so blandly named it makes your teeth ache, sterile and sharp in its simplicity, it all feels like a weight sinking against your ribs. Cold marble floors gleam beneath your shoes, harsh with the echo of each step, and the walls rise tall and unfeeling, lined with a history of racing prints yellowed by smoke and dust. A history Taeyong once belonged to, long before he sold out his soul for ink and scandal. Long before he fastened his claws into your neck and called it mentorship.

The receptionist doesn’t even look up. She just tips her head toward the far office door, like she’s seen a thousand broken people walk this hallway before you. Maybe she has. Inside, the air is stale with old whisky and the scratch of metal blinds rattling in the breeze from the half-cracked window. His office isn’t flashy. No, Taeyong never believes in flash. He believes in power that sits quiet beneath the surface, like oil slick under water, waiting to catch fire. Framed covers of his greatest hits hang crooked on the walls, headlines that have dismantled careers in six-inch fonts. They watch you now like ghosts of every mistake you’ve ever made.

He doesn’t look up as you step in. He just flips a page in the file spread across his desk, fingers stained faintly with nicotine. "You know why you’re here," Taeyong says, voice flat like the ash at the bottom of his glass. His tone is sharp, old Seoul roughness beneath the polished newsman accent. "Sit."

You sit, spine stiff against the chair, hands knotted in your lap because you know better than to let them tremble.

He slides the folder across the desk. A slick of photographs spills out: Soul Line Motors, chaos captured in still frames. One of the racers, lean and sweat-drenched, jaw set in grim fury as he stands beside a car swallowed in smoke. Another, caught mid-brawl, fists raised and eyes wild beneath a mess of dark hair. A third, covered in grease from cheek to collarbone, mouth pressed tight like he’s swallowed a curse. There’s a scan of betting slips too, edges worn, one name circled in red ink like a target. The file reeks of desperation, theirs, yours, his.

“Officially,” Taeyong says, pausing to swirl his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light like it’s molten gold, “you’re their compliance monitor. League assigned. Eyes and ears inside the garage.” His gaze flicks to you, sharp as a blade unsheathed, but he doesn’t rush the moment. He lets it stretch, like he wants you to sit with it, feel the weight pressing into your chest. “They need you because they’re drowning,” he adds, voice dropping lower, rough like gravel beneath tyres. “That whole team’s hanging by threads and they know it. Race-fixing charges. Illegal betting syndicates. Dodgy sponsorship money bleeding into their books. They risk clawing at the bottom of the league’s and now they’re crawling to you, begging for a way out.”

You say nothing, but your pulse tightens beneath your skin. He sees it. Of course he does.

“They’ve agreed to it publicly,” he continues, swirling the whisky in his glass until it laps against the sides. “They think you’re their saviour. League compliance, external oversight, someone to parade in front of the cameras so the sponsors start breathing easy again. They’ll give you access to everything. Garage, transport, race strategy. They’ll feed you what they think you want to see. Give you a pretty little show of redemption.”

His lips twist, sharp and knowing. “But unofficially,” he says, and this time he leans forward, placing the glass down with a quiet, final clink against the desk. He lets the word hang there between you like a blade suspended over your throat. “You’re my goddamn guillotine.”

The words land hard, heavier than they should. You hold his stare, forcing your expression flat, emotionless. You will not give him the satisfaction of seeing the old panic ripple beneath your skin. “You burn them properly,” he goes on, steady and merciless, “you give me something with blood on it, and maybe” — he tips his head, smirking like the outcome is already sealed — “maybe we’ll scrub your name clean.”

You say nothing. Not yet. But the fire builds in your chest, slow and choking. “Fail me, sweetheart,” Taeyong finishes, voice soft as a blade at your throat, “and I’ll bury you deeper than the racers.”

But it’s not enough for him to leave it there, and you know it. He’s the kind of man who likes to carve the knife in slow, twist it until it scrapes bone. He draws the folder closer, flipping it open again, letting the photographs spill across the desk like crime scene evidence. His fingers tap the image of the team’s car mid-spin, smoke curling from the tyres like breath from dying lungs. “They trust you,” he murmurs. “They think you’ll save them. But you’re not there to write them a fairytale, are you? You’re there to build me a fucking obituary.”

Your eyes flick over the faces in the photos — strangers, for now. Faces that will soon become names, names that will become weapons in your hands if you play this right. Or chains around your neck if you don’t. You inhale slow through your nose, sharp enough to cut through the staleness of whisky and dust. “I don’t need a maybe,” you say, voice low but clear, each word carved from the stone of your ribs. “I need my career back.”

Taeyong’s grin sharpens, cruel and thin. “Then make me bleed for it.”

He pushes the folder across the desk until the edges brush your fingertips, like a final transaction sealed not with a handshake, but a dare. You let your fingers close around it slowly, deliberately, as though by holding it you’ve already begun the execution. And as you rise from the chair, his gaze doesn’t follow the file. It follows you. Tracks you like a predator watching prey too confident to run.

“Bring me their ashes,” Taeyong says, the final word curling like smoke from his tongue, “and we’ll talk.” Your pulse beats hard at your wrist as you turn away, the weight of the dossier under your arm a cold reminder of the fire he’s asked you to set. You can feel him watching you as you leave, heavy and certain, like he already sees the blood on your hands.

The garage breathes like something alive. Heat coils in the ribs of the building, simmering beneath the fluorescent lights that flicker as if they, too, are choking on the weight of oil and sweat and smoke. You taste it at the back of your tongue, thick and acrid, sharp as the cut of gasoline in the air. The walls feel too tight for the number of bodies inside, men scattered around a makeshift briefing table, chairs scraped out at angles like they’ve already abandoned any notion of formality. It isn’t a room built for you, and you feel it instantly, the moment your shadow crosses the threshold.

Outside, above the main bay door, a crooked neon sign hums faintly through the haze, tubes buzzing a sickly red. ‘THE PIT’ it reads, jagged letters flickering behind a cracked plastic shell, an arrow beneath it scrawled like graffiti, pointing you straight into the belly of the place. No need to ask what they call it. The name hangs in the air like everything else here — burnt, broken, and permanent.

Eyes slice across your skin before you even take your seat. Heavy, unwelcoming. They don’t bother to mask their distrust, their disdain curling like exhaust smoke between their teeth. You keep your spine straight, folder pressed beneath your palm, your compliance badge clipped clean to your lapel, though it feels less like authority and more like a target painted over your chest.

You settle into the corner without a word, let their tension simmer unchecked as they shift in their seats, restless energy bouncing off the scuffed concrete floor. You watch them the way you’ve been taught to watch: quietly, precisely, as if they might confess something in the way their knuckles flex or their shoulders stiffen against the press of your presence.

There are seven men carved from collisions and chaos, every one of them carrying the wreckage of races gone wrong in the set of their jaws and the shadows beneath their eyes. Their faces you do not yet know, not in the way that matters. You know the leaked reports, the back-page headlines, the photographs that Taeyong had spread before you like playing cards in a rigged game. But here, in the raw heat of their den, they are something else entirely.

The principal, Lee Doyoung, stands at the head of the table like he’s bracing against a storm he already knows is coming. A former racer turned league-forced team manager, he carries the look of a man who’s seen too many podiums crumble and too many egos catch fire. He doesn’t smile when he sees you, but he offers a nod — clipped, formal, like it costs him something to say. “Welcome to Soul Line,” he says, voice rough, thick with the gravel of old track injuries and older disappointments. “You’ll find we run things tight here. Fast. Loud. Occasionally off the rails.”

His gaze sweeps over the group, then lands on you like the weight of a steel girder. “But we know why you’re here. League oversight. Full compliance.” A beat. His eyes don’t blink. “If we want to see the season out, we give you what you need.”

A scoff breaks from one of the drivers before the sentence is cold. He sits with his chair tilted back on two legs, arms folded loose across his chest, mouth curled into something between amusement and threat. His eyes track you slowly, too slowly, a mockery of interest as he drags them down the line of your body and back up again like you are not worth the respect of subtlety. “Guess we’re really fucked if they’re sending babysitters now,” he drawls, earning a few low snickers from the others.

You keep your expression blank, though your pulse sharpens in your throat. You have known men like him your entire career. Men who mistake cynicism for cleverness, who wield bravado like a shield against their own creeping fear. You will make him eat those words soon enough.

Your gaze slides past him, past the sneering technician polishing a wrench like it might become a weapon, past the mechanic whose arms are folded tight across his chest as if he’s physically holding in his disdain. But it’s the last man who catches you hardest. The one who entered late, who carries the weight of the room like it is stitched into his spine. He doesn’t look at you right away. He drops into his seat with the fluid ease of someone who has spent his life in the cockpit, on the razor’s edge between glory and ruin, and when he does finally glance your way, it isn’t a look. It’s a strike.

Dark eyes pin you where you sit, sharp and dissecting, as though he’s already found the weakest seam in your composure and is toying with the idea of pulling it loose. He says nothing, but his mouth curls, the smallest twist of disdain, and then he looks away, like you’re beneath even his scorn. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself against the heat blooming beneath your ribs. He doesn’t know you yet. Not properly. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of, or the ruin you’ve been sent to deliver.

The principal barrels on, dragging the meeting into its grim necessities. Racing schedules. Sponsor obligations. League deadlines. Fines stacking like storm clouds on the horizon. You listen, tuning the words against the rhythm of your own thoughts, already fitting pieces into place. You can feel it in your bones — the edges of something bigger, something rotted beneath the surface of their bravado. They are bleeding, and they know it. The league has forced you into their camp as a measure of survival, but Taeyong made it clear before you ever stepped foot in their garage: you’re not here to save them. You’re here to light the match.

You wait for your moment. Then you take it. “Your last race transport logs are incomplete,” you say, your voice clean, sharp, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Several discrepancies in reported fuel usage and unaccounted travel hours. I’ll need immediate access to your internal records. Financials. Telemetry. Pit strategy.”

The silence that falls is not empty. It is electric.

His gaze snaps back to you, and this time it isn’t passive. It’s fire. His chair scrapes against the floor as he shifts forward, forearms braced heavy on the table, like he might devour you whole. “Maybe try watching a race before you question our pit stops,” he bites, his voice low and rough, edged with venom meant to sink beneath your skin.

It burns, but you welcome the heat. You meet his glare without flinching, without yielding an inch of ground. You’ve weathered worse storms. You’ve stood in boardrooms with men far more dangerous than him and watched them collapse under the weight of your evidence. You will watch him fall, too.

Before the tension can snap fully, the principal slams a hand down on the table, the crack of it loud enough to startle a few of the younger crew. “Enough,” he growls. His eyes are locked on the star driver, sharp with warning. “Cooperate. Our image is all we have left.”

The driver’s mouth tightens into a grim line, but he leans back in his seat, exhaling a slow, disdainful breath through his nose. His compliance is a farce, but it is compliance all the same. You press your advantage. “Full access,” you repeat, flipping the page in your folder, letting the rustle of paper cut the silence. “No exceptions.”

They bristle, but no one argues. The meeting fractures slowly, the tension bleeding out in all directions, footsteps retreating into engine bays and shadows, muttered curses tossed between teammates like tired rituals but he doesn’t move. He stays right where he is, anchored to the far end of the garage like the heat itself comes from his body — and maybe it does, because you feel it before you see him.

That awareness creeps up your spine like a lit fuse, slow and warm and unforgiving. You turn, too slow to play it off, and he’s already watching you. Not staring. Watching. Like you’re the track and he’s waiting for the moment you crack open. He’s stripped the fireproof suit halfway down his body, sleeves bunched around his waist, bare skin sheened with sweat under the flickering fluorescents. There’s oil smeared just under his collarbone, and something about that detail makes your throat go tight. The way he moves is thoughtless, practiced — wiping his jaw with a grease-stained rag, tossing it to the floor like it offended him — and then his gaze drags across your face, down the line of your throat, slow enough to sear.

He doesn’t smirk, not right away. It takes a moment. A shift in weight, a flicker of something darker in his eyes, and then his mouth curves — not amused, not mocking, but like he’s already three steps into a game you haven’t agreed to play. Like he knows what you taste like when you lie. Like he’s betting you’ll do it again.

Your eyes drop. Not because you want to, but because something pulls you there, to the sharp angles of his chest, the flush of his skin, and then lower. The suit at his hips is half-unzipped, loose where he’s shoved his hands into the waistband, and just above his belt line, the stitching catches your eye. A name. White thread on black fabric, the kind that isn’t meant to be read up close, only seen in motion, on a screen, under floodlights.

Lee Jeno.

The name tastes electric in your mouth, even unspoken. Of course it’s him. The face of Soul Line. The firebrand. The golden boy you once dragged in an article so brutal it got syndicated across three continents. You’d called him borrowed brilliance, fame wrapped around arrogance, a wreck waiting for the right turn. And here he is. Real. Sweat-slicked and simmering. Looking at you like the headline still bruises.

His voice comes low, too low, like it’s meant to hit somewhere private. “Thought you’d be older.”

You blink.

“More polished,” he adds, stepping forward a little. Not enough to touch, but enough to shift the air. “More bitter. Guess I expected someone who writes like that to look less…” His eyes drag over you again, slower this time, and the words coil hot between your ribs. “Soft.”

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your hands.

And then, finally, with a quiet breath that sounds too close to laughter — “You watching me, reporter girl?”

The words drip with something more than mockery, something darker, more deliberate, like he’s testing to see whether you’ll flinch or lean closer, whether you’ll break the standoff or let it stretch. He doesn’t know you’re not here to write a story, and you don’t offer him the truth. You meet his stare with a calm that costs you nothing on the outside but everything beneath your skin, letting the silence rise and settle like ash in the space between you. His jaw tenses, subtle, but sharp, like he’s not used to being left without the last word, like your stillness disrupts a rhythm he’s always been able to control. You don’t move. You let him sit in it. Let the tension braid itself through the heat of the garage, through the pulse low in your stomach, through the wire pulled tight between your spine and his. It’s not a line anymore. It’s a fuse. Not a story, you think, gaze still locked on his. A reckoning.

The pit doesn't sleep. Not really. Even now, hours after the meeting, the place hums like something alive beneath your skin. Doyoung’s words still sting, but they echo even louder once he’s gone, once it’s just you and the low thrum of the garage and the weight of what comes next. He gestures for you to follow with a jerk of his chin, and you do—past towers of stripped tires, the wet slap of coolant against concrete, the clatter of tools tossed onto workbenches like punctuation marks to arguments you haven’t earned the right to hear.

He doesn’t speak. Just leads you through the cluttered belly of the team’s world, deeper into the haze of oil and engine heat, until you find it: a narrow staircase, half hidden behind thick cables and hanging fire blankets. Upstairs, a converted office no bigger than a janitor’s closet. A mattress shoved in the corner, still wrapped in plastic. A flickering lamp. Two cracked windows with grime crusted into the corners. A desk that looks like it’s lost more battles than it’s won. It smells like oil, aftershave, and sleep deprivation. There’s a mug ring on the windowsill, long gone dry.

Too close to the noise. Too close to him. You’re in their lungs now. Daylight burns through the haze the next morning, and you’re dropped into their rhythm like a stone in the mouth of a river. No one slows down to make room for you. The introductions aren’t warm. They’re tests. You can feel it in every glance.

Renjun doesn’t look at you. Just turns a bolt harder when Doyoung says your name. Jaemin grins too wide and doesn’t blink long enough. His eyes skim your badge like he’s already calculated what it would take to strip it from you. Mark’s nod is brief, his eyes flicking from your clipboard to your boots to your mouth, then away. Donghyuck says, “Hey, compliance queen,” like he’s tasted the words before and decided they weren’t sweet enough. Eric mutters something under his breath. You catch “babysitter.” Sunwoo doesn’t say anything at all, but his eyes follow you with the patience of someone waiting to see where you’ll crack. And Jeno—Jeno doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look. You try not to flinch. Try not to look like the heat in the room is coming from more than the furnaces humming behind the walls.

You watch them prep for Daegu. That’s what they call it, like it’s a war and not a race. The Daegu Circuit. One of the tightest, most closely surveilled tracks on the internal league run. Only the top four teams are allowed to qualify, and Soul Line’s barely clinging to their spot. One more DNF— Did Not Finish, the league’s clean term for crashes, mechanical failures, disqualifications or some other issue that prevents them from crossing the finish line— and they’re out. No second chances. You know the pressure it puts on them. You feel it in the sharpness of their movements, the way even the laughter is clipped now, short-lived.

Jeno’s scheduled to run solo for the first lap trials tomorrow. Sunwoo and Jaemin will alternate team sets after that, and you’re expected to be there for all of it—every checkpoint, pit stop, and debrief. League orders, official oversight. You’re embedded under the guise of compliance monitoring, positioned as the league’s neutral eye, a silent safeguard to ensure they play by the book. That’s what they think you’re here for. What they don’t know is that your real assignment started the second you stepped inside. Last night, while the rest of the garage ran on fumes and noise, you stayed in the loft with the lights off, watching from the window and writing notes no one asked for. Notes meant to kill careers.

The garage operates nonstop, no digital logs, no formal security system. A direct violation—the league requires time-stamped movement for every staff member on the floor, and Soul Line tracks nothing. The main car still bears a sponsor logo flagged last season for money laundering—tied directly to illegal betting rings. It’s currently under investigation, not cleared, not safe, and definitely not allowed to be plastered across a vehicle that’s meant to represent professional sport. You clocked Renjun and Mark mid-argument near the toolshed, whispering about a part being “too hot to use again,” something that sounded like it could cost a race or a life. Renjun slammed the drawer shut hard enough to rattle the wall.

Later, after lights out, Sunwoo and Jaemin sat hunched over a tablet replaying what looked like race footage but you know the league archive doesn’t release raw data without clearance. It was off-grid, off-record, and all the more valuable because of it. Everything you’re gathering is being dressed up as routine monitoring. It’s not. You’re here to help them dig their own grave, and they don’t even know they’ve handed you the shovel.

When you asked for the transport and fuel logs, Donghyuck smiled too easily. “We clean them up before inspection,” he said, then laughed—too sharp, too knowing, the kind of laugh that doesn’t ask to be questioned. Not long after, you caught Eric hauling crates labeled SCRAP, only to spot the corner of a box split open, revealing modded engine parts you’ve never seen on any licensed schematic. And Jeno—when you approached him about accessing his telemetry files, he didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up. “They’re encrypted,” he said flatly. “Ask again and we’ll all pretend this meeting never happened.”

You logged every word.

But it’s more than just infractions. It’s how they move. How they function. Like a body. Flawed, bruised, stitched together by necessity and something more raw. You watch Jeno check Sunwoo’s wrist mid-conversation, eyes darting to a bruise like it offends him. You catch Mark slipping electrolyte tablets into Eric’s water bottle. No fanfare. Just instinct.

They aren’t clean. Not even close. But they’re not monsters either. And that’s what makes it worse. Because if they were easy to hate, this would be easy to do. If they were just reckless boys with oil on their hands and arrogance in their veins, you wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. But they’re more than that. They fight. They bleed. They care, even if they pretend not to. And somehow, in the thick of all that noise and grime, they’ve started to feel more real than anything you’ve had in months.

Your notes are ready. Your evidence stacks high. But you still feel it—the ache under your ribs when Jeno walks by without a glance, the itch in your spine when the music dies just as you step into the room. You’re the knife. You know it. The one thing they didn’t see coming. The quiet cut that could end all of this. You keep telling yourself your career is on the line. You keep pretending you don’t like how the pit smells like sweat and steel and something real, that it doesn’t settle under your skin in a way your last newsroom never did, that it doesn’t feel like the first place in years where the silence is honest.

The floorboards creak as night settles into the pit, the kind of quiet that doesn’t mean peace—just pause. You can still hear the click of cooling metal, the soft thrum of a charger left humming too long, the faint static of the radio someone forgot to turn off. But it’s him that makes the air shift. Jeno walks back from the showers, shirtless, a towel slung low over his shoulders, jaw set in brutal silence. Water clings to his skin in thin rivulets, tracing over bruises like old maps, burns like ghosts. His body is carved in motion, every step too fluid, too confident, like he doesn’t know how to exist unless he’s in control of the room. He doesn’t look up—doesn’t need to. But the moment the lamp in your window flickers against the glass and casts your silhouette into the open air, he slows. Not much. Just a fraction. A stutter in his stride like muscle memory reacting to something it doesn’t know yet but already wants to learn. Then he keeps walking.

Your chest aches. Not soft or sweet, it burns. Like friction. Like pressure. Like heat trapped beneath skin. It’s not affection. It’s not even desire. It’s something more dangerous. Hot and reckless and wrong. You think that’s the end of it. You think you can breathe again. You’re wrong. The garage has emptied—mostly. The lights are low, the shadows long. You’re bent over a stack of reports by the storage wall, trying to focus on the ink, on the facts, not the way your blood is still pulsing too loud in your ears. You don’t hear him approach but you feel him. That heavy, quiet presence that always moves like a storm forming behind your spine.

“Looking for cracks in the concrete?” he asks, voice rough and too close, low enough that it vibrates behind your ribs. You turn. He’s cornered you, not physically—not yet—but the space between you feels paper-thin.

You don’t blink. “No, looking for the truth.”

His eyes darken. “You think you’re gonna catch us slipping, compliance girl?”

“You don’t know me.” The words slice out before you can stop them, low and sharp, but not enough to cover the crack in your voice. He hears it. You can tell by the way his eyes narrow—not surprised, not amused, but focused, like he’s finally found something worth pressing into. The air between you stretches tight, thick with heat and history neither of you want to name.

“No?” he murmurs, stepping in closer. His voice drops, gravel-edged and deliberate, like he’s chewing on something filthy he intends to spit at your feet. “I know exactly what you are.”

Your back tenses. “Then say it.”

He leans in, not enough to touch, but enough to make the space between your mouths feel criminal. “You’re not here to fix anything. You’re not here to save us. You came to prove what you already think is true. That we’re cheats. That we’re dirty. That we’re broken boys who never deserved a shot at the circuit. You came with a shovel, and you’ve been digging since the minute you walked through that door.”

His breath grazes your cheek, hot and damp and way too close. Your fingers twitch against the folder at your side, but you don’t move. You hold your ground. He’s trying to get under your skin, and the worst part is—it’s working. “You’ve been here less than a night,” he continues, and now there’s a darker undercurrent curling beneath the heat of his voice, “but you already know where to look. You already know which bolts to count, which questions to ask, where the smoke’s thickest. You don’t talk much, but your eyes don’t stop moving.”

He takes a step closer, and you swear the air gets hotter, heavier, like he’s dragging all the oxygen into his orbit just to see how long you can go without it. Your back hits the metal siding behind you, a cold kiss against the heat burning beneath your skin. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence presses in, devastatingly close. “You think you’re subtle? You think we haven’t seen your type before?” he says, voice quiet now. “You’re not. You think we haven’t seen people like you before? Girls with pens and clean nails and that little moral high ground look in their eyes? You came here with a target and a deadline. You came here to catch us in the act, I don’t think you understand how obvious it is.”

Your stomach drops. Because that’s the truth. And he’s not supposed to know it.

He leans in, just enough that your shoulders brush when you inhale. “And I bet you already have, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Already scribbled something down about Renjun’s parts, or Jaemin’s footage, or the decal on the front wing. I bet you can’t wait to file it, can you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. There’s a roaring in your ears, and it isn’t from the garage anymore. You came here with leverage. You came with power but suddenly, he has all of it.

“I asked you a question.” His breath is on your neck now, burning at the base of your throat. “Are you gonna pretend you’re still neutral? That you’re not already writing our autopsy in that pretty little head of yours?”

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Because you thought you were playing a long game. You thought you had time. You thought they’d be easy to fool but he’s already seen through you and somehow, that terrifies you more than the exposure. Part of you wonders what else he sees and worse—how much of you he’s seen.

You expect to be gone by morning.

It’s the first thought that surfaces when the light cracks through the warped blinds above your head, thin and bleached and too sharp for how little sleep you got. You sit up slow, spine aching from the floor mattress, mouth dry, stomach tight. Last night, the way he cornered you, the way he looked at you like you’d already bled the truth all over the floor, you were sure it meant the end. You were sure Doyoung would be waiting outside the door, clipboard in hand, ready to escort you off the premises with a warning not to come back but when you step down into the pit, no one says anything.

Doyoung doesn’t even glance your way. The rest of the crew moves around you like smoke — clipped greetings, loud tools, sharp energy that crackles beneath the concrete. And Jeno? Jeno walks past you like you’re air. No nod. No look. Not even a flicker of recognition. Just the firm, deliberate press of his shoulder brushing yours, like he’s reminding you that you’re still in his way.

And yet — you’re still here.

You follow them to Daegu in the back of the team transport. No one talks to you. Jaemin scrolls through footage with Sunwoo, muttering under his breath. Donghyuck hums something tuneless, tapping out a beat on his knee. Renjun’s buried in his notebook. Mark sleeps with one earbud in. Eric keeps glancing at you like you’re the threat no one’s acknowledging but still, no one tells you to leave.

The Daegu Circuit rises like a concrete beast against the sky — industrial grey carved into sunlit asphalt, flanked by swarming paddocks and glass-walled control towers that glint like they’re watching. Heat shimmers off the ground in waves, thick with burnt rubber and sweat and the static buzz of engines throttling into warm-up. The scent hits first — scorched tires, petrol, synthetic lubricant — and then the noise swallows you whole. Every few seconds a car screeches down the trial lane, tires screaming against the edge of control. Officials are shouting orders from booths and radios, pit crews hauling gear across the compound in a chaos that only makes sense to those who’ve lived inside it too long to question. You follow the Soul Line crew at a measured pace, clipboard in hand, badge clipped neat to your jacket, your eyes sharp behind your sunglasses even as your chest coils tighter with every step. You’re not supposed to be here. Not really. Not after last night. Not after what he said. But your name hasn’t been stripped from the roster. Your badge still opens the gates. And no one’s told you to leave.

Not even him.

The Daegu Circuit isn’t kind. It stretches wide beneath a noon-struck sky, every surface gleaming with heat and speed and warning. The concrete hums under your boots as you walk behind the Soul Line crew, the pit lanes lined with cables and sun-bleached crates, radios crackling in sharp bursts, tyre stacks sweating under plastic sheeting. The official sectors shimmer in the distance, white and silver, pristine in a way that only makes Soul Line look more like a threat. Their garage bay is one of the smallest, pressed against the wall like an afterthought, tools half-unpacked, engines still being tuned like they’ve only just made it in time. Inside, the tension breathes. Renjun’s crouched low beneath a console, swearing into his headset, one hand braced against the floor while he tries to salvage something from the tangle of wires. Mark hovers behind him, flicking between telemetry maps on a smudged tablet. Jaemin’s pacing, muttering about torque splits, while Eric hauls tyres across the back wall with his jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. Sunwoo’s in the corner, quiet as always, arms crossed but eyes sharp. They don’t acknowledge you when you step inside, but you didn’t expect them to.

You find Jeno almost instantly — not because he says anything, but because the gravity around him shifts the moment you’re near. He’s standing near the centre console, suit rolled to his waist, shoulders drawn back like he’s already locked into race mode. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Just nods once at Doyoung, low and clipped, before slipping his gloves on without looking away from the track layout glowing in front of them. You catch yourself staring. You always do. His focus is a weapon in itself, hard and quiet and absolute.

But just as Mark adjusts the last split screen, the telemetry panel behind him flickers — once, then again — and dies. Not all at once. It stutters first, a blink too long to be a delay, then freezes mid-read. Data spikes flatline. The right side of the monitor collapses into black, a red alert flashing in the corner like a wound torn open. You hear the sound more than see it, a high whine of static cutting through conversation, pulling all eyes to the screen.

And then everything stops moving.

“Fuck,” Sunwoo says, already moving. “Internal feed’s down.”

Renjun curses louder, diving back under the system rig. Mark blanches, tapping the screen again, again. It doesn’t blink back. The air in the garage thickens, seconds dragging in real time. This trial run is Jeno’s solo, a compliance-mandated lap that needs to be broadcast live, internally tracked, and logged in the system for Daegu to count as cleared. The league officer walking toward them clearly knows that too. Clipboard already open, expression unreadable. You feel the current change, flicking sharp as a blade through the air.

Doyoung hesitates. “We’re resolving it,” he says, already one breath behind.

“You’ve got two minutes,” the official replies, watching the garage like a hawk. “No recorded data, no compliance confirmation then the run will be void. You’ll have no other choice but to forfeit.”

You don’t wait. You already saw the clause in the league documents. You made sure of it. You take a step forward, voice level, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Fallback protocol. Clause Twelve, subsection three. In the event of a system crash during a compliance run, the assigned league officer may ride passenger to record manual telemetry.”

Doyoung’s head jerks up. “That’s not—”

“You signed it,” you say. “Three weeks ago. When the league granted your provisional license. Page seven.”

The official nods. “She rides. Log everything manually. If she doesn’t get in now, you lose the lap. Final call.”

Jeno turns, and the air inside the garage locks around your throat like a vice, like every breath between now and the next word could be your last. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just looks at you, slow and measured, gaze slicing clean down your body before dragging back up to meet your eyes, and what you see there isn’t anger, not exactly — it’s colder than that, more precise, the kind of quiet that only comes before something breaks. His jaw ticks once. His fingers tighten around the edge of his helmet, the leather glove groaning faintly beneath the strain, and when he finally opens his mouth, it’s not a voice that comes out, it’s a verdict. “No one gets in my car.”

“She’s cleared,” Doyoung says, the words low, reluctant. “You knew this might happen.”

“No one’s ever ridden with me,” Jeno says, sharper this time, a little louder, like the rest of the garage might’ve forgotten. He looks at Doyoung, not at you. “No one.”

“And if you refuse,” you say evenly, not moving, “the league will log a compliance rejection. Which means a penalty. Which means disqualification. Which means you don’t race again today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe ever.”

Jeno’s jaw ticks. You can almost feel the tension coming off of him in waves now, tightening the space around you until it’s hard to breathe. For a second, you think he might really say no. Just walk off the track, consequences be damned but he looks at Doyoung again, then the league officer, then at you.

And then he turns away.

You don’t wait for permission. You hand off your clipboard to Mark, strip off your jacket, and climb into the passenger side of the car. The cockpit is already sweltering, every inch of metal radiating heat, the air thick with engine fumes and burnt rubber and something deeply, unmistakably him. You pull the harness across your chest, snap it tight, adjust the mic at your collar. He doesn’t look at you. Just pulls the helmet over his head, flips the switch on the ignition, and settles into the driver’s seat like he’s preparing for war.

The cockpit is brutal. Not just the heat, though that clings to your skin like a second suit but the size of it, the pressure, the closeness. Every surface smells like metal and flame retardant, burnt rubber and sweat. You pull the harness across your lap and shoulders, click it into place, but your hands aren’t steady. The helmet’s bulkier than the ones you trained on. You miss the chin strap the first time. Then fumble the latch. Your fingers scrape against the buckle, trembling just slightly, just enough to piss you off. And then you feel it — that shift beside you, the weight of someone watching, the silence tensing.

Jeno doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look but he reaches over, short and sharp, and his fingers slide under your jaw to catch the edge of the strap. He tightens it with one quick pull, firm enough that your breath hitches, not from the pressure but from him. His arm brushes your chest as he pulls back. The side of his hand grazes your collar. Still, he doesn’t look at you. Just settles into his seat like the interruption didn’t happen, like he didn’t just touch you like that.

Your knees graze again when he shifts, suit creasing against your thigh. You try to breathe. Try not to notice how loud the engine sounds, how much hotter the air is inside the cockpit. Your fingers go for the mic clip at your collar, but before you can adjust it, his hand is already there — securing the wire, fixing the placement. His breath ghosts your temple when he leans in. The scent of him is clean sweat and smoke, and something electric underneath. The car hums beneath you, but it’s his voice that rips through your nerves.

“Don’t speak unless I ask a question,” he says, quiet, controlled, like each word is measured against the beat of your pulse. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. And if you so much as breathe out of rhythm…” His jaw flexes. “I’ll eject you mid-lap.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. The words knot somewhere behind your ribs, too tight to untangle. But then he speaks again, low, like the cockpit was meant to carry his voice straight to your spine.

“I can feel everything in this seat,” he murmurs. “Every twitch. Every shift. So sit still. Unless you want me to know exactly what you’re thinking.”

You go still. Not because he told you to but because you don’t trust what’ll happen if you don’t. The heat rises. The harness digs into your hips. His thigh presses back into yours, and when the engine roars to life, it doesn’t drown him out — it amplifies him. He still hasn’t looked at you.

The engine roars and every other sound is swallowed whole, like breath caught in the chest and held too long, like the track outside has cracked open its jaw just to take you. The world becomes motion, breath and pressure. The engine screams, your spine slams back, and the air between you and Jeno becomes blistering. His voice is in your ear — low, rough, pure focus. Every sharp inhale echoes through your headset. His grip on the wheel is brutal. Controlled. Every turn pulls you with him, the G-force snapping through your ribs like a wire strung tight.

You don’t speak at first. You’re just observing. Watching. But not neutrally. Never neutrally. The cockpit hums with vibration, every shift of his body dragging your attention deeper into the tension between movement and control. His thighs tense when he shifts gears — a sharp flex and release, muscle tightening against the harness straps. There’s sweat on his neck, a glint of it catching the light where it gathers just beneath the helmet. His knuckles are pale against the wheel, movements exact, like he’s not driving but commanding the track to yield.

Then Seoul unspools around you.

Through the side panel, the city blurs — silver and glass and colour. Neon flickers on the edge of your vision, signs in hangul flashing past like constellations blinking out mid-sentence. For a heartbeat, you catch the Han River in full view, stretched like a ribbon of mercury beneath the sun, cutting the skyline open — and in that same breath, Jeno takes a turn so sharp your shoulder slams into the cockpit wall and he doesn’t so much as flinch. You swear the car lifts, even for just a second. He brings it back down like gravity answers only to him.

It’s electric. Blinding. Your pulse doesn’t match the engine anymore — it’s faster. Hotter. You can’t tell where your breath ends and his begins. You call the data aloud, sharp and steady, even when your hands tremble across the board, even when your legs are shaking, even when you’re sure this — this right here — isn’t compliance anymore. It’s something else. Something living. Something hungry.

The fourth lap coils around you like a whip, tighter than the last. Speed builds with a different weight now — not just velocity, but violence. The track narrows in sector three, the turn pinched between two cement barriers, and the pressure doesn’t let up. You feel it in your chest. In your teeth. In the low, steady growl of Jeno’s breath through the comms. His hands are surgical on the wheel, knuckles bloodless, every movement calculated — until the blur in the left mirror shifts.

Onyx Line. You catch it first — that flicker of silver, too fast, too close. They aren’t just overtaking. They’re closing in. The rear of your car jolts, the slightest kiss of impact, subtle enough to slip under compliance review but hard enough that you feel your harness snap tight across your ribs. The car pulls slightly left. Jeno curses under his breath, sharp and low, already correcting but the pit doesn’t flag it. No one calls it out. Not a sound comes through the headset but static.

You lean forward before you can think better of it, your voice breaking the seal of silence like a blade slicing clean through water. “They’re trying to box you in.”

He doesn’t respond. Not right away. But you see the way his shoulder tenses, just barely, and that’s answer enough. “Sector five’s downhill,” you continue, voice tight, fast. “They’ll try to push you into the brake zone. Cut your line.”

His voice hits like a strike. “Stay out of it.”

You snap your head toward him. “I’m not trying to win,” you bite. “I’m trying to keep your fucking car on the track.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even twitch but the way he exhales, harsh, through his teeth, feels like a warning. Still, you see it. The hesitation. The gear shift that’s half a second late. The doubt crawling under his skin. “They’re baiting you inside,” you say, lower now, steadier. “But the outside gives you more line. You’ll see it on the curve. Take the edge early. If you time it right, you can box them in.”

Another beat passes. Long. Stretching over the scream of the engine, the blur of the city flashing by in streaks of steel and sun. You think he’s going to ignore you again but he moves. He takes the curve just before the downhill, earlier than regulation, tighter than safety and for a split second, you’re convinced you both might die. The tires scream. The car skids by inches and then Onyx Line is behind you, choking on your tailwind, and the pit erupts in your headset, all voices shouting over each other, asking how the fuck he pulled it off.

Jeno doesn’t answer them. He doesn’t even breathe for a second. Then his hand slams the gear forward. The car launches into the next sector like it belongs to the sky. His shoulder knocks into yours on the turn, hard and deliberate. His voice cuts in through the headset — lower now, rougher, something carved out of disbelief and heat and something you can’t name. “You’re in this now, compliance girl.”

The pit explodes in static, voices tripping over each other as the comms erupt, but you keep going, eyes locked on the telemetry feed as it scrambles to catch up. “Brake late at the next split,” you murmur, voice steady despite the rush burning through your limbs. “Sector five runs hot. It’ll mess with the tire balance.” You don’t expect him to listen, not really, but he does. He obeys without thinking, not out of trust but instinct, and the car veers tighter into the split than it should, clinging to the curve like it’s magnetic.

“There’s a blind curve in six,” you add, just before the track swallows it whole. “Ride the left edge. You’ll see it before they do.” His hands adjust again, every muscle in his arm taut beneath the suit, the twitch in his wrist perfectly timed. The car cuts clean through the turn, a whisper’s width from the wall, and Onyx disappears from the rear feed like smoke blown out a window. The tension in the cockpit doesn’t ease, but it changes, shifts into something harder to name. It’s just the two of you now — and for the first time since the engine kicked, you know he’s not ignoring you anymore.

“You trained for this?” he mutters, the words rasping low beneath his breath, unreadable but laced with something that might be curiosity, might be wariness.

“I watched you,” you say, your voice quiet but certain, your pulse a war drum beneath your skin. “You telegraph more than you think.” You don’t hear a reply at first, only the sound of his breathing, the precise tension of his fingers tightening on the wheel, the cabin pulsing with every heartbeat.

Then something shifts. He leans in slightly, like he wants to feel your words closer, and adjusts the mic at his collar. His voice crackles through your headset again — low, direct, enough to drive a current down your spine like exposed wire. “Keep talking.”

So you do. You trace every turn as if you were born in his blind spots. You anticipate the angles before the corners show, you call out variances in downforce before the system even flags them, your voice slicing through the cockpit in rhythm with his hands. You read the patterns, warn him about the tire rotations from other teams, the lift coming off the left apex that’ll cause drag if he doesn’t compensate. He doesn’t thank you. Doesn’t acknowledge it. But he listens. You feel it in every adjustment, in every calculated risk he lets you steer him into, in the way his body keeps echoing your commands before the pit can even breathe.

When the final sector looms — fast, brutal, and risky — you barely have to think. It’s already mapped in your head. But his voice returns before you can speak, deeper this time, more grounded, like he’s testing something. “Your move, compliance girl,” he says, and it’s not mocking anymore. It’s an invitation. “What’s the play?”

And you give it to him without pause, without flinching, because you’re not observing anymore, not monitoring, not logging. You’re in it. Like you’ve been racing beside him your entire life.

You barely make it off the track before he grabs you.

Not rough but fast enough that it startles the breath from your throat. One second, you’re caught in the afterglow of chaos, the echo of the crowd still humming in your chest, the thrum of victory laced tight around your ribs. Then his hand is on your arm, all heat and command, dragging you off-course, away from the crew, away from the laughter and the noise. No warning. No words. Just Jeno, moving like something’s clawing at the inside of his lungs. You think, for a moment, he might take you upstairs, toward the office loft or the van where your things are. Somewhere private, but neutral. But he doesn’t. He leads you past the edge of the paddock, past the backup tires and crates of gear, and then down — a stairwell tucked behind the west bay, steep and shadowed, concrete cracked like it’s holding old confessions in its bones.

He doesn’t speak as he pushes you against the wall. It’s not violent, but it’s firm — his hand braced beside your head, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. He smells like smoke and sweat and burned rubber, like victory bleeding into adrenaline. His suit is peeled halfway down, clinging low to his hips, and his breathing hasn’t evened out. His jaw is locked. His eyes, when they finally lift to yours, are full of something you can’t name. It isn’t fury. It isn’t triumph. It’s raw.

"You’re done," he says, voice frayed and low.

You blink once. "What?"

"You don’t ride again. You’re finished."

You almost laugh, because it’s ridiculous. "Because I helped you win?"

His eyes cut into yours. "Because you could’ve fucking died."

And there it is. Not anger. Not pride. Fear. Laid bare in the rasp of his voice, in the way he looks everywhere but at your mouth, your throat, the line of your collarbone — like he wants to forget the sight of you pressed into his cockpit seat, your breath uneven in his headset. “You didn’t care when I got in the car,” you say quietly.

He exhales sharply. "I cared the second they clipped us."

The air between you crackles. That hit — Onyx slicing in like a blade — you’d both felt it. But where you’d felt the lurch in your chest and anchored yourself with facts, data, instinct, he had felt something else. Something he doesn’t know how to name.

You step closer before you can think better of it, and his shoulder stiffens like your nearness brands him. “So that’s what this is? Fear?”

He shakes his head once, slow. “No. This is me not making the same mistake twice.”

You frown. “What mistake?”

“Trusting you.” And now it sinks in. You should’ve seen it coming — the shift in his tone, the sharpness of his silence in the car, the way his hand tightened on the wheel every time your voice cracked through his headset. This was never just about the race. It was about you. About what you did. What you wrote.

“Picture this,” he says, and his voice isn’t angry yet — just low, heavy, like he’s dragging the memory up from the wreckage. “I’d just graduated. Fresh out, brand new to the circuit. Doyoung tells me there’s a profile being done — says your company’s covering my debut, and that you would be writing it. I was fucking proud. More than that. I was excited. It felt like everything was falling into place.”

He steps closer, and this time his eyes don’t leave yours. “I looked you up. Read every article. Not one hit piece. Not one cheap headline. You wrote with bite, yeah, but it was honest. It gave people a chance. I thought maybe I’d get that too. Something that said I was worth watching. Something that said I belonged.”

His breath catches, sharp. “I waited for that article like it meant something. Like it’d be the start of a career that wasn’t just noise and sponsorships and pressure. I thought maybe you’d see me.” His jaw tenses. “And then it dropped.” His words hit like rubber burning on pavement. “The article you fucking wrote.” He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to.

“You called me a ‘golden boy burning on borrowed fuel.’ Front page. Bold font. Byline gleaming like a fucking trophy. You made me a headline, a punchline, a warning to every sponsor with a checkbook. You didn’t just report on me — you defined me before I even got a chance to drive.”

He shakes his head once, slow. Bitter. “And then I see your name again. This time on the roster. Walking in like some league-appointed savior, like you’ve got our best interests at heart. Flashing that badge like it means something, talking like your clipboard’s gonna fix what you broke.”

His gaze turns hard.

“You don’t get to ride with me ever again. Not after that.”

Your breath catches before you can steady it. You weren’t ready for that—him. Not like this. Not with every word sharpened to a blade and dragged across your name like it deserved to bleed. You knew there’d be fallout. You braced for resentment, for jabs and silence and looks that cut like wire but you didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect him to speak like the memory of your words still echoes in his bones, like you didn’t just write a headline—you carved a scar.

You open your mouth to respond and nothing comes out. Just air. Shaky and shallow. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your clipboard like it can anchor you, like it can excuse you. “That article,” you start, voice thinner than you want it to be, “it wasn’t supposed to—”

He doesn’t say anything, but you see it. The way his jaw flexes. The way he looks away like he might lose it if he doesn’t.

“I was given a brief,” you continue, forcing the words out now, faster than you can clean them up. “I had a deadline. I didn’t—I didn’t know who you were yet. I only had what they fed me. I didn’t have access to the real—”

He laughs. It’s hollow. Like a backfire. “You mean the story they wanted you to write?”

You flinch. Your throat burns. “I wasn’t trying to ruin you. I swear to God, I didn’t know it would get that kind of traction. I thought—I genuinely thought I was doing my job. That if there was pressure around your name, maybe it would spark a second look. Maybe someone would pay more attention, take a deeper interest, give you the shot you—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. Not loud. Just final.

You fall quiet. Shame clawing up your spine, curling beneath your ribs. Because it sounds stupid now. So fucking naive. Like anything about this world was ever that simple. “I didn’t think it would follow you,” you say eventually, quieter. “I didn’t think it would haunt you.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And you wish he hadn’t. Because there’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn—anger, yes, but beneath it, hurt. Deep. Unshakable. “Well, it did.”

You nod slowly, swallowing back the sting in your throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… I need you to know I carry it.”

His stare is merciless. “So what? You come back to rewrite it? Give the golden boy a redemption arc so you can fix your reputation?”

His voice bites like asphalt in a crash, but it’s the next words that land deeper, lower. “You're a fucking liar.” He steps closer, jaw tight, the fury in his eyes steady, unwavering. “You walk in with your badge and clipboard, talking about compliance and reform like you’re here to save us, but you reek of motive. You want to document a downfall. You want to be the one who caught us mid-sink, wrote the article that buried the last illegal thread of racing alive. You think I can't see it? You think I don't know exactly what you're doing?” His breath shudders, close enough now that you feel it trace your collarbone. “I won’t let that happen. I won't let you turn us into your fucking headline.”

You freeze. Because he’s not wrong and that terrifies you. Not because you slipped up. You haven’t. Not once. You’ve kept every expression measured, every line rehearsed, every observation veiled under the perfect sheen of professionalism. But somehow, he knows. He sees straight through the armor. Reads the red under the ink. You should hate it. You should push back but your heart is thudding too loud to think straight, and for a moment, all you can feel is the echo of his words inside your chest.

You lie. To him. To yourself. To whatever compass used to point toward your version of right. “No,” you say, swallowing down the tremor in your voice. “I came back to tell the truth this time. All of it. Even if it buries me.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his lip twitches. But you keep going anyway. “Soul Line matters,” you say. “You all do. Mark. Renjun. Jaemin. Sunwoo. Eric. Donghyuck.” You meet his eyes. “You.”

Your voice softens, not with guilt but with something closer to conviction. “People need to see what this team is. Not just the grit, not just the mess. The heart. The way Mark checks the tire heat twice when no one’s looking. How Renjun runs his hands over the frame like it’s skin, not steel. Jaemin never stops running his mouth but he always knows where everyone is. Sunwoo barely speaks, but he watches everything. Eric’s bruised to shit and still carries half this team on his back. Donghyuck acts like this is a joke, but he’s the one who checked on me after the lap.” You swallow, hard. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what this place is?” Your eyes don’t leave his. “And you— You didn’t say a word to me. Not once but you reached for the wheel differently when you thought I was scared.” You breathe in, shaky. “So don’t tell me that you don’t care.”

You hesitate, because the words don’t come easy, not when they feel like confessions. “The way you raced today,” you murmur. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Your voice is low, measured, like saying too much too fast might break the moment. “The control, the instinct—after they clipped us, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t panic. You adjusted mid-corner like you’d already accounted for it. Like your body knew before your brain did. That’s not luck. That’s not just talent. That’s precision. That’s discipline.”

His face doesn’t move, but you catch it — the flicker behind his eyes, the twitch in his jaw. You keep going. “And you shielded me,” you say. “No hesitation. Just one arm across the cabin. One second, and you were already moving. You didn’t look at the track, you looked at me. You made sure I was still breathing before you even thought about finishing that lap.”

Your voice slips softer, but firmer too. “That’s why I respect you. As a racer, yeah. But also—” your breath catches for a second, and you force yourself to hold his gaze “—as a man. You don’t just drive like you want to win. You drive like you’re protecting something. Even if you don’t admit it.”

He blinks. The silence between you deepens, too thick to step through. So you stop thinking. You step back, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your shirt before you even realise what you’re doing. It peels over your head and falls to the floor in a single, soundless breath. You don’t know why you do it. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the charge still running hot beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the way his eyes have been stripping you bare since the second lap. Maybe you just want to see if anything can crack that iron control.

“Fuck, Y/N.” It’s the first time he’s said your name. And it breaks something open.

His gaze doesn’t drop. “So teach me,” you whisper. Your voice is softer now, trembled but sure. “Teach me what the truth is.”

His jaw locks. His head shakes once. “Don’t do that.”

You step into him like you’re crossing a threshold, not a room. His breath hitches when your hand curls around his wrist, dragging it slow across the line of your waist, then higher—up, over the swell of your ribs, until his palm rests against your bare skin. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t breathe. You guide him like you want him to feel every shiver, every beat pulsing under your skin. When you reach behind you, fingers finding the clasp, you don’t break eye contact. The snap is quiet. The fall of the straps even quieter. Your bra slips off your arms and hits the floor, and his hand is still there—hot, motionless, like the heat’s bleeding straight through his skin into yours.

“Come on,” you whisper, breath skipping, mouth parted just enough to taste the tension between you. “Am I really so bad?”

His stare drags like a touch, slow and hungry, not blinking, not breathing, just devouring every inch of skin you’ve exposed. His gaze catches on your tits first, bare and flushed, then your mouth, still wet from biting back sound, then your eyes—dark, blown wide, waiting. There’s nothing soft in the way he looks at you. It’s possession, plain and fucking filthy, like he’s already imagining what you’d feel like with your legs spread and your voice wrecked. His jaw clenches, hard, sharp, and you watch the muscle jump as he swallows it down. His voice, when it comes, is ruined—low, gritty, like it scrapes out from the back of his throat with too much want behind it. “No,” he says. “I am.”

And then he’s on you. His hands crash into your waist like they’ve been starving for the shape of it, fingers spreading wide and squeezing hard enough to bruise. You don’t get a chance to brace for it—your back slams into the wall with a dull, shuddering thud, and then his mouth is on yours, open and wet and biting. His teeth clamp down on your lower lip like he’s trying to punish you, dragging it between his before sucking the sting away with a tongue that doesn’t ask for permission. Your moan slips out before you can stop it, high and trembling, thick with want, and he swallows it like it feeds something in him. He kisses like he’s coming undone, like breathing doesn’t matter, like the only thing that exists is your mouth and how filthy he can make it. There’s no rhythm, no pause for air, just spit and teeth and tongues clashing, everything loud and hot and desperate. One thigh wedges up between your legs and pushes until it slots perfectly under your cunt, grinding up with bruising pressure. Your hips jerk, rolling down hard without thought, chasing that friction like a drug, grinding against the dense, flexing muscle of his leg until your clit starts to throb.

You claw at him, frantic, hands bunching the fabric of his fireproof suit as your fingers scramble for something—his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head—anything you can cling to while your body rocks shamelessly down on his thigh. The friction is sharp and constant, your thin layers doing nothing to soften the ache, and every shift of his body presses him harder into the soaked heat between your legs. You can feel how wet you are, can hear it when he shifts, the drag of your cunt sticky and slick against his thigh. You moan again, louder this time, and his breath catches like he’s unraveling just from the sound.

“Jeno—” you gasp, broken and shaky, but he doesn’t let you speak. His growl vibrates against your lips, rough and low and filthy, and he drags his mouth down your throat, licking a slow, hot stripe over the pulse hammering at your neck. He sinks his teeth into the skin just beneath your jaw, not hard enough to break it but enough to make you whimper, then trails lower, mouth latching over your collarbone and sucking until it stings. You shiver as he shifts his attention to your chest, mouth pressing over your shirt, tongue tracing where your nipple sits beneath the fabric before his teeth catch and tug. Even through the layers, you feel it. It burns straight through your chest and down between your legs, making your thighs twitch around his. You arch off the wall, grinding harder, desperate for more, your head falling back with a curse when the pressure gets too good to handle.

Your legs wrap around his waist without hesitation, the movement automatic and hungry. His hands slide under your thighs and lift you in one swift pull, gripping tight until you’re pinned between him and the wall, his hips rocking up into yours with a force that makes you gasp into his neck. The grind is brutal. He fucks up into you through the layers of your clothes like he means to leave a memory of it in your bones, his cock thick and hard and straining against his suit, dragging against the soaked seam of your underwear every time his hips jerk forward. You clutch at him, nails scraping down his back, mouth open and panting against his skin as the pressure builds and builds and builds. You roll your hips with him, chasing every harsh thrust, every obscene press of cock against clit, each one knocking the air out of your lungs. You can feel how close you’re getting—how the wet heat between your legs starts to pulse, how your thighs start to shake, how your voice starts to break with every breathless moan.

He’s cursing now, jaw clenched, breathing ragged, and he mouths it against your skin like a prayer turned blasphemy. “You hear that?” he grits out, voice low and wrecked, hips snapping up again so hard your moan turns into a cry. “That’s you. That’s how fucking bad you need it.” His hand curls into your hair and yanks your head back so he can look at you, so close his nose brushes yours, his forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him in waves. “Say it,” he growls, grinding into you again, his cock rubbing right where you’re soaked through and throbbing. “Say it’s mine.”

Your voice catches, slips out soft and slurred, “It’s yours,” but it’s not enough. He slams into you again, harder, until your body jolts against the wall. “Jeno, it’s yours, I swear—fuck—”

“Then take it,” he growls, his mouth crashing into yours again. “Take everything.”

He doesn’t give you a second to react. One hand wraps around your wrist, tight and unrelenting, dragging you across the dim space until your knees knock against the sleek side of a car you haven’t seen before. It’s tucked behind the main garage bay, half-assembled, stripped for parts, wires hanging loose from the open console. The floor is stained with oil, and the air is thick with the scent of burnt rubber, engine coolant, and old heat. Fluorescent lights above flicker, throwing your shadows across the walls in broken stutters. Before you can steady yourself, he spins you, forces your chest down onto the hood. The metal is still warm from testing, hot against your ribs. Your palms slide over the surface, searching for grip, but he’s already there. One hand plants flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down, the other bunches your skirt, yanking your underwear aside with a rough tug that makes your breath catch.

His mouth brushes the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice so raw it barely holds shape. “You wanted the truth?” he murmurs, the words thick with hunger and need, it pressed into you like a brand. His hand flexes at the base of your spine, anchoring you there, and then his hips drive forward in one brutal thrust. The sound you make is a strangled cry, punched out of your chest as your body jolts forward against the hood, metal squealing beneath you. The burn is instant. Sharp. Hot. Stretching you full in a single stroke that knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you trembling. He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, just breathes heavy against your neck as his cock pulses inside you, thick and unforgiving, dragging heat through every nerve. You clutch at the edge of the car, gasping, because nothing in you feels untouched anymore—not your body, not your pride, not the part of you that wanted to win this. He thrusts again, and it feels like truth. Violent. Inescapable. Yours.

The first thrust knocks the wind out of you, the second drags a moan from somewhere low and guttural, and then he stops pretending there’s rhythm. It’s just force now, just the slap of skin against skin and the raw scrape of breath in your lungs. He fucks into you like he’s hunting something he lost in you. Your thighs are slick and trembling, knees starting to buckle under the pressure. The hood rattles beneath your stomach as you clutch at it for balance, palms sliding over the gloss. He slaps your ass—hard, fast—then grabs it, fingers bruising deep as he mutters against your shoulder, voice all gravel and heat. “Look at you,” he breathes, low and dark, “making a mess all over my cock, crying for it like you didn’t come in here thinking you were above all this.” Then he thrusts again, hard enough to knock the thought from your brain, deep enough that your mouth drops open around a gasp that never gets the chance to land. The metal screams under you. Your hips jolt. Your back arches. His hand slides up the curve of your body, wraps around your throat like he owns it, and then he leans in, chest hot against your spine.

“You wanna act like you’re here to help?” he snarls, teeth dragging along your ear. “Then fucking take it. Prove it.” You barely register it—just the shift of his weight, the grind of his pelvis—and then his spit hits your tongue, thick and warm. Your lips part for it like they know better than you. You swallow, loud and deliberate, and the growl he lets out rips straight through you. He fucks you like he’s trying to brand it into memory, every sound you make echoing off the walls, every curse from his mouth driving you closer to the edge. You don’t even notice your moans getting louder until his hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the cries that come with the next thrust.

“Quiet,” he mutters, hot against your ear. “You don’t want them hearing how wet you are for the man you tried to destroy.” It hits too close. Shame and arousal twist inside you, something dark and desperate, and you grind back against him harder.

The heat off the car hood is blistering, licking up your stomach, sweat sliding down the dip of your spine in a slow, stinging crawl. Your thighs ache from how wide he’s forced them, every thrust a punishing slam that jars your ribs against metal. His grip on your waist is bruising, teeth gritted behind every ragged breath as he watches your body fold and tremble for him. He’s deep—so deep—cock splitting you open raw, dragging against every nerve ending like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out. But it’s not enough. Not when you start pushing back harder, grinding on him like you need to feel every vein, every ridge, every hateful inch. That’s when he shifts.

His hand slides up from your hip slow, the drag of his fingers steady and possessive as they coast over the sweat-slick plane of your stomach, trailing up past the swell of your ribs until he’s curling them under your chin. He tilts your head up, not gently—just enough to force you open, to bare your throat to the hot, smoky air, mouth slack as your breath stutters out. He doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. Just holds you there like you’re something to own, something to break open and rearrange. His mouth is right at your ear now, the shape of his words scraping across your skin like gravel. “This what you wanted?” he rasps, voice all venom and heat, hips still pounding into you with an unrelenting pace. “To fuck the man you tried to bury? Say it.”

You hesitate. It’s instinct. A flicker of resistance, a breath too long—but that’s all it takes. He punishes you for it instantly, hips snapping forward with a brutal thrust that knocks the air out of you, slamming your stomach against the car. You cry out, hands scrambling to brace against the hood, body jolting with the force of it. His grip tightens, not choking, but controlling—commanding the angle of your head, forcing you to feel everything. “Say it, reporter girl,” he snarls, mouth at your cheek, tongue hot behind clenched teeth. “Or I’ll stop. And you’ll beg for me next time.”

You manage something—a broken whimper, a plea that barely makes it past your lips—and it’s enough. But he’s not done. Not even close. His fingers slide between your lips next, two thick digits forcing their way into your mouth until you’re gagging around them, drool spilling out past your chin. “That’s it,” he grits, pace vicious, cock driving into you so hard the whole damn car shudders. “Take it. Choke on it if you have to.” You suck around them desperately, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, and he watches with something dark and starved gleaming in his eyes. Then he leans in and spits into your mouth again—slow, messy, deliberate—watching the way your throat works as you swallow it down like you’ve been starved for it.

And then his hand comes down. Fast. Sharp. The slap cracks across your ass, lower this time, angled to sting—and it does. Fire lashes up your spine and your knees nearly buckle. Another lands before you can recover. Then another. Until your thighs shake and your breath starts to hitch, your body trembling under the weight of every mark he leaves behind. “Gonna mark you up,” he growls, breath ragged against your ear, “so every step back to the team hurts. Let them see who you belong to.” You whimper again, half-lost already, and he doesn’t waste another second—rips your panties the rest of the way off, shoves the soaked fabric into your mouth without hesitation. “Quiet now,” he mutters, slapping your thigh one more time, rougher than before. “Earn it.”

He moves again. Shifts his stance—one knee braced on the bumper, hands planted on your hips like he’s anchoring you to the car—so he can fuck up into you with more force, more depth, the angle cruel and perfect all at once. Your cries are muffled, swallowed by lace and cotton, but your body can’t lie. You’re shaking. Tightening around him. One of his hands slides down, rough fingers finding your clit with terrifying precision, rubbing fast, merciless, until your vision whites out and your legs give. You’re close. Too close. You feel it crash up your spine, that blinding wave about to drag you under—

“Don’t cum,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your cunt clenches, high-pitched whine muffled behind the panties, and his pace only gets rougher. “Not until I say,” he snarls, fucking you harder. “Not until you beg me to fill you.”

You sob around the fabric, shaking your head, then nodding frantically, fingers clawing at the edge of the hood as you choke out, "Please—please, Jeno—need it, need you to fuck me full, need to feel you drip out of me when I walk—please—I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, just don’t stop."

He hisses a curse, pulls out too fast, too rough, and before you can protest, he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. "Up." He hauls you with him, dragging you behind a stack of tires near the far end of the garage. You trip over something—rubber, crates, you don’t care—but he catches you, spins you, and sits down hard against the slicks, dragging you onto his lap in one violent motion. "Ride me," he says, voice cracked open. "Fucking ride it out."

The space back here is secluded, shadowed, almost intimate in the way the light cuts low across the floor, catching on chrome rims and glinting off metal. The rubber smell isn’t harsh; it’s heady, grounding, mixing with sweat and sex and the sharp bite of gasoline in a way that makes your head spin. The walls are close enough to press against, heat rising from the stacks behind you, from the slick surface of his fireproofs, from the furnace of his body beneath yours. It’s filthy, but it’s beautiful—hot and heavy and yours.

Your thighs tremble but you obey, dropping onto him like you’re starving for it, the stretch instant and obscene. His cock drives into you thick, soaked, and you swear you feel him everywhere at once—under your ribs, punching up into your lungs, deep enough to make your whole body jolt. You gasp, clawing at his chest as he groans, head tilted back against the wall, sweat beading down his throat.

You wrap your arms around his neck, press your chest against his, and move—grinding, lifting, fucking down on him with a pace that’s feral, greedy, loud. He holds your hips tight, knuckles white against your skin, eyes locked on the bounce of your tits against his chest, the way your mouth drops open when you take him deep. You whine, high and shameless, your moans echoing through the cavernous space.

He thrusts up to meet you, fucking into your heat with brutal rhythm, each stroke a wet slap, each drag of his cock filthier than the last. "That’s it," he pants, voice wrecked. "Make a mess. Drench me. Let it pour." One hand slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, vicious circles, the other wrapped around your throat again, holding you just at the edge of too much.

"Gonna cum on my cock like a good little whore?" he murmurs, lips at your jaw, breath hot. "Do it. Paint my dick, make it fucking messy."

You sob out a gasp, cunt pulsing, bouncing faster, chasing that brutal edge. The way he fucks you from below—rough, precise, desperate—makes your whole body seize, and you’re so wet you hear it, the slick suck of every thrust. He slaps your ass once, then grabs it, bouncing you harder, fucking up as you fall down, and the rhythm is animal, unhinged, ruined.

"You hear that?" he growls. "That’s your pussy, baby. Fucking greedy. You love this shit, don’t you?"

You nod frantically, tears caught in your lashes, babbling nonsense against his mouth—"Yes, yes, need you, so full, can’t stop, don’t stop, please"—and he snaps, slamming into you harder, chasing his own high now, sweat slicking your bodies, his mouth dragging over your throat, your tits, your shoulder.

"Keep going," he grits out, voice raw. "Let the whole fucking circuit hear you."

And you do. You fall apart with his name on your tongue, his cock splitting you open, the taste of him still thick in your mouth, the sound of skin and breath and heat echoing around you like thunder.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He growls your name through clenched teeth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane, like he’s driving blind and you’re the last red flag waving before the finish line. His grip bruises into your hips as he fucks up into you like he’s still chasing time, like the race never ended, like the adrenaline hasn’t left his bloodstream and he needs this—needs you—to come down. But he can’t. He won’t. You’re the sharpest corner he’s ever taken, tight like a hairpin turn, and every thrust is a gamble between glory and total wreckage.

Your body jolts with each impact, spine pressed to the wall, hips crashing down against his with unrelenting pace. It’s not rhythm—it’s instinct, pure reaction. Your hands twist in his hair, your teeth catch on the side of his throat, and you can’t even feel your thighs anymore. You ride him like you’re trying to outrun something—maybe the shame, maybe the fear, maybe the way your chest cracks wide open every time he moans like that for you.

“Fuck—fuck—Jeno, someone could walk in—someone could see—” You whisper it, voice shredded, barely there between gasps. But you don’t slow down. You can’t. Your cunt clenches around him every time your body bounces, muscles fluttering with aftershocks and overstimulation. The thrill of being seen sharpens everything—your moans louder, your movements filthier, like you're taunting the risk of exposure.

“Let them,” he snarls, voice guttural, mouth dragging over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. His eyes are glassy, wild, his entire body wound tight as a snapped throttle cable. “Let them see what it looks like when you get fucked open by me. Let them hear how wet you are when you take me this deep.”

And you are—wet, noisy, shaking. The sounds your bodies make are obscene, echoing between tire stacks like muffled gunshots. Your back hits the wall again, and you arch into it, your nails dragging down his back so hard they tear through the thick fabric of his fireproofs, scraping welts over burning muscle. You want to leave marks. You want to ruin him like he’s ruining you.

“You’re wrecking me—” you cry, voice high and broken, “worse than any crash.”

He grunts, slamming into you harder, more erratic, his control unraveling with every breath. “Good. I want you fucking totaled. Want you so ruined you can’t walk back out of here without my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking, heat spiraling fast and brutal. Your clit drags against his pelvis, your cunt so swollen and sensitive you’re already teetering again. The tension inside you coils sharp and thin like tire rubber screaming over asphalt.

“Cum again,” he demands, voice ragged, breath hot against your cheek. “Right fucking now.”

You do. It rips out of you with a scream, your whole body seizing up, mouth slack, eyes wide, and you swear you see white. It doesn’t crest—it detonates, a chain reaction through every nerve ending. Your vision blurs. Your legs tremble. You cum so hard your body goes limp against him.

And still—still—he’s not done. He wraps his arms around your back, locks you in place, fucking up into your oversensitive cunt like he needs to leave a permanent imprint. Like he can’t stop until he’s emptied himself inside you so completely that nothing else exists. You can feel it building, the way his thrusts stutter, the way his jaw locks, the way he gasps your name like he’s about to crash into something massive and final. You drag your nails down his spine one last time and beg, “Inside. Please, finish inside.”

He slams into you once—twice—then again with a guttural growl, hips jerking, cock twitching deep in your cunt. Heat floods you, thick and hot, and his whole body shudders with it, chest pressed to yours, breath caught between a moan and a curse. You stay wrapped around him, shaking, dripping, ruined. And for a long, breathless moment, all that’s left is the smell of sweat and rubber, the echo of moans, and the heat of his body buried deep inside you like he never plans to leave.

After that night in the garage, everything shifts. You fall into a pattern—not routine, not schedule, just moments stolen between obligations and lies. A blur of weeks, shadows of time lost to bodies instead of words. You haven’t touched your bed since the race. Every night ends in Jeno’s room or doesn’t end at all. You lie to everyone, skip out early, fake texts about being home when you’re already naked on his sheets. It becomes the only place you sleep, wrapped in warmth and sweat, in his chain brushing your collarbone, in the slick drag of his fingers pushing back into you before you can drift off. Every orgasm tastes like betrayal. Every moan feels like a secret wedged deeper into your chest.

The first time after the race, it’s in his car—on the track, engine ticking beneath you, heat rising from the hood. You crawl into his lap, knees scraping leather, the smell of burnt rubber clinging to the air. His gloves are still on. His racing jacket is unzipped just enough for your hand to slide inside. He mutters something about visibility—how anyone could see—but he’s already hard, already guiding your hips down onto him. You ride him with your forehead pressed to his, moaning into his mouth as the last of the floodlights dim behind the fogged glass. Your thighs slap into his, slick and fast, and when you come, it’s soundless, breathless, your spine curling like you’re trying to hold it in.

The next time it’s the underground garage storage. You trip over a loose axle and he catches you, laugh breaking into a grunt as he spins you around and throws you into a crate stack. Oil drums knock together. A motion sensor light blinks overhead, buzzing faintly. He kisses you like he’s daring the shadows to look—sloppy, open-mouthed, teeth scraping your jaw as he yanks your shorts halfway down and shoves inside you with one sharp thrust. You gasp into the collar of his hoodie, nails clawing for purchase against slick rubber and metal. He fucks you like the world’s ending—like the only thing that matters is the sound of your cunt swallowing him whole.

Some nights, you find him already under the car in the maintenance pit, oil-slick and shirtless, flashlight swinging from above. He sees you crouch down, doesn’t say a word—just grabs your hand and pulls you under with him. The air’s warm, still, heavy with grease. Your shirt rides up the second he lays you back. He mouths at your chest while his fingers hook into your waistband, dragging your underwear aside with one curl of his wrist. When his cock slides in, you both freeze—because someone’s walking overhead, boots clanging against the grates. You taste metal in your mouth from how hard you’re biting your lip. His hand covers it anyway, palm hot, thumb pressing into your cheek. He fucks you in slow, aching thrusts, each one dragging moans that barely make it out. When the footsteps vanish, he grabs your thighs tighter, slams deeper, makes the wrenches rattle.

Then the tow truck. He drives it out to the backlot under the excuse of testing hydraulics. You’re half-asleep in the passenger seat until he reclines it back and pulls you on top of him, his mouth already on your throat. You straddle him in the flashing pulse of red emergency lights, each blink casting sharp shadows across your ribs. You grind down hard, thighs burning, his grip brutal on your waist. The windows fog fast. Your moans echo inside the cabin, breathless and high, and he doesn’t stop even when your body shakes from release. You fall asleep on his chest after, heart hammering against his, the lights still blinking over you like warnings you ignore.

Another time, it’s the tarp-covered car shoved into a corner of the lot. It’s old, useless, rusted around the edges. He peels the tarp back halfway and tosses you onto the hood like he’s done it before in dreams. The metal’s freezing, biting into your back, but his mouth is fire on your skin. He fucks you like he wants to erase every second you spent away from him—fast, messy, teeth on your shoulder, hips rutting so hard the car rocks. You’re crying out nonsense, body seizing around him, legs locked tight behind his back. He doesn’t say anything after. Just watches you breathe, watches the way your chest rises and falls. Wipes sweat from your lip with the pad of his thumb.

The sex doesn’t stop. It never stops. You miss meals. Miss calls. Your inbox floods with messages you leave unread. You sneak out of meetings early. Sometimes you forget where you’re supposed to be—because you’re pressed against his door, begging for his fingers, his mouth, his cock. Your skin smells like him, tastes like spit and motor oil and need. His touch lingers in bruises: purple kisses blooming on your hips, teeth marks under your jaw, fading welts down your thighs. No one’s caught you yet—but people are watching.

Sunwoo lingers too long in doorways. Mark keeps looking up at the wrong moments, brow tight, mouth tighter. Jaemin asks about a missing route log one day in a meeting, and Jeno cuts him off so fast you flinch. Someone else jokes that you always look exhausted lately. Someone replies, “Jeno looks more relaxed.” He won’t look at you in those meetings. Won’t speak. But afterward—after—he corners you in the stairwell, lifts you like he’s done it a hundred times, thighs around his waist, your back against the concrete wall, his hand pressed over your mouth like silence is safer than truth. His hips snap up and he growls against your throat—he can’t stop, he won’t, if anyone finds out he’ll lose it but he’s long past caring. He pulls you into his room and locks the door after.

You haven’t spent a night in your own bed since the race. Every night ends here—in his room, in his sheets, in a silence that tastes like sweat and unraveling. You wake up in different positions but always touching. His arm over your waist. Your leg between his. Your hand pressed flat to his chest like you’re anchoring something there. Jeno talks more when he’s tired. When your body is tangled with his, when your cheek is warm against the slick skin of his chest, when both of you are too sore to move and the air tastes like sex and silence. He tells you things no one else knows. how his dad measures love in achievements. How silence was louder than screaming in his house. How he learned to be useful before he learned to be loved. you hold your breath when he speaks, like you’re afraid the truth will slip through the seams if you exhale too hard.

You’ve learned that Jeno remembers everything he shouldn’t. Birthdays of people who don’t talk to him anymore. License plate numbers of teammates that quit years ago. The names of every street he’s ever raced on. He recites them to you at night, half-asleep, hand on your hip like you’re a part of the archive too. He tells you he never had a baby book, never had keepsakes, so he stores it all in his head—every win, every loss, every person that left. You find out he doesn’t keep photos on his walls because he hates proof that people grow distant. His memory’s obsessive, and somehow, he makes you feel like he’s memorizing you too.

He tells you he used to be angry all the time. That he still is, sometimes, but it doesn’t come out in fists anymore—not since he got kicked off his first circuit for breaking a guy’s jaw. That every scar on his hands meant something. That every win still feels like punishment. He hates the way people look at him. Hates the idea of being reduced to a pull-quote, a punchline, a headline he can’t rewrite. He tells you that if you ever wrote something about him—if you turned this into content, into evidence—he wouldn’t survive it. “Not ‘cause I’d be pissed,” he mumbles against your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like a vice. “Because it’d mean none of this was real.” You don’t respond. You just hold him tighter.

You learn he’s good with his hands beyond racing. The kind of boy who takes things apart just to know how they work, then puts them back together better. He builds things without instructions. Knows how to fix a leaking pipe, change his own tires, gut a dashboard and solder it new. He tells you he likes when his hands are busy because it stops his mind from going places he hates. That’s why he fucks with his rings so much. Why he always asks to fix things for people but never asks them to stay. He’s never said it aloud, but you realize: he’d rather be useful than loved.

You learn that he once got stranded in a thunderstorm and walked three hours home rather than call his father. That he’s afraid of deep water because he almost drowned once but won’t admit it out loud. That he hates cucumbers, doesn’t trust people who wear sunglasses indoors, and always triple-checks that his windows are locked before he sleeps. He tells you he never used to sleep through the night—until you. He says it so casually, you almost miss it. His trust is quiet, handed over in fragments, never begged for and you carry every one of those pieces like a secret map back to him.

Hope is the thing he fears the most. He doesn’t say it like that—but you hear it in the way his voice falters when he talks about the future. About the car he’s been building since he was sixteen. About the idea of leaving everything behind one day, driving until the roads run out. “I used to think I’d go alone,” he says one night, fingertips brushing lazy circles on your hip. “But now I think… fuck. I think I’d want someone there.” You’re quiet. He’s not asking. But the way he looks at you after—raw, hesitant, like he’s already bracing for the disappointment—makes your chest tighten until it hurts. He trusts you. And it terrifies him.

That night, he touches you differently. Slower. Like he’s scared he won’t get to again. His mouth moves across your skin in a blur of reverence and need, every kiss a silent plea to stay. He slides into you like a prayer, slow and deep, groaning against your throat when you wrap your legs around him. There’s no rush, no anger, just pressure building in waves, rolling through your body like heat caught beneath your skin. He keeps murmuring things against your lips, “I don’t want this to end… I can’t lose this… I need you to be real with me.” You kiss him like you’re answering, like the words are trapped in your chest and only your body can speak them.

His hand wraps around your throat, thumb brushing your jaw, voice low, not a question. “Tell me you’re not gonna write about me.”

You hesitate. Your thighs tremble around his hips. He sees it. Feels it. You still haven’t said anything, and the moment stretches thin and hot between you. He thrusts in again, slow and heavy, and again—a rhythm that builds without mercy. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t make me feel this and then turn it into something cheap.” His tone isn’t angry. It’s something far worse—broken.

“Jeno…” You breathe his name like it means something. Like you mean something. But it’s not enough.

“Promise me. Promise me you won’t fuck me over.” His voice catches like he already knows you will. “If you do this… if you turn this into an article, if you sell me out—it won’t just hurt. It’ll kill something in me. You understand? I won’t come back from that.”

You blink up at him, dazed, flushed, heart in your throat. “I… I promise. I won’t. I couldn’t. I swear, Jeno. I swear on everything.”

He groans, loud and guttural, like it splits him in two. He fucks into you deeper, harder, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading along his spine. “Say it again. Say it like you mean it.”

“I won’t hurt you,” you whisper, eyes wide, voice shaking, hands fisting the sheets beneath you like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded. “I won’t. You’re safe with me.” He doesn’t answer—not with words—but the kiss he gives you is slow, reverent, mouth brushing yours like he’s breathing you in, like the taste of that promise might be the only thing keeping him sane. His lips trail down your throat, along the slope of your collarbone, across your chest, every inch kissed like it’s sacred, like he’s trying to commit it to memory before it’s ripped away. His thrusts never falter, just slow to a rhythm that feels almost too intimate—hips rolling deep, dragging the pleasure out of you inch by inch, groaning softly every time you clench around him. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek, his fingers trembling where they brush the underside of your knee, and when he finally comes, it’s with his mouth on your skin, soft curses breathed against your neck like prayer. This isn’t just sex anymore. It’s survival. It’s surrender. It’s everything that might ruin you if you let it—but you can’t stop now. You wouldn’t even know how.

It’s the penultimate race in the league season, and tension clings to the night like smoke. Jeno’s team is neck-and-neck with their biggest rival—a flashy, overly sponsored crew known for bending rules and pushing boundaries under the guise of innovation. The circuit tonight is brutal. Carved through an abandoned industrial sector downtown, the track is lined with rusted scaffolding, sharp corners, and overhead floodlights that flicker like they’re watching. Underground and invitation-only, it’s one of the most dangerous courses in the league—high-speed, high-stakes, and reserved only for the elite. The air tastes like oil and ozone. Thunder rolls overhead, low and distant, as if the city itself is holding its breath.

Paranoia has gripped the circuit for weeks. There’ve been engine failures that don’t add up, drivers pulled from wrecks they swore weren’t accidents, and rumours of tampering passed between pit crews like cigarettes. Whispers say someone is rigging results, crashing contenders, tilting the balance in favor of a shadow player no one can name. The league board is on edge. Every pre-race inspection is stricter than the last. Every car is scanned, stripped, tested. No one trusts anyone.

Hours before the race, Jeno’s car throws a red flag during inspection. A supposed glitch in the turbo system—something about throttle torque maps and inconsistent boost ratios. He shrugs it off, says he’ll need a second in the car for calibration checks. The board’s backup tech is MIA. Chaos spirals. The committee wants the race to run on time. A lead official says, “Just send her in. She’s cleared the seat before.” The calibration error is bullshit. Everyone knows it—except the board, except the cameras, except the ones so desperate for order they’d believe anything wrapped in technical jargon.

Jeno plays his part too well: straight-faced, tight-lipped, pointing to the interface and muttering about turbo sensors, drive lag, cornering offsets. The rival team is already in position, tension thick enough to feel in your teeth. This race matters and if the standings shift tonight, everything burns or everything ascends. And of course, there’s only one person they trust to monitor from the inside. One person who’s already survived the passenger seat. You. The board insists. The crew nods. Someone claps your shoulder. You see the smirk on Jeno’s mouth before you even slide into the car. This was always the plan. His hand brushes your thigh when you buckle in. You let him.

The tarp over the car is standard: a cooling technique for elite vehicles with borderline-illegal mods. But tonight it’s a veil. Steam clings to the edges, the outside world reduced to shadows and noise. Inside, you’re already fucking him. His gloves are off. His jacket’s unzipped to the sternum. You’re grinding in his lap, head tilted back, thighs shaking as his hands dig into your hips. The seat’s pushed as far as it can go. The scent of sweat and leather and exhaust coils around you. He fucks up into you slow, dragging the rhythm out like he wants to memorize it, like he’s burning your body into the shape of survival.

Your voice breaks on a moan, soft and mocking. “You faked the error, didn’t you?” His mouth finds your neck, biting down like a confession. “You lied—just to get me in this seat again.” He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t need to. The way he’s breathing says everything. His cock twitches deep inside you. His hand wraps around your throat, not to squeeze—just to feel the sound of you coming apart against him. “Tell me I was wrong,” you whisper, cunt clenching again. “Tell me this wasn’t the plan.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, breath broken. “I wanted you here. I always want you here.” He’s shaking beneath you, muscles locked as he slams up harder, your soaked thighs slapping against him. “I don’t want to race without you anymore.”

“You have five minutes,” he growls, voice jagged now, mouth dragging along your collarbone. “Three to come. Two to remember who you belong to.” You clench around him, shuddering, nails clawing into his shoulders. He slaps your ass, mutters something guttural—Mine. Outside, the countdown begins. Inside, your world narrows to the stretch of your cunt and the way his cock owns every inch of it.

He tells you to get off but you don’t. Not like he means. You slip from his lap, knees hitting the floorboard, breath hot against the zipper of his racing suit. Rain drums faintly against the tarp above, muffled only by the thunder of engines in the distance. Jeno grabs your wrist, panic flickering through his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” he rasps, but you’re already palming his cock, dragging it out with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes him hiss through his teeth.

“Focus on the road,” you whisper, lips brushing the head. “Let me handle the rest.” You take him into your mouth, wet and warm, sucking slow as the tarp flaps open. The lights burst through the mist. The flag drops. And Jeno’s foot slams the gas so hard the tires scream.

The car tears forward, jolting your body, but you steady yourself with one hand gripping his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock. His hand flies to the wheel, the other buried in your hair, not pushing—just holding. Like he needs the weight of your mouth to ground him. You suck deeper, tongue circling the swollen head, spit slicking down your chin as he moans, low and brutal. The track blurs past the windows. His body tenses, hips twitching every time your lips drag down his shaft.

“Jesus, baby… you’re gonna make me crash,” he mutters, voice strangled, one eye on the curve ahead, one hand yanking the gearshift while his knuckles go white around the wheel but he doesn’t stop you. He couldn’t if he tried. Your head bobs faster, sucking him down until your throat flexes around him, warm and tight and relentless. The sound of your mouth, the hum of your moan, the obscene slap of your spit and skin—it fills the cockpit like smoke.

He comes with a choked groan, thighs clenching, cock pulsing between your lips. Cum spills hot across your tongue, and he nearly veers off course from how hard he jerks the wheel. You swallow it down, kiss the tip with a smirk, and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. He glances down, dazed, blown open from the high, then back to the road like nothing happened.

You strap in, settle beside him, still panting. He says nothing at first, only breathes. Then he mutters, voice raw: “You’re fucking insane.”

You grin, eyes on the track. “And you’re still hard.”

The race embodies a scream. Smoke off the line, headlights carving through the dark, engines snarling so loud your bones vibrate. The track is narrow, brutal, a looped-out stretch of urban circuit walled in by concrete and shadows. Jeno’s hand finds yours just before the first corner, fingers tight, jaw clenched, the city reflected in his visor. You’re both strapped in, breath synced, heart rates out of control. He looks insane—sweat along his temples, hair damp under the edge of his helmet, one glove peeled halfway down his wrist as he shifts with surgical force. You watch the veins flex in his forearm every time he takes a turn. He looks like control itself. Like speed and danger and sex all wrapped in smoke. His voice cuts through your headset, low and cocky. “Next turn—cut left before the barrier. I’ll slide under them. Trust me.” But it’s you who leans forward, watching their tail, catching the hesitation—“Don’t. Brake now, feint wide, then drift in. They’re bluffing on the inside.” He does. You shave two seconds off the lap time. You don’t speak for a full minute after that, too breathless, too aware of the way your fingers are still laced tight. You’ve never felt more alive. Or more fucked.

Somewhere between the fourth lap and the chaos that follows, it hits you. He’s yours. Not in words. Not in soft post-sex whispers. But here, in this — the wheel under his grip, the blur of his jaw as he glances at you like you’re his compass, the way he speeds up just to hear you gasp. There’s something lethal in how you crave him. Something doomed in how easily you lean closer every time he glances back. There’s a moment—late, fast, brutal—where another racer jerks into your lane too early, trying to squeeze through a gap that doesn’t exist. Jeno doesn’t see it. But you do. “Right! Now!” you scream, grabbing the wheel. The car fishtails. The tires scream. You both slam sideways into the drift, metal sparking against the wall. But you pull through. His head whips toward you. There’s no sound in your earpiece, just the way his chest heaves, the wild throb of his pulse in his neck. You saved him. You don’t say it. You just squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

But that’s when the quiet changes. Something in the car flickers—a stutter in the dashboard feed. You catch it in the corner of your eye, a line of numbers that shouldn’t be moving. It’s not telemetry. Not yours. Not his. Something foreign. Embedded in the system like rot. You track it with your eyes while Jeno shifts into fifth, one hand still on your thigh. The feed updates again. A line of override commands, blinking too clean. You tap into the comms panel. There’s a secondary frequency active. B32-NT. It’s not familiar. Not part of the team. What bleeds through makes your stomach drop: engine values, route adjustments, foreign mod control codes. Someone is piggybacking Jeno’s system. You don’t know who. But it’s real. You stare at the display, reading it again and again—external override logged, failsafe pressure spike pending. Your throat closes. You realise what it means. Someone is trying to crash this car.

Jeno feels your stillness before you say anything. His voice flickers into your headset, hoarse. “What did you just see?” You don’t speak. Not yet. His knuckles whiten on the gearstick. The car rockets into the final lap. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he mutters, jaw tight, eyes locked forward. “Shit.” He knows, he knows but it’s not over. You wait. Let the race end, let the asphalt burn and the smoke rise and the flag drop.

Only after—only after—do you pull him away from the others, into the dead space behind the pits, where the shadows bleed deeper and his breath hits the air like mist. “What the fuck was that?” you demand, voice shaking.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just stares at you like he’s drowning. “I’ve been seeing traces for months,” he finally says. “Not our crew. Not my mods but someone’s in the system. Ghost signals. Live feeds but there’s no names or trace. Nothing solid.” You blink. Your blood roars. “You knew?” He nods. “I didn’t know who. I’ve been trying to figure it out but I come to a dead end every single time I try.” You don’t respond. You remember the override code. You remember the kill-switch. You remember the moment the data blinked red but none of it’s concrete. There’s no fingerprint. No face. Just shadows. Just ghosts. You think of your exposé. You think of Jeno. And for the first time, you don’t know which truth will hurt more.

You’ve spent months convinced you were chasing the right story. That if you followed the mods, the maps, the margins, it would all point back to him—to the crew, to the boys who let you in without knowing what you carried. But it doesn’t. This doesn’t smell like Jeno. It reeks of strategy. Of bureaucracy. Of someone older, higher, smarter. Someone with reach and reason. Your fingers shake when they curl into his jacket.

“If I hadn’t caught it…” you start, then stop, the thought unfinished. Jeno nods once, sharply. “I know.”

There’s a silence. Heavy. Final. The kind that feels like the edge of something. He stares past you toward the track, then back to your face. “They’re going to keep trying,” he says quietly. “Whoever they are, they’re not done. Not until someone crashes. Not until someone gets hurt.” And for the first time, it clicks. The engine failures. The stray crashes. The random spikes in pressure gauges across other teams. None of them were random. They were tests.

The next one was meant for him.

And now it’s war.

Your phone buzzes once. Twice. Three times. You don’t even have to check the screen to know who it is.

taeyong — why haven’t you given me any update?

taeyong — i told you to watch how the team responds to pressure and this won’t cut it.

taeyong — i told you didn’t i? if you don’t make this report good enough then it’s your job on the line.

To Taeyong,

I understand the expectations placed on me in observing the Soul Line team. While the environment has been intense and often volatile, I have witnessed a culture built around high-risk strategy and deeply embedded loyalty. There is a pattern of behavior that raises concern — particularly the team’s obsessive relationship with performance pressure, their willingness to override safety protocols, and their instinct to close ranks when challenged.

My observations suggest a structure driven by emotion over reason. The lead driver, in particular, displays erratic decision-making and a deep mistrust of external oversight. While I cannot definitively name breaches at this stage, I would strongly advise close review of their telemetry and performance mods pre-race. This team operates with intensity, but also secrecy — which makes it difficult to assess intent versus instinct.

This is not a final report. More information to come.

Sincerely, Y/N.

You close the thread before it finishes loading. Your fingers tremble as you paste in the draft you’ve barely looked at since you wrote it. It’s nothing. A paragraph stitched together from half-truths and safe language, dressed up in professionalism but stripped of anything real. No names. No details. No conviction. It’s a lie written to hold off the blade. A submission designed to survive. You hit send. Jeno doesn’t know and that’s the worst part.

You find him in the garage two hours later, crouched beside the front wheel of his car, palms greasy, face shadowed beneath the low fluorescents. He looks up, just once, and it’s enough. The guilt finds your spine and crawls up your throat like poison. You kneel beside him. “We need to talk.”

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t even blink. “I’ve seen pieces of it before,” he murmurs, voice flat, quiet like he’s trying not to scare it away. “Data drops that didn’t make sense. Logs changed when I wasn’t looking. I thought it was glitching. I didn’t know it was gonna get someone killed.”

You look at him and it hits you all over again—he’s been carrying this. Alone. He rises slowly, wipes his hands on a rag, leans back against the worktable like the weight of everything has finally caught up to him. “I’ve been trying to trace whatever this is. For months. It’s not coming from our systems. It’s not a mechanic’s fault. It’s deeper. Admin-level. Someone’s been piggybacking my drives. Someone powerful. Someone who wants this team erased.”

Your heart skips once. Then again. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

His eyes flick to yours. And for a second, you see it—the fear beneath the fury, the exhaustion hiding behind his arrogance. “Because I didn’t know who I could trust,” he says. Then after a breath, quieter, breaking: “But I trust you.”

It cracks something open inside you. A sound escapes your mouth like apology. You reach for him, fingers slipping under his jaw, tilting his head toward you until your foreheads brush. His breath is ragged against your cheek. Your voice stumbles out between whispers. “You can trust me. I swear. You can.” He kisses you like he’s sealing a pact. Slow. Rough. Desperate. Your hands wind into his shirt, pulling him closer until you can’t tell where the lie ends and the truth begins.

That night, you hatch a trap.

You write a new report. Not for submission. Not for truth. For exposure. For whoever’s been listening in, trailing wires through Jeno’s system, shadowing every frequency like a ghost behind the wheel. The document is clean. Clinical. Just enough detail to sound legitimate—technical weaknesses, isolation tactics, a lone vehicle running test laps with no team support. You embed it deep, tuck it into a shared circuit file with just enough metadata noise to get picked up by the wrong person. The language is quiet, coded, nonchalant. But the subtext is loud: this car will be alone. this car will be vulnerable. this car is yours to take.

You don’t tell the others. Not yet. Just Jeno. You find him hunched over the console in the garage, sweat curling down the back of his neck, knuckles white where they grip the edge of the dashboard. He doesn’t turn when you enter. Doesn’t speak. You stand beside him in the hum of silence, until you finally say, “It’s sent.” His jaw tightens.

“And they’ll believe it?”

You nod once. “If they’re watching, they already have.” That’s the moment the tension shifts. From fear to strategy. From prey to predator.

But you need help. Someone who knows the systems deeper than you do. You meet them in a subterranean parking structure before sunrise. Jeno calls them a friend. You’re not sure what to call someone with knife scars and navy-black eyes who speaks in server terms and war metaphors. “Whoever’s behind this has admin keys,” they say, tapping their comm device hard against the dashboard. “That’s not sabotage. That’s infiltration.”

Jeno stiffens. His voice drops an octave. “Then we pull them out.”

It starts slow. Not with confrontation, not with grand declarations but with the quiet shifts only people who’ve bled for the same cause can feel. Jaemin’s the first to notice. He watches Jeno after a silent test lap, leaning against the side of the car with his arms crossed and something unreadable in his eyes. When Jeno climbs out, doesn’t meet his gaze, Jaemin says, “You’ve been hiding something.” It doesn’t sound like anger. It sounds like heartbreak. And when he says, “Whatever it is, I’m not letting you carry it alone,” no one argues. He’s the one who stays up all night with the code—hands steady, eyes burning—until he writes the patch that helps intercept the next signal. When you find him hours later, blinking against the harsh light of the garage monitor, he just asks, “You’re really with us?” And you nod. Because it’s the only answer that matters.

Sunwoo takes longer. His trust was never easy but one night, as you head out after a late strategy meeting, you find him leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded, expression sharp. “Something’s wrong,” he says. “You’re not saying it but I can feel it.” He doesn’t ask for proof. He doesn’t even ask for the truth. Just watches you like he’s weighing every word you don’t say. And when the board tries to shut everything down on the eve of the final race, claiming rule violations and internal instability, it’s Sunwoo who steps forward. “She’s with us now,” he says in front of the entire committee. And he doesn’t flinch when they look at him like he’s signed a death warrant.

Renjun uncovers the siphon like it’s a wound he should’ve noticed sooner. He’s reviewing fuel data for the last ten races, his fingers jittering over graphs and overlays, until he goes still. The numbers don’t lie. “They weren’t trying to crash you,” he says, voice tight. “They were trying to drain you.” The fuel bleed is too small to flag, but over time, it chips away at power, speed, endurance. It’s sabotage disguised as sloppiness. He steps back from the console like it burns, shaking his head. “They made us think we were the problem.” And you don’t say it, but you think it, too. They still do.

Haechan’s the one no one expects. He laughs too loud, talks too much, flirts with danger and drinks like it’s sport. But in one meeting—mid-story, mid-smirk—he stops cold. “Wait,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t those two managers last month mention something about a new supplier?” He says it like a joke. But no one laughs. The room goes dead silent. You realise then that every piece was scattered across mouths and memory, too fractured to matter until now. Until Haechan put the last line on the page. His voice drops. “Fuck. I didn’t know I was saying it until I heard myself.”

None of them knew. That’s what hits the hardest. They thought they were slipping. Misjudging turns. Fumbling starts. Missing cues. They blamed themselves. Worked harder. Slept less. Pushed further into exhaustion trying to make up for mistakes that were never theirs to begin with. The kind of sabotage designed not to destroy in one clean blow—but to wear you down. Quietly. Slowly. Until you forget what it felt like to win without guilt.

This isn’t just about the team anymore. It’s about everyone who’s ever been chewed up by the machine and told it was their own fault for bleeding. Every mechanic who got blamed for a fault line they didn’t draw. Every rookie driver who was thrown onto the track like bait and then discarded the second the numbers dropped. Every sponsor deal that vanished without reason. Every whispered threat behind closed doors. Every statistic twisted into a weapon to justify silence. It’s about how power rewrites failure to look like yours. How they make you believe the crash was always coming because you weren’t fast enough, sharp enough, worth enough. It’s about the way guilt is planted like a virus, how doubt infects belief, how easy it is to punish passion when it stops being profitable. And now, you see it. You feel it. This was never just a race. Never just about winning. It was about survival. About memory. About saying: We were here. We mattered. And we won’t let you erase us.

And this time, no one’s backing down.

The car gets rewired that night. Jeno tears the system down to its bones, exposing every wire like a threat. Jaemin shadows him, rerouting frequencies, faking damage patterns, embedding a signal loop with just enough heat to draw attention. Renjun adjusts the fuel map, codes in a deceleration script that mimics failure. Haechan throws a tantrum in the middle of the garage, screaming about “another shit-tuned engine,” loud enough to echo through the lot. Sunwoo leaks it to the wrong board member. Lets them think the team’s imploding. That they’ve already lost. And you? You pull it all together. Stitch the lie into shape. Fold the tension into every look, every breath, every step you take beside them. You never say what you’re doing. Just that it’s time.

And beneath it all, that signal—the one you planted, the bait laced in weakness and noise—pulses steady in the circuit. Waiting. Watching. Daring someone to bite. The bait pulses like a heartbeat in the circuit. Waiting to be bitten.

Later that night, Jeno takes you to the edge of the city, where the asphalt is cracked and the streetlights flicker like bad memories. The car hums under your thighs, parked in a quiet stretch of road carved out from the ruins of an old industrial district. It's too late for traffic. Too early for dawn. The world feels suspended, caught between one breath and the next. You're wearing one of his jackets, oversized and half-zipped, thighs bare against the leather seat. When you look at him, he's already watching you.

"If you ever have to get out," Jeno says softly, tapping the wheel, "I want you to know how." You don't ask what he means by get out. You already know. And you don't ask why he sounds like he's preparing for goodbye. You just nod.

He shifts, pulling you across the center console until you're sitting on him. His hands settle at your hips, warm and grounding. The engine is off, but everything else hums—his breath, your pulse, the tension tangled between you. "I need you to feel it," he murmurs, guiding your hands to the wheel, then lower, to the gearstick. "Know where to shift. Know when to let go."

You nod again, but it doesn't feel like enough. You're trembling slightly, the nerves creeping in, but then he leans up, lips brushing yours, a kiss that’s almost reverent. "You're okay," he whispers. "I'm right here."

You adjust your thighs over him, the heat between your legs almost unbearable with the layers barely separating you. You feel him hard beneath you but there's no rush. No desperation. Just this. Proximity. Breath. Touch. His fingers graze up your thighs, slow and coaxing, sliding beneath the edge of the jacket as his lips press to your jaw. You start to move your hips, instinctive, grinding back against him in a slow rhythm that makes both of you groan.

Your palms are slick against the wheel, pulse jittering beneath your skin, and your thighs are still stretched across his lap when he reaches forward—slow, steady—one hand curling over your wrist to guide you. His voice is soft, nothing like the chaos that lives outside the car—just him and you, the silence between gear shifts, the scent of sweat and fuel hanging thick in the air. “Don’t oversteer,” he says, chin brushing your shoulder, breath warm at your jaw. “Feel the curve before you take it.” Your foot hovers too light over the gas, and he nudges it down with his own, body flush behind you, his hands covering yours on the wheel like a second skin. The car hums beneath you both, eager, alive. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s it. You’ve got it.”

The engine purrs when you accelerate, and his arm tightens across your waist, anchoring you back into him, your ass dragging against the hard line of his cock still barely tucked back into his jeans. You feel everything—every twitch of muscle, every exhale when your fingers catch the turn just right. “Good girl,” he says under his breath, and you shiver. He teaches with tension, with touch, with the controlled burn of letting you drive while still having the power to take over. “Brake before the turn. Ease off just before the apex. You control the car—don’t let it control you.” His thigh shifts under yours, coaxing you into the perfect seat alignment. “And remember,” he whispers, dragging his lips along your neck, slow like sin, “you’re not just riding this thing. You’re fucking taming it.”

Your breath stumbles as the car surges forward, tires kissing pavement in the smooth glide of power managed, not forced. His hands roam—over your stomach, your hips, your thighs—as you take the wheel again, this time more confident, every instruction melted into the rhythm of your bones. His voice drops lower, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You know what the real thrill is?” he asks, hand slipping between your thighs to grip the inside of your knee. “Knowing exactly when to let go. And exactly when not to.” You squeeze the wheel harder. You don’t want to let go of any of it. Not the speed. Not the heat. Not him.

The curve winds in before you can think, but your body knows the rhythm now. You let go—really let go—hands light on the wheel, breath in your throat, smile spreading slow across your face as the speed pours into your bloodstream like electricity. The road unfolds like it’s yours to take, every shift smoother than the last, every press of the pedal syncing with the thrum of your pulse. You laugh, breathless, winded, heart flying, and Jeno’s grip tightens at your waist. “There she is,” he whispers against your skin, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Knew you were made for this.”

His hands move over you constantly—along your thighs, between your legs, curling under the hem of your skirt like he needs to feel you grounded in this moment. His voice drips into you between instructions, between praise. “Tighten your angle—fuck, good girl—just like that, you feel it?” And you do. Every word, every inch of his body behind yours, heat sliding down your spine in slow waves. You drive like you’re weightless, like the car is an extension of your body, like the world outside the windows no longer matters.

You ease the car into park with your hands still shaking. The engine idles beneath you, cooling slow, ticking in rhythm with the breath in your chest. Jeno doesn’t say a word. Just reaches behind him, clicks the seat all the way back, and reclines. His eyes lock onto yours in the rearview mirror. There’s no command, no invitation. Just him, waiting. And you—already turning, already climbing back into his lap like instinct, like muscle memory, like gravity.

You don’t pause. Don’t tease. You pull your panties to the side, reach between you, and slide down onto his cock in one smooth, breathless motion. His hands catch your hips like they always do—tight, reverent, greedy—and your knees dig into the leather seat as you start to bounce, fucking him hard and deep, the way he needs it, the way you need it more. His mouth finds your throat. Your moans fill the car. And everything else—the engine, the silence, the stars behind fogged glass—just disappears.

The car isn’t moving—not in the way it was meant to—but your body is. His seat’s all the way down, legs spread, and you’re perched above him like gravity gave up on rules. His hands frame your hips, fingers digging into the muscle like he can feel every inch of tension you’ve carried, every sharp breath you’ve been too afraid to exhale. The engine ticks quietly beneath you, warm like a secret. “You’re gonna need to know this someday,” he tells you again, softer this time, but not any less serious. “If it all falls apart, if I can’t drive… I need to know you’ll keep it alive. I need to know you can.”

You nod, even though you don’t understand all of it, even though the weight of what he’s saying lands in your gut like something hot and heavy and terrifying. You nod, because the way he’s looking at you makes your chest pull tight. Because this doesn’t feel like a lesson—it feels like a handover. Like trust being transferred with every breath, every stroke, every sound that slips out between you. He doesn’t ask if you’re scared. He doesn’t have to. He just touches you like he’s answering the question before you ask it. “Don’t think,” he murmurs again, low and careful, fingers sliding up the back of your neck. “Just feel me. Feel this. That’s what racing is.”

You do. You feel him hard against your thighs, cock resting right at the seam of your panties, your skirt bunched up around your waist. His voice is right in your ear, his chest under your hands, and when you roll your hips down slowly, it sends a shock through you both. “That’s it,” he whispers, breath catching. “Right there. That tension—that edge—that’s what you ride.” The metaphor’s thin now. Barely there. Because the pressure between your legs isn’t symbolic, it’s slick and real and throbbing, and you’re so wet you can feel the way your panties stick when you shift again. He growls low in his throat. “Fuck, you feel that? You feel what you do to me?”

You gasp, whisper his name, and this time he doesn’t stop you. He helps you pull his jeans down just far enough, his cock already leaking against his abs. You guide him in slow, your hand wrapped around the base until the stretch hits, and your mouth falls open like it’s holy. “Jeno—” It’s barely a sound. Just breath and need. He grabs your hips again, holding you steady as you sink the rest of the way, clenching around him so tightly he curses through his teeth. “That’s it,” he groans. “Fuck, baby. You feel so fucking good—so perfect.”

You start to move, hips rolling in shallow, trembling circles, your hands gripping his shoulders like they’re the only thing holding you together. He lets you take your time. Lets you find the rhythm. “You’re doing it,” he breathes, kissing under your jaw, sliding one hand down to guide the pace of your hips. “You’re riding it—fuck, that’s perfect—just like the curve, just like I taught you.” You moan, loud and desperate, because it’s so much—his cock filling you deep, the praise in his voice, the way he never stops touching you like he’s trying to memorize your skin. “Jeno,” you gasp again, hips stuttering. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t stop. He fucks up into you hard, once, twice, catching your rhythm, slamming deeper with every bounce. The car seat groans beneath you, the sound of wet friction loud and obscene, your moans catching on the rise of your breath. “Ride me like you own it,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges. “Like it’s yours.” His hands slam you down harder and you cry out, head falling back. "You feel that? Every inch of you takes me so fucking well.”

“I love this,” you whisper. “Fuck—I love this.” He kisses you like the confession cracked him open, mouth devouring yours, tongue pushing deep, like the only way to breathe is through you. His hands are everywhere—your ass, your waist, up your shirt, gripping your tits through your bra and squeezing hard. “This is how I want you before every race,” he mutters against your lips. “Full of me. Fucked out. Focused.”

You ride him like it’s instinct, like every shift of your hips is mapped into muscle. You lean forward and lick up his throat, whisper, “Then win it for me.” He growls. Thrusts harder. “I will. You survive the track, you can survive this.”

You clench around him again, tighter this time, and he falters. “You’re gonna make me come,” he gasps, eyes fluttering. “Fuck—baby, keep going. You’re so good to me. So fucking good.” You press your forehead to his, eyes locked, and whisper, “Don’t pull out. I want it. Want it all.”

That’s what does it. That’s what undoes him.

He comes with a guttural sound, cock pulsing deep inside you, his hands shaking against your skin. And you—eyes fluttering, breath stuttering—come with him, thighs quaking, mouth open against his throat, everything in you breaking loose.

When it’s over, you don’t move. He holds you there. One hand tangled in your hair. The other still on the wheel. Like he’ll never let go. Like you're his now. Like this was never about racing. It was always about you. You stay curled over him, skin damp, chest heaving, his cum still warm and dripping down your thighs. He hasn’t let go of you, arms locked tight around your waist like if he loosens his grip you’ll vanish with the air. You press your lips to the edge of his jaw, breath still broken, fingers dragging lazy, reverent lines over his collarbone like you’re drawing a map only you can follow. “I’ll race the world for you,” you whisper, soft, certain, like it’s already been decided. He exhales like it breaks him. Doesn’t say anything back. Just kisses you—slow, deep, grateful—and lets his heart beat out the truth against yours.

The final league race doesn’t feel like an event. It feels like a reckoning. Night drapes over the circuit like oil, thick and untouchable, swallowing the edges of the stadium until all that’s left is light—too much of it, everywhere. Giant flood beams cut the air like surveillance drones, tracing arcs of brilliance across the gleaming hood of the Soul Line car. The stadium is full to the edges with noise, bodies stacked in metal seats, live feeds blinking across jumbotron screens but you don’t hear any of it. Not really. You only hear the low hum of the engine cooling beside you. The steady inhale-exhale of Jeno’s breath as he straps his gloves on.

Then he reaches across you, slow and deliberate, one hand slipping under the curve of your ribs as the other pulls the seatbelt across your body, locking it into place with a sharp, metallic click. His fingers linger at the buckle, brushing the inside of your thigh, and when he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear, it’s softer—more dangerous. “Make sure you stay strapped in, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

You smile—tight, breathless, too aware of the way his hand hasn’t moved from your leg. The belt presses across your chest, snug and final, but it’s his voice that really pins you there, low and possessive, crawling under your skin like voltage. He’s already leaning closer, his weight shifted toward your side, sex dark in his eyes like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say with his mouth. “I’m not,” you whisper back, turning just enough that your mouth grazes the corner of his jaw. “Not unless you tell me to.” It’s not a flirt. It’s a vow. Because you know what’s coming—you know the track won’t forgive a single mistake, that the walls are closer than they look, and the enemy is watching from the sidelines. They’re inside the system. Inside the car and the only thing holding it all together is him. And you. And this.

Everything was already rigged to burn. A corrupted file wiped his telemetry logs four days ago—Jaemin caught it, barely, running backups at 3AM with trembling fingers and a whiteboard full of loops no one should’ve had access to. Renjun found brake inconsistencies again, this time not random. Targeted. Precision siphoning of his system only. Sunwoo nearly broke a monitor when he realised the race order had been tampered with—they were always supposed to run last. Now they’re first. No time to adapt, no time to pivot. The garage was chaos. Accusations, calculations, pacing but when the yelling stopped, the decision was unanimous. This isn’t about placing anymore. It’s about making it out alive.

So you laid the trap. Every member of Soul Line laced the circuit with blood. Jaemin coded a fake vulnerability into the car’s telemetry—just enough to look like an opening, a mistake. Renjun reconfigured the fuel intake readings to simulate a leak. Haechan played his part loud and reckless, laughing too hard, spilling the line you’d planned—“If Jeno hits 220, the whole thing might blow.” And you, sat in the shadows of the comms tower, uploaded a ghost report seeded with doubt. Analysis that said the team was cracking, that they wouldn’t survive the night. The bait was placed. All that was left was to wait.

Jeno starts strong. The engine growls under his touch, tyres hugging the corners like they were born for them. The route is brutal—tight bends, blind drops, no rails, a custom course knotted through the dead zone east of the city. A stadium-circuit hybrid, carved like a scar through concrete and gravel. You sit beside him under the guise of safety telemetry. The board doesn’t know you’ve simmed this race a hundred times. Jeno does. He’s the one who made you run it. He said, “If anything goes wrong, I want you next to me.” You said yes before your heart could catch up.

The first two laps are clinical. Calculated. You can feel the math of it in every turn he takes—precise, deliberate, clean. He’s all reflex and rage in perfect sync, slicing through corners like they’re nothing but slits in fabric, every movement mapped and burned into his bones. The engine purrs beneath you like it knows him, the track bends as if it wants him to win. It’s beautiful to watch but you feel it before he does—something small, off-tempo. The cadence of his breathing stutters. His right arm tenses longer than it should and his eyes, usually calm and locked forward, flicker just a little too often toward the apexes.

By lap three, it’s not subtle anymore. The steering wheel jerks in his grip. Not much, but enough. Enough to make him snarl and wrench it back like he’s fighting something beneath his skin. “Shit,” he bites out, jaw locked tight. “Something’s—” He doesn’t finish. He can’t. His knuckles are white, his chest rising faster now, the calm unraveling thread by thread. You glance over. His pupils are blown wide, trying to recalibrate, but the lights on the visor dance wrong—too quick, too loud, blinding instead of guiding. “It’s blurring,” he says finally, voice cracked with disbelief. “Fuck. I can’t—they tampered with my neuro visor.”

Then it hits again. This time, lower—his right glove spasms, not violently, but wrong. It twitches against the shift handle, gripping like it’s trying to pull control back from him, not support it. You watch his body stiffen, like he’s fighting his own limbs, not just the track. “They rigged the actuator,” he growls, the words jagged between clenched teeth. “It’s not syncing to my neural pattern.” That’s when the car bucks slightly under you, not enough to crash. But enough to warn. Enough to say this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a hijacking and if you don’t move now, one of you won’t make it past the next turn.

The car lurches violently as the front wheel clips the edge of the track, the left fender skimming the barrier with a screech of metal that cuts through your spine like a live wire. You jerk forward in your seat, only held back by the belt he buckled for you minutes ago, and beside you, Jeno curses under his breath—short, raw, guttural. His gloved fingers fumble at the wheel, desperate to correct the turn, but it’s already too late. The steering isn’t responding. It’s not syncing with him anymore. You glance over and see the panic bleeding through his control—jaw locked, brow furrowed, sweat shining on his temple even under the floodlights. His arm jerks once, then again, not from the G-force, but from something worse. Artificial tension. Programmed resistance.

The glove—designed to sync with his neural output, to amplify his reflexes—is hijacked, every movement overcorrected, jerky, wrong. His hand twitches when he tries to shift gears, and the whole car jolts as the actuator fights back. “Shit,” he growls, mouth barely moving. “They did it. They fucking did it.”

You reach out without thinking, one hand gripping the wheel, the other bracing on the console. “Let go,” you say, low but steady, voice cutting through the static buzz in the cockpit.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He keeps trying, keeps pushing, glove spasming, head shaking as his vision struggles to sync. “No. No—don’t. This is my race. You don’t—this isn’t—”

“You can’t drive like this,” you snap, tightening your grip on the wheel as the next curve barrels toward you like a dare. He hesitates. Too long.

The tires shriek as you scrape another edge, rubber burning hot under the strain. Jeno swears again, chest heaving, both hands locked on a wheel that no longer listens to him. You turn to him fully, eyes locked on his, and say it with no room for negotiation. “Move.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to—”

“You’ll kill us.”

That’s what cracks him. Not the heat, not the pain, not the way the car’s barely clinging to the track anymore. It’s the way your voice breaks on the word kill. Like you’re scared. Like this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a goddamn trap.

His throat bobs. His fingers flex once. “Then who the fuck—”

“Me.” Your voice is steel, even as your heart pounds so loud it fills the cabin. “I’ve trained for this. You taught me. You said if anything ever happened—”

“That was theory,” he bites out, furious. “It wasn’t meant to be real.”

“It is real.”

He still won’t move. Not yet. His eyes flicker to you, then to the road. He doesn’t want this. Not because he doesn’t trust you but because he does, giving up control means risking you. Means putting you in the same danger he’s spent the whole fucking season trying to shield you from.

The car jerks again. The glove spasms. And finally, finally, he says it—hoarse and barely audible: “Don’t crash.”

You don’t answer. You crawl over him while the car flies forward at 210, knees knocking against his thighs, chest pressed to his as you shift across the console, hands never leaving the wheel. His hand catches your hip instinctively, holding you steady as you straddle the seat, and for a second it feels obscene, intimate, terrifying. Your faces are inches apart. His voice is shaking. “Please. Just—come back to me.”

“I will,” you whisper, breath against his mouth. “But only if you let me save you first.” And just like that, the seat shifts. The balance tips. You slide into position. The car keeps going. But now—you’re the one driving.

The world opens beneath you, a map of lines and breath and velocity, and you take the next curve with your entire body—lean into it like a lover, like the wheel itself is an extension of your spine. It responds instantly, shivering under your grip, humming with every calculated twitch of your hands, every demand you make of it. The engine doesn’t roar—it purrs. Like it knows it’s yours now. Like it always was. Jeno’s voice stays low in your ear, even as his chest heaves beside you, even as his hand—still trembling from the override—clutches the edge of the console like he’s holding onto the edge of a dream. “Brake before the ridge. Downshift out of turn six,” he breathes, but it’s different now. Less instruction. More awe. “That’s it, baby—just like that. Fuck, you feel that? That’s you.”

You follow it. Feel it. Own it. The track stretches wide and brutal ahead of you, but you don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Your nerves burn clean. Your thighs shake from the G-force but you never loosen your grip, not once. You taste sweat. You smell scorched asphalt. You are inside the rhythm now, part of the car, welded to every scream of the tires. And he knows it. “You’re doing better than I did,” Jeno mutters, almost stunned, and there’s reverence in the words, thick and raw and his. “You were made for this. Made to drive me fucking crazy. Made to win. My girl—fuck, baby—my girl’s got it.”

You take the next corner smoother than silk, the car humming obediently beneath you like it knows who’s driving now. You brake just enough to eat the turn and burst out of it cleaner than before. The curve releases you like a breath, and Jeno groans something low and ragged beside you—pride, arousal, disbelief, maybe all three tangled.

It happens subtly, almost like a whisper against the throttle. There’s a flicker in the dash—quick, irregular, a spike that doesn’t belong. It doesn’t come from your car. Your eyes narrow, trained now not just for speed but for sabotage. You shift your grip, steadying the wheel with one hand as your other moves to the console beneath. Jeno had wired in a private panel weeks ago, veiled beneath the false skin of a basic diagnostic feed. You access it without hesitation, fingers flying across the touchpad. The interface lights up in pale green, jittering with static, revealing a pulse signal threaded deep within the network. It loops, unnatural. You trace it.

The override isn’t yours. It doesn’t mimic your engine’s behaviour or Jeno’s previous telemetry. It’s foreign. Behind you, the crowd screams, the pitch shifting into something shrill. A rival car veers on the external feed, a sudden break in formation. You watch it spin, metal shrieking as it hits the side barrier. The violence is too precise to be clumsy. No driver reacts that late unless they’re fighting something stronger than themselves. You feel it all around you now—the wrongness crawling under your skin, sinking into your bones. Jeno’s jaw tightens beside you. His voice comes hoarse, barely audible over the roar. He tells you they’ve widened the net. This was never just about him. It never was.

The wheel vibrates beneath your hands. Not from the road. From the interference. The override is spreading like contagion, not targeting a single unit but siphoning through every admin-allowed frequency. It’s a lattice of control, invisible and lethal. You slam the brakes during a straight, heart hammering as the car jolts. You only need a few seconds—long enough to freeze the signal. Long enough to crack it. Jeno reaches down, retrieving the final card you both agreed on: the burner drive from the tech informant. He plugs it in. The interface floods with code. Terminal access granted. Live keys blinking red.

The track breaks apart in screams and smoke. Ahead of you, Vulcan’s lead car stutters mid-turn—then jerks violently sideways like something yanked the steering column out of his hands. He spins, crashes into the barrier so hard the right wheel flies off in a blur of shrapnel. Another vehicle—Strix blackline, number 08—loses throttle input entirely, the engine coughing once before the back half lifts clean off the road and scrapes into a wall. Sparks bloom across the asphalt. The crowd doesn’t know whether to cheer or panic. One by one, the remaining competitors jolt off pattern, their telemetry collapsing like dominoes. It’s not random. The sabotage is systematic, precision-led, triggered by control bursts hidden inside the league’s own admin shell. No warning, no way out. They weren’t just watching Soul Line. They were studying everyone. And now they’re erasing the field.

“What the fuck,” Jeno breathes. His hand clamps your thigh, grounding himself as the dashboard explodes with an influx of encrypted signals. You reach forward again, fingers flicking over data lines, your breath caught behind your teeth.

“It’s not a virus,” you say. “It’s remote access. Someone’s inside the race feed right now.” You peel back the firewall layer, revealing a user ID pinging off internal relay towers with near-zero latency. “They’re not spoofing. They’re using board credentials.”

Sunwoo’s voice crackles through the comms. “Is this linked to the Vulcan crash?”

“Confirmed,” you answer instantly. “The override was triggered three seconds before Riku lost control. They injected a counter-steer command into his stabiliser.” You glance at Jeno. “This isn’t random. They’re targeting specific cars. This is a cleanup.”

Jaemin chimes in from the garage, breathless. “I’ve got a mirror trace running. It’s bouncing back from Admin Sector B.” There’s a pause. A tension shift. “Wait—there’s a burn key active. Top-level. It’s logging telemetry edits live from inside the circuit’s main control shell. It’s—” His voice drops out.

“Say it,” Jeno grits, eyes still locked on the feed.

“It’s someone in the oversight box,” Jaemin finishes, quiet now. “Someone who’s not supposed to be coding during the race. Someone high up.”

Another pause. This time, it’s Renjun who cuts through the silence. “The signal’s tag is TYX-019.”

The breath catches in your throat as the signal source surfaces. It's not masked. Not anymore. The encryption falls away, layer by layer, until what’s left is an IP address that doesn’t belong to any racer. It’s rooted inside the circuit’s oversight tower. It isn’t just plugged into the system. It is the system. Your head snaps up. Across the track, above the noise, you see the glass flash once. Behind it, someone rises from their chair. They rip their headset off. Turn without urgency. Like they never needed to watch the race to control it.

Your blood runs cold. Jeno is staring, frozen, a thousand unsaid thoughts carved into the furrow of his brow. You recognise that posture. The shoulders, squared and sure. The tilt of the head, casual, confident, careless. You see the control in it, the certainty. The familiarity.

It had always been him. The man who spoke in strategies and punishments. The man who told you what this team could never be. The one who warned Jeno not to rely on anyone who wasn’t willing to bleed for the machine. You never needed to say his name. Jeno never needs to say it either. The fury in his silence says enough. So does the betrayal laced into your breath.

The trap didn’t fail. It led him right into the open. The second the terminal lit up, the signal twisted back on itself—mapped, mirrored, exposed. It spread like voltage across every comm channel, a live hemorrhage of data, every byte blinking red. He tried to jam it, tried to bury it in backup layers, but Jaemin had already rerouted the failsafe. Sunwoo stalled the system alert. Renjun mirrored the trace. Haechan flooded the admin server with junk code, forcing the saboteur’s controls into full manual override. One by one, every defense he built was stripped bare—until the only thing left was the truth, screaming out from every feed like fire through oil. You and Jeno blocked each strike before it could land, swerving hard when the traction sensors spiked, gripping through wind shear when the brakes tried to lock. There’s no hesitation anymore. No fear. Just two of you, wired into the machine like bone and blood, carving a path straight through his empire of ruin.

You don’t look back. Not when you know he’s watching. Not when the trap is already tightening around his neck. Your focus is blistered into the track now—the ridges of rubber burned into the corners, the flash of red lights in the haze of smoke, the way the heat shimmers off the asphalt like warpaint. The track curves like a scar beneath the stadium lights, hard and brutal, a dead-zone circuit spliced together by black-market engineers and forgotten league veterans. The barriers are unforgiving. The crowds press in like gods waiting for blood. This is where everything ends. Or begins.

Jeno groans beside you, fingers digging into your leg like he’s trying to anchor himself to something that won’t collapse. His voice comes in bursts, broken from strain but steady in command—“Downshift now. Pull left. Clip the turn, don’t fight it.” He’s half-folded against the passenger seat, chest rising like thunder, sweat gleaming against his temple. And you—you’ve never felt more alive. The wheel pulses under your palms. The engine snarls with every push. The car doesn’t obey you, it belongs to you. Like it knows the stakes. Like it remembers every loss.

The sky above is black, endless, starless, but the finish line glows ahead in raw electric white. It isn’t hope. It isn’t mercy. It’s the reckoning they tried to erase. You take the curve clean, back wheels skimming the outer line like the track’s been carved into your muscle memory since the beginning. The engine doesn’t stutter. It listens. Breathes. Obeys. The final straight opens like a corridor built from velocity itself, the crowd screaming in a blur on either side, and you don’t hesitate—you fucking floor it. Jeno’s breath is ragged beside you, one hand braced over your thigh, voice cracking through the comms as he guides the last line. Your pulse pounds louder than the engine, louder than the cheers, louder than the sound of history reconfiguring beneath your tires and somewhere in the back of your mind, it hits you—this is why you’re racing. Because the trap didn’t fail. It worked. It lured him into the open, and now that the signal’s exposed—now that the grid runs red with proof—there’s no rewriting it. No mercy. Not when the boys gave you their faith. Not when Jeno trusted you enough to give up control. Not when every crash, every failure, every fucking death was orchestrated beneath the hands of a man who never planned to let them win. And now? You take everything back. Wheel first. Fire second. The finish line ignites in your reflection—close, closer—and you don’t blink. You burn through it.

The roar that greets you as the car skims the final straight could’ve shattered glass. The crowd is a blur, a heaving wall of noise and motion and light, but you barely register any of it. The world narrows to the strip of tarmac ahead, the tremble of the wheel in your hands, the heat of Jeno’s palm pressed over your thigh as he braces beside you, half-bent over from strain, voice breaking with every breath as he tells you where to go. The interface lights surge around the dashboard, warning signals flickering and dying, but the engine purrs like it was born under your command. It doesn’t fight you. It flies.

The car dips into the final curve, tyres screaming against the track’s brutal incline, and Jeno’s voice rasps through the static: "Ride it out, baby. This is it." The finish line pulses ahead like a horizon set on fire. A wind tunnel of adrenaline and steel rushes past your skull, but your grip doesn’t falter. You remember every simulation. Every late-night drive with his hand wrapped around yours on the stick. Every time he made you take control when you were too scared to. You drop gear, shoot forward like a bullet, and the final lap opens for you like a mouth to devour.

The line blurs. The car screams. You pass it.

And then—silence. Not in the arena, not really, but inside the car. Inside your chest. A stunned, ringing, breathless pause. You let go of the wheel. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the weight of what you did crash into you.

The Soul Line pit erupts. You see bodies flood forward from the sidelines, arms raised, mouths open in shock and triumph. Jaemin is the first out, sprinting before the gate’s even lifted, tablet still clutched in his hand, screaming into his comms. Haechan throws something in the air—his gloves maybe—yelling at no one and everyone. Renjun shoves him, shouts back, then runs for the barrier. Sunwoo stands frozen for a beat before he turns and punches the wall behind him with a sob you can’t hear. You did it. They did it. You won.

The car skids to a halt just past the barricade, engine whimpering as it cools. Jeno exhales like he hasn’t breathed in minutes. You lean forward, forehead pressed to the wheel, tears burning behind your eyes. It’s over. It’s done. The rule was clear—if the lead driver is compromised mid-race, the assigned onboard co-monitor is allowed to assume control. Legal. Binding. Iron-clad.

Jeno unstraps first, shoulders heaving as he yanks off his glove, arm trembling from the aftershocks still tearing through his system. He leans across you, lips parted, breathing hard, and the second he unclips your belt, his fingers brush your chest—slow, steady, deliberate. It’s not a rush. It’s reverence. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he needs to feel your heartbeat with his own hands before he can believe you’re still here. Then both hands cradle your face, thumbs pressing along your jaw, and his eyes lock to yours, wild and glazed and wrecked. “You fucking did it,” he says, voice raw like smoke. Then he kisses you—hard, filthy, all teeth and breath and tongue, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Your legs shake. Your mouth opens to him. Your hand curls into his shirt like you’re scared he’ll disappear. And when you whisper it back against his ear, hot and breathless—“I’d race the world for you”—he groans like it guts him, like you just said something sacred. “I’ll never let you drive alone again.”

It doesn’t end with the kiss. It spills over. He kisses your throat next, his hands gripping your waist, then pulls away only to press your forehead to his. You’re both panting, drenched in sweat, shaking from speed and adrenaline and survival. When the door opens and the air hits, it’s chaos—blinding lights, roaring screams, footsteps pounding toward you like thunder. But all you feel is his hand in yours as you climb out, legs barely holding steady. Jaemin gets to you first—pulls you into him like he’s been holding that breath the whole race. His hug is rough, arms locked around your shoulders, face buried in your neck. Haechan grabs your hand and kisses it, his grin so bright it hurts, then spins you like a trophy, shouting something incoherent. Renjun’s eyes are wet. Sunwoo won’t stop staring at Jeno like he’s still not sure if he’s alive. Everyone is touching you. Pulling you in. Wrapping you in something thicker than celebration. It’s family. It’s relief. It’s reverence.

And then it happens—someone screams your name. The crowd erupts behind it, all at once. Your name. His. Soul Line. Again. Again. Louder each time, until it drowns the rest of the world out. You don’t know where the sound begins or ends, only that it surges through your bones like a second heartbeat. You’re turning, eyes wide, and Jeno’s already there—grinning like a fucking maniac, face flushed, eyes lit up like he never stopped burning. He bends, grabs your thighs, and lifts you clear off the ground, spinning in a full circle like it’s muscle memory. You shriek, laugh, your arms flying around his shoulders, the whole world tilting with you. You’re still full of him. Still dizzy. Still slick between your legs. But none of it matters. You won. You lived. You burned through every trap and brought the entire empire down at your feet. The sky above is fire. The ground beneath you doesn’t exist. You’re in his arms, and the world is screaming your name.

Your voice breaks first—calm but serrated—as you speak into the open comms: “We caught him.” You don’t say his name. Not yet. The air inside the circuit seems to freeze, every signal cutting to static, every head turning, like the entire league leans forward at once, breath held. Behind the control booth’s tinted glass, a figure jolts. and in that instant—everyone sees it. Jaemin’s rerouted trace flashes across every display. A single admin key, red and blinking, logged into the override terminal. L.T. SEO / ADMIN OVERSIGHT / LEVEL 7 ACCESS.

The crowd erupts with gasps, shocklike a body blow. Someone screams from the back row. The feed cuts to a security camera view: the oversight box, backlit and exposed and there, in a suit that no longer fits the shadows, Taeyong stands. Still. Caught. Burned by every frame of proof lighting up the jumbotrons like a fucking execution.

Sirens split the air. Stadium security floods the stands, pouring into the VIP box. Jeno sees it first, on the in-car monitor. “He tried to kill us,” he mutters, voice low, deadly, shaking with rage he’s swallowed too long. “He tried to erase us.” You don’t flinch when the guards tackle Taeyong. You don’t blink as he’s dragged into the aisle. But you do feel Jeno’s hand slide over yours, tight, grounding, fierce. His other arm stretches out in front of you instinctively, shielding without a thought, the others closing in behind.

Taeyong thrashes once, face contorted, blood at the corner of his mouth from where he bit his cheek screaming. But when he catches your eyes through the chaos, he stops fighting. Just for a second. Something in him twists. He leans forward, teeth bared, throat raw. And then he spits the last thing he’ll ever get to say: “You think this ends with me?” His voice claws out, desperate, wild. “You haven’t won. You’ve only lit the match.”

Security hauls him back. The doors slam. The stadium shakes but you don’t look away. You can’t. Because this isn’t just victory. This is justice with blood under its fingernails. This is what it means to survive. This is Soul Line, standing where they were never supposed to. Jeno’s mouth brushes your temple. Jaemin’s hand curls at the nape of your neck. Sunwoo and Renjun step in tight, front and back, a wall around you, all of them watching, all of them ready for the next war.

The system is on fire and it’s your name they’ll remember.

You sink down onto him like it’s instinct. Like your body was made to take him. The backseat groans under your knees, the slick warmth of his cock stretching you inch by inch until your head falls forward and your lips part with a gasp. He’s already breathless beneath you, chest rising hard, hands splayed wide over your thighs like he’s scared to move. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Slow. Let me feel it.” You do. You go slow—not because you have to, but because you want to, because this isn’t about chasing a high or proving something. This is about him. About the way his eyes hold yours, the way his fingers curl tighter every time you rock your hips, the way his breath catches when you clench around him. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispers. “So warm. So perfect.”

He sits up and buries his mouth against your throat, lips parting over skin that still tastes like adrenaline and gasoline. “I don’t care what happens to this league,” he says, words hot against your jaw. “They can burn it to the fucking ground. I’ve got you now. That’s all I give a shit about.” His hand moves to your back, sliding under your shirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine, like he needs to memorise you. You roll your hips again and he groans, forehead pressed against yours, his cock throbbing deep inside you. “I knew you’d save us,” he says again, almost to himself. “Knew it the second I let you in that car.” You press your lips to his collarbone and whisper, “You’re mine.” His answer is immediate. “Always fucking mine.” He thrusts up into you, slow and deep, and your whole body shudders from the contact.

The car rocks gently with your rhythm. Your thighs ache from how wide you’re spread over him, knees jammed against worn leather, but it’s nothing compared to the ache between your legs, the way his cock fills you like it’s claiming every inch you’ve ever called your own. “Jeno,” you whisper, dizzy from the heat in your belly. “I’m—fuck—I’m not scared anymore.”

He nods, hands coming up to cradle your face, eyes locked on yours. “Me neither,” he says, voice breaking. “Not if I’ve got you.” And he means it. You feel it, in the way he touches you like you’re sacred. Like you’re not just the girl who took the wheel but the one who became the road, the one he trusts with his life, with his name, with every bruise he’s ever been too proud to show.

He fucks you gently but thoroughly. Like there’s no rush now. Like he’s waited his whole life to make you feel safe enough to fall apart on top of him. His hands trail under your shirt again, palms wide and firm against your ribs, and you shift your hips just right until you both groan, helpless, already too close again. “You’re everything,” he breathes. “You’re everything, baby.” Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as you kiss him again, tongues brushing, noses bumping.

“Say it again,” you murmur. “Tell me I’m yours.” He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Mine,” he whispers, again and again, like it’s the only word he remembers. “Mine, mine, mine.” His thrusts grow uneven and your body clenches, slick and hot, your orgasm curling like smoke in your belly.

You cry out softly when you come, back arching, cunt spasming tight around him, and he follows with a grunt, hips jerking up as he spills deep inside you, pulsing with it. His arms lock around your waist, holding you flush to him, breathing hard into the crook of your neck. You collapse together, his cock still buried inside you, both of you trembling. For a long moment, there’s no sound except the distant buzz of overhead lights and the ragged drag of breath. He doesn’t move, he just keeps you close. Keeps you his. His hands slide slowly up your spine, fingers tracing shapes you’ll never see but will feel for hours after. You rest your forehead against his and let your eyes close. The world doesn’t matter right now. Just this. Just him.

Because that’s the thing. He is beautiful, but not in the way people talk about. Not in the way magazines photograph or fans obsess over. He’s beautiful like a war-scarred city. Beautiful like danger dressed in silk—sharp where it shouldn’t be, and begging to be bitten. He’s beautiful like overdrive—too fast, too hot, made to ruin. Beautiful like the stretch of track you take without braking, knowing it’ll hurt, knowing you’ll do it anyway. His mouth tastes like sin with no exit plan, and he looks at you like he’s already bitten down, like you’re bleeding and he’s still hungry. He’s beautiful like a coffin carved for royalty, all cold elegance and finality, like something buried in silk but meant to haunt. Beautiful like the bruise you press again and again just to make sure it’s real. Like a hunger that’s learned your name, like the sound of metal scraping asphalt at 220, like the ache you begged for even when you swore you’d never need. He’s beautiful like the moment the engine blows out and the world still spins. Like blood on glass. Like the wreckage after the win.

His eyes dark and bottomless, mouth set in a line that knows disappointment intimately, jaw sharp like he’s always one second from grinding through it. You didn’t know his name when it started, but you knew his type. The kind built to break records and people in the same breath. The kind Taeyong sent you here to kill. He held your gaze too long that first night, saw you in a way that made your skin crawl, made your chest ache. Not curiosity. Not attraction. Recognition. Like he already knew the ending and was daring you to change it.

That was the night you learned what kind of danger he was. Not the explosive kind. Not even the cruel kind. The kind that watches. The kind that waits. The kind that strips you down without ever touching you. And back then, when he tilted his mouth and looked away, it felt like rejection. Now, it feels like memory. Now, it feels like fate. Because somehow, some way, the man you were sent to bury is the man who saved you. He’s the one who handed you the keys. The one who let you drive. Not just the car. Not just the race but everything. The whole fucking future. And now he sleeps under your fingertips, tangled with you in oil-stained leather, his heart beating like it belongs to your hands.

His cock is still inside you when you press your palms flat to his chest and shift, slow, dragging yourself up over his body while your thighs tremble and your skin clings to sweat-slick leather. Jeno’s still catching his breath, mouth parted, chest rising in ragged bursts beneath you—but the moment your cunt leaves him, soaked and pulsing, he groans like it hurts. His hands find your hips again, still possessive, still grounding you like you might disappear if he lets go. “Where you going, baby?” he breathes, eyes dark, voice hoarse. You don’t answer. You just keep crawling up, knees on either side of his ribs now, fingers threading through his hair, slow and deliberate. His tongue flicks out when you reach his collarbone, and you feel the change in him before he even opens his mouth. “Fuck. You gonna sit on my face?” It’s reverent. It’s ruined. It’s like he’s begging without saying please.

You tilt your head, smirk down at him, and whisper, “Thought you’d never ask.”

He adjusts under you, eager now, both hands sliding down to cup your thighs, spreading them, dragging you higher with a low growl that vibrates through your skin. You brace against the roof of the car, knees wide, your slick already dripping down the inside of his neck, and when you lower yourself onto his mouth, it’s like dropping into fire. His tongue is hot, fast, greedy from the first second. He licks into you like he’s been starving for it, like your cunt is the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. You moan—loud, unfiltered, so fucking gone—and grind down harder, your thighs squeezing around his head. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. He pulls you closer, buries his face deeper, tongue working in tight, relentless strokes, lips sealing over your clit with a groan that sounds more like mine than anything else. His eyes flutter closed, but he keeps his grip bruising, keeps his rhythm perfect. It’s not just hunger—it’s worship.

You rock against him, hands scrambling at the car roof for balance, body jerking every time he sucks harder. The heat is unbearable. Your skin’s flushed, hips twitching, moans turning breathless. “Jeno—fuck, baby—don’t stop,” you pant, your voice barely holding together. He hums under you, the vibration shooting straight through your spine, and that’s when it hits you—how good he is at this. How much he knows your body now. Every flick of his tongue is intentional. Every moan from your mouth makes him devour you deeper. He wants to ruin you like this. He wants to be the reason you fall apart again, even after everything. Especially after everything. You grip his hair tighter, thighs trembling. “You love this, don’t you?” you gasp. “You love me like this.” His eyes open, blown wide and black, and he nods against your cunt, never breaking rhythm, never once letting you up for air.

Your orgasm builds hard, brutal, all at once. Your thighs shake uncontrollably, body locked in place as his mouth works you to the edge and shoves you right over it. You scream when you come, a high, broken sound, hips jerking, hands flying back to your own chest like you can hold it in somehow—but it’s too much. You grind against his mouth, riding it out, soaking his face, and he just takes it. Moaning like he’s the one coming, like this is what he’s made for. When you finally lift off him, everything’s soaked—his lips, his jaw, his hair, your thighs. He’s panting, looking up at you like you’re divine, like you own him. You lean down and kiss him, taste yourself on his tongue, and he grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in tighter. “Let me keep you,” he whispers. “Let me keep doing this forever.”

You nod, body still trembling, cunt still dripping, and slide back into his lap—right over his hard cock, still soaked from before. “Then show me,” you murmur. “Show me what forever feels like.”

He doesn’t stop kissing you, even as you come down, even as you breathe out his name like it’s the only thing that’s ever fit right in your mouth. His lips trail along your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone, reverent and soft like prayer, but the way he shifts his weight tells you he’s not close to done. His hands move with purpose, calloused palms sliding over your hips, guiding you back with him until the cool glass of the Soul Line car presses against your spine. He crowds in, chest against yours, heartbeat wild beneath all that black and gold, and when he kisses you again, it’s messier, needier, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that’s barely held back. “Turn around,” he murmurs, already spinning you by the waist, already gathering your hair in his fist. “Hands on the glass. Let them see what I get to keep.”

The breath punches out of you when he yanks your hips back, the curve of your ass meeting the sharp line of his pelvis. The engine’s long gone cold, but the metal burns against your chest as he presses you flat to the window, one hand braced beside your head, the other dragging your panties down and off with one clean pull. You gasp as his fingers return between your legs, two thick knuckles sinking deep into your soaked cunt, curling up until your forehead thuds against the glass. “Still so wet for me,” he growls, kissing the shell of your ear. “You never stop wanting it, do you?” Your thighs tremble as he scissors you open, as his voice goes darker. “Bet you were wet during the race too. Bet you loved knowing everyone was watching you take control with my cum still dripping down your thighs.”

He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock in one harsh thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs. You moan—raw, full-bodied—and the sound fogs the glass in front of you. His grip is punishing, one hand wrapped around your throat now, the other gripping your hip so tightly you know you’ll feel the bruises tomorrow. “Say it,” he pants into your ear. “Say you’re mine.” You gasp his name, whimper it, choke on it, and he fucks you harder. “Louder.” You scream it this time, legs shaking, nails dragging streaks into the paint of the car. “I’m yours, Jeno. I’m yours—I’ve always been.” He groans at that, lets go of your throat to grab both hips and slams into you with bruising rhythm, each thrust sending you forward against the glass.

You come hard, again, cunt squeezing him so tightly he has to pause, cursing, forehead pressed to the back of your neck. “Fuck—baby—fuck, you feel too good—” He thrusts again, again, until he’s spilling inside you, jaw slack, voice low and broken, hips grinding deep like he’s trying to leave a part of himself behind. He doesn’t pull out. He never does. He stays buried, arms wrapped around your waist, chest to your back, breath ghosting over your skin like he’s never going to let you go.

And you don’t want him to. You’d let him fuck you into every wall of this goddamn garage. You’d let him fill you up before every race just to remind you where you belong. With him. Always him.

"Overdrive: How Corruption Nearly Killed the Circuit and the Racer Who Survived It" — By Y/N.

They said speed was a measure of control. That the one who steered best survived longest. That the track didn’t care about legacy or blood, only how tightly you could hold a corner without breaking. They were wrong. The truth is, speed doesn’t save you when the system wants you dead.

For years, we’ve watched the League operate beneath the illusion of merit. Wins attributed to grit. Losses to lack of talent. The bodies left behind in the wreckage? Written off as unfortunate. A risk of the sport. But what if the danger wasn’t in the curve? What if it was in the hands behind the system?

I came to this team—Soul Line Racing—believing what I was told. That they were chaos in chrome. Unruly. Dangerous. A liability to the League’s reputation. I was sent to observe, to report, to deconstruct the myth of their underdog status. I came with suspicion in my chest and a deadline on my back.

And then I saw what happened when the lights went green.

Override signals triggered mid-race. Glove actuators seizing against their users’ neural maps. Visors blurring at the most dangerous moments of the track. Brake systems delayed by milliseconds—just long enough to kill. I watched a machine betray its driver, and I watched that driver—Lee Jeno—keep going.

I tracked the telemetry. Compared it. Cross-referenced accidents dating back three years. I found patterns. Rewrites. Dead code. I found an embedded signal hiding in the admin relay, quietly issuing commands that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with control. I followed the money. I followed the silence.

And I found Lee Taeyong.

Director of Oversight. Champion of “reform.” My boss. The one who stood at every podium claiming to love the sport while quietly orchestrating its downfall from within. His signature appears on system update logs that correlate to crashes. His admin credentials were used to access override commands during races that ended in injuries. His network of offshore sponsors kept drivers silent. When Soul Line gained traction, Taeyong clipped their wings. When other teams refused to play along, they crashed too.

Racing was never about the engine. It was about the illusion. That you could beat the odds with enough grip and guts. That if you were good enough—fast enough—you could outrun whatever was chasing you. But that’s the first lie the league teaches you: that merit gets you further than obedience. That surviving the track means you’re worthy. The truth is harder to swallow because what really determines who crosses that line isn’t reflex or training. It’s who the system decided would win long before the race began.

They told us Soul Line was reckless. Disobedient. Unfit for the spotlight. But I’ve never seen a team more precise in chaos. More united in disaster. They didn’t crack under pressure. They cracked through it because they had to. Because they were the only ones racing with a target on their backs and knives in their hands, trying to drive through a warzone masked as a sport. The league called them volatile. What they meant was: uncontrollable. What they feared was: unbought.

Jeno was never meant to live through that final race. That’s what haunts me. Not just that they tried to end him, but that they expected the world to clap for it. That they disguised the sabotage with press releases and data anomalies and thought we’d be too dazzled by the speed to notice the blood. He didn’t win because they let him. He won because we caught them first because his hands never stopped gripping the wheel, even when it was wired to betray him.

Taeyong didn’t build a racing empire. He built a weapon. One he used to silence, distort, erase. He turned racers into pawns. Data into death sentences and every time someone came close to exposing the pattern, he made sure their season ended early. What he underestimated was what happens when one of those pawns writes it down. Records the glitches. Maps the override spikes. Names him.

This isn’t just corruption. It’s psychological warfare. It’s grooming a generation of drivers to believe that failure is their fault, that crash means weakness, that burnout is proof they weren’t strong enough. It’s hiding the kill-switch inside the glove and calling it a feature. It’s rewriting telemetry mid-lap and blaming the body for not adapting. It’s trauma dressed in sponsorship.

We don’t need reform. We need demolition. Burn the tracks. Rewrite the oversight architecture. Install external forensic audits after every circuit. We need new language—terms that account for technological interference, for override injury, for sabotage trauma. Because this was never just about Soul Line. They were just the loudest ones screaming. Now the rest of the world needs to start listening.

THREE MONTHS LATER

The pit smells like torque and heat and victory now. Not desperation. Not danger. There’s a difference in the air that only those who lived through the fall can feel. It’s in the way the tools are stacked sharper, the way the boys walk like nothing can knock them down anymore. It’s quieter, somehow, even with the press screaming outside the gates. Seoul hasn’t seen peace since the article dropped. Since the expose tore through the league’s skin like shrapnel and bled everything open. Reporters started camping in the alleys around the pitt. Drones buzz low over the garages. Black vans idle outside at all hours. One news anchor called it “the Great Recalibration.” Another said you’d sparked “a new militant journalism.” You didn’t ask for any of that. All you did was write the truth but now the truth has teeth, and the world can’t look away.

Inside Soul Line’s garage, it’s not silence. It’s something stronger. Unspoken rhythm. Renjun wiping oil from his cheek with the back of his hand. Sunwoo muttering to himself as he calibrates a new telemetry mod that he swears can’t be hacked. Jaemin bent over the console, fingers flickering like they’re tracing god. None of them talk about the fallout. They don’t need to. They’re too busy building something no one can touch. And you’re in it. Fully. Woven into every thread. They don’t talk about Taeyong either. Not out loud. His name is sealed in court files and blacklisted from every league hall but they still flinch when telemetry glitches. Still watch the monitors like ghosts might crawl out of the data feed. You see it in Jeno’s shoulders, in the way he holds the wheel tighter now but he’s healing. They all are. Slowly, collectively, like bones re-setting.

They handed you the jacket this morning without warning. Matte black, sleeves heavy with gold circuitry. It looked like it belonged to you before it even touched your shoulders. The emblem glinted in the light like it knew. Like it always knew. Soul Line. Underneath it, stitched in clean, neat thread: your initials. Renjun didn’t say a word when he gave it to you. Just nodded, once. Jaemin met your eyes across the garage and didn’t look away. Sunwoo smacked your back and laughed, too hard, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotion in his chest. “Told you you were crew,” he grinned, eyes glinting. “Passenger-seat ace. Journalism prodigy. Resident saboteur hunter. You’re one of us now.”

You wore the jacket all day. You still haven’t taken it off.

Jeno watched it all from the far side of the room, leaned against the frame of the garage door like he was guarding it. Or maybe just you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just tracked every movement, arms crossed, mouth unreadable. But later, when the boys cleared out and the light from the pit dimmed to a golden haze, he pulled you into the shadow of the garage and kissed you like it was a promise. Like it had always been you. “My girlfriend looks hot,” he said, voice hoarse. You touched the emblem on his chest and felt your own beat beneath his. Matching. Aligned.

You grinned, fingers toying with the edge of his jacket, voice light but laced with heat. “Leader now, huh?” you teased, tracing the gold threading with slow, deliberate circles. “Guess I’ll have to start calling you sir. Or would you prefer ‘daddy?’”

Jeno’s eyes darkened instantly, hands sliding down your ass to squeeze, rough and possessive. “Don’t play with me,” he muttered, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips. “You’ve been calling me that since the day we met.”

You tilted your head, smiled like sin. “Yeah, but now you run this place,” you whispered, lips barely ghosting his jaw. “Which means if I ride you right here, the whole league has to listen when you moan.” His breath hitched. His grip tightened. And just before he kissed you again, he growled low, “Get in the fucking car.”

The leadership changed with the speed of a whipcrack. Doyoung retired the same week the system crashed. Not in shame, but in solidarity. He stepped down from the circuit, stripped his badge, and walked straight into the fire. He joined the oversight board as its loudest reformer, made it his mission to burn every corrupted clause down from the inside. They tried to muzzle him with politics—he cut through them with statements and statistics, with field testimonies and footage only someone who’d been trackside for a decade could name by timecode. And Jeno? Jeno was never just the team’s driver. He was its spine. Its compass. Its command. The moment Doyoung stepped off the track, Jeno stepped up to the tower. Not as a poster boy. As a leader. As the one they now called captain. The racers followed him. The crew listened to him. The new rulebooks printed with his footnotes still scribbled in the margins. It wasn’t official but everyone knew. The face of the league wasn’t a boardroom name anymore. It was a racer with oil on his collarbone and your name whispered against his ribs.

The article detonated globally. Seoul moved first—broke their entire telemetry contract and formed a cleanboard task force within twenty-four hours. You sat in front of their oversight committee and explained how gloves could be re-rigged to force overdrive. How visors could scramble neural input without alert. You described how Jeno’s pupils blew wide and his hands twitched out of sync with his own mind. You showed them the data. You made them listen.

Then Japan paused its regional league entirely. “Under investigation,” they said. California followed—drivers unionizing, walking out mid-season until neural protections were guaranteed. Sweden leaked its own review. Four seasons compromised. Four years erased. Protest signs started appearing in circuits across Europe. “This track kills racers.” “No more ghosts behind the wheel.” “Override is not a malfunction.” It wasn’t just exposé anymore. It was revolution. It was all your words and Jeno’s voice and Jaemin’s code turned into a weapon.

They called your article the fuse. They called you the match.

And still, every time you come back to the pit, it feels like home. Like rebirth. Like the kind of place you weren’t born into but fought to earn. Jeno still tunes the cars like they’re alive. Renjun still calls you trouble. Jaemin still tracks your heart rate without asking. Sunwoo still tells you the only way to win is to never stop moving. You believe him now. More than ever. Inside the garage, the world is burning but it smells like fuel. Like the future. Like something no one can take from you now. Lastly, sitting just outside the frame—head tilted back, grease smudged across his jaw, eyes half-lidded from laughter—is the boy you didn’t mean to love, the one who handed you the keys anyway. Jeno. All yours.

The door shuts behind you with a muted click, and suddenly it’s like the world forgets how to be loud. The lights of the pit still cast a golden haze across the car’s shell, but inside it’s dim, thick with the kind of silence that feels earned, like the end of a war you both survived. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You just look at him—at the boy who taught you how to survive fire by becoming it—and reach for his wrist as he drops into the passenger seat. He doesn’t stop you when you climb across the console and straddle him, your thighs spread, your breath caught somewhere between grief and victory. His fingers find your hips and squeeze like he’s checking if you’re still real. You are. Every inch of you aches with it.

Your mouth grazes his first—barely, softly, like a warning—and then he’s kissing you like he needs to know how you taste after all this. How you feel now that everything’s different. Your lips part and you take him deeper, tongue brushing his, pace unhurried and sensual, like you’ve got all night to relearn each other. He moans softly into your mouth when you grind down into his lap, his hands sliding under your shirt with a reverence that makes your pulse spike. You undo his belt one loop at a time, slow and teasing, until the leather falls open and he’s twitching against you, already hard, already waiting. There’s something frantic under his breath when he speaks, something that doesn’t match the calm in his touch. “I love you,” he says, hoarse, his mouth trailing kisses across your jaw. “Reporter girl.”

You huff out a laugh, half breathless, half scandalized, and jab your fingers into his ribs, just enough to make him flinch. “Did you really just call me reporter girl while I’m literally on top of your dick?” you murmur, squinting down at him like you might disqualify him on the spot.

He grins, shameless and crooked, even as his cheeks flush. “Sorry, sorry—baby,” he amends quickly, voice dropping as his hands roam lower, possessive now. “Sweet girl. The love of my life. The only person I’d let hijack my racecar and my heart in the same month.”

You pretend to consider it for a second, then lean down again, kiss him long and deep and slow until he’s groaning into your mouth, fingers bruising around your hips. “That’s better,” you whisper against his lips, and when you roll your body down again, just to feel him jerk under you, you smile. “Now say it again but beg this time.”

His breath stutters, head tilting back against the seat as his hands tighten around your waist, dragging you down harder. “Fuck—please,” he groans, voice wrecked, all cock and desperation now. “I love you. I fucking love you. Say it back. Say it while you’re riding me, baby, come on—” His mouth finds your neck, biting down, kissing over it like it’s sacred, like you’re something holy and forbidden all at once. “Need to hear it,” he mutters, words caught somewhere between a moan and a command. “Say you love me.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding it in for years, spine arching into his hands, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “I love you too,” you whisper, and then louder, filthier, “I love you so fucking much, Jeno— with my entire heart.” He groans like it undoes him, like that’s what he’s been racing toward this whole time.

You sink deeper into him with a sharp inhale, your head tilting back as your body takes all of him in one deep pull. He curses under his breath, hands scrambling to hold your waist steady as your walls flutter around him. You start to move—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until he’s buried so deep you feel the tremor in his thighs. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there like he wants to mark it, but he doesn’t. He presses a kiss to the spot instead. Gentle. Lingering. “This,” he murmurs, breath ghosting against your skin. “This is everything I didn’t know how to ask for.”

You rock against him with slow, aching purpose, your fingers tangled in his hair, your chest pressed to his like you’re trying to fuse together. Each thrust feels like a vow unspoken—like you’re rewriting the way your bodies understand each other. The seat creaks beneath you, windows fogging with heat, your moans low and broken as you chase the edge. He holds your gaze through it, eyes dark, lashes wet. “Don’t stop,” he breathes. “Please, don’t stop.” You don’t. You ride him until he’s shaking, until your thighs burn, until the only thing left in the universe is the way he fucks up into you, whispering things that sound like prayers but hit like promises.

When you come, it’s with his mouth on your chest, your name falling apart on his tongue. His orgasm follows seconds later, hips jerking up as he spills inside you, breath caught on a groan that curls straight into your spine. Afterwards, he doesn’t speak. He just keeps holding you, face buried in your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your waist like you’re the anchor and he’s been lost at sea. You press a kiss to his temple, then another to his collarbone, and feel the thud of his heart matching yours.

The windows are fogged. The world outside hums with what comes next—media, interviews, the shift of an industry—but none of that matters right now. Not when you’re still straddling him, still pressed chest to chest, still filled with everything you both needed to say and didn’t. You stroke his hair until he falls asleep against your skin, your palm steady over the back of his neck. Outside, the car glows beneath the pit lights like a secret. Inside, you close your eyes and breathe him in. This is where the story ends. Not with headlines. Not with a trophy. With a breath. A body. A boy. A promise.

And as you leaned your forehead to his, eyes fluttering shut, you whispered the last line of the story neither of you thought would be yours—

“We won.”

tag list — @clownnationrey @ohmysion @euphormiia @jaemjeno

asks, likes, reblogs and comments always welcome <3

#lee jeno #jeno fic #ryorecs

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ryorecs · 4 months ago

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Flipped | Mark Lee

pairing: gryffindor!mark lee x slytherin!fem reader (ft haechan) genre: angst, fluff, smut (in 2nd part) wc: 29k+ summary: the first time you met mark lee, you flipped his world upside down— literally. seven years later and after countless attempts to avoid you, you're still driving him insane. except now, it’s for an entirely different reason. content warnings: mild possessiveness/jealousy, minor confrontation/injuries, non-consensual drugging (love potion), mark is mean at first and terribly bad at feelings, miscommunication, unrequited feelings. explicit sexual content, cursing, loss of virginity, semipublic sexual activity, oral fem receiving, unprotected sex. a/n: proofreading this after meeting mark lee irl had me feeling crazy... bro is actually majestic and i miss him BAD. anyway... this one is special to me because i’ve been wanting to write a hogwarts au since forever and i absolutely love how it came out. this is also slightly inspired by the movie/book “flipped” so it has a ‘she fell first, but he fell harder’ vibe that i’m kinda obsessed with. i tried to do something different and write the events from both perspectives, i hope it’s clear enough so that you can tell when it’s him and when it’s her. feedback is always appreciated! ps: i had to split this into two parts bc apparently i reached the max word count, so all the smut cws apply to the 2nd part . thank you so much for reading!

The first time Mark Lee met you, you flipped his world upside down.

And not in a good way. In the most literal and humiliating way possible.

It happened on the Hogwarts Express, during your very first year. Mark had been desperately searching for an empty cabin but since he was dragging a suitcase stuffed to the brim by his overly concerned mother, he was at a severe disadvantage. Someone else had already claimed the spot every time he reached a door.

By the time he made it to the last cabin, he was already panting. But at last, he found one that was partially empty.

You sat cross-legged on the seat, nose buried in The Quibbler. Mark found that a little odd, his father always said The Quibbler was full of nonsense, a rag for conspiracy theorists rather than real journalism. But that wasn’t his problem. His problem was the fact that both of his arms were shaking from the weight of his bag.

He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

You looked up, and your messy bangs fell into your wide, starry eyes. For a second, Mark swore they got even bigger at the sight of him.

“Yes! Of course!” you chirped, your voice high and excited.

Mark forced a polite smile and stepped inside, shuffling toward the overhead compartment. He glanced up at where your bag was already neatly placed and swallowed hard. How the hell was he supposed to get his own up there? He wasn’t weak by any means, but after dragging it through the entire train, his arms were screaming in protest.

You seemed to notice his struggle because you set The Quibbler down and pulled out your wand. “Need help?”

Mark was about to shake his head when suddenly, his feet left the ground.

“What—HEY! PUT ME DOWN!”

Mark flailed helplessly as his entire body flipped upside down, his robes falling over his head. Panic surged through him as he felt his pants begin to slip.

“Oh my! I’m so sorry! I thought this was the right spell!” you gasped, flicking your wand again, this time more frantically.

Mark tried to grip at something, anything, but all he managed to do was thrash at the air while more of his clothes tried to slip away from his body.

“I—I don’t know the counterspell!” you admitted in a panic.

At the commotion, students from other cabins poked their heads in. A chorus of laughter erupted at the sight of Mark dangling upside down, arms desperately trying to keep his robes and pants in place.

A tall, older student finally pushed his way inside. He took one look at Mark and sighed as if this were nothing new. “Seriously? Don’t you first-years ever learn?”

“I—I was just trying to help him levitate his bag…”

The older student pinched the bridge of his nose. “Finite.”

Mark hit the seat with an unceremonious thud.

“If you lot keep casting spells on the train, I’ll start deducting points from your houses as soon as you’re sorted,” the boy warned before turning on his heel and waving off the lingering audience.

You hesitated, staring at Mark with wide, guilty eyes. “I’m sorry…” you whispered, your voice wavering just a little.

But Mark wasn’t listening. He was too busy seeing red from both rage and humiliation. Without a word, he grabbed his bag and stormed out.

That was the day you met Mark Lee.

And the day he swore he’d never speak to you again.

The first time you met Mark Lee, you flipped.

Not literally but in the way your heart did a little somersault the moment he stepped into your cabin.

You had been engrossed in The Quibbler, completely enchanted by every bizarre detail about the magical world. Since you grew up with two Muggle parents, receiving your Hogwarts letter was like stepping into a dream where the impossible suddenly was real. You couldn’t get enough of it.

Your cabin door suddenly slid open and a boy stood there, panting slightly, his face flushed red from exertion as he struggled to drag an absurdly large trunk behind him.

You felt your face heat up. You’d never been around many boys growing up, having attended an all-girls school, but there was something about him that struck you immediately. Maybe it was the way his glasses were slipping down his pretty nose, or the way he offered a shy, slightly strained smile as he stepped inside. He was adorable.

And he was struggling.

You watched as he attempted to haul his trunk toward the overhead rack, his arms visibly trembling under its weight. Something in you immediately wanted to help.

The problem was… you had no idea what you were doing.

You’d only ever performed magic by accident, usually when you got too emotional. Your mom still loved to tell the story about how the lights in the house flickered every time you cried as a baby. Or the time Madeline Perkins made fun of your pigtails, and the swings mysteriously sent her flying off the playground.

But you’d only just gotten your wand the day before at Ollivanders. You hadn’t practiced a single spell yet, but you had been reading your textbooks. Wingardium Leviosa was the most basic charm in your book.

How hard could it be?

Apparently, hard enough that you somehow missed the part where it said that even though the spell was only for objects, if it was aimed at a person, it would also make their clothes float.

Which was how you now found yourself staring up at the cute boy you’d just met, his body suspended in midair, robes billowing wildly, eyes wide with pure horror.

Talk about a terrible first impression.

From that moment on, Mark Lee avoided you like the plague.

It didn’t help that you were sorted into different houses—him in Gryffindor, you in Slytherin. You quickly learned that those two houses were basically sworn enemies, which made it even easier for him to pretend you didn’t exist.

Despite his rocky start on the train, Mark had no trouble making friends in Gryffindor. He was well-liked, effortlessly charming, and even if he wasn’t the loudest in the room, he always carried a quiet sort of confidence. You, on the other hand, kept to yourself. Spending most of your free time watching him from across the Great Hall, your crush on him growing by the day.

You didn’t know why you liked him so much, he hadn’t done anything grand or impressive to win your admiration. If anything, he actively tried to avoid you.

You tried approaching him a few times during your first year, hoping to properly apologize and smooth things over. But each time, he found a way to dodge you, claiming he was late for class, too busy with homework, or suddenly needed to be anywhere else but next to you.

So by second year, you changed your approach.

If Mark Lee wouldn’t pay attention to you as a friend, you’d make him notice you as a rival.

Mark had been one of the best students in your first year, so you became an absolute academic weapon in your second. You were determined to match him in every class, if not surpass him.

“Excellent work, Miss Y/N,” Professor McGonagall praised, a rare note of surprise in her voice as she examined the intricate tea jar you had just transfigured from a blue jay.

You glanced over your shoulder at Mark. He was sitting a few rows back, his brows furrowed as he stared at your jar with a barely concealed frown. His own transfiguration was… less successful. The lizard he’d tried to turn into a pen still had a suspiciously scaly texture.

But it wasn’t just Transfiguration where you shined.

You also excelled in Potions, something that became very clear when Professor Snape assigned your class, which you shared with the Gryffindors, the difficult task of brewing Draught of Living Death, a highly advanced sleeping potion that could render someone unconscious with just a single drop.

One of the Gryffindors groaned in frustration. “Sir, this is way too advanced—”

“If it’s too difficult for your little Gryffindor hands,” Snape sneered, cutting him off, “perhaps you should take notes on how some of the Slytherins are managing. Particularly Miss Y/N.”

Your ears burned at the attention as several students shuffled closer to your workstation, peeking at your bubbling cauldron. The only ones who didn’t approach were the Gryffindors at Mark’s table.

You noticed that his potion was violently spewing green gas bubbles, and he looked deeply frustrated, brows knitted together as he stirred with precision.

Letting your own potion simmer for a moment, you stood up and made your way over to his table. The chatter among his friends died down as you approached. Zhong Chenle, the boy sitting next to him, smacked his arm lightly to get his attention.

Mark finally looked up, his glasses fogged from the potion fumes, and the front of his hair sticking up in all directions.

You stifled a laugh.

“Need help?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Mark blinked at you, and for the first time since the train, you finally had his full attention.

“No, thanks. I got it.”

The words had barely left Mark’s mouth when his potion let out another violent blorp, spewing a sickly green bubble into the air. It popped immediately, releasing a smell so putrid it made your stomach churn.

“Dude, that smells like a troll’s ass,” Chenle cackled, covering his nose.

Jaemin, who was sitting across from Mark, raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, mate. She’s the best in the class.” He shot you a grin. “Let her help.”

Mark resisted the urge to groan. He knew they were right, but the last thing he wanted was for you to be the one correcting him. It was bad enough that you had been outshining him in every subject lately, now you were swooping in to save him too?

But before he could protest again, you stepped closer to his cauldron, and his entire body tensed.

“What did you add to make it green like this?” you asked, peering into the potion. Your voice was calm, inquisitive like you weren’t there to gloat but to actually help.

Mark clenched his jaw, eyes fixed stubbornly on the cauldron. “I did exactly as the instructions said.”

Jaemin let out a small snort, clearly unconvinced.

“Hm,” you hummed, examining the bubbling liquid. “You must’ve added more than three drops of Valerian root extract.”

Mark stiffened. Valerian root extract? He thought back to when he had been adding the ingredients, trying to get ahead of everyone. Had he miscounted? Maybe. Probably.

You reached for a small vial of powdered sopophorous bean and sprinkled just a pinch into the potion. “This should balance it out and bring it back to its original black color,” you explained, gently stirring the mixture.

Mark watched in reluctant amazement as the once-toxic green sludge darkened before his eyes, settling into the inky black shade it was supposed to be.

He barely stopped his brows from rising in surprise. You had fixed it. Just like that.

Mark swallowed down the frustrated lump in his throat. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of knowing you had one-upped him again.

“That was impressive, Y/N,” Jaemin said, clapping his hands.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling shyly. “The instructions in this book are a bit ambiguous, so I suggest adding less than what the recipe says at first, watching how the colors change, and then adjusting accordingly.”

Mark exhaled slowly, forcing himself to loosen his grip on his stirring rod. He hated to admit it, but that was actually… good advice.

Still, he kept his eyes on his potion, refusing to look at you or thank you for helping.

"You should start sitting with us, Y/N," Chenle said, grinning like a cat as he threw an arm around Mark. "So you can help our boy here, who’s clearly lost."

Mark didn’t miss the way your eyes lit up at the invitation. And that was exactly why he needed to shut this down immediately.

He knew about your little crush on him, everyone did. You weren’t exactly subtle about it. You always looked at him with those heart eyes across the Great Hall, his friends teased him about it constantly. You also cheered the loudest for him at every Quidditch match, even when he was playing against Slytherin. Even when your house lost. He’d seen the way your own housemates sneered at you for it, the way they mocked your infatuation, but you never seemed to care.

The other thing about you was that you were so unapologetically Muggle-born.

Not that Mark cared about blood status. He wasn't that kind of wizard, despite coming from a long line of pure-bloods. But you made it so difficult for yourself. You didn’t even try to blend in among your Slytherin peers. You didn’t mind their teasing, didn’t care that you had practically no friends in your own house.

It was frustrating, the way you took every jab with a smile, like none of it ever got to you. But what frustrated him even more was that whenever he said anything, whenever he so much as muttered something slightly harsh, your whole face fell.

And for some stupid reason, that bothered him more than it should.

“Sorry, this table is already full,” Mark said, once again avoiding your gaze. He imagined the way your smile faltered.

“What are you talking about? There’s plenty of—”

Mark elbowed Chenle sharply in the stomach.

“Like I said, the table’s full.”

“Oh… okay,” you murmured, your head dipping slightly. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

Mark didn’t watch you walk away, but he could feel the disappointment in your steps.

“Dude, you’re so mean to her,” Jaemin muttered, his eyes still on your retreating figure. “She clearly likes you.”

“Whatever,” Mark huffed, waving him off. “Let’s focus on something else.” He ignored the knowing smirk Jaemin shot him and tried—failed—to ignore the creeping warmth rising up his neck.

In your third year, you found a passion for Herbology.

Mark should’ve been relieved. After all, the more time you spent in the greenhouse, the less time you spent trying to talk to him. And at first, it was great. He barely had to think about you at all.

But then… it became his problem.

Because one day, he started noticing small bowls of water left in his usual spots—on the Gryffindor table, outside the Quidditch locker room, even near the Gryffindor common room entrance. At first, he ignored them. Maybe some first-years were testing a spell. Maybe it was a coincidence.

Then, he saw the petals floating in the water shift and transform into delicate, shimmering fish as soon as he grabbed the bowl.

And Mark hated to admit it… but it intrigued him. The magic was advanced, something most students their age wouldn’t even attempt. He even caught himself watching the tiny enchanted fish, mesmerized by the way their colors glowed under the candlelight.

That was his mistake, because his friends noticed.

“You’re actually accepting her gifts now,” Chenle teased, crossing his arms as Mark peeled off his muddy Quidditch uniform.

“We don’t even know if it’s hers,” Mark argued, tossing his gloves onto the bench.

Jaemin snorted. “Do you really think anyone else in our year knows how to do that kind of magic?”

“Yeah, she’s the only one crazy enough about you to put in that much effort,” Chenle added with a smirk.

Mark rolled his eyes. “There are other girls who like me, you know.”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. “Are there? ’Cause I feel like Y/N’s already scared them all off.”

Chenle laughed. “Honestly, just give her a chance. She’s pretty, and let’s be real, she’d probably do anything for you.”

Mark sighed, rubbing a towel over his damp hair.

They didn’t get it. He’d spent years running from you, dodging your attempts, shutting down any rumors before they could spread. He couldn’t just give in now.

Maybe it didn’t make sense to anyone else.

But it did to him.

So he kept doing what made the most sense to him, and one day, you found yourself walking into the greenhouse, your eyes immediately drawn to the familiar bowls scattered across the table. Your heart clenched at the sight, but you refused to believe Mark would just discard your gifts like that.

But as you approached, you noticed something that made your stomach twist painfully. The fish, once so vibrant and lively, now lay still in the water. They barely moved. They didn't swim with the same energy, the same color that had once made them sparkle. They just stayed there, like lifeless figures floating in stagnant water. And, as ridiculous as it sounded, you could almost swear they looked sad.

It hit you like a physical blow. Mark really didn’t want anything to do with you.

The realization didn’t come alone, though. You’d noticed it over the last few months, but you’d been too stubborn to admit it to yourself. Mark had been spending more time with a girl from Ravenclaw. You didn’t even know her name, but the way they talked and laughed together, the way he’d smile at her with that soft look you’d always hoped to get... It was all the confirmation you needed. Mark Lee wasn’t just avoiding you… he was interested in someone else.

You stood there in the greenhouse, staring at the fish, a sinking feeling settling deep in your chest. He didn’t care about you the way you’d always hoped.

In your fourth year, you decided it was time to focus on yourself. To put Mark away and finally let go of your feelings for him.

You’d been practicing something called Occlumency. Professor Snape had given you a book on it and told you it would help you shield away any distractions when you started falling behind in class due to your little infatuation with a certain seeker.

“This is very advanced magic,” Snape had said, handing you the book with a knowing look, “and it takes months, sometimes years, of practice to master it.”

And practice you did. Every day, you worked at it, pushing your emotions into a mental drawer and locking it away. It was hard at first. Your thoughts kept wandering back to Mark, but slowly, you began to make progress. You learned to control your thoughts, to put each memory, each feeling about him into that mental drawer, one by one, and shove it far back in your mind.

The more you practiced, the easier it became. It wasn’t perfect, but over the course of the year, you started to feel a strange sense of indifference towards Mark Lee.

At least until The Yule Ball was announced in the middle of the term. Even with all your hard work on Occlumency, you couldn’t stop the twinge of longing that crept in. You knew Mark would be going with Mia, the Ravenclaw girl whose name you had learned through the whispers of the school. It wasn’t like you had any right to feel disappointed, but the nagging thought of asking him yourself refused to leave your mind.

You had planned to skip the celebration altogether. The last thing you wanted was to sit alone while Mark and Mia danced, all dressed up and happy.

But that changed one afternoon in the library when you were buried in research on Venomous Tentacula for a Herbology project

The library was the one place where you could lose yourself without interruption, so you were caught off guard when you heard footsteps approaching and a voice calling your name.

“Hey, Y/N, right?”

You turned, surprised to see Lee Haechan standing there. He was easily one of the most popular guys in Slytherin, the kind of person who always had a group of friends around him, cracking jokes and showing off on the Quidditch pitch. He wasn’t one to hang around in the library by himself during a free period. You couldn’t even remember the last time you had spoken to him—if you ever had.

“Yeah,” you answered, your voice more guarded than usual.

You were used to your fellow Slytherins teasing you for the smallest things, such as your Muggle clothes or the way you searched for books manually instead of having Madam Pince summon them for you.

“You probably don’t remember, but last year, you helped me during the Potions final,” he said, his tone surprisingly shy. It was a sharp contrast to the cocky confidence he usually carried.

You thought back, remembering how badly he had struggled to keep his assigned potion from bubbling over and spilling across the table. You had only helped him because if his potion had spilled into yours, it would’ve ruined your work. But you didn’t tell him that.

“I remember,” you said, reaching for a book on a higher shelf.

Before you could grab it, he stepped closer, plucking it from the shelf with ease.

“Thanks,” you muttered, slightly suspicious of the unexpected kindness.

Then he said something that completely threw you off balance. “Listen, I heard you don’t have a date for the Yule Ball.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers tightened slightly around the book. Lee Haechan, of all people, was bringing up the Yule Ball? He was one of the most sought-after guys in Slytherin, and yet here he was, talking to you about the biggest event of the year.

“I’m not really planning on going,” you said, brushing off the conversation as you moved toward a nearby table.

And, of course, he followed.

“Really? Why not?” he asked, dropping into the seat across from you.

You sighed, knowing he wouldn’t leave you alone until you answered. “For starters, I don’t dance.” You flipped open your book, eyes scanning the pages in an attempt to distract yourself.

Haechan leaned forward slightly. “Ah, that’s an easy fix. I can teach you.”

You glanced up, raising a brow. “Where is all this coming from, Haechan?”

His smile widened when you said his name “I thought it was obvious,” he said. “I want you to go to the dance with me.”

You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, for the moment he’d burst into laughter and reveal it was all some elaborate joke. But he didn’t laugh. He just watched you, his smile still in place.

“Me?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He nodded. “You have pretty eyes, by the way.” His voice was casual as if he were just commenting on the weather. You nearly choked on your own breath, covering it up with an exaggerated cough.

“Did anyone ever tell you that?” he continued, watching your reaction with obvious amusement.

You willed yourself to stay composed, but your heart was racing. What was he playing at?

“Why would you want to go with me?” you asked. “It can’t just be because I helped you once on a test.”

“Why not?” He rested his chin in his hand. “Maybe I’m extremely grateful and want to repay you.”

Your heart beat faster than you wanted it to, and you couldn’t tell if he was just messing with you or if he actually meant it. Haechan had a teasing air about him that made it impossible to tell. Was this a bet with his friends? Or did he just enjoy seeing you flustered?

You hesitated, trying to find the right words, but before you could say anything, he stood abruptly.

“Sleep on it if you want,” he said with a grin. “You can tell me after the Quidditch game on Saturday.”

“Oh, but I wasn’t planning on—”

“I’ll see you there, Y/N,” Haechan said, cutting you off with a wave. Before you could protest, he walked away, leaving you in stunned silence.

The next few days were strange. Haechan was clearly hovering around you. He wasn’t making it obvious, but you were observant enough to notice that he wasn’t skipping some of your shared classes anymore. He had also started spending time in the library even though you’d rarely seen him there before. He didn’t approach you, but you felt his eyes on you every time.

You also realized he was checking out books right after you did. It was oddly amusing, so you decided to mess with him one day.

You had spent enough time in the library to know how to take books from the Restricted Section without alerting Madam Pince. You pretended to read over one, placed it on a different shelf, and waited. A few minutes later, you spotted Haechan heading straight for that section.

Silence filled the air, then a bloodcurdling scream rang through the library. The sound of a book hitting the floor echoed through the rows of shelves. Moments later, Haechan rushed out, his wide eyes locking onto you as you hunched over, struggling to hold in your laughter.

“I’m guessing that was your doing,” he said, dropping into the seat beside you.

You shook your head, still grinning. “That’s just a security mechanism all the books from the Restricted Section have.”

His brows lifted, amusement flickering in his gaze. “How did you even get a book out of there without a professor’s note?”

You shrugged. “I have my ways.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you with something that made you suddenly self-conscious. “You keep surprising me, Y/N.”

Across the library, Mark sat at a table with Mia, his Potions textbook open in front of him but he wasn't reading anymore and his quill was static in the air. His gaze was locked on you and Haechan, watching the way you leaned in, the way your laughter softened the space between you. Mia followed his stare, then let out a quiet hum.

“What an odd picture, huh?”

Mark blinked, tearing his eyes away. “What?”

Mia tilted her head, her quill twirling between her fingers. “They’re from the same house, sure, but Haechan is one of the most popular guys in school.” She glanced over at you, then back at Mark, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “And she… isn’t she kind of an outcast? Even in her own house?”

Mark tried to keep his tone neutral and disinterested “So?”

Mia let out a soft laugh, dipping her quill in ink. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s probably just bored. Using her for his own amusement.”

Mark glanced back at your table. Haechan was leaning in, grinning as he spoke to you. You looked up at him with something close to exasperation, but there was a smile playing on your lips. It was weird. You didn’t smile like that often.

He ignored the way something twisted in his chest. “You don’t know that,” he muttered, forcing his eyes back to his parchment.

Mia hummed, unconvinced. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

The next morning, you woke up earlier than usual for a Saturday with a quiet sense of dread settling over you. Instead of heading to the greenhouse like you normally would, you made your way to the Quidditch pitch, the crisp morning air biting at your skin. You had layered up so much that your scarf nearly swallowed half your face, but even with the extra warmth, you wished you were still curled up in bed.

When you reached the stands, the realization hit you like a punch to your face—today’s match was against Gryffindor.

You should’ve known, but school events had barely been on your radar between your Occlumency lessons and your herbology studies.

You climbed up to the Slytherin side of the stands, slipping into a seat in the back row. It wasn’t crowded yet, and you hoped to stay unnoticed, keeping your head low. The last thing you wanted was to catch the attention of a certain seeker. Or two. Not that Mark would be looking your way anyway.

The distant whoosh of broomsticks cut through the morning stillness, and then, all at once, the stadium came alive. Players soared onto the pitch in a blur of red and green, the announcer’s voice booming through the enchanted speakers. You were only half-listening when you noticed Haechan scanning the crowd.

You set to ignore him when his eyes landed on you.

He mouthed something, but you couldn’t quite make out the words from the distance. His lips moved again, slower this time, like he was asking a question.

You hesitated, then lifted your hand in a thumbs-up, hoping that would satisfy whatever he wanted. Though you immediately regretted it when you felt the weight of other eyes shifting onto you. People had noticed the exchange. Your face burned, and you quickly looked away.

The game began, and you tried to focus. Your eyes followed Haechan for most of it, but every so often, your Occlumency walls slipped, and your gaze found Mark. He was fast, his broom cutting through the air as he scoured the pitch for the Snitch. Haechan was right on his tail, matching his every turn, the two of them locked in a battle of speed.

You knew Mark was a talented seeker. He was quick and light in the air, but his broom wasn’t as fast as Haechan’s, and that made some difference.

You weren’t really rooting for either of them. At least, that’s what you told yourself. Though the right thing to do as a Slytherin would be to hope for Haechan’s victory.

The crowd suddenly roared, breaking you from your thoughts. Both seekers had disappeared behind one of the towers in a steep dive, and they were gone for a few agonizing seconds. Then, like a flash of green lightning, Haechan shot back into the air, arm raised, the golden Snitch clutched tight in his fist.

The Slytherins around you erupted into cheers, the stands vibrating with excitement. You blinked, then let yourself be swept up in the celebration, joining the chorus of triumphant screams.

Haechan suddenly veered toward the stands, his broom tilting slightly as he hovered just above the crowd. He brought the Snitch to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to its delicate golden surface before tossing it in your direction. Your hands reacted before your mind could catch up, fingers closing around the tiny fluttering ball with ease.

A collective gasp rippled through the Slytherin section, eyes darting between you and Haechan.

"Y/N!" Haechan called out, his voice carrying effortlessly over the noise of the crowd. "Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?"

The world felt like it had slowed.

You hated attention. You hated feeling like all eyes were on you. But what you hated the most in that moment was the fact that Mark was there, hovering just behind Haechan, watching everything unfold. His broom was still, his expression neutral, but you could feel his eyes burning into you, waiting for your response.

"So," Haechan prompted, his voice a little breathless from the cold and the game, his nose and cheeks tinged pink. "What's your answer?"

Your fingers tightened around the Snitch. You risked a quick glance at Mark, searching for something—anything—in his face. But all you could see was the annoyance from losing the match.

There was only one right answer.

"Okay," you said.

Haechan grinned, throwing his arms up in victory. The crowd erupted, voices overlapping as cheers and chants of his name filled the air.

Mark wasn’t on his best game today. He was usually laser-focused before a match, but things weren’t going right thia morning. First, someone pulled a prank and turned his Quidditch robes a bright pink. Now, he was stuck wearing Sungchan’s, which were way too big. They hung loosely around his shoulders and got in the way whenever he tried to move.

On top of that, Mark was in a strangely sour mood, though he couldn’t figure out why. Everything felt off. The broom didn’t feel right in his hands, and the wind felt harsher than usual.

Then he saw you in the stands.

At first, he thought you were there for him. You usually came to cheer him on, so it made sense. But when Lee Haechan flew by and his face lit up when he saw you, Mark realized he’d been wrong. You looked flustered, but you still gave him a thumbs up.

So, you weren’t there for him? That was okay. Actually, it was better than okay.

But then Haechan wouldn’t stop. He kept swooping around Mark, poking fun.

“A little slow today, huh?” Haechan called as he flew beside Mark. “You looking a little distracted, Lee.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “Focus on your game,” he said, his tone clipped.

“Oh, I am.” Haechan’s eyes flickered to you in the stands, where you were rubbing your hands together for warmth.

Mark’s focus broke. The rest of the game felt like a blur.

He was usually the fastest to spot the snitch. No matter who he played against, his eyes always found it first. And Haechan wasn’t known for being the most observant player, so when Mark saw the snitch fluttering just a few feet away, he immediately maneuvered toward it. But his borrowed robes dragged around his legs, slowing him down. By the time he managed to free himself, Haechan had already spotted the snitch and was racing toward it.

Mark pushed forward, forcing his broom to match Haechan’s speed. When he caught up, the Slytherin boy turned to him with a smirk and a challenge in his eyes.

“First one to catch it wins the prize,” Haechan said.

Mark frowned. There was no prize for catching the snitch. The cup at the end of the year depended on accumulated wins, and there were still plenty of matches left. But then it clicked. Haechan wasn’t talking about the cup. He was talking about you.

For some ridiculous reason, he thought Mark was interested in you.

The snitch suddenly dove, and both seekers followed. They jostled for position, each elbowing the other to get ahead. But then Haechan leaned forward, and it was like his broom had shifted into another gear. He shot ahead, leaving Mark behind with no chance to catch up.

When Mark rose back to the pitch, he already knew he had lost.

It shouldn’t have pissed him off as much as it did. Gryffindor had been on a winning streak for the past three matches, and they were still leading. This loss wouldn’t hurt them in the long run. But something about losing to Haechan irritated him.

It definitely wasn’t the fact that Haechan flew straight toward you. It wasn’t the fact that he tossed you the snitch and asked you, in front of the entire school, to go to the dance with him.

Mark didn’t know why his ribs felt tight against his chest or why he found himself waiting for you to look at him. But then you did, and all he could do was scowl.

And then you said okay.

Mark didn’t wait to hear the cheers so he turned his broom and flew away.

It was the night of the Yule Ball, and you were nervous. Ever since the match, you had started getting more attention from your fellow Slytherins. Some of it was good, some of it wasn’t. A few girls had taken an interest in you, though, and they were nice enough that you didn’t feel the need to keep your guard up so you didn't refuse when they offered to help you get ready for the ball.

“You have really pretty eyes,” Minjeong said, tilting your chin up. “I think if we curl your lashes and tweeze your brows a bit, they’d stand out even more.”

“Oh. Thanks,” you said, shifting awkwardly on the vanity stool they had just enchanted into existence in the dorm.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Karina started, eyes bright with excitement, “but I made some modifications to your dress.”

You tensed. “What? What kind of modifications?”

“Oh, just a few little ones,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “I mean… you’re about to show up with the most popular Slytherin guy. You can't wear something plain.”

“Right,” Minjeong agreed, blending eyeshadow onto your lids. “You have to show everyone you’re on his level.”

You weren’t sure how you felt about that. But you let them work. They curled and pinned your hair, dusted powders and pigments onto your face, and finished off with a few well-placed glamour enchantments. When they finally let you open your eyes, the reflection staring back at you was almost unrecognizable.

“This is our best work yet,” Minjeong said, clapping Karina on the back.

“Absolutely,” the taller girl agreed, looking satisfied.

Your hair fell in soft curls over your shoulders, half-pinned in the back with what looked like strands of shimmering tinsel woven in. Your eyes somehow looked bigger, framed by thick lashes that made them seem darker, more intense. Your brows were perfectly shaped, giving your face a softer, more refined look.

“Okay, now put on the dress! We’ll go get ready,” Karina said, pointing toward the neatly laid-out fabric on your bed.

Before you could say anything, they were already out the door.

“Thank you!” you called after them, but they were long gone.

You turned toward the bed, hands smoothing over the fabric of the dress Karina had "modified". To your relief, it was still elegant and not overly flashy. The gown was a soft, silvery blue with a delicate shimmer that caught the light when you moved. The bodice was fitted but modest, with sheer lace sleeves that draped lightly over your shoulders. The skirt flowed down in gentle layers of airy fabric, giving it an almost weightless quality. It was pretty, delicate, and just fancy enough to make it clear you hadn’t thrown it together last minute.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. At least it wasn’t anything too dramatic.

When you stepped out of the girls' dorm and into the Slytherin common room, your heart pounded so loudly you were sure someone could hear it. Haechan was waiting for you, and the moment your eyes met, you noticed how the entire room seemed to pause. Conversations quieted, and nearly every gaze turned toward you.

“Wow… you look so… wow,” Haechan stammered, walking up to you. His expression was so genuinely stunned that you felt warmth rise to your cheeks.

“You look gorgeous, and I don’t think that even describes it well.” He took your hand and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, his lips curling into a grin when he noticed how flustered you looked.

“Hah, thanks,” you chuckled nervously. “You look nice too.” He did. His black suit fit him well, long robes flowing behind him, accented with silver details that made him look effortlessly put together. His hair was slicked back, but a single strand had fallen over his forehead, softening his sharp features.

He placed a hand on your back and led you up the stairs and out of the dungeons, you instinctively held onto his arm to steady yourself.

Thankfully, by the time you reached the Great Hall, the attention had shifted from you. The room was filled with students dressed in elegant robes, sparkling gowns, and tailored suits, each more dazzling than the next. The sheer number of people made it easy to blend in, or so you thought.

Because somewhere across the hall, a particular Gryffindor’s eyes never left you.

“Who is that?” Jaemin asked, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“That’s Y/N, idiot,” Chenle replied, looking equally stunned.

“No way… seriously?” Jaemin’s eyes widened.

“Now she finally looks like she could really date someone like Lee Haechan,” Mia chimed in, sipping her drink with a raised eyebrow.

Mark didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on you across the room.

“Cat got your tongue?” Mia teased, and Mark snapped out of his trance, his eyes meeting hers.

“No… I was just thinking she looks the same,” Mark muttered before walking away.

You ended up enjoying yourself far more than you’d expected. Haechan was surprisingly fun to be around, and he wasn’t getting too touchy, which you appreciated. You both jumped and swayed to the music of the Weird Sisters.

“I hate this band!” Haechan shouted over the noise, but his feet didn’t stop moving.

You burst out laughing. “Me too.”

He grinned at you, his face flushed, both of you breathless and sweaty.

Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “Hey, what’s up with you and Mark Lee?”

Your laughter died in your throat.

“Huh? Nothing, why?” you stammered, trying to hide your nerves.

“Because he’s looking at me like he wants to hex my head off,” Haechan said, chuckling.

You glanced over your shoulder and saw Mark indeed staring in your direction. His expression was tight, angry even, but there was something else there too. Beside him, Mia was practically clawing at his attention, asking him something. He simply shook his head, dismissing her with a frown before she stormed off.

“Don’t mind him,” you said, turning back to Haechan, but he was already watching you.

“I’m not,” he said softly, his hands finding yours.

Suddenly, you were standing closer to him, and you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze. The music shifted into a slower tune, and your heart skipped a beat when you realized how close he was now.

“Stop me if you’re not okay with this,” he murmured, his breath warm against your face. Before you could even process, his lips brushed yours, and then he closed the gap entirely.

Haechan’s lips were soft against yours, and for a brief moment, the world around you disappeared. The music faded into the background, the chatter of students blurred into nothing, and it was just the two of you.

Then, all at once, everything shattered.

A loud crack echoed through the Great Hall, and before you could process what was happening, something thick and cold splattered down your back. You gasped, stumbling away from Haechan as a chilling sensation spread over your skin. A murmur rippled through the crowd as gasps and stifled laughter filled the air.

You looked down. Dark, sticky liquid seeped into the delicate fabric of your dress, staining the soft silk into something sickly and ruined. A pungent smell filled your nose. You barely had time to react before your dress started shrinking.

Your breath caught as the bodice tightened, the fabric pulling uncomfortably against your ribs, cinching around your waist like an invisible grip. Your sleeves vanished, and the hemline shot up several inches in one horrifying swoop, exposing far too much of your legs.

The laughter grew louder.

You clenched your fists, heart pounding as humiliation crashed over you in waves.

“What the hell?” Haechan’s voice rang out, sharp and furious. He whipped around, wand drawn, eyes scanning the hall for the culprit.

And then your gaze landed on Mark.

He stood several feet away, his wand still faintly sparking at the tip. His expression was frozen, his face a shade paler than before. His mouth was slightly open, like he wasn’t sure how the spell had left his lips in the first place.

But you didn’t see uncertainty. You didn’t see hesitation or guilt. All you saw was an angry boy.

A boy who barely acknowledged you before. A boy who always seemed unimpressed by your very existence. A boy who just humiliated you in front of the entire school.

Your throat tightened.

He really hated you that much.

Haechan was already stepping in front of you, blocking you from the murmuring students. His wand was still raised, his grip so tight his knuckles had gone white.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Lee?” His voice cut through the noise, venom dripping from every word.

Mark didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to undo what he had just done. But he didn’t move.

Your breath was shaky as you forced your voice to come out steady. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Mark’s gaze snapped to you, something flickering in his eyes. But you didn’t care what it was.

“You could’ve just ignored me like you always do,” you continued, your voice sharper now, your chest rising and falling with barely contained anger. “You didn’t have to humiliate me.”

Mark opened his mouth, but for once, he had nothing to say.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, then turned away.

Haechan was already pulling off his robe, draping it over your shoulders before wrapping a protective arm around you. “C’mon, let’s go,” he muttered under his breath, shooting one last glare in Mark’s direction before leading you out of the Great Hall.

Mark didn’t mean to stare.

But from the second you stepped into the Great Hall, he couldn’t seem to look away.

You didn’t look different. That’s what he told himself. It was just a dress. Just some makeup. Just a bunch of pointless glamour spells. Nothing about you had actually changed.

And yet.

His grip tightened around the goblet in his hand as he watched you dance with Haechan, laughing at something he said, looking so damn happy at his side. Mark didn’t even know Haechan that well, but for some reason, he hated him.

He hated the way Haechan touched your waist. He hated the way you let him pull you closer when the song slowed down. Hated the way you tilted your head to look up at him, that slight pause in your movements making it clear what was about to happen.

Mark’s heart slammed against his ribs, something bubbling up inside him, something sharp and hot and suffocating.

And before he even thought about what he was doing, his fingers twitched around his wand.

It happened too fast.

A crackle of magic shot from his wand like a reflex, like something instinctual, something uncontrollable. It streaked through the air, twisting and curling before hitting you and Haechan where you stood.

The Great Hall fell into silence and then laughter erupted.

Mark could barely register what had happened, only that you looked devastated. Your dress was drenched and shrinking until the delicate fabric was something ridiculous, something cruel, something designed to humiliate.

His blood ran cold. He had done that.

He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t even know what spell he cast, just that it happened because of the way you looked at Haechan. Because of the way Mark didn’t want you to look at Haechan.

Haechan’s voice cut through the buzzing in his ears.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Lee?”

You turned to him then, and when your eyes met his, something inside him dropped.

Because you didn’t only look angry. You looked… hurt.

"You didn't have to do that," you said, and it wasn’t an accusation. It was just... disappointment.

Mark felt something claw up his throat. But he couldn’t say anything.

He watched as you shook your head, your expression hardening as you pulled Haechan’s robe tighter around yourself.

"You could’ve just ignored me like you always do,” you said, voice sharp now. “You didn’t have to humiliate me."

Mark opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

And then you turned your back on him. And he just stood there still gripping his wand.

Still feeling that suffocating thing inside his chest.

Hating himself for the fact that he had only just realized what it was.

Mark felt like the ground had been yanked from under him. His whole body felt heavy, like he was stuck in some kind of nightmare where he could see everything going wrong but couldn’t stop it.

Jaemin sighed, shoving Mark’s wand into his own pocket. “Seriously, what the hell was that?”

Mark couldn’t answer. He was still staring at the spot where you’d stood, where you’d looked at him like he was the worst person in the world.

Chenle shook his head. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is with her, but you actually humiliated her in front of everyone. That’s not just being petty, Mark. That’s being cruel.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Mark said quickly, voice hoarse, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew how weak they sounded. What did that even mean? That he hadn’t meant to hex you? That he hadn’t meant to let his jealousy swallow him whole?

Jaemin scoffed. “Well it sure as hell looked intentional.”

Mark ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt tangling in his throat. “I—I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. It just—” He exhaled sharply. “It just happened.”

Jaemin exchanged a look with Chenle. “Right. It just happened that you hexed her right when she was kissing Haechan.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. He hated the way Jaemin said it. Like it was so obvious.

Chenle crossed his arms. “If you’re gonna act like this every time you see her with another guy, maybe just admit that you like her and spare everyone the dramatics.”

Mark flinched. “I don’t—”

Jaemin held up a hand. “Before you finish that sentence, think really hard about whether or not it’s a lie.”

Mark clamped his mouth shut. Because he didn’t know anymore.

But it didn’t matter, did it? Even if he did like you, what difference would it make?

You were the one who hated him now.

By the time your fifth year came around, you’d successfully mastered Occlumency so well that when you returned to school Mark was nothing more than a passing thought. The memories you had of him felt distant, like a foggy dream.

You never thought you’d feel this way, but it was almost freeing. The emotional weight he’d carried for so long was no longer crushing you. You were finally able to move on.

After what happened at the Yule Ball, you were relieved that Haechan seemed to understand you needed space. He kept things between you friendly, never bringing up the kiss or attempting to do it again. It made things easier, even if there was still an underlying tension whenever he caught your eye for too long. But just because he didn’t push for anything more didn’t mean he stopped very obviously flirting with you.

If anything, he seemed to have doubled down. Compliments slipped into every conversation, his arm would brush against yours whenever he passed by, and he always found some excuse to sit next to you in the common room or during meals. It was like he had claimed you in some unspoken way—not forcefully, or in a way that made you uncomfortable, but in a way that let everyone else know that he was still very much interested.

Karina and Minjeong, meanwhile, had become your biggest support system. For the first time, you felt like you truly had friends. And if they had one common enemy, it was Mark Lee.

“He is so pathetic,” Karina muttered, stabbing at her breakfast aggressively. “Walking around like a sad puppy as if he isn’t evil.”

“How dare the Gryffindors say we’re the house full of terrible people when they have someone like Mark Lee?” Minjeong scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

You hid a small smile behind your cup, already used to their daily Mark-related grievances. It had become routine at this point. Every morning, without fail, they found something new to complain about. And if they couldn’t find anything, they made something up.

“I mean, look at him,” Karina continued, tilting her head toward the Gryffindor table. “He’s just poking at his food and sighing dramatically. Does he expect us to feel bad?”

Minjeong rolled her eyes. “As if he has anything to be heartbroken over. He’s the one who embarrassed you in front of everyone. And now he has the audacity to mope around? Get a grip.”

You said nothing, focusing on your plate instead. You had built up your Occlumency walls so well that even you weren’t sure what you felt about Mark anymore. You weren’t angry. You weren’t sad. You weren’t… anything. And you were proud of that.

You stopped going to Quidditch games after a while. You just couldn’t shake the feeling of self-consciousness that crept in every time you stepped into the stands. But Karina and Minjeong convinced you to go today. It was Slytherin’s match, and though it was against Gryffindor, you agreed. You trusted your walls, confident that nothing could touch you now.

The game started, despite the pouring rain. The weather only seemed to make it more intense. The announcer’s voice echoed over the field, remarking on the lightning that nearly struck the Slytherin keeper. You could barely hear him over the storm.

Mark and Haechan were both darting across the sky, locked in pursuit of the Snitch. They were higher than the other players, cutting through the rain like streaks of lightning themselves. You tried to follow them with your eyes, but the thick raindrops blurred your vision and the gusts of wind whipped your hair into your face, making it harder to see. Then, all at once, the sky split open with a crack of lightning.

Your heart skipped a beat as you saw Mark’s broom fall from the sky, his body following in a terrifying, uncontrolled descent.

“Oh my god!” You gasped, your voice barely carrying over the storm. Time seemed to slow. Your mind raced as you realized that one of the professors had cast the Arresto Momentum charm just in time. The world around you shifted back into real-time, and suddenly, Mark’s body was lying motionless on the pitch.

He was unconscious but thankfully unscathed. The rain was pouring down in sheets now, mixing with the frenzy of footsteps as professors rushed to his side.

Without thinking, you slipped out of the stands, pushing through the chaos of the crowd. Your heart was hammering in your chest, your breath quickening as you neared the pitch. The professors were already at his side, checking him over carefully. You could barely breathe, the panic tightening around your chest.

“Mark,” you whispered, as if calling him out of a deep sleep.

When Mark woke up, the first thing he saw was Madam Pomfrey waving her wand over him, a soft golden light flickering at the tip as she muttered a diagnostic spell under her breath.

“Oh, great heavens! You’re finally awake,” she gasped, clutching her chest in relief. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send for St. Mungo’s. There was no reason for you to still be unconscious!”

Mark blinked a few times, his vision still slightly blurred, before realizing he wasn’t alone. Chenle and Jaemin were sitting nearby, their faces tight with concern.

“Mate, you scared the shit out of us,” Chenle said, his brows furrowed.

“We thought we lost you,” Jaemin added, a little too serious for Mark’s liking.

“What… happened?” Mark asked, his voice hoarse, as if he hadn’t had a sip of water in days.

“You fell off your broom from at least fifty feet in the air. It was insane,” Chenle said.

“I don’t… why don’t I remember anything?” Mark mumbled, wincing as a dull, throbbing pain settled in his skull.

“Professor McGonagall slowed your fall, but you still hit the ground pretty hard. You must’ve knocked your head,” Jaemin explained.

Madam Pomfrey huffed. “I’ll bring you a dose of Revitalizing Tonic, it should help with the disorientation. You two wrap things up and get to your dorms… it’s far too late for visitors.” She turned on her heel, bustling off toward her supply cabinet.

Jaemin scooted closer, watching Mark carefully. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got beat up by the Whomping Willow,” Mark muttered.

Chenle snorted. “You’re lucky you didn��t actually land on it. That would’ve been really bad.”

“We were all so worried. No one thought you’d wake up today,” Jaemin added.

“The whole team was here earlier,” Chenle continued. “Mia too… and, uh—Y/N was the last one to leave—”

“Wait, what?” Mark pushed himself up too fast, his head spinning in protest. “Y/N?”

“Yeah, we’re just as shocked as you are,” Chenle said. “She ran to the pitch the second you fell. I swear, I thought she was gonna pass out from how hard she was crying.”

“She looked like she was having a panic attack,” Jaemin added. “Professor Snape had to give her a Calming Draught.”

“I think she genuinely thought you were going to die,” Chenle said.

Mark’s stomach twisted painfully. His mind still felt sluggish from the fall, but that one piece of information cut through it like a blade.

You were crying over him? Panicking? That didn’t make any sense.

“This doesn’t…” Mark swallowed. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would she—why would she care?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

“Beats me,” Chenle shrugged. “She hasn’t talked to you in over a year. I was sure she hated your guts. But apparently, you’re harder to get over than we thought.”

Mark barely registered the teasing tone. His brain was running a mile a minute.

You were worried about him. You didn’t hate him? Or maybe… maybe it was just shock. Maybe seeing him fall had been scary in the moment, and once you knew he was okay, you'd go back to ignoring him. This didn't mean anything.

…Right?

After Chenle and Jaemin left, Mark knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Madam Pomfrey had left him a Sleeping Draught, which sat untouched on his bedside table.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what Jaemin said. How you ran onto the pitch, crying over him. It didn’t make sense. You hadn’t spared him a second glance since the Yule Ball. If anything, he would’ve preferred if you were still angry, if you had lashed out at him, screamed, hexed him—anything.

But instead, you had simply erased him from your world. The few times you had looked at him had been either by accident or when he deliberately put himself in your way, and your eyes had always been so empty.

The door to the hospital wing suddenly creaked open. Mark assumed it was just the wind, or maybe Madam Pomfrey checking in on him, so he quickly shut his eyes and feigned sleep when he heard soft footsteps approaching.

For a moment, there was nothing. He almost convinced himself he had imagined it until he felt the weight shift at the edge of his bed.

Then, the sound of quiet, muffled sobs.

“Mark…”

His breath caught in his throat.

It was you.

Before he could even process it, your hand was suddenly on his face, fingers grazing his cheek in the softest touch. A shiver threatened to run down his spine, but he forced himself to stay still.

“I’m sorry…” Your voice was fragile. “I wished so many bad things on you last year… I feel like…like this is my fault.” A shaky inhale. “Please be okay.”

Mark wanted to sit up. Wanted to tell you it wasn’t your fault, that none of this was. That he had deserved everything you threw at him but not this guilt.

But if he moved, would you run? Would you slip away before he even had the chance to say anything?

He was too much of a coward to find out. So he stayed still, letting your fingers caress him, letting your words sink into his skin like a warmth he hadn’t felt in so long.

Mark was certain you had stayed the whole night. Even in the haze of half-sleep, he had felt your presence beside him. He only realized you had left when the first rays of sunlight began filtering through the hospital wing’s windows.

Madam Pomfrey cleared him to leave that morning, assuring him he wasn’t in any real danger anymore. She did, however, insist he avoid Quidditch for at least a week. Not that he particularly cared. There were no matches coming up, but even if there were, he doubted he’d be able to focus on anything other than you.

He didn’t know what to do with the new knowledge that you did care about him. That you had cried over him. That you had touched him so gently, so reverently, as if he were something precious. It should have been a relief, but instead, it made him anxious. After all this time, after everything that had happened between you, how was he supposed to approach you?

The thought of you looking at him with those same empty eyes, telling him to get lost, made his stomach twist.

No—he had to be smart about this. He had to find a moment when you were alone. That would have been easy before, when you had no friends and spent most of your time buried in books or wandering the castle halls by yourself. But now? Now, you were constantly surrounded by Karina, by Minjeong, and worst of all, by Haechan.

Mark had been watching the two of you closely, trying to figure out if there was something going on. He knew Haechan was still pursuing you, that much was obvious, but as far as he could tell, you weren’t dating. At least, he hadn’t heard anything about it.

Still, the thought gnawed at him.

After a lot of consideration, he decided the best way to talk to you was during your prefect rounds at night. The problem was figuring out when you were scheduled. If he had tried this a year ago, you probably would’ve handed over the information without question. Now? Not a chance.

So, he had to get creative.

It took some effort to figure out your schedule, but after bribing a few Slytherins with an unlimited supply of Fizzing Whizzbees from Honeydukes for the rest of the year, he learned that your shift usually started around 8 pm.

So by 7:59 pm, he was slipping out of the Fat Lady’s portrait, glancing around to make sure Filch wasn’t lurking in the shadows. His heart was pounding, but he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or anticipation.

He was finally going to talk to you.

He figured you’d start your shift near the Slytherin common room, so he made his way toward the dungeons. Sure enough, there you were, walking slowly, completely absorbed in a book.

Mark couldn’t help but smile to himself.

"So much for staying vigilant during patrols," he finally said.

You flinched, nearly dropping your book. When you turned around, your wide eyes locked onto his, shimmering under the dim candlelight. For a second, all he could think about was how lovely you looked.

"Mark..." you breathed, almost like you couldn’t believe he was real.

"Hi," he said, scratching the back of his neck. He looked away for a moment, gathering the courage to step closer.

"Are you okay?" you asked, and the genuine concern in your tone made his heart stumble over itself.

"Yeah, it wasn’t that big of a deal," he chuckled nervously.

"Not a big deal?" Your brows furrowed, and your tone sharpened slightly. "You fell from the sky, Mark."

He wasn’t used to you looking at him after all this time, much less with worry.

"I’m sorry," he said, watching the way your hands clenched into fists at your sides. "I heard you were pretty shaken up after it."

"Yeah…" you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I was..."

Mark's heart jumped. He knew it already, he knew you had stayed by his bedside, knew you had cried over him—but hearing you say it made something in his chest tighten painfully.

Your eyes scanned him again, like you were checking to make sure he wouldn’t collapse at any second.

"I’m okay, I promise," he reassured you.

You nodded, then let out a sigh, glancing around as if suddenly remembering where you were.

"What are you doing outside your common room this late?"

Mark hesitated. Should he make up some excuse, or should he just tell the truth?

"If you were planning to sneak out with Mia, I’ll have you know that I must deduct points from your house and report it to Professor McGonagall," you said, your tone suddenly more detached. Just like that, the warmth in your expression flickered out, and your eyes went cold again.

Mark felt like he had just been shoved back into reality.

"No, no," he stammered quickly. "Mia and I are not… we’re not together."

You pursed your lips, nodding slowly. "Okay. Then why—"

"I wanted to talk to you," he blurted out. "To apologize. For everything. I never got the chance to back then."

"It’s been a year, Mark," you said flatly.

"Yeah, I know," he murmured. "But you still deserve an apology. And I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but… I needed to say it anyway."

His voice faded toward the end, barely audible.

"Okay…" You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "You're forgiven. I don’t hold it against you anymore... I actually haven’t for a while."

"Really?" Mark blinked. "You don’t even care why I did it?"

"Not really. It doesn’t matter anymore."

"I want to explain, though," he insisted.

You simply nodded, waiting.

Mark took a deep breath. "I was an idiot back then… well, I guess I’m still an idiot but I was an angry idiot. And I don’t know what came over me… I took it out on you. But I swear, it wasn’t because I hated you. I never hated you." He exhaled sharply, as if forcing the words out before he lost the nerve. "I know you don’t have to believe me, but… I just—I need you to know that."

He spoke so fast, stumbling over his words. Afraid that if he paused, he wouldn’t get to say everything he wanted. By the time he finally stopped talking, your expression had softened just a little.

"I see…" You seemed to search for the right words before settling on a quiet, "I’m glad you told me." A small, tentative smile tugged at your lips.

But it didn’t ease the tightness in Mark’s chest. It didn’t make him feel any better. Because there was more, so much more he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how. And he was terrified.

"Do you wanna hang out?" he blurted before he could stop himself.

"Now…?" You glanced around, hesitating. "I’m kind of—"

"No! Sorry, I meant… later. Tomorrow, maybe? Or—I don’t know… whenever you can."

You stayed quiet for a moment, considering it. "Uhm… okay. Tomorrow. After class?"

Mark nodded too eagerly. "Yes! That sounds perfect." His voice came out overly excited, but he couldn’t help it.

"Okay. See you tomorrow, then." You gave him a small wave before turning away. "Now go before any of the other prefects see you."

Mark barely registered your warning, his mind was already racing ahead to tomorrow.

You were dreading your night shift as a prefect tonight. You hadn’t slept much after staying by Mark’s side all night. You heard he was discharged this morning, but not seeing him with your own eyes made you feel as if he was still hurt.

You had no idea how to deal with the knot in your stomach, so you brought a book with you hoping it would distract you. But even as you read the words on the pages, they blurred into one long line, your mind constantly flickering back to him.

You’d spent so long putting up walls inside your mind, careful to shield yourself from things that hurt too much. It had worked, mostly. You hadn’t felt anything deeply in a long time. But after the accident, those walls felt thinner, more fragile than ever.

And the minute Mark spoke behind you, you felt them crack.

Your whole body went stil and he was just standing there, smiling shyly at you. It took everything in you not to collapse in relief.

You whispered his name and tried so hard not to let your emotions show. But everything felt too much, the relief, the fear, the overwhelming rush of memories and feelings you had buried for so long. You had to hold it all in. You couldn’t let him know how glad you were to see him.

You were trying to remain composed, to keep your usual guard up, but with him standing there, looking so... so Mark,

"Hi..." he said quietly.

You forced yourself to speak. "Are you okay?" It was the question you had been waiting to ask, but it came out more desperate than you’d intended.

"Yeah, it wasn’t that big of a deal," Mark chuckled, the sound awkward and nervous. But even the way he said it made your heart sink with unease.

You couldn’t hide the irritation that sparked inside you, the remnants of the fear still clinging to your chest. "Not a big deal? You fell from the sky, Mark." The words left you harsher than you intended. You were so angry at the idea of losing him, so scared because it had been too close.

"I’m sorry, I heard you were pretty shaken after it." His voice was quieter now, and you could feel the way he was trying to reach you, even though the distance between you both felt insurmountable.

You nodded slowly, the walls inside your mind trying to reassemble themselves, trying to keep you composed. “Yeah... I was...."

The truth slipped out, and as soon as it did, you regretted it. You didn’t want him to know just how terrified you’d been that something might happen to him and you wouldn’t be able to truly tell him how you felt. The walls inside your mind cracked again.

"I’m okay, I promise," Mark said softly, his gaze holding yours, as if trying to assure you.

You wanted to close your eyes and pretend like everything was okay, but the walls kept wavering. You couldn’t trust that feeling, not yet.

You nodded, but the unease inside you didn’t go away. Not when you saw the way his eyes kept searching yours. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t control.

The walls that had kept your emotions in check for so long were trembling now, and it was getting harder to keep them from falling. You needed to focus on something else, anything else.

"What are you doing outside of your common room so late?" You forced the authority back into your voice. But you knew it didn’t fool anyone—not Mark, not even yourself.

He stumbled over his words, clearly nervous. "I wanted to speak to you. Apologize for everything. I never got the chance to back then."

The words hit you like a sudden gust of wind, knocking the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t just an apology. It was him standing in front of you, looking so... raw. You weren’t sure if you were ready for everything he was willing to lay bare. But you couldn’t stop him. You couldn’t stop yourself from listening.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. "It’s been a year, Mark."

"I know. But you deserve an apology, and I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but still... I wanted to say it."

Your heart squeezed at the sincerity in his voice, but something inside you fought to keep the walls intact. The last time you’d allowed yourself to feel so exposed, it had ended in too much pain.

"Okay..." You put a strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re forgiven... I don’t hold you to it anymore. I actually haven’t for a while."

His expression shifted in relief, but it didn’t bring the peace you thought it might. "You don’t care why I did it?"

You shook your head, forcing the walls to stay up. "Not really. It doesn’t matter anymore."

"I want to explain, though," Mark said, looking at you with an intensity you hadn’t seen in him before.

And you nodded, thinking that maybe it was okay to let the walls waver for now.

So you heard him out when he nervously asked to hang out, and you ignored the logical part of you that told you you might get hurt again.

The next day, Mark woke up earlier than usual. He told himself he wasn’t making a big deal out of hanging out with you today, but he still spent longer than necessary in the shower. He even put on cologne, something he never did.

He only had two classes with you this year, and after the Yule Ball accident, he made a habit of sitting as far away as possible, just so you wouldn’t catch him sneaking glances every few minutes.

But today, he was going to sit next to you.

At least, that was the plan—until he walked into Divination and saw that Lee Haechan had already taken the seat beside you.

Mark blinked. He didn’t even know Haechan was in this class. Then again, he was pretty sure he had skipped most of the semester. And yet, he suddenly decided to show up today? Right when Mark was finally trying to make things right with you?

Mark scowled as he trudged to the table behind yours. Mia slid into the seat next to him, but he barely noticed her presence until she snapped her fingers in front of his face, breaking his intense staring contest with the back of Haechan’s head.

"Did you do something different to your hair?" Mia asked, eyeing him.

Mark instinctively ran a hand through it. He had used a bit of gel this morning, but now that she pointed it out, he felt self-conscious.

"No," he muttered, dropping his hand and forcing himself to focus on Professor Trelawney, who was currently droning on about the art of tea leaf reading.

"...And remember," she was saying dramatically, her bracelets jingling with every exaggerated movement, "the leaves do not lie! They reveal the truth hidden beneath the surface, the past, the present, and sometimes, if you are truly gifted, the future."

Mark barely listened, too distracted by the way Haechan kept whispering in your ear.

"Now! Pick a partner and interpret their tea leaves. It can be anyone's cup!"

Mark didn’t hesitate. He shot up from his seat, stepping around Mia and snatching your cup before Haechan could even reach for it.

You flinched slightly at the sudden movement, but when you looked up and saw it was him, you relaxed.

"Hello," Mark said, smiling.

You smiled back. "Hi."

From beside you, Haechan’s jaw tightened. "I see you’re alive."

Mark smirked. "You’re lucky I am or there’d be no witness to prove you didn’t push me off my broom."

“Guide yourselves with the book and pay close attention to the patterns so you can decipher what the tea leaves say,” Professor Trelawney cut in, her voice airy and theatrical as always.

“I guess I’ll look at your cup then.” You flicked your wand, summoning Mark’s cup toward you.

Haechan huffed beside you and settled for reading Mia’s cup instead.

Mark watched you tilt his teacup, your eyes scanning the damp leaves at the bottom with unnerving concentration. He’d never taken Divination seriously, Trelawney's constant doomsday prophecies were more of a running joke than anything, but the way you were studying his cup seriously made him realize you were exactly the opposite.

“Alright…” You murmured, brushing your fingers against the rim of the cup as you turned it slightly. “This shape here…it kind of looks like…” Your brows furrowed in thought before you glanced at the textbook. “A hound?”

“A hound?” Mark questioned, leaning in slightly.

“It symbolizes guilt.” You looked up at him then, and for a moment, the room felt too quiet. “Something that’s been eating at you for a while. Maybe something you want to say but haven’t faced properly yet.”

You were staring back into the cup as if searching for something more. Mark wanted to brush it off, make some joke about Professor Trelawney getting to your head, but the way you spoke made him hesitate.

“Well,” he started, clearing his throat, “that’s… ominous.”

“Maybe it just means he regrets not catching the Snitch before nearly cracking his skull open.” Haechan snorted, leaning back in his chair.

Mark’s jaw twitched but before he could open his mouth to say something, Professor Trelawney’s voice rang through the room.

“Now, now! I sense many of you are struggling to find clarity in the leaves, but do not fret! The Inner Eye is a gift not all possess.”

Mark turned your cup carefully in his hands, squinting at the clumps of tea leaves at the bottom like they might suddenly rearrange themselves into something comprehensible. They didn’t.

“Alright…” he said slowly, stalling for time. “So, um—this kind of looks like…” He tilted his head. “Maybe… a deer?”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “A deer?”

“Or… a horse,” he amended quickly. “Yeah. Definitely a horse. Which, uh, probably means…” He paused, grasping for anything remotely logical. “You have an adventurous spirit. And, um, bravery. And, like… untamed passion?”

Mia snorted from beside him, barely holding back her laughter, while Haechan outright scoffed.

Before you could tease him, Professor Trelawney materialized beside your table, her many scarves billowing behind her. She peered over Mark’s shoulder, tutting disapprovingly.

“I knew you didn’t have the Sight, my dear boy,” she said, shaking her head mournfully. “But fear not, Divination is an art that can be nurtured… even in those with less potential” She patted his shoulder with a dramatic flourish before floating off to torment another group.

Mark sighed, his ears burning red. But then he glanced at you and you were smiling. At him.

And suddenly, he didn’t care about looking like an idiot.

The bell rang before he could bring up your plans for later, and you left with a small wave. He spent the next few hours trying not to overthink it, but thankfully your last class of the day, Care of Magical Creatures, was together. That meant another chance.

Professor Kettleburn had led the class out to the paddock, where a row of iron-reinforced cages sat waiting. Today’s lesson was on Chimeras.

Even Mark knew that was a terrible idea.

“Of course, we won’t be working with a full-grown Chimeras,” Kettleburn reassured, “for obvious reasons. However, the Ministry has provided us with young ones under very, very careful supervision.”

He demonstrated the proper way to throw raw meat to the creatures. The chimera’s serpent tail lashed at him when he got too close, and the class collectively took a step back.

“Alright! Now, you lot give it a try!” Kettleburn beamed, seemingly unfazed by the near-death experience.

Mark grabbed a chunk of bloody meat and approached the enclosure, trying to ignore the way the chimera’s goat head was glaring at him. The moment he threw the meat, it hit the ground about a foot too short, and the beast let out a dissatisfied growl.

“This,” he muttered under his breath, watching as the chimera’s lion head snapped at him, “is why Professor Kettleburn has lost almost all his limbs.”

“Need help?”

Mark flinched at the sudden voice, turning to find you standing there, watching him with an amused tilt to your lips.

He huffed out a laugh. “You know, I’ve noticed you ask that a lot. Do I really look that helpless?”

You giggled. “Uhm… a bit.” Then, you took the meat from him and tossed it over the fence in one smooth motion. The chimera caught it mid-air, seeming significantly less hostile toward you than it had been toward him.

Mark blinked. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “I’m a terrible flyer.”

Mark scoffed. “That’s the one thing I think I’m good at.”

“Oh, I’ve heard.” You said it casually, but both of you knew you’d been to almost every single one of his Quidditch matches since first year.

He hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck, summoning whatever courage he had left. “So… did you still want to hang out today?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “How about the library?”

Mark barely resisted the urge to groan. He tried to keep his face neutral, but you noticed the way he grimaced.

You smirked. “Or we can do the greenhouse?”

His expression instantly lightened. “Yes! That sounds good.”

And when you turned back toward the chimera, Mark found himself staring a little too long. He’d never really noticed how pretty your eyes were. Or maybe he had, and he’d just forced himself to ignore it. But now—now he couldn't stop seeing them. The way they glowed when you got something right in class, the way they sparkled when you looked at him for the first time on the train all those years ago.

He missed that. The way you used to adore him.

And he hated himself for wasting it—because he’d been too much of a coward. Too immature to handle something so good.

After your last class, you made your way back to the Slytherin dorms, stopping in front of your mirror to fix your uniform and contemplate whether a simple glamour charm might make your cheeks look a bit rosier. Not that you were dressing up for Mark, obviously.

You weren’t sure how to feel about his sudden shift in attitude. He’d never been this… nice before. And maybe you were quick to accept it because you’d spent the past few days terrified of losing him. But was that enough of a reason to let your guard down?

You sighed, closing your eyes and practicing Occlumency for a few minutes before heading out. You knew you’d need your walls strong if you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of him.

When you stepped into the common room, Karina and Minjeong were hunched over a Potions essay they definitely should’ve finished by now.

“And where are you going all dolled up?” Karina asked, looking up from her parchment.

“What? I look the same as I always do,” you said, feigning nonchalance.

Minjeong raised an eyebrow. “Are you meeting Haechan?”

It would’ve been easier to say yes. But they’d find out soon enough when Haechan inevitably strolled through the door looking for you.

“No, I’m going to go check on the Venomous Tentacula.” You were actually proud of how quickly you came up with the lie.

“Okay. Boooring.” Karina waved you off, already focused back on her essay.

You smiled quickly, muttered a goodbye, and slipped out of the common room before they could ask anything else.

When you arrived at the greenhouse, Mark was already there. He straightened up the moment he saw you, hands fidgeting slightly at his sides. But then you noticed he was holding something. A flower.

Not just any flower... a Moonbloom Orchid. A rare magical plant that was known to change colors based on the emotions of the person holding it, and right now, its soft lavender hue radiated warmth and quiet affection.

Your eyes widened. “Oh my god, Mark… it’s so pretty. How did you get it?”

Mark shrugged, trying to seem casual. “Oh, it wasn’t that hard to find.”

That was a complete lie.

He had sneaked out to Hogsmeade during his free period yesterday and asked around every store, pub, and dodgy corner for hours, trying to track one down. He had spent almost all his galleons on it.

But looking at your face, your excitement, he decided it was worth every single one.

“Thank you. I love it,” you said, your fingers brushing over the glowing petals as you smiled up at him.

And that smile—Merlin, that smile—hit Mark like a Bludger to the chest.

For the first time, maybe ever, he wanted to kiss you. Really kiss you. Not in some fleeting, passing thought but in a way that made his heart pound and his throat tighten. The desire was so sudden, so strong, it nearly knocked him off balance.

He cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Okay, so… want to show me around?” he asked, as if he hadn’t been having lessons in this greenhouse for years.

You giggled, and he could tell by the amused glint in your eyes that you saw right through him. “Sure,” you said, playing along. “I guess I can show you what I’ve been working on.”

You led him toward a section of the greenhouse that looked darker, the air thick with the scent of damp soil and something faintly spicy. Twisting vines curled around the edges of a wooden planter, their leaves twitching slightly as you approached.

“These are pretty hard to find,” you explained, crouching beside the pot. “I begged Professor Sprout to let me plant the seeds I found. Don’t ask where I found them, though.”

Mark raised a brow, intrigued, but he didn’t press.

“You really love this stuff, huh?” he asked instead.

You glanced up at him, then back at the plant, lightly running your fingers over its writhing leaves. The Venomous Tentacula shuddered, curling toward your touch as if it recognized you.

“I guess I do,” you admitted. “I don’t know… I feel comfortable around plants. I can feel their emotions, almost. Even if they can’t really express it… I guess I relate to that”

Mark watched you carefully, noting the way you hesitated like there was something more you wanted to say but couldn’t quite bring yourself to.

The way you spoke about plants… it was almost the way he felt about you.

Something real and quiet. Something he had never really put into words because he didn’t know how. Because even now, standing next to you, close enough that he could see the way the evening light reflected in your eyes, he felt like he shouldn’t want it.

Mark wasn’t sure how long he stood there just watching you, but it was long enough for you to notice.

You blinked up at him, tilting your head slightly. “What?”

He shook his head, forcing a laugh. “Nothing,” he said.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was the way the soft glow of the sunset made you look almost unreal. The way your lips parted slightly, like you were about to say something, only to change your mind. The way his own thoughts were a mess, tangled somewhere between I shouldn’t and I can’t stop thinking about you.

You turned back toward the plant, your fingers lightly tracing one of the curled leaves. “It’s kind of funny,” you murmured, half to yourself. “Plants grow towards the things they need. Sunlight, water… warmth.”

Mark swallowed. He wasn’t sure why, but something about the way you said it made his skin feel hot. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “They don’t second guess it. They don’t hold themselves back.”

He wasn’t sure if you meant anything by it, but it struck something deep in his chest anyway.

Because he had spent years holding himself back.

And now, with you standing this close, your voice soft, your eyes flickering to his he wondered if maybe he should stop doing that.

His hand moved slightly, barely thinking, like an instinct. Like those plants reaching for sunlight. And for the briefest moment, your fingers brushed against his.

It would be so easy to close the space between you.

So easy to reach forward, to tip your chin up slightly, to finally, finally—

The greenhouse door banged open.

Mark jolted back so fast he almost knocked over the planter.

Professor Sprout bustled in, looking completely oblivious to the moment she had just shattered. “Oh! What are you two doing here? Curfew is soon, I need to lock up for the night.”

You cleared your throat, stepping back as well, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry, Professor. We were just finishing up.”

Mark forced himself to breathe, still feeling the ghost of your fingers against his.

Still thinking about how close he had been… and how badly he already wanted to try again.

The rest of your fifth year went by in a blur. Even though you and Mark were on much better terms now, there was little time to think about it between the overwhelming pile of O.W.L prep and the ridiculous amount of homework assigned for every subject.

You managed to pass every exam, most of them with an Outstanding. Mark, on the other hand, had spent so much time this year distracted by you that he fell behind on his classes.

So as punishment, he forced himself to stay away—at least until he could guarantee he wouldn’t completely fail.

He still barely scraped by. Defense Against the Dark Arts was the only subject he earned an Outstanding in, but his Potions grade wasn’t high enough to qualify for the advanced level. Not that he wanted to take the class again, but it meant one less excuse to see you during the day.

When sixth year came around, he found himself sticking around you more, even if your friends didn’t particularly like him. So more often than not, he waited until you were alone.

Like now.

“Hello,” Mark said, spotting you sitting on the grass with a book open in your lap. The Whomping Willow loomed behind you, its massive branches swaying with an eerie creak. He eyed it warily.

“You’re awfully close to that thing.”

You barely glanced up. “It’s not so bad once it gets used to you.”

Mark scoffed, crossing his arms. “I don’t think that is capable of getting used to anything.”

You hummed, flipping a page. The late afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, making you look almost ethereal.

Mark swallowed.

He’d spent so much time not noticing these things, forcing himself to ignore the way your presence always made his stomach twist. But now, it was getting harder to push those thoughts away.

Without thinking, he sat beside you, close enough to feel the faint brush of your robes against his. “You know,” he said after a moment, voice quieter than before, “you are allowed to relax now. OWLs are over.”

You huffed a soft laugh, still looking at your book. “I don't think I know how.”

Mark tilted his head, watching you. “Maybe I could teach you.”

You finally turned to face him fully, the corner of your mouth twitching. “And you’re the expert on relaxing?”

Mark grinned, a little lopsided. “Nope. But I’m an expert at not studying. That’s basically the same thing.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, and something in his chest tightened at the sight.

A light breeze rustled through the trees, sending a few leaves drifting between you. One of them settled in your hair.

Mark hesitated.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he reached up. “Hold still,” he murmured.

Your brows furrowed. “What—”

His fingers brushed against your hair, plucking the leaf free. But his hand lingered grazing your temple.

You went still. Mark swallowed, his pulse hammering. He thought about pulling away. But then you looked at him and your eyes flickered down to his lips just for a second.

Suddenly, the space between you wasn’t so wide anymore.

His hand was still in your hair, and your breath was so, so close, and he could see the way your lips parted slightly almost as an invitation.

But then a sharp creak from behind you made you jolt apart. The Whomping Willow shifted, its branches twitching ominously.

Mark exhaled, pressing a hand to his face. What the hell was that? When he glanced at you, you looked just as dazed. Maybe even disappointed.

That sent a strange thrill through him.

But then you cleared your throat, shaking your head as if brushing the moment away. “We should probably move,” you said, standing and dusting yourself off. “Before the tree decides to take a swing at us.”

Mark huffed a laugh, still a little breathless. “Thought you said it was harmless.”

But as you started walking away, Mark stayed there for just a second longer, staring after you.

He really needed to kiss you.

Badly.

Mark Lee was confusing you.

There had been two clear moments now where you’d almost kissed. Both times, he’d been the one to lean in first, and both times, something had interrupted before it could happen. Yet despite his boldness in those brief moments, you still couldn’t fully let yourself believe this attention was real.

Your heart wanted to, but your brain knew better.

Mark had spent years ignoring you, brushing you off like you didn’t exist, and then humiliated you too. Only to suddenly pull you into his orbit now. Yes, he’d apologized—sincerely, you’d give him that—but that didn’t mean you could just forget the way he hurt you before.

Meanwhile, Haechan seemed to be acting… strange lately.

He was always around, even more than usual. He’d even started asking you to help him with assignments, which was bizarre because Haechan had made a sport out of either sleeping through classes or deliberately distracting you in them. Yet now he’d started seeking you out in the library, sitting closer in the common room, and finding any excuse to keep you near.

You didn’t mind. If anything, it felt comfortable being around him. Haechan never made things complicated.

But you did notice the way Mark would glare daggers at him from across the Great Hall. Or the way his jaw clenched whenever he caught Haechan whispering something in your ear that made you laugh.

And then there was the incident.

It happened in Charms class. Professor Flitwick had started teaching everyone Expulso, a more advanced charm that forcefully propelled objects away from you. It was precise magic that required perfect wand movement and a focused mind.

And well... Mark had neither.

You’d been paired with Haechan for the practical exercise and he, of course, turned the whole thing into a joke, purposefully missing his targets just to make you laugh. Then he decided to experiment, turning his wand on the scarf Mark had left on his desk. With a flick of his wrist, Haechan sent it flying toward himself.

“It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it?” he grinned, draping it around his neck.

“Dude, give it back,” Mark said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

Haechan shot him a smug look. “Relax. I don’t fancy these colors either.”

Mark gripped his wand so hard his knuckles turned white. He really tried to keep his composure, but watching you laugh with Haechan as he mocked the Gryffindor colors did something dangerous to his self-control. His mind blurred with pure instinct. Before he could stop himself, he flicked his wand and muttered, “Expulso.”

He’d only meant to send the scarf flying back to him.

Instead, Haechan was thrown clear across the room, crashing into a stack of desks and sending books and ink bottles scattering everywhere. Gasps echoed around the classroom. Mark’s stomach dropped.

“Mr. Lee!” Professor Flitwick exclaimed, horrified. “Detention! Immediately!”

And that’s how Mark ended up cleaning every single portrait frame in the castle as punishment.

Now he was on his fourth hour of wiping down dusty frames, trying to ignore Sir Cadogan’s taunting comments.

“Are you truly the best Seeker this school has to offer? Ha! Pathetic, if you ask me! No spine! No dignity!” the painted knight cackled, waving his sword wildly.

Mark gritted his teeth, his grip on the cloth tightening. “I swear, if you don’t shut up—”

“Oh? Going to hex me too, are you?” Sir Cadogan jeered. “Do it, coward! Strike me down if you dare!”

Mark seriously considered shaking the frame just to feel some satisfaction when he heard footsteps behind him.

“You haven’t learned your lesson about hexing people yet?”

Mark froze.

He turned around and there you were, still in your uniform, badge pinned neatly to your robes as a reminder that you were out on prefect patrol. His heart did a stupid little flip at the sight of you.

“Apparently not,” Mark said, trying to force a laugh.

“I think we need to do something about your self-control, Mr. Lee.”

The way you said his name, playful but with a trace of authority, sent a rush of excitement through his veins.

“I admit,” Mark started, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’ve been a bit hot-headed lately.”

You raised a brow. “Lately?”

Mark groaned. “Okay, fine. Always. But—” he hesitated, his mouth clamping shut before he said something stupid like I just get like that when I see you with him.

You were still watching him, expectant. “But?”

“…Nothing.” He turned back toward the frame, vigorously wiping it down as if it would erase his own embarrassment.

You stepped closer.

“Mark.”

He swallowed thickly, his hand pausing. “…Yeah?”

“Why did you do it?”

He tried to play dumb. “What do you mean?”

You huffed. “You’ve never lost control of your magic like that with him. Not even during Quidditch. You didn’t just hex Haechan… you blasted him.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. “Maybe he deserved it.”

“For what?”

Mark clenched his teeth. For touching you. For putting his arm around you like you belonged to him. For making you laugh like that. For being close to you in a way he wasn’t allowed to be.

“…For being an asshole,” Mark muttered pathetically.

You scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Touché.

“Mark,” your voice softened. “Look at me.”

He did. And God, he shouldn’t have.

You were so close. Your scent, your warmth, it was dizzying. Mark could feel his pulse roaring in his ears, his breath shortening. His hand hung limply by his side, still clutching the rag tightly.

There was ink on your cheek.

Without thinking, he reached up, his thumb grazing softly against your skin. “You, uh…” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “You’ve got ink. Right here.”

You gasped.

And Mark realized he was completely, utterly doomed. His thumb caressed your cheek, and then his hand drifted lower, trailing down your jaw before he realized what he was doing.

His entire body was screaming kiss her.

You didn’t move away and for one unbearable moment, Mark swore you were leaning in too—

“Oi!” Sir Cadogan suddenly barked from his frame. “You there! I see you trying to woo a lady with improper decorum! Unhand her at once!”

You flinched back like you’d been scalded. Mark cursed under his breath, his entire body recoiling from yours.

“I—uh... should finish patrol,” you stammered, practically fleeing.

“Yeah. Right. Patrol.” His voice cracked.

And as you disappeared down the corridor, Mark let his head fall against the wall with a groan.

That was three times.

Three times he’d almost kissed you. Three times something—or someone—had interrupted. And three times he’d walked away regretting it.

He didn’t know how much longer he could hold himself back.

Halloween arrived in a blur of decorations and excitement. The castle was buzzing with energy, students gorging themselves on sweets from Honeydukes and filling the Great Hall with loud chatter and laughter.

Mark wasn’t particularly fond of sweets, but he still tagged along with Jaemin and Chenle to Hogsmeade that morning. It was a decent distraction.

When he finally returned to the dormitory that evening, exhausted and chilled from the walk, he found a small pile of sweets on his bed. Mark frowned. Weird. He didn’t remember leaving any there. But then his eyes landed on a heart-shaped box of chocolates.

His heart stopped.

A slow, stupid smile spread across his face as he reached for the box, his mind flashing back to years ago—to the day you’d given him a similar box of chocolates in second year. Back then, he’d been a coward. He’d tossed them out in front of you when his friends told him to, too embarrassed to admit that the sight of you blushing as you handed them to him had made his heart race. He could still remember the hurt on your face when he did it.

Mark wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

He opened the box without hesitation, popping one of the chocolates into his mouth. It melted on his tongue, rich and sweet, but almost immediately he felt… odd. Like his blood was moving too fast in his veins.

He blinked.

His pulse thundered in his ears, and an uncomfortable tightness built low in his stomach. His throat was dry. His skin felt hot. His head felt like it was being stuffed with cotton.

“What the hell…” Mark muttered, stumbling back slightly as a wave of dizziness hit him.

The room swayed around him, his thoughts clouding over like a dense fog. But the one thing that stayed sharp and clear in his mind was you. Your face. Your voice. The lingering warmth of your skin from when he’d touched your cheek before. His body burned with the desperate, uncontrollable urge to find you.

Mark didn’t remember walking out of the dorm. His body moved on autopilot, driven by a force he didn’t understand, only that he needed to see you.

You hated Halloween patrols.

They were miserable every year, especially when you knew the castle was still alive with music and celebration, and you were stuck walking through empty corridors. It didn’t help that Halloween was also prime time for students sneaking out of their common rooms to pull pranks or engage in other debauchery.

So when you rounded a corner and spotted two people heavily making out against the wall, you didn’t think much of it. You just sighed and braced yourself to break them apart.

“Alright, enough,” you said, walking toward them. “Back to your dorms or I’m docking points—”

You froze.

The boy pinning the girl against the wall, his hands gripping her waist like he couldn’t get enough of her... was Mark.

Your heart plummeted so fast it made you feel physically ill.

“Mark?” your voice cracked.

Slowly, like something out of a nightmare, Mark’s head turned toward you. His pupils were blown wide, his hair mussed from the fervent kiss. There was a wild, unhinged look in his eyes that you didn’t recognize like he wasn’t entirely there.

But the girl…

You felt like the air had been knocked out of you when you recognized her.

Minjeong.

Your best friend.

Your mind couldn’t catch up. No. This didn’t make sense. Mark had almost kissed you. Three times. You’d spent weeks pouring your heart out to Minjeong, admitting—-however humiliating—that you thought Mark was starting to like you back. And she… she knew.

She knew exactly how you felt about him.

Your gaze darted between them, desperately searching for some sort of explanation, some indication that this wasn’t what it looked like. But Mark was still staring at you in a daze, and Minjeong was… smiling.

You felt something splinter deep inside you.

“You—” your voice died in your throat.

Minjeong had the audacity to giggle. She pulled away from Mark’s mouth, though his hands were still clinging to her hips. “Oh…hey, Y/N,” she said breathlessly, a sheen of gloss smeared across her lips.

You looked at Mark, desperate for him to say something. But his gaze was fixed solely on Minjeong, his chest heaving, his lips still parted like he wanted more.

“Mark,” you choked out again.

His head snapped toward you. For a split second, his face twisted into something confused, like he didn’t understand why you were there. His eyes darted across your face, and you swore there was a flicker of recognition, a brief moment of panic in his expression.

Then Minjeong giggled again and Mark’s gaze instantly darkened as it fell back on her.

“Aw, don’t be mad, Y/N,” she pouted. “Please don’t tell Professor Snape, yeah?”

You felt like you were watching yourself from outside your body. “You two… can’t be here right now. You need… you need to go back to your common rooms.”

Your voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

“Come on,” Minjeong teased, suddenly hooking her arm around yours. “Don’t be a buzzkill, Y/N. We’re just having some fun.”

You flinched. Don’t touch me.

Your Occlumency walls shot up instinctively, straining under the weight of your heartbreak but holding just enough to keep your expression neutral. You swallowed down the burning in your throat and repeated, “You need to go.”

Mark still wasn’t speaking. His pupils were so dilated it was unnatural, his chest still rising and falling rapidly like he couldn’t catch his breath. His swollen lips parted like he was about to say something.

But Minjeong turned, smiled sweetly at him, and said, “Mark, come on. Let’s not get Y/N in trouble.”

And Mark moved like a moth to a flame. Without hesitation, he grabbed her waist and yanked her into another bruising kiss. You recoiled like you’d been burned, forcing your eyes away before the image could be seared into your memory forever.

The sound of Minjeong’s delighted giggles made you want to scream.

Finally, she pulled back, wiping her mouth with a smug grin. “See you tomorrow, Y/N,” she sang, then turned to Mark and cooed, “Come on, lover boy. Let’s go.”

Mark didn’t even look at you. He let her drag him off down the corridor without so much as a glance in your direction.

The second they disappeared, your Occlumency walls shattered. You sucked in a shaky breath, clutching your chest like you could physically hold the pain in. A choked sob escaped your throat, but you quickly swallowed it back, forcing yourself not to cry here.

You’d be damned if you let them see you break.

What you didn't know is that Mark wouldn’t remember any of it.

Not the taste of Minjeong’s lips. Not the way his body burned with the inexplicable need to touch her. Not the sick, nauseating feeling in his gut when he caught your tearful gaze and felt like he was betraying something sacred.

All he would know was that when he woke up the next morning, his throat would be dry, his mind foggy…

…and the lingering taste of chocolate still heavy on his tongue.

A whole week passed since Halloween and Mark could not, for the life of him, figure out what he’d done to make you go back to acting like he didn’t exist.

You wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t spare him a glance, and on the rare occasion that your eyes did meet his, it was like he physically repulsed you. It was driving him insane.

Mark was starting to think he must’ve had one too many butterbeers during Halloween night and done something incredibly stupid. But he couldn’t know for sure because, again, you wouldn’t speak to him.

He also noticed you and Minjeong weren’t talking anymore. That part confused him almost as much as your behavior toward him. You were either with Karina or Haechan now, but most of the time, you were alone. And Mark hated it — hated seeing you without the warm spark you always carried when you were surrounded by friends.

But most of all, he hated that you were ignoring him. He needed you to talk to him. He needed you to tell him what he did wrong so he could fix it immediately.

Which is why he was now standing outside the Slytherin common room, anxiously hoping someone would be kind enough to let him in. Unsurprisingly, none of the Slytherins were willing to let a Gryffindor in, especially one who looked as nervous and fidgety as Mark did.

He was starting to lose hope when, finally, the perfect opportunity came in the form of Karina.

“Hey! Karina—” Mark called, jogging a few steps toward her. She slowed down as she spotted him, her face immediately tightening into an annoyed scowl.

“What do you want?” she said, her tone clipped and cold.

Mark blinked, taken aback. He knew Karina didn’t exactly love him, but she had never sounded this openly hostile toward him before.

“Uh… I was hoping I could talk to Y/N. I was wondering if you could either let me in or—”

“How dare you?” she snapped, suddenly pointing an accusing finger at him.

Mark froze. “I— sorry, what?”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve coming here with those stupid puppy dog eyes like you didn’t completely break her heart again. Haven’t you humiliated her enough? Or do you just get off on using her and throwing her away when you’re bored?” Karina’s voice trembled with anger.

“Wha... what are you talking about?” Mark asked, his voice rising in exasperation.

“Don’t play dumb, Lee. You know exactly what you did,” she spat.

“No, I don’t! I swear, I don’t know what you’re accusing me of right now! I already apologized for the Yule Ball… and the gifts… but what is this about me using her?” Mark’s heart was starting to race, his palms sweating as dread crawled up his spine.

Karina scoffed incredulously. “Seriously? You’re gonna keep playing the innocent act? After everything?”

“Karina, I’m serious. I don’t know what you mean! What did I do to her?”

“Oh my god.” She let out a bitter laugh, taking a step back like she couldn’t stand to be near him. “You really don’t remember?”

Mark’s throat tightened. “…Remember what?”

Karina stared at him for a long moment, her face twisted with disgust. “Halloween, you idiot.”

Mark blinked. “Halloween?”

“Yes, Halloween. When you were shoving your tongue down Minjeong’s throat like a desperate little dog.”

Mark’s stomach dropped. “What?”

Karina laughed humorlessly. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. Y/N saw you, Mark. She caught you all over Minjeong that night. After you almost kissed her three times. After she told us how she thought you finally liked her back. After she spent literal years pining after you!”

“No…” Mark felt like he couldn’t breathe. “No, no, no. That… that’s not right. I wouldn’t do that. I don’t like Minjeong, I like—” his voice caught in his throat. “I like Y/N.”

Karina let out another bitter laugh. “Yeah? Well, you sure have a fucked up way of showing it.”

“No, I— I don’t remember that! I don’t remember kissing Minjeong! I swear to god, Karina, I would never do that to Y/N...” his voice cracked, panic making his words rush out in a desperate tumble. “I don’t remember! I don’t—”

“Save it, Mark.” Karina’s face hardened. “I’m not the one you should be begging for forgiveness to. But it doesn’t even matter, you've already ruined everything. She’s not gonna take you back, not after that. So do her a favor and stay the hell away from her.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the common room.

Mark trudged back to the Gryffindor common room looking deader than the ghosts that roamed the castle. His head was spinning, Karina’s words replaying in his mind like a haunting echo.

He couldn’t believe it. He kissed Minjeong. How the hell could he not remember something like that? Was he really that drunk that night? But it didn’t make any sense. He’d never gotten so drunk on butterbeer that he completely blacked out before.

It was eating him alive. The image of you looking at him with absolute disgust now made so much painful sense. And if you saw it happen, no wonder you hated him.

By the time he stepped into the boys’ dormitory, Mark looked like someone who’d just been handed a lifetime sentence in Azkaban.

Jaemin, who was drying his hair with a towel, was the first to spot him. “And what the hell happened to you?” he laughed, eyeing Mark’s pale, horrified expression. “You look like you just sat through one of Snape’s scoldings.”

Mark groaned and dropped face-first onto his bed. “Kill me.”

Jaemin raised a brow. “That bad, huh?”

“I screwed up this time, dude. Like… really screwed up.”

“What, did you jinx another student by accident?”

“No.” Mark’s voice was muffled against his pillow. “…I kissed Minjeong.”

“What?!” Jaemin and Chenle —who had just pulled open the curtains of his four-poster bed— exclaimed at the same time.

Mark turned his head just enough to look at them. “I don’t even remember it happening, but apparently, I kissed her during Halloween… and Y/N saw the whole thing. And now she hates me.”

“Dude,” Chenle gawked, disbelief clouding his face. “How the hell do you kiss someone and not remember it?”

“Yeah, that’s insane–” Jaemin started, but then his voice abruptly cut off, his eyes widening like something just clicked in his brain. “…Wait. Halloween?”

Mark lifted his head, brow furrowing. “Yeah?”

Jaemin suddenly shot to his feet and walked over to Mark. “Did you eat any chocolates?”

Mark blinked. “What…?”

“Did you get any chocolates that night?”

“Uh… yeah? Why?”

Jaemin’s face paled. “Oh my god. Dude. Those were doused with Amortentia.”

Mark felt his entire body go cold. “…What?”

“Holy shit,” Jaemin ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely horrified. “You seriously didn’t know?”

Mark sat up so fast his head spun. “What do you mean I didn’t know?! What the hell are you talking about?”

“The chocolates, Mark! Every year during Halloween, girls sneak Amortentia into the chocolates hoping that the guy they like eats them and falls in love with them for a few hours. It’s a whole thing. Why do you think I told you to throw away the ones Y/N gave you years ago?”

Mark’s brain short-circuited. “Wait… what?”

“Dude!” Jaemin looked at him like he was dense. “I told you not to trust those chocolates around Halloween! Renjun’s dad works in Diagon Alley, and he says love potions are always sold out around this time of year because of Hogwarts students.”

“Especially you, dude,” Chenle added “You’re Gryffindor’s Seeker. You’re literally the main target. How did you not know this by now?”

Mark’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he might pass out. “I...I didn’t. I thought—I thought the chocolates were from Y/N…” his throat tightened. “But she’d never do that to me…”

Jaemin and Chenle exchanged a look before Jaemin cautiously asked, “…Did they have a card on them?”

Mark blinked, trying to remember. “…No?”

“Exactly!” Jaemin threw his hands up. “Y/N always put a card on her gifts to you, dumbass. She’s never not done that.”

“Oh my god,” Mark’s voice cracked, his hands clutching his hair. “I’m such an idiot! I thought they were from her so I just... I ate them. I didn’t even think—” his stomach twisted in horror. “I kissed Minjeong because of a love potion?”

“Looks like it,” Chenle said grimly.

Mark felt like he was going to throw up. “Oh my god. Y/N must think I’m the worst person alive. She probably thinks I led her on and then went and kissed her best friend—”

“Yeah, well, considering you practically ate her face off in front of her, I’d say that’s a fair assumption,” Chenle shrugged.

“I didn’t mean to! I don’t remember any of it happening!” Mark’s voice cracked as panic completely consumed him. “Oh my god, Y/N hates me. She thinks I—fuck! I have to go talk to her—”

“Woah, woah, no. Don’t do that,” Jaemin said quickly, grabbing his arm.

“What?! Why not?”

“Because if you go to her right now all panicked, she’s just gonna think you’re making excuses! You need proof that you were under a love potion or she’ll never believe you.”

Mark stared at him, wide-eyed. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

“Minjeong.”

Mark blinked. “…What?”

Jaemin gave him a look. “Minjeong. She’s obviously the one who gave you the chocolates. If you can get her to admit it, Y/N will have to believe you.”

Mark swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. “But what if she doesn’t admit it?”

Chenle scoffed. “Then we hex the truth out of her. Don’t worry, we got you.”

Mark could barely process anything. All he could think about was how you must’ve felt watching him kiss Minjeong. How heartbroken you must’ve been. How you probably cried yourself to sleep that night thinking he never cared about you.

You probably still thought that.

Mark’s hands clenched into fists. No. He wasn’t letting you believe that for another second.

An hour later he was pacing outside the Great Hall like a caged animal. Jaemin and Chenle stood nearby, whispering to each other. They were supposed to be helping him stay calm, but so far, their only strategy had been muttering plans that Mark couldn’t even focus on.

“I still think we should just give her Veritaserum and call it a day,” Chenle muttered.

“We’re not drugging anyone,” Jaemin shot back. “We’ll talk to her first.”

“You think she’s just gonna just admit she poisoned him with Amortentia?”

“She doesn’t have to,” Jaemin said with a smug grin. “We just need to pressure her enough that the truth slips out”

Before Mark could ask further, Minjeong appeared at the top of the staircase, chatting with a group of Slytherins.

“There she is,” Jaemin muttered, already moving forward. Mark and Chenle followed.

“Minjeong!” Jaemin called out.

She paused, turning around. When she saw them approaching, her smile faltered.

“Oh,” she said, plastering on a forced grin. “Hey... what’s up?”

“We need to talk,” Mark said, his voice tight.

Minjeong blinked. “Talk?” Her gaze flicked between the three of them. “About what?”

“About Halloween,” Jaemin said pointedly.

Mark watched Minjeong’s face carefully— the way her eyes widened just enough to betray her surprise before she forced her expression back to something neutral.

“Halloween?” she repeated with a weak laugh. “Why would we need to talk about that?”

Mark stepped forward. “Don’t act stupid,” he said quietly.

Minjeong’s smile faltered. “I... don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, really?” Chenle crossed his arms. “Then how come Mark doesn’t remember kissing you or anything about that night at all?”

Minjeong scoffed. “What are you insinuating?”

“You laced the chocolates with Amortentia,” Mark cut in, his voice like ice.

Minjeong’s eyes widened. “What?!” she sputtered, her voice rising a little too high. “That’s insane! Why would I do that?”

“You were waiting outside the Gryffindor common room that night,” Jaemin said coldly. “You knew exactly that Mark would think they were from Y/N and you were waiting to see if it worked.”

“That’s not true!” Minjeong snapped. “I didn’t—”

“Everybody else was at the celebration except you,” Chenle said. “You knew he would go to the common room after Hogsmeade, and you sneaked in the chocolates right before we arrived.”

“T-that’s ridiculous!” Minjeong stammered. “I was just leaving the Great Hall when I saw Mark walking around and he kissed me out of nowhere!”

“Bullshit,” Jaemin shot back. “You knew he was drugged and wouldn’t differentiate from the person he really wanted and anyone else.”

“Merlin, you guys are being crazy. Why would I even do that?”

“Because you like him,” Jaemin answered before Mark could. His voice was dripping with amusement, but his eyes were cold. “And you knew you didn’t stand a chance with Y/N around, so you figured a love potion would tip the odds in your favor, right?”

Minjeong scoffed. “As if I would ever--”

“Then swear on your magic,” Chenle challenged, his smile razor-sharp. “Swear on your magic that you didn’t put Amortentia in those chocolates.”

Silence.

Minjeong’s mouth opened then closed. Her eyes darted to Mark, panic slowly blooming in her face. “I—I don’t have to do anything—”

“Swear on your magic, Minjeong.” Mark demanded.

She didn’t.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Jaemin muttered.

Minjeong’s face flooded with color. “You guys are insane! I didn’t do anything! Mark probably wanted to kiss me—”

“Oh, spare me” Chenle snapped, his laugh sharp and incredulous. “You think if he actually wanted to do it, he’d just block out the entire night like it never happened?”

Minjeong’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “H-he was probably just—just embarrassed or something.”

“Embarrassed?” Mark’s voice finally cracked, and whatever grip he had on his composure snapped like a twig. “Embarrassed about what, Minjeong? You’re the one desperate enough to force yourself onto me when I was incapacitated ” His voice was raw, his chest rising and falling with the force of his anger. “I don’t even like you!”

The words hit Minjeong like a slap to the face. Her entire body visibly recoiled, her mouth parting slightly.

But Mark wasn’t done.

“I like Y/N. I’ve always liked Y/N. And you…” his voice cracked as the words ripped out of him, “you made me kiss you in front of her. Do you have any idea how fucking awful that must’ve been for her?”

Minjeong’s throat bobbed, her face pale. “I—I didn’t mean for her to see.”

“Yes, you did!” Mark shot back, his voice raw and trembling. “Don’t even try to pull that bullshit right now. You knew she was patrolling. You absolutely knew what you were doing. You wanted me to want you, even if it wasn’t real. Even if you had to—” his voice broke slightly, rage burning his throat, “—had to drug me to get it.”

Minjeong flinched, her eyes darting between them. “I didn’t think it would—”

“Exactly!” Mark let out a humorless, bitter laugh. “You didn’t think. You didn’t think about me, you didn’t think about Y/N… You didn’t think about anyone but yourself! All you cared about was getting me no matter what it cost, and you didn’t care how it would make her feel. You—” his voice cracked and he swallowed hard, “—you humiliated her. And she probably thinks I’m the world’s biggest asshole who just played her.”

“I-I swear, I didn’t think it would get this far”

Chenle scoffed. “You literally slipped him a love potion. What the hell did you think was gonna happen?”

Minjeong shot him a glare, but her voice cracked when she tried to defend herself. “I just— I thought maybe if he… if given the chance…. he’d realize he liked me, okay?”

“Are you serious?!” Mark practically exploded. His voice booming with the sheer force of his emotions. “You didn’t think about how messed up it is to force someone into something like that?”

Minjeong was shaking now. “I didn’t mean for it to get this bad…”

“But it did,” Mark’s voice broke, his throat tight. “And now I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.”

Silence slammed down on them like a sledgehammer. Minjeong’s face crumpled, but Mark didn’t care. His entire body was shaking with rage, with guilt, with absolute devastation.

And that’s when Mark heard a sharp, shaky intake of breath behind him.

Slowly, he turned around and his heart dropped.

You stood a few feet away, eyes wide. But it wasn’t heartbreak painted across your face. It was pure, unbridled rage.

“You—” your voice shook with fury as you looked at Minjeong. “You drugged him?”

Minjeong froze like a deer caught in headlights. “I—”

“You gave him Amortentia,” you seethed. “You drugged him and then… and then you let him kiss you and you didn’t even stop him?”

“It wasn’t… I didn’t—” Minjeong stammered, panicking now.

“What the fuck is your problem!” you cut her off. “Do you have any idea how messed up that is? You violated him!”

Mark’s breath caught in his throat at the way your voice cracked with fury.

“What?” Minjeong scoffed, suddenly back on the defensive. “It’s not like he didn’t enjoy it in the end—”

“Oh my god,” you recoiled like you were about to be sick. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you think it’s okay to force someone to kiss you under a love potion and then act like it was consensual?”

“I didn’t force him to eat them—”

“You set them up for him like a trap” you shrieked. “You drugged him! You took away his ability to choose! How can you even live with yourself?”

Minjeong looked around like she was hoping someone would swoop in and save her, but no one did. Even the Slytherins she’d been chatting with earlier were watching in stunned silence.

“You… who consoled me all the times I went to bed crying over him!” you spat, your voice raw with emotion.

“I… I’m sorry…”

“Oh, shut up,” you snapped. “You knew exactly what you were doing, an apology won’t do it now”

Minjeong opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” you said through gritted teeth. “You don’t look at him. You don’t speak to him. You don’t breathe in his direction. If I catch you so much as standing near him, I’ll make sure every professor in this castle knows exactly what you did.”

Minjeong didn’t need to be told twice, she practically bolted in the opposite direction, not sparing any of you a glance.

Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

“Y/N…” Mark said weakly, his voice cracking. “I’m so—”

“Don’t,” you choked out, turning back to him. “Please don’t apologize. Just—” your voice broke again, and then suddenly, you were throwing yourself into his arms. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry she did that to you.”

Mark held you even tighter. “It’s not your fault. God, Y/N, I missed you so much.”

“Me too,” you whispered. And you meant it.

This was the first time you hugged and Mark realized you fit perfectly in his arms, like you were meant to be there all along. You smelled incredible too. It was that soft, earthy smell of fresh rain on soil and blooming jasmine, the kind of scent that lingered in greenhouses after a long day of tending to plants. It hit him all at once. Of course. That was exactly what the Amortentia had smelled like to him.

His stomach tightened at the realization. The first time he bit into those chocolates, the first person that had flashed through his mind was you.

God, he was such an idiot.

When you finally pulled away, Mark’s entire body screamed at him to pull you back in. To kiss you. To fix everything. His gaze fell to your lips, and he almost gave in but then he remembered Jaemin and Chenle were still very much standing there, watching the two of you with annoyingly amused smiles.

Mark cleared his throat, stepping back slightly. “Uh… thanks, guys. You know, for… everything.”

“Of course, man,” Jaemin grinned. “We couldn’t just let that snake get away with it.”

“I still can’t believe she’d go that far,” you murmured, concern furrowing your brow. “I didn’t even know she liked you like that… or that she was capable of something so—” you swallowed hard, struggling to find the word. “…horrible.” You glanced up at Mark, your eyes still heavy with disbelief.

Mark’s heart ached at the guilt in your voice.

“You couldn’t have known,” he reassured softly. “She fooled everyone with that sweet girl act.”

“Not everyone,” Jaemin muttered under his breath, arms crossed.

“Oh, shut up, just the other day you were talking about how she’s the hottest slyther—” Chenle started, only to get a sharp elbow in the ribs.

“Anyways!” Jaemin cut in quickly, forcing a grin. “We’ll, uh… leave you guys to it. And please, for the love of Merlin, talk. I’m sick of all this miscommunication.”

“Seriously,” Chenle added, smirking. “If I have to live another day of you two silently pining for each other I will offer myself to the werewolves.”

Mark felt his face heat as you laughed softly, and a moment later, Jaemin and Chenle disappeared down the corridor.

You both stood there, your gazes flicking everywhere except each other. The weight of everything that had just happened still hung heavily in the air.

Mark swallowed hard. “So… uh…”

“Come on,” you suddenly said, grabbing his hand before he could finish his sentence.

“Where are we—”

“Just trust me,” you murmured.

Mark let you pull him along, his fingers curling instinctively around yours. You led him up staircase after staircase until you reached the Astronomy Tower and when you finally stepped out onto the platform, Mark couldn't believe his eyes

“Whoa…”

The view was breathtaking. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting hues of orange, pink, and deep indigo across the sky. From this high up, the Hogwarts grounds looked almost dreamlike. The Black Lake glistened like glass, and the Forbidden Forest stretched endlessly beyond it.

“I’ve never been up here during sunset,” Mark admitted, his voice slightly awed. “It’s… beautiful.”

You smiled softly, leaning against the railing. “I thought you’d like it.”

Mark turned to you. “Why?”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “…I’ve noticed you do that a lot.”

Mark blinked. “Do what?”

“Stare at the sky.” You smiled faintly, not looking at him. “Whenever you’re playing Quidditch. When it’s a slow game and you’re not chasing the Snitch, you just… look up. Like you’re mesmerized by it.”

Mark’s breath caught.

He didn’t know what hit him harder. The fact that you noticed something so small about him or the fact that you cared enough to remember.

“I didn’t think anyone ever noticed that…” he said quietly.

You glanced at him then, your gaze soft and sincere. “I don’t think anyone else caught it… but I did.”

And that was it.

The final push Mark needed.

“Y/N,” his voice cracked, raw and desperate. “I swear to Merlin…I never wanted to kiss her. The only person I’ve ever thought about kissing is you. It’s always been you.”

Your breath caught, and Mark took a shaky step closer. “I… I didn’t know it at first. I mean, I did, but I didn’t understand it. Not until I ate those chocolates. Because the first thing I smelled was—” he swallowed thickly, his gaze locking on yours. “It was you. Rain, jasmine, and… and that earthy smell you get when you come back from Herbology. That’s what Amortentia smelled like to me..”

Tears stung your eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Mark…”

“And when I heard what Minjeong did, I thought I was gonna lose my mind. The idea of you thinking I didn’t care about you… that I’d choose her over you… I hated it. I hated myself for hurting you, even if it wasn’t my fault.” His voice broke slightly. “I never wanted anyone else but you.”

The tears finally slipped down your cheeks. “You mean that?”

“With everything in me,” Mark choked.

Mark could feel his pulse hammering beneath his skin, his hand twitching at his side. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to kiss you.

“Can I—”

“Please,” you cut him off, already stepping toward him.

That was all it took.

Mark crashed his mouth onto yours, his hands instinctively finding your waist as you gripped the front of his sweater. The kiss was desperate, not rushed, but heavy with years of longing. He kissed you like he was afraid you’d slip away if he stopped, and you kissed him like you were trying to make up for all the time you’d lost.

And Merlin, you tasted like heaven.

By the time you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, foreheads resting against each other.

“…I’ve been wanting to do that for years, you know,” Mark admitted, laughing shakily.

You let out a soft laugh. ”Years?”

“Yeah,” he smiled sheepishly. “I think I fell for you the first time you hexed me on the train. I was just too immature to see it.”

Mark swallowed hard, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Can I… can I kiss you again?”

“Mark, you can kiss me whenever you want.” you said, caressing his cheek.

He loved the sound of that.

This time when he kissed you, it was slower. Like he was memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you, the fact that you were finally his.

read part 2 here

2K notes · View notes

ryorecs · 4 months ago

Text

M.I.L.F. (Make It Last Forever) ― L.DH

Haechan, a favorite among classy wives to hire during the hot summer season for a nice, thorough pool cleaning, seems to have a favorite wife of his own. You. Or the one where Haechan was the pain-in-your-ass son of the family you used to babysit for, but now he’s making it his mission to be the pain-in-your-ass pretend husband that you never asked for, but very clearly need.

minors dni

PAIRING ― lee haechan x afab milf!reader

WORDCOUNT― 18.9k

CONTENT― age gap: reader is 31 and haechan is 24, milf trope/single mother reader, college pool boy haechan (turned part time babysitter), reader has 1 kid and haechan really wants to give her another, reader has morals!! haechan just doesn’t see it as a moral issue, he is actually very sweet

!WARNINGS! ― age gap, haechan is somewhat of a manipulator, he’s gentle but won’t take no for an answer. dub-con in one instance. major breeding kink and kind of a mommy and daddy kink (domesticity), angst regarding reader and her ex husband, reader has huge tits

NOTE ― this was written for jay from enhypen over on my other blog, but i am gifting it to you guys here as well! I WROTE THEM BOTH!!!! NOT PROOF READ.

nsfw tags under cut

nsfw tags― thick big dick haechan, small instant dubious consent, tit obsessed haechan, groping and grinding, mommy/daddy kink, breeding kink, unprotected sex, cum stuffing-ish,pussy eating, fingering, basically it’s haechan doing stuff to you, this ain’t smut this is making love, also reader doesn’t shave her coochie and haechan fucking loves it.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Having a stray eye isn’t typically something you afford yourself when it comes to men. Things tend to change with time though, that much you know is true.

It was proven to you for the first time when your ex husband decided to up and leave you three weeks before your due date for a woman–well, girl, fresh out of highschool. Years of trust and promises crushed with just a single sentence and a slam of the door. Time must’ve changed you for him to leave so heartlessly. Time must’ve changed him to become so cold.

It was proven again when you were able to heal despite never believing you could. Seconds of pain turned to minutes, to hours. Days. weeks. Months. Years of pain before being able to wake up and feel somewhat numb to it all. Like a flip switch in your head that told you that you can be happy now even if as a single mother. After all, the hard part was over.

It took some four to five years, but it did happen. Time did change you, it healed you, it matured you. As your child grew, so did you. And for the better, you think. You count your blessings of living a life far more lavish than you ever could have anticipated given the circumstances that had been thrown at you. Even to the point of nesting, wanting another child, wanting a big and happy family. But alas, your ex husband had better things to do.

At the end of the day, you’d never be able to call this home yours if you had stayed with your ex husband. He didn’t like this kind of “flashy” lifestyle, and to him, everything you wanted seemed too flashy for him. Perhaps he was right to some extent, as you recognize the brand name goods you now own, solely because you had promised yourself in the depths of your despair that you’ll get to a point in life where you can buy yourself everything you not only need, but want. So, here you are, owning an expensive home, in a nice neighborhood, with a nice car and a nice pool.

Your daughter has everything she could want and need too, aside from a sibling, it’s certainly still more than what you had growing up and it’s all because of you. A fully decorated bedroom drenched in glitter, purples, creams, yellows, and pink, her favorite color. All sorts of play houses, costumes, dolls, a few lego sets, and even some plastic swords and knives for the days she wants to pretend to be her favorite movie characters. Clothes she can grow into, and a nice little fund building up for her as she grows up. Her first car, college, help for a downpayment on her own first house.

Both of you have everything you could ever want or need and for that, you’re so proud. Especially knowing your husband would have never believed you could make it this far without him. Still, despite having everything you could ever ask for, there’s something in you that feels empty.

Time changes things.

Time changes a lot of things, you note more than usual, as the man you’ve been ogling for the past three weeks makes himself far more known to you than you ever wished he would.

The interaction with him was always so quick before today and given the fact that he was a complete stranger, you never quite invited him into your home considering–you know, small child and all. You had hired him over text. Haechan, your neighbor said his name was. His handsome features didn’t offer you anything more than a clean pool and a wandering eye.

Your neighbor apparently has a friend who has a cousin that has an even nicer pool than you do. Given, it’s only a nicer pool due to the fact that this young man, Haechan, tended to it weekly and made damn sure it could be drunk out of if a person had a craving for chlorine.

You feel like an idiot now that it didn’t dawn on you quick enough. Sure, he looked a bit familiar to you but who doesn’t when you’re always out and about seeing so many different faces on a daily basis? His name, Haechan, didn’t ring any bells. Now though, the shame of staring at his sweaty pecs and biceps came crashing down the moment you realized who Haechan actually is.

He didn’t do a damn thing to remind you either, if anything, all he did was walk around all sweaty in the afternoon heat with his tank top either sticking to him, or off entirely. It appears that you had just been too busy running errands with your child, considering his shifts were always when you were home. Too busy cooking, cleaning, reading, lounging. Too busy looking at…well, not his face.

Too busy to give the man a glance more than that of a slice of pie behind a bakery window.

Haechan.

Since fucking when was that his name?

“Lee Donghyuck.” You whimper near mortified, three weeks too late as you hand him his pay with nervous hands. “Spray-cheese in my hair Donghyuck?”

“Ah, was wondering when you’d pick up on that.” He smiles at you with that crooked grin, a knowing look that any man at a bar would give you if he had caught you checking him out. Then, he pockets the hefty amount of cash that you hand to him. “I go by Haechan more often these days.” He trails off, an amused smirk half-falling as he looks at your expression of realization. “You can call me whatever you want though.”

He’s well aware of how often you’ve checked him out since he started intentionally taking his clothes off. After all, it’s mid-july by this point and the sun baring down on him doesn’t quite call for a fucking turtle neck sweater. Or a T-shirt, or a tank top, for that matter. It calls for all skin baby, beautifully tanned and toned for you and any of your neighbors to look at if they so wanted to.

Haechan doesn’t work out for nothing, after all. Summer after summer, he’s found himself to be quite fond of the rich women that hire him for their pool services. Always wanting an attractive young man to wander around half naked and satiate their lack of sex life with their husbands, or boytoys, or what have you. He knows all that extra pay isn’t because he does a good job either. He’s gotten winks, small comments, even a few offers of his body for more pay.

He’s turned them all down, of course. For a full-on affair, anyway. Haechan has gotten a few blow jobs and quickies as a tip before though, and a lot of that is why he keeps getting referred to more women. Richer women. Never single women.

Until you.

He quite enjoyed catching you looking at him. Especially given the fact that he knew exactly who you were when you introduced yourself to him via text. That little childhood crush on you came back within an instant upon actually seeing you again. Truly, he had forgotten all about you up until that fateful day three weeks ago.

If he’s being honest, he’s been pining something fierce since he first stepped foot on your property. Excitement swelled inside of him just to see you again. To see if you’re still hot, to see how you’re doing, what you’re doing. How your life is going.

He knew you didn’t recognize his nickname through text, and he definitely knew you didn’t recognize him to be eating him up with those eyes of yours either. So, he played along, enjoying it while he could before it would inevitably dawn on you. Still, he remembers you so well from back then. Crazy to know that he rarely thought of you for the past twelve years or so, and how all those little butterflies of his came back in a far more mature way. He was only twelve back then, but he’s a man now.

Twenty four and perfectly sound as a man who knows what he likes. The fact that you happen to fall into that category is no fault of his own, honestly. It’s your fault if anyone’s at all. Haechan is a man that likes a specific type of woman too. Woman. Not a girl, not a young lady, not a free spirit, nor a prude. He is drawn to the idea of experience, to the idea of settling down. It’s not easy to find that at his age, in college, surrounded by party girls and casual drug use.

And, well, imagine his smile upon seeing your lovely, lavish home with the large pool, no ring on your finger, a whole fucking child, and your motherly instincts when you buckle her into the car for an errand. Oh and the broken fence in the far back of your yard.

You’re a single mom.

A hot single mom who lives lavishly. One who could probably use a man’s help around your house.

He half expected you to be able to recognize him when he appeared for work the first time. He even had a monologue in his head on what to say to you, and how to present himself. You didn’t seem to take notice though, introducing yourself to him as if you hadn’t spent all that time in his childhood home when you were a teenager. Like you never mothered him, or put him to sleep with the soft stories when you let him watch all those scary movies before bed. Even at twelve, he was a scaredy cat.

Clearly you’re too busy experiencing life to notice the way he fawns over you too. Hating how you’re more reserved than the other lavish, fixed-up women. You seem to have standards, or maybe it’s just priorities ... that's so hot. Truly, it only makes him want you more because by now, the other women would already be rubbing all over him. The ones who shouldn’t be wanting him the way they do. So, yes, he’s always stealing glances at you with sparkling dark eyes, fantasizing in his head that this pool is his to clean now, because that’s what a good man would do for you, right? With him around servicing your pool and lawn, you’d never need to hire or spend money on another broke ass college student again.

Yes. That’s how quickly he fell into this infatuation solely because you looked at him like you want it without realizing who he was. Hell, without realizing how perfect you are in terms of what he wants.

God, how are you still single?

Like, why do you have a child and a house so beautiful without a man wandering around doing all of this work for you? Not that you couldn’t do it on your own, it’s just, you clearly have the means to make a man do as you please. Why haven’t you?

You happen to fall almost perfectly into the categories of what he’s looking for. Save for the fact that now you recognize him as that kid you used to babysit rather than the man who tries to be sexy while cleaning your pool. Which is a fucking shame, if he’s being honest, to be written off as that same ten year old child rather than a fucking man who very clearly has needs and desires.

The point is– Haechan wants you and he parades around your pool for you to look at him. So what if you used to babysit him? It’s not like you’re an old swamp-hag trying to lure him with candy. You’re just…a woman. And he’s just a man.

“Well, thank you for cleaning again,” You trail off in an awkward tone, shifting your eyes to anywhere but him. He watches you though, smiling a smile you know all too well from his childhood antics. It must mean something different now, or maybe not. “I guess I’ll see you next week?”

“Well, actually,” Haechan offers, “Would you be opposed to–” You cut him off instantly with an awkward wave of your hand.

You don’t know why you make assumptions, maybe from that damned smile on his face, but you do recall your ex husband reminding you time and time again that it’s one of the things he hated about you.

Assumptions. Always thinking the worst, or perhaps the most filthy of situations and expressions. To be fair, you feel guilty about how you’ve been looking at him, you can’t help but panic trying to pretend like it never happened, and that he never saw it happen.

“I’m not interested, Donghyuck.” You respond hastily, pressing your thumb to your bottom lip to bite the skin on it, keeping your eyes away from him with the awkward words. After all, he knew who you were this whole time and paraded around like that?

Even before recognizing him yourself, you know men well enough to know when they’re trying to flaunt. Is it so wrong to assume?

“Interested in what?” Haechan tilts his head knowingly, seeing the way you buckle under the guilt of staring at the very man you used to tuck into bed every night. He can see the way you try to push those sexual thoughts you had away in the quick rejection to a simple assumption.

“I was just going to ask if you want me to fix your fence.”

Ah, you did get ahead of yourself through the guilt, and you’re far too aware of it as you draw your eyes back to him and note the expression on his face. Amused, maybe a bit of concern in his eyes, even?

“Ah, um–” You start, trailing your eyes down your fence line never once noticing a break in it. Haechan is quick to point though, leaning to you with a whisper of “right there.” And well, you did not need to hear that tone in his voice the way you just did.

God, it’s so awkward.

“Well, how much would that cost me?” You question with an empty voice, staring at the broken fence.

“Free.” He uses the same tone, leaning away from you now and smiling wide. “That is, if you provide lunch.”

Well, despite the awkwardness, that break over there would cost you a pretty penny to fix, and your daughter needs the safety of playing in her own yard without random animals or worse, people, making their way in. Plus, you’re quite fond of saving money. How else would you be here if you weren’t good at it? And now, given that you’re most definitely not interested in Haechan, what's the harm in making a few sandwiches for someone you already know well enough? It’s not like you’ve never made him lunch before.

The awkwardness will pass and your guilt will subside. You both will laugh at it over a cold glass of iced lemonade, surely. It’s not like you realized who he was anyway, it’s not like you’re just gonna keep looking at him like that. You should just push forward and it’ll all be fine.

“Hell, I’d even watch the kiddo so you can have a break every now and then.” He watches your reaction, wanting to ask so many questions about why you’re single, who the father is, where he is, why he isn’t here. “After all, I learned quite a bit from you.”

For a second you consider that too.

And there’s three reasons as to why you should. The first being that you were literally just looking for a new child care facility due to learning of the staff coming to work while sick. Your poor daughter came home with a fever just last week, and you’ve had little luck in finding a place with the same educational benefits for her.

The second being that, well, while you’re not hurting for cash or anything, it wouldn’t hurt to be able to put a little more back for her college fund. Or for fun little vacations.

And lastly, despite your guilt of lusting over someone you shouldn’t have, you know Donghyuck and you know his family even better. No background check would be needed, your daughter could be in the comfort of her own home rather than a classroom setting that she’s sure to see for at least twenty years of her life in the future.

So, yes. You consider it instantly, and Haechan sees it.

You only know of the childhood version of him and, well, the slutty pool-side version of him apparently. If only you knew of that other side of him and how fond he is of watching his own younger cousins. How good he is with children, and how much he clings to the idea of being a father one day.

Haechan is great with kids, with or without them having a hot mom.

And well, he knows that he’s fond of looking at you at least. Besides, as long as you can work with his class schedules, he’d be willing to do just about anything to play pretend-husband, even if you’re unaware of it.

“Is that so?” You finally ask, curious eyes looking at him with a furrowed brow. “Shouldn’t you be out living the life? College parties and such?” You add, wondering why such a great deal has managed to flop down on your lap. The idea of even cheaper childcare without the risk of unvaccinated children, and sick caretakers being far too good of a deal to pass up.

“Well, yeah I guess.” He shrugs, leaning backwards to stretch and roll his shoulders. “Not really my scene though. I have classes Monday and Wednesday all day, Tuesday and Thursdays my classes are online. If you can work around that, I’d rather just be making money and chilling.”

You think about it just for a second more when he continues.

“I can be here on weekends too. Maybe you should be the one out relaxing and having some drinks.”

“Well, I don’t quite need that, or for you to be here on weekends.” You think as you say it, knowing you have given up on going out to try and meet men two years ago. “I could pay you though, let’s say, thirty an hour?”

Well, shit, that’s not too bad at all, especially considering he’s about to give up on cleaning the pools of a few women in his contacts for this. It’s a major pay cut, but still enough to get by comfortably if you’ll have him multiple times a week. That plus the pool cleaning money? And free lunch?

“Oh, you don’t go out at all? I don’t see why not, could probably get a man in no time–” Haechan ignores the wage offer and pushes to note the singlehood he had been noticing for the past three weeks. “and the pay is fine.”

“Ah, well, the dating pool isn’t so great in this neck of the woods.” You scratch the back of your neck when you say it. “That aside, I'll have her in day care on the days you can’t be here, but it really would be a big help. Thank you for the offer, Donghyuck. And for the fence too.”

He watches you with a firm nod, shoving his hands into the pockets of his basketball shorts, still entirely shirtless in front of you.

“And the pool.” You add quietly after a moment.

“I think you’d be surprised about the dating pool.” He smiles as he pushes the subject back to what you had previously said, hoping you believe those words before continuing. “So, when do you want me to start?”

“Is tomorrow too soon? You’re okay to set up here with your online classes?”

“Tomorrow is perfect.” He smiles.

“I’m sure she would be so happy knowing she won’t be going to daycare–” You clap, feeling a bit less awkward despite the boldness of the man in front of you. You’re sure he’s just teasing you for knowing you checked him out. “I know I am.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

It’s a little too perfect, actually.

After that first day of watching your child and making a lazy attempt at “fixing your fence,” he’s settled in like it’s home. He wishes it was, with the lavish lifestyle in a house far too pretty compared to his own living space with piles upon piles of laundry he’s too lazy to pick up for himself.

It’s different for you though. Different when he’s here.

Truly, he feels like he’s living the life after a couple of weeks with decent pay and a comfy space to do his homework. He watches your child, which is arguably the hardest part of the job but she’s well behaved for him. In fact, she seems to have taken a shine to him.

He’s starting to be very intentional with taking far too long to work on your fence too, and still maintaining your pool. He’s trying to drag this out for as long as he can. Even if just to see if you still look at him when you come home the same way you did before recognizing him. You never do though. When his shirt is off and he’s wiping his forehead in the sun, you don’t look at him anymore.

Hell, he’s even considered breaking things in your home just to give himself more jobs to do. More things that make him feel needed, like a husband. More things that you thank him for fixing, even if it breaks again two days later.

And ah, the food in your fridge is always free reign to him, that large television in the living room too. God, sometimes he dreads going home, and by sometimes, he means all the time. Who in their right mind would ever fucking want to live outside of this lifestyle? He really can’t believe you’re single, nor can he believe that he has the opportunity to be in your home, close to you. It shouldn’t take too long now to convince you, right? That you don’t necessarily have to be single? That you need him around to live even more comfortably?

In short, Haechan is in his head about how he’s practically just roleplaying as your stay-at-home husband before having to go back to his shitty little apartment and remind himself that he’s just a fucking college student with no interest in the people on campus. And like, even with the way you come home from work, all groggy and exhausted on the days he’s there, you always thank him before giving him his pay. What he likes best about those nights is when you’re too exhausted to even pay him and you promise to do it next time.

In his mind, that’s you promising to see him again.

He could give less of a shit about the pay at this point, as long as he gets to be in this house, smelling your favorite candles and dish detergents, seeing you, being a semi-father to a child who deserves more love than the two of you combined can give…he’ll fucking do anything you want for free.

It’s difficult sometimes, like he really can’t help it. Some days wandering around this house and imagining how the two of you could have landed on buying it together. How the rooms would be organized if he were here from the start. Claiming his spot on your couch like any dad would. Playing dolls with your daughter, laughing with her, letting her paint his nails and put his hair in little pigtails. He even cleans your pool as if it were his own, meaning, he genuinely cleans it.

He has taken it upon himself to mow your lawn, confusing the yard workers that you apparently hired years ago. Did he accidentally fire them? Maybe, but any good husband would save you money, right? He checks your mail, waves to your neighbors and lets them make assumptions.

And every single fucking night it’s harder and harder to go back home.

Especially after a full day of playing dad then seeing you come back so tired. Turning off that switch in his head isn’t easy. He wants to greet you like the husband you don’t have. He wants to ease your hard days in so many ways. Tell you he’s proud of you, that you still look so pretty after an exhausting shift of whatever the fuck you do. He wants to serve you dinner, run you a bath, fix your hair, lay you down– oh, he’s fantasizing again. Unfortunately, he has to settle with seeing the relief on your face when he lets you know in a soft voice that he’s cooked dinner and he will heat it up for you before leaving, kiddo is in her room sleeping, no dishes in the sink, and laundry is folded and put away.

He loves the appreciation in your eyes, and sometimes even sees a glint of sadness. He can tell you wish you had this from a person who isn’t here for pay. Someone who loves you, and loves your child, and feels joy in making your life easier.

Fuck, if only you knew.

And you’d be lying if you tried to say Haechan isn’t a godsend to you on the days he babysits. Many times you find yourself wishing he’d just move in and do everything that you can’t do. You’d pay him well, give him a guest room, whatever. But it’s just…not viable to support a full time employee like that, nor is it fair to your daughter.

She needs a parent, not a paid college student who needs some extra cash. You have to be that parent, you have to make time for her and witness all of her joys in life. You have to protect her and never bring in faces of men who claim to want to be a father, only to run and break her heart more than your own.

For now, you settle with this godsend of a little shit you used to babysit. Still you can barely believe that’s the same person, but again…time changes things. And thankfully, the awkwardness of what you did has died down drastically.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Today, you’re more thankful for Haechan than you have been previously. After a heavy workload has been lifted off your back with the approval of this project, you need a night out. For the first time in years, you’re giving yourself a night out, all because you have someone you can trust to be here for your daughter.

He was so understanding when you called, happy to come over right then and there to put her to bed and mostly just house-sit for the night. Even without an end time for him, and even without asking for extra pay, he just…accepted with an understanding tone and that stupid breathy chuckle he gives to you when you ask for favors. “What? You need me there right now? I’m putting on my shoes.” He had said.

It’s the fact that now, as he sits on your couch looking at you in your chosen outfit– he seems a little off. Maybe it’s because you asked him where the best spots in town are because it’s been so long since you’ve gone out, or maybe he just feels awkward seeing so much skin on your body.

To be fair, he didn’t realize you were going out out. He thought that maybe you were gonna go stay with a friend to celebrate and have a drink or two.

In reality though, he’s just awestruck. Already you look great even after your busy days at work but…this is a different level. The way your tits look in that push-up bra and tiny ass top, when he’s used to seeing you head out in some sort of business casual outfit without an ounce of skin showing save for your ankles or wrists…jesus. He’s struggling more than usual to keep himself calm around you, hopping up on one leg when you walk away to try and adjust the chub in his pants, and releasing a small sigh before you’re looking at him again.

His skin feels like it’s on fire knowing you’re going out looking like that.

“You sure you're okay to sleep over? I figure it’ll be easier since I’m not sure when I’ll come home, or if I come home.” You smile with a wink, your stomach in knots over the two shots you’ve taken for the first time in years. “I can call my friends and tell them not to come if you’d rather focus on your studies.”

Haechan shakes his head, waving his hands in defense for you as if he didn’t just see the way your tits bounce and squish against your shirt with each move you make.

“No, no! Go on, have fun.” He says, encouraging you to go out despite hoping you come home with no luck of finding a man out there.

Just, look at you. Fuck, he’s staring again. He hates knowing that he could be one of the guys at whatever bar or club you’re landing on tonight. He could be the person that makes sure you don’t come home, getting to plant his face right there. He could be whatever you want him to be if you’re looking like that.

But no, he has to play husband again, which is normally something he’s all too excited to do. Tonight though, he feels like a fucking cuckold. After everything he does for you, after not mentioning how you’ve skipped a few of his payments, after slaving away for hours over your pool, your household chores, fixing and breaking that fucking dishwasher, cooking you dinner every single night he’s here just to make sure you have a meal when you get off of work…you imply you may not come home tonight?

And you’re dressed like that?

And you’re…

God, you just look so good right now. It pains him to know you didn’t dress like this for him, the only man who cares enough to make your life easy. He’s not mad at you, per se, but he’s pissed that you don’t see him as an option despite showing you time and time again that not only is he an option, but the right choice.

This is what you look like when you want to impress a man? This is how you act? How you talk? Fuck, god, fuck– maybe he’s just too deep in his one-sided roleplay but it really, really fucking feels like he’s watching his woman go off and look for someone else to fuck.

“Thank you, Donghyuck,” You smile, walking over to him with a saunter in your step and a gentle smile across your lips.

He’s never heard you speak his name so sensually, the way his cock twitches forces him to wince away from you. He’s never even seen you saunter before. Fucking hell, somehow it feels worse seeing you act like this after how many times he’s imagined it, all alone in his room.

A slow walk from you, with the strap of your shirt slipping off your shoulder, fat tits threatening to spill out, lifting the hem of your skirt, or dress, or whatever you’re wearing in his fantasy at that point. Your voice, so soft, so sexy. And you’re practically bringing his fantasy to life right now, except he knows you’re going to fucking walk away from him like this. Into the fucking arms of some random dude at a club.

Probably some loser he’s seen on campus too.

“It means a lot.” You add, popping a quick, platonic kiss to the top of his forehead.

Ah, lip gloss. That little kiss on him is enough to ignite him to the point of no return. He almost wants to skip the part of asking you not to go and straight up just beg that you pick him, that you choose him. It’s not just your home, or the luxuries that come with it. It’s you that he wants. You’re the fucking luxury and you’re just gonna go to some sticky-floored club and pretend he’s not clearly checking you the fuck out right now? Like he’s not about three seconds from dropping to his knees just to see you from the angle you deserve?!

“It’s no problem.” Haechan relents, dropping himself onto your couch instead and adjusting his body to sink deep into the cushions just to keep himself from arguing against everything he’s giving you permission to do right now.

Hah. Permission.

“Be safe.” He adds in an even more monotone voice. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

And god, he seethes in his thoughts after you close that door and hop into the car with your friends. You don’t look like a mother tonight, and he wonders if you’ll be upfront and forward with anyone you intend to hit on too. Probably not. He’s well aware of the men in this city, after all, he’s one of them.

It’s really not something he can control after seeing you like that either. Your child is already in bed and he’s just sitting here on your couch with a throbbing, fucking weeping cock thinking about you. What’s stopping him from taking care of it? You’re not here, after all.

You’re not fucking here. But everything about you is.

And that’s how he finds himself in your bedroom for the first time, barely making it a foot into the room before closing the door and dropping to the floor. The scent in your room is different. It’s feminine, gentle, like the energy is kissing him all over and sending goosebumps straight to the head of his cock. He couldn’t even pull it out, already holding his breath with his hand down his pants, vigorously trying to get what he wants so badly yet knowing that his hand will never compare to you.

And it’s here where he feels like a husband. Spilling against his pants with a silent, choked back sob as he stares forward at your bed, and the way you didn’t make it this morning. It’s messy, and he wants to be in that mess of sheets with you more than anything.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Haechan hates that he’s now forced to get used to your late night ventures. Every weekend now. Every. Fucking. Weekend. You ask if he’s willing to stay over so you can go unwind, and despite his better (or worse) judgment, he accepts. The only solace he finds in these ventures is knowing you consistently come back home right after usual closing times, and you’re mostly sober. Sometimes a bit whiny that you’re not lucking out, worrying that maybe you’re too old now, or maybe you’re just not as desirable. There have even been a few times where you’ve exposed your ex husband during your rants, giving Haechan little hints to follow as to why you’re single, and how he left you.

Still, he knows in your tipsy state that you usually wouldn’t talk about these things with him, but he’s all too happy to get the details once you come home. Mostly because it calms his rising rage at how you’re doing this to not only him, but yourself. It’s mostly because you’re technically coming home to him though.

And every single time, you go back to your bedroom to grab his payment even though it could wait until morning, considering he’s been sleeping in the guest room– all he can think about is how he’s been in your room. He’s gotten off countless times by now by the smell of your room alone, still barely able to even reach your bed to lay in it himself for a better experience. God, he’s probably memorized each little fray in your carpeted bedroom floor by now with how much he’s zoned out on it mid-jerk off session right there on his knees at your door.

He’s truly pathetic for you.

This time though…three in the morning has passed and normally you’d have been stumbling through the door an hour ago. Normally, he’d be fighting back the need to tell you that you’re beautiful, not too old, and entirely desirable. Normally, he would be fisting his cock again in your guest room before sleep, getting off on the idea that he can cum in a house that you live in, smothered by the sheets you meticulously picked out to match the walls of the room. Moaning for you, practically crying for you to let him do it all.

Have you really done it this time? Gone off with some man? Are you getting railed right now in some hotel, or car, or someone’s shitty man-cave? God, his mind is racing, both aroused at the fact that you must be horny to be constantly wanting to go out like this, but equally as devastated because like…he’s right here.

Who the fuck cares if you babysat him? He’s a man. No longer that child who sprayed cheese in your hair or dumped salt into the bag of sugar. He’s a fucking man, cooking you dinner when you work, parenting your child, cleaning your house, maintaining your pool and fence….He does everything for you, why the fuck don’t you see it?!

Click.

Haechan’s ears perk up instantly at the sound. He sits up on the couch from his depressed slump of scrolling through his phone, quickly fixing his hair and clearing his throat.

In you stumble, right into the little entryway table with a whisper-scream of “Shit, fuck–”

Haechan looks at your state before standing to his feet and rushing to you, helping you balance on your feet despite your footing not quite being grounded even with his help. You lean on him closely, letting out an alcohol scented sigh.

His nostrils flare as he holds his breath, feeling your tit press against his arm, smelling the drinks, the sweat, and the dulled perfume on you. Then, a hint of something else. Musk.

You’ve been with a man.

He holds back a gesture at the way you lean on him. Nothing more he could want at this moment but to hold you tightly and tell you that he’s got you, despite the panic in his stomach at the way he sniffs out another man. Out of lust, love, desperation, frustration. This is the closest you’ve been to him for this long. You feel clammy and cold, a clear indication that you drank far, far too much. Your tank top is sticking to you, your eyes are a bit glassy–

“You’re late.” He says shortly.

“Late?!” You raise your voice before looking at him with drowsy eyes, furrowing your brow. “I don’t have a curfe-”

“Shh–” He shushes you, helping you get to the living room. “She’s sleeping and you’re going to have her make a fuss about waking up.”

You giggle to yourself as he drops you onto the couch, now aware that yes, you are not a single college student anymore. You’re a single woman. A fucking mother.

You should’ve just gotten a hotel for the night and slept there to dream a little longer.

“Right.” You laugh, slouching, spreading out wide against the couch and trying to fix your gaze on him. “Why’re you still awake?”

Haechan fixes his eyes on you, swallowing around a lump in his throat. The way you’re slouching…seemingly forgetting that you’re wearing a skirt and basically flashing your panties at him. God, the things could do to you right now. The things he could get away with if he wanted to. He tries to shake those thoughts for now, and instead, inspects you from head to toe.

He’s never seen you look so relaxed. Chest raising and falling with each breath, hair a little messy, lipstick stains smeared on the outsides of your lip line. He chooses to ignore the faint swell against your neck indicating someone has been sucking on you. But, well, he can’t ignore it. Both his cock and heart aches at the very thought.

“You’ve been kissing?” Haechan tries to ask nonchalantly.

“A lot more than that–” You smile, feeling a flush cross your cheeks before the disappointment hits you square in the gut.

Haechan watches your face fall, and he mimics it by falling onto the couch and sitting by your head…you know, allowing you to lay your head on him if you want to. You’d probably not notice his arousal anyway, given your state.

“Oh?” He asks gently, the disappointment now showing plainly on not just your face, but his own.

“Thought I was gonna go home with him, turns out he decided to be done after a blowjob in the parking lot.”

Oh, the way his blood boils. Not for the fact that you were used or rejected, but for the fact that you found someone that you were interested in and genuinely intended to leave your home life in his hands for however fucking long. Really? Just gonna leave him here all alone? Like he couldn’t do better for you?

“It’s for the better–” Haechan says as he shivers with irritation, struggling to keep his facade up. It’s definitely not what you wanted to hear, and definitely not what you’d have expected to hear from a college guy at all either.

“This happened last time too, except he didn’t even get me to the parking lot.” You huff, unaware of how much you’re sharing right now.

He bites back the anger yet again, inhaling deeply before releasing a calming breath through his nose just to contain it. So…it has happened more than once?

“Why don’t you let me take you out someday?” He says suddenly, well aware that you’ll probably never remember he said it in the first place.

If anything, he’s testing the waters for his own sake. He’d hate himself forever if he didn’t at least take advantage of this moment a little bit.

“Then who will watch my daughter?” You respond in slurred speech, not even comprehending who it is that’s asking you this question right now. Not even thinking about your history with him, or the family ties.

He, on the other hand, is quite entertained by the way you don’t bring the history up like he expected. His cock twitches at it, bumping your head just a bit, not enough for you to notice apparently. Fuck, it would be so easy for him to pull it out right now, and just…tap your lips with it.

Maybe you’d even open your mouth for him.

“I’ll skip class on a Wednesday, we can go while she’s still in daycare.” He continues through an almost-moan, encouraging the conversation to stay positive.

“Donghyuck–” You slur before clearing your throat and sitting back up in a dizzy show of how drunk you are. “You know I can’t do that. It’s too weird.”

In all fairness, you know he has like…a thing for you. After all, why else would a college dude be spending his weekends here babysitting your kid? It’s not like you haven’t noticed the way he checks you out before you go out for the night. Why would he do all of this if he didn’t have some sort of attraction to you? Sure, you’re taking advantage of it as best as you can despite how you didn’t recognize him at first.

Despite how deep down, you very well know how attracted to him you are too.

“Only because you make it weird.” Haechan rolls his eyes as he looks at you, spreading his legs out to adjust his comfort, noting the way you glance down to his lap and see it. “I’m a grown man–” He starts, spreading his legs wider, pressing his cock against his pants to the point you can practically see the outline.”you know this.” He continues, trying to be bold now by reaching forward and moving a strand of your hair from your cheek.

“You’ve seen it.”

You freeze, suddenly feeling entirely too sober to be talking about this kind of thing with him. With Donghyuck. God, his mother would fucking kill you if she found out he’s in your house while you’re out trying to get fucked by whoever is willing to love you temporarily.

Haechan sees you thinking though, and continues to take the advantage now that he’s feeling brave. Now that you’ve seen the twitch in his pants and haven’t moved off the couch, or told him to go home.

“I saw you watching me when I was cleaning your pool, multiple times.” He whispers snidely. “You stopped when you realized who I am. Why?”

“Donghyu–…” You trail off. “You know this isn’t okay. What would people think of me? There are rules, and I will not go down this route with you.”

A rush of air hits your face and suddenly, warmth hits your cheek. You feel him so close, closer than ever before. It’s dizzying. Haechan is over you, hovering with one hand ghosting over your hip.

“You want to though, don’t you?” He gets even closer now, darting his eyes down at your chest and unable to pull them away. “Knowing how good I am with your daughter? How well I clean up? How strong I can be–”

You swallow hard. For a moment, you almost lean into him. You almost melt right then and there, the need for intimacy so heavy inside of you after being left high and dry, knowing that you’d accept it from just about anyone at this point. But– this is Donghyuck. You can’t.

You really, really, can’t.

The look of disappointment in his eyes kind of hurts when you’re pushing him away. That playful smirk falling faster than you think your sanity did the day your ex husband left you.

“This–” You pause, realizing all too well how he’s used your drunken state against you for this conversation. “This is your last paycheck.”

“I don’t think so.” The smirk is back now, except…it’s different. “You know I promised her a Barbie dream house next weekend.” He smiles fully now. “She’s a bit attached, you know, even called me dad by accident the other day.”

You’re shocked.

“She…what?”

“You know she’s attached to me already, don’t be selfish.” Haechan shrugs at you while rolling his eyes, leaning against the couch again and turning his head to look at you. You try to pretend that you don’t see his hand slightly groping himself. “Guess she misses having a father around. Can’t be too easy for her, especially with her mom going out every weekend trying to fuck guys who would run the second they learn about her.” He ticks his tongue now, as if he’s pitying you more than your daughter.

“Donghyuck, that’s not–”

“That’s not, what?”

“That’s not what I’m doing…” You lower your voice to a near whisper, upset that you couldn’t even enjoy the drunken state you came home in, now feeling entirely too sober, and a little sick in the stomach.

“Oh, so you haven’t gotten laid since I’ve been here–” He leans closer again now, trying to resume what he was going to do just moments ago. “They haven’t even touched you, have they?” His hands move to your thigh and presses down as if to hold you in place. “Why?”

“I try not to just sleep with anyone.” You lie, knowing you’d sleep with anyone just to feel wanted for once. And you’re trying to ignore his hands on you right now, trying desperately not to like it. It’s the first time a man has touched you in this house since your husband left you. As expected, you almost feel your knees buckle despite sitting comfortably. “I have to be careful, you know?”

“Mm, I know more than you think.” He leans into you, hovering yet again with his upper half over you as he whispers it. “Don’t need to be careful around me though.” He adds, this time trailing his voice right against your jaw, up to your ear. “You must be so frustrated.” He ghosts his lips there for a moment, waiting for you to push him away, or say something, anything, really.

“Why would I be frustrated?” You lend the smallest of whispers, feeling the goosebumps against your skin rising at the mere thought of giving in just this once.

“Not having anyone to please you.” He adds now, landing a very slight kiss right under your lobe. “Always being used for someone else’s pleasure, maybe?”

You almost nod, feeling weak in your state and thoughts swimming with what if’s, morals, and anxieties. You’re frozen in place despite knowing a simple push would create the distance you need to breathe.

“Your fingers will never be enough, will they?” He continues, essentially chaining you to this couch with his words alone. You can’t help the fight in your head, you need to feel wanted, and you want so badly to feel needed. “I bet you wish someone would love you for all that you are, not all that you have.”

It’s silent as you feel his lips press down again, this time moving his body over you almost entirely. You can feel the couch dip a bit as he places all of his weight on a knee, moving his other leg to stand between yours.

“You must need someone to fill that hole in you by now, right? That pussy of yours?” He continues, his tone a bit more snide now as you give in to his hold with shaky breaths.

And truthfully, Haechan has never let himself come on this strong towards someone before. Usually the wives are doing this to him. They’re trying to convince him, encourage him. He’s so fucking horny right now though, with that daze in your eye, your legs spread around his knee, blinking up at him like a cheating wife. As if you want to apologize, as if you need him to forgive you. Need him to make everything better.

“I heard you the other day, you know, talking to your mom–” He smiles, tilting his head to look into your eyes, seeing a small shine in them. “You want another, don’t you?” He continues, moving his lips now just over yours as he, now, presses you firmly against the couch. “You must hate knowing that I’m the only person who can do that for you.”

“God, Haechan.” You immediately buckle, not realizing how suddenly he’s not Donghyuck at this moment. He’s someone else. He’s Haechan.

“Why don’t you go for girls on campus?! Don’t you have parties to be attending on the weekends instead of being here, trying to parent my chil–”

“Lower that voice of yours,” He whispers, eyes now hooded as he looks at you. “You know she’s asleep.”

God, he’s right.

“Besides, why would I want them when I have you right here under me–” He tilts his head. “Looking so disappointed that you like it, too.”

Right then, your moral code shines into the front of your mind at the consideration of giving in.

A weight on one shoulder chanting, “No! What would people say?! What would people think?!”, and then little to no weight on the other shoulder, echoing in a sweet song of “Finally! Someone who will love you! Finally! Someone! Finally!!! Finally!”

You pause, not knowing at all what to do. Your body wants to push him away, even your mind and soul wants you to push him away. But you know deep down, you’d only push him away to see if he will try again. No man has ever tried for you like this, and you need more of it.

To feel desired after so long of neglecting this side of yourself, it’s enough to make a person lose their footing in reality. To give in to just about anyone willing to look at you the way he is right now. It’s the fact that you go out to try and find it, and even with this alone, Haechan has satisfied you more than any stranger promising to make you cum.

“I…don’t know what to say–” You stutter. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do.” Haechan smiles, glancing at your lips before meeting your eye again. “Why not hand over the reins and relax for a–” His hand dips under your skirt, cupping your sensitive cunt in one hand alone. “Ah, I knew it.” Then, his other hand finds purchase on your chest, lifting your heavy breast in his hand with a blatant, hard squeeze.

After a sharp inhale you look away from him in shame, afraid to admit it despite the truth of it leaking through your panties and onto his palm.

“Wet.” He smiles, no longer looking at you but flicking his eyes back and forth from between your legs, and to your chest. Still, he fumbles around the wet spot, wanting so badly to lift these fingers to his mouth and taste. He’s fantasized about it, about how you’d taste, how warm it would be, what your pussy would feel like against his fingers–

And just as he’s pushing your panties to the side, pads of his fingers touching right where you need them with his eyes hooded and watching you closely, something snaps.

You push his hand away, only to feel him push back, holding you down with more force, gripping your tit tighter, sliding his fingers in before massaging the slit with a blatant moan on his lips. Then, you try again, shoving him back only to hear him chuckle and continue his antics until– you jump to your feet. It felt too good, too grounding to have him touching you like this. You nearly stumble back over the coffee table, but you manage to stand tall and firm despite the fact that even though your mind feels sober, your body is fucking wasted.

“Donghyuck.” You argue immediately, using his name the same way you did when he was a child. “Stop.”

He throws his hands up in defense, raising his brows in surprise.

“I–” He pauses, staring at you. “I thought you were enjoying it, my mistake.”

It’s the fact that you were. You were enjoying it too much, and there would have been no defending your actions if you had given in to the feeling.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid. That’s what you are.

Your ex husband was right all along. Out of everything you’ve accomplished since your heart was shattered, ripped to shreds, stomped on, you’d think it would take a lot more to break you.

“You ask for too much.” Your ex husband had said once. “You can’t even stand to be alone for one day.” He had said a year or so later. Small digs on who you are and what you need sprinkled into small arguments, only to come more and more from the lips that you kissed and promised to kiss until you die. Until all of his words were to make you feel inadequate. Until everything he said to you stuck with you, forcing your confidence to bury itself six feet under.

Are you to blame? As it stands, maybe. Why else would you be allowing yourself to consider it? Consider Donghyuck, you mean. Never in your life would you have considered him of all people to be the one that you need.

Never in your life would you have thought he’d be interested in a woman like you, in a situation like yours, with a child. Why did that night with him stick in your head more than every single mean thing your ex husband said to you? Why did his words seem more believable?

Because you were drunk at the time? Wet, neglected, and drunk?

Then why is it that you’re sitting here on your day off with your beautiful, bright-eyed daughter rummaging through your purse for whatever catches her eye….and you’re thinking about him? About what he's doing right now, how he’s feeling, if he’s eaten.

Why is it that you’ve gone the entire week ignoring his texts, asking if you need him to come resume his job as babysitter? Why the fuck do you want to accept after how he took advantage of your state of mind? After he came onto you and tried to manipulate you?

Despite all of his words ringing true in the back of your head. That was a dirty tactic he pulled on you. Yet, still…you want him back, and god fucking dammit you could cry knowing your daughter called him “dad.” You hadn’t believed him at first, but after this week alone it slipped from her mouth several times.

“He’s not your dad, baby, that’s just Donghyuck.” You remember correcting her more than once, and all she responded to you with was a confused expression.

“Why not?” Is what her little voice gave back to you after her child-like brain decided it was fed up with you correcting her very right assumption of the guy who promised her the Barbie Dream House.

Why not?

Well, if you could have an adult conversation with a five year old it would be much easier to answer that. Because he sprayed cheese in your hair. Because you were seventeen and his babysitter when he was twelve years old. Because you ogled him without recognizing him as your pool boy. Because of a lot of things.

“Uncle Donghyuck.” You finally corrected her again.

She shook her head, and continued doing and saying as her little mind pleased. It made you miss having a father around for her though. You think she needs it more than you do.

And that fucking Barbie Dream house is what brings Haechan back.

Right at your doorstep today, with a gentle knock to the door and a timid smile on his face. He doesn’t even look at you when you open the door, instead he crouches down in front of you with the big, flashy box. He ignores you, tilting himself to look past you and straight at your daughter.

You hold your breath when she runs to Haechan, arms spread open and laughter shrieking in your ears. Your heart aches so much at this moment.

Given your work schedule, you’d never gotten to see them interact much. He always came over as she was eating her breakfast, and you always came home after she was put to bed. You guess it’s fair that they have a bond now. She doesn’t even run at you like she does for Haechan. In fact, the only time she ever does is when she had a bad day at daycare or had a tummy ache.

She runs to you when she needs you, but she runs to Haechan like she wants to. Like she genuinely is attached to him, and his kind smile, and his eyes, and probably that warm embrace that you’ve never let yourself experience.

You watch them, not allowing yourself to melt at the moment because you did not invite him over, nor did you give consent to bring that fucking doll house here. But you can’t say no now, as she clings to his leg when he stands up and looks at you with an almost irritated glint in his eye.

His eyes trail all over you briefly too, as if checking for any new spots or marks that a man could have put on you. You feel seen, dipping your head to not meet his eye and scratching your neck as if to hide a spot there. There isn’t a mark, it’s just…fear? nervousness? anxiety?

And then he hauls the box in for her without saying a word to you. You watch him hard now that his back is turned. His voice sounds so loving when he speaks to your child as if she’s an equal. Plopping down on your living room floor with her and opening the large box.

He Ooo’s and Aahhh’s with her as he pulls each piece out, connecting the walls, the doors, handing her little things to help him with. And both of them are so focused on the task at hand to create a safe space for all of her abused barbie dolls that… you feel invisible.

For the first time ever in front of them both, you feel like you are nothing but a ghost. That he is the single parent. As if you’re forgotten, less loved, not wanted, not even needed.

There’s a bubbling in your gut when you tear up, reminding yourself that what Haechan did that night was probably just, well, he’s a man. Men aim to fuck at all times usually, and you guess you should have expected it at one point from him because, again, you’re aware that he’s attracted to you. Even more aware now.

But the way you feel right now outshines that. He’s ignoring you to keep your child happy. She is ignoring you because it seems Haechan does a better job at it than you do.

And, well, he’s not holding you down, whispering things in your ear, letting out frustrated little sighs at your drunken or drowsy words now. So, you say nothing. All you can do is go to the kitchen and prepare a snack, trying to force the tears to stay inside of you with quiet sniffles, hoping you can join their little picture perfect moment so that you can be helpful too.

Your heart swells when they both look at you as you present a plate of snacks. You have to hold back tears again at the way their eyes shine, thanking you for the snacks. Haechan’s eyes stay on you a bit longer though, as if saying “See? See what you’re making her go without?”

You do see it.

But…it can’t be him. As much as you wish it could be, you just can’t. There has to be another man out there just like him, one that doesn’t have a history with you that would cause whispers and questions. There has to be.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

That moment you witnessed seems to have solidified Haechan’s place in your home. Whether it be for babysitting or simply so your child can see him when she’s asking for him (which is often.) It’s kind of an issue, actually, because now the choice isn’t yours anymore and it appears Haechan knows that.

You hate that you’re forced to see him for what he is now. How he proves himself over and over again to be the man you need. The issue is that you still don’t want it to be him. The bigger issue is that he’s breaking down your walls, doing little things for you, looking at you with those dark eyes– your resolve cracks and reminds you every time he’s here that maybe it could work. Maybe you’ll give him a chance. Maybe you won’t have to go out anymore looking to fill a void that no one else fits into.

It’s the way that now, you can’t help but to compare him to your ex husband. The man who you loved for so long, who you genuinely thought you’d spend your life with happily and safely. Now, compared to Haechan, your ex seems like…nothing. Like a little crack in your resolve. He was older than you by just two years, took care of you for so long, impregnated you, and slowly but surely throughout all that time grew to resent you too.

You still don’t know why, but perhaps it’s just because you were growing into your own. You were becoming more independent, though he never had the capability to realize just how much you depended on him during the very time he left you.

“I just don’t want to do this anymore.” Your ex had said to you on that fateful morning.

Your belly was big as you tried to waddle up to him when he said that. You can’t help but think back now and wonder how pathetic you must have seemed when he yanked his arm from your grip, especially due to the difficulty of your pregnancy already. You were sick through most of it, only having a few good days here or there where that pregnancy glow would make your ex husband second-guess himself.

The slam of the door after that was more exhausting than the months of pregnancy you’d gone through. It felt loud, so loud you could hear it vibrate throughout your whole body. You recall falling to the floor and carefully holding your stomach. It’s like all of the heartbreak pooled there. The loss of your husband three weeks before he got to meet the child he was supposed to love. Her little heart must have been breaking inside of you too.

Double the pain.

And then you were mending yourself on your own. Going into labor early from stress, your family helped take care of you more than her. You were needier. You were broken.

And never, fucking ever, did you think you’d find yourself sitting comfortable in your lavish home realizing that your ex-husband didn’t deserve all of that pain from you. He left you for that girl, and not two months later did she leave him.

Never did you think you’d find yourself thinking about Haechan as a replacement either. Well, not a replacement, but like, maybe just…he’s the idea of a perfect dad if you pay attention to how your child talks about him. How they act together. How she cries for him before bed when he’s not there, asking you why you don’t read to her the way Haechan does. Why don't you sing to her the way he does? Why don't you use the same voices for her dolls? Why you don’t cut her food like he does, why you don’t do this or that.

That’s what makes it click the most you think. The fact that Haechan has given her something you never can. The love of a father. It doesn’t even feel like he’s babysitting at this point, he’s parenting, teaching her lessons, bandaging small boo-boos, fixing her hair,…cooking dinner, cleaning…existing here like he belongs.

Haechan has done more for your daughter than your ex husband ever could have, more than you could have done for her too, you think.

Even now, as you come home night after night and see him, you struggle to see him as anyone that isn’t who your daughter needs. Maybe who you need.

His summer semester is coming to an end too, and it’s hard to see him as a college student now. He really does coursework and everything that needs to be done at your home all within a single work day? With no complaints at all? Lately, you’ve noticed that he’s been more focused on studying when he babysits too, but still your daughter listens to him better than she listens to you.

Yet, still, it’s like you’re avoiding each other as you go through the motions, but you notice him more. You feel more discomfort because of it, mostly because you know your resolve about this is breaking. There’s a fear inside of you that revolves around him.

What if you missed your chance?

What if it does end up being a mistake if he still wants you?

You don’t know what to do, but you know you want him.

Some nights, Haechan does sleep over due to exhaustion and you don’t even ask him to leave because you know he’s not doing it to try anything. The avoidance is loud. Lately, you come home from work and there he is, sitting up with his laptop on his lap but sound asleep, softly snoring. Each time, you remind yourself of how he’s sacrificing his study time to babysit. You know your child can be distracting and needy when she wants something too, but he doesn’t complain even a little bit. The least you could have done was bring him a blanket, which you did. And you woke the next morning to find him curled up on the same couch, laptop toppled over onto the floor.

Small, gentle acts of kindness towards each other but never face to face. You’ve woken to fresh coffee countless times, made exactly the way you like it because you know he’s watched you make it yourself. You’ve come home to re-stocked items, like milk and eggs, laundry detergent, and even toothpaste. It’s nice, and a small indication that he doesn’t resent you. Even through face-to-face avoidance on your part.

Tonight seemed different though, compared to all of the other nights when you can’t go out. You walked through the door to the smell of dinner and your child still awake, sing-songing at you the moment you walked in.

“Dad said I can stay up late!”

You quirk a brow, her calling him that now becoming a regular occurrence to the point it goes through one ear and out the other for you. You recall discussing her bed time though, with absolutely no exceptions.

“Did he now?” You hug her before taking off your cardigan, walking with her to the kitchen where you find Haechan, placing down a small plate on the table with cartoon characters on it, right in front of two bigger plates with bigger portions of delicious looking food placed neatly on it.

Your heart swells, but your anxiety grows twice as big alongside it. This.

This is what you’ve wanted for so long. This is what you never thought you could find. So, why is it that you still have push-back in your mind? Despite knowing that Haechan has proven himself time and time again, you want to argue?!

Perhaps it’s because you like the way he tries. Maybe you’re not ready to lose that feeling of being chased in some way, of being begged to let him stay. Maybe it’s because you begged your husband, desperate for him to keep you, but he left anyway. It feels like Haechan gives you power over yourself, over your love-life, over everything, really.

And if you were to actually accept his advances, even just a dinner on your table, what if he stops? What if he gets bored once he gets what he wants? After all, he’s still young, you can’t truly imagine he wants to do this forever.

Not with you, and not with your daughter either.

“What’s all this? Isn’t it a bit late for her to have dinner?” You question him instantly, anxiety bubbling up out of assumption alone.

“We had a small snack a few hours ago.” Haechan reassures you. “I finished my exams and had a burst of energy to celebrate, besides, it’s a Friday–” He goes to pull out a chair for you. “You don’t need to be up early either. A late dinner every now and then never hurt anybody.”

The way this is the first time the two of you have had a face-to-face conversation since…that night. His voice calms you, and that’s scary.

You huff, happy because you could easily melt into this chair and pretend you’re having a family dinner, like you always wanted, like you never rejected a touch from him that you desperately wanted. You could just play along and pretend Haechan is everything you need. Except, it wouldn’t even be pretending at this point. The whole idea of him has changed. But, again, that anxiety. You still have that little voice holding you back, no matter what you want, or what you need, you fear it’ll be ripped from you again if you were to let yourself be weak for another person.

“I’m really tired, Donghyuck.” You explain, walking past the kitchen and towards your bedroom. “Thanks for dinner but I’m not too hungry and I just want to lay down.”

And with that, he watches you leave. No real appreciation, no congratulations on him finishing his exams, not even a kiss to your child’s forehead. Is he still expected to be the one to put her to sleep?

Why is he even here? Why did he do all of this?

His patience is running dry.

So, he eats with your child as your plate goes cold and he leaves it there. If you can’t even handle a dinner at the table with the person who cooked it, you can deal with your own fucking plate. Throw away your own fucking food, wash your own fucking dish. And if you can’t tuck your child into bed, he’ll do it, but you can shove that fake ass exhaustion right up your ass for all he cares.

He knows you’re not exhausted. He’s seen you when you are. You’re just being an asshole to him at this point, trying to appear like you’re perfectly happy with the life you live when your drunken rants prove otherwise. You treat him like everything he does has an ulterior motive. Which, yeah, maybe it does, but he was genuinely excited to have someone celebrate the end of this semester with him. Maybe assuming you’d indulge him went too far. For the first time, he wasn’t doing it to impress you.

By the time Haechan gets your daughter to bed, all tucked in with a little tune to fall asleep to, he closes her door and just stands there in the silence on the other side of it.

You must really enjoy being a single mother, huh? This is why too. He always questioned it. You’re so attractive, so well-adjusted. You work hard, your daughter is a sunshine in this world, and you’ve not managed to find anyone to love you yet? He thought he was lucky to be the one getting to spend time with you.

Turns out, you refuse to let anyone in despite Haechan knowing, fucking seeing straight through you. You want something from someone. You need it, yearn for it, even. But it’s almost laughable at the way you refuse it.

Excuses, excuses, excuses.

It’s the fucking audacity you have taking advantage of him. You’ve practically led him on. You lend him everything he wants in life. That’s it. You lend it. From flaunting yourself before you go to bars, to exposing all the marks you allow other men to leave on you. Letting him stay in this house, father your child, cook, clean, mend, fix, heal.

From being a faux-father to being minimized to a college student that you used to babysit. He’s offered you relief in so many ways including sexual, and all you fucking do is avoid, deny, fucking reject him. You still go out to bars, later and later you’ll come home with new swells against your skin, but always looking so empty and disappointed. Sometimes he thinks you try to make him jealous. Sometimes, he thinks you want him to try again.

Sometimes, he thinks you get off on the fact that he keeps trying.

And he has tried. Albeit more gently lately, but he has. Small, lingering touches when he hands you your coat to help you get out the door and to work quicker. Starting your car for you before you leave. Fuck, he even opens the goddamn door for you. Anything to make you feel appreciated, respected, and fucking wanted.

The silence is loud in his ears due to the sheer irritation as he drops his head, staring at his feet and knowing it’ll only take a few strides to reach your bedroom. A room he still craves to be in.

He’s raided those drawers by now, because of course he has. Soiling your panties, your sheets, anything that still smells like you when you’re gone for the day, all so he can act normal upon seeing you when you come home. He’s laid in your bed by now too, wondering what it would feel like to have your weight beside him. He fantasized about anything and everything he possibly could in there.

And he’s always warmer. Always cums the hardest with weak, muffled moans as he stuffs your pillows into his mouth to keep quiet. All before cleaning every trace of himself there, closing the door, and wishing he was allowed to exist in there with you.

Right now will be the first time Haechan enters your room to your knowledge, and it sucks for him because he has essentially trained himself to get hard every time he opens this fucking door. Still, he composes himself, and it’s a bit of a shock if you’re being honest. You thought he’d go home after this, you were kind of hoping he would after you made it so awkward.

You felt guilty the second you saw his expression fall to your rejection of eating dinner like a big fucking happy family. You want it so bad, you want him so bad.

When you left the kitchen, you immediately went to your room and hopped in the shower, well aware that he wouldn’t follow you. You thought hard while the hot water made attempts to wash away your feelings. Would it have been so bad to just eat with him? With your daughter? With both of them? The way his eyes fell, it burned your heart a little bit.

Still, no answers came to you because you know part of you just wants to see what else he will do for you. Despite the history with him, and despite knowing his entire family would question and scoff at you for it…Is it really so wrong? To want to give him a chance just to see if he’ll leave you too?

Just to see if it’ll hurt when he does it too?

Inviting him to your home almost every day of the week isn’t wrong, right? Forgetting to pay him all those times before, hoping to see him again and get that confidence boost, that wasn’t wrong. Letting your daughter attach herself to him when you swore he wasn’t permanent, no longer having the energy to correct her use of “dad” towards him… none of that is wrong.

It’s all Haechan. He’s the one in the wrong for willingly following along, not you. Right?

And as you’re sitting on your bed in your towel, zoning out and staring at your floor, Haechan swings your bedroom door open without a single knock, mindfully closes it, and immediately goes off on you.

Somehow, you really expected him to accept your rejection but your heart swells that he didn’t. You don’t think he ever will, and you’re exhausting yourself hoping he’ll prove you wrong.

He’s shown you enough by now. This is what breaks down that wall inside of you, isn’t it?

“What am I doing wrong?” He shoots his first question out in a desperate whisper shout, eyes searing into you before continuing without a single breath. “Because I do everything for her, and i do everything for you, does that really make you so fucking uncomfortable?”

“D–” You try to respond, feeling your skin prickle at the sheer irritation in his expression.

He’s fighting for you.

“Isn’t that what you want?!”

“After everything I do–” He throws his hands up now, running his fingers through his hair as if you make him feel like he wants to rip it out. “After trying to make your life easy while making mine harder, for what? You to not eat the fucking food I made? For you to go to the bar all the time just to come back disappointed like I’m not right here waiting for you to come back?”

“What ar-”

“Don’t ask me any stupid fucking questions, Just answer me.” He drops his hands, stepping up to you, placing both hands on either side of your hips, doing his best not to react to your near-naked body. “Why?”

You lean back, trying to create more distance to try and give him an answer that you don’t even know yourself, but he just keeps closing in. Not letting you escape this time. You’ve never seen him so riled up before, it’s…

Well…

“Because I came onto you? Because I tried to do what no one else will do for you?” His voice shakes when he says it, and you can feel the heat radiating from him. Is he…about to cry?

Only now, seeing him so close with an entirely sober brain do you realize an answer. Maybe not to his question of why, but to the same question you’ve been asking yourself. It’s because of that look in his eye. You’ve never been able to put a word to it, but now with him demanding you explain yourself so closely, you see it.

He’s desperate.

Arguably as desperate as you’ve felt to fill the void. Except, he’s trying to do that for you and you won’t let him out of what? Fucking fear? Hell, at this point the history means close to nothing when it comes to all the new memories he’s made in this home, even without you. The history of babysitting him, the history of your ex husband leaving you. It doesn’t matter.

You think hard, so hard that you feel your eyes burn as you stare up at him. Glancing without intention to his jaw when he clenches it, to his neck when he swallows his words, to his lips, his eyes, the hair falling in his face…and you just–

You reach up, running a soothing hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Then you see those same desperate eyes somehow grow more desperate as he lowers them, leaning into the touch, as if you’ve been starving him the same way you’ve been starved for years. He falls silent too, cutting himself off mid-question just to feel you touch him for the first time.

“I don’t know.” You say, which seems like a better answer than having an excuse. What can you say otherwise? That it’s because it shouldn’t be him? That you’re afraid he’ll realize he’s not ready to settle? To be a dad? He’ll ask why, and it’ll be the same answer you gave on that drunken night. An answer that you no longer care about.

You babysat him when he was a child, but you were still a child too.

You were still a child, and time changes things.

Your ex husband left you, and you’re afraid he will too, especially because he’s so much younger? Who cares?

Your answer seems to fly right past his head though, because he’s still leaning to feel your fingers in his hair, and he’s looking at you as if nothing you say will matter unless you make it hold some weight to him.

“Donghyuck–” You pause, scratching right at his nape, uncaring of how you can feel your towel loosening on your body. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Somehow, his name on your lips is what he needed to hear. The tone of it, the rasp in your voice, your fingers in his hair. Actions speak louder than anything the two of you could say right now, and he can’t help it. Nothing can stop him, not even you at this point.

He hasn’t done anything wrong you say? It’s because he fucking knows what you need.

You inhale deeply, holding your breath when you feel your back hit your mattress, his warm hands instantly taking advantage of your freshly-showered state and tugging at the towel just slightly to let it fall open. You hear a slight breath from him at that moment, an inhale. There, he climbs onto the bed, nudging himself between your legs and trapping you there under him, both hands holding your arms down.

Like he’s afraid you’ll reject him again.

“You’re going to let me take care of you now.” He demands, though to him it sounds more like a plea solely due to the fact that he’s so fucking turned on it’s unreal. That feeling of when your fingers were in his hair? Seeing your naked body? Unshaved pussy? Being in this fucking room with you? It throws him into overdrive, especially with the way you just lay there blinking up at him in surprise. The anger melting away only amplifies it more.

How could you do this to him? Genuinely, how could you have let him fucking suffer for you like this?

Still, you blink up as if you’re a deer caught in headlights and it makes his heart thump against his ribcage. Your eyes are so bright, that glint of sadness he had seen so many times isn’t there right now. And there’s so much adrenaline inside of him, like he needs to move fast before you change your mind again. You’ve not let him do this for some fucking reason or another and now you’re just laying here for him.

There, with your entire body on display, and you appear to be docile. Fucking obedient? Like he always knew you would be if you’d just drop the fucking act?! You were meant for him and him alone, and he’s going to show you why.

In all honesty, you’re tired of denying yourself by now. From the moment you saw him that day cleaning your pool for the first time, you’ve wanted him on some level. It wasn’t an emotional attachment, but a hope, a fantasy for you. And when you recognized him, you were more impressed with him than embarrassed. You tried not to let your eyes wander out of guilt, out of feeling like a pervert.

And then, that day when he came onto you, he was just a man to you. Your faux guilt kept you from letting him, and your hope to be chased kept you from it too. As if you’ve never pleasured yourself to the thought of him, shamefully in this very bed. As if you’ve never called out his name with a silent breath. If you keep going at this point, you’ll lose him before ever knowing what he could really be for you.

This is his last ditch effort to beat you at your own game, and you’re ready to lose.

So, now, you let yourself get lost in him. In his eyes and the way he pleads and makes his demands. He probably doesn’t recognize his strength against you right now, or how much it’s turning you on. With the way he has both hands on your wrists, probably bruising them, and there’s nothing you could do even if you wanted to. His weight holding you down feels better than you imagined.

After so long, with so many failed hookups where you’ve told them of your daughter and all they’ve done in return is get their orgasm then leave…Haechan. He wants to take care of you?

He wants to…give you what you need?

Fuck, you know he can. That’s the fucked up part. He’s proved it so many times to you in so many ways. You’ve watched him, the way he moves and acts around you. He’s exactly what you need.You pushed him to this point, where his sanity is on the brink of crashing. Taking it away from him again feels wrong, because it’s exactly what you want.

And when he presses his leg between yours, he knows.

“Again?” He comments, now releasing your wrist from one hand and running it down, able to slip his fingers right into the slick of your bare pussy. “You’re wet.”

You still just blink up at him with an intake of breath at the pleasure, thoughts running left and right on what to do, finally realizing you don’t want to do a damn thing. He’d do it all if you let him. Clean your house, be a father, fix all of the breaks, make you wet.

And you just feel him, the way his fingers play around with what he does to you. You can practically feel his confidence rise at the way you spread your legs a bit more, as if to give him more access. When you look at him, his expression remains harsh, but slowly he moves himself down, lips brushing over one of your nipples while keeping eye contact.

Still that irritated look, like he’s mad you haven’t let him do this before now.

“How many times are you going to pretend like I’m not the one who gets you wet?” He asks before rubbing circles around your clit, tongue flicking in the same way around your nipple. “Like I don’t have a right to take care of you?”

Your breath is still caught in your throat, trying to be careful about what you say right now despite knowing you can’t speak. You focus on what he’s doing instead, losing yourself to something you’ve not felt in far, far too long.

He’s right. He’s gotten you wet more than once by now. More than he knows.

And goddamn, he knew your tits could bounce, but the way they move without the support of a bra, the plush, soft feeling of your nipple growing erect in his mouth, all for him to bite and pull at. He does it too, listening to the little seething sound of pain from you when he pulls all the way back with your nipple between his teeth. Only to let it fall from his mouth and break eye contact with you to see the jiggle as it falls.

His cock twitches, at everything that you are right now, feeling more pleasure through seeing you like this alone compared to fucking his own fist on your bedroom floor. He notes how your legs squeeze him more at the nipple stimulation than his fingers too, memorizing the way your labia falls open between them. He smirks, flicking his tongue more, quicker.

There. There it is.

A low rumble in your chest falls from your lips. Soft, a moan. A very small, delicate sound.

“You like this?” Haechan asks, looking up at you, letting his tongue fall from his mouth again and flicking the erect nub. “When I play with your tits?”

You nod, throwing an arm over your face in embarrassment that this is actually happening. You’re letting him. Already you feel yourself heat up more, even when he takes his fingers away from your clit and instead, uses them to flick your other nipple.

And he does this for a few minutes. Paying special attention to your tits, going back and forth with his fingers and tongue to each bud, trying so hard to not stop just to shove his cock between them and use them the way he’s always wanted. He focuses on drawing out more and more little sounds from you instead, slurping his own saliva from your painfully erect nipples, pulling back, blowing cold air, then warming it up again with his lips. All while simultaneously groping, flicking, and pinching with his other hand.

“Jesus, Haechan–” You moan quietly, chest rising and falling as he squeezes and licks against you.

That’s right, say his name. Let him fucking know he’s doing what you like. Haechan thinks, feeling his cock weep in his pants as he does it. Wondering just how sensitive you are to be reacting like this to simple nipple stimulation. God, he’s wanted to suck on these for so long, and now you’re letting him. They’re so big, so plush. He wants to fucking cover them with his mouth, he wants to bury his face in them, kiss them all over them.

And if they were to get bigger? He moans at the thought, remembering that conversation you had with your mom. You want another. He bets they’d swell up–Oh, fuck yeah. They’d probably hurt to rub against your shirt. God, fuck, he can’t control his thoughts right now.

Finally.

Fucking finally, he has you and he’s not going to let you run away again.

He doesn’t fucking care if it’s forward. He wants what he wants, you want what you want. That want just so happens to line up. Besides, he’s already proved himself to you, he knows it. If you’re letting him do this, maybe you’d let him stay like this.

“Did they get bigger?” He moans briefly as he swaps to your other nipple again. “So full, so heavy, were they leaking all over you?”

You listen to him, trying not to feel the pit in your stomach bubble with even more arousal at his blatant and dirty words, feeling your clit throb at the stimulation your tits are getting right now.

“Makes my dick fucking throb just thinking about it. Fuck–”

“Let me give you another,” He mumbles now, almost mindlessly before looking up at you with an intense gaze as he bites down, indicating that he’s not mindless about it at all.

“Swell you up, make you glow–”

Oh.

Why is that– why are you dripping?

He hears that moan you let out. Different from the others, almost desperate.

“Mm, yeah.” He encourages it, now allowing his hand to travel back down to witness how much wetter you’ve gotten at those words. So messy, so perfect. “Knew you’d want it raw.”

You can’t help the nod, as it comes before you even process his words solely because you feel his fingers slip inside of you. You haven’t been this wet in so, so long. You want to feel it. To be full again, of anything. Of him.

“Ye-” You start, interrupting yourself with a bite of your lip and your eyes rolling back.

“That’s right mama,” He coos, tilting his fingers up and amplifying the pressure inside of you. “Gonna let me take good care of this pussy, yeah?” He adds, lifting from your tits and ghosting his lips over yours.

He watches you closely, that daze in your eye. God, you look so horny right now. There’s nothing more he wants than to see this time and time again. To let you wake up every morning with his warm cum inside of you, to see your belly swell with his child, to see your tits grow until they hurt.

He’d take care of you. He’d take good fucking care of you.

“Say something.” Haechan whispers against your lips, darting his tongue out against your lips, angling his fingers up and making you moan. “Say you want me to give it to you raw.”

You open your mouth, feeling his tongue lick and swallow up that moan you just gave him before you try to compose yourself. You can’t help it, you’re so, so sensitive right now and you can’t help but find it incredibly sexy to be here, laid bare, while he’s still fully clothed.

Like he really is doing this for you. He’s not trying to get his own orgasm and leave. You’re weak and those words of “let me give you another” shines in your head. Weak, you’re weak. You should be thinking about condoms, you should be thinking about the consequences of this.

But you’re not.

You do like it raw.

“Haechan–” You stutter as you try to grasp the reality of his words, feeling his fingers repeatedly hit right where you need it. “I’m…not protected.”

He moans. Loudly, before huffing out an irritated groan.

“You must really want it then.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Going out all the time trying to get fucked–”

He plunges his fingers in again, deep, and holds them there as he pulls back to look at you. To really look at you, then he glares.

“You’d really let just some fucking dude give you a baby?”

You repeatedly shake your head.

“No!” You retort, thrusting your hips up. “I just–”

“Mhm,” He pulls his fingers out now, sliding himself down so fast that you can barely comprehend him sucking your clit into his mouth before pulling back in a moan at the taste of you. “If mama wants another, daddy will give her one.” He says now, as if to pacify you.

As if to give you everything.

And you’d argue, really, you would. You want another child so bad, but this is– it’s too soon. You haven’t even established a relationship with him yet. Boundaries haven’t been discussed. His college plan– but fuck it’s not entirely your fault that you’re like, super turned on by the idea of it. To the thought of being so filled with cum that there’s no possible way you couldn’t end up pregnant. An indication that, no matter what, no man at a club could fulfill the arousal for you even if they cared to do it.

You’d never have let them actually fuck you raw.

Haechan though…how can you keep telling him no?

How could you reject him again when you want it so badly?

Fuck now, think later.

“Yeah–” You say against your better judgement, hands reaching down to his hair so you can grind up against his mouth, lost to the arousal as you mimic what he referred to himself as. “Daddy?”

You feel his mouth fall slack at that, as if you’re accepting him in full now. You feel your clit hit nothing in his open mouth, but it throbs harder.

He knew you were slightly into him for letting him do this at all, but now, you’re truly accepting it. Like you know he’ll fucking do it, like you want him to fucking do it.

“That’s right,” He moans against your clit as he licks at it, barely able to comprehend your voice calling him that but clinging to it all the same. “Gonna let daddy do it all for you.”

Yeah. You are. You’re gonna let him do it. All of it.

And then, the room is enveloped in quiet moans, more from Haechan than from you due to your breath being stuck in your throat. His tongue, licking every part of your sensitive cunt, his hands reaching back up to your tits, fondling, pinching, painfully tugging at them as he moans louder, louder, louder for you to want him.

He presses his hips up and against your mattress as he tastes you, so deeply it hurts his cock to neglect it like this. Each rub feels raw, twitching and pulsing to be let out, to be inside of you, on you, against you. Filling you up with his cum, plugging it in as a promise that you can’t leave him even if you wanted to.

He’s going to fucking do exactly what he said he would.

And only when you feel his tongue lap against your hole do you finally release your breath, “Daddy” coming out in a choked back sob. It breaks him, his body going into overdrive as he pulls back and just– stares at you with wild eyes.

You stare back up at him, knowing that calling him that means something more than a cringe little roleplay kink. It means something deeper to him. He wants to be a dad, a real one.

“Oh yeah?” He finally says, hands going straight to his button and zipper.

You can’t help it, biting your lower lip as you blink up, watching his shoulders move, the veins on his arms protruding as he rushes to pull it out and– oh. You moan at it, the way his heavy, slicked up, cock falls out, dark, needy.

“Daddy–” You urge him on, knowing that it’s driving him absolutely insane.

“Mhm?” He shuffles himself off the bed, letting his pants drop as he lifts his shirt off of him and fucking glares at your tits. “You want daddy’s cock?” He adds now, shooting his eyes up to you as both of his hands land on your legs.

Your mind goes blank when you feel him slide his hands around to the back of your thighs, pushing your legs forward, curling you in on yourself, forcing your pussy to be out and on display for him.

And you watch him, the way he stares down at it. It’s embarrassing to be so seen right now, not having expected to get fucked open by anyone tonight, let alone him. You probably should have shaved or something, or like, not gotten out of the habit in the first place. But he moans at it, mouth falling open at the fact that you are entirely a fucking woman.

A fucking mother.

The prettiest pussy he’s ever fucking seen let alone tasted.

And he moans, breaking the silence, forgetting only for a moment how long he’s been wanting this. It boosts your confidence more than you’ve ever felt. His reaction to this is more than your ex husband’s reaction to you when you were pristine and borderline pornstar quality.

Haechan doesn’t see you as used and neglected, he just sees you. And this. This is the pussy he wants. This is what he wants to put his baby in.

When he flicks his eyes back to you, with that same open mouthed expression, it knocks the breath out of you. There’s so much love in his eyes, or maybe lust, you don’t care. You think you’re matching that expression for him too, because it’s like he can’t hold back anymore. He can’t just sit and look at you anymore.

He just can’t.

And you feel it, his thick head pushing past the tightened, pulsing hole and not stopping. He pushes in slowly, painfully slow, to the point you’re both looking at each other with a slack jaw. Finally. The pain of it, the pleasure, the fucking need you’ve been trying to fulfill.

That look on your face drives him wild too, he knows he has you by now. You like it, you love the way he slides in and makes damn sure you feel it. Every second of the slide pries you open, and he wants to remember this moment forever. He wants you to fucking remember too.

Wants you to know that no one will ever fit inside of you so perfectly, so deeply.

When he finally bottoms out, he leans forward to keep himself buried deep as he ghosts his lips over yours. He feels the way you try to kiss him, but he pulls back with a confident smirk.

“When was the last time you’ve felt a cock so deep in you?” He whispers hotly, knowing you need not answer. Knowing you won’t answer, not with the way you’re instantly lifting your head and kissing him.

Your pussy pulses around him when you lick into his mouth, the first real kiss sending his heart soaring. He twitches inside of you with each squeeze, and kisses you harder, deeper. And somehow, it brings tears to your eyes.

The way he kisses, the way he makes you feel him. Fuck, the way he makes you feel whole, so wanted, like you’re amazing to him. In more ways than just a body to fuck, but he’s stuck around despite all of your avoidance and rejections. You hope you’re making it worth it.

Fuck, you need to feel worth it to him.

“You’d better not fucking pull out.” You groan through a breath, his lips still kissing you through your words as he finally pulls his hips back, fucking in once.

Hard.

Honestly, could you have said anything else at this moment? He’s trying to make this last, he needs it to last. If you keep fucking talking, saying everything he’s ever wanted to hear–

“Fuck,” He moans, his hands moving up to your cheeks as he licks into your mouth. “You can’t–” He continues, fucking in again, moving your body up with each thrust do to the sheer force of him trying to plunge in as deep as he can. “You can’t fucking say that to me right now.”

You’re seeing stars though, unable to say anything else as your eyes roll back at the way the head of his cock practically kisses your cervix with each push into you. He’s so rough, so desperate for it.

You don’t think he expected you to respond either, with the way he keeps his lips on yours, his body pressed so closely that having your legs to your chest means nothing to him now. Mating press be damned, he’s lost his mind to the feeling, not the aesthetic of being a fucking dad.

Your legs wrap around him instead, and he’s all too happy to feel it. Your legs hug him the same way your arms do, the same way your pussy does, and he’s fucking in love with you.

He braces one hand back against your leg, holding it against his hips as he continues to fuck forward, still at the same pace. Deep and with purpose. Every few seconds the bursts of pleasure run through him, making him shiver and moan into your mouth. Little grunts, near whimpers for you to let him give you the world.

More than this. More than fucking, more than taking care of you, more than anything he could ever possibly give you. He’ll find a way.

And then, you’re clenching hard, matching his near-whimpers except moaning in full pants, babbling and drooling cries against his mouth.

“Mama–” Haechan soothes, continuing his pace as he tilts his head back to get a good look at that lost gaze in your eyes. “You’re crying?”

You nod with a laugh, tears rolling down the same way the wet of your cunt slips down your ass. You’ve never felt so good, so fucking full. And for some reason, that does him in. Making it last be damned, he genuinely thinks he’s won you over. He can make it last next time, he can do more next time, he can–

He leans back all the way now, onto his knees as your legs try to hug him back to you, and his eyes go straight back to those tits. The way he made a promise. The way they bounce, slick with his sweat from pressing against you.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” He grunts in a breath, now quickening his pace and snapping his hips. Pulling out all the way briefly to plunge into your again. “Can’t get any deeper–” He continues, flicking his eyes from your face, to your tits, to that beautiful pussy of yours swallowing him up.

Now his eyes roll back, hands going back to your thighs to push you back into position. No way in hell can he last, not at a pace like this, inside of a woman like you.

“Don’t pull out.” You repeat again in a breath, seeing his face and the way he focuses solely on you. You know he’s going to cum, and you want him to. You want to feel it, every single fucking drop of it.

“Yeah?” He nods his head with laser-focus on your pussy now, staring down as he points tight, short thrusts inside of you. “Momma wants my cum? Hm?”

Oh, he’s fucking gone.

“She likes it?” He continues to talk himself up. “Likes being so fucking full of it? Yeah?”

Goddamn, fuck, he’s insane.

“Yes, daddy–” You whisper-shout, fingers shooting to your clit, other hand raising to your mouth to silence the moans as to not be too loud.

“Fuck, yeah you do.” He lets out a near growl, his voice low and rumbled as he slaps your hand away, pressing hard on your clit with his thumb as he buries himself in you once more and stiffening his abs. “That’s right.”

And instantly upon feeling him pulse, that first spurt of cum painting your insides, you lose yourself with him. Your fingers drop from your mouth and you release a pornographic moan for him, rutting yourself against him, as if to fuck it deeper into you.

It only prolongs the orgasm though, for both of you.

Haechan is silent, trying to keep his eyes open through the pleasure as you pulse and squirt around him, his thumb pressing so hard into your clit, his cock cumming so deep, filling you up so well– He wants to see it. Wants to watch you fall apart for him. Wants to witness the way you let him do this.

And he holds himself there, so hard and so full of pleasure for you. Keeping himself practically impaled against your cervix until your body falls slack. Still, he fucks it into you, holding you in place with a softer moan now. No longer guttural or deep from his chest. His breathing is rough, a soft, near feminine moan leaves his lips as he falls forward onto you.

You wince along with him at the sensitivity, panting, a sweating tangle of a mess the two of you have become. And it’s the fact that it’s the first time you’ve ever gotten off at the same time as someone else. You feel…soft.

Your hands find their way to his hair as his face squished against your tits while he regains breath, not daring to move his hips because your pussy is too warm to leave right now. You brush the sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes, running your fingers all the way back to his nap, and then slowly down his back to rub and scratch.

He shivers at the feeling, humming the same feminine-tone he had released previously. And all he can do is hear your heart thumping against your chest, even through these soft tits of a pillow he’s lying against.

Haechan never wants to move again, not from this spot, ever.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“You know I’m in love with you, right?” Haechan mentions briefly after a long moment of silence, looking up at you with his wet hair.

Deep in the night, your food still cold and on the table, you’ve found yourself freshly showered and on your living room couch with Haechan’s head on your lap. He made sure to have stayed long enough inside of you to implant…something if it was going to happen. So he didn’t argue a shower, and you didn’t argue letting him join you either.

He had washed you, gently running his hands between your legs with what you can only describe as the softest, most alluring face a man has ever given you. Like he won the lottery, or found the answer to eternal life or something. You repaid him by letting him admire your tits again while you jerked him off, but that’s besides the point.

“Like, I’m not going to leave. I hope you know that.” He adds with a soft groan to your hands still in his hair. His new favorite thing.

You look down at him, hand moving to his cheek as the words hit you in the chest.

There’s anxiety along with happiness, at all of the boundaries and serious conversations that will need to be had now, but still, you feel like you’re glowing when he looks at you.

He didn’t even have to say it, and arguably you probably don’t need to say it back either. You think he sees it in you. Even if he didn’t, you think he’d take anything you give to him and cling to it. After all, it only took one time for you to break entirely for him.

“Are you now?” You smile with a chuckle, looking back to the tv and pretending to watch it. “Well, that’s good. Otherwise I’d be making you go get a plan B or something.”

His eyes narrow at you.

“Like hell I’d let you, even if I didn’t love you.” He groans. “But I do, so don’t ever say that shit again.”

You chuckle, feeling the calm in your home that once felt so chaotic. It’s quiet now, both inside and outside of your head.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

He looks at you with question, quirking a brow.

“For finishing your finals, I mean.” You smile, going back to petting through his hair and feeling like you’re on top of the world, despite what you assume to become half of your world lying his head on top of you.

“Oh, right.” He smiles, now turning his head to watch the tv. “I probably failed them.”

You don’t believe that, but even if he did, you think you could be what he needs too. He wouldn’t have to work if he didn’t want to.

If he’s really in love with you, all he’d have to do is…not leave.

“Are you sure you want to be having these conversations with me? You can just call it a hook-up.” You finally say, hoping he means it, knowing it breaks your heart a bit to give him an out. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m going to trap you here just because I’m a little smitten too.”

Haechan glares, blinking up at you.

“I literally just tried to put a baby in you.”

That’s fair.

“And you’re not going to run off? Get cold feet?”

“Can you stop doubting me and just let me do what I want for once?” He argues playfully. “Do you even know how much that barbie fucking dream house costed me? I couldn’t run even if, for some stupid ass reason, wanted to. I love her too.”

Silence for a moment.

“Maybe even more than I love you.”

You really, really, want to believe him.

So, you do.

3K notes · View notes

ryorecs · 4 months ago

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might just be the best series in all of nct tumblr fics????????????

THE PROMISCUOUS TUTOR (M) | PART ONE

SERIES MASTERLIST LINK | remember this is part three and a half of a series! read part one & two for context!

PAIRING | tutor!jaemin x reader

SYNOPSIS | na jaemin is too sexy to be holed up in the campus library, but once you catch wind of what he does between the shelves, you know it’s your time to see just how well his reputation proceeds him.

WC | 15.3k

WARNINGS | cursing, mentions of alcohol, sexual comments, vouyerism, explicit smut, choking, hair pulling, so sorry to the jaehyun stans this chapter :(, pink-haired jaemin. mc does some hoe shit idk.

A.N | tumblr is being stupid and won't let me put it all in one part, so i'm splitting it into two. the next part will be linked on the masterlist / uploaded in a few! please send asks after you finish reading. i want to hear your thoughts!

Typically, the University dining hall is one of the loudest places on campus at any given time.

However, you’re becoming increasingly aware of how eerily silent it is at the ass crack of dawn – and how unbelievably loud Jaemin is.

It’s one thing if he was whisper-yelling about midterms coming up, but the dude was dishing some very personal details while sifting through a pan of scrambled eggs. And there was no whispering.

None.

None at all.

Jaemin wanted to make sure you heard his frustration. So, loud and proud, with his entire chest, he piles a heaping serving of eggs on his plate while conversating at the top of his lungs.

“...then we flipped positions, but she got the angle wrong and bent my dick–”

Jaemin's voice carried across the dining hall, prompting you to offer an apologetic smile to the staff member stationed at the food line. However, he just yawns tiredly and turns around to continue flipping pancakes on the griddle.

They obviously didn’t get paid enough to care about Jaemin and his dick bending episode, so you moved along behind the boy, piling up your own plate with the dining halls incredibly mid breakfast.

“. . . and I didn’t even mean to fall asleep, but we went so many rounds I just closed my eyes for two seconds, next thing I know it’s five am and I wake up to Haechan calling me –”

The mention of his name makes your head snap up. “Haechan?”

Jaemin stops at the soda machine and pours a cool glass of Gatorade into a clear plastic cup. “Yeah, he was totally freaking out, wondering why I hadn’t come home.” He chuckles before moving on to find a table. You grab a water bottle and scurry to keep up. “Like I don’t disappear for pussy all the time.”

At this early hour, you could have had your choice of seats in the café, but in typical Jaemin fashion, he zeroed in on an elevated platform encircling the main dining area. It was a nice spot – next to a cluster of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the quad and few academic buildings. But again, at this hour, especially with it being a Sunday, there wasn’t much to look at. Just a few workers maintaining the lawn and a solitary squirrel.

It wasn’t like you were going to be staring out the window much though. His words had captured any wandering attention.

"...and he asked if I had heard from you, which is why I texted.” Jaemin scoops up a hearty forkful of scrambled eggs and eagerly pops it into his mouth, a mischievous grin forming on his lips.

The jolt of surprise that courses through your veins is unmistakably reflected in your expression. "Me? Why would he be asking about me?" you blurt out, your nerves getting the best of you.

Shit.

So Haechan had woken up and noticed your absence. A pang of guilt tightens your chest and makes you cringe on the inside. What a shitty thing to do. Take his virginity and then all but bail on him.

But he was cool with it being a one-time thing, you argue with yourself.

Jaemin interrupts your internal debate through a mouthful of pineapple, “I don’t know but he seemed kinda mad. You didn’t piss him off, did you?”

To avoid an immediate answer, you shove a forkful of syrup slathered pancakes into your mouth and chew slowly. When you swallow, it feels like a lump is stuck in your throat. But maybe that was just your guilty conscience trying to choke the life out of you.

“I don’t think I did anything.” You shrug, the words sounding less convincing than you’d hoped. A thought pops into your head, diverting the conversation momentarily, “Wait. You went home to shower, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

You lean in a bit, your tone hushed, “So… did you see him?”

Jaemin cards a hand through his faded pink hair and shakes his head, “I mean yeah, but he just said good morning and shut his door. I invited him to breakfast, but I don’t think he heard me.”

As his words sink in, a mix of relief and concern mingles within you. The last thing you needed was Haechan tagging along to a morning-after-breakfast. That would have made things mega awkward.

The boy you had just fucked and the boy you were wanting to fuck. Add in the fact that they had no idea you were even completing this stupid drunk-induced challenge…

Oh yeah, the challenge. Why the hell did it keep skipping your mind? Like it wasn’t the very thing that got you in this position.

Just the thought of it… well, it made your mind wander (as if it hadn’t been wandering this entire time). And somehow it landed on just how good Jaemin looked this morning.

He obviously had the after-sex glow - his skin was looking smooth and radiant, eyes bright, and lips a subtle shade of darker pink. The thought of why they were puffy made your thighs quiver - and underneath the dining table, you have to squeeze them together just to breathe properly again.

Was it from Yeji biting them last night? Passionate kisses turning into something much more aggressive? Could it be from him pushing open her thighs and coaxing her through ecstasy with just his tongue?

The vulgar thoughts circle your brain while you take in the rest of his sleepy, early morning outfit. A bright red hoodie hangs off his shoulders, covering any sort of muscle definition your eyes were itching to see. Not that it truly mattered – your memory was still pretty vivid from the party two nights ago. However, that night, your focus had been solely on Hyuck, which now seemed like an unfortunate missed opportunity.

Especially when he gets up to dump his plate in the dirty dish bin, and your eyes follow his tight cargo pants. What exactly was hiding beneath the black fabric?

Technically, you already knew thanks to the video he shared the night all this challenge stuff was created.

But a little reminder couldn’t hurt.

Jaemin returns to the table with a fresh glass of blue Gatorade, and when he sits down, his eyes wash over your body like he was mirroring what you were just doing. Did he catch you? Is that why he did that?

He doesn’t give any hints. Just raises an eyebrow playfully, the rim of his cup poised between his lips. "I know you were avoiding the question, but why are you up this early?" he teases, his voice a blend of curiosity and amusement.

A chuckle escapes your lips as you spear a piece of fruit with your fork. It was good to think quick in these situations, but the answer that comes out of your mouth might have been the stupidest thing you’d ever said, "I was planning to go on a run."

You don’t run. Especially not on a Sunday morning.

His lips curl into a mischievous smile, his gaze dancing with a hint of skepticism. "But your hair is wet."

Glancing down at your slightly damp hair, you feel a blush tint your cheeks. You hadn’t even realized. After your dizzying thoughts of Jaemin in the shower, you had been so excited to meet him for breakfast that you forgot to blow dry your hair, "Yeah, I showered."

Jaemin leans forward, his expression mockingly serious. "Before the run?"

Your laughter bubbles forth, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. "Well, you wanted to grab breakfast, so I thought I’d take a quick shower.”

A grin tugs at Jaemin's lips, his intrigue growing. "But you're a night showerer."

With a playful roll of your eyes, you respond, "Is this a full-scale investigation now? Am I on trial?"

Jaemin breaks into hearty laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Just trying to solve the mysteries of the morning, you know."

Relief stretched through your body like an adrenaline chaser. “Well, I hate to disappoint Mr. Detective, but there’s no mystery here. I just got up early and was gonna hit the gym, but you texted me first.” You put the fruit back onto your plate, too worked up to take a bite, “Next time, I’ll ignore your text.”

“Hey!” he frowns.

“Kidding.” You remark, “But I think I’ll skip the gym instead and take a nap. I’m not used to waking up this early…”

“Just make sure you’re at the library by one. Would hate to miss your free tutoring session.” He pushes back from the table, and you do the same, gathering all your half-eaten dishes from the world’s fastest breakfast date.

“Do you want me to pay you? I have no problems giving you cash.”

“Nah, I like helping out a friend.” He bumps your elbow as you walk down the ramp to the main dining floor. The surge of electricity that snaps through your body takes you by surprise. Maybe this breakfast was a little higher tension than you were aware of.

You drop all your dishes into the dirty dish bin and walk side by side with Jaemin out on the quad. There was still no one in sight, even as the sun started to bloom full light over the bright green shrubbery.

“Don’t say I never offered to pay.” You giggle.

“Nah, don’t worry. If I wanted something in return, it wouldn’t be money.” He just stares at you, a deadpan look with no emotion.

You, on the other hand, have many emotions crossing your face – shock, disbelief, curiosity, intrigue.

“I’m kidding.” He snorts.

You stumble over your words, “Y-Yeah, duh.”

“Alright, I’ll catch you at one. Don’t be late!” He reminds, walking backwards as he wiggles a warning finger at you. He spins around, almost tripping over a loose brick on the pathway in the process.

As he retreats into the backdrop of trees, headed back to the boy's dormitory on the far side of campus, you find yourself wishing to follow. Maybe you could catch some sleep in his bed, enveloped by the sweet smell of Jaemin (that being hair dye and Dior Savauge).

Instead, you begrudgingly drag your feet in the opposite direction. Back to your lonely dorm where you would fall asleep in an empty bed that smelled like nothing but yourself.

“We’ve wanted this for a while.”

Haechan looks up at you from between your legs and licks his puffy lips. His finger draws lazy circles around your clit, and it feels wonderful.

You could watch him like this forever, but what drags your attention away is the second set of lips attaching to your neck. Nothing had warned you of his presence before, but now you were on full alert. He sucks bruises against your skin, hands running up and down your body until you were left shaking into his touch.

“Jaemin?”

The pink haired boy draws back and sits on his heels, a goofy grin spread out.

“Yes princess?”

Your head is on a swivel now. From Haechan’s chocolate brown eyes and mischievous smirk to the way Jaemin was eyeing your exposed chest.

“You okay sweetheart?” Jaemin takes a singular finger and tips your chin upwards, “How about you just lay back and let us take care of you.”

Haechan speaks up, “Tell us which one makes you cum harder, okay?” Two fingers pinch your clit, making you jerk against Jaemin, “Like a bet.”

Like a bet.

In the hazy realm between dreams and reality, your eyes flutter open, greeted by the harsh reality of full sunlight streaming through the curtains. Panic instantly surges through you as you glance at the clock – it's later than it should be. With a sudden jolt, you sit up, your mind racing to comprehend.

The realization hits like a tidal wave: you're late for your tutoring session with Jaemin. You fumble with the sheets, untangling yourself in a hurry, and your heart pounds with each passing second. Your phone, lying neglected on the nightstand, taunts you with its unmissed alarms.

“Oh fuck.”

The room spins with the remnants of the vivid dream. Jaemin and Haechan... at the same time. Jaemin’s arms around you, Haechan between your thighs. The wetness there now seems unavoidable, but there was no time.

Your phone lights up with another text from Jaemin. Grabbing it, you hastily read through.

(1:01 PM) Manwhore: yo, you on ur way?

(1:04 PM) Manwhore: helloooo?

(1:07 PM) Manwhore: don’t tell me you forgot

(1:08 PM) Manwhore: if you don’t text me back or get here in the next five minutes, I’m literally going to fuck your roommate again.

Wish you would fuck me as a punishment, you think, but type out a different response.

(1:09 PM) Y/N: you’d fuck her anyway.

(1:09 PM) Y/N: I overslept. Be there in five.

Another glance over your messages and you realize the same roommate he was threatening to fuck has also been bombarding you with a flurry of messages.

(10:01 AM) Roomie!!: I feel like I never see you

(10:52 AM) Roomie!!: I wanted to wake you up but you weren’t here literally all night…

(11:09 AM) Roomie!!: I left you a muffin on the counter <3

(12:36 PM) Roomie!!: Can we please talk tonight? Or hangout? Or go to the movies? Literally anything??? I miss you!

You shoot her a quick message, saying sorry and promising to catch up with her tonight. Man, you've really missed her. There's this itch to spill everything, spill the beans about the stupid bet, but at the same time, you're not sure if you should. It's like walking on eggshells, ya know?

One thing was apparent though. She could never know about these filthy dreams. How desperate you were to be underneath your best friends…that was a secret you must keep.

Speaking of best friends, you had one waiting impatiently at the library for you to hurry the fuck up. No matter if you were just dreaming about him sucking on your neck.

You snatch the nearest clothes and quickly slide on your shoes in a rush. Carelessly, you throw textbooks into your backpack. Grabbing the muffin Jennie left for you on the counter, you swing your backpack over your shoulder and scramble out the door.

“Stupid fucking stairs” you mutter underneath your breath, hurtling down all five flights in a rush.

“What did the stairs ever do to you.” The voice startles you, nearly causing you to trip.

“What the hell, Haechan.” Great, the other half of your dream has just materialized. “What are you doing in the girls dorm.”

He grins, keeping pace with you down the flights. “Visiting a lady friend.”

“Truth. Now.”

He sighs, “Group project.”

“Sounds about right.” You reach the bottom of the staircase and push open the door that spills out onto the quad.

The fleeting thought of sprinting away crosses your mind, but you dismiss it. Instead, you glance over your shoulder, watching him struggle with his backpack straps. His hair is a fluffy brown mess, wind tousling it. A faded graphic design t-shirt hangs off his collarbones, with matching sweatpants that seem two sizes too big.

He's such a loser, you think affectionately.

“So…” He muses, catching up to you and bumping your arm with his elbow, “Why’d you dip this morning?” There’s a tinge of hurt in the question but you choose to ignore it.

You shrug, “Met up with Jaemin for breakfast…you were sleeping so I didn’t want to bother you.”

The campus has come alive since your last outing. Students lounge on the quad, soaking in the dwindling sunlight before fall strips away the warmth. You wish you could join them and forget about your trivial problems.

"Weird. Because he invited me too," he keeps his head down, focusing on his worn-out sneakers navigating the uneven brick paving the campus.

“He told me.” You don’t know what Haechan was getting at. Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have dipped, but…what else were you supposed to do?

“Surprised your legs are working.”

“Haechan.” You shriek, slapping his shoulder. Where the hell did that come from.

He laughs loudly, “I’m just saying. Maybe that’s why you were so mad at the stairs. Hurt a bit?” Yeah, he was feeling cocky. Confident. Cause here was this beautiful girl next to him, who just so happened to be his best friend, and who also sat on his cock last night. He felt on top of the world.

“I’m fine.” You seethe, “And just so we’re clear, we aren’t telling anyone about this.”

Bummer. He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, I know. You want to keep the best sex of your life a secret. No sweat.”

“I swear to god Haechan –”

“Oh, calm down princess. I’m not gonna tell anyone. Our little secret.” He winks at you and a hot blush spreads over your cheeks.

Fuck him and fuck his stupid pet names.

“Round two?” He braces for the swat that comes his way, another laugh slipping past his lips, “Okay, okay. I’ll stop joking around.”

You want to feel annoyed, but you're just glad to have your best friend back—the one who makes inappropriate jokes at your expense. Maybe that's greedy of you, expecting everything to go back to normal after taking his virginity.

But it’s what he wanted…. So get over it Y/N, you think.

Round two didn’t sound so bad though…especially after that stupid fucking dream you just had.

“Where you headed?” he asks, pulling on the straps of his backpack.

“Library. Jaemin’s tutoring me. And I’m late.” You reply. He was really gonna kick your ass if you didn’t hurry up.

“How great. I’m on my way there too. Gotta finish this stupid presentation.”

You glance at him, catching his face scrunch up.

“Got something else you want to say?” you question. It looked like he was physically in pain. Yet, knowing him, he was just holding himself back from saying something inappropriate.

“Promise not to hit me.”

You raise your eyebrows.

“Well…I was just gonna say, if you want help relaxing after the draining tutoring session you’re about to have…”

Bingo. You knew him soooo well.

“You’re impossible Haechan.”

“One of my redeeming qualities I must say.”

The library comes into view. Fucking finally. It felt like ages since you left your dorm.

You decide to snark back at him. “You know…on second thought.” It almost makes you feel bad the way his eyes spark up, “I would but, I got plans…”

His response is firm and unwavering. "Cancel them."

Locking eyes with him proves to be a mistake as you realize he's dead serious. "Can't, sorry," you pout.

He strides ahead, swinging open the library door with a grand gesture. You roll your eyes, heading straight for the back wall where the individual study rooms are located.

"Y/n," he whispers, silently urging you to reconsider. "Think about it."

Ignoring him, your attention is diverted when you spot Jaemin, who also catches sight of you through the glass separating the main floor from the study rooms. He rolls his eyes and taps his wrist as a mock reminder of your tardiness.

"Y/n," Haechan whines, a plea echoing the same tone as the night before.

Choosing to play with him once more, you tease, "Sorry, Haechannie. Plans, remember?" Leaning in, you cup his ear and blow a cool breath, feeling him shiver. "But you can think about me when you jerk off later."

He watches in shock as you saunter away, pushing open the study room door to apologize profusely to Jaemin. The bulge in Haechan's pants goes unnoticed until he tears his eyes away. "God damn."

Na Jaemin is disgustingly attractive.

And so, so distracting.

How were you supposed to study binomial distributions when he sat on the opposite side of the table looking like that.

The red hoodie he had on this morning has been discarded, replaced by a t-shirt with rolled-up sleeves that showcased his toned biceps. As he shifted around the scattered textbooks, his tongue peeked out between his lips in concentration.

Jaemin’s presence plus the constant remembrance of the dream only amplified your struggle to stay focused.

Instead, your (lovely) brain decided to entertain you with intense fantasies of clawing at his biceps while you rode him. You’re sure he’s a groaner. It’s almost visual in your head, the way he’d tip his head back and growl at the feeling of you splitting yourself on his cock. You know he talks you through it too.

“Got any guesses on the size?”

"W-What?" You stammer, a twinge of anxiety hitting you, concerned you might have been caught daydreaming.

Jaemin cards a hand through his hair and smirks, “The sample size, y/n? Have you not been paying attention for the last twenty minutes?? We’re trying to solve for the sample size.” He blows air through his teeth in annoyance, “I swear it feels like I’m just doing your homework for you sometimes.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just tired.” You mutter, “How about I do the next five by myself and have you check over them after?”

"Sounds good. Don't hesitate to ask if you have any questions," he responds casually, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning his attention back to his own work.

It annoyed you how smart he was too. And he rarely got distracted when he was studying. It’s like he gets automatically switched to hyperfocus mode. Nothing breaks his concentration. It’s such a weird version of Jaemin, but one that you’ve grown accustomed too during the study sessions. Any other time of day and he’s chatting up girls and doing stupid dares that normally got him in trouble with the campus police. It’s happened too many times to count.

The gods favor him, you think, beauty and brains.

Your gaze inadvertently shifts to the main floor of the library. Through the transparent walls, you see Haechan sitting at his own table. He looked bored, his lips set in a pout and a crease drawn between his eyebrows. Bored and frustrated. But he also looked good as hell.

He pushes his hips up to get comfortable in the hard plastic chair he was in, and the grey sweatpants do nothing to hide the painfully obvious outline of his cock. Arousal bells start going off in your head, and you think you might just faint out of pure horniness.

You watch him pick up his phone.

A buzz sounds on the table, coming from your own phone.

(1:51 PM) Weird guy from the street: stop staring at me

There’s literally no way he could have known you were looking at him unless he had been sneaking glances at you too. The thought makes you blush.

(1:51 PM) Y/N: not staring at u weirdo

(1:52 PM) Y/N: simply looking through the window

(1:52 PM) Y/N: not my fault ur big ass head is blocking the view

You peak at him, and this time he’s looking dead at you with a big frown on his face.

(1:52 PM) Weird guy from the street: okay ouch

(1:53 PM) Weird guy from the street: but ur eyes r literally burning holes in me

(1:53 PM) Weird guy from the street: if you wanna fuck so bad, just meet me upstairs :)

A snort sounds at the back of your throat, catching Jaemin's attention as he glances up from his textbook.

"Just searching for the equation I need," you confess sheepishly, raising your phone in explanation.

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything, so you go back to texting.

(1:54 PM) Y/N: u wish loser

From the other side of the glass, you watch him throw you a middle finger.

(1:54 PM) Weird guy from the street: okay but seriously meet me upstairs

(1:54 PM) Weird guy from the street: it’s SERIOUS!!!

(1:55 PM) Weird guy from the street: i promise

(1:55 PM) Weird guy from the street: swear on jeno’s hockey career

(1:55 PM) Weird guy from the street: don’t tell him i swore on that or he’ll kick my ass again

(1:55 PM) Weird guy from the street: just meet in the geology section.. never seen anybody up there

You send a final text

(1:56 PM) Y/N: fine, but if this is a trick, i’m kicking your ass.

Your chair emits a loud scraping sound as you push it back to stand up. “I’m gonna head to the bathroom before my brain explodes. Be right back.” You explain, and Jaemin nods.

The echo of your footsteps resonates through the quiet library as you navigate your way to the geology section. The fluorescent lights above flicker intermittently, casting occasional shadows that dance along the bookshelves. You can't help but wonder why Haechan chose such a weird ass place to meet.

Decorative rocks are showcased throughout this section of the library, and in the back of your mind you wonder who in their right mind would study geology. Rocks?

“Took you long enough.” Haechan teases, emerging from the shadows between two bookshelves. You squint at him, your eyes still adjusting to the unexpected appearance.

"Why do you have to be so extra?" you quip, recovering from the surprise. It's the second time today he's managed to catch you off guard.

"Extra is my middle name, darling," he grins, leaning casually against the shelves. You secretly wish they would give in and collapse just for the sake of a good laugh.

"Cut the dramatics, Haechan. Why am I here?" you demand, crossing your arms.

"I want to know what you’re doing with Jaemin," he deadpans, peering up through his long lashes. "Because for the past thirty minutes or so, you've been practically drooling over him." He checks his wrist adorned with a silver watch you gifted him last Christmas, "And I've been keeping track, by the way. Don't bother denying it; I've got eyes everywhere."

You roll your eyes, annoyance creeping in. "That's bordering on stalker behavior, you know."

He casually shrugs, unfazed. "Answer the question."

"I'm studying with Jaemin. What else would I be doing?" you retort, finding the situation utterly ridiculous.

"Sure, you're not one of his study buddies?" Haechan drawls, dragging out the second-to-last word and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. You resist the urge to roll your eyes again, realizing you've walked right into his stupid trap.

You glare pointedly. “Just because you caught me looking at another man that isn’t you doesn’t mean I want to fuck him.”

“Oh sweetheart, I didn’t say anything about fucking him.” Haechan replies with a sly grin.

“You implied it!” You huff, jabbing him in the chest with a manicured finger.

He clutches the spot and winces at pain. “Damn your nails are sharp.”

“Why am I really up here.” You were becoming impatient. Perhaps you should have known that Haechan would waste your time. There was nothing of importance for you between these stupid, dusty, rock filled shelved.

A part of you did know it, though. And that part was practically begging Haechan to shove you against the shelves and start fucking your brains out.

You squash that part down. Deep down.

Haechan sighs and takes a tentative step backwards, “Honestly, I was bored and just wanted to mess with you.” You open your mouth to chastise him, but he cuts you off before you can, “But now that we’re on the topic of fucking Jaemin –”

“Don’t think we’re on the same topic here.” You interject.

He keeps going without missing a beat, “I just thought you should know about his....habits” His face beams in pride, as if this super-secret tidbit of information could solve world hunger.

"His habits?"

Haechan takes a step towards you, "Yeah...his dirty, filthy habits."

"What are you getting at Haechan?"

The boy in front of you, eyes you up and down before speaking slowly, "You're telling me you don't know?"

You narrow your eyes at Haechan, feeling a mix of confusion and suspicion. "Know what exactly? Stop beating around the bush and just spit it out."

Haechan smirks, relishing the moment. "I just thought you should know that he fucks girls here after hours."

“In the geology section?” You question, skepticism etching your features.

“In the library dumbass.” Haechan retorts, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. His eyes lock onto yours, daring you to challenge him.

“Yeah right.”

He stomps his foot in a childlike manner. “I’m serious.”

Your disbelief lingers. "I don't believe you. It's literally patrolled by security after hours," you assert, your arms crossing defensively over your chest.

Haechan rolls his eyes, seemingly accustomed to your skepticism. "Y/n, me and Jeno used to think Jaemin was rocking your shit back when he started tutoring you."

A wry smile creeps onto your face. "How lovely."

“I mean, now we know you just need help with stats –”

“It’s a hard subject.” You defend yourself.

Sure, you’d never been good at math like others, but statistics was a hard class. And your professor made it even more boring with her monotoned voice.

“I know, cheated my way through an A.” Haechan admits, flashing a beaming smile. “Anyways, he has an entire roster of girls he brings to the library after hours. Honestly, you’re the only girl I’ve seen him actually tutor.” The soft glow of the library lights casts a warm hue on the leather-bound volumes that surround you and you notice it illuminates the curve of Haechan’s jaw too.

“Haechan, I swear if this is a prank or a set up.”

He gives another stomp to the worn-out carpet, "Why would I be lying about this?" he insists, his expression genuinely serious. "You know what, meet me here Friday night at nine thirty."

“The library closes at eight.”

“Back entrance is always open.” He winks at you, and you playfully swat his arm. “Gonna prove that I’m not lying.”

“Whatever.”

You find yourself baffled by Haechan's sudden revelation about Jaemin's supposed "dirty habits." There's a lingering question in your mind – why is Haechan even sharing this information with you in the first place? As the absurdity of the situation sinks in, you can't help but wonder what prompted him to bring you to this secluded spot just to share peculiar details about Jaemin's life.

Is he threatened by your sudden interest - if he really was catching on to the fact that you were after Jaemin.

A few beats pass before he’s nudging your shoulder. “So?” He jostles your arm with his own until you swat at him again, “You’ll meet me here?”

“Sure, Haechan.” In truth, you had nothing better to do. And maybe you could use this to your advantage. The next part of this stupid challenge was to fuck Jaemin anyways, and what better way than to use his rendezvous spot to do so.

If Haechan was telling the truth.

“We should make out.”

You slide your eyes to his and cock your head, “In your dreams Hyuckie.”

The day was winding down, and the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the university campus. You trudged back to your dorm, feeling the exhaustion from a day filled with studying and more homework than you could manage.

Echoes of distant laughter and the occasional sound of a slamming door fill the hallways as you climbed the stairs to your floor, anticipation building to catch up with your roommate, Jennie.

You didn’t mean to completely ghost her the last couple weeks, but between classes and the challenge…well, you had your mind full.

The door is swinging open before you can get your key in the lock, and you’re met face to face with her.

"Well, look who finally decided to show up! I swear I never see you anymore. You leave before I’m up and come home after I’m asleep!"

Apologizing, you step inside and close the door behind you, embracing your roommate. "I know, I know. It's been crazy lately," you admit, setting your bag down and following her to the living room.

Jennie raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me." she teased.

"Never.” It’s true. Jennie was the one person in the world who you could relax around. “So, what’s been up with you.”

She sighed dramatically, as if she'd been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and plops down on the couch. You do the same. “Sorority stuff, you know how it is. Rush week is killing me. Drama, drama, drama. Oh, and did I mention Jaehyun broke up with his girlfriend? The whole campus is losing its mind over him, including maybe me," she added with a sly grin.

Your eyes widen at the news. "Jaehyun broke up with his girlfriend? That's big news! Why did they break up?" you inquired, curious about someone else’s drama.

Maybe it could distract you from your own.

Jennie leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "No one knows for sure, but there are rumors. Apparently, she cheated on him.”

“Why on earth would she cheat on him?”

She giggles, “That’s what I’m saying! He’s like the hottest guy on campus. She’s definitely mental if she cheated on him. If he was mine…”

“Make him yours.”

“Y/N!” she giggles and playfully shoves your arm.

You break out in a smile too, “Well, if he is single, now’s your chance!”

Jennie shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Who knows?” She tugs a blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around her thin body, “Anyways, enough about me. What’s been keeping you so busy? You haven't even had time for Mark. He's been asking about you by the way."

You sighed, feeling guilty for neglecting your friends. "Classes have been crazy, and Jaemin and I have been hitting the books together. Speaking of which, he's been a lifesaver. I wouldn't survive this semester without him."

Jennie smirked playfully. "Oh, Jaemin, huh? Is there something I should know?"

You rolled your eyes, swatting her arm this time. "No, nothing like that. He's just a great study partner."

She raised an eyebrow, a knowing expression on her face. "Sure, just a study partner?”

It funny how fast you break into a cold sweat.

“W-What do you mean?”

“I mean..” She drags the words out and for a second you think she’s gonna accuse you of sleeping with him. Or at least accuse you of having the hots for him. “I’ve studied with him. So, I know that studying doesn’t always mean studying.”

“Oh my god. You think I’m fucking him?”

I haven’t yet, you think.

“I’m just asking!”

“No, I promise he’s just helping me with stats homework.” You hold up two fingers, “Scouts honor.”

She rolls her eyes, “Look, I wouldn't blame you if you were sleeping with him. Been there done that.”

You wonder if she’s one of the girls Haechan seemed so sure Jaemin fucked in the library after hours. It’s not like you would ever ask her. But your mind wanders nonetheless.

“Trust me, I’m not.”

“Maybe you should.” She suggests in thought, “I mean he definitely knows his way around a girls body.”

You cover your eyes in embarrassment, “Oh my god, gross!”

She holds up her hands like she’d been caught, “I think you need to let loose. Just giving you a recommendation.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Speaking of letting loose, I have a sorority event this Friday, and I want you to come. It's a big reveal for my little, and I want you there."

You hesitate. "I appreciate the invite, but I'm actually hanging out with Haechan that night."

There’s a part of you that wants to add the fact that you’re really just trying to catch Jaemin in the act of fucking in the library. But with the way the conversation just went…maybe that was best kept to yourself.

Jennie's expression shifted from excitement to a subtle disappointment. "Come on! I never see you anymore. Can't you ditch Haechan for one night? It'll be a blast, and you'll get to meet some great people. Plus, you need a break from that annoying prick."

You forget that Jennie doesn’t like Haechan, recalling drunken nights where she spent hours cursing him out for embarrassing her during her own rush experience. Apparently, he was her date and got too drunk which ended in him throwing up all over her dress. It’s a miracle she got a bid for the house she wanted.

Feeling a bit guilty, you sighed. "Alright, fine. I'll come. But only because you're my best friend, and I miss spending time with you."

Jennie's face lit up, and she practically squealed in delight. "Yes! It's going to be so much fun. You won't regret it."

The night stretched on with the two of you quickly settling into the cozy routine of a girls’ night in. You ordered some delicious takeout, stocked up on snacks, and found yourselves comfortably sprawled on the couch with episodes of Love Island playing on the tv. Fairy lights twinkled over your entangled figures as you both became engrossed in the latest romantic drama on the screen.

It was a nice reprieve from the boys you’d been constantly drowning around.

But watching the couple on screen makes your mind drift to thoughts of Jaemin. His body caging you against the wall of a study room, eventually laying you back on the table scattered with textbooks and eating you out. His pink hair caught between your fingers…

The thoughts worm their way into your dreams when you and Jennie eventually drift off to sleep, curled on the couch, not wanting the night to end.

Aside from the frat parties, drunken nights, and time well spent with friends, college was actually very fucking boring.

The week breezes by with boring lectures, hastily eaten lunches, and so much damn homework that you genuinely begin to think you’re drowning. You almost turn in a quiz too late on Monday and decide from then on that you’d lock yourself away till your schedule looked a little less hectic.

And that led to a very boring and very sleepy Friday.

The lecture hall was dimly lit, and the professor's monotone voice droned on about the intricacies of music theory. You were struggling to keep your eyes open, staring blankly at the notes you'd given up on comprehending. The only thing getting you through this intolerable day was the weekend ahead (Even though you had to meet Mark on Saturday for a stupid group project), and the coffee you had gotten with Jennie that morning.

She made sure to dutifully remind you of her sorority event that night, which in turn reminded you of your library date with Hyuck.

Like you could forget.

After that, and your morning stats class (where you promptly took a little nap despite your determination to genuinely understand the subject), you met up with Jeno for lunch. It wasn’t so bad, until Jaehyun crashed at the table and stole Jeno’s attention to talk about hockey plays for their game on Sunday.

Awkwardly trying to avoid him and the rumors that were spreading on campus (and because you had no idea what a bar down or hat-trick was), you promptly left and got to your music theory lecture early.

Which at this moment felt like a place where pretty things came to die.

You couldn't help but let out a quiet sigh. The boredom was reaching unbearable levels, and you questioned your life choices that led you to enroll in this class. It’s not like you needed it to graduate. The spot was simply open, and you needed another class.

Just as you were contemplating an escape plan, the door swung open with a loud bang.

Mark rushed in, disheveled and panting. Everyone turned to stare at him, including you. He apologized to the professor, who simply gestured for him to take a seat. You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the sight.

Mark Lee was…a character. You met him through Hyuck, who introduced him as the love of his life. Mark had grinned awkwardly and shuffled away from Haechan’s body after that comment, instead choosing to question you about your major and interests. It was then that you both became friends too. Albeit, casual friends. (Except for the one time freshman year that you had hooked up in the science building bathroom)

He was there to gossip with, grab lunch, and aid you through music theory (which you didn’t know a damn thing about). He was exceptionally talented and hardworking, show cased through his double major in theology and music theory. A weird combination, but after getting to know his religious background and affinity for guitar playing, you thought it was perfectly spot on for him.

Like Jaemin, he dyed his hair bright ass colors whenever he was on the verge of a breakdown. This weeks’ color was black with silver sideburns. Somehow, he pulls it off quite well.

"What's up?" you whispered to Mark as he settled into the chair beside you.

He looked worn out. It was barely one pm, but the ruffled hair, wrinkled clothes, and half on-half off jacket, makes him look like he’d been hit by a tornado on his way to class.

His mouth is set in a flat line when he glances over at you, “Hyuck, is what’s up.”

“Hyuck?”

The professor sends a pointed glare at the two of you, and mark smiles sheepishly before leaning in to tell you the rest, his voice hushed, “Yeah. Went over to his dorm to grab my notebook that I left last night, and the dumbass was wasted.”

“Like, drunk?�� you question, because as you recall, it was barely one pm.

“Drunk as fuck.” Mark deadpans.

Your eyebrows shoot up, “It’s the middle of the day?”

“Yeah, I told him that many, many times.” Mark digs around his backpack, trying to find a pencil to catch up on the lecture he missed, “All he kept doing was stumbling around, asking for cheesecake–”

When you open your mouth to question it, Mark cuts you off.

“I don’t really know why.” When he finds the pencil at the bottom of his bag, he snorts in triumph and continues, “So he kept asking for cheesecake, started bawling when I told him there was none, and finally, when I wrestled him into his bed, he started telling me about you.”

Your body freezes impossibly fast, gaze nervously darting around the room. Maybe if you didn’t look Mark in the eyes, then you could forget what he said and pretend that the words never left his mouth.

No, of course not. Time to bite the bullet.

“Me?” You squeak.

“He told me a lot about you actually.” The way Mark is looking, his arms crossed and an expression that can only be described as accusatory, can mean only one thing.

“He told you about…”

You want to leave the lecture hall and punch Lee Donghyuck yourself when mark responds.

“Yep.”

“Fuck.” You should have known Hyuck couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “What did he say.”

It was Marks turn to glance around the room, just in case anyone was listening in. When all is clear, his voice drops even lower, “He said you guys fucked after Jaehyuns party. And that it was the best sex of his life – well, the only sex of his life. Was he telling the truth?”

Now’s your chance to lie and set the record straight that you never slept with Haechan. Though, with Mark’s tone, you already knew that he knew the right answer.

“Yeah…We did, but it was just a convenience thing. He happened to be at the right place, at the right time. It was nothing more than that.”

Oh, how you wished those words were true.

It would severely less-complicate things.

Mark chuckles nervously, “I’d avoid him if I were you. Because dude, it was so much more than that to him.”

Your biggest fear is confirmed with his words. How dumb could you be to think that taking his virginity wouldn’t lead to him having some weird clingy attitude towards you. You should have known better.

“I can’t avoid him. I have to meet with him tonight.” You hiss.

Mark shrugs, “I don’t know if he’ll even be awake, dude passed out hard. I mean, I set his alarms, so who knows.”

“Maybe…”

“Anyways, dude – OW!”

A flying drumstick clips Mark in the head, and he hurriedly rubs the spot, wincing. The professor, arms crossed, looks at the both of you in displeasure.

Bursting into a fit of giggles, you realize that this day was definitely not going to be boring anymore.

As you sit in your cozy apartment engrossed in a book, your phone buzzes, pulling you out of the fictional world. Glancing at the screen, you see a text from Hyuck.

(8:52 PM) Weird guy from the street: can you come open the door

(8:52 PM) Weird guy from the street: my key isn’t working for some reason

Your eyebrows furrow as you read the message "Key? Hyuck has a key?" You mutter to yourself. You've always assumed that when he showed up randomly at your apartment, it was because Jennie, your roommate, had let him in.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you head to the door. As you swing it open, there stands Hyuck.

"Hey," he greets, a indefinable glint in his eyes. "Can I come in?"

You step aside, allowing him entry, "When did you get a key?”

He chuckles nervously, scratching the back of his head. "Well, I don't have a key. That's the thing."

You cross your arms and pop an eyebrow, "You literally just texted me saying your key isn’t working."

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hyuck…” You grumble, “How is it that you randomly show up in the apartment then?”

He smirked, teasingly. "Magic. Or maybe Jennie's magic. I just show up, and the door opens. But seriously, I don't have a key."

You decide to drop the matter. It really wasn’t worth the headache of going back and forth with him. Besides, you really should have caught on sooner. Jennie didn’t like him, yet he was always here to pester you.

“Right…. Are you still drunk?”

“That, I am not.” He walks further into the apartment and starts messing with the stack of papers on the counter – shuffling them. “Mark made sure to leave me the usual hangover cure on my nightstand, so I don’t feel sick either.”

“You know, it’s not really proper to get drunk in the middle of the school day.” You chastise him. There’s not really a reason as to why you’re lecturing him. Can’t a friend just be worried about her other very problematic friend?

His counter comes quick, “I never claimed to be proper. If you took a walk inside my brain, you’d understand.” When you meet his gaze, he gives you a teasing wink. “Now are we ready to go see some girl get her back blown out.”

“Not the words I would use.” You mutter, grabbing your keys and phone off the coffee table in the living room and following Hyuck to the library for the second time that week.

Surprising to you, he keeps the banter to a minimum during the entire five-minute walk. Only once does he comment on your outfit, even though it was a totally normal outfit. Yet according to him you were wearing a ‘too-short cheerleading skirt that showed your ass way too much.’

Besides the one little quip, he kept his mouth shut.

What was even more surprising (as if anything could top Haechan shutting up), was that the library was way too easy to break in to.

Well, does it count as breaking in if it was left unlocked?

According to Hyuck, no. To authorities, probably.

Navigating back to the geology section was easy. All you had to do was take the staircase in the back. Honestly though, it was a bit creepy. The empty library creaked and echoed at the slightest touch. Hyucks heavy steps on the stairs made you jump which made him break his silence and tease you for the rest of the way up.

You didn’t realize this before, but the geology section perfectly overlooked the main floor of the library. Provided, there was a bookshelf blocking the ledge, which added another layer of privacy.

Hm…Hyuck wasn’t a liar.

Na Jaemin was in fact in the library, with a girl at his side, studying, after hours.

Yet, that’s all they were doing – studying. The girl furiously scribbled in her notebook while Jaemin watched. He points out what you assume to be a mistake and the girl giggles, flipping over her pencil to scrub the paper with the eraser.

There’s no denying that they sat closer than normal. She leaned into Jaemins shoulder, and his hand was under the table – probably resting on her thigh. But nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be occurring.

You go to turn around and confront Hyuck. Maybe tell him to shove a rock up his ass. But the front of his body hits your back, caging you against the bookshelf.

“Hyuck…” you warn, voice low.

“Just watch.” He murmurs, arms encircling your waist to pull you closer.

Marks words lick up your spine like a fire, singing every nerve in your body.

It meant so much more to him.

Haechan's exhalations reach you in delicate, soft wafts, caressing the back of your neck and eliciting a tingling sensation as the hairs on your skin stand on end. "See." he murmurs. A shiver runs through you as he traces his fingers along your arms, whispering, "I don't want to say I told you so, but..." he clicks his tongue, nosing your shoulder, "I told you so."

Your gaze remains fixed as Jaemin playfully pulls the girl onto his lap, their textbooks now abandoned and ignored. As she molds herself against him, the hem of her shirt lifts, and Jaemin's fingers instinctively find the revealed skin, tracing intricate patterns. At some point, his hand slips entirely under her t-shirt and drags higher and higher. You can hear his quiet murmurs, between kisses - compliments of her body, her lips, her taste.

It's selfish to think, but Jaemin should be saying those words to you. And maybe that makes you a little on edge – a little pissed off.

"They're only making out," you argue back, voice quiet, "This doesn't prove shit. Even I've done this."

You feel Haechan jolt back in surprise, unanswered questions flooding the tip of his tongue. With who? he wants to ask, but he doesn't. If anything, the questions fuel his eagerness to prove you wrong. He knows Jaemin. For fucks sake, they've been roommates since freshman year.

There's a bite to his tone when he speaks up again, "Just watch."

So, you do.

You watch as Jaemin loses himself in this girl completely, all the while wishing it was you. But no, instead, you're stuck peering through bookshelves, while Haechan presses himself into you from behind at the same time Jaemin pushes his hips up.

"Is this turning you on?" you hiss, head whipping sideways to look at him.

His head dips down to nip at your earlobe, “So?”

“You’re such a pervert.”

“And you aren’t?”

Fair point.

Though, your sexual tendencies were far from voyeuristic, you can’t help but enjoy the scene in front of you – the secret thrill of watching Na Jaemin.

Haechan’s hands slip under the hem of your shirt, mirroring Jaemin. “Want me to stop?” he mumbles.

The argument that breaks out in your head doesn’t hold a candle to the way your body reacts, because maybe, just maybe, letting Haechan fuck you between the shelves of the library isn’t such a bad idea. However, spying on Jaemin, and wishing it was him instead, might be.

But Haechan doesn’t have to know.

And after all, what he doesn’t know can’t kill him.

You shake your head no, sensing his grin against the side of your neck, “I figured as much.”

Jaemins low groan carries across the empty library, and the mere sound leaves goosebumps crawling up your spine.

So, he is a groaner.

You knew it.

Haechans voice replaces the sound, “How about you spread your legs like a good girl and let me take care of you?”

“Right here?” You hiss.

“Is that okay?” He cranes his head over your shoulder so that you could just barely make eye contact, and suddenly you’re transported back to that first night with Haechan. The innocence in his gaze, the longing, the willingness to please you. He just wants to show you that he can take care of you – more than anyone ever could.

Won’t you let him?

Silently, you nod your head – and Haechan wastes no time.

As his fingertips glide along your arms, tiny goosebumps rise in their path. Once they reach the tips of your fingers, he intertwines them with yours, creating a seamless connection, then gently presses both hands against the sturdy shelf of books. The tip of his tongue finds your neck again, swirling patterns into the skin, and the sensation of his touch sends shivers down your spine.

You want to stay like this – focused on Haechan – but the thought that you were missing the real show on the bottom floor, makes you turn your attention to the other two occupants of the library.

It’s unfortunate that the girl in Jaemins lap decided to wear jeans, because watching her struggle to undo the button, while your best friend observes impatiently, makes your head spin. He looks like he wants to rip them off her without a second thought. Instead, he smacks her hands aside with a cheeky grin and swiftly undoes it, shoving his big hand down the front of her jeans. You can’t hear what he whispers into the shell of her ear, but her breathy moans pour from parted lips, carrying across the library.

Haechan’s teeth nip at your shoulder as he untangles one of his hands from yours and curls it around the waist band of your skirt.

“No–” you mumble, “Don’t wanna get undressed here…just…push my panties to the side or something.”

Haechan’s eyes widen behind you, though you can’t see. You only hear the grunt that escapes his lips as he obeys, roughly twisting them to the side.

A shiver runs through you, the stark contrast between how he is now and how he was the other night. He’s rougher now, less gentle, less tender. It’s as if he has something to prove—maybe holding onto you with a firmer grip is the only way for him to believe it’s real. To convince himself that you’re truly his for a second time, even though you swore it would never happen again.

You barely register the sound of foil tearing before his hand moves between you, the cool slide of latex against your skin making your breath hitch. He works quickly, efficiently, like he’s done this a thousand times before—like he can’t afford to waste a second more. The anticipation coils tight in your stomach, and you swear you’re already dizzy by the time he presses against you again.

You have to slap a hand over your trembling lips when Haechan pushes his cock into you so roughly that you tilt forward and nearly lose your footing. His knuckles brushing the inside of your thigh from holding your panties to the side feels like zaps of electricity, and your eyes flutter close again.

This is so bad of you. So very bad. But you don’t mind it. Because right now, he’s fucking you so hard and so fast that you haven’t had any time to adjust. No time to think.

The shelf is shaking, but Haechan can’t find the willpower to care. He can’t find the willpower to care about anything. He doesn’t care if you don’t like him the same. He doesn’t care if you’re just doing this because it’s the right place, right time. He doesn’t care if it’s only happening because you’re enjoying the sight of Jaemin and that girl. He doesn’t fucking care.

Not when he’s the one fucking you, pushing you against the shelves so hard they might just fall over. And when you sigh his name, so breathy and whiny and so perfectly his, he reaffirms that he doesn’t fucking care.

You chose this moment.

You chose him.

If only for a night.

But he’ll take a night. He’d take anything you’d give him – anything you’d be willing to spare.

He feels like he’s transcended the astral plane, the way you suck him in, pussy so wet he’s nearly slipping out with each thrust.

Jaemin is losing his mind too. This girl – whatever her name is – just won’t shut up. She’s babbling about how hot he is, how sexy it is that she’s on his lap right now, how she can’t believe they’re doing this in the middle of the library.

All he wants to do is fuck her mouth so she’ll shut up.

You know that look — the one Jaemin gets when he's on the edge of annoyance. A flicker of doubt crosses your mind. Does he know you're up there watching? Maybe that's what’s setting him off. For a brief second, your heart clenches, cold and uncertain — but then Haechan's lips find your neck, scattering your thoughts like they were never there.

His hand reaches up the front of your body, enclosing itself around your throat. At the same time, Jaemin's hand tightens around the girl's throat, his fingers pressing into her skin with the same slow, deliberate intensity. A choked gasp slips from her lips, mirroring the way your breath shudders under Haechan’s touch. The sight of them, so perfectly aligned, sends a sharp thrill down your spine. “How does it feel?” He mumbles, squeezing just a bit, so that your response comes out quiet and strained.

“Feels good.”

“Just good?

“Feels perfect.” You gasp out.

The room feels hotter as their hands move in sync—tight, possessive. Haechan's thumb brushes along your jawline, eyes flicking between your parted lips and the way your breath catches under his grip. Jaemin mirrors him perfectly, leaning in close to the girl whose whimper fills the space.

“Perfect, huh?” Haechan taunts low in your ear, voice dripping with cocky amusement. His fingers flex around your throat, just enough to make your pulse race.

Jaemin's fingers disappear further down the girl's jeans, knuckles flexing as he works her open — soft wet sounds carrying through the dead silence of the library. His eyes are lidded, lips curled into that lazy, cocky grin you know so well. The one that says he knows exactly what he's doing to her — what he should be doing to you.

Haechan's hips snap harder behind you, forcing your cheek against the cold shelf as the books rattle in protest. His breath is hot on the side of your face, voice low and taunting. "You wish it was him, don't you?"

Your nails scrape against the wood, trying to find something — anything — to ground yourself as the shame pools hotter between your legs.

"No," you lie through clenched teeth.

Haechan laughs, breathless and mean. His hand snakes up your chest, pushing under your shirt to grab at your tits. He squeezes hard enough to make you arch into him, hips rolling back against his cock. "Liar," he spits. "You're dripping down my dick watching him finger some random bitch."

Your eyes snap open, finding Jaemin again. His mouth is on her neck now, pink tongue flicking against the delicate skin as she writhes in his lap. His free hand fists her hair, holding her still — the same way he playfully does with you when he’s holding something high above his head that you can’t reach.

Fuck.

Haechan feels the way your pussy clenches around him at the sight, and the cruel grin that spreads across his face makes your stomach flip. "Filthy little slut... you like pretending I'm him?"

You shake your head no, but Haechan catches your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look straight through the shelves. Straight at Jaemin.

"Then keep your eyes on him while I fuck you. Since that's what you want so bad."

Heat flushes through your entire body — humiliation, desire, and something darker twisting in your gut. You shouldn't want this. You shouldn't want to be fucked like a ragdoll while imagining your best friend is the one splitting you open. But the way Haechan's cock is stretching you — brutal and unrelenting — makes it so fucking hard to care.

The girl on Jaemin's lap starts whining, hips rocking against his hand. Jaemin's mouth drops open in a soft moan, head tipping back against the chair. His fingers are moving faster now — slick, dirty sounds echoing through the stacks.

Haechan's lips brush your ear, voice syrupy sweet. "Wanna come together, baby? Wanna let him hear how good we're being up here?"

You're so close — thighs trembling, pussy clenching around him with every punishing thrust. And the worst part is... you do want it. You want Jaemin to hear you. You want him to know exactly what you're doing — what he's missing out on. What Haechan gets to have while he wastes his time with girls who won't ever know him the way you do.

Haechan's fingers find your clit, rubbing fast, messy circles that send sparks shooting up your spine. "That's it," he groans, hips stuttering. "Come for me, baby. Let him hear how fucking good I fuck you."

A sudden rustle echoes through the library — footsteps approaching, heavy and deliberate. Your breath catches, panic slicing through the haze of pleasure.

You don’t want the pleasure to stop, but the sparks in your stomach are dying down with each jangle of keys you hear. When you turn your head, you see a flashlight sweeping through the aisles of books a few rows over.

“Haechan we gotta go.” You urge.

“W-Wait, just give me, ah fuck, give me two seconds.” He stammers out, hands squeezing and kneading your thighs as he gets closer and closer.

“Hyuck.” You warn,

“Please!” He whines, “I’m so fucking close.”

You roll your eyes and say the thing you know will get him to finish, “Be a good boy and cum for me.”

The words are barely a whisper, yet they cut through the tension like a knife. His body tenses, a low groan rumbling in his throat. His hips buck against yours one last time, a shudder running through him as he spills inside you. The sudden quiet after his release is deafening, broken only by the continued jangling of keys and the soft thud of approaching footsteps.

“Hurry up.” You whisper through gritted teeth.

Haechan curses under his breath, pulling out of you with a slick pop. He rips the condom off, glancing around frantically before stuffing it between the pages of a geology textbook.

“That’s disgusting.” You whisper.

He just shrugs.

"Okay," he breathes, his voice thick with spent desire. "Okay, we go."

He pulls away, and you quickly adjust your clothing, the sound of rustling fabric seeming impossibly loud in the silence. "Come on," you hiss urgently, fingers tightening around Haechan's arm as you dart through the labyrinth of shelves with desperate determination. This stupid fucking geology section was so damn difficult to navigate. Shelves of useless books and glass cases of rocks. You take a wrong turn and end up face to face with a wall.

“This way dumbass.” Haechan whispers, this time grabbing your hand and pulling you in the opposite direction.

Apparently, he knew exactly where to go, dragging you down a few corridors and finally to the back staircase that you had come up earlier. His hand tugs you down the steps so fast you think you might just tumble down them. But when you reach the bottom, he spares you a glance, “You okay?”

“Y-yeah.”

"Hey!” The security guard's shout jolts you, too close for comfort, and you both sprint away once more.

Navigating the bottom floor feels better; fewer shelves clutter the space, replaced by study room cubicles and vacant tables. You trail behind Haechan, relief flooding you as you spot the double doors illuminated by the red exit sign.

At last, you burst through the library doors, the cool night air a balm against the fevered heat of adrenaline that courses through your veins. But as you collide with a figure standing at the edge of the pathway, your heart lurches.

This was it. You were done for. Caught by the security guard for breaking the rules. You just hope they don’t throw you in jail. They couldn’t arrest you, could they?

"Jaemin?" Haechan gasps, his voice a breathless whisper that hangs in the air like a fragile thread.

Forget jail – you might just die here on the spot.

There Jaemin was, his hands holding your arms to steady you. God he really was just solid wall of muscle. But it was just him, no girl in sight.

He peers down at you, mouth dropped in surprise. “What are you two doing here?”

You and Haechan share a quick look and then speak at the same time. “Project.”

Jaemin releases his hold on you and takes a step back, “You don’t share classes.”

“I was helping him.”

“It’s due tonight.” Haechan affirms, still trying to catch his breath, “What were you doing here?”

It’s an accusatory statement – but you didn’t think Haechan had the balls to actually ask it.

Jaemin shoves his hands in his pockets and starts down the path. The both of you follow on his heels, “I was studying.”

“Right.”

“Well, are you guys coming back to the dorm to finish the project?”

“Can’t. I have to go to a Jennie thing, like, right now.” As if on cue, your phone pings with a slew of messages from her – all asking where the hell you were. “Can one of you guys go with me? She’s asking me why I’m late and she’s not gonna be satisfied unless I have a good excuse. But, if I bring one of you guys, she’ll understand.”

Haechan pipes up from beside you incredibly fast. Literally jumping at the chance, “I’ll go.”

“Don’t you have a project to finish?” Jaemin’s voice holds a note of skepticism as he turns his gaze to Hyuck, one eyebrow lifted.

Haechan’s expression falters for a moment, his defense tumbling from his lips, “Yeah, but–”

“You should probably head back to work on it.” You interject, tone firm.

Jaemin nodded in agreement.

If you could get Jaemin to go with you, perhaps the night would lead exactly where you wanted it too…with him between your legs, and another part of the challenge completed.

Sure, you felt bad about literally ditching the boy you were just fooling around with – who you literally made cum in less than ten minutes. But you had a duty. A responsibility.

Right?

Haechan just shoves his hands into his pocket and storms off towards his dorm without another word. Which, by the way, was not the norm for him. He always had to have the last word. Boy must really be butt hurt.

“Jaemin?” you began, turning to face him, a playful glint dancing in your eyes.

“What do I get out of this?” Jaemin's response was quick, his lips curling into a knowing smile as he met your gaze.

You roll your eyes, searching for something that would tip the scale in your favor. “You get to see pretty girls in pretty dresses.”

“Fucking deal.”

So, turns out entering a sorority house in the middle of an event was not a respected nor appreciated thing.

Technically you wouldn’t have been late had Jaemin not insisted on stopping by his dorm so that he could change. He had ‘too many girls to impress’. And then, every outfit he chose, Haechan had some rude comment to make. Thus, making you late.

Girls around the room shoot dirty looks as you and Jaemin scramble in through the door. You tuck your head down, feeling the weight of their judgement. Jaemin, however, seemed to revel in the attention. Instead of trying to blend in, he unabashedly drank in the gazes directed your way. A mischievous smile played on his lips as he winked and waved to some of the girls around you. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his audacity.

What a manslut.

Thankfully, your entrance didn't manage to disrupt Jennie's announcement. The sorority president continued her speech from the front of the room, determined to maintain the flow of the event, even if her sisters were still glaring at you.

As Jennie finished calling the names of all the new sisters, the room erupted into cheers and applause.

Someone starts playing music.

Drinks start flowing.

Jaemin filters off with mumbled excuses of finding said drinks.

And you realize just how fucked you look, literally.

Your disheveled appearance didn't go unnoticed, as Jennie approached your huddled figure. Trying to smooth down your hair and straighten your skirt, she all but sprints over. Her eyes widen when she spots a hickey on your neck.

"You're not helping your case," Jennie teased, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You sure you didn't sleep with him?"

You chuckled nervously, clawing at the mark on your neck, "Not him, someone else."

“Someone else?” She questions, raising an eyebrow. A hint of guilt washes over you; perhaps it's time to open up to her. The expression she wears suggests that if you don't share the information willingly, she might claw it out of you.

You open your mouth and close it, almost mechanically. What were you going to say? Tell her that Haechan decided to have his fun between the shelves of the geology section. Jennie would kill you, like, actually murder you and dump your cold body in the quad fountain. She’s eyeing you expectantly.

“Actually, it was–”

“Y/n! Jennie!” Jaehyun's smooth voice interrupts, catching you off guard. You turned to see him, a playful glint in his eyes. He pushes past a group of people, smiling all the while. Luck must really be on your side this week, because Jennie turns away from you to embrace him, your expected confession already forgotten.

When she pulls away, she shoots you a look. If you squinted, you’d see her pupils replaced by little animated hearts. She really was into him.

“I didn’t know you were in a sorority Y/n.” He paused, eyes flickering between you and Jennie. "You both look amazing."

You chuckled, waving off the idea. "No sorority for me. I'm just here to support Jennie. She's the social butterfly tonight.”

Jennie beamed at the mention of her being a social butterfly, and Jaehyuns compliment, clearly enjoying the attention from both of you. "Oh, you two should chat. Y/n, meet Jaehyun. Jaehyun, this is Y/n, my roommate, best friend, partner in crime, etcetera."

Jennie doesn’t know that you’ve both met before, and you guess he doesn’t have the heart to explain it all to her. Unaware of your previous encounters, she continued her introduction “Jae, Y/n is amazing. She’s the one who introduced me to that new coffee shop I’ve been meaning to take you to!”

Jaehyun extends his hand, and you shook it, feeling a subtle spark as your eyes met. "Nice to officially meet you, Y/n. Jennie's been talking about you," he admitted, a smile playing on his lips.

You raised an eyebrow, curious. "Oh, has she now?"

Jennie nodded enthusiastically. "Only good things, I promise! Mostly about the coffee joint."

“About that…” Jaehyun says, pulling out his phone from his pocket and tapping the screen a few times, “I’ve been meaning to get your number so we can go sometime.”

When he hands the phone to Jennie, she all but passes out. A beaming smile overtakes her features as she hastily inputs her number. “I sent myself a text, so you’ll know it’s me.” As Jennie handed back Jaehyun's phone, a newfound excitement radiated from her. "I can't wait for us to check it out together. It's my absolute favorite," she exclaimed, seemingly oblivious to how the boy was now smirking at you.

Jaehyun, still not looking in your roommates direction, gave a nod of agreement. "Absolutely, looking forward to it." He pockets his phone and leans against the wall.

Your roommate shoots you another look, this one of pure giddy delight. “Alright! I’d like to stay and chat with you guys all night, but I got a party to run! Being a Delta Gamma girl means I gotta run around like a chicken with her head cut off. I’ll catch you guys later though?” Jennie shot one last love-struck glance your way before gracefully maneuvering through the crowd, disappearing into the sea of partygoers.

As the music pulsed and the lively atmosphere continued around you, you found yourself standing with Jaehyun, both of you momentarily left to your own devices. Jaemin was nowhere to be found so you might as well enjoy the company of Jeno’s older half-brother.

Jaehyun, ever the smooth talker, leaned in a bit closer, his voice a low murmur over the music. "Well, it looks like it's just you and me now.”

“Seems like it.” You respond, not sure what to say, but Jaehyun interrupts what little silence there was.

"So, Y/n," He begins, "Tell me about Jeno. Been keeping an eye on him?”

Honestly, you hadn't crossed paths with Jeno much this week. The only time you managed to meet up was for lunch earlier in the day, and even then, Jaehyun decided to join, leaving your catch-up session with Jeno cut short.

"Well, I'm not his personal watchdog, but as far as I know he’s doing alright. He’s probably practicing for the game tomorrow.”

Jaehyun's smile widened, and he reached up to casually brush a strand of hair from your face. The gesture sent a subtle shiver down your spine. Why did he do that? That was literally so out of the blue. Especially when he just gave your roommate his number.

"Speaking of keeping an eye on things," he teased, his tone now laced with a hint of flirtation, "You seem like you need a drink. Want me to get you one?"

You glance around the room, searching for Jaemin so that you could excuse yourself, but he was nowhere to be found – still.

You sigh, “Yeah, sure. Why not? Surprise me.”

Jaehyun returned shortly with a drink in hand, and as you took a sip, he continued the conversation. "So, tell me about the party last weekend. Did you and Haechan enjoy yourselves?"

The mention of the party made you choke on your drink (that, and the fact that it was literally ninety-five percent tequila and five percent lemonade), surprised by the sudden shift in topic. “Me and Haechan? W-what do you mean?”

He couldn’t know, could he…?

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow, smirking so wide his dimples hollowed out his cheeks. It was kind of cute – in an objective way, of course. “Well, you guys went off during spin the bottle, right?”

Oh, you had totally forgotten about that.

“Yeah, but we didn’t do anything.” You wave your hand in front of your face and take another sip of your drink. It wasn’t entirely a lie – you didn’t do anything at the party.

He hums and takes a sip of his own drink. Swallowing it hard, he gestures to you, “Well, I can clearly see a hickey on your neck, so who has the pleasure of getting at you?”

Your drink nearly becomes a choking hazard once more. Attempting to articulate a response, you struggle as the words seem to get caught in your throat. God damn tequila.

“Was it Jaemin?”

Now that…that about killed you. You wished it had been Jaemin’s lips on your neck, his hands on your body, his co- “Hate to burst your bubble, but me and Jaemin are just friends.” You give him a wry smile, “It was just some dude in my class.”

“Some dude?” He smirks, and those damn dimples come out again.

You nod, “Unfortunately.”

He lifts his cup to his lips and utters, almost muffled by the rim of the solo cup, "I bet I could do better."

“Is that so?” You quip, the words leaving your mouth faster than you can comprehend. There’s no justification for the thoughts seeping into your brain. This was supposed to be Jennies man. Jeno’s brother. A friend and nothing more.

But those dimples.

And that suit he was wearing. All black tie, shiny shoes, and crisp white button up.

You could blame it on the alcohol.

You could blame it on Haechan leaving you high and dry.

You could blame it on a million other things…

But one thing is for certain: You just might regret this in the morning.

You’re definitely going to regret this in the morning.

When the windows of his car fog up, you notice the faded presence of heart shapes delicately traced by the touch of someone’s finger.

Probably his ex.

Unfortunately, this is the only thing you manage to focus on while Jaehyun fisted a handful of your hair, yanking your head back. His thrusts were fast and pointed and damn near painful.

“You’re so fucking tight.” He groans.

Maybe if you could focus really hard, you’d be able to finish, but when he snakes his hand around your waist and starts rubbing the side of your leg, you realize that that wasn’t going to happen.

“Feel good?” The cockiness drips from his lips, and it almost makes you laugh. Poor thing, at least he was hot.

“Mhm.” It’d feel better if he slowed down and stopped jackhammering into you.

The leather seats of his car stick against your skin when you try to lift up onto your elbows. It was pretty spacious, but with Jaehyun all but laying on top of you, it felt more than cramped.

His hand rubs harder, “Don’t hold back baby, cum for me.”

Did he really believe you were close to finishing? You weren’t making any sounds, not shaking, not moaning for him to keep going or go faster. But genuinely, if you told him the truth, it would probably break his ego in half. Or prompt him to actually get better at sex.

You decide to just fake it. “Fuck Jae…Feels good.”

His voice is strained, “Don’t call me Jae.”

“Sorry–” You mumble, head dipping under the weight of his heavy hand that comes to grab at the back of your neck. His other hand was already wrapped up in your hair, but the other steadies himself while he continues to fuck into you.

“Call me daddy.” He breathes.

Of course he’d have a daddy kink.

You amp your voice up a bit “F-Fuck, daddy, love your cock.” Apparently, this was exactly what he wanted because he starts humming in satisfaction, “Want your cum.” You just wanted him to be done.

The tips of his ears turn red, pace faltering when the name rolls off your tongue. “Baby...fuck” He keeps it just like that, disjointedly fucking into you as he came – thank god he had a condom on. But he doesn’t pull out right away, instead keeping still until his breathing returned to normal. You just kinda awkwardly sit there, panting.

“That was really good.” He chuckles, pulling out and sitting down on the seat. You fix yourself too, sitting beside him. Your skirt is down on the floorboard, so you bend down to get it and start to put it back on. You felt sticky and sore and not satisfied at all.

The silence becomes more awkward than it should have been, so you speak up, “So…you have a daddy kink?”

He opens the car door and drops the condom on the ground – which was really fucking gross, but what other choice did he have?

“Yeah…I don’t know, it’s something new I guess.”

Continuing to awkwardly fumble around for something to say you ask another question, “Oh, you were experimenting?”

“I guess.” The awkwardness starts to creep back in again. He wasn’t good at pillow talking, was he? He wasn’t good at much anything when it came to sex, you guess. Throwing on his shirt, he starts to get dressed while you twist your hands together in your lap.

You shifted uncomfortably, “Um, I should probably go find Jennie,” you mumbled, avoiding direct eye contact with Jaehyun.

He seemed oblivious, choosing to focus on the button of his jeans, “Sounds good. Think ‘m gonna head home.” When he did look up, he gave you a genuine smile, “You okay to walk?”

“Yeah,” you replied, “I think I’m good.”

What is it with guys and asking if you were okay to walk after? It’s not like they’re paralyzing you with their magical cock.

As he sat there, you couldn't help but think this dude needed a serious sex ed lesson, and then a follow-up on how to treat a girl after putting her through... that.

“If you ever wanna do this again, you have my number,” he said casually.

You didn’t have his number, and you would never get it. You forced a smile, “Absolutely!”

He got out of the car, and you followed suit, stepping out onto the street and discreetly fixing your clothes so that it looked like you hadn’t been cramped in the back seat of someone’s car. He made his way to the driver’s side door and opened it, “You gonna be at the game on Sunday?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it. Jeno would kill me, you know.”

He nodded, seemingly unfazed, "Great, hopefully I’ll see you there."

You waved a half-hearted goodbye as he got into his car. When he pulled out of sight, you muttered to yourself, lesson learned, boundaries set.

Turning on your heel, you went back inside the sorority house. The vibrant energy of the party still pulsed through the air. You wonder where this night would have gone had you stayed. Too late for that now. Now you were just unsatisfied and pissed off.

Frowning, you spot Jaemin across the room sitting on a couch. Some girl has her arm thrown around him and they’re laughing. His pink hair falls into his eyes when he looks at her and she reaches a hand up to move the tumbled strands. Her other hand rubs his arms, and he annoyingly flexes. They were three seconds away from kissing and honestly, it pissed you off even more.

Rolling your eyes, you march over to him, damn near pushing people out of the way. Some tell you to watch where you’re going but you ignore them, entirely focused on Jaemin and whoever this girl was.

“Hey Y/N” he cheerfully greets, giving you a beaming smile, “This is Vera.” He gestures to the girl by his side

You grabbed his upper arm, shaking Vera’s grip off of his other one, and pulling him upright – away from her. "Come on, we're leaving," you declared, not in the mood for his flirtatious antics. His bicep flexes, and you find yourself even more desperate to get the fuck out of the sorority house and home to where you could give yourself a proper orgasm.

Jaemin protested, trying to resist your tug. "Dude, what the fuck.” He lowers his voice, “Can’t you see I’m with a girl.”

You shot him a stern look, "You're my date?? This is so rude."

Vera just gives a nervous laugh. Probably afraid that you’d hit her if she tried something. You wouldn’t, but she didn’t know that.

He chuckled, still trying to charm his way out of the situation, "Come on, don't be like that. She's cute, and I was just having a chat." He lowers his voice again, this time whining, “Dude we were just about to go back to her place, don’t fuck this up for me please!”

Ignoring his protests, you start to drag him toward the exit. He finally relented, realizing you were serious about leaving. As you reached the door, he turned to Vera and mouthed, "Call me!"

You shook your head, muttering under your breath, "Unbelievable."

Outside, the cool night air hit you, and you couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the evening. "Note to self: choose Haechan next time."

The campus path stretched ahead as you stormed down it, frustration evident in every step. Jaemin followed behind for a few minutes until he got fed up. When he finally catches up, he grabs your shoulder and spins you around.

"What's got you so mad?" he asked, a bemused expression on his face.

You took a deep breath, deciding to let it out. "Jeno's brother.”

“What about Jeno’s brother? Did he try something…I swear to God Y/N, if he tried something-”

You cut him off, “He sucks at sex.” The embarrassment creeps up your spine the longer Jaemin stares at you with wide eyes.

“Wait you…” Jaemin burst into laughter, his amusement echoing through the pathway. "No fucking way…” He clutches his stomach and doubles over, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes like you just said the funniest thing in the world, “Jeno’s brother?”

You shot him a look, still seething, but Jaemin's laughter was contagious, and soon you found yourself smiling despite your annoyance.

"What? Did he have a small dick or something?” Jaemin teased, the corners of his lips still twitching with mirth.

Eyes rolling, you cross your arms over your chest. “More like he thinks giving me an orgasm means rubbing the side of my thigh for five minutes while he fucks like a jack rabbit.”

“Oh my god.” Jaemin doubles over in laughter again, “Now I know why his girl left him.”

“Not funny.”

“Come on,” He chuckles, “Don’t be mad, laugh it off.”

You sighed, "I'm not mad, Jaemin. I'm sexually frustrated."

The laughter died down instantly as Jaemin's expression shifted. "Oh," he says, a hint of realization dawning in his eyes.

"Yeah, oh," you replied, not expecting such a reaction. What was he thinking? And why was he looking at you like that?

After a moment of silence, Jaemin speaks up, his voice softer now. "I’ll do it.”

A breeze passes through the quad, making you shiver. You rub your arms to bring warmth back into them, barely registering Jaemins words, “You’ll do what? Fuck his ex better than he ever could?”

“No,” he chuckles, “I’ll fuck you better than he ever could.”

It’s almost like the world tips over and starts swimming in your vision, because there’s no way, on Gods green fucking earth, that Na Jaemin just offered to fuck you. What happened to not even touching you with a ten-foot pole? Was there sex pollen in the air or something? Did that girl slip something into Jaemins' drink? What happened to being just friends?

But Na Jaemin was just a boy

And you were just a girl. One that was in desperate need of an orgasm.

He seemed to pick up on your hesitation, prompting him to move a step closer and begin clarifying, “Look, I won’t make it weird or anything.” Extending his hand, he gently caresses your arm, and you allow it. “Just a friend helping out a friend, right?”

“But…Why?”

As long as you’d known Jaemin there was no sexual chemistry whatsoever. Except for the last couple weeks when this challenge shit started. But you could have sworn that was all one sided, stemming from your overactive, horny ass brain that needed to be satiated.

“I guess I have a thing for helping those in need…you know, tutoring and all.”

You chew on your bottom lip, “Makes sense…”

Could this night possibly help you complete the second part of the challenge? Was fucking Na Jaemin going to be this easy?

His hand continues to stroke the side of your arm and goosebumps break out on the exposed skin. “Come on Y/N, you deserve an actual orgasm after having to put up with that.”

You raise an eyebrow, “And you think you can give me one?”

“Oh I know I can. Multiple if you’d like.” His words bite through the air, confidence dripping from his lips. Except, instead of it being cocky and very not true like Jaehyun earlier, you could sense he was telling the truth. And thinking back to the video he showed you weeks ago, of him fucking that girl and making her squirt, you realize, Jaemin is exactly who you want right now.

But maybe you want him to work for it a little more, after all, he was the slut in the friend group. (Even if you were the one that already had two cocks in you tonight).

Taking a step closer, you gaze into his eyes, “You talk a big game, Na Jaemin.”

God, he looked fucking good. Button up slightly askew, taunt collar bones peeking through the top. You want to rip it right off of him and get to the muscle’s underneath.

He mirrors your stare, “And I can back it up.” Time stands still when he gives you a once over, biting his lip when he gets to the (as hyuck called it) short ass cheerleading skirt you wore, “Look, I won’t even cum if you don’t want me too. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Desperation rolls off his tongue, and if you had looked closely enough, you’d notice the front of his pants tightening. He never thought about you in this kind of way. You were always off limits to him. A girl he could never claim. But now…with you staring at him like you wanted to bite him (odd, though he’s gotten more feral reactions from other girls before), he can’t help but think about you naked in his bed. Begging for his cock. Begging for him. And well, that made him hard.

“Whatever I want?”

He repeats his words, “Whatever you want.” Voice dropping to barely above a whisper, he gives you another once over, “You can use me as your personal sex toy.”

“Oh, but I’m not Vera?” At this point, you were teasing him – and he knew it. “Thought you wanted her?”

He laughs, “Maybe, but you’re definitely prettier than her.” It catches him by surprise when he notices that it’s true. You were prettier than her. In fact, now that he’s noticing, you were prettier than about ninety five percent of the girls on this campus. How the fuck had he not noticed before? Or maybe he had…maybe this is the first time he’s wanted to admit it to himself. “Come on, I’m so much better than the rubber shit you’d be using if you went home alone.”

You step closer, almost chest-to-chest with him, “And how do you know I’d be using rubber; I have perfectly good hands-”

He leans in, bringing his face inches from yours, "Not better than mine." His eyes drift down to your lips, only to return and lock onto your gaze. "And we both know that."

There’s only a sliver of sanity left in your body to stop you from kissing him right then, right there, in the middle of campus.

“Jaemin.” You whisper.

“Yeah baby?”

That sanity was slipping further and further away.

“What’s the fastest route to your dorm?”

A. NOTE. read the the note at the beginning of this post. and don't forget to reblog :)

TAGLIST. @newdeobi @jijihyunah @saintlyhyuck @mrkis @peachjaem00 @angelwonie @aliceinwhateverland @cabaretyun @allaboutthedongs @donutswithjaminthemiddle @bundleleeknow @sunshinedhyuck @kuingjuing @haechanalpha @thiccfullsun @jenoxygen @ishireads @greentealatte97 @aquamxrina @whymarkieyournameismark @marklexleaf @its-taeil-time @j4d @dearj43 @roohnyk @stargrll13 @hykwrld @leeluc @haechie @xuxisins @rainyjeno

#oh my god ?????#i forgot abt this tbh BUT ITS STILL SO GOOD😭#GET ME JENOS PART NOWWWW

776 notes · View notes

ryorecs · 5 months ago

Text

SO GOOD?!?!

Ridiculously Yours | L.DH

Pairing: Haechan x fem!reader

Genre: He fell first and the hardest; crack. smut MDNI

Word Count: 4.8K

Warnings: hyuck is down obsessed, mentions of drinks, profanity, kissing, dry humping, oral (fem recieving), face sitting, fingering, protected sexual intercourse, marking, pet names, 'angel', 'Haechannie' these two are insufferable.

A/N: Listen, I- have no words for myself. It wrote itself. I swear.

Haechan always knew he was dramatic, but something about you amplified it to a level that even he couldn’t comprehend.

The first time he saw you, he was gone. Done for. Absolutely wrecked. It wasn’t just your looks—though he could write sonnets about the way your face caught the light—it was everything. The way you spoke, moved, even how you barely acknowledged him.

Now, every time you’re in the same room as him, he’s like a lovesick puppy, trailing behind you, soaking up every crumb of attention. And you? You’re the exact opposite. Cold. Distant. Completely unimpressed. And it only makes him want you more.

“Why are you always here?” you asked one day, your voice flat, eyes barely lifting from your phone as Haechan perched on the edge of your couch like a golden retriever begging for scraps.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Because I love the way you look at me like I’m the dirt under your shoe. It really keeps me humble.”

You rolled your eyes, and he swore his heart did a flip. “You’re desperate,” you said, deadpan.

“For you? Absolutely, my angel.” His grin widened, shameless and infuriatingly charming. “Call me desperate again. I think it’s my new favourite pet name.”

The audacity. You shot him a look that could kill, and his cheeks flushed—not from shame, but pure adoration.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you muttered, turning your attention back to your phone.

“Like what?” His voice softened, sincerity sneaking past his usual bravado. “Like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me? Can’t help it.”

You ignored him, but he wasn’t done. Oh, no.

“Do you know how perfect you are? Like, just the scent of you—” He leaned closer, inhaling dramatically. “—has me so hard. It’s actually unfair. How do you smell so good? It should be illegal.”

“You’re so corny, it hurts.”

“And yet, you’re still sitting here letting me bask in your presence. If that’s not a sign from the universe, I don’t know what is.”

You didn’t respond, but the faintest twitch of your lips gave you away, and Haechan nearly combusted on the spot. To him, even that was a victory—a tiny crack in your indifferent façade that he could cling to for dear life.

“You’re ridiculous,” you finally said, shaking your head.

“And you’re gorgeous.” He sighed, leaning back with a dreamy smile. “Can’t believe I get to breathe the same air as you. Wow.”

You threw a pillow at his face, and he caught it, laughing like you’d just handed him the moon. Desperate? Sure. But if it meant being close to you, Haechan didn’t care.

Parties were supposed to be a chance for Haechan to shine—to work the crowd, command the room, and bask in the attention he so effortlessly drew. But the moment you walked into any gathering, his spotlight narrowed, his orbit shifted, and his gravitational pull locked solely on you.

He was on you instantly, weaving through the throng of people with a drink in one hand and a plate of snacks in the other. You didn’t even ask for them, but Haechan didn’t need instructions when it came to you.

“Thirsty? Hungry? No? That’s okay; I brought both just in case,” he said with a boyish grin, setting everything on the table in front of you.

“I didn’t ask for anything,” you said, dry as ever, but he just waved you off like your indifference was a love letter.

“You didn’t have to, my angel. I’m a mind reader when it comes to you.” He crouched down to meet your eyes. “What else do you need? A chair? No worries. My lap is always open for you. Or, y’know…” He shot you a suggestive smirk. “My face.”

You groaned, leaning as far back in your seat as possible. “You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re stunning,” he quipped back without missing a beat. “C’mon, you can’t be mad at me when I’m just trying to worship the ground you walk on. Literally.”

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t deter him. It never did. As the night went on, he hovered like a shadow—fetching water when you looked too warm, whisking away any empty cups before you even noticed, and even fending off some guy who tried to strike up a conversation with you.

The guy didn’t even get two words out before Haechan materialized out of thin air, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, babe, sorry I left you alone for so long. You good?” His eyes were wide, sincere, but the smirk tugging at his lips was all mischief.

“Babe?” you hissed through clenched teeth, glaring at him.

“For your safety,” he whispered back, unbothered by the daggers you were shooting his way.

And when you finally got tired of mingling and decided to retreat to the quieter side of the house, Haechan was right there with you, offering his jacket even though it wasn’t cold.

“You really don’t have to follow me everywhere,” you said, exasperated.

“I’m not following you,” he said with mock indignation, plopping down beside you on the couch. “I’m simply staying near my favourite person in the world. Huge difference.”

When there weren’t any free seats left and someone jokingly suggested you sit on Haechan’s lap, he perked up like he’d just won the lottery. “Great idea!” he beamed, patting his thighs. “C’mon, angel. I’m literally built for this.”

You shot him a glare that would’ve withered anyone else, but Haechan? He just looked at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky.

You had no idea what possessed you to actually entertain Haechan’s antics, but maybe it was the weariness from his endless pestering. Or maybe—though you’d never admit it—you liked the way his eyes lit up when you gave him even the smallest bit of attention.

“Fine,” you muttered, standing up from the couch. “But if you say one word, I’m leaving.”

Haechan froze, his mouth already half-open, likely ready to spew some ridiculous comment, but he snapped it shut and mimed zipping his lips. His hands patted his lap eagerly, practically vibrating with excitement.

Rolling your eyes, you carefully lowered yourself onto his thighs. He felt warm beneath you, his legs solid and steady, and for a split second, you wondered why it felt so…comfortable.

He let out a shaky breath, and you glared at him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything!” he whispered, voice pitched high with effort.

“Your face is saying everything,” you muttered, shifting slightly.

The tiny movement nearly sent him spiralling. You could feel his thighs tense under you, his hands gripping the sides of the couch as if grounding himself. He sucked in another breath, exhaling shakily. “You’re…wow.”

“Haechan.”

“Sorry! Sorry!” He clasped his hands in front of him, like he was trying to appear more composed. But the way his cheeks were flushed and his eyes shone like a kid on Christmas morning betrayed him entirely.

A minute of silence passed—blissful for you, torturous for him. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t ruin the moment. He just sat there, eyes flicking occasionally to your profile as though memorizing every detail.

When you finally leaned back, your shoulder brushing his chest, you felt his breath hitch. His arms instinctively twitched as if he wanted to wrap them around you but was holding himself back.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, not bothering to look at him.

“And you’re perfect,” he replied instantly, unable to stop himself.

“You’re not supposed to talk.”

“Sorry, angel,” he said, grinning so wide it was a miracle his face didn’t split in half. “I’ll be good. Just…thank you. For letting me have this.”

For a brief moment, you softened. Maybe he was ridiculous—no, he definitely was—but at least he was your ridiculous, and that was something you could live with.

You were still perched on Haechan’s lap when she approached, her bright smile and fluttery laugh cutting through the low hum of the party.

“Hey, Haechan,” she chirped, leaning over just enough to block his view of you.

You didn’t bother moving, though you could feel the way his posture stiffened beneath you. You tilted your head back slightly, curious to see how he’d handle it.

“Oh, hey,” he replied, but there was no usual charm in his tone, no trademark flirtatious grin. His voice was flat, almost annoyed, as though her presence was the most inconvenient thing in the world.

She didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she didn’t care. “So, I was thinking… We never really got a chance to talk much at these things. You’re always so busy. Maybe we could—”

“Nope.”

The bluntness of his response caught her off guard. She blinked, confused, and you had to bite back a laugh.

“Excuse me?” she asked, her voice dipping into something almost wounded.

Haechan groaned, throwing his head back against the couch dramatically. “I’m literally in the middle of living my best life right now. Can’t you see that?” His hands gestured to you like you were the crown jewel of his existence.

Your laugh slipped out this time, low and amused. “Haechan, stop.”

“No, I won’t stop,” he said, turning his attention back to the girl. “Do you see this? Do you see who’s sitting on me right now? This is peak life. This is it for me.”

The girl stared at him, then at you, her expression teetering between disbelief and irritation. “I just thought—”

“Yeah, no, you thought wrong.” He waved her off, his tone a strange mix of exasperation and smugness. “Look, I’m sure you’re great or whatever, but this—” he motioned to you again, leaning slightly closer for emphasis “—is the love of my life. So, respectfully, go flirt with someone else.”

You smirked, shaking your head as the girl huffed and stormed off.

“You didn’t have to be so rude,” you teased.

Haechan’s arms finally wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer as he buried his face in your shoulder. “Rude? Angel, she was trying to steal me from my rightful place. If anything, I was merciful.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re perfection incarnate,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your skin. “Now stop laughing at my misery and let me soak in this moment. I’ll need it to keep me warm at night.”

The moment you leaned into his hold, the change in your posture was like a lightning strike to Haechan’s system. His breath hitched, and his arms tightened instinctively around you, as if he were afraid you might slip away.

He froze. Completely still. For a split second, you thought maybe you’d broken him—his whole body tensed, and his gaze shot down at you with an intensity that almost made you laugh, but you held it in.

Haechan blinked rapidly, trying to regain some semblance of control over himself, but it was a lost cause. The warmth of your body pressed against his was enough to send him into full-on meltdown mode. He could barely form a coherent thought.

"Angel...," he whispered, voice strained, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile bubble you’d created between you two. "You... you’re gonna kill me, you know that, right?"

You could feel his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips as he subtly shifted beneath you, adjusting to the overwhelming closeness. The moment your cheek brushed against his, his breath caught in his throat.

“I’m serious,” he groaned, his grip tightening just a little too much as if holding onto reality. “This is—this is too much. I can’t breathe.”

You let out a small, teasing laugh, pushing against him just enough to make his entire body shudder. “You’re so dramatic.”

He didn’t even try to defend himself. Instead, he buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. “I’m not dramatic. You’re just too perfect, and I’m completely useless when you’re this close to me.”

You could feel the way his hands shook slightly as they rested on your waist, and it only made you smirk.

"You literally short-circuited, Haechan," you teased, voice low. "And you didn’t even say anything for the first few seconds. I was honestly worried you were gonna pass out."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes wide with desperation. "I almost did, but that’s not the point. The point is—" He blinked rapidly, trying to ground himself. “The point is I’ve never been so happy in my life."

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit much for leaning into your hug, don’t you think?”

“Nope,” he said quickly, his voice filled with conviction. “Not even close. It’s everything. You. Me. This. I swear, if I could just bottle this moment—"

You chuckled, leaning into him again, and just like that, he short-circuited all over again, his whole body trembling with a mix of excitement and absolute adoration.

“You’re killing me, angel,” he breathed, a quiet, satisfied smile tugging at his lips as he tightened his hold. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

When your hands gently cupped his face, his entire body seemed to short-circuit all over again. It was like you'd flipped a switch in him. His eyes fluttered shut, and he audibly inhaled, barely able to contain the shudder that ran through him. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, you felt the raw intensity in the way he held his breath, like he was hanging on by a thread.

His voice came out low and shaky, a soft, desperate moan escaping his lips before he could stop it. "Angel.." His hands hovered near your waist, not daring to touch, too afraid of breaking the fragile, perfect connection between you.

You couldn't help the way your lips curved into a smirk. "Did you just moan?" you teased, voice barely above a whisper.

Haechan's face flushed, his eyes darting open, but he didn't pull back. Instead, he leaned into your touch, as if the contact was grounding him. His hands finally found their way to your sides, but he didn't pull you closer. He was almost paralyzed with the overwhelming feeling of your hands on his face, the delicate trace of your fingertips against his skin.

"I.. I didn't mean to," he breathed, voice thick with a mix of embarrassment and adoration. "But... how can I not? When you look at me like that?" His eyes locked onto yours, pupils blown wide with emotion. "You're... so beautiful, I can't-" He broke off, his lips parting slightly as if he was trying to regain control, but the effort was clearly futile.

You leaned in just a bit closer, and his breath hitched again, his hands tightening around you as he fought to steady himself.

"You're insane," you whispered, though there was no malice in your voice.

"I know," he replied softly, voice filled with so much devotion it almost made your heart ache. "But it's all for you, angel. All of it. Every single part of me is yours." He tilted his head just enough to brush his lips against your hand, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You don't even know what you do to me."

And in that moment, the entire world seemed to vanish, leaving just the two of you, caught in a tangled mess of affection and longing.

You couldn't hold back anymore. The way Haechan was looking at you, all breathless and desperate, made it impossible to resist.

His face was so close, his hands so gentle, but there was a hunger in his eyes that matched yours. Without a second thought, you leaned in and pressed your lips against his.

Haechan's breath caught, his body instantly reacting to the kiss. He was always so confident, always the one who played it cool, but when you kissed him, all that disappeared. He melted into you, his hands roaming to your back, pulling you closer as if he needed you to be even more there.

The kiss was soft at first, slow and deliberate, savouring the feel of each other's lips. But as the seconds passed, everything about it deepened. Haechan moaned softly, the sound muffled by your lips, and his hands slid to your waist, tugging you against him. His lips were warm and eager, as if he couldn't get enough, and you felt his pulse racing beneath your fingertips.

You shifted slightly, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and Haechan's groan vibrated through you. His hands were no longer hesitant, his fingers running over your body, his grip tightening on your ass as he let himself fully lose control.

You kissed him with everything you had, your lips moving against his with urgency, and you could feel the way he responded- how he couldn't hold back anymore either.

The heat between you two built with every second, and it felt like the whole room was spinning.

When you finally pulled away it was because you felt him growing beneath you, all too tempting to just rock against him in front of everyone. Haechan's eyes were dark, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon.

He smiled breathlessly, his lips still tingling from the kiss. "I think you just ruined me," he muttered, voice low and raspy, as if he'd forgotten how to speak.

You smirked, a playful glint in your eye.

"Good. Now you'll never be the same."

"I don't want to be" he admitted, pulling you closer again. "You kiss me like that, and I'm done for."

You couldn't help but laugh, and Haechan kissed the corner of your lips softly, like he was trying to memorize every moment of it.

He was definitely done for, but you kind of liked it that way.

“Come on,” you smiled as you got up, eyes darting down to see exactly what you felt. “Let’s go find a room.”

“Whatever you want, angel.” Haechan eager followed closely behind you, practically fused to your backside as he shamelessly humped his ever growing election into your clothed ass.

When you finally made it into an unoccupied room, you locked the door and told him to get on the bed and like a good, devoted boy, he did just that. You toe off your shoes and straddle his lap, smoothing your palms up and down his chest as you rock against him.

“Oh my...fuuuck.” Haechan was completely lost in the way your body felt against his. The warmth radiating from your clothed core over his clothed, painful, bulge was beyond his wildest dreams.

You slipped off his lap, and he thought it was over, only for your sweet voice to tell him to lay down so you could take a seat. He made a confused noise, but then as he watched your panties slide down your gorgeous legs, it clicked, and he practically melted into the comforter.

Giggling, you crawled up his body, pecked his lips before spreading yourself onto his pretty face. His hands claimed your thighs and his mouth went to work. He was moaning more than you were but it didn’t matter. His lips made out with yours, his tongue tracing shapes you sure didn’t remember but fuck it, it felt amazing. Your hips moved at their own accord, clit bumping his nose making you sigh his name. The sound making him buck his hips in nothing as he switched to tongue fucking you with all he had. His fingers were kneading your thighs as he guided your movements.

That suction, paired with his fingers curling up against your sweet spot had your head thrown back in a moan of his name as you came. Haechan drank up every drop of your release. Humming in satisfaction ant the taste of you. Blissfully taking it your essence.

Feeling warm and incredibly aroused, your hands trailed up your torso and pulled off your top. Haechan was none the wiser considering your skirt was shielding him, his main focus was on your pussy anyway. Though the way you tweaked your hardened nipples made you grind harder against his face, and he took at as an opportunity to bring two fingers to your entrance and switch to sucking on your clit like it was his last breath.

Much to both of your dismay, you dismounted his face, his beautiful, glossy, tanned face. But all would be right in the world as you were now ridding him of his pants and boxers as he got rid of his shirt.

He shuffled back up against the headboard, watching the way your body moved as you peeled off your skirt and crawled back into his lap. His erection wasn’t what you expected, but you were not complaining. You leaned in for a kiss that sent shivers through both of your bodies. Tasting yourself on his tongue made you whine and grind your pussy against his tip.

Ever the cautious one, Haechan mumbled about having a condom in his back pocket. You made a show of bending over the edge of the bed to retrieve the package, giving him the perfect view of your drooling hole.

Ripping it open with your teeth as you settled back into his lap, he held your waist gently. His breath hitched while you rolled the latex onto his girth, giving it a couple of pumps and getting a feel of just how much you’d be split open tonight.

“Angel, I don’t mean to rush you, but - oh shit” He didn’t get to finish his gentle plea because you were already sinking down on him. And-

“You’re so big Haechannie. Should’ve told me sooner.” You babbled.

“Would you have let me have you then?” He chuckled breathily.

“Probably not.” You sigh, your mouth hanging open so wantonly.

Once you got used to his size, your arms locked around his neck, boob’s pressed into his face as you rode him. Slow, deep, hard. He needed you to go faster, but he would never push you. Whatever you wanted would be perfect for him. The mere fact of having you like this was already everything and more.

Deciding to build up a faster rhythm, your hands found his shoulders as you bounced. Haechan was in a trance between your face, your boob’s and where he was sliding in and out, in and out, in and

“Oh fuck, angel. I’m close.”

Pathetic? Maybe. Did he care? No. Could you blame him? Absolutely not.

With a peck to his nose and lips, you whispered, “Go ahead.”

As he bucked up to meet your movements, he also wanted you to get there again. And if you’re being honest, it wasn’t going to take much with how his tip curved into you sweet spot. He reached a hand between your thighs to thumb at your clit like his life depended on it. Your face fell to his neck, panting and squealing as everything heightened. Suckling on his skin and leaving your mark (or several).

When he burst into the condom, the warmth did something to your body and your own climax peaked. Thighs locking him in as your bodies shuddered against one another. Sounds of groans and sighs and whines filtering through as you settled into the aftermath.

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of music drifting in from the party downstairs. You and Haechan were tangled in the aftermath, the air between you still thick with the weight of everything that had just happened. His hands were still on you—gentle, but hesitant now, as if he wasn’t entirely sure where he stood anymore.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly, a mixture of satisfaction and uncertainty on his face. His gaze was locked onto yours, searching for something, anything that would tell him he hadn’t just ruined everything by letting his guard down.

“So... does this mean we’re—” He paused, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. “Are we, like... together now?”

You raised an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth tugging into a playful smirk. You could see the tension in his posture, the way his hands remained so careful on your skin, as though afraid you might slip away if he moved the wrong way.

You let the silence stretch for just a moment longer, watching the way his face shifted from hope to doubt in the blink of an eye. Finally, you deadpanned, your voice flat as you answered, “No.”

Haechan froze, his eyes widening, his grip on you loosening. The flicker of disappointment was quick, almost imperceptible, but you saw it, and you couldn't help but let out a breath of amusement at how seriously he took your words.

But just as he opened his mouth to protest, you leaned in, capturing his lips with yours again. This time, the kiss was softer, a little slower, filled with a warmth that made it clear this wasn’t just about the heat of the moment. When you pulled away, your face was just inches from his, your breath mingling.

You looked into his eyes—serious, but filled with something much deeper than just playfulness—and whispered, “We always were.”

Haechan’s expression shifted instantly from confusion to something more understanding, his eyes lighting up with realization. It was like a switch flipped in him, and suddenly, all the tension left his body. He grinned, that trademark mischievous smile curling back onto his lips, and his hands pulled you closer, his chest pressing against yours.

“You’re so evil,” he laughed, but there was nothing but joy in his voice now. “You can’t just do that to me.”

“I can,” you said with a grin of your own. “And I will. So, get used to it.”

Haechan leaned in to kiss you again, but this time, it was gentle, more of a promise than anything else. As he kissed you, his hands slid to your back, holding you close, and you could feel the shift between you two—a shift that didn’t need words to confirm it anymore.

“You’re really my favourite, you know that?” he murmured against your lips, his voice full of affection.

You smiled against the kiss, knowing full well that, no matter what you said or how you acted, you were in this together, whether you chose to admit it or not.

Haechan stretched his arms above his head, letting out a dramatic groan as he glanced around the unfamiliar room. The two of you had ended up there in the heat of the moment, but now that things had cooled down, his nose wrinkled in distaste.

"Ugh, no," he muttered, standing up and adjusting his shirt. "I am not sleeping here. This bed smells like disappointment and bad decisions."

You blinked at him, still sprawled lazily on the mattress. "You were fine with it thirty minutes ago," you deadpanned.

"Yeah, well, I wasn’t thinking straight because you were all over me," he shot back, grinning. "But now that my brain cells have returned, I refuse to subject you—or myself—to this tragedy of a bed for even one more second."

You rolled your eyes, sitting up and raising an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you propose, Mr. Standards?"

He grabbed your hand, pulling you up with an enthusiasm that was both endearing and irritating. "We’re going back to my dorm. My bed’s nicer. Plus, it smells like me, which, let’s be honest, is a win for you."

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, but you didn’t pull your hand away as he led you out of the room.

The walk back to his dorm was filled with his usual chatter, him pointing out random things and cracking jokes to fill the silence. Every so often, his hand would tighten around yours, like he couldn’t quite believe you were still there with him.

When you finally stepped into his room, it was exactly what you expected: a little messy but cozy, with posters on the walls and his favorite hoodie draped over the back of his chair.

"Welcome to paradise," he said with a flourish, plopping onto his bed and patting the space beside him.

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. "Paradise, huh? This is just a dorm room."

He grinned, stretching out and resting his hands behind his head. "Paradise is wherever you are, angel."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips as you kicked off your shoes and climbed into the bed beside him.

Haechan immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “See?” he murmured, his voice softer now. “This is so much better.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue with you.”

“I’m lucky because I have you,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

And as the two of you drifted off, tangled up in his too-small dorm bed, you couldn’t find it in yourself to disagree.

MASTERLIST

#lee haechan #haechan fic #ryorecs

1K notes · View notes

ryorecs · 6 months ago

Text

love you (from afar) - na jaemin

jaemin x female reader (feat. jeno and the rest of the dreamies)

synopsis: When you’re finally pulled out of your house and pushed into your first party at the ripe age of sixteen, you meet Na Jaemin. In an instant, you're captivated and obsessed while he remains oblivious. Unrequited love is hard but it’s even worse when time proves it isn’t on anyone's side.

Or alternatively: To you, Na Jaemin is the center of your universe but to him, you are an awesome friend.

genre: fluff, angst, unrequited love, basically a love triangle, coming of age if you squint?, strangers to friends to ???

warnings/notes: underage drinking, swearing, no one rlly gets closure, time skips?, haechan is readers best friend lol, lots of mirroring!!, lmk if i missed any.. :3

wc: 9.6k+

a/n: hello hello!! my writing debut! (or return if you can even count the works i published in middle school...) i'm so excited to finally put out a finished piece for the first time in years and hopefully you enjoy it! i'm a person who enjoys writing, i'm not a writer so i'm sorry if this is not perfect- it's just something fun for me! feedback is appreciated and happy reading <3 p.s. i barely proofread this sry!

this piece was loosely inspired by this song! love u (from afar)

The first time you realize you’re in love with Na Jaemin is at your first high school party.

You couldn’t believe your friend had somehow managed to finally get you away from your desk and into a crowded and overly-heated house. You did not belong here.

“Aren’t you excited to finally live a little?” You look up at the tanned boy throwing his arm around you. Scoffing, you dig your elbow into his side a little, “I live everyday, you just think it’s boring.” Haechan laughs at the eye roll you send him, “Can’t argue there.”

You know Haechan is feeling proud of himself. In your many years of knowing the boy, he was always the one trying his hardest to pull you out of your room. Even though you almost always refused his pleading, you couldn’t help but secretly like that Haechan had never given up on you.

Hearing your name, you whip around to lock eyes with your other friend running up to you, “I can’t believe you got her to come!”

Rolling your eyes must be a new habit of yours. “I had to bribe her,” Haechan shakes his head, disappointed with the truth, “but she’s here! Finally the trio can thrive!”

Haechan wraps his other arm around the boy as the three of you continue your journey into the kitchen, “What should her first drink be junnie?” the other thinks for a second, “maybe something easy, she’d probably like a smirnoff ice” You look at the boy, a little worry in your eyes, “don’t worry, it’s an easy drink, low percentage.”

As the night progressed, you became more comfortable as you stuck with your friends, feeling more confident with each drink you consumed.

Haechan watched as you and Renjun went shot for shot, wide-eyed at the sight. He blinked twice just to make sure he was seeing things correctly.

Wincing after your third shot, you tap out with Renjun’s solo celebration in tow. Haechan can’t help but pinch at your rose-colored cheeks, “Who knew the introvert had a wild side!” You jab at his side with a laugh contradicting your movements.

Maybe Haechan and Renjun were right. You needed to let loose more often.

“I need to use the bathroom.” you blurt out, looking between Haechan and Renjun. “It’s down the hall, first door on the left.” You follow Renjun’s finger as best as possible.

You nod, reminding them not to leave this spot without you. After all, you were in a stranger's house, inebriated, and new to this scene.

Your body glides along the wall as you make your way towards the door. It’s a little quieter down the hallway, making you aware of how loud your inner monologue is.

Reaching for the doorknob, your hand misses it as it swings open, your body colliding with something hard.

You figure you must’ve run into the door until a pair of hands rest on your hips.

Shooting your head up, you lock eyes with the prettiest boy you think you’ve ever seen. He smiles down at your shocked face. “Well hello to you too.” Your cheeks manage to flush red even more.

What. The. Fuck!

You push out of his hold, looking everywhere but at him. “Sorry I have to pee!” Is all you manage to croak out as you push past him, closing the door.

With your back against the door, you feel your heart beating out of your chest. Who was he? God he was so handsome! No, get it together. Haechan this is all your fault! Thoughts race around your head, too quick for you to catch any of them.

Returning back to your friends after finally relieving yourself and regaining composure, you're being pulled to the backyard by Haechan, Renjun following right beside you. “I want you to meet my friends!” You let your body relax, completely forgetting about whatever transpired moments ago.

Feeling the cool breeze hit your body, you realize the backyard is significantly less packed and you can’t help but shiver a bit.

“Haechan!” You hear a chorus of boys chime out as you approach a fire pit. Going from left to right, you recognize some faces while others are brand new or barely holding on in your foggy memory.

You recognize Jisung right away. You had gym with him freshman year and you cried when his “stellar football throw” went the wrong direction and nailed you right in the head. You had become acquaintances after the incident. He had offered to buy you ice cream at the shop near school and you figured he wasn’t a bad person, he just had bad aim.

Chenle sat right next to him. You didn’t know him well but you knew Jisung and him were tied at the hip. When the football incident happened, instead of helping either of you, Chenle opted for falling onto the ground, tears threatening to come out as he gasped for air from his incessant laughter.

Next to him was another boy, sporting wire-rimmed glasses and mindlessly strumming a guitar in his lap. He shot you a soft smile before focusing back on the conversation Haechan had started. You figured his name was Mark from the way Haechan whined for the boy's attention.

Beside him was another boy who looked oddly familiar. Watching the way his eyes formed crescents as he laughed felt like deja vu until you realized it was Jeno. In your first semester of your sophomore year, you and Jeno had shared a theatre class to fulfill an arts elective. You interacted once or twice during the semester but only as characters, never as yourself and Jeno.

Lastly, beside Jeno was a recognizable face but a stranger all in one. The boy from the bathroom. You watched as the light from the flames danced across his features, making him look ethereal. Was he even real?

You admittedly stare longer than you should and you’re snapped out of it when Renjun grabs you by your arms, pushing you forward to sit down right next to the boy.

Your frame instinctively shrinks as he turns, sending you a smile, “Hello again.” You meet his eyes, the fire floating around in his dark brown orbs. You could stare at him all day if he’d let you. “Hi,” Really? That’s all you can muster up? “Sorry for bumping into you earlier, It’s my first time drinking so I’m kind of all over the place up here.” You make a scrambling gesture around your head.

It’s embarrassing to admit that you’re new to all this but at the moment you don’t have a great filter.

He laughs and you swear you feel butterflies in your stomach. Did you always feel like this when you heard laughter? You could’ve sworn you wanted to kill Haechan most times you heard him laughing.

“It’s alright, I’m Jaemin by the way.”

Jaemin?

Jaemin.

Even his name was nice. Was he God’s favorite?

The night continues with the eight of you huddled around the fire getting to know each other. You can’t help but think you really like these guys, especially the one next to you.

You naturally bounce off one another throughout the night as if you’d always been friends. When someone says something funny, you’re both locking eyes before busting out into laughter.

It’s weird you think, but you’re not opposed to how comfortable the boy makes you. Your heart’s beating faster than you can keep up with and the way he makes you feel so comfortable has you leaning in, feeling weak in the knees.

Is this what liking someone feels like? Is this love?

That night, when you sneak back into your room, Haechan and Renjun passing out immediately on your floor, you make it a priority to find your journal and scribble down how you feel.

First high school party

I think I fell in love with a stranger today.

· · ─────── · ·

The second time you realize your feelings for Na Jaemin is at the end of your senior year of high school.

Hearing your name from behind, you whip around in the crowd of people to see your friends standing a little bit behind you with stupid smiles plastered on all their faces.

You run straight to them, crashing into a huge group hug, “Guys!” Your voice is laced with celebration, sadness, and fear all at once, “We did it! We graduated!”

Thanks to Haechan’s persistence to get you out of the house your sophomore year of high school, you now have a rather large group of friends but you’re not complaining.

After your first ever party, your trio had turned into an octet. It was chaotic but it worked and you loved it.

After a few pictures, insisted by all of your mothers, you hug your friends one by one as if you’re not all about to drive back to Chenle’s house for a pool party.

You end your hugs with the best hugger of them all, Na Jaemin. And no, that is not just because you like him. He really gives great hugs.

His taller frame engulfs yours and his touch feels warm.

You feel him lean down before you feel his breath on your ear, “I’m so proud of us,” you remove your head from his chest, opting to look up at him instead.

You can’t help but think Jaemin has always been so handsome.

“Me too.” Is all you can muster up, getting lost in his eyes. He stares down at you softly, the interaction feels vulnerable, intimate even.

“Guys, let's go! Renjun just got the keys to his new minivan!” Chenle shouts, clenching his stomach as he tries to hold back his laughter.

One man’s graduation gift is another man’s comedic relief.

Arriving at Chenle’s house, you’re always blown away at the size and at the fact that the party you all met at was here.

Even though you’ve been friends for two years now, you still don’t think you’ve seen his house in its entirety.

You hear Haechan call your name from downstairs and you’re quick to check yourself in the mirror one more time before heading down.

You don’t personally love the color pink but Jaemin does so you opt for one of the only pink two pieces you own.

“Don’t you hate the color pink?” Haechan asks before opening the door to the backyard, “It grew on me.”

“Let’s play chicken!” Chenle shouts as soon as you walk out. He knows you’re the only one ever willing to play against him and Jisung.

Slowly getting into the pool to acclimate yourself, you wade over to Jaemin and Jeno.

“Pretty swimsuit, I love the pink,” He noticed! You smile as you finally settle in front of the two, “Thank you! I saw it a few weeks ago and thought the color was pretty,” Jaemin hums as he continues to smile at you.

You feel small under his gaze, you decide to avert your gaze to Jeno, who’s already looking at you.

“Are you excited for Summer?” Jeno asks as he pushes off the pool wall, moving to stand closer due to Haechan and Chenle’s screaming contest impairing his hearing.

“Very excited to spend everyday with you guys,” you say with a sigh and an eye roll. He knows you’re being sarcastic and the boy can’t help the smile forming on his lips.

He matches your tone, “Yeah cause you hate us soooo much,” he leans towards you in a teasing manner and you can only laugh before admitting defeat, “Sadly no, I love you guys too much.” you place your hands over your heart and give your best sob face before you’re suddenly pulled away.

You follow the hand wrapped around your arm and you see Jaemin’s figure pulling you to the middle of the pool.

“Ready to win?”

“Obviously.”

Jaemin dips under the water, allowing you to easily mount his shoulders.

You’ve done this action a thousand times but his hands on your thighs never fail to make your heart beat like crazy.

“You’re going down.” Jisung mutters as he comes up from the water with Chenle on his shoulders, “Keep that smack talk up and I’ll make Renjun apply your sunscreen instead.”

At this Jisung is quick to shut his mouth with Renjun painfully screaming ‘noooo!’ in the background.

Mark goes in between your pairs as the makeshift referee. Everyone knows he won’t rig it because frankly, he doesn’t care who wins, he just thinks it’s funny to see his friends flail around.

“Go!”

Pushing at Chenle’s incoming figure, you feel Jaemin’s grip on your thighs tighten to steady you both. It’s a never-ending pushing match between you and Chenle, both always being full of energy when it comes to a game of chicken.

“You got this! Push him harder!” You hear Jaemin’s support over the screaming coming from Chenle and the rest of the boys.

You’re quick to push hard, but your hand slips past Chenle’s shoulder, giving him an open opportunity to push you over.

Before he gets the chance, Jisung screams, suddenly becoming unsteady. You take that opportunity, pushing Chenle with enough force to make him and Jisung topple over.

You cheer as Jaemin bobs up and down in the water to push you up like a champion.

“That wasn’t fair! Jeno and Haechan scared me!” Jisung spoke up as he emerged from the water. Your eyes move to the two boy’s floating innocently on the side, catching Haechan’s mischievous eyes and Jeno’s playful smile, “We did no such thing!”

You don’t miss the playful wink Jeno sends you .

By the time the sun starts to set, Chenle sets up the firepit next to the pool with his dad’s help before you all begin making s’mores.

When you packed for today’s events, it never dawned on you to bring an extra pair of clothes to wear but thankfully Jaemin offered his hoodie and you were quick to take his offer.

With the fire, Jaemin’s hoodie, his body heat radiating right next to you, and the blanket he made sure to drape over both of you– you were more than warm.

“Want me to make you a s’more?” You nod at his offer as he pushes a marshmallow onto his stick.

Jaemin’s always been extra sweet to you and sometimes you wonder if he might like you back but other times you chalk it up to you being the only girl in your friend group.

But the way his touch lingers, the way he looks at you with care, how his voice becomes softer around you– you swear there has to be something.

“Ahhhh” the boy holds a completed s’more up to your mouth, as he looks at you expectantly with a sweet smile.

Just like the night you met, the fire dances in his dark brown orbs and you swear you would willingly get lost in his eyes.

Taking the s’more you smile at the boy as he nudges you playfully.

That night you make sure to find your journal as soon as you close the door to your bedroom.

Graduation day

Jaemin is such a gentleman, it makes me so giddy. How could someone not fall for him?

· · ─────── · ·

When you’re finally used to your feelings for Na Jaemin, you’re in your first year of college.

By some higher being, you and your friend group had ended up at the same school and although you pretend like they’re a pain in the ass, you’re thankful you didn’t have to say goodbye to any of them.

“Are you coming over tonight?” You look up from your phone to see Jaemin mindlessly picking at the fruit cup in front of him.

It was Friday meaning it was Jaemin and Jeno’s turn to host movie night. You smile as you watch your friend pick the strawberries out and place them on a napkin in front of you. At this point in the semester, this was routine for you two. Meet after class, share a snack, and catch up.

“Do I even have a choice?” you sigh, taking a strawberry. The boy can only laugh at your weak attempt to sound upset about tonight.

You feel the way his feet mindlessly play with yours under the picnic table. Jaemin has always been like this. Touchy. Playful. Clueless.

As years passed and you grew closer to Jaemin, that weird feeling lingered through it all. His soft touches, his compliments, his banter, his everything– it all burned you but you wanted nothing more than to be engulfed by his flame.

But you were friends. Nothing more, nothing less. So you tried to push those feelings to the side, opting to be Jaemin’s friend up close and his admirer from a distance.

“I hope we don’t have to watch spiderman for the fourth time in a row,” You joke, pushing your overbearing thoughts to the back for another time. “Maybe we should watch horror or something. I don’t think we’ve done that in a while.” He hums in thought before chiming in, “Haechan would probably die then come back and haunt us.”

You laugh at the thought of your friend in ghost form, “I don’t know if I could handle Haechan for an eternity.” Admittedly, you spent a lot of nights praying to the air that your friendship with Haechan would surpass time and break the barriers of infinity, but you would never admit that to him. It would boost his ego too much.

A comfortable silence fell over the two of you. He continued to play footsie under the table as you took the strawberries he despised. Every so often, you stole glances across the table. He hadn’t changed much over the years, instead he had grown into his features. His dedication to the gym paid off though it wasn’t noticeable under the black hoodie he wore but you knew. You knew all too well from the countless beach trips and pool days.

You needed to stop staring before someone caught you. But it’s almost impossible to not stare when your friend is Na Jaemin. How was Jaemin everything you wanted but everything you couldn’t have?

“So did you get the right popcorn?” You glance at Haechan as you make your way down the street to Jaemin and Jeno’s shared apartment. He flashes a wide smile as he holds up the family size popcorn box.

You were running fifteen minutes late because of Haechan’s dilemma on what popcorn seemed the best. You were always in charge of getting the popcorn for movie nights but this time you sent Haechan so you could finish and submit an assignment. “Thank god.”

Walking up the lawn, you drown out whatever Haechan is complaining about beside you as your eyes focus on the door.

As you get closer, something inside you keeps telling you to retreat, to not go in.

Leave! Leave! Don’t go inside! Turn around!

You question your internal monologue but proceed to knock on the door. What could that be about?

Greeted by Jeno, you give him a quick hug before walking in to see the rest of your friends already surrounding the tv. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You quickly say hi to your friends, catching Jaemin’s sweet smile, before moving towards the kitchen to make the popcorn. Ever since the first movie night and Chenle’s terrible attempt at making popcorn and Jisung’s terrible attempt to salvage it, you were put in charge of popcorn when you popped it to perfection after the scarring (and smelly) event.

Unwrapping four bags for the first round, you flattened each one making sure the kernels spread throughout the bags.

“No wonder the popcorn always tastes good when you make it,” You look up to see Jeno leaning against the counter, hands stuffed into his pockets. “You put so much care into your craft.” He jokes and you can’t help but laugh along with him.

You don’t know when you and Jeno had grown close throughout the years but it was nice to be considered a friend to the boy who was, for the most part, very closed off. You would say out of everyone besides Haechan and Renjun, Jeno had grown closest to you, Jaemin trailing close behind. It was an unexpected duo but Haechan noted that it made sense due to your similar lifestyles.

“Gotta make sure my boys are well fed.” He rolls his eyes with a laugh while shaking his head, “Yeah cause we’re always starving without you.” You know his sarcasm is laced with a certain sweetness.

“Help me with the drinks?” He moves towards you as you continue prepping the bags of popcorn before dipping down to be eye level with you. He pinches your cheek while sighing, “I guess” He draws out his words with an annoyed look only making you stick out your tongue at his playfulness.

You miss the way Jaemin watches the interaction between the two of you, only noticing his presence when he walks up to you punching in the time on the microwave. You feel his stare on you as you focus on pressing the right numbers. You feel small under his gaze.

“Sit next to me?” Your cheeks heat up at the simple question and you can only look down as you squeak out, “Sure.” Jaemin smiles triumphantly. He wants you to sit next to him because you're his friend but he also knows you’re not a popcorn hog like the rest. He misses the very obvious signs of your bashfulness.

You wonder how someone can be so clueless but you’re thankful nonetheless.

Plopping down beside Jaemin at the end of the couch, you situate the bowl of popcorn on your lap. Haechan and Jeno sit next to you, Mark occupies the single chair near Jaemin’s end with Renjun sitting on the floor in front of him, while Jisung and Chenle lay sprawled across the floor.

“Per the princesses request, we will be watching horror tonight!” Jaemin alerts your group as he starts making his way to the horror section of netflix. You feel Haechan’s eyes staring daggers into your side and you can only send him a hesitant smile while mouthing a quick ‘sorry’.

“Don’t complain when I sleep in your bed tonight.” You regretted your choice immediately.

The night had gone on like usual. Jisung jumping when Chenle made sudden noises to scare him, Renjun nagging at them saying they’re drawing him out of his immersive experience, Mark laughing at his friends and mindlessly scrolling on his phone every so often, Haechan cowering in fear and holding onto Jeno for dear life as said boy tries his best to push him away.

This left you and Jaemin to exist in your own little world of uncertainties– mainly on your behalf. His arm around you, your head on his shoulder. You can feel his thumb drawing circles into your side when you jump at a scary scene.

It all feels too intimate to mean nothing or maybe you’re just a chronic overthinker.

By the end of the movie marathon, your group is more than tired. Your body feels so comfortable against Jaemin but you know you need to head home.

“C’mon Haechan, get up.” You nudge at the boy as you stand from your seat. Somewhere throughout the night, Haechan had fallen asleep. He swatted your hand away as he curled more into Jeno.

“Okay, I guess you’re walking home with all the evil spirits tonight.” At this, Haechan shot up with wide eyes. “No! Just give me a second!”

Saying goodbye to your friends as they leave in pairs, Jeno is the last to hug you before retreating to his room for the night. Haechan was taking forever.

You decided to sit on the front porch, wanting to get some fresh air. You feel a presence sit down and you don’t have to look to know it’s Jaemin. “Hi,” His voice is groggy and laced with tiredness. “Hi Jaemin.”

You look up from your shoes to meet his eyes. It’s his turn to stare for a beat too long. Why is he looking at you like that? Like he feels something?

The silence engulfing you both isn’t normal. It’s heavy and questioning.

“Can I do something and it won’t change anything between us?” His question catches you off guard, your palms suddenly starting to sweat. You reluctantly nod, still looking at him intently.

Before you know it, the space between you is gone. His lips press to yours as his hand comes up to rest on your cheek. It’s over before you can even close your eyes or kiss back.

He leans back and you watch his eyes flutter open before he completely pulls away. “I didn’t feel anything. Did you?”

What? Was this some sick joke?

In all your years of knowing Jaemin, he rendered you speechless a lot but never like this.

He just stole your first kiss.

“Why did you do that?” Is all you can blurt out before standing up to look down at the boy. An ounce of you hopes that maybe you misheard him, maybe he did feel something.

Matching your actions, Jaemin stands up, stuffing his hands into his pockets. How could he be so calm right now? It almost made you angry.

“Mark kept saying something about me and you being so touchy and saying things like ‘don’t think I miss the way you both look at each other’ so I wanted to see if he was right.”

“And?”

“He was wrong.”

You swear you could feel the cracks forming on your heart as a horrible feeling settled in your stomach. You should’ve listened to your instinct. You should’ve never come over tonight.

Unrequited love is one thing but it’s another for Jaemin to confirm it so carelessly, as if he thinks there was nothing there for either of you.

Before you can say anything, Haechan opens the door, interrupting the horrific silence.

You thank the universe that Haechan is more focused on his surroundings out of fear of a ghost attacking him rather than on you. How can you explain the tears threatening to spill at any second?

When you make it home, Haechan holds true to his promise of sleeping in your bed that night. You sit at your desk feeling the need to write or else you’ll explode.

You find the page with your two confessions written down. While the other pages are jumbled with words, this page remains untouched.

You know his answer, he made it more than clear there was nothing. It’s better to know for certain rather than chasing mindlessly anyways, right? You feel a tear run down and land on the page.

From now on, you would love Na Jaemin from afar.

Movie night

He kissed me and said he felt nothing. It feels selfish, what about how I feel? I’m in love with you Na Jaemin.

· · ─────── · ·

When you start getting good at loving Na Jaemin from afar, he starts trying to close the distance.

To celebrate the end of your first year of college, your friends decided it would be a great idea to go to the beach.

You were excited but you knew this trip would test your abilities of keeping your distance from Jaemin.

Ever since the kiss, you limited the number of times you were alone, the amount of times you touched, the amount of times you joked and talked. You didn’t want Jaemin completely out of your life, truthfully, that was impossible. But you wanted to give space for your feelings.

As much as it hurt to admit, you wanted to love him from afar but you secretly hoped your feelings would fizzle out over time.

Somehow throughout the course of your first year, Haechan caught on to your actions. It shouldn’t have surprised you, he knew you better than anybody. You just thought you were being more subtle than you actually were.

You finally told him after weeks of pestering but you made him promise not to tell anyone or else he wouldn’t get to be the flower boy at your wedding. That’s how Haechan knew it was serious. He definitely was not telling anybody.

So although he knew there was no hatred towards Jaemin and he had never done anything horribly wrong, he helped you create distance, always conveniently needing you whenever Jaemin got you two alone or inserting himself and saying he never got to sit near you during movie nights. A complete lie that Jaemin fell for over and over.

Snapping you out of your thoughts, Jeno calls your name. “You okay?” His brows are furrowed, voice laced with concern as he takes your bag to situate it in the trunk. “O-Oh yeah, just lost in thought. Thank you.”

You watch as the boys pack up the two cars in Mark and Renjun’s driveway. Unfortunately, without Renjun’s minivan (which had died during the first week of college), it was hard to haul eight people on a roadtrip altogether so thankfully Mark and Jaemin had offered to drive this time around.

“Wanna watch a movie with me on the way there?” Jeno closes the trunk to Jaemin’s car, wiping his hands off onto his shorts. You smile with a nod, “Let’s do it.”

As Haechan and Jaemin come out from the apartment with snacks, Renjun following to lock the doors, Jaemin throws the snacks into the backseat before coming over to you with an easy smile.

“Do you wanna sit up front? You can pick the music.” The offer stings but not as bad as it could’ve a few months ago.

Your plan was slowly but surely working. By loving him from afar, you were falling out of love with Na Jaemin.

“I’m actually gonna watch a movie with Jeno,” His smile falters for a second before biting his cheek, “Don’t worry though Jaem, Haechan has a good road trip playlist!”

The tips of his ears feel hot at the use of the nickname you had given him at the beginning of your friendship but why was he annoyed that you were choosing Jeno over him?

As your ride to the beach began, you decided it would be easier to sit in the middle seat to be closer to Jeno in order to see his small screen. He lended you an airpod and as he held his phone on his lap, you had a pack of gummy bears in your lap for the two of you.

“What should we watch?” He asked as he looked into the bag for a green gummy bear. “Let’s watch something funny,” Your hand dives into the bag at the same time as his and you look at each other before laughing.

Jaemin can’t help but look at the two of you through his rearview mirror wondering what could be so funny? And why are you sitting so close to each other? And why, oh my god, why was it bothering him?

“Haechan, what funny movie should me and Jeno watch?” You lean forward, tapping the boy in the passenger seat. He thinks for a moment, tapping his finger on his chin, “Over the hedge!”

“Genius!”

As the car ride continues, Jaemin can’t tell if he’s overstimulated, irritated, or going crazy. With Haechan’s 2000’s music blaring, the boy singing along and your laughter reaching to the front of the car every so often with whispers between you and Jeno following, he doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping the wheel until he sees his knuckles turning white.

What is this feeling? He thinks for a moment, ‘am I jealous?’ and he can’t help but scoff at his own idea. Don’t be crazy Jaemin.

Nearing the end of the drive, Jaemin finds himself growing more and more agitated. The last time he looked into the rearview mirror, your head was resting on Jeno’s shoulder as his rested atop yours. You fell asleep like that?

Although Jaemin was never one to be petty for no reason, he found himself taking a turn sharper than he should’ve. He wouldn’t admit it but he was glad to see your head rise from his friend's shoulder.

“We’re here sleepyheads!” Haechan shouted as the car came to a stop.

As Jeno opened the door for you both to get out, you're overwhelmed by the smell of the ocean and the warmth engulfing your body.

You look up at the house before going to help the boys bring in the luggage. This is going to be a long weekend.

Stepping into the entryway, your eyes scan over the layout. An open kitchen to your right with an island in the middle with four chairs and a breakfast nook on the side. To the left was an open living room, the couch being significantly larger than any couch you’ve used for movie night, a flat screen hanging off the walls. Directly in front of you is a long hallway with doors on either side, four to be exact. Two to a room wouldn’t be bad.

You all explore the house for a moment, leaving your bags at the front door.

Upon further investigation, you find a pool in the backyard with a grill, firepit, and large table that would easily accommodate your group. There’s easy access to the beach and a basketball goal near the garage. You decide to walk down the hallway last and notice that all bedrooms have two beds except the last one, the master bedroom.

Joining the others on the couch, you realize they’re already fighting over who will get the king size bed.

Renjun decides it’s best if they draw names to choose where everyone sleeps and Haechan is quick to find a pen and paper. The boy states it’s best for him to pull so no one can see since he’s sitting at the end.

The others scoff saying he just wants to rig the game.

Haechan starts with the double beds, saving the king for last.

The first room on the left belongs to Jisung and Mark, they high five at the revelation of sharing a room.

Next is the first room on the right. Chenle and Renjun get chosen next and even though they both wanted the king, they aren’t upset with being roommates for the weekend.

That leaves two more rooms and four more people. You have a chance of rooming with Jaemin. If it’s the double beds, you can live. If it’s the king, you will die.

Haechan pulls out the first name for the last set of double beds, “Jeno!” he cheers with the boy only nodding.

Pulling out the next name, Haechan leans back like every other time so no one can see.

Your leg bounces in anticipation and Jaemin gnaws at his lip, both nervous for different reasons.

You watch as Haechan hesitates for a split second, his eyes flickering up to you.

Looking down at the ground, you know you’re done for.

Haechan shouts out your name, your head shooting up with wide eyes. He sends you a secretive wink before calling his and Jaemin’s name out for the king size bed.

So yes, Haechan did rig the game but technically not in his favor.

Moving to your rooms to unpack, you feel light knowing you won’t have to share a room with the one person you’re trying to, borderline, avoid.

Jaemin passes your shared room with Jeno and hears your muffled laughter. He doesn’t understand why Haechan purposefully made you room with Jeno. Did you like Jeno? Did you not like him?

Walking into his own shared room with Haechan, he lazily throws his bag onto the bed as he starts to unpack alongside the other.

Silence engulfs the two as if Haechan knows Jaemin sees right through him while Jaemin is searching for the right way to word his question.

“Why did you call her name out when you pulled yours?” Haechan glances up at the boy folding his clothes, his jaw tense.

Quick on his feet, Haechan feeds into what his friends said earlier, “I wanted the king, duh”

“I know you’re lying… what was that wink about? Does she like Jeno?”

Haechan can only scoff as he closes the drawer, now full of his own clothes, “If that was the reason, I would’ve made sure to put them in here. Trust me, I would’ve made sure she got action.” There he goes, always trying to make a situation light. The thought of you and Jeno together makes Jaemin feel weird. He doesn’t understand why but he doesn’t like it.

“Either way, it’s none of our business.” Jaemin scoffs this time, lazily throwing his empty duffel bag into the corner. “I think it’s my business to know why my friend doesn’t want to room with me?” His statement comes off as more of a question and he watches as Haechan rounds the bed to exit the room, “Not everything is about you Jaemin.”

Jaemin doesn’t understand when the switch happened.

You used to be tied to him. You were a duo. You completed each other. You had such a good friendship.

So what happened? Why is Jaemin walking to the pool alone instead of you by his side? Why are you on Jeno’s shoulders playing chicken against Jisung and Chenle? Wait what?

Why are you on Jeno’s shoulders? That’s supposed to be him and you! That’s his thing!

Stepping into the backyard, he watches as you and Chenle push back and forth at one another. He can’t help but wonder if you always look this pretty? His eyes flicker down and his stomach twists seeing Jeno’s hands gripping your thighs to keep you stable. Why did that leave such a bitter taste in his mouth?

He sat next to Mark on one of the pool chairs, watching chaos ensue as Haechan started spraying at both you and Chenle, stating it would make the game more fun.

Hearing the way you laugh out Jeno’s name to warn him to keep you stable has Jaemin rolling his eyes.

Maybe he’s just in a bad mood today.

For the rest of the day, Jaemin makes an effort to be near you but he picks up on how you turn down his advances. Cuddle on the couch? ‘Sorry I’m going to help Mark… gotta make sure he doesn’t burn the kitchen down’. Wanna watch me grill? ‘I was actually gonna play a game of horse with Chenle while we wait’. Sit next to me at dinner? ‘Sure!’ but then Haechan conveniently sat next to him, leaving you to sit between Renjun and Jisung.

That last one really wasn’t intentional, Jaemin just thinks everyone is out to get him now.

Something that has really been bothering him is the fact that you haven’t been blushing at his compliments. He always figured you were blushing because you were shy with praise but he was just oblivious of how you only blushed when he said something nice, meanwhile you would simply say ‘thank you’ with a smile to anyone else.

The question still plagued his mind, When did everything change?

He had never realized it but he really liked the way your eyes shined when you looked at him. How you followed him around and how you were ready to jump at anything he suggested. He liked you right next to him.

Now your eyes are getting duller, you’re not sticking to him at all and you’re turning down every suggestion he sends your way, you haven’t been near him this whole trip. And now that he thinks about it, you haven’t been by his side for a few months.

And when he looks up from his plate he wonders if you were always this beautiful. Did his heart always beat like this?

His eyes flicker to your lips and he can't help but think back to the night he kissed you. Was he nervous that night for fear of losing you as a friend or did his fast heart rate mean something else?

Shaking his head, he focuses his attention on Mark who’s saying something about going to the beach tomorrow.

Haechan says a joke that he doesn’t quite catch but his eyes move to yours, wondering if you’ll look at him the way you always do after someone says something funny.

His stomach drops and he thinks he’s gonna be sick. Your eyes shoot straight to Jeno’s as you laugh together.

Jaemin is in trouble.

· · ─────── · ·

The next morning is when you stop loving Na Jaemin from afar.

Waking up, you’re blinded by the lights peeking through the curtains.

Groaning as you stretch the sleep from your body, you turn your head towards Jeno’s bed to see him already facing you with a lazy smile. “Hi.” His voice is groggy, laced with tiredness.

“Hi Jeno.” you flash your own lazy smile before continuing to stretch under the sheets.

The whole interaction feels like deja vu to you but you shrug it off.

Today was a new day. Today you felt lighter. But most importantly, today was beach day.

Taking turns with Jeno in the bathroom, you both get ready for the day before heading out to the kitchen to prepare for the long day.

Realizing you were the first two awake, you take it upon yourselves to cook breakfast for everyone.

You and Jeno work well together. Where one lacks skill, the other makes up for it. You’re good with eggs and dicing fruit, he’s good with meats and getting the perfect toast on bread.

While focusing on cutting the rest of the fruit, Jeno comes up behind you with a slice of bacon between his fingers, “ahhh” he mocks to alert you to open up. Skillfully taking the bacon from his hands with your lips, you hum at the taste. You shoot him an ‘Okay!’ sign with your fingers as you continue to chew and he flashes his signature crescent smile.

You mirror his previous actions, bringing a piece of pineapple to the boy’s mouth, “ahhh” you copy and he laughs before biting the fruit in between your fingers. He closes his eyes at the sweet and tangy taste. “Delicious!”

The rest of the boys file into the kitchen, creating their own plates as they fuel up for the day. Jeno and you continued to snack on breakfast as you started to tackle the sandwiches for the beach.

It was weird how you and Jeno worked so well together. You knew you were alike but the fact that you could easily pick up where each other left off, finishing the task the way the other intended– it was fascinating to you.

“Jeno can you pass me–” His hand appeared in front of you with the head of lettuce suspended in the air. You look at him to see he’s still focused on spreading condiments on the bread. “Thank you.” You glance at him one more time to see a soft smile on his lips.

Jeno had always been attractive. He was handsome and sweet but with the way he always matched your energy, you couldn’t help but congratulate the lucky person he’d end up with.

Turning around as you finish your last sandwich, you notice Jaemin staring at you. This time though, his stare doesn’t make you feel small and all of a sudden your heart beats normally under his gaze. You flash him a smile before continuing to pack the sandwiches into a bag.

Watching you and Jeno work together to prepare everything for the day, Jaemin wonders if you two had always been like this. Did you bounce off each other just as easily as you and Jaemin had?

Thinking back to that one movie night where he walked in on Jeno teasing you before helping you with drinks, Jaemin reluctantly agrees that yes, it’s always been like this for you and Jeno. Had he simply not cared until now or had he been bothered this whole time?

He can’t help but notice that shine in your eyes. But this time it’s not directed at him, it’s only when you focus on Jeno.

He thought about it a lot last night, his mind not allowing him to sleep. All he could think of was you.

Na Jaemin has come to the conclusion, he likes you.

When you finally finish fighting against the sand as you make your way towards the ocean, hauling supplies and chairs, your group starts to set everything out.

While Haechan and Renjun argue over how to set the umbrella up, Jisung is already leaving to go look for shells with Chenle following right behind him. Jeno and Jaemin set up the chairs while you and Mark set out a big blanket to sit on.

“You seem happier these days,” the boy starts as he flattens out his side of the blanket, “like your consciousness isn’t being weighed down.” You look up at the boy as you finish your side and you can’t really grasp onto what he means.

Mark had always had this ‘talk in riddles, be philosophical and then move on like it didn’t happen’ way of reaching out to people. He knows things without having to be told and you know Mark Lee has you read front to back, fully memorized– just like he has all of his friends.

“I guess I have been happier,” you start as you scan your group of friends scattered around. Your eyes land on Jaemin and you can’t tell if the love you feel for him is romantic or platonic. But it doesn’t scare you. The thought of not being loved by Na Jaemin doesn’t hurt anymore, “What do you think changed?” Your question is mindless, not expecting an answer.

“I think you finally like someone who likes you back.” The statement rolls off his tongue, bounces your way, and smacks you right in the face.

Your eyes subconsciously flicker to Jeno.

Before you can say anything, Mark is already moving to settle the quarrel between Renjun, Haechan, and the umbrella.

Eyes locking with Jaemin, he smiles and you can’t help but smile back. Something in your heart is telling you not to run away from Jaemin anymore, that there’s nothing to hide– nothing to protect.

You don’t have to love Na Jaemin from afar anymore. You can love him upclose– the same way you love the rest of your friends.

Jaemin notices the switch.

Compared to yesterday, you entertain his conversations and you’re by his side. But he notices it all– especially the fact that it’s all half-hearted.

Truthfully, it’s not half-hearted. You let your guard down with Jaemin for the first time in months. He only views your actions as half-assed because he’s so used to being the center of your universe. But now he’s just like everyone else. To you, Na Jaemin is just another friend.

Nonetheless, he’s thankful you’re not avoiding him anymore. It makes him feel giddy when you laugh at his jokes or lean your head on his shoulder for a moment. When you flash him a smile he can’t help but feel lightheaded and when you shout his name he feels hot all over.

Is this what it feels like to like someone?

He eyes your figure now laying out on the blanket as you mindlessly play with its loose strings, listening to whatever Haechan is talking about.

Jisung sits beside you as he places the shells he collected along your back in a spiral pattern. The boy makes a very important note to you, “stay still”.

“You look like a creep staring at her like that,” Chenle leans over to whisper in Jaemin’s ear. His face goes red as he whips his head to look at the younger, “I’m not staring,” he defends but his voice is so weak, Chenle almost lets a laugh slip before continuing to joke, “You’re not the only creep. At least he’s more subtle about it.” Jaemin follows Chenle’s nod and his eyes lock onto Jeno’s figure, looking at you with the most lovesick gaze he’s ever seen.

“It’s getting hot, I wanna get in the water!” You whine out. The closest any of you got to the ocean today was Jisung and Chenle’s shell collecting and truthfully, you do not count their fingers grazing wet sand while running away from the waves as getting in the water.

Jaemin hesitates before he decides to speak up but he’s cut off.

“I’m almost do– Jeno!” Jisung screams as Jeno quickly gets up, grabbing your hand and pulling you up, knocking Jisung’s shells all over the place.

Jaemin watches you scream as Jeno throws you over his shoulder, running towards the ocean with Jisung chasing after him screaming about how he’s going to drown the older boy.

He watches as his friends get up and follow after the three of you and he wills himself up to follow.

When did Jeno get so confident but more importantly, when did Jisung get so loud?

It dawns on you that you really love your friends. As you watch the boys splash one another and Jisung holding true to his promise of trying to drown Jeno, sure enough you feel at home.

You float on your back, letting the water hold your figure as you look up at the clear sky.

Today felt like a rebirth for your emotions and you were thankful. Head not clouded by the same boy anymore, you had the opportunity to explore new connections and the thought of it was thrilling.

“Hi,” you slightly move your head to see Jeno swimming up to you and away from the chaos.

“Hi Jeno,” your tone is teasing, dancing on the fact that you’ve already had this same encounter today.

You feel him mindlessly drip water onto your exposed stomach as you continue floating. Your cheeks flush a soft hue of pink at the change in energy.

“You look really pretty,” The shyness in his voice catches you off guard, causing you to look up at the boy. His cheeks mirror yours, dusted lightly with pink.

Before you can respond, he continues, “Can I ask you a question?”

Jaemin watches from afar and wonders what you’re talking about.

He finds himself battling internally with whether or not it’s morally okay to pursue you while knowing his best friend might also have feelings for you. Jaemin believes he has a better chance because in his eyes, you’ve always been closer.

Little does Jaemin know, you’re already far out of his grasp.

That night, you all decide you’ll make use of the firepit as Chenle says he’ll order some food delivery and s’more supplies.

You had gone back to your room to change before going to the backyard but you felt silly when you realized you really hadn’t packed anything warm considering it was Summer.

“Do you wanna wear my hoodie?” You hear Jeno’s voice from across the room and you look up to him already holding out the enticing material. He must’ve noticed the way you kept running your hand up and down your arm for warmth

“Are you sure? You won’t get cold?” He smiles with a nod as he walks over to you, “Just wear it,” You take the hoodie, throwing it over your tank top. Your thank you comes out muffled but he hears you just fine, “Sit by me as a repayment though.”

You nod with a smile as you follow him out to the backyard, his hoodie engulfing you like a blanket.

Sitting down next to Jeno, he drapes a blanket over the two of you before beginning to impale a marshmallow.

“I’ll make this one for you.” Jaemin overhears Jeno’s good deed and he can’t help but feel like he’s watching an out of body experience. The scene looks all too familiar to him, feels too familiar to him– like you and him had done the same exact thing once.

He catches your eyes from across the fire– you shoot him a playful smile that he can’t help but return. The way the light from the flames move across your features make Jaemin’s heart race and he swears he can see the light dancing around your eyes, making them even more beautiful.

How had he never noticed before? You’re so beautiful.

Before you know it, it’s the next day and you’re packing up to leave.

Watching as the other boys climb into Mark’s car, you let your head rest against the seat with a lazy, but satisfied smile plastered on your lips. You hope you all can do this again before Summer’s over.

In the backseat with Jeno right next to you, scrolling for another movie you can watch together, you can’t help but let your eyes follow through the window and up to the house with a smile. You thought this would be a long weekend for other reasons but in the end, you’re wishing the trip didn’t feel so short.

This trip was good for you and your heart.

Jaemin starts the car, glancing at you through the rearview mirror with a soft smile. He made up his mind last night. He doesn’t think there is anything wrong with him pursuing you, if anything– may the best man win. He swears he has a whole plan on how to win your heart.

Unfortunately for him, Jaemin misses the way your pinky finger is intertwined with Jeno’s.

When you make it home, you don’t miss the way both Jeno and Jaemin hug you a beat longer than usual.

Saying your goodbyes as you and Haechan walk up to your shared apartment you feel a sudden need to scribble more in your journal.

This was a turning point. This. This was monumental.

Beach trip

My heart finally knows its place with Jaemin. He’s a great friend.

· · ─────── · ·

Jaemin is four drinks in when he realizes he’s in love with you.

To celebrate the beginning of your second year of college, your friends, mainly Haechan, deem it appropriate to turn movie night into a gathering to drink.

At the moment it’s just six of them, you and Jeno missing from the group.

Jaemin wonders where either of you could be. Jeno had mentioned going out today but didn’t tell him where. Ever since the beach trip, the boy seemed to always have something to do on Fridays but Jaemin never paid much attention to his whereabouts, though one time he checked the boy's location out of pure boredom and saw him at the mall which was strange.

The only information he had on your whereabouts was Haechan saying you’d be late, so truthfully, he knew nothing.

Over the summer, things between you and Jaemin had gone back to normal, sort of. You accepted his touch, you hung out with him one on one, your banter was back and forth, you were by his side.

He thought he was doing everything right. He was drawing you in slowly but surely. It was gonna be so perfect.

But he noticed the way you didn’t let your touch linger longer than it needed to, how it wasn’t him you sat next to during movie nights, how you still looked at Jeno instead of him when something was funny.

They had started drinking without you two, Haechan assuring that the early bird always gets the worm– or something like that.

So as Jaemin finishes the last of his third drink, he’s starting to feel his tongue become more loose. “Where are they? Is she gonna be okay walking here alone?”

The others can only murmur ‘i don’t know’ with shrugs, “They probably stopped by the apartment so she could change,” Haechan states, taking another sip from his drink.

What? You’re together?

Putting his empty can down, Jaemin reaches for another, cracking it open, “They’re together right now?” Jaemin feels strange but he chalks it up to the alcohol.

“Yeah? They go out like every Friday… They leave me all alone!” Haechan pretends he’s been wounded as he cries into Renjun’s shoulder who can only roll his eyes at the boy’s dramatics.

“What do you mean?” He feels himself clenching his can tighter, trying to use what’s left of his sober consciousness to navigate what Haechan’s saying.

“Dude, does Jeno not tell you anything? Ever since the beach trip he’s been waltzing into my apartment every Friday and stealing my best friend like I’m some sort of wicked witch!” Haechan scoffs at his own statement, “He’s a friend stealer!” Haechan shouts but Jaemin could care less.

So that’s where Jeno’s been every week. With you.

All Jaemin can let out is a soft and confused, “What?”

As if on cue, the front door opens and his eyes shoot up from his can. There you are in all your glory, Jeno’s hand wrapped in yours.

Jaemin swears he’s about to have a heart attack as he feels his chest clench in such an uncomfortable way. He thinks he can feel his heart being ripped to shreds and he wonders if you can feel so torn apart about someone you like.

He concludes that no, you cannot be this torn up about someone you like so with a heavy heart, the boy admits to no one but himself,

He is in love.

· · ─────── · ·

It’s weird how your sophomore year of college feels oddly similar to your freshman year.

The only difference is that you’re walking hand in hand with Lee Jeno.

You don’t know when the switch occurred but you noticed Jaemin distancing himself from you. At first you figured he was trying to be respectful of your relationship but when he stopped inviting you out and jumped at the feeling of your skin on his, you knew it was something more.

In fact it was.

The tables had turned, the roles reversed, the ball in the other’s court but never to be served.

Na Jaemin started falling in love with you at the exact same time you were falling out of love with him. For his own sake, the boy had no choice but to start loving you from afar.

To you, Na Jaemin is a wonderful friend but to him, you are his whole world.

a/n: and scene! thank you for reading⭐ p.s. - thinking abt writing a jeno au from his pov in the same universe! lmk what you think <3

636 notes · View notes

ryorecs · 6 months ago

Text

Blood Moon (M)

★ PAIRING: Werewolf!Haechan x Vampire!Reader

☆ WORD COUNT: 16K

★ GENRE(S): Smut, Angst, Forbidden Love, Dark Fantasy, Mortal enemies, Slightly melodramatic lol, Haechan is a real yearner in this.

☆ SUMMARY: Your boyfriend is in an accident that leaves him in critical condition. You wanted to be the one to save him, to turn him, but his best friend beats you to it. How will your relationship change now that you’ve become immortal enemies? ★ ☆ WARNINGS: Minor character death, mentions of grieving and loss, blood, mentions of torture, reader has a messed up backstory,dry humping, rough supernatural sex hehe, rimjob, cunnilingus, knotting, unprotected sex, outdoor sex, drug use in the form of pixie dust, Its freaky asl idk, mature, MDNI

☆★ NOTES: Might have got carried away on this one whoops. I love fantasy so excuse the lore but enjoy this porn with plot!

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Your heart was in the pit of your stomach. You'd always known this day would come eventually, but you'd been foolish to think you would ever be ready. The call from the hospital had come 10 minutes ago, and traffic crawled by like a sluggish beast. You wondered why you'd gotten behind the wheel, when you knew you were faster on foot.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the busy streets. Your veins thrummed with a restless energy as you tried to sit still. You would make it. You had to.

Your heels clicked against the tile of the hospital floor as you darted down the corridor, your head whipping in every direction for the room the receptionist had told you was Donghyuck’s. The scent of disinfectant and sterile air filled your lungs, but beneath it, you caught a whiff of something else – a faint hint of his presence.

Finally, your eyes found the room number, and as you approached the door, your gaze fixed on the whiteboard attached to it:

Patient: Lee Donghyuck

As you entered the room, you didn't notice the strain in your shoulders or the way your breath caught in your throat until you almost yanked the door off its hinges. The bed was empty and cold, but his scent lingered. It hadn't been long since they'd moved him.

Your mind reeled with worst-case scenarios. You patted your pocket for your phone, but it wasn't there – you must have left it in the car in your panic.

You hear footsteps approaching, and they come to a stop outside the door. When you turn around, you see a nurse wiping the whiteboard clean.

“Where is he?” The harshness in your voice surprises you.

“If you’re asking about the patient who was in here, you just missed him. He was checked out a little while ago,” she replies, not looking up from her task.

You finally exhale, your legs growing weak beneath you as relief floods through you. He was okay. But then a flicker of confusion crosses your face, causing your slight smile to falter.

“Is something wrong?” the nurse asks, finally looking at you.

“I’m sorry, it’s just... his condition. I was told it was critical.”

The nurse nods, concern creasing her brow. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure he’d pull through. He was hit by a drunk driver. He broke several bones, and we thought there was internal bleeding. There should have been, at least.” She pauses, her expression turning puzzled the more she thinks about Donghyuck’s case.

“Where is he now? How could he just get up and leave after all that?” Panic begins to rise within you. He was human; you were certain of that. Humans don’t just bounce back like that, do they? Questions and doubts swirl in your mind.

“A few friends visited him about thirty minutes before you got here. One of them came to find me and said he needed to be checked out. I was just as shocked as you when I walked in and found him standing there, all his vitals normal. The doctor wanted to keep him for more tests, but the guys insisted on taking him home. Honestly, there wasn’t much we could do since he appeared fine.” The nurse shrugs, her confusion mirroring yours.

Just then, her pager buzzes, breaking the tension. “I’ve got to run. Sorry!” She glances at the notification before hurriedly excusing herself.

You start piecing things together, and the outcome doesn't sit well with you. You walk back into the room and focus. Your senses aren’t as sharp as usual, you’re due for another recharge soon. You sift through the scents in the hospital: sterile, metallic, but then you catch a whiff of something you missed earlier. It confirmed the nurse's story. They had been here.

Irritation bubbles up as you stride out of the hospital. You could leave a trail of fire in your wake with the heat radiating off you in fury. They had reached him first. They had taken him. You grind your heels into the pavement as you run. You’d worry about your car later; moving on foot is your best bet now. Better they didn’t see you coming.

The cold night air bites at your skin as you fly through the darkness, few cars passing you on the back roads. At this speed, they wouldn’t even catch a glimpse of you. The trees blur into shadows as you sprint toward your destination, buried deep in the forest. You split from the main highway to a side road, blocked by rusting barriers, stretching out for miles. its cracked and overgrown pavement leading to a half-built freeway that drops off into thickets of bushes and trees. No one comes this way; not many even know it exists. The only souls who dare venture down this path are high schoolers or college kids looking for thrills at night, chasing highs.

As you round a bend, your destination comes into view: a rundown motel, overtaken by moss and vines. It stands as the sole remnant for miles, until you reach the unfinished freeway. There's nothing else out here but forest.

You slow your pace, taking in the scene; it feels like stepping back in time. The once flickering neon sign, long burned out, hung tilted above the entrance, and the peeling paint on the walls had seen better days. The only thing guiding you through the darkness is the moonlight and your own keen night vision. Without them, it would be pitch black—no lights for miles.

Even before you see them, the smell hits you first: a wet, dog-like odor that makes your nose scrunch up in distaste. The moment you step onto the property, yellow eyes appear in the dark, and low snarls echo through the night. You’re in werewolf territory, and they’re just seconds away from ripping you apart. In an instant, you’re surrounded, their numbers closing in like a tightening net. Your own eyes flash red as you bare your fangs in warning, a growl rumbling in your throat. Teeth clash around you, spit flying as they display their own teeth.

“Where is he? I know you took him!” you shout, your voice carrying through the crowd. “I’m just looking for my boyfriend! I’m not here to fight!”

You took a gamble coming here unprepared. In the wild, they predominantly favored their wolf forms. The hairs along their necks and backs bristle, ears perk up, and they crouch low, ready to pounce. In this state, instinct reigns supreme; reason and negotiation was unlikely.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, preparing to unleash your own claws when a voice suddenly cuts through the chaos.

“Stand down,” an older voice commands as two familiar figures emerge from the pack.

One of the pack members howls, calling the others to attention. The wolf shakes violently, as if shrugging off water, before morphing into a human—a few others follow suit. The rest bound off into the dense forest.

“You shouldn’t be here. This is our territory,” the first transformed wolf says, a warning etched across his features. He stands before you, his human form unapologetically naked.

“Jeno, enough!” the old man insists, his presence commanding.

“She’s a vampire! She’s breaking treaty by being here without permission!” Jeno, points accusingly at you.

“He’s here, isn’t he? There’s no way you haven’t heard about the accident. He wasn’t at the hospital.” Your frustration boils over, almost uncontrollable. “You turned him into one of you, didn’t you? Answer me Jeno!”

He meets your gaze with a snarl at the mention of his name.

“I said enough! We don’t need to escalate this,” the old man interjects firmly.

“Dad!” Jeno says in disbelief.

“Follow me,” Jeno’s father commands, brushing aside his son’s fury with practiced ease.

You glower at Jeno as you follow his father deeper into the property. Your scowl is met with silent glares from the others, who stand in their human forms, their eyes watching intently. The chief has spoken. it’s clear—no one is to touch you.

You recognized Ten, Johnny, Kun, Xiaojun, Yangyang, and a few other familiar faces among the pack. Your boyfriend, Donghyuck, had grown up with them. His dad was friends with Jeno’s, so he and Jeno had played together since diapers. They were the ones who had given him the nickname Haechan. You always hated how close he was to the pack. He always carried a trace of their scent and there was a time you were fully convinced he might be one of them.

Donghyuck had been blissfully unaware of the supernatural world around him. When he introduced you to a few of his friends one day, you had to fight the instinct to bare your fangs. That night had been tense and awkward. You had learned to play nice while Haechan was around, but the moment he left the room, you were at each other's throats.

They guide you into one of the rooms. Despite the rundown exterior of the motel, the inside was meticulously restored, almost like an oasis in this forgotten wilderness. As soon as you step inside, your breath catches in your throat. The sight of Haechan makes your heart swell and break all at once.

At first glance, he seems fine—lying on a bed in the center of the room, his chest rising and falling gently. Sweat beads at his temples, and his brows are furrowed in a way that sends a rush of alarm through you. A slight grimace crosses his lips, hinting at discomfort or pain making your heart sink.

"What’s wrong with him?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, fear creeping in.

“It’s part of the process,” Jeno says from near the door. “He’s adjusting. It’s a lot for him to handle.”

“Why would you allow this?” you target the chief. Jeno pulls you back by the arm before you can get to him, his claws digging into your skin.

“He didn’t know! I did this,” Jeno interjects.

Your anger shifts to Jeno, a growl escaping your lips. “You,” you spit, eyes glowing red again. “You know the risk of turning him, and yet you still did it!”

“He’s my best friend! I wasn’t going to let him just die!” Jeno’s voice rises with frustration and pain. “What were you planning to do when you got there? Watch him die?” He laughs cruelly, which only fuels your fury. “You’re just mad I beat you to it.”

The air is thick with tension, and you prepare to lunge at him when growls break the silence from behind you. Turning around, you see some of the pack entering the room. You lock eyes with Ten, Johnny, and Jaehyun, their expressions unreadable but serious. You sense their protectiveness over Jeno and reluctantly ease your stance, frustration boiling over in a huff of air. “Ughh!” You clench your fists, willing yourself to calm down as your chest rises and falls harshly.

“What’s going to happen to him?” you ask, looking towards the chief.

“He’s going to change,” he replies, his gaze steady. “He’s taking the bite well. There shouldn’t be any complications, but he needs rest. He’s been through a lot today.”

“How long will it take?” You say. You move carefully to sit at Haechan’s side and brush the hair from his forehead.

“It varies from person to person,” He says, pulling your attention away from haechan. “It can be a few hours to a couple of days. But he’s resilient, and he’s strong.”

You turn back to Haechan, your heart aching as you scan his form. The covers are thrown aside, exposing his chest, bare except for the sweat glistening on his skin. He looks different—his shoulders broader, muscles more defined, and his face sharper than before. He was still your Haechan, but you realize with dread that there’s one detail you’ll have to adjust to.

That smell. The unmistakable scent of a werewolf—stronger and more pungent than the subtle hint he carried before. He reeked of mutt.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Past

You hadn’t told Haechan you were a vampire. It was safer that way or perhaps you were deluding yourself, too afraid to face the truth. As a vampire, dating humans was frowned upon. Humans were considered nothing more than food, meant to be consumed or else they’d spoil. Vampires, on the other hand, were the undead, nightwalkers who defied mortality and the passage of time. You didn't age, and You didn't die. Vampires were superior to humans in every way. It was common manners not to play with your food but eat it. You had sworn you would never date a human. Loving a human was dangerous but despite everything you couldn’t stop yourself from loving Haechan.

There was an abandoned cemetery just outside the city where you lived. Cliché as it might be, you loved the cemetery; it was one of the few places you felt truly at peace. You often found yourself wandering there, even outside of your biweekly recharging rituals.

Living amongst humans was difficult for most vampires, but those who tried had to make accommodations. Unlike some legends you could bask in the sunlight without fear of turning to ash under the sun or sparkling like diamonds. But there was a trade-off—when exposed to the sun, you were stripped of your immortality. You were the most vulnerable during the day. You’d still retain your speed, hearing, and agility, but you felt as fragile as a human. Many were terrified of this weakness, so they hid away until nightfall when they were the most powerful.

At night you were untouchable. Not even a stake through the heart, garlic, or silver bullets could kill you. Still, prolonged exposure to the sun would gradually drain your energy, weakening you until you were left with nothing if you didn’t recharge. Bathing in moonlight was one solution, but the quickest way to recuperate your strength was resting in a specially inscribed coffin. That kind of sleep rejuvenated you, allowing you to regain your vitality and power.

You had stumbled upon an unburied coffin in that cemetery long ago and inscribed it with runes of protection and rejuvenation. It became your perfect charging station. Tucked away from the bustling city, it was very rare that someone came here due to the cemetery's extremely run down appearance.

You thought it was perfect. The quiet stillness allowed you to gaze at the stars, and it was beneath that vast, twinkling sky that you first met Haechan.

You had spent an entire day in your coffin, allowing the darkness to wrap around you like a comforting blanket. As you pushed against the stone lid, it slid aside with ease, and you sat up, yawning and stretching your limbs. Blinking a few times, you find the moonlight spilling into the space and filling you with its magic. You bask in it as it dances against your skin. After resting you always got the zoomies, a few laps around the forest would do just fine before heading home.

Sliding out of the grave, you dusted off the dirt and debris from your clothes. Just as you began to shake off the remnants of your rest, a shuffle caught your attention a few yards away. Instinct kicked in, and your senses sharpened. The sweet, tempting scent of human filled your nose, and a smile crept across your face. You were starving and could go for a little snack, especially if some careless drunk college kid had stumbled their way here. You’d never understood why freshmen chose this spot to get wasted, but at that moment, you silently thanked whichever god had sent them your way. You were tired of dealing with the trash and beer bottles they left behind anyway.

You're naturally light footed so you don't have to sneak up on the hunched figure in front of you. Just as you were about to attack, a small sniffle stopped you in your tracks. You took a moment to observe the young man kneeling in front of a grave, fresh pink camellias in his hand. He was crying, and his tears sparkled in the moonlight as they fell, unknowingly watering the flowers. There was something ethereal about him, reminiscent of a fairy. For a moment, you could have sworn the flowers bloomed brighter with each teardrop, but perhaps that was just your imagination running wild. Taking a deep breath to better understand this mysterious figure. His scent confirmed he was undeniably human, tinged with a hint of canine—perhaps he was a dog owner.

You may be a creature of the night, but you weren't heartless.

As you gazed at the young man, you couldn't bring yourself to disturb him while he was grieving. Your voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He jumped, startled, and clutched his chest with his free hand. "You scared me," a nervous chuckle escaped his lips as he tried to calm his racing heart. "I didn’t think anyone else was here" he said, wiping his tears and clearing his throat. He gently set the flowers down beside him.

You offered him a soft, gentle smile and settled in beside him, your eyes drifting to the tombstone. "Who was she to you?" You asked, nodding toward the name etched into the stone. Your gaze flickered to his.

The young man stared at you, his mouth agape, his eyes wide with wonder. You couldn't help but giggle at his adorable expression – he reminded you of a baby bear, innocent and endearing. It's like he finally remembers you asked him a question and his mouth snapped shut, and he cleared his throat. His eyes refocusing on the grave and a fond smile spread across his face, and you could almost see the memories dancing across his features.

"She was my grandma," he said, his voice cracking slightly. You hummed softly, indicating you were listening, and he continued.

"She took care of me when my dad would leave on business trips when I was a kid. She got sick after I'd left the city, and I couldn't find the time to come see her... and now it's too late." Tears began to well up in his eyes. “She wanted to be buried by her mother but…” He trailed off. His eyes flit around the abandoned graveyard and its crumbling tombstones, their inscriptions faded and obscured by moss and creeping ivy. The path leading through the graveyard was overgrown with wild grasses hinting at years of neglect.

You smiled, understanding where he was coming from. This wasn't the most ideal place to lay a loved one to rest anymore.

"It's not your fault, you know. I'm sure you wanted to be there for her, and I'm sure she knew that too."

His eyes remained fixed on the grave as he traced the name engraved in stone with his fingers, a faint smile breaking through his sorrow. "Thank you," he replied, but you sensed it would take time for him to truly believe your words.

Suddenly, he turned to you with a new intensity. "I'm sorry I've been rambling about myself. Did you lose someone, too?"

His question caught you off guard. You had nearly forgotten that people came here to grieve, as you had your own reasons. You paused for a moment, scrambling to conjure a lie. But after the heartfelt story he had shared, you didn't feel that it was right to lie about visiting a loved one.

"I just come out here sometimes because it's quiet," you admitted, which wasn’t entirely untrue; sometimes the chaos of the city was overwhelming, and you needed a break from the noise.

Haechan looked at you as if you were crazy. "You're crazy."

You couldn't help but laugh at that. "I guess I am. But look," you said, pointing toward the stars. "They look so pretty out here."

His gaze flickered upward, captivated by the night sky.

"That one's Ursa Major," you said with a smile. "It's my favorite." You reached out, taking his hand to trace the constellation. "Do you see it?"

"What's it supposed to look like?" he asked, frowning slightly.

"It's a bear! You see the Big Dipper? That's part of the constellation, and all together it’s supposed to resemble a bear." You released his hand and used your own to outline the Big Dipper in the sky.

His eyes lit up as he stared at the stars, and you found yourself captivated by him. The way the starlight shimmered in his gaze was enchanting.

"I see it!" he exclaimed happily, turning to share the joy with you, but when he looked back, you had vanished.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Your skin was cold to the touch and you were gone so suddenly he had almost written you off as a ghost that night. He had nearly forgotten about that night until you appeared before him again. A month later, he saw you in the library, and he was certain you were real.

After his grandmother's passing, Haechan had moved back home. He was entrusted with managing a significant part of her affairs, leading to weeks of sleepless nights spent sorting through her accounts and handling paperwork. Juggling family responsibilities and his classes at the nearby community college had left him utterly exhausted.

When he first saw you he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He rubbed his eyes tiredly but there you remained. You were just down the aisle, and he hurriedly packed his things, eager to follow you. When he turned the corner just a few seconds later, you had vanished again. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I’ve gotta get some sleep,” he murmured, shaking his head as he pulled his backpack higher up on his shoulders, preparing to leave.

“You probably should,” you said with a smile, making him jump back in fright, letting out a startled yell.

A few patrons shush the two of you. “I’m sorry. I should really stop sneaking up on you,” you said, a playful grin on your face.

“You think?” he whispered back, but a smile finally broke through his fatigue. “So you really are real,” he mused more to himself than anyone else.

Your smile widened at his revelation, and you nodded.

“What's your name?”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Present day

A week had passed since you'd last seen Haechan. You hadn’t gone back to see him and honestly you weren’t sure if you ever would. Dating a werewolf? It seemed even more complicated than a relationship with a human. Your mind was reeling, and you were still struggling to wrap your head around the reality of it all.

You sat on your balcony that overlooked the forest behind your apartment. Sipping hot chocolate and watching the full moon, you couldn't help but think of him. You wondered how he was coping with his first full moon. Having his first full moon so close to his initial change must be tough. With a sigh, you tried to shake off the thoughts. It would be safer for both of you if you stayed away from each other.

You moved back inside. You were walking into the kitchen to wash your cup when you felt a sudden draft as the wind blew in through the double doors leading to your balcony. You must have forgotten to close it all the way. You walked back over to close them, ensuring they were locked before returning to the kitchen.

You freeze when you spot the ash-grey wolf standing on your kitchen island. You couldn’t suppress the scream that escaped your lips. How the hell had it gotten in here without you noticing? Your senses were dulled, and you knew you were due for a much-needed recharge.

You cursed under your breath, taking in the beast before you. Its yellow eyes glowed, and saliva dripped onto your kitchen island, making you recoil in disgust. This wolf was not acting normal. Its shoulder heaved as it took ragged breaths, almost rabid in appearance. You instinctively put your guard up, creating distance between the two of you. You couldn’t fight it—not in your current state.

As you slowly began to back away, there was something in the wolf's eyes that halted you in your tracks. It couldn't be him.

“H-Haechan?” you called out, bending your knees to appear smaller so as not to frighten him. You wondered how he had ended up here. He looked scared.

“It's me, Haechan,” you said softly, hands extended in a non-threatening manner. You understood he was running purely on instinct. Perhaps he had sought out a place where he felt safe.

Now you stood just in front of him causing him to growl and bare his teeth. His body was rigid, and his ears were flattened against his head. Every sign warned you to stay back, yet you ignored them all as you reached out to touch him.

In an instant, it happened. One moment you were standing, and the next, he had pinned you to the floor, his powerful paws digging into your shoulders. He snarled, but you remained calm. He couldn’t kill you but healing would take days in this state if he did enough damage.

You looked into his eyes and took a deep breath. “Haechan, you need to calm down. It’s me. If you don’t find control, you’ll do something you’ll regret.”

He growls in response.

“Donghyuck!” you yelled sternly. “Snap out of it!” You scolded him as his claws dug deeper into your shoulders.

He flinched and whined, stepping off you reluctantly. His head hung low, and his tail tucked between his legs as he made a small circle before plopping down a few feet in front of you.

Breathing a sigh of relief, you realized he had regained some sense of awareness. Keeping your voice steady, you knelt beside him and tentatively reached out. When he allowed you to get close, you gently patted him. “You need to change back, baby. I know you're scared, but you have to. You can do this. You're stronger than this,” you whispered reassuringly.

He stood up, and you did too, backing away to give him space. He stretched into a downward dog and shook himself off, and to your amazement, his body morphed before your eyes. Finally, the Haechan you knew and loved stood naked before you, looking horrified as he took in the damage done.

“I’m sorry.”

Following his gaze to your shoulders, you smiled. “This is nothing; don’t worry about it,” you said, trying to comfort him.

He backed away slightly, shaking his head. “Don’t come near me!” he yelled, and you flinched. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he added, his voice softer this time.

Ignoring his plea, you walked toward him anyway. “You could never hurt me, love,” you replied, offering him a reassuring smile.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he sank to his knees. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t remember anything. Jeno and the others came for me and then turned me into… this.” He gestured to his hands, which hadn't fully reverted, his claws still bared.

Kneeling in front of him, you took his hands in yours. He tried to pull away, but your grip was firm enough to keep him in place. He looked at you in shock but before he could question your strength you spoke.

“Is that why you ran?” you asked gently.

“They turned me into a monster. How can I live like this?” His eyes searched your face for answers. Your heart ached at the fear reflected in his gaze. You felt a wave of shame wash over you; Jeno was right. If you’d gotten to him first, you would have changed him but that wasn’t what Haechan wanted. Jeno had acted selfishly, and so had you for even contemplating it.

“He was just trying to help,” you found yourself defending Jeno unexpectedly. Maybe you were subconsciously defending yourself. “You have to go back to them, Haechan. They’re the only ones who can teach you how to control yourself.”

“So I don’t hurt more people,” he scoffed, humorlessly. “How can you even look at me right now?”

“You’re not a monster, do you hear me?” you replied sternly.

“I AM! LOOK AT ME!” he yelled, his eyes glinting yellow as he finally found the strength to yank his hands away from yours. He stood and walked toward your room, rummaging through your drawer until he found a pair of pants he’d left behind. You stand in the doorway, watching him dress with your arms crossed.

“Haechan I'm fine,” you called out.

“Don’t lie to make me feel better!” he shouted back.

Frustration surged within you as you pulled your shirt over your head, exposing your already healed skin. “LOOK!” you yelled.

He halted, his eyes widening as he examined you. Your skin was unmarred, untouched by his claws. He dashed toward you, grabbing your shoulders and twisting you this way and that, searching for any signs of injury. “Wha—” he stuttered. “How did you do that?”

Closing your eyes, you remembered your true self. When you opened them, they glowed crimson. “You’re not a monster, Haechan. Unless you consider me one too,” you told him.

His eyes widened in astonishment, but he stood rooted in place, shock holding him there. “What are you?”

You hissed softly, revealing your fangs. "I'm a vampire," you stated simply.

You could see the gears turning in his head as he connected the dots: why you were always so cold to the touch, how you could sneak up on him silently, how you exhibited unnatural strength just moments ago.

Finally, his body relaxed, and he sank onto your bed, looking lightheaded. “So you’re a vampire,” he repeated, almost incredulously, as if trying to grasp everything that had just unfolded.

“Yes,” you said, sitting next to him.

“And I’m a werewolf.”

“Correct again,” you replied, resting your head on his shoulder.

“How old are you?” he asked next, genuinely curious.

You fought back a smile. “How rude!” you joked, shoving him lightly.

“Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that!” he replied apologetically, running a hand down his face in embarrassment. “I mean, when did you become a vampire? Has it been a long time? Your family…” He trailed off, the gravity of the conversation settling in the atmosphere.

“They’re probably dead by now,” you replied, your voice softening.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and you could hear the sincerity in his tone.

“It’s okay. I don’t remember my human years; most vampires don’t,” you explained. “I was 24 when I turned. The one who turned me was the closest thing to a father I had, and he was cruel.” You bristled at the memories of your past.

Haechan stayed quiet, allowing you to open up if you wanted. You took a deep breath before continuing, "He kept me locked away and taught me how to survive, but the punishments were brutal. I knew I had to get away from him eventually."

You told Haechan everything…

You don’t remember how you ended up there, but when you awoke that night, a man in his late forties stood before you. He had dark hair and striking blue eyes. Now that you’re older, you realize blue eyes belong to ancient vampires, beings that had survived since the dark ages. With a voice like dark velvet, he taught you how to harness your powers and you learned the art of inscribing. His teachings also instilled in you a deep-seated fear of the sun. He spun tales of scorched skin and searing pain, convincing you that to step into its light would mean certain death. He taught you other things too, like to despise humans. He taught you humans were to never be trusted and that one day they would betray you.

He kept you locked away underground in an old tower, isolated from the world above. The room where you stayed contained only a coffin. You were tasked with maintaining the underground floors, ensuring they remained orderly. You weren’t allowed to venture beyond the floors beneath ground level. He treated you like a slave, proclaiming that you belonged to him in exchange for granting you eternal life. It was a twisted bargain that felt more like a curse.

You had been above ground only once, it was a rare and seemingly indulgent gift from your master. He would normally bring you his kills to feed on but that night he had taken you out into the world, to teach you to hunt. It was exhilarating to experience the raw, primal instincts that surged within you. You hunted until dawn, the sun creeping up threateningly beyond the horizon.

The night had ended all too soon and you headed back home. You made it to the front of the tower, and just seconds before you were ushered inside, the sun rose, spilling soft gold and pink across the sky. You had caught your first glimpse of its light, radiant and breathtaking. It painted the world warm hues, something you had never seen in the cold tower.

Your master’s hand gripped your shoulder. “We must return,” he said, his voice laced with authority as he ushered you back into the shadows. Since that one fateful night, you have never been allowed to see the surface again.

One night, curiosity got the better of you, and while your master was absent, you explored the tower. You snuck into the library and read until dawn. When the sun rose, you raced to the top floor and gazed out at the sunrise. You longed to bathe in its light, fully aware that it would be fatal. Your master had warned you that direct sunlight could kill you, only safe within the tower's shadows.

Everything changed one fateful night. You had taken a book from the library but your master returned sooner than you had expected. Despite the risks, you knew you had to return the book before he noticed.

It was through the pages of his books that you discovered the truth. You were taught many things, but after reading his books how many of them had been true? The books told you stories about humans, the outside world, and important history. It revealed that while the sun wouldn’t kill you, it could weaken you, and that to regain any lost power, you must sleep. He had kept secrets from you, you couldn’t trust him. Maybe if you could escape, you could live among humans without fear? You’d never find out unless you returned the book. If your master discovered you had sneaked upstairs, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.

The halls were quiet, and slipping the book back into place was easy. You were making your way back, using an old passageway you had stumbled across, when a flickering light caught your eye. The corridor was lined with doors, each one leading to a different part of the tower. Peeking through a crack in one door, you saw something chilling.

Your master stood in the center of a gathering room, surrounded by chained and shackled humans. An entire council of vampires filled the room, and the sight of the horrific treatment inflicted on the humans made you nauseous. They were beaten and tortured cruelly. Their screams echoed in your mind, and that night, you swore to escape. The humans you had read about had their faults but they did not deserve that.

You thought you had everything figured out until three days later, when your master visited with a human man around your age. He offered no explanation, only instructing you to take care of him. You soon grew close to the human, who introduced himself as Kun. He quickly became your only friend, sharing stories about the outside world and his family. For two years, he stayed with you, working alongside you as a fellow slave. At first, you worried that your master would eat him, as it wasn’t like him to let food spoil. Eventually you stopped worrying about it and just learned to enjoy Kun’s company.

You showed Kun everything: the hidden passageways, the library, and the sunset whenever your master was away. You promised each other that when the time was right, you would escape together.

Then one night, your master woke you from a rare period of recharging. He had previously insisted you slept. You found it strange but you hadn’t argued. There was no reason for you to recharge, you spent most nights watching Kun sleep.

You instinctively turned towards his cot but it was empty. Before you could voice your concern, your master ushered you out of your room and upstairs to the gathering room you had once watched from the shadows. Ancient vampires surrounded the area, their underlings present as well.

In the middle of the room was Kun. He was stripped bare, bruises, scars and welts were painted across his once beautiful skin.

“KUN!” you shouted, trying to rush to him, but your master’s voice stopped you in your tracks. He had the ability to compel, a power only ancient vampires possessed. You had read that the only way to break it was to call him by his true name, a name you didn’t know since you had only ever addressed him as “Master.”

“MASTER!” you screamed, desperation rising in your voice. “PLEASE, STOP THIS!”

Tears welled up in your eyes and you could feel yourself die. You knew you were already dead but this pain in your chest would have been fatal if you were moral.

“You brought this upon yourself, foolish girl,” he sneered.

The other ancient vampires laughed at your distress, their underlings at their side, made to watch to teach them what would happen if they disobeyed their master.

“Make her suffer!”

“Look how she cares for that wretched human!” one of them jeered.

“Kill them both!” shouted another.

They hurled insults your way while you trembled under your master’s control.

“Did you think I was a fool? I knew what you were up to. I could smell you in the walls, you little rodent.”

“Please, Master, I’m sorry! Forgive me!” you begged.

“It’s not me you need to ask for forgiveness. It is him,” he said, gesturing a long finger at Kun. “Because of you, this is his fate.”

With an audience of ancient vampires, he turned to them proudly and declared, “Nothing but ruin can come from loving a human. Witness now the consequences of defying tradition. Drink from him!” he ordered.

Your body moved against your will. You fought against his compulsion with every ounce of strength, but each step felt heavier. Standing before Kun, you could see that he was barely breathing.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” he managed to whisper. With the last of his strength, he smiled weakly. “Don’t let him break you.”

Tears streamed down your face as you bared your teeth and sank them into him. You could feel his life slipping away, and as you drank, your heart shattered in silence.

Later that night, you were thrown back into your room. You didn't move for months. Staring blankly at the wall, you cried until the hunger became overwhelming. Your master hadn’t brought you any food, likely leaving you there to die. You couldn’t let that happen; you had promised Kun.

Eventually, you found a way out. You fled during daylight, running until you could run no more. You felt the grass beneath your toes and the sun on your face. You ran so hard you broke your ankle in the process but by nightfall, it had healed. You lived as a nomad for years until you rolled into the city you now call home. Adjusting to your new life was a challenge at first, but eventually, you met a city vampire who taught you how to navigate life among humans.

Haechan listened intently, not interrupting once.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all of this sooner; it was easier if you didn’t know,” you confessed.

“I’m sorry you had to carry all that alone," he replied gently. "I promise, you won’t have to go through that again. We’re stronger now.”

“That's it though,” you began, gathering your thoughts. “We’re not strong enough. You need to go back to your pack, Haechan. You can’t come back here. There are rules, and we have to uphold them.”

“I don’t see why we can’t see each other. I know you’re afraid, but you can’t just push me away.”

"You can’t just do whatever you want! This isn’t a game, and those rules are there for a reason—to keep people alive!" You didn’t want to sound harsh, but the history between wolves and vampires was too complicated to explain right now. “The others are probably already looking for you. I can’t have a fight breaking out if they catch you here.”

“So that’s it? I’m nothing to you now?” Haechan stood up, frustration etched across his face.

“That's not—” You take a deep breath. “I didn’t say that. It’s just… complicated.”

You heard a howl echo in the distance, and your heart sank. “We don’t have time to talk about this. You need to leave. Now!” You turned and headed toward your balcony; it was safer for him to leave the way he came. He wouldn’t run into anyone and he could head straight into the forest. You swung open the doors, only to be greeted by the last person you wanted to see.

“Where is he?” Jeno demanded.

You sighed, trying to keep your attitude in check. “He was scared.”

“I don’t know if you’ve understood this yet, but he’s one of us now. You need to stay away from him. I’m running out of warnings,” he snarled.

Haechan rounded the corner and met Jeno’s gaze. “Jeno, relax! You know her,” he said defensively.

Johnny chimed in, “you don’t understand, just stay out of this.”

Haechan stepped in front of you, shielding you. “Guys, seriously! We’ve hung out together plenty of times. Why is everyone suddenly so defensive?”

“I told you, Haechan, it’s different now. New rules apply because you’re different. You’re part of their pack, and I’m a vicious vampire,” you replied, your sarcasm biting.

“Sorry, dude, but that’s just the way things are,” Mark added.

“This is so stupid! I didn’t ask for this life, and now everyone’s trying to tell me what’s best for me!” Haechan yelled, frustration boiling over.

You took his face in your hands, forcing him to look into your eyes. “I know it’s unfair, love, but you have to go. I’ll see y—” You paused, stopping yourself from making any false promises. “Just… go with them, for me. Please?” You gave him your best pleading look, and slowly, he calmed down. Then he pulled you into a kiss. Neither of you wanted to pull away, but when he finally did, he turned away before you could see the tears threaten to fall.

He walked toward Jeno and the others, but when Jeno reached out to put a comforting hand on Haechan's shoulder he shrugged it off with a low growl. They all jump from your balcony and when you look down below to where they land a pack of wolves stare back up at you before running off into the forest.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A year passed, and you hadn’t seen Haechan again. You were the one who had told him to stay away, but still, there were moments when you couldn't help but ask Mark about him. Mark was the most reasonable of their pack; you wouldn’t quite call him a friend, but you could manage more than a few words with him without the threat of a fight looming over you. The city was considered neutral territory, so running into a member of the pack while out and about was not uncommon.

“Mark told me Haechan is adjusting fine,” you shared with your friend Sooyoung as you leaned against your kitchen counter. “It took him a while, but he can control his powers now. Apparently, it took longer than usual because Haechan was still mad at them and refused to learn, but they’re on better terms now.”

“You’re living in a soap opera,” Sooyoung huffed, plopping down on one of your barstools, resting her head in her palm as she slouched over your countertop. “Are you really not going to see him?” she asked, lifting her head slightly.

“I can’t. I really can’t,” you stressed.

“Well then I’m tired of hearing about him,” she replied through a yawn. There were many myths about fairies, and one was that they couldn’t lie. While that wasn’t entirely true, they preferred not to, which made them incredibly blunt.

“Wow! What a great friend you are!” you said, rolling your eyes playfully.

Sooyoung straightened up a bit as you focused on making dinner for the two of you. “I’m sorry,” she whined, “it’s not that I don’t care; it’s just that you clearly still care about him. I can’t watch you torture yourself like this. As your friend, I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy!” you shot back defensively.

“Not if all you talk about is your stupid wolf-turned-ex-boyfriend that you miss!” she countered.

“I don’t miss him!” you insisted.

“Do you think about him?” she asked knowingly.

“I do,” you admitted.

“And I have to hear about it all the time, every day, every minute.” she pointed out.

“I'm sorry.” You cringed.

“Why don’t you just go see him? Just once, for closure,” she added, trying to be convincing.

“But what if he’s moved on?” The thought plagued you, an echo in your mind. “He hasn’t come to see me at all.”

“He has his reasons, just as you’ve had yours,” she reminded you. You considered this as you took the dinner off the stove and plated it.

“Let’s just eat,” you said, setting the conversation aside for now.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

You could feel eyes on you from the moment you woke from your slumber. The scent was unmistakably his—Haechan. Rising from your grave, you sensed his presence pulling away, retreating into the nearby woods. You knew you should let him go, but you couldn’t. Sooyoung was right; maybe you needed closure.

You followed him. His figure dashed gracefully through the undergrowth, and moonlight danced off his ash-grey fur, illuminating the way. He eventually led you into a clearing, where the moon cast a spotlight on him before he turned to face you. With a shake of his fur, he began the transformation you had seen so many times before. It unsettled you how his bones shifted and reshaped, until he stood before you—bare and vulnerable, yet undeniably Haechan.

“Why are you here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I missed you,” he replied, his eyes earnest.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I needed to see you,” he said, dismissing your warning. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

“That's enough!” you yelled, emotions welling up inside you.

“I know you’ve been asking Mark about me. I know you still love me,” he said, stepping closer.

“Stay away from me!” you shouted. If he came any closer…

“That’s why you followed me here. Admit it,” he pushed, standing a breath away. He searched your eyes, as if looking for the truth that lay hidden in your heart. “Admit it.” He says almost like he's trying to convince himself as well.

You didn’t stop him when his lips met yours. It was a desperate kiss, and you found yourself kissing him back instinctively. His hands found their way around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest, as if he feared you would slip away again. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him just as tightly. But before he could deepen the kiss, you pulled away suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, brows furrowed as he reached out to pull you back into his embrace.

“You know what's wrong.” you managed to say, your mind racing. “We can’t.”

Haechan ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “What’s your issue?! I can see it all over your face. You still love me; why are you fighting it? What are you so afraid of?”

“Losing you!” you cried, tears spilling down your cheeks as you finally let the walls come crashing down. “You’re so damn stupid!” You closed the distance once more, pounding your fists against his chest. “Why couldn’t you just stay away?”

He let you unleash your anger, waiting patiently until you had calmed down. Then, he wrapped you in his arms again, grounding you as your knees wobbled. You buried your face in his chest with a sob.

Haechan wasn't as ignorant as he was in the past. He knew the history between werewolves and vampires but eons of bad blood wasn't enough to keep him from you. He was fully aware of the dangers that came with being with you but he would rather die fighting for you than to do nothing at all.

Vampires had a long history of hunting werewolves. They were the only creature that could rival their speed and strength. It was a sport, a display of dominance, to show that they were the apex predator. Treaties were signed but broken, territories marked, and warnings sent. Vampires and werewolves had learned that the best way to keep the peace was to stay far apart from one another. Most city vampires were progressive, they partied with elves, drank with werewolves, and got high off pixie dust. They mingled across species, but such alliances were frowned upon by the more traditional clans. Any love across species was seen as a betrayal, deserving of the fiercest punishment—blood spilled in the name of ancient grudges. You could be branded a traitor just for showing kindness to a werewolf.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, and you won’t let anything happen to me. We were together when I was human, and that was probably more dangerous,” he pointed out.

“I know, and I was selfish,” you admitted.

“Well, now it’s my turn to be selfish. Just let me see you,” he said earnestly.

“This is not a good idea,” you warned, but his pleading gaze softened your resolve.

He must have sensed your wavering will, as he pulled out the puppy-dog eyes. “Please,” he begged.

“Fine,” you said with an exaggerated roll of your eyes.

Just as he was about to celebrate and pull you into another kiss, you raised a finger to his lips. “But that doesn’t mean we’re dating! And the moment your pack finds out about this…” You gestured between the two of you with your free hand, “whatever this is, it’s done.”

“Deal,” he mumbled against your finger before you pulled it away.

You turned to walk away, glancing back over your shoulder before disappearing behind the trees. Haechan stood there, wearing the dopiest smile you had ever seen. “Stop looking at my ass, Haechan. Go home!” you shouted.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

You and Haechan had been stealing moments together ever since that night. You found eachother in the dark corners of clubs, had picnics on abandoned rooftops under the moon, and shared intimate conversations beneath the ancient canopy of trees in the depths of the forest

Tonight you texted Haechan to meet you at an abandoned amusement park in the next city over. It took a few hours to run there, but you loved the freedom of it—being stuck in a car always felt so suffocating. When you arrived you settled into one of the old, rusted teacups. You heard rustling from the trees behind you and Haechan emerged in his wolf form, a backpack clamped between his teeth. When he shifted back to his human form, you instinctively looked away. The brief glimpse of his bare skin sent your mind racing with thoughts that definitely crossed the line of friendship. You reminded yourself for the hundredth time that you were just friends and friends don’t think about their friends like that. The sound of him unzipping his backpack and rummaging through clothes broke your train of thought as he started getting dressed.

“You can turn around now, darling,” he said, his voice teasing.

You hopped out of the teacup and ran right into him, relief washing over you. You’d missed him so much, and honestly, you didn’t even care that he smelled like a puppy—you buried your face in his neck.

“Hey hey, watch those teeth,” he joked.

You pulled away and playfully shoved him. “Shut up,” you said, rolling your eyes. “How have you been?”

“Terrible. We took in a stray recently,” he replied, a hint of irritation in his voice. “His name’s Jisung. We found him while traveling. Total troublemaker, so they dumped him on me. Ugh, he’s been giving me a headache! I was lucky to sneak away tonight.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you said, your voice playful as you both started to walk deeper into the amusement park.

“No way! I was not like that! He’s just so moody sometimes, such a teenager,” Haechan replied, shaking his head.

“I forgot, you had a valid reason for being so angsty.”

“Yeah, she’s standing right in front of me,” he said, then playfully tickled your sides, making you giggle.

You and Haechan were in a good place now, able to joke about the past without any hard feelings. You cherished these moments together and loved being with him.

“How did you find this place anyway?” he asked as you passed a distorted funhouse, a shiver running down his spine. “It’s creepy.”

“Is my puppy scared?” you mocked.

“I’m not scared!” he insisted with an annoyed tilt of his head.

You skipped a few steps ahead before turning around to face him. “Oh yeah? And what if I just left you right here?”

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Very funny, but I’m faster than you now.”

“Oh yeah?” you challenged.

“Yeah.” He says confidently.

“Race you to the top of the Ferris wheel then!” you exclaimed and took off.

You sprinted toward the Ferris wheel on the other side of the park, Haechan hot on your heels. As you dashed past a few booths, you grabbed some old, soggy plushies and hurled them at him.

“That’s so gross!” he yelled, dodging them with ease.

Determined to leave him in the dust, you picked up speed. You leaped over old concession carts and swung through the spider ride, with its twisting central column and spinning arms. With a laugh, you propelled yourself off its arms, feeling the rush of adrenaline. Haechan dropped down onto the car behind you before launching himself off to chase you.

“Catch up, slowpoke!” you called, glancing back as the Ferris wheel loomed closer.

Tension built in your legs, and you sprang forward, grabbing one of the metal bars of the ride and climbing higher. It was massive, and when you looked down, you were surprised to see Haechan close behind, springing off each bar with the agility of a cat. You swung from bar to bar, pulling yourself up and up. There was a car waiting at the top, and that was your goal.

As you climbed, you glanced down to gauge how far Haechan was, but he was suddenly nowhere to be seen. You froze for a moment, scanning the ride.

Your breath caught—though you didn't technically need to breathe, the habit was hard to shake. From this height, he could’ve easily fallen and gotten hurt. Werewolves were resilient, but they weren't immortal. They could almost live forever with how slowly they aged, as long as they weren’t mortally wounded.

“HAECHAN!” you called out worriedly. “THIS ISN'T FUNNY! WHERE ARE YOU?” Your voice echoed in the stillness of the night.

Just then, a laugh rang out. “Who’s scared now?” He called down to you from the passenger car at the very top.

A wave of relief washed over you. In no time, you reached the top and stood on the outerrail of the car while he lounged in the seat. The sides of the car weren't enclosed, allowing you to lean in and meet his gaze with a glare. “I thought you fell!” You grumbled.

“Sorry, babe. Couldn't let you win,” he said, patting the seat next to him. “Sit down.”

You ambled into the car and sat down across from him. “Don’t be mad,” he smiled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Come sit by me.”

You uncrossed your arms, giving up the act; it had been too long since you last saw him. You slid over, the seat snug but cozy enough for both of you. It was probably intended for moments like this—everyone knew that when you reached the top of the Ferris wheel you were supposed to kiss.

He nudged you playfully, and you met his gaze. “I was counting down the days until I saw you again,” he confessed softly.

You returned his smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “I missed you too.” He took your hand in his and pressed a gentle kiss to your palm, his lips lingering longer than necessary before he pulled away.

He intertwined your fingers and looked up to the night sky. “You can see The Great Bear from here,” he remarked.

Following his gaze, you noted how Ursa Major shone brightly against the dark canvas of the sky. “Have I ever told you the story behind that constellation?” you asked, curiosity flickering in his eyes as he shook his head.

With a grin, you turned to him, relishing the moment. “In Greek mythology, Zeus once fell in love with a nymph named Callisto. When his wife Hera found out, she turned her into a bear.”

“Sounds like something you would do,” Haechan snickered.

“Except I would turn you into the bear,” you elbowed him playfully.

“Oww!” he laughed, rubbing his side dramatically.

A comfortable silence settled around you as you enjoyed each other’s company. Leaning against him, you closed your eyes, letting the peaceful moment wash over you.

“I love you,” he whispered, a soft vulnerability in his voice. Sitting up, you looked at him, his expression revealing that he was about to say something that he shouldn’t. You could see the longing in his eyes, how he yearned for you. He still wanted more.

Before he could voice his feelings, before he could reopen the wounds you both had worked so hard to heal, you leaned in and pressed your lips against his. The kiss was electric, you knew you couldn’t say it out loud so you put all your love and heartache into the kiss.

His hands held the sides of your face firmly, anchoring you in place as he refused to let you pull away. With a fervor you had almost forgotten, he deepened the kiss, a low moan escaping him as your tongues danced together. It was a sound so full of desire it sent heat pooling low in your belly. You couldn't help the slickness that dripped into your underwear.

You found yourself whining into his mouth, and the low growl that rumbled from his chest only encouraged you further. You fought to maintain control, willing your hands to stay in your lap. You knew the moment you touched him you wouldn’t let him go.

His fingers found their way to your waist and pulled you onto his lap. Your hands scramble to grip onto the rail behind him. The car swayed wildly with the motion of your bodies. A part of you tried to speak, to remind him that this was dangerous but he only pulled you back into the searing kiss in response. You didn’t complain when he started grinding you down against him, you had forgotten how well you fit together. You could feel his hard length pressed against you, and the realization made your head swim. You hadn't been touched like this in what felt like an eternity, and the sensation was overwhelming.

His hands began to roam your body, mapping out every curve. When he cupped your breast, a soft moan escaped your lips making him shudder. The world around you disappeared, and all that mattered was the way his hands trailed down your waist, gripping your ass possessively. The way his hips began to thrust up in desperation had you seeing stars. He held you there, utterly lost in the way you felt pressed against him. You gripped the railing tighter, your fingers bending the metal beneath your grasp. You had to stay in control.

You managed to whisper a single word against his lips, "fuck." His hand had trailed under your shirt, sending shivers of delight down your spine. But as much as you wanted to continue, the way the passenger cart was creaking was starting to worry you. You pulled away, using your strength to push his chest. You had him pinned, his back against the seat. For a fleeting moment, his eyes flashed a deeper shade of red, a hint of a growl forming on his lips, raw desire evident in his gaze.

You stood your ground, a playful smirk on your face. "Down, boy," you said with a raised eyebrow.

"This thing is old, it's too dangerous to stay up here. Come on, we need to get down," you said firmly, the reality of the situation snapping him back to attention.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” he replied, trying to mask his frustration with a hint of amusement.

You sit still in haechans lap until the cart stops moving. When the cart slowly ceased its swaying you sighed in relief, grateful that the groaning of the rusted cart had silenced. However, just as you began to relax, a sudden crash startled you—the door fell off its hinges, clattering loudly as it hit everything in its path on its way down to the ground.

You jumped at the sound, heart racing, and exchanged a panicked look with Haechan. The spell of the previous excitement diminished, and you both burst into laughter.

“See what I mean?” he said. “This place is a death trap!”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of thrilling, don’t you think? A little dangerous excitement?”

"You're crazy," he teased, helping you off his lap as you two made your way down.

“You loved every second of it.”

You made it to the ground safely, and as you turned to Haechan, curiosity etched on your face, "Hey, have you presented yet?" you asked. As a golden-eyed wolf, Haechan held a neutral status, but it was possible for his eye color to shift to either red or blue once he presented - red for an alpha, blue for an omega.

He looked at you with a questioning expression, "No, why?" he asked.

You teased, "No reason, I just thought it would be cute if your eyes matched mine."

“Ah, like a couple's item,” he said, a grin breaking across his face.

“More like a friendship bracelet,” you corrected.

“Or like matching wedding rings,” he countered, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Like matching t-shirts,” you playfully curved him again.

His expression shifted slightly, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “You want me to be your alpha, is that it? Want me to dominate you?” His words hung in the air, full of just the right amount of flirtation.

You knew he was joking, but the way he said it stirred something deep within you.

Desperate to regain your composure, you shot him a playful glare, trying to mask your reaction. "Very funny, Haechan," you replied, rolling your eyes, though the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you. The tension between you was thick, a swirl of playful teasing and underlying desire, and you both seemed acutely aware of it.

“Just imagine it,” he continued, leaning closer with mock seriousness. “Matched for life. You, me, and our golden-eyed offspring.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Keep dreaming.” Even though you tried to shake off the feeling, you could sense your face getting hot.

Noticing your reaction, Haechan's eyes crinkled at the corners, and he looked at you with a pleased smile. “Oh? You like that idea, huh.” He teases.

You stalked off, leaving him to follow beside you with a knowing smirk. "Shut up or I will kill you," you threatened, trying to mask your emotions.

"That's against the rules, you know that, babe," he tuts. "Besides, I'd like to see you try. You vampires aren't so scary, you know."

"Another challenge? You don't get sick of losing, do you?"

"I won the first one," he shot back, a flicker of pride in his voice.

"I let you win," you replied.

A fire ignited behind his eyes. "You did not let me win."

"If that's what helps you sleep at night," you teased, pushing all the right buttons to rile him up. He was super competitive so it was easy.

He leaned in closer, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. "Okay, fine, you wanna play like that? I got a game for you. We have a few more hours before sunrise. You down?" The devilish smile on his face was one you knew better than to trust.

"Depends on what it is," you replied, crossing your arms defiantly.

"You think you’re faster and stronger than me, so let's put it to the test," he proposed, his grin broadening. "If I manage to rip your shirt off, I win. If you can evade me for a full hour, you win. Like that running man show we always watched."

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. "What the hell? You just want to take my shirt off!" you argued.

"Then you better not let me catch you," he shrugged.

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide the challenge that sparked within you. "Fine, it will be fun knocking you down a few pegs anyway."

He gave you a minute head start, and without hesitation, you took off, the ground fading beneath your feet as you covered hundreds of yards in no time. The scent of pine and damp earth filled your senses, and with every stride, you pushed yourself to create as much distance as possible.

But even with your impressive speed, you knew you couldn’t hide your scent from him; the bloodhound instincts of a wolf would always lead him straight to you. You would have to rely on your speed if you wanted to win, there was no point in hiding. You listened intently to the sounds of the night, and soon enough, the heavy gait of Haechan, now in his wolf form, reached your ears. He was fast, closing the gap between you with each passing second. You continue running. You fly through the trees, running, jumping and swinging between the branches. You propelled yourself farther and farther, you had been running at full speed for 30 minutes just to keep him off your heels and it was starting to annoy you how easily he was able to keep up. You had 30 more minutes and you were sick of running. You had to outsmart him if you wanted to win.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you decided to lead him to the place where you knew you could gain the upper hand: the fun house. You had been there before, giggling and disoriented off pixie dust during a fairy rave.You got trapped in the funhouse for hours.

You circled back, running until you were back at the amusement park. The giant tattered circus tent of the fun house comes into view and you look behind your shoulder to make sure Haechan was following. He was close, a few yards back.

As you rounded the corner into the funhouse, you felt a surge of confidence. With your last burst of energy, you darted through the maze of mirrors, instinctively weaving and dodging obstacles while leaving your scent against every reflective surface. The idea was solid; if you covered the place with your scent, he wouldn’t be able to pinpoint where you were. You hid at the end and waited.

A soft growl echoed through the maze, and the sound of Haechan's frustration made you suppress a giggle. When he entered the mirror maze, it was as if the walls began to close around him, reflecting his struggling figure infinitely. You could hear him bumping into the mirrored walls and howling in annoyance. He's about half way through when he gives up and decides he wants to go back before he realizes he can't. He's too deep inside now and he's stuck.

“Stuck already, big bad wolf?” you thought, grinning to yourself.

He lets out a howl when he bumps into another mirror. You have to hold in your laughter. Time began to slip away, and after about twenty minutes of him navigating the maze, he finally broke through to the exit.

When he finds you waiting at the exit he speeds towards you. You curse under your breath, you only had a few minutes left now but you couldn't outrun him. You're able to get back to the forest, hoping the natural obstacles of trees and bushes might buy you the time you need but it doesn't.

He charged at you, and with a yelp, he tackled you to the ground. You laughed uncontrollably when he shifted back to human, completely naked and utterly unbothered by his state.

The forest floor was cool beneath your back, the damp moss pressing into your skin as you struggled against him. It was chaos, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, one moment he was on top, and the next, you had somehow reversed your positions. The thrill of victory rushed through you as you caught his hands, using your strength to roll him onto his back while you straddle his waist.

A triumphant smile spread across your face as you taunted him, “Give it up. Only a minute left.”

His lips curled into a sly smirk, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. “I’m letting you win,” he insisted, echoing your earlier words with a gleam of defiance in his eyes.

You leaned down, your hair brushing against his cheeks as you whispered in his ear, “Oh, is that why you’re under me? What happened to dominating me?”

His gaze flickered, a flash of something feral erupting within their depths. Before you could react, he was moving—too fast, too strong. In an instant, he flipped you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand. The other tore at your shirt, you gasped as he ripped your shirt from your body.

“Not so tough now are you?” he says, his smirk widening. But there's a flicker of something else in his eyes as they roam down to your chest. “Looks like I win.” His voice drifts away, leaving a thick silence between you.

You lie beneath him in the tatters of your shirt, your bra and a pair of low-rise skinny jeans. You can’t help but notice how hard he’s becoming against you. Your gaze trails over his exposed skin and lingering on the hard lines of his muscles until they reach his length. You bite your lip at how red the tip of his dick was.

“I guess you did win,” you breathe out, your voice heavy with tension. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the raw effort it takes for him to hold himself back. “But I think a victory like this deserves a prize.”

And then his mouth was on yours, fierce and demanding, stealing the air from your lungs. You moaned into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair as he pressed his body against yours. Twigs and leaves tangle in your hair but you didn’t care. You needed him—needed this—more than anything. He broke the kiss abruptly to undress you, his lips trailing down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone before sinking in just enough to make you gasp. A shiver ran down your spine as his claws pricked at your skin, trailing down your side before retracting, leaving only the warmth of his palm groping your breast roughly.

“Haechan,” you whimpered, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He breathed you in deeply. “I could smell you,” he murmured, his voice raspy. “The moment you saw me, I could smell how much you wanted me. But you always want to play the good girl, don’t you? The rule-follower.” His lips found your ear, teeth nipping at the lobe as he added, “Want to act like you don’t like me… but look at you now.”

You whined again, your nails digging into his shoulders as his mouth moved lower, kissing, licking, biting—claiming every inch of your body as his. He wasn’t gentle, but you didn’t want him to be. His tongue traced the curve of your breast, sucking and teasing until you were writhing beneath him, begging for more.

He trails his kisses down your body until his head is between your thighs. He lifts your legs over his shoulders and got comfortable. You see it for certain this time, his eyes glow crimson. His gaze stays locked on you the entire time as he works his tongue between your folds, collecting your slick and slurping noisily on your juices. He sucks ruthlessly at your clit and you're no match for his strength when you try to close your legs around his head. His claws dig into the skin of your thighs as he holds you open. His tongue is so slick and he's basically drooling as he devours you. The entire lower half of his face is soaked. You throw your head back in pleasure and claw at the ground beside you.

“Yes Haechan!” You moaned as your hips kicked up and grind against his tongue. You chase your release unashamed.

You were always weak to his touch but there was something about him now that just made you want to submit to his every order.

When he sat up, plunging two fingers deep inside you, you rode your high out on his fingers, your legs trembling with the force of your release. You lay there, spent and shuddering. Your legs are shaking pathetically when he sits up. The moon behind him shines its light down on him. He obscures the view enough for it to look like a halo above his head.

The red in his eyes is nothing but devilish as he licks his lips. “Turn over.” He commands.

You didn’t hesitate, rolling onto your hands and knees as he positioned himself behind you. His hands gripped your hips, claws pricking at your skin as he pulled you back against him.

He was everywhere—his hands gripping your hips, your hair, your throat—filling you completely, stretching you in ways that made your vision blur. Each thrust was punishing, driving the air from your lungs and drawing a symphony of moans and gasps from your lips. You were certain he would have broken you if you were human.

This was exactly what you had needed. You liked it rough, and in the past, while Haechan did his best to indulge you, he was afraid of hurting you. He didn't know you were a vampire; he didn’t know you could take it.

You could feel the same doubt begin to cloud his judgment as his touch became lighter and his thrusts shallower as he noticed just how rough he had been. In a sudden surge of frustration, you whipped your head back, baring your fangs to make it unmistakably clear what you were and what you could handle. “Do I need to remind you of what I am?” you hissed, your voice low and thick with desire. “Don’t hold back.”

The last remnants of his control snap, and he thrusts into you roughly. A heavy hand pushes your skull down into the damp moss while the other maintains the perfect arch in your back, elevating your hips as he fucks into you. Your eyes roll back, lost in pleasure as he mounts you, his hips snapping relentlessly against you over and over again.

His grip tightens, pulling you back to meet each primal thrust. He was treating you like a rag doll, and you loved every minute of it. It hurt good, the pain reminding you of what it felt like to be alive.

With a fierce handful of your hair, he pulls you up, leaning down to press hot, wet kisses against the side of your mouth. His grip moves from your hair to your neck, his fingers constricting around your throat choking you. You smile up at him, your expression wild and hungry as he takes you.

He was so deep, you could feel the delicious ache of him inside you, as if he were going to tear you apart. You haven't been to recharge so you know that the marks he left wouldn’t fade immediately. You wanted to admire the bruises on your skin for days, to remember him long after he had pulled away.

You don’t think there’s a single coherent thought behind his eyes, just a primal urge to stuff you full. He’s mumbling into your shoulder, biting the skin there before sinking his teeth in, and you whine, clenching down hard around him. His eyes roll back in ecstasy as he releases deep inside you, his body seemingly on autopilot, his hips continuing to thrust rhythmically as if driven by instinct. He pushes deeper and deeper, fucking you until the mixture of your combined release seeps out around his thick cock. With a violent shudder, you cum so hard your cunt pushes him out momentarily but he’s back inside you in seconds, helping you ride your high.

“Stupid puppy, fucked himself dumb?” you tease with a smile.

He's too far gone to register your insult. He pulls out, flipping you onto your side, sliding himself in between your legs, straddling one while throwing the other over his shoulder. He grips your thigh tightly and fucks into you again, still impossibly hard. You could never get enough of him. He hugs your leg as he thrusts, and you reach down, circling your clit, the pressure building again as his breath comes out in ragged gasps.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so fucking good. I don’t think I can stop. Please, don’t make me stop,” he whines, the desperation in his voice sending shivers down your spine.

You pull him down to connect your lips. The kiss is raw and hungry, filled with teeth as you try to kiss him but every thrust that jolts your body upward makes it difficult. You could feel yourself growing closer and you cum again, soaking his length even more. He follows soon after, burying himself deep within you as he releases his hot cum, his body twitching with the force of his release.

Hours slip by in the haze of pleasure, the sun beginning to rise by the time he finally pulls out. He’s out cold, and the fangs and claws that once decorated him are nowhere to be seen; he looks entirely human now, vulnerable and peaceful.

Whatever power he had, he’s completely drained himself of it. You’re spent too, but you gather just enough strength to stand. The sun is creeping higher and you have to get home before it fully rises, or you risk losing the last remnants of energy you have left to make the run. You consider waking him to say goodbye but he looks too peaceful. You prayed he would understand your reasoning.

Ultimately, you slip away, making it home just before the sun breaks the horizon.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The past couple of weeks have left you feeling rejuvenated, like there’s a hidden spring in your step that wasn’t there before. Sooyoung, your ever-observant best friend, quickly pieces things together. You haven't mentioned your encounter with Haechan at the amusement park yet—mostly because you know she would freak out and bombard you with a million questions. Honestly, you didn’t need your best friend knowing just how much of a slut you were for your self-proclaimed mortal enemy.

Sooyoung's knowing smile has been ever-present, and you glare at her from across the couch while she takes a sip from her coffee mug. “What?” you ask, feigning annoyance.

“Nothing. Nothing,” she replies, her eyes flickering back to the movie, but you can sense her amusement. A few moments pass, and, unable to contain her excitement, her gaze shifts back to you, her smile widening.

“Okay, seriously, what is it?” you exclaim, shoving her playfully.

Sooyoung shrugs, taking a long sip before speaking. “That’s a nice mark you’ve got there on your shoulder. Who’d you get that from?” she asks pointedly.

Your expression falters as you realize that your shirt has slid off your shoulder, revealing the bruise he left behind, the one you had tried to cover with makeup. You curse under your breath.

“No need to be ashamed, girl. I knew the day was coming sooner or later!” she laughs. “But if you think you’re leaving without telling me what happened, you’re high off pixie dust.”

You bite your lip, a smile breaking through. Before you know it, you’re giggling and screaming, overwhelmed with excitement. Sooyoung smacks you lightly on the arm, her own laughter ringing out. “No way, tell me! He got you kicking your feet like that?”

You spill everything that happened and by the end of it, Sooyoung is standing up from the couch. “We need to go out! He broke your dry spell, this calls for a celebration!”

You playfully smack her on the butt as she turns toward the remote to switch off the TV. “Shut up,” you laugh.

You can hear the bass thumping even before you step into the old, abandoned church. City vampires know how to throw the best raves, and you’re not surprised to see half of the city’s paranormal packed inside.

Sooyoung drops her cloak, her wings unfurling gracefully across her back as she shrinks down a few sizes. At parties like this, no one bothers to cloak. Within the weathered walls of the church, every supernatural creature is free to shed their human facades and embrace their true forms. You allow your eyes to gleam a deep crimson, fangs brushing your bottom lip as you lose yourself to the pulsating rhythm of the music.

Hours slip by before you even realize it. The music here is enchanted—not so overwhelming that it would keep you dancing to the brink of exhaustion, but just enough to carry good vibes throughout the crowd. It also amplifies the high from the pixie dust, ensuring that everyone who joins in the dance has a good trip.

“I'm gonna go find a pixie! Want to come?” Sooyoung asks over the pulsating beats.

“Nah, I’m good,” you say, waving her off. She nods and heads off into the crowd while you make your way out back to get some fresh air.

Stepping outside, you spot a few couples making out against the building while others drift in quiet conversation. One familiar figure catches your eye. Jeno was leaning against a tree smiling at something on his phone.

Curiosity piqued, you walked up to him. “What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Looking after my pack. Why are you bothering me?” he replies, not bothering to look up.

“Just making small talk, you infuriating mutt,” you roll your eyes.

“Your boyfriend’s also a mutt, so how’s that make you feel?” He shoots back.

You glare at him, feeling a pang of irritation. “He’s not my boyfriend anymore,” you snap, afraid the wrong crowd might overhear.

“Right, that’s too bad,” he smirks, finally looking at you.

“And why is that?” you grit your teeth.

“You didn’t know? He presented. He’ll be going into rutt soon and he’s gonna need a mate if he wants to survive it.”

Your stomach drops. You didn’t need to ask what he presented as, it was obvious.

“You know, my dad’s been trying to find someone compatible with him.” Jeno says, an edge of satisfaction in his tone.

“And that’s probably going as well as it did for you,” you shot back. “Your sorry self is still alone. What, are you jealous that you'll have to jerk it solo during your rutt?” Venom laced your words.

Jeno’s smile grows wider, and he knows he's hit a nerve. “Don’t be too sad when he stops coming around. I warned you,” he says, shoulder checking you and heading back into the party.

You felt sick. If what jeno said was true Haechan would be looking for a mate to satisfy his rutt. Just like that your world crashes down around you. You go back inside and look for Sooyoung. When you finally locate her, it’s in the storage room, where she’s wrapped up in a makeout session with Renjun, a pixie you recognize as her casual fling.

“We need to go,” you insist, cutting right through their moment.

Renjun pressed a lingering kiss to her neck as she glanced past him at you, surprise flickering across her face. “Aww, but it was just getting fun,” she pouted.

“Well, I’m heading home,” you state flatly. “I don’t feel good.” Without waiting for her to pull herself from Renjun's embrace, you race home

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

It had been days since you heard from Haechan; he wasn’t answering your texts or returning your calls. It was rare for him to be home anymore, so you weren’t surprised to find his place empty when you went to check on him. Had his rutt already begun? You cringed at the thought and quickly shook it from your mind. If he were in rutt, they would have found him someone to lay with by now.

You realized that constantly thinking about him was driving you crazy. You needed a distraction. You left your home and headed to the library, but all you could think about were those late nights helping him study within those four walls. You decided to visit Sooyoung, hoping she could take your mind off things, but she had taken too much pixie dust at the last party and was still coming down from the high.

There was only one place you knew where you could silence your thoughts. You needed to recharge. Maybe if you slept long enough, you could forget about what Jeno had told you, maybe even forget about Haechan.

It wasn’t until you reached the cemetery that you realized tonight was a full moon. If Haechan had truly gone into rutt, it would officially begin tonight. A wave of bloodlust washed over you as tormenting images of Haechan with someone else flooded your mind. Maybe he was right; perhaps you and Hera did share some traits after all.

You could become deadly when you were jealous.

You locked yourself in your coffin, fighting the urge to storm into werewolf territory and tear them all apart. They weren’t the only ones who became stronger under a full moon.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The lid of your casket slid open, and when you locked eyes with the person who dared to interrupt your sleep, a primal urge to rip his throat out surged through you.

“Whoa, whoa! Hey, wait!” Mark shouted, jumping back several feet. You rose from your coffin, the scent surrounding you immediately igniting a rage.

The last thing you wanted to smell upon waking up was mutt.

“What the hell are you doing in my territory?” you snapped, your voice icy cold. “This breaks the treaty, and I have free rein to murder all of you.”

You scanned the graveyard, spotting Ten, Johnny, and Yangyang standing several yards away. Jeno and Jaehyun were closer, but not close enough to be within your reach, unlike Mark—who was either brave or incredibly stupid for waking you.

“Guys, I told you this was a bad idea,” Mark whined.

“She likes you the most; she would have killed me already if I'd woken her up,” Jeno replied, arms crossed.

“You have five seconds to explain what’s going on before I use your hide to make myself a coat,” you threatened, your patience wearing thin.

“It’s Haechan! He needs you!” Mark exclaimed, hands raised defensively.

You dropped your guard. “What? What happened?” You asked, stalking closer and gripping him by the front of his shirt.

“He’s in rutt. We tried to find him a partner to help him through it, but he refused. He’s getting more and more agitated as the days pass, and usually, the rutt would be dying down by now, but it isn’t,” Mark huffed, worry etched on his face as he recalled the events.

That idiot—what did he think he was doing?

“Dad thinks he’ll drive himself insane if he keeps refusing his urges,” Jeno butts in.

“How long has he been like that?” you demanded.

“Three days,” Jaehyun spoke up. “As much as we don’t like it, he’s our brother, and we can’t lose him. You need to go to him.”

“You waited three days to find me?” you yelled, incredulous.

“We thought he would break eventually, but now he just becomes aggressive if an omega tries to come near him,” Johnny explained, cautiously stepping closer now that he was certain you wouldn’t try to kill anyone.

“Well, let’s go,” you said, preparing to run off, until Jeno stepped in front of you. “If you like your head being on your shoulders, I’d move.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? If he hurts you, he’ll never forgive us for bringing you to him in this condition,” Jeno continued, his concern evident.

You flashed him a confident smile. “Fully charged.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

This time, when you crossed into werewolf territory, the atmosphere was far less hostile. Jeno and Jaehyun led the way and eventually brought you into a secluded room where a heavy door stood, carved with symbols that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. You could feel the whispers of magic, familiar and foreign all at once. To the side, a hidden passageway led down a narrow set of stairs, the faint echo of your footsteps reverberating off the stone walls as you descended.

“You’ve been keeping him locked up underground?” you questioned, a wave of memories from your past life flashing before your eyes.

“This is where we all go during the first rut. It can be dangerous,” Jaehyun explained. “The same goes for newly turned werewolves. If they can’t find control, the only way to keep everyone safe is to let them weather the storm down here.”

You finally reached a door at the end of the hallway. Jaehyun paused, the concern etched on his face deepening. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re asking,” you replied, rolling your eyes.

“Well, we’ll be out here if you need us. Just yell,” Jeno said. He handed you a key, it's cold metal feeling heavy in your palm.

The door loomed before you, heavy and imposing, its surface cool to the touch as you reached for the handle. You stepped into the room, and your heart sank at the sight of Haechan. He was lying on the bed, shackled to the floor, but the chains were long enough to allow him some space to move around.

His red eyes snapped to you the moment you entered, studying your figure in the middle of the room. He was barely dressed, clad in nothing but a pair of briefs, and the covers beneath him were shredded to pieces. The remnants of furniture lay scattered around, completely demolished, and the walls bore deep, angry scars. Some looked like old wounds, while others appeared fresh, no doubt done by Haechan.

A sheen of sweat coated his tan skin, his hair matted to his forehead. Before you could process it, he was in front of you, moving faster than you’d ever seen him. If you had been any closer, he might have reached out to grab you. He thrashed against his restraints, hands straining towards you in desperation.

You weren’t afraid; there was no hesitation as you stepped into his embrace.

He pulls you close against his chest, his grip possessive and strong. He was burning like a furnace against you. “I missed you,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost unrecognizable. “I’ve been waiting, holding on for you.” You can feel his arousal pressing stiff against your stomach. Your body reacts immediately to him, your nipples harden and you can feel yourself getting wet.

“It’s okay, let go,” you reassure him, using the key Jeno had given you earlier to unbind him. “I trust you.”

As the last of his shackles clatter to the floor, he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he slams you against the nearest wall. He bites your lip before he rips your shirt down the middle, pulling away just enough to attach his mouth to one of your breasts, his other hand eagerly exploring your body. He humps at your leg pathetically, dragging his cock over the rough fabric of your jeans.

You fumble with your pants, realizing too late that you should have chosen something with easier access. His patience wears thin, and with a flash of claws, he impatiently rips the crotch from your jeans. The cold air immediately hits your wet core, and Haechan inhales deeply. He drops to his knees in seconds, shoving his nose deep in your cunt, he wanted to drown in your scent.

“Haechan,” you gasp, instinctively pushing his head away.

One of his hands grips both your wrists tightly, pinning them against your lower stomach as he leans in closer, inhaling your scent like it’s the sweetest perfume. You glance down to find him stroking himself, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

He buries his face deeper, forcing his tongue between your legs. You can feel the tip of his tongue prod at the tight rim of your asshole. Heat rushes to your face as you try to close your thighs, but he pulls back only to bite your thigh in warning.

“Don’t fight me. You’re going to lose,” he huffs.

You shiver at his command, surrendering as you throw a leg over his shoulder. He instantly resets his focus, lapping at you while moaning in appreciation.

“God,” he exhales, the muscles in his arms straining as he grips himself tighter, strokes growing rough and desperate. His eyes screw shut in frustration. “Not enough, I need you.”

He manhandles you, turning you to face the wall and pressing you firmly against it. Your jeans cling uncomfortably to your skin as he grips your hips tightly. In one deep thrust, he’s inside you, and it feels like he’s rearranging your guts. He feels different from before—thicker—and you can’t help but rise onto your tiptoes with every deep thrust. You brace yourself against the wall, palms flat against the surface.

“You don’t know how bad I wished you were here. I needed you,” he grunts. His thrusts grow more aggressive. “Where the hell were you? Huh?” His grip tightens in your hair, forcing you to look back at him.

You whimper, brain fogging as he stretches you open. “I’m here, Haechan. I’ll always be right here.

You feel the familiar heat building within you, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing in tight circles. “That’s right, baby. Give it to me.”

You come hard and he pulls out, dropping to his knees to lick deep inside you as he ate you out from the back. He wanted to taste every last drop of you and you would let him suck you dry.

You don't realize he's thrown you on the bed until you're staring at the ceiling, the tattered sheets beneath you. He crawls towards you, like a predator about to catch his prey. Gripping your ankle, he pulls you closer, ripping your pants off. When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his lips.

He sinks back into you, and you wrap your legs around his waist, rolling your hips against him, your nails raking down his chest as he takes you.

“Mmh fuck.” He whines.

His mouth drops open in pleasure and you can tell he appreciates the way your pussy grips him. He looks like hes on cloud nine as he fucks you into the bed. You were exactly what he had been needing these past few days. You grip the hair at the back of his nape and pull. He moans breathlessly and his next thrust is so sharp it knocks you up the bed a few inches.

“Alpha,” you moan.

He grips your thighs, pressing them against your chest, holding you in place as he ravages you. The sound of the bed creaking fills the room with each thrust, the headboard connecting rhythmically with the wall. He doesn’t relent, his hand gripping your chin to make sure you’re looking at him. “Say it again.”

“Alpha!” you scream as he abuses your cunt.

“You’re mine,” he growls, capturing your lips in a quick messy kiss. “Say it.”

“I'm yours, only yours.”

As he releases his grip on your face, he pulls your hair, making you watch as he thrusts between your legs. “Look at how you take me. So fucking beautiful.” He growls.

He quickened his pace, raw and desperate, and the bed shakes beneath you.

“Shit” you scream. You dig your nails into his shoulder and take it. You cling to him, your breaths coming in short gasps as pleasure builds low in your belly. His lips find yours again, silencing your moans as he fucks you with an intensity that borders on pain. But it’s perfect—it’s everything you both needed.

You don't even get the chance to warn him when you come around him, clamping down impossibly tight. He fucks you into the mattress, unable to hold back and the bed shakes so forcefully it gives out under you, collapsing to the ground with a loud creak. He doesn’t look up, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t care.

He buries his face into your neck and chants your name. You could feel him swelling inside of you and he bites down hard onto your shoulder hips stilling as he spills into you.

He rolls you on top of him but stays buried inside of you. Knotting you to make sure not a drop of his cum spills out. You take a look around the room, your shredded clothes lay haphazardly on the ground and the bed lies in splinters below you. You laugh breathlessly before snuggling closer to him.

“I'm sorry I was so late,” you say. “When they told me you were in rutt I thought you would take someone else.”

“Never. You’re the only one I want. The only one I’ll ever want.”

You smile, tracing patterns on his chest. “Good. Because I’m not sharing.”

He laughs, the sound warm and rich. He looks at peace, his eyes no longer clouded with desperation.

A loud knock echoes through the room.

“Haechan!” Jeno’s voice calls from outside the door. “If you're back to normal We need to talk. Now.”

Your body stiffens at his voice. You had forgotten they were out there.

You feel Haechan’s body stiffen as well, his grip on you tightening. “What is it?” he barks, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

“It’s serious. Dad found out about her being here. He’s ordered everyone to the meeting hall… including her.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

It isn’t until much later that you and Haechan muster the energy to finally roll out of the bed, or what’s left of it. You find yourself dressed in his clothes, feeling a little shy. The walk to the meeting hall is quiet, but Haechan’s hand remains firmly intertwined with yours, offering a sense of strength and support.

At the head of the room stands jeno’s father, the pack leader.

His eyes shift from Haechan to you, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. You had assumed it was his orders that brought you here, but maybe not.

“You,” he says, his voice low and measured. “Come closer.”

Hesitant, you move forward, Haechan’s hand reluctantly releasing yours. The alpha steps down from his platform, circling you slowly.

“Do you know,” he begins, stopping in front of you, “how rare it is for a werewolf in rutt to resist an omega’s scent? Even more so for three days?” His tone isn’t accusatory, it’s almost… impressed.

You swallow hard, unsure of how to respond. “I… I didn’t realize…”

“And yet,” he continues, ignoring your stammering, “he endured it. Refused every omega offered to him, tore himself apart fighting his instincts—for you.” He pauses, his gaze piercing. “Do you understand what that means?”

Your breath catches.

“It means,” he says, his voice softening ever so slightly, “that you mean more to him than anything else. More than his instincts. More than his own survival.” He turns to Haechan, who’s standing rigidly nearby. “Isn’t that right, son?”

Haechan doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” His voice is steady, unwavering. “She’s mine. And I’m hers.”

The alpha stares at him for a long moment before nodding, almost imperceptibly. Then, he turns back to you. “If one of my sons is willing to endure hell for you, then I can see no reason to stand in the way of this bond. I give you both my blessing.”

The room erupts into murmurs, shock rippling through the pack. But the alpha silences them with a single raised hand. “Anyone who challenges this decision will answer to me directly.” His gaze sweeps across the room, daring anyone to speak against him. No one does.

Haechan steps forward. “Thank you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

The alpha nods again, his expression unreadable. “Take care of her,” he directs towards Haechan before turning back to you. “And take care of yourself. If this is the path you choose, then make sure you’re strong enough to walk it.”

You nod at him, still in shock as haechan picks you up off the ground in a tight hug.

Mark and Ten approach, clapping Haechan on the back. “Guess you’re part of the pack now,” Ten teases you playfully.

Jeno steps forward too. “Don’t think just because my dad likes you that I do.”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around Haechan’s neck. “It will be a cold day in hell before we’re friends.”

“Just ignore him,” Johnny says with a chuckle. “If the chief says so then you’re family. We’ve got your back whether he likes it or not.”

Jaehyun nods in agreement, a reassuring smile on his face. “If anyone tries to come between you two, you can rely on us.”

A smile blooms across your face. All the fear and worry you once carried begins to lift. You felt safe knowing they had your back. Vampire or werewolf—let them come. You’re not fighting by yourself anymore.

#haechan smut #haechan fic #nct dream smut

1K notes · View notes

ryorecs · 7 months ago

Text

‘love me back?’ — seven

pairing — mark lee x reader

word count — 49.5k words

genre — angst, smut, fluff, strangers to lovers, forbidden love

synopsis — this is the end. after an eventful party that shifts everything you thought you knew, you realize it’s time to bring things back to how they were. with the state championships looming, the stakes are higher than ever. this will either be the end of all you know, the beginning of the end, or the start of something entirely new.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, 2000s teen show vibes, this fic is heavily based on one tree, explicit language, explicit sexual content, explicit themes, really emotional chapter (get tissues), rough sex, choking, hair pulling, and spanking, overstimulation and edging, use of substances (vaping, drugs) in a sexual context, oral sex (receiving), light humiliation and possessive themes, marking (hickeys, biting). use of spit, intense physical restraint and forceful movements, y/n remains confusing, mark is on his horny boy shit, karina best character as always, state championships drama, cute caffe scene, irene + y/n bonding. grab your tissues as this is the end :( sorry loves i have to keep these warnings short as i don’t wanna spoil anything

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN

[fic ml]

Your stomach twisted as your gaze swept over the scene: four girls sitting around him, their attention locked entirely on him. Lia leaned forward slightly, her long legs crossed as she rested her chin in her hand, her laughter soft and melodic. Yiren sat closest to him, her eyes wide and sparkling as she twirled a strand of her hair between her fingers. Giselle’s voice carried over the others, teasing and playful, while Chaewon batted her eyelashes, her soft giggle almost grating to your ears.

They were all staring at him with an intensity that bordered on comical, their eyes wide and lips parted as if he were the only person in the room. You couldn’t blame them, really—Mark had that kind of presence. The way his dark eyes sparkled when he talked, his quiet confidence, the relaxed curve of his lips—it all made him magnetic. And as you watched from the doorway, you couldn’t help but laugh under your breath.

It wasn’t jealousy, not even close. If anything, it was funny. Mark liked attention—you knew that much—and he wasn’t shy about soaking it in. But it was obvious he was keeping a polite distance, his posture relaxed but not leaning into their space. He was charming without even trying, his responses short yet kind, the corners of his mouth quirking up when one of them said something particularly over-the-top.

And the girls? Well, they were practically falling over themselves. Their bodies leaned toward him like he was the sun, their movements subtle but deliberate—playing with their hair, adjusting their tops, batting their eyelashes in synchrony.

But the truth was, he didn’t see them. At least, not in the way they wanted. You knew how Mark looked at someone when he truly saw them, and this wasn’t it. He was polite, sure, and maybe even faintly amused by their obvious flirting, but he wasn’t engaged. Not like he was when he looked at you.

You stepped further into the room, your footsteps quiet against the floor. You heard fragments of their conversation as you approached.

“…your heart condition sounds so scary,” Yiren murmured, her brows furrowing as she tilted her head sympathetically. “How do you manage it?”

Mark gave a small, almost sheepish smile, bouncing the basketball lightly on the ground beside him. “It’s just about knowing my limits,” he said, his voice low and smooth, drawing the girls in closer. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

Lia leaned forward, her hand lightly brushing against his knee. “But still… it must’ve been hard to tell the team.” Her voice was soft, filled with admiration.

“It was,” Mark admitted, his gaze flicking between them. “But they’ve been supportive. It’s good to have people who have your back.”

Giselle’s eyes sparkled as she chimed in, “You’re so brave, Mark. Seriously. And you’re still playing basketball? That’s incredible.”

Mark shrugged, the corner of his lips tugging upward in that effortlessly charming way that seemed to make the girls around him lean in closer. “Yeah, I’ll still play for the rest of the season,” he said, his tone casual but measured. “Not as much, though. Under strict control—fewer minutes, lighter practices. Gotta take it easy for now.”

Yiren tilted her head, her eyes wide with admiration. “That’s really disciplined of you. Most guys would try to push through it and end up making it worse.”

Mark gave a small nod, his expression softening. “I used to be that guy. Thought I could just power through anything, but this… it’s different. I’ve gotta be smart about it.” His hand idly spun the basketball balanced on his knee, the movement fluid and relaxed, like it was second nature.

Chaewon and Yiren leaned in toward him, their admiration practically dripping off them, and though you told yourself you shouldn’t care, the sight sent an unexpected surge of possessiveness through you. Chaewon’s lips parted slightly, her voice tinged with awe. “It’s still incredible, though. That you’re even out there at all. Shows how much you love the game.”

Mark didn’t respond immediately, letting Chaewon’s words hang in the air as though carefully considering them. The pause only seemed to heighten the anticipation, making Yiren’s voice cut through the moment with precision. “Do you ever need someone who’s there for you through all of this? You know, to give you support and—”

“I don’t need that,” Mark interrupted, his voice steady and certain, cutting through the soft hum of conversation around them. His words were resolute, leaving no room for doubt. “Because I already have that. I have Y/N.”

You had to press your hand against your lips, the laugh bubbling up so suddenly it nearly escaped. The way their faces fell was priceless—wide-eyed disbelief and barely concealed disappointment that turned the air heavy with awkward tension. Giselle’s lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words, while Chaewon exchanged a glance with Yiren, her brows furrowing in confusion. Even Lia, ever composed, looked momentarily caught off guard, her smirk faltering.

Yiren blinked, her brows knitting together as she exchanged a glance with Chaewon, their confusion palpable. Giselle was the one to voice what they were all thinking, her tone a careful mix of curiosity and disbelief. “But… didn’t you break up?” she asked, leaning forward slightly, her eyes narrowing as though trying to make sense of Mark’s words.

Mark didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, we did,” he said, his tone calm but firm, as if the answer was obvious. “But that doesn’t change anything. She’s still the one who’s there for me. She always has been, and I know she always will be. Just because we’re not together doesn’t mean she’s not mine, and I’m not hers.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy and unshakable. The girls exchanged glances, their disappointment obvious, but you barely noticed. Your laughter faded as your eyes found Mark—hidden from his view, yet completely absorbed by the way he spoke. Even when you weren’t there, he carried you in his words, and it hit harder than you wanted to admit.

His voice wasn’t rehearsed or performative. It was steady and real, filled with a conviction that left no room for doubt. He didn’t know you were listening, which only made it more genuine. This wasn’t a display for the others—it was Mark speaking about you as if nothing between you had ever changed. And you couldn’t ignore the pull of it, how deeply his words resonated.

Your chest tightened as you watched him. His hand rested on the basketball, his movements calm and deliberate, his focus entirely on what he was saying. He looked confident and composed, but there was a softness in the way he spoke your name, a quiet emotion that betrayed his exterior. The way he said you’re mine wasn’t possessive; it was certain, like he believed it with every part of himself.

The attraction you felt for him in that moment was overwhelming. The broad line of his shoulders, the way his hand gripped the basketball, the subtle curve of his lips—it all made your breath hitch. But it wasn’t just about how he looked. It was the way he spoke, the certainty he carried, and the way he made you feel like you still mattered. It reminded you of why you loved him, why you never fully let go.

A warmth spread through you, not just desire but something deeper. His tone, his presence, the way he still held you in his words—it made you question everything. You’d convinced yourself there was distance between you, but this moment proved there wasn’t. It made you want to step closer, to let yourself belong to him again, even though you knew it was dangerous. You couldn’t resist him, not then, not now. You still wanted him, completely and entirely.

But he was such a whore. You knew him too well for the smooth exterior he presented to everyone else. He loved attention, basked in it like it fueled him. Even though he kept a respectable distance from the girls, you could see how much he enjoyed being the center of their world in that moment. The way their eyes lit up at his words, the way they leaned in closer—it didn’t go unnoticed by him. You could read it all too clearly in the slight lift of his lips, the subtle satisfaction in his gaze.

And yet, why was he still sitting there? Why was he indulging them instead of looking for you? That familiar twist of frustration coiled in your chest as you watched him. He hadn’t once glanced around the room to find you, hadn’t even seemed to notice your absence. His soft smile, the one that seemed so easy and natural, made your stomach churn. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him, but seeing him like this—with them—made you question why you still wanted him so much.

You crossed your arms, your expression hardening into one of quiet distaste, but you forced yourself to stay still, masking the annoyance threatening to bubble over. That’s when Karina stumbled into the room, her glossy hair tousled, her lips swollen and red. Her eyes found yours immediately, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips as she made her way over, moving with a careless sway that could only come from being high—and freshly fucked.

“I just got absolutely destroyed by Jeno,” she murmured, leaning in with a smirk, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “He couldn’t keep his hands off me—pinned me against the wall like he was starving, growling about how tight I was while he fucked me so deep I couldn’t think straight. He just kept going, his cock hitting every spot like he knew my body better than I did. My legs are still shaking, and trust me, no one ruins a girl like Jeno can.”

Your gaze flickered briefly to her, taking in the sharp line of her jaw and the way her lipstick, though slightly smudged, still clung to her lips in a way that made her look effortlessly put together. Even after what she described—a night so raw and consuming it left her legs trembling—she looked pristine, her cheeks flushed with satisfaction, her eyeliner still perfect, and her hair cascading down her shoulders like she’d just stepped out of a photoshoot. The contrast between the composure in her appearance and the chaos she’d just described had you staring a moment too long, admiring the confidence and beauty she wore so easily.

She caught the direction of your eyes, her smirk sharpening when they landed on Mark. He was still seated on the couch, one arm draped lazily across the backrest while the other rested on his thigh, his fingers idly spinning the basketball balanced on his knee. The subtle curve of his lips hinted at amusement, though he didn’t seem to notice the crowd around him. His dark eyes, framed by the messy strands of his hair falling across his forehead, flickered with an easy confidence that made him impossible to ignore.

Karina’s chuckle broke the moment, low and dark, her voice playful but biting as she leaned closer to you. “Never thought I’d see Mark Lee being such a whore for attention,” she mused, her tone laced with teasing malice. Her gaze lingered on him, her smirk deepening as though she found the sight amusing—or perhaps a little too tempting.

He knew exactly what he was doing—the way he allowed his gaze to linger a beat too long, how his voice dropped just enough to make people lean closer, desperate to catch every word. It wasn’t just attention he was after—it was control, power, the thrill of knowing he could command a room without even trying.

Your lips curled into a sharper, more dangerous smirk as you turned back to her, your tone smooth but layered with an edge you didn’t bother to hide. “He should only be a whore for my attention,” you replied, each word deliberate, cutting, and enough to make Karina arch a brow, her expression twisting into one of amused challenge.

She turned to you fully, her eyes gleaming with that familiar, reckless glint that always preceded trouble. She tilted her head, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have an idea.”

You raised a brow, her mischievous tone already giving away her intent, but you decided to play coy, tilting your head slightly. “Do I even wanna know?”

Karina leaned closer, her lips quirking into a knowing smile, the glint in her eyes confirming exactly what you’d suspected. “Wanna make him jealous?” she teased, her voice dripping with suggestion, as though she already knew your answer.

You knew what she was implying—knew the game she was proposing without her having to say another word. It wasn’t just about jealousy; it was about power, about shifting the dynamic and throwing Mark off his pedestal, even for a moment. You felt the corner of your mouth twitch upward despite yourself, the beginnings of a smirk betraying your crumbling resolve. “That would be immature,” you murmured, the words weak and unconvincing as your gaze drifted back to Mark. He sat effortlessly in command, the easy confidence in his posture making him look untouchable, and something about that made you waver.

“Yeah,” Karina agreed lightly, her tone almost sing-song, but her playful smirk hinted at far more. “But you’d get to make out with me.” Her words pulled a soft scoff from you, and you rolled your eyes, though the small grin tugging at your lips betrayed you. “We’ve literally kissed before. Remember all those threesomes with Jeno—”

Before she could finish, you cut her off, closing the distance in a swift, impulsive move. Your lips crashed into hers with an uncoordinated urgency that had the two of you stumbling slightly, your balance offset by your own recklessness. The kiss was messy and chaotic, a tangle of movement that made both of you giggle against each other’s mouths. Her soft laugh vibrated against your lips, and you felt her hands slide up to your neck, her fingers tangling into your hair with an easy familiarity.

It wasn’t sensual or romantic—it was playful, almost ridiculous, a show of exaggerated closeness meant for the eyes you knew were watching. Your lips moved together briefly, clumsily, as if neither of you were taking it too seriously. Still, you let the kiss deepen for a moment, her grip on your hair tightening as your head tilted slightly to the side, drawing her closer. It was just enough to make your point, just enough to draw every pair of eyes in the room without crossing a line you couldn’t laugh off later.

You pulled back first, breathless and slightly flushed, your lips swollen from the contact. The ghost of a smirk lingered on your face as you glanced at her, her expression matching your own—amused, teasing, and entirely unapologetic. Karina wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb, a devilish grin spreading as she leaned back slightly, her gaze flicking toward Mark with a sharp glint that told you she knew exactly what kind of chaos you’d just unleashed. She moved as if to lean in again, but you shook your head, your grin widening as her laughter bubbled up, mixing with your own. The tension broke into something lighter, and for a moment, the two of you giggled like co-conspirators, perfectly aware of the storm you were brewing.

She didn’t say a word at first, just let her gaze linger on him before turning back to you, her grin widening. “Well,” she said, her tone light but teasing, “that definitely worked.” She smirked, leaning in closer. “Did you see him? He looked furious, like he wanted to come over here and break it up—but at the same time, I could tell he was so turned on. He couldn’t stop watching.”

But before you could look too and gauge his reaction, Jeno appeared, his towering frame filling the doorway with an air of casual dominance. His dark eyes locked onto the two of you, heat simmering in his gaze that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. Slowly, he stalked closer, his lips parting slightly as his hand drifted down to his waistband, blatantly adjusting himself with no care for subtlety.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. The way his gaze lingered made your skin prickle, but it was the weight of his hand landing on your head that made your knees almost buckle. For a moment, you thought he might lean in, that he might join you, but instead, he nudged you gently to the side, his focus shifting with deliberate intent to Karina.

Your breath hitched as you watched him close the distance between them, his large hands gripping her waist with a possessiveness that left no room for question. His lips crushed against hers with a raw, unrestrained intensity, a kiss so consuming it sent a jolt of electricity through the room. Karina melted into him instantly, her moan breaking through the tense silence as her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. The way their bodies moved against each other was magnetic, primal, as if nothing and no one else in the room existed.

You stepped back awkwardly, heat flushing to your cheeks as you tried to steady your breathing. Watching them devour each other with such hunger—such chemistry—made your earlier kiss with Karina feel insignificant, like a mere warm-up to the show they were putting on now.

The room shifted, the background chatter dwindling as heads turned toward the spectacle unfolding. A crowd was forming, their eyes drawn to the scene with a mix of awe and intrigue. The tension was palpable, hanging thick in the air like a storm about to break.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement, your gaze snapping to Mark. His expression was unreadable, but the intensity in his dark eyes was unmistakable as they bore into you. The weight of his gaze made your stomach twist, a blend of unease and anticipation gripping your chest.

The room shifted, the background chatter dwindling into an almost eerie silence as more heads turned toward the spectacle unfolding. Jeno and Karina were utterly engrossed in each other, their movements fluid and magnetic, drawing every eye like moths to a flame. A crowd was forming, the mix of awe and intrigue thick in the air, and the tension hung like a storm waiting to erupt.

You can’t help it—a quiet, desperate moan slips past your lips as you watch them. The raw heat between them is overwhelming, stirring something deep and primal inside you. They’re so hot together, so shamelessly in sync, and the thought hits you hard: What if you joined? Your heart races at the idea, your chest tightening as memories of past times flood in—moments when you had joined, when it was electric, seamless, and so, so good. You bite your lip, trying to steady your breath, but the temptation clings to you, relentless. You’re horny, high, and surrounded by two of your best friends—friends who know every inch of you, who know exactly how to make it all feel right. The idea isn’t just a fleeting thought; it’s a deep, undeniable pull, and you’re not sure how much longer you can resist.

But before you could linger on the idea, you felt it—the weight of Mark’s gaze, heavy and unrelenting, burning through the haze clouding your thoughts. It was as if he could see every sinful flicker in your mind, exposing the secret you hadn’t dared to voice. You dared a glance toward him, and your stomach twisted at the dark intensity in his eyes, locked firmly on you.

Mark’s reaction was subtle, yet it spoke volumes. He didn’t move right away, leaning back against the couch with calculated ease, one arm draped lazily over the backrest while his other hand gripped the basketball. His gaze didn’t waver, sharp and cutting, holding you in place like a predator assessing its prey. A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face—irritation, amusement, something possessive—but it vanished before you could fully decipher it, replaced by a chilling calm that only heightened the tension.

His tongue swiped over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, drawing your eyes there despite yourself. It wasn’t casual; it was a challenge, a subtle display of control that made your breath hitch. His eyes flicked briefly to Karina and Jeno before returning to you, narrowing slightly, the fire in his gaze stoking the heat already pooling in your stomach. The smirk that curled the corner of his lips wasn’t soft—it was sharp, a warning, an unspoken claim that left no room for misunderstanding.

When Mark finally moved, it was deliberate, his calm exterior crackling with a restrained energy that made the air between you thick and oppressive. He stood smoothly, his broad shoulders rolling back as his presence swelled, consuming the space around him. The basketball hit the floor with a dull thud, forgotten in an instant as his focus honed in entirely on you. Each step he took was slow, measured, but there was nothing relaxed about him. It was a storm gathering strength, and you could feel the power in every deliberate movement as he closed the distance, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he said, voice low, smooth, and cutting in a way that sent a jolt straight through you. His eyes dragged over your face with a sharpness that made you feel exposed. “Standing here like that, staring at them like like you wanna join in.” His lips twitched into a smirk, but it was sharp, humorless, and the glint in his dark eyes was anything but forgiving.

You wanted to respond, to snap back or deny the accusation, but the words stuck in your throat. His gaze was a heavy weight, pinning you in place as he came closer, his tall frame practically looming over you. The flicker of anger—or was it something deeper, more possessive?—in his expression made your heart race.

Before you could think to step back or speak, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist. The heat of his grip sent a shiver up your arm as he tugged you forward with no hesitation, the roughness of the motion stealing your breath. His hand tightened just enough to make you aware of his strength—not enough to hurt, but enough to ensure you didn’t try to pull away.

“Don’t fight me,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, leaving no room for defiance. “You’re coming with me. Now.” The force in his words made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion, and his grip tightened further, a warning that you weren’t in control anymore. His tone was edged with something dangerous, a promise that there would be consequences if you resisted.

The room blurred around you, your pulse hammering as Mark led you toward the exit with an almost unnerving calmness in his stride. People moved out of his way without him so much as glancing at them, the tension radiating off him like a force field. His grip on your wrist didn’t falter, steady and unrelenting as he pushed through the crowd.

“Mark—” you started, but the sound of your voice barely broke the air before he turned his head, cutting you off with a sharp, warning glance. His eyes burned into yours, dark and unreadable, silencing you instantly.

Your chest felt tight, caught between the sheer weight of his anger and the unmistakable heat that burned in his gaze. Every nerve in your body was on edge as he pulled you through the threshold and into the quieter hall beyond. For a moment, all you could focus on was the intensity of his touch, the controlled fury in his movements, and the way your thoughts spiraled wildly, caught somewhere between fear and something much more dangerous.

The door clicked shut behind you, the muffled sounds of the party fading to a low hum. Mark had pulled you into one of the small side rooms off the main hallway, a quiet pocket of space tucked away from the chaos but still dangerously close to it. The room was dimly lit, a couch pushed against the wall and a small table cluttered with forgotten drinks and a jacket someone had left behind. It felt secluded, intimate—but the knowledge that anyone could walk in at any moment only added to the tension.

Your heart was still racing, your wrist warm where his hand had gripped you, but as you turned to face him, everything shifted.

The storm you’d seen in his eyes moments ago was gone, replaced by something softer, deeper—yet no less intense. The anger had melted away, leaving only that possessive edge you knew too well. His dark eyes softened, becoming the ones you loved, the ones that had a way of looking right through you, disarming you completely.

Before you could process the change, Mark was on you. His hands found your waist as he backed you against the door, his grip firm but tender as he held you close. The heat of his body pressed into yours, his presence overwhelming in the quiet intimacy of the small space.

He didn’t say a word at first, just pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you tightly. It wasn’t the fierce grip you expected—it was grounding, safe, his way of anchoring you to him as his fingers splayed against your lower back. His breath fanned over your cheek as he leaned in, his lips hovering achingly close to yours, so close you could almost feel the kiss he refused to give.

Your chest heaved, a quiet, involuntary moan slipping past your lips as you tilted your head slightly, chasing the contact he was teasingly withholding. But Mark didn’t move, didn’t close the gap. The tension crackled between you, your whimper breaking the silence as his thumb brushed a soothing circle against your side.

His lips hovered over yours again, deliberate in their restraint, the closeness making you ache. You felt his breath against your skin, the soft tickle of it drawing another quiet sound from you as you clung to his shoulders.

But still, he didn’t kiss you.

“God I missed you,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with a quiet relief that made your knees weak. The faint annoyance that had lingered in his tone earlier—no doubt from your missed calls, ignored messages, and the scene you’d made with Karina—was gone, replaced by something warmer, something unspoken but clear. You had expected anger, sharp words, or even a cutting glare, but there was none of it. “Finally.”

You raised a brow, crossing your arms as you stopped just a few feet away. “Finally?” you echoed, a teasing lilt in your tone. “Looked to me like you were doing just fine without me. I mean, all those girls, Mark…” You tut jokingly, your memory flickering to the four women who surrounded him. “Maybe I should’ve just left you to it.” You roll your eyes.

A faint smirk tugged at Mark’s lips, his head tilting slightly as he looked you over. “You think I would’ve let you do that?” His voice dipped lower, enough to make your pulse quicken. “Pretty sure none of them can distract me the way you can.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you rolled your eyes, stepping closer despite yourself. “Oh, I don’t know. They seemed pretty captivated.” You gestured vaguely toward the girls, who exchanged awkward glances but didn’t leave. “Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you got caught?”

Mark’s smirk widened as he closed the distance between you, his hand reaching out to lightly graze your wrist. The touch was brief, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through you. “Caught doing what? Talking?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. “You jealous?”

You scoffed, but your lips curved into a sly smile, unable to help yourself. “Oh, please. A few compliments about your basketball skills? You must be eating this up.”

The words hung in the air, thick with meaning, but before you could respond, his expression shifted. The playful gleam in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something darker, something simmering just beneath the surface. His thumb brushed against your lip—slow, deliberate, almost mocking—as his gaze dropped to the faint smudge of Karina’s lipstick at the corner of your mouth. The motion sent a ripple of awareness through you, a silent reminder that he’d seen everything, that he wasn’t about to let it slide.

“What was that back there?” he asked softly, his voice calm, yet laced with an unmistakable edge. The question hung between you, heavy with quiet authority, as his dark eyes locked onto yours. They pinned you in place, cutting through your defenses with a quiet intensity that made your chest tighten.

“Just having fun. Just like you were,” you said, rolling your eyes, your tone deliberately casual. Your heart stuttered, and you hated how easily he could do this—strip you bare with just a look. Still, you raised a brow, feigning indifference, though the teasing note in your voice wavered slightly. “You’re such a show-off,” you quipped, the words softer than you intended. “But I’m not falling for it.”

Mark’s smirk deepened, his thumb grazing over the back of your hand in a way that felt far too intimate for where you were. His touch was slow, deliberate, the heat of his skin sending a ripple of tension up your arm. He stepped even closer, the space between you vanishing as his voice dipped into something darker, more confident.

“Baby,” he drawled, his lips curving in that way that made your pulse quicken. “You don’t have to fall for it. It’s already yours.”

His fingers tightened slightly around yours, grounding and possessive, the unspoken claim sparking a heat in your chest you couldn’t ignore. The way he looked at you, like he was undressing you with his eyes, made your breath hitch. This was shameless, utterly shameless—especially since you weren’t together anymore. But god, you couldn’t resist. Neither of you could. It was like a gravitational pull you had no desire to fight.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint when it started, but you knew why you were falling back into this with Mark. Maybe it was the way you were both high, the haze clouding everything and heightening your senses, making every touch, every glance, feel electric. Or maybe it was the undeniable jealousy bubbling under the surface—the way you watched him with the other girls, the way he looked at Karina and Jeno, his sharp eyes full of frustration and possessiveness. It mirrored the tension building inside you, all those old emotions and unspoken feelings resurfacing, just waiting for an outlet.

You knew this wasn’t healthy, that these were all signs of pent-up frustration and unaddressed jealousy, but it didn’t matter. The need, the desire, the pull between the two of you was so strong it almost felt inevitable. You weren’t together anymore, but it was impossible to ignore the way he made you feel, how everything about him made you want to give in. The way he touched you, the heat in his gaze, the possessiveness—it was like a magnetic force drawing you closer, making you crave him in ways you didn’t want to admit. Neither of you had the strength to fight it.

You tilted your chin up, defiance flickering in your eyes even as the heat coursing through your body betrayed you. “You sound so sure of yourself,” you murmured, your voice low, daring him to prove you wrong. “What makes you think I haven’t moved on? Maybe what you saw me do with Karina is a fraction of what I’ve been wanting to do with other guys.”

Mark’s smirk deepened, slow and deliberate, as he raised his hand to your face, his fingers brushing against your jaw before settling firmly beneath your chin. His grip was confident, dominant, tilting your head up just enough to ensure your eyes met his. The heat in his gaze pinned you in place, stealing the breath from your lungs. “Oh yeah?” he said, his voice a low rasp that felt like it could unspool you entirely. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you’ve moved on. Go on.”

Your breath caught, the words sitting heavy between you. His hand shifted, sliding to your waist as he pulled you a fraction closer, his touch warm and grounding against the thin fabric of your dress. The weight of his stare was overwhelming, the intensity in his eyes pulling you under like a riptide.

“You can’t,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rasp that made heat coil in your stomach. “Because I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me since we broke up. Like you’re imagining exactly what I’d do to you if no one else was around. Like you’re waiting for me to stop teasing and just ruin you already.”

You tilted your head slightly, letting a teasing smile tug at your lips, your body leaning closer to his without meaning to. “Oh?” you challenged, your tone laced with mischief. “What makes you so sure? Maybe I already have. Maybe I’ve even thought about someone else’s hands on me.”

It was a lie, an obvious one. You’d never think about anyone else—never consider it, not for a second—but you wanted to push him, to test him, to see just how far you could pull his strings. His eyes narrowed slightly, catching on immediately, and instead of snapping back, he let out a low, rough laugh.

Mark leaned in, his smirk deepening as his breath grazed your cheek, warm and tantalizing. “Yeah?” he drawled, his voice dipping lower, heavy with challenge. “With who, baby? Tell me who you’ve moved on to. Tell me you don’t think about me late at night. That you don’t wish it was my hands on your skin, gripping you so tight you can’t think straight. That it’s not my name you’re moaning when you can’t help yourself.”

Your lips parted, but the sharp retort you wanted to throw back at him refused to come. You were stunned, his words striking deeper than you anticipated, leaving you momentarily speechless. His thumb brushed against your jawline, the movement slow, deliberate, and searing. Your skin tingled under his touch, your pulse racing in your ears.

“That’s what I thought,” Mark murmured, his tone low and full of satisfaction. His smirk grew as he held your gaze, unrelenting and full of heat. “You’re mine, baby. Always have been and always will be.”

You swallowed hard, your body betraying you as a shiver ran down your spine. But despite the way his words sank into you, you forced a smirk onto your lips, masking the storm in your chest with a teasing edge. “Does it matter?” you quipped, tilting your chin up in defiance. “What if there is someone else?”

His eyes darkened, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. “If there was,” he said, his voice steady but laced with heat, “you wouldn’t be here. And you wouldn’t be looking at me like this.” His thumb grazed the corner of your mouth, his gaze flicking to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “Like you want me to drag you out of here and remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Mark’s laugh was softer this time, the sound dripping with amusement, but there was a tension in the way he leaned even closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It matters,” he murmured, his tone rough and low, laced with something that made your pulse quicken. “Because I don’t share, baby. And I don’t think you’d want to, either.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words wrapping around you like a vise. He was calling your bluff, and the way his hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you closer, made it clear he wasn’t letting you go without making you admit it.

You tilted your head slightly, a smirk playing on your lips as you leaned in closer, your breath grazing his neck. “Who says I’d even want to share?” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with heat. Your fingers traced a slow line along the front of his shirt, skimming over the firm muscles beneath. You paused, your gaze locking with his, daring and teasing. “But tell me,” you added, your tone dropping, “would it really bother you if someone else made me scream their name?”

His body tensed immediately, the air between you thickening with raw, electric tension. His hand slid lower, gripping your waist with enough force to make you gasp, his lips now brushing against the corner of your mouth. “Watch it,” he growled, his voice rough, dangerous. “You don’t want to test me, baby.”

Your breath hitched, the sharpness in his tone igniting something deep inside you. His grip on your waist was firm, possessive, and instead of pulling away, you leaned in closer, your lips just barely brushing his. “Maybe I want to test you,” you whispered, your voice soft but laced with challenge, every word dripping with intention. “Maybe I want to see exactly what happens when you stop holding back.”

His free hand moved, his fingers brushing the fabric of your dress as though testing the barrier between you. “You know what’s funny?” he murmured, leaning in slightly, the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around you. “You show up here looking like that, wearing this…” His gaze raked over you, his lips curving into something that felt more like possession than admiration. “…and you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t want to ruin you in it?”

You reached into your pocket, pulling out a small baggie and holding it up between your fingers. Mark’s gaze dropped to it, his brow raising slightly in curiosity. You grinned, pulling out a fresh blueberry vape next—two things that Jeno had slipped into your hand earlier without you asking, free of charge and with a lingering kiss on your forehead. You gave it a little shake for emphasis, your grin widening as you wiggled your eyebrows at him. “Wanna have fun?” you teased, your voice sultry, daring.

Mark’s smirk deepened, a dangerous edge sharpening his already magnetic expression as his gaze flicked between the baggie and your lips. Slowly, deliberately, his tongue swept over his lower lip, leaving it glistening as he stepped closer. The heat of his body was palpable, pressing into yours and making your breath hitch.

“You’re serious?” he drawled, his voice low and molten, dripping with intent. “You want to smoke, make out, and do drugs with me?” His head tilted slightly, his eyes dragging over you like a physical touch, lingering on the hem of your dress before sliding back up to meet your gaze. He leaned in closer, his lips just a breath from your ear, his voice a dark, intimate whisper. “You know exactly what that’ll lead to, don’t you?”

Your lips curled into a wicked smile, and you leaned up slightly, your voice soft but loaded with heat. “Good. Because I want to have sex with you too.”

Mark’s jaw tightened, the muscle flexing as his hand gripped your waist with bruising intensity. His other hand grasped the baggie from your grip, his movements fluid and deliberate, his confidence crackling in the air around you. His gaze stayed locked on yours, sharp and heated, his thumb brushing your hip as though grounding you in place.

He tore the bag open with practiced ease, slipping out a small pill—a pale blue ecstasy tablet, faintly chalky and imprinted with a star. A warmth of recklessness hung in the air between you, but something inside you twisted as you watched him hold it between his fingers. “Are you sure this is okay with your heart condition?” you asked, your voice soft but edged with worry.

Mark paused for a fraction of a second, the tablet poised near his lips, before he turned his gaze back to you, his smirk softening into something almost teasing. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice low, smooth, reassuring. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not overdoing anything. Besides, I’m barely playing basketball anymore, and I haven’t even started my meds yet. That’s next week. Trust me, this is fine.”

Despite his calm demeanor, your chest tightened with unease. “Mark…” you started, but he cut you off, tilting his head slightly as his smirk deepened.

“I’ve got this,” he murmured, his tone full of quiet confidence. He held your gaze as he lifted the pill to his tongue, his movements slow and deliberate. Instead of swallowing, he leaned in closer, his fingers tightening at your waist as his lips hovered just over yours. You couldn’t help but notice how smooth he was—too smooth—and you wondered fleetingly how many times he’d done this before.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he murmured, his breath brushing over your lips, the pill still sitting on his tongue. His voice was rough, teasing, dripping with intent.

“Of course I do,” you whispered, your voice trembling just enough to betray the heat rushing through you. The words barely left your lips before Mark’s smirk deepened, his breath fanning over your skin as the pill still rested on his tongue, daring, teasing.

Before you could think further, his hand shot up, fisting your hair with deliberate roughness and tilting your head back. The action sent a shiver down your spine, a soft gasp slipping past your lips. And then he was on you, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that left no room for hesitation.

The kiss was rough, all teeth and tongue, the bitter tang of the pill passing from him to you as his lips moved against yours like he was starving for it. His hand tightened in your hair, anchoring you as his free hand gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body seeped into yours, his control over the kiss overwhelming in the best way.

His tongue slipped past your lips, commanding and deliberate, every movement sending shivers coursing through your body. The faint bitterness of the pill lingered, tangling with the heat of his taste, a combination that left your head spinning. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that bordered on desperate, rough yet devastatingly skilled. His grip in your hair tightened, tilting your head further back, giving him full control as his other hand gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin like he was staking a claim.

The world around you blurred, the muffled sounds of the party fading into nothing as the pill began to take hold. A slow, tingling warmth crept through your veins, heightening every sensation. The softness of his lips, the roughness of his grip, the way his body pressed against yours—it all became sharper, more vivid, like every nerve in your body was tuned to him. Your chest tightened as his tongue teased yours, drawing moans from you that only made him deepen the kiss, his hand sliding lower, splaying over your lower back to keep you pinned against him.

Mark growled low in his throat, the vibration against your lips sending another wave of heat spiraling through you. His kisses became messier, more urgent, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. The pill’s effects amplified the sensation, making every brush of his lips and every flick of his tongue feel electric. Your moan vibrated against his mouth, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, but it only made him pull you closer. His fingers dug into your waist, his grip possessive as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you slipping away. The kiss deepened, messy and urgent, leaving you lightheaded and utterly consumed by him.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his lips glistening and swollen as his gaze bore into yours. Your chest heaved, the pill now dissolving on your tongue, but you barely noticed—your thoughts were a blur of heat and want, your body buzzing from the electric connection between you. Mark didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The intensity in his eyes, the way his hand remained tangled in your hair, said everything. And god, you wanted him to do it all over again.

Mark’s lips barely left yours, then he kissed you again, his hands roaming with a roughness that sent heat coursing through your veins. “You taste so fucking good,” he growled against your mouth, his teeth dragging over your lower lip before sucking it between his own. The sting melted into a wave of pleasure as his tongue swept over the spot, his dominance undeniable. His hands slid lower, gripping the back of your thighs with a possessive strength that had you gasping against his lips.

His hands gripped your thighs tightly, the heat of his palms searing through the fabric as his fingers dug in, possessive and demanding. “Come here, baby,” he growled, his tone dark and full of raw need, leaving no room for argument. He tugged you forward, your body colliding with his chest as his hands slid up, rough and deliberate, tracing the curve of your hips before grabbing your ass with a firm squeeze that made you gasp.

His grip tightened as he pulled you into his lap, the friction between you igniting sparks along your skin. His fingertips pressed into your flesh, kneading and claiming, leaving you breathless as his touch became more insistent. He dragged you closer, guiding your hips to grind against him, the hard press of his arousal against your core unmistakable.

“Right here,” he rasped, his breath hot against your jaw as his teeth scraped along your neck, his hands relentless in their exploration. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me. Stay right here, baby. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

His grip on your hips tightened before one hand slid upward, trailing over your ribcage and coming to rest against your jaw. He tilted your face toward him, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, testing. “Open your pretty lips,” he commanded, his voice low and rough, a demand that sent a shiver down your spine. When you parted your lips, he slid his thumb inside, pressing it against your tongue.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his eyes dark with heat as he watched you. His thumb retreated, replaced by two fingers that pushed deeper, the taste of his skin flooding your senses. He didn’t stop, sliding a third finger past your lips, the stretch making you gag. Your throat constricted around them, and he groaned low in his chest, the sound thick with approval.

“Good girl,” he rasped, his other hand gripping your waist to keep you steady on his lap as you choked softly, your lips stretched around his fingers. He pushed in deeper, his pace unrelenting, the scrape of his calloused fingertips against your tongue making your thighs tense against his. “Look at you, taking it so well. Don’t stop, baby. Show me how good you can be.”

Your body moved against him, frantic and unrestrained, the friction pulling desperate moans from your lips as you ground yourself harder against the thick, unrelenting hardness beneath you. His hips thrust upward with equal fervor, meeting you with a pressure so perfect it sent waves of pleasure rippling through you. “Fuck, Mark,” you whimpered, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails scraping over his skin as you tried to hold onto some semblance of control. But there was none—he wasn’t giving you any.

The thin fabric of your dress had ridden up entirely, leaving nothing to the imagination. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing bruisingly into your flesh as a low, guttural groan tore from his throat. “You feel that?” he rasped, his voice thick with lust, his breath scorching against your ear. His hand came down sharply on your ass, the sting reverberating through your body as a startled gasp escaped your lips. “You’re fucking mine,” he growled, his tone dripping with raw possession as another spank landed, the sting mixing with the fire building inside you. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten those videos you sent me tonight, baby. This little skirt…” His fingers curled around the fabric, pulling it higher. “You wore it for me, didn’t you?”

“It’s a dress,” you managed to breathe out, your voice shaky but laced with defiance, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the heat coursing through your body.

Mark chuckled darkly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as his fingers tightened on your thigh. “Dress, skirt… doesn’t matter,” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, dripping with intent. “Either way, I’m gonna make you regret wearing it around me.”

His hands gripped your hips firmly, rolling you down against him once with a rough grind that sent a jolt of heat straight through you. The friction was maddening, your need unbearable, and before you could stop yourself, you began bouncing on him, desperate for more, even through the barrier of his clothes. His chest heaved, his jaw tightening as his hands slid lower, grabbing you harder, guiding your movements with a possessive force. “Look at you,” he rasped, his voice dripping with lust, his dark eyes drinking in every move you made. “So needy, so fucking desperate to feel me. You want me to lose it, don’t you?”

He leaned in, his breath warm against your lips, his intent unmistakable, but you tilted your head back just enough to avoid him. A teasing smirk curved your lips, even as your heart pounded furiously in your chest. His eyes narrowed, darkening with frustration and something deeper, something raw. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into your skin possessively, the heat of his grip anchoring you to the moment. “Playing hard to get now, baby?” he murmured, his voice low and full of warning, the tension between you crackling like a live wire.

Instead of chasing your lips, he shifted his attention, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. The first press of his lips was rough and deliberate, the wet heat of his tongue dragging over your skin before his teeth sank in just enough to make you gasp. He worked his way down slowly, his mouth claiming every inch, his teeth grazing over the sensitive spots that made your body arch against him. “You feel that?” he rasped, his voice dark and dripping with possession. “This is what you do to me. You love being mine, don’t you? Letting me take you apart like no one else can.”

You let out a shaky sigh, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging him closer as he left another mark just below your jaw. His tongue followed the curve of your pulse, the wet heat making your breath hitch. “God, your skin,” he muttered against you, his voice wrecked. “I could taste you forever.”

He pressed another open-mouthed, spongy kiss to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a vivid hickey that throbbed with every beat of your heart. The sensation sent a shiver coursing through you, his name slipping from your lips in a breathless moan. “Mark…”

His teeth sank in slightly, pulling another moan from you as he marked you with precision, each kiss, bite, and lick a deliberate claim. His hand moved to your ass again, kneading the flesh before another sharp spank made you jolt in his lap. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice low and gravelly against your throat. “Say you’re mine.”

Your breaths were ragged, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you gasped out, “I’m yours.” The words tumbled out without hesitation, your resolve crumbling under the relentless force of his touch.

Mark’s lips curled into a smirk against your skin as his hand gripped your chin, tilting your face toward him with a deliberate roughness. “Damn right, you are,” His hands roamed your body with an unrelenting need, gripping, kneading, and exploring every inch, as the grinding between you turned frantic. The heat radiating from him wrapped around you, his every move leaving you breathless, trembling, and completely at his mercy

“Mark,” you whispered, your voice soft and breathless, a quiet plea wrapped in the sound of his name. Your eyelids fluttered, your gaze shifting toward the vape resting on the table, the silent message clear in the way your lips parted slightly, your chest rising and falling against his.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound dark and intimate, vibrating against your skin as he pressed a lingering kiss to your jaw. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, teasing, as his hands tightened their hold on your waist, pulling you down against him in a way that made your breath hitch. “You sound so fucking pretty when you say my name like that,” he murmured, his voice a husky rasp, his eyes smoldering as they traced your every reaction.

You reached for your vape, your fingers trembling slightly as you took a slow, deliberate pull. Mark’s eyes followed your every move, dark and smoldering, his pupils blown wide with raw hunger. His jaw tightened as his tongue swept over his bottom lip, the sight of you unraveled, so close and vulnerable, making something primal flare inside him. “Baby, come here,” you murmured, your voice low and thick with need as you took another drag, the smoke curling from your lips.

He didn’t hesitate. His lips hovered over yours, his breath hot and heavy as you exhaled the smoke directly into his mouth. His tongue slipped against yours, pulling the smoke from you, the action intimate, filthy, and laced with the sharp tang of blueberry. The kiss deepened, messy and consuming, as his hands roamed your body with unrestrained purpose. His fingers gripped your thighs, dragging the fabric of your dress higher, exposing the bare skin beneath. The heat of his touch left a trail of fire in its wake, his grip firm, commanding, as he held you exactly where he wanted you.

Mark’s groan rumbled low in his chest, vibrating against your lips as he pulled back just enough to speak. His hand moved to your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, his possessiveness raw and unrelenting. “You have no fucking idea, do you?” he rasped, his voice thick with lust and frustration. “You’re in my head, baby. Every second. Every goddamn moment. I can’t stop thinking about you—how you taste, how you feel. It’s driving me insane.”

Your lips curved into a sultry smirk as you leaned in closer, your breath brushing over the sharp line of his jaw. “Good,” you whispered, your voice dripping with challenge. “I want to ruin you, Mark. I want to be the only thing in your head.” Your teeth grazed his jaw, a deliberate taunt that had his breath catching, his grip on you tightening instinctively.

His laugh was dark, rough, almost feral, as his hand slid lower to cup your ass with a bruising intensity. Without warning, his palm came down sharply, the sound of the slap cutting through the heavy air. The sting burned through your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core, and a gasp tore from your lips. “You fucking love it when I’m like this, don’t you?” he growled, his voice thick and commanding, his lips latching onto your neck. His teeth scraped over the sensitive skin before sucking hard, leaving a mark that screamed possession. “Admit it, baby,” he hissed against your skin, his voice dripping with heat. “You love knowing exactly what you do to me—how fucking crazy you make me.”

He didn’t say a word at first, his gaze locked on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. The way his chest rose and fell, the faint sheen of sweat glistening along his collarbone, only added to the heat pooling in your stomach. His hand slid down to grip your thigh, the warmth of his palm searing against your skin as his thumb brushed a slow, deliberate line over the sensitive flesh. Everything about him—the sharpness of his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly as he caught his breath, the heat radiating from his body—was overwhelming in the best possible way. He looked devastatingly good, every inch of him dripping with raw, magnetic energy that drew you in like a flame.

You didn’t respond, your mind too clouded by the sharp mix of pleasure and heat coursing through you. Instead, you arched into him, your fingers tugging harder at his hair as his hips rolled up into yours. The friction was maddening, every movement stoking the fire burning low in your belly.

He pulled back slightly, his chest heaving against yours as his hand reached for your vape, his movements slow and deliberate. He brought it to his lips, his jaw clenching slightly as he took a long, measured drag, his cheeks hollowing in a way that made your breath hitch. The way he held it—confident, casual, and commanding—sent a ripple of heat straight through you. His lips, full and slightly flushed from kissing you, curved into the faintest smirk as he exhaled, the smoke swirling lazily between you, thick and intoxicating.

He tilted his head, his eyes heavy-lidded and locked onto yours, his gaze dripping with intent. The smoke lingered in the space between you, and as he leaned closer, the sharp scent of it mixed with his natural warmth. His lips hovered near yours, teasingly close as he exhaled softly, letting the smoke drift into your parted mouth. You inhaled it instinctively, his fingers curling around your hip as if to steady you, the small, deliberate touch sending a shiver down your spine.

“You like that?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, his breath warm against your lips as his thumb brushed along the curve of your waist. Every inch of him—his strong jawline, the veins visible on his forearms, the way his hoodie stretched over his chest—oozed raw, effortless heat. His tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip, his smirk deepening as his hand slid up to cup your jaw, pulling you closer. The kiss that followed was deliberate and consuming, his lips parting against yours, his tongue sweeping in with a rhythm so maddeningly slow it left your body trembling, your mind reeling, and your breath utterly stolen.

The kiss that followed wasn’t soft—it was consuming. His lips crushed against yours, his tongue demanding entry as his hands tightened on your ass, kneading and squeezing with a roughness that made you whimper into his mouth. He guided your movements, pulling you harder against him, forcing your hips to roll over the solid heat pressing into you. The friction was maddening, sending waves of pleasure through you as his fingers dug deeper, spreading you wider over his lap.

“God, you’re mine,” you moaned, your voice trembling with need, your hands clutching his shoulders for balance as you rocked against him, desperate for more. His grip on your ass shifted, his hands sliding underneath your dress, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against your bare skin.

He groaned low in his throat, leaning closer so his lips brushed against your ear, his voice dropping to a sinful whisper. “Say it again. Tell me who owns this perfect ass, baby.”

Your breath hitched, your head tilting back as his teeth grazed your jaw, his hands squeezing and spreading your cheeks, leaving no part of you untouched. “Yours,” you gasped, your voice cracking as he rolled his hips up into yours, the pressure between your bodies building to an unbearable height.

“That’s right,” he growled, his fingers dipping lower, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath your entrance, making your thighs tremble. “All fucking mine. Don’t ever forget it.”

But it wasn’t enough. The need clawing at your chest was insatiable, your body trembling as you pressed yourself against him. Your hands moved feverishly, trailing down his chest, nails raking over the fabric of his hoodie in frustration. You tugged at the hem, desperate to feel his skin under your fingertips.

“Mark,” you whined, louder this time, your voice cracking with need. You tilted your head back, meeting his gaze with eyes blown wide and pupils dark with lust. “Please—need you. Right now. Can’t take it anymore.”

His smirk deepened, lazy and infuriating, as his lips brushed along your jaw, each slow, deliberate movement teasing you further. “Yeah?” he rasped, his voice thick with mockery as his hands tightened on your hips, holding you still despite the frantic way you squirmed against him. “What do you need, baby? Hmm? Spell it out for me.”

Your hands scrambled to his waistband, tugging at his jeans with clumsy urgency, frustration making your fingers tremble. “I need you,” you panted, barely able to get the words out between shallow breaths. “Need your cock—please, Mark. Just—fuck me. Please.”

His laugh was sharp and cruel, a low, grating sound that made your cheeks burn with humiliation. He leaned back slightly, his dark eyes scanning you like a predator sizing up its prey. “Look at you,” he growled, his fingers slipping beneath your dress, sliding up the soft skin of your thighs with rough, deliberate strokes. His grip was bruising when he reached the curve of your hips, his nails biting into your flesh hard enough to make you whimper. “So messy. So fucking desperate for me. You’re pathetic, you know that?”

“No—” you tried to protest, but your voice faltered, your head shaking wildly as tears pricked at your eyes. Your hands yanked at his shorts again, the button refusing to give under your shaking fingers. “Take them off,” you begged, your voice trembling as desperation turned into sobs. “Mark, please—I need you.”

His hand shot up suddenly, the sharp crack of his palm connecting with your cheek leaving you gasping, the sting spreading like fire across your skin. Your body went rigid, your hands freezing as you looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he growled, his voice low and dripping with menace, each word sending a shiver through your body. His gaze was molten, dark and commanding, pinning you in place with its unrelenting intensity. His hand gripped your wrist, firm but not painful, as he leaned closer, his breath hot against your skin. “After the shit you pulled tonight?” he hissed, his tone sharp, cutting. “You don’t get to call the shots, baby. Not when you’re acting like this.”

The heat on your cheek mixed with the unbearable ache clawing at your core, and your thighs pressed together involuntarily. A shaky moan escaped your lips, unbidden and humiliating, and his smirk widened at the sound.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he sneered, his fingers gripping your chin roughly, tilting your head back so you couldn’t look away. “You like being put in your place. You like pushing me until I lose my patience.”

“Yes,” you whispered, Without a word, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you off his lap, setting you down beside him with a controlled, almost punishing precision. His palms didn’t leave your body for a second, sliding down to your knees and forcing them apart with a rough, deliberate motion.

“Open,” he commanded sharply, his tone cutting through the haze clouding your mind. “Don’t make me fucking repeat myself.”

Your legs trembled as they fell open, but the hesitation wasn’t fast enough for him. His hands gripped your thighs with bruising force, shoving them apart even wider, making you gasp as he positioned himself between them. His strength left no room for resistance, and his smirk grew darker as he took in the sight of you—messy, desperate, and completely at his mercy.

“Good girl,” he growled, his breath hot against your neck. His teeth grazed your skin, hard enough to make you shudder. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

His free hand slid down, grabbing the front of your dress with no hesitation. With a rough pull, the fabric tore, the sound sharp and jarring as it split apart, leaving you bare underneath him. The rush of cool air against your exposed skin sent a shiver through you, but the heat of his gaze made you burn even hotter.

“Mark!” you gasped, squirming against his hold, but he only chuckled, his grip on your wrist tightening as his other hand ghosted down your stomach. “That was new!”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he growled, his voice low and rough, his gaze flicking to the torn fabric of your dress.

“Mark, please,” you sobbed, tears spilling over as your body writhed against his grip. “I’ll do anything—anything you want. Just touch me—please.”

His laugh was dark, almost cruel, as he pushed you back until your shoulders hit the cushions, his hand sliding from your wrist to wrap firmly around your throat. His grip tightened, making your breath hitch as your pulse quickened beneath his thumb. The pressure stole the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping softly, the sound only fueling the wicked smirk curving his lips. “Anything, huh?” he murmured, his voice a low, taunting rasp that sent a shiver through your body. His grip didn’t relent as he leaned closer, his eyes dark and commanding. “Then shut up,” he growled, his tone rough and dripping with dominance, “and take it.”

The world tilted as his hands locked onto your thighs, the force of his grip leaving no room for argument as he dragged you forward, pulling you higher until your knees bracketed his chest. His gaze was predatory, dark and commanding, the sharp edge of his smirk making your stomach flip. “Sit,” he growled, his voice rough, raw, and so sure of itself it made you shudder.

When you faltered, his grip tightened, bruising as his hands slid to your hips, lifting you effortlessly and positioning you over him. Your breath hitched as he adjusted you, spreading your thighs wide with firm hands, his movements deliberate and unrelenting. “Now,” he ordered, his tone sharp, brooking no defiance. Before you could process the shift, his hands gripped your ass, dragging you down hard, pressing you into him with a force that left you trembling, his fingers biting into your skin as he held you exactly where he wanted.

“Stay still,” he rasped, his voice rough and commanding, muffled against your skin as his lips grazed you with maddening precision. His grip tightened, possessive and unyielding, leaving bruising imprints of his control on your thighs. Your legs trembled, betraying your attempt at defiance, but his hold anchored you firmly, making it clear who was in charge.

A sharp, stinging spank landed on your ass, drawing a gasp that echoed into the charged air. The sound was obscene, your arousal slick against his palm. “I said, stay still,” he growled, his tone dark with warning, his breath hot as he dragged his lips along your most sensitive spots.

“Good,” he murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction as his lips curved into a wicked smirk. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, daring you to resist. “Now, be a good girl and let me take what’s mine.”

Your body arched instinctively, thighs quivering as his mouth claimed you with unrelenting hunger, each movement deliberate, calculated to reduce you to trembling submission. His nails scraped against your skin, dragging over heated flesh, making you squirm in desperate pleasure.

“Mark—!” you gasped, the sound breaking into a whimper as his tongue dragged through your folds with a filthy, primal groan. The wet, obscene glide of it against your slick skin made you shudder violently, your thighs clenching on instinct. His hot breath fanned over your most sensitive spots, dizzying you as the tremors wracking your body betrayed your helplessness. His grip on your thighs was punishing, his fingers digging in deeply enough to leave marks, grounding you in place as if daring you to move.

“Messy already,” he muttered against your pussy, his words muffled but dripping with mocking satisfaction. The vibration of his voice sent a shiver straight to your core, pulling a strangled moan from your lips. His tongue flicked out again, slower this time, the deliberate pace almost cruel as he licked and sucked like he was savoring every drop of you. “You want my attention? You’re going to fucking take it.”

Your hands shot to his hair, tangling in the damp strands as you tried to steady yourself, but your hips betrayed you, jerking up against his face with reckless desperation. His growl rumbled low and deep, a feral sound that sent a sharp wave of arousal through you. The vibrations of it reverberated against your clit, wrenching a broken cry from your lips. His nails dug deeper as he shifted, gripping the underside of your thighs and lifting you effortlessly, forcing more of your weight onto his mouth as your legs dangled helplessly.

“Stay still,” he commanded sharply again, his words muffled but laced with warning, his nails biting into your skin as he pinned you down harder. “You move again, and I’ll tie you to this fucking couch.”

The threat made your breath hitch, heat flooding your cheeks and pooling low in your stomach. The sheer dominance in his tone, in the way his hands manhandled you like you weighed nothing, sent your heart racing. His tongue was merciless, lapping and stroking in erratic patterns that left you unable to think, only feel. When his lips sealed around your clit, sucking with devastating precision, the sudden intensity sent stars bursting behind your eyes. You bucked again involuntarily, but his hands clamped you down tighter, holding you open and exposed to his unrelenting assault.

“Fuck, Mark!” you cried out, tears blurring your vision as his teeth grazed you lightly, just enough to tease and drive you closer to the edge. The wet, filthy sound of his tongue and lips working you over filled the room, mixing with your desperate gasps and moans. His stubble scraped against your inner thighs, the slight burn only amplifying the overwhelming sensation of his mouth devouring you.

“Don’t fucking stop now,” he growled, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your slick before diving back in. “You wanted this—now take it.”

The obscene mess of it all was maddening—his mouth working against you with ruthless precision, his face glistening with the evidence of your arousal. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his fingers digging into your flesh as he held you wide open for him, leaving you completely at his mercy. Every movement of his lips, every deliberate stroke of his tongue, sent jolts of electric heat coursing through you, and the pressure building inside you was unbearable. You were trembling, teetering on the edge, unable to escape the raw need he was coaxing out of you.

“Mark—please!” you cried out, your voice breaking as your hips rocked against his face, seeking the release you were so desperately chasing. He growled low against you, the vibration sending another shockwave through your body, his tongue curling and teasing in ways that had your thighs quivering. You were so close—too close—your body tensing as the orgasm threatened to rip through you. “I can’t—I’m gonna—” The words spilled out between gasps, your grip on his hair tightening as your cries grew louder.

And then he stopped, his mouth pulling away just as your body teetered on the edge, leaving you trembling and squirming against the crushing emptiness. His breath was hot against your slick skin as he leaned back, his grip on your thighs unrelenting, keeping you pinned in place. “So fucking desperate,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting, sending a shiver down your spine.

A strangled whimper escaped your lips, the sound raw and desperate, tears pricking at your eyes as your hips bucked instinctively, searching for the release he had stolen from you. “Please, Mark,” you choked out, your voice breaking, barely audible.

“Look at you. Pathetic, dripping all over my face—and you still don’t get it, do you?” His fingers trailed up your thigh, stopping just short of where you craved him most, teasing with maddening precision. “You’ll come when I decide you’ve earned it,” he rasped, his tone dark and commanding. “And when you do, you’re gonna fucking thank me for every second I made you wait.”

His hands slid up your body, strong and deliberate, cupping your breasts with a possessiveness that made your breath catch. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, teasing them into hardened peaks, and the sensation shot through you like electricity. He leaned in without hesitation, his lips wrapping around one nipple as his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud. The wet heat of his mouth was overwhelming, each slow, deliberate movement making you whimper softly. His free hand gripped your other breast, kneading the soft flesh before his fingers pinched and rolled your nipple, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled against your skin, his voice dripping with heat as his teeth grazed your sensitive nipple. “So desperate, so fucking perfect like this. You like being in my mouth, don’t you? You want me to ruin you completely?” He sucked harder, pulling a ragged gasp from your lips as your body arched under him, every nerve in your body alive with need.

“Mark,” you whimpered, your voice shaking as his tongue flicked over you again, relentless and unforgiving. He groaned low in his throat, the vibration sending shockwaves through you as his mouth latched onto the other nipple. his teeth scraping over the sensitive bud.

You couldn’t hold back the sharp cry that escaped your lips as his mouth sucked harder, his hands squeezing your breasts with a bruising grip. Your fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer as you moaned helplessly, your hips shifting in frustration. “You’re mine,” he rasped, his tone dark and possessive. “And I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

The air was thick with the scent of sex and the sound of your panting breaths when Mark finally pulled away, leaving you trembling, every nerve in your body on fire. But he didn’t give you time to recover, didn’t let you catch even a shred of composure. His hands gripped your waist with bruising force, spinning you around as he hauled you off the couch like you weighed nothing. You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the wall beside the open door, the cool surface biting against your overheated skin.

“Mark—wait,” you managed to stammer, though you weren’t even sure what you were asking for. Your knees were weak, your legs trembling so violently you could hardly stand on your own. But he didn’t wait. His body pressed into yours, firm and unyielding, pinning you to the wall as his hands roughly turned you around.

“You think I’m going to stop now?” His voice was a low growl, dark and filled with a possessive hunger that sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers gripped your hips, forcing them to jut out as your palms scraped against the wall for balance. “You wanted this. You fucking begged for it.”

The sheer force of his strength was overwhelming. His body was the only thing keeping you upright, the heat and weight of him pressing into you so completely that your legs felt like jelly. The wall was cold and unrelenting beneath your hands, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his skin. His cock was hard and insistent, grinding against your ass with enough force to make you gasp, your breath catching as he pushed your thighs apart with his knee.

The door was open, the soft creak of it swaying in the air just loud enough to remind you of your vulnerability. No one was here—not yet—but the thought that anyone could walk past and see you like this, bent over and pinned to the wall with Mark’s hands roaming possessively over your body, only made your arousal spike. Your pulse raced, your face burning as your wetness slicked the insides of your thighs.

“You like this, don’t you?” Mark’s voice was laced with a mocking edge, his hand coming down sharply to smack your ass. The sound echoed through the room, followed by your startled moan. “The thought of someone catching you like this, seeing how desperate you are for me.”

You whimpered, your hips jerking back involuntarily, seeking more of the punishing friction of his cock against you. He chuckled darkly, his hand sliding between your legs to cup your pussy. His fingers pressed against your soaked folds, teasing you with deliberate slowness that had you arching back into him.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groaned, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers slipped through your slick. “I could take you right here, make you scream loud enough for the whole fucking building to hear.”

“Mark,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as his fingers teased your entrance, circling but not pushing in. “Please—”

“Please, what?” he interrupted, his tone harsh and commanding. His other hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back so you were forced to meet his gaze in the reflection of a nearby glass pane. “Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.”

Your chest heaved, your heart pounding as you reached down, your trembling hand covering his. You dragged it over your stomach, lower, until his fingers hovered just above the spot where you ached for him most. The weight of his hand against your skin was grounding, a teasing promise of what you needed.

“I wanna feel you right here, baby,” you whined, your voice trembling, high-pitched and dripping with desperation. You grabbed his hand, pressing it against your lower stomach, your hips shifting needily under his touch. “Please, I want you so bad—so deep I can feel you here,” you whimpered, your words slurred and needy, your lips brushing his jaw as you begged. “I’ll be so good, I swear, I’ll take it all—just please, baby, I need you.”

Mark groaned, the sound guttural and raw, his control slipping for a fraction of a second as your words sank in. His fingers flexed against your stomach, his hand pressing harder as if he could already imagine the way he’d fill you. “Say that again,” he demanded, his tone a mix of rough hunger and command. “Say exactly what you want, and I’ll make sure you feel me there for days.”

“I want you to fill me, Mark,” you breathed, your voice trembling but laced with raw need. Your hand slid over his, pressing it harder against your stomach as your hips arched into him. “I want to feel you so deep it’s the only thing I can fucking think about.”

In one fluid motion, his hands gripped your hips with bruising force, yanking you back against him as the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance. He didn’t ease in—didn’t give you even a second to adjust. With one hard, punishing thrust, he buried himself inside you, stretching you so completely that a sharp cry tore from your lips, loud and uncontrollable in the still air.

“Fuck,” he growled, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he slammed into you with relentless force. His cock stretched you to your limit, the sharp sting of it only making the pleasure more intense. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight—like your body was made to take me.”

The wall was cold and unforgiving against your chest, your nipples pebbling from the icy contact as they dragged against the unyielding surface with every thrust. The sharp contrast of the chill against your overheated skin sent jolts of sensation through your body, heightening the intensity of every movement. His hands gripped your hips so tightly you knew there would be bruises tomorrow, evidence of the way he claimed you. His body was the only thing keeping you upright, his strength pinning you to the wall as he fucked you harder, his movements precise and punishing.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, the open door was a constant reminder of how exposed you were. Every moan, every filthy sound of his cock driving into you, echoed into the empty space beyond the room. Anyone could walk past and hear you, see the way your body arched into him, the way your hands scrabbled at the wall for purchase.

“You like that, don’t you?” Mark growled, his breath hot and rough against your neck as his hand came down hard on your ass, the sharp sting drawing a gasp from your lips. “You like being my filthy little whore, don’t you? Bent over for me, dripping, knowing anyone could walk in and see how fucking desperate you are.”

“Yes,” you choked out, the word tumbling from your lips before you could stop it, your face burning with a mix of humiliation and arousal. “Fuck, yes. I love it.”

“Of course you do,” he muttered darkly, his voice thick with satisfaction. His pace quickened, his hips slamming into you with enough force to make the wall rattle. “You’re such a dirty little thing, letting me take you like this with the fucking door open.”

You moaned his name, your voice breaking as his cock hit that perfect spot inside you, sending shocks of pleasure through your entire body. Your legs trembled, barely able to hold you up, but his hands tightened on your hips, anchoring you to him.

“Stay up,” he commanded, his tone sharp and demanding. “Don’t you dare fucking fall.”

“I—I can’t,” you whimpered, your voice shaking as your arms buckled against the wall. “Mark, I can’t—”

“Then let me hold you,” he growled, his hands sliding up to grip your waist as he pressed you even harder against the wall. His strength was overwhelming, his body the only thing keeping you from collapsing completely. “You don’t need to do anything, baby. Just let me fuck you.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your body tightening around him as you gasped his name. The roughness of his pace, the way his cock filled you so completely, the sheer dominance in his every movement—it was all too much. The thought of someone seeing you, hearing the filthy sounds he was dragging from you, only made the pleasure sharper, hotter. You felt yourself slipping further, so cock drunk and fucked out that you lost control of your moans, your voice echoing loudly through the room as you screamed his name over and over.

The sound of footsteps echoed faintly from the hall, followed by a distant voice. Your eyes widened in panic, and you gasped sharply, the sound barely escaping before Mark’s hand clamped firmly over your mouth.

“Shh,” he murmured, his tone low but laced with a dangerous edge, his lips brushing your ear as he pressed his body even harder against yours. “Can’t have anyone hearing my girl like this,” he growled, his voice rough but intimate, the possessiveness in his words making your knees weaken further. His hand over your mouth tightened slightly, the pressure making you moan softly against his palm. “They’ll get fucking ideas. You wouldn’t want that, would you? Letting someone else hear how desperate you are for my cock?”

His hips didn’t stop, driving into you with a slow, deliberate force that left you trembling. His free hand slid up your body, fingers curling around your throat as he leaned in closer, pressing soft, tender kisses to your cheek and jawline. “You can scream for me later,” he whispered, his voice rough but tinged with something softer. “But right now, you’re going to stay quiet and take it, just like the good girl you are.”

Your muffled whimpers vibrated against his palm, your body shaking as he kissed a trail down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before soothing the mark with his tongue. His lips lingered, brushing over the corner of your mouth as he whispered, “You’re so fucking perfect like this. Just let me take care of you.”

The intimate sweetness of his touch contrasted sharply with the roughness of his thrusts, each brutal snap of his hips slamming his cock deep inside you and meeting the curve of your ass with a filthy, resounding slap. The hard press of his body pinned you against the cold wall, his relentless rhythm leaving no part of you untouched. Your muffled cries grew louder, uncontrolled, as the footsteps in the hall faded, the fear of being caught only making you tremble harder, your body arching helplessly into the pace that pushed you closer to the edge

Mark’s hand stayed firm over your mouth, his lips still brushing over your skin, trailing kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck. “That’s it, baby girl” he murmured, his voice low and dripping with satisfaction. “You’re fucking perfect—my perfect little mess.”

Your walls clenched tighter around him, your body betraying the overwhelming pleasure even as you tried to keep yourself from completely falling apart. His fingers flexed against your throat, his grip possessive as he kept you pinned to the wall, his body the only thing holding you together. His hand slid lower, teasing over your breast, his thumb flicking your nipple, the cold wall pressing against you heightening the sensitivity.

“I can feel how close you are,” he rasped, his voice raw as his teeth nipped at your earlobe. “Don’t hold back. I want you to let go for me, baby. Come on my cock. Show me who you belong to.”

The mix of his commanding words and the intimate touches of his lips and hands was too much. Your body gave in, a muffled scream escaping against his palm as your orgasm tore through you, your walls clenching and pulsing around him as you shook violently in his hold.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his hips stuttering as he thrust deep one last time, burying himself completely inside you. The warmth of his release filled you, a deep, claiming sensation that left you utterly wrecked. He stayed there, pressed against you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his breath came in heavy, uneven pants.

Slowly, he removed his hand from your mouth, turning your head toward him as he captured your lips in a slow, almost tender kiss. “You did so good for me,” he whispered against your lips, his tone softer now, filled with quiet reverence. “So fucking perfect.”

His hands smoothed over your waist, steadying you as your legs threatened to give out completely. He pulled out of you slowly, a hiss escaping his lips at the sensation, and turned you in his arms to face him. His thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away a tear that had slipped down from the intensity.

“You still with me?” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, though that teasing edge still licked at his tone. His lips brushed your temple, trailing down to your ear as he kissed the delicate curve and whispered, “That’s my girl. You’re so fucking perfect when you fall apart for me.” The softness of his words wrapped around you like silk, a stark contrast to the bruising grip of his hands just minutes ago.

Your body trembled as you nodded weakly, too wrecked to form a coherent response. Mark didn’t waste a second, spinning you around and forcing you down onto the couch with an almost feral precision. Your face pressed into the cushions, muffling the desperate, broken sounds spilling from your lips, while your ass arched high into the air, completely exposed to his control. His hand tangled in your hair, yanking hard enough to send a sharp jolt through your spine, forcing your back to curve further as he asserted his dominance. His other hand gripped your waist like a vice, his fingers sinking deep into your skin, holding you in place as he pressed the thick head of his cock against your entrance. Without a word, he yanked your hips back sharply, burying himself inside you in one devastating motion.

Mark didn’t thrust; he didn’t need to. His grip on your waist tightened, and with brutal precision, he dragged you back onto his cock, forcing you to take every inch at his pace. The stretch was overwhelming, your walls struggling to adjust as he held firm, letting the weight of his cock fill you completely. He pulled you back again, harder this time, the obscene slickness of your arousal making the movement smooth and relentless. “Look at you,” he growled, his voice low and filthy, his fingers digging into your waist as he used your body like it was made for him. “

He kept you pinned there, forcing you to rock on his cock as he dragged you back with punishing force, his hands controlling the rhythm and depth without ever moving himself. Your thighs trembled with the effort, every pull making your cries grow louder as the sound of your slick arousal and his deep groans filled the room. “You’re not going anywhere,” he snarled, one hand moving to deliver a sharp, stinging slap to your ass. The burn made you jolt forward, but his iron grip dragged you right back, slamming you onto his cock again. “This is where you belong—on my cock, taking me like the dirty little whore you are.” His other hand slipped between your cheeks, spreading them wide before he spit, letting the slick warmth drip between them. His thumb circled your tight hole, teasing it with deliberate pressure as he continued to yank you back onto him, each motion rougher than the last.

Mark’s hand slid down your spine, slow and deliberate, until his fingers reached the tight, untouched spot hidden between your cheeks. He didn’t hesitate, circling the delicate ring of muscle with a slick, teasing motion that made your entire body jolt. His touch was firm yet testing, the pressure increasing just enough to force a gasp from your lips as he worked the wetness into your skin, spreading it over the sensitive entrance with calculated precision. Your back arched instinctively, your body betraying you, pushing against his fingers despite the overwhelming heat pooling in your core. “Yeah, you like that,” he growled, his voice low and rough, vibrating with satisfaction as his fingers pressed harder, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that sent shivers through you.

When he pushed the tip of one finger inside, testing your limits, your breath hitched, a sharp cry escaping you as he chuckled darkly. “That’s it,” he rasped, his cock still buried deep inside you, unmoving but heavy, stretching you completely as his hand worked you open in another way. He dragged his finger in and out slowly, filthy and deliberate, each push making your body tremble violently, each pull making you clench tighter around him. “You take me so fucking good,” he murmured, his tone thick with dark amusement as his finger teased deeper, curling slightly before retreating again, his grip on your waist tightening as he controlled every reaction you gave him.

But the intensity became too much. The weight of his presence, the heat of his body pressed against yours, and the deliberate way he controlled every inch of you—it left you gasping for air. Instinctively, your hands gripped the cushions beneath you, clawing at the soft fabric, a weak attempt to create some space, to ease the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. Mark caught the subtle shift instantly, his hand snapping to your wrist with a firm grip and pinning it beside your head. He leaned down, his body pressing harder against yours, holding you exactly where he wanted. “Where do you think you’re going?” he rasped, his tone rough but laced with a quiet dominance that sent a shiver straight through you. His free hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face back to meet his piercing gaze. “Why are you running from me, baby? Hmm?”

His hips shifted slightly, and you felt the insistent press of his cock inside your walls, teasing and unrelenting, as though he was waiting for you to break completely. “Come here,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with untamed desperation. “Let me make you feel good.” His hand slid from your jaw to your neck, his fingers wrapping firmly around your throat as he shifted your head to the side, forcing your gaze to lock with his.

“I wasn’t running,” you whimpered, your voice unsteady, shaky with need and overwhelmed desire. Your body squirmed helplessly in front of him, caught between the unbearable intensity of his dominance and the craving for more. Mark’s smirk deepened, a satisfied, knowing glint in his eyes as he chuckled softly, his grip firm as he pushed you further into submission. “Good,” he growled. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Mark’s filthy words filled the air, each one sharper, dirtier, and more unhinged than the last. “So fucking tight,” he rasped, his hips snapping brutally as his cock drove into you with an intensity that left you gasping. “You’re mine. My dirty little whore who takes everything I give her.” The sharp crack of his hand smacking your ass rang through the room, the sting forcing a broken cry from your lips. He spread your cheeks wide, spitting between them with obscene precision before using his thumb to rub it in. The wet heat only added to the overwhelming sensations consuming you, your cries growing louder as his fingers teased and pressed, filthy and relentless.

The added stimulation had you spiraling. His fingers teased you shamelessly, pushing you closer to the edge with every deliberate stroke as his cock stretched you, filling you to the brim with every punishing thrust. “Look at you,” he growled, his free hand snaking down to rub your swollen clit roughly. “Fucking ruined under me. You love this, don’t you? Love being my filthy little slut who takes it all.” The combination of his filthy words, the brutal snap of his hips, and the relentless pressure on your clit shattered you. Your body tightened around him, trembling violently as a scream tore from your throat, the intensity of your release leaving you breathless and sobbing into the cushions.

But Mark didn’t stop. He wasn’t finished with you yet. His pace only grew harder, more ruthless, as he chased his own release. “Take it,” he snarled, his voice rough and guttural, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you back onto his cock with every savage thrust. “Take everything I give you.” His name left your lips in a broken plea, your body overwhelmed and wrecked beneath him, but the sound only pushed him further.

When he finally came, it was with a deep, guttural moan, his hips slamming into you one last time as he buried himself to the hilt, holding you still as he spilled into you. The heat of his release left you trembling, your body quivering from the aftershocks as he leaned over you, his breath ragged and heavy against your ear as he pants and moans.

Mark didn’t let go. His hands stayed firm on your hips, holding you in place as if you might try to escape. Your cries grew louder, desperate and raw. His mouth dragged hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin with enough pressure to leave burning marks. “I know, I know,” he rasped, his voice thick with a mix of dark satisfaction and raw need as your whimpers vibrated against him. His hips snapped harder, punishing, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. “But you’re going to take it, baby.”

His hand gripped your jaw, forcing your head to the side to face him, his dark eyes locking with yours. “Open,” he commanded, his tone rough but teasing as his thumb dragged over your bottom lip. The moment your lips parted, he leaned closer, spitting into your mouth, the obscene act sending a jolt of heat straight through you. “Swallow,” he rasped, his hips snapping harder, his cock filling you so completely it left you whimpering around him.

And you stayed like this for so long, trapped in the filthy, consuming intensity of him, your body molded to his as if you were made to fit him. His cock stayed buried deep inside you, every subtle twitch and shift reminding you who owned you, who kept you trembling and filled to the brim. His hand never left your jaw, his thumb occasionally brushing your lips as he made you swallow every filthy word, every guttural moan that left his mouth. His other hand stayed locked on your waist, keeping you exactly where he wanted, every slight adjustment sending aftershocks rippling through your overstimulated body. The night stretched endlessly, the heat between you mingling with the slick evidence of your need, as he whispered dark promises into your ear, his hips rocking slow and deliberate, ensuring you never forgot how completely he had you. You lost all sense of time, surrendering entirely to him as the air grew heavy with your mingled breaths and the unrelenting hum of raw, unfiltered desire.

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Your eyes blinked open, the soft golden light streaming through partially closed blinds casting unfamiliar patterns on the muted walls around you. The space wasn’t your own—too orderly, too quiet—and it certainly wasn’t Mark’s chaotic college apartment. Confusion stirred for the briefest moment, but it melted away as you became acutely aware of him. His arm was draped heavily over your waist, the weight possessive but comforting, pinning you against the solid warmth of his chest. His breath fanned over the nape of your neck, slow and steady, the faint rhythm of his snoring grounding you in a way that nothing else could.

The scent of him—clean, earthy, unmistakable—wrapped around you like a shield, and the tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding slipped away. You didn’t need to know where you were, not when his hold felt so familiar, so certain. Carefully, you shifted beneath his arm, your movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to disturb the way his fingertips unconsciously flexed against your skin as though he could sense even the smallest hint of distance. Reaching for your phone on the bedside table, you tried to stretch without breaking the warmth surrounding you, your body still pressed tightly against his. The faint glow of the screen lit your face as you unlocked it, the weight of responsibility tugging at you—college work, deadlines, the world beyond this bed.

y/n — sorry i had to leave you this morning, i have some college work to do. i’ll call you later :)

Before you could press send, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, firm but not forceful, stopping you mid-motion. “Y/N,” Mark murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent a jolt through you. The way he said your name, even half-asleep, was enough to make your heart skip. His hand didn’t let go, pulling you gently back toward him as his eyes cracked open. They were heavy with exhaustion but soft with concern as they focused on you. “Where are you going?” he asked, his tone warm and grounding, like he couldn’t imagine waking up without you there.

His brows furrowed slightly as his thumb brushed absentmindedly over your skin. “Why are you trying to leave like that?” he asked, his voice more awake now, though still laced with a teasing edge. “Next time, just wake me up.”

You bit your lip, feeling the weight of his sleepy but pointed stare. “You looked too peaceful to bother,” you murmured, glancing away, but his hand caught your chin, gently tilting your face back toward him.

He didn’t respond right away, but the shift in his hold spoke louder than words. His arm tightened around your waist, the firm press of his body pulling you closer, as though letting you go was an impossibility he refused to entertain. The heat of his chest seeped into your back, his grip possessive yet tender, a silent plea he didn’t try to hide. His fingers flexed slightly against your skin, anchoring you there, his need unspoken but palpable. It wasn’t just the physicality—it was the way he held you, as if the very thought of losing your warmth left him raw.

“I really need to go,” you whispered, though the words wavered as your lips brushed against his, soft and hesitant. His groan was immediate, low and dramatic, vibrating against your skin as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm and teasing as he trailed lazy kisses along your shoulder, the slow drag of his lips leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Why can’t you just stay?” he muttered, his voice rough with reluctance, punctuated by the way his hand slid up your hip, fingers curling slightly to hold you tighter.

You sighed, glancing around the unfamiliar room as his touch made it hard to focus. “Where even are we?”

He propped himself up on one elbow, his smirk soft but teasing as his thumb brushed over your hip. “The house I grew up in,” he murmured, his eyes locking on yours, gauging your reaction. “The Uber to my place was cost too much last night, and after how high we got, there was no way I was driving,” he added, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as if daring you to argue.

Your brow furrowed as you scanned the room again, warmth blooming in your chest as the details clicked into place. The cozy space suddenly felt intimate, safe, an extension of Mark himself. “Why don’t I remember any of this?” you asked, curiosity lacing your tone as you shifted slightly against him.

His low chuckle sent a ripple of heat through you as he leaned in, his lips brushing just below your ear, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “You were out cold,” he said, his tone dripping with playful satisfaction. His hand gripped your hip a little firmer, pulling you snugly against him. “Guess I fucked you so good you didn’t even notice where we ended up.” His words were a mix of cocky and intimate, the kind of teasing that sent your heart racing and left you achingly aware of every point where his body met yours.

You roll your eyes, ignoring his teasing remarks as you had become so accustomed to them. “I’m sorry, but I really need to go. I have assignments due today that I haven’t even started,” you said, your tone soft but resolute, though the warmth of his grip made leaving harder than you cared to admit.

Mark groaned dramatically, throwing his head back against the pillow before rolling onto his back with exaggerated frustration. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face like he was being asked to endure the impossible. But when his eyes found yours again, the teasing edge softened, replaced by something quieter, something more vulnerable. “We need to talk later, though, yeah?” His voice was calm, low, but there was an unmistakable weight in his words that made your chest tighten.

You nodded, leaning down to press your lips against his, the kiss slow and lingering, filled with more unspoken promises than either of you could voice. “Yeah. Later,” you whispered, your words feather-light as you pulled back, letting your gaze linger on him for just a moment longer before reluctantly pulling yourself away.

As you slid out of his hold and stood, his gaze followed you, a faint frown tugging at his lips. “Do you know the way out?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep. “Wait—give me ten minutes, and I’ll drive you to campus.”

You shook your head, pulling on your jacket and grabbing your bag. “I’ll be fine. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”

Before you could fully step away, his hand caught your wrist again, tugging you back down for one last kiss. It was softer this time, almost tender, as if he wanted to make sure you felt it for the rest of the day. “Alright. Bye, baby,” he murmured against your lips, releasing you with a sleepy grin.

You couldn’t help but smile as you turned, glancing back once to see him flop back into the pillows, his breathing evening out almost immediately. Shaking your head, you slipped out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind you.

As you walked down the stairs, you took in the details of the house. The banister was worn smooth, polished by years of use, and the walls were lined with framed photographs that seemed to tell the story of Mark’s life. You paused at one—a young Mark, grinning wide, his front teeth missing, with Doyoung standing behind him, arms crossed in mock disapproval. Another showed Mark in his basketball uniform, holding a trophy, his proud smile infectious.

Your lips curved into a small smile as you moved further, your fingertips brushing the frames. But time was pressing, and you couldn’t linger. You hurried down the last few steps, pushing open the front door—only to freeze in surprise.

You were suddenly standing in a small cafe, its cozy warmth immediately wrapping around you. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods filled the air, and sunlight spilled through the large windows, illuminating tables adorned with mismatched chairs and hand-knitted coasters. You blinked, confused. This hadn’t been here last night, had it? Then you remembered—Mark’s mom had mentioned owning a cafe, but you hadn’t realized it was attached to the house.

“Good morning, Y/N.”

You jumped at the sound of Irene’s voice, turning to see her behind the counter, carefully icing cupcakes. Her smile was warm, even though she hadn’t looked up yet.

“Oh, morning,” you replied, your voice hesitant as you stepped further inside. You weren’t sure if you should stay or leave, but before you could decide, Irene glanced up and motioned toward one of the chairs.

“Sit,” she said gently but firmly, leaving no room for argument. “What’s your coffee order?”

You hesitated, then gave it, watching as she moved around the counter with practiced ease. The cafe suited her—a reflection of her warm, welcoming personality. The walls were lined with shelves holding jars of coffee beans, plants spilling from terracotta pots, and pictures of happy customers. It felt lived-in, loved, much like the woman herself.

Irene placed a steaming cup in front of you before settling across from you, her gaze steady but kind. “How are you?” she asked gently, her tone warm but probing. “And Mark?”

You hesitated, taking a sip of the coffee to stall. “I’m fine. Busy.” Your voice was clipped, guarded. “Mark’s… fine too.”

Irene’s soft smile didn’t waver. “I heard you two broke up,” she said simply, tilting her head slightly, as though studying you. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’ve never seen him more at peace than when he’s with you.”

Your grip tightened slightly on the cup, her words landing heavier than you expected. “It’s… complicated,” you muttered, keeping your voice low, unwilling to meet her gaze for too long.

Irene reached across the table, her hand lightly covering yours. “Life is complicated,” she said gently but firmly, her touch grounding. “But love doesn’t have to be. Mark loves you, Y/N. And from the way you’re looking at me right now, I think you love him too. Don’t let fear stop you from being happy. You both deserve that.”

The cafe was quiet, as you’d expect this early in the morning, the faint hum of an overhead fan and the gentle clink of Irene’s utensils the only sounds breaking the stillness. You took a sip of your coffee, glancing around the cozy space. The mismatched chairs, hand-knit coasters, and the faint smell of cinnamon—it all felt so warm, so Irene. You thought this might be a good time to slip out unnoticed, but before you could make a move, the door swung open with a light jingle.

The door jingled, drawing your attention toward the entrance. To your surprise, Seulgi walked in, her laughter carrying into the quiet cafe, and beside her was Mark’s best friend. They were deep in conversation, their easy going interaction catching you off guard. It was a sight you hadn’t expected—especially given that Jeno and Mark’s best friend were now not on good terms. Seeing Seulgi, Jeno’s mom, laughing and walking side by side with her felt almost surreal.

When their eyes landed on Irene, they both smiled warmly, but as their gazes shifted to you, their expressions shifted. Seulgi’s brows lifted in recognition, and Mark’s best friend’s face remained neutral, though her sharp eyes briefly flickered with something you couldn’t place.

“Y/N?” Seulgi said, her tone surprised but warm as she crossed the room toward you. She didn’t hesitate to pull you into a firm hug, her arms wrapping around you tightly. You froze at first, caught off guard, but relaxed slightly into her familiar embrace. Despite everything, you’d always had a soft spot for Seulgi’s warmth.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as she pulled back, her sharp eyes scanning your face for answers.

You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you say? The truth—that you’d spent last night with Mark and this was where he’d brought you—felt too raw and inappropriate to admit. Your silence hung for a beat too long, and Seulgi tilted her head knowingly.

“Ah, you’re here with Mark, right?” she said knowingly, her voice low enough that it didn’t carry across the room. “Jeno did tell me the two of you were… together.”

Your face burned, and you quickly looked away, stammering out a weak, “Yeah… something like that.”

Seulgi raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, her smirk deepening as she stepped back, her attention shifting to Irene, who had just finished icing another tray of cupcakes.

“Morning, Seulgi,” Irene greeted, her tone warm but brisk. She glanced at Mark’s best friend, who had stayed near the door, her gaze flickering between you and Seulgi. “Can you start setting up the pastry display? And refill the coffee station while you’re at it.”

Mark’s best friend gave a clipped nod, her expression unreadable as she brushed past you and headed behind the counter. There was something in her eyes—an unmistakable sadness—that made your throat tighten. You swallowed hard, your thoughts immediately circling back to whatever Jeno might have done. She glanced at you briefly, her smile tight and distant, polite but far from warm.

The hum of the coffee grinder filled the air as she prepared her drink, her movements quick and purposeful. Despite her efficiency, you couldn’t ignore the tension in her body, the way she avoided looking at you again. It was clear something was weighing on her, and it lingered in the silence between you like an unspoken question.

The awkwardness lingered in the air, but Seulgi, always the conversationalist, broke the silence. She pulled out a chair next to you and sat down, resting her elbows on the table as she looked you over. “So,” she started, her tone casual but pointed. “How long have you and Mark been… a thing?”

You hesitated, glancing at Irene for help, but she was busy arranging cupcakes. Seulgi leaned in slightly, her smirk widening. “Come on, Y/N. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Before you could stammer out a response, Irene set down her tray and joined you, her tone light but deliberate. “You don’t need to interrogate her, Seulgi,” she said, casting you a reassuring look. “Let her breathe.”

Seulgi leaned back, raising an eyebrow at Irene but relented, her smirk softening. “Alright, alright,” she said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll back off… for now.”

You let out a quiet breath, grateful for Irene’s intervention, though you could still feel Seulgi’s eyes on you, curious and calculating. Mark’s best friend, meanwhile, had settled behind the counter with her coffee, leaning against it as she watched the interaction from afar. Her clipped expression earlier lingered in your mind, and you couldn’t help but feel her silent assessment.

“So, Y/N,” Irene said, sitting down across from you again, her voice warm and grounding. “How’s college treating you?” Her tone had shifted, softer now, as if sensing how much you were struggling to find your footing in this unexpected situation.

“It’s fine,” you replied shortly, avoiding her gaze as you sipped your coffee.

She didn’t let the conversation end there. “What do you study?” she asked, her curiosity gentle but insistent.

“Photography,” you answered after a brief pause, glancing at her.

Irene tilted her head slightly, her brows lifting with interest. “What’s that like?” she asked, her tone genuine, as if she really wanted to understand.

For the first time in the conversation, you felt a small, genuine smile tug at your lips. “It’s… freeing, I guess. There’s something about capturing a moment exactly as it is, or even how you see it in your head, that feels special. It’s not just taking pictures—it’s about perspective, emotion, storytelling. Sometimes, you see things no one else notices until they look at your photo, and it’s like sharing a part of yourself without having to say a word.”

Irene didn’t interrupt, her eyes fixed on you as you spoke. There was no dismissive nod or vague smile—she was listening, her attention fully on you. The way her expression softened and her gaze never wavered made something settle warm inside you, a quiet kind of reassurance you hadn’t expected. “That sounds amazing,” she said softly, and for the first time since sitting down, you felt the tension in your chest ease.

Seulgi leaned forward, her sharp but kind eyes meeting yours as her tone softened, unexpectedly changing the conversation. “You know,” she began, her voice lower, more personal. “I’ve missed you. After you and Jeno broke up, I stopped hearing from you, and that made me sad. I saw you as a daughter, Y/N,” she admitted, her lips curving into a faint, nostalgic smile. “And I still do.”

The weight of her words caught you off guard, and your chest tightened as guilt began to claw at you. You swallowed hard, unable to meet her gaze for a moment, apology written all over your face. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just…” You paused, searching for the right words. “I thought you wouldn’t want to see me anymore—after Jeno and I ended things. I figured it’d be too awkward.”

Seulgi’s expression softened even further, her brow furrowing as she reached out to place a hand over yours. “Of course not,” she said, her voice firm but laced with reassurance. “You didn’t hurt me. And you’re wrong if you think I’d ever want to stop seeing you just because of that.” She gave your hand a small squeeze, her gaze unwavering.

“You and Jeno weren’t right for each other, and I think you both knew that deep down. As much as I love him, I could see the cracks. You two are better as friends, and there’s no shame in that.” Her voice was steady, warm, as though she’d thought about this a hundred times before saying it to you. “What I want for you—and for Jeno—is to be with people who bring out the best in you. That’s what matters to me. Always.”

As she spoke, her eyes briefly flicked toward Mark’s best friend, who was focused on the coffee station, oblivious to the glance. The movement was so quick, so subtle, that it barely registered, but something about it gave her words an extra layer of meaning you couldn’t quite place.

You nodded slowly, feeling the tension in your chest begin to ease. “Okay,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. It was all you could manage, but Seulgi smiled warmly, as if she understood exactly what you meant.

“Good,” she said with a quiet chuckle, patting your hand before leaning back in her chair. “Just don’t disappear on me again, alright? You’ll always be welcome in my life, no matter what.”

Seulgi’s reassurance settled deep within you, her words carrying more weight than you expected. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt the warmth of belonging—an unspoken promise that, despite everything, you still had a place in her life. It was disarming, to say the least, and as her hand squeezed yours gently before pulling back, you found yourself unable to respond beyond a soft nod and an almost shy, “Thank you.”

She smiled warmly, leaning back in her chair as if her job was done, but then Irene joined in, her voice cutting through the brief silence. “Seulgi’s right,” she said, her tone softer but no less encouraging. “You’ve been carrying a lot on your shoulders, haven’t you?” Her words weren’t accusatory—they were understanding, and they hit you squarely in the chest.

You shrugged, taking another sip of your coffee to avoid answering outright. “I’m fine,” you said vaguely, your voice low. “It’s just… life, I guess.”

“Life?” Seulgi repeated with a small laugh, raising an eyebrow. “That’s the best you’ve got? Come on, Y/N, we’re not here to judge you. We’re here to help.”

You hesitated, glancing between them—the warmth of Irene’s gaze and the playful curiosity in Seulgi’s making it hard to keep your walls up. “I don’t know what to say,” you admitted finally, setting your cup down and fidgeting with the handle.

“How about starting with how you feel about Mark?” Irene suggested, her voice light but probing.

Your stomach twisted, and you glanced away, trying to hide the heat rising to your cheeks. “It’s… complicated,” you said softly, your go-to answer whenever the topic of Mark came up.

Seulgi smirked, leaning forward again. “Complicated, huh? You keep saying that, but I’m not buying it. What’s really going on?”

You sighed, your fingers tightening around the edge of your cup. “We’ve reconnected,” you said vaguely, your words hesitant. “It’s been… nice.”

“Nice,” Seulgi echoed with a playful roll of her eyes. “You’re killing me with all these one-word answers, Y/N.”

Irene smiled gently, her hand resting on the table near yours. “It’s okay to feel conflicted. But if you’re here, and Mark brought you to his childhood home, that tells me there’s more to this than just ‘nice.’ You’re the first and only girl he’s ever brought here.”

You bit your lip, glancing between Seulgi and Irene, their unwavering attention making it impossible to deflect. The lack of judgment in their expressions, the way their warmth seemed to seep into the room, chipped away at the walls you’d carefully built around this part of yourself. Against your better judgment, the words began to spill. It started slow—a vague mention of how you and Mark had started talking again—but their quiet patience, the unspoken invitation to be honest, drew out far more than you intended.

You told them about Mark. About how complicated things had always been between you. How he had this way of making you feel—grounded and completely untethered at the same time. Being with him was like standing too close to the sun; it was thrilling, magnetic, and sometimes unbearably overwhelming. You confessed how much you cared about him, how he made you feel seen in a way that scared you.

But then came the harder part.

You explained why it hadn’t worked, why you’d walked away even though it had torn you apart. Mark deserved someone who wasn’t carrying the weight of unresolved fears and insecurities, someone who didn’t feel like they were constantly trying to catch up to his steadiness. You’d been so lost in your own mess, in your need to figure out who you were, that you couldn’t give him what he needed.

Irene leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but firm when she finally spoke. “Y/N, healing isn’t linear,” she said gently. “It’s not about waiting until you’re perfect before letting yourself be loved. You can still heal and work on yourself while allowing yourself to be in a happy, committed relationship. Those things don’t have to be separate.”

Her words settled in your chest like a gentle weight, grounding you even as they challenged the beliefs you’d clung to. You opened your mouth to argue, but she continued before you could.

“Mark doesn’t love you because he thinks you’re perfect,” Irene added, her tone unwavering. “He loves you because of who you are, even the parts you’re still working on. And I think it’s clear you feel something just as strong for him. Don’t let fear convince you that you have to do this alone.”

Seulgi nodded in agreement, her sharp eyes softening as she crossed her arms. “She’s right. You don’t have to wait until you’ve got it all figured out. If you and Mark make each other happy, then you deserve to hold onto that while you keep growing. Life’s too short to keep pushing happiness away because you think you don’t deserve it yet.”

“I’m scared to try again,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “What if nothing’s changed? What if we fall back into the same patterns? What if I hurt him again?” You stared at the coffee cup in your hands, tracing its rim as you forced out the last thought. “What if I’m not enough for him?”

Seulgi leaned back in her chair, her smirk gone, replaced by something softer. Irene, on the other hand, leaned forward, her hands clasped gently in front of her.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Irene said finally, her voice steady and warm. “But if I can give you one piece of advice, it’s this: Don’t let fear hold you back. Mark loves you, Y/N. That much is clear to anyone who sees him around you. And I think you care about him more than you’re ready to admit.”

Her words landed like a punch, calm but unflinchingly honest. You tried to push them aside, but the certainty in her tone made it impossible to dismiss them.

Seulgi nodded in agreement, her sharpness softened by sincerity. “She’s right. Life’s too short for all this back-and-forth. If you care about him, if he makes you happy, stop making excuses. Go get your boy.”

Her words hung in the air, weighty and unshakable, but it was Irene who turned to you with a gaze that cut deeper. Her eyes searched yours with a quiet intensity, an understanding that left no room to hide. “I can see it in your eyes,” she said, her voice low but certain, pressing the moment forward.

You swallowed, the dryness in your throat making your voice falter. “See what?” you mumbled, the words barely audible, though they carried every ounce of your hesitation.

“You know what,” Irene murmured, her gaze unwavering.

“What?” Seulgi cut in, her confusion sharp and genuine. “What is she talking about?”

Irene didn’t look away from you, her words landing with quiet finality. “You love him. You just can’t admit it yet. But you feel it, deep inside.”

The truth of her words hit like a pulse, spreading from your chest outward, thick and undeniable. You gulped, the air around you feeling heavier, your body betraying the emotions you’d been trying to bury. Your heart thrummed painfully, its beat erratic, as though it was trying to speak the words you couldn’t. Your stomach twisted, an ache born of longing and fear, and your hands trembled slightly as you clenched them in your lap. Emotion swelled in your chest, raw and consuming, like you were standing on the edge of a precipice and falling all at once.

Your breath shuddered as the weight of it all—of him—settled in your chest. The way he looked at you, the sound of his laugh, the quiet moments where the world felt softer, smaller, when he was near. It wasn’t just affection. It wasn’t fleeting. It was all-consuming, a fire that burned steady and deep. You nodded, a single, deliberate motion, the truth breaking free even if your voice couldn’t yet.

Irene’s lips curved into a fond smile, her gaze softening as though she’d known all along. Seulgi, however, gasped audibly, her surprise genuine. “I never thought your feelings ran that deep,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

“They do,” you murmured, and then, as if the words were too much, a single tear slipped from the corner of your eye. The intensity of it all threatened to overwhelm you. Your chest felt tight, as though your heart had outgrown the space it occupied. Love wasn’t light or gentle; it was heavy, its weight pressing against your ribccage, demanding to be acknowledged. Your skin tingled with the thought of him, your hands yearning for the familiar warmth of his. Love felt like everything and nothing all at once—a quiet storm that you could never quite tame.

“I’ve never been… in love before,” you confessed, your voice breaking under the weight of your admission. The silence that followed was palpable, the words hanging in the air like something fragile and sacred. “That’s why I’m like this,” you added softly, the rawness of the moment pressing against your chest.

Irene reached across the table, her hand brushing yours in a gesture so small yet grounding. “Love is beautiful,” she said, her tone gentle yet firm. “It’s not meant to be pushed away. It’s not something you control. It’s something you let in, let it take root, and watch it grow. It doesn’t have to be scary. Let it embrace you, Y/N. You deserve to feel it fully.”

The tenderness of her words settled in the room, but Seulgi stayed quiet, her lips pressed into a thin line. The irony wasn’t lost on her, though she didn’t dare break the calm atmosphere. You had been in a long-term relationship with her son—how could Mark be the first person you’ve fallen in love with? It made no sense to her, but the serenity in your expression, the weight of Irene’s words, made her hold her tongue.

Your shoulders relaxed slightly, and you leaned back, the heaviness inside you shifting—not disappearing, but no longer suffocating. “It feels so big,” you whispered, your voice fragile. “Like I’m going to break from it. But it doesn’t hurt… it’s just… overwhelming.”

“That’s love,” Irene said with a knowing smile. “It doesn’t fit neatly inside you. It stretches you, pulls you apart, and somehow makes you whole at the same time.”

You nodded again, your gaze dropping to your hands, which were still trembling slightly. “It scares me,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

“It’s supposed to,” Irene reassured you. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to your lap. “But what about…” The thought of how messy everything had become made the words catch in your throat.

“I don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone else,” Irene cut in, her voice firmer now, the sharpness of her words startling you. You blinked, momentarily caught off guard—not just by the force behind her statement, but by the fact that she had said it. Irene, with her calm demeanor and measured tone, wasn’t someone you expected to curse so bluntly.

But the conviction in her voice left no room for misinterpretation. Her gaze was steady, unwavering as she continued. “You and my son deserve to be happy. That’s what matters. Not what anyone else thinks, not what could go wrong. Just you and Mark, figuring it out together.”

You hesitated, the words heavy on your tongue as you avoided her gaze. “I don’t know what to do,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible, the vulnerability in it making you feel exposed.

Irene leaned forward slightly, her hand resting gently on the table between you. “You start by being honest—with yourself first and then with him. Tell him what’s in your heart, Y/N,” she said softly. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, and it doesn’t have to make complete sense right now. Just let him know what you feel. He deserves that, and so do you.”

Her unexpected boldness only made her words hit harder, each syllable sinking deep into your chest. It wasn’t just reassurance—it was a declaration, one that made you feel like she believed in you even when you didn’t believe in yourself.

You glanced back at them, Irene’s soft smile and Seulgi’s playful yet sincere expression both carrying an unspoken confidence in you. It was hard not to smile, even as your thoughts swirled. There was no easy answer, no clear path forward. But for the first time, the fear didn’t feel insurmountable. It felt like something you could face. Something you wanted to face. You needed to tell Mark where your heart truly was, no matter how much it scared you.

You didn’t know how fast time had passed, but the glow of the sun now pouring through the windows told you it was midday. You were still here, seated in a booth with Irene and Seulgi, the three of you laughing like old friends as you shared stories and gossip. Somehow, despite the heaviness of the morning, they had made you so comfortable that you’d forgotten the time altogether.

“Y/N?” a voice behind you cut through your laughter, pulling your attention away mid-sentence. You turned in surprise, catching sight of Mark standing at the edge of the booth, his hair tousled and his expression a mix of confusion and amusement.

It was clear he’d just woken up, his hoodie rumpled, his sleepy gaze soft as he took in the sight of you sitting there with his mom and Seulgi.

“Oh… hi,” you mumbled awkwardly, your cheeks heating under his gaze. His brows furrowed slightly, his lips twitching like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“I thought you had assignments to do?” he asked, his voice low and groggy. “So what are you still doing here?”

Before you could respond, he stepped closer, his hand slipping into yours instinctively, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He reached out with his other hand, gently running it through your hair in a way that made your breath hitch.

“You should’ve just come back to me,” he said softly, his tone carrying a desperation that tugged at something deep inside you. His voice was low, almost whiny, like he couldn’t understand why you weren’t still in his arms.

You swallowed back a smile, deflecting the intensity of his words with a joke. “I came here to see your mom and Jeno’s mom, not you,” you teased, your lips curving upward as you glanced back at Seulgi and Irene, who were both watching with thinly veiled amusement.

Mark rolled his eyes at your words but didn’t let go of your hand.

You already knew Seulgi well—Jeno’s mom had always been a vibrant and lively presence. Her blunt honesty was oddly comforting, the kind that cut through awkward silences and made you feel seen without pretense. She was sharp, quick-witted, and had a way of making even the most uncomfortable situations bearable. Her warmth was loud and unapologetic, filling every room she walked into. But Irene… Irene was something entirely different.

With Irene, there was a quiet intimacy that made you feel held in a way you hadn’t expected. Her kindness wasn’t flashy or overwhelming—it was subtle, the kind that seeped into the spaces you didn’t realize were empty. She listened like every word you said mattered, like she could hear what you weren’t saying just as clearly. It wasn’t just her words that comforted you; it was the way she looked at you, with an understanding that felt almost motherly. You weren’t someone who opened up easily, but with Irene, it felt effortless. She made you feel like you belonged, like she had already made room for you in her heart before you even knew it was there. It wasn’t just touching—it was transformative, and it scared you how quickly you’d come to care for her in return.

Mark’s lips quirked up slightly, his gaze soft as he studied you. You hadn’t said anything in minutes, just staring at him as your thoughts churned. He hummed, the sound low and questioning. “You okay?” he whispered, his eyes narrowing slightly with concern. His focus on you was unwavering, every inch of him tuned into the unspoken weight of the moment.

You gulped, the lump in your throat making it hard to form a response. His name slipped from his lips again, firmer this time, his tone urging you to say whatever it was that had your chest tightening.

Seulgi nudged you lightly from beside you, her touch subtle but steady. “Go on,” she whispered, her words barely audible but laced with encouragement.

Mark didn’t even glance at her, his attention fully on you. His eyes didn’t waver, his focus unshaken as he waited, his presence patient and grounding.

“I—I need to tell you something,” you stammered, your voice breaking slightly as your heart thudded in your chest. The words you wanted to say pressed against your lips, heavy and desperate, but fear kept them locked away.

Instead, you blurted, “You forgot your jacket at my place. I was going to bring it back today.”

Mark’s brow lifted slightly, and the faintest ghost of a smile crossed his lips, though his eyes stayed steady on yours. “That’s what’s been on your mind all this time?” he asked softly, his tone knowing, the question almost teasing but filled with quiet understanding.

You nodded quickly, looking away, your hands fidgeting in your lap. Mark lingered, his gaze fixed on you as though he were waiting for something more, something unspoken. His lips parted slightly, as if he might say something, but the moment stretched on without a word. Instead, he stood and moved away, settling himself on one of the counter chairs a short distance away. He faced your direction, though his attention shifted momentarily to his iced americano. The faint clink of the glass against the counter broke the silence, but his posture remained relaxed, one hand idly stirring the drink while his gaze found its way back to you, quiet and steady, catching every shift in your expression even when you tried to avoid looking his way.

You didn’t look back. Whether it was out of fear, hesitation, or simply because Irene’s voice had drawn your attention, you turned toward her as she started sharing a story. Her words carried a warmth that filled the room, her laughter bubbling over and catching Seulgi off guard, making her chuckle too. You smiled faintly, leaning in a little, your body unconsciously relaxing as the conversation shifted to something easier, lighter.

To him, it was everything. You, sitting across from his mom, your laughter weaving effortlessly into the conversation as though you’d always been a part of it. The way you leaned in when Irene spoke, your eyes bright with genuine interest, left him spellbound. It wasn’t just how seamlessly you fit into his world—it was how naturally you made it yours. A quiet warmth spread through his chest, settling deep, as he watched you. In that moment, nothing else mattered. You were here, with him, a part of his life in a way he never dared to imagine, and that was all he needed.

After a while, you forced yourself to check the time and sighed, the reminder of your looming college work breaking through the comfortable haze of the morning. As much as you wanted to stay, you knew you couldn’t avoid your responsibilities forever. With reluctance, you stood, gathering your things and preparing to leave.

Before you headed toward the door, your gaze instinctively flickered to Mark—and you froze. He was already looking at you, he was leaning against the counter—no, propped against it, his posture lazy yet purposeful. His elbows rested casually on the surface, his back pressing into the edge of the bar while his legs were spread wide, inviting you into the space between them with a look that sent a warm flush creeping up your neck. The sight of him, the way his dark eyes lingered on you with an intensity that made the world blur around you, was magnetic. His chest rose and fell evenly, but there was nothing calm about the way he watched you.You didn’t realize you were moving until your feet carried you across the room, and you found yourself standing between his knees. His hands immediately found your waist, tugging you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You played with his hair absentmindedly, your fingers curling into the strands as you tried to steady your own pulse. His hold on you was firm, grounding, like he wanted to keep you tethered to him for just a little longer.

Your gaze dropped to his lips, then his jaw, drawn to the faint marks your mouth had left there last night, a reminder of how desperate you’d been for him. The sight of them sent a wave of heat pooling in your core, your fingers brushing over the stubble on his jaw as you cupped his face, tracing the evidence of your touch like you were claiming him all over again. His eyes darkened as your thumb grazed his skin, his lips parting slightly, and you could feel the tension crackling in the small space between you, charged with the memory of everything you’d done—and everything you still wanted.

It wasn’t just his touch or his proximity that affected you—it was the way he was looking at you. His eyes roamed your face, his expression soft but filled with something that made your chest ache. It wasn’t lust alone; it was deeper, more intimate, a connection that made you feel as though you were the only person in the world who mattered to him in that moment.

“You’re pretty,” he said, his voice quiet but sure, the corner of his mouth curving into the faintest of smiles. The way he looked at you when he said it made your breath catch—his eyes so focused, so unguarded, as if he was trying to memorize every detail of you.

You bit your lip, your breathing unsteady as his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. His fingers pressed firmly into your hips, grounding you, yet his touch was tender, like he was holding something he couldn’t bear to lose. His chest brushed against yours, his warmth seeping into you, and the scent of him filled every corner of your mind. Your hands found his shoulders, trembling slightly as you traced the muscle there, and when his eyes locked onto yours, everything stilled. His gaze was deep, unguarded, as though he was offering you something only you could understand. In his arms, with his eyes on you like that, the tension you’d been carrying dissolved into a quiet certainty, a stillness that anchored you in ways words never could.

You and my son deserve to be happy. Just you and Mark, figuring it out together. Irene’s words echoed in your mind, clear and steady, pulling you back into the moment. You could feel them, those unspoken truths you’d tried to bury, rising to the surface. Looking into his eyes now, the weight of them felt lighter, less terrifying. His thumb brushed against your side absentmindedly, his presence soft but unrelenting, and you knew. The fear, the uncertainty—they couldn’t outweigh the pull you felt toward him. The thread between you didn’t feel fragile anymore; it felt like something unbreakable, something waiting to be tied. And in his arms, with his gaze holding yours, you realized you were ready.

Your voice slipped out softer than you intended, the sweet nickname falling from your lips before you could stop it. “Baby.” It carried a neediness that caught you off guard, raw and unfiltered, but when Mark’s lips curved into the faintest smile, his eyes softening with something that felt like adoration, it made your heart lurch. His gaze locked onto you with an intensity that made everything else fade, and the air between you grew warmer, heavier.

He hummed low in his chest, the sound vibrating through the small space between you as he leaned closer. His breath brushed against your cheek, warm and steady, his presence wrapping around you like an embrace. His dark eyes roamed over your face, peeling back every layer of hesitation with an intimacy that left you bare. The way he looked at you, sharp and all-consuming, made your chest tighten and your knees weak. You knew he saw everything—the way your lips trembled, the way your body instinctively leaned into his. He always could.

“Can we talk? I need to tell you something,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, yet it carried the weight of everything you’d been holding back.

Mark tilted his head slightly, his fingers brushing against your sides in a deliberate, slow motion that sent warmth spiraling through you. His touch was firm but gentle, grounding you as his thumb traced small, soothing circles. “Yeah,” he murmured, his tone low and filled with curiosity, though his gaze stayed steady, unyielding. When your lips parted, a faint breath escaping, but no words followed, his hands tightened ever so slightly on your waist. He nudged you softly, his tone gentle yet steady, like an anchor keeping you from drifting too far. “Go ahead.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his attention pressing against you, making your chest feel tight, your pulse hammering in your ears. “I—I… can we go to your room? I’ll feel better if I talk to you there,” you stammered, your voice trembling but laced with quiet determination, your eyes never leaving his.

The teasing comment you had braced yourself for didn’t come. Instead, Mark nodded again, his expression softening further as his brows furrowed slightly, concern flickering in his gaze. His grip on your waist didn’t falter, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles against your skin, soothing yet electrifying all at once. He tilted his head toward you, his voice steady and calm. “Okay, but why are you getting so stressed?”

His fingers flexed against your waist, his hold firm but not restrictive, as though he could feel the weight you were carrying. His touch, so steady, so present, sent a warmth spreading through your chest, unraveling the tightness inch by inch.

“I’m not,” you lied, your trembling hands betraying you as they curled tighter against his shoulders.

His thumb paused briefly before resuming its motion, this time slower, firmer, like he was trying to steady you. “You don’t need to be,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, the words wrapping around you like a shield. “It’s just me, remember? Don’t want that pretty little head overthinking when you don’t need to. Especially not around me.”

The way he said it, quiet and intimate, sent heat blooming across your skin, pooling in your chest and spreading lower. His gaze was unwavering, filled with something heavy, raw, and unspoken. It wasn’t just the way he touched you—it was the way he looked at you, his eyes tracing every curve of your face like he was memorizing you, committing you to memory like this was a moment he never wanted to forget.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” you mumbled, your voice shy, your gaze flickering away from his.

“Like what?” he asked, his tone low, teasing, though his hands didn’t loosen their grip on your waist.

“Like you’re fucking her with your eyes,” Mark’s best friend called out from behind the counter, her voice dry but tinged with amusement.

You didn’t flinch, your focus solely on Mark as you replied, “No… it’s something else,” your voice clipped, your expression unreadable.

Behind you, Mark’s best friend moved around the coffee station, her hands quick and efficient as she restocked cups and adjusted displays with practiced ease. Her silence, once indifferent, now carried an edge, her movements sharp and hurried as though trying to distract herself from something. You were too focused on Mark to notice the tension radiating off her, or the cracks forming in her carefully maintained composure.

Your gaze stayed locked on Mark, his hands firm on your waist, the steady brush of his thumbs against your sides grounding you. His touch was warm, deliberate, and when he leaned forward to press a soft kiss to your forehead, your breath caught, your pulse quickening. “Tell me, then,” he murmured, his voice low, inviting, the intimacy in his tone making your chest tighten.

“Take me to your room,” you mumbled, the words soft but carrying weight, your eyes flicking to the side briefly before meeting his again.

Mark tilted his head slightly, his grip on you steady as he asked, “Why can’t you just tell me here?” His voice was patient, but his brows furrowed slightly in concern as he searched your face for an answer.

You hesitated, your gaze darting toward Irene and Seulgi, who weren’t even trying to hide their curious stares from their corner of the room. Their presence made your skin prickle, the weight of their attention pressing on you like a barrier you couldn’t cross. You sighed softly and finally whispered, “I just… I want it to be private. Just us. It’s better that way.”

Mark’s gaze didn’t waver, his hands tightening slightly on your waist as if anchoring you. But before he could respond, your focus shifted, something catching your eye behind him. Your breath hitched, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as your eyes locked onto her.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice unsteady as you looked toward his best friend.

Mark followed your line of sight, his shoulders dropping slightly as he saw what you did—her silent tears slipping down her face, her posture slumped in defeat. She looked at the two of you not with jealousy but with something deeper, a sadness that seemed to come from a hollow ache within herself.

Mark didn’t hesitate, his hands slipping from your waist as he stepped toward her. The loss of his warmth lingered on your skin, a reminder of the closeness you’d just shared, now disrupted. You moved aside, the weight in your chest pressing down, not sharp but persistent, as though something small and hollow had begun to settle there.

At the counter, her trembling hands dropped to her sides as Mark reached out, his touch careful, deliberate. When he pulled her into a hug, she collapsed into him, her body folding into his like she didn’t have the strength to hold herself up anymore. His arms wrapped around her firmly, his voice low and soothing, though the words were inaudible to you.

You watched, unmoving, your chest tightening as his hand moved in slow circles on her back, his touch steady and familiar. There was no jealousy—at least, not the kind you expected—but a twinge of something unspoken rippled through you. It wasn’t about her. It wasn’t even about Mark. It was the image of him giving so much of himself to someone else in that moment, knowing you had been right there, waiting to open your heart to him.

The ache spread through you like an unwelcome visitor, quiet but persistent, tightening the space between your ribs. You weren’t jealous—there was no room for that. You knew Mark didn’t see her as anything but his best friend, his sister in all but blood, and that his heart belonged to you in ways he didn’t even have to say. But still, as you stood there watching him soothe her, the intimacy of the moment stirred something you couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t hurt—it was need. A desperate, quiet need for him, for his comfort, for the safety of his arms and the chance to say the words you’d been holding in. You needed him. But now, as his fingers traced steady circles on her back and his lips pressed softly to her forehead, the moment had slipped away. You shifted uncomfortably, your hands fidgeting at your sides, the pull in your chest twisting tighter. He was doing what he always did, offering his unwavering kindness, and yet it left you standing there, the moment slipping through your fingers like sand, leaving you cold in its absence.

“I thought you were gonna talk to Jeno at the party. You only came for him,” Mark whispered, his voice low but tinged with a quiet tension that made your breath hitch.

She shook her head, her voice trembling as she replied, “I did only come for him, but he spent the night fucking Karina instead.”

The shift in Mark was immediate. His jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitch beneath his skin, his hands balling into fists at his sides. His usual calm shattered in an instant, replaced by a look of pure fury that burned in his dark eyes. His nostrils flared as his chest heaved, his frustration radiating off him like a storm about to break. His lips pressed into a thin line, but the anger rippling through him was uncontainable, his entire body taut as if holding himself back from erupting.

You sighed, the weight of it all crashing into you. It made sense now—her tears, her broken expression—it was all because of Jeno. Whatever he’d done to her, it was reckless, thoughtless, and entirely like him to ruin something good. A flicker of anger rose in your chest, hot and unwelcome. Jeno, in his selfishness, had messed things up again, and now, his carelessness had disrupted everything.

That’s when both Mark and his best friend turned to you. Her eyes met yours first, brimming with a quiet sadness, apology etched into every glance. Mark followed, his shoulders sinking slightly as the realization hit him—you still had something to say, something you’d been holding onto, and he had let the moment slip away.

“It’s fine, Mark, we’ll talk later,” you whispered, offering him a small, reassuring smile despite the tightness in your chest. “I gotta head to campus anyways.”

He hesitated for a beat, his gaze softening as guilt flickered across his face. Then, he returned your smile, his lips curving faintly, though his eyes carried an unspoken promise. “I’ll find you later, yeah? I’m sorry,” he murmured, his tone low, sincere.

You nodded, your smile steady even as you turned away, the ache in your chest lingering, the words you couldn’t say still hanging heavy in the air.

──────────────────────────────

Mark never came that night.

You had been waiting for him, hoping he’d show up, but as the hours passed, it became clear—he wasn’t coming. You managed to get some work done on campus, forcing yourself to focus long enough to make progress, but your mind was a storm. Thoughts swirled incessantly: whatever the hell had happened between Jeno and Mark’s best friend, the heaviness in her voice as she spoke, the broken look in her eyes. Then there was what you felt for Mark, the way it had been pressing against your chest, aching to be said. And the words you overheard Chenle say at the party, lingering like an unwelcome whisper in your mind. It all tangled together, leaving you restless, unsettled.

As you packed up to leave campus, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting to see Mark. The thought gnawed at you, the need to go to his apartment and just scream the truth to him, to let it all out without holding back. But your feet had other plans. They carried you away from where you intended to go, your body moving on instinct while your heart pulled you toward something else entirely. The weight in your chest guided you, seeking familiarity, seeking clarity.

By the time the sound of bouncing basketballs and faint laughter reached your ears, your steps slowed, and your breath hitched. You looked up and realized where you were—the river court. The place that had seen so many beginnings, so many truths. Maybe a part of you hoped, even foolishly, that Mark might be here, but he wasn’t. It didn’t stop you, though. Your feet carried you forward, onto the worn pavement, and you let out a quiet exhale, feeling the echo of memories press against you. The court had always felt like a place where things could be untangled, where clarity found you even when you weren’t ready for it. And tonight, it was pulling you back into its orbit.

The cracked concrete and faded paint, glowing under the midday sun like a worn-out sanctuary, came into view. It was empty of the person you most wanted to see—Mark—but not entirely empty. Donghyuck was sprawled lazily across the bleachers, twirling a basketball effortlessly on his fingertips, while Chenle stood at the center of the court, dribbling absently. Their easy banter evaporated the moment they noticed you approaching, their postures straightening as an uneasy quiet settled over the court.

Chenle’s eyes flickered to yours briefly before darting away, his shoulders stiffening as he pretended to focus on the ball in his hands. It stilled under his grip, and the silence became almost oppressive. “Mark’s not here,” he said quickly, his tone clipped and devoid of warmth, almost as if he’d rehearsed it.

You stopped just shy of the court’s edge, your gaze steady as you fixed it on him. “I’m not here for Mark,” you said, your voice clear and unwavering. “I’m here for you.”

Donghyuck’s head tilted slightly, his expression shifting from mild indifference to wary curiosity. He exchanged a glance with Chenle, who remained silent, before leaning forward on his knees, the ball spinning to a stop on the bench beside him. “Alright,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “What’s this about?”

You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself. “I know what you think of me,” you began, your words cutting clean through the tension. “I overheard you. At the party. You don’t think I’m good enough for Mark. You don’t think I’m serious about him.”

Chenle’s gaze dropped to the ground, guilt flashing briefly across his face before he hardened his expression again. Donghyuck raised a brow, his posture straightening as if preparing for a fight, though he stayed silent, waiting for you to continue.

“I get it,” you said, your tone steady but tinged with vulnerability. “I’ve made mistakes. I know that. Things between Mark and me haven’t always been easy to understand, even for me. But you’re wrong about me.”

Donghyuck’s brow arched further, his expression unreadable, but you caught the faintest flicker of intrigue. Chenle shifted uncomfortably, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I am serious about him,” you pressed on, your voice growing stronger, more resolute with each word. “More serious than I’ve ever been about anything in my life. Mark isn’t just someone to me—he’s everything. And yeah, I’ve let him down before, but that’s not who I am anymore. I’ve spent so much time running from my feelings, trying to figure out what I want, and it’s him. It’s always been him.”

Chenle’s eyes lifted cautiously to meet yours, uncertainty softening the rigid lines of his face. He didn’t speak, but his silence felt less like rejection and more like quiet consideration.

“I’m not here to argue,” you added, your voice gentler now but no less firm. “I’m here to prove you wrong. To prove to you, to Mark, and to myself that I’m ready. That I deserve him. Because he’s mine, and I’m his. And I’m not letting him go.”

For a moment, the air was thick with unspoken tension. Donghyuck leaned back slightly, his gaze studying you like he was trying to gauge how much truth your words carried. Finally, he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he spoke.

“I can’t say I didn’t doubt you,” he admitted, his voice quiet but honest. “Mark’s been through a lot. He deserves someone who’s all in. But…” His lips curved into a faint smirk, though it lacked its usual bite. “I believe you.” He glanced at Chenle, who hesitated but eventually nodded in agreement. “We believe you.”

Relief coursed through you, the weight you’d carried all morning easing slightly. But before you could respond, Donghyuck leaned forward, his tone sharpening. “Just don’t hurt him again, alright? Because if you do—”

“I won’t,” you cut in firmly, your gaze locking with his. “I won’t hurt him.”

Donghyuck leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his sharp gaze fixed on you. “You’re saying all the right things,” he said slowly, his tone skeptical. “But words are easy. What makes this time different?”

Chenle, still clutching the basketball, finally spoke up, his voice quieter but no less cutting. “Mark’s been through enough. We’ve seen him pick up the pieces too many times. What if you change your mind again?”

You swallowed hard, steadying yourself under their scrutiny. “I’m not going to,” you replied, meeting Chenle’s gaze head-on. “I know I’ve hurt him before, and I can’t take that back, but I’ve spent so much time trying to figure out what I want, who I am. And I know now—it’s Mark. It’s always been Mark.”

Donghyuck tilted his head, his lips pulling into a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So, you’re telling us you’ve suddenly got it all figured out? That you woke up one day and decided you’re ready to be the perfect girlfriend?”

“No,” you said firmly, your voice unwavering. “I’m not perfect, and I won’t pretend to be. But I’m ready to prove it—to him, to you, to everyone. I’m not running away this time.”

Chenle’s grip on the ball tightened, his jaw clenching briefly. “Mark doesn’t just need someone who cares,” he said, his tone hard but not unkind. “He needs someone who’s going to stick around when things get messy. Are you really ready for that?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, the conviction in your voice causing Donghyuck to raise a brow. “I’m ready for everything. For the good, the bad, the messy. I’m not going anywhere.”

Donghyuck let out a low whistle, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Gotta say, you’ve got some guts coming here and saying all this,” he remarked, his tone softening slightly. “But guts don’t mean shit if you don’t back it up.”

“And I will,” you replied, holding his gaze. “I know I have to earn your trust, but I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Chenle finally sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “We just don’t want to see him hurt again,” he said, his voice quieter now. “He deserves someone who’s all in.”

“And I am,” you promised, your voice steady. “I’m not going to hurt him again.”

Donghyuck studied you for a long moment before nodding, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright,” he said, his tone lighter now. “But if you mess this up…”

“I won’t,” you cut in quickly, a small smile breaking through. “I won’t mess this up.”

Chenle exchanged a glance with Donghyuck before giving you a small, reluctant nod. “We’re holding you to that,” he said simply.

“And if you break his heart again,” Donghyuck added, his smirk now fully formed, “you’ll have us to deal with.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, the tension finally lifting as you nodded. “Fair enough.”

Donghyuck nodded, satisfied, and Chenle relaxed visibly, though his guarded expression lingered. Without another word, you turned away, your steps lighter but your resolve even stronger.

And as you turned to leave the court, the tension that had weighed on you all day seemed lighter, replaced by a new determination to prove—to them, to Mark, and to yourself—that you were all in. You were going to make things right, to make him yours again, yours forever.

──────────────────────────────

The campus had shed its ordinary skin, morphing into a realm brimming with life and purpose. Strings of lights crisscrossed between lampposts, their glow casting fragmented patterns across the walkways, illuminating the navy and gold banners strung high on every arch and railing. The sharp edges of buildings, usually so stoic, softened under the weight of decorations—streamers spiraled down columns, and hand-painted signs leaned precariously in windows, boasting messages like ‘Go Ravens!’ and ‘Bring It Home!’

The scent of fresh paint clung to the air, still sharp and metallic, evidence of the newly stenciled Ravens logo stamped onto every visible slab of concrete. The bold, sweeping insignias caught the light with a defiant gleam, demanding to be noticed, claimed as part of the night’s identity.

Food trucks lined the main quad like sentinels, their brightly colored exteriors clashing against the university’s muted stone buildings. Steam and smoke coiled lazily into the air, mingling with the unmistakable aroma of frying oil and caramelized sugar. The air carried a heaviness, rich with the promise of indulgence—popcorn drenched in butter, skewers of grilled meat, and the intoxicating warmth of spiced cider served in paper cups.

Students swarmed the pathways in navy sweatshirts and gold scarves, faces streaked with paint or glitter, laughter spilling out like static electricity. Even those not wearing school colors carried the fever of the evening in their strides. Sidewalk chalk messages sprawled across the ground, some inspirational, others haphazard, a few sharp-edged jabs at rival teams scrawled in smudged, hurried letters.

Beneath the strings of lights, clusters of people gathered—some to share snacks, others to exchange stories, their voices rising and falling like the notes of an untamed symphony. Beneath a large oak tree in the corner of the quad, a group of musicians played casually, the pluck of guitar strings and the soft hum of a violin weaving an unexpected intimacy through the larger chaos.

Farther out, the campus pathways stretched like veins into the quieter academic areas, but even here, the transformation had taken hold. The library steps were covered in students perched on the edges, sharing drinks and shouting into their phones. The dormitories glowed faintly in the distance, their windows lined with string lights and silhouettes of people leaning out to call to friends below.

It was as if the campus itself had awakened, each brick and blade of grass charged with the electric promise of something monumental. The night had made it its own, a canvas for chaos and celebration, stitched together by the navy and gold that painted the scene.

The state championship wasn’t just about a trophy—it was legacy, redemption, proof of belonging. For students, alumni, and everyone who called this place home, it was a collective heartbeat, a shared hope that tonight would cement the Ravens in glory. It was a night charged with the weight of what could be won—and what could be lost.

You walked arm in arm with Karina, the two of you cutting through the crowd in matching cheer uniforms that shimmered under the lamplight. The navy fabric hugged your bodies perfectly, the gold accents catching the light with every step. Your shoes squeaked slightly on the pavement, the rhythm of your strides syncing as you moved toward the stadium. The tightness of your ponytail tugged at your scalp, but the adrenaline buzzing in your veins drowned out the discomfort.

Your heart was pounding, not just from the infectious energy around you, but from something deeper—something more personal. Excitement mingled with nerves, the weight of the night pressing lightly on your chest. You couldn’t help but glance at Karina, who was grinning ear to ear, her confidence radiant and unwavering. You envied her ease, but at the same time, it grounded you. You took a deep breath, the cold air stinging your lungs as you allowed the atmosphere to settle over you. This was it—the moment you’d been waiting for. The day that could change everything.

Tonight would be the night to make Mark yours again.

“This is it,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Karina, as your gaze swept over the grandness of it all. The sheer scale of the event was staggering—the towering posters of the team draped over every visible surface, the rows of merch stands glowing under string lights, and the distant roar of fans already settling into the gymnasium. Everything about tonight screamed monumental, and yet, the weight pressing on your chest wasn’t from the game. “I’m gonna tell Mark tonight.”

Karina looped her arm through yours, her grin wide and far too knowing. “I hope so,” she teased, giving you a playful nudge. “You’ve been trying to tell him for the last week now. I swear, it’s starting to sound like a broken record.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t hold back the small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not that simple, okay? Every time I try to tell him, something happens. Like, the universe doesn’t want me to have this conversation.”

Karina snorted, her tone dry but affectionate. “Yeah, yeah. Blame the universe.”

You let out a frustrated breath, your voice softening as the words came tumbling out. “I’ve missed him so much, Karina,” you admitted, the vulnerability threading through your tone catching even you off guard. “I don’t even know how I let it get this far. It’s like—I can’t stop thinking about him. About us. I miss everything, you know? The way he’d look at me, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. The stupid things he’d say to make me laugh when I was upset. The way he held me, like he couldn’t imagine letting go. God, I just—I want that back. I want him back.”

Karina gave you a pointed look, raising a brow. “No offense, but haven’t you guys still been like that? You’ve literally had sex since the breakup, and you still act like you’re a couple half the time.”

You shook your head, the denial immediate and heavy. “No, Karina, it’s not the same. It feels different,” you said, your voice cracking slightly as you tried to put it into words. “It’s like… he’s holding back. He’s still there, but not really. When we were together, everything about him was so—present. Like, when he touched me, when he looked at me, I could feel how much he loved me, how much he wanted me. Now…” You paused, your throat tightening as you tried to swallow down the rising ache. “Now it’s like he’s waiting. Like he’s giving me all this patience because he thinks I need time, but I can feel him slipping further away. Like he’s pulling back just enough to protect himself.”

Karina’s expression softened, the teasing glint in her eyes replaced with quiet understanding. But you weren’t finished. The words kept spilling out, raw and desperate. “I know he’s trying to be patient, to give me space to figure myself out, but how long can someone keep waiting? How long before he just decides it’s not worth it anymore? He’s not going to wait forever, Karina. And the more I hold back, the more I feel like I’m losing him. Like he’s… just a little further out of reach every day.”

Your hands clenched at your sides, the weight of your own fear pressing down on you. “I don’t want to wake up one day and realize he’s gone for good. That he’s done waiting and moved on, because I’ll never forgive myself if that happens. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”

Karina’s teasing faltered, her gaze softening for a fraction of a second before it hardened into something sharper. “Babe,” she said, her voice cutting through the air with brutal clarity. “You do know that you let it get this far, right?” You flinched, the honesty landing like a punch to the gut. But you didn’t stop her. You couldn’t, not when she was saying the thing you’d been too afraid to admit to yourself. “You’ve been overthinking every little thing,” she continued, her tone matter-of-fact but far from cruel. “Torturing yourself for months, turning it into this massive, impossible thing in your head. You’re so scared of screwing it up that you’ve already been doing it, babe. You’re making it complicated when it doesn’t have to be.”

Her words hit harder than you expected, the truth of them sinking in like stones at the bottom of a lake. You wanted to argue, to push back, but there was nothing to say. She wasn’t wrong.

Karina shrugged, her tone lightening even as she glanced sideways at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “But hey, as long as you’re ready to beg for forgiveness and jump his bones, I’m here for it. Just say the word, and I’ll give you a pep talk so good, it’ll knock him flat.”

“Karina!” you hissed, whipping your head toward her as heat rushed to your face. Scandalized, but not nearly as convincing as you hoped, your voice wavered with a mix of shock and something dangerously close to intrigue.

But Karina wasn’t done—not even close. She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, her grin mischievous. “No, seriously. Surprise him. Wear something hot. Walk right up to him and tell him exactly how much you’ve missed his hands on you, his mouth on you, him. I swear, he’d lose it before you even finished the sentence.”

Your stomach flipped violently, and you shook your head as if to rid yourself of the vivid picture her words painted. “God, I can’t believe you,” you muttered, though the flush creeping up your neck betrayed you. “This isn’t just about that. I need him to know how I feel. That I’m ready now. To fix this. To fix us. I’ve already wasted so much time, Karina. I can’t lose him, too.”

For once, she didn’t laugh. Her smirk softened into something quieter, more deliberate, as she tugged you closer, syncing your strides without missing a beat. “And you won’t. But babe,” she added, her grin curling back with razor-sharp precision, “telling him how you feel is step one. Step two? Make him feel it. Make him remember why it’s always been you. That’s how you lock it in.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand, but you couldn’t hide the reluctant smile tugging at your lips. Karina’s laugh rang out, loud and unapologetic, as if she thrived on watching you squirm. It was maddening, but beneath the teasing was something steady, something you desperately needed: belief. She believed in you, in Mark, in everything the two of you could still be.

And though her words made your cheeks burn, they sparked something else too—a fire deep in your chest. This wasn’t just about undoing the past or fixing what had gone wrong. It was about Mark. About showing him what he meant to you, what he’d always meant to you, even when you were too scared to admit it.

“And what about you?” you asked suddenly, shifting your focus to her. “How’s it going with Jeno?”

Karina sighed, her usual confidence dimming just slightly as she shrugged. “It’s not really going,” she admitted, a faint twinge of sadness creeping into her voice. “It’s just sex.”

You blinked, the answer catching you off guard. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

She huffed, shaking her head, a bitter laugh slipping past her lips. “I thought so, but he’s such a fucking whore. He’s been going around, fucking half the campus, you know? And I swear—” She paused, her tone sharpening. “I swear he was head over heels for Mark’s best friend. Like, obsessed with her.”

You sighed, the weight of her words heavy in the air. “He fucked that up,” you muttered under your breath.

Karina nodded, her gaze flickering away for a moment, but before the silence could stretch too long, she turned back to you, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Enough about him. Tonight isn’t about Jeno or anyone else. It’s about you and Mark. You’ve got one shot, and you’re not going to waste it.”

Your voice softened, trembling just slightly as the weight of everything you’d planned pressed down on you. “It has to go right today,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her. “I’ve planned it all out. If it doesn’t… I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Karina’s teasing faltered, and for a moment, her expression shifted, her gaze steady and reassuring. “Hey,” she said softly, nudging you with her shoulder. “It’s going to be fine. You’ve got this.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, but the words kept spilling out, your tone quiet but determined. “I’ve even decorated my room for us. I lit candles, there’s music ready to be played. I put flower petals on the bed. I even got the silk sheets out.” You hesitated, your cheeks heating again. “And my silk pajamas… and I ordered the sexiest lingerie the other day. I don’t want that to go to waste.”

Karina froze for a beat before bursting into laughter, her hand flying to her chest as she doubled over. “Oh my God,” she managed between gasps, her voice shaking with disbelief. “You’re serious. You’re actually serious. Candles? Flower petals? Silk sheets? Babe, you are so gone for him, it’s embarrassing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. “I just want it to be perfect,” you muttered. “I just wanna make him proud of me”

Karina wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, her laughter softening into something fond as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “You’re unbelievable. But honestly? I think he’s gonna lose his mind. You’re trying so hard, and it’s adorable. He won’t stand a chance.”

You nod, hoping all of your effort won’t go to waste tonight. It wasn’t just a confession. It was a vow, a chance to rebuild something real. Something worth fighting for. Something you weren’t willing to let slip away—not again.

Inside, the gym had become a roaring coliseum, the Seoul Center Arena pulsating with an energy so electric it felt like the walls themselves might give way. Every one of the 10,000 seats was filled, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, their collective voices rising in a deafening crescendo. The court gleamed under the relentless glare of the spotlights, its freshly polished surface reflecting the vibrant team banners hanging high above. The scoreboard loomed ominously, a stark reminder of the stakes, its bold digits ready to etch history into the night.

On one side of the court, the Ravens cheerleaders stood in formation, their uniforms shimmering in navy and gold, the perfect blend of athleticism and glamour as they readied for their routines. Among them, Donghyuck was impossible to miss—a magnetic whirlwind of energy with a megaphone in one hand and a pompom in the other. His voice boomed through the speakers, every word dripping with wit and showmanship, commanding the crowd’s attention like only he could.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” Donghyuck’s voice thundered through the arena as he strode dramatically along the sideline, his pompom waving like a general’s banner. “Welcome to what might be the biggest day in the history of Seoul Ravens basketball!” He paused, throwing his arms wide as the crowd erupted in cheers. “10,000 fans have crammed into the Seoul Center Arena tonight to watch the Ravens take on the top-ranked Busan Titans for the state championship. The air is electric, the stakes couldn’t be higher, and I’m almost certain someone just spilled nacho cheese on their date. This is history in the making, folks!”

He pivoted, his expression suddenly more serious as his voice lowered just enough to hold the room. “But tonight isn’t just about the players. Oh no. This is the night to change the trajectory of Coach Suh’s coaching career forever. For those of you who don’t know, back in 2002, Coach Suh’s own Ravens team lost to the Busan Titans—” He let the name hang in the air, the crowd hissing in collective disdain. “—and tonight is his shot at redemption. While he’s not fully back in the coaching saddle, he’s been working behind the scenes, overlooking every play, every strategy. This isn’t just a game—it’s a reckoning.”

The gym erupted again, the crowd feeding off Donghyuck’s unrelenting charisma, their cheers vibrating through the floor.

Somehow, word had already spread about your plans to reconcile with Mark. The cheerleaders, ever the keepers of campus gossip, had wasted no time closing in, their faces alight with curiosity and excitement as Karina peeled off to grab drinks.

“So it’s true,” Nagyung said, ponytail bouncing as she grabbed your arm and pulled you into the circle. Her grin was wide and uncontainable, practically brimming with glee. “You’re really doing it, huh? Finally going after Mark?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her enthusiasm. “I… I hope to,” you replied hesitantly, your voice barely above the roar of the arena.

Nagyung waved a hand, dismissing your doubt as though it was laughable. “Oh, please. It’s happening. We all know it.”

Chaeyoung leaned in, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You should’ve seen the way he looked at you after practice the other day. It was like… like you were the only person in the room.”

“Totally,” Seoyeon chimed in, nodding so emphatically her ponytail swayed. “I’ve been saying it forever—you two are meant to be. Everyone sees it.”

The sheer confidence in their words made your chest tighten, warmth spreading through you even as your cheeks flushed under their attention. “Thanks,” you mumbled, ducking your head shyly.

“It’s not just us,” Seoyeon added, her voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Literally everyone who matters wants you two together. You guys just make sense.”

Their words settled over you like a heavy, reassuring blanket, equal parts comforting and overwhelming. It felt like the entire campus was rooting for you and Mark to figure things out, to take what was broken and turn it into something whole again.

You didn’t want to let them down. But more than that, you didn’t want to let him down.

Winter, who had been quiet until now, leaned in and spoke softly, her voice cutting through the noise like a thread of calm. “They’re right,” she said, her words simple but charged with certainty.

You glanced at her, surprised by her rare seriousness, and managed a faint smile in return. But she wasn’t done. “Is Mark even playing tonight? I heard about his heart condition,” she added, her brow furrowing slightly.

You nodded, the weight of her question settling heavily in your stomach. “He won’t be playing the entire game,” you admitted, your voice tinged with a mixture of pride and worry. “Only 15 minutes per half. Coach is being really strict about it.”

Karina rejoined the group, handing Winter a drink before chiming in with her usual bluntness. “He’s in the locker rooms right now, right? You should just go tell him now. It’ll give him a boost for the game, and you won’t spend the rest of the night stressing out. I know what you’re like, you’ll probably mess up the routine.”

Winter snorted, her smirk returning as she took a sip of her drink. “And you should suck his cock while you’re at it. Good luck charm for the game, you know?”

You gasped, your cheeks flaming, but the suggestion stuck, a wicked little idea planting itself in your mind. The tension in your chest shifted, and before you could overthink it, you nodded, exhaling deeply. “I’m gonna go find him,” you said, determination sharpening your voice as your sneakers already started leading you toward the locker rooms.

But as you crossed the court, a ripple of movement caught your eye. The Ravens were filing out of the tunnel, their arrival greeted by deafening cheers that filled the gym. You stopped dead, narrowing your eyes as you glanced at the clock. The game hadn’t started yet, but their appearance meant you’d lost your chance to talk to Mark in private.

Your eyes scanned the players instinctively, and then you saw him. Mark.

He was breathtaking. His jersey clung to his broad shoulders and chest, the snug fabric perfectly outlining his athletic frame. His hair was damp, tousled just enough to give him an effortlessly rugged look, and the sharp cut of his jaw was accentuated by the way he pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, his focus locked on the court. Every movement was deliberate, every step slow and commanding, as if the room bent to him without him even trying.

Then, as if he could feel your gaze, his eyes locked onto yours. The air caught in your lungs, the noise of the gym fading into nothing. The intensity in his stare was magnetic, searing, and intimate in a way that made your pulse quicken. His lips twitched into a small, knowing smile, and without hesitation, he veered off course, heading straight for you.

The closer he got, the harder it was to breathe. His presence was overwhelming, his gaze holding you captive as he stopped in front of you.

“Hi, pretty,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing as his hand came up to cup your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek, the touch featherlight but grounding. His eyes lingered on yours, roaming over your features as if committing every detail to memory. When he bit his lip, catching the plush skin between his teeth, the heat pooling in your core became impossible to ignore.

“I haven’t forgotten about what you’ve been wanting to tell me, hm?” he continued, his tone soft but charged, his words laced with both reassurance and a subtle promise. He knew. He’d known for weeks, maybe even longer, that you’d been carrying something too heavy to put into words. “I’ll come find you after the game. I’m all yours for the night.”

Your throat tightened, and you shook your head, your voice stronger than you expected when you said, “No, I need to tell you now.”

Mark blinked, holding back a small laugh, his eyes searching yours with curiosity. “Okay,” he said, his tone gentle but tinged with amusement.

When you didn’t say anything immediately, his brow arched. “Y/N… are you actually going to tell me this time? Or should I just check my calendar for another day? You know, I do have a state championship to win.”

You huffed, but your stomach flipped at the teasing glint in his eyes. Winter’s earlier words—‘And you should suck his cock, good luck charm for the game, you know?’—echoed in your head, shameless and impossible to ignore. The thought of pulling him into the back, of doing exactly that, sent a rush of heat through you, your pulse quickening as your resolve hardened.

You leaned closer, your voice barely above a whisper, your lips just shy of his ear. “Can we go to the back?”

Mark’s teasing demeanor softened instantly, his hand reaching for yours without hesitation. “Yeah, let’s—” he started, but his words cut off as his gaze shifted over your shoulder, locking onto someone behind you.

Mark’s entire body locked up, his shoulders drawing taut, every muscle in his frame coiled like a spring ready to snap. His jaw clenched so hard you swore you heard his teeth grind, and his hand slipped from yours with a suddenness that sent a jolt of unease racing through you. His gaze, warm and soft only moments ago, turned razor-sharp, slicing past you like you weren’t even there.

“Hey, Jeno,” he barked, his tone low and biting, carrying enough weight to cut through the roaring gym.

You turned just in time to see Jeno entering the gym, his stride measured, his face unreadable but steady. He hadn’t walked out with the team, and something about his lone arrival made your stomach tighten. The shift in Mark’s demeanor was stark and dizzying, the tension radiating off him so palpable it felt like it could snap the air in two.

Before you could process what was happening, Mark moved. He stormed toward Jeno, each step deliberate, his fists clenching at his sides as if sheer willpower was the only thing holding him back. “Hey, Jeno!” Mark’s voice rang out again, louder this time, its unrelenting edge cutting through the crowd’s noise like a blade.

Jeno’s head turned, his expression guarded but calm, though his steps faltered slightly as he registered Mark’s approach. But Mark wasn’t stopping—his movements were fluid, his anger pouring into every stride. Then, without warning, the sharp crack of Mark’s fist connecting with Jeno’s jaw echoed through the gym, a sound so sudden and violent it seemed to suck the air from the room.

You gasped, your hands flying to your mouth as Jeno staggered back, clutching his face. The girls around you mirrored your shock, their whispers cutting off abruptly as the gym fell into stunned silence. The crowd turned as one, a ripple of movement spreading through the stands as every head swiveled to see what had just happened. Even the cheer girls on the Ravens team froze mid-laughter on the bench, their expressions shifting from confusion to alarm as the tension on the court became undeniable.

From the announcer’s booth, Donghyuck’s voice broke the stillness, his tone laced with exaggerated disbelief and a hint of glee. “Ladies and gentlemen, in case you missed it, Mark Lee just delivered a right hook straight out of a boxing match to none other than Jeno Lee! We interrupt this basketball game for what appears to be some serious family drama on the court. Stay tuned, folks—this might get even messier!”

Mark barely registered the narration, his entire body taut and vibrating with anger, his fists clenched at his sides. Jeno straightened, his jaw tightening as he brushed his knuckles across his face, his eyes dark and blazing as they locked onto Mark.

Jeno recovered quickly, his chest heaving as he straightened, his eyes narrowing into a dangerous glare. “What the fuck is your problem?” he growled, his voice low and taut with barely contained fury. He shoved Mark back, hard enough to make him stumble.

Mark caught himself, his sneakers skidding slightly against the polished floor, but the fury in his eyes didn’t waver for a second. “You. You’re a fucking idiot,” he spat, his voice venomous, loud enough for everyone around to hear.

Jeno’s face twisted, his jaw tightening as his own anger bubbled to the surface. “I’m the idiot?” he snapped, his voice rising. “You’re the one swinging fists like a fucking child!”

Mark’s lip curled, his glare unrelenting. “You ruined everything,” he hissed, each word seething with a rage so raw it made your chest tighten. “With her, with me—everything. You haven’t changed since that night on the river court all those months ago, and you never will. She was my best friend, Jeno—someone who trusted you, who cared about you, and you fucking destroyed that. What you did to her was unforgivable.”

Jeno’s laugh cut through the tension like a whip, sharp and cold, his head tilting back slightly as he cackled. The sound was unnerving, like he’d snapped, and when he looked at Mark again, his eyes were blazing with something equally as dangerous. “Oh? What I did?” he said, his tone dripping with derision. “Is that what she told you? Fucking ridiculous.”

“Shut up—” Mark’s voice cracked with the sheer force of his anger, but Jeno didn’t flinch.

“She broke my fucking heart, Mark!” Jeno interrupted, his voice trembling as it rose, cutting through the gym like a shout in a cavern. “Not the other way around. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Mark faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing as confusion seeped into his expression. “Jeno—”

“No,” Jeno bit out, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to steady his breath. “You don’t get to lecture me about her. I know what I lacked—I fucking know. But I didn’t care. I wanted her. I wanted to give her everything—all of me.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, the anger in his expression wavered, replaced with something far more vulnerable. “I was ready to be her boyfriend, to be the man she needed, but she—” He broke off, inhaling sharply as if the words physically hurt him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. “I fucking told her I loved her,” he said, his voice quieter now, each word a dagger sinking deeper into the air between them. “And she left. So don’t you dare stand there and act like you know. Don’t act like you fucking understand.”

Mark froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. “I…” he started, his voice uncharacteristically soft, but Jeno didn’t let him finish.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to love someone?” Jeno’s voice cracked again, and he took a step forward, his jaw tight, his fists clenching at his sides. “To let them in? To actually try?” He paused, his chest heaving as if the effort of holding himself together was too much. His eyes darted to you briefly, but he looked away just as fast, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. “I… I wanted her in my life. I was ready for her.”

He trailed off, his mouth opening like he wanted to say more, but then he shook his head violently, his expression hardening once again. “Doesn’t even fucking matter now, does it?” he muttered, his tone hollow as he turned away, leaving his words—and the room—heavy with an unbearable weight.

You hesitated, the tension in the air making it hard to breathe, but as you moved closer to the two of them, your gaze landed on Jeno’s face—and that’s when you saw it. Beneath the hard lines of his jaw and the anger radiating off him, his eyes were filled with something else entirely. Sadness, raw and unrelenting, clung to him like a shadow. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was loss, a kind of loneliness that seemed to consume him. Every forced laugh, every drunken hookup, every reckless choice was written in his expression now, no longer masked by his usual bravado. It was all there: the desperation to feel fine, to feel anything, and the crushing realization that nothing—not sex, not drugs, not distractions—was enough to numb the pain. He wasn’t angry; he was shattered.

You gulped, your throat tightening as you took it all in.

Jeno exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair as he avoided looking at either of you. “You know,” he started, his voice softer now, the edges rough but quieter, “I’ve never… I’ve never really loved anyone before. Not until her.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Mark before darting away again. “And the one time I do, the one time I let myself feel something real… she fucking leaves. Like it didn’t even matter.”

The weight of his confession hit the room like a blow, sucking all the air out of it. Mark’s reaction was immediate but silent—his body stiffened, his expression shifting in an instant. His wide eyes darted between you and Jeno, his brows furrowing slightly, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that had suddenly grown more complicated. The shock in his face was raw and unguarded, a stark contrast to his usual composed exterior.

He hadn’t known.

It was written in the tension of his jaw, the faint crease in his brow. He hadn’t known that his best friend hadn’t told him everything. That she had lied, keeping this part of her history from him. That she had omitted the truth about Jeno, about their relationship, and about how deeply tangled it had all been.

The charged air grew heavier, the weight of his confession pulling everything into silence. It wasn’t the time to speak, and you knew that, but the tension was unbearable, and the words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them. “You know I’m right here,” you mumbled, your voice soft but pointed, cutting through the suffocating atmosphere like a flicker of light.

Jeno’s head snapped toward you, his brows knitting together in surprise, as if the reminder of your presence jarred him from his spiral. Mark’s attention turned to you as well, his confusion evident, but your focus was on Jeno.

“As your ex-girlfriend,” you continued, your tone somewhere between teasing and exasperated, “I feel like I should be a little offended right now. You just said you’ve never loved anyone before—hello? What does that make me?”

Jeno turned to you slowly, his brows furrowed, his lips parting in disbelief. “You stop it,” he snapped, his tone sharp but not entirely unkind. “You literally told my mum that Mark is the first person you’ve ever—” He stopped mid-sentence, his words halting as his eyes caught the confusion clouding Mark’s face and the silent, pleading look you shot him. Shut up. Shut up!!!

Jeno clamped his mouth shut immediately, his jaw locking as he shifted his gaze away. His hand curled into a fist at his side, and for a second, you thought he might say something else, but instead, he exhaled deeply, shaking his head as though trying to push the moment away.

Mark turned to you then, his expression sharp with confusion, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What?” he whispered, the single word heavy with disbelief and suspicion.

Your eyes froze on his, your breath faltering as a wave of panic coursed through you. Every nerve in your body screamed for an escape, and before you could stop yourself, a strained, too-loud voice burst from your lips.

“Guys! Stop fighting!” you shouted, the words coming out rushed and uneven, a blatant attempt to break the tension and redirect Mark’s focus. “It’s not good for the team.”

Mark’s attention lingered on you for a second longer, his brow furrowing as if he wasn’t entirely buying it. The weight of his stare made your chest tighten, but you forced yourself to keep going, your tone firm though your voice trembled enough to betray how much this was affecting you.

“Stop it,” you said again, this time quieter but more resolute. “Please. Not today. This game is too important for this.”

Mark rolled his eyes dramatically, his lips twisting into a sarcastic smirk. “Well, we’ve stopped fighting, so you don’t have to say anything,” he muttered, his tone dripping with sass as he turned on his heel and started walking away, not even waiting for your response.

You blinked, stunned into silence, watching him retreat with a mix of frustration and exasperation bubbling in your chest.

Jeno huffed beside you, his jaw still tight, but he didn’t argue further. With a sharp exhale, he followed Mark’s lead, his steps brisk and heavy as he disappeared in the same direction. You stood there, your heart pounding, left to gather the pieces of a tension-filled moment that you weren’t sure how to fix.

Your shoulders sank as you trudged back to the girls, their eyes wide with curiosity, the unspoken questions hanging thick in the air. They were staring at you like they’d just witnessed the prelude to some unspeakable drama—which, to be fair, they had.

“I couldn’t tell him,” you admitted, your voice low and weighed down with regret. “He was fighting with Jeno.”

Karina opened her mouth, undoubtedly ready to pry further, but before you could elaborate or the others could bombard you with questions, the gym lights dimmed slightly, and the buzzer sounded. The game was about to begin.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate, the gym coming alive with the roar of the crowd. The Ravens cheerleaders took their places, pom-poms shimmering under the harsh lights as they began their chants, trying to inject some energy into the building. The players jogged onto the court, their sneakers squeaking against the polished wood floor. The starting lineup huddled briefly, Mark standing at the center, his head bowed as he barked instructions. But even from where you sat, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched as he tried to rally the team.

You blinked, confused. This wasn’t Mark’s job—it was Jeno’s. As captain, Jeno was always the one to lead the huddle, to set the tone for the team, yet tonight he stood off to the side, arms crossed and head bowed like he wanted to disappear. In his absence, Mark took charge, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the noise as he rallied the players. Even from where you sat, the tension in Mark’s shoulders and the tight set of his jaw were impossible to miss. It was unsettling, watching Jeno—typically the heart of the team—withdraw into himself while Mark filled a role that didn’t belong to him. The team looked fractured, like a machine trying to function with its gears misaligned, and the unease settled in your chest like a heavy weight. As the huddle broke and the players took their positions, you couldn’t shake the sense that this was only the beginning of their unraveling.

When the whistle blew, the game started with a flash of movement, the ball flying into the air for the tip-off. The energy was electric, but it took less than five minutes for the crowd’s excitement to sour.

The Ravens were unraveling.

Their usual crisp passes and seamless transitions had been replaced by frantic, disjointed attempts to salvage the ball. Plays broke down before they even began, and every missed shot sent ripples of unease through the packed arena.

Jeno, typically the anchor of the team, was a shadow of himself. He fumbled passes he would’ve handled effortlessly on any other night, hesitated on drives, and forced risky plays that ended in turnovers. The fire and focus he usually brought to the court were gone, replaced by frustration that radiated off him in waves.

Mark and Chenle exchanged a look after one glaring misstep—a wild pivot from Jeno that resulted in the ball bouncing out of bounds. It was an unspoken agreement: they couldn’t rely on him tonight. Mark stopped looking Jeno’s way altogether, funneling the ball to Chenle instead, who did his best to create opportunities out of nothing.

But even their combined efforts couldn’t mask the cracks in the team’s foundation. Missed rebounds, miscommunications, and a defense that couldn’t seem to hold its shape—they were falling apart. The tension from the locker room had followed them onto the court, infecting every movement, every decision.

“Not the start we were hoping for, folks,” Donghyuck’s voice rang out through the speakers, noticeably lacking his usual charisma. “Our boys are trailing hard against the Titans, and it’s not looking good. Jeno, buddy, I love you, but maybe stop dribbling like my grandma?”

The crowd offered a smattering of nervous laughter, but it was short-lived, quickly swallowed by restless murmurs as the Titans continued to dominate. Donghyuck’s voice returned, more serious this time, the weight of the moment pressing into his usually lighthearted tone. “And it looks like there’s more bad news for the Ravens. Their one shining light of hope tonight—Mark Lee—is being subbed off as his first 15 minutes of the half are up.”

The announcement drew a mix of groans and scattered applause from the crowd, but all eyes were on Mark as he made his way to the bench. His shoulders were tight with tension, and the frustration was clear in the way he tossed his towel onto the seat with a huff. He didn’t say a word as he sank down, but the sharp set of his jaw and the way he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, spoke volumes. He wasn’t happy with the decision, and it showed.

Donghyuck’s commentary continued, trying to salvage some optimism. “Alright, folks, let’s see what the rest of the team can pull together in Mark’s absence. This is where grit comes in—come on, Ravens, let’s get it together!”

But the crowd’s energy had already begun to wane, the hope they’d clung to in the first quarter fading fast as the Ravens continued to struggle. Mark’s absence only seemed to deepen the sense of unease that hung over the arena like a storm cloud.

In stark contrast, the Titans were clinical. Their passes were razor-sharp, their shots clean and precise, and their defense suffocating. They capitalized on every Raven mistake, widening the gap on the scoreboard with ruthless efficiency.

By the end of the first quarter, the Ravens were down by double digits, their energy visibly deflated.

From your seat, your eyes tracked Jeno. He glanced toward the stands, his gaze landing on Eric and Sunwoo near the back. Their expressions were unreadable, but something about the way Jeno stiffened made your stomach churn. Whatever he was dealing with, it wasn’t just the game.

The second quarter was no better. Jeno’s frustration boiled over in a moment of weakness—a bad call from the referee led to him slamming the ball against the court, earning a stern warning. Chenle kept to his rhythm, icing Jeno out as the Titans smelled blood and pressed harder. Although it was harder for him to do so without Mark.

“Come on, Ravens!” Donghyuck’s voice cracked with desperation. “Where’s the spark? The grit? Something—anything, guys!”

But no spark came. The cheerleaders’ chants grew quieter, their routines losing their usual fire. The crowd’s cheers dulled to murmurs, frustration and disappointment settling over the gym like a heavy fog.

By halftime, the scoreboard was brutal, the Ravens trailing by an almost insurmountable margin. The buzzer sounded, and the team trudged off the court, their heads low, their shoulders slumped.

The gym was stifling, the tension so thick it was hard to breathe. Conversations buzzed around you—snippets of complaints and murmurs of disbelief from fans who couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

You glanced back at Jeno as he trailed behind the rest of the team. His posture was rigid, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He didn’t speak to anyone as he shoved the locker room doors open and disappeared inside.

Whatever weight he was carrying, it was more than just the game. And as the halftime clock ticked down, you couldn’t help but wonder if the Ravens had any fight left in them—or if they’d already lost.

The second half was a transformation—everything had changed. When the Ravens stepped out of the locker room, they carried themselves like warriors ready for battle. Gone were the slumped shoulders and frustrated glances; in their place was a fire that made the air in the gym crackle with intensity. Their heads were high, their movements sharp, and their eyes glinted with a resolve so fierce it was almost tangible. The crowd felt it instantly—an electric shift from restless doubt to roaring anticipation.

“Alright, folks,” Donghyuck’s voice boomed over the speakers, his usual wit giving way to sharp focus. “This is it. Let’s see if our boys can pull off the comeback of the season. No pressure or anything.”

The buzzer sounded, and the game resumed with a ferocity that made the first half look like a scrimmage.

Jeno was the first to strike, and he was mesmerizing—raw power wrapped in effortless grace. He moved like a predator unleashed, every step calculated yet explosive, his sneakers squeaking against the polished court as he shifted directions with a speed that left defenders grasping at air. His dark hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat that glistened under the lights, accentuating the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw. His jersey clung to his lean, muscular frame, every flex and ripple of his body screaming strength and control.

His eyes burned with focus, his lips set in a determined line, and there was something magnetic about the way he carried himself—fluid yet commanding, his movements so seamless it was as if the ball was an extension of him. The frustration and hesitance of the first half had evaporated, replaced by a Jeno who ruled the court with unshakable authority, owning every inch like it was his birthright.

“Where was this energy in the first half?” Donghyuck exclaimed, his voice rising as the crowd erupted into cheers. “Now that’s the captain we know! Let’s go, Jeno!”

The Ravens’ defense locked in like a vice, suffocating every passing lane the Titans tried to exploit. Chenle played with wild confidence, draining a three-pointer from the corner that sent the crowd into a frenzy. The energy in the gym climbed higher with every possession, the momentum unmistakable. It was like the Ravens had remembered who they were, and the crowd fed off it, their cheers blending into a deafening roar.

Then, with 15 minutes left on the clock, the substitution the crowd had been waiting for finally happened. Mark stepped onto the court, and the reaction was instantaneous. The gym exploded with sound, the walls practically vibrating from the eruption of cheers.

Mark stepped onto the court, and the shift was immediate—commanding, undeniable. His movements were deliberate but effortless, every step grounded with purpose, his body taut like a coiled spring ready to explode. His jersey, damp with sweat, molded to his frame, emphasizing the sharp contours of his shoulders and the lean strength in his arms. His hair, messy and damp, framed his face in a way that only amplified the intensity in his expression—a razor-sharp focus that seemed to cut through everything around him. His gaze wasn’t just observant; it was piercing, dissecting the court like he could already see plays unfolding before they happened. There was a steadiness in him, an air of control that didn’t demand attention but seized it anyway, like gravity itself bent toward him. Every step, every movement, carried a quiet confidence that made it impossible to look away, as if the entire game had shifted to orbit around him.

Mark’s first play wasn’t just a statement—it was a reckoning. Jeno snatched a defensive rebound and, without hesitation, hurled the ball downcourt with the kind of pinpoint accuracy that required absolute trust. Mark caught it mid-stride, his movements smooth and controlled, his body cutting through the Titans’ defense like a blade slicing effortlessly through water. There was no wasted energy, no hesitation—just pure, unrelenting momentum that left his defenders scrambling in his wake.

Then he jumped.

It was the kind of jump that stole the breath from your lungs. Time seemed to stutter as his body soared, muscles taut and perfectly aligned, his form defying the laws of physics. His arm stretched upward, commanding the ball with a precision that was almost primal, before slamming it through the net with a force that sent a violent shudder through the backboard. The crack of the dunk reverberated through the gym, but it was instantly drowned out by the deafening roar of the crowd.

“Holy shit!” Donghyuck’s voice cracked, nearly lost in the chaos, but his excitement was palpable. “Mark Lee just obliterated the Titans! Somebody put that man on a throne!”

You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Every movement radiated power and control, but there was a beauty to it too—a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural. He wasn’t just playing; he was creating. Every pass felt intentional, every drive precise, every shot like a crescendo in a symphony he was conducting. The court wasn’t just a battleground; it was his stage, and he commanded it with a presence that left no room for doubt. The tide had shifted entirely, and the Ravens were riding on his shoulders.

Jeno and Mark moved like two halves of a perfect machine, their earlier discord dissolving into seamless synchronicity. Jeno crashed the boards with a ferocity that seemed to shake the rim itself, snagging the rebound before weaving through defenders, his movements aggressive yet calculated. His eyes locked with Mark’s for only a fraction of a second before he passed, the ball zipping across the court like it had a mind of its own. Mark caught it mid-spin, faking a shot so convincingly that two defenders stumbled. He pivoted with the grace of a dancer, his body low and controlled, and banked in a layup so smooth it drew gasps from the crowd.

Chenle followed with a dagger from the corner—a perfect three-pointer that sent the Ravens ahead for the first time all night. The gym exploded in cheers, but the celebration was short-lived.

The Titans were relentless. Each possession was a war, every point a battle hard-fought. The air grew suffocating with tension, every second dragging out into an eternity as the score stayed neck and neck.

With 30 seconds left on the clock, the game was tied. Sweat slicked faces and jerseys, breaths came in ragged gasps, but all eyes were on one person. Mark Lee.

The Ravens had possession, and the ball was in his hands. The gym fell into an unnatural hush, the kind of silence that amplifies every sneaker squeak, every breath, every heartbeat. It felt as though the entire world had paused, holding its breath, waiting.

“Mark Lee with the ball,” Donghyuck’s voice cut through the quiet, lower now, almost reverent. “30 seconds left. Score tied. This is it, folks. Everything comes down to this.”

Mark stood at the top of the key, his body still yet coiled with tension, like an arrow on the verge of release. His chest heaved, the jersey clinging to his frame, and his damp hair curled against his temple. His gaze swept the court with predator-like precision, scanning for openings, for weaknesses. The defenders circled him, their eyes locked on his every move, but Mark was unshakable, radiating an aura of control so complete it was almost unnerving.

You could barely breathe, your pulse pounding in your ears as you watched him. His movements were deliberate, each dribble slow and measured, a heartbeat counting down to something inevitable.

Then he moved.

Mark feinted left, his body snapping into motion with a speed and grace that left one defender off-balance. He spun right, slipping past another, his footwork immaculate as he surged toward the paint. Every muscle in his body seemed to ripple with purpose, his movements fluid and electric.

And then he jumped.

It wasn’t just a jump—it was a moment suspended in time. His body soared, defying gravity, the arc of his leap impossibly high. His arm extended, releasing the ball in a perfect, calculated trajectory. The ball rose, a slow-motion curve through the air, and for a heartbeat, the gym seemed to hold its breath with you.

Your eyes flicked to his face—his gaze wasn’t on the hoop. It was on you.

Mark’s eyes burned with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. There was something raw and unguarded in his expression, a silent message that reached you even through the chaos. It wasn’t triumph. It wasn’t even confidence. It was a connection so visceral, so personal, it sent a shiver down your spine.

The ball swished through the net just as the buzzer sounded.

For a second, silence reigned. Then the gym erupted.

The crowd exploded into chaos, their cheers deafening as fans surged to their feet, screaming in triumph. The Ravens bench emptied onto the court, players swarming Mark in a frenzy of victory. Donghyuck’s voice cracked over the speakers, struggling to match the pandemonium. “Mark Lee! Are you kidding me? That’s how you end a game! Somebody get this man a statue!”

But amidst the bedlam, your eyes never left Mark. He stood at the center of it all, his chest rising and falling, his jaw tight, his face glowing with exertion and something else entirely. And even as his teammates crowded around him, slapping his back and shouting his name, he searched the stands.

When his eyes found yours, everything else fell away.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, and the world blurred at the edges, leaving only him in sharp focus. That smile said everything—this is for you—and the weight of it hit you like a tidal wave, your chest tightening, your breath catching in your throat.

Your heart swelled, an overwhelming rush of emotions crashing over you as your hand flew to your mouth. Mark didn’t look away, not even as his teammates swarmed him, their cheers deafening, lifting him onto their shoulders like the champion he was. His jersey clung to his skin, damp with sweat, his face flushed from exertion, his hair wild and messy from the game. And yet, even as he was jostled by the celebratory chaos around him, his gaze cut through it all, searching for one thing.

Searching for you.

The pull between you felt magnetic, an invisible thread tightening as his eyes found yours again, unwavering. You couldn’t look away. His expression softened as the tension in his shoulders melted away, his focus narrowing until it felt like no one else existed. There was something unspoken in his gaze—want, relief, and something deeper that made your knees weak.

Your heart thundered in your chest as you stepped toward him, weaving through the crowd with a determination that pushed past every lingering fan and excited teammate in your way. Each step felt like a bridge closing, the distance between you shrinking until you were finally there, standing just feet from him.

Mark’s body stilled, his head turning as if he felt you before he even saw you. His eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the noise of the gym seemed to fade into nothingness.

“Nice shot,” you said, your voice light, though your hands trembled slightly at your sides.

His grin widened, his expression softening even further, though the teasing glint in his eyes remained. “Nice legs,” he shot back, his voice low and warm, his gaze dipping down and lingering before returning to yours, sparking heat in your chest.

You let out a soft laugh, ducking your head in an attempt to hide the blush blooming across your cheeks. “Shut up,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Mark stepped closer, the space between you dissolving until his presence was all-consuming. His hand reached out, brushing against your arm lightly, grounding you in the storm of emotions swirling around you both. “I mean it,” he murmured, his voice dropping, intimate and unguarded in a way that made your pulse quicken.

Your eyes flicked up to his, and the intensity there left you breathless. It wasn’t just triumph or joy—it was a quiet promise, something raw and deeply personal that made it impossible to look away. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm as he murmured, “I didn’t just make that shot for the team, you know.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out, the weight of his confession hanging between you like a thread waiting to be pulled. His hand slid down, brushing yours, and his fingers curled slightly as if asking permission to close the gap completely.

“Mark,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked up at him, every ounce of your emotion laid bare in your gaze.

His smile turned softer, more private, his fingers intertwining with yours as he stepped just a fraction closer. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice filled with so much warmth and certainty it felt like it could steady you both. “I know.”

The gym buzzed around you—teammates slapping each other’s backs, fans shouting congratulations, Donghyuck still narrating the chaos with gleeful commentary—but it all felt distant. All that mattered was the steady thrum of Mark’s heartbeat against your cheek and the warmth of his arms around you.

His embrace felt like home, grounding you in a moment you wanted to stretch on forever. But his eyes, so intent on yours, eventually shifted, drawn away by the sound of his name being called. A few of the guys waved him over, their voices cutting through the background noise, demanding his attention.

Mark hesitated, his arms loosening just slightly, though he didn’t let go entirely. He pulled back enough to meet your gaze, his hands still resting lightly on your waist. “There’s a party tonight,” he said, his voice soft but hopeful, his lips curving into a small, boyish smile. “Some of the guys wanna celebrate the win. Do you want to come with me?”

He deserved this—he deserved every second of celebration, of joy, of pride that came with a victory like tonight’s. He’d earned the right to revel in the exhilaration of it, surrounded by the teammates and fans who had cheered him on. And yet, the weight of what you wanted to say pressed against your ribs, relentless and suffocating. It clawed at you, demanding release, and the idea of holding it in for even one more moment felt unbearable.

But you couldn’t take this from him. Not now.

So you shook your head, your smile widening despite the turmoil twisting inside you. “Go,” you urged softly, your voice steady even as your heart raced. “Enjoy your night. You deserve it.”

Mark’s frown deepened slightly, his thumb brushing over your hip in a way that felt both grounding and heartbreaking. His touch lingered, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “I’ll come to yours tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he was reluctant to let you go. “We can talk then, and you can finally tell me what you’ve been wanting to say—”

“I love you.”

The words left you before you could stop them, trembling and raw, carrying all the weight of the fear and longing you’d bottled up for too long. They hung in the air between you, fragile and unguarded, as if daring the world to shatter them.

Mark froze. His hands, which had been resting lightly on your waist, tightened reflexively, pulling you closer as if he needed the anchor. His eyes locked onto yours, wide and unblinking, the vulnerability in them so palpable it made your chest ache. You could feel his heartbeat quicken under your touch, his breaths shallow as he tried to process what you’d just said.

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest, and the silence stretched like an eternity, your throat tightening as you waited, terrified and hopeful all at once. Slowly, his gaze softened, the sharp edges of shock melting into something warmer, something deeper. His lips parted, but no words came, only a shaky exhale that mirrored the unsteady rhythm of your own.

His composure cracked then, his jaw tightening as his eyes glistened. He didn’t look away, not for a second, even as a tear slipped down his cheek. You gasped softly, your hands moving instinctively, brushing against his face to catch it. “Baby,” you whispered, your voice trembling, the word breaking as it left you.

He leaned into your touch, his own hand covering yours as he held it against his face. His eyes closed briefly, his lashes damp as he let out a breath that sounded like relief and pain all at once. When he opened them again, his gaze burned with something raw, something that made your knees weak.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this,” you began, your voice soft and cracking, every word spilling out like a confession. “I’ve felt it for so long, but every time I thought I was ready, I’d get scared. Scared of what you’d think, scared of messing everything up—scared of this, of us.”

Mark’s thumb brushed against the back of your hand, his touch steadying even as your voice wavered. You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping for a moment before you found the strength to look back up at him.

“Loving you… it isn’t about facing my fears,” you whispered, the realization sinking in as you spoke it aloud. “It’s about realizing that you are the calm in the chaos. You’re what makes everything feel less scary. You’re what grounds me, Mark. And I’ve spent so long fighting it, trying to avoid it, but I can’t do that anymore. I don’t want to do that anymore.”

The truth spilled out, raw and unfiltered. “You’re in my head every second of every day. You’re the first thought when I wake up, the last before I fall asleep, and you’ve taken over everything in between too. I can’t shake it, and I don’t want to anymore. You make me feel safe, like the world could fall apart, and I’d still have you to hold onto.”

Your voice cracked, and a tear slipped down your cheek, but you kept going. “But it’s more than that. You see me—all of me. The parts I’m proud of, the ones I try to hide—and you never flinch. You never look away. And that scares me because it makes me feel like I could deserve something this good. That we could deserve this.”

Mark’s hand tightened around yours, his jaw clenching as he took a shaky breath, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’ve spent so long running,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because I didn’t think I was ready. But being without you has made me realize something. I’ll never feel ready—not the way I want to. But the thought of losing you?” You shook your head, your tears coming faster now. “That scares me more than anything else ever could.”

You stepped closer, your hands trembling as you reached for him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jersey. His warmth surrounded you, steadying you as the words tumbled out, heavy with truth.

“I love you,” you said, your voice breaking but resolute. “I love you so much, Mark. And I don’t want to spend another second pretending otherwise.”

Mark’s lips parted, his breath shaky, and his eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache, the raw emotion in his gaze carving its way into your soul. Slowly, with deliberate tenderness, he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking your cheeks. His lips curved into the most disarming, tender smile you’d ever seen, the kind that felt like a sunrise breaking over your heart.

He moved even closer, his body nearly flush against yours, the world around you fading into a soft, hazy blur. The gym buzzed in the background—teammates laughing, fans shouting, Donghyuck’s voice narrating with endless energy—but it all felt distant, like you’d stepped into a scene pulled straight out of a movie. The bright overhead lights glowed like halos, illuminating the wisps of steam rising from the court, the air charged with electricity, alive with anticipation.

Mark’s eyes stayed locked on yours, his attention wholly absorbed, and it was clear in his gaze that whatever plans he had for the night no longer mattered. All that mattered was you.

His name fell from your lips like a prayer, soft and reverent, as your fingers reached up to cup his face. Your thumbs grazed his cheekbones, your heart pounding as you leaned in, ready to close the distance, to seal your confession with a kiss.

But before your lips could meet, a voice broke through the moment. “Mark! You coming?” Chenle’s shout echoed across the gym, shattering the fragile bubble around you.

Mark groaned audibly, his forehead dropping to rest briefly against yours. Then, without looking away, he shouted back, “No!” The word was abrupt, forceful, but it was cut off almost immediately as he closed the distance between you.

His lips met yours, soft and searching, the kiss carrying a tenderness that made your knees weak. It wasn’t hurried or frantic—this was Mark, steady and sure, pouring every ounce of his emotions into that single moment.

You pulled back after a beat, though your hands remained on his face, your touch grounding him as much as it steadied you. Tears lined your lashes, but your gaze didn’t waver, and neither did your voice.

“I love you,” you repeated, the words pouring out of you like they were the truest thing you’d ever said. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you at the river court. You were so different from anyone I’d ever known—quiet, steady, but with this energy, like you were carrying the weight of the world and still managing to make it look effortless. Even then, I knew you were going to mean everything to me.”

“You’ve always seen me,” you continued, your voice low and trembling, though a quiet strength carried it forward. “That day at the river court, you didn’t just see me standing there—you saw through me. Even when I’ve been guarded, messy, selfish, or cruel, you stayed. You stayed and cared when I didn’t think I deserved it. When I didn’t think I deserved you.”

Tears welled in his eyes now, glistening under the gym lights as his jaw tightened, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something, but you stopped him with a gentle shake of your head.

“I love how patient you are,” you said, your thumbs brushing along his jawline. “How you’ve never pushed me to be something I’m not but still made me want to be better just by being around you. I love how you remember everything, like how to bring me back when I zone out or how I need the edge of the blanket tucked under my chin to fall asleep. You make me feel so… safe, like no matter what happens, you’ll be there.”

“And it’s not just that, Mark,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you leaned closer, your forehead almost brushing his. “It’s the way you love everyone so deeply, the way you look at the world with so much hope, even when you’ve been given every reason not to. It’s the way you talk about your music, like it’s the one place you can put all the pieces of yourself that don’t fit anywhere else. I love all of it. I love you.”

Mark’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening with an emotion so raw it sent a ripple through you. “Come here,” he murmured, the words low and edged with a quiet urgency that made your skin tingle. The irony of his demand wasn’t lost on you—you were already impossibly close—but the way he said it felt like he was asking for more than proximity. He wanted all of you.

His gaze was steady, burning but gentle, as if he was trying to memorize every curve of your face, every unspoken thought in your eyes. The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, soft and unhurried, yet it left your knees weak, your heart thrumming in your chest like a wild drumbeat.

Your palms flattened against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp under your touch as you felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. It was strong, fast, and grounding in a way that made you feel both nervous and completely at ease. “Say it back then,” you whispered, your voice trembling, the words more a plea than a demand.

Mark’s lips curved into the softest, most intimate smile, his forehead dipping closer to yours. His fingers tightened on your waist, not possessive but anchoring, like he needed to hold onto you as much as you needed him. “I’ve already said it,” he murmured, his voice low, raspy with emotion, as if the words were carved out of him. He tilted his head, his lips brushing just barely against the shell of your ear, and his next words were softer, heavier. “But I’ll say it again. I love you. I’ve loved you longer than I’ve been able to admit. And I’ll love you forever.”

The weight of his confession made your breath catch, and before you could even process it, his lips met yours. The kiss wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was soft, deliberate, and consuming, the kind of kiss that made the world around you fall away. His mouth moved against yours with a gentleness that contrasted with the way his fingers pressed into your hips, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

His tongue brushed against yours, slow and intoxicating, a deliberate exploration that made heat pool low in your stomach. His hands slid up your sides, cradling your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks in a way that made the moment feel impossibly tender. It was like he was pouring everything he felt—every unsaid word, every buried longing—into the kiss.

The noises he made—soft, needy, quiet murmurs that came straight from his chest—made your skin flush and your fingers curl against him. You lost yourself in the warmth of his body, the way his lips molded so perfectly to yours, the intensity of his presence eclipsing everything else.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, both of you catching your breath, the air between you thick with something unspoken but undeniable. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when he opened them again, they were filled with so much warmth it made your chest ache. His voice, low and tender, broke the silence. “My love,” he whispered, the words more a vow than a statement.

And you believed him. Fully, deeply, completely.

For a moment, the world dissolved into nothing but him—the warmth of his chest beneath your palms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you in the sea of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. Your breath trembled as you gathered yourself, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jersey. When you opened your eyes, his gaze was waiting, unwavering, and so full of tenderness that it made your chest ache.

“Come home with me?” you whispered, your voice small, almost shy, like you were asking him out for the first time instead of speaking to the man who had just kissed you like he’d pour his soul into it. The words wavered with vulnerability, a quiet plea wrapped in the softest of tones.

Mark’s lips quirked into a slow, easy smile, the kind that made you feel like the only person in the world. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer, his touch warm and steady. “Mmm, of course,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, but his eyes gave him away—they were filled with something deeper, something unshakable. “That party was probably gonna be dead anyway.”

He didn’t even glance back at his friends, his attention solely on you as he laced his fingers with yours. His grip was firm but gentle, and the way his thumb brushed over the back of your hand sent a shiver racing up your spine. His other arm remained wrapped protectively around your waist as he guided you toward the exit, his presence magnetic, making it impossible to think about anything but him.

As the cool night air hit your skin, Mark glanced over at you, his grin turning playful, his eyes sparkling under the streetlights. “You know,” he started, his tone casual but with a teasing edge that made your stomach flutter, “my girlfriend looks really fucking hot tonight.”

You let out a soft giggle, rolling your eyes, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed how much his words got to you. “Shut up,” you muttered, but your voice turned playful as you leaned in closer, your lips brushing just past his ear. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you take it all off later.”

Mark suddenly stopped, his hand still in yours, and lifted your arm above your head. Before you could question him, he spun you around in the middle of the empty sidewalk, his whistle low and appreciative. “Damn,” he murmured, his voice dropping as his eyes swept over you with unabashed admiration.

You stumbled slightly at the end of the spin, and his hand found your waist again, steadying you effortlessly as he pulled you flush against him. His lips dipped to your ear, his breath warm and teasing against your skin. “I can’t believe that little cheer you gave me on the court earlier” he murmured, his voice low and laced with playful heat, “you’re not allowed to cheer my name like that again.”

You blinked up at him, confused for a moment before realization hit. He was referring to the way you’d screamed his name during the game, your voice echoing through the packed arena. The memory flooded back, and your cheeks burned instantly.

Your steps faltered as his words replayed in your head. “I was just supporting my boyfriend,” you managed, your voice soft and a little breathless, the word boyfriend leaving your lips shyly.

Mark’s reaction was immediate, subtle but unmistakable. His pupils darkened, his jaw tightened briefly, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, as though he was fighting to suppress a grin.

“Excited and happy, huh?” he echoed, his tone light but the intensity in his gaze made your stomach flip.

“It’s true,” you replied, your voice airy and playful, though the way his eyes bore into yours made it hard to breathe.

Mark’s smirk deepened, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly. “It sounded like you were moaning, baby,” he teased, his tone dripping with mischief.

Without missing a beat, you deadpanned, “I probably was.”

The growl that rumbled from his chest was low and immediate, the sound vibrating through your body as he pulled you even closer. His nose brushed along your temple, his lips skimming the corner of your mouth in a touch so soft it sent a jolt straight through you.

“Mmmh,” he hummed, his voice dropping further, warm and intimate against your ear. “I could hear that forever.”

The way he looked at you made the world feel impossibly small, as though everything else had faded away and left only the two of you walking under the stars. His arm tightened around your waist, anchoring you to him, while his lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

You melted into his touch, the warmth of his hand seeping into your skin, his presence grounding and utterly consuming. His silence spoke louder than words, his actions weaving together a quiet promise that settled deep in your chest.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, trembling slightly, like the words were slipping out before he could stop them. “You feel like home,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple as he held you closer. “You always have.”

And as the two of you walked into the night, his arm around you and his hand laced with yours, you couldn’t help but feel like you were exactly where you belonged.

──────────────────────────────

“Mark,” you whined softly, your voice trembling with a mix of need and confusion as you sat naked on his bed, your arms wrapping around yourself for some semblance of comfort. Your skin felt warm under the dim light of his room, the sheets beneath you cool and smooth. “What are you doing? Come here.”

Mark paced the room, shirtless and in just his sweatpants, his dark hair tousled from where your hands had been moments ago. His broad shoulders flexed with every step, his jaw tight with focus as he scanned the shelves lining the wall. You couldn’t help but feel an ache watching him, his lean, defined muscles illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

“I’m looking for something,” he muttered, his tone calm but deliberate.

“Looking for something?” you huffed, frustrated. “You brought me here instead of my place, got me naked, and now you’re—”

“Be patient, baby,” he interrupted, his eyes flicking to yours with a playful glint. “We’ve got a whole lifetime of sex.”

You blinked, stunned silent for a moment, then groaned, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “What are you even—”

“Found it!” Mark exclaimed suddenly, turning around with a triumphant grin and a dusty yearbook in his hands.

You blinked, completely thrown off as he finally made his way to you. Sitting beside you on the bed, he opened the book with a kind of excitement that was impossible to ignore. “I want to show you something,” he said, flipping through the pages with quick fingers until he stopped at one. His eyes lit up as he held it out in front of you without saying a word.

Your gaze fell to the page, scanning the colorful scribbles of goodbyes, good lucks, and bright, bubbly messages. But one thing stood out immediately: your name, not even your full name, written in plain black ink, bold and monotone amidst the vibrant chaos.

You looked up at him, your lips parting slightly in surprise, and he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. His touch was soft, reverent, but when he pulled back, the glint in his eyes returned. “Imagine 14-year-old me,” he began, his voice warm and teasing. “I had a massive crush on the prettiest girl in our year—her name’s Y/N. You know her?”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Oh, shut up.”

He chuckled, flipping the yearbook closed and tossing it aside before sitting back on his heels. “I finally mustered the courage to ask her to sign my yearbook. It took weeks of mentally hyping myself up. I’d be walking to her, and she’d always be… annoyingly with my brother, who I hated at the time.” He smirked, shaking his head. “And you know what she wrote? Her name. Just her name, not even her full name.”

“I didn’t know you then!” you protested, jabbing his shoulder playfully, but your cheeks flushed under his intense gaze.

He reached for your hand, his fingers threading through yours with the kind of tenderness that made your chest ache. His expression softened, his eyes searching yours as if trying to gauge whether it was safe to bare the parts of himself he’d hidden for so long. “You probably don’t even remember, but in high school, I could barely look at you without feeling like my heart was going to stop,” he admitted, his voice trembling, quieter now, heavy with vulnerability. “You never paid me any attention—not really—but you were the first girl I ever liked. No, more than liked.”

His lips parted, and a faint, almost wistful smile crossed his face. “You were beautiful,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Not just the kind of beautiful people talk about in passing. You were the kind of beautiful that made me trip over my own words, the kind that made my palms sweat every time you were near. Everything about you made me nervous—how you laughed, the way you wore your hair, the way you moved like you belonged wherever you were.”

His thumb brushed softly over the back of your hand, his gaze distant now, lost somewhere in the memory. “I used to sneak into those practices, even though I wasn’t on the team. I’d sit in the bleachers and tell my friends I was just watching the game, but really, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. And God, I hated it, how you were so far out of reach, how you were with someone else, how I couldn’t even imagine you ever noticing me.”

You felt your chest tighten, the weight of his words settling over you, so full of unspoken longing and quiet heartbreak. “Mark…” you whispered, his name catching in your throat as his honesty cracked something open inside you.

He met your gaze again, and his faint smile faltered, replaced by something raw, unguarded. “You were untouchable back then. I was this awkward, hopeless kid who didn’t know how to talk to girls, let alone someone like you. You seemed perfect—too perfect for someone like me. You had everything: the friends, the confidence, Jeno. And I had… nothing that could ever compare.”

He paused, his forehead brushing lightly against yours, his voice dropping even lower, a confession whispered into the small space between you. “I told myself it didn’t matter. That you’d never see me the way I saw you. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even when it hurt, I couldn’t stop.”

His free hand slid up, his thumb brushing gently along your jawline, the touch soft, almost hesitant, as if grounding himself in the moment. His gaze held yours, steady but vulnerable, the weight of his emotions unspoken yet palpable. “For so long,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet longing, “I’d look at you and wonder if you could ever love me back. If someone like you—so effortless, so full of light—could ever see someone like me.”

A faint, self-conscious smile crossed his face, his thumb brushing over your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. “I tried to tell myself not to think about it, not to hope for something that felt so far away. But I couldn’t help it. Every time I saw you, every time you smiled or laughed… I’d find myself wishing. Wishing for even a moment that you’d see me the way I saw you.”

His forehead dipped lightly against yours, his breath warm as it mingled with yours. His voice softened, trembling with the honesty of his confession. “And now, with you here like this… I don’t know how to make sense of it. That you’d ever love me back the way I’ve always loved you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, his words settling deep in your chest, so sincere they made your heart swell painfully. Your fingers slid up, tangling gently in the hair at the nape of his neck as you blinked up at him, your breaths shallow, your emotions teetering on the edge.

He shifted, his weight settling on top of you, his touch reverent as his hand cradled your jaw. “I can’t believe you’re mine now,” he murmured, his tone soft but laced with disbelief, like it was a truth he couldn’t quite fathom.

“I’ve always been yours,” you whispered, the words spilling from your lips like a confession, unfiltered and raw. Your fingertips traced along the curve of his jaw, soft and deliberate, as if grounding yourself in the moment. His eyes darkened instantly, a quiet intensity swirling within them that sent a shiver coursing down your spine.

Mark’s hand slid up your waist, his touch warm and steady, before resting lightly at the nape of your neck, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin there. He leaned in closer, his breath fanning against your lips, his voice low and barely audible. “Say that again,” he murmured, his tone full of quiet need, like he couldn’t bear to hear anything else.

You tilted your chin up, your lips brushing his as you whispered again, softer but with no less conviction, “I’ve always been yours.”

His response wasn’t verbal; it came in the way his lips captured yours, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second of the moment. His fingers tangled gently in your hair, his other hand tightening at your waist to pull you closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss deepened, not hurried but consuming, each movement of his mouth against yours saying everything words couldn’t.

He leaned back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes softened, something deep and nostalgic flickering behind them as he held you close. His voice was quiet but steady when he finally spoke. “You know, I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “What do you mean?”

His lips twitched into a small, teasing smile, but there was an unmistakable fondness in his expression. “You’re the reason I got back into basketball.”

“What?” You frowned, utterly confused.

Mark’s smile widened slightly as he shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “You threw a basketball at my face when we were 12 years old.”

Your jaw dropped, a mix of horror and disbelief flooding you. “I did what?”

“It was during a sports class at school,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving upward as if the memory played vividly in his mind. “You just hurled a basketball, and it nailed me right in the face. I think I cried to my mum about it later that night.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, a gasp escaping you. “Oh my God, Mark! That’s awful! I’m so sorry, baby,” you said, your tone trembling with guilt.

He chuckled, his thumb brushing against your cheek, grounding you in the moment. “Don’t be,” he murmured softly. “I don’t even think you meant to do it. You felt bad afterward.”

“That’s a relief,” you muttered, though your brows furrowed. “But I still don’t get it. Why would I throw a basketball at you? And why don’t I remember this at all?”

Mark’s smile grew softer, his eyes warm as they held yours. “Because for you, it was just another day. For me, it changed everything.”

You blinked, unsure what to say, the weight of his words catching you off guard.

“You didn’t throw it at me on purpose,” he continued, his voice tinged with amusement. “You were aiming for the hoop, but you were standing so far away. And when it hit me, you came over, said sorry, and then challenged me. You told me I wasn’t allowed to throw it back unless I made a shot from there—at least ten meters away.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “And?”

“And I did it,” he said, his tone growing softer, the teasing melting into something more vulnerable. “You didn’t know, but I’d just quit the little leagues team the week before. I was embarrassed, frustrated—ready to give up on basketball completely. But when I made that shot… something clicked. You didn’t know what I was going through, but you made me feel like I could prove something to myself. Like I was capable of more.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes locking with yours, a quiet intensity in them now. “That day taught me not to give up on the things I love just because a few people are being idiots. It reminded me that I was good and that I loved the game too much to walk away. I joined another team that week. And… the rest is history.”

The weight of his confession settled in the space between you, warm and unshakable. You stared at him, your heart swelling as his words wrapped around you, heavy with meaning.

“Mark…” you whispered, your hand lifting to brush against his cheek, your thumb grazing his skin with the same tenderness you felt blooming in your chest.

His eyes softened even further, his head dipping slightly as he leaned into your touch. “You’ve been changing my life since before I even realized it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss so soft it left you breathless.

When he pulled back, his voice was no more than a whisper, full of quiet reverence. “It’s always been you.”

Your breath hitched, your heart swelling with a mix of emotions too overwhelming to name. “Mark,” you murmured, your voice trembling, as if his words had unlocked something raw inside you. Your fingertips brushed against his jaw, your touch soft but deliberate, grounding you both. “Then don’t just tell me,” you whispered, your gaze steady and full of quiet intensity. “Show me.”

Mark’s grin deepened, slow and deliberate, as he took a step closer. His bare feet brushed against yours, the heat of his body radiating into you, a breath away from pressing fully into you. Your hands instinctively found his chest, your palms flattening against the warmth of his skin. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your touch felt grounding, as if the world had melted away and left only the two of you. His muscles flexed subtly beneath your fingers, the silent invitation undeniable.

His eyes, dark and heavy with intensity, traced your face like he was memorizing you, committing every inch of you to memory. You felt exposed in the best way, his gaze unraveling you as your fingers lightly explored the planes of his chest.

When he kissed you again, it was slower, more deliberate, his lips soft yet commanding as they melded with yours. His hands slid to your waist, his grip tightening slightly as he pulled you impossibly closer. The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that left you breathless, teasing and coaxing until your knees felt weak.

He broke away only to trail his lips along your jaw, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. His teeth grazed your skin, just enough to make you gasp, before his mouth pressed tenderly to the spot beneath your ear.

“Wait,” you whispered, your voice trembling but firm as you gently pushed back just enough to meet his gaze.

His brow furrowed slightly, his chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths. “Take me to my apartment,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his. “I told you I had something waiting for you there.”

Mark’s head tipped back slightly as a low moan escaped him, his grip on your waist tightening. “Baby,” he groaned, his voice rough with need. “You know how long I’ve been waiting for this? What do you even have for me back at yours?”

You smiled, playful but sweet, your fingers lightly tracing the line of his collarbone. “It’s a surprise,” you teased softly.

“Y/N,” he rasped, his voice heavy with a mix of desperation and amusement.

Your grin widened, and you leaned in, your voice a soft whisper against his lips. “I just made my room look pretty—candles, fairy lights, silk bed sheets, and pyjamas,” you murmured, pausing just long enough to watch his reaction. “I even have a new lingerie set laid out on the bed.”

Mark moaned, the sound low and full of raw need, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands slid up your sides, gripping you like he couldn’t bear the wait. “You’re going to kill me,” he muttered, his voice thick with longing. “Do you know what you’re doing to me right now?”

You smiled, letting your lips ghost over his as you whispered, “So let’s go, hm? I’ve been really excited to show you all day.”

Mark’s breath hitched again, his lips brushing yours in a fleeting kiss before he growled softly, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice low and resolute as he led you toward the door, his urgency palpable.

──────────────────────────────

The candlelight flickered softly against the walls, casting long shadows that swayed with every subtle movement. The air felt thick, not just with the warm scent of cinnamon and vanilla but with the weight of anticipation, of the energy crackling between you. Your silk pajamas clung to your skin, the soft pink fabric whispering against your curves as you shifted beneath him. The unbuttoned top parted with ease, revealing the delicate lingerie beneath—lace so fine it barely concealed you, the sheer cups of the bralette stretching over the soft swell of your breasts, the faintest hint of your nipples peeking through. The matching panties sat high on your hips, hugging your curves with a teasing delicacy, the thin bands of lace framing the exposed skin with maddening allure.

Mark’s gaze roamed over you, dark and heavy, like he was trying to memorize every inch. He leaned closer, his hands braced on either side of you, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. His hoodie hit the floor in a careless heap, the smooth expanse of his chest coming into view. The faint glow of the fairy lights illuminated every muscle, the dip of his collarbone, the subtle ripple of his abs. His body was unfairly perfect, but it was the hunger in his eyes that made your breath hitch.

“Pretty, baby,” he whispered, his voice thick and laced with awe. The words were a quiet exhale, spoken as though he didn’t mean for them to escape. His hands slid under the loose silk of your pajama top, pushing it aside completely, his fingers brushing over the delicate straps of your bralette before skimming down to the lace band. The reverence in his touch made you ache, the way he held you as if you were something sacred.

Your laughter spilled out, soft and breathless, breaking the tension like the gentlest crack in a dam. His hair tickled your cheek as he leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth. The intimacy of it—the way his chuckle rumbled low in his chest, the way your bodies pressed together with no urgency, only desire—was intoxicating.

Mark climbed fully onto the bed, his thighs bracketing your hips as he caged you beneath him. He hovered, careful not to crush you, his weight balanced yet grounding. His lips found your cheek first, then your nose, then the soft plane of your jaw. Each kiss was unhurried, tender, as though he were savoring every second. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath against your skin. The sincerity in his tone made your heart twist, a warmth blooming in your chest that threatened to spill over.

“I love you more,” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips. Your hands slid up to rest on his shoulders, your fingers pressing into the solid strength there. The heat of his skin under your palms was grounding, a reminder that this moment was real.

His lips trailed lower, brushing over the curve of your neck before finding the sensitive skin of your collarbone. His kisses grew wetter, hungrier, his tongue darting out to taste you. A quiet hum of pleasure escaped him as he worked his way down, his hands slipping beneath your thighs to pull your legs higher around his hips. The shift pressed his cock harder against your center, the thick ridge of him dragging against your folds even through the thin fabric of your panties.

“Mark,” you breathed, your voice catching as his teeth grazed the edge of your collarbone. He chuckled softly, the sound muffled against your skin, but there was a roughness to it now, a raw edge of restraint barely held in check.

He kissed his way down, his mouth following the line of your ribs, his hands guiding your body to arch into him. When his lips closed around your nipple, a sharp gasp escaped you, the sensation sending a jolt straight to your core. The lace of your bralette offered little resistance, and when his teeth tugged gently, the faintest hint of pain mixed with pleasure, your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you.

“I just can’t get enough of you,” he murmured, his words muffled against your skin. His tongue swirled over the sensitive peak before he sucked harder, his groan vibrating against you. His free hand cupped your other breast, his thumb circling your nipple with just enough pressure to make you squirm.

Your laughter turned into a soft moan, the sound swallowed by the low growl in Mark’s throat. His lips traveled lower, his teeth grazing the edge of your bralette before he slid it down, his hands eager but never hurried. He pressed a kiss to the valley between your breasts, his tongue darting out to taste the skin there, as though he couldn’t bear to leave any part of you untouched.

When he finally moved lower, his kisses trailing down your stomach, you shivered beneath him. His hands slipped under your hips, lifting you slightly, and he pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh. The heat of his breath against your skin made you gasp, the intimacy of the gesture leaving you trembling.

The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, the slick heat of you drawing a low groan from his throat as he moved with an unhurried, aching slowness. He whispered your name, soft and reverent, the sound pulling your gaze to his like a magnet. The weight of his eyes on yours left you breathless, a quiet intensity passing between you that felt more intimate than anything else. He didn’t need to speak; the way his forehead pressed against yours, the way his body trembled as he began to push in, said everything. The stretch was slow, deliberate, each inch stealing the air from your lungs as your hands gripped his shoulders for anchoring.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he filled you inch by inch, the burn giving way to a fullness that left you gasping. He stilled, his chest heaving as he fought for control, his body trembling against yours. “I love you,” he whispered again, his lips brushing over yours. The words grounded you, the intimacy of the moment leaving you breathless.

His thrusts were slow at first, deliberate, each movement carrying the weight of his devotion. He kissed you deeply, his mouth moving over yours as though he couldn’t stand the idea of being apart, even for a second. The rhythm built gradually, the drag of him inside you hitting every sensitive spot, leaving you trembling beneath him.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His lips found your throat, his teeth grazing over your pulse before he sucked gently, leaving faint marks that would bloom into bruises by morning. His hips rolled, the angle changing just enough to make your back arch, a broken gasp escaping you as he hit that perfect spot.

“Mark,” you cried, your voice high and desperate, your hands tangling in his hair. He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting yours, and the intensity in his gaze made your chest tighten. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, his tone commanding yet tender. “I want to feel you come for me.”

The pressure built to a fever pitch, the knot in your stomach winding tighter with every stroke. He shifted again, angling his hips to press deeper, and the sensation sent you spiraling. Your body arched against him, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm ripped through you, wave after wave of pleasure leaving you trembling.

Mark groaned, the sound raw and broken, as he followed moments later. His thrusts turned erratic, desperate, before he buried himself completely, his release spilling into you with a warmth that made you gasp. His forehead pressed to yours, his dark eyes holding your gaze as though he needed to see every flicker of emotion in your expression.

Mark’s breathing was heavy against your ear, his chest brushing yours with each slow, deliberate thrust. The room seemed to hum with the weight of the moment, the flickering candlelight catching the sheen of sweat on his skin, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the stray strands of damp hair sticking to his forehead. His hands slid along your sides, rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, anchoring you in place as he moved.

“Tell me what you feel,” he whispered, his voice low and ragged, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The question wasn’t just a command; it was a plea, the kind that begged for honesty, for you to meet him in the vulnerability of it all.

“Full,” you breathed, your nails dragging across his back. “Like you’re everywhere, Mark.” Your voice trembled as the stretch of him sent another wave of pleasure spiraling through you. He groaned, the sound guttural, almost pained, as though your words had hit something deep inside him.

His hips shifted again, angling upward to press against that devastating spot that left you gasping, your thighs tightening instinctively around his waist. He pulled back, just enough to see your face, his forehead pressed against yours. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, pupils blown wide with desire, but there was something softer there too, something raw and unguarded that made your chest ache.

“I want to stay here,” he murmured, his words broken between uneven breaths. “Like this. With you.” His lips brushed over yours, the kiss impossibly tender, a contrast to the way his body rolled against yours, deep and deliberate.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could think, your hands fisting in his hair as you pulled him closer. Your bodies fit together as though they had been made for this moment, every brush of his skin against yours, every inch of him inside you, speaking a language neither of you needed to translate.

His thrusts grew harder, more insistent, his restraint beginning to crack under the weight of his need. The bed creaked faintly beneath you, the sound blending with the soft moans and whispers that filled the room. The pace was deliberate but relentless, each motion calculated to drive you higher, to pull you closer to the edge.

“Mark,” you gasped, your voice breaking as his hand slid down your side, gripping your hip tightly to keep you in place. He was relentless now, each thrust perfectly angled, the friction between your bodies building into something unbearable.

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, his voice rough, his lips trailing down the side of your neck. “You’re taking me so well. Just like that. Just like you’re made for me.” The heat in his tone left you trembling, your head tipping back to give him more access as his teeth scraped against your pulse.

His hand slid lower, his fingers brushing over the damp fabric of your panties, still pushed to the side. When his thumb found your clit, pressing against it with just the right amount of pressure, your whole body jolted, a sharp cry escaping you.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice a low growl, his thumb moving in slow circles that had your legs shaking around him. Your eyes fluttered open, locking with his, the intensity of his gaze leaving you raw, exposed. “That’s it,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours. “Let me see you.”

The pressure in your core built to a fever pitch, your body trembling beneath him as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. The rhythm of his hips was relentless now, each thrust driving deeper, his cock hitting that perfect spot that left you gasping for air. His thumb worked in tandem with his movements, the combination sending sparks shooting through your veins.

“I’m close,” you whispered, the words catching in your throat as your hands clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer. Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, his hand gripping your thigh as though he needed to hold onto something.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with strain. “I can feel it. Let go for me. I want to feel you.”

His words were your undoing. The knot in your stomach unraveled, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense it left you gasping, your back arching off the bed as you cried his name. Your body trembled beneath him, every nerve alight, your walls fluttering around him as the aftershocks rolled through you.

“Fuck,” Mark growled, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. His thrusts turned erratic, deeper, harder, each movement driving him further into you. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in sharp bursts as his release filled you, the heat of it overwhelming.

He stilled, his body trembling above yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way. His lips found yours in a kiss that was soft but desperate, his hand sliding up to cradle your face as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The moment stretched, the silence between you filled only by the sound of your ragged breaths and the faint hum of the fairy lights above. His hips moved slightly, a subtle roll that sent a fresh wave of heat through you, the slickness of his release making every movement impossibly intimate.

Mark stayed buried inside you for a long moment, his breath warm against your neck, both of you trembling as the heat of his release spilled deep into you. The wet, slick sensation was intoxicating, a reminder of how completely he filled you. His hands smoothed up your sides, fingers brushing reverently along your skin as though he couldn’t quite let you go.

Your chest heaved against his, both of you gasping for air. His lips brushed over your collarbone, soft kisses trailing up the side of your neck until he found your mouth again. The kiss was unhurried, wet and lazy, his tongue sliding against yours as he groaned softly, the sound vibrating into your lips.

You shifted beneath him, your hands tracing the curve of his shoulders before settling on his chest, your touch hesitant but purposeful. “I need more,” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips, your voice low and filled with longing. Your hips moved subtly, your thighs tightening against his sides, speaking what you couldn’t fully say.

Mark’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening as his cock twitched inside you, responding to your every movement. He let out a soft, reverent groan, his hands resting on your hips, their warmth grounding you. “Anything you want, baby,” he murmured, his voice raw and laced with devotion. “Take it. Take all of me.” His lips quirked into a faint, almost bashful smile, the edges softened by the way he gazed at you, completely undone. The weight of his hands lingered on your hips as he let you guide him onto his back, his movements slow, as though savoring the shift. His touch remained, steady and reassuring, even as his body surrendered entirely to yours.

His gaze stayed locked on you, heavy-lidded and hungry, as you straddled him. The slickness of your combined arousal made the slide of his cock inside you effortless, your thighs quivering as you began to sink down slowly. A sharp gasp escaped both of you, your nails digging into his chest for balance as you took him to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his head tipping back against the pillow, his jaw tightening as he tried to hold himself together. “You’re so—tight. So perfect.”

You started to move, slow bounces that sent his cock dragging against your walls in a way that made your stomach clench. Your thighs trembled as you found a rhythm, your chest brushing his with each roll of your hips. His hands roamed your body, first gripping your hips, then sliding up your back until they settled between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer.

The motion brought your chest flush against his, the heat of his skin pressing into you as his mouth latched onto your nipple. His lips were hot and wet, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak before sucking hard enough to make you moan, your back arching into him.

“Mark,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as his teeth grazed the stiffened peak. The sharp edge of pain melted into pleasure, a jolt shooting straight to your core. You could feel his cock twitching inside you with every bounce, the sensation making your thighs quiver.

“Keep going,” he murmured against your skin, his voice muffled and rough. “Just like that, baby. Fuck yourself on me.” His words sent a shiver down your spine, the coarseness of them sparking something primal deep inside you.

Your hips moved faster, the slick sound of your bodies meeting filling the room as you rode him. Each upward movement was slow, deliberate, teasing, before you dropped back down, taking him deep. His hands slid lower, gripping your ass to guide your movements, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

“You like that?” you whispered, your voice trembling as you leaned down, your lips brushing his ear. “Feeling me squeeze you?”

His groan was low, guttural, his hands gripping you tighter as his hips jerked upward to meet your movements. “You’re driving me fucking crazy,” he rasped, his lips latching onto your other nipple, his teeth tugging gently before his tongue soothed the sting.

The angle shifted slightly as you leaned forward, your hips grinding against his in a way that had both of you gasping. Your nails scraped lightly down his chest, leaving faint red marks in their wake, your head tipping back as a moan tore from your throat.

“Mark—so good,” you gasped, your voice high and breathless. The weight of him beneath you, the solid strength of his body, the way his cock filled you with every bounce—it was overwhelming in the best way.

His hands moved to your back, his fingers splayed wide as he held you close. “Come for me again,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and commanding. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

The combination of his words, the drag of his cock, and the wet heat of his mouth on your breast pushed you closer to the edge. You rolled your hips harder, faster, the pleasure building to a crescendo as you moved.

Your movements became erratic, your thighs trembling as the knot in your stomach tightened. His mouth left your nipple, his head tipping back to look at you, his dark eyes locking with yours. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, his voice thick with need. “Take what you need.”

The orgasm tore through you, fierce and unrelenting, leaving you gasping for air as your body trembled with the aftershocks. Your nails dug into Mark’s shoulders, desperate for something to ground you as wave after wave of pleasure rolled over you, blurring the edges of the world. Your walls clamped down around him, drawing a low, guttural groan from his throat, his hips twitching instinctively in response. His hands gripped your hips with a firm, steady pressure, holding you close as he whispered against your skin, his voice thick and raw.

“Just like that, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing over the curve of your shoulder. “So good for me. So perfect.”

But neither of you was finished, not even close. The heat between you hadn’t dimmed—it had only shifted, deepened, simmering just beneath the surface as Mark pulled you closer. You found yourself in his lap, his hands guiding you with gentle insistence, your thighs tightening around his waist as your bodies pressed together.

His fingers slid between your folds, the slick evidence of your pleasure making his movements smooth and unyielding. Two fingers pushed inside you, curling in just the right way to make your head fall back, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. “Mmm,” he hummed, his voice a low vibration against your neck, his free hand splayed across your lower back to keep you steady. “You’re so tight, baby. Feel how you’re gripping me?” His thumb circled your clit in slow, deliberate strokes, drawing a broken moan from deep within you.

Your hips began to move instinctively, grinding against his hand as his fingers pumped in and out of you, the wet sounds of your arousal mingling with your shaky breaths. The intensity of it built quickly, his movements precise, relentless, as though he knew your body better than you did. “Mark,” you whimpered, your voice high and trembling, your arms wrapping around his neck as you clung to him.

“That’s it,” he cooed, his lips brushing your ear as his fingers plunged deeper, stretching and filling you in a way that made your thighs shake. “Take what you need, baby. Bounce for me—just like that.” His voice was low, coaxing, the rough edge of his tone sending shivers down your spine.

Your thighs clenched tighter around his waist as you began to move, soft, desperate bounces that met the rhythm of his hand. Each movement drove his fingers deeper, brushing against the spot that made you cry out, your hands fisting in his hair as the tension inside you coiled tighter. “Mark, please,” you gasped, your voice cracking as your forehead pressed to his. “I want—everything. Everything with you.”

His fingers stilled for just a moment, his thumb continuing its slow circles over your clit as his gaze locked on yours, intense and searching. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice low and filled with something deeper than lust, something that made your chest ache.

You nodded quickly, breathless, the words tumbling from your lips in a rush. “Yeah. I’ve never been more excited in my life. I want to travel the world with you, go on so many dates, move in together eventually… you make me the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Mark’s lips found yours in a kiss that was slow but consuming, his fingers resuming their rhythm inside you. “You don’t know what that does to me,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice shaking with raw emotion. “Hearing you say that.”

His movements quickened, his palm pressing against you with just the right pressure as his fingers curled and stroked relentlessly, driving you higher and higher. The intensity was overwhelming, your body trembling in his lap as he pushed you closer to the edge once more.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, the pleasure so intense it left you gasping, your nails digging into his back as you clung to him. “Mark, I—” you started, but the words dissolved into a broken cry as the orgasm hit, crashing over you like a wave. Your body spasmed around his fingers, your legs tightening around his waist as tears slipped down your cheeks, the pleasure so all-encompassing it left you shaking in his arms.

His lips found your temple, soft and soothing, as he held you through the aftershocks. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice tender, his hand gently easing out of you as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively.

As the haze of pleasure began to fade, your forehead rested against his, breaths mingling in the intimate quiet between you. Mark’s hand trailed lazily up your back, his fingers splaying wide as though holding you closer wasn’t just a want, but a need. His gaze found yours, steady and unguarded, a soft warmth flickering in his dark eyes.

“I always wondered,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over the curve of your cheek, his voice low and tender.

“Wondered what?” you asked, your words a whisper, though you could feel the answer in the way he looked at you.

“If this was how it would feel,” he said, his lips barely moving, his voice laced with a quiet vulnerability. “To know you love me back.”

The words settled in the air between you, not heavy but final, as though the world had been holding its breath for this moment alone. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—it didn’t need to be. It was quiet, inevitable, like the way dawn breaks over a sleeping sky, soft and all-consuming. His smile, faint but deeply certain, carried the weight of years unspoken, a truth he no longer had to hold alone. His eyes found yours, raw and impossibly tender, as though the only thing he had ever been searching for had been right here, in this exact moment, looking back at him. And just like that, everything felt complete.

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EPILOGUE — SIX MONTHS LATER

The golden sunlight poured through the tall windows of the wedding hall, casting soft shadows across the polished marble floors. The air buzzed with quiet laughter and the clinking of glasses as the couple swayed to their first dance. The moment was picturesque—soft, romantic, and timeless. You lifted your camera, capturing the emotion in a single frame, but your thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Your fingers brushed the delicate ring on your finger, twisting it idly as you smiled to yourself. The simple platinum band with its modest diamond sparkled subtly in the light, catching the warmth of the setting sun through the windows. It wasn’t an engagement ring, though its beauty could have fooled anyone. It was a promise ring, given to you by Mark on the day of your graduation, doubling as both a gift and a vow. He’d slid it onto your finger with a quiet certainty, the gesture filled with meaning. It wasn’t loud or extravagant, but it carried the weight of his love—a promise of the life you were building together, one shared step at a time. Every time you looked at it, you were reminded of him, of everything you had accomplished together, and of the future that was waiting for you both. It was more than jewelry; it was a tangible piece of him, a symbol of trust, devotion, and the deep connection that anchored you both.

The last six months had been transformative. Graduation had brought new beginnings, milestones, and a whirlwind of emotions. Landing your dream job as a destination wedding photographer felt like the perfect match. It allowed you to explore the world, meet new people, and live your passion—capturing love in its most raw, unfiltered form.

And yet, even with a job that took you to breathtaking destinations and gave you incredible experiences, nothing compared to the feeling of being with Mark. The relationship had deepened in ways you couldn’t have imagined. He wasn’t just your boyfriend; he was your home, your partner in every sense. Whether it was the way he held your hand during your lowest moments or the way he made you laugh until your stomach hurt, Mark had become the steady, unshakable presence in your life.

You glanced at the ring again, a soft smile tugging at your lips. Your heart swelled as memories of Mark flooded your mind—his easy smile, his quiet strength, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

The shoot was running over, and though you loved your work, you couldn’t help but glance at your watch. Tonight was important. Mark had organized a long-overdue reunion for your group of friends to celebrate his and his best friend’s new apartment. It would be the first time since graduation that everyone would be together under one roof. You had seen Mark, Karina, and Jeno one-on-one since then, but this was different. This was a moment to reconnect, to celebrate how far you’d all come.

Finally, the shoot wrapped. After a quick goodbye to the couple, you packed your gear and rushed to Mark’s apartment. It wasn’t just his apartment, of course. Mark and his best friend had been planning this move since they were teenagers. The apartment was their shared dream, years in the making, and despite the initial pang of jealousy you’d felt when he told you, you couldn’t help but support them. After all, you knew their bond was purely platonic—like siblings, even—and you also knew you’d practically be living there anyway.

When you arrived, the sound of the door unlocking was followed by soft footsteps, and then Mark appeared, his face breaking into a smile the second he saw you. His hair was slightly tousled, his sweater hanging loose over his frame, and yet he looked effortlessly perfect—warm, familiar, and entirely yours.

“Hi, my love,” you whispered, stepping closer, your voice soft as your lips brushed against his in a kiss that lingered just a little longer than usual.

His smile deepened against your mouth, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw as though he couldn’t help himself. “Hi, baby,” he murmured, his voice low, every word wrapped in quiet affection. He pressed a second kiss to the corner of your lips, his hand sliding to your waist as he pulled you into a brief but firm hug, his chest solid and comforting against yours.

For a moment, he held you there, his lips brushing your temple as he breathed you in, the quiet hum of the hallway fading away. “Long day?” he asked softly, his hand resting lightly on your back as he pulled away just enough to look at you.

You nodded, smiling up at him. “Better now,” you murmured, the weight of the day melting away under his touch.

He chuckled softly, his fingers tracing absent patterns along your spine as he opened the door wider. “Come, baby,” he said, his tone warm, almost playful. “I’ve got you.”

As you stepped inside, his hand lingered on your lower back, a subtle but grounding presence, guiding you into the glow of the apartment. For a moment, the world outside didn’t matter—it was just you and him, and the quiet, unshakable ease that existed between you.

The apartment was breathtaking in its simplicity, a perfect blend of functionality and charm that felt effortlessly lived-in yet thoughtfully curated. The open-plan living space was awash with a warm, ambient glow, the kind of light that made everything feel softer, cozier. Sleek furniture in neutral tones gave the room a modern edge, but it was the small, personal touches that made it feel like home.

One wall was lined with a floor-to-ceiling shelf, brimming with books of every genre and interspersed with small potted plants, their greenery spilling gently over the edges. The sectional couch, a deep, inviting gray, stretched across the center of the room, its plush cushions scattered with mismatched throw pillows that hinted at both Mark’s practicality and his best friend’s eye for detail.

Above the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, string lights twinkled faintly, their golden glow reflecting off the glass and spilling onto the light wood floors. The windows framed a stunning view of the city skyline, the distant lights twinkling like stars, creating a sense of endless possibility.

In the corner, a small coffee table bore the remnants of earlier unpacking—a stack of unopened mail, a mug half-full of tea, and a neatly folded throw blanket. The kitchen, visible from the living space, was minimalist but warm, its countertops dotted with personal touches: a fruit bowl, a handwritten grocery list pinned to the fridge, and a vase of fresh flowers that added a pop of color to the neutral palette.

The apartment wasn’t just beautiful; it was alive, a seamless blend of Mark’s quiet strength and his best friend’s vibrant energy. Every detail spoke of care, history, and the promise of shared moments yet to come.

Mark’s best friend emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray of drinks in her hands, her grin wide and infectious. “Y/N!” she called, her voice warm as she walked over, setting the tray down on the coffee table before pulling you into a tight hug.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you said, pulling back to glance around the apartment. “This place looks amazing.”

She laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face, her cheeks glowing with pride. “Thanks. It’s been a lot of work, but it’s worth it.” She grabbed a drink and handed it to you before nudging you playfully. “I hope you’re not jealous, though,” she teased, her tone light but mischievous.

You turned to Mark, giving him an exaggerated glare that made his lips twitch in amusement. “Oh, I’m absolutely jealous,” you deadpanned, pausing just long enough for effect before cracking a smile. “But don’t worry,” you said with a chuckle, raising your drink. “I’ll probably end up practically living here anyway.”

Her laughter echoed through the room, and Mark slipped an arm around your waist, leaning down to murmur, “She’s not wrong.”

The house warming party gradually came to life, the space filling with the sound of laughter, music, and the kind of chatter that only happens among close friends. Karina, unsurprisingly, wasted no time stirring chaos. She wandered from room to room, shuffling picture frames, poking at Mark’s carefully arranged décor, and draping herself over the couch as though it were a chaise lounge in an old painting.

“Karina,” Mark’s best friend called out, half-laughing, half-exasperated as she chased after her. “Put the frame back—that’s not where it goes!”

“I’m adding artistic flair!” Karina declared dramatically, clutching the frame to her chest before spinning away.

“You’re adding stress,” she shot back, earning a round of laughter from everyone else as Karina stuck her tongue out in mock defiance.

Chenle and Ningning arrived not long after, bursting through the door with enough energy to rival Karina’s antics. Ningning’s eyes lit up the moment she saw the apartment. “Wow, this is gorgeous!” she exclaimed, spinning in a slow circle to take it all in. “I mean, who knew Mark had taste?”

“Hey!” Mark protested, though his grin betrayed his amusement.

Ningning ignored him, grabbing Chenle’s arm and dragging him toward the bookshelf. “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with here,” she said, inspecting the books and trinkets with an exaggeratedly critical eye.

“Solid selection,” Chenle remarked, plucking a book from the shelf and flipping through it. “But seriously, who organized this? The color coordination is giving me anxiety.”

Donghyuck and Jaemin, who had been huddled in the corner with their drinks, burst out laughing. “Of course you’d critique a bookshelf,” Donghyuck said, shaking his head. “Let them live, Chenle.”

“You’re just mad because you can’t read,” Chenle shot back, grinning as Jaemin snorted into his drink.

Through the laughter and chaos, your gaze fell on Chenle and Ningning, who were seated on the couch together, their heads tilted close as they spoke in hushed tones. It was impossible not to notice how they seemed to exist in their own little world, their shared smiles and soft laughter radiating something undeniably tender. Chenle leaned in slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair from Ningning’s face, his fingers lingering for just a second too long, while she looked up at him with a warmth that seemed to fill the entire room. Even Donghyuck, notorious for teasing, left them undisturbed, glancing at them with a rare, knowing smile before turning back to his antics.

Mark’s arm never left your waist, a quiet but steady presence that anchored you in the midst of the buzzing party. His fingers would occasionally trace soft patterns against your side, a simple touch that carried so much unspoken love. Every so often, he leaned in to murmur something soft—an observation, a joke, or a quiet compliment meant just for you. At one point, he kissed the side of your head, his lips lingering as he whispered, “I’m so happy,” his voice full of emotion that made your chest tighten.

Across the table, Chenle caught the moment and winked at you, giving a subtle but reassuring nod as if to say, Yeah, he’s completely yours. The warmth of his silent approval made you smile, and for a while, you let yourself be swept into the laughter and joy of the room.

But as your gaze wandered, it landed on Jeno. He was sitting off to the side, a bottle of beer in his hand, his posture deceptively relaxed. Yet his eyes betrayed him, flickering with a distance that didn’t quite match the lively atmosphere around him. He hadn’t joined in much of the conversation, his responses minimal, his laughs quiet.

You noticed the tension more clearly when Mark’s best friend passed by him, her movements visibly stiff, her eyes focused too intently on the space ahead of her. Jeno’s gaze lifted briefly, flicking toward her like a reflex before darting away just as quickly. It wasn’t avoidance—it was something heavier, a silence charged with things unsaid.

You nudged Mark gently, tilting your head toward the pair. “It’s been months. Are they still not talking to each other?” you whispered, keeping your voice low.

Mark followed your gaze, his brow furrowing slightly. He sighed, his fingers tightening briefly around your waist. “Yeah,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “They’re both stubborn as hell. They know they went wrong, but neither one wants to be the first to admit it.”

Your heart ached for them. Whatever had fractured between Jeno and Mark’s best friend was more than just stubbornness; it was something that had clearly left a mark on them both. And yet, it wasn’t your place to push—it had to be theirs to fix, in their own time.

Your gaze swept the room, taking in the scene. Chenle and Ningning were tucked together on the couch, their heads tilted close as they exchanged whispered jokes. The way Ningning’s hand brushed Chenle’s arm and the way his smile softened whenever he looked at her made it clear—they were as in love as ever, even in the chaos.

Karina had finally settled down, though not without a bit of playful grumbling, while Donghyuck and Jaemin leaned against the counter, still sharing quiet jokes that made them shake their heads and laugh. Even Jeno, though quieter than the rest, seemed to relax slightly, his lips twitching into a faint smile when Mark’s best friend passed him again. It was small, but it felt like progress.

As the party began to wind down, the warmth in the room only seemed to deepen. It wasn’t loud or flashy; it was the kind of comfort that came from being surrounded by people who knew you, loved you, and had been through every high and low by your side.

Standing by the window, you let your gaze drift over the city lights twinkling in the distance. The skyline stretched endlessly, a perfect backdrop to the quiet hum of contentment that filled your chest.

Mark slipped behind you, his presence a familiar warmth that immediately made you smile. His hands settled on your hips, his thumbs brushing gentle circles through the fabric of your dress. “You look happy,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear.

“I am,” you whispered, leaning back into him. “This feels right. All of it.”

He pressed a lingering kiss just below your ear, his lips impossibly soft, his breath warm as it danced across your skin. “Wanna test out my new bed in my room?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, though there was a quiet depth beneath the playfulness—an unspoken invitation that sent a shiver down your spine.

You turned to face him, laughter bubbling softly from your lips as your cheeks warmed under the weight of his gaze. His dark eyes held yours, steady and unwavering, the glint in them making your heart stutter. “You’re unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head with a smile that you couldn’t quite hide.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into that familiar, lopsided grin that always felt like home. “So… that’s a yes?” he asked, his tone teasing, though his hands were already sliding to your waist, their touch steady, warm, and grounding. His fingers lingered, curling against the fabric of your dress, pulling you just a little closer.

Before you could answer, his arms moved with effortless ease, sweeping you up in one fluid motion. Your breath hitched in surprise, but the sound dissolved into soft, giddy laughter as you clung to his shoulders.

“Mark!” you murmured, though the sound came out more like a laugh, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as he held you close.

His grin softened into something darker, his voice dropping as his eyes locked onto yours. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking about all night? Laying you down on that bed, taking my time, and feeling you come apart under me. I want to strip you bare, touch every inch of you, and watch the way your body moves when it’s mine to hold. I’ve been dying to hear those sounds you make, to feel the way you pull me closer, and to leave you trembling from everything I’ve been holding back.”

The heat in his tone made your chest ache, the steady strength of his hold making you feel entirely weightless. He carried you toward the stairs, the hum of the party fading behind you with each step. It wasn’t just his chuckle that filled the quiet—it was the sound of your shared breaths, the quiet intimacy of the moment pressing in around you like a secret the world couldn’t touch.

When he reached the room, he nudged the door open with his foot, and the soft light from the bedside lamp spilled gently across the space. The air carried a delicate mix of vanilla and orange blossom, a sweet, calming scent that was so undeniably him it eased every lingering thought, wrapping you in the quiet comfort of his presence.

Without hesitation, he walked you to the bed, his arms tightening around you briefly before he gently tossed you onto the mattress. You landed with a soft bounce, a laugh spilling from your lips as you propped yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze.

His grin widened for just a moment before it faded into something softer, something impossibly tender. He braced himself on the mattress, leaning down to hover over you, his dark eyes searching yours as if memorizing every detail. His hand reached out, brushing over your cheek with a reverence that made your breath catch.

“Welcome home,” he murmured, his voice low and sure, yet carrying a tenderness that made your chest ache. There was no hesitation in his words, only the quiet confidence of a man who meant them completely, a certainty that wrapped around you like the warmth of his embrace.

The kiss that followed was unlike any you’d shared before. There was no rush, no lingering urgency—it was deliberate, each movement soft and measured, as if he wanted to savor the moment and etch it into memory. His lips moved against yours in a rhythm that felt unspoken yet deeply familiar, every touch carrying a silent promise of everything he was and everything he wanted to give you.

His hand stayed cradling your cheek, his thumb stroking just beneath your jaw with a softness that left you breathless. It wasn’t just grounding—it was reverent, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of this moment between you. When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed lightly against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the kind of stillness that felt profound.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly, as if even admitting it made him vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to. His eyes stayed on yours, unwavering, brimming with something so raw and pure that it left you undone.

As you looked at him, the man who had become an inseparable part of your heart, you felt it too. It wasn’t about the apartment, the milestones you were reaching together, or the quiet dreams you shared late at night. It wasn’t the ring on your finger or the life you were building. It was him—the one constant that made every place, every moment, feel like it mattered.

As you looked up at him—the man who had become your anchor, your safe space, your greatest love—you realized that the apartment, the plans, the life you were building together—they all mattered, but only because they were with him.

In that quiet moment, with his arms around you, you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be—wrapped in his love, completely at home in his embrace.

author’s note — i can’t believe we’ve reached the end of the seven-part series. writing this has been such an emotional journey, and your support has meant the absolute world to me. thank you for sticking with me, for loving these characters, and for sharing your thoughts along the way—it’s been everything to me. please don’t hold back now; i’d love to hear all your feedback, your favorite moments, and how you feel about the ending. i love you all so much, truly. i’m feeling very emotional rn :( i love you guys

taglist — @bigjugz03 @hyuckkklee @hegdus @sungchannel @kidult0325 @hcluvie @second-floors @xjxnox @keelbeel @hyuckkklee @ahgasezennie @lovetaroandtaemin @steadyparkjisungbookishspy @carelessshootanonymous @remgeolli @toroufriteh @sinsgaybutthatsokay @fancypeacepersona @cathamada @gomdoleemyson @ppeachyttae @strcwberi-deactivated20241207 @yunjinsart @millyswife

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ryorecs · 8 months ago

Text

strawberry cough | njm

strangers to fwb to lovers w/ plug!jaemin ft. bestie shotaro

summary: when your longtime bestie and plug moves out of town, he recommends one of his buddies to fill your weed needs. jaemin is glad to deliver that and maybe even more.

pt. 2 here

wc: 9.1k 18+ mdni

cw: weed/marijuana use, sex under the influence of weed, protected/unprotected penetrative sex, oral, 69, shotgunning, soft dom!jaemin, some angst & misunderstandings, jealous reader and jaemin, comforting from jaemin, jaemin calls reader baby & angel, gn!afab!reader, he has a pull out couch, strawberry cough is an actual weed strain i recommend it :)

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shotaro calls your name, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“his name is jaemin and we have the same supplier, I’ll even ask him to give you a discount!”

your best friend was moving to another town across the country for work and you can’t help but tear up at the thought of being so far from the sweet boy. you met back in your teens and had been glued at the hip since.

somewhere over the course of your friendship, shotaro started to dabble in weed, teaching you almost everything you know about the substance and eventually becoming your plug and smoking buddy. with shotaro gone, it might be difficult finding someone who not only you can trust but also knows your weed needs like the back of their hand.

you blink at the new name, trying to remember what he was talking about, and recall something along the lines of finding you a new plug.

“i’d definitely recommend him, i’d say he’s second best to me in town, and i can trust him around you,” shotaro jokes with you, keeping it lighthearted.

you know behind the joking, your friend is doing his best to look out for you despite going through a stressful time himself. you don’t want to make this move any harder for him than it already is, so you agree with a smile.

“i’ll give him a chance, just give me his number and we’ll go from there.”

he meets your smile with his own.

“trust me, he’ll take good care of you.”

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a couple of weeks after shotaro’s move, you decide its finally time to text your potential new plug. after finding his contact buried in your messages, you text jaemin, setting up a meeting time to pick up some goods, planning on buying an eighth and some gummies.

surprisingly, he asks if you want to check out his strains when you get there, wanting you to actually see all he has to offer before buying.

his customer service impresses you, realizing that you just assumed he would be as casual as shotaro and any other plug you’ve gone to. most of the time they would just ask you what you want, give you your order, and you’d be on your way. seeing the whole collection would definitely be good if you plan to go to him long-term.

while you’re a little hesitant at the thought of entering his apartment, you feel better given how shotaro talked your ear off on how good jaemin was, both as a friend and fellow plug.

a 20-minute walk from your place leads you to the address he sent, and you triple-check your phone to make sure you’re at the right apartment. when you finally ring the doorbell, you hear some rushed footsteps and the door opens to a sight you were not expecting.

your eyes move up to see a tall man with dark hair, broad shoulders, and one of the prettiest smiles you’ve ever seen.

“hi, you’re __? taro’s friend, right?”

you nod, exchanging introductions, and he gives you a tight handshake, not breaking eye contact.

“come on in! i’ve laid out everything so you can pick what you want. let me know if you have any questions.” he flashes another smile, and you can’t help but smile back at his welcoming attitude. besides shotaro, other plugs you have gone to never exchanged more than a few words with you, but they also didn’t have a smile like jaemin’s. actually, no one you’ve ever met had a smile like that.

you take a look around his apartment, noting how well kept it was, with minimal but tasteful decor. you were already a little nervous, but staring at the back of the attractive man leading you to his kitchen in his perfect apartment has your heart speeding up.

he shows you his collection, which you note to be on the same level as shotaro’s. you remember how your stash of your favorite strain ran out the week before, and knowing they have the same supplier, you look around his extensive collection for a familiar logo.

“do you have anymore strawberry cough? that’s my go-to.”

his expression falters slightly, but he recovers quickly and answers your question.

“i’m out of stock right now, but if you come back next week i should definitely have it in.”

nodding in understanding, you pick up a small pack of orange gummies, deciding on taking a break from smoking until your next visit. he packs up your gummies and leads you back to the entrance of his apartment, but when you reach into your bag to pull out your wallet he stops you.

“it’s on the house.” he insists, flashing you another one of his dazzling smiles. his smile makes it almost too hard to argue.

“oh no, i can’t do that to you,” you respond and resume your task of grabbing your wallet. you stop at the feeling of a warm hand on your shoulder.

“let’s just say it’s a first time customer deal, okay?” his strong gaze stills you.

“it’s not every day I get a customer as cute as you,” he says with a grin and a look in his eyes you can’t quite figure out. it does a good job of shutting you up, and you feel your face heat up. the place where his hand meets your shoulder feels like it’s burning.

you don’t know how to respond and he chuckles at your flustered expression. he places the gummies in your hands, and opens the door for you.

“make sure you come back next week, i’ll be waiting for your text!” you nod and quietly respond with your thanks and goodbye as you walk out into the hallway. he waits until you’re at the elevator, waving to you as the elevator doors close.

immediately you’re clutching your burning face in your hands, and his words replay in your head until you go to sleep that night.

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while the interaction with your new plug lingers in your mind for a while, you are quick to try and dismiss jaemin’s flirting as his way of charming customers and nothing more. shotaro did say he would ask him to give you a discount, so maybe it’s safe to assume that freebie was a favor for your mutual friend.

the next week, you’re surprised to see a text from jaemin letting you know that your favorite was in stock. you had debated in your mind on when to text him, but it’s a pleasant surprise that he texted you first. you agree to come after work, and your second visit to him is not as nerve-wracking as the first, though his closing remarks from the first visit still ring in your brain.

you wave those thoughts off again as he meets you at the door.

“hello my strawberry cough lover!” he greets you happily.

lover. you freeze at the word. you pause for a few seconds, jaemin confused at your lack of response when you realize he’s referring to your love for the product. you totally missed that. he was not calling you his lover.

“hi jaemin,” you sheepishly reply, internally scolding yourself for those thoughts.

you expect him to collect your payment, give you your bag, and send you on your way. but something you’ve begun to learn in the short time you’ve known him is that he is always full of surprises.

he invites you in and you see your order sitting on his kitchen table. your eyebrow raises when he pulls out another bag of what you recognize as strawberry cough from the label.

“do you have any plans today?” he asks.

it’s about 6pm and your only plans included smoking the goods you would be getting from jaemin, so nothing’s booked. “i’m free, what’s up?”

“it’s actually been a while since i’ve smoked or sold this strain, so i wanted to ask if you’d want to smoke with me? it’ll be on the house of course, but you totally don’t have to if you aren’t comfortable” he actually looks a little nervous asking, which you find endearing.

“sure, sounds fun,” you agree, once again taking into consideration shotaro’s ramblings about jaemin. you would never pass up the opportunity for free weed with a potential new friend. friend.

he brightens, sitting you down on his living room sofa and running to get his smoking materials together.

“pipe or joint?” he asks. you reply with the latter and he gets to rolling.

you watch as he expertly grinds and packs the green leaves into the wrapping paper, licking the edge to seal it and pinching the end shut.

you can’t deny that it’s probably one of the most attractive things you’ve ever seen a man do. you’ve seen many of your friends roll before, but something about the way jaemin uses his hands (and mouth) has you almost drooling.

he offers you the first hit, and you place the joint between your lips. he lights it as you inhale slightly, keeping his hand steady to catch any ash from falling on you.

while his earlier display had your body reacting, his gentlemanly behavior hit you right in the heart. you take two hits and hand it back to him, watching him take his own.

“how did you meet shotaro?” he asks, making conversation, and you are more than happy to explain how he accidentally hit you with a basketball during your second year of high school. you feel your body start to lighten and your mind fuzz.

“he couldn’t stop apologizing, going on and on about taking me to the hospital,” you’re trying to tell him through your giggles and before you know it, full laughter leaves you at the thought of your friend.

he looks at you with dazed eyes and a dopey smile, laughing along with you, starting to recount his own memories of your shared friend.

conversation seems to just flow naturally between the two of you. with each time the joint is passed back and forth, you learn another piece of information about the man in front if you, and vice versa. it’s comfortable.

at some point, you are both pretty settled into your highs, melted into the couch watching some random movie.

you look over at jaemin, and he looks more handsome and cozy than you remember a couple hours ago. he was within arms length, and if you wanted to, you could just reach over and-

“__, are you okay?” jaemin’s call of your name snaps you out of your thoughts.

embarrassed by your staring and what just went through your head, you try to keep it as cool as possible, but you know that your thoughts are threatening to seep out.

“yeah, i’m good, just thinking of heading out soon since it’s getting pretty late,” you assure him. at this point, a few hours had passed since you arrived and it was safe to say you needed to go home and cool your head before you said or did anything you’d regret.

he nods in understanding and tells you he will be right back. you’re not too sure what he’s up to, but he comes back quickly wearing a hoodie and helps you to your feet with a gentle hand. he picks up your order from the kitchen, and walking to the front door he grabs his keys and starts to put his shoes on.

“are you heading somewhere, too?” you ask, and he looks at you blankly.

“i’m walking you home?” he states as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. you told him somewhere along the line that you lived close by, but you didn’t expect this.

“jaemin, you don’t have to, it’s only 20 minutes,” you try to assure him.

you know that it isn’t the safest to walk by yourself at this time of the night, but you don’t want to trouble him.

“i do have to, and i want to.” you know he’s really made his mind up, seeing his serious expression, so you give up any further argument at his response.

your thoughts tell you he’s just being a good friend, but your heart hopes its something more.

the two of you walk back in a comfortable silence, jaemin with your order in hand. he walks you to the front of your apartment building, handing you your bag once you arrive.

“i had a lot of fun today, hope we can do this again sometime,” he says with that same look he had when he gave you your first freebies.

“same here, i think that would be really nice,” you respond, internally celebrating that he enjoyed your time together just as much as you did.

his normal dopey grin comes back at that, and he bids you a good night, waiting until you are inside your building to start his walk home.

only when you get back to your room do you realize you forgot to pay him.

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over the next few months, you find that jaemin never lets you pay. he’s officially become your plug and smoking buddy. you never stop protesting and offering to pay, but in that time you’ve also gotten to know how stubborn he is.

“friends get free shit.” he shrugs, as if it’s just common sense.

friends. the word stings a bit. you’ve come to learn that his charms extended so far beyond what was offered to customers. so much so that you’ve come to want more than friendship.

but again, you also don’t want to ruin what you’ve got growing and make him uncomfortable. this has to be a platonic experience for him, right?

that’s what you tell yourself, keeping your hopes at bay. you don’t want to risk anything.

on a particularly stressful work day, you come to pick up your usual order when he notices something is off. he frowns seeing you so tired and noticeably upset, immediately leading you inside with his hand gently resting on your back.

“what’s wrong?” he asks feeling your forehead for any sign of a fever. you’ve gotten a lot more comfortable with him over your time together, closing your eyes at his touch.

“nothing, just a tough day at work,” you murmur, just wanting to get your order and go home to lie in bed. a harsh argument with your manager today left you feeling frustration bubbling in your throat with no way to let it out.

“i know something that might help?” he offers. he brings you straight to your usual spot on the couch, and goes to the kitchen, returning with a familiar decorated bag.

“you didn’t,” gasping as he starts to lay its contents out on the table.

the bag included your go to order from your favorite fast food place, complete with a strawberry smoothie.

“i didn’t expect that it would be a perfect day to do this, but i’m glad i did.”

your eyes start to sting.

his kindness is coming at a moment you needed it most. he’s always been kind, and that has not changed at all since the day you met him. tears start to fall.

“wait, did i mess up your order??” his eyebrows furrow and he starts to get up, scanning the food on the table.

you shake your head, grabbing his arm to pull him back into sitting.

“no, just thank you, thank you so much jaemin.” you’re trying to compose yourself, but the same warm hand you’ve come to know and love starts to rub circles into your shoulder, making you cry more.

you lean into him, letting yourself let go of your frustrations of the day. jaemin encourages you to talk, wrapping his arm completely around you and whispering sweet affirmations in response to your worries.

after what feels like forever passes by, you find yourself relaxed in his arms with his head resting on yours.

“thank you and i’m sorry jaemin, i know that was a lot,” you say as you turn your head to look at him, realizing how close the two of you were.

he leans back, still with an arm around you. “i’m gonna pretend i only heard that first part. you’re never too much and you don’t have to be sorry about letting your emotions out. not with me.”

you really don’t understand how he’s telling you exactly what you need to hear.

at this point, the feeling slowly blooming over the past few months has really has made itself clearer than ever to you.

you like him. you like him so much.

you whisper your thanks again, and he shushes you, with his eyes moving down to your lips.

“you’re welcome, now let’s smoke a little?” he asks quietly, and you nod, figuring you would appreciate the relaxation of your body and hopefully, your heart as well.

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jaemin lets you use his facewash and a towel to freshen yourself up after crying, and has a pipe freshly packed for when you come back.

after your usual passing back and forth, you’re melted into the couch watching tv yet again. jaemin has his arm wrapped around you just similar to how he did at your earlier cry session, but this time his hand is around your waist, rubbing absentmindedly.

you don’t mind at all, pressed into his side as you both watch a cute cat cartoon. you look up at him, staring at his lips as thoughts start to sprout. you’ve noticed his obsession with wearing lip balm, and it’s really paid off. they look so soft and you can’t help but imagine what they’d feel like against yours.

he doesn’t lean away this time when he notices your gaze, looking into your eyes with his own hooded ones. you don’t know if it’s the weed giving your thoughts life, but your voice is leaving you before you know it.

“can i kiss you?”

you gasp after realizing what you’ve said, moving to get up, but his arm wraps tighter around you, stopping you from separating yourself from him. staring down at you with lidded eyes, he closes the distance between the two of you.

his lips are even softer than anything you’ve imagined.

his pecks turn into full kisses, and it’s only a matter of time before things turn more heated, jaemin slipping in his tongue to meet yours. the two of you kiss for what feels like forever, getting lost in the haze.

your mouth chases his as he starts to pull back, and he smiles against your lips. he fully pulls back look at you, and leans in to pepper soft kisses on your neck.

“you are toooo cute.” he mumbles against your neck, and his warm breath gives you goosebumps.

“do you want me?” he asks, and you are speechless. you’ve been wanting him, thinking of him while sober and not so sober. you’ve dreamed about this, yet now that he’s offering himself on a silver platter all you can do is nod. he slightly tightens his hold on your waist.

“words, baby.”

your embarrassed face presses into the top of his head as he continues to lay kisses down your throat. you can only hope that this is not just a really, really good dream.

“i want you, jaemin. so bad.”

immediately you are pushed onto your back on the couch, jaemin’s lips back on yours and your hands threading through his hair.

he slots himself in between your legs, grinding into you slowly as your hips jump up to meet his. he begins to kiss a trail from your throat down to your stomach, his warm hands finding their way under your shirt and sweatpants to meet your bare hips.

“can i take these off?” he punctuates his question with a snap of your waistband.

“please,” you reply, feeling yourself begin to ache, but suddenly jaemin remembers something.

you look at him confused as he gets up, reaching around to two handles at the bottom of the couch. he pulls the handles, and you are met with a whole new couch section.

“you’re telling me it was a pull-out couch this whole time??” you complain. your nights with him were comfortable, but the extra couch space to sprawl out changes everything.

“hey, it’s usually just me on this couch and i have more than enough room, so i kinda just forgot okay?” he pouts as he returns to his task, pulling your sweatpants off of you.

you start to laugh until you feel his warm breath on your underwear. the sight of him looking at you from between your legs is something straight out of a wet dream, and you’re pleading.

“please jaemin..”

“please what, angel?”

you clench at the new nickname. you crave nothing more than for him to bury himself between your legs.

“please touch me.”

he pushes your underwear aside, and dives right in. you gasp at the feeling, feeling the wind knocked out of you as your hands immediately meet his head.

he groans at the feeling of you alternating between pushing his head deeper and tugging at his hair. the vibrations send chills down your spine, and your moans increase in volume as he lays sloppy kisses over your bud, eventually sucking it between his soft lips.

if you thought his lips felt heavenly on yours earlier, his lips on your most intimate parts takes it to a higher dimension. at some point, he slips your underwear completely off, getting right back into action.

he doesn’t let up, slipping his middle and ring fingers into your entrance, slowly thrusting in and out.

you feel the tension build in your stomach, getting tighter and tighter until a curl of his fingers sends you over the edge with a strangled moan. he works you through your orgasm, laying a final kiss before making his way back up your body at the feeling of your hands pushing his head away from your core.

“are you okay, angel?” you look at his smiling face, his beautiful lips covered in a wet sheen. if this is a dream, you don’t ever want to wake up. something hard and hot at your thigh snaps you out of your admiration.

“i’m perfect, jaem, but how about you?” you ask as you catch your breath, shifting your thigh against his bulge.

this catches him off guard and a deep groan leaves him. it’s music to your ears and you want to hear it again and again.

“let me ride you jaemin. please,” you present the idea to him and he brightens up, only to pull a worried expression.

“are you sure it’s okay? do you have enough energy?” he’s still the same jaemin you’ve come to appreciate, always wanting you to be comfortable. you just want to make him feel good, too.

“of course jaemin, i wouldn’t offer if i didn’t want to.” the worried expression leaves at your words as he takes off his pants and underwear. you pause as he reaches under the couch and pulls out a condom that he rolls onto his aching member.

“is there any other surprises this couch has?” you ask jokingly.

he laughs and he helps you up into straddling him as he leans against the back of the couch.

you grind on him as he softly pecks at your neck, feeling the vibrations of his low groans on your skin. you raise yourself and begin to lower yourself onto him, hissing at the stretch of his cock inching into your entrance.

“fuck, so fucking tight,” he groans as he bottoms out inch by inch, helping by pushing his hips up to meet yours. you moan at the feeling, with no one you’ve ever hooked up with being as thick as jaemin.

you bounce slowly, and you build a steady rhythm as you shut your eyes at the almost euphoric feeling. the combination of his cock reaching far deep into you and the weed coursing through your system has your entire body tingling. you open your eyes to peek at jaemin, who looks to be going through the same thing.

his brows are furrowed, and he’s letting out delicious groans with each bounce. he slowly opens his eyes to meet yours, and like magnets your lips meet.

“you feel so good, angel, so fucking good,” he murmurs against your lips. his hands move from your hips to your ass and he plants his feet into the couch.

a harsh thrust has you clinging onto him for dear life as he starts to piston into you, chasing your highs.

the two of your moans fill his living room as he speeds up, hitting you deeper and deeper until you’re reaching another mind numbing orgasm. your pulsing sends jaemin over the edge, and he pulls out, pulling the condom off to finish himself over his own stomach.

you plop onto your side, too tired to hold yourself up as you detach yourself from jaemin. you feel the weight of the couch shift and start to drift off until jaemin shakes you gently.

“sleep over? you can borrow some clothes and we can finish that movie.” you’re way too tired to think about going home and don’t have to work until tomorrow afternoon, so you’re quick to mutter a sleepy “okay.”

he gives you a hoodie and some pajama pants, and he goes back to his room to change his own clothes.

coming back to the sight of you in his hoodie, jaemin smiles to himself before sliding in with you to retire for the night.

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you are surprised to see that first night did not sour your growing friendship at all. movie nights and order pickups still continued, but the two of you fall into a different kind of routine. weed was slowly pushed from the center relationship. yes, he would have you over to smoke you out, but more and more you find that you get lost in conversation or a show before you can even take one puff.

either way, half the time you ended up finding yourself under him, or him under you. afterwards he lets you sleep over or walks you home after a short nap, depending on the time and if you have work.

while you’re glad nothing got awkward, you couldn’t help but feel disappointment from your growing desire to be more to him. to have more of him. all of him.

it always was some combination of talking, eating, smoking, sleeping, or fucking with jaemin, but the two of you never talked about what your relationship was. you’ve become comfortable with your arrangement, being willing to put aside the pangs in your chest to continue these nights with him.

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“he got you, didn’t he..” shotaro teases over the video call, catching up on the past few months since his move. he zeroed in on the numerous times you mentioned his recommended plug, knowing the charming nature of his friend.

“why are you saying that like you knew it would happen??” you bite back at his teasing, and he quickly clarifies.

“no, no, i was genuinely just introducing him to you as a plug, but i’ve known the dude for a while. he’s a great host, a great friend and overall, he’s a reeaaally great guy. if something happens, i approve.”

he’s echoing a similar jaemin spiel to the ones he went on before you met the man, but you can’t help but agree now that you know him just as well.

“i know, i know, but let’s talk about something other than jaemin.” you haven’t talked to taro in a while, and you didn’t want to spend your whole call recalling how well jaemin’s treated you. the more you think about it, feelings of uncertainty in the nature of your relationship also follow.

“okay, well anyways, i’ve been into this really cool new strain. they call it strawberry shortcake and it’s just crazy, you need to try it.” before you can respond, taro cuts in.

“you might need to get it somewhere else, though, let me see if another of my buddies around there has it.” you haven’t gone to any other plugs since you met jaemin, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to start now.

“don’t you think i can just get it from jaemin? he’d probably want to try.” he gives you a perplexed stare in response.

“i don’t think so, jaemin hates strawberries. i’m surprised that hasn’t come up at all?” the news from taro leaves you shocked.

you recall how jaemin didn’t have your beloved strawberry cough in stock when you first met him, but since then he’s never ran out. he could have just said from the beginning that he doesn’t carry it in stock.

was he buying it just for you? is he smoking what you like even if he doesn’t? if he is, what does that mean? the thoughts threaten to send your mind spiraling.

you try to push them aside to continue your chat.

once you finish your conversation with your friend and head to bed, you fight against a hopeful little voice in your head telling you that jaemin might just feel the same way as you.

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the next day, you initiate plans with jaemin, wanting to finish up a show the two of you started. he lets you know you can come over that evening after some customers leave, assuring you they won’t take long.

you head over to his place, heading up the elevator. you’ve never seen any of jaemin’s neighbors before, so you’re surprised when the doors open to a gorgeous girl. her hair is a slight mess, but she works it.

she offers a polite “excuse me” before going into the elevator to head down. as you pass her, you get a whiff of something very familiar.

fresh herbs, florals, and something.. sweet? you ponder on the scent on the short walk down the hall to jaemin’s. he opens the door with the same smile as always, and leads you inside when you smell it.

the same scent you smelled at the elevator.

strawberry cough.

“did you get started without me?” you try to keep a light hearted tone, trying to pry as much as you can without giving your suspicisons away.

“just a bit, a customer came by earlier and wanted to try out some of my stash, but they didn’t want to smoke alone so i had a hit or two.” he smiles innocently. your eyes move to the tv to see the show you were planning to watch already playing on the screen. your heart sinks.

jaemin is a really good guy. he’s so special to you and you feel like slowly but surely you’ve become just as special to him.

when you sit down, you ask him to put on a different movie, wanting to continue the show another time. you can’t seem to focus and the joint passed to you tastes a little more bitter than usual. your thoughts fester.

jaemin is a really good guy, but he is good to everyone. he’s so special to you, but you’re not sure anymore if you have even began to brush the surface of being anything more than a good friend.

even if you’re sleeping together, you weren’t exclusive, and it’s not like you’re the only one he watches shows with or his only smoking buddy, either.

neither of you ever moved to define what went on between you two, and that little voice from last night is telling you now that maybe there just wasn’t anything in need of defining in the first place.

you finish the movie with minimal conversation and ask him to walk you home, citing your change in demeanor to a long, tiring day.

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wanting to sort out your feelings, you decide you need a break from your regular visits, but 1 week of excuses and avoiding his invitations quickly turns into 3.

“shit.” you check your weed jar to find your strawberry cough stash running dangerously low. gnawing at your lip, you still can’t find it in you to reach out to jaemin, even if its just as a customer.

you’ve wanted to go back every time he’s invited you, but since the day you concluded that nothing actually special was going on between you two, you don’t know if you can act normal. you don’t know if you could lay under him, looking into his deep brown eyes and not tell him you are probably madly in love with him.

you needed some time to cool your feelings off. you’d be back after you sort it out, and everything would hopefully go back to the way it was.

you head to work and put your thoughts aside for now, actually grateful that there’s a line of customers to keep your mind busy. when it slows down a bit, you see a familiar face of a boy with rose gold hair.

yangyang was a friend you met through shotaro, seeing him in a lot of blunt rotations you’ve been in at shotaro’s functions.

“hey, yangyang! how are you?” you ask cheerily.

he’a quick to return your greeting, always being a pretty chill person to see even if you don’t know each other too well.

“not too bad, just running some errands. heading to my plug later, how are you?”

a lightbulb turns on in your head at his plans. the answer to your dilemma has arrived.

“better now, could i ask you a favor actually?”

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jaemin hears his doorbell ring, but he’s slow to get the door. he knows it’s not you, so what’s the rush? he grabs his customer’s order from his kitchen table and heads over.

even though he knows it isn’t you, a part of him wishes it was. he hasn’t seen you in 3 weeks, and it’s driving him crazy. you’ve just rejected another invitation to finish up that show you started, and he’s lost count now of how many times that’s happened.

he knows you’re busy, but he can also sense that something is off. he’s been scouring his memories for anything he could have done to upset you for the past week or so, but he can’t come up with anything.

he tries to assure himself that it’s just a schedule thing, nothing personal. he’s gotten used to your smoking habits, and he knows you’ll be running low soon.

it’s only a matter of time until you need to come see him, right? he can only hope that you want to.

he opens his door to see yangyang, one of his regular customers. he’s expecting a quick transaction, not really in the mood for small talk.

“hey yangyang, everything’s here.” jaemin hands yangyang the bag.

“hey, thanks. really quick though, can i add on an eighth of strawberry cough if you have any?” yangyang asks.

“i might, you trying something new?” jaemin responds, interest piqued at the familiar strain.

“nah, picking up some for a friend,” yangyang responds. jaemin’s eyes narrow slightly.

yangyang usually gets the same few things in rotation every time, but he’s never once asked for strawberry cough. jaemin wouldn’t think anything of it usually, but he’s a little sensitive at the mention of your favorite.

“oh, do i know them? maybe a potential new customer?” jaemin tries to disguise his prying as a new opportunity for him as a plug, but he’s just hoping the bad feeling in his gut isn’t true.

“it’s for my friend ___, they asked me to pick some up. do you know them?” his heart drops at the mention of your name.

jaemin goes silent for a second.

“..gotcha, i think i’m actually out right now but i’ll let you know when i have some back in stock.” jaemin lies, knowing he has a couple bags left, but there’s a bitter feeling making his stomach turn.

yangyang shrugs and says he’ll let you know, and then he’s on his way.

shutting the door with a heavy sigh, he goes to lay on his couch, which he’s had in its full pulled out state since the first night you slept together.

he remembers your dazed, glossy eyes, soft lips, and the way you lean into him. he remembers the way you look when he’s got you pressed into his cushions.

he hasn’t heard your voice in so long, the sweet sound of your laugh. he misses you.

jaemin picks up his phone.

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when you get his call, you’re lying in bed already. it’s 7pm on a friday night, and you are spending it moping around instead of going out with your friends.

you miss jaemin, his apartment, his smile, the way he’d spoil you in so many ways, everything. you’d rather be laying on that couch right now, but you know you shouldn’t.

it’s just as you start to push jaemin out of your brain that your phone starts ringing with that familiar caller id. his picture pops up, a cute one you took of him in his bedroom after a smoke sesh awhile back.

caught off guard, you end up picking it up right away, and the voice you’ve missed so badly sends waves through the speakers.

“hi, angel, are you free this weekend?”

that nickname with his deep voice is already undoing any “cooling off” you’ve done in the time apart from him.

“i’m not sure yet, what’s up?“ your voice comes out clear despite your nerves.

“i know you’ve been busy, but i thought you might be running a little low on your stash, can i come by to drop some off?” he offers.

your first instinct is to make up an excuse because you honestly aren’t prepared to see him, but you feel like you’ve made enough excuses by now. you’ve missed the sound of his voice and hearing it over the phone is your breaking point.

as much as you’ve tried to push aside your growing feelings, it’s only fair to both you and him if you finally lay down your boundaries.

“actually jaem, if you’re still free tonight, can we finish that show?”

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even though he insisted on picking you up, you decide you need the 20 minute walk to jaemin’s to calm yourself. your head is full of so many “what if’s,” and in no time you find yourself in front of his building. you see a familiar head of dark hair standing outside.

“there you are, angel,” he says as soon as you are in his sight, and he brings you into a tight hug. you immediately relax into his hold, not realizing how much your body missed his familiar touch.

“i-“ you start, but he shushes you.

“it’s cold out here, let’s go upstairs.”

he takes you up to his apartment, and you’re happy to see it’s still as comfy as you remember. he’s got the heater on, and it feels good on your cold face. he seats you on his couch as he always has, rubbing your arms up and down to get rid of the last bit of outside chill.

“what have you been up to? it’s been so long since i’ve seen your face, baby.”

while it isn’t new for him to be this cuddly, it’s usually later into your nights together. you remind yourself your intention for tonight, and you decide you need to get this over with.

you separate yourself from him, putting some space between you.

“i’ve been okay, jaem. but i came because i really need to talk to you.” he waits for you to continue, anxiety growing at your somber expression.

“i don’t think i’ll be able to come around anymore.”

jaemin frowns deeply. “i mean, it’s already been a while since you were over, even if you’re busy i don’t mind waiting, it’s no pressure at all?”

“no, i don’t mean that. i just don’t think i can stay in this sort of relationship with you anymore.” you are dancing around what you want to say, but it’s just so hard to get it out.

his heart sinks.

“because there’s someone else around?” you jump at jaemin’s voice, which has lowered at your words.

“what?”

he runs his hand through his hair frustratedly. it’s the first time you’ve seen him this distressed.

“jaemin, where is that coming from??” he says nothing, and it seems like he’s also having a hard time figuring out what to say.

“look jaem, this isn’t on you or anyone else. i’m grateful for all you do for me, you’re a really good friend and i love the time we spend together.” you bring yourself to look him in the eye.

“but i feel like i’ve started to rely on you too much, to expect and want more. it’s a lot, too much even. i don’t want to get my hopes up about anything, so i need to back off a bit.”

“hopes up?” jaemin looks at you with an unreadable expression. “what do you mean by that?” his own hopes start to rise.

you look down at your hands, debating on what to say. but you owe him the truth, even if it changes things between the two of you. honesty and time could save the platonic bond, even if it severs any hope of a romantic one.

“i like you jaem, i like you a lot and i don’t think i can be just friends with you, at least for right now.”

the silence following your confession is deafening.

he calls your name gently, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

“___, my angel.” he repeats.

he takes your hand gently in his, and your eyes move from your hands to see him smiling wider than you’ve ever seen.

he closes the distance between you, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing you deeply. his warm soft lips fit perfectly with yours and you melt into him, your hands threading through his hair. he kisses you like a starved man, and he pulls you closer and tighter.

you’re breathless when he pulls away after a while, his lips red and starting to swell.

“you have no idea how much i’ve wanted to hear that.” his eyes are piercing through you.

“i like you, too, and i don’t want to just be your friend. i’m sorry you had to say it first.” you want to cry hearing his confession, but instead wrap your arms around his neck and bring him back into a heated kiss.

you have to be dreaming. you’ve only thought about putting a stop to your feelings for jaemin for almost a month now, but the feeling of this man being in your arms knowing he feels the same way now is so surreal.

jaemin pushes you gently to rest on your back, his hand moving down as his lips stay glued to yours. he feels the same way. he likes you.

“angel, let me take care of you, please.” jaemin’s gaze holds so much intensity.

“i’m yours, jaemin.”

hearing that, he dives right back into your lips with a fervor even greater than earlier, his hands tugging at your pants and underwear to remove them.

he’s always been so intentional with his touches, always seeming to know the perfect way to touch you. your words, however, activate a desperation of wanting to feel more of you and it translates into his rushed, almost clumsy hands.

he cups your heat with one hand as the other sneaks under your shirt to knead at your chest.

you are getting wetter by the second, and jaemin pushes one finger into you. your lips leave his as you moan loudly at the intrusion, and his head moves down to meet his hand at your core.

“jaemin, wait.” he pauses.

“i want you to feel good, too.” jaemin chuckles.

“don’t mind me baby, there’s no greater pleasure for me than making you feel good.”

his words have you wanting to press his skillful mouth onto you as soon as possible, but you stop yourself. “let’s do it together then.”

his eyes almost bulge out of his head at the idea, and the idea goes straight to his cock. he can already feel himself pulsing with need.

“69?? you are too fucking good to me, angel.” and immediately he has you flipped over, with your heat hovering over his face and his cock in your hands.

he starts to lick at you, straining his neck up while you get to work taking him into your mouth. you get into a good rhythm, feeling his groans on your core.

you feel him smile as he harshly tugs your hips down onto his face. you gasp, trying go back into hovering. jaemin’s strong hold doesn’t let you move.

“don’t hover, sit on my face, please.” he goes in again on you, alternating between slurping loudly and swiping his tongue all over.

your legs give out at this and he lets out a deep groan at the feeling of you pressed into him. you give a hard suck on his tip and take him back into your mouth. the vibration from your moans has him seeing stars.

“oh my god,” he mumbles into your core. he separates himself from you for a moment.

“baby, baby stop, sit up, angel.” he pulls you off of him.

“that pretty mouth feels too good, gonna cum too soon,” he pants. “i’ve got you, just sit pretty and leave it to me okay?”

you want to keep going, but jaemin’s back at your entrance like a madman, pulling you to sit on him completely again. his tongue reaches deep into you. he’s moving your hips back and forth, and his chin digs into your bud.

the sudden onslaught of pleasure is too much, and he has you cumming on his face with a loud cry. he helps you ride through your orgasm and you detach yourself from him as he catches his breath.

when he rises, he moves to pull a box from under the couch, but you stop him.

“no, no, please just give it to me, i want to feel all of you.” he looks at you concerned.

“i’m on the pill and i haven’t slept with anyone else since we started fucking, so please just do it.”

his heart is absolutely swooning at your pleading for his dick and your revelation that you’ve been his since the beginning. he stations himself between your legs.

“you’ve got it, baby, you’re my only one, too.” with that, he inserts himself into you, his tip beginning that delicious stretch.

it’s been a while since you’ve fucked him, and jaemin takes his time inch by inch despite wanting nothing more than to ram into you in one go.

“you’re mine, angel, i like you so much and i want you all for myself.”

he groans as he bottoms out, letting you adjust to him, but he can feel himself throbbing inside of you.

“please move, jaemin, i need it so bad.” he’s more than happy to oblige, starting to speed up his thrusts gradually until he’s fully thrusting in and out.

he reaches so fully deep into you, and he pulls out all the way to his tip before snapping his hips into you again.

“you’re so perfect. my angel, my baby, my ___.” he’s whispering sugary sweet words into your ear, and that in combination with his thrusts make your head start to float as your eyes roll back. this feeling is better than any high weed could give you.

“jaemin, jaemin, jaemin,” your cries of his name only encourage him to go faster, hit deeper. his hand presses into your lower stomach, and his fingers rub circles into your bud.

“cum for me, you can do it, just let go.” and you do just that, your back arching off the couch. jaemin pulls out and immediately plunges his fingers back into you to ride out your orgasm.

at this point, his cock is leaking, desperate and throbbing with the need to cum, but he wants you in one more way tonight.

he flips you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up and teasing your slit with the head of his cock. he plunges back in with a deep groan and begins fucking into you.

your head is clouded from your orgasms and the feeling of overstimulation, and you almost dont feel him reach for something. you hear the clicking of a lighter.

looking behind you, you see jaemin lighting a pipe, all while fucking into you still. he takes a deep inhale, holding it in before blowing it out away from you.

if you had this view on video, you’d be able to get off to it anytime, anywhere. you clench around him tightly as you see him blow out the smoke. your eyes are glued to him.

he notices your gaze. “do you want some, pretty baby?”

you nod hurriedly, turning your head back front as his thrusts push you up the couch. he takes another hit.

a strong hand reaches around to pull you so that your back is pressed against his front. he turns your face to him as he blows smoke into your open mouth. you clench even tighter, and he closes the distance and kisses you sloppily. the smoke is seeping out past both of your mouths, filling the room.

“you’re mine. i’m yours, only yours.” he growls into your ear.

he fucks into you, holding you around your mid section with both of you on your knees. he lets go to hold onto your hips and you slump back onto the couch, unable to hold yourself up. he speeds up, thrusts turning sloppier by the second.

“f-fuck, angel. i’m so close. let me fill you up, i’ll give it to you so good.”

you clench at the promises he’s moaning out loud and he gets closer and closer to his peak. his thrusts are all over the place, desperate to finish as you lock your ankles around his to start rocking your hips back onto his.

“could treat you ten times better than anyone else. no one else for me. you’re the only one i’d ever want or need, only you.”

his sugary words are spilling out and the feeling is all too much as his hips stutter, cumming inside you with a deep, strangled groan. you milk him dry as he empties himself into you, toppling over to lie next to you.

the two of you lie side by side, trying to catch your breath, and he pulls you close to him.

you are emotionally and physically exhausted, but jaemin gets up after a few minutes, coming back with a towel and hoodie.

he cleans you up and helps you to your feet to use the restroom.

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when you settle back into the couch after getting ready for bed, he puts on your show as you cuddle into his side. everything feels so familiar, yet so different without the feelings of uncertainty. you look up at him.

“when were you going to tell me you hated strawberries?” your question catches him off guard.

“who said that??” he chuckles nervously, but he knows he’s been caught and there’s no arguing.

“no seriously, you didn’t have to force yourself or buy that strawberry cough just for me.” you do feel a little bad that he was, even if it was his own free will.

he pauses.

“i just needed something to keep you coming back, aside from my pull out couch of course,” he jokes, wiggling his eyebrows. but his words hold truth.

“you should’ve known a month in that you didn’t need strawberry cough to keep me coming back,” you let out a little laugh at how cute he was being.

“imagine the betrayal i felt knowing that you were going to someone else for it though??”

you look at him confused. gears click in your brain when you remember the rose-haired friend you'd talked to earlier that day.

“oh, you know yangyang?” it makes sense given jaemin, shotaro, and yangyang share many mutual friends.

“yes i know the asshole. gonna monopolize it so you don’t ever cheat on me again.” he pouts.

“yes, yes, boyfriends get official exclusive plug rights,” you joke. “as long as you’re not smoking my strawberry cough with anyone else.”

“i won’t even sell it to anyone anymore, it’s reserved for my angel only. and boyfriend?” he smiles and kisses you gently. “i like the sound of that.”

after a few more kisses, you turn your attention back to the show, but jaemin pulls his pipe back out.

“does that mean we can smoke something not strawberry flavored tonight?” he asks, looking relieved.

you laugh and give him the OK, and he’s more than happy to pull out a whole array of different strains he’s been wanting to try with you. you sweat at the variety, but you know you have more than enough time to try them all now that you’re sure he’s yours, and you’re his.

end.

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if you got this far, thank you so much for reading! this is my first full length fic and i hope to write more in the future <3 i hope u enjoyed! shares and feedback are appreciated -coco :)

#jaemin #ryorecs

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ryorecs · 8 months ago

Text

‘love me back?’ — six

pairing — mark lee x reader

word count — 35.5k

genre — angst, smut, fluff, strangers to lovers, forbidden love

synopsis — you and mark aren’t together anymore, but somehow you’ve grown closer than ever. every moment you share feels more intimate, blurring the line between friendship and love. but secrets, old wounds, and buried pain threaten to tear you apart again. campus tension, a difficult practice, and an eventful party only add to the strain. now, you’re left wondering if closeness is enough to mend what’s been shattered.

chapter contents/warnings — college au, small town vibes, 2000s teen show vibes, this fic is heavily based on one tree, explicit language, explicit sexual content, explicit themes, lots of pent up frustration and tension, really angsty chapter (get tissues), y/n bit of a girlboss in this i fear, mark and y/n have difficult conversations, he’s a lot needy and messy in this, for once y/n is emotional support queen, emotional outbursts from mark, yn finally not taking people’s shit for once!, karina is hot as alway, karina and jeno… yeah, y/n and jeno are shippable in this i fear, don’t take them seriously, they’re just besties who don’t know how to stop flirting!, but in all seriousness, jeno is 🥺 the best fucking brother and friend ever.

authors note — the finale is 80k words. i’ve decided to split it into two parts. it’s all written but i’m uploading this now and part 7 next week. the finale is connected, meaning part 7 takes place exactly where part 6 ends… enjoy, this is gonna be one hell of a ride.

[fic ml]

ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN

The apartment feels unnaturally still, like it’s holding its breath alongside you. The faint hum of the city outside, usually a comfort, feels distant tonight, muffled by the thick tension hanging in the air. Even the soft glow of the string lights draped over the windows seems dimmer, their warm hue failing to chase away the shadows clinging to the corners of the room. You sink into the couch, the plush cushions swallowing your frame as if they could somehow shield you from the weight pressing on your chest.

The faint scent of vanilla—Karina’s favorite candle—lingers in the air, too soothing for a night like this. Across from you, Karina sits perched in the armchair, her legs tucked beneath her like a cat settling in for the long haul. She doesn’t say a word, but her watchful eyes, softened by concern, flicker to your face, scanning it like she’s searching for a crack in the silence. Her fingers absently play with the hem of her oversized sweater. Her face is unreadable at first, but her furrowed brows and the way she bites her lip betray her concern. She doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push, just waits in the silence that feels like it could swallow you both whole.

Finally, you let the words fall, heavy and raw. Her eyes widen slightly as she leans forward, sensing the shift before you even finish speaking. When you tell her everything, she’s silent at first. Completely still. You can almost hear her mind racing as she processes it all, her gaze flickering between sympathy and disbelief.

“So… it’s over?” Her voice is tentative, the words breaking the silence like a stone dropped in still water.

You hesitate, your throat tightening as the memories of last night replay in your mind—You tell her everything—how the argument had been the breaking point, how the two of you had finally laid everything bare, resolved what you could, communicated in a way that you hadn’t in weeks. But even with the air cleared, the weight of it all had remained, and you’d come to a mutual understanding that, for now, you had to let go. The words still feel foreign on your tongue, too final and jagged to fully accept but you force yourself. “Yeah,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper. “We broke up.”

Karina’s face shifts immediately, her lips pressing into a thin line as she takes it in. There’s no hesitation in her reaction. In a heartbeat, she’s up and crossing the small space between you. She sits beside you on the couch, her warmth engulfing you as her arms wrap around you tightly. It’s not a gentle embrace—it’s firm, grounding, as if she’s trying to hold you together while you unravel. “Oh, babe,” she murmurs, her voice thick with empathy. “I’m so sorry. I know how much he means to you.”

Her words hit you like a dagger, and your already wobbly composure crumbles further. Your throat tightens, your chest feels heavy, and Karina’s embrace, meant to ground you, suddenly feels too much—too close. You squirm, shifting uncomfortably in her arms, desperate for a sliver of space to breathe. She notices immediately, her head tilting as if to ask, Really? But instead of loosening her hold, she only pulls you closer, squeezing tighter.

“Oh no,” she says dramatically, her voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. “You’re not getting away from me that easily. I’m your emotional support bestie, and you will accept this hug whether you like it or not.”

“Karina, stop,” you groan, trying and failing to push her away as she holds on for dear life, resting her chin on your shoulder. “I can’t breathe.”

“You don’t need to breathe. You need to feel the love,” she says, completely unbothered, patting your back with mock seriousness.

You huff, but a reluctant smile tugs at your lips, and Karina seems to sense the crack in your armor. She finally lets go, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with deliberate gentleness. Her teasing melts into something softer as she studies you, but the twitch of her lips hints at trouble.

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing with a familiar glint. “You’re doing what’s best for you both right now,” she says carefully, her tone sincere, but her smirk betrays her. “But if I know you—and him—this isn’t over. Not for real.”

You glare at her, though it’s half-hearted. “Don’t,” you warn, but she only raises an eyebrow, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“What?” she says innocently, leaning back into the armchair, her grin widening. “I’m just saying, you two are like… inevitable. A little break isn’t going to change that.”

Before you can retort, your phone buzzes on the armrest, cutting through the tension. Karina’s grin only deepens as she wiggles her eyebrows at you, clearly enjoying herself. “And that, my friend, is called perfect timing.”

You grab it instinctively, expecting anything but the name that flashes on the screen.

mark — y/n, are you awake? mark — i need u mark — y/n. mark — five missed calls.

Your heart stutters as the notifications glare back at you, each one a tug on the fragile strings holding you together. The urgency in his words is unmistakable, a magnet pulling your thoughts entirely to him. Your chest tightens as your thumb hovers over his name, your breath catching in anticipation.

“Karina,” you murmur, your voice almost trembling as you break the silence. “He’s—he’s texting me.”

Karina leans forward, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the messages on your screen. Her expression softens, concern flickering in her gaze, but it’s soon overshadowed by something else—a mischievous glint you don’t trust. “What does he mean, ‘I need you’?” she asks, her tone caught somewhere between genuine worry and playful curiosity. Before you can answer, her gaze flicks toward the door, and a sly smile tugs at her lips. “Actually,” she says, her voice lilting with amusement, “I know exactly what he means.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Karina, now is not the time for this,” you say sharply, though your voice wavers under the growing weight of the moment.

She shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I’m just saying,” she replies breezily, leaning back against the armchair as if she’s already won this round. But before you can fire back, a sharp knock echoes through the apartment.

Your heart leaps to your throat, and your head snaps toward the door. “No way,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. Your eyes dart to Karina, who looks far too smug for your liking.

“Oh, way,” she says, practically bouncing up from her spot on the couch. “And you’re welcome,” she adds, her tone dripping with self-satisfaction as she strides toward the door with all the confidence of someone about to deliver the punchline of a joke they’ve been sitting on for hours.

“Karina, don’t—” But it’s too late. She swings the door open in one fluid motion, stepping aside dramatically as if presenting the answer to all your questions.

Mark stands there, disheveled and strikingly vulnerable, the faint glow from the hallway light catching on his features and casting soft shadows across his face. His hoodie is slightly wrinkled, the fabric clinging to him in places as if it had been tugged and twisted during his anxious movements. His joggers hang low on his hips, the waistband slightly skewed, like he hadn’t bothered to fix them in his rush to get here. His hair is a wild mess, strands sticking up in every direction, as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. And his eyes—those familiar, piercing eyes—are a storm of exhaustion and unspoken desperation. They meet yours instantly, and your chest tightens at the sight of him.

“Mark,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips so softly it’s barely audible, like a prayer you didn’t even realize you were saying. The breath catches in your lungs, and for a moment, you don’t move, the sheer presence of him freezing you in place.

His hand rakes through his hair again, the motion rough and frustrated. “I need you,” he says again, his voice low but steady, the weight of those three words heavy with meaning. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t falter, his gaze locked onto yours as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away.

You take a small step back, your hand still resting on Mark’s forearm as the question tumbles out, unbidden. “Did you finally tell—” Your voice cuts off mid-sentence as the weight of his gaze shifts, his eyes flickering briefly to the side. You follow his line of sight and immediately catch Karina, still perched on the bottom step of the staircase, her head tilted with blatant curiosity. Her chin rests on her hand, her eyebrows raised as though she’s watching the climax of a particularly juicy movie.

Mark’s jaw tightens slightly, and you can feel the tension radiating from him. It’s enough to make your stomach twist. The memory of his earlier plea echoes in your mind: Don’t tell anyone—not until I’m ready.

Karina notices the shared glance between you and Mark and suddenly seems to realize she’s been caught. She sits up straighter, blinking innocently. “What?” she says, her voice far too casual, but her wide eyes betray her interest. “I’m just… here for moral support.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Karina,” you murmur, a quiet exasperation lacing your tone. Mark doesn’t say a word, but the sharpness in his eyes speaks volumes.

She groans, throwing her hands up as she rises to her feet. “Fine, fine,” she mutters, clearly unimpressed with being dismissed. She starts toward the stairs with a dramatic sigh. Her door clicks shut, and the apartment falls into a heavy silence once more. Mark’s shoulders relax, but only slightly, his hand brushing against yours again. You feel the weight of his gaze pull you back to the moment, his expression unreadable but filled with something vulnerable, something raw.

You exhale, finally looking back at him. “Mark…” You step forward instinctively, your movements slow, almost tentative. Your bare feet pad softly against the hardwood floor as you close the distance, and the moment you’re close enough, your hand reaches out before you can stop it. Your fingers brush against the sleeve of his hoodie, and the contact feels electric, grounding, like touching something you’ve missed for far too long.

“Come inside,” you murmur, your voice softer now, almost pleading. You tug lightly at his arm, your grip firm but gentle, and he lets you pull him over the threshold, his body following yours as if he’s been waiting for this, for you, all night. The door clicks shut behind him, but you don’t let go of his arm. Instead, you pull him deeper into the apartment, leading him into the warm light of the living room.

Your hands shift, one sliding down to his wrist while the other lingers on his forearm. His skin feels warm beneath the fabric of his hoodie, and your thumb grazes the edge of it absentmindedly, as if trying to ground yourself in the reality of him standing here, in front of you. You don’t know if you’re holding him or if he’s anchoring you—it feels like both.

When you stop, he’s standing so close that you can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with something distinctly him—something familiar and comforting. Your eyes roam over him, taking in every detail: the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens as he looks at you, the slight redness in his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept. You reach up without thinking, your hand brushing against the side of his face, your fingers lingering just below his jaw. His stubble feels rough against your skin, and the contact makes your stomach flip.

“Talk to me,” you whisper again, his name trembling on your lips. This time, it’s not a question or a greeting—it’s an acknowledgment. A reminder that he’s here, and so are you. The intimacy of the moment feels overwhelming, as if the weight of everything unsaid hangs in the air between you.

His eyes soften for a fleeting moment, just enough for you to catch the vulnerability behind the storm raging in his expression. Slowly, his hand rises to cover yours, his palm warm and steady against your knuckles. The contact feels grounding, like he’s anchoring himself to you, and when he leans into your touch—just slightly—you can feel the tension in his body begin to ease. His exhale is shaky, like he’s finally releasing a breath he’s been holding for hours, and it pulls at something deep in your chest.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admits, his voice low and raw, the words heavy with meaning. It feels like a confession, like he’s laying a piece of himself bare for you. “I tried, but I just—” His voice falters, cracks under the weight of his emotions, and he looks down, his grip on your hand tightening as if afraid you might pull away. “I need you, Y/N. I don’t know how else to say it.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a wave of emotion crashing over you. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, your throat tightening as his words settle deep in your chest. Slowly, your thumb brushes along his jawline, your touch gentle against his tension. “I’m here,” you whisper softly, and somehow those two words feel like a promise—one you’re both desperately trying to hold onto in the chaos of everything.

But the moment doesn’t last. Reality crashes back in like a cold wave as your thoughts shift. “Did you tell Coach?” you ask abruptly, your tone sharper than intended as your hand falls away.

Mark’s jaw tightens, the muscle feathering as he fights to hold back whatever storm is brewing inside him. His gaze drops to the floor, his shoulders stiff with tension, as though the weight of your words has settled squarely on them. The silence between you feels heavy, stretching for a moment too long, and yet the guilt etched across his face tells you everything before he even opens his mouth. It’s in the way his brows knit together, in the way his fingers curl into loose fists at his sides, as if he’s grappling with something he can’t quite articulate. When he finally exhales, the sound is low and strained, carrying with it an apology he hasn’t yet spoken but that you can already feel in your chest.

“Mark,” you press, your voice rising with worry and frustration. “Are you serious?”

He doesn’t respond right away, his head bowing further as he takes a hesitant step closer. His eyes, filled with a mixture of guilt and pleading, meet yours. “Y/N, I—”

“No,” you cut him off, taking a step back. Your voice cracks under the weight of your emotions, but the edge of frustration sharpens it. “Your health is not a game, Mark. This isn’t something you can keep putting off like it’s not a big deal. Do you know how scared I am for you? How helpless I feel every time I think about what could happen to you?”

His shoulders sag under your words, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of frustration. “I know, okay? I know,” he says, his voice strained. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re here,” you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest as you glare at him. “But you still haven’t told Coach, have you?”

“Y/N.” His voice is soft but carries an urgency that demands your attention. He takes a tentative step toward you, his gaze searching yours for an opening, for understanding.

“Mark,” you interrupt, your tone sharp, though your heart clenches at the look on his face. “If you don’t tell Coach, then I will. I mean it.” Your voice wavers slightly, but the resolve in your words is clear. You’re not letting this go, not when his health is on the line.

He sighs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “That’s what my best friend keeps telling me,” he says, almost like he’s admitting defeat.

Your brows furrow, confusion cutting through your frustration. “She knows?”

Mark nods slowly, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. She's known for a while. She found my medication… or, well, the full packets of them. She put two and two together and realized I haven’t told Coach, and that I haven’t been taking any of it. Even though I’m supposed to.” His voice drops, laced with guilt, and you can see the weight of his own choices pressing down on him.

“Mark,” you murmur, the sharpness in your tone softening. You step closer, your hand reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. “Do you even realize how much this scares me? I can’t—I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you. You mean too much to me.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you press your lips together, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t care how strong you think you are, or how much you want to push through this on your own. You can’t. You need help, and I can’t just sit here and watch you ignore this.”

He looks at you, his eyes filled with something raw and unspoken. His hand brushes over yours, his thumb running across your knuckles like he’s grounding himself. “That’s why I came here to you,” he says, his voice low and steady, though there’s an unmistakable vulnerability in it.

Your chest tightens, your voice soft but firm as you respond. “Mark, this isn’t just about me being here for you. It’s about you taking this seriously. You can’t keep putting this off, thinking it’ll just go away.”

His head snaps up at that, his eyes wide and searching your face. “Y/N, don’t,” he pleads, taking another step closer. “I promise I’ll do it. I came here to tell you that I’ve made up my mind. I just… I need you with me. I can’t do it alone.”

The weight of his words settles heavily in your chest. You know how hard this is for him, how deeply he struggles with the idea of vulnerability, but that doesn’t make the fear you feel for him any less intense. “I’ll be there,” you say softly, your tone steady but firm. “Coach needs to know, Mark. And so do your parents, your doctor—people who can help you. This is your health, and it’s too important to keep brushing aside.”

“And I will tell him,” he promises, his voice soft but filled with determination. “I swear to you, Y/N. I’ll do it. Just… be there with me.”

You nod, a sense of relief mixing with the overwhelming love you feel for him. “I’m proud of you,” you whisper, your voice breaking slightly. “But I’ll be prouder when you actually do it.”

His hand moves to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, deliberate strokes. His touch is steady, grounding, but there’s a nervous energy in the way his fingers linger, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. His gaze locks onto yours, unwavering, raw. “You’re the reason I’m doing this,” he murmurs, the words almost trembling on his lips, yet spoken with certainty. “You make me want to be better… to take care of myself.”

Your chest tightens as his words sink in, the weight of his sincerity nearly overwhelming you. You lift your free hand to his face, letting your palm cradle his jaw as your thumb traces the faint stubble along his cheek. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, leaning into your touch as though he’s been starved for it. The vulnerability etched across his face makes your heart ache in ways you can’t put into words.

“You’ve got to take care of your heart, Mark,” you say softly, your voice trembling as you press your hand just a little firmer against his chest. “Your heart… it’s what makes you, you. It’s why you care so deeply, why you give so much of yourself, why—” Your voice catches, your words faltering under the weight of your emotions. Your eyes lock onto his, and you feel the sharp ache of vulnerability settle deep in your chest. “I can’t stand the thought of it failing you. Not physically, not in any way. I can’t lose that part of you. I just… I can’t.”

Mark’s lips twitch, a faint smirk playing at the corners as he tilts his head, the teasing glint in his eyes softening the heaviness of the moment. “You’re getting awfully poetic on me,” he murmurs, his voice low but laced with warmth. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his touch grounding. “Didn’t know you thought about my heart this much.”

The shift in Mark is so sudden it feels like emotional whiplash, but you don’t flinch. You know him too well for that—know how he clings to humor when reality cuts too deep. The teasing edge in his voice, the way his lips twitch with that familiar smirk—it’s his shield, his way of taking control when the weight of his feelings threatens to swallow him whole. You’ve seen this before, and you’re ready for it, prepared for him to use you as his distraction. It doesn’t surprise you when his thumb brushes over your knuckles with a deliberate slowness, his gaze darkening with something playful, something just shy of dangerous. It’s a dance you’ve learned by heart—the way he turns vulnerability into teasing, the way his sarcasm softens the cracks he won’t let you see fully. And even as his smirk deepens, his thumb still lingers against your skin, grounding himself in you while pretending none of it matters.

Your cheeks grow warmer under his gaze, and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to steady the swirl of emotions inside you. “Stop that,” you mutter, your voice quieter than you intended, almost drowned out by the sound of his steady breathing. Your fingers twitch slightly against his chest, as if betraying your words. “Stop teasing me,” you add, pouting, though the way your voice falters ruins any attempt at firmness.

His gaze softens, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but there’s a quiet heat simmering in his eyes. “You make it so easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety, the teasing laced with something deeper, something that sends a shiver down your spine. His thumb brushes against your knuckles in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like he’s savoring the moment. “You know I can’t help it when you look at me like that,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, warmer, each word drawing you closer.

“Like what?” you whisper, your voice soft but unwavering as you hold his gaze. “Like you mean the absolute world to me? Because you do, Mark.”

His breath hitches, and a quiet groan escapes him as his eyes flutter shut for a brief second before locking back on yours, filled with a raw, unguarded softness. “God,” he mutters, almost like he’s cursing himself for the way you undo him.

“I’m just being honest,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly, not from nerves but from the intensity crackling between you. Your eyes stay locked on his, refusing to waver.

“You’re fucking with me, baby,” he murmurs, the nickname slipping out, his tone rougher now, like he’s grappling with the way you’ve stripped him bare.

“I’m not doing anything,” you reply innocently, though the small tilt of your lips betrays you.

“Oh yeah? You’re the one who keeps pressing your hand here—” His hand presses a little firmer over yours, trapping it against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat vibrates under your palm, grounding the moment, “—telling me how much my heart matters. Making it sound like it’s the most important thing in the world.” His voice drops into something almost hypnotic, laced with a teasing edge that sends a shiver through you. His eyes flick to yours, dark and intent, but behind the heat lies an unmistakable softness, a tenderness that slips through and holds you there, captivated.

He leans forward slightly, pressing a kiss so soft to the back of your hand that it makes your breath catch. He lingers there, the warmth of his lips sinking into your skin, before lowering your hands and resting them under his chin, cradling them gently as if you’re something fragile he refuses to let go of.

“That’s because it is the most important thing in the world for me,”

His breath catches, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. Then, his lips twitch into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” His eyes hold yours like they’re searching for something deeper, something only you can give him. “You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, and you don’t even have to try.”

“You’re the same for me,” you whisper, your voice soft but heavy with meaning as your fingers thread through his hair. He exhales sharply, leaning into your touch, the vulnerability in his gaze unraveling something deep inside you. “Can we get more comfortable?” you murmur against him, your eyes dark and laden with a hidden message that makes his breath hitch.

The question slips out before you can retract it, instinctive and unguarded, because you need him just as much as he needs you. Around Mark, your self-control has always been fragile—something the two of you indulge and dismantle in equal measure. You’ll allow him to use you as his distraction tonight because it’s the only way you know how to meet him in moments like this, when everything feels too raw and too real.

He nods softly, his hands sliding to your waist with purpose, steady and unhurried. His fingers curve firmly against your sides, and with a gentle but deliberate pull, he guides you onto his lap, your knees settling on either side of him. The press of his hands doesn’t falter, holding you close as though making sure you won’t slip away. His thumbs trace slow, deliberate lines over your hips, grounding you in the warmth of his touch as he shifts you just enough to align your bodies perfectly. The soft rustle of the sheets beneath you and the press of his thighs against yours add to the intimacy, his hands lingering at your waist, strong yet tender, as if savoring every inch of closeness he’s claimed.

Your palms slide over his shoulders, up the curve of his neck, until they cradle his face. His skin is warm under your touch, and you take a moment to just feel him, the closeness erasing the tension that’s been building between you. You don’t care that you’ve just broken up. None of that matters right now. What matters is the way your bodies gravitate toward each other like magnets, the way his eyes soften and darken all at once as he looks at you.

You crave his space, his warmth, the way his presence grounds you even when everything feels unsteady. The heat of him beneath you is intoxicating, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to move, not to grind against him the way you’ve been used to. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths as you try to steady yourself, your hands still framing his face.

“I’ve never cared about anyone like you,” you say, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “Never cared about wanting to keep them safe, to keep them away from harm. I’ve never felt this before.” You pause, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as you lean in closer, your forehead almost touching his. “Every time I think about what you’ve been dealing with, it gives me agony.”

“But you don’t have to face any of it alone. Ok?” you continue, your voice breaking slightly as your emotions spill over. “I never want you to get that idea. This isn’t only your burden to carry. When you push yourself too hard, when you refuse to take care of yourself… it ripples outward. It hurts everyone who cares about you, whether you see it or not. You think you’re sparing us, but you’re not. We’re in this with you, whether you like it or not.”

Your words trail off, leaving a charged silence between you. His gaze softens, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or a quiet understanding he doesn’t voice. The pad of his thumb brushes over your skin again, slow and deliberate, grounding you even as your emotions threaten to overwhelm. His breath, warm and steady, ghosts across your lips, and you can feel the unspoken tension thickening the air around you.

“So what is it, hmm?” His voice softens, but the teasing edge remains, a challenge hidden behind his tenderness. “What are you trying not to say?” His eyes flicker down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting yours again, the moment hanging like a thread between you, waiting to snap.

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you falter, your fingers trembling under his touch. “I’m just trying to get you to take care of yourself,” you say quietly, deflecting, though your voice wavers under the weight of his attention.

Mark’s smirk deepens, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he studies your face. “Take care of myself, huh?” he echoes, his voice dipping lower, smoother, like he’s testing the words on his tongue. His thumb continues its slow, deliberate stroke over your knuckles, grounding you in the warmth of his touch. “You sure about that? Because it sounds like there’s more to it than that.”

He leans in closer, his forehead almost brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his tone a mix of teasing and tenderness, his gaze flickering down to where your fingers rest against his chest. “And you still can’t stop pressing your hand right there—like you’re trying to feel every beat, like you’re afraid to let go.” His lips hover near your temple, so close you can feel the ghost of his words as he speaks. “So tell me, Y/N… is it just about me taking care of myself, or are you trying to say something else?”

The heat in his gaze makes your chest tighten, a pressure building that feels both overwhelming and irresistible. His voice, soft but insistent, wraps around you, pulling at something buried deep within—a feeling so profound it leaves you breathless, yet fragile enough that naming it feels impossible. It’s in the way his eyes hold yours, unrelenting, as though he’s reaching into the parts of you you’ve kept hidden, the parts you’re not sure anyone is supposed to see.

You huff, your chest rising and falling as you cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at him with mock irritation. “This is so unfair. I just opened my heart to you, being softer than I’ve ever been, and you’re just… sitting there. Like it doesn’t even matter.”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. His silence only fuels your frustration, and you shift, trying to push off his lap. “Fine, whatever,” you grumble. “Clearly, I’m wasting my—”

Before you can finish, his hands glide to your hips, his touch warm but deliberate as he steadies you. His fingers press gently into your sides, guiding you back into place with a quiet authority that leaves no room for argument. “Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety.

Then his lips hover near your ear, his breath warm and uneven as he leans closer, pressing himself against you. The way he tilts his head, the deliberate slowness of his movements, carries a weight you can’t ignore. The heat of him radiates against your skin as his nose brushes along your jawline. He whispers into your ear, it’s soft, almost reverent, his words slipping into the space between you like a quiet plea.

He tells you how much he needs you—not just now, but tomorrow morning, and every moment after that, how you’re the only thing keeping him steady when the world feels too heavy. His voice trembles, each word carrying a weight you can’t resist, and in that moment, your resolve shatters, breaking apart under the raw intimacy of his touch and the quiet desperation in his voice.

Your throat tightens in annoyance. The look in his eyes—steady, raw, and searching—pulls at something deep inside you. It’s too much, and not enough all at once. “Stop trying to make this about me. This is about you, about you taking your health seriously. I need you as much as you need me but I need you safe and healthy.” You whisper, your voice trembling but edged with a quiet, desperate plea. Your thumb brushes over his chest absently, like you’re trying to soothe the ache you know lingers there for both of you. “This isn’t a game to me, Mark. You’re not a game to me.”

His head tilts slightly as he studies you, his gaze softening but never wavering. “And you think you are to me?” he asks, his voice low and intimate, the question so quiet it feels like it’s meant to echo only between the two of you. His fingers tighten subtly on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of his body sinking into yours.

You let out a shaky breath, your hand trembling against his chest. “No,” you admit, your voice barely audible, each word heavy with emotion. “But I can’t—Mark, I need you to stay. I can’t handle losing you. I can’t.”

His lips part like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he moves closer, his forehead brushing against yours with a tenderness that feels almost unbearable. His hands slide up, his thumbs grazing along the curve of your sides before settling on your waist, holding you like you’re something fragile, something he’s afraid to lose.

“You’re not losing me,” he whispers, his voice so soft it feels like a secret meant only for you. His breath brushes against your lips, warm and steady, as his hand moves to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek in slow, tender circles. The closeness between you is overwhelming, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the faintest brush of his nose against your skin sending a shiver through you. “You mean everything to me, Y/N,” he breathes, his words trembling with emotion, his lips ghosting over yours without closing the distance. His fingers weave into your hair, his touch deliberate and soothing, like he’s trying to hold you together. “I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice breaking with quiet sincerity as he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips soft and reverent.

You hesitate, overwhelmed by the intensity of his words and his touch, by the way his touch lingers on your waist like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. “I don’t… I don’t know how to be okay with how much I care about you,” you confess, your voice cracking under the weight of the vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to hide.

His hands tighten on your waist, his grip grounding yet gentle, as though he’s keeping you steady while drawing you closer. His forehead remains pressed to yours, his breath warm and steady against your skin. “I’m here because of you,” he says softly, his voice rich with certainty, each word deliberate. “Because no one else sees me the way you do. No one else pushes me to be better, even when I don’t want to be.” His thumb brushes over your hip in a slow, deliberate stroke, the intimacy of the gesture speaking volumes.

You feel the weight of his words settle over you, warm and steady, much like the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. For a moment, your voice fails you, breath hitching as his gaze locks onto yours, intense and unwavering. Finally, your fingers press just a little firmer against his chest, anchoring yourself in his presence. “Mark,” you murmur, the faint tremor in your voice revealing the storm of emotions within. “You make it impossible to stay mad at you, I just—” Your voice falters, but you push on, your chest tightening with the raw truth you’re finally laying bare. “I just can’t stand the thought of you going through this alone. You always carry so much, like you have to handle everything yourself, but you don’t. You don’t have to.”

The quiet between you stretches endlessly, thick with the weight of everything unspoken. His forehead rests against yours, the warmth of his skin anchoring you to the moment, and you let your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, steadying yourself. His breath ghosts over your lips, warm and familiar, drawing you closer to him even as your chest tightens with the words you’ve been holding back.

“Stay the night,” you murmur, your voice soft and full of hesitation, yet carrying a thread of longing that makes his gaze flicker. The words hang between you, delicate and charged, as his fingers brush along your waist with an almost absentminded tenderness, his touch grounding and impossibly gentle.

His eyes darken slightly, something unreadable flashing across them as he leans in closer, the space between you shrinking until his lips are a breath away from yours. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, his touch featherlight but deliberate, sending a shiver racing down your spine. His forehead tilts more firmly against yours, his thumb brushing along the line of your jaw with an intimacy that leaves your heart racing.

The tension between you tightens, and you can’t help the way your breath catches, but before he can close the distance, you pull back, your voice a quiet plea. “Not like that,” you whisper, the words trembling as they fall from your lips. The moment breaks, just barely, and the heat rushing to your cheeks betrays your resolve.

He groans softly, low and frustrated, tilting his head as if trying to regain the connection you’ve just disrupted. His hand remains firm at your waist, his thumb still caressing your jaw, as his darkened gaze searches yours. “Y/N,” he mutters, his voice dipped in exasperation, though it softens into something gentler, something tender. “You can’t just say that and then do this to me.”

You bite your lip, caught between the flurry of emotions swirling in his eyes and the teasing edge in his voice. “I mean it,” you murmur, your tone quieter now, though the faint tremor in it betrays your resolve. “Not like that.”

A small, exhausted chuckle escapes him, his breath fanning across your skin. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs, his voice dipping low, the teasing laced with a softness that makes your stomach flip. “Not like that.”

You roll your eyes, the action lighthearted despite the heavy air around you, and curl your fingers into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer again. His forehead brushes yours, his nearness calming you even as it sets your nerves alight. “We’ll go first thing tomorrow,” you say quietly, your voice steadying. “And I’m glad you’ll be here tonight. At least this way, I can make sure you actually tell them.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you fully, his hands still resting on your waist, his grip warm and steady. His gaze roams your face, lingering on every detail—the curve of your lips, the flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes meet his without hesitation. His thumb lifts to your cheek, brushing lightly against your skin, and there’s a softness in his expression that makes your breath hitch, the weight of it impossible to ignore.

Without a word, he shifts his grip, his hands guiding you with a tenderness that feels deliberate. His touch never falters as he adjusts your position, his strength effortless yet measured as he moves you from his lap. You let him, your body pliant in his hold, until you’re stretched over him, your weight resting gently on top of his.

The shift feels seamless, his arms wrapping securely around you as your chest presses against his. His hand finds the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy, soothing circles there, while his other hand cradles the back of your head. His fingers weave into your hair with a gentleness that makes you shiver, his breath warm against your temple as you settle into him.

His body is firm beneath you, steady and grounding, yet his touch is so careful, as though holding you any other way might break the delicate moment between you. The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath yours lulls you, the quiet strength of his heartbeat anchoring you in his closeness. He tilts his head slightly, brushing his nose along your hairline before murmuring, “You make me feel so strong.” His voice is soft, almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud, the vulnerability in it wrapping around you like a quiet confession.

You tilt your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly undoes you. “You’re stronger than you think,” you whisper, your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. “But even if you weren’t, I’d still be here. I’ll always be here.”

He exhales slowly, his forehead dropping to yours once again as his eyes flutter shut. The warmth of his breath mingles with yours, and the closeness is so overwhelming it’s hard to breathe, yet you wouldn’t trade it for anything. “You don’t know how much that means to me,” he whispers, his voice trembling slightly, the weight of his emotions pressing into every word.

“I do,” you reply, just as softly, your hands smoothing over his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths beneath your palms. “Because it’s the same for me, Mark. You’re my safe place, too.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stay there, wrapped in each other’s presence. The world outside feels distant, irrelevant, as you lose yourself in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His hands hold you like you’re something precious, and you can feel the unspoken promise in his touch—that no matter what comes next, you’ll face it together.

Finally, he tilts his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice steadier now, like he’s drawn strength from your words. “I’ll stay.”

The corner of your lips tugs into a small, relieved smile as you nuzzle into him, letting his warmth surround you. “Good,” you say softly, your voice laced with quiet affection. “Because I wasn’t going to let you leave anyway.”

──────────────────────────────

The campus feels unusually quiet, the early morning light filtering through the trees and casting soft golden hues across the pathways. The sound of your footsteps, slow and measured, fills the quiet, the rhythm syncing with the soft rustle of autumn leaves at your feet. Beside you, Mark walks in silence, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his brown jacket, his shoulders slightly hunched against the crisp air. You glance at him, at the faint tremor in his breath, the way his eyes are fixed ahead but unfocused, as if his thoughts are spinning too fast to land on any one thing.

In all fairness, though, you’re pretty sure he’d be a lot calmer right now if you’d listened to him last night. He tried to coax you into riding his cock last night, multiple times, murmuring soft pleas as his hands wandered over your body. Or, at the very least, just letting him fuck you, claiming it was for no other reason than to relieve his stress before the weight of today. “It’ll help me focus,” he had whispered against your ear, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands sliding down to your hips, pulling you close. His tone was low, velvety, but you knew better. You knew it wasn’t just about stress relief, not with him.

Because no matter how casual he tried to play it, you know him. You know how seriously he takes everything with you. He wouldn’t just fuck you and leave it at that. He’d slow down, cup your face, and whisper things that always feel like they’re meant to ruin you—how much he needs you, how much you mean to him, words you can’t let yourself hear right now. It messes with your head in ways you can’t handle.

The two of you walk together now, your steps falling into an unspoken rhythm as you head toward Coach Suh’s office. The silence stretches between you, heavy with the kind of anticipation that makes your chest feel too tight. You sneak a glance at him, at the way his jaw is set just a little too tight, his teeth clenched like he’s holding something back. His shoulders look broader somehow, weighed down by an invisible pressure, and it presses against you, too, as if his fear and uncertainty have become your own.

Your heart twists, and the protective instinct surges in you, sharp and unrelenting. He’s always been the strong one, the steady one, the one who makes sure you’re okay. But now, seeing him like this, so vulnerable and so human, all you want to do is take that burden from him, to shield him from whatever’s waiting behind that office door.

But you can’t. This is something he has to face himself, and the thought makes you feel helpless in a way you’re not used to. So you do the only thing you can—you keep holding his hand, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a quiet, steady rhythm, grounding him the way he always does for you.

When you finally reach the office, the air seems to shift, the tension thickening. Mark stops a few feet from the door, his hand still clasped in yours, and his breath hitches, barely audible. His gaze drops to the floor, his lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones, and you can feel the fear radiating off him like a tangible thing.

You step closer, letting go of his hand only to place both of yours gently on his cheeks, tilting his face up so he has no choice but to meet your eyes. “You can do it,” you whisper, your voice soft but steady. “I’ll just be right here, outside, when you come out.”

His eyes search yours, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, he looks younger somehow, like the weight of everything has stripped him of the confidence he wears so easily. “I don’t know if I can,” he admits, his voice barely above a murmur. “What if he says I can’t play anymore? What if—”

“Mark,” you interrupt gently, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. “You have to go in there. You have to hear what he has to say, even if it’s not what you want. You need to know. And no matter what happens, I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, his hands coming up to cover yours, his grip warm and firm but trembling slightly. “I just… I don’t want to do this alone.”

“You’re not alone,” you promise, leaning in closer so your foreheads almost touch. “But this is something you have to do yourself. It’s important, Mark. You need to show him that you care enough to fight for this, that you’re willing to face it head-on. And I’ll be here, waiting for you, the whole time.”

He nods, but his breath is still unsteady, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, the nerves threatening to overwhelm him. You don’t know what else to say, don’t know how to make this easier for him.

Without thinking, you lean in, closing the small distance between you, and press your lips to his. The kiss is soft, barely a whisper of contact, but it holds everything you’ve been struggling to say, every unspoken reassurance, every ounce of quiet support. His breath catches, his chest rising sharply against yours, and for a moment, time seems to stop. The weight of the tension that’s been pressing down on him melts away as he leans into you, his hands leaving his sides to find your waist. His touch is hesitant at first, almost like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, but when you don’t, his fingers tighten, anchoring you to him.

His lips part slightly, a subtle sigh escaping into the kiss, and you feel him relax, the rigid line of his shoulders softening. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s drawing strength from your presence, grounding himself in the warmth of you. The moment stretches, intimate and unhurried, as if the world beyond the two of you has faded into nothing.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling in the quiet space between you. His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and filled with something tender, something raw. His lips are still parted, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners, and his hands remain on your waist, holding you as if letting go isn’t an option.

“I—” he starts, his voice low and breathless, but you cut him off with a faint, almost shy smile.

“It’s for good luck,” you murmur softly, your hands brushing against the front of his jacket, smoothing the fabric like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers linger for a moment, fidgeting as you try to steady your own racing heartbeat.

He lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. “Good luck, huh?” he repeats, his tone teasing, though there’s a warmth in his voice that makes your chest ache. His forehead stays pressed to yours, his eyes searching yours with a mix of affection and curiosity. “What happened to just friends?”

You roll your eyes, though the gesture is light, playful. “This doesn’t count,” you whisper, your voice soft but teasing, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Now go. You’ve got this.”

“I’m feeling nervous again,” he quips, his tone light but threaded with that teasing edge that always gets to you. He tilts his head, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips before returning to yours, deliberately slow, and far too confident for someone about to walk into the hardest conversation of his life. “Think I can get another ‘good luck’ kiss?”

You roll your eyes, though the way your lips twitch betrays the affection bubbling under the surface. Your hand moves to his chest, giving him a light shove that does nothing to move him. “Don’t push it, Lee,” you shoot back, your tone sharp but playful, though the warmth in your voice softens the bite.

His smile grows, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you, that boyish charm now mixed with something deeper, something unspoken. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, like he’s committing every detail to memory—the curve of your lips, the way your hand stays lightly against his chest, the warmth in your expression that seems to calm the storm inside him.

You take a small step back, giving him space but not letting the connection between you falter. “I’ll be right here when you’re done,” you promise, your voice steady, the conviction in it clear.

He nods, his hand hovering briefly over the door handle before he turns back to you one last time, his eyes soft but filled with something resolute. “I know,” he says quietly, his lips curling into a smile that holds all the gratitude he doesn’t say out loud. Then, with a deep breath, he turns the handle and steps inside, leaving you standing there with your heart still racing and his warmth lingering in the space between you.

Mark hesitates outside the door for a moment, taking a deep breath before finally turning the handle and stepping inside. The room feels heavy, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights amplifying the tension in his chest. Jeno and Coach Suh are leaning over the whiteboard, markers in hand, deep in conversation about defensive strategies. Jeno, animated as always, gestures to a play diagram, his voice steady and confident.

Despite Coach Suh’s presence, his role as head coach hasn’t officially resumed yet; he is still recovering from his recent operation, the strain of returning to full-time duties too much for him at the moment. Taeyong and Doyoung continue to stand in to lead the team during his recovery, but Suh remains deeply involved, doing everything he can to support the players from the sidelines. Even now, his sharp focus and unwavering dedication are evident as he listens intently to Jeno’s suggestions, nodding occasionally while holding himself upright with visible effort.

“Look, if we shift the zone this way, we can force the turnover,” Jeno says, tapping the board with the marker. “It’ll work, trust me.”

Coach Suh nods, his arms crossed over his chest. “Not bad, Jeno. That could plug the gap on transition. You’re finally starting to think like a leader.”

Mark clears his throat, his voice tight. “Coach, you got a sec?”

Both men turn to look at him, surprised. Suh glances at Jeno and then back at Mark, setting down the marker. “Oh yeah, sit down,” he says, his tone firm but welcoming. “This about the game?”

Mark shakes his head, his grip tightening on the backrest of the chair in front of him. Jeno, sensing the shift in mood, steps back from the whiteboard, his brows furrowed in confusion. He glances at the door, starting to gather his things. “If this isn’t about plays, I’ll give you guys some space—”

“You need to hear this too, Jen,” Mark says quickly, his voice steady but low, stopping Jeno in his tracks. His words hang in the air, weighted and deliberate.

Jeno furrows his brow, whiteboard pen faltering. “What’s up? You good?”

Mark takes another breath, his voice low and steady, though the weight of his words hangs in the air like a storm cloud. “I can’t play in the state championships… I have a heart condition.”

The room falls silent, the statement cutting through the easy energy from earlier. Jeno freezes, his jaw tightening, and Coach Suh straightens, his expression unreadable. Mark finally sits, his elbows resting on his knees as he looks up at them, his eyes glassy but determined.

“I have HCM,” he continues, his voice wavering just slightly. “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I’ve had it for a while, but… I haven’t been taking my medication because I didn’t want it to slow me down on the court. And if I play—” He pauses, swallowing hard, his voice breaking as he finishes, “I could die.”

Jeno’s marker falls to the table with a soft clatter, and he stares at Mark, wide-eyed. “What the hell, Mark?” he finally says, his voice filled with disbelief.

Coach Suh, who’s rarely ever fazed, blinks and shifts his stance, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Jesus, Mark,” he mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Mark stands suddenly, pacing the room, his hands raking through his hair. “I know how selfish I’ve been,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I just didn’t want to leave the game behind. The game… it changed my life, you know? Just like it changed yours. It gave me something to fight for, something to be proud of. And it’s gonna be hard to let it go.”

The words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable. Jeno steps forward, his face softening as he places a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “The game can only change you if you’ve got a lot to change, right?” he says quietly, his voice steady but warm. “And, Mark… you’ve already done that. You’ve already become someone people look up to.”

Mark looks at him, his lips pressed tightly together, fighting the emotion threatening to spill over. He nods, but his jaw clenches, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

Coach Suh sighs, stepping closer, his voice steady and firm. “Mark, I know how hard this conversation must be for you. It’s not easy to admit this, not to yourself and especially not to us.” He glances at Jeno, then back at Mark. “But you must know, I can’t use you as much anymore. You can still play, and you will—but you’re gonna have to be an impact sub, with limited minutes. No more pushing your body past its limits.”

Mark closes his eyes briefly, exhaling as if releasing a part of the burden he’s been carrying. “I get it, Coach. I… I’ve been trying to prepare myself for this. I just didn’t know how to say it out loud.”

Suh steps forward, placing a hand on Mark’s other shoulder, his grip firm. “You’ve already done the hardest part, son. You told us. That’s what leaders do—they face the hard truths and do what’s best for the team and for themselves. And you’ve got a team behind you, no matter what.”

Mark’s gaze shifts between Suh and Jeno, his chest tightening with both gratitude and grief. “Thanks,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jeno gives Mark a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, a small smile breaking through his initial shock. “We’ve got you, man. Always.”

Mark nods again, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Thanks, Jen. Thanks, Coach.” He exhales, his hands steadying against the edge of the desk. For the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.

The hallway feels stifling as you wait outside, pacing back and forth in a futile attempt to burn off the nervous energy coursing through you. Every second feels like an eternity, your chest tightening with the weight of the unknown. Your mind churns, flipping relentlessly between fear and hope, each thought heavier than the last. What’s happening behind that door? Is Mark okay? Did he find the right words? You can’t stop imagining the worst—his emotions spilling over, his voice cracking under the pressure, the weight of it all becoming too much. You glance at the door every few seconds, your gaze lingering as if you can will it to open, waiting for him to come out so you can hold him, comfort him, and be the anchor you know he’ll need.

The air feels thick, suffocating in its stillness, and you force yourself to take a deep breath, hoping it will steady the relentless pounding of your heart. You rub your palms together absently, as if preparing yourself for whatever is coming, though nothing could really prepare you. The weight of his confession feels like it’s pressing down on you too, and all you can do is hope he’s getting the support he needs inside, even if you’re not there to see it.

As you exhale slowly, the sound of footsteps breaks through the tense silence, pulling you from your thoughts. You turn your head sharply and see Mark’s best friend approaching. Her expression is a mix of curiosity and concern, her brows furrowed slightly as her gaze flicks from you to the closed door. Her presence catches you off guard—she doesn’t usually come around unless there’s a game or practice, and there’s no obvious reason for her to be here now. Maybe she was passing by, or maybe she sensed something was off. Either way, the sight of her stirs a new wave of unease in your chest.

“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice sharp but not unkind.

“I’m waiting for Mark,” you mumble, the words spilling out before you can think them through. “He’s finally telling Coach about his heart condition.”

She gasps, her eyes widening. “You know?”

You nod, shifting uncomfortably. “You know too,” you say quietly, and her silence confirms it. She does.

Before the conversation can continue, the door opens, and Mark steps out. The sight of him hits you hard, your breath catching as you take in the raw emotion etched into his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, heavy with the weight of everything he’s just gone through, and they lock onto yours almost instantly. The message in his gaze is clear and unwavering: he needs you. The sheer vulnerability in his expression, the silent plea for comfort, sends a jolt straight to your chest. He looks utterly drained, like he’s been holding himself together for far too long, and you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You step forward instinctively, your arms already reaching for him, ready to pull him close and hold him until the world feels steady again. But before you can close the gap, his best friend gasps and rushes past you, throwing her arms around him in a quick, tight hug. Mark stiffens at first, clearly startled, before he relaxes just enough to return the embrace. His movements are mechanical, his focus not fully on her, and though the gesture is friendly and comforting, it’s nothing compared to the connection you’re aching to offer him.

“You finally told Coach?” she asks, her voice soft but brimming with pride. “I know how hard it must’ve been, I know how long it’s taken, but I’m so proud of you now that you’ve done it.”

Mark nods faintly, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. He looks overwhelmed, his silence speaking volumes, and you can tell he’s barely holding it together. His best friend continues, her voice turning lighter, trying to ease the tension. “I can’t believe it took you months to listen to me and finally tell Coach, but I’m glad you heard me out—”

She pauses mid-sentence, her eyes catching the way Mark’s gaze hasn’t left you. His focus is entirely on you, his eyes soft but desperate as they follow your every move. He’s barely acknowledging her words, his need for you palpable in every subtle shift of his expression.

“Oh,” she murmurs, realization dawning on her. “You didn’t listen to me, did you?” She turns back to him, her tone teasing but affectionate. “Y/N told you to tell Coach, and that’s when you did.”

Mark finally speaks, his voice quiet but steady. “Just made me realize how serious it was.”

His best friend huffs playfully, rolling her eyes with exaggerated annoyance. “You didn’t listen to me for five entire months, but all it takes is your girlfriend to tell you once, and suddenly you’re all ears,” she jokes, glancing at you with a knowing smile.

You freeze, your lips parting slightly, but the intensity of Mark’s gaze keeps you rooted in place. Neither of you moves to correct her, you weren't his girlfriend, not anymore. The tension in the moment begins to lift, but it doesn’t fully dissipate—not with the way he’s still looking at you, his eyes full of longing and need. Slowly, he breaks away from his best friend and takes a step toward you, his shoulders weighed down as though he’s been carrying too much for too long.

“Hi,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, and he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he falls into your arms, letting the rest of the world fall away.

His hug is intimate, desperate, and consuming. His hands grip your waist firmly, pulling you flush against him, as if the space between you is unbearable. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, clutching it like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. His body presses into yours fully, his warmth seeping into your skin as his trembling becomes more pronounced. It’s not just a hug—it’s a surrender. He’s letting himself fall into you, letting you hold him together when he no longer can.

Your arms wind around him instinctively, one wrapping tightly around his shoulders while the other threads through his hair. The soft strands glide between your fingers as you hold him close, your touch tender and deliberate, meant to comfort and ground him. You feel his breath on your neck, shaky and uneven, the warm exhale brushing against your skin in a way that makes your chest ache. He tightens his grip on you, his arms encircling your body completely, holding you as close as physically possible, as if letting go would break him.

His weight shifts slightly, leaning more heavily into you, and you adjust, your arms pulling him even closer, steadying him. Your fingers slide slowly through his hair again, each motion gentle and soothing, and he exhales shakily, his breath hitching as he tries to steady himself. Your free hand moves to cup his face, your palm warm against his cheek as you tilt his head back just slightly. You pull away just enough to see him, your gaze locking with his.

His eyes are red and glassy, the sadness in them so raw it makes your throat tighten. His lips part slightly, but no words come out, just the weight of everything he’s been holding in. The way he looks at you—like you’re his anchor, his solace, his safe place—makes you want to wrap yourself around him even tighter.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. Your thumb brushes along his cheekbone, wiping away the faint trace of tears. He doesn’t respond, but he presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet space between you. His eyes flutter closed, his face tilting into your touch as if seeking out more of your warmth, your reassurance.

“Can we go?” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion and vulnerability.

You nod softly, your fingers still brushing through his hair as you press a light kiss to his temple. “Wanna get some breakfast?” you ask, your voice soft and inviting, a small attempt to bring a little normalcy back to the moment.

He nods again, and this time his hands loosen their grip on you, though they linger for a moment longer before he lets you guide him. Your hands slide down to rest on his shoulders, steadying him as you both take a step back. You keep your touch light but constant, one hand lingering on his arm as you turn to walk with him. He leans into you slightly as you leave, his warmth a constant presence beside you, the heaviness of the moment slowly easing with each step.

──────────────────────────────

The café is quiet, the morning rush having faded into a gentle hum of soft chatter and the hiss of the espresso machine. The sunlight filters through the large windows, painting warm, golden streaks across the small table you’ve claimed by the corner. It feels like a pocket of calm amidst everything, a temporary sanctuary away from the weight of the day.

You return to the table, balancing a tray with his usual coffee order and an assortment of pastries, including his favorite—a pistachio one with its flaky, golden crust and a hint of powdered sugar dusted over the top. His eyes flicker up as you approach, but the usual spark in them feels dimmed, like the exhaustion resting on his shoulders has seeped into his gaze. He offers a soft smile—polite, tired, distant—and it makes your chest ache in ways you can’t quite name.

Setting the tray down, you slide his coffee toward him, the familiar aroma filling the air between you. “Your favorite,” you say softly, trying to infuse some lightness into your voice, but his response is slow. His fingers wrap around the cup, holding onto its warmth as if it’s anchoring him. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice low, like it takes effort to get the word out. He takes a sip, his shoulders dropping a fraction, but the tension doesn’t fully leave his frame.

The two of you fall into a silence that feels less like comfort and more like a fragile ceasefire. You glance at him over your coffee, catching the way his gaze lingers on the table, avoiding yours. He picks at the sleeve of the cup, his movements slow and deliberate, like his mind is elsewhere. The golden light catches the faint furrow in his brow, and you wonder if he’s even tasting the coffee.

He reaches for the pistachio pastry eventually, taking a bite with an almost mechanical precision. The crisp layers crackle beneath his teeth, and for a fleeting second, his brows lift in approval. “Mmm,” he hums, but there’s a hollowness in his tone, like he’s performing a version of himself you’ve always known but that he can’t quite summon now. Still, he pushes the remaining pastry across the table toward you, his eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, offering silent encouragement. The gesture feels genuine, but there’s a hesitation in it too, like he’s searching for something in your reaction.

You pick it up, your fingers brushing the crumbs from its edges, and take a bite where his had been. The rich pistachio filling melts on your tongue, the buttery sweetness almost grounding you. You nod back at him, mirroring his earlier gesture. “You’re right,” you say softly. “It’s good.”

His lips tug into another smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You hesitate for a moment before reaching across the table to take his hand. His fingers are warm but tense, his grip firm yet hesitant, like he’s holding back even in this simple touch. You trace your thumb over his knuckles in slow, soothing circles, watching the way his eyes follow the movement rather than meeting yours.

“How did it go?” you whisper finally, your voice careful, breaking the silence. The question hangs between you, heavy and expectant. He exhales slowly, his hand tightening briefly around yours as his other one wraps protectively around the coffee cup, as though bracing himself.

“Probably how you’d expect it to go,” he says, his tone blunt, cutting through the quiet. You know he doesn’t mean for it to sting, but it does, the sharpness of his words settling in your chest.

“Mark,” you call his name softly, a quiet plea for him to let you in, to trust you with the weight he’s carrying. But he doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the table, as though the answer lies somewhere in the grain of the wood.

He sighs then, the sound low and heavy, his shoulders slumping as the fight drains from him. “Coach said he’s proud,” he begins, his voice monotone, devoid of its usual warmth, as if he’s reading from a script. “Said I can’t play like I used to. Limited minutes. Impact sub. For my safety.” Each word drops heavily, stripped of emotion, as though detaching himself from them will make them hurt less.

The flatness in his tone is more jarring than the words themselves, and it leaves an ache in the silence that follows. You squeeze his hand gently, wishing you could reach past the walls he’s so carefully constructed.

For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze lingering on your joined hands. The sadness in his eyes is a weight you can feel, pressing down on your chest. Wanting to ease the tension, you reach for the tray and grab an almond pastry, holding it out to him. “Here. Try this,” you say softly, your tone light and encouraging.

Mark glances at the pastry, his lips quirking upward just slightly as he takes it from you. He bites into it thoughtfully, and a small hum of approval escapes him. “Mmm,” he nods, finishing it quickly, and for the briefest moment, the faint shadow of a smile crosses his face. You watch him with soft eyes, charmed by how endearing he is, even with all the sadness he’s carrying.

But the sadness lingers, etched into his expression, heavy in the way his gaze drifts somewhere beyond you, as though caught in a place you can’t reach. It tears you in two. You call his name, leaning forward slightly to catch his attention, and crack a joke—a bad one, deliberately silly in its delivery, your smile faltering as you wait for his reaction. All he offers in return is a tight-lipped smile, barely there, one that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

You sigh, shifting from your seat to sit beside him on the same side of the booth. Without hesitation, you take his hand in yours again, your other hand resting lightly on his forearm, grounding him in the only way you know how. “I hate seeing you like this,” you say softly, your voice tinged with the kind of vulnerability you usually hide. “Mark, let me help.”

Mark exhales sharply, the sound a mix of frustration and defeat, his thumb brushing absently over the back of your hand. “There’s not much you can do,” he mutters, his voice quiet, clipped, and carrying a finality that settles like a stone in your chest.

You push further, unwilling to let the moment close on his dismissiveness. “Mark, please, let me in. Talk to me,” you say softly, but the persistence in your tone makes his jaw tighten. His hand withdraws slightly, his shoulders tensing as his gaze darts away.

“Just drop it,” he snaps, the sharpness of his tone cutting through the quiet. It wasn’t loud, but it stung, his words holding an edge you hadn’t expected. His eyes flick to yours briefly, regret already pooling in his expression, but the damage was done.

Your breath hitches, and you pull your hand from his instinctively, your fingers trembling as you place them in your lap. You bite your lip and look away, blinking rapidly to steady your breathing. This wasn’t fair. You were trying, and he was shutting you out.

But as quickly as you withdrew, he reached out again, his hand closing over yours firmly. He clasped your fingers tightly, bringing your joined hands to his lips. The gesture was soft, apologetic, and when you turned back to him, his eyes were filled with unspoken regret. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and genuine, the weight of his earlier frustration melting away.

Your lips part, but it takes a moment for the words to come. “I’m just trying to be here for you,” you whisper, your voice trembling but steadying with each word. “You don’t need to snap at me.”

He doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he glances down at your hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The silence stretches for a beat, heavy with things unsaid, before he finally exhales again—this time softer, less burdened. “I remember my first game,” he begins, his tone quieter now, edged with a melancholy that clings to every syllable. His voice is still flat, monotonous, but there’s a faint spark of emotion breaking through.

“I was four. Doyoung randomly took me to the river court one day. I didn’t even know what basketball was, but he handed me a ball and told me to try shooting.” A faint smile tugs at his lips, but it’s fleeting, more wistful than joyful. “I made every shot—without even trying. I don’t know how, but it just felt right. The way the ball left my hands, the sound of it swishing through the net… it made me feel special, important, like I was finally good at something that mattered.”

His breath steadies, his voice gaining a quiet rhythm as he continues. “When I was eleven, I joined a little league team. It wasn’t anything big—just kids messing around, learning the basics. But those games changed everything for me. Every time I had the ball, it felt like I mattered, like I could be something more than just a kid abandoned by his father and resented by his brother.”

He falters, his voice catching on the edge of his next words. “I don’t know how to handle this,” he says finally, his voice low and strained. “Basketball… it’s who I am. It’s the one thing I’ve always been able to count on, the one thing I know I’m good at. And now… now it’s slipping away, and I can’t stop it. I can’t play the way I used to. I can’t push myself anymore.”

The weight of his sadness is palpable, threading through every word, every shallow breath. You want to speak, but he shakes his head slightly, cutting off your attempt. “This condition… it’s not just changing how I play,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s changing everything. My future, my identity… it feels like I’m losing all of it, all at once.”

His eyes are distant, unfocused. “I don’t know who I am without the game,” he continues, quieter now, the monotone delivery layered with rawness. “It’s been everything to me—more than just a sport. It was my escape, my outlet, my home. When my dad left, when everything felt too big or too hard, I could go to the court, and for those hours, nothing else mattered. The river court—it’s where I found myself. Every late night I spent there, every game I played, it was the one place where I didn’t feel like a screw-up or a disappointment. It made me feel alive.”

His voice cracks, and when he looks at you, his eyes are glistening, brimming with raw, unfiltered emotion. “And now it feels like it’s being taken from me. The one thing that made me feel like I was good at something, the one thing that gave me purpose—it’s slipping away. And it’s not just the game, it’s everything tied to it. The memories, the moments, the person I thought I was. I don’t know how to imagine a life without it.”

Your heart aches for him, your chest tightening as you take his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing softly over his cheekbones. “Mark,” you whisper, your voice trembling but steady with conviction. “You’re not losing yourself. I know it feels like the ground is shifting under you, like everything you’ve built is slipping away, but you are so much more than basketball. It’s a part of you, yes, but it’s not all of you. You’re still the person who inspires everyone around you. You’re still the person I believe in with everything I have. That doesn’t change because the game looks different now.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch, his breath uneven as the weight of your words settles over him. And for the first time in the entire conversation, the tension in his shoulders seems to ease, just slightly, like a small sliver of light breaking through the heaviness.

──────────────────────────────

The room is quiet, the soft hum of the heater the only sound breaking the stillness. The bedside lamp casts a warm, muted glow, its light stretching lazily across the walls and pooling on the bed in soft, golden hues. You’re sprawled on the mattress, your knees bent, feet planted, the familiar comfort of the space grounding you. Across from you, Mark stands at the edge of the bed, his movements slow and hesitant as though the weight of his thoughts is pinning him down. There’s a heaviness in his posture—the subtle hunch of his shoulders, the tension in his hands as they hang at his sides, the way he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor.

The sight makes your chest ache. You know he’s holding back, keeping the dam intact even though it’s cracking under the pressure. It’s not like him to hesitate, and that hesitation speaks louder than anything he could say. The air between you feels charged, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Without a word, he steps closer, his presence filling the space between you. His hands brush lightly over your knees, the contact warm and steady, and your heart skips at the unexpected intimacy of the gesture. You glance up at him, about to ask what he’s doing, but his expression is unreadable, his focus entirely on you. He presses down on your knees gently, flattening your legs against the mattress, and the quiet determination in his movements keeps you still, anticipation threading through you.

Then, he moves—climbing onto the bed with a slowness that makes your breath hitch. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel a ripple of warmth as his body shifts closer. When his knees settle on either side of your hips, the realization hits you: he’s going on top of you. Your body tenses instinctively, not in resistance but in sheer surprise, your hands pressing lightly into the mattress to steady yourself. The air between you feels charged, intimate, and it sends a rush of something deep and unspoken through your chest.

His weight settles over you, warm and grounding, his body aligning with yours in a way that feels both deliberate and natural. His chest presses lightly against yours as he lowers himself, his head dipping to find its place in the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, and your arms instinctively rise to meet him, your hands gliding up the curve of his back as though reassuring him that he’s safe here. The softness of his hair brushes against your jaw, and your fingers tighten gently around him, pulling him closer as he nestles into you.

Your heartbeat thrums in your chest, the sensation of him so close, so heavy against you, making everything else fade away. His arms slide around your waist, locking you against him, and the way he clings to you feels like he’s asking for something wordlessly. His body trembles faintly, and you feel the weight of his vulnerability in the way he holds you, pressing into you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Your fingers trace slow, soothing patterns along his back, silently letting him know that you’re here—that you’re not going anywhere.

It’s unusual, this shift in roles. Normally, he’s the one pulling you into his chest, comforting you, shielding you from the world. But tonight, he’s the one unraveling, and the change feels jarring in its unfamiliarity. He looks like he’s carrying too much, his strength fraying at the edges.

The first shaky breath he lets out sends a ripple of ache through you. He’s silent for a long moment, but then you feel it—a faint tremble in his shoulders, the way his breaths grow uneven. And just like that, he breaks.

You didn’t expect it—not after the drive to the apartment, when Mark had been so quiet, so unlike himself. He’d barely spoken a word, his blunt responses cutting the air between you, cold and distant. You’d understood, though, and given him space, thinking he just needed time to process. But for him to break this quickly? It catches you off guard, like the world tilting suddenly beneath your feet.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, his voice so quiet you almost don’t hear it. The words are raw, unfiltered, and they cut through the stillness like a confession he’s been holding onto for too long.

The first shaky breath he lets out sends a ripple of ache through you. He’s silent for a long moment, but then you see it—the subtle signs that his composure is slipping. His shoulders tremble faintly, his breaths uneven as he fights to hold himself together. And then, like a dam breaking, it all comes crashing down. His head dips forward, and the first sob tears from his chest, raw and unrestrained.

You stiffen at first, unprepared for the sight. He’s always been the steady one, the one to calm you, to hold you through your tears, to reassure you when you felt like falling apart. Seeing him like this, breaking so openly, sends a jolt through you. You gulp, unsure of how to react, but instinct takes over. You do what he’s always done for you—your fingers thread into his hair, stroking softly, grounding him. You press gentle kisses to his temple, whispering quiet reassurances, promising him over and over, “I’m here. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

His sobs wrack his body, his grip on your waist tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Tears stream down his face, staining your shirt as he buries his head into the crook of your neck. His breaths come in uneven gasps, his body trembling as he clings to you, letting himself break in a way he’s never allowed before. You feel the hot, damp trails his tears leave against your skin, the shudder of his exhale each time he tries to steady himself but fails.

It takes time, but eventually, his sobs begin to subside, the tension in his shoulders loosening as your hand continues to stroke through his hair. His breathing slows, though it’s still uneven, and his arms remain wrapped tightly around you as if you’re the only thing holding him together.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his tear-streaked face breaking your heart all over again. His eyes are red, swollen, glassy with remnants of his pain. He blinks slowly, trying to form words, but his lips tremble, his voice failing him. You cradle his face gently, your thumbs brushing the tears from his cheeks as you wait for him to find his voice.

“I blame myself,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but heavy with anguish. It cracked at the end, shattering the fragile silence between you. “I should’ve taken care of myself. I should’ve listened. The medication… if I had just done what I was supposed to, maybe—maybe I wouldn’t be here now.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and your heart clenched at the way he was crumbling in front of you. You shook your head immediately, your hands rising to cradle his face. Your thumbs brushed against his damp cheeks, and you gently forced him to meet your gaze. His eyes were glassy, filled with so much pain that it threatened to drown you too.

“Mark,” you said softly, but there was no mistaking the conviction in your voice. “This isn’t your fault. Do you hear me? This—this was never something you could have controlled. You didn’t ask for this. You couldn’t have stopped it, no matter what you did.”

His lip quivered, his jaw tightening as tears spilled silently down his face. “But I—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice steady, your grip on his face firm but tender. “Look, I’m not saying it wasn’t stupid not to take the medication. It was. But taking it sooner wouldn’t have changed anything about this condition. It’s serious, Mark, no matter when you started managing it. You need to understand that it wouldn’t be less serious if you’d started earlier. What matters now is that you take it seriously now, that you listen to the people trying to help you, that you take care of yourself from here on out.”

His breaths hitched, his shoulders trembling against you. “I just feel like I made it worse,” he muttered, the guilt still thick in his voice.

“You didn’t,” you insisted, your voice softening as you brushed your thumb along his cheek. “This was never something you could have prevented. It’s not about what you didn’t do before—it’s about what you do now. And you’re doing it. You’re making changes, you’re showing up, you’re facing it head-on, even when it scares the hell out of you. That’s what matters, Mark. Not the mistakes you think you made.”

Mark stared at you, his expression unreadable as a single tear traced a slow path down his cheek. His lips parted, trembling slightly as he tried to speak, but no words came. His eyes were glassy, filled with so much pain that it made your chest ache. And then, like a dam breaking, his shoulders shook, and the tears came harder. He bowed his head, his hands clutching at your waist as though you were the only thing holding him together

His voice came low and rough, barely audible at first. “I don’t even know who I’m mad at anymore,” he admitted, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “It’s just… so fucking unfair.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak, your heart breaking at the pain etched across his face.

“I don’t get it,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly. “What did I do to deserve this? I’ve worked so hard, done everything I was supposed to do, and now… now it feels like my body’s betraying me. Like no matter what I do, it’s not enough. I can’t fix this. I can’t stop it.”

His eyes met yours, glistening with tears he didn’t bother wiping away. “I hate it. I hate feeling weak, like I have no control. Like all the things I’ve spent my life building can just be taken away like that.”

His words hit you like a blow, the raw anger and vulnerability in them leaving you breathless. You stepped closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Hey,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “You didn’t do anything to deserve this. This isn’t your fault. Sometimes life is just… cruel. But that doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t take away who you are or what you’ve done.”

He exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands finally unclenched, rising to grip your waist like he was anchoring himself. “It just feels like I’m losing everything,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I’ve fought so hard, and it’s still not enough.”

“You’re enough,” you whispered, your thumbs brushing against his damp cheeks. “And you’re not losing everything. You’re still here. You’re still you. And you’re not alone in this.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, just let himself lean into you, his breaths uneven but gradually steadying. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you felt the fight in him, the determination that had always been there, even under all the pain.

He stares at you, his eyes wide and searching, like he’s trying to find something solid in the sea of doubt and guilt that’s swallowing him whole. And you let him. You let him see everything you’re offering—your love, your strength, your unwavering belief in him—because if there’s one thing you can give him right now, it’s this.

A faint, shaky nod comes from him, but the way he looks at you is anything but faint. It’s raw, unguarded, as if he’s laying his soul bare for you to hold. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, and you don’t hesitate to meet him there, your hands moving gently to the back of his neck. Your fingers thread through his hair, your touch slow and deliberate, grounding him in a way that only you can.

The tension in his body begins to loosen, little by little. His breaths, still uneven, start to find a rhythm as he leans further into you, his weight heavy but welcome against your chest. You stroke his hair softly, your other hand running soothing circles over his back, and it feels like you’re piecing him back together, one gentle touch at a time.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’m here. You’re not alone in this, Mark. Not now, not ever.”

A shudder runs through him, and he buries his face against your shoulder, his breaths warming your skin. His grip on you is still firm, but now it feels less like desperation and more like trust, like he’s finally allowing himself to let go of the weight he’s been carrying for so long. And as you hold him, you feel it—the unspoken understanding between you both, the promise that no matter how heavy things get, you’ll carry them together.

He presses into you—his head buried in the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist—speaks louder than anything he could say. His grip is desperate but full of trust, as if he’s letting himself fall completely into you, surrendering the weight he’s been carrying. And you welcome it, your touch unwavering, your presence steady, giving him the space to let go in a way he never has before.

For once, the roles have reversed, and he allows himself to be vulnerable, to be held, to lean into you fully. It’s a rare moment, one he’s never asked for but desperately needs, and you silently vow to carry him through it, the way he’s carried you so many times before.

──────────────────────────────

The glow of Mark’s laptop screen casts soft shadows across his dimly lit room. His desk is a chaotic mess: scattered papers, highlighters tossed carelessly, notebooks with half-finished thoughts scribbled in the margins, and empty coffee cups piled haphazardly in the corner. He sits hunched over, fingers hovering over the keyboard, his jaw tight as he forces himself to focus. The weight of the silence around him presses against his chest, and the words on the screen blur as his thoughts drift.

Mark’s restlessness feels like a constant ache, gnawing at him from the inside out. Missing basketball practices to prioritize his health wasn’t a choice he wanted to make, but one he had to. It leaves him feeling untethered, the absence of the game creating a void he doesn’t know how to fill. Basketball was his escape, the one thing that grounded him when everything else felt overwhelming. Now, with his condition forcing him to step back, he feels lost, his body buzzing with energy he doesn’t know how to release.

He throws himself into his music compositions, desperate for a distraction, his fingers moving across the keyboard like he’s chasing something he can’t quite catch. The melodies echo faintly through the room, but they don’t bring him the comfort he craves. He tries to focus, tries to drown himself in the rhythm and flow of creating, but no matter how hard he works, his mind keeps circling back to you.

He wants you to be his distraction. He wants the comfort of your presence, the way you always seem to know exactly what he needs without him having to say a word. He wants the touch of your hand against his, the sound of your laugh breaking through his heavy thoughts. But he can’t have that. Not anymore. Not since you broke up. The thought twists in his chest, sharp and unrelenting, making the space around him feel even smaller.

Mark leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as frustration boils over. His eyes flick to his phone resting on the desk, the screen dark and still. He hasn’t heard from you today, and it gnaws at him, the need to reach out clawing at the edges of his resolve. He exhales sharply, dragging his hands over his face, but the ache doesn’t subside. He’s restless, frustrated, and his thoughts of you shift into something deeper, something primal.

His mind starts to wander, the memory of your voice, your touch, the way you’d look at him when it was just the two of you. He remembers the way you’d cling to him, your body trembling beneath his, the soft moans that would spill from your lips as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. The memories make his breath hitch, his body responding instantly. He clenches his jaw, trying to focus back on the screen, but it’s useless. He needs an outlet. He needs you.

The room feels too empty. Too quiet. Too wrong without you.

He picks up his phone, scrolling aimlessly through your old messages, re-reading the little things: the way you’d remind him to take breaks, the jokes that made him laugh even on the worst days, and the texts you’d send just to check in on him. The space you’ve left in his life feels massive, and no matter how much he tries to fill it with work, it doesn’t stop the ache. He misses you—not just your presence but everything about you.

He misses your laugh, the way your hands felt on his skin, the way you always seemed to know exactly what he needed without him having to say a word. And deeper still, he misses the intimacy you shared—the way you made him feel whole, grounded, alive. The memory of being with you, being inside you, flickers in his mind, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, a heat rising in his chest that he tries to suppress.

But the frustration grows. The longing twists into something sharper, more unbearable. His fingers tighten around his phone as he scrolls to your contact, his thumb hovering over your name for a moment before he gives in, typing out a message with unsteady hands.

He presses send before he can overthink it, his breath catching in his throat. The seconds stretch into an eternity, and he wonders if he’s pushed too far, if you’ll ignore him entirely, but then your reply comes through, and his pulse quickens.

His screen lights up with the video, and the world around him ceases to exist. The glow illuminates your body—every curve, every movement, framed so perfectly it feels deliberate, like you knew exactly how to wreck him. The lighting is soft, intimate, and he instantly recognizes the lace thong hugging your hips: his favorite, the one he always begged you to keep on, the one he’d pull to the side just enough to sink into you. His breath falters, his pulse pounding in his ears as his eyes drink you in.

Your hand moves slowly, teasing yourself, your fingers gliding beneath the delicate fabric, and the wet sound of it is enough to send a jolt straight to his groin. Then you moan his name—his full name, breathless and needy—and it unravels him completely. A low, involuntary groan escapes his lips, and his entire body reacts. His chest tightens, his thighs clench, and he feels himself throb painfully against the confines of his sweats. Every detail—the arch of your back, the way your head tilts back in pleasure—burns into his mind, leaving him dizzy with need.

The moment the video fills his screen, Mark loses any shred of control he’d been clinging to. The sight of you—your legs spread, fingers working between the delicate lace of his favorite thong, your soft moans filling his ears—has his chest tightening, his breath stalling in his throat. He watches intently as your body moves, each subtle shift of your hips, each tremble in your thighs, sending a pulse of heat straight through him. His hand moves almost instinctively, trailing down to his waistband as he groans softly, “Baby…” The word slips out in a husky, desperate tone, his fingers brushing over the hardness straining against his sweats.

His resolve shatters completely as your moan echoes through his headphones—a breathy, broken call of his name that feels like a physical pull. He shoves his sweats and boxers down in one rough motion, freeing himself with a sharp exhale. His hand wraps around his length, his thumb brushing over the slick tip as he takes a moment to steady himself. But the video keeps playing, your movements hypnotic, the sight of your fingers disappearing beneath the lace leaving him throbbing in his hand. He starts slow, stroking himself deliberately, his grip firm, never taking his eyes off the screen. The need to feel closer to you becomes overwhelming, and his free hand fumbles for his phone.

Without breaking his rhythm, he flips the camera to record. The angle captures his hand wrapping firmly around himself, the way his skin glistens, and his chest heaving as he moans your name, raw and unrestrained. His voice is shaky but thick with desire as he speaks into the mic, desperate to pull you into the moment with him.

“Look what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with need. “You’ve got me so fucking hard, baby. I can’t stop thinking about you—about how tight you’d feel around me, how perfect you’d look under me, falling apart.”

He adjusts the angle slightly, showing the full view of himself, stroking harder now as his hips rock into his hand. The slick sound fills the quiet room, mingling with his heavy breaths. “I’d give anything to be inside you right now,” he groans, his tone breaking with desperation. “You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you? Fuck, I’d ruin you. Make you scream my name until you couldn’t think straight.”

He leans his head back against the chair, his grip tightening as his strokes grow faster, his voice dropping even lower. “I miss the way you’d beg for me,” he mutters, his words punctuated by sharp exhales. “The way you’d pull me closer, tell me not to stop. God, baby, I need you so bad.”

The video loops again, and his eyes snap back to the screen—your fingers moving faster, your lips parting in a moan that sends him careening toward the edge. He stutters, his entire body tensing as a guttural groan tears from his throat. His release spills over his hand, hot and messy, his body trembling violently as he moans your name, raw and unfiltered.

As the aftershocks ripple through him, he lets his hand slow, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath. His camera is still recording, capturing the remnants of his desperation: his glistening skin, his trembling thighs, the way his hand runs lazily over himself, already half-hard again. He finally angles the phone back toward his face, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips parted as he speaks into the mic.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, his tone rough and drenched with lust. “You’ve got me so desperate for you. I want to feel you, taste you, ruin you all over again. I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you so fucking bad.”

He ends the recording, his fingers still unsteady, and hits send without hesitation. As the message disappears, he collapses back into the chair, the longing for you still thrumming through his veins, even stronger than before.

He records a quick video, his chest heaving as he grips himself tightly. He angles the camera down, showing every movement of his hand, the glistening tip, the way he’s losing control. “This is what you do to me,” he murmurs into the mic, his voice heavy with need. “I need you so fucking bad, baby. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Baby,” he groans, the word tumbling out in a husky, desperate tone. His free hand trails down to his waistband, fingers brushing over the growing hardness straining against his sweats. His touch is hesitant at first, teasing himself, as if trying to hold back, but the sound of your voice breaks him entirely. The way you moan his name—soft, breathy, full of need—pulls a guttural sound from deep in his chest, and he can’t resist anymore.

He shoves his sweats and boxers down in one motion, freeing himself with a sharp exhale. His hand wraps around his length, his thumb brushing over the tip, already slick with his arousal. His movements are slow at first, his grip firm as he strokes himself deliberately, never taking his eyes off the screen. He replays the video, memorizing every detail: the way your hand disappears beneath the lace, the way your back arches slightly when you moan, and the way your lips part as if calling out for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice breaking as his hips lift into his hand. His mind is a mess of thoughts, all of them consumed by you. The way you’d feel beneath him. The way you’d gasp when he’d push deeper. The way your nails would scrape along his back as you begged him for more.

“Y/N,” he groans, the sound rough and desperate. His hand moves faster, each stroke slicker as he imagines it’s you, your body wrapped around him, holding him the way only you can. His head falls back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut as he lets the fantasy consume him. He sees you clearly in his mind—your thighs trembling as he grips them, your lips parting in a scream as he thrusts harder, deeper, hitting the spot that makes you fall apart for him.

“You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you?” he mutters under his breath, his voice dark and thick with lust. “Fuck, I’d stretch you out so good. You’d feel so tight around me, baby. Just like always.” His free hand grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles white as he fights to steady himself, his hips bucking into his hand with increasing desperation.

The memory of your body, the way you’d tremble beneath him, the sounds you’d make—it’s too much. His breathing grows heavier, his strokes faster and more erratic as his body chases the release that only thoughts of you can bring. “I miss the way you’d scream my name,” he growls, his voice breaking. “The way you’d pull me closer, telling me not to stop. God, I’d give anything to hear you beg for me right now.”

His hand moves relentlessly, his hips rocking into his fist as his moans grow louder, rougher. The tension in his body builds, coiling tighter and tighter as he teeters on the edge. “You’d let me ruin you, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low and unsteady. “You’d take everything I give you. Fuck, I miss the way you’d cry for me, baby.”

The final push comes as he watches your face in the video again, the way your lips part as you moan his name. His head tips back, a shuddering groan ripping from his throat as he spills over his hand, his release hot and messy, leaving him trembling. “Y/N,” he moans, your name breaking from him like a prayer, his body jerking as the aftershocks ripple through him.

He sits there for a moment, panting, his body still thrumming with the intensity of it all. Then, with shaky hands, he grabs his phone, flips the camera to record himself. He doesn’t bother cleaning up, the sight of his slick hand stroking himself slowly as he recovers still raw and unapologetic. His voice is low, rough, dripping with desire as he speaks into the mic.

“Look what you do to me, baby,” he says, his hand running lazily along his length, already half-hard again. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you so fucking bad. I want to feel you, taste you, fuck you until you’re screaming my name. You’ve got me so fucking desperate for you.”

As he finishes, his body shudders, his release spilling over his hand as he moans your name one last time, his voice raw and unfiltered. He sends the video to you without hesitation, his heart racing as he collapses back into the chair, desperately waiting for your response, the tension momentarily gone but the longing for you only growing stronger.

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The morning light filters through your curtains, soft and golden, as you shuffle toward the front door. Your heart pounds with a rhythm you can’t quite control, anticipation and nerves tangling in your chest. The handle feels cool under your fingers as you pull it open, revealing Mark standing just beyond. He leans casually against the frame, his posture easy, but there’s an intensity in the way his eyes lock onto yours immediately, sharp and unwavering.

He looks good—too good. The warmth of the sun highlights the lines of his jaw and the subtle curve of his smirk. It’s subtle but deliberate, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips as his gaze drifts over you, lingering just long enough to make your stomach twist.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low, rich, and teasing, like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. There’s a weight to his tone, something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

You try—really try—to meet his gaze, but your confidence falters almost instantly. Instead, your eyes dart downward, catching on the worn fabric of his sneakers, the edge of his jeans, anywhere but him. Your body betrays you, your fingers curling into the hem of your sweater as if the soft material could anchor you against the flood of emotions threatening to spill over. Your shoulders feel tense, your breathing uneven as you shift on your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of every tiny movement.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but he notices. He always notices. The way you hesitate, the way your lips part as if to speak but nothing comes out. The way your lashes flutter against your cheeks when you glance up at him briefly, only to look away just as quickly, like his gaze is too much to hold.

His eyes stay on you, unrelenting, and you can feel them moving over every detail: the flush creeping up your neck, the way your fingers fidget nervously, the way you can’t seem to stand still under the weight of his presence. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t need to; the space between you feels impossibly small, charged with something electric.

There’s a subtle shift in his expression, something softer, though it’s fleeting. His gaze lingers on the curve of your jaw, the way you bite your lip when you finally manage a soft, “Hi.” It’s barely audible, but he hears it, the faintest flicker of satisfaction passing through his features before he schools them back into something unreadable.

He knows why. He knows why you’re flustered, still reeling from yesterday.

After exchanging those videos last night, things escalated quickly. The call that followed left you completely at his mercy. Just his voice—low, commanding, and utterly filthy—had you coming undone three more times, each climax leaving you more breathless and trembling than the last. He knew exactly what to say to have you at his mercy, completely undone and helpless to resist him.

The first time, it was his instructions. Precise, deliberate, and spoken with the kind of authority that left no room for hesitation. “Slower,” he’d murmured, his voice rough with desire. “I want to hear every little sound you make.” And you gave him everything, your breath hitching as you followed his commands, your body arching as his words wrapped around you like a tether, pulling you closer to the edge.

The second time, it was his praise. Dark and intoxicating, his voice softened just enough to send shivers down your spine. “That’s it,” he’d growled, the sound thick with approval. “You’re so fucking good for me, baby. Don’t stop now.” And you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his voice was the only thing anchoring you, pushing you higher and higher until the wave crashed over you, leaving you gasping and trembling.

The third time, it was pure desperation—both his and yours. His breathing had grown heavier, rougher, and the way he spoke was almost a plea, laced with need so raw it made your chest tighten. “One more,” he’d rasped, his voice cracking with hunger. “You’ve got one more for me, don’t you? Give it to me.” And you had, your body writhing as you chased the release his words pulled from you, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

Even after the call ended, the sound of his voice lingered, echoing in your mind as you lay there, completely spent. The weight of his control, the way he’d taken you apart and pieced you back together with nothing but his words, stayed with you long into the night, leaving your body humming with the memory.

“What are you doing here?” you manage to ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless. You’re too aware of how your words tremble slightly, the question spilling out before you can stop it.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his lips tugging upward as he tilts his head slightly. “Did you forget?” he asks, his tone low and teasing, like he’s enjoying this far too much. “You asked me to take you to campus. Said you wanted to come in with me today.”

Your brows furrow as you try to remember, the haze of last night still clouding your mind. Then it clicks, and your lips part slightly as the memory surfaces. “Oh,” you say softly, feeling the heat in your cheeks deepen. You lower your gaze again, unable to meet his eyes as the realization settles over you.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of satisfaction in his expression is impossible to miss. He steps aside, gesturing toward the car parked at the curb, his movements deliberate and smooth. You nod silently, stepping out and closing the door behind you, your heart pounding in your chest as you follow him to the car.

Even as you slide into the passenger seat, you can feel his gaze lingering, heavy and deliberate. He doesn’t say anything, but the curve of his lips and the subtle clench of his jaw tell you he’s thinking about last night too. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s alive, buzzing with the tension that neither of you can ignore. You can feel it in the way his hands tighten slightly on the wheel, in the way your thighs press together, the ache from last night still fresh and impossible to forget.

Mark starts the car, his movements calm, but the tension in the small space between you simmers, unspoken and undeniable. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not when the memory of his voice, his commands, and the way he pushed you to your limits still lingers, heavy and electric, in the charged air around you.

The drive to college is too quiet. The hum of the engine fills the silence, but it feels suffocating. You keep your gaze fixed out the window, your hands fidgeting in your lap as Jeno drives, his grip firm on the wheel. He doesn’t seem bothered by the quiet—not at first. He’s calm, composed, but there’s an intensity in the air, in the way his eyes flick toward you at every red light, sharp and unrelenting.

Time stretched painfully, the weight of your unspoken thoughts pressing against your chest, until finally, he breaks the silence. “You okay? Thighs not aching?” he asks, his words deliberate, laced with something dark and teasing.

Your head snaps toward him, your expression caught between shock and indignation. “Why would they?” you quip, your tone defensive, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you.

He doesn’t respond right away, just smirks faintly, his fingers tapping lazily against the steering wheel as his gaze stays fixed on the road ahead. But there’s something dangerous in the curve of his lips, something dark and deliberate that makes your stomach flip and your skin burn under its weight. It’s not just a smirk—it’s a challenge, a reminder of the hold he has over you, and it’s infuriating how easily he can make your body betray you.

“You don’t remember?” he drawls finally, his voice smooth, slow, and dripping with amusement. The sound alone is enough to send a shiver racing down your spine. “Last night. The way you couldn’t stop shaking after the second time. Or was it the third? I lost count.”

Your jaw tightens, heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks as his words sink in. You glare at him, trying to ignore the way your heart pounds, but his smirk only widens, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest in a vain attempt to shield yourself from the weight of his teasing.

“And you,” he says, casting you a brief, pointed glance before looking back at the road, his tone dipping lower, smoother, “are still so shy. It’s adorable.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and intimate, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your silence only seems to fuel him, his low chuckle breaking the tension, the sound vibrating through the confined space of the car and settling deep in your chest.

Then his hand shifts on the gearstick, a small, casual movement that becomes anything but when his fingers brush against your knee. The touch is fleeting, light enough to be innocent, but the heat it leaves behind is anything but. You stiffen at the contact, your breath catching as your eyes dart to his hand. He doesn’t pull away—of course he doesn’t. Instead, he lingers for just a moment, long enough for you to feel the deliberate weight of his presence before he lets his hand return to the gearstick, his smirk softening but no less smug.

You want to say something, to snap at him, to remind him that you’re trying very hard to keep your composure, but the words die in your throat when he speaks again.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice dipping into something softer, though the teasing edge lingers just beneath the surface. His gaze flicks toward you again, his eyes scanning your face briefly, and the subtle way his lips curl tells you he can see right through you. “Literally just trying to drive my car.”

The air between you feels heavier now, every subtle movement amplified—the way his fingers drum against the wheel, the way your thighs press together in an attempt to quell the warmth pooling low in your stomach, the way your breathing has quickened just slightly. You can’t help but think he notices it all. Of course, he notices.

And when his eyes flick back to the road, you catch the faintest shake of his head, as though your flustered reaction amuses him more than it should. The tension simmers, unrelenting, the memory of last night lingering in every unspoken glance, every subtle shift in the confined space between you.

“You need to stop using all your energy trying to fuck me,” you tease, your tone light but edged with something warmer, something heavier, “and instead save it for today. You’re gonna need it.”

He hums softly, the sound low and rumbling in his chest, though there’s a flicker of confusion in his expression. “Hmm?”

“You’re going into practice today, right?” you ask softly, your voice careful not to disrupt the fragile quiet. “When you tell them what’s been happening…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “I’m sure the team’s gonna have a lot to say when you show up.”

His lips press into a thin line, and he nods once, curtly, his eyes focused on the road. “Yeah,” he murmurs, the single word heavy with something unspoken.

The reminder of practice shifts the mood instantly, a quiet tension settling into the car as you glance at him again. His teasing demeanor falters, just for a moment, and you notice the subtle changes in his posture—the way his grip tightens on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening against the leather, and the slight furrow in his brow as your words settle in. His fingers, which had been drumming lightly against the wheel, fall still, as though the weight of what he’s about to face has rooted them in place.

You study him closely, the sunlight filtering through the windshield highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His jaw tightens, a subtle shift that you’ve come to recognize as a tell for when he’s deep in thought, when the world around him feels too heavy. He’s grappling with more than just today; you know that. Basketball has been his constant, his escape, the one thing he’s been able to rely on through every upheaval in his life. The idea of stepping back onto the court, even with restrictions, has been weighing on him in ways he hasn’t fully admitted.

Mark exhales slowly, the breath deliberate but not quite reaching his shoulders, and you notice how his posture feels too composed, too intentional—like he’s bracing himself against the storm he’s been carrying inside.

The silence stretches again, heavier now, and your chest tightens at the sight of him holding so much inside. You’ve known Mark long enough to see through the mask he’s trying to keep intact. The teasing earlier, the flirting, the smugness, the light banter—it was all a distraction, a way to steady himself against the weight he’s been carrying. Now, his shoulders look too still, his relaxed posture almost forced, like he’s trying to avoid thinking about what’s coming next.

You can’t let him carry it alone. Not today.

“Mark,” you say softly, your voice breaking the quiet, your tone filled with all the care you know he needs. “I know how much this means to you. And I know how hard it’s been. But I promise you…” You pause, your words trembling. “I’ll be there. If you need help telling everyone, if you need me to steady you, or just… if you need me to hold you after—it doesn’t matter. I’ll be there.”

His breath catches as his hand slides onto your thigh, his palm warm against your bare skin. The contrast between the cool morning air in the car and the heat radiating from his touch is startling, sending a shiver up your spine. His thumb begins to move, slow and deliberate, tracing lazy circles just beneath the hem of your skirt. The motion is subtle, almost teasing, but the weight of his hand feels grounding and possessive, like he’s silently claiming the space he’s touching.

Your heart pounds harder, each gentle press of his thumb making it impossible to focus on anything else. His fingers flex slightly, gripping your thigh as though he’s drawing reassurance from the softness of your skin, the strength in his touch betraying how tightly he’s holding himself together. The heat from his hand spreads through you like a slow-burning flame, pooling low in your stomach and tightening your chest. Every motion feels intentional, the pads of his fingers brushing against you with just enough pressure to make your breathing hitch.

You glance down, watching the way his hand rests against your skin, the way his knuckles disappear beneath the edge of your skirt. The sight alone sends a flush of warmth through you, and you can feel the tension growing thicker in the confined space of the car. His grip tightens briefly, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thigh like he’s anchoring himself, as if he needs this contact to steady the storm brewing inside him.

For a moment, your own hand hovers uncertainly, the urge to touch him back overwhelming. Then, with a deliberate movement, you slide your fingers over his, pressing lightly against his skin. His breath hitches audibly at the contact, and his hand freezes for a heartbeat. You know what he’s thinking—that you’re about to move his hand away. The hesitation in his touch makes that clear. But instead, you push his hand higher, your palm guiding him firmly up the length of your thigh.

His knuckles brush against the fabric of your skirt, the motion slow and deliberate as the material shifts slightly with the movement. His fingers curl instinctively, gripping the sensitive skin of your inner thigh with more urgency, and a soft exhale escapes him, low and shaky. The air between you feels charged now, electric with something unspoken but undeniable, and you press his hand even higher, until the warmth of his palm is nearly unbearable.

The way his fingers spread against your skin, exploring just beneath your skirt, sends a shiver racing through you. His touch feels like fire and restraint all at once—like he’s holding back but not entirely. The tension builds with every shift of his hand, the sensation of his rough fingertips brushing against you igniting something deep within.

You hold your hand over his, not to stop him, but to keep him there, pressing your fingers down as if to say, don’t move. The weight of your touch is grounding, deliberate, and when his thumb drags a slow, agonizing line along the sensitive skin of your thigh, you can’t help the way your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t speak, but the way his hand lingers, the way his grip tightens, tells you everything you need to know. His need, his restraint, the way his fingers tremble just slightly as if he’s fighting himself—it all speaks volumes. And as the tension grows, the heat between you feels like it might consume you both, leaving no room for anything else.

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The gym hums with life, a constant thrum of activity. Players’ voices echo against the high ceilings, mingling with the dull thud of basketballs hitting the floor and the sharp clap of sneakers gripping the court. The air is thick with energy, an almost electric charge that clings to everything, amplified by the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. Walking in alongside Mark, you immediately notice how everyone seems to move with purpose—the players warming up, coaches already shouting instructions, and clusters of students loitering on the bleachers, whispering and watching.

Coach Taeyong stands at the far end of the court, clipboard in hand, his brow furrowed as he watches a few of the guys run drills. His stance, stiff and authoritative, screams frustration, though he doesn’t yell like you’d expect. Instead, his gaze flickers over the team like he’s measuring their every move. Nearby, Coach Doyoung leans against the wall, arms crossed and a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His presence is calmer, but there’s a sharpness in the way he observes the players, a readiness to step in the moment something goes wrong. His role feels more protective than demanding, like he’s watching over them, ensuring they stay safe while still giving Taeyong the reins.

Karina spots you the moment you enter, her ponytail bouncing as she waves you over enthusiastically from her spot near the bleachers. You return the gesture with a small wave of your own, but before you can move, your gaze catches on a group of familiar faces. Aisha, Mia, Yeji, and Lia are huddled together near the benches, their heads tilted toward one another as they whisper animatedly. Their eyes dart to you and Mark, lingering for a moment too long, before they turn back to their conversation. You catch snippets of giggles and quiet murmurs, the kind that crawl under your skin and make you hyper-aware of yourself.

Mark seems oblivious to their stares, his focus fixed ahead as his steps slow just slightly. You notice the way his hand brushes against his side, a subtle tell that he’s nervous. You place a hand on his arm, stopping him for just a moment, and his eyes flick to yours.

“If you need me,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the knot in your stomach, “I’m right across the court.”

He nods once, his lips pressing into a thin line, but his gaze holds yours for a beat longer than usual. There’s something unspoken in his expression, something almost vulnerable, but before you can linger on it, he pulls away, heading toward the guys gathering near the center of the court.

You watch him for a moment, your chest tightening at the way his shoulders seem a little more rigid than usual, before finally turning toward Karina. She’s still waiting for you, tapping her foot impatiently as she gestures for you to hurry.

As you make your way over, you catch another round of giggles from Aisha and her group. They’re still watching, their whispers cutting off abruptly when you glance in their direction. This time, you don’t look away. Your gaze hardens, and their smiles falter slightly, though the smugness doesn’t disappear entirely. By the time you reach Karina, your nerves are buzzing, the weight of their scrutiny settling heavily on your shoulders.

Karina raises an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “What was that about?” she asks, nodding subtly toward the group as you drop into the seat beside her.

You shake your head, letting out a sharp breath. “Nothing worth worrying about,” you mutter, though the tension in your voice betrays you.

Karina doesn’t push, but her eyes narrow slightly, the wheels in her head clearly turning as she takes in your expression. “Did Mark spend the night?” she asks instead, changing the subject with a teasing grin. “Because, babe, you were moaning like a bitch in heat yesterday.”

The comment pulls an unexpected laugh from your chest, but your cheeks burn instantly. “He didn’t,” you admit, the memory of last night flooding your mind. “But we—”

The words die on your tongue when you notice Aisha and her friends again. They’re still watching, their eyes sharp with curiosity and something more—something that makes your stomach twist. Whispering resumes as you turn away, their laughter soft but pointed, and you feel your fingers curl into fists against your sides.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to ignore them, but it’s impossible not to feel the weight of their stares. Their giggles cut through the ambient noise of the gym, each one like a needle pricking at your skin. You can’t make out the words, but you don’t need to. The glances they throw your way, the smug little smiles—they’re enough to make your blood simmer.

Karina notices the shift in your demeanor instantly, her teasing smirk fading as she follows your gaze. “What’s their problem?” she mutters, leaning closer to you. Her tone is sharp now, protective.

“I don’t know,” you reply quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “But I’m done with it.”

Something hardens in Karina’s expression, her jaw tightening as she watches the group. “You should say something. Seriously. Don’t let them get away with this crap.”

Your instinct is to brush it off like you always do, to let it slide and avoid the confrontation. But this time feels different. This time, you can’t push down the irritation bubbling in your chest, the heat rising in your cheeks as their laughter grows louder. You’ve been dealing with their snide remarks and side-eyes for weeks now, and you’re tired—tired of shrinking yourself, tired of pretending it doesn’t bother you.

You stand abruptly, Karina raising an eyebrow as she steps aside to let you pass. The scrape of your sneakers against the gym floor draws attention, but you don’t care. Your focus is locked on them, your chest tight with a mix of anger and determination as you cross the court.

Aisha is the first to notice you approaching, her head tilting slightly, a sly smile curving on her lips. The others follow her lead, their expressions ranging from amused to smug. They don’t speak, waiting for you to make the first move, their silence as pointed as their earlier whispers.

“Do you have something to say to me?” you ask, your voice sharp and steady as you come to a stop in front of them. You cross your arms over your chest, your stance firm.

Aisha shrugs, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” you counter, your tone laced with sarcasm. “Because you’ve been whispering and laughing since I walked in.”

Yeji leans forward slightly, her grin widening. “We were just curious,” she says lightly, the edge in her voice impossible to miss. “Did you and Mark break up?”

You nod, your expression carefully neutral. “Yes.”

Yeji claps her hands together, her voice lilting with fake surprise. “I knew it. Told you, didn’t I?” she says, turning to Mia. “He’s fair game now.”

Your jaw clenches, a sharp flare of anger igniting in your chest as her words cut through you. “No, he isn’t,” you snap, your voice low and laced with steel. Your eyes narrow, locking onto hers with a glare so sharp it could pierce through her. The weight of your possessiveness hangs heavy in the air, daring her—or anyone—to challenge it.

Aisha scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “See? I told you they’d only last a month,” she says, addressing the group as if you’re not standing right there. “Didn’t I say he’d get bored and move on? The fact that I gave them a month but it hasn’t even been a month yet.”

Something inside you snaps, a surge of confidence bubbling to the surface as you step closer, your voice cold and sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. “Funny,” you begin, your tone laced with a biting edge, “you’re so obsessed with Mark, but he wouldn’t even look at you twice, no matter how hard you tried. You could throw yourself at him, beg for his attention, and he still wouldn’t give you a second of his time.”

Aisha scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please,” she snaps, her voice dripping with condescension. “You sound so confident for someone who can’t even keep him. Or did you forget you two broke up?”

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t back down, your gaze narrowing as you take another step forward. “You’re right, we did,” you fire back, your tone steady and unyielding. “But here’s the difference: even when we weren’t together, you still couldn’t catch his attention. And you never will.”

Aisha laughs, short and mocking, glancing back at her friends for validation. “Oh, come on. You act like you’re the only girl he’s ever cared about. Mark’s got a type, and let’s be real—it’s not commitment.” She leans in slightly, her eyes glinting with smug satisfaction. “You think you’re special, huh? Like you’re different from the rest of us? Newsflash: you’re not.”

Your gaze flicks over Aisha and her little entourage, each of them faltering under the weight of your words. You step even closer, letting the tension build, letting the heat of your anger—and your unwavering confidence—radiate from you. “Do you know how many girls Mark fucked before me?” you continue, changing the subject, your tone softer now but dripping with menace, making them lean in to catch every word. “A lot. And you know what’s even funnier? You weren’t one of them. Not you, not any of your little minions.”

You smile, slow and deliberate, watching their faces pale as your words sink in. “Do you want to know why?” you ask, your voice low and mocking. “Because you’ve never even been on his radar. Not even once. You’re not his type. Hell, you couldn’t even get his attention if you tried—and trust me, I know you’ve tried.”

You cross your arms, your stance confident and unyielding, your glare slicing through the false bravado in their smirks. “So maybe instead of spending all your time whispering and giggling like middle schoolers, you should focus on yourselves. Because whatever you think you’re going to get from Mark? It’s never going to happen. Not now, not ever.”

Aisha’s smirk slips for a fraction of a second before she recovers, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a casual shrug. “Maybe he just likes a challenge,” she says, her voice light but biting. “If you’re so sure he’s yours, why are you even wasting your breath? Sounds like someone’s a little insecure.”

You step closer still, the space between you practically crackling with tension. “Insecure?” you repeat, your voice like ice. “And for the record,” you continue, stepping closer, “Mark didn’t move on. He didn’t get bored. We broke up because we both have a lot going on, something I wouldn’t expect any of you to understand since all you seem to care about is gossiping like middle schoolers.”

Her expression freezes, her lips parting slightly as if to retort, but nothing comes out. The other girls glance between you, their whispers and giggles suddenly silent as the weight of your words sinks in. There’s a beat of stunned silence, and you feel the tension radiating off them, but you hold your ground. For once, you don’t look away, don’t shrink under their scrutiny.

You don’t consciously decide to cross the court, but something in the way Aisha and her friends are still staring—watching, waiting for you to falter—pushes you forward. It’s not about flaunting anything; it’s about reminding yourself, and them, that Mark has never been theirs to wonder about. He’s yours in a way that’s undeniable, unshakable, and entirely effortless. He doesn’t see them, never has. His attention, his focus, his everything—it’s always been you. And you know, with a confidence that feels rare but earned, that you can have him whenever you want, however you want, because it’s you he chooses every time. So you let your steps carry you to him, your head held high, the weight of their stares dissolving as the distance between you and Mark closes, like the rest of the world no longer matters.

The moment your eyes find Mark, something inside you settles. He’s standing with the team near the far side of the court, his posture deceptively relaxed, one hand tucked casually into his pocket while the other grips a basketball. He’s mid-conversation with Jeno, his expression neutral, but you know him too well. The slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers across the court every so often—it’s subtle, but it’s there. He’s checking on you, watching without being obvious about it, sensing something’s off even from a distance.

Your chest tightens as you take him in. It’s not just the way he grounds you, the way his presence alone feels like a steadying force—it’s the fact that you know he’d cross the entire gym if he thought you needed him. And right now, you do. Not because you’re upset, not because of the whispers still buzzing faintly around you, but because you’ve had enough. Enough of their giggles, their pointed stares, their pathetic attempts to rattle you. You don’t owe anyone silence or the space to tear you down. You want Mark—not out of weakness, not because you need him to save you, but because you know he’s yours in a way that’s undeniable.

Being with him isn’t about seeking refuge; it’s about showing them, and reminding yourself, that you don’t have to explain, defend, or prove anything. You’re tired of playing small, tired of pretending you don’t care when every look they shoot your way only fuels the fire. Mark centers you, but more than that, he amplifies you, and right now, you want them to see it—you want them to see him—and know that none of their whispers will ever come close to touching what you have.

As you approach, his head turns, his eyes locking onto yours instantly. You can see the flicker of concern in his gaze, the way his brows knit together slightly even as he straightens, adjusting his stance as if readying himself for whatever it is you’re about to say. Jeno glances at you too, his curiosity evident, but he steps back without a word, giving you the space you don’t even have to ask for.

Mark’s hand drops from the basketball, hanging loosely at his side as he watches you close the distance between you. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. You come to a stop right in front of him, your heart hammering in your chest as the world seems to shrink to just the two of you.

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you let your hand slip into his, the motion natural, almost automatic. His fingers curl around yours immediately, warm and grounding, his grip firm but careful, like he’s afraid to hold you too tightly. His touch steadies you, the earlier tension in your body melting away as you feel the weight of his presence settle beside you.

His eyes search yours, his brow furrowing slightly, the faintest trace of worry flickering across his face. “Everything okay?” he asks softly, his voice pitched low, just for you.

A corner of his mouth quirks upward as he lets out a quiet laugh. “Thought you were about to slap her then,” he teases, his tone light but laced with curiosity.

You smile faintly, shaking your head as you let the tension in your shoulders ease. “Everything’s fine,” you reply, your voice steady, though the warmth of his gaze makes your pulse quicken. His fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, grounding you, and you let yourself exhale, letting go of the last remnants of irritation. “It is now.”

When you turn back toward the girls, their wide-eyed stares meet you immediately. Aisha and her minions are frozen, their earlier smugness wiped clean, replaced with disbelief and a flicker of something else—something almost uncomfortable. They don’t say a word as you let them see it, the way Mark’s hand fits so easily in yours, the way he holds onto you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. You smile, letting your confidence radiate through the simple gesture, the subtle shift in your posture as you stand taller now.

Let them whisper. Let them watch. You’re done shrinking under their gaze, done letting their shallow judgments chip away at you. This time, you’re the one holding the power, and it feels like reclaiming a piece of yourself you hadn’t realized you’d been giving away. Mark’s hand in yours, his quiet, unwavering presence at your side—it’s all the reminder you need that their words don’t define you. They never did.

“Y/N,” Jeno says, his tone firm but tinged with concern. You glance over your shoulder, and he’s already walking toward you, his gaze flicking between you and the girls. “You okay?” he asks, his voice lower now, but there’s no missing the protective edge in his words. “You need me to do anything?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, it’s okay, Jen,” you reply softly, your voice steady despite the earlier tension. “Really.”

Jeno stops just a step away, his sharp eyes moving back to the girls briefly. His expression darkens, a silent warning flashing in his gaze that’s enough to make them look away. But when he turns back to you and Mark, his entire demeanor shifts. His grin spreads wide, warm and easy, the kind of smile you hadn’t seen from him in a while. It’s genuine, approving, and there’s something almost teasing in the way his eyes linger on Mark’s hand wrapped around yours.

“Wow,” he says quietly, his voice softer now as his glance shifts between the two of you. There’s no judgment, no hesitation—just a kind of quiet acceptance, like he’s starting to realize how much this makes sense, how natural it feels.

Mark nods at him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Jeno just shakes his head lightly, his grin widening as he takes a step back, giving you both space but keeping his presence nearby, protective as always. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer before he turns toward the team, his body language calm but still watchful.

“Mark,” you whisper, your voice barely audible but enough to make him turn his head toward you. His eyes find yours immediately, and without hesitation, he leans in, his movements slow and deliberate. His lips hover near your ear, his breath warm and steady against your skin, sending a subtle shiver down your spine. His hand, still wrapped tightly around yours, flexes slightly, like he’s grounding himself in your touch.

The closeness feels almost suffocating in the best way, the air between you heavy with everything he hasn’t said yet. You tilt your head toward him instinctively, your voice soft and intimate as you ask, “You gonna tell the team now?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicker downward, his thumb tracing slow circles against the back of your hand. When he finally nods, it’s slight, almost hesitant, but there’s a weight behind it that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like he’s trying to steady himself through the words.

Your grip on his hand tightens, your fingers intertwining with his, holding him there for a moment longer. “You’ve got this,” you whisper, your lips brushing close to his jaw as you speak. The words are quiet, meant just for him, but you can feel the way his body responds—the slight shift of his shoulders, the deep inhale as if he’s taking your reassurance and letting it settle in his chest.

Mark turns slightly, his forehead nearly brushing yours as he lets out a slow, steadying breath. His hand lingers in yours, his thumb still moving in that comforting rhythm, before he finally steps forward. The absence of his touch feels immediate, but the warmth of it lingers on your skin as you watch him straighten his back, his shoulders squaring as he faces the team.

“Hey, guys!” he calls out, his voice louder now, steady despite the weight behind it. You can see the tension in his jaw, the slight quiver in his fingers as he flexes them at his sides, but he stands tall, the air around him shifting as the team begins to gather. You can’t help but follow him with your eyes, your heart tight with both pride and an ache you can’t quite put into words. Even now, as vulnerable as he is, there’s a strength in the way he carries himself, and it’s magnetic.

But you stay rooted in place, your fingers still tingling from where they’d been intertwined with his, knowing that whatever happens next, you’ll be there. Always.

The boys gradually gather around, their movements slowing as they notice the serious set of Mark’s expression. Jeno hangs back slightly, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, already attuned to what’s coming. He doesn’t ask any questions—he doesn’t need to—but you can see the way his jaw tightens, the subtle shift in his stance as he braces himself for Mark’s words. Always one step ahead, always ready to offer quiet support, Jeno’s presence feels like a steadying force even before Mark speaks.

Mark glances at you briefly, the silent connection between you giving him the courage he needs as he begins to speak. “I need to tell you guys something,” he starts, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. “It’s about why I haven’t been playing as much lately.”

The group falls silent, all eyes fixed on him. Chenle and Jaemin exchange quick glances, their expressions curious but concerned. Doyoung steps forward slightly, his face already lined with worry, while Jeno stays close, his presence steady and grounding.

Mark takes another breath, his free hand brushing through his hair before he continues. “I have a heart condition. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy,” he says, the words heavy as they leave his lips. “It’s something I’ve known about for a while, but I… I didn’t take it seriously at first. I thought I could push through it, play like I always have. But I can’t anymore.” His voice wavers slightly, and you feel the faint tremble in his hand as he grips yours tighter.

The gym is completely silent as Mark’s words hang in the air. The team’s faces reflect a mixture of shock, confusion, and concern. Jaemin’s brows furrow deeply, his usually calm expression giving way to worry. Renjun’s lips part slightly, his eyes wide, flicking between Mark and Jeno, searching for confirmation that what he’s hearing is real. Chenle’s hand comes up to his mouth, his eyes already glistening, and you see him blink rapidly as though trying to keep the tears from falling.

Mark’s voice shakes as he continues, his vulnerability cracking through the usual strength in his tone. “I thought if I ignored it, I could keep going. Keep playing. Basketball’s been everything to me for as long as I can remember—it’s the one thing I’ve always been able to count on. But I can’t anymore. If I push myself, it could…” He swallows hard, the word catching in his throat before he forces it out. “It could kill me.”

The room remains silent, the weight of his confession settling over everyone. Doyoung’s face crumples almost instantly, his emotions clear as his lips part in disbelief. “Son,” he whispers, his voice thick with sadness.

At the same time, Taeyong takes a step forward, his usual stern demeanor replaced by something softer, something almost unfamiliar. “Son,” he says, an unusual fondness in his tone, but he halts when Mark’s gaze snaps to him, cold and deadpan. Taeyong freezes, his mouth closing as if he knows he’s already lost the right to step closer.

Doyoung takes a sharp breath, the sound cutting through the room as his face contorts with distress. “Son,” he whispers again, his voice trembling. He takes a step forward, his hands reaching out slightly, but he hesitates, stopping just short of touching Mark. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his grip on your hand the only thing grounding him. “Because I didn’t want to let anyone down,” he admits. “I didn’t want to let you down. Or the team. Or myself.”

The weight of those words sinks in, and you see Jeno shift beside him. He doesn’t speak, but his hand comes to rest on Mark’s shoulder, the small gesture carrying a silent reassurance that only a brother can give. Mark glances at him briefly, and for a second, you see the tension in his frame ease just slightly.

Jaemin, ever the optimist, steps forward, his voice quiet but firm. “Mark… none of us would ever think that. You know that, right? We’d never think you’re letting us down.”

Chenle sniffs quietly, and when he finally speaks, his voice wavers. “You’re one of the best players we’ve ever had. And not just because you’re good at basketball. It’s you, Mark. You’re… you’re just…” His voice breaks, and he rubs furiously at his eyes, unable to finish.

Renjun places a hand on Chenle’s shoulder, his own expression somber but composed. “We’re a team,” Renjun says firmly, his gaze locking on Mark’s. “And teams stick together. We’ve got you.”

Doyoung’s lips press into a thin line, his emotions barely contained as he steps forward again. “Mark,” he says, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “I’ve always been proud of you—on and off the court. This doesn’t change that. Not even a little.”

The silence stretches for a moment, until Jeno, ever the steady presence, squeezes Mark’s shoulder again. His voice is calm but firm as he says, “You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got me. You’ve got them. We’ve got you.”

Mark swallows hard, his eyes flickering around the circle of his teammates. His grip on your hand loosens slightly, and after a moment, you let go, stepping back to let them close in around him. The team moves as one, their voices quiet but filled with reassurance as they offer words of encouragement and solidarity.

You see Chenle’s tears fall freely now, his shoulders shaking as Jaemin pats his back lightly. Renjun murmurs something soft to Mark, his voice too low for you to hear, but the small nod Mark gives in response speaks volumes. Jeno doesn’t leave Mark’s side, his protective stance solid, grounding Mark in a way only he can.

Your gaze drifts to the edge of the court, where Taeyong stands alone, watching the scene unfold with an expression that’s difficult to read. For a fleeting moment, there’s a flash of regret in his eyes, but he doesn’t step forward again. He stays where he is, his figure framed by the shadows of the gym, a silent

You couldn’t help the sting of tears pricking at your own eyes as you watched the scene unfold. The vulnerability in Mark’s confession, the way his teammates rally around him, the unspoken love and respect in every movement—it’s overwhelming.

The gym echoes with the distant creak of the heavy double doors as the last of the team filters out, their chatter fading into the hallway. The once-bustling court is eerily quiet now, the air heavy with everything left unsaid. Mark stands near the edge of the court, his shoulders slightly slumped, the tension of the day etched into his frame. Beside him, Jeno adjusts his bag strap, his focus on the exit as he steps toward it.

Just as they both reach the door to leave, Doyoung’s voice cuts through the silence, firm but gentle. “Mark. Wait.”

Mark pauses mid-step, his head tilting slightly as he looks over his shoulder. His brows furrow faintly, his exhaustion evident in the way his stance wavers for a moment before he turns fully to face his uncle.

Jeno, sensing the shift in tone, glances back briefly but doesn’t stop moving. His hand presses against the door, fingers curling around the cool metal. Behind him, Doyoung hesitates, his gaze flickering between his two nephews. There’s a visible pause, the air around him thick with indecision as his lips part, then press together again. His expression softens slightly, a mix of something unreadable—maybe uncertainty, maybe regret—before his voice cuts through the quiet, sharper this time.

“Jeno. You too.”

Jeno turns slowly, his brows furrowing as he processes the unusual request. He’s not used to this—being included, being needed in a moment like this. His gaze flickers to Mark, who offers the faintest nod, before he makes his way back toward them, his steps deliberate, his shoulders tense.

Doyoung steps closer, his arms crossed, but his expression is open, softer than usual. “I just wanted to talk to you both. This isn’t something I can say to the team—it’s for you two.” His voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of emotion that gives his words weight.

Mark lifts his head, meeting Doyoung’s gaze. “What is it?”

The gym feels cavernous now, the silence amplifying every breath, every subtle movement. Doyoung stands in front of his nephews, his arms crossed tightly over his chest like he’s trying to shield himself from the weight of the moment. His eyes flicker between Mark and Jeno, lingering longer than usual, as if searching for the right words.

“This isn’t just about basketball,” he begins, his voice quieter than usual but steady. He takes a step closer, his stance softening as his gaze lands on Mark first. “What you’ve been carrying, Mark—it’s more than anyone your age should have to deal with. Between the expectations, the pressure, and everything with… your dad…” Doyoung pauses, exhaling deeply. “It’s a lot. I know you’ve felt like you had to take it all on alone, but you don’t have to. Not anymore.”

Mark swallows hard, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders drop slightly, like a part of him is finally allowing himself to believe the words.

Doyoung turns his attention to Jeno, his expression shifting into something softer, almost hesitant. “And you, Jeno. You’ve been carrying your own weight, haven’t you? I see the way you look out for Mark, the way you protect him—whether it’s from himself, from others, or from all the crap life throws at him. You don’t just step up when someone asks you to. You do it because you care. Because you’re loyal. And it’s not just about Mark. You’ve been trying to hold this family together in your own way, even if you don’t realize it.”

Jeno’s brow furrows slightly, his posture stiffening. “I don’t know about all that,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I just do what I can.”

Doyoung shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s more than that. It’s the way you show up. For Mark. For everyone around you. And I want you to know, Jeno—I’m proud of you.”

The words land heavily, and Jeno’s head snaps up, his eyes widening slightly as if he didn’t hear right the first time. He blinks, looking away quickly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Uh… thanks, I guess,” he mumbles, his voice quieter than usual. He glances at Mark, who gives him a small, knowing smile.

“You don’t hear it enough,” Doyoung says, his tone firm. “And that’s on me. But I see you, Jeno. I see the man you’re becoming. And you need to hear that I’m proud of you. Both of you.”

Mark looks up at that, his eyes meeting Jeno’s briefly before flickering back to Doyoung. There’s a weight to his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment of everything unsaid.

“You both grew up missing pieces you should’ve had. One of you had your dad, and the other didn’t, but somehow his absence—and all the toxic ways he left his mark—still linger in both your lives. It’s all tangled up in ways neither of you can really escape.” Doyoung continues, his voice trembling slightly. “And I know… I know I can’t change the past. I can’t erase your Dad, the gaps he’s left in your lives. But you’ve built something for yourselves despite all of that. You’ve stayed close, stayed strong—and that’s because of the two of you, not him.”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his gaze fixed on the floor as if trying to keep his emotions in check. He swallows hard before looking up, his voice low and rough. “It doesn’t feel like strength most of the time,” he admits, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “It feels like we’re just… surviving. Like we’ve spent our whole lives cleaning up his mess.”

Jeno shifts beside him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression hardens for a moment, but the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. “Surviving is strength,” he says, his tone sharper than he intends. “He didn’t give us much of a choice, did he? We had to figure it out on our own.”

But then Jeno’s gaze softens as it lands on Mark, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He exhales slowly, his voice quieter now. “…But you’ve had it worse,” he says, almost as if admitting it to himself. “You grew up with all of his bullshit right in your face, having to deal with his absence and his neglect. I didn’t, well, not in the same way that you did.” His arms drop to his sides, and he shakes his head, glancing away briefly before looking back at Mark.

Mark lifts his eyes to meet Jeno’s, his expression unreadable at first. The words sink in, settling somewhere deep inside him, and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to respond. He feels the weight of Jeno’s gaze, the honesty in his voice, and it stirs something raw in his chest.

He exhales slowly, shaking his head as his lips press into a tight line. “Maybe,” he says, his voice low and measured. “Maybe I had it worse in some ways. But it’s not like you came out of this unscathed, Jeno. He screwed both of us over, just… differently.”

The moment feels lighter for a second, but Doyoung’s next words pull them back into the gravity of the conversation. “You’ve both turned out better than anyone had the right to expect, considering what you’ve been through. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud of you.”

The air between them shifts, a subtle but significant softening. Mark and Jeno exchange a look, one of mutual understanding, before their attention returns to Doyoung.

As the three of them stand there, unaware of the figure lingering outside the gym doors, Taeyong leans against the frame, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression is unreadable, but the shadows cast over his face betray the regret etched into his features. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t interrupt. He simply watches, the distance between him and his sons feeling more like a chasm than ever before.

──────────────────────────────

The mirror reflects two flawless versions of yourselves—both of you radiating confidence and allure in a way that makes the room feel electric. You smooth down the fabric of your dress, a satin black slip that clings perfectly to your figure, its midnight black hue shimmering faintly under the soft lighting. Karina stands beside you, her dress equally stunning—a deep emerald green that compliments her skin tone, the neckline daring and framed by her loose, effortless waves. You both look undeniably good, your makeup sharp and glowing, as if the night was already yours before even stepping out the door.

“God, we’re so hot,” Karina laughs, tilting her head slightly as she adjusts her pose, her phone capturing endless selfies. You laugh softly, your fingers grazing your neck as you glance at your reflection again, momentarily distracted by your thoughts. You fiddle with your phone in your hand, biting your lip in contemplation. Mark’s been on your mind all evening, especially after everything that happened. The idea of sending him a picture flutters into your thoughts—one part wanting to show him how good you look tonight, the other part… well, maybe to remind him of what he still lingers on.

Finally, you give in, leaning subtly toward the mirror to snap a single shot. You tilt your head, letting the delicate strap of your dress slide slightly off your shoulder in a way that feels artfully careless. After a moment of hesitation, you attach the image to the message and hit send, your heart skipping a beat as you wait for his reaction. It doesn’t take long for your phone to buzz.

“Wait, so Mark has a heart condition?” Karina asks, her voice slicing through the soft hum of the playlist you’d put on earlier. Her words pull your gaze from your phone, where Mark’s latest text had left a smile tugging at your lips. She’s standing by the mirror, adjusting her hair with practiced ease. Her eyes meet yours through the reflection, eyebrows raised in genuine curiosity.

“Yeah,” you say softly, glancing back down at your phone. “He does. And… it’s been hard on him. He’s upset about it, and I can tell it’s eating at him, even when he tries to act like it’s not.”

Karina turns, leaning a hip against the counter as her full attention shifts to you. Her lips curve into a small smile—gentle but knowing. “Of course he’s upset. It’s a lot to deal with. But you’ll be there for him, won’t you?” Her tone is light, but there’s an underlying seriousness in her question, like she already knows the answer.

“Always,” you reply without hesitation, your fingers idly brushing against the strap of your dress to adjust it. “I’ll always be there for him.”

Karina hums, studying you with a look that feels just a little too perceptive. “I have to say… you two have been spending a lot of time together lately. Are we just going to ignore the fact that you seem very close again?”” She pauses, her grin widening as she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “But I don’t hear a single sound from your room when he’s over, so either he’s fucking you so hard you can’t even make a noise…”

You gasp, your cheeks heating instantly. “We haven’t been having sex!” you protest, but Karina only raises an eyebrow, her skepticism loud and clear. You throw your hands up in defense. “Okay, fine! I gave him one blowjob, but that’s it!” Her smirk widens, and you sigh. “It only happened because, when we were still together, I lost a game, and my punishment was to, well… you know.” You hesitate, glancing at her pointed look before blurting out, “And we broke up the next day, but I couldn’t break the damn promise!”

Karina bursts into laughter, her hand flying to her stomach as she doubles over dramatically. “You ‘couldn’t break the promise’?” she repeats, her voice dripping with mockery. “Oh, my god, you’re unbelievable. That’s the dumbest—and most you—thing I’ve ever heard. You broke up, but you still felt obligated to… follow through?”

She wipes a fake tear from her eye, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re telling me you were single, yet you still gave him a goodbye blowjob out of sportsmanship? I can’t—this is too much.”

You glare at her, your arms crossing tightly over your chest. “It wasn’t like that,” you mutter defensively, though you can feel your face burning.

Karina grins, stepping closer to throw her arm around your shoulders. “Oh, babe, it was exactly like that. You’re too loyal for your own good. But hey, at least you kept your word, right?” She winks, her teasing relentless. “Mark must’ve been devastated losing you and the perks.”

“Shut up,” you snap playfully, rolling your eyes. “It’s different this time with us.”

Karina smirks, tilting her head to the side as she eyes you. “Different how? Like ‘we’re taking things slow and mature’ different? Or ‘we’re seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off but pretending it’s about feelings’ different?”

You groan, shoving her shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to gauge the vibe here,” she teases, raising her hands in mock surrender.

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as you lean against the counter beside her, your shoulders brushing. The teasing gives way to a more vulnerable quiet between you as you exhale slowly. “It feels more emotional between us now,” you admit, your voice softer, more contemplative. “It’s like… we’re actually talking. Like, really talking. He’s opening up to me about things he’s never talked about before, and I’m doing the same. And, believe it or not…” You pause, your lips curving into a small, almost disbelieving smile. “We haven’t even had sex since the breakup.”

Karina freezes mid-pose, her mouth falling open slightly. She turns to you with an expression that’s part disbelief, part amusement. “You haven’t had sex? Not even once?”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “No, not even once. Sure, I can count four different occasions where it nearly happened but it didn’t! That’s so unlike us. And honestly? That shocks me. I thought I’d be the one to break first, but… I haven’t.”

Karina narrows her eyes at you, her teasing grin making a comeback. “What happened to the girl who swore she couldn’t resist going without his cock for more than a day? Who is this new woman standing in front of me?”

You snort, giving her shoulder a playful shove. “I’m evolving, okay? Growth.”

Karina raises a skeptical brow, her lips twitching in amusement as she grabs her bag from the bed. “We’ll see about that. I bet the second you see Mark, you’ll forget all about this so-called growth and be all over him.”

You roll your eyes, following her to the door, grabbing your keys and clutch on the way. “Let’s just get to Jeno’s before you start placing bets on my life choices.”

The two of you head down the hall of your apartment building, your laughter echoing softly in the quiet. Karina adjusts her dress as you step outside, the night air cool against your skin. “You call the ride?” she asks, glancing over at you.

“Already on the way,” you reply, the distant hum of city sounds filling the space between you. Moments later, a sleek car pulls up to the curb, and you both slide in, the buzz of anticipation swirling in the air.

The drive to Jeno’s feels light, Karina scrolling through her phone while you stare out the window, your thoughts drifting. The air smells faintly of bonfires and fresh grass as you step out of the car, the distant thrum of music seeping through the cracks of Jeno’s grand house. The last time you were here, everything changed—shifts in relationships, realizations, breaking points. But tonight feels different. As you approach the house, illuminated by soft golden lights strung across the patio, you feel something lighter, something that settles into you like peace.

Inside, the warmth and noise hit you all at once. People are sprawled across the expansive living room, some leaning lazily against counters, others clutching red Solo cups as they sway to the low hum of music. A chandelier above glimmers like a starburst, casting flickering patterns across polished floors and sleek furniture. The smell of spilled beer and faint vanilla candles mixes with laughter and the occasional clink of glasses.

Jeno is leaning against the kitchen island when you see him, his black shirt unbuttoned slightly, the casual chaos of his hair making him look effortlessly cool. His eyes lock onto you the moment you walk in, but instead of looking at your face, they travel downward, tracing every curve and detail of your outfit. His brows raise slightly, and he lets out a soft, appreciative whistle.

“Woah,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You laugh, shaking your head as you approach him. “Like it?”

“If you and Mark don’t sort out whatever the fuck is going on between you,” he drawls, his grin widening, “then I’m allowed to bend you over the table and finish what he clearly hasn’t started.”

You roll your eyes, though your lips tug into a smirk. “You can still do that,” you counter, your tone light but daring. “Doesn’t have to have anything to do with Mark.”

Karina doesn’t even blink at the exchange; she just arches a perfectly sculpted brow, her expression amused but knowing. “You two,” she mutters, shaking her head with a wry smile. “Always the same.” Her words carry a hint of exasperation, but it’s obvious she isn’t taking it seriously. No one ever did. You and Jeno had this unspoken, flirtatious rapport, one that people had stopped questioning long ago. It was a game you both played—a harmless, teasing dance that never meant anything deeper.

Her heels click softly against the polished floor as she makes her way toward you both. Every movement of hers is deliberate—hips swaying just enough, her emerald-green dress clinging to her figure like a second skin. Her confidence radiates as her sharp eyes land on Jeno, who doesn’t miss a beat. His lips curl into a smirk that’s half invitation, half dare, his hand casually adjusting the chain at his neck as his gaze sweeps over her like he’s taking in every detail.

“Don’t be jealous, Rina,” Jeno murmurs, his voice low and teasing as he leans in closer, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it’s meant to unravel her. His eyes flicker briefly to her lips, then back to her eyes, dark and full of intent. The way he moves is subtle but purposeful—like a predator closing in on its prey, confident in the effect he’s having.

Karina raises a brow, her red-painted lips curving into a slow smirk. Her hand finds her hip, the smooth fabric of her dress gliding beneath her palm as she tilts her head. “Jealous?” she echoes, her tone clipped but dripping with amusement. “Please.”

Jeno’s laugh is low, a deep rumble that vibrates in his chest. His arm tightens around her shoulder, his fingers brushing bare skin just beneath the strap of her dress. The casual way he holds her contrasts sharply with the intensity in his eyes as he tilts his head down, bringing his face closer to hers. His breath is warm, the scent of his cologne sharp and lingering in the space between them. “Come on,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as silk, yet rough enough to scrape against her defenses. “Admit it—you only want my eyes on you.”

Your breath hitches, a soft gasp escaping before you can catch it. The air feels heavy now, charged with a tension that’s both magnetic and suffocating. The teasing line between them blurs, and you feel your chest tighten at the intimacy in their exchange. Jeno had changed, right? He doesn’t play with people anymore—you know that. He doesn’t cross lines, doesn’t toy with emotions. But the way he’s looking at Karina right now, like she’s the only person in the room, sends a ripple of confusion and something sharper—something closer to unease—through you.

Wasn’t Jeno seeing Mark’s best friend? You think about the way they were always together, the quiet smiles exchanged in corners of rooms, the way she seemed to be a constant presence in his life. What is he doing? You’re not sure what unsettles you more—the possibility that he’s stepping into murky waters or the fact that you don’t want to stop him.

Because, god, it’s undeniably hot. There’s something electric about watching them—two hot and attractive people. Jeno’s fingers flex against Karina’s shoulder, grounding and deliberate, as if testing the waters. His smirk deepens, his gaze flicking between Karina’s eyes and lips, his head tilting slightly as if daring her to rise to his challenge. “You talk a big game,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and teasing, edged with a quiet confidence. “But I don’t think you’re ready for me.”

Karina’s brow arches sharply, her lips curling into a sly, knowing grin. She steps closer, her movement fluid and commanding, closing the distance between them until there’s barely a breath of space left. Her hand slides up slowly, fingers grazing the cool chain around his neck before curling around it. She tugs lightly, her eyes never leaving his, the challenge in her gaze unmistakable. “Ready for you?” she says softly, her voice low and edged with playful disdain. “Jeno, if I wanted you, you’d already be mine.”

The smirk on Jeno’s face deepens, his expression darkening with something primal. His free hand slides from her shoulder to her waist, his fingers splaying against the curve of her back, holding her firmly against him. His thumb brushes over the fabric of her dress, the small motion deliberate, sending shivers down your spine even from where you’re standing. His voice drops to a near growl, the sound rough and full of heat. “Oh yeah?” he murmurs, his lips just a breath away from hers. “Prove it.”

Before you can intervene with a sarcastic comment of your own, Karina tilts her head and leans in, her lips brushing against his. It’s brief at first, teasing, like she’s testing the waters, but when Jeno doesn’t pull back—in fact, he leans in—Karina presses her lips fully to his, her hand tightening on the chain she’s been playing with.

When Karina pulls away, her lips curve into a victorious smile, her thumb brushing the corner of Jeno’s mouth with a playful delicacy, as if wiping away an invisible smudge. “Told you,” she says smoothly, her gaze holding his, daring him to counter her confidence.

Your eyebrows shoot up, but you don’t interrupt, crossing your arms as you watch the moment unfold with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. Karina’s fingers stay curled around the chain at Jeno’s neck as their lips clash again, harder this time—hungry and unapologetic, the air between them charged with rough desperation. There’s no hesitation in their movements, no softness, just raw energy that draws your eyes like a magnet.

Jeno doesn’t pull back. His hand grips her waist firmly, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress as he tugs her closer, their bodies pressing together in a way that makes the air in the room feel heavier. His other hand moves to cup the back of her neck, his hold firm, possessive. The angle of his jaw shifts as his lips press harder against hers, the kiss growing almost frantic, a battle for control that neither seems willing to lose.

Almost simultaneously, their gazes shift to you. It’s not subtle— Karina’s lips quirk into a knowing smile, her head still tilted as though she’s daring you to react. Jeno just smirks, the sharpness in his expression softening slightly. He doesn’t make the comment you expect—a sly invitation to join in, the usual quip he’d toss your way without hesitation.

Instead, the silence stretches for a beat too long, and you let out a quiet gasp, breaking it. “I thought you were with Mark’s best friend?” you ask, your voice light but laced with genuine curiosity.

Jeno shrugs, his hand finally dropping from Karina’s waist as he steps back slightly. There’s something in his eyes you’ve never seen before—a flicker of something unspoken. Sadness? Dismissal? It’s hard to place, but it’s enough to make you hesitate. “Well, I’m not,” he says simply, his tone clipped, the kind that warns you not to push further.

Karina, ever perceptive, tilts her head, watching him closely. “That’s new,” she murmurs, though her voice isn’t teasing this time.

Jeno’s shoulders relax slightly, and he forces a grin back onto his face, the sharpness returning as if to push the moment away. “Anyway,” he says, turning to you both. “Who’s ready to get completely fucked up?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone, but Karina’s grin returns almost instantly. “Always,” she says, her confidence unwavering as she adjusts her dress.

Jeno pulls a small bag from his pocket, the faint sheen of its contents catching the low, golden party lights. “You two are in for a treat,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with a quiet confidence that sends a shiver through you. His fingers curl around the edge of the bag, tipping it just enough to let a few muted-colored pills spill into his palm. The smirk on his lips is teasing, daring, as his gaze flicks between you and Karina.

Karina doesn’t even blink. She snatches one between two manicured fingers, rolling it thoughtfully before popping it into her mouth. “Easy,” she says with a grin, chasing it down with a generous sip of her drink. Her eyes flash to yours, the corner of her lips curling mischievously. “Come on, we’re not driving tonight. No excuses.”

Jeno watches your hesitation, the pill resting between your fingers as you turn it over, biting your lip in quiet contemplation. His smirk sharpens, something teasing and confident flashing in his eyes. Without a word, he steps closer, closing the small distance between you. His presence feels overwhelming, his cologne mixing with the electric hum in the air.

“Need some help?” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can respond, he plucks the pill from your fingers with a deft motion, holding it delicately between his own. He tilts his head, his lips quirking into that ever-present smirk, and you watch, entranced, as he lifts the pill to your lips.

“Open,” he says simply, his tone equal parts playful and commanding.

You hesitate for half a second, your breath catching as you look up at him. But the anticipation, the weight of his gaze, and the steady buzz of the party around you make it impossible to resist. Slowly, you part your lips, your eyes never leaving his.

Jeno slips the pill onto your tongue with a deliberate slowness, his fingertips brushing your bottom lip in a way that feels entirely too intentional. The contact is brief but electrifying, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in your chest. You swallow quickly, the pill going down easily, but the heat of his touch lingers far longer.

“There we go,” Jeno says, his voice quieter now, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more intimate. His hand lingers for a moment, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if to check if the pill’s really gone—or maybe just to leave you breathless.

Karina snorts beside you, breaking the spell. “Jesus, Jeno. Are you seducing her into taking it?”

“Maybe,” he replies smoothly, leaning back with a laugh, his fingers running through his hair as he follows suit, popping one himself and chasing it with a lazy swig of his drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

The effect creeps in slowly, like a warm tide pulling you under. The party around you begins to shift, the music deeper, richer, vibrating through your chest like a heartbeat. The lights seem softer yet more vivid, every flicker and hue painting the room in golden tones that feel almost unreal. Laughter and voices blur together into a soothing, rhythmic hum, the buzz settling into your body like a familiar warmth.

Karina’s laugh cuts through the haze, drawing your attention. She leans closer to you, her arm brushing yours, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “Feeling it yet?” she asks, her voice soft but full of mischief.

“Just starting,” you admit, the edges of your thoughts beginning to soften, your body sinking deeper into the moment. You glance over at Jeno, whose gaze lingers on you with a quiet intensity, his smirk turning sharper as if he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Good,” Jeno murmurs, his voice a low rumble that seems to reverberate through the charged air between the three of you. He steps closer, his presence magnetic and undeniable, the heat of his proximity making your breath hitch. Karina tilts her head, her lips parting slightly as she watches him, her expression unreadable but filled with a confidence that makes the moment feel even more intense. The tension between them crackles, thick and palpable, drawing you in even as your chest tightens.

Jeno leans back against the counter, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding as always. “You know I love when you’re around,” he starts, his voice teasing but edged with something firmer. His dark eyes flick over you, lingering just long enough to make you feel self-conscious. “But how can you come to the party looking like that and you’re not even trying to find Mark? Why are you here with me and Karina?”

You laugh, trying to deflect the tension curling in the air. “I like being around you both?” you say lightly, but even you can hear the waver in your tone.

Jeno isn’t buying it. His grin sharpens, his gaze unwavering as he straightens slightly, his tone turning more authoritative. “Go and find Mark,” he says firmly, like it’s not a suggestion but an order.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding harder as his words settle over you. The weight of them presses down, and you find yourself nodding despite the unease twisting in your chest. “Fine, I’m going,” you mutter, stepping back slightly. Your voice is softer than you mean for it to be, and you glance between the two of them, your pulse racing. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Jeno doesn’t move, his gaze still fixed on you. His dark eyes flicker briefly, something unreadable flashing in them before his grin returns—sharp, knowing. His hand brushes against Karina’s waist casually, the motion almost imperceptible, yet it carries a weight that makes your stomach churn. “Good,” he says simply, his voice low and steady, dripping with something unspoken.

Karina’s gaze softens as she looks at you, her lips curving into a knowing smile that sends a pang through your chest. “Go get him,” she says quietly, her voice tinged with amusement but not unkind. There’s something in her tone, an unspoken understanding that leaves you both comforted and slightly unsettled.

You nod faintly, turning away and slipping through the crowd. The distant thrum of the music fills your ears as you make your way toward the back of the house, the weight of their gazes lingering on your back. You try to shake it off, focus on Mark, but the moment feels etched into your skin, lingering like an unfinished sentence.

The music grows louder as you weave through the thrumming party, every bass drop vibrating in your chest and blending with the growing buzz in your head. The pill Jeno had given you earlier is starting to work its way through your system, softening the edges of the world around you. Colors feel more vivid, the laughter and voices blending into a surreal hum that makes everything feel weightless. Your body feels lighter, like you’re gliding rather than walking, but your focus is sharp—trained on finding Mark.

You follow the location he sent you, his message still fresh in your mind, until you reach the back of the house. The room you enter is quieter than the main party, dimly lit with soft yellow light that pools around the corners. Your steps falter as you spot him, his broad shoulders framed against the glow of the room. He hasn’t seen you yet; his back is to you, and he’s leaning against a high table with a drink in hand. Chenle and Donghyuck are flanking him, their easy laughter filling the space.

Mark looks relaxed, or at least he’s trying to. His stance is casual, his head tilted slightly as he listens to Donghyuck animatedly recount something you can’t quite hear over the music. But you can tell—it’s all a mask. The tension in his shoulders is evident even from here, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. You start to move toward him, your heart pounding faster now—not from the drugs, but from the magnetic pull you always feel when he’s near.

Then you hear your name.

You freeze mid-step, your breath hitching as your ears hone in on Chenle’s voice.

“I don’t get it,” Chenle says, his tone low but not malicious. He glances at Mark, his expression both concerned and confused. “Why are you so hung up on her, man? I mean, she broke up with you, didn’t she? And… I don’t know. It just seems like she’s not fully in it. Like she’s not committed.”

Your stomach twists, the words hitting you harder than they should. The high in your veins does nothing to soften the sting, and you can feel your pulse pounding in your ears.

Mark doesn’t respond right away, taking a slow sip from his drink before setting it down on the table with a deliberate clink. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says evenly, his voice low but firm. “Y/N’s been there for me through everything. She’s committed, more than anyone else ever has been.”

“Then why’d she leave?” Donghyuck interjects, his tone sharper but not unkind. “I’m just saying, Mark, maybe Chenle has a point. You’re putting a lot on her. Are you sure she can handle it?”

Your chest tightens, the weight of their words pressing into you like a stone sinking in water. For a fleeting second, you consider stepping forward, announcing your presence, and shutting down the conversation. But your feet stay rooted to the spot, your body buzzing with a tangled mix of anger, hurt, and the sharp edge of the drug coursing through you. Instead, you slowly step back, slipping further into the shadows as the ache in your chest grows heavier.

You take a moment to breathe, but it feels futile. The high makes everything sharper—every word you overheard echoing in your head, louder, crueler, twisting and cutting deeper with each replay. Your back presses against the wall as your trembling hands rise to cover your face, trying to block out the noise in your mind. For a moment, you want to run, to slip out the back door and vanish into the night, leaving the whispers and unbearable weight behind. But there’s that part of you—that stubborn, unrelenting part—that refuses to walk away from Mark. Not yet. Not again.

You stay where you are, rooted in place, the ache in your chest steady but not unbearable. And you’re glad you do, because the next thing you hear changes everything.

“Enough,” Mark’s voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation like a blade. There’s a tension in his tone you rarely hear, sharp and commanding. “I’m not gonna sit here and let you talk about her like that.”

A pause follows, heavy and uncertain, before Chenle’s hesitant voice breaks through. “Mark, I didn’t mean it like—”

“No,” Mark interrupts, his voice firm now. “You meant it exactly how it sounded. And I get it—you’re trying to look out for me, and I appreciate that, but you don’t know her like I do. She’s trying, Chenle. She’s been through more than you could imagine, and she doesn’t deserve to be talked about like she’s not enough. She is. More than enough.”

His words hit you like a wave, warm and overwhelming. Your heart swells, the heaviness in your chest momentarily lifting as his voice softens, turning raw. “She’s everything to me,” he adds quietly. “And if you can’t understand that, then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

You press your palm against your mouth, trying to hold in the sob that threatens to escape. Tears prick at your eyes, this time not from hurt but from the sheer weight of his words. He’s defending you—fiercely, unapologetically—and it feels like a balm on a wound you didn’t realize had cut so deep.

But as much as his words warm your heart, the reality of the situation still stings. You know how awkward it would be if they realized you’d overheard the entire conversation, and a part of you can’t shake the lingering shame of Chenle’s comment. The words, sharp and careless, had burrowed into your mind before Mark could pull them out.

So, despite the comfort Mark’s defense brings, you decide to leave. You step back further into the shadows, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your tears at bay as you slip toward the exit. The sound of laughter and music grows fainter behind you, muted by the ache in your chest.

As you make your way toward the door, the tears you tried so hard to suppress spill free, tracing hot trails down your face. You swipe at them quickly, not wanting anyone to notice, but the sadness feels relentless, bubbling up faster than you can control.

Why is it always like this with Mark? you wonder bitterly. Whenever things feel good—when the rhythm between you feels steady—something always comes along to break it. Chenle’s words replay in your mind, cruel and undeniable: Mark deserves someone who can meet him halfway.

The sting of it runs deeper than it should, and you hate that it feels so true. Not because you don’t care, but because you’ve always been scared you’d never be enough for him, not really. You press your hand against your chest, willing yourself to breathe, to push the hurt down long enough to remind yourself of why you’re here.

You came to see Mark tonight. To be there for him. But right now, the ache in your chest is too raw, the weight of it too much. You need space to steady yourself, to gather your courage before you can face him again. You know you’ll be okay—you always are, eventually—but tonight, you need a moment to yourself.

The party hums around you, the distant thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the floor, blending with the sound of laughter and muffled conversation. The air feels thick and hazy, amplified by the lingering ache in your chest and the sharp edge of everything you’ve overheard tonight. Your steps are slow, almost reluctant, as you weave through the crowd, your vision still slightly blurred by the tears you’ve yet to fully wipe away.

And then you spot him—Jeno, one of the few people who always makes you feel grounded, no matter how chaotic things get. He’s tucked into a quieter corner of the party, lounging on a couch with one arm draped lazily along the backrest and a joint held loosely between his fingers. The faint glow of a nearby lamp casts a warm light over his sharp jawline and tousled hair, accentuating the effortless confidence in his posture. A faint smirk plays on his lips as he takes a slow drag, exhaling a stream of smoke that curls upward, blending with the muted haze of the room. His gaze flickers idly across the party before it lands on you, softening slightly as it meets yours.

For a moment, his smirk falters, his eyes narrowing slightly as they meet yours. You know he notices the redness around your eyes, the faint shimmer of tears threatening to fall. But he doesn’t call attention to it. Instead, he shifts slightly, patting the space beside him in silent invitation.

You sink onto the couch without hesitation, your body pressing into the cushions as you try to steady your breath. Jeno leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes another drag from the joint. The smell of smoke and faint cologne clings to him, comforting in its familiarity.

Jeno notices the tears spilling out in an uncontrollable manner. His body tenses briefly, and then he moves, the gesture slow and deliberate. His free hand reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away the tears with surprising gentleness. His touch lingers for a moment, the warmth of his skin grounding you in a way that words couldn’t.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and soothing. “None of that, okay?”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching as his gaze locks onto yours. The way he looks at you—steady, unwavering, and far softer than you expected—makes your chest ache in a different way. His thumb grazes your cheekbone, catching another tear before it can fall.

“Here,” he says quietly, lifting the plastic cup back to your lips. “Drink. It’ll help.”

You hesitate for a moment but eventually part your lips, letting him tilt the cup just enough for the cool liquid to touch your tongue. The alcohol burns slightly as it slides down, but it’s a welcome distraction, a way to dull the sharp edges of your emotions.

You let yourself lean closer, your head resting lightly on Jeno’s shoulder. He glances down at you, his movements slowing, his smirk softening as his gaze flickers over your face. His thumb brushes against your shoulder—a small, grounding gesture that feels more comforting than anything else. “Comfortable?” he asks quietly, his voice low and warm, the teasing edge in his tone softened by something gentler.

“Very,” you murmur, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. A faint smile curves your lips, but it falters almost immediately as another tear escapes, trailing down your cheek. His eyes narrow slightly, catching the movement, and without hesitation, Jeno’s free hand moves. His knuckles brush lightly against your skin, wiping it away with a touch so delicate it makes your breath hitch. His gaze lingers on yours, steady and warm, before his lips curve into a soft, wide smile that feels grounding in a way words couldn’t.

“Pretty girls shouldn’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words settle over you like a balm. His thumb lingers just beneath your eye, catching another tear before it can fall, the tenderness in his movements catching you off guard.

You huff out a shaky laugh, your cheeks warming slightly as you glance away. “You can’t just say things like that,” you murmur, the corner of your lips tugging upward despite the weight in your chest.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and rich as his arm tightens around your back. “I can and I just did,” he murmurs, his tone playful but steady. “It’s part of the job.”

“What job?” you ask, glancing up at him, your brow arching slightly.

“Making you smile,” he says simply, his gaze dropping to meet yours. His voice softens, a warmth threading through it as he adds, “You’ve got a pretty smile. You should show it off more.”

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not from sadness. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to fight the small grin threatening to form, but his words have already done their work. For the first time tonight, the ache in your chest loosens, replaced by a flicker of something softer.

Jeno’s hand moves again, his knuckles brushing gently against your cheek as if daring another tear to fall. “There it is,” he murmurs, his lips tugging into a faint smile of his own. “Told you. Prettiest smile in the room.”

You exhale a quiet laugh, the sound shaky but genuine as you let your head fall back against his shoulder. The scent of his cologne, mixed with the faint smoke clinging to his clothes, grounds you in the moment. The party hums in the background, distant and insignificant compared to the calm he anchors you in.

Jeno lets the quiet hang for a moment, his gaze steady on you, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your shoulder. “I’m not complaining,” he starts, his voice light, though there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it. “I love having you here. But…” He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you here? I was expecting Mark to be balls deep inside of you right about now.”

“I…” Your voice cracks, breaking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in. “I just needed a minute, okay?” The words come out shakier than you intend, trembling with the emotions you can’t seem to control. “I couldn’t face him like this.”

Jeno shifts slightly, turning toward you, his body language open but attentive. “A minute from what?” he asks, though there’s no judgment in his tone—just curiosity laced with concern. “Did you two have a fight or something?”

You exhale shakily, your chest tightening at the memory. “No. Not exactly,” you murmur. “I overheard Chenle talking about me… about us. It wasn’t great.”

Jeno’s expression sharpens, his jaw tightening slightly. “What did he say?” His voice is calm, but you can feel the subtle tension in it, the way his posture shifts as if readying himself for action.

“It’s not important,” you reply quickly, shaking your head. “Mark defended me. But still…” You trail off, your voice faltering as you search for the right words. “It just hit harder than I expected. Like… maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Jeno interrupts firmly, his tone cutting but not unkind. His hand slides to your upper back, grounding you with a steady touch. “You’re not just anything. Don’t let Chenle or anyone else make you doubt that.”

His words make your throat tighten, and you swallow hard, trying to push past the lump rising there. “I didn’t want to ruin the night,” you admit softly. “I thought maybe giving myself some space would help.”

Jeno leans back slightly, studying you with a look that’s both exasperated and fond. “You think running off is gonna fix things?” he asks, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. “Mark’s over there probably wondering where the hell you went.”

His words make your throat tighten, and you swallow hard, trying to push past the lump rising there. “I’m not running off,” you reply quickly, your voice quiet but firm. “I just… I needed to get away for a second. To breathe. It’s a lot sometimes, you know? I’ll find him. I will. I just couldn’t face all of them right after hearing that.”

Jeno studies you for a moment, his expression softening as he takes in the sheen of tears still clinging to your lashes. He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and nods. “Yeah, I get it,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Sometimes it’s too much. People say things, and it gets in your head. You just need a second to clear it out.”

You glance at him, your chest loosening a little at the understanding in his tone. “Exactly,” you murmur, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But I’ll go back to him. I came here to see him, and I’m not going to let this… whatever this is, stop me. I just needed a minute to remind myself why I’m doing this.”

Jeno leans back again, letting out a soft, thoughtful hum. His gaze lingers on you, sharp but not unkind, and his lips twitch into the beginnings of a smirk. “Good. That’s good,” he says, nodding slowly. “But maybe don’t make him wait too long, yeah? He’s probably over there thinking he did something wrong. You know how he is.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you glance toward the crowded room. “You’re right,” you admit, though the thought makes your chest tighten all over again. “He doesn’t deserve to feel like that.”

But Jeno’s expression shifts, his tone suddenly sharper. “I think you’re stupid, though,” he says bluntly.

“Jen?” you pout, tilting your head to look at him, your voice laced with half-hearted protest.

He doesn’t hold back. “I just think breaking up with him wasn’t a good idea. You’re making excuses and running away when it gets too much. You and Mark? You’re destined to be together, and you know it. So you need to sort yourself the fuck out.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you huff softly in defeat, unable to find anything to say in response. He wasn’t wrong, and the truth of it made you sink deeper into his side. You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead against his shoulder as a wave of frustration and guilt washed over you. Jeno didn’t sugarcoat things—he never had—and though his bluntness stung, there was an odd comfort in how direct he was. Still, it didn’t make his words any easier to swallow.

“You’re a dumbass,” he muttered, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Disrespecting my brother like that.”

You shook your head, biting back a small smile as you turned your face away. Jeno’s honesty was brutal, but there was something endearing about it, something that reminded you why you’d always appreciated him, even when he pushed too hard. You ignored the sharp edges of his words, choosing instead to focus on the fact that Mark and Jeno were finally embracing their bond.

Their relationship hadn’t always been this strong, but now? There was no denying the love and connection between them. It suited them—the way they teased each other, supported each other, and finally stood side by side as brothers. They’d come such a long way, and you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride watching them grow into this version of themselves.

“You’re smiling,” Jeno said suddenly, his tone suspicious as he glanced down at you.

You didn’t bother denying it. “I’m just thinking about you and Mark,” you said softly, still leaning into him. “You two are good together. You’ve both come so far.”

Jeno’s expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he scoffed lightly. “Yeah, well, he’s my brother.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Jeno’s lips twitched into a smirk, but he didn’t respond, his hand giving your hand a brief squeeze before letting go. The silence between you felt different now—not heavy, but steady, grounding. It was his way of showing you that he believed in you, that despite all his sharp words, he knew you could make things right.

The moment you push yourself off the couch, ready to head to Mark, you catch sight of Karina weaving her way through the crowd toward you and Jeno. Her steps are slightly uneven, her face glowing from the haze of alcohol and drugs, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze that cuts through the dim light of the party. Your tears must’ve dried up completely because she doesn’t say anything about your face or your mood, her grin wide and unbothered as her eyes flick between the two of you.

“You two look cozy,” she remarks, her tone light but edged with something that feels strangely playful—and something else you can’t quite name. Was it jealousy?

Jeno doesn’t miss a beat. His smirk deepens, his head tilting slightly as his gaze locks onto hers, a teasing glint sparking in his eyes. “You jealous?” he asks, his voice dipping into that familiar lilt, low and smooth, with just enough bite to make it clear he’s not joking.

Karina stops in front of him, her hands sliding to her hips as she leans forward, closing the distance between them. “Maybe,” she whispers, her voice dropping to something soft and dangerous, her lips hovering just a breath away from his ear.

Jeno’s grin sharpens, his body shifting slightly toward her, his arm stretching out lazily along the back of the couch as if to invite her closer. “Guess you’ll have to do something about it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, charged with heat that makes your pulse quicken.

You watch them with a heated gaze, frozen for a moment as their exchange unfolds. The tension between them is palpable, electric in a way that’s impossible to look away from. Karina straightens slightly, her hand brushing down his arm before she moves to sit on the other side of him.

The moment she settles beside him, it’s like they slip into an unspoken rhythm, their bodies relaxing into each other in a way that feels both charged and strangely comfortable. Karina angles herself toward him, her fingers brushing casually against his thigh as she starts to talk animatedly, her voice lilting and full of energy. You can’t quite focus on what she’s saying; her words blur into the background as your gaze shifts between the two of them.

Jeno sits back, his posture lazy and inviting, his arm draped along the backrest of the couch. In one hand, he holds a joint loosely between his fingers, and he brings it to his lips occasionally, taking slow, deliberate drags. His gaze stays on Karina as she talks, his lips curling into a faint smirk like he’s humoring her, though you doubt he’s actually listening.

The difference between how Jeno interacts with her versus how he was with you is stark. With you, his touches were light, deliberate, and grounding—friendly and steady. But now, his hand brushes against Karina’s thigh, the contact lingering and deliberate in a way that feels undeniably more intimate. His fingers flex lightly against her skin, the movement subtle but full of intention. His gaze, too, has shifted. Where it was warm and protective with you, it’s darker now, more commanding, his attention locked fully on her like she’s the only person in the room.

Karina leans closer, her laughter soft and warm as her fingers toy with the chain resting against Jeno’s collarbone. He chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling through his chest as his hand slides further along her thigh, his thumb brushing against her skin in a way that feels almost possessive. The air between them thickens, and before you can fully process it, Karina tilts her head, her hair falling over one shoulder as her lips meet his.

Their mouths collide with a hunger that makes the air feel heavy, their movements rough and unapologetic. Jeno’s hand moves to her waist, gripping her firmly as he deepens the kiss, his other hand threading into her hair. Karina responds eagerly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pulls him closer. Their bodies press together, the tension spilling over into raw, physical connection.

They look like something out of a movie—two impossibly attractive people lost in each other, their chemistry palpable. Jeno’s jaw tightens as he angles his head, his lips parting against hers, and Karina’s hands roam over his chest, clutching at him like she can’t get close enough. The way they move together is fluid, unrestrained, and utterly captivating.

The soft sound of their muffled moans pulls you out of your daze, heat creeping up your neck as you feel flustered by the scene unfolding in front of you. When Karina shifts onto Jeno’s lap, the intimacy of the moment becomes undeniable. Respecting their privacy, you quietly push yourself up from the couch, your resolve strengthening with every step. This isn’t your moment, your place. It’s time to find Mark—time to face him and figure out where the two of you truly stand.

They don’t react to you leaving, their focus entirely on each other, their moaning and gasps fade into the hum of the party as you weave through the crowd, your thoughts already shifting toward Mark and the resolve you’ve finally found to face him. But then, as you glance back one last time, something catches your eye.

Across the room, Mark’s best friend stands frozen, her gaze locked on Jeno and Karina. Her lips press into a thin line, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her expression a mix of disbelief and hurt. How long has she been standing there? You don’t know, but the realization makes your stomach twist.

Her gaze flickers to you briefly, and the moment your eyes meet, her composure cracks. She looks away almost immediately, her head bowing as she turns on her heel and walks off, her movements hurried and deliberate. The sight leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, the weight of her hurt pressing against your chest. You swallow hard, guilt mingling with confusion.

Turning back to Jeno and Karina, you find them still tangled together on the couch, oblivious to the scene that just unfolded. Jeno’s lips move against Karina’s with an intensity that feels almost detached, like he’s pouring himself into the moment for the sake of the moment alone. His hand grips her waist firmly, pulling her closer as her fingers curl into his hair. The way they move together is electric, charged with pure lust and chemistry, but there’s nothing personal about it—no depth, no connection beyond the physical. It’s borderline, shallow, all heat and no substance.

You sigh quietly, the sound lost in the hum of the party. Why was Jeno like this? You’d seen him care, seen him protect, seen him hold so much more in his hands. But now, he was throwing himself into something fleeting, momentary. Was it just a distraction? And what about his thing with Mark’s best friend? They’d seemed good for each other once, balanced in a way that made sense. But was it truly over? Or was this just another way for him to avoid whatever that was?

The questions swirl in your mind as you tear your gaze away from the scene, your heart heavy but your resolve sharper now. You move forward, your focus shifting fully to Mark. Whatever this is with Jeno, it’s not your battle. You’ve got your own to face.

You moved through the dimly lit hallways, the stark overhead lights casting long shadows that stretched across the polished floors. The ambiance was harsh, almost sterile, with the faint hum of the building’s old heating system underscoring every step you took. The air felt heavier with each turn, the tension inside you mirroring the unwelcoming edges of the space, a mix of unease and determination propelling you forward.

Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you frowned. Your heart sank as you saw the notifications: five missed calls from Mark, along with a string of unread messages, all from half an hour ago. The realization hit you like a punch—you’d forgotten to take your phone off Do Not Disturb.

A pang of guilt tightened in your chest. Mark didn’t send messages like these often—he wasn’t one to chase, to beg. But here he was, trying to reach you, and you’d been too caught up elsewhere. Without hesitation, you turned on your heel, determined to find him now.

The living room was the most packed room in the entire party, people crowding the space so tightly that it felt like the walls were shrinking inward. The usual clutter of an apartment gathering filled every surface—half-empty drinks, scattered snack bowls, and someone’s discarded jacket draped over a chair. Groups leaned against the walls, sprawled on the furniture, or chatted in animated circles. A few familiar faces stood out among the crowd, boys from the basketball team. You spotted Soobin near the kitchen, his easygoing smile lighting up a conversation, while Jaemin leaned against the far wall, casually sipping a drink and laughing at something Chenle had just said.

And then, there was Chenle. You hadn’t expected to make eye contact with him, but the moment your gaze locked, your chest tightened. His sharp eyes scanned your face, as though he could see right through the carefully constructed mask you were putting on for tonight. You gulped, forcing yourself to look away quickly, your heart thundering in your chest. There was no way you were dealing with that conversation tonight—not here, not now. You pushed the guilt and uncertainty down, burying it beneath the buzz of the room. This would be a conversation to have later. Tonight was about masking it all, letting yourself get lost in something else—someone else.

As you stepped through the threshold, your breath caught in your chest. There Mark was, seated on the edge of a low couch in the center of the chaos. The dim overhead lights, tinged golden, seemed to spotlight him, casting shadows that emphasized the sharp cut of his jawline and the confident set of his shoulders. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips made your stomach flip. The fitted black tee he wore clung perfectly to his frame, the loose shorts brushing his knees somehow making him look even more appealing.

A basketball rested casually against his knee, his long fingers drumming idly on its surface, while his guitar leaned beside him, its polished body catching the light like a quiet reminder of his many talents. The room seemed to orbit around him, his presence anchoring the space as if he belonged there in a way no one else did.

But he wasn’t alone.

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

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ryorecs · 8 months ago

Text

don't blame me - p.js

summary: giving flowers, asking them out on a date, giving them the attention they deserved. these are some things you do for love, right? but how much are you willing to do? how far are you willing to take? well, you wouldn't know if you're not in that situation, yet. so, if you do such crazy and horrendous things for someone you love, everyone can't blame you. love makes everyone crazy. if it doesn't, you're not doing it right.

genre: angst, violence, full fic, jisung x reader

warnings: character death, gun shots, abuse, overall pretty heavy stuff, some typos (i'm sorry TT)

wc: 8.4k

an: this took way too long to make, and i'm sorry TT i recently had a job so i couldn't really focus on writing but i'll make sure to publish more! this story is HEAVILY inspired from taylor swift's 'don't blame me' ;)

----

"119, what's your emergency?"

hands shaking, you looked at the situation in front of you. blood splattered, all over the floor, the walls and finally, on your own hands.

you looked at the gun you are holding, while your breathing became faster.

"119, what's your emergency?" the dispatcher repeated.

blinking away the tears, you answered.

"i killed my boyfriend."

•••

"yah! y/n, what the hell is on your face?!" your friend, sunhee, greeted you from afar.

you jusr shrugged and continued to wait for the bus. you knew what she was pertaining at, i mean, everyone can see the big ass sunglasses you were wearing.

"sore eyes." you stated when she went next to you. she approached and almost removed your sun glass but you were quick to dodge.

"you'll get infected if you get anywhere near my eyes, dummy." you gave sunhee a little push before going inside the bus that just arrived.

the truth is?

you're wearing the sunglass to hide your black eye.

your room mate, mino, was drunk again. a lot of people see you two as boyfriend and girlfriend but you beg to differ. for months you have been calling him your room mate because basically, the two of you are only staying for the apartment. none of you can pay if you broke the lease, so you basically have no choice.

and mino? well, he like to think of you as his property. he was fine, at first, very artistic and very mature, one of the things you liked about him.

he was bad news for everyone but again, you were 18 and dumb, you thought he was the love of your life. moving out of your house against your parent's will, completely abandoning everyone from your family for him.

but as months go by, he changed.

it started with a slap, and he said he was drunk and he didn't mean it. so you forgave and forget about it.

and then, it became a habit.

it got worse when mino became alcoholic. more nights that he was intoxicated, more nights that he had a reason to beat you. it was rough, of course, having to live like this for a while but you knew you had no one else to go to. mino was the one who provided everything when you turned your backs from your parents so he made it seem like you oew him everything. which from what happened, you kinda did.

and you knew that he would hold that against you for a long time and never let it go.

"you have piano lessons later?" sunhee asked, settling down in her seat.

you nodded, "yep, chenle said today's lessons are free."

you smiled. the only thing that made your life a little bit better is that you get to learn piano. it was your dream since you were a kid.

chenle and jisung, they were 2 years younger than you and fortunately, chenle offered to teach you piano since jisung is learning aswell. he said its better to teach both of you at the same time.

when you entered the school, you had to fake an medical certificate that proves you do have sore eyes. it was very easy for you because this is not your first time.

"what's with the glasses?" you heard shotaro, a friend of yours. he's a japanese exchange student and you two met because the teachers wanted you to guide him throughout the whole semester.

so he's basically with you the whole time and that was the reason you two have been best of friends.

"sore eyes, taro." you smiled at him.

you two talked for quite sometime before you got reminded to put back the books you've borrowed from the library.

shotaro couldn't come with you because of his practice so you had to got by yourself, which was perfect for you because your black eye is starting to ache and it was time to ice it again.

so, once you made sure that you're in the furthest seat of the library, you pull out the ice pack that you've borrowed from the clinic.

"ah." you sighed in relief once the coldness came in contact with your bruising eyelids.

not even a minute had past when you heard someone from behind you.

"sore eyes, huh."

from that voice, you knew exactly who it is.

"sungie." you slowly looked at him with an awkward smile plastered in your face.

he fixed his glasses, as he went and sat beside you. he mittered a curse word before grabbing the ice pack from you.

"you're not even icing it properly." he angrily said before gently patting the pack onto your eyes.

see, you and jisung had grown so much closer after the piano lessons. he started out giving you awkward bows and calling you 'noona' and whispering instead of actually talking to you.

he'a a very shy kid. he grew up rather comfortable, as his father was a senator and his mom was a kindergarden teacher. he was on top of his classes every god damn year and he's also running for the school council.

he's everything you would see in a perfect student. exactly opposite from you.

so, naturally he felt intimidated by you. a free spirited girl who seemed to be a trouble maker. living with an abuser and abandoned her parents.

the difference.

"don't be mad, sungie." you used your cutest voice, as you gave him the sweetest smile you could do. cringey as fuck, but you're comfortable enough to do it in front of him.

"did he do this?" his tone was much serious, which halts your mood.

"jisung, i don't want to talk about it."

"when are you gonna leave him? i told you, i can give you a place to live--"

"no, jisung. you just turned eighteen, and you don't want to be entangled with a person like me. i can handle this."

jisung hated it whenever you brought up age into the argument. he knows he's younger than you, he's aware that he's not educated in some things like you were, and he's tired of proving himself otherwise.

"you can't tell me who's bad for me, y/n. i believe i can decide that for myself." his hands stopped from gently caressing your eyes, and fixtated his eyes on you.

you looked at him, and you swear you can feel your heart burst out of your chest.

you know his anger only rooted from his concern for you, and its totally understandable. i mean, you would probably be worse if he go up in front of you with a black eye from his girlfriend.

but what you're worried about is everything else in between.

if you let jisung into your life, you know it would affect not only your life, but also his. and he has a great future upon him, and you?

you've got nothing to lose anymore.

"how about we stop arguing and maybe pack up because chenle will kill me if we're late to piano lessons?" another swift distraction from you, to avoid the topic in hand.

jisung was used to this. he knows you don't want to talk about the things happening behind close doors, but he's sure to himself that he's ready to do everything to make ensure your safety.

piano lessons took almost two hours, since chenle had to do other things before hand. you couldn't complain, of course because this lesson was free.

"god, chenle almost broke my fingers. why would he teach that-- wait, what is it?" you asked jisung beside you, you two walking to the nearest 7/11.

"minute waltz." jisung continued, grabbing your chin in the process to wipe off extra mustard from your corn dog.

you two decided to sit at the free bench beside the river, which has the perfect view of the city buildings of seoul.

"i mean, sure it was cool, playing that but my fingers are all tangled." you sulked, looking at your fingers.

you were sure you and jisung was fine, but now, he's silent and looking at complete nothingness.

"jisungie?" you asked, finding his eyes thats staring through nothing. you clapped your hands in front of him and thats when he snapped, looking righth back at you.

"you okay?"

"yeah- uh, i was just thinking." he looked straight ahead to the river again.

"of what?"

"do you.. do you love him?"

thats when you stopped. you were sure about your answer, which was no. you absolutely do not love mino.

yet, you couldn't speak atleast a word.

you gulped. "jisung.."

"do you, y/n? because if you don't, then why are you even with him? he-- fuck, he's fucking hitting you, y/n. he treats you like shit and yet you still go home to him. i -- i don't understand." jisung sounded like he was gonna cry, but he didn't. instead, he shook his head trying to contemplate an answer to his own question since you haven't given him one yet.

"he's.. i can't leave him, jisung." you cannot. god knows how much you want to, but mino will forever be stuck with you.

and if you try to run, there's no doubt that he would really kill you. he already tried once, and you're sure he wouldn't mind trying again.

"leave him, be with me. he can't touch you if you're with me. i-- i love you, y/n."

there it is. the words you wanted to hear, the words you're also scared to hear. three words, that might just pull your trigger.

oh, how badly you wanted to say i love you too. but considering the situation, you cannot. not when you're you and he's him.

not when you've got nothing to offer but chaos in his life. you can't do that to him.

"you can't." you whispered yet you know he heard it. your tears starting to flow, as the words that flew out of your mouth immediately followed by regret.

"believe me, i fucking told myself that. i can't love you, but i have no choice. y/n, please, walk out of that life--"

"jisung, please!" there's very little moments that you raised your voice at him, but this time, your emotions got ahead of you.

so, with realizing what you just did, you quickly toned down.

"please, jisungie, can we just pretend that i'm normal? can't i just enjoy being with you without you mentioning my god forsaken life? can you just pretend that i'm a normal girl from school? your sunbae, your classmate in piano lessons? at least tonight? cuz i'm going home later and i'll have to face that reality again. being with you is the only escape i have, so please. i don't need your pity." you sobbed.

jisung, on the otherhand, was speechless. he didn't know what to do. he wasn't pitying you-- or at least he didn't mean to. he just wanted the best for you.

but he quickly brushed off all of his complaints and quickly gave in, wrapping his arms around you as you cried.

"okay, okay, love we'll do that. i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."

you're nervous. your guts told you not to come home tonight but jisung already left and you can't be a burden to him just because you feel weird.

you had thoughts of sleeping in the streets, maybe at the subway, just for the night.

"y/n-ah.." you looked to your neighbor's house and there you saw mrs. hwang, a sweet old lady living under you and mino's aparment.

"mrs. hwang? what are you doing up so late?" you walked to her, usuallu by 7pm her house would be close and she would be asleep, but tonight, you felt like she's waiting for you.

"i don't think you should be up there, your partner, mino-ssi kept screaming, he's drunk and he's angry. he kept calling for your name."

you knew it. he's drunk again.

"i'm sorry he kept you up, i'll.. i'll have a talk with him." you brushed her shoulders to give her assurance, but her grip on your wrist prevented you to go up the stairs.

"no, y/n.. i think he'll hurt you again."

"fuck you, y/n! you left me!"

you heard mino yelling on top of his lungs. you feel like you should be scared, but somehow you felt like you were used to this.

"no, mrs. hwang. i'll calm him down, i can't let him distrupt the neighborhood. i can't deal with another noise complaint." as if you could control mino. no one can control him.

but you 're the only one who have the guts. no one will do it, it had to be you.

"okay, sweet heart, but yell for me if you need help." you gave mrs. hwang a smile before taking a deep breath and walking up the stairs.

lord save me.

sound of things being thrown was more clearer as you stood in front of the door. mino's voice became stronger and louder.

your fingers shook as you slowly typed your door code.

at the first beep, everything fell silent.

he knows. he knows you're home.

at the last beep of the keypad, the door opens and there you saw mino's figure standing straight, looking at you.

"where were you, my love?" his voice was calmer, which is much more scarier.

"school." you answered, walking pass him to enter the house.

inside was a wreck. alcohol bottles broken all around the hard wood floor, your mini table flipped upside down, basically the whole apartment was trashed.

on an instant, mino grabbed your wrist, turned you around to face him and used his free hand to get a grip on your face. he squeezed you cheeks and forced you to face him closer.

"don't fucking lie to me, bitch!" he screamed in your face. alcohol reeked through his breath.

"i was on school, mino, i promise." you, almost nonchalant, managed to blurt out.

"stop lying, y/n! stop fucking--"

smack.

you heard ringing on your left ear, felt stinging after a few seconds, almost stumbling off your feet.

mino had slapped you.

you held your left side of your face, as you slowly faced him again.

you were used to this. but damn you if you say it didn't hurt. it did. so fucking much.

"i checked your fucking schedule, y/n. you were supposed to go home by five, and guess what time it is, you bitch?! it's fucking nine!" smack.

another slap lands on your cheek. this time, much harder that you lost balance and dropped down to the floor.

you can't tell him about the piano lessons. absolutely not.

mino hated when you spent money else where. if he found out that you have been spending money for piano lessons, all hell will broke loose.

you sobbed. quickly, fixing your hair and finding your way to stand up again.

"m-mino, mrs. hwang can't sleep with you-- being like this."

mino's hand went to the his pocket, and pulled out his phone.

"i don't fucking care about that old hag, how about you explain this, yeah?" he then pulled your face towards him, showing you a picture from his phone.

you were speechless. no, no, fuck no!

it was a picture of you and jisung, from earlier at the river, you two hugging.

"no, mino, please--"

"please, what, you fucking slut?! i have given you everything! every fucking thing and you give me this?!?" he pushed you again, hitting your back at the corner of the table that caused a sharp pain on your lower back.

you yelled from the pain, but mino doesn't give a fuck at all. he was enraged, fuming mad. as he always been.

"this is that park jisung kid, right?! that one kid that follows you around?!"

when mino mentioned jisung, thats when you were distracted from the pain.

he can't know who jisung is. he can't or he will hurt him.

"no! no, mino, please! don't do anything to him!" you plead, kneeled in front of him, pushed your palms together while crying.

"please-- please." you sobbed once more.

mino let out a disbelief sigh, laughing without any humour.

"you're being like this because of him?! staying out because of him?! i'm your fucking boyfriend! you're fucking mine!"

all of it sounds gibberish to you, your mind clouded with jisung. you need to protect him at all cause.

"i'll do anything, mino. j-just-- just don't hurt him."

"you'll never see him again, y/n. or you'll regret it."

***

it wasn't until the third day y/n didn't show up at school that jisung started to worry.

"y/n hasn't been to class in like, three days now?" shotaro, also worried but not as much as jisung.

they don't know your real situation except for jisung, so he had a different reason why he feels sick to his stomach.

not long before the professor walked in, that jisung gets snapped away from his own thoughts.

what the professor said next left jisung unable to speak.

"class, i've received instructions from the faculty to inform you all that l/y/n, has withdrawn from all of her classes this semester. the reason is a personal matter. i'm sure you all wondered where she'd been."

jisung's mind went blank. did you just drop out? you? whom just the other week was so excited about the school fair? you who volunteered to help the theatre club for their props? you., the same person who just asked chenle for another free lesson?

suddenly, you wanted to drop out?

that makes no sense. jisung knew something was wrong.

so, with that, jisung went straight to the faculty. he had to know at least if y/n herself dropped out or it was someone else.

"i'm still trying to figure out why'd she drop out? is she moving? did she tell you? ah, y/n-ssi." chenle was also wondering. he was a close friend with you aswell. but, without him knowing your situation, all of his worry are just innocent concerns.

"wait here, chenle." jisung left chenle in the hallway and went inside the faculty office.

he went straight to the dean of y/n's department.

"good afternoon, ma'am. i just wanted to ask, why did y/n drop out? cuz we have this-- uh." jisung stuttered for a reason, after a long pause, "project together and all the work is done by her. i need to talk to her, ma'am."

"y/n dropped out because of some personal matter and i can't really discuss it with you, since it wasn't explained to me aswell." the dean said.

"uh, can i know who called?" jisung.

"it was a man claiming to be her boyfriend, mr. park."

suddenly, jisung felt anger. how could they just agree to something like that because of a man claiming to be her boyfriend? they should've checked on her!

but, jisung being jisung, he didn't speak. instead, he took a sharp breath, fixed his glasses and stood up. leaving a thank you before walking out the office.

he didn't know what to do. should he go and check on you yourself? what if the man's there and jisung can't even throw a proper fist.

call the police? what is he gonna say? my classmate dropped out from school and didn't tell me why, so you should go to her house? ridiculous.

jisung felt pathetic. would he just let the girl he loved disappear like that?

"look, man. i know she has a reason why she dropped out. i'm sure she'll come up soon, okay?" chenle tried his best to calm jisung down, but jisung still felt uneasy.

jisung did not answer, but remained calm and continued walking to the school's drive way where his driver is waiting.

but as soon as chenle walked the other way, jisung's phone vibrated.

he opened it,

[5:08pm y/n: i love you]

with that, jisung stopped, and without thinking, he looked at his driver.

"i'm sorry, i have somewhere to go." jisung didn't wait for his driver to answer, instead he ran the other way.

•••

you barely opened your eyes, but as soon as you opened them, you immediately wanted to close it again.

you just wanted to sleep, since that's the only escape you can possibly do. maybe if you're unconcious, you wouldn't feel the pain. the suffering would end.

but no. you woke up. reminding you that you still need to live this reality. you still need to feel the suffering.

you tried to move, but your left hand was tied to the bed.

"since you ungrateful slut can't seem to keep your hands to yourself, you gave me no choice."

that was the last thing you heard before passing out.

you didn't know why he was so mad, and to be honest you didn't want to know. he'd always have a reason. doesn't matter what it is, in the end you'll be the one that would suffer from it.

but this time.. this time it was different.

mino knew about jisung. mino knew about the man you swore you'd protect.

so you can't just -- you have to do something.

mino had left, saying something about errands, but you're to tired to undersrand anything.

you had managed to text jisung-- before shit went down.

all that was on your head is that you need to get away from jisung. you need to leave him before mino finds him. you need to. he's got a bright future ahead of him and you're not gonna be the person who would destroy it.

so.. before you disappear from his life, you told him what you really feel.

you typed the three words you failed to say in person. with the time you two were together.

i love you.

you cried, and you're planning to cry until you feel tired and hopefully go to a deep slumber again.

but before that could even happen, a loud knock on your door startled you.

what comes after made your heart drop.

"y/n?!"

"jisung..." he's here! he's fucking here!

but wait, what is he doing here ? w-what?

"jisung!!" you shouted. hoping he would hear it and you were right. because the knocking became more panicky, and he continued to call for your name.

"7635! 7635!" you yelled on top of your lungs, your door code.

after a few beeps, there comes the man you love. running through every thing just to get to you.

his horror when he saw you there, tied up like some dirt bag, bruises all over your body. he wanted to scream, to fucking find mino and kill him, but most of all, he wanted to go to you, attend to you and get you out of here.

"oh my god, oh my god. i'm gonna kill him!" jisung muttered some more curse words as he helped you get untied.

all as while you just kept staring at him. he's here. he's really here. you didnt know if you're supposed to be happy, or mad that he showed up here.

happy, because he could save you.

mad, because it's too dangerous for him to be here.

and as he slowly loosens the rope, you heard stomps.

your eyes widen.

"ji-jisung, go! go, get out of here!" you shouted. mino's coming! and he's gonna hurt jisung, that's for sure!

"no!! not without you!" jisung protested, but he needs to get out of here.

"please, fuck, please listen to me! i'm begging, just leave!" you cried, pleaded and begged him.

but everything was too late when you heard the beeping noise of your door code.

you forced the loose rope, breaking yourself free and pushed jisung.

"the third drawer in my bedroom nightstand. if he hurt you, use it. go!" you told jisung as you pushed him away.

he didn't know what to do but still followed your instructions.

just as he closed the door to your bedroom, mino came bursting through the door.

"where is he?! where's that mother--" mino was raging as he sprints all over the house.

you grabbed him with all the strength you got, which was almost nothing, but it managed to get his attention.

"w-what are you talking about?" trying to act as if he's spilling nonsense, but you're sure he can't be fooled.

"don't act dumb on me, you bitch. he went here, didn't he?! the people outside had told me of a student walking in here. you're such a fucking whore, bringing him here?! knowing i could kill that son of a bitch?!"

"mino, please! calm..-- calm down." you pulled him back, causing him to stumble. which was a wrong move.

"you! fucking-- fuck! you know what, you slut?!" mino walked into the kitchen, and grabbed the kitchen knife.

"if i can't have you by myself, then no one can." mino's voice was terrifying, as he slowly walked towards you.

from his eyes, you know he's long gone. he'll kill you this time. there's no soul in his eyes anymore and he's going crazy.

you just closed your eyes, waiting for him to stab you, when suddenly, everything stops.

gunshot was fired. mino dropped dead on the ground. ringing filled your ears as you looked at mino's lifeless body.

and slowly, you looked up, jisung, standing behind where mino was earlier, gun still smoking, hands shaking as he cried.

"no.." you whispered.

no, not because mino was dead. but because jisung had killed him. jisung pulled the trigger.

after realizing, you quickly grabbed the gun from jisung.

what you did next was a shock.

you shot mino again, three more times.

"go, run, jisung. run as fast as you can. you didn't kill anybody, alright? i did. i killed him. the gun's mine. run, jisung." you whispered, not looking at him.

"n-no, i won't leave you here." he sobbed, still shaking.

"fucking-- run! please! or i'll-- i'll kill myself too." you didn't have a choice but to say that to him. he needs to leave.

jisung's eyes widen, tears escaping continuously. his pupils shakes, doesn't know what to do.

"you never stepped foot in this apartment, okay? you--you'll run as fast as you can."

"b-but--"

"i love you. so much. now, go."

jisung knew he didn't want to. but something inside him thinks that he needs to. after all, he's still scared. he wanted to go with you, be with you, but he knows this won't end well. you two can't go downhill together. he would sacrifice himself but he knows you won't let him.

"how about you?" jisung asks, answer already obvious but still, he wanted to hear.

"i'll be fine. you can't do anything, ji. i'll be okay. now please. i'm begging you." you cried.

and with that, jisung hugged you so tight, "i love you. i'll wait for you." and he let go. he ran towards the door and left.

with his presence gone, you fall onto your knees. screamed your lungs out.

this is it for you.

after about half an hour, you know jisung is far away now. he should be safe.

you pulled out your phone and dialled 119.

don't blame me, love make me crazy, if it doesn't you ain't doing it right.

"119, what's your emergency?"

hands shaking, you looked at the situation in front of you. blood splattered, all over the floor, the walls and finally, on your own hands.

you looked at the gun you are holding, while your breathing became faster.

"119, what's your emergency?" the dispatcher repeated.

blinking away the tears, you answered.

"i killed my boyfriend."

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ryorecs · 8 months ago

Text

🤩👀 stay tuned

superman - j.jh (soon)

summary ⭑ You knew better than to let yourself be tangled in the so called ‘superman’s sheets. You’ve heard enough— that he’s far from the beloved superhero everybody adored. Whilst Clark Kent lived with dignity, honor and justice, Jeong Jaehyun thrived with sex, money and fame. You? Well, you’d live to be his kryptonite, making it your mission to see superman on his knees, ruining him for everybody else. ⭑

“ Is it a bird? A plane? No, it’s fucking Jeong Jaehyun. ”

GENRE: Angst, Fluff, Smut

WARNINGS: MDNI, toxic themes, obsession, manipulation, jealousy, explicit sexual themes, language, possessiveness, drugs&alcohol, morally flawed characters, violence, infamous!jaehyun x fem!reader

AUTHOR’s NOTE: atp are we even surprised !? i miss jaehyun so much and im gonna pour all of it in this fic lmao hope y’all love it!

WC: n/a

(rough) ETA: JAN-FEB 2025

408 notes · View notes

ryorecs · 8 months ago

Text

this is saur good stop😭😭

WHO IS IT ─★ lee haechan

synopsis: begging you to marry him, haechan promised you the moon, the stars hanging in the sky, and a few hundred million other things. but he never promised you the most important thing — the sun. and after all, that's all you wanted.

or, alternatively ── haechan has a plan of getting his grandmother's inheritance by marrying you, promising you that everything that was about to become his would also become yours. a lavish lifestyle, the liberty of being with other people — but you only wanted him. so what happens when haechan's plan backfires, leaving you both drowning in a sea of uncertainties?

pairing: husband!haechan x wife!reader

genre: fake marriage!au, marriage of convenience!au, f2l!au, angst, mutual pining, slowburn, smut, cheating!au

featuring: [brief appearances of] nct dream, aespa's karina, red velvet's yerim, riize's sungchan

word count: 30k words

contains: fluff, angst, smut, slowburn, mutual pining, a lot of descriptive scenes (im so sorry). haechan is emotionally constipated, it takes him a billion years to realise some things. haechan is not the best husband, emotional neglect, emotional and physical avoidance. use of alcohol, cheating (mentions of, not actual scenes), smut (only between haechan and reader), oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, miscommunication, misunderstandings, rich!haechan, mentions of generational wealth and fraud, riize's sungchan (im sorry pookster), reader has a lot of insecurities and regrets.

now playing: who is it by michael jackson

series masterlist: here!

Your high heels click on the busy pavement as you make your way through the crowd. The underground ride was hell, surrounded by tired office workers and sweaty tourists, and you just hope that the good odds were on your side and your expensive perfume was still clinging onto your skin and clothes.

When Donghyuck sent you a text earlier in the morning, asking for an urgent meetup at your favourite dinner spot in town — a very busy spot uptown that is, a very busy spot that is very difficult to get into last minute, you knew that it was a serious matter. It was always a bit difficult to get in touch with him, or get a hold of him. He was busy with work, busy with dates, busy with friends, but you knew he always had the softest spot for you, and vice versa. And how could you not, after knowing each other since elementary school? He always found the most random times to be with you — be it on a random Saturday, coming over to your place to watch High School Musical for the nth time, or on a monday at noon taking you out to have lunch together during your lunch break, or on a thursday for a friendly dinner. Like tonight.

You know how this is going to go. You’ll take your seats, get your orders taken, eat, chit chat about whatever’s too heavy on his mind for him to keep only to himself. “I’m a man of many secrets,” he once told you, “But somehow you know about ninety-five percent of them,” you can recall the genuine smile he showed you that night a few years ago.

“Hyuck!” You spot him playing nervously with the hem of his jacket, “I’m sorry I’m late, had to go home to change,” you give him a hug, and he keeps you close a few seconds more than he usually does.

“You smell nice,” he pats your back as he reaches for the restaurant door, “Let’s go inside, I’m starving,”

The atmosphere inside the restaurant brings you a sense of familiarity. The red and brown decor, the dim lightning and the candles around the tables, the faint melody played in a corner by the familiar pianist who also occasionally hums the tune, his fingers touching the keys in a gentle manner. It is so familiar to you, this is your favourite restaurant after all.

“Hate these candles,” Donghyuck grumbles as he opens the menu, setting his eyes on the wine menu. You know he always gets the same three things on rotation, and he always tries to steal food off your plate because your food choices are always the best.

“So why do we always come back?” You ask him with a smile, handing your menu back to the waiter who takes off with your orders.

“I like that guy,” he points to the pianist in the far corner of the restaurant, “He always plays some Tony Bennett tune,”

“And you like the wine,” you retort, watching as he nervously takes a sip from his glass.

“And I like the wine,” he smiles at you, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which is odd — because he always lets himself go when he is around you. You know his true colours, no need to hide himself from you.

And yet you wait. You don’t ask him what’s wrong, you don’t ask him what was so urgent to actually meet you for a second time during the week, remembering very well how he took you out for ice cream after work a few days ago. You suppose it’s all about timing, and he’ll know when it’s time to tell you what’s bothering him.

For the duration of the dinner, you see him fidgeting with his fork and knife, looking at you with a glimmer in his eyes yet looking back down to his dorado as soon as you make eye contact with him. He tries to open his mouth a few times to speak, yet he closes it as soon as he notices your head perking up waiting for him to start talking.

You think you need to take matters into your own hands and force the words out of his mouth until you see him eyeing your brisket.

“Don’t even think about it,” you utter while cutting into the meat on your plate.

“Oh, please,” he cries, setting his knife down, “Just a tiny taste,” he pleads.

“I didn’t ask for a tiny taste of your dorado,” you shrug, chewing on the tiny piece of brisket on your fork.

“I would have given it to you,” he whines, pointing at you accusingly.

You look at him unimpressed, yet still intrigued. He’s not being annoying about anything tonight, which is very suspicious to you. So instead of trying to get inside his head — which he’ll probably let you do later anyway, you try to make small talk, to appease the tension just a bit. “So, how was that meeting yester-”

“Will you marry me?” He says — no, asks, but in such a gentle whisper that you think your ears are deceiving you. You stop mid-chew to look at him, as if the active action of chewing would ever impair your hearing. If you heard him right, you think it’s a devious, sick joke on his behalf.

“What did you just say?” You ask incredulously, spitting the piece of meat you had been chewing on, in your napkin.

“I said,” he played with the corner of his napkin, that was now sitting on top of the table instead of his lap, “will you marry me?”

“Are you insane?” You bite back, looking at how his energy deflates even more. “Did you fall today? Did you hit your head like that one time in tenth grade?” Your questions keep on flooding the atmosphere between the two of you, and even if your voice is low in volume, he hears you perfectly.

“Listen,” he starts, and you watch as he stops himself from continuing as the waiter comes to retrieve the plates from your table. He holds a finger up in the air, silently telling you to wait, and he asks for another bottle of wine. “I know this is sudden,” he stops when you scoff, setting back into your chair, waiting for him to go on, “But this is an opportunity of a lifetime, for both of us,” he says confidently.

“How so?” He’s impressed by your apathetic tone, he thought you’d be at least a bit more enthusiastic. He’s played all the possible scenarios in his head for the past few weeks, yet these last few days have been the worst. He hasn’t slept much, hasn’t eaten much, hasn’t been able to pay attention to his regular activities and hobbies that much either. The only thing on his mind were you, and as disturbing as it may sound, his grandmother.

“I would get to settle down” he points to himself before looking at your annoyed and endearing figure sitting across him at the table, “And you will have the most perfect wedding. Not to mention the fact that you can have all the money you ever dreamed of. Imagine living that lavish lifestyle, buying yourself everything you have to restrain yourself from right now. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He smiles at you like a little devil who’s ready to whisper into your ear all the advantages of his daylight delusions.

“What are you even talking about?” You are truly in disbelief, looking at him being so calm so suddenly, “How would that even be possible?”

Suddenly you are well aware of the reason of his fidgeting, and why he stayed silent for the whole night. He didn’t know how to open his mouth and tell you a bunch of crap without you throwing your plate at his head.

He shushes you, and you scoff at his stupid attempt of trying to make you come to reason. “Grandma Lee’s inheritance,” he explains calmly, playing with the table cloth.

Your eyes are the size of saucers while looking at him feigning fake innocence. You’re sure this can be categorised as fraud in so many states and countries. The worst way this could go would be this idiot turning you in for attempted fraud and him leaving with all the inheritance he pretends he’s entitled to.

When you say nothing, just staring at him like he’s grown a second and then a third head, he sighs exasperated, throwing his head back in a sign of annoyance.

“Y/n, you have to hear me out,” Donghyuck pleads, bringing his hands over his face out of frustration. Your eyes fall on his weird and crooked pinky, reminding you of his funny and equally weird childhood story about what had happened for it to become so crooked. So fresh in your mind, you already know it by heart.

“But wouldn’t it be considered — I don’t know…” you make a pause, biting on your nails, “Fraud?”

His eyebrows furrow and then a second later his features relax, yet still being able to hold an unimpressed look in his gaze. He glares at you judgementally, as if asking you if you're stupid. You have the same expression, your gaze holding his, silently asking him who, between the two of you, was the real idiot in this context. Is he stupid for proposing such a plan, or are you the idiot who can’t see anything but the faulty side of his master plan? You try to figure out to what extent it can be considered fraud, promising yourself you’d be looking into this matter later.

“How would this be fraud?” He whines, a few heads turning around to look at the two of you. Certainly, people's ears perked up at the mention of the word fraud, and perhaps Donghyuck’s loud whining had something to do with it too.

You shush him, “How would it not be considered as such?” You speak through gritted teeth, trying to convey the message to keep his voice down, for his own good.

You two are having dinner in a nice, uptown restaurant, and you really wish you didn’t have this conversation right here. You were a fool for believing Lee Donghyuck had anything else to say to you except for a stupid idea he had been letting marinate in his pretty head.

“It wouldn’t be,” he insists, “Because anywhere we go we can pass as a loving couple,” he states as matter-of-factly. “Remember that time we scammed the baristas downtown during last year’s Valentine’s Day?”

When you say nothing, only bringing your elbows to rest on the table, he goes on. “Listen, I know for a fact that this is going to be a success. I’ve made plans and took into account all possibilities, and I am my grandma’s favourite grandchild. This is going to work out, trust me” he explains with determination, and you almost believe his words.

Except, you still have a working left brain.

“Again,” you sigh, “How is this not a criminal act in your books?” You try to make him come to reason, but he doesn’t want to hear any of it, waving his hands around in an exasperated gesture, “And how do you even know you’re grandma Lee’s favorite? Out of ten grandchildren?”

“I may have found her will,” he answers immediately, but it comes out more like a question holding a billion uncertainties. Your puzzled expression makes him continue, “When I visited her last year for her birthday, she made me fish for those papers in her home safe. The search for it was very bizarre, like treasure hunting or something, which you’ll realise in a second, it’s very ironic,” he takes a sip of his wine, trying his best to be as serious as possible in order to make you understand how serious he is about this. “She made me look for it in her mansion, giving me easter eggs and hints about where in the house it could be. And when I found it,” his silence lingers for a while, trying to find the best way to tell you the whole story, “This may sound very bizarre, I know, but she even had a riddle for her safe code. I solved it and there was her will, looking right at me. We looked over it together, and she made sure to divide all her assets equally between all her children and grandchildren, except the few hundred million dollars she has to her name.”

You blink once. You blink twice. You double blink for the third time and he scoffs, but quickly recomposes himself, remembering the purpose of telling this whole story, “Y/n, I’m being so serious right now, you have to believe me,” he stops briefly, his fingers drumming on the table following a rhythm only he knows, “In that testament I was the sole heir to her bank account, with that one exception,”

“You need to get married,” you remark.

“I need to get married,” he confirms, laying his hands flat on the expensive cotton tablecloth nicely adorning your dinner table for two.

Your eyes fall on his crooked pinky once again, your gaze sliding to the finger next to it. The ring finger. You think it could be nice to have a gold band to embellish his beautiful and slender finger. Donghyuck seems to pick up what's going on in your mind, and even if you needed a bit more convincing, he knows you're going to agree to his plan.

And surely, you think, with a few hundred million dollars in your bank accounts, and a man as beautiful as Donghyuck to call your husband, there's nothing that could ever go wrong. Right?

And, before agreeing to his stupid plan, you sceptically make him paint the picture for you.

“We tell people we’ve been dating for a bit, because we realised we are very much in love,” he explains nonchalantly as he stabs his lava cake with his tiny dessert fork.

“I genuinely think you’re deranged. You lost the plot to your own scenario,” he looks at you all worried, a smudge of chocolate in the left corner of his mouth. His stupid big brown eyes looking into your raging ones, not understanding the accusations you’re bringing him. “How would you explain this to people? To the boys?” You set your tiramisu aside, knowing damn well he’ll make an attempt to slide the tiny dessert plate across the table and devour the sweet treat. He scoffs once again, as if you’re the one being the ridiculous one here, but he stops himself from letting any word out, letting you continue rambling on about your concerns. “Hyuck,” you start, setting your hands flat on the table, just like he did before, “I think you’re forgetting something. People know you sleep around,”

“Slept,” he retorts, raising a finger in the air as to accentuate his statement, “Haven’t slept with anyone in a while, couldn’t bring myself to, knowing I’ll soon be a married man,”

When you say nothing for the nth time this evening — out of disbelief this time, he’s sure — he goes on, “I told you I already thought of every single scenario and possibility. We’re childhood friends, it won’t be that hard for people to fall for the story of how we realised we’re made for each other. We tell them we kept it a secret for our own good, we tell them we’re madly in love with each other and that we got engaged. We get married, and I want you to think about this, Y/n, let me paint the picture for you,” he says, raising his hands in front of his figure to make a rectangle in the air, “You get to have the dream ceremony I know you’ve always dreamed of, with a big and beautiful bouquet, and the most expensive and show stopping wedding dress. Your veil will cost more than double my suit and your shoes will have rocks more expensive than my car. We then move in for a bit in my — or your apartment, until grandma Lee passes, which by the way,” he stops to raise a hand in the air, as if to assure you, “Will be pretty soon, judging by the medical report I found in her bedroom a bit back. We then buy a house bigger than Brad and Angelina’s mansion. Think of it, Y/n, we could be the new Brangelina. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He slides your tiramisu across the table and excitedly sticks his forks into it, then looks at you with a glimmer in his gaze.

His plan could have been far worse than this, you think, yet the faint reminder of the fact that the two of your are going to be in a marriage is slightly terrifying to you. You always thought you’d get married to someone you had feelings for, whom you loved, and while certainly you do love Donghyuck in a very confined way, you’re sure that it is within the bounds of a lifetime long friendship, in which the both of you have gotten to know each other almost perfectly.

He sees you getting too much into your own head, and snaps his fingers right in front of your nose, like he’s always done since you were children. “What’s bothering you?” He asks, his tone genuine.

“What about…” you bite your lip, too afraid of hearing something you don’t really want to be hearing, and you’re not sure what kind of answer from him you’re trying to avoid. “What about dating?” You finally ask, and he waves his hand to dismiss your worries.

“Don’t worry about it,” he goes back to the tiramisu he’s put aside when he saw your concerned scowl, “Unless our families and friends find out about our dates, we’re free to see whoever we please and like,” you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, straightening your posture.

And then you see him, grinning at you like he’s the devil, “So what’d you say?” He stands up slowly from his chair across the table, and just as slowly he reaches for something in the right pocket of his slacks while still grinning.

And before you can actually register what is about to happen, you see him sprinting to reach your side, kneeling down in front of you and opening a stupid, black suede small box that — you think once he opens it to reveal its content to you — holds the Hope Diamond.

“Y/N,” he says your name, and you make a very big effort to tear your gaze away from the ring inside the small box he’s holding, “Will you marry me?”

And with a Tony Bennett tune in the background, with a diamond as big as your fist, and a man as handsome as Donghyuck kneeled in front of you, a man who’s promised you the world just a few minutes back, how could you ever refuse?

“Yes, yes I will”

“You’re what?” Chenle and Mark scream simultaneously, sitting in pure shock on the carpeted floors of Jaemin’s apartment.

You glared at Donghyuck, who was standing next to you, looking all offended by his friends. He grabbed your hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. His fingers interlocked with yours, “I said,” he showed your hand to his friends, “We’re getting married,” his eyes softened while looking at you. Dang it, he’s a very good actor, you thought.

“How- how did this happen?” Mark stutters, his voice cracking. Chenle reaches for your hand to look at your engagement ring, and his eyes bulk out of their orbits.

“What the fuck, Hyuck?” He glared back in front between you and Donghyuck, his friends, and the rock on the ring. “Did you guys see the size of this rock?”

“Yes, whatever, it’s the size of your head,” Donghyuck rolled his eyes, and you don’t have time to giggle at his joke as he pulls you gently by the arm towards the empty loveseat. You sit on it, and he pulls a chair close to your seat.

You look around at his friends. The energy in the room fluctuates and changes based on who you look at, Mark being still in shock, Chenle keeps looking at your hand, Jeno congratulates you, and Jaemin displaying a huge grin that’s plastered on his face. The different reactions feel overwhelming to you, and you imagine how bad it will be when you break the news to your and Donghyuck’s families if his friends reacted this way.

“I knew it, you guys,” Jaemin claps his hands and shakes his shoulders in excitement, “I knew you guys were together!” He cheers, looking around the room, encouraging the others to join his happiness.

Donghyuck averts his eyes and clears his throat, fidgeting a bit in his seat. “Yeah, we were meant to be,”

“But how long have you guys been together?” Jeno asks with caution, his eyes a bit lost as he lets you know his curiosity and concerns.

“A few months,” you reply, “but we’ve known each other for so long that we feel we’ve been together forever,” you explain, moving your hand. You smile, amused noticing Chenle’s eyes still looking at your hand, straight at your engagement ring.

“It’s been a bit,” Donghyuck says, “Right after Y/n’s birthday party,” he smiled, his hand reaching behind you to pat your back, which made you straighten your posture immediately. The sudden contact, his warm hand burning its print on your back. The nerves and stress of breaking the news of your supposed engagement to the people you care the most for makes a light shimmering coat of sweat veil your skin. You recompose yourself quickly, not expecting the sudden contact.

You look at the people around the room. Except for Chenle, who’s still looking at your hand and then at Mark who’s still shocked by the sudden news, Jaemin is the only one who beams with joy.

“We’re very happy for you,” Jeno brings a hand to his chest, reaching forward in his seat as he tries to get closer to you and your supposed fiancé, “It’s just that it’s very sudden news,”

“Extremely happy,” Mark comments, smiling at you and then looking at his best friend, “It’s weird that we didn’t notice,”

“Talk for yourself,” Jaemin barks back with an upset tone, which makes you burst out laughing, “I’ve been plotting and scheming for a very long time,” he shuts up as soon as Donghyuck glares at him. He smiles back at his friend, and then he winks at you with a knowing smile.

Out of all of Donghyuck’s friends, you felt Jaemin and Chenle to be the closest to you. They were his friends from college, and you met them countless of times during the last few years and for occasional meet ups, but you definitely felt that Chenle and Jaemin were your friends too. Mark was awkward at times, but he always took care of you whenever Donghyuck left the club with some lady hanging off his arm, leaving you behind in the club with his friends. Jeno always lets you win during game nights. While Donghyuck tries everything in his power to cheat at every game and to corrupt Jaemin and Mark to join him in his cheating, sometimes even trying to bribe you to give him a property that he really needed while playing Monopoly, Jeno always lets you win, even helps you sometimes just to see Donghyuck’s cheeks lose all color when he realised he lost the games.

“Y/n?” Donghyuck touches your back once again, the sudden and unexpected physical contact making you jump slightly — once again. You look at him and you realise you blanked out for a bit, lost deep in your own thoughts about the guys. Realising you weren’t paying attention to him, he repeats himself, “Monopoly tonight?”

You looked around the room at the guys sitting around you with hopeful looks, and you agree before your brain can register completely. You would never ever pass on the occasion of beating Donghyuck at games, or at anything in life, especially now that you’re getting married.

You look around yourself, around the street, you look around at the people passing you by on the pavement. The still cold days of march make you zip your jacket up, your cheeks rosy and your nose and ears freezing even if the sun is out and hitting all the buildings around you. You rub your hands together in a pathetic attempt to warm yourself up, trying to calm the terrible feeling you have in your guts.

“Hey,” your head snaps to the side as soon as you hear Renjun’s voice, and you hug him tightly as you take a good look at him. Bucket hat low on his forehead and eyes, you wouldn’t even recognise him if you didn’t know the timbre of his voice. “Are we waiting for the girls here?” He asks looking around, and when you nod he gets closer to where you’re standing on the pavement.

“Are you cold?” You ask, hugging his figure once again and rubbing your hands on his arms, hoping the friction will be enough for him to bear the cold a little bit longer.

He nods, zipping his jacket up to his chin and wrapping his wool scarf around his neck trying to find some comfort. You look at him, still hugging him, and you really wish you could tell him everything that’s on your mind, everything that’s happened in your life in the past few weeks. But for the integrity of your and Donghyuck’s plan you have to keep your lips sealed.

Apart from Donghyuck, who’s your childhood and oldest friend, Renjun is the second closest. You met him in college right before you met Yerim, and you instantly clicked with each other as soon as you complained about the mess in the kitchen at the dorms. You started as fellow complainers, you then met each other in the communal lounge downstairs while studying, and then you kept looking for each other whenever you weren’t too busy being with Donghyuck. He met Donghyuck in your kitchen while the latter was making your ramen, and Renjun complained about the mess.

“So you’re the one who makes the mess?” He was close to bursting a vein, trying his best not to kick the unknown man out of the dorm’s kitchen.

“Oh, hi” like a deer in highlights he turned around, scared by Renjun’s tone, before taking a good look at the guy in front of him, “You must be Renjun,” he cheered, changing hands holding the spatula and extending the newly free hand to Renjun, “Y/n told me everything about you, I think her exact words were ‘to look out for that Renjun’ guy,”

Renjun looked at him, his eyes bulking out of his orbits, “You know Y/n?” He asked incredulous, thinking that you could never be friends with such a messy person such as Donghyuck, “And by the way, she would never say that about me,”

“She’s my bestfriend,” Donghyuck answered before turning his attention back to the ramen pot sitting on the stove. “And don’t worry, the mess was already clinging to these walls way before I came by today,” And in all fairness, Donghyuck is a very clean person, a very clean man. Talk about the advantages of growing up close to a clean freak like yourself. “By the way, I’m Donghyuck, I live in the dorm just around the corner,”

“Oh,” Renjun mumbled, setting his own pots and pans on the second stove, “I’ve heard about you,” Donghyuck’s eyes lit up as soon as he heard the words coming out of Renjun’s mouth, delighted knowing that he’s someone you go around talking to other people about.

And since that moment you three stuck together. Donghyuck’s proximity to your and Renjun’s dorm, and the fact that he actually met the guy while cooking for you in your kitchen, meant he was always with you, joint at the hip, sometimes to Renjun’s dismay, because he thought Donghyuck was one of the most annoying guys he’s met. And then from your second year in college, the three of you moved in together in a shared apartment just outside campus and, although you became a trio, you’ve always been transparent about your friendship with the guys. What you and Donghyuck had was different from your friendship with Renjun, and the two of them hung out without you as well. It’s just your dynamic, and Renjun has always agreed to this, even if Donghyuck was a little jealous and possessive of your friendliness at times. As soon as you showed Renjun a little bit more attention, Donghyuck stole you away for a whole week. But it was always fine, it was never a problem for Renjun, for reasons you’ve never spent too much time worrying about.

You’re pulled out of your own thoughts by the two girls that approach you loudly, and Renjun sighs while shivering in your arms, “Fucking finally,”

“Why didn’t you guys wait inside?” Karina asks after you’re done with hugging everyone, “Couldn’t you guys get a table? Usually it’s pretty empty at this hour in the morning,”

“Wait,” you pull Yerim’s sleeve when she tries to make her way inside the cafeteria, smiling sheepishly as they look at you confused. “I know I invited you here today, but that’s not really where we’re going,” you explain, rubbing your hands together.

“So why are we here?” Karina mumbles confused, looking at the other two.

You point at the bridal boutique just across the street from where the coffee shop is, and their eyes follow the direction you’re pointing at, their heads snapping back to look at you, so harshly that you wonder how on earth they didn’t get whiplash.

“You’re kidding…” Yerim laughs so loudly that a few people’s heads turn around,

“Right?” Renjun’s uncertain tone makes you fidget on the spot.

Averting your gaze, you cross the street to reach the bridal shop, and your friends look at each other, still hoping for you to turn around and tell them you’re joking.

By the time they decide to follow you inside the shop, you’re already drinking from a glass of champagne and discussing about your dream wedding gown.

“You have to be kidding me,” Renjun mumbles as soon as one of the assistants comes over with a tray of champagne flutes.

“How are we here,” Karina downs the whole flute as soon as they take a seat on the expensive white sofas waiting for you to come out wearing whatever dress you discussed with the assistant you wanted.

“I think we skipped a few chapters,” Yerim sighs contemplatively and looks at Renjun who’s visibly shaken. Out of the three of them, Renjun’s the one that looks like he got hit by a bus. He doesn’t even understand why he’s sitting where he’s sitting right now.

“Last time I asked, she was saying she’s not seeing anyone special,” he mutters more to himself, but the two girls hear him nonetheless, “I don’t get it,”

And then you come out from the little room at the end of a narrow corridor, all three of your friends shut their mouths as you show them the best dresses that you’ve picked up while they were deciding if they needed to follow you inside, or if they should just laugh it off and walk to the nearest bar because it was a joke. It was a reality check for all three of them, and while the doubts and shock was still in the back of their minds and ready to resurface at any given moment during your dress fitting, ah’s and oh’s and sniffles filled the room while complimenting you.

“I didn’t even know you were seeing someone,” Karina spills out, having already downed three champagne flutes.

“I really don’t know how to feel about you getting married to a total stranger,” Yerim sniffles, the feeling of betrayal suffocating her.

You sigh, looking at your reflection in the mirror while touching your silky dress, and all your curves and edges, “He’s not really a stranger,” you whisper while looking at their reflection in the big mirror.

Renjun pushes himself forward, eyes as big as the rock on your engagement ring, which you purposefully left at home so as to not receive any questions as soon as you met your friends. He takes a moment to think of all the men in your life, your exes, your situationships. “Oh, dear heavens,” he touches the bridge of his nose as he looks at your reflection in the big mirror and then straight into your eyes, and something in his gaze tells you he’s gotten a faint idea of who it might be.

“What did she say?” Karina nearly screams into Yerim’s ears, the flutes making her lose all sense of volume.

You repeat yourself, “He’s not a stranger, you know him very well,” you look at the three of them, and you can feel Renjun’s eyes burn holes in the beautiful wedding dress you have on. “It’s Hyuck,” you whisper, not sure if they heard you.

Judging by Karina’s head snapping to her right to look at the others’ reactions, and by Yerim’s gasp, you can appreciate that they did indeed hear you.

“Hyuck as in Donghyuck?” Yerim makes sure you didn’t possibly meet a new Donghyuck in the span of a few weeks, “How did this happen?”

“How? That’s your concern?” Renjun pulls her by her arm, turning her to face him, “Your main concern should be when! When did this happen?” He addresses you.

“We’ve known each other for a very long time,” you start, “We were meant to be,” you hope Donghyuck’s bullshit excuses and scenarios reach your friends’ hearts, out of love for you. You know it sounds pathetic, the whole childhood friends to lovers fiasco, but you hope they won’t need more explaining regarding this, considering your and Donghyuck’s dynamics.

And as your biggest nightmare comes to reality, Renjun scoffs. And you recall telling Donghyuck just a few day ago that Renjun is going to be the one who needs the most convincing out of every other friend you two have. “Just stick to the answers I came up with, and he’ll buy it. If there’s anything Renjun cherishes more than his bickering with me, then that’s his friendship with you. He’ll buy it in the end, trust me.” And when you look at him bewildered, because you never thought of accepting such an explanation from him, he sighs and wraps an arm around you, walking you through the whole scenario again, “Tell him we’ve been together for a few months, I told you I love you blah blah blah. Stick to the scenario. Stick to the plan, Y/n” he cupped your face, swiftly kissing your forehead like he always does when you’re sick with worries, since the age of eight.

And so you do, you stick to the plan, to all the lines Donghyuck has instructed you to use, and while you play with your fingers all nervous and with trembling voice, you hope your friends are buying all of whatever you’re selling them.

“I knew this would happen,” Renjun claps his hands together as he looks at his two other friends sitting beside him on the small sofa, “I knew this would happen as soon as he ditched our study session at the library years ago just to spend time with you, when he found out some idiot didn’t show up to your date and you needed comforting,” this time he looks at you, straight into your soul, and you hope that he won’t be able to pick up whatever bullshit Donghyuck has fed you to convince you to agree to his plan. “You two are idiots”, he retorts.

And yes, you think so too. You couldn’t agree more. You and Donghyuck are idiots indeed, especially you. You, who’s willing to jeopardise decades of friendship just to make him happy, just to feel a bit validated by him. You still don’t want to admit the deeper reason of your agreeing, and you hope you’ll be able to ignore it and bury it deep into the back of your mind.

“But,” he sighs once again, and you’ve only heard Renjun sigh this many times when Donghyuck was insisting on having a bet and the loser would kiss the opponent if he felt like doing it, knowing damn well Donghyuck was going to purposefully bet on something that would turn out to be completely wrong and lose in Renjun’s favour, “I’ll admit that you’re very beautiful wearing that dress,” he points his head at your dress.

“You think so?” You beam and stand on your tippy toes, turning around to look at your own reflection in the huge mirror, using your hand to call one of the assistants over.

All three of your friends agree, and a drunk Karina even start clapping, cheering you on.

“I can’t imagine the amount of stress you’re under with all the wedding preparations,” Yerim hugged you as soon as you stepped foot out of the boutique.

“I’m not,” you smile bashfully at your friends, “Hyuck suggested we should get a wedding planner,”

“Hyuck suggested,” Renjun imitates you with a mocking tone, already sick of your wedding talk after spending half a day looking for dresses for you, and bridesmaids dresses for your two friends.

“Are you going to act like this forever? I’m not even married to him yet,” you say with an incredulous laugh.

“For as long as you’re married to him,” he feigns fake innocence, and you only smile back, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, because you’re not sure how long that’s going to be. You never discussed this with Donghyuck, and Renjun has given you something to stay up all night mulling over.

You really don’t know how long it’s going to last, or what the whole outcome of it will be, but you can only hope for it to last for the longest of times.

Telling your parents about your engagement was easy. They loved Donghyuck, and he’s been around you since childhood, in and out of your house like it was his own. Your mother always kept a spare place at the table because ever since he was a child, he was unpredictable. Your mom took care of him whenever he wanted to sleep over, she cooked for him whatever it was he was craving, packed him his lunchbox whenever he stayed over and the following day was a school day, his own lunchbox that he personally chose when your mom took the two of you to the store, him choosing one with Crayon Shin-chan plastered on its lid, and you decided on a MyMelody one. Your dad never understood why he was hanging around your house so often, and then Donghyuck came on your family trip to the seaside when he was eleven, and he could see the dynamic of your friendship.

So when you broke the news to your parents, they were elated, they loved Donghyuck and couldn’t be happier to have him officially as part of the family in a few months.

Which couldn’t be said about Donghyuck’s parents. They liked you, and they trusted your family enough to allow their child to enter your home, and consequently, to spend all his free time there with you. But there was a line that should have never been crossed, and Donghyuck did when he proposed marriage to you, of all people. Donghyuck comes from a wealthy family, in which generational wealth was at the day’s order. Most, if not all relationships were transactional, but both parties were wealthy, and they both brought wealth into the marriage. Which couldn’t be said about you, because you didn’t grow up rich. You grew up in a normal family, you never lacked anything, but sure enough your parents couldn’t afford to change cars every so often every time they pleased. And it was a problem for Donghyuck’s family.

“Can’t they oppose to our marriage or something?” You asked Donghyuck after the two of you left his parents’ house, after Donghyuck broke the news to them while holding your ringed hand up for them to see the engagement ring, and consequently had a fight with his mother right in front of you.

Your confidence wasn’t the highest in that moment, let’s just put it this way.

“Don’t really care,” he frowned, taking your hand in his as the other was holding the steering wheel tightly, “The only approval I need is grandma Lee’s,” he mumbled stopping at the red light, “And she loves you,”

The look in his eyes sent shivers down your spine, making you swallow the lump in your throat, and you remember that feeling so well even if it’s been a few months since.

And now, looking at your feet, the point of your shoes slightly visible from under your long silky dress, you hold on tightly to your bouquet made entirely of Casablanca lilies.

Your head tilts a bit from behind the partition keeping you safe from the eyes of all your guests, curious as ever to see you walking down the aisle.

You spot Donghyuck’s family sitting reluctantly on the right side of the church, his side, while looking around themselves with judgement. You’re starting to believe something bad is bound to happen when no one can reach Karina, who’s also one of your bridesmaids, and you’re also starting to regret your decision of agreeing to this plan when you hear people whispering as if you’re not standing a few feet away from them, albeit hidden by a flimsy partition.

“Where’s Karina?” You start to panic, thinking to yourself that this is a sign. This is a sign that this wedding should not happen.You made it clear in the past few months that you want your ceremony and celebratory party to be perfect, especially because Donghyuck’s family decided to attend, and even if you knew they considered you not to be the perfect bride for their son, you could at least show them a perfect ceremony. Which Karina is fumbling really badly right now.

“She said she’s on her way,” Renjun tries to calm you down, straightening the veil on your back so as to not have any creases.

“When did she say that?” You grabbed him by the shoulders, your nails hurting his skin even through the fabric of his suit jacket, “Oh my god, Renjun if you’re lying to me-” you’re interrupted by Yerim grabbing your hands, freeing Renjun from your grasp.

“You have to calm down,” Yerim pleads, shaking you slightly. “You need to relax, you’ll walk down this aisle and you need to be your best self,” she grabbed your cheeks lightly, and she resists the urge of kissing you on the cheek because she doesn’t want to ruin your makeup. You look so beautiful right now, even if you’re panicking out of your mind.

“I’m here! I’m here!” Karina’s heels clatter on the marbled floors of the entrance, adjusting her dress which was already starting to crease as she almost started running towards you, “I’m so sorry,” she looks embarrassed, holding the little bouquet Yerim hands over to her.

You let out a sharp exhale, instructing Renjun to go ahead and start the ceremony. Yerim smiles to you and reaches behind you to grab your veil, and gently lets it lay on your front. You hear the piano playing, immediately recognising the tune being played. You remember the day you were supposed to choose the music for the wedding march, when Donghyuck grabbed you by the arm and pulled you away from the huge shelf of music in front of you.

“I know I said this was going to be your dream wedding,” Donghyuck starts, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, “but I have a request to make,” when you nod, he continues, “Can I be the one to choose the music?”

His request took you aback, never expecting him to want to be involved in wedding preparations for a marriage that was purely transactional. To him at least.

“Of course,” you had said, nodding and he knew you were being genuine by the look in your eyes, so big and sparkly, a clear sign of your sincerity. “This is your wedding too, Hyuck,” you smiled at him and he felt a lump in his throat as soon as he registered your words.

He smiled back, and went for the exit of the music shop, but you stopped him by grabbing him tightly, “Just don’t pull any kind of Elvis or Hamilton crap in front of your family,” you retorted, serious as ever, to which he smirked.

“Elvis? Costello or Presley?” He joked, and you hoped he was only being annoying like he always is, and not serious. Seeing your sour face, he put his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side into a tight embrace, “Oh come on, Y/Nnnie” he whined, and you kicked him as soon as you see pairs of eyes looking at the two of you, “Don’t you want to be part of a little musical act as you walk down the aisle? Like they did in ‘The Office’?” He whispered in your ear, and you can feel the annoying smile in his tone. He kisses your cheek, holding you even tighter, and you can feel shivers down your spine. Before you can react, you feel the arm that was holding you before, loosening its hold on you.

“I’m being serious, Hyuck,” you began, but he started sprinting past you and out of the record store. “Wait!” You screamed, trying to catch him, “I’m serious! I have rocks with your name written on them, and they’re begging to be thrown at your head!”

You heard him giggle as he picked up his pace, trying to escape your loud mouth.

And now, hearing the tune the piano starts playing, you understand what it was that he wanted. You immediately recognise Tony Bennett’s tune playing, and you think Donghyuck bagged his favourite pianist to play at his wedding, the one who works at your favourite restaurant downtown, the grace of his fingers unmistaken.

You hear heels clattering, and you know that Donghyuck is being taken down the aisle by grandma Lee, who vehemently insisted to be the one to walk her favourite grandchild on such a great day. And you’re surprised his mother didn’t bat an eye, but you know that’s for the best.

“Go! Go!” You whisper shout to Yerim to start walking down the aisle, and she holds her bouquet tighter in front of her, taking steps one by one.

When you go closer to where the aisle begins, you quickly look around the church, noticing the familiar faces sitting around, waiting for you to make your entrance before they stand up. You see Mark, Jeno, and Jaemin standing behind Donghyuck, whilst his other friends are sitting in the second row, allowing Hyuck’s family to sit in the first. You catch a quick glimpse of Renjun standing on your side, waiting for Karina and Yerim to join him, yet you feel a knot of uncertainty setting deep into your guts and stomach, and when you see Karina taking a few steps down the aisle, you take a few steps out of instinct and grab her forearm, dragging her back to where you were waiting to make your entrance.

“Y/n?” Karina whispers surprised, eyes the size of saucers, swaying a bit trying to regain balance after you drag her after yourself. “Y/n,” she insists, “What is it, sweetie?”

You grab your veil, yet still with care because you don’t want to damage it in any kind of way, and you bring it behind you head, because you feel the need to talk to Karina face to face, not hiding behind any type of fabric.

You look at the guests behind Karina’s back, or at what you can see of them since Karina is obstructing most of your view.

“I- I don’t think I can do this,” you whisper, skeptical, and Karina thinks she’s never seen your eyes this big in size.

“What?” Karina tilts her head, not understanding where this doubt is coming from.

But she isn’t in your head, she can’t hear your thoughts, and most certainly she doesn’t know on what grounds this wedding is happening. Everything is an illusion, a lie, and you feel the sweat starting to cling to the skin of your neck. As months passed, you really started to believe all of Donghyuck’s delusions, and all the lies, and all the endless conversations and discussions you two had about his masterplan, which unfortunately started to make sense to you as well. It was like the blind leading the blind.

And up to this point, seeing yourself wearing expensive accessories and an even more expensive wedding gown, seeing everyone who’s believed your lies sitting excitedly as they’re waiting for you to make your entrance, hearing the melody of the piano playing one of Donghyuck’s favourite songs of one of his favourite artists, it hits you. And it hits you hard, and you can feel your eyes swelling with tears.

“Y/n, what’s wrong?” Karina insists as she understands that she has a panicked bride on her hands. Not only a panicked bride, but a room full of whispering guests that start to grow more and more curious as they sense something is going on with the bride. And how can we forget the groom, who’s nervously biting his bottom lip as he looks at his grandmother sitting in the first seat, on the first row on his side.

“I can’t do this, Karina. This,” you move you hand around, pointing at the church and all the decorations, including your outfit and hers, “this is all wrong. Very wrong,” you whisper, and Karina’s impressed by your eyes not diminishing in size.

“But why, honey?” She presses, “Donghyuck loves you” she caresses your bare arm, her other hand holding the small bouquet stiffly. “And you love him too,” she’s trying really hard to calm you down, as she notices you trying to swallow what she thinks is a lump in your throat. “You do, don’t you?” She inquires when she notices that you keep looking in a spot behind her back.

And truthfully, you do. And maybe that’s what’s scary to you. Marrying someone you love so deeply, but who’s only marrying you out of convenience. You love Donghyuck for all his flaws and faults, his annoying side, his bugging, his cold facade, but you also love him because, well, it’s him. You’ve grown up with him by your side, and you realise you made him your ideal type, influenced by his permanent presence and knowing everything about him. And how unfair is it, realising someone is marrying you as part of a fraudulent plan?

You look at Karina, nodding. “I do, I do love him so much,”

“Then what’s the problem?” Karina asks once again, seeing your eyes brimming with tears. When you don’t say anything back, Karina starts crossing her legs, fidgeting where she's standing. She looks behind herself, discreetly, as to sense the vibes filling the room. The few last rows of guests already turned around to look at the two of you, asking themselves if this ceremony is ever going to even start. “Listen, sweetie,” she reaches for you once more, grabbing you by your forearm trying to assure you, “Who cares about this ceremony, anyway?” She waves her hand around trying to convey assurance, although she’s scared shitless of what you might do and how this day could end.

“You don’t have to do this. We can get a cab outside and go away, if that’s what you want. You don’t need to get married today, who cares?”

You gulp, looking behind her to the waves of faces and heads wondering what’s going on. You spot grandma Lee’s head, who’s throwing questioning looks at you and her nephew, although you’re sure she can’t really see you thanks to Karina’s figure standing in front of you. And then you spot him, Donghyuck, tilting his head to look at you, trying to see you even with Karina obstructing his view. And his curious eyes meet your scared ones, and you gulp once more.

“Hyuck,” you whisper, trying to compose yourself as you break eye contacting with him, “Hyuck cares. And I do too,” you conclude, grabbing your veil fast, bringing it to cover your head and face once again. “I am getting married today,”

You use your hand to make Karina spin around, gently pushing her forward.

“Psst, Karina” you whisper shout, using a hand to move the veil a bit from your face so your eyes meet hers once again, “Do not say a word to Yeri and Renjun. Now go! Go!” You usher her to walk in front of you.

You look at your feet once again, and you touch the expensive, silky dress clinging nicely to your waist and bust, and then at the bouquet of Casablanca lilies you’re holding tightly in your hands. And yes, while wearing your expensive Vivienne Westwood dress, and walking down the aisle to The shadow of your smile, you are going to get married to who you think is indeed, the love of your life.

The first few months were milk and honey. Your dynamic didn’t change much, except for the fact that you were sharing a bed permanently. You’ve always shared a bed while growing up and consequently in your adult years too, yet now it’s different. You can look at him in his usual white tee and large pyjama shorts that show the tanned skin of his thighs and it dawns on you that he is your husband. Your husband. And all the times he wears his expensive watch before going to work in the morning, your eyes skip to his fingers, searching for his wedding ring out of instinct. He always wears it. You’ve never seen him taking it off in the past eight months, which can’t be said about you. You took it off every time you were cleaning around or washing the dishes.

Three months after your wedding ceremony, grandma Lee passed, and Donghyuck’s fraudulent plan came to a successful end. Donghyuck bought you a house, took you on holidays around the world, gave you anything you wanted and everything he thought you deserved. And he did all this while wearing the wedding ring. Donghyuck could see the dreamy look in your eyes, but he never looked too much into it, thinking it was all about the hundred million dollars you were now sharing between the two of you. You were still the same Y/n, and he was still the same Donghyuck, except for the fat bank accounts and the sharing of the bed.

To Donghyuck, sharing a bed wasn’t that big of a deal. He’s slept on the same surface as you multiple times before, the only thing that’s changed now was the fact that the two of you were legally bound, and he actually liked being able to say that he was married to you, and that you are his wife. People never expected him to even be in a relationship, and never expected someone as beautiful as you to get married this young, and he found it hilarious.

“I like being married to you,” he says, chewing on a piece of steak he grilled in the backyard.

You seem taken aback by his words, blinking a few times before clearing your throat, “You do?”

“Yes,” he smirks. That stupid smirk that you hate because you know he’s about to say something annoying, but love at the same time because it’s his smirk. “We’re still the same, we’re still us,” he swallows the bite, “except you’re my wife, and that isn’t so bad,” he smirks again and you have no idea where this conversation is going. He’s a bit tipsy, having already opened a second bottle of red wine, and except the two glasses you had for yourself, the remaining alcohol is in his system. “Why wait and date around to get married, when we’re right here? I have you and you have me, we’re locked in for life, baby,”

You feel a lump in your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s because you might have just promised you eternity by his side, or the fact that he’s just admitting to be settling for you instead of trying to go after someone he might actually love.

But you agreed to this, to the life he’s promised you. When you looked into his mischievous eyes once he kneeled down in front of you, you knew what you were getting into. Putting your feelings aside, being able to call Donghyuck yours even if he wasn’t anything more than the childhood friend you grew to love in a different way than the way he claimed he loved you back. The casual ‘be careful, love you’s you two threw in at the end of phone calls or when saying goodbye after school became to you much more than what they became to Donghyuck. But the gleam of hopefulness he’s always held in his gaze as he said he believed in you, as he tried to coerce you into committing fraud, as he promised you the moon, the stars, and everything else hanging in the sky, it really made you believe that you could have it all. If this all meant having Donghyuck next to you for the next years, decades, then it was all worth it.

And your routine as a married couple becomes just that, a routine. Waking up in the morning, making breakfast, and then he leaves for work because, unlike you, he still kept a job. And then you don’t know how to make time pass faster until he comes back home, to you. You fill your time with shopping sprees and activities you’ve never thought you would be picking up — going to the spa and playing tennis every other day. The months pass and you’re not sure how your life has become so boring. Before, you really had it all and you didn’t even realise. A job, your own apartment, your own car that Donghyuck got rid of after the two of you got married, just to gift you another one. You used to hang out with your friends multiple days a week, now it’s a miracle if you see them once every two weeks. Moving to a mansion at the outskirts of the city isolated you, and you relied on Donghyuck for all the support you needed.

As for your relationship with him, there really isn’t much to say. Nothing has changed, except that he seems to be less annoying, or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve already become too used to him and his personality since the wedding happened. At first, you travelled together for your honeymoon, and you swear you were on the brink of divorcing him, but that annoying feeling has subsided considerably, and you have a faint idea of the reason why that is.

And then, you start to notice Donghyuck doesn’t come home for dinner time that often anymore. Hell, you could say that it’s a miracle if he comes home on time for dinner at least two days a week. Most times, he comes home too late and has to eat alone, while talking to you about his day and what his plans for the following day are. Other times, he goes straight to the shower, telling you he’s not hungry and that he’ll take a bite of what you’ve cooked in the morning instead.

And tonight, it’s both. He promised he’d be back in time for dinner and then High School Musical marathon on your big flat screen tv. But the dinner has run cold, you’ve already taken a shower, and by the time you hear Donghyuck’s keys open the heavy front door, you’ve already played the first two films.

“Honey I’m hom-”, he’s interrupted by a gasp, and you can hear his heavy footsteps run down the hallway to the living room, “Did you really start without me?” He whines, and you almost cannot believe your ears.

“Please tell me you’re not serious right now, Hyuck,” you warn, looking at him.

Donghyuck looks at you, at your figure, at your eyes. You’re looking at him, and there’s something in your gaze that, for the first time in years, he can’t decipher. Your eyes are sleepy, almost droopy, a clear sign of your tiredness. Or maybe you’re just disappointed and tired of him.

He plops down next to you, looking at you apologetically, and the action makes you jump on your spot on the couch. “I’m an idiot,” he whispers.

“You are,” you agree, nodding your head as you return your attention to the high screen in front of your figures.

“Are you mad at me?” He tests the waters, and it only makes you want to punch his face more.

“Why would I be mad?” You scoff, bringing your legs to your chest, an action he knows you do when you try to avoid confrontation.

“You’re not looking at me, Y/n” he mumbles, and it makes you roll your eyes. He knows you too well. “I’m sorry I’m an idiot. I just lost track of time,” he tries to explain to you, but honestly you don’t care.

You think your blood pressure has gone through the roof when your ears start ringing and you palm is itching to be smacked against his face.

“Doing what?” You ask, and if looks could kill, Donghyuck is sure he’d be in great agony right now, just about there, on the verge of dying. It’s the first time you’ve looked at him since he plopped down next to you, and Donghyuck knows better than talking nonsense and making you even angrier, because you always smell his bullshit a mile away.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises again, trying to dodge your question, “Was with the boys out for dinner,” he pouts, “I promise we can spend as much time together as we used to once I’m done with this project at work. Kiss and make up?” He tries one of his oldest tricks on you. Ever since elementary school, every time you were upset with him he would pull this stunt on you. The upset one being kissed on the cheek in a sweet and childish attempt to make things better with a gesture of intimacy neither you nor Donghyuck liked showing to other people. Only to each other.

And his attempt to make you at least slightly less upset with him is successful when the corners of your mouth turn upright just slightly. So he leans in, successfully invading your personal space, his head mere centimetres away from yours, and his chapped lips seem to leave a burning mark when he smacks a kiss on the plush of your left cheek.

And that’s not the only thing that’s left burning right now, as you sense a scent you don’t really recognise. It’s so sweet it burns your nostrils, that consequently flare as a result of the nauseating fragrance that has invaded your personal space.

He retracts himself, singing along with Gabriella, but you don’t focus on the scene or what’s happening around you at the moment. You look at him, as he’s slouched on the couch, his head propped up by one of the cushions on the couch. He seems content with you dropping the topic of his late arrival and the dismissal of all your plans for the evening, and you’re left wondering if he’s aware of the fact that he smells like fucking cheap perfume.

The smell is so strong up your nose that you’re sure there’s no amount of fresh air that can get rid of it, it’s the kind of smell you spray from a tester out of pure curiosity and it’s the worst fucking mistake you can ever do because the horrible smell will cling to your skin for the rest of the day. Too sweet and too strong.

You’re snatched out of your own thoughts when you see him turning his head to look at you, “I need to take a shower,” he announces, standing to his feet and moving towards the hall with the staircase to your shared bedroom and bathroom. “And after that I’m all yours, baby” he sings, and you’re once again left wondering, but this time all by yourself.

All mine, you repeat his words in your head a few times, but the only thing you can do right now is questioning if that’s really the case, or if it will ever be.

Days pass and you seem to be unable to get the nauseatingly sweet smell of that perfume out of your senses. You perceive it at random times, while cooking, while cleaning, and you know it’s all in your head, because you washed every piece of fabric that Donghyuck could have touched a few night ago with his skin, even after showering.

You don’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Sensing another woman’s perfume on your husband’s skin made your skin crawl and your heart to drop to your ass. But is it even correct to call him your husband? He’s still your best friend, and that’s all he is meant to be forever. You can’t call him your husband if it’s just the two of you, because in all honesty it doesn’t feel like a normal marriage.

Because it isn’t, you’re reminded by your own voice of conscience.

And you know that’s right. The marriage is just a cover for when your families and friends are around, you don’t get to enjoy all the privileges of being married when there’s no one around, and you realise it’s upsetting you.

What the fuck is going on with me? You end up asking yourself. Why is this situation getting to you? You knew what you were getting into, you knew who Donghyuck is and what he goes around doing, you’ve known him for all your life and even helped him get out of unpleasant situations multiple times, so why exactly is it bothering you so much?

You’re pulled back from you own thoughts when your phone rings, and you pick it up to see who the caller is.

“Yes,” you sigh, not really in the mood to hear his voice.

“Wow, gosh, could you be more enthusiastic of my call?” Donghyuck’s tone is full of sarcasm, and you’re seriously contemplating if you should just hang up the call.

“I’m kind of busy,” you lie, “what is it?”

“I’m getting off work early tonight, wanna have dinner at our usual restaurant?” He asks, and you can hear the car’s engine making noise in the background. “Y/n, hello?” He raises his voice a bit, thinking there’s no signal.

“Jesus fucking Christ, stop sounding like a hyena in heat,” you retort, bothered by the high pitch of his voice. “Pick me up at eight?”

“It’s a date!” He cheers on the other end of the line.

As much as you didn’t want to be in his proximity right now, you can’t deny the fact that you miss him, and spending time with him. You’d still rather watch a lion feasting on an antelope rather than seeing his face and hearing him talk to you about trivial stuff as if he didn’t come home smelling like another woman. But the truth is that you miss him. You miss his company, his presence, the idiotic jokes he makes and the smart comments he lets out when you watch a film or show him some new music. You miss him spending time with you, just being together most of the time, and worst of all is that you miss talking to him. You used to talk to him about everything. From family problems to boy issues, from uncertainties to future plans, and he used to be there for you, attentive as ever as if your words held the truth to all secrets and mysteries of this planet.

And you’re hoping that tonight it can be just that. You hope he misses you and your company just as much, and that he made these plans to take you out in an attempt to close the gap that has formed in your relationship. If you feel the distance and all these upsetting feelings and thoughts, then he must feel them too, right?

But the hours pass, and like some sort of sick tradition he’s trying to establish in your relationship lately, he doesn’t show up. You’re in a dress, you smell nice, you look spectacular, waiting for him to take you out for dinner in the new amazing place he’s found. Your stomach churns realising that he probably landed in that place with someone else as his date, and that’s how he discovered it, and you grab your purse before exiting the house.

You need to go out by yourself, and clear your head of all the insecurities you realise this marriage has given you. You used to enjoy your own company, and you used to look forward to having Donghyuck around you so often. But now it only irritates you, the thought of being in his proximity makes you want to punch a wall, because you know you can’t be near him right now. He knows you too well for your sake, and knows if something is off the moment your gaze meets his, so it’s better to avoid him if you want to save your face in this pathetic masquerade. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? As long as people don’t see him going around on dates with other women, you have to go along with all of his actions. How would you explain to him that you know what he’s been doing behind your back? Because that’s what hurts you the most, his need of going behind your back instead of telling you about it all like he used to do in the past. Why did things have to change?

Your chest feels heavy and your eyes ready to spill some tears. You make your way to your car, you need to be by yourself. Not like you haven’t been mostly by yourself in the past months, but realising why this happened makes you want to disappear into thin air. And you need to be far away, in a place where you can clear your mind, far away from Donghyuck, his smell, and you shared house — where everything reminds you of him, what could have been, and a macabre reminder of what it really is.

Donghyuck doesn’t know how he got home the night before, too much alcohol present in his system. But he knows one thing, you weren’t there in your shared bed. Considering the taste in his mouth as soon as he wakes up, he can only imagine how bad he smells and that it would have probably woken you up the moment his head hit the pillow next to yours, knowing your sensitive nose. Because of this, he thinks you not being here last night and this morning to witness his state is a blessing. But he also knows that he misses you. He remembers being cold last night, and when he reached for you in search of heat, you weren’t there.

Donghyuck’s head raises his head from his pillow, a splitting headache making him hit the pillow once again.

You’ve never being away at night, not since this marriage happened. Suddenly, he remembers he has your location, and he can check your whereabouts on his phone.

“She’s home?” He mumbles surprised, making a huge effort not to whine in pain as soon as he stands off the bed and his head starts throbbing.

In his actual state, he doesn’t know where in this huge house to look for you, but then his head feels like being split in half when he hears the clanking of some pots and pans downstairs in the kitchen, and his nose picks up the faint smell of coffee and pancakes.

“Good morning,” he tests the waters as soon as he steps in the kitchen, but the bright light coming from outside the open window makes him whine in pain, and he brings his hand over his eyes in a sudden movement.

“Morning,” you reply back, flipping the two pancakes in your pan.

He takes a seat at the kitchen island, just in front of where you’re working your ingredients, and you feel his gaze following you and your movements.

“How long have you been gone last night?” He asks out of curiosity, and he sees you suddenly frowning. He loves getting to talk to you face to face, because you can never hide your emotions from him. He knows every jot and tittle of yours.

“How long have you been gone last night?” You have a sudden burst, asking him the same question, and you grip that pancake spatula so harshly your knuckles turn white.

“What?” Donghyuck straightens his back on the high chair, looking at you confused. Seeing you so upset makes him forget about his muscles pain and splitting headache. Why are you so worked up for?

And then it downs on him. Last night, the alcohol, the company, losing track of time. The plans he’s made with you. He’s been away almost every night in the past months, and he never paid too much attention to you, because he never thought it would bother you this much. You can’t even bring yourself to look at him right now, and he knows he’s fucked up. You’re never avoidant unless you are really upset, or you’re trying to avoid confrontation because you’re about to open your mouth to pour your heart out. He’s witnessed this behaviour of yours multiple times, so he knows what to expect from you.

Except this time, you don’t start a fight, you don’t get teary eyed, you don’t tell him what has been bothering you. But he already knows. He’s been away too much, and he’s bailed on you a lot lately.

You keep your eyes on your pancakes and on the huge bowl with batter, not even once looking at him.

“I’m so, so sorry, Y/n,” he mumbles softly, and by his tone you realise he’s genuine.

“What are you sorry for?” You ask, as if it didn’t really matter to you. Except it really mattered, more than you’d like to admit. But you’ve heard him apologise to you on many occasions in the last few weeks and months, and you feel like it’s lost its meaning.

“For forgetting about you and our plans,” he answers. Ouch. Him saying it out loud hurt more than the thoughts running lapses around your head. “I’m really sorry for not being here more often,” he continues.

And he really is, because he’s gone about his life like he didn’t coerce you into getting married for his own good. He thought that the setting down part will be done, and then the huge bank account that would come with it would be an advantage. When he said nothing has to change in your dynamic, he meant it. He wants you to go out and live your life to the fullest, especially now that the both of you share millions of dollars. There’s nothing that can stop you, nor him. While you have a joint account, for which Donghyuck insisted, he also insisted you had your own bank accounts and own cards to use as you please. “No need for me to see what, when and where you spend our money,” he explained to you, and at that time you accepted the idea. The bigger, joint account was your safety net, because while you weren’t the big spender Donghyuck encouraged you to be, he liked throwing money left and right. He supposes it’s about the upbringing, and he knows that you still struggle to let yourself go on shopping sprees worth thousands of dollars a time and getting out of the house now that you quit your job. He just wishes you would let loose for a bit to enjoy what this marriage has brought you. Let yourself enjoy the money and the liberty of still doing everything you were used to doing before being legally bound to him.

“Y/n,” he calls your name, “Look at me,” he instructs, and you have to gather all your willpower to do as he says, because there’s nothing you want more than to tell him to fuck off.

When you look at him, he freezes in his chair. Your gaze is so full of emotion, so hurt, and he realises the tears he was expecting you to shed in your usual upset burst weren’t there because you had already shed them before, all by yourself.

He stands to his feet, and starts walking around the marble kitchen island to reach your figure. “My sweet Y/n,” he coos, pulling you in a tight hug. “Please forgive me,” your head rests in the crook of his neck, and Donghyuck’s skin tingles when he feels your breathing against his skin.

“You’ll have to do some grovelling before I can forgive you,” you mumble against the skin of his neck, and he lets a deep laugh escape him.

“What if I did the grovelling while having breakfast together on the terrace?” He asks, moving his head to look behind yourselves outside the window, checking the weather. “Sounds good?” He moves back to his initial position, his head resting on yours.

You nod, holding him a little tighter. “Let’s spend tomorrow together,” he proposes, and you nod once again.

“Before you start grovelling for breakfast, you need to go shower,” you let your arms fall, getting out of his embrace, gently pushing his chest to guide him out of the kitchen, “You stink of alcohol,”

He whines offended, but he knows you’re right. Before he can get out the room he stops in his tracks. “Kiss and make up?” He pouts his lips, closing his eyes and fluttering his lashes like the drama queen he is. No conflict is ever resolved without a kiss and make up situation. You lean in, this time giving him a small peck on the lips instead of extending your cheek for him to kiss.

The action visibly takes him aback, but he doesn’t say anything, and he exits the kitchen with a grin plastered on his face.

You look at the tv, at the bottles of beer scattered around you and Donghyuck, and the Chinese takeout boxes resting on the coffee table in front of you. At his long, tanned legs as he sits on the carpet next to you, his gaze fixed on the tv playing Notting Hill.

After a painfully long time, Donghyuck made an effort to be with you. No more excuses, no more hiding, he knows he’s been away and distant for a few months now, and after the euphoria of the wedding and the first few exciting months of being married to you had worn off he basically went back to his old ways, as if the past few months have never happened and he was still an eligible bachelor ready to roam the streets of the city almost, if not every night.

He knows he owes this to you, to the decades of friendship with you, to the love he has for you. He loves you more than he would a sister, but less than a romantic interest, if that makes sense. Maybe it’s the decades of friendship that have gotten him so attached to you, or maybe the fact that you’ve always understood and protected him the best you could. Whenever his parents fought, and he got dragged in these relentless fights between the two of them, being asked to pick a side, he flew the scene and came running to your house. You’ve always understood him, you’ve always shared everything with him, you and your parents made him realise what normality is like. A loving family, not everything being about money and power and jealousy. And that’s one of the reasons why he married you, he knows it. Apart from being the one to know him best, even more than his family and grandma Lee, you’re the one who provided him piece and tranquillity, the safety of being loved and, no matter how many times he fucked up, you were always there for him — even if you scolded him first. He can’t pinpoint the nature of all the feelings he has for you, but he knows that you bring him the kind of comfort and safety no one has ever even tried bringing him.

You feel his gaze on you, and you turn your head to throw him a questioning look. “What’s wrong?” You ask, a deep frown plastered on your pretty face.

He’s snapped out of his own thoughts, and looks at you like a deer in highlights, seemingly taken aback by the fact that he was so deep into his head that he didn’t even realise he was looking at you. He tries to conceal what he thinks was a surprised face when you busted his bubble, and looks at you with fake annoyance.

“Y/n,” he says your name, sporting a serious expression, “I will have to be very honest with you,”

You turn your whole body around so you can face his, and you giggle looking at his face. Judging by the scene that’s on right now on the tv, you know exactly what he’s about to say.

“You hate Anna Scott?” You say it before he can.

“I hate Anna Scott,” he confirms, throwing his head back so it hits the seat of the couch, “how can you even like her, she’s the worst!” He whines, lazily pointing his hand towards the tv screen where Julia Roberts’s character is having a fight with Hugh Grant’s.

“Because!” You gasp, smiling sheepishly, knowing that what you’re about to say is going to annoy the hell out of him. “She’s just a girl!” You start, and Donghyuck is already rolling his eyes at you, “Standing in front of a boy!” You’re so excited to do your number, and Donghyuck doesn’t say anything but he turns his head to look the other way. “Asking him to love her!” You end your act by grabbing his black t-shirt and pulling him a bit towards you.

Donghyuck looks at you, at your hands on his chest, at your excitement, and he can’t help being surprised. He also can’t help the rosy cheeks he feels getting hotter and hotter, and the strange movements happening in the pit of his stomach. This never happened before, every time he was the one initiating any type of physical touch with you even before you give him as much as a hug back. But he never felt this way.

He tries to regain his composure, pushing himself up against the foot of the sofa to an upright posture. He clears his throat as smoothly as he can, trying to remember what was happening before you became so excited. Ah yes, fucking Anna Scott.

“She’s just a girl,” he copies you with a whiney tone, rolling his eyes once again. “She’s an idiot, that’s what she is, Y/n. She’s despicable, so much that they should make a Despicable Me film with her as the main villain,” He argues, his smooth forehead now marked by a deep frown, his index repeatedly and forcibly poking on the carpet underneath the both of you, trying to make his point come across.

You pause the film, outraged at his hate for the character. It wasn’t the first time he hated on her, but he was never this vocal.

“She’s not that bad, Hyuck” you retort, bringing your legs up to your chest, your body still facing his.

He smirks at you, that kind of attractive, devious smirk he makes when he’ll start a debate with you just to crush you and your opinions like a cockroach in a sewer.

“Think about it, Y/n,” he says, his body turning towards yours, imitating the way you are sitting. “If the roles were to be reversed, would you think this way?” He asks, smirking at you, tsking in disapproval.

You look at him, weighting his words, and you’re sure your eyes are the size of saucers while looking into his smug ones.

“She plays with that poor man’s heart, Y/n. She plays this push and pull game I really don’t know why William loves her, it’s like she likes hurting him and he’s an idiot too for sticking with her for so long,” he sighs as if he was William himself, going through that kind of pain himself.

You look at him, unimpressed. It’s ironic, really, his mocking the ones who play with other people’s hearts.

“Thank god William learnt some self respect, right?” You whisper back, looking at his side profile, waiting for his gaze to meet yours. Except, he never looks back at you, laughing at your words with his specific deep laugh that he lets out whenever he’s taken by surprise.

For god’s sake, he can’t read the fucking room, you think.

“Yeah, that too,” he agrees after he recomposes himself, finally looking at you, his facial features relaxed with amusement. “But it’s a cute ending, I’ll give you that, baby” he responds, going back to the smugness you so love and hate at the same time.

“Thank you for today,” you tell him when the film is over, the last song playing loudly in the background, making Donghyuck start humming it. He knows it by heart, with all the times you made him watch your favourite film and the countless of times you put the soundtrack on.

“No, I should be the one to thank you,” he explains, picking up the beer bottles scattered around the room and walking behind you towards the kitchen, where you’re headed with all the Chinese takeout boxes balanced in your arms. “I know I haven’t been a present friends, or we could say husband, but I really want you to know that you matter to me and things between you and I haven’t changed,” he explains, and it feels like a sharp object is piercing your chest repeatedly.

Just another reminder that things are still the same according to him. Another reminder that things between the two of you will never change.

Sensing his piercing gaze on your figure, you nod, not feeling like letting any words out.

You leave the kitchen first promising to clean all the mess in the morning, but Donghyuck is close behind you, and you can still sense his gaze on your figure as you make your way in and out of the ensuite bathroom, and his eyes feel very heavy on you, like there’s something he needs to bring up and doesn’t know how, so instead he just looks at you until you’ll spare him a look.

So, you spare him a look. And he’s like a kicked puppy, sitting in the middle of the bed and you sense uncertainty in his posture. The easy going Donghyuck you know is nowhere to be found, and you feel obligated to intervene and ask him what’s going on in that head of his.

“Hyuck,” you say his name, climbing into bed, “Is everything okay?”

“Mhm,” he hums, but you can see him still being hesitant about something.

“You sure?” You giggle, trying to easy his nerves. He’s never hid anything from you, and he’s never taken so long to open up about something either. You never had to coerce him into opening up about what’s bothering him. “Hyuck, look at me,” you say, but it comes out more as a question.

He avoids your plea for a bit, and then he gives in and his gaze meets yours. It’s sparkling, but not with his usual smugness and joy. Instead, you’re met with an emotional look that looks like might be on the verge of tears.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, grabbing his cheeks, and you notice how they’re burning up.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says, avoiding your eyes once again, even if you’re holding his head still with your hands. “I treated you so badly lately, I cannot imagine how my avoidance affected you day by day, and as I said before, I know I haven’t been here for you and truth be told, I don’t want anything to change. I dont want to lose you, and I certainly don’t want you to resent me in any kind of way. I’m so sorry, Y/n,” he pauses in order to take a breath in.

You let go of his face, speechless, not knowing if you should open up as well or if you should let him be the only one to open up right now.

“I want you to know that no matter what, I love you. I really do, Y/n,” he grabs your face with his clammy hands, a clear sign of the nerves he’s experiencing right now, “I care about you, and nothing or no one will come between you and me, yeah?”

His eyes are sincere, but his words sting like hell. He says he loves you, but to what extent? You know the kind of feelings you have for him, you’re aware of them and you know their nature, but is he as certain as he is?

You’re so deep into your head that you fail to notice the kind of gaze Donghyuck is giving you, but when you raise your eyes to look at his face, you notice how his eyes are of your lips and immediately shift back to you eyes.

You lick your lips out of instinct, a habit you’ve had all your life when your boyfriends and partners looked at your lips before kissing you, and you close your eyes embarrassed after doing it in front of Donghyuck. After all, he’s just… your husband.

Donghyuck’s clammy hands gently squeeze the side of your face, trying to bring your attention back to him. You open your eyes and your gaze lands instantly on his lips, knowing his face’s proportion perfectly by now, your eyes sliding immediately without you not even registering the action. Until you feel him leaning in, his eyes barely open, and there’s a force that pulls you in closer to him, and even if you wanted to pulls back you know that’s not what you really want. But is it what he really wants?

You give up on trying to analyse the situation right now, and you grab his wrists as you feel him getting rid of the mere centimetres of distance between your lips. His plump lips feel sweet amidst the kiss, the way they sit perfectly on yours makes you feel elated, and you briefly remember who you’re kissing right now. You cheeks feel like they’re on fire, but the kiss is too intoxicating to come to reason with your conscience, and you feel his tongue poke tentatively for access. You grant it, and he smiles into the kiss, his tongue now dancing with yours in a sweet saccharine waltz. You don’t care about the way you’re both running out of air, the way his kiss is getting more and more desperate, and the way you can’t stop chasing his lips now that you’re feeling like you’ve opened pandora’s box.

He detaches himself from your lips, the action making a clicking sound that you’ve never found this hot until today.

“Just promise me,” you say, taking big breaths as discretely as possible, your throat feeling incredibly dry all of a sudden. “Promise me you’ll never run away from me,” you say, caressing his cheek, and he leans into your touch like a poor animal looking for affection.

“Okay,” he promises, pulling you into his embrace, and it feels like he’s promising you the whole universe.

But you should have know better than trusting Donghyuck. Is like ever since he married you he’s done nothing but hurt and lie to you, like the decades of friendship have never happened and like the past didn’t even matter to him. The promising he’s made, in the wedding vows and the ones made to you personally and privately, have no value to him, you’ve come to this conclusion the next day, when he was nowhere to be found.

He was out the door before you could wake up to make breakfast, and you wouldn’t hear from him for the entirety of the day. He would come back home late, knowing his dinner had already run cold, not like it ever mattered anyway since you know he was having dinner out, possibly with some other female company. He would come to bed, thinking you’re sound asleep, but you felt and heard everything. The sighs, the stirring in his sleep, the occasional smell of alcohol on his breath, the way he would keep his distance from you every night.

It went on this way for five days before you couldn’t take it anymore, so you moved your essentials out of your shared bedroom and bathroom, to one of the guest rooms. And it should have been this way since the beginning. Apparently being married has no value to the one you thought understood you the best, and what’s a signed paper in front of bodily desires? Nothing, that’s for sure.

This way you’re spared the icky perfumes he comes home having traces of on his skin and clothes, you’re spared the presence of a person that clearly doesn’t love you the way they claimed before, nor does he really care for you, you’re sure of this. Who breaks a promise to someone they supposedly say they love? You’re spared the sadness you feel when he doesn’t reach out to you all day and ultimately comes home at the cracks of dawn, and the hesitation you feel when he sits tentatively on the edge of the bed before he decides to lie down next to you. And, most importantly, you’re spared the heartbreak.

The marriage is just a contract to him, you’re just some sort of friends only, treating you like a housemate who he gets the privilege of calling his wife to the outside world. No amount of money, fancy dinners, and privileges that his status brought to you once you married him is worth the pain you’re feeling being ignored by him out of all people. If it were Renjun, you’d understand. If it were one of the girls, it would be logical since you stopped hanging out that often with all your friends since you got married. No more meet ups in the middle of the week, no more wine parties during film nights with them. You changed when you got married, but you never thought shit would hit the fan so fast. You could understand if anyone treated you this badly, but not Donghyuck. The bond you two shared was too important, at least for you. But he doesn’t value it as much, that much is clear to you.

You move rooms, you stop making dinner, only eating small portions by yourself because, after all, everything would end up in the bin if you made dinner for him as well. You sleep alone at night, even if you’re cold as hell and you miss his body emanating heat, but you don’t think he’s even noticed your moving rooms. With the amount of alcohol he ingests before returning home late at night, you’re not even sure how he can remember where home is.

You start looking for sports courses, pottering classes, airplane tickets for vacations you’ve always wanted to go on, anything that could get you back on track and to stop you from being the wannabe perfect wife to someone who doesn’t even consider you his wife worth respecting.

Two weeks pass since you two shared the kiss, and Donghyuck’s still avoiding you like the plague. So you do him a favour and make it easier for him by hiding from him.

One evening, you’re sitting on the couch biting on an apple and watching a documentary when your phone rings. No one ever calls you, and in a pathetic attempt of hoping that he’s the one calling, you’re reminded of how much of a fool you are when you’re met with Jaemin’s name and contact picture looking right back at you. He never calls you, only talking to you through texts, so your stomach drops when your thoughts are racing, thinking that the reason Jaemin’s calling has something to do with something bad that’s happened to Donghyuck.

“Jaemin?” You ask, falling short of breath expecting the worst news ever. You suddenly regret the cold shoulder you’ve given Donghyuck.

“Y/n, yes, hi” he answers robotically, and you feel hesitation in his voice.

“Did something happen?” You push it, trying to brace yourself for the worst possible news.

“Mmm, just wanted to ask you something,” he says but it comes out more like a question. When you prompt him to continue, you hear him breathe through his teeth hesitantly, “I wanted to see if Hyuck’s home, maybe?” You know Jaemin well enough to know that he is conflicted and embarrassed by this phone call.

“What?” You ask incredulously. “Is this the reason you called?” You bark back, knowing that Jaemin is not one of the people you need to hide from when it comes to the real you.

“I didn’t know who to call,” he says but it sounds like a question once again, his tone defensive. “Me and Mark were supposed to meet him at my apartment tonight, and he didn’t show up. We thought something had happened because he said he’d come home to grab a quick bite with you, but he never came back and it’s been two hours” he explains, and you hear Mark telling him what kind of questions to ask you, “I’m sorry Y/n, just call me if you ever need anything”.

You sigh, once again disappointed. “I’m sorry Jaemin,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “And Mark,” you continue, knowing he’s listening as well. “I’m sorry but Donghyuck never came home, and I don’t know where he is,” you say, before bidding goodbye to the two.

What a fucking idiot, you mumble, throwing your phone on the couch. You pick up your apple but you can’t chew on it right now, not with the lump that’s formed in your throat, suffocating you.

Why is Donghyuck acting the way he is? To you, to his friends? It's like he doesn’t want to keep the cover up of this marriage intact to the eyes of outsiders.

Lost in your own thoughts you lose track of time, the first documentary ends just for another one to start. You fail to hear the car parking outside your house, but you don’t fail to notice the tingling of keys just outside your front door. Waiting for Donghyuck to enter and be as drunk as he’s made a habit of being, just for then to skip checking the living room or any other room in the house and go directly to the upstairs bedroom, you’re incredibly irritated when you realise he’s so drunk off his ass that he can’t see where to put the keys in.

You stand to you feet, approaching the front door, and just in that moment the door opens slightly, showing a dishevelled Donghyuck totter forward in the hallway. He notices you, and he smirks at you as if you’re not ready to kick him in the throat for all the mixed feelings you’re feeling because of him. You’ve never felt more low, more pathetic, more disrespected than right now.

“Hi, baby” he rasps, and you know that the tone of his voice and the words he just spoke would have had you on cloud nine. But now you feel disgusted.

“Where the fuck have you been? And why are you so drunk at seven in the evening?” You ask, a deep frown plastered on you features.

He tsks, trying to stand upright, and that’s when you see it. At first you think it’s just the shadow of his shirt’s collar, but then you look more attentively, and a simple shadow can’t have red and brown and purple tones plastered all over.

A hickey? Your heart drops and you think you’re about to black out in about ten seconds because of the distress you feel right now. Another woman’s scent is something, but a mark on his body is another thing completely. You suddenly feel sick to your stomach, but he’s too drunk to bring it up, and you know it’s not really your place to hold him accountable for this. So your internal war goes on and on, and on.

So you try to play it off by chewing his head off like a good friend would do. And you hope the hurt in your eyes goes unnoticed, but you don’t think too deeply about this because he’s too drunk to remember his own name.

“Where have you been, Hyuck?” You ask softly, but he’s too drunk to sense the amicable tone you’re using, and gets defensive immediately.

“Why the fuck do you keep asking me this, Y/n?” He barks, and somehow it hurts you more than anything he’s previously done to you.

The lump in your throat sets itself once again, threatening to make you spill the dinner and the apple you had tonight. But looking at Donghyuck’s dishevelled self, smelling him, and seeing the marks on his neck completely enrages you, making you find the voice to snarl back at him.

“Don’t fucking raise your voice because I’m on the verge of punching you in the throat, Donghyuck” you snarl through gritted teeth.

“You’re so sexy when you threaten me, and you use my government name, baby,” he smirks, trying to keep his upright posture the best he can.

“Stop being an idiot,” you push his shoulder, making him lose his balance for just a second. “Jaemin called me, Donghyuck,” you push him once again, this time his back comes into touch with the wall behind him, and the mention of his friend’s name snaps Donghyuck out of whatever dizziness he was in. His eyes are the size of saucers, and he seems like he wants to say something but you cut him off immediately, “It’s okay to neglect me, but get you fucking shit together if you don’t want your other friends to bust your fucking masterplan,” you say through gritted teeth, before turning around and going up the stairs, not sparing Donghyuck another look.

In doing so, you fail to see the look on Donghyuck’s face, you fail to hear the front door closing behind him, and the engine of his car getting turned on.

You’re suffocated by the wave of emotions you feel, they’re making you drown in your own tears. Tears run down your cheeks before you can sense them even brimming in your eyes, and the sobs that follow are a raw reminder of the unhappiness you’ve felt in the last months of your life. But now you can add betrayal to the equation.

You must do something to get out of this situation, or you’re risking losing yourself for a man who doesn’t really lose sleep over how much hurt he’s causing you.

Donghyuck is not sure how he’s managed to reach Jaemin’s apartment complex safe and sound, but he stomps his way through the building like he owns it. He just might. He’ll buy the place tomorrow and he’ll kick Jaemin on the streets for the stunt he’s pulled on his wife later this evening.

The knocks on Jaemin’s door reverberate so loudly that even Donghyuck is kind of intimidated by the echo they make.

The moment Jaemin opens the door, Donghyuck pushes through without caring about the force he uses to push at Jaemin’s chest to get him out of the way.

“What the fuck, man?” Jaemin asks in disbelief.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to ask you this, you moron,” Donghyuck snarls, pushing again at Jaemin chest, making him grit his teeth in annoyance knowing why his friend is paying him a visit. It must have something to do with the phone call he’s given his wife.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he warns, waiting for the shitstorm that drunk Donghyuck is willing to start.

“What the fuck were you thinking, calling Y/n?” Donghyuck raises his voice once again, “You call my wife for what reason, exactly?” His gaze throws daggers at Jaemin’s head, but the latter doesn’t back down. “What the fuck is wrong with you, snooping about my life like you have no other business? Are you trying to ruin it for me?”

Jaemin can take a lot of things. Can take violence, palms of hands on his chest, punches to his face. He can take a nasty mouth like Donghyuck’s, and he can take the disrespect because he knows he’ll sort it out with his friends once he’s sober. But there’s something Jaemin can’t take, and that is someone blaming him when he did nothing wrong, and when women are being disrespected.

So he walks towards Donghyuck, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and throwing him into the wall, keeping him glued against the hard, cold surface.

“Your wife was home alone, sad, and upset,” Jaemin makes a threatening pause between each word, pushing Donghyuck against the wall again and again each time, “So shut the fuck up before I push you through this wall. She didn’t even know where you were, and you have fucking hickeys on your fucking neck. So, tell me now, who’s the one ruining it for you?,” Jaemin lets Donghyuck go after one last push. But doesn’t spare him another look.

A week passes since the hickey incident and you don’t see Donghyuck. You assume he’s on some sort of vacation with someone else, and you don’t even care enough to look for him on the tracking app. You don’t want to make an obsession out of this, because you guess he’s with someone else, and actually seeing his contact on some exotic country’s map on the phone app would be your final straw.

So you try to do your own thing by packing a small trolley and calling a cab to take you to the airport. You’re not sure about the destination, but you feel like you need to do this to get out of the slums of your heart.

You buy a ticket for the first flight you set your eyes on once you reach the ticket till, and make your way through the passenger lounges towards the gates. You already feel refreshed, and you nearly vibrate with anticipation when you think about the days that are yet to come and the alone time you’ll have for yourself, but this time in a different city. Alone and away from your supposed husband.

You reach one of the restaurants there, and you hate to admit to yourself that Donghyuck has engulfed every aspect of your life when you realise that you’re going to drink beer and eat steak at ten in the morning just because Donghyuck has always done this type of thing, “It’s the law of the jungle here, baby” he once joked when he almost got drunk off overpriced wine in one of the airport’s restaurants way before noon.

So you gulp the resurfacing feelings back to where they belong, the bottom of your being where you hope they’ll be forgotten and unreachable for a long time, and so you reach the bar, asking for steak and beer like you’d be asking for a coffee and muffin at the local cafeteria back home. Which again, you don’t need to be worried about because airports are like casinos, especially if you have a flight with a layover in the middle.

You chew your steak and you can’t help but think about how Donghyuck would love this, and there goes your appetite. The lump in your throat returns, and your stomach churns because of all the emotions you feel all at once. You think you need to go see a doctor, because your emotional state is already affecting your physical state as well.

“Excuse me,” you feel someone patting you slightly on the shoulder, making you flinch just a bit at the unexpected contact, “Is this seat taken?” The stranger asks again in a very polite way, which makes you turn around to look at him.

You’re met with a tall, lean figure standing a few feet behind you, his finger still pointing at the seat next to you. You suddenly remember his question and you jump in realisation, moving your luggage on your other side of the stool you’re sitting on, making some space for him to move and sit down. “By all means,” you look at him, gesturing towards the high stool at the bar, “Please take a seat,”

He gives you a smile in return making himself comfortable before picking up the menu to look over. He’s wearing a black wool sweater, his glasses are covered in water droplets that have gone dry by now, probably from the rain outside. His black hair falls slightly on his forehead, and he has to shake his head from time to time to prevent his fringe from getting into his eyes as he tries to look for something appealing in that whole menu.

You go back to chewing your steak, and even nearly cold it’s still delicious. You try not to think too much about the steak and who might like it, or otherwise you’ll not be able to swallow the bite.

“Is the steak good?” The man on your left asks, still holding the menu in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he giggles, realising that you didn’t expect anyone to talk to you, “It’s just that I’m not really sure what to order and I’m starving, and that steak looks really nice,” he smiles at you, but you probably look like an idiot while he was only trying to be friendly.

“You should get it,” you smile back, seeing how his features relax when he hears your answer, “It’s one of the best steaks I’ve ever eaten. The ones I make are excluded,” you laugh, cutting into your steak.

His ears seem to perk up at the mention of your cooking, now intrigued by you. He introduces himself, and you grab his hand, never breaking eye contact with him. His hand is warm and big, his long fingers wrap around your palm, squeezing slightly.

“So, where are you off to?” He asks after a while, curious to know a bit more about you.

“Chicago,” you answer, playing with your bracelets.

“What a coincidence,” he sips on the last drop of beer from his glass, “So am I".

Donghyuck doesn’t see you for a whole week. After the fight at Jaemin’s, he doesn’t come back home to you, but spends the night in his car instead. Not that he couldn’t afford going to some other place, but he was still drunk and the information Jaemin gave about you really did a number on him. Jaemin could punch him, break his head against any surface of his apartment and it still wouldn’t hurt as much as finding out that you’re aware of all his actions on the side of your marriage.

And the fact that he has some fucking hickeys on his skin, and that you surely saw them, makes him want to jump off a cliff. The remorse is eating him from inside, and he’s sure he’s about to get a hole in his chest at the amount of stress he’s been through in the last week.

But not seeing you for a week did Donghyuck some good. He had some time to himself to be really alone, in a hotel room just outside the city, and rethink his life choices and everything he’s done lately. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this amount of shame bubbling inside of him, never thought he’d be able to hurt you so much. He remembers your eyes from that night, when you shoved his shoulder, and it must have happened after you saw the marks on his skin. He feels like a fucking idiot, like he has shit for a brain and there’s no way he’s ever going to straighten things up with you, not after last week. And he honestly doesn’t know what was going on in his head in the past months after the wedding happened, and what made him do all of this, all of the suffering he’s brought you.

After the wedding, after the first few months after the wedding, after grandma Lee passed, he thought that things were just going to go back to how they were before he even saw that damned testament. He could go around fucking whoever he wanted, as long as he came home each evening to be with you, have dinner together and then go to sleep. Nothing between the two of you had to change. The casual sleepovers at one of your apartments would become a recurrent sharing of the bed, but now as husband and wife even if the titles were just for show. The hugs, the embraces, the casual signs of affection that the two of you showed each other wouldn’t have to change. Except, he broke all his rules. Yes, he did go around fucking whoever he wanted, but he never got home on time. He stopped hanging out with you, stopped being there for you. And he can’t help but wonder what the fuck is wrong with him, because the amount of heartbreak he feels right now while acknowledging the pain he’s put you through is making him lose his mind. Maybe he realises this too late, but he thinks he’s done it out of fear. Fear of acknowledging his true feelings. Maybe he never thought you would ever agree to marrying him, but again, he was really hoping you would. He doesn’t understand what’s going on in his mind, but he’s sure of one thing, and that is that loves you. Scrap the “more than a sister but less than a romantic interest” bullshit he’s told himself time and time again, he’s sure he loves you in the pathetic Anna Scott and William Thacker way, the hopeless way, the romantic and desperate, yearning for your attention and just for you — kind of love.

Maybe spending one week away from you does him so good, because he decides to go back home, your shared home, to be a more present husband. He’ll work from home, he’ll do everything for you just as much as you did everything for him but he was too blind to see — or even more. He’ll take you out, he’ll take you on vacations you’ve always wanted to go on. He’ll pick up whatever couple activity you want, and even if it’s not an activity meant for couples he’d still go just for you.

He comes home after a week and a half of being away, and it’s early in the morning. He stops by the supermarket and buys all the ingredients he knows he needs to make your favourite breakfast, and buys freshly squeezed juice from the farmer’s till you love so much, by the entrance of the supermarket. He comes home, and it’s still early, and thank god you’re not down in the kitchen making something already.

He puts some music on, but the volume isn’t too loud so as to not wake you up. He wants to surprise you with breakfast in bed. He remembers when the two of you used to eat cup ramen or whatever other thing you prepared, while sitting in bed at either one’s dormitory. He missed those times, but he realises that nothing has to change, everything can be like before, especially now that he’s gotten the cold shower of reality.

He hears the front door open and turns around confused, but before he can make a step and come towards the entry hall, you show up in the kitchen looking just as surprised as he does.

“What is going on?” Your eyes are the size of saucers, pointing at the spatula in his hand and the apron he’s wearing on top of his casual clothes. It doesn’t look like he’s slept home, otherwise he’d be in his pyjamas or suit and tie. But he’s in jeans and a fitting t-shirt. This time, your stomach doesn’t churn and your heart doesn’t drop.

“Were you not home? Sleeping?” He asks, pointing his thumb towards the staircase.

“No,” you answer but it comes out more as a question, “Were you not home? You should have noticed I haven’t been here for four days,” you retort, your tone not that friendly.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were avoiding me,” he lies. His heart drops knowing he wasn’t here to notice you were gone. “I just wanted to make you breakfast, your favourite,” he shows you the pan full of vegetables, scrambled eggs and grated cheese. You start salivating looking at the colours in the pan alone, knowing that it’s going to be delicious because Donghyuck is an excellent cook. “By the way, we have freshly squeezed orange juice in the fridge, your favourite type, no pulp,” he points his head towards the fridge.

“Jesus, we’re like the fucking Kennedys this morning,” you reply, walking towards the fridge to take the juice out. He laughs at your joke, and it’s like music to your ears. You haven’t heard this sound in a long time, and you have to think about something else as not to let your feelings resurface.

“We’re more like… Brangelina,” he jokes, and this time you’re the one laughing.

“So,” he says, sitting at the kitchen island across from where you’re sitting, so he can see you better. God, you’re so beautiful. Your eyes are sparkling and your cheeks are rosy. You’re wearing that coloured chapstick that tints your lips just the right amount, and it contours your features so perfectly his chest heaves with something close to euphoria. The euphoria of seeing you. “Where did you go these past days? Did you have fun?” He doesn’t want to know the details, because it’s a reminder of the past. The past that he doesn’t want to go back to.

He’s a new man, a married man but he’ll take this seriously this time. A new chapter starts today.

Hearing his question, you stop mid chew. What are you supposed to tell him? Are you two sharing this kind of information now? “Yes,” you reply simply, nodding your head, “I had fun,”

“That’s good, I’m glad” he smiles at you, and it is his most genuine smile. You know it.

“Listen, Y/n,” he starts, but swallows his words when he looks at you. He wanted to apologise, but he feels like it’s too soon and too sudden right now. He’ll do it when the perfect time comes.

“Actually, Hyuck, I’d like for you to listen first. I have something I want to tell you,” you sip on your orange juice, and Donghyuck stops mid chew, and you sense there’s something in his eyes. Fear?

“I’m thankful for you making breakfast this morning, I really am,” you smile at him, trying to bring him some reassurance, “But you don’t have to do this. You never make breakfast and you’re never around but, for some reason, you’re here now preparing my favourite meal for me. I don’t know why you’re doing this or what’s wrong,” you actually might have a faint idea, but you keep it to yourself, “But we can live separate lives. I’ll respect your choices, and we don’t have to interact with each other if that’s not what you really want,”

“What? No!” He interrupts you, frowning, “What are you talking about?”

“You keep avoiding me, you’re away all the time,” you start, but you can feel tears forming in your eyes. Damn it, that’s not how you wanted this to turn out, he doesn’t deserve any more of your tears. “So, I understand that your plan of getting your inheritance was successful, but we really don’t need to be around each other. I get it now, so I’m letting you know that I’ve moved some of my things out of our room, but not all just in case, you know, if our friends ever come by and they see us having completely separate rooms. It would look really bad for your plan,” you explain, drying your tears but smiling nonetheless. And the image breaks Donghyuck.

“You can go do your activities, by yourself, and I’ll do mine on my own” you continue, “but there’s one thing I want to ask of you. Please don’t bring anyone in our house. This is our house,” you make small pauses between requests, hoping he’ll understand what you’re implying. You’re willing to give up your happiness thinking of what could have been for the peace of mind of coming to terms with what your life actually is like. It’s the only way you can still be with Donghyuck, and you have to make this compromise.

“What?” He snarls, a frown painted on his face.

“It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, but you need to get away from him or you’ll start crying in front of him, and that’s not what you want. So you stand to your feet, pushing the stool under the kitchen island. “You don’t have to worry about anything, okay?” You look at him, but your emotions get the better of you and your eyes are brimming with tears for what feels like the millionth time in the past few months, and he looks back at you like you just caught him committing some sort of crime, “I’ll go to my room now, I need to be alone” you point towards the staircase, “By the way, there’s some dry cleaning that needs to be picked up, can you go?” You ask, but he knows that it is not a question.

He gulps, seeing your back leaving the kitchen. “Sure,” but you’re already on your way to your room, and you don’t hear him.

The day goes by, and Donghyuck doesn’t see you around the house again. He respects your boundaries, so he doesn’t push to get you to listen to what he has to say right away, so he secludes himself in your — formerly — shared bedroom, trying to give you space just for today at least.

The following day, he comes back home after picking the clothes held hostage for so long at the dry cleaner’s — and immediately notices the silence. The dead silence, only the clock ticking making a sound that’s too loud in Donghyuck’s ears and too heavy on his heart. He supposes you’re still locked in the guest room, hence the disgusting silence.

He’s used to finding you around the house either cooking, either singing using a broom as a mic stand as you clean around; either the loud sound of war documentaries, or you crying while watching a cheetah eating an antelope on Animal Planet, either you baby talking to the plants you were planting in some pots in the back garden. But now everything is dead, dead silent.

He really wants to make this right. He rethinks about everything that happened in the past weeks, Jaemin knocking some sense into him, all the conclusions he’s come to, and the words you told him earlier this morning.

First, he realised he wants to make this right. No more sleeping around, no more hiding from you, no more hurting you. It took him long enough to realise he wants to be in this marriage for real, and not just because he was promised millions of dollars if he got married, and he chose the easier way since you were the only woman who’s been around him for so long, — that he now realises he was in love with since his teenage years. It was like a cold shower taken on a scorching day, the type that makes your heart stop for one second and then back to pumping blood quickly in an uneven rhythm.

Secondly, he promised himself, after many days of mulling thoughts in his head, that he’d be more attentive, and that he will try to make things right with you. He’d spend more time with you, as opposed to what he did until now — spending his days with women, too many to count, too many to even remember. And he’s filled with shame every time he remembers how he came home all dirtied up, their kissing marks left all over his body, his clothes stinking of their perfumes, and when he stepped through the front door you were there, waiting for him with dinner and wine, or patiently waiting for him to come home so you could spend some time together like you used to. But he was scared, and it took Jaemin’s shoving to make his brain start working. He’d never meant to hurt you, although he was trying to avoid you every day since that kiss between you two happened, because he thought it was weird. He proposed marriage to you, without any obligations, he never asked you to love him or be faithful to him, and you never asked him either. So why was it so weird? So complicated? He started avoiding you when he realised that maybe you were all he needed after all, and that thought was scary. He jumped head first into this marriage expecting the two of you to live your lives like you were used to doing, and now it seems that he might have done it because it felt right. And it had always been you, and only you.

Going up the stairs every two steps at a time, he quickly reaches the upper floor of your shared house, reaching the guest room’s door, where you’ve been sleeping since he screwed up — you made sure to let him know this just earlier.

“Y/n?” He calls your name gently, hoping for you to recognise the vulnerability in his voice. “Y/n, can we talk?” He pleads, knocking slightly on the wooden door.

It creaks open, a puzzled Donghyuck opening it slowly as he looks a bit around the room, expecting you to be in bed or maybe doing some sort of activity you found solace in while avoiding his presence.

But you were nowhere to be found. He takes big steps towards the dressing room, noticing the lights are turned off, and then in a last attempt he tries to look for you on the room’s balcony. But you’re not there, and he’s sure there’s nowhere nearly as cozy and comfortable as this space for you to be hiding. And your shared bedroom is an excluded possibility, because that’s where he’ll be sleeping, and you didn’t want to see his face, it was for sure.

In a last, desperate attempt to find you, he moves quickly towards the bedroom, and he prays to god he’ll find you in there looking through your old clothes and trying them on like you always do every few months, calling him an idiot as soon as you see his face entering the room. But you’re not there either, and he can only sigh, sitting on the bed, thinking of what he can do to find you.

Would it be wise to call Renjun? He’s one of his best friends, but also yours? Renjun would take your side any second, and Donghyuck knows this.

“Let’s not,” he mumbles, throwing the phone across the bed and throwing his back harshly on the hard mattress of your shared bed. He misses you. He missed feeling annoyed by your sleeping figure stretching all over him in search for heat. He misses your perfume, your scent hogging his senses as soon as his head hits your pillow. Your pillow, the one he keeps close in his embrace every time you woke earlier than he did. He misses you so much, he needs to feel you randomly giving him a warm embrace.

He can remember the scent of your hair, the one sticking to your skin, and he gets up from the bed to go to your vanity desk to spray a little bit around the room, just so he can find a little bit of comfort before he thinks of where you could be.

He stops in his tracks, sensing there’s something odd going on. Looking around the room, he can’t pinpoint it, but he suddenly feels it in the pit of his stomach.

He looks at your vanity desk, inspecting it from where he’s standing, and he looks for the bottle of your perfume that he loves. And then it hits him. It’s not there. Out of all the perfume bottles, the one you always wore — which he loves, — it’s nowhere to be seen. He jogs to the bathroom attached to your bedroom, hoping that you took it there when you were getting ready to leave, because you’ve done that before. Except, this time you didn’t place it in the bathroom. It’s as spotless as ever, as if no one has ever used it before. Your shower products are still lined nicely in the shower, your skincare still inside the cabinets hanging on the walls. But not your toothbrush. His is sitting alone in the glass holders where they usually touch each other, as unhygienic as it sounds.

He speeds out of the bathroom, back to your vanity, where he inspects the products laying around. Your preferred perfume is gone, a few make up products missing from the little drawer you had arranged them so nicely in. His eyes dart to the jewellery box sitting on the edge of the desk, and he picks its lid up, inspecting what’s inside. Your usual jewellery is looking right back at his stupid face, as if it was mocking him for freaking out, but he notices some of the expensive jewellery he’s gifted you ever since you two got married, are gone. A bracelet, a few rings, a necklace and a brooch are gone. And then his eyes still on two pieces of jewellery, his heart dropping to his stomach as soon as he recollects his bearings.

Your wedding band and your engagement ring sit mockingly in the corner of the box, as if you had thrown them in without even looking where they landed, without even making sure if they made it inside the box before you sealed it closed.

The thought of you purposefully leaving your rings behind makes him want to hurl, his mind running desperate tireless laps as he tries to understand what’s going on.

And then it dawns on him. You left.

He puts the box back down with gentle hands, and he feels like the ceiling might have collapsed on him with the amount of heaviness he feels in his chest and stomach. Did you really leave? He wants to make sure before he loses his mind, so he checks a few of your drawers and the dressing room adjacent to the bedroom. He can see a few garments missing from each section of the wardrobe, noticing how one of your suitcases is also gone.

Not knowing what to do, he walks back to the bedroom, his hands frantically going through his hair and eyes closing tightly in an attempt to find a way to calm himself down. His eyes so forcefully shut that he starts seeing spots as soon as he opens them again.

He reaches for his phone, trying to look for you through your shared location. “God fucking Dammit,” he exhales when he opens the app.

You went as far as turning your location services off on all your devices, which you’ve never done before, not since he taught you how to turn them on ten years ago.

He dials your number in a miserable attempt to get a hold of you, but it goes to voicemail almost immediately. “Please pick up,” He doesn’t want to give up, so he dials your number a few more times before he gives in and leaves a message on your voicemail.

“Y/n, it’s me, please pick up,” and after five minutes of hopeful waiting, that maybe you’ll reach to him out of pity more than anything, he tries again.

“Y/n, it’s me, Hyuck,” he can feel his voice full of uncertainty. He clears his throat, “Where are you? I came home earlier wanting to talk, but I can’t find you anywhere, please call me back,”

An hour of waiting for you to give him a small sign, he feels like he’s losing his mind going back and forth in this damned bedroom.

“Y/n, please come home. At least call me back, tell me you’re safe. Please, please Y/n, call me back” he whispers into the phone before it gets cut off.

Donghyuck feels a tight knot forming in his stomach, only the thought of you not being safe makes him despise himself. If anything happened to you while being away because of him, he would never be able to forgive himself for doing this to you.

Noticing how time flew by, he checks his phone once again, even if you sent him a dry text he’d be happy because he’d know you’re safe enough to check your phone. There aren’t many places Donghyuck knows you’d choose as a safe space trying to put some space between the two of you, but he thinks of one where you could be at right now, and he quickly runs down the stairs and snatches his car keys, so distressed that he forgets to grab his coat.

There’s only one place where you could be, and he needs to see for himself.

“What are you doing here?” Renjun opens the door slightly, but then fully opens it for his friend to step in. “Not only did you steal my best friend, the one who was supposed to marry me at thirty-five in case we didn’t find anyone to get married to, but you’re now attempting to steal my time too,” he rolls his eyes at the man standing in front of him.

“Steal your future wife?” Donghyuck frowns for a few seconds, processing what Renjun said. “What if she was the one stealing your future husband? What, Renjun, wasn’t I good enough for you?” Donghyuck touches his chest where his heart is, tsk-ing his disapproval with fake annoyance.

“Your ways of causing me disgust are always unbelievable,” Renjun fake gags, crossing his arms.

“Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Donghyuck sends a flying kiss, and Renjun is glad that they’re not standing next to each other right now because the two of them are close enough for Renjun to know that his friend would attempt to kiss him on any spot of his face that he can reach.

Donghyuck quickly drops the banter, curiously looking around the room, trying to find any of your objects that you could have carelessly left behind when he dropped by. In his head, you’re here somewhere, hiding from him. He hopes you are, and even if you came out and kicked him out the door, he’d be grateful because that way he’d know you are in a place where you are safe and sound.

And Renjun can’t help but notice Donghyuck’s dishevelled look, the locks on his head messily pointing in different directions, and of course there was the fact that he isn’t wearing a coat. He observes the way his friend’s eyes dart back and forth between various surfaces of his living room, and the way Donghyuck’s hands reach behind his head in an unconscious motion.

“So,” Renjun begins, “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Donghyuck half laughs.

“I’m not dumb. You’re my best friends and you’re married to each other. You haven’t pestered me with stupid memes in the past days, and I’ve only heard from Y/n a couple of times,” he sees his friend’s face lighten up at the mention of your name, “So what did you do?”

“Why do you assume I’m the one in the wrong here?”

Renjun scoffs, his friend’s almost offended tone not being that well received.

“You always do shit to hurt Y/n, so excuse me for giving her the benefit of the doubt,”

“What do you mean?” Donghyuck asks again, this time sober.

Renjun sighs, “I had to waltz around the two of you for a very long time, I lived with the two of you before,” he frowns, moving his hand between himself and Donghyuck, “I had to witness times when you hurt her feelings, maybe unknowingly, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, but you did nonetheless. I had to pick up pieces you stepped on carelessly, while she gave herself to you on a silver platter. No, pardon me, a golden platter. Your sleeping around, your mindless jokes about it, your little remarks that played with her heart every time you complimented her while making promises to her, and the way she believed you without any second thoughts as if you wouldn’t forget about her and the promises made to her an hour later.” Renjun inhales sharply, recognising how he’s getting worked up, but these are things he’s been dying to say to his friend, and now is the perfect time to do so.

“Don’t act dumb, Hyuck, I was there and I saw it all happen right before my eyes. Every time you promised her the sun, you left her hanging in the air, looking for you yet you were unreachable, avoiding her. I had to mend the pieces you fucked with, every single time. That’s why I was afraid when she told us she’d be getting married to you so suddenly and out of nowhere. I was scared for her wellbeing,” Renjun gulps, crossing his arms once again.

“So, whatever you did this time, I don’t care. I won’t help you in any way. I want her to be well and happy, and if she’ll reach out to me, I’ll be there for her. But you need to get your shit sorted, before it’s too late. If it isn’t already,”

Donghyuck inhales sharply, trying to digest every piece of information he’s found out from Renjun, on which he’ll mull over later when his nerves might calm down.

“Okay,” he surrenders, “I am getting my shit together, Renjun. I have been for the past few days,”

“It’s not long enough. A few days of meditating on your shitty actions won’t erase your wrongdoings,”

“I know, and that’s why I’m working on it, I’m doing this for her,” he starts taking a few steps towards the door, when he turns back to face Renjun, “If she calls you, just tell her to call me, please. I want her to be safe,” the sad look in his eyes are a sight Renjun never thought he’d see, especially from Donghyuck.

“I’ll see you around,” and with that, he gently closes the front door behind himself.

A few days pass, and Donghyuck has made an obsession with checking if you turned your location on again. You haven’t reached out to him, and neither did Renjun. He hopes that his friend would be considerate enough to reach out to him if he ever found out anything about you, but he’s left hanging.

He hasn’t been able to eat much, only a few bites so as not to get stomach aches from hunger. He already had stomach aches just thinking about not having a clue about your whereabouts, he didn’t want to end up on a hospital bed because he couldn’t take a fucking nibble. The bottles of liquor and alcohol the two of you had agreed on keeping on a neat bar shelf in the corner of your living room were almost empty. He’s never felt more distraught, and the liquor only helped numbing his thoughts for a short amount of time, for they all came back to his mind as soon as he woke up from his drunken naps. Donghyuck hasn’t been able to sleep much either, that’s mainly why he drained almost every bottle of hard liquor in the house. He doesn’t want to forget anything about you, but his brain is his biggest enemy these days, and the only thing that can help him out is the thought that maybe, after the alcohol numbs him real good and puts him to sleep, he’ll wake up to you standing in front of him, holding him tight and telling him you forgive him and you want things to work out. Because he can do this, he can do anything you’d ask him, he can make this work. He loves you.

He left you more voicemails and texts, and all went unanswered. By the time the alcohol’s effects wore off, his muscles were already starting to ache from the countless times he fell asleep on the big carpet downstairs, on which he chose to rest in hopes of hearing your keys opening the front door. He was like a sick puppy. Waiting for the owner of his heart to come back home, because he knows you’ll eventually come back. He hopes, at least.

He stands to his feet, taking the empty bottle outside and sitting it carefully inside the trash can, as to not make too much noise. His head feels like it’s being split in half, and his muscles beg for a hot shower, which he gladly plans to take after popping two Advils from the medicine cabinet in one of the bathrooms downstairs.

After using his favourite scent out of all your shower gel bottles lined up in the shower, he wraps a towel around his waist, walking back to the bedroom to pick up his phone. Your location is still off, and he decides to leave another voicemail for you, because if there’s any possibility of you listening to these voicemails, he wants to be sure he made everything in his power to reach out to you and make you realise how serious he is about everything.

One hand on his hip, while his teeth nibble on his bottom lip, he dials your number, waiting for the call to go to voicemail. Except this time the call goes through, ringing in his ears.

“Hello?” A male voice answers, and Donghyuck has to look quickly on the phone’s screen to make sure he didn’t dial someone else.

This is your number.

“Y/n?” He inquires, a deep frown forming on his smooth forehead.

“Oh, Y/n’s in the shower right now, can I take a message?”

Donghyuck feels his throat run dry, and sharply exhales in an attempt to calm himself before he can regret anything that might come out of his mouth. Not only is the thought of your leaving destroying him, but to hear another man answering your phone might be the last thing he does before he goes insane.

Who the fuck is it? Who is this man? He cant help but ask himself. Who is it? Is it a friend of mine? But he doesn’t recognise the voice.

“Hello?” The voice on the other line rings in his ears, “Are you still there?”

“And who are you?” Donghyuck rasps, his voice raw with anger.

“Erm,” Donghyuck can feel uncertainty in the man’s tone, “I’m Sungchan. Can I take a message for Y/n?”

The mention of your name out of his mouth makes Donghyuck see red before his eyes.

“Yes, Sungchan,” Donghyuck spits out with anger, “Can you tell Y/n to call home as soon as possible? This is her husband, Donghyuck, by the way,” after which he hangs up, throwing the phone across the room, not even bothering to pick it up again.

You get out of the shower, stepping on the hotel’s slippers, feeling refreshed after getting rid of the sweat residues on your skin, when you feel a knock on the bathroom door. You open it wide, seeing a frowning Sungchan leaning on the doorframe, clearly bothered by something.

“Sungchan?” You ask, combing your fingers through your wet hair. “Is everything okay?”

You see him giving you a conflicted look, and he bites on his lip. “Your husband called. Why didn’t you tell me that you’re married?” He asks you, and you think the sky falls suddenly. It would be easier if he wasn’t looking at you right now, but his gaze is piercing, cold, and hurt.

“What?” You ask, but not because you didn’t hear it the first time, but because you need time to think how to explain everything to him.

Yes, you omitted this detail when you hooked up with Sungchan the first time, but it’s not like he asked deliberately ‘are you married?’. You and him were on the same flight to Chicago. You like the attention he gave you at the airport, and he offered to show you around if you didn’t already have an itinerary planned out. So you accepted, and between some museums, jazz bars, and nice restaurants, you found yourself in bed with him.

With him, you got rid of all the stress you accumulated in the past months, and for the first time in years you even felt loved and appreciated.

Apart from the shame and regret of not being genuine with Sungchan from the very beginning that’s eating at you, there’s also the way he’s looking at you right now. Betrayed, hurt, on the verge of tears.

How did Donghyuck’s hurting lead you into hurting other people? You knew Sungchan likes you, because he explicitly told you so, so why did you have to pull the same card your husband played on you?

“Sungchan,” you start, but no words can make up for the damage already done, because he pushes away from the doorway, going back to look for his clothes.

“I don’t want to hear it,” his voice trembles, sliding the pair of jeans on his long legs. “I can’t believe you did this to me,” he’s mostly talking to himself, and you’re left in the corner of the room in your towel only, watching as he gathers his things from your hotel room.

“Never look for me again,” he walks past you, towards the door, not looking at you even once, “Go back to your husband, Y/n,”

And of course, what other fucking choice do you have?

You push your trolley through the entrance hallway, leaving it at the foot of the staircase, making your way towards the living room. You enter the room, empty and messy, and you can see that Donghyuck has been spending more time at home now than he did before. His clothes are scattered on the couch, a sock is thrown carelessly behind one of the houseplants while the other is resting under the coffee table. He’s not here, but you can sense the smell of steak, and you can hear him humming something in the other room.

You enter the kitchen, that’s empty and messy, and then you hear Donghyuck’s voice ring a bit louder in your ears. You walk around the kitchen island, sliding the kitchen door open and you exit on the patio, scaring Donghyuck.

He’s grilling steak on the patio, dancing around with a huge grilling fork, getting scared when he heard the door slide shut behind you.

“You’re home, baby,” he uses his saccharine voice, and you throw your phone on the wooden table next to the grill.

“Cut the crap,” you snarl, pulling a chair to sit, and you plop down while pointing at your phone, “I called you, you didn’t pick up,” you bite on your cheek, in a desperate attempt to keep your cool and not blow this fucking patio up.

“I didn’t pick up, nope” he makes a popping sound at the end, using a piece of cardboard to vent the meat on the grill.

“Then why all the voicemails pleading me to call you back? If you can’t fucking pick up?” You bark, but he doesn’t flinch at your tone.

“I didn’t pick up because I broke it,” he explains calmly before turning around to look at you, “I sort of got upset after a phone call. How’s your friend, by the way? Sungchan, was it?” He asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Do not fucking say his name,” you threaten, looking at him like you’re ready to jump him.

“Do not fucking look at me like that, Y/n” he threatens back, placing his hands on the wooden table. “I’m you fucking husband!” He raises his voice.

“And I’m your fucking wife!” You scream at him, while standing to your feet. Your nose is flaring with anger, and when your gaze meets his you feel the familiar suffocating lump in your throat. “In the last eight months, how many times did you consider yourself to be my husband?” You ask accusingly, pointing a finger in his direction. “How many times did you think you had a wife waiting for you at home, when you were with other women?” You cry out, biting on your lip in order to not let all the sobs run past your lips. “How many times, Donghyuck, did I turn a blind eye on your indiscretions? The times you came back home smelling like other women, marks on your skin, the amount of times you didn’t come home for long periods of time?”

“So you think you’re better than me if you just run off with another man?” He raises his voice at you once again, slamming a hand on the wooden table.

You’re honestly appalled at how he’s trying to turn this on you.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You ask calmly, your tears not flowing anymore. “You’re trying to blame me but you don’t see the root of the problem here. So it’s okay for you to do it for months, and then when I do it once it’s suddenly a problem?” You can’t look at him any more, feeling too upset to even spare him a glance.

You notice the alcohol bottles sitting around the bin, and you suppose they’re there because the bin is already full.

“Are you drunk?” You ask in disbelief. You swear he seemed sober when he shouted at you just a few minutes ago.

“Do I look like I’m fucking drunk right now?” He asks exasperated. “Not now anyway, but I did drink waiting for your fucking call, Y/n” he points the grilling fork in your direction, as if he’s accusing you of something. “I waited, and I waited, and I waited for you call, but you just ignored me. You come home one day telling me that you don’t care who I’m with just for you to secretly leave to get with another man. What kind of pure and innocent role are you playing, Y/n? Telling me it’s alright just so you have your peace of mind while doing it, because you thought you laid your cards on the table?” He accuses you with an extremely calm tone.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Y/n, but what was I supposed to do? You left your fucking rings at home and took off!” He shouts again, and you realise you’ve never had a fight this intense with Donghyuck, with so much shouting. You don’t even think you’ve heard Donghyuck’s shout except for the one he lets out when he’s trying to be funny. Two completely different tones.

“So what? You kept your ring on when you were fucking around?” You bite back, and he doesn’t say anything else.

You decide there’s no way you want to continue the fight. At this point you’re not sure if whatever you and Donghyuck have is worth fighting for. You turn around, not even looking at him again, and go towards the staircase to go to your room.

“Where are you going? Y/n?” He comes after you, calling your name and trying to grab you by the arm, “I made steak!”

“You can shove it up you ass!” You retort, getting out of his grasp, going up on the stairs and leaving him like a lost puppy.

You sit on the carpet at the foot of your bed, not even bothering to turn the lights on. You know you want to be alone right now, but you know that you’d rather be alone in this huge house instead of having Donghyuck downstairs.

You feel like the love you carry for Donghyuck is consuming you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. He can be the biggest idiot in this world and you would still love him. He can be the one to have a huge screaming match with and you’d still forgive him, and love him. Your pain is amplified when you recall the fight you two just had, because everything he said earlier is true. You told him to do whatever he wants because you knew you could go find solace in Sungchan, you wouldn’t be alone anymore, and you could start doing whatever Donghyuck was doing without thinking twice. Just like he did. And what pains you the most is the fact that he made it sound like you were the one who cheated on him first.

And okay, you’re technically not together. But would it be so hard for him to acknowledge you once in a while? Would it be hard for him to stop thinking with his dick and just open his eyes to see that you’re right here, everything he would ask for, you’d give him on a golden platter. But again, maybe he doesn’t feel the same way towards you, and it’s better not to know this instead of having your feelings hurt to a point of no return.

And Sungchan. That poor soul. You feel so sorry for treating him like this, and you feel even worst for making him feel like Donghyuck made you feel up to this point. Sungchan left so abruptly that you didn’t have the chance to tell him the truth. Yes, your husband called, but guess what? He’s not really your husband. It sounds pathetic. You wish you could at lest have told him the truth, about the nature of the relationship between you and Donghyuck, but you guess you had it coming — because not once did you think about bringing your marriage, albeit fake, up to Sungchan, and you had more occasions than you can count on two hands.

You feel conflicted. You feel like the best thing for you would be getting away from Donghyuck as soon as possible. He brings out the worst side of you. The jealous, possessive side, that really has no business existing. Because it’s a fake one, this marriage shouldn’t make you feel like a miserable fool. It shouldn’t affect you the way it does, you’ve only known sadness and jealousy in the past months and it’s really not fair, not when Donghyuck doesn’t care about you and your marriage as much as you do. But at the same time, even if you think it’s best to get away, you just can’t. You’re so used to being with Donghyuck that he has become a part of you, and walking away from him would feel like walking around with just one leg instead of two.

You’re sobbing into your own hands, feeling like the world just collapsed, and you don’t sense Donghyuck coming up the stairs towards your room.

“Y/n, I want to talk,” he opens the door just slightly, waiting for you to say something, but he doesn’t hear an answer, “Can we talk?”

“Go away,” You scoff, raising your head from your hands, bringing your knees to your chest. You notice him stepping carefully inside the room, the light on the hallway brightening your room just a little. He’s carrying your suitcase, the one you left at the foot of the staircase, and he puts it behind the door, before he comes next to you and decides to sit down.

He’s so close you can smell him, even if your nose is stuffy from all the crying. His arm is touching yours, and he brings one of his legs up to imitate your position. You don’t look him in the eye, but your tears keep streaming down your face uncontrollably, and you bite your lip trying not to let the sobs escape you.

He extends one hand, touching the arm closest to him, squeezing slightly.

“Lets talk about this,” he shushes you as soon as you try to reply back, and pats your head with careful gestures, “Come here,” he instructs, and your body responds immediately, like you wouldn’t even need a brain, just Donghyuck to tell you what to do and give out commands for you to follow.

Your face falls in the crook of his neck, and the moment you face touches his skin your tears are unstoppable. He continues to shush you, to tell you to let it all out, to tell you that everything’s okay.

And while you’re in his arms, and he holds you like this, showing you that he does indeed care about you, maybe you believe his words — that everything will be okay, just this once.

“Y/n, I know you can’t talk right now, so I will do the talking, okay?” He asks, but when he doesn’t get a reply back he promptly squeezes your arms to get an answer out of you. Between all the sobs and tears damping his skin and t-shirt, you give him a thumbs up — a sign that he should go on and talk, and it makes him laugh. The beautiful crystalline laugh you love so much.

“I’m so sorry for hurting you, and I know I’ve said this a lot lately but I will keep saying this a lot in the future too. I’m also sorry for talking to you the way I did earlier, raising my voice and pointing my finger when I’m not really the one who should be speaking,” he continues to caress your back while you’re all crouched into his side, your head still glued to the side of his neck. But he doesn’t mind the dampness, he doesn’t mind the sobbing you’re letting out right next to his ear. He doesn’t mind keeping you this close.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess, and then making you feel like I don’t appreciate you or like I don’t care about you. Because I do, Y/n. You’d be surprised if you could hear the things my mind is coming up with when I think about you.” He kisses the top of your head, and you feel his breath fanning over your forehead and cheeks for a little while.

“I’m sorry for ruining whatever you had with Sungchan, and I’m sorry to tell you that this last part is a lie. I’m lying Y/n, because knowing you could be happy far and away from me is making me go insane little by little. I’m an idiot for saying this when I’m the one in the wrong here,” he pauses, and you can hear him gulping.

“I need to be completely honest with you, Y/n, I think I owe you this, and then if you want to walk away you can. You’re free to do whatever you want, you have your share of the money and it’s up to you whatever you decide to do,” you listen to him, holding your breath for a bit while waiting for him to go on, but your tears stopped flowing.

“The day I made breakfast for you, do you remember that?” You nod, stretching an arm across his stomach to get in a more comfortable position —and you really just wanted to hug him, “I was going to have a talk with you. The previous days, when I basically went missing, I reflected on a lot of things and I was ready to ask you if we could try to do this marriage thing for real this time, but you didn’t even let me speak,” he giggles, and once you register all his words your breath is caught in your throat.

“And then you went missing and I was so worried about you, Y/n. Never do that to me again,” he warns you, and you squeeze him tighter out of instinct. “You can do whatever you want Y/n, I mean it. You can forget I said anything about being for real in this marriage, you can decline all my apologies but I’ll forever feel sorry for putting you through this,”

You push yourself up from his body to finally look at him, and he looks at you with big sparkly eyes, touching his chest with his left hand, and you can see his ringed finger shining in the dim lights filtering through from the hallway. You love him, that’s a confirmed fact. Especially now after you got to hear everything he had to say.

“So how are you going to fix this?” You whisper, not really knowing how you should approach this whole situation.

“Do you forgive me?” He asks, his face getting a bit closer to your figure. He gets so close to you that you can smell his cologne perfectly once again.

“I do, but” you whisper, and you can sense he’s holding his breath, “did you mean it, what you said about doing this,” you point between the two of you, “doing it for real?”

“Yes,” he answers with no hesitation, “I meant everything I said,”

“So let me ask again,” you get closer to his face, smirking as you can feel his breath fanning over your face once again, but this time you look him in the eye, “how are you going to fix this?”

“I have a few ways,” he smirks at you, taking the bait you’ve just thrown him.

Everything happens really fast. You don’t have time to register the moment he seals his lips over yours, kissing you fervently as he gently grasps the side of your neck to bring you closer. You snicker as you feel his lips eagerly moving on top of yours, and your poor attempt at trying to gasp for air is swallowed by his relentless warm lips.

He breaks the kiss, giving you both a chance to breathe, and he stands to his feet, dragging you with him. His lips capture yours once again, but this time he doesn’t lose any more time, his tongue sliding carefully on your bottom lip, asking for your permission. You grant it almost immediately, and he moans into the kiss as soon as his tongue waltzes with yours, his plump lips sucking on your tongue before releasing it with a pop sound, and going back to nibble on your bottom lip.

He lets your lips go once again, grabbing a strand of your hair to play with.

“I’ve wanted to be like this for a long time,” he mumbles, looking at the strand he’s holding between his fingers, “Will you let me take care of you, Y/n?” He rasps, and the look you give him is enough for him to understand your answer. “Lay down for me,” he instructs, pushing you slightly until the back of your knees touch the mattress, and you follow his orders.

He sets himself on top of you, and you wrap your legs around his waist out of instinct. His hands reach for your waistline, roaming carefully towards your hips, where he stops to squeeze tenderly. He leans forward once again, but this time he catches your lips in a sweet, short kiss, repeating the action a few times before moving his juicy lips to your jaw, nibbling on your neck as he moves his ministrations further and further down.

You stifle a moan when his hot mouth reaches the neckline of your top that’s barely covering your breasts now that you’re laying down. Once again, Donghyuck puts his tongue to work, making the wet muscle trace the neckline, leaving wet smears across your hot skin.

His hands reach for the hem of your top, raising it higher on your torso up to your bust. His cold fingertips massage the delicate and silky skin up from your lower abdomen all the way to the underside of your breasts, where the underband of your bra is sticking uncomfortably to your skin.

“Let’s take this off, baby,” he commands, pulling on the fabric that’s covering your bra.

You comply to his orders, getting rid of the top as efficiently as possible, and you hear Donghyuck sucking his teeth, his head hanging low once again to be on the same level as your chest. He continues his actions, tracing his tongue around the cups of your bra, returning to the middle of your chest, where he presses his wet lips on the delicate spot between your tits, proceeding to lick a stripe all the way to your neck and jaw. He captures your lips in a smooth kiss, moving greedily trying to savour every little sound and breathy moans you let out. Your hands reach for his head, your fingers comb through his hair, fingertips massaging his scalp, and he can’t help but moan into your touch. The sound gets swallowed by your mouth moving confidently over his, sucking on his tongue, taking everything he’s willing to give you.

He breaks the kiss, holding a mischievous look in his gaze, instructing you to get rid of your bra and jeans while he gets up on his knees to get rid of his t-shirt. With his tanned, toned arms and abdomen on display, you reach out to get a chance to touch and trace his soft skin, but he slaps your hands away and leans forward towards your stomach, on which he places short, open mouth kisses all the way to the band of your panties.

He kneels at the foot of the bed, dragging you by your hips towards himself, and holds your legs together before leaning in onto your clothed core. The action has you moaning, and he keeps moving his nose against the crotch of the underwear in repeated motions, his nose bumping against your clit every single time, and it sends a tingling sensation throughout your body, pleasure bubbling fast in your lower stomach.

“Hyuck,” you moan his name, not thinking you can resist his actions much longer.

He smiles hearing you moaning his name, but decides to halt his actions nonetheless. He grabs your panties and pulls them down, the cold air in the room making contact with your wet folds. He folds your wet underwear carelessly and shoves them in the front pocket of his sweats, leaning forward for his mouth to start moving slowly on your core. His plump lips suck on your clit gently, twirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves. Your pussy clenches around nothing, his relentless actions building the pressure in your muscles, and you’re approaching your release fast, your hip buck into his mouth, chasing the delicious pleasure you’re about to be rewarded with soon.

Donghyuck can feel his dick hard and throbbing in his boxers, but he doesn’t touch himself — he'd rather wait to be touched by you.

“That’s it, baby,” he moans with his mouth still glued to your core, his tongue licking long stripes along your entrance and clit, stopping to show extra care to the latter. And the pet name on his lips is everything you needed in order to cum.

His dick throbs hearing the sounds you make while you cum, his name on your lips feels like a mantra, like a chant full of praise, music to his ears.

“You’re insane,” you breathe out, grabbing him by the hair to detach him from your core when he doesn’t seem to have any faint intention of stopping his laps on your clit.

“You haven’t even seen half of it yet,” he grins and smirks, his chin glistens with a mix of your arousal and release. He licks his lips, deciding to cut you some slack until you come down from your high.

You look at him, and you lick your lips seeing his grey sweats hanging low on his tanned hips, a wet patch placed in the front on his crotch, indicating his arousal.

You pull him closer to you, latching your lips with his, sucking and pulling on his bottom lip, tasting yourself off his lips as his mouth moves rhythmically against yours.

You push him slightly off you, instructing him to get on the bed. You look at his figure again. What a great day to be wearing sweats, you think.

“Get these off for me,” you say, but it sounds more like a question. He giggles, but complies without having to be asked twice. He gets his boxers off of the way at the same time with his sweats, his dick falling heavy on his abdomen. You take a look at his cock, licking your lips unconsciously as you stare at the veins stretching along his length, precum leaking from his rosy tip. You reach for it, your palm aching to stroke him before you get a taste of him. But Donghyuck has other plans.

“Want you on my cock,” he grunts, bucking his hips up in your hand as soon as it wraps around his shaft, “Think you can ride me, baby?” He asks, and you’re more than eager to do it if it means seeing him so dishevelled underneath you, and you’re the cause.

You nod, and he extends one hand to help you keep your balance as you bring your weight on top of his lap, waiting for him to line his shaft with your entrance. His tip enters you and you have to stop for a bit to adjust to the girth. You sink lower on top of his shaft, your pussy throbbing around it, and Donghyuck has to suck a breath through his teeth and pray to god you won’t take long to get used to his size. You’re so tight, Donghyuck is too excited to last for too long, he knows this already.

You start riding him, your juices are enough for his shaft to slide in and out of you with ease, and one of his hands reaches up to your chest to grab one of your nipples between his fingers, twisting it and putting the right amount of pressure that gets a whimper out of you.

His mouth latches to your other nipple, sucking on it, his tongue swirls around the teat bringing a new wave of pleasure that has you arching your back and temporarily halting your rhythmic movements on top of Donghyuck’s shaft. Moaning, he sucks harsher on your nipple when he feels you stopping, so you resume your movements even if you can feel your thighs burning. A new wave of pleasure runs through your body when you hear his moans against the frail skin of your chest, one of his hands placed on the small of your back trying to guide your movements as he can sense you’re tired.

“Feels so fucking good,” he moans, looking up at you. You’re looking at him briefly, then you push him slightly to get him to lay down. You bring a pretty manicured hand up to his chest, steadying yourself as you keep your relentless and delicious moving of your hips against his. You mewl out a moan as your clit hits the base of his cock, and your head falls back making your hair bounce around yourself.

His body feels on fire, his heartbeat picking up its rhythm. “I think —” you hear him start, but is interrupted by one of your raw moans. “I love you,” he blurts out, and hearing those words coming out of his mouth makes the tension in your tummy burst, and the rhythm of your hips starts faltering. He grabs your arms with force and brings your upper body on top of his, your chests clashing on top of each other’s as he searches for your lips.

He needs them like he needs air, especially after the words that slipped past his lips. He pulls you closer, one hand grabbing your waist to keep you in place as his hips start bucking up inside of you, and another hand keeping your head in the crook of his neck as you still ride your orgasm. He chases his own climax, and the relentless throbbing of your pussy around his shaft as you ride your orgasm helps him burst deep inside of you, moaning out your name as he holds your body tightly.

You stay in his embrace a little longer, until the clarity starts hitting you, replaying the last moments in your mind. You fall next to Donghyuck, your head still resting on his shoulder, a leg still stretched on his stomach as you both try regaining your bearings.

You raise your head to look at him, only to find him already looking down at you.

“Did you really say you loved me?” You enquire, believing that’s a figment of your imagination.

“I did,” he whispers back, unmoving while keeping you close to him, his eyes big and sparkly.

“But isn’t it —“ you make a pause, trying to find the right words, “too soon? How do I know that you really mean it?”

“How do you know?” He repeats slowly, and then averts his gaze to look around the room for a few seconds. He sits up, getting off the bed, coming to your side of the bed so he can face you properly.

“What are you doing?” You ask, looking at him quizzically, trying to understand what goes on in that mind of his.

“Shut up, I’m about to do the most pathetic and embarrassing thing just for you,” he pouts at you, grabbing your arm and dragging you out of bed, “I need you to stand in front of me or otherwise it won’t be embarrassing enough,”

“Seriously Hyuck, what the fuck is wrong with you?” You sigh, and you look at your naked figures standing in front of each other like a pair of sims in the making.

“I have my flaws, and you know the already. I did a lot of shitty stuff to you, and I apologised for all. But you also have to remember…” he leaves the sentence up in the air for a bit, “That I’m also just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him,” he finishes his monologue, waiting for your reaction.

At first, you're speechless. Then the moment sinks in, and you can’t help but let a surprised laugh escape you as you reach for him.

You grab his face, bringing him closer to you to give him a quick peck on the lips.

“I love you too,” you let him know, but there’s a glint in your eyes that let’s him know you’re never going to let him live this moment down, and he braces himself for impact, “But please never pull an Anna Scott on me, ever again!”

author's note: i loved writing this, i am emotionally attached to this story now T-T i love hyuck and i hope reading this was worth your time. feedback and engagement is always recommended and highly appreciated! thank you guys for signing up for the taglist and reading this piece <3 and you might have already guessed, but sungchan's instalment is related to the female oc (reader) in this, but more will come out with his teaser. if you have questions about this fic, my ask box is always open!

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#lee donghyuck x reader #ryorecs

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