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leejenowrld · 3 months ago

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back to you — five

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 43k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

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

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

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

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

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

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

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

And then, you shared it with Jeno.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was yours and now, it’s broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N, please. Just talk to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It’s over, Jeno."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff. "That’s random."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love him.”

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

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

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

You love him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“I’m gonna be sick—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taeyong’s fury boils over. With a sudden lunge, he shoves Mark’s chest, the impact sharp and punishing. Mark staggers, eyes blazing, and drives both hands into Taeyong’s chest, forcing him back a step with a hollow thud that echoes across the gym.

Everyone freezes. Nobody breathes.

Mark’s voice is low, tight with anger. “You don’t fucking scare me. You’ve been throwing your weight around my whole damn life, acting like everything you say is law, like you can control me from a distance. But guess what? I’m not that scared kid anymore.”

He steps forward, forcing Taeyong back another inch. “This team isn’t about you,” he seethes. “It’s bigger than your fragile ego, and it’s sure as hell bigger than you. I’m done playing by your rules.”

A hush falls over the court, thickening the air until it feels nearly suffocating. You watch, breath caught in your chest, as the fragile balance of power shifts visibly between Mark’s defiance and Taeyong’s furious disbelief. Each word from Mark is precise, cutting, methodically dismantling the false authority Taeyong has built around himself. You see the strain in the older man’s expression—the cracks in his carefully maintained facade—and you recognize, deep down, that this is a turning point.

But your attention drifts briefly toward Jeno, who stands slightly apart, his expression tight yet carefully blank. His jaw clenched, he watches the confrontation without intervening, his posture stiff as though bracing himself against an invisible storm. You hate this sight—the way tension coils in his body, the muted resignation painted across his features. But then, Jeno’s eyes flicker toward you, catching your gaze with a precision that steals your breath. For a split second, the storm in his eyes breaks, revealing something softer beneath—something reserved only for you. A delicate smile, small and gentle, graces his lips, warmth peeking through the heavy tension. The corners of your mouth curve upward instinctively in response, a silent reassurance passing between you. In that brief moment, nothing else matters but the fragile intimacy of his quiet smile.

The moment shatters as Mia steps closer, her voice carrying an unmistakable edge of condescension. “You and Jeno are still together?” she sneers, her tone dripping with mock incredulity. “Honestly didn’t think you’d last. Didn’t think you were his type.”

Mia’s words grate on your nerves, an annoyance rather than outright anger. You roll your eyes, letting out a slow breath as you look her over with deliberate boredom. “And do you think you’re his type?” you drawl, arching an eyebrow to make it clear just how little you value her unwanted opinion.

Her eyes narrow, her expression sharpening. “Please,” she scoffs, her tone dripping with mockery, “like you’re actually his type.” Her gaze sweeps over you dismissively, lingering just long enough to emphasize the insult. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your rib cage, but you hold her gaze firmly. Before you can respond, Aisha chimes in from beside Mia, voice equally acidic. “Come on, Y/N, we all know you’re just playing pretend. You’re not some innocent angel like you want everyone to think. We’ve all seen who you really are.”

You swallow hard, fighting the urge to lash out. “And what's that supposed to mean?” you bite back, tone sharp and unwavering.

Yiren’s voice cuts in, taunting and smug. “It means that I’m surprised Jeno still wants to be with you as you’ve lied about who you really are. We know about the bar, Y/N. The smoking, the performance—pretending to be innocent isn’t really your thing, is it? ”

You roll your eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you’re that interested in me performing at the bar, just ask next time—I’ll get you private tickets.”

Nahyun mutters something under her breath, just loud enough to be heard. “Honestly, I don’t even know why you’re surprised, girls.” She exhales, arms crossed, voice dripping with patronizing amusement. “Jeno’s just experimenting. Mark finally came to his senses and dumped Areum, now I’m just waiting for Jeno to come to his senses, then both the Lee brothers—”

"I broke up with him, actually.” Areum’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and unflinching. She looks at Nahyun, chin lifted, eyes flashing, daring her to say otherwise. The air in the gym shifts as the girls exchange glances, taken aback by the steel in Areum’s tone.

You shake your head in frustration, not even bothering to suppress your irritation. “Nahyun, don’t even start,” you cut in, your voice flat with exhaustion. “You literally had to beg your way back onto the cheer team.” It lands exactly as intended—pointed, dismissive, a reminder that her opinions mean nothing when she’s only here out of necessity.

Nahyun’s face falters for a split second before she schools it back into indifference. She did beg to be let back on. She wanted this, needed it, and Karina, desperate for numbers with the state championships approaching, let her return. It wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about necessity.

Something shifts between you and Areum in that moment—a quiet understanding, a shared distaste for the girls standing in front of you. When your eyes meet, there’s a flicker of amusement beneath the irritation, the beginning of a small, almost imperceptible smirk exchanged between the two of you. For once, you’re on the same side.

Karina’s voice suddenly shreds through the tension. “I am so sick of this!” Her scream echoes across the gym, reverberating off the walls, sending a sharp jolt through everyone standing around. “The fighting, the yelling, the constant bullshit—I’ve had enough.” Her eyes snap to Nahyun, venom dripping into her glare. “You are on your last chance. Do you understand me?”

Nahyun swallows but doesn’t respond. Karina doesn’t wait for one. “Formation. Now.” She steps back, tossing a final glare at Mia, Aisha, and Yiren. “And if any of you want to keep running your mouths, don’t bother showing up to the next practice.” Silence. Then, begrudging movement as the girls start to shuffle into formation. But the damage is already done—the tension, the bitterness, the fractures in the team remain.

The cheerleading practice is a mess, just like always. There’s no unity. No real sense of teamwork. None of these girls like each other, and it shows. The routine lacks chemistry, the formations are off, and Karina is practically grinding her teeth in frustration. Mia, unsurprisingly, makes her presence known first. “You need to keep up, Y/N,” she huffs, arms crossed over her chest. “This routine isn’t for beginners.”

You scoff, throwing her a sharp look. “I’m keeping up better than you.”

Your words land, sharp and certain, cutting through the noise like a blade. The gym stalls, tension stretching in the silence left behind. You can feel the shift—eyes turning, breaths held, the undercurrent of something shifting beneath the surface.

But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you. Jeno’s gaze is steady, unreadable at first, but there’s something in it, something knowing. He doesn’t react to the murmurs or the way the practice has momentarily unraveled—his focus is only on you. His head tilts, the movement slight, careful, a pull toward the door so small that no one else would catch it. But you do. Because it’s not a question, not really. He’s not asking if you want to leave—he’s waiting for you to decide. Waiting to see if you need him to take you away from this, from them, from the weight pressing against your ribs.

It’s a way out. An answer to something you hadn’t even put into words. Your nod is small, almost imperceptible, but he catches it instantly. The corner of his lips quirks—not a full smile, just the ghost of one, something knowing, something meant just for you. Then he move, Jeno crosses the gym without hesitation, cutting through the tension like it doesn’t exist, like the weight of every lingering stare and unspoken judgment doesn’t matter. His presence alone shifts the air around you, steady and sure, yours.

Jeno’s arm slides around your back, firm and protective, pulling you in just enough that his body shields you from their stares, from them. His voice is low, meant only for you, the steady weight of it sinking beneath your skin like something permanent. “Ignore them” he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple. His fingers press lightly against the small of your back, a quiet reminder, a reassurance. “Come here.”

And then, just like that, he kisses you. It’s soft. Dreamy. A moment of quiet in the middle of chaos. His lips press to yours, warm and certain, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re standing in the middle of the gym, by the fact that people are watching. He doesn’t care—he only cares about you. And when you smile against his lips, when his hand curls just slightly at the small of your back, it feels like the both of you are in your own world, untouched by anything else.

His lips part against yours, slow and searching, the warmth of his breath fanning over your skin. He tastes like sweet, brown sugar and something else that’s undeniably him, something you could drown in if you let yourself. His grip at your back tightens, drawing you in until your bodies are flush, the heat of him sinking into you. Your fingers slide deeper into his hair, tugging just enough to earn the faintest, almost inaudible hitch of breath against your mouth. His other hand ghosts over your waist, not demanding, just there, steady and possessive, like he’s reminding you exactly who you belong to. The kiss lingers, deepens—lazy, intoxicating, a slow pull into something heavier. If you weren’t already breathless, the way he tilts his head, deepening it just enough to leave you dizzy, would’ve done it.

But the world is watching. You don’t notice Mark glaring, his jaw set, his expression dark. You don’t see Taeyong’s sharp stare, the unreadable weight in his eyes. You don’t realize that this moment—the way Jeno stands before him, untouchable, unconcerned, unafraid—is a fracture in something far bigger than the two of you. A thread pulled too hard, a balance tipping, a fault line beginning to crack. It does not shatter yet, but the weight of it hangs in the air, waiting.

Jeno pulls away slowly, his forehead still nearly resting against yours, his lips brushing over the ghost of your smile before he finally leans back. There’s warmth in his eyes, something soft and golden that lingers between you. Neither of you speak—you don’t have to. The moment stretches, slow and syrup-thick, wrapping the two of you in something untouched, something safe.

And then—splash.

A sharp gasp rips from your throat as the coldness seeps in first, biting against your skin, drenching through the fabric of your uniform. It’s thick, slow-moving as it clings to you, sinking into the fibers, sticky and sickly sweet. The scent of vanilla, artificial and overpowering, curls in the air around you before you even glance down. Milkshake. A Fucking milkshake.

Nahyun blinks at you, wide-eyed, faux-innocent, her hand flying to her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh my God,” she gasps, voice pitched just right, so perfectly performative. “I bumped into you.”

Jeno steps back slightly, just enough to register what’s happened, his brows knitting together in confusion before his expression hardens. His body shifts, his hand already moving—instinctive. The cold press of liquid against your skin has the fabric of your uniform clinging to you, the damp material turning sheer, betraying the curve of your body, the way your nipples tighten against it from the chill. His eyes flicker down, a muscle in his jaw ticking, but he says nothing. Just moves. The hoodie—his hoodie, the one you’ve stolen a dozen times before, the one that still carries the faintest trace of his cologne—is yanked from his bag without hesitation. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. Just drapes it over your shoulders, the motion deliberate, possessive. His hands ghost along the fabric, adjusting it so it shields you fully, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your collarbone.

The gym hums with murmurs, the weight of stares pressing into you from every angle, but Jeno doesn’t acknowledge them. He doesn’t turn to Nahyun, doesn’t waste a second giving her the reaction she wants. Instead, his grip tightens around your wrist—a silent let’s go—and he begins to lead you toward the doors, his steps purposeful, his intent clear.

Then—“Jeno.”

His father’s voice slices through the air like a blade.

Jeno doesn’t stop. “Jeno.” Sharper. Colder.

His steps slow, but he doesn’t turn. You see the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch slightly against yours. His father’s presence is an anchor, something suffocating and heavy that drags against him even as he tries to walk away.

“You don’t get to leave practice early.” Jeno stops. The gym is silent. You glance up at him, watching the war play out behind his eyes—anger, resentment, exhaustion, defiance. It’s all there, unraveling and rebuilding in real-time, his grip on your hand tightening as if he’s trying to ground himself, as if he’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t the inevitable pull of his father’s control.

You squeeze his hand, tilting your head just slightly to catch his gaze. “Just go, baby.”

Your voice is gentle, meant for him alone, meant to be softer than the weight pressing down on him. His eyes flick to yours, searching, uncertain. He doesn’t want to let go. You say it because you know him. Because you can see the war waging behind his eyes, the way his body tenses like he’s bracing for a fight he doesn’t even want to have. Because if you don’t say it, he’ll stand here forever, caught between what he wants and what he’s been conditioned to obey. You say it because you refuse to be another thing that weighs him down. Because you’d rather be the thing that makes it easier—that reminds him, even in moments like this, that he has a choice.

You nod, a small smile, a quiet promise. I’m okay. I’ll see you later. Jeno hesitates for just a second longer before exhaling, his jaw clenching as he reluctantly loosens his grip. His touch lingers as his fingers slip away from yours, the warmth of them still imprinted against your skin.

So Jeno stays. And you leave.

You step into the girls’ locker room, heart still racing from the chaos outside. The sticky sweetness of the milkshake clings uncomfortably to your skin, and your thoughts spiral between the sharp words exchanged, Jeno's comforting presence, and the soft, reassuring kiss that still tingles on your lips. You peel the damp fabric away, relief briefly washing over you at finally being alone, when the door creaks open. You turn instinctively, expecting—hoping—to see Jeno or even Mark, but instead, your blood runs cold. Lee Taeyong stands in the doorway, utterly unfazed as his eyes sweep over you, dominance and disdain clear in his sharp gaze. Without a word, he shuts the door behind him, and the soft click echoes ominously, sealing you both inside.

Your breath catches violently in your throat, a sharp, involuntary gasp ripping from your lips. Panic lurches through you as you scramble for Jeno’s hoodie, yanking it up to your chest in a desperate attempt to cover yourself. “What the fuck—get out!” Your voice cracks with sheer disbelief, your body moving back instinctively, pressing against the cool metal of the lockers as if you could somehow will yourself away from him. Your heart hammers against your ribs, the reality of the moment sinking in too fast, too suffocating.

Taeyong doesn’t flinch. He barely reacts at all, his expression remaining cold, detached, like your outrage is nothing more than an insignificant detail to him. His gaze flicks over you once—impassive, clinical—before he exhales, slow and deliberate, and shuts the door behind him. The click of the lock sliding into place sends a violent shiver up your spine.

Your stomach twists, nausea rising in your throat. “Are you insane? You can’t just—just walk in here—what the fuck is wrong with you?” Your voice is frantic, shaky, but edged with pure anger. You clutch the fabric tighter against your chest, heat rushing to your face, not just from humiliation but from the absolute audacity of his presence.

But Taeyong? He remains utterly unmoved. If anything, his disinterest in your outrage makes it worse. His suit is pristine, not a thread out of place, as if nothing in the world could possibly unsettle him. His eyes—Jeno’s eyes, but colder, emptier—fix onto you with something bordering on contempt. His lip curls ever so slightly, as if the very sight of you is offensive. “Oh, don’t act modest now,” he muses, voice like ice water down your spine. “You’ve been naked in front of my son plenty of times, haven’t you?”

Taeyong exhales sharply, shaking his head like the mere sight of you is exhausting. “You really thought you could sneak around under my nose?” His voice is sharp, steady, cruelly unimpressed. “That I wouldn’t notice the way you’ve been throwing yourself at my son, crawling into his bed, distracting him, ruining him?” His lips twist, the words dripping with disdain. “You think I don’t see what you are? What you do? You’ve been fucking Jeno, dragging him down with you, pulling him away from everything he’s supposed to be. And you really thought you’d get away with it.”

The words slap into you like a physical force, the air in the locker room thinning, closing in on you. Your fingers clutch tighter around Jeno’s hoodie, but there’s no hiding, no escaping under his scrutiny. He doesn’t look angry—not in the way people do when they lose control. No, Taeyong is composed, every syllable measured, a knife sliding between your ribs with effortless precision.

“I’ve known about you from the beginning,” he continues, voice smooth but cutting, like he’s stating something obvious. “I knew the second Jeno started slipping, the second his focus started waning. He used to be sharp, disciplined. Now?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “He’s careless. Distracted. By you.” His eyes flick down, scanning the hoodie wrapped around your shoulders, and his lip curls. “I should have shut this down the second it started.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between you without hurry. “But I waited,” he says, voice dropping just slightly, making the words heavier. “I let him get whatever this is out of his system. I tolerated it. I watched. And what did you do with that time?” He tilts his head, his stare sharp enough to flay skin. “You made it worse. You changed him. And not for the better.”

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to hold his gaze, even as his presence suffocates the space between you.

Taeyong lets out a slow, measured sigh, as if it genuinely pains him to acknowledge this. “Jeno has always had potential,” he says, and there’s something cold, final about the way he says it. “He was built for this. Raised for this. Do you even know the level of talent he has? Do you even comprehend what he’s capable of?” His voice sharpens, the edges hardening, the first real crack of irritation slipping through. “He was meant to be exceptional. And now? He’s squandering everything.”

The shift in tone is subtle, but you feel it. The control, the restraint, the absolute certainty he’s carried up until now—there’s something just slightly frayed underneath it. He’s pissed. “He’s fucking around with those morons—Eric, Sunwoo—gambling away his career, throwing himself into something that could ruin not just him, but the entire team.” His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. “And the worst part? He doesn’t think. Not the way he should. Not the way I taught him to. He acts on impulse, on whatever stupid, fleeting emotion he’s chasing at any given moment. He believes things will just work out—that no matter what he does, he’ll land on his feet.”

“And whose fault is that?” Your voice is quiet, but sharp, unwavering. “You say Jeno doesn’t think. That he acts on impulse. That he believes everything will work out for him no matter what.” Your head tilts, mirroring his own, a cold smile tugging at your lips. “Who do you think taught him that?”

Something in Taeyong’s gaze flickers. “You didn’t raise him to be careful. You raised him to win. To obey. To be everything you decided he had to be before he ever got the chance to figure it out himself.” Your voice is steady, but the weight behind it is undeniable. “You built him to push through everything, to never stop, never think, never hesitate. And now, when he finally does? When he finally starts making choices that don’t fit into the future you forced on him, you call it a distraction. A mistake.” Your eyes burn into his, unflinching. “You don’t like that Jeno is slipping, Taeyong? Maybe you should ask yourself why he was trying so hard to hold it together in the first place.”

Taeyong doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, his expression shifts, amusement flickering through his cold gaze. “There it is,” he murmurs, almost like it’s an observation. Like he’s studying you. “That little bite. That fire Jeno seems so drawn to.” His head tilts just slightly, and something about it makes your stomach knot. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

“You seem to have forgotten your place.” The words are quiet, unhurried, but they land with the force of something far heavier. “So let me remind you.” He takes a measured step forward, his gaze hard, unforgiving. “You are going to stay away from my son. No contact. No texts. No meetings. Nothing.” His voice remains infuriatingly steady, laced with the kind of authority that doesn’t entertain defiance. “I don’t care what delusions you’ve let yourself believe, what fantasy you’ve built in your head—Jeno is not yours to keep. You will cut him off completely, and you will do it now.”

His eyes flick over you, assessing, and then his head tilts, just slightly, something unreadable shifting behind his expression. “Or should I make you?”

You blink at him, his words hitting you with the force of something designed to break, to sever. A breath catches somewhere in your throat, half disbelief, half something darker. “Seriously? No, what the fuck, I’m not—”

“Yes, you will,” he cuts in, and it isn’t just an interruption—it’s a dismantling. His voice drops, something heavier curling around his words, pressing them into the space between you with an intensity that feels almost suffocating. “It’s not your choice. Either you do exactly as I say, or I will expose you.”

For a second, you can’t move. The words settle into the air like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore, threading through the small, imperceptible cracks in your composure. You hear the threat before you fully understand it, before your mind can wrap around the weight of what he’s saying. And then the realization crashes into you, something cold and sharp locking around your ribs. Expose you. Taeyong is methodical. Calculated. He doesn’t make empty threats, and he wouldn’t be standing here if he didn’t already have something to back it up. Your voice comes out unsteady, barely above a whisper. “Expose me? How?”

The smirk that flickers across his face is small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A cruel little thing that lingers in the corner of his mouth before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He moves with unhurried precision, scrolling through something, murmuring under his breath about the inconvenience of technology, like this is just another chore, another trivial task he needs to check off his list. And then, without fanfare, he turns the screen toward you.

Your breath catches. The image is grainy but unmistakable. You. On stage. The dim neon lights of the bar cast a shifting glow over your body, your movements languid, sultry, designed to seduce an audience you thought would never see beyond those walls. The outfit clings in all the ways you intended, the sway of your hips deliberate, practiced, controlled. It was supposed to be private. A secret life you kept locked away from the version of yourself that existed outside those doors. And yet, here it is, playing out on the screen in Taeyong’s hand like it was never really yours to keep.

He swipes, and the next video is worse. Jeno, pressed against you in the dim glow of the bar’s back corner, his mouth hot and insistent against yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough. The air is thick with smoke, the haze curling between your bodies as you exhale, your lips still slick from his kiss. His fingers drag up your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, pushing boundaries without hesitation. Another swipe. You, straddling his lap in a shadowed booth, grinding against him as his hands roam, as your lips ghost along his jaw, your breath warm and laced with the lingering taste of whiskey. Another swipe. His fingers at the waistband of your panties, yours curled around the cigarette he just passed you, the ember glowing between your fingertips as you take another hit, exhaling slow, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. The night bleeding into sensation—heat, pressure, the muted pulse of bass-heavy music, the world outside reduced to nothing but this.

It feels like drowning. Your stomach twists violently, the rush of nausea so immediate it nearly knocks you off balance. How? The word beats against the inside of your skull, frantic, insistent. How does he have this? Your voice shakes when you finally manage to speak, the syllables barely holding together. “How—how do you even have this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t need to. The phone disappears back into his pocket, and the look he levels you with is colder than before, if that’s even possible. “That’s not your concern,” he says simply, dismissing the question as if the answer is irrelevant, as if you are irrelevant. “What matters is that I have it. And trust me, Deloitte wouldn’t appreciate discovering your extracurricular activities. Imagine how quickly your opportunity would vanish once they see this.”

The breath in your lungs turns to stone. You feel it lodge itself there, unmovable, impossible to breathe around. He’s not just threatening you. He’s already won. “Delete those,” you snap, but the bite in your voice is weak, forced. Your fingers curl into fists, trembling despite your best efforts to keep them steady. “Now.”

Taeyong doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react. “Agree to stay away from Jeno.”

The words fall between you like a gavel striking down in a courtroom. Absolute. Unshakable. A sentence that has already been passed. The silence that follows is unbearable, stretching so thin you swear you can hear the pounding of your pulse in your ears. Your body is locked in place, every muscle tensed, waiting for something, for anything, for some miracle that won’t come. And then it happens. The words spill out before you can even process them, slipping from your lips like an instinct, like a reflex, like survival.

“I agree!” You lunge forward, your hands moving faster than your thoughts, reaching for his phone, needing to erase everything, needing to make sure it’s gone. Your fingers fumble as you unlock it, as you scroll through the videos, your breaths sharp and erratic, your heart slamming against your ribs in a frantic rhythm. It has to be gone. It has to be gone. The panic is suffocating, tightening around your throat, making your vision blur as you force yourself to delete each file, one by one.

“Are they only here?” you demand, your voice barely more than a whisper, your fingers still moving, still erasing, still destroying. You don’t stop until every trace is gone, until the screen is wiped clean of the evidence that he should neverhave had in the first place.

But the question lingers—How does he have them? The question gnaws at you, twisting through the panic, refusing to settle. Did he have someone follow Jeno, track his movements, watch him slip into the bar, wait for him to find you, wait for the moment your guard was down? Or did he buy the footage outright, slip money into the right hands, a transaction so effortless it barely cost him a second thought? Maybe he didn’t need to pay at all—maybe someone handed it over willingly, a nameless bartender or a faceless bouncer, someone who recognized Jeno, who knew exactly who his father was, who saw an opportunity and took it.

Maybe Taeyong barely had to ask. That’s what makes it worse—not just that he has them, but how easily he must have gotten them, how little effort it took to unravel something you thought was yours. It makes it bigger, impossible to trace, impossible to fight. You thought you were safe in the dark, that your secrets lived in the space between liquor-drenched laughter and neon-lit shadows, in the heat of Jeno’s hands and the haze curling from your lips. But you see it now—the illusion of privacy, the lie of anonymity. You were never hidden. You were never out of reach.

Taeyong nods once to your question, sharp and decisive. And you know. He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t need backups. He doesn’t need a second copy. He doesn’t need to hold onto them at all. Because he already holds you. But he’s not finished. You should’ve known he wouldn’t be. The power shift is too easy, too simple. Because blackmail alone isn’t enough. He can see it—the way you’re still breathing too hard, the way your hands are still trembling, the way your mind is still searching for an escape. You agreed, but it wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough.

And so, he goes for Jeno. “But understand this—if you defy me, if you even consider staying with my son, it will be Jeno who pays.”

The floor drops out from under you, but it isn’t the sharp kind of fall. It’s slow, measured, the kind that makes you feel every inch of descent, every second of helplessness, every breath that lodges in your throat and refuses to come unstuck. Your body locks up, panic curling in tight, but it isn’t just panic—it’s something worse. Because Taeyong knows. You see it now, the calculation in his eyes, the way he watches you like he’s already predicted every reaction, every desperate counter-move. His first threat was never going to be enough. He knew that. Knew there was a chance you’d find a way around it, that you’d figure out how to survive the fallout, that you’d swallow your own ruin if it meant keeping Jeno.

So he does what he always does—he makes sure there is no way out.

He goes for Jeno. And that’s what makes your breath stutter. Because it’s not just about you anymore. It’s not about your future, your dignity, the life you’ve been clawing your way toward—it’s about him. And Taeyong knows exactly what that means. He knows how you feel it in the pit of your stomach when Jeno so much as frowns, how your heart clenches when exhaustion lines his face, how you would give anything to keep that light in his eyes, to protect the pieces of him that Taeyong has spent years trying to snuff out. He knows that when it comes to Jeno, you would do anything. Everything.That’s why he doesn’t just threaten him—he promises. Promises to unravel the thing Jeno loves most, the only thing that has ever truly been his. And suddenly, it doesn’t matter what happens to you. It never did. The only thing that matters is keeping Jeno safe. And Taeyong knows—of course he knows—that you’ll do whatever it takes to make sure of that.

“It’s already clear he’s ruining his own future with his reckless gambling and impulsive decisions,” Taeyong continues, and the way he says it—so calm, so disappointed—sends a fresh wave of nausea through you. Like Jeno is nothing more than a failed investment. A project gone wrong. “But I’ll make sure he never sets foot on a basketball court again. I’ll destroy every opportunity, every path forward he thinks he has. And it will all be your fault.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. The words are there, caught somewhere between your ribs, but they won’t come out. Fear presses down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to move. Because you know he means it. And you can’t let him do it. You can’t. Jeno loves basketball the way most people love air, the way his heart beats without permission, without pause. It’s the only thing that’s ever been his. His father has stolen everything else—his childhood, his choices, his sense of self—but basketball? That’s the one thing he was never able to take from him. Until now. Until you.

So that’s it? That’s what you have to do? You have to leave? Take the opportunity he’s giving you, walk away, pretend Jeno was never yours to hold? Pretend none of it ever happened? You swallow, your throat so tight it hurts. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to.

“You want me to disappear?” The words taste bitter. “Just like that?”

Taeyong doesn’t even hesitate. Doesn’t falter. “Yes.”

The finality of it slices through you like a knife. There’s nothing left to argue, no room to bargain. It’s not a request. It never was. “You understand the consequences if you don’t, right?”

You nod. You don’t know if you mean it, but you nod. Taeyong claps his hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound that cuts through the suffocating quiet. “Then it’s settled. You’ll break it off with my son immediately.”

You barely move. You barely breathe. Taeyong’s irritation, his frustration, his cruel actions—they’re rooted in his desperation to maintain control. Mark had always challenged him, openly rebellious, and now Jeno is following suit, defying expectations, acting unpredictably. Taeyong’s power is slipping, and he's determined to reclaim it at any cost. You’re merely a casualty caught in the crossfire, powerless against the fury of Lee Taeyong.

The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against your ribs like a weight you can’t shake. Taeyong watches you, his expression unreadable, his presence an unshakable force that demands submission. And then, as if this moment wasn’t already unbearable, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You were always out of your depth,” he says, his voice carrying something between amusement and disappointment. “Did you really think this would last? That someone like you—some ordinary girl with nothing to her name—was ever meant to keep him?”

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Even Areum had more standing than you. A better family, real connections, a name that actually meant something. If anyone had a chance, it would’ve been her.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly, as if considering something. And then his lip curls, eyes flashing with something cruel. “And yet, even she proved worthless in the end. Let herself sink—dragged herself down to Mark, of all people.” He shakes his head again, like the very thought disgusts him. “So tell me, what makes you think you—with no name, no status, nothing—could ever be anything more than a passing distraction?”

The words slice through you, deep and deliberate. You knew, of course, that Jeno came from a world of wealth, of power, of things you’d never had access to. But this? This is different. This is Taeyong laying it out for you in brutal clarity: you were never worthy. Not because of anything you did, not because of any mistake you made, but because you were born beneath him. Because your family isn’t his family. Because you don’t have the name, the wealth, the legacy that he deems acceptable. And to him, that is justification enough. To him, that is reason enough to tear you from Jeno’s life.

Something ugly twists in your stomach—humiliation, rage, something deeper, something that makes your hands curl into fists even as you fight to keep your expression neutral. “You won’t be the first girl he forgets about when he realizes how small you are compared to his future,” Taeyong continues, his voice smooth, effortless, as if he’s not ripping you apart piece by piece.

Your nails dig into your palms. There it is. The future he’s carved out for Jeno—prestigious, untouchable, perfectly curated. One that has no place for you. And yet, something shifts in the back of your mind, something sharp and burning. “You’re risking compromising his future?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice quieter than before but just as sharp. “You know about Eric and Sunwoo, you know what they’re doing, what they’re pulling him into. You could fix it. But you’re not.”

A flicker of something crosses Taeyong’s face—so brief, so controlled, you almost miss it. But you don’t miss it. You see the momentary pause, the measured breath, the barest hint of something just beneath the surface. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deny it. And that tells you everything.

Because he doesn’t want to fix it.

He wants Jeno to fall just enough. Not enough to ruin him completely, not enough to destroy his potential—but enough to make him need his father again. Enough to remind him that Taeyong still holds the reins. Because if Jeno stumbles, if he makes a mess of things just before his future is set in stone, who else can he turn to?

And suddenly, everything is clearer. This isn’t just about you being a distraction. This is about control. This is about power. Jeno is slipping from his grasp, and Taeyong is tightening his grip in the only way he knows how—by cutting away anything that lets Jeno believe he has a choice.

You exhale slowly, the realization settling like lead in your chest.

Your eyes flick to Taeyong’s, and for the first time, you really look at him. The resemblance is striking—Jeno’s sharp jaw, Jeno’s piercing gaze, the same angular features. But where Jeno’s eyes hold warmth, his are devoid of it. Hollow. Merciless. It makes you wonder how long it’ll be before Jeno starts looking at the world the same way, if Taeyong keeps pushing. If there’s a version of Jeno, years from now, who stands in a room like this, with that same cool detachment, with that same soulless stare.

And maybe that’s the worst part. Not just the threat, not just the cruelty, but the possibility—the idea that Taeyong has already set the pieces in place, that he’s already shaping Jeno into something you won’t recognize. The thought sickens you. Taeyong lets the silence linger, a predator watching its prey. He’s so calm. So in control. He’s already decided this is over, already written you out of the story like you were nothing more than a misplaced footnote.

But you have something now. Something he wasn’t expecting. Desperation. He’s desperate. That’s why he’s acting now, why he’s here instead of watching from a distance like he has for months. He knows he’s losing Jeno, and that’s why he needs you gone. Because if Jeno doesn’t have him, who else does he have? You. And Taeyong can’t allow that.

The realization doesn’t change anything. Not yet. But you hold onto it, tucking it somewhere safe, somewhere deep. Right now, Taeyong has every advantage. He holds every card. But cracks are forming. And cracks always spread.

The room is dark, the only light coming from the slivers of gold slicing through the blinds, casting shadows across Jeno’s bare skin. The sheets are a mess beneath you, bodies tangled in the heat, in the desperation, in the quiet ache of knowing this can’t last. Your thighs are spread over his, knees digging into the mattress as you sink down onto his cock, slow and deep, the stretch pulling a soft, broken moan from your lips.

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should’ve ended it hours ago, should’ve walked away before you lost yourself to him again. But you can’t. You won’t. Because you love him too much, because you’re weak for him, because there’s something inside of you that needs to feel him one last time, to take him, to let him have you in the way only he ever has. You don’t know how to say goodbye, but you know how to love him. And so you do.

Jeno groans beneath you, hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you down as you roll your hips, fucking yourself onto him with a slow, devastating rhythm. "Fuck, baby," he rasps, his voice thick with sleep and pleasure, head tipping back against the pillows. "So fucking tight. You always take me so good."

You can’t respond, can’t do anything but feel—the way he fills you, stretches you, the way his cock throbs inside you with every deliberate movement of your hips. You lean forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands smoothing down his arms, tracing over muscle, feeling the way he tenses beneath your touch. You’re too quiet. You know he notices, knows he expects you to tease him, to say something sharp and playful between moans. But there’s no teasing tonight. No games. Just this. Just you and him and the unbearable ache of wanting him, of knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have him like this.

"Baby," you whisper, voice breaking, lips ghosting over his skin, over his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. You kiss him between gasps, between moans, between the slow grind of your hips, swallowing his groans like they belong to you. Your hands roam—grasping, desperate—sliding up his chest, curling around the back of his neck, dragging your nails through the short hairs there. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, his scent clinging to you like something you’ll never be able to wash away. "My baby," you breathe again, voice thick with something too raw to name, pressing your lips to his temple, to his eyelids, to the slope of his nose. "My baby. My baby. My baby."

Jeno shudders beneath you, a strangled sound slipping from his throat, his grip tightening—one hand firm on your waist, keeping you down, keeping you flush against him, the other sliding up your spine, spanning your back, dragging you closer, closer, until there’s not an inch of space left between you. His lips part against your shoulder, sucking, biting, marking. He’s not just holding you; he’s grasping at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he needs to feel you everywhere, all at once. His hips roll up, deep, slow, devastating, making you gasp, making you cling to him, fingers curling against his shoulders as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fuck—” his voice is wrecked, thick with something deeper than just pleasure, and it makes your whole body throb. His hand slides to your throat, not to choke, just to hold, to tilt your head back so he can see you, so he can watch every little tremor in your expression. “You feel so fucking good, baby. So perfect.” His lips crash into yours, tongue licking into your mouth, kissing you like he wants to drown in you. His other hand skims down, smoothing over the curve of your ass before gripping tight, guiding your rhythm, pushing you down harder, making you take every inch of him.

You whimper against his mouth, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, dragging your nails down his chest, watching the muscles flex under your touch. His cock twitches inside you, sending a sharp pulse of heat down your spine, making your thighs squeeze around his waist. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint it takes not to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress until you’re screaming. But he lets you take him like this, lets you have him, lets you control the pace even as his fingers dig into your skin like he’s barely keeping himself together.

"Jeno," you whisper, dragging your lips along his jaw, his cheek, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over his face, sucking his bottom lip between yours. He groans, deep and guttural, his hips bucking up involuntarily. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging slightly, grounding himself in the feeling of you, of this, of how completely you’re wrapped around him. “I love this," you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth, his chin, his throat. "I love the way you fill me up. Love the way you touch me." You lick over the salt of his skin, biting down gently, and he shudders beneath you, his cock throbbing deep inside.

"God, I love this pussy," he grits out, voice rough, strained, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. "Love the way you move on me. You’re so fucking beautiful." His hands slide up your back again, over your shoulders, fingers pressing into your jaw as he pulls you back to his mouth. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth, his breath hot and desperate as he groans into you, like he’s trying to pull you deeper, trying to merge you into him, trying to make sure you never leave.

And you let him. You let him take and take and take, because you’ll never stop giving.

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, trying to fight it, but the moment is too much. Every sensation crashes over you at once—the way he fills you, stretches you, the heat of his breath against your skin, the weight of his hands gripping your waist like he can’t bear to let go. Your chest tightens, breath catching, your heartbeat a frantic, stuttering thing against your ribs.

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. You try to blink them away, but the moment is too much, every sensation amplified, every touch searing into you like something permanent, something you’ll never be able to scrub from your skin. You think he doesn’t notice, think you can hide the way your body is trembling, the way you’re falling apart in more ways than one. But then he stills beneath you, breath heavy, fingers flexing where they hold you. Slowly, his grip shifts, one hand trailing up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up just enough for his thumb to brush over the wetness on your cheek.

His brows knit together as his thumb catches the wetness on your cheek. “Feels that good, huh?” His lips curl into a teasing smile, voice low and raspy, full of satisfaction. He thinks it’s the pleasure overwhelming you, the way he’s fucking you so deep, so slow, pulling sounds from you that you can’t control. He doesn’t realize there’s something else behind it, doesn’t see the weight pressing against your ribs, the ache curling beneath your skin. To him, this is just proof of how good he’s making you feel, how perfectly he has you falling apart in his hands.

You can’t answer. You just nod, swallowing hard, clinging to him as you sink down harder, as you grind yourself against him, as you chase the high that’s building in your stomach, in your chest, in the burning ache of your heart. Because this is all you have left. This is the last time he’ll ever hold you like this, the last time you’ll ever get to drown in the way he makes you feel. And if you think about that too hard, you’ll break completely.

Your hands tremble where they press against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. Jeno is still beneath you, his head tipped back against the pillows, his lips swollen from kissing you, his skin hot under your touch. Your hips move in slow, languid rolls, dragging out the moment, making it last, even as the tension builds between you both, curling tight and unrelenting. You don’t want it to end. You don’t want to let him go. So you don’t.

Instead, you lean down, capturing his mouth again, deep and messy, moaning softly into him as he groans into you. He cups the back of your head, tilting into the kiss, his other hand sliding down the damp skin of your back to squeeze your waist, grounding you in the rhythm you’ve both settled into—deliberate, unhurried, devastating. Every inch of him feels too good, too familiar, too much like home, and you let yourself drown in it, in him, just for a little longer.

His fingers tighten at your waist as he tilts his head back slightly, his breath ragged against your lips. "Fuck, baby—" His voice is wrecked, thick with pleasure, and you can feel the way he’s holding himself back, the way his hips twitch up into yours, desperate for more.

You press your forehead against his, gasping softly as you take him deeper, the pleasure mounting unbearably fast. It’s too much, too intense, the pressure in your stomach winding so tight you can barely breathe. "Jen—" His name is barely a whisper, your hands sliding up his arms, your nails digging into the muscles there, clinging to him.

He groans, his head tilting back against the pillow, his eyes squeezing shut. "I got you, baby. Come for me. Let me feel you."

And you do. The orgasm crashes over you, your body seizing up as waves of pleasure roll through you. You shake, breath hitching, moaning into his mouth as you kiss him through it, refusing to let go, to separate, to break the moment. Jeno follows soon after, a sharp, broken groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, his grip on your hips tightening as his body shudders beneath you. His lips curve against yours, smiling softly through the kiss, breathless and wrecked. His arms wrap around your back, pulling you flush against his chest, as if he can still feel the way you tremble against him.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. "Didn’t know you missed me this much," he murmurs, teasing, his voice drowsy with satisfaction. He runs a lazy hand down your back, tracing soft, mindless shapes against your skin, completely unaware of the weight pressing down on your chest, of the way your throat tightens as fresh tears spill over your cheeks.

You don’t move. You don’t pull away. Not yet. You just rest against him, soaking in his warmth, memorizing the feeling of him beneath you, around you, knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have it. But your mind is racing, spiraling through every possibility, every excuse to stay, every fear about leaving. You tell yourself this is the last time, but your body betrays you—clinging to him, pressing closer, moving like you want it to last forever.

Jeno is too wrapped up in the moment to notice. Too trusting. Too content in the haze of pleasure, in the way your body moves against his, in the warmth of your breath against his skin. He has no idea you’re slipping away. Not yet. Your senses are in overdrive. Every touch is a brand, every shift of muscle beneath your fingertips burns itself into your memory. The heat of his skin, the weight of his hands, the way he grips your waist like you belong to him. It’s overwhelming. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, trying to anchor yourself in him, but the thoughts keep creeping in. He doesn’t know. He has no idea. You’re about to ruin him.

Jeno groans beneath you, his hands tracing over your back, pulling you impossibly closer. He thinks your trembling is from pleasure, that your breathless gasps are for him, because of him. His lips drag along your throat, slow and reverent, pressing soft kisses into your skin as his hands skim down your spine. And then the moment shifts. He feels it before he fully understands it. The stiffness in your body, the way your breathing falters, the quiet sniffle you try to suppress.

Jeno frowns, his hands stilling against your back. "Hey," he murmurs, shifting slightly beneath you. "What’s wrong?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you press closer, pressing your lips against his shoulder, your fingers trailing down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He hums softly, tilting his head back as you mouth along his throat, your tongue tracing over the salt of his skin. His breath shudders, hands tightening at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You feel the slow drag of his fingers down your spine, the way his warmth engulfs you, but it only makes it worse. It only makes it harder.

You try to shift back, just a little, just enough to create space, but Jeno doesn’t let you. His arms tighten, keeping you right there, flush against him. "Where do you think you’re going?" he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, with something lazy and possessive, his lips brushing against your temple. His fingers curl around your hip, guiding you back down, pressing you deeper into him. "Stay with me."

It’s unbearable. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, how he’s making it impossible to leave cleanly. Every kiss, every touch, every pull drags you deeper when you should be pulling away. His hands roam over your skin like he’s memorizing you, like he has no idea he’s holding onto something that’s already slipping away. His warmth seeps into your bones, his breath skates along your jaw, his lips brush against yours again—soft, slow, lingering. Like he’s savoring you. Like there’s time.

But there isn’t.

Your fingers twitch against his chest, hesitation keeping you tethered for one more moment, one more second where you let yourself sink into the illusion of staying. His skin is hot beneath your touch, muscles flexing as he shifts slightly, as he tilts his head to nuzzle against you, sighing like he’s never been more content. And it wrecks you. It undoes you. Because this isn’t contentment—it’s blind faith. He trusts that you’re still here. That you’ll still be here when morning comes.

Your throat tightens, your stomach twists, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You have to go.

You force yourself to pull back, your chest aching as his hands slip from your body, as the air between you turns cold the moment he’s no longer wrapped around you. Your breath stutters, your fingers twitch like they want to reach for him again, but you don’t let them. You stay still for a second too long, caught in the space between leaving and staying, between cowardice and cruelty, but then you move.

You shift to sit beside him, curling your legs up to your chest, your arms wrapping around them like they might hold you together, like they might stop the inevitable. The bed creaks slightly with the loss of your weight against him, but Jeno doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything yet. You don’t look at him. You can’t. The silence is thick, suffocating, stretching between you like a chasm you can never close again. You’re still naked, still covered in sweat and cum, but none of it matters. Nothing matters anymore.

For a second, you consider just slipping away. Not saying a word. Not doing this at all. It would be so easy. He’s already spent, body loose and warm against the sheets, his breath deep and even. Soon, he’ll slip into sleep entirely, and that would be your moment. You could gather your things in silence, slip his hoodie over your head because it’s the closest thing in reach, because it smells like him, because even now, you’re weak. You’d take your phone off the charger, shove it into your bag, and leave—just like that. No note. No message. No explanation.

He’d wake up and reach for you, his palm smoothing over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, the warmth of you still tangled beside him. At first, he’d think you just had an early class, that you left in a hurry, that you’d be back later. Maybe he’d text you something lazy and sweet, something about how good last night was, how he’s still hard thinking about it. Maybe he’d fall back asleep, thinking nothing of it.

But then the hours would stretch. You wouldn’t text back. You wouldn’t call. By the time the evening rolled around, he’d start to wonder. He’d send another message—where are you? call me. Then another. He’d check your location, and for the first time in years, it wouldn’t be shared. That’s when it would hit him. That something wasn’t right.

You shake the thought away. You know better. Jeno wouldn’t just let you disappear. He wouldn’t accept silence, wouldn’t just let it be. He’d track you down. He’d demand to know why. And deep down, no matter how much you want to escape this conversation, you know he deserves an answer. You owe him that much.

But god, you wish you didn’t. The regret sinks in faster than you expected. It gnaws at the edges of your mind, twisting deep into your ribs. It starts while you’re still catching your breath, still tangled in the sheets with him. You should never have done this. You should have walked away last night, hours ago, before you gave in to the inevitable pull. But you were weak. You always are with him. You couldn’t resist the way he looked at you, the way his hands moved over your skin, like he knew every part of you by heart.

Jeno watches you, his frown deepening. "Y/N," he says, quieter this time, and it’s the way he says your name—soft, questioning, worried—that nearly makes you lose it completely.

You take a shaky breath, staring down at your hands, at the way they tremble where they rest against your knees. You can feel him watching you, waiting, his concern thick in the air between you. And then, finally, you say it. "Jeno. I have to tell you something."

A silence cuts through the room like a blade. The air shifts. Jeno blinks at you, the crease between his brows deepening. He pushes himself up onto one elbow, his eyes flickering over your face, searching. “Tell me what?”

You finally look at him. You shouldn’t. You should just say it, get it over with. But when you meet his gaze—still softened by sleep, hazy with affection—you hate yourself for what you’re about to do. Your throat tightens. Your stomach turns. “I’m leaving.”

Jeno stares at you. His expression doesn’t shift, doesn’t change—not at first. Then his brows pull together, his lips part slightly, like he’s trying to piece it together, to make it make sense. “Leaving?” His voice is still thick, hoarse from sleep, like he hasn’t quite shaken it off.

You nod, your fingers twisting in the sheets, gripping them so tightly they might tear. "The opportunity Coach Suh told me about." The words are heavy, unnatural in your mouth, but you force them out. "I’m taking it."

Jeno’s brows furrow slightly, but instead of immediate concern, a soft chuckle leaves his lips. "Why are you being so serious about it?" His voice is light, warm, filled with something you don’t deserve. "Even though you never told me that you’d be taking it until now, I always knew you were. You know I’m so happy and proud of you." He leans in, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your lips, a gentle smile curling against your mouth.

And for a second, you let yourself sink into it. Into the safety of him, the familiarity of his warmth, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. But it only lasts for a moment before you snap yourself out of it, before the reality of why you’re here slams back into your chest. You pull back, forcing space between you. "Jeno, I’m leaving." You say it again, firmer this time, hoping he understands what you mean, hoping he doesn’t make you say it outright.

He blinks, his smile faltering as confusion creeps into his features. His lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Then— "Just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean we have to break up."

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, sharp and humorless. It sounds crueler than you intended, but maybe cruelty is necessary. "And how will we stay together? Jeno, I’m going to be halfway across the world."

His expression shifts. The amusement in his eyes flickers and fades, replaced by something heavier, something you can feel settling in the space between you. He moves closer, like proximity alone will make this make sense. "Why are you talking like this?" His voice is quieter now, hesitant, like he’s starting to piece something together. "Like you’ve already made up your mind."

Because you have. Because you don’t have a choice. Because Taeyong made sure there was only one way forward, and it meant walking away from Jeno. But you can’t tell him that. You can’t tell him anything. So you keep going, keep twisting the knife deeper, keep making this easier for him in the only way you know how. "Because it’s the truth," you say, voice flat, emotionless. "I’m leaving."

Jeno stares at you, the weight of your words sinking in, settling into his bones like something cold and foreign. You see it hit him, watch the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch against the sheets. It should make you feel accomplished, should make this easier. It doesn’t. It never does. The moment feels like a rug being pulled out from under him. The contrast makes it worse—the remnants of last night still lingering around you both, his hoodie draped over your frame, his scent clinging to your skin. The intimacy of it all makes the pain sharper, like glass cutting through soft flesh.

Jeno lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of it. "You're joking." It’s not a question. It’s a plea.

You don’t smile. You don’t soften. "I’m not."

He moves closer, something desperate slipping into his voice. "Y/N—"

You cut him off before he can reach for you. Because if he touches you, you’ll break. "It wouldn’t have worked anyway." The words feel like acid on your tongue, burning, scarring. You shrug like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter. "This just makes sense."

Jeno’s mouth parts slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His expression twists, frustration creeping in, mixing with something raw. "This makes sense?" He scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his movements sharp, tense. "You’re actually being serious right now? We were fine—we made up, we were fucking fine. What changed?"

Jeno’s breath stutters, his frustration shifting into something closer to disbelief. “No—seriously, what the fuck changed?” His voice is sharper now, cracking slightly, like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands flex at his sides before he runs a rough hand through his hair, his movements quick, restless. “Because last night, we were fine. You were fine. You looked at me like—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Like you wanted this, wanted me.”

Jeno exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of something impossible. Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low and unsteady but laced with frustration. “After the shit at the bar—why did you forgive me? Why did you tell me everything was okay? Why did you kiss me, fuck me every night after that, like nothing else matters?” His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides. “And now, when you knew you were gonna end it, you did it again. You kissed me, you fucked me like you were never gonna leave. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, Y/N. You’re supposed to be a smart girl.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a vice. It lodges there, thick and suffocating, but you force yourself to swallow it down. Your pulse pounds in your ears, a relentless, deafening beat, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but this. You try to breathe past it, try to keep your face impassive, your voice steady. But it’s slipping. It’s all slipping. The agony claws up your throat, rips through your chest, fractures something deep inside you. You have to sell this—you have to make him believe it. Even if it kills you. Even if it destroys everything inside you.

“I did,” you force out, the words jagged and strained, like they’re being ripped from your throat. "And now I don’t. I thought I wanted this, but I don’t."

Jeno’s expression shatters for a split second before he shields it, jaw clenching so tight you swear you hear his teeth grind. “Bullshit.” The word is sharp, slicing through the thick silence like a blade. His head shakes, his breath uneven, his eyes darkening as they lock onto yours, searching—desperate for something, anything that makes this make sense. "You don’t just wake up one day and decide you don’t want something anymore. That’s not how this works."

Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, nails digging into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded."Maybe it is," you whisper, but your voice falters at the end, betraying you.

Jeno exhales, a rough, humorless sound. "No. That’s not you." His voice lowers, turns into something rough, something almost pleading. "You don’t just change your mind overnight, Y/N. Tell me the truth."

You hesitate—too long. And he sees it. The flicker of doubt, the war behind your eyes. And it’s that, not your words, that really starts to break him.

His breathing turns uneven, his body tense with restrained frustration, but now there’s something else—an unraveling, a slow, agonizing realization that he can’t yet name. "Y/N," he says again, quieter this time, almost hesitant, like he’s trying to read you, to pick apart what you won’t say. "You don’t just wake up one morning and decide you don’t want someone anymore. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work."

His jaw clenches again, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you in, to shake the truth out of you. "You think I don’t know you by now? You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?"

Your stomach twists. You can’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—he’ll see the way your resolve is crumbling, the way every word out of your mouth tastes like poison. But Jeno doesn’t let up. He moves closer, his voice quieter now, rough with something like desperation. "Tell me why you’re really doing this," he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours, waiting for something—anything—that makes sense. "Tell me why you’re looking at me like that, like—" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Like you don’t want to do this either."

And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes it unbearable. Because he’s right. Because he knows you. Because no matter how much you fight it, no matter how steady you force your voice to be, he can see you breaking. He sees it in the way your breath stammers in your chest, the way your hands tremble where they grip the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. He sees it in the way your eyes refuse to meet his, darting away too quickly, like the weight of his gaze alone could shatter you.

And yet, you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Because the choice was never yours to begin with. Taeyong had been nothing more than a distant figure, a name spoken with reverence and fear, a man who existed in the periphery of your world—but now he’s everywhere. He’s in the air you breathe, thick and poisoned, curling inside your lungs and making every inhale feel like submission. He’s in the walls closing in around you, in the weight crushing down on your chest, in the suffocating certainty that no matter which way you turn, he’s already thought ten steps ahead. His presence is a noose cinching tighter with every second you hesitate, every flicker of doubt in your eyes that Jeno might catch onto. And the worst part? You never even saw it coming. One moment, you were free—untethered, yours—and the next, he had his hands around your fate, stripping you of every last illusion of control, carving out your path before you even had the chance to resist. The ground beneath you is gone, the door to another outcome slammed shut, locked, buried. And Taeyong holds the key like it was always his to begin with.

It’s suffocating. It’s a straightjacket laced so tightly around your ribs that every inhale feels like a punishment. And the worst part? He doesn’t even have to do anything anymore. You know what he’s capable of. You know that if you hesitate for even a second, if you let Jeno see too much, if you let him reach for you one more time, you’ll ruin everything. For him. And that’s what guts you the most. Because if it were just you—if it were only your future on the line, your reputation, your opportunities—maybe you’d be able to claw your way out of this. Maybe you’d fight back. Maybe you’d burn for him if it meant staying. But Taeyong knew that, too. Knew that there was only one way to bind you, to make sure you listened. And he was right. He always is.

So you do the only thing you can do. You twist the knife deeper. Jeno is still waiting, still searching your face, clinging to some last shred of understanding. But there’s nothing left for him to find. Nothing you can give him. Nothing you’re allowed to say. "None of this matters,” you force out, your voice thin, hollow, something barely held together by breath and will alone. "Whatever you say doesn’t change the fact that I was always going to leave."

His lips press into a thin line, his whole body going rigid like the words have physically struck him. His hands twitch at his sides, clenching into fists, releasing, like he doesn’t know where to put the weight of his emotions. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. Waiting. Giving you a chance to take it back. But you don’t. "Whether we were together or not." His voice is quieter this time, but the sharp edge hasn’t dulled—it just cuts differently now, deeper, more controlled.

You nod. "Yes."

Silence stretches, thick and unbearable, swallowing the room whole. Jeno’s breath comes uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady movements like he’s trying to contain something that refuses to be caged. His fingers flex again, curling, uncurling, but he doesn’t reach for you. Not this time. He doesn’t ask you to stay. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg. And that should be a relief. Should make this easier. But it doesn’t.

"So that’s it," he breathes, the words dragging out, drained, like he's losing the strength to even argue." His voice is rough now, frayed at the edges, like he’s barely holding it together. "Just like that? After everything, after every moment together, after this—you’re just walking away? Like none of it meant anything?"

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, trying to force yourself to breathe past the burn in your chest. Because that’s what you have to make him believe. That none of it mattered. That last night was just a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness. That you hadn’t spent every second memorizing him, holding onto him like it was the last time—because it was.

"It doesn’t change anything," you murmur, forcing the words out even as they threaten to choke you. "It never did."

And just like that, you watch it happen. You watch the exact moment the fight drains out of him, watch the light flicker out of his eyes. You’ve hurt him in ways you never thought you’d be capable of. And yet, the worst part is knowing this isn’t even the real betrayal. The real betrayal is that you can’t tell him the truth. That you have to let him believe this was always going to happen. That no matter what, this was inevitable.

The air between you feels scorched, the remnants of something burning out too fast, too violently. It’s like standing at the epicenter of a supernova, watching a star collapse into itself, all that light and warmth turning to ruin in an instant. You can feel it in your chest, a pressure so crushing it threatens to hollow you out from the inside. He blinks at you, slow, disbelieving, like the world has just tilted beneath him, like he’s suddenly weightless in the worst possible way. A breath shudders from his lips, and for the first time, he looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you at all.

And it’s devastating. You thought it would be cleaner than this, thought you could carve yourself out of his life like a knife through flesh, quick, precise, a wound that might scar but wouldn’t fester. But nothing about this is clean. It’s messy and raw and impossible to contain. He doesn’t say anything, but his silence is louder than anything he could have said. It fills the room, thick and suffocating, pressing in from all sides, settling into the spaces where there used to be something else—where there used to be you and him.

There is no you and him anymore.

You feel the shift, the finality of it, the way something fundamental snaps between you, severing what was already frayed beyond recognition. You watch him grapple with it, the slow unraveling of understanding dawning across his features, the realization that this isn’t just an argument, isn’t something that can be fixed with the right words, the right touch. It’s over. You’re over.

And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something. A reason. An explanation. Anything to make this make sense. But you’ve already given him all the answers you’re allowed to. You’ve already destroyed him in every way that matters.

So you do the only thing left to do. You turn away.

The classroom thrums with a dissonant symphony—paper rustling, chair legs scraping against linoleum, the faint, discordant pluck of a guitar string. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a clinical glow, too sharp, too harsh, buzzing faintly like an exposed wire. Somewhere, the metronome ticks steadily, but the rhythm feels off, mismatched with the rapid pulse hammering against your ribs. The professor’s voice rises and falls, something about dissonance resolving into harmony, how tension in music must stretch itself thin before it can finally snap back into place. The lesson should interest you. It doesn’t. The words are little more than static, blending into the low, suffocating hum in your skull.

You try to focus. You try to force your attention onto the sheet music in front of you, onto the pen in your hand, onto the clean, structured lines of notation that should provide some sense of order. But the moment your pen hovers over the staff paper, the voices slip through the cracks.

It started the moment you walked in, a shift in the air so tangible you could taste it. It’s been like this for days. The stares, the murmurs that don’t stop when you look up, the way people avert their gazes just a second too late. Your name has become a low, slithering thing in the mouths of strangers, spoken in hushed tones, followed by sharp laughter, raised eyebrows, knowing smirks. You knew this would happen. You knew how quickly rumors fester and spread, how people carve their entertainment from the bones of someone else’s misery.

Jeno has been fucking around. Relentlessly. He dealt with heartbreak the same way he’s always dealt with anything painful—drowning in excess, losing himself in distraction. There was no hesitation, no moment of pause. One night, he was yours, his hands gripping your waist, his mouth whispering your name like it was the only one he knew. The next, he was on someone else, inside someone else, chasing the kind of numbness you can only find between someone else’s legs.

And maybe that should give you some kind of peace. Maybe you should be grateful that he’s doing exactly what you wanted him to do—moving on, forgetting you. Hating you. But you’re not. Because now you’re stuck here, sitting in the wreckage, while he gets to bury it in someone else’s body. Because while you are unraveling in real time, while your heart aches with every passing second, Jeno is grinning at some girl at a party, pressing her against the wall, dragging his teeth down her neck, whispering things to her he probably once said to you. And you know it’s not personal. It’s not about her. It’s about you. About making sure he never has to think about you again.

You know you have no right to be angry. You know this. You gave him up. You made the choice. You told yourself this was the only way, that you had to let him go, that this was what was best for him. But knowing that doesn’t stop the burn in your stomach, the sharp sting behind your ribs as the words reach you, each syllable carving deeper into something raw and unhealed.

"Apparently they broke up."

"Obviously. Jeno’s already fucked half the campus."

"He doesn’t waste time, does he?"

The words slip out between hushed giggles, between the casual shuffle of papers and the scratch of pens. The voices belong to Yunjin and Chaewon, their heads dipped toward each other, their smiles laced with something cruel and amused. They aren’t being loud. They don’t need to be. The words find you anyway, slicing through the stale classroom air, settling beneath your skin like rot.

But then—

"Can’t believe she actually thought she could keep him."

Your breath catches, a sharp hitch that you swallow down before it can betray you. The world tilts slightly, but you don’t let yourself move. You don’t let yourself look up. The whisper is just loud enough to reach you, threaded with something that feels like pity and scorn all at once. Like you were delusional for thinking you ever stood a chance. Like this was always going to happen, and everyone knew it but you.

Your heart is a violent, stuttering thing against your ribs. You can hear it over everything else—the professor’s voice, the metronome, the slow-building pressure in your skull. Your hands are cold. Your face is hot. The anxiety settles like a second skin, thick and cloying, wrapping itself around your lungs. You tell yourself to breathe. Breathe. But the notes in front of you don’t make sense anymore, their meanings lost to the haze creeping in at the edges of your vision.

Chaewon clicks her tongue, a soft, amused sound. “Wonder who he’s with tonight.”

Laughter follows, light and careless. It’s too much. The walls press in. The lights buzz louder. The classroom feels impossibly small, like it’s shrinking around you, like you need to get out, now, before it drowns you completely. But then there’s a shift next to you, just barely noticeable over the static in your head. Mark is beside you. Where he always sits. He hasn’t moved seats just because you stopped talking. Mark’s not the type to change things just because it might make you more comfortable.

He leans in slightly, voice low, quiet enough that only you can hear. “What are they talking about? Why is Jeno fucking other girls? Thought you guys were together.” His tone is casual, like he’s just asking a simple question, but there’s an edge beneath it. Not curiosity. Not concern. Just something sharp, something unreadable.

You don’t look at him. You can’t look at him. Your fingers tighten around your pen, stiff, unyielding, like they’ve locked into place, like if you loosen your grip even a little, everything will spill out. “Well, we’re not,” you mutter. It’s barely a whisper, barely real, but he hears you. Of course he does. Because Mark doesn’t say anything else. He just leans back in his chair, silent. Watching. Waiting.

And then it starts.

The whispers crawl into the music, curling between the notes, staining the melody, twisting it into something unrecognizable. It seeps into the empty spaces, wraps around the rests, crushing them, filling the silence with static—too much static—just noise—just words—just—

The sheet music in front of you melts. The notes stretch, bend, peeling away from the staff, unraveling, slipping through the page like they’re trying to escape. Your vision flickers. The air is too thick, the room too tight, the fluorescent lights too loud. You blink, but the motion makes it worse. Your stomach plummets, weightless for a moment before the sickening lurch of vertigo grips you.

Your fingers tremble. The pen slips. The world tilts.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and clear, slicing through the noise, through you. His hand moves behind your back, pressing firm and steady, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. The contact wrecks you. It doesn’t calm you, doesn’t ground you. It sends you spiraling, makes the crash hit harder, faster, sharper. Your pulse slams against your ribs, every heartbeat a violent knock, knock, knock—

You barely register Yunjin muttering something under her breath, her voice laced with something biting, something sharp. But before the words can land, before they can sink their teeth into you, Mark snaps, “Shut the fuck up.” No hesitation. No room for argument. He doesn’t even look at her. His focus stays on you, locked in place, like he already knows you’re slipping.

Your chair scrapes against the floor, the sound shrieking, slicing through the air. It feels distant. Not yours. Like you’re watching someone else stagger to their feet, someone else’s hands shaking, clumsy, fumbling to grab their things, shoving crumpled papers into a bag that suddenly feels too small, too useless, too fucking much. The tremor in your fingers is uncontrollable now, shaking, shaking, shaking, and you can feel Mark’s eyes on you, that quiet, assessing gaze, like he’s trying to map out what’s happening inside your head, like he can see the walls caving in.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. You don’t wait for the professor to acknowledge you. You don’t breathe. You don’t think. You don’t look at Mark. You don’t look at anyone. You just leave.

The classroom spins, the air clogged with voices, scraping against your skin like sandpaper. Too bright, too loud, too much. Your legs feel wrong, unsteady, disconnected from the rest of you, but you move anyway. The door shoves open, the hallway air rushing in, but it doesn’t help. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. It’s too much. The noise. The room. The hands reaching out. The concern in his voice. The way his touch felt like something you could have collapsed into, something that would have caught you—

You can’t. You won’t. You just need to get out. You need air. You need—

You don’t know.

The hallway stretches long and endless, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, casting everything in a sterile, artificial glow. Your breath is ragged, uneven, the walls pressing too close, the floor too unstable beneath your feet. You push forward, past the blur of indistinct voices, past the vague shapes of people you don’t recognize, don’t care to recognize. The world outside is too loud, too sharp, but you don’t stop. You don’t stop until your fingers curl around the handle of a door, until you shove it open and step inside.

The private studio has always been an escape, a refuge stitched together with quiet and clarity. Even now, its presence is familiar—soft lamplight spilling over polished wood, the faint scent of old sheet music and varnish clinging to the air. The piano stands in the center like an altar, its black lacquer surface gleaming under the dim glow. This room has always been a place where you can exist outside of everything else. A space where nothing reaches you. Where sound bends to your will.

But tonight, it is not safe.

Tonight, it is too still. The quiet is suffocating, pressing against your ribs, filling your lungs with something thick and unbearable. You sink onto the bench, fingers hovering above the keys, but the second you press down, the sound is wrong. Too sharp. Too jarring. It crashes into the silence instead of settling into it, shattering the illusion of control you once had.

The keys feel foreign under your fingers, cold and stiff, resisting your touch like they know you don’t belong here anymore. The room feels haunted, thick with ghosts you can’t shut out. Jeno, leaning against the piano, arms crossed, watching you with that lazy smirk, tilting his head at a wrong note, teasing you like he had all the time in the world. Try again, baby. But he’s not here, and the warmth in his voice is just an echo, a phantom, fading like the last notes of a song that was never meant to last.

You try again. The notes slip, tripping over each other, breaking apart before they can even form something whole. The melody evades you, slipping through your fingers like sand. You press harder. The frustration curls inside you, thick and choking. Again. Again. But the more you try to force the music out, the worse it sounds, unraveling at the seams, collapsing beneath your touch.

The whispers won’t stop. The image of Jeno—hands on someone else, lips ghosting over someone else’s throat—lodges itself in your mind like a knife between ribs. He moved on so easily. He let go so easily. And you— A strangled noise leaves your throat. You slam your hands down against the keys. A discordant, violent explosion of sound ruptures the stillness, ringing in your ears, rattling through your arms, through your chest. But it isn’t enough.

Nothing is enough.

The music should flow like water—effortless, unbroken, slipping through your fingers and cascading into something whole. But it doesn’t. It staggers, trips over itself, breaking apart before it can even find a rhythm. The notes are jagged, gasping, drowning in the silence that follows. You press harder, desperate to regain control, but the melody resists you, resisting like a current pulling against your limbs, like the rush of a waterfall swallowing everything in its path. And you—you—are caught beneath it, dragged under, crushed by the weight of something that once felt freeing.

You shove away from the piano, the force knocking over a stack of sheet music. The pages scatter like dead leaves, skidding across the floor, twisting and turning before settling into a mess of ink and chaos. Your breath is shallow, too fast. The room is shrinking, the walls pressing inward, the ceiling pressing downward, the air turning thick, heavy, unbreathable. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms, grounding you in the sting, but it doesn’t help.

Glass shatters. The sharp, discordant sound slices through the air, and your gaze snaps to the floor. The metronome lies in ruin, its fractured pieces catching the light, splintering into tiny, fractured reflections. Time. The irony is suffocating—you thought you had time. Thought you could handle this. But everything is unraveling too fast, spinning out of control, slipping through your fingers like the scattered sheets around you.

A blast of air surges into the room. The door slams against the wall, the impact rattling through the floorboards, shaking through your bones. Loose papers lift and spiral into the air before collapsing back to the ground in disarray, the lamplight flickering against their chaotic descent. Cold rushes in, sharp and unyielding, but it’s nothing compared to the presence that fills the space, pressing against your skin like a weight, heavy and inescapable.

Mark stands in the hallway, chest heaving, eyes sweeping over the wreckage—the scattered pages, the shattered metronome, the trembling mess of you in the center of it all. He doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside, moving toward you with careful, deliberate strides, like he’s already assessed every detail of the room, already knows what’s happening, already knows you. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a second, you can’t breathe. You can’t move. The weight in your chest expands, pressing tighter, heavier, until your knees buckle beneath it.

Before you can hit the ground, his arms are around you. Strong, steady, catching you before the fall can steal you away completely. One hand grips your waist, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing at all. The motion is seamless, like he was expecting it, like he knew your body was going to give out before you did. His hold is firm but careful, his warmth sinking into your skin, and there’s no hesitation—no doubt, no reluctance, just a quiet, undeniable certainty. He’s here. He’s got you.

The world bends in on itself, a house of cards collapsing in slow motion, each breath knocking another piece loose. The air is thick, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore, a weightless thing detached from the frantic pounding in your chest. You know Mark is touching you, feel the press of his arms, the heat of his skin against yours, but it’s distant, like you’re watching from behind a thick pane of glass. The moment fractures, splinters into something unreal, something unsteady. You can’t find the door. You can’t get out.

“Shit. Okay, okay. I got you,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, grounding. His arms tighten around you, adjusting his grip, making sure you’re secure against him. He doesn’t let you slip, doesn’t shift even as your body trembles violently in his hold. His chest rises and falls beneath you, deep and measured, a rhythm to follow, something to anchor yourself to. His fingers press into your back, rubbing slow, steady circles, urging you to breathe, to be here, to stay with him.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Slow. Just like that. I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

You can’t. You can’t stop crying. The sobs tear through you, ragged and unrelenting, your whole body shaking with the force of them. Your hands fist into his hoodie, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t move, doesn’t let go, just holds you through it, his arms strong and unyielding, like he’s trying to absorb every ounce of your pain into himself.

His chin drops, lips brushing against your temple, barely there, a soft, fleeting press. Then another. And another. Each one a whisper of reassurance, a silent promise. He’s here. He’s not leaving. You’re not alone. His breath warms your skin between each kiss, slow and steady, grounding you in something real, something solid, something safe.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His words melt into your skin, threading through the chaos, pulling you back from the edge. He keeps talking, keeps filling the silence with something warm, something steady, something that doesn’t break. His voice is a tether, something to hold onto, something to follow out of the storm.

“I’m not going anywhere.” His fingers trace slow, soothing lines up and down your spine, mapping out comfort between each breath. “Just breathe. You’re safe. You’re okay.” Your sobs start to slow, breaking into uneven breaths, the tremors still there but softer now, not as consuming. Mark doesn’t let go. His arms stay firm, his touch never faltering. His fingers curl around the back of your neck, thumb stroking lightly against your skin, grounding you. He waits, patient, unwavering, like he’s done this a million times before, like he knows what you need without you having to ask.

“I got you. Just—just breathe, okay?”

You try, but your breath is too fast, too erratic, catching on the edges of every inhale like you can’t find the air. Your body jerks with the force of it, chest stuttering, lungs fighting against you, and Mark feels it, all of it. His grip tightens, pulling you closer, pressing you into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Slow,” he murmurs, his voice low, grounding. “Feel that? Just follow me. In—” He exaggerates the inhale, slow and deep, his hand moving against your back in time with the breath. “Hold it. Just for a second. Now let it go.”

You clutch at him, hands fisting into his hoodie, fingers curling so tightly it almost hurts. The first breath doesn’t work. The second barely makes it through. But Mark doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just keeps murmuring against your temple, his breath warm and steady, his fingers tracing soft, rhythmic circles into your back.

“Breathe with me,” he whispers again. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Little by little, the air starts to come back. It’s shaky, uneven, but it’s there, slipping through the cracks of your ribs, settling in your chest instead of fighting against it. The worst of the spinning ebbs, the grip on your lungs loosening just enough for the exhaustion to sink in, heavy and suffocating in its own way.

Mark feels it, the way your body sags against his, and he adjusts his hold without hesitation, shifting his grip to keep you upright, to keep you close. His chin dips, lips brushing against your forehead, barely there, a fleeting press, a silent reassurance. Then another. And another. Soft, steady, constant.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. You’re alright.”

His voice stays gentle, a low hum threading through the quiet. His hands never stop moving—one rubbing slow circles into your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. He’s careful, deliberate, like he knows exactly how fragile this moment is, how easily you could break apart again.

And then, after a long moment, after your breath has steadied just enough, his lips press to your temple one more time, and he exhales, something half a laugh, half a sigh. “Not gonna lie,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, “that was kinda dramatic.”

A choked, breathless noise escapes you, something between a sob and a laugh, and he smiles—you can feel it against your skin, small and warm, familiar.

“There she is,” he whispers. You shake your head against him, fingers still curled into his hoodie, your chest still tight, but the weight pressing down on you doesn’t feel as unbearable anymore. It’s still there, still lingering, but so is he—steady and sure, holding you up, keeping you close, keeping you safe.

Mark unlocks the door without hesitation, the keys turning in the lock with a quiet click, a sound that should feel like permission, like belonging. But as the door swings open, the apartment is unfamiliar. The air inside is stale, untouched, filled with the scent of new paint and sawdust rather than something lived-in, something yours. You haven’t been here in weeks. The space is supposed to be a marker of the future, of a life being built, but instead, it feels like a project abandoned mid-construction. Mark doesn’t say anything as he steps inside, but you see the way his gaze sweeps over the half-painted walls, the unopened furniture boxes stacked against the far corner. He notices the things you’ve neglected, the things you’ve left unfinished.

You follow him in, your footsteps quiet against the bare floors. The apartment is in limbo, caught between being a place and a home, and the weight of its incompleteness settles heavily on your chest. You were supposed to be here more, supposed to have put in the time to turn it into something real, something yours. But you hadn’t. Life had gotten in the way. You had gotten in the way. Mark doesn’t say it, but you know he’s thinking it too. His eyes linger on the makeshift dining table, on the paint cans pushed into the corner, on the shelves that still lean against the wall instead of standing upright. This place was meant to be more than this. You were meant to be more present. And now, standing here, the regret seeps in like a slow tide, inevitable and inescapable.

The couch had arrived in pieces, packed neatly in boxes that promise an easy assembly, though you both know better. You push the coffee table aside, clearing space in the center of the room, and set to work. The process is slow, frustrating, full of missing screws and instructions that barely make sense. There’s a moment when Mark sighs, running a hand through his hair, ready to call it quits, but you shake your head. Not yet. Giving up feels like admitting defeat, like acknowledging how much distance had grown between you both these last few weeks. And so you keep going, pushing through every minor inconvenience, every misplaced bolt, every silent thought that lingers in the air between you. When the final piece clicks into place, it’s not just the couch that stands more solid than before—it’s something else, something unspoken but understood.

Neither of you sit on the couch. Instead, you collapse onto the floor, backs pressed against the fabric that had taken three hours to assemble. Your legs stretch out in front of you, exhaustion settling deep into your muscles, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes with accomplishment. The takeout containers between you are still warm, the scent of food curling into the space between your quiet breaths. You don’t rush to fill the silence. Neither does Mark. This is how it’s always been with him—patience in the stillness, understanding in the unsaid. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand words from you, but you know he’s waiting. You can feel it in the way he sits beside you, steady and unwavering, like an anchor keeping you tethered when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under.

You tip your head onto his shoulder, feeling the tension in your body ease just slightly. The apartment isn’t finished. The walls are still bare, the furniture still sparse, but there’s something in this moment that feels like progress. Maybe not in the way you expected, maybe not in a way that erases the last few weeks, but it’s something. And for now, that’s enough. Sitting here with Mark, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beside you, it’s a reminder that some things can still be pieced back together. That not everything has to remain undone.

Mark nudges your knee lightly, his voice soft when he finally speaks. “We’ll finish it, we have time” He says, and you know he’s not just talking about the apartment. You nod, exhaling slowly, allowing yourself to believe it. It’s not much, but it’s something. And right now, that’s all you can ask for.

You barely touch the food in front of you but Mark eats slowly, methodically, his gaze flicking toward you between bites. He’s waiting. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t push, but the weight of his patience is heavy. You know him too well to mistake his silence for anything else. He’s giving you space, but he’s also waiting for you to speak. And eventually, when the weight in your chest becomes unbearable, when the words press so hard against your ribs that they threaten to spill out, you do.

At first, it’s slow. Stilted. You don’t even know where to begin. You try to keep your voice steady, try to downplay the gravity of what you’re about to say, but Mark isn’t stupid. His brows draw together, his chewing slows, his body tenses almost imperceptibly. He’s listening, absorbing every word, every hesitation, and you can tell the longer you go without getting to the point, the more worried he becomes. When you pause too long, he finally speaks, his voice low, careful, but firm. “Tell me who the fuck I need to kill.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head as his jaw clenches. “Do I need to deal with Jeno?”

The laugh that escapes you is short and hollow, nothing more than a breath between tears. “Mark, he’s your brother.”

His eyes find yours, dark and steady, the weight of his words settling between you. “And you’re my best friend.” It’s not a reassurance, not a question—just fact, the kind that’s always been unshakable. And despite everything—despite the ache in your chest, despite the mess of it all—you smile, because you know. No matter what, no matter how bad things get, he’s on your side. The silence stretches, but it isn’t heavy. It isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just you and Mark, like it’s always been, like it always will be. And then, finally, he nods, exhaling like he’s made his decision. He’s listening. He’s not going to fix this. He’s just going to be here for you. He lifts his hand, wordlessly, pinky extended. You hesitate—just for a second—then hook yours around his. A promise. One he won’t break.

For a second, you let yourself exist in that small pocket of reassurance. But then, the weight of reality crashes back down. You tell him everything. About Taeyong. About how it started. About how you didn’t see it coming. How he had been watching you, disapproving of you and Jeno from the start. How he had always held quiet control over Jeno’s life, and when the moment was right, he struck. You try to explain the sheer power he holds, the way he makes you feel small, insignificant, weak. Mark listens, expression darkening with every word. You can feel the shift in him, the quiet rage building beneath his skin, the way his shoulders tighten, the way his fingers curl into fists against his knees. And then, when you tell him about the leverage—when you tell him what Taeyong has—his entire body goes rigid.

You don’t look at him when you say it. Your eyes stay locked on the floor, on the cracks in the wood, on the places where the varnish has worn away, anything but his face. Then you force it out. The videos. The proof. Recordings of you at the bar, on stage, wrapped around Jeno like you had no shame. Videos of you drunk, high, grinding against him in the dim glow of neon, his hands rough and greedy on your body. Footage of you in his lap, skirt pushed up, his fingers buried inside you right there in the open, your mouth slack, eyes glazed over. Your legs hooked around his waist, your body rocking down onto him, your lips parted, moaning for him like you belonged to him. Images of Jeno sucking bruises into your neck, dragging you into the back hallways, pressing you against walls, against doors, fucking you like he couldn’t stand the distance between you. Evidence of every filthy, desperate moment you thought belonged to just the two of you. You swallow the nausea rising in your throat and say the rest like it’s choking you, like it’s bile in your mouth.

This is what you tell Mark. Every single detail, every threat, every sickening way Taeyong made it clear just how little power you had. You tell him how Taeyong had been watching, waiting, collecting every mistake, every moment he could use against you and Jeno. How he knew exactly when to strike. How he cornered you, laid it all out, and left you with no way out. He made it clear—if you didn’t end things, if you didn’t make Jeno believe you were gone for good, he would use everything against you. He would send the videos to the right people, spin the right narrative, destroy you with one move. He’d ensure your future with Deloitte was down the drain.

Mark doesn’t say anything at first. His breathing shifts, shallow and uneven, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles go white. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his shoulders rise with each inhale, how his entire body tenses like he’s trying to hold himself back from exploding. The silence between you is suffocating, heavier than the weight of the confession itself.

Then, finally, his voice cuts through it. Eerily calm. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t need to. The silence is enough. The way your shoulders sink, the way your eyes dart away. The truth sits between you, heavy and unmoving.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You’re not kidding.”

Mark is still trying to process everything, his mind struggling to catch up with the weight of what you’ve just told him. He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to ground himself, to make sense of something that refuses to settle. “I didn’t even know you had this opportunity,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, almost distant. His hands are clasped together, knuckles still taut, as if holding onto himself is the only thing keeping him steady. He lifts his gaze to you, searching, trying to understand. “You’re leaving?”

You nod, the guilt pressing down like a vice. “I was always going to take it, Mark.” And it’s the truth. The opportunity with Deloitte would always be a part of your plan, a chance you had worked for, something you had earned on your own. But everything else—leaving Jeno, making him believe you chose this over him—that had never been part of it. “It’s not permanent. It’s a hybrid role. I’ll be between here and New York, working on-site, but I’ll still be around. I’ll still be coming back.” Your voice drops lower, trying to soften the blow.

He exhales. “So what about the apartment?” His voice is careful now, measured, but you can tell he’s holding something back. “We were supposed to live there. First year on our own. I mean—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration leaking through the cracks. “What’s the point of moving in together if you’re going to be gone half the time?”

The guilt deepens, pooling in your chest like cement. You had thought about this already, had mapped out the logistics, but now, seeing the way Mark’s looking at you, it’s clear you hadn’t fully considered what this would mean for him. “It won’t be like that,” you promise, even as the words taste uncertain in your mouth. “I’ll be back just as much as I’m gone. It’s not like I’m moving out. The place is still ours. Plus, you’ll have Areum, you won’t be alone.”

Mark lets out a slow breath, nodding once, but his fingers drum anxiously against his knee. He doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t look convinced. There’s an unspoken worry in his eyes—one that tells you he knows, just as much as you do, that nothing is going to be the same. Then, almost as an afterthought, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “We broke up.” The words are blunt, clipped, like he’s already resigned himself to them.

You huff out a small laugh, not unkind, just knowing. “You guys will find your way back to each other.” His expression doesn’t shift, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tenses. “You’ll figure it out. you’re soulmates.” His eyes flicker to yours, something unreadable passing through them. Then he nods, barely, and you don’t push it further. Because this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you. And what you still have to say.

Your voice cracks before you even finish the thought, breath shaking on the exhale like your body is rejecting the words before they can fully form. “Me and Jeno aren’t going to find our way back to each other.” It’s not an uncertainty—it’s not a possibility lingering in the air, waiting to be disproven. It’s a death sentence. Cold. Irrevocable. The kind that snuffs out whatever ember of hope you were stupid enough to still be holding onto. You bite down on your lip so hard it stings, trying to keep the emotion at bay, but it’s already spilling over, thick and suffocating, settling in your lungs like smoke after a fire has burned everything to the ground. “I—” You stop, shaking your head, because what else is there to say? That you don’t want it to be true? That it still feels like something in you is being ripped apart at the seams, like you’re losing a limb, like the part of you that belonged to him—belongs to him—will never belong to anyone else? That you still love him? That you probably always will?

Your fingers clench uselessly at the fabric of your sleeves, twisting, pulling, something to hold onto, because there’s nothing left of him to reach for anymore. “I didn’t want to leave him like this.” Your voice is paper-thin, fragile, cracking under the weight of it all. “I didn’t want to end things like this.” But you had to. Had to. That’s what you tell yourself, over and over and over again, like repetition might make it easier to believe. Like it might dull the ache. But it doesn’t. It never does. Because the reality is—it doesn’t matter how many times you try to convince yourself that this was the only way. It doesn’t change the fact that you broke him. That you had to break him. That you had to look into the eyes of the only person who has ever made you feel like home and set him on fire.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift beside you—the way his arm comes around you, grounding, steady, pulling you in before you can fall apart completely. Your breath is uneven, shallow, but you force yourself to keep talking, to push past the ache threatening to consume you whole. “I had to make him hate me.” The confession spills out like a wound being torn open, raw and bleeding. “I had to make him believe I didn’t love him anymore, that he wasn’t enough, that I was already moving on.” Your voice wavers, but you don’t stop, even as your throat burns. “So I lied to him. I told him that even if he begged, even if he asked me to stay, I wouldn’t. That this opportunity meant more to me than he did. That nothing he could say would change my mind.” The words land heavy, final, echoing in the quiet, and for a second, you swear you can still hear the way he said your name when you left. Like it was the last time.

Your breath stutters, breaking, and the silence that follows is unbearable.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before you continue. "I was always going to take the opportunity," you say, voice thick with exhaustion, eyes burning from the weight of it all. "But I was never going to end it with Jeno. That was never the plan." You blink hard, forcing back the sting in your vision. "I had to make him believe I would. I had to make him think I chose this over him."

Mark’s gaze sharpens, confusion flickering beneath the frustration he’s barely holding back. His fingers flex against his knee, fists curling like he’s resisting the urge to do something—anything—to change what’s already been done. "And he just let you go?"

“He let me go,” you nod, the words barely holding together. “And then he did exactly what I knew he would do—he burned himself down completely.” The image of Jeno—reckless, self-destructive, breaking himself apart piece by piece—flashes through your mind, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut against it. “He’s spiraling, Mark. He’s fucking everyone, throwing himself into distractions, trying to erase me from his system. And it’s destroying him.” You force yourself to meet Mark’s gaze, to let him see the devastation in your own. “But there’s nothing I can do. If I go back, if I try to fix it, Taeyong will follow through. He’ll make sure Jeno never steps foot on a professional court.”

Mark’s brows knit together, confusion creeping into the storm of emotions already brewing inside him. “But… the blackmail was against you.” His voice is slower now, cautious, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit. His eyes narrow. “How does this affect Jeno?”

You take a breath, your chest tightening, knowing that the next part is going to destroy him. Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them, and you blink furiously, jaw tightening. "Because it wasn’t just me," you whisper. "Taeyong blackmailed Jeno too—just not to him. Jeno has no idea. He doesn’t know any of this."

Mark stills. His expression darkens, breath hitching, body coiling like a live wire about to snap. "What the fuck are you saying?"

You wipe at your face, fingers shaking. "Taeyong knows how much I love him," you choke out. "He knows how much I care, how I’d put him before myself, before anything. So he told me—if I ignored him, if I still tried to be with Jeno, then he’d come for him."

You tell him about the ultimatum. How Taeyong laid it out for you in brutal, clinical detail. How he told you that if you didn’t leave Jeno—if you didn’t make him believe it—he would make sure Jeno never played professional basketball. How it wouldn’t even take much. Just a few well-placed words. A few whispers in the right ears. A few clicks to send out the files he had. You tell him how you tried to find another way, any other way, but there wasn’t one. How you knew, the second Taeyong laid it all out, that you had already lost. “I didn’t have a choice,” you whisper. “I had to break his heart. I had to make it hurt. Because if I didn’t—” Your voice catches, but Mark is already finishing the sentence for you, voice tight, raw, furious. “He’d lose everything.”

Mark braces himself, shoulders tensing, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. "He told me," you continue, voice hollow, "that if I didn’t leave Jeno, he’d make sure his future ended before it even started. He’d spread the videos of us around, spread the rumors to the wrong ears. He’d destroy him. Even though I deleted them from his phone, who am I kidding? He probably has them stored somewhere else."

Mark’s entire body is rigid, but you push forward because you have to. "And it’s not just that," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "He has everything on Jeno. Every fight, every reckless decision, every time his temper got the best of him. He’s been documenting it all, just waiting." You let out a shaky breath. "He has enough to paint him as unstable, uncoachable, a liability to any team."

Mark already knows Jeno’s been fucking up lately. He’s seen the fights with Eric and Sunwoo, the reckless plays on the court, the way he’s been losing himself. But what he doesn’t know—what no one knew—is that Taeyong was watching it all. Waiting. Calculating. And now, he has the power to end Jeno’s dreams with a single move.

Mark is silent, but his breathing is heavy, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. And then he stands up abruptly, running a hand through his hair, pacing the small space between the couch and the half-built coffee table. “We have to tell Jeno.” His voice is resolute, sharp. “He needs to know.”

You shake your head before he even finishes. “No. No, Mark. You can’t.”

He turns to you, eyes blazing. “You think I can just sit here and do nothing?”

The panic rises in your chest, choking, suffocating. “If you tell him, it’s over,” you say, voice breaking. “Taeyong has everything, Mark. If Jeno knows the truth, if you even hint at it, Taeyong will pull the trigger. He'll make sure Jeno never plays basketball again. Do you understand? Jeno's entire life, his dream—it's hanging by a thread, and this is the only thing keeping it from snapping."

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less firm. “And you think he just gets to win?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, staring down at your hands. “He already has.”

Mark shakes his head, jaw tight, barely containing the anger still thrumming beneath his skin. “No,” he says, voice steady, final. “No, he hasn’t.”

"I don’t know what to do anymore." Your voice breaks. "I can’t fix this, Mark. I’ve tried. I’ve thought about every possible way out, and there’s nothing. I have no choice. I was supposed to have a future with him, we were going to figure it out together. And now—" A sob lodges itself in your throat, thick and painful. "Now I’m just supposed to disappear? Like none of it ever mattered? Like he doesn’t matter?"

Mark exhales sharply, he looks at you, really looks at you, and what he sees must break him because his voice is soft when he finally speaks. "You’re so in love with him."

You let out a small, broken laugh. "Isn’t it obvious?" The admission nearly shatters you because loving Jeno should have meant fighting for him, staying with him, choosing him. But instead, it meant destroying him so Taeyong wouldn’t do worse.

Your voice trembles, breaking under the weight of everything you can’t change. “It’s cruel,” you whisper, each word dragging itself from your throat like it hurts to say. “That I can’t be with the man I love.” It’s not just cruel—it’s suffocating, unbearable, a slow and deliberate kind of agony that gnaws at the edges of your sanity. Your breath shudders, your fingers curling into your palms like you can hold yourself together, like you can stop the pieces from slipping through the cracks. And then, softer, almost to yourself, “But at least he’ll still have basketball.” The words taste bitter, like something sharp and wrong. Like a lie you’re trying to believe. You let out a breathless, broken laugh, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like resignation. Like the final nail in the coffin of everything you wanted, everything you’ll never have again.

Mark lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the air like a blade. “Will he?” His eyes lock onto yours, unflinching, waiting for the weight of it to settle. “You really think he still has basketball?” His voice is edged with something raw, something almost desperate, like he needs you to see what he sees. He shakes his head, exhaling hard. “He’s fucking up, Y/N. He’s spiraling. He’s still messing around, still point shaving because he has no other choice.” He pauses, letting it sink in, watching the way your expression wavers, the way your breath catches.

“You think he’ll be fine just because you left? You think he’ll be okay?” His laugh this time is even sharper, disbelieving. “He’s not okay. And this—this shit you’re doing, keeping him in the dark—it’s not making it better.” His hands flex, like he’s fighting the urge to grab your shoulders, shake sense into you. “You think walking away saved him? You think this is what’s best for him?” He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair, voice dropping lower, tighter. “Open your fucking eyes. You’re not protecting him. You’re just leaving him to drown.” Mark knows his words are harsh, knows they cut deep, but he doesn’t take them back. He can’t. Because they’re not just cruel—they’re the truth. And maybe it’s brutal, maybe it’s unfair, but it’s necessary.

A lump forms in your throat, heavy and thick. Because he's right. You’ve been telling yourself that as long as Jeno has basketball, as long as he still has his future, then maybe—maybe it’s worth it. But what if he doesn’t? What if you’ve destroyed him for nothing?

Mark leans forward, voice low and firm. "Y/N. I love you. I won’t go against you despite how badly I want to but I don’t agree with this. I know why you’re keeping it a secret. I get it. But Taeyong doesn’t have Jeno’s best interests at heart. Don’t you think it’s worse that you’re not telling him? That he doesn’t even realise just how much his own father is his biggest fucking enemy?"

You nod slowly, hands trembling in your lap. Because you can’t disagree. There’s no good outcome, no real benefit, no silver lining. You’ve been choked by this situation, forced into a corner with no escape. If Jeno doesn’t end up happy, if he doesn’t thrive in his career, then what was the point? What was the fucking point? Taeyong isn’t going to help Jeno deal with Sunwoo and Eric. He could fix everything with a single snap of his fingers, but he won’t. So if Jeno is going to stand a chance, if he’s going to make it out of this in one piece—you have to be the one to do something about it.

Your pulse thrums with a new kind of urgency, something raw and unshakable clawing its way to the surface. You have to fix this. There’s no more waiting, no more hoping that things will settle on their own. Jeno is slipping, spiraling further with every second you waste. You’ve already taken everything from him—his trust, his belief in you, his sense of stability—and if you don’t act now, if you don’t move, then Taeyong will win. He’ll have orchestrated this entire thing, pulled every string, crushed every last piece of Jeno until there’s nothing left of the person he was supposed to be.

You won’t let that happen.

You can’t let that happen.

Your hands clench into fists, fingernails biting into your palms, and you force yourself to breathe, to focus, to think. There has to be a way. A way to fix this, to protect Jeno, to take back control of something—anything. You don’t know how, you don’t know what it’ll cost you, but none of that matters anymore. Because you have to do this. Because there’s no other option. Because if you don’t, then what the hell was all this suffering for? The fear is still there, curling in the pit of your stomach, but it’s different now. It’s fuel. It’s fire. It’s the thing that’s going to push you forward.

You have to move. Fast.

The past few nights have been long, stretching endlessly between exhaustion and restless thoughts that refuse to quiet. You’ve thrown yourself into work, into research, into anything that might make the ache in your chest feel a little less unbearable. It hasn’t helped. Your research sits open in front of you, the screen of your laptop casting a dim glow over the clutter of notes, printouts, and half-empty coffee cups scattered around you. You’ve been here for hours, flipping between tabs, scrolling through pages of information, chasing leads that feel both urgent and impossible. But none of it drowns out the gnawing, ever-present weight of him.

Jeno. You haven’t seen him in days. Not properly. Not in a way that means anything. And it’s obvious why. He’s avoiding you, pulling away, sinking into self-destruction the way he always does when he’s cornered. And you understand. Of course you understand. But it doesn’t stop the selfish part of you from wanting more. From expecting, against all logic, that he’d come back. That he’d want to see you, speak to you, be with you. Because no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, you miss him. You miss him in a way that makes your chest feel hollow, in a way that lingers, thick and unbearable, no matter how much you try to bury it.

You don’t know what you expect anymore. Any hope of holding onto something with Jeno—whatever fragile, unspoken thing used to exist between you—has already slipped through your fingers. You tell yourself it’s over, that you can’t have him in any way that matters, but some selfish, hopeless part of you still craves the impossible. Still aches for his presence. Still wants him to come back—to want to come back. Maybe it’s delusional. Maybe it’s just muscle memory, the way your world used to tilt toward his without effort. But the truth is undeniable. he’s carved out a space in your heart that no one else can fill.

The weight of his absence lingers, stretching across the past few days like an open wound. You try not to dwell on it. Try to push forward, to focus on the work in front of you, to convince yourself that distraction is enough to keep the ache at bay. But nothing changes the fact that something in you has been waiting—bracing—for the moment he’d come back. Even if you know better. Even if you know he won’t.

The air shifts before you even hear the door. The space around you grows heavier, charged with something electric, something visceral, something undeniably him. Your fingers still over the keyboard, your breath catching in your throat, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. And then, finally, you sense movement—the subtle drag of footsteps, the faint creak of the door easing shut, the quiet force of a presence too familiar to ignore.

When you look up, he’s already staring at you. The sight of him nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. He looks good. Unfairly so. Even like this—tense, annoyed, still brimming with that barely-contained frustration he’s been carrying for weeks—he’s still devastating. The sharp angles of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the way his hoodie hangs loose over broad shoulders yet does nothing to hide the sheer strength coiled beneath his skin. He’s every bit as infuriating as he is magnetic, and the moment your eyes lock, the world tilts.

He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click, slow and deliberate. And then he moves. It’s not rushed. It’s not aggressive. It’s controlled. Every step forward is measured, precise, his gaze locked onto yours with the kind of quiet intensity that makes it impossible to look away. It’s been weeks since you’ve last held eye contact like this, and you’d forgotten—God, you’d forgotten—how it feels. How completely, overwhelmingly consuming it is. How Jeno doesn’t just look at you; he sees you, strips you bare with nothing but the weight of his attention. And under that attention, under the heat of it, everything else—the laptop, the research, the reason you’re even here—vanishes.

You should move. You should close the tabs, shut the screen, do something—anything—before he gets too close, before he notices. But you don’t. You can’t. Because he’s already in front of you, already closing the space between you like it was never there to begin with.

Jeno doesn’t sit across from you. He doesn’t give you distance, doesn’t allow you the space to think, to breathe, to pull yourself together. Instead, he drops into the seat beside you, legs spreading wide, his forearms bracing against his thighs as he leans forward. It’s intentional. Deliberate. He takes up space, forces you to feel him, to acknowledge him. And you do. You do.

His scent crashes into you. A dark, intoxicating mix of cardamom and smoked cedarwood, something that clings to the air between you like an unshakable memory. It smells like the kind of warmth you could sink into, like a quiet storm before impact—subtle, unrelenting, inevitable. There’s something dangerous about it, too, something that lingers on your skin, in your lungs, making it impossible to think about anything but him. It reminds you of nights spent tangled in sheets, of things you shouldn’t be remembering. Of things that are gone now. But the scent is still here, clinging to you, wrapping around you, as inescapable as the man in front of you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face, down to your hands curled tight in your lap, back up again. Waiting. Testing. Searching for a crack, for any sign that you’ll fold first. And then—finally—he speaks. “I need to talk to you.” His voice is low, steady, but edged with something you can’t quite place. A quiet frustration, maybe. Or something heavier. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to swallow, but it barely helps. “Okay,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes. And for a second—for just a fleeting, reckless second—you forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget what you’ve been doing. Forget everything except the weight of him beside you, the heat of his thigh brushing yours, the way the air feels razor-thin between you. And then his gaze shifts. Just slightly. Just enough. And he sees it. The moment his eyes land on your laptop screen, the energy between you shatters.

Jeno hadn’t meant to come here. Or maybe he had. He wasn’t sure anymore. Avoiding you had been easy enough these past few weeks—easier than he thought it would be. If he didn’t see you, didn’t hear you, didn’t give you the chance to dig your nails into the open wound you’d left behind, then maybe he could convince himself it didn’t exist. That it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. But the lie had begun to unravel faster than he could stitch it back together. Because something still pulled him toward you, something gnawed at the back of his mind every time he closed his eyes, every time he caught himself checking for you in the places you used to be.

He told himself he just wanted to see how much effort you’d been putting into the project without him. Maybe he’d find some bitter notes, some passive-aggressive remarks about how he was slacking off, something to prove that you were pissed off at him. But instead, he finds this.

Your laptop screen is filled with names. With research. His name. Sunwoo’s. Eric’s. His stomach tightens, his muscles coil, and suddenly he’s moving. “What the fuck are you doing?” The words rip out of him before he can stop them, sharp and cutting, laced with something that isn’t just anger—something worse. It’s panic. Fear. Because he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, doesn’t understand why you—of all people—are digging into things you shouldn’t be touching.

You move on instinct, fingers flying toward the laptop, but it doesn’t matter—he’s faster. His hand clamps around your wrist, stopping you cold, the sudden contact knocking the breath from your lungs. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s there—unshakable, unrelenting, a quiet assertion of control that sets every nerve in your body alight. His fingers press into your skin, warm, steady, possessive in a way that sends something dark and unspoken curling through you. He’s not just stopping you. He’s holding you. Holding you in place, holding you still, like he wants you like this—trapped beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of his gaze pinning you down as effectively as his grip. And maybe it’s twisted, maybe it’s wrong, but you don’t pull away. You won’t. Because part of you—some reckless, desperate part buried deep in your chest—wants to see what he does next.

Jeno notices. His jaw tightens, his fingers flex against your skin, and something in his expression flickers—something dark, unreadable, something that makes the air in the room shift. He should be yelling. Should be demanding answers. Should be furious. But he doesn’t say anything, not at first. He just looks at you, eyes locked onto yours, his grip tightening ever so slightly, firm but not cruel, possessive but not punishing. Like he’s holding you in place. Like he’s making sure you don’t run.

“Explain.” The word is low, rough, dragged from his throat like it barely made it out at all. There’s no fire behind it, not anymore. Just something heavier, something coiled tight between you, thrumming like a live wire.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You force yourself to breathe, to think, to say something. But you can’t tell him the truth. You can’t let him know what you’ve been doing, what you’re trying to protect him from. And you can’t lie, not fully, not when he’s this close, watching you like he can already see the cracks forming. “It’s for our project,” you say, keeping your voice even, steady, measured—but the way your breath hitches at the end betrays you. “I was looking into the team—into different types of connections. It’s relevant, Jeno. It’s part of what we’re supposed to be doing.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his fingers pressing just a little harder against your skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, slow, deliberate, and your stomach tightens because he knows. He can feel the way your pulse betrays you, racing under his touch. He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bullshit.” His gaze flickers over your face, searching, testing, reading between the lines, catching every unspoken thing tangled in your words. He just watches you, waiting, waiting, as if daring you to say something else. As if daring you to lie again. And the worst part? You think you might let him.

Instead, he exhales sharply, his grip tightening around your wrist for just a moment—just long enough for you to feel the heat of him searing into your skin—before he lets go. But the space between you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it feels tighter, drawn even closer by something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name. His fingers twitch like they don’t want to leave you, hovering in that impossible in-between, the ghost of his touch still burning against your pulse. His jaw flexes, his throat works around a slow, deliberate swallow, and for a fleeting second, you swear you can feel the weight of his hesitation pressing into you, thick and stifling, like a breath held too long, like a moment stretched to its breaking point.

“You need to stop this.” His voice is a shade rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel, but there’s something underneath it—something more insistent than anger. Not a threat. A warning. A demand wrapped in desperation. “Right now.”

Your stomach twists. You open your mouth, searching for something to say, but your voice betrays you, coming out too soft, too unsure. “Jeno—”

“No.” The word is sharp enough to cut as he moves closer, the space between you vanishing into nothing. His eyes are locked onto yours, intense, unyielding, something almost unbearable brewing beneath the surface. “You don’t get it.” His breath is warm against your lips, the closeness stealing the air from your lungs. “You can’t do this. You can’t dig into this shit, you can’t get involved—they will notice. And when they do, you won’t be safe.”

The fear in his voice unsettles you in a way nothing else has. Because Jeno doesn’t scare easily. He doesn’t break. But this—this is different. The muscle in his jaw ticks, his shoulders are tight with something that looks too much like helplessness, and his fingers flex again at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or let you go. He exhales through his nose, steadying himself, but you don’t miss the way his throat works through a thick swallow.

And then, before you can react, his hands are on your face. Not rough, not demanding—just there. Holding you. Grounding you. Pleading with you in the only way he knows how. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his touch firm but unbearably careful, and his forehead presses against yours like it’s instinct, like he needs to feel you just to breathe properly. Your lashes flutter, your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. You can’t pull away. Not when he’s looking at you like this, not when his fingers tighten ever so slightly, keeping you anchored to him.

“Is that what you want?” The words are barely a whisper now, his lips just a breath away from yours, his voice threaded with something devastating. “To get yourself hurt?”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Your voice is quiet but unwavering, the promise settling between you like something immovable. “That’s all you need to know.”

Jeno exhales sharply, his grip tightening against your skin, like he’s trying to pull something from you—something real, something whole—but you don’t give. You can’t give. His forehead presses against yours, and for a second, his eyes flicker shut. His fingers move, tracing lightly over the side of your face, a barely-there touch, his thumb skimming over your cheekbone before dipping lower, ghosting over your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them. You shudder beneath the contact, your own hands hovering near his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

“That’s not good enough,” he murmurs, his voice fraying at the edges. “That’s not—” He swallows thickly, his breath warm against your lips, and when he speaks again, it’s barely a whisper. “I can’t lose you.”

Your fingers twitch before they move on instinct, sliding up the front of his hoodie, grasping at the fabric like it might hold you together. His own grip shifts, sliding down, his palm pressing flat against your ribs, warm and grounding, fingertips pressing just barely into your skin like he’s trying to anchor you there. Like if he holds on tight enough, he can stop you from slipping through his fingers.

“You won’t,” you whisper back, your voice softer now, edged with something fragile. And it’s not a lie. Not really. But the way his jaw locks, the way his fingers flex against you, tells you he doesn’t believe you. Not yet.

His lips are so close to yours. Close enough that you can feel the heat of them, the ghost of a touch, so close to stealing your breath. You can feel it—the restraint, the breaking point, the way his fingers tighten at your waist like he’s convincing himself to hold back, even as every muscle in his body screams to do the opposite. And you? You don’t move. You should move. You should push him away, turn your head, do something to stop what’s about to happen. But you don’t. Because despite how fucked up, how wrong, how impulsive everything about this is—you still miss him. And he still misses you. And it’s so difficult. Too difficult.

His breath is uneven, lips just barely brushing yours, fingers digging into your ribs like he’s anchoring himself. And then, slowly, slowly, he leans in. His nose nudges yours, a quiet inhale, a moment stretched unbearably thin—he’s about to kiss you. About to close the distance. About to claim your mouth like it’s his to take.

And then the door opens.

“Hey Y/N, I know you’d said you’d meet me outside but—oh—woah.”

Mark stands at the door, eyes wide, blinking like he’s just walked into something he really shouldn’t have seen. His presence slams into you like a cold shock, snapping you back into the moment, into reality, into the undeniable fact that Jeno has you caged against the desk, hands gripping your waist, lips a breath away from yours.

You swallow hard, throat dry. “Mark was gonna drive me home,” you whisper softly to Jeno, voice barely steady, eyes flickering away from his for the first time to glance at Mark.

Jeno doesn’t even hesitate. He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “Don’t look at Mark. Look at me.”

Your breath catches. You gulp, hesitant. “But me and him agreed to meet at this time, he wants to drive me to my apartment, to—”

“I can drive you there,” Jeno cuts in, voice smooth, low, almost dangerous.

You hum, lips parting slightly. His eyes flicker down to your mouth. And that’s it. That’s when he decides fuck it. His hand slides up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, and then he kisses you. Hard. Heavy. Desperate. His mouth slants over yours with a hunger that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long, like he’s been starving for this, for you. Your gasp is swallowed between his lips, your fingers gripping the front of his hoodie without thinking, pulling him closer, needing him closer. He groans softly against your mouth, a low sound of frustration, of relief, of everything he hasn’t said out loud.

Mark makes a confused sound, an incredulous huff. He takes in the scene—the way Jeno is pressed against you, the way your fingers are curled into him, the breathless space between your lips—and then, whether out of respect or just sheer fucking bewilderment, he exhales, shakes his head, and pulls the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone.

Jeno doesn’t stop. He doesn’t fucking stop. His lips move over yours feverishly, demanding, parting your mouth with ease. His tongue slides against yours, deepening the kiss, drinking you in like he needs this to breathe. Your back presses against the desk, your body arching into his like second nature, like instinct, like you belong here. His hands, once steady, are now restless—palms dragging down your sides, fingers curling at your waist, tugging, gripping, owning.

You whimper against his lips, and he shudders. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours, his chest heaving. His grip on you tightens, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth for just a second before letting go, before he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring you.

"Jeno," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, your lashes fluttering as you meet his gaze—heavy, unrelenting, something unreadable burning behind it. “We can’t do this.”

His breath is sharp, uneven, forehead pressing against yours, his fingers tightening where they rest against your hips. "Tell me to walk away," he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something almost pleading. "Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you don’t want me."

But you don’t. You can’t.

Jeno exhales slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s steadying himself, like he’s been carrying the weight of this moment for too long and doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it in. His eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface, something too raw, too heavy. "I’ve been thinking about this," he starts, voice lower now, rough in the way that makes your stomach twist. "About you. About how you broke up with me. Even when I don’t want to, I’m always thinking about you."

You swallow thickly, pulse skittering at the sheer certainty in his voice. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. He’s not just talking—he’s laying something bare. He shifts, moving in closer, the air between you thinning into something electric, something suffocating. "And the more I think about it, the more I realize… something is wrong. Something about this entire situation is off." His jaw tightens, his breath a slow, measured thing as he exhales through his nose. "I know you. I know you so well, and I just don’t believe you breaking up with me was real.” His voice dips lower, rougher, something fragile threaded beneath it.

“It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like you.” His fingers flex, like he wants to reach for you, wants to hold you still, “Not after everything—not after how you forgave me. After the way you looked at me, after the way you held onto me like you never wanted to let go.” He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “None of it fucking makes sense. Not after all the moments we spent together, not after everything we went through. Not after how you made me feel like—like I was everything to you.”

You’re silent. Your heart is in your throat, and your fingers are curled too tight into the fabric of your sleeves. He notices. Of course he notices. His gaze flickers over your face, his lips parting like he wants to say something else, like he’s grasping at something he can’t quite reach. And then his hands are on you. Soft but insistent, his palms settling on either side of your face, his thumbs grazing just beneath your cheekbones. He tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze back to his, and the intensity in his stare makes your breath hitch.

"There’s a reason that I liked you so much more than I’ve ever liked any other girl." His voice is softer now, but there’s a weight behind it, something immovable. "Because you never pretended to be something you’re not. You always said what you meant, you always—fuck, you were real in a way that nobody else was. Nothing feels like you." His thumbs brush against your skin, a ghost of a touch, reverent and grounding at the same time. "But the way you’ve been acting… it’s not you. I know you, and you’ve been acting unlike you."

Your chest tightens. Your eyes burn. It’s so hard, so fucking hard, and you feel yourself breaking under the weight of his words, under the way he’s looking at you like he’s willing you to give him something. You shake your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. "Jeno, please stop. You don’t want to get into this—"

His grip tenses for just a second, and his brows furrow. "Get into what?"

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And that’s when it happens—the shift, the realization, the way his breath catches and his fingers tighten against your skin like he’s piecing something together in real time. He thinks about the way you looked at him the last time you saw each other. The way your words said one thing, but your eyes—your eyes—told another story entirely. The way you hesitated, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands clenched like you were bracing for impact.

Jeno steps in closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat, but breath, but the weight of everything unsaid. "Look at me." His voice is steady, careful, deliberate. "Just tell me the truth."

You gulp. Your fingers twitch at your sides, restless, uncertain. "Jeno, I’m not understanding what you’re trying to say."

His jaw clenches. He breathes in deeply, searching your face, and then— "What I’m trying to say is… did anything happen to make you break up with me?" His voice is quieter now, but no less firm. "Did Eric and Sunwoo do anything to you?"

Your breath catches, a split-second hesitation that you know—know—he feels. Because Jeno isn’t just reckless, isn’t just driven by emotion. He knows you. Knows you in a way that no one else ever has, in a way that feels almost unfair, because it means he doesn’t need words to read you. He’s always been sharp, always been just a little too good at seeing through you, at catching the cracks before you even realize they’re there. And now, he’s doing exactly that—watching, waiting, cataloging every flicker of movement, every shift in your expression, every little tell that you don’t have the strength to hide. He’s studying you, the way he always does, the way he’s done a thousand times before, but this time, it’s different.

Because you thought you were the one in control. You thought you were the one keeping him at arm’s length, the one dictating how this would play out. But the truth is, Jeno has been doing the same thing to you. This whole time. Reading you just as much as you’ve been trying to read him, peeling back every layer, every carefully constructed defense, until there’s nothing left between you but the unbearable weight of the truth. And this time, he’s piecing you back togetherinstead of just knowing you. Taking the fragments you’ve tried to bury, the pieces you never wanted him to see, and fitting them into something dangerous—something dangerously close to the truth.

Your throat tightens, and you hate the way your body betrays you—how your breath comes out too shallow, how your fingers twitch like they want to hold onto him, how you can’t look away even though you should. “You’re wrong,” you whisper, but it’s weak, unconvincing, a last-ditch attempt to keep yourself together.

Jeno’s grip on you doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t ease either. He stares at you, waiting, his jaw locked, his breath slow and measured, but his fingers flex against your waist like he’s barely holding himself back. “Am I?” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it presses against your chest, suffocating. “Because I don’t fucking feel wrong. I know you. I know the way you look at me, the way you sound when you’re lying, the way you—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to keep himself from unraveling. “You don’t just wake up one day and decide to leave me. That’s not how this works. That’s not you.”

You shake your head, throat burning. “Jeno, please—”

“Please what?” He’s closer now, and it’s unfair, the way he knows exactly how to crowd you, exactly how to pull you under his weight without even touching you. “You don’t want to talk about it? You don’t want to explain why the fuck you’ve been acting like a stranger when I know you still—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “You still care about me.”

Your stomach twists violently, your pulse hammering in your ears. “I don’t—”

“You do.” His voice drops lower, something raw bleeding through the words. “You do and it’s fucking killing me.”

Your breath stutters. Your eyes burn. He sees it. You know he does.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” Jeno’s voice is quieter now, rough, desperate in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I don’t feel it every time I look at you? I don’t care what you say. I know you, and I know you wouldn’t leave me unless—” He exhales sharply, and when he speaks again, his voice is steadier, but it’s laced with something unbearable. “Unless someone made you.”

You gasp. You flinch. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s enough. Jeno stills. The air shifts. “Tell me.” His voice is softer now, but it’s not a request. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, a demand, a fucking lifeline he’s throwing at you, desperate for you to take it. “Tell me if someone did something. Tell me if they—” He swallows thickly, like the words are hard to say. “If he did something.”

Your breath catches. Eric. Sunwoo. That’s where his mind goes first. That’s what he assumes. That’s what makes sense to him, because he knows what they’re like, knows what they’re capable of. And of course, of course, he wouldn’t ever think of the real reason because it would never cross his mind that his own father is the one who orchestrated this.

Jeno is close. So fucking close. But he doesn’t know it yet. He doesn’t want to know it. Because that would mean confronting something that he’s buried so deep, something he’s spent years forcing himself not to look at too closely. He knows his father. Knows how ruthless he can be, how much control he likes to wield. But that control has always been directed at him, at shaping him into something stronger, something more, never at you. His father never had a reason to see you as a threat. Never had a reason to interfere. And if Jeno lets himself think about it, really think about it—about all the times his father has made decisions for him, about all the times he’s spoken in absolutes, about all the times Jeno has let him because it was easier than fighting back—then he might have to accept that this is just another move in a game he never agreed to play.

And he’s not ready for that. So instead, his mind goes where it can go. To the obvious answer. To the people who have hurt him before and would hurt the one person he cares about the most in this world. To the people he already hates. He takes a step closer, voice low but firm, as if softening it will make you more likely to tell him the truth. He asks again. “Did they do something to you?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Because for once, you have no idea what to say. Every excuse, every carefully crafted lie, every way out you’d prepared—it all crumbles under the weight of his voice, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. You inhale sharply, your throat tight, your fingers curling into fists at your sides like you can anchor yourself to something, anything. “Jeno, you’re—” You hesitate, swallowing hard, searching for words that won’t come. “You’re reaching.” It’s weak. It’s unconvincing. And you both know it. You shake your head, eyes darting away like you can physically pull yourself from the noose tightening around your lies. “This isn’t—there’s nothing for you to dig into. I don’t know why you keep—” Your breath stutters when you finally meet his gaze again, because the look in his eyes is devastating. He’s searching, reaching for something, anything, and you know, deep down, that if you don’t end this now, if you don’t cut him off, he’s going to find exactly what he’s looking for.

“Do not lie.” This time, he’s not just asking—he’s pleading. It’s in the way his hands find your arms again, the way his fingers press into your skin, firm but not forceful, like he needs to feel you, needs to know you’re still here. His touch is warm, searing through the fabric of your clothes, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist, tracing over your pulse like he wants to memorize the rhythm. His grip tightens slightly, his body leaning in, closer than before, close enough that his breath fans over your cheek, over your lips, as he exhales, slow and uneven. It’s not just desperation anymore—it’s something else, something heavier, something electric, thrumming between you, thickening the air until every inhale is just him. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t let you go, and for a fleeting second, you forget why you ever wanted him to.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, the sharp edges dulled by something painfully raw. His chest rises and falls too fast, his composure splintering, and when he tilts his head, his nose just barely brushes yours. The contact is featherlight, barely there, but it’s enough to steal your breath, to leave you frozen in place. “Please.” His grip shifts, his hands sliding lower, curling around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against him like he needs the contact to steady himself. “You can tell me anything.” His lips part, like he’s about to say more, like he’s about to close the last inch of space between you, but then he exhales sharply through his nose, brows furrowing, something breaking inside of him. “I’ll fix it. I’ll take care of it.” He swallows, his fingers flexing where they hold you, voice dropping into something lower, something that barely makes it past his lips. “I’ll take care of you.”

Jeno doesn’t just promise things lightly. When he says something, he means it. And you know, without a single shred of doubt, that if you let him, he would go to any length for you. He would burn everything down, he would tear through anyone who hurt you, he would give up pieces of himself if it meant keeping you safe.

But you can’t let him protect you. You refuse to let him try.

And in your silence, he gets desperate. You can feel it in the way his fingers tense, in the way his breath stutters, in the way his body leans in just a little more, like he’s trying to physically bridge the distance you keep forcing between you. He knows he’s close to something—so close—but you’re being silent, unresponsive, unhelpful, and it’s driving him insane.

So he says what’s been bleeding on his mind, what’s been clawing at his chest every second he’s been apart from you. “I still want you. I miss you.” His words are raw, stripped bare of pride, of anger. Just vulnerable. Just desperate. He thinks he’s fixing things and it fucking breaks you. Because the moment you hear it, the moment those words leave his lips, something inside you snaps. Your vision blurs, a tear slipping down before you can stop it, before you can bite down the words you swore you wouldn’t say.

“If you still want me, then why have you been going around and fucking other girls?”

It’s a confession in disguise, a wound torn open right in front of him. Because it’s not just anger, not just jealousy—it’s heartbreak. It’s love. It’s everything you told yourself you wouldn’t say. But it slips out before you can stop it, before you can shove it back down. You’ve given yourself away. You’ve shown him exactly what you didn’t want him to see. That no matter what you say, no matter how hard you try to push him away—he still has you. He’s always had you.

He laughs, but it’s choked, disbelieving, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His fingers flex at his sides, his breath coming harder now. “What? What? That is not what I’ve been doing. That is so far from the truth. Who have you heard that from?”

“I’ve heard it around campus.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “People are lying for no fucking reason. You know how it is on this campus.” His jaw clenches, his hands twitching like he wants to grab you, shake the thought out of your head. “I tried to fuck around, but I couldn’t.” His voice drops lower, rougher, like the words taste bitter on his tongue. “I couldn’t take it further because I realised it’s not what I want, you’re the one I fucking want. Isn’t that clear enough?”

You swallow hard, trying to process his words, trying to catch the tell—the flicker in his expression, the shift in his stance, the way his lips might curl slightly when he lies. You know Jeno. You know when he’s bullshitting. But there’s nothing now. No hesitation, no falter in his voice. Nothing but raw, painful honesty.

He shakes his head again, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I’d just move on? That I’d just fuck someone else and forget about you?” He steps closer, gaze dark and unwavering. “I can’t. I haven’t even tried these last few fucking days because all I can see is you. You are in my fucking head, in my hands, in my fucking mouth every time I try to do anything.”

His breathing is uneven now, his chest rising and falling too fast, frustration bleeding through every word. “So if you think I’ve been sleeping with other girls, then you don’t fucking know me at all.” Jeno’s eyes darken as he steps in closer, his breath coming harder, controlled, but barely. “And have you fucked anyone since me?”

His voice drops lower, rougher, curling around you like something physical, something impossible to escape. He steps closer—so close you feel the warmth radiating off of him, the scent of him filling your lungs, drowning you in something you swore you wouldn’t let yourself want. His fingers graze the underside of your jaw, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine, enough to make your knees threaten to buckle. His touch is teasing, taunting, like he wants to see you react, needs you to.

Your stomach twists. Your throat feels impossibly tight, but you manage to force the words out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Of course I haven’t.”

His jaw tightens, and you see the flicker of something almost amused in his expression—except it’s not amusement. It’s something colder, something sharper. He exhales a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head, his tongue running over his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something worse. “You’re good at changing the subject, aren’t you?” His voice drops lower, curling around you like smoke, slow, taunting. “You bring up who I’ve fucked, knowing damn well I haven’t fucked anyone, hoping I’ll focus on that instead. Hoping I’ll forget about the real problem. About you. About how you’ve been acting recently.”

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips, the heat of him pressing against every inch of your resolve. His fingers brush over your jaw, not quite holding you, but close enough to make you ache for it. His next words are softer, more dangerous. “Don’t deflect. I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you anymore.” It’s a weak attempt, and you both know it. Your voice doesn’t carry the weight it should, doesn’t hold the finality you need it to. It just sounds tired, forced, like you’re running out of ways to push him away.

Jeno exhales sharply through his nose, and then, in a blink, his fingers are at your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough to make you meet his gaze. “Answer my question.” His voice is low, firm, but there’s something else laced beneath it—something dangerous, something desperate. “You’re not stupid. You know exactly what I’m asking. Do I need to deal with Eric and Sunwoo?”

You’ve needed to deal with Eric and Sunwoo since day one, but you haven’t. You swallow the words down, pressing them deep into the pit of your stomach, forcing yourself to stay quiet. So now I am.

You shake your head, but your hands betray you, curling tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him in instead of pushing him away. Your breath is unsteady, words barely forming as you whisper, “You don’t need to do anything for me, Jeno.” Your fingers tremble where they grip him, but you force the rest out, even as it rips through you. “All you can do is just go. Just—just leave me alone.”

His gaze drops, zeroing in on the way your fingers clutch at his hoodie, trembling, desperate, as if letting go would mean collapsing entirely. A slow exhale escapes him, deliberate, measured, his breath rolling over your skin like heat before a storm. He tilts his head, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, voice a rasped whisper soaked in something dark, something unrelenting. “You’re telling me to go,” he murmurs, his lips dragging just enough to make your breath hitch, “but you’re the one who’s pulling me closer and closer.”

You are. God, you are. Even though you shouldn’t be. Even though every rational thought in your head is screaming at you to push him away, to stop this before it unravels completely. But it’s already too late. His scent is in your lungs, thick and heady, his heat pressing into you like a slow burn, consuming, inescapable. And then he’s touching you, his hands gliding over your sides, memorizing, owning, his palms dragging down the curve of your waist before gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes you shiver.

His thigh nudges between yours, pressing up, solid, unyielding, the friction sending a sharp pulse of heat through your body. You inhale sharply, but your hips betray you, rolling against him, instinctual, desperate. Jeno hums, low and satisfied, his hands tightening their grip as he pulls you closer, until there’s not a breath of space left between you. Until you’re trembling against him, overwhelmed, drowning in him.

"That’s it, baby," he whispers, his voice dark, dripping with something dangerous, something that coils hot and tight in your stomach. One hand skims lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers dragging up over bare skin, up the delicate lines of your stomach, before dipping beneath the band of your panties. "I knew you’d let me touch you like this again. I knew you’d still be mine."

A broken moan spills from your lips as he cups you, fingers pressing against the slick heat between your thighs, teasing, coaxing. "Fuck," he exhales, his breath hot against your cheek, his lips brushing, featherlight. "You’re soaked for me. You always get so fucking wet for me, don’t you?" He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just dips his fingers lower, dragging through your folds, spreading the wetness before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that make you whimper. His pace quickens, fingers fucking into you, pushing you higher, his thumb circling your clit in tight, devastating strokes. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your head tipping back as a strangled moan escapes your throat.

And then he does it—his lips brush against yours, featherlight, barely there. A tease. A question. He pulls back, his breath heavy, eyes flickering over your face before he does it again, pressing another soft, aching kiss to your lips, then pulling away just as quickly. Then again. And again. Slow, fleeting, like he’s relearning the shape of your mouth, like he’s savoring every stolen moment before you disappear again.

“God, I missed this,” he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, wrecked. “Missed the way you taste.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his tongue flickering just barely against your bottom lip before he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and ragged. “I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

“You think you’re the only one?” The words slip out, broken, barely above a whisper. “You think I don’t—” Your voice catches, and you shake your head, your lips grazing his with the movement. “I don’t know how to stop either.” It’s not a confession. It’s a curse. A wound torn open between you, raw and festering, because you shouldn’t be saying this, shouldn’t be letting him hear it, shouldn’t be giving him even the smallest piece of the truth. But it’s too late. His breath stutters, his fingers digging into your waist, and the look in his eyes—God, the look in his eyes—tells you that you’ve just made everything worse.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you, eyes drinking you in, memorizing every flicker of hesitation, every breath you take. And then—then he smiles. Soft. Just barely there. It shouldn’t make your chest tighten the way it does, shouldn’t make something fragile and aching unravel inside of you, but it does. Because it’s the first thing he’s been able to get out of you. The first crack in the walls you’ve built between you. And it makes his heart overflow with that tight feeling he always gets around you—the one that makes his ribs feel too small, his breath feel too shallow, like loving you has always been too big for him to contain.

Jeno hums low in his throat when he sees the tear slip down your cheek, his fingers twitching where they still frame your waist, like he’s holding himself back from reaching up to brush it away. And then, slowly, he lifts his hand, the movement reverent, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His thumb drags gently across your cheek, catching the tear, warmth lingering where he touches, burning something deep into your skin. His palm lingers against the side of your face, his fingers curling around the curve of your jaw, holding you there—not forcing, just grounding. And God, you feel it, feel the quiet desperation woven into his touch, the way he’s still reaching for you even when you keep trying to slip through his fingers.

His other hand moves next, shifting from where it rests at your waist, slow, deliberate, until it finds yours. His fingers brush over your knuckles before curling between them, a silent question, an unspoken plea. He wants to go. He wants to take you with him. He wants to hold you all night long, wants to tangle himself into every inch of you, wants to make love to you until neither of you remember where your bodies end and where they begin. Until you forget the world outside of his arms. Until you remember that you belong there—that you have always belonged there.

But you hesitate.

His breath hitches just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t push, doesn’t beg. He just holds your hand in his, his grip steady, unwavering, like he’s waiting for you to come back to him on your own. Like no matter how long it takes, no matter how far you try to run, he’ll always be right here. He swallows hard, jaw tensing, something flickering behind his eyes—something softer than longing, heavier than love.

His voice is quieter when he finally speaks, but it’s steady, solid, like a promise carved into the earth itself. “I will always be there for you.” He shifts just slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath fanning against your lips. “I will always protect you.” And you know—you know—that he means it. That there is no ocean too deep, no storm too violent, no darkness too consuming that he wouldn’t wade through for you. He would follow you anywhere. He would burn the world down for you. He would bleed for you, again and again and again, if it meant keeping you safe. If it meant keeping you his.

But you can’t let him. You can’t let yourself reach for him, can’t let yourself take his hand and let him pull you back into the place you want more than anything. So you stay still. You don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. Because the moment you do, you know you’ll be his again. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be strong enough to leave twice. You shake your head. “I’m not going with you, Jeno.”

His jaw tightens. “Y/N.” It’s a warning, low and frayed at the edges, but there’s desperation threaded through it, too—desperation he can’t quite swallow down.

You exhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep the distance between you even as every part of you aches to close it. “You don’t get it. You can’t fix this, okay? This isn’t something you can fight your way through.” Your voice shakes, but you push forward. “You’ve let Eric and Sunwoo play you like a fool this whole time, and now you suddenly think you can handle them? You think any of this changes if I’m involved or not?”

His lips part, but he doesn’t immediately respond. He just watches you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, something deep, something determined. And then, softer, steadier, he says, “It does change. If you’re involved, it changes everything.”

Your breath stalls, fingers twitching at your sides. Because he believes it. He’s looking at you like this is all he needs to make sense of things, like this is what he’s been searching for—this explanation, this false puzzle piece that fits well enough to make him stop looking elsewhere. You can feel the calculation threading through your thoughts, trying to assess whether this is good, whether it benefits you that Jeno believes Eric and Sunwoo are the ones behind your behavior. If he stays focused on them, he won’t turn his suspicion elsewhere. He won’t suspect the truth. He won’t suspect his father. And you don’t know what kind of chaos would unravel if he ever did. All you know is that you need to protect him. You need to keep his future from falling apart. You need to make sure Jeno wanting you doesn’t cloud his judgment—doesn’t pull him down with you.

Jeno exhales, a slow, measured breath that barely masks the weight pressing on his chest. His fingers twitch where they hold you, like he’s trying to convince himself he still has some kind of grip on you—on whatever this is, whatever’s left. “Let’s just… let’s rest on this,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, quieter, careful. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight, alright? Just come with me. We’ll sleep on it. That’s all I want.” His gaze softens, something unbearably raw in the way he looks at you, the way his thumb brushes lightly over your wrist. “I just want you in my bed, that’s it. Nothing else matters right now.”

The tenderness in his voice wrecks you. It twists something sharp in your chest, something fragile, something you’ve spent weeks trying to keep buried. You try to shake your head, try to tell him no, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat, lost in the sob that chokes its way out instead. Your body betrays you—shaking, crumbling against him, unable to hold itself together any longer. And Jeno feels it. Feels you slipping through his fingers, slipping away, and it kills him. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he doesn’t know how to hold you without hurting you, without making things worse.

“Come with me,” he whispers again, softer this time, almost afraid of the answer. “Please.” His voice trembles, just barely, but you hear it. You feel it. And it shatters you completely. You shake your head again, squeezing your eyes shut as another sob escapes, as you force yourself to breathe, force yourself to rebuild the walls that keep breaking every time he looks at you like this.

“I miss you,” he confesses, and it’s not just words—it’s everything. It’s sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, haunted by the shape of you beside him that no longer exists. It’s the hollow ache in his chest that never quiets, the phantom weight of your hand in his, the way every room feels colder without you in it. It’s the cruel tricks his mind plays, catching glimpses of you in crowded hallways, in places you’ll never be again. He’s pleading now, voice shaking, unraveling at the seams, because you were never supposed to be someone he had to beg for. You were supposed to be his. But not anymore. And maybe that’s the worst part—you still feel like his, still fit against him like you belong there, but the moment you step away, the moment you say no, he’ll have to face the truth. That you were never his to lose, because you were already gone.

You force yourself to stand still, to breathe, to act like his presence doesn’t unravel you. Your pulse is a vicious, unsteady thing, beating against the walls of your throat, but you refuse to let it show. You can’t let it show. “You need to listen to me.” The words are sharp, cut from something jagged, something desperate, and you force them through your lips like they’re the only thing keeping you alive. “Nothing has changed. Nothing will change.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a pair of hands. Jeno watches you, eyes dark, waiting, searching, hoping. His breath is uneven, his body taut, and you can see the battle inside him—the part of him that still thinks he can fix this, the part of him that still believes in you. That’s the part you need to crush.

So you do. “I left you because I wanted to.”

It feels like swallowing glass. Like choking on a scream that will never come out. The lie slashes through you as it leaves your tongue, violent and unforgiving, poisoning the air between you. But you hold your ground, even as you feel the weight of it settle in your chest like something rotting, something unholy.

Jeno’s body goes rigid. His breath catches in his throat, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it, wasn’t expecting you to be able to force it out. His hands twitch at his sides, curling into fists like he wants to grab you, like he wants to shake you out of whatever fucking daze he thinks you’re in. But he doesn’t move.

And you can feel it—the shift. The moment something inside him breaks. “You’re lying,” he murmurs, but the confidence in his voice is cracking, splintering under the weight of what you’ve just done. His jaw clenches, his eyes burn into yours, searching for something, anything, that will tell him this isn’t real. That the way your body still reacts to him, the way your hands still tremble when you touch him, wasn’t just muscle memory. But you don’t give him that. You can’t.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before forcing the words out, each syllable like dragging barbed wire through your throat. “You need to stop this,” you whisper, voice cold, detached—a cruel echo of the person you used to be with him. “You keep looking for something that isn’t there. You need to let me go, Jeno.”

His breath hitches, sharp and shallow. The words hit their mark, sinking into him like blades, and for the first time, you see something flicker in his expression—something you never wanted to see. Acceptance. And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes your stomach lurch, makes your nails dig into your palms so hard you think they might draw blood. Because Jeno has always fought for you. Always. He has never given up on you.

When he speaks, his voice is stripped bare, scraped raw like something vital has been carved out of him. “You didn’t even look me in the eyes when you left.” It isn’t an accusation, nor is it a plea—it’s something quieter, something fractured, something irreparable. His breath shudders as he steps closer, the space between you vanishing, his presence wrapping around you like a weight, like a tether that refuses to break. His voice dips lower, threading through the silence like a final thread unraveling. “Do it now, then.” The words are softer, but they carry the force of a knife pressing against a bruise, searching for pain. His gaze holds yours, steady despite the storm raging behind it. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

“Because I fucking love you.” His voice is a wound torn open, raw and gaping, spilling everything he’s tried to hold back. “I love you so much it fucking hurts. It’s in my bones, in my blood, in every second of my goddamn day. I can’t turn it off, can’t shut it down—I don’t even fucking want to. You’re in my head, under my skin, in the way I breathe, in the way my body aches for something it can’t have anymore.” He drags a shaky hand down his face, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to steady himself, but it’s useless. “I love you so much I don’t know how to stop. You’re in me. Inside me. Like a fucking sickness, like something I can’t cure—I wake up with you in my lungs, go to sleep with you in my blood. I can’t escape it. I don’t want to escape it.”

He shakes his head, swallowing hard, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he can anymore. “I’m ready,” he chokes out, barely above a whisper, raw and desperate. “I’m ready to give you everything. All of me. My heart, my fucking name, everything. Just say the word. Just say you want me and I’m yours. I always have been.”

His voice wavers, thick with something too heavy to name. “But if you look me in the eyes right now and tell me you don’t love me—if you really fucking mean it—I’ll walk away. I’ll leave, and I won’t come back.” He steps closer, just enough that you can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the flicker of something breaking apart behind his eyes. His breath shudders, uneven, like he’s fighting against something that’s already overtaken him. His whole body is tense, like a wire pulled too tight, like if you so much as breathe wrong, he’ll snap. “Just say it.” His voice is quieter now, but no less desperate. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll let you go.”

The lights are blinding, the heat of the stage burning against your skin. You can hear the audience holding their breath, feel the weight of their stares, the anticipation thick in the air like smoke curling against your ribs. The final act is here, the moment you have to deliver your most convincing performance yet. And Jeno—Jeno is your scene partner, but he doesn’t know the script. He doesn’t know how this ends.

You step into your role, slip the mask over your face, paint your expression with precision. A detached calm, a forced indifference, a woman who is not breaking apart at the seams. A woman who is not in love with him. Because if you falter, if you let even the smallest sliver of truth bleed through the cracks, he’ll never believe it.

But he’s looking at you like he already knows. Like he’s reading between the lines, like he’s memorized every inflection, every pause, every unspoken confession you’ve ever had the misfortune of slipping. His jaw tightens, his breath shudders, but he waits. For you. For your answer.

And of course you love him. You love him like oxygen, like gravity, like something embedded into the marrow of your bones. It’s a love that has unraveled you, stripped you raw, built and broken you in equal measure. It is the kind of love that rewrites destinies, that turns men into myths, that should have been yours to keep. But this story was never meant to end in a happy ever after. The villain in your play has made sure of that.

The looming, ever-present shadow that has followed you since the beginning, orchestrating your downfall before you ever even knew you were falling. Taeyong was always there, waiting in the wings, watching. He let you believe you had control, let you believe you were safe, let you believe that loving Jeno could ever be something you were allowed to have. But now the final act has come, and if Jeno still believes you love him, it won’t end here. It won’t end at all.

So you do what you must. You prepare yourself for the lie that will end all lies.

Except—it isn’t a lie, not really.

Your hands tremble at your sides as you force yourself to meet his gaze, as you force yourself to stand tall, to deliver the line that will cut him from you forever. The words rise up in your throat like bile, sharp, acidic, burning as they take shape on your tongue. You inhale, steady yourself. And then you say it.

"I can't love you."

His face goes still, like the world has just cracked beneath his feet, like the foundation of everything he’s ever known has been torn out from under him. You watch it happen in real time—the way his breath catches, the way his eyes darken, the way something inside him fractures so violently you swear you hear the sound of it breaking.

And you should stop there. You should let the curtain fall, let the weight of the tragedy settle, let the story end in silence, in a fate already sealed. But you don’t. Instead, you step closer, reckless in your own destruction, reckless in the way you give him one last thing to hold on to, only to rip it away. Close enough for him to feel it, the finality thick in the air between you. Close enough for him to see it—the death of something sacred, something neither of you were ready to lay to rest.

I can’t love you.

It’s a breath, barely a whisper, but it shatters like glass between you, cutting through whatever fragile thread was left holding this together. You see the moment it sinks in, the way his chest rises, the way his jaw locks. It’s perfect, this lie. A masterpiece of deception. Not a denial, not a rejection—just a slow, merciless killing. Because can’t is worse than don’t. Can’t is an inevitability, a cruel truth written into the script before either of you ever had a chance. And yet, it’s not even a lie, not really. You can’t love him, not like this, not when the love you carry for him is a weight too heavy to hold, a blade too sharp to keep grasping. Not when loving him means condemning him to a battle he doesn’t know he’s already losing.

The silence that follows is not just silence. It’s a graveyard. It’s a warzone after the dust has settled, a battlefield littered with things unsaid, with love left to rot in the ruins. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just watch as it sinks into him, as he absorbs it like a fatal wound, as the light in his eyes dims in a way that makes you want to take it back, take all of it back, until you remember why you can’t.

Jeno doesn’t fight. Not this time. Not anymore. But he wants to. God, he wants to. You can see it in the way his chest rises too sharply, in the way his lips part like he’s about to say something, then close again, like the words can’t find a way out. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, his breath coming uneven, and when his fingers twitch at his sides, you think—maybe. Maybe he’ll try one last time. Maybe he’ll see through you, push past the lies, break through the walls you’ve built just to keep him out.

But he doesn’t. He exhales, slow and shaky, and his eyes burn as he searches your face—one last time, one last desperate attempt to find something, anything, that proves this isn’t real. But all he finds is your silence. And when the first tear slips down his cheek, when his brows pinch together like something inside him is cracking wide open, your breath catches, because you’ve never seen Jeno cry before.

He blinks, another tear spilling, and then he shakes his head. “Fine.” His voice is wrecked, hoarse like it’s been torn straight from the rawest part of him. His jaw tightens, his lips barely moving as he forces the words out. “Fine. You fucking win.” You don’t know what he thinks he’s losing. Maybe he believes you’ve been playing a game all along. Maybe he truly thinks that this is what you wanted—to break him, to make him small, to watch him walk away like every moment between you was something disposable.

But that’s the furthest thing from the truth.

He takes a step back, then another, his eyes never leaving yours. But they’re different now. There’s no warmth, no fire, no fight left in them. Just something empty. Something hollow. He looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you anymore.

And then, without another word, he turns. And then, for the last time, he walks away.

And the moment he’s gone, something inside you gives out. The strength you clung to, the carefully constructed facade, it all shatters in an instant. Your legs give way, and you fall, knees hitting the floor before you even register the pain. A strangled sob tears from your throat, and then another, and then another, each one ripping through you with the force of a hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake. Your hands clutch at nothing, nails digging into your skin, your clothes, the floor—desperate for something, anything to hold onto. But there’s nothing.

Nothing but the emptiness he left behind.

Tears spill freely, hot and unrelenting, blurring your vision, soaking into your skin. Your breath hitches, broken and uneven, gasping through the sobs that refuse to stop. You can’t stop. You don’t know how. It feels like you’re drowning, like you’re suffocating in the wreckage of what you just did. Your own voice sounds foreign to you—raw, desperate, cracked open beyond repair. You whisper his name once, twice, like a prayer, like a plea, but there is no answer. No arms wrapping around you, no voice murmuring reassurances against your temple. Just silence. Just the weight of your own grief pressing down on you, smothering, unbearable.

You did this. You were forced to do this.

The realization is a knife to your ribs, twisting deep, splitting you apart. The lie you forced past your lips echoes in your head, over and over, until you can’t hear anything else. Until it drowns out every other sound, until it becomes the only truth you know.

He’s gone. And he’s not coming back.

Your body shakes violently, the sobs tearing through you without mercy. You curl into yourself, arms wrapping around your torso like you can hold yourself together, but you can’t. You are unraveling, thread by thread, falling apart into something unrecognizable. The pain is too much, too vast, swallowing you whole. It claws at your chest, burns through your veins, crushes you under its weight.

And yet, the world moves on. The night stretches on beyond the walls of this room, indifferent to the devastation inside it. Outside, cars still pass, people still laugh, lights still glow in the distance. But in here, inside you, everything has ended.

There is no applause. No curtain call. No second act. Only silence. Only the wreckage. Only you—standing there, staring at the space he used to fill, at the ghost of him lingering in the air, at the imprint of his warmth fading from your skin. The weight of it crashes into you all at once, an avalanche, a tidal wave, something vast and merciless that steals the breath from your lungs.

The stage is empty, the script unwritten—only the echo of his absence remains, carving its name into the ruins of you.

authors note — please don’t kill me guys. remember you have 40-50k more words to read to finish this part!! but please don’t send me an ask or message to ask when it will come up, it’s currently unwritten, i will work on it as soon as i can. also if you haven’t read my authors note at the start of the fic read it now please, it’s important.

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

authors note —

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

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