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jisungsdaydreamer · 1 year

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Anti-Romantic | CHAPTER ONE | 18+

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME»

THE LOVE FRUIT

“Mangoes. A criminally overlooked aphrodisiac. People call it the love fruit, you know.”

«SERIES MASTERLIST»

Pairing: Hyunjin x Fem!Reader Genre: Non idol au, fluff, smut, romcom, drama, opposites attract Chapter Warnings: explicit sexual content, mentions of emotionally abusive ex, controlling friendships, heavy fantasizing, masturbation (m and f) graphic sex fantasy sequence (includes descriptions of intercourse), sitophilia (food play) Word Count: 16.3k

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“What is love?”

Hyunjin looks out at the expanse of eager minds in front of him, everyone blurring together in the darkened auditorium. He can’t see any of their faces, but it doesn’t matter. He’s only been on the stage for approximately thirteen seconds, but he already knows that they’re watching him in that familiar, delicious awe, quietly clawing at the sides of their seats in unbridled enthusiasm and desperation. And he can never blame them— Hyunjin’s kind of a catch.

He tucks his hands into his navy bespoke Armani trousers, appreciating the feeling of the silky inner lining against his fingertips. Even with such a casual gesture, he’s the picture of elegance; tall, devastatingly handsome, and movements fluid yet calculated, like a prima ballerina. Hyunjin is the kind of beauty that poets waste their lives over, pining over the perfect arch of his cupid’s bow to the aristocratic slope of his nose. As classic as an Italian prince, as unique as the moon herself.

“No, but seriously. What is love?” Hyunjin repeats his question into the mic, once more gracing his enthralled viewers with the rich, seductive notes of his voice. “Is it an emotion, that signal in your brain? A cliche? A cult?”

The audience ponders his words with bated breath, and Hyunjin takes the opportunity to continue.

“Or maybe it’s all just… lust.” Hyunjin whispers the last word while holding eye contact with an unsuspecting victim in the front row. The girl trembles and blushes under his heated gaze, looking down at her shoes in an attempt to hide her frazzled smile.

With a deliberate smirk, Hyunjin moves on to his next target in the audience. It can be anyone, yet another to fall for his endless charms. No one is immune. The cute reporter in the second row who will interview Hyunjin after he finishes his long awaited TED Talk. A wink. A lady in a big fur coat, old enough to be his grandmother. A beguiling smile. And even the stern looking security guard standing in the back. A brief, but loaded glance. Yep, Hyunjin doesn’t miss Guillermo’s cheeks turning red, even in this atrocious lighting.

A hesitant hand amongst the crowd slowly creeps upwards, bursting Hyunjin out of his momentary flirt bubble. “I think that love isn’t real.”

A smaller spotlight is immediately shined onto the timid speaker. It’s a boy in his early twenties, probably a junior in college, judging by his trendy sweatshirt and the freshness in his features. But that typical hopefulness is absent in his eyes, replaced with despair.

Heartbreak.

Hyunjin shoots the student a knowing smile. Because of his passion for the human mind, he had studied psychology in his own university days, before obtaining a doctorate and specializing in counseling— specifically, relationship counseling. He wears many different— and designer— hats: certified dating coach, therapist, and even researcher, when love needs to be approached as a neurological phenomenon in a laboratory setting. But his personal favorite role is being an expert on broken hearts. Something about being able to fix people satisfies the urge in Hyunjin to be the best, to be the brightest. What’s better than giving some of his light to someone who needs it?

“What’s your name?” Hyunjin steps closer to the edge of the stage, now fully focused on this poor fellow. Everyone else in the audience follows Hyunjin’s actions, curiously turning to get a better look of which lucky individual has been able to score a coveted interaction with Hyunjin.

The boy clears his throat nervously. “It’s Jeongin.”

“Jeongin,” Hyunjin tests, liking the playful feeling of the syllables on his tongue. He decides that the name fits the young man perfectly. “Why do you think that love isn’t real?”

“Because if it can come and go so quickly, it can’t be real.” Jeongin squares his shoulders before sitting up, a new fire in his voice. “If love dies before it’s even born, it must be a joke.”

Well, well, well.

Not only is this a broken heart, but this is a bitter broken heart— Hyunjin’s kryptonite, in the best possible way. Jeongin’s heart was soaring and then subsequently shattered, becoming one that Hyunjin is now dying to piece together, because there’s nothing he savors more than a challenge.

“I’ll ask you this.” Hyunjin slips his right hand out of his pocket, running his fingers through his hair. In one smooth motion, the dark, tousled locks fall back into an alluring set of eyes. “Do you want to be happy?”

Jeongin shakes his head, visibly frustrated. “What?”

Hyunjin isn’t deterred. “Love isn’t limited to just one person, Jeongin. Not even people in general.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Love is simply what makes us happy. It’s our unscratchable itch. Our insatiable need. Our comfort in crisis.” Hyunjin takes out the tiny metal laser pointer in his pocket and directs everyone to gaze at the massive screen looming behind him, flipping through the presentation that he prepared himself. Most of the high profile speakers at TED throw that task over to their personal secretaries, but then again, Hyunjin isn’t most people.

A bowl of soup. A plate of pasta. A dish of chocolate cake. A stacked tower of choux pastry puffs. His audience, as Hyunjin calculated, is bemused with his choice of slideshow content, although Hyunjin is infamous as a loveable eccentric. These are all pictures and no words at all.

“Is your passion cooking? Could you do it for the rest of your life? Will you just combust if you can’t whip up this croquembouche right this moment? That’s love.” Hyunjin lingers on the image of the French confection. “Love is what makes our cold nights warm again, the very driving force that pushes us to be the greatest possible versions of ourselves.”

If Hyunjin was any other speaker, the same onlookers would burst into laughter and walk away, muttering that he had lost his marbles. Who would try to make a point about the most confounding concept in all creation— the very entity that even the Stanford Encyclopedia of Psychology hesitantly attempted to define— with a series of pictures that belong in an episode of Chopped, not freaking TED? No one except Hyunjin, and rightfully so. It’s the reason why they all keep their backsides glued to the velvet upholstery, respectfully silent and anticipating being enlightened.

“Love can be platonic, love can be romantic, love can be anything in this whole universe. Love is what makes us human. It reminds us that life is worth it, that after all, maybe there’s something left to fight for.” Hyunjin gives Jeongin a small, but sincere smile. “It’s why I’ve committed myself to helping people find it, to protect it.”

Jeongin sits back in his seat in acceptance, and Hyunjin knows that even though the inferno has just subsided, not been completely put out, the flames probably aren’t so scorching anymore. Maybe he’s scored himself a new client.

Satisfied, Hyunjin turns back to the rest of his audience hungrily waiting for his eloquent scraps. “I’m Hwang Hyunjin. But you might know me as the Love Doctor.”

There are only so many episodes of Celebrity Wedding Disasters you can binge on Youtube before you begin to feel sick of yourself. Yes, watching freaking Brad Pitt get dumped at the altar makes you feel better about your own hopeless situation. But does it actually help your hopeless situation? No, it does not. Because watching other people suffer the same life as you does not solve your own problems. They’re all still there, at the end of the day, when you come home to an eerily quiet apartment, or in the morning, when you stretch out on your bed just to feel like you’re being swallowed up by the empty space next to you.

And now? The sound playing from your computer speakers starts to melt into a drone, and the artificial lighting of the videos on the screen blurs your vision, augmenting the sagging under your eyes. You haven’t gotten up from your little space in the corner of your living room in eight hours, resorting to hunching over your computer and surrounding yourself with snacks in case you got hungry. You’re clad in an old pajama set that’s too small for you and wrapped in a blanket that should have been put into the washing machine weeks ago. For the time since you gave up trying to work, you’ve been huddled in a fetal position on your couch, staring at your computer screen with no aim, no purpose.

Bashful rays of light peak through the gaps in the curtains drawn closed over the windows, and the air conditioner sputtered and shut down hours ago, after months of you putting repairs off. And your computer has died, but you’re too lazy to reach over to the outlet and plug your charger back in. It’s a beautiful Saturday morning, and every other healthy young person is probably out doing something productive or fun, definitely not being cooped up in their apartments after a myriad of trashy videos. But you count your blessings that you aren’t in the worst circumstance, because anything is better than dealing with—

The telltale trill of your cellphone knocks you out of thanking your stars, a cruel coincidence to the appreciation you harbored just moments earlier for the divinities above. The only people who would call you at a time like this— your time— would be the only people who you really, really didn’t want to see right now. You don’t even have to check the caller ID before you’re answering the phone, your signature snark prepared to lash out at any unwelcome dialogue.

“What?”

“Good morning to you too, Y/N,” Irene chirps, irritating you even further. “Lovely weather today. I’m with Sana and Mina.”

First, she interrupts your quality time brooding on your own, and second, she has the nerve to be cheerful about it. You try not to lose it and just scream at her to fuck off.

“Let’s skip the small talk, Irene. Can I help you?”

You don’t hate Irene, nor Sana and Mina, for the matter. You’re just tired of their presence in your life. Once upon a time, you were enthralled by these three pretty, wealthy, and perfect girls, letting them take you in and guide you through your youth. A tight-knit group since they were in diapers, the girls wouldn’t let just anyone into their circle, so the fact that they chose you to join them made you feel special. Being a part of them felt like being welcomed into a genuine friendship, a sisterhood. There were horror movie marathons snuggled together in your dorm rooms, gossip and advice sessions on the phone, late night drives with the music blasting on the stereo.

But that admiration and belonging turned into exhaustion, over time, and they became no better than a stereotypical high school clique. They were suffocating you, filling you with regret of ever meeting them at all. They couldn’t respect that you were your own person, with your own emotions, and that you solely were entitled to governing your actions. Little things built upon each other, and you slowly began to detest them. You truly found out how eroded your relationship with Irene, Sana, and Mina was almost two years ago. You were heartbroken, but all they had told you was to patch up and move on. Showing feeling and falling apart was unacceptable to the “Golden Trio,” as you came to call them, because it was “unhealthy” to them. Complete and utter happiness was always the goal, and you couldn’t bog yourself or the others down. Rest, rinse, and repeat. You came to realize that you would rather reject the good parts of the relationship rather than have your imperfections be dismissed and your life be controlled.

Before replying to you, Irene is quiet for a moment, and you swear you can hear her whispering to the other girls. “Are you still in bed?”

“No.” Technically, you aren’t lying— you’re on the sofa.

She sighs, seeing straight through your bullshit like she always did, the unspoken ringleader of the whole entourage. “It’s nearly ten in the morning, honey. Why don’t you come out to brunch with us in an hour or so?”

You roll your eyes. You hate when Irene calls you “honey”— it sounds sweet but has the most condescending undertone. “I’m busy.”

“Busy doing nothing. We need to talk to you. Please, Y/N. It’s important.”

Although having yet another fussy and feathery brunch with the Golden Trio is the absolute last thing you believe to be important, you know you have no other option. Irene will keep pestering you until you relent, so it’s better to save yourself the time and just get it over with. Balling up your fist, you reluctantly respond. “Fine.”

“Great! See you soon!” Irene trills, ending the call before you can even say goodbye. Not that you even wanted to, anyway.

With an enraged groan, you flop off of your stomach and open the windows, letting in some fresh air and sunlight. As you gaze outside of your window, observing the city slowly wake up, all you want to do is wallow in your self pity and frustration. For the longest time, you’ve told yourself that you’re fine with being alone; love just isn’t in the cards for someone like you. So you threw yourself into your job, struggling towards achieving your dreams, but as of late, the path to your passion has become another burden in your life.

Sighing, you shake away your thoughts and tidy up the living room, already put off by the microscopic chip crumbs on the coffee table and the way the throw pillows are strewn about on the rug. After everything is back in place, you make your way over to your room, silently noting that your sofa stay at least meant that you didn’t have to make your bed today. You take a shower and don yourself in your typical uniform of straight jeans, sneakers, and a boxy blazer. Cute, practical, and unassuming.

Quickly, you scarf down some toast and orange juice, because you definitely will not be able to afford even half of the menu items at the usual restaurant that the Golden Trio dines at for brunch. Before you lock your apartment and leave, you check yourself out in the mirror in the small corridor that houses the entrance.

“Just in and out,” you say to your reflection. “Breathe.”

The drive to brunch is less than fifteen minutes. However, you make a few unnecessary turns around the block in your second-hand Subaru, not ready to face the Golden Trio just yet.

At exactly eleven, Irene’s profile picture— a headshot taken by a professional photographer— pops up on your phone screen. You ignore it and swiftly find a parking spot among all of the luxury cars, muttering to yourself. The Terrace is an upscale eatery that the Golden Trio frequents for weekend brunches, and you’re unfortunately roped into their plans more often than not. You walk into the restaurant, dodging a businessman in a costly-looking suit and a group of renegading TikTok influencers trying to take pictures. You take your time greeting Keeho, the hilarious UCLA student who hosts at The Terrace during the weekends. And then you scan the outdoor dining patio, as if you don’t already know the location of the Golden Trio’s preferred table by the edge of the patio, the one with the perfect view of the Hollywood sign in the distance.

“Y/N!” Sana gasps in faux surprise as you take your seat next to her. “So nice of you to join us… thirteen minutes late.”

You clench your jaw and force a smile. “Oh, well, you did just call me an hour ago, so.”

Sana returns your sarcasm with an aggressive beam, showing off all of her perfectly aligned, blindingly white teeth. Mina watches the venomous exchange in amusement, while Irene just rolls her eyes.

“Let’s get to the point, ladies.” Irene leans forward, and the other two follow suit, like they always do.

You stay put in your chair, comfortably leaning back, like you always do. “I’d love to know why you called me to brunch, Irene. You know this isn’t my scene.”

“Nothing besides your damn computer is your scene,” Mina retorts, sipping on her mimosa. Irene purses her lips to hide her grin, while Sana openly cackles.

You glower at them, saying nothing. The Golden Trio sat around the array of gourmet dishes like hens around a feeding hopper, craning for the best cuts and chances of picking on you, as usual.

“Can you just stop wasting my time and tell me why I’m here?” You take a swig of water, already counting down the minutes until you can make up an excuse and leave early.

The girls exchange knowing glances before Irene zeroes in on you. Even though she’s the oldest out of all four of you, she still looks the most stunning, with her cherry lips and elegant features.

“Y/N, we’ve been thinking that it’s time for you to find someone.” Irene reaches across the table and grasps your hands, making you cringe in surprise.

You raise an eyebrow at Irene, already dreading what path this conversation is taking. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Irene delicately cuts into her vegetable omelet, taking a small bite. “We just want you to be happy. And we know that it’s been hard, ever since Jisung.”

At the mention of your ex-boyfriend, you wrench your hands out of Irene’s grip. “Don’t you dare bring him up.”

Mina smacks her lips, nonchalantly reapplying her magenta lipstick. “I told you that she’d be angry.”

Irene sighs, massaging her temples. “Be reasonable, Y/N. This is for your own good. You’ve been alone for too long.”

“That is not for you to decide.” You nearly want to laugh out loud at this point. “This is my business. Not yours.”

But then again, the girls have never been able to respect your own feelings. You are their puppet to string along and their doll to dress up. To them, you’re not a real human being, capable of making your own decisions— both good and bad.

Two years ago, you were dumped by your first and last boyfriend, Park Jisung. It was a traumatizing relationship, to say the least. For all your life, you’ve struggled with romance and just the whole idea of intimacy, of getting close to someone and truly letting them see you. Jisung had taken your fragile heart, the one you had so cautiously extended to him, and shattered it on the ground.

The months you were with him were so full of emotional abuse on his part, that by the time you caught him cheating on you, you weren’t even surprised. You’d pathetically begged him to stay, crying that you’d forgiven him, but after his initial apologies, he’d left you. What made you the angriest wasn’t the anguish he had caused you. It was how he’d gotten the last word, breaking up with you and leaving you behind to rot. You swore that you would never let someone do that to you again. Everyday, you go to bed alone and wake up alone. Every single day, and you don’t have any intention of changing that.

“Of course not,” Sana says, stabbing viciously at her eggs and making you wince. “But you know, appearances matter.”

Irene shakes her head. “Honey, this lonely, mopey look doesn’t suit you. Johnny says that people are talking, saying that you’re some sort of recluse.”

You scoff, blood boiling at the thought of Irene’s fiancé. He grew up on his father’s bottomless wallet and was no better than any stereotypical rich playboy. All he did was run his mouth and on occasion, his damn country club that you couldn’t even afford to step inside.

“She kind of is a recluse,” Mina interrupts. “Like, just get a life, maybe?”

Mina’s words sting, like they always do. But you refuse to give her the satisfaction, instead answering Irene. “I couldn’t care less about Johnny Suh and what his useless friends at the club are saying. I’m fine how I am.”

Sana dabs at her mouth with her napkin, careful not to smudge her makeup. “You’re not, though.”

Irene glares at Sana, shutting her up, before turning back to you. You recognize the look in her eyes; that soft, cajoling pull that makes anyone do her bidding. That look is why you had not left this toxic company yet, but you’re starting to feel the effect of it slowly wear off.

“Y/N. Just hear me out.” Irene sorts through her violet Kate Spade tote bag, before pulling out a business card and handing it to you.

In spite of yourself, you take the card, feeling the thick, rich quality of the paper, and the gold lettering.

“Dr. Hwang…” You read out loud. “‘The Love Doctor?’ What the hell?”

“He’s a relationship therapist and dating expert. He also runs a matchmaking service and coaches his clients.” Irene explains.

“I have eyes. I can read the card, Irene,” you spit out, turning the paper around in your fingers. “And I definitely don’t trust anyone recommended by you. Especially not some corny weirdo called the ‘Love Doctor.’”

“Oh, get over yourself, Y/N. I know a billion trainwrecks that Dr. Hwang has fixed.” Mina shudders in thought. “He’s pretty good, you know?”

“No, actually. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this stupid Love Doctor.” You grind your teeth, desperately trying not to slap some sense into Mina. “I’m not going to trust a stranger with all of my thoughts… my fears, my hopes.”

“This is such a waste of time,” Sana whines, getting up from her seat and smoothing out her dress. “I’m going to go talk to Chris. BRB, girls.”

Sana flounces away in the direction of the hot bartender mixing and pouring drinks for patrons. Mina rolls her eyes, picking at her acrylic nails.

“She literally has a boyfriend,” Mina huffs, before getting up and following after her.

You turn back to Irene. “Is that how you want me to be? Both Sana and Mina are in relationships, except one pretends to not have a boyfriend, and the other is too bitchy to care about hers.”

“You’re not wrong.” Irene lets out a hearty chuckle, tracing the rim of her champagne flute. “But no one outside of our circle really knows about what’s going on with them, behind the scenes. They’re still perfect.”

“Why does it matter so much? Being perfect? Why does it matter so much to you if I am?” You question her, at a loss.

“I care about you.” Irene folds her hands in front of her plate. “You’re my friend.”

Friend.

That word takes you back to a few years ago, when you weren’t able to find a date to the frat party Johnny threw when you were all in college. You failed to follow Irene’s instructions, and as the expected result, Irene didn’t bother saying anything to you. You felt her anger through her silent treatment, as you stood by the door, feeling like a loser. You watched the rest of the Golden Trio giggle with their own dates, and Irene— no matter how big of a crush she used to have on Johnny before they became an item— was staring at you all night, soaking in your shame and unhappiness. You should have realized back then that the Golden Trio was just gilt. At least, you have now.

You snort in wry amusement, grabbing your keys and slapping down a fifty on the table, your general portion of the meal you didn’t even partake in. “I don’t know what I am to you, but I’m definitely not your fucking friend.”

Ignoring Irene’s pleas hitting your retreating back, you leave The Terrace, vowing never to go back.

On the weekends, you usually either work from home or aimlessly surf the internet. Either way, you’ll be staring at your computer until your eyes hurt. Today, however, you’re determined to prove that you can take a day off and enjoy it. It’s why you walk out of the luxury salon after being scrubbed, steamed, waxed, plucked, and primped all over your body. You don’t even want to think of how expensive it all was, completely disregarding the shiny $200 acrylics adorning your nails.

You spend the rest of the day browsing a vintage bookstore on the Los Angeles marina, devoutly avoiding the romance section like you always did. After splurging on a set of horror novels by the latest trending author, you decide to go home and relax— just because you aren’t outside doesn’t mean you’re moping around, unlike what the Golden Trio believes.

Who needs some hotshot Love Doctor when you’ve got Stephen King?

Sitting back on your couch with your book, you kick out your legs in front of you and attempt to unwind. But of course, you’re one line into the first page when your thoughts get the better of you. You glance across the open-concept layout of your apartment and over at your handbag, which is haphazardly strewn onto your bed; the business card that Irene gave you seems to be an incessant force in your mind. After a few seconds of trying to fight the urge to not let your curiosity best you, you give up, rolling off the sofa and rummaging through the bag to find the card.

Palming the small piece of paper, you settle onto your bed on your stomach, dimming the lights and logging into your computer. You type in the website address listed on the card into Google, impatiently tapping on the mouse. Finally, the page loads.

Your vision is blessed by a soft palette of pinks and beiges, a sparkling layout, flashy buttons and graphics, all designed to reel in even the most technologically inept grandparents. But that’s not what you’re enticed by: a giant picture of the most beautiful man that you have ever laid eyes on is pasted onto the main cover of the website. Immediately, you read further only to find out that this total babe is the Love Doctor that Irene couldn’t shut the fuck up about.

You zoom in on the bio printed below the image, devouring it like the King novel you should be reading instead right now. “What the…?”

Dr. Hwang Hyunjin is a lot of things: a relationship therapist, intimacy expert, dating coach, psychology researcher, and etc. But the title that truly encapsulates his essence is: the Love Doctor, the savant who leads his clients through the pains and triumphs of life, loss, and of course, love.

After graduating from Columbia University summa cum laude and obtaining his doctorate in psychology at Stanford, Dr. Hwang founded SeoulSpark, a practice dedicated to providing guidance and opportunities for any with those special ailments of the heart. The rest of Dr. Hwang’s credentials and outstanding achievements are listed below. In his freetime, Dr. Hwang loves to write poetry, go horseback riding, and take long walks on the beach.

Appointments must be reserved through the ‘Bookings’ page. Dr. Hwang and his associates may be requested on the basis of availability.

A few minutes of getting sidetracked in an internet stalking session alerted you to how in addition to overseeing his own private practice and working there as a therapist and coach, Dr. Hwang also operates a clinical trial on the neuropsychological approach of studying the nature of love at the National Institutes of Health. And to top it all off, he comes highly recommended by Selena Gomez in her latest Vogue interview— turns out, he’s the one who helped her move on from Justin Beiber and find a more gratifying partner— and has even met with Michelle Obama over tea on NPR’s Life Kit podcast to discuss the psychology of relationships. He’s a public figure, a celebrity of sorts himself, but has graciously rejected the title in favor of a more private life.

“Wow,” you murmur. “So he’s hot and smart.”

Irene and her sidekicks are wrong about a lot, but one thing they are right about is that you’re just absolutely lonely. Growing up, you were a hopeless romantic who constantly dreamed of a fairytale romance, romanticizing every aspect of your interactions with others. But a lifetime of being unlucky in love taught you that there is no such thing as true love.

First, there was a series of unfortunately unrequited crushes in high school, all ending in you watching the boy you liked ride off into the sunset with someone else— usually a popular, pretty girl. Then came Holland, the cute boy in your calculus class who seemed like he actually returned your feelings. You both flirted for a while, before Holland ended up secretly coming out to you as gay. And of course, there was Jisung, the dirtbag who told you he loved you and then proceeded to break your heart. Love obviously isn’t on the cards for you.

Therefore, you’re now an insufferable pessimist when it comes to romance. You make fun of every couple you see in public, religiously watch wedding fails on Youtube, and absolutely hate romantic comedies. You stonily ignore the Tinder app that Mina once pressured you into downloading, even though it’s burning a hole into your phone.

You try to fill up that void in your heart by throwing yourself into work or participating in those idiotic “girls nights” that Irene throws, which usually just entail grinding up on drunk trust funders on someone’s yacht.

But on a night like this, you’re bound to confront the truth: you are alone, and deep inside, you know you don’t want to be, no matter how much you pretend you don’t care. Which is why you let the computer cursor hover over the various appointment time slots, considering registration.

Wait, what? You shoot up from your previous position, sitting straight as every ounce of lethargy exits your body. You cannot actually be thinking of this guy’s services, especially when the recommendation came from Irene. But then again, do you really want your decisions to be determined by her? Do you care enough about spiting her that you’ll prevent your own happiness? What if this Love Doctor actually works?

With a groan, you go back to scrolling through Dr. Hwang’s bio once more, weighing your options, when you notice a link at the bottom of the page. You click on it, and it takes you to a video uploaded on Youtube. The bold, glaring red letters and the dark, dramatic backdrop alert you to a TED talk— and a very cherished one, too, with how thunderous the applause is when welcoming the speaker.

Intrigued, you sit forward, promising yourself that your assessment of Dr. Hwang’s TED talk will determine whether or not you’ll see both his physical and evidently intellectual gorgeousness in real life or not. However, from the very first question that he utters, you know your decision.

“What is love?”

You’re sweaty. You’d like to blame it on the unforgiving Los Angeles heat, but you once read that seeing a therapist is like owning your truth. You want to start being honest even before you meet Dr. Hwang, so you accept that the dampness under your arms is due to the fact that you are just really fucking nervous.

After tossing and turning in your bed all night, you tried your best to look presentable. You showered, blow-dried your hair, and put on minimal makeup reserved for special occasions. But the pretty yellow sundress and sandals that you chose— in the spirit of being symbolically optimistic— feel elementary right now, especially now that you’re setting foot inside the most glamorous office you have ever encountered.

Upon observing the magnificently dripping crystal chandelier adorning the ceiling, marble flooring that you’re afraid of scuffing, and a jazz rendition of “Clair de lune” playing in the background, you’re convinced that this place is much too luxurious to be a shrink’s company space. Hell, it’s on the ninth floor of one of the ritziest buildings downtown. But, then again, you definitely weren’t expecting the person that Irene recommended to be this otherworldly adonis, instead of some kind of Karen ready to lecture you about having a “healthy love life” or “putting out”— yes, you do watch too much TV and have quite the imagination, so you try to keep your judgements and lofty expectations to a minimum.

After signing-in with the receptionist— this sweet guy with freckles, sunny blond hair, and an even sunnier disposition— you sit down on the white leather sofa in the lobby. According to the brochure you swiped at the front desk, this place is so big that it has separate wings, like the freaking Hogwarts castle: one for therapy and coaching— or “guidance”— one for matchmaking services, and one for “health,” where clients and employees alike can rewind and socialize. Following a few minutes of rapidly swiping through the home screen and apps on your phone, trying to look occupied and definitely not intimidated by everything, the receptionist calls your name and directs you to Dr. Hwang’s office.

You know you’re incredibly lucky to have scored a session with Dr. Hwang, who’s obviously the most sought-after on the full list of all who work at SeoulSpark. Last night, when you were scouring SeoulSpark’s Yelp reviews (all of them were five-stars), people were raving about Dr. Hwang. Yet, as you walk through the luxe little corridor that leads you to the guidance sector, you can’t help but feel the regret that unfurls in your stomach. Perhaps you were subconsciously following Irene’s orders, that natural instinct to follow and not think still manifesting. Perhaps you were just enticed by Dr. Hwang’s visuals and repertoire. Or maybe, you just wanted to do something with your damn time for once, instead of constantly thinking about how sucky your life is. Either way, this all feels like a mistake, but it’s too late to turn back now, especially since the woman that you assume is Dr. Hwang’s assistant has spotted you.

She gets up from her desk. “Hello there! You must be Y/N.”

“That’s me!” You exclaim, in a way that probably seems too enthusiastic to be genuine. Your eyes trail to the name badge pinned to the lapel of her stylish cream-colored pantsuit. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Jang.”

“Likewise,” she says with a friendly smile that just accentuates her flawless features.

Is everyone who works here just ridiculously attractive?

“Dr. Hwang is all ready for you.”

You quickly thank her, wiping your sweaty palms on your skirt and praying you don’t look scared. The last thing you want to do is freak out your potential therapist with your horrendous love life, even though his literal job is to deal with basket cases of romance. Taking in a deep breath, you warily place your hands on the grand pair of frosted glass doors adjacent to Ms. Jang’s desk and push them open.

A cool gust of air welcomes you into Dr. Hwang’s office, and the first thing you notice is the blinding natural light flooding from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The one time you ever visited a therapist was immediately after the whole ordeal with Jisung; the cramped little room filled with wilted potted plants and dim light from a depressing yellow lamp had made you want to never see another therapist again. This place, however, looks more like one of those glitzy workspaces straight out of a Manhattan legal drama. You can practically see the dollar signs stamped onto everything here, from the panache but tasteful L-shaped sofa to the sultry modern art adorning the blush-colored walls. But the impeccable interior design is not what has got you temporarily incapacitated—

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

A voice as smooth as his honeyed skin and perpetual charm. A fresh breath of air in the merciless Californian heat that constitutes your entire life. A tidal wave upon the drowsy coastline of your heart. Absolute sin in your undeserving ears. You ponder what language even is, if you’ve never heard anyone articulate their entire aura like this in a mere jumble of words. Dr. Hwang smiles at you warmly— a sight that should remind you of a toasty cup of hot chocolate, but instantly spreads a raging, insatiable wildfire through your nerves.

You speechlessly stay rooted to the spot like a damn oak tree as Dr. Hwang approaches you, with the controlled movement and dripping allure of a jaguar. As he nears you, you have to blink multiple times to adjust to how truly dazzling he is, and how the pictures of him online cannot even compare to his person. You would not hesitate to believe him if he claimed that he walked here straight off the runway, but his beauty is rapturous, less of an airbrushed model and more reminiscent of a Botticelian masterpiece.

Maybe Charles Dickens was wrong— you see everything you want in the glittering multitude that makes up Hyunjin’s eyes. Big, soulful, contemplative. A gaze like a midnight reverie. A radiance like black diamonds encased in velvet. They reel you in like you’re silk thread and he’s a needle, like you’re an astronomer and he’s the entire galaxy. You take in the mole under his left eye, and it reminds you of a stray splatter of dark paint on an ivory canvas. It’s enchanting, like a lone star in the night sky.

“You’re good.” You barely manage, now focused on his lips that are just begging to be kissed. A delicate pink, like the lingering stain after eating cherries. Full and inviting, soft with the promises of a good time. On your own lips. On your skin. On your neck.

Those pretty lips curve into an enigmatic smile, Cheshire-like almost. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

The way he pronounces your name so eloquently sends a spark straight through your body. You never thought much of your name, but with how Hyunjin says it, it might as well be one of those irresistible words that Pinterest logophiles save. It sounds lovely, ethereal, sublime. Just like him.

“And you as well, Dr. Hwang.” You inhale deeply, trying to calm yourself down, but instead, you get a breath full of his scent; he smells like a rainstorm over a field of jasmine. Tantalizingly petrichor, with a slightly floral and sensual edge.

“Please, call me Hyunjin.”

“O-okay, Hyunjin.” A bewitching name for an even more bewitching man.

Hyunjin gestures for you to sit down on the sofa and positions himself on the chair behind his desk, a smoke-cracked glass piece arranged in front of a transparent wall that provides breathtaking views of downtown L.A. You can only imagine what the views are like at night— the city lights, of course. Definitely not of Hyunjin pushing you onto his costly desk and doing you in the dark.

“So, Y/N, darling,” Hyunjin begins, spreading his hands out on the desk in front of him.

Darling?! Ohmyfuckinggod.

You cough. “Sorry?”

“Tell me anything. Impressions, ruminations. Just be honest.”

That’s new and different. You thought Hyunjin would dole out the usual pleasantries, like “how are you” or “the weather is nice,” not ask you to “be honest.” What kind of person expects blatant candor after knowing them for literal seconds? Well, a therapist, probably. And a very eccentric one, at that. So you blurt out the first thing that comes to your mind.

“Everyone here seems so… happy. It’s weird.” The hot receptionist, Hyunjin’s secretary, and even the janitor wiping the floors in the lobby.

Hyunjin lets out a hearty laugh, his eyes squinting into a crescent moon shape that you find very endearing. “Well, they seem happy because they are. Happiness isn’t rare.”

“Feels like it most of the time,” you mutter, your thoughts flashing over to work, Irene, and all of the times that you eat dinner alone.

“That’s why you’re here, no?” Hyunjin folds his hands. “Talk to me.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be asking me questions? And I answer them? Isn’t that what most therapists do?”

“I’m not like most therapists. This is how it begins.”

Of course you aren’t.

As you hesitate, Hyunjin keeps quiet patiently while letting your thoughts unfurl. Maybe it was Jisung, or maybe it was being constantly let down by the people around you, but somewhere along the way, you lost trust in others— you wouldn’t ever let them see who you really are. Ever since, you’ve put up your guard walls, harboring a testy, stormy attitude that scares anyone away before they can ever leave you behind. You put up with the Golden Trio’s nonsense because although they practically used you for their own enjoyment, at least they had never withdrawn for you. You don’t hate yourself, but you don’t feel content with who you are. You never knew if you really would be.

And you don’t know Hyunjin. To you, he’s the man whose photos you pored over on Google, the one who you held a sparse conversation for a matter of mere minutes. You shouldn’t want to be exposed in front of him, but you know you already are, with the way his piercing gaze seems to see right through you. For the first time, you don’t hate the feeling of being vulnerable. You don’t know if it’s the kindness in his bedroom eyes that haven’t strayed from you, or if it’s the warmth that even someone as regal as him exudes, but you embrace the feeling of security that his presence wraps you in. Like your inhibitions are drowning in the distant crevices of your mind. You don’t know what it is that compels you to tell this beautiful stranger anything, but for once, you don’t question it.

“I’m just so tired of my damn life.”

The words come out of you in a rush, a sob, almost, because it feels so good to finally say it out loud. You’ve kept your dissatisfaction inside of you for the longest time, just pretending that the grumpiness is part of your personality, not your sadness, because you’ve always been afraid of what people would say. But when you peek up at him, Hyunjin’s expression betrays nothing. Placid, and waiting for you to go on. So you do.

“Nothing seems to be working. I try, try, and try to do better at work, but lately, even my dream job feels like a burden. I don’t really have any friends. I’m single. I act like I’m fine, but I’m really not. I don’t want to feel like this, like I’m trapped. I don’t want to give Jisung that much power over me, but unfortunately, he does have it all.” A huge weight has been lifted off of your drooping shoulders, but the bitterness still remains on your tongue.

Hyunjin takes a moment to finish up whatever notes he’s jotting down in his cream-colored journal, before looking up at you. “And Jisung is your ex?”

You freeze. You didn’t even realize that you brought up Jisung, and even worse, you completely overlooked how he probably knows a lot more about you than you think. After registering for an appointment, you were redirected to fill out this short quiz filled with questions about your romantic history, your job, and basic information. Like a slightly intruding business dinner in the form of a questionnaire. You couldn’t finish the form without getting slightly tipsy on wine, because of how gut-wrenching it was reliving everything. You forgot that your coach would have access to your answers, after brushing it all off as a silly formality. And you really thought this would all be genuine.

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief and skepticism. “You already know, Dr. Hwang. Why bother asking me? You have my questionnaire results. You think I’m hopeless. You’re just being polite.”

“Hyunjin,” he corrects, undeterred by your words. “And I actually don’t. I look at the results after I meet with my clients. I would rather garner my first impression of you on the person you really are, not through an online quiz.”

“Then how did you know that Jisung’s my ex?”

Hyunjin’s eyes crinkle with tenderness. “It wasn’t very difficult. He hurt you, I can see it.”

You swallow harshly, overwhelmed both by the thought of Jisung and the way Hyunjin’s looking at you right now. Compassion, gentleness, understanding. A complete foil to the constant indifference and borderline aversion Jisung treated you with. Right now, you don’t feel ugly, even with your scars so raw, open. You feel seen. You realize that Hyunjin has a way of getting you to open up by saying very little.

“He was my first boyfriend. First love, first kiss, first… well, you know.” You pause, blushing at the words that have escaped your mouth, but continue in spite of your shame. To hell with it. “He made me feel wanted, for once. I mean, I’ve literally been a fake date for my gay ex-situationship, and the first time I tried to get into a real relationship, which was with my former neighbor, he ghosted me after two dates. And then he moved away. Jisung… he gave me everything I thought I needed.”

You look up at Hyunjin, unsure. The tears are already shining in your eyes, threatening to spill out. Hyunjin nods encouragingly, pushing you on.

“We were together for almost a year. And the entire time, he gaslighted me into doubting myself. He always kept cheating on me, I knew that. But I finally caught him screwing his assistant in my bed, right before we broke up.” You close your eyes. “No, before he broke up with me. God, my friends were right. I am so pathetic.”

Hyunjin sets his pen down firmly on the glass table, making you open your eyes. His starry gaze is intense, like that all-too-familiar inferno settled inside of you. “Darling, those are no friends of yours. There’s nothing pathetic about believing in someone, for putting your faith in them. Don’t ever say that again.”

“Right. Because I didn’t tell him over and over again that I forgave him. I didn’t beg him to stay, when he said he was tired of me. When he wanted new things.” You let out a dry laugh. “When it was over, everyone acted like I fumbled. Hell, he works at SM Technologies. Rich, handsome, well-connected.”

“Fuck that hack. That’s not why you loved him, though,” Hyunjin insists, his explicit language surprising you. Even in this way, he seems more poised than you ever could be. “You loved him because he made you feel loved. He accepted you. You lowered your standards for him, and he used you.”

You turn your head away from Hyunjin, not wanting him to watch you cry. But you know he’s already seen the tears streaming freely down your cheeks. “So, are you supposed to help me move on from here? Find someone new? SeoulSpark has matchmaking services, right? I mean, it’s been two years, and I’m still not over it. Sorry I’m a fucking antiromantic.”

It’s Hyunjin’s turn to shake his head. “Darling, you’re misunderstanding me. I don’t help my clients find relationships. I don’t care if you walk out still single or if you’re polyamorous. I care that you’re happy, satisfied with who you are, romantically. I’m here to guide you through that. Let me help you.”

The tears that had dripped so effusively onto your skin dry as Hyunjin holds your gaze, studying your features and saying nothing. And then your stomach chooses that inopportune moment to grumble, and very loudly indeed. In that astoundingly mortifying moment, you swear to never, ever skip breakfast again.

Hyunjin clears his throat, rising from his seat. “Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink? Or eat, maybe?”

“Um, a mango?” You don’t know why, or how, but your brain just zeroes in on mangoes. You don’t even like the damn fruit. Who the fuck would specifically ask for mangoes, instead of something reasonable, like coffee, or tea? You glare up at the ceiling, cursing your emotional dry spell for making you act so embarrassingly.

But Hyunjin just smiles. “Mangoes. A criminally overlooked aphrodisiac. People call it the love fruit, you know.”

You gulp. Now you’re imagining Dr. Hwang— er, Hyunjin— chopping up a bunch of whole mangoes like he’s in Fruit Ninja, before erotically eating each slice, licking at the flesh, juice slowly dripping down that chin sculpted by the gods. Two seconds ago, you were crying about your evil ex and now you’re dreaming about Hyunjin starring as some sort of a seductive sensei.

What the fuck?!

“Oh. Yeah, I didn’t know that.”

Hyunjin is unfazed by your awkwardness, simply walking over to the pink-pastel minifridge in the corner of his office and bringing out a paper bowl of unfortunately pre-cut mangoes that you accept gingerly. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you.” You cautiously place a cube of mango in your mouth.

Your eyes suddenly widen at the sweet yet tangy explosion of flavor on your tongue. Creamy yet juicy, refreshing yet indulging, just succulent on your lips. Hyunjin giggles at your amazed reaction to the fruit. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.” You chew on the tart skin of the mango and swallow. “Do you know where your secretary might have bought this?”

“Wonyoung didn’t buy it, I did.” Hyunjin grins, sipping on his own glass of water. “5-Star Grocery. I went just today, actually.”

You finish off the rest of the fruit in no time, swiping the mango residue on your fork clean with your lips. When you’re done, you look up from the bowl to see Hyunjin gazing intently at you. You were probably taking forever to eat, and he was waiting for you. “Oh, sorry about that. This was really good.”

Hyunjin shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, it’s not that.”

You curiously tilt your head at him, wondering what’s got him so worked up. “Did I say something, Dr. Hwa- I mean, Hyunjin?”

“No, you didn’t.” Hyunjin stands up and takes your bowl, throwing it away in the disposal for you. “Let’s get back to our conversation.”

You nod, your thoughts fluttering back to Jisung, the ache replacing the lust that reigned inside of you, moments earlier. “I have tried to see other people, but it’s been hard.”

“How so?” Hyunjin clicks on his pen, putting it in a position ready to write.

You toy with the hem of your dress, your face heating up. “I tried using Tinder. I even matched with this one guy, San. We got dinner. But later that night, when… when we were about to um, have sex, I just couldn’t. San was really nice and understanding about everything, but I felt so bad. I’ve only slept with one person before, Jisung, and I don’t know. It’s so humiliating.”

Hyunjin frowns. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. First, it’s normal to be wary of intimacy after a long-term relationship. And second, we all have varying levels of sexual comfort. You’ll find your own pace. Our sexuality is essential to our health, and there’s nothing humiliating about it.”

“It’s not like I’m not experienced, though,” you say quickly.

Hyunjin looks up from his notepad and raises an eyebrow at you. You sputter over your impulsive words and try to explain. “It’s just that I have trouble being vulnerable with others, both physically and emotionally. There was only Jisung. And he wasn’t that good at it, to be honest. But I thought it shouldn’t stop me from finding out by myself what I like. That’s all.”

For a second, you think Hyunjin will make fun of you, but he just solemnly nods. “Absolutely. I always tell my clients this. There’s nothing wrong with masturbating. It’s incredibly healthy, whether or not you’re in a relationship.”

You exhale shakily, your cheeks aflame. You know it’s his literal job, but you can’t help but feel both admiration and jealousy at how straightforward Hyunjin is while talking about sex. His whole aura seeps with confidence, like it comes easily to him. Your self-consciousness could never. “Right.”

He sighs in thought, scribbling into your notepad as you restlessly wait for him to say something, fidgeting in your seat. Hyunjin then sets his notepad aside, logging into his sleek Apple iMac computer and rapidly typing into it. “I have something for you to do, darling.”

You immediately tense at the thought of more work, especially if Hyunjin is going to be your grader. “Like, homework?”

Hyunjin laughs. “No. Think of it as a fun little task. Remember, nothing I ask you to do is obligatory. You choose to be here.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.” You square your shoulders like a soldier. Whatever your assignment is, you’re going to knock it out of the park and impress Hyunjin. Definitely because you look up to him as a person, not because you want him to rail you into the next century.

Hyunjin leans forward, like he’s about to indulge you with a delicious secret, and you find yourself doing the same. “I want you to write down on paper one thing you love about yourself every day of the week, starting today. Bring the sheet to me when we meet again next week.”

You sit back, your heart sinking while your mind wakes in panic. And of all things, the assignment has to be this. You could fib your way through it, of course, jotting down the stupid, trivial aspects of yourself that aren’t so bad. But considering it all, asking yourself that question would really make you face the ugly truth: do you even love yourself?

“Wait, what do you mean? Like, what does it have to be? Physical? Emotional? Professional? Personal? I don’t think—”

Hyunjin smoothly cuts you off. “Like I said, this is your choice to complete. And it can be anything you cherish about yourself. Anything. This is your opportunity to show-off.”

You shake your head, frustrated. “But why, though? I don’t get the point of this.”

“I need to be able to get an idea of what specific path will best fit you, whether it’s solo therapy to help your mindset and esteem, matchmaking to get you connected with individuals who complement you, or coaching to provide you with guidance in potential relationships. So for now, I want to get to know you. ”

“If you wanted to get to know me, you’d ask questions like, ‘what do you do,’ or ‘what’s your favorite color,’ Hyunjin,” you say, irked. “This is just going to be another thing I fail at.”

“Darling,” Hyunjin says, firmly but gently. “Your profession and favorite color, while intriguing, isn’t knowledge I need to work with you. The most important service of all is helping my clients’ self-perception and confidence in romance, and I need to know what level you are on. Take it slow, it’s okay. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

The familiar warmth spreads throughout your body. Compassion, gentleness, understanding. You harbor so much insecurity that it affects so much of your daily life. You don’t go out. You work yourself down and out. You wallow in your misery. You’re a pessimist who doesn’t believe in true love. And you receive endless judgment for it, because really, who wouldn’t be disgusted by someone like you? But being with Hyunjin feels different, because he is accepting you for who you are and promising you the guidance you’ve always needed.

“We can assess what aforementioned action to take next week, when I’ve had time to assess you,” Hyunjin declares as you agree, ripping out a piece of paper from his notebook and writing down the task on it for you to take home.

And then you’re pulled back into reality. You’re well-educated and smart. You have a good job that pays well. You like to read Scientific American in your freetime, because sometimes, you would rather face the facts than meld into opinions. And you know exactly what’s happening right now. It’s barely been your first session with Hyunjin, and you’re already getting attached to him, because he’s giving you the kind of care and attention that you’ve been craving. It’s a phenomenon called transference, you know that. The butterfly garden flitting in your stomach is a mere sensory illusion, you know that. But you also know that you are feeling something.

As Hyunjin hands you the slip of paper, his hands brush yours lightly, and you can’t help but exhale sharply at where his skin has made contact with yours. Maybe you’re touch-starved, but you can’t help but feel like a longing character in a Victorian romance novel. You look down at his hands as he retracts them. Large, smooth palms, and long fingers decked in silver rings.

“But that will be all for now, darling.”

God, he’s sexy.

“Really? Is that all?” You glance at the rose gold clock hanging on the wall behind you. It’s barely been thirty minutes. “We’re done so soon?”

Hyunjin grins at you, flashing those crescent moons once again. “I didn’t know you were that eager to stay here.”

You clear your throat, furiously blushing. “I mean, I thought the session would last longer. So I’ll come back next week then.”

“This was a diagnostic, darling. And yes, I’ll see you next week. You should make an appointment with Wonyoung before you leave.”

Hyunjin beams at you pleasantly while you reluctantly grab your purse, and you briefly wonder if he looks just as lovely when his partner pleasures him— if he has a partner. But then again, there is no way someone as good-looking and sweet as him is single. The thought of Hyunjin fucking someone simultaneously sparks envy and turns you on, and you quickly shake it away.

“Thank you so much, Hyunjin. And um, I’m sorry if I came off as kind of coarse, it’s… I’m working on it.” You tilt your head towards him, hoping he gets what you’re trying to convey. You’re not amazing with words, or controlling your emotions very well, and any product of that today was not meant to hurt him.

“You did nothing wrong. I’m glad you decided to come here, Y/N.” Hyunjin walks you across his expansive office.

“And I love your nails, by the way.” Hyunjin states, his gaze pointed down at your hands. “Pink’s my favorite color.”

You flush a pink that’s deeper than the object of his compliments. Pink, huh? You wonder about what other pink things that Hyunjn may like. Pink roses? Raspberries? Flamingoes? You’d bring them all to him if he asked.

Hyunjin graciously opens the door leading to the corridor for you, and you shoot him a small smile, as he returns it. His hand skims the small of your back as he leads you out, and you pray that you don’t look like a lustful maniac. Unaware of your internal frenzy, Hyunjin waves goodbye to you as he lets in his next client waiting outside and shuts the door behind him.

Wonyoung asks you a plethora of questions about your availability next week, your mind stays on Hyunjin while you schedule your next appointment. You don’t waver even when you exit the SeoulSpark and unlock your car in the visitor parking lot, collapsing into the seat in a daze. Even when you find yourself plugging in directions on Google Maps to find the quickest route to 5-Star Grocery, your thoughts don’t stay from Hyunjin. Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin.

You take your time strolling through the multicolored aisles of 5-Star, blankly gazing at all of the overpriced foodstuffs while daydreaming about the way that Hyunjin’s hand had accidentally brushed against you, even if it was inadvertent. You want his fingers on your body. In your body. In your mouth. Anywhere, and everywhere.

You brighten up as you near the produce section and spy the hefty crate of what you came for: very expensive imported Indian mangoes. But without a second thought, you place a generous pile of the fresh fruit into a plastic cover and put it into your cart. And you swear you can catch the lingering scent of Hyunjin from when he was here earlier today. Rainstorms. Jasmine. Danger. You practically combust at the thought of Hyunjin scouring the baskets of mangoes for the very best picks with those crescent moon eyes, wishing it was you instead that he could have been gazing so purposefully at. On the way out, like some kind of a divine coincidence, you notice that a local florist has set up their stand at the entrance of the grocery. As you approach, the overflowing clay pots of jasmine crowd your sensations.

The drive back home feels like it lasts hours, when in reality, the store is only a few minutes away from your place. As soon as you’re inside your apartment, you throw open all of the window shutters, dismissing the ominous weather forecast on the radio. A much bigger tempest brews somewhere else. The late evening breeze through your windows is like a pirate sailing into your mind, hoarding your sanity and coaxing in all of your disgraceful thoughts. And you welcome the ship like a safe harbor because it’s been far too long since you’ve ever felt this outrageously alive.

The tiny light in your kitchen provides some leeway for you to work, as you stow away your groceries in the fridge and bring out the glass cutting board that your menace of coworker gave you as a gag gift; you would burn the whole house down before cooking anything, and he knows that. Yet, you kind of feel like goddamn Gordon Ramsay as you cut through the mango dexterously to produce those perfect cubes that Hyunjin presented you with.

With a sigh, you collapse into one of the mismatched chairs at your dining table. You once slaved away into late nights at this table, blue light glasses perched on your nose while you were engrossed in lines of code. Nowadays, you sleep late for less productive reasons or just because you are in a destructive mood and planning your future world takeover. But you have a feeling that might change soon.

Slowly, you put a piece of the sweet mango in your mouth, savoring the saccharinity and longing for it to pervade all aspects of your life beyond your palate. You find that it tastes a little less delectable because Hyunjin isn’t here with you, but you finish the entire bowl of fruit nevertheless. Still not satisfied, however, you bring out a second mango, still searching for that spark you had felt earlier.

This time, you don’t even bother cutting the fruit, instead breaking the skin of the mango with your teeth and allowing the juice to leak onto your tongue. A little better, but you wish you were biting down on Hyunjin’s plush lips instead. You feel like you’ve been hexed by the Love Doctor, because there’s no chance that a romantic Scrooge like you is fantasizing about the emotional and physical reincarnation of Aphrodite.

Yet, he must have shot you with his quiver of arrows, rendering you clinically insane, because as you reach for your third mango, you feel your free hand trailing down to the place between your thighs that’s begging for your touch. You spread your legs so that your knees are facing out on either side of you, and your dress has now ridden up to your hips, exposing your now wet cotton panties for no one to see.

But you imagine that he’s watching, stroking himself and getting off along with you. Not even bothering to slide them off, you push your panties to the side and finally press your fingers against your aching cunt. Chewing on the delicate skin of mango, you slide your fingers through your drenched folds, thankful to finally get a chance to relieve yourself. As you concentrate on the fruit’s taste, you wonder what Hyunjin would think of your own, sucking on his own fingers after fucking you with his pretty hands. He’d push you down to get a complete taste, attaching his mouth to your pussy to get both an idea and a release.

Moaning out loud, you circle your clit, enjoying the flickers of pleasure coursing through you. Not minding the juice now dripping down your chin and onto your collarbone, you pull down the front of your dress, freeing your breasts. You gently pinch your nipple with your left hand and let out a small gasp, craving for Hyunjin to be the one inducing such sinful pain into you.

“Just like that, darling.”

“Oh God, Hyunjin!” You call out his name and squeeze your breast, now fucking yourself on your fingers while simultaneously grinding the heel of your palm against your clit for that delicious extra friction.

“So good for me.”

Waves of ecstasy wash over you as you ride out your high, sloppily thrusting and circling your hips on your soaked hand. You come to the final thought of Hyunjin pushing a slice of mango down the valley between your breasts, tracing and cleaning the sticky juice with his tongue. And there’s the spark, igniting a whole flame of fulfillment deep inside of you.

Letting out a shaky sigh, you fix your dress and get up from your chair, taking out a paper towel to wipe the mess of your arousal and fruit juice on the seat. Your cheeks burn with the after effects of your release, and yet, you don’t feel any shame. Instead, there’s a strange sense of liberation that you are starting to come to terms with.

Clipping up your hair, you make your way over to the desk in your bedroom and take out a fresh sheet of paper. Armed with a glass of freshly puréed mango juice and accompanied by the tantalizing scent of your jasmine plant, you pull out a pink gel pen and let the words pour out.

“So, Y/N. Were you able to do what I asked?” Hyunjin cocks his head expectantly.

You reach into your handbag and pull out the paper, passing it to Hyunjin with trembling hands. “I did it.”

You came to SeoulSpark straight from work, deliberately skipping your usual jeans and blazer combination for a skinny pencil skirt paired with a powder-pink button down that matches the walls of Hyunjin’s office. Slightly transparent silk stockings disappear under the skirt, which skims the top of your knees.

When you were pulling on your barely-worn cream slingback pumps in the morning, you had wondered what this entire outfit was for. You had stood up and gazed critically into the mirror, and all you could feel was empowerment. Because for the first time, it felt like something you were truly doing for yourself. You weren’t proving a point. And you knew you weren’t dressing for Hyunjin either, but rather, because of him. He made you question if you were treating yourself right, and you wanted to answer it well. The pink blouse was a playful touch that you couldn’t help.

Hyunjin takes his time reading through the paper, and this time, you’re the one observing his every reaction, from the quirk of his brow to the way he occasionally licks his lips to wet them. The latter action sparks a memory of one week ago, when you indulged yourself in absurdly fantasizing about those very lips all over you. You press your legs together, ignoring the dull throb in between, and try not to think of it, focusing on the unsexiest things your mind can come up with. Climate change. Warts. Donald Trump.

“This is a good list to start with.” Hyunjin looks up at you, eyes twinkling. “All true, right?”

You nod, feeling a shy smile erupt on your face. “Yeah, I was kind of surprised with how doable-ish it was.”

“May I ask how? If I recall, you were quite opposed to this task last week.” Today, Hyunjin sits on the sofa with you instead of at his desk— too close, yet so far.

You finger the one of the buttons on your blouse, mind already on the truth. But of course, you would never tell Hyunjin how masturbating to the thought of him made you feel aligned with your own body and sexuality, and maybe a little more willing to dare to think of what you like about yourself. Now that would be inappropriate.

“I just did some thinking,” you finally say after much deliberation.

Hyunjin crosses one of his long legs over the other. “Interesting.”

“I guess.”

“If I ask you a question, will you answer it honestly?” Hyunjin lightly taps on his notepad with his pen, waiting for you to speak.

You give him a suspicious look. “Depends on the question.”

“Are you happy with yourself?”

His question confounds you, and yet, in a way, you also know why he asks it. A basic list of things that you like about yourself isn’t enough to turn over that table of insecurity and stagnant mindset that has hurt you for too long. It makes you understand that everything wrong in your life is because of an intrinsic cause, that ugly voice inside of you. Not because of something else… or someone.

“I don’t think I am.” You bite your lip. “But I want to be.”

“Can you tell me why?”

You groan. “It stems from how I feel so undesirable right now. Like, I don’t want to be lonely, but I am. I mean, I’m kind of a shooting star for everyone. A fleeting moment of love, of comfort. I really wish I could be the fucking sun.”

Hyunjin leans forward swiftly, grasping your hands and startling you with their warmth. “You’re not a shooting star. And you’re not just the sun either. You are the whole solar system, honey. Please don’t ever think otherwise.”

Damn. The solar system?

You hate when Irene calls you “honey,” but on Hyunjin’s tongue, it sounds loving, sweet, not like a patronizing ridicule.

“Thank you,” you whisper, trying to ignore the way your heart is hammering in your chest. “But you’ve known me for, like, two seconds.”

If you don’t know any better, you would say that Hyunjin almost looks taken aback. But his features smooth over quickly. “Darling, I’m a professional. You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You have a good heart. There is no reason why you can’t have everything you want.”

You try to focus on his words and take them in, but Hyunjin— simply the sexiest thing you have ever set eyes on— has deemed you beautiful. It’s both flattering and heart-fluttering, to say the very least. “Well, why don’t I? Why don’t I have everything I want, then?”

Hyunjin narrows his eyes. “You just haven’t met the right person for you.”

You inhale at the husky tone of his voice. “And you’re going to help me with that, Hyunjin?”

“Yes. You don’t need therapy, definitely. The first step I take with my clients is acceptance. That comes with therapy, but you were able to identify the problem and acknowledge it. I say we address it now.”

“What do you recommend we do, then?”

Hyunjin clears his throat and flips to a new page in his notepad. “I’ll be your dating coach.”

You quirk your eyebrow at him. “What does that entail?”

“We need to fortify your self-esteem, first of all. So, confidence coaching. You’ll be getting weekly sessions with me in which I provide you with tips and guidance, almost like interactive lectures. In due time… you can be set up in our matchmaking office, if you’d like.” Hyunjin scribbles into his trusty notepad. “You made a good start with the list. Let’s get better.”

And you do. The next few weeks are like a bandaid on your wounded heart and mentality. Hyunjin helps you through building up your confidence, never once pushing you to run, only walking by your side. You expect him to give you information on pickup lines, how to dress, appropriate forms of touch, the science of love, and anything else that may improve your dating prospects, but much of his coaching is simply focused on you. You get one-on-one seminars from Hyunjin on the art of conversation, in which he guides you through being yourself, instead of being who you think you need to be. Hyunjin structures elaborate role-playing scenarios and critical thinking exercises in which you are coaxed out of your shell. And most significant of all, he teaches you that the most important relationship you can have is the relationship with yourself.

You have always known that Hyunjin isn’t just any regular relationship therapist— or dating coach, or intimacy expert, or whatever other fancy moniker he adopts— but throughout your meetings, you come to feel like the boundaries have become blurred. Since the first time you saw him, he was able to read you like one of the glossy magazines stocked in the main lobby. But you slowly notice the fine details about him as well, from the neverending stack of classic poetry books on the white oak wall mount to how he bites his nails when he’s deep in thought.

The fascination you harbor morphs into a full-blown schoolgirl infatuation, resulting in you stalking his Instagram page and being totally invested in all of his old interviews, scouring for information on his dating status (no, you couldn’t find out if he is single or not). You’re completely enamored with Hyunjin and how free you feel around him. But one thing that doesn’t change is your burning desire for your unattainable guide, and the way you have to relieve yourself with your vibrator as soon as you rush home after your appointments.

You are sure that every single time you see Hyunjin, you’re being embarrassingly obvious, but he maintains his professionality, betraying nothing about himself except for a disarming smile. So you stay quiet, keeping your Hyunjin-affliction to yourself. But even in the face of your inappropriate struggle, for the first time, happiness doesn’t seem so foreign to you.

In spite of the honeymoon phase of your crush, in which you have blissfully daydreamed about Hyunjin, you still have your job to get to— gone is the racy maroon lingerie set you bought to spice up your solo sessions. However, your boring work suits and blazer-and-jeans combinations have been pushed to the back of your closet, in favor of you walking into the office wearing tight sheath dresses and skirts that show off your curves. You always believed that getting dolled up was strictly for special occasions or your man— when you thought you had one— but lately, you’ve been loving dressing up for yourself and enjoying the feeling of being sexy and liberated.

“Y/N! Get your ass over here!”

Your carefully curated mind bubble is rudely burst open when your boss yells for you from his office, not minding if the peace of the rest of the workers is preserved or not. You tie your hair up and dust off your skirt, making your way over to your boss’s office for what feels like the millionth berating you know you will receive.

“Yes?”

Mark Lee— your boss, who in your opinion, makes Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada look like a saint— turns around in his cushy Arhaus swivel chair, raising his eyebrows at your harried stats. Most people know him as the eccentric but lovable CEO of NCT Corporation, one of the world’s most prolific venture capital firms. However, you know him to be a truly two-faced monster that takes a sadistic pleasure in seeing the people beneath him crushed.

“Is something wrong? Because there shouldn’t be.”

You force a smile. “You called me here, Mark.”

He lets out a mirthless guffaw, slapping his thigh. “Right.”

You roll your eyes as he shuffles through the papers on his desk and produces a small Manila envelope for you. Mark holds it out to you, and you take the packet.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Curious, you tear open the envelope and pull out a thick piece of stationary paper, an invitation to a networking event for tech entrepreneurs. Your pulse immediately begins to pick up, and you even dare to begin to dream of attending this golden opportunity. “Is this for me?”

“Kind of.” Mark clasps his hands together. “You’re planning this party!”

Your hesitant smile melts away. “What? I’m not your assistant, Mark. You already have one.”

“I know…” Mark trails off, popping a gummy bear into his mouth as he starts to spin around in his chair. “But no one is more passionate than you here, so you should do it.”

“But I’m busy with my actual job. I should be going to this party, not planning it! You know that.” You feel the frustration rise up in your chest like a tsunami, and you struggle to keep it at bay. “Come on, Mark. What the hell?”

Mark narrows his eyes at you, chewing on his fifth gummy. “No profanity, please.”

You nearly ball up the invitation and throw it onto Mark’s face. “You literally just screamed at me to get my ass in here.”

“I know, I’m hilarious.” Mark snickers, crumpling up his gummy bear packet and attempting to shoot it into the wastebasket on the other side of the room. When he misses, his expression sours and he glares at you. “You should really check out the instructions I sent you and get to work. Even some SM Tech officers will be in attendance. For example, the director of the Dream division.”

Your heart drops. “What?”

Mark smirks malevolently, leaning closer towards you. “You know him, right? Jake, was his name? Or was it Jisung?”

You grind down on your teeth, fuming. Mark is just trying to rile you up, and it’s really working. He knows perfectly well that Jisung is your ex-boyfriend, as both Jisung and him are golf buddies at their exclusive course in Pasadena. However, he loves to play dumb to get a reaction out of you, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

You swallow back all of the disgusting insults you wish you could hurl at him, if you were braver and not hanging on to your job by a thread. “Don’t recall. I’ll take care of the party.”

You turn on your heel and march out of Mark’s office, purposefully slamming the door hard on the way out. You hear Mark’s cackling behind you, but you don’t dare to look back, because you don’t know what you’ll do. You slide into your cubicle once more, and have to resist the urge to turn over your whole desk like Wreck-It Ralph.

Years ago, in your final year of college, you founded ITEM Technologies with one of your classmates for your senior project. You hadn’t expected your professor to be so impressed that she submitted your portfolio to California’s biggest entrepreneurship competition, and you definitely didn’t expect for it to win first place, which meant you got access to a whole network of potential investors for your start-up. You had already accepted a job offer to be a software developer at NCT, but the thought of becoming your own boss through ITEM pulled at you like anything. Securing funding for ITEM through SM Technologies would be the final key in the system of locks keeping you from your dream, and the exclusive invitation to CODA— Silicon Valley’s biggest annual networking lunch for start-ups— was the ticket.

However, the day before the event, Jisung had broken up with you, and you had forgotten all about CODA, instead sleeping in after a whole night of crying. Later, after you woke up and realized what you had done, you found out that SM’s latest investment would be in Dream, a growing media company headed by none other than your new ex, Jisung. In twenty-four hours, he had both killed your dreams and your heart. And in due time, without proper funding, ITEM Tech would eventually fail, like many other promising but ill-fated start-ups.

And now? Jisung is living it up in your dream job while you’re groveling in the footsteps of your nightmarish excuse of a boss. Just touching a keyboard once filled you with so much joy, but now, you would rather smash it into bits before pressing a single key. Now you have to map out some stupid party for other start-ups. You’re a developer, not an event planner. You glare up at the ceiling, as if asking a higher power for an explanation for your crappy life. A moment later, your computer pings with a new email.

Like he’s a telepathic deity, Hyunjin has sent you a GIF of a baby llama waddling around a small pen, with text below that reads, “keep calm and llama on.” In spite of yourself, you laugh to yourself, and without thinking, you type in a response thanking him and ending in a winking emoji. Right after you send it, you fill up with regret. Was that inappropriate? The emoji? Too much? With an exasperated sigh, you stand up from your desk, shutting down your computer and heading over to the elevator, punching in buttons for the next floor. However, as soon as you open the door to the office of the one person who could probably talk some sense into you right now, you regret it. Afterall, he’s your part-time friend and full-time menace of a coworker.

“Fuck… don’t tease me like that when I’m not there,” Minho groans, before sighing wistfully into his phone. “I’ll be home soon.”

You silently gag, mentally slapping the shit out of yourself for walking in on a phone sex session, of all things. Minho hadn’t answered when you knocked on his door, so you had just assumed that he needed to be woken up from one of his notorious naps.

“I love you too. I’ll see you in a little bit.” Minho ends the call and turns around in his seat, happily humming to himself with a lovestruck expression on his face. He nearly falls out of his chair when he sees you hovering over him with a smirk on your face. “Jesus!”

“Seriously? Here? Now?”

“Shut the fuck up. I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Suuure.”

Minho rolls his eyes at your silly expression, unamused and crossing his arms. “Can I help you, Y/N?”

You rub one of your nails, thinking of how Hyunjin once complimented them. “You’re like my only friend.”

“I know.” He watches you collapse into one of the chairs in front of him. “But what happened to those Golden Bitches?”

“Golden Trio,” you correct, although Minho doesn’t miss the hint of a grin on your face at his intentional mistake. “And I’m done with them. Finally.”

You put your head down on Minho’s desk as he reaches into one of his desk drawers, pulling out a pack of Twizzlers and tossing them to you. “Talk.”

“It’s, um, kind of bad, though.”

“I’m listening.”

Everything comes spilling out of your mouth: brunch at The Terrace, your new unpaid party-planning gig, and of course… Hyunjin. Your explanation is much more censored than the real thing, of course, because there’s no way you’re going to talk about your whole mango expedition with a married man. That is a whole new level of breaking boundaries, and you’ve crossed enough to know.

“Well… that’s basically it.” You swallow nervously, and suddenly, your throat feels very dry. “Mark sucks, and I’m thirsting after my therapist slash dating coach.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Minho says gently, a color that you weren’t even sure existed for him in public. His teasing persona always overtakes the tender one exclusively reserved for his other half. “The whole Hyunjin thing is probably just temporary. You’re still adjusting to considering romance as a possibility again.”

“Okay.”

“The right person will come along. It’s long, and it’s hard, but that journey will be worth it.”

“Says you. You and your wife are literally perfect. I mean, college sweethearts? If your life was a music soundtrack, it would be one of those cheesy love playlists that annoying couples make together.”

Minho just chuckles. “We had our ups and downs. But yeah, we kind of are perfect. She is perfect.”

He softly smiles to himself, gazing at the beautiful portrait of his wife that’s framed on his desk. He’s in his own world now, and you pat his shoulder. “Thanks for the help, Minho. You should go home.”

As you exit the NCT headquarters, you can’t help but feel your heart squeeze even tighter in your chest. Witnessing such a wholesome moment should have given you hope, a glimpse of a future you could have. Instead, it reminded you of what you can’t have right now— who you can’t have.

You appreciate Minho’s efforts to make you feel better, but he just doesn’t know the full truth. Because your chat with him pushed up something very unpleasant that you’ve been avoiding for a while now. Your pink-loving, classic novel-reading, luxury-shopaholic dating coach is more than just the object of your explicit fantasies, all unbeknownst to him. You’ve started to love the person you become when you’re around him. You love how much more confident and happier you’ve become because of him. Hell, you have genuine feelings for him.

You are so fucked.

Spanning his entire career as a relationship therapist (and all of the other job titles; for God’s sake, he’s the Love Doctor), Hyunjin can’t really come up with any thorns in the rosebush. Sure, there have been a few snags, like that time his clients literally brought divorce papers to one of their meetings (he managed to convince them to take a romantic vacation to Bora Bora and bond more as a couple; it worked). Or when another client confessed to committing adultery with the family’s nanny halfway through a session (after persuading the wife not to murder her husband in the middle of his office, Hyunjin set them up with recovery counseling; that also worked). Life was predictable, but enjoyable. Just the way he likes it.

Every single day used to begin the exact same way. He woke up at exactly five-thirty, before doing his favorite low-impact yoga routine in his home gym. Hyunjin liked being up early enough to watch the sun rise from the balcony of his West Hollywood penthouse, while drinking a cup of loose leaf Darjeeling tea, of course. His post Sun Salutation breakfast consisted of two slices of whole wheat bread topped with two organic scrambled eggs and extra virgin olive oil. He’d shower and spend a while wandering his walk-in closet, deciding what killer outfit to wear for work, his third favorite place after South Korea and the Taj Mahal. And then he drove to SeoulSpark in Cami, his beloved baby pink Cadillac that he splurged on after getting on Forbes 30 Under 30.

Every single day used to end the exact same way. He’d leave work by six, after finishing up the last of his meetings. He’d browse on his MacBook for a nice recipe before cooking his dinner while jamming to Mariah on his Spotify Premium, and change the station to classical while eating. He took another shower, but taking more time to do his special avocado hair mask and full skin-care routine. Then Hyunjin liked to cozy up in his Versace bathrobe while catching up with the latest episode of Love Island and cuddling with his paw-dorable shih tzu, Princess Diana. Oh, and, he couldn’t unwind without kicking his feet back and downing a glass of pink champagne. And then he went to bed by eleven.

That was all before you, of course.

The day he met you, he was reminded of the sun. Yes, the way you roughly turned your chin to the side or rained down on him with your sharp words was more evocative of a thunderstorm. But then there was that dress, a pale yellow fluttering above your knees, and how your wide eyes had so expressively taken in your surroundings when you stepped into his office. The slightly awkward way you greeted him, when you harshly avoided his gaze when you were embarrassed. And the way you looked at him, your pretty lips pulled into a stubborn pout, but really, he could see the soft curiosity in your gaze. You were so mad at the world around you, all he wanted to do was take you onto his magic carpet and show you a new one.

He also really, really wanted to just rip that dress off your body and fuck you senseless. And when you started to eat that mango? He had to scramble to think of a list of unsexy things to avoid a boner right then and there. Chipped nails. Gonorrhea. Andrew Tate.

The following weeks weren’t any better, either. He felt like an inexperienced, horny teenager once again, lusting after the tiniest flash of skin. In your last meeting, Hyunjin had fixated on the tiny rip on your stocking that barely exposed the soft skin of your thigh. You hadn’t even noticed, but God, he was trying not to go crazy in his seat.

Usually, other people are the ones who are seduced by Hyunjin’s charming nature, but ever since you, the once calm, elegant, and poised Hyunjin has been prone to being seduced by irrelevant wardrobe malfunctions. And the absolutely inappropriate thoughts of you that have now flooded his brain are constantly floating around, disturbing him. Yesterday, he slept-in, so he had to skip his morning yoga and was nearly late to work. Later, he fell asleep while fisting himself under the covers, forgetting to turn on his mood lighting and 528 Hz nighttime music. And today was an even bigger disaster, because he’d zoned out during his marketing meeting, thinking of bending you over his desk instead of advertising SeoulSpark. Ever since you, none of his days have been the same. Tonight is no exception.

Hyunjin turns the steel knob, cranking up the heat for no reason at all. Maybe he needs to feel the burn of the scalding water on his skin, shocking him back into reality, or perhaps, he needs to hide from his sanity in the steam, too ashamed to look out and into the bathroom mirror.

The water pours down Hyunjin’s back as he steps under the steady stream, dousing himself and trying to forget about you. But it’s to no avail, because he feels his hand already moving down, roving over his Pilates-strengthened abs and slipping down to the one place that’s pleading for his attention.

Hyunjin tilts his head back in the bliss of succumbing to temptation, slightly leaning his cheek against his shoulder as he strokes his hardened length slowly. He sucks in a sharp breath as he squeezes himself, deftly curving his wrist for a more impactful angle. Hyunjin is no stranger to a good lover, but right now he’s resorting to touching himself with the familiarity that only he is entitled to. Although, he would love to teach you about more than just confidence, giving you lessons on how to pleasure him, watching you work like the sexy aficionado that he believes you to be.

In his mind, he isn’t in the privacy of his bathroom, jerking himself off. No, he’s in his office, lying down on his luxe handwoven rug with you on top of him. You’re completely exposed except for the place where your yellow frock is scrunched around your waist, because you were so eager to have each other that Hyunjin hadn’t even bothered with completely undressing you.

Hyunjin tightens his fingers around his cock and speeds up, pumping himself aggressively. He bites down on his lip and screws his eyes shut, as low, breathy moans escape him. He’s leaking already, flushed and throbbing under his palm. Hyunjin pushes a hand against the shower wall for support and whimpers at the thought of you riding him while slurping on that goddamn mango. He’s so delusional for you that you hadn’t even bothered with getting a knife to cut into the mango, instead holding it in your hand and biting into it while bouncing on his cock.

Hyunjin lets out a groan as he strokes himself even faster, and he feels his orgasm rapidly approaching but refrains from releasing. He doesn’t deserve to come, not yet. He imagines your legs spread and your tight walls around him, instead of his own fist. Your cheeks are a deep red now, as Hyunjin pounds up into you, claiming you and making you his own. The juice from the mango is dripping all over your gorgeous breasts, trailing down even further and mixing with your own arousal. Hyunjin wonders about how you would taste. Were you as sweet as that mango you had eaten so damn seductively in front of him? No. You probably tasted even better.

His soft moans have turned into harsh pants as Hyunjin’s hands begin to lose rhythm, unsteadily working his length. Hyunjin listens to your pretty sighs as you look down at him, pleasure and amusement contorting your features.

“You want me so bad, don’t you?”

“I do!” Hyunjin chokes out as a cry as the pressure rises in his core. He’s so, so close, the pearls of sweat rolling down his neck and becoming one with the water.

“Hyunjin…”

Hyunjin’s name slips out of your mouth as easily as he flips you over onto your back, fucking harshly into you. He anchors his hand to your waist, gripping tightly, as you gaze up at him through your half-lidded eyes. Your bare chests are pressed together in a sticky haze of both your sweat and the juice of the mango you have now abandoned for something more satiating. Spurred on by the fucked-out smile on your face, he brings his free hand to your lips and you obediently suck on his fingers, wishing it was his cock instead. But you’re still in control, directing him with your eyes and whispering sweet praises to him. And then you’re clenching around him, your body shuddering underneath Hyunjin’s as you reach the peak of your ecstasy.

“I need you to come for me, Hyunjin.”

Your final command makes Hyunjin convulse and tense, his back arching as he finally chases after his release. Hyunjin thrusts into his hand, overcome by the thought of you judging him while he comes. Hyunjin’s knees go weak as he strokes himself through his orgasm, violently spasming against the Carrara marble walls of his shower. His release shoots out in hot spurts, painting his trembling thighs and the walls a thick white.

Breathless, Hyunjin opens his eyes and washes off his shame, but there’s only so much that water and coconut body wash can do. The moment he prepares to step out of his steaming shower, Hyunjin feels anything but cleansed— his situation is quite the opposite. The unholy thoughts that he had touched himself to had done anything but subside, struggling behind the dam in his mind that contains his last shreds of dignity. As he opens the door leading to his bedroom, the shock of cold air conditioning against his damp skin is a harsh reminder of reality.

Hyunjin’s relationship with you is strictly limited to his office, the place where he did not get to fuck you in. Any discourse with sexual content is limited to your personal romantic endeavors that he has no role in whatsoever. You have zero idea about his filthy fantasies involving you, and see him merely as the person who would help you find happiness with someone else. Not him. He’s your therapist, and in clinical terms, you could be his patient.

The mirage of you standing in front of him disagrees, however.

“You’re technically not my therapist— more like my counselor.”

Hyunjin watches with wide eyes as you bound over to him. Smirking, you playfully toy with the edge of the towel wrapped around his waist.

“But I am feeling kind of sick, though, Dr. Hwang. I’m all hot and aching, just for you.”

“Go away! You can’t be here.” Hyunjin shakes his head, quickly walking over to his closet and getting into his silk batik pajamas. “I’m going crazy…”

Princess Diana nips at Hyunjin’s ankles, prodding him to go back to his normal self and snuggle with her while they watch reality TV.

“I just can’t right now, Diana,” Hyunjin exclaims exasperatedly. She gets the hint and slinks away, leaving Hyunjin alone in his bedroom.

He hadn’t even bothered with turning on the lights, the glimmering Los Angeles skyline past his expansive windows casting a pale glow in his room. If mindreading was a real thing, Hyunjin would be done for, because the thoughts that had transpired today would ruin him, shrivel up his reputation and business. If this went beyond the confines of his home, continuing to force itself into his daily life, he could lose everything. His job, his name, his purpose. Nevertheless, Hyunjin feels his hand sliding down once more, like a sinful memory of the past. It’s going to be another long night, and what happens tomorrow is variable. But Hyunjin knows one thing to be true.

He is so fucked.

«NEXT CHAPTER» · «GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME»

AUTHOR'S NOTE

That was the longest thing I've ever written for one piece. AND IT'S ONLY CHAPTER 1 LMFAO. Anyway, hope you liked it, loves! I'll be hiding under my blankets tonight and screaming about my first published smut scene EVER. Please leave your thoughts, I don’t mind if you leave a whole essay ;) -Dreamy

TAGLIST

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📢 ©jisungsdaydreamer 2023 | All rights reserved. I do not condone translations or transfers of my work onto other platforms such as Wattpad, AO3, etc. Tumblr is my only platform. Acts of plagiarism are strictly prohibited.

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nikethestatue · 8 months

Text

A Match Baked In Heaven

Chapter XII

The Moan

“I want buns of steel. But also, buns of cinnamon,” Elain Archeron muttered, as she pulled out a pan of cinnamon buns from the oven. It was a strange choice, but this was Feyre’s favourite treat, and Elain felt that she owed it to her sister on her birthday.

Elain was running late. But there was a lot to do.

Feyre had changed her mind at the last minute, and they weren’t going to a Moroccan restaurant anymore. Instead, the restaurant was catering, the party was at Feyre’s loft, and Elain was tasked with making desserts. And there were thirty people invited, though with Feyre’s friends, it was quite possible that many more would drop by.

Now, Elain was running behind. She had to make a cake too, because Feyre requested her cake, and not one from a bakery. Elain was pretty proud of the cake, though she had no idea how she was going to transport it and carry it, but she wasn’t concerned about the logistics right now.

“Piglet, you are being very rude,” she told her pug. Predictably, she received no response.

As she mixed icing sugar, lemon juice and double cream for the icing, she continued, “That’s fine. It’s entirely up to you if you want to play introvert today. However, don’t expect treats then. You can’t be a glum introvert and still want treats.”

To that, Piglet expanded a mournful moan.

“No,” Elain said. “I don’t even know if you’ll get your Advent Calendar treat today. Unless daddy wants to give it to you, don’t count on me.”

Piglet looked sadly at his calendar, sniffling and barking weakly.

In about ten minutes, he raised his head, but didn’t get up. But Elain knew why–because in the next moment, the doorbell rang.

God she was running really, really late!

Wiping her hands with a towel, Elain fluffed up her hair–she wasn’t even sure why she was doing that–and went to the door.

When she opened it she was faced with not one, not two, but three men.

Three giant men. They looked wild, and dangerous, and beautiful. Not the men of this age or this time. They seemed ancient and powerful, like the warriors of old.

Not to say that they were dressed in armour or anything.

In fact, all three were wearing identical black suits, which probably cost as much as a downpayment for a house, and white shirts, open to various lengths on their brown, muscular chests.

Elain whooshed out a breath.

Her lady parts did a funny squeezie-squeeze, especially at the sight of Azriel Night, whose dark golden skin contrasted gorgeously with the white shirt and the black tattoos that snaked from under the collar of his shirt.

“Gentlemen,” she said at last. “Please, come in.”

“Ready for us, beautiful?” Azriel smiled and winked at her.

“Yeah, all three of you…”

Initially, Azriel self-invited himself to be Elain’s date to the birthday party. That was followed by him telling her that he’d be bringing Rhysand as well, since Rhysand needed to be introduced to Feyre. But, apparently, Cassian was also ready to party, since he was standing right here, smirking and looming over everything and everyone.

“Brothers, let me introduce you properly,” Azriel announced, once they were inside. “Lady Elain Archeron, my future wife and the future mother of my children.”

“Ohmygod,” was all Elain managed to breathe, her eyes wide and her cheeks red.

Cassian chuckled under his breath.

“Az is mental. Don’t mind him,” Cassian waved his hand, as he shouldered his way in.

He was strikingly handsome in a rough, lumberjack-chic kind of a way. Big. At least 6”6. He was probably a Viking or something like that in the past life. A Fae General. A chieftain, who’d smear himself in paint and fight the enemies with all sorts of terrifying weapons. He looked mighty fine in his bespoke suit, but it seems like all these modern trappings were little more than a nuisance to him, and he’d be just as comfortable in some fighting leathers.

“Hi Elain!” he boomed, looking around and whistling softly. “Nice digs, Lady. I’ve seen castles that aren’t as fancy as this. Is it too late for me to become a matchmaker?”

Elain smiled and he pulled her in for a quick hug.

“You are my future sis-in-law apparently!”

“Oh god, Cassian, not you too!” she moaned.

“Step aside, Lothario,” Azriel hissed at him and Cassian laughed.

“I’d be worried too. He knows I am irresistible to the ladies,” he announced proudly.

“I am positive that Lady Elain can resist you.”

With that, the third man, a lithe, tall, slender, muscular specimen, with an aristocratic bearing, a bit of a posh sneer, and an impressively beautiful face, pushed past Cassian and then gently took Elain’s hand and brought it to his lips.

“Lady Elain Archeron. Allow me to introduce myself. Rhysand Darling.”

“Just Elain,” she told him, but curtsied nevertheless, adding, “Lord Darling.”

He smiled. He reeked of elegance and good breeding.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting the woman who’s bewitched my surly brother.”

“I am not surly,” Azriel threw with a frown.

Elain reached for him and then took Azriel’s hand in hers.

“He is alright,” she approved, smiling at him. “He’s grown on me.”

“I believe you know my mother and my sister,” Rhysand commented, as he clasped his hands behind his back and circled the formal living room and the parlour, admiring the art on the walls.

“Kandinsky,” he muttered to himself.

“I do,” Elain confirmed. “Lady Selene and the Duchess are members of the Women’s Institute, as are my sisters and I.”

“Wait, what?” Cassian gaped at the two of them. “You know each other? You know Selene?”

“We circulate in the same places,” Elain said vaguely.

Scowling, Azriel growled, “Yeah, with the Queen, right?”

“Her Majesty was a member of the Institute as well. The Sandringham Chapter to be precise,”

“You met the Queen?” Cassian gawked at her like she suddenly started juggling fire balls.

“Elain is a Lady,” Azriel said with a sigh, looking somehow depressed about it.

Elain held his hand in hers and gently rubbed her thumb over his pulse. When Azriel looked at her, she was smiling at him and that smile managed to calm him down somehow. Like Elain didn’t care about the difference in their upbringing, and she liked him for…him.

So Azriel smiled back at her and then whispered, “you aren’t even ready yet.”

“I’ve been baking.”

Azriel smiled excitedly and said, “I can’t wait to eat it! You know, matchy….Ours, is a match baked in heaven.”

“You are so ridiculous, I love it!” Elain stared at him, but then couldn’t help but laugh.

“I am not ridiculous! I am right,” he argued.

“Where is the little beastie with the bows?” Cassian looked around, seeking out Piglet.

Azriel frowned and also twisted his head this way and that way.

“Where is little matey?”

Elain pursed her lips and then pointed to the sofa in the family room.

“There he is. Being dramatic.”

And after a pause, added, “and RUDE! We have guests, and you are being absolutely rude!”

Azriel rushed to the pug.

Piglet was still dressed in his onesie, laying on the sofa arm, unmoving.

Depressed Piglet

“Pinky, my lovie, what’s wrong?” Azriel cooed, stroking the pug’s back.

Piglet didn’t move and just lay there listlessly, his little short legs draped over the sofa arm. Azriel nosed into his back and whispered, “what’s wrong? Daddy is home. I’ll take care of my boy.” He then picked Piglet up and cradled him to his chest.

“He is depressed,” Elain threw, while Rhysand watched Azriel fuss over the dog with amusement.

“Depressed?!?!” Azriel gasped. “Why? What made him depressed?”

Elain crossed her arms on her chest, and said, her voice laced with disappointment.

“We went to the vet today: to get Piglet’s longevity shots. It was a substitute vet–not his usual one–so he gave him a check up too.”

“Is he okay?” Azriel exclaimed in fright. “Is he sick?!”

Rhysand snorted a laugh at Azriel’s reaction. Azriel didn’t even look at him, while flipping him the bird.

“Whoa, is the doggo okay?” Cassian also asked, worried.

“He is fine. But the vet said that he is,” she took a piece of paper off the counter, and read out loud, “mildly anxious, highly spirited, overweight, overall well-adjusted, but with an extreme case of separation anxiety.”

As she repeated the diagnosis, Piglet released a tragic howl, before burrowing into Azriel’s neck.

“And he’s been like this ever since we came back.”

Azriel rocked Piglet back and forth in his embrace, kissing the top of his head.

“Don’t listen to the stupid vet. You aren’t overweight. You are just plump. And that’s okay. You are built for feed, not speed.”

Rhys laughed again, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the scene.

“And it’s okay to have separation anxiety. I am anxious every time I am separated from Ellie. And from you.”

“What exactly are longevity shots?” Rhys asked, cocking his head.

“They are illegal!” Elain announced proudly.

“Illegal?”

“Yes. They are stem cell shots. Not legal here. But I am not having my dog die–ever. So he gets his longevity shots every six months.”

“Must be a pricey enterprise?”

“It is. Three thousand a pop. And I don’t care. It’s worth it.”

“Worth it,” Azriel agreed, and then gently pulled Piglet away from his neck and looked into his big, sad eyes.

“Baby boy, do you want to go to a party?” he asked. “Do you want to be the star? You'll wear the nicest outfit and you’ll have so much fun there. Everyone will be loving on you. What do you say?”

Piglet sniffled, clearly needing more encouragement.

“There will be snacks,” Cassian added.

“Yes. And cake. And maybe chicken nuggies! They are your faves!”

“He likes chicken nuggets?” Rhys asked, chuckling.

“They are chicken meatballs, but we call them ‘chicken nuggies’,” Azriel explained.

And then, he started signing. And dancing. With Piglet dangling in his hands, Azriel sang to the tune of Jose Feliciano’s ‘Feliz Navidad’:

Please feed the dog

I am so hungry

I don’t wanna starve!

I want a bucket of chicken nuggies!

And a slice of meatloaf

Everyone stared at him, slack-jawed.

“Jesus Mary and Joseph,” Rhys whispered in horrified awe. “Do we need an intervention?”

“Don’t get in between a man and his dog,” Cassian warned.

The dog meanwhile, bobbed his head to the song, finally coming to, and returning to his normal self.

“Did he get snacks today?” Azriel asked Elain. “He looks a little thin.”

“Yeah, he lost 5 kilos because he didn’t have snacks today,” she threw tartly, still displeased with Piglet’s attitude and behaviour.

“Okay, can we at least do the Advent Calendar?” Azriel pleaded, while Piglet slipped from his hands and then trotted happily to the huntboard and got on his hind leg, waiting for his daily treat.

“Oh, really? Now he is ready?” Elain asked dryly, staring Piglet down, who turned away from her and towards a much safer Azriel. And he even sweetened the deal with a smile, grinning at his dad, and showing a full row of his tiny little crooked teeth.

“He is ready!” Azriel announced excitedly, and then there was a whole argument between him and Cassian over who is going to break the slat and take out the treat. Cassian won, because he declared that he ‘never gets to do it, but Azriel gets to do it all the time!’ With that, he broke the seal, took out a small chewable treat shaped like a bone and broke it in half, before Azriel could stop him.

“Oh no!”

“What?” Cassian asked, alarmed, while Piglet crunched on half the snack.

“You don’t understand…it’s dog maths,”

“What?”

With a deep sigh, Azriel explained, “If you break a treat into two, that actually means zero treats. Or, for example, when dinner is at 7 pm, but you serve dinner at 7:02 pm, that means that you are two hours late. Though if you serve dinner at 6 pm, you are also two hours late.

“Anything that is human food is also dog food, but dog food is only dog food. In addition, human food is not counted towards food or snacks, therefore, it could be consumed in unlimited amounts.”

Rhys was shaking with laughter, while Cassian was clearly doing some complex calculations in his head, as he listened to Azriel. He fed Piglet the second part of the treat, and then confirmed, “So this means he did not receive a treat at all?”

“Exactly. A broken treat does not count as a treat.”

“I am adopting dog maths for all my maths,” Rhys decided right then and there.

Elain was watching the brouhaha with a shake of her head, before she asked, “May I count on you three, gentlemen, to undress him, put this tie on him, and then put his coat on.”

She handed Azriel a brown chequered tie and a Burberry jacket for the dog, but he in turn handed it to Cassian and said, “I am going to go help my girl out.”

It’s not that Elain needed help exactly, but she didn’t mind it either. Cassian looked at the dog attire uncertainly, gnawing on his lip, and then told Rhys ‘you are helping’.

“He likes to escape,” Azriel offered helpfully, as he ran after Elain up the stairs.

The moment the other two men were out of sight, he lifted her in his arms and pressed his face into her neck, inhaling deeply.

“I’ve missed my girl,” he murmured, dragging his nose over her jawline, up her cheek, kissing her softly and slowly.

“Azriel,” she moaned into his hair, grabbing the back of his neck.

“Let’s fuck off and not go to the party, send Cass, Rhys and pug, and stay in and fuck?” he proposed, hope shining in his eyes.

She laughed softly and said, “I think my sister might be a bit affronted if I didn’t attend her 25th birthday so I could stay home and fuck, as you put it.”

“Who, Fey? Fey wouldn’t care!” he blew his cheeks, “she is our shipper!”

“What?”

“She ships us hard. Wants us to be together!”

“Is this your dark romance lingo?”

“You should join the dark romance revolution,” he suggested. “You can join our Book Club,”

“Wait, you have a book club?”

“Yes, we do. But shit, you can’t! No girls allowed,” he shrugged apologetically.

“You have an all-men Book Club where you read dark romances?” she asked incredulously.

“Yeah. We are not sexist or anything. We read romances and smut.”

“You just said that no girls are allowed in your Book Club. That’s the definition of ‘sexist’.”

He frowned, thinking, while he deposited her on the floor in their bedroom, and plopped down on the bed himself.

“Oh yeah. Oh, well, a little sexist. But not super sexist.”

“Oh, well, phew. As long as you aren’t super sexist!”

Rolling on his side, and propping his head, he gave her a heated, lascivious look and said,

“Come on, strip, baby. Show me what you are wearing!”

“Since when did our relationship include stripping?” she pondered, as she disappeared in the walk-in closet.

“Not yet, but it should include plenty of stripping,” he decided. “I am all stripping-ready and if you’d like me to, I can strip right now.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Elain didn’t seem surprised.

Downstairs, it seemed that the two humans lost control of the situation pretty quickly. There was banging, suspicious crashing, curses and little claws clacking frantically on the floor. Cries of ‘hold him!’ and ‘shit’ and ‘why is he so fast’ peppered the commotion.

Azriel was smiling, listening to the chaos. He did warn them.

“This? Or this?”

When he glanced at Elain, his jaw dropped. Everything was forgotten.

If the house was on fire, he wouldn't have cared.

Because his naughty Elain came out, holding two hangers in her hands, and wearing nothing but a tiny, lacy, baby blue lingerie set. It hugged her generous form very deliciously and was basically see-through, which made Azriel swallow audibly. He asked for stripping and well, here they were. He could clearly see her full breasts and the pink nipples beneath the gossamer-thin material. And the way her knickers wrapped around the round hips just so…the firm, but ample thighs…

“Nu!” she pressed.

“What?” he asked, looking dazed.

At that point though, Piglet tore through the bedroom. He looked a proper state. Half of his onesie was hanging off his body, and he zoomed wildly around the bedroom, diving under the bed, before emerging and repeating his frantic circle.

From downstairs, they heard Rhys’s disgruntled holler, “What is this dog on?! What’s in the longevity shots? Cocaine?! I bet it’s coke!”

Elain stood there, almost naked, laughing, while Azriel devoured her with his eyes.

Piglet stopped his zooming and gave the situation an assessing gaze, looking whether any serial killers needed sorting out. Having not found any, he gave everyone a victorious bark and then bounded out the bedroom and down the stairs.

“Hold him on the right!” Cassian shouted.

“He is too fast!” Rhys screamed back, “how’s he so fast when he only has three legs!”

“Bribe him with a strawberry or a piece of cheese!” Azriel yelled in turn, not taking his eyes off Elain.

She grumbled, “how many men over 6”5 does it take to dress a three-legged pug?”

Azriel sat up on the bed and whispered, “Come here, baby.”

“Why do I feel like if I do, then we might not be leaving here at all?”

“You might be correct, but maybe, just maybe, if I touch some of these fleshy soft bits,”

“WHAT? Fleshy soft bits??” she gasped incredulously, while Azriel’s very long arm wrapped around her hips and he pushed her closer.

“Such,” he kissed her, in fact, soft belly, “fine,” another kiss right below her breast, “fleshy,” and his lips landed on the side of her waist, where it curved sensually and where he licked a path down to her hip, “soft,” and he lightly bit the spot just above the lacy band of her underwear, “bits,” and he inhaled so hard with his face against the mound of her sex that a satisfied, raw groan of pleasure reverberated deep within his chest.

Elain almost fainted, when suddenly, he wrapped his mouth over the lips of her pussy, biting them gently through the material of the underwear.

“My god,” she gasped, not knowing whether to push him away, or to pull his face closer and into her slit.

He dragged his tongue against the seam of her folds, and muttered hoarsely, his voice rough and harsher than usual, “do you know how much I’ve dreamt about eating your pussy? How much I want to watch you coming on my tongue?”

“My god, Azriel,” Elain managed to growl out, while he filled his huge palms with the flesh of her round ass cheeks. His thumbs stroked her skin, while he kissed her thighs, around her belly button, before gladly sinking his teeth into her breast and biting her nipple.

“I will be your god, my beautiful Elain,” he promised. “Once I make you come, you’ll understand the definition of ‘my god’.”

“So confident.”

“Oh I am.”

He pulled back a bit, and told her, “Gotta confess. A nice bare pink pussy is my kryptonite.”

“I suppose I fit the bill then?”

“You do. You always do.”

She picked up the two dresses that she had dropped on the floor and showed them to him again.

One was a wintry, knit dress, which no doubt, would look mighty fine wrapped over her form. The other, was a much more formal dress, in some ways sculptural, made of some type of heavy satin. It was cream, tailored and spectacular.

“This is more practical,” Elain said, lifting the knit dress. “I can wear it with tall boots and I think it would look nice,”

“No,” he said flatly.

“No?”

“You aren’t going to look ‘nice’. You’ll look stunning. ‘Nice’ is not for Elain Archeron. It’s not for my girl.”

She bit her lip adorably, considering his words, while he was watching her like a hungry hound.

“I do have these shoes that I’ve been dying to wear, but they are open and it’s December.”

“Bring the shoes,” he ordered simply. “You’ll put them on there.”

“Okay,” she agreed, though it didn’t seem like she needed a lot of encouragement.

…Downstairs, Cassian had Piglet in some kind of MMA headlock, while Rhysand was attempting to put the jacket on the pug.

Small wins: they succeeded in taking the onesie off. And Piglet had a tie around his neck, even if it was all skewed.

The jacket was proving to be a challenge.

“You two seriously cannot be trusted with a dog,” Azriel lamented, watching the pathetic display.

“Fuck, Elain,” Cassian gasped. “You look…wow. You look really beautiful.”

Azriel immediately wrapped a possessive, proprietary arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him.

“Thank you, Cassian,” Elain smiled and then snapped her fingers.

With frightening ease, Piglet broke out of Cassian’s hold, showing that he was just indulging them and that they never stood a chance. He also grabbed the jacket out of Rhys’s hands and trotted to Elain, handing it to her.

“Are you going to be a good boy tonight?” she asked, as she dressed him in about 47 seconds. “It’s Aunt Fey’s birthday and you have to be nice to her. She’ll want to give you hugs,” at that Piglet sighed, “and you have to give her hugs.”

Piglet led the charge, and when he saw Dev and Dev asked to ‘shake’, he shook with him. Azriel was carrying the birthday cake, internally freaking out. That was a heavy responsibility. Rhysand was charged with carrying the cinnamon buns and the pastries. Somehow, Cassian ended up without a task, however, once they piled into the car, he was responsible for holding Piglet in his lap. Elain carried and touched nothing other than her purse.

“Camden then?” Dev confirmed with Elain.

“Yes,” Elain nodded, sandwiched between Azriel and Rhysand, and feeling a bit overwhelmed by the amount of testosterone in the car. The most amorous sensations came from Azriel’s side, whose scent she wanted to drown in. The heat of body, the muscular arm that pressed into hers, the very sight of his gorgeous throat which she wanted to kiss and lick and bite had her squirming in her seat, pressing her thighs together. Azriel gave her a side glance and smirked.

“You feeling okay, baby?” he asked lightly.

“Oh, just splendid!” she assured him tartly.

“You sure? You seem a bit squirmy there,”

“Oh, quite positive. Just setting in,” she offered him a fake smile.

“Anything I can do to help you? Settle in, that is?”

“Doing okay on my own,”

“It would seem so. Perhaps you’ve been doing it on your own for a bit too long…and might require a helping hand after all?”

Cassian squinted at them, stroking Piglet’s head, looking absolutely and hysterically ridiculous holding a dressed up pug. Elain kept averting her eyes from the two of them, because she knew that she was about to burst into laughter.

“Is this some kind of sex talk?” Cassian asked suspiciously.

Rhys smiled a brief smile, and it occurred to Elain that nothing much escaped this man.

“Ellie doesn’t do sex talks,” Azriel told him.

“Hmmm…sounds like sex talk,” Cassian insisted. “Will there be girls at this party?”

“Quite a few,” Elain nodded.

“Okay, maybe I’ll hook up with someone.”

“You are not going there to hook up!” Rhys warned him.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not an American frat party where you are going to be shagging someone in an empty bedroom. We are going to a birthday party. And we weren’t even invited!”

“I was invited,” Azriel argued.

“Technically, you weren’t,” Rhys argued. “You are going as Elain’s date.”

“Oh.”

“Then what am I?” Cassian wondered.

“Piglet’s date,” Elain joked. “Listen, it’s fine. You were all technically invited. Feyre wanted to meet everyone. She is quite taken with Azriel already. I am sure you’ll impress her as well. Now, impressing my older sister Nesta might be a little more difficult.”

“Oh yeah?” Cassian instantly leaned forward, as if the challenge of impressing Nesta intrigued him.

“Nesta is…complicated,” was all Elain said.

“Is she as beautiful as you?” Cassian queried.

Elain got all adorably pink and flustered and Azriel gave his brother an unimpressed look.

“Nesta is very attractive,” Azriel growled, stroking the side of Elain’s neck with his thumb. “But no one is as beautiful as Elain.”

Elain lit up like a Christmas tree at his words, blushing and smiling and trying to hide, but he only kissed her temple and held her closer.

When Rhysand heard ‘Camden’ he did not expect this. He wasn’t exactly a Camden type of a person, so he wondered if he’d stick out like a sore thumb in the Camden crowd. He was an Old Etonian. But when they arrived, he breathed a sigh of relief and reminded himself that the Archerons weren’t exactly poor. They stopped next to a sprawling refurbished industrial building. It was old London brick–dark and dirtied with age, which gave it character. There were a couple of huge windows, now brightly lit up, and behind the house was a canal and a little dock. This was nice.

Cassian got out first, and Piglet confidently trotted to the door and barked, announcing his arrival. Azriel was last, holding on that cake like his life depended on it. Rhysand smiled. Azriel was such a good boyfriend. Who would’ve thought? But he turned out to be the exemplary boyfriend, who was utterly obsessed with Elain. To an unhealthy degree, in Rhys’s opinion. Azriel already marked his body permanently with all things Elain. If this didn’t go well and ended in a way that Azriel wasn’t expecting, well…it would get messy. Hearts would be broken. Dreams would be shattered. Tattoos would have to be removed or covered up…

The door opened and a tall, very slim woman stood in front of them. That she was Elain’s sister was obvious. But her face was sharper, the eyes a steely grey-blue, long golden brown hair tied into a no-nonsense chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a simple pearl-grey dress, well-tailored, but without frills, and a huge diamond and emerald brooch, a la the late Queen.

For a moment, she just stood there, assessing them all with an unflinching gaze.

“Are you Nesta?” Cassian suddenly stepped forward, his attention wholly on the willowy, busty beauty in front of him.

“You are late,” she said instead, ignoring him.

“We aren’t!” Elain argued. “The party doesn’t start until six and we have plenty of time to prepare.”

Cassian wasn’t deterred and announced, “I am Cassian!”

“Congratulations,” Nesta said. Then, she asked Elain, “What is this? A reverse harem?”

Before the confused Elain could answer, Cassian asked excitedly,

“Oh, a fellow reverse harem lover?! Very nice. What’s your favourite book?”

Nesta gave him a puzzled, but intrigued look, while he continued, undeterred,

“Mine is “The Kings’ Wife’! What’s yours?”

“‘Forget-Me-Not Bombshell’,” she answered flatly, surprising everyone. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Behind Nesta, they heard an excited voice, and an exclamation, “Elain, this cake!!! Oh my goddess! It’s crazy beautiful!! Piggy! Come…Come! Give me hugs! Come to me, my good boy.”

Piglet muscled his way between the sea of legs, and hopped towards the birthday girl, being a good boy, just like he promised.

She sat on the floor and accepted him in her arms, taking off his coat.

“Welcome everyone!” she said loudly.

“Thank you for having us,” Rhys said ahead of everyone. He wasn’t sure why.

And then, her eyes landed on him.

Feyre. What a name.

A gently lovely girl, with blue eyes and brown hair, and a scattering of visible freckles all over her nose and cheeks. Not a beauty like Elain. Not as striking as Nesta. And yet…

“I’ve heard your voice,” she suddenly said, her luminous eyes firmly planted on Rhys’s face.

“Pardon?” he stuttered.

“It was like you called me,” she continued, “and I heard you. Your voice. Across the hills, calling me. I think it was in a dream,” she laughed nervously. “But your voice was very distinctive.”

“Well, then I am glad that I am the man of your dreams. Literally.”

At that, Feyre laughed, but it was nervous, as if there was a grain of truth in his voice.

Rhys continued,

“Happy birthday, Feyre darling.”

She got up from the floor, still holding the pug. Piglet looked between the two of them with a smug look on his squished face. Like he knew something they didn’t.

“Are you Rhysand?” she asked shyly.

“I am Rhysand,” he confirmed. “You’ve heard of me?”

“I have. Apparently, I’ve also heard you. Welcome.”

Like her sisters, Feyre also wore a plain dress, of deep dark blue velvet. It was simple, but form-fitting, exposing her elegant neck. She didn’t wear any jewellery and at that, Rhys smirked and reached into his jacket pocket. He stepped closer to the birthday girl, ignoring all the curious stares from his brothers and her sisters, and then took out a flat black box and handed it to her.

“For you.”

Feyre blushed prettily and looked up at him from under her long lashes.

“A gift? For me?” she repeated, taking the box from him.

“A pretty gift for a pretty girl,” he smiled, smoothly opening the lid and suddenly taking out a…crown. A diadem.

Nesta stared at the gift, and so did Cassian, and even Azriel, with complete astonishment.

It was a delicate band of white gold, shaped like a branch, studded in places with tiny diamonds and lapis lazuli.

“A crown for the lady.”

Rhys smiled at Feyre, whose eyes were as big as saucers and then gently placed the diadem upon her head, effectively crowning her.

“Well, now it’s perfect.”

“I…my…I can’t…” Feyre began to babble frantically, but Rhys only offered an indulgent smile and said, “of course you can. Now, did you know that Piglet loves me and allowed me to dress him?” he lied.

“Oh no way! Really?!” she exclaimed, totally falling for his bullshit. “He could be so standoffish. And if he wants to zoom…well, then you can’t even catch him!”

“No?! You don’t say?” Rhys pretended to be shocked, while offering her his arm.

She took it easily, still clutching Piglet to her, her eyes never leaving Rhys’s face.

“May I tell you something?” she requested.

“Well, of course! What is it?”

“I think that you are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” she gushed. “And I thought that Azriel was handsome,”

“Well, he is another pretty face for sure. But not as pretty as mine,” Rhys winked at her, and they disappeared inside the huge loft, joking and laughing.

“Did he just give her a tiara?” Nesta questioned in disbelief.

“Yeah…who needs soup when you can just get a tiara,” Elain agreed.

Turning abruptly to Cassian, Nesta said, “Help me please.”

“With pleasure,” he grinned.

“I’ll let Elain take her coat off, but please bring the cake into the kitchen,” Nesta commanded, picking up the boxes with buns and pastries, while Cassian lifted the cake.

“Be careful with your bear paws,” she warned him sternly.

“Well, don’t stress me out!” he threw back, and they also disappeared inside the cavernous house, sniping and bickering playfully.

“Well, I don’t know what just happened there,” Azriel twirled his finger in the direction of his brothers, “but something did.”

Feyre’s place was wonderful, though very different from Elain’s. The floors were dark, old wide planks, the walls–exposed brick, shiplap, stucco, there were beams above, and soaring ceilings, impressive windows and all sorts of interesting industrial touches.

“I like our house better,” Azriel decided easily, after he looked around.

Elain smiled at his bluntness, finally taking off her coat. She sat on the arm of the sofa, and unzipped her boots. They were in a small sitting room, where Feyre usually watched TV. Just behind the wall, they heard laughter, clinking of glasses, and the arrival of more guests. Excited compliments of ‘Feyre, look at your tiara!’ ‘Fey are you wearing a crown?!’ ‘Feyre, you are a proper high noble lady’, ‘Should we call you Lady Feyre?’ and so on. They also heard Piglet squealing and galloping around, yelling wawabawa akwakwaka which was his usual call for snacks. Since he was ‘depressed’ earlier today, his snack consumption was quite low compared to his daily snack load.

It was only when Elain turned her head that she gasped and recoiled.

Because Azriel…

He was…

Well…

He was on one knee in front of her.

“Hi,” he smiled at her, seeing her shocked face.

“What…what are you…ohmygod…what are you doing?!”

She was literally hyperventilating.

Clutching the front of her dress, she was gasping like a fish, her face flushed.

“Elain, will you,” he began asking solemnly,

“YES!” she cried out, eyes wild. “Yes,”

“Give me your pretty foot,” he continued nonchalantly, smirking to himself.

“Wait, what?”

“Your foot, pretty girl,” he extended his hand out.

“You don’t want to…” her voice faded into a whisper.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I am sure,” she hissed.

“So, you don’t want me to ask you to marry you?” he confirmed, while he took her foot and then pulled out her fancy high-heeled open toe pumps from the bag, and slid one on.

“No!” she shouted.

“No need to yell, beautiful,” he told her, working on the complex tie and clasp of the shoe.

On his knees

“I am not yelling,” she pouted.

“So you didn’t get excited when you saw me on one knee?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think that maybe, just maybe I’ll pull a ring out?”

“No!”

“Hmmm. You seem a bit upset, sweetheart.”

“I am not upset,” she folded her arms on her chest, as she bit her lip aggressively, trying to stifle the tears that threatened to fall.

“So you don’t want to marry me?” he pressed.

“No!” she repeated yet again.

“Hmmm,” he gave another annoying hum, and then took her left hand and squeezed her ring finger, before bringing it to his lips and kissing it. “And you don’t want a big diamond ring on this pretty little finger of yours?”

“No!”

“Okay, I am a little sad, as I was planning to stop by Cartier, but if you aren’t interested,”

“You are not going to do it!” she argued petulantly.

He shrugged, “who knows…But seeing as you aren’t interested anyway,”

Quickly she amended, “I am not not interested…”

“Oh no? Because I did think that you looked a bit devastated when you didn’t find me proposing.”

“I am not devastated. I was just surprised,” Elain insisted stubbornly.

He tied her second shoe and then bent to kiss her ankle.

“And if I did, propose that is, what would my Cinderella say to her Prince?”

He wrapped his big, warm hands over her bare legs, rubbing the backs of her knees slowly, as he waited for her answer.

“I don’t know! Can I say ‘yes’ after knowing you for 2 months?”

“You can say ‘yes’ after knowing me for two hours,”

“You called me a cow, and a prissy bird or something like that in the first two hours of our meeting,” she glowered at him.

“You implied that I couldn’t get it up,” he reminded her quickly.

“Ergh, I didn’t mean it,”

“Because I can certainly demonstrate–me getting it up pretty well,” he offered.

“So you keep saying.”

“And you keep denying me the opportunity,” he scolded, before kissing her hand again. “Look at me,” he ordered, and then lifted her chin, so their eyes met. “The truth is, at the end of the day, you are the one person I want to come home to. You are the only person who I want to tell about my day. You are the one who I want to share my happiness with, my sandnes, my frustrations. So, I’ll ask you, Elain Archeron. And you better say yes. Because there is no getting rid of me.”

Elain wiped her tears with her first. She didn’t even know why she was crying. Probably because she loved him. And the thought of him not asking her to be with him forever did in fact, devastate her.

“Why are you crying?” he asked gently.

“I dunno,” she admitted, wiping her tears again.

“You don’t have to cry. I am yours. I am.”

“You don’t have anyone else?”

“Nah…” then he stopped and looked at her guiltily, adding, “Well, I do…” he paused mysteriously and Elain gasped in silent horror.

“You do?!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah…”

“Who is she?”

“Oh, it’s a he,” he said immediately, grinning at her. “He is furry, likes snacks a lot, has three legs, snores and zooms,”

Through her tears, Elain smiled and then pushed him.

“Are you just going to traumatise me for the rest of the night?” she demanded, finally getting up.

“Do you like me on my knees in front of you, Miss Archeron?”

“That’s the least you can do for putting me through all this nonsense,” she looked down at her legs, her sexy shoes, and sighed.

“You are gorgeous. A girl of my dreams,”

“Apparently, that’s Rhys–he is in Feyre’s dreams,” Elain said dryly.

“Yeah, he is the girl of her dreams,” Azriel nodded and then rose up, while Elain laughed.

Cassian sat in an armchair, observing the revelry in front of him. He swirled his whiskey lazily around the tumbler, feeling mellow. He wasn’t exactly drunk, but he was under the influence for sure. It was a good feeling. The party-loving pug had arrived about fifteen minutes ago, definitely also under the influence of something, because he yawned widely and then raised his front paws, asking Cassian to pick him up. It looked like Piglet had decided that Cassian could join his secret and exclusive pug-pack and Cassian was only too happy to oblige. Now, Piglet was snoring blissfully, his head resting on Cassian’s thigh. Taking his pug-protector duties very seriously, Cassian scowled at anyone who attempted to disturb the sleeping pup, and considering his size and general appearance, no one dared to contradict him.

“Hey Nes,” he called out. “Come sit with me.”

Nesta, who was walking by, gave him her typical icy look and snapped, “Don’t call me that.”

“What? Nes?” he smiled playfully. “Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”

He patted the seat next to him. It would be a snuggly fit for the two of them, since he took up so much space.

“What do you want?” she demanded, but he noticed that she didn’t exactly walk away.

“Come, sit with me. I’ll tell you a story.”

“I don’t want stories,”

“Sure you do, my prickly rose.”

“You are overly familiar, Mr. Night,” Nesta sipped her white wine, but Cassian reached out and held out his massive hand to her. And Nesta…Nesta…took it. He pulled her to him gently and she stepped closer, before he wrapped his arm around her waist and to her utter dismay, placed her next to him. Piglet moved onto his side, but didn’t wake up.

“The little beastie is tired,” Cassian murmured, his expression soft.

“What do you want, Mr. Night?” she tried again.

“You remind me of Elain,” he noted simply. “She is mad formal as well.”

��I don’t know you at all!”

“You can find out more. Whatever you want.”

“What do you do?” Nesta asked, squirming next to his massive, muscular body. God he was handsome. Azriel was handsome, hands down maybe the most handsome one out of the three–and that was saying something. Rhysand–not her type, but undeniably beautiful. But this one–objectively, he was probably the least classically handsome, yet to Nesta, he was simply stunning. Everything she didn’t know she liked he possessed. This size of his, the muscles, the strong features, the jet black silky hair tied into a haphazard bun.

“I am a sports agent,” he answered. “What about you?”

“A barrister.”

“I should’ve guessed. Here is what I think, Miss Archeron,”

“What?”

“You are a very successful, very beautiful, very lonely and very misunderstood woman,”

Nesta jolted in her place, her pale face colouring angrily, her brows knitting together at the audacity of his words. His expression remained calm, almost placid, though, unlike Azriel, this wasn’t a placid man. Undeterred he continued, “And I am guessing that you are knocking on 30 pretty soon, and you aren’t very happy with where you are in life. It should’ve been different, right?”

She attempted to get up, but he held her down, and tsked,

“Before you storm away, let me tell you something,”

“Leave me the hell alone!” she snarled. “You uncouth, rude bastard,”

He chuckled.

“Uncouth, huh? Cute. The Archeron girls are adorable. Now, look at them,” he jerked his head towards the crowd. Reluctantly, Nesta followed his gaze, and watched Elain and Azriel seated next to each other on top of the radiator cover, eating what looked like ice cream. Well, he was holding the bowl, but he was feeding Elain, who was licking the spoon, before he dunked it back into the ice cream, and took a swipe himself. She rested her head on his shoulder, both of her hands wrapped securely around his upper arm, holding onto him like she couldn’t let go.

It struck Nesta then–how relaxed Elain looked. Elain was always a little bit tense, unless she was with Piglet. She was especially tense around Eris, always worrying about his opinion, always desperate to please him, always seeking his approval, or a rare compliment. Elain worried about her figure, having been told by their mother that she was chubby and that she’d never get married, because men wanted a slender wife. Elain was insecure, old-fashioned, but bold and entrepreneurial, which made for a confusing combination. But never did Nesta observe Elain looking so…content. Happy. At ease. She held on to that big, tattooed, striking man and only had her eyes for him. It didn’t look like the rest of the world existed for her, because he was the centre of it.

“She is in love,” Nesta breathed, the realisation slamming into her like a hammer.

Azriel was in love, for a long time now, and of that she was sure. But Elain? Elain had fallen too.

Turning abruptly to Cassian, she found him with his hands clasped behind his head, looking mighty satisfied, with a proud smirk on his lips.

“What are you so happy about?” she demanded.

He tsked and said, “I set them up.”

“What are you on about?”

“Without me, they wouldn’t have met! I was the one who contacted her. I was the one who dragged him to meet with her. I was the matchmaker. And look how well I matched them. Now, obviously, this extends to Feyre and Rhys now. If it weren’t for me, they wouldn’t have met either,”

“Hold your horses with them! They just met tonight,”

“And yet he crowned her like she was his lady,” Cassian reminded her.

“Which was weird,”

“Rhys likes big gestures,”

“Alright, fine, what do you want? To quit your job as a sports agent and work with Elain as a Junior Matchmaker?”

At that, Cassian laughed, and woke up Piglet. The dog stretched, yawned and then rolled over and quickly located his ma and dad in the crowd. With a happy yip, he jumped off the chair and ran over to them.

Nesta turned away from Cassian, watching Azriel scoop some ice cream into a soup bowl and let Piglet slurp it all with messy gusto. Nesta knew how much Piglet loved a pup cup, and this was a pup cup on steroids. Elain and Azriel cooed and laughed over their dog, holding hands, watching him, commenting something to each other, and Nesta was struck by another revelation–they were a family. Somewhere along the road, somehow, the three of them formed a family of their own. And Elain was no longer just an Archeron. For almost thirty years, Nesta had her two sisters, and the three Archeron sisters were an unshakable, even somewhat notorious unit. They were regal and beautiful and available and wealthy. They were the Three Sisters. And now…She glanced at Elain again, who was back on the radiator cover, seated with her legs crossed and placed on Azriel’s lap, who held them tightly. Whatever he was saying, was making Elain laugh loudly, her head thrown back. The grouping of empty glasses near her probably played a role as well. But it stung Nesta somewhere deep in her chest. Her beloved sister was no longer hers. Her beloved sister was now beloved by someone else. Elain’s light and softness were well and truly melding with the untamed intensity of Azriel Night.

“The only one I want to matchmake for, is you,” Cassian said firmly. His tone was steady, but he said it in such a manner that Nesta turned to him, looking into his lovely luminous hazel eyes.

“And who are you setting me up with exactly?” she asked, cocking her head.

“Me.”

“You?”

“Me. You and I are going on a date.”

“Excuse me?” she almost choked on her wine.

“Why are you surprised, Nes?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever you want me to call you, sweetheart. What do you say? Walk on the wild side? Me and you?” he winked at her.

“You are mad,” he concluded simply.

“Perhaps. Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.”

She stood up from the chair, and he didn’t stop her this time. He just looked at her expectantly.

“Fine,” she said tersely.

Cassian smiled.

“I knew you were a smart girl.”

“I am already regretting it,” she warned.

“You won’t have any regrets. Once I am done with you, you’ll be asking for more and more dates.”

“Doubtful.”

“I’ll prove it.”

She threw him a withering glance, and added,

“The only reason I am saying yes to you is because,”

“My blinding handsomeness? All my bulging muscles? My mighty height? Wicked sense of humour? Winning personality?” he offered.

Nesta rolled her eyes and moaned, “Help me Lord. No, ridiculous man.”

“What then? What secret weapon do I possess that totally made you want to go out with me?”

“Piglet trusts you,” she shrugged, like it didn’t mean much.

“Oh…”

“And he doesn’t trust many people. I’ve been watching him. He trusts no one like he trusts Azriel. He even trusts Azriel with Elain! Which is unheard of. He is actually capable of leaving her with Azriel and not hovering like he is surgically attached to her. And when I saw today that he actually sought you out and slept next to,”

“That was the turning point?” Cassian chuckled. “The beastie trusting me?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s good to know. He is my wingman. Now, where the fuck is cake?! Are we cutting or what?”

“It’s a birthday, not a wedding,” Nesta reminded him. Cassian took her by the hand, soliciting a small girlish gasp of surprise from her.

“Yeah…not yet.”

Elain was standing, eating birthday cake, chatting with her old classmate Lucien, who was also one of Feyre’s closest friends. Lucien was also distantly related to Eris, which only confirmed yet again how incestuous their circle actually was. Azriel teased her about it, but he was actually correct in his observation.

Lucien’s been throwing confused glances in Azriel’s direction most of the night, as if trying to figure out who he was to Elain, and what the nature of their relationship was.

But he was too polite to ask, so instead, he joked, “So, when am I going to be set up with someone sexy, smart and successful? What am I, a wet herring?”

Elain laughed.

“All herrings are wet by default,” she told him, “I thought you weren’t interested in matchmaking?”

“I wasn’t. But seeing how well you are doing, I am eager to have you change my mind.”

“Are you ready then?” Elain asked seriously.

A year ago, Lucien was in a very serious car accident, where he lost his eyes in the aftermath. His longtime girlfriend left him shortly afterwards. He’s been devastated ever since, and wouldn’t venture out in any social situations, let alone dates. This was the first time that he decided to attend anything that had more than three guests, and only because he and Feyre went way back.

“I might be. I want to have someone looking at me the way you are looking at him,” and he nodded towards Azriel who was talking in a group of men.

Elain squirmed a bit and blushed at his insinuation.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Eris. Not my business,” he told her quickly.

“Thank you. But Eris hasn’t been in touch for weeks now. It’s nobody’s fault.”

“His loss. Maybe mine as well,” and he looked at her with a longing that made her almost uncomfortable. “But I don’t think it was ever meant to be–you and I.”

“I don’t think so,” she agreed. “We look good on paper. But maybe we don’t work so well as anything but friends.”

“The friendship is good,” Lucien decided, sipping some of his champagne. “Let’s do that. Let’s be friends.”

“And there might be someone of interest who could be a good potential,” Elain murmured thoughtfully, clearly thinking about something.

“Oh yeah?”

“But you’d have to be a client. Formally.”

“At least tell me her name!” he laughed. “What if she has a horrible name!”

“Nuala. How’s that? Can you live with that?”

“Oh. Nuala. I like it!”

“So, if you are serious, then ring me up after New Year’s and we’ll create your profile and will get to work.”

“And you think that this wouldn’t be an impediment?” he asked awkwardly, pointing to his face.

Elain looked at him and said seriously,

“For some, yes. For others, no. If they can’t see beyond the surface and not understand what you bring then it’s probably not a good match. Or a good person.”

Suddenly a familiar, very muscular, very big hand smacked Elain on the ass.

She whipped and hissed at the grinning Azriel. Piglet was at his feet, looking up, also grinning smugly.

Before she could unleash, Azriel quickly explained, “It’s my burden, beautiful. Every man’s burden–the need to smack his lady’s juicy rump whenever we are near it.”

“Oh, is that so!!” she exclaimed, while Lucien hid his smile in his champagne flute.

“Listen,” Azriel said somberly, like he was being serious. “It’s not easy. It’s not easy to have these…urges. You think I want to walk around, see your gorgeous arse, and be overcome by an intolerable need to slap it? And then I have to trudge and actually, you know, do it! Slap your yummy buns.”

“Yummy buns?!?!?”

“Oh goodness…” Lucien laughed. “I think I shall leave you two alone to discuss!”

“Not until you tell her that it’s an uncontrollable urge that all men suffer from?” Azriel insisted, wrapping his arm around Elain’s waist.

“Most of us do,” Lucien confirmed. “Not everyone acts on it though,”

“See, not everyone acts on it!” Elain elbowed Azriel and he bowed dramatically.

“I think it depends on the arse. Yours is too tempting not to smack.”

Once Lucien moved on to another group of guests, Azriel grabbed Elain by the hand and dragged her after him, with Piglet hot on their heels.

“You are not having messy sex with me in the closet!” she warned.

He didn’t answer, but threw her her coat and her boots, while lunging at Piglet and taking him by surprise before he could escape.

“Are we leaving?” Elain asked, looking around and at her coat in confusion.

“No. But put it on. We are gonna go out for a sec.”

She frowned at his abruptness, but took off her heels and pulled on her socks and then her boots, before tying her coat with a belt. Piglet was wearing his jacket too, though he looked unamused and put off by the fact that he wasn’t chased around. Azriel even pulled on Piglet’s knit hat, while he dressed himself, and then taking Elain’s hand, he had the three of them sneak out quietly.

The moment they were outside, Elain gasped softly and threw her head back.

The world had turned white.

Snow.

Thick, fluffy piles of snow had fallen in the past few hours and now covered everything in pristine brilliant whiteness. It swirled in the lemony light of street lights, falling silently all around them.

Piglet looked up, awed.

This was a new and beautiful thing that he didn’t remember from before. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and he caught snowflakes on his nose, licking his lips loudly. Then, with a happy howl, Piglet burst forth and galloped through the snow, rolling in it and screeching joyfully.

Elain bounced on her heels, clapping her hands excitedly, laughing and also trying to catch some snowflakes on her tongue.

“This is better than sex in the closet!” she giggled, spreading her arms wide.

Azriel came behind her and wrapped his arm across her chest.

“Fuck sex,” he whispered into her ear, his lips warm and tender on her cold skin. She shivered at the proximity, because of how good he smelled, and because he enveloped her in his warmth and his bigness. He continued, his cheek scraping against her own.

“I am trying to be your home, you know. Your safe place. Your go-to person for happy and for sad. I am looking to be the reason you smile, and laugh and clap your hands.”

“Az,” she breathed and turned in his arms, looking up at him. Her chocolate-brown eyes were filled with tears. Tears of love. They rolled silently over her cheeks, while Azriel smiled down at her and whispered,

“We're still gonna have rough sex though.”

Before she could answer, he gently took her jaw in his fingers and tilted her face so it lined up with his.

“I want to kiss you, Elain,” he said seriously, his breath fanning over her lips.

“Kiss me then,” she permitted. Thick, white clumps of snow fell on Azriel’s black hair, his eyelashes, her hands that clutched at his shoulders. Her tears dried up and she breathed heavily, disoriented and aroused at once.

And then, Azriel kissed her.

His lips were heavenly.

Soft and light at first, tentative and gentle.

She tensed against him, the bulk of his body shielding her from the world. And in this world, in her world, there was only him.

His kiss was tender, but firm, luxuriant and dominant at once. He gripped her face in his massive hands, squeezing tightly and holding her in place, but his lips were soft and loving on her mouth. He didn’t hurry, but tasted her thoroughly, enjoyed the scent of her sugar- and wine-tinted mouth. She tasted delicious–like he always thought she would. Butter and honey and pastry and everything nice. Everything that was Elain. She was sweet and homey and familiar, and he felt like he’d kissed her a million times before.

His tongue parted her lips at last, and he continued his exploration, but it grew hungrier and more urgent as the kiss progressed. A groan of primal, animalistic pleasure escaped his throat, reverberating against her lips and Elain trembled in his arms, growing hot and needy, despite the falling snow and the sharp wind.

She felt consumed by him, and yet, worshipped at the same time. Just like always. He ignited feelings in her which she’d never experienced before–didn’t even think that she was capable of them. It was raw and hot, and left her feeling lightheaded and overwhelmed. Elain didn’t care about anything at that moment, nothing but Azriel Night, the man she came to love so desperately and completely.

She arched into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, holding the back of his head, while he cupped her head and delved deeper into her mouth, licking and sucking on her tongue. His other hand fell away from her face and slipped down her back, before pressing into her hip and pushing her closer to him.

Elain was well aware of his general size and how he was big everywhere. But feeling him now, thick and hard against her belly, definitely aroused–finally made her feel like a woman. She felt desired. Needed. Wanted. Big, strong, powerful, towering Azriel, and she was his undoing right now. Little Elain, whom no one took seriously. Azriel Night was kissing her. Panting for her. Growling in his chest like a beast because of how she made him feel.

She didn’t know that she needed this kiss until his mouth took possession of hers. To say that she’d never been kissed like this before was an understatement of the century. Azriel licked and sucked on her mouth, nipping on her lips, biting them until they were swollen beneath his. It was then that she released a ragged, pitiful moan of pleasure, because he ground himself between her legs and her breasts rubbed into his solid chest, intensifying her pleasure, making her feel everything.

“This is the sound I want to hear when I am inside of you,” he murmured into her mouth, kissing her lightly, before clamping his teeth over her jaw.

Elain felt his heart pounding against her own, and she howled into the night when he bit her neck, sucking in on the delicate skin and marking her as his anew. He sucked and bit her and she staggered back, almost falling out of his arms. He didn’t let go of her, but only growled like a beast, panting into her skin, his lips and teeth working themselves deep into her flesh, while his arms banded around her. Elain gasped from the pain and the sublime pleasure, because hearing him grunt and growl like that might have been the sexiest sound she’d ever heard.

“I want them all to know who you belong to,” he whispered, returning to her lips and kissing her hard and sloppily. She loved this untamed, wild side of him, where he lost his control and revealed the true nature of him and his utter obsession with her. “To me. You belong to me,” he chanted. “Mine.”

“Yours,” she nodded, kissing his lips, kissing his eyes, then his tongue, then his lips again. She was the one to lose control of the situation just as well. If he wanted to fuck her against the wall of her sister’s house, she’d let him. She was achy everywhere, tense and wet between her legs, and when he boldly thrust his hand under her dress, and between her damp thighs, he smiled.

His thumb brushed against her slit, and between kisses he asked, “all for me?”

“All for you,” she nodded, biting his neck hard and leaving teeth marks on his skin.

“I guess you want me to be yours as well?” he joked, and then pulled his hand away from her pussy and licked his thumb. Before she could answer, he kissed her again, his tongue sliding against hers and allowing her to taste her own essence. It felt forbidden and scandalous and not something that Elain’s done before, but she liked it. She liked everything. And this kiss…it was unreal. It was unreal in its intensity and its pure eroticism. Who could even kiss like that? Apparently Azriel Night could. She was buzzing. Head to toe she was shivering, her fingers and toes were tingling, her tongue couldn’t get enough of him, of his taste, of how he felt against her own tongue.

Once they pulled apart to get some air into their lungs, Azriel smiled at her and rubbed his cold nose against hers.

“Can I kiss you now any time I want to?” he asked.

“Yes!!” she just about yelled. “And I will be kissing you!”

He clasped his hands on the small of her back and kissed her again, “well, that’s brilliant, because I really, really like kissing you.”

He then reached between their bodies and said, “Now, look what I have!”

“What?”

From his pocket, he took out a…carrot.

“Stole it from Fey,” he said conspiratorially, as if it explained something to the very perplexed Elain.

He grabbed her hand and said, “come on! We are building a snowman!”

“Now?”

“Well, of course now!” he said, looking at her like she was silly. “Next year we might be building one with our baby. This year, we gotta build it with our fur son.”

“What baby?!” she gasped, as he tugged her along, to the clearing where Piglet was burrowing through the snow, rolling in it and howling with excitement.

“You know–son, daughter. Baby.”

“We are having a baby now?”

“Starts with kissing, ends with a baby. That’s how it is.”

“I wasn’t planning on having any babies,” Elain argued feebly, but he only said, “plans change’.

The snow was thick and wet, but there wasn’t heaps of it, since it was London, after all.

“You do the head, I’ll do the base,” Azriel instructed, assessing the situation and figuring that they’d have enough snow for a small, modest snowman.

Turned out that Elain sucked at making a snowman. She wasn’t wearing gloves and her hands kept getting cold, so Azriel needed to continuously interrupt his own work, so he could blow into and kiss her freezing palms, which only descended into more kissing…mouth kissing. Meanwhile, their stupid pug kept destroying the round snow mounds that they managed to construct by jumping into them and rolling around happily. Elain’s boots were soaked through as well, so by the time Azriel finally managed to roll a decent base, he had to give his girl a piggyback ride, because she was freezing and shaking, while laughing uproariously. She was also filming his work on her phone, while Piglet hopped around them, trying to understand what was happening. Hanging precariously off Azriel’s back, Elain finally managed to roll a decent-enough ball, which they hefted together and carefully placed on top of the other ball.

“Pink, we need a stick,” Azriel instructed, and Piglet took off before Azriel even finished talking.

“Whoa,” he breathed, as Elain laughed, her arms wrapped around his neck, and her lips constantly making contact with his face. “I guess he really wanted that stick.”

Piglet returned with a stick, tossed it to Azriel, who fashioned one arm out of it, before sending the pug to fetch another. Soon their snowman had two arms, a couple of coins for eyes, and then, with great fanfare, Elain pushed the carrot into the head.

She barely managed to take a few photos and a short video for Piglet’s Insta account, before he began to circle the snowman curiously, barking and growling at it, and then attacking it viciously.

“Why are you so mean?!” Elain cried. “You are supposed to be gentle with it! Don’t eat it!”

Oh yeah, he was gonna eat it.

Piglet savagely munched on pieces of the snowman, licking and pulling clumps of snow, smacking his lips.

“Fucking animal,” Azriel laughed, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around Elain. “Are you cold?”

“I am,” she nodded. “But I don’t want to go back inside. This is so much fun!”

“Yeah? What else is fun?” he teased.

She drew her knuckles over his cheek, his now-wet hair and then stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his cold mouth. He didn’t have to be asked twice and quickly took over, capturing her sweet mouth with his and eagerly coaxing her plump, buttery-scented lips apart. She whimpered against him, especially when his hands boldly slid to cup the curve of her behind, slipping beneath the coat and making her shiver from the cold. She didn’t care. She sighed warmly and deliciously into his mouth and wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, her cold, wet fingers tangling in his hair. Caressing his tongue with her own she opened up eagerly to the kiss, and Azriel responded in kind, deepening the caress of his tongue, kissing her filthy and hot, his lips both teasing, and dominating at once. It was dirty and open-mouthed, her kisses loud and maddeningly sticky, rendering his brain to almost naught–all he saw and felt was his gorgeous girl, finally, nearly all his.

Elain moaned against him and Azriel…pulled away abruptly and yelled, “Piglet! The fuck, you weirdo?!”

Elain turned around and gasped in shock, not knowing whether to scream, cry or laugh. So she did all three–laughing so hard, that tears sprung in her eyes.

Because Piglet burrowed into the snowman and successfully pulled out the carrot, which he was now crunching on, though it looked like he was making out with the snowman.

“Dr. Hannibal Piglet Lecter,” Azriel muttered. “Fucking savage pug.”

Azriel grabbed her phone and filmed the carnage.

From Piglet's Instagram: The carrot is no more

“This should pay for his upkeep for a month,” he said, knowing that the video will garner a million likes and comments.

Gripping the half-eaten carrot in his mouth Piglet rushed to them and demanded that Azriel pick him up.

“That’s it? You just give up?” Azriel laughed, as he grabbed the dog and pulled Elain closer to him.

When they returned to the house, the first thing they were greeted by was Nesta and Cassian, glaring at them and arms crossed on their chests.

“We saw you making out!” Cassian declared like he was Mother Superior at a convent.

“Guess the two of you failed as chaperones!” Azriel shrugged indifferently, while he helped Elain out of her coat.

“We didn’t fail!” Nesta bristled. “You two are out of control!”

Little did she know.

The next day

Dev arrived around 11:30 am. He hadn’t asked Azriel this yet, but he had wondered where Azriel planned to live once he and Elain got married. Elain’s house made much more sense for a family, not to mention that her office was here as well. But if Azriel was going to move here, Dev needed to consider where he was going to move as well. Russell Square, Holborn, Fitzrovia were really out of his budget. Azriel paid well, but these were some prime locations, and he’d have to rob a bank to afford something nice. Shame that he wasn’t a footballer who grew up with a billionaire duke, or a little heiress who inherited a damn mansion just because. Considering her sister’s place last night, Dev definitely thought that it was better to be born wealthy and healthy, than poor and ill.

The pug came out first, dressed in a full on morning suit, with a pale blue silk tie no less. He barked his greeting and headed for the car.

“Shake?” Dev asked, extending his hand. Piglet gave him his paw. Then Elain and Azriel came out of the house, holding hands like teenagers. No doubt about it, his old mate Azriel Night, the quiet, scarred boy whom Dev met in a group home when they were around eleven was in love. Azriel, who didn’t say much, leaving the talking to his rambunctious brother Cassian, but who possessed incredible speed, the ability to appear and disappear like a ghost, and a mean left hook that could fall even a grown man in a few seconds–that Azriel was now all grown up. And Dev was proud of him. Azriel deserved something good in his life. Something nice. Something pure and genuine. And this sweet little matchmaker of his, this fancy noble Lady and her posh pug somehow, amazingly, fit the bill.

Azriel opened the car door for Elain, and just as she climbed inside, he slapped her arse.

“I am a gentleman, baby,” he announced. “Always a man, not always gentle.”

“You can’t be like this in front of my father!” she warned.

“Oh, meeting the family?” Dev chuckled. “You ready for that, big man?”

“I’d have to meet him one day,” Azriel shrugged. “Guess today is the day.”

“So, where to? Kensington Palace? Buckingham?” Dev joked. Would he be terribly surprised of Elain said ‘yes’? not really.

“Mayfair,” she said. “Mount St.”

Of course. Dev wasn’t even surprised. An ultra posh street with Balenciaga, Rubinacci and exclusive jewellery stores, a caviar and champagne restaurant Scott’s, as well as the luxury Connaught hotel where basic rooms went for 1,000 quid a night.

“We usually go to Annabel’s for all of our birthdays,” Elain explained, and both Azriel and Dev shook their heads.

“Let me guess. Dad is a member?” Azriel chuckled. Annabel’s was an elegant private club with a dance floor for the famous, the dressed-up and the well-heeled.

Elain pursed her lips, indicating that he was.

“So why not today?”

“Feyre texted and said that we should go to dad’s,” Elain said. “Said to bring you,”

“Oh boy. I am getting somewhat nervous,” he joked, but Dev, who knew Azriel for a long, long time, noticed a note of worry in his friend’s voice. Azriel was all jokes and nonchalance and elegant swagger, but he was going to meet the father of the girl he loved. And that meant something. It was important.

It wasn’t a long drive and Dev soon parked next to a massive, three story Edwardian mansion. It was red brick with white trim and actual columns. Piglet barked excitedly, recognising the place.

“You’re going to go see grandpa?” Elain asked, stroking his head. Piglet barked again, raring to go.

“Whenever I have to leave him with my father–especially if I go on a holiday–I come back, and it’s basically ‘I shall require organic vegetables three times a day with freshly churned butter. A pup cup of the finest double cream delivered daily and milked from a prized cow in Oxfordshire. For dinner, I shall dine on a lightly seared steak, a bit of duck confit and a brioche toast. Oh, and a couple of mini cannoli straight from Naples’.”

“Somehow, I am not even a little bit surprised,” Azriel admitted and Dev nodded in agreement.

“The level of spoiling that he receives from my father is criminal.”

Azriel told himself that he was not nervous, when Elain took his arm, and they walked under the portico, the doors opening as if by magic.

There was a butler, who greeted them and called Elain ‘Lady Elain’. They walked through wide marble hallways and sitting rooms, Azriel feeling decidedly out of place even if he wouldn’t show it. Piglet tore through the house, howling happily, unconcerned about anything, and by the time they saw him next, it was in the dining room where a middle-aged gentleman was cooing and hugging the pug, rocking him like he was a baby.

To Azriel’s surprise, Nesta was here too, but also Cassian–which was unexpected, to say the least. Cassian raised his shoulders, indicating that he had no idea why he was here, though it didn’t look like he was greatly burdened by the company.

“Daddy!” Elain went to her father and he smiled at her.

“Good morning, pumpkin,”

Pumpkin? That made Azriel smile. But the nickname fit. She was his little pumpkin.

“Please meet Mr. Azriel Night,” Elain introduced them. “My father, Sir Charles Archeron.”

“Arsenal captain,” the older man nodded knowingly. “My girls are Tottenham fans. I am an Arsenal man myself. Though I do enjoy rugby a lot as well.”

“I am slowly pulling Elain and Piglet to my side,” Azriel teased.

“Oh, I saw all the photos on that Instagram that Elain has for the pup. He looked like a Gunner born and bred.”

Azriel laughed, “You follow him too?”

“How can I not,” he squeezed Piglet lovingly. “Barring my girls giving me actual grandchildren, this is so far, my only grand-pup,” he said dramatically.

Nesta rolled her eyes. Elain rolled her eyes.

And both groaned.

“This is what happens every time I mention grandchildren,” Mr. Archeron complained.

Just as he said the words, Rhys entered the room, holding a champagne flute, with Feyre on his arm.

“Oh, you’ve arrived!” Feyre exclaimed with a wide smile. “I was just showing Rhys around.”

“Why are we all here, by the way?” Nesta asked impatiently. “I was looking forward to Annabel’s.”

“Forgive the change of plans,” Rhysand said breezily. “We’ll be sure to go to Annabel’s soon.”

“Well then, what is it?” Nesta sipped her mimosa, while silent servants circulated around the room with trays of champagne. “We are all here now.”

“I am curious myself,” Mr. Archeron agreed, while he gave Piglet a piece of cheese. “And I am pleasantly surprised to see my three daughters with such fine gentlemen. All here together, today.”

Nesta was about to protest the implication that she was here with Cassian, but Cassian put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently, effectively quieting her down.

Rhysand and Feyre exchanged a glance, and then he said,

“Feyre and I got married earlier today. She is now Marchioness Feyre Archeron-Darling, Lady Darling. My wife.”

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